Our dog got out of the side gate on Monday morning. Daisy, four-year-old golden, friendly to the point of being useless. I put flyers on every pole between our house and the elementary school and my son cried at dinner two nights running. My wife is on nights at the hospital this month, so it was me and the kids and the flyers.

Wednesday I fell asleep on the couch with the TV going. The porch light was off.

I woke up to somebody beating on my front door. Not knocking. Beating on it, over and over, hard enough that I felt it in the couch, and screaming over the top of it, and crying so hard the words were coming apart.

I got to the door and put my hand on it and looked through the peephole, because the little window beside the door has a curtain and I didn't want to move it. It was the kids from the corner house, the girl who's about eight and her little brother, five maybe. The girl had snot down to her lip and was hitting my door with the flat of both hands, with her back to the driveway, and she never once looked behind her. The boy was behind her with his mouth open and nothing coming out of it that I could make into a word.

And behind them, sitting on my driveway under the streetlight, was Daisy.

I saw my dog. She was sitting on the driveway with her tongue out, wet, looking at the door. I figured she'd been out a couple of days and come home.

So I opened the door.

They came through the gap, both of them, and the girl was screaming not the dog, not the dog, not the dog, and I thought she'd been bitten. I had the door in one hand and I leaned out and said, "Daisy. Come."

She stood up. She came up the walk at a dog's pace, and I remember being relieved about that, that she could walk. I kept the door in my left hand and crouched to get her collar with my right. I put my hand into the fur at her neck.

There was nothing under the fur where her neck should have been. My hand went in and kept going, and something closed on my wrist.

The girl hit the door with her whole body. It slammed on my forearm and I screamed and pulled, and the fur slid up my arm, and my hand came out of it. Most of my hand. She locked the deadbolt before I was off the floor. Eight years old.

I didn't understand what I was looking at for a second or two, because there wasn't any blood yet. My ring finger and my little finger were gone at the knuckle. The ends were flat, like they'd been pinched off, and there were four marks around my wrist above them, parallel, not punctures, lines, like I'd been held by something with four fingers and no thumb. Then there was blood, a lot of it, and I was yelling at the girl to get a towel from the kitchen, and she did.

I called 911 from the floor. I told her the two kids from the house on the corner were at my door screaming and that something had taken two of my fingers, and I gave her their address. She said police and an ambulance were on the way and to keep the door locked.

I got everybody into the kitchen, checked the back door was locked, and got the towel around what was left of my hand and squeezed it in the other one and held it over my head like they tell you. The boy sat on the floor against the dishwasher with his knees up and didn't talk. He still hasn't, to me or to anyone. The girl told me what happened.

Daisy came to their back door after dinner. They let her in, because it was Daisy. She went into the kitchen where their mom was. Then the coat came off in the kitchen.

I asked her what she meant and she looked at me like I was the child.

That's when my own kids came down. Maddie is nine, Ben is six. Ben went straight to the little window beside the front door, because he'd heard the word Daisy, and pulled the curtain back. He looked out and he screamed. The same scream. The exact same one the girl had been making on my porch, out of my son.

Maddie looked, went white, and pulled her brother back by the shirt without saying anything.

I turned the porch light on and looked. I had my good hand on the door. The deadbolt was locked, I knew that, and I still couldn't make myself take my hand off it. Daisy was sitting on my mat. Wagging. Looking at the door.

"Guys," I said. "It's Daisy."

Four kids on one side of that sentence and me on the other.

I got angry. I was two fingers down and bleeding through a dish towel, my dog was on the porch, and two children were screaming at me that she wasn't and two more couldn't get a word out. I said to the girl, fine. Tell me what you see.

She told me in kid words. I'm going to give you her words because mine don't work.

The legs are too long. The head's not on right, it's slipping. There's a line down its front. Her eyes are shut. It's looking out of her mouth.

I looked again, with my hand on the lock. A wet dog, sitting on my porch. I looked for a long time. My dog.

She'd been checking the lock every couple of minutes since she'd locked it. She went and checked it again, and leaned to look out the little window with her hand still on the deadbolt.

Her face changed. It went slack, like relief. "It's Daisy," she said, in a different voice, a smaller one. Then she took her hand off, and looked at her hand, and looked at the window. "It's not."

She did it twice more while I watched. Hand on the lock: Daisy. Hand off: not. The third time she started crying again and I pulled her away from the door.

Then I did what she'd done. I took my hand off the door, and I stepped back from it, and I looked.

The girl had it right. The legs. The line down the front. Daisy's eyes were shut, and something was looking at me out of her mouth. I stood there until I couldn't, and then I put my hand back on the deadbolt because I had to know, and it was Daisy, wagging. I took my hand off. It wasn't.

That's the rule, as far as I can tell. If your hand is on the way in, you see the dog.

The police car came, and when it turned onto the street the driveway was empty. The officer came in, and the ambulance behind him, and they dressed my hand and I signed the form that says you refused transport. The girl told the officer about the dog and he wrote it down. He asked me where the dog was now and I said I didn't know.

A woman from the county came for the kids. The girl looked back at my front door the whole way to the car. After that it was blue light on the kitchen ceiling from three doors down, and the three of us with the blinds shut.

I called Sarah at the hospital and told her all of it. She said she was leaving now, in the voice she uses on people in shock.

I heard her car as it was getting light. She pulled all the way up to the garage, where I couldn't see her from the little window. I heard the engine stop. Then nothing.

I stood at the window with my hand on the door and waited for her to come around the corner of the house, and she didn't, and she didn't. I thought she was on the phone. I thought she was crying in the car, which she does sometimes after a bad shift, before she comes in. I'd started saying her name.

Then she came around the corner of the house and up the walk, in her scrubs, with her bag on her shoulder, and she looked up at the window and found my face and smiled, and I had the deadbolt turned and the door open before I'd thought about it, because it was my wife, and I'd been up all night, and she's a nurse.

I let go of the door to get hold of her.

It was wearing Sarah.

The scrubs were the same. The bag was on its shoulder. Her eyes were shut, and her mouth was open in a way hers doesn't go, and something was looking at me out of it from a long way back. It was standing on my mat with the door wide open and it did not come in. It stood there with my wife's bag on its shoulder and waited for me to let it.

I got the door shut. I don't remember doing it. Ben says I did it with my bad hand.

Her car is still in the driveway. I went to the ER in daylight with the kids in the back seat, and they called it a crush amputation and asked if it was the dog, and I said yes, the dog. They wanted to keep me and I didn't stay. The lines around my wrist have gone dark under the dressing in a way the doctor didn't like. I have two fingers and a thumb on that hand. It has the other two somewhere. The police have had me in twice about Sarah. I told them the truth and they wrote it down the way the first officer did. It's never there when they come by, and I don't know where it goes. The corner-house kids are with their grandmother in another town, and the boy still hasn't talked.

It's there every night, at the edge of the porch light, in her scrubs. Ben asks when Mom's coming in. Maddie doesn't ask. Last night I found her at the front door with her hand flat on it, looking out the little window, and she was smiling.

She's nine. She can reach the handle.

I went to the asylum for a really stupid reason. It wasn’t just to take pictures like I told Tyler, and it definitely wasn’t for a research project like I told my Mom. If I had been going exclusively for either one of those reasons, I would have gone in the crisp, pale light of the October dawn. 

But I didn’t do that. I went at night. 

I’ve been to the asylum plenty of times. It’s kind of what you do when you’re a kid living in my town. You do your PE runs there. You take your senior photos there. If you’re my aunt’s age, you probably went to a haunted house or two before they shut that all down. I don’t really know why they shut it down. They probably though it was dangerous or disrespectful or something.

Part of the draw is that the asylum grounds are kind of beautiful—serene on the surface. The property is composed of acres and acres of meadows and miles of trails lined with briars that hang heavy with blackberries every summer.

In the spring and summer, and in the light of day, and when the circumstances of life are ideal, and all the stars align and you’re caught up in that moment between your graduation and the first day of college, the asylum feels welcoming and peaceful and soothing. But that isn’t the real asylum. It’s not what I experienced on the night that I went.

Let me start by saying it wasn’t my idea to go on Halloween night. That felt really cliche to me. “You’re way too contrarian for that,” Tyler said on the night he dropped me off at the asylum. “Go during Thanksgiving week or something.”

And yeah, I should have listened to Tyler.

But the fact is, my contrarian streak is exactly the thing that brought me there on the most cliche night of the year.

It started with a conversation with my sister. We were talking about plans for Halloween. She’s three years older than me. She’s a social butterfly, she owns a house, and she has a baby, who I think is super cute (yeah—I’m well aware that I only think she’s cute because I’m related to her. Sue me.)

She’s also married to Scott, who objectively is great but for some reason has always gotten under my skin. It might be because he proposed to Mallory at the exact same time the series finale of Young Sheldon was airing. Who does that?

The three of us were standing in the kitchen. Mallory was pulling scones out of the oven, and Scott was rifling around in the fridge.

“I think it’s gonna be pretty low-key,” she told me. “We’re going to do a family costume—maybe the Incredibles or something.”

I glanced over at Scott, who was elbow deep in the top shelf of the refrigerator, and tried to picture him wearing a Mr. Incredible costume. My nose wrinkled involuntarily. 

“And we’ll hand out candy, and then Mable is coming over to do a photo shoot with us and Sly, and then we’ll leave Sly with Scott’s mom, and then we’ll hit a bar for a couple beers or if they do a fancy Halloween cocktail or something.”

Halfway through her monologue, I realized something annoying. She was going to have a better Halloween than me. I didn’t even have solid plans yet. A few of my friends had talked about a movie night, but nobody had mentioned it since last week, and I wasn’t sure if anyone was serious or not.

She put a plate of fresh scones on the counter. She must have interpreted my silence as pity, because she said, “Oh come on. We can’t all be young and crazy.”

That wasn’t what I was thinking at all. I was thinking that my twenty-four-year-old sister who was constantly awake with a six-month-old was somehow the cool one in this scenario.

What exactly was my excuse? All I had was school and crippling social anxiety.

Scott set a jar of lemon curd next to the scones. It was almost annoying that he had been digging around the fridge for lemon curd. Like, how smug can you get? Lemon curd and family costumes and bespoke Halloween cocktails—come on.

“What about you?” Mallory asked. “You and Tyler up to something? C'mon. Let me live vicariously through your Halloween plans.”

I didn’t want to tell her my plan was to watch a movie in my apartment, half-listening for trick-or-treaters. And so I answered with the first semi-plausible thing that my brain could conjure. “Ghost hunting,” I say. “Up at the asylum.”

Scott looked up like I’d just shone a giant flashlight in his eyes.

Mallory scowled. She’d never liked my interest in the paranormal. “Kimmy…”

“That sounds legit,” Scott said.

Mallory glared at him, and if I’m being honest, I kind of enjoyed the tiny wrench I threw into their scone-and-lemon curd life. 

Then she turned to me. “You aren’t allowed there after dark.”

Obviously I knew that. I grew up here. But I can’t stand the thought of Mallory in her dumb superhero costume, feeling bad for me. That’s just too sad.

So I kept digging myself deeper, “I want to try to talk to the girl who disappeared there.”

She looked at me. She opened her mouth. Then she shut it again.

Scott was a different story. A wide grin spread across his face. “I dare you to take the picture,” he said. 

Mallory slapped his arm with the back of her hand so hard that I could have sworn I felt it, too.

***

"The photo" in question is a selfie taken in 2013 by a local high school student named Mina. The photo, taken at the asylum’s cemetery, shows Mina in the dull morning sun, smiling widely at the camera. She’s wearing a red and gold letterman’s jacket from her school, and a bracelet with a turtle pendant. In recent years there’s been a rumor that the turtle was made of real emeralds, but nobody actually knows if that’s true or not.

If that was the whole story, the picture never would have gone viral like it did. A high school girl going missing in a small town is a tragic news story for sure, but as is so often the case, it would have blown over after a couple of months.

But the photo shows something else. It shows something massive and smoky creeping up the edge. It’s as if something huge hunches over Mina, mostly out of focus and obscured by the blanket of morning fog. Just enough of the shape shines through the mist to make you wonder what happened to her in the seconds after Mina snapped the photo.

The story goes Mina was at the asylum for senior photos. Her mom wanted her the pictures taken at the nursery just off of the highway, but Mina was just punk enough to want something edgy. Mina’s love of the macabre and her mother’s pumpkin spice sensibilities clashed, and then combined in such a way that the two of them ended up choosing an utterly gorgeous, only vaguely gothic asylum.

Apparently their photographer friend didn’t show up at first. When Mina called to check in, the photographer was adamant that she wasn’t coming.

No one knows why. That photographer had taken thousands of photos at the asylum over the years. But that day she didn’t want to be anywhere near the campus.

The photographer was adamant, but Mina was worse. Mina told her she wasn’t going anywhere.

Nobody knows exactly what happened from there.

We know that Mina never went home that night. We know that Mina made national news. We know Mina took some selfies on her crappy flip phone. We know that because one of them became internet-famous. 

That picture was the last one on her phone. The phone itself was found near the cemetery with bloody fingerprints smudged across the screen.

***

When Scott dared me to take “the picture” I knew exactly what he meant. Every kid around here knows.

The rules are simple:

1. Go to the asylum after dark.
2. Walk across the campus to the old cemetery. Stand beside the tallest gravestone.
3. Take a selfie with your phone. Pay close attention to any shadows and or shapes in the frame.
4. If there’s nothing extra in you’re photo, you’re safe for another. If there is…let’s just say you might want to sleep with the lights on for a while.

***

On Halloween night, I set my alarm for one in the morning, took a big swig of bourbon straight from the bottle, and walked down my creaky stairs to the parking lot to meet Tyler. 

Even though the hour was ungodly, I didn’t want to risk leaving my car on the road outside the park gates, so Tyler picked me up. It’s pretty easy to sneak onto the campus, but our town has a lot of cops that patrol even at night, and if one of them sees a car anywhere near the asylum, there’s a good chance they’re going to check it out.

When I got in Tyler’s car, the heater was off and it was so cold I could see my breath. He wore a deeply serious gray sweater and otherwise seemed completely oblivious to the cold. 

“You ready for this?” He asked.

“For sure!” I said with far more certainty than I felt.

“As long as you don’t let Mina get you.” 

I laughed, but our smiles faded quickly. Neither one of us had the bravado to fully commit to the bit. We drove the rest of the way in silence. It felt kind of like a reverse Christmas morning—like we were excited for something but in a bad way.

Eventually Tyler eased the car over to the shoulder. He turned off the headlights. We stayed in that silence for a moment. This should have felt fun, but I somehow couldn’t bring myself to reach for the car door latch.

“You sure don’t want me to come with you?” Tyler said. 

Warm relief rushed over me before I could catch it. Of course I wanted him to come with me. Now that I was here, sitting in the safety of the car, looking out there into the night, I felt every one of my senses prickling—coming alive—telling me I shouldn’t be alone out here.

I could see the edge of the trail up ahead. Something looked off. The shadows were far too long.

As I sat there shivering in the passenger seat, I would have done anything to have Tyler with me. 

Well, I would have done anything except actually ask.

“I’m good,” I said. It took the last bit of resolve I had to send him on his way. “I’ll text you in the morning.”

And as I climbed out of the car, I got the strangest feeling. It felt like I won’t be coming back. It felt like I was about to cross a line I wouldn’t be able to uncross. A movie night suddenly sounded great. All I really wanted was to go home and sit in my living room and eat the popcorn and Reese’s and Oreos and all the others stuff that sounded so lame a few hours ago. I knew that if I asked, Tyler would come with me. I wanted to sit with my best friend and let the night melt around us.

Instead I was stupid. 

I took my extra heavy coat, my bag of halloween candy, and a full bottle of bourbon and headed for the place where the fence broke. Bourbon felt like the right call for this night. I had a feeling Mina would have been a bourbon girl, and I knew that I was.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I closed the door as quietly as I could and started walking through the moonlight toward the edge of the property.

For a beautiful moment, I felt myself relax. I thought I was going to be okay after all. Maybe this could just be a perfect walk in the moonlight, bathed in the luxurious silver. I could feel the warmth of that earlier drink sneaking up on me.

I was fine until I heard Tyler pull away. I turned to look over my shoulder as his tail lights disappeared, and I felt the cramping return to the pit of my stomach—the flash of lightning through my chest—the sense that something wasn’t right.

Still, I forced myself to continue. There was no way I was going to call him back now that he was gone. I would never live it down.

As I walked along the path with my backpack over my shoulder, I caught sight of something in the distance. It was a booth of some sort, edges sharp in the moonlight, roof hanging over a small enclosure, creating deep, angry shadows.

I felt myself tense up, wondering what could be hiding in the shadows. As I drew closer, though, I realized what it was. It was just a phone booth.

I didn’t remember that being out here, but I also didn’t come this way often. I veered off of my path to check it out.

The roof overhung the phone, creating a strange spot of darkness and shadow. Here, in the middle of the night, with the moon frowning down, it felt especially terrifying.

A sign swinging from two chains read “Spirit Phone.”

I’d seen things like this online. It was a thing for sad people. They could pick up a phone, whisper their goodbyes to lost loved ones, and walk away feeling like they got something off their chest. 

But while I wanted to write it off as a quaint memorial to people who had passed on, it’s sudden appearance in my path felt like something more. It felt targeted to me. After all, hadn’t I come here to try to communicate with Mina? If there was any truth to ghosts—if there was any chance I could communicate with her—why not use a tool meant just for that?

Stepping into the square of shadow felt like breaking some covenant I had made with this place. It felt like inviting something evil into my sphere.

And like an idiot, I did it anyway.

I stepped up to the phone and lifted it from it’s cradle. I didn’t know what I expected. Of course there wouldn’t be a ring tone out here. Of course it would be dead. But the silence somehow felt invasive. It hammered against my brain like it was its own person. I was silent for several moments. Then I gulped. And then I whispered, “Is anyone there?” 

For a moment, dead silence.

And then, somewhere far away, a tiny click, followed by the wail of the wind in the receiver. No voice, no breathing—just a sound telling me that someone somewhere else had picked up a second phone.

I slammed the receiver down.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. Not really. I realize as I stood there, staring at the phone, that I wasn’t at all prepared to meet something real out here tonight. Sure, I felt scared as soon as I stepped out of the car, but I thought it was just nerves. I never really believed it. Not until then.

Not until I stood in the moonlight.

All of the worst case scenarios slammed into me at the same time. 

What if my phone died before morning? 

What if I hurt myself? What if the alcohol I had already consumed—the alcohol I could feel fuzzing up the corners of my thinking—came on more strongly than I anticipated? 

What if the moon went behind a cloud? 

What if there really was someone on the other side of that phone?

I made myself let those thoughts go. More realistically, I forced them out of my mind in the same way you corral stray cats away from your front door. 

This was what I wanted. This was what I came for. I was not going to let fear ruin the night for me. I wasn’t going to back down. I was going to walk out of this night with a selfie from the cemetery and a fantastic story to tell my smug sister.

I hiked my backpack higher, and as I did, I realized that my hand was wet. I looked down. There was a thick liquid smeared across my palm. I turned on my phone light. Something gray, the consistency of honey, covered my hand. I looked up at the phone booth. The same substance dribbled from the handle of the receiver. 

I shone my flashlight higher. The same gray muck covered half of the plaque above the receiver so that the only visible words were:

…ones missed,

…where bonds persist.

I shivered and turned away. The substance oozed and squelched between my fingers, and as I started up the trail that led to the barns, I wiped my hand on my pants.

I thought about calling Tyler. I wanted to hear his voice on the other end of the line. I wanted the comfort. I didn’t have to admit that I was scared. I could just tell him about the phone I found or something. 

Still, he would be in bed by now, and I had the feeling that if I called him—if I heard his voice—I would lose the rest of my nerve and I would ask him to come back.

No. I would keep going. I couldn’t exactly tell him that I came out here to talk to Mina’s ghost and gave in the moment it got creepy. 

Blackberry bushes lined the path, shooting out spindly briars like arms ready to tangle me up and hold me forever. Out there in the middle of the night, wasn’t even sure that was walking the right path. Things looked different at night. Familiar shapes lurked and hulked like demons in the distance, and roads that I should have known felt like they were leading me somewhere I didn’t want to go. 

Eventually, I crested the hill and stepped up into view of the barns.

The silo loomed over me, along with several other structures. With the moonlight creating such a crisp view, I could see the graffiti on the buildings. I stepped closer.

Someone had painted two angry eyes on the face of one of the  barns, accompanied by eyebrows. Words scrawled beneath read, “He is watching” read the graphic. An arrow pointed upward.

It was silly nonsense—the kind of thing me and my friends would have done in high school—and yet something about it pulled me in. Something about it made my heart drop.

I took another step forward. And then another. Looking up into the rafters, I don’t know what I expected to see. Maybe I thought I would see some sort of gargoyle, or a demon bound by the graffiti artist’s words. Maybe I thought there would be a camera or a face peering back at me.

But there was nothing. Maybe a few sticks from a bird’s nest if I squinted hard enough.

But up higher—up higher there was a window, empty and yawning. If there ever had been glass up there, it was long gone. The window was a starless night now—like a portal to somewhere else.

Was this where Mina died? Did one of these old barns crumble around her, entombing her for eternity? Did something watch her from that window? Was something watching me?

With a shiver, I left the barns and kept walking. Shuffling through the grass, my backpack suddenly felt heavy. I paused and looked up at the sky. A pair of clouds hovered close to the moon.

Behind me, a gust of wind whistles through one of the open-air barns, kicking up crunchy leaves and scattering them across the field. I looked back.

A shadow moved behind the entrance to one of the barns. 

It was quick enough—subtle enough—that I couldn’t be sure it was anything at all. Normally I would have laughed it off, but tonight, all I could think about was the last photo Mina took—that image of the shadow.

I knew that if I started running, I would never be able to stop. So instead, I forced myself to go toward it. The shadow had to be nothing. Maybe just an animal. I took another step. 

Now I could see the shadow hovering in the doorway. Long columns of darkness clenched and curled and unclenched, like the shadows of tree branches, only fluid and curving. The shapes, wrong and unnatural, slipped toward the edge of the door.

My heart pounded, and I stumbled backward.

Beside me I heard a rustling, and then something grabbed my leg. I twisted hard, pulling away, only to feel a tearing. Still, whatever had me didn’t let go. 

I jerked my leg away. This time the tearing sensation reached the bare skin between my sock and the cuff of my jeans. I inhaled sharply at the pain.

When I looked down at my foot, I immediately felt stupid. A blackberry branch had snagged my ankle. My skin was pulled tight—stretched out by one of the barbs that had hooked me—but it was just a thorn. It wasn’t a monster. It wasn’t a ghost.

It was just a stupid blackberry briar.

I looked back up at the barn. The shadow was still there, but now that I had survived the blackberry bush, I realized what I was looking at. An old roll of loosely coiled wire swayed in the breeze, casting shadows on the ground. That was it. No reason to be scared.

Turning my back on the barns, I pushed onward down the trail. 

The blackberry bushes kept reaching for me as I made my way toward the cemetery, and from then on I was more careful about where I stepped. 

The little terrors of the night were taking a toll, but I remained stubborn in my purpose. I was going to get this photo. I was going to show Scott and all the rest of them that I wasn’t scared. And when I looked in the mirror tomorrow, I would be able to face myself, knowing that I hadn’t run away from an irrational fear.

After walking eastward for several minutes, the cemetery fence came into view. I approached the fence, thinking about the photo of Mina in the cemetery, with that strange shadow-shape over her shoulder. 

My aunt told me the secrets about this graveyard once. She told me that it’s not exactly what it looks like on the surface. This place is actually a wetland—a bog. Mina’s body—if this is in fact where her body ended up—has joined with hundred of other burials throughout the years and sunk into the depths. 

I hopped the fence and walked toward the tallest gravestone. It was obvious which one I was looking for—it was the only stone jutting out of the grass. The rest of them were invisible, forgotten at ground-level, or sunken even deeper.

My heart hammered as my shoes squashed across the lawn. Each time my feet sunk into the grass, it felt like squeezing a sponge out over an empty bowl. Water pooled around my shoes and the earth sucked at my feet with every step.

You should go. 

Not until I get the damn photo.

Because at the end of the day, it wasn’t just about impressing Scott, or even Mallory. I just wanted to win. For once I wanted to do the thing I had set out to do without giving up or chickening out. 

I could call Tyler as soon as I was done with the picture. He would be sleeping with his ringer on tonight, just in case I needed something. 

But I wasn’t leaving without the photo.

So I marched all the way up to that gravestone. I turned and looked out at the blackberry brambles and skinny white birch trunks beyond the chain link fence, searching for any sign of a menacing shadow. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. If anything, the darkness beyond the tree trunks felt a little too heavy—a little too close. But if that was the only thing I had to worry about, I was pretty sure I could manage.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. After flipping the screen, I raised my phone above my head, careful to get as much of the backdrop in focus as possible. I snapped the photo. My whole screen turned white for a moment, then, like a callback to a Polaroid developing in real time, the photo faded into view. 

I zoomed in immediately, checking every inch of the photo. My own eyes stared back at me, wide and bloodshot. I looked terrible, but I ignored my face and moved on. 

Something in the background caught my attention—something white in the expanse of darkness. I zoomed in close, only to see that a large moth had landed on the fence as I took the picture.

A sigh of relief escaped my lungs as I realized there was nothing strange in the photo at all.

I had been playing with the idea of calling Tyler as soon as I took the picture. Now that I had taken the photo, though, and it had come back empty, I felt an unexpected rush of confidence. It felt like nothing could touch me—like I could face anything tonight might throw at me.

Riding high on that sensation, I started walking deeper into the cemetery.

The ground grew soggier with every step. By the time I reached the middle of the lawn, I could see the standing water sparkling in the moonlight, and I was sinking up to my ankles every time I shifted my weight.

It was gross. The cold water had the effect of overcoming both my fear and my stubborn streak, and suddenly I was overcome with the practical need to get away from this muddy, squelching hellscape.

I was just about to turn back—just about to head for the barns—when something in the distance caught my eye. A rectangle shape rested near the fence.

I should have turned back. I should have let the freezing water serve as a warning. I should have called Tyler. 

But curiosity got me. Now that I had the photo on my phone, I felt like I could do anything at all. So I took a few more steps forward. Icy water seeped into my socks and stung the puncture from the blackberry thorns. I pushed on.

I couldn’t identify the shape in the distance yet, but I knew it didn’t belong here. The rolling grass and standing water covered the cemetery, and with the exception of the occasional corner of a sunken gravestone visible in my flashlight, the expanse was entirely flat.

The box on the others side of the lawn didn’t belong here at all.

As I walked—as I stared at that strange shape pushed up against the fence—I felt that strange sense of dread beginning to take hold again. I didn’t have to come here. I could have called Tyler at any time. I could be ay home in my bed right now, sinking into my memory foam mattress topper instead of sinking into three inches of cemetery sewage.

But I was pretty sure it was too late.

I shone my flashlight at the box again. This time the realization punched me in right in the gut.

Resting beside the fence, tilted to one side, poking halfway out of the mud lay a sad little pine box casket.

The lid was ajar. Gray mud oozed down the sides, and a half circle of rocks surrounded it.

At first I tried to rationalize it. Maybe it wasn’t a casket. Maybe someone had put some other kind of box out here for some other reason.

Okay, no, it was definitely a casket.

So maybe they were starting to bury people out here again.

Maybe I was really drunk, even though I didn’t feel it, and I was imagining all of this this.

But as I drew closer, I knew exactly what I was seeing. I knew that it was real.

And while it terrified me, it felt familiar, too.

Because there were other stories people told about this cemetery. Stories about caskets rising to the surface of the graveyard. Stories about placing rocks inside or on top of the caskets to weigh them down and keep them from floating up on muck and water.

There have always been stories about this place.

So many stories.

Maybe I should have believed some of them.

And then, the worst case scenario became real.

The lid began to slip from the casket. 

At first I didn’t want to believe it. Maybe it was just a trick of the shadows.

Only it wasn’t.

A sting of panic lit up my chest as I stared down.

Gray muck oozed out of the casket, and something eased over the side of the box. It was ragged and sinewy and gray like driftwood, and it hung limply, brushing the grass below. A green light glinted off of it.

A turtle pendant. Maybe was made of real emeralds. Maybe not. It didn’t matter.

What did matter was that it meant something I wasn’t ready to admit out there in that field. In fact, I’m still not sure I can admit it.

It meant that the driftwood wasn’t driftwood at all. That brittle gray thing was Mina’s arm, flesh and blood picked clean by the devastation of time. The turtle bracelet drooped down from the grimy bone and proved it.

It was then that I did what I should have done far earlier. Maybe if I had done it earlier, I would have stood a chance.

I turned and ran back toward the barns. I hurdled over the fence and ran for the light, the parking lot, and the safety of the highway.

Once, I thought I heard a low moan echoing from somewhere behind me, but I didn’t stop to check, and the sound dissolved into the sound of leaves crunching under my feet.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket.

“Tyler?” I cried when he finally picked up. “I need you to come get me!”

***

I didn’t tell Tyler anything that happened. I let him think that I got scared by leaves blowing and branches creaking. It was easier to accept the blow to my pride than to admit everything I saw.  

But when I glanced over at him, he was watching me and not the road. I think he knew that something happened. I think he knew that there was something different about me. Maybe I had been cursed. Marked. Maybe that radiated off of me like heatwaves over concrete.

As we drove home, I thought about it all. I played it over in my head.

I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

Now, hours later, I’m sitting in my apartment, just waiting. It’s almost dawn and when the sun comes up, odds are that someone is going to find that coffin.

When they do, it’ll only be a matter of time before we learn an identity, and if it really ends up being Mina, that changes everything. It means that there is something far more terrifying about her disappearance than any of us could have imagined. She didn’t simply run away. Something killed her. Something entombed her. Something has held her there for over a decade.

And it means something else—something far more personal to me.

It means that I’m not imagining the things that have been happening to me.

Because things have been happening ever since I got home. 

That gray muck is oozing out of my bathroom faucet now, and out of the crack in my living room ceiling.

I can hear a phone sometimes—not my phone—the ringing fades in and out of earshot like it’s taunting me. When I go to look for it, the sound vanishes like a coastal mist.

And when I look at the selfie I took at the cemetery, there still isn’t a shadow figure in it. 

There’s something worse.

On the very edge of the photo, so blurry I didn’t notice it at first, a hand grips the outside of the fence. A hand with a glimmering green pendant.

I spent over a decade working as a solo backcountry ranger in an isolated district of an unnamed national park. Most people picture park rangers wrestling rogue grizzlies or rappelling down sheer canyon walls to save stranded hikers. In reality, about ninety percent of my career consisted of picking up discarded energy drink cans, explaining to grown adults why feeding Flamin’ Hot Cheetos to raccoons is a terrible idea, and sitting alone at my outpost desk writing terrible novels while waiting for the single bar of emergency Wi-Fi to load a weather forecast.

I was twenty-one when I took the post. I had spent my teens grooming myself for college basketball until a blown rebound in a sophomore scrimmage shattered three lumbar vertebrae and ended my athletic career in a single afternoon. Dropping out with a metal rod in my spine and no backup plan, I took the loneliest job the Department of the Interior had to offer. By the time I turned thirty-two, I had turned isolation into an art form. My district was hundreds of square miles of dense hemlock, bog, and granite ridges. My station was a cedar cabin five miles past the nearest gravel service road, equipped with a wood stove, a VHF radio, and enough quiet to drive an extrovert insane.

The hardest part of the job was usually dealing with the occasional tourist who thought "primitive wilderness" meant "lawless frat house."

Early last June, I got a report about smoke rising near the old logging spur two miles below my cabin. I drove down in the park truck, fully prepared to write a hefty citation for an illegal campfire during high-risk season.

Instead, I found four teenagers huddled around an inflatable pink flamingo.

They had dragged two folding lawn chairs into the dirt, had an acoustic guitar with three missing strings, and were attempting to roast gas-station corn dogs over what they passionately defended as a "fully compliant containment unit" which turned out to be a hollowed-out watermelon lined with aluminum foil.

"Officer Smokey, hear me out," the ringleader said, a skinny kid in a tie-dye bucket hat who introduced himself as Toby. "The watermelon is eighty percent water. Mathematically speaking, it is physically impossible for this fire to escape."

"That’s not how thermodynamics works, Toby," I said, leaning against my truck door and trying desperately not to laugh. "Put it out before I cite you for reckless endangerment of fruit."

They were loud, completely unbothered, and surprisingly polite about packing up their mess. As they piled back into their battered station wagon, one of the girls rolled down her window and called out, "Hey Ranger, who’s your buddy by the tree line? Is he supposed to be making that clicking sound?"

I glanced toward the dense wall of hemlocks twenty yards back. There was nothing there just swaying branches and shadows.

"Probably just a deer," I told her. "Or my spine settling. Get out of here before the sun drops."

They waved, honked a comedic tune on their horn, and drove off down the mountain. That was the last normal encounter I had all summer.

Two days later, dispatch patched a call through to my cabin radio. A pair of experienced backpackers at an established campsite four miles north had packed up at 3:00 AM and hiked out in the dark to reach cell service. They reported that someone had spent three continuous hours pacing the perimeter of their tent, rhythmically striking two stones together and occasionally whispering short, garbled syllables that sounded like a radio broadcast playing at quarter speed.

I hiked up to the site at first light. I spent four hours combing the clearing and the surrounding brush. I found the hikers' abandoned tent stakes, but not a single footprint in the damp loam. No crushed ferns, no broken twigs, no scat, no food wrappers. The ground was untouched.

Over the next two weeks, the calls escalated.

A solo fly fisherman on the river reported hearing someone repeatedly shouting his own brother's name from across the water, but when he crossed the shallows to look, the bank was completely undisturbed. A family at the southern boundary called dispatch claiming a woman was crying for help fifty feet up a sheer cliff face; when the local volunteer rescue team arrived with spotlights and ropes, the cliff was barren stone, with nowhere a human being could possibly stand.

Every single time, I was the one sent out to investigate. And every single time, I found nothing.

By mid-July, the park service closed the northern sector due to early storm warnings, and the tourists cleared out entirely. I was alone in the district. That was when the noises stopped happening to other people and started happening around my cabin.

It began with the radio. At 2:14 AM on a Tuesday, the VHF base station on my desk clicked open. The speaker hissed with white noise, followed by a faint, metallic scrape. Then a voice came through the static.

It was my voice.

"That’s not how thermodynamics works, Toby."

The recording was perfectly clear, but the delivery was wrong. The cadence was flat and mechanical, the pitch stuttering up and down like an audio file being dragged slowly across an editing track. It repeated three times, exactly the same way, before cutting out into dead silence.

My blood ran cold. I grabbed my flashlight and service shotgun, unbolted the heavy door, and stepped onto the porch.

The air was dead still. Fog had rolled in off the bogs, pooling around the cabin's foundation in thick, gray banks. I swept the 1,000-lumen beam across the gravel turnaround, into the woodpile, and deep into the hemlocks.

Nothing. No tracks in the soft gravel, no disturbed dirt, no eye-shine reflecting back from the dark.

The next night, the knocking started.

It wasn't a frantic pounding; it was three slow, deliberate raps on the north-facing outer wall. Thump. Thump. Thump.

I gripped my shotgun and crossed the room. Before I could reach the door, the exact same three raps sounded against the south wall forty feet away on the opposite side of the cabin.

To cover that distance outside, someone would have had to sprint across fifteen yards of loose, noisy river rock in under two seconds. But I hadn't heard a single stone shift.

I threw open the door and illuminated the yard. Empty. The river rock was smooth and undisturbed.

By the fourth night without sleep, I was completely unraveling. Isolation does strange things to the human mind; after weeks of absolute quiet, your brain begins manufacturing patterns out of ambient noise. I tried to convince myself I had developed auditory hallucinations from stress, or that carbon monoxide from my wood stove was leaking into the bedroom. I replaced the detector batteries. Zero parts per million. I checked the perimeter for motion-triggered trail cameras, thinking maybe an elaborate prank was being pulled by locals. I found nothing.

The final night happened three weeks ago.

A driving rainstorm had knocked out my solar repeater, killing what little Wi-Fi I had. Around 3:30 AM, amidst the pounding of rain on the tin roof, I heard a wet, suffocated sound directly beneath the floorboards.

It was rhythmic, breathless weeping, accompanied by a voice frantically whispering the park's standard emergency evacuation codes phrases only I, dispatch, and the official handbook ever used.

I lost my temper. Terror had finally turned into raw, exhausted adrenaline. I grabbed a crowbar, ripped up the hatch to the crawlspace near the pantry, and dropped into the cold dirt beneath the foundation with my flashlight drawn, screaming for whoever was down there to show their hands.

The beam swept across the concrete footings, the bare dry earth, and the support joists. Cobwebs hung intact across every corner, undisturbed by human movement. The dust hadn't been touched in years. There was nobody there.

I stood there in the crawlspace, shivering in the freezing draft, staring at the empty dirt.

Then, from inside the locked cabin directly above my head, I heard a polite, clear throat-clearing.

I scrambled up the ladder, threw myself onto the kitchen linoleum, and raised my weapon.

The cabin was dead silent. The deadbolt was still thrown on the front door. The rain was drumming steadily on the glass.

Sitting in the exact center of my kitchen table, resting squarely on top of my open logbook, was an old, rusted brass key. It was the spare key to my patrol truck the one I had dropped in a deep ravine three miles up the trail nearly six years ago and had never been able to find. It was bone dry.

I didn't pack. I didn't shut down the radio or secure the station. I unlocked the front door, ran to my truck in the pouring rain, and drove down the mountain as fast as the bald tires would carry me, refusing to look into the rearview mirror even once.

I submitted my resignation from a diner forty miles south the next morning. I moved across the country into a crowded, noisy city apartment surrounded by sirens, streetlights, and concrete. I need the noise now. I can’t handle quiet rooms anymore.

The official report chalked my departure up to isolation fatigue and recurring chronic back pain. But I haven’t been able to sleep with the lights off since I left.

For months, I thought something was hunting me. I thought whatever was in those woods was trying to scare me out of my skin. But the more I sit here in the noise of the city, thinking about that key on the table and the voices repeating over the radio, the sicker I feel.

Every report was the same. A voice calling a name. A sound outside a tent. A whisper under the floor. It was never violent. It was just trying, over and over, to get someone anyone to answer.

I'm sorry. If someone was stuck out there in something I couldn't see, or if whatever was in those trees was just trying to figure out how to speak to me, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have treated it like a nuisance. I should have listened closer before I ran.

I'm sixteen years old, and three days ago, my younger brother disappeared from our house. I know that sounds like the kind of thing you'd expect to see on the news, but the weirdest part isn't that he's missing. It's that nobody else seems to remember him. Not my parents, not our neighbors, not even the people who supposedly watched us grow up together. I've spent the last seventy-two hours trying to find someone who can confirm that my brother existed, and every time I think I'm getting somewhere, I find something that makes me question whether I actually know anything about my own life.

My brother's name is Eli. He's fourteen, about five feet six, and has a small scar above his left eyebrow from when he fell off his bike when we were kids. He's the kind of person who leaves empty cereal bowls in his bedroom and borrows your things without asking, then acts offended when you want them back. We argued constantly over stupid things, mostly about the bathroom, the television, and whose turn it was to take out the trash. A couple of weeks ago, he stole twenty dollars from my desk and spent it on snacks at the convenience store down the street. I remember being furious with him. I remember telling him that if he touched my money again, I'd tell Mom. He laughed and called me a snitch before running upstairs.

I remember all of this so clearly that it physically hurts when I try to explain it to someone and watch them look at me like I'm making everything up.

On Monday morning, I woke up around seven because I had school, and the first thing I noticed was how quiet the house was. Normally, Eli would already be awake, playing videos on his phone at a volume that made it impossible to ignore him. Sometimes he'd knock on my bedroom wall just to annoy me, even though I had told him at least a hundred times to stop doing that. That morning, there was nothing. I figured he had overslept, so I went into the hallway and walked toward his room to wake him up.

Except his bedroom wasn't there.

I stood in front of the wall for several seconds before I understood what I was looking at. The door that had been there for as long as I could remember was gone, along with the light switch and the little dent in the wood near the handle where Eli had accidentally slammed his skateboard into it. There was just a plain, freshly painted wall, the same color as the rest of the hallway. I even ran my hands across it, looking for some kind of seam or hidden panel, because my half-asleep brain had decided that was a more reasonable explanation than an entire bedroom disappearing overnight.

I went downstairs and asked my mother where Eli was. She was standing at the kitchen counter, making coffee, and she didn't even turn around when she answered.

"Who's Eli?"

At first, I thought she was messing with me. My mom has a pretty dry sense of humor, and Eli and I had been getting on each other's nerves all weekend, so I assumed he had done something to get himself grounded. I laughed and asked her to stop being annoying because I was going to be late for school. She turned around then, looked at me for a moment, and asked if I had slept well. When I told her I was talking about my brother, she put her coffee down and said, very calmly, that I was an only child.

I remember feeling embarrassed before I felt scared. I thought maybe my parents had planned some elaborate joke, and I was the only person who hadn't gotten the message. I checked the living room, the garage, and the backyard, calling Eli's name as I went. I even checked behind the shower curtain because he had hidden there once when we were younger and scared me so badly that I nearly threw a shampoo bottle at his head. I found nothing, obviously, and when I came back downstairs, my father was sitting at the kitchen table reading the news on his phone.

I asked him where my brother was.

He gave me the same answer.

That was when I started getting angry. I told them both that this wasn't funny anymore and that I needed to know where Eli had gone. My father looked genuinely confused, while my mother kept asking me to sit down and eat something. I refused and grabbed my phone to show them pictures of us together. I knew I had hundreds of them because I was always taking pictures whenever Eli did something embarrassing. There were pictures of us at the beach, at birthday parties, in the back seat of our aunt's car, and in our living room during Christmas. I opened my gallery and searched through years of photos.

Every picture was still there, but Eli wasn't.

In one photo, I was sitting on the couch holding a controller, laughing at something just outside the frame. In another, I was standing beside our Christmas tree with my arm raised as if I were taking a selfie with someone who wasn't visible. There was even a picture from my birthday where I was leaning toward the empty space beside me, smiling so widely that my cheeks looked painful. I remembered that photograph. Eli had been making a ridiculous face behind the cake, and I'd been trying not to laugh while our mother took the picture.

I checked the date and then checked it again. It was the correct day. I searched my messages, my contacts, my social media accounts, and every old conversation I could remember having with him. There was nothing. No contact, no messages, no photographs with his face, and no evidence that anyone named Eli had ever been part of my life.

I didn't go to school that day. Instead, I called the police and told them my fourteen-year-old brother was missing. They arrived a little after lunch, asked me for his full name, birthday, school, and a description, and then spoke privately with my parents. When they came back, one of the officers asked whether I had been experiencing stress or trouble sleeping. I told him I wanted to know why he was asking me that instead of looking for my brother. He exchanged a glance with his partner before explaining that my parents had reported no missing child and that their records listed me as an only child.

I could barely hear him over the sound of my own heartbeat.

Before leaving, the older officer gave me a card and told me to contact a trusted adult if I continued feeling distressed. My mother thanked him at the front door, then watched the police car disappear down the street. When she turned back toward me, she had an expression I couldn't quite understand. She looked tired, but there was something else underneath it, something almost like relief.

That night, I stayed awake until nearly two in the morning. I couldn't stop thinking about the wall where Eli's bedroom should have been. I knew that if I went downstairs and looked at it again, it would still be there, but I couldn't convince myself to stop checking. Eventually, I left my room to get a glass of water, and as I passed the hallway, I heard three soft knocks coming from behind the wall.

I stopped walking.

A few seconds later, I heard them again.

Then a voice whispered my name.

It was Eli.

I recognized his voice immediately, down to the slightly scratchy sound he made when he was tired. I put my glass on the floor because my hands had started shaking so badly that I was afraid I'd drop it. I pressed my ear against the wall and whispered his name, barely expecting an answer.

"Ellie?"

I started crying before I could stop myself. I asked him where he was, whether he was hurt, and why I couldn't find his room. He answered in a whisper, telling me that he was still inside and that I needed to be quiet because Mom might hear us. I asked him what he meant, and he went silent for so long that I thought he'd disappeared again.

Then I heard something scraping against the other side of the wall.

It sounded like fingernails dragging slowly across wood.

"Eli, what's happening?" I whispered.

He took a shaky breath.

"I think Mom's trying to make everyone forget me."

I wanted to ask him what he meant, but I heard a bedroom door open upstairs. The scraping stopped immediately, and Eli's voice became so quiet that I had to press my ear harder against the wall to hear him.

"Don't let her find out you remember."

My mother's footsteps moved across the upstairs hallway. I backed away from the wall and hurried into my bedroom, locking the door behind me. I sat on the floor until morning, listening for footsteps outside, but nothing happened. When I finally went downstairs, my mother was making breakfast as if the previous night had never occurred. I asked her whether she'd heard anything strange, and she smiled at me and told me I looked exhausted.

I decided then that I needed proof that didn't depend on photographs or messages. If Eli had been real, somebody had to remember him. Our neighbors had known us since we were little, and the woman across the street used to babysit us when our parents worked late. I went over to her house that afternoon and asked whether she remembered my brother.

She frowned and said she didn't know what I was talking about.

I described him in detail, including his scar and the bike accident, and she listened patiently before telling me that she'd only ever seen me playing outside alone. She even laughed a little and said I had always been a quiet child who preferred drawing to playing with other kids. I left before she could ask any more questions.

On the way home, I passed the little convenience store where Eli had supposedly spent my twenty dollars. I went inside and asked the cashier whether he remembered a boy who came in almost every afternoon to buy snacks. The cashier said he saw hundreds of kids every week. When I described Eli, he shook his head and told me he couldn't help.

I was beginning to wonder whether I was losing my mind when I remembered the box of childhood belongings in our attic. If there was anywhere my parents might have missed something, it would be there. I waited until they went grocery shopping and climbed upstairs, digging through old clothes, school projects, and toys I hadn't touched in years. Most of it was ordinary stuff, but near the bottom of the box, I found a folded piece of paper covered in crayon drawings.

It showed two children standing in front of a house. One was a girl with messy hair and a yellow shirt. The other was a boy with black hair and a small mark above his left eyebrow.

Underneath them, written in my childhood handwriting, were the words, Me and Eli. Best friends forever.

I sat on the attic floor and stared at it for a long time. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. It wasn't a photograph, but it was something. I had drawn him. I had written his name. I hadn't invented every memory of him, had I?

I turned the paper over.

There was another sentence written on the back in pencil, so faint that I almost missed it.

If you forget him, find the little door.

I read it several times before I noticed the date in the bottom corner. It was from eleven years ago, when I would have been five years old.

I didn't remember writing it.

I looked around the attic, trying to work out what the little door could mean. The only door in the room was the one leading back to the stairs, and the old wardrobe in the corner was too small to hide anything larger than a few coats. Still, I walked over to it and opened both doors. The inside smelled like dust and damp wood. I pushed the coats aside, expecting to find nothing, but there was a narrow wooden panel at the back that I was certain hadn't been there before.

It was about the size of a cupboard door, with a small brass handle near the bottom.

I pulled it open.

Beyond it was a dark space that looked much bigger than the wardrobe should have allowed. I couldn't see the walls or the floor, only a narrow strip of darkness stretching away from me. The air coming through the opening was cold enough to make my fingers ache.

Then I heard someone breathing.

"Ellie?"

I knew that voice.

I dropped the drawing.

"Eli?"

"You're late," he whispered.

I grabbed the handle and pulled the door a little wider. I couldn't see his face clearly, but I could make out a small figure sitting somewhere in the darkness. I asked him how long he'd been there, and he told me he didn't know. I asked him why nobody remembered him, and he didn't answer.

Instead, he asked me whether Mom was still outside.

I told him she was at the grocery store.

He began to cry.

"She told me you'd forget me eventually," he said. "She said it would be easier if nobody remembered either of us."

I didn't understand what he meant. I asked him to come out, but he shook his head. He said there was something behind him, something that had been following him through the dark for as long as he could remember. He said it looked like a person when it stood far away, but whenever it got close, its face was wrong.

Then I heard footsteps on the stairs.

My mother had come home.

She appeared in the attic doorway carrying a grocery bag, and when she saw me standing in front of the little door, the bag slipped from her hand. An orange rolled across the floor. Neither of us moved to pick it up.

For several seconds, she just stared at me.

Then she whispered, "You weren't supposed to find that."

I asked her what had happened to Eli. I demanded to know why she kept pretending he had never existed, why our pictures had changed, and why I could hear him inside the wall. My mother began crying, but she didn't look at the little door. She looked directly at me.

"Sweetheart," she said, "you have to understand something."

I waited.

"You were never supposed to come back."

I felt a strange coldness spread through my arms. I looked down at my hands and noticed that I could see the floor through the tips of my fingers. At first, I thought the light was playing tricks on me, but when I raised my hand toward my face, the skin looked thin and transparent, like an image that hadn't loaded properly.

My mother reached for me, screaming my name, but her hand passed straight through my shoulder.

I stumbled backward toward the open door.

Inside the darkness, I could see more clearly now. There were children sitting along the walls, dozens of them, all silent and motionless. Some were very young. Others looked close to my age. A few wore clothes that seemed old-fashioned, and one little boy was holding a stuffed rabbit that looked exactly like the one I'd had when I was five.

At the very back of the room sat a little girl with messy hair and a yellow shirt.

She looked exactly like me.

She was staring at the doorway with the patient expression of someone who had been waiting a very long time.

Then she smiled.

"You're finally home," she said.

I woke up in my bed the following morning.

My mother told me I'd had another nightmare. She said I'd gone into the attic, fallen asleep, and frightened myself with something I'd found in an old box. She seemed so normal that I almost believed her. Almost. But when I climbed upstairs to check, the wardrobe was gone. There was no little wooden door, no drawing, and no box of childhood belongings. The attic looked as though nobody had ever stored anything there.

I went to school anyway, hoping that being around other people might make me feel less alone. My teacher asked why I hadn't been in class for two days, and when I told her I had been looking for my brother, she gave me the same concerned expression the police officer had given me. During lunch, I approached my best friend and asked her whether she remembered Eli. She looked confused and said she'd never heard that name before.

By the time I got home, I was beginning to accept that something was seriously wrong with my memory. Maybe I'd imagined him. Maybe the drawing had been part of some childhood game I'd forgotten about. Maybe there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of it.

Then I looked at the family photographs on the living room wall.

There was a picture of my parents holding me as a baby. Another showed me on my first day of school. A third was from my sixteenth birthday, taken just last month.

I wasn't in any of them.

My parents were smiling at the camera, standing beside empty spaces where I knew I had been. In the birthday photograph, my mother was holding a cake with sixteen candles, and my father had his arm stretched around somebody who wasn't there.

I checked my phone.

My contacts were gone. My messages were gone. My social media accounts didn't exist anymore. When I searched my own name, the only results I could find belonged to other people.

I ran outside and knocked on the neighbors' doors, begging somebody to tell me they knew who I was. Nobody recognized me. One woman threatened to call the police because she thought I was trespassing.

I went back to my house and tried the front door, but it wouldn't open. Through the window, I could see my parents sitting at the kitchen table with a little girl between them. She was wearing a yellow shirt and drawing on a piece of paper.

My mother kissed the top of her head.

My father laughed at something she said.

They looked happy.

They looked like a family.

And the little girl looked exactly like me.

I'm writing this from the sidewalk outside my house. I don't know what I am anymore, and I don't know whether anyone will believe this story. I just needed to tell someone before I disappear completely.

A few minutes ago, I heard three knocks coming from inside the house.

Then I heard Eli's voice.

He was calling my name from somewhere upstairs, telling me he'd finally found a way out.

I wanted to run inside. I wanted to see him, to grab his hand, and to make sure we could never be separated again.

But then I heard another voice.

It sounded like mine when I was little.

It came from the other side of the front door.

And it whispered, very clearly, "Don't let them remember you. That's how it starts."

I don't know which voice is telling the truth.

I don't know whether my brother was ever real.

But I just looked through the window again, and the little girl at the kitchen table has stopped drawing.

She's looking directly at me.

And she's holding up a piece of paper.

On it, in my own handwriting, are four words.

THERE WAS NEVER AN ELI.

I will say one thing about the Alaskan Alpiner’s Club—they think of everything, even if it may not be immediately useful. Three days ago I thought that whoever lugged a typewriter up the side of a mountain was an idiot. Now, after three days of losing my mind with boredom I think that person is a fucking genius. 

I was never too big on writing but I have mastered the two finger typing method so this has been a killer way of passing the time, what with each paragraph taking minutes on end to write in full. 

It’s maybe eight..? In the evening, but it’s hard to tell, being so far north where the sun never rises, I think I’m actually closer to Russia than I am to my home town of Anchorage. 

That’s the main reason I don’t exactly know what time it is. The other is that my watch froze to death two days ago.

So did my dog. 

That’s been hard. 

A little bit after losing him, I hiked up a ridge, planning to take off my jacket, midlayer, baselayer and whatever the fuck else and just lay down or find a nice cliff to throw myself off of rather than freeze to death, but just as I hiked up that ridge I saw that it wasn’t the cliff that I thought it would be. Instead, it was the crest of a long slope down the mountain. Halfway down the slope, on a stable, oddly level slab of rock was a small alpinist’s survival cabin, one of the ones built by the aforementioned Alaskan Alpiner’s Club. 

I pulled my map out, worried that I would have ruined it with tears, realized they were frozen to my cheeks and beard, and realized I was very fucking lost. This was the wrong mountain, the wrong trail (as in there wasn’t one, which is why the snow was so fucking deep,) and the wrong cabin. I should not be here. 

Nice little cabin though, kind of reminds me of the Unabomber’s. There’s a main floor with a picnic table type dining area, small kitchenette, a kerosene heater, and a large bay window that faces the crest that I climbed over a few days ago. Under that window is the rickety desk I sit at, a desk that houses the vintage Remington that I type at. Above me there’s a loft that houses my gear—sleeping mat, sleeping bag, jackets, backpack, cooking supplies that I don’t need in this cabin, and more food than I thought I would need for this little camping trip. There’s other odds and ends that I won’t waste the time to type out. 

Shit to build a shelter in the wild, I don’t know, watch a fucking youtube video. 

I definitely have enough food to ride out this storm, I packed enough food for a trip twice as long as this one was supposed to be and I raided the cabinets of the kitchenette as soon as I got here and found a massive store of dried beans and loads of other canned stuff. Donations from other alpinists that stayed here over the years, helping hands from across the years. A really fucking tasty can of peaches keeps me company now. 

It tastes like how I imagined Sploosh tasted in that movie Holes. 

Fuck, that is a good movie. 

The storm started a little while after I got into this cabin and has held strong since and has been a full white-out since it reached its full potency. Which was pretty annoying, I planned on getting my dog from his spot in the snow in the morning, but I’ve been shuttered here since, going crazy with boredom. 

I was going to bring a book with me, one I was thinking of reading but I left it, thinking that I would have no spare time on this trip to read and decided that it wasn’t worth the weight in my bag. 

Boy was I wrong. 

It’s this book called The Terror about a polar expedition. I think there’s a TV show about it too but it might be different, I haven’t watched it but it seems like a cool book to read while in the cold like this. Pun intended. 

Wow, I am running out of things to write about. 

I miss my dog. 

I miss my Jed a lot. 

It has been a few hours, ‘morning’ now, or deep in the night, I don’t know but I’m bored and feel well rested so I’m back at this. I don’t even know why I’m at this, maybe in case I die trying to get my dog back. Like I said before I am really running out of things to write about. 

I always thought reading about someone describing their surroundings was boring as fuck but I have nothing better to do and it’ll be good practice for when I write this into a proper book about the tragedy and triumph of me surviving this artic ascent. 

There’s a thermometer outside on the window that reads -40. I always like -40 as a temperature because it’s the same across celsius and fahrenheit. No matter where you are it is FUCKING COLD AS SHIT.

Past that thermometer, there’s the ridge I came down, past that there’s the corpse of a husky that loved the cold and snow. Maybe I’ll leave him and let him rest with what he loves. On the face of the ridge I see a few striations in the rock, darker than the rest of it. Could be a different type of rock, or a coal vein or I don’t know. Looks cool though. Five kind of stalactite shaped patterns in the rock. 

I’m going to bed again. Or I’m just gonna lay in my sleeping bag and play with my dick. I don’t know. 

I don’t know what the fuck happened. Its so fucked up i dont know what to do and i odnt know what the fuck is going on so i figured id type it out so i can keep a record.

I heard a thud after falling asleep and thought there was someone else knocking at the door after seeing my hiking pole outside but it came from the rear wall of the cabin, kind of by the typewriter desk and window. I went to look, shining the cabin’s lantern that I found in one of the cabinets and shone it around. 

On that big window I saw a shape out of the corner of my eye, I turned the light towards it and almost puked. 

Attached to the window, frozen to it with blood was the head of my dog. Veins and neck bone dangling out of the stump. His tongue frozen in an odd position, a bite taken out of it. 

The darkness on the slope is gone. I’m not sure anymore that it was a pattern in the rock. I think it looked too much like a hand reaching over the side of the mountain to be anything but. 

I’m going to pack up and get out of here, even though it’s still snowing. Sure, it’s a death sentence in a storm like this but after seeing Jed torn up like that…I think I’m alright with it. I’ll leave this here in the typewriter so it survives if I don’t. If you find it, let people know that I didn’t do that to my dog. 

The alpinist's writings were found amongst the wreckage of Cabin 802. They were one of the few surviving things in the cabin, amongst the wreckage of the cabin was a body dressed in full alpining gear. 

The body was too mutilated for identification.  

The group that encountered the incident site states that the area looked like somebody dropped a wrecking ball on the cabin. 

The alpinist’s writings, this incident report, as well as on-site photography from witnesses and our own investigation will be turned over to police, search and rescue, and National Park Services for further investigation. 

Alaskan Alpiner’s Club Incident Report 27/09/26 

I wish I were not in this gravel driveway staring at the blue-paneled house, but when our services are requested, it’s up to us, the ones who drive through all hours of the day and night, to close the deal. As I stared at the front door, the deeply stained entry to the house on the wide porch with the wooden swing, I could feel the pain coming on. I reached inside the glove box and retrieved the only thing that could dull it.

Pills, and a flask filled with tequila this time. I had grown burnt out on bourbon and whiskey; it was time to switch it up. I twisted the pill bottle open. Three should do, I thought to myself as I poured the pills into my hand. Who was I to question fate when four of them fell out? A little extra oomph before I put my salesman face on.

I had also found that chewing them up, feeling that nasty, chalky taste spread across my gums and teeth, made them work faster. Or maybe I just told myself that, hoping to psych myself up enough to dull the ache.

Unscrewing the top of the flask, I could smell the tequila as I took a long gulp, washing the crunched-up pills down. “That’s the good stuff right there,” I said to myself.

As I stepped out of the car, I could feel the wind push my hair ever so slightly. They knew I was here, too. I tucked the flask into my suit pocket, walked behind my car, and popped the trunk. A painfully plain briefcase lay inside next to several empty bottles of tequila, which reminded me I needed to actually clean my car. I grabbed the handle, pulled out the case, and slammed the trunk before slowly shuffling toward the small staircase, my feet crunching the gravel lightly with each step.

The dark wooden door with three windows at the top creaked open as a woman in her mid-thirties stepped out. She had deep dark circles under her eyes, distracting from almond-shaped irises with a pretty shade of hazel. “You’re Mr. Relinski, right?”

“That would be me,” I replied. “You requested some of our services. Were you a referral, by chance?”

“No, I found you online.”

Referrals were becoming fewer and fewer these days; instead, somebody would stumble upon our website on some advice forum. Once they went to the link, they filled out a little form with their information, did a brief phone call with one of our reps, and then someone like me was sent out to make the sale.

She continued to stand in the doorway, looking over my drab blue suit and my crumpled tie. Let’s just say I had given up on the whole idea of dressing to impress these days. “Can I come in?” I asked, finally.

She nodded as she left the door cracked and walked back inside. I reached for another drink, prepping myself to close the deal as I followed her in.

Walls of a sky-blue shade were lined with pictures of the woman and a man in all sorts of different locations: beaches, restaurants, even one of them in front of the Eiffel Tower kissing. It was almost too cliché for a cynic like me, but judging by the heaviness in her eyes, those times had long since passed.

“I’m in the living room, Mr. Relinski,” she called out from the doorway at the end of the hallway. I made my way across the light hardwood floor and entered a room to see her sitting on a cream-colored couch in front of a glass table with a mug of hot coffee, steam billowing above the rim.

“So, as you may have read on our website, for any services rendered today, my company and I are not to be held liable,” I said, placing my briefcase on the table. “My company offers many services, such as referrals to lawyers, counseling, and even shell companies to hide your money in case such things should arise.”

She took a long sip of coffee, her fingernails bitten down to the nub against the ceramic, before placing the mug back on the table with a clink. “I am not interested in those services. I am interested in a particular one.”

“I see.”

I popped open the briefcase. It was always the same. I was never called if someone wanted the other services we provided. To be truthful, I wasn’t even sure how those other services worked, because no one ever picked them. They wanted the goddamn mirror.

“So how does it work?” she asked as I pulled out an old bag, the stitches fraying from age and from how long I’d kept it. Too long, I told myself weekly. I pulled out the mirror by its brass handle, which was carved with small words from places I had never been and in languages whose meanings I didn’t actually know.

I looked at the small hand mirror, catching my own reflection, a tired face with red, bloated cheeks from too much drinking and eyes glazed over from too many pain pills.

I handed it over to her, and she grasped the handle. “You just look into it for a moment, think about what you want, but I also want to tell you to think very hard before...”

“What the hell? That hurts!” she screamed at me as the mirror fell onto the glass table. But it didn’t break, crack, or even seem affected by the fall.

It was already too late. The small nails housed inside the handle had pierced her skin. The blood slowly started to work its way across the glass of the mirror, forming a pool in the center of it.

“What is happening?” she asked, a hint of panic now in her voice. Her blood from the nails continued to seep up and collect on the mirror. I pulled out a cigarette, lighting it without permission. She didn’t notice, as her mind was probably spinning, trying to figure out a way to rationalize what was happening.

I took a long drag, waiting for the next part. The mirror went dark, as though it were looking somewhere else that wasn’t the ceiling of the room, and the blood slowly started to drain while her eyes could do nothing more than watch.

“It’s going to want to see you,” I said, sliding the mirror toward her with a small scratch. She looked at me, and I knew what she saw: eyes already dim with a quiet despair, the kind that comes from watching something like this too frequently.

“What do you mean, ‘it,’ Mr. Relinski?” she asked as she grasped the brass handle of the mirror. I made my way to the couch, sitting beside her and grabbing her arm, adjusting it so she was looking right into the mirror.

On the other side was a dark room, dimly lit, almost like a pit. “It will be here any second,” I said as I felt her arms tremble against my hand.

She screamed as she saw its sunken wide eyes with the abyss-black pupils looking back at her, its wrinkly, discolored face splitting into a crooked-toothed grin that would chill the blood of anyone who had never witnessed such a thing.

Before she knew it, it had disappeared. The pit where it stayed slowly faded into something else as she tore her eyes from the mirror and threw it back onto the glass table. Once again, not so much as a crack or scratch on it.

“Tell me what the hell is going on!” she shouted, standing up and crossing her arms, still trying to make sense of what she had just seen.

“You are the one that asked for the service,” I replied. “The rep should have...”

“The person on the phone only said that once it starts I can’t take it back!”

I stubbed out my cigarette on the table and looked at the mirror, at the dim glow where the pit had been, before turning my gaze back to her. “And they would be correct on that,” I muttered.

“Then you should tell me what the hell it is!” she yelled at me, her arms crossed tighter now, her voice more scared than angry.

“I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been carrying that mirror with me for a very long time.”

“Where did you get it?”

“A very long time ago a man came to me offering a job,” I replied. “I was desperate at the time. Actually, everyone was back then. But I was just the unlucky son of a bitch who took him up on the offer.”

“And you just took the damn thing?”

“Yep, I’ve had it since nineteen-thir...” I tried to reply, before a sharp pain hit my ribs, like someone kicking me with a hard worker’s boot over and over again. It was listening. It didn’t like the finer details being spoken in front of clients.

I started to have a coughing fit, blood trickling from my nose. A punishment I had felt before, any time the booze had made my lips too loose for its liking.

Then I heard a man’s voice from the table, and her head snapped toward it. She grabbed the mirror, and I pushed myself up from the couch, gripping my side, and lumbered over to see the man from the pictures staring back at us.

“Debra, is that you?” he screamed.

She shouted into the mirror. “Yes, Stephen, it is me!”

“You can’t communicate with him,” I said. “You can only witness what is about to happen.”

“Then why did he call out my name?”

I started to reach for my flask. The worst part was about to come. “Because the creature looks just like you.”

“You mean it’s going to kill him looking like me?” she cried out.

I nodded, then unscrewed the flask and took a long gulp. “That’s how it works. The hurt lover gets to see all the mess without having to do it themselves.”

She stood frozen holding the mirror, her entire body shaking as she watched the creature get closer to the man. “Debra, what are you doing?” he asked.

The creature wrapped its hands around his face. Hands with a familiar skin tone, the same as the woman standing beside me. They even had the same nails, bitten down to the nub, and an identical wedding band.

“Make it stop! Stop it now,” she wailed. “I don’t want this, I just thought he was cheating on me!”

“I can’t stop it,” I replied, as the thumbs pressed into his eyes, blood erupting from the sockets.

“Debra, please don’t do this. I love you,” he pleaded. But the thing pressing its thumbs through his skull didn’t know the meaning of love. Before too long the man could no longer form words, only painful screams and groans, before finally becoming quiet.

The mirror dropped to the floor, fading to a deep black before revealing the room’s ceiling again. “What happens now?” she asked, her voice flat.

“One day you will look in a mirror, any mirror, and you will see it again,” I replied, picking the mirror up from the floor and walking back to the table to place it in the old frayed bag.

“What will it do?”

“Not a clue, I am never here for it,” I said. “Could just leave a body behind or drag you away.”

She watched as I lumbered slowly over to the briefcase, placing the mirror inside before latching the case closed. “Mr. Relinski, can I ask you one more thing before you go?”

“I can’t help you,” I replied.

My joints started to ache as I straightened up. The thing they don’t tell you about living this long is that yes, I may look like a thirty-eight-year-old on the outside, but my bones and organs feel every bit like someone born in 1894.

“What do I do now?” she sobbed, as I lifted the briefcase.

I didn’t say anything. I only walked away down the same sky-blue hallway, past all the pictures of the couple, and out the door. The sharp daily pains started to rise from my legs as I reached my car, and I pulled the door open and nearly fell inside. I opened the glove box, pulled out the bottle of pain pills, and dumped more in my mouth. I didn’t bother counting this time. I just crunched them up.

How could I answer such a question truthfully? It was the same thing I had been asked hundreds of times since this cursed mirror came into my life, and the answer never changed. You live with it. They all lived with the same aching feeling that I carried with me.

Regret.

When I was a kid, there was nothing I looked forward to more than making short movies with my friends. My friend Mark would do most of the writing and directing, Jeremy would film and edit, I was the prop guy, and Kevin was the best actor, so he’d usually just play the main role. Out of all of my friends, Kevin was probably my closest. Sometimes he’d help me with fixing up props since he restored all sorts of old things to resell and make money in his free time. I was 15 when we made a movie about a police case taking place in the 1910s, can’t recall the name of it though. It was the last movie we’d ever make, and it was my fault. No one knows that, not even my friends; they wouldn’t believe me. But it was my fault. I just need to tell the truth somewhere.

It was always my job to read the script and find what props were needed by myself. For the interrogation scene, I imagined the criminal sitting in an old antique looking chair, and when I couldn’t find anything like it in my house, I went to the thrift store down the street where I got most of my other props. As soon as I bought the chair, I walked it to Mark’s house to drop it off and show him what I got. The chair was composed of thick pieces of dark wood that weren’t too beaten up for how old it seemed to be. There was a leather cushion with a few pieces torn here and there, revealing the cotton stuffing underneath. It had armrests, but the right one appeared to be a replacement, since the wood didn’t have as much detail and was lighter in color. At the time I thought the chair was a good deal. 

Mark told me that he already had a chair for the scene. He walked me to his garage and proudly presented me with a modern-looking kitchen chair. I told him that it wouldn’t make sense to include in our movie since that style of kitchen chair probably wasn’t around in the 1910’s, but he told me it didn’t matter that much and that the kitchen chair fit better. I was pretty mad that I bought the antique chair for nothing, and upset that Mark didn’t care about how real the movie felt. After all, I was the prop guy! I should have been making those decisions! I just stashed the antique chair in the prop room in my basement in hopes that we could use it for another movie.

That night, I woke up to grab a sip of water from downstairs. I was already uncomfortable enough being downstairs by myself in the dark, when I heard a door creaking in the basement. I pressed my ear against the basement door and heard a steady rustling. I darted upstairs and told my dad that someone was in the basement, my heart beating so heavily I could hear it. He quickly got out of bed and carried his gun down there with me following closely behind. 

The first thing I noticed when I got to the bottom of the basement stairs was the chair, facing us, in the middle of the room. The prop room door was wide open. When I told my dad that the chair wasn’t there before, he made sure to check the basement and downstairs thoroughly, and when we found nothing, he said that I probably just didn’t remember leaving the chair there. But when I reminded him of the noise I heard, he paused. Then he said it could’ve just been the pipes. I just agreed and said maybe, but honestly my dad didn’t seem to be fully sure. By now my mom and younger brother were wide awake too, and they seemed mad at me for waking them up.

One day later I was eating breakfast when I noticed that the chair was in the living room facing the TV. I wanted to tell my dad, but I was worried he’d think I just didn’t remember moving it again. By now I was fairly freaked out by the chair and didn’t really want it in my house anymore, even if I was being pranked or misplacing it or something, so I took it back to the thrift store to see if I could get a refund. But when they checked their records, they said that they never had the chair in their store, meaning they couldn’t refund it. I was pretty upset that their system was messed up at the time and convinced someone forgot to document my purchase, but now I’m not so sure that’s the reason behind it not being recognized. 

I complained about it to my mom, but she seemed more focused on doing the dishes than listening to me. She was always doing some sort of work around the house such as cleaning or organizing, almost as if she enjoyed it. She said that it was only $10 I lost, which was barely anything. But my mom just didn’t understand that I wanted it gone because it was creeping me out. Not that I was going to say that outright, though.

That night, I put the chair in the garage, making sure it was still there right before going to bed. I woke up sweating. I don’t know if it was hot or what, but I was sweating. I sat up to cool down, and almost passed out when I saw the chair right at the foot of my bed, facing me. I froze in fear and didn’t want to get up while at the same time wishing desperately that I was somewhere else. It was at this point that I started questioning if I was even being rational. It was just a chair. How stupid to be afraid of a chair! Someone had to be moving it, I thought. I walked down to the basement and put it in the center of the room. I was just going to have to wait for the following night.

The following night came. I waited until everyone was in bed. Then I snuck downstairs into the basement and sat in the chair, right in the center of the room where I put it the previous night. My plan was to wait there until whoever it was, probably my brother, came down to move the chair. I tried to slow my breathing and remind myself that the only threat down there was my mind. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep. 

Feet dragged across the short stiff carpet. Footsteps. I opened my eyes and glanced around the room as if I could see through the dark. It was finally time to find out who was moving the chair.

I waited. Nothing. 

I was sure I heard footsteps! I listened more closely, waiting for whoever it was to step closer. Did they know I was there? I kept my eyes open and paid attention to anything I could hear. 

A vent kicked on. A clock was ticking. The vent turned off. More ticking. 

I was so tired, it was hard to keep my eyes open. But why did I need my eyes open if it was dark? I closed my eyes and listened. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

I focused on the sound of the clock, my anchor for staying awake. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

I thought I felt the hair on the back of my neck tingle. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. A hissing noise. No, a whisper. A drawn out whisper, in my right ear: “Get out of my chair.”

I opened my eyes and ran forward, tripping on something in the dark. I crawled on the ground, feeling for the stairs. There were the stairs. I ran up, opened the door, ran to my room, and sat there. I sat there until the sun rose. I hadn’t even noticed the vibrant purple bruise on my foot until I finally stood up for the day. 

I never told anyone about this. They’d think I’d lost my mind. All I knew is I had to get rid of the chair. And I have no excuse for what happened next. I didn’t want that chair in my yard. I didn’t have time to wait until garbage day. So I gave it to Kevin, knowing he’d want it to fix it up. I should never have been so selfish as to give it to him, but I really didn’t understand how dangerous the chair was. So it still came as a shock to me when Kevin went missing 3 days later. I regret everything. After all these years, he’s still gone. His family put up signs for him all over town, using the most recent photo they had of him. In the photo, he was smiling at the camera, so oblivious to what he was doing, disassembling the antique chair I had given him.

I was being followed.

Walking through the woods for a few hours longer than I had hoped, not quite lost but not quite sure of my exact position either, one idea kept coming back to me.

I was being followed.

The human brain is a wonderful thing. It is always working, always taking information in, whether you realize it or not. Modern life makes most of its functions useless. Many of the primordial tasks that were essential to survival and that made up the majority of our cognitive workload are now totally redundant.

But we have longer memories than we think, and given the right circumstances, and a little pressure, it’ll slip right back into gear. The same gear that was of the utmost importance for millennia.

I was getting the message loud and clear. I was being followed.

Calling it a gut feeling is giving my gut a little too much credit. We all have gut feelings, which way to drive to work to avoid traffic, what to order at a restaurant, what to wear. You might feel a little urge, or a small pull one way or the other. That’s the normal sensation of your gut telling you what to do.

This was not a gut feeling. This was a jumbotron inside my head, with bright red lettering telling me, in no uncertain terms, that I was being followed.

My only problem was I had no idea why.

I entered Warner State Park at just after two in the afternoon, hoping to enjoy a nice walk through some of the trails. It’s an area I had been to many times before, and earlier today as I looked at the large wooden trail map, I decided I should do the full park loop. This clocked in at just around eight miles, which given my usual speed meant I should be done no later than six in the evening. The day was pleasant, and I was looking forward to a relaxing time in the outdoors.

By six thirty I realized I had a problem. The mile markers all lined up, and I should have been about ready to finish the loop, as I had passed the final mile marker over a half hour ago. In just a minute or so I should see that big map board again, and the parking lot behind it. Maybe I took a little too much time enjoying the sights or the air and my pace slackened, or maybe I’m just not in as great shape as I thought I was.

The problem arose when I saw a marker for mile number nine. How could there be a ninth mile on this trail? It was only supposed to be eight. Not even. The original map had to be wrong, I figured, and I assumed that maybe it was just a bit over nine miles with all the curves taken into account. Like how a 5K race is really 3.1 miles. Sure it’s a three mile race, but even at the three mile point you had to go just a little bit farther. Maybe I just had to deal with the decimal place now.

I picked up my pace and fifteen minutes later I saw a marker for mile ten, and it was getting dark.

Stopping for a moment to think, I pulled out a flashlight and a snack from my backpack. I always carried a few essentials with me, band-aids, some painkillers, just in case something bad ever happened. I wasn’t sure what was happening to me yet, but I knew it wasn’t good.

The trail can’t go on forever, and I must have stumbled onto one of the longer trails by accident. The park itself wasn’t too big, so for a worst-case scenario in which I accidentally went on the longest trail in the park, which was a dozen miles, I would only have to keep going for another hour.

The trees made the darkness seem much greater than it really was. The sky was still decently bright, but the trail was dim, and growing dimmer by the minute. Soon I had to turn on my flashlight to see the trail, even though the sky was still a deep purple.

My thoughts changed too. It felt like my vision became a little more focused and my ears a little sharper.

Awareness, that’s a nice way of putting it.

Everyone is aware, at least to a certain extent, but all of a sudden I was aware on a deeper level.

I noticed my head naturally starting to scan the tree line to my sides, following noises I heard in the brush. Occasionally I felt the urge to look behind me, though I don’t know why.

That was the most unnerving thing about it. As far as I could tell everything was the same as it ever was, just a bit darker now. I was walking down a path I did not know, and suddenly I was taking account of everything. Within all that, I kept feeling the need to check behind me.

But for what?

I would be walking, and naturally my eyes would drift to one side or the other, and my flashlight along with it. Looking into the trees and brush, I would see… nothing. Trees, bushes, grass. It was always the same. At the same time I’d hear something, something very quiet. A small rustle of grass or a bush or a tree branch. I’d turn and look in the direction and see… nothing again. Probably just the wind. Or maybe a squirrel. A small animal, or a bird, or the wind. Except I never saw any of them. Or heard them, except for the sounds of things moving through the woods, and that could all just be the wind. It seemed like it was starting to pick up now, and I could feel it on my back.

And every few minutes I’d look behind me.

My mind had gone through a complete shift. I didn’t think anymore about things I did just a few hours ago when I was enjoying my walk. I didn’t think about my friends or family, or the news, or that time this week I accidentally said “you too” to the barista at the coffee shop telling me to enjoy my drink.

The truth is, I wasn’t thinking about anything at all. I was just aware. Aware of everything.

That’s when I got the message.

I was being followed.

If you put a gun to my head I couldn’t give you a single reason, or fact, or shred of evidence for this. At first it felt like a joke. Except within a few moments of thinking about that message, it wasn’t funny at all.

I kept hearing noises from the woods, but that was almost definitely just the wind. I didn’t even really know what the difference between the wind moving grass and something else would make. The wind was at my back and it felt like something was always right there because of it.

Paranoia is a term that seemed to jump out of the ether to me, and it brought me some relief.

I’m just being paranoid, I thought to myself. You’re a little lost and it’s getting a little dark so you’re paranoid. Totally normal reaction. And I felt better. A lot better actually. I kept walking and felt a renewed stride in my pace, and my brain returned to its normal state of being. I thought again about movies and television shows I wanted to watch, or how my favorite hockey team was doing, and about music and my-

Then I heard another rustling in the woods that sounded like it was within six feet of me, and within a split second my brain shut down completely. Thoughts, ideas, all of these things were thrown out the window in the blink of an eye, and suddenly I was alone, lost, and dark in an unfamiliar woods. And I was pretty sure something was following me.

You can’t think yourself out of a wet paper bag, but mindless action is a death sentence. My mind began working in overdrive. I sped up and all of the tiredness I had felt from a long day of hiking went away. It felt like I was walking on a cloud, and to be honest I couldn’t even feel the lower half of my body. Or the top half.

Adrenaline. Must be.

I could only form thoughts in short phrases or single words. Trying to break through the computations with anything more complex than that was impossible. All focus was on my surroundings.

All of a sudden I was moving at a much quicker pace, and taking everything into account as I moved. Every time the wind blew I could hear how it moved all the trees and bushes around me, what the correct level of sound should be made by it given how strong the gust was. My eyes moved around, and with the help of my flashlight, I had an understanding that was far more primitive and sophisticated than I had ever had before.

Then as the trail turned my flashlight lit something large and unnatural and I almost jumped when I saw it.

It was the map board.

For a split second I felt relief wash over me, but then the thought came back.

I am being followed.

I sprinted to my car. Got inside still wearing my backpack. Didn’t bother to buckle the seatbelt, started the engine, shifted into drive immediately and floored it.

About a minute later as I got back onto a paved road I let out a sigh. All of a sudden my normal sensations rushed back to me like taking a dip in a warm bath. I could feel my legs and arms again. I could think again. I put my seatbelt on, got my backpack off, and threw it in the passenger seat. I turned on my radio to the usual sports talk station. I realized how tired I was. I drove home without a hitch.

But every once in a while, I felt the urge to look in my rearview mirror.

Huh.

​

I’ve spent thirty-two years trying to forget that house and that night.

I’ve lived in six different towns, worked a dozen different jobs, and slept rough on less than desirable beds more nights than I’m willing to admit. I’ve changed my phone number four times and have not spoken to my brother in nearly ten years. None of it has put space between me and what happened in that house.

There are many things a man can leave behind. His childhood home, the people he grew up with, the memories he made with those people. I have learned that much.

But I will never be able to leave that night behind.

I was twelve when it happened, when it all started, living with my parents and younger brother Michael on a stretch of farmland a few miles up the road from the nearest village. Ours was an old, quite unremarkable house, built from cracked grey stone and surrounded by fields that seemed to stretch endlessly into the green hills beyond. The nearest neighbour lived far enough away that on a quiet summer’s eve, you could stand outside our back door and hear nothing but the gentle breeze floating sweetly between the branches of the hawthorn tree in the yard.

My parents liked it that way. They loved the tranquillity of it all.

My father was a quiet man, not particularly affectionate but dependable in the ways that mattered. My mother was a far more outgoing and affectionate person. When my father would go out to work the fields on cold winter mornings, my mother would take me and Michael under a thick blanket by the fire and read to us softly.

My mother used to say that the countryside got into a man’s bones. That after enough years of working the same fields, watching the same seasons pass, a man began to believe there was nothing in the world he didn’t understand.

Perhaps she was right.

I know that sometime during the autumn of that year, strange things began happening around the house.

The back door would be left ajar in the morning, though my father swore up and down that he had locked it. Muddy footprints appeared across the kitchen floor and stopped abruptly beneath the table. At night, something moved through the fields, seemingly circling the house without ever coming close enough to be seen.

My father blamed foxes, although I never could understand why a fox would concern him so much. He’d dealt with them all his life.

Then, one evening while sitting down for supper, Michael asked a question that made the whole house fall silent.

“Da, who’s that fella who keeps knocking at the door?”

My father stopped cutting his meat.

My mother looked up from her plate.

“What man, son?” she asked.

“The one outside. He comes at dark most nights.”

Michael was eight. He had a habit of inventing things. I think it was his way of keeping himself entertained in the isolation of the farm. Usually, my father would dismiss him with a grunt and tell him to stop talking nonsense.

This time, he set his knife down.

“Has he ever spoke to you?”

My brother nodded. He didn’t seem worried or afraid.

“What does he say to you, Michael?” my mother chimed in.

“He asks me to open the back door.”

My father stared at him for a long moment. Then he stood, crossed the kitchen, and checked the lock on the back door.

He checked it twice.

That very same night, I heard the knocking.

I woke to the sound of shallow knocks at the back door.

Three slow, deliberate knocks against the hard oak door.

I lay frozen under my blankets, listening to the wind press against my window, the shadows of the hawthorn’s branches in the yard casting eerie silhouettes in the moonlight. I could hear my parents stirring downstairs. A chair scraped across the kitchen floor. A cupboard opened and closed.

Then came a quiet voice.

It was a man’s voice, low and patient.

“Let me in.”

I listened with fear pumping all the way through my body.

I eventually mustered all the courage I had. I crept from my bed and opened the bedroom door. The hallway was dark, but a thin line of light showed beneath the kitchen door.

The knocking came again.

Three slow knocks.

The whole house was silent now.

I heard my mother whisper something, too softly to understand. My father’s footsteps crossed the kitchen. The lock turned.

I should have stayed where I was. I should have woken my brother and hidden beneath the blankets. Instead, I crept down the stairs and looked through the gap in the kitchen door.

My father stood with one hand on the latch.

My mother was behind him, pale and trembling.

“Don’t,” she whispered shakily.

He turned towards her.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then something knocked again.

Not on the door this time.

From inside the house.

Three slow, deliberate knocks came from the pantry.

My father looked towards it. My mother covered her mouth to keep from screaming. I did the same.

My brother’s door opened upstairs behind me.

I spun around, expecting to see my brother at the top of the stairs.

There was no one there.

From the pantry came a soft scraping sound, as though someone were dragging fingernails down the wood.

Then a voice whispered my name. It sounded like it was right in my ear.

“Shaun...”

I ran.

I scurried up the stairs without looking behind me. I dived into my bed, burying myself beneath the blankets. I listened as the house filled with footsteps. They moved from room to room, sometimes heavy and deliberate, sometimes light enough to sound like a child running.

My brother began to cry. I could hear him in his own bedroom across from mine. My mother shouted once. My father shouted back.

Then everything went quiet.

I do not remember falling asleep.

I remember waking as the first light of dawn was coming up over the hawthorn tree. There was a silence so complete it seemed like the whole world had vanished.

When I went to check on my brother, he was already gone from his bed.

I found him standing at the top of the stairs, staring down into the kitchen.

My father was there, kneeling beside my mother.

Then my father looked up.

There was blood on his hands.

My mother lay motionless on the floor, her eyes open and fixed on nothing. Beside her was the kitchen knife from the table.

My father had killed her.

The thing that still haunts me now, as I write this, is what my father said when he spotted us.

He smiled, lifted one bloodstained finger to his lips, and whispered.

“Don’t let it know you saw.”

The best way I can describe this room is bleak.

Featureless concrete walls, a dirty tile floor, and a small circular table.

Fluorescent lighting overhead.

Feels like I’m in the backrooms. What I wouldn’t give to be there right now.

Instead, I’m in the interrogation room at the county jail. Likely about to join the list of people who’ve come in here knowing their lives outside the bars and the barbed wire have come to an end.

I’ve lost most everything over the last few months. No one vouching for me outside now.

But the police said I might be able to get off easier if I write everything down, so here goes.

____________

My mom liked her coffee black.

Nothing else in it. Just add the paper filter, throw in the grinds, pour in the water, and voila.

Hot, black coffee.

My mom was rigid like that. Grew up an army brat. Strict rules and routines. She didn’t join the military herself, but she did inherit the very black-and-white views of her parents.

Nothing was grey with her. It was either you did, or you didn’t. It was right, or it was wrong.

Don’t get me wrong. She was a great mom.

Never missed a single game, school event, or a day without a note tucked into my lunchbox.

Then came the milestones.

I went to college, got a job, and moved in with and got engaged to my high school sweetheart.

In my mom’s eyes, that was all right.

Then I got into sports betting.

____________

It started when I turned a grand into 75 on my buddy’s bachelor trip at a casino in Vegas. Had me convinced I’d found some sort of cheat code to give Krista the dream wedding she’d always wanted.

Instead, it turned our lives into a nightmare.

Betting apps turned into me connecting with this guy Rick, who was a bookie in his spare time.

Things spiraled from there, until I accidentally used my work card to try and drop a parlay on a work trip and was unceremoniously shown the door by my boss, who had been watching the entire time.

Then, I arrived home to find out I had been shown the door by Krista as well,

Two suitcases and a garbage bag of my stuff, placed outside our apartment door.

____________

My parents had differing views on me moving back home to rebuild. My dad was all for it, just as long as I helped out around the house.

My mom…less so.

She accepted it. But by no means was she pleased about it. And she made it abundantly clear.

I don’t know if it was tough love or some weird attempt at trying to motivate me, but it had the complete opposite effect.

I remember going to a Kentucky Derby party, maybe a few months after I moved back home.

They were doing one of those Derby hat draws, where you pay $5 to take the name of a horse out of a hat and whoever’s horse wins gets all the money.

Super low stakes. Could hardly even be considered gambling.

And yet my mom felt the need to pipe up in the middle of a crowded room with probably 30 people in it.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Eddie. You’ve already lost your job and your fiancé. What’s next?”

Total silence. Someone coughed. The sliding back door was open while my neighbor grilled, and it was one of those unseasonably cold and rainy late spring days, so the room was actually a little chilly.

But my face burned with humiliation. And I didn’t want to call her out right then and there.

So I just smiled, and laughed it off, like it had been a little jab and not the worst moment of the year for me.

Which was saying something.

____________

This whole thing got started late one night. I had just gotten home from my job at the time - waiting tables at a local sports bar.

I’d walked in around midnight and been greeted by the smell of freshly brewed coffee, a sign that my mom was up.

You see, my mom had insomnia. It wasn’t uncommon for her to wake up in the middle of the night, make a pot of coffee, and just…stay up, puttering around the house and doing this or that. More than once, I’d woken up to find the house had been deep cleaned overnight.

On this particular night, I entered the house and walked into the kitchen to find her sitting at the table, poring over some papers with a fresh cup next to her.

She’d read a page, then sip. Read a page, then sip.

It went on like clockwork for probably 10 pages before she looked up, gasped, and shrank back.

“Eddie! … you scared me.” She took a deep breath, hand on her chest. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Uhh… maybe 10 minutes? I just got home from work.”

“….oh. You had work tonight?”

…

“…yeah. What’re you looking at there?”

“Oh, nothing. Just some insurance papers. In case I die.”

“Oh - how much?”

The look she gave me told me exactly what she was thinking, and it took considerable effort not to roll my eyes in response.

“That’s something you’ll find out down the road.” she said, with a wink. “This isn’t for you to use on your betting.”

I nodded, clenching my teeth to avoid saying something I’d regret. Something along the lines of telling her to go fuck herself.

Instead, I simply sighed. Feigned sudden exhaustion and said I was going to bed.

But I decided to take the “long” way upstairs, walking right past my mom at the table.

As I passed her, I turned my head just enough to glance at the papers in front of her. She had returned to her reading and was so engrossed she didn’t even notice.

There was a dollar value printed. Three digits, then a comma, followed by three zeroes.

Maybe it was the jab she had made towards me a second before, and everything preceding that. All the guilt trips.

But dammit if I didn’t see that number that I knew was at least six figures, and think to myself.

This would solve all my problems. Instantly.

____________

I waited three weeks before doing it.

Two to make sure this was something I wanted to go through with, then a week to actually plan it out.

Obviously, I’m here now. I’ve confessed. So I’m not going to bore you with the details of it.

A magician never reveals his secrets, you know?

All I’ll say is, it involved something in her coffee. That’s it.

____________

I lay awake for hours, waiting for her to go downstairs.

Then, after she did, I waited even longer, unsure as to whether I would need to go down myself and put on the performance of a lifetime.

The creak of my parents’ door answered my question. I heard the heavy footsteps as my dad walked down the stairs.

And I knew it worked minutes later when I heard the sound of my father’s agonized screaming.

____________

He had gotten up to use the bathroom. Smelled coffee downstairs and decided to see what she was up to.

Found her slumped on the couch in the family room, the cup next to her.  

I never found out what the toxicology reports said. Didn’t matter much to me.

She was dead. No suspicion of foul play. That was enough for me.

But standing there, trying to comfort him as he wept over her, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel something.

____________

I cried about it for the first time the day of the funeral, but not for the reasons you might think.

The funeral, through some cruel stroke of luck, took place on what was supposed to be my wedding day.

My dad and I were standing there, next to the open casket, when she walked in.

There was something about seeing her walking toward me - in a simple black dress and a cardigan instead of a beautiful white gown, with her hair in a half ponytail instead of flowing underneath a veil, and with a somber expression of sympathy on her face instead of a radiant smile - that finally brought forth tears that I didn’t have to force as she took me into her arms.

“Eddie…I’m so sorry.”

Her voice cracked a little at the end, and I could feel a hint of dampness on my shoulder as she shed a tear of her own.

“It’s…it’s okay. It was just really, really sudden.”

She pulled back, wiping her face with her hand before lightly placing a hand on my arm.

The look on her face was so tender, so…kind, that it made me wonder briefly if there was still something there between us.

Or if she was also thinking about what should have been happening that day.

“Have you been…doing okay?”

Whether she meant my mom, my recovery (if you could even call it that), or both, I wasn’t sure. I forced a rather weak nod.

“Yeah…I guess. Kind of just…hanging in there, you know?”

She smiled, and I felt a new wave of regret washing forward. Over us, and how I’d ruined it.

“I’m…going to find a place to sit. Please don’t hesitate to come talk if you need anything…okay?”

“Right.”

She smiled. Walked away.

I realized I felt rather numb.

____________

The service went…fine, as far as funerals tended to go. My dad had to ask multiple people to repeat themselves due to his hearing issues, but that was about it.

Everyone went to a local Italian place after, one of my mom’s favorites. My dad had catered a small buffet.

Krista and I made eye contact, several times. She would smile. I would smile back, and then kick myself on the inside for being unable to just go up and talk to her.

About what, I don’t know. I obviously couldn’t go up and be like “hey, so I actually murdered my mom. Please don’t tell anyone. Okay? Thanks!”

I mostly sat with my dad and kept him company. Could tell he was still as absolutely wrecked as he was the moment he had found her on the couch. I think his eyes had been perpetually red and swollen since that moment a week ago.

I still couldn’t bring myself to feel bad about what I had done to her. But seeing how my actions had affected him?

That shit damn near tore me open.

____________

Krista stayed after for a bit to help clean up. She had always been fit, but she lost her cardigan at some point due to the exertion of folding tables and whatnot, and I could see she had been working out since the breakup.

Her dress, in the absence of the sweater, had revealed itself to be sleeveless, and her arms to be, well… very toned.

I hadn’t let myself go by any means, but she was clearly working on herself in a way that I was not.

It didn’t do me much good in the events that followed.

____________

I was holding a large tray of lasagna, trying to open my trunk, when there was a voice behind me.

“Hey! You Eddie?”

A man was leaning against the hood of a beat-up black sedan across from me. He wore jeans, a wife beater, and boots.

He clearly hadn’t been at either the funeral or the reception. Lord knows how long he had been sitting in that car, waiting for me to come out.

It wasn’t until later that I began to wonder just how he’d known I would be there.

“Yeah. You?”

“Doesn’t matter who I am. You got Rick’s money?”

Fuck.

“Hey, man. Now’s not really a great time. I just buried my mom."

“Sorry to hear that. Doesn’t matter, though. Rick wants his money.”

“I hear you. Just… tell him I’ll get it to him in a few days. I have some cash coming in. Just need to get a-“

Crunch.

Blinding pain coursed through my skull as the thick, meaty fist connected with the side of my face.

My ass hit the ground, and the tray did a somersault then landed facedown on my chest, lasagna flying everywhere.

I squinted up at him through a half-closed, swollen eye as blood poured out of my nose and mouth, the taste of copper assaulting my taste buds.

“What the fuck, man?”

He looked down at me unsympathetically. I couldn’t see his eyes through his tinted sunglasses, but I assumed his expression was rather vacant.

“Rick wants his money. Consider that-"

Click-clack. The sound of heels on pavement.

Shit.

We both looked over as Krista stopped, then almost dropped her bag, clearly in shock at what she was witnessing.

And then we made eye contact.

And it was immediately clear from the hurt evident on her face, and the hot, angry tears that she had to blink back, what she was thinking.

That I was not, in fact, better.

And that I was back to all the old habits that had gotten me in trouble and driven us apart in the first place.

Wife Beater looked at her and waved her off like she was nothing more than a curious puppy.

“Get lost. Scram. You didn’t see anything.”

She looked at him. Looked at me, as the first of probably many tears cracked out and ran down her face.

Turned, and ran before I could say anything myself.

I sensed that that was the last I’d be seeing or hearing of her.

Three months after she’d left, and on the day we should have been exchanging vows before 120 people, we were almost certainly done this time.

For good.

____________

My dad came out a few minutes later to me still sitting on the ground.

I told him I’d tripped over a shoelace I hadn’t been able to see was undone due to the large to-go box.

I knew he knew I was full of shit, but he didn’t say anything.

He took me to the ER, where I was released after about an hour with nothing worse than a bruised tailbone and a nasty shiner.

Oh, and some lost dignity. Not to mention a broken heart.

____________

I was lying in bed late that night.

My dad had gone to bed almost immediately after getting home. I’d showered, then grabbed an old baseball bat out of storage and stashed it in the corner.

Just in case.

I had a baseball game on. Had been enjoying something resembling a mild high due to the painkillers.

I was beginning to drift off, when I heard a noise from downstairs.

The slow, steady drip-drip-drip as fresh coffee began to drip into the pot.

I smiled as sleep began to overtake me.

My mom, making some coffee late at night, as she did many late nights.

Something I had fallen asleep to my entire life.

And then I remembered my mother was dead.

I thought I was built for distance. That suffering was just a mental block, and pushing myself mile after mile was proof of an unbreakable will. Walking through that forest I didn't feel so unbreakable anymore.

My calves were whipped into bleeding stripes by the thorny vines in the underbrush. My shirt stuck to me with sweat, pus, and blood. As much as I tried, I just couldn't stop scratching that rash.

We didn't exactly mark where that church was, but somehow I knew. 

When I got to it, I couldn't stop myself. I screamed and sobbed. I kicked over fallen tree branches and stomped on flowers. My body was a whirlwind, spinning and spinning until I was out of breath.

At some point, I must have found a rock. When I noticed its jagged edges cutting into my hand, I hurled it as hard as I could at that shitty lopsided cross.

I must have hit it harder than I thought because the cross fell into the dust in front of that open church door. I sat down on a broken stump and put my head in my hands to cry. 

It felt like I could finally let it all out without anyone around. It was a relief so strong I felt it in my skin. The itching was gone. So was that feeling of something scratching at the inside of my skull. For the first time in weeks, nothing hurt.

I sat there until I caught my breath, then a little bit longer. I'll be honest, I was scared to move from where I was sitting. I had come all this way and, just like the first time, I was almost too scared to go in. Almost.

I wiped the sweat and tears from my face and made myself stand. I walked toward that rundown church, squinting into the dark.

I climbed the rotting steps and hurried through the doorway.

It was a church. A real church. Not some shitty rundown church, but a ready-for-Sunday church.

Inside, light filtered in rainbows through unbroken stained glass. The carpets weren't covered in mud and muck. Every pew was shiny and wooden, and occupied.

I saw the glasses first. A pair of broken glasses on the right, three pews from the front. Next to them a deflated football. On the other side a steak knife. Next to it crushed flowers laid over a broken piece of stone.

As I looked forward towards the front, I could see more random junk. There was no pattern to any of it. Playing cards, car keys, an ice pick, a locket. A shovel and an axe sitting where people should have been. 
At the very front, lying on top of the pulpit, were two things that I instantly recognized. The stupid green and orange running shoes Jeff always wore.

And the blue cast from my arm. The one with Sam’s name written across it. 

I remember falling to my knees then. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see what was there. Praying that when I opened them, I would just be in some church in the woods. 

The gnawing inside me was back. I balled my fist and punched the floor. When I looked up, nothing had changed.

They were still there. I could see the mud on Jeff’s shoes from running. I could see all the things on my cast. The dick Arch drew. The hearts Mom put on it. Anthony’s name. Sam’s.

I moved to grab it. I felt like I needed to hold that last piece of my normal life, of me. As I reached for it, I touched Jeff’s shoes.

Suddenly, I was out of breath. My legs were burning. Runner’s high setting in. I was smiling. There was laughter in my chest and coming from in front of me. I was running and pouring on speed, feeling so close to my goal.

Then I was in a clearing. It was warm and there was laughter. I recognized voices. Arch’s, Anthony’s, Sam’s. My own. I tried to laugh but couldn’t.

“If you wanna go so bad, do it. You want to run with us anyway, prove it.” I could hear a cruelty in my voice I didn’t know I had. My heart sank. I walked beneath the dangling cross, wishing I could turn around. Then nothing.

I faded back to myself. Jeff’s green and orange shoes sitting on the ground coming into focus. They must have tumbled out of my hands. I felt sick.

A headache tore through me harder than I could have ever imagined. I tried to hold steady but found myself falling to my knees. I put my hands out to catch myself. All I could think about was Jeff. Before my hands hit his shoes. 

I closed my eyes and found myself in warmth. Arms wrapped around me. Muffled voices saying they loved me. That feeling carried me as my chest swelled with pride and I felt a familiar burn in my legs. I was running faster than before.

Then I was back in pain. The burning itch inside me screaming as water scalded the raw flesh I couldn't stop scratching. 

I was crying with steam rising around me. I tried to get away from the pain. When I finally got relief, people were staring at me, laughing at me. My cheeks burned and I tried to shrink into myself to hide. I tried to speak up, but everyone turned their backs to me.

Anger curled inside me. Warm and comforting. Then there was screaming. Something was breaking in my hands. I looked down to see bones jutting out of skin at unnatural angles. An arm turned the wrong way towards me.

All around I could hear whispers. “Freak.” “Monster.” “Loser.”

I was alone in crushing blackness. The whispers repeating over and over. I felt someone shove me. Hot anger. A hammer in my hand.

Fear choked me until I was back in the church. Jeff's shoes flew from my hands and slammed into the wall across from me. I heard myself screaming before I ever realized I was.

I didn't want to touch Jeff's shoes. I didn't want to touch anything in that church, or even be there at all. I wanted to go back to the life I had before I ever found this damned place.

Tears ran with snot as hitching sobs broke out of me. I put my head down against the ground and stayed there for a while. Bowing before that altar.

I stayed there until the tears stopped and I felt lightheaded. Time moved somewhere far away from me. When I lifted my head, there were only Jeff's shoes sitting in a crumpled heap on the floor.

I kept my focus on them as I sat up. I knew what sat on the pulpit next to me. I could feel it calling out to me. 

I couldn't even look at that blue cast.

When the feelings of nothingness started to fade, they were replaced by anger. It grew in me like a wildfire. That painful rash grew with it as I tore gouges out of my chest and neck from my scratching. 

My foot crashed into the front pew. An assortment of junk flew off of it. I went to kick another and my foot crashed through a vase. Glass and broken flowers flew around. 

Each petal that touched me left scars on my heart. I felt safe in a man's arms. I felt warmth. I felt jealous. Rage. Blood on my hands. I screamed.

I turned and threw a baseball that had fallen on the floor through the stained glass window behind the altar. When it left my hand, so did the feeling of pride. That warm sensation of a father's hand on my shoulder. 

The glass shattered and grounded me. I stood panting and bleeding, staring at the sunray that came in through the hole and landed on that fucking cast. My heart sank as I stepped towards it.

The tears started before I even reached my hands out. As I touched it, I felt safe.

I was at Sam's house. I recognized Sam's house. I didn't recognize the woman who was holding me, but I recognized she was singing Sam's favorite song softly. 

Then my heart slammed in my chest. The sound of breathing next to me. I recognized Arch’s room, the outline of my face. I watched my lips as I lay there breathing. I watched my hand, Sam's hand, reach out towards my sleeping form, only to draw back. I felt like crying.

In the church, my breathing slowed. Itching a vague memory as that warm summer night came back to me as a memory. I remember the pizza. I remember I was wearing borrowed pants because I got jump scared so hard I peed myself. 

I closed my eyes, and that burn I'd known forever was back. I was running. A fear I vaguely recognized was burning up my chest. Sam's voice screamed from my lips, “Austin broke his arm!” 

My memory blurred with what I saw next. I remember Sam signing my cast, laughing about how big he wrote it, about how he shoved Anthony out of the way to be first. Then I felt it, the pen in my hand, the hammering of my chest. A warmth when I finished. Joy.

I put the cast back on the altar then. Finally realizing what was happening to me. This church was showing me pieces of the lives it had destroyed. 

I swallowed hard, wondering how much of Sam's life was mine to learn about. To feel. To try and understand. My fingers touched the cast, and I wasn't in the church.

I was in a dark hallway. There was someone screaming and throwing things. I turned the corner into a kitchen, the light revealing Sam's dad. Pain shot up my leg as I stepped on a broken beer bottle. The noise made Mr. Villa turn.

I put Sam's hands up to protect myself. A Polaroid of the humming woman was in my left hand. Then it wasn't. It was being ripped up by Sam's dad. Then he was hitting me. Sam was crying, and I was too.

I knew Sam was strong. He had always been the one who kept us all together when fights broke out. He bridged the gap whenever any of us refused to talk to each other. To know he did all that while living in that hell. I couldn't imagine it. 

Light faded into my vision and I found myself outside the church. Panting, my hands on my knees, and there they were. Arch and Anthony standing just to my left with their hands on their heads. 

I went to call out to them, to tell them how happy I was that everything went back to normal, to see them again. That's when I broke through the thicket, Jeff right behind me, and my heart dropped. I was back in Sam.

I watched the same scene play out. Arch's joke about Kathy McGuire. I wrestled with Anthony to bring down Arch. Jeff leaving our group to go into the church. Then I was alone with myself, as Sam. I felt that warmth. I told Sam's version of me that I was worried about Jeff. 

“I probably shouldn't have made him go in like that.” I heard the words but hadn't even remembered saying them. “It's whatever though, his fault for trying to be with us.”

I was shocked. I was disappointed in myself. I was sad. Or maybe Sam was? Maybe it was both of us again. 

Then Jeff was back. He was normal. And I felt what we all felt, relief.

I blinked and I was alone with Jeff. We were sitting waiting for the bus. I didn't know Sam and Jeff rode the same bus, but here they were, we were. 

Jeff was telling me about how much better he'd felt. How catching up to us was changing his life. How he'd even started another growth spurt. How he'd been stretching so much his sides are itched from stretch marks.

I felt disgusted. “I” felt disgusted because when Jeff showed us his side, I recognized that rash. My own starting to flare up inside the church, outside these memories. I turned away.

The next feeling that bubbled up in me was fear. It rushed over me like water as I realized what I was seeing. The locker room.

Sam reacted as soon as Jeff pushed Arch. His body was moving. Our hands were on Jeff, pulling him back. I tasted blood as Jeff pushed me away and my teeth bit into my tongue. My heart was so loud as I saw Jeff with the hammer.

I was holding him, begging him to stop. Feeling terrified, relieved, and ashamed. I was sure my thoughts must have been my own again until all I could think was “at least it's not Austin.”

I dropped the cast again before I heard the impact of the hammer. I didn't need a memory to replay what I can hear every time I close my eyes.

My hands shook, and for a moment I could still feel Jeff's body heat against my chest, his body spray in my nose. I couldn't break away from everything Sam experienced, from his feelings. 

I felt ashamed. Maybe it started from Sam's memory, but deep down I knew it was because, while everything was happening, Sam was worried about me. I was only ever worried about me.

I stared down at my hands, wondering when I had started crying again. Wondering how many times Sam had cried. How many times I should have asked him if he was really okay. 

I knew what was next in Sam's memories. I didn't want to, but I needed to see it. Maybe for him, maybe for me. I needed to see the last time I was actually there for him. 

I went back to the cast. Back inside Sam, inside my bedroom, inside my own arms. I was crying. Sam was crying. There was so much warmth there. For just a second, Sam felt so safe with my arms around him, like everything could be okay. 

But then I was the only one crying. Sam's tears stopped, and he hesitated before slowly shaking his head. Bittersweet sadness mingled with the love I had felt. I wondered why Sam felt like he was pulling away from me. I wondered why I didn't notice. I wondered if my hug wasn't enough.

Then I heard it in Sam's voice, and I believed it, like I had the first time I heard it. “I'll see you soon, Austin.”

I set the cast down then. No need to know what happened next. No tears. Nothing. 

I sat on those altar steps, my back leaning against that pulpit, looking out at the pews full of memories. Of lifetimes that no one could possibly know. 

I watched the sun begin to set through the stained glass windows before I stood up. I took my time setting the pews back up. I used my shirt to pick up every item that had fallen. I swept up the broken glass with my hands.

I placed Jeff's shoes on the front row, offering an apology when I set them down.

I placed the cast back on top of the pulpit so the moonlight shone on it like a spotlight. 

Just before I crossed the doorway to the outside, I turned around. I saw nothing but a rundown old church. I walked home.

The burning and itching inside me started fading into the night air.

link to part 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/s/BzqpgBHijM

link to part 2: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/s/nrGuOdRxba

hey guys. I've been driving for about an hour now and still am. Some of you pointed out something which I have replied to but will also sort out now.

old-dragonfruit2219. I think that’s your user. a bit confused on where you are getting hex dug structure bit now on feast from as I don’t see anything that could've pointed you to that. if you could explain I would be grateful.

auraoftiger, I think that the binary could be to the rot, or maybe the obelisk drawing thing? the rot consumes houses, cars and things, and if we are to believe the drawing, we could assume that the obelisk is the big bad of all this, maybe the original light.

candigirl16 I have checked and yes, 1000km isn’t valid. I’m more-less at Shetland isles. so will need a boat soon. I’m around 600 miles away, not 1000km.

alright. Now let’s just go over some things and I can recount.

a new signal on the radio. same voice. this time in what I think is latin.

Prope sunt nolite eos introducere. nolite eos introducere, nolite eos introducere. nolite.

sorry for all this, but things like google arent accessible. I just arrived at the cabin and I’m going to go there now.

alright. Found a Generator. it has some fuel in it. I’ll get it running and hopefully i can light the place up.

right. I’ve just settled in for the night but I can’t sleep. I’m studying the picture and I’ve noticed that there are words in the circles. really small. well, more accurately letters. one on each side. in the three circles. on the left side one, it is l e p a. on the middle circle, it is u o r y. on the right side one, it is i e f l. some code? plea your life? maybe some language? I don’t know, but I guess I don’t know much about anything anymore.

can you believe this started in two days? Me neither. Insane. Anyway, I’ll look around the cabin for a weapon or anything better than a baseball bat, and possibly a map.

found an axe. nice. and a map. I’m in the Shetland isles. the weather is nice. and as long as I keep the generator going, I can live here. try to establish communication. see if there’s anyone else. could. or keep going. we’ll see. I’ll stay here a bit longer until i have decided proper.

alright: I just went to a lake. fishing equipment was nearby. I’m guessing whomever owned the cabin also owned the lake. it’s sizeable. there is a medium-sized boat nearby. good for fishing. some bait. a fishing rod and bucket. I think I’ll go fishing soon.

i just went swimming in the lake. imagined there were people nearby, or here with me. I think I’m going crazy. better than dealing with those things again.

i‘m just listening to the radio in the cabin. There’s a new voice. human, I think. Sounds scared. Still just numbers: 01100100 01101111 00100000 01101110 01101111 01110100 00100000 01101000 01101001 01100100 01100101 00101100 00100000 01100010 01110010 01100001 01101110 01100100 01101111 01101110 00101110 00100000 01100100 01101111 00100000 01101110 01101111 01110100 00100000 01100010 01100101 00100000 01110011 01100011 01100001 01110010 01100101 01100100 00101110 00100000 01100100 01101111 00100000 01101110 01101111 01110100 00100000 01100010 01100101 00100000 01100001 01100110 01110010 01100001 01101001 01100100 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01110101 01110011 00101110 00100000 01100100 01101111 00100000 01101110 01101111 01110100 00101110 00100000 01100100 01101111 00100000 01101110 01101111 01110100 00101110 00100000 01100100 01101111 00100000 01101110 01101111 01110100 00101110 00100000 01100100 01101111 00100000 01101110 01101111 01110100 00101110 00100000 01100100 01101111 00101110

Maybe I’m imagining the voice this time. Maybe it’s still the fucking mechanical one, and I’m just coping. fucking coping.

they're scoping the cabin. bitches. I’m gonna go deal with them tomorrow.

trying to sleep. couldn’t so I decided to write a bit more. HEART radio is still up. that one with Amanda Holden. I think. she isn’t there anymore. just the music. I think it’s dream sweet in C major. don’t know why they’d put that on. i fucking can’t dream sweet.

alright. I’m gonna go and kill those things later today. or see if I can. fuck. maybe we’re all dead? all of us? and those things are what happened then. maybe I’ll see them all again.

see us.

see us.

see us.

see us.

fuck. I’m back. they can’t die. the fuckers can’t even be hurt. what am I meant to fucking do?

just went fishing. sturdy boat. I’m not built for this. Fuck, I’m built for engineering not post-apocalypse. i should be home right now. I should’ve been kissing my wife and having dinner with her. Should’ve been discussing renovations or intimacy or some fucking thing. Not this. Not this.

6f7572206d696e64732061726520696e2073796e632e206f7574207769746820746865207061696e2e206769766520696e20616e6420796f75206d6179206265207361666520616761696e2e20667261676d656e7473206f66207361666574792c206f66206c6966652c20616e64206c6f76652e206a6f696e2075732c20616e6420796f75206d61792062652070757265206173206120646f76652e

alright. I’m gonna hit the hay for now. maybe I can dream sweet. I can’t be bothered to remove whatever that weird text is. I think it’s a code but I’m not gonna fucking translate it.

I inherited my grandfather's house in upstate New York last autumn. It is a beautiful, isolated property surrounded by dense pine forests. Along with the house came all of his old furniture, including a massive, ancient grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the living room. It was made of dark oak, and the pendulum swung with a deep, echoing tick that could be heard throughout the entire house.

My grandfather was a quiet, meticulous man, but he was incredibly superstitious about this clock. In his will, he left me the house under one strict condition: "Keep the clock wound, and never, under any circumstances, open the back panel."

For the first few weeks, I respected his wishes. The ticking was soothing, a rhythmic reminder of his presence. But as the winter nights grew longer and colder, the house felt increasingly silent, save for that clock. One evening, around 2 AM, the clock abruptly stopped ticking. The silence in the room was sudden and heavy, almost suffocating.

I grabbed the winding key, opened the glass door, and wound the mechanism. Nothing happened. The pendulum remained still. I gave it a gentle push, but it swung a few times and stopped again. Frustrated, I remembered the back panel. I knew his rule, but I figured it was just an old mechanic's quirk. I shined my phone flashlight behind the clock.

The back panel was secured by a small brass latch, covered in dust. I hesitated, my grandfather's warning echoing in my mind. But curiosity won. I flicked the latch and pulled the wooden panel open.

Inside, there were no gears. No brass wheels, no springs, no clockwork mechanisms.

There was only a hollow space, lined with rotting black velvet. Resting inside the hollow was a human skull, wrapped in silver wire, with two polished pieces of obsidian placed in the eye sockets. Written in dried, dark ink along the jawbone were symbols I couldn't comprehend.

I stumbled back, dropping my phone. As the light hit the floor, the clock suddenly shivered. The pendulum began to swing on its own. *Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.*

But the sound was different now. It wasn't the metallic click of oak and brass. It sounded like a wet, heavy heartbeat.

Terrified, I slammed the back panel shut, locked the latch, and pushed the clock back against the wall. I barely slept that night. Every tick felt like it was echoing inside my chest, matching the rhythm of my own heart.

The next morning, I decided I was going to get rid of the clock. I called a local antique dealer, but when he arrived and inspected it, he looked confused. "Son," he said, "this clock doesn't have a back panel. It's solid oak. Look."

He shined his light behind it. The back of the clock was a single, seamless sheet of wood. There was no latch, no seam, no panel.

Since that day, the clock has not stopped. But the heartbeat is getting louder. And last night, when the clock struck midnight, I didn't hear the usual chime. I heard a raspy, gasping breath come from inside the wood, whispering my name. I am sitting in my living room right now, staring at the solid wood back of the clock. I can hear the heartbeat. And I think whatever was locked inside that panel is clawing its way out from the inside.

I'm a Disney fanatic; if you were to ask me something, I'd know it. But sometimes you don't know EVERYTHING Disney does..

I've gone to a few places before to research as much as possible on Disney's secrets. But I couldn't find everything; they're too good at hiding it. One specific forum was the Urban Disney forum; it showcased hidden things and places that people didn't know Disney had. I was a big fan of the forum and its community; obviously, it gave me information on things I wanted to know. But recently, there was this one post in particular that was weirdly unsettling; it showed an image of an old Mickey Mural, black-and-white style, in an abandoned mall with the only words being "Find it." There were only a few upvotes on the post itself, and only one comment saying, "I am NOT going to an abandoned mall." But I dared to find it myself, so I commented "I'll try to find it."

I tracked down the location of the mall through coordinate metadata, and I had my gear on just in case there was a frogger. When I got to the mall itself, it was purely abandoned: no people, no lights, just darkness, the falling-apart mall, and the mural.

The inside of the mall had a strong odor, as if someone had died there. I just believed it was the old food. I could hear the broken wires, bugs, the electricity, and the wind. It was very windy; the trees were swaying back and forth at high speeds. It was cold and midnight, so OF COURSE no one would go here and help me if things went wrong. I went deep into the mall, and behind the escalators, there sat the mural I was looking for.

I flashed the beam of the light to look at the mural carefully; it was 1930s rubber hose-style Mickey. It made sense. The mall seemed to have been abandoned for years, but the mural was still in such good shape.

I took a step closer to touch the paint; it was off; it had a weird texture. It was getting a bit eerie. I was about to document what I found with a picture before I heard something: a heavy, wet splat of ink hitting the ground. I walked away from the painting to see what it was.

When I flashed my beam at the splash of ink, it melted into the floor. I was concerned: where did the ink come from, and why was it acting like that? I went back to the mural to check it. But it had moved slightly to the left. I didn't notice it at first, but I would later on.

I didn't think it moved, so I went to look for more of that ink stuff. After minutes of searching, I eventually came back to the mural once more, except it was at the top of the escalators now. And the whole mall smelled of ink; the air got thicker. The wind blew faster; I was extremely worried now. The mural shouldn't have been able to move. This was getting paranormal.

I started sprinting for the exit, but as I turned around, I heard ink dropping to the ground again, then I looked up and saw it, a tall, lanky, 1930s Mickey, reaching up to the ceiling, pulling itself out of the mural with its long arms and gloves grabbing onto the wall behind it. It was dripping ink like it was MADE of ink, ink in places it shouldn't have been. It eventually made its way out of the mural, twisting its head to look at me; it had its 1930s Mickey eyes and face, and as I looked behind the entity, I noticed that the Mickey mural was gone, only replaced by an outline of what should have been. That's when I realized all of the things happening before were because of IT, and IT was the mural. It started walking towards me unnaturally. I turned back around and continued sprinting for the exit. I couldn't document it now; it would've gotten me killed.

As I ran, I noticed that it was getting faster and faster, to the point it caught up with me and grabbed me, its ink dripping onto me and my clothes. Its eyes started falling off its face like ink, revealing black hollow eyes with white pinprick pupils and black holes in the pupils underneath. Its smile started stretching unnaturally wide, stretching its face to the point it shouldn't have been able to. Then suddenly I heard a loud, distorted voice mimicking Mickey Mouse say, "Hope ya enjoyed the show, pal!" I later realized it was the entity. I pulled out my flashlight and slammed it right into the center of the entity's face; it landed, made a hole in its face, but only for a few seconds as the ink pulled itself back together. Those few seconds, though, let me escape its tightening grip and kick the mall doors open. I dragged myself back to my car and drove off; the mall was completely silent, like a reaper waiting for its prey.

It's been three weeks, and I've been traumatized; I still can't get my mind off that incident. I completely deleted all my posts and comments on that Urban Disney Forum, leaving it behind so I can start a new chapter in my life without thinking about that same moment over and over. I even just painted my walls with a fresh coat of paint to stop myself from thinking of it. But something weird has happened: ink suddenly appeared on my walls, spelling out the sentence "You can't paint over the past." in cursive. I think whatever I found at that mall has followed me home. Because now, from the darkness inside my closet, I can hear it. A slow, rhythmic, wet sound echoing in the dark.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I never really been a big fan of coming to the internet to let people judge your personal experiences and decisions. But honestly these past couple months have been the worst and hopefully now that I’m letting my voice be heard something can be done about it.

This started 3 months ago. My boyfriend and I we’ll call him Zack for the purpose of being discreet. Zack and I have always had our problems but we tend to get over them after a while, well,, one day was one of those days where i honestly couldn’t be bothered with him. We already had been arguing the whole week but i guess he wanted to make things right by telling me to meet him at this fancy restaurant called fogo de cho around 8pm.

The reason this story is even happening is because during this so called date or whatever he had been on the phone during our date night with his boys he said for a good 30 minutes and i just found that to be so disrespectful.. i ended up walking out on him and taking my car back home. As soon as i pulled into the driveway that night i noticed my neighbor on his porch just relaxing. We’ll call him tom for this sake of the video. Now I had knew tom since I moved into this house a couple years back and he never gave me any red flags, which is why I felt so comfortable telling him about my problems.

After walking up to him and having a brief chat about everything that’s been going on while crying he agreed with everything I was saying which.. let me feel heard and wanted… I guess you can see where this is going but he invited me inside to comfort me to which I agreed. We took shots, chatted and relaxed together all night, and we ended up sleeping together. Ik it may sound crazy but I was comfortable with him and wasn’t really expecting much of it. The next day I left and all seemed fine until he asked where I was going. I didn’t find it too weird as it was 6am so I told him I’m going home. He laughed and said
“Wym? You are home now”
At the time I thought it was just pointless flirting but I told him I still technically have a boyfriend and this is something I need to think through.

. he laughed and agreed.. but then he asked something that made me question his intentions. He told me to be safe and asked me to start sharing locations with him. I don’t even share locations with my own mother so i obviously denied it and started walking out. As I started leaving all I could feel was his gaze as I walked past his bed to the exit.. when I opened the door he asked when we can do this again and I said I’ll let him know and proceeded to leave his house .

As I walked past his window i literally locked eyes with tom with such a weird expression on his face.. not a smile but .. maybe a grin is the best way to describe it.

A couple weeks would past and , honestly Tom was acting pretty normal, a simple hi and bye as I left to and from home.. although.. I did see him out a tad bit more, but more so stores and things like that like at Walmart or target.

Things began to look a bit better between me and my bf honestly, he apologized and we started going out more and spending more time which is all I asked for… often times tom would see me with my boyfriend and I noticed he wouldn’t wave just glance occasionally at me while I was with him.

A couple weeks would go by and this is when things started to get weird . Remember I said I’d see tom occasionally more often …well now the occasionally more often turned into damn near every where I went.. clubs.. dates.. even at my fucking job id see tom walking around somewhere acting like he had business always being where I was.

Where I drew the line was one day.. as I was leaving the bathroom at a target, I turned the corner and Tom’s head was peaking from behind the corner of the men’s bathroom as it was right across from the woman’s . I yelled his name and he didn’t respond and acted like I didn’t see him.

I started to dread everything going on in life but I couldn’t tell my bf or dad cause I knew I’d be judged and left alone. I felt trapped. And when I didn’t think things could get any worse I got a phone call… from Zack.. sounding historical.. at first I couldn’t make out why he was yelling and calling me all types of names but after understanding what he was mad over.. he told me he had received a picture from a random number . The pic was of me sleeping on a man with his head cut out of the pic.. but i instantly knew that this was Tom’s doing . I couldn’t help but just endure everything Zack said for the time being to which he eventually hung up. Almost immediately after I heard something fall in my garage.

I didn’t think too much of it until I heard frantic footsteps running outside. I went downstairs to go check what made the noise and immediately I noticed something propping the garage door open just barely.. a brick . I was confused bc I didn’t recall the last time I’ve even used a brick let alone prop my door open

. I started to put 2amd 2 together for the worst case scenario and initially I didn’t see anything wrong in the garage, until I started examining my car.. I

noticed a pair of plyers sitting right next to my back right tire, which immediately made me start examining each aspect of it.. until I started seeing some bent metal pieces on the inside of my tire , something was poking out of it.. I reached into it and after 10 mins.. I couldn’t believe what I pulled out.. it was an AirTag. I was so confused and scared I couldn’t even think. Someone had been stalking me, and I’m sure ik who it was. Now my fears turnt into rage with knowing tom was sabotaging my life i grabbed the AirTag and I stormed to his house.

Upon arriving I noticed his car was gone.. but his blinds had small cracks in them all of which were angled at my house. As well as seeing out I could also slightly see inside his house, I felt my heart drop bc as I peeped inside his window.. I could make out seeing a barrage of pics of me standing outside of various places. The same places I would always see tom at continently. I immediately ran back to my house feeling nauseous.

I put the AirTag in an envelope and took it straight to police 5 days ago as they investigate it.

Fast forward to about 2 days ago while still still having the paranoia of tom, it was troubling for me sleep some nights but ultimately this is why I’m telling this story .

I was in my room watching cartoons and I heard my stairs making ever so slightly creeping noises. I paused the tv and so did the steps.i unpaused it and I heard more creeping.. I was sure I locked all the doors so the only people able to get in my house were my mom and dad who would usually pop up unannounced but something about this didn’t seem right.. i

crept to the stairs and right before i turned the corner of the stairs , i called out my dad’s name for reassurance. but what I heard in response and what i seen still creeps me out as I type .. in response to me calling out to hear my dads voice i looked down the stairs and at the middle of the staircase with a camera in hand
It was tom . He replied
“hey its me I was just checking on you”

I yelled Tom wtf are you doing how did u get in.

And as if he didn’t even hear me

He said “ I’ll see you tomorrow “

And turned around and ran out. I wasn’t able to get a pic because I was frozen in fear,, but I called the police they arrived 10 minsater. They searched the house and couldn’t find anything. They told me their still doing there investigation and have no evidence of him breaking in. It’s only been a couple days but I know something else will happen so let this be my word if anything is to happen to me. You know who it was

“Be kind to one another this All Hallows’ Eve, lest you wanna suffer at the hands of The Hangman!” Daniels said with all the enthusiasm of a circus’ ringmaster. “What does that mean, Ackland?”

“Well, Daniels…” Ackland answered his co-host. “Some 200 years ago, The Hangman was the warden of the town of Badger’s Hollow. If there was ever a criminal in Badger’s Hollow, The Hangman would sniff them out. It didn’t matter it was for theft, murder, or assault; the punishment was always the same. They would be hung from the sycamore up on Hangman’s Hill, just outside of the town. Story goes that The Hangman would put the noose around the criminals’ necks, throw the other end of the rope over the thickest branch of the sycamore tree, and, by sheer muscle force, pull the criminals up and not let go of the rope till the bodies went limp and their skin became purple. Now, on every Halloween, when the veil between worlds grows thin enough, it’s said that The Hangman returns to his hill, watching over the town once again, eager to deliver punishment wherever he can!”

“That’s a curious story, ain’t it? We’ll return to this story, and many others, after this short message from our spons…” Daniels’ voice was cut off as Brandon paused the podcast and closed his laptop.

“It’s just the same fucking story as always.” Brandon said.

“Calm down.” I said. “It’s the 31^st of October; they’re gonna tell a story related to Halloween.”

Brandon sat down on his bed, crossing his arms and looking away from me. He was already crashing from all the sugar he’d consumed that evening.

“Can’t we just go out and trick-or-treat?” He pouted. “It’s not like it’s a crime.”

“C’mon, man.” I answered him. “We can just buy candy; we don’t need to beg for it.”

We were 18 years old. It was embarrassing enough trick-or-treating the year before, AND the year before that. This year, I’d finally managed to convince Brandon to stay home for Halloween. It’d taken a ton of convincing and a mound of candy, soon to be empty; even still, I could tell that it was going to be a rough night regardless.

“Hmph…” He turned his head away. “It’s not the same if you buy it.”

He grabbed the last mars bar from the box and stuffed it into his mouth.

“Dude!” I said. “Couldn’t you have saved me just ONE of those?”

“Christ, Mike… I’m having a tough fucking evening.” He answered. “Can’t you spare a bit of sympathy? Is it so bad that I want a mars bar when I’m down?”

I sighed. Brandon. Brandon. Brandon. It was always about what he wanted to do, and I always had to be the pleaser and follow along to keep the peace. He was the kind of friend who possessed the remarkable ability to make you feel like a side character in your own life; the kind of friend that you’re only around because it feels familiar, not because you particularly like them.

“Hey, let’s go down to the 7-eleven and get something more.” He said. “I’m still craving.”

“Sure… Why not.”

He opened his drawer and pulled out the pair of zombie masks we’d worn the year prior. I put on one of them and Brandon took the other. I didn’t mind. It would make him happier, and it would hide my embarrassment when we walked outside. We got out onto the street and began making our way towards the 7-eleven. There was no shortage of kids out on the street. We passed several vampires, scary clowns, and small devils, and, although he was wearing a mask, I could tell how jealous Brandon was. Then, up ahead of us, there was a bedsheet-ghost coming our way. They were swinging a pillowcase, obviously filled to the brim with candy. As we came closer, Brandon suddenly grabbed me around my wrist.

“Are you ready?” He whispered in my ear when he was within an arm’s length from the bedsheet-ghost.

Before I could even process what he was talking about, he grabbed the rim of the pillowcase, ripped it out of the hands of the bedsheet-ghost so hard that they fell backwards and tumbled onto the asphalt. Then Brandon ran, pulling me along by my wrist.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” I yelled as we ran away.

“Relax,” He yelled back at me. “Live a little!”

Then something happened which neither of us had foreseen.

“HEY, stop right where you are!” A deep voice shouted from behind us.

We came to a halt and turned around. Further down the street a police car was parked, blinking red and blue. One officer was comforting the bedsheet-ghost on the sidewalk, and another officer was slowly approaching us.

Without any further hesitation, Brandon began running again, and I was pulled along with him. Not even five seconds had passed before we could hear the police sirens pursuing us. It was madness. We couldn’t outrun a police car; I knew that much. Then Brandon suddenly took a sharp turn into an alleyway between two houses on the street, slim enough that the police car couldn’t drive through it. The alleyway was lined with fences leading into backyards. The police sirens were nearing the entrance to the alleyway as we ran through it. Brandon sprinted towards one of the short fences, saw no one in the backyard, and then we jumped over it. Once inside, we pressed our backs up against the fence, holding our breath. Soon enough, we heard the steps of the policeman as he ran through the alleyway, continuing past the fence that we had just jumped. Brandon let out a sigh of relief, overjoyed that he was safe. He pulled off his mask and opened the pillowcase to see what he’d gathered.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” I asked him as I pulled off my own mask, soaked in spit and sweat.

“Come on.” He said, pulling out a handful of gummy bears and showing them in his mouth. “It’s called trick-or-treat, right? It was just a trick.”

“Stealing from a kid isn’t much of a trick!”

“Pfft. Whatever, Mike.” He said, filling his mouth with another handful of gummy bears.

Then something dawned on me.

“Brandon, we can’t go home now. The police are probably looking for us. If we just walk back to the house, someone’s probably gonna recognize us.”

“Then I guess we gotta hide.” Brandon eyes shifted away from the candy and up towards Hangman’s Hill. “Somewhere no one’s gonna look.”

“No way.” I said. “Can’t we just give the candy back to that kid and apologize?”

“C’mon, man. We can’t just give it back like that.” He dug into the pillowcase. “Here! There’s something for both of us in here?” He pulled out a mars bar and slid it into one of the pockets of my jacket. “Anyways, you don’t wanna snitch on your best friend, right?” He said with all the complacency of a rotten politician.

“For fuck’s sake.” I answered as a smile formed on Brandon’s face.

We pulled our masks back on, Brandon stuffed the candy into his pockets, and then we began making our way towards Hangman’s Hill, crouching behind bushes, jumping over fences, and running through backyards, managing to stay out of sight of everyone.

We finally made it out of the town and didn’t stop running till we reached the top of the hill. Brandon grabbed onto the branches of the sycamore tree and pulled himself up. I followed along and we climbed up into the tree crown. From there, we could see all of Badger’s Hollow.

“This is perfect!” Brandon exclaimed. “We’ll just sit up here until midnight, and then there won’t be anyone on the streets to recognize us.”

I remained silent, still trying to catch my breath from climbing.

“…You’re welcome by the way!” Brandon said before leaning back and closing his eyes.

I was about to answer, but kept my mouth shut. It wasn’t even worth answering him. I just followed his lead and leaned back on the branches of the tree, closing my eyes.

“Mike, wake up! Something’s wrong!”

I almost fell from the branch with how much Brandon shook me.

“Relax, man.” I answered. “What’s the matter?”

Brandon just pointed down towards the town, and I instantly understood.

A great mist had swallowed up the entirety of Badger’s Hollow; a mist so thick that we couldn’t make out anything within the town: no buildings, streetlamps, people, or any source of light.

“God damn. What time is it?” I asked.

“I don’t fucking know man… My phone won’t turn on.”

I pulled out my own phone and faced the same problem.

“Maybe we should just head back home.” I said.

Brandon nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t feeling confident. I couldn’t blame him; I didn’t feel particularly secure myself. We climbed down and started walking towards the town. With every step we took on the way, I was filled with more and more dread; this only worsened when we arrived at the border of the town. Even though the mist was thick as a pea soup and we couldn’t see further than ten feet in front of us, it was obvious that the town was in a blackout. We walked further into town and regardless of the direction we looked there was no light, not in any of the houses nor any of the streetlamps. Though we had lived in Badger’s Hollow all our life, the town was unrecognizably lifeless on that misty night.

“HELLO?” Brandon yelled at the top of his lungs, careless that we should be keeping a low profile. “Is anybody there?”

The silence of the streets prevailed until, suddenly, there was the sound of thundering steps, slowly approaching us.

“Hey, over here!” Brandon was ecstatic.

The steps kept approaching, but no one exited from the mist. Instead, we began walking towards the source of the sound. Then the steps suddenly halted. We stopped dead in our tracks.

“Hello?” I said cautiously.

Silence fell once again, until the sound of the steps suddenly returned, this time coming from behind us. Still, there was no one coming out of the mist. I was stricken with the feeling that whoever it was, it wasn’t someone coming to help us. I grabbed Brandon by the wrist and began pulling him with me in the opposite direction of the sound.

But the sound followed us. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat. Brandon and I picked up the pace trying to get away, but it didn’t matter; the sound was still tailing us. It was then we started sprinting. Even so, the sound was still right behind us. Even worse, it was getting harder to breathe. It felt as if something was constricting my throat, not letting me take in a full breath of air. I tried to keep the pace, but my legs were burning, and my lungs were screaming for all the air I couldn’t provide them. I was slowing down and Brandon was struggling to pull me along. Suddenly, without any warning, he ripped his arm free from my grip and ran away screaming for help at the top of his lungs. The last thing running through my mind as he disappeared into the mist was the mere thought that Brandon really was a waste of a friend. I fell to my knees and slumped down onto the pavement, wheezing for air. As I lay, I could hear the steps steadily approaching. I looked behind. As I finally saw something take shape inside the mist, I felt the mars bar in my jacket. I dug into my pocket, pulled out the candy bar, and threw it in front of me with all the force I could gather.

“I didn’t want to be a part of this …” The lack of air was getting to my head. “Please… I’m sorry…” The last thing I remember was seeing the silhouette of something big emerging from the mist before I passed out.

“Hey, wake up!”

I could feel something poking my chest. I opened my eyes and sat up. I was sitting on the sidewalk. A policeman was standing over me, holding a baton, looking at me inquiringly.

“So, it’s you who’s stealing candy from little kids, huh?” The policeman said, grabbing my shoulder and pulling me up, looking at me with a satisfied grin. “We’re just gonna ask you a few questions down at the station, understood?”

I just nodded and got into the car. Sitting down, I pulled off my mask and looked out of the window. The streets of Badger’s Hollow were once again alive with kids trick-or-treating. I leaned back in my seat, letting out a great sigh of relief. Down at the police station, I was asked about the incident with the bedsheet-ghost and where my “partner in crime” was. I told it like it was.

“My friend, Brandon, was the one who stole the candy and knocked the kid backwards. He just pulled me along, but he ran away from me at some point. I don’t know where he is!”

There was no point in telling them about my experience. At best, they’d think I was trying to foist a story upon them to get out of trouble, and, quite frankly, I found myself not really caring much about whatever happened to Brandon, wherever he was.

Brandon’s parents were of course very concerned when he never made it home that Halloween. The authorities could never figure out where he’d run off to. For all they knew, he’d vanished into thin air. The only trace anyone ever found was a zombie-mask soaked in his spit, lying beneath the sycamore tree up on Hangman’s Hill.

“I do not like the look of that guy over there.” Reggie said, his green form walked beside me, a large piece of metal sticking out of his middle. A memento from the car crash he had died in, he had assured me that it didn’t hurt. I looked past him to see the ghost he was talking about, the old man had been rather shy. That was odd, most spirits loved it when I saw them, they loved to tell me everything about themselves. I always understood though, some of these ghosts had been wandering the country for over fifty years.

“He’s probably just shy.” I said. “See those robes? They look old, he probably talks a little different from us too.” I squinted at the ghost again, offering him a wave. The bald man only stared back his dark black robes sitting still despite the cool fall breeze. Shrugging I kept walking, none of the ghosts had ever felt even remotely threatening before. This one would come out of his shell in due time.

Reggie adjusted his jean jacket, his denim tuxedo marred by the piece of steel that impaled him, dark blood soaked around the wound. “I don’t know he’s got a shit disturber feel to him.” Reggie said the h so light it sounded like he said ‘im. The Canadian accent used to be more severe back in the day I guess.

“You said that about Angie, and now you guys are best friends.” I replied, I didn’t really know what ghosts got up to in their spare time, but they seemed to make the most of it. Reggie shrugged,

“Yeah well she can appreciate a sixer of Kokanee like no one else can.”

“She’s from the forties, what can you possibly be talking about?” I asked, trying to not laugh at the ghost. Reggie shrugged again, flipping out a cigarette and lighter, somehow they worked and he seemed to have an infinite amount. “The joys of Kokanee, and tobacco.” he replied promptly. We kept the banter up as he accompanied me to school, Reggie always insisted on it. He loved following me just about anywhere, until he got bored or distracted.

“Morning Ellie!” a plump old lady jogged in unnecessarily tight pink running clothes. A heart attack had taken Betty in 95, and she was still trying to lose that weight. We waved back, Reggie cheerfully calling out to the living and the dead. People always averted their eyes whenever I waved, I was just the weird girl to everybody in town. That was fine by me, I had plenty of friends as far as anybody was concerned.

“Ready for another week?” a voice called out, I turned to see a large old man sitting on a bench. He wore a plaid shirt, and a torn up piece of jeans. Gerald’s most noticeable quality was the piece of wood that had impaled his left eye and drove up into his brain. “Got a smoke on you kid?” he asked. Reggie tossed him a dart and offered his lighter to the man.

“I hope so Gerald, I’m not looking forward to dodgeball though, I’m pretty sure those girls are picking on me.” I said, eyeing the doors of the school nervously, kids were shuffling in talking to one another. I caught a few glances my way. 

“Give em hell kid.” Gerald said, puffing smoke. “If you have to nail one of them in the face, hit that mean little ringleader if you have to.” He stood up and stretched as if he still had any purpose for it before giving me a wave. “Lets go Reg, we should see what Angie’s up to and our friend in the forest, he might like some company today.” The two spirits waved and then took off into the sky, puffing away on their cigarettes as they floated away into the woods.

I found myself wishing I could go with them, but Kihew didn’t always seem to appreciate the living in the same way the others did. He would come out of his shell in his own time. Taking a deep breath I hunched my back and walked into school. Despite being used to the stares from other people in town I always crumpled under those of my peers, if I could even call them that.

The stares were manageable to an extent, I just had to keep my head down and ignore them. The whispers were the worst, and I could always hear them. Small sharp words packed with hate, everyone passing judgement down on me, like they had the divine right. Throwing some books into my locker, I kept my head down and ignored them, until my feet hit something and I faceplanted to the ground.

My arms stung. I had managed to throw them up as I fell, but the laughs were worse. My face burned with shame as I picked myself up, I felt like I was in some stupid movie. The snickering ringleader had shown herself, and had sent me flying to the ground.

“Those parachute pants can really trip a girl up.” Sam Rithow smiled at me the way a cat does when it;s about to pounce. My face was red, and I felt like crying, people were snickering, pointing, I caught the words freak and loser amidst the snickers. “You really got to watch out ghost girl, those spirits really have it out for you.” Her cronies laughed as if Sam had just told the funniest joke ever.
Feeling utterly humiliated I kept my head down and walked into my homeroom. This only gave me a slight reprieve as soon everybody who saw me fall gathered into the room, including Sam and her goons. The sound of her talking to her boyfriend in a cutesy voice made me sick to my stomach, the girl was such a wretch.

“Guess what Ellie?” a slightly nasal voice said next to me. I rubbed the bridge of my nose and sighed.

“Do you actually have a picture of a ghost this time Cedric?” I asked. This was the last thing I needed to start my day. Last week he had brought in a cursed goblet that had come from Goodwill of all places. Then he brought a camera that he swore could catch ghosts.

“Yep check these out, do any of these ghosts look familiar?” he asked. Cedric was tall and geeky, with round spectacles and frizzy blond hair that stuck out at crazy angles sometimes. He pulled five photos, the camera flash lighting the scenery in them, though they were mostly blurry. I squinted at each one trying to make out any humanoid figures, but all I saw were specks of light, and an old house. The last picture was the worst.

“This is just a dog.” I said, showing him the photo.

“An undead dog,” he replied quickly. “It ran into the woods and I couldn’t find it at all!” He was clearly very impressed with his findings. 

“I’ll phone the animal shelter, did it have a collar on or anything?” I asked. Cedric could have lost some fingers. 

“Yeah from its deceased owner, I’m going back to that old house to take some more pictures tonight.” he said. His big blocky camera sat on his desk next to him. I found myself wondering where he had got it from.

“No, don't do that, if that dogs there it might bite you, don’t be dumb.” I said as the bell rang, grateful for the reprieve from the conversation. My eyes caught a flickering shape outside. Despite myself I jerked my head up and squinted outside, to see a black robed figure duck behind a tree outside. I peered at the spot watching it intently, until I could hear Sam sniggering at me with her ape-like boyfriend joining in. Cedric joined me in peering over my shoulder, eyes failing to see anything. I jerked my head back down and tried to pay attention for the rest of the class.

Gym was always before lunch, and I wanted nothing more than to skip it. However I had already made a habit of skipping the class, and was being watched like a hawk. Sighing I locked myself in a bathroom stall to change into my gym strip, I wasn’t giving Sam any more ego today. That oath went out the window as soon as my foot stepped into the gym.

Our teacher who pulled double duty as our social teacher was putting us on opposite teams. I ended up standing next to Cedric, while Sam eyed me like a hungry shark from the other side of the gym. The red dodgeballs all sat on the line, looking mean and angry. I could already feel the sting of rubber against my face.

“Don’t worry I got my throwing arm on today.” Cedric said, winding his shoulder in a circle.

“You're going to get pelted, don’t you ever worry that you're making a target out of yourself?” I asked. Mrs. Guile blew into her whistle and suddenly everybody was running forward, I hid behind Cedric very bravely.

“I never am Ellie!” he called. “It’s how I strut my stuff.” he scooped up two of the red balls and tossed one to me. I only just managed to deflect an incoming ball that would have otherwise hit me in the face. I scrambled back to the far side of the gym, ducking as another ball whizzed over my head. Cedric was in his gangly glory, flinging his awkward limbs around as he ducked under balls and chucked his own back. I wished that I had even half of his weird prowess.

Something cracked into the wall behind me and I flinched and scurried away as Sam grabbed another and whipped it at me. The volleyball team had turned her into a prime athlete, and she used that skill to try and hunt me down. One ball whooshed past my shirt and I jumped away.

“Do what Gerald said Ellie!” a green figure was suddenly flying over my shoulder ducking the balls like he was still corporeal. “She’s right there, beam her in the face, in the face!” I flung my ball so pathetically at her that all she had to do was knock it out of the air. She was going to drill me with a ball, there was no easy way out to be gained.

“Pathetic!” she called out from her side, she had another ball in her hand already. I dived and slid across the ground securing a loose ball. “Do you even know how to throw?” she called again. “Did your freak parents ever teach you anything? Or did they just enjoy making you some sort of freak.” 
My face burned, nobody had noticed in all the chaos, but even Reggie had gone silent. I knew Cedric was nearby as well, and that made it worse. How many people had to see me be taken down another peg?

“Don’t let her talk to you like that.” Reggie said. “Don’t let her do this to you.” My hand clenched the ball in my hand, and for once in my life I let my anger take over. I ran in a blind fury somehow not getting hit by anything. Sam stood right on the center line jeering at me like she always did, not expecting me to do anything.

I roared and hurled the ball when I was within a few feet. The red ball spun through the air, the white logo becoming a blur as it rolled through the air, and directly into Sam’s face drilling her in the nose. She fell to the ground and began to cry as blood leaked out from it. I immediately felt terrible, even as Reggie pumped his fist.

I was suspended for the rest of the day, and had to tell my parents what had happened. I felt sick leavng the school my backpack felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Reggie floated next to me watching me with concern on his face.

“Don’t worry about it, she’ll think twice before doing that again,” he said. “I did the same thing in 82. Guy kept harassing me until we scuffled in the parking lot.”

“Did you win? I asked not in any mood for Reggie’s old glory. 

“No, but I socked him once real good, and things were fine after that.” He bounced from one foot to the other letting him drift into the air like he was swimming in zero gravity.

“Ellie, wait!” a voice called out. I groaned to see Cedric with his camera running towards me. 

“Oh it’s the ghost hunter kid, I don’t know why you guys aren’t friends.” Reggie said, waving at Cedric. Cedric caught his breath and then suddenly brought up his camera taking a picture. I yelled out as the camera flash blinded me, while Reggie laughed at Cedric.

“What the hell Cedric? Leave me alone. I'm having a bad day already, god.” Cedric suddenly started cheering behind me, whooping as he held a developed picture in his hands. Without saying anything the breathless boy shoved the picture in my face. I frowned as I looked at the picture. My hand was raised to try and stop the flash. My wild black hair blended in with the shadows behind me. My eyes widened when I saw the glowing green figure above my shoulder, a piece of metal sticking out of his torso.

“I caught a ghost!” he shouted.

He did not stop badgering me with questions as we marched back to my house. My head reeled from the events of the day, so much had happened in such a short time. Reggie was delighted and kept trying to answer Cedric’s many questions, the result was an annoying cacophony of two teenagers cackling away.

“He looks young, is he young? How did he die? What’s the afterlife lie?” Cedric barely stopped for a breath. “He looks like Angus Ents, oh my god is that him?”

I turned sharply, stopping just outside the gate to my house. “His name is Reggie first of all.” I said. “And if you shut up for twenty minutes while I get you inside, I’ll tell you about the others.”

“Ohmygodthere’sothers.” Cedric wheezed out, I was surprised he hadn’t passed out from talking so much. I clamped a hand on his mouth and grabbed him by the sleeve guiding him up the old stairs with their chipping paint. The house was warm, and the scent of mixed spices hit my nose as I walked. Mom was making something, probably a big pot of soup. 

She bustled around a corner, her curly black hair done up in a ponytail. “There you are, I just got a call from the..” she trailed off when she saw Cedric with her. She raised an eyebrow and her eyes peered deep into mine, but I wasn’t letting her mom powers win today.

“Bad timing, we’re paired for a school project, we’re going up to my room.” I said flatly, praying she wouldn’t press the issue any further. 

“We’ll talk about it later, your mom tells me you like soup Cedric would you like to stay over?” she asked. I rolled my eyes, leaving it up to my mom to be such a mom.

“Yes please Mrs.Brent!” I practically pulled Cedric up the stairs, Reggie was enjoying this far too much. Ushering Cedric into my room I shut the door, and turned to talk when I stopped dead. Somebody was in my room. Reggie noticed it too, darting back suddenly through the air, what could scare a ghost? The tall dark form extended until it reached the roof, my mouth was frozen and dry, as the tall ghost of the priest turned, a bald pale skull had its own unearthly light, a wide skeleton smile was visible through transparent skin. The mouth opened and a horrible dry sound started to emerge from its throat. I wanted to shout to warn Cedric, when a flash of light lit up the whole room.

I suppose the end of my world began as many grandiose events do, with a seemingly innocuous, insignificant decision. A butterfly, whose wings flapped at just the right time in the right place to bring about the beginnings of a hurricane. That was how the end of my world began. With a simple yes.

Lightkeeper needed, 45,000-dollar sign on bonus, one month tenure, live in position.

That was just about the sum of the ad I saw, and the position seemed like a perfect way to cobble my life back together.

In my twenties, I worked as a park ranger and fire lookout. In that time, I quenched my thirst for adventure, experienced the majesty of the outdoors, and saw and heard a few strange and unexplainable things.

But this was not the most fulfilling course for my life. My degree was in marine biology, and frankly, it felt wasted in the park services. Once more, when I came home after my last stint as a fire lookout, I found that my house was no longer mine and neither was my fiancé.

To say I felt lost would be an understatement. My life had crumbled apart before me, and I was left to try and assemble pieces that would no longer fit.

That was when I saw the advert, and I had felt a renewed feeling of adventure, of mystery. It was sketchy to be sure, but what was an adventure without a little danger.

The interview was the first sign that I would be making a most terrible mistake. In terms of the content of the interview, it was pretty mundane and run of the mill. We made nice and he explained my role in the position. But when I looked at him, all I could see in his eyes were crazy. Wide, unblinking eyes shot me up and down as he methodically laid out every detail and fine point of the time I would spend on the lighthouse known as Crescent Rock.

He told me that my role as lightkeeper ought to be relatively easy. My main responsibility was to make sure to keep the automated systems in the lighthouse running. If anything was to go awry, it'd fall to me to "unfuck" the situation, although he assured me that there would be maintenance manuals on sight. Apart from that, I would also be responsible for keeping the overall island in good condition, going outside to record or note any erosions of the rocky shore, and to generally note down any oddities or points of concern I may come across in a logbook situated within the lightkeepers house.

Still, I figured he was the same as me. Just a guy who fell on hard times trying to get back on his feet. I didn't want to mess this up for me or him.

Boy, how wrong I was.

I got a call the very next day saying I had gotten the position, my second red flag. I would take off for the lighthouse from a sleepy New England township up in Maine.

At the time, I was staying with my parents in New Hampshire, so the trip out to the sleepy hollow wasn't very far.

In no more than three hours, I found myself in this sleepy hollow that felt as though it was taken straight from the mind of Lovecraft. small farms on rolling hills gave way to a quaint seaside town adorned with a modestly robust main street along the pier, with maze-like streets, alleys, and avenues jutting and crossing from this main thoroughfare. 

I sat on the pier, staring out into the foggy haze that served to guard us landlubbers from what lay beyond the shore. But as I stared, it was as though something took shape within the cold fog. Something large, imposing a terrifying yet awe inspiring visage. But when the shape broke through, I sighed in relief as it turned out to be just a boat. And not just any boat, but the Apostle. The boat that would take me to my new home, my new adventure, and the end of my world.

The ship rocked onto the pier and docked, with the captain waving me over. I grabbed my luggage and ran to the boat, tossing my bags onto the small wooden boat and hauling myself aboard.

The boat churned on choppy waters as we sailed to the island, and as we made our way, I looked up out of the fog out towards the lighthouse. It looked like an anglerfish in the deep. Its bright light beckoned me further, but its looming figure, the jagged rocks that encircled the island made clear I was not welcome. Its bright light paled in wake of its ominous, almost malicious figure as it stood in solitary within the fog.

A chill down ran down my spine as we docked, and I set about to acclimate and familiarize myself with the island. I spent the day reading the maintenance manual, scouting the cliffs, and unpacking my things.

I would spend the next week cementing myself in the idle routines of my job, from the well-being of this ancient, dusty lighthouse to the catalog of odd, coal black seabirds' I'd never seen. Birds who spent their time simply staring at me with wide, knowing eyes.

It was around the end of my first week that they came. One day as I stared out to the unending foggy blue, I felt as though someone was looking at me. That's when I looked to my left. Maybe 80 yards away, stood a hooded figure. I could not see their face, but I knew they were staring me down with a hatred and vitriol that brought tears to my eyes.

From then on, I would constantly see them standing as the lighthouse stood. In solitude, exuding malice from them. They would be tall as oaks or as small as any man. They terrified me, but more than that, they drove me mad.

I could not know if they were real, I did not know if the danger on this island rested outside these old walls or within my fragile mind. So I turned to the logbook. Admittedly, I never looked at the logbook. There was nothing for miles, so I surely thought there was no use for such a thing. But I truly regret not looking when I had the chance.

Hundreds of pages filled with the ramblings of madmen, of the damned. The birds, the hooded figures, whispers, sounds, so many things filled the confines of the pages. My stomach turned and my bile ran acrid. And that night I dreamt it. As did all the others.

The altar.

Under this accursed island I knew there lay an altar. I dreamt it, and the vile things done upon it. And then I awoke to find them standing in a ring, the hooded figures stood in a circle around my lighthouse, my sanctuary. Whether by madness or courage, I grabbed a rusty axe and ran out of the lighthouse and into the cold and ever foggy island.

But there was no one.

No figures. No waves. No sounds. Just fog and obfuscation. The understanding that nothing was ever as it seemed.

Then my body began to move of its own accord.

I marched, axe in tow, towards an end I had no desire to meet. Tears welled in my eyes. I began to hyperventilate as I climbed down steps I knew did not belong. I reached the bottom of stairs leading to a path I knew was never there in my time on the island. A path that led to a cave.

Within the confines of this cave stood the terrible altar, bordered by seawater. The smell of rotten fish and iron filled my nostrils as this invisible force put me upon this altar. Against my will I raised the axe to my neck, and with tears now streaming uncontrollably, my hands made a cut into my neck. Just enough to draw blood.

My blood flowed through grooves within the altar, spilling into the seawater below. It was if that blood was grabbed, taken by some thing as it glided into the deep rather than dance statically in the water.

Then the call came. A hellish whale call vibrating my very soul, shaking the very island, the very fabric of my known reality. It was only then that I came back to my senses, and I ran right back to the lighthouse, only stopping to vomit on my way back.

It's been more than a month now. My relief boat hasn't come and I doubt they will, the hooded figures encroach more and more upon my shelter, and every night that horrid whale call rends my very being apart, shaking the walls and earth in that terrible song. It's as if the very souls I know now trapped within this lighthouse are calling to me. Begging me to join them in their hellish choir.

I will die here, I know this, but as I see the wicked figures romp within the fog, I feel it is my duty to warn the world.

No one should step foot on Crescent Rock. Not if they don't have a death wish.

I was raised Catholic. Every Saturday my mom used to drag me to church to confess my sins to our priest, Father Miller. At first, I hated it. As I got older, though, I began to love the feeling of being forgiven.

Growing up, I’d always wanted to be a doctor like my dad, but my grades were never great. After I finished my bachelor’s degree, I went to Haiti with a few other members of my church to volunteer at a hospital. I hoped volunteering would help convince God I was meant to be a doctor.

My last night in Haiti, I knelt next to my bed, and I prayed I’d be accepted into medical school. I didn’t care which one. I’d give anything, I said.

By the end of the year, I had my acceptance letter. I’d never felt happier.

After residency, I took a job at a hospital in Florida. I got married and started a family. I had the life I’d always dreamed of. After I turned fifty, though, everything began to fall apart.

First, both my parents died the same year. At my mom’s funeral in Boston, I talked to Father Miller, who, despite being eighty-one, was still leading the parish. He gave me his email and told me we should talk on Zoom sometime. He’d just learned how to make video calls.   

Later that year, I took him up on his offer. We began talking every Sunday night on Zoom. I asked him if I could confess my sins. It had been decades since I’d gone to confession. He said we weren’t supposed to do confessions online, but he agreed that Zoom was better than nothing. He was the first person I told about my affair with the nurse.

“You’re married, Charles,” he told me. “You made a vow to your wife. A promise.”

“I know.”

“You need to stop seeing this woman. You need to tell your wife what you’ve done, too, and beg for her forgiveness.”

“You’re right, Father. I will.”

That was the first time I’d ever lied to Father Miller.

I kept seeing the nurse. I didn’t tell my wife anything. But she found out about the affair on her own eventually, and she filed for divorce.

I lost everything. My house, my daughter, my life.

That’s when Father Miller suggested I go volunteer at a hospital in Haiti again.

“There’s been a bad outbreak of cholera,” he told me. “They could really use your help right now.”

I took a week to think about it, and I decided to go.

Father Miller gave me the email address of a friend of his in Haiti, Père Toussaint. I emailed him, and he helped arrange a driver to pick me up from the airport and give me a ride to the house I’d be staying at in the mission compound in Cap-Haïtien.

As soon as we reached the city, I saw people sick with cholera lying on the street in front of the pastel yellow and pink houses, still and listless, buckets full of vomit beside them.

Père Toussaint was waiting for me at the compound’s front gate. He wore a white button-down shirt and a clerical collar.

“Thank you so much for coming, Doctor Charles,” he said.

“When Father Miller told me about the cholera outbreak, I wanted to help.”

“I used to be good friends with a Father Miller in Boston.”

I thought it was strange that he’d said “used to be,” but I didn’t ask him about it. A slip of the tongue, I thought.

He brought me to the house where I’d be staying. A twelve-foot-tall concrete wall surrounded the yard. The wall was topped with barbed wire.

Père Toussaint gave me the keys and then wished me good night.

***

I arrived at the hospital bright and early the next morning. One of the nurses, Guerline, introduced herself. She was young. Pretty. She wore her hair in a long braid. She’d worked at the hospital for the last two years, she said.

“Come. I’ll show you where everything is,” she said.

I followed her past the reception desk.

The hallways were filled with people lying on cots. The inpatient rooms were even more crowded, with the cots pressed together so tightly there was barely room to walk between them.

Guerline showed me the supply room at the very back of the hospital. “We keep all of our supplies locked up in these cabinets,” she told me. “I’ll try to get you a copy of the key. For now, though, if you need anything, let me know.”

Then she opened the door to the left of the cabinets and took me into a larger refrigerated room filled with corpses.

“We’re keeping the bodies here for now,” she said. “Just until the morgues have space again.”

A nurse ran into the supply room, shouting my name. “Doctor Charles!”

“What is it?” I asked.

“A mother just brought in her son. He’s very sick.”

I followed the nurse toward the reception desk.

The boy was young. Eight years old. Barely conscious. Badly dehydrated.

“How long has he been like this?” I asked his mother.

“He was very sick last night,” she said. “He had vomiting and diarrhea, but he was moving around fine. This morning, though, he couldn’t get out of bed. I had to drag him here.” 

The boy’s name was Fabrice. I found him an empty cot in one of the inpatient rooms, and then I found a vein in his arm and connected him to a bag of Ringer’s lactate. I monitored him closely for the next hour, watching the bag of fluid. When it began running out, I asked Guerline for more.

“We don’t have any more,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“All that’s left are two cases of oral rehydration solution.”

“Then get me a bottle of the rehydration solution.”

She got me one. I tried to get Fabrice to drink it, but as soon as the liquid hit his stomach, he threw up into the plastic bucket under his cot.

His mother got on her knees, unrolled a cigarette, and sprinkled the tobacco on the floor. She started speaking in Creole, repeating the words, “Papa Legba, Ago-e.”

I asked Guerline what she was doing.

“She’s praying to Papa Legba,” Guerline told me. “A Vodou spirit. The keeper of the door between this world and the next one.”

Fabrice’s mother finished her prayer and then she took her son’s hand. She kissed him on the forehead.

“Is he going to be all right, Doctor?” she asked me.

“He needs to be strong,” I said.

I was exhausted. Guerline was leaving for the night, and she offered to give me a ride home.

I told Fabrice's mother to keep trying to get him to drink, and that I'd check on him first thing in the morning.

When I got back to the hospital the next morning, though, I learned that Fabrice was dead. A bottle of rehydration solution was next to his cot, still almost full.

***

Father Miller’s face appeared on my laptop screen. His gray beard had grown longer. His eyes were tinted red.

“There’s nothing else I could have done,” I said. “If I’d had a few more bags of Ringer's lactate, though, maybe he'd still be alive.”

“You tried your best. That’s all anybody can ask of you.”

“I just don’t understand how God can allow suffering like this. That poor boy. His poor mother, too. She must be devastated.”

Father Miller started to say something, but then the video froze.

“Can you still hear me?” I asked.

The call dropped. I took my headphones off.

I heard a noise. Something scratching at my bedroom window. I went to see what it was.

Fabrice stood outside the window, pressing his face against the glass. His skin looked gray and waxy. His eyes had turned solid white.

I stepped backward, but then my legs gave out, and I fell to the floor.

“I’m very thirsty, Doctor Charles,” Fabrice said. “Can I come inside and have a glass of water?”

He walked to the front of my house. The door handle jiggled. Thankfully, I’d remembered to lock it.

“Please,” Fabrice said. “My mouth is so dry.”

I finally managed to stand. I got my phone and called security. A guard arrived, but by then the yard was empty.

Fabrice had disappeared.

***

At the hospital the next day, I ran into Guerline in the staff room. As we drank our coffee, I told her what had happened.

“Lots of Haitians believe a person’s spirit has two parts,” she said. “The Gwo Bon Anj and the Ti Bon Anj. Sometimes when people die, the Ti Bon Anj stays behind, and it goes looking for the people it remembers.”

Guerline and I didn’t even have time to finish our coffees. A husband brought his wife into the hospital, shouting for help.

The rest of the day was a blur of chaos. Of patients and death and dwindling supplies. The next three days were no different. Then I had Sunday off to rest.

Sunday night, I called Father Miller, and I told him about my first week. The stress, the chaos, the suffering, and the friends I’d made.

“You seem to like Guerline a lot,” he said.

“I really do.”

“Just remember, you’re in Haiti to help people. You’re not there for yourself.”

“I know, but I’m being very professional. I might ask her out for dinner one night, though.”

I heard that same scratching on my window. I looked over my shoulder.

“Is everything all right?” Father Miller asked.

“I think I hear someone outside.”

I took my headphones off and walked into my bedroom. Just like before, Fabrice stood outside the window, staring at me with his white eyes.

I remembered what Guerline had told me about the Ti Bon Anj.

“I can’t help you,” I told Fabrice. “I wish I could, but I can’t. You need to leave.”

He dragged his nails across the window. “I don’t want your help, Charles,” he said. His voice didn’t sound like it had before. It had become harsher. Grittier. “Are you trying to fuck Guerline like you fucked that other nurse?”

“Were you listening to my conversation with Father Miller?”

“I’ve been listening to your confessions for a long time, Charles.”

He walked around to the front of my house and tried opening the door.

“You’re a liar,” he told me. “A cheater. Your poor wife. Your poor daughter. You destroyed your family for what? Because you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants? Then you come here to Haiti to play the role of the savior. To pretend to be a good Christian doctor and redeem yourself.” He laughed. “You’ve fooled a lot of people, but you haven’t fooled me. I know exactly who you are.”

I went to the door and looked through the peephole. Fabrice looked back at me with his egg-white eyes.

“You’re not Fabrice, are you?” I asked. “You’re a devil. A demon.”

He laughed again.

I sat on the couch in my living room. I covered my ears and closed my eyes.

“Just leave me alone,” I said. “Please go away.”

He laughed a while longer, but then he left.

I tried calling Father Miller back, but he didn’t answer.

I closed my blinds, and then I moved my mattress into the hallway, where I slept far away from the windows.

***

On Monday, I found Guerline in the staff room.

“He came back again last night,” I told her. “But this time, he wasn’t Fabrice. He looked like Fabrice, but he was someone else. He knew things about me, too. Things that only me and my priest could know.”

Guerline put her hand on my arm. “Are you okay? I know the last few days must have been hard.”

“I’m fine. I’m not going crazy or anything. I just…”

Before I could finish my sentence, another nurse walked into the staff room and asked for help.

The next few hours, I ran from one patient to the next. It wasn’t until two pm that I finally had a chance to sit down and eat something.

“Père Toussaint is here,” a nurse told me. “If you have time, he’d like to talk to you.”

I found him in the waiting room. He wore the same white button-down shirt.

“I heard you’ve been doing a great job,” he said. “Everyone here says they don’t know what they’re going to do when you go back home to Florida. Are you sure you can’t stay a while longer?”

“I wish I could, but I don’t think my hospital in Florida will let me take any more time off.”

“Florida is nice, isn’t it? I’d love to visit sometime. I haven’t been to the United States since Father Miller’s funeral two years ago.”

“His funeral? What do you mean?”

“He was diagnosed with stomach cancer. The hospital caught it late, and it progressed quickly.”

I felt nauseous. I stopped listening to what Père Toussaint was saying. “I’m sorry. I need to go.”

I stumbled to the bathroom and knelt in front of one of the toilets.

At my mother’s funeral, Father Miller had looked pale, but he hadn’t said anything about cancer. Had he really died shortly afterward? And if he had, who had I been talking to on Zoom this whole time? Who had suggested I volunteer in Haiti?

“Are you in there, Doctor Charles?” Guerline asked.

“I am. Just a minute please.”

“We need your help. There’s a young girl barely breathing.”

You’re fine, I told myself. Father Miller isn’t dead. Père Toussaint is probably just misremembering, confusing Father Miller with another priest he knows. We’ll both laugh about this later.

I left the bathroom and then went with Guerline to the reception desk.

I did what I could for the girl and then checked in on the other patients. I lost track of time. It was nearly nine pm when I noticed that a man in Room 3 had died.

I found Guerline and asked her for help moving the body. We wheeled the cot to the refrigerated room and then lowered it to the ground. Guerline lifted the man’s legs, I took his shoulders, and then we moved him onto the floor and covered his body with a blanket.

The door to the room slammed shut behind us.

“What was that?” I asked.

“There’s a draft,” Guerline said. “It must have blown the door shut.”

As she walked toward the door, one of the corpses near the back wall stood up. The blanket covering him fell to the ground.

“Guerline!” I yelled.

I looked back at her, but she was gone.

The corpse walked toward me.

It was Fabrice.

I stepped backward, nearly tripping over one of the bodies on the floor.

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

“I’ve come for your soul.”

I backed up against the wall and inched my way toward the door. I tried to pull it open, but it was locked.

“Do you remember the promise you made the last time you were in Haiti?” Fabrice asked. “‘I’d give anything,’ you said. And I gave you what you wanted. I made all your dreams come true. Without me, you wouldn’t’ve had a chance.”

The prayer. So he was the one who’d answered it. Not God.

“Is Father Miller dead? It’s you I’ve been talking to?”

“You’re not supposed to do confessions on Zoom. It’s too easy for other things to listen. Didn’t anyone ever warn you?”

A man walked up behind Fabrice. He was tall and thin. He wore a long, dark coat and held a cane.

He reached toward me. “Come with me now, Charles,” he said.

I sank to the floor. “God, please help me. I’m sorry for all my sins. I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever done wrong.”

The man stood over me. He placed his hand on my chest and then dug his fingers into my ribs, snapping them in half.

I screamed in pain. Blood poured from my chest.

He shoved his hand inside me and started feeling my organs. My heart, my lungs, my liver. When he finally took his hand out, he held a glowing spark of light.

He placed the spark in a clay jar. Then he put the jar in his coat pocket, opened the locked door, and left.

I stood and felt my chest. The blood was gone, but the hole was still there, my heart beating inside it.

I left the refrigerated room and walked back toward the reception desk. I heard Guerline shouting my name.

“Where did you go?” she asked. “You just disappeared.”

“I’ve been in the refrigerated room this whole time.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I saw a man with a coat and a cane. He reached into my chest and took out a spark.”

I unbuttoned my shirt and showed her my heart. Her face turned pale. “Kalfou.”

“I don’t feel well.”

The walls spun around me. Guerline helped me walk to the staff room. I sat on one of the chairs, but then suddenly, the staff room disappeared. I was in the dark. A complete, never-ending blackness.

“Where did you go, Guerline?” I yelled.

There was a flash of light, and I was back in the staff room again.

“I need to take you to a priest,” Guerline told me.

“Père Toussaint?”

“Not a Catholic priest.”

She helped me to my feet and brought me to her car outside. We left Cap-Haïtien and drove down the highway.

My eyes flashed with light again. For a moment, I was back in the darkness, but then I heard Guerline shouting my name.

We parked next to a wooden hut and a few wire cages filled with chickens.

The priest ran outside. He wore a red robe and dozens of necklaces.

“He’s a doctor at my hospital,” Guerline said. “I think Kalfou has taken his Ti Bon Anj. Last week, a boy named Fabrice died at the hospital. His mother called to Papa Legba before he died. Since then, the boy has been coming to the doctor's window.”

Light flashed in my eyes again. The next thing I knew, I was inside the hut, sitting on the floor across from the priest.

“Kalfou has been waiting for you for a long time,” he told me. “When the boy’s mother called to Papa Legba, she gave Kalfou a way through to this world. Legba is not the only one who stands at the crossroads.”

Kalfou stood behind the priest, his eyes burning red.

“How do I get my soul back?” I asked the priest.

“You need to make a trade with him.”

“What does he want?”

“You’ll need to ask him yourself.”

The priest stood and left the hut. Kalfou sat where the priest had been sitting.

I made the sign of the cross.

“I know who you are, Satan,” I said. “I never offered you anything. You’re lying to me.”

“I have no reason to lie to you. You asked to make a trade, and I took you up on it. If you want your soul back, you’ll need to give me another soul to replace yours. Do you agree?”

He held out his hand.

I shook it.

When I looked down at my chest, the hole had closed. All that remained were five thick scars. A scar for each place Kalfou's fingers had torn through my ribs.

***

Two weeks later, another mother brought her son into the hospital. Like Fabrice, the boy was gaunt and sunken-eyed, deathly sick with cholera. He looked around the same age as Fabrice, too. Maybe a little older. Unlike Fabrice, though, he recovered quickly. A few days after he was brought into the hospital, he was talking again. Smiling even. But then Kalfou called me, wearing Father Miller’s face. He wanted the boy. That was the trade.

A soul for a soul, he said. 

The next night, right before dawn, when only a few nurses were left making their rounds, I wheeled the boy’s cot into the supply room. He didn’t wake up. I found a heavy blanket and held it over his face. He struggled for a moment, kicking and clawing at my hands, but then he went still.

I called for Guerline.

“I noticed he’d died while I was making my rounds,” I said.

She looked at me strangely, but she’d seen so much death already that she didn’t question it.

We brought the boy into the refrigerated room and moved his body onto the floor.

“You never told me what happened when you were alone in that hut,” Guerline said.

“Kalfou and I made a deal,” I told her. “But if I tell you what it is, it doesn’t count anymore.”

I took a week to think about it, and I decided to go back home to Florida. I lied to everyone at the hospital. I said something had come up at home, and I left a month early. But really, I just needed to get away from there.

Three years passed. The dull ache in my chest finally went away. So did the nightmares of that cold, empty darkness. The guilt stayed with me, though, eating away at me. The guilt and the scars.

At the hospital, every time I see a dead body, I still stop what I'm doing, reach under my shirt, and press my fingers into the scars on my chest. Then I remember everything again.

Kalfou reaching into my chest and pulling out that beautiful spark.  

I know I'm not supposed to confess online. I know anything could be listening to me. But I don't have anyone else to tell, and I need someone to forgive me.

You can forgive anything, can’t you? So long as I’m sorry? Because I am sorry. I’m on my knees swearing to you that I’m very, very sorry for what I’ve done.

It is not strange for cats to go missing in our village. With almost no natural predators, everyone's cats are outdoor cats. They sometimes wander off or get run over, but when the fifth cat disappeared, people started asking more questions and keeping their cats inside. Even I started letting my precious orange cat Gingy out less. She didn't mind much; she already spent most of her time purring on my lap inside.

Some suspected wolves when a deep, unnatural animal growl began echoing through the village at night. People stopped letting their cats out at night, and barely let them out during the day.

I stopped letting out Gingy too. She loved running through our yard at night, chasing fireflies and meowing at other cats. I could see her bright green eyes staring at me each time the sun set, but I knew it was for the best. 

After a while, Gingy got used to staying home at night watching TV with me, but when the growls came, her whole behaviour changed. She'd perk up her ears, run to the door, and meow at it. It would always take at least 10 minutes of pets and a treat to calm her down.

Some time later, after the growls appeared, the first death came. Mr. Harlow was an older man who had a few chicken coops and a nice garden. He always waved when you passed and stopped to talk about your day.

One morning, his neighbour came to visit. Mr. Harlow's fence was broken down, the chicken coops were empty, and his body was full of scratches and bite marks. Not even a feather was left behind. 

People stopped going out alone even during the day. More and more cats disappeared. The growls came more frequently. Gingy now meowed at the door all night, and even treats couldn't quiet her.

Around this time, another attack came. While patrolling his yard, Mr. Harlow's neighbour saw a few of the missing cats on the roof, watching him with their glowing eyes. Then the growl came, closer than ever. All the cats stopped and turned their eyes to him. He stood frozen. Something jumped at him and scratched him. He tried to turn, but a few other animals jumped on him. He fired his gun into the ether. The animals were gone before he got off the ground, and the cats disappeared too.

One night Gingy sat on my lap, purring, when the growl came again. Gingy perked up her ears, shot her eyes to the door, and ran to it.

"Gingy, not again."

The meows. She scratched at the door with her paw.

"Gingy, please!"

She let out the most bloodcurdling meow and got up on her hind legs.

"Jesus."

I got up and went to the kitchen for a treat, even though it probably wouldn't work. I opened the package. She went silent. Then, through the silence, a door creaked. I looked back. Gingy hung from the door handle with her front paws as the door slowly opened.

"Gingy!"

She jumped down and slipped into the night. The treat dropped to the floor. I opened the door and rushed out after her. The outside air was cold. The growls were so loud outside. The streets were empty; only the lamps shone down. Gingy ran in the middle of the street toward the forest. 

"Gingy!" 

She got off the road and ran into the tall spruce trees. I took a deep breath and ran after her. The trees swallowed the light. I couldn't see Gingy, but I could still hear the growls nearby, and I was sure she was heading there. 

The deep growl echoed to my left. I crouched down by a tree and slowly looked there. All the village cats sat around a strange creature; its large silhouette towered over them, its huge glowing eyes stared at them, and it let out another deep growl. The cats turned and began walking toward the village in unison. 

My heart beat against my ribs. So many cats, and the thing was so huge, but my Gingy was among them. I swallowed and let out a silent pst pst, the one she'd always listened to. Gingy stopped and looked my way. I gripped the tree bark and pst pst again. She let out a silent meow and walked toward me. I was scared the other cats would turn, but they kept heading toward the village, their leader at the back.

"Gingy, come."

I reached for her soft, ginger fur. Her eyes looked into mine, but no recognition passed through them; they looked empty.

"Gingy?"

She let out a loud hiss and jumped at my hand. Sharp pain shot through it. She scratched and bit it aggressively.

"Gingy, stop!"

But she kept biting. I hated it, but I had to punch her to make her let go. Warm blood trickled down my hand. Gingy ran back to the cats, and they all stopped and looked my way. Panic ran through me, but the large thing let out another growl, and they turned back toward the village. I turned and bolted through the empty forest. The twigs hit my face. My feet slipped in the dewed grass. I kept expecting the big cat to jump on my back at any moment, but before I knew it, I was out in the village next to ours.

They bandaged my hand and called the police. When the policeman arrived, the whole village was quiet. The doors hung open. Everyone from my village lay in their houses in a pool of blood, with scratch and bite marks all over their bodies. The police found nothing but a few whiskers and soft, orange fur on the floor.

They let me go the next afternoon once the houses were clear. I was barely able to function. Out of habit, I reached for Gingy's bowl. Then I saw my bandaged hand.

I never believed in the old Icelandic stories my grandmother told me. To me, Grýla was just a regional boogeyman—a giantess used by parents to scare kids into eating their vegetables and finishing their chores.

I was twenty-four, a pragmatic American grad student spending the winter in a remote cabin in the Westfjords to finish my thesis. I didn’t have time for fairy tales.

I should have listened.

It was December 23rd—Þorláksmessa. A brutal blizzard had knocked out the power three hours prior, plunging the cabin into pitch blackness save for the dying orange glow of the fireplace. The wind outside didn't just blow; it screamed, violently rattling the thick glass panes.

That was when I heard the sound that made my chest tighten.

It wasn't the wind. It was a rhythmic, heavy scrape-thud, scrape-thud echoing from the roof directly above my head. It sounded like something incredibly heavy dragging a blunt tool—or a massive, overgrown claw—across the corrugated tin.

I froze in my armchair, my breath catching in my throat. An animal, I reasoned, desperately trying to quiet the instinctual panic flooding my veins. Just a stray sheep or a disoriented reindeer.

Then, the smell hit me.

It drifted down through the chimney and the floor vents. It was a suffocating, sickening stench of wet dog, sulfur, and rotting, unwashed meat. It was the smell of a predator’s den.

A massive, wet sniff rattled the window frames.

Whatever was on the roof had migrated to the side of the cabin. I slid out of my chair and dropped to my hands and knees, ignoring the freezing chill of the hardwood floor. I crawled toward the kitchen counter, desperate to get out of the line of sight of the large living room windows.

“Ekki hljóð,” a voice rasped from just outside the kitchen wall.

The sound didn't feel like it came from a throat. It sounded like two massive tectonic plates grinding together, muffled by ice and dirt. My blood turned to ice. Translated from Icelandic, it meant “Not a sound.”

I pressed my back against the kitchen cabinets, pulling my knees to my chest. In the dark, my eyes darted around the room. They landed on the sink. A tower of unwashed dishes from the past four days stared back at me. My laptop lay open on the dining table, surrounded by empty coffee mugs and crumpled food wrappers. I hadn't cleaned. I hadn't been productive. I had succumbed to a deep, lazy winter lethargy.

“Lazy,” a wet, bubbling voice whispered. It didn't come from the window this time. It came from the wood stove.

Suddenly, a heavy, deafening thud shook the entire cabin. The roof groaned, the support beams crying out under an immense, sudden weight. Dust and old insulation rained down on my head. Whatever it was, it was directly on top of the kitchen skylight now.

Before I could even process the movement, a low, bass-heavy purr vibrated through the floorboards. It was so deep it rattled my teeth.

A massive shadow blocked out what little moonlight filtered through the frosted skylight. Two glowing yellow eyes—each easily the size of a dinner plate—peered down into the kitchen. Its pupils dilated as they locked onto me. It was a cat, but its face was distorted, its mouth lined with rows of needle-thin, translucent teeth. The Yule Cat.

I looked down at my clothes, my heart hammering like a trapped bird. Brand new wool socks. A sturdy flannel shirt I’d just bought in Reykjavik. The old superstition flashed through my mind: The Yule Cat eats anyone who hasn't received new clothes before Christmas Eve. It sniffed the glass, leaving a thick smear of gray slime, but its eyes drifted away from me. I wasn’t its target.

I was it's master's.

A gnarled, massive hand—with skin resembling rotting black pine bark and fingernails like rusted shovels—shattered the skylight.

Shards of glass exploded into the kitchen, slicing across my face and arms. I clamped my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream. The giant hand reached down, groping blindly in the dark. Its fingers, thick as tree branches, brushed against the dining table, effortlessly snapping the wood in half and crushing my laptop into plastic shards.

From the hole in the roof, a face leaned into the cabin.

She was a towering monstrosity. Her skin was a bruised, mottled gray, hanging in loose, filthy folds around a hooked, broken nose that dripped with frozen slime. Her hair was a tangled, matted nest of frozen moss and dried blood. But it was her eyes that paralyzed me. They were milk-white, entirely devoid of pupils, rolling erratically in their sockets until they snapped forward, pointing straight down at the corner where I cowered.

She smelled me.

Her jaw unhinged with a sickening crack, opening impossibly wide to reveal rows of jagged, yellowed teeth coated in a thick, black sludge.

“Krakkar,” she croaked, her voice vibrating the air in my lungs. Children.

She knew I wasn’t a child, but to a creature that had hunted these mountains for a thousand years, it didn't matter. I was weak. I was idle. I was prey.

She began to force her massive, distorted torso through the shattered skylight. The heavy wooden ceiling beams began to splinter and snap like toothpicks under her weight. A massive, burlap sack, stained with old, dark patches, spilled through the opening, smelling heavily of copper and decay.

Instinct overrode terror. I scrambled to my feet, grabbed the iron fire poker from the hearth, and sprinted for the back door.

I threw it open and burst out into the blinding, sub-zero blizzard. I didn't have a jacket. I didn't have boots. The wind immediately stole the breath from my lungs, and the snow swallowed my legs up to my thighs.

Behind me, a horrific, unnatural shriek tore through the storm. It was a sound of pure, ravenous frustration. I heard the entire back wall of the cabin explode outward as she burst through the frame to pursue me.

I ran blindly toward the distant, faint lights of Route 61, my bare skin freezing in seconds. Every time I took a step, I could hear the rhythmic, heavy thuds in the snow behind me, closing the gap. I knew if I looked back, I would lose my footing, and she would shove me into that foul-smelling sack.

I somehow survived. The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital. A snowplow driver found me collapsed on the shoulder of the highway, suffering from severe frostbite and hypothermia. The local authorities assumed a freak avalanche had crushed the cabin.

I'm writing this from a hospital bed in Reykjavik. The doctors say I might lose two toes on my left foot. But that's not why I can't sleep.

An hour ago, the nurse left the room, leaving the window slightly cracked to let some fresh air in. As I lay here in the dark, I heard a wet, heavy sniff from the third-floor ledge outside.

And then, a low, rumbling purr.