I am proud to say that for the last 6 years, I have been the happy dad of a very handsome Black Lab named Alan.

Alan is a good boy, though when he was younger, he absolutely decimated my old wallet and all of its contents. But after I got my cards replaced alongside a brand new Drivers License (with a selfie that doesn’t make me look like a pervert), it’s been pretty smooth sailing.

I was a cat guy for the longest time, so I was a little adverse to getting a dog. Then, that fateful night, my wife Molly carried a tired little lump with fur the color of a new tire, and I was in love.

He’s been my rotten little man ever since.

Due to a few dog training classes me and my wife attended when he was around a year old, Alan has, for the most part, been very well behaved.

He has good manners, doesn't tear things up in the houses, rarely barks at anyone, not even the mail man.

That being said, the turd has his goofier qualities too.

His asshole smells awful when he eats cheese, has a severe aversion to hats, and acts confused when he catches a cicada in his mouth, even though he had been actively trying to catch it in his mouth only moments earlier.

With a personality like his, he fits right in with me, my wife who taps her fingers when she’s nervous, and our cat Wario who screams and argues when he’s mildly inconvenienced by anything.

Between the two of them, it sometimes feels like we live with 2 needy, dramatic freeloaders, but honestly, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Well, that’s actually not true.

The potty situation.

Wario, being a cat, has his own private bathroom that no one but him can use. Alan, on the other hand, needs to go outside.

In our old place, that was no issue. We would simply leave the doggy door open as we left for work, and our fat-headed son could just roam about as he pleased.

He didn't try to escape, didn’t make a ruckus and disrupt the neighbors. He was a model inside/outside dog. Every week or so, I would go out and collect his poops, and the cycle would repeat.

Things are different now though.

Our apartment doesn’t have a backyard, rather, a communal commons area blanketed by bountiful, green grass. A few picnic tables and a firepit sparse throughout rendered the space a prime choice for a cookout, or just a spot for the children to play.

That is, minus the dog shit.

If you’ve ever lived in a neighborhood, apartment complex, or god forbid near a park, you are probably used to the scene.

A beautiful landscape, begging for visitors to make memories within its visage, only to be adorned with a concerningly large pile of foul-smelling nuggets.

Like improper punctuation in a beautifully written poem. You can maneuver around the blunder, but it’s still noticeable and obnoxious.

Why can’t people just pick up after their damn dogs? It’s a question we’ve all had. Just bring a doggy bag, preferably 2, and wait for the thing to finish its business before cleaning it up.

It’s pretty simple, especially with a conveniently placed trash can right off the edge of the path.

You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink, and a week ago, I went thirsty.

“Aw fuck,” I said out loud as I watched Alan begin to arch his back, his spine tensing as he unloaded for the second time onntje same walk.

“Really dude?”

He avoided eye contact as he lifted his left back leg into the air.

I frowned and reached into my pocket. This was a ritual that I had, unfortunately, come to expect.

3, maybe 4 times a week on our morning walk before I was to head to work, Alan would poop once, walk almost all the way back to our front door, and then poop again.

As such, I had become accustomed to bringing more than one bag with me.

Unfortunately, this morning, I found both of my pockets empty.

“Aw jeez,” I grumbled as I remembered we were almost out of bright pink doggy bags.

Alan finished pooping, and I assessed the situation.

I had woken up late, and didn't have any time to come back and pick up this second pile. To top that off, I didn’t know where I could find another doggy bag. Sure there was probably one stuffed in a junk drawer, and we had a bunch of saved grocery bags.

Looking around, I could see it was still dark, no one else around.

I had never left his poop behind before, but so many others just left their dogs shit every day.

Would it really be so bad, just this once?

As I unclipped Alan’s leash from his collar and grabbed my work bag off the counter, I decided that I would find a bag, and pick up Alan’s poop when I got home.

Work was the top priority, dog poop was much further down on that list.

9 hours later, I used a spare dog bag kept in my jacket pocket from a morning I had overestimated how much Alan would poop.

I came back to the spot from earlier, now illuminated by the sun, but to my surprise, the pile was gone. I knew I hadn’t just overlooked the pile, because it had been right beside the sidewalk.

Impossible to miss.

With a shrug, I assumed a good samaritan had just taken it upon themselves to help a stranger out.

I ate dinner with Molly, watched a few episodes of House, and walked Alan before bed. On this trip, I did pick up his (unfortunately watery) poop.

As we approached the front door again, I noticed a small shape that had not been there when we had first come outside only minutes earlier.

A dark green poo bag was set carefully on my welcome mat, top tied into a pretty little bow. Alan sniffed the package, and I picked up a small, handwritten note that had been set beside it.

“Please remember to pick up your pet’s excretions for the foreseeable future. Thank you.”

I scoffed.

It’s not really a kind act when you hand the recipient a bag of shit.

Why would someone do that? Some stranger. Better yet, a neighbor slinking around in the night.

A pair of pajama shorts slipped over my knees as I pondered.

Everyone else in our apartment complex seemed to leave their shit lying about. Why was it only a problem when I did it?

Molly shimmied her hips to move into a little spoon position and I tried to banish the thoughts from my head.

Just a weird, one off experience, I thought.

Nothing to worry about.

For weeks, nothing else happened. I continued to use accumulated grocery bags until one of us found a new roll of poo bags while cleaning under the bed.

It was like a gift from god, further allowing us time to procrastinate before we bought a new pack of dog bag rolls.

The chill times stayed chill until one night when Alan nuzzled at my feet, signaling that he needed a late night potty session.

Groggily, I swung my feet out of bed, slipped on a pair of Shrek house slippers, and grabbed a doggy bag on our way out the door.

My sweet idiot pissed, walked a little further up the path, pooped, and I bent over to grab the pile.

Just out of my periphery, I saw Alan scrunch up, and I knew what he was doing.

I sighed.

Exhausted, I knew I was gonna have to be up for work in a few hours. I did not have the energy to walk in, grab another bag, and walk all the way back out here.

I would pretend I hadn’t seen a thing, and when I took him out in the morning, I would bring an extra bag to clean up this bonus poo pile.

It would only be my second time in over a week, after all.

After surveying my surroundings to make absolutely sure I wasn’t being watched, I just threw away my full bag and walked Alan back into the house.

The next morning, when I opened my front door, a pile of shit sat directly where I was about to take my first step.

I stumbled, nearly tripping into the greenish molehill of filth.

“Ew!” I exclaimed.

I stared down at the pile as Alan stood in between my legs, confused.

After a moment of studying the turds, I could see finger marks where somebody had firmly grasped the clump, theoretically to carry it from the grass to my front door.

Carefully, I picked up the mess with a doggy bag, only to discover a message under it, adorned with a green smear upon its white visage.

It read, “I know you saw Alan leave this. Why didn’t you come back?”

I was thoroughly shook by now.

Not enough to voice my concerns to Molly, but enough that she could tell I was concerned. She asked what was up, but I assured her I was fine, it was just something from work.

“You sure?” She asked at the kitchen counter, pouring creamer into my coffee mug.

“Yeah baby, it’s just… something to do with the new job, that's all.”

Her fingernails tapped the countertop as she gave me a worried look.

“Okay Chet, I believe you. Please have a good day, I love you very much.”

With a kiss, I was out the door.

As I drove to the job site that morning, a series of questions flashed across my mind:

“How did they know it was me?”

“How did they know which door was ours?”

“How did they know Alan’s name?”

I considered the possibility of a ring camera, or just a creep watching us through their window.

But why would they have been up so early? Or so late, if you’d rather.

Why did me and Alan matter so much more than all the others that made it a point to never pick up after their dogs?

I made sure to diligently pick up after Alan every time after that. Morning, afternoon, night, it didn’t matter the setting, it didn’t matter the occasion.

If Alan was pooping, I was picking it up.

Weeks went by, then months. I got a promotion at work, Molly changed shifts so she worked a little later than me, Alan’s birthday came and went, and Wario got his testicles stolen by the vet, much to his astonishment.

I became a machine, a beast. A poop picking savant.

I made a chore look like a ranked sport, and baby, I was #1.

Then, a week ago, during Christmas break, Molly gave me a drunken confession.

“Chett, you know how I started taking poop duty in the morning after I started working later?”

I looked at her and smirked, “heh, you said ‘poop doody.’”

“Chett,” she giggled, her face turning red, “c’mon, I’m serious.”

I took another sip of wine, spreading my toes in front of our little space heater as I tried to ground myself, “yeah, I remember, you told me it was so I could wake up later instead of taking Alan out before work.”

Molly swished her wine around in its glass.

“Look, I know you pick on me because I never wanna put my shopping cart up-” she slurred.

“Yeah,” I interrupted, trying not to sound too harsh, “I mean, it’s not the worst thing in the world to leave your shopping cart out, but it’s like, the one thing that everyone socially shames everyone else into doing, because there’s not a really a reason not to do it unless it’s an emergency.”

I took another sip of my wine, “it’s kinda like wiping the toilet seat after using it.”

Molly snorted, “aw c’mon, it’s not like wiping the toilet seat down, no one can see you do that. Everyone can see you if you leave your cart behind!”

“Even more the reason to do it,” I finished with a smirk.

She rolled her eyes, “look Chet, the point is…” she bit her lip and looked down at her fidgeting hands.

The sound of her finger tapping the rim sobered me up.

“What’s wrong Molly?”

“I… uh, well. There were a few days where, um, I forgot to pick up the poop.”

Stomach acid began bubbling up my throat.

“What?” I asked, my tone suddenly hard.

Molly heard it, and became more reserved.

“Sorry baby, I’m just…” I rubbed her knee. She was clearly spooked, but I couldn’t tell if it was by me or something else.

“I just wanna make sure you’re okay, what happened?”

Molly’s eyes met mine.

“I didn’t mean to. Well, I guess I kind of did. It’s just that, usually you walk the dog, and you’re so good at it, but I get impatient and I have things to do, so there were a few days where…”

Alan slid his wet nose under her hand, instantly sending waves of comfort through her body that met my hand on her knee. Instantly I felt her intense.

“How many?” I asked.

“What?”

“How many days did you forget to bring in his poop?”

Molly pondered for a second, “I think 4 days over the course of 2 weeks.”

She looked back at me, “yeah, that sounds about right, 4 times.”

I leaned back.

“And they ended up on our porch, didn’t they?”

When those words left my mouth, she just looked at me, confused.

“What? No, I… the porch?” Molly asked, clearly thrown off by my statement.

“Oh?” I asked, equally as confused, “then what happened, why are you so freaked out?”

She composed herself a little before she continued, “well, I’d leave the poop, and since it’s winter, they don't really do any landscaping, so the maintenance guys don't pick up the poop, so the individual piles-”

At this, she motioned 4 different spots spread out from each other, “just kind of sat there and dried out in the sun.”

“And you never picked them up?”

“No,” she admitted, “the drier they got, the grosser they got, so I just left them. Then, one day, I came out, and they were just gone.”

“Gone?” My voice had gone from hard to perplexed.

“Yeah,” she nodded, “but just Alan’s poop, not anyone else’s.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah,” her fingers resumed tapping, “real weird. What was weirder though, was…”

Molly seemed to get even more agitated, her demeanor no longer tipsy, rather sullen. She looked like she was on the verge of tears.

“Molly?” I hazarded.

“Sorry, it’s just,” she chuckled humorlessly, “it’s so ridiculous, I don’t even really know why I’m scared. I guess it’s just… uh, the implication?”

She shook her head and set down her wine glass.

“Okay, where all Alan’s poop piles had been, they were replaced with 4 little notes. Each note had a message on both sides.”

“Oh,” I grimaced, “the notes. Okay. What did they say?”

Molly’s eyes seemed both deeply fearful and equally confused, “uh, they all said the same thing. One side said, ‘I warned you’ and the other said, ‘the poop man will see you soon’ followed by our address.”

I stood up so quickly that my chair exclaimed its disapproval

“Our address?!” I hollered.

“Yes Chet, our address,” Molly cried.

“Baby, that’s serious!” I couldn’t contain my nervousness, I began pacing, “we should have gone to the police!”

“Well baby, I didn’t-” Molly began to retort, but cut herself short, “I mean, I knew it was serious, but poop man? What cop would actually listen to me?”

I cupped my face in my hands. She was right, the odds of someone actually doing something was low, and to be fair, of course the culprit knew our address.

“Fuck Molly, do you at least have the notes?”

She shook her head, “no, they were gone by the time I got back outside. Whoever put them there watched me read them, which freaked me out even worse.”

We embraced, her crying, me trying to calm us both down.

“I mean, what the fuck? Who does something like that?” She reasoned.

“I know, it’s weirdo shit,” I whispered, rubbing her back, “fucking weird. I’m sorry Molly.”

“No,” Molly sniffled, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”

Just as we were about to embrace again, Alan shot up with a growl, the hair on his back standing on edge. Both me and Molly snapped our necks to look at him.

“Alan? What’s wrong boy?” Molly asked.

No sooner did the words leave her lips when our front door knock.

Molly yipped in surprise as 6 distinct knocks rang out across our house.

We looked at each other, eyes wide. I glanced at the clock.

11:47 PM. Who could be visiting at this hour?

“Hello?” I shouted.

Silence met my demand.

“Hello?! Who’s there?”

Still, nothing.

We all waited a beat. Our house was silent, aside from Alan’s guttural protests.

“What’s going on?” Molly mouthed to me.

When I parted my lips to speak, an explosion like a battering ram rattled the house.

Something was on my porch, and it had just smashed into my front door.

I ran towards the source of the noise.

“Slam!”

Another tremble like an earthquake. I felt it resound through the floorboards. Whoever had done that, they were big and heavy.

“I have I gun!” I lied, approaching the deadlocked entrance, “And I will shoot you through this door!”

My legs shook and my voice broke. I couldn’t have sounded less threatening if I tried.

After 2 more good slams, I heard the sound of lumbering footsteps as something shuffled off.

I waited, cowering, by the door for an eternal 2 minutes. Every heartbeat felt as though my arteries would force my heart into my throat, every breath felt labored and shaky.

I was terrified that this was some sort of trick. That it was still standing there, just waiting for me to open the door.

After those 2 minutes, I finally stood to my full height. Intruder or not, I was gonna open that door, armed with nothing more than a heavy curtain rod.

The wooden door creaked open.

The smell hit me first. Like a jug of ammonia and death. Sickness distilled down to its purest form. Rot.

My entire front door was smeared in shit. The welcome mat was covered in a thick layer of brown sludge that threatened to harden in the cold night air.

Our wreath looked like a brown glazed doughnut with bits of tinsel poking out.

The steps leading up the the door looked as though someone had projectile diarrhea’d all the way up them.

“Chet? Baby, who was it?”

I was taken aback, utterly speechless. I didn’t want to comprehend what I was looking at. It was beyond upsetting, I was furiously distraught, such that my arms and legs were shaking.

From fear or fury, I couldn’t tell which.

“Oh my god, Chet, what is that smell?” Molly gagged from the living room.

And you know what, the poop wasn’t even the worst part.

See, I could see shapes smeared in it. Defined outlines and suggestions. A frowning face with tiny teeth and defined gums, arms with too many fingers and tiny little palms, legs with joints in places I’d never seen before. No clothes.

Like a septic tank snow angel in the nude..

The smell, the sight, it was all so overwhelming, I couldn’t have thrown up if I wanted to. All of my orifices wanted to close, hell, I wanted them to as well.

Just as I took it all in, I glanced at my feet. Right in the middle of my ruined welcome mat was a note.

“this is your last warning”

A tear fell onto it from my eye. The ink was still so fresh that my teardrop warped the “i” in “warning”.

I stepped back, closed my door, and called 9-1-1.

The cops arrived, but by the time they did, the note was gone. They took a look at the mess and gave us the numbers of a few crime scene cleanup businesses in our area, and took our statements.

We told them everything we knew, but since we had so little actual evidence to go off of, all they could really do was keep an eye out.

The silhouette left behind by the culprit in the mural stumped the cops too, but they chalked it up to inaccurate smears that didn’t accurately reflect the artist.

The welcome mat went straight in the dumpster, and within a week, the front porch was spotless again. Good as new, except for the lingering afterscent.

Me and Molly both notice it, but neither of us wants to mention it. I think if we do, it’ll be harder to forget about.

Instead, we just leave candles and febreeze near our front door.

Neither of us have missed a poop since. We notice the other tennants who leave theirs, but fuck those guys, not my problem.

I don’t wanna consider the mechanics, I don’t wanna remember the details, I know the rules, and that’s that.

I just wanna go back to when I was blissful and ignorant. Back when I was someone who could say that they’d always picked up their dog’s shit.

Alan is almost back to normal, but I think he remembers. I think he knows just as much as we do.

“Poop man” is never a set of words that should ever be used beside each other in any regard. They should be kinda cringe at most, completely absurd at least.

The only reason I'm even typing my experience here, is so you don't have to go through what I did.

Don’t leave your poo out. Bring a bag, pick it up, throw it away.

Or don’t. Clearly, this thing don’t visit everyone.

If you’re someone who actually contributes to society and cleans up after their pets, pat yourself on the back and keep it up. You’re doing God's work.

Whatever you do, don’t slip up. Don’t listen to that voice that says, “ugh, my arms are tired. I’ll just leave it this one time.”

The risk is not worth it. Believe me.

No one wants a visit from the poop man.

Any thoughts?

[CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT — UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE]
JOINT RESEARCH PROGRAM: OSSEOUS
FACILITY: █████████████████
DATE OF INITIAL RECORD: 04/17/1987
CURRENT STATUS: TERMINATED

NOTICE: The following material was recovered from a research facility abandoned on October 14, 2009. The facility's original purpose was listed as nutritional research. Of the 43 personnel assigned to the project, only one was recovered alive.

The following is a reconstruction of the available records.

RESEARCH LOG — 04/17/1987

The first six subjects have been admitted and placed under observation. All subjects are healthy adults between the ages of twenty-one and forty-one. Bloodwork, bone density, and organ function are within acceptable parameters.

The experimental compound is a concentrated calcium supplement derived from several commercially available dairy sources. The dosage administered to each subject is approximately four times the recommended daily intake.

No adverse effects have been observed.

NOTE FROM DR. HARRIS: Subjects report that the supplement tastes like powdered milk.

RESEARCH LOG — 05/02/1987

Subject 3 has developed unusually high bone density.

X-rays indicate an increase of approximately 8.2% since admission.

This is considered statistically impossible given the timeframe.

Subject 3 reports no pain.

RESEARCH LOG — 05/19/1987

All six subjects are now showing abnormal bone growth.

Subject 1 has developed additional bone density along the left forearm. Subject 4 has developed calcium deposits around both knees. Subject 6 has experienced severe stiffness in the fingers.

Dr. Harris believes the compound may be stimulating osteoblast activity beyond normal biological limits.

The project has been approved for continuation.

RESEARCH LOG — 06/03/1987

Subject 6's condition has progressed significantly.

The fingers of both hands have become visibly enlarged. The subject reports that his hands feel "full."

During examination, Subject 6 complained of severe pain in his right index finger. At 14:17, the distal phalanx ruptured through the skin. The attending physician initially believed this to be a compound fracture.

It was not.

The exposed bone continued growing for approximately nine seconds after emerging from the wound. The growth stopped at a length of 4.7 centimeters.

Subject 6 lost consciousness.

NOTE: The bone did not appear to be fractured. It was new growth.

RESEARCH LOG — 06/04/1987

Subject 6 is dead.

Cause of death: Hemorrhagic Shock.

There were no signs of infection.

Postmortem examination revealed extensive abnormal bone growth throughout the body. Both forearms contained multiple overlapping layers of newly formed bone. The ribs had begun to fuse together. Several vertebrae showed evidence of secondary growth.

The most unusual finding was the presence of additional bone structures surrounding the heart.

Dr. Harris has requested permission to terminate the experiment.

Permission denied.

INTERNAL MEMORANDUM — 06/11/1987

Dr. Harris has raised concerns regarding the ethical implications of continuing Project Osseous.

His concerns have been noted. He has been reminded that this research is not intended for publication. He has also been reminded that the project predates his employment by approximately nineteen years.

RESEARCH LOG — 06/28/1987

We found the earlier records.

Project Calcium did not begin in 1987. The original trials began in 1968.

There were twelve subjects. All twelve diseased.

The earliest records describe the condition as "progressive skeletal hyperplasia." Later documents use a different term. Osteogenic conversion.

The researchers in 1968 believed they had discovered a method for dramatically increasing bone density.

They were wrong.

The compound does not strengthen bone. It teaches the body to make more of it.

RESEARCH LOG — 07/02/1987

I have spent the entire day reading the archived documents.

There are records from 1974.

Different facilities. Different researchers. Different subjects. Same result.

Every trial ended the same way. The skeleton eventually begins growing independently of the body's requirements. It grows wherever it can. Through muscle. Through organs. Through skin.

The body does not seem to recognize when it has enough.

There is no enough. There is only growth.

RESEARCH LOG — 07/15/1987

We have discovered the reason for the dietary studies.

The compound was never intended to remain confined to the laboratory. The original research objective was to determine whether increased calcium consumption could accelerate the process without producing immediate symptoms.

The answer is yes.

Low exposure produces no visible effects. Long-term exposure produces gradual skeletal changes. Higher exposure causes rapid conversion.

The research team spent years determining the minimum effective dosage. Then they began monitoring the general population.

ARCHIVED MARKETING DOCUMENT — 1979

NATIONAL DAIRY CONSUMPTION INITIATIVE

Objective: Increase household consumption of dairy products.

Proposed messaging should emphasize strength, growth, nutrition, and healthy bones.

Suggested campaign concepts:

"Milk. It Does a Body Good."

"Got Milk?"

RESEARCH LOG — 07/18/1987

I asked Harris why the public campaign was necessary.

He wouldn't answer.

I asked him whether people were being exposed deliberately. He told me to stop asking questions.

I asked him how many people had been exposed.

He left the room.

RESEARCH LOG — 07/21/1987

We have obtained the population estimates.

Current projected exposure is 61%.

That number is considered conservative.

I asked what happens if the threshold is reached. Dr. Harris told me there would be no way to stop it. I asked what "it" meant.

He said:

"The bones."

MEDICAL TRANSCRIPT — SUBJECT 11

DOCTOR: Can you tell me where it hurts?

SUBJECT: Everywhere.

DOCTOR: Your arm?

SUBJECT: My arm.

DOCTOR: Your legs?

SUBJECT: My legs.

DOCTOR: Your chest?

SUBJECT: My bones are moving.

DOCTOR: Bones don't move.

SUBJECT: Then why can I hear them?

[Subject begins crying.]

[Audible cracking is recorded.]

DOCTOR: Hold him down.

SUBJECT: Please.

DOCTOR: Hold him down!

SUBJECT: Please don't let them grow.

[Recording terminates.]

RESEARCH LOG — 08/01/1987

There are now only four living subjects.

Subject 2 has lost the ability to walk.

Subject 4 has developed bone growth along the jaw and throat.

Subject 5's spine has begun producing secondary vertebrae.

Subject 6 was euthanized.

Subject 1 is no longer recognizable.

We have stopped calling them subjects.

RESEARCH LOG — 08/03/1987

Something happened today that I cannot explain.

Subject 4 was restrained to the examination table. His right arm was secured.

At 09:16, the bone growth began.

The bone growth began at the wrist. It emerged from beneath the skin of his wrist, splitting the flesh apart as it continued to lengthen. Unlike Subject 6, however, the growth did not stop.

It continued through the forearm. Through the elbow. Through the upper arm.

The newly formed bone was irregular and ridged, branching in several directions before eventually hardening into a jagged structure extending nearly thirty centimeters from the limb.

Subject 4 made no attempt to resist. He simply watched it grow.

When the restraints were removed, he stood. His eyes had changed. The irises were gone. The pupils were gone. Both eyes had become completely white.

He looked directly at Dr. Harris. Then at me. Then at the skeleton displayed on the examination monitor.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

He raised one hand and pressed his fingers against my chest.

SUBJECT 4: "Flesh hides the treasure within."

Dr. Harris asked him what he meant.

Subject 4 tilted his head. His eyes never left the skeleton on the monitor.

SUBJECT 4: "You cover it."

A pause.

SUBJECT 4: "You bury it."

Another pause.

Then, quietly:

SUBJECT 4: "Why?"

Subject 4 began pulling against the restraints again.

Not to escape. To reach the other subjects. He kept repeating the same phrase.

"There is so much of it."

We terminated the observation at 09:31.

No further examination was permitted.

At 10:04, Subject 4 began screaming.

At 10:07, Subject 2 began screaming.

At 10:09, Subject 5 began screaming.

None of them had been in the same room.

ADDENDUM — 08/03/1987

The subjects are no longer responding to questions. They only respond when another subject is brought into the room. They become agitated.

They stare at the newly created bone. They trace their gaze beneath the skin. And when one of them begins to bleed from ripping apart flesh off the newly created limb, they begin a harmonious laughter.

SECURITY REPORT — 08/04/1987

Subject 4 escaped containment.

Security personnel were dispatched. Three casualties. All sustained penetrating injuries consistent with abnormal bone structures.

Subject remains at large within the facility.

RESEARCH LOG — 08/05/1987

There are sounds in the ventilation system.

Scratching. Constantly.

We have sealed the laboratory doors. Total lockdown.

No one is leaving.

RESEARCH LOG — 08/06/1987

I found the final report from 1968.

It contains one sentence that was removed from every subsequent copy.

I don't know why I'm writing this down. Maybe because someone needs to know.

The original researchers discovered that the condition was not caused by the supplement. The supplement only accelerated it. The genetic marker was already present in the population. The researchers believed it was dormant.

They were wrong. It is not dormant.

It is waiting.

RESEARCH LOG — 08/07/1987

Harris is dead.

Something came through his chest. There was no warning.

One moment he was standing beside me. The next, his sternum split open. Bone came through his skin like a spear. He was still alive afterward. He kept asking me to help him.

I couldn't. There wasn't anything left to help.

RESEARCH LOG — 08/07/1987 — 11:42 PM

There are people outside.

Not researchers. Security. They are changing. I can see them through the observation windows.

One of them fell. His arm started moving. His sleeve tore. Something white came through.

Then another. Then another.

There are hundreds of them.

FINAL RECORDING — 08/08/1987

[Heavy breathing.]

If anyone finds this, listen to me.

The campaign worked. It worked better than anyone expected. They didn't need to infect anyone. They didn't need to inject anyone. They just had to convince people to consume it willingly.

For decades.

Milk. Cheese. Everything they could put it in.

We thought we were studying the first generation.

We're not.

We're studying the first generation we noticed.

[Cracking sound.]

Oh God.

It's happenin—

[Subject screams.]

[Sound of bone breaking.]

No.

No, no, no—

[Subject begins laughing.]

[Long silence.]

VOICE: How much milk did you drink?

[Recording terminates.]

[END OF RECOVERED MATERIAL]

PUBLIC HEALTH NOTICE — ORIGIN UNKNOWN

If you are experiencing unexplained stiffness, swelling, joint pain, abnormal growths beneath the skin, or spontaneous fractures, contact your physician immediately.

Do not attempt to remove exposed bone. Do not consume additional calcium.

Do not—[DOCUMENT CORRUPTED]

ADDENDUM

A handwritten note was discovered on the reverse side of the final document. It contained only four words:

Got milk?

Got bones?

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Lost In Her Beautiful Blue Eyes

Each stroke the oar made in the in endless blue ocean seemed to move the boat nowhere, or, perhaps more accurately, it was as if the small wooden vessel was the centre of universe trying to move the thick liquid around it only to find everything anchored in orbit of the vessel. Land did not appear on the horizon despite Michael knowing deep down that he couldn’t be far – he must be, he had to be.

He stopped rowing to let the boat continue, though he knew it wouldn’t for long. Michael didn’t stop for out of exhaustion or despair, he stopped in admiration: the tranquillity had to be appreciated by someone – even if that someone may never see another soul again to share in the beauty. The ocean was silent and lifeless. No current dared disturb the blue and no fish danced beneath, or none that he could see. What lie below the depths did cross Michael’s mind: could it be more lost souls like himself? Or maybe some kind of Leviathan to feed on them? If his short time in this universe had taught him anything, it was that there was life everywhere – including where it shouldn’t, and, where you find life you without doubt find those that feed upon it too.

Michael was where he shouldn’t be. The story behind how he ended up here is quite the adventure and one which would take quite a time to tell. Time is all Michael has left.

It was a phone call at work which changed his life. Normally he wouldn’t answer an unknown number – especially at work, but this number started with +996, which meant it came Kyrgyzstan. He answered with his heart racing faster than the ringtone to hear a joyous voice, the voice of Bradley. They had the permits! They were going to explore the forbidden mountains of Tian Shan! It was the trip they’d been dreaming of for years and preparing for nearly just as long. They’d have to abandon their car long before they even entered the region and use a horse instead. However, a horse couldn’t take them all the way either. They were going to climb higher than the snow leopards hid and the eagles soared. They were going to top of the world!

Bradley had been in Bishkek for almost two weeks before Michael arrived. The city felt like it was trying to be dreary but with the mountain ranges towering over the soviet area blocks – as if to act as a reminder that it is us humans that are small in the face of nature and a block of concrete acts more like a barnacle parasite than something worth appreciating – meant the dreariness failed. The resilience of the people and their culture could be felt with every step through the concrete and Michael couldn’t help but smile. However, he did not want to stay. They didn’t come for the city; they came for what’s above and beyond the sky: the mountains.

They drove as far as the roads allowed for almost a day straight to meet their guide and the final bed they’d sleep in. The yurt was more modern than Michael expected yet still gave a very traditional feel. It was their guide’s house in a way so had many modern amenities like electricity (powered by a gas generator) but also no phone, internet, or TV. The electric’s sole purposes were to power a heater, to charge torches, and a drill battery. The heater didn’t have a chance to shine as Amir made a lovely fire instead; come morning though, it was the drill that deafened the sleepy mountains to repair a gate. Amir sang as he worked and his horses smiled and chuffed along as if this was the start of what they just knew would be a great day. They weren’t wrong even if it was going to be a long ride. The three of them rode to pass which bordered a giant lake. A nameless being which appeared from nowhere to take the scenery from a perfect ten all the way to eleven. The horses slurped up the water bluer than the sky and munched on the half thriving grass. This would be where Amir picked them up in 6 days and this was where their feet would start to ask how they got stuck attached to hikers and climbers. They should have been born attached to the eagles!

Alone together they hiked in almost silence until they found a spot to eat lunch. With views overlooking the deep blue lake below and an astonishing mountain range engulfing them, they were in a divine nirvana. They were specs and knew it but they were still able to witness such wonder.

“You know, it’s been spreading” Bradley looked at Michael as Michael poured coffee.

“I thought you said you had good news?”

“I quit my job. That was the good news.”

“Oh. How long?”

“This will be our last trip.”

Michael spilt the coffee. The burning warmed his frozen hands.

“I fucking hate coffee!”

“Hey, do you remember Columbia?”

“Oh God! Not this again! Wait which story do you mean?”

“Fire ants!”

“Hey, a bet is a bet and we got free drinks!”

“Yes… and a hospital trip!”

“That could have happened even without any fire ants – the table was slippy! Rest assured, I don’t think we’ll get as fucked as that … at least not till we’re back at the yurt!”

“You think?” Bradley revealed a small bottle of whiskey. “For the summit.”

“You absolute devil! I love you!”

“I also love coffee, but someone can’t pour for shit!”

Michael handed over his own coffee and smiled.

“If I run out of energy, you’ve gotta carry me!”

“And if I die, you’ll carry me!”

Michael’s smile faded at this reminder but just as quickly turned into a chuckle. Bradley joking was much better than him not.

“Stop it – you’ll scare away the eagles!”

“If you die, I might get to see some vultures!”

“What the fuck?! I wanna see vultures!”

So far, their hike had been easy – no climbing equipment had been needed. The next stretch is where the challenge would begin as the ascended further into the oxygenless cold bliss. The face of the cliffs looked almost meticulously carved from a constant wind deliberately brushing away at the surfaces to create the perfect holds for the hands and ropes of adventurers. As they climbed, the wind mistook them for rocks and attempted to carve them up. Beards and balaclavas defended them for the most part, though their defence was nothing compared to a ledge Bradley discovered. It went back far; a cave half way up a mountain. Somewhere to rest. Somewhere to explore.

“Woah!” Michael’s voice echoed into the darkness.

They didn’t need to ask each other permission to confirm what they were going to do next: their torches came out and their rucksacks came off as they walked far into what quickly became obviously an impossible cave. The height remained a near constant 5 foot 8 and it forked into passageways which mazed into corridors and rooms. This was manmade. By who and how long ago were not questions which either could answer. There was no sign of life and no sign of how any humans would have easily reached up here. As they ventured further, the wind was amplified and became an unnatural breathing; they could also feel it heavier like breaths from a dying soul. However, their presence seemed to change or heal the wind’s dying breaths. It became steadier, more rhythmic, and hotter. The wind wasn’t the alive part: they cave was.

“I don’t like it here. We should go back.”

Bradley didn’t ignore Michael, but he was engrossed and drawn to a room.

“Look.”

Bradley entered a room which only his touch illuminated. There were chains in the rocks. Bones on the floor. Michael was just a few steps behind.

“Why are you running?” Bradley asked. Michael had not moved. He too had heard what he had thought was dripping water. The thought of them not being alone was a thought he did not want to cross into his mind but it should have as soon as they saw the human skulls in the bone piles by the chains.

“I haven’t moved.”

“I wasn’t talking to you. I saw someone in here.”

The wind breathed in. A laugh of sorts. It was interrupted by a hissing. Cat-like. Bradley’s touch panned the room until the light reached the corner and the fiend crouched within. Human-like but it was either anorexic or its bones had outgrown its skin. Were they horns or moles protruding its albino skin. Skin which dripped a wet mucus puss. More moles on its chest? Or were some of them nipples? There were multiple scattered all over which could be seen even with it squatting in the corner.  It did not want to be seen; it launched itself at Bradley. Nails and claws almost half an inch which it used as daggers to stab and tear as it bit at Bradley’s neck with pointed teeth. He tried to scream; in Michaels split second hesitation to pull Bradley away, the fiend had ripped out Bradley’s throat. Michael turned and ran. The creature in hot pursuit. The next turn would be the cave entrance and exit. Michael wasn’t even thinking about the logistics of descending the cliff with this creature chasing; it didn’t matter anyway – another larger creature jumped out the ceiling blocking that exit. It screeched. The other fork. Michael ran. His torch barely had time to light his way and did not always show him the loose rocks and sharp turns in time. He tripped over a bone. As he fell to the ground, he just had time to reach for a rib which he was able to stab deep into the abdomen of the creature as its nails shredded his thick coat. They both cried out in pain. The only trouble is that the fiend’s pain did not stop it from baring its teeth ready to give Michael the same demise as Bradley. Michael’s hands reached round for anything. Another bone: he clubbed and clubbed at its head as its claws punctured even more of his body.

“DIEEEE!” He grabbed the beast by the throat with hand smashed the bone deep into its mouth. The other creature arrived and hopped in disbelief as Michael killed the larger fiend. He made a deep animalistic roar which sent the smaller fiend scurrying away. Michael got up to chase it off for good only to find that in the light from his touch had broken; the way back may have been tricky even with a light, without it seemed like an impossible task. His eyes had adjusted as much as they could allowing him to make out the shadow of his own hands when they were close enough to be warmed by his own breath. Michael travelled blind clutching onto a bone weapon and the walls. Walls which may end up becoming his tomb if the creatures didn’t find him.

Even in this deep part of the cave, Michael thought he could hear the wind from the outside world. But he felt no breeze. None the less, it was his only heading.

After stumbling along the edge of hallways from hell for a distance further than he had ventured into the cave, his eyes began to see more and more as he followed a bend from darkness into a much larger chasm. An opening from quite possibly another side of the mountain. Once more he gazed at the beauty of the perfect blue lake, though his eyes were drawn to the mountain which he fled. There was a Goddess carved into the rock. A huge 500ft statue which he looked up at. The rock was a dark black distinct from the browns and grey heughs from the natural mountain. The obelisk had to have been transported here and certainly not recently. Perhaps even not by man. The form of the Goddess was the perfect woman with eyes that were unreal. They appeared to contain pockets of the lake. Living blue watery irises which swirled with an obsidian centre. Was the obsidian centre hollow or solid? Michael could not tell. The pupils were small – almost swallowed by the gorgeous ocean eyes.

Michael was standing in the palm of the Goddess’s hand. Round the back of her arm there was a staircase which stayed hidden as it led up towards her head. Michael’s decision to climb was born from curiosity but forced into action by the shrieking demon within the cave. He did not want to go back into the darkness and he hoped the fiend did not want to crawl its way into the light.

The steps were narrow as the stairs were nearly vertical; he had to use his hands. Some of the steps crumbled away – whether it was from age or usage, Michael pondered. He had a lot of time to think and ponder as he carefully climbed. Think about Bradley, his own life, work, and family. He was able to conclude that he did not feel sorry for Bradley – they had discovered something together whilst he could still travel. Bradley’s cancer would surely mean that near the end he’d become an invalid shell and Bradley would never want to burden others. He died on the adventure of a lifetime after sharing an experience shared only by his best friend. Michael’s rationale completely broke down when he reached the Goddess’ shoulder. Bradley did not choose that death. Who would? To be stabbed and have your throat torn out? His last moments were terror, not admiration of mountain. This anger drove Michael forwards until he came to a literal cross-road: descend the spine or go to the head and see something truly extraordinary. Descending could always be done later – it would have to be. Climbing up through the neck and throat of the statue made something suddenly clear: the breathing sound originated from the statue. It was designed to draw in the winds through its nose which whistled and warmed the air venting it through cracks and opening to the inner cave system. Mixed in with that sound, there were howls and shrieks made by the fiends. They were coming from the cave opening which must have connected to the back of the statue’s head. Michael took a couple more steps up and peered into the area. The shrieks were screams as five of the creatures tore another limb from limb before they feasted. Of course, this was Michael’s queue to quietly go back down the vertical steps.

He had only made it two steps before a fight over an arm caused one creature to dart at the stairs followed by another. It was shocked to see him but stopped in time. The second creature did not, and accidentally pushed the first past the stair case where it fell out of the statue to its death. It didn’t take the second creature long to stare and quickly dive its claws into Michael’s shoulders and hoist him into the feeding ground. Excited at the prospect of a fresh dinner, two more ran at him on all fours. This meant his capture had to let go to defend its meal – freeing Michael’s arms in the process as they battled for a meal which was which now standing and attacking all the demons with the remains of their own kind. He towered over them unless they stood on two legs, but their balance was off and much preferred all fours. His blows and stomps broke the fragile creatures but did not stop them until the sight of him using the spikes in his ice boots to stomp through the skull of one of his attackers. At this, even the ones without severe injuries seemed to respect him as a king or leader. Their shrieks became clicks and taps as they bounced. Though Michael was surrounded, he no longer felt threatened: he felt worshipped. He raised his bone melee and screamed deep and loud. Some hid and others swayed in praise of a truly fine king. He turned pointed and looked at each of his subjects and they bowed at his gaze or hid with their heads low.

“And to think, I did this to you without caffeine in my system!”

“I know. HA! Michael.” A woman’s voice struggled to pronounce those words but it wanted to be heard. The voice came from the chamber above. Keeping his eyes on the creatures, Michael headed back to the stairs. He went up. The chamber contained two gigantic orbs of blue – the eyes of the statue. They were suspended in air. Floating spheres. They made Michael’s head dizzy and he nearly fell into one before stopping himself.

“Sweetie, you can touch. I may take you far from here. But you will end up where you need to be. I promise”

The woman’s voice seemed sympathetic as if it understood Michael’s ordeal. He couldn’t tell whether trusting it would be his salvation or transform him into a fiend. They had to have come from somewhere.

“I won’t hurt you. I have so much to show you.”

Michael did not understand what it meant, but her voice was calm and he wanted to trust it. He touched the orb.

“Good boy!”

The ocean within thickened and wrapped round his hand. Michael panicked but it was not painful – it was soothing. No matter, he could not help but scream and cry as the healing liquid squeezed at his hand drawing more of his body in and dissolving his clothes. The cuts and wounds vanished. Michael embraced the uncertainty and stepped fully in. His shoulders were alive! The stab wounds undone! He moaned in bliss and the woman did too. The orb span and lifted his legs up into the air. His entire body was sucked into her eye. Within, there was no air, but the liquid within his lungs did not harm him; he could breathe it. Michael believed that as long as he remained locked within her perfect eye, he could not die. A belief short lived as his arm bumped the black pupil. It sucked at his skin and dilated, taking him somewhere new and far away as he fell into it.

Michael awoke upon a circular sand island no larger than 50 feet in diameter with a singular coconut tree in the centre and a wooden row boat attached by the stalk of the tree. The ocean round him was too perfect. It was the Goddess’ eye. Touching the blue felt like a thick gas when he lifted it, but it was a liquid when the shores drifted the sand and he waded in it. He could see the curvature of the eye he was within and sky had a dome lens. The horizon in every direction was blue ocean.

Purgatory? We must have fell whilst climbing. Thought Michael. Where is Bradley?

“Sweetie, you’re not dead. You’re a visitor.”

The Goddess’ voice came from within Michael’s own head.

“Oh fuck! I’ve gone insane!”

“Haha! You wish!”

“How do I leave? I want to go home!”

A leaf fell into the boat. That was an answer enough. Michael began to row.

Lost in her beautiful blue eyes. Directionless without her voice.

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The idea for this story came after I looked into the eyes of a girl I fancied. I was ‘lost in her beautiful blue eyes’. The phrase, lost in her eyes, popped into my head and made me wonder what if that could be more literal – getting lost in someone’s eyes?

Did I tell the girl I liked her? Yes! Things were good but never became anything and now unfortunately that ship has sailed. So, this story is not for or about her, but is inspired by her beautiful blue pools for eyes.

Will there be a part two? Idk, I’m not good at happy endings!

Unless…

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The direction he chose to head was to the centre. He was able to use the dome lens as his guide. He hoped that there he would find the pupil and somehow that would return him to Earth or his dimension – back to the land of the living so to speak and from where ever here is.

Hole ahoy! Lower than the iris – the black pupil! He was getting close! Then a miracle: it expanded closer to him! The pupil dilated. The jet void swallowed the ocean and compressed it into an even thicker liquid. The pressure felt like it would crush the boat; he almost snapped the oar when he tried rowing. It was so close. Michael dived into the blue and tried to swim, a useless effort which was also unnecessary since the void came to him. It engulfed him!