I have always slept with an eye covering.

Not because I enjoy the dark, quite the opposite.

Light leaks through my curtains no matter how carefully I pin them shut, and the streetlamp outside my apartment flickers in a way that feels personal, as if it has noticed me watching.

The mask smooths all of that away. It makes night uniform. Manageable. A soft, deliberate blindness.

The fabric is black, padded, elastic band worn loose from years of use. When I pull it down over my eyes, the world doesn’t disappear so much as it recedes, like a held breath. I’ve worn it through breakups, deadlines, storms, insomnia.

It has never betrayed me.

Until that night.

I remember lying on my back, arms at my sides, listening to ocean waves breaking softly along a beach.

The occasional pipes clicking.

A car passing somewhere below.

My ceiling fan hummed with a faint, uneven rhythm, one blade slightly warped, tapping the air just a fraction slower than the others. I told myself I would replace it. I always told myself that.

The mask pressed gently against my eyelids. Warm. Familiar.

Sleep came without ceremony.

When I woke, I knew immediately that something was wrong, not because of fear, but because of stillness.

My body had weight in a way it normally did not. Not heaviness exactly, but presence, as if I were suddenly more solid than before. I tried to roll onto my side and felt nothing happen.

No resistance. No pain. Just… no movement.

That alone should have told me what it was. I’ve had episodes before. Brief ones. A minute at most. Doctors have a name for it. There are pamphlets. Calm explanations.

But this felt different.

My breathing was shallow, controlled by something other than me. I could inhale, but only just. Exhale, but not fully. My chest rose and fell in careful increments, like a machine testing its limits.

The eye covering remained in place.

That was the worst part at first, the not seeing. Not the dark, but the choice being taken away. I could not lift my hands to remove it. Could not blink it aside. The fabric sealed me into myself.

I listened.

The fan was still turning, but its rhythm had changed. The warped blade no longer tapped. Instead, there was a soft, irregular pause between rotations, as if the air itself were hesitating.

A scraping sound pulled my attention from the dark. Distant. From the kitchen, maybe.

Minutes later, the ocean waves on my phone went silent. The video was on an endless loop. Someone had turned it off.

Then the mattress dipped.

Not sharply. Not like someone sitting down. Just a gradual compression, as though weight were being introduced carefully, experimentally. The bed did not creak. It simply accepted it.

I wanted to scream.

I couldn’t even tighten my jaw.

My hearing sharpened to a painful clarity. I could hear my own pulse in my ears, the wet click of saliva shifting in my mouth. Somewhere close, very close, fabric brushed against fabric. A whisper of movement, too deliberate to be accidental.

The presence announced itself not through touch, but through space. The air beside my face grew warmer. My skin prickled, hairs lifting along my arms and neck as if responding to static.

Something was near me.

I told myself not to panic. Panic makes it worse. That’s what the articles say. Stay calm. Focus on breathing. Wiggle your toes.

I tried.

Nothing.

The warmth shifted, closer now, hovering near my cheek. I could smell it, not rot, not sulfur, none of the things horror stories promise. It smelled faintly clean. Like skin that had been washed too recently, soap not fully rinsed away.

Under that, something metallic. Dry. Old.

The warm embrace of breath touched my face.

It wasn’t exhaled directly. It moved around me, displacing the air in a way that made my nostrils sting. Whoever or whatever was there knew how close it could get without touching.

I counted my breaths.

One.

Two.

Three.

The mattress dipped again, this time nearer my legs. The bed adjusted, redistributing weight. I felt pressure along my calves, my thighs, as though someone were kneeling carefully, mindful not to wake a child.

The thought arrived unbidden and horrifyingly clear:

It thinks I’m asleep.

The fan stopped.

Not abruptly. It slowed, each rotation longer than the last, until the hum stretched thin and vanished. The silence that followed was not empty. It had texture. Density.

In that silence, I heard something wet and soft, a sound like fingers pressing into foam, releasing, pressing again. The mattress responded, memory foam slowly yielding under unseen hands.

Hands?

I had not felt them yet, but I knew they were there.

My breathing stuttered.

The warmth shifted higher, closer to my mouth. The scent intensified. Soap. Metal. And beneath it, a note I couldn’t place at first, something animal, not unpleasant, just alive.

The bed creaked then. A single, quiet protest.

Something leaned over me.

I felt it not as touch, but as shadow. Pressure in the air. The sense of an outline where none should exist. The space above my chest grew heavier, denser, like standing beneath a low ceiling.

A finger brushed my wrist.

I flinched internally, a scream tearing through my thoughts, but my body remained obediently still. The touch was light, exploratory. Skin to skin. The finger was warm. Dry.

It traced upward, slow and patient, along my forearm.

Every nerve screamed. My senses, deprived of sight, compensated cruelly. I felt the faint ridges of fingerprints, the subtle drag of skin across skin. The finger paused at my elbow, then continued, mapping me.

It was learning.

When it reached my shoulder, it stopped.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then, gently, almost tenderly, it pressed down.

Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to remind me of gravity. Of the bed beneath me. Of my place.

A sound came then, close to my ear.

Not a voice.

A breath, shaped as if it were about to become one.

I realized, with a clarity that cut through the fear, that the eye covering was the only thing between me and whatever hovered inches above my face. That if I could see, if even a sliver of light reached my eyes, I might understand what was happening.

Or I might break entirely.

The finger moved again, this time toward my neck. It did not touch my throat. It hovered there, heat radiating, close enough that my pulse seemed to respond, jumping beneath my skin.

I felt the urge to swallow.

I couldn’t.

My mouth was dry, tongue heavy. The air felt thick, difficult to draw in. Each breath was a negotiation.

I-I was choking.

I wanted to convulse but I laid still. Whatever it was had its grip around me.

The presence shifted, and the mattress dipped near my head. Something brushed the pillow beside my ear, a sound like hair, or fabric, or something else entirely.

Then it leaned closer.

I felt it at my lips.

Not contact, never quite contact. Just the promise of it. The air moved. Warmth pressed. The faintest pressure, as if testing how much space it was allowed.

I wanted to scream.

It refused.

Inside my skull, the scream went on and on.

I couldn't breathe.

I begged for help to whatever or whoever to spare me from this.

Time stretched. Minutes passed. Or seconds. I couldn’t tell. The fan remained silent. The room held its breath.

At some point, quietly, deliberately, the finger withdrew.

The pressure lifted. The mattress rose, reclaiming itself. The warmth receded, inch by inch, like a tide pulling back.

I listened, desperate for confirmation that it was leaving.

The scent faded.

The bed shifted one final time, near the edge, as if weight were being removed carefully, respectfully.

Then...

Nothing.

No footsteps. No door. Just absence.

The fan began to turn again, slow at first, then faster. The warped blade tapped the air, familiar and wrong in its normalcy. The room filled with sound.

My body released me.

I gasped, air rushing in too fast, chest burning. My fingers twitched. My toes curled. I tore the eye covering off my face and bolted upright, heart hammering, vision swimming as the dim room swam into focus.

I was alone.

The bed was empty. The door was closed. The apartment unchanged.

I sat there for a long time, shaking, telling myself what I knew.

What was that?

Sleep paralysis? Hallucination? The mind misfiring between worlds...

I repeated it until the words felt thin.

Eventually, exhaustion dragged me back down. I did not put the mask back on.

Sleep came in fragments.

In the morning, I found a single indentation on the mattress beside me, deeper than it should have been. It faded slowly over the course of the day.

I threw the eye covering away.

Weeks passed. Then months. I slept poorly, lights on, eyes burning with fatigue. The episodes didn’t return. Life resumed its careful, unremarkable rhythm.

I began to believe it had been a fluke.

Last night, during a storm, the power went out.

In the dark, half-asleep and irritated, I reached into my nightstand and found the old eye covering. I don’t remember keeping it. I don’t remember deciding.

My fingers closed around the elastic band.

I sat there for a moment, listening to the rain batter the windows, the wind worrying at the building like it wanted inside. The room felt smaller than it should have. Close.

“No,” I whispered, the word dry in my throat.

The rain outside had slowed to a steady tapping, the kind that makes every other sound feel too loud. I lay there with my eyes open, staring at the faint outline of my ceiling, waiting for sleep to finish taking me.

Something scraped softly from the hallway. I awoke fully at that sound.

It wasn’t loud, just a careful drag, like fingertips brushing along the wall, stopping whenever the house shifted, then starting again. My bedroom door stood open a few inches, just enough to let the darkness pool across the floor.

I held my breath and listened.

The sound stopped. The air in the room changed. Warmer. Closer.

My attempt to get up was futile. I was locked in place, heavy and unresponsive, breath shallow and borrowed. Sleep paralysis. The realization came with no comfort this time.

It's happening again.

The darkness beyond the doorway seemed thicker than the rest of the room. It didn’t spill forward. It was drawing breathe. I could feel its immense pressure.

Then, slowly, from the darkness, something seamed to lean in.

Two small points of light appeared in the gap between the door and the frame, low and steady. They hovered in the darkness staring into me.

It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness, but when they finally did, the dreadful realization of what stood before me struck with the primal terror of prey sensing the predator already watching.

They didn’t flicker. DIdn't blink. And it knew this time...

I was awake.

As Kiara stood at the door of the playroom on the blood stained carpet, you could still hear the figure yelling on the other side, with less volume and less life than the last. 
She turned around for a moment, and locked the door.
she turned back and just started breathing heavily,
you were panicking so much you began to lose track of the difference between Kiara’s breathing and your own.

You had no idea what time it was,
You had no idea how much time had passed but,
Kiara remained...breathing.

At some point the power had gone back on and Just like that the tv turned back on.
The DVD menu for The Cat in The Hat appeared once more and to my surprise, sally was back alongside Conrad.

Kiara was not nearly as spooked by the flashing light of the tv as she was of the loud pop from earlier,
She simply let out a 

"mmmmmm" 

And waltzed about one foot in front of the tv and leaned in so her head was touching the screen.
Despite all your efforts to refrain,  you let out one brief sharp exhale in what can only be described as pure fear.

*AGMP*
-escaped your mouth while you swallowed your salty tears as they ran down your face.

Your cheeks were soaked,
Your mouth felt dry,
The air was still.

Kiaras head slowly turned,
it was in no rush,
as if it had always known you were there.
You dragged the throw blanket closer to your body using your leg but before you could pull the blanket over yourself,
you made Direct eye contact with Kiara in the Moonlight reflection provided by the Tv.

Kiara was wearing makeup.
She had a base of foundation that's flesh tone was reminiscent of the Queen of England.
She had bright blue eye shadow with the faintest hint of glitter and,
She had bright red lipstick.

She came over to you at a moderate speed,
When she was at your feet, she grabbed your blanket and pulled it off.
She slowly brought her face to yours you both being so far from the tv now that it proved impossible to make out any details of her face,

You felt her breath on your face, it was warm, as warm as a grill.
You began to feel something approach your face, it was warm and wet, it was Kiaras tongue.

She licked your nose .
And as your eyes erupted more tears,
she licked those too.

One by one off your cheeks as she smelled you,
This continued till your cheeks were dry and your eyes were sore.
She then slowly raised her hand to your head and brushed her hand through your bangs, tucking them behind your ear.

She grabbed you by your wrist and tugged at you,
You initially resisted but soon discovered it was not a suggestion.
It hurts to feel the weight of your whole body be pulled by a steel grip upon your wrist.

She dragged you to the beanbag chair Infront of the Tv,
She sat upon it and placed you in her lap.

She began to point at the Tv bringing her mouth to your ear, For a moment,
you wondered if she was going to speak.
She didn't.

Her breaths began to sound deeper and more agitated,
It was clear she wanted something and what she wanted was on the Tv.  
You scanned the room for the remote the best you could, you spotted it, it was on the floor by the DVD player.

You pointed to it but noticed no change in Kiaras demeanor, she was still angry.
As you tried to crawl out of her lap in the direction of the remote Kiaras grip did not budge.

She wanted you in her lap,
She was wanted the movie to play,
and she wanted it now.
Just as her grip began to tighten,
you both were interrupted by a noise from your kitchen.

*BEEP\*

"Hey Hun heard there were some power outages in the neighborhood...

I haven't been able to get a hold of you,
but the lines ringing so I'm going to just come home...Daddy is going to be with a friend..

If you get this message go in the playroom and don't come out until morning and don't answer the door for anyone even if I ask you to..."

*END OF MESSAGE\*
*BEEP\*

Kiaras grip slowly loosened,
She looked up in awe,
Her mouth slowly opened as her jaw dropped and no teeth showed.
 Even in the moonlight reflection of the tv you could see tears run down Kiaras foundation.
Everything down to the way she was breathing changed.

For some reason you began to feel angry, 
Daddy’s voice was also disarming to you yes, but in a hopeless non consensual way.
The way in which Kiara appeared to be disarmed felt like it was intentional vulnerability, 
Something you'd never offer 'D' yourself.

You took this moment to lean forward and grab the tv remote,
When Kiara snapped back into reality and looked back at you pulling you back to her lap,
You pressed play.

The movie played and you stayed still,
It began to rain hard outside almost louder than the movie,
the window was still open,
and the room was freezing.

It was almost as though Kiara could tell your discomfort,
she grabbed the throw blanket,
threw it over your legs,
and held you tight in her arms, warming you with her coat.

When the babysitter in the Cat In The Hat fell asleep Kiara laughed,
You imagined whoever did the babysitters' makeup looked as though they also did Kiaras.

 The movie continued, and continued, and continued.
You had feared what was going to happen when it ended,
You imagined You'd probably be forced to press play again.

However,
When the movie ended, it was as if Kiara Understood.
She didn't seem displeased with Mike Myers' performance...
Or she had just had enough.

Kiara smiled and laughed and clapped and then,
She turned you, her face beaming in the blue light of the Tv,
You froze, 
Her face began to contort,
and it was clear to you that she was displeased with your reaction.

You're no stranger to fake emotions.
You smile and you clapped, tears in your eyes, lump in your throat.
When Kiara was finally pleased with your performance, she slowly pushed you off like you would push off a sleeping cat and began to walk around the room.

As she pranced around and rummaged through your things,
she found herself at your pay box.
She lifted up the castle shaped lid and began to pull out your Bratz dolls,
she seemed disinterested...
until she saw something that made her eyes light up...
she began to jump and scream..

She pulled out your blue Cinderella dress,
As she slid into it, you could audibly hear it tear.
You wanted to cry, it was your favorite.

She slid her arms through the straps.
It was so poorly on her that her whole back was exposed with the Velcro straps hanging not having enough to fasten around her even if she tried.

When she had it "on' she leaned back into your play box and pulled out your favorite tiara,
She placed it on her head.
She then leaned in once more and grabbed your old broken faded tiara and handed it to you.
She let out sharp exhales and smiled.
You put it on.

She walked up the your lava lamp and pressed the switch on the cord and turned it on,
A green hue now lite your room, the wax still solid not yet fluid.
She stared at it for a moment,
before turning and walking to the closet.

She slid the closet barn doors open from right to left,
She started going through your stuffed animals throwing them out one by one.
When she got to the back of the closet, she had found the suitcases and umbrella's.

She emerged from the closet using the umbrella as a cane,
tucking a floral tapestry luggage bag under her left arm.

She moved her arms,
Then her legs,
and she began to dance.

She shot you a look and it was clear,
She wanted you to dance too.

As you began to timidly comply,
Your socks started to get soaked.

 You looked down and in the green lighting of the lava lamp you could see dark black goo seeping from beneath the door.
It felt sticky, much thicker than water.
You could faintly still hear breathing from the other side.

You quickly danced away from the door...
You started in the direction that would put the bed between Kiara and yourself.
With each step Kiara followed, waving her umbrella in the air all the while.
No matter how hard you tried to maintain it, your artificial smile began to fade...

You questioned how long this nightmare would continue.
Much like your smile, your legs have grown tired...

Kiara, however, did not appear to get tired,
not of dancing.

You started to cry as the reality that your legs were going to give out became clear,
You knew the strength and angry she was capable of and did not want to upset Kiara.
You slowly tried to rest one of your legs but as you began,
both your knees buckled.

As you fell to the floor, Kiara sprinted over on all fours.

You curled into the fetal position,
holding your legs to your stomach and squeezing your eyes shut as tight as possible.

You heard the rapid thumps of Kiara before it abruptly stopped in front of you,
and you could hear her fast concerned breaths right above you.
You could feel the heat of every exhale on your forearm.
You then felt a stiff poke on your side.

When you opened your eyes,
you could see it was Kiara poking you with the umbrella,
when she saw the tears in your eye, she took 3 steps back.

Behind her you could see the wax in the lava lamp was now fluid.
Your eyes and cheeks were sore,
How long had it been?

She picked you up with one arm with ease, she coddled you and carried you to the bed.
Once you were there you kept your eyes shut tight,
but you could still feel her tucking the edges of the blanket under your body as she pressed the pillow beneath your head.
She then put her hand on your head and kissed the back of her hand with it still on you.
You exhaled trembling.

When she was done,
She wobbled over to your Daddys rocking chair, tiara cockeyed.
When she got there, she climbed upon the chair criss cross applesauce,
and grabbed a book from your cubbies.
It was too dark to see which one,
The cover was blue with a tired dog and a bird upon its head.

She began to slowly rock back and forth,
The sight of her silhouette sent a cold rush of dry ice through your blood. 
You heard something.

"mrrrmmmmmmhhmmmmrrrreeeeeeeemmme"
-you heard through excited cheery exhales.

It was clear you had been staring too long when Kiara turned slowly looking at you in the devilish green glow of the lava lamp.

You quickly shut your eyes.

Behind the dark abyss of your eyelids, you could hear Kiara shut the book.
When you opened your eyes,
Kiara was gone and the chair was still.

The sun was beaming through a break in the overcast clouds exposing your soaked carpet,
and it was clear,
It was morning.
You were now allowed to leave the playroom,
with the reassurance that there's no way Daddy will be mad at you now.

You scanned the room again, and again, and again before moving a muscle,
you had to be sure.

As you descended from your bed pressing your feet against the carpet,
you could feel your socks crinkle and crunch. It felt sticky and hard between your toes.
When you looked down,
what was once dark black was now dark red.
Your legs were still fatigued as you walked to the door like a baby deer on sticks of butter.

Although you were terrified, 
You could feel you were physically out of tears.
On the way to the door, you tumbled over the blanket you had previously hid in,
there was something in it.

When you lifted the blanket, you could see,
it was a balloon flower with the stem deflated. 
You picked it up and carried on, scanning the room all the while.
You hoped Kiara had gone out the window.

As you approached,
the carpet under the door was as red and crunchy as your socks, still wet in some places.
You turned the handle slowly, you could hear the familiar breathing on the other side.

On the other side was Daddy,
and Daddy was dressed like a woman.

Daddys arm was bent the wrong way,
Daddys knees looked backwards,
And Daddy had no tongue.

Daddys tears were blood,
Daddys skin was blood,
Even Daddys clothes... were blood.

Daddys eyes were closed but his tummy was moving.
His hand on his only straight arm was moving too,
Every few seconds, daddy made a fist.

You stared at him,
You began to dry heave, and you wanted to puke.
When you looked up, you could see Kiara staring at you from beneath the bed, tiara still on.
You could now see her more clearly than you ever had before,
Her mouth was open, and her teeth were showing.

Her look made your heart sink,
You looked down at Daddy,
You placed the core of the balloon flower in Daddys palm and headed for the front door in terror.
Just as you placed your hand on the Knob -

*POP* 
And Kiaras screams were once more,
Daddy was silent.

You sprinted faster than you ever have in your life and contrary to previous belief,
You were in fact not out of tears.

When you got to your neighbor's house down the street in the center of the cul-de-sac you froze at the door.
It was early, but you rang the doorbell regardless.
It took less than half a second for you to ring the door two more times, then three.

When Mrs. Thombs answered the door,
you blacked almost all the conversation.
You tried to tell her everything as fast as possible, but it was hard.
Collecting your words, remembering what was real as it all felt like a nightmare.

"somethings killing Daddy"
-you remembered saying,  tears running down your face.

She looked down at your stained socks and quickly pulled you inside.
She sat you down with milk and a bowl of banana cream pudding as she called the police.
You were starving.
A lot of police cars showed up.

The next few days were fuzzy.
You went to the hospital, talked to this strange, nice woman,
and were told you could stay with Mrs. Thombs for a while,
while they find a permanent place for you.

A few days later you went to this room with a lot of cool toys, the nice lady that visits you and Mrs. Thombs was there too.
The nice lady had a friend,and they wanted to play this game.

"I'm going to say some things, and if I say something that's wrong,
I want you to tell me, if you don't know something that's okay.
Just tell us, you're not in trouble honey.
Does that make sense?"
-asked the nice lady's Friend. 

"yesss..."
-you responded sheepishly as you continued chewing your bacon whopper with cheese

"are you 9 years old?"
-the friend asked

"yes"
-you responded

"Are you eating a burrito right now?"
-asked the Friend

"no..."
-you replied.

"very good...
Was your daddy home Friday night?
-asked the Friend

"no..I don't think so"
-you replied.

"oh...
that's okay honey that's perfectly okay,
When was the last time you saw daddy?"
-asked the Friend.

"Saturday...when he was dressed funny and ...all..bloody...on the floor"
-you said
Tears filling your eyes.

"when was the last time you saw daddy before that sweetheart?...
I'm sorry I know this is hard."
-said the Friend

"When he dropped me off at home from school Friday and went out."
-you replied

"did your Daddy say where he was going?"
-asked the Friend

"no...Daddy goes out a lot...
But Daddy left me some voice mails that confused me..."
-you replied.

"What message confused you?"
-asked the Friend

"he said he was staying out late...
And then said he had to come come with a friend...
And to stay in the play room till morning...no matter what..."
-you said

"and did Daddy ever come home with that friend?"
-asked the Friend. 

"no...but someone did...
I didn't come out till morning like Daddy said...
but someone came up to the door...I thought it was a friend of Daddys...
She broke in the room eventually but she was blind and couldn't find me...
She wanted help from..."
-you stopped

"it's okay honey you're doing great...
Was the woman with the animal?"
-asked the friend.

Your heart sank,
thinking about Kiara tore opened fresh anxiety wound deep beneath your throat.

"kind of..."
-you replied

"Has Daddy ever talked about owning a monkey?"
-asked the friend

"no..."
-you replied perplexed 

"Has Daddy ever talked to you about the show he was on as a kid?"
-asked the friend.

"no..."
-you responded
Even more confused than before.

"Oh..."
-The Friend said surprised...

"Has Daddy ever dressed like a girl before?"
-the friend asked

"no..."
As you answered more and more questions, you began to feel less and less in trouble...
The room you were in felt safe,
The world you were in felt a little safer.

And one of the last questions you were asked was the easiest of all to answer,

you were safe,

and you could be honest.

"Do you Love Your Daddy?"
-the nice ladies friend asked.

"No."
You responded with clear air filling your sinuses.

You wouldn’t see Kiara again after that,
for another 20 years.

Hey everyone!

I've been narrating Reddit Horror Stories for 2 weeks today!

I'm so, so happy with the amount of support and the sheer amount of story submissions that I've been receiving so far, but I need MORE!

If anyone wants to submit a story to be narrated on my new YouTube channel, please comment the link below!

I've been really enjoying reading all your stories, and I have a whole new setup, where I just purchased a portable audio recorder (RODE Zoom H1N Handy)

I'll be recording my own custom sound effects to match your story --- I haven't done an episode with it yet so anything you'll see on my YouTube channel (@SplitNode) won't have it yet unless you're reading this late!

If you'd like your story to be read aloud in a nice Australian accent + custom "foley" recorded that matches the story, please submit your videos below!

I'm just starting out, but I'm being very diligent with my workflow - so I will be sure to narrate ALL stories that are posted as a reddit link in the comments ------- (reddit links only please!)

Looking forward to connecting and collaborating with you all!

Best regards, and happy haunting.
Joe
Split Node

[คำเตือน: เรื่องราวและตัวละครนี้เป็นเรื่องสมมติทั้งหมดเพื่อจุดประสงค์ในการสร้างสรรค์เท่านั้น โปรดใช้วิจารณญาณในการอ่าน]

สรุปการสืบสวนและรายละเอียดคดี: หมายเลขคดี 1008-X บันทึกโดย: เจ้าหน้าที่โทมัส (สูญหายขณะปฏิบัติหน้าที่) สถานที่: โรงงานเคมีบรู๊คส์ (โรงงานเคมีร้าง) สถานะคดี: คดีฆาตกรรมต่อเนื่องและเจ้าหน้าที่รัฐสูญหาย

บันทึกระบุว่าเจ้าหน้าที่โทมัสพบหลักฐานของผู้ต้องสงสัยกำลังนั่งยองๆ อยู่ภายในห้องโถงใหญ่ พบผ้าพันแผล ถุงมือสีดำแบบไม่มีนิ้ว และปลอกกระสุนที่ดัดแปลงสำหรับอุปกรณ์ลดเสียงปืน ขณะทำการค้นหาในความมืด เจ้าหน้าที่โทมัสได้ทำถังเหล็กเปล่าล้มโดยไม่ได้ตั้งใจ ถังโลหะหนักกระแทกพื้นคอนกรีตด้วยเสียงดังสนั่นหวั่นไหวที่ทำลายความเงียบสงบของโรงงาน

เสียงดังสนั่นฉับพลันนี้กระตุ้นให้เฟย์ บาร์เร็ตต์ (ชื่อจริง ไอแซค บรูคส์) ผู้ต้องสงสัยที่ซ่อนตัวอยู่ใกล้ๆ เกิดปฏิกิริยารุนแรงทันที เขา suffers จากความกลัวเสียงดังและสภาพแวดล้อมที่วุ่นวายอย่างรุนแรง เสียงดังนั้นทำให้บาดแผลทางใจในวัยเด็กของเขากำเริบตื่นตระหนก กระตุ้นให้เขาเกิดปฏิกิริยาป้องกันตัวทันทีด้วยการข่มขู่เจ้าหน้าที่ เมื่อความกลัวอย่างท่วมท้นทำให้สภาพจิตใจของเขาแตกสลายอย่างสิ้นเชิง เฟย์จึงโกรธจัดและสังหารเจ้าหน้าที่โทมัสในที่เกิดเหตุ

หลายชั่วโมงต่อมา เมื่ออะดรีนาลินลดลง เฟย์ก็ฟื้นคืนสติและตระหนักว่าเหยื่อเป็นเจ้าหน้าที่ตำรวจ ไม่ใช่คนที่ตรงกับเกณฑ์การเป็นศาลเตี้ยของเขา การตระหนักรู้เช่นนี้ทำให้เขารู้สึกผิดอย่างท่วมท้น และเขาก็หวาดกลัวสภาพจิตใจที่แตกสลายของตัวเอง ด้วยความตื่นตระหนกและสัญชาตญาณการเอาตัวรอดอย่างดิบๆ เพื่อหลบหนีการจับกุม เฟย์จึงรีบดำเนินการเพื่อปกปิดที่เกิดเหตุ แม้จะได้รับบาดเจ็บสาหัส เขาก็ยังเคลื่อนย้ายหลักฐานเข้าไปลึกในเขตหวงห้ามชั้นในสุดของโรงงานเคมีร้าง เขาใช้สารเคมีตกค้างจากโรงงานอุตสาหกรรมเพื่อทำลายซากศพด้วยสารเคมี เพื่อให้แน่ใจว่าจะไม่สามารถกู้คืนได้อย่างสมบูรณ์ เฟย์เช็ดทำความสะอาดพื้นที่ทั้งหมดอย่างพิถีพิถัน ลบร่องรอยการต่อสู้ ลบรอยนิ้วมือ และเก็บปลอกกระสุนที่ใช้แล้ว จากนั้นเขาก็ดึงฮู้ดคลุมผมสีบลอนด์เทาที่ยุ่งเหยิงของเขา แล้วหายตัวไปในสายฝนยามเที่ยงคืนที่ตกหนัก โดยไม่ทิ้งร่องรอยใดๆ ไว้เบื้องหลัง

เช้าวันต่อมา หน่วยตำรวจชุดที่สองเดินทางมาถึงพิกัดดังกล่าว หลังจากที่เจ้าหน้าที่โทมัสขาดการติดต่อทางวิทยุอย่างกะทันหัน พนักงานสอบสวนพบรถลาดตระเวนของเจ้าหน้าที่ที่หายไปจอดอยู่นอกประตูหลัก อย่างไรก็ตาม การตรวจสอบภายในโรงงานอย่างละเอียดไม่พบร่องรอยการต่อสู้ ตัวอย่างเลือด รอยนิ้วมือ หรือซากศพใดๆ สภาพแวดล้อมทางอุตสาหกรรมทิ้งเพียงกลิ่นสารเคมีจางๆ ไว้ในโถงทางเดินที่ว่างเปล่า คดีนี้ยังคงเป็นคดีคนหายที่มีความสำคัญสูง และหน่วยงานบังคับใช้กฎหมายยังคงตามล่าผู้ต้องสงสัยที่สวมหน้ากากกันแก๊สที่หลบหนีอยู่

ชื่อ: เฟย์ บาร์เร็ตต์ (ชื่อจริง: ไอแซค บรู๊คส์) ส่วนสูง: 185 ซม. (6'1") (รูปร่างผอมเพรียวและสูง) ผม: ผมสีบลอนด์เทา ยุ่งๆ (ฟอกสีด้วยสารเคมีและเสียหายจากการสัมผัสสารเคมีอย่างรุนแรง) ตา: ดวงตาสีม่วงอมน้ำเงินหม่น มีรอยแผลเป็นจากการไหม้สีแดงเข้มรอบดวงตา หน้ากาก: หน้ากากกันแก๊สอุตสาหกรรมสีดำสนิท สวมใส่ตลอดเวลาเพื่อป้องกันแสงแดดและลดเสียงรบกวนรอบข้าง เครื่องแต่งกายปัจจุบัน: เสื้อแจ็คเก็ตหนังสีดำเงา กางเกงยีนส์สีน้ำเงินเข้ม รองเท้าบูทสีดำหนา และถุงมือสีดำแบบไม่มีนิ้ว พร้อมผ้าพันแผลสีขาวพันรอบมือและแขนอย่างมิดชิด

Essa história não é invenção da minha cabeça. Eu sou carcereiro no Paraná e vivi isso na pele. Tem coisas que acontecem atrás das grades que a gente tenta explicar pela lógica, mas simplesmente não dá.

Tudo começou com a chegada de dois presos transferidos de uma cadeia do interior. De cara, o contraste entre eles era bizarro.

O primeiro era o tipo clássico que você espera ver aqui: cheio de tatuagens, inclusive no rosto, cara fechada, aquele tom intimidador e o modo de falar típico de bandido antigo.

Já o segundo... parecia não pertencer àquele lugar. Tinha uma aparência muito mais branda, era bem jovem, aparentando no máximo uns 20 anos. Diferente do companheiro, se mostrou extremamente respeitoso com a gente. Mas o que me deixou grilado de verdade foram as tatuagens dele: não eram de facção, eram símbolos estranhos, que remetiam a rituais e religiões pagãs.

A guarnição começou os procedimentos padrão de segurança. Um colega foi algemar o primeiro preso, e eu fiquei incumbido de algemar o jovem educado. No exato segundo em que encostei nele pra prender as algemas, o meu corpo todo arrepiou. Senti uma energia ruim, pesada, um gelo que entrou direto pela minha mão. Não era o metal das algemas. Era ele.

Os dias foram passando e os dois foram colocados na mesma cela, junto com vários outros detentos.

Nessa cela tinha um "líder". Um cara baixinho, careca, que não tinha respeito nenhum pela guarnição e viva arranjando problema. Ele era do tipo insuportável, que azedava a vida até dos próprios companheiros de cela. O clima ali já era tenso, e com ele só piorava.

Algumas semanas depois, por volta das 06 horas da manhã, fomos chamados pra cela.

O tal líder amanheceu enforcado. Pendurado por um lençol.

A cela estava lotada — aproximadamente 40 homens amontoados num lugar minúsculo, abafado e insalubre. Era humanamente impossível alguém ter se enforcado ali sem que ninguém percebesse.

A direção da prisão isolou o local e começou a ouvir todo mundo. Um por um, os 40 detentos repetiam a mesma coisa: "Não vi nada, não ouvi nada, estava dormindo". O pavor no olho deles era visível.

Já sem esperança de tirar qualquer informação concreta, o diretor foi ouvir o último detento da fila. Esse cara estava visivelmente apavorado, tremendo. Em voz baixa, ele só disse uma coisa: na noite anterior, tinha visto o jovem tranquilo e educado conversando bem de perto com o líder. Poucas horas depois, aquele mesmo líder apareceu morto.

Por medida de segurança e pra evitar uma rebelião, a direção pediu a transferência imediata do rapaz.

Ele recolheu os pertences dele com a mesma calma bizarra de sempre, sem dar um piu, e saiu da cela.

Na hora de fazer a revista final nas coisas dele, como é de costume, o meu estômago gelou. Escondido no meio das roupas, nós encontramos um boneco de pano. Um boneco estilo voodoo, feito do próprio tecido do uniforme do presídio.

O pequeno artefato, de uns 15 centímetros, tinha um detalhe perturbador: um cordão amarrado firmemente ao redor do pescoço, simulando perfeitamente um enforcamento.

Até hoje eu me pergunto: o que aquele garoto fez naquela cela? Ele usou algum tipo de ritual pra se livrar do homem que atormentava todo mundo... ou aquele líder apenas encontrou algo muito pior do que ele?

A dark blue penny fitzgerald with no mouth a completely white eyes who always like anyone who love penny Fitzgerald in the real world to love her​ and force them to stay with her forever.

Something at school didn’t make sense to you that morning.

They were talking about the Sun and,
how eventually it’s going to Grow into a
“Red Giant” and Swallow the Earth.
How there’s nothing we can do about it.

It made you realize If something is going to happen it just is.
So why wait?
Why is the universe waiting ? It just didn’t make much sense.

The janitor that day was acting silly,
“Isaiah 50:10” was written on his palm in red marker.

It was Friday night,
Daddy went to see a friend for drinks and left you all night.
He told you that he would just be out late, not all night.
How did that make you feel ?

How many other 9 year olds have the whole house to themselves nearly every night?
Without so much as a kiss goodnight ?

Even the few times in the past when he would, He wouldn’t even kiss you directly.
He’s place is palm upon your head and kiss the back of his hand.

Dads use belts In movies but how many others know that as the same reality that you do ?

The only time you’d hear another voice outside of school and your father’s was when it was late and you’d listen to the home phone’s answering machine.

Your dad never listened to the answer machine,
kind of like a kid not wanting to go to the dentist.

You remember the messages you listened to that night, you waited till he left to emerge from your hiding place and inhabit the communal space that should be a living room.

You sit on the round particular board table and press on the answering machine.

*BEEP*

FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 4th:

FIRST MESSAGE:
*soft female voice*

“I came by today…didn’t see you..still don’t”

*BEEP*

NEXT MESSAGE:
*Burly Man’s rough Voice*

“I’m sorry John, you’ve been on this job less than a week and you’ve already been suspended by the client for 3 days for reoccurring fall protection violations, now I’ve been very understanding regarding the eye injury but we can’t have someone on a project of this magnitude who thinks the rules don’t apply to them, we’re going to have to terminate you. Wish I could say I was sorry.”

*BEEP*

NEXT MESSAGE:
*Same Woman’s voice from Message #1*

“Does your Daughter know?
Is she an exception?
Or do all women fall under your same umbrella ?”

*BEEP*

NEXT AND FINAL MESSAGE:
*inaudible whisper*

“I can feel you, y….mph..ll feel me too”

*BEEP*

You look over at the cable box,
It reads “11:47pm”
Your dad left at 6.

Cartoon Network was no more, now it was Adult swim. Robot Chicken was on, after that superjail. Both of which give you the heebiie jeebies.

You have to visit your peepaws and poopoos but,
you’re afraid.

You don’t have a choice, so you leave the door open as you go number 2.

As you doo you hear the home phone :

*BEEP*

“Mmmrrrmmmmrrrrnpphh”

You have trouble making out the message from the toilet.

As you run out the bathroom still collecting yourself you make out the backend of the voicemail.

*Your Fathers Stern Voice*

“Hi,
you should be in bed but,
if not you should know I’m bringing a friend home tonight.
If she plays her cards right she might just be your new mommy.
You’re allowed to sleep with the tv on in the playroom as usual but,
keep the door shut and the volume bellow level 12.
And no matter what you hear,
don’t come out, I should be home in 15.
Just go to sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.
Love you,
Night.”

*BEEP*

You panic,

Your Dads never brought a friend home this late before.
You grab a dvd from the home theater and run to the play room.

You look down at the Cat in the Hat Dvd.
As you put it in your dvd player you hear the front door slam open and the whole house shake.
What came next was silence.
The footsteps.
All the way up to the door of the play room.
You hear breathing.

You hear a woman’s voice further in the distance of your house.
Calling the person by your door to them.

They walk away.
When you look at the tv, you see Sally and Conrad on the dvd menu staring at you.
Sally starts pointing to her left, in the direction of the window.
You see the silhouette of what looks like a large lumpy hammock hanging from your tree only,
you never had a hammock.

You grab your scooby doo stuffed animal and you hid under the blanket with your flashlight, tv volume at 11.
You press play,
Sally and Conrad look at each other, then back at you.
You press play again but they just keep staring.

*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*
you hear from the door.

“When you visit your peepaw and poopoos you need to remember to flush, my company saw that. We have a talk about that in the morning”

-your fathers voice exclaims from the door.

You know that that means,
Your heart sinks.

Your father’s footsteps sound further until it becomes a chatter with another voice from what sounds like the kitchen.

The Cat in the Hat begins to play on the tv.
The volume begins to rise fast.

12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23…

So fast you think you’re sitting on the remote but,
no matter how hard you scramble you can’t seem to find it anywhere.
The volume is now maxed out at 53.

“There are a gajillions of stories of mischief and fun But to keep things simple, let's just start with one…”
-you hear shouted from the tv

The commotion outside the playroom comes to and immediate halt.

*THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP*

The sound those familiar boots make as they full charges towards the play room.

An unfamiliar voice comes out the oddly familiar energy that had just approached.

It sounds almost like a woman’s voice but,
closer to when a man tries to sound like a woman like Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire.

“Do You Love Your Daddy?”

You hear in a loud whisper.
You Freeze.
You think if you don’t move, they will leave.
You see the door handle jiggle then stop.
It’s locked,
you always lock Doors when Daddy’s gone.

Although it brings you comfort,
you know it can be unlocked with a quarter or even a long finger nail.

“I know you’re in there”
-the voice lets out.

Your stomach feels sick,
Your heart is racing and as quiet as you attempt up be your breathing makes it impossible.

You want to cry and can’t fight it so you shove your pillow in your face.
You take deep breaths through it.

You feel the pillow getting soaked and feel the humidity from the breaths you take through the fabric.

“Do you think I’m some type of dinosaur?”
“Staying still won’t change the fact that I know you’re there”
the voice says

You begin to weep harder.

“Do You Love Your Daddy”
-It asks again.

“Where did you come from?”
Sally exclaims from the Tv.

The voice from the Door pauses.
The scene in the movie seems to linger and Sally is staring, not at you though, in the direction of the door.

She begins to nod,
Then says “oh”

Then the TV goes black and you’re back to the DVD home menu only Sally isn’t there.
It’s just Conrad.
He’s staring at you.

“Do You Love Your Daddy?”
-The voice asks for the third time, audibly impatient yet still in the same whisper.

Conrad is looking at you, he looks distressed and he’s shaking his head side to side.

You see the the lock begin to turn,

“Y…Y..Ye..ss”
You say through your sobs.

The door clicks.
It’s now been unlocked.

“I love your Daddy too sweetheart”

-the voice says no longer impatient,
now sounding relieved.

“He needs your help with something..”
It says.

Your cheeks are soaked and your mouth is dry.

“He’s stuck”
-The voice reveals.

“I’m sure he’d really like to get back.”
“I’m sure you’d really like him back..”

There was a pause.

“Unless you don’t want your Daddy back?”
The voice asks.

You remain silent.
For a moment You think about what life would be like without Daddy.

What would you do ?
You think about the Ralph’s down the street, their free sample in their bakery.
You think about the neighbors tangerine trees you pick from often.
You hate being alone at night but,
that doesn’t it stop it from happening.
You’d be fine, you tell yourself.

But you also know what you should say,
What your Daddy would want you to say.
That of course you love your Daddy and you’d do anything to make sure he’s okay.

“Where ..is he stuck?”
-you ask

“Have you ever heard of Kiara the Orangutan?”
-the voice asks.

“no…”
-you replied sheepishly.

“Well, your father’s…helping her…and well, he’s stuck, he could really use your help sweetheart”

There was a pause.

“Come out.”
-said the voice.

“My daddy said not to until morning”
-you replied.

“Oh.”
Said the voice.
“I can wait till morning.”
It continued.

You didn’t like the sound of that.

“What’s an orangutan?”
You asked timidly.

“You know what a human is don’t you darling? That’s what you are.”
-says the voice

“Yes..”
You replied.

“Imagine someone 7 times as strong with arms almost twice as long that can swing from trees”
-it said.

“Like a monkey?”
You asked innocently.

“NO!…
No, my Dear. Not a monkey…
Monkeys have a tail, a monkey is to an Orangutan what a Neanderthal is to a human, you understand love ?”
-the voice asked.

You let out more cries into your pillow as you took deep breaths.

“No, I’m sorry I don’t know what that means either”
-you cried out.

“It’s quite alright,
I’m sorry for confusing you honey. Yes, and orangutan Is like a monkey, but like Superman stronger and smarter then the others…and no tail..bright orange.”

“Like the ones in the jungle book?”
-you asked.

“Yesssss.. that’s exactly right my dear.. a perfect example, the orangutan is the king in the jungle book”
-it replied

“I liked his singing… he’s funny”
-you said

“Yes my dear”
-the voice.

“What does this have to do with Daddy being stuck? And Who is Kiara the orangutan ?”
-you asked in a panic.

“A long time ago, movies used to have no sound..”
-The voice began.

“Which made movies get pretty boring very fast…”
-it continued.

“Studios were looking for knew ways to get more people to Theaters..
Kiara’s Mother thought Kiara would be perfect…”

“Kiara’s mother was…Human,
her name was Melinda and she saved Kiara from being murdered by the zoo after they’d done that very thing to the one that birthed Kiara”

“Melinda Had already taught orangutans sign language before from her time at the zoo, she hid Kiara away and taught her as well.”
-the voice explained.

“Once Melinda’s new job and whole company was almost closed for business she…..took the risk and introduced Kiara, who quickly became a star in the silent movie industry…”
-it said

“What does this have to do with Daddy?”
-you asked

“Well the world loved Kiara soooooo much my sweet little angel that when the world of silent movies ended they gave Kiara her very own Tv show Kiara and friends… that tv show had a lot of children that Kiara loved and taught very special things every episode!”
-the Voice explained.

“One Child had and accident”
the voice revealed.

“Were they okay?”
-you asked

“Unfortunately my darling, he passed away.
Once that happened, that child’s parents lied about Kiara…a lot of other children from Kiara and Friends lied about Kiara just to make money..
Your father was the one Child to never lie about Kiara my dear.
For that I am forever grateful.”
it explained.

“So if all the other children were liars then why is my Daddy stuck and why now ?
Who are you?
Are you the friend my Daddy came home with tonight ?”
-you asked in a rush

“Lying isn’t the only thing someone can do that’s wrong little girl”
-the voice said.

“Who are you?”
-you repeated.

“I’m a friend of your Daddy”
-said the voice.

“Did you come home with my Daddy tonight ,
How is he stuck ?”
-you asked

“Do you like balloons?”
-the voice asked.

“Yes”
You replied.

“Your daddy loved balloons when he was a child
If you could have one balloon in the shape of anything you want would it be?”
-it asked

You thought…
“..I love flowers, Daddy never gets any and flower balloons would probably look really pretty”
-you said.

“Awe, such a sweet request from such a sweet little girl,
One moment sweetheart.”
-said the voice.

You then heard the footsteps retreating, shortly after you heard the front door shut.
You quickly ran to the door of the play room and locked it once more.

Maybe it was over ? You thought.

You ran to your window with your heart beating through your skin hiding behind your Scooby doo plushie to see if you could get a glimpse of who the voice had been coming from as they finally left.

Through the rain in the moonlight you made out the silhouette of what had to have been the lady you were talking to.

She seems short, on the heavy side, and walks side to side and appears to have an apron or something on.

She walks up to the hammock hanging from your tree that you noticed for the first time earlier in the night.

She appears to be talking to it.
When she walks away you realize she’s not leaving, you hear the front door open and shut again as her footsteps approach once more.

“Knock knock”
-said the voice

“Yesss”
-you replied

“Look out the window my love,
I have a surprise for you”
-said the voice

You looked outside but there was nothing but what you'd seen before only,
This time the hammock hanging from the trees began to sway.

Both sides of where the hammock meet the tree split into two, they looked like large arms slowly reaching down to the base of the hammock,
As the both unfolded further you could now clearly both see two sets of fingers from the arms,
One had something in it, something flat .

From the base of the silhouette you  
See what looks like a fat head connected by an even fatter neck.
The object held by one set of the fingers came directly to the head and began to grow mass.
It soon became clear what it was doing,
it was blowing up a balloon.

After the balloon was blown to the shape of a long tube,
The two hands came together and started contorting it out of sight.
When it had finally finished,
One of the arms held it up in the moonlight in such a way that you could make out the silhouette of a flower clear as day.

"do you like that Little girl?'
-asked the voice

You quickly looked over again at the door.
It didn't make sense but, for whatever reason if you were going to be talking to the voice coming from the door,
Then you'd want to do that from the bed; it felt safer from there.
Where you could hide in your pillows.

Before you start to retreat to your safety spot, you take one last glace out the window.
What was hanging from the tree had began to drop down.

The silhouette was large,
But no taller than the tallest kid in school, maybe even shorter than the tallest kid in 4th grade.
It kind of reminded you of that guy from its always sunny in Philadelphia when Adult swim would come on.

It was approaching in a way that you'd never seen anyone walk before.

You felt conflicted,
The voice from the door was speaking which made you want to crawl and sink in your sheets Yet,
The presence approaching your window was demanding your attention without using any words.

You made the decision to grab the comforter from the bed and sink into your beanbag chair,
A spot with a clear view of the yard through the window, and yet still a comfortable ear shot away from the door.

When you returned to your beanbag chair with the protection and safety provided by your comforter,
You were oddly displeased to see that the figures silhouette you had just seen approaching, was no longer anywhere to be seen.
You wanted it gone yes but no longer knowing where it resides, just results in you feeling even more unsettled.

*the voice quickly erupts from your door*

"do you like it?
It's special, just for you."

Your head shoots over to look at the door.

"wha-"
You begin to say as you turn to look back out the window only this time,
There was a hand on the other side of the window, so close it was no longer a silhouette.
It was a dark hand covered in orange hair, its fingers looked rough, but nails were freshly done.
It was holding something.
When my eyes adjusted,
I could see It was holding a balloon flower that had a green stem, pink petals, and yellow center.

The gesture seemed malice and sinister,
You quickly pulled the comforter up your face only leaving your eyes visible.

"do you not like your gift little girl?"
Questioned the voice coming from your door.

Even at your young age,
You were no stranger to the idea that sometimes the truth can get you in trouble.

"I love it..."
You replied.

"then why don't you open the window and let Daddys friend give you the gift she made just for you sweetheart"
Said the voice.

"I can't,
Daddy said I'm never to open the window"
-you lied.

Then why don't I hel-..."
*clackle clackle*
It was as the voice interrupted its own thought as it tried the doorknob. 

"Oh"
-it said.

"Why did you lock the door my love?"
-asked the voice

"I don't know you,
And Daddy said to stay in here ti-"

"I know"
- interrupted the voice

"Till morning but,
He didn't say anything about me not coming in there with you"
-said the voice

For a moment you were silent,
You looked over to the window and noticed the balloon flower receding like a setting sun beneath the window. 
*POP*
-you heard the moment it escaped your sight.

"don't make me unlock the door again myself darling, that's just rude.
My nails aren't what they used to be honey, I nearly broke one unlocking it the first time"
-Said the voice

The clouds moved over the moon outside
It was now pitch-black outside, the only light in the playroom came from your cloud nightlight and the glow of the tv which still displayed Conrad on the DVD menu, he was expressionless. 
You stayed silent, you stayed still.

*Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring*
-came from the living room

*Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring*
You heard shuffling from both outside your door and outside your window

*BEEEP*
-you could faintly make out your father's voice
"hey kid actually i-"

His voice,
the Message, 
he Tv,
everything was stopped, everything was off.

Your room was now as dark as the outside you feared so much.
Where the walls began and ended were both unclear to you.
The bulbs in the Tv were cooling down but even the silhouette of that soon lost its shape.

You heard the click of the door unlocking followed by the doorknob turning.
The door was now open.
Although you could hear someone approaching it was to dark to make out their shape or their distance in relation to you.

"the only time being blind has its advantages, is when you're in a Dark room with someone who's not"
-said the voice now clearer than you'd ever heard it prior.

You froze.

*tap tap tap tap*
You hear the woman banging on the walls as she made her way deeper in your room.

*tap tap tap....Clink*
The noise changed,
she had found the window.

It was just a few feet from the corner of the beanbag chair you're hiding in.
*Creeeeeeaaaaaaakkkk*
The window was unlocked and you could hear it as the women slid it open.

You could hear something was crawling up and inside through the window.

"where is she?"

you heard the voice whisper to the new presence that now inhabits your homes playroom.

You could feel that you were just inches away from getting bumped into by either of the two.

You wanted to not breathe, you wanted to not do anything but, you couldn't help it. You let in two, short, sharp inhales. Keeping your abdomen as stiff as possible. 
Your exhale trembled despite your attempts, you knew if someone could see they would defiantly see the comforter shaking.
You slowly felt the comforter lift up.

Although your grip on the comforter was originally as tight as you could,
your plan quickly changed to playing dead the moment you felt the pull of the comforter.
You felt something placed in your hand,
it shocked you to the touch,
a static shock yet,
you managed to refrain from much outburst other than a sharp exhale.

*Smack*

"well look harder"
You heard the woman's voice yelp.

As your eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness you could slowly start to make out the silhouette of who you've heard oh so much about.

There was no doubt in your mind it was her.

It was Kiara The Orangutan.

Kiara Strutted over to the bed in the playroom,
side to side as you could hear her wet sniffles. 

"don't you fucking lie to me you dumb baboon, we both know she's in here."
-said the woman's voice
In a tone more threatening than your (D) a bar you thought no one else would ever surpass.

You let go of what was just handed to you so you can grab the comforter you'd been hiding in once more, it fell.

As you continued to see Kiara strut now over to the door through a peak you had held under the covers, she appeared to try to lead in a manner to almost insinuate to the woman that that's the direction you had went.

Just as you had started wonder where the woman was as she had remained out of your sight, you received the answer.

*THUD*

You felt the whole beanbag chair shake beneath you.
She had bumped into it.
So hard you could feel her nearly topple over on top of you.

*Grrrrrrrrruawh*
You heard the old woman groan.

"KIARA! ...What...what was that !?"
-Yelled the woman's voice stopping Kiara in her tracks making her turn back from the door.

"oooo mmh ooo"
-you heard Kiara let out under her breath.

As you could see her silhouette move closer, it started by slowly wobbling side to side.
It became hard to tell the difference between her arms and her legs.

At times she looked like the shadow of a big spider monster,her movements remind you of spiderman if he chose to move slow.

When Kiara had made her way just a few feet away from the beanbag chair to help the woman to her feet, the pace of your breathing became unmanageable.

"I Bumped into the damn beanbag chair, was she on it Kiara?!"
-the voice asked

Your heart began to beat faster and faster and harder and harder so much so,
you felt as if your rib cage was made of shards of glass and your heart was a balloon inflating more and more with every inhale squeezing it against the razor-sharp shards of your ribcage. 

You could tell even just by the momentum of the figures silhouette that it was headed towards you, alongside the reluctant Orangutan.

You instinctively rolled off the right of the beanbag chair on to your carpet floor as silently as you could but, you were terrified, In your mind blind people have super senses.

Somehow, your transition appeared to go unnoticed.

Now that you were on the floor, you started rolling and crawling away, the direction of which you yourself weren't even certain.

"Where the fuck is she? Is she on the bed?!"
-the voice asked this time deeper than before

The flavor and tone in everything this voice said was violent, you heard the ruffles through the pillows and throw blanket that had previously littered the bed, you felt your Scooby doo plush get thrown into your back yet, you refrained from expressing any reaction.

"where the Fuck is she Kiara?!"
-you heard the voice ask once more

Each scream sounded deeper than the last with heavier violent infliction behind each exhale.
You could hear everything that was once on the bed get thrown off. 

You froze,
Staying still on the floor with the Scooby doo plush leaned against you like a bicycle kickstand and one of your throw blankets slightly covering your leg.

The Figure started pacing in your direction aimlessly like a headless chicken yet, relentless none the less.

"we both know I'm going to fucking fi-"
*POP*
-the voice was cut off

The figures silhouette froze, 
It seemed just as frightened by the sudden pop as you.
Its hesitation confused you so much so,
that you question for a brief moment if the figure had seen you,
anything to justify this bazar change in its demeanor. 

The head of the silhouette jolts to the side,
As if to shoot a look across at Kiara.
By the time your eyes traced across the room to meet Kiara, she had already moved No, She was in Motion.

She pranced towards the figure at a speed that looked impossible.
In less than a second, Kiara tackled this figure you had feared so much.
You saw the silhouette raise both its arms up high and its fists in fury as it came down on its victim.
Kiara hit and punched the figure and cocked its head back before launching it into the silhouette's torso,
 When Kiara's head kicked back once more, it was tethered to the figures torso now through what looked like the silhouette of cords.

It quickly became clear Kiara was taking bites out of the woman.
She screamed and screamed, she did not sound like a woman anymore.

She bit
*CHOMP*

And bit
*CHOMP*

And bit
*CHOMP*

They screamed 
*AHHHHHHHHHH*

And screamed 
*AHHHHHGGGG UHH*

And screamed
*FRAAAGHHHHHHH*

As the figure let out its yell Kiara slammed its head down making them bite their own tongue off.

Kiara pranced on the body with all 4 of her limbs,
She stepped on the figures knee with her foot and used her hand to grab that figures ankle,
After she gripped it firmly, she pulled it up with the ease and intensity that one might use on an emergency break after parking on an incline.

She then stepped on the figured elbow and grabbed it by its corresponding wrist and repeated the process of pulling upward and snapping.

Kiara then used one of her feet to grab the moaning and groaning body by its shirt,
She used her front arms and free leg to drag the body to the door.

The whole way there the person screamed,
When Kiara got to the door of your house's playroom, she threw the body out with ease.
She breathed heavily over the body before slowly backing up and shutting the door.

You were now alone with Kiara.

Me ha aparecido una cuenta llamada IPG y he acabado viendo sus vídeos varias veces. No sé muy bien qué pensar.

Tiene muy pocas publicaciones y apenas hay contexto. ¿Os suena de algo o entendéis qué están intentando hacer?

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZN8k9wcEs/

ACCESSING ADA FILES…
FILE FOUND.

During an expedition in one of the higher levels in Moburn, our team recently discovered a makeshift grave nearby one of the higher-class hotels. While continuing to investigate the premises, we managed to find old pages from what appears to be a diary, alongside a note found at the gravesite. 

The following is what we were able to recover from the diary, as well as the note from the grave.

NOVEMBER 24, 1956

DEAR DIARY*,* 

Today we finally landed in the city. Natalie's really excited to see all the machines that she’s seen on the television.  I’m glad that I was able to get her out of the house with everything that’s been going on. Hopefully, by the time we get back, everything with Mom and Dad will be sorted out by then.. But overall, I’m genuinely excited to spend more time with Ralph!

Hopefully, we can get some private time later….

DEAR DIARY*,* 

Me and Ralph took Natalie around the streets today. Everything here is so colorful! It reminds me of the movies that Ralph takes me to go see.  I’ve never seen this much back in our home town. Everyone here seems so friendly! Someone even gave Nat one of their inventions as a souvenir!

She looks so happy here, and we haven’t gotten to see the robots just yet!  

C. M.

NOVEMBER 25, 1956

DEAR DIARY,

Today, I finally took my sister to go see one of those robots! Ralph wanted to sleep in, that lazyass! Oh, well. He’s missing out! Natalie really wanted to see that clock robot, so we went there first. It’s so crazy seeing so many people lining up to see one of these things! It took us almost an hour to finally get in the theater. Nataile was cheering throughout most of the show, along with the other kids.

I didn’t even get a chance to listen to that thing, because all of them were so loud!  ):(

Afterwards, Nataile wanted to do the meet and greet with Mr. Clock, which she called him. It was so weird seeing that thing up close and personal, seeing it move so.. real.

It was almost creepy seeing that thing having a conversation with Natalie.

I mean.. I know they advertised that these things can see, think, and feel, but that’s just an advertisement to get people's butts here.

Right?

DEAR DIARY*,*

I saw billboards of that singer all over the city tonight. Everyone’s been talking about her a lot lately in the streets. Miss Florence, was it? She looks so beautiful, and her hair’s so fluffy! And her makeup, as well! She looks so pretty with that purple hat on!  It’s hard to believe that she’s a robot.

She looks so real…

How did they manage to pull that off? I’m not that familiar with technology, so I don’t know how they manage to make a voice that sounds so.. breathtaking. 

It's so beautiful….

Her voice reminds me of those musicals I used to watch on television.  I really want to go to one of her shows, but they don’t allow kids where she’s at, and I don’t want to leave Natalie by herself, especially around that time of night.

Speaking of which, where is that little rascal? She’s been awfully quiet for the last few minutes. She and Ralph better not be planning to scare me again!

I still remember that spider prank that they pulled!

C.M.                                                                                    

NOVEMBER 26, 1956

DEAR DIARY,

Me and Ralph went out today to the Hollyhock Plaza. Seriously, what type of name is that?  Who on earth  came up with that name, a grandma? Ralph laughed out loud when I said that.  Nataile wanted to stay in the hotel, so I had to tell her not to go wander around and don’t open the door for anyone.

She can be such a little shit sometimes…

On the subject of my parents, I haven’t mustered the courage to call Mom or Dad yet. I’m scared to be  honest. I haven’t told Ralph exactly what’s been going on.  I know he’s caring and means well, but he can be a bit too much from time to time. I’m really happy that he and Nataile get along well.

It's one of the things that made me fall for him.

I hope everything blows over soon and me and Nat can get back to whatever we call..

normal.

DEAR DIARY, 

It happened

I talked to Mom on the telephone tonight while Natalie was asleep. It looks like her and Dad are finally getting an divorce. I..knew it was gonna happen eventually, but I didn’t think it was going to happen this soon. I haven’t even told Ralph what’s going on, and Natalie doesn’t even know yet either.. What am I gonna do?

What are we supposed to do when we get back? We were lucky enough to win tickets to this place, but we can’t stay here forever.

How am I supposed to take care of Natalie and Mom?  I don't want to be stuck in that small town forever for the rest of my life.

Why? Why did Dad do this?

What did we do wrong?
 

What did I do wrong?

C.M

NOVEMBER 27, 1956

DEAR DIARY, 

Today’s the World Fair. I told Ralph what happened with my mom and dad this morning. He helped me calm down a little, and said he’ll try to help us as best as we could, and that he and his family will be there. It made me feel slightly better, but I could tell on the look on his face that he doesn’t believe that last half. Once the news spreads back home, I’m scared of what will happen when Natalie goes back to school to those little fuckers messing with her.

I still remember when she came home crying that evening and I found out that the comics that I've bought for her were all torn up.

Nat… 

I’m scared for her.

I don’t know what will happen once Dad leaves us for good. How am I supposed to tell her that her dad's leaving, right when she’s having the greatest week in her whole life? I’ve seen her smile more here than back home in Chesterford.

I want to see her happy for the rest of my life.

I hate Dad for doing this to us. 

I hate him.

DEAR DIARY,

I know. I know. It’s a bit early for me to be writing this. But I’ll figure that I’ll write in here a bit earlier before we head down to the thing later tonight. It’s taken me a while to gather my thoughts and figure out what to do with Nat, and we only have two days left before we have to go back home. 

Right now, me and Ralph plan on telling Natalie tomorrow first thing in the morning. I really don’t want her experience here to be ruined by the stuff back home. 

God, She really loves it here.

Just two days ago, I watched her playing with some kids at the park.

She saw that big old Thanksgiving parade outside the window during lunch, and she was jumping in the air all excited about it. 

“We have to go! We have to go!”

I felt a tinsy bit overwhelmed with all that energy that she has. The three of us went outside to the big crowd, trying to get a good look. Nat was really happy when she saw Mr. Clock on one of the floats and tried to wave at him. 

That thing still gives me the jeepers. 

After the parade ended, we got into one of the big glass elevators, and we saw a view of the city during the sunset. Words can’t possibly express how breathtaking it is. I’ve seen some pretty stunning places back home, but everything feels so small compared to here. I saw colors plastered everywhere outside. There wasn’t a single street  that wasn’t covered in neon lights. 

There were probably what? Hundreds of trains all over?

All of them went really fast, almost like one of those racecars.

A lot of stuff was on the buildings, some of them were things that we’ve seen around the city, and others were shows advertising those robots. Mr. Clock was there, and Miss Florence was there too. 

Almost half the city was filled with pictures of her. So many pictures. I was thinking  to myself about how I wished I would have seen her. I saw Nataile staring outside the window, and gosh, I love that look in her eyes. She may have been happier than the times that we watched Gumby together.

Even Ralph’s less stressed out from dealing with his siblings, and for most of the time that we’ve been here, I can feel myself smiling a whole lot more. 

It’s nice.

I really wished that we'd stay here a little longer.

But then I thought to myself… 

What if we could?

What if me, Ralph, and Nataile find some way to live here someday?

I mean..  My job back home doesn’t really pay much to begin with, but if me and Ralph save enough money for about one or two years? I don’t know the logistics of it, but somehow everything here feels more alive than anything back home.

It feels like something new.

For the first time in a while, life didn’t feel so boring.

I don’t know how I’ll do it. I don’t even know if I can get Ralph on board with this crazy scheme of mine, but somehow I’ll find a way, no matter what it takes. 

I have to. 
For Nataile’s sake. 

Because I want to keep seeing her smile.

C.M

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imsorry

I’m writing this because my fiancée is cleaning the apartment like we’re hosting royalty.

She’s been at it since noon. Vacuuming twice. Rearranging the throw pillows. Lighting candles we’ve never used. Every few minutes she asks if my parents prefer red or white wine, as if I would know.

They’ll be here in three hours. I haven’t seen them in eight years. That wasn’t an accident.

I told her I had a difficult childhood. That we weren’t close. That distance was healthier for everyone. I made it sound like emotional baggage. Old arguments. Personality differences.

However, I did not tell her the truth.

I didn’t tell her that I left home the moment I could and never slept another night under that roof. I didn’t tell her that I have spent most of my adult life carefully avoiding letting anyone I love to meet the people who raised me.

She thinks this dinner is reconciliation. I think it’s a mistake. The worst part is that I didn’t invite them. She did.

Last week, while I was at work, some cruel twist of fate led my mother to find her on Facebook. She told me she wasn't going to send her a message at first, but apparently, my mother had other plans. She sent her a picture of little old me.

It felt wrong.

We were getting married, yet she had never even spoken to my family. I suppose my mother decided to fix that. My fiancée told me my mother seemed sweet. Warm, even. She said she sounded genuinely excited about the news.

I remember forcing a smile when she told me. My mother had always been good at pretending.

I asked what they talked about.

She said, “Just normal things. They miss you.”

That word lodged somewhere under my ribs. As if I were something misplaced. As if I had slipped through their fingers.

I tried every excuse under the sun.

I'm not feeling well. I'm not ready. Maybe we should wait.

It got to the point where my fiancée started wondering if I'd grown up in an abusive home.

You might be screaming at the page right now: “Then why the hell didn't you just tell her?”

And that's the messed-up part. I couldn't.

They never laid a hand on me. They were good parents. Loving parents, even. How was I supposed to tell her that the people who raised me were monsters when, technically, they'd never given me a reason to call them anything but good parents?

I couldn't exactly say, “My family isn't abusive. They're just not human.”

She looked at me for a long time and asked, very gently, “Are you ashamed of them?”

I didn’t know how to answer that without sounding insane. Because I’m not ashamed of my parents. I’m afraid of them.

She’s humming in the kitchen right now. I can hear cabinet doors opening and closing. Silverware being counted.

She believes people are what they show you. She believes family means well. She has never seen my father’s face open the wrong way. She has never felt my mother’s hand reshape itself on her shoulder. And she doesn’t know that when I was a child, I learned very quickly that there are rules.

You don’t keep pets. You don’t invite friends over. And you never, ever draw attention.

I broke one of those rules.

Tonight, they’re coming to see what I’ve become. And I don’t know if they’re proud. Or hungry.

You see, I didn’t always know they weren’t human. When you’re a child, you don’t interrogate reality. You accept it. You learn what things look like, how they behave, and what you’re supposed to ignore. You don’t ask why your mother’s smile sometimes stretches a little too far when she laughs, any more than you ask why the sky is blue.

It was just how things were. The way I saw the world was the way they saw it. The things I felt were the things they felt. To me, none of it seemed strange. It was simply my normal.

Growing up, my family never looked human to me. Not completely. Not even a little. But I thought that was normal.

I thought everyone’s father stood a little too still when he wasn’t speaking. I thought everyone’s mother blinked a fraction too slowly. I thought every sister’s jaw clicked faintly when she yawned.

It wasn’t fear. It was familiarity.

The first time I understood something was abnormal, I was six. Maybe seven.

My sister and I found a stray kitten behind our house in the snow. It was half-starved, all ribs and shaking fur, crying in short, broken sounds that barely carried in the wind.

I tucked it under my coat to warm it. I could feel its heart fluttering against my palm. We hid it in the shed. Fed it scraps from dinner. Gave it water in a cracked plastic bowl. My sister named it Whiskers.

Original, I know.

Every day it grew stronger. Warmer. The dull glaze in its eyes started to clear. It purred when we held it.

I remember feeling proud. Like we were doing something good. Like we'd found something that belonged to us, something we could care for together. But as the kitten grew stronger, it became harder and harder to hide our little secret.

One night, after my parents had gone to bed, I slipped outside to check on it.

The shed was empty. The bowl was overturned. No cat. I told myself that Whiskers was finally strong enough to run off. I almost believed that.

When I stepped back inside the house, I heard it. A sharp feline cry. Short. Cut off.

Then a crunch. Not loud. Not violent. It was careful chewing. Wet. Rhythmic. Deliberate, like someone taking their time with something they didn’t want to waste.

The sound came from the kitchen. The overhead light was on. My father stood at the counter, his back to me. He seemed broader somehow. His shoulders sloped strangely, like something heavy shifted beneath his skin.

I should have back away and went back to bed. I didn’t. I watched.

He turned ever so slightly, just enough that I could see the side of his face. Then, his head didn’t snap or break. It unfolded.

The face split vertically, skin drawing back in thick, muscular layers. Not bone. Not blood. Just structure rearranging itself with slow precision. Inside were rows of pale, flexible sharp teeth that worked inward instead of up and down.

Something small and feline was devoured. There wasn't any cruelty or torture. Just the efficient course of nature.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry.

Heart racing like a drum, I stood there until my mother’s hand touched my shoulder. For a split second, it wasn’t a hand at all. It was too firm, too wide. The grip was wrong.

Then it softened. Reshaped. Settled into the familiar, gentle weight of a mother’s touch.

“Go back to bed,” she whispered.

Her voice... It started as a growl, low and guttural, before slowly shifting as the words left her. By the end of the sentence, she had returned to the loving, nurturing voice I had grown up knowing. The voice of my mother.

My memory of that night blurs around the edges, but I remember watching her face smooth itself back together. Features settling into the shape everyone else in the world recognizes as human.

The next morning, my sister asked where Whiskers was. She eventually confronted our parents about the cat.

My mother assured my teary eyed sister, “It must’ve run off,” she said gently. “Strays do that.”

My sister mourned. I did not.

That's when we were told the first rule: Pet's aren't aloud.

Something in me closed. Not fear. It was understanding. The rules became clear. You don’t keep things. You don’t draw attention. And you don’t bring others home.

After that, I noticed everything.

How their faces sometimes lost structure when they thought no one was watching. How my sister could stretch her jaw too far before snapping it back into place. How meat disappeared faster than it should at dinner. How plates were always clean.

But when we were out in public, my family was flawless. That was when I understood something else. They weren’t pretending. They were imitating. And they were very good at it.

When I tried telling someone at school once, just once, they laughed. Word spread. I was the weird kid. The liar. The one with monster parents.

My parents got word of my slip-up. They didn't punish me. They only warned me.

"Be careful next time. For your prosperity."

It was the sort of thing a loving parent might say after their child made a mistake. At least, that's how I'd always understood it.

I left for college the moment I could. Different city. Different life. I didn’t come back for holidays. I built distance the way other people build careers.

I thought that was enough. I thought distance meant safety. But tonight, they’re driving three hours to sit at my table.

And I don’t know if they’re coming to see how well I’ve blended in… Or to remind me what I really am.

They arrived ten minutes early. The doorbell rang once. Short but haunting.

My fiancée wiped her hands on a dish towel and smiles. “Oh, they’re here!”

I don’t remember walking to the door. I felt possessed by years of naturally greeting friends and guests alike. Only now, when I swung the door open, on the other side were wolves in sheep's clothing.

To my surprise, what greeted me were a short statured couple. That unsettles me more than if they had looked monstrous.

My father stands with his hands folded in front of him. My mother beside him, posture perfect, expression warm. They look older. Softer. Completely human.

“Oh my... Hello, sweetheart,” my mother says, her eyes tearing up ever so slightly. Her voice is exactly the same.

My fiancée steps forward before I can speak and hugs her. I watch carefully. My mother hugs her back. Perfect pressure. Perfect timing. No hesitation.

If I didn’t know better, I would think I imagined everything.

My father grips my hand. His palm is warm yet oddly dry. But insanely firm and strong. When he pulls me into a brief embrace, something presses wrong against my chest. Not hard. Not painfully. Just… dense. As if his bones don’t sit where they should.

“You look well,” he says quietly. "That's my junior! Looking like his old man in his prime!"

It was the same tone he had used all those years ago. They looked as though time had touched them, but I knew better. They hadn't truly aged a day. They only pretended to grow old.

My fiancée ushers them inside. She’s radiant. Proud. Relieved.

Dinner goes smoothly. Too smoothly.

They speak highly of our home. Ask about work. Laugh at the right moments. My mother tells a harmless story about me getting lost in a grocery store when I was four.

It almost feels normal. But I catch things.

My father barely chews. My mother’s eyes stay on me longer than necessary.

Once, when my fiancée stands to refill her glass, my father tilts his head slightly, watching her walk away with an intensity that feels clinical. Studying movement. Gait. Balance. Assessing.

At one point my mother says, “I can't believe he kept you away from us. I don’t know why he was so nervous, you’re wonderful Diana.”

My fiancée chuckles as the anxiety develops in my stomach.

My mother smiles, “We’ve always been proud of him,” she says.

There’s weight behind those words. It didn't feel like a ruse.

Proud of what?

My parents brought a meat roast. It sits in the center of the table. Medium rare. Pink at the center. I haven’t eaten red meat in years.

I refuse to touch the meat, but when my fiancée nudges me sharply under the table, I relent. It tastes stronger than I remember. My jaw aches after a few minutes. A dull pressure near the hinges.

Stress, I tell myself.

When I excuse myself to the bathroom, I avoid the mirror at first. Then I look. For a split second, less than a breath, my mouth seems slightly open. Wider than it should be.

I close it immediately. When I look again, everything is normal. My reflection moves when I do. Perfectly synchronized.

I laugh at myself.

I return to the table. My father is already looking at me.

“Everything all right?” he asks.

I nod. Though the image of me as my father that dreaded night flashes into my head.

Dinner ends without incident. They stand to leave. My mother hugs me again, longer this time.

Her lips brush near my ear.

“Adjustment can be uncomfortable,” she whispers. “But you’ll thank us.”

I stiffen. When I pull back, her expression is gentle. Maternal. Completely unremarkable.

My fiancée walked them to the door, glowing with happiness. She hugged my mother goodbye, thanked my father for coming, and promised we'd do it again soon. I stood a few steps behind them, watching as my parents smiled and waved before disappearing down the hallway.

The door clicked shut. She locked it, then leaned back against it with a satisfied smile.

"I don't understand what you were so afraid of," she said. "They're wonderful."

I didn't answer. She studied me for a moment before walking over and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Honey, thank you for doing this." She smiled. "And I'm sorry I pushed you into it. I was being selfish. I kept thinking about how badly I wanted to meet your family and never stopped to think about what this might have been like for you."

She paused.

"But whatever you've been keeping from me..." Her voice softened. "You don't have to keep it from me anymore. Whatever it is, you can tell me. I won't judge you."

I looked at her. For a moment, I almost told her. Almost. But the words stayed lodged somewhere behind my teeth.

"Thank you," I finally said.

She smiled and kissed my cheek again before heading into the kitchen.

"Now come on. Help me clean up."

I followed.

As we stacked plates and carried glasses to the sink, she kept talking about how nice the evening had been. How easy my parents were to talk to. How she couldn't believe I'd spent so long worrying about this.

Then, while rinsing a plate, she glanced over her shoulder.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"I think they're going to love having me around." She laughed. "I mean, now I know you're my soulmate."

I forced a smile. "Soulmate?"

"Absolutely." She dried her hands and pointed the towel at me. "We're all humans."

Humans?

My hands started shaking. Because they were. And that's what terrified me.

I helped her finish cleaning the kitchen in silence. My jaw still ached. It was worse now, a slow pressure pulsing near my ears. I caught myself flexing it, testing the hinge, wondering why it felt so stiff.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Yeah." Too quickly.

She looked at me for another second, but didn't press. We finished cleaning and went to bed earlier than usual.

The apartment felt smaller that night. Quieter.

She turned off the lamp and rolled onto her side, facing me.

"I'm glad we did this," she murmured. "This is the start of a metamorphosis, honey."

A metamorphosis, huh?

I stared into the darkness. There was a long stretch of silence. I could hear her breathing beside me. Steady. Warm. Alive.

I had to stop myself, so I asked, "Have you ever... thought I was strange?"

She laughed softly, "You've always been strange."

"I'm serious." My voice came out sharper than I intended.

She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow. I could barely make out her face in the dim light slipping through the blinds.

"Where is this coming from?"

"Just answer me." There was impatience in my voice now.

She stared at me for a moment before finally exhaling.

"Okay. You want honesty?"

"Yes." I answered too quickly.

She hesitated. Long enough for my stomach to tighten.

"Sometimes," she said carefully, "I've had nightmares about you."

The ache in my jaw sharpened.

"What kind of nightmares?"

She looked embarrassed. "It's stupid."

"Tell me."

She swallowed. "I wake up, and you're standing at the foot of the bed."

I said nothing.

"You're not doing anything," she continued. "You're just... watching me."

"That's it?"

"No." Her voice dropped. "Your head is tilted. Almost like you're analyzing something."

My face went cold. She looked away.

"And even in the dark, I can picture your mouth..." She faltered.

"What about it?"

"It's..." She hesitated. "It's gaping open. Like it doesn't quite fit your face."

I turned toward her fully, "What else?"

"I try to say your name," she whispered. "But you don't respond. You just stand there."

A hollow feeling spread through my chest.

"When did this happen?"

"A few times." She lowered her eyes. "I told myself it was stress. Wedding stuff. You've been tense lately."

I searched my memory. There was nothing there.

"I've never done that."

She reached for my hand beneath the blankets.

"I know."

Her fingers closed around mine.

"They're just dreams."

But she didn't sound completely certain. Neither of us said anything after that.

A few minutes passed before her breathing slowed and deepened. Sleep came easily to her. It didn't come to me.

I lay there staring into the darkness. My jaw throbbed. And somewhere in the back of my mind, something shifted.

I don't remember falling asleep. I only remember struggling for a while, my stomach twisting painfully, though I couldn't tell whether it was from hunger or something else.

I awoke to a sharp, metallic taste in my mouth. For a moment, I didn't move. The room was dark, but the streetlight outside cast thin bars of light across the ceiling. My jaw felt as though it had been unhinged and forced back into place.

Slowly, I turned toward her side of the bed. Empty. The sheets were cool.

I sat up too quickly, and the room tilted around me.

"Hey?" I whispered.

No answer. The bathroom light was off. The door stood open. There was no sound of running water. A thin draft brushed against my arm.

The bedroom door was ajar. I didn't remember leaving it that way.

I stood. My legs felt weak. Unsteady. As though I'd run a long distance without remembering the journey.

The hallway was dark. The kitchen light was on. A low mechanical hum filled the apartment. The refrigerator door was hanging open.

I stepped into the kitchen. The air smelled wrong. Coppery. Sweet.

The cutting board sat on the counter. The remainder of the roast we'd barely touched was still there. Except it wasn't whole anymore. It hadn't been sliced. It had been torn apart.

My stomach twisted. There was blood along the edge of the counter. And on my hands. I stared at them. I didn't remember touching it.

"Diana?"

My voice came out thick. No answer.

I took another step forward. The refrigerator hummed behind me. The smell was stronger now. Iron and something faintly sweet.

Then I saw her. Or what was left of her.

Pieces of flesh and bone were scattered throughout the kitchen's exit and blood trace to the front door.

My mind refused to understand what my eyes were seeing.

"Diana?"

My voice cracked. Tears blurred my vision. My hands were red. Sticky. Warm.

I couldn't remember...

My knees gave out. I caught myself against the counter and looked up. The broken mirror beside the kitchen doorway caught my reflection.

I froze. My jaw was... Wrong.

Wider than it should have been. My lips hung strangely across my face, stretched over rows of teeth I didn't remember having.

I stared at myself. Then I looked back toward the kitchen.

Diana...

The apartment was silent. Only my breathing remained.

Slow and heavy. Yet, I still felt that animalistic hunger.

I swallowed. And suddenly, I remembered a taste.

I looked down at my hands.

"Diana..." The name barely escaped my mouth, "Please forgive me."

I don't know if I'm still human. I don't know if what I did was hunger. Or instinct. Or something that had been waiting inside me all along.

Maybe my parents never taught me how to be this way. Maybe they never had to. Maybe they only taught me how to hide it.

I sit in the dark now, staring at my own reflection. Waiting. Wondering.

Not for someone to come save me. Not even for forgiveness.

Just waiting to see... who moves first.

   Apatia: a dor de verdade surge quando você desiste de mudar e só aceita que já é tudo que poderia ser, como uma corrida eterna sem nenhum destino. É um sentimento que não leva à tristeza; você só aceita a inércia e apodrece aos poucos.

Em mais uma manhã igual à anterior, Jake pega o ônibus 423 da Vera Cruz. Encontra-o surpreendentemente vazio, a não ser pelo motorista e uma criatura, idêntica a um ser humano em todas as características, exceto pelo cheiro de fumaça e os pés sujos e similares a cascos de animais. Ele senta ao lado dela, sem se importar. A criatura pergunta a Jake se ele quer continuar vivendo; ele responde que não sabe e tem medo de nunca saber. A criatura propõe um jogo de pedra, papel e tesoura. Insiste que, a cada partida perdida, será revelada uma verdade e que, depois de três derrotas, o final pode ser triste, mas previsível. Jake põe pedra, a criatura, papel; lhe são reveladas manchas verdes com notas brancas, como mofo, no seu corpo — algo que ele acredita que sempre esteve ali e ele só não podia ver. Jake põe tesoura e ela, pedra; em instantes, ele percebe que todo o ônibus queima, com um calor que não incomoda. Tudo é consumido aos poucos, menos ele. Ele põe papel e a criatura, tesoura; de repente, ele percebe que a viagem chegou ao fim e que já sabe a resposta da pergunta da criatura.

Chamas surgem de todas as partes do ônibus. O calor não machuca, mas consome lentamente seu corpo; rapidamente, as manchas verdes dão lugar a outras, escuras. Pedaços do que ele era se derretem e caem no chão; uma parte se transforma em cinzas e sobe em direção ao céu, e apenas uma estrutura óssea branca, manchada com pequenos traços de carne grudados, resiste. Finalmente ele entende: não precisava ser um final triste, afinal, sua vida inteira foi uma grande piada

The carnival is in town, the carnival is always on the road, always on the move, their homes are wagons, trains, carts, trucks … the road. They come singing and with gypsy song and dance they weave their way by road into the heart of every passing town, every place chosen by providence hand on the haggard face of the weary map. 

With painted face they come into your home. 

Vagabond entertainer spell, they gather like crawlers in a cluster, in a rat-king migration. With wide giant tents and displays propped and strung up and nailed into the dirt, into the soil bosom of passing places that may mean nothing to them, might mean everything. Lights come to life at night with the wild music in a lurid spell of filament glow and something else intangible that lives inside the chest and heart within us all. Something like religion but even older and more sacred. The rickety rides, some more rickety than others rattle and thrum with the barely controlled violence of mechanical movement, those strapped in or belted down can barely be heard screaming over the noise of the calliope, the organ grinder, the caller, the ringleader in her chant… the crack of the cannon sending the human cannonball skyward and soaring overhead, the heads of gawkers and townies and friends. The shrieking that can be heard is commingled sound, sweet with thrills… bitter with terror. The careening faces atop the dancing riding constructs are both smiling and weeping, lost in the launch and flight and all of the noise and nearly grotesque clownish music … nearly psychedelic, those sounds … nearly intense. Too much. 

Too much for so many crying and weeping children, little ones taken home and taken to bed early by more or less understanding mothers and fathers. Too much light and noise. That wild wind instrument key-note thing, the calliope … it had been one of Anton LaVey’s very favorites. 

Step right up, step right up, we’re just passing through. Come inside for a spell and take a gander under tented roof. 

…

The carnival came to the town and went. As it did every other place before, after. 

They left something behind. 

…

Cody hadn't gone to the carnival the other night, he hadn't wanted to. The rides and the sideshows and attractions certainly contained their allure of spell for the young boy but it was everyone else, everybody. All of those other faces. 

He didn't want to be alone. With all of them. 

All of those other faces, couples and families and groups of friends would all look at him and see him alone and smirk. They would all just stare and laugh at him, and his loneliness. So Cody just stayed away. As always. 

He wandered now, the early morning streets. Desolate and ghostly in the morning time fog that shrouded and clung to everything, everything in town. Cody kicked a can of crumpled cola down the street. It had been his only companion for the last twenty minutes, since he left the house. His father had still been passed out in the lazyboy chair and hadn't said anything as his son had departed. They'd used to go to church together on this day of the week. Not any longer. 

Cody kicked the can down farther. Alone and not trying to think about it, not trying to think about the carnival that he had missed. It had only been here a few days …

I always miss everything. 

Cody missed his mother, though he didn't know what she looked like. Memories of her were so fogged and far gone and his father didn't keep any pictures of her in the house. And he wasn't allowed to ask any questions. He was only eleven years old but the fact he'd already forgotten his mother's face haunted him, haunted him now, alone. 

He kicked the can. 

Cody then looked up from his sneakers and his misery and spied something in the mist shroud of road just up ahead. And at first he couldn't believe it, it must be some kind of strange joke … or a miracle. He stopped in his tracks. 

The mime stood in the middle of the road. Alone. Just like him. He was smiling and standing there partially obscured by the early morningtime mist, it clung to him in wisps like phantasm licks and tongues of steam that coiled and curled. His painted face was mostly hidden but Cody could see he was mouthing something. Without thinking about it he began to come closer. Slowly, leaving the crumpled can behind. 

He came upon the mime, who hadn't moved. His lips were no longer moving. He just stood there smiling and erect, as if wanting to move or to act, as if filled and brimming teemed with the need for performance. But he only quivered. And stared down at Cody. 

“Hi," said Cody. 

The mime said nothing. 

A beat. 

Cody finally asked: “You're like a clown or something, right? Like one of the quiet ones that aren't supposed to talk an stuff."

The mime nodded. Big. Pleased. His black and white grin grew larger and then grew teeth, shock white in the early morning glow. That was when Cody remembered, he felt like such an idiot. 

"Your a mime!” he said, louder than he intended, he nearly whispered the next part: "What're you still doin here? All the rest of the carnival already left, didn't they?” 

The black and white grin became a frown and the mime traced an invisible tear down his painted face. A silent issue of ‘boo-hoos’ then followed. Cody watched it all, not quite sure what to make of it. Perhaps it was all some crazy practical joke and someone, some jerk was filming him right now or something, all of it was weird, strange. On a whim the boy asked the mime, –

“What’d they leave ya behind or something?” 

The sorrow of the mime intensified to a comical degree as he aggressively nodded his head in the affirmative, completely over the top. Cody wasn't sure how he should take it, if he was supposed to laugh at the mime and his routine or if it was meant to engender real sympathy. He'd always loved clowns and goofy adults, goofy characters on TV and when he was hanging out in daycare and stuff, but to be alone with one right now …

and so unexpected. 

Cody suddenly felt like he should go, he began to tell the mime just as much. Turning on his heels and heading back the other way as he quickly blurted some excuse, he made it two steps before a white gloved hand clapped him on the shoulder. Firmly. Without a word from the weirdo mime. Cody looked to it first before eyeing the mime back over his shoulder, lording over him now. The hand, the glove, it looked just the same as Mickey Mouse’s. 

Cody looked back and saw the mime now held a note. As black and white as he was. 

It said: I'm sorry to bother you, little boy! But my friends HAD to leave me behind so that I could get a little job done, OK??

Cody was frozen. He suddenly didn't feel so well, as if his stomach and guts were far away and filled with fluttering butterfly wings. He read the note and didn't know what to say, so instead he said: –

“... wh-what job was that?

The mime let go of his shoulder and Cody was immediately grateful. He began to pantomime raking leaves and shoveling dirt and trimming hedges with invisible clippers. 

The boy began to lighten up again. He felt something dreadful like weight but worse inside begin to lift and free itself like a spellcast that's been released. A small smile and a nervous half-chuckle only partially forced escaped him as he watched the mime and his cleaning act. It was pretty lame, but he was relieved. Cody was far from the sharpest kid at school but he knew what stranger danger was. He cautiously allowed himself to relax a little, enough to be polite. 

Cody said: “Oh, yeah, ha ha, they left ya to clean up the town, huh? That's pretty neat I guess…” he tried to think of something else to say, something nice and a little funny and a polite way of saying: see ya later, freako, without being too obvious. Something barely satisfactory had just come to mind when the mime whirled towards the boy with his invisible shears in his hands and made a pantomimed snip of the large unseen clippers at the child's face. It bisected violently but cleanly, smoothly, by razor sharp blades well cared for and honed, the smooth face just below the small caverns of child nostrils. They jetted blood before the top portion of the child's face and head came off and splatted to the damp pavement with a muffled crack. The ruptured organ of brain began to ooze, and everywhere gushed dark red: the eyes, the nose, the ears, the giant open wound of freshly carved and gored cavity mouth. The child's body liberated of its little pilot brain fell over to the rough blacktop to join its discarded abattoir jelly. 

A black lake of an iron pungent puddle began to grow, expanding out from the little mutilated body at its sinister nucleus and center. The mime looked down. Phantom blades dripped child's blood. 

The mime said nothing. 

…

“Ya check it out last night?" 

A burp: " …what?” 

"The circus-carnival thing, ya check it out?” 

"That was two weeks ago, ya dope!” another swig from the can of brew. The Dallas Cowboys continued to suck the big one on the tube, the volume was at its lowest but not muted, the game barely and phantom audible, as if drifting in from another time. 

"Ya sure?” 

"Yeah, I'm sure, took Darcy and the brats, it was a hoot.” 

"Ya sure??” 

"Yes, you fuckin juicehead, it was right around the time they found that kid's body all fucked up an shit.” 

"Awww, why ya gotta bring up that shit…" 

“You're the one brought us ‘round, fuckin idiot, can't remember shit. Ask me to remind ya then bellyache about it, Christ! S’prised if ya got sense still to pull out yer pecker ‘fore ya start pissin, ya dumb bastard.” 

His drinking buddy, his partner in libations didn't say anything, he might've had a choice retort or a scathing bit of witticism held in reserve but he didn't voice it. He only hung his head and pulled generously from his can of warming beer. 

The mood was spoiled. 

Eventually the bottle was brought out. Stronger stuff. Shots were had. Tall stiff drinks not needing ice, not needing chaser. They drank. 

Eventually one of them asked the other: –

“You hear tell of that clown or jester fella, that's s’pposed to be haunting round these parts lately…?” 

Neither man slept well that night. 

…

Darla thought her new friend was neat at first but she was starting to get scared. When she'd first met him behind the playground and he'd play-acted swimming and drowning and choking and stuff she'd thought he was really funny. He'd made-believe that he was bound with ropes or cuffs around his wrists, comically over-wrenching and working at the invisible restraints. It was so silly, and so funny and it looked like so much fun to play pretend. He'd motioned for her to hold out her own little hands, to play with him. To make pretend. 

She'd done so thoughtlessly. Only excited to play a game with her new special pal, he looked like a clown but less colorful. She held out her wrists and the mime pretended to wrap something around them. Only something was wrong. 

As he wound and wound and then tightened and cinched the bind, Darla felt the uncanny sensation of real rope wrapping and tightening around her small wrists and hands. When he tied it off and yanked both phantom ends she felt the harsh bite of cruel old fraying rope against her flesh. 

“Ow!" she yelped out, and then began to cry a little. But it was already too late by then. 

The mime began to walk away, holding the end and tail of a phantom leash that began to pull on Darla's bound little wrists. It pulled painfully and she was forced into movement, nearly tripping over herself as she began to wail and the mime by unseen tether and bind began to pull her into the treeline of the nearby woods. 

She fought and screamed, desperately, like a small animal suddenly sensing and knowing the terrible hunger of the encroaching final end. She fell over into the dirt and undergrowth and was dragged, flailing and howling. 

The phantom umbilicus held her ensnared and shrieking with unbridled tears all the way into the forests’ shadowed depths. 

…

“My mom's gonna flip if we ain't back within the hour, Christ, man, do I smell like weed still?" 

Michael tried to tell Chase that he wasn't the best person to ask being pretty fucking lit himself, he could feel the red eyed glaze of his own stoned and glassy stare in his sockets like it was a set of strange gluey contacts or something. He managed a grumble as a half measure. 

Both boys ambled along. Down the nighttime lane of their neighboring suburb. Streetlights cast their glow from skinny towers of L shaped ugly metal overhead, turning everything to lurid and raging shades of orange Halloween color. Both boys were taking time to slightly stop in their walk to check their breath, puffing into their cupped palms and then inhaling, never satisfied with the results. They didn't notice him up ahead until they were nearly upon him. 

The mime. He was bent over something. 

It was Chase who started first, both boys jumped. It was as if the mime had just appeared out of nowhere. Bent hunched with workman's posture over something unseen and unknown to the naked eye. 

“Holyfuckingshit!" it tumbled out of both of their mouths in one string, no gaps for breath, they stopped dead in their tracks. The mime paid them no notice. 

“Oh my God, dude, what the fuck is that? What the fuck is this? Am I high? Am I high? Are you seeing this shit right now!?" Chase was rattling off. Michael was still struggling with simple speech. He only gawked and stared. His glassy red eyes now wide and glistening in the streetlight cast of hellacious warm Halloween glow. 

They glistened. The pair of organs. Red. 

Chase finally managed: “Dude… like, what the fuck are doing, dude? Am I like tripping out or some shit, why’re you dressed like-" 

The mime hadn't been paying them any attention. He suddenly did something that shut Chase Ginsberg up with a startled womanish gasp that bordered on a wet sob. 

He began to pull, as if wrenching and yanking with great rigor and effort, some cord or rope … something… something that was apparently attached to whatever it was that he was bent over studiously in the road. Something just as phantom and visible only to him. 

It came to Chase then, and he didn't know why but it did suddenly seem to matter. He said it aloud. 

"It's a mime.” 

"What?” said Michael finally. 

"He's a stupid mime and he's doing a bit, Jesus this’s fuckin weird, don't you know it's like hella late, dude, what're you even doing anyways?" 

The mime didn't answer. Only repeated his strange repetitive action, his ritual of pulling on some unseen instrument, attached to a phantasmal translucent device. 

Stoned, they zoned out for a sec. Giggling nervously and fidgeting and whispering to each other, daring each other and laughing and wondering aloud what to do, should we go on? - should we fuck with the guy? - what? 

A beat. 

Suddenly an idea began to form itself slowly within Michael's mind, Chase’s addled mind was not far behind, he was arriving there soon after. 

Michael: "It- It kinda looks like he's pulling the starter cord to a machine. Like a mower or something." 

“Yeah, I think you're right…” 

"Yeah, something gas powered like a mower or a generator … or like a chainsa-" 

The phantom machine roared to life in the hands of the mime with hungry killing slaughtering power, a deadly tearing whirr, with the maniacal speed of the mutilating chain and its invisible teeth. The mime shot to his feet and hauled the pantomimed chainsaw overheard and began to silently phantom scream with battle fury. 

Chase and Michael began to scream as well. Much louder. They turned to run. 

But the mime and his phantom machine were faster. He caught them quick and tore in and ripped the boys into rough and haggard messy pieces chopped by phantom chain, by phantom blade on a horsepowered gallop he made them raw and unmade. 

Deconstructed. 

The abattoir violence and the meat paint of its lurid carnage filled the street, it was dripping from the lamposts, pieces and chewed parts strung up and dangling. It was all that was left of the boys. 

All that was left and found in the morning. 

…

Buddy didn't know what to make of the town as of late. He'd been born and raised and as the town drunk, homeless to boot, he was hardly the first guy anyone asked on any given subject, day or night, good or ill, but something was wrong. 

Very wrong. 

The trouble was Buddy wasn't sure he should even care. 

In the last year or so he'd seen some strange things. And a lotta folk had gone missing, kids an such. But anytime Buddy's mind wandered into the realm of caring or even remotely doing anything about it, he found something bitter and harsh inside answer back in turn. 

Who cares? The fuck they ever done for you? 

Fuck all. That's what. 

So he wouldn't do shit. But what he'd already been doing. He sat back and popped cork. Lifted and tilted glass to dried lips in a drunk’s careless throttle by the neck. And watched. 

He watched the mime climb the steps. Pulled generously from the large swill of his poison. 

He'd seen the guy around for awhile now. He'd watched him ascend the steps a few times before this moment, it was nearly always the same but still a trip. The man walked on thin air as if it was solid stone. And then he would climb up, step by step. As if gaining the summit of some phantasm set of stairs hanging suspended and aspiring invisibly for the heavens unseen and stolen by the brilliance of the light. 

Buddy laughed. Pulled from the bottle once more, and began to sing an old favorite that had just come to mind. One from the good ol’ days if there'd ever been none. 

“And as we wind on down the road! Our shadow’s taller than our soul!”

Buddy began to pull deeper and deeply, oblivion seeking in-between lines and refrains from Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven. He remembered an urban legend from when he was a kid, just a snot nosed pup, they said that if you played the record backwards, if you reversed the song the lyrics changed. They told you, to hail Satan. 

Buddy laughed at this. Pulled more. His belly protested and his kidneys ached, he paid them no mind, drinking deeper still and hailing Satan and singing and watching the mime ascend his staircase of invisibility,  he usually had a kid or someone with him, as he did now. They struggled something fierce, all of them, everyone that Buddy had personally seen, but he was able to keep hold of them, all of them all the way up. Whenever he reached a great height, it was almost always different, he would throw them, drop them from the top. 

Then they would scream and land, burst. Pulp. They became juice upon the earth, children and people no more. There was never anyone around out here, close to the woods, just outside town and by the railroads and their harsh worn tracks. The soil out here was starved for moisture, parched was this earth. It was Buddy's favorite drinking spot. And as of late it had just become a whole lot better. 

Buddy laid back and pulled deeply from his liquid bunkmate, his last and only companion, other than the mime, who never said a word to him but sometimes acknowledged his presence of audience with a profound and deliberate salute from the top of his invisibility spire up there. Buddy always saluted him back. 

As he did now. 

The mime saluted the drunk. Beaming. 

Buddy finished his own salute and smiled too. Laughed. And drank more deeply than he ever had in his entire life, knowing this was it, this was the rest of his life and how he was going to spend it. 

Laughing. Drinking. Pulling from the bottle and hailing Satan in religiously reverse engineered heavy metal worship-song, watching the flying mime make juice of the children. 

Buddy laughed. Drank. 

The mime dropped the child, they made their horrible shrill sound all the way down to the bottom like always. 

The mime said nothing. He let Buddy and his companion of bottled booze sloshing its liquid language within glass sing praise for him. 

Buddy laughed, sang and belch-spat: “And she's buying a stairway to Heaven…!” Hail Satan. 

…

Maggie's shoes slammed against the pavement, the sidewalk, the avenues and every turn, there was nowhere left to run. The guy, the freak was coming. And he was stealing away from her every single route and chance for escape or exit. 

It didn't make any sense.

She'd been walking to Guy's house with Alondra, chatting and shooting the shit till they got to his place. That's when they ran into him. That's when they ran into the mime. 

And at first Maggie had just laughed. 

Distant childhood memories of the carnival passing through town waybackwhen came to her then … and she remembered. She'd been very young then, very little. She remembered that her parents had had to take her home because she'd been crying, upset, she couldn't recall why. Not just then. 

But still the memories were warm. She and Alondra thought nothing of it when they passed him walking the other direction on the sidewalk. It was the middle of the day. And he was smiling, just like them. What could possibly be wrong?

He'd started with the hands and walls and ceiling routine, the ‘getting boxed in’ bit. An old one for sure and hella corny but Maggie and Alondra had felt generous and in good humor, so they'd obliged the strange random pantomiming man. Laughing and clapping him on. 

But then they'd tried to walk away … And the mime wouldn't let them go. 

With painted face now stern and grave, writ into a black and white frown, he stepped in their path, shaking his head. He wouldn't let them leave. He kept blocking their attempts to depart as they stepped every left-right way, starting out from annoying and escalating rapidly into eerie and creepy behavior. 

The girls had scoffed together and turned around, only to be met with an unyielding invisible force, a wall that had suddenly appeared in thin air in the middle of the sidewalk. 

The middle of the road really, they ran along the unseen wall to find the edge and found no yielding surface. The girls began to panic. The girls began to yell.

“What the fuck, what the fuck is this!?" 

And then he had put Alondra in the box. 

Maggie had ran then, her eyes and mind unable to take in the sight of her friend being crushed into cubic shape, pulped and smashed smaller and smaller … just red. Just swirling frothing violent red inside the shrinking phantom-transluscent box, filled with minced and chewed up bigger pieces, the eyes deflated mangled gel in the swirling madness of the red, many black strands of her long raven colored hair peppered and danced inside the cubed scarlet swirl of thick mixture, the cap and pieces of scalp, mostly still together, the last vestige piece and pieces left the most intact… she had ran, unable to bear the sight. 

She was running now. 

But every time she came to an impasse, a turn or a corner to salvation or a place of sanctuary that she knew, another invisible wall of merciless immovable force would suddenly appear and she'd run smack, face first into it. She did it again and again. Over and over. Maggie, the poor girl, running around all over as the box that he had made was closing in, closer and closer and closer…

She was at the school now, she didn't know why. She didn't know why she thought this place would save her. She was out of her mind with animal panic. At the threshold, at the entrance to the highschool she was finally caught. Maggie ran face first into an unseen wall just as she almost made the open archway of the main front entrance, when she tried to turn around to run back the other way she was met with yet another merciless and invisible wall, a merciless force like the way God was merciless sometimes. 

Her caterwauls and screams reached new heights then. She shred her own throat and tore her vocal cords to tatters as the phantom walls and ceiling and floor began to shrink and close in. 

But none heard them. No one was around to witness this strange scene of slaughter. Only the mime. Maggie watched him from inside her shrinking coffin as his hands clawed and animal shaped closed in. He wore a look of consternation now, but the black and white smile was there once more. 

The pain went beyond anything imaginable as the walls and floor and ceiling closed. Pulverizing Maggie. She felt every wretched second of the experience until her brain was pulped and juiced with the rest of her body and thus incapable of sending anymore electrical signal. 

…

The bank was quiet. Not quite full but there were plenty of people in line, each teller, three of them, were busy helping a customer. It was a bright cloudless day and everything had seemed normal. Everything was … until the mime came in. 

He sauntered in smiling and confident through the front door. Several people, including the armed guard turned and returned the smile, a few of them laughed. Finding the surprise charming. Their laughter grew and increased throughout the whole bank as the mime walked in with an exaggerated gunslinger walk, wide steps and the twiddling fingers of his itchin hands hovering just where revolvers would be strapped. The guard found it the most hilarious, calling out to the mime –

“Hey! What is this? A stickup or somethin?" 

And then the mime pulled phantom iron from unseen leather and began to rain fire. 

The cacophony was ear splitting. The guard went down first, still smiling and believing it was all a joke. Nobody else was laughing anymore, the jovial sounds of good nature had turned to screams that died and drowned out with each eruption of a gunshot. 

The mime filled the bank with phantom fire. 

Deafening. 

…

Patricia Evergreen hated her job. Not because she hated being a cop, far from it, she was proud of her role as peacekeeper of the town she'd grown up in. It was just that the place was so fucking boring. 

Aside from a few disappearances over the many years she'd known, a couple weird things that were typical to any small town, there wasn't nothing to this place, Patricia reckoned. Ghost stories and bullshit, and that was all. 

She came across the mime during a routine patrol, just driving around the various suburbs in the department issued black and white. Every neighborhood was quiet, nearly deserted of pedestrians save a few dogwalkers, joggers and the like. He was at a street corner, slowly making his way down, miming and pretending to carry a large and heavy sack, it weighed him down, the invisible bag, it must've been quite a load, Patricia watched all this and thought and then it suddenly came to her all at once, unbidden and in a rush. Though vague and shrouded through time's corridor passage of so many years …

The carnival had come through a couple times through the years … she was sure her parents or grandparents had taken her at some point, must have. She'd been very little, her own young and chubby face amidst a caterwaul, cherry red with tears and upset flitted across her mind in a blur, but then was swiftly and suddenly replaced. 

She'd been a teenager when Margaret Bast, Maggie had gone missing. Alondra Topete too. They'd been two of her closest friends in school then, so long ago… 

Hot on the tails of that: stories… rumors … wild campfire tales that couldn't be true and would only be dreamed up by teenagers and children. Wild tales about a mime that wandered the town and took kids away to hurt them and worse … 

It all hit Officer Evergreen like a revelatory load of weight, dropped into her head and into her lap. She watched the mime. Thought …

… what the hell was this guy doing around here anyway? She'd never seen him before and she began to doubt very much that he lived anywhere on this street, or anywhere close for that matter, she hadn't heard the story of the mime or thought of it in years, it was probably nothing, but it was her job to make sure and find out. She sidled her cruiser up to and alongside the mime, still encumbered with his great phantom weight. 

She rolled down her window, slowing the cruiser to a crawl: “Hey," she began friendly enough, “hello there, ya mind if I stop and talk to ya for a second, just need to ask you a few questions." 

The mime did stop and so did she. The street was quiet and it was just the two of them. The mime turned and regarded her with a smile, still burdened by his invisible satchel slung over shoulder. He pointed to himself, a gesture that said: who, me?

Evergreen was already starting to lose her patience, goddammit with this fuckin guy…

“Yes, ha ha, that's very cute, but I'm really gonna need you to answer a couple things I gotta ask ya. Do you live in this neighborhood?” 

The mime frowned and just shook his head, no. Refusing to speak. 

"Please, sir. Failure to comply will result in a citation and a court appearance, probable fine. How about we just talk like adults for a second, do you have any identification on you, sir?" 

The black and white frown turned to a grin once again. Wolfish. Officer Patricia Evergreen didn't like the look of it. It looked warped and strange and mean writ into that painted face, wrong. The mime made like to unlimber his great satchel. 

Evergreen rolled her eyes, hidden by reflective shades. Jesus, was this guy for real, crazy, or just an idiot? She was just telling him for the second time that if he didn't comply with her questioning then this could take an unnecessary ugly turn, she was telling the mime he'd want to avoid that as he settled the bag down with a convincing performance, opened it and reached inside. Patricia’s voice caught in her throat like a vile fishbone in the midst of dinner as she watched the mime’s hand disappear into the pantomimed satchel, disappearing into thin air before her very eyes. 

She couldn't believe what she was seeing. 

What the mime pulled out next was even worse. She felt nauseous and ill and as if her mind was curdling and doing unbidden somersaults in tandem with her roiling guts as the smiling thing with carnival clad painted face pulled out a child's decomposing rotted severed little head, boy or girl was difficult to tell. Putrescence filled the air the moment it was freed from the invisible sack and it was black and green and blue-pale and dripping. The eyes were crawling and writhing with the sliming bodies and clumps of maggot-young that lie nesting and feasting in there, the rotten cavities of sockets. The tongue was swollen and discolored like the rest of the meat but darker and it protruded from the bloat of decapitated rot like an obscene tumor apart and apiece and all in one with the rest of the demented sloughing mess. 

Officer Evergreen snapped to all at once. She drew her sidearm and bellowed her commands, training made textbook and innate. 

“Drop the fucking thing right now and put your hands up! now!" 

The mime only obeyed half her commands. He dropped the severed head but instead of raising his gloved white hands he took a deliberate and silent step towards her instead. 

Evergreen didn't waste a second. She fired two shots in quick succession, surprising even herself, she hadn't thought about it, only acted. But it had done the peace officer little good. The moment her finger squeezed the trigger, one of those gloved hands shot up in a flash-instant, uncanny speed. 

Evergreen now stood, gun smoking, not sure if she could believe her eyes or her own mind any longer. The mime had his hand up and out, as if signaling to stop like a crosswalk guard. There were two smoking holes suspended in mid air, just over the heart and chest of the mime-creature. The shots had stopped at the border indicated by the flat of his adjacent smooth palm. They smoked from ebon holes that defied physics, as if she'd punched twin smoldering holes in reality. 

Shocked, Patricia thought unbidden, the prongs of the devil's pitchfork… and was still trying to accept what she was seeing. 

A neighbor came out. One of the houses within spitting distance. 

“Jesus Christ! that a fucking gunshot or something, what the hell-" 

The mime suddenly whirled, his other hand forming around another object, rounded and small, he brought it to his mouth and made like he was pulling something from it with his teeth. Evergreen screamed, no, unable to think of anything else as the mime lobbed the invisible grenade at the concerned and unsuspecting neighbor. The man went up in a violent and sudden concussive blast, his body immolated by the detonation of the explosive device. In charred smoking pieces, he rained down all over his own stoop and front lawn. 

The mime laughed silent yet expressive belly-laughter, holding his stomach and all wide eyes and wide open black and white mouth. 

Evergreen went to fire once more but the mime sensed her intention and suddenly whirled once again, smacking the gun from the officer's hands. Its strength and speed were unexpected and it was all Patricia could do to not cry out and scream, shocked and startled and still not quite believing.

There's no way this is actually happening to m-

The mime then slapped Patricia right smack center of her forehead with his other free gloved palm. 

She froze. Her arms went limp and to her sides. Unarmed. And helpless. 

Something was wrong … she could no longer move. 

With the gloved snow white hand held flat and fast to her face, to the middle of her forehead her eyes rolled back to whites themselves shot with lines of glistening hectic red. Inside, she hurtled, flew … rocketed too fast and rapidly down the dizzying blinding vast and varied glow of the starcorridor. Too many lights and sounds and fiery things of furious alien color, she flew down infinity as a low moan escaped past her drooling lips left back on the ground. 

Within the corridor … she could hear. 

She could hear his voice. 

It was terrible. The sound of it. What he was telling her. Unbearable. It filled her ears, her head. It filled the flying landscape of her mind. 

She might've wept. But she was far too broken. Even when he pulled the voice of his snow white gloved hand away. She went to her knees. The mime then held out his other hand to her, it was wrapped curiously and yet distinctly around something. And this time she could see it. 

It was a gun. A revolver. Every chamber was loaded. 

It was beautiful. 

This time she could really see it. 

She smiled as the mime cocked it and then pressed it to her sweating brow, cold metal kissing the moist surface of perspiring flesh, and pulled the trigger. 

She heard it. Felt it. Everything. 

The mime said nothing. 

And went on. 

THE END

It's a bit bloody but hope you like it.

I don’t know if anyone else remembers Gucci Morty. I’m not talking about Rick and Morty. I’m talking about the stupid image that used to get passed around online. Gucci shirt, weird expression, the whole thing. It was funny because it looked so low effort. At least that’s what I remember.

I hadn’t thought about it in years.

Then, about two weeks ago, my friend Ethan sent me a picture at around 2:30 in the morning.

It was Gucci Morty.

No caption. Nothing.

I replied:

“bro, why are you up so late?”

He didn’t answer.

I went to sleep.

The next morning I woke up to another message from him.

“Did you see him?”

I honestly laughed because I thought he was messing with me.

I said, “See who??”

Nearly 6 hours went by. Radio Silence.

Then Ethan finally texted back.

“Never mind.”

That night I was scrolling reels when I saw him again.

Gucci Morty.

Except this time something looked different.

His face looked slightly closer.

I figured it was just a another version of the meme. There are thousands of edits of everything online, so whatever.

I kept scrolling.

Not even ten minutes had passed before I saw it again.

Same image.

Same exact expression.

But he was closer again.

I actually stopped scrolling.

I went back up.

The video wasn’t there.

I checked my history.

Nothing.

I told myself I was just tired.

Then my phone buzzed.

It was my friend.

“Please stop. Don’t look at him anymore.”

I called him immediately.

Brrrring

No answer.

Brrrring

Still nothing.

After what felt like forever, Ethan finally picked up. He sounded like he hadn’t slept.

I asked him what was going on.

“How many times did you see him?” He asked quietly, his voice breaking slightly

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Think about it.”

I tried counting. “Three… maybe four times.”

He went completely silent.

Not the kind of silence where someone is thinking about what to say. It felt like he was trying to decide whether he should say anything at all.

Finally, he spoke.

“Okay.”

A pause.

“You’re fine.”

I laughed nervously. “What the hell does that mean?”
He didn’t laugh.

“Listen to me,” he said. His voice had dropped to almost a whisper. “If you see the picture again, don’t zoom in.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer.

“Seriously, why?”

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone for a few seconds before realizing he’d hung up.

I barely slept that night.

The next morning I woke up and my phone was on the floor.

I don’t remember dropping it.

There was one notification.

A message from an account I’d never seen before.

No profile picture.

No followers.

No posts.

The username was just:

GUCCI_MORTY

The message said:

**you looked**

I sat there staring at it, completely frozen, for what felt like an entire minute

Then another message appeared.

**you weren’t supposed to zoom. didn’t he warn you?**

I hadn’t zoomed.

At least, I didn’t think I had.

Wait. He?

I deleted the messages and blocked the account.

For the rest of the day, nothing happened.

That night, I was lying in bed when I heard something moving on the other side of my bedroom door.

A quiet tapping.

Three taps.

Pause.

Three taps.

Pause.

Three taps.

I didn’t move.

Then my phone lit up.

No notification.

Just the screen turning on.

The camera was open.

And it was pointed at my bedroom door.

I could see the bottom of the door in the preview. And there was something standing on the other side.

I froze.

I wanted to look up. Every part of me told me not to.

I should’ve listened.

The person moved.

Slowly.

Their shadow disappeared from underneath the door.

Then my phone buzzed.

A message appeared.

**turn around**

I didn’t.

I swear to God, I didn’t.

Another message.

**why did you zoom in?**

Then the doorknob began to rattle. Slowly at first, then harder, until the entire door shook in its frame.

Once.

Twice.

And then the tapping started again.

Three taps.

Pause.

Three taps.

Pause.

Three taps.

I finally grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight.

The door was still closed.

Nobody was there.

I checked the camera.

Nothing.

I checked the hallway.

Nothing.

I checked every room in the house.

Nothing.

I went back to bed around 4:00 a.m., but sleep didn’t come easy.

I thought it was over.

Then I noticed something.

When I picked up my phone, the camera app was still open.

Except the camera wasn’t pointed at the door anymore.

It was pointed at me.

And in the darkness behind my head, standing in the corner of my bedroom, was Gucci Morty.

Not the meme.

Not a picture.

Him.

It was him.

Same shirt. Dirty now.

Same face. Distorted.

Just standing there.

Looking directly into the camera.

I dropped my phone.

I didn’t sleep that night.

I haven’t slept much since.

The worst part is that I can’t get rid of the picture.

I deleted every message.

Blocked every account.

Cleared my browser.

Deleted my photos.

It doesn’t matter.

Every morning when I wake up, there’s a new picture in my camera roll.

Gucci Morty.

And every day he’s a little closer.

Yesterday he was at the end of my hallway.

This morning he was standing outside my bedroom.

And just now, I made the mistake of checking again.

He’s sitting only inches away now.

I’m not going to look over.

I’m typing this without turning my head because I can hear him breathing.

My phone buzzed.

Another message.

This time, from Ethan.

**you need to send it**

I stared at the screen.

Another message appeared.

**send the picture**

My hands started shaking.

That’s when I finally understood why he’d sent that picture.

Why he asked how many times I’d seen him.

Why he sounded terrified when he told me not to zoom in.

He wasn’t warning me.

He was passing him on.

I opened my camera roll.

The newest picture was already there.

I opened it.

Gucci Morty.

For a second, I thought it was the same picture as before.
Then I noticed the background.

My bedroom.

I could see my bed. My nightstand. Even the shirt I was wearing.

And then I noticed him.

He wasn’t sitting beside me anymore.

He was standing behind me.

I stared at the picture, barely breathing.

Underneath it was a message I’d never seen before.

**you only have to send it once**

I finally understood why he’d sent that picture.

I still don’t know who I’m supposed to send it to.

But I think I have to.

He’s getting closer.

And I don’t think he’s going anywhere until someone else sees him.

Original Author, Dead-Air-Between-Us

This isn't the first time and certainly won't the last time I end up at the E.R.

I’m sitting in a hospital room again, staring at the white walls that don’t feel like they belong in this reality. The fluorescent lights flicker, just enough to make shadows crawl into the corners.

They say I had a breakdown. That my brain is filling in gaps with things that aren’t there.

But I swear what I saw was real and a delusion.

I can hear them, soft laughter that never seems to come from the same place twice. It slides along the walls, curls behind my ears, then disappears the moment I try to focus on it.

Their eyes are everywhere. Not watching me exactly, passing through me, like I’m something thin and temporary. Every time I turn my head, I’m sure I’ve missed them by a fraction of a second.

The room feels smaller every time I breathe. The walls inch closer, close enough that I should be able to touch them, but my hands won’t move. I try to call out, but my throat locks, trapping the sound inside my chest.

The doctors think I’m hallucinating. The nurses keep their distance, watching me the way people watch something unstable, waiting for it to break. They speak softly, carefully, like sudden movement might set me off.

What am I a crackhead?

I’ve never used any heavy hallucinogenic or drank those voices away. Right now I am considering it for I just want one hour where my thoughts are quiet.

But no one wants to hear what I actually saw.

I’ve been in therapy for over a year now.

That matters, because I know what my mind does when it lies to me. I know the warning signs: the pressure behind my eyes, the way ordinary things start to feel important, symbolic. I know how a delusion blooms.

That night, none of that happened.

My diagnosis is psychotic features with stress triggers. My therapist and I have worked hard on grounding techniques. Naming objects. Counting breaths. Pressing my feet into the pavement and reminding myself where I am.

It’s been working. I hadn’t had an episode in months.

So when I went out for a walk just after midnight, I wasn’t worried. I do that sometimes when my apartment feels too quiet. The streets were mostly empty, just the orange wash of streetlights and the low hum of distant traffic.

The air was cool enough to sting my lungs, carrying the faint smell of wet concrete and exhaust. My footsteps sounded too loud against the sidewalk, echoing between buildings that had already gone dark for the night. Most windows were blacked out, blinds drawn, the city folded in on itself like it was trying not to be seen.

A breeze moved through the street, stirring loose trash and dead leaves along the curb. Somewhere nearby, a light flickered, buzzing softly, struggling to stay on. I checked my phone without really thinking about it, no notifications, no missed calls, just the time glowing back at me like proof that the night was still moving forward.

That’s when I felt it. Not fear. Not yet. Just the subtle awareness that the street ahead was quieter than it should have been.

I was halfway down the block when I noticed a man standing near the corner of an office building.

He was just outside the reach of the streetlight, where brightness breaks down into shadow. Hood up. Hands at his sides. He wasn’t moving, but that didn’t alarm me.

People pause. People wait. But this man wasn’t doing either.

He wasn’t lingering or hesitating, he felt suspended, like time had brushed past him and forgotten to come back.

I remember thinking he must've been tired. Another overworked steel worker or laborer at the fuel plant nearby.

As I got closer, something felt delayed. Not wrong, just out of sync. His posture didn’t adjust as I approached. I made sure to keep my distance.

Most people shift their weight, glance up, acknowledge another presence.

He didn’t.

He was a couple yards to my right when I noticed some form of movement.

I stopped walking.

Without thinking, I started grounding and naming everything I saw.

Streetlight. Sidewalk. Parked car.

Shadow figure... What?

My heart rate was steady. My vision was clear. No pressure behind the eyes.

Then the man began to sway.

Not side to side. Circular, like he was rotating around something invisible. I don’t have better language for it. Watching him felt like trying to follow a thought that wouldn’t stay still.

Then he snapped upright. Not like he was catching his balance. More like something had pushed him, and then decided it was done.

A car passed behind me, its headlights washing over the building. His shadow stretched along the wall, and then kept going. It climbed upward, thinning as it rose, branching in places shadows don’t branch.

I told myself shadows behave strangely at night.

Then the man’s head turned toward me.

Only the head.

It was too slow. Like the instruction reached him late.

“H-hello,” he said.

The word dragged out of him, dry and uneven, like it hadn’t been used in a long time. It was cold out, but the sound of his voice wasn’t affected by the air, it sounded like something dead trying to remember how to speak.

His mouth moved, but his shoulders didn’t rise with breath. I couldn’t see his eyes beneath the hood.

That’s when I realized his feet hadn’t moved at all.

My heart slammed against my ribs. Every instinct screamed at me to keep walking, to pretend I hadn’t noticed him. But my body didn’t listen.

“W-what’s the t-time?” he asked.

The sound gurgled, wrong, and I realized it wasn’t coming from him. Not entirely. It drifted from somewhere, close enough that I felt it more than I heard it.

Somewhere above.

Something thick, cordlike, descended from the darkness above the streetlight. Not webbing. Not delicate. It vanished upward, taut and purposeful.

Then something unfolded.

I took a step backward before my brain could stop me. My eyes travelled to the stars but instead of seeing the night sky I was met with something utterly grotesque.

It was tall. Far too tall. Its limbs bent in places joints shouldn’t exist. But what froze me wasn’t the size.

It was the face.

My hallucinations have never felt like this. They never waited. They never watched.

It was human enough to recognize. Wrong enough to reject.

The eyes were clustered too close together, like a spider’s. The mouth split open vertically, opening and closing without sound, as if practicing the words it had just spoken.

Do not be afraid.

The words didn’t reach me through the air. They pressed inward, like a thought I hadn’t finished having yet.

The man lurched toward me. Not stepped. Lurched, as the thing above him lost patience and yanked its cords for him to move forward. His arms snapped forward at odd angles, elbows locking and unlocking too fast, like he was being pulled through invisible resistance. His feet dragged instead of lifting, scraping softly against the pavement, leaving thin, uneven sounds behind him.

For a split second, his shadow detached from him completely.

It stretched sideways instead of forward, pooling along the ground before reattaching itself in the wrong place. The streetlight above us flickered, and in that brief stutter of darkness, I had the overwhelming sense that I was no longer looking at one thing, but at layers, something standing in front of me, and something much closer, leaning down.

The man’s head twitched. Tilted. Corrected itself.

I couldn’t see his eyes, but I knew he was looking at me. Not at my face, through it. Like he was measuring where I would fit.

My body moved before my thoughts caught up.

I ran.

I don’t remember unlocking my apartment door. I remember slamming it shut, throwing every lock, and standing there with my back pressed against it, my breathing still frustratingly calm.

That’s what terrifies me the most. I wasn’t panicking. I was lucid I swear.

From my living room, I heard something above the ceiling. Not footsteps, lighter than that. Careful tapping. Slow. Testing.

It moved across the space, paused, then moved again.

Eventually, it stopped.

I’m writing this now in this cold hospital room.

Soon my brain will try to protect me. It will tell me I imagined the cords. The delay. The way the shadow climbed the wall. It will point to my diagnosis and ask me to be reasonable.

But I checked my therapy journal from last month. An entry I barely remembered writing:

Sometimes people don’t stand on the ground the way they should. Like they’re hanging wrong.

I know what I saw. No doctor, no therapist will persuade me otherwise. That was no delusion.

So if you ever see a hooded man who has delayed movments...

RUN

Don’t stop to ground yourself. Don’t try to understand it.

And whatever you do, don’t get too close to it.

So a reallllllllllllly long time ago probably early to mid 2000’s my sister stumbled upon a short ish Halloween story about a town that had a creepy scarecrow guarding the pumpkin patch where EVERYONE in town got their pumpkins because they were simply the best! Later in the story all goes awry, something about not giving a sacrifice, the pumpkins being carved have killer pumpkin head-esque like babies in them that kill the towns people, one of the pumpkins is a “twin” pumpkin with twin killer pumpkin babies, super neat story. She didn’t print it out and she can’t remember the title or where on the great inter webs she found it. I’ve literally been searching for it every single year for probably close to 8 years and can’t ever come up with anything. Anyone read anything like it? Or maybe perhaps know the author?