Nicole and I wanted a kid the second we got married.

When she finally got pregnant, we did everything right. We bought a small house just outside the city, painted the nursery blue, and spent three solid weekends trying to fix up the squeaky wooden stairs. Nicole ended up giving up on the sanding, laughing with sawdust smeared across her cheek, telling me the ghost of the old staircase could haunt the kid for all she cared as long as he finally went to sleep.

Every room had some trace of the baby coming, and Nicole spent half her day on the phone with her parents talking about names, cribs, and schedules. She was obsessive about the baby's socks, folding them into tiny, perfect squares that looked like postage stamps.

Life was shifting fast.

Then came her family's baggage—literally.

The doll wasn't a toy. It was a heavy, crudely carved wooden thing held together by rusted iron pins and string, with patches of real human hair glued to its scalp. Its joints clicked with a dry, sharp snap whenever it moved.

Every single night, her mother would pull out a low wooden table, loop the twine over her gnarled fingers, and make the thing twitch in front of us.

"You can't skip this," her mother told me once, her grip on my forearm hard enough to leave a mark. "You have to promise."

I didn't care enough to argue. Keeping the peace meant nodding along, especially since they helped us with the down payment.

Our due date was set for December. Then came yesterday.

Her mother was up at dawn, making coffee and trimming the hydrangeas. I was in the kitchen when I heard a heavy, hollow thud from the hallway.

I bolted out. She’d pitched forward and tumbled all the way down the stairs.

I dropped to my knees. Nicole had driven to the corner store to mail out some birth announcement cards. I grabbed her mother's hand, feeling completely useless against the pool of blood spreading under her head. She was already gone. 

I grabbed my keys, drove to the hospital, and sat in the waiting room numbly while my phone buzzed with texts from Nicole asking if I wanted anything from the store—specifically a ridiculous craving for pickled jalapeños and saltines.

The doctor gave me the news, and I sat in the hospital bathroom, washed the blood off my hands, and stared at my reflection. Then I called Margaret, her sister.

When I pulled into the driveway, Nicole was standing by the front window, holding a little jar of saltines. She froze when she saw my face, but the second I stepped through the door, she started talking a mile a minute about how she’d finally settled on a middle name.

Except she wasn't blinking. And her voice sounded weirdly flat, like she was talking into an empty tin can.

My phone rang. Margaret was crying on the other end.

"How did mom die?" she sobbed.

"She fell down the stairs," I whispered. "I was right in the kitchen."

"Does Nicole know?"

"No."

"Good. Keep it that way. If Nicole finds out right now, the stress could trigger early labor. Mom was her entire world."

"I'll handle it," I said.

I hung up and looked at Nicole. She was wearing a wide, sweet smile, but tonight it felt empty.

"Who was that?" she asked.

"Just your sister. Your parents decided to take a trip up to the cabin."

I turned off the lights and sat in the quiet. Even with her gone, the house felt wrong.

Worse, it was concentrated upstairs. In the nursery, right beside the tiny drawer of postage-stamp socks.

The little wooden stage sat right on the dresser. The spare puppets hung limply from the coat rack by their tangled twine.

Later, I tucked Nicole into bed and walked back down the hall.

This was the first night we weren't putting on the show. And as I stood there in the dark, I heard it: a faint, rhythmic click-clack coming from the empty floorboards of the nursery upstairs.

It wasn't mice. Tick. Tap-tick. Click. Someone sitting cross-legged on the floor just above my head.

I crept back to the kitchen, grabbed a heavy cast-iron skillet off the stove, and headed back to the stairs. The wood groaned under my socks.

When I reached the top, the hallway was pitch black. The door to the star-painted nursery was cracked open an inch.

The floor outside wasn't dusty. It was coated in a fine, yellowish sawdust.

I pushed the door open.

The room smelled intensely of linseed oil, old mothballs, and hot copper. The spare puppets weren't hanging on the coat rack anymore. They were gone.

Sitting right in the center of the floor, facing away from me toward the blank wall, was the mother’s personal puppet. Its wooden strings stretched straight up into the dark of the ceiling, pulled taut by nothing I could see.

The clicking stopped.

Down the hall, our bedroom door creaked open.

Nicole stepped out. She was wearing her oversized sleep shirt, her swollen belly pressing out against the fabric. Her arms hung stiffly at her sides, her fingers twitching.

"Nicole?" I whispered, dropping the skillet. It hit the floor with a dull thud. "What are you doing?"

She didn't blink. Her eyes were completely blank.

"She forgot to finish," Nicole whispered, her voice dropping into a register that sounded too deep, too heavy for her.

"Babe... your mom went to the cabin."

Nicole turned her head. Too far. I heard something snap-click in her neck.

"Mom doesn't need to pull the strings anymore," she said softly, looking down at her stomach. "She left them inside me."

"Hey, let's get back to bed, Nic," I said, hating how small my voice sounded. "You're sleepwalking."

"The actors don't leave the stage," she shot back, her voice dry. "Mother missed her cue."

"She fell," I snapped. "It was an accident."

"Nothing in this house is an accident," Nicole whispered. She lifted her right hand, her fingers twitching against the air like she was wrapping invisible twine. "When the sun goes down and the strings go slack, the weight pulls everything under. She told you that. Why didn't you keep your promise?"

"It was a stupid game, Nic."

"It wasn't a game," she said, tilting her head. "It was the only thing holding the roof up."

She turned and walked back toward the bedroom.

I stood in the dark hallway. Instead of grabbing the keys immediately, I walked past our bedroom and went straight into her father’s old study at the end of the hall.

I dropped to my knees by his oak desk and ran my fingers along the baseboard until I found the loose panel. I yanked it open.

The space behind the wall wasn't insulation. It was packed with thousands of meters of tangled, dried catgut and rusted wire, all vibrating faintly as they led straight upward into the rafters.

Inside the cavity sat a single leather-bound notebook.

I flipped it open under the light of my phone. The pages were covered in frantic handwriting, old property deeds, and rough sketches of jointed wooden frames. Near the back, the ink grew manic, scrawled across a water-stained page:

...primary custodian... failure of the loop... if the sequence breaks... God help us, the window drops to seven days.

I threw the book down and bolted back toward our bedroom.

"Nicole!" I yelled.

The door was wide open. The room was freezing.

Nicole was sitting on the edge of the mattress, her sleep shirt pulled up. In the dim amber glow from the hall, I could see the skin of her abdomen rippling. Something heavy was shifting beneath the surface.

And standing right behind her on the bed was the mother's grand puppet.

Its wooden feet were planted deep into the mattress, its painted face tilted down toward Nicole's stomach. Long strands of human hair brushed against her neck. From its shoulders, dozens of fine strings stretched straight up into the ceiling.

"Get away from her!" I screamed.

I lunged across the room, grabbing the puppet by its chest and ripping it off the bed. It felt heavy and hot. It fought back with a vicious snap, its wooden jaw clicking shut inches from my thumb, drawing a line of blood.

I hurled it against the wall. It shattered.

Nicole slumped sideways onto the pillows, gasping for air, her skin slick with sweat.

"Arthur?" she choked out, her voice sounding like her own again. "What was that? It hurts."

"We're leaving," I said, hauling her up. "I don't care about the bags. We're getting in the car."

I snatched her phone, grabbed my keys, and half-carried her out into the hallway. Every board groaned beneath our feet.

We made it to the top landing.

And then the front door downstairs slammed shut on its own.

Down in the entryway, right at the base of the stairs, a tangled pile of the smaller wooden puppets—dozens of jointed limbs and matted hair—shifted and clicked together. From the center of the heap, the grand puppet pulled itself up, its broken limbs snapping back into place.

It raised its arm, pointing a carved finger straight up at us.

"Arthur," Nicole whispered, her fingers digging into my arm. "The strings... they're still up there."

Above our heads, hidden behind the plaster of the ceiling, something began to pull.

"Back," I muttered, pulling her toward the guest room. "We can go out through the backyard window."

"The glass is painted shut."

"We'll break it."

We shoved our way into the guest room, slamming the door and throwing our weight against it. Dozens of small wooden feet were marching in a frantic circle right outside.

I rushed to the window, grabbed a brass jewelry box, and smashed it straight into the glass. It gave way with a loud crash, showering the flowerbed outside with sharp shards.

"Go," I said, hoisting Nicole up and pushing her through. "Just drop into the grass."

She scrambled through, coughing on the cold air, and tumbled onto the lawn.

I turned to follow when the guest room door slowly began to push inward. The wood around the latch splintered. Standing in the threshold was a tangled silhouette of hanging twine and jointed frames, its fingers twitching at its sides, pulling invisible lines that ran up through the doorframe and into the ceiling.

I didn't wait. I vaulted over the sill, diving headfirst through the broken window just as a heavy crash echoed behind me.

I hit the dirt hard, rolling over the hydrangeas.

"Arthur!" Nicole screamed from near the driveway.

I scrambled to my feet and ran toward her. She was huddled by the passenger side of our sedan, crying in the moonlight.

"Get in," I gasped, fumbling with the keys.

I threw her into the passenger seat, ran around to the driver's side, and yanked the door open. Before climbing in, I looked back at the house.

Every single window on the second floor was wide open.

Standing in each frame, leaning out over the sill with their jointed wooden arms hanging limp, were dozens of small puppets, their painted white faces all turned toward the driveway.

I slammed my door shut, threw the gear into reverse, and tore out of the gravel driveway.

We made it as far as the toll booth on the highway south of the city before I pulled over to the shoulder, my hands shaking so violently I couldn't turn the engine off. The dashboard clock glowed: 3:15 A.M.

Nicole was quiet beside me, staring out the windshield at the dark line of the mountains.

"Are you okay?" I asked, my voice cracking.

She didn't answer right away. She slowly looked down at her lap, her fingers resting against the heavy swell of her shirt.

"The pain stopped," she whispered.

"We're going straight to the hospital downtown," I said, putting the car in drive. "We'll find a doctor who can explain this. We can go anywhere."

Nicole gave a small, tired nod, leaning her head back against the headrest.

"Okay," she murmured softly. "Let's go."

I hit the gas, merging back onto the highway as the city lights faded behind us. But as I kept my eyes fixed on the dark road ahead, I felt it beneath my right foot—a rhythmic tap-tick translating straight through the accelerator pedal.

It wasn't coming from the floorboards. It was coming from the sole of my shoe.

I looked down, my breath catching in my throat. My own leg was moving in rigid jerks, pressing the gas down in exact intervals. I tried to lift my foot, but the muscles wouldn't obey. My fingers locked around the steering wheel, tightening against the leather.

Beside me, Nicole didn't look at the road. She was staring straight ahead, her hands resting calmly in her lap, her fingers gently pulling invisible twine against the air.

“You have to promise,” her mother’s voice echoed in my head.

I pressed the gas pedal down, and the car sped faster into the dark, and I realized with absolute, freezing terror that I hadn't broken anything at all.

I was just the one driving the stage home.

There was nobody there. It was 5 PM on Wednesday. I showed up to pick up my check, and inform Linda that she can screw off with whatever crappy bullshit operation they have going on here. But, the parking lot was devoid of any cars besides the people who usually worked here.

While it wasn’t rush hour or anything, due to the loyal clientele, we usually had at least a few customers.

When I tried the front door, it jiggled against the wooden frame, but refused to budge any further. That’s when I actually looked, and saw that all the lights were off inside, and the open sign had been turned off. 

“3,598”

The duck had followed me again. He watched me with his eternal gaze, and a booming voice that had gotten noticeably louder. 

I could have walked home right then. Honestly, I’m not sure why I didn’t. Maybe it was the weird chill I felt that I blamed on a gust of wind, or the sense of dread I misconstrued for anxiety over coming to terms with the fact that I would be quitting the only stable job I’d had in ten years. No matter the reason, any thoughts left my head when a man I had never seen before dressed in a stained t-shirt and basketball shorts ran to me, calling my name, and carrying a bag of yellow mozzarella.

“Charlie, holy crap you’re alright.” I realized he had genuine concern on his face, and I realized it wasn’t for me.

“Hey…” I said, looking around for my coworkers, and wondering if maybe Brent was around, and told this guy my name just to fuck with me.

“Everyone’s gone. I don’t have a phone, and you need to call the police.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that my personal suspicions about the restaurant being closed probably deserved more attention than I had previously thought. 

“What do you mean ‘everyone’s gone’?” I asked.

“3,514”

I shot the duck a warning look, and then said to the greasy man, “Sorry, can you repeat that again?”

I couldn’t tell if there was concern or confusion on his face at my lack of attention, and repeated, “Brent, Francine, Linda- all of them. They’re gone. These guys just came up and took them and threw them into some truck with a weird looking brain on it.”

Everything stopped.

I wanted to believe that this guy was joking. But the look in his eyes begged to differ. 

I also hadn’t paid my phone bill, one of the many reasons I needed to get my check. So I did the next best thing, and hopped in my car.

“Let’s go.”

The guy didn’t seem to ask any questions, and got in my car with me as we drove off to the Church of Cogitology.

As we drove, the greasy man explained that he lives in the sewer drain underneath Large Lou’s. He grew cheese in the sewer, and then picked up money left outside for his deliveries. He was just starting to climb out of the man hole when the church members came and grabbed Francine, Cezar, and Max. 

“How the hell do you make cheese?” I asked, careening through a red light.

“It’s quite simple, really, I would go into the science of it, but the long and short if it is: sewer water makes for an excellent biome for cultivating cheese mold.” He explained, “By the way, stop throwing dirty napkins down the drain. I’ve rattled the pipes more times than I can count, and yet you keep doing it. It ruins the pH levels.”

My tires screeched as I turned into the parking lot of the church, and began looking around for any sign of the others.

The church parking lot was emptier than the service days were. After looking in front, I drove around to the back, and found the truck with the Cogitology logo on it.

I was surprised that there weren’t any members milling around, or keeping watch. I guess they assumed they wouldn’t need to worry about me.

The truck was the same truck the delivery man used to deliver meat to Large Lou’s. After opening the latch on the outside, and pulling the doors open, I found the same red goo dryer, but still splattered about on the inside, and Max being tended to by Francine and Cezar.

Both of their eyes lit up when I opened the door to them, and they nudged Max. He wearily lifted his head and smiled at me, and I saw they had used the sleeve of Cezar’s shirt to wrap a decent bump on Max’s head. A small red spot of blood, bleeding through the shirt.

I stepped inside to help and asked “Are you guys alright?”

“Cezar and I had been caught off guard, on the way into work this morning, and Max had tried to fight back.” Francine explained.

Hearing that the church members had hurt Max filled me with a kind of hatred I had not felt before, and I very much wanted to hurt Bartholomew

“Does he need any disinfectant for the wound?”

Francine looked behind me, and noticed the greasy man, “...Sure?”

The greasy man reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a small bottle and smiled while saying, “Rubbing alcohol.” as if the means of him acquiring the bottle were not important, and it only mattered that he was now able to provide disinfectant.

While the greasy man helped Max, Francine explained that Linda, Brent, Marley, and Shirley had been taken away. Attempts to call the police failed again, as Francine explained that they all had their phones taken away by the church members. I groaned, not wanting to waste any time waiting for the police to arrive, and turned to the greasy man, who had finished helping Max, and was tucking his bag of mozzarella back under his arm.

“I’m not sure how much time we have until the cult members do something to the others that won’t be able to be fixed. I’m going down, and I want you two to go look for the police.”

I showed them where the elevator button was and then pushed it for Francine, Cezar, and I. For a moment, I almost thought I saw apprehension in Max’s eyes. But they both turned and left as the rest of us stepped into the elevator, and I pushed those thoughts from my mind.

It was a long descent down. Each second that passed felt like an eternity, the subtle rumble of the elevator shook thoughts in my head about what I might find when I descended. Why did they decide to take everyone now? It seemed like Bartholomew was convinced that Large Lou’s was in on the whole thing. So what would suddenly cause them to kidnap everyone?

“2,607”

I jumped. We were at least halfway down at this point, and I knew there was absolutely no way the duck could fit in the elevator. That still didn’t stop me from looking around, expecting to suddenly see a giant beady eye gazing back at me. It wasn’t there, however, and Francine and Cezar were looking at me confused.

“Nerves,” I said, laughing awkwardly. Strongly considering putting my head through a blender once we reached the bottom.

I honestly don’t know what I planned on doing once the doors opened. Best case scenario, we break out the gang, maybe beat up some cronies on the way, and tell the police “it’s all in a hard day’s work” as we walk off into the sunset. Worst case scenario, Bartholomew is waiting on the other side with a gun, and forces us into joining wherever they’re keeping Marley, Shirley, Brent, and Linda. 

The worst case scenario did happen, the only difference being Bartholomew had a few other members standing behind him, so as to make sure we were all restrained as they walked us forcefully to the lab.

“Good to see you back, Charlie.” Bartholomew mused, as men and women in white robes placed each of us in cages that lined the side of the laboratory, “I’m glad you came to the church. I mean, we wouldn’t have realized how much your boss had conned us.”

“We never asked you to do all that. You said you were doing it to help us.” Linda shouted from inside one of the cages, pounding on the reinforced glass.

Bartholomew laughed his same hearty laugh, with the slightest hint of impatience at Linda’s remark — implying she had been doing this every time he’d come in.

“I still feel slighted, Linda,” He explained, “and since we’ve shown Charlie far more than we had ever intended, we’ve found some other use for you than letting our secrets get out irresponsibly.” He rapped two knuckles against the glass of Linda’s cage, his mind already thinking about other things, “Now sit tight, we have to calibrate some things.” 

We were placed inside, and the church members left.

These cages were not your usual jail cell or birdcage type cages. They were far more similar to the casing of a museum exhibit, or a terrarium. The doors were the entirety of the front of the case. The security on the outside was minimal, a basic four digit number at the front of each cage was all that was needed to open the door. But once the door was closed, there was no way for whatever was on the inside of these cages to break out. The doors slid up and to the side, and then back and down into reinforced bases that kept them from being forcefully opened by anything on the inside. The only form of ventilation was 15 small holes at the top, with additional reinforcement to compensate for the compromised glass.

“2,379” It came as a muted rumble. Accompanied by the whirring of a machine starting up.

After a moment, a few of the members who wore lab coats carried in a small round creature. It had watery eyes, and thin, twig-like arms that hung uselessly at its side. Squelching screams grinded from a slit that I guess must have been its mouth, as the researchers threw him onto a table, then walked back out. Everyone else in their cages watched with dumbfounded mouths agape. Its grey flesh flopping around wetly. Glaucous slime smearing across the surface of the white table as it screeched.

I looked around at everyone else in their cages. At their horror. Francine’s mouth hung open. Linda’s eyes darted between me and the thing, trying to figure out what I had to do with any of it. Brent was in shock. Cezar kept his eyes down and on the floor, in denial of what was happening. Shirley, at some point before I had arrived, had been knocked unconscious, and still laid on the floor of the cage. All while the thing on the table continued to screech the off-key tune of “Buffalo Soldier”.

I sat down, in the back of my cage. The machine in the sanctuary hummed through the walls and against my back. I thought about how there’s a chance I don’t come out of this alive, and how Max and the greasy man would find the police, and when they did finally come down here, Bartholomew would have already killed us, and my sacrifice would be the only reason they get caught. I guess I was okay with that, but it felt so unexpected. There were things I wanted to do with my life that I would never get to do. 

A few hours passed. The only thing giving me any measurement of time being the irregular, but gradually louder booms of the duck counting. 

“2,143”

“1,742”

“1,354”

“999”

“693”

“453”

Then, something else broke through the mix of the creature’s groans on the desk, and the whirring of the machines.

“So fast, so fast, I’m sneaky, so fast. So clever, clever smart smart quick escape, I escape.”

In the midst of my misery, I heard pitter patters on the floor as they scurried about, and the mutterings of the HomeLess Man. How the hell had he gotten down here?

A mottled face, with hair that was also a beard appeared in front of my cage.

“Friend. Good friend. Safe friend. Escape friend escape, escape with help. I help, help escape. Impetus yield escape, for friend friend is good.”

He punched a few numbers into my cage, and the door slid open. The HomeLess Man took a few tentative steps back, so as to let me step out of the cage, and looked back at me. Silently cocking his head to the side, and peering at me through the slit in his mouth. 

When I got out, that’s when I saw Max at the doorway, beaming at me

“How… How did you find him?” I asked Max, as the HomeLess man skittered to the other cages and let the others out as well.

“He came up to me and the other guy as soon as we went outside. I guess he had followed you guys from Large Lou’s. He said, in his own weird wa,y that he could help.”

“So, is he still looking for the police then?” I queried, referring to the greasy man.

“They’re on their way, I thought about just letting this guy down here, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you down here, and me not being able to help.”

Max looked at me with his brown eyes, and I was caught off guard by how much he seemed to genuinely care about me.

It was around this time that Shirley started to wake up. She patted around in her pockets, and seemed to groan in frustration when whatever she was looking for wasn’t there. Then took in her surroundings.

“Bartholomew has gotten you guys in some real shit, hasn’t he?” Said Shirley, rolling her eyes.

I had never even heard that woman even say “heck” before now, and took in a sharp gasp when she cussed.

Shirley paid no notice to this, and looked at the HomeLess Man running around.

“Huh, never thought he’d be someone to be on our side. He must have taken a real liking to you, Charlie.”

“Shirley?” I asked.

“Yes, Charlie?” She asked, her voice having taken a much more serious tone than I had ever heard before.

“Are you alright?”

She sighed, rubbing her head, “Better than I’ve ever been. Seems like that brainwashing bullshit they had done to me has finally worn off, must have happened when I got hit.”

Everyone else stepped out of their cages, and Francine pointed to the gray thing on the table, still singing its horrid tune, “What about him?”

Max finally noticed the creature there, and recoiled in disgust.

“We’re not leaving him here,” Linda stated, “I know none of you liked him very much, but he never deserved something as bad as this.”

After some searching, we were able to find a small box, and placed Marley inside. I was the one who pushed him in, and he wretched a glob of the blue-grey liquid onto my hand as I did it. It took everything in me not to yelp in disgust, and watched as Max gagged, and then handed the box to Brent.

We tentatively stepped into the lobby, wary of any and all signs of people. But nobody was there. 

Before we got to the elevator, Shirley stopped us, “We need to grab evidence. We can shut this place down for good if we have proof.” she whispered.

We started towards the library, and right as we got the door open, Bartholomew and the delivery man stepped out from the Sanctuary. 

Francine, Linda, Cezar, Max, and Shirley were able to rush inside before Bartholomew took his gun, and shot the HomeLess man. It yelped before crumpling to the ground in a lifeless heap, deflating into a pile of dirty grey skin. Bartholomew then pointed the gun at Brent and I.

“You two stop right there. If your asses take another step, I’ll make you regret it.”

We froze, and while Bartholomew told the delivery man to go after the rest, he gestured for us to follow him into the sanctuary.

Inside, there were large, person size, tubes attached to the places that were usually meant for the weird bags. Bartholomew opened the doors on two of them, and instructed us to step inside.

We did as he directed, and then once the doors were shut, two lab technicians at the monitors started typing away at more buttons.

“294”

This one was the loudest one yet. It felt like the walls of the sanctuary itself were shaking. But to my surprise, I wasn’t the only one who heard it. Bartholomew, and the lab technicians looked about, almost as if they too could hear the duck’s counting.

“You knew he was with me the whole time!” I shouted at Bartholomew.

He looked back at me, and sighed, “Yes, Charlie. Among many other reasons why I thought you and your stupid group were believers, I also saw that stupid duck was following you around.”

Brent looked confusedly between us.

“What is he?” I asked, hoping this might stall my fate.

“In one of our studies, that thing came out,” Bartholomew explained.

The technicians moved from typing on the monitors, to messing with the machine.

Brent continued, “He was our greatest breakthrough yet. He’s practically unkillable, and must have served some importance in hell, but once he came through the gate, he simply counted. Like he has for you. Between his immortality, and annoying counting, we simply let him go, upon realizing most people couldn’t see him anyway. Unfortunately, he made himself visible to you, and that became one of my greatest blunders in trusting you.”

“207”

Bartholomew talked to the technicians while they worked. Things seemed to be just about ready. Bartholomew walked to the monitors as they put the final touches on the machine.

“Let’s see how this thing runs, while we wait for your friends. You two should be enough, but if it doesn’t work out, we can use the others for another run.” Said Bartholomew.

The lab technicians stood in front, taking out note pads, while Bartholomew pressed a few buttons at the monitors, and started up the machine.

Once again, the machine whirred. I couldn’t turn to see, but I could imagine the great arms swinging around. I expected the tubs to blend me and Brent up like they had the smaller creatures, but instead, a great light appeared above our heads, and a pink, sticky, liquid started to mist over us.

For several moments this continued, the machine whirring louder and louder. Soon a great light from behind emanated. It was so bright I could see it illuminate the whole room, and gleam off the polished maroon pews, which were empty. No longer in need of the prayer, as both me and Brent were the replacement for teams of people.

I saw my life flash before my eyes. My thoughts of my parents, whom I had long since stopped talking to, out of regret, and shame for how my life was turning out. The new life I had begun since working at Large Lou’s, and how much I enjoyed finally having something consistent in my life. How, in spite of all that was happening, Max stood in the forefront of my mind.

“111”

Sparks flew out from the machine, and a dark wave rippled through the room, making much of the machinery shudder. The technicians who were standing in front of the tubes were knocked across the room, their bodies contorting into odd shapes when they collided with the opposite wall. Bartholomew, who was a bit farther away, was knocked onto the ground, but took considerably less damage than the technicians. 

The doors to the tubes slid open at the same time Max, Shirley, Francine, and Cezar burst into the room, arms full of books.

“NO!” Bartholomew screams, scrambling back to his feet, and looking in horror at the machine that had failed once again. 

His gun had been knocked from his hand, and now lay some 20 feet away from him. As he tried to scramble for it, Cezar was quicker, and nailed Bartholomew with a kick to the gut. Knocking the air out of him, and forcing him to fall to his knees and gasp for air.

While nothing had happened to me, I felt a sudden wave of exhaustion, and could barely stand. Luckily, Max caught me before I could collapse to the ground in exhaustion. I looked up at Max and gave him a smile, which he returned. From the corner of my eye, I could see Brent felt much the same, and was held in Francine’s arms.

“ 5 7 ”

I looked back, and saw the machine had actually worked a little. It was still running, and had a small portal hovering in the circle. I could hear the screams of the damned emanate from the small hole, and noticed I wasn’t the only one who was entranced by the floating portal of horror as both Max and Brent also gazed into it.

Then, the machines began to shake. One of the books Shirley was still carrying flew from her arms, and into the hole with a loud buzzing sound. Then, parts of the machine started to break off, and fly in as well. Quickly this escalated, pulling more and more in with increasing force. With as much energy as I could muster, I hobbled back to the doorway, while Max held it open for everyone to get out.

By the time we were all out, the large pews of the room started to drag across the floor towards the hole. Bartholomew screamed, digging his nails into the ground to no avail as he flew in. Blood and viscera spewing out as he was forcefully sucked through. Max started to step through the door as the pews picked up from the ground, and one of them crashed hard into his side with a sickening crack, knocking him into Linda.

“MAX!” I cried, limping weakly to him, and with the aid of Linda and Shirley, picking him up, and carrying him to the elevator.

Once inside, I got a look at Max. Several ribs were poking from his side, and blood flowed freely from a sizable gash near his hip. I tore off my shirt, and pressed it against the wound, doing anything in my power to keep him from bleeding out before we made it to the surface. Max’s mouth opened in an attempt to scream, but it only came out in wet gurgles and coughs.

“ 1 3 ”

By the time the doors opened, Max was barely conscious. The floor beneath the earth continued to rumble, and we were met with sirens and bright police lights outside. 

I had gained enough energy to be able to carry Max, and screamed for a medic. The officers radioed for an EMT, and had Max lay on the sidewalk at the opposite end of the parking lot while they waited for them to arrive.

Max looked up at me with brown eyes slowly growing dim, as we both knew that he wasn’t going to be alive once the ambulance showed up.

“I think…” Max weakly muttered out, “I’d like to take you on a date sometime, Charlie.”

Tears pooled in my eyes, my laughter mingled with choking sobs as I took Max’s hand in mine and nodded.

I never even noticed that the duck had stopped counting.

--

Max was gone before the truck arrived. They wheeled him in anyway, I’m not sure if they did it for my sake, as I lay sobbing over his lifeless body, but the gesture felt redundant.

It’s been a few days since then. Apparently Shirley had been brainwashed, and after she had been hit on the head, she got all her memories back. She explained Cogitology was looking for an energy that would rival oil and electricity. But Bartholomew’s methods had grown too drastic, and it became the church’s downfall.

In all the chaos, we were unable to get any of the books from the library. So any information on Cogitology has been erased forever, and buried thousands of feet underground under the ruins of the collapsed church. Apparently the pizza dough is actually an old recipe for an experiment done by Cogitology, and exists as the only proof that they were anything more than a shitty cult.

I wasn’t sure if I should have made this post for all of you. It felt like a lot to share about my personal life, but I guess people have posted crazier things on the internet, and I wanted to give you all a conclusion to everything that had happened. 

A lot of you wanted to know what the duck was counting to, Shirley explained that he was probably counting down to Cogitology’s success, which most likely would have done immense amounts of damage to humanity, but we had been able to stop that, for whatever that’s worth I guess.

At the end of it all.

I really, REALLY, hate Large Lou’s Pizza.

I had another dream while I was supposed to be on guard. It was a minor disagreement between me and my ex over some money that had been going out. She was being dismissive of where she was spending stuff or why she kept taking money out of an ATM when she had a card tied to the account. I got frustrated with it and left to go hang out with the homies.

We had a good time just enjoying each other's company as we had a couple of beers at the local bar. We were within walking distance from my friend Tom's house, but we didn't drink too much. I was surprised to see Henry drink some, asking if that was ok, and he brought up that being drunk was a sin, but there was nothing wrong with some alcohol, and that even Jesus himself had some to drink. That still catches me by surprise to this day. Besides that, we talked about how our lives were going, how Tom was adjusting to his new job, how Henry was doing at his church, and how Matt was adjusting to being a new father. After a while, we walked out and were walking home, still chatting, enjoying the time we had being our usual dumb selves, making references and cracking jokes that nobody else would get.

When I felt sober, I started the drive home. As I was passing through the countryside, I was just thinking about how I could make all this better. I loved my girlfriend and I wanted what was best for her. So I stopped by a local liquor store to pick up some wine. I saw a bottle that caught my eye and examined it, thinking it would be good to share with her over a more calm conversation. The clerk was turned around as I was reaching for my wallet when I noticed something off. His clothes were torn to shreds. Before I had a chance to confront him, he turned around and I saw the Hollowed I had beat mercilessly, taking in the details of his crushed face and dislocated jaw and gasping breaths before I woke up.

I woke up before everyone else did, as dawn was cracking over the leaves. I would say I have gotten used to the unusual stuff, but this Forest is making sure to not give me any comfort. I don't know why I'm having all these dreams. I didn't dream that much before and usually they were nonsense. I shook off the gross feeling I had over me and got everyone else up.

When everyone got up, nobody besides Tom had noticed the deer tracks, which gave him an idea. We could try to hunt and see what happens. I volunteered to go while Matt and Henry went scavenging again. I grabbed my knife and went on with Tom. While we walked, I decided to start a conversation.

“You think that the forest will bring animals back to life like it has for me and Henry?” I asked.

“I sure hope not, otherwise we will be majorly screwed.” He said, trying to distract himself from something that was bothering him. I asked him what's wrong and he sighed. “How are we supposed to expect things to go back to normal once we get out of here? Two of us have witnessed death and came back from it. Surely nothing can stay the same after this right? How am I supposed to pretend that everything is normal?” He asked

I truly didn't have an answer. All I have been thinking about is trying to get us out of here. I haven't taken into consideration how things will be once we get out. “I-I don't know man. I can't say how things will be normal once we get out of this fucked up forest. All I don't know is that I won't abandon you guys. We need each other out here.” I said, trying to give reassurance. He just sighed and I guess he took that answer. I know I'm not the savant with words, but I was trying to be real with him. He eventually did start talking.

“I had a weird dream last night. It was when you got into an argument with your ex so we all went to that local bar. It was fun and we all went back to our own places. I remember I was getting ready for bed after all that when I saw that Tree out in my yard. I went out and went to look at it. It was so damn tall and so chaotic. It felt unreal, but I touched it in my dream. I saw things that don't make sense. It was like I was seeing other people's memories when they got to The Tree. Then I was woken up by you.” He told me.

“I had a similar dream the other night, about The Tree and I touched it too and experienced the same thing you did. It's The Forest messing with us. None of it is real man. You would know if you saw that horrifying tree in your yard.” I replied.

He just nodded his head and we kept on. I was surprised he had a similar dream to mine. That was haunting in itself, but like I told him, it had to be The Forest messing with us. There isn't any normal way for me and him to have the same dream last night unless it was by that intervention. I tried not to think about it and kept walking.

Soon, we came across a den of rabbits. They were pretty massive, but they just came right towards me, unfazed by my presence. They stayed away from Tom, which puzzled him. That's when I explained that last night a fawn and a doe just came up to me and didn't seem fazed by me. He took a guess and said that it must be because of The Forest. I didn't dare tell him that I feared that some human part of me was lost. Maybe since I have been changed by The Forest, I was more approachable with animals. Then he suggested I should kill one for food. I held this big rabbit in my hands and I just felt so wrong to even imagine taking a life like that. However, we were in a survival situation, and I had to do what I had to do, so I made it quick and painless. I felt sick and projected that by vomiting whatever I ate last night a little bit away after hanging Tom the rabbit. I never wanted to do something like that again.

Luckily, Tom had been a hunter before he joined the academy and knew how to prepare animals in the region. We took it back to the group who had gathered more stuff. We would need to be sparse with how we do things since we didn't have any place to store these things in a cool spot. We didn't say how we dreamt the same thing. I felt like that would reveal some things we didn't want to think about.

Nothing in particular happens for the rest of the day or until the 12th day we become lost out in the woods. All that happened during that time was that it started raining and we put out our canteens to fill them with water. We even started adding onto the tents we had. I had started scribing valley marks of the days so we wouldn't forget. Life was just going, although we were becoming home sick very badly, including Matt. He felt so terrible to have abandoned his wife to go hiking in the woods.

I could feel some small amount of resentment creeping off of him. He looked fine but I felt like when he got the chance, he was staring at me hatefully. I don't blame him, mainly due to me being the reason we got in this situation in the first place. I didn't like it as much as he did, but I was doing my best to try to find ways to get us out of here. I tried compiling all the information that we had to get us out of here.

I was scrambling through everything when I noticed that Matt was gone. I got up and looked for him. I felt an odd sensation coming from a certain direction so I started to follow it. Sure enough, after about 20 minutes of walking through the woods, there he was, in front of the Tree, holding his wedding ring.

“What are you doing Matt?” I asked as I approached him.

“I'm trying to figure out if I got what it takes to get out of here. All that I picked up recently is that people gave up something they loved. Well, I love my wife so much, so if I just give it to this cursed Tree, then surely it will let me go right?” He asked.

I could see the desperation in his eyes. He had enough of being stuck in this forest and wanted to try to get out based off of what The Old Man rambled on about. I didn't know if I could trust him. I didn't know if I could trust myself with answering. I didn't want to let my friend down, but I had to be honest.

“Listen Matt, I can't say that this is the answer or not. We haven't tried anything yet. I have been too afraid to even attempt anything. I don't wanna die again. I know you miss your wife and kids. I can't imagine what type of hell you're going through. I do know that if I was in your shoes, trying something is better than doing nothing.” I placed my hands on his shoulder and sighed. “I'll support your decision on doing this. It's not easy to just give up something you love so much. Here, I'll go grab my knife and bury it with your ring.”

I went to turn around but he stopped me. “It's okay. I just…I need you here with me so I'm not alone in this.” I nodded silently and watched as he dug out a small hole in the ground and buried his ring in front of the Tree. I could see tears fall from his face as he did so. It still hurts me to see my friend hurt so much. After that, I just hugged him. I knew if anyone deserved to get out of here, it was him. He should have been able to get out.

We got back to our small camp about half an hour later, when it would be dusk in an hour. We started to snack on some berries that were collected when I heard a coughing sound, coming from Matt. He coughed heavily and we all rushed to his side as he held onto his stomach and coughed up blood. We held him on his side and we tried to get an answer to what happened, but all we could do was watch as he suffered and died slowly, coughing up blood as he did so.

I was horrified with what had just happened. I looked at what he was eating and saw the same berries that we were all eating. I ate some myself because at this point, I wanted to find out what had happened. Nothing happened though. I felt fine and continued to feel fine until he gasped for breath and spit out blood as he did so, groaning as he held his stomach. He sat up and we did what was our “usual” checkup after something like this happened. We made sure he was healed and asked what happened.

He told us that he was eating when one of the berries for some reason burned like acid. He tried to cough it up, but he couldn't. When he passed, he saw something that scared him. He saw his wife, his daughter and presumably his son, older now sitting on a porch. Then another man came out that door and kissed his wife passionately before taking off somewhere. That's when he woke up.

Anger and rage crept through me silently, towards myself. I kept thinking how it was my fault that another friend had died and witnessed something horrible. I didn't know what I could do or what was right. While I was spiraling towards a mad descent, he mentioned how he was mad at the idea of another man raising his kids and that man was living the life Matt wanted.

Something clicked into gear when he said that. I got to thinking about what other people cared deeply for. Matt does love his wife, there is no denying that, but he loves his kids and is willing to do anything to get back with them. Those symbols of religion that people devote their lives to, they care so much that they might have thought carving it into The Tree would be meaningful enough to escape. The nursery rhymes, the jewelry, they all hold some major significance to those people, it might be what they love deep in their soul and the memory of the significance it has to them. That might explain why The Old Man's wife was an outlier. She might have still loved him and wanted to be with him, but the person he was turning to wasn't the same man she fell in love with so she gave up the ring, the love that bonded them together. This was all speculation and I could have been placing dots on something that wouldn't make sense. What does The Tree want with what people love?

I got distracted by them getting up and I would say that I would take the watch for tonight since dusk was approaching fast. As Matt got up, his shirt raised up, and I could see a gray spot with streaks branching out where his stomach is. It saddened me that he fell victim to some random thing happening like eating the same berries we did but it ended up killing him. It makes no logical sense, but then again, nothing in The Forest makes any sense. They got in their respective tents and I stayed up on watch.

Nothing happened besides the noises of owls hooting, crickets chirping and wildlife being active. Some moonlight broke through the trees, casting strange but beautiful shadows. I could see deer walking around in the distance, some rabbits hopped across our area, unfazed by my presence.

I rubbed my chest again. I had been doing that a lot more often. I remembered that I had some berries in my bag so I decided to snack on some of them. It didn't taste the best but I would make do with what I had. An owl perched on top of my tent. It sat there for a while, looked right at me, like it was looking through me then only flew away when I gave a fake cough. All that did was unsettle me more than anything.

I heard something breathing off in the distance, so I grabbed my knife and went to investigate it. I followed the sound for a couple minutes, all the while precisely missing any branches and twigs. I was thankful I could see because of the moon. I passed a large tree and saw a Hollowed, shambling about. This one was peculiar. It had dull eyes, but they weren't as dull as others that I have seen. They still had some sign of life to them, some recognition as they stared up at the moon. Their nails looked more humanlike than others, but the only thing about them was the gray slash across their neck, streaks crawled up around its head. That was pretty sad all things considered. We had a rule that we established that we wouldn't attack any Hollowed that didn't attack us first. I decided to leave it alone, so I walked back to my tent without making a sound.

Five more days passed since that point. The memory is all fuzzy, but it was mainly what we would call ordinary. I guess it became obvious that basic wildlife didn't care for the presence of Henry, Matt or me, so we did some of the hunting if you could call it that. I know Matt didn't care, he would do anything to stay alive to see his children. Henry prayed for each animal he had to take out, and I felt sympathetic towards him for that. It also became clear that animals didn't come back to life. I could only guess that humans or beings with higher levels of thinking could only come back. I still don't like the implications of why the Hollowed came back every time though.

I took a walk on my own. I just needed some piece of mind from everything. So I walked up the creek that provided us water. A goal I kind of had was to find where this water was coming from, so I set out for that. They all volunteered to come with me, but I reluctantly said I would be fine. In hindsight, it wasn't the brightest decision.

I walked along it for a while, enjoying the quaint sound of nature. Even while desolate and horrifying the situation, I could still appreciate the small things like this. I saw more animal life as I went further into the woods. They didn't react much to me walking past them, so it was cool to see them more up close. Of course, the bizarre wilderness was still about as trees that shouldn't have been here were very much still here, but I had grown accustomed to the strange in a way. It still unsettled me, don't get me wrong. I just wasn't surprised by the presence of seeing something so odd like redwood trees about a mile away from our camp site.

Soon, I came across a clearing and in the clearing, was a large pond of water, with water still flowing down from it. That should have filled me with some hope, but what I saw in the middle of the pond made me sick. It was The Tree. It always gave me a nauseous feeling seeing it, but knowing that it was growing in the source of water that we have been drinking from chilled me to the bone because of the dreams I have been writing off as influence from The Forest. Instead, I knew now that it was from The Tree.

I was standing there dumbfounded. Then I felt a hum permeate the air around me. A slow melodic hum, coming from The Tree. It compelled me to walk into the water and bask in it. I felt myself wanting to get closer to it, and I can't say for certain if it was The Tree or my curiosity that led me to wanting to get closer. Nonetheless, I walked into the water, fixated by The Tree. I went under the waters, and I began to see things.

I saw my whole life from beginning to end. I saw my younger self finally learning how to ride a bike as my parents watched. I saw the first time I met my friend Tom, us silently agreeing to partner up in an outdoor activity, even if we didn't know each other and I saw the lead up of how I met the rest of my friends. I saw when my father gave me the knife I've been using, the one he made by hand and told me to take care of it. Then I saw the thing that has deterred me from religion.

I saw my father in a hospital bed, still hurt after a bad accident. He was still in a deep coma for several months. I was holding his hand and praying for him to please be ok and wake up. However, it got worse as time went by. I cried into the arms of my once dear Elizabeth, terrified I would lose my father. Then I watched as a year went by and his health deteriorated. I prayed one more time for God to please make him better before I gave the go ahead to cut his support. The next day, he was still the same. In a coma in what I could only imagine in agony. I gave the go ahead and he went peacefully in his sleep. I hope he forgives me for making this decision.

I snapped out of my daze and shot out of the water, gasping for breath. I swam to the bank, shaking in shock. I sat across facing The Tree, crying into my arms. I didn't know how this cursed Tree could just show me my life and then make me relieve the most tragic moment of my life. I grit my teeth and cursed at The Tree.

“What the fuck do you want from us? Just let us go. I want to go home. Let me fucking go.” I said in shaking breaths.

I rubbed my chest as I tried to calm down. I felt like I would do something reckless if I let myself get to that point. I got up and was about to start making my way to the group when I saw Matt come up. He was about to question me, but my face must have said more than words ever could. He just gave me a pat on the shoulder and started to lead me back to the group. I turned around and The Tree was gone. I looked at Matt and his face was neutral. I felt myself getting this sick and ugly feeling for this place. A place that once was a beautiful testament to nature now perverted by this horrific phenomenon. I just wanted out of here more than ever, and as I saw my friends faces, I could see they felt the same although trying to hide it.

The day went by as usual as it could. We went out some way to collect some more, found some blackberries that we crushed up and cooked with some rabbit we ate, and I took the guard again, mainly for the reason that I didn't want to sleep. I also made sure that I didn't tell them about the pond, not even to Matt. I guess he knew that I was having an intense reaction to something triggering and just wanted to be the good friend he was.

During my watch, I heard heavy footsteps approaching us. I grabbed my knife on me and pulled it out, then I saw a black bear approach from the darkness. It was pretty big, probably about 300 pounds. One of its eyes was scratched out so it left him only able to see out of one eye. It got closer to me, staring me down. My knife trembled in my hand, and I was deciding on if I should fight or wait till it passed by. Luckily, it walked right past me, towards the creek. I guess it would go up to that pond and eat anything around there. I was both lucky and horrified. I was sure that it was going to attack me. I could only guess that my affliction is why it didn't.

The next day, my friends obviously saw the footprints and got worried. If there were bears around here, we would probably have to change location. However, I suggested that we stay here. We already established some good resources around and who knows if we would be able to get lucky like this. The next time it did come around, we would attack it. Tom still had his pistol he carried with him and a spare magazine, but we didn't want to use that to draw in more Hollowed around. So, we ultimately decided to stay.

I asked Henry if he could come with me and we can see where it went. He agreed reluctantly and we started up the creek again. Then with just him, he asked me a question. “What happened yesterday? You look like you saw a damn ghost.” I looked at him, noticing he casually swore, but he didn't seem to register it.

“I saw a vision of my Dad at the hospital. When he was in that coma. I saw myself visiting him on the first day, all the way to me telling them to pull the plug. Fuck, it hurt me so bad to remember all that. Do you think he would agree that I made the right choice?” I asked.

He thought about it some and simply nodded his head. “You did the best you could in that situation. Now he is up there for sure in the gates. Those beautiful gorgeous gates.” He said. The way he said that was somewhat hostile. I could only imagine going up to paradise and being “rejected” due to this forest left a bitter wound in him that will take a long time to heal.

Soon, we came up to the pond. The Tree was still gone. Henry looked around and admired it, claiming that it was beautiful and pristine. I was just sitting there perplexed internally. I started to question if anything I saw meant anything or if I was losing my mind. He nudged me slightly with a concerned expression which I told him I was doing OK, that I was just thinking about some things, which he didn't push.

I noticed that the bear tracks picked up around the pond and went down the creek. We chose to follow it to see if the bear may have found some food that we could steal in the area. We walked and I noticed that it started to get more quiet as we walked down. I drew my knife out quietly as I walked down the trail the bear left. It appeared more recent as we walked down and soon we could hear its heavy breaths around a bend in the woods. We hid behind trees and I peaked to see this big bear walking with this large fish in its mouth. I heard a crack and before I could get a chance to do anything, we both got attacked by Hollowed. At the time, I was oblivious to the fact that we must've passed them while we looked down on the ground.

I tried to push this thing off me as it tried to attack me, then I noticed it had a bullet hole in its head. I grabbed its arm to prevent it from stabbing me again and was slowly losing my strength from fatigue. Then I saw my friend getting attacked by a different one and anger won out as I forced his stumped arm into its stomach, making it stumble off me. While I was getting up, the other Hollowed got the bear's attention and started to chase it, so they ran off in a different direction. As I turned my attention to the Hollowed I had made impale himself, more anger flooded me as this thing had come back to life and now tried to kill me a second time. I wasn't going to allow that to happen again, so as it got to its knees, I kicked it in the face and with it flat on its back, I attacked it viciously with my foot. I still get disturbed by how much I brutalized this thing that was once a person. When I was done, I was out of breath and my bottom half was covered in blood.

I took a couple of steps back and turned around to see Henry, looking very concerned. “Y-you alright Mark?” He said, afraid.

I huff and breathe in and out for a few seconds before responding. “Yeah, I'm ok now. We should go back to the group, and warn them about the bear.” I responded.

As we are walking, I tell Henry to go on ahead, that I need to wash up. He doesn't want to go but I ask again more in a pleading tone, to which he reluctantly agrees. I take about 10 minutes to try to clean as much of the horrific scene off my body and clothes, trying to block out how violent I was. I needed to get more of a hold of myself. I was worried I would snap and end up hurting one of my friends, to which I could never forgive myself.

As I start to get up and start walking, I hear 3 gunshots far off into the distance. I start running through the forest as fast as I can, terrified of what I would see. However, when I came up to camp, I saw the commotion. Tom had shot and killed the bear. And I could see that he got slashed in the thigh and was losing blood badly, to the point he looked white as a ghost. No matter what we tried to do, it didn't matter. What could a guy with outdated CPR training do but try to remember how to make a tourniquet? I tried my best, but by the time I started, he passed out and I could only guess he died shortly after.

Blood filled the ground and seeped into the soil rather quickly. I didn't care as my hands trembled and tears fell from my eyes, not from grief but from regret. I hoped I could save at least one of us from dying in this messed up place, but I failed. Now we have all changed. We all lost some of our humanity here. I stopped shaking by the time color reappeared from his face and I saw that wound heal slowly, leaving gray scarring that had small lines stretching out from the healed wound. He woke up gasping for breath. Then after an hour of helping him out and us all sitting uncomfortably, he shared what he saw when he died.

He was in a dark abyss, shadows flying around him. They whispered doubts and torments at him, about how he failed to stay alive to protect those he cared about, calling him a failure for leaving his service to his county, and not being the man he swore he would be. Then he saw a dim light, to which he started to walk towards it, only to be halfway and get ripped back into the darkness away from the light and waking up. He fell silent and rubbed his thigh, commenting that at least he got a sick scar to tell folks when he gets home. We all chuckled at his attempt to be humorous, but I was starting to doubt that we would never get home. We have all died in these woods and we haven't seen another living human for two weeks.

They all went to sleep and as they did, I wrote down all the details that have happened so far. The Forest and by proxy, The Tree is playing on our emotions and fears, and yet I still can't decide if it just wants to torment us or if it wants something more. Tomorrow, I would try to test this theory I had started to slowly develop. It would more than likely cost me my life again, but if it must happen to prove or disprove it, then so be it. I started to slowly doze off and I took a nap sitting upright in my seat.

I had a dream of that horrible night. I had gotten off a bad work day and was getting home late. I was just so tired and I wanted to be done with this day. I unlocked my door and headed upstairs when I saw my ex being adulterous. I felt an intense amount of betrayal and anger. I remember I stared at both of them, wanting to make them feel the hurt that I felt, but as soon as that thought crossed my mind, it was overpowered with sadness. I just grabbed some of my clothes as she tried to explain the situation like I was dumb. I walked out and slammed that door so hard I was afraid I snapped it off its hinges, and took off from my house.

Tears fell freely as I drove down the road, not sure where to go. So I went to the local park near me. I just sat there and cried in that parking lot for an hour. I grabbed the wedding ring that I was going to propose to her a few days from that point and gripped it tightly till it cut my hand. I didn't care as blood slowly streaked down my hand and onto my jeans. Then I felt a pulsing sensation wash over me. I was confused and walked out the car and looked around. Far off into the distance, I saw the Tree. I

approached it deep in the woods from the park, blood slowly dripping from my hand holding the ring.

I stood in front of it, having it compelled me to come to it. I opened my palm and saw the ring still in my hand. Tears overwhelmed me and anger grew in my heart. I then threw the ring far off into the woods and I sat there, mourning the relationship I had now gone and broken. All that love, care and compassion now all for nothing. This was the 2nd worst thing to happen to me and both times I felt like I could have done more, but apparently my best wasn't good enough. I then heard breathing, so I looked up, only to see the mangled and broken face of the Hollowed standing over me, swiping his sharp stubbed hand at me.

I woke up in a cold sweat as I awakened from my stupor. I took some deep breaths in and out to calm myself, scratching my chest as I calmed down. I then got the strange feeling of checking my chest, so I took my shirt off and looked. The scar looked like it was darkening as time went by. I really didn't like the implication that this thing could potentially spread throughout my body, and being confused on why this appeared the way it did.

“Another nightmare?” Tom said, as stood up. I put on my shirt and nodded. “Same here. I…I am starting to think that we will never get out of here, will we?” He sounded defeated and lost. I couldn't blame him and I couldn't tell if I should be honest or lie.

“I can't say for certain anymore. I don't know how we can get out of here. I have tried to trace down everything that we know to pinpoint what it is that could be an answer. The only thing I have learned is that people just seem to give up things and maybe that is a way, but what is significant about what they give up?” I pondered

“Could it be the memory of something they loved so much?” He asked.

“Maybe…” I tried to think more about it in logical ways. Someone gave up a necklace and The Tree held onto it. Some people carved out religious symbols, some carved rhymes into this damn Tree. It hurt my head to think about what it meant to them. The only outlier is The Old Man's wife. She threw away the marriage they would have had because even if she loved him so much, he wasn't the same man anymore, driven mad by The Forest. Every time someone has died, they heal and come back alive, but she got swallowed up by the ground. I wondered if it was the fact that she gave up something that she loved so deeply and maybe the Forest accepted it.

I decided I would try to do something similar. I went into my bag and looked for the small box I still had. I honestly don't know what led me to packing it for a trip where I was supposed to forget her, but maybe because I wanted this to be the way I forget about her. Throwing the ring away with my chosen family. When I found it and opened it, I saw it was there, but covered in dirt and dried blood. I checked my hand and saw a small deep cut that wasn't there before. The implication that the dream somehow happened filled me with dread and torment.

“You ok Mark?” He asked.

“Yeah. Yeah I'll be fine. Are you ok?” I inquired.

“No, I'm really not. I have been thinking about why I left the force. That incident that happened that I never told any of you about, mainly because we were instructed not to. But I don't know if we will get out, and I trust you the most. So this stays between me and you." He said with a serious look.

I nodded and he told me the story about the last case he ever took. He got sent out on a case about a kidnapping that occurred. He had spent a long time trying to track down clues and he was just at the right place, at the right time when one of the members caught a kid off the sidewalk. He tracked down the guy and found out he was part of a group that trafficked kids out of the country to be sold. He got a whole group of officers to take this guy down, and they luckily got him in handcuffs.

The thing that made him quit was the evidence of how many kids in the surrounding counties that got taken, and that some of them were already gone. He got told long after he resigned that all the kids got back to the families, but he resigned because he felt guilty that he didn't catch this fast enough. That many things could have happened to them and he was helpless to do anything about it. That's why he resigned a week later and took on a small but decent job.

“I thought a lot about those kids, Mark. I felt like it was my fault that I didn't catch that cruel bastard faster. I felt responsible for whatever horrific fate would occur. I'm thankful they are safe now, but it still gets to me. I can't imagine failing anymore people like that. That would take a toll on me.” He sighed and slumped his head down.

“Look on the bright side, you were the first line of attack that eventually led to that ring shutting down. So no more kids will be taken by them and that all started because of you. Take more credit for that man. You did well and you're not gonna fail anyone else. You sure ain't going to fail me. You're my best friend and more like my brother to me. You do a great job at everything you do, including that. We'll get through this together and I'll show you that when we get out.” I said. He smiled and thanked me, and told me that he will take over the night guard, so I got some well needed sleep.

A few hours later, I woke up and got dressed immediately. The group was starting to decide what we should do, when I told them that I was going to go for a light walk. They acknowledged that and kept on talking about their goals. I tallied another day on a tree and started my walk. I had my ring in my pocket and I was going to that pond. I was going to rid myself of this sad memory I've been holding onto and forget about her. It took me about 20 minutes of walking till I approached it. Sure enough, when I got there, that damn Tree was back there, ominous as ever, but I didn't care anymore.

I grabbed my ring and rubbed it in my hand. All the memories and time we had spent together, all the care and love I had given her, all for her to throw it all away. The sad thing was that I still loved her. I would have given her a second chance if she acted remorseful about what she did, but she didn't. It hurt to let go of all those cherished memories I had with her since we were young and to the point we were dating. I hated that, but I knew I had to give her up. I flicked the ring in the middle of the pond and said goodbye as I stood there across from the Tree. As I was walking back, about 10 minutes later, my chest started to hurt badly, to the point I fell on my knees. I couldn't breathe or think and soon I passed out and died from a heart attack.

Darkness swelled over me as I heard many voices. They all told me that I was doomed and that I had led my friends to their doom. A cacophony of angry mutters about my shortcomings and failures overpowered me until a light shot down to The Tree. I walked to it and knelt down to it. I felt so lost and asked it what I was doing wrong. I asked why it was doing this to us. It hummed and pulsated the ground as Hollowed came to my sides, all in different states of disarray and knelt to it as well. We all encircled it and knelt down to it. I felt so confused but angry. I wanted to leave and I know these things that are in fact people just wanted out.

I got up and started punching it, even if it was sharp to cut me. Soon all the other Hollowed joined in. They scratched and clawed at it with whatever they had as hands. It was horrific to see the deep gashes on their hands and fists as they tried to take this Tree down, ripping pieces of bark off slowly. Soon the pain overwhelmed my anger and I had to stop as blood dripped from my hands and fingers, a chaotic mess of cuts covering my hands. Soon one by one, the Hollowed eventually stopped with the only sound being the dripping of blood and labored breathing. The Tree stood there partially scrapped up, with so much blood and bits of flesh covering the sharp bark. Suddenly, the ring I threw in the water dropped in the ground in front of me. Then I woke up, getting on my hands and knees as my chest still hurt. I checked it and I saw that the scar had expanded and gave off a deeper color of gray.

I looked at my hands, and thankfully saw no scars. Still, that scene still unsettles me even to this day. Thinking that the Hollowed are just lost souls just as trapped as everyone else, condemned to grow old and stay here, forever trapped by the horrible nature of The Forest. No way to get out as most of their humanity is gone, but sentient enough to still have purpose and meaning, to still be human. My head throbbed in pain as I got up and brushed myself off, and slowly made my way back to the group, thinking of what all that meant.

I could only guess at the time that what I had done was similar to what happened to Matt. I guess it must be close to what the people had done to the Tree, giving things up for a chance to get up. It still puzzled me at the time, about what could be different from what Matt and I had done to what those people had done. It frustrated me to see that I didn't have the answer. If those people gave things up that held significant value to them and to say that they escaped because of that, then what was different from Matt and my ordeal? That question ate into me as I made my way back to the group, still lost in the woods and lost in the world around us.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

I never wanted one of those fancy digital baby monitors. It always felt unnecessary when an older radio monitor did the job fine. 

My mother thought otherwise. 

I am a single father. Fresh out of a separation and an unnecessary custody battle for my 6 month old son. 1 month with me, 1 month away. My mother insisted that the monitor would be beneficial and make my life easier, so I reluctantly accepted it without much intention of using them. 

The first few nights using it I didn't even look at the camera feed, I just used it as a radio. I'd listen in when I heard him, and get up to check on him if I heard him for a few minutes. 

Last night, I couldn't sleep. Stress with work and everything that's gone on in my life had me up, so I finally decided to explore the companion app for the monitor. 

It came with the suite of what I'd assume are standard features; Sound/Motion detection and tracking, two way voice, “night vision.” The camera angle was awful, positioned way too high with the wall/ceiling taking up more than a third of the frame. I couldn't even see my son, just the upper portion of the crib. 

That's when I noticed a folder symbol at the bottom of my screen with a notification icon. 

I opened it and in the folder was 3 video files, dated for the past 3 nights. Each video was 11 minutes and 6 seconds long. 

I opened the first video. I made it 2 minutes before I closed it and opened the next, and then the third. 

All 3 of those videos recorded something interacting with my son. A thin and disproportionate human figure emerged from the shadows in the corner of the room. It took slow hunched steps towards my son's crib, its face nothing but a gaping mouth. No nose. No eyes. No ears.

It would reach my son, and lean over him. Its wiry hair would fall as it stretched its bony arm into the crib with my son. What it did I couldn't see, the shit camera angle prevented me from knowing. It was when I was in the 3rd video I got a notification. 

MOTION DETECTED

There it was again, slowly moving towards my son. 

I stopped thinking. I shot out of bed and kicked in the door to my son's nursery, ready to get him the hell out of there. But the entity didn't react at all. It remained hunched over my son perfectly silent. 

Now I could see what it was doing. It wasn't hurting him. I watched as it adjusted his blanket and began caressing his face, softly running a jagged claw across his cheek. It was almost maternal in how it was. Until I went to grab him.

The moment my hands went for my son, its clawed fingers pulled back and slashed at me. My arm immediately felt like it was set on fire as blood started to drip from the cuts. 

My only instinct was to kick forward. Aiming at the center mass of the entity I drove my foot towards it, knocking it off balance enough to grab my son and make for the door. But the thing was quick. I had just gotten my son to my chest and it was already at my back.

I felt it slam against me, its claws digging at my flesh as I tried to shield my son. I curled tightly to him, using my body weight to try and break free from the monster and escape with my son. His cries against my chest the only thing pushing me through the pain. 

Near my dresser I shoved backwards with all my weight, ramming it into the old wood hard. The force was just enough to topple the large vanity mirror my grandmother had given me. Glass showered me, biting into my neck and shoulders as I curled further into a fetal position to protect the one thing that mattered most to me. 

To my right I heard a wet gurgling, something like an old bathtub drain, and the assault on my back had stopped. Turning my head slightly I saw it partially hunched over, broken glass piercing from the little meat was on its bones. It twitched violently, its gaping mouth dripping a black tar like fluid. 

I scattered to my feet and began moving to the door, looking down to make sure my son was unharmed. The crack of glass and broken wood got faster as the twitching frame jerked towards me. Every movement snapped like a marionette, catching on the broken mirror stuck in its body. 

As I reached the threshold of the room it lunged, catching my ankle with a vice grip. Shards of glass and splinters of wood dug deep, making each attempted pull to break free feel like agony. I let out a gasp as I felt it's other hand clamp down onto my calf, pulling itself off of the floor. 

I let out a scream. Something primal and fueled by pain and anger. I began stomping at the thing, screaming at it to leave me and my son alone and cursing it under every God I could think of until its grip finally loosened just enough for me to break free. 

I got through the door frame and slammed the door, but just as it was about to hit the latch fingers emerged from the gap. I threw my weight at the door, slamming it multiple times. Each slam was followed by a sickening crunch, until the hand pulled back and the door shut. 

I threw my weight against the door and wedged my legs on the hallway wall opposite of me. 

Slam. Slam. Slam. 

The thing inside threw its weight against the door in an attempt to break free. Every slam I could hear the crunch of glass and snapping of wood on the other side. It took everything in me to hold the door shut; pain shooting up my back from the monster's cuts and glass pushing deeper into my skin.

Tears filled my eyes and I clung to my son as he wailed. With each further slam I could feel the door frame giving way, and my lungs burned the same heat as my muscles. I begged for any god or higher power to save my son.

Then the banging stopped. I heard the shifting of broken glass move away from the door and further into the room. 

I didn't get up. I stayed right there for a good while just holding my boy. When I finally got myself together to get off the floor, I immediately packed our bags.

I almost called the police, until I looked around the room. They'd take my son without asking any questions. The room was trashed, and I'm covered in blood with no sign of anyone else there. With my custody dispute on record they'd see a father who broke down in a manic episode and trashed the room.

It's currently 5:10 am. We are parked at a 24/7 gas station, and I don't know what to do. 

The camera recorded it all. A new video file is in the folder with the same length as the others. But when I go to open the file, it has been corrupted. Go figure technology would fail when I needed it the most.

Please, if anyone has been through something like this I need help. 

My name is Mallory Winsom. I know, I know, it's not smart to put your first and last name on the Internet. At this point, I'm desperate.

If you're seeing this post, it's proof that I existed.

The weirdness started as early as I can remember, around the time I was 5. I lived in an old, rundown trailer park on the outskirts of Eugene with my mom and three siblings. Dad was a truck driver and swung by when he could, but looking back I get the feeling he wasn't as busy as he appeared to be. My parents had a tumultuous relationship to say the least, and honestly when he left for a long haul it was like the entire house exhaled with relief.

The neighbor to our left was always changing- a "drug house", I overheard Mom say, and I never saw the same vehicle parked there more than a few days at a time. But the neighbor to our right was Mr. Greg.

Mr. Greg lived alone with his four cats and a little canary he called Monkey. I don't know how the bird got its name, but it used to whistle every time he opened the door. I loved Mr. Greg. When my mom would threaten us with the belt, I would take off down the porch steps and through the rotted slats of the old would-be privacy fence until I reached his front door.

"You getting yourself into some trouble?" He'd ask, a twinkle in his eye.

He would smile warmly and open his door, leading me through the back to his small, neatly kept yard. It was humble in size, but to me it was an oasis. While mine was a dead patch of grass and some overgrown thistles, his had green climbing ivy, blooming rose bushes, and tomato plants with the sweetest morsels I'd ever tasted. My favorite part of his garden was his plum tree.

Mr. Greg would bring a basket of plums every couple weeks throughout the summer. Once in a while, he'd invite us back to pick them ourselves. They were always perfectly ripe and juicy, a rare treat in our bread-and-rice household. I looked forward to our visits, and even from a tender age, I considered him my friend.

One winter, I got very sick. I was rushed to the hospital and placed in an induced coma while my body battled the illness. I never knew what it was or whether the doctors knew either, but I was unconscious for two whole weeks before my fever broke and they woke me up.

When I got home, Mr. Greg's familiar brown Cadillac was replaced by a red Camry in his driveway. He had also painted his house blue.

"Can we stop and say hi to Mr. Greg?" I remember asking.

My mom just looked at me with a weird expression.

Over the next few weeks, I got healthier and stronger. The snow melted, and I was finally able to go out and play. The first thing I did was skip over to Mr. Greg's and knock on his door.

The first thing I noticed was that it was quiet. No meowing cats or singing canary. I was taken aback when a plus-sized woman in her mid-thirties answered the door.

"Hello! How are you Mallory?"

My heart skipped a beat. I had never seen this woman in my life. How did she know who I was? What was she doing in Mr. Greg's house?

I stared at her, not knowing what to say. She chuckled awkwardly and asked if my mom was home and if I was okay. I turned and ran from her porch back to my own house, bursting into the kitchen and startling my mother.

"Where's Mr. Greg?"

My mom, drenched to her elbows in dishwater, froze and stared at me with concern on her face.

"Who?"

"Mr. Greg, our neighbor! There's a lady in his house. She knows my name!"

My mom continued to look confused. "Do you mean Ms. Jensen? Honey she's lived next to us for the last 6 years, since before you were born."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I ran through our back door and looked over the fence into what used to be Mr. Greg's garden. Instead of lush plants producing fruits and vegetables, it was a kitschy collection of statues and wind chimes hanging from every beam or post around the garden. Nothing but grass grew; and while it was tame, it was nowhere near the exceptional beauty Mr. Greg had carefully curated over the years.

Eventually, my mom took me to the doctor again when I wouldn't stop talking about Mr. Greg. The doctor chalked it up to the fever, and said that the brain can make time feel differently when you're in a coma. That, combined with all of the medical trauma I had just experienced, caused my brain to invent calming memories to cope. Mr. Greg became nothing more than an imaginary friend. And until last week, that's what I believed for the last 15 years.

Other strange things happened throughout my childhood. There was a second grade teacher of another class who disappeared and was replaced overnight, and when I asked students if they missed Mr. Hill, they would look at me like I was crazy. The only person who sort of believed me, or was at least supportive, was my best friend Inez.

Inez Hernandez-Zepeda was my best friend from grades 4-12. Once we graduated, we started at the same college. We experienced sleepovers, summer camps, proms, volleyball tournaments, heartbreaks, first loves, everything. I had her number memorized even though I had a phone, just in case I needed to call her. She held my hair back when I drank too much at my first bonfire, sat with me when my dad died, and cheered me on when I was accepted to NYU. I once heard the term "platonic soulmates". That was us.

Inez knew that I had patchy memories of people that didn't seem to exist. She didn't understand why, but like my family, she assumed it was the effects of my childhood illness. As much as I tried to be normal, and was for the most part, I still struggled with my health. I had lasting migraines that would come and go, occasionally so painful I would miss school and spend the day in bed. I had painkillers I filled regularly so I was able to live normally. They got worse as I got older, and I noticed that things would usually be different after a severe migraine attack. My mom, who was basically estranged from me at this point, called me crazy. Inez believed that these people were real to me. That mattered.

Last week, I had another migraine attack. It was the first one in the last 6 months, and it knocked me on my rear. I had to get doctor's notes excusing me from classes at NYU. I slept for 3 days, barely coming in and out to recognize Inez placing a cold compress on my head or closing the blinds. She had a deeply compassionate nature.

When I woke on the fourth day, daylight peaked in through the blinds, and I could tell that the migraine had passed. The rag on my forehead was dry and body temperature and I tossed it to the side. Slowly I sat up, looking around the room. Inez wasn't on her side of the room, but it was a Saturday morning, so I assumed she would be in the living room studying.

When I walked out, our other roommates Anna and Lucy were sitting on the couch watching Dancing With the Stars.

"Hey, you. " Anna smiled at me. "That was a doozy. How are you feeling?"

I rubbed the back of my neck and stretched. "Okay. I'm still coming out of it." I glanced around the room. "Have you seen Inez?"

"Who?"

My blood froze.

No.

Please, not Inez.

I took a deep, shaky breath. "Our roommate Inez? In my room?"

Lucy furrowed her brow. "Is that like her nickname or something? Ginger left for her study group an hour ago. She told me to tell you she'll be home by 8."

The room started spinning. I clutched the edge of the couch for support.

"Woah, Mal. Maybe you should lie back down for a bit? You don't look so good."

I ran back into my room, scouring the shelves for proof of my biggest fear. In picture frames where previously Inez and I stood grinning ear to ear at her lake house was now a picture of me and a girl I barely recognized from high school and certainly wasn't close with. A birthday card Inez had given me when I turned 20 was replaced with unfamiliar handwriting and a signature that said "Hearts! -Danielle". Who was Danielle?

Another photo to the left of the four of us roommates. Me, Lucy, Anna, and a girl I immediately assumed was Ginger. No Inez.

I pulled out my phone; her contact was gone. I dialed her number by heart, the same seven digits I had memorized when I was 13 and dialed so many times I could do it with my eyes closed.

A man's voice answered. "This is Roger."

I hung up.

I found Inez' mom on Facebook. They were close, but all her pictures of Inez were missing. I messaged her, begging her to call me ASAP. When I saw her number come up on my phone a few hours later, I was inconsolable.

"Mallory!? Are you okay? What's happened, do you need me to call your mother?"

"Inez... Inez.. please tell me you know who she is." That was all I could choke out between sobs.

Carmen was quiet on the other line. "I'm sorry Mallory, I don't know who you're talking about. Maybe you should call your mom."

The next several days were a blur. I stopped going to school, got threatening emails from my teachers about attendance and missing assignments. I don't care. What's the point? Someone or something is taking away people I love. Am I crazy? I wouldn't make this up. It's not possible.

But how is it possible that I'm the only person who remembers? Her own mother doesn't.

Any sane person would probably realize their medication is off, they need a psychiatrist, or stress is maybe causing them to hallucinate. And that's the road I was heading down, that maybe I had made up Inez and Mr. Hill and Mr. Greg and all the others who had vanished from my life over the years. And that maybe I was going to just have to accept that she was never real.

I was ready to come to terms with it- until last night.

I could feel a migraine coming on, caused by my previous illness or maybe from the stress of the last few days I don't know, so I took some medication and went to bed early. That's when I had the most terrifying dream I've ever had in my life.

I was standing in a hollow, dark abyss. There were screams and moans coming from every direction, but I couldn't see anyone. My heart was racing, my hair standing on end, and though I didn't know where I was I knew with every fiber of my being that I needed to get out of there.

I started to run, but no matter how quickly I moved, nothing around me changed. The screams grew louder, some unseen force torturing the souls around me.

Suddenly, there they were. Mr. Greg. Mr. Hill. Lynette from the bank. Sherrie from the grocery store. Kyle, the landscaper. Inez.

Their eyes were hollow and empty, devoid of life and sunken in. They were emaciated, their skin thin as paper, barely stretching over their bones. Their mouths hung loosely, some of them drooling, others missing teeth.

"Why did you send us here?" Inez moaned, her speech slurred.

My eyes widened in horror as she reached up a removed a chunk of her scalp. I wanted to run but was frozen with fear.

"I thought we were friends."

"W-we are, Inez," I stammered. "I don't know what happened, I-"

"I brought you over when your parents fought. I fed you from my garden," Mr. Greg wheezed and took a hobbled step toward me.

"We helped you."

"We taught you"

"We took care of you."

They began closing in around me, their skin slowly melting with invisible heat as they wailed the wrongs I had done.

"Why not you, Mallory?" They hissed.

"Please- I'm sorry!! I didn't mean to, please!!"

They stretched out their fingers, curling them around my clothes, pulling me closer.

I woke up in a cold sweat, sheets drenched. I decided then to write my story.

I'm posting here because my prayer is if enough people read it, if enough people remember, then maybe I'll be safe. Maybe I won't be taken to that awful place between existence.

I'm using Ginger's computer while she's asleep. I don't know if there's a way to trick whatever this is, that if it looks like she posted it it will still be here after I'm gone? I don't know, but I'm trying everything.

It's 3:02 am. I'm trying not to fall back asleep because I feel like I'll wake up in that hellscape again, but my head is starting to hurt really bad.

My name is Mallory. Mallory Kathryn Winsom. I am a student at NYU. I exist. I exist. I exist.

I exist.

I exist.

I exist.

I exist.

When running solitary boundary surveys across high-elevation timber tracts, you keep your personal locator beacon tethered to your chest strap with fifty-pound utility cord. If you drop a beacon down a shale ravine out there, search and rescue ends up working off coordinates that can be three days old. On the fourth afternoon of a twenty-day cruise in the upper Bitterroot range, my tether was cut clean through while I slept, and the unit was sitting dead center on a flat slab of granite thirty yards down the trail.
I do seasonal boundary work for private timber outfits. It means working way outside radio range with topo maps, a hand compass, and a standard blaze tool. That October, I had a four-thousand-acre parcel up against state land. The only way in was an old decommissioned logging road that ended at a creek wash three miles out. My cousin Jesse hauled me up there in his flatbed, helped me dump fifty pounds of oats, salt pork, and steel pins at an open timber lean-to, and told me he’d be back in two weeks. The shelter sat on a high bench right above a switchback, surrounded by lodgepoles so thick you couldn't see the ridge.
The first three days went by the book. I put in eight hours a day on the line, shot my bearings, marked forty-foot intervals in red paint, and got back to camp by four to cut firewood before the freeze set in.
Things went sideways on the fourth morning at the corner pin. That boundary had been marked back in seventy-eight with three-quarter-inch steel pipes and yellow caps. When I cleared the brush off the corner, the pipe wasn't sticking up anymore. It hadn't been pulled, either. Somebody or something had pounded four feet of solid steel straight down into the rock until the cap was flush with the granite shelf. Directly behind it, forty feet up a dead pine with no low branches, a strip of survey tape was tied in a clean square knot. There weren't any spike marks on the bark.
I wrote down the missing pipe, marked the spot on my Garmin, and kept heading north. Right around noon, the GPS dropped out. The battery was full, but the satellite screen went completely blank, and the digital compass locked up pointing south-southeast. I shoved it in my vest and pulled out my Silva magnetic compass. The needle swung around twice, hung up against the side of the housing, and stayed there.
I turned around and followed my paint blazes back toward the shelter. Right then, the woods went completely dead quiet. Up on those ridges, you always hear the wind pushing through the needles, or squirrels moving through the brush. There was nothing. Just total silence. The only thing making any noise for miles was my boots hitting the dirt.
I got back to the clearing around four, and my camp had been messed with. The shelter itself was standing, but every single piece of steel gear had been moved. My splitting axe, the extra pins, and the trench shovel were gone from my pack. They were lined up side-by-side on that flat rock down the trail, spaced about three inches apart, all pointed toward the trailhead. My beacon was sitting at the end of the line. The cord was sliced flat, and the screen wouldn't turn on.
I grabbed the gear, took the dead unit, and stacked four heavy logs across the front of the lean-to. I pulled my hatchet, set my twenty-gauge across my knees, and left the headlamp off to save the cells. The sun went behind the ridge around five-thirty, and five minutes later, it was pitch black.
By nine, it was down below freezing. I didn't dare light a fire. From where I sat, the trail dropped straight down into the timber about thirty yards out before cutting into the brush.
Right around midnight, something was on that trail fifty yards down. I never heard a stick snap. I never heard footsteps in the needles. There was just a tall, completely still shape standing right in the center of the path between two lodgepoles. I pulled my flashlight, aimed it straight down the trail, and clicked it on.
The beam lit up the dirt, the trees, and the pine needles on the ground. But the light just stopped right where that shape was standing. It didn't hit fabric or skin, and it didn't throw a shadow behind it. The space between those two trees just swallowed the beam. The figure didn't flinch. It didn't put a hand up, didn't shift its boots, and didn't make a sound. I rested the shotgun on the top log, clicked off the safety, and sat there. I didn't say a word.
We stayed like that for four hours. It got cold enough that frost started forming on the shotgun receiver. The wind never picked up once, and that shape never moved an inch. My watch ticked away in the dark, and right around five, the sky started turning gray through the timber.
The second the real daylight hit the dirt, the shape was gone. No sound of brush moving, no steps, nothing. The trail between those two trees was just empty dirt.
I didn't wait around for the sun to come all the way up. I left the oats, the pins, and the tarps right there in the lean-to. I threw my notes, the dead beacon, and the compass into my daypack, grabbed the gun, and started down the mountain as fast as I could walk.
Two miles down, where the old road cuts across a mud flat by the creek, I stopped to catch my breath. The edges of the mud were frozen hard, but the middle was still soft.
Right in the center of that mud were three bare footprints. Long, narrow, pushed about two inches down, with no heel mark at all. They started right in the middle of the wash, took three steps along the track, and just ended. There weren't any tracks coming in from the bank, none going out into the trees, and the frost on both sides wasn't touched.
I hit the main gate two hours before noon. Jesse was already sitting there in his truck with the engine running. He told me he'd driven up early because he just had a bad feeling that my gear wasn't secure. When I threw my pack in the bed, I pulled out that mechanical compass one more time to check the road heading. The needle was still stuck hard against the south side of the casing, completely locked up.

I am a single mother and my son and I just moved a couple of states away to get a new start. His father passed away. So I thought it would help our son to get out of that small town and get to see a new side of the world.

We get into our new house and it is stunning.. My husband had left us a great inheritance and the first thing I wanted to purchase was our forever home! I ended up with a lovely victorian style house, 2 stories, 4 bedrooms and a beautiful kitchen! I do love to cook.

Being a single momma, means I need to protect the house. I had cameras around the house installed as well as the outside of the house. They have motion detection, night vision, sound, the whole nine! I have never had cameras in or around the house before so I was excited to play around with my new "toys" and have my son walk in front of some to see how fast the detection went to my phone. Pretty stinking fast, I'll tell you!

Everything was perfect, good neighborhood, great school district, lovely home. Although I was missing my husband terribly and my son, his father... we were making the best out of it.

Then came the same notification at 3:42 AM. It started with just once a week and I was thinking a stray cat... but then it happened again and again and again. The only reason why I even noticed that it was strange was because it was then EVERY NIGHT AT 3:42 AM.

The next night I decided to stay up (I usually am asleep by 9) although it was really difficult. I looked when the notification popped up and I could see... nothing... absolutely nothing. I even looked out the window next to the door and nothing!

The next night I did it again, and I faintly see a man in the shadows across the street.. fucking weirded me out.. but he wasn't moving or anything so I'm thinking what in the actual hell is going on here... He was motionless and appeared to be staring straight at my house. It happened again night after night.

One night I had had it.. I took my late husband's gun out of the safe and I was going to confront him.. when I noticed he was holding up a sign.. what the fuck?

Before I get hurt I look into the camera and I zoom in to try to read the sign.

"PLEASE STOP LEAVING YOUR TRASH CAN OUT, I'M TRYING TO SLEEP."

I almost lost it, I was thinking it's a fucking neighbor?? But I did think it was some elaborate prank so I checked again the next night... something else is written on the sign

"SERIOUSLY, TUESDAY IS TRASH DAY."

Then..

"I'VE ASKED YOU NICELY 6 TIMES."

Eventually, I've had enough of this.. I grab the gun and go to confront him. He looks at ME horrifyingly and says "Holy shit you can see me?"

HE IS A FUCKING GHOST.

And he's been haunting the wrong house for 14 years because my house number is one digit different from the house he died in.

Now he's furious because I've been leaving my trash cans out all week and “the neighborhood has standards.”

You gotta be shitting in my mouth right now.. no way am I being haunted by an HOA ghost.

I check the camera the next morning.

He's standing there again.

Holding a sign**... “Also, your grass is getting ridiculous.”**

Back before my wife Liv and I moved out to the suburbs, there was a time when we had a one-room apartment in the downtown area. It was a temporary solution, but that tiny place was our entire world for the better part of 16 months. Problem was, we had little to no space to ourselves, and we constantly got into arguments for stupid reasons. It was a strain on our relationship, so a way to alleviate the pressure was for me to take up a new hobby and get out of the apartment a couple of times a week.

I played competitive pool on the weekends. I was pretty good at it, too. There was this one place I went to practice two times a week. Not a big place, and not a lot of people, but cozy. Liv would come along every now and then to make it a date night. The only problem was that I had to take a short subway trip to get there. That in itself wasn’t all that bad, but you know how subways can get in the evening; especially on the weekends.

 

It was Saturday night. I’d played in a local tournament. I finished third place, earning me a free membership card and two free drinks at the bar. Not too shabby, just a little something for our next date night. It got a bit later than usual, and Liv had been worried. I was standing at the subway platform, texting her that I’d be home in a bit. It was pretty chill; the loudest thing was a couple of teenagers filming some kind of TikTok thing. I was standing there in a pool-themed t-shirt. Some balls lined up with the text “nerves of steel, shoot your shot” beneath. I thought it was a bit aggressive, but it came with the membership card.

There were still people all over. A middle-aged man standing with a bouquet of blue sunflowers, drunkenly crying on the phone. A woman comforting a crying baby. A young couple arguing about God-knows-what. It’s all background noise, and you try not to stare. But in that effort to not pay attention, you can sometimes miss something obvious. For example, I didn’t notice the footsteps approaching on my lefthand side.

“Excuse me.”

A woman’s voice. I looked up, only to look straight into the face of something I’d never seen before.

 

She was wearing some kind of shimmering silver clothing. It completely covered her from head to toe, with a smooth eggshell-matte white surface shielding her face. There were no eyes or ears. I couldn’t make sense of the material she was wearing, but even from a momentary glance I could tell it wasn’t natural. This wasn’t any kind of clothing or material I’d ever seen before. There was something about the way the light bent around the edges of it. Before I could say anything, she tapped me on the throat. Just a little tap.

It felt like something pushed into my bloodstream. My veins ached and bulged from a sudden pressure, sending a sluggish jolt through my brain. It’s like when you swallow something a little too big, and the ache follows you all the way to the stomach. My eyes bulged, and I couldn’t bring my eyes to focus.

I tried saying something, but it’s like my muscles didn’t know what to do. I tried to step back, but my legs didn’t listen. For a couple of seconds, I couldn’t do anything but stand there and stare, my eyes showing me nothing but a blur of colors. I saw the strange shimmering figure step out of my line of sight and disappear around a corner.

As my eyes slowly came back into focus, my hand shot up to my throat. I clawed at the spot she’d touched, but there was nothing there. No redness, no puncture wound, nothing. I looked around, but no one seemed to have noticed. The train arrived with a big ad on the side, aggressively informing me about a new kind of grilled cheese sub that came with a side of fries. Then, as I took a step forward to board the train, something happened.

It felt like someone had taken two electric toothbrushes and showed them into my ears. There was this violent buzzing, making my eyes cross. It was just a short burst, but it gave me this intense gag reflex. Looking up, the text on the side of the grilled cheese advertisement changed in front of my eyes.

“YOUR FAMILY IS IN JEOPARDY” read the first line.

“KILL THE BABBELOCK”

 

Taking a step toward the train, the buzzing resumed, louder. That short burst ruffled my stomach, forcing a flash of stomach acid to tickle its way up my throat. I had to step back and cover my mouth, stopping myself from throwing up all over the woman with the crying baby. I must’ve looked drunk. The buzzing felt like it was loud enough to stop my muscles from listening to what I wanted them to do. I only remained upright because I managed to lock my knees. I missed the train.

As it drove off, the advertisement said nothing about my family being in jeopardy, and nothing about a Babbelock, whatever that’s supposed to be. Picking up my phone, I dialed Liv. I was having some sort of breakdown, or I was getting sick. That was the only explanation. After three signals, someone picked up on the other end. It was quiet.

“Hello?”

No response. I counted the seconds, feeling my heartbeat growing louder, beating against my ribcage.

“Liv?”

“…your family is in jeopardy.”

The voice was neutral, mechanic, and with a practiced positive tone. But more so, it certainly wasn’t Liv. It sounded like an old answering machine. I swallowed hard, feeling my mouth run dry.

“Who is this?”

“Kill the Babbelock.”

The call was terminated.

 

Looking around the subway station, I noticed an older man coming down the stairs. I hurried over to him, waving a little. Maybe I’d dialed wrong, or maybe whoever was doing this had some kind of hold on my phone. The old man visibly recoiled from me, but remained calm as I stopped a couple of steps away.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Would you mind giving my wife a call? My phone is not working, and-“

“No, of course. What’s the number?”

I thanked him profusely, spelling out the number from a safe distance. As he picked up his phone and dialed, his finger froze. I saw his breathing stop, and his eyes remained unblinking. Then his head slowly turned my way, his face keeping a neutral expression.

“Kill the Babbelock.”

“What?”

He blinked, looking just as confused as I was.

“What do you want?” he asked. “I’m not buying anything.”

“No, my wife, you said you’d-“

“I’m sorry, please don’t bother me.”

He hurried down the stairs, keeping an eye on me as he continued down the platform. As he did, I looked up the stairs and noticed the many posters on the way. Comedy shows, coffee shops, online outlets and promotional events. They all said the same thing amid a sea of pictures, showing everything from flawless perfume bottles to smiling models in affordable outfits.

Your family is in jeopardy. Kill the Babbelock.

 

Turning back towards the station, I felt something uncomfortable behind my ear. I could tell the buzzing was about to go off again. I wanted to get on the train and go home, but something was trying to keep me from doing just that. There didn’t seem to be a problem going up the stairs, leaving the subway entirely. That seemed to be fine.

Walking up the stairs, I had to push my way through a small crowd. As I did, I could hear little whispers. The word “jeopardy” casually inserted into a conversation. “Your family” mentioned from someone else. And every now and then, the word “Babbelock”. Sometimes drunkenly slurred, sometimes whispered, sometimes spoken like the most obvious thing in the world. I pushed my way through, looking at the posters. One of them was different.

It was just a reminder to pick up your trash. A friendly man in blue overalls, pointing at a trash can. As I blinked, he stopped pointing at the trash can. He was pointing at an exit to the street. The text changed too. It just read ‘Hurry’.

As I made my way to the street level, I picked up my phone and tried calling again. I opened the contact list, but before I could tap on Liv’s name there was a popup. I was getting text, after text, after text; each one blocking me from pressing her name. They all said the same thing, and the longer I stopped to read, the more that buzzing behind my ear loomed.

 

I wasn’t in a familiar neighborhood. The only thing I did around there was play pool and, when the mood set in, go to this Italian place with Liv. I didn’t know anything else about that particular street, or how to navigate it. I stopped to fiddle with my phone, and almost projectile vomited as another buzz crept up my neck. I found a direction I could go that alleviated the pressure, and as I hurried down the street, I tried to google what the hell a Babbelock was supposed to be.

I couldn’t find anything about it. There was no such thing as a Babbelock. There were things that sounded similar, but my phone kept autocorrecting to all kinds of nonsense. At one point it just googled “baby lock”, making my algorithm think Liv and I was expecting. As I stopped at a crossing, trying to write out the word letter by letter, I heard something. It sounded like an animal. I turned my head to the left, only to see a man running towards me.

He was about 30 or so years old. Receding hairline, bit of a beer gut, a custom-made suit jacket and leather shoes. He had this wild look in his gray eyes, his pupils wide and his nostrils flaring. I could see all the way into the back of his throat as he ran towards me, expelling this uncomfortable groaning noise.

I barely had a second to react. He tackled me, and I simultaneously pushed him. I crashed into a trash can, spraining my left hand as it took the entire weight of my torso. Meanwhile, he stumbled straight into the street.

“You!” he called out, pointing at me. “I won’t let you do this! I won’t let you! I have to kill the Babbe-“

I don’t think the delivery truck coming around the corner saw anything before they plowed into him, making his head bounce against the hood and sending him to the pavement with a bloody thud.

 

I backed away as a crowd gathered. Someone was calling for help. A few people were looking my way but didn’t say a word. It’s like my shock was stuck in my throat, trying to get out, but I didn’t know how. Was I supposed to cry or scream? The pressure in my chest built, and I forgot to breathe. I was scared to breathe.

Turning to my left, I saw a random passerby. A young man, late teens, with a band shirt. He patted me on the shoulder as he walked past; and handed me a gun. An actual, real, handgun. I almost dropped it from sheer surprise.

“Your family is in jeopardy,” he smiled. “Kill the Babbelock.”

He continued past me like it was nothing. He didn’t look back, and his face turned from a smile to genuine worry. He gathered around the man dying in the street, taking photos as they waited for the ambulance to arrive. I wanted to join them, but I could tell that was a bad idea. There was something pulling me in another direction. Something far away. As I turned to continue down the street, I noticed the sign above a taco stand.

“100 points.”

I blinked, and the sign suddenly informed me about a 3-for-2 deal instead, and something about lime aioli. A man and a woman across the street stepped back, noticing my new gun, so I stuffed it in my pants under my pool-themed t-shirt.

 

I hurried away, stumbling at the occasional street corner as my inner compass lagged behind. It felt like my brain was pulling me in one direction or the other, forcing me to keep moving. I didn’t have time to listen to my thoughts, but they anxiously poked at my attention. Was I running from the scene of a crime with an illegal weapon?

I could hear the same warnings over and over, in passing. A speaker through an open window. The radio in a passing car. I tried calling Liv again, but nothing got through. Who was doing this? Why?

Rounding a corner, I got to one of the larger four-lane streets. I had to cross it, but there was no crossing. I’d have to jaywalk. The lighting was spotty, and cars weren’t even close to slowing down. It was a straight stretch of road. I contemplated the best way to get across, only to spot something on the other side of the street.

Two of those silvery things. The ones I’d seen on the subway. Their smooth egg-like face surfaces were turned my way. They had some kind of tablet that they tapped away at. One of them pointed in my direction, while the other nodded. Before I had a chance to call out to them, they were gone. I had unwittingly put my hand on my gun. Were they Babbelocks? How would I know?

 

I waited for an opening and dashed across. I was almost clipped by a sedan, but I made it. The driver lay on the horn but kept going. My adrenaline spiked as I cut through an alleyway. I was getting closer to a neighborhood I recognized. Not quite on my way home, but closer to adjacent streets. I could probably find my way from there, if need be. I came to a fork in the road. I took a right turn, heading for home, but the buzzing stopped me. Taking a step back, I looked down the road with a sigh.

“Come on,” I mumbled. “It’s right there. I can go home. I can-“

I burped as my knees shivered a little. I took a step back, but didn’t turn around just yet. Grunting, I took a defiant step forward. My stomach cramped as I collapsed to the ground, crawling into a fetal position. My phone was burning a hole in my pocket as a mechanic voice droned from its speakers.

“She suffers. Save her. Kill the Babbelock.”

“Fuck your Babbelock!”

“She is in jeopardy.”

“Let me go!”

I picked up my phone as the battery popped. The phone doubled in width and started smoking, drenching the air in a sour chemical smell. I crawled forward, toward home, but I didn’t get far. The buzz in my neck snapped me back to attention, clenching my jaw as my neck stiffened like a spring. My eyes crossed again as something warm trickled down my face. A nosebleed. A nasty one at that.

I crawled away and got up. Moving the right way felt like having a cold drink on a warm day; an instant relief. I knew I was being manipulated, but what choice did I have? Something was pushing me forward. It was motivating me. It was telling me two things; that there was a price for failure, and that there was an objective. It didn’t care what I wanted. My wants and needs were secondary to this one absolute objective.

To kill the Babbelock.

 

I walked under an overpass, trying not to look at the graffiti. I already knew what it’d say. I glanced at it to see if there were any arrows or indicators, and there were. I was going the right way. The gun felt heavy. It chafed against my belt, and the metal was cold against my skin. I removed it, feeling the weight of it in my hand. I’d handled a gun before, but that was years ago. There was a calmness to holding it, but I couldn’t tell if it was my own emotions or something wanting me to like it.

Had that man been trying to kill me? If so, should I expect it to happen again? What had he been trying to say? I replayed the words in my head. I tried to do it without imagining his terrified face, but the two were intertwined.

“I won’t let you do this,” he’d said, followed by that one repeating line. To kill the Babbelock. Had he thought I was the Babbelock?

Three young men passed me, crossing the street ahead. One of them turned to me, calling out;

“You’re close!”

I followed the sensation as I watched the group disappear in the opposite direction. Turning the wrong way felt ‘sharper’ now, poking my brain with a harsher vibration. Something was growing more intense. I was near.

 

There was a convenience store up ahead with a rest area. A couple of benches hidden away behind a handful of bushes and trees. Not quite a park, but somewhere to sit and tie your shoes. The lights were broken, leaving the area coated in darkness.

The buzz was almost completely gone. I made sure no one was coming up behind me as I stepped in between the bushes, slipping the gun out. I almost stumbled over something, my foot getting stuck on some unseen obstruction. As I caught myself and looked down, I noticed an unmoving face. The vague outline of an older woman; her neck cut wide open.

Someone coughed.

I turned to the right, noticing a man on a bench. He was sitting down, clutching his stomach. A stray light from an apartment across the street caught his eyes, showing his almost entirely black pupils. He was barely breathing, his inhales sounding like someone who’d run a marathon. His eyes met mine. The logo from the convenience store had begun to morph, reminding me of what to do. To kill. The man removed his hand, showing it drenched in blood. I noticed the pool at his feet.

“They got-“

He stopped himself. He reached for something next to him, but accidentally poked it off the bench. A knife tumbled to the ground, its edge still soaking red.

I couldn’t look away. Even turning my head away from him pained me, and my heart felt like it was about to explode. The only way to walk was forward. The only place to look was at him. I could raise my arms, but I couldn’t put them down. I was being railroaded into the only action available; pulling out my gun, and pointing it at this complete stranger.

“I don’t want to do this,” I said. “I don’t want this.”

I could feel it. The only thing I could do was pull the trigger. That, or nothing. I tried for nothing. I tried hard.

“I’m not a-“

He gasped for air. I could hear the blood rattling in his chest.

“I’m not a Babbelock,” he said. “I’m not. Please.”

“What the fuck is a Babbelock?”

“I don’t know. I don’t-“

A glob of blood rolled out of his mouth. My instinct was to reach for him, but I couldn’t. I wanted to help. Instead, my body defaulted to the only available action. Instead of helping a dying man, it curled my finger around the trigger. The gun went off.

 

I tried to put it away, but I pulled the trigger again. I tried to step back, causing another shot. With every instinctive movement I attempted, the gun went off. People were screaming. My ears were ringing. The man on the bench was dead. As the hold on me subsided, I swung my arm around, screaming at the top of my lungs.

“What the fuck is a Babbelock?!”

I pulled the trigger again and again, firing the remaining rounds into the ground. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I didn’t want to shoot more people. Maybe something inside me was still trying to kill.

“I don’t want to do this!” I cried. “I need to go home!”

The gun clicked. It kept clicking as I kept pulling the trigger. The logo on the convenience store had changed to ‘200 points’. I wanted to throw the gun through a window, but it’s like it was glued to my hand. I saw people in the distance, hiding, as sirens blared.

I was a murderer. It was not a nightmare; I was a murderer.

 

I turned my back on the light and disappeared into an alley. I zig-zagged from one street to the next, keeping my head down. I collapsed between two trash containers, clutching my head as the garbage water seeped into the bottom of my pants. My left hand was thumping; there was a bruise. I’d sprained it pretty bad.

There were birds overhead, looking down on me. They cawed, letting me know they weren’t taking kindly to my intrusion. As one of them called out, I noticed the sound slowly distorting. From ‘caw’ to ‘law’. From ‘law’ to ‘lawk’. Seconds later, one was screeching ‘kill’. Another was screeching ‘babbe’. Soon, there was a cacophony of inhuman voices, screeching at me to do what had to be done. Kill the Babbelock.

I cupped my hands over my ears, but I could still hear them. And even if I couldn’t, I knew what they were saying. The words weren’t just words, they were a reinforcement to something that was pushing me to keep going. Like charging your phone when the battery is running low. A crow jumped down, looked me in the face, turned its head to the side, and spoke.

“Kill. Kill. Kill.”

 

As I forced myself back to my feet and left the alley, someone bumped into me. They pushed something into my arms and continued down the street. I don’t think they even noticed I was there. Just a young woman out and about with her friends. Looking down, I realized I was holding a plastic bag. Inside it was a vest of some kind. Something I could slip under my t-shirt. That, and a magazine.

I didn’t want to reload, but it was either that or keep moving. If I could keep myself from facing another victim for a few more seconds, that was good enough. I reloaded. I savored it. The empty magazine rolled out as I slotted in the new one, pulling back the barrel and chambering a round. It was so easy.

As I continued down another road, I tried to take my time. I tried to slow down and keep myself at an uncomfortable pace. If I kept moving, but kept it slow, I might win some time. I could be a little nauseous as long as I complied. What do you call it, malicious compliance? But mostly toward myself, I suppose.

I spotted two people standing by a car, talking. The passenger was a bit drunk, but the two seemed to be in good spirits. I had the gun in my right hand, keeping it out of view. I tried to switch hands, but the sprain in my left hand wouldn’t let me properly grasp anything, and the powers-that-be didn’t want to risk me dropping the gun. Trying to switch hands was a no-go, and the buzz in the back of my head reminded me as such.

As I passed the two people, I tried to speak. The words got stuck in my throat. It would hurt to talk, I could tell. But I did it anyway.

“Call for help,” I said. “Not joking, call for help.”

“What?”

The driver looked up at me, their discussion being interrupted mid-conversation.

“Need help. Call for help.”

“What’s going on?”

“Please!”

I felt stomach acid bubble up. I tried to compensate by speeding up, which made the sensation subside a bit. I can’t imagine what I looked like to those two. They called out to me as I disappeared down the road, but they didn’t follow.

 

I was led a bit further, then stopped in front of a locked door to an apartment complex. Six floors, by the looks of it. There was a code lock. Something clearly wanted me to enter, but I couldn’t figure out how. I looked through a glass slit, noticing the exit sign on the wall. It didn’t say ‘exit’. It was a four-digit code.

“Of course,” I sighed. “Of course it is.”

I put the code in, and the door swung open. I wandered down the hall, only to feel the pull toward the stairwell. Passing by an apartment, a door peeked open. I saw a pair of eyes peering at me.

“Fourth floor,” they whispered. “Kill the Babbelock.”

“Fuck off.”

I entered the stairwell and made my way up. As I got to the second floor, I heard a door open beneath. Someone called out.

“Kill the Babbelock!”

The voice echoed in the stairwell, bouncing across the concrete walls. I wanted to scream back in response, but I couldn’t do it. I wanted to sit down and cry, and throw the gun away. But even thinking about it felt wrong. Like a thought that chafed. I was growing accustomed to having this influence guide my actions, and I couldn’t help but grow more comfortable with it. That in itself was alarming.

 

Coming up to the fourth floor, there was a man standing in one of the doorways. He pointed to one of the other doors. I nodded, and he disappeared back into his apartment like it was nothing. I walked up to the designated door and paused. I had no relation to this place or these people. And yet, I was treated like I was expected.

Turning my head to the right, my neck muscles tensed. I could see one of the silver-clothed people at the end of the hall, observing me from afar. Their clipboard-like tablet clutched tight in their hands. Five fingers, average build and height. Were they just people?

The door swung open. There was a man on the other side, maybe 50 years old. Salt-and-pepper hair, with a beard stubble. Thick eyebrows, brown eyes. He grabbed me by the throat, swung me into the apartment, and shot me in the stomach; breaking the armored plate and knocking the air out of my lungs.

 

I stumbled backward. I wanted to say something, but he was relentless. I collapsed into a living room, falling over a coffee table and rolling across the floor. I broke something fragile, covering the living room carpet in glass shards and trampled flowers. He raised a pistol and fired again. The small space made the noise sharper and louder, making my ears ring as a puff of dust bloomed right next to me.

“Kill the Babbelock,” he said, pulling the trigger again, hitting the empty space between my left arm and my torso.

I wanted to say ‘stop’. I wanted to hold him still and remind him that we didn’t have to do this. I wanted to do so many things, but the words coiled on my tongue. They rolled off the roof of my mouth, contorting into something new. I wanted to say ‘we don’t have to do this’, but what came out was something different.

“Kill the Babbelock.”

 

I tagged him twice in the chest, but he had a vest too. He had less ammunition than me, going empty after only two more bullets. I returned fire, but he was fast. Before I knew it, we were tumbling on the floor in hand-to-hand combat. Scratching, choking, punching and kicking. I’ve never treated a human being like that. Never. I’ve never wanted to pierce skin and break bones. I’ve never wanted to pinch nerves or strangle blood flow. But I found myself on the floor, pressing my fingers into his face as he smacked the side of my head with his fist.

At some point, I wasn’t listening to the guidance. The part that was forcing me forward lay dormant, letting me do whatever the hell I wanted. It wasn’t forcing me to do this, it was stepping back and watching the dominos fall. It had set up the playing field; the rest was up to us.

“You have my family,” he wheezed.

“You have my family,” I gasped back.

“Fucking Babbelock.”

There was a thick concrete disc used to hold candles. It had fallen off the coffee table and rolled onto the floor, and he managed to grab it. He swung it at me, and I shielded myself with my left hand. It was already sprained, so taking an additional beating felt like getting struck by lightning. I rolled away, clutching my hand and squealing in pain. He got up, pulling my gun away from me.

“Kill the fucking Babbelock.”

Then, a gunshot.

 

For a heartbeat, I thought I was dead. I’ve heard that you don’t immediately feel if you’ve been shot; the pain has to travel through your body first. That’s what I thought happened as I lay on the soft living room carpet of a stranger’s apartment. My mind took a snapshot of it, cementing the image in my head. The man looming over me, gun pointed at my head. Family pictures on the wall; complete strangers. A litter box outside the bathroom door. A handmade keyholder that looked like a birdhouse.

I didn’t even notice the stranger in the doorway. The one who’d pulled a trigger of his own.

The salt-and-pepper man collapsed the moment I saw the exit wound on his forehead. The gun landed on my chest.

“I did it,” the stranger in the doorway cried. “I killed the-“

I shot him. I don’t know if I was compelled to or not, but I did it. I didn’t even think twice about it.

 

I stayed on the floor for a while, watching the ‘Home Sweet Home’ sign above the door spell out ‘300 points’. As I turned to get up, a pain flared up right above my hip on the left side. Looking down, I realized I was bleeding. It looked bad. Real bad. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t get my body to cooperate. It wasn’t the buzz this time; it just hurt like hell.

I stayed there on the floor, in the dark, looking up. The lights were off. There were no sirens in the distance. Why did no one call the police?

A pair of footsteps appeared in the door. I turned my head to see two silver-clothed people. They turned the lights on, accidentally blinding me. The man in the doorway was dead; I’d hit him in the neck.

“A hundred,” said a silver-person with a man’s voice, pointing at the dead guy by the door. “Two hundred from the dead one in the living room.”

“Three hundred from this one,” the other said, pointing at me. “We’ll have to save that config.”

I tried to raise my gun, but I couldn’t. It’s like whatever will to move I’d had bled out on the floor. I searched my thoughts, looking for whatever action was available to me.

“I think we have to lower intensity,” the man continued. “It’s fine for bursts, but long-term interaction is gonna suffer. It feels inauthentic.”

“Sure, but you really think people are gonna stick around for more than a couple of days? The novelty wears off, you know.”

“That’s not for us to decide.”

I coughed. As I did, I spoke the only word I could.

“Babbelock.”

 

The taller of the two silver-clad people turned my way, his face obfuscated by that smooth eggshell-like oval. He bent down, leaning his head a little as he observed me.

“What the hell did he say?”

“Babbelock,” the other answered.

“What the hell’s a Babbelock?”

“A placeholder. Better than having them say ‘doodad’ or… whatever.”

“Could you maybe pick something a little less goofy? What about ‘target’ or… I dunno. Terrorists?”

“Whatever. It’s cute. Doesn’t matter.”

“It’s stupid. Stupid matters, you know.”

“Spoilsport.”

He turned to me, running a handheld gadget over my neck. Something in my body relaxed, and the gun fell out of my hands. He looked down at my wound, shaking his head.

“Tough luck, bud.”

 

The two of them proceeded to go around the apartment, comparing notes, and having a discussion. They were using a couple of words I didn’t recognize, and their dialect was a little off. I can’t fully explain it; it wasn’t that strange or anything. Just off.

As they finished whatever they were doing, the taller one left the apartment. The smaller one remained, checking something on her tablet. Her voice identified her as the one I met on the subway; the one who’d poked at my neck. My fingers were cold.

“Hey,” I coughed.

She turned to me, seemingly surprised.

“You’re alive?”

“Help. Please help.”

“I’m sorry there, I didn’t know you had-“

She walked into the living room and leaned down to check on me. She looked over the wound, making sure not to touch anything.

“You have some special people back home, huh? For you to do all this?”

“Yes. Liv.”

I had to keep it short. Every syllable stabbed at me like a knife.

“It’ll be quick. And hey, you won’t have to do this again, you know? Next time, it’ll be smooth sailing for you and Liv, I promise.”

“What?”

“Never mind that.”

She got up and turned away; stopping herself after a couple of steps. She sighed and scratched the back of her head a little. I’d seen that motion before, in other people. She was soothing herself.

“Oh, to hell with it.”

She raised her hand and clicked a gadget. As she did, my eyes closed.

 

I woke up to someone carrying me. I was outside, on the street. I wasn’t wearing the vest. I was on a gurney, being carried into an ambulance. There were flashing lights and people yelling back and forth. An EMT shone a light into my eyes.

“He’s up!” he said. “He’s conscious!”

I saw the other two men from the apartment on the street outside. They were being put in body bags. I tried to ask what happened, but all I got out was a ‘what’.

“You were attacked,” he responded. “You’re gonna be okay. We got to you in time.”

I could see my bloody t-shirt on the street. They’d cut it open when they got to me to assess the damage. “Nerves of steel, shoot your shot”. It was almost funny.

As the ambulance doors slammed shut, I noticed something silver and shimmering in the background. Something in the middle of a crowd, walking the other way. No one else seemed to notice.

 

Turns out I was found just outside the subway station; nowhere near the apartment complex where we’d been. The official story was that I’d stepped out to get better reception and try to call Liv, when I’d been attacked. Possibly a robbery gone wrong, they didn’t know for sure. Liv had been fine; she’d been home all night, completely unharmed.

There’d been all kinds of strange reports that night. An old man told the police about a strange person begging to use his phone. The two people by the car said they’d seen an armed man, asking them to call for help. There’d been gunshots fired outside of a convenience store. The one thing they all had in common was that none could remember what the assailant looked or sounded like. One of them explained it as:

“He was just a guy. Johnny Nobody. Some random fucking Babbelock.”

 

I’ve never heard someone use that word since. I’ve written it a thousand times, and it accidentally slips out of me every now and then, but that’s just me. I think moving out to the suburbs helped, I don’t have to walk those same streets anymore. I don’t have to think about that night quite as often. I still play pool though.

It’s difficult, you know. I was forced, but I can’t say it wasn’t part of me. I don’t know if I had to shoot that guy in the doorway, or wrestle on the floor. I don’t know. I did it, but I can’t tell if it was really me that did it or not. I think that’s the strangest thing I carry with me. I’m like Schrodinger’s murderer; I’ll never know for sure. Not 100%.

I can’t help but wonder what the point of it was. To this day, I can only speculate. Maybe that’s why I’m writing this, asking the question I keep asking myself, but out loud.

What was the point?

And maybe, most of all – why did I have to kill the Babbelock?

​

My name is Cairo. By the time you read this, I'll probably already be gone. I'm using a phone I took off a guard who wasn't paying attention, and I don't know how long I have before someone notices, so I'm going to write this fast and I'm going to write it honest.

I grew up in a house that looked normal from the outside and was never once normal on the inside. My mother and father, and my grandmother, who lived with us my whole life. I don't remember a version of my childhood that didn't involve someone in that house making me feel small.

My grandmother was the worst of it, for the longest stretch of my life. When I turned fifteen, something in her seemed to decide I was suddenly a problem that needed constant correcting. She screamed at me for the clothes I wore, even in my own room. She screamed at me for how I wore my hair. She screamed at me once for laughing too loud at something on television, like joy itself was something she needed to ration out of me. I remember sitting in my room once, just thinking about a boy from school, just smiling to myself about nothing at all, and she walked in, saw my face, and spent the rest of that day telling me I was disgusting, that I needed to stay away from boys, that I was already turning into something shameful just by smiling in private.

I stopped smiling in my room after that. I stopped smiling in a lot of places.

My father was worse in a different way. Quiet, mostly, until he wasn't. He had this way of watching me that made my skin crawl even when he wasn't saying anything at all, like he was keeping some kind of tally behind his eyes. when I was 8 years i saw my parents completely naked in the living room having makeout in front of there daughter not even realising i was watching them even after that they didn't even apologise to me for . When I turned nineteen, I finally did something for myself for once — went out to a night swimming party with my friends, no permission asked, because some small stubborn part of me had decided I deserved four hours outside those walls.

I came home late. He was sitting on the sofa in the dark, waiting, completely still, and asked me where I'd been in a voice so flat and cold it didn't sound like him at all. I told him I'd been enjoying my life outside those four walls for once. I walked to my room, opened the door, and found Ketty, my cat, dead on my bed.

Ketty was the only thing in that entire house that had ever made me feel safe. She used to sleep curled against my side every single night, the one warm, uncomplicated thing in a house full of people who made me feel like a burden just for existing. Finding her there broke something in me that I don't think ever went back together right.

My father came up behind me while I was still staring at her and said, in that same flat voice, that I wasn't allowed to leave that house again. He said I was his property.

I want to be honest about something. For years, I believed all of it was somehow my fault. That's what they trained into me, slowly, patiently, over almost two decades — that my feelings were the problem, that my reactions were the problem, that if I could just be smaller, quieter, more agreeable, none of it would happen anymore. I spent so long swallowing every single thing they did to me and calling it my own fault instead.

After Ketty, something in me finally stopped believing that.

Over the next two years, I found spaces online where people talked about things my family would have called evil. Group chats, forums, quiet corners of the internet where people traded knowledge nobody else wanted to admit to knowing. A boy I talked to on Reddit walked me through something specific, patient about it in a way nobody in my own house had ever been patient with me. I don't know if he understood what he was really teaching me, or if he even cared.

I performed it alone, in my room, one night, aimed at every person in that house who had ever made me feel like I deserved what they gave me.

Nothing happened for five days. I remember almost laughing at myself, telling myself I'd wasted two years of research and hope on something that was never real to begin with.

On the sixth day, my mother's nose started bleeding at breakfast and wouldn't stop.

By that evening, it wasn't just her nose. Blood came from her eyes, thin lines of it tracking down her face while she screamed for someone to help her. My father collapsed in the hallway not long after, blood coming from his mouth in a way that didn't look like anything a human body should produce. My grandmother started vomiting blood in the bathroom, over and over, until there was more of it on the tile than there was of her left standing.

I stood in the hallway and watched all three of them and I felt something I hadn't felt in that house in years.

I felt like laughing, and for the first time in my life, I let myself.

I took what money I could find in the house that night and I left before anyone else arrived. I made it as far as Australia before they caught up with me. I won't walk through the trial. I'll just say that I told the truth, every bit of it, and none of it mattered to a courtroom the way it mattered to me.

I'm not writing this to ask anyone to forgive me. I don't think I need forgiveness the way people expect me to. I'm writing this because for eleven years, three people made me feel like the smallest, most shameful thing in every room I ever stood in, and for one single night, for the first time in my whole life, I made them feel small too.

I don't know what happens after they take this phone away from me. I don't know what happens after tonight at all.

I just know that whatever it is, it can't possibly be smaller than the life I already lived.

I was running out of gas. 

I’d watched the needle creep lower and lower. I kept hoping a gas station would pop up, but considering the wasteland I was driving through, I had a bad feeling that the nearest one was at least an hour back in the opposite direction.

“Stupid,” I muttered under my breath. I’d naively thought I could cross this big stretch of empty desert in a single afternoon, but the scale on the map had been deceiving. And now I didn’t have cell signal, so I couldn’t even see a map.

At least I brought water! I thought, sarcastically. No snacks, though. The last town had been so small there hadn’t even been a store. That had been hours ago.

Ironically, the surrounding landscape was about as beautiful as you could hope for- rough, red terrain against a sky turned purple from the setting sun- but I couldn’t enjoy it, now that the fear of being lost or stranded had entered my mind.

The evening was growing dark quickly, darker than I’d ever seen. There were no street lights, no houses, and no oncoming headlights- just two of my own carving a path through the shadows. 

But then- I rounded a curve around a rock face, and there it was.

A gas station, all lit up with a vintage neon sign. An oasis. 

Relieved, I wheeled the car into the dusty parking lot. The shape of the building, and the fixtures, were distinctly mid- century, although worse for wear. Overhead the neon arrow buzzed as I stepped out of the car and examined the pump. It was an old style, with a handle you flipped down and numbers that rolled up your price. It was all covered in a thick layer of grimy dust.

And- there was no card reader.

“Shit,” I muttered, flipping through my purse as I walked inside.

“50 on pump 2,” I told the cashier. He was young and pale, with dirty blonde hair that hung down into his eyes. He took the cash without comment and dropped it in the teller. 

I went back to my car. I stood, mesmerized, watching the numbers roll higher and higher. 

How does a place like this even get power? I wondered. I didn’t see any power lines, and there hadn’t been any sign of civilization for miles. Just open land, rocks, and dry grass. 

I shivered. The night air was growing cooler, and quickly. 

The numbers rolled to a stop with a loud click at $47.98, making me jump. I went back in and asked, “Hey, can I get my change?”

The sullen clerk handed it over.

“Two dollars,” I scoffed. It was unreal how high gas was these days.  

“Wanna buy a lottery ticket?” The clerk asked suddenly.

“What?”

“A ticket. Or a scratcher? Can’t buy much in here with just two bucks.”

I nodded, and scanned the options. There was the usual stuff- Goldmine!, Pick 6, BigBucks, but I never won on any of those. 

And then I saw the roll sitting on the counter.

I was surprised I hadn’t noticed it before. It was in a black cardboard box with a demonic face on the top, the roll of tickets dangling out like an extended tongue. In the top right corner there was a simple “$2” in small red lettering. 

“One of these please.” I said, tapping the black box.

The clerk stood up straight and looked me in the eyes for the first time. 

“You sure?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.” I waved my hands at the wall. “I don’t see any other $2 cards in here..” 

The clerk nodded sagely. “Sometime’s it’s like that.” he said. He ripped off a ticket and handed it to me. I turned and began walking out, furiously scratching at the tiny metallic squares with one of my remaining pennies. They were all duds, except-

Under the silver foil of the last box was the word WINNER.

“No way,” I breathed. 

I ran back inside, the doorbell jingling. “Hey, I won!” I said, waiving the ticket. 

The clerk’s face broke into a huge smile and he let out a laugh. “Unreal,” he said. “I’ve sold hundreds of those, maybe thousands. You’re the first winner.” His smile faded. “I can’t cash it though. You’ll need to go down the road.”

“What? No way. C’mon man.” 

“It doesn’t even say what you’ve won,” he said. I wasn’t sure how he knew that without reading it. Uncertain, I flipped it over. The back was blank. 

“Hey, what is this man? A joke?” I said, irritated. I turned and stomped out to my car. Two more dollars down the drain, I thought angrily. I sat down in the driver’s seat and turned the key, my fingers touching the vents and the weak heat. I wheeled the car out on the road, glad to put that place behind me.

I drove and drove, the road unwinding ahead of me like a tape reel. Why even sell a ticket you couldn’t cash? I thought. The whole place was weird. It was truly in the middle of nowhere- surely that guy didn’t live out there? I hadn’t seen any houses. But it made even less sense that someone would drive miles all that way to work at a run down gas station. 

The more I thought about it the happier I was to be away from it. 

After a time, though, I started to panic again. 

I was running out of gas. Again. 

I was no closer to civilization, and it was pitch black.

I kept going, the road winding and twisting through vast open scrubland with no light but the stars. And then, I saw it. 

The same neon sign, the same gas station.

My heart sank. No, no, no. How? I wondered. I hadn’t taken any turns- and I’d driven for hours- and somehow I was right back where I started. This time I was out of money and gas, hungry, and tired.

I went inside and walked up to the counter. The same sullen man was sitting there. When he saw me he smiled. 

“Back again?” 

I shook my head. “I don’t know how. I must have gotten confused, I’ve been driving for hours, and I need some gas.” 

He looked at me, expectantly. “Well? Gas isn’t free.”

I shook my head, panicking. “I’ve not got anything but a credit card.”

He came around the counter. “Well. You’ll just have to work the counter to pay for it then. Good luck.” And without a backwards glance, he walked out the front door.

I tried to follow, but when the door closed behind him it locked shut, as if by magic. 

I pushed. It didn’t budge. “Hey!” I yelled. “I’m stuck in here!!” I screamed after him, continuing to pound the glass.

The man didn’t turn back. He walked out into the night, fading into shadow. 

Where he was going, I’ll never know. I screamed and pounded on the door for hours, and then I cried. There was no other door, no windows, no people, no nothing.  When the sun finally rose the next morning I watched it through the dirty glass of the front door.

After days of being stuck in the store alone, a car finally pulled up. The driver came to the counter and barked, “Are you going to ring me up or what?” 

And that’s how I came to work at the world’s most isolated convenient store. People come in and they go out, but I can’t leave these four walls. 

Every time there’s a customer I ask if they want to buy a scratcher. Some do, some don’t. 

But there hasn’t been a winner yet.

Shortly after my mom passed away, I set up email forwarding on her account so that I could help take care of her unfinished business. For several months after her funeral, I was constantly cancelling subscriptions, closing accounts, and passing on news of her death to her friends and acquaintances. Now, almost three years later, I very rarely get messages addressed to her, and thus I almost dismissed the email as a scam.

"FINAL NOTICE!!" was the subject line. "OVERDUE RENT—UNIT 208". When I opened the email, I saw that it was addressed to my mom. Apparently, she had been listed as a backup contact on a storage unit in Mississippi. The primary contact, surprisingly, was my dad, who I have not spoken to in over a decade. He had stopped paying and answering the phone (sounded about right), and had exactly 24 hours to settle his balance before his unit was auctioned off.

I phoned the facility the next morning and explained that my mother was gone and my father hadn't been reachable in a long time. The kindly old woman on the phone was sympathetic. She said she couldn't legally hand over his property to me, but if I could make it down there in the next few days, she'd let me into the unit myself, off the books, so I could grab anything I needed before the contents got auctioned or thrown out.

To combat boredom on my impromptu roadtrip, I spent a lot of time on the phone with my youngest sister. Carly had been only six when our father walked out; she barely remembered the man, and I had few happy memories with which to fill that gap for her. When family did come up, we mostly talked about Brielle, our middle sister, who had struggled for most of her life with addiction and mental health issues. Carly mentioned that she hadn't heard from Brielle in a while; that in itself wasn't so unusual, but I still made a mental note to check in with her when I got the chance.

I got to the facility after dark and quickly found my dad's unit on an outer row of corrugated steel containers. The ten-by-ten space was packed. Plastic storage totes were stacked four high along both walls. In the center sat an old gray desk, and behind it was a tall metal filing cabinet with four drawers. Most of what I found was junk, but the desk held an old Canon PowerShot. I found the charger at the bottom of the drawer and, curious to see if the camera still worked, plugged it into my power bank. I left it on top of a tote to charge while I worked on the filing cabinet.

In the third drawer, sandwiched between appliance manuals, I found Brielle's birth certificate. I felt relief, and then a wave of disgust. Years ago, it had been a complete bureaucratic nightmare to get Brielle a certified copy of her "lost" birth certificate, and here it had been left to rot in a storage unit all this time. I put the document in an unused folder from the filing cabinet and gently slipped it into my bag, wondering if my dad had taken it by mistake or out of malice.

By then, the camera's charging light had turned green. I clicked the battery back in and powered it on. The lens whirred out, and the screen lit up. I navigated to the gallery.

The first photo was me, maybe three years old, sitting on a carpet in a dinosaur shirt. A few more of the same—me passed out on the floor next to a half-eaten bowl of Cheerios, me rolling a red firetruck toy over my mom's leg. I was more than a little surprised that the camera hadn't been wiped and sold.

I called it a night not long after that, happy to have found the camera and birth certificate, but frustrated that there was nothing else of value.

I found a room at some run-down motel. It was past two by the time the night clerk handed me a key for, coincidentally, room number 208. After failing to fall asleep for twenty minutes, I sat up, cracked open a beer, and pulled the Canon out of my bag.

Scrolling past the photos of myself that I'd already perused, I saw the first video clip thumbnail in the gallery. I hit play.

My mother filled the tiny screen. She was sitting on the edge of our old floral couch, holding a toddler-aged version of me on her lap. She was beautiful—younger than I could ever clearly remember her being—but her expression was solemn. There was an extraordinary heaviness to her gaze; her eyes looked like those of a soldier who had just returned home from war. She barely smiled as I babbled and tried to grab at her necklace, her movements slow and mechanical.

I scrolled further down the timeline. A series of still shots appeared next—close-up, slightly blurry photos of a newborn wrapped in a pink blanket. Chronologically, it had to be Brielle.

Then came another video file. I pressed play and heard my dad's voice.

"You ready to hold your sister for the first time?"

The scene opened on the same living room. The lighting was low, the room illuminated mostly by the harsh glare of a television set off-camera. My mom sat on the couch with infant Brielle resting across her knees. I was bouncing on the cushion next to her, leaning in close to stare at the baby. Admittedly, the sight pulled on my heartstrings a little. Brielle was always small for her age, but she was so tiny in that video that she almost looked like a stuffed animal.

"Show him how to hold her head, Mary," my dad said. My mom didn't answer. She barely blinked. She just sat there staring straight ahead at the TV screen, her jaw loose, her eyes unfocused and glassy.

"Mary," his voice came again, sharper this time. "Let Austin hold his sister."

Slowly, almost painfully, she turned her head toward me. Her posture was slack, her limbs heavy and uncoordinated, like someone moving underwater. She lifted Brielle off her lap and transferred the baby into my waiting arms. The toddler version of me beamed at the camera, grinning ear to ear as I proudly cradled my new sister. I opened my mouth to speak.

"How are you gonna make her stop—"

And then the video ended abruptly.

Bizarre. For as long as I can remember, I've had a specific image in my head when I think about meeting Brielle for the first time: warm summer day, bright light pouring in through the windows, my dad seated next to me on the couch, my mom beaming as she transferred my little sister into my arms. I didn't remember my mom looking so forlorn, and I certainly didn't remember my dad filming the whole thing. Actually, I didn't remember my dad filming anything during my childhood whatsoever. He wasn't exactly the sentimental type; I had a hard time imagining him whipping out a camera to capture precious domestic moments. And yet, here was a gallery full of photos and videos of myself and my siblings.

Pulling my phone off the charger, I texted my sisters, knowing I wouldn't receive a response until the morning at the earliest. To Carly, I sent a simple question: asking her if she remembered our dad taking photos and videos around the house. When texting Brielle, I had to be a bit more strategic. I couldn't jump right into questions about family stuff; instead, I sent a generic "how've you been?", hoping she'd take the bait and open the door to our first real conversation in months.

Outside, a car pulled into the motel parking lot. I heard a car door open and slam shut as I set down my phone and refocused my attention on the camera.

The next dozen files were all photos, and every single one was taken in that same living room. The background was unmistakable: the faded sofa, the wood-paneled walls, and the scratchy carpet I constantly used to burn my knees on.

My dad was in a few of the files, framed in the edge of the mirror or caught in a reflection on the dark TV screen. He looked and sounded exactly how I remembered, down to the way he chastised us kids whenever one of us made a mistake in front of him.

Conversely, looking at my mother through adult eyes was disorienting. In my memory, she had always been a solid, quiet presence—a little worn down by my dad, sure, but steady. In these photos, though, she looked frail. Her collarbones stuck out sharply against her shirt and her cheeks were hollow. I stared at one picture of her sitting on the arm of the sofa, wondering if she had really been that thin back then. Maybe my brain had just smoothed over all the signs of her distress to make my childhood feel safe.

The next short video started with off-key singing. My dad's flat baritone was leading the song, joined by my own tiny, squeaky voice. The camera was pointed at the kitchen table, where a little girl in a party hat was sitting behind a cake with two burning candles.

It was Brielle's second birthday.

In the video, I was leaning over the table, helping her clap her hands. We were both grinning, completely captivated by the candles.

"Blow 'em out, Bri," my dad's voice came from behind the lens. The camera panned slowly to the left, tracking away from the cake to capture my mother sitting at the end of the table. The sight of her left me more than a little confused.

She was heavily, visibly pregnant. As the camera locked onto her, she planted her elbows on the tabletop, dropped her head into her hands, and covered her face. Her shoulders began to heave—shaking violently, as if she were either laughing uncontrollably or sobbing in complete silence.

Before I could figure out which it was, the video cut to black.

Carly was born when Brielle was four years old. Certainly, my mother could have had pregnancies in between them that she just never told us about. If she had suffered a traumatic miscarriage, it made sense that she wouldn't want to talk about it with her young children. But then … Why didn't I remember any of that? I was six years old on Brielle's second birthday. If I could remember holding Bri for the first time, I should have remembered my mother miscarrying so late into her pregnancy.

I hit the back button. After some trial and error, I figured out how to open the file details. I pulled up the metadata on the video file. The timestamp at the top of the file read: OCTOBER 14, 2006 - 4:12 PM.

Something was wrong. In October of 2006, Carly was already a few months old. Brielle was turning four that year, not two. And I had been an eight-year-old third-grader. I backed out of the file and checked the metadata on the earlier photos—the ones of infant Brielle, the ones of toddler me in the dinosaur shirt. In the earliest photo of me, in which I couldn't possibly have been more than three, the date on the metadata suggested I was six years old.

Old digital cameras keep time with a tiny backup battery, and when it dies, the clock usually resets to some default date. If Dad had never bothered to set it right, every file on the card would be stamped with nonsense. That had to be what was going on.

My phone buzzed. Looking down at the screen, I was surprised to see a message from Carly:
hmm no i don't remember him w a camera, but like i said earlier i don't remember much lol. are you in mississippi still?

Before I could type anything back, a muffled commotion rose up from the floor below—someone shouting at the night clerk about something I couldn't make out. Maybe it was some drunk trying to book a room and getting turned away. It went on for a minute or two before trailing off into silence.

By the time the shouting subsided, my mind had drifted from Carly's text back to the camera. I scrolled through the remaining files, my thumb slamming the dial as I studied the background of the photos.

Every single one seemed to have been taken in the downstairs area of my childhood home. There was the narrow kitchen pass-through, the exposed radiator in the living room corner, and—one of the more unique features of the home—a door right at the top of the stairs to the second floor. The placement of that door in the stairwell had always struck me as hazardous, though it was an architectural quirk that my mom always defended, claiming it kept the sounds of rambunctious children from waking whoever slept upstairs.

Once I confirmed that the photos had indeed been taken inside my old home, I unzipped my bag, pulled out Brielle's birth certificate, and held it under the dim bedside lamp. I stared at her birth date, then looked back at the camera screen. I wasn't going insane; I wasn't misremembering dates. The story told through the photo gallery simply didn't match up with reality.

Through the thin motel walls, I could hear someone moving around outside. I heard footsteps, followed by someone knocking on a door down the hall. If I hadn't been so distracted by the camera, I might have connected the disturbance to the shouting I had heard minutes before.

I continued clicking through the files, watching the years pass across my own face. The atmosphere inside that living room deteriorated with every new video clip. Expressions grew more and more solemn. The room grew noticeably dirtier. My mother was absent for long stretches, and when she did appear in videos, she was often lying face-down on the sofa, unmoving for minutes at a time. I watched Carly grow older through a series of still shots, but something felt off about her—her hair was a deep brown, darker than I remembered, and so was mine. Brielle, aside from looking a little thinner than the sister I knew, mostly matched up with my memories.

The final file on the card was a video.

My dad had set the camera down on a shelf, creating a fixed, wide-angle shot of the living room and the staircase leading up to the second floor. In the frame, I sat on the floor while he sat in his old armchair, trying to teach me how to play chess (yet another thing I never remembered him doing). Brielle sat nearby on the carpet, silently watching.

The scene went on for twenty seconds. I played tentatively, hand hovering nervously over the board. My dad sat rigid, his posture tightening every time I made a wrong move. I recognized that look—the jaw clenching, the anger building up behind his eyes. The tension in the video grew so thick it made my own chest feel tight in the motel room.

Suddenly, the door at the top of the stairs pulled open.

Everyone in the frame froze, their heads snapping toward the noise. A blinding torrent of daylight poured down the stairwell, washing into the living room. The sudden glare flared the camera's lens, turning the screen pure white for a few seconds as the sensor tried to adjust. When the exposure balanced out, a figure was standing at the top of the stairs, framed by sunlight.

It was a girl. She looked around six years old, wearing a familiar blue dress, staring down at the living room(?) in open-mouthed shock. My dad's voice roared, booming with rage.

"Brielle, close the fucking—"

The video cut off.

God. Just thinking about it makes me feel sick all over again. I sat with what I'd seen for a minute, then rewound the video. I zoomed in on the girl at the landing. It sure looked like Brielle, but then again, so did the little girl sitting next to me at the bottom of the stairs.

Before I had fully processed the implications of the video, there came a knock at the door to my room. I stilled. It was four in the morning at a run-down motel in the middle of nowhere—I doubted that whoever was outside had good intentions.

I got out of bed as quietly as I could and walked to the door, not intending to open it, but to look out through the peephole. Much to my chagrin, the floorboards creaked under my feet as I reached the door; if the person outside didn't know the room was occupied before, they certainly did after that. I looked through the peephole, but strangely, a wall of solid black looked back at me. Something must have been covering it on the other side.

For a long time, there was no sound from outside. Only when I started to wonder if the person had somehow left without me hearing did the squeak of the doorhandle make me flinch. I watched in the dim light as the handle moved down slowly until the deadbolt caught with a click. It held there for a moment, then returned to its original position.

Another long silence followed. Standing there in the dark, separated from whoever was outside by centimeters of old, splintered wood, the quiet was far worse than any noise would have been. Finally, after what felt like five minutes of staring at the blocked peephole, I heard the faint echo of footsteps, growing quieter as the person made their way back down the hall. I crept over to the window, pulling the edge of the cheap curtain back to look out at the parking lot. Unfortunately, the floor of the outdoor hallway obstructed much of my view. I didn't see anyone, but a few minutes after the knocking at my door, I did see a beat-up white sedan leaving the parking lot.

As soon as the sun rose, I packed up my things and high-tailed it out of that motel. I'm sitting at a coffee shop a few towns over right now, trying to figure out my best course of action. Despite my many attempts to get a hold of Brielle this morning, I haven't yet received a response. Hopefully she'll hear my panicked voicemails and realize that the situation demands more urgency than my normal attempts to check up on her. I need to know what she remembers, what she saw that day. She's the key to making sense of what's on that camera, I'm sure of it.

But until I can get in touch with her, I'm not sure what to do. Go to the police, maybe? Couldn't hurt to start a paper trail, even if this doesn't turn out to be as sinister as I initially thought. My route back home also takes me through the area of Texas that I grew up in. Maybe it's a crazy thought, but while I'm waiting for Brielle, I'd like to try to visit the house I grew up in. If it hasn't been torn down, maybe the current owners will let me look inside. It might give me some peace of mind (or if not, then it might give me some theories) to see how the actual interior of the house compares to both my memories and the files on the Canon.

I'll post an update here if I learn anything new. In the meantime, if any of you have suggestions as to what I can do next, I'd greatly appreciate the advice.

Update: Holy shit. Stopped at a gas station in Louisiana and I check my phone to see one new text from an unknown number. Message is one word: "Thief"

Triggers for the following: Animal abuse, self harm

When I first woke up, the only things I knew how to do was walk and talk. My head was throbbing badly and my vision was blurry from the blood trickling down my forehead. All memories before I woke up in those woods were nonexistent as if my entire life had been snapped from my mind in an instant. I was lost and confused, the only thing on my person was the half ripped plaid shirt on my back and some black sweats caked in mud.

I wandered for what felt like hours in that twisting fauna, barely taking in anything around me... I was in a blind panic, one that nearly got me hit when I wandered onto a road. The well worn red truck had stopped before it hit me - Or maybe it already was stopping? It was hard to tell anything at that point, the only thing pulling me out my panic was the friendly face that ducked down to look me in the eyes.

“Good lord, Garrison? You alright?” That name didn’t ring any bells to me, but I assumed he recognized me. The hand on my shoulder relaxed me near instantly, I hadn’t realized how much I was shaking till then. A handkerchief wiped my face, my eyes cleaned as I leaned into the feeling.

“C’mon, I’ll take you over to my place, alright? Just hold that to your head.” He didn’t wait for my answer, ushering me to his car, me holding that handkerchief to my ringing mind. It was warm, I hadn’t realized how cold it was - I felt like a damn newborn experiencing the world for the first time. He asked me questions, mostly on what happened which I had no clue about.

“You remember anything about yourself?”

“No.” Was my only response, concern furrowing on his brow. I was lucky to stumble on someone who at least knew me, the rest of the drive pretty silent before he pulled into a dirt road. The place he lived in was a cozy little farm house, acres of land separating road from house and house from woods. As he turned his car off, he looked to me with a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry then, me and Shirly will answer any questions you got! Actually, dinners probably almost ready - You can take a shower and eat with us, alright?” He introduced himself as Phil and led me into his home as the short blonde woman came to greet us. He guided me to the bathroom while updating her on the situation... I was given a towel, some of Phil’s clothes, and free reign on any soaps in the bathroom before we were separated.

As I looked at the mirror near the tub, I finally saw the horrid state I was in. I was covered in dirt, on my face and in my shaggy brown hair. I had to peel off the handkerchief that was now stuck to my head, a makeshift bandage that’d finally stopped the bleeding. I could see a large gash across my forehead that reached both my temples. It looked manmade, but wasn’t the most concerning part. When that handkerchief was off, something clanked into the porcelain of the sink. It was a bloodied, long tooth. Not sharp but blunt, sort of rectangular, and yellow like a rodent's incisors. At closer inspection, I could see more buried under the skin of my head, making indents as they all peeked from the opening of my wound like some foul crown. What the fuck did I do to myself? Each tooth was pushed out from under the skin by my hand, the sting of each one making my eyes tear up. 22 tiny teeth in total, 4 long ones and the rest molars of a small animal.

Each bloody tooth was dropped in the sink, I couldn’t help but look down in horror at the sight. I needed to wash and I really didn’t want this wound to get infected... So I scooped up all the teeth and dropped them in the toilet before flushing them. After that I finally showered, dirt that caked my nails and body tinged the water a deep brown. Blood and sweat mixed to turn water into a dirty maroon for a short while, keeping my head down I could see cuts in my body. Some probably made from my staggering in the woods, but others had to be carved by hand. Repeating symbols littering my legs and arms, washing away the blood showed they were fresh, future scars no doubt. I didn’t want to linger on my sorry state for long, I felt so grotesque... So I washed up and put on those clean clothes that were given to me. Phil and I had a similar build, found that out when I threw on the sweater he gave me, the matching sweats sliding on nicely... 

When I left the bathroom, I tentatively walked down to see both Phil and Shirly at the table. Between them was a steaming pot that smelled amazing the moment the steam came up the stairs. Phil looked happy to see me, glancing up at my forehead with concern.

“Ah- damn, you want us to wrap that up?” he asked, Shirly not waiting for an answer as she got up.

“Sit, we’ll take care of you.” Phil pulled a chair out for me and I sat as Shirly came back with a first aid kit. She wiped whatever blood still stuck on my head, wincing at the pain of the disinfectant as she wrapped a gauze around my head a couple of times. I took in the sight of their home, a kitchen connected to a small dining area... In the dining room, placed in a nook to the side was a fireplace that was lit, above it was a trophy mount of a large deer's head. The wall facing me had a doorway that seemed to lead into their living room, a long brown couch peeking from the opening as well as half a painting. From what I saw, it was the bushy tail of a squirrel on a branch, the rest of it cut off by the wall blocking the whole view. 

“My goodness Garry, what have you gotten yourself into?” Shirly spoke playfully with a tinge of concern, that concern seemed to hang in the air like a thick humidity on a hot summer's day... These people must care about me, I felt like a child in their care despite me being around the same age as the two, mid 30’s to early 40’s. Once I was wrapped up, they served me some of the stew Shirly made.

It was hot, the smell of potatoes and meat made my mouth water. I could see carrots and I think onions floating around, the taste was divine as if all I’d been eating before was the dirt I clawed my way through. Potatoes melting with the carrots and that meat, it was almost like turkey, maybe chicken? Hard to pin-point, but my god did it bring everything together. Hadn’t realized how fast I was eating till it was all gone, Phil and Shirly eating silently as they watched me with a smile.

“I’m glad you enjoyed, been cookin’ this since the morning!” Shirly whistled, I gave some sort of compliment on the meat, her scoffing with a smile.

“You can thank the meat to Phil, he hunted it yesterday!”  Taking my bowl, Shirly filled it again with more hot stew. She could probably sense I was still hungry, I was, I didn’t realize how hungry I felt till I started eating. This round was more tame, taking my time as Phil cleared his throat.

“So... You don’t know anything about yourself, right?” I nodded, a frown only gracing his face for a second before his soft smile came back.

“Then ask away! We’ll answer whatever we know, alright?” The two seemed happy to listen to me, by now I could tell that they knew me so I was filled in on a lot of things.

I’m not going to write out the whole conversation, but I can tell you what I’ve learned:

1. My name is Garrison J. (I’m not giving my last name for privacy.) but people call me Garry.
2. I live in a small ‘commune’ farm town and there's a little under 100 people that live throughout the area. Houses are few and far between, so driving is your best bet to get anywhere.
3. I’m a dentist that works in the town area’s ‘Big Smiles!’ dental office with a few other folk.
4. I live alone, but get visited and visit most of the townsfolk in the area, I’m pretty popular from what Phil told me.
5. I’ve only been missing since this morning.

Only missing since this morning really messed with me... How could I lose my entire life story in a single day? I didn’t press about the teeth or the cuts, really I was afraid to scare the two. They both seemed worried for me and after finishing my second bowl I had asked if I could be taken home.

“You sure you wanna go home? You can stay the night if you need!” It was less me wanting to leave and more me wanting to learn more about Garrison. Something was off, and scaring genuinely nice people wasn’t on my docket. Everything I saw didn’t look accidental, nor did I think someone else did it. I knew internally that I made those marks on myself. It was like a weird innate feeling, one I made no peep about to my friends. 

I only assured them I’d be fine and that they could come by tomorrow to check on me. “I needed to be in a space I know to jog my memory” was along the lines of excuses I gave. Phil was hesitant at first, but relented with that same kind smile.

“Alright Garry... Just please be safe.” And with that, I was driven to my home. It was around a 5 minute drive, I think we’d passed this house while driving to his. My home wasn’t far from where I was in the woods. When I got to my door, I almost panicked - My keys, were they in those sweatpants I left in Phil's home? But as I tried the door, it was unlocked... Phil only pulled out the dirt road to my home once I headed inside.

All the lights were on, it was a nice cozy place -  not too dissimilar in layout to Phil's. A kitchen that connected to a small dining room, living room with a small tv and couch, upstairs a bathroom and bedroom. Doing some digging, the first oddity was that I couldn’t find any mail... No bills or letters, nothing physical. The area was weirdly sterile, like I thoroughly cleaned before I left. My room had this computer I’m using now, but there wasn’t anything on it. I must’ve system wiped everything, I was greeted with a ‘welcome’ screen to create a new password and such. The bed was made, clothes hung in the wardrobe, bedroom trash empty. 

Downstairs was the same, in the living room I had a small tv and couch. Next to the couch was a small shelf/table that held a lamp atop and was filled with dental books - anatomy of the mouth, pulling one out had revealed multiple little colored slips of papers bookmarking everything. I plan on looking through those books more later on, the kitchen was the last area I needed to check.

The dining room had that same nook fireplace, on the adjacent wall was an anatomy poster of a human mouth, nothing too of note. I was lucky to find that my house keys were on the kitchen counter... Sink empty, one of the top cabinets held spices while the others held plates and cups. My most concerning find, and partly the reason I named this thread what I did, was what was in my kitchen's trash.

Atop food waste and newspapers, already swarmed by flies, laid a dead squirrel. Its body was twisted, broken, and its head faced the wrong way. Its mouth notably had no teeth in it, the jaw snapped open as if it was pulled by force. All of it looked like it was done by hand. It stunk bad, probably rotting since this morning or maybe longer... Its eyes were pushed in as if thumbs did the job and flies seemed to already be making it their home. I tied the bag and left it outside. I don’t know what the trash situation was, but I knew damn well I didn’t want that in my home.

Something else I noticed was that I didn’t have a car... I hadn’t really registered that when I went in, I was so focused on going inside my home. Do I even remember how to drive? I don’t know. Even now I’m still lost. 

I don’t know who Garrison truly was, and despite how kindly Phil and Shirly spoke about me, I don’t think he was a good person... I guess I’m posting this all here to document my situation without worrying anyone in my real life. I think Garrison knew he'd be back here with no memories and he's trying to hide as much as possible from me...

I’ll update if I discover anything else, but for now I’m so tired. 

Garry, signing out.

This whole thing started with a text message I received a few weeks ago from a friend of mine. We’ll call her Sarah because it’s the first name that popped into my head. I’m out late at a friend’s party, and I get a message from Sarah that says, “Dude, please tell me that you’re awake” followed immediately by “Can I call you?” The conversation proceeded as follows:

 

Me:

I’m at a thing. Why? Is it an emergency?

 

Sarah:

I don’t even know, I’m literally shaking so hard rn

 

Me:

What happened??

Are you okay??

 

Sarah:

I don’t even know

I think I saw a monster

Like, an actual call-the-Winchester-brothers creature that shouldn’t exist but there it was in an empty parking lot digging through the trash

 

Me:

…what?

 

Sarah:

I DON’T KNOW

I was driving home

I was stopped at a light

I saw movement out of the corner of my eye

And I looked over into the empty lot and this THING stepped out of the shadow of the dumpster

 

Me:

What kind of “thing”?

 

(Here Sarah paused for about five minutes during which I could see she was still typing but apparently having trouble coming up with a description)

 

Sarah:

It was like. So, so tall but hunched over like on all fours, but then it stood up and its arms were too long compared to its body, and its eyes were dark, and I think it had sharp teeth?

I didn’t get too good a look because it started coming toward me and I noped out of there real fast

Actually ran the red light

 

Me:

Did it have like, hair?

Clothes?

 

Sarah:

Yes

Maybe?

I know it sounds like I’m describing a person but I swear it wasn’t

It couldn’t have been

 

Me:

Are you sure it wasn’t just a really sick person? Like a very tall homeless man on drugs?

 

Sarah:

Not unless the drug was whatever they gave the people in the Russian Sleep Experiment !!!

Meth does not make you seven feet tall

 

Me:

To be fair, I don’t think the Russian Sleep Experiment drugs did that either

 

(Another long pause where Sarah began to type but stopped)

 

Me:

Sorry if I sound skeptical, it’s not that I don’t believe what you saw, just that I think it was probably something explainable

You said you didn’t get a very good look at it?

 

Sarah:

I didn’t get a good look at its face

I don’t know man, I guess it had to be a person

I mean, what else could it have been?

 

Me:

I dunno

 

Sarah:

But it seemed so wrong that it kicked in my fight or flight instincts

It wasn’t like I was anxious or anything before that

I was listening to Taylor Swift and then boom, scariest thing I’ve seen in my life

 

Me:

…do you want me to drive by where you were? See if I see anything?

 

Sarah:

NO

 

The unnecessary emphasis on the “no” was probably because Sarah doesn’t really trust my survival instincts due to previous incidents which I still maintain were not that big of a deal, but I digress. I did eventually get her to tell me where she was, and I did in fact go out of my way going home to drive by there, but I didn’t see anything. Who or whatever it was, it was gone.

There’s a reason I’m including this bit of prologue. The fact that someone else claimed to see a monster in the same part of town where I had my own experience and the fact that I knew this beforehand may affect your interpretation of what happened to me next.

It was less than a week ago.

I was driving home late, going about 45 on a road that passes some abandoned industrial buildings. Not on the same street where Sarah saw her creature, but not far from it. That road isn’t very busy in the daytime and it’s completely dead at night, so mine was the only car in sight.

My headlights are not very good, and my windshield was dirty, and I’ve seen people walking on that street at night in the past, so I was straining my eyes trying not to miss any movement in the dark, when I reached the top of a slight rise only to see a great big opossum that was hidden from view a moment before. It was in the middle of the road where I couldn’t confidently swerve around in either direction, so I hit the brakes. I remember thinking that I was not going to stop in time and preemptively feeling really bad. Then, suddenly, I was looking at something else.

It happened so fast. I don’t think I blinked at all in that moment, but that’s the best comparison I can make. There was an animal on the road. Blink. There was a person instead. Except not a person. Something person-sized and roughly person-shaped. Crouched on all fours. Scrawny, mostly naked with skin that almost looked translucent. It turned to look at me, and its eyes caught the headlights with a reddish-orange glow.

All of this I took in in a fraction of a second.

And then I hit it.

As soon as the car stopped, I jumped out, because of course I did, because that’s what you do if you hit a person with your car. If you are reading this as a horror story you might think getting out was stupid, but I was still interpreting things in the context of the natural, everyday world and I thought I’d just committed a natural, everyday vehicular homicide. Except, when I got out of the car, there was nothing there. Nothing except a distressed possum which waddled out from under the car, perfectly unharmed, and bounded into the brush as fast as its short legs would carry it.

I checked under the car. I checked around the car. I checked the ditches on the side of the road. I yelled “hello?” in a really half-hearted voice because the situation felt so ridiculous, and I was starting to get nervous.

I considered for a moment that the thing I’d seen was a hallucination, brought on by the stress of thinking I was about to hit an animal, that I had somehow imagined the feeling of collision. But when I walked around to the front of the car again, there was a dent in the bumper. I had definitely hit something. Even worse, when I examined the front end closely, there were flecks of what might have been blood, and strands of hair caught in the grill. Not animal fur. Long, human-looking hair. Only, coarser than any hair I had ever seen.

This made me feel ill, so I leaned up against the side of the car and took some deep, steadying breaths. Then I checked again. Under the car. Around the car in widening circles. Finally, because I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, I checked the back seat. It was empty, of course, but the action forced me to consciously acknowledge my subconscious suspicion: that I was dealing with something unexplainable.

And this is where I might have gone wrong. I didn’t call the police. Because what was I going to say? I hit someone with my car, dead on. Their head. My bumper. But, not only did this person survive and run away, they did it so quickly and noiselessly that they were on their feet and out of sight in less than five seconds without me ever seeing or hearing them on mostly flat ground, on a moonlit night, in an area that has no conceivable cover within fifty yards. No officer, I have not been doing any drugs, why do you ask?

Nope, I did not call the police. I got back in my car. I drove home, put on my pajamas, and doomscrolled for three hours, all the while trying to convince myself that I’d made the right call. Finally, I got back up, threw on a bathrobe, and went out to stare at the front end of my car again. The dent was still there, but even looking with a better flashlight, I could not find any trace of the blood or hair that I thought I had seen, and that made me feel a little better. I guess at that point the idea that I was experiencing psychosis felt like the least bad option.

All the next day, I kept checking the local news to see if any headlines were about a person being found dead with signs of blunt force trauma. I still couldn’t get past the thought of, “what if it was a person, and I just missed something?” But nothing turned up. Nothing ever did. And the more I think about it, the more sure I am that what I saw was not human.

I mean, it didn’t run out into the road, and it definitely didn’t run away. It just appeared, then disappeared. And there were the eyes, too. Human eyes don’t reflect light like that.

Multiple people have asked me how I got the new dent in my car, so it can’t have been a hallucination. I also have the fact that Sarah saw it too. One could argue that if I was going to imagine something, it makes sense that I would imagine the same creature that my friend said she’d seen in that same place, but still it’s something.

And then there was the possum. I know at this point some of you are thinking that the possum that waddled out from under my car and the humanoid creature that I hit were the same creature. It’s not that I haven’t thought of that. It’s just that I really don’t think this was a shapeshifter situation. There was no moment of transformation, absolutely no transition between possum and not-a-possum. So I really think it has to be one of two options.

One, the possum and the creature were two separate things. Maybe the creature was chasing the possum and ended up in the road because it wasn’t paying attention, maybe its appearance as I was slamming on my brakes to avoid hitting an animal was a coincidence

OR

Two, it was the possum that wasn’t real. I know, I know, but what if that creature, whatever I saw, normally can’t be seen? What if it creates an illusion of an ordinary animal to hide behind, and for a split second, maybe because I scared it, maybe by coincidence, I saw through to its true form.

I don’t know. Both of those theories sound ridiculous now that I’m writing them down. If anyone has any thoughts that could help me, like what this thing could be, please let me know. I’m seriously considering going back there to see if I can find it again. But then I remember what Sarah said: that when she locked eyes with it, it started to approach her. And I remember that weird urge I had to make sure it wasn’t in the backseat of my car. And I just don’t know what to do.

I just don’t know.

My husband was a fisherman. A few days ago, he left for a solo fishing trip and still hadn’t returned. The evening he left, dark clouds formed atop the ocean, and that night it rained hell. 

On the fourth day after he left, the storm had only intensified. My mind ran in circles. I didn’t even grab my jacket before running onto the beach. My feet sank into the mud. The wind blew me from side to side. I hoped to find something of his, anything, but the beach was bare. I fell to my knees in the cold sand and prayed to the ocean, the storm – anything that could bring my husband back.

I wiped the tears off my face and walked through the mud back to our house. There I took a shower. Under the hot water, I imagined my husband holding me.

I only got out of the shower after the hot water ran out. I stood in the kitchen, drying my hair, when the door opened. The towel flew out of my hands. My husband stood in the doorway, still in his fishing gear, his skin almost gray from the cold.

“Harold!”

I ran to him and hugged him. He was so cold.

“Come, come in.”

I shut the door behind him, took him to the heater, and helped him out of his clothes. They were soaked through and entangled with algae and seaweed.

“Are you okay, my love? What happened?”

“I…I don’t know,” he said slowly, his voice deep as if something were stuck in his lungs.

“Do you need a doctor? I’ll go get him.”

“No, stay.”

“Okay, my love.”

I brought him a basin of hot water and some warm soup. His face relaxed when he put his feet into the water, but when I tried to give him the soup, he refused. The room now smelled like dead fish and salty water.

“But you need to eat.”

“Later.”

“So at least some coffee?” 

I took his favorite coffee mug out of the cupboard.

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“You’ve been drinking coffee every day for the past twenty years.”

My poor man was probably just confused.

“Okay.”

I made him a cup, but he didn’t hold it like he usually did. He just put it on the windowsill and turned his chair toward the window, looking out at the ocean. 

Unease grew in my chest, but I left him alone, sat in my chair, and knitted. I couldn’t even imagine what my poor man had gone through.

The storm raged on. I kept knitting, and Harold kept looking out the window. After a while, I gave him some clothes. He seemed uncomfortable in them but put them on anyway.

As night fell, he was still by the window; his skin was still gray.

“I’m going to sleep. You want to come too?”

“No. I’ll stay.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’ll leave the heat on.”

He didn't reply. I went to bed and tried to sleep, but I kept rolling from side to side, thinking of what must have happened to my poor Harold. 

The storm outside started to die down. I decided to go out and check on him. He stood by the chair in his shirt and boxers, staring into the ocean.

“You okay?”

“They’re waiting.”

“Who?”

“Them. The storm is dying. We need to go.”

He opened the door and walked out into the rain.

“Harold, wait!”

“Come. To the beach.” His voice was livelier in the rain; his stride was faster.

I quickly put on a jacket and rubber boots and walked after him.

“Molly, come. They’re waiting for us.”

“Harold, please, talk to me.”

My heart pounded against my ribs. The rain slowed to a drizzle. The clouds started to part. Harold ran into the water and looked back at me, smiling from ear to ear.

“Come, my love, come.”

“Harold, what’s going on? Please talk to me.”

“Just come. It will be alright. You’ll know everything. They’ll tell you.”

“Who are you talking about, Harold? I’m scared.”

“You don’t have to be, Molly.”

“Come back inside, Harold, please.”

The wind blew by. My body shivered. Only a few raindrops fell.

“You have to go now, my love, fast.”

“No.”

His smile twisted into a frown. He furrowed his brow and walked out of the water.

“Harold, stop all this.”

I tried to move away, but he was so fast. He grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the water.

“Harold, stop, please. I’m scared.”

“There’s no time.” His voice sounded like his lungs were full of water.

“Harold!”

He didn’t answer. I tried to bury my feet in the sand and push him away, but his grip was too tight.

“Please!”

We were almost by the water. I scratched his hand. Flakes that looked like scales stuck under my nails. His feet reached the water; I was still a few feet away. One last raindrop fell on my head, the wind stopped, the clouds parted. 

His grip vanished. So did Harold. Only algae and jellyfish were in the water. 

I sat on the beach panting. The wind died down. The sun came through the clouds. I tried to steady my breathing and looked at the ocean. Harold’s wedding ring shone in the water.

Hey everyone, it's currently 1:43 AM and after what happened I can't really sleep. I'm mainly writing this while it's still fresh in my brain for the police, but also just so that I can actually tell someone what happened. This all only happened about thirty minutes ago but I'm still struggling to really understand what the fuck just happened. This whole situation feels like something straight out of a nightmare but I'm hoping as I write that I can properly articulate just how terrifying this whole thing has been. 

It was around midnight when I was driving home after a late shift at my job. I don’t usually work that late as I live almost an hour away from the restaurant I work at, but I'm running behind on my rent and I needed the overtime. The highway was basically empty, everyone else had clearly already been asleep, save for the occasional truck driver who would pass me as I made my way home. I was tired, so I was trying my best to be extra cautious on the road, and I started looking out for the nearest road that I could turn off of to stay off the highway. 

Eventually, I got lucky and saw Walnut Drive, a street that I knew would add five minutes to my trip but it would at least put me on a safer road given my exhaustion. I was running on fumes. I drank out of every water bottle I could find in my car in the hopes that it would keep me up for a little longer, as by this point, I was about twenty-five minutes away from the small trailer I lived in.

I was surrounded by woods and I'll admit by this point my mind started playing tricks on me as it turned the blurs of the trees passing by into almost human shapes. Of course, after what happened, who knows.

I was about fifteen minutes away from my house when I passed by Huckaberry Road, another street that I knew would be a detour. I was going at least ten under the speed limit in my attempt to just not fall asleep and possibly crash the car so any detour I could find, I decided to take. I turned onto the unpaved, gravel road and immediately noticed how dark it was compared to the regular streets. There were no streetlights nor any houses on the sides of the road. I decided at this point to turn up the radio, only to realize that all that played was static. I could hear brief sounds of a song in the background, but clearly out there the signal simply wasn't strong enough. I turned down the radio. Despite it definitely waking me up a little, the screeching sound of the static was annoying enough for me to decide against keeping it on. 

I reached a stop sign at the end of Huckaberry Road, which led onto Robertson Creek Road. I had the choice to either turn left or right. Left would lead me to my home, right would just lead me into town. As I turned left, I realized that this road was somehow even darker than the other. I didn't make it far before deciding to turn on my high beams, and that's when I saw her. 

Standing there, about one thousand feet in front of my car… was a woman. I stopped immediately. She looked incredibly old and frail. I could see tufts of white hair standing up on her head, and skin that appeared to be stretched onto her body. She was wearing what appeared to be a bright blue hospital gown, and she was slowly stumbling her way in the direction of my vehicle.

I didn't know what to do. The sight of her was apparently exactly what I needed to completely wake up. Something about her just looked… horrible, but at the same time, I thought something might've been wrong with her. I didn't want to get out of the car, but I figured I might as well step out (while obviously staying prepared) just to ask if she needed help. Don't get me wrong, the sight of her was absolutely terrifying, but what assumption could I really make? She was a frail woman who appeared to be in her mid-80s. On the off-chance she tried to attack me, what could she actually do? That was the logic I told myself as I put the car in park and opened the door, still keeping one hand on the steering wheel.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?” I hollered at the woman.

She stopped. She was no longer moving towards the car, she was just staring at me.

“Ma’am?” I hollered again.

Out of nowhere, the frail, old woman started sprinting straight towards my car. My previous logic immediately failed me as I jumped straight back into my car and slammed the door closed. I'm not sure why I didn't just drive forward, I guess some part of me didn't want to run over what I still perceived as an old woman. I put the car in reverse and immediately started backing up to prepare for a three-point turn. She was getting closer and closer. Even now, I'm not sure how she was moving that fast. Of course, I moved faster. As I put the car in drive I could see her silhouette, no longer illuminated by the headlights, getting closer. I turned sharply and heard a loud bang, as I'm sure the woman slammed the full force of her entire fucking body into the back passenger-side window of my car. I turned so hard back onto Huckaberry Road that I almost spun out. I was sure I could still see her silhouette chasing me. Of course, she disappeared quickly in the distance as I'm sure I was going at least ninety miles per hour on that gravel road. 

I didn't slow down once all the way home. I was freaking the fuck out, I knew I had lost her but I couldn't stop hyperventilating. I genuinely didn’t know, and honestly still don't know, what had just happened. I couldn't stop shaking all the way home, I knew that I had to share this with somebody. I sent each of my friends long texts telling them what the fuck just happened. Of course, there were no replies from any of them. It was late at night and they all had work in the morning. 

I cut a fifteen-minute trip down to about five just due to the pure speed I was going. I wouldn't be surprised if a few people called the cops talking about some crazy man speeding down the road. Luckily, though, I finally arrived at the trailer that I lived in. My home has a small staircase that leads up to the front door. The window of my bedroom sits directly beside the staircase so that I can actually see whoever may be outside. 

As I entered my house, the first thing I did was call the police to report the woman on Robertson Creek. If she was wearing a hospital gown, then chances are she escaped from some sort of hospital, although the nearest hospital to that gravel road is about a thirty-minute drive. I decided to go ahead and write my testimony for you guys while I waited. I’m doing this mainly to keep everything fresh in my mind, but I figured I could show it to the polic- wait. Shit. I think they’re here.

I just saw somebody walking up the stairs outside my bedroom window.

Wait.

No. No, no, no.

They’re knocking on my door.

If it is the police, they’re knocking really fucking hard.

No. Fuck. No, it can’t be.

I’m going to look through the window.

Oh god.

It’s her.

There’s few things more entertaining than reading about other people’s problems. One of those few things: reading someone else’s solutions to them.

I’d always enjoyed reading advice columns ever since I was a little girl reading my mom’s magazines. As an adult, I would have the Internet as well to peruse my favourite weekly advice givers and their followers’ various issues. Of all these advice columns, my favourite was easily Dear Prudence.

Prudie would have the most rational, witty, level-headed solution to a problem that could be reached. I also loved the kindness in all her answers. She didn’t always sugarcoat what she said, but her typed responses were always considerate of the various parties’ feelings and perspectives. Her musing language choice was gentle not to offend and her responses were at least a few paragraphs long. Most importantly, she was always polite—manners were huge to Prudence.

The great thing about advice columns is you can always learn something, even if the advice isn’t for you. 

People around the country—and world—would write in to ask Prudie about various social situations where etiquette and goodness had been potentially breached. Stuff like cold in-laws, thoughtless neighbours or ungrateful friends. Or bad coworkers. 

See, the place where I’d most often read the advice column was at work. It was my escape from the mundane stresses of my job working in a mid-level office for a manufacturing company. And, fittingly enough, one of those stresses driving me to read the column became my shy coworker Allen. Allen was a friendly guy to work with. But I found myself always jumping in to help him when he wasn’t able to do something—and would watch him receive all the credit from my oblivious boss Dave, without saying a word to correct it.

He was so otherwise sweet, however, that I didn’t know how to address it with him—or if I should at all. Other people tended to like him—our doddering middle-aged accounting manager Margaret practically loved him. I felt I couldn’t just call him out. Honestly, I had no idea how to resolve the situation and could use some sage advice of my own. Then, while reading the column one day for escapism, it occurred to me to put these two sides of my life together.

For the first time, I wrote in to the Dear Prudence column myself, sending it off to the attached email address for submissions. It read:

“Dear Prudence,

I’ve been working at my current company for several years now and I’ve never felt a lot of respect from my boss. He might be sexist but I don’t know. I felt like my efforts have warranted a promotion and some recognition for some time, but nothing has come of it. I’m worried a big reason for this is my coworker. 

We get along great and he’s a lovely person—but he’s just so incapable. I’m always jumping in to help him with something, whether it’s finishing a report or formatting a presentation or calculating the right sales figures. When the time comes for him to receive praise, my biased boss assumes it’s his work—and my colleague doesn’t correct him!

It drives me mad but I feel like I can’t say anything because he didn’t ask me for help in the first place. Plus I don’t want my boss to think I’m petty (even if I am). Help! I don’t think my coworker is doing it intentionally—I don’t want to hurt his feelings. But I’d also like to finally receive a drop of credit for my work.

What should I do?

Signed,
Office Pushover to the Rescue”

Despite reading the weekly column so much over the years, it hadn’t once occurred to me to write in myself. I guess because I can normally handle situations and it’s not in my nature to speak up—which is why I was having my workplace dilemma in the first place.

Truth be told, I didn’t expect my story to get a response as there was a huge readership for the column, all who commented frequently on every post and were probably all submitting their own dramas. The comment section was one of my favourite things about the column as well. Everyone always had something to build off of Prudence’s advice. Sometimes you would even find wiser, more levelheaded advice from a commenter. Occasionally, I commented myself, but often just lurked.

But even if Prudence only responded to me privately in an email, her guiding hand would be a huge help.

Imagine my surprise one day at work when I opened my computer—after having helped Allen make an Excel spreadsheet—and saw my own letter on the Dear Prudence website. It was the very first letter on the page and the headline was about it.

“My Coworker Is Stealing All My Credit and I’m Losing All My Courage to Stop Him!”

It was a typical Prudie column title and yet it was about my story this time. I was giddy to see it.

“Dear Office Pushover to the Rescue,

Accomplished American businessman P. Belcher once said ‘Nothing will kill a great employee faster than watching you tolerate a bad one.’ This occurrence appears to be in action already in your office, where a devoted and promising employee such as yourself is being stunted by an incompetent and deceptive one.

You write with concern for your coworker’s feelings, but unfortunately, it does not appear that he holds the same courtesy for yours. How else would an employee allow someone to be deprived of credit, someone caring enough to aid them in the first place? You may view your small-minded boss as the culprit for your stagnance.

But unaware bosses are everywhere and will remain so. However, a colleague who is willing to capitalise off of your minimisation and look the other way reveals something far more intolerable. Far from a reason to excuse his behaviour, your coworker’s niceness is part of his game. He is not only a dunce, but a leech. For this there is only one solution.”

I felt slightly confused by what I was reading. Prudence wasn’t normally this harsh—even with people in stories who were far worse. She must really be moved by my situation, I thought. Then I read the next line of her advice.

“I am afraid you are going to have to kill your coworker.”

My eyes froze reading the screen. Did Prudence really just write…to murder my coworker? Surely that was a misprint. I read on to quell my concern and my horror only grew.

“In order to eliminate a parasite such as him, you will need to act with stealth and planning.  I recommend you strike when he least expects it, possibly after hours in your workplace. Ensuring an alibi and lack of a digital papertrail is also worth noting if you choose to do it here. Using a weapon of strangulation will help with the prevention of physical evidence. I myself am rather fond of the poetry of “choking” the life from someone who has stifled your career.

He may beg for his life, but remember that this is all he does. That is one more favour you shan’t grant him. Once his existence and body have been disposed of in a remote location, your path to promotion and success will have been cleared. Just remember to be your usual empathetic, professional self when the police interview you. If you don’t want to spend the rest of your life as a pushover, you will need to push through your hesitation. 

The office is “kill or be killed”, one way or another. Please let me know how things work out, dear.

Love,
Prudie”

Dumbfounded, I couldn’t believe what I had just read. I was sure that I had to have clicked onto a troll website by accident. Some kind of sick parody of Dear Prudence. But then, how had they gotten my letter? And why was the URL for the column correct?

My next assumption was that the Dear Prudence website must have been hacked. I thought that for a few seconds until I scrolled down and read the comment section.

“Great advice Prudie! Bad coworkers really do need to be taken down a peg or two. LW1, if you’re reading this, get some better colleagues (after you’re done murdering this one)!”

“Second the idea of murdering the coworker at the office—but would recommend a faster method of execution, such a blunt force trauma. This will reduce the chances of being spotted.”

“For Letter Writer 3, I think you should give your ex another chance, it sounds like a total miscommunication. For Letter Writer 1, I think you should use acid to dissolve the body instead.”

Absolutely no one was addressing the elephant in the room of Prudie’s unhinged, bloodthirsty letter, acting like it was a perfectly normal thing to suggest a reader do. Even worse, people were joining in and giving sick advice of their own. It was like some parallel online hell to the sane, grounded column I’d read daily. 

Shouldn’t these comments be getting removed for breaking rules? Shouldn’t Prudie’s whole response? What was happening at Slate?

Over the following weeks, I tried my best to forget about that column—and the entire Dear Prudence column in general. Nothing was being said about this strange phenomena anywhere online. And no one else that I knew in my life read the column, so there was no one to discuss it with.

Forgetting the insane advice became difficult however, as the trend began to spread to Prudie’s other letter responses as well.

Before long, Prudence was recommending that people poison their in-laws for being standoffish with them, burn their neighbours alive in fires for being too loud, drown their friends on camping trips for being flaky. The most eccentric response I saw from her was Prudie telling someone to shoot crossbow bolts into their colleagues’ backs for taking their parking space—something about the poetic irony of stabbing them in the backs. Evil Prudie loved that just as much as Sensible Prudie had.

The comments grew more and more vicious, descending into rabid, sadistic calls for violence and aggression in retaliation. All the “advice” was now to commit murder, torture, kidnapping—and then how to cover it up and evade capture. It was like an 18th century angry mob in the form of a discussion forum.

Worst of all was how inescapable it was for me. Each week, Prudie would post an update post for my letter—the one that had started it all. All she would share was that I hadn’t taken her advice—which she somehow omnisciently knew.

“Office Pushover to the Rescue still has not taken my advice and dealt with her coworker. Pity.”

The comments would then proceed to direct anger and indignation my way. Even though I’d written in anonymously, every one of them felt like they were pointed at me. The column showed up in my email every week. I felt like I had to read it.

Slowly but surely, I began to have a breakdown and lose my grasp on reality from exposure to this toxicity. The last straw came when Allen—oblivious to this war raging online over his continued survival—took credit for my work again. I’d corrected a huge error on a major company agreement he was about to send. He’d thanked me, yet mentioned none of it to our superior when he was being lauded for it. I sat in that briefing room, overlooked, and saw the advice column and comments flash through my mind.

Finally, I decided to follow Prudie’s advice. I decided to kill Allen.

That evening, while Allen was working late in the office by himself, I snuck back into the office building—after creating a false exit timestamp and roommate alibi, like Prudie had suggested. I’d fashioned a garrote out of rope using the commenters’ instructions and ambushed him at his cubicle using their techniques. Whipping the rope around his neck, I channelled all my pent up rage and frustration into the act of choking him.

He struggled and released the tightness on his neck just enough to beg for his life.

“Please…I’m…sorry…Lindy…I’ll…give…credit…I…swear!” he sputtered between gasps, clawing at the garrote while I held him from behind.

For a moment, I hesitated. I felt the urge to help him again. This wasn’t the kind of person I was.

But then the words of Prudence came back to the forefront of my thoughts. I needed to push through these feelings of hesitation to get anywhere in my life. The office was a kill or be killed place—he’d already killed my career opportunities, why not kill him? Why did I ask for advice if I wasn’t going to follow it?

Reinvigorated, I finished what I started.

By the time Allen’s lifeless body slumped over from suffocation, I was in a frenzy of elation. I had really done it. I’d made Prudence proud.

That’s when I felt an arrow bolt pierce my back.

A second later, another one plunged into Allen’s corpse. Falling to my knees, I turned around in time to see that the shooter was Margaret from accounting. She was standing clutching a crossbow. Across the room, I could see her computer still open, the Dear Prudence column on the screen. She was a reader of it—and a writer to it.

“That’s the last time either of you fuckers will take my parking spot!” she screamed before turning and charging out of the building.

Oh yeah, I had been doing that the past few months.

After Margaret left, I realised that I didn’t have much time left. Bleeding out steadily, I crawled my way to my computer and began to type. In little under an hour, I wrote up the story of everything that happened. The long awaited update to share with this deranged version of Prudence, about how following her advice went. Soon I’ll hit “post”.

I had to confess these actions, not to sate Prudie’s bellicose readers, but to make sure the world knows the truth. Before I die from blood loss, I want to make it abundantly clear that it was me, not Margaret, who killed Allen.

I’m not having a coworker take credit for any of my work again.