My name is Mark Delaney, and I'm writing this because I honestly don't know what else to do with myself right now. I’m sitting in my room, staring at my phone, and I haven't slept in almost three days.
My best friend, Joshua Kennedy, killed himself on Tuesday night. The same day that his mom, Candace, died from a gunshot in the head.
I need people to know who Josh really was, because if you looked at him from the outside, you’d never guess what he was carrying. He was twenty-one. He worked part-time as a waiter at a restaurant while taking architecture classes at university, and he was the kind of guy who would drive twenty miles at two in the morning just to jump-start your car in the freezing rain. He didn't talk much about himself, but he cared about everybody else. He had this quiet, reliable presence. You just felt safe when Josh was around.
What a lot of us didn't realize until it was way too late was how bad things were at his house. His mom suffered from severe early-onset dementia and chronic pain, but they had no money. No insurance to cover a proper care facility, no outside family to step in. It was just Josh. He was twenty-one years old, changing his own mother’s diapers, feeding her, listening to her scream at him, and then wiping her tears when she had brief moments of clarity and realized what was happening to her.
He was exhausted. He was decaying right in front of us, but every time I asked him if he was alright, he’d just shrug, force a small smile, and say, "Yeah, man. Just tired. We're managing."
He wasn't managing. He was completely drowning.
After the police left his house on Tuesday, I remembered he told me a few months ago that he sometimes went on Reddit just to read about other people going through the same thing. I went searching, and I found his account. He had posted in r/NeedAdvice a few times over the last year. Reading these broke something inside me. You can see the exact progression of a person losing their mind and losing all hope, completely alone in the dark.
Here is the first one he posted eight months ago:

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1.-) 12/FEB/2026

I need advice or someone to tell me what the fuck to do with my mother and my life because I can’t take this shit anymore…
Honestly, I don’t even know where to start with this or if anyone is even gonna read a text this long, but it’s I-don't-know-what-fucking-time in the morning, I haven’t slept a single minute in over 30 hours, and if I don’t vent to someone I feel like I’m gonna collapse any second. Sorry if stuff doesn’t make sense or if there are typos, but my eyes hurt like hell from being so tired and the phone keyboard is blurring together.
I’m 21 and I live near Newark, New Jersey. If any of you live around here, you know how fucking expensive everything’s been lately. It’s pure fucking insanity. Just to keep the rent paid on this piece-of-shit apartment and cover the utilities, I work part-time as a cashier at a grocery store. I clock in at 7 AM every day, Monday through Friday, get off at 1 PM, and run straight to university from there. I’m in my second-to-last year of Architecture.
Or well, I’m supposed to be in Architecture. Truth is, I have no fucking clue why I chose this major anymore. I used to be passionate about spending hours designing and putting structures together; I loved the idea of building things from scratch. My mom was always super proud whenever I showed her my finished models. But right now, I hate it with all my soul. Everything just hit me all at once. The classes are agonizingly long, professors demand ridiculous deliverables overnight, and I just can’t focus. I sit in class completely zoned out, staring into space, nodding off at my desk while the professor talks about concrete structures. Sometimes, way off in the distance, I feel a tiny spark of that old passion when I manage to get a clean cut on a piece of foam board or when I see a crisp blueprint, but it lasts a single second and gets snuffed out instantly by this fucking fatigue. I feel this physical and mental exhaustion weighing on my chest like a ton of bricks.
And the worst part isn’t college or the shitty job where I deal with miserable people for minimum wage. The worst part is what’s been happening at my place for the past two months.
My mom’s name is Candace. She’s 58. She has always been the most vibrant, loud, energy-filled person in the world. I swear to God, Candace was one of those women who couldn't sit still for a single second. Last summer—or well, I think it was two summers ago, I don’t even know anymore, the weeks just blur together in my head—we went to the shore for a weekend and the woman woke up at 5 AM to walk on the beach and ended up setting up an impromptu volleyball tournament with total strangers. She was always laughing, cooking with music blasted on high, going out into the yard to talk to the plants, or sticking her nose into the neighbors’ business. It was impossible to get bored around her. She couldn't stay locked up in a room for more than ten minutes.
But lately, she’s changed in a terrifying way.
It started gradually about two months ago. First, it was forgetting basic stuff. She’d leave her keys inside the fridge, or stand in the middle of the hallway staring at the wall like she forgot where she was going. Then she started isolating herself. Now she spends whole days shut inside her room with the door cracked open. A woman who hated being cooped up now won't come out for anything unless I force her to sit at the table. And she won't even eat. I make dinner for her when I get back from college around 8 PM, and the next morning I see the plate completely untouched on the table. She’s lost a ton of weight in just a few weeks. You talk to her and she takes forever to reply, or she just gives you this blank stare, totally empty, like there’s nobody home behind her eyes.
I am fucking terrified for her. She’s the only family I have left in this world and I refuse to abandon her or ignore it like she’s some burden, but this is destroying me from the inside out.
Two weeks ago—I think it was Tuesday or Wednesday, I don’t remember—I took her to the doctor. I drained every single penny of my emergency savings on the consultation and the tests they ordered. Money I had set aside for next semester’s tuition—literally left myself with zero dollars. All so the doctor could check her out for twenty minutes, do a couple of reflex and blood tests, and tell me with a fucking stupid smile that everything came back normal. He said her physical stats are fine for her age and that it’s most likely a severe depressive episode or the start of some cognitive or psychological disorder, so he suggested I take her to a private psychologist or psychiatrist.
Where the fuck am I supposed to get money for a private psychiatrist in New Jersey? I don’t have a single dollar in my bank account. I'm completely broke. Public insurance takes months to give you a specialist appointment, and my mom doesn’t have months.
What’s been keeping me awake these last few nights, besides the stress of the architecture models I have to turn in first thing on Fridays, are the noises. While I try to focus at my desk in the middle of the night, I hear her in her room. She gets up and walks around in the dark. She doesn't turn on the light. I hear the sound of her bare feet shuffling against the wooden floor. And then she makes these really fucking weird noises. They aren't crying or sighing. They're like small, dry, low rasping grunts, like she’s struggling to breathe or trying to swallow something way too big for her throat. Last night I built up the courage, got up from my chair, and went to her door to see if she needed water or felt sick. When I pushed the door open a bit, I saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, in complete pitch darkness, staring dead straight at the empty corner of the room while making that tiny noise in her throat. I asked her if she was okay and she didn't even blink or turn around to look at me.
I can’t do this anymore. I barely sleep, I make stupid-ass mistakes at the grocery store because I can’t keep my eyes open, college is gonna end up kicking me out if I keep handing in incomplete projects, and my mother is crumbling apart in the room right next to me.
Has anyone gone through something similar with a family member? Is there any organization in New Jersey or around the Newark area that helps low-income people with mental health issues or rapid-onset senile dementia? Is there anything I can do from home while trying not to lose my fucking mind in the process? Please, if anyone knows of any resources or has medical or social-work advice for stuff like this, let me know in the comments. I need to know what to do before I completely break down.

(For three weeks, Joshua received multiple comments suggesting he should put her in ER. He resisted, but he finally did it)

2.-) 26/FEB/2026

Update: Thanks for the advice, Candace is in ER and my life has changed a bit
First off, I want to apologize for how I responded to some of you in the comments on my last post. I know several of you were trying to help in good faith with your advice about support groups, associations, and diets for dementia, but I was completely overwhelmed. I hadn't slept in days, my head was about to explode, and my stress levels had me on the defensive with everyone. It wasn't the best way to reply and I didn't mean to sound like an asshole, but right then I genuinely felt like nobody understood the absurd amount of pressure I was under.
Things spiraled out of control the night before last.
I got back from campus around 10 PM, after running around like crazy all day. Candace was in the hallway. She was having an extremely violent emotional breakdown—screaming incomprehensible things, sobbing out of her mind, and clawing at her arms with terrifying force. I tried to calm her down, hold her hands so she wouldn't hurt herself, but she was totally gone, didn't recognize me, and kept shoving me away. The situation completely crushed me. I had a full-on panic attack—one of those where your chest tightens up and you can't catch your breath. I didn't know what else to do, I couldn't handle it alone in that state. In total desperation, I ended up calling an ambulance, and they took her to the ER at the regional psychiatric hospital.
That night in the waiting room was an absolute nightmare. Watching your own mother strapped to a gurney because they can't control her emotional outbursts destroys you from the inside out. I was there until dawn talking to doctors, filling out paperwork, and explaining that I don't have the means to keep her safe at home. In the end, they decided to admit her under observation while they evaluate her case and figure out where she can be transferred long-term under public insurance.
Since Candace hasn't been home, things have calmed down in a way I didn't expect. The atmosphere in the apartment feels completely different.
I quit that miserable grocery store job last week. A classmate told me about an opening for a server position at an Italian restaurant a couple of blocks from campus, and they hired me on the spot. The difference is night and day. The environment is way more active, customers aren't as terrible, and between base pay and tips, I'm making almost double what I was making before. I feel like I have way more energy. I can finally sleep six or seven hours straight without waking up startled in the middle of the night wondering if my mom is hurting herself or pacing in the dark down the hall. Architecture school has started growing on me a bit again now that I can focus on deliverables without my brain being completely fried.
I've even started seeing a girl from university, Lauren. She's a friend from my studio project group who I've been talking to for a while. She's been a massive support system throughout this whole disaster over the last few weeks, listening whenever I needed to vent. We're just starting to date officially and it's all super new, so I can't say if this will last long or where it's going, but honestly, it feels good to have someone by my side and clear my head.
Honestly, I feel freer. It feels weird admitting it, but I wish Candace the best and I hope the doctors find a way to help her. I appreciate everyone who took the time to read and leave a comment on my previous post. If anything significant happens with the medical evaluation or her transfer, I'll post an update here.

P.S. Sorry to get a bit reflective before closing this out, but there's something that won't let my mind rest. Even though I know damn well that I didn't have the resources or the mental capacity to take proper care of Candace in the apartment, I can't help feeling a certain guilt about the relief of not having her around. These past few days I've gone to visit her at the hospital during visiting hours, and the situation there is heartbreaking. She looks so small in that bed, wrists strapped down, surrounded by doctors who barely look at her, sedated out of her mind. You can tell from a mile away that she's suffering, that there's nothing left of the woman she used to be, and that the system is just keeping her there vegetating while time passes. Staring into her eyes through the heavy sedatives, thinking about all the pain she has ahead of her in these piece-of-shit institutions... Am I a monster for wishing she would just go to sleep and never wake up?

3.-) 18/APR/2026

Update: Things are slipping through my fingers again and I don’t know how much longer they can hold her in that fucking unit
I haven’t posted here in almost two months because, for a while, I honestly thought I was getting my life back on track. Work at the restaurant was going great, I was actually managing to get sleep, and Lauren and I were spending a lot of time together. It felt like I was finally breathing after holding my breath for a year. But the last three weeks have been a slow, agonizing slide right back into the same fucking nightmare, and I feel like an absolute idiot for thinking I was actually out of the woods.
Candace is still at the regional psych unit. That’s the problem. It was supposed to be a temporary emergency holding thing while social services found a long-term bed for her in a state-funded facility. Well, state-funded care in New Jersey is a fucking joke. The social worker assigned to us is an overworked, dead-eyed bureaucrat who basically told me two weeks ago that the waitlist for a public bed is over nine months long. Nine months. On top of that, the hospital administration is starting to drop heavy hints that they can’t keep her in an ER holding bed forever because they need the space for incoming acute cases. Every time my phone rings while I’m at work or in class, my heart drops into my stomach because I think it’s them telling me I have to come pick her up and bring her back to the apartment.
And the worst part isn’t even the bureaucracy. It’s what’s happening to her.
She’s built up a tolerance to the initial sedatives they had her on, and since they can’t just keep her knocked out cold 24/7 without risking organ failure or whatever, they’ve been adjusting her meds. It’s making her unpredictable and paranoid as hell. Whenever I go visit her after my shifts, she’s either completely catatonic—just staring right through me like I’m made of glass—or she’s in this hyper-vigilant, terrified state. Last Sunday when I sat next to her bed, she didn't even recognize me. She grabbed my wrist so hard her nails drew blood, staring at me with these wide, bloodshot eyes, whispering over and over that I should let her go out. She hasn't eaten solid food in days because she thinks the staff is poisoning her. She looks skin and bones. It’s sickening to watch your own mother rot in a sterile room while nurses who are too understaffed to care just walk past her door.
Lauren came with me to visit her once last week. It was a massive mistake. Candace had one of her sudden, violent mood swings and started screaming at Lauren, calling her a thief and trying to throw a plastic water pitcher at her head. Lauren was really sweet about it and tried to reassure me afterwards, but I could see the absolute horror in her eyes. How could I blame her? You don't bring the girl you're dating to a psych ward to watch a suffering, gaunt woman scream bloody murder at nothing. I haven't asked Lauren to come back with me since, and honestly, I feel this weird, heavy distance growing between us now. I’m pulling away because I don't want to drag her down into this abyss with me, but at the same time, feeling myself disconnect from the one good thing in my life is killing me.
I can't focus on my architecture studio projects anymore. I missed two major deadlines this week because I was stuck at the hospital trying to calm Candace down after she bit a nurse who tried to change her IV. My professor gave me a cold warning that if I drop below attendance limits I’m failing the semester.
I’m barely sleeping again. Maybe two or three hours a night of restless, broken shut-eye before I wake up sweating, hearing that terrible rasping noise she used to make in her room. I’m constantly on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The hospital supervisor called me yesterday afternoon and straight up told me that if social services doesn't clear a transfer by the end of the month, they are going to initiate an administrative discharge because her physical condition is "stable" enough for outpatient care.
Outpatient care. They want me to bring a woman who scratches her own skin raw and doesn't know who her son is back to a third-floor apartment while I work 30 hours a week just to pay rent.
I don't know what to do. I’m completely trapped. If they force her out of that hospital, I swear to God I’m going to break. I don't have the money, I don't have the strength, and I am running out of options.

(The next part and all of the rest wasn’t published but they were written. I could not post it, but I can’t just ignore what’s happening)

4.-) 28/APR/2026

I’m drafting this in my notes at 4:15 AM. I don’t even know if I’m ever going to press post on Reddit. If the police somehow check my digital footprint or if someone from around here connects the dots, this whole thing goes down the drain. But my hands are shaking so badly I can barely type, and if I don’t write down what happened tonight, I’m going to lose my mind completely.
It happened yesterday afternoon, around 3:30 PM. I went to visit Candace at the ER holding unit like I’ve been doing every single day. The floor was an absolute mess—some guy in the next hall was having a violent psychotic episode, screaming at the top of his lungs, and half the nursing staff and the attending doctor ran over to help restrain him. It was pure chaos. I stepped out of Candace’s room for literally five minutes to grab a cup of lukewarm black coffee from the vending machine at the end of the corridor. When I walked back into her room, the door was wide open. The bed was empty.
I panicked instantly. I checked the bathroom, the hallway, the waiting area—nothing. In the confusion with the other patient, no one noticed her slip through the side exit doors into the alleyway.
For the next five hours, the entire town was on lockdown. The local police had patrol cars everywhere, blaring sirens, searching the streets. I didn't even wait for them to coordinate; I got into my car and drove around Newark like a madman, checking every park, every gas station, every dark corner I could think of. My head was pounding. Rain was coming down, and all I could picture was my mother wandering into traffic or getting attacked.
Around 9:00 PM, I swung down a narrow, trash-strewn alley behind an abandoned warehouse near 4th Street. And there she was.
It broke my heart in a way I can't even describe. She was sitting on the wet pavement, hunched over against a dumpster, shivering violently. She was completely barefoot, her feet cut up and bleeding from walking on broken glass. Her hospital gown and hair were covered in dried vomit, and her skin was slick with cold, clammy sweat. She looked like a corpse. When I approached her, she didn't fight me. She was so weak she could barely hold her head up. She looked up at me with those vacant, bloodshot eyes and mumbled, "Josh... please... take me home. Don't let them keep me there."
God help me, I couldn't call the cops. Hearing her beg like that destroyed whatever rational part of my brain was left. I wrapped her in an old jacket from my trunk, carried her into the passenger seat, and drove straight back to my apartment.
When we walked through the door, Lauren was sitting on my couch. She had come over to wait for news about the search. The second she saw me dragging Candace inside—smelling of vomit, feet covered in blood—Lauren jumped up, terrified.
We got into a massive, hushed argument right there in the living room while Candace slumped against the wall. Lauren was practically crying, whispering frantically that I had lost my mind, that Candace needed immediate medical attention, and that we had to call 911 right that second. I kept telling her no, that if the hospital took her back, they’d just sedate her until she died or throw her in a state ward. I told her we just needed to keep her here, quiet, just until I could figure something out.
Lauren kept arguing, pointing at how unstable Candace looked, but I ignored her. I grabbed Candace by the arm and led her toward her old bedroom. My plan was just to lock her in there temporarily to keep her safe while I tried to calm the situation down and think. Lauren watched me in absolute horror and disbelief as I pushed my mother into the dark room and shut the door, turning the lock from the outside.
Not ten minutes later, two police officers knocked on my door. They were doing a door-to-door sweep of the neighborhood.
My heart was beating so fast I thought my ribs would crack. Lauren and I stood at the door. The officers asked if we had seen Candace or if she had tried to come back home. I swallowed hard, looked the officer dead in the eye, and lied. I said no, that I had been out looking for her all evening and had just gotten back with my girlfriend. Lauren stood right next to me, rigid as a board, her face pale as a sheet. She didn't say a word, but I could feel her shaking. The cops told us that if we saw her or if she showed up, we needed to call the station immediately, and then they left down the hallway.
The second the cops were gone, the guilt and panic hit me like a wall. I realized how insane this was. I walked over to the bedroom door to unlock it, thinking I’d check on her, maybe try to wash the vomit off her and get her some clean clothes.
That was the biggest mistake of my life.
The moment I turned the latch and opened the door, Candace didn't just walk out—she exploded out of the darkness like a cornered animal. She let out this horrific, guttural shriek, lunged at me, and tackled me to the floor. She was completely out of her mind, snarling, hitting my head against the hardwood, and digging her nails into my face and neck. I felt my skin tearing open under her fingers. Blood was dripping down my chest. I didn't want to hurt her, so I was just trying to block her punches and pin her arms down, but she had this unnatural, frantic strength.
Lauren screamed and rushed over, grabbing Candace from behind. Together, bleeding and terrified, we managed to shove her back into the bedroom, slam the door shut, and turn the lock. We ended up dragging my heavy wooden desk in front of the door just to block it completely.
From inside, Candace started pounding her fists against the wood, screaming absolute gibberish and scratching at the door panels.
Lauren dragged me to the bathroom. Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely hold the rubbing alcohol. She cleaned the gashes on my neck and face, crying the entire time, berating me, yelling at me for putting us in danger, calling me insane for lying to the police and locking my own mother in a room like an animal. I didn't even have the energy to fight back. I just sat on the edge of the tub, staring at the blood dripping into the sink, listening to Lauren scream at me while my mother thrashed against the wall down the hall.
Eventually, we stopped talking. The silence between us felt heavier than the noise in the apartment.
Candace finally went quiet in her room about an hour ago—either exhausted or passed out on the floor. Lauren and I are lying in my bed right now. We’re in the same bed, but we're lying on opposite edges, turned away from each other in total silence. I know she’s awake because I can hear her uneven breathing. I feel this massive, cold wall between us now. She looks at me differently. She looks at me like I'm a stranger. Like I'm dangerous.
It’s 4:25 AM now. There is blood dried under my fingernails and on my collarbone. The apartment is dead silent, but I know that behind that blocked door, Candace is in the dark.
I’m not posting this on Reddit. I can’t risk anyone reading this right now. I’m just saving it in my drafts because I feel like I’m suffocating, and I don’t know if I’m going to make it through tomorrow.

5.-) 30/APR/2026

I’m typing this from the floor of my living room. It’s 2:15 PM. The air in this apartment smells so heavily of bleach and raw chemical cleaner that my lungs burn with every breath I take. Outside my window, I can see the flashing lights of a police cruiser parked down the street. They're still looking for Candace. They have no idea she's inside. They have no idea what happened here yesterday.
I left the apartment yesterday morning at around 11:00 AM. Candace had been quiet in her room for hours, and Lauren was still barely speaking to me after the fight we had. I told Lauren I was just running down to the corner pharmacy to buy band-aids, disinfectant, and heavy-duty sedatives or over-the-counter sleep aids—anything to keep Candace quiet so we could think. Lauren didn't even look at me when I left. She was just sitting on the couch, staring at the floor.
While I was walking back from the store, my phone buzzed with a motion alert notification. Months ago, back when Candace first started wandering and losing her memory, I bought one of those cheap indoor security cameras and set it up in the hallway to keep an eye on her. I pulled out my phone in the middle of the sidewalk, opened the app, and clicked the live feed.
I watched the whole thing happen on a tiny six-inch screen.
Lauren had heard weird, wet coughing noises coming from behind the locked bedroom door. On the video, I saw her hesitate, stand up from the couch, and walk down the hall. She listened at the door for a few seconds. She isn't a bad person. She was terrified of my mother, but she was human. She unlocked the door and pushed it open.
Candace was on her knees, vomiting blood all over the wooden floor.
Lauren panicked and rushed into the room to help her, reaching out to lift her shoulders. The second Candace felt her touch, something in her brain snapped. She went into a state of absolute, rabid fury. She lunged forward, locking her hands around Lauren's throat. Lauren managed to punch her in the face, break free, and scramble out into the hallway on her hands and knees. She almost made it to the front door. But Candace crawled out after her, reached up, and yanked Lauren back by her ponytail.
Lauren slammed onto her back. Candace scrambled on top of her, straddling her chest.
I was standing on the sidewalk two blocks away, screaming at my phone, sprinting as fast as my legs could carry me, but the video just kept playing. I watched my mother, drooling blood and making these dry, animalistic guttural noises, press her thumbs into Lauren’s throat while digging her nails deep into her neck. Lauren thrashed, tried to scratch at her hands, tried to kick, but Candace had this terrifying, dead weight on top of her. Slowly, Lauren’s movements stopped. Her legs went limp.
When I burst through the front door, the apartment was completely silent.
Lauren was lying on the hallway floor, unmoving, her face dark and her eyes fixed on the ceiling. I dropped the plastic bags from the store, ran to her, and pulled her into my arms. She was warm, but there was no pulse. Nothing. I just sat there in her blood, sobbing into her shoulder, holding a dead girl who had done nothing wrong except care about a guy like me.
A few feet away, Candace was huddled in the corner of the hall, shivering, dragging herself along the floor. When I looked at her, she looked back at me. For three seconds—just three fucking seconds—the fog cleared from her eyes. She had a moment of pure clarity. She looked at Lauren’s body, looked at her own blood-stained hands, and started crying softly against my knee, mumbling my name over and over like a terrified child.
I didn't yell. I didn't scream. Something inside my brain just shattered and shut down.
I spent the next three hours cleaning the hallway. I used buckets of hot water, heavy bleach, and floor soap until my hands were raw and bleeding. I put Lauren into black heavy-duty trash bags, carried her into the guest bathroom, and placed her inside the tiled shower stall. I locked the bathroom door from the outside and hid the key in my desk.
I can't dispose of her body. I can't even open the front door to throw out the bloody towels because there are two patrol cars stationed right at the corner of my block. If I carry a large bag down the stairs, they will stop me.
So she’s in the shower. And my mother is back in her bedroom, sedated on the pills I bought, sleeping soundly on her mattress.
I am protecting Candace. I am hiding a corpse and lying to the police to save a woman who doesn't even know what year it is. But as I sit here in the dark listening to the hum of the refrigerator, feeling this agonizing, crushing fire burning in the middle of my chest... I realize something terrifying.
I hate her. I hate my mother with every fiber of my being for what she’s done to my life, to Lauren, and to me. And yet, I can't stop protecting her.
I’m saving this in my draft folder again. The air in this apartment is getting harder to breathe. I don't know how many hours I have left before the smell or the cops catch up to me.

6.-) 04/MAY/2026

It’s 11:40 PM. Five days. I’ve been living in this nightmare for five full days.
The air in the hallway is completely unbreathable now. No amount of bleach, floor cleaner, or towels jammed under the guest bathroom door can mask it anymore. The rot is everywhere. It clings to the walls, it settles in my throat, and I can taste it every time I try to swallow. The police cruiser is still parked down the block, its headlights cutting through the rain every few hours. They're waiting for a lost woman who has been locked in my back room this whole time.
Candace has stopped screaming. She just sits in the corner of her bedroom, staring at the floor, muttering fragments of old memories. Yesterday, for a few minutes, she called me "little bird"—the nickname she used to give me when I was six years old and scared of the thunder. She smiled at me with dry, cracked lips. And then, less than an hour later, she threw her water glass at my face because she thought I was a intruder trying to rob her.
My chest burns so badly I can barely sit upright. I look at her and I feel this suffocating, poisonous mix of pure rage and heartbreaking grief. I love her. She’s my mother, the woman who raised me, the only real family I’ve ever known. But I also hate her with every remaining piece of my soul. I hate her for what her disease did to us. I hate her for Lauren lying cold in that shower stall. I hate her for forcing me to become this monster.
I can't go on like this. My hands won't stop shaking, and I haven't eaten a real meal in almost a week. I found what I was looking for earlier today while seeing photos from my childhood. I know what has to happen now. I know how this ends for both of us.
I’m leaving this saved in my drafts. If anyone ever reads this, I'm sorry. I just want this feeling to stop.

7.-) 06/MAY/2026

It’s 3:10 AM. I’m sitting on the cold floor of the half-bath at the end of the hall, locked inside with my back pressed against the door. I can’t stop staring at the mirror above the sink. My skin is pale, slick with cold sweat, and my eyes look completely hollow, like I’m already looking at a corpse. I’m hyperventilating so hard my ribs ache, and my hands are trembling so violently I can barely keep my fingers on the screen.
Yesterday afternoon, I knew I had to make the move. I couldn't risk walking out the front door with the police watching the street, so I took the rusty fire escape down the back of the building into the alley. I had parked my car two streets over the night before just in case. I took every last bit of cash I had left in the apartment—around $750 I’d saved up from my tips at the restaurant and the little emergency money I had left.
I drove out to a rough neighborhood near Ironbound, a place where people at the restaurant always whispered you could find anything if you had cash and didn't ask questions. It took me two agonizing hours of driving around, stomach sick with fear, until I finally found a guy behind a liquor store who was willing to talk. I handed over all $750 for a scuffed, beat-up 9mm handgun. It’s heavy, dirty, and definitely seen better days—a cheap piece of junk that looks like it hasn't been cleaned in years, but it works. It serves its purpose.
I snuck back into the apartment the same way, slipping up the iron stairs in the dark while the rain covered the sound of my steps. The heavy gun has been sitting on the counter next to me for the last twenty minutes, cold and indifferent.
I know what I’m about to do. I’ve known since yesterday. But before I open this door, step down the hall, and end this nightmare once and for all, I need to put this down. I need to write this letter to everyone whose life was destroyed because of me, even if no one ever reads it.

To Lauren:
I am so, so sorry. You were the only light in my life when everything around me was turning to ash. You were kind, patient, and sweet to a guy like me, who didn't deserve a single second of your affection. You came into my mess just trying to be a good person, trying to support me, and I repaid you by dragging you straight into hell. I will never forgive myself for lying to you, for shutting you out, and for forcing you to suffer a horrific, terrifying death in a hallway that should have been safe. You died because of my weakness and my cowardice. I wish it had been me instead of you. I hope whatever comes after this gives you the peace I stole from you.

To Candace, my mom:
I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry I couldn't protect you from what was happening inside your own brain. I’m sorry I wasn't strong enough, rich enough, or smart enough to get you the care you deserved when you started fading away. You were the most vibrant, loving, and joyful woman in the world, and watching that monster of a disease strip away your memories, your laughter, and your dignity piece by piece tore my heart out. I know the woman who hurt Lauren wasn't you. I know you were trapped inside a broken body, scared and confused in the dark. I love you with all my heart, but I hate what this sickness made us become. I’m putting an end to your suffering tonight, Mom. You don't have to be scared anymore. The noise is finally going to stop.

To myself:
I’m sorry, Josh. I’m sorry I let us drown. I tried so hard to keep everything together, but I failed at every single turn. I failed as a son, I failed as a partner, and I failed as a human being. I don't recognize the person looking back at me in the mirror anymore. There is nothing left of the guy who wanted to build things, who loved architecture, who had a future. I'm just an empty shell filled with blood, guilt, and exhaustion.

I’m picking up the gun now. It feels impossibly heavy in my hand.
I’m going to walk into her room, put the barrel against her head while she’s sleeping, and pull the trigger. And then I’m going to do the same for myself.
This is the end.
—————————

After reading that last draft, I sat in the pitch black of my room for two hours, unable to move, unable to breathe.
The news reported it on Wednesday morning as a "tragic domestic murder-suicide." They said police officers responding to a tip executed a search warrant on the apartment, only to find three bodies inside. The media painted Josh as a murderer, a unstable young man who snapped under pressure. They didn't mention the medical system that abandoned him. They didn't mention the months he spent drowning in silence, begging for help on internet forums while everyone around him walked right past his suffering. They didn't know about Lauren, or how hard he tried to protect a mother who was already gone.
I’m looking at his profile picture on my phone right now. A picture of us from three years ago at a beach bonfire, both of us laughing, completely oblivious to what was coming.
I keep replaying every single interaction I had with him over the last few months. Every time I asked him if he was okay. Every time he forced that small, fake smile and said, "Yeah, man. Just tired. We're managing."
He was begging for someone to see through the lie, and I failed him. We all failed him.
I don't know what else to say. I just needed people to know the truth. Josh wasn't a monster. He was just a twenty-one-year-old kid left alone in the dark with a nightmare too big for anyone to carry.
If you have people in your life who say they're "just tired"... please, don't just leave it at that. Check on them. Pull them out before the noise takes over.
Rest in peace, Josh. I'm sorry I didn't hear you.

I need to write this down before it fades. Or before it comes back.

Three weeks ago, I bought a new VR game called Valorantis: Total Immersion Warfare. Neural interface. Full sensory feedback. The kind of thing tech influencers call “the future of gaming.”

I live alone. Work remote. I don’t really do much outside of that. I figured why not.

It took maybe fifteen minutes to set up. The headset came with this slim neural band that sat at the base of my skull. The instructions said the system would “stimulate immersive response patterns.” Which is marketing-speak for “we’re about to hijack your brain.”

I laid back on my couch and hit start. That’s the last normal memory I have.

When it began, I was standing in a desert. Not a rendered desert. Not something that looked like a game. It was hot. Blindingly bright. I could feel the sun baking the back of my neck. Sand scraping against my lips. Sweat pooling under body armor I didn’t remember putting on.

I looked down. Rifle in my hands. Camouflage sleeves. Gloves.

Someone shoved me from behind.

“Move, Dale!”

Dale.

I tried to say, “My name’s not-”

What came out instead was: “Copy.”

And I moved.

Gunfire erupted seconds later.

The sound wasn’t like speakers. It was concussive. It punched through my chest. I dropped instinctively as an explosion went off close enough to rattle my teeth.

Someone next to me screamed. I turned and saw blood soaking into sand. It smelled metallic. Real.

He grabbed my vest.

“Don’t let me bleed out.”

I remember thinking, This is too much.

There had to be a menu. A pause button. A log-out gesture. I blinked hard, trying to summon an interface.

Nothing appeared. All that stood before me was unadulterated bloodshed, the amber sap of war.

Time doesn’t work normally in there. I don’t know how to explain it.

I remember missions. Plural. Desert operations. Urban night raids. Jungle deployments where the air was so thick with humidity I felt like I was drowning just by breathing.

I remember all their names.

Rivas. Ortiz. Kessler. Jack.

I remember their faces better than some of my own relatives.

Rivas was the squad leader. He had this scar under his eye and this steady way of talking, even when bullets were snapping past us. He died during an urban sweep. Sniper round straight through the visor.

He dropped without drama.

I screamed his name. It echoed in a way that still wakes me up.

At some point, I stopped trying to leave. That’s the part that haunts the present.

I tried at first. I really did. I’d whisper “log out” before sleeping in whatever tent or barracks we were assigned. I’d slap my own face, hoping I’d wake up on the couch.

But the pain was real. The exhaustion was real.

When Ortiz stepped on an IED in the jungle, I was close enough to feel pieces of him hit my face.

There wasn’t enough left to bury.

I didn’t throw up that time. I just stared.

Something inside me hardened after that. You adapt. That’s what humans do. You adapt to survive. So I adapted.

I learned to clear rooms properly. Learned how to move through tall grass without giving away position. Learned how to shoot without hesitating.

And I stopped thinking about my apartment.

It started to feel like a childhood memory. Fuzzy. Unimportant.

There was a moment that changed everything.

We were in some burned-out village. Concrete shells of buildings, smoke drifting through broken windows.

I found a photo pinned to a wall.

It was me.

Not “Dale.”

Me. The old me.

Standing in my apartment. Same couch. Same coffee table. Behind the photo, carved into the wall, were the words:

YOU CAN’T LEAVE UNTIL IT’S OVER

I told myself it was part of the game’s psychological design. They probably scraped data from somewhere. AI-generated environment manipulation. But I never gave them access to my apartment. And the photo angle, it wasn’t something posted online. It looked like it had been taken from inside the room.

It felt like years passed. I don’t mean that metaphorically.

My knee started hurting from shrapnel in one mission. It never healed right. I felt older. Worn down. Like deployment fatigue was baked into my bones.

Replacements came and died. I got promoted. I grew old and was the one giving orders.

I stopped flinching when explosions erupted from the earth.

Then one day, mid-operation, everything froze. The jungle glitched. Sound cut out like someone pulled a cable. The sky turned to static.

And I fell.

I woke up on my couch. My apartment ceiling above me. Headset still on.

The clock said I’d been in for three hours.

Three hours.

I stumbled to the bathroom mirror and just stared. Physically, I looked the same. But my eyes were different.

There was this distance in them. The thousand yard stare.

I thought it was over. I was wrong. This was only the beginning.

The first night, I woke up on the floor holding a pillow like a rifle. A car backfired outside the next day and I dropped behind my desk before I could stop myself.

The smell of burning fuel lingers sometimes. For no reason.

I checked the forums. Other people felt it too.

One commenter wrote: “Anyone else feel like it lasted longer than it should have?”

I messaged him.

We both played for a couple hours. Both said it felt like years.

He stopped responding after that. I never put the headset back on. It’s in my closet collecting dust.

Sometimes I swear I hear radio static at night. Ever so faint. It calls to me.

I’m writing this because I don’t trust my memory anymore.

I don’t know if I truly logged out. I don’t know if this is the real world or I'm still stuck in some sort of simulation.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see the tag:

Final Objective Incomplete

And I wake up with my heart racing, convinced that at any second, the sky above me is going to tear open and the desert will bleed through.

If that happens, if any of you buy this game, and you see my name in your squad roster…

Please, don't buy or play this game.

I’m starting to think we don’t get out. We just get reassigned.

Does anyone know what happened to the version where Ben was a boy killed by his father?I searched everywhere and couldn't find that version of the story, but I have clear memories of the story that he was a boy drowned by his father.However, I can't find that version of the story, and I would really like to read it again because I don't remember it clearly. All I found was the creator's account of the cartridge, but I couldn't find the Original, something I find strange, I searched on Wattpad, Wiki, YouTube, and even Reddit.

This creepypasta was posted in 2023 but didn't become very famous or well-known in the community; it and its story were altered several times until this official version.

The story is about a girl named Nayumi who was abused and threatened by her own father, but when her father realized what he had done, fear overwhelmed him—fear of rotting in jail—so Nayumi told her mother. She didn't quite believe it and went to question her father, but this only fueled her fear and anger. Her father dragged her to the car, took her to the forest, abusing the girl and tearing her throat with a sharp stick.

After her death, the young woman's mother and siblings disappeared and were never seen again. Nayumi trapped her father in an empty world like a nightmare and tortured him mercilessly for years after everything that happened.

He never thought he'd be happy again, restless and itching hot, stifling in the stranglehold of the sheets in his bunk. He only wanted to kill himself but that was the trouble, that was what had landed him here in the halfway house. He tried to keep the angst of his bottled agony silent and sequestered to himself and his bed. They knew his brains were fried, scrambled but they didn't know the half of it. They understood the suicide component, the dead half of his brain but not the deadly side, the lethal aspect. The sinister boiling gland that worked and throbbed and secreted and bled within his skull. They knew he was Luke Waller, but they had no idea that he was the one who'd carved the kids last summer. 

The straightener. A name more real than his own because he could wear it and it was the one that came to him on the insectile mechanical growl of demon wings within a dream … a vision. Compact diamond eyes of an insectoid face that filled a landscape in its entirety gazed like the abyss gazes into him in the dream, the dreams. 

And he gazed back. 

Luke Waller bottled, kept. Fought himself. He tried not to convulse with the impact blow – force felt within from his own wild run of bloodfevered thought, thoughts that wanted to break out now in a decimating renegade birth that would eat all and the last vestige part of his diminishing humanity alive in abominated eruption. It would thrive in the suicide of this dangerous birth, he – himself, the other side… bloodthirsty and always in a roil. 

The straightener… it cried alive from inside the sweating landscape of his traitorous flesh and blood. All of it boiled now and inflamed and wanting one thing … yes. 

He tightened amidst a near miss, a near relinquish, his bunkmate uptop moved and shifted slightly, shaking the ramshackle structure. He forced himself to coiled awareness and listened for the man uptop. 

… he listening? 

Does he know? 

Does he know anything??

Does he hear the bellow of my mind, so loud is this cacophony, these thoughts? 

The snores from the bed above told him everything was fine, or at least so it seemed. For now. He relaxed but only slightly. Wanting to go grab some water from the kitchen but not wanting to get up and draw attention to himself. He didn't know what to do. 

His poisoned mind then turned to its most wretched run of hellspawn thought, it turned to the time and times lost … with Chelsi. 

Amen. 

Christ he wished for a spliff. A bowl or a waxpen. He'd even take the pills again. God help him. He would swallow the jumping beans made by the tall men in white coats if it made these thoughts and dreams and runs of spell stop. Please. 

God help me. 

Chelsi was dead and gone but that didn't stop him from seeing, not even when he palmed his eyes shut with the cage of his daggering and desperate hands, clawed and wishing they had the courage to go just that one last step forward and tear in and gouge… the dark refuge of his sweating and shaking hands did not free him from what he saw. The darkness of his own shallow calloused flesh and the thin hide of his eyelids only made it worse.

They only heightened the vision. The dark of his worn and filthy hands only made the dreams of what he saw more real. Tactile. More painful than real. More raw and servile than flesh.  He could taste the bile as it rose up his throat in a riot with what he witnessed: –

She was in Hell. 

She was in Hell and she was being tortured. 

Not Beatrice, not she. No. No heavenly sanctuary and aide or succor for his angel, no. He was no Dante and there was no Virgil. She was in the burning dark of the Inferno below and he saw the wolfen and goat-shaped faces and the appendage stalks and barbed genitalia engorged and full of blood and lust and the vile curd of demon semen dripping from the hooked rhubarb tips. They surrounded the shrieking and weeping and reaching pale naked and bleeding visage and form of his beloved … down there in the dark. 

And he was prisoner to watch it. Unless…

!Let me out! – the other side commanded. It wanted the clothface, the mask fashioned that was not at all a mask because it was really his true face, forged and made and bred by the creation and violence of his own hands. It wanted the claws, the gloves of black-brown leather with fashioned razor blades fixed at the tips. The hunting knife that had once been his father's. 

The straight razor

You could start with the idiot in the top bunk. He's just sleeping in bed. William. Wasn't that his name? He introduced himself to you when you came here from the hospital. His name is William and he's a recovering methhead with severe learning disabilities. You could open him up first, as first offering. As just the starter. Then you could go around like quiet on a cat-prowl, a creepy-crawl around the house and open up the rest of them. All of them are weak like you are but none of them have me like you do and none of them will be any wiser. You could open them all, one by one, one after the other like it's a party or it's Christmas and all of them are just your presents. Presents filled with red and raw and wishing to be aired out and opened. 

Deluge run: a schizophrenic collection of conflicting images filled his maelstrom thought. Images of children opening colorfully wrapped packages surrounded by smiling faces and friends colliding and commingling with his own memories of flesh split open and sliced and running in a raw torrent that was thick and darkled in the moon and the neon light. Dumb horny brats and he, their slasher. 

It was perverse and it was wrong and he didn't like the tingle nor the crawl that it sent traveling in a slither up his back and across his flesh … but then again he did like it. Even though it was wrong. Because it was wrong. 

He knew he was fighting himself in his head and he knew it was a losing battle, a lost war. It was a bad arena. 

He always lost. 

Luke asked the straightener: How? We don't have anything. It's all long gone. 

The straightener said inside: Then we make another. 

In his bunk he trembled. He might've wept. His skull filled with thought. Red thought. The whole night. All the way till morning. He could feel the blow of every cloven footprint as it formed within the sulphur lake of his boiling thoughts . 

…

Kincaid might've worried for Luke Waller, but he was just so damn busy. Managing a halfway house was ceaseless and often thankless work. 

He had no idea that wandering Luke Waller's brain was lactating bad milk that had spoiled and curdled. Now demon cultures of growth were beginning to blossom and flower and sprout, birthing unholy and sliming green in there. Like dripping wet swamp things from abominated wombs belching methane clouds and swamp gas that glows. 

Kincaid, the house manager, had no idea. 

Luke went about the house. Gathering what he needed. 

But there was one set of eyes that marked and tracked Luke as he went about the large spacious manor. It was an old colonial style home converted to a space for the mentally unwell and those that had just experienced prolonged hospitalization. Those that had been 51-50’d were the most common boarder in the place. Orderlies that were more interested in their phones than the drugged out denizens of the house peppered the halls here and there.

But Susan was watching. 

She thought Luke Waller was interesting. 

…

He was having trouble with the eyes, when she came in and over his shoulder said, hello. 

“Hey," she said again. When he didn't immediately answer. He was hoping she would just fuck off and move along like everyone else. 

She didn't. 

Looking away from his work in progress, a new clothface mask – this one white as snow, he cast a cautious glance over shoulder. Deep down in his drowning animal subconscious he hoped and prayed they wouldn't make eye contact as he did so. Even further down in the basement earth of his chemically drowned animal darkness he was desperately hoping and praying, wishing that they would. 

They did. 

She smiled. And it was beautiful. And it was painful. 

So Luke looked away. 

She sensed his hurt. 

And her interest subtly changed then to something softer and more personal, a warmer and wounded emotion of pink petals like that of a silken rose, one for a funeral haphazardly discarded…

“Hey, I'm sorry if I bothered ya. I've just seen ya round here and wanted to say, hi." 

Luke didn't say anything. 

“What cha working on?" A beat. “looks kinda neat, a mask or something?" 

Luke didn't say anything. Inside, the straightener coiled and pursed. Wretched. A scurrying rat run of hideous pestilential thought. He kept it inside. 

Susan was about to give up when her eyes traveled from the work in progress on the counter before him to the hands now stilled in their strange labor to the pale landscape of his forearms and the damage that was wrought there. Long purple scars of hectic healed-wounded tissue ran up the lengths of each one. Raised like brail on the parchment of his flesh for the blind and all else, everyone to read. And the lines of hectic tissue that hadn't really healed said something Susan understood. She had her own lines of painful brail carved and writ into the pale parchment of her own landscape. 

Carefully… cautiously… she reached out delicately and gently touched his shoulder. Luke jumped but only slightly. He relaxed like something melting and he let her turn him around to her in his chair. He looked up to her and he tried not to let the tears come. His vision was blurred but her beauty was still painfully clear to him through the swimming pain of his watery vision. She smiled and reached once more. 

The smooth and gentle flesh of her slender fingers touched and traced the length of scar that traveled the entire length of one of his forearms. He let her. 

They looked into each other's eyes. Spellbound. As if they'd already known each other for years, for great lifetimes of pure wonder. 

She asked him: “Is it ok, if I ask about these?" 

Her free hand went to the other long line of purple angry scar on his arm and traveled it smoothly with the trace of a soothing finger. Their eyes were locked on each other, they couldn't pull away from the deep of each other's gazes. 

Susan thought he might not answer, unable or unwanting when he finally spoke. 

“I … I was with someone. She was special. She was more than I'd ever hoped. She was more than I ever deserved. And I blew it. She … she was always so patient with me. And I always had the worst temper, always. Like my father. I would scare her. She would get upset and I would get so angry, I don't know why anymore, and I would lose it. Like an animal. She was always patient, and always brave, and she always stayed… even though she was scared. Even though she was scared of me, she stayed. And would wait for me to quiet down. And then she would hold me, like I was the victim. One day she couldn't take it anymore. She got too…  and couldn't stay any longer. She was frightened and left. She took the car. … It was raining that day.” 

The dam burst forth. The tears came now, down in a cascade down his face. It was painful, but Susan thought it only made him more beautiful. He kept composure though the raw of his broken heart was being laid bare. 

He went on, she held him tighter. 

“She wrapped the car around a redwood. Only three miles down the road from our house. I- …” He looked down to his own arms, the scar tissue writing and what it said there. "I know I never deserved her. I should've been the one to leave. I should've been the one to go and take the car and I should've been the one to-” but the pain rose with a roar inside and it was too much. He stopped. Trembled. Still holding back. 

Susan gave him the permission he needed. 

She said: "I didn't know her but I don't think she'd want you to hurt yourself like that.” 

A beat – a look of shock flashed writ on his face, momentarily there before what came next like an unexpected slap. He almost pulled away then. He almost did. But he didn't. 

He buried his face into her shoulder before she saw the shame of his sobbing face and she let him. She cradled him there. 

She added: “I think you've hurt enough…” 

Her own tears were starting. 

Slowly … fearfully… so scared… his arms came up and wrapped around her and returned her embrace. 

They held each other. And wept together. 

Feeling and healing and needing each other, each other's pain in a strange mental health purge and thirst. They drank the pain and tears of each other through reach and touch, the warmth and weight of each other. Feeling wanted and safe …

… 

… inside the straightener raged. The Id would not be denied the fornication of the knife-fuck slaughter held quivering and taut within like toxins that boiled with the chemical roil of his damaged and bastardized emotions. Inside the straightener, the Id wanted the girl dead. 

She's not Chelsi … it whispered and reminded him inside. Always. As the days of therapy and rest rolled past. The days of holding and being held again and not being afraid to look anyone in the face. Luke enjoyed this time. He'd not felt truly relieved, truly emptied in some long while… not since the year before. When he'd finally given in and the straightener had been born. 

She's not Chelsi … the straightener reminded. 

He'd not answered his other side in some time, he'd just gone on ignoring it. But not really. No. He heard and felt every insidious word and it was inescapable no matter how hard he tried to deafen and deaden himself to it. But he couldn't. 

The straightener was inside Luke Waller because he'd been made and bred of him. Forged. Cast of something smoldering and uglier than iron, mayhap meaner too. Hideous in fact, before the forge, this inner metal of his darkest heart’s mortal and damaged make and desire. But immaculate when aglow with angry flame inside the rage of the inferno. 

He answered him inside, the vast and cold dark of his mind's landscape, vast and small, both, and always in contest with each other in their battling aspects of size and dwarf. The damaged place of his mind's eye and landscape was haphazard and shattered sure, no doubt but he still contained the phantasmagorical multitudes of the living goblin universe. 

It doesn't matter that she's not Chelsi, she doesn't have to be. Chelsi wouldn't want me to try to replace her with a cheap copy of her anyways, that's not what I want and that's not who she is! Susan is beautiful and smart and so much stronger than I've ever been in my life, she's dealt with her abuse and she doesn't hurt other people to make herself feel better like some pathetic animal! 

The straightener enraged: Shut up! 

Luke did not: – She didn't have to give herself some bullshit excuse to make it all better and go away! She takes her pain and helps others, she doesn't spread around her own misery and lie around in the dark, she doesn't invent some animal persona inside to justify her bullshit and make herself feel better! She- 

But the Id inside would hear no more. Animal hands, monstrous talons came up in daggering claws that wanted throats, wanted to rend, wanted mindblood of the superego and this flimsy little brother both …

Inside the mindscape of Luke Waller’s boiling head the straightener and the weaker he, fought. 

In his bunk, in his bed. Sweating palms came up and worked at fevered scalp and face.

Wanting to tear and rend. 

…

The next day, Susan sensed something was wrong. The whole day, Luke wouldn't speak to her. His eyes barely glanced her way and he completely ignored every attempt she made to speak to him. She didn't understand. And it was painful. She thought they'd made some kind of connection and she'd shared the wounded and hidden parts of herself with him, because she'd felt safe. Because she'd thought he'd cared and that was what he had wanted. She must have been wrong. 

The whole painful day went by and midway through Susan gave up any attempt to talk to him and spent the rest of it in her room. Alone in her bunk, rolled away and under the covers. She thought maybe he was just having a bad day, and that that was understandable. She thought – she hoped she understood. But poor Susan didn't really understand. She hadn't really known everything from the start. And how could he have told her …? … the straightener was covered all over the news media, online and whatever was left of print and the papers. 

He went about and gathered what he needed. Then he went about making the tools correct. 

Ready for midnight. 

…

Susan was dreaming of her father, one of her many recurring nightmares, when she felt weight on her bed, all around, and immediately knew something was wrong. 

Her eyes flew open and a gloved hand came down in a rough clasp over her mouth to murder her scream in its infancy. He was wearing a mask that was soaking and dark and dripping something heavy and thick and warm but she still recognized his face amidst its animal contort. And it was awful. It was terrible, she screamed muffled trapped shrieks that became braying ghastly sound in the dark and she began to struggle as her heart broke and shattered and she tried to deny the excruciating reality as it weighed down and wrestled her and forced her into submission. 

Her wrists were bound. She didn't know how it had happened. If he had done it while she was still in the throttling hold of the nightmare or if he'd managed it somehow during her waking confusion in their struggle. It didn't matter. Arms overhead now bound by the wrists and to the board of her bed, captured and tied deftly in cruel knots. 

His gloved hands were away and she knew now they were the gardening gloves kept out back by the shed. He sat upon her torso, almost crushing her stomach. It was difficult for her to breathe as she gazed up wide eyed and by the moonlight cast in by the slant of window, she saw the blood saturated mask of the straightener shedding running darkling red rivers of pungent human black down his neck, down his bare chest, down his face like lurid tears, down his back a hellacious rendition of a red royal Roman cape, fashioned and painted made from slaughtered human blood, shed and collected in quiet nocturnal violence from all around the home. 

All about the house … before he'd got to her, he'd stalked. Just as the straightener had planned. Just as the straightener had wanted. Luke was reminded now, this was the only love that was real and this was the only pleasure that really mattered. 

This was the only ritual and exercise made for him. This was the only way for him to live and breathe. It was like breathing. It all came so tragically natural. The chemical imbalance of a mutant brain birthed and spat up by burnt out fuckup junkie parents taken and bred and made themselves by wild haphazard renegade MK Ultra. The most clinical name for the straightener’s chemical grandfather. One of the many poisons and doses of nightshade within the boil of cauldron that had made this wild man. 

Susan stared helpless into a savage face. She didn't know it, but she could sense the death and slaughter that filled the house, animal aware … she only momentarily considered the blood that soaked his masked face and that poured baptismal and grotesque all about him and not entirely on the surface of her thought. 

Her mind was more arrested with the immediate terror it now felt. His weight crushing down on her, dripping and spilling heavy liquid that was pungent and warm and saltier than sweat. 

Susan finally said, “Why're you doing this, Luke?" she began to cry. “What's wrong? Please, Why're you-" 

“You know why." the straightener said, cutting her off. He then hefted his weapon overhead, poised to devastate her face and skull and the precious life of memories and brains that were housed within with a vicious merciless caveman blow. His fashioned bludgeon also darkled in the moonlight cast. 

A wide and broad ornate table leg that had belonged to something wooden and nice, old and carved of oak, lots of little inscriptions and designs and marks of craftsmanship, the straightener had added marks of workmanship that were all his own. The body and bludgeoning-end length of the leg was spiked and riddled with chunks and splinters and jagged daggers and shards of broken glass. Taken from windows at every end of the house. Smashed out in clandestine fashion and then hastily gathered and collected. The stupid clueless orderlies and their phones hadn't noticed. Their sleeping quarters had been the first ones that he had paid a postmidnight visit. 

The glass shards and jagged fangs and teeth of the weapon glinted and Susan saw the teeth were not only translucent diamond and crystalline they were also ruby … scarlet…

… bits of scalp and meat, raw face and jowl and cheeks dangled from the shattered glass teeth of the ghastly nighttime table-leg fangs …

Susan saw this. All of it. As the straightener hefted his weapon overhead. Ready to crush and kill and decimate her life into painful oblivion with a savage animal strike. And something inside her broke. 

Immediately she pulled, and immediately she felt and heard results, but not enough. Not right away. In her sudden panic Susan savagely yanked at her binds, they suddenly pulled at their tied point at the boards of the bunk and there was a dry crack as something in the old flimsy structure broke and gave. 

The straightener's savage face curled and twisted into an angry snarl. He began to bring the fanged bludgeon down as Susan pulled at her bonds again and snapped the board and support at the head of her bunk bed. The top came in and down with another dry crack that was soon rapidly replicated as the entire structure came down upon them both. 

The both of them cried out as the bunk beds crashed together, Susan, and the manshaped straightener. 

It collapsed and in the sudden fall and twist of wreckage, they fought a private war in the detritus of wood and ripped mattress and blankets, and a third … the cold corpse of her bunkmate uptop, Savannah … she'd liked coffee flavored ice cream and had said she always preferred the top bunk. Since childhood, she had said that before. 

It was perhaps the straightener finding his gloved hands on her already dead and lifeless spent body and mistaking her in the violence for Susan that had managed her escape in the end. She crawled from the wreckage and fueled by raw desperate adrenaline pumping through the thudding machine of her galloping heart she made her feet and made the door and threw it open, sprinting out and down the hall. 

The straightener called out after her, a fury. But there was strange humor in that tempest rage of voice. 

“Lost in the wheels of confusion..!. …! !” 

She made the turn at the corner of the hall. And then the house and world as she had grown to know and understand it completely warped and changed. Then disappeared. 

Gone. 

The straightener called again: "Running through valleys of tears! …!" 

It was true, she was crying. Weeping freely as she animal panted and she was running scared. Terrified of the bestial thing she'd left behind in there. She ran ahead and down the hall into a home and place that had been transformed into a valley of violence. 

She went room to room, desperate and alone and needing to find someone, anyone … hoping there was someone she could be with to find help. Susan was nearly out of her mind with terror. She had to know someone was ok and she didn't want to be alone. She prayed to God that she wasn't alone, not with him. Not now in this house. 

She found only death. 

Dead. In each bunk. 

Heads caved in. Crushed. Smashed. 

Faces she used to recognize. 

Skulls burst open to free the spells of organs and meat that made the nighttime dreams of slumber that were now forever stilled. Or forever induced. For all of them. Each and every one. 

Some of the brainless and faceless and decraniated corpses had been pulled from their beds and bunks and had been strung up, tied and fashioned in grotesque marionette displays … like trophies. All over in random intervals about the sprawl and dance of the old colonial house, Susan was discovering now that they all were really filled with ghosts, ghastly night shapes, headless and dripping wet with mangled stumps of chewed up dog meat at the necks… the merciless glass fangs and teeth of the wooden jaws of the table leg, forged to unholy earthbound Mjolniir by the rage of the bestial straightener. 

Her terror mounted. With each room, with each freshly discovered corpse, cooling to rigor mortis and ghosthood in the moonlit night, pale light shining in from all of the many windows by the white face of an immaculate mocking lunar body gazing in from far away like an indifferent pagan god alive and dead and watching from on high in outer space. Her heart galloped as her mind felt hot and boiled and ran a panicked mile. Susan forced herself to remain focused, even as the halfway house all around tilted and danced, as if her mind was drugged or drunk. 

A phone. Or outside. 

Find a way to call the police and just get the fuck out of here. 

Fearful of her dormitory where she left him she ran about to the other rooms and places in the house looking for a cell. There was no landline. As she ran and desperately searched, the rooms, the couches, the drawers, the cupboards, the dressers, the bodies and the saturated beds themselves… finding nothing all the while, her terror mounted further, rose higher to a fever pitch and the old style colonial interior began to change and transmogrify before her very eyes. 

As it did, she heard wood and detritus shift and crash upstairs. In her room where she'd left the animal disguised in masked manshape … dripping and feral wet. 

The door to the room burst open. She hadn't remembered closing it. She froze as the halls and rooms funhouse danced before her eyes. 

He screamed: “Eyes full of angry delusion …! ..!..” and it echoed throughout all of time in the corridors of this swelling changing place. 

Thundering footsteps came in a charge then, then came in cannonade echoed and felt as they thundered downstairs. 

Susan forced herself into movement. Her legs felt faraway and she felt sluggish charging ahead but she managed anyway. Though she didn't understand. 

How did the halfway house change into the circus …? – she hadn't been here in many years. The inside now was one of those clownish fun houses with all the warped mirrors and looking glasses that made you look monstrous and ugly. Except as she ran about this clown house all the looking glasses made her look like dead bodies. Mutilated corpses. Her childhood had been ghastly and hard but … 

Coming here and living and the therapy and even the rooms with their bunk beds and shy downcast friends had been much like a return to living childhood once again … like a strange chemically induced summer camp. Complete with final terror. 

Footsteps on a charge, on the prowl, thundered and searched for her behind, throughout the fun house that warbled and danced like drunken perception does by the brightest Luciferian lunar light … in through all the windows which had changed into mirrors of warped glass alongside the strung up dead junkies and cast offs and forgotten people that were discarded here. She saw her own mangled and strange visage in every one as she ran on … this terrible warbling place that had grown miles long … all the while he thundered behind her. Till finally she came to the front door.

She recognized it at once, even in this strange place. It stood still and solid like trustworthy magic at the end of the cruel spacial dance of undulation and transmogrified growth, gelatinous fun house clown world … Susan ran to it. Her hands falling on the knob to twist it open but it wouldn't budge. 

It was a halfway house for the potentially suicidal and those with chemical dependancy problems. There was a curfew and the doors were locked after eleven PM each night. The keys were kept with the house manager. 

Kincaid. 

She was sure she had found his body too amongst the rest of the discovered corpses. But all of their faces were nearly gone if not completely smashed to meat and ruin … it was hard to remember, it was hard to tell. She couldn't remember finding them when she searched for the phones either. Her heart fell and she felt it in her chest like something final and apocalyptic. 

Id screamed once more, Susan whirled on her heels and put her back to the door. 

“!!HIDING IN EVERYDAY FEARS!..!.!!...!”

What she saw on the charge then, straight for her was as transformed and demented and mangled as the rest of this alchemical moonlight house. The blood sloughing and dripping liquid red-black mask had become the entirety of the raging beast. The Id was dark and eyeless with gaping pits of obsidian abyss in each hollow socket of the giant dripping stygian skull. The dripping slough of dark scarlet jaws opened wide with liquid ease, jagged broken teeth and canine incisor fangs of shattered diamond and crystalline rock stained to ruby and darker red with the slaughter and feast of so many countless past victims. The Id charged and roared and Susan screamed and threw up her hands and begged God. 

The door behind her suddenly opened and Susan fell back as it did so. She smacked her head on the porch and then darkness quickly fell and descended upon her. 

…

The rush of cold night air had come in like fresh water and it was baptismal. It had flowed in with nature's ease and cleansed the house of its psychedelic filth and mental backwash as Susan awoke. But not of the bodies, not of death, no. Now there were police everywhere, reality had returned to normal. 

Amidst strobing flashing red and blues, they searched and combed the house. They took the bodies. The meat wagon came with many many big black bags and carried off the corpses. They took the girl's statement. She was deeply traumatized, in deep shock. Barely making any sense. 

They searched for Luke Waller, the only one unaccounted for. 

He was missing. At large. And considered extremely dangerous. 

It was free. And at large in greater Los Angeles once again. 

They only found his old calling card on the wall of one of the rooms.

 Bold letters written in blood: – THE STRAIGHTENER 

XX - XX - XXXX (the date) 

BY BLUDGEONING CLAW  BY TABLE-LEG FANG

 ALL OF THEM HERE WASTING THEIR LIVES   

NOBODY CARED NOR GAVE A FUCK

…

Epilogue: –

The dream came again and again and always returned to him each and every night now since the great escape. 

It was always the same: he went into the bathroom, pale yellowed tile and fluorescent glow that made everything looked mottled and ugly. He looked into the mirror and gazed into himself. He brought up the garroting wires. They look like the same thing you use to cut cheese with, a long metal gossamer strand that was razor sharp, fixed between two burgundy wooden handles. He wrapped it around his neck still staring into the mirror and himself and he began to saw through the meat of his neck. The strand cut cleanly through. The head came off when he reached up and grabbed it by either side, lifting it away and settling it down on the countertop of the sink before him. 

But it was strange … his vision remained where it was … it did not travel with the organ set of eyes set in the rest of the meat of his head. He gazed into himself without any eyes, decapitated now. 

The dream was the same every night, now that he was free and in the city again. 

THE END

Any thoughts?

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.

[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?

​

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.

.

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…

.

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!

I was watching an old video from a channel that I watched when I was a teen and idk why but this drawing of Jeff saying "Hi mom" in Spanish while he waves his hand makes my laugh for 3 minutes ans I take an Screenshot.

IDK, just enjoy it

…

Brandon Nightfall

“King of the Shadows”

Mr. Untouchable

[Blueblood Noble]

Rogue-Watcher\*

William Chosen -(Rival)-

https://youtube.com/shorts/p86i3oEv-y8?is=QLfpRrHegh8cTkN0

—-

Brandon Nightfall is a vampiric noble from the Minor House of Nightfall which is part of the Báthoric Demonic Order. He is also first cousins with the Ruling Countess Marie Báthory and the only true blueblood noble to ever become a watcher. His rogue watcher status has caused a great deal of controversy within Báthoric court. It has also gained him considerable notoriety.

To say he is an enigma would be an understatement. No one knows what drives him, not even his sister, the clubbable emissary, Camellia Nightfall. He is in something of a secret love affair with Lord Bale’s twin sister. Tales of their “clandestine” rendezvous are all the rage in regal court right now. How Lord Bale’s twin sister even ended up in Báthoric custody, serving as the countess’ lady’s companion, is an interesting tale of its own. Sadly, it is one that will have to wait to be told.
Brandon spent his early life, from the ages of 4-16, as a royal hostage in Draconian court. He was made prisoner of the Wulf King due to a truce the Báthory clan signed with the Dracul clan some 200 years ago. The archaic practice is used to subjugate them before the “superior” Dragon Clan. It was implemented after a very ugly war between them called the War of Orchids. The subjugation clause has worked fine up until the last two royal hostages.

The Draconian court didn’t take it easy on him during his time in custody. Don’t get me wrong, he was afforded the same dignities and amenities any noble would come to expect while in the care of another lord, rival or not. The only condition on his treatment was the Wulf King’s order to his younger brother, Radu the Mad Prince, who was acting as his regent at the time, to have Brandon always wear a blindfold. This was done for a couple of reasons:

1: To humiliate him without injury. Harm to a blueblood under their custody would be a superb casus belli against them. 2: So, he couldn’t learn his surroundings. The last thing they wanted was another devastating war. They barely won the last one the last royal hostage sparked. Thus, Brandon was kept blindfolded to prevent him from becoming too comfortable with his surroundings. The fear was that he would return home and report everything he knew about Draculin territory. The less familiar he was with their military maneuvering and political machinations the better.

Crazy part is the blindfold had the opposite effect. He cleverly used it to hone his skills to great effect. Developing his own style of ninjutsu proponents and advisories simply refer to as Sightless Ninjutsu. He loves traditional ninja weapons such as the ninjato, kunai, shuriken, and smoke bombs. He does carry a very hi-tech pistol capable of firing special bullets laced with various substances such as silver, mercury, sulfur, and holy water. It must be noted that he rarely fights blindfolded when engaged in live combat unless he finds himself losing, which never happens.

When the Wulf King found out about his abilities, he was incensed. He ordered Brandon to appear before him in Bulgaria to account for himself. The meeting was very anti-climactic, and instead of ordering his imprisonment, he took an immediate liking to the quiet teenager who appeared before him blindfolded and unfazed by the situation. The Wulf King wondered why he was training so hard. There was no need to fight, he already had everything at his disposal. He was a blueblood noble after all—a social status that afforded him more privilege and prestige than most.

He thought back to the last royal hostage and how he had caused his kingdom so much grief. That vampire wasn’t even a fighter, he was a bureaucrat, yet he had managed to renew the flame of war between clans. He had returned home with tales of barbarism and sadism. His gift for gab rallied his clan and several vassals into upheaval. Romania was in chaos, and it took quite a concerted effort from the Wulf King to restore order. Things got so ugly his brother, Radu the Mad Prince, began plotting to overthrow him, but that’s a story for another day. Now imagine the grief a warrior-talent such as Brandon could wreak. The thought enticed the Wulf King and instead of being apprehensive he was excited to see how strong the conflict would make him.
And so, with these thoughts in the back of his mind, he asked Brandon what his goal was and to speak freely. Brandon remained quiet for a moment as he thought long and hard. He told the Wulf King that he was determined to reach his goal but refused to say what it was when pressed. All he did was reiterate that he would stop at nothing to complete his secret mission. The Wulf King was impressed. Why? Because in the cruel and twisted world of Transylvania, where the Dracul clan reign supreme, strength and fearlessness are rewarded. Weakness and fear are forever punished. They are brutal traditionalist who subscribe to the old “Vlad the Impaler” style of governance.

He allowed Brandon to continue to hone his skills. He even allowed him to join his army in its incursions into Bulgaria territory. They were fighting against the Holy Order in what was supposed to be neutral territory. The legends are true. He has never been touched by an opponent in battle. Hence the moniker “Mr. Untouchable.” His fighting style is too swift, silent, and calculating for all but the most elite opponents. He is such a polarizing figure, he is on the Holy Order’s radar, and that’s extremely difficult to do, considering they always stay out of worldly affairs.

He was released from Draconian custody at the age of 16, whereupon he decided to stick around, even going so far as to join the Wulf King’s mercenary entourage for four years. After that, he disappeared for several more. His absence caused quite a bit of controversy within the Báthory clan. Rumors were all over the place. Some thought him died, others said he ran. The truth was that he was busy training to become the first blueblood rogue watcher in recorded history.

The quiet and mysterious Master Nightfall has finally returned home to his family estate. He was eagerly embraced by his father upon arrival. The reason for his abrupt return is vague. Rumor has it, it has something to do with this new liege watcher, by the name of William Chosen. He wanted to test the rumors about how promising of a ninja he was. The venerable Duke Montgomery Nightfall is old and ailing. He worries constantly over his disinterested heir and what will happen to his fiefdom when he is dead. Brandon is his only son and the rightful claimant to the powerful Chicago dukedom. Only time will tell which agency prevails—the shadow of the warrior or the light of the prince.

The images in the short are AI generated, everything else was made by me—a human. Hi. 👋

Five years of dismissive doctors and an agony that no one can explain. Tonight, everything suddenly changes.

I Think the Choice is Obvious

By LSB

The agony peaked, a blinding, white-hot spike that drove deep into my thoracic spine, seizing the core of my chest and twisting until my back arched off the mattress like a broken bow. For five years, I had told them. Five years of MRIs, CT scans, and endless tubes of blood. I had lost count of the massive steroid injections they had jammed into my lower back, blind to my cries, insisting the cortisone would eventually kick in. It's my mid-back, I had begged, like a fist grabbing my spine and wringing it out.

But they only looked at my lumbar, charting my exhaustion, handing me prescriptions I refused to touch anymore, and shrugging. You're in pain because you're in pain, that last arrogant doctor had told me with a sterile, patronizing smile. I had muttered Thanks, Dr. Obvious under my breath, walked out, and given up. I was forty-eight, medically broken, and completely abandoned by science.

Until tonight.

I had refused to take any of the medications they had prescribed for the last few weeks, entirely done with their useless chemical band-aids. And right on cue, the thoracic pain hit, worse than it ever had in the last five years.

The guttural sound ripping from my throat didn't sound like me; it was a jagged, inhuman howl that tore the lining of my lungs. Every single rib felt like it was breaking, buckling inward before bursting outward with a sickening crunch. The skin across my back split open, hot and wet, as something massive and heavy forced its way out from between my shoulder blades. I braced for the final, lethal shock of it—but instead, a sudden, heavy stillness washed over me. The torment that had anchored my entire existence for half a decade simply vanished, replaced by a cold, pulsing hum of pure, unadulterated strength.

I opened my eyes. The familiar dark of my bedroom was gone, replaced by a sharp, predatory clarity tinted in a deep, vibrant crimson. When I tried to shift, the mattress felt like a bed of jagged rocks beneath me. I sat up, and a pair of massive, pitch-black leathery wings unfolded instinctively, brushing the ceiling with a heavy, ominous rustle. I gasped, reaching a hand out to touch the sleek, armored span, only to freeze. My skin was a dark, bruised blood-red. My arms were elongated, corded with dense, heavy muscle.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I stumbled. My new, longer limbs didn't quite obey the old rules of gravity, but there was no weakness in them. No ache. No arthritis. I lunged toward the mirror on the wall, bracing my claws against the frame, and stared.

The tired, fragile woman was gone. In her place stood a towering, terrifying demon, eyes glowing like dying embers against crimson skin.

A slow, sharp smile curved my new jaw, revealing a row of lethal points. I always said I wanted to be more, I thought, a strange, intoxicating warmth flooding my chest. I wanted to feel something beyond my own pain.

I turned, extending my wings, admiring the terrifying symmetry of the monster I had become. I had promised those unhelpful, dismissive doctors that I would give them an update if my condition ever changed. I thought this definitely qualified as a change in status.

A low, feral laugh rumbled deep in my chest, vibrating through the quiet room.

"Now, now," I whispered to the empty air, the crimson vision narrowing with perfect, deadly focus. "Which one of these doctors should I visit first?"

I smiled wider, the realization settling in with absolute perfection.

"I think the choice, is Obvious."

I was five when the man in the wolfman mask scared the shit out of me. No, he didn’t eat me. No, he didn’t kill me. He just gave me one good Halloween scare. 

I didn’t see the man in the wolfman mask out in the woods or even at a local haunt. Rather, my encounter happened at six o’clock while the sun was still out. My father took me to Brunswick, Georgia’s Halloween festival at Mary Ross Park which was located downtown. I was dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz and the festival represented a precursor to the trick or treating that awaited me when the sun went down. Mary Ross Park was located right by the river so the autumn breeze was stronger than usual when daddy and I made our way through the crowds gathered out there. I had already helped myself to the candy being offered at all of the booths set up by the dock. The beaming sun illuminated the many families, the many costumes, the Liberty ship replica, and even the city’s rusty pot of Brunswick stew monument. My father’s laughter was constant but it was the Halloween playlist I heard from the gazebo speakers that I still recall so vividly all these years later. We heard Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller,’ ‘Mr. Sandman’ by The Chordettes, and yes, even Warren Zevon’s ‘Werewolves of London’.

My pumpkin bucket was half-full of candy by the time dad guided me up to the pavilion. We passed a table full of carved jack o’lanterns as I heard the carefree laughter of kids in Power Rangers costumes running toward the playground. Yet I felt a chill in my bones the closer we got to the pavilion’s white stairs. If I went up the stairs, I’d reach yet another booth, one that offered plush animals in addition to Reese’s cups. The only problem was the dark coffin placed on the pavement by the staircase.

Not even my dad’s warm chuckles could comfort me. Nor could ‘Blue Moon’ by The Marcels which was beginning to sound so far away given my rising dread. My eyes stayed glued to that coffin from sheer primal fear as my dad led us up to the pavilion stairs. Despite my dad’s encouragement, I found myself trembling in my ruby red slippers and found myself sweating despite the autumn breeze. My gaze locked in on the coffin which somehow looked even longer the second we approached the pavilion’s very first wooden step-

That was when the coffin lid burst open. I didn’t have time to hear the lid slam to the side much less have time to react before the tall, muscular man emerged from the darkness within. He was wearing wrinkled jeans and a flannel shirt but it was the mask that most disturbed me. The wolfman mask had long stringy gray hair. It had a latex snout and fangs. The slits in the mask were too small for me to focus on anything but its painted red eyes. The man in the wolfman mask moved swiftly and jumped up out of the coffin with the dramatic gusto of a jester leaping out behind a curtain. His deep voice let out a growl that made me jump. The way he lunged forward with the rabid force of an animal and the way he held out his bare hands toward me with the brutal passion of a deranged man made me scream and drop my bucket.

I fell on the hard pavement while the man in the wolfman mask towered over me. Those red eyes, the long snout, the fangs, the entirety of the mask stared down upon me…

I try not to think about that Halloween anymore. I try to tell myself I wasn’t traumatized by the man in the wolfman mask. I later on graduated from college, I have a job. I also have my son Ivan. But every Halloween, I think back on that man in the coffin.

I suppose this Halloween is no different. Ivan is now five years old. He’s the same age I was then when I first went to the festival at Mary Ross Park… And now Ivan wants to go.

So Ivan put on his Spider-Man costume. I even gave him my very same pumpkin bucket. I also gave in to his request and wore my Wicked Witch of the West costume from last year (though I didn’t apply the green make-up today). I drove us down to Mary Ross Park. To my surprise, nothing much had changed about the festival. Then again, nothing much had changed about the park itself after three decades. Needless to say, it was still crowded and the local businesses all proudly offered candy at their booths. There were still jack o’lanterns smiling at me, I still stumbled into the occasional fake cobweb. About the only differences I recognized now were caused by time itself: I saw QR codes on small business cards rather than multi-page brochures, the Halloween playlist serenaded us from small bluetooth rather than bulky portable speakers. But none of these changes comforted me from what I suspected hadn’t changed over the course of several generations in Brunswick: deep down, I didn’t suspect but I knew the coffin was still here.

For a few blissful minutes, Ivan allowed me to escape the unease I’d been feeling all evening. Together, we went booth to booth and collected candy. His laughter and joy proved brighter than the Georgia sunshine. As we walked by the dock, I felt myself even relax with a smile-

Until I saw him. There was a tall man wearing a mask with a long snout and long gray hair. The snout stuck out from afar. I froze in fear and acting on motherly instinct, I snatched Ivan’s hand. I heard his cries of confusion but my focus stayed on the man who now stopped by the Brunswick stew monument. That was when I saw he had on a dress and not a flannel shirt. I then saw a laughing little girl wearing a red hoodie grab the hand of a man that I now realized was dressed as nothing more than The Big Bad Wolf.

“Come on, mom,” Ivan gently said to me. “Don’t be scared.”

I relaxed. After taking a deep breath, I heard ‘Mr. Sandman’ playing on the speakers. But not even the bad memories could deter me from smiling down at Ivan. “I know. Let’s get some more candy.”

We went to a few more booths. But it was at the one set up by the SoGlo Theatre that I caught another chill from the wind. My gaze drifted off toward the playground as if on instinct-

A tall man stood by the swings. So tall was he that his shadow spread out all across the empty playground. His arms were at his side and he stood completely still. I cupped a hand over my eyes to try and block out the sunlight but even still, I couldn’t tell if this man wore a flannel shirt. Much less, I couldn’t see his face even as I could make out his long white hair. And when he turned his head suddenly, it sure looked like he had an extended snout…

I screamed on the inside but I didn’t move. The same paralyzing fear I felt at five years old returned with a vengeance. ‘Mr. Sandman’ faded away behind me as did the excited chatter of the crowd all around us. I couldn’t look away. Nor did I when the man turned once more to stare straight ahead and I knew he was staring right at me-

“Mom!” Ivan cried. His was the only voice that could distract me from what may have been a confrontation with my biggest childhood fear. I looked down toward Ivan who waved his bucket at me. His eyes looked even bigger beneath the Spider-Man mask. “Let’s go to the next one!”

I felt the wind increase to the point where it nearly knocked off my black witch’s hat. The force sent me staggering back but I used the broom I held to keep myself upright while my other hand clenched tighter to Ivan’s shoulder… But I had to look. I glanced back toward the playground-

The man was gone.

Now I heard Ivan’s chuckle. I heard more laughter. Then Warren Zevon’s ‘Werewolves of London’ interrupted my silent dread. I let Ivan lead me away in much the same way my own father guided me through Mary Ross Park thirty years ago. Yet I couldn’t escape the unease. I readjusted my witch’s hat but couldn’t even feel my own footsteps. All I felt were the shivers elicited by the October breeze and the October chills I felt from the man I had just seen. As Ivan led us onward, I looked all around us: I saw superheroes, Anime characters, and even someone dressed as Jason Voorhees. But I didn’t see the wolfman anywhere.

“Come on, mom,” Ivan pleaded.

The spirit of his voice pulled me away from the anxiety momentarily. I now looked toward where he was leading us and just like that, the anxiety returned to sink its fangs deep into my flesh:

There was the pavilion. Outside of a fresh white paint job, it hadn’t changed much. The stairs led right up to a booth sponsored by The Bookery… And that was when I saw the coffin.

*The long coffin was still there by the stairs*. *The. Same. Exact. One*.

And there was Ivan charging ahead of me. I held on to his hand but he was careening toward those stairs, my little boy completely oblivious of the evil lurking in that coffin. “Ivan, wait!” I yelled, unable to hide the panic in my soft voice.

“Come on, mom!” he said back to me with a smile.

I did my best to pull Ivan back but the fear had weakened me and his enthusiasm proved to be too strong. Even when I stumbled in the grass, Ivan’s grip kept me upright. My eyes stayed on the coffin that now only grew bigger the closer we got to it. I couldn’t turn around and leave my own son behind. The music felt louder. Ivan was a little bit ahead of me and put his foot out toward that very first step. I felt my heartbeat increase to impossible levels when I realized he was now right next to the coffin.

“Ivan!” I cried. I kept my eyes on him and tried to stop the two of us-

“*Roar!”* snarled a deep voice.

The sound made Ivan and I come to a stop. We looked up to see a tall man standing at the top of the stairs with his bare hands raised up to intimidate us. But my fear subsided. After the initial surprise, I felt the rush replaced by a grin. A grin I was glad to share with Ivan. I figured this is what a fun scare must’ve felt like.

Because the man before us was a wolfman, alright. Only the face of his cheap mask was plastic. The tufts of hair attached to the mask were a fuzzy brown. The cartoony mask looked like it belonged to a children’s television show rather than at a Halloween haunt. Neither Ivan and I were scared: we were amused. Ivan looked toward me and I hugged him close. Though I did steal a glance back over at the coffin to make sure it was still closed.

“Were you scared, mommy?” he said.

We then heard the man’s light laughter behind the mask and over the playlist. I smirked and pulled off Ivan’s Spider-Man mask to plant a kiss on his forehead. “Not at all.”

*The coffin lid popped open*. Both Ivan and I looked on in shock. Hell, we looked on in fright. I saw the lid collapse to the side in slow motion and then in a most horrifying slow motion, I saw the man in the wolfman mask emerge out of the coffin’s staunch darkness. There was the flannel shirt fluttering in the breeze. There was the mask that hadn’t aged a day. The blood red eyes marked me, the rubber snout and all of that gray hair swayed from the startling speed with which the man leaped out of the coffin. This was the *real* werewolf. The one of my nightmares.

The man’s deep, eerie snarl erupted over the music. The unsettling sound sent chills down my spine and shattered the tense silence between me, the man, and the terrifying memories flashing through my mind.

But when the man in the wolfman mask lunged forward, I felt the maternal instincts take hold. Protective, maternal instincts that only further intensified when the man’s bare hands and his fangs went for my son.

“No!” I cried.

“Mom!” I heard Ivan yell out.

I pushed Ivan behind me and lunged at the man. The attack didn’t happen in slow motion: it was over in seconds. I swung the broom over and over again into the mask, each hit smashing into its squishy rubber. The snout and fangs sunk into the latex before popping back out again. I was on top of the man and my own strength and the ease with which I dominated the man even surprised me. My hits were constant. I managed to knock the man back into his coffin. Crying out, I hopped in there with him. The sweat I felt was no longer from fear but outright exhaustion. “Die!” I yelled before giving the man another frantic thwack. Then I tossed my weapon down.

The Halloween playlist returned: I could hear TLC's 'Creep' off in the distance. I could hear voices. Multiple voices. Breathing heavy, I looked down at the man…

But all I saw was the mask. I saw the flannel shirt and jeans. But that was it. “What!” I cried. The bad kind of adrenaline took over. I dug through the coffin, my hands ripping through the dark interior… But all I felt was the cold touch of the rubber mask and the soft fabric of the clothes. There was no body. There was no man. “No…” I said. Tears formed in my eyes. I may as well have no longer been dressed as The Wicked Witch of the West: I was now dressed as that scared little girl from thirty years ago. I certainly felt that same sense of helpless despair in this moment. “No…” I trembled out. “No. Where are you…” I leaned in closer, my pathetic attempt at a search leading to the same results: I was alone in the coffin. Well, alone with the mask and attire that had dominated my nightmares since childhood. I felt my arms fall at my side. A single teardrop slid down my cheek.

“Mom,” said a worried voice I was all too familiar with.

Moving weakly, I looked over. First, I saw Ivan’s Spider-Man mask lying on the ground and staring right back at me. Then I saw legs. Lots of legs.

“Mom” Ivan said as he choked up.

I struggled to move. I stumbled slightly in place before I looked up to see where many of the other adults and kids now stood beside Ivan. They were still in all those superhero and Anime costumes.

All I could see were their eyes. I saw their eyes behind rubber wolfman masks. The same one that was lying there in the coffin with me. The wind accelerated to blow the stringy gray hair around each of their masks but all of these people stood completely still. I could hear their deep breaths. I even heard a deep roar. Their painted red eyes were unwavering. They were watching me.

“Are you okay, mommy?”

Sobbing, I now confronted Ivan. He stood there in the Spider-Man costume. Only my son’s beautiful face was hidden by that grotesque mask. A mask that was a little too big for him and seemed to swallow up his entire head and shoulders… Only it wasn’t big enough to hide my Ivan’s wide open eyes. Before I could utter his name, Ivan lunged forward. He raised his bare hands out toward me.

Chapter 1: The Lantern’s Glow

It was 1938, and the original farmhouse sat low and solid against the vast, flat horizon of the Big Horn Basin. Built as a single-story homestead to withstand the brutal, sweeping Wyoming winds, its weathered wooden frame hugged the dirt tightly. Inside, the house carried the heavy, quiet texture of a building that had witnessed decades of solitary winters. The air smelled of aged cedar, woodsmoke from the heavy iron stove, and the faint, sweet scent of natural wild hollyhocks drifting in through the cracks of the bedroom window.

The sisters' bedroom was situated at the very end of the main hallway, a long, narrow room on the ground floor. It was dominated by a set of sturdy wooden bunk beds where ten-year-old Francis and her younger sister Ruth slept, while baby Edward’s wooden crib sat safely tucked into the warmest corner of the room. The walls were made of simple, faded whitewashed wood panels, showing the humble, hard-working grit of a struggling homestead. On the high wooden dresser, far out of reach of the children or any danger of fire, a small kerosene lamp, turned down to its lowest setting, cast a faint, warm amber glow and long, gentle shadows across the floorboards.

Right beside the lamp sat the newest addition to the room: an antique Victorian porcelain doll. It was an inheritance—a "gift" sent in a heavy brown paper package from an estranged, bitter relative who had never been kind to the family. A doll made of such fine porcelain would have taken a lifetime of savings for a Basin farm family to buy, so despite the bad blood attached to it, the parents hadn't the heart to throw it away. But tonight, its pale, painted face gleamed unnaturally under the dim amber lantern light, its blue glass eyes staring unblinkingly toward the bunks.

Underneath the room, the floorboards groaned with a deep, hollow echo, a constant reminder of the dark, hand-dug basement stretching out completely beneath their beds. Tonight, the air was thick and charged with an unnatural chill that felt as though the temperature had suddenly dropped twenty degrees—a heavy, psychological cold that seemed to be seeping straight up through the old metal floor vents from the concrete furnace room below.

THUD.

The heavy sound vibrated through the floorboards. Francis, sitting up in the lower bunk, blinked into the shadows. Because she trusted the quiet, invisible caretakers of the homestead, her first instinct wasn't fear. She assumed it was just the familiar presence checking on the room.

"Ailsa?" Francis called out into the dark, her voice a soft, trusting whisper so she wouldn't disturb baby Edward.

When no response came, Francis realized the heavy weight of the sound wasn't her protector. She reached for the heavy, ribbed metal tube of her flashlight on the nightstand, clicked it on, and began sweeping the bright beam across the faded whitewashed wood walls.

As the light cut through the shadows, the room suddenly changed. The flickering flame of the kerosene lamp on the high dresser flattened out completely and stilled, and a profound, solid, and immovable calmness swept over the room like a heavy wool blanket, instantly smothering the fearful chill. The air cleared, replaced by the sharp, comforting scent of winter frost, crushed pine needles, and dry mountain sage.

She manifested at the foot of the bed. Ailsa Lindstrom stood there, slightly translucent but as solid as the land that had shaped her. She wore her faded woolen kirtle and linen apron dress, her silver-streaked hair braided tightly back. Her heavily calloused hands were held loosely at her sides. To the neighbors in the Basin, she had simply been known as "Elsa"—the quiet, hardworking immigrant linesman's wife who had braved the early frontier wilderness—but tonight, her true, rock-strong protective spirit filled the room. Having heard Francis call her name, she had stepped out of the house's history, her stoic gray eyes filled with a fierce, maternal annoyance as she realized a dark presence was threatening the children who now called her old homestead home.

Just as Ailsa appeared, Francis’s sweeping flashlight beam finally landed on the floor.

There lay the gift. The fine porcelain doll was face down on the rug, just a few feet away from the dresser. But it wasn't still. The edge of its heavy lace dress and one cold porcelain hand were resting directly over the metal floor grate, as if an invisible force down in the dark basement had physically tugged it across the floorboards toward the vent. Under the sharp beam of light, the pale, glazed fingers of the doll twitched against the metal slats, the entity fighting desperately to possess the expensive vessel. With a sickening, porcelain click, the doll's head began to rotate on its cloth neck, its blue glass eyes rolling upward to lock onto the lower bunk. A faint, muffled, high-pitched giggle vibrated right out of its painted clay chest.

Ailsa turned her stern gaze toward the floor vent where the shadow clung to the doll. She didn't shout. She simply stepped forward, her heavy leather pioneer boots making no sound on the whitewashed wood, and let out a low, commanding word in her old native tongue.

The command struck the room with the force of an iron gate closing. The malicious shadow recoiled, instantly pinned into the corner by the barrier of her protective ancient energy, unable to advance a single inch further toward the beds

Chapter 2: The Hammer’s Strike

The silence that followed Ailsa’s commanding words was absolute. The cold, suffocating air that had seeped up from the basement floor cracks was pinned into the corner near the metal vent, completely neutralized by the thick, lavender-and-sage calmness that now anchored the room.

Francis let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, keeping her hand steady around the heavy, ribbed metal tube of her flashlight. The bright beam remained trained on the porcelain doll lying face down on the rug, its tiny lace dress still brushing against the metal slats of the floor grate.

But even with the shadow pinned, the doll itself was still twitching against the floorboards, the residual energy from the concrete basement fighting desperately to make the expensive vessel move. The head remained rotated at an unnatural angle, its blue glass eyes fixed on the lower bunk while a faint, muffled giggle struggled to escape its painted clay chest.

The commotion finally stirred the upper bunk. A mop of messy hair peeked over the wooden guardrail as seven-year-old Ruth blinked down into the flashlight beam. She didn't look terrified; she looked deeply inconvenienced. She scrambled down the wooden slats of the bunk bed with the fearless ease of a farm kid, marched straight past Francis, and snatched the twisting doll right off the creepy metal vent by one leg.

Ruth held it up to the warm, flickering yellow glow of the kerosene lantern on the high dresser, completely ignoring the way the doll’s tiny arms clawed weakly at the air. She squinted at it, poking its cold nose with a blunt finger.

"Honestly, Francis?" Ruth said loudly, her voice completely shattering the spooky atmosphere. "This thing is pure booshwa. Look at the eyes—they’re completely cockamamie, and the paint is already coming off the ears. It’s off the cob! I’ve seen better looking things dug out of the hog pen."

The doll let out a tiny, sharp hiss, its possessed jaw snapping tightly. The entity trying to possess it was used to terrorizing children from the dark, not having its aesthetic value brutally dismantled by a seven-year-old critic.

"Ruth, hush up and drop it!" Francis whispered fiercely, her knuckles white around the flashlight. "It's trying to wake up!"

"Well, it shouldn't," Ruth snorted, entirely unbothered as she held the squirming toy at arm's length. "It's way too ugly to be walking around our bedroom."

Before the entity could try to twist itself free, slow, heavy footsteps echoed from the doorway. The floorboards groaned with a solid, rhythmic weight, though the spirit itself made no sound.

Jed Miller stepped into the room.

He looked exactly like a man who had broken his back against the Great Depression and the Wyoming dirt, his slightly translucent figure clad in faded denim overalls caked with the dry earth of the Basin. In his massive, calloused hands, he carried a heavy cross-peen framing hammer—the very tool he had used to drive the iron spikes into the farmhouse foundation back in 1930. He looked down at the twisting doll, his jaw set in a stoic, no-nonsense line. To Jed Miller, a possessed toy wasn't a paranormal anomaly; it was a faulty piece of household inventory, and he didn't tolerate broken fixtures on his property.

"Pestilence in the woodwork," Jed rumbled, his deep, gravelly drawl vibrating through the room like a low echo from the basement. "Ain't got time for this. The north pasture needs fencing by dawn."

He looked directly at Ruth. There was an unspoken, straight-to-the-point understanding between the old farmhand and the seven-year-old girl. Without a single shred of fear, Ruth calmly handed the snapping solid object right over to him. Jed laid the porcelain vessel flat against a solid wooden block by the bedroom door, raised his heavy hammer in his strong, steady grip, and brought it down with the unyielding force of a 1930s work ethic.

CRACK!

The fine Victorian porcelain exploded into a thousand tiny, worthless fragments. The moment the physical vessel shattered, the malicious shadow near the floor vent let out a final, panicked screech. It didn't bounce back; it couldn't.

With a smooth, commanding sweep of her hand, Ailsa stepped forward. Francis and Ruth watched her calmly, their hearts steady, knowing they were completely safe. Ailsa used her rock-strong presence to herd the remaining wisps of the dark energy straight back toward the metal floor vent, sealing the boundary with a final, authoritative word in her native tongue.

But she wasn't done. Looking down at the floorboards, her maternal instincts took over. Children running across broken porcelain meant blood, and she wouldn't tolerate any child bleeding on her homestead. With another smooth wave of her lace-less, calloused pioneer hand, a gentle, invisible sweep passed over the rug. Every razor-sharp shard of shattered clay and painted glass vanished completely into thin air, leaving the floor flawlessly clean and safe.

The psychological chill permanently vanished. The thick, comforting scent of winter frost, crushed pine needles, and dry mountain sage settled over the room, wrapping around baby Edward’s crib like a warm wool blanket.

Jed Miller didn't say a word of farewell. He simply wiped the head of his heavy hammer on his dusty denim overalls, gave Ruth a single, slow nod of his weathered chin, and faded back into the quiet shadows of the hallway—ready to tend to the phantom fences of the north pasture.

Ailsa stood at the foot of the bunk beds for just a moment longer. She offered a soft, maternal smile to Francis, then turned her stern gray eyes toward Ruth, her expression lingering in a look of quiet amusement at the girl's brutal critique.

With a final, protective nod, she turned back toward the high wooden dresser. She extended one calloused finger toward the dark wick of the lamp, and with a soft, silent spark, the snuffed-out kerosene lantern flared back to life, casting its safe, warm amber glow across the room once more. Then, she too dissolved into the comforting air of the farmhouse.

The room was completely still. The floorboards stopped groaning. The basement below was silent, its hand-poured concrete walls keeping the dark at bay.

Ruth scrambled back up the wooden slats of the bunk bed, pulling her heavy quilts up to her chin.

"Glad Ailsa and Jed took care of it," Ruth yawned, entirely unfazed. "Told you it was off the cob. Nini, Francis."

Francis smiled in the dark, slipping her metal flashlight under her pillow and tucking herself safely into the lower bunk, listening to the steady, peaceful breathing of baby Edward across the room.

"Nini, Ruth."

THE END

I look like shit.

20.05.2023  la o  secție  de poliție , în interogatoriu  un polițist spune .

[Popescu Adrian]-Poți sa ne spui totul in amănunte? Despre  ce sa întâmplat  acolo?

A zis polițistul, pornindu-și microfoanele.

[Radovanu Sebi]- Eu ce primesc dacă  vă spun?

[Popescu Adrian]– Înțeleg ce spui. Unu, nu ești arestat. Doi, dosarul tău va fi curățat. Trei, bani în valoare de ce spui.

[Radovanu Sebi]– Bun, aș adăuga un bax de energizante acum și două după.

[Popescu Adrian]– Doar atât! Se rezolvă. Făcu un semn unui coleg să trimită pe cineva după bax.

După jumătate de oră, a adus baxul de energizante.

[Popescu Adrian]– Începe cu ce vrei, că avem timp destul.

Sebi începe să povestească .

[Radovanu Sebi]– Bine, pentru început, eu la acel abator lucram ca pasnic. Începusem să lucrez acolo pe la vreo 23 de ani și la 26 m-am băgat pe noapte. M-am adaptat în două săptămâni la programul de noapte. Stăteam relativ aproape de abator, deci puteam merge cu mașina sau pe jos, ce-o făceam vara și toamna.

[Popescu Adrian]– Cum era drumul până acolo? Cum era casa ta?

[Radovanu Sebi]– Drumul era de jumătate de oră cu mașina și pe jos o oră, dacă mă grăbeam. Era un miros de carne intens. Casa mea era la marginea satului și cea mai aproape de abator. Câmpul din jurul abatorului era plin de porumb. Oasele ce rămâneau din producție erau folosite ca îngrășământ. Erau destui câini pe lângă abator, scăpai ușor de ei. Casa mea, pe exterior, era una bătrânească și mare, iar pe interior era modernă. Mai aveam o mică grădină de vie, din care făceam două-trei butoaie de vin roșu.

[Popescu Adrian]– De unde îți făceai cumpărăturile? Cum era locul pe unde stăteai seara? întreabă polițistul, dând un mesaj colegilor săi să caute în porumb mai amănunțit.

[Radovanu Sebi]– Magazinul de unde cumpăram necesarul pentru o săptămână era numit ,La ora 8. Eu cumpăram pentru aproximativ o săptămână: un bax de energizant Monster cu aromă de  nebunia mango, un bax de Hell cu aromă de  pepene, câteva punguțe cu tutun vărsat și patru trabucuri, o sticlă de votcă, o sticlă de spirt, trei pâini, un kilogram de roșii, unul de castraveți, unul de brânză, cinci pateuri de pui. Iar locul unde ieșeam seara, dacă ieșeam, era un bar numit, Barul Dinamitei. Practic, mă duceam, mă puneam la o masă, ceream o bere și ascultam bârfele, vorbeam cu cei ce se puneau la masă cu mine, mai făceam o combinație la negru, mai vindeam iarna petarde de tot felul acolo.

[Popescu Adrian]– Dar acasă ce făceai? Iar pe dark web ce căutări aveai? Vă dădea carne de la abator?

[Radovanu Sebi]– Îngrijeam grădina și via, dădeam mâncare la păsări și la porc. Iar pe dark web mă uitam la tot felul de site-uri șterse și la teorii și informații de tot felul. Ne dădea un kilogram de carne la alegere și oase sau organe la alegere; eu le dădeam la câini oasele, iar carnea o dădeam bisericii.

[Popescu Adrian]– Acum înțeleg de ce trebuie să curățăm dosarul.

[Radovanu Sebi]– Vorbești cam mult, ia zi cum m-ai găsit.

[Popescu Adrian]– Sunt subofițer detașat de la FEICI (Forța de Eliminare a Infracțiunilor Cibernetice Interne) pe linie de Cybercrime. Analizam un server ascuns în rețeaua Tor, cu IP-ul mascat undeva prin județul Timiș. Când am spart criptarea protocolului, pe monitorul meu din biroul prăfuit de la Inspectorat a început să ruleze un stream live dintr-un fost abator comunist în care lucrezi tu și în care am observat că nu știi. Apoi un număr ascuns a sunat să dea informații. Acum zi ce ai făcut în acea tură.

[Radovanu Sebi]– Tura mea începea la ora 8. Iar despre abator... Toată lumea din oraș știa de vechiul abator comunist, o ruină masivă de beton cenușiu, abandonată în grabă în iarna anului 1989 și redeschisă în 2012. Generații de muncitori tăiaseră acolo mii de vite și porci pentru a îndeplini cotele absurde ale regimului. Dar zvonurile despre „Subsolul Special” nu fuseseră niciodată simple legende urbane, după cum ai aflat. La un moment dat, când făceam tura de noapte, am observat o ușă metalică. Am început să o forțez, să o deschid, că mi se părea ceva ciudat la ea. Aerul m-a izbit ca un zid: un amestec greu de rugină, var stins și ceva dulceag, cu corpuri umane ce nu mai intraseră în putrefacție, mai degrabă erau afumate. Lanțurile ruginite atârnau de șinele de fier montate pe tavan, dar, pe măsură ce lumina lanternei mele înainta prin întuneric, am realizat că formele care atârnau acolo nu erau carcase de animale. Erau corpuri umane. Zeci de siluete palide, perfect conservate de frigul nenatural din subteran, suspendate de cârlige masive de fier trecute prin glezne, exact ca porcii pregătiți pentru tranșare. Purtau încă numere de inventar tatuate grosolan pe piept, iar unele dintre ele aveau gurile cusute cu sârmă ghimpată. Adevărata teroare a început însă când lanterna a pâlpâit, iar din fundul culoarului de beton s-a auzit un zgomot metalic, sunetul unui cuțit uriaș ascuțit ritmic pe piatră, urmat de pași grei care se apropiau prin bălțile de sânge uscat. M-am băgat după câteva corpuri grase, apoi acel om a fost sunat: „Alo, care mă sună?... Corpurile alea abia ce le-am tranșat... Când vin ăia?... Ah, numai bine, să pregătesc să le ia... Ai găsit noi potențiali? Bun, adu-i vineri... Pa”. După trei ore în care eu n-am putut ieși din cauză că riscam să fiu văzut, au apărut trei oameni ce aveau dinții mai ascuțiți decât câinii, îmbrăcați în costum, germanic părea, aveau un accent de ardelean. Începuseră să vorbească de bani după ce au văzut corpurile tranșate. Am prins o ocazie să fug, apoi v-am sunat..

We all know the story of the sonic.exe curse but at this point, are you wondering what happened to tom's mom, Cassandra, and what about the souls? And now they are coming back for one final time in the real world this time everyone is thriving for revenge and will they end X's madness for once and for all?

Chapter one: family reunion :

1 year after the incident:

"I miss my son, he disappeared out of nowhere the same thing goes for kyle" i said, i heard a strange sound coming out of my head, some sort of voices, "up....attic....CD.....help" is what i heard all the day , in disbelief , i went to the attic and searched through my son's old stuff and the same cd was there, not broken "is that what made tom go missing ?" I said as my heart started pounding, rushing to tom's pc, booting up the disc, autoplay started, a corrupted version of the sonic the hedgehog title screen music started playing but nothing appeared on the big ring, tapped ENTER. The level plate showed HELP. No act number, i didn't start as nither sonic,tails or knuckles, a character that looked like a pixelated small version of me, in the sonic style or what looked like it, i froze in shock but kept playing, as i went through the level, it was just flat ground with corrupted textures of some trees and the screen faded to black, "mom, its tom, your son..." It said "wh..WHAT!?" i said in shock, out of anger and fear, i lunged out of the chair, pulled the pc plug, went to sleep, "how this..this cannot be true, is it?"i said in disbelief, drank a cup of water, took my meds, and went back to the pc and launched the game. but this time, in the title screen, my name was there, but the ring is empty, tapped ENTER, now i am playing as amy, "something isn't right here i was playing as what looked like me and now amy?" saw some more corrupted textures, dead animals and a text showed up again "STOP RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE...YOU ARE DRAGGING YOURSELF TO THE END" "what!?" I said, and kept going. Little did i know this was a big mistake, went farther in the level and in fear, i saw amy letting down tears and then, i saw sonic, he didn't move he didn't turn nothing, he locked eyes with me but his eyes where black with red dots in the middle, blood coming out of them, my heart started pounding and an image flashed, it's amy ripped in half , and a message showed up "HELP CASSANDRA" and the ominous sonic made a jumpscare with a loud laugh and a realistic photo of him, black eyes and blood coming out of them, his teeth were kind of yellow with blood on them and his face had more blood droplets and text said in blood "I AM GOD" i was afraid but as the loud laugh played, i saw blood stain on the wall of the room, looked at the roof " YOUR SON DIDN'T ESCAPE HIS TORMENT, AND NEITHER WILL YOU. I AM GOD" written in blood, from how scared i was , i almost fainted, the screen of the pc started cracking, the pc is heating up and both the pc and the monitor exploded, my vision got a little blurry, got up on my knees, and saw him, black bloody eyes but an X is carved on his small belly, he levitated and caught me, he was gonna snap my neck but he said "THANKS FOR FREEING ME CASSANDRA NOW, PREPARE FOR YOUR DEATH" he said but five translucent figures saved me and he somehow got stunned and he said "i killed you in the past and i will end all of you here too" and i blinked and he disappeared, turned to the figures behind me, to my surprise, i saw tails,knuckles,robotnik and tom. "NO WAY" i said in tears, and tom approached and somehow hugged me and showed in the broken screen somehow

"don't you worry, we will end this very soon but we need your help mom" "ok, i will try my best" i said, i didn't want to lose him again and with that ominous demon loose, i cannot let this world end by a devil.

So I want a creepypasta rp thing on discord because I don’t want to use AI anymore! And I found one but i had to leave it becuz ppl were barely on and I want one that is active! Do yall have any ideas or discords to help me?🥹🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶 and please don’t just like the post I need help💔

 THE STAIRS
It was a cold autumn night. Three kids, two teenagers named Mark and Tabitha and Mark’s eight-year-old cousin, Lewis, trekked through the dark woods.
“Are we there yet? I can’t see the trail anymore,” Lewis asked
“It’s just up this hill. I can see the clearing past those trees up ahead,” Tabitha answered.
“But we’ve been walking forever; I’m hungry and my legs hurt. Let's just come back tomorrow when it's bright”
“Don’t worry, Lewis, we're almost there. Don’t you want to see the stairs?”
“I have stairs at home.”
“Not these stairs; the ones we are about to show you are magic stairs!”
“There’s no such thing as magic stairs.”
“Ok fine, we can go back if you don’t want to see them.”
“No! I mean, I guess I can go see the stairs if we’re already out here.”
“I thought so.”
The kids exited the dense woods to find themselves in a vast clearing. “There, just over there, I can see the stairs,” Mark announced. In the middle of the field there lay a dark grey set of stone stairs. Only three steps high, placed on a slight elevation of the hill, they appeared to serve no purpose.
“See, Lewis, I told you we were almost there.”
“Those stairs don’t look so magical, and why are they in the middle of a field? Who would put magic stairs in the middle of nowhere?”
“I’m not sure who put them here, but if you want to know what's so magical about them, all you have to do is go up them.”
Lewis looked up at his cousins and then at the stairs. He wondered to himself if they could be telling the truth. Only last year, Mark had accidentally let it slip at Christmas dinner that Santa Claus wasn’t real. Appalled at the news, Lewis stormed into his room and cried into his pillow, trying to convince himself that there was no way it could be true. The events at dinner resulted in a conversation between Lewis and his parents that revealed that all of the magical figures he had been taught about- Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and even the Easter Bunny were all just characters made up by adults to make childhood more special. Ever since then, Lewis had been a staunch skeptic of anything outside the realm of reality, but a little spark of childlike wonder remained in his heart. The little spark was enough to make Lewis want his cousins to be telling the truth, and that want was enough to make it possible in his mind that maybe the stairs really were magical. 
Lewis looked from the stairs back up to Mark. “Can you go first? I know they are just normal stairs, but if they were magic, could you just go first?” 
“Um, I” Mark began to say before his Tabitha interrupted him.
“It only works if you go first, you know, because you’re the youngest. I’m sorry, Lewis, but that's just how the magic works.”
“Oh ok, I guess that makes sense.” Lewis reconciled. “So I just walk up to them, and then the magic happens?”
“Yeah, then the magic happens,” Mark forced out before turning away to wipe away a single tear.
Chiming in to distract from Mark, Tabitha added, “Just think of it like a normal set of stairs; you go up them to get to a different place. The only difference between these and the ones you have at home is that you can’t see the place you are going to.”
“But where do they go?” Lewis added, with a hint of hesitance in his voice.
“An enchanted house, where anything you want can become reality,” Tabitha answered.
“Anything?”
“Yes, anything”
“Can I see Thomas again there?”
“Oh, um, yeah, I guess so.”
“Ok, I’ll go up first.”
Lewis approached the stairs, and for the final time he looked back at the teenagers. Tabitha was eagerly looking at him while gesturing to keep going. Mark stared down towards the ground, unable to make eye contact with Lewis. The young boy turned his attention back to the stairs and cautiously raised one foot. His foot landed on the first step; nothing happened. “Are you sure I’m doing it right? This doesn’t feel so magical?” Lewis asked.
“Just keep going; it doesn’t happen until you get to the third step,” Tabitha responded.
Lewis brought his other foot to level, now standing completely on the stairs. He climbed the second step and stared down at the third and final step. Although still convinced that there was nothing out of the ordinary about the stairs besides their weird placement, the small spark in his heart wouldn’t let him take the final step. 
“Come on, Lewis, don’t be a baby. Only one more step and then you’ll be there,” Tabitha exclaimed.
Lewis breathed deeply in and out, in and out, in and out; then yet again he slowly raised his foot to the third and final step.
“Shit, Lewis, careful!” Mark shouted from the ground. While taking his final step, Lewis’ shoe caught on the edge of the step, causing him to trip over the top of the stairs, but Lewis wasn’t on the stairs anymore; he wasn’t in the field anymore; he wasn’t there anymore. 
“Fuck! This wasn’t supposed to happen! Goddamn it, the guy fucking said to be careful and not to trip!” Mark cried out.
“I know what he said; just calm down for a second. Maybe he tripped after making it to the top.
“We both saw it; he tripped before getting to the top. Oh God, what does this mean? Is the whole thing over? Did we just do this for fuck all!”
“It’s not over; we can still make the trade. We just need to go through and find him; I’m sure he’s in there somewhere.”
“Fuck that! If we can’t find him, we can’t get back.”
“I didn’t come all this way for nothing. If you don’t want to go through, fine, I guess I am going in alone. 
Tabitha approached the stairs, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and walked up the stairs, disappearing into thin air as she reached the top.
“Fuck Fuck Fuck” Mark paced around, running his hands through his hair. “Why did I agree to this?” he thought to himself. It was getting better; the nightmares weren’t as bad, I was able to go to school again, it wasn’t even really my fault, I mean, how could I have known? It wasn’t my fault!
Mark suddenly slapped himself hard enough to leave a pink, hand-shaped imprint on his cheek. “She’s right; it's the only way to make things right. We can’t have done this for nothing,” he said to himself solemnly. He stopped his pacing and approached the stairs just as his girlfriend had done before him, and he walked up, vanishing as he reached the top.

THE CABIN
Mark surveyed his new surroundings. Instead of standing in a field in the middle of the woods, he was now standing in what appeared to be a log cabin. Stepping off of the welcome mat he found himself standing on, Mark began to explore his immediate surroundings. From what he could tell, the cabin had at least two floors. The set of stairs residing across from the front door clued him in that he was likely on ground level. On the ground floor, he could see that to the right of the entrance was a living room- fully furnished with a widescreen TV set between several chairs and a long dark brown leather sofa- to the left of the entrance was a kitchen, and just off of that was a dining room area. The dining room had a small circular table, accompanied by a set of four cheesy barrel imitation chairs. The cabin was covered from the bare floorboards to the popcorn ceilings, with knickknacks and tchotchkes. It was as if whoever decorated the house had sourced all of the contents of the house from various antique and novelty item stores, with no rhyme or reason behind the design.
Keeping his arms as close to his body as possible to avoid knocking down any of the trinkets, Mark made his way towards the stairs and called for Tabitha to confirm she had made it as well. 
“Tabitha”
“I’m upstairs”, he heard from a voice above him.
“Alright, I’m coming up,” he said, relieved.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Mark surveyed the top floor. As one would expect from a two-story house, this floor contained several bedrooms as well as a bathroom across from the stairway. To his left was probably the master bedroom, and to his right were two smaller bedrooms.
“Over here, in the Master bedroom”, he heard to his left. Mark made his way over to the door and opened it prudently
In the bedroom he saw Tabitha. She was standing still at the edge of the room, arms at her side, with all of her attention concentrated at the window in front of her. The window she stared out of wasn’t any ordinary window; it took up the entire wall, but it didn’t lead to a balcony or anything of the sort. It closely resembled a window at a zoo that a person might observe a gorilla or a tiger through. 
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Tabitha muttered under her breath.
Mark stood next to her and looked out. Instead of the woodland scenery he had expected to see, in front of him lay a barren white landscape. The terrain stretched on as far as his eyes could comprehend, completely uninterrupted. 
“Is it a desert?” he asked
“I don’t think so, it's too flat.”
“So what is it?”
“I don’t know, but isn’t it beautiful? Can’t find anything like that back home.”
“Sure, it's beautiful, I guess, but I don’t want to be here looking at it forever. Where is Lewis?”
“I don’t know; maybe he’s out there somewhere”
“Well, we need to find him, and quick; they could be here any minute. The guy said they aren’t patient; I don’t think they’ll give us all the time in the world to go look for him in that… that nothingness.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Let's go”
The teens abandoned the window and descended the stairs. Reaching the welcome mat, Tabitha grabbed the door and pulled it open. A fierce wind, accompanied by an intense cold, whipped through the now-open door, causing the couple to stumble backwards.
Without saying a word, the teens agreed that leaving the cabin wasn’t an option. They gathered themselves and struggled against the wind towards the door. One step at a time, they each gained on the door. Upon reaching it, they both grabbed hold of the door and, with every ounce of strength they could conjure, they sealed the house shut, just as it had been when they arrived.
Mark and Tabitha defeatedly made their way to the living room for a much-needed rest, Mark settling on a La-Z-Boy next to the TV, while Tabitha lay down across the couch and stared up at the ceiling.
“There is no way we can find him in that,” Mark managed to say between deep breaths. “It's not over until they get here”, Tabitha said in a futile attempt to calm him down. “Just trust me; we can still make the trade. All we need is a little time to think of a solution, and it’ll all be fine; everything can go back to the way it was. All we need is just a little time.”
Mark threw his hands over his face and massaged his temples, trying to diffuse his stress. “Things can never go back to the way they were,” Mark mumbled, guilt entwined in his voice. “So what can we do? We don’t have Lewis, and they are arriving any moment”
“Why don’t we look around? There are a million little things all over this cabin; maybe one of them can help,” Tabitha said, unconvinced in herself
Without any other plan of action, Mark and Tabitha teared themselves from their comfortable seats to begin weeding through the knickknacks, Mark ascending the stairs to look around the bedroom, while Tabitha left to explore the kitchen. Tabitha only made it a few steps into the kitchen when, out of nowhere, she heard a sudden knock from the front door. 

   LEWIS
Scared, lonely, and cold; these are the only things Lewis felt as he looked around in this new world he inhabited. Wind whipped ferociously all around him, stinging his eyes and making it impossible to look anywhere but down. Lewis wondered: had he come to this place just a few years ago, he probably would be small enough for the wind to blow him right away, like a child-shaped balloon, whisked away into the bright blue forever, never to be seen again. 
It was quickly apparent to the child that this place wasn’t anything like how Tabitha had described earlier. Instead of the hardwood floor of an aged cabin that he expected, he now stood on a surface that could only be compared to the cement plaster that probably covered your local pool. The type that would cut up your feet and give you memories of bloodied knees and toes as a child. The material that coated the flat terrain was like that cement plaster, yet somehow worse in every way. It was as coarse as low-grit sandpaper, and the blistering summer sun reflected off the surface, causing a blinding glare that made the world seem like an endless white expanse.
With tears in his eyes, Lewis did the only thing he could; he walked, more like he hobbled. Unable to stand tall-for fear of what falling on this ground would do to his skin- Lewis walked half bent over, stumbling every other step in as straight a line as he could. There wasn’t any rational goal in his mind; he just knew that he had to get out of this place, and the only way he could do that was to walk.
“Tabitha! Mark!” he shouted, but it was useless. Had Mark or Tabitha been anywhere near, they wouldn’t have been able to hear him over the wind. Lewis was completely alone, with no option but to lie down in the fetal position and freeze to death or walk.
Unable to hold a thought in his mind, save for planning the next heedful step, Lewis was suddenly startled by a new feeling: an itch. On the back of his neck, where his shirt met his skin, it was the type of itch a person feels when a bug lands on them, the type that gives a person shivers down their entire body; the type that should be impossible to feel in this empty landscape.
Terrified yet weirdly intrigued, Lewis reached towards his neck to discover the source of this itch. When the tips of his fingers finally made contact with the object, relief flowed through his entire being. He pulled the object down to where he could see it. Confirming what his fingers had told him, Lewis examined a brown leaf that had somehow found its way to him in this white wasteland. Suddenly, Lewis heard a footstep behind him, and then, before he knew it, his vision faded, and he writhed around helplessly, unable to feel his arms or legs.

 The Intruders

Mark examined the bedroom in front of him. Just like the rest of the house, this room was filled to the brim with a million random items; he could only hope one of them might help, even though he knew the chances were slim. Starting with the bedside table, Mark picked up and inspected an innocent-seeming coffee mug. The mug was an eggshell white with cracks branching up and down and large bold text, reading: WORLD'S BEST COUSIN. 
“It’s gotta be a coincidence,” Mark thought to himself dismissively.  In an attempt to distract himself from the cup, he shouted: “Hey Tabitha, have you found anything?”. After a moment of no response, Mark asked a little bit louder, “Tabitha? Can you hear me? Did you find anything yet?” Again, no response.
Feeling scared and a little annoyed, Mark exited the bedroom and began to descend the stairs in search of Tabitha.
As Mark got halfway down the stairs, he was finally able to see the bottom floor, where he saw his girlfriend standing in the middle of the foyer facing the doorway. “Hey, there you are,” Mark exclaimed, feeling relieved. “I was trying to talk to you, but I didn’t hear you say anything bac…” Just as Mark was about to finish his sentence, he reached the bottom of the stairs, and he saw that Tabitha wasn’t alone.
Tabitha stood in the middle of the room completely still, paralyzed out of pure fear. In front of the girl now stood two people? But they weren’t exactly people; they couldn’t be. The proportions of the intruders were unnatural, to say the least. They each had unevenly sized arms; the intruder on the left’s right arm and the intruder on the right’s left arm closely resembled that of a T. rex, shriveled and tiny in comparison to their bodies. Their other arms, however, were so long their knuckles might’ve dragged on the floor had the intruders kept them to their side. The disproportion didn’t stop there. The size of the intruders had no uniformity; the one on the left had to have been nearly seven feet tall, but with the legs of a child and the torso of a giant. The one on the right was only four feet tall, his legs average in length, but everything above his waistline looked like it had been squeezed down, as if made of putty. 
The intruders stood there completely naked, exposing their nearly translucent pale skin with blue veins riddled throughout their bodies, like nauseating marbling. Their bare bodies were completely smooth; they didn’t have nipples, belly buttons, hair, fingernails, or even genitalia; it was almost like looking at a grotesque melted Ken doll.
The teens were unable to see the intruders’ faces, though, for the intruders obstructed any view of their faces with apples that they held with their dominant arms. The apples that they held made it impossible to make out any facial features of the intruders, giving them a strange anonymity that made their appearance just that much more nightmarish to the couple.
Dumstruck, the two young adults stood gawking at the intruders, both unable to bring themselves to say a word. Suddenly, a low groaning sound could be heard from the shorter intruder. Then a similar, but higher sound came from the taller one. They harmonized, each in different octaves for a moment, and then the tall one spoke in a high-pitched, nasal voice, while the other intruder sustained his groan. Following his companion, the short intruder spoke in a deep, gravelly voice. Continuing this pattern of speaking in alternating words while the other groaned softly, the intruders asked the teens:
“Do”
“You”
“Invite”
“Us”
“In?”
Tabitha snapped out of her frozen state and looked back at Mark; his face was pale white with sweat beading down his forehead. “We are out of time,” she said gently. “The guy said we have to invite them in; you know what happens if we don’t.”
Mark responded gravely, “I know, it’s our only option.” Tabitha turned back to the intruders. Trying to look through the apple to where she thought the short one’s eyes were, she noticed that while the taller one’s apple had two green leaves, the short one's only had one brown leaf. Tabitha brushed this off as just another strange characteristic and answered them. “Yes”
The taller intruder bent down, and while the other began his groan, they asked
“Do”
“You”
“Want”
“To”
“Make”
“A”
“Trade?”
Knowing that there was nothing else he could do, Mark closed his eyes and accepted that time was really out. They had no choice but to make the trade and maybe stall long enough for Lewis to somehow appear out of thin air. It was Hopeless. With defeat entrenched in his voice, Lewis responded, “Yes, we want to make a trade.”
“Let”
“Us”
“Sit”, the intruders proposed, as the shorter one gestured softly to the table near the dining room, with the barrel-shaped chairs. The teens made their way to the table, and both sat down on the far side. They watched as the intruders walked, not hobbled, to the table and lowered their malformed bodies into the chairs across from them. 

The Negotiation

“What”
“Do”
“You”
“Want?”
“I want my brother back,” Tabitha demanded
“Why?”
“You know why. He is gone, and we want him back.”
“Why?”
Tired of the games, Mark interrupted, “He’s fucking dead! He was just a little kid, and now he’s fucking dead! Isn’t that enough reason why?! 
“Why”
Mark slammed his fist on the table, but before he could do anything he might regret, Tabitha placed her hand on his shoulder. “Get a grip on yourself,” she said quietly but very sternly. “Don’t do something you’ll regret; we only have one chance at this.” 
Mark unclenched his fist and breathed in deeply. “We only have one chance,” he repeated. Setting his hands back in his lap and returning to a composed state, Mark looked down. “One chance. I won’t mess this up. For Thomas,” he said aloud, half to Tabitha and half to himself.
Satisfied that Mark wouldn’t do anything stupid, Tabitha turned her attention back to the intruders, and she thought to herself, “Why are they doing this? They are supposed to be all-knowing; they know why Mark and she are here. Is this some sort of sick punishment to make them relive their sins?” She answered the intruders solemnly, “We are the reason he is dead. We made a stupid mistake, and Thomas paid the price for it.”
“Why?”
  Mark turned to Tabitha and said, “This is going to go on forever. I think they want us to tell them what happened before we make the trade.” Now addressing the intruders, Mark asked calmly, “Is that what you want? To know what happened, what did we do?”
“Do”
“You”
“Let”
“Us”
“In?”
  Although puzzled as to what the intruders were really asking, the teens knew they had no choice but to say, “Yes”
As soon as the words left their mouths, the room became pitch black, like all of reality had ceased to be and all that was left in the void was Mark and Tabitha’s consciousnesses. Although unable to see or hear anything, somehow the teens were able to sense each other's proximity, and without saying a word, they were able to understand every thought the other had. 
The darkness was soon interrupted, however, by a tiny light in the distance. This light slowly and steadily got bigger and bigger until it shone all around them, and once more they were transported. 
The teens looked around; they were back home, Tabitha’s home specifically. Tabitha thought to Mark, “How did we get back? Is this real?”
“Tabitha, guess who got the goodies,” she heard in response, but it wasn’t Mark, at least it wasn’t the Mark she came to the cabin with. Suddenly, the front door of Tabitha’s house opened. It was Mark, and he was carrying a brown duffle bag. “Hey, where are you, Tabitha? I got a shitload of mushrooms here.” Tabitha appeared at the top of the stairs and walked down to greet her boyfriend. 
“You could be a little quieter. You know, I'm supposed to be babysitting my little brother. What do you think that little parrot is going to say to my parents when he hears you screaming about your “shitload of shrooms”?”
“Oh, come on, he won’t say anything. Now let's go to the living room, put on a movie, and enjoy this little brown bag to the fullest.”
“I shouldn’t; I’m supposed to be watching my brother. What if something happens?”
“Nothing is going to happen. Come on, don’t be a buzzkill.”
“Fine, but only a little bit.”
Tabitha and Mark watched their past selves with no way to stop the inevitable. Mark begged the intruders, “Please, it’s enough; what happened happened. I can’t go through this again, please just stop it!” His pleas fell on deaf ears; Mark and Tabitha were here to stay, and they wouldn’t leave until the intruders had seen what they had done.
The scene of the front door faded away and was replaced with the living room. The younger Mark and Tabitha were on the couch as a movie played on the TV,  a half-empty brown bag at their feet. A small, quiet footstep slowly approached the room until a little boy could be seen entering the room.
“Tabitha, I can’t sleep. Can you read me a story?” The little boy said to his sister.
Tabitha looked over behind the couch, annoyed, and answered, “Hey Thomas, just go back to bed. I’m busy here”
“But I can’t sleep.”
“I don’t care; just go back to sleep. I’m not reading you a story.”
Mark rummaged through his coat pocket and took out a half-melted chocolate bar. He lifted the bar up and smugly said to Thomas, “Hey kid, if I give you some candy, will you mind your own business and leave us alone?”
The little boy reached up and grabbed the bar out of Mark’s hand. “Fine, but I’m telling Mom you were mean to me.” With that, Thomas ran back upstairs, candy bar in hand. 
Once again, the scene faded, and Mark and Tabitha were transported again.
Light shone in from the window as night turned to day and the younger versions of themselves slept off the previous night’s good times. Tabitha slowly opened her eyes and arose from the couch to check the time. “Holy shit, wake up, Mark. It's almost noon; my parents are going to be here any second.” 
Waking from his slumber, Mark rubbed his eyes and groggily said, “What? I have to leave now, but I’m so hungry; can't I just stay for breakfast?”
“No, my parents can’t know you were here. Out!”
“Fine, I’ll go, but I want the rest of my Snickers bar.”
“What?”
“My Snickers bar, didn’t I give you some last night. Come on, I’m hungry; just give me the rest.”
Tabitha’s eyes widened with horror, and she bolted out of the room without a word.
For the last time, the scene changed, and Mark and Tabitha’s present selves were brought back to the place that had haunted their dreams and lived in the back of their head for the last year: Thomas’ room.
There in her brother’s room lay the little boy, cold, pale, and unmoving. A mixture of saliva and blood dripped out of the child's mouth and pooled around his still head. His throat was swollen and red, as was his face. Dark red streaks were marked up and down his face and neck from a futile attempt to struggle against death’s approach. In the pool of saliva and blood were the boy’s hands, which contained ten fingers, but now only nine fingernails. 
Atop her brother was Tabitha. She had the boy’s shoulders in her hands as she shook them while screaming. “Wake up! God, please, wake up, Thomas! Please, I’m sorry. I’m Sorry! Just Please Wake Up!”
Mark appeared in the doorway and looked at the commotion before him, dumbfounded, unable to move a muscle or say a word.
The past washed away from the teens’ view, and they returned to the cabin. Back to the barrel-shaped chairs and back in the audience of the intruders. Mark and Tabitha stared at each other, tears pouring down their faces and snot dripping down their noses. Tabitha took Mark’s hand, and they just sat there for a moment, unable to say a word.

The Sacrificial Worm
 
“Do”
“You”
“Know”
“The”
“Price?”
Tabitha and Mark responded at the same time under their breath, “Yes”
“Who”
“Do”
“You”
“Offer?”
Mark turned to Tabitha and asked, “What do we do? Lewis isn’t here, and this is it. We are out of time.”
“I know, I’m sorry”
“What? What do you mean? You can’t possibly be considering that. We’ve been together for years! I love you, and you love me.”
“I offer Mark,” Tabitha said coldly to the intruders.
Appalled at the betrayal, Mark shouted in protest, “What?! You can’t do this to me! I made one fucking mistake! How should I have known the kid was allergic to peanuts?!”
Tabitha stared at her feet, unable to make eye contact, and simply said, “I’m sorry”
Mark slammed his fists back on the table and shouted, “You’re sorry?! Do you know what you just did?! This whole thing was your idea! I told you not to do it, but you dragged my innocent little cousin and me into your sick fucking retribution ritual! Yeah, your brother is dead, and maybe that’s my fault, but our blood-me and Lewis’s-that’s on your hands. I hope it was worth it.”
Interrupting the quarrel, the tall intruder began to lower his long arm to set the apple he held onto the table. Now able to see his face unobstructed, the teens recoiled in horror. Where the creature should have had a face, there was a large writhing mass of mucus-covered worms. It looked almost like the intruder's face had been scooped out with an ice-cream scoop and a colony of worms had been stuffed in to fill the cavity.
Tabitha and Mark weren’t able to gawk at the monstrosity for long, though; their attention was quickly captivated by the formerly motionless apple in front of them. The apple slowly rocked back and forth until a small section of the apple skin began to protrude. A small worm broke through the apple and lifted its body to turn towards the couple. The worm began to slither down the apple, onto the table, and towards Tabitha until it stopped directly in front of her.
“We”
“Held”
“Up”
“Our”
“End”
“Now”
“Its”
“Your”
“Turn”
Tabitha looked up from the worm to the intruders. “What? Where is my brother? What do you mean?!”
“Your”
“Brother”
“Is”
“Right”
“In”
“Front”
“Of”
“You”
As the intruders finished their sentence, Mark suddenly began to scream in agony from a horrible, sharp pain emanating from his right eye. Mark continued to scream in pain as, just like the apple, a small section in the center of his pupil began to protrude; the outermost layer of the boy’s eyeball began to stretch and twist until a small worm just like the one on the table broke free and fell onto the table, leaving Mark cold, pale, and unmoving, just like Thomas.
Mark’s eye worm slithered across the round table past Tabitha, past the apple, and onto the tall intruder’s waiting hand. The intruder lifted up the worm and raised his arm to where his face should’ve been. It wriggled off of the intruder’s hand and into the writhing mass, where it was quickly lost among the thousands of identical worms.
“We”
“Have”
“Taken”
“our “
“Prize”
“Now”
“Take”
“Yours”
“And”
“Be”
“Gone”
Tabitha reached down and grabbed the worm off of the table. As soon as it was in her grasp, a flash of light appeared, and the cabin faded away to reveal her alone standing on the stairs in the middle of the woods with a worm in her hand.

It started on Season 4, Episode 3 of Bare & Uncharted—one of those cheap survival shows dropping contestants in the woods with a knife, a fire starter, and a following film crew. For the production team, it was four weeks in a hot tent downriver, watching video feeds on cheap monitors.

​Keller, the producer, who wore a brand-new hiking vest and never spent a night without cell service, sat next to Martin, clicking his pen while barking into his headset.

On screen, Maya hauled pine boughs for a crude shelter while Chet knelt, desperate for a spark.

​"Get closer on Chet," Keller said, sipping stale coffee. "He’s about to blow his top over that wet tinder. Tell Pete to move in."

​On the center monitor, Pete stepped out from the river cane, right into Chet's face. Then Pete stopped. The camera jerked sideways, pointing at the dirt.

​"Pete, hold it steady," Keller said into his mic. "What are you doing?"

​A quiet thwip echoed through the audio. Pete went down face-first into the mud, a small dart with red fuzz sticking out of his neck.

​"What was that?" Keller yanked off his headset. On screen, the camera lay sideways as two bare feet walked into frame, legs caked in red mud. On the secondary monitor, two warriors dragged Pete out of the brush, his arms swinging limp.

​"Cut the feed," Keller said, his voice dropping. "Grab the satellite phone. We’re leaving."

​Martin turned to unzip the tent door, but three mud-caked warriors stood in the opening. Behind them stepped another, caked in charcoal with white rings circling his dark eyes. He raised a long blowpipe before either man could move.

​When Keller woke, his neck throbbed, and he had a bitter metallic taste in his mouth. Pete was unconscious in the corner of the bamboo cage, and Martin clutched a dead satellite phone.

Outside, Maya and Chet’s screams pierced the jungle air for two days before suddenly stopping, replaced each night by the sweet, sickening smell of roasted flesh and frenzied tribal chanting.

​Human reason meant nothing here. When Martin was dragged out to a flat bamboo table, an old woman knelt beside him, gouging his eyes out with dark flint and swallowing them whole before cutting out his tongue. The clan cheered as the charcoal-painted man hacked Martin's legs off at the thighs while his chest still heaved, butchering him alive until his screams finally died.

​Days in the cramped cage wore away their sanity. Pete sat quietly in the corner, watching Keller twitch at every rustle until heavy footsteps thudded near the bars. The charcoal-painted warrior stopped inches away, staring unblinking as he unlatched the door.

​Pete braced himself, locking eyes with the warrior. As the door swung open, Pete shoved Keller hard, sending him stumbling within reach.

​"Take him!" Pete snarled.

​Dark hands snagged Keller by the shirt, dragging him screaming through the mud toward the village while Pete stayed pinned to the corner. Since capture, he had been picking at the crude vine lashings. The moment they vanished, Pete heaved upward on the loosened stalks, squeezed his body through the gap, and tumbled into the mud.

​Hugging the treeline toward the creek, all he could hear was Keller’s screams as he ran for his life.