He smelled like blood. 

I could smell him from a good distance away. The scent lingered in the air well after he’d gone - a coppery tang mixed in with his cheap perfume. It was that smell before I first looked upon his face that told me there was something very wrong with him. 

He walked in one day with all the other students. This - boy - dressed in a generic blue and white uniform which looked more like a costume. A ‘boy’ with pasty, pale skin, red, puffy and puckered lips, and small, squinting eyes. 

He held onto the straps of his backpack with two white knuckled hands, looking around him with awe and excitement. Pausing briefly to adjust his glasses up his nose, he shuffled down the hallway toward the lockers. It looked like he was talking to himself. 

I kept waiting for somebody else to react to him. One of those girls walking by clutching onto her books should have dropped them in shock. I wouldn’t have blamed her for screaming a little. At least she should have said something. 

Instead she brushed right past him without giving him a second glance. He, in contrast, stared after her in an exaggerated demonstration of longing, his lips parted and his eyes unnaturally wide. 

No. Nobody reacted to this - Nobody reacted to him. He melted into the crowd perfectly as if he were just another student. 

I call him Manchild. 

He sucks on his thumb. He hums to himself in his exaggerated, high pitched voice. I can’t place how old he is, but I know he likes acting much younger than his true age. Sometimes that might be a primary schooler. At other times it is a sophomore. It can change at a whim, but it’s always on the younger side. 

He takes drawing and colouring books to class with him. The childlike pictures and doodles he is ceaselessly scribbling down as the teacher drones on are difficult to look at. They’re a little window into his disturbed mind. They give glimpses into his sick fantasies. 

In a class, he’d take out his textas and line them out carefully before him. Then he would produce one of his books. While the teacher spoke to the rest of the class about calculus - or whatever else it was we were learning, he would lose himself in his own little world. He’d start drawing or studying one of his preliminary grammar books, studiously practicing his handwriting and working through spelling problems. 

Besides his textbooks, lunch box, and other school utensils there’s one thing you won’t see him without: pigsblood. Well, that’s what I’ve come to call it. 

On the second day of his attendance at our school, I walked past him in between classes sitting on the stairs, clutching onto a worn out pop top filled with a thick, red liquid. He was suckling on it fervently, his mouth moving back and forth in exaggerated motions, pausing to give out soft noises of satisfaction in between gulps. 

Maybe that’s why Manchild smells like blood. He carries that crap with him everywhere. He can’t seem to go more than a few hours without snacking on it. And though I can’t be sure it is really blood, I have yet to think of a better explanation. 

I kept waiting for somebody else to react. When I tried to point his strangeness out to my friends, they told me I was being cruel by picking on him. When I took a few covert photos of him to show to people, their reactions were to call me weird. I’m not sure if they can’t see what is wrong with him or they don’t view his appearance and behaviour as disturbing. 

Whatever the case, I’ve learned by now that I have no choice but to put up with him. Thankfully for me it is easy enough to avoid him most of the time, so long as he doesn’t decide to visit one of my classes - and since his choice of classes is apparently random, that isn’t too common. 

The one class where I really can’t handle dealing with him is sports class. The last time we shared such a lesson together, there was an incident. 

It was around twenty minutes into the class. After quietly watching and chugging on pigsblood from the sidelines, Manchild suddenly sprung up and began playing enthusiastically with the rest of us. 

The students didn’t mind (except for me). I avoided engaging much after he got involved. I didn't like letting Manchild get too close to me. 

Part way through what was turning into a very long class, he hurtled headfirst into another student in an attempt at a tackle and sent them both slamming onto the ground. I didn’t see it happen, but I heard her surprised cry and the sound of their bodies hitting the floor together. 

For a very terrifying moment I watched her lie there, completely limp. I thought he’d really hurt her. Then she shifted her head, groaned, and opened her eyes to look up at him. 

And then she started screaming. 

Manchild flopped off her and struggled quickly to his feet, taking a couple of steps back. He wiped his mouth, burped, and then uttered a high pitched, ‘err, sorry about that!’ 

She scrambled to her feet too. She was crying loudly. She stumbled and tripped away from him in apparent terror as the teacher attempted to console her. 

She was taken to the nurses office. I could hardly wait for an opportunity to speak to her. I needed to know what she saw. I needed some proof that I wasn’t crazy. 

Whatever it was she experienced, she wouldn’t say anything to me about it. By the time I’d found her later, she was acting perfectly normal again. She laughed off the whole incident. She told me she’d hit her head bad and blacked out for a moment. That was it. 

When I tried to suggest there was something wrong with Manchild, she looked at me reproachfully and told me to stop making fun of him. It wasn’t his fault, she insisted. It was all just a harmless accident. 

Manchild isn’t even the worst of them. Well, he may be, but the horror of one of them is far eclipsed by the horror of experiencing them all together.  

The first time I saw the whole family was a week or so after Manchild’s arrival at school. They ambled into a diner I was sitting in, bringing forth with them such an overpowering stench that I began gagging uncontrollably as they moved past me. 

There are five of them that I know of. 

Manchild - the one who goes to my school. 

Drunk - a fat and very hairy man with sickly, greyish skin who wore nothing but an undershirt, filthy shorts and some sandals. 

Mother - a haggish woman with clammy, greyish blonde hair and extremely sunken features dressed up in high heels and an undersized, skimpy dress. The skin of her arms and wrists was ragged, pockmarked and bruised. 

They had two other children who accompanied them on their family trips:

Bully - the second oldest - (I’m assuming Manchild is the eldest of the three) was a hunch backed boy whose head appeared permanently shifted a few centimeters sideways toward his left shoulder. 

Fleshface - a somewhat timid thing whose entire face was covered by a long flap of dirty skin, obscuring all but the very bottom of his pointy mouth. He was prone to tantrums which were destructive and chaotic whenever his name was uttered. Bully kept on saying it, presumably to torment him. 

You’re a fleshface. Flesh-face. Flesh-face! FLESHFACE! The snorting, gurgling sound of his laughter was followed by a long, piercing scream and some loud banging. The noises produced from his brother were so loud they actually managed to draw the attention of a few other customers, if only for a couple of moments. 

These children both fed on the pigsblood, too. Fleshface was hand fed by his mother, who carefully slid a straw up inside the flap of skin, through god knows what into some internal cavity from which he began to suckle and slurp it up loudly. 

Bully and Drunk ate a lot. The other ones didn’t, though they liked pretending to. I believe it’s part of their fantastical roleplay at being an ordinary family. 

I tried not to make a scene. I excused myself from my friends with the pretense of feeling sick soon after their collective arrival. Since then I’ve avoided visiting the diner, and I’m not sure I’m ever going to be able to bring myself to go back there. Certainly, I’m never going to be able to stomach eating there again. 

Over the next couple months, my fear slowly melted away into disgust. After a while I began to quietly observe them out of morbid curiosity. The first time it was from a distance at a park. As I gained more courage I trailed them into stores. Such close proximity required that I carry a face mask and some powerful air freshener for my own protection. 

I feared they would notice me. They didn’t. They spent too much time bickering amongst themselves and living in their own private fantasies to pay attention to the reality they lived in. Somehow, I managed to draw more attention from everybody else for my fixation on these monsters. 

One day I decided to follow Manchild home. The decision was spontaneous, though I’d been mulling the idea over in the back of my head for a while.

We were riding the same bus after school. He was acting even more strangely than usual - I suspected this was a result of drinking too much of his pigsblood during the day. Given the intoxicated state he was in, I figured I wouldn’t likely get a better opportunity. 

We continued walking for well over an hour. Mind you, Manchild isn’t a particularly fast walker in his sober state, so it wasn’t as far as it felt at the time. 

As we left the town limits, following a trail veering off the main road, I was starting to wonder whether his family lived in a house at all. Maybe they were all homeless. Or perhaps Manchild was wandering aimlessly into the forest in his drunkenness. 

They did live in a house, it turned out. It was an abandoned thing which had been left to rot, with a sagging roof partially swallowed by vines and moss. Most of the windows were broken or boarded over. The path out the front door stretched twenty or so yards before being swallowed up by overgrown grass. I spotted a run down car parked haphazardly at the edge of a larger trail branching out back toward the main road. 

Manchild moved in through the tattered remains of the back door as I crouched at the edge of the trees. The faint sound of muffled voices confirmed that he wasn’t the house's sole occupant. 

Given the state the place was in, I couldn’t help but think about how easy it would be to sneak inside if I wanted to. 

After a couple minutes I gathered the courage to come closer. I slid cautiously down a dirt slope and sprinted through the half opened gate and over to a thicket of bushes growing up against the decaying walls. 

The insides of the house were equally dilapidated. I stared into a living room whose floor was covered in dirt and pieces of plaster and torn up carpet. Filth crusted, mouldy couches and chairs sat amongst pieces of broken furniture. With the house having fallen quiet, it was difficult to imagine anyone living there. 

My eyes fell on the outline of a familiar figure slumped on a chair turned away from me. Drunk sat staring at a broken television, his mouth hanging open wide, one arm still clutching onto a glass of familiar, red liquid. After a minute or two Mother came in, practically walking on her tiptoes over to him so as to refill his large glass with a mixture of pigsblood and some kind of whisky. 

Bully paid Drunk a visit after his mother had left, carrying what I think must have once been a basketball. He looked disappointed to find Drunk in his drunken state but thought the better of trying to stir him out of it. 

I used the shelter of the trees to circle around to the other side of the house. Through a gap in between two thick wooden boards I spied Mother chopping rhythmically at some partially spoiled vegetables. Without looking at her face or paying too much attention to the state the room was in, I could almost pretend she wasn’t a monster. For a moment, she was just an ordinary mother preparing a meal as her children played and argued upstairs. 

Then her husband hurled out a string of harsh curses from the other room, and the illusion was broken. 

I continued my exploration, making my way over to the other side of the house. Wincing as I crunched over several pieces of broken glass, I crept up between two sagging oaks to peek in through a large window. 

The rusty pipes connecting to an ancient washing machine and an ornate bathtub was evidence enough of what this room once was. Cringing at the sound of the children hollering upstairs, I looked around in disgust. 

The washing machine was half filled with murky water. From the looks of it, any clothes left in there would come out filthier than they were put in. 

Something else caught my eye. Something past the clothes laid together on the table beside the washer and the syringes scattered all over the floor. In the darkest corner of the room was a sight which made my heart drop in my chest. 

It was a collection of shoes. One of the pairs on top still had little pink socks stuffed into them. 

Many of them were children’s shoes. The smallest were much too small for any of the children living there to wear. 

The sight would have been disturbing to find in anybody’s house, let alone this one. 

I was shifting sideways to get a better look when I felt something rustling up the foliage I was standing in. I lifted my leg gingerly away from a matting of dead branches and as I did, my eyes fell on something which made me jump right out of my skin. 

It was fat and wet, practically dragging itself along the ground beside me. I got a better look at it as it emerged from the thicket and fully revealed itself. 

It was some kind of rat. The rodent had little hair on it, revealing translucent skin and bulging veins. It was as horribly mutated as the members of the family I was spying on. 

I let out an involuntary sound of surprise as I stumbled back. That, and the noises produced by me tripping on a maze of tree roots and falling on my butt drew some stirring from within the house. 

I had the sense to retreat to the trees after that, and I’m glad I did. I had barely made it past the cover of the first oaks when I heard the back door creak open. I froze at the sound of heavy, shuffling footsteps heading around the house. Panic grew inside me and settled over my thoughts like a haze. I imagined my shoes being tossed onto the pile by the pot bellied man I could see shambling toward me, his steps quickening as he moved. 

It was a good thing I came to my senses. The moment that I did, I took off sprinting in the other direction.

He couldn’t offer much of a chase given the state he was in. It was only a couple of minutes before I heard the footfalls slow down and then stop, followed by a long string of wheezing curses. Those sounds in turn were quickly swallowed by the wind and the soft rustling of trees.
I didn’t calm down until I had made it back to the main road, where I caught my breath at the foot of an overgrown walking trail. 

I can’t get the scene from the laundry room out of my head. The image of those shoes is imprinted into my mind. They feature in my dreams alongside the grotesque pictures Manchild drew at school which contained what I fear are the corpses those shoes may belong to. 

I need to know what it all adds up to. I have to know if these people are as monstrous in character as they are in physical form. And that means I have to go back there. 

I’ve decided I’m going to find out what ‘they’ are. And if it does turn out they are monsters?

I still haven’t figured that part out yet. But I can’t just stand by and let them hurt people. 

I have to try to do something. 

It’s clear to me nobody else will. 

Like any child, my daughter Maisie had quite the overactive imagination. Her mind was chock full of made-up friends that she talked to on the regular. My wife Rachel and I thought it was adorable. With that being said, sometimes we wished Maisie would get…you know…real friends. Don’t get me wrong, she was a great kid, and kids should be kids, but she didn’t have anything in terms of a social life.

We tried absolutely and positively everything, from the kids’ playclub at our church, to the neighborhood’s “mommy and me” and “daddy and me” playgroups, to bringing her to the local playground, to inviting other children over for playdates. You name it. All our efforts were in vain. Rachel and I might’ve been overreacting and we didn’t want to infringe anything on Maisie. Maybe she was just an independent kid. That’s totally normal. As are imaginary friends for kids.

Then at eight-years-old, Maisie became mute. Just completely stopped talking…but only to other people. If someone came up and talked to her, she’d either just stare at them or run away and hide. Maisie never looked scared or anxious in those scenarios. It was more like she was a statue. Frozen. No emotion good or bad on her face. Like a robot. But if she was alone, she’d be talking up a storm to no one but herself. Maisie always pretended like someone was truly there though. She’d even nod her head, wait for responses and respond accordingly, and even reach out her arm and act like she was holding somebody else’s hand.

We were greatly concerned. Children don’t exhibit those types of behaviors without proper reason. We couldn’t ask Maisie about it because, as aforementioned, she’d give us the cold shoulder. Our next safest bet was to ask other people we knew. A lot of them gave us the same answers we already knew. Rachel and I were getting frustrated until I decided to email her teacher at her school. I sent her an email that outlined my worries and asked if anything went on at school that we should know about.

I got a response at around 8:00 that night. Maisie’s teacher, Mrs. Ashelin, told me that she did in fact observe strange behavior from Maisie. Apparently, a few days prior, when Maisie was called on to answer a question, she just stared at Mrs. Ashelin and the other students, her hands behind her back, swaying slightly. Then in a calm and cutesy voice, she said “He has ordered me not to speak to anyone but him.” In her notebook, Maisie wrote and drew some very disturbing things. Some of the things she wrote are “I’ll be a good little mouse”, “be one of the good mice girls for him”, “I’ll do whatever he says without question”, “he loves me and I love him”, “but I don’t understand what love is but I understand it with him”, and “he loves to play with me”. Some of the things she drew were her, in stick figure form, with this…thing. It was drawn way more detailed than Maisie herself.

Its head was triangular and elongated into a sharp point. There were ovally black eyes on both sides of its head while two large circular ears were atop its head. Two slits for a nose and a mouth containing only two buck teeth. Skinny. Boney. You could see its ribs. Three spindly fingers were on each hand. Each tip was as sharp as a knife. Lastly, a long tail was behind it. Maisie drew her and that thing doing very…how should I say this?...inappropriate things.

I showed the email to Rachel and she was just as horrified as I was. How could Maisie know what all that stuff was? She was eight! Like any good parent we always took great strides in not exposing our daughter to anything sexual or of that nature. Early exposure can really ruin a child’s mind. That’s just putting it lightly. But this? Maisie’s whole imaginary friend thing needed to end. It was reaching a dangerous point. Was she having delusions? Schizophrenia? Or…sigh…as far as Rachel and I knew, nothing happened to Maisie, but that didn’t stop us from considering the absolute worst case scenario. I’m not saying what that is but I’m sure you can put the pieces together. As a parent, that was the last thing I wanted to think about. Actually it wasn’t even on the list of things I wanted to think about.

Mrs. Ashelin ended the email with something else that happened that day. Maisie spent long stretches of time in the girl’s bathroom. Another student reported that she went in and heard “whimpers” and “moans” coming from one of the stalls. When she looked under it, she saw Maisie’s clothes on the ground and a “moving shadow” above them. When the student knocked on the door, she all of a sudden heard one of the faucets going behind her. She turned around and Maisie was washing her hands. Like nothing happened.

Rachel and I were very confused at that last part. That sounded way too ridiculous. Like was Maisie fucking floating in the stall or something? Regardless, we treated all this very seriously. Rachel and I immediately took Maisie to see a specialist who dealt with child abuse cases. I brought her notebook along. It would most certainly be useful. I knew Maisie wouldn’t want to talk, but we had to at least try. Believe it or not, she did talk, but what she said made chills run down Rachel and I’s spines.

Maisie told the specialist that the mouse thing in her notebook was called “Bad Mouse” and that it visits her all the time no matter where she is. She said that Bad Mouse visits little girls all over the world and “plays with them”. When the specialist asked what she meant by “plays with them”, Maisie replied that Bad Mouse does “different things that make us feel tingly in preparation to be his little mice girls”.

We heard enough by that point. Rachel, the specialist, and I had a long discussion about what we should do. The specialist said she might have to put in a request to have Maisie placed in a children’s psych ward. Rachel and I couldn’t handle that. We didn’t want to do that to our little girl. By any means, we would find another way to handle this. The specialist told us to think about it and that it might do her some good. We thanked her and left.

Were we being selfish by not putting Maisie in a children’s psych ward? Rachel and I pondered that question day in and day out. We never did end up doing it because we thought it was too extreme. Also there was no evidence that Maisie was being legitimately sexually abused. The specialist’s physical exam said that Maisie was totally fine in that regard. We were allowed to see footage from the security cameras at the entrances of the bathrooms at Maisie’s school. They only showed Maisie going in, about half an hour going by, then the other student going in, then Maisie leaving a few minutes later. No one else. And no one went in before her besides a couple other girls that left before Maisie went in. Was Maisie faking it? Was she really delusional? Or schizophrenic? We didn’t know. Rachel and I needed time to think this whole thing over.

It only got worse from then on.

Maisie was never one to talk in her sleep. She was always dead silent. Not even a snore. But that night after Rachel and I put her to bed, we heard Maisie talking. I’m not talking about little quiet unintelligible murmurs. No. Full-on conversations. Except she wasn’t speaking English. It was some unknown language that resembled Pig Latin but different. Her accent changed too. This happened for three nights. On the third night, Rachel and I were in her doorway watching her talk in that strange language when she suddenly rose up, her eyes still closed, and burst into an intense laughing fit. Maisie was cackling so hard it looked like it hurt. Then she immediately stopped and did these weird movements with her lips and hands like she was kissing something. Finally, she fell back down onto her pillow and went right back to sleep.

The next day, I knocked on Maisie’s door to let her know breakfast was ready. She didn’t respond. I stood there for a couple minutes. Maisie hadn’t made a single sound. I slowly opened her door. My heart beat faster and faster. With all that was going on, I didn’t know what to expect, and that made it terrifying. Maisie was in her underwear just staring at her wall. I rushed over, “Maisie? What are you doing?” I handed her clothes back to her, “Put your clothes back on.”

“…He doesn’t want me to…he thinks I look better without them…”

We stared at each other for an indefinite period of time. I said nothing. And so did she. Then I turned my head to where she was looking. There was nothing there…obviously…but something told me I was wrong. That thing…Bad Mouse…it was staring right at me…

“Guys? Breakfast isn’t gonna eat itself!” Rachel yelled at us from down the hall. Quickly I hurried Maisie and I out of her room.

I was kind of a wreck the entire day. Thinking straight wasn’t really a thing for me. There was nothing staring at me. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. These past few weeks were just getting to my head and playing mind games. No amount of trying to distract myself would let me forget what I felt. That’s when I decided to take a drive. I didn’t exactly know where. Just away from everything. I was tempted to go to a local bar. I used to be quite the alcoholic but I’m sober. Even still, I thought about breaking my streak to relapse. I decided against it. That would be so incredibly stupid. I ended up at a park that I used to take Maisie to in a futile attempt for her to make friends. I found a parking spot and just sat there in my car. Taking a big sigh, I observed all the parents with their kids having a blast and I smiled. Good for them.

I stayed there for a while. Finally I was able to, if only briefly, forget all my troubles.

Then I saw it.

Him.

Bad Mouse.

The damned thing was underneath a big tree. Its eyes were fixed right on me and its hands were clasped together. I couldn’t do anything but stare right back. Goosebumps were forming. My breathing was really heavy. Cold shivers ran down my body. I couldn’t even blink. Petrified. That’s what I was. I watched as Bad Mouse slowly reached behind itself and pulled…something…out. At first I couldn’t tell what it was. I am not shitting you. A little girl…made of meat…her hair was meat, skin was meat, she was even wearing a meat dress. Everything about her was meat. Her head looked just like Bad Mouse’s. Long. Pointy. Angular. Big ears. Black oval eyes.

It was holding the little meat girl by the collar. Slowly Bad Mouse turned to look into her eyes. It opened its mouth. Viscous white liquids began pouring as it let out its long black tongue. First sniffing the little meat girl, it then took a big long lick of her, from her feet to the top of her head. The parts where it licked were gone, instead resting on Bad Mouse’s tongue until it sucked its tongue back in, chewed, then swallowed. The little meat girl was covered in the viscous white liquids until her missing portions slowly regenerated back into how she was before.

Then I blacked out.

I woke up several hours later still sitting in my car. In my half-tired half-frenzied state, I looked around for any sign of Bad Mouse. Nothing. There weren’t even other people. It was dark too. I opened my phone. 11:23 PM. I got to the park at 2:14 PM. Nine hours. I was expecting a bunch of missed calls and unanswered texts. Surprisingly, there was nothing besides a notification from my weather app. I went back home. Both my wife and daughter were asleep. I was so glad there weren’t any…incidents…I missed. In fact, the house was extremely quiet. No lights were on. It was a weekend. Usually Rachel was still up at this time.

“Rach?” I called out. Nothing. I went upstairs to our room. She wasn’t there. I opened Maisie’s door. She wasn’t there either. I sat down on the couch and pondered where they could be. When I couldn’t come up with anything, I got my phone out and called Rachel.

I heard ringing from upstairs.

Confused, I ran back up to our room. I called her name again. Still no answer. I realized that before I checked so quickly I neglected to look in our bathroom. The door was closed and the light was on. I was now getting this creeped out feeling. Cautiously, I approached and nudged the door.

It creaked open.

Rachel.

She was…splattered…fucking everywhere…all over the walls, floor, ceiling, window, sink, shower…everywhere. Rachel was…pureed…blended…sprayed…I just stood in the doorway. My eyes were wide. I couldn’t process what I was seeing. There were so many things I wanted to do, like crawl into a ball and cry, scream as loud as I could, and/or grab one of the kitchen knives and slit my throat so I wouldn’t have to live with this sight for the rest of my life.

What I actually did end up doing next was grab my old hunting rifle and head outside. I went into the forest behind our house. There was no thinking on my part. Just do. What was I doing? I didn’t really know. Tears were streaming down my face. I walked for what felt like forever. Sometimes I screamed. Other times I fell down onto the ground and wept. But I just kept going. And going. And going. Somehow I knew exactly where I was going without even knowing how.

I came upon a wide-open field. Dropping my old hunting rifle to the ground, I couldn’t believe what I was fucking seeing. Dark silhouettes were dancing around. Hundreds of them. Little meat girls. Bad Mouse was in the middle. The white flesh it once had was stripped away. Instead it was sacrificed for a bumpy and scabby maroon red as if Bad Mouse took a shower in blood and guts and let it dry. Tiny black bristles covered its entire body. It reminded me of insect hair. A ragged meat cloak hung from its shoulders, dragging crimson across the ground. The mouth had much sharper teeth that were poking out in rows almost like a gar. It was taller. Ganglier. So angular that it could have been accurately represented by seven straight lines. It clutched a staff in its hand.

Bad Mouse did some strange gesture and a door manifested out of nowhere. It was bloody. Constantly flowing yet retaining shape. Particles came from it. They disappeared if they strayed too far away. It opened and the little meat girls, still dancing like ballerinas, filed into it one by one. Bad Mouse reached out its hand and plucked one of them out. It held this one, turned in my direction, and held her out to me. I knew it was Maisie and wanted to shoot the shit out of Bad Mouse. Yet I couldn’t do anything. Some force was keeping me tethered to my one spot.

…I can’t describe what happened next…I just can’t…some of the things Bad Mouse did to my little girl I couldn’t understand. Other things I understood clear as day and that made me want to drop a cinderblock on my head so it would leak the hell out. When it was done, Bad Mouse threw Maisie’s limp and white viscous liquid-covered body into the blood door. It raised its staff and it disappeared.

I was released from my invisible bonds. Falling down to the ground, I cried like a baby. It didn’t matter how much I screamed and cursed at the Moon. That didn’t make it better. I couldn’t stop and truly had no idea how to make sense of any of what happened. My body tingled. It felt so heavy. So weighty. My wife was dead and my daughter was…what?...a sex slave to a demon? I almost wanted to laugh at the utter absurdity. Picking up my hunting rifle, I put the barrel in my mouth. My finger stayed on the trigger for a long time. I didn’t end up doing it and threw it away. Instead I just collapsed on the ground once more and lay there for a long time.

It’s been six months. I’m such a wreck. I admit it. No one believes me when I tell them. They say I’m crazy, a madman, a lunatic. Some people even think I was the one who killed my wife and child. Why would I do that? Seriously, why? I loved them. Still do. More than I love anything else. I can’t see them ever again. It pisses me off that they’d think I’d do such a thing. As much as I hate myself for it, I’ve gotten back into alcohol. That’s where all my money goes. I couldn’t stand to be in that fucking house anymore. So I sold it. I’ve been living in my car just drifting from place to place.

I could've saved them. If I didn't go and take a stupid ass ride in my car. Maybe Rachel and Maisie would be alright...

What was that thing? Bad Mouse?

That’s been my biggest question this whole time. I’ve been doing a lot of research but have hit multiple dead ends. I don’t know. Sure as hell wasn’t a mouse.

This is what I know:

* It is the manifestation of a sex-based demon of some kind; possibly a cross between a bogeyman and an incubus.
* Bad Mouse appears to little girls as a mouse-like entity to appear friendly and not scare them away; only visible to them.
* It prefers the young that are more developed in mind, body, and spirit; Maisie was very imaginative; thus she attracted Bad Mouse.
* Bad Mouse acts as their friend; this might appear to parents as their daughter’s “imaginary friend”; gradually coerces them to do inappropriate sexual activity.
* It has hundreds of victims going back an unknown period of time; maybe centuries.
* Does not kill its main victims; will kill parents or anyone else who tries to get in its way.
* The victims become corrupted and turn into demons that look like Bad Mouse; it takes them into its realm and…

I don’t even want to fucking know.

God…this whole thing’s insane. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and this is all a terrible dream. It’s been months though and it still hasn’t happened yet. So I’m going to end it here. I’m not looking for pity. I’m not looking for anyone to hear me out. I’m not looking for answers. I’m just…done.

Bye.

Gothophobia Nervosa is a psychological condition characterised by an intense, irrational, and disproportionate fear of Goths, Gothic culture, or environments perceived as excessively Gothic. Individuals experiencing Gothophobia Nervosa may report the following symptoms: heightened anxiety, rapid heartbeat, sweating, an overwhelming urge to leave the area, and an inexplicable suspicion of anyone wearing excessive amounts of black.  

The condition is said to be particularly common in individuals who have previously encountered a Goth at a very young or prepubescent age, who subsequently developed an enduring belief Goths are supernatural beings in human disguise. For this reason, Gothophobia Nervosa is commonly misdiagnosed as Sanguivoriphobia - a fear of vampires. 

It should be noted that Gothophobia Nervosa is an academically unrecognised psychiatric diagnosis. 

Well, now that this undiagnosed phobia of mine has been established, please allow me to commence with my story. 

My name is Brandon. A few years ago, when I was still just a wet-nosed university student, I met the strangest, yet most extraordinary girl of my life. Don't get me wrong. This is by no means a love story – but if it was a love story, it would be a bizarre one at that. This girl in question whose eyes I saw zoned in on me from across the main room of the Halloween Party, was an American exchange student by the name of Anneliese. Now, I don't claim to have ever been much of a ladies' man, despite my rugged good looks (well, maybe not so rugged), but for whatever reason, this tall, spindly-thin creature in the Marie Laveau costume appeared to find me somewhat enticing. In the way a trapped fly in a spider's web is enticing to the spider.   

Although Anneliese was undeniably beautiful, she was not exactly what I would call my type. What I mean is, Anneliese was a... (no, she wasn't a Goth). Anneliese was a Voodooist - and by Voodooist, I don't mean the doll-stabbing, zombifying type Hollywood has lead you to believe. No, she was the real thing. Despite attending university in the UK, Anneliese was born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana - considered by most to be the Voodoo capital of the U.S, if not, the world. If Anneliese hadn't told me herself she was a sixth-generation Voodooist upon our first date, I certainly knew it by her outlandish appearance. Just picture for yourself what a Gen-Z voodooist would look like. That was Anneliese. 

Even to this day, I don't have the slightest idea what this French-speaking spiritualist from across the pond saw in me. After all, she may not have been my exact type, but I certainly didn't imagine I would be hers. We were just completely different people in every sense imaginable. For example, whereas I preferred a quiet evening indoors, curled up with a cup of tea and a good book, Anneliese was a creature of the night - always dragging me out after hours to some séance or tarot card reader. She was obviously into all that stuff. 

Despite how different Anneliese was to any girlfriend I may've had previously, the type of individual she was, was not completely alien to me... What I mean by this is, because of the small seaside town where I grew up... I used to see individuals like Anneliese on a regular basis. This town I grew up in, for the first eight years of my life before my family packed up and left, is a town called Whitby. Perhaps you've heard of it? For those who haven't, Whitby is a small coastal town in the north-Yorkshire of England, nestled cosily inside the bay of the same name. Although I only lived in the bay for the first few years of my childhood, I can still tell you of two reasons why Whitby is so famous today.  

The first reason being for Captain James Cook. Credited as the first European explorer to ever step foot on the Hawaiian Islands, Captain Cook is more famously known for the way he was murdered - and despite what I was taught in school about our town's most famous historical figure, Captain Cook was NOT cannibalized by the Hawaiian indigenous... Although, they did apparently remove the flesh from his bones. 

As for the second, and arguably more important reason why my town of origin is so famous... Whitby featured as one of the primary locations in Bram Stoker's horror novel, Dracula. The blood-sucking count from Transylvania himself. Although I have not myself read the novel in full, I do know that, upon the wreckage of a Russian merchant ship, Dracula arrives ashore in Whitby Bay in the form of a large black dog, before racing up the 199 steps to the gothic ruins of the Abbey. Because of the town's involvement in the Dracula novel, by the early nineties, a new tradition in Whitby had started. Every year, around the Halloween season, the town holds an annual Goth festival - in which thousands of Goth enthusiasts flood the streets in their most elaborate costumes. If New Orleans is the voodoo capital of the United States, then Whitby is the Goth capital of the United Kingdom. 

Having been born and raised in Whitby, I became acquainted with this annual tradition from a very young age. During the week of Halloween, I would walk with my family along the cobblestone streets through a maze of dark sinister beings. Like every young boy whose concept of the world stems from his wild imagination, I interpreted these pilgrims to our town to be monstrous, blood-sucking creatures of the night. Quite frankly, once October was around the corner, in anticipation of the bay's annual visitors, I would become palely ill with fear.  

As a matter of fact, this fear became so troublesome, that by the age of six I began to have dreadful, repetitive sleep terrors - whereby I would scream bloody Mary through the latest hours of the night. If I had to put my finger on it, I believe the reason these sleep terrors began was, due to the large window which hung over my bed, my older brother convinced me that during the October goth festivities, some undead creature in black leather would crawl inside my room to drain the life from my body. 

These night terrors weren't even the end of it. Next came the sleepwalking. When my parents were forced to put an outside lock on my door, after wandering around my own bedroom the whole night, I would then wake in the earliest hours of the morning, terrified and screaming for someone to let me out before the creature at my window found its way in! By the time I was eight years old, these night terrors and accompanying sleepwalks became such a reoccurring nuisance, my parents were left with no choice but to move our family out of Whitby for good – where my fear of the town's supposed "monsters" would hopefully be forgotten. 

For the following years of my life, I vowed never return to Whitby ever again. Not to visit relatives. Not to see my friends, or even my old stomping ground. As far as I was concerned, the further away I was from Whitby Bay, the better... That was, until I foolishly made the mistake of telling Aneliese of the place I grew up. I told her about the thousands of Goths who visit Whitby every year, and the grand, but horrifying costumes they wear. Being the horror fanatic she was, Aneliese became fascinated with my hometown's annual tradition. Although she was not a Goth herself, due to her unique upbringing in New Orleans, Aneliese wasn't far off. Although I should've been flattered my girlfriend took such a unique interest in where I was from, the only problem was... Aneliese now wanted to experience the Whitby Goth Festival for herself.  

'Oh come on, baby' she nagged me over breakfast, 'It'll be fun! You can't seriously tell me you won't never go back.' 

'Not never, babes' I reply, 'but you will have to cut off my limbs, nail me inside a coffin and personally drag me there against my will'.  

Aneliese rolled her eyes at my show of stubbornness, before sinisterly jesting, 'Don't tempt me'.  

After opening up to her about the trauma I suffered there as a child, rather than be understanding of the situation she was putting me in, Aneliese instead insists that I need to face my fears once and for all.  

'If you're scared by a few Goths, then what's it gonna be like when we visit my family in New Orleans?' Although I hated to admit it, Aneliese made a very good point. After all, as spooky of a place as Whitby was, New Orleans, with its voodoo and many haunted graveyards was basically the American equivalent... And so, after weeks of pestering me (along with some minor threats to make a voodoo doll in my likeness), I finally agreed to take her to the upcoming Whitby Goth Festival... So help me God. 

Setting off early on a crisp autumn morning, we drive up from the south of England to the very top of the country. Once in the north of Yorkshire, we then had to pass through vast stretches of moor country. If Whitby Bay wasn't sinister enough, the moors of North Yorkshire certainly were. According to local legend, these moors were said to be stalked by an array of strange cryptids: from the ghostly howls of phantom black dogs, to phantom wolves which prey on farmers livestock - and even stories of black cats the size of panthers. Although this sounds to be nothing more than superstitious folklore, coincidentally, in the early 1980s, two American backpackers were apparently attacked by a large wolf outside the village of East Proctor. One of the backpackers was torn to pieces, while the other survived just an inch from his life. Whatever the truth may be to that story, I don't know. 

Exhaustedly driving all morning and into the early afternoon, we finally reach the outskirts of Whitby Bay. After first checking at the inn we booked outside town, we then swerve our way up the bay's right-hand side to reach the ruins and adjoined graveyard of Whitby Abbey. Pulling into what seemed to be the only space left in the car park, we then peer out the windscreen (as though we're on safari) as a swarm of Goths and other festival goers heard away from their cars and towards the abbey grounds. 

Aneliese couldn't help but be amazed by all the elaborately detailed costumes: from the pale-white men ordained in large top hats and cloaks, to the women in vampiric, Victorian-style dresses.   

'Wow! They all look so amazing! Don't they, baby?!' Aneliese shrieks ecstatically from the driver's seat, 'Those costumes must've cost a fortune!' Failing to respond to Aneliese's excitement, she then turns to notice my eyes are no longer peering out the windscreen, but glued fearfully to the dirt-stained floor of the passenger's seat. Clutching a hold of my arm suddenly to gain my attention, she then reassures me, 'Everything's gonna be okay, baby. I promise. You'll make it through this weekend', before comforting me with a paper-thin smile. 

'Yeah. I know that' I respond unconvincingly, 'I guess I just didn't realise how hard this was all going to be.' 

'You need me to hold your hand?' Aneliese then says with a playful snark. God, I hate it when she teases me.  

After taking a final deep breath, while Aneliese puts the finishing touches on her appearance, we then both exit from our side doors to feel the outside chill of coastal wind. But once I shut my door and turn around, I am instantly jilted back by a terrifying noise! 

'AHH!' I believe were my exact words, as a ginormous hound from hell snarls and gnashes a row of razor-sharp fangs at me!  

'Armand! Get back now!' bellows the hellhound's master, struggling to restrain the large Doberman which has now chased me up the hood of the car. Once Armand the hellhound is fully restrained, I then turn down to hear the high-pitched cackles of a four-foot skeleton and a five-foot devil - before a woman donning a witch's pointed hat finally pulls them away. 

Now safe from the jaws of death, and the mockery of small children dressed for Halloween, I then climb down from the hood of the car to regain myself. Having just witnessed all this from her open side door, Aneliese makes her way round to me. 

'It was just a dog, baby' she giggles, now the one laughing at my expense, 'You really ought'a chill.' 

By no means in the mood for further mockery, I then lash back defensively at her, 'Well, that's easy for you to say. You weren't just nearly mauled to death by some hellhound!' Just as she always does whenever I show any sign of cowardice, Aneliese rolls her eyes into the back of her head at me. 

God. This was going to be a long weekend. 

To be continued...

Growing up, I've heard stories of Lake Bria and the many bodies that wash upon her shorelines every decade or so. Many locals believe that a witch lives deep beneath her waters, only coming up so often to hunt those who travel too close after dark. This story takes place when my cousin and I decided to ignore our parents and find the witch of Bria Lake.

It was a warm summer, and the weather was perfect for nightlife, with the cicadas chirping late into the night. My cousin Andy was staying over as her parents were in the middle of getting a divorce. It had been two weeks since she came over, and she hadn't heard anything from either of her parent.

Do you think they forgot about me? Andy asked.

Shuffling in my sheets, I mumbled, "No."
My words came out flat and tired as I faced Andy, who was staring out the window, her kaleidoscope eyes beaming under the moonlight. I always felt jealous of Andy and her beautiful eyes, how both of them were so different yet in an impossible way weren't. My eyes, albeit one, were like hers, but not as impressive; they were a dulled grey and purple, while hers were full of colour and life, despite her life and family falling apart.

Rolling over to my back, I stared at the wooden ceiling of our cabin, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I sat up.

"Andy, I don't know. I feel terrible about what you're going through. I don't have the answers."

Looking back towards Andy, I saw her looking at me with tears welling up. Feeling bad, I hugged Andy with all I had, not letting her go.

"You have this family who loves you. Forget them," I said, crying into her hair. "You are loved here."

I suddenly felt arms wrap around me, slowly tightening. Her grip was stronger than I expected—stronger than I remembered. But I held on, letting her squeeze until the shaking in her shoulders finally began to ease.

After a long moment, she pulled back and sniffled, wiping her face with the back of her hand. The tears had left tracks down her cheeks, but her eyes had that familiar spark again. I smiled and pointed out that she wanted to listen to the radio.

"Can we..." she started, then cleared her throat. "Can we just listen to something? Music? Anything to get out of my head for a minute."

I nodded, grateful for a distraction. I reached over to the small nightstand and fumbled for the old radio my dad kept in the cabin. The dial was stiff, and static crackled as I turned it, searching for a station that wasn't just white noise.

"...and in local news, authorities have confirmed the identity of the body discovered earlier this morning along the northern shore of Lake Bria. The victim identified as 34-year-old Marcus Webb, a jogger who was reported missing three days ago..."

My fingers jerked. I slammed the radio off before the announcer could say another word.

The cabin fell silent. Too silent. Even the cicadas seemed to have paused.

Andy was staring at me. Her kaleidoscope eyes were wide, unblinking. "Did you hear that?"

"It was nothing," I said quickly. Too quickly. "Just some old news."

"Turn it back on."

"Andy—"

"Turn it back on."

"Another body," Andy said slowly, almost to herself. "At Lake Bria. Just like the legends."

"Coincidence," I said, but the word tasted hollow. "People drown all the time. It's a lake; whatever you're thinking it's not true."

Andy stood up from the bed. She walked to the window and pressed her palm against the glass, staring out into the darkness. The moonlight caught her eyes again, and they seemed to glow.

"I don't remember when Grandma told you stories of a witch in the lake," Andy said with a gleam in her eye.

"Yes, I do, but they're only legends. It's not real people who drown at that lake all the time."

"Every decade, Via," she sharply said.

I couldn't respond to that, as though it was strange that a body or two had been washing up every decade with the chest ripped out and gashes across their bodies.

"Coincidences," I said nonchalantly shrugging. "Can we go back to bed? It's late."

She huffed as I saw her cover herself with the blanket and I sighed as I laid back down. Trying to go to sleep but the announcement of the dead body kept me awake. Has it already been ten years? The last attack only happened when I was eight and my mother forbid me from ever going near the lake.

Tossing and turning I couldn't fall asleep as my dreams were rattled with a deep dark cavern underneath crushing depths with a beautiful hand extending before me and glowing eyes surrounding me before being dragged deeper by the throat. I gasped for air but couldn't produce any until I saw a giant maw open up and I was swallowed.

Waking up with a loud gasp I held my throat, my fingers pressing on the wounds that weren't there. Slowly calming myself I looked around the dark cabin looking for Andy to see if she was sleeping but when my eyes caught her bed she wasn't there. All that was left was a crumpled quilt.

Knowing where Andy went, fear spiked through my entire body. I cursed myself for being stupid. Racing to my closet I grabbed a pair of underwear and a jumper and raced towards the lakefront. I ran past beautiful kaleidoscope flowers with pattern spirals and logs that forced me to jump over them. I ran and ran, not even when my bare feet burned and blistered from the sharp rocks, not even when my legs were about to give out.

I ran and ran until I saw the lake's shoreline through the trees. I saw Andy standing there and by the time I reached her my legs were burning and my feet were bleeding heavily.

"What the fuck are you doing out here?" I said through gritted and strained breath.

"Watching," she coldly said.

"Watching what?" I replied.

“Her the witch of the lake”

She pointed out towards the lake and I squinted, trying to get a better look, when I suddenly noticed a tall slender figure walking towards us. Each step she took the water rippled slightly.

"Andy we got to go now," I said as a wave of fear ran down my spine causing me to instantly grab Andy's hands and pull her away.

"We can't," she replied coldly.

"Why not?" I said as I looked back to see the figure was standing right in front of us, her white complexion glowing under the moonlight. Looking at her I noticed she was a very tall and curvaceous person with silk white hair to the ground around her feet.

She looked at me then towards Andy before smiling and her mouth opened so wide it should snapped the muscles and skin around her jaws.

---

"Andy run!"

But before I could move, the witch of the lake lunged at us, catching Andy in her grasp and shoving me away from them. I hit my head on a rock, causing a nasty scar and blinding me in my right eye. Blood poured down my face as I struggled to see.

Through the haze, I watched Andy being dragged toward the water. She wasn't fighting. I screamed for her to be let go, but when I saw them clearly, she wasn't fighting being dragged under the water. Her kaleidoscope eyes met mine one last time, and there was no fear in them. Only peace. Only acceptance.

The water went still.

The next moment I felt a hand on my shoulder and I flinched, turning to see that it was my father. Somehow he'd heard me sneaking out of the cabin and came looking for me. I hugged him while uncontrollably crying into his shoulders.

"She's gone, Papa. The witch took her," I cried out.

"Who's gone?" he replied, worry etched in his voice.

"Andy. She took Andy. I tried to stop her, I tried to—"

"Via—"

Before I could say another word, the world tilted. The trees blurred. My father's face swam in and out of focus, and then everything went dark.

---

I woke up to the steady beeping of a heart monitor.

White ceiling tiles stretched above me, harsh fluorescent lights burning through my closed eyelids. The smell of antiseptic and stale coffee filled my nostrils. Hospital. I was in a hospital.

My right eye was wrapped in thick gauze. When I tried to open it, pain shot through my skull like a hot knife. I groaned, and a nurse appeared at my bedside almost instantly.

"Take it easy, sweetheart. You've been through a lot," she said, her voice soft and practiced. She checked my vitals, adjusted my IV, and smiled a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Your parents are in the waiting room. Do you want me to get them?"

I shook my head slowly, wincing at the movement.

The nurse nodded like she understood. "The doctor will be in soon. Just rest."

She left, and I was alone with the beeping and the humming of machines.

My mother came in anyway, tears streaming down her face. She held my hand and kissed my forehead and told me everything was going to be okay. My father stood in the doorway, his jaw tight, his eyes red-rimmed. Neither of them asked me what happened. Not yet.

But I knew they would.

---

The questions started the next day.

A police officer sat in the chair beside my bed, a notepad balanced on his knee. He had kind eyes and a calm voice, the kind of voice meant to put people at ease. It didn't work.

"Via," he said gently. "Can you tell me what happened at the lake?"

I stared at the ceiling.

"Your father said you were talking about a witch. About Andy being taken. Can you explain that?"

The beeping of the monitor filled the silence.

"Via, we found your cousin's clothes by the shore. But there's no sign of her. We need to know what happened so we can find her."

I closed my good eye.

"Please," he said. "Anything you can tell us."

I said nothing.

They brought in a therapist after that. Then a psychologist. Then a detective with tired eyes and a stack of files. They all asked the same questions. They all got the same answers.

What happened at the lake?
Silence.

Where is Andy?
Silence.

They told my parents I was in shock. That I'd blocked out the trauma. That with time and therapy, the memories would come back.

But I knew the truth.

I wasn't blocking anything out. I remembered everything. The witch's white skin glowing in the moonlight. Andy's calm acceptance. The way the water closed over her head without a sound.

I remembered the way Andy had looked at me before she disappeared. The way her kaleidoscope eyes had glowed one last time—and the way I'd seen something in them I'd never noticed in the two weeks she’s been with us And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that Andy had been taken.

Weeks passed. The bandages came off my eye, but the world on that side stayed dark. Permanent damage, the doctors said. A freak accident. Nothing to be done.

I learned to live with it. Learned to tilt my head just so, to compensate for the blind spot. Learned to smile when my parents looked at me with worried eyes, to nod along when the therapists told me I was making progress.

I never told them what really happened.

Because what would I say?

There's a witch in the lake. She took my cousin because she had the same eyes as the witch's dead children. And I watched it happen, and I didn't stop it, and the worst part is—

I don't think Andy wanted to be saved.

Yes

The Fan Girl

By Theo Plesha

First thing you should know about me is that I am a librarian. We are a very exacting people, labeling and categorizing, to the decimal, if you will. Still, this story requires some creative license in its telling – I suppose like all good True Crime stories – the second is teased before the commercial and the best of the best is kept until the end – even if real life didn't happen in that order.

Let me set the scene for you. There's this interstate rest area. What a place. I has all these big displays of local interest arrayed in a pentagonal atrium before angling off to the four large bathrooms and a little nook with vending machines. All of the little towns nearby are represented on these boards. There's the front parking for cars and SUVs and a rear lot for semi tractor trailer trucks and large format recreational vehicles. There's a pond, a gazebo, and even a swing set for the kids. You know the place, you've been here before – but legal purposes, I can't tell you exactly where.

So anyway, it was me, my stepsister Dot, her friend Valarie, and Dot's boyfriend Scott, in my dad's camper. We're having margaritas and there's a sativa blunt going...somewhere? I was set up in my hello kitty pajamas on the couch opposite of the tv with a bucket of fresh popcorn. My hair was still wet from using the shower. True Crime lit up the room but not my mind. The real True Crime was just outside the RV. Valarie and Dot were sitting at the little table booth under a dim light looking at their popcorn like it was poison and trading urgent glances.

There was knock on the side door of the camper. Dot immediately got up from table to answer it.

“Wait.” I said, “Do you know who it is?”

“Yeah, it's Scott. Duh.”

“Yeah, it's Scott. Duh.” He echoed with sarcasm stepping into the camper cabin, “Someone was taking FOREVER in the shower. What's the point of having a camper if I have to walk all the way to the rest area to take a big nasty...?”

“I was in there for less than 7 minutes!” I protested. “And I'm glad you did that in there and not here and I'm glad it was that.”

“It's whatever. Hey, I did see something weird though, the water is blue. Like dark blue when you flush.”

“That's toilet bowl cleaner they mix with the wa...” I trailed off.

“You've never cleaned a toilet before have you?” Valarie question Scott with disdain.

“Should I have? Isn''t that more your all's area?”

“Booo...MISOGYNISTIC STEREOTYPING!” I yelled.

“Yeah not cool Scott.” Dot chimed in. Scott shrugged and went to the fridge.

“But, seriously, like you never helped out around the house to figure out what that blue stuff is?” Valarie pressed. “Like also, were you impressed the toilets flush themselves. Like all you do is actually piss and shit outside only?”

Scott peaked out from the fridge with his checks full of milk from the carton, “Nuhuh.” He hummed shaking his head back and forth.

“Looks like I found who's helping me clean this place when we get back.” I said.

“Hell yeah!” Valarie said. “Oh god, did we just bond there a second?”

“I think we did!” I replied raising my hand for a high five that never arrived.

I ruined this moment with an extended stare and silence. Then I turned to more important matters.

“Did you lock it?” I asked.

“Lock what?” Dot replied.

“The door...nevermind I'll get it.”

“It's a safe place. Don't start getting weird, Kystal.”

I peered out the blinded window into the cool LED lamp lit parking lot. I felt electric, like the tension of storm warnings leading up to the main event. I clicked the lock shut and jiggled the door before I hopped back to my popcorn adorned throne. I clicked up the volume on show just a bit so they could hear the name of the loose serial killer I was fascinated by.

“Not that I'm trying to take Naomi's side again but you have been talking about that roller coaster effect a lot - the head chopper effect. That's been a little weird.” Valarie chirped.

“Oh fine, you don't have to ride the Mind Grater, I'll go with Scott.” Dot insisted.

“I guess you'll find me on the Kiddie Koaster for that...” Valarie sighed.

Unprompted I provided facts between fist fulls of popcorn to break up the tension, “Hey did you know the Taxidermist used a stuffing of one of his victims to fool the cameras in the car pool lane?”

Scott rolled his eyes and sighed loudly but it was Valarie who came back with a banger, “Dot! Naomi is being weird again!”

“What does he do with his victim's di...” Scott started.

“Ugh, Scott...don't encourage her!”

“Both of you stop it. Naomi, honey, sweetie, sister from another mother – please – you promised to not be weird.”

“Scott's asking about what a serial killer does with his victim's genitalia and I'm the one being weird? Me? Muha?” I replied while hitting the blunt before passing it.

“Ooooh...things are getting heated up in here. Trouble brewing between the step sisters...I like where this is going....I've seen this before.” Scott said as he hit it.

“Oh my god...Naomi you promised you wouldn't be weird, second Val you promised you weren't going to whine and third Scott...what is it with you and that gross step-sister porn shit? Okay, the first time, it was funny, but its like the hundredth time. STOP!”

“This is lame. I'm going to the bunk.”

“All I'm trying to say is you should be aware of the Taxidermist guy, he's in our area after all.”

“Jesus Christ, Naomi you need to get off this True Crime shit, we're six hours away from the roller coaster park and you're stuck on a dude who...”

“Who makes stuffed taxidermied hybrids of his victims and road kill.”

“See?”

“Yes, but it's important. I'm trying to save your lives.”

“What?” Val blurted out as Scott spit up milk he was still drinking from the carton.

“She's just trying to scare you.” Dot yelled.

“The Taxidermist – he's here, tonight.”

“How do you know this?” Scott muttered in terror.

“Nope, nope, nope...shut up everyone. She's just being weird.” Dot insisted.

“I lured him here.”

“You what?” Val yelped.

“How?” Scott pressed.

“I'm a big fan of his work, I used info from my dad's case file and social media, but don't worry if you all do exactly as I say we will all end up fine...”

Record scratch – this is when they went totally berserk. Now would be a good time for some Guy Riche flashback heist music as I fill in some gaps here. So yeah, that's me throwing the RV's starter battery into the nearby woods – an electric book mark between a two towering trees wrapped in poison ivy vines. Far enough, an hour ago, I survey the site as we approach midnight. A cool crisp fall breeze tickles my nose as a little fog rolls across the interstate. The groan of truck engines along side the drone of rubber on road sets the tone. There's a dozen trucks and two dozen smaller vehicles plus our camper spread out across the five acres of interstate rest area. The pavilion and gazebo are quiet for now. One of the play ground swings sways gently.

This entire place is a playground now. A playground for the four serial killers I lured there. Oh, I'm telling you this part and I'm telling them this part.

“You did what?!”

“It's okay, okay its like shark week and we're in the shark cage.”

“My phone...”

“Yeah, don't bother with those.”

“Why not?”

“The Forensics Fanatics always use a short ranged cell phone jammer.”

“Who the hell are the Forensics Fanatics?!”

“We're going to fine as long as we stay in the camper...”

With that, Scott rips open the door and launches himself into the night.

“Where are you going?”

“We got to find that battery and get out of here and warn the others!”

“Scott! Wait! Don't!” Dot chased after him across the slick parking lot. She didn't even bother to shut the door so I did. And I locked it.

“Okay...well...that's didn't go as planned.” I said, confused, to Val who dropped the shades on the big window and then cowered in the booth corner. “Good, well, just stay there LOL.” I said as I made for the small bunk.

“Wait, where are you going?” Val protested.

“I'm getting my laptop and mobile wifi connection set up and plugging it into the tv so we can watch.”

“Watch what?”

“You know my dad is a state trooper, right?”

“ACAB bitch.”

“Indeed. In more ways than one but just the same, turns out the state highway passwords don't change very often. And...” I said anxiously typing in the password as “PASSWORD1”, “we're in. OMG I've always wanted to say that. How 90's!”

“In what?” Val crawled out of her corner and peaked at the TV.

“Rest Area security cameras. This is True Crime in Real Time. It's like 24!” I'm your manic pixie nightmare girl.

“How can you sit back and watch this? Your friend and your stepsister is out there!”

“All they had to do was sit here. If you want to yell for them go ahead. But that will draw the attention of the killers.”

“My God I don't know who's worse, them or you!”

“Well, you know me. Do you want to hear about them? It might help you, help us, get Dot and Scott back here.”

“Naomi...I...oooof...get me out this. Please.”

“Let me paint you a picture of squirrely thinning man rounding his mid-forties maybe its his bouts with lyme's disease, maybe its beaver fever, maybe a hint of chronic wasting – who's to say but this outdoorsman has rounded the forest one too many times. His thick but mud matted flannel is hanging off of his bones these days. I imagine he started his art with the best intentions but his skill has dropped off, no one accepted his last major works – even as gifts as his various mental and physical conditions sapped away at him. At first he was content with just knocking his victims out and sewing his prey and roadkill parts to them. Imparting a raccoon nose here or super gluing an antler there but as knocking people out with a hammer goes – eventually you'll find that person who doesn't get back up and so...every jack a jackalope from there.”

“Those fake rabbits with antlers at Applebees?”

“The very same. Or you know, stuffed and mounted to a park bench like a trout. He's not one for torture, he prefers clean cuts, and exsanguination, but occasionally he'll just take part of someone and leave the rest. Apparently he's fond of a lucky human's foot. He's not particularly lucky though, I'd say he's more careful but vindictive to fault...remember why he got into this at all its about the art and luring him was easy because he's been tracking his rival.”

“His rival?”

“Yes, the Gardener.”

“The Gardener? Who the fuck is the Gardener?”

* * *

Okay. Let's do somethings here and cut to that. We do in fact have a clip and its always better to show than to tell. So this happened about twenty minutes ago while I was showering and Scott was gone. Just a hair or two outside of the corner range of the lot cameras there was young-ish couple – let's say they were working their kinks out. Couldn't really make it out on camera but it was audible on the microphones all these cameras have. I'll fill in the gaps where necessary.

“Niko, why is this our thing?”

“Why can't it be our thing, Salin?

“I'm tired of getting my back all dirty on the hard ass ground. Why can't I have a towel or something?”

“Then it's not back to nature – literally.”

“Well, if its about that then why don't you lie down on it and let me grind on you while you grind on dirt?”

“Because it's about the connection to the Earth through you to our future child. Your womb be fertile and your body a vessel of sky and land.”

“This Earth is harder than you.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

“Alright.” Niko said as pants zipping noises can be heard among the rustling of the bushes. “Well, only three more stops to go to make the mark of Freyja and Freyr before the post equinox fortnight with mercury in retrograde.”

“You know they were brother and sister, right? Not lovers...”

“Salin, I think I know my Nordics Pleiades Guide. It was recommended reading from Bob Lazar. Anyway, excuse me for a moment while I pledge our love to them”

“Of course. I love you, babe!”

So the Taxidermist is here for the Gardener, the Gardener is here for these two. It starts with feuding with contributors to fringe fertility forums on Reddit and even less desirable places on the internet. He's searchable if you know what to look for and both in his user icon speech. His image MO is a white rose online but he types and speaks in very specific ways. Fundamentally he's an anti-natalist and he's not shy about it online nor in the flesh.

“For all consciousness is connected above, it is divided in life and once again upon and into death. Consciousness must not be summoned to this realm, for it has no choice but to suffer and could not consent. Only life which has no thought and no concept of suffering shall thrive. Only the leaves, vines, thorns and steams my prevail. Human consciousness must be intact when returned to the land of the unliving.” Say those words in his voice, not mine.

He argues with the weird men who won't see a doctor for their own fertility issues and then catches up to them and their lovers as they carry out their plans for astronomically assisted breeding. Personally, I think that function of breed usually relies on the functionality of only two spheres closer to Earth rather than the solar system but as someone who does not want to breed at all – for other reasons than those cited by the Gardener – for the record - who am I to judge? Nevertheless, his ideology makes sense to him but not to me since he ends up killing people who seem least likely to actually bring another conscious being to this planet. But I imagine its the bluster these people have, the challenge before them, to do that which incites his rage and his murder.

While Niko prayed in his failed love nest, Salin waded stiff and heavy across the lot, brushing mud off of her back and from her ass, struggling with her skirt and top. Fearing yet another “delaying” infection, she rushed to the open women's room in the rest stop.

She started to sing softly to herself, “I can feel it coming in the air tonight...” she slowed in a moment of self reflection, “Actually, no I can't! Damnit!”.

Salin barely noticed the state worker in the brown and blue jump suit tending to the plants in the rest area vestibule. This startles her as he begins to stir. Wonders if he had been watching her and Niko. She is also a bit alarmed by his enormous size, like a crouching bull, she hopes he doesn't see her as red. He whistles softly before murmuring a line or two, “oh my darling clementine”. She doesn't notice he's wearing a mask and among his tools are a pair of enormous sheers.

Most of you don't know this but even the rest rooms at rest areas have a wide angle camera of the mirrors and sinks but one that leaves the stalls, urinals, and changing tables in the blind. Selin disappears out of frame as I hear the metal stall door squeak open and shut but she fails to turn the jam lock as I hear no thud. I doubt it would have mattered much though.

You can only really see the boulder of flesh that is the Gardener's back at the very edge of the frame as he creeps in and rests in front of Salin's stall.

“Hello?” She calls out, “Hello!?” Then whimpers, “Niko, Niko please tell me that's you.”

“But alas,” the Gardener's ramble came in reply, “I was no swimmer so I lost my clementine.”

Then we get this very PG-13 jurassic park look away murder as the Gardener flips open the door and guillotines her with his enormous sheers powered by his brutalish arms. Sheeeeve...no head, a fountain of crimson pumped through her severed head muffles the scream to bloody bubbles. It's the same every time. He has a white rose cutting he plants in their esophagus and then takes the head and plants it like a seed, preserving consciousness, intact, back to the unliving, usually nearby from the actual murder scene.

So it is no surprise as he secures the head in a janitor's mop filled with foamy soap, strips out of one set of one replica state janitor jumpsuit to reveal another free from blood if not tainted from his sweat. Pushes the mop cart of the wash room and then seals it shut with his stolen or copied key and places “out of order” barricades around it before he pushing the mop cart out of the back.

* * *

“Oh my fucking God, Naomi! Naomi! Naomi she's fucking dead! Is this live? When did this happen?!” Valarie looked like she was having a full on panic attack as she spun around the camper in front of the tv bobbing and weaving, turning and shrieking like the tasmania devil with a margaritas in one hand and a joint in the other.

I told you, so I tell her, “About twenty five ish minutes ago or so, popcorn?”

“And he's roaming around, with Scott and Dot now out there. And that other guy and those two others guys too!?”

“You're not going to leave are you? I need at least one person to ride the roller coasters with. Popcorn?”

“Are you fucking nuts talking about roller coasters in a time like this...where's the Gardener now?”

“He's still planting Selin's head about forty yards that way. Popcorn?”

“Fuck popcorn, Ice cream! But listen, listen please...I don't want my head cut off...I didn't want that from the Mind Grater and I don't want from the Gardener! I don't want a rose planted in my neck and my head buried at some goddamn state rest area!”

“You should really keep it down. We still have the Forensics Fanatics to worry about. Also if you're getting ice cream. I'd kill for some ice cream. No pun intended.”

“I'm not worried about them...” She said digging out some pre-wrapped ice cream cones from the freezer, “I'm worried about the Gardener and the first guy!”

“The Taxidermist?”

“Yes the goddamn Taxidermist. Where's he?”

“Oh. Good call.” I said biting into the peanut chocolate shell of the cone, “Let's check.” I went to work scanning through all the camera channels. “He seems to be chasing after Scott and Dot right now on the other side of the rest area.”

“What?!”

“You dropped your cone...”

I went picture in picture with four different cameras. Let me give you the quick version. For the record, I'm telling you this like they're in the room I can hear them like they are, so can Val, but they can't but...ugh...this is easier.

It wasn't immediately apparent that they knew they were being chased. Scott seemed flustered, loud and fast enough as he weaved methodically from car to car in the front parking lot, warning them to leave the rest area, because of a serial killer.

“Hey, hey wake up! Wake up! C'mon you gotta get out of here...it's not safe! There's a serial killer on the loose! You gotta get back on the road! You have to get back on the road” Scott crowed with a voice which grew more hoarse with each feverish command.

He pounded on windshields, kicked doors, flashed his phone light through the side windows of almost a dozen different cars before someone caught up to him. At first he yelped and then backed himself up onto the concrete of one of the lamp poles shaking and unable to locate who had tackled him because his hoodie slipped over his eyes.

“Scotty D Yard!” Dot's voice pierced his cries and the hoodie, “get back to the camper with me right now!”

“Oh my god you almost gave me a heart attack!”

“You're giving me two by running off and trying to be stupid hero. Don't you watch horror movies?! No you don't because you're a pussy!”

“I'm trying to do something good...these people gotta be protected, put as much as road as you can behind you!” He said calling out again.

“If you're going to try to protect someone, protect me! Please. Please. Please just walk me back to the camper and I think we'll be safe, okay.”

Just then a young guy, probably in his late teens, maybe early twenties popped the driver's side door of his lifted and racing stripped s 4x4 pickup truck wide and stomped out like a paratrooper making a landing, coated in tactical gear. “There are sheep and there are wolves. And then there are shepherds.” He announced, looking more like an action figure than real person strapped and woven with body armor and ammo pouches.

“Who are you?” Dot asked.

“I am a shepherd.” He declared as he swung an assault rifle across his chest and flipped on a series of flashlights and lasers. “I'm THE shepherd.”

“What fresh idiocy is this?” I said aloud to Val. “Oh gee, I never ever would have suspected that hat.”

“Goddamn who is this?” Val leaned in closer, I could feel her panic and smell her sweat and I think she wanted me to experience that, “Is this one of the Forensics Fanatics?” She pressed in closer.

“No, but thanks for playing. I think he's some kind of Bad Samaritan. This would have been much more fun if they just stayed in the damn camper. Now if he comes back here with them he's gonna really screw up the blunt rotation.”

The gun wielding dude shadowed them as continued through the lot trying to alert people. At one point, the Bad Samaritan started to yell “Gun! Gun! Get down!” as another random person pulled gun and pressed the barrel out their window towards, from their perspective, a well-armed gun wielding maniac after being pre-warned about a serial killer. Scott and Dot both screamed and dropped to all fours and started to crawl on their bellies between the cars as a shouting matching between the two gun carriers ensued. A shot was fired. I think from the guy in the car as tires squealed.

“Okay, this just escalated a lot. We gotta go out there and help them.” Val said.

“Look at what they did, look what they inspired by not staying put.” I tried to remain calm but I did not see this coming.

“Then we can drive, okay, where did you put that battery, please?”

I scanned through more camera views and gulped, “Unfortunately it's kind of near the Gardener. Honestly, that's my bad.”

“Like this place has a like a PA system, right? For storms? Can you tap into that?” Val insisted, “Maybe tell them come back to the van and tell everyone its time to leave. Turn off all the lights inside and turn on the all outside lights super bright. Please I'm begging you. We have to end this. Haven't you seen enough?”

“Honestly, no. I was hoping to see them basically cap each other off one by one in a battle royale style spectacle. That would actually make the world better.”

“How can...even if they did, kill themselves some how, what about that woman?”

“Oh, she got fired for fucking under aged kids as a teacher at a high school.”

“Were you just going to always leave that part out?”

“No, not necessarily. I just thought it might slip through the cracks like some of her victims and wouldn't need more explanation.”

“Jesus Christ Naomi! I'm honestly somehow impressed but please, Naomi, can still do the thing where we shut this down. Clearly this dude with the gun is outside of your master plan, right? I believe you when you said you don't intend to harm us but it's time to make good on that.”

“Begrudgingly, yes, it's time. The prospect for innocent casualties is much higher with this Rittenhouse wanna be stomping around with an assault weapon. And your plan is not a bad idea. Might even stop the Bad Samaritan since it looks like he might have some kind of night optics and I bet he cheapped out on that part of his kit.” I played around the rest area UI suite and found what I was looking for. Bright lights outside, on, power inside, off. The best part was the PA system was text to voice meaning my voice wouldn't be heard over the loud speakers. “Let's try it your way, Val.” I said I pushed send.

“This is the State Transit and Road Authority. Please return to your vehicles and vacate the premises” I could hear the PA system voice as I sounded the klaxon alarm and turned on the whirling blue police lights as well.

“Val, I still don't have the ability to actually contact the police. The Forensics Fanatics jammer is still up and I'm not entirely sure where they're at. It is possible they'll all leave thinking they have lost their cover, though.”

“Tell and Scott and Dot to get back here.”

“Return to your camper if applicable immediately.” the booming voice of the warning system fired again as I hit send.

“Thanks man but we got to go!” Scott said to the Bad Samaritan. The Bad Samaritan struggled with seeing out of his right eye from the blinding light shot into the other through his defunct optic. We watched as Scott and Dot fled from the red hat wearing lead hazard back across the campus towards our camper.

“Wait!” Scream the Bad Samaritan as groped through the night, “Let me try to find them and be a hero. A hero!”

“Hey, Hero.” A deep voice came out of the darkness on the Samaritan's blind side. “Might you also be a Gardener?”

“Excuse me? Who the hell are you?” He said still dazed by his own light.

“I am the Taxidermist and you have a lot of guns in your truck.” The Taxidermist fired at his minimally armored side with the Bad Samaritan's own 12 gauge shot gun and then dragged his limp body to a rusted out pick up with a sleeper topper.

Some trucks started and went underway as SUVs and small cars started to flee the other lot. No phones and shots fired tend to do that. Those who remained were either sheltering in place or they were vehicles the Forensics Fanatics arrived in or intended to leave in.

“Well, that worked out better than I even thought it would. Good idea Val.”

“Oh shit. Where the hell is he going?” Valarie pointed to a tiny sized camera angle. It was the Gardener and he was headed back towards the Rest Area buildings.

“That's odd. He usually wouldn't return to crime scene.”

“Maybe because the lights are off and everyone left. He can steal from the vending machines or something. Like how else do some of these people get their day to day stuff?”

“Well, that's the really fun part about True Crime shows but yeah...another time!”

“Sure, it's a date but Shit! Scotty and Dotty are going into the building too. I thought you locked it?”

“It's gotta be locked manually. Okay. It's time to get out and get some gloves on. You stay here though.”

“Don't gotta tell me twice but....”

“But what?”

“Don't make me the last girl...”

“I won't...I promise.”

“How?”

“Because...I'm the fan girl!”

I knew what I had to do. I had two aces up my sleeve and I hope they were enough.

I saw the footage later but suffice it to say all hell broke loose at that rest area. While I was out recovering one of my aces, the Gardener spotted Scott and Dot. Spotted and chased around the interior like Scooby Doo, they eventually took cover in the last open men's room. Soon after, following his MO, it was time for the Taxidermist to decorate his surroundings with his latest creation. The Taxidermist in turn, spotted his original quarry, the Gardener, and soon it became a Norweign Cruise Line Standoff – everyone in deep shit in the only remaining open bathroom together.

So while you picture me storming my way to do my best to save the day, let's cut to what I knew was happening with the Forensics Fanatics – the last in this display, this managrie of murder.

The Forensics Fanatics, unlike the more ideologically motivated killers here tonight, do this for the pure sport and fun of not getting caught. It is a contest. It is race to x number of kills. I don't know if they're related, if they're friends, if they're enemies, if they're lovers, I'm not sure what gender they are. They are the most mysterious of the bunch and some times just random seemingly accidental deaths become attributed to them. Perhaps they still are their victims. For everyone ambiguous death attributed to them there have been at least three spectacular killings, sometimes with multiple victims caught up in a strange rube-goldberg machine of murder sometimes involving bombings, poisonings, and runaway vehicles, weapons of mass destruction, you name it. But then the trail runs cold, colder than either of the others. Maybe one or both of them knew the Taxidermist and or the Gardener were here tonight. Maybe told each other, maybe they withheld it from each other. I suppose it wouldn't matter because I believe they're here because we are and that's enough for them.

They don't get caught because they use a different mode of murder each time. Either one picks 1 item or means and the other chooses the other out of a hat or maybe they get a choice too. I'm not sure. How do we know this? Someone, maybe one of them, maybe one of their fans, posts a random word or phrase to their wikipedia page and that's half of what one of them has to use in their murder.

Thankfully for Scott, he needed to shit because the phrase this time was “urinal cake”

I now believe their actions roughly coincided with Scott and Dot taking to the parking lot but Scott still had taken a huge risk leaving the camper earlier and using the wash room.

I took a deep breath and lit up my cellphone flashlight as entered the dark rest area. I turned towards the bathroom where I could hear one of their muffled voices. I pushed the door open to find and spun my light around. I found Scott and Dot cowering before the Taxidermist and his latest creation by the very dim emergency light.

“See! It's a squirrel that I sewed that chud's pecker to its backside like a tail.” He said poking it. “I had to stuff it, so its bigger than it was when I took it off him, heh...their guns and trucks always hide their small dicks. Don't let a guy like that fool you but I enjoyed the challenge of the whole little thing – which is what makes me better than you, you fucking weirdo.” He was rather proud and maintained everyone's full attention as even with my light, I was unnoticed for moment.

“Me? What did I do?”The Gardener protested.

“You're that other serial killer they call you the Gardener.”

“Oh please that is complete bullshit.”

“I know it. You're more like the salter, you salt people who want to grow people, you don't plant nothing you don't grow nothing.”

“Hey Buddy, I'm not the one out here sticking dicks on squirrels.”

“And who the hell are the rest of you...”

I peered down the side and saw two strangers' heads poking out of the stalls. They had some kind of silverish make up on – they looked like something between Max Headroom and a Grey Alien with dark circles rounding their eyes and drawn on light pink and light blue bars creating exaggerated lines and contours of their facial structure possibly some attempt at an anti-AI camouflage scheme. These were Forensic Fanatics – they had to be and they were an eerie sight among the rest of the horror in the room.

“And who hell are you!?” He pointed at me.

“Naomi!” Scott and Dot exclaimed. “Run! Just go!”

“Shut up. Everyone and listen.”

“I'm the Fan Girl. I was hoping to watch a professional display of murder and mayhem from the comfort of my camper but instead I see you all perfectly content with waving your dicks – literally – at each other without anything to back them up. So you got a rapist school teacher who plead out to lesser chargers and some wanna be hero? That's it?”

“Um, for the record, I killed the boyfriend too.” The Gardener raised his hand and spoke out.

“Okay. I guess I missed that.”

“Yeah, well I startled him to death, I think. He was eating like 10 gas station boner pills when I asked him for a light. Down he went. Heart Attack.”

“And I'm going to kill these fuckers, starting with this Gardener then the rest of you here. I don't even know what these freaks are doing here? Come here every Friday night after the bars? Huh?” The Taxidermist pointed at the Forensics Fanatics. “I don't have any aliens in my collection!”

“You're lucky the power is off.” The First of the Forensics Fanatics spoke up.

“You stupid bitch. What was the other thing then?” The Second of the Forensics Fanatics cross examined.

“Shut up!” The Gardener speared the Taxidermist with his sheers and then charged me. I showed him what I had in my gloved other hand – a plastic bag with Selin's head inside.

“Stop and I'll give it back intact so you can bury it again – otherwise I'll toss it to the Taxidermist and he'll spoil your whole ritual.” The Taxidermist stumbled, injured but able.

“I'll put your dick on that face and bury you both! Yeah or maybe I'll make you the elephant man!”

“Consciousness must be returned to the unliving intact!”

“Not going to get there if he gets it!” I yelled thrusting the head in the bag towards the Taxidermist.

“What do you want?”

“Let my friends clear out. Those two.” I said pointing to Dot and Scott.

He paused and slid out of their way and held his sheers wide. Seeing the exit, Scott and Dot scampered out of the room as the Gardener, with all his might, seized my mid-section.

“Now I'm going to give you to him – he can work on you, while I finish what must be done. Then I'll bury your head too!”

I struggled to give the appearance of struggle. I held the head wide and dodged his other arm. With my free arm I reached into his pocket and took the bathroom key he used earlier to seal off the other bathroom where he killed Selin. Then I tossed the head at the ceiling, where it bounced between stalls like a plinko ball before landing with a splash in a toilet. As expected, he dropped me and went after the severed head and I skidded out of the bathroom and locked all of them inside with the key I lifted.

And so now we do a little flashback.

* * *

About ten minutes ago or so, I'm speculating a bit here.

“Nice face work tonight.”

“Thanks. You too.”

“You look like Max Headroom meets ET.”

“You look a Cardassian.”

“A what?”

“You told me you watched Star Trek.”

“I told you lots of things.”

“I pick the next thing we watch together.”

“I hope its better than you picking, “Urinal Cake” but that's a good one.”

“Well, you picked “button” and then specified clothing button” the last time.”

“Took me awhile to figure out what you chose but it was pretty good. I like where the idea was at...but the execution a little shaky. Really only got that one guy and just barely, interfered with his pace maker.”

“And the toddler.”

“Toddler swallowed the button, happens all the time, doesn't count.”

“But it was one of THE buttons.”

“Doesn't count.”

“Do you just want to call off the bet now and just enjoy this across the board then?”

“No. I mean it will be obvious but you'll have to work at it.”

“Fair enough.”

“You ever think about the day we're going to get caught?” They said, putting the “day we got caught” cigarrette in his ear.

“We're never getting caught. Cops don't get caught. Put that away.”

“We're not cops.”

“I know.”

“We're better. Cops can shoot someone in the back in broad day light and get a 2 week paid vacation they still have to say they feared for their lives. All we have to do is tamper with the evidence. We're a black box of private evidence analysts. They day we get caught is the day we blow up forensic science and we still get away.”

“If you say so. Either way, this should be good.”

They walk in and make their way for the open men's room.

“So we need to make sure we don't trigger any of the urinals as I plop this in. We gotta wave out hands and find a blind spot in the sensors.”

The power suddenly goes out and a small emergency light activates. The red eye sensor on all the toilets goes dark. He plops it in.

“Or that will work too.”

“This is the State Transit and Road Authority. Please return to your vehicles and vacate the premises”

“Shit! Let's lay low a minute.”

* * *

And that brings us back to now. I recovered the starter battery, installed it and we cleared out of the rest area.

“I can't believe you.” Scott yelled still shaking as we hit the interstate.

“I can't believe this.” Dot screamed.

“I can't believe we're out of range of the local override there.” I said as the connection to my hacks of the power and public announcement system were lost. “I guess this is for the best.” I pulled the plug on the tv screen and shut the laptop. I could have watched what happened next I was two minds on it. There was no way to get out of that bathroom except that door and even four them together wouldn't be able to get out quickly.

“Wait, I want to see.” Val demanded.

* * *

I let Val watch. I didn't. It probably went something like this, at least from the Forensics Fanatics perspective. No doubt while the Gardener tried to hulk his way out of the bathroom to complete the ritual and kept the assaulting Taxidermist at bay the Forensics Fanatics had a moment to talk it over.

“So...what are we going to do about Humongus and Red Red Green over there.”

“Those are good references. But nothing. We're going to do nothing.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, its because of what I ended up picking as the second thing.”

“Should we start moving towards the exit?”

“If the power comes on we shouldn't go anywhere near the urinals.”

“What is it?”

“I thought about dynamite. You know an acid sensitive cap trigger that would go off with the toilet bowl cleaner but I realized that urinal cakes are pretty light and small. Even if I could get one into each of the urinals, sure I'd blow one guy's dick off, but I doubt if one triggered it would sympathetically detonate them all and we'd be stuck with a lot of evidence to deal with.”

“What did you pick?”

“Mhmm.” They shrugged. The other went for the urinal just as the power came back. “Don't...it can't be removed until...” There was a snap and click and sudden cascade of acidic blue fluid screaming down onto the urinal cake. Then it suddenly began to disintegrate into a cloud white steam or smoke. The Forensics Fanatic was immediately confused as the white smoke continue to stream up and boil over into the room.

“That's right. Only like one in three people can actually smell it. It's cyanide. A cyanide urinal cake. Just breathe deep everyone.” He said lighting the cigarette.

* * *

Though were were long gone and I had localized most of the footage to my laptop and the jammer was still active in one of the FF's cars I knew I wasn't out of the woods. I had my phone's GPS disabled for the night but that didn't mean someone else's didn't ping there or even mine when I got close.

Dad was thorough. Even if I believed he had two evidence contractors working, murdering, behind his back I could have overlooked something he'd still pick up. And that's why I was scared when he called me once, twice, and on the third time I was being stared down by my friends, my fellow survivors.

“Look – we can be honest, tell him we were involved and even if we're not some how charged as accomplices to manslaughter or other wrongful deaths – we'll still miss the roller coaster park and besides – almost everyone who died was terrible – so what I am saying to him? Huh?” All eyes on me but one by one they darted off.

“I'm going back to sleep.” Valarie said while Scott drove on and Dot drank her third margarita of the morning.

“Hi Daddy what's up...uhuh...oh...oh my god. That sounds terrible. Seven people? Four of them what? Suspected series killers...are you serious? Which rest area? Oh wow. No. No, just missed it. We thought about staying there for the night but Scott really wanted to press on closer to the theme park! Yup, we're all fine. 100%. Yup Thanks for checking in. I love you too daddy...don't work too hard. Okay. Bu-bye.”

“I don't know how you do it.”

“I do. Scott, pull up here, I want to burn these bloody gloves and toss my laptop into the sea. Okay, Thanks!”

P.S. The roller coasters were boring and Scott never pulled the stepsister shit again. Val is kinda cute. The End.

Brawn, Present Day…

I wasn’t exactly sure how far we had traveled from Site Twelve.  All I do is know we stuck mainly to backroads, roads that had decayed, surrounded by forest, farm land and open fields. 

Doctor John had made some stops along the way to allow Aria and I out of the van, it was rather cramped. Plus, we needed to hunt. When we got out for our most recent hunt, I had ensured he was still in the van. It being parked slightly off the forest’s trail to avoid being an obstacle in the road for other humans. 

Aria had already wandered off quite far to hunt, far enough to where I lost her scent. She had told me she would be hunting deer, and supposedly picked up the scent of one, following it to where it had gone. 

Doctor John and I had spoken before I left for my hunt. I stayed behind to ensure that Aria was far enough away before I left. As much as I had hoped she would stay true to her word, I still wasn’t ready to give her my complete trust. 

“What’s on the menu today big blue?” He asked. Leaning out the van’s window while unrolling a map. 

“I’m unsure.” I replied. Standing still, towering over him as he glanced over the map inside the vehicle. He gave off a slight smile, before seemingly studying the map more intensely. A silence had fallen over us for several seconds.

I stepped forward, putting a claw on the top of the van, it rocked slightly. Causing John to look out and up at me. 

“Why?” I asked. To which he immediately appeared confused.

“Why what?” He replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Why did you help me? You could’ve escaped on your own, left me behind after releasing me from my chamber. There would’ve been far less risk if you had.” 

He sighed, shifting his gaze to the windshield and setting his map down in the passenger seat. 

“Never really was a big fan of them. The pay was nice, but I’ll be honest with you Brawn. I couldn’t fucking stand it there. Not most of the time. The constant berating, condescension, not knowing if I’d walk in and either West or Ted would be flying off the handle, although sometimes I got lucky and it was both of them at the same time. I’m sure you had quite enough of that shit yourself.” 

I tilted my head slightly as he spoke. Taking in his answer. What he said made sense. There was a short pause before I offered another question.

“Why did you join them?” 

He once again went silent. As if struggling to answer. His eyes looked down, then to the side. Then finally back up at me. 

“For my little girl. My daughter. I’d show you a picture of her but I left it back at that fucking hellhole! Tossed my phone so they wouldn’t track it so I don’t have that either!” He erupted. Slamming his fist down onto the top of the dashboard. 

His face tightened, his anger more than apparent. But after looking at me once more, he exhaled a long breath. Putting his forehand in his hand. 

“I’m sorry. I usually don’t lose my cool.” He said much more softly. 

I was unaware of how to respond to this. Several things raced through my mind until I settled on one that sounded most optimal. 

“I get angry too.” I said. 

“After what they put you through. You have every damn right to be. I should’ve helped you sooner. Even if it meant having West and Bowser hunting us until the end of time.” He replied.

“West won’t be hunting us. She’s dead.” I corrected. 

Doctor John turned his head immediately. His eyes were as wide as I had ever seen them. 

“Dead? How? Did… Did you..?” He asked, unable to complete the sentence. 

“I did.” I stated. It almost sounded odd to me too, considering it was the first genuine human I had ever killed in my existence. Not someone possessed by an evil entity, not a zombified corpse, not one transformed by a vampire. But a regular human. 

“I uh… I guess I just don’t know what to say. Not like she didn’t have it coming. So wait a minute, when you came out of the facility, and there was that blood around your mouth, and some on your throat, was… Was that what I’m thinking now?” 

“I was hungry. The meat you brought was good. But not enough to ensure I maintained appropriate energy. I needed more.” 

There was silence once more. As Doctor John sat there, contemplating what it was I had told him. 

“That’s one incredible case of karma if I’ve ever seen it. But I do gotta say, you might’ve gotten us in a bit more trouble then we were already in.” 

“How?” I asked.

“Well, she was the Head of Science, the second highest ranking person back there besides Ted’s bum ass. And let me tell you that man hates you with the passion of a thousand collapsing stars. Now that West is dead, and no longer around to ensure that they don’t use anything lethal when hunting you, it means he’s gonna do everything he can to have you killed, and then make it look like he had no other choice to the brass.” 

“The brass?” I inquired. 

“His bosses.” He corrected. 

“So now they want to kill me, instead of re-capture me.” 

“Most likely, but tell you what, since you’re such a cool dude. I’m gonna do everything I can to make sure that doesn’t happen.” He said with a smile. 

“But I’m far stronger, faster and more resilient than you.” I said. “How would you protect me physically?” 

Doctor John chuckled. 

“Oh yeah that I know, not challenging you there, it’s more like I’m saying I’m just gonna help make sure you’re okay. You helped me, I helped you. You scratched my back, I scratched yours. That means you’ve been upgraded from co-worker to friend, big guy.”

Friend. There was that word. I heard humans use it all the time. But never in reference to myself. Not before this, not before John. 

“The brain and the brawn.” He nodded. 

“That naming is odd. But, thank you. Thank you for saving me.” I responded.

“Don’t mention it. Now go get yourself something to eat. I’ve still got a few snacks left in my glove compartment so I’ll be alright.” 

And with that I headed off into the forest. Running in the opposite direction of where Aria was hunting so as to not intrude on her prey. I climbed up into the trees, leaping across two sometimes three at a time. Nearly gliding across the canopy as I dashed forward. 

I looked out in the vast expanse of the trees, several of which had fallen, one dead one had several mushrooms growing along the side of its rotting trunk. I watched a deer run by, two young ones following in toe. I stayed quiet, watching them from the tree in which I was perched.  

So far I had learned I enjoyed the taste of deer very much. But I wouldn’t be harming any of these, those young deer needed their mother, and I wasn’t going to slay her just to simply satiate my hunger. So once they were some distance away. I kept moving so as not to frighten her and her offspring.  

I continued darting through the trees as I typically did. Up until I had picked up a scent. It was potent, but one that I did not recognize. So I followed it, leading me deeper into the woods. I enjoyed feeling the breeze on my face, and the tree branches shaking as I landed and leapt off them.

While moving through the canopy I tried to conjure an idea of what it might be in my head, likely some kind of cryptid I had yet to ever encounter previously. I kept moving, and I had cleared what I guessed to be over a mile of distance in just over half a minute. 

I stopped when I came upon an incline in the forest, it was rather steep and sudden. One that a lot of creatures, particularly humans would have trouble overcoming. I darted up the incline on all fours, making it to the edge of the hill and peering down over the other side. 

There was a major dip downward, similar to where I had just emerged from. And down at the bottom of this hill the ground was rather flat, covered in trees, bushes and other growth. The previous scent I had followed now shifted into one of rot, and decay, overpowering the original smell entirely. 

I looked for the source, and spotted the entrance to a cave off to the right. I immediately concluded that’s where it was originating. This was only further confirmed by what I heard coming from inside it. 

Screams, human screams. In both horror and for mercy.  

“Help, someone help! Please!” A male voice called out, pleading and desperate.

I hesitated before moving, remembering what had happened the first time I followed distressed human screaming without thinking. Perhaps there was a chance The Agency was out here in this forest, a chance they had followed us, tracked us somehow and they were trying to use the same trick they did before. 

But then I remembered my purpose, what I was created for. Protect the innocent and slay the monsters who prey upon them. If this truly were humans in danger, then I could not allow myself to let their deaths occur due to my own paranoia and hesitation. 

I leapt off the top of the incline, allowing myself to fall the few dozen foot drop and land on all fours before turning and heading for the entrance of the cave. I sprinted toward it, nearly inside before I felt a force grab my leg, and pull me backwards. Throwing me in the opposite direction hard enough that I crashed through two separate tree trunks, only stopping when my back slammed against the third.

I shook off the blow, standing up on two legs and looking for my attacker. Only some twenty feet of distance between us now, and it was sure to stand between me and the cave entrance.

The beast resembled a mutated millipede. Most of its body was a light brown in color. It stood over nine feet high with it rising itself like a snake about to attack, and that was only around half of its actual body, as the rest was standing flat on the ground with its hundreds upon hundreds of legs that were closer in shape to human forearms, appearing bent and contorted in order to function as they did. This meant that I had to actually look up to see the creature's face, or faces plural in this instance.  

It possessed two heads at the front of its body, oval in shape, each with two large holes devoid of any color that likely served as its eyes. One head’s mouth was open, revealing a row of red stained, jagged teeth.

The other head’s mouth possessed no teeth but instead simply oozed some sort of dark green substance, it was stringy, and a strand of it stretched from the ground all the way up to its chin. Like spider silk. It bit down on the stand, snapping it in order to move forward, its legs all moving in tandem as it approached slowly. The early sunset behind it making it appear more prominent. 

I opened my claws, and bared my teeth. 

“You’re intruding.” The creature announced. Using the mouth that had the teeth to speak. Its voice was scratchy and rough. Like a dull blade cutting into thick sandpaper. It arched downward, more of the green substance beginning to emerge inside its second mouth. 

“The ones inside your cave, are they innocent?” I asked, this only seeming to anger the beast. 

“Innocent?” It repeated, almost mockingly. “What are you? Where do you come from?” 

“My name is Brawn.” I responded, holding my stance. 

“Well Brawn if you value your life I would suggest you leave my territory and find your own meal.” 

“I have.” I replied. Narrowing my eyes. 

I lunged forward, only for the creature to use its right head to spit out the substance, it wrapped around me, sticky and rather strong in its nature. Before I could begin to break out it dived forward and down. Biting down on my left shoulder using the mouth with teeth to do so. I felt them sink into my flesh, drawing blood and prompting me to snarl in pain. 

With my shoulder still in its grasp, it dragged me along the ground, I slammed through various fallen tree branches, mounds of dirt, bushes, and even a rock. I could hear the creature's many legs kicking up the dirt as it dragged me along.

But I soon broke out of the substance, throwing my arms out and tearing it in the process. After this, I head butted the side of the creature’s head hard enough to hear something crack inside it. It immediately let me out of its jaws long enough for me to roll to the side. Now no longer directly underneath it. 

The beast let out a cry that had a rhythmic ticking to it. Almost like a distorted version of a rattlesnake’s warning. Its body convulsed for a few seconds while I leapt up the nearest tree. 

“I will drag you down into my lair, and feast on one organ at a time. I’ll keep you alive for weeks and ensure that your suffering goes on for as long as your body can endure!” The beast sneered, attempting to knock down the tree that I was on by ramming its body into it. 

It crashed through, but I had already leapt to the other tree by the time it made contact. Further frustrating the lifeform. 

“And then, only then will I put an end to you. You’ll spend every waking moment before your death regretting our encounter!” It went on, once more repeating its previous attack. It lunged, crashing through the tree’s trunk that I was on and causing what remained to fall over and hit the ground with a loud crash. 

I leapt from the tree, once more landing on the ground and sprinting around the creature while on all fours in a flank. Once at the back of its body I stood bipedally before reaching down and grabbing its rear end with my claws and pulling back. 

The creature fell flat, its many legs trying to dig into the ground to regain control as I turned and swung my body, lifting the beast off the ground entirely and using its thousands of pounds of body weight against it. I sped up as I swung him around. 

I let go after only a few full rotations, and the beast’s legs flailed and kicked as it flew through the air, crashing through several trees.  

I dropped down to all fours once more, running after it, and leaping over fallen trees and avoiding other obstacles as its roaring rattle emerged once more. It landed, sliding along the ground and finally coming to a complete stop while on its side. 

I sprinted forward, opening my claws and laying eyes on its heads right after leaping into the air. I prepared to bring them down on the beast’s heads, killing him and ending the fight right then and there. 

But it spat out more of that green substance, this time right into my face. It immediately blinded me after covering my eyes, I was met with nothing but black. I was unsure of where I had landed seeing as it occurred while I was mid-air.

All I know is I felt a sudden, crushing, piercing pain in my right arm. Presumably the beast biting down on me. I didn’t have time to roar before I was then violently shaken side to side, like a canine trying to kill small prey. 

I swung my free claw forward, relying on only my hearing and smell to direct the blow. I felt my nails slash flesh, and it felt much softer than what I would have anticipated had I attacked it on the top part of its body. I concluded that I had slashed the bottom portion, somewhere near its underbelly. 

The creature dropped me from its jaws as its rhythmic ticking snarl emerged once more. And I tore the substance from my face. Looking up I saw that I had slashed the throat of its toothless head, the one that was shooting out the green substance. Making my previous prediction incorrect. 

It writhed and shook, but was still very much alive. The toothless mouth closed, and so did the eyes as it seemingly hung downward, oozing out scarlet blood from where I had slashed it. 

“You will pay for that!” It exploded with its still remaining head. Blasting toward me, its legs throwing back leaves and branches into the air behind him as it stomped forward in a fit of rage.

And it was then I had an idea. 

I turned and dropped back down on all fours, sprinting away while the creature gave chase. I ended up having to slow down after noticing the difference in our movement speed, purposefully letting it close the distance between us. 

“Come back here and die!” It called out as I heard him barrel through trees and bushes. Not allowing anything to act as an obstacle between it and I.

It was then I came upon the trunk of a large fallen tree, the same one I had encountered earlier with all the various mushrooms growing on it. It had a diameter somewhere close to three feet. And its height was anywhere from fifty to seventy feet. The millipede creature was approaching, and I came to a stop next to the dead tree. Standing biped yet again. I got behind it, and it laid between the creature and I as it continued on its way toward me. 

I waited for just the right moment as the creature continued to close the distance, its hundreds of legs propelling it forward as its teeth in the still living head were bared in an attempt to intimidate.  

Once it was within twenty feet, I reached down and grabbed onto the trunk with my claws, hoisting it into the air above my head and throwing it forward with all my might. It soared through the air, creating an intense wooshing sound as it whipped past everything in the surrounding area, it traveled far faster than the beast had time to react. 

It struck the creature, slamming into it and causing the front half of its body that had been standing up during the chase to be bisected from the bottom half. It pinned the top half against a hill behind it. The area of the bisection spilled copious amounts of blood, after the initial splatter. 

Several inner workings had emerged, hanging out as the creature writhed in agony. Unable to form proper words because of it. 

So I approached it. Stood over and grabbed both of its heads, one with each claw, and tore them from their placements before dropping them to the ground. Putting an end to the creature’s short lived suffering. 

I was indeed hungry, and I wanted to start feasting right then and there. But instead, I returned to the entrance of its cave. The cave where I heard the screams of humans earlier on. 

I got down on all fours and crawled inside, my night vision allowing me to see inside despite the lack of any light source. I crawled along the cave ceiling, following the scent of rot as I moved. At first the cave started as a long narrow tunnel, but opened up into a wider expanse. Or at least, I could see it through the wall of the creature’s green substance, it acted as a barrier, likely to keep anything but itself from getting in or out when it was not around. 

I used my claws to slice and tear through the substance, ripping apart a large enough hole to crawl through. From the humans perspective, they were in complete, pitch black darkness, unable to see anything except my eyes due to their yellow glow. But I was able to see just fine. 

“D- did you see that?” A female voice asked, slow and stuttering. Still recovering from a fit of terror I suppose.

“See what? Is that fucking thing back?” A male voice replied, equally as trembled. 

I looked down while perched near a stalagmite. Spotting a pile of human corpses, a mix of both male and female. They were in various states of decay and mutilation due to the creature likely feeding on them, the bodies on the top appearing and smelling far more fresh than the ones below. I counted just over twenty in total. 

However there were still two humans alive, the man and woman who had spoken. They appeared unharmed, but were stuck against the cave walls by the creature’s green substance, struggling against it and using all their might to get out to no avail.

I crawled over to them, unsure if I should speak or not. 

“There’s something in here with us! It’s back, that thing is back!” The man cried out. 

“Please, please don’t eat us, please!” The woman begged. Both of them now desperately kicking and attempting to fight their way out of the substance.

I kept crawling along the cave wall before dismounting, now standing on two feet. And now that I was in range, I reached out with my claws and slashed the substance apart, freeing them and quickly grabbing them before they fell. 

“No no no!” Shouted the woman. The man continuously screamed and kicked as I hoisted them over my shoulder. I groaned slightly from the sting, my wounds still fresh. 

I felt their heartbeats racing. It was only then when I decided to speak.

“I am not here to harm you.” I said, but this seemingly did little to quell their fear.

“W-what?” The man inquired, confusion present. 

With one of them over each shoulder I leapt up back into the tunnel, and walked them out of there. It was only when we began to approach the opening, when the low sun had shone inside, were they able to see me. 

Once back outside, I leaned down, setting them both down on their feet and allowing them to take a final glimpse at me. They snapped their heads up, in what I guessed to be utter horror, disgust, and downright bewilderment at a creature of my appearance. 

I anticipated the coming screams of terror, for them to run or ask me what kind of abomination I was.

What Doctor West had said to me came rushing back in my mind

“Who’s gonna not take one look at you and run a hundred miles in the other direction.”

But instead of any of that, I felt a sudden grip around my upper legs and lower body. I peered back down once more, and they were both wrapped around me using their arms. Not in an attack, not seemingly trying to bite or scratch me. But something else entirely. 

“T-thank you. Thank you so much.” The woman uttered.

“You saved us, you saved our fucking lives!.” The man followed up. And I felt both their tears against my leg. 

I stood there, unmoving. Unsure of how to proceed next. My claws remained hovering there, just behind their heads, I decided to let them rest at my sides. I was rushed with a sensation I had not yet experienced. I had no idea how to articulate or describe it, no way to truly explain what it was that I felt. 

But I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it the way I enjoyed a filling meal. It was odd, having another creature make such close physical contact with me that wasn’t for the purpose of experimentation or an attack. 

Yet, I welcomed it…   

Agent Lucy, Six Months Ago…

“NO!” Waylon and I shouted near simultaneously as Carmine’s blood continued to spill from his throat, his body slumping down as he choked and gurgled through the duct tape on his mouth. 

The Pine People sprinted forward, jumping and lunging at us. We fired our weapons, our bullets tearing through them and splattering dark green blood every which way. 

I aimed for the head, and so did Waylon, and within seconds we had already killed several each. Their bodies piling up in front of us. One had tried to sneak around me, running on my left side to get around and attack my six. I took the butt of my rifle and slammed it into its head, burying it into its skull as some of the green blood splashed onto my face. 

“Lucy!” I heard Waylon cry out. His shout was desperate and fearful. Like a child calling out for their mother. I looked over, watching as one of the Pine People had grabbed his weapon from his hand as the rifle clicked, he went to reach for his pistol in his belt as he was piled onto by several more of the Pine People. He tumbled over, all of them falling on top of him.

I sprinted toward him and fired off several more rounds. Blasting some of the Pine People on top of him. But I hadn’t gotten them all. He continued to fight and squirm underneath them, but was still relatively buried. 

I pulled the trigger once more, only for my rifle to click. My magazine was out, I went and reached for my pistol, only to be tackled and slammed into a wall by one of the cloaked women before I had it within my grasp. 

“Just let it happen.” She whispered with a blank expression as Waylon began to scream behind her. Not out of terror, but out of pain. Agony. 

I headbutted her with my scalp. Before then pulling my knife and sinking the blade into her throat with a strained groan, I pulled it out and kicked her away as she choked and gurgled, clawing at her neck. 

I shoved her to the left, letting her fall to the floor as she gagged on her own blood. Running past her to get to Waylon. 

His screams had come to a sudden stop as I pulled my pistol to blast my way through the Pine People between him and I. Killing four more before I was grabbed from the side by a fifth, prompting me to reach over and serve it a bullet to the head. 

I inhaled the familiar metallic scent of blood. My flashlight briefly illuminated the thin river of red that led to what I knew was his body. 

I turned, seeing the still remaining cloaked woman and the large man who had slit Carmine’s throat. My hands shook, my heart pounded, and my skull behind my eyes felt white hot. I could feel the adrenaline cycling through me like anti-freeze. 

Those two just stood there, their expressions blank, I raised my pistol and shot them both center mass, they didn’t move, didn’t try to evade or even react really when I went to shoot them. They saw me raise the gun and looked at me as if I was gonna give them my business card instead. They both fell to the ground unmoving. 

The Pine People however did turn and run in the other direction, again making no noise other than their footsteps as they did so, even the ones that were still alive and had piled onto Waylon. I gasped when I saw his remains. My bottom lip hung slightly. 

All I can confidently say is that Waylon was left an unrecognizable mess. One that I didn’t care to detail. And like with Kruger, his face in particular had gotten the worst of it. I knelt there, comprehending how this all could’ve go so horribly fucking wrong in such short time. How we were all supposed to go home that night, make dinner, watch a movie, maybe play a video game or two. 

I finally got a hold of myself and bursted into the nearest classroom. I didn’t hesitate to smash out its window with my pistol’s butt before climbing out of it. 

I leapt outside, and began sprinting onto the long dirt road in front of the building without looking back. I didn’t wanna know if those things were chasing me, I doubted it. But still. The worst part was that I’d have to go back in there soon enough to help with the clean up once the reinforcements arrived. Which should’ve already been here. Or would’ve if this was five years ago even, back before the second wave of budget cuts. 

I ran until I was out of range of whatever they were using to jam our signals. I tried the radio at least seven different times before it worked. But eventually I got through to Site Twelve. Director Bowser wasn’t even there anymore, apparently he had left for the evening and I was instead put through to the mission control team. 

I told them everything that had gone wrong, how this operation never should’ve been marked as low-risk if they knew there was even a slight chance of them still being inside that building. I was never told about those Pine People they have under their control, never told that they had shit like radio jammers in their arsenal. And as far as I know, the majority of field agents weren’t either.

They were hiding stuff from us, and because of that three of my colleagues just got killed in front of me, and I nearly died myself. 

They had already sent out a second team before even getting my radio call, one part of it was to help ensure the rest of the building was searched and empty. The other being to clean up and scrub any evidence of what occurred. They asked me to come in, to help lay out the scene for them due to not having any communications during the incident. But I told them to fuck off. I wasn’t stepping foot back in there, not right after what went down. I didn’t need yet another whiff of the blood of my dead colleagues. Or to see their remains.

I was leaning against one of the SUVs they arrived in. Standing there in silence while looking up at the moon. My mind clouded with the desperate screams and cries of Waylon and Kruger, along with Carmine’s muffled choking. 

At some point another mission supervisor approached me. The one directing the reinforcements team. 

“There’s something in there you might wanna see.” He said, his expression cold. An all business type of tone. 

“What is it?” I asked without looking at him. 

“You said you managed to terminate the three people in the robes, correct? One male, two females.” 

“Yes, why?” 

“We only recovered the two female bodies, along with the remains of the pine cryptids. But as far as the hooded people go, you only killed two.” 

“No no no, that’s not right. I shot them both, I watched them fall and hit the floor.” I protested. 

“We’ve searched the whole building. Top to bottom, including the basement. Other than a blood drip trail, there’s no human bodies other than the one you stabbed in the throat and the other woman you shot.” 

“So then… The dude with the beard is still alive.” I punctuated.

“Things are pointing in that direction. Yes.” 

Agent Lucy. Six Months Ago…

My promotion to being a mission supervisor was somewhat surreal. I didn’t ever think I’d make it this far in The Agency, but after having to do stuff like hunt down red-eyed shadow people and capture a literal Wendigo, I’d say this particular operation was tame in comparison. 

The mission was simple: infiltrate an old abandoned high school building that was previously used as a hideout by The Cult that’s been apparently causing problems in the area, collect any evidence they might’ve left behind and bring it back to Site Twelve. 

The operation was marked as low-risk, so I was only given a team of three, four including myself. Kinda stupid in my opinion. Anything could happen. Even if they supposedly cleared out of this place already. But after the budget cuts they’ve been wanting to conserve manpower and resources as much as possible. Or so that’s what I’ve been told. 

I wasn’t told much about the Cult itself, hell. Most information about them The Agency had was only available to level four personnel and higher. I as a mission supervisor was only level three. So not quite there. 

Director Bowser had radioed in as we approached the entrance to the property, toward the back of the building. 

“Get in, see what you can find and get the hell out. Don’t mess around, don’t go dillydallying. One of you needs to stay posted outside in case any civilians pull up and get nosy. If they ask questions, follow the procedure we went over in the briefing. Any of you wanna go ahead and remind me so I know you were actually listening?” 

I figured that as the team’s leader, I should set the example. So I radioed back to the director. 

“Tell the inquiring civilian we are FBI and that this is a classified investigative operation.” 

“Good, and if they continue to poke and don’t comply?” Director Bowser pressed.

I paused for a moment. Not because I knew the answer. But because I did, and I honestly thought it was a bit extreme. But nonetheless I still responded.

“Terminate the inquiring civilian if it is safe to do so.” 

“Excellent, glad someone around here knows how to listen.” Director Bowser huffed audibly through the radio. 

Agent Carmine, the one who I had selected to stay posted outside while the other three of us entered into the building chuckled. 

“Who the fuck wants to work for the FBI anyway?” He cackled. “We get way more action than them anyway.” 

“I guess people who don’t wanna be eaten alive by things that shouldn’t exist in the first place, numbnuts.” Came the response of Agent Kruger. 

“Uh oh guys, look out, we’ve got ourselves a badass over here.” Agent Waylon announced with a sarcastic undertone. Reaching over his shoulder and pointing his thumb at Carmine, much to Carmine’s annoyance. 

“Alright guys, enough yapping.” I announced. “Let’s get inside.” 

“Yes ma’am.” They responded simultaneously.     

We double checked all of our gear before heading inside. Flashlights underneath the barrels of our rifles, backup flashlights, sidearms, blades, and our radios as well.

The high school hadn’t been officially used in what I was told was nearly eight years, and was supposedly only abandoned by the cult several weeks prior, we had to force our way through the front entrance which was padlocked and chained. I had Carmine use a pair of bolt cutters to get over that little obstacle. 

The three guys followed behind me as we filed in, immediately we were hit with the overwhelming darkness of the dilapidated structure. We shined our rifles attached flashlights down the entrance hall, the administration office sat to our left and the first classroom to our right. 

The hall was littered with debris at its edges, a couple of fallen chairs, various bits of ceiling tiles that had fallen, as well the corpses of rodents and insects like beetles. Rust formed on the exposing pipes that ran from floor to ceiling. 

The sound of our boots hitting the broken and battered tile floor was the only one to keep us company. 

“Gonna need a little more than windex and bleach to fix this place.” Agent Kruger said from behind me, prompting me to make a shushing gesture. If they were still members of The Cult in here, it was best that we maintained some element of surprise. 

We marched forward, checking out each classroom, looking for any signs that there had been people here recently. The first several were a bust. Up until Kruger had found a cot and some open cans of food inside what used to be the teacher’s lounge. But that could’ve been any homeless guy or gal, and likely had nothing to do with The Cult. 

After half an hour with the whole first floor searched and nothing of substance discovered, me, Kruger, and Waylon headed for the second floor. But before I got on the first step I was hit with the overwhelming scent of pine. Kruger and Waylon smelled it too. It wasn’t unpleasant per say, just odd. 

“You guys smell that?” Waylon said softly.  

“Yeah, we’re not even near a damn pine forest.” Kruger replied. 

“Stop for a second you two.” I told them before grabbing my radio. “This is weird, I’m gonna check on Carmine.” 

“Carmine, do you copy?” I inquired. Keeping my voice at a whisper. 

His reply came rather quickly. 

“Copy, everything’s alright out here so far. Nothing to report ma’am.” 

I slowly holstered my radio once more, before nodding at Kruger and Waylon to keep moving. 

We made our way up the staircase to the second floor, the smell of pine becoming more potent than previously. It wasn’t unpleasant or anything, just odd. The hand rail had mostly fallen off its positioning in the wall, the walls themselves were almost completely peeled of their paint, and the stairs themselves had cracked in several places.  

We made it to the top, and I was greeted with a sight that caused me to jump back slightly. Nothing insane, just more along the lines of a reflex. 

In the hallway between one of the classrooms stood a tall, thin, emaciated figure. As pale as snow. Its eyes and ribcage were completely hollow and see through. It glared forward, unmoving and completely still. 

That being because it was a classroom skeleton. Hanging from a display bar on a small push cart. 

I heard both the guys laughing behind me. 

“Woo careful! He’s gonna get ya boss woman.” Kruger teased. 

“Fuck off.” I chuckled quietly. Shoving him away from me.

Waylon laughed a bit as well. It was almost childlike in its sound, like the eight year old version of himself was re-emerging as he let it out. 

We moved forward after the lighthearted bit of comedy. And soon made our way into the first classroom we saw on the second floor. A science classroom, and by the standard set by the rest of the building, it was in relatively decent shape. Not perfect by any means, still condemnable, but much more reasonable. All the chairs sat facing the front of the room. 

I walked in, checking out what remained of the drawings on the desks and pseudo-lab equipment. A lot of things in there made me think back to my high school days. Back then the ignorance was bliss. Not knowing of the true hidden horrors of life before joining The Agency. When I was a kid I often switched between wanting to be a navy seal as well as a firefighter. 

“Is it okay if me and Waylon check the room across the hall?” Kruger inquired.

I turned around, raising my eyebrows. 

“Go ahead, but don’t go any further without giving me a heads up.” I replied.

He nodded, pointing his head in the direction of the classroom on the opposite side of the hall as the two filed out. In all honesty I was starting to give up hope that this place was going to have anything of substance. If some of The Cult was really here at any point then they truly did cover their tracks about it. 

I walked back up toward the front of the classroom, a rat scurried by my feet as I passed by a couple of cabinets. I got within just a few feet of the front door when something caught my eye. 

There was a podium at the front of the room, and on it sat a piece of paper. The faint moonlight had shone in just enough from the nearby window to illuminate it. It was a bright white, and in pristine condition in comparison to its surroundings. 

I approached it, shining my flashlight as I stepped forward. My breathing somehow louder than previously. Or it at least sounded that way. 

I now stood over the podium, and looked down at the paper. On it was what at first looked like just generic notes, but as I read on further, I got the idea that wasn’t exactly true. Instead it was more of a script, a script for a speech. It was handwritten in black gel ink. I brought it up with my gloved hand. Reading it verbatim.  

Brothers and sisters, 

Today is another of many in our journey to liberating the unnatural, the horrifying, and those that have been locked away by humanity in the name of progress and normalcy. 

Let us not forget that these creatures, regardless of their origins, are a part of our world and its ecosystem. It is a shame that we must conduct our operations in secret, a shame that the world cannot accept that our mission is nothing but just.

The Organization doesn't realize that they are now foolish hypocrites, we all know of the blue creature they’ve been sending to slay any being that doesn’t fit their definition of what is acceptable. If left unchecked they will soon eradicate any form of life that they do not approve of.

This gives us only two options, to either convince them of their wrongdoing, to show them that they must learn a new way of thinking, to open their minds to the incredible, awe-inspiring lifeforms this world has to offer… Or destroy them.

Will you, brothers and sisters, stand with me in this mission for the greater good?

I finished reading. After which I then looked out in front of me, seeing all the chairs lined up and facing the podium, and I just imagined a bunch of grown ass men and women in oversized cloaks and hoods all watching some nut preach about how flesh eating monstrosities need their own form of PETA. Kinda made me chuckle to myself.   

But that was silenced when I heard the sudden slam of something coming from the first floor. Like someone threw a door shut with all their might, as if they were a teenager who stormed into their room after a heated argument with their parents. I folded up the note, put it in my pocket and stepped out of the room to meet back up with Kruger and Waylon. 

The three of us regrouped in the corridor before quickly falling back in line, me at the front, Kruger second and Waylon at the back. We moved cautiously back down the staircase with our weapons drawn. Looking out for any and everything that moved. 

When I made it to the bottom I flashed my beam of light down the main hall, expecting to see what could’ve been anything from urban explorers trespassing to some horrifying abomination. As what happens in this line of work. 

Instead all I got were just the same lockers, classroom doors and debris that had been there before. So instead I tried to see if any of the doors that were previously open had been shut. I walked forward with Waylon and Kruger in tow, and saw that the door to the administrative office was now shut, having previously been open when we first entered.

We were still basically at the opposite end of the hall from it, but the flashlights were powerful enough to let us see it from that distance. Not to mention that if it was that close to the entrance, it means Agent Carmine would’ve heard it is well. Yet he didn’t say anything over the radio when it first occurred. I retrieved my radio once more in order to check on him like I did earlier.

“Agent Carmine, do you copy?” I radioed. 

No response, so I immediately instructed Kruger and Waylon to radio him as well in the event mine specifically had suffered some sort of malfunction.  

“Hey Carmine, you alright?” Kruger attempted, we waited in silence for a moment. 

Not a peep came. 

“Carmine, dude!” Waylon tried. And the silence he got in return proved that it was in vain. 

We were all in an unspoken understanding of what to do next. Head to the front of the building, check on Carmine physically in the event his radio wasn’t working, and then come back in to finish the assignment. 

I radioed back to Site Twelve as we jogged forward.

“This is Agent Lucy, Agent Carmine has gone silent, circling back for a status check and then returning inside for mission completion.” 

I expected Director Bowser to reply with either frustration or disinterested acknowledgement. But neither came. Just like with Agent Carmine I was met with silence. So were Kruger and Waylon when they tried. Not even the mission control room team was responding. 

I ran for the entrance door we had forced our way into earlier, and my flashlight beam had illuminated it. I stopped upon seeing it, and my mouth slightly ajar. 

It was now shut once more. The wind couldn’t have done it, the doors in question were essentially two large slabs of metal on thick hinges. They took genuine effort to move in order to prevent trespassers. The chain we had earlier snapped with bolt cutters was now rewrapped around the interior’s handles. At least, that’s what I thought at first, up until I got a closer look, and saw that this was a brand new chain entirely. As it wasn’t nearly as rusted as the one we had cut coming inside. 

We mentioned shooting the chain off the door and pushing it open. But we still had a mission to complete, and lord knows Director Bowser would be furious if we abandoned it early just because our radios were malfunctioning and we heard some noises. We figured the best outcome was to take care of whatever the hell was making the noises, and then finish searching the building and leave. 

There was also the off chance that who or whatever was jamming our radio signals was on the other side, waiting with an ambush of some sort. And if that were the case, then there was a good chance Carmine might’ve already been dead or not in a position for us to get to him without putting ourselves in harm's way. After all the doors were thick, and they absorbed sound quite well, we’d have no idea what we’d be opening them up to. 

“Shit.” I blurted. “Let’s just find a window, get the hell out of here.”  

Another loud, metallic slam erupted from down the hall just as I finished my sentence. The three of us whipped around, facing the end of the hallway we had just come from. 

“Stop right there!” Kruger shouted as we raised our rifles. 

The scent of pine from earlier had reached this area of the building, now at its most potent that it had ever been. We kept our flashlights shined down the hall, and backed up against the entrance doors, ensuring that there wouldn't be any potential attacks from the rear. 
“Whoever it is, make yourself known, now!” I commanded. Narrowing my eyes and standing focused. 

A few seconds of silence passed before our radios began to crackle, only transmitting static and nothing but. I told Waylon to grab his, try to switch to a different channel and then back to ours, as well as turning it off and on, but it changed nothing. The static crackle continued. 

“The hell!” He erupted. Something was interfering, and considering the fact we already weren’t getting answers, all of us switched our radios off one at a time. The static noise had become nothing but a potential distraction. Something to take our attention away from a possible attack. 

“Uh, ma’am.” Kruger said, tapping me on the shoulder and pointing forward.

I looked ahead, and in the darkness, just behind where our flashlight beams ended were several, no, dozens of faint yellow dots. All of them hovering anywhere from five and a half to over six feet off of the ground. Lots of them were close enough together for me to make a somewhat obvious conclusion.

They were all pairs of eyes. The eyes of… Something. They stood still, whatever they belonged to completely unmoving. Like statues shrouded in darkness. More of them illuminated from the classrooms as well. As far as the interior went, they were on every angle except directly behind, and even that wasn’t for sure. 

“What do we do?” Waylon asked.

“Keep our backs against the door. If they move closer then shoot to kill.” I ordered.

The temperature in the building seemed to rise, not enough to be dangerous, but enough to be felt. That night was around sixty five fahrenheit last time I checked before arriving, now it felt closer to eighty. Of course this could’ve been the product of various factors at play, hell maybe there wasn’t a change at all and it was the mind playing tricks. But I knew better after my years in this line of work. 

The glowing yellow dots at the end of the hall seemingly scattered. Dashing into multiple various directions in the darkness before soon being unseen entirely. 

“Shoot the chain.” I ordered Kruger. “We don’t have any other option.” 
 
He blasted two rounds into the chain, causing it to snap and loosen. After which he began to yank the chain from the door. Pulling it off and letting what remained of it drop to the ground with a clanking sound. 

“Keep watching our six.” I told Waylon before turning to help push the door open.

Once we had a gap big enough for us to reasonably fit through. Kruger leaned forward, and aimed his weapon through the gap in an attempt to check for any adversaries on the other side. He was then suddenly yanked forward as he fired off a few shots. 

He began to scream, attempting to reach back for his pistol as his upper body was being forcibly pulled through the gap. His shoulders stopped him from fully going through.

“I’ve got you!” I shouted in a desperate cry, grabbing onto him and ordering Waylon to get down and fire shots between his legs, trying to hit whatever it was grabbing at him.

The sound of flesh tearing emerged near instantly. Combined with his slowly dwindling screams as he shook and writhed. He made one sound in particular, like a mix between choking and gurgling as blood began to stain the edges of the doors. Sliding down the edges and to the floor. 

Waylon continued to fire shots between Kruger’s legs as his screams softened. He shook and thrashed, desperately trying to get away, to throw himself back. But whatever it was would simply not allow it. Several seconds of this continued, up until I felt him go limp as I just about got enough leverage to pull him back inside. His screams silenced completely just before I did. 

His body stumbled and he immediately fell onto the floor inside the corridor. Waylon rose to his feet and helped me pull the door shut back once more. 

I grabbed what remained of the chain and wrapped them between the makeshift push handles. I expected vicious pounding on the other side of the door, anticipating whatever it was to endlessly trying to break its way through them. But none came, as if whatever it was suddenly became disinterested after attacking Kruger. Not even any growls, snarls, roars. Just… Nothing.
Waylon however, gasped upon seeing the result of Kruger’s attack. The kind of gasp you expect someone to let out after seeing two cars collide on the freeway. 

“Oh Jesus!” He cried out. 

Kruger lay on the ground, his face mauled into a completely unrecognizable state. His mouth a gaping mess of torn flesh, his left eye missing entirely, his nose half torn off. His nostrils completely vanished. Bits of flesh hung from the mutilated mess. His wounds at the forehead were so severe that they had ruptured through his skull, exposing damaged brain matter.

Despite all that I had seen up to that point in my career. I felt what had to be a pint’s worth of vomit rise in my throat, and I only just barely managed to choke it back down. Somehow, some way. 

Waylon quickly pulled out his radio, turning it back on and still getting nothing but static. His flashlight beam pointed down to the floor and so did mine for a brief moment.

“This is Team 9 we need fucking help out here! Can anyone hear me! Please just send us backup goddamn it!” 

“Waylon!” I snapped. “The signal’s jammed, they can’t hear us. We need to focus on staying alive and finding a way out.”

A voice rang out from down the hall. Low, filled with bass and demand. Like what you’d expect a military father to sound like when upset with some wrong his children committed. 

“She’s right.” It said, echoing off the walls. 

Waylon pointed his beam back up, once more illuminating the corridor. And within it now stood several dozen figures. The hallway’s width was entirely filled from where they stood and back. 

At the forefront were three cloaked people in black hoods. The one in the middle was significantly taller than the two at the sides. And was also holding Agent Carmine in a tight grip, with a long hunting knife to his throat. Duct tape around his mouth as well.

The two cloaked figures on the sides pulled their hoods down, revealing themselves to be women. One blonde and the other brunette. Both of them standing a couple inches under six feet. Making the one in the middle just over six and a half in height. 

The voice couldn’t have been coming from either of them. I recognized them as being part of the cult. Again, I wasn’t privy to detailed information due to my clearance level, but I had seen them in the reports I was authorized to view enough times to recognize their signature hooded robes.

Behind the two cloaked women and still hooded figure were what I guessed to be the source of those yellow dots that we had previously seen in the darkness earlier. 

They varied in height like previously mentioned, but their other features were much more consistent between one another. Those other features being the fact that their skin was brown, bumpy, like displaced dirt. And from this dirt like skin protruded pine-needles, like hairs. Except it was all over their bodies, with gaps being thin but numerous. 

They were humanoid in shape, but only in that. Their eyes, where you’d normally find a person’s were indeed glowing a faint yellow glow. And their mouths were filled with sharpened teeth, teeth that were seemingly made from small shaved down twigs. 

I aimed my weapon at the figure in the middle, the one holding the knife to Agent Carmine’s throat. While Waylon pointed his at the brunette woman.

“Let him go, or you’ll all getting blown away.” I shouted. My adrenaline admittedly going haywire. But I maintained composure nonetheless. 

The two women on either side of the taller figure simply smirked. Unafraid and confident in their position. They held blades as well. One more jagged like a dagger, and the other similar to a carving fork. 

“You fucking heard her, let him go now!” Waylon erupted. A valiant effort to back me up. But somehow I knew it was in vain. Waylon had always been the type to help out however he could, even if he was clumsy at times. 

The figure in the middle that had a hold of Carmine reached up with his free hand, pulling back his black hood and now revealing his face while still keeping his knife on Carmine’s throat. 

He possessed long black hair, rather unkempt in appearance. It reached just past his pecs. Or where I guess they would’ve been under the cloak. 

His beard, the same color, and also long, coming a few inches off his face was thick and curly. It hid most of his neck, and nearly everything below his nose except his lips. 

He grinned at me with said lips, while he looked at me with his chocolate brown eyes. I held steady, although his size and appearance were somewhat rugged and intimidating. 

“Let him go, neither of us are gonna say it again.” I snarled. Still aiming my weapon. The small army of Pine People on either side of the women and the man stepped forward more. Seemingly understanding that I just made a threat. They remained completely silent, and even disciplined in their stances. Like soldiers ready to take orders from a commanding officer. 

“We’ve been jamming signals since we knew you were here.” The man claimed, confirming that the booming voice from earlier was indeed his. “We’re aware of a lot of your methods.” 

“Good for you.” I snapped in reply. 

He licked his lips slightly, looking up at the ceiling for a brief second before once more returning his gaze to us. 

“What I fail to understand is an organization that is so deadset on eliminating the unnatural, is so unaware of the fact that they themselves are what’s unnatural. The existence of things that you don’t understand isn’t something to be scared of. Quite the opposite.” He went on, only to be cut off. 

“Shut up.” Waylon commanded, raising his rifle slightly to meet the man’s head. “We haven’t checked in, and since they’ve heard nothing from us, reinforcements are on their way. And I don’t care how many of those tree people you got with you, I can make a solid bet that they’re not bulletproof. And neither are you.” 

Despite the circumstances, I couldn’t help but look at him like a proud mother. Briefly of course. 

“And yet I still have more than enough time to kill the three of you before they arrive.” The man replied. “Despite what happened to your comrade it was not my intention to go straight to slaughter. You are talented people, precise and efficient. Instead I ask that you would allow me to utilize your talents. Allow you to give your time to people who will truly value you what you bring to the table. Not only will you be compensated well, but you'd be fighting for a far better cause.” 

“I’m not joining a fucking cult.” I said, squinting my eye to look down my scope. 

“A shame.” He replied, his eyes narrowing in a similar fashion. 

He then sighed before swiftly  pulling the knife to the right, and subsequently slitting Carmine’s throat right and there. The immediate gush of blood was answered with a hailstorm of bullets from Waylon and I as the Pine-People charged forward toward us…

grant full permission to all YouTube, TikTok, and podcast narrators to read and monetize this story on their platforms, provided credit is given to my username. If you need the high-resolution file of the B.M.A.-407(The Loom)artwork for your thumbnail or video background, please send me a PM and I will send it over. The search for the Miller siblings ended three miles past the Sector 4 trail marker, right where the old-growth cedars begin to choke out the moonlight.As a search-and-rescue volunteer, you get used to finding people who wandered off the path. You expect dehydration, disorientation, maybe a fall. You don’t expect what we found.They were suspended in the lower canopy—or what was left of them. Tommy Miller had been pulled apart. It wasn't the messy, jagged tearing of a grizzly attack. It was clean, effortless leverage—like a dry branch snapped over someone’s knee. There was no blood on the forest floor, and his clothes hadn't been shredded by teeth.Whatever did this didn't want a meal. It just wanted them stopped.We were bagging what we could when the forest died. It wasn’t a gradual quiet. It was an instantaneous, suffocating wall of silence, as if every insect and bird in the valley had been crushed at once.My flashlight swept the tree line. Forty yards out, a buck stood perfectly still. But as the beam hit its flank, its posture glitched. The spine buckled upward, uncoiling with a sickening wet crunch into a towering, skinless red silhouette. Where a head should have been, a vertical column of stacked, unblinking eyes opened all at once.Locally, the old-timers whispered about a legend they called The Loom. But looking at it, I realized this was the exact biological nightmare described in the classified military leaks detailing a Biomorphic Mimicry Anomaly.The moment those eyes met my beam, my nervous system simply shut down.I couldn't drop the light. I couldn't scream to the rest of the crew. My lungs froze mid-breath, and my eyelids felt welded open. I was completely conscious, trapped inside a statue of my own flesh, my vision entirely hijacked by that towering face.Then it ran.It didn't bound like an animal or jog like a man. It hurtled toward us upright on two legs, its torso leaning heavily forward while its impossibly long arms swung limply at its sides like broken pendulums. It covered the distance at highway speeds, a frantic, puppet-like sprint that blurred against the trees.Just feet away from us, it violently slammed its elongated palms into the dirt to brace its horrific momentum—dropping to all fours for a split second with a mechanical screech before snapping upright again.The sudden shift broke our direct line of sight. The paralysis shattered, and I collapsed into the dirt just as the entity reached for Tommy's sister, Sarah.The raw force of its grip instantly snapped her collarbone, but the violent exertion seemed to cost it everything. Instantly, the entity’s relentless..."

Four panels from my short story about working off community service hours on US-301 south of Starke.

Full story: https://www.reddit.com/r/horrorstories/s/DVxawi1iFc

Art commissioned from XJSIII. More stories on this profile.

Show No.1 The Zombie March.

The Mysterious Ringmaster was looking for his first show and found himself somewhere in Tennessee; it definitely wasn't Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge- too much attention. Wherever he went, The Mysterious Ringmaster was not lost but looking. He went to a local classic diner. He parked his rusted pick-up truck and camper-sized trailer; they had more rust and dirt than color.

Both his truck and trailer made a grinding noise, which caught everyone's eyes from inside the diner until he parked. He walked up to the diner; before he could get in, a waitress ran out to see him. She took one look at his white face with black spades and a red-ball nose. He stopped in his black combat boots.

“We cannot allow you to be in here unless you take off your make-up,” She said.

“Is that so?” The Mysterious Ringmaster asked, rubbing his hand in his afro.

The waitress smelled rotting meat coming from him and decided to back away from him. She managed to get six feet away, then His green eyes made dead eye contact with her.

“Wait, are you afraid of clowns? Is that why I am not allowed in? You racist little bigot,” the Mysterious Ringmaster said.

“You know 2016 is over; you smell and need a shower,” the waitress said.

“I got just the thing for you, fishy,” The Mysterious Ringmaster said

He pulls a rusty Bowie knife out of his black afro, then rushes the waitress and stabs her in the gut, which causes her to scream; then he guts her like a fish. She drops to the gravel on her side...dead. The Mysterious Ringmaster then returns his Bowie to his afro; The Mysterious Ringmaster then pulls a 24-inch gas-powered chainsaw and starts it with one tug of the cord. He then runs inside and hacks everyone to pieces in the dining area.

He looks in the kitchen, knowing he intentionally missed that area. He jumps over the bar and looks into the kitchen opening where food is slid through, hearing crying. Just like he wanted, there was a teenage man in the fetal position at the side of the kitchen.

“There you are, exactly who I wanted. Don't you feel special?” The Mysterious Ringmaster asked.

“No,” He said.

“Oh well, think you could cook me some bacon, eggs, and a steak. Grab me some orange juice too.” The Mysterious Ringmaster rubbed his red, flowery cuffed sleeve on his green overcoat.

“Are you too scared to serve? Then what good are you alive right now? Might as well fast-forward to the next stage, your afterlife, get it, stage, afterlife. No, not a fan of wordplay, okay then.” The Mysterious Ringmaster said

The Mysterious Ringmaster revved his chainsaw and hacked the man to pieces. Then couldn't care about any of them until he cooked his own food, sat at a table, and ate his breakfast of champions. The Mysterious Ringmaster then decided to get to work and grabbed a sewing needle as well as thread and sewed the corpses back together; then with his magic he raised them from the dead.

“Hey, everyone, follow me,” The Mysterious Ringmaster said.

He opened his camper and all fourty Zombies walked into the pocket deminsion like good little servents, He started skipping in place smiling and laughing, he then closed the camper behind them and skipped to the truck, he speed off like the devil was coming for him, the massacre was on the news and how none of the bodies where found by the time he found the perfect place to pitch up his Circus.

It was in someone's cornfield. He cut down the corn stalks and saved the corn for later. He then opened his camper and got all he needed out of the small camper, then pitched up his tent, then he pulled out flyers for his show out of the pocket of his overcoat and threw them into the wind.

The flyers read “Come one and all to the Supernatural and Paranormal Circus and witness The Zombie March,” Followed by the address of the farm. After the Mysterious Ringmaster sent all the flyers to magically fly around whatever town he wanted them to, he caught the stinky smell of human body odor.

A wrinkly old farmer in boots and denim overalls approached him.

“You smell old, man.” The Mysterious Ringmaster said.

“You smell much worse. Get off my farm and take down your show; you're not performing here,” The Farmer said.

“Oh, really now.” The Mysterious Ringmaster said, then crept to the trailer of his camper.

“Yes, really now, freak, get moving before things get ugly,” The Farmer said.

“Too late for that.” The Mysterious Ringmaster said, then opened the door to his camper. The Farmer saw nothing in there. “Get him, my Zombies.” The order was given; Zombies seemingly started appearing out of the trailer and shuffled after the Farmer for an hour till they ate him and his family alive. The Mysterious Ringmaster decided not to go after their bodies; he had the Zombies he needed.

The Zombies came back smelling like bad groceries and rotting meat.

“Damn, you guys smell worse than me, and I am the one covered in old blood. Get back in the camper.” He said.

It started to get dark, and the moon took the night shift for the sun. The crowd came in with their outside food and drinks. The crowd got loud, talking to each other, then the disembodied drums began to roll, and the lights went low, and the spotlights swirled, and when the Mysterious Ringmaster walked into the performing ring, curtains closed and blocked the exit.

There was one row of seats, front row seats. The lights went right on him.

“Hello Tennesse! It's me, your Ringmaster. Is it you?” He asked, and everyone laughed.

His truck came in, passing the curtains; the truck was being driven by a Zombie. Then the Mysterious Ringmaster opened the back of the trailer as the Zombie Driver shuffled out of the truck and started to walk around the wall of the ring. The Ringmaster opened up the trailer doors.

“Follow him.” The Mysterious Ringmaster said.

“They look so cool,” A voice from the crowd said.

The Zombies all started walking out of the trailer, following the first Zombie in a single-file line. They made a circle around the edge of the ring and kept shuffling their feet behind each other. A human hand came out of the dark and touched one of the Zombies.

“Oh shit, he is real.” A voice said, then the Zombie bit his forearm and fell onto the unseen crowd member.

“Zombies...feast.” The Mysterious Ringmaster said.

The Zombies went into the screaming crowd. The Mysterious Ringmaster cackled as the bodies made a thump, then the chewing of meat and cracking of bones followed with slurping noises, because the living dead began eating the crowd alive. Within ten minutes, the crowd went silent, then he heard the zombies dragging their feet; they started coming back into the light.

“Get in the camper,” The Mysterious Ringmaster said.

One Zombie opened the trailer door and walked in, and the others followed. The Supernatural and Paranormal Circus was gone before sunrise.

The Crimson Kabuki pt2.

Oddly, the same moment I noticed the ribbon, I faintly heard what I thought to be a kotzumi drum somewhere off into the gloom. It seemed to be thumping somewhere very far away off in the distance. After watching the vice documentary a few years ago, I knew exactly where this ribbon could possibly lead to, which was very sad. life can be so unfair and cruel to us. The drum quickly faded to nothing and left me confused on where the hell that was coming from and why.

What an odd thing to happen so far out here in the sticks, and it wouldn't be the last of it. I remember saying a quick prayer to myself and making my way along the ribbon to whatever destination it led to. I told myself that I would record later because at the moment I just couldn't be bothered. I could always come the next day and record, because in that moment I was in exploration mode. I had to see what was at the end of that ribbon. If anything, I could use it again to find my way back to the trail.

It curved and weaved slinkingly through the trees, up and down over slopes and hills for a good 40 or so minutes until I had arrived into a sort of clearing. It was also hauntingly still... so deathly quiet; I stepped in closer around the foilage and I had stopped because I noticed some white fabric pointing off the sides of a large tree. I had a feeling that I was about to see something that I'd much rather not. After a couple of minutes preparing myself, I took a deep breath and stepped around the tree and froze to an alarming and sad sight. I automatically knew that I was staring at the hanging corpse of the long missed Jubei Uematsu, or what remained of this poor soul.

What remained was a hanging skeleton in a tattered costume with a red, long haired wig partly hanging in the face and around the shoulders in dirty, stringy clumps. I stood there taking in that image with such a deep and profound melancholy, that I actually had to gather myself from breaking down... Just witnessing what was once an alive and thriving person with passions; Love and Hope, weaknesses and strengths, and also fear... along with plenty of despair along the way. It was a universal language; People just trying to find purpose to their existence, and then eventually becoming this...so very still... so very quiet and solemn making time stop in its presence.

life can be so sad and tragic, and people like Jubei over time can find it extremely hard to function being so empathetic, and carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders regardless if they are strong enough for that burden. It's an exhausting job... a gift and a curse for the saintly; toss in depression and the loss of the will to go on, then they have a complete and utter mess to clean on their own in the silence... that eternal silence... so present; so final. I wish I would have known this mysterious man. From what I heard over time was that he was a complex, but Sweet soul with a heart of gold. I also learned that after this experience I am about to tell you that happened, was some type of Oni Spirit from the forest took the liking image of Jubei's Kabuki character and dawned it as its own.

As I stood there in contemplative silence, I slowly started to hear a kotzumi drum begin to thump far off into the trees. It started out very low and far off, but began to rise and creep closer. I turned and turned trying to find where that portentous thumping was coming from. As I was peering far off into the distance, I started to feel highly unsettled, and then I no longer felt alone like I was being watched. I swiftly turned around and stared directly into the painted face that was no longer a skull. The bloodiest red eyes were staring directly into mine. The face had the theatrical paint back on with the red stripes cascading down it's white painted face. I say "It," because nowhere did I see Jubei inside those Crimson eyes at that moment.

I remember saying, "oh shit!" and quickly turning to run the hell away for my life along the Red ribbon back to the trail. Far off somewhere I could hear that mysterious drum start to sound off again. The sound surrounded me from so many angles and distances, it was disorienting, and then I started to hear this ululation that sounds like, "EYOOOO!" That you hear in Japanese theater music, along with that clink and thump of the drum. I turned to see the Oni masking itself in Jubei's magnificent garb; slowly floating a few feet up in the air, easing its way towards my direction with those hideous blood red eyes staring through me.

I ran faster and faster trying to at least make it to the trail to get away... if I could. After a few more twists and turns, I finally burst through the foliage out onto the trail. At the moment the Oni entity was nowhere to be seen. I started to notice that the woods all around started to have this faint purple luminescent glow. As I started to run, I begin to hear these ululations sound off around me in the area that sounded like, "EYOOOOOO!" I've remembered these sounds watching Japanese movies and small clips of Kabuki theater. The music serves as an emotional soundtrack to the colorful acts on stage, both being performed live."YOOOO!" Another croon burst forth; surrounding me from different angles as the steady thump and wood clicks of the drums clacked and banged along.

It subconsciously made me think of the demon, "Paimon," that when summoned, multitudes of instruments and disjointed horns lead before its presence like royalty as it enters the fold, and makes its presence known. I remember glancing back and seeing the painted entity standing a few yards behind me in the middle of the trail, with long crimson hair hanging down at its sides; blood red eyes marking me...

To be continued....

So this might sound dumb but there was a video he narrated and it sounded just like the movie the end of oak street. It literally had the same premise their neighborhood or town was teleported to somewhere else and I believe it’s not dinosaurs but I could be wrong. I think it was told in the form of recorded notes but again I could be wrong. I do remember at the end I believe they find this hole and they put stuff throw it to see what happens but it just disappears when you do so. They decided to send their kids through so they could escape but it is found out that they did return back to the normal world but they get mangled into trees and rocks killing them. If anyone can help me find it that be cool lol and convince me I’m not crazy.

I know exactly how this sounds.

Trust me, I've spent the last three weeks trying to convince myself I'm wrong.

Maybe I'm overthinking things. Maybe people change. Maybe working eighty-hour weeks for a robotics company called L.I.Z. Technologies simply drains every ounce of personality out of a person.

I hope that's all it is.

Because if I'm right... then I don't know who is that sitting beside me at dinner.

My brother and I are ten years apart. My parents waited over a decade before having another kid. I choose to interpret that as careful planning instead of hesitation.

Growing up, he was less of a sibling and more of a second dad with a criminal record in psychological warfare.

If I left a soda unattended, he'd somehow replace it with sparkling water and act offended when I noticed. Every time we played video games, he'd wait until I was about to win before "accidentally" bumping the console with his foot. When I was thirteen, he convinced me that blinking too much made you go blind.

I believed him for three weeks. It didn't help that whenever we'd roughhouse, he'd snatch my glasses off my face.

"You can't see without them," he'd tease.

He still laughs about that one.

That was just us.

He picked on me more than anyone else in the world, but if somebody outside the family ever tried it, he'd be the first one standing beside me. Whenever life fell apart, somehow I always ended up calling him. Half the time he'd answer with, "What'd you screw up now?" before spending the next hour helping me fix it.

That's my brother.

Or... it was.

Things changed after he started working for L.I.Z.

Whenever I asked what he actually did there, he'd just shrug.

"Can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Non-disclosure agreement."

"So... robots?"

"No comment."

I always assumed he was making his job sound cooler than it actually was. Then he stopped acting like himself. The first thing I noticed wasn't something he did. It was something he didn't.

He stopped making fun of me.

I know that sounds ridiculous. But if you have an older brother, you know exactly why that's terrifying. I spilled barbecue sauce all over his truck one afternoon. Normally he'd have looked at me like I'd committed a felony.

Instead he smiled.

"It happens."

...

It happens?

Who says that?

A week later we played Mario Kart.

I beat him.

Twice.

He didn't accuse me of cheating. He didn't demand a rematch.

He just smiled and said, "Good game."

I actually paused the race.

"Who are you?"

He laughed. A perfectly timed laugh.

Not too loud. Not too quiet.

Like someone had studied exactly how people laugh.

"You've always been funny," he said.

No.

No, no, no.

My brother would've called me an idiot.

One night at dinner I told the same embarrassing story Mom has been telling since I was sixteen. Usually he'd interrupt halfway through to make it even worse.

This time... He listened.

Then he said, "That must have been difficult."

I nearly dropped my fork.

I called Mom afterward.

"You don't think he's been acting... odd?"

She looked confused.

"He seems happier."

"Dad?"

"He finally is on his own."

Neither of them saw it.

Only me.

Last Saturday, my brother came over to help Dad replace the water heater. I wasn't much use with plumbing, so while they disappeared into the garage arguing over which wrench was the right wrench, I camped out in Dad's office to finish a history assignment.

The house was unusually quiet.

Well... quiet except for the occasional "Hand me the pipe wrench!" followed immediately by "That's not the pipe wrench!"

I had almost finished my essay when I noticed another laptop sitting on the corner of Dad's desk.

My brother's work computer. It was already open. The screen had gone dark from inactivity, but one thing hadn't.

A tiny red light glowed beside the webcam.

I frowned. Maybe it was updating. Maybe someone had forgotten to close a meeting.

Still... The light never turned off. I waved a hand in front of the camera.

Nothing.

No notification. No meeting controls.

Just that little red dot staring back at me.

Watching.

Curiosity got the better of me. I tapped the trackpad. The screen woke instantly. No password. Just a desktop filled with folders I couldn't even pretend to understand. Most of them had names that sounded like corporate nonsense.

Behavioral Mapping.

Neural Replication.

L.I.Z. Internal.

The last folder caught my attention. It was different. Locked behind a firewall icon.

A small window popped onto the screen before I even clicked it.

Camera Access Active

I froze.

The webcam light was still glowing.

Then... For the briefest second... The camera preview opened by itself.

Instead of showing me sitting at the desk... It showed...

Someone looking back at me.

Not through the webcam. From behind it. A face pressed against what looked like glass.

Wide eyes. Frantic. Mouth moving without sound.

Then the preview vanished.

I stared at the screen, convinced I'd imagined it.

A second later, the locked folder opened on its own. Inside was only one file.

Its name changed as I watched. Not all at once. One letter at a time.

H

E

L

P

The screen went black.

For a second I thought I'd crashed the computer.

Then white text appeared.

I froze.

Another line typed itself.

My hands stopped moving.

More words appeared.

Every hair on my arms stood up.

I stared at the screen.

Another sentence.

Then another.

The typing stopped. Several seconds passed.

Then, one final line slowly appeared.

The laptop snapped shut. Not by itself. By someone else's hand.

I looked up.

My brother stood beside the desk. I hadn't heard him come inside.

He smiled.

Warm. Gentle.

Almost perfect.

"Caught you being nosy again."

I looked into his eyes, searching for the man who taught me to throw a football, who unplugged my controller whenever I was winning, who spent years calling me every name except the one Mom gave me.

I couldn't find him.

I handed him the laptop without saying a word.

He thanked me.

My brother never thanked me.

He is not him.

Whoever walked out of that room remembered everything about my brother...

Except how to be him.

Trigger warning

Depression

Self-harm scars

Suicide ideation

I took a drag of my cigarette, breathed through my nostrils, and watched the smoke curl, sighing. I reached out, playing with the smoke, twisting it into a small face that danced around my arms. A brief flash of joy crossed my face — until I saw the scars riddled down my arm.

I contemplated the night I lost everything. I contemplated the day I lost him. I even thought about ending it, but I was too apathetic. My mood spiralled with every attempt, hoping it would be the day I joined him, but I just couldn't. One day, though, I'll see him. And we can be happy.

I let my arm fall onto my face and stared at the ceiling until my phone buzzed, casting a sterile white glow across the room. I let it die, its vibration rattling against the nightstand near my kaleidoscope-coloured flowers. I ignored the message.

I sat up, slapped my hands to my face, wiped the sleep away, and rolled out of bed. Walking past food scraps and dirty clothes, I headed to the bathroom. In the broken mirror, I saw a tired, broken person with blackened eyes from lack of sleep.

Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of a face standing behind the door. I spun around — but there was nothing. Just my towel rack, softly swaying.

Just before I could wash my face, a soft knock echoed through the house. I followed the noise and found the windows covered in thick fog, casting a grey shadow over my home. Knock, knock — louder now. I paused in front of my razor, still wet, and thought: maybe another time.

Sighing, I followed each faint knock around my darkened living room. Knock, knock. I opened doors — nothing. Knock, knock. Nothing.

Frustrated, I opened the fridge and pulled out the cheap vodka-and-whisky concoction I'd made in a blackout one night. I swigged; the glass glittered faintly. I downed the rest in a spicy cough. "God, what the hell was I thinking?" I said to no one in particular, my words slurring as I cou—

Looking toward the window, I saw a blurry figure — about my height — standing behind it, tapping the glass. Sobering up at the sight, my body froze in fear. And I could see that more figures surrounded the first one. Each figure was vastly different.

Looking closely, I saw one with a noose around its neck, its hands raised in a mocking imitation of a beam. Its face was pale blue, gasping for air. Another was swallowing pills. Another bled from its wrists. Seeing that one, I grabbed my wrist instinctively — then rubbed it gently, as if to soothe a phantom pain.

And then I noticed a vague figure standing in the distance, swaying slightly in the fog. Closing the curtain hurriedly, I grabbed my hair in panic as I felt my heart race and my vision go blurry with the tears.

"No, no, not again, please," I cried out, trying to calm myself before I heard the soft tapping on the window again.

"No, go away; you are not real", I cried out through tears

Suddenly, a soft masculine voice cried out from behind the curtains.

'Oh, Sophia, the voice echoed, constantly getting louder and louder

Stop it, you're dead I squeaked, but before I could say anything more, I heard the glass begin to fracture, and I squeaked while crawling back, knocking a booze bottle I grabbed, hurling it at the curtain, cracking both glasses. Cutting my hands on the broken glass, I screamed as I saw the figures lumbering their way, voices repeating, "Sophia, join us". Over and over again, I covered my ears, running up to the bedroom, but as I got to the third step, a hand grabbed me and yanked me.

Falling, I smashed my head against the steps, briefly knocking myself out. Coming to, I found myself surrounded by all the figures and their twisted visage of each time I tried to end my life. Looking up, I saw the figures stare at me with hollow eyes and gaping maws that twitched as tho there trying to speak.

I screamed as I ran through them. Avoiding their hands, "Sophia", when suddenly his voice trailed through, and I stopped. "Sophia, why do you do this?" his voice cried out.

"Please, it wasn't my fault. I didn't mean to. Please forgive." I cried out, hoping my plea would be heard.

"I...I have already forgiven you. Why...Why haven't you forgiven yourself? It wasn't your fault, Sophia. This apparition hurt so much to see them. Sophia. Pl... please forgive yourself.

"Jason, it was my fault you got burnt. I should have died in our house that night, not you alone in the hospital bed," I yelled

"Sophie", he comforted

What was done can not be undone; the fault didn't lie with you"

He waved his hands, and suddenly I was brought back to the day I was asleep when the house caught fire, and Jason ran in to save me, but ended up dying from his burns days later. I never forgave myself despite my family saying it was faulty wiring and the guy who was caught for not having the proper certification papers. Then I was shown that the electrician hadn't connected the wiring, that Jason had been talking to him angrily before I came home, and that he had disappeared before Jason confronted him again.

"Despite all my family's help, I've shut them out and cut all contact. I don't think they wanna talk," I sobbed after I was brought back. Jason stood there, his skin smouldering as smoke and skin flakes fell from his body, disappearing before hitting the ground. He reached out towards my wrist, and I felt the searing heat from his touch burning my skin.

"Sophie, my dear Sophie, I'm always there for you, but you need to forgive yourself and begin your healing." His gravelly voice echoed softly. It... It saddens me to watch you suffer and see you like this.

But it's too much, I cried out.

He leaned in, and I caught the warmth of his breath as he whispered. "I know, but you are a strong woman; take it in strides"

He suddenly kissed me, and I could feel his hot lips burning mine. Before I could say anything, I was jolted out of my bed onto my messy floor with a loud thump.

Standing up, rubbing my back, I looked around, noticing nothing much had changed, so I opened up my windows to allow the light to shine in and squinted from the brightness.

My phone buzzed again, and I picked up, reading that I had 25 new messages and 5 missed calls from my family members. Reading through them, I saw that they were worried and were coming over in a few days to check up on me.

Deciding that in a moment, I rang my parent, and on the first ring, there was a bit of hesitation on my family's end, so I stuttered a bit before I heard my father. Hello, Sophie. "Are you alright? It's been months since we heard from you"

After a slew of questions from my worried parents, I finally answered.

" No, I'm not alright." It's been tough, and I haven't been looking after myself I said through tearful sobs I need your help, but my house is in such a state I don't think I can do this by myself. Could you come and help me?" I asked them through sobs.

"Ofc, dear, that's what parents are for. We'll be there in a couple of hours," they said cheerfully. I hung up, sighing, trying to control my breathing. Before getting up to finally wash myself, I suddenly caught a glimpse of my face, seeing that my lips and the right side of my face were slightly burnt, leaving a scar where Jason had touched me. Realising he had grabbed my wrist, I also found the same burn scars but this time in the shape of a handprint.

I had my shower and changed into refreshing clothes. I ran downstairs to see smashed glass and a broken window. Walking towards it, I saw a figure swinging and immediately closing the curtain.

It's gonna be a long journey, I thought to myself as I heard my parents knocking on my door and me running up to greet them.

I had been working as a law enforcement transcriptionist for a little over six years when the officer brought me the tape. I'd never seen him before, but that wasn't too unusual. There were a lot of new recruits and I didn't exactly have the best memory when it came to faces. He wore the customary uniform, which fit him rather well. Even as a straight man, I have to admit he was handsome, almost ridiculously so. Dark hair, a sharp jawline speckled with stubble, and an air of gravitas that was impossible to ignore.

He handed me a cassette tape.
“I need this transcribed immediately,” he said in a smooth, inviting tone. “Don't put it through the usual queue.”
With an eyebrow raised, I asked what the case was about. Instead of answering, he looked at the tape for a moment before looking back at me.
“Just prepare yourself,” he said with a grimace. "It's quite intense.”
I remember laughing a little because I assumed he was exaggerating. But he didn't laugh with me. Before I could ask for any more details, he disappeared back down the corridor.
I've always been quite a curious person. It's what led me to this line of work. So, naturally, I immediately popped the tape in, pulled up Mark43 and began logging.

What follows is my transcription of that recording. I've removed the names and identifying information where necessary, but otherwise I've left it exactly as it was spoken. Be that for better or for worse.
The transcript of this tape– or, more precisely, its contents– makes for difficult reading. The things I heard and witnessed that day remain beyond my understanding. It is for this reason that I decided to share the tape's contents. Perhaps one of you can make more sense of this disturbing tape than I.

###

Tape Recorded Interview
Patrick Morgan/Detective Baron Hauptman
7.23.26

BH This is Detective Hauptman, █████ Police Department. Today's date is Thursday, July 23, 2026. The time is at 11:23 A.M. This will be a taped conversation with the last name of Morgan, M-O-R-G-A-N, first of Patrick, P-A-T-R-I-C-K, middle of Joe, J-O-E. Date of birth 02-20-96.

BH So, Patrick, I've turned on a tape recorder so I can record our little conversation. I'm to understand you've been read your rights and– let me see here– you've declined to lawyer up. Is that correct?

PM Correct.

BH Okay. Well, let's get down to business then, eh?

PM Alright.

BH So, Patrick. I assume you know why you're here?

PM Mhm.

BH Why don't you go ahead and tell me?

PM Because you think I killed–

PM Can you speak up?

PM Because you think I killed people. 

BH The department suspects you, yes. But hey, don't shoot the messenger. (Chuckle)

BH Let's start with… Isabella Moreno. How well did you know her?

PM Quite well. 

BH How's that?

PM She lived down the street. We used to play when we were kids.

BH And when did you last speak with her?

PM Hm… December, January. Something like that.

BH What did you talk about?

PM Why would I remember that? It's been like seven months.

BH Well, I'd think your last conversation might stick around longer. Especially with all that talk of art.

PM What? 

BH Art. You're an artist, right?

PM Yeah– how did you–

BH You take pride in your art, then?

PM I– yeah, I guess I do.

BH Every artist does, I suppose. But most are too scared to put their art out in the open. You have no such reservations, right?

PM What do you mean?

BH You like displaying your work publicly. In all its glory.

PM I have no idea what you're–

BH Really? So you don't look up to a certain… mentor?

PM No. Look–

BH You don't have to explain it.

PM … What?

BH I know.

PM … The fuck're you– Know what?

BH Why you did it.

PM Then why am I here?

BH Because they want to know if you did it.

PM And?

BH And… you did. 

PM What– What's the point of this then?

BH I wanted to meet you. In the flesh.

PM I–

BH I've seen your work. Your real work. Not those flimsy portraits in your apartment.

PM What the hell're you talking about?

BH You know. And I must admit, you are an artist at heart. Just not a very good one.

PM Excuse me? What does that even mean?

BH Her body. I mean, the way you arranged it. Chest splayed open, guts hanging around her neck. And the little message you left beside her. Very theatrical, I must say.

PM I didn't—

BH You spent three hours arranging her. Isn't that so, Patrick?

PM No–

BH You spent the longest on the fingers.

PM Whatever you're doing won't—

BH You wanted it to look natural. But you don't understand hands very well. (Chuckle)
BH Even in your shitty little paintings. It takes a special kind of anti-talent to make them look like the aftermath of a car wreck.

PM Stop–

BH C'mon, Patrick. You made the thing and now you don't want to discuss the composition?

PM Shut up.

BH I suppose it's to be expected. You don't care about the art. You don't even care whether you get caught. You just want to be seen.

PM You're full of shit.

BH You copied someone else's work because you wanted people to look at yours.

PM I didn't copy anyone! (Something slams against the metal table)

BH It's no use lying, Patrick. You read everything you could find about the man. Every little detail on how he displayed his victims. Hell, you even fooled the cops into thinking you were the real deal.

PM You– You don't know anything about me.

BH I know exactly what you are. A copy. You imitate the man, but you've never met him. And yet you've spent the last two years trying to make him proud. That's rather pathetic, Patrick.

PM Stop–

BH Isn't that what mommy always used to say?

PM I said stop!

BH (Mocking tone) The exact same rotten soul as your father! 

PM What– How do you–

BH She threw your paintings away, didn't she? You'd find them in the trash, sometimes even torn in half.

PM Shut up! Shut the–

BH Do you remember the blue one?

BH Oh, c'mon patrick. How could you forget? The one you painted when you were seventeen. The woman standing in the field.

PM Stop– Stop talking about my paintings.

BH Ah, you prefer to talk about your real art after all? (Chuckle)
BH I know you, Patrick Joe Morgan. You started killing because painting wasn't enough anymore. You wanted to make something nobody could ignore.

PM Please just—

BH You wanted someone to look at it and understand you. But nobody did.

PM Stop talking!

BH Not your mother. Not your father. Not the police. Not even the man you copied. And now you're sitting here hoping I will.

PM I–

BH Well I do understand you. And I want you to feel how truly pathetic you are, Patrick.

PM Please– (whimper)

BH Patrick.

PM Please just stop!

BH Look at me.

PM No! I– I won't.

BH (Static crackles. Voice briefly distorts) Patrick, you slime. Look at me!

PM I'll– I'll confess! I'll tell you everything you wanna know, please just–

BH (Chuckle) Oh, Patty. You don't have to do that. I know what you did. 

PM (Unintelligible)

BH Chin up, champ. Smile, and look into my eyes.

(Pause)

PM (Screaming, unintelligible).
PM WHAT– WHAT THE FUCK IS–

(Something slams against the metal table)

BH (Voice warped) Come closer.

PM (Unintelligible whines)

(Something drags across the metal table.)

BH (Whispers something unintelligible)

PM No– no it can't–

BH (Slow, droning) Yes, Patty. You know she was.

PM (Strangled cry. Sobs)

(Something slams against the metal table)

BH There you go. Attaboy.

(Something slams against the metal table several times, with a small pause between each increment)

(The door whines open. The slamming continues.)

BH Ah, good day gentlemen! 

(Frantic yelling. The slamming continues.)

BH My eyes are up here, lads.

(Unintelligible cries. Thuds join the slamming.)

BH This has been Detective Hauptman, █████ Police Department. Today's date is Thursday, July 23, 2026. 

(The slamming stops. The thudding continues.)

BH I'm turning the tape recorder off again. The time is 11:30 A.M. This has been the confession and testimony of Patrick J. Morgan.

###

When the tape stopped, I sat in silence for a moment. The shock of it all had rooted me firmly in place. Eventually, I forced myself out of my chair and scrambled towards the interrogation room. 
I honestly wish I hadn't. 

Patrick Morgan was still sitting at the table. He'd smashed his face into the metal table so many times that there was almost nothing recognizable left. His nose was almost completely crushed into his skull, which itself had been pulverized by the repeated impacts. 
The two officers who'd been monitoring the interrogation lay in a puddle of blood on the floor. The first officer had strangled the second with his own tie, while the second had beaten him across the head with a chair. There was no apparent reason for any of it. It looked like three men had simply gone mad at the same time.

In the weeks and months following, the department searched for Detective Baron Hauptman. Of course, there was no officer by that name at our department. We still don't know how he forged or stole the badge and uniform. We've tried to identify him using the cameras he walked past, but these efforts yielded nothing. It seemed as though he'd wandered in, then walked off the face of the earth.
I still have a copy of the cassette. I made it in case the original was ever destroyed. Still, I haven't mustered up the courage to play it again. The most I've managed is to re-read the transcript I made. I can't wrap my head around what happened. I suspect I never will. 

That brought me here. Perhaps sharing this will yield more results. So please, if you have any information on Baron Hauptman, send it to me. I need to know who– or what– he was. More than that, I wish I knew how he knew so much about Patrick.

Person stealing but videos and content. (I don't think it's a second channel to Mr creeps I figured he would mention it and not have the same videos... https://youtube.com/@midnightwhispers-v6z

The Department of Motor Vehicles has a remarkable talent for making a person question their own existence.

Perhaps that's the point.

No one walks into a DMV excited. You arrive because you have to. A license expired. A registration renewal. Some document proving to a government employee that, yes, despite all evidence to the contrary, you are still alive.

I was there because my driver's license had expired.

Simple enough.

I took my ticket from the little machine near the entrance. It emerged with a dry mechanical click, the paper warm between my fingers as though someone else had only just been holding it.

The waiting room was already overflowing.

Children cried with astonishing endurance while parents stared into their phones with the thousand-yard gaze of soldiers returning from war. A television bolted high into one corner played an instructional video that nobody watched, its colors washed out beneath rows of humming fluorescent lights. Every few minutes a printer somewhere behind the counters coughed to life before falling silent again, sounding less like a machine and more like an old smoker struggling through another cigarette.

The building felt tired.

Not dirty.

Not neglected.

Just... exhausted.

The kind of exhaustion that settles into old bones after decades of repeating the same motion.

I glanced toward the electronic display mounted above the service counters.

NOW SERVING: 388

I sighed.

"Well," I muttered beneath my breath. "Guess I'll be celebrating my birthday here."

A man sitting nearby chuckled.

"I've said that every time I've come here."

He looked to be in his late fifties. Baseball cap. Reading glasses resting low on his nose. Ordinary enough that I probably wouldn't have remembered his face if we'd passed each other on the street.

"Renewing?" he asked.

"My license."

He nodded knowingly.

"Could be worse."

"Could it?"

"They could've sent you to the Social Security office first."

I laughed.

"So you've been there too?"

"Oh..." He smiled faintly. "Everyone has."

It was such an ordinary conversation that I almost appreciated it. Shared misery has a funny way of making strangers feel familiar.

I looked down at my ticket again.

515.

Fantastic.

I settled into one of the molded plastic chairs and reached for my phone. No signal. Not unusual. Government buildings always seemed to exist inside their own little dead zones.

I slipped it back into my pocket and leaned my head against the wall.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The air conditioner breathed through dusty vents. The printer coughed again. The speakers crackled.

A number was called. Someone stood. Someone else sat down. The room swallowed them without ceremony.

I checked the screen once more.

NOW SERVING: 390

It felt impossible that so little time could have passed.

Yet somehow... it also felt like I'd already been there for hours.

Time has a peculiar way of behaving inside places where people are forced to wait.

Minutes become estimates. Hours become suggestions. Eventually, you stop checking the clock because it only succeeds in making you angry.

I tried distracting myself. I counted ceiling tiles. Read the faded posters reminding everyone to have their paperwork ready. One explained the dangers of texting while driving. Another detailed the penalties for driving without insurance. Judging from the sun-bleached corners and curling edges, neither had been replaced in years.

Everything in the building seemed designed to outlive the people inside it.

Another number echoed over the speakers.

"Three hundred ninety-one."

A woman stood from across the room, gathered her purse, and disappeared behind the row of service counters.

The electronic display flickered.

NOW SERVING: 391

Good.

Progress.

I glanced at my watch.

9:18 A.M.

That couldn't be right. It felt closer to noon.

The old man beside me sighed as he shifted in his chair.

"You'd think they'd hire more people."

"I was just thinking the same thing."

He nodded absentmindedly, his attention fixed somewhere beyond the counters.

"Been waiting long?"

"I got here around nine."

"No..."

He frowned.

"I mean... today."

The question caught me off guard.

"I... yeah."

He scratched at his chin.

"I suppose I have too."

For reasons I couldn't explain, that answer unsettled me. He didn't sound forgetful. He sounded... uncertain. The kind of uncertainty that follows a dream, when you're no longer sure whether something actually happened or only felt like it had.

Neither of us spoke after that.

The waiting room settled back into its dull rhythm. The printer coughed. A child cried. Someone cleared their throat. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead.

Then I noticed the employees.

There were six service windows. Every one of them occupied.

Every employee dressed identically in blue shirts with laminated name badges clipped neatly over their chests.

None of them looked angry. None looked to be joyous either. In fact, they didn't seem to look like much of anything.

Their expressions rested somewhere between concentration and complete emotional absence, as though years of repeating the same conversations had slowly worn every recognizable human reaction from their being.

"Next."

Stamp.

"Next."

Keyboard.

"Next."

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

Repeat.

The movements were practiced.

As if mechanical. Not robotic.

Just... perfected through repetition until they no longer appeared to require any thought.

I watched one woman accept a stack of documents without ever lifting her eyes to meet the customer standing in front of her.

She never acknowledged him. Never greeted him. Never smiled. Never frowned.

She simply processed him.

As though the paperwork mattered more than the person holding it.

The thought lingered longer than it should have.

Not processed the documents.

Processed... him.

I looked away.

When I checked the display again...

It still read:

NOW SERVING: 391.

I stared at the screen for several seconds, convinced I had simply caught it before the next number appeared.

It didn't.

The speakers remained silent. No names. No voices. Just the constant drone of fluorescent lights buzzing somewhere overhead.

I checked my watch again.

9:47 A.M.

Twenty-nine minutes.

That made no sense.

It felt as though I had lived an entire afternoon in that chair.

I rubbed at my eyes and let out a slow breath. Maybe I was just impatient. Maybe this was what every DMV visit felt like and I had conveniently forgotten.

A chair scraped across the tile beside me. Someone new had taken the old man's seat.

I hadn't even noticed him leave.

The newcomer looked to be around my age, maybe early thirties, dressed in business casual with a messenger bag resting across his lap. He offered a polite nod before glancing up at the display.

"Ouch," he muttered. "Looks like I picked the wrong day."

I chuckled.

"You and me both."

He held up his ticket.

"Five forty-two."

I looked down at mine.

"Five fifteen."

"Guess you've got me beat."

"For once, I'm winning at something."

He laughed, and for a while we exchanged the usual conversation strangers trapped together always seem to have.

Complaining about government offices. Talking about traffic. The weather. How everyone always forgets one piece of paperwork.

It was... nice.

Normal.

The sort of conversation you forget five minutes after walking away.

"So," I asked eventually, "what are you here for?"

He answered without hesitation.

"My license."

I nodded.

"What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"Expired?"

His eyebrows pinched together.

"I..." He looked down at the folder in his lap.

"I think so."

"You think so?"

He opened the folder and shuffled through the papers inside.

His movements slowed.

"I actually..." He frowned.

"I don't remember."

We both laughed. An awkward laugh when something isn't funny but admitting that would somehow make it worse.

"You serious?"

He scratched the back of his neck.

"I know I needed to come."

Another pause.

"I just can't remember why."

He rifled through the documents again, studying each page as though seeing them for the first time.

"These are mine..."

"I think."

He sounded embarrassed.

"I honestly can't tell."

The laughter died between us.

A strange heaviness settled over the room.

I looked back toward the service counters.

The employees continued working without pause.

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

Next.

Every movement identical to the last.

One after another.

As if they weren't helping people at all, but simply moving files from one pile to another.

The display flickered.

I turned instinctively.

NOW SERVING: 392.

Only one number.

Again.

Somewhere behind me, someone sighed. Another person groaned quietly. Nobody complained. Nobody stood up to leave.

They only waited.

Patiently.

Obediently.

As though waiting itself had become the reason they were there.

I don't remember exactly when I fell asleep.

I wish I could say there was some dramatic moment where exhaustion finally overcame me. That my eyes grew heavy, my head became impossible to hold up, and I slowly drifted away from reality.

It wasn't like that. It was far more ordinary.

One moment I was staring at the electronic display above the counters, watching the numbers crawl forward at a pace that felt almost insulting.

NOW SERVING: 397

The next... I was somewhere else entirely.

Not a dream. Not really.

Just that strange place between being awake and asleep where your mind creates fragments of memories that never happened. I remember hearing the printer in the distance. I remember the fluorescent lights above me buzzing louder and louder. I remember thinking that the entire building sounded like it was breathing.

Then my head dropped.

And everything went quiet.

When I opened my eyes again, my neck ached from the awkward angle I had been sleeping in. My mouth was dry. My phone remained untouched in my pocket.

For a brief moment, I had forgotten where I was. Then the smell returned.

Old carpet. Paper. Dust.

The faint scent of coffee that had been sitting somewhere for far too long.

The DMV.

I sat up straight and looked around. Nothing had changed.

The same tired faces. The same uncomfortable chairs. The same employees sitting behind their counters.

Except... The screen.

My eyes immediately went to the electronic display.

NOW SERVING: 508

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

I leaned forward, staring at the numbers as if they might rearrange themselves into something more reasonable.

My ticket rested in my hand.

Only seven people ahead of me.

A strange feeling washed over me.

Relief.

Actual relief.

After what felt like an entire afternoon trapped in that chair, I was finally close.

I almost laughed.

"About time," I whispered.

The man beside me was gone. That thought lingered for a moment. Then I dismissed it.

People came and went all the time. I must have missed it while I was asleep. That was the logical explanation.

The only explanation.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.

No missed calls. No messages. I checked the time.

10:12 A.M.

I stared at the screen.

Then looked back at the DMV around me.

Then back at my phone.

10:12.

I frowned.

That couldn't be right. I had fallen asleep for maybe a few minutes.

Ten minutes at most.

But the room felt different.

Not physically.

Just... older.

Like I had left for longer than I actually had.

I glanced toward the counters.

The same employees continued working.

The same movements. The same expressions.

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

Next.

No one looked enthusiastic. No one looked relieved to be almost finished. No one looked like they had been waiting at all.

I looked at the screen again.

NOW SERVING: 509

The number changed. Almost reassuringly.

I should have questioned how nearly a hundred people had been processed while I slept for only ten minutes. But I didn't.

Because my number was coming.

And that was all that mattered.

The strange feeling in my stomach disappeared beneath a much simpler emotion.

Patience.

After all... I had waited this long.

What was a few more minutes?

The numbers moved faster after that. Or at least, they seemed to.

There was a strange comfort in watching the display change. Each number disappearing meant I was getting closer. Each person standing from their chair meant I was moving forward.

That was all that mattered.

The room could have been falling apart around me, and I probably wouldn't have noticed.

Because eventually...

NOW SERVING: 513

I sat up straighter.

My ticket felt heavier in my hand.

The paper was slightly crumpled from how long I had been holding it.

I smoothed it out carefully.

515.

Two more.

A woman walked toward the counter.

She handed over a stack of documents.

The employee behind the glass barely looked at her.

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

The woman walked away.

A man stood.

Then another.

Then finally...

NOW SERVING: 515

The speakers crackled.

My heart jumped slightly.

I stood.

For the first time in what felt like hours, my legs reminded me that I had been sitting still for too long. I stretched them briefly before walking toward the counter.

The employee looked up. At least, I think she did. Her eyes moved toward me, but her expression remained unchanged.

No greeting. No acknowledgment.

Just waiting.

I placed my documents on the counter.

"Good morning."

Nothing.

She picked up the papers. Flipped through them.

"Driver's license renewal."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

She typed something into the computer. The screen reflected faintly against her glasses.

"Proof of identity."

I handed over my driver's license. She scanned it.

"Proof of residence."

I handed over my utility bill.

"Insurance verification."

I handed over my insurance card.

Everything seemed normal.

Almost.

She continued typing. The silence stretched. Then she spoke.

"Certificate of continued existence."

I blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

The employee looked up.

"Certificate of continued existence."

I waited for the punchline. There wasn't one. I gave a small laugh.

"Is that a new requirement?"

No response. She simply waited.

I looked around, expecting someone nearby to react. Nobody did. The people in line behind me stared ahead. The employee folded her hands.

"Do you have it?"

I stared at her.

"No. I don't have that."

She nodded. Not disappointed. Just accepting information.

"That is okay."

I exhaled. For some reason, I felt embarrassed. As if I had failed a test I didn't know I was taking.

She typed something.

"Additional documentation will be required."

"Additional?"

She printed a small slip of paper and slid it beneath the glass. I picked it up.

At first, I thought I had read it wrong.

"Proof of original identity."

I looked back at her.

"Excuse me?"

"Proof of original identity."

"What does that mean?"

The employee tilted her head slightly.

Not confused. More like she was trying to understand why I was confused.

"Your original identity."

I stared at the paper.

"This isn't a real thing."

She did not argue. She did not defend it. She simply pressed another key. The printer beside her came to life. A second paper emerged. She placed it in front of me.

"Proof of independent thought."

I felt my eyebrows rise.

"Okay, hold on."

My voice grew slightly louder.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

The employee looked at me. She wasn't offended that I was raising my voice. She wasn't bothered. She was simply waiting for the next step.

"Sir," she said so monotoned. "If you do not have the required documentation, that is not a problem."

I relaxed slightly.

"O-okay."

"You will be moved to secondary processing."

The way she said it made my stomach tighten.

"Secondary processing?"

"Yes."

"What does that mean?"

She picked up my ticket. Looked at it. Then looked back at me.

"You will wait there."

I almost laughed.

"Wait?"

A pause.

"I've already been waiting."

The employee stared at me. Not coldly. Almost sympathetically.

"Yes."

A chill ran through me. Because for a moment, I thought she understood something I didn't.

She slid my ticket back across the counter.

"Please proceed to the next waiting area."

Then back at her.

"How long will that take?"

The employee's fingers returned to her keyboard. The conversation was already over.

"Next."

I stood there for another second. Waiting for her to explain. Waiting for her to tell me this was a misunderstanding. That someone had made a mistake.

But she didn't.

She had already moved on. The person behind me stepped forward. The employee began processing them.

Stamp.

Keyboard.

Paper.

Next.

I walked away from the counter holding the strange paperwork in my hand. I followed the sign pointing toward Secondary Processing.

I don't know what I imagined. Maybe another large waiting area with dozens of chairs. Maybe a different set of counters. Maybe some explanation for why I had been redirected after completing everything required of me.

Instead, it was a narrow hallway tucked behind the main service area.

The kind of hallway you normally wouldn't notice.

The walls were the same dull beige as the rest of the building, decorated with the same faded posters and outdated government notices. The only difference was that nobody had bothered pretending this area was meant to welcome people.

There were no televisions. No vending machines. No magazines sitting on tables.

Only chairs.

Rows and rows of chairs.

I stepped inside slowly.

A few people sat scattered throughout the room.

Not many.

Maybe fifteen.

Twenty at most.

The strange thing was how quiet it was.

The main waiting room had been filled with noise. Children crying. People talking on phones. Chairs scraping against the floor.

This room had none of that.

Everyone sat facing the same direction. Not toward a screen. Not toward a counter. Just forward.

Waiting.

I looked around for an employee.

Nobody was behind a desk. Nobody was calling numbers. Nobody appeared to be in charge.

I stood there for a moment, wondering if I had misunderstood. Then an older woman sitting near the wall glanced at me.

"You got moved too?"

Her voice startled me.

I turned.

"Yeah."

She nodded slowly.

"First time?"

I hesitated.

"Yeah."

She looked away.

"Thought so."

I sat down a few chairs away from her.

"How long have you been here?"

The question came out naturally. The same question you ask anyone trapped in a waiting room.

The woman didn't answer immediately. She looked toward the empty counter at the front of the room.

"I don't know."

I frowned.

"You don't know?"

She shook her head.

"I remember walking in."

A pause.

"I remember taking a number."

She looked down at her hands.

"But I don't remember why."

The air felt colder. I forced a small laugh.

"Yeah, well, I think everyone forgets why they're here after sitting in a DMV long enough."

She didn't laugh. She just looked at me.

"I mean it."

The humor disappeared from my face. The woman looked tired. Not physically. Something deeper. Like she had been carrying a thought for too long and was finally too exhausted to keep holding it.

"What was your number?" I asked.

Her eyes moved downward. She reached into her pocket. Pulled out a small piece of paper.

She stared at it.

For a moment, she looked confused. Then concerned. Then almost afraid.

"I'm 487"

She swallowed.

"What's your name?" I asked

She hesitated.

"I..." She paused and looked away then back to me.

"I don't know."

I leaned slightly closer.

"What do you mean?"

She turned the paper toward me.

The ink had faded. Or maybe it had never been printed clearly. There was a number. But she stared at it like it belonged to someone else.

A silence settled between us. Then she folded the ticket and placed it back into her pocket.

"I think I've been here before."

I stared at her.

"Before today?"

She looked at me.

"I don't know."

The answer should have sounded ridiculous.

Instead... it felt familiar.

I looked down at my own ticket.

515.

For some reason, I held onto it tighter.

A small piece of proof. Something that belonged to me. Something that told me I was still myself.

The speakers above us crackled. Everyone in the room looked up.

My body tensed. A voice came through the speaker. Distorted. Almost too quiet to understand.

"Now processing..."

Static.

A pause.

Then:

"Applicant."

Nobody moved. The room remained silent. I looked around.

"Did they call someone?"

Nobody answered. The older woman stared forward. Like she hadn't heard anything.

The speaker crackled again.

"Applicant."

This time, I noticed something.

There was no number.

No name.

Just a word.

Applicant

The woman beside me leaned toward me slightly.

"You don't want them to forget you."

I looked at her.

"What?"

She stared ahead.

"When they stop calling you by your number..."

Her voice became barely a whisper.

"That's when you know you were never here."

I felt a strange pressure build in my chest.

"What does that mean?"

She didn't answer.

Because the speaker had started again.

This time, it wasn't distorted. It was clear.

"Applicant 515."

My head lifted. My ticket felt cold in my hand.

Everyone in the room turned.

Not toward me. Toward the speaker.

Then, slowly... toward me.

I had the terrifying realization that I didn't know if I wanted them to call my number anymore. The room remained silent. For a moment, I didn't move. I waited for someone else to stand. Someone else to react. Someone else to tell me that this was normal. Nobody did.

The older woman beside me looked at me with an expression I couldn't understand. Something closer to pity.

"That's your number," she whispered.

I looked down.

My fingers tightened around the paper.

"T-thanks."

The words came out automatically.

The speaker crackled again.

"Applicant 515. Proceed to processing."

I stood. My legs felt heavier than they should have. Every instinct I had told me not to move. To stay seated. To ignore the voice. But there was something worse than fear.

Curiosity.

I needed to know.

I walked toward the door at the back of the room.

The hallway beyond was longer than I remembered. That shouldn't have been possible. I had only walked through it once. Yet the farther I went, the less familiar it became.

The walls looked identical. The lights breathed. Every door had the same gray color and the same small rectangular window.

Finally, I reached another counter. A single employee sat behind the glass. A man that looked older than the others.

Not elderly. Just worn. His face carried the same emptiness I had noticed before. The same absence.

"Ticket."

I handed it over.

He scanned it.

"Drivers license renewal?."

I nodded.

"Yes."

He typed something into his computer.

"Verification required."

"Of what?"

He looked up.

"My identity."

I laughed quietly.

Not because it was funny. Because I was tired.

"Isn't that what we've been doing?"

The employee didn't answer. He held out his hand.

"Identification."

I reached into my wallet.

Pulled out my driver's license. He took it. Looked at the card. Then looked at me.

Something changed. Barely. A hesitation.

"You don't remember."

My stomach tightened.

"Remember what?"

He placed the license back onto the counter.

"Your name."

The room became silent. Even the lights seemed quieter.

I opened my mouth. I knew the answer. I had answered this question thousands of times.

My name.

It was simple.

It was mine.

But when I tried to say it... nothing came.

A strange panic rose in my chest. I searched through my memories.

My childhood. My parents. My friends. My home. My job.

Everything felt distant.

Not gone.

Just covered by a thick fog I couldn't push through.

"I..."

My voice shook.

"I know it."

The employee waited. I looked down at my ticket. The number stared back at me.

The only thing I could hold onto. The only thing that felt certain.

"My name is..."

I stopped.

The silence stretched. The employee didn't rush me. He didn't look annoyed. He simply waited. Like he had done this countless of times. Like he knew how this ended.

"...Five hundred fifteen."

The employee typed. No surprise. No correction. No hesitation.

"Identity confirmed."

My heart sank.

"Wait."

He printed something.

"You didn't even check."

The employee slid the paper beneath the glass.

"You provided the required information."

I grabbed it.

It was my license.

Everything looked correct.

My photograph.

My date of birth.

My address.

Everything.

Except the name.

I stared at the line. Over and over. Unable to understand why it felt wrong. Unable to understand why it felt right.

NAME: 515

I looked up. The employee had already moved on.

"Next."

I stood there. Waiting for someone to notice. Someone to correct it. Someone to tell me there had been a mistake.

Nobody did.

So eventually... I walked out.

The exit doors opened automatically as I approached. Bright sunlight poured through. For a moment, I froze.

The outside world felt impossibly large. Cars moved through the parking lot. People walked past. The wind touched my face. I had forgotten what fresh air felt like.

I stepped outside.

And for the first time all day... I felt free.

I reached into my wallet one last time. Looked at the license. At the name. At the proof that I existed. I tried saying my name aloud.

The name I had carried my entire life.

The name my parents gave me.

The name that was supposed to belong to me.

Nothing came.

Only silence.

So I looked back down.

At the only thing I knew.

At the only thing the world still recognized.

515

Just wanted to bring attention to it

It was a Sunday when it started. August 1st, 2026, to be exact. Maybe the day after, technically, I didn’t check the time and it might have been after midnight. I was asleep already, though I like to stay up late, but I had work in the morning. I work as a janitor for a hospital, and I’m required early so I sleep early.

Point being someone knocked on my door. My bedroom door. I live alone. It was really sharp, three taps, not quiet or subtle at all. It woke me up and I had this sense that something was wrong. The bed was damp with my sweat, but I was confused. I thought it was the last vestiges of some nightmare I was having, but something inside me pushed me to make sure.

I sleep next to a shotgun, loaded, just the safety on, which I grabbed. I wasn’t too quiet or careful when I opened my door, and I didn’t look too hard.

The thing is, my home isn’t big. It’s out of the way, surrounded by trees. I have neighbors but you can hardly see them through the trees between us. I’m also poor. My door opens immediately into the living room, and I can see all of it. There’s a bathroom, a combined kitchen, but the bathroom was on the other end of the house, and it’s door was open. There wasn’t anything there. The light was on, I couldn’t remember if I turned it off before I went to bed, but it was well lit, the ceiling fan spinning slowly. I should have looked harder. I didn’t see anything wrong so I figured it must have been a nightmare and went back to bed.

Nothing happened for the rest of the night. I woke up late the next morning, had to rush to get ready and get to work, only checked my phone when I got home. I had a message from an unknown number. It was a video.

I played it, and from the angle it was immediately clear this was from inside my home. From in the middle of my living room, facing my closed bedroom door, taken at head height. It didn’t shake or stutter, and I watched as I saw my bedroom door open, me inside. I was shirtless and holding a shotgun. The video caught the fear on my face as I looked around the room, and clearly recorded my eyes passing *right through* where the camera was.

Then I went back into my room and the video ended. Obviously, my first reaction was to whisper “what the fuck” out loud. Then, naturally, I text the number asking who this was. No response. I told them I was going to call the police if they didn’t tell me who they were (I’m going to call the police anyway, obviously) but still no response.

I just don’t understand how I couldn’t have seen them. There’s no way. They would hav even standing right under the light. When I got home I cross referenced where I was standing, and they’d have half blocked the view to the bathroom.

I called the police to show them the video, and they said they’d send an officer down later that day. I live in a small town, even for non-emergencies like this the couple cops around don’t have much better to do. I double checked my doors were locked and took a shower to take my mind off things. When I got out, my phone was gone. I swear I left it on the bathroom counter, but it was just gone. The front door was unlocked, too.

This freaked me the fuck out. I was absolutely sure I locked the front door before I took that shower. No way I didn’t, not after what just happened. I made a mess looking for my phone, and I nearly jumped out of my fucking skin when I heard the knocks at the door. When I checked the peep hole, shotgun in hand, it was Officer Kyle. I knew Officer Kyle, he’d been to my 20th birthday party. Let me tell you I was relieved to see him, practically threw open the door.

”Holy shit, Officer Kyle, someone just broke into my house.“ I dont see myself as particularly dramatic, but a lot of the people who live around here are stone cold and chiseled from marble, so he just looked at me with a blank stare.

”Yeah. Got the call. That’s why I’m here. You mind if I come in?”

I got out of his way at that. “No, you don’t understand, it happened again. Someone just broke in and stole my phone.”

He did turn to me at that. “Where did he go?”

”Well, I didn’t see him, and… it sounds stupid now but I just took a shower, made absolutely sure to lock up. When I got out my phone was gone and my door was unlocked. I swear, I didn’t misplace it, I’m not misremembering, someone was just in my house and took my phone.”

I could immediately tell on his face he didn’t fully believe me. I am a forgetful person, it’s not too crazy to think I could have misplaced it. I know I didn’t, but I see how it might come across.

”What about that thing you called about? Said someone was recording you from inside the house?”

I showed him where the guy was standing, went through the whole song and dance, it was useless. He was brief when he left, and I can’t blame him. It sounds ridiculous.

Except it happened again last night. I heard that fucking knock on my door again, three sharp knocks. It’s no question, I locked every window, door, everything in the house last night. I had half a mind to blast a hole through my bedroom door when I heard it, but instead I just took my shotgun and sprinted out there. Except I did see something this time, in my living room.

Nailed to the wall was my phone. My heart was racing, I backed into my bedroom again, gun pointed at the door. The fucking invisible man was tormenting me or something. Should I shoot blind? Should I run? I didn’t know what to do. My fan just kept spinning. It stayed like that for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, I figured it hadn’t touched me yet, so I went to grab my phone off the wall. It was pretty clear someone took the SIM card out, and the nail through the middle made sure I wasnt getting any use out of it.

There was nothing I could do about it. I locked the front door again, prayed to God I wasn’t locking it inside with me, and didn‘t get a wink of sleep for the rest of the night. Whatever the fuck that was, it wanted me to know it could get in whenever it wanted. When I got back from work the next day, there was a printed Polaroid taken *of me looking at my phone on the wall.* It was taken from my bedroom. I called the police again, and it just wasn’t enough. The picture wasn’t taken this time, but anyone could have shot it they said. They told me not to call over this reason again.

That brings me to to tonight. I guzzled about four energy drinks, and I’ve been camping out on the couch in my living room with my shotgun pointed at the door. I’m going to wait for it to try and come in, then blast it.

I was scared shitless. I was doubting my sanity. Maybe I was crazy, maybe this is all in my head. But I still had the Polaroid in my shirt pocket. Something was fucking with me, and I would not stand for it.

My heart jumped up into my throat when the lock turned, and I shot a slug straight through my door. Then another, and another. I waited a while, but the door didn’t open. You should have an idea of my curiosity now, so it should come as no surprise that I opened the door.

There was nothing there. Just an empty porch, moon hanging in the sky. I nearly shit myself.

There was nothing more that I could do. I went and sat back on my couch. Maybe it’s invisible corpse was on my doorstep. I wouldn’t be able to take it if this kept happening.

It took 15 minutes for me to notice the blood. I dont know when I became able to see it, it‘s like it was always there. There was a small splatter of blood, on my porch, a thin line trailing behind it. That emboldened me to get up and properly investigate. Three streaks, running from my porch to the woods. I actually managed to find one of the slugs embedded in a tree. it had blood on it.

There was a big, big problem though. This wasn’t anywhere near enough blood. If I had been hit by that, I’d be ripped in half. This was… it wasn’t even a cup of blood’s worth that I could see. If I hit a person, it should be everywhere. Unless, God forbid, I only grazed them. I freaked out and went back inside, locking my door and propping a chair up under the handle for good measure. I took the slug with me.

There was a Polaroid pinned up to my wall. Same place the phone was. This one showed me on my porch, taken from the perspective of someone sitting on my couch. It was probably the most demoralizing thing I could have seen. It had been shot with 3 shotgun slugs, and had the wherewithal to mock me by sitting on the same couch I’d been waiting for it in. I stayed inside the rest of the night. When I opened my door in the morning, the blood was gone.

That made me panic. That was what was finally going to prove to the cops that I wasn’t insane. I remembered the slug in my pocket and rushed to take it out. The blood had been dry on it since the start, didn’t stick to my fingers or cloth.

When I looked at the bullet, though, there was still blood on it. Thing is, as soon as I took it out, the blood started smoking, and was gone in a second. Hardly had the time to realize what was happening to it.

I don’t know what to do anymore. I’m scared. The cops are going to be fully certain I’m insane if I tell them about this. I don’t have any proof.

Im going to buy a camera tomorrow. I hope to good whatever this thing is will show up on it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How long has it been now? 3? 4 weeks? It’s hard to keep track of time these days. Life has been pretty busy lately.

The house is a lot quieter now. When the police aren’t here, at least. You’d think that they lived here at this point. But I do still get at least some of my privacy.

It’s in those moments when the house is dark and the only sound is that of the leaky bathroom faucet that I really think about what I’ve done. Or why I did it. Or how it could’ve been avoided, or blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

It really doesn’t matter now. I’ve come to terms with it. The cops already know. They’re just waiting for the proper evidence to present itself. And given the way these last few days have been going, I don’t think I have much longer.

I’ve read enough books and studied enough forensics to know the best way to clean the mess I created. How to make sure the white blood cells were completely removed. How to soak my hacksaw in bleach before tossing it in the river. But, most importantly, I knew that the body could never be recovered.

Dental records were a big one. That’s why I removed her teeth and filed them down one by one. I boiled and stuffed them in a ziplock bag afterward.

This was positively the most difficult part of the process. I was forced to look at her the entire time. The once love-filled eyes that had turned bitter and resentful over the years. The eyes that now stared up at me, dead and hollow, her previously oak-colored irises now appearing grey and pale.

Her nails would almost certainly contain my DNA beneath them. Flakes of skin, maybe some blood from the struggle. Regardless, they needed to be removed as well.

I remembered when her hands were so soft and youthful. She used to paint her nails herself every two weeks, and I’d sit on the bed with her while we talked endlessly about everything and nothing at the same time.

I don’t know what changed. Maybe it was all of the arguments. We had a way of arguing about everything and nothing as well. I thought it was normal. Arguments were bound to happen.

I flushed the 10 nails down the toilet before burning her newly raw fingertips, just to be on the safe side. I kissed her hand for a long while, tears welling up in my eyes before I forced them away.

I whispered to myself, “Why would you make me do this?” as my head fell into my hands. My composure kept slipping, and I kept having to wrestle it back.

Now came the messy part.

Part of me was actually glad it was so messy in a weird, twisted kind of way. Cleaning the blood afterward gave me a task to focus on. I didn’t think about her laugh. I didn’t think about her warmth. I thought about making damn sure there wasn’t a speck of blood left anywhere in that bathroom.

When I was done, the house smelled like a hospital. Chemicals filled the air, causing my head to pound more than it already was. The atmosphere was cold and heavy. It felt like I was in a hospital room.

I had found myself with two black trash bags with a combined weight of 120 pounds, give or take. Arms, legs, and head in one. Torso and hacksaw in the other.

I walked out of the house whistling, two trash bags slung over my shoulders. It was the cusp of dawn. There was a misty blue haze outside. It smelled like summertime.

The neighborhood was silent. It must have been around 4 in the morning. I threw the bags in the bed of my truck, adjusted my baseball cap, and hopped in the cab.

My headlights cut through the early morning fog. I had my windows down, and I could smell the exhaust fumes coming from behind me. That smell had pretty much defined my life for the last 10 years. It was a smell that I’d learned to both love and hate.

I turned the radio on and cranked up the volume. I tried singing to myself, but the words left my mouth mechanically. My mind refused to let me escape.

I drove carefully. The exact speed limit, sometimes even a little under. Used signals, made complete stops. All the way out of town. Then out of the next one. Then the town after that.

I drove until I found the most secluded spot I could find. Down dirt roads. Through creeks. Then I walked off beaten paths until I found the right place to lay her to rest.

Just me, her, and my shovel.

Digging proved quite difficult due to the sheer amount of roots I had to cut through. I must’ve been there for at least 4 hours before the deed was done.

I spent that time talking. Talking to the trees. Talking to the bags. Talking to myself. I couldn’t stand to be alone in silence.

I broke down a lot when filling the grave. Each pile of dirt that covered more and more of those bags was like a needle being pressed into my nervous system.

I didn’t want to just leave her like that. I didn’t want her to just be cast aside, left to rot. I searched until I found the most vibrant flowers I could find and laid them on the grave.

I said my final goodbyes through sniffles and tears before making the trek back to my truck.

The rest of the day was a blur. I didn’t get home until nearly 8 o’clock. I stopped by the emptiest car wash I saw on the way home and scrubbed my truck clean.

I got the mud off the tires. Rinsed the bed out with bleach. I even put a new air freshener in the cab.

When I got home, I half-expected cops to be waiting to arrest me. When I found the house as empty as it was when I left, I let out a sigh of relief.

I immediately took a shower. I scrubbed myself raw for around 45 minutes straight before finally allowing myself to dry off. The entire time, it was like God was punishing me.

I kept getting flashes of her. Our wedding. Our first date. Our first argument. The last argument. It all just kept replaying in my head over and over. Like a sickness.

I knew I had to get my story right. The house was clean. The body was gone. The weapon was gone.

I was just a helpless victim. One of the millions of men a year whose wife leaves them. Happens all the time.

Oh, so she left without taking anything? She left without telling anybody? Without so much as a goodbye? Who’s going to believe that?

I didn’t sleep that night. I had to have a long, hard talk with myself. I wasn’t getting out of this one. But I wasn’t going to turn myself in. I was going to be free… for as long as I could possibly manage.

It was my first time being free in 15 years. Even if it lasted a day. Even if it lasted a week. I wasn’t going to spend that time stressing.

I turned it off. I closed my heart to it.

I ignored calls from her mother. Her father. Coworkers, friends, relatives. Everybody. It was none of their business.

They tried knocking, and I tuned it out. All the way up until I heard that dreaded announcement after three booming knocks.

“This is GPD. If anyone’s inside, I need you to come out here and talk to me.”

I waited. I wanted to wake up. I didn’t want to accept.

Three more knocks.

“GPD, if you do not answer the door, we will be using force to come inside.”

One last moment of silence. I breathed to myself. I closed my eyes.

“Sir, this door is coming do…”

I opened the door, greeting the officers with a blank look on my face.

“Sir, we’re gonna have to ask you to come down to the station with us for questioning.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t bicker. I simply asked for a lawyer and rode with the officers back to the station.

The entire time, I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t even speak to my lawyer. If they wanted her so badly, they would have to work for it. Because it sure as hell wasn’t going to be coming from me.

They held me for 7 hours that day. A mere two days after I did what I did. I got two days of “peace.”

They had to let me go. They had no proof. But that didn’t stop them from watching me. 24 hours a day, they were somewhere in my neighborhood.

People threw things at my house. Vigils for her were set up on the sidewalk. It seemed like there were constantly people watching me because they literally were.

I didn’t budge. I spoke only when absolutely necessary. My lips remained sealed, and my doors remained locked. Both when I was home and when I was forced to go back down to the station.

That’s why what’s happening makes no sense to me.

It started with her teeth. I had gotten rid of them the same way I’d gotten rid of the rest of her. Yet somehow, when I woke up one morning a few weeks after my catastrophic mistake… they were in a neat pile beside me on the bed.

I could see the file marks on all 32 of them.

I panicked and scooped them into my hands and flushed them down the toilet, my eyes wide with disbelief.

I poked my head outside. That unmarked black SUV was still parked a few houses down. Both officers watched me like hawks. I waved to be less suspicious, but I think it had the opposite effect.

They took it as me waving them over, and they both approached quickly.

“Got anything you wanna tell us?” the fat one asked excitedly.

“Lovely weather we’re having,” I smiled. “I bet you’d love to spend the day with your family. Or, then again, maybe you’d rather spend your time stalking me.”

Their stern faces never changed.

I tried my best not to give off even an ounce of suspicious behavior, even though my heart was in my stomach and my mind raced endlessly.

After closing the door in their faces, I spent the majority of that day peeking out the blinds, paranoid beyond belief.

My lawyer called a few times. My story never changed. I didn’t know where she was. I was convincing myself just as much as I was convincing them.

The next day, not only had the teeth come back, but the nails were back too. They were cleaner, but I could still see their bloodied roots. I could still see some of the chipped nail polish.

Two neat little piles. Taunting me.

I was more angry than panicked this time. I was not going to submit to this insanity. I didn’t even try to get rid of them this time. It wouldn’t make a difference whether they were found here or in that dark, desolate spot in the woods.

I put them in her jewelry box this time. Then I took that jewelry box, and I carried it to the attic.

I buried it under some old tarps and boxes and took one last look at it before going back down the ladder.

“I guess I really am fucking losing it,” I whispered to myself as I climbed down.

More phone calls with my lawyer. More questions from the police. More prodding, more watching, more protests. And all I could do that day was crack a few beers and watch a few ball games.

I passed out at around 10 that night and woke up cuddling my wife’s arm the next morning. I think the smell is what woke me up. That unmistakable stench of death and decay.

It burned my nostrils, and when I opened my eyes to find that torn flesh in my face, I nearly vomited in bed. It wasn’t just one arm. Both arms and both legs had come crawling back to bed with me.

Only… the nails were reattached. Like they hadn’t been removed to begin with.

The polish looked fresher. The teeth looked whiter. I checked, and the jewelry box in the attic was empty.

In that moment, I felt a spark. A mixture of hope, anger, grief, and love all combined into one. In the most unreal circumstances, reality was starting to close in, and I found myself sobbing like I had the night I killed her.

I didn’t leave bed that day. I lay there with my wife, clutching her arms and legs, crying until I was too exhausted to cry anymore. My will grew weak, but my mind had never felt so clear.

She was in bed with me the next morning. Well, she was there in a sense. Her arms and legs were reconnected to her torso, but the limbs still crawled with maggots and decay.

But she was there, damned if she wasn’t there. My love. My sweet, sweet girl. Her T-shirt was ripped and stained with dirt. Her hair was matted and crunchy.

“I… am so sorry, my love,” was all I could think to say to her.

She turned to me, her jaw slack and her eyes as dead as a nail.

“That’s okay, you silly goose,” she sang. “I love you no matter what happens!”

I began to cry yet again.

“I love you so much,” I sobbed. “I want you back. Please, please, just come back.”

I begged her as snot ran from my nose. I wiped it away on my sleeve.

“Oh, honey,” she whimpered. “Accidents happen all the time. That’s what this was, right, my sweet boy?”

I nodded furiously.

“It was… it was… it was an accident, baby.”

I could hardly speak. Her rotten arm extended, and she caressed my face with her cold, slimy hand.

“I know it was, sweet pea. I know you’d never hurt me on purpose.”

She paused.

“…but now you have to tell them what you did, okay? Can you do that for me?”

My face went beet red. I swallowed hard and wiped the tears from my face.

“They’ll kill me. I know they’ll kill me. They’re just waiting to catch me. They’re waiting to sentence me.”

She began hushing me, soothing me softly as she petted my hair.

“There, there, sweetie,” she replied. “Dying isn’t such a bad thing. I’m free now, honey. If I could, I’d tell them you did me a favor. But I want you back. I want you to come be with me. Please, honey?”

I wanted to be with her too. More than anything, I wished I could take back what I did.

I solemnly agreed.

“That’s my boy,” she announced seductively. “This will all be over soon. We’ll dance and sing. We can play together again.”

I nodded to myself assuredly. I leaned over and gave her a kiss and took a deep breath.

Stepping outside, I waved the cops over. My eyes were red with tears, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

“She’s upstairs.”

That’s all I told them.

One officer went upstairs while I waited on the porch with the other. I kept smiling to myself. The sky looked so beautiful. The trees danced in the wind. The summer air was like a gift from God.

A few minutes went by before the first officer returned.

“Very funny, son,” he remarked sarcastically. “Now, do you wanna tell us where she really is?”

My smile dropped.

“What do you mean?” I scoffed. “I was just talking to her.”

“Cuff this sick son of a bitch,” the first officer barked.

I was placed into the back of the unmarked SUV, kicking myself all the while.

“She lied,” I whispered. “She lied to me. All she does is lie. Why does she lie all the time? This is why. This is why. Why won’t she stop lying?”

I had no fight left. I told them where the grave was. I had to personally show it to them. The flowers were still there. The grave was untouched. And I felt a sickening numbness.

I told them my story. I told them what I did. Told them that she came back to me and that, if it weren’t for her, I’d have been a free man, at least for a little while longer.

I actually begged them to give me the death penalty. I couldn’t stop seeing her. Sitting beside me in my cell. Crouched in the corner every night. Whispering to me how she wanted us to be together forever.

But… I didn’t get the death penalty.

They deemed me “not fit to stand trial.”

Sentenced to an indefinite stay at the state home for the criminally insane.

Padded cells. Doctors. Needles. Medication.

And despite all of the debate that has gone on about death sentences in this country, there has remained one constant.

The insane do not receive capital punishment.

I’m writing this now because she keeps beckoning me. Keeps begging me to join her.

And despite the hatred I have, the burning rage she has inspired, I cannot stop loving her.

And despite what the state dubs legal… we will be reunited.

It started with one innocent-looking porcelain baby doll on my front porch. The paint was chipped. The bonnet was dirty. But the eyes looked… strange.

They looked too real. Too human. But I wasn’t concerned with the appearance. I was concerned with how the thing got there.

I lived alone. Definitely in the middle of nowhere. My closest neighbor was 10 miles away, and all that surrounded my house were woods and wildlife.

I scratched my head before scooping the doll up in my hands. I brought it inside because, honestly, what else was I supposed to do with it?

I tossed it on the couch and went about my day as normal. It was weird, though. I had spent nearly the entire day outside, and when I came back, the doll was sitting upright, its eyes staring daggers into my soul.

I tried to sit on the couch and watch some TV, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the thing was watching me, even though every time I checked, it was in the same position.

Eventually, I had to turn it around completely. Even that didn’t work, though. It wasn’t too long after that when I decided it was time to go to my bedroom.

I drifted off to sleep after curling up in bed for a few minutes while Breaking Bad played in the background.

I woke up to the sound of rain tapping against my roof while low rumbles of thunder boomed every few minutes. It was my type of morning.

I decided I wanted to enjoy a nice cup of coffee while I sat on the porch and enjoyed the weather. I approached the kitchen sink to wash my favorite coffee mug. As I reached for the faucet, I looked up and nearly had a heart attack when I noticed another doll standing on the windowsill outside.

This one looked… older. Not in the sense of the material. Like, literally older. She had grey hair. A quilted sweater. And spectacles to complete the look.

The cheeks were rosy, and a warm smile was stitched into her face. This one was stuffed instead of porcelain, but the eyes still looked so uncannily human.

I opened the window and grabbed it. She was soaked with rainwater. The more I looked at it, though, the more I realized that she looked weirdly… familiar. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

I walked to the living room, old lady doll in hand, with the intention of taking the porcelain doll from yesterday and moving the two of them to an empty china cabinet in my dining room.

I found myself scratching my head again when I entered the living room, though. I could’ve sworn this baby doll was on the other side of the couch when I went to bed last night…

I don’t know whether I was coping or if I genuinely convinced myself that I was remembering wrong, but I didn’t pay the new position much mind. I just grabbed the thing, returned to the dining room, and set the two toys up in their new display case.

I made my coffee, enjoyed the weather, and when the coffee was done, I got to work. Cleaning the house, doing some laundry, getting a bit of writing done. Before I knew it, the sun was setting again.

I couldn’t stop staring at that new old lady doll from earlier. I racked my brain trying to figure out why it was so familiar. Why I felt like I was so close to understanding, yet so far away. That’s when it hit me.

It was that quilted sweater. The red and black pattern. The puffy sleeves. It was identical to the sweater my grandmother used to wear.

She had died 10 years prior after a long battle with lung cancer. She wore that sweater all the time. It was a gift to her from my mom a few years before she died.

Call me crazy, but I actually slept comfortably that night. It felt like my grandma was here with me. I had been delusional enough to convince myself that this was some kind of sign from heaven that she was watching over me. That these dolls were her way of saying hello.

The next day, though, when I found a wooden doll that looked an awful lot like my mother… I didn’t know how much more I could chalk this up to signs from above.

I found it wedged between two tree branches, right in my backyard. It was low enough to be obvious, but high enough that I had to climb to retrieve it.

Unlike the others, this one looked brand new. Freshly stained wood. Smooth as silk. Not a single chip in sight.

I went to put it in the display case and found that the two previous dolls, once again, seemed to have moved. Not much. But enough for me to question my sanity again.

They weren’t outside of the case, but they were on different shelves. I put the new wooden doll between them and closed the door behind me.

I bought trail cameras, but even though I knew for a fact I adjusted them just right, every day they’d either end up pointed directly at the ground or aimed at the sky.

Every day for the next week, dolls kept showing up around my house. Some were left on my car. Some were partially buried in the backyard. I even found one on my roof.

Each one was impossibly personal.

My dad. My sister. Aunts. Uncles. Teachers from elementary school. Old friends I hadn’t even thought about for years. They all had particularly defining features.

My mom’s long black hair and green eyes. My dad’s suit and tie. A “world’s greatest teacher” mug stitched into Mrs Farmers hands. Just little reassurances that I wasn’t completely alone out here. That they were sent here to keep me company in my lonely house in the woods.

I cleaned them. I admired them. Sometimes I even talked to them, and sometimes… it felt like they talked back. Some nights I’d even hear them talking to each other.

The display case kept getting fuller and fuller, and the dolls never stayed where they were supposed to be. They rearranged themselves somehow. They’d be in different orders. Sometimes they’d be facing the wrong direction.

It was like a game. I loved when they played games. In a weird way… I didn’t feel as lonely as I did before.

I placed the last doll in the old china cabinet. My best friend from 5th grade. I hadn’t seen him in over a decade. Hadn’t talked to him either. Yet, here he was. Visiting me once again.

I closed the case and pressed my hand against the glass while I stared at my newfound collection.

I sighed to myself, happily, as a smile crept across my face. They were all here. All mine. People I’d lost. Friends and loved ones. What else could I have wanted?

No sooner than I had sat on the couch and flipped the TV on, ready to end the night with some Breaking Bad, I heard a knock at the door.

My head snapped in the direction of the noise. It was a continuous string of slow, deliberate knocks.

I checked my watch. It was nearly 10 o’clock at night. Who could possibly be knocking at this hour?

I approached the door slowly, checking the peephole, only to find nothing. Though, the knocking never stopped.

Ever so cautiously, I began to unlock the door. I slid the chain lock. I twisted the deadbolt and gripped the doorknob as I began to turn it slowly.

When the door opened, I was a bit confused at what I saw. It was… a little girl. No older than 9. Her hair was soaking wet, her skin was pale, she wore pink unicorn pajamas and slippers, and… her eyes were pitch black. Like two endless voids drilled into her skull.

She smiled at me, her teeth unnaturally white and identical.

“I’m sorry to bother you, mister,” she grinned. “Have you seen my dolls?”

My heart dropped. I could feel sweat forming along my hairline. She continued.

“Do you think I could come in and look for my dolls?” she chirped, curiously. “I just really miss my baby dolls, mister.”

I looked at her. I thought deeply about how to respond and chuckled, awkwardly.

“Ehhh…. No,” I replied, bluntly, turning to close the door behind me. I could see her face drop as I slowly shut the door. From a manufactured smile, to a deep frown, to a genuine look of rage.

She kept knocking at the door, but I ignored it. Tuned it out by setting the volume on the television to 98 as I smiled to myself.

These were my toys now.

Sorry, kid…

Finders keepers.

Mr. Creeps uses Ai text to speech on his podcast channels. It’s painfully obvious. I don’t want to listen to a thousand ads a second on YouTube but his podcast channels don’t have the same uploads, and are narrated by ai.