r/scarystories

I was traveling alone from New York to North Carolina to attend my grandfather's funeral. It was right around 11:00 PM when I pulled my car off Interstate 95 in Virginia.

The rain was coming down so hard that the windshield wipers couldn't even keep up. My GPS had completely stopped working because of the terrible signal in this dark, rural area.

The dim glow from the dashboard was the only thing lighting up my face, and that low fuel light just kept staring at me with its annoying orange color. I had no choice but to look for a gas station or a small motel to spend the night.

After a few minutes of driving blindly through the thick pine trees, a fading neon sign caught my eye. It was flickering in a green light, displaying "Pine Valley Motel... Vacancy."

I immediately turned down the narrow, muddy driveway. The motel was incredibly old, built in that 1970s cabin-style layout. There was only one light working inside the front office.

I parked the car and ran through the pouring rain. When I pushed the office door open, a tiny brass bell chimed overhead.

The smell inside was strange, a mix of dampness, mold, and some cheap chemical cleaner trying to mask the scent of something else. Behind the worn-out wooden counter sat an old man with incredibly thick glasses, making his eyes look huge and completely unnatural.

He was wearing a dirty flannel shirt, and he didn't even look up from his old magazine until a few long seconds had passed.

I asked him for a room for the night. He looked at me very slowly, then gave me a hollow smile, showing yellow, decaying teeth. He didn't speak.

He just reached down, grabbed a heavy metal key with the number 14 on it, and placed it on the counter. He wanted twenty dollars in cash, so I paid him.

He pointed his hand toward the dark path outside and said in a dry, raspy voice, "Last cabin on the left. Don't open the door for anyone after midnight." I figured it was just a stupid joke from an old guy living in isolation, so I took the key and walked out. I drove the car down to cabin number 14.

It was completely isolated from the rest, surrounded by trees on three sides. I opened the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The room was freezing. It had a double bed, an old TV with a massive screen, and a single window facing the dark woods in the back.

I tried to turn on the heater, but the unit just let out a loud rattling sound and blew out cold, dusty air.

I decided to just lay down with my clothes on under the heavy blankets, hoping to fall asleep quickly.

It was getting close to midnight when I started hearing strange noises. It wasn't the rain.

It was the sound of footsteps, very light and very slow, walking around the cabin. The footsteps were sinking into the mud, moving with a steady rhythm.

I felt tense, but I tried to convince myself it was just wildlife, like a raccoon or a deer. Suddenly, the footsteps stopped right at the back wall of the cabin, directly behind the headboard of my bed.

I held my breath. Then, I heard a faint scratching sound on the wood outside. It sounded like someone was dragging their fingernails, very slowly, across the wall.

I got up as quietly as I could and moved toward the window. I looked through the rain-streaked glass but couldn't see anything, just total darkness and trees moving with the wind.

I let out a sigh and turned around to go back to bed. Right at that exact moment, the old phone on the nightstand let out a loud, piercing ring. The sound was so sharp it made my heart jump.

I stared at the phone in shock because motels like this rarely have working lines. I walked over and picked up the receiver with a hesitant hand.

No one spoke. All I could hear was heavy, rapid breathing and the faint sound of rain in the background. I said, "Hello, who is this?" There was no answer. The breathing just got heavier.

Then, I heard a very familiar sound coming through the receiver.

It was the sharp chime of that tiny brass bell from the front office, followed by the old man's voice screaming in pure terror, "It's not me. He is inside with you!" And before I could even process the sentence, the power cut out completely.

The room plunged into total darkness. Right then, I heard the click of the bathroom lock slowly opening from the inside.

I sat there on the edge of the bed, completely paralyzed by fear. The darkness was so thick I couldn't even see my own hand.

The moldy smell in the room suddenly grew intense, changing into the stench of rotting meat. I could hear it clearly, the wooden bathroom door moving millimeter by millimeter.

My breath was shallow, and I fought to stay absolutely silent. I remembered my cell phone was in my coat pocket hanging near the front door.

I started to move very slowly, crawling on my knees across the bed and then onto the cold hardwood floor. Every single floorboard I pressed on made a tiny creak, cutting through the dead silence.

I reached the coat and successfully pulled out the phone. I lit up the screen, keeping the brightness at the lowest setting so I wouldn't give away my position.

I quickly pointed the phone's flashlight toward the bathroom door. The door was wide open.

The bathroom was empty, but the floor was covered in fresh, wet mud and a trail of large, bare footprints heading directly toward the small closet in the corner of the room.

My hand began to shake violently. I swept the light over to the closet. The closet door was cracked open by a few inches.

Through that tiny gap, I saw something that made my blood run cold. There was a wide, unblinking human eye staring right back at me. It didn't blink. It was surrounded by incredibly pale skin caked in dirt. I let out a muffled gasp and stumbled backward, smashing into the wooden table.

The phone slipped from my hand, falling face-up on the floor and casting its light onto the ceiling. In that split second, I heard a violent burst of movement from inside the closet. Whatever was in there came rushing out in a bizarre, unnatural way, like a scrambling animal.

I didn't wait to see it. I lunged for the front door, frantically fumbling with the locks, and threw myself out into the pouring rain.

I ran straight for my car, never looking back.

I scrambled inside and slammed the door, locking it instantly. My hands were shaking so bad I missed the ignition twice.

When the engine finally roared to life, I flipped the high beams on. What I saw in the headlights made me slam on the brakes.

The old man, the motel owner, was lying flat on the muddy driveway right in front of my car. He was swimming in a pool of dark blood, his huge eyes staring blankly into nothingness. His flannel shirt was completely torn to shreds.

Before I could even process the horror, I felt a violent shudder rock the entire car, like something massive had just jumped off the cabin roof and landed dead-center on my trunk.

I looked up at the rearview mirror and saw a face pressed flat against the back glass.

It was a deformed, hairless face with a massive smile stretching from ear to ear. In his hand, he was holding the old corded phone from my room, the wires torn and dangling. I slammed my foot onto the gas pedal with everything I had.

The tires spun wildly in the mud for a few terrifying seconds before gaining traction, and the car launched forward, swerving right past the old man's body.

The thing on the roof rolled backward from the sudden jolt, but I could hear its claws scratching deeply into the metal roof, making a sickening, scraping sound.

I drove like a lunatic down that narrow, pitch-black driveway until I finally burst onto the empty rural road.

I was doing over eighty miles an hour through the fog and rain, my eyes glued to the rearview mirror, watching for any movement.

After about ten agonizing minutes of driving, the lights of Interstate 95 finally appeared in the distance.

I felt a massive wave of relief when I saw a large, fully lit Love's truck stop ahead, surrounded by big semi-trucks.

I swung into the parking lot and slammed to a halt right in front of the main store. I got out, gasping for air, and ran inside.

The young guy behind the counter looked at me with horror because of my appearance. I was drenched in mud, pale as a ghost, and shaking uncontrollably. I told him to call the police immediately, explaining that there was a murder at the motel down the road.

The police arrived about fifteen minutes later. I sat in the back of a cruiser, still trembling, and told the investigator every single detail: the footsteps, the phone call, the eye in the closet, the old man's body, and the thing that jumped onto my car.

The investigator listened with a grim, skeptical look on his face. They dispatched two units to the motel to check it out.

I stayed at the gas station for over two hours, watched over by another officer. Right around dawn, the investigator came back with a deeply disturbed, confused look on his face.

He sat down across from me and said in a low voice, "We went out to the location you described, son. The Pine Valley Motel has been completely abandoned and boarded up since 1994, after a fire destroyed the main office and killed the old owner inside."

My head started spinning, and I yelled at him, "That's impossible! He gave me the key. His body is out there in the mud. Go look for the body!" The investigator just looked at me coldly and replied, "We searched the whole place. There are no bodies. The cabins are completely overgrown with weeds and decaying."

He continued, "But there was one thing we found that we can't explain." I asked in a trembling voice, "What?" He pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was the heavy metal key with the number 14. "We found this key lying in the thick dust inside the last cabin, covered in your fresh fingerprints. But that's not all."

The investigator walked me to the back of my car and shone his flashlight on the roof and trunk. On the metal of the roof, there were deep, long gouges from five human-like fingers with sharp claws carved deep into the paint.

Right in the middle of the back window, there was a perfect, clear imprint of a human face smudged against the glass, along with a thick, dark residue that the heavy rain hadn't completely washed away. It's been three years since that night.

I left Virginia and never went back, selling that car the very next day.

The police eventually closed the case, writing it off as local vagrants messing around. They never believed my story about the motel. But the horror never really stopped for me.

To this day, whenever it rains at night and I'm lying in bed in my new apartment in Chicago, my cell phone will start vibrating from an unknown number. And when I finally pick it up, driven by pure anxiety, I don't hear a voice.

Instead, I just hear heavy, rapid breathing and the faint chime of a tiny brass bell ringing somewhere in the background, followed by a slow, faint, scratching sound starting to move along the wall right behind the headboard of my bed.

I don’t pick up hitchhikers. I want to make that clear before I tell you what happened, because I need you to understand that what I did that night was completely out of character for me.
It was November. Late. I was driving back from my sister’s wedding, alone on an empty highway, rain hitting the windshield so hard I could barely see the road. I had the radio on just to feel less alone.
I was somewhere outside Millfield when I saw him.
A man on the side of the road. No car. No umbrella. Just standing there in the pouring rain with his thumb out.
I kept driving.
Then, five minutes later, I pulled over. I still can’t explain why. Something just made me stop. Like my hands turned the wheel on their own.
He walked to the car slowly. Opened the passenger door. Got in without saying a word.
He was soaked through. Maybe forty years old. Grey jacket. Dark eyes. He smelled like rain and something else I couldn’t name.
“Where are you headed?” I asked.
He looked straight ahead at the road.
“Same place as you,” he said.
I told myself that was a normal answer. We drove in silence for twenty minutes. I turned the radio on. Static. I turned it off.
I glanced over at him. He was staring out the side window. His reflection in the glass was facing me.
I looked again.
His body was turned away. Looking out the window. But his reflection was looking directly at me.
Smiling.
I gripped the wheel and told myself it was the rain. The darkness. My tired eyes. I focused on the road and didn’t look at him again.
An hour later I needed gas. I pulled into a small station off the highway. Single pump. Flickering light.
“I’m stopping for gas,” I said.
He nodded slowly.
I got out. The rain had stopped. Everything was quiet. I pumped the gas and looked through the windshield at him. He was sitting perfectly still. Staring straight ahead.
Then my phone rang. My sister.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Fine. Just stopped for gas.”
“Are you alone?”
Strange question.
“I picked up a hitchhiker,” I said quietly. “He’s in the car.”
Long silence.
“What does he look like?”
Her voice had changed. Careful. Slow.
“Grey jacket. Dark eyes. Maybe forty.”
“Walk away from the car,” she said.
“What?”
“Right now. Walk away from the car.”
I moved to the edge of the lot.
“There was an accident,” she said. “On Route 9. Tonight. Around 8PM. A man was hit by a car. He was walking on the side of the road. Grey jacket. Dark eyes.”
I couldn’t speak.
“They couldn’t identify him,” she said quietly. “He didn’t make it.”
I looked at my car.
He was still there. Sitting in the passenger seat. Still as stone.
“That’s not possible,” I whispered. “He’s in my car right now. He spoke to me.”
“What did he say?” she asked.
I thought about it.
Only two things. The whole drive.
“Same place as you,” I said slowly.
She went quiet for a long time.
“Get back in the car,” she finally said. “Drive to the nearest town. Don’t talk to him. Don’t look at him. And whatever you do — don’t ask him where he’s going.”
I walked back to the car. Sat down. Started the engine.
He didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge me at all.
Twenty minutes of silence. The longest of my life.
Then I saw the lights of a town ahead.
And I heard his voice.
Quiet. Calm.
“You can let me out here.”
I stopped the car. He opened the door. Got out. Didn’t look back.
I watched him in the mirror. He walked down the street and turned the corner.
I waited two minutes. Then I drove to the corner and looked.
The street was empty.
No footprints in the wet pavement. Nothing. Like he had never existed.
I called my sister back.
“He’s gone,” I said. “Just disappeared around a corner.”
She was quiet for a moment.
“Route 9 goes through Millfield,” she said. “That’s where he was from. That’s where they were going to bury him.”
She paused.
“You didn’t give him a ride. You gave him a way home.”

I still drive that highway sometimes. I always check the passenger seat before I get in.
I never pick up hitchhikers.
But sometimes, late at night, when the rain is heavy and the road is empty — I see someone on the side of the road. Standing very still. Thumb out.
And I think about what my sister said.
And I wonder how many of them are still trying to get there.

It’s been five years since Mom traded my brother for a fully functioning coffee maker.

A real, industrial-style machine with coffee filters, a touch screen, and even an illuminated keypad! 

Most of the electronics in our home were dead, and then there was our thousand-dollar fucking coffee machine sitting on the countertop next to rationed bread and rice. 

Mom didn’t care that coffee was a luxury, and filters were more expensive than our house.

She used it once. The day after my brother was dragged away, the coffee machine was handed to her in a neat little box with a bow. Mom carefully removed the packaging, pulled out the machine, and made herself a flat white. She took one sip, and then dumped the rest down the drain. 

Since then, she barely acknowledges our coffee machine. 

I make sure to make coffee every day. 

I use my welfare on filters, buy the best coffee mugs, and real, fresh milk instead of the instant shit that comes out of a packet. 

Today, I set down my favorite mug. 

“Good morning.” I greet the machine. 

The countertop is soaking wet. 

I notice the leak immediately, my chest aching. 

“Fuck.” I grab a washcloth, but my hands are trembling. 

Warmth soaks through the cloth and I panic, dumping my hands in the faucet and scrubbing them until I can’t fucking breathe. 

“Mom,” my voice chokes up and splutters as I douse my hands in ice cold water that is never warm. 

Mom could have traded my brother for a goddamn microwave. 

“Mom!” I shriek, resorting to scrubbing my hands on my filthy shirt. Mom doesn’t have a washing machine, so my clothes are discolored and wrong and stick to me like a second skin. 

I grab a towel and clean up the leakage, my heart clogged in my throat. Stupid fucking coffee machine. I spit the words when it finally comes to life, coughing up bean juice and barely filling my cup. I drop the filthy towel soaked through. I hate it.

I hate that it sits there trundling like an engine, ignited and alive, churning out coffee.

“Elya?” Mom mumbles from the living room. “What’s wrong?”

I blink back tears and down the coffee. It tastes bitter without sugar. I hate it.

“Nothing,” I tell her. But I’m already wrapping my arms around the stupid fucking coffee machine. I throw it against the wall and scream until my throat hurts, until my saliva is tinged with red. Then I regret it. 

I drop to my knees, panting, breathless, scooping it into my arms. “I’m sorry.” I cradle the stupid thing, running my fingers over the cracks in the bottom. 

It’s still warm, still leaking all over my hands. I wipe them on my jeans and try to smile, tucking my knees into my chest.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” I squeeze the coffee maker closer, my lungs heaving, my sobs sputtered. “I’ll put you back,” I whisper into the rusted plastic that smells like burning. “I’ll put you back, and… and you’ll make me more coffee, all right?”

The coffee maker doesn’t respond because it’s a fucking coffee maker.

“Elya.” Mom steps into the kitchen, already in a mood. 

She doesn’t even look at the coffee maker stuck to my chest. 

“Sweetie, I was talking to your boyfriend last night,” she leans into the countertop, arms folded. 

She’s not looking at me. Instead, her head is inclined, gaze glued to her broken washing machine that still sputters water now and then. 

Mom broke off the door and used it for a mixing bowl.

“You’re not planning on having kids.” 

Great conversation starter. 

I have many responses. Women weren’t allowed jobs.

Especially disabled women. My brother, Ross, was deemed useless for having a boyfriend. He couldn’t, and didn’t want to provide mom with grandchildren. So, Mom traded him in for a coffee maker.

“I don’t want kids,” I tell my mother. 

I stand up, and place the coffee maker back on the countertop. 

I try to ignore the slow trickle of liquid pumping out of the back. “Your coffee maker is bleeding again.” 

Mom sighs, her eyes flicking to her washing machine. 

She doesn’t shout. Doesn’t even sound angry. Just like when Ross told her he was marrying a man. 

“So, you’re just going to kill off our family name?” 

Her tone isn’t poisonous, but her words still sting. “You know, you could go out there right now and find a nice, capable young man, and all you have to do is get pregnant and give him a child.” 

I ignore her, cleaning up the coffee maker leak.

Three towels, and it’s still bleeding, still dripping over the countertop. Still staining my skin.

“Elya.” Mom’s words collapse into ocean waves behind me.

I already know she’s called them.

But I want to stay with the coffee maker just a little longer.

So, I make an espresso, my hands trembling.

The maker refuses to work initially.

Then I gently run my fingers over the top as it sputters and thrums.

A single splatter of scarlet drops into my cup, and I find myself smiling. The doors fly open, masked men grabbing me. 

They’re gentle, because I am fragile goods. I don’t resist as they drag me outside. 

A van awaits me, already leaking thick red sludge into the street. 

The exhaust fumes smell and taste of blood, and I drop to my knees, a scream clawing. 

Humanity ran out of oil. 

So, every car on our street runs on those deemed useless.

Sometimes, I can see chunks of writhing red in the middle of the road.

My brother has been bleeding for five years, and Mom still refuses to fix him.

He's crying.

Every day, he fucking cries, and she ignores him. 

“I’m sorry, Elya.” Mom kneels in front of me in her filthy robe. She prods it, laughing, like it’s funny.

“I need a working washing machine.”

DO NOT TRY THIS IN YOUR HOME OR ANYONE HOME IN EVERY BELIEF YOU WILL COMMIT A BIG SİN AGAINST GOD AND WHAT WILL HAPPEN IM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR IT (((((FOR RECORDS IM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR IT))))

In Christianity they believe Jesus died for there sins
In Judaism they believe he is a charlatan who acted like god
In Islam they believe he didn’t die the imposter died after he left the cave he was in shape of Jesus and Jesus will come back in day of judgement

Who drinks blood is devil in all of them but if you turn the cross down and burn it with cow fat infront of mirror in next 30 min you will feel like something weird is here congratulations you just summoned a devil servant who teaches white and black magic but against your soul and your humanity that’s means you are the next Jeffry Epstein who can do rituals but if nothing shows up don’t sleep until 48 hour or if you do you will possessed

In Judaism if you draw the Star of David on the ground and heat up a animal fat and gasoline and put it on the lines and put candle in every corner and in three corner if you write ۳ ۶ ۹ and burn the gasoline on while you are on the dirt you will call the devils who was serving the Solomon

In Islam if you write some part of Quran with pencil from revers and read it loud and put it in water and drink the water that sin will take over you and accept it a big sin and there will be no more god protection on you ( the moment the baby’s born they will receive holy protection until you die or do this sin because baby’s are innocent and clean =angel) after that moment Jin’s and other creatures can touch you or hurt you or even possess you

DO NOT TRY THIS IN YOUR HOME OR ANYONE HOME IN EVERY BELIEF YOU WILL COMMIT A BIG SİN AGAINST GOD AND WHAT WILL HAPPEN IM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR IT (((((FOR RECORDS IM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR IT))))

>!SPOILER CONTENT WARNING: Children die.!<

My wedding went really well. Like, suspiciously well. I’d been flirting with groomzilla status, fixating on every detail, barely sleeping in the weeks and days prior. My husband, who I will not name out of an abundance of caution, kept telling me to relax. It didn’t need to be perfect.

But I didn’t need it to be perfect either. I just could not shake this feeling that something bad was coming. A dread that had begun building in my gut about a month before the wedding. Something was going to happen. I’m not clairvoyant, it’s not that, and I kept telling myself it was just wedding nerves.

It wasn’t.

But the wedding did rock. I wouldn’t call it flawless, but none of the flaws mattered. By the time we got to the reception and our loved ones swarmed us with affection and congratulations, I finally relaxed. All that dread had been for nothing. Just wasteful anxiety. Just nerves.

It wasn’t.

The honeymoon was on a tropical island. I will give no further identifying info. We stayed in a nice, but not luxury hotel. We spent a lot of time on a beach that sea turtles liked. We ate well. We hiked to world famous  waterfalls; my husband gets up early five days a week to hike before work, so I teased him that he just married me for the honeymoon. We only had sex once, actually, but that wasn’t concerning. My husband had wanted top surgery in time for wedding photos and his chest was still sensitive. And besides, gay men aren’t typically wedding night virgins. Exploring the island was the more novel experience.

We scheduled our big adventure for our final night on the island. When my husband first pitched it to me, I said no. I didn’t grow up around water, and even sailing on a sunny day could creep me out if the water got choppy. But my husband knows the vulnerable spots in my resolve. I adore animals. He showed me pictures. Manta rays. Dolphins. Tropical fish. Eels. All swimming within inches of tourists snorkeling together. At night. In the ocean. In one photo, a large ray spreads it wings directly next to a stunned tourist. Okay, I said. Okay. Let’s do it. Let’s do the nighttime snorkeling trip to view the wild nocturnal sea life.

The trip budget was fully flexed. We did not have enough money left to book one of the small, adults-only nighttime snorkel tours. But there was a local vendor who offered a family-friendly nighttime snorkel tour for groups of fifty that was considerably cheaper. I didn’t love that we were going to be doing this with kids. But it was only affordable choice.

The boat ride out to sea that night was chilly and surreal. Even for seasoned seagoers, sailing into the dark ocean is unnerving. The animal part of you keeps asking you what the hell you’re doing. It’s the ocean. At night. In the darkness. Go back to land.

The boat was a large catamaran, with a crew of four cheerful, inked up sailors and a young surf bro captain. The tour group was almost entirely families with children. One family even had grandparents along. My husband and I were the only childless couple, gay or otherwise. But that was fine. The kids ranged from about eight years to twelve years old, and were pretty quiet on the ride out. The dark ocean seemed to somber them.

Thirty minutes after we left the dock, the captain killed the motor and got on the boat speaker. He gave us the basic rules as his crew members passed out wetsuits and snorkel equipment. Touching any wild animals was absolutely forbidden. We were gonna be in the water for about forty-five minutes. The water would be cold, but not dangerously. We would swim out from the boat and hold onto one of several long, floating boards. The bottom of these floating boards was covered in bright headlights, like on a car, that would shine beams of light down into the water. The light would attract plankton, and then manta rays and fish to eat the plankton, and then the creatures that eat fish. And we would be able to lie flat across the surface of the water with the help of pool noodles underneath our ankles.

We suited up. Finally, the kids started giggling. It all felt a little awkward, putting on these skintight suits around strangers. But I was grateful for the giggles. My husband was twitching with excitement, but I felt the beginning of unease. I was about to be staring down into the ocean for forty-five minutes at night. The dolphins better really be majestic.

Nobody even mentioned the possibility of sharks until we lined up to jump off the boat. The little boy behind me asked his mom, “Mom, what do we do if there’s a shark?”

Before his mom could answer, a crew member chimed in, “Son, if you see a shark, just wave hello!”

It was the right answer. Sharks almost never bother humans. It’s natural to be afraid of them. But they aren’t dangerous. You’re safer off swimming with sharks than driving to work. 

The shark comment wasn’t what scared me. It was the life jackets. As we approached the edge of the boat to jump into the black ocean water, I realized no one was being handed life jackets. I just assumed we’d get them right as we prepared to jump in.  

 

I asked the crew member for a life jacket. He just smiled and thrust the pool noodle in my face. I was stunned. He couldn’t be serious.

But he was. Apparently, life jackets make you bob up and down. They make it hard to lay on top of the water and look down. And to see the sea animals, you gotta be looking down.

“You’ll be perfectly fine,” he reassured me.

There was a line of forty people behind me. My husband passive-aggressively kissed me on the forehead and then leapt into the ocean. So, I grabbed the noodle, cursed under my breath and stepped out into the air.

And there I was. There we all were. My husband and I. And fifty other people. About half of them children. In the ocean. The pitch black ocean. At night. With pool noodles.

We all swam to our floating light boards and grabbed onto the handles. I was shaking like a leaf. Not because the water was cold—which it was—but because on an animal level, my body hated this. My husband sensed that I was scared. Not that he did a damn thing about it, but he sensed it. I know the man. He could sense I was on the verge of having an anxiety meltdown, and I could sense that he was silently apologizing for putting me through this but he was absolutely going to keep putting me through this because this was going to be objectively awesome. And he probably sensed that I was cussing him out in my mind, but that I knew he was right.

None of this telepathy was exchanged through glances. There was no glancing. We were both face down, staring into the bottomless, black ocean, breathing through our snorkels.

At least I wasn’t the most scared person in the water. Across from us on the board was the family with the grandparents. They had a little boy, only child maybe, and he was trembling harder than I was. I felt bad for him. He was probably eight. Too young for this. He was struggling to keep his pool noodle under his feet. I could see his legs from the edge of my snorkel goggles. And every time the noodle slipped, the kid would thrash in panic. His mom would grab the noodle and help him get it back under his feet. But every time the kid lost it, and he lost it about every other minute, he thrashed harder. He was just getting more and more scared.

I’m not really a kid person. So rather than feel compassion for the scared child, I felt a perverse gratitude. This scared little boy was making me look brave by comparison.

It took a moment for the lights to attract the sea life. We spent a good ten minutes just staring into the shadowy abyss, illuminated by the half dozen headlights pointed downwards. But then the plankton found us. They just looked like particles, but when you squinted, you could see them twitching and alive.

Then came the tropical fish. This was the first cool thing to happen. The first moment this felt like it had maybe been a good idea. I heard my husband shout with delight through the water. The fish were big, extremely colorful, and unafraid of us. Some big yellow dude with tiger stripes swam right up to my goggles and stared at me. We had a moment. He was like my brother fish or something. With all the adrenaline pulsing through me, I felt an embarrassing amount of tenderness for that yellow fish. I teared up. And, as if also embarrassed by my emotional reaction, the striped yellow fish zipped away.

The manta rays came next. And they were gorgeous. And massive. Maybe twelve feet across. And they flew through the water by flapping their wings. They would arc upwards and turn a summersault just underneath the headlights to catch the most plankton. The manta ray’s stomachs would occasionally brush my wetsuit. It would have unnerved me if it wasn’t also one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen in my life.

But the many, many children in the water did not share my sense of wonder. Every time, and I mean every time, a manta ray would swim close, all of the children would start screaming. You could hear it through the water. My husband was cracking up, which I could also hear through the water. I tried to be amused. These kids were just not old enough for this. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to put like twenty-five elementary school kids in the ocean and night and expect them to appreciate manta rays swimming next to them?

Their parents. That’s who.

The little boy across from me was really struggling. He had given up on the pool noodle. I could see his legs wrapped around his mom’s, using her as his floatation device. She had put his noodle under her legs to compensate, but it wasn’t really working. In between the children screaming, I could hear the mom asking the nearest crew member, who was in the water alongside us, if she and her son could get back on the boat early. I couldn’t hear whatever the crew member said back. But the mom and the little boy didn’t leave.

I saw it before the little boy did. The large, grey, unmistakable shape. Moving in a soft zig zag and without hurry, about ten feet below us. A tiger shark. But I felt surprisingly little fear at the sight of it. I knew, even in that moment, that it was just checking us out. Just seeing what was up. Yes, tiger sharks can be maneaters. But I knew that the shark would probably just leave us alone.

The kids didn’t know that. The little boy didn’t know that. And when he saw the large, gray, unmistakable thing swim beneath his feet, he screamed a new kind of scream. Not a scream of skittish fear. A scream of animal terror.

This started a chain reaction. As the shark passed beneath the floating boards, beneath all of us laying on top of the water, beneath our legs and our pool noodles, the children began to panic. The water churned as the kids began to kick and thrash.

The crew members in the water tried to save the mood. They started laughing and told everyone to be calm. This was a special experience. Nothing to be scared of.

Some of the kids believed the crew. But some of them kept thrashing. And the little boy across from me went into a blind panic.

I sensed what was about to happen before my husband did. He was laughing. But I knew we were too close to that little boy and his parents. I realized that the most dangerous place to be in the ocean at the moment was within grasping distance of the panicking little boy.

I grabbed my husband’s shoulder. I pulled his head out of the water. I yanked the snorkel out of my mouth. And I told him, “Swim away from the kids! Now!”

I grabbed my pool noodle out from under my feet and let go of the lightboard. And I swam into the dark ocean. Away from the other tourists. My husband was shocked. But he followed me. And once we swam about twenty feet away, he shouted, “What the hell, man?!”

But I didn’t need to answer. I just began to tread water and pointed back at the tourists, all of them glowing from below.

The little boy had latched onto his mother like she was a parachute. He was bucking wildly. She was trying to get him to let go of her legs so she could keep them both afloat, but it wasn’t working. The little boy’s father was trying to support her. He grabbed for his son’s legs.

And he took a foot right to the nose. Even over the sounds of thrashing and children screaming, I heard the man’s nose break. And then the mom did the one thing she knew to do, and also the stupidest thing she could have done, and she screamed, “HELP!!!!”

Every tourist in the water panicked. Adults and children alike. Everyone swam like mad for the boat. Panicked families swarmed at the base of the ladder that would take them out of the water and back to safety.  

First came the curse words. Mostly men’s voices. Screaming at their kids to calm down. Screaming at their wives to move. And then screaming at each other to get the fuck off. The captain on board got on a speaker and told everyone to just calm down and form a single file line in the water. But it was a terrible joke. Nobody obeyed. Nobody even could.

The men’s cursing gave way to the sound of skin colliding with skin. The men had begun to kick and punch at each other. Every one of them had reverted to primal father protector mode. Every one of them was willing to do whatever they had to do to get their kids onto that small ladder.

The women’s high-pitched screaming filled the air. Screaming in pain. Screaming the names of their children and husbands who were disappearing beneath the water. The smallest children simply got sucked under by all of the thrashing bodies. Some of the moms and dads vanished trying to dive after them. A few came back up. Some took kicks to the head. Or bashed their heads against the boat. Or in blind panic, just swam further the down instead of back up. It was amazing how few of them actually managed to climb the ladder. There was so much flailing and clawing and punching and kicking and shoving and biting at the base of the ladder that no one could get a grip on it.

A pattern emerged. A child would claw at her mother and begin to pull her mother under. The mother would scream and grab hold of her husband. And then she would pull him under. And he would bellow and the bellow would become a gurgle as water filled his mouth and he jerked below the waterline. And the space where the family had been would close up immediately by the remaining people fighting for space near the ladder. Every so often a pool noodle would shoot straight up in the air, sometimes landing in the boat.

The captain did what he could. He threw all of the circular lifebuoys he had into the water. But the dads began to fight over those as well, spreading out the terrified rage into little pockets along the side of the boat.

Finally, after perhaps ten eternal minutes, the water began to calm. The tourists were still screaming and thrashing and weeping. But there fewer of them at the surface of the water. A few had made it up the ladder. Others had snatched a lifebuoy for their family and were guarding it like a pitbull.

My husband and I waited. Until everyone else had gotten up the ladder and into the boat. The captain began to sweep the ocean with a spotlight, searching for survivors, and the light found us quickly. Beside my husband and I, only a few feet away, the light revealed two crew members, also treading water. I made eye contact with one of them, and then we both looked away.

Exhausted but afloat, we began the swim back to the boat.

About halfway to the hull, she burst above the waterline. The elderly woman. She exploded out of the water immediately beside me. Thrashing and terrified. I gasped in shock. And that gasp was a good, involuntary reaction. It flooded my lungs with oxygen, which probably saved my life, right before she sunk all ten fingers into my shoulders and jerked me under the water with her.

We struggled under the water for what felt like a long time. I kicked and twisted to shake her loose. But every time she lost her grip on my body, she found it again somewhere else. In her panic-numbed brain, my body was her only ladder out of the abyss and back into the air and she would die before she let go.

We sank together. The saltwater burned my eyes, but I had to open them if I was going to have chance at breaking free. The water was bright with the headlights, but as we sank deeper, the bright water turned grey. At that grey border, I began to surrender. My oxygen levels were lowering, my muscles were cramping, and the old woman would not let go. She would not and could not sink into hell alone.

Because my oxygen levels were low, it is tempting to regard what happened next as a hallucination. I choose to trust it, but until writing this, haven’t told a soul, not even my husband. The old woman let go of me. Not because she was weakening or had some flash of benevolence. But because she was pulled off of me. By hands. At least three of them. That reached up out of the darkness below and grabbed her legs and arms. The hands didn’t belong to the other drowning tourists. They were large and gnarled and green like moss. They had four fingers each, no thumbs. And the hands weren’t connected to wrists, or arms, but to tentacles. Long, long tentacles that stretched into the impenetrably dark water beneath us like bungee cords. And like bungee cords, they snapped the old woman off of me and down into the deep.

I couldn’t see the look on her face. I couldn’t tell if she had been fleeing the thing already, or if she was as astonished as I was. I mean, I assume it was a single thing. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe there were many of it. I saw what I saw and no more.

With what was left of my energy and oxygen, I swam back to the surface. My husband burst into tears when he registered that I had returned. He clutched me to himself and shepherded me to the boat. He pushed me up the ladder. I said nothing. I just focused on breathing as hard as I could without hyperventilating.

Back on board, the surviving tourists were either sobbing or dead silent. Everyone wrapped in towels, trying to heat up. The coast guard arrived and told the captain to take the survivors back to shore. My husband held me. And I counted. I counted thirty-one people in the boat. More kids than adults, which I guess was a win. At least that parental rage had sort of worked.

At the far end of the boat, I saw that little boy. The one who had panicked across from my husband and I, whose panic had started this whole thing. He was alone. No parents. No grandpa. No grandma, but I knew that already. The little boy just stared into the night.

When we finally got back to land and deboarded, paramedics were waiting for us. I thought my husband and I would be the last ones off the boat, but when we approached the gangway, that one little boy was still sitting in his seat, frozen. I stared at him. And I leaned down and whispered in the boy’s ear, “You did your best. I saw it too.”

After the paramedics cleared us to leave and we got back to our rental car, my husband asked me what I said to the little boy. I lied. I said that I told him it would all be okay again one day. And out of some vacant corner of my mind, I muttered, “I hope people don’t blame the shark.”

My husband stared at me. I shrugged. And he laughed. He couldn’t stop laughing. And he goes, “Maybe they’ll just blame the tropical fish.” And we just laughed and laughed until we broke down.

Anyway. Perhaps there were no four-fingered hands. No tentacled thing snatched that old woman and carried her away into the deep. Maybe, in my terror, I imagined it and everyone who drowned that night just simply drowned.

But what keeps me up at night, still, is not the question of what actually happened. It’s the question, what do I hope happened?

My sister steals my clothes.

That sentence alone makes it sound normal. Relatable. Sitcom behavior. Harmless younger-sibling nonsense.

Let me tell you, it’s not harmless.

It started with socks.
Not pairs. Just a single sock.

At first I assumed the dryer was eating them. But then I started finding them in the strangest of all places.

Inside cereal boxes.
Hanging from trees in backyard.
Tucked nearly inside the printer.

Hence, I confronted my sister.
She stared at me with utmost sincerity and said “they talk too much, you know”
Then, after a moment of consideration, she added:
“mostly after midnight.”

My parents, well, ofcourse, they did nothing. My sister was the favorite child.

“Your sister is a once in a generation kind of creative,” my mom would say with a dazed look, which is the kind of thing people say shortly before appearing in documentaries.

Soon enough, my hoodies started disappearing.Every time I asked my sister to stop taking my clothes, she’d deny it while visibly wearing my clothes.

“That’s my sweatshirt.”

She’d look down at the sweatshirt, and smile coyly, “Wow. We really do have similar tastes.”

“It literally has my team number on it.”
“Well, that’s crazy.”

I tried locking my door.The next morning the lock was gone.The screws sat neatly stacked on my desk beside a purple note that read:

“Sisterhood > any lock (in the whole wide world)
P.S. your denim skirt is so cute xoxo”

In bright, pink,glitter gel pen.

Things escalated after Grandma’s funeral.
Grandma left me her antique vanity mirror. She had held my hand quiveringly, continuously caressing it, as if to imprint my existence in herself.

“You’re the only one who looks normal in reflections.”

At the time I had laughed, but I do not laugh anymore.

My sister, unsurprisingly, became obsessed with the mirror.Every night I’d catch her standing in front of it wearing specific versions of me.

The hoodie I wore when I was 12.
The sweater my Grandma knit last Christmas.Pajamas I had worn at a sleepover once.

It stopped feeling like she was “borrowing” clothes. It felt like she was studying timelines.

One night I abruptly woke up at 2AM.
I found her in my room wearing my pajamas, and my sweatshirt, and my retainer.

“You don’t even HAVE braces,” I yelled .

Rubbing her tongue over the retainer, she said:
“I like the pressure.”

Then as if realizing something, she giggled.
“It still remembers the shape of your teeth, you know?”
Then she smiled.

Not like, “she grinned widely.”I mean her mouth physically widened farther than a human autonomy could allow , something from a Japanese urban legend.

I heard something in her jaw click out of place.I screamed, but she screamed even louder.

My parents burst into the room.
And there was my dear sister, perfectly normal, crying because apparently, I had “accused her of unhinging her jaw like a snake”.

From then on,I’d hear scratching in my closet at night. I’d open it and find her crouched inside wearing six of my shirts at once.
SIX OF THEM.

Some of them were shirts I thought I’d thrown out years ago.

This continued.
I’d call my parents, and suddenly she just “had a nightmare, felt scared, and wanted to sleep with her sister” or “she had just sleepwalked.”

One afternoon, I came home and every piece of clothing I owned was hanging from the ceiling. No, not with hangers, but with teeth. Tiny human teeth tied together with thread. I stared at it dumbstruck, for around 10 minutes, before she walked in casually eating a banana.

“Oh,” she said nonchalantly, “you came .”

“What on earth is this?.”

“What? They were in the box.” she exclaimed rolling her eyes

“What BOX?”

“The box in the backyard.”

I have spent my whole life in this house, and I don’t recall there ever being a box.
I checked that night.
There was absolutely a box in the backyard.

Inside were dozens of baby teeth, every missing sock I’d ever owned, old family photographs, and a handwritten notebook labeled:

WAYS TO [incomprehensible writing] YOUR SIBLING

Chapter 1 was mostly shapes & diagrams of human body.
Chapter 2 made me throw up.
One page was just a list of things I’d forgotten about myself.

The mole near my knee.
The way I chew hoodie strings when anxious. Which floorboards I avoid at night( I didn’t even know that)
Or the fact, I stopped singing to myself after Grandma died.

I turnt the page over,

A PERSON IS ONLY A PATTERN REPEATED LONG ENOUGH TO FEEL REAL.

Underneath it said:
CLOTHES HELP THE PATTERN STICK.

Of course, it was all with a pink, shiny, glitter pen.

I brought the notebook to my parents.
Mom flipped through it quietly.
Dad adjusted his glasses, like he does, when avoiding confrontations.

Then Mom sighed and said, “You know her, she just processes emotions differently.”

“SHE HAS A SECTION CALLED “SKIN TAILORING””I yelled, exasperated.

Dad nodded thoughtfully.
“That does sound arts-and-crafty.”

I began sleeping with a chair against my door.

Did NOT matter.

Because somehow she kept getting inside.
Sometimes I’d wake up and she would just be standing over me wearing my hoodie.

Once, she gently whispered,
“There you go, your breathing pattern has changed. I fixed it.”

And I realized my room smelled faintly like Grandma’s lavender perfume.
The one they had sprayed on her scarf before the funeral.
I did not ask follow-up questions because I enjoy being alive.

The horrifying part happened last Thursday.

Everyone was sent home from school early because the vice principal said someone had reported “a disturbing impersonator situation”, and the school was going to conduct a “thorough investigation”.

I entered the house.
Mom screamed.
Dad dropped a plate.
And standing in the kitchen-

was me.

It was me.

My face. My hair. My clothes.

My exact nervous habit of chewing my hoodie strings.

The other me looked equally shocked.

Then she walked in wearing Mom’s cardigan and holding a smoothie.

“Oh good,” she said. “The whole family’s here”

“What the hell is THAT?” I shouted, pointing at the copy.

She frowned.

“Rude, you know. She worked really hard.”

The copy started crying.

“I don’t want to go to school again”

I looked at my parents.

My mother looked exhausted.
Dad cleared his throat, and quietly said,

“There are easier hobbies.”

The copy kept insisting she was the real me.
Which would’ve been more convincing if she hadn’t referred to “ketchup” as “Tomato smoothie.”

Still, my parents made us both answer personal questions.
Favorite movie.
Middle name.
Allergies.
Childhood memories.
The copy wasn’t just right, she was very, very, specific.

She remembered the name of my 3rd-grade crush.She also remembered the song playing in the car the night Grandma forgot my name for the first time .She remembered things I hadn’t thought about in years.Every single answer made my stomach drop, nausea was hitting my throat.

At some point I started getting genuinely nervous.

Then she clapped her hands excitedly.
“Okay,” she said. “Now, wear the same outfits.”
“No.”
“Please? That would be hilarious.”

The copy looked at me, and I looked at the copy.And for one terrible second I noticed she was wearing my favorite sweater better than I did.

Cleaner, somehow.
Like someone had ironed all the damage out of me. She looked more me, than I ever did.

Then the copy smiled.
Her mouth stretched too wide, exactly like her’s had.

And suddenly I understood something awful.Maybe she hadn’t been trying to become me.Maybe that’s why Grandma said only I, looked normal in reflections.

Because she’d met the original.

As my family knows that area will become most fearful area they left our home that group did the ritual and locals did go there for almost 5 years after we came back to our home someone knocked on our door there was a women who working with that group she was talking Farsi very perfectly my grand father got suspicious about it she was asking again and again my I come inside he told her door is open he knew it she is not same person he knew that she changed and she start to speak in some weird language we couldn’t understand that wasn’t anything from Europe or anything like it for a week we didn’t see her and that wasn’t anything normal her foot print wasn’t on the ground

Just as quickly as you glance at the phone screen, you ignore the call. There's never a real person on the other end those calls anyways. After you place your phone back in your pocket, you continue with grocery shopping.

While browsing the produce section, the phone buzzes again with an incoming call. Unknown number, again. This time, you figure there must be a person if they are call again. So, you answer with only the intent to ask to be removed from whatever list you are on.

"Hello?"

As you originally expected, an automated voice responds.

"Thank you for participating. The rules are simple. Complete at least two of the three tasks provided, you will qualify for the grand prize. Failure will have consequences equal to the complexity of the task you are given. Your first task will be sent to you by text in two minutes. Best of luck candidate!"

The call ends before you have a chance to respond. Obviously, it's a group of teenagers in the store with you playing an elaborate prank using AI or an app. You scan the area searching for snickering teens in a corner with their phones out. However, the only people around you are the handful of customers shopping for groceries just like yourself. The phone buzzes once again in your hand. This time with a text.

Task number one. Steal the wallet from the woman browsing the apples.

Curious, you glance over at the shelves containing the different varieties of apples displayed. Carefully viewing a red apple was a small elderly woman. She was seated in one of the electric shopping carts provided by the store for patrons who are less mobile. Right on top of her items sat her wallet. Stealing it would be easy. She's so invested into the apples you could be on the other side of the store before she is even aware it's gone.

Shameful at yourself for even entertaining the idea, you delete the text and shove your phone back in your pocket. You brush off the whole thing as a practical joke and carry on with your shopping.

A familiar buzz catches your attention as you are walking by the meat and deli counter. Annoyed now, you pick up the phone without checking the caller ID.

"Whoever this is, I am so not in the mood for your games. I am especially not committing any crimes. Leave me alone!" Then, you disconnect the call.

The phone rings again while it was still in your hand. It feels like the world around you stops as you glance at the caller ID, Grandma. Your chest aches in despair. Grandma died just two weeks ago, and you haven't had the heart to delete her number yet. She was more like a mother to you than a grandmother, raising you since you were just a baby. Mom and Dad passed away when you were a baby and she was the only family you had. With shaky hands, you answer the call.

Wailing pierces your ears through static on the other end. It sounds like your grandmother on the night Grandpa died just month prior to her death. They were high school sweethearts, and his death broke her heart. It was hard to hear her hurt like that. A tear rolls down your cheek as you stand frozen in place in the middle of the isle. Listening. The wailing fades and a familiar automated voice cuts through the static.

"Participation is mandatory. Failure to comply will result in termination."

A response manages to quietly choke out of your throat, "You are threatening to kill me if I don't play into your games? What kind of sick shit is this?"

"This is not a game. You failed to complete the first task. Your punishment will be delivered shortly." The line cut out immediately.

Still in shock from hearing the sound of your dead grandmother's voice, you almost miss the sound of running footsteps behind you. As you turn to look, a man suddenly tackles you to the ground. Everything from your pockets spill out on the floor, and your phone slides under the nearest shelf. You scream for help at the top of your lungs as the man grabs one of the items from your pockets: your wallet. He is already reaching the emergency exit by the time someone helps you to your feet.

An employee hands you a courtesy water as he spoke to the police on his phone. Shakily, you walk around searching for your own phone. Its loud vibration under the shelf helps you locate it. Unknown Caller is displayed on the screen as you answer.

"You will receive the second task by text in two minutes. Friendly reminder: complete the task or suffer the consequences. Best of luck candidate." More tears begin rolling down your cheeks as you move the phone away from your ears.

As promised, your second task is received by text.

Your second task will need to be completed within the next ten minutes. Order a ribeye from the butcher at the meat counter, and eat the whole thing in front of him. Vomiting will result in a failure. Time starts when you finish reading this text.

Did the caller know you have been a devout vegan for the past ten years? It's not necessarily private information, but this would mean they know more about you than you know about them. This small fact made you feel uneasy.

Nausea creeps its way into your stomach as you gaze upon the animal carcasses laid out in trays at the meat counter. It felt impossible enough to try to consume cooked meat, but the idea of raw meat was unfathomable. You decided you would at least try. With bile threatening to escape through your throat, you nervously approach the meat counter.

The butcher greets you with a smile, "What can I get ya, little lady?"

"Umm, a ribeye please. The smallest you have," the caller never specified it had to be a certain size. Might as well make it as easy as possible.

"Sure thing! It's on the house today. I saw that creep steal your wallet just a moment ago. Hopefully, this will make your day a little brighter."

You wished that was true. After weighing the ribeye, the butcher carefully wraps the steak and hands it over. There's an awkward moment of silence between you as your eyes are fixated on the meat in your hands. He's about to inquire if you were okay before you suddenly begin unraveling the packaging of the ribeye and hold it in your bare hands. You take a deep breath, close your eyes, and take your first bite.

Confusion and mild disgust settle on the butcher's face as he watches you bite into the raw steak. The texture is easier to chew than you imagined it would be. The red myoglobin mixture squeezes from the steak and onto your tongue with every bite. You keep the chewing to a minimum as the urge to vomit intensifies. After three more bites, you are both devastated and relieved when your stomach wins the battle. There's no time to reach a trashcan, nor did you think there was any nearby. The butcher watches in horror as the contents of your stomach are emptied onto the floor.

"Lady, I know you had a scary experience, but this is too much. You need to go."

Embarrassed at the scene you created, you hurry off to the front of the store. As you exit the sliding glass doors, your phone rings.

"You have failed your second task. By failing two of the three tasks, you are automatically disqualified. The final punishment will be delivered by text once this call is disconnected. Thank you again for participating. We hope this has been an experience you will never forget. Goodbye."

Dumbfounded, you stare at your phone until the awaited text arrives.

You have 30 seconds to choose one of two options for your punishment. Throw yourself in front of the approaching garbage truck, or choose another. Time starts now.

Panic sets in as you hear the sound of a garbage truck off to your left. It is approaching at a fast speed. The driver is also distracted and not paying attention to any pedestrians in the parking lot. When you glance to your right, the elderly woman riding in the electric shopping cart from the produce section is exiting the building at the same time. Without time to think, you quickly grab the delicate woman and drag her from the cart. She yells out for help and struggles in your grasp, but you are much stronger and nobody nearby will get to you in time to rescue her.

Right as the garbage truck reaches the front of the store, you manage to shove her just in time for her to fall right in its path. Her screams of pain and crunching of bones are too much and too loud. Desperately, you cover your ears to dull the sound. The truck finally stops and her screams are replaced by the sound of sirens. You hear the officers rushing over to the operator of the garbage truck.

Just as the driver points in your direction, you feel the ground below you rumble. The cement begins to chip and crack under your feet. A reddish orange glow peeking through. Fear keeps you frozen in place as clawed hands reach through the cracks and grasp your ankles. One last scream escapes as you are pulled through.

Never to be seen again.

I’m not exactly an expert on imaginary friends, but even I can tell you that they’re supposed to be imaginary. I mean, duh, right?

That’s what I told myself when my daughter started mentioning hers, telling me all about their adventures together and what fun games they’d play when my daughter got home from school in the afternoons.

It mostly included tea parties, hopscotch, and dress-up, but there were a few she told me about that kinda didn’t really make sense to me. Take hide and seek, for example. How exactly are you going to hide from someone who’s not visible, let alone seek them?

But, like I said, I just chalked it up to her imagination running wild. And what further cemented that belief was the fact that we had only just buried her dog two weeks before she started talking about this made-up friend of hers.

We never told her about the accident. How I had mistakenly backed my car over her little puppy while in a rush to get to work. We knew it would crush her to find out, so we lied.

Told her that her little Maxxy had run away. That we’d put up fliers and that he’d come home soon. I think that’s what caused her to create her own companion. Someone that would be by her side for as long as she let them.

But who was I to judge? Who was I to crush my baby’s dreams after literally killing her best friend in the world? I just let her do her thing. All the better if it kept her from prying about what happened to Maxxy.

It worked for a while. Hell, part of me wondered if she even missed the dog. She hadn’t so much as mentioned his name.

Things started to get shaky, though, when I came home from work one day to find my little girl sitting alone with her tea kit spread out in front of her. She wore a cute little princess tiara and dress we got her for Christmas last year, and it was honestly a melancholic moment. I wished I could’ve been there to see her get all dressed up.

Her face didn’t match the outfit, though.

She. Looked. Pissed.

“Emily told me Maxxy isn’t coming back,” she snapped. “She said that you lied about him running away and that he’s never coming back.”

I was dumbstruck. I had literally just walked into the house.

“Honey, no,” I pouted. “Daddy would never lie to you about something like that. Look, come here. Let me hold… wait.”

Her words finally fully registered.

“Who is Emily?”

“You know who Emily is, you big fat meanie,” she cried, scrunching her face into a ball. “She’s my best friend since you took Maxxy.”

Before I could reply, she ran off towards her bedroom, announcing, “Come on, Emily, let’s play somewhere else.”

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I thought that maybe my wife had been talking about it with one of her friends and maybe my daughter overheard, so my first thought was to ask her. However, she flat out denied it before I could even finish my question.

“Yeahhh, she’s been talking about that since she got home from school. It was bound to happen sooner or later, don’t worry.”

Right, cause that’s the part I was worried about.

My daughter avoided me like the plague that night. I seriously had never felt so dead to her. Even still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. I just tucked her in, kissed her forehead, and switched on her nightlight like usual.

Before I went to bed that night, there were a million thoughts circulating around in my mind, most of which were about how I’d tell my daughter what had really happened. I still couldn’t think of the words, but I made a promise to myself that I’d tell her the next night whether I was ready or not.

Unfortunately, that plan was dissolved when, around 3 o’clock that morning, I was awoken by my wife shaking me while screaming.

“Roxy’s gone,” she screeched. “I just checked her bed and she’s not there. I’ve looked around the entire house.”

This had me jumping out of bed before my brain could even register what was happening.

Luckily for us, the search didn’t last that long. We didn’t have to call the police, we didn’t have to garner a search team. All we had to do… was check our backyard.

That’s where we found her. Kneeling over Maxxy’s grave in her pink Hello Kitty pajamas. When I saw her, all I could do was scoop her up in my arms and hold her close while I cried.

To my dismay, she started actively fighting to get away from me. Screaming, kicking, and clawing. And in the chaos, I saw the source of her anger.

Maxxy’s grave had been dug up, and his corpse lay beside it. Rotten. Bones exposed. And maggots had already made his body their new all-you-can-eat buffet.

Once my wife took my daughter from my arms and she settled down enough to finally speak, all she had to say was:

“Why did Emily show me and not you?”

They called us the miracle generation.

Children were seemingly not allowed in this town.

And when, by some miracle, they were somehow allowed to exist, they lasted maybe three or four days. So when an entire class of babies came out of nowhere, that is what our town named us.

Miracles.

Eighteen years later, Seth Daniels killed his parents.

And I don’t mean kill, like he burned the house down with them in it, or poisoned them in their sleep. I mean KILL.

According to the town newspaper my mom is always feverishly reading, the bodies were mutilated.

Like an animal had torn them apart.

I knew Seth. I’d known him since we were little kids. He lived across the road from me. Seth regularly invited me over to watch Power Rangers and would enthusiastically sing and dance to the intro. Seth loved his mom and dad.

The town media went radio silent except for one measly article in the newspaper.

I figured nobody wanted to say what everyone was thinking.

But it didn’t make sense.

This curse had allowed us to live for seventeen years, and now it wanted to do something?

And why would it lash out at parents instead of kids?

Why force the kid to kill their parents?

There was one detail that jumped out at me. It was Seth’s eighteenth birthday. The exact day. I knew this because he’d been talking about having a party at school.

I mean, I’m not a rocket scientist, but what kid actively talks about having a birthday party on the same day they’re planning to brutally murder their parents?

I asked a lot of questions because nobody else was making noise, and I refused to believe Seth had willingly done something like this. Mom said the Daniels case was too gruesome to tell me about, so I did some digging myself. We’re a small town.

Finn Novak is the son of the sheriff, so it cost me twenty dollars and a promise to introduce him to my brother to get into his dad’s office.

It was very cloak-and-dagger. I definitely felt like one of those TV detectives.

The documents were still fresh in the top drawer beneath his desk.

Daniels.

I picked up the folder, motioning for Finn to keep a lookout.

He tossed me a pissed-off look but attempted to charm the receptionist into a conversation while I studied the autopsy notes. After skim-reading, I wished I could delete the information from my memory.

“Mara!”

I lifted my head. The boy was making some pretty intense hand gestures worthy of a Saturday morning cartoon.

“Are you crazy? Get out of there!”

Before I could answer, he pointed behind him, eyes wide.

“My dad is coming,” he mouthed.

Nodding, I forced myself to stay calm despite the way my stomach twisted. I snapped several photos of the notes before swiftly leaving the room and closing the door behind me.

It’s not like Finn expressed any interest in what I was looking for, but he still sat with me on a bench in the middle of the town square, a Starbucks latte balanced on his lap.

“So?” He leaned over, peeking at my phone while loudly slurping on his straw. “What’s the verdict? Did he kill them?”

I had a hard time answering without bringing up my meager breakfast.

“Yes,” I said, staring at the photo on my phone screen.

Mom was right. The autopsy notes were gruesome. Because there was barely anything left to perform an autopsy on.

In my head, Seth had maybe stabbed his parents, but in reality, he had ripped them apart. The notes contained a detailed description of the remains, which weren’t much. A single torso and a head. That was it.

Both victims were Sonia (38) and Oliver (39) Daniels.

The images were black and white, and I could barely make them out, just two square photos stapled to the end of the report. But they wouldn’t leave my mind.

A single head. A torso.

That was all that remained of Seth’s parents.

Which meant somehow, he’d had the strength to rip them to shreds.

I was already thinking it when I passed my phone to Finn, who hissed through his teeth.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered, passing me his empty cup while squinting at the screen. “Crazy asshole actually butchered them.”

“He didn’t butcher them,” I managed to choke out, despite knowing I was deep in denial.

I couldn’t defend Seth when the evidence was sitting right there in black and white. He hadn’t just killed them. He had dismembered them in a way no human, not even some genius serial killer, could. This was animalistic.

The more I thought about it, the sicker I got.

It wasn’t until my mouth filled with vomit and I was on my hands and knees choking up my guts that the gravity of the situation truly slammed into me.

If Seth Daniels had killed his mom and dad out of nowhere, was that fate eventually going to take me too?

It had to be the curse. There was no other explanation.

I didn’t dig any further into the investigation because I was terrified of finding something I didn’t want to see. Murder motivated by emotion or motive is awful, sure, but it can still be understood.

But when it comes to some separate force taking control of your will and forcing you to kill, that’s when there are no real answers. Only questions.

Our town had been plagued by an invisible force that had taken away our children. Could it be that we’d angered it? By being born, had we somehow pissed off this all-seeing god?

It was several days later when Mom told me Seth had been taken to juvenile detention and never even got a court case. He admitted to it automatically.

“Yes, I killed my mom and dad.”

Those were his exact words when he was dragged from his house with his arms bound behind his back, a pair of Ray-Bans hiding his eyes from the world. The words were cruel and unforgiving, spoken in an emotionless drone. He didn’t care.

Watching him get swarmed by local news crews from my bedroom window, Seth almost resembled a celebrity. The way he was shoved through flashing lights and microphones.

Seth Daniels hated attention. Usually, if he got picked to read aloud in class, his cheeks would turn bright red and he’d stumble through the passage trying not to cry.

The boy I saw now was not my neighbor.

This version of him held his head high, movements swift and robotic as he calmly climbed into the back of a waiting SUV.

Despite seeing all of that, despite watching Seth stand uncaring in front of the cameras, I still knew he would never do something like that.

I know murderers can turn out to be the most unexpected people. Friends. Family. The people you grow up with and trust.

But there was something about the Daniels case I couldn’t get out of my head.

Mom told me to forget about it when I started asking questions about this so-called curse, and about how exactly I was born.

Over dinner, I asked one too many.

She dropped her fork onto her plate, startling my twin sitting across from me.

Freddie and I were fraternal twins and looked nothing alike, but that didn’t stop Mom from trying to dye my hair when I was little so I’d match Freddie’s red curls.

I have natural brown hair, Freddie is a redhead, and Noa is blonde.

Normal people would probably question that, but in our town it was pretty common for kids not to resemble their parents because of the lengths people went to in order to have children.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said for maybe the third or fourth time, fully aware I was hyper-fixating. “Why now?”

I forked pasta into my mouth, ignoring my twin’s glare.

“If we really are cursed, why wait a whole seventeen years?”

“Mara.”

Mom cleared her throat, her lips pausing on the rim of her wine glass. When Dad worked late, Mom pulled out the wine. We weren’t supposed to tell him.

“What did I tell you about discussing business that is not ours?”

“But it is my business,” I said. “Seth was my friend.”

“He was my friend.” Freddie had already finished his dinner, occasionally glancing down at his Switch. “You didn’t even like him. Do you remember when you called him an asshole?”

This time, I kicked him. From the way he jumped in his seat, his eyes widening for the fraction of a second, it hurt him.

“We were twelve, and he stole my doll.”

“You still called him an A-hole,” Freddie said in a sing-song voice, his gaze flicking back to his game. “I actually played with him, and he only paid attention to you because he wanted to play on your DS.”

“You called him a big-nosed freak,” I spat back.

“So did you!”

Noa, our more well-behaved little sister, ducked her head to hide her laughter.

“That’s enough.” Mom, who was halfway through a bottle of wine, slammed the glass down on the table. Her eyes found mine. “Mara, if you ask one more question about the Daniels case, I will take your phone for a week.”

Freddie snickered, but she snapped at him too. “That goes for you too.”

She stood up. “I’m going upstairs. Whoever is on the rota, please clean the dishes and make the kitchen tidy before your father comes home.”

Freddie huffed like a child, folding his arms. “What about Noa?” He gestured to her. “She was laughing.”

“I was not!” Noa squeaked.

Judging by the sudden noise that escaped my brother’s mouth, our little sister had joined me in my assault.

Mom didn’t reply. Taking her glass of wine, and the whole bottle, she slunk upstairs as usual.

We were used to it. Every night when Dad was at work, Mom abandoned us at the dinner table and did the same ritual she had been doing since we were little kids.

Armed with nothing but wine and a candle, Mom would lock herself in her bedroom until the early hours of the next morning.

When we were ten, Freddie and I attempted to sneak in and see what she was doing. But at that point, and that late into the night, Mom had fallen asleep on the floor, the candle still flickering away.

That night was the same.

Mom disappeared all night, and I took it upon myself to clean away the dishes. Freddie went to hang out with friends, and Noa practically went brain-dead once she got on TikTok.

Mom had a strict rule.

No matter what, we had to hand our phones in at 11 every night.

That included all electronics, including Switches. In fact, she went as far as switching off the outlets in our rooms, which meant no late-night games of Mario Kart. I thought we would eventually grow out of the rule, but no.

Freddie was, of course, the golden boy, so he had left his phone and Switch on the kitchen table before leaving for his friend’s house, which Mom also said wasn’t allowed, but I guess that rule didn’t apply to him.

I was sitting on the kitchen countertop, frowning at my phone screen, reading and rereading the Daniels autopsy notes, when Noa let out a shriek.

The time was 11:01 which meant Noa was already breaking the no-phone rule.

I jumped off the countertop, pausing to throw my phone next to Freddie’s before the thought hit me.

Why was my first automatic thought to put my phone down?

I tried to pocket it, before a pulsing pain suddenly ignited between my fingers. It felt like an electric shock, only lasting a few seconds, maybe not even that.

My phone slipped from my hands, but not before the lights above flickered and went out completely, leaving me in darkness.

Fuck.

The warm glow of the hallway outside confirmed that just the kitchen had short-circuited.

Mom had always been antsy about technology altogether. She only got us phones because we begged, and Freddie had bought his Switch himself with cash from his part-time job.

My gaze found my mostly okay iPhone lying face down on the pastel pink tiles.

I reached to pick it up, before that same pain writhed up my index finger.

“Mara!”

Noa’s squeak came from the lounge. I found her sitting on the floor, her phone in her hands. Her eyes were wide, her lips stretched into a grin.

“Look!” she whispered.

Following her gaze, I saw my sister grasping her phone. I saw nothing interesting. She was watching a YouTube video, some kind of video essay on serial killers.

“What?”

“It’s charging!”

At first, I had no idea what she was talking about. Before my gaze found the charging symbol at the top of her screen, a lightning bolt indicating the charger was inserted.

But when I followed Noa’s pointer finger, I glimpsed her iPhone charger on the other side of the room, still plugged into the outlet.

Noa was shaking with anticipation. “Wait, that’s not even the best part!” she squeaked. “Look what happens if I let it go.”

My sister dropped the phone, and the symbol disappeared. She picked it back up, and the charging indicator flashed.

Initially, I thought she was playing some kind of trick. But she did it again, and then again, and I realized I wasn’t seeing things.

The phone was charging itself without a charger.

Noa, being Noa, automatically thought she had some kind of superpower. My little sister jumped to her feet and strode over to the television, prodding the screen, only for nothing to happen. Then she tried the lamp on the stand, and the PlayStation 4.

Nothing.

I admit, I was kind of excited for maybe a full minute before I realized there was most likely a scientific explanation, and there was.

According to an article I found online:

“Yes, electronic devices can charge their batteries through various methods without being plugged into a source of electricity.”

Still, according to the author of the article, it usually wasn’t enough power to make a difference, so why had Noa’s phone actually been charging?

I watched the percentage jump from 10% to 16.

I put it down to a malfunction.

It made sense, if I really thought about it.

The next day, however, did not make sense.

I was still half asleep when I awoke to my brother looming over me.

“What is it?”

Freddie waved the phone in my face. “Just read it.”

I did, skimming through the messages, each one sending my gut hurtling further and further into my throat.

There was a sea of grey messages from the recipient, and only two messages in blue from Freddie.

“Skinned of flesh. It was gnarly. Mrs Caine fainted, and my mom had a fucking panic attack.”

“Skull completely pulverized. I can’t believe I saw this shit, man. WTF. There are people guarding the scene now, but earlier you could just fucking walk in.”

“Animal.”

“Crazy fucking psycho. The living room was covered in blood, like a horror movie. My guy painted the fucking walls.”

“There was nothing left on the stretcher they brought out, just skin? There were blue sheets over the body, but there wasn’t even a body. I think I saw a hand or maybe a foot, but they definitely weren’t attached. IDK, it was fucking gross. Mom wants to send me to therapy lmao.”

My brother finally replied in blue.

“Who was it?”

“Sheriff’s son,” came the reply.

“That kid is going to hell, and I’m an atheist. I hope he gets his karma because who does that??? Wasn’t he close to his pop? JFC, I can’t get my head around it.”

It took a moment for the messages to sink in, and I was out of bed before my brain could catch up with my body.

Finn.

In three strides, I was on my knees, choking up dust.

Freddie dropped down onto my bed with a hissed breath. “Didn’t you know that kid?” he whispered. “That was Finn, right?”

His words weren’t fully registering.

This time, I did throw something up, something sour and slimy spluttering from my lips, my stomach heaving.

“You okay?”

“No.”

“Do you… want me to help?”

“No!”

I swiped at my mouth, but it kept coming, this time bouts of stomach lining filling my mouth.

“Did you check?” I managed to choke out, spitting out vomit.

“Huh?”

“Did you check,” I said slowly, spacing out my words, “to see if it was Finn?”

“Oh, yeah, it was him alright. The cops already caught him. Apparently, he was trying to make a run for it.” Freddie sighed. “Maybe he was scared.”

It didn’t make sense.

How could Finn kill his father?

He loved his dad.

I barely knew the kid outside of him helping me get into his dad’s office, but even then, I saw photo frames on Sheriff Novak’s desk. I saw photos of the two of them at Christmas and Father’s Day, on vacations, and just hanging out together.

In kindergarten, a boy had loudly announced that Sheriff Novak was a pig, and Finn wrestled him to the ground, almost knocking the kid out.

Finn was tiny. Lean.

There was no way he was strong enough to rip his father apart.

“Fuck.” Freddie groaned. Hanging upside down off the bed, he twisted his head to look at me, blowing dark red hair out of his eyes. “Are we cursed?”

That was the first time I found myself nodding, my thoughts dizzy.

But that didn’t stop me from trying to talk to him. According to Mom, Finn was being shipped off to juvenile detention at noon.

Until then, he was locked up downtown.

Sheriff Novak was dead, so the town’s law enforcement was scrambling to appoint someone new. The station had been packed all morning before people slowly started to disperse.

I took my chance, slipping in with a group of frantic parents screaming about the safety of their kids. While the woman behind the counter tried to calm them down, I ducked through the door at the back and into the cells.

I expected guards.

There were none.

I figured the chaos with the parents had given me the perfect distraction.

The first thing I noticed when I stepped inside was the flickering light. Not from the bulbs overhead. In front of the cells sat an empty desk with an open laptop. As I stepped closer, I realized it was the laptop screen flickering erratically.

When the bulb above me shattered, I jumped.

“Mara.”

Finn’s voice sounded just like Seth’s. Flat. Emotionless.

I spun around and caught sight of him standing behind the bars, hands wrapped around them. Very Silence of the Lambs.

Finn loved horror movies, so I wouldn’t have been surprised if he was jokingly reenacting a scene. Though that would have required him to show even a shred of emotion.

I wasn’t sure what I’d expected, but it wasn’t this.

I thought Finn would be hysterical. Crying. Swearing he was innocent, that he would never kill his father.

Instead, I was staring at the face of a murderer.

Or half of one.

His lips curved into a faint smile, but there was nothing behind it. Just like Seth, his eyes were hidden behind a pair of Ray-Bans. Expensive-looking ones that clashed with his plain short-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, both stained with his father’s blood.

When I opened my mouth to speak, his arms dropped to his sides.

“Aren’t you going to wish me a happy birthday?”

The phantom legs of a spider crawled down my spine. I took an involuntary step toward him, my breath catching in my throat.

“It’s your birthday?”

He nodded once. “I turned eighteen yesterday. Wish me a happy birthday.”

“Happy birthday,” I whispered. “And… did you…”

“I killed my dad,” Finn finished for me in the exact same tone as Seth. No remorse. No hesitation. Nothing to suggest he regretted what he’d done.

“I pulled out his lungs and cut off his head. I skinned him to the bone and dumped his guts in the toilet to hide them.”

“But…” I shook my head, tears burning my eyes. “You didn’t… you didn’t mean to…”

Finn cut me off, slicing straight through my spiraling thoughts.

“When is your birthday again?” he asked, without a trace of curiosity.

The question was simple, but it sent me stumbling backward into the cold concrete wall.

“When is your birthday?”

“Why?”

His expression never changed.

“When is your birthday?”

“June twenty-third,” I breathed.

Finn stayed still for a moment before slowly slipping off his Ray-Bans.

At first, I thought he was going for some dramatic reveal, like a character in a noir movie about to confess every grisly detail of what he’d done to his father.

Instead, the glasses dropped from his fingers, and I saw where his eyes should have been.

Twin caverns of darkness stared back at me, somehow still alive.

I couldn’t stop myself from stepping closer, peering through the dim light of the cell.

No.

I wasn’t imagining it.

Finn’s eyes were gone, ripped clean from his skull.

The skin around the sockets was torn and bruised, the damage jagged and violent.

“Happy birthday,” he said in the same dull, lifeless drawl.

I recoiled. Finn bent down slowly, felt around for the glasses, and slid them back on.

“For the twenty-third, I mean.”

Then he pressed his face against the bars.

This time, a manic giggle burst out of him from nowhere. His expression stayed vacant, but his mouth stretched into the grin of someone who had butchered his father and didn’t care.

“I’m looking forward to you joining me.”

That was when I left.

But before I could slam the door shut behind me, his voice followed me down the hallway.

“And your brother!”

Finn’s laughter turned hysterical, almost animalistic. I could hear the clang of his skull smashing against the bars.

“Don’t forget your brother!”

I was dragged out of the sheriff’s office almost immediately and lectured by Mom for two straight hours. But even sitting in the living room while she yelled at me, half the precinct crowded around her, I couldn’t stop hearing Finn’s words.

It was only when Mom pointed at me, her lips moving soundlessly, that I snapped back to reality and got hit with another lecture about privacy and illegal entry.

I ignored most of it.

Sitting cross-legged on the couch beside Noa, who was pretending to scroll through her phone, I finally spoke up.

“I think it’s the curse.”

The room fell silent.

Mom looked genuinely startled for a second before shaking her head sharply.

“That is not what we are talking about, young lady. Do you understand how serious this is?”

“Yeah, Mara,” Freddie chimed in from across the room. Like Noa, he was doing a terrible job pretending he wasn’t enjoying every second of my interrogation. “I can’t believe you’d be so careless and stupid…”

He trailed off.

“Oh wait! Didn’t you break in last month to steal documents from the Daniels case?”

A grin tugged at his mouth.

“Pretty sure that was illegal too, but what do I know? I’m just a high schooler. I don’t sneak into the sheriff’s office when I’m supposed to be in class.”

I glared at him. “How do you even know that? You go through my phone?”

He shrugged, comfortably adjusting himself on the recliner. “Your passcode is four zeroes. A toddler could bypass it.”

I don’t know if it was the stress of what happened with Finn, or my brother’s dumb fucking grin, but I was already lunging across the room to… I don’t know. 

He’s taller than me, more built. He could squash me if he really wanted to. So what I thought was going to be a fight turned into me trying to do some damage while Freddie just shoved me away with a scoff.

I did manage to hit him in the nose, but that was when Mom came in, pulling us apart and going into Mom-mode.

“Mom-mode” was when she really got mad.

Noa decided she no longer wanted to be a spectator and wandered into the kitchen. 

I was sent to my room, and Freddie was lectured for antagonising me. 

Several hours later, he appeared at my door with a half-eaten donut, a cup of hot cocoa, and a half-assed apology, which was his attempt at letting me know he was scared I was going to get myself hurt.

I took the donut and cocoa and told him to go away.

He did, after standing there for a while looking like a kicked puppy. I closed the door on his face when he made a point of trying to make me feel sorry for him.

I wanted to talk to him about Finn, but he would just tell Mom and get me into trouble.

So I found myself with information that was driving me crazy.

My eighteenth birthday was approaching, and more and more kids were turning on their moms and dads. After Finn, it was Addie, then Jason, Sara, and Kiara. All of them had turned eighteen within weeks of each other.

I thought the town was going to start freaking out and calling those of us who were left monsters, insisting we never should have been born.

But to my surprise, there was barely any news coverage, and it almost became normal to hear about yet another kid being sent to juvenile detention.

June arrived, and the days crept by faster and faster until it was the eve of my eighteenth birthday, and I found myself standing in my bathroom, trembling fingers wrapped around a razor blade.

Every time I thought about actually doing it, slicing into my flesh until my wrists were dripping scarlet and I was struggling to breathe, I couldn’t.

So I dumped the razor in the trash and left the bathroom, only to run into Noa.

Wrapped in her pink bathrobe, my little sister looked like a giant marshmallow hiding behind scraggly blonde curls.

“Mara!” Noa was grinning ear to ear, as usual. She grabbed my hands and squeezed them. “Do you remember what we did as kids?”

From the look on her face, I knew exactly what she was talking about.

When Mom was in bed or at work on our birthday eve, the three of us would scour her room for presents. We had eventually grown out of it, but every year Noa insisted on at least one search. It’s not like I could refuse when my sister already had a tight grip on my arm and was yanking me into Mom’s room.

When I stumbled inside, I found our brother on his knees under Mom’s bed, rifling through boxes and bags.

I was surprised Noa had managed to drag Freddie into it, considering every other year he rolled his eyes and bid us adieu, calling Noa a baby. 

But now he was just as enthusiastic as he had been when he was little, when he used to shush us and turn it into a game.

I would take one corner, Noa would take the closet, and Freddie would crawl under the bed because he was the only one who wasn’t scared of monsters hiding under there.

For a moment, I considered just walking away and telling them they were being stupid and acting like children.

But I did want to forget about the reality of turning eighteen and possibly murdering my family. In a way, I guess I wanted to be a kid again.

So, just like when I was five, I wandered over to the furthest corner to search for presents that didn’t exist. I knew they didn’t exist because Mom gave us cash every birthday inside a card.

Still, it was fun to search and feel that childlike magic come over me again. The thrill of pulling things aside and delving into boxes for hidden treasures, dolls we wanted, or the newest games console.

To make Noa happy, I shoved a few things aside, finding myself smiling. Mom was always bad at hiding our presents.

I was about to make that comment when Noa squeaked in delight.

“I found something!”

When I twisted around, she was already partially inside the closet, one foot sticking out, her head buried in Mom’s clothes. It looked like she was grasping at something.

Freddie, who had crawled out from under the bed, straightened up and shot me a look.

“Really?” his eyes said. “Aren’t we a little too old for this?”

“We are.” I mouthed back.

His grin transported me back to when we were nine and the two of us had collectively found five wrapped gifts, then spent an hour shaking them to figure out what they were. But there was also that glimmer of excitement in his eyes when he joined Noa in front of the closet, the two of them managing to heave out what looked like a large box.

I joined them hesitantly. “Any idea what it is?”

I frowned at the box the two of them were struggling to hold properly. It was huge, almost the size of the closet itself.

When Freddie and Noa finally managed to balance it, the three of us stepped backwards to take it in.

Immediately, something cold slithered down my spine.

First, it was the state of the box.

Old.

The cardboard was rotting.

Noa shrieked when a mountain of bugs crawled out of the flaps.

Looking closer, it seemed to be a box for a toy or a doll. But when I squinted, I realised the box was open. It had been open for a long time, and the more I looked, the sicker I felt.

There was something staining the cardboard, an old red colour painting the flaps and the inside of the thing itself.

Suddenly, things were happening too quickly for me to understand.

A blur of movement to my right. Freddie dropping to his knees and barfing everywhere.

Then Noa stumbling out of the room.

I could hear her screams.

I could see my brother retching, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the front of the box.

Because on the front of the box was… me.

MARA.

I was staring at a photo of myself smiling widely, colourful words printed across the box:

“NOW GROWS TO FULL SIZE!” (Mom’s Net Certified)

The printed words looked like a different language, even though I could still read them.

“CHILD™. HAVE YOU EVER WANTED YOUR VERY OWN CHILD? WELL, NOW YOU CAN! JUST PULL OUT THE CORD, AND YOU HAVE YOUR VERY OWN SON/DAUGHTER!”

I stepped forward when something moved.

Freddie yanked me back, but I was already delving deeper into my mother’s closet and finding a much newer box.

This one was unopened.

Occupied.

A fully grown college-aged guy peeked through the plastic packaging.

This time I saw the cord, like an umbilical cord connected to the thing inside the box, which was asleep.

Its eyes were shut.

“FREDDIE,” it read. “THIS TIME IN COLLEGE!!!”

Before Freddie could see it, I shoved it back, stumbling, my heart in my throat.

I frowned at the blood staining the bottom of the second box when my brother grabbed my hand and yanked me backwards.

Before I could fully register what was going on, he was dragging me downstairs.

I think he was trying to get me out of there, but then he stopped, freezing in place.

When I followed his gaze, I found two birthday cards set up on the mantelpiece.

They were labelled in our mother’s handwriting.

The purple one was mine.

The pink one was Freddie’s.

I opened mine up, but instead of a twenty-dollar note slipping out, I found myself staring at a countdown reflected onto my face in red light.

59

58

57

Below that:

“My dearest Mara,

I am so happy I met you and was able to call you my daughter. I found you at the age of seventeen, but you have given me a lifetime of memories I will cherish.

You will be running out very soon, and like the other moms, I don’t want to see you go.

I am supposed to be giving you back tomorrow, but we have each made a pact. With every child we obtained, every mother and father agreed that sending you back to those people would be terrible.

Giving you to another mother would break my heart, sweetheart.

I have heard your biological mother has never stopped searching for you, and trust me, she won’t find you.

So I’m not going to give you back.

I do not support the company I got you from, but I have always wanted a child.

And this town cannot have children. I have lost too many inside me to be hopeful.

Happy birthday, my beautiful daughter.

And goodbye.”

I’m not sure what emotions I felt at that moment, but I finally understood why Finn, Seth, and the others had killed their parents.

I was wrong.

There was a motive.

Rage.

“What the fuck?” Freddie dropped his card, eyes wide. “We need to get out. We need to fucking get out of here, because whatever this thing is, it’s going to blow.”

My brother shook me violently.

“Are you listening to me?! We need to get Noa and get the fuck out of here!”

Going to blow, I thought dizzily.

Had Mom planted a bomb?

There was no time to find it. No way to get out.

I was nodding along with my brother, trying to find Noa, who had disappeared, when it hit me like ice-cold water.

Finn standing in the cells with his eyes carved out.

Seth wearing Ray-Bans to cover his eyes.

Every other kid I saw always wore sunglasses, always hid their eyes.

With the countdown reflecting onto the wall and Freddie screaming at me to find our sister, I wandered into the kitchen, pulled open Mom’s prized knife drawer, and picked out the sharpest blade I could find.

It had been driving me crazy ever since seeing the sheriff’s son’s mutilated face. Why would he do that to himself? Why would he kill his father and then carve out his own eyes?

Part of me thought it really was a curse that had taken them as some kind of reward.

But I was wrong.

Of course I was wrong.

Finn Novak didn’t scoop out his eyes because he was fucking crazy.

He carved them out because he had gotten that exact birthday card.

That exact countdown.

And somehow, he had known, just like me, as I stuffed my sweater sleeve into my mouth, that the bomb was part of us.

Digging the blade into my eye and jerking it at an angle to sever it, I screamed into my sleeve, managing to choke out sobbing pleas for my brother to do the same. The countdown was still in my head, and if I concentrated, I could hear it.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The thing sandwiched inside me.

It could have been either eye or both, but I didn’t have time to guess.

I was already on my knees when I managed to scoop out my eye with the knife and then my fingers.

When the beeping stopped, I pressed my face into the kitchen floor and breathed in and out, using my sleeve to staunch the blood pouring down my face.

My vision was ruined, and I was pretty sure I was going to be blind, but it was better than being blown to pieces.

Freddie was already in front of me, eyes wide and confused, clumsily grasping for the knife to do the same.

“We’re okay,” my brother hissed.

He was already following my lead, biting into his sleeve and hovering the knife in front of his eye.

Noa stood in the doorway.

I could see her shadow, and just seeing her, I knew she was trembling, too scared to come near either of us.

I opened my mouth to reassure her while helping Freddie sever the thing inside him.

Then… pop.

I heard it first, an audible popping sound in my ear.

Noa screamed behind me.

Something warm hit my face.

Warm and red, coating my eyes and cheeks.

When I wiped the startling scarlet from my face, I found glistening blood dripping from the walls and slick across the floor, the countertops, everything.

I reached out for my brother.

But he wasn’t there anymore.

I don’t care if I’m some artificially grown freak who was born at seventeen years old.

I have already raided my kitchen for the best knives I can find.

So I can find my mother and father.

And make them suffer. 😊

The last thing my mother said to me before she died was:

“If the wind stops, don’t look outside.”

Then she hung up.

Not dramatically either. No crying. No warning music playing in the background. Just a click, followed by dead silence on the line.

I remember staring at my phone at work wondering if I should call her back.

I didn’t.

Three days later the county coroner left me a voicemail while I was eating gas station sushi in the breakroom.

That felt appropriate somehow.

My mother had spent most of my life believing something was watching her from the desert. Men in parked cars. Shapes standing beyond the fence line at night. Voices on AM radio stations that faded whenever anyone else listened.

By the time I was fourteen, half of the desert called her crazy and the other half crossed the street to avoid talking to her.

I left for the city at nineteen and learned very quickly that distance is cheaper than therapy.

I came back to the High Desert on a Thursday afternoon in August because somebody had to identify the body.

The trailer looked smaller than I remembered.

That happens when childhood fear wears off.

The yard was still covered in junk she swore was “useful someday.” Rusted swamp cooler parts. Plastic patio chairs. Coffee cans full of screws. Wind chimes hanging from dead tree branches.

All of them silent.

That bothered me immediately.

The desert is never completely quiet.

Even in the heat you hear something: wind scraping dirt across pavement, distant traffic from the freeway, power lines humming, dogs barking three streets over.

But standing in front of the trailer felt like someone had thrown a blanket over the entire world.

I told myself I was tired from the drive.

The coroner said she’d been dead around two days before the neighbor noticed the smell.

Heart attack, probably.

No signs of forced entry.

They said that last part carefully, like they expected me to ask.

I didn’t.

The inside of the trailer smelled like cigarettes, dust, and burnt coffee. The television was still on. Some ancient game show playing to an empty room.

I laughed a little when I saw it.

My mother treated silence like it owed her money.

Every TV in the house stayed on twenty-four hours a day when I was growing up. Radios too. Fans in winter. She once ran a blender at midnight because she said the house “felt wrong.”

When I was a kid, I thought everybody’s parents checked the windows every fifteen minutes.

Then friends stopped coming over.

I found her in the back bedroom.

Not her body. They’d already taken that.

I mean what was left of her life.

Stacks of notebooks.

Milk crates full of them.

Dozens.

Maybe hundreds.

Every single one labeled with dates.

I actually laughed when I saw them because suddenly I was sixteen again, listening to my mother explain why a white pickup truck driving down our street three nights in a row definitely meant something.

“Normal people don’t circle neighborhoods at 2AM.”

We lived in the desert.

Nobody out there was normal.

I sat cross-legged on the floor and opened one.

The first several pages were exactly what I expected.

License plates.

Times.

Descriptions of cars.

WEIRD LIGHT OVER MOUNTAIN 11:43 PM

MAN STOOD BY FENCE 2:10 AM

HEARD THEM WALKING AGAIN

Then the entries got stranger.

WIND STOPPED 1:13 AM

DO NOT LOOK WHEN IT GETS QUIET

JAMIE WOKE UP RIGHT BEFORE THEY ARRIVED

I froze a little reading my own name.

There were pages about me all through the notebooks.

Jamie coughing at night. Jamie sleepwalking. Jamie talking to somebody outside.

I barely remembered any of it.

One entry had been underlined so hard the pen tore through the paper.

HE LOOKED BACK AT THEM

I shut the notebook and stood up too quickly.

The trailer suddenly felt too small.

Too hot.

I opened the fridge hoping for water and found the inside covered in taped notes.

KEEP SOUND ON

DONT OPEN DOOR AFTER 1AM

IF WIND STOPS, CHECK FENCE

I ripped one down and immediately felt stupid for doing it.

Like I’d broken some kind of routine.

That night I stayed in the trailer because I was too exhausted to drive back into town.

I told myself I was being sentimental.

Really I just didn’t want to spend money on a motel.

Around midnight the wind outside started picking up.

That should’ve made me feel better.

Instead I caught myself listening to it.

Tracking it.

The same way my mother used to.

I hated that.

I turned the television louder and opened another notebook.

Most of it was nonsense.

At least that’s what I kept telling myself.

Then I noticed something.

A license plate repeated constantly through notebooks spanning almost twelve years.

8FTX920

Always late at night.

Always written beside the same phrase.

WHITE TRUCK

I sat there staring at the number while the TV buzzed in the background.

Then headlights passed across the front window.

Slow.

My stomach tightened before my brain caught up.

I moved to the curtain and peeked outside.

A white pickup rolled past the trailer at maybe five miles an hour.

My chest went cold.

Not because of the truck.

Because I already knew the plate number before I saw it.

8FTX920.

The truck disappeared down the road without stopping.

I stood there for a long time afterward convincing myself it meant nothing.

My mother probably saw dozens of white trucks over the years.

My brain just connected dots because I’d been reading paranoid notebooks all day.

That explanation worked right up until the wind stopped.

Completely.

No gradual fade.

One second desert wind rattling the trailer.

The next: nothing.

The silence hit hard enough to feel physical.

I suddenly understood why my mother always kept noise running.

Silence out there doesn’t feel empty.

It feels occupied.

The TV crackled.

Static rolled across the screen.

Then a voice whispered through the distortion.

“Jamie.”

I nearly threw the remote.

The screen cleared instantly afterward like nothing happened.

I laughed nervously to myself because human beings will rationalize literally anything before accepting they’re scared.

Old trailer. Bad wiring. Stress. Grief. Lack of sleep.

That’s what I kept telling myself.

Then something knocked on the wall outside.

Three slow taps.

Not the front door.

The back wall near the bedroom.

I stopped breathing.

Another three knocks.

My mother’s notebooks flashed through my head.

IF THEY KNOCK DONT ANSWER

I hate to admit this part.

I really do.

But I grabbed one of the notebooks before checking the window.

Like instinct.

Like muscle memory I shouldn’t have had.

The backyard was empty at first.

Chain-link fence. Dry dirt. Dark desert stretching past the property line.

Then I noticed them standing farther back near the wash.

Four figures.

Perfectly still.

Too tall.

At that distance they almost looked like people.

Until one of them moved.

Not walking.

Unfolding.

Like it had been bent in the wrong direction before straightening upward.

Every hair on my body stood up.

The thing tilted its head slightly toward the trailer.

Toward me.

And I had the horrible realization that it wasn’t discovering me.

It recognized me.

The knock came again behind me.

Inside the trailer this time.

I stumbled backward so hard I hit the kitchen counter.

The TV burst into static.

Voices poured through it.

Not words.

Just overlapping sound like hundreds of conversations happening underwater.

Then I heard my mother’s voice clearly.

“Don’t let them see you watching.”

The lights went out immediately after.

Total darkness.

Outside, the figures remained perfectly still beyond the fence line.

Waiting.

I don’t remember sitting down but suddenly I was at the kitchen table holding one of my mother’s notebooks open.

Writing.

Time. Weather. Direction of the wind.

My handwriting looked almost identical to hers.

I realized then what the notebooks really were.

Not delusions.

Instructions.

A survival routine passed from one exhausted person to another.

The white truck rolled past again at exactly 2:13 AM.

Slow enough for me to read the plate.

8FTX920.

I wrote it down before I realized what I was doing.

Outside, the wind still hadn’t returned.

And somewhere beyond the fence line, something moved closer.

The Antarctic morning was a masterpiece of silence and silver. The sun hung low and pale, turning the towering icebergs into jagged diamonds that sparkled and reflected as they drifted across a sea of liquid obsidian. It was a place where time itself felt irrelevant, a pristine wilderness that had remained unchanged, a testament to the raw, terrifying power of the natural world for millennia. The sea and ice whispered tales of ancient mysteries few were fortunate enough to see firsthand.

“God, this place is such a dump” Julian muttered, leaning against the freezing railing of the Explorer and flicking a piece of lint off his five-hundred-dollar parka.

To him, the “majestic silence and expansive sky” everyone couldn’t stop gushing about was just one giant lack of Wi-Fi, a dead zone in the worst sense of the word. And the “Once-in-a-lifetime” view was nothing more than a background for a selfie he couldn’t even upload. He snorted. And what the fuck is the point of that? No likes, no comments. No interaction with those thousands of followers I’ve grown that treat me like a God, all because I pose with shit they’ll never be able to afford.

He glanced back at the heated observation lounge, spotting Chloe through the glass; the girl was clearly looking for him, her face full of that pathetic, doe-eyed devotion he’d cultivated and built up the last few nights. He looked away before she could turn and catch his eye. He was done with her. She was a “Drake Passage” girl-a fun way to kill time and squeeze a little pleasure out of the misery his parents had forced upon him, in the name of “Broadening his horizons”-and now that they were at the main event, he needed a bigger prize than a mildly good looking chick with nice tits. He didn’t want to be just another tourist in a bright red jacket; he wanted to be the one who took what he wanted from this frozen shithole and left his mark before anyone else could.

He wanted to be one of the last on Earth who could say they were truly the first to do something. Say it, and not be full of shit.

Behind him came the sound of the lounge door’s latch unlocking, followed a moment later by the chattering of many people’s voices as it swung open. Knowing he would draw the ire of his mother if he let on how he truly felt, he painted a pleased, interested expression on his face before turning around.

“Alright folks, if I can have everyone gather around the port railing, please,” the expedition leader’s voice crackled through the deck’s speakers, competing slightly with a repeating hum and low, teeth chattering vibration Julian had both heard and felt ever since they’d arrived. He was dressed in a red parka, pointing a gloved hand towards the towering walls of rock and ice encircling the vessel like Indians straight out of a western.

“Welcome this morning to Hidden Bay. If you look directly behind us, to the north, you’ll see the two massive, snow-capped granite spires of Cape Renard. They act as the western gatekeeper to this entire area. To our east is Aguda Point. This bay is incredibly unique in that it’s only about three miles deep, and less than a mile wide.”

The crowd oohed and ahhed as they looked around. Camera shutters clicked rapidly, and Julian saw his parents among them, smiling to themselves. He resisted the extreme urge to roll his eyes at the scene and looked around. As his eyes wandered, they drifted across and found Chloe, who pushed her blonde hair behind one ear and gave him a small smile. Immediately he changed direction to look out over the railing again, pretending to be interested in the scenery. God, please don’t come over here.

An older man near the railing turned, lowering his massive camera lens. “Is that why it’s so dead calm in here? It feels more like a lake than something connected to the ocean.”

“Exactly,” the guide nodded, smiling. “We are completely tucked into the western coast of the Graham Land mainland. The sheer walls of the glaciers around us block the fierce winds. But more importantly, look just past the mouth of the bay to the southwest. Out there, beyond our view lies the Grandidier Channel.”

He gestured toward the open horizon where the calm bay water met the darker, vast ocean.

“The Grandidier is a massive, deep-water highway. It plunges down hundreds of meters into a glacial trough, channeling raw oceanic currents straight up from the south. The Lemaire Channel-which we’ll navigate later-cuts right off from it. Hidden Bay sits right at the intersection of these two giants. Because the Grandidier pushes nutrient-rich, deep waters right to our doorstep here, it brings an incredible amount of marine life up from the abyss.”

He paused, letting the tourists take a few photos of a massive, glowing blue iceberg drifting near the shoreline. As he did, Julian felt more than heard his parents sidle up beside him.

“That’s some view, isn’t it Jules?” his father asked, reaching over and gently tousling the teenager’s hair. In response, Julian ducked out of his reach.

“Dad, how many times do I have to tell you I hate that stupid nickname?” he asked, his voice rising slightly in pitch. “It was fine when I was six, but I’m almost eighteen now. I’m not a damn kid anymore.” His father gave a good natured chuckle and instead patted him on the shoulder. However, he saw his mother give him a disapproving stare as a few of the others turned, hearing the swear. Julian let out a small snort showing exactly how much he cared, but held his tongue. A little kid, one that he had come to think of as one half of the brat club with his brother spoke up.

“What sort of animals come up with the water, sir?” The guide smiled warmly at him.

“An excellent question, young man. The deep canyon water is actually why we have so much activity today. The water brings plankton and krill up from the depths, which in turn draws many species of fish like Icefish and Antarctic Silverfish. It’s a massive wildlife corridor out there. We often get Humpback Whales spyhopping in the channel, as well as frequent sightings of Orcas and even the occasional Blue Whale passing through. And, of course, we sometimes see sperm whales passing through the channel as they navigate the deep, open ocean waters for squid. As for here in the bay itself, the fish that chase the plankton draw many species of penguins, like Adelie, Chinstrap and Gentoo. Which, in turn, draws some of the larger predators, like Leopard Seals.”

The crowd smiled and clapped like trained seals again. The boy’s mother leaned down and kissed him, smiling at his question.

It was enough to make Julian want to vomit. I’m in a fucking Hallmark movie here. I want to do something! I want something exciting to do!

The thought suddenly brought forth something the guide had discussed the night before, before everyone went to bed. An activity that was scheduled. Swinging his head towards the stern of the ship, he grinned as he saw the row of colorful kayaks lined up on the lower marina platform alongside the Zodiac. Yes! Deciding he’d had enough of hearing something he could have listened to on the National Geographic channel at home on his father’s home cinema, and not caring if his mother got pissy at him for interrupting, he raised his hand and spoke up.

“Hey, when are we going kayaking?”

The guide, who’d been in the middle of starting to speak again, looked up and focused his eyes on him.

“Ah, Julian, right?” The man offered a practiced, accommodating smile, though his eyes shifted briefly to his parents. “I completely understand the eagerness. The Bay and Lemaire area is world-renowned for its sea kayaking. However, as I was just about to explain to the group, our spotters have noted an unusually high level of Leopard Seal activity near the ice floes this morning. Because they appear to be in a highly aggressive hunting mode, the expedition leader has officially canceled all kayaking for the day. I’m sorry, but for the safety of the group, we are keeping everyone on the main vessel for the moment.” He smiled. “But don’t worry, once we get the green light from the spotters, we’ll be launching the Zodiac boats for a safe, guided cruise around the Cape. It’s an incredible view, I promise!”

For a moment, the Antarctic chill that had endlessly attempted to seep through his coat felt as though it had found a way in. He shivered, though not from the elements. Canceled. The one damn thing so far around this godforsaken frozen rock that wouldn’t have involved sitting around with senior citizens, and it was gone. Julian felt a hot spike of rage flash straight through to his chest, and impulsively burst out.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

The harsh curse cut through the crisp air like a gunshot. The crowd of tourists froze, the smiles instantly vanishing from their faces as they whirled around to look at him. The woman with the children ducked and immediately put hands over her nearest child’s ears, motioning for her husband to do the same with the other. Chloe was staring at him with a mixture of shock and impressed awe. There was silence for a second.

“Julian!” his mother hissed sharply, her face draining of color as she reached out to grab his elbow. “Language!”

He tore his arm from her grip, taking a step forward, towards the guide. “No, Mom, I’m sick of this. This is an absolute joke and a half. Look at the water, it’s a goddamn mirror! We’re paying a fortune for this trip, and you’re letting a couple of overgrown seals and a David Attenborough knock off Dad would have fired at his company for telling him no cancel the only part of this so-called vacation so far that isn’t completely boring!”

“Julian, shut your damn mouth right now! You’re embarrassing us!” his father hissed, stepping in between his son and the rest of the open-mouthed passengers, his face twisted into a mask of the sort of fury that would only fit the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. “We are not paying for this trip-your mother and I are. And we raised you to be far better than this,” he gestured to everyone. “Apologize to the guide, to everyone immediately!”

But Julian didn’t listen. He sneered at his father.

“Screw you, Dad, and screw this boat,” he growled, backing away towards the other side of the deck.

“Julian, please listen,” the guide chimed in over the PA system, trying desperately to de-escalate the situation. “Like I said, as soon as the spotters have cleared the area as safe enough, we’ll be launching the Zodiacs for those who want the tour. It’s still going to be an incredible experience.”

Julian snorted disdainfully.

“Yeah, enjoy your ‘safe’ little cruise, then, sheep,” he spat, shoving his gloved hands into his pockets. He spun on his heel and strode away, his head stuck high in the air as he walked out of sight around the Observation Lounge. For a moment, there was another stretch of silence. Julian’s mother, face beet red from her son’s tantrum, began to follow after him, but was stopped as his father put a hand on her shoulder.

“Let him go, Maria. Let him blow off some steam. We’ll handle him later tonight.” He turned back towards the guide.

“My apologies for that, sir. Please, continue. In fact, could you tell us how we’re able to stay in place, despite not being anchored?”

The murmurs began to die down as the guide cleared his throat, regaining his composure. “Of course, sir. It’s quite alright. The Explorer is equipped with a system called Dynamic Positioning. The ship’s computers continuously fires bow and stern thrusters, as well as the vessel’s 360-degree rotating propellers to keep us in place. It’s the vibration you all may have felt every few minutes through the hull.” He perked up slightly. “And a fun fact for those of you who may not know. It actually creates a recurring, low-frequency grinding and hissing noise underwater that travels for miles!”

He turned and began to lead the way towards the bow.

“And now that we can return to our tour-”

Julian leaned against the starboard railing, breathing heavily. Anger still coursed through his system, and he gripped the railing so tightly that, if he didn’t have gloves on, he was sure would see the knuckles of his hands turning white. The indignation of being chastised to by his parents was almost more than he could stand. He hocked a loogie over the side into the still water. I can’t believe how spineless they both are, he thought bitterly. Dad would literally have fired that guy for telling him no in a board room, and Mom would have smiled and told him he did the right thing. But now? Here in this crap hole? They act like peasants. Like the groveling poors we pay to avoid living near. He let out a deep breath and turned, leaning his back against the railing. As he did, his gaze drifted towards the kayaks. The sight of them brought the disappointment back with a vengeance, and he looked away. Then he looked back at them again. His breathing slowed, and he felt his rage begin to be replaced with a sense of calm as something began to turn inside his head.

“Julian?”

He started at the soft call, snapping out of his thoughts and turning to find Chloe had detached herself from the others, standing a few feet away. Oh, great. Fucking brilliant. He let out a sigh.

“What?”

She hesitated for a second, then stepped forward, reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re right,” she said, shaking her head and snorting as she shot a look back where the group had to have gone. “It’s complete bullshit that we were told we were gonna go kayaking today, and they canceled just because of some oversized Harbor Seals are a bit rowdy,” she shook her head again, smiling warmly at him. “I’m sorry it ruined what you wanted to do.”

Julian let out an exasperated laugh at the fact the girl had immediately pivoted to his defense, as if he needed someone to come to it. Just another sheep like the damn rest. And bothering me when I’m thinking.

“Fuck off, Chloe,” he muttered coldly, pulling out of her grasp and turning away as he again eyed the kayaks.

Chloe took a step back, for a moment a hurt look flashing across her face. Then her features darkened, and she stuck out her lower lip in a pout.

“Fine. I was going to ask if I could make you feel better tonight after everyone went to sleep, but if you feel that way,” she turned and began to walk away.

The insinuation slammed into Julian like a truck, the memory of his nightly conquests cutting through the anger and thoughts racing through his mind. You know what? Maybe I’m not done with her. Maybe she is good for me for another few nights. He turned, plastering an apologetic look on his face.

“Hey, wait,” he called, raising a hand dramatically. He saw her stop and turn back to look at him. He allowed a regretful tone to enter his voice. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? I’m an asshole. Just. Having the first really cool thing that had been scheduled get fucked over really did a number on me.”

For a moment, she remained still. Then, just as he predicted, she bought it. The cool expression left her face, replaced by the doe-eyed smile as she crossed back to him. She leaned forward and pecked a kiss on his cheek.

“It’s fine,” she cooed in his ear, pulling back. “Just, don’t get angry at me for something that’s not my fault, okay?”

He nodded, faking a smile, but needing her to buzz off; He only had a little time to put the plan he’d just thought of into action.

“Deal. Just, do me a favor and give me a little time to cool off, okay? That way I won’t take it out on you.”

Internally, he held his breath. Part of him was afraid she’d insist on staying with him, which would derail his plan completely. But to his relief, she nodded, smiling warmly at him, turning and walking away. He noticed with an amused snort that she walked away with a pronounced wiggle to her hips, clearly trying to tease him. Well, looks like I’ve got something to look forward to tonight.

After she was out of sight, he shook his head to clear his mind. He needed to focus if he was gonna pull off the scheme he’d cemented in his mind. He looked back to make sure nobody else was looking. Then he began to, quickly and quietly, make his way towards the stern of the ship and the platform. He smirked to himself.

Fuck all of them. I’m gonna be the first to do something.

 

As the tour group listened to the guide, Julian’s parents stood near the back, quietly arguing with each other.

“It’s your fault, Jonathan,” Maria whispered sharply, “You always give him a break when he doesn’t deserve one, and use that ridiculous ‘boys will be boys’ comment to excuse his behavior. And now look where it’s gotten us.”

Jonathan sighed, not wanting to start another fight in front of the group; one embarrassment for the day was more than enough.

“You’re right, darling,” he said softly. “You’re absolutely right. I do go too easy on him. Which I will be making up for tonight before we go to bed. But, for the moment, let’s at least try and enjoy the tour. Today is our anniversary, after all.”

He saw Maria hesitate; he knew she wanted to keep at him, knowing full well he didn’t really intend to do anything to their son besides a stern lecture. But she nodded, placing a hand on his chest.

“Alright,” she said, smiling gently at him. Satisfied he’d averted his wife’s fury, he turned his attention back to the guide as he continued speaking. Everyone had returned their rapt attention on the beautiful landscape around them. Camera shutters clicked away again, and the children laughing joyfully as their parents picked them up to see over the railing. They didn’t even cast a glance towards the stern of the ship.

Where a lone figure paddled quickly away, towards the Lemaire Channel.

 

Julian drove his paddle into the water, his arms already beginning to burn as he pushed the bright red kayak as fast as his muscles would allow. He kept his head low, constantly throwing glances over his shoulder. The ship was shrinking in size behind him, the tourists all grouped at the bow railing. Nobody was sparing a glance his way. The realization made him chuckle, a smirk spreading across his face as he looked ahead at his destination. His chest heaved with a heavy, toxic adrenaline. Fuck them all. This is my turn. I’m gonna be the first teenager in history to solo kayak the Lemaire Channel. And even if I get caught, they’ll never allow it to happen again. Which means I’ll be the only one to ever do it. The thought made him grin, and he pushed himself harder, the muscles he’d built from being on the rowing team back home helping him round the rocky shadow of Cape Renard and straight towards the northern mouth of the bottleneck.

Beneath his boots, the molded plastic floorboards still vibrated with a faint, teeth-chattering hum that had been coming from the boat. He’d felt it vibrating as he’d slid the kayak into the water, all the way in his bones. As he reached the mouth of the channel, he felt the water change. The surface remained deceptively calm-still the same glassy, obsidian mirror the bay had been-but beneath the façade, he felt a massive, silent current take hold of the hull. It felt as if the seawater had suddenly turned to thick oil; every inch of it resisted the dip and lift of his paddle. Tiny shards of floating brash ice and frozen kelp fronds swept past him in a slow, ghostly rush, riding a deep polar tide that compressed within the channel’s walls ahead. He smiled, misinterpreting the resistance as a challenge he was easily conquering. Even easier than getting Chloe into bed. The dead-calm water allowed his hull to glide in absolute silence, leaving nothing but a long, silver wake tracing a straight line back to the ship.

As he paddled into the bottleneck, the sheer, three-thousand foot walls of ice and granite rose up on either side of him, swallowing the pale morning sun. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and spared a glance over the side, down into the water.

He stopped. The sight that greeted him rooted him to the spot for a moment.

The green coastal hue of the water that had made up the bay had disappeared. In its place was now an almost ink black void that seemed to stretch into infinity. The sight of the seemingly bottomless trench beneath him caused him to exhale slightly harder than normal, feeling a chill that the cold air had nothing to do with. Then he shook his head roughly.

“Knock it off,” he said harshly, returning to the motion of paddling as he felt himself begin to be swept backwards to the bay. He wasn’t some scared little boy who didn’t know how to swim.

He was Julian fucking Nichols, and he was going to make history.

He resumed paddling, feeling the oily friction beneath the surface increasing in its resistance. The further he got into the channel, the heavier the current seemed to become. Still, he ignored the slight ache in his arms, gritting his teeth and digging into the water as if his paddle was a shovel. He let out a low chuckle.

“Think you’re gonna beat me, God?” he arrogantly said into the cold sky, his breath visible in front of him. “Think again.”

The minutes dragged on as he slowly made progress, using the shoreline as waypoints to mark how much he’d moved forward. When he felt his arms begin to burn, he allowed himself to rest for a few moments, setting the paddle sideways across the front of the kayak. He took several deep breaths, letting the cold air invigorating him for his next push, and in his head, could almost hear the impressed tone of his rowing instructor complimenting him when he got home and told him what he’d done.

The sound that came from over his left shoulder shooed away the phantom voice.

Pfff-huffff.

It was a ragged, heavy exhalation, carrying the pungent smell of digested fish and cold brine. Julian’s confidence dwindled as he went rigid in the kayak, slowly turning to look. The sight that greeted him made his heart almost leap into his throat.

Just five feet away, a massive, almost reptilian head was hovering silently in the water, staring directly at him. Up close, away from the safety of the ship’s railing, it was horrifyingly huge. Its skull was long and heavy looking, shaped like a prehistoric predator’s, wrapped in scarred, spotted gray skin that glistened like wet steel. It’s black, unblinking eyes fixed onto Julian with a cold, soulless intensity, its mouth parting just enough to reveal a jaw filled with interlocking teeth. Its nostrils twitched as it exhaled another plume of freezing mist into his face.

A cold sweat broke out beneath his layers as a half-remembered trivia fact from the guide’s previous lectures clawed its way forward into his mind: a story about a marine biologist who, while snorkeling in these waters, had been seized by the leg by the monster staring at him, dragged three hundred feet down into the abyss, and drowned. Suddenly, any arrogance Julian had felt fled him.

And then he felt the first tendrils of true terror as two more dark fractures broke the still water behind the first. The sound came from his right, and he slowly turned, fighting the urge to scream as he saw two more. They didn’t move, didn’t charge him. They just hovered, a quintet of ten-foot, three-hundred pound apex killers anchoring him in place in the most agonizing staring contest he could imagine.

But just as his chest tightened, and he prepared to open his mouth and scream, the Leopard Seal closest to him’s eyes widened. It’s pupils dialated with a sudden, frantic alarm. With an explosive, almost synchronized thrash of their powerful flippers, all five seals contorted and leapt forward. But not towards him. They rocketed past his red hull, fleeing towards the now distant bay so fast their massive wake violently rocked his kayak, splashing freezing water on him that took his breath away.

Julian gripped the sides of the cockpit, his breath coming in ragged gaps as the silver ripples slowly faded back into a mirror. Silence reclaimed the canyon. For a few moments, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, a smirk crept back onto is face as the terror he’d felt melted into a sheer, intoxicating burst of adrenaline.

They had run. The apex predators of the peninsula had looked him in the eye, five of them. And they had fled.

A sharp, cocky laugh bubbled up from his chest, bouncing off the granite cliffs. It rose in intensity into a high pitched shriek of victory as he turned to flip the bird behind him.

“Yeah, that’s right, bitches, you better run!” he shouted into the empty canyon, his ego swelling to a dangerous, invincible high. Wanting to cement his absolute dominance over nature, Julian raised his paddle high above his head and slammed the blade down against the water. Thwack! The concussive crack echoed like a rifle shot down the canyon walls. He lifted it and slammed it down again. Thwack! He laughed, reveling in the sound of his own manufactured authority. This must be what Dad feels like to fire someone.

Laughing, he began to paddle forward again, determined more than ever to reach the end of the channel. He spared another look behind him. And noticed the sudden shift on the distant vessel. Looking back over his shoulder towards Hidden Bay, the quiet, uniform lines of the tourists had fractured into a chaotic swarm. The sharp crack of his paddle had acted like a gunshot in the silent polar amphitheater, pulling every long range lens and pair of binoculars straight towards the channel. Even from this distance, he could see tiny figures breaking away from the main throng, sprinting down the external staircases towards the stern platform. They were heading for the Zodiacs. They had seen him.

“Shit!”

A cold, heavy knot dropped into Julian’s stomach, quickly replaced by a surge of desperate, stubborn adrenaline. If they caught him now, he would be dragged back to the ship in front of everyone, Chloe included-he’d be humiliated, grounded and forced to face his mother’s fury for the rest of the voyage. And on top of that, he’d only be known as the kid who tried to solo kayak the channel, not made it.

The thought was too much. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. The exit of the channel seemed an impossibly long way off, but still he dug the paddle into the water with a new found ferocity. His chest began to burn as he deeply inhaled the freezing air, his arms on fire as he refused to slow, determined to conquer the passage before the roar of the outboard motor could catch up to him.

The distant, high pitched whine of the motor finally cut through the air behind him, echoing off the cliffs as the first Zodiac roared out of the bay towards the mouth of the channel. Julian gritted his teeth, his shoulders burning as he forced the paddle through the water, desperate to put as much distance as he could between himself and his “rescuers”. He was dimly aware that around him, the channel had narrowed to its thinnest section. But his attention was ripped away as he began to notice something.

The kayak was becoming sluggishly slow. And it wasn’t the tide, either. He cast a glance around, making sure he wasn’t hitting any ice just below the surface. He saw nothing. He fought for breath. Am I getting that tired?

Then, it stopped.

No matter how much he dug the paddle into the water, the small boat refused to move forward or slide back. It was as if he’d found the only underwater rock in the channel and ran aground on it. Confusion swept over him as he fought to free himself from whatever he’d come into, be it an eddy or a rip current.

That’s when the vibration began.

Beneath the soles of his boots, a new, deeply unsettling sensation vibrated through the the red plastic. It wasn’t the chattering hum of the ship’s engines. It was a heavy, organic friction-the sound of something heavy and rubbery sliding slowly against the underside of his hull, dragging along the keel with a sickening, wet resistance. It was accompanied by a sound as well. One that Julian felt in the back of his teeth. A sound that was almost like long fingernails being sickeningly dragged along plastic.

He froze, his paddle hovering inches above the glassy surface. Something deep and primal in himself was uncoiling like a snake, and the unnamed sensation caused the wisps of terror he’d felt facing the seals to return. He began trying to drive the paddle through the water with increasing ferocity, his breaths beginning to come fast and shallow. He dared not look into the water, only focusing ahead. But it was useless; for all his effort, he barely moved five feet forwards. He paused. The silence returned, this time heavy and suffocating aside from the growing sound of the Zodiac behind him.

Then, the kayak lurched. A thick, muscular mass of pinkish-maroon flesh, lined with cat-like, swiveling chitinous hooks, slowly curved over the left rim of the cockpit. Julian’s breath froze in his throat as he stared at it. What…the fuck… Then the sheer weight of the appendage tilted the kayak violently to one side as it flexed. Before Julian could ever draw in a breath to scream, a wave of freezing, twenty-eight degree seawater poured over the rim, instantly flooding the open cockpit and pooling around his waist. The shock was catastrophic; it hit his nerves like liquid fire, instantly paralyzing his legs and locking his muscles in useless spasms. He was trapped in a sinking, plastic bucket as….something pulled it downwards.

The kayak lurched again, and Julian had to reach out to grab the lip of the cockpit to keep from tumbling out into the water. His face was forced to look down over the edge of the hull.

What he saw froze him more than the freezing water ever could.

Just five feet below the obsidian surface, the darkness had coalesced into a shape. A massive, round shape. Julian felt his heart stop as his mind realized what he was looking at.

An eye. A single, unblinking eye the size of a soccer ball, with a massive, dark horizontal pupil that reflected in the pale sunlight. It wasn’t a soulless fish eye. It was intelligent, hyper-focused and locked onto him with a cold, predatory curiosity.

Panic and terror, hot and sharp finally broke through whatever was left of his façade. Acting entirely on the survival instincts of a spoiled kid used to hitting his problems until they went away, Julian raised the heavy paddle he’d almost forgotten he’d held onto with a death grip. With a guttural scream, he brought the blade down with everything he had left in him, smashing it directly onto the maroon flesh still draped over the cockpit.

The blade connected hard. To his absolute shock, the massive tentacle contracted and recoiled, its hooks giving a sickening screech against the plastic as it withdrew back into the depths. Below the surface, the massive eye quickly vanished. Julian had a sense of a massive shape moving quickly away from him as whatever it had been retreated back into the dark void of the trench. The kayak rocked violently, stabilizing as the dead weight was removed. Julian sat panting, his breath exploding from him in thick, white plumes, his legs completely numb from the freezing water sloshing about his legs. He looked down.

The water was empty again.

He let out a ragged, hysterical laugh. He had done it. He had beaten the seals, and he had beaten whatever the hell that thing had been.

But as he looked ahead at the long, empty corridor of the channel ahead of him, looking for all the world to him now like it was a million miles away, any intoxicating thoughts of being the first to traverse what felt less like a waterway and more like a massive, open grave faded away. His entire body was shaking with a mixture of shock, onset of hypothermia and fear. Behind him, he heard the loud sound of the Zodiac nearing him; turning, he could see the apoplectic faces of his parents along with one of the guides as the moved towards him. His pride finally broke.

Screw the solo record, man, he thought. I’m done. He began to awkwardly move the paddle in his frozen hands, desperate to turn the half sunken boat around and allow the approaching tender to save him.

He never got the chance to turn.

The obsidian glass beneath him didn’t just break-it obliterated. The Colossal Squid didn’t strike from the side; it flew up from the abyss below with all the force of a freight train and the rage of a wounded bull. The impact was what Julian thought being hit by a truck must feel like. A wall of freezing foam erupted into the air as he felt the impact slam directly into the keel beneath him. There was a horrific, screaming tear of plastic being shredded by a thousand hooks. Julian didn’t just capsize; he was launched into the air as if he’d been a cartoon character in a catapult. As if in slow motion, he watched the world whirl around, heard the sound of his parents screaming as the black water flew up to meet him.

The instant his face hit the water, the cold struck him like a fist in the face. The shock of the freezing water made him let out an involuntary gasp, choking as he drew in a burning lungful of water. His vision blurred as thousands of angry bubbles protested his entrance into their domain. He tried to swim, thrashing his arms as his useless, frozen legs hung limply. The five-hundred-dollar parka he’d boasted about now felt as if it were a lead weight. His head broke the surface, and for a moment he heard his parent’s frantic voices as they shouted for him to swim to them.

Then he was pulled beneath the surface as a feeding tentacle-a maroon arrow as thick around as a tree trunk-coiled around his waist. The hooks shredded effortlessly through the layers of his clothing and bit into his flesh with an agonizing pain that not even the numbness could hold back. Feebly, as he felt the tentacle pull him away from the surface, he fought to push it away with his hands. But it was no use. Somewhere above him, he heard the muffled screams of his parents.

For a second, he caught a glimpse of the giant eye, no longer staring curiously at him, but with a mixture of hatred and hunger. Then, as he saw the giant, gnashing beak appear, snapping open and shut in anticipation of its next meal, a thought occurred to him. The last thought he ever had. He was going to be the first in the history books after all.

He was about to be the first recorded case of a human being eaten alive by a Colossal Squid.

Saira woke up to the sound of her alarm. It was 4am in the morning. She rolled over to the other side of the bed, but Samir wasn't there. She used her hands to thrust herself upwards but she winced in pain, her hand automatically going to the left side of her stomach where Samir had kicked her last night. She lifted her kurta only to see a purple bruise spreading across her skin, dark at the centre and fading into blue and yellow around the edges. But it was her fault. She knew Samir didn't like it when she talked back to him. Had she stayed quiet at dinner, none of this would have happened. At least that's what she told herself each time. 

She got up, determined not to make any more mistakes today, after all it was Samir's birthday today. 

Everything had to be perfect. 

She got ready and walked towards the wardrobe. She looked at all the half sleeved kurtis and dresses that were pushed towards the side of the closet, her hand automatically drifted towards a bright yellow dress, the one she wore when Samir took her out for their first anniversary. She remembered how happy she felt when he told her how beautiful she looked as he brushed a strand of her hair past her face. She often wondered what went wrong. She snapped back to reality and picked a dark hoodie with long sleeves, as it was the only thing that could cover the bruises scattered all over her arms. She went to the living room, quietly arranging the disheveled room and picking up the empty alcohol bottles scattered all over the floor. Samir hated mess. She had learned this loud and clear when she had accidentally spilled his coffee. The three stitch marks just above her eyebrow served a permanent reminder. Just then her phone buzzed. 13 missed calls from her brother asking where she was. She didn't reply and slipped the phone into her hoodie. Samir didn't like her speaking to her family.

"You twist every argument to make me seem like the villian", she remembered him saying as he snatched her phone mid conversation and threw it across the room. 

But he was right. She was the one who made him angry. Had she learnt to shut up and not question him, none of this would have happened. Samir wasn't always like this. There was a time he would bring her flowers on his way home from work and hold her hand while crossing the road. She firmly believed that man was still there, the man who truly loved her. And she could bring him back if she tried hard enough. 

Yes, she could do it. 

Saira spent the remaining part of the day tirelessly scrubbing the entire house clean, hanging streamers and making flower arrangements. She had even managed to bake a cake- chocolate with vanilla frosting, Samir's favourite. She went back to her room to get ready to surprise him. She meticulously covered the array of bruises on her face and neck with concealer. 

Everything had to be perfect today.

She carefully decorated the cake with flowers and topped it with candles. That's when she heard the door handle turn. She walked towards the living room, holding the cake in her hands with a smile plastered on her face in an attempt to mask her lingering uncertainty. 

Everything had to be perfect. 

As she walked to surprise Samir, she suddenly froze. She saw a trail of blood leading from the hallway towards the backdoor of the house. A chill ran down her spine and she slowly followed the trail, her hands trembling while she desperately attempted to not drop the cake.

The back door stood ajar.

Through the narrow gap she saw Samir, dragging something covered in a large black plastic covering across the floor. His clothes were stained with something dark and a look of absolute terror was plastered on his face and he loaded the black bag into the trunk of his car. 

Suddenly a hand slipped out.

Saira's stomach churned violently as the cake dropped out of her hands. Her hand covered her mouth in an attempt to suppress a sob as tears rolled down her face. Saira staggered further towards the door but her legs gave out and she fell onto the floor. 

The hand was covered with bruises.

Bruises she recognised.

That's when the memories came rushing back.

Samir yelling.

Her voice trembling as she apologised to him again and again.

The smell of alcohol on his breath. 

A violent shove.

Her head hitting the side of the dining table.

Warm blood running down her face.

Samir kicking her violently even after she stopped responding.

Saira stumbled backwards, her body as cold as ice as the realisation hit her.

The pain

The bruises

The exhaustion 

None of it had happened this morning.

Because this morning had never happened.

Outside Samir shoved her hand back into the plastic bag and slammed the trunk shut. 

The cake which she had so meticulously baked was now squished beyond recognition. 

Everything had to be perfect.

The phrase slowly repeated in her head as Samir drove away, disappearing into darkness. 

I was getting ready at 2 AM. I had just finished some writing work.

I looked in the mirror while I was tying my hair.

For a second I just stopped.

My reflection was smiling at me.

I was not smiling.

I took a step back.

The smile went away.

I said to myself I am just tired.

Then my phone camera opened by accident.

I was still looking at the mirror.

In the front camera…

There was no one, behind me.

In the mirror I was still there.

This is gonna sound insane, I know. I don’t blame you for not believeing me, but it’s just… it’s been a night. I just really need to get this all off my chest.

I’m used to cleaning up urine & excrement. Occasionally vomit. It’s part of the job on Diesel side. The automated bells chime, & one of the numbered lights turn from yellow to red. Whoever's on shower duty takes the cleaning cart to the small restroom & wipes everything down with a sanitizing solution. Once the entire room has been thoroughly disinfected, it’s supplied with a fresh, blue shower towel, & the password is typed into the combination keypad next to the door. The lock mechanism slides into place, & the cart gets wheeled back down the hallway, right behind the register.

It’s a thankless loop. The truck drivers & low income families who use the showers in our gas station usually don’t show any appreciation, not that it’s expected or needed. Past a handful of older men who leave crumpled 5 or 10 dollar bills for my female coworkers, the most we get is usually just a fleeting, awkward glance, or a brief nod with, “‘priciate it,” muttered under their breath.

A giggling young couple exited shower 10 at 12:17AM. When I opened the door to the room, I smelled strawberry shampoo, undercut by something visceral. Metalic, like burnt copper wiring.

The last thing I expected to see was semen or blood. I know, if you’re reading this, you’re probably thinking, “oh my god, who starts a story like this? Where could this possibly be going?”

I hate it as much as you do, probably more so. See, unlike you, I can't just exit the post & keep scrolling the subreddit. The only thing I could do was follow my manager's instructions.

We had a brief conversation over the old landline in the office. I told him about the state of the bathroom, along with sending him a picture of a bloody handprint, slapped onto the shower wall tiling. In a disinterested tone, he said that he’d handle anything if the cops came asking. He told me not to worry, because I wouldn’t get a follow up from him unless it was serious.

“That’s fine, but like, do you want me to call someone to clean it?”

“Well shit, who do you think we’re supposed to call, Pat?” Hammy’s tone was undercut with a razor blade of condescension. I always had the impression he wasn’t a fan of mine.

“I don’t know dude, isn’t it like, a biohazard or something? Like, can’t you get a disease-”

He cut me off with a dramatic, exhausted sigh, “...hold on, hold on. Disease?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, fuck’s sake, Pat, do you plan on rubbing it into any open wounds?”

“Oh gross Hammy, no, obviously not.”

“Okay, fantastic. You plan on cleaning it up with your tongue? Or scooping it with your bare hands?”

Internally, I groaned. 3 years of working at the Travel Stop, & so far, this was perfectly standard for Hammy. In hindsight, I don't think I expected anything else when I called.

“No, I don’t, sir.”

“Sweet. Double up on gloves, double up on mop water, steal some sanitizer cleaner from the emergency shelf, & toss the rags when you’re done wiping everything down! Think you can handle that?”

“Ugh, yeah. Sure, I guess…” I grumble.

For a moment, there was silence on the line.

“Is that all Pat?”

“I think so.”

“Great… You can hang up now, Pat.”

Trying to hold my breath as much as I could, I attempted to wipe it all up with as little direct contact as possible, ie; mops & rags as a physical buffer. Unfortunately, I had to use my gloved hands to get what the tools couldn’t.

Obviously, I didn’t want to think about what happened to create such a mess. Who would? You definitely don’t, & would probably appreciate it if I didn't describe the explicit imagery, but I’m telling you, it was distractingly excessive, especially the smell.

Semen in a restroom is disgusting & severely careless for whoever has to clean up afterwards, but not unheard of. Blood, while also unhygienic to just leave behind, is a little more feasible. Think used feminine-care products. But this… this was distinctly gratuitous.

I wanted to just bleach my eyes, keep working like a robot, & forget about it just as quickly as I’d seen it, but the sheer quantity kept me from disassociating. Random sized puddles of snotty white scrum decorated the floor & toilet seat like glistening, bleeding marble. A thick, transparent glob was sprayed across the counter, & partially dripped into the sink. Through leftover, strawberry-scented suds & bubbles collected in the center of the shower, I could see that the normally shiny silver drain was streaked with an ugly red hue. To top it all off, slapped like a signature on the shower wall, was the single, crimson handprint. There was more, but I think I’ve made my point.

As I tossed the filthy mop head & prepared to replace it, I considered that maybe I was reading into it too much. I mean, clearly, no one was injured. They had left the building in the same giggly, flirtatious mood as when I’d handed them their shower code. Still, I shuttered imagining how so much of either bodily fluid could have ended up there in such a short period of time. It could’ve all just been the product of a freaky, unprotected passion session, right? I mean, who hasn’t had period sex?

At 12:00, I gave them access to their shower. They went in, made the mess, left, then I discovered their leftovers. A phone call & 3 full mop buckets later, it was over. By 12:34, shower 10’s door was shut & locked, the whole room fully sanitized to a near ridiculous level. In less than 20 minutes, they had created so much blood (which again, I had to clean) that I genuinely considered the valid possibility of a small animal being slaughtered in there. But then, why the jizz? That’s the line of deductive reasoning I went down before deciding to just stop thinking about it.

I’d only seen the two of them go in with their shower bag, no small animals, no butcher equipment. I just took a deep breath & carried on with my shift, content to go with the period sex theory.

“Part of the job, I guess,” I told my coworker on break as I finished the story.

“Holy fuck, that’s disgusting,” she grimaced, pushing her leftover food away to placate her ruined appetite, “I straight up don’t believe there was that much.”

“Well, I called Hammy about it, & whether you wanna believe it or not, I’d like to not clean up the showers after crackhead sex again,” I rasped, letting the lit end of the joint between my fingers fizzle out. The thick mucus in my throat felt like it was swelling, & I tried (more like failed) to cough quietly.

“You think they were crackheads?” she asked.

“Ah, I honestly have no idea. I shouldn’t speculate, I guess.”

The back of my head resting against the brick wall behind me, I let out a dramatic wheeze. Once I had caught my breath, I stole a blue Taki from her discarded tray & stood up. She quickly checked her watch before following my lead.

“So what, Hammy really said you had to clean all that up?”

I shrugged & pulled out my inhaler. I violently shook it for a second, put the business end in my mouth, & squeezed the top. A flood of cold dust hit the back of my throat, & as I inhaled, the constricting muscles & tendons in my neck loosened. Blissfully, I could breathe again.

“Like I said. Part of the job, I guess…”

“You know, you’re crazy for smoking when you’ve got asthma,” my coworker smirked, understandably changing the subject.

“Oh, I know. I just smoke when this bad boy’s outta juice,” I held up a custom vape that had a picture of Moist Critical as Jesus printed on it.

“Oh shit, is that Andrew Driver?”

“Uh-huh, yeah, sure is,” I giggled sarcastically. I couldn’t tell if she was being deadass or not.

“Wow. Loved that guy in Megalopolis,” she mumbled thoughtfully.

I walked into the back office, getting ready to leave. Once my radio was plugged back in & my backpack was acquired, I clocked out for the night, listening to the office computer news stream drawl away.

“-olice say that the perpetrators are on foot near the West Plains area, & to call Weston Brady, Howell county Sheriff, if you see any suspicious behavior. The only evidence we have is 2 empty blood bags, which are currently being tested by the forensics department, & tracks matching a size 10 men’s pair of crocs. Experts advise-”

“You leaving?” my coworker interrupted, suddenly standing right behind me.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I leave at 2:30am.”

“But Hammy said you’re here til 3.”

I looked at the time on my phone. 2:50.

“Well, the schedule says I stay til 2:30. I stayed an extra 20 minutes with you for your break. I think I’m good to go.”

She threw up her hands in a defensive motion, sighing dramatically.

“Well if you’re gonna git, git. Just take out the trash with the cum stuff in it if you haven’t already.”

I looked at the wastebin in the hallway. I scowled when I realized I hadn’t taken it out when I finished earlier.

“Shit… Okay, fine. But replace the bag for me, please. I don’t feel like comin’ back inside.”

“God you literally are the kind of person to use an Andrew Driver vape,” I heard her grumble from inside the office.

With the negotiation set, I grabbed the bag with a fresh pair of gloves on & heaved it out the door.

Once it was in the dumpster & my jacket was on, I began the trek back to my car. Our employee parking lot was right beside the semi overnight parking, which bordered the woods. As I walked past the idling monster trucks, I felt something was off. Like a pair of eyes were trained on the back of my neck.

Over our gas pumps’ glowing neon roof, an icy moon shone brightly in a pitch black sky, devoid of stars. A series of ghostly whips drifted across the infinite canvas. It looked like an old painting, depicting a eery, winter landscape.

The my warm breath in the November cold gave the illusion of fog faces before fading into nothing. Pareidolia. My hair was all at once standing on end, & I looked around. Seeing nothing, I turned to survey the treeline. Still, nothing. I was alone in the dead of night while tiny snowflakes fell & melted on my warm skin. I concluded that nothing was wrong. I was being paranoid. I just needed to get to my car, warm up, & go home.

“Everything’s fine, calm down,” I told myself.

Just as I put the end of the final 18-wheeler behind me, I heard the sound of something rapidly smacking against a metal surface, like wet hands quickly skittering up the side of the trailer. I spun around to see nothing. Just a normal big-rig. Perplexed & quite nervous, I stumbled backwards a few steps. I didn’t dare look away. I kept my eyes trained on the corner where that noise had come from. I was frozen, both by fear, & the cold.

“Hey! What the fuck is up, pal?!” an angry voice demanded from behind me.

Snapped from my stuper, I whipped around to see a short, hairy woman with an underbite & a dark, disheveled complexion. She was dressed in bright pink pajamas, with a comical nightcap to match. A pair of bunny slippers dangled from her left hand, & a pack of menthol Newports were grasped firmly in her right.

“Huh?” I gasped, confused. In hindsight, I’m sure I looked super suspicious.

“Well? You lookin’ for anything in particular?” She snarled. Light glinted off the worn metal of her steel toes. If I was gonna get my ass handed to me by a trucker who thought I was casing their joint, I did not want it to be this ol’girl.

“Oh shit, hold on ma’am, this isn’t what it looks like! I was just cutting through so I could-”

“Oh, I know what you want, you scoundrel! You mean to bust open some old lady’s trunk, snoopin’ out & about under the cover of night,” she heaved, lumbering forward, “You wanna have your way with me while I’m asleep & defenseless, don’t you?!”

I grimaced & held up my hands definsively, shaking my head. Before I could get another word in, the hag continued, working herself up more & more with each word.

“Oh, you degenerate! You want to take advantage of me, eh? Bully?! Well here I am, so go on, have it your way! But just know, I got a mean turkey waddle downstairs, & she gobbles somethin’ nasty!”

By now, I could physically feel her dank, hot breath on my face. It smelled like old coffee & charred enamel, like a dentist visit gone wrong. She bared her snaggle, uneven molars at me & began to unbutton her vivid, blush colored blouse.

I waved my hands frantically in protest to stop her, clamping my eyes shut.

“Oh gross! Holy shit lady, I just work here! I’m just trying to go home, my shift is over!”

I blindly fumbled my way to employee parking, dry-heaving at the image of the woman in my head.

“Fuck, get yourself a lot-lizard or something! I’m married, for Christ’s sake! Gawd!” I hollered over my shoulder.

I heard her grumble something about Missouri boys having no taste, but once I was sure some distance had been put between us, I opened my eyes & finished my dash to the car. I couldn’t shake the visage of the old broad’s nip-slip, & that only served to worsten my mood.

“God, what a freak,” I said to myself as I shut my car door behind me.

“What an unsettling, freaky night.”

I was so relieved for my shift to finally be over. I took my glasses off & rubbed the bridge of my nose, trying not to dwell on the night's debaucherous events.

I slipped my spectacles back on & glanced down at the last two messages sent from my phone. One had been the crime scene-esque image that had gone to Hammy, the other was a quick, “I’ll be home in 30 minutes,” text I’d sent to my wife, Charlie, only a few minutes earlier.

As if on que, a response flashed across my screen.

“Dearest Husband,

I regret to inform you that I will be working another double, so we’ll have to postpone our extracurricular activities until a later date. For now, make the leftovers in the fridge, & when I get home, those dishes better be done, or I’m gonna slam you against the bathroom mirror & choke you until your face turns purple.

Sincerely- your bitch wife. ❤️”

I smirked. I love the way she texts like an old calvary veteran writing a letter to his wife from a battlefield. Believe it or not, some women can be funny. Shocker.

“Kinky,” I typed, “was that a threat or a promise?”

I hit send, & three dots popped up for a second, before her final message appeared.

“Dearest Husband,

Both, depending on the state of those dishes when I get home. Seriously, I don’t wanna have to work another double, just to come home to a full sink again 😢

Sincerely- your bitch wife. ❤️”

The brief spark of a good mood flickered in my chest. I felt like I was always the one doing the dishes in recent memory. Irritably, I began scrolling for a YouTube video to put on during my drive home, when a new notification popped up.

“McDonalds, 20% off on orders $5 or more, deal applicable at participating locations”

I licked my lips. I had that taki earlier, but I’d skipped eating on my break. The perverted shower discovery had ruined my appetite for a few hours. But now that the atrocity was behind me, I could go for a McChicken or 2. I know, I know. Leftovers in the fridge, but the aroma of crispy fries & greasy burgers wafted into my nostrils, beckoning me like the curling of a thick, stubby index finger.

I looked in the backseat to see the weeks worth of fast food bags that had accumulated on the floor. The frown on my lips deepened. Charlie was keeping an eye on our shared bank account to make sure I wasn’t spending our checks on junk food. For the last month or so, every time I’d pull out cash for rent & edibles, I’d pull out a little extra, just enough that she wouldn’t notice. Discounts & reward points only go so far.

When I looked in my wallet, I saw a measly $2 & a couple miscellaneous cents. I couldn’t spend the pennies, but what about my credit card?

I used the app to check my balance. There was about $3. After a quick calculation, I deduced I could get myself 2 McChickens with the discount, & a large fry using accumulated points.

I pulled into the empty drive-thru on the side of the gas station. I got to the menu screen with my code ready.

“Hello! Will you be using the mobile app today?” The cheery voice crackled through the speaker.

“Yes please,” I responded.

“What’s your code?” The voice was now that of a hormonal teenage boy.

“Um, I think it's 1-9-L-5?”

“For Patricia?” He asked.

“Yeah,” I grumbled. I needed to get that updated to Patrick.

“Kay. If everything looks correct on the screen, you’re good to pull forward.”

“Thanks,” I said, starting towards the first window.

“Wait, actually hold on a second!”

I stopped, “Yeah? What’s up?” I asked.

“Uh, that’s weird, it looks like you tried to stack a deal on top of rewards points. You can only do one per order.”

“So what does that mean…?”

“I mean, I don’t think I can use your points for those fries. Really, it shouldn’t have even let you place your order like that…”

He was quiet for a second. It sounded like he & someone else were whispering on the other end.

“Uh, sorry I’m kinda new. I’ll get my manager, this is weird. Could you pull up to the first window for me?”

Ugh. I just wanted my food, so I could go home. 2 chicken sandwiches & a large fry was not worth all this. I decided on my way up that I would just overdraft my credit card to get the fries so I could leave quicker. I pulled up to the window, where the acne-riddled teenage boy stood next to a manager.

“Hey, are you the pickup order for the 2 McChickens & the large fry?” the woman asked.

I looked over my shoulder at the empty drive-thru, “yep, that’s me.”

“So here’s he deal. Zach here,” she patted the clearly stoned teenager on his shoulder, “said you tried to stack rewards points & a deal in the same order. You can’t just do that.”

“Yeah, uh, it doesn’t matter, can I actually just pay part with cash, part with card?” I mumbledo.

“You don’t wanna use the 20% off deal?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nah, but are the points that I used on that large fry still gonna work?”

She shook her head, “no, but they’ll go back into your account in 7 to 10 business days.”

She held out her hand. Defeated, I just sighed, placing the cash & card into her palm. Just like that, transaction complete.

“That’s uh… that’s just the way our app works, we don’t, uh, control it…,” Zach droned, staring off into space.

“Yes, very good Zach,” the manager cooed, “we know buddy.”

Once the card was back in my wallet, I took a hit off my Jesus Moistcritical vape. As the yellow indica smoke filled my lungs, I felt my temper cool a few degrees.

“Just a stressful night, that’s all,” I told myself. As soon as I got home, I knew I would feel better. I just needed to eat & get home.

In a few short minutes, the woman was holding my bag out the window, & I grabbed it greedily.

“Hey, just so you know, you shouldn’t eat this much fast food,” she said, looking in my backseat as I rolled up my window.

“It's not good for you…”

What a bitch.

As I tore down the desolate road, I ripped into the pitiful chicken patty. While the sandwich curbed my hunger,I was still put-off. Buns tar & feathered by mayonayse & too much lettuce. The fries were perfect, though. I tossed the garbage into my backseat & took another rip off my vape, feeling the blissful high run down my nerves & tingle at the tips of my fingers. I was calm, but not unbothered. Something was wrong, the feeling of being watched had still not been shaken.

Given I was in public, I could logically explain my experience in the semi parking lot. But I knew there was no way that anyone should have been watching me as I cleared the winding hills of the secluded interstate. The snow particles zipped past my windshield, giving the illusion that I was going much faster than I actually was. I took another 2 or 3 hits off the vape & cracked my window. That was when the stench hit me. Going 65 miles an hour down the snowy road, it smelled like raw sewage & burning rust.

Just as soon as I registered the awful odor, red & blue lights suddenly appeared behind my car. Police lights. A new fear sparked in my chest, building to a roaring flame that caused my hands to tremble against my steering wheel.

Forming tears licked the edges of my eyes.

I just wanted to go home.

As I tried to find a shoulder of road to safely pull onto, I frantically shoved my vape into my pocket. If I got caught vaping THC while going 70 in a 65, I knew I wouldn’t be going home tonight.

“Just play it cool,” I said, bringing my vehicle to a full stop, & firmly placing both hands on the steering wheel. If I got a ticket, I got a ticket. All I had to do was be compliant, & this might all be over in just a few minutes.

Maybe it was how dark the night was. Maybe I was just distracted by the lights, but on god, I didn’t see or even hear the police man approach my car. It was like he just appeared in my driver’s-side window. His face was so close, it should have fogged the glass.

“Hullo, officer,” I mumbled, rolling down my window.

“License, registration, proof of insurance,” he droned, voice void of emotion. That put me even more on edge. I dug through my glove compartment, grabbing anything that looked like it could’ve been official paperwork.

“Beautiful night, huht?” I whimpered, tears welling in my eyes. He didn’t respond. Finally, I found what I was looking for. Sighing in relief, I turned the documents over to the cop.

“What is this?” He asked.

“Uh…” I didn’t know how to respond. Everything about this interaction felt off. Alarm bells rang through my head, but I tried to temper them. Was this a trick or something? “That’s my… registration & proof of insurance?”

“Oh,” he said, grabbing the paperwork & stuffing it in his back pocket, “right. License?”

“Oh shit, yeah, sorry,” I fumbled in my wallet for a second before passing him my ID as well.

“May I ask why you’re pulling me over?” I asked, & as soon as I did, I wished I hadn’t. When he glared up at me, I thought that his dialated eyes would burn 2 holes right through me. Despite the cold, unphazed expression on his face, something in his eyes held a vigorous intensity. Like I was the biggest inconvienience he could possibly have to deal with. Like he wanted to be done already.

He was silent for just long enough to be uncomfortable, before he finally grumbled, “Routine traffic stop. Gotta run these through our system. Next time, be faster.”

As his shoes crunched in the snow as he made his way back to his car, I let out a breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding. He claimed it was just a routine traffic stop, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was gonna happen.

The whole night so far had felt like a taut wire, pulling more & more, the tensity becoming palpable, building to a breaking point. Like a balloon getting ready to pop.

I gagged on the scent that enveloped me. We had to have pulled off next to a sewage drain or something. That horrible smell just would not go away. It was like it soaked into all the fibers of my car. It made me want to throw up.

Even though he couldn’t have left me waiting for more than 5 minutes, it felt like an eternity. I was scared to move, to take my hands off the steering wheel. Even looking in my mirrors felt sinful, like I was doing something horribly wrong. But as I took my surroundings into account, something clicked in my mind. I wasn’t crazy.

When I turned back to see through my rear window, I could make out the dark silhouette of the massive police cruizer, idling dormant as snowflakes drifted past the hood. Considering the lack of headlights, it really looked more like a huge beast, just sitting there. The details became more apparent the longer I looked.

Why couldn’t I see the silhouette of his side mirrors?

Why did the red & blue flashing lights seem to be coming from inside the windshield, rather than the top of the car?

I saw the outline of the large man step out of the vehicle, but I didn’t see a car door open. It’s hard to explain. You know those Jeeps that don’t have doors? It was like that, as if his state-issued police cruiser had no doors either. His dark visage just seemed to materialize from out of the larger body, like he’d been one with the car only seconds earlier.

I snapped back around, facing forward. I could feel my heart beating its way into my throat, the vessles in my neck flexing & constricting. I felt like I was on the verge of an asthma attack.

As I heard his foot steps slowly crunch closer & closer, I spared a glance at my driver’s-side mirror. What I saw, as the snow drifed into my windows, confused me, made my blood run cold. He didn’t have a reflection. I could see 2 bright red crocs moving seemingly of their own accord. They took step after step, as if being worn by some invisible spectre.

What had I been smoking from that vape cartridge?

I heard the fabric of his uniform brush against the side of my car, but it sounded like something rough & textured, sandpaper-esque, grinding along the metal. As his footsteps became louder, the smell intensified. Just as he was almost to my drivers side window, I looked in my rearview. That was when I saw the full picture. That was when the pieces slid into place.

His car didn’t have a reflection either. I realized that all I saw in the mirror were just 2 disembodied lights, 1 red, 1 blue, hovering in the air, about eye level with me. I swear to god, it almost looked like they were eminating from pair of eyeballs, just floating there amongst the drifting snow.

Tap. Tap.

I slowly turned to look at the cop, who was now, finally, back at my drivers-side door. I felt a teardrop run down my cheek. My nerves were screaming for me to run. What was going on?

“Yeah, we have a problem,” he said.

“P-problem?” I stuttered. I must’ve looked petrified, but he just kept staring at me, dead-faced.

“I tried to run your info through the system. I didn’t get anything back.”

“Really?”

“Mmm-hm.”

We just stared at each other for a moment. I didn’t know what to say.

“Also, not to accuse you of anything, but your behavior during this stop has been highly suspicious.”

He glanced in my backseat, licking his lips as he surveyed all the discarded fast food trash. I could see the look in his eyes. It was the same one I’d worn earlier, in the drive through. He was desperately hungry.

“Highly s-suspicious?”

“Yeah, that’s what I just said,” he grumbled, turning to look back at me. His eyes drilled into mine, & I began to feel the last of my self-control slipping. I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“Why didn’t you have a refliction?” I stammered. I didn’t know what else to say. Finally, his face twisted into a new emotion, but I knew he was just acting.

“Excuse me?”

“When you walked up to my car, where was your reflection?” I asked, more assured this time.

“Are you on drugs, ma’am?” He asked, faking an expression of concern. I was picking out more things now, more wrong things. Little inconsistencies. His uniform was all out of place, I’d seen what the police in our area wore when they’d stop for late-night coffee at the gas-station.

His badge was on the wrong side, there was no radio or body-cam anywhere on him, his shirt was the wrong color, not to mention, short sleeves in less than 30⁰ weather? His facial hair was patchy. There was no way this guy was a cop, he just looked like one. Like if you told someone who’d never actually seen a cop to draw one in a picture.

“Where was your reflection?!” I asked again, my voice catching. I sounded hysterical, I knew it.

“Okay, ma’am, this is ridiculous, may I please enter your vehicle?” He said, rising back to his full height.

“What?”

“I need inside your vehicle, if you don’t let me in willingly, I will place you under arrest.”

“No, you’re not allowed to do that.”

“Well then step out of the vehicle.”

“No.”

“Then let me in.”

“No.”

“Let me in.”

“No!”

“Let me in!”

“No!!”

His jaw tightened, I could tell he was angry, “Ma’am, you are directly interfering with a police investigation.”

“And what investigation would that be?!” I demanded. He stood, watching me, his fully black eyes narrowing furiously.

“I need to make sure you’re safe to drive,” he growled.

“I thought you said that there’s an issue finding me in your system? Why do you need in my car?”

He gritted his jaw & leaned back down, placing his pimply, blistered hands on the edges of my windowsill. I noticed that even his fingertips couldn’t enter my car.

“There’s… I need to… just let me in your car, I’ll verify what I need to, and I’ll be on my way. I’ll let you go real soon.”

Under the odor of rotten decay, I smelled something entirely out of place. Strawberry-scented body wash. The juxtaposition nearly threw me over the edge.

I let out a sob, grabbing the gear-shift. Suddenly, I remember what I’d heard in the office. I decided to give him one last test. I dom’t know why.

“Fine, get me Weston Brady, then.”

His look of simmering rage momentarily mixed with confusion. This time, I could tell that his bewildered expression was legit.

“Who the hell is Weston Brady?” He asked, the smell of death, strawberries, & burnt copper whafting off his breath. With that, I threw the car into gear, spinning my tires out & flinging muddy snow all over the fake police man.

“Fucking bitch!” He roared, but I took off before he had time to react.

If I had been speeding earlier, I was flying now. I went from 30 miles an hour, to 50, to 70, to 90 in about 45 seconds. The motor peaked, almost blowing out, but I didn’t care. I gripped the steering wheel, glancing to my rearview for anything suspicious, tears streaming down my face. I could still smell the rot, the disease. Right when I thought I was safe, something flashed just within my periphery.

I only saw it for a split second. I still don’t believe it. I swear to god it looked like a child’s rendition of a massive bat, like a diseased abomination that vaguely held the visage of something discernable. It smashed into the side of my car. It was so dark that it nearly blended into the night, throwing the surrounding snowflakes into contrast against it’s jet-black hide.

When it struck the first time, I felt the vibration shudder through my speeding vehicle, but I held my course. The second time, however, it struck closer to my rear axle. The traction control light came on. I was hydroplaining.

When they warn you about black ice on the road, listen. Shit’s treatcherous.

As my car spun around & around, fully out of control, the beast smashed down onto my hood with predatory precision. The sudden collision sent my head careening into the driver’s-side window, & I felt my temple bash hard against the glass. Concousness begon to fade. The last thing I saw before I passed out, were my headlights illuminating 2 massive black eyes, set deep into the sockets of a diseased, pig-like head. I had the briefest notion that one looked like it was tinted red, & the other, tinted blue.

I woke up only 15 minutes later. My head throbbed, but luckily, I wasn’t bleeding. My hood had a massive dent in the middle of it, & when I tried to pull my car back into the lane, I heard the distinct sound of metal grinding on pavement. I sighed, trying to recall what exactly happened, just moments prior.

I stepped out of my car, phone flashlight in hand, careful to survey my surroundings before going far. I checked my tires, 1 of which was blown out.

“Fuck.”

I didn’t have my license, registration, or proof of insurance. I was stalled just outside Panoma, a small town 20 minutes away from my home, with a blown out tire. How did I end up halfway off the road? Something had…

Oh my god. That thing that had battered me off the road. It tried to kill me. I fully remembered now. Why had it stopped? I was passed out, completely defenseless. I got back into my car & began searching for towing services. None in the area were open, & the ones that were would take easily over 2 hours to reach me. Not to mention my financial situation. With mounting dread, I made the decision to try & replace the blowout with a spare.

I got out of my car & took another hit off my vape. Dont judge me, I needed something to calm my nerves. Shivering, lungs tightening, I got the spare tire out of my trunk. I used a few small blocks of wood to hold my wheels in place, & hastily pulled the ruined one off using a shitty jack & a 4 way. Within 20 minutes, the donut was secured. Lastly, I popped my hood to check for damage to my engine. To my relief, nothing was smoking. Everything looked normal. Overjoyed, sobbing, I got back into my car to finish the drive home, Something at the edge of the treeline caught my attention.

I looked to see something tall & dark, standing just at the edge of the clearing, no more than 30 feet away. Even though I couldn’t see its eyes, I knew it was watching me. I took one last look at the image of Moistcritical Jesus on my vape, little cricifix in his hand. I held it up, & the beast shuttered.

“I’m going the fuck home!” I screamed. “Don’t you fucking follow me, I’m serious!”

I put it in my pocket, took a queeze off my inhaler, & closed the door behind me. Still reeling, I let out a sob & began to drive away. Despite the lack of a reflection in my mirrors, I could feel it standing there, just staring at me as I went further, & further.

The smell dissipated around the time I got to my apartment, but that didn’t stop me from looking over my shoulders every 2 seconds. When I got inside, I threw myself onto the bed, exhausted. Right as I was about to drift off, I remembered.

The sink full of dirty dishes. Even half awake, I knew I’d be in a world of hurt when Charlie got home if they weren’t done. I couldn’t let her down, not after all that. So I took another puff from my inhaler & got to work. It took me forever to finish them, but eventually, the sink & dish drainer were clear.

“Nasty bruise, what happened?” Charlie asked, handing me a cup of Dunkin’s coffee as she stepped through the front door. She gingerly touched my forehead, & I flinched reflexively.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“No it’s fine babe, you…” she looked behind me, “did the dishes. Good job. Did you just finish those?”

I nodded & looked at the time. Just past 6:15am. The sun would be rising soon. I wasn’t usually still awake this early.

“Yeah, I uh, woke up early. Couldn’t sleep. What took you so long to get home?”

She smirked, “some idiot got into a wreck or something on the interstate we take to get home. Would’ve happened like an hour after you got out. I’m not surprised you missed it. Awful lucky though, huh?”

I stared absently at her.

“Black Ice & all that. Fuck’s sake Pat, you think you wanna go to sleep now? You look like you saw a goddman ghoul or something.”

I chuckled humorlessly, “yeah… or something.”

“Jesus Christ someone needs a nap, don’t ya?”

She led me into our bedroom & put a cool, damp washrag on my swolen temple.

“God Pat, what did you hit your head on? You think you have a concussion?” She asked, running her fingers through my hair.

I coughed.

“Nah, my car’s in way worse shape than I am.”

“Fuck, what happened to the car?”

I didn’t even know how to respond. I looked down at my Moistcritical Jesus Vape for a second & tried to find the words. I felt manic. I couldn’t believe that fast food & backseat trash had been the worst of my worries, only a few hours ago.

Finally, I flicked my eyes up, meeting her gaze. I smiled unsteadily.

“It’s a long story, but I swear to god it’s true,” I said.

“Oh… word?”

I sat up a little. I hadn’t realized it, but I was so sore.

“So like, I’m used to cleaning up piss & shit, right? Occasionally vomit. But last night was a really, really weird night…”

It was getting close to 2:00 AM... when my old Ford completely died on the side of Route 12. deep in the woods of Maine. The radio had been blasting this irritating static before going completely dead.

The darkness out there was pitch-black. and suffocating. The massive pine trees completely blocked out any moonlight.

I was on my way back from a late shift at a nearby canning factory, and my cell phone had absolutely no service.

I got out of the car, went over to the trunk to grab a small flashlight, and decided to walk. hoping to find a house or a nearby town. After about half an hour of walking through the freezing cold, with the wind howling through the trees.

I spotted a faint, yellow light flickering through the branches. I cut off the main road and walked down a narrow, dirt path covered in dry leaves. until I reached an old, dilapidated farmhouse. It was built from dark wood. that looked like it was slowly rotting away.

I knocked on the heavy wooden door a few times. After a long, agonizing minute of silence the door opened. Very slowly. and without a single creak. Standing there was an incredibly thin woman wearing an old house dress with a faded plaid pattern.

Her face was as pale as ash and her eyes were deeply sunken... surrounded by heavy, dark circles.

I asked her if I could use her landline. She just stared at me with this completely blank, expressionless look.

Then, she took a step back and pointed her thin hand with unnaturally long fingers. toward the inside of the house. She didn't say a word.

I stepped into the hallway, and the smell inside was suffocating. It was this bizarre, nauseating mix of mothballs, vinegar and dried blood.

The woman led me very slowly through a dark hallway until we reached a small living room with furniture from the 1960s.

There was an old, black rotary phone sitting on a wooden table in the corner. I walked over and picked up the receiver... but there was no dial tone. Instead.

I heard this strange, wet sound. It sounded like someone swallowing hard breathing slowly... like their mouth was full of some thick liquid.

I quickly turned around to tell the woman the phone wasn't working. but my heart completely stopped.The woman was standing right behind me just inches away from my face.

I hadn't heard a single footstep. Her wide eyes were staring dead into mine without blinking. Then I watched her lower jaw slowly drop sagging down way deeper than any normal human jaw should.

A sharp, chilling hiss came out of her throat as she whispered... "They are finally asleep don't wake them." At that exact moment.

I heard the heavy click of the front door locking from the outside followed by the sound of heavy, massive footsteps starting to walk down the wooden stairs from the second floor.heading straight toward the room we were standing in.

I jumped backward, smashing into the wooden table. The black receiver slipped from my hand, dangling in the air while still making that wet, sickening sound.

I pointed my small flashlight toward the hallway... and watched a massive figure emerge from the darkness. It wasn't a normal man. He was easily over seven feet tall. wearing tattered clothes covered in dark, sticky stains.

His entire head was covered by a rough burlap sack... with two uneven slits cut out for eyes. Through those slits... two bloodshot, human eyes stared at me with pure, animalistic madness.

In his right hand, he was holding a massive, rusty meat hook. the kind they use in slaughterhouses. He was dragging his left foot behind him making a harsh, scraping sound against the hardwood floor.

Driven by pure survival instinct, I lunged toward the only window in the room. I tried to force it open with shaking hands, but it was nailed shut with thick screws from the outside. I spun around.

The thin woman had completely vanished from the room... but the massive guy with the sack was advancing toward me. slowly. confidently. making a clicking sound with his teeth from behind the burlap.

In a moment of pure desperation, I ducked past him, taking advantage of his slow movement, and bolted down the hallway toward the kitchen at the back of the house. The kitchen was as dark as a grave. and the stench of rotting meat was so intense I almost threw up.

I quickly swept my flashlight around, looking for a back door... and the beam hit a large wooden cutting table in the center of the room.

I froze in my tracks. letting out a muffled scream... Lying on his back on top of that table. was a little boy. He couldn't have been older than seven. wearing pajamas.

His eyes and his mouth. had been completely sewn shut with thick, coarse black thread. But the absolute worst part. was that his tiny chest was slowly rising and falling. He was still alive... struggling to breathe through his nose.

Before I could even process this nightmare. I felt a sudden, freezing chill against the back of my neck.

I looked up. The thin woman was dangling from the dark kitchen ceiling like a spider... gripping the wooden rafters. Her upside-down face was smiling at me.

a smile so wide it tore the skin of her cheeks. letting dark, black blood ooze out. And right then... the heavy thud of the giant's meat hook slammed violently into the kitchen wall... right behind me.

I grabbed a wooden chair and shattered the small kitchen window with everything I had. I threw myself out through the broken glass.

the sharp shards slicing into my face and arms. I hit the muddy ground outside in the pouring rain and just started running. I ran like a lunatic through the thick woods, never looking back.

I could hear the branches snapping. and that sharp, terrifying hiss from the woman moving at a horrifying speed through the treetops right above my head. while the heavy thuds of the meat hook kept slamming into the tree trunks right behind me.

I ran for what felt like an eternity. until I tripped and fell hard onto the asphalt edge of the main road. Just then, a massive semi-truck came speeding down the road.

I stood up in the middle of the lane... waving my arms frantically. The driver slammed on the brakes, bringing the massive truck to a halt just inches away from me.

I scrambled up into the passenger seat. and told him to move."Go. Please, just drive.

There are people killing people in the woods." The driver... a large man wearing a baseball cap just stared at me with a completely numb, frozen expression.

He didn't say a word. He just slowly pressed the gas pedal.

I tried to catch my breath, checking my bleeding cuts, and turned to look out the side window back at the dark woods. At that exact moment.

I noticed something that made my heart completely stop. The smell inside the truck cabin.started to change. Very quickly. it became the exact same stench of mothballs, vinegar and dried blood from that farmhouse.

I turned my head very slowly toward the driver..feeling a level of dread I have never felt in my entire life. The driver wasn't looking at the road.

He was slowly turning his head toward me, and I realized he was wearing a flannel shirt. with the exact same faded plaid pattern as the thin woman's dress.

As he raised his hand to adjust his cap... I saw his fingers. They were unnaturally long and covered in fresh mud.

I whipped around to look at the small sleeper berth in the back of the cabin. There under the dim glow of the dashboard.

I could clearly see the blood-stained burlap sack sitting on the bed. And right next to it was a massive spool of thick black thread. and a long, heavy sewing needle.

The driver turned completely toward me now. His eyes and his mouth began to stretch open... as he whispered in that exact same wet, sickening voice from the phone "We told you not to wake them and now... it's your turn to sleep."

The truck suddenly swerved off the main highway... launching right back into the deep, dark woods... while from the roof of the truck.

I started to hear the sound of sharp fingernails scratching violently against the metal and the muffled sound of a little boy with a sewn-up mouth crying in the dark.

The video arrived on his phone at 2:18 PM on a Tuesday.

His 14-year-old daughter, blindfolded, sobbing into a camera, saying her own name and the date out loud. Eight seconds of footage.

The video had been generated eight minutes earlier from photos she'd posted to Instagram. The voice on it was cloned from a 12-second TikTok she'd posted in February. He didn't know that yet.

The phone rang before the video finished. A man with a slight accent said the price was $50,000 and the deadline was thirty minutes. The man stayed on the speakerphone the whole time. He could hear the kitchen.

The father had a business crypto wallet because two suppliers had insisted on it. That's the only reason he could ruin his family in eleven minutes.

He wired the money. The voice walked him through it. The crypto address was a long string of letters and numbers he'll never forget the first eight characters of.

While he was wiring, his wife was sitting across the table, trying to text her sister. The voice on the line heard her keystrokes. It told her, gently, to delete what she'd typed. She did.

She has told her husband, since, that the worst part wasn't the words. The worst part was that the voice wasn't angry. It was patient. The way you correct a child you expect to keep trying.

After the wire cleared, the voice didn't hang up. It told him to wait. To not move. For another forty-five minutes. It asked him about the weather. About a dog it claimed to own.

The clock above the sink read 3:14. Then 3:22. Then 3:31.

At 3:38 the voice told him his daughter was being driven to a parking lot. It would not say where.

Then the front door opened.

His daughter walked in. School backpack. Soccer cleats slung over her shoulder. Hair damp from a water bottle she'd dumped on her head after practice.

She said hi.

The voice on the line said, "oh."

Then the voice was gone.

---

The FBI issued a PSA about this scam pattern in December 2025. The Internet Crime Complaint Center received 357 emergency-scam complaints in 2024. $2.7 million paid. Deepfake fraud attempts in North America are up 1,740% since 2022.

Twelve seconds of TikTok is enough audio to clone a voice well enough to make you wire money.

The technology is faster than the law.

— u/theurbandread

I’ve never had roommates prior to this year, I’ve either lived with my family or alone. I’m a fairly introverted person, that isn’t to say I don’t like people because I actually do. Rather that, it’s just not how I recharge my battery so to speak. I like being alone but even I must confess living completely alone for this first time was extremely hard, my mental health issues worsened significantly at first but I got help and was able to fair ok the rest of my sophomore year. I was even able to bounce back academically.

I’m a junior now but have enough credits to graduate next spring from taking college classes in high school. My school has a weird policy where you have to live at least 1 year on campus (I don’t make the rules), hence why I choose my sophomore year because I wasn’t ready to make the leap yet my freshman year. However, after persevering through my first time on my own I decided to get a roommate. I looked online and found a person looking for two roommates near my college. Her name was Beth, she was an upcoming senior studying biology and planning to become a nurse. Her other roommates moved out to go to med school. So I applied and decided to meet her in person before finalizing anything. I met her and she was a 5 ft something blonde woman with brown eyes and pale skin that bordered on porcelain. As she gave me a tour of the apartment she explained that the other applicant to be the third roommate was actually a freshman and that she didn’t know too much about her other than she needs a place immediately and promises to be quiet as possible.

That was a red flag to me but at the same time I gave her benefit of the doubt. I understood that some people are just shyer and she did claim to be a freshman so maybe she’s just still learning how to navigate being on her own like myself. I left very impressed otherwise, I got my own bathroom and bedroom itself was spacious. I agreed and planned to move in August.

I remained in touch with Beth over the summer and we became friends through text and calls. She still informed me that she didn’t not know much about this third applicant other than her name, for the sake of safety and privacy we will call Sarah, and one photo of her. She texted me the photo. I do not know why but when I saw the photo, I got chills. Sarah was not even scary looking but something felt very off. She was tall, taller than both of us. Additionally, as mean as it feels to write, her hair was colored a deep red and it was long but damaged and fried, like it was dyed too many times. You could see her brunette roots. She wore glasses and was slightly tan but not extremely, just as though she went outside regularly.  She had icy blue eyes that made me feel weird, it gave me an uncanny valley feel when it should not have.

August came around though, my family and Beth helped me move in. Sarah and I were supposed to move in around the same time at 11am but by the time 2pm came around, still no Sarah. It wasn’t until 9pm did we get a banging on our door. Beth looked out the door peephole to see Sarah standing in the hallway. I was on the living room couch, Beth looked back at me in confusion and we shared equal confusion in a stare. She did open the door.

“Sarah?” Beth asked

Sarah stood at the doorway holding a single box, her figure was larger in person she had to duck down to enter in but even then her head was only inches from touching the ceiling. She carried the box to her bedroom, it was like she knew the place even though I know Beth had given her only minimal information such as the floor and address. My room had technically been decided from the start but we still wanted to make sure Sarah got a say when she got her at 11 but then she didn’t. She re-emerged from her room and stood were the little hallway intersects with the kitchen and living room area.

“Carry in more boxes.” She commanded with a surprisingly deep voice. That isn’t to say there anything wrong with having a deep voice as a woman, more so that sound of her voice was so absolutely mismatched to what she looked like that it somehow further pushed that uncanny valley feeling.

We walked with her to her car, her stepping in long strides. Her upper body behaved in a ragdoll-esque way, she seemed to be intentionally trying to hold up her torso rather than it just remaining upright naturally. We got to her car. It was a 2008 red Chevrolet Malibu. The trunk was open and contained only 4 other cardboard boxes. I peered into the vehicle itself and it was spotless as though no one had used it yet. No signs of life such as blanket, garbage, or coins anywhere in sight through the windows.

“Here.” Sarah said.

I quickly snapped my head back towards Sarah who dropped one of the cardboard boxes into my arms. It was heavy, I will be the first person to confess that I am not a physically strong person but even this seemed absurd given the sounds of metal hitting each other inside the box.

I looked over at Beth who also had a box into her arms, Beth was someone who actually did work out and I could see her straining, muscles tightening as she carried a box containing God knows what.

Sarah, holding another box, led the way back into the apartment but did not hold the door for us. We had to maneuver in uncomfortable ways to get the door open because we knew if we set either of the boxes down, we likely wouldn’t be strong enough to pick them back up.

When we did finally get back in, Sarah was no where in sight. We struggled up to the second floor only to see Sarah holding the box. She stood with a blank expression in front of the doorway, it wasn’t until we got in front of the door did she finally acknowledge us.

“I will get the last one.” She commented as she ducked back in, opening the door with her other hand. We followed her to her bedroom and set the boxes next to the first. The room was completely empty aside from a desk as Beth informed us we would have to bring our own beds, dressers, or chairs. As we observed her nearly blank room, she entered back into her bedroom.

“Sarah, where are you going to sleep? I hope my message about the furniture got through. I know my phone can glitch out sometimes. If not, you can sleep on the couch. I have some extra blankets.” Beth was cutoff by Sarah raising her hand to Beth in as an indication to stop as she had set down the final box.

“I got your message. I will have more things soon. Take this for now.” Sarah responded, she reached into one of the boxes and pulled out a wad of cash, it was neatly organized like a deck of cards. She handed it to Beth, the wad consisted of many 100 dollar bills. This was definitely more than enough to cover rent.

“Oh Sarah, thank you but rent isn’t due for two more-“

“Leave.” Sarah put one hand on each of our shoulders and pushed us out of her room into the hallway as though we weighed nothing. She then slammed the door so hard in our faces that I thought the hinges would somehow break.

Beth shot me a look of equal bewilderment and anger, I knew it was in reference to what happened. I responded with shrugging my shoulders as I gave her a complete look of bewilderment. We walked back to the living room and texted to each other about the situation.

Me: “WTH was that about lol”

Beth: “I have no clue, kind of rude she didn’t even say thank you. I’m more shocked how strong she is despite being so gangly.”

Me: “Dude I hope you aren’t body shaming our roommate lol. Those boxes were so freaking heavy tho fr.”

Beth: “IKR, what was in those? I do feel bad though that she didn’t have a bed or anything. Maybe that’s why she’s kind of being short. I mean I would be cranky if I had to sleep on the floor.”

Me: “Hey she gets the master bathroom or whatever the floor plan calls it. I mean hello, a bathtub. Meanwhile, we get two tiny little bathrooms on the other side of the apartment and we are right next to each other. She doesn’t have to worry about waking us up at night if she needs to pee lol. I think she will be fine”

Beth: “That’s true, I wonder why she moved in alone, I mean all families are different but it must be hard starting school alone.”

Me: “Maybe she wanted it that way for all we know. It is hard for me to give her benefit of the doubt after all of this BUT I mean I was on the verge of the sewer slide when I lived alone and now I’m happy as can be, sometimes it just takes an adjustment period. Maybe she’s never had to live with anyone outside of loved ones, people get weird. Maybe it’s hard for her to live with people but she needs to.”

Beth: “In this economy, I’m surprised the three of us can afford this but bro look at this wad of cash”

I looked up from my phone over to Beth, and waving the stack of 100 dollar bills in her hand, just barely holding it. I felt my jaw drop now fully comprehending the full size of the wad. My gaze returned to my phone.

Me: “Do you think she sells drugs?”

Beth: “Maybe, Idk.”

Me: “That’s concerning, what if she turns her room into a meth lab?”

Beth: “We’d probably die from the fumes or something. Breaking Bad type shi.”

Me: “Why are you so chill about this?”

Beth: “I’m a future nurse, I have dealt with people claiming they could see dead siblings in the corner of their rooms to people attempting to choke me out with a catheter they freshly ripped out. A roommate drug dealer is lower on the list of my concerns”

Me: “Well it is high, pun not intended, on my list of concerns.”

Beth: “Well, you let me know if she’s cooking meth.”

I put my phone down to meet Beth’s eyes, we both kind of had a look like the situation was as funny as it was awkward. We soon went to bed after that. The next couple of weeks were normal…except in regard to Sarah.

First, at the time of writing this, neither myself or Beth have ever seen her bring anything new in. Not groceries, not mail, not any new cardboard boxes, and especially no bed. Just always wearing the same backpack and carrying her car keys in her left hand. Second, I have only seen her eat a couple of times which we will get into later but she doesn’t cook, I mean it’s great because she doesn’t add to the dirty dishes but every so often she will just sit on the couch holding an empty glass plate and stare at the TV, sometimes on and sometimes off. She will just sit there for about 30-45 minutes staring into nothingness before getting up and walking back into her room with the plate. Third, she has very…I’ll just say it non-human behaviors. She eats spiders, we had a huge spider in the ceiling corner that neither Beth nor I could reach so we asked Sarah to squish it but instead she pinched it with her pointer finger and thumb and popped it into her mouth like a chip or a piece of candy and walked back to her room like it was nothing.

There’s more though, I woke up to get some water and she was in our fridge shoveling ice cubes from the ice maker into her mouth. Her mouth was more open than it should have been for a human, I don’t know how to describe other than it appeared broken. She side-eyed me as she continued to funnel ice down her gullet, I just stared in disgust? Horror? Awe? I stared in some intense emotion but it was just weird that she was not deterred by my presence. When all the ice was gone, she just shut the freezer door. She moved her hand up to her jaw and I heard the grinding of bones and teeth as I witnessed the jaw pop back into place with an audible crack. Put her finger up to her lips with a hushing motion and scurried back to her room like a cat chasing a laser pointer.

Then there’s the first time I saw her eat. I made the mistake of going to her room but I made the further mistake of opening her door. It was the morning and we all leave for classes around the same time. I wanted to make sure she was awake so I headed to her room and pushed the door open to see her crouching down shoving handfuls of dirt into her mouth using both hands from a pile of dirt directly in the center of her bedroom. I mean she was gobbling it down, her eyes darted to me. We made eye contact, she didn’t break eye contact, in each handful I could see nightcrawlers, roots, and other small bugs squirm around. She took a break to smile at me, her teeth stained blackish brown and had plant roots stuck in some teeth like a piece of salad.

She returned to “eating” and I swear to this day, that pile of dirt was gone in under a minute. She then licked the carpeted floor, I assume she was trying to get each and every particle of dirt. The beige carpet that should have been stained was seemingly saved by her attempts to savor each and every molecule of soil.

She stood up fully from the crouch, licked her hand and used that hand to wipe the dirt off her shirt and as she walked past me in the doorway she said

“Yummy yummy in my tummy”.

I wanted to laugh because I mean cmon what else are you supposed to do in this situation?

Beth also had weird experience as well. Beth had a story about how she saw Sarah eating the rocks outside of apartment building when she got home late one night after celebrating one of her other friend’s birthdays. She said she heard crunching noises in the darkness as she got closer to our apartment entrance, she said it sounded like a mix between biting into an apple and biting into hard candy. She turned her phone flashlight on and scanned the area with it, she eventually turned it towards the decorative rocks to see Sarah, completely naked staring at her. This is what Beth claims, but just keep in mind she also decided 3 Jagerbombs were a good idea that night, she said in one hand Sarah was holding a skinless rotisserie chicken and with the other she was shoveling decorative rocks into her mouth. She said Sarah paused and told her to “Go inside, that’s your best move.” Beth listened of course because what other choice would you make in that situation. 

The next morning Beth went to the building manager to tell him about the incident, he checked the security cameras only to find that while it was true Beth scanned the area with the flashlight and that the noises were picked up by the camera, there was no Sarah. No shadow, no rotisserie chicken. The building manager went out soon afterward and did find that almost half of the decorative rocks were either flat out gone or ground up into a fine powder.

Oh yeah, I also learned Sarah sleeps standing up. That’s great. I learned that by snooping one night. I know it isn’t right but after the ice incident, I thought to myself “If I’m gonna die anyway, I might as well die trying to learn something about my killer”. So I opened her door gently and quietly to see her room mostly empty still but her standing, with her arms crossed, sleeping or at least I think she was based off the drool and the sleeping mask. At this point it’s a mystery given what I have seen.

In her room was a single poster of an old crinkled One Direction promo on the wall closest to where she stood sleeping, an open cardboard box filled to the brim with dirt and plants. At her desk she did have a phone and a laptop that were both charging. You know what I found most strange despite all of this? When I continued to snoop further into her room, gently stepping as I explored. She was actually a student and she had a social life or least something like it. At her desk she had two different planners, one seemingly academic based off the list of checked off assignments and a class schedule but other planner had what I interrupted as nonsense. I’ll type a copy of what I saw in the non-academic planner below, this is from memory keep in mind:

Monday:

• Get the dirt off of the lawn
• Break his bones and throw them in the Denny’s dumpster
• Hide the child

Tuesday:

• Fly my turtle to the park and back
• Sit with the plate
• Burn it

Wednesday:

• Laundry
• Watch Beth in her sleep
• Lay an egg (Don’t crack it this time!)

Thursday:

• Watch his family mourn
• Amass the soil for consumption
• Trivia night with Xander and Ben at 7pm

Friday:

• Start the process again with his mother
• Harass Jeff at Home Depot for 2 hours (Give me my discount you bald beer gut baby man)
• Denny’s night! :)

I soon moved away from the planner, making my way slowly into the bathroom. In the bathroom, the bathtub I wanted so badly was packed full of cash, dollar bills crumpled but all 100 dollar bills. Before I could get a closer look at anything else, I felt a hand on my shoulder, it quickly tightened as it had made contact. I felt a cold breath on the back of my neck.

“Do not make this your concern, again.” It said.

In the blink of an eye, I was in the hallway again standing upright with a 100 dollar bill in hand.

Was I dreaming? Why didn’t she kill me if I wasn’t? Why does she eat dirt? What is her major?!

Everyday gets stranger, we want to kick her out but to be fair she never is late on rent and has even covered for me or Beth multiple times. Despite this, I can’t get that “Watch Beth in her sleep” task out of my mind since I saw it. We lock our doors when we sleep, how does she watch us?

I only have about a couple of months left. If anyone knows any better options for me to live other than with whatever Sarah may be, let me and Beth know. Otherwise, I plan on saving up to lock up my room better

I’m not typically one to boast about my religious compliance. That’s something that never really sat right with me. People who made Church and religion a personality trait. It never felt authentic, in my opinion. We’re all humans, and what are humans if not flawed? That’s pretty much what makes up the whole “good and evil,” “light and dark” concept.

It’s something I’ve thought about deeply on a multitude of occasions. Why proclaim your supposed love for whatever God you worship as though you were trying to convince others to be as devoted as you? It just seems like compensation. Like you’re burying some sort of underlying darkness while masquerading as a saint.

I guess that doesn’t really matter now, though. Not after what I found. Because I can tell you, with all of the conviction I can muster, I was a devout believer before this. Going to church twice a week, daily prayer, trying to live accordingly. It just feels pointless now.

I come from a small town in Northern Georgia. Because, of course, I do, right? Where better place for this occult bullshit to happen other than in a rural small town in the South? It’s practically textbook. Unfortunately, you don’t realize you’re in a horror scene when the stage is set where you lay your head at night.

That’s why I think this is all so shocking. Everything was just so normal to me. Kids went to school, adults went to work, and I figured that the reason Church was so packed every Wednesday and Sunday was because we were such a small community. Like it was essentially just a tradition to go rather than a moral obligation.

Our population has floated around 600 people since I’ve been alive, and every week there’s about that many people in the pews. Paying their offerings. Cheering when the pastor preached of revival. Embracing one another.

I was always a loner. I just didn’t like crowds. I don’t know what else to say. That’s why I always found myself sitting in the back, making myself small while everyone else stood and swayed and sang and did everything that you’d expect out of a group of churchgoers.

In those lonely moments, it was like my brain would be entirely set on observation. I’d be completely tuned out for the music or the pre-sermon prayer montages because all I could focus on were the people around me. The way they all smiled and laughed and loved. It was honestly picturesque.

Me being me, of course, I’d look too far into these things. That’s when I started noticing some things. Like how a lot of those smiles looked manufactured. How the laughs sounded too forced. It was like an act being put on.

More than anything, though, I noticed just how big the bills being placed in those donation baskets were. Fifties, hundreds, sometimes even both.

And I remember, I remember thinking to myself, you know, like, just, just “wow,” you know? “It just feels like they’re trying to overcompensate.”

And what’s funny to me, looking back now, is that it was so obvious. It was so glaringly clear that I was right that I’m literally kicking myself for not trusting my gut back then.

See, I never really had money. I didn’t have the fancy suits or the luxury cars that my peers in the church had. But I was still handing over my last twenty. I was still dropping my last ten dollars into that basket. I was listening intently when the preacher spoke. I was reacting emotionally when he struck a chord. But what I was doing that not a single other person in town had done was staying at the Church after the sermon ended.

I wanted a relationship with God. I wanted to feel connected to him in his own home without the social pressures. I’d spend hours there just praying. Just me and God. Well, mostly just me and God. The preacher has caught me lurking a couple of times.

The strangest thing to me was that each time he found me, he wore an expression that told me I wasn’t supposed to still be there. A preacher acting like a man can’t pray in a Church. Like, do you see what I mean?

Even if he was being kind, even if he was blatantly telling me to take all the time I needed, there was still that underlying tension.

It wasn’t long before they put the caution tape up. Crossed out a door that I probably wouldn’t have ever even noticed had they not put the tape up, along with a sign that simply read “Do Not Enter.”

Now, I’m not one to go against the orders of a bluntly worded sign, but I’m also not one to ignore my curiosity for very long. So when that week’s Sunday service started and the ushers stood like guards in front of the taped-off door, it kinda tipped my curiosity over the edge.

I hid in the bathroom for about two hours after service had ended. By that time, even the ushers had gone home, leaving me to meander the Church as I pleased.

I peered out of the bathroom, scanning the room briefly before stepping out slowly. I must’ve made myself as light as a feather as I tiptoed toward the taped-off door because not a single floorboard squeaked throughout the entire 200-year-old building.

I got to the door and held my breath. A chill ran down my spine, and my hair stood on end as I stared at it. There was just this kind of energy radiating from beyond its hinges. It was enough to freeze me in place without even opening it.

I had to take a series of deep breaths before placing my hand at the edge of one of the strips. However, just as I went to pull the tape from the frame, a hand fell upon my shoulder. A hand so cold that I could feel it through the fabric of my T-shirt.

“Now, now,” croaked the preacher. “What’s a fine young man like yourself doing trying to break into a closed-off part of my Church?”

I felt his grip tighten as I audibly gulped.

“No, no, I didn’t. I mean, I wasn’t. I didn’t mean to…”

The man laughed at me, chuckling softly as his grip loosened a little.

“Oh, I have no doubt. You don’t strike me as the rule-breaking type. Listen, I’ll tell ya what. You’re free to stay here as long as you’d like. You can pray to the sky, cry your eyes out, beg for forgiveness, whatever. But listen to me, son.”

His eyes narrowed, and his grip tightened once again.

“You cannot go in there, you understand? Sign’s there for a reason.”

I shook my head slowly as I stared at him wide-eyed.

“Now, since you’ve proven that I gotta go out of my way to keep an eye on you, me and you are gonna sit here together. Like I said, you’re free to do all the worshipping and dilly-dallying you please. Just wrap it up quickly. I got a wife to go home to.”

I didn’t stay for long after that. I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my head as he sat in the row behind me, and the sheer discomfort was enough to have me walking out the door after about five minutes.

I went home that day with a newfound purpose. This went beyond curiosity. This was now about proof. Proof that something was happening in that Church, and I was going to be the one to find it.

Unfortunately, the door was under nearly constant supervision in the weeks that followed. The preacher, the ushers, hell, even random townsfolk were left to guard the door.

For a while, it all seemed hopeless. I’d blown my one shot, and now I was almost certainly not gonna get a new one.

I just had to observe and wait patiently. Wait patiently while the people from town put on those fake smiles, sang those emotionless lyrics, worshipped for two hours a week in their expensive-looking suits and dresses while donating top dollar to make up for their lack of conviction and authenticity.

After weeks of waiting, my patience finally paid off. It’s almost ironic. A snowstorm, a true act of God, is what gave me my opening.

I knew it was coming. It’s all everyone was talking about. A “snowpocalypse” that was pretty much guaranteed to shut down roads and knock out electricity. And, would you believe it? It was all supposed to start late Sunday night.

I camped out that Sunday. Remained hidden until I personally watched as the first snowflake fell and was followed by a million others. I was completely sure I was alone in the building.

I approached the door and was greeted by that same radiating energy that told me I was about to find something horrible. I didn’t bother taking the time to delicately remove the tape. I ripped it from the frame before gripping the door handle.

Locked. Of course.

I kicked once. Twice. Three times before the wood splintered and the door slowly creaked open, revealing stairs leading into what I could now see was a basement. There was an ominous blue glow at the bottom.

Step by step, I crept down the stairs, my anxiety building with each breath.

As I got closer, I could hear what sounded like the whir of a dozen fans. Just this low buzzing noise that gradually became clearer and clearer.

The first thing I noticed when I reached the bottom was just how cold it was. The concrete floors and walls were enough to make the frigid air bite at me, and I shivered as it did so.

What I found down there wasn’t some monster. Wasn’t some demon ghost in the basement. No, what I found in the basement of that Church was far worse than any monster ever could be. Because what I found were computers. Rows upon rows of monitors. Archives.

Suddenly, it made sense to me. It made sense why I felt so secluded. Why my peers were so much better off than I was. Why the preacher sported a gold Rolex every week.

Spreadsheets full of names. Recorded confessions. Photographic evidence. Full-blown blackmail. And it was on everybody.

From simple misdemeanors all the way to full-blown felony homicide. Each name on the spreadsheet had a number attached. Upon further inspection, it became evident what the numbers meant.

It was how much debt they had accrued. These people weren’t donating for the love of God. They were donating to keep the Church silent.

I scanned the pages and found the one name I had in mind. Thomas O’Brian. The Church’s biggest donor. This man had kidnapped and held his family hostage during a six-hour standoff with police. Apparently, his reasoning was because his wife wanted a divorce because of some alleged infidelity with one of Thomas’ employees, and O’Brian simply was not having it. It ended with his wife taking a gunshot to the head before the SWAT team busted his door down and took him into custody. He was set to serve 25 to life before the Church stepped in and had a conversation with him. After that, nothing. His records were wiped clean, and everyone in town pretended like nothing even happened.

I continued scanning and found another name. Amber Winslow. Another big donor. She showed up every Sunday in a nice new Mercedes and would frequently leave two hundreds in the donation basket. Her crimes included money laundering, petty larceny, and possession of a firearm.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for the preacher’s spreadsheet. The man whose words moved me to tears. The man who taught me to have faith and to turn the other cheek.

God, I feel so stupid.

This man had been charged with sexual assault, assault and battery, kidnapping, torture, interfering with government operations, and, to top it all off, sexual trafficking. He only moved to town after serving his time, and the debt attached to his name was still above seven digits.

That’s who I had preaching to me every Wednesday and Sunday. And now here he was. The ring leader in this blackmail operation. Who else could it be? This guy owned the fucking building.

As these thoughts circulated in my head, out of nowhere, the room went pitch black as all the power shut down.

“Fuckin’ snowstorm,” I thought aloud, silently hoping that it didn’t crash the servers.

I went to take my phone out of my pocket, and that’s when I heard footsteps slowly descending down the stairs.

I froze. I held my breath. I fought desperately to see in the darkness.

The footsteps got closer and closer and closer until stopping right in front of me. I could only make out a silhouette as I stood there petrified.

Suddenly, a firm hand landed on my shoulder, and I felt a scream building in my throat before it was cut off by another hand across my mouth.

“I thought I told you not to come down here, son?”

I’m old now. Might as well get this off my chest now while I’m still breathing. I was never a religious man, but at 85 years old, you start to think about things like that. The afterlife. Who you were as a person. What awaits you when everything goes black.

I think I’m writing this for the both of us. Mimi’s too far gone now to even understand the world she’s living in, let alone the one that could embrace her after she draws that last breath.

Doctors diagnosed her two weeks after her 81st birthday. We didn’t need that diagnosis. Well, I didn’t, at least. I noticed the signs before we even stepped foot in a hospital.

It started with names at first. Calling our son by her father’s name, calling me by her brother’s, and vice versa. That kinda thing, you know?

When she started wandering around at night, though, that’s when I knew it was time to confront the inevitable. It was strange, though. Her wandering didn’t really feel like wandering. She was deliberately going to one specific location. The exact location where it happened.

I’d find her in our shed, staring down at the exact spot where the man had bled out, completely expressionless. I’d expect that even in her state she’d feel at least something, any sort of emotion whatsoever, but, unfortunately, that just wasn’t the case.

Maybe she didn’t need to feel anything. Maybe all she truly felt was drawn to a specific location where she knew something significant had happened.

That thought process changed after about the fifth time, however. I could see it in her face. She knew.

She knew that she had been violated. She knew that the violator faced no real justice for his crimes. And by the way she was looking at me, she knew that I wasn’t going to stand around and let that just happen.

When she spoke his name, I didn’t know if she was remembering what she had forgotten or if she was addressing me personally. All I knew was that she said it with such clarity that, for a split second, it sounded like she had been healed.

From that moment on, every doctor’s visit had me holding my breath with uncertainty. If she went off on a ramble about that night, I could hold her hand. Shed some tears and act like I was losing my sweet girl. But a separate part of me had a different way of thinking.

I didn’t know what I wanted. I didn’t know if I wanted to live with the weight of what I had done anymore. I guess that’s why I’m writing this now.

I know that I don’t feel bad for what I did. How could I? Mimi was an angel. A light in a world full of darkness and hatred. And that man had taken away a part of that light. Changed her in a way that she never fully recovered from.

Even still, a life is a life, and I had taken one. I had acted as judge, jury, and executioner all while my wife watched. “It would help her move on,” she told me. “I need to see it.”

She never moved on. Even now. Even while she drifts away, there’s still a part of her that knows. And maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult if she didn’t continue calling me by his name. Reminding me every day of the person I’ve been trying to forget for nearly 50 years now.

Maybe this is all a sign. A sign for me to finally air out dirty laundry, I suppose. “Every tongue shall confess,” the Bible says. And I think that’s what I’m doing now.