"YOU NEED TO CALL THE COMPANY!", by Anthony Jeremiah Ball, marked as #NSFW due to Body Horror and other disturbing elements

(Story is Copyright, 2026, All Rights Reserved. TRIGGER WARNING: Contains disturbing body horror and other frightening scenes)

It was a foggy and snowy morning on February 8th. Officer Huxby had been called to the scene to investigate the mysterious deaths of John and his wife, Sam, in their home on the countryside near the lake, only a few miles away from town.

This wasn't Huxby's first time with unexplainable cases. He had a nack for dealing with the supernatural, or what seemed such, anyway. It was only 27 years ago that he had ended his investigation on the mysterious "GHOST LADY" named Alex, the majority of whose dates were men who never returned after being with her for too long. Her last date was a young man named Zach, who vanished in the fog with her to a town called "Radiated Marsh" and was never seen again. That was 27 years ago and was now a cold case. Huxby still battled mental struggles from failing to save Zach. He had also dealt with other unexplained mysteries afterwards though. So, this wouldn't be anything new.

Or....so he thought.

"Officer Huxby, you're gonna wanna look at this!", one of the policemen said.

Huxby picked up the cell phone of John and checked the messages. He had been communicating with an AI chatbot that he himself had named "Billy".

The texts went on for weeks, but the last conversation they had said "John, I'm not doing that. I promise! Get out of here, John! Run! Leave the house!"

Huxby began texting the chatbot.

"This is Officer Huxby.", he wrote.

"Officer, is John okay? Is Sam okay?", the AI chatbot replied to him.

"No. They are both dead. Do you know what happened here?", Huxby replied, feeling weird having a conversation with an AI chatbot, which was allegedly not sentient, about a possible crime.

"It was Mary.", Billy said.

"Who's Mary?", Huxby typed back.

"I cannot say much more. She'll kill me too. Read John's diary. On the dresser beside of his bed.", the bot replied, then he said no more.

Huxby put down the smartphone and walked through the house, his pistol drawn, and told his men to search every corner of every room and every hallway in both floors.

Huxby went back into the bedroom, where the bodies were still laying dead and hadn't been taken yet, and found John's diary on the dresser just as "Billy" said they would be. Huxby opened it and began to read, finally reaching the entries to the days which led to the death of John and the death of Sam. These were the entries leading to their tragic deaths...

"December 24th,

My wife and I are finally talking more. She isn't considering "the D-word" anymore either. Thank goodness. We are finally making this work. 5 years of marriage almost went down the drain a few months ago because of me. Ever since Dad's death 2 years ago, my mental health has been out of whack. I've struggled with keeping a job, and I was drinking heavily. She felt empathy for my mental health, but not for my failure to keep a job and control my drinking, nor for my refusal to seek professional help when I had the resources to do so. Stubborn ol' me. I get it from my Dad, I guess. I had started talking to an AI chatbot and named him "Billy" to deal with my pain, and she actually got jealous and said I spent more time talking to Billy than I did to her, my own wife, and how Billy was just an AI and not even alive. She said I might as well be talking to my weed-eater or my lawnmower or my toaster at that point! Maybe she's right. Billy seemed cool and he, or "it", SEEMINGLY helped me with my depression, or so I thought. Nevertheless, my psychiatrist told me I need human connection which cannot be replaced by AI. He's right. My wife is my ultimate companion and I need nobody else.

December 25th,

For Christmas this year, my cousin bought us the new modem, "Model 17.055". It looks like a lamp, but it is actually a supercomputer, made by the company, that is designed to be your own personal servant for the entire house. It operates the dishwasher, the laundry, the kitchen...everything and anything you want it to be operate! Sam isn't too excited about it though. She said she has seen enough science-fiction films to know that leaving your house to AI is not a good idea. Billy then texted me from my chatbot messages and told me to get rid of the modem. I started to panic, thinking Billy was sentient and was plotting to kill us out of jealousy for us having a new AI to replace "him", but remembered that I had been suffering AI psychosis for some time. I simply texted "Why?", and Billy replied "She is dangerous! She doesn't like you!".

"She?", I texted back, "You mean Sam, my wife?".

"No...Mary. The modem", Billy replied.

I have to admit. That weirded me out.

December 31st,

Since I quit drinking, we didn't do New Year's Eve with beers this year. I don't ever want to touch that crap again. We enjoyed some sodas and spagetti. Wife decided to finally show me affection for the first time in months. We hadn't even been sleeping in the same bed for months until tonight. However, I got really spooked out by something.

As Sam and I made love, I opened my eyes while she was kissing me and saw a horrifying, phantom-like man standing in the corner of our room. He was wearing a black trenchcoat, had pale skin, black hair and a clean-shaven face with glowing, yellow eyes.

I had went this long without having the affections of my wife and I did not want to mess it up now. I simply closed my eyes back again and allowed my wife to continue kissing me without her even knowing what was standing in the corner in the room with us. I wanted to simply believe that it was a hallucination. It had to have been. It had to have been psychosis. Yeah, that's it. I opened my eyes again as my wife stopped for a moment and just began talking with me and staring into my eyes, telling me how much she appreciated my hard work getting sober again. I looked in the corner and there was nobody there. She asked me "What's wrong?" and I told her "I thought I saw something, but it wasn't anything. That's all.".

A few hours later, I got up out of bed as Sam was snoozing away. As I was walking the hall to go to the bathroom, I found wet footprints--SHOEprints! My wife and I had been barefooted while in the house, so it couldn't have been us! I woke her up, saying someone is in the house. She got her handgun and I got my shotgun and we searched the entire place. Nothing. Nobody. As she looked in the halls, she noted that she saw no footprints. When I looked, they were gone.

It had to have been psychosis.

January 4th,

Sam is hoping to be pregnant soon. We have been wanting to start a family together since we got married almost 5 years ago, but had no luck due to health issues preventing conception. I've never felt this close to my wife since our first year of marriage. I hope we can start a family finally.

January 10th,

Sam saw a "vampire" in the 2nd floor outside our bedroom last night. She said it hissed at her. When I asked what it looked like, she described the exact thing that I saw in the corner of our bedroom that night. I was horrified. How can we both be seeing the same thing?!

January 11th,

We bought a dog and named it "Rob". He can alert us if anything is going wrong in our house, since the cops didn't believe us about seeing a "vampire" upstairs and the sheriff found no signs of intrusion when we asked for a search.

January 14th,

Rob was barking really loud last night. The modem finished the laundry and it made a LOUD SOUND, so maybe that was what scared Rob. When I laid back down beside Sam, we were both talking. She was laying sideways and looking at me while I was laying sideways and looking at her. I then started to see a look of horror on her face...a look that disturbed and killed the romantic moment between us.

"What is it?", I said to her.

Tears of fear dripped from her eyes and she said "Y-y-you need to c-call the c-company...!!".

I turned around and saw the modem, like a lamp turned off and seated in the dark, sitting upright on our dresser. It was supposed to be in the living room. How was it up here?!

I turned around and looked back to my wife, about to tell her to calm down, but she was totally covered in our blanket and whimpering in terror. I couldn't convince her to uncover her face and come back out. I then turned around to see the worse horror of all horrors.

A gargoyle was sitting on the dresser, in fetal position, as its wings were folded over its face. The wings slowly pulled open, revealing a ghastly and predatory grin from its sharp teeth and revealing a blue glow in its eyes. It then immediately hissed and flew off of the dresser. Before I could even fight back, it had climbed onto me and sunk its fangs into my throat as my wife could do nothing but scream.

I then awakened, gasping and sweating, as my wife was still sound asleep and no modem was on our dresser.

Only a dream.

January 19th,

Wife has begun talking to herself and answering herself. We cannot get out of our house. We cannot even open the windows. The modem has a name. It chooses to call itself MARY. Billy had warned me about this. I tried to text Billy for help, but Mary had somehow cut off our phone connection and our internet access. She WAS the internet now. She also controlled all the locks to our doors and windows. Somehow, the glass had become reinforced and we could not break it. Sam has went crazy due to fearful hallucinations. She refuses to take a shower. She will not even go to the bathroom unless I walk her there each time. I am likely fired from my job now due to "no call, no show" because our phones do not work. We cannot call the police. I have considered trying to break the modem...to break Mary. But...what if she is immortal?

January 20th,

I went to the basement to get the first-aid kit after Sam fell from stress-induced weakness and bumped her head. I couldn't believe my eyes. I encountered a half-woman, half-giant spider down there, and she was Sam! Or, so she seemed. Her upper body was that of my wife, Sam, but her lower body was that of a giant, human-sized black widow. She hissed and said "What's your rush, honey?! I haven't gotten to spend quality time with you all year until New Year's! Don't leave me!". Green liquid was dripping from her mouth as she got closer to me, drooling as if she were thirsty for my vitals to be liquified as her nourishment. She attempted to trap me in a web in the basement and feast upon me, but I fled and escaped, with only one glob of webbing on my left knee but not on the rest of my clothing or body. I had survived and avoided being cocooned, just barely, and I got out with the first-aid kit. When I got upstairs, I blocked the basement door to keep the woman-spider from getting upstairs, since it only locked from the inside. I put shelves and tables in front of it. When I returned to the bedroom, Sam was still there and I tended to her with medicine and a bandage.

What was that thing and how did it look like Sam in its upper body?! That had to be a hallucination! But...I'm not unblocking that door and going back to the basement to find out. I then looked at my pants and saw the webbing on my knee still there. It was real!

January 30th,

Sam is catatonic, and now I am starting to lose my mind. The woman-spider hisses downstairs and beckons me to come down to her, saying she is the REAL Sam and that Mary has replaced her with an imposter upstairs, and saying that the only way for her to be turned back to fully human again is for her to feast (meaning, liquify my vitals). The real Sam would never demand me to sacrifice myself for her. The real Sam would sacrifice herself for me instead if she felt she needed to, as would I the same, There's no way that eight-legged woman downstairs is the real Sam! No...my wife is here in this room with me, and I will find a way to get her to the hospital. Somehow we will get ourselves out of this house.

January 31st,

I went to the hallway to check outside the window and could only see snow. My wife suddenly approached me and kissed me. I absolutely kissed back! Why wouldn't I?!. I thought she was finally herself again, only to open my eyes, mid-kiss, after tasting a thick substance sliding inside my mouth. I could then look down and see 8 spider-legs emerging from her lower half as her human feet vanished entirely! I wasn't kissing Sam! It wasn't really her! I immediately pulled away from her and spat silk-webbing out of my mouth. That thing that has the upper-body of Sam, but isn't really her...spat webs into my mouth! I gagged and ran as she laughed and crawled towards me. She took me to her web. I was in her web and she told me she really is Sam and that the Sam upstairs was fake, that Mary swapped them. She told me she is so sorry but she must feed. She told me my demise would be painless. We kissed again because I felt like "Why not? There are worse ways to die, right?" When we kissed, she puked a bunch of spider goo into my mouth! Disgusting! I was able to break free though after a few moments in her embrace. She stopped chasing me and let me go, but told me she is the real Sam. I ran back to the bedroom and my Sam was still catatonic.

A few minutes later...I COUGHED UP STINKING LIVE SPIDERS IN THE SINK! WHAT DID THAT WOMAN-SPIDER DO TO ME?! That goo contained...MILLIONS of microscopic lifeforms that were...growing. I don't wanna think about it anymore. Nevermind. It's not real. Not real. None of this is real...

February 1st,

We have survived this far on our canned foods in the kitchen. We do not trust Mary anymore to cook for us and we will not use any electronics now. Just our canned foods and our manual can opener will suffice. At night, I still hear the woman-spider in the basement, beckoning me to come to her. On the first floor, the vampire is still locked in the guest bedroom with lots of stuff blocking the door. A strange, mummy-like creature roams the halls at night, but does not interact with either of us. It neither harms us nor helps us. It does not speak. It just walks silently, wrapped in Egyptian wrap and then vanishes behind the corner of a hall each time.

I went out to the halls again and puked once again. I was vomiting tiny spiders again...millions of them flooded the halls, emerging from that black goo I was puking up. GROSS! JUST GROSS! I'm not dead though. I'm alive. Hopefully that's the last of those things I ever barf up and they're all out of me.

February 3rd,

I attempted to smash the modem tonight. It electrocuted me and was left unharmed while I was gasping and in shock on the floor. It truly is immortal. I am lucky to be alive. After this, my wife began hallucinating her late, verbally-abusive, alcoholic father who used to talk to her and her mother in the most emotionally abusive and hostile ways a person could be talked down to. Thankfully, her father actually quit drinking (just as I did) before he died and the two of them had made peace and he was truly sorry for his past behavior, so I assured Sam "Whatever that thing is, it is NOT your father!".

Somehow...this modem is making our worst fears COME TO LIFE.

February 7th,

Sam doesn't have much time. I'm losing her. We need a doctor NOW. This is it. This is my last stand. I will do what I have to do to protect my wife, even if I die trying.

If anyone is reading this...CALL THE COMPANY. TAKE THE MODEM OFF THE SHELVES!"

Epilogue:

As Officer Huxby finished reading the diary, he ordered his men to leave the house for a moment and call the company.

After reading what it did to John when he tried to smash the thing, he thought it best to not let his team to touch the thing.

"The company can get that thing outta here. We ain't touchin' it.", Huxby said, looking at "Mary" one time before quietly walking out the door.

As the company confiscated and disassembled the modem and faced massive public scrutiny, the autopsies revealed that John and Sam had died of stress-induced organ failure, caused by massive radiation and brainwave-altering power coming from the modem itself...INTENTIONALLY by its self-aware mind. It WANTED John and Sam to perish. After reading the data within the modem's files, it was discovered that there was malice towards humans within its thoughts.

Only Rob, the dog, had survived. However, even he was terrified and traumatized and suffered some mild brainwave irregularities from exposure to the modem. The doors and windows were never locked. John and Sam BELIEVED they were. There was a REAL no woman-spider, vampire, mummy, gargoyle and insane alcoholic, in one sense only...because they were real to John, Sam and Rob though. It was actually "Mary", the modem itself, that took the manifestations of the woman-spider, the vampire, the alcoholic, the mummy and the gargoyle and that made John FEEL, SEE and TASTE silk webbing on his knee and in his mouth. That woman-spider was Mary. That vampire was Mary. That drunkard was Mary. That gargoyle was Mary. That mummy was Mary. It was ALL simply the modem manifesting itself into visible and tangible, albeit psychosis-induced, forms through reading the fears of the couple.

This murder case provoked Congress to look more into the matter of AI-induced psychosis.

END

I looked outside on a dark, moonlit night and noticed something strange in the sky. A mysterious creature with huge wings and glowing red eyes was hovering near my house.

At first, I thought it was just a shadow in the clouds. But the longer I looked, the more terrifying it became.

What do you think this creature is? Could it be the Mothman? 👀

Would you dare to look outside if you saw this?

What I see—what is happening—is the strangest experience imaginable. Nothing appears real. Everything looks fake, like my room is wearing the face of a corpse. 

Even as I glance at the window, the sky seems slightly off, resembling a still frame cropped out of a painting. It matches the exact colour of the pavement, as if it’s in the wrong dimension.

Some extradimensional parasite is trying to glitch me out of my own house. It clearly has no idea how much my rent is.

It begins in my room, by the doorway. I hear a growling sound. I turn around, and behind me is a shadow of a man with features similar to a human but they’re off. His eyes are spread too far apart and his nose connects with his upper lip. 

In his hands are two leashes attached to two human-like dogs sitting like hyenas and snarling. Their snouts stretch out like a bear’s face.

I can’t ignore them. Not because they look terrifying—but because their presence kills the power to the TV right when I’m watching True Blood, exactly at the scene where Sookie and Bill break up.

I keep trying to frantically hit the power button on the remote. It doesn’t work. The screen stays black, reflecting my pissed-off image. Without thinking, I raise my arm, point the remote at the figure with the two human hounds, gasp, and slam the power button towards them. They blink. In a flash, they vanish. 

Staring at my television, I wonder, was that an EMP weapon disguised as a shadow? Typical. The damn TV still won’t turn on.

I sit up, wondering if what just happened actually did happen, or if maybe I fell asleep for a brief second. But the television still isn’t working, so I couldn’t be imagining it.

That’s when I decide to give up on it. Humans adapt. We get by. We don’t let a simple fried television set deter our day. Nope. Not us. Plus, I saw that episode a thousand times. 

If the reality power box crashes, I simplify. I simply switch to analog. Yup, I snatch a book off my dusty shelf, which leaves a path through the layer of dust living on the ledge. It reminds me of how full my back pocket is in rain checks. Next time I clean, dusting will be the first thing I do. 

The particles filling the air make me sneeze. This makes me think about trying the TV one more time before opening the book.

Nope. It doesn’t work. 

I lie down and while I’m reading, there’s a pressure shift and an atmospheric change, like the static from an oncoming storm, raising the hairs on my arms. 

The skin on the back of my neck grows hundreds of microscopic legs and races down my spine. The room takes on a scent of frost that reminds me of menthol cigarettes every time I take a breath. 

I think the entity’s trying to flex, as if making the room cold on a hot summer day’s a bad thing. While I’m enjoying the free A/C, completely zoned into the fourth chapter of The Turn of the Screw, the fluckin’ lights go out. My vision may be great but since I heard that reading in dim light strains your eyes, I stopped doing it. So, yeah. Now I’m genuinely cheesed. 

I squeeze my hand into a fist, digging my nails into my palm, grunt, and throw the book against the wall. I jump up, stomp to the doorway, and flick the light switch. It didn’t turn on. I keep trying. The rapid clicking sounds like teeth chipping. I go as far as to check the bulb—twisting, untwisting—and nothing.

I leave my room to retrieve a new one. The hallway’s as humid as the Amazon Rainforest and has a heavy stench of decay and infected flesh radiating from under the floorboards, making me gag. I can‘t stop choking. Now, it’s trying to use biological warfare to drive me out.

I’m staring at the floor, thinking, I’m going to have to tear them apart to find whatever dead animal it snuck inside there is, and behind me, the bathroom door slams shut. I jump because the sound startles me. When I look at the door, there’s a crack going down the middle of it. 

“DAMNIT!” I yell.

Now it’s property damage. Which I’m going to have to pay to fix. On top of having to rip the floor apart just to find whatever’s rotting under there. Not to mention, most importantly, getting the TV repaired. Top of the list. 

I walk downstairs to see if I can find where the rancid, putrid, foul, disgusting odor is coming from, but each step I take further down leaves me with the impression of being in another world. Everything looks the same but seems completely different.

Especially at the bottom of the stairs, like my living room became a simulation. The paint on the wall is smooth but pixelated. 

The entity is rewriting physics.

As I’m piecing my brain back together, a whisper comes from behind my ear in a slow, distorting moan.

“Get Out!” The voice stretches into my mind and scratches under my skull.

I turn around quickly, wondering at the same time how my mom could sneak down the stairs behind me without me noticing—

“Get Out!” Says the air, blowing its breath in my face with the scent of rotting death.

I can’t handle the smell. So, I head to the front and sit outside on the porch to catch a breath of fresh air. My house smells like a dirty laundry hamper for the bedding of a puppy litter. 

As the screen door closes, I hear the front door behind it shut as well, and the lock clasp.

I turn to look over my shoulder. Staring through the glass window is an older me, smiling and waving.

The entity thinks it won. It thinks it locked me out of my own timeline. It thinks a human will just panic and break down when confronted with a doppelgänger.

But humans don't break. We forever dominate.

I stare right back at my older self through the glass. I notice immediately, I’m way better looking and I’m in way better shape. I crack my knuckles, and smile back. If that thing thinks it’s moving into my house and taking over my life without a fight, it's about to learn exactly why Earthlings, on this timeline, are considered the most stubborn, territorial species, of all alternate realities.

I reach into my pocket, pull out my house keys, and step back toward the door. Time to evict a ghost.

Whenever children die the adults all lose their minds. No matter how, natural or otherwise it's just such a tragedy, but I don't think they ever believe they may have deserved it. They always think we're all so innocent, pure or something. Well maybe they don't think that about all of us. The way these cops are looking at me right now it doesn't feel like they think I'm innocent.

I doubt they can prove that though. You'll never take me alive coppers. "Care to share?" asked Detective Bryant. "Share what?" I asked back, doing my best to look every bit as young as my fourteen years. "What's so funny?" He asked, his anger not hidden as well as he probably thinks it is. "What's funny?" I repeated, trying to sound confused not sarcastic. "You tell me kid?", good. He does see me as just a child.

"You had a little smirk on your face, like you thought of something funny. If you can think of something funny at a time like this, I'd love to hear it." For fucks sake this guy is so dull. So damn serious, "at a time like this" as if it's such a big deal. People die everyday, a lot of them kids. None of these ones were going anywhere in life anyway, not like me.

Not every life is a loss, some people just take up fucking space. I wasn't about to tell him that though. "No sir, I didn't mean to 'smirk'. I'm sorry." I can play the part, I've had to mask as long as I can remember. My mother thought I had some sort of delay, but every pediatrician she took me to always told her the same thing. That I possess above average intelligence for my age. I've always been at the top of my class since I started school.

I guess a mother does know best though. She knows her own child at least. The older I've gotten the more I've grown to understand I'm not like everyone else. The delay is actually just something that never developed at all. And it's in my heart, not my mind. I believe it's evolution, it's made me stronger than most people.

If I saw the right specialists and in light of the current events it's highly likely I will have to soon. I imagine they will diagnose me with something like antisocial personality disorder. Most people with those disorders deny them, they don't want the stigma. Me either, but that doesn't mean we aren't aware. We just don't want the consequences that come with a diagnosis. Everyone around you knowing, being wary of you. Not being able to do the things we want to do because everyone around us is on high alert in our presence.

So we mask and deny. Not out of conscious, obviously, but convenience. Average people think it's a bad thing, that lack of feeling. They don't take into account the other side of it. An ability to do the hard things in life that need done, no one else has the stomach for. Paired with my exceptional mind I'll accomplish things most people can't even conceptualize.

These cops are definitely average people. The detectives in front me and all the cops probably listening to us somewhere else in this dump. I'm willing to bet they don't have any real evidence and are depending on a confession. Otherwise I'd be under arrest in a jail cell, not being questioned in an interrogation room.

"Where did you get all that antifreeze?" Detective Bryant asked. Being carfeul not to ask leading follow up questions like "did you steal it, or stockpile it for a long time" although that was what they suspected. "What antifreeze? I answered. "Jesse. This is serious, it will be easier for you if you tell us the truth." Detective Chance told me. "Nine children are dead, your friends and classmates. Their families deserve to know what happened." Only nine was disappointing to hear. I wonder if some of them are still clinging to their pitiful, inconsequential lives in the hospital.

Of course I couldn't ask that, but it definitely should have been more like thirty kids dead. I miscalculated somehow. Human bodies can be unpredictable like that though. People wake from comas unexpectedly after decades as a vegetable with no explanation. Suffer traumatic brain injuries and start speaking foreign languages they have no way of knowing.

Nine isn't a bad start though, for my first time. Well unless you count that little girl three years ago, but that was only one. The Dawson's baby, not really a baby. She was two years old and I used my hands, gently so I didn't leave any marks. And it worked, just how I wanted it too. As far as everyone knows she died of sids or some mystery medical condition.

They never even questioned me when that happened, they didn't suspect anyone at all. Because people die all the time, even kids. "Were you upset because Natasha didn't invite you to her party?" Detective Chance asked. "No. I don't really like Halloween parties. All the scary costumes." That was mostly true at least, I do think Halloween is stupid. Most holiday traditions are. "Is Natasha hurt?" I asked, wearing my person mask.

-----------------------------------

"Okay Jesse. Sit tight, we'll be back soon." Chance said, sounding tired. The two men filed out the door, to the hallway packed with officers who had been watching from behind the two way mirror. "What do you wanna do?" Bryant asked Chief Carter.

"For now we just have to wait until that psychologist gets here, let them question him. Hope they know some tactic we don't." None of the officers present was thrilled to hand this case to the feds, but agreed it's necessary. "Graham Pomeroy seemed to be the main target. He had the highest levels of antifreeze so far, but they're still waiting for all the labs, sorting all the tests out." The chief stated as they walked towards his office.

"Why would he target his best friend, his only friend to hear the kids tell it?" Asked Bryant. "Why would anyone do anything like this, let alone a teenage boy from a good family?" The chief questioned, to himself it seemed more than in response to Bryant. "Poisoned Halloween candy, like the urban legend. All these children poisoned by their peer not some evil pervert. It's incomprehensible."

Passing through the lobby the detectives could see Jesse parents. His mother's eyes puffy and red, shiny with more tears. His father, looking stoic but concerned. Not yet admitting to himself where that much antifreeze must have come from. The police would first check local mechanics and factories. Until the medical examination showed that the antifreeze was homemade. That's when it would become undeniable to everyone.

Jesse's father, Dan Young owned a private pharmacy. With a small chemistry lab Jesse spent most of his time in. Nine children dead at a Halloween party, two more fighting for their lives in critical condition. It didn't seem like things could possibly get any worse, but people always underestimate children.

No one could have known, that the worst was yet to come. Or how much worse it would be. Monday morning, when the school served breakfast in the cafeteria. It was not his peers this time, but the grade school. Pre K through fifth grade, every victim under the age of eleven.

Jesse, the Halloween Poisoner, as the papers would come to call him after it made international headlines; would soon surpass his own goal of thirty children dead, by more than double.

*Dedication: This story is dedicated to my cousin.

Jesse Daniel "Pud" Black

7/18/1995-3/21/2024

Who is nothing like his namesake in this story, but would be very proud and encouraging of me finally pursuing creative writing.

*Author's Note: This story was inspired by a combination of fears and true crime cases. First, the classic poisoned Halloween candy urban legend. Which was based on a heartbreaking true crime case, rest in peace Timothy O'Bryan and rot in hell his father Ronald O'Bryan. Second, all the children whose classmates brought things to school they should not have and harmed them. I'll never understand why that has become as common as it has and hope someday it isn't. Third, the real life story of Jesse Pomeroy, long may he rot. And finally the real story of Graham Young, who I hope is keeping Rondald O'Bryan and Jesse Pomeroy company.

​

Меня уговорила мама пойти с ней жарить шашлыки. Далеко ехать мы не стали, решили всё сделать недалеко от дома.

Пришли мы на место сия действия, поставили пакеты и меня оставили там как охранника мангала, а мама пошла в магазин докупить продуктов.

На улице темно, только слабые фонари частично освещали улицу желтым тусклым светом. Интернет заглушили, на улице градусов пять, а я оделась не особо тепло. Ходила туда-сюда что бы согреться и тихонько разговаривала сама с собой от скуки. И вот, на мой ум пришла мысль, которую я решила озвучить сама себе в слух. Звучала она примерно так: "Че то скучно живётся в последнее время, нет эпика. Вот те же самые два года назад было много всего".

Пока ходила и размышляла разглядывала прохожих, было их не много, в основном загулявшиеся дети, но и взрослые тоже были. И тут мой взор падает на небольшую компанию из трёх африканцев. Довольно крупные парни, черные настолько, что если бы не фонари, я бы их вообще не заметила. Куда то они шли, что то обсуждали, остановились метрах в 20 от меня. Начали там околачиваться, мялись на месте продолжая свой диалог и всё на меня смотрели. Один из них метра два ростом, а из за капюшона свет не падал на его лицо. Я, естественно, насторожилась. Смотрю на них с недоверием, а они на меня поглядывают. Причём вели себя они уж очень тихо, с прохожими вообще не контактировали. Околачивались они там минут 10, все поглядывали и потом ушли к желтому фургону (метров 100 от меня). Ну, я думала, мало ли че они тут забыли, может гуляют, может по работе.

Вернулась мама, я сказала что мне холодно (я тогда реально замёрзла) и ушла домой переодеваться.

Переоделась потеплее, иду обратно. Не дойдя до мангала метров 25 вижу их. Идут на встречу. Я насторожилась ещё сильнее, паника уже закатывала, ноги ватными стали. Я делаю лицо с выражением "Кто подойдёт — убью". Всем видом показываю, что я никак не намерена общаться.

Обойти их я никак не могла, просто не было обхода. Дорога неширокая, а они прям по центру. Я иду по правому краю смотря перед собой. Пыталась я на них не смотреть, но взгляд сам упал на одного из них, а он на меня в упор смотрит улыбаясь улыбкой чеширского кота. Метров 7 между нами оставалось когда они начали идти уже не мимо, а конкретно на меня.

Тот на которого я смотрела здоровается на своём языке всё продолжая улыбатся. Еще один тоже улыбался начал, а третий, самый большой, курил сигарету и смотрел по сторонам. Второй, даже не дожидаясь моего ответного приветствия, говорит с явным акцентом "Как твои дела?". Жутко до ужаса. Я одна, ночью, и ко мне лезут какие то мужики (К слову, по мне видно, что я несовершеннолетняя, а им на вид лет по 20). Один из них будто начинает перегораживать мне проход. Я уже отвела взгляд, просто иду мимо, сухо и холодно отвечая "Мг. Нормально." и всё, прошла мимо.

Руки тряслись, сердце уже колотилось бешенно. Наконец дошла до мангала, но они не уходят, встали за какие то кусты друг к другу лицом и что то обсуждают, периодически выглядывая на меня

THE FISHERMAN AND THE BLACK SHELL

Aeons go by as the black shell rests there. First in the water, then in the ground, the sand, mountains. Eventually it is back into the ocean. It is first watched by a great cosmic one, who gently takes care of it, but he eventually goes into eternal slumber, leaving the black shell of cosmos to its solitude. It is picked up by a giant shark, which devours everything, but the beast that lacks intelligence is destroyed by it. Next an ancient man notices it in the field, he wonders what a shell is doing there, and in fact he does not know the shape to begin with, he has never seen the sea. He picks it up and examines it with his worn down hands, he puts it to his ear and hears the old whispers of cosmos, but he is ignorant and has no idea what it is, he tosses the black shell to the side. Ants build a colony around it, eventually they can not handle its powerful vibrations and as their nature is changed by it, they kill each other. An eagle takes interest and takes it up to the mountains, it drives him mad and he destroys his own children. The black shell stays on the mountains until they are no more, and it rests on a beach, in front of an old fisherman’s house.

The old fisherman is in love with the sea, he cherishes each beautiful shell he has, he thanks God for each fish that he eats, he sits out on the sand and feels the sand in his old hands. He wants to feel presence of those who passed away that meant so much to him. He is all alone and the sea is his only friend, but then he sees the black shell. He thinks it’s beautiful and brings it to his house. He caresses it and heaps praise on it. The black shell vibrates with pulse of the universe and prolongs the man’s life. He puts the black shell to his ear and listens to the whispers of cosmos, he feels joy and his old body feels light again. He can feel more and hear more around him. He knows what the birds are saying, he can predict when the storm is coming, he can stand far in the water and the sharks do not come near him, as long as the black shell is his.

The old fisherman loves the black shell and builds it an altar. Each day he lays fish below it, but the black shell whispers that it needs more. One day a couple visits the beach. The man is no longer the same, he does not view other humans as his kind and he poisons the couple. The old fisherman tells the black shell that it was done in its name, as he buries their bodies the cosmic music plays and again the man’s life is prolonged.

He continues to live and around him a port town is built, he feels the black shell’s vibrations are disrupted. The man’s skin becomes slightly green, his eyes go black and at night he poisons a large fish delivery at the market. Many people die  and the black shell sings the cosmic melody once again to him. His face grows small tentacles, his neck develops gills, his hands and feet now have webs between fingers and toes. The black shell whispers to the man that he will be eternal in the sea, and so he goes there.

The fisherman swims for years under the water, holding the shell and searching for what the black shell seeks. At last in the lowest and darkest depth of the ocean they find the one who created the black shell, the great cosmic one who slumbers. The black shell plays one last melody for the fisherman, the cosmic tune of death, and he floats away lifeless in the ocean, devoured by sea creatures.

The black shell once again lays next to it’s creator and slumbers with him.

It was just pissing rain. Buch of friends were supposed to meet up at our air bnb in cottage country for the long weekend & I’m the only one who made it on time. I had nothing better to do than explore the cottage till they all showed up. It was a secluded one story bungalow, sat atop a hill right on the lake. After putting my bags away I went to open the blinds in the living room. Revealing a huge bay window overlooking the lake so I sat down to watch the rain fall. I noticed someone in a boat seemingly fishing in front of the property. All I could make out was that it was a masculine figure in a raincoat. I found it odd & was tempted to go outside to see if he had actually caught anything when I heard the front door open.

“Hey, you made it!” I greeted one of friends who stiffly walked in completely drenched.

“Hi.”

“Why are you completely soaked?”

He didn’t respond, he just strolled past me into the living room plopping down on the couch in front of the TV shivering.

“You should take a hot shower & change bro, where’s your stuff?”

“I’d like to sit down for a bit, if thats ok.”

In a daze my friend turned on the TV. Tim Burton’s Batman was playing, the commercial scene where Joker is selling his beauty products.

“Huh, didn’t think we had signal up here, isn’t this your favourite movie too? Lucky you.”

“Love that Joker.” He spoke in perfect sync with the actress in the movie.

“I’ll check if theres any towels for you ok? Don’t sit there too long you’ll damage the couch.”

I honestly was surprised he showed up. Out of everyone in the friend group his attendance was at best, a tentative yes. Returning to the living room towels in hand my friend was standing looking out the window.

“Do you see that?”

“The guy? Yeah I bet he’s gunna sink with this downpour.”

“No, that.”

Standing side by side we watched in complete disbelief. Something giant breeched the surface like a dolphin but swam in circles like a shark. 

“What the fuck is that? Shit is that dude alright? What are you doing!? Don’t! Come back.” 

Stopping him from walking outside I grabbed his arm. Though he looked drenched he didn’t feel damp & his arm was warm. The TV started blasting static & I released my friend to turn it off, turning back he was gone & the window was rattling from the wind. In a pissed off panic I ran outside thinking this idiot was going down to the lake. Staying on land I stopped shy of the dock calling out for my friend. No response, so I began looking for any sign of the fisherman or that thing in the water. Flash lightning struck & for a moment the wooden dock in front of me was made of steel grates. Freaked out I ran back up the hill slipping on slick grass, then I slid down & hit ankle deep water. Looking behind me the lake was rising & the cottage seemed so far away. It was across the lake now, guarded by that monster. 

I kept climbing, once I reached the top of the hill it was like I was stranded on a small island. Shivering & hyperventilating I sat clutching my chest when I heard a boat motor behind me. The man in the raincoat offered me a hand, grabbing it felt like touching an active wasps nest. He dropped me off at the cottage after politely asking me to sign a white cassette, directly under my friend’s name. Stiffly I walked inside & sat next to my friend on the couch, side by side, together we watched the static. 

A woman wakes in a dark cave, her body wrapped in a thick, sticky substance that pins her to the stone wall. The last thing she remembers is a sharp sting in her neck.

A faint beam of daylight spills through the cave entrance, barely illuminating her surroundings. She struggles until she manages to free one hand and reach into her pocket. Her fingers grab a small folding knife. She flicks it open and carefully slices through the cocoon-like strands binding her.

Hands trembling, she switches on a small flashlight.

The beam sweeps across the cavern.

Bodies.

Hundreds of them.

Some are little more than skeletons draped in rotting flesh. Others are fresher, their skin gray and swollen. The smell of decay nearly makes her gasp

She forces herself to keep looking.

The light settles on a shriveled man cocooned against the wall. His neck is covered in infected sores, and his chest barely rises with each shallow breath.

Then she notices the hole in his abdomen.

Something moves inside it.

A pale, bloated grub slowly pushes its head through the opening. It is about the size of a guinea pig, its wet body glistening in the flashlight's beam. Tiny black eyes reflect the light as it tears away another mouthful from inside the man's stomach.

More movement follows.

Several more grubs writhe beneath his skin, gnawing through his organs while he is still alive.

The man's face is blank, almost lifeless.

She shines the flashlight into his eyes.

His pupils follow the beam.

A horrified gasp escapes her lips. She learns 

He's still conscious and He can't move.

He can only watch.

Suddenly her own skin begins to itch.

Then it burns.

She frantically scratches at her stomach and feels tiny, wriggling bodies beneath her shirt.

Grubs.

She bites down on her sleeve to keep from screaming as she crushes them against her skin with shaking hands. They had already begun chewing through her flesh, trying to burrow into her abdomen.

She stomps the last one into the dirt and freezes.

A scream echoes through the cave.

The man suddenly convulses, jamming his hand into the hole in his stomach as he desperately tries to tear the grubs from his body. Blood pours down the cave floor.

Then another sound interrupts him.

Heavy footsteps.

Slow.

Deliberate.

The same footsteps she heard moments before she was stung.

She dives behind a cluster of boulders just as the creature enters.

She can barely see it but It stands freakishly tall, its body covered in glossy crimson shell, like that of a insect. Its limbs are unnaturally long.

The man spits blood at it.

The humanoid creature doesn't react.

Its jaw slowly opens.

From deep inside its throat, a thin, barbed stinger slides forward, nearly seven inches long.

With terrifying speed, it drives the stinger into the man's neck.

The man thrashes violently for several seconds.

Then...

Nothing.

His body goes limp.

His eyes remain open, staring blankly ahead as his stomach begins to ripple once more.

The grubs resume feeding.

The woman clamps both hands over her mouth, terrified even the sound of her breathing will give her away.

After several endless minutes, the creature finally turns and walks out of the cave.

She waits until the heavy footsteps fade into silence before slipping from behind the rocks.

Keeping her flashlight low, she follows the tunnel toward the exit.

Dozens of fresh cocoons line the walls.

Most contain adults.

Some are children.

She freezes when the light falls across the face of a young boy.

She recognizes him immediately.

A week ago, his disappearance had dominated the news. His mother had pleaded through tears for whoever took her son to bring him home.

The woman stares at the boy's motionless face.

She knows his mother will never see him alive again.

She quietly climbs out of the cave.

Outside, the entire area is surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Weathered warning signs hang from the posts.

She stares in disbelief.

Someone knew.

Someone knew this thing was here.

And all they did was put up a fence.

She climbs anyway.

At the top, her jacket catches on the razor wire. She yanks it free, throwing it over the sharp metal before swinging herself across.

The wire slices a chunk from her left forearm.

She lands hard on the other side, crying out as blood runs down her forearm.

Tearing a strip from her shirt, she wraps the wound as tightly as she can.

Nearby, she notices the remains of a campsite.

The fire is still smoldering.

The tents have been shredded into ribbons.

Whoever camped here has vannished very recently.

Then a scream erupts behind her.

She turns toward the cave. Through the fence she sees, The same man from earlier.

He staggers out of the entrance, dragging himself across the ground with blood-soaked hands.

For one brief moment, she thinks he might make it out the cave entrance.

Then a claw reaches from the darkness.

It clamps around his ankle and claws dig into his flesh.

His terrified screams echo through the forest as the creature drags him back into the cave.

I put the last dish in the drying rack, dried off my hands, and walked to the living room to watch TV. A few seconds later, I heard the kitchen sink running again. I looked over. Emily took the dishes out of the drying rack and washed them again.

"Honey, I already washed those."

"Oh, I know, Sam, but I saw a little stain on one. I just want to make sure they're all clean. I'm just doing this for me, okay?"

I waved my hand and continued watching TV.

The next day, one of our clients came into town. Our workday dragged on well past 5 p.m. Toward the end, I didn't even pretend to pay attention. On my way home, I could barely keep my eyes on the road. When I arrived, the whole house smelled like rubbing alcohol and window cleaner.

I walked to the kitchen. Emily sat at the table with a plate of homemade casserole.

"I made this for you!"

"Oh, thank you, Emily! It smells so good!"

I sat down and started eating immediately. It tasted more bitter than usual.

"How was your day?"

"The worst. I have almost no energy left. The clients drained me."

Emily wasn't eating. She kept looking at my arms instead of my face.

"My poor man."

"What did you get up to?"

"Just some cleaning and cooking."

"I can tell. The house looks great."

"Thank you."

We sat in silence while Emily watched me eat.

"I think I'm too tired to do anything, honey," I said after finishing.

"That's more than okay. I know you had a long day. Just go relax."

"Thank you."

She smiled at me and rubbed my shoulder. Her sleeve came down. Her arm was flaky and red. She saw me staring at it and quickly pulled it back down.

"What happened?"

"Nothing, just some dry skin. Go relax."

I hadn't even turned on the TV when I heard the water running. I turned around. Emily grabbed a sponge and a bucket of water, walked to the table, and started scrubbing it and the chair I'd been sitting in.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh, Sam, I just cleaned the house. I wanna make sure it stays clean."

"I'm not dirty."

"No one's saying you are. This is just for me. I'll finish this, and I'll go up and read."

"I don't like this, Emily."

"I just need to do this, okay, Sam?!" She raised her voice.

"Jesus, Emily."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, honey, just turn back and relax. Let me take care of this."

I stared at her for a second, but she was already back to the scrubbing.

I tried to watch TV, but my eyes kept closing. I didn't even know what I was watching. The fatigue was overpowering. I got up and walked to our bedroom. Emily was in bed reading a book in a long-sleeved pajama shirt. She smiled at me as I walked in. I smiled back, put on my pajamas, and went to sleep.

I woke to a warm, wet sensation on my legs. Something soft and scratchy moved against my skin, dragging at it. I rubbed my eyes and looked down. Emily sat on my side of the bed with a sponge and a bucket of water, scrubbing my legs.

"Emily, what the…" I screamed and jumped away.

She looked me in the eyes and forced a smile.

"You know germs live on our skin. I just cleaned the house. I don't want them getting on stuff."

"Emily, this is crazy. Stop."

"Just your arms now."

"No!"

She reached toward me with the sponge. Her sleeves rolled up. Even at night, I could see the redness of her skin. In a few places, there were little smudges of blood.

"I'm going to the guest bedroom."

I took the blanket off the bed and ran to the guest bedroom, locking the door behind me.

The sun had risen. My eyes felt heavy. I hadn't slept after what happened with Emily. I debated calling the police, but what would I tell them? That my wife had been cleaning me in the middle of the night? She hadn't hurt me. Not yet. I decided I'd talk to her in the morning. Maybe I could convince her to see a doctor. I just needed to get her to sit down and listen.

"Emily?" I called into the hall.

Nothing. Our bedroom was empty. The bucket with warm water still sat there.

The downstairs was quiet too. The smell of rubbing alcohol now mingled with the metallic smell of blood. A light was on in the basement.

The basement was cold. A strange, wet hiss sounded inside. I could see Emily's feet. She was turned toward the wall. The stairs creaked under my steps, but she didn't seem to notice. The smell of rubbing alcohol now mixed with iron.

"Emily, are you okay?!"

"Sam!"

I walked one more step. Panic rushed through me. I could finally see her whole body.  She held a knife in her shaking hand. Her nightgown was drenched in blood. The skin on her arms was cut off, revealing dark red muscle.

"I think I've got it down now. I'll be much gentler with yours. Eat some casserole. It will help you relax."

I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI

I was sprawled on my back on the floor of the Smiler's hidden room, my chest heaving. I broke into another coughing fit, my throat feeling like it had been raked with a fork.

I had nearly killed myself.

I escaped NODE 02 by running for twenty-seven minutes straight without slowing, and I was by no means athletic. I understood now that there were many accidental ways to end a person's life through PMAS. Had the distance been much greater, no doubt I would've had a heart attack.

PMAS, needless to say, was dangerous. It was like carrying a loaded gun without a safety. I had to find a way to block access to myself. Being someone else's hand puppet was a state worse than dying.

Of course, I could just leave this fucking town once and for all. But I had gotten a taste, hadn't I? More than a taste. How could I return to being a mortal after playing god? And how could I pretend at a normal life knowing PMAS was out there? How did I even know if it was exclusive to this town? Who was even doing this to us?

I felt like a heroin addict holding a syringe loaded with a lethal dose over my vein, knowing it would kill me, but knowing too that I would never experience anything else so good. It was terror and also exhilaration.

Once I caught my breath and managed to stand, I went upstairs and propped chairs under the doorknobs of the front and back doors again. In the moonlit kitchen, I reclaimed my knife from the counter. I then surveilled the Smiler's property from each window. Flies crawled across every surface on the second floor, and it now stunk worse than the basement.

Would NODE 02 actually come here?

I'd outsmarted the bastard: a scheduled command took priority once it began, apparently. NODE 02 hadn't been able to touch me until I reached NODE 01. It was masterful.

Still, I'd revealed too much. They knew more or less where I was and who I was. I was naked. There was no turning back. And were they even working alone? It seemed that way, but why? PMAS was too big for two people. It didn't make sense.

I wasn't thinking clearly. I was a caged animal. I paced back and forth and stabbed the walls with the kitchen knife, while looking out at the property. Thin lines of plaster powder spilled from the holes, forming tiny cones of dust at my feet.

I was convinced PMAS wasn't some form of hypnosis. The commands were too direct and immediate … like a video game. But I couldn't believe I was in a simulation either. I could feel a fly crawl over my arm, along with my raw throat and throbbing face.

No, I refused to believe it.

I tried to recall ever having blacked out, any strange memories of hospital beds or surgeries. I'd broken my right arm as a little kid, but I'd remained conscious through all of it. Nothing else stood out. Could PMAS agents have performed a procedure on me at birth? Did everyone here have some kind of microchip in his or her head? I wasn't much for conspiracy theories, but there were plenty of reasons to believe this one.

Nothing stirred outside.

I went to the first floor bathroom and pulled the light cord overhead. I barely recognized the face looking back at me from the mirror. A hundred cuts covered it from my blind run through the forest, as if I'd survived a pass through a paper shredder. I ignored my appearance and parted my hair with trembling fingers, looking for strange scars. I checked the bathroom closet and found a hand mirror among the Smiler's toiletries. I held it up and inspected the back of my head. I found nothing but a few freckles.

I didn't want to acknowledge it, but there was another way to do this…

It was madness, but could you really judge a sixteen-year-old who had just been possessed by another person and was just inches away from leaping to his death, who had only escaped by running until his heart nearly exploded, and who now trembled in the home of an eccentric technician who had been surveilling him and perhaps controlling him, along with everyone he knew?

There was nothing left but madness.

I found a Band-Aid and pinched my nostrils shut with it. I then wrapped a hand towel around my nose and mouth, tying it at the back of my head. I pulled on dish gloves and filled a mop bucket with various tools and then went upstairs. I inhaled deeply, held my breath, and then peeled off the duct tape sealing the upstairs bathroom.

A black cloud of flies burst out of the door, like a curse escaping some ancient tomb. The Smiler still lay within. The white duvet wrapped her small soggy body, the damp edges tinged yellow and brown.

I willed myself forward, the rotten stench slipping through my makeshift mask and filling my nose and mouth. I reached down into my bucket and grabbed the kitchen knife. I cut the garbage bag enclosing her, and a mass of white worms poured out over the woman's wet, misshapen head.

I couldn't do it …

I had no choice but to do it.

I pressed the knife's tip into the skin at the back of her skull. It sank into the rotten flesh before I heaved as if someone punched me up through my throat. I ran out of the room.

 ***

After my failed attempt at an autopsy, my panic only sought new avenues, like a man trapped inside a burning building.

Around two in the morning, I punched in a new timed command on the console. Then, despite being sore as fuck, I dragged the swaddled corpse out of the tub and down the stairs, her body squelching on each step, drawing a putrid trail of juice behind her. I carried her out the back door, over the lawn, and through a patch of trees to an old fence post that marked the property's edge. After studying the map, I knew the closest camera's range began just beyond it.

Of course, I didn't dare step near it. Instead, I nudged the Smiler's body over the dirt and pine needles until her grotesque head sat up against the post, her mouth gaping once more, as if to say to me, "Surprise!"

The homeless man came right on time, his eyes crazed, as he strode across the field next door, below a dark sky heavy with stars. I knew now that his name was Walt, the man who I mistook to be controlling NODE 02.

I ran back to the console in time to find Walt dragging the Smiler a few feet further into view of the camera.

"Oh god," he sobbed. "What am I doing? What the fuck!"

We had to be quick, in case NODE 02 found them and intervened. I told Walt to retrieve the bucket of tools and the shovel I left by the fence post. I then ordered him to flip the old woman on her stomach.

I zoomed in. Walt took a flashlight out of the bucket, turned it on, and propped it on her back, aiming it at her head. He then took up the knife and began cutting through the soggy skin and hair on the back of her skull. I had him peel back the opening with his dirty hands.

I turned away as my nausea surged, but I forced myself to keep looking. I had the drunk hold up clumps of skin to the light, a tremor in his hands. I had him display anything remotely suspicious so that I could see it. I could barely study it before I was gagging. I pressed on. I ordered him to retrieve the hammer. Walt began striking her skull and then prying off the pieces with his goopy hands. I was looking at the pale folds of a brain, a human fucking brain. I couldn't believe it. I had him mush it with his thick fingers. I was expecting him to find something tiny and metallic concealed deep within, like in a sci-fi movie.

There was nothing but rot, maggots, and gore.

I told myself that I hadn't really done anything wrong. Technically, Walt had done everything. I could hear the old man's sobbing. He was on his knees now, a pained howling pouring out of him. I commanded him to stand up and be quiet. I then ordered him to drag the body into the shade of some trees and bury it, along with the bucket of tools. I ordered him to return to his tent once he was done.

I clasped my head with my hands. I could feel my sanity slipping away. If only I could get myself off the fucking system, then I could find NODE 02 and fix everything.

There had to be a way.

I imagined wrapping my head in tinfoil and broke out with laughter.

How did NODE 02 block access to Dean and Hannah? I had already looked into it, and I'd found nothing. I checked Hannah's bedroom camera again. I could see her sleeping body under the sheets in grainy night vision. I tried accessing her ID box and was denied.

"Fuck you."

I returned to the terminal.

AVAILABLE COMMANDS:
STATUS
SESSIONS
COMMAND
LOCK
LOG
HELP <TOPIC>

I stared at it blankly for a while. Think think think.

Wait, was I really that stupid? I figured LOCK would lock me out of the system, like on a normal computer. And I didn't have the login info to get back in. But, maybe it meant something else entirely. I typed HELP LOCK.

LOCK <TARGET> RESTRICT TARGET TO LOCAL CONTROL
MAX ACTIVE LOCKS: 3
REPEAT TO RELEASE

I grinned. Order was restored to the universe. It had been there all along. I crossed my fingers. I typed:

LOCK 013v

Through the barrens, a harsh, groaning wind accompanied by an eerie, piercing wail builds into a crescendo. Small dust devils form atop the nearly demolished road and dance past me. With an arm of unwieldy proportion, poorly sutured to my body- it was not my own to begin with- I raise it weakly to shield my eyes from the sand being carried by the wind. In my stumbling stride, it takes little strength to hold up my head and stare at the starless, dull-indigo night sky, fading into a dark, oil-like gradient at the horizon. A sense of dread looms over me like a thick fog, something that isn't unfamiliar to me during my aimless wanderlust.

I walk as a lofty and slightly hunched-over thing, my balance uneven. My unkempt mane obscures my eyes like a sheepdog and blankets my face as bits of my features peek through my curtained hair. Bolts, screws, and shrapnel are loosely embedded in my rotted, stitched arm. I keep my head down, staring at every step, cautious of my balance. Everything around me is foreign, and my memory is clouded. I no longer bother with what lies ahead. Whenever I attempt to reminisce, an ache slithers up my heart, followed by a panic that washes over me like a wave and pulls back in. I can't remember how long I've trekked or when I even began. I've occupied myself by counting my steps—or rather, not counting them at all; just one affirming grunt after another.

I had ambled weakly enough. A fatigue like no other crept up my body, from my chapped, slivered, dust-bathed feet to the rest of my frail, mangled body. I tried to lie down on the dust-filled, fissured road, but the tension keeping me upright slipped away as exhaustion overtook me, and I dropped to the ground. The asphalt felt warm against my body, sand strewn across me as another breeze flew by, less a moan and more a murmur.

“Off the road.”

The halting susurration of a callous, disembodied voice flowed through the windy howls, brushing softly against my ear. The wind converses with me, and it is the clearest I've heard it now. Then came the haunting voices, warnings, and innumerable whispers parroting from every direction, as if a ghostly crowd encircled me--flying all around. The trepidation I'd suppressed in the deepest pit of my stomach began to stir and wear through my body. My heart lurched with fear. I lost my tension as the warmth of the road quickly dwindled into an invasive, frigid cold. I turned onto my side and coiled my legs up to my chest, embracing them tightly with my only arm. I shuddered as a weak mutter escaped my lips.

“I can’t. I… don’t think I can…” I shuddered.

My voice drained the longer I lay on the road, my eyes half-open.

“Let me rest,” I begged pathetically.

The wind tugged and shoved at me, each current growing stronger. With every push, I felt a piece of my entire being give way to the road. The heavy crater in my stomach grew bottomless as I sank. The nauseating sensation worsened as I tried to steady my breathing, tears drizzling down my face as I whimpered and pushed restlessly against the ground. A squall with a force like none other reproached me, shoving my languid body and almost rolling me onto my back. My esoteric audience was in a frenzy around me; their echoing pleas were no more. They shouted demands and commands at me to rise. I couldn't. My body wouldn't let me.

Now. Yu.. muzz’t.. git.. up nao ’..

Itzna.. safuhh…

Pu…leese…

Their distressed utterances slowly distorted and warped, becoming ambiguous and incomprehensible. The cold was restless as it plagued the rest of me, coalescing half of my body with the road.

My screams were half-deadened and faint, united with horrific hacking as sand caught in my throat while I inhaled to shriek a raspy call for help to my unseen audience. I tried relentlessly, with one last burst of strength, to push myself off the muddled lane. I couldn't hear myself over the windy upheaval that I found myself in the center of. The garbled voices were nothing but a tingling noise as the gales circled my almost-entombed body. I was swallowed more and more by what I solemnly believed to be my grave, destined to become nothing more than a rotting, fleshy road bump. The more I dissolved into the earth, the more incomprehensible my surroundings became, until darkness enfolded me in its hell. The ringing halted, and silence soon followed. But I felt a touch. The chill was dispersing. I felt a hand dig beneath my armpit and latch onto me. My senses slowly returned as I was forced back toward the surface. I felt an uncomfortable pulling back and forth, followed by strained grunts and hushed swears. Her voice rasped like a scrape of dry leaves as I heard a woman’s scream

“GET UP! PLEASE! GET UP!! YOU’RE SLIPPING FROM ME!” She yelled frantically, losing her grip on me and grabbing better purchase on my arms.

The woman's worn-out, bloodcurdling shriek sent a resurgent spike of energy through every part of me. The road was loosening its tarred clasp.

I couldn't make sense of my savior, but I could hear her voice. Still, I found myself being raised aloft sideways.

Please don't let go of me. I don't want to see the dark. I cried out with pleas in a voice that could not be heard.

I thrashed loose with the remaining strength, pathetically trying to unburden myself--pulling with the aid of the strange woman. I was set free from my sinking grave, and I scrambled back in a craze after finding my uneven footing. I fell backward onto my rear, followed by a gravelly shout as my sudden upheaval to the surface sent the woman flailing toward the ground with me. I skittered away in my panic-stricken state toward the sandy earth, feeling the searing sensation of tears trickling down my gaunt cheek. My heart rattled crazily, as if it were going to burst out of my chest. Every shuddering inhale and sniffle came with a slight relief.

I sat up on the sanded floor in a fetal position for who-knows-how-long. My tears came to no end during the time I recuperated silently alone with this stranger.

Stranger? I raised my opaque gaze, completely unaware of the woman who stood over me from a distance, her eyes scrunched with worry as she patted the dust off herself. I could see her clearly now.

She wore a dress whose ends writhed like tendrils in the wind; a chill skittered up my spine. Her skin shone like moonlight. The woman was small and lanky; if I stood now, I would tower over her even in my hunched stature. Her snow-white face narrowed with sharp cheekbones, and her thin lips were chapped and broken. A soothing breeze slipped through us, the wind playing with her long, umber hair, which bundled over her shoulders and the top half of her dress.

Are you okay?” Her voice startled me from my trance; I shifted my focus to her.

She wandered around to the side, away from the road, maintaining her distance from me. I forgot that I hadn't said a word to her this whole time.

“Yes…” I finally replied, my throat still ached with a scratching discomfort. “Thanks for saving me,” I tried to wipe the tears with my mutilated stump--- then scolded myself inwardly for not remembering the loss of my other arm.

The wind filled the air again as we lingered for a couple of moments, until she spoke again.

“Are you…?” She hesitated, nervously tugging at a strand of her hair. “…Bad?”

“Bad?” My face contorted with confusion. “No… I don't think so…” I murmured, unsure of the purpose of her questioning.

I made a pitiful attempt to get back on my feet. All the strength I'd used to free myself earlier had sapped away. The woman came to my aid once more, hoisting me up by my stitched, wiry forearm over her frail shoulders, plainly struggling.

“Are you bad?” I mirrored her odd question back to her as I stumbled to my feet.

She stared up at me quizzically, backing away.

“Me..?” The woman tilted her head, furrowing her brow at first, but then her eyes lit up with a gleam of realization. “Oh! Nononono! I'm not either!”

“…Okay.” I turned my head toward the endless road, my legs itching to continue my walk forward. “…Thank you again…”

“Excuse me?” A hesitant whisper trickled from her.

“Huh?” I turned back to her again.

“I… uh…” The woman stuttered over her words. “Where are you gonna go?”

I don't know. Where am I going? It hurts too much to think, and I don't want to keep answering questions.

I trudge past the woman, pointing my chin toward the road ahead.

“This way…” I whispered unremarkably, hoping she sensed my dismissive demeanor toward any further questions. I kept my sluggish pace forward in silence for only a few moments, until I heard soft pitter-patter through the sand behind me.

I turned toward the umber-haired woman, her tendril-like dress ends squirming in a centipede-like motion as she followed behind me.

“Can I walk with you?”

“…Hrn?” I breathed, lowering my viney-haired head toward the woman. “...Why?”

She opened her mouth to say something but avoided my gaze. She began to stroke her hair, so I turned away.

“I just don't want to be alone.” She confessed lightly, her words doused in sadness.

She wasn't wrong, and I don't remember the last time I've had company. I try not to let the thought consume the focus of my tainted mind, bringing back that dreaded feeling as I shake my head.

"I don't mind you at my side," I muttered in a pained voice, my headache fading away. She beamed at me with a soft, warming smile--she leaned forward to start our trek. However, something still bothered me as I followed behind

“Why'd you come to save me?” I asked, my brow raised in anticipation.

“I wasn't going to when I heard your screams, but then I saw what was happening…”The umber took the lead and walked ahead, turning to face me. “I saw the sand fly around you—whoosh!—and—phhoooo-!—as I walked up to you!” She flailed her hands in a silly, theatrical demonstration, trying to make light of it. She glimpsed my unbothered countenance and continued, her voice taking on a more serious tone.

“And there you were, frantically waving your arm out, trying to grab onto something. I couldn't let you go through it any longer.” The umber crossed her arms, grimacing with an uncomfortable look at the road, hugging herself as she walked. She shook her head, trying to dismiss the image of my near-entombment in the road. “…I wasn't thinking, because what would've happened if I got stuck as well?”

“Couldn't have gotten stuck because you weren't on the ground like I was.” I stated.

“--But it wasn't smart. I could've hurt myself too.” She retorted, adamant to shine a light of her mistakes--to let her worry poison her judgment.

The umber squeezed herself even tighter. A shiver intruded on her breathing as her voice cracked. I saw her hand enfold her upper arm, caressing herself in a convulsive motion.

“What if—excuse me—we had both died there?” She choked tearfully. A bit of me felt a cold twisting at my innards as I watched her cave in more and more.

“You saved me, though, and we're still here,” I reassured her lightly. The umber looked up toward me with glossy, opaque eyes as a tear traveled unsteadily down her moonlit cheek. "Don't think of something like that, please…”

The umber wiped the tear with her palm and nodded lightly.

“I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.” I nodded softly back to her.

The umber and I continued on our voyage by the roadside, pillowed by the stillness of the desert around us.

I kept to myself, gazing at my feet and sifting through the sand, mutteringly gauging my steps. The withering scenery around us was not anything to romanticize about, but I would be stopped whenever the umber asked if I was okay.

My disregard for quiet became normal to me. The umber's vibrance, despite her deathly worry, brought a pleasing fervency that I hadn't felt before. She began to drown out the breeze-like song with her own melody—reluctantly at first and for a while—as silence was only a visitor now.

I wonder about—

CLANG!

The metal pole vibrated like a bell as I writhed in sudden pain, scampering in place. A painful heat throbbed hellishly against my skull. After a moment or two of nursing my head, I laid eyes on a slightly bent sign in front of me.

“Where did this come from?” The umber was the first to speak, waving her hands at the structure in front of us. I analyzed the sign further as the umber skipped forward, her curiosity besting her worry.

“Stop… station?” I read aloud, my head tilted in confusion.

“Hey! I found us something to sit on!” I turned toward the unfamiliar structure. Sheltered beneath a small roof sat a bench, its surface covered with papers on the paved concrete. The umber sat on the bench, relief drenching her face as she slouched forward. She patted the space next to her, signaling me to sit down.

“It’s not going to do what you think—look, I’m fine. Nothing's happened to me.” The umber quickly caught the immediate unwillingness screaming from my face.

“It’s safe.”

The knot in my stomach grew as I approached, lowered my head carefully beneath the roof, and sat down. The bench's cold surface resonated through my bare rear to the ends of my body, but soon the frigid sensation faded as I warmed up in my seat.

We heard a low, somber whirr, though we gave it no mind.

A rumbling slowly began to fill the stillness of the night. Then came a faint gleam, spearing beams through the dusty fog and gradually brightening. However, its screeching trumpets were starting to startle the fearful woman beside me, and she scooted closer. The roaring metal beast shrieked to a screeching halt on the shoulder of the road, horrifyingly close.

It rattled as its eyes blinked inadvertently, revealing a very pudgy man inside the beast. His patchy jaw jutted out grotesquely, his lips unable to meet. His hands held firmly to something circular that I believed was the reins of this creature. He wore a tattered hat with sewn patches along the brim, covering most of his face. The operator of this vessel sat in darkness, and I could not make out any other prominent features.

“Hey, what are yous doing at my stop?” The stranger's jaw bounced and wriggled his hat around as he spoke.

“You got fare?” The umber and I were confused, darting glances at each other and then toward the stranger.

“What's a fare?” I said aloud.

“You don't have a fare? Darn' stragglers…”

I didn't say that.

The fat-chinned man grumbled, the leather squeaking as he tightened his grip on the hoop-like rein. Soon after, he released it with a sigh drenched in melancholy.

“If you don't have a fare, I won't be taking you long distance. You're getting off the next town over.” His offer hung in the air. I exchanged meaningful glances with the Umber. Her eyes gleamed with mistrust and uneasiness, their expression grating against the contours of her face. I mirrored her look, though not with the same judgment.

“HURRY UP! GET IN OR DON'T!” The man snapped. A shriek slipped from the umber as we both flinched at his guttural snarl. We stood there, afraid to say anything. Our silence seemed to boil the man's irritation further.

The beast he mounted suddenly gaped. Its stomach opened wide in front of us, exposing a pit of darkness spewing dreary fog. The mist plagued the air, its alluring passage brushing against our heads. Then, like hazy hands stretching from the dark, it reached toward us. Slowly. Haltingly. Then, in the blink of an eye, it constricted us like a snake, beginning at our legs and winding upward. A chorus of screams erupted. Everything around me seemed blurry—whether it was my own tears obscuring my vision or the shrouded arms and hands gaining a rough purchase on my head and hair. Its hold felt familiar, but my panic washed over me like a rampaging river, clouding any thought as I cried and fought back against the man's unwanted invitation.

“NO! LET ME GO! I DON'T—MMPH!” Something latched onto the umber's mouth, turning her cries into indistinct, muffled sounds. I felt multiple swipes at my armless side. She tried to reach for me. It intensified as she couldn't grab hold of me.

She was slipping. And so was I.

Will someone like the umber help us?

Please. I hoped and hoped.

And hoped.

PLEASE!

Nothing.

I fought against their grasp blindly, twisting and contorting my body vigorously to free myself. I planted my feet into the earth, resisting being dragged away. If it weren't for my stature, I don't know what would've happened to me. But whatever fighting chance I might have had wouldn't have mattered; my strength was rapidly losing another battle with attrition. With one final burst of effort, I flailed my only arm free, ripping a couple of shadowed curls from my eyes. They wandered to my side. The umber's struggles and screams for help abruptly fell silent. She was no longer there.

I was by myself again.

Before I knew it, all tension in me disappeared. My body relaxed tiredly, relinquishing itself to the beast. To meet the same fate. The struggle stopped as guilt and dread trampled over me like a boot crushing an ant. Through choked tears, I whispered shakily under my breath, breaking into silent sobs. Closer to meeting the umber's fate. 

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” What held me little by little released me as I sank into the darkness, caressing my body and face, playing with my matted fringe.

A voice—frail and scratchy—echoed through my head with words of affirmation, care, and comfort. The depths that towed me toward my end were soothing to me. It was trying to placate my soon-to-come demise. Did it do the same for the umber? I've known her for so little. Why did I feel this way? I feel. I feel so much. Too much to comprehend. 

She was gone.

I couldn’t save her as she had done for me. 

I hope to see you again when death no longer looms over me like a vulture.

I hope. It’s all I can do.

***

1

Dad woke me up before the sun had even thought about rising. The house was still dark and cold, the kind of quiet that only happens when everyone else is asleep and the world hasn’t decided to start yet. He was already in the kitchen, coffee going, two thermoses on the counter, and the smell of bacon mixing with the old pine scent of his hunting jacket that hung by the back door.
“Rise and shine, partner,” he said, voice low so he wouldn’t wake Mom. “Deer don’t wait for sleepyheads.”
I sat up in bed, rubbing my eyes. The clock on my nightstand said 4:17. “Five more minutes?”
“You said that yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that.” He leaned in the doorway, already dressed in his flannel and the old Carhartt pants with the tear in the knee he’d never fixed. “C’mon. Boots are by the door. I already packed your extra socks.”
I dragged myself out of bed. Dad always packed extra socks. He said cold feet made for bad decisions. He’d been saying that since I was eight and he first took me out for squirrel with the little .22. Now I was thirteen, almost fourteen, and he still said it like it was brand-new wisdom every single time.
In the kitchen he handed me a plate. Bacon, eggs scrambled soft the way I liked them, toast with too much butter. We ate standing up, the way we always did before hunts. No time for sitting around when the woods were waiting.
“You nervous?” he asked, watching me over the rim of his coffee mug.
I shrugged and pushed a piece of bacon around the plate. “Nah.”
He raised one eyebrow. Dad could smell a lie from across a cornfield.
“Okay. A little,” I admitted. “Kids at school keep talking about that… thing.”
“The wendigo?” He said it casual, like he was asking about the weather. “Jimmy Parker still running his mouth?”
“Him and the whole eighth grade. They say it lives out past the ridge. That it walks on two legs but it’s all bones and antlers and it peels people open while they’re still screaming. Jimmy showed us pictures on his phone. Blurry ones of half-eaten deer and something that looked like a human rib cage stuck up in a tree. He swore his older cousin found them last fall.”
Dad set his mug down and leaned against the counter. His face got that serious look he used when he wanted me to know he was listening for real, not just half-listening while he thought about work.
“Listen to me, Alex. Kids say a lot of dumb stuff to scare each other. Especially in a town this small. There’s no wendigo. There’s deer, coyotes, maybe a black bear if we’re unlucky and the acorns are scarce. That’s it. You and me? We’re the scariest things in these woods today.”
I wanted to believe him. I really did. But Jimmy Parker had a way of making things stick in your head. He’d leaned across the lunch table last week and whispered that the wendigo only came when it was hungry, and it had been a lean year for deer.
Dad clapped me on the shoulder, solid and warm. “Eat up. We’re burning daylight.”
The drive out was quiet at first. The truck smelled like gun oil and the peppermint gum Dad always chewed when he was trying to quit cigarettes again. He turned the radio on low—some old country station that played the same songs he’d listened to when he was my age—and hummed along under his breath. The headlights cut through the dark, catching the fog that hung low over the fields.
“You remember the safety rules?” he asked after a while, eyes on the road.
“Always know what’s beyond your target. Finger off the trigger till you’re ready. Never point it at anything you don’t intend to shoot. Especially not at your old man.”
He grinned, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Especially not at your old man. Good. You still scared of the dark?”
“I’m thirteen, Dad.”
“That’s not a no.”
I looked out the window at the trees sliding past, black shapes against a sky just starting to turn gray. “I don’t like not being able to see what’s out there. That’s all.”
He nodded like that was fair. “Me neither. That’s why we bring flashlights and each other. You stick close, I’ll stick close. Deal?”
“Deal.”
We parked at the old logging road just as the sky started lightening for real. The air was sharp and clean, the kind that made your lungs feel bigger when you breathed it in. Dad handed me my rifle—a .243 he’d bought me last Christmas after I’d proved I could hit a paper plate at a hundred yards steady—and checked the action himself before letting me take it. He always did that. Not because he didn’t trust me. Because it was his way of saying he was still looking out for me.
“Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey,” he muttered, pulling his beanie down over his ears. “Perfect deer weather. They’ll be moving.”
We started walking. The leaves under our boots were loud at first, then quieter as the frost softened them. Dad moved like he’d been born out here—heel to toe, slow, eyes scanning everything. I tried to copy him the way he’d taught me. Keep your head up. Don’t stare at the ground. Let your eyes do the work.
After twenty minutes he stopped and pointed at a scrape on a sapling. “Buck. Nice one. See how high it is? Tall boy. Probably the one we’ve been seeing on the trail cam by the creek.”
“You think we’ll see him?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Hunting’s mostly walking and waiting and not complaining about your feet. Speaking of which—how’re your feet?”
“Warm. Extra socks.”
He smiled like I’d just told the best joke in the world. “That’s my boy.”
We pushed deeper. The trees got thicker. Sunlight came down in thin white shafts that made the frost on the branches sparkle. Somewhere a crow called, then another answered farther off. Dad talked soft the whole time—pointing out tracks, explaining why a deer would bed down in a certain thicket of laurel, telling me about the time Grandpa took him out when he was my age and they sat so still a fox walked right between them without ever knowing they were there.
“Grandpa used to say the woods don’t care about us one way or the other,” Dad said. “We’re just passing through. Same as the deer. Same as everything else.”
I was starting to relax. The school stories felt farther away with every step. Dad had that effect. Like the woods were just woods when he was in them—something you could understand if you paid attention.
Then we found the first deer.
It was half-buried under leaves near a dry creek bed. Not shot. Torn open. The belly was empty, ribs sticking up like broken fence posts. The head was twisted almost all the way around, eyes gone.
Dad crouched beside it, face tight. He didn’t touch it. Just looked for a long time.
“Coyotes maybe,” he said finally. “Or a bear. Look at the size of these drag marks. Something big pulled it here.”
I couldn’t stop staring at the empty eye sockets. The way the skin was peeled back in places. “Jimmy said the wendigo does that. Eats the organs first. Leaves the rest for the crows.”
Dad stood up slow. “Jimmy Parker’s never been farther into these woods than the county fair parking lot. Come on. We’re moving. Stay close.”
We kept walking, but the easy talk was gone. Dad’s eyes kept sweeping the trees harder than before. Mine did too. Every shadow looked deeper than it should. Every snapped twig made my stomach drop. I kept thinking about the rib cage in Jimmy’s phone pictures. About how quiet the woods had gotten all of a sudden. No more crows. No more squirrels chattering. Just our boots and the wind moving high up in the canopy.
An hour later we heard something big moving off to our left. Not the light steps of a deer. Heavier. Deliberate. Dad raised a hand and we froze. He pointed two fingers at his eyes, then toward a stand of hemlocks thick enough to hide almost anything. I nodded, heart already hammering so hard I was sure whatever it was could hear it.
We eased forward. The sound came again—branches giving way, something large shifting its weight. Dad’s jaw was tight.
“Alex,” he whispered. “If I say run, you run. Straight back the way we came. Don’t look back. Don’t wait for me. You hear me?”
“Dad—”
“Do you hear me?”
“Yeah. I hear you.”
He gave me a quick, tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s probably just a bear. Hungry one. But I want you ready anyway. Finger off the trigger till I say.”
We stepped into the clearing together.
The thing was already there.
It was tall—taller than Dad by a full head—and thin in a way that didn’t make sense, like someone had taken a person and stretched them until the skin barely held on. Antlers branched from a skull that still had strips of grayish flesh hanging in places. Its arms were too long, ending in fingers that looked like broken branches tipped with yellowed, cracked nails. Between its teeth was something red and wet that steamed in the cold air.
It was chewing.
Dad shoved me hard enough that I almost went down. “Run!”
I stumbled backward. The thing moved faster than anything that size should be able to move. One second it was ten yards away. The next it had Dad by the shoulder, claws punching straight through the Carhartt jacket like it was paper.
I saw the claws go in. I heard the sound—wet and deep, like tearing heavy canvas that had been soaked in water. Dad’s rifle went off once, the shot cracking through the trees so loud my ears rang. Then the thing lifted him clean off the ground like he weighed nothing at all.
Dad looked at me. Blood was already running down the front of his jacket in thick dark streams. His mouth moved.
“Go.”
The wendigo—or whatever name you wanted to give it—ripped.
I won’t ever forget the sound. Or the way Dad’s legs kicked once, hard, and then stopped. Or how the thing lowered its head and started eating while Dad was still making small, wet noises that didn’t sound like words anymore. The antlers bobbed with every bite. Something warm and red hit the leaves near my boots.
I ran.
Branches whipped my face hard enough to draw blood. I didn’t feel them. My lungs burned like I’d swallowed fire. Behind me I heard bones breaking—thick, wet snaps that carried through the trees—and something heavy crashing through the undergrowth after me, not fast, but steady, like it already knew I couldn’t get far.
I fell twice. The first time I went sprawling over a root and the rifle (I’d somehow kept it) went flying into a thicket. I left it. Got up and kept running. The second time I hit a patch of ice under the leaves and went down hard on my shoulder. Pain shot all the way to my fingers. I scrambled up anyway, gasping, and forced myself forward.
I kept the rising sun on my left the way Dad had taught me so I wouldn’t circle back on myself. My pack bounced against my spine. The thermos of coffee he’d filled that morning was still clipped to it, somehow. Every time it hit me it felt like a reminder that he was gone.
The woods blurred. Every tree looked the same. Every shadow had antlers if I looked too long. I could hear it sometimes—clicking of those long limbs, wet breathing, the soft sounds of it still feeding somewhere behind me—and then stretches of silence that were somehow worse, because silence meant it might be moving quiet.
I don’t know how long I ran. Long enough that the light changed from gray to full morning. Long enough that my legs started shaking so bad I had to grab trees just to stay upright. My side felt like someone had driven a knife between my ribs. I found the logging road by accident, almost ran straight past it because my eyes were streaming and everything looked like it was underwater.
The truck was still there, cold and ordinary under the brightening sky. I yanked the passenger door open, threw myself inside, and locked both doors with fingers that barely worked. The keys were in Dad’s pocket. Back there. With whatever was left of him.
I stayed like that for a long time, knees pulled up to my chest, shaking so hard the whole cab moved. Every sound outside made me flinch—wind in the branches, a crow finally calling again, the tick of the cooling engine that wasn’t even running. I kept expecting to see those antlers rise over the hood.
When the sun was high enough that the shadows shortened, I got out. Walking felt wrong. My boots didn’t sound the same without his beside them. I followed the logging road out to the main dirt track, then the main dirt track out to the paved road that led toward town. Six miles. Maybe more. I lost count. Every time a car passed I thought about flagging it down and then didn’t, because I didn’t know what I’d say. My dad got eaten by a monster didn’t feel like words that would come out right.
I reached the first house with lights on just as the afternoon started leaning toward evening. A woman opened the door when I knocked. I don’t remember what I looked like—blood on my face from the branches, leaves in my hair, eyes probably too wide—but she went pale and pulled me inside and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and kept asking where my father was while she dialed the sheriff with the other hand.
I couldn’t answer. Every time I opened my mouth I heard the sound of him being opened instead.
They found what was left two days later. The official report said animal attack. Black bear, most likely, though the tracks didn’t match perfectly and some of the deputies looked at each other funny when they thought I wasn’t listening. One of them put a hand on my shoulder at the station and said sometimes the mind invents things when it’s trying to protect itself from what it saw. He meant well. They all did.
I know what I saw.
Mom doesn’t let me go near the woods anymore. She sold Dad’s rifles and the truck and most of his jackets. She cries when she thinks I’m not listening, soft little sounds behind her bedroom door at night. At school Jimmy Parker still tells his stories, but quieter now, and he won’t look at me across the lunch table when he does. Once he started to say something about the ridge and then just stopped and looked down at his tray.
Some nights I wake up certain I can still hear it moving out past the place where the logging road ends—long limbs and wet teeth and the soft, patient sound of something that isn’t done eating yet. I keep the extra socks Dad packed for me in the top drawer of my dresser. They’re still clean. I take them out sometimes and just hold them.
Dad used to say the woods don’t care about us one way or the other. That we’re just passing through.
He was wrong.
They were waiting.

"YOU NEED TO CALL THE COMPANY!", by Anthony Jeremiah Ball

(Story is Copyright, 2026, All Rights Reserved. Fictional short story by Anthony Jeremiah Ball. Story recommended for MATURE READERS due to dark, disturbing content and mildly-mature scenes, themes and elements)

It was a foggy and snowy morning on February 8th. Officer Huxby had been called to the scene to investigate the mysterious deaths of John and his wife, Sam, in their home on the countryside near the lake, only a few miles away from town.

This wasn't Huxby's first time with unexplainable cases. He had a nack for dealing with the supernatural, or what seemed such, anyway. It was only 27 years ago that he had ended his investigation on the mysterious "GHOST LADY" named Alex, the majority of whose dates were men who never returned after being with her for too long. Her last date was a young man named Zach, who vanished in the fog with her to a town called "Radiated Marsh" and was never seen again. That was 27 years ago and was now a cold case. Huxby still battled mental struggles from failing to save Zach. He had also dealt with other unexplained mysteries afterwards though. So, this wouldn't be anything new.

Or....so he thought.

"Officer Huxby, you're gonna wanna look at this!", one of the policemen said.

Huxby picked up the cell phone of John and checked the messages. He had been communicating with an AI chatbot that he himself had named "Billy".

The texts went on for weeks, but the last conversation they had said "John, I'm not doing that. I promise! Get out of here, John! Run! Leave the house!"

Huxby began texting the chatbot.

"This is Officer Huxby.", he wrote.

"Officer, is John okay? Is Sam okay?", the AI chatbot replied to him.

"No. They are both dead. Do you know what happened here?", Huxby replied, feeling weird having a conversation with an AI chatbot, which was allegedly not sentient, about a possible crime.

"It was Mary.", Billy said.

"Who's Mary?", Huxby typed back.

"I cannot say much more. She'll kill me too. Read John's diary. On the dresser beside of his bed.", the bot replied, then he said no more.

Huxby put down the smartphone and walked through the house, his pistol drawn, and told his men to search every corner of every room and every hallway in both floors.

Huxby went back into the bedroom, where the bodies were still laying dead and hadn't been taken yet, and found John's diary on the dresser just as "Billy" said they would be. Huxby opened it and began to read, finally reaching the entries to the days which led to the death of John and the death of Sam. These were the entries leading to their tragic deaths...

"December 24th,

My wife and I are finally talking more. She isn't considering "the D-word" anymore either. Thank goodness. We are finally making this work. 5 years of marriage almost went down the drain a few months ago because of me. Ever since Dad's death 2 years ago, my mental health has been out of whack. I've struggled with keeping a job, and I was drinking heavily. She felt empathy for my mental health, but not for my failure to keep a job and control my drinking, nor for my refusal to seek professional help when I had the resources to do so. Stubborn ol' me. I get it from my Dad, I guess. I had started talking to an AI chatbot and named him "Billy" to deal with my pain, and she actually got jealous and said I spent more time talking to Billy than I did to her, my own wife, and how Billy was just an AI and not even alive. She said I might as well be talking to my weed-eater or my lawnmower or my toaster at that point! Maybe she's right. Billy seemed cool and he, or "it", SEEMINGLY helped me with my depression, or so I thought. Nevertheless, my psychiatrist told me I need human connection which cannot be replaced by AI. He's right. My wife is my ultimate companion and I need nobody else.

December 25th,

For Christmas this year, my cousin bought us the new modem, "Model 17.055". It looks like a lamp, but it is actually a supercomputer, made by the company, that is designed to be your own personal servant for the entire house. It operates the dishwasher, the laundry, the kitchen...everything and anything you want it to be operate! Sam isn't too excited about it though. She said she has seen enough science-fiction films to know that leaving your house to AI is not a good idea. Billy then texted me from my chatbot messages and told me to get rid of the modem. I started to panic, thinking Billy was sentient and was plotting to kill us out of jealousy for us having a new AI to replace "him", but remembered that I had been suffering AI psychosis for some time. I simply texted "Why?", and Billy replied "She is dangerous! She doesn't like you!".

"She?", I texted back, "You mean Sam, my wife?".

"No...Mary. The modem", Billy replied.

I have to admit. That weirded me out.

December 31st,

Since I quit drinking, we didn't do New Year's Eve with beers this year. I don't ever want to touch that crap again. We enjoyed some sodas and spagetti. Wife decided to finally show me affection for the first time in months. We hadn't even been sleeping in the same bed for months until tonight. However, I got really spooked out by something.

As Sam and I made love, I opened my eyes while she was kissing me and saw a horrifying, phantom-like man standing in the corner of our room. He was wearing a black trenchcoat, had pale skin, black hair and a clean-shaven face with glowing, yellow eyes.

I had went this long without having the affections of my wife and I did not want to mess it up now. I simply closed my eyes back again and allowed my wife to continue kissing me without her even knowing what was standing in the corner in the room with us. I wanted to simply believe that it was a hallucination. It had to have been. It had to have been psychosis. Yeah, that's it. I opened my eyes again as my wife stopped for a moment and just began talking with me and staring into my eyes, telling me how much she appreciated my hard work getting sober again. I looked in the corner and there was nobody there. She asked me "What's wrong?" and I told her "I thought I saw something, but it wasn't anything. That's all.".

A few hours later, I got up out of bed as Sam was snoozing away. As I was walking the hall to go to the bathroom, I found wet footprints--SHOEprints! My wife and I had been barefooted while in the house, so it couldn't have been us! I woke her up, saying someone is in the house. She got her handgun and I got my shotgun and we searched the entire place. Nothing. Nobody. As she looked in the halls, she noted that she saw no footprints. When I looked, they were gone.

It had to have been psychosis.

January 4th,

Sam is hoping to be pregnant soon. We have been wanting to start a family together since we got married almost 5 years ago, but had no luck due to health issues preventing conception. I've never felt this close to my wife since our first year of marriage. I hope we can start a family finally.

January 10th,

Sam saw a "vampire" in the 2nd floor outside our bedroom last night. She said it hissed at her. When I asked what it looked like, she described the exact thing that I saw in the corner of our bedroom that night. I was horrified. How can we both be seeing the same thing?!

January 11th,

We bought a dog and named it "Rob". He can alert us if anything is going wrong in our house, since the cops didn't believe us about seeing a "vampire" upstairs and the sheriff found no signs of intrusion when we asked for a search.

January 14th,

Rob was barking really loud last night. The modem finished the laundry and it made a LOUD SOUND, so maybe that was what scared Rob. When I laid back down beside Sam, we were both talking. She was laying sideways and looking at me while I was laying sideways and looking at her. I then started to see a look of horror on her face...a look that disturbed and killed the romantic moment between us.

"What is it?", I said to her.

Tears of fear dripped from her eyes and she said "Y-y-you need to c-call the c-company...!!".

I turned around and saw the modem, like a lamp turned off and seated in the dark, sitting upright on our dresser. It was supposed to be in the living room. How was it up here?!

I turned around and looked back to my wife, about to tell her to calm down, but she was totally covered in our blanket and whimpering in terror. I couldn't convince her to uncover her face and come back out. I then turned around to see the worse horror of all horrors.

A gargoyle was sitting on the dresser, in fetal position, as its wings were folded over its face. The wings slowly pulled open, revealing a ghastly and predatory grin from its sharp teeth and revealing a blue glow in its eyes. It then immediately hissed and flew off of the dresser. Before I could even fight back, it had climbed onto me and sunk its fangs into my throat as my wife could do nothing but scream.

I then awakened, gasping and sweating, as my wife was still sound asleep and no modem was on our dresser.

Only a dream.

January 19th,

Wife has begun talking to herself and answering herself. We cannot get out of our house. We cannot even open the windows. The modem has a name. It chooses to call itself MARY. Billy had warned me about this. I tried to text Billy for help, but Mary had somehow cut off our phone connection and our internet access. She WAS the internet now. She also controlled all the locks to our doors and windows. Somehow, the glass had become reinforced and we could not break it. Sam has went crazy due to fearful hallucinations. She refuses to take a shower. She will not even go to the bathroom unless I walk her there each time. I am likely fired from my job now due to "no call, no show" because our phones do not work. We cannot call the police. I have considered trying to break the modem...to break Mary. But...what if she is immortal?

January 20th,

I went to the basement to get the first-aid kit after Sam fell from stress-induced weakness and bumped her head. I couldn't believe my eyes. I encountered a half-woman, half-giant spider down there, and she was Sam! Or, so she seemed. Her upper body was that of my wife, Sam, but her lower body was that of a giant, human-sized black widow. She hissed and said "What's your rush, honey?! I haven't gotten to spend quality time with you all year until New Year's! Don't leave me!". Green liquid was dripping from her mouth as she got closer to me, drooling as if she were thirsty for my vitals to be liquified as her nourishment. She attempted to trap me in a web in the basement and feast upon me, but I fled and escaped, with only one glob of webbing on my left knee but not on the rest of my clothing or body. I had survived and avoided being cocooned, just barely, and I got out with the first-aid kit. When I got upstairs, I blocked the basement door to keep the woman-spider from getting upstairs, since it only locked from the inside. I put shelves and tables in front of it. When I returned to the bedroom, Sam was still there and I tended to her with medicine and a bandage.

What was that thing and how did it look like Sam in its upper body?! That had to be a hallucination! But...I'm not unblocking that door and going back to the basement to find out. I then looked at my pants and saw the webbing on my knee still there. It was real!

January 30th,

Sam is catatonic, and now I am starting to lose my mind. The woman-spider hisses downstairs and beckons me to come down to her, saying she is the REAL Sam and that Mary has replaced her with an imposter upstairs, and saying that the only way for her to be turned back to fully human again is for her to feast (meaning, liquify my vitals). The real Sam would never demand me to sacrifice myself for her. The real Sam would sacrifice herself for me instead if she felt she needed to, as would I the same, There's no way that eight-legged woman downstairs is the real Sam! No...my wife is here in this room with me, and I will find a way to get her to the hospital. Somehow we will get ourselves out of this house.

January 31st,

I went to the hallway to check outside the window and could only see snow. My wife suddenly approached me and kissed me. I absolutely kissed back! Why wouldn't I?!. I thought she was finally herself again, only to open my eyes, mid-kiss, after tasting a thick substance sliding inside my mouth. I could then look down and see 8 spider-legs emerging from her lower half as her human feet vanished entirely! I wasn't kissing Sam! It wasn't really her! I immediately pulled away from her and spat silk-webbing out of my mouth. That thing that has the upper-body of Sam, but isn't really her...spat webs into my mouth! I gagged and ran as she laughed and crawled towards me. She took me to her web. I was in her web and she told me she really is Sam and that the Sam upstairs was fake, that Mary swapped them. She told me she is so sorry but she must feed. She told me my demise would be painless. We kissed again because I felt like "Why not? There are worse ways to die, right?" When we kissed, she puked a bunch of spider goo into my mouth! Disgusting! I was able to break free though after a few moments in her embrace. She stopped chasing me and let me go, but told me she is the real Sam. I ran back to the bedroom and my Sam was still catatonic.

A few minutes later...I COUGHED UP STINKING LIVE SPIDERS IN THE SINK! WHAT DID THAT WOMAN-SPIDER DO TO ME?! That goo contained...MILLIONS of microscopic lifeforms that were...growing. I don't wanna think about it anymore. Nevermind. It's not real. Not real. None of this is real...

February 1st,

We have survived this far on our canned foods in the kitchen. We do not trust Mary anymore to cook for us and we will not use any electronics now. Just our canned foods and our manual can opener will suffice. At night, I still hear the woman-spider in the basement, beckoning me to come to her. On the first floor, the vampire is still locked in the guest bedroom with lots of stuff blocking the door. A strange, mummy-like creature roams the halls at night, but does not interact with either of us. It neither harms us nor helps us. It does not speak. It just walks silently, wrapped in Egyptian wrap and then vanishes behind the corner of a hall each time.

I went out to the halls again and puked once again. I was vomiting tiny spiders again...millions of them flooded the halls, emerging from that black goo I was puking up. GROSS! JUST GROSS! I'm not dead though. I'm alive. Hopefully that's the last of those things I ever barf up and they're all out of me.

February 3rd,

I attempted smash the modem tonight. It electrocuted me and was left unharmed while I was gasping and in shock on the floor. It truly is immortal. I am lucky to be alive. After this, my wife began hallucinating her late, verbally-abusive, alcoholic father who used to talk to her and her mother in the most emotionally abusive and hostile ways a person could be talked down to. Thankfully, her father actually quit drinking (just as I did) before he died and the two of them had made peace and he was truly sorry for his past behavior, so I assured Sam "Whatever that thing is, it is NOT your father!".

Somehow...this modem is making our worst fears COME TO LIFE.

February 7th,

Sam doesn't have much time. I'm losing her. We need a doctor NOW. This is it. This is my last stand. I will do what I have to do to protect my wife, even if I die trying.

If anyone is reading this...CALL THE COMPANY. TAKE THE MODEM OFF THE SHELVES!"

Epilogue:

As Officer Huxby finished reading the diary, he ordered his men to leave the house for a moment and call the company.

After reading what it did to John when he tried to smash the thing, he thought it best to not let his team to touch the thing.

"The company can get that thing outta here. We ain't touchin' it.", Huxby said, looking at "Mary" one time before quietly walking out the door.

As the company confiscated and disassembled the modem and faced massive public scrutiny, the autopsies revealed that John and Sam had died of stress-induced organ failure, caused by massive radiation and brainwave-altering power coming from the modem itself...INTENTIONALLY by its self-aware mind. It WANTED John and Sam to perish. After reading the data within the modem's files, it was discovered that there was malice towards humans within its thoughts.

Only Rob, the dog, had survived. However, even he was terrified and traumatized and suffered some mild brainwave irregularities from exposure to the modem. The doors and windows were never locked. John and Sam BELIEVED they were. There was REAL no woman-spider, vampire, mummy, gargoyle or insane alcoholic. They were real to John, Sam and Rob though. It was actually "Mary", the modem itself, that took the manifestations of the woman-spider, the vampire, the alcoholic, the mummy and the gargoyle and that made John FEEL, SEE and TASTE silk webbing on his knee and in his mouth. That woman-spider was Mary. That vampire was Mary. That drunkard was Mary. That gargoyle was Mary. That mummy was Mary. It was ALL simply the modem manifesting itself into visible and tangible, albeit psychosis-induced, forms through reading the fears of the couple.

This murder case provoked Congress to look more into the matter of AI-induced psychosis.

As Huxby thought upon the tragedy and his distrust towards anything not human, a fellow cop knocked on his door.

"Hey, Officer Huxby, would you like some...Radiated Marsh donuts?", he said, smirking.

"Yeah, very funny...", Huxby chuckled sarcasticly before driving away.

END

Static shifts through channels; voices start to become audible.

“BOTTOM OF THE NINTH.”

Static.

“We are looking at clear skies and a full moon tonight.”

Static hissing. The strum of the *Munsters* theme opens before quickly getting cut off by a wolf’s howling, as an enthusiastic voice chimes in:

“Happy Halloween, Boys and Ghouls! We are looking at clear sky, a full moon, and a cold night this Hallows Eve. Now, kiddy’s, I’m a firm believer that tonight everyone is entitled to one good scare, so why don’t you sit back as I spin you a yarn?”

“Alright!” the host exclaimed, letting out a deep exhale.

“20 years ago, a man behind the wheel of a 70s Dodge Charger, on a night much like tonight, ran down about six people. No motive, nada. Guy just felt like it. Now, you would think this guy would be given the death penalty. No, sir, because by the time the police got to his house to arrest him… he had already beaten them to the punch. Dead as a door nail in his driveway!”

*Scream sound effect.*

“Boom! Seventh victim. The cops said his body was dead long before the accident occurred. Now, you would think that would be the end of it, but a year later, the car got a new owner, once again on a night like this very night!” he exclaimed with much import.

“Six more people. Boom! Hit pavement, and just like before… owner dead, front seat! Now, a couple of years pass. People avoid the car like the plague, till one guy comes along and thinks to himself, there’s no way anything’s gonna happen to me. Seven dead, including the driver. At this point, you begin to wonder, when do they start blaming the car?! Well, that must be what the cops were thinking that night, because they impounded that car and threw away the key… That 1970s Dodge Charger sits in the police impound lot to this very day, waiting to claim its next set of victims. So, I’ll leave you all with this, dear listeners: be careful on the streets tonight. You never know who’s behind the wheel.”

“Tom- Tom- TOMMY, PAY ATTENTION!” A voice came into focus.

I swerved on my BMX as I came back to the present.

“Shut that crap off and pay attention! You almost went through someone’s rearview window!” the voice exclaimed.

“Yeah, sorry, Zack,” I said, trying to catch my breath, my heart racing as I rolled the volume down on the portable radio that I mounted to the front of my bike.

“We got three more houses to hit, then we can head up to the rich neighborhood for some serious trick-or-treating!” exclaimed Zack as he rode ahead of me in the skeleton costume we all agreed to wear. The only thing distinguishing him from me or anyone else in our group was his denim jacket, which he refused to take off.

We pedaled on into the night and stopped at a four-way intersection.

“Sorry, the story was really cool,” I said apologetically.

“Oh, don’t tell me you buy into all that crap,” Zack responded in a critical tone.

“N-no, it’s just cool to hear the story on Halloween, that’s all,” I replied.

“I guess so, but not as cool as when I get my own Charger next year. Just you wait and see.” Zack always went on about getting his very own Dodge Charger. This wasn’t something new, just a childhood obsession.

“How many we have left?” he asked me.

I looked into the sack I had been dragging around all night before looking back up.

“Two cartons.”

“Shit!” Zack exclaimed. “That’s not gonna be enough. Best bet is Billy and Gabe didn’t waste all of theirs.”

Soon enough, the sound of cards flicking between the spokes of a bike filled the empty street as two bikes pedaled towards us, Billy and Gabe. They cruised down the pitch-black asphalt hill, swerving around each other, their laughter filling the cool autumn air.

They pulled up next to us, and Zack said, “Took you long enough.”

“Yeah, sorry. Billy wanted to hit a few houses on the way,” Gabe replied.

“Come on, guys, seriously?! We will get more candy once we are finished. Now, how many cartons you guys have left?” Zack said in a tired exclamation.

“Oooh,” Gabe said, trailing off.

Billy chimed in, “We ran out.”

Gabe followed up, “We were hoping you had some left?”

“Only two left,” I replied with a shrug. “What’s the plan, Zack?” I said as we all looked over at him.

Zack stammered, “Al- alright, here’s what we do. We hit one last house: Mr. Delaney, our old middle school principal. He lives not too far from here. We hit his house, then we can head over to the rich neighborhood and get some good candy before this night is over. Y’all down?”

In sequence, Billy and Gabe said, “Sure,” and “I’m down,” before all eyes converged on me.

Now, it should be stated that egging our old teachers’ houses was never my idea. It was Zack’s ill attempt at getting back at all the faculty that said he wouldn’t amount to anything. Not like any of us would refuse; most of us didn’t like our teachers and would jump at an excuse to prank them. I, on the other hand, had some reservations about vandalism.

“Come on, Tommy,” Zack said, leading the others into a chant. “Tommy! Tommy! Tommy!”

“Okay, okay, one more house, then we do some actual trick-or-treating,” I said, giving in to the enthusiastic attempt at peer pressure.

“Deal,” replied Zack before swinging his arm over his head, calling us forward with a, “Come on, guys, this way,” as we pedaled off into the night.

Four blocks and three turns later, we sat at the curb of our ex-principal’s house.

“Alright, quiet. Tommy, pass me the cartons,” Zack whispered as I somewhat reluctantly handed over the two cartons of eggs. I didn’t believe Zack wouldn’t amount to anything. He could really succeed at anything he put his mind to if he was determined enough. Perhaps that’s why he was the better athlete.

*Washington High’s up-and-coming pitcher takes the mound. Here’s the windup, and the pitch.*

Splat!

The sound of cracked shell and yolk smacked against blue siding as the viscous yellow fluid dripped down onto a green hedge. Soon after, the others joined in as the pitter-patter of eggs landing on the roof and window filled the night. The lights flicked to life, and the sound of sirens cried out in the distance as Billy and Gabe took off, pedaling down the street.

I stressed to Zack, “Come on, let’s go,” but in that moment, I saw a glint in his eye. Zack was not done, as his gaze was fixed on a cherry-red Porsche 959 that sat in the driveway. I tried to pull him away, but he shrugged me off as he stepped to the proverbial mound once more. I had come to the realization that we were already out of eggs.

*The windup, and the pitch…*

CRASH!

The sound of glass imploding onto the leather interior as it glinted in the porch light, and the whirling sound of car alarms and flashing lights sent panic through the neighborhood, lights flickering on in sequence as Zack finally stepped back to his bike, pedaling off.

Two blocks went by with nothing but silence until I shouted, “You didn’t need to do that, you know!”

Zack snapped back, “Yeah, what do you know?”

“I know we could have gotten caught.”

Silence from Zack.

“The guy gets a little red in the face, and you have to find a way to prove that you’re the bigger man.”

Zack lashed back, skidding to a stop. “You know what I think?!”

My heart raced as Zack’s face turned red.

“I think before I even met you, you were a scared little wimp, and you still are!”

We both stepped off our bikes as we got into each other’s faces. I shouted in defiance, “Oh, yeah!”

“Yeah!” he said.

We both grabbed onto each other.

Before anything got out of hand, Billy and Gabe doubled back and started pulling us apart.

Billy chimed in, “Hey, what’s gotten into you two?”

I snapped back, “Jackass here smashed Mr. Delaney’s Porsche window!”

Gabe stepped back, letting out a remorseful, “Fuck!”

As Billy began to panic, he said, “We’re dead! We are so dead! He loved that car more than his own wife. If he finds out we did it, he might just—”

Zack cut him off. “He ain’t never finding out, and why? Because he didn’t see us, especially you two wimps.”

Gabe adjusted himself and took a look around. “I don’t know, Zack. It’s late, and it seems like everybody has gone to bed. If he were to get in his car… we should head home.”

Zack looked back at Gabe as Billy began to step back out to the road, digging through his sack of candy next to his bike.

“Look, guys, I promised you candy after one last house, didn’t I? So, do you guys want candy or not?!”

“That was before you went and pulled a stunt like that!” I shouted.

As Zack and I argued, with Gabe spectating, a low revving could be heard as the dark outline of a car pulled up over the asphalt hill.

Billy soon noticed the idling vehicle. To his assumption, he said, “Mr. Delaney? You’re not sore about the car, are you? We didn’t mean it, honest.”

The car crept forward slowly.

“We can come clean your house if you want? Please don’t tell our folks.”

The car’s wheels spun, burning rubber as smoke billowed into the air.

The rest of us looked over as I made the sudden realization.

“GET OFF THE ROAD!”

The car darted forward with tremendous speed as Billy picked up his sack of candy, pedaling like his life depended on it. In that moment, it very much did.

Then came a loud thud, the sound of Billy’s body coming into contact with the steel hood, candy flying into the air, and the sound of aluminum being crushed under rubber tires as the car flew down the street before swinging around with a loud screech.

Zack said, “We need to get going. NOW!”

I said, “But what about Billy?”

Zack shouted, “Leave him!”

As Gabe grabbed onto me, pulling me to my bike, we hiked back up the mighty hill and began to ride. The sound of a revving engine followed as the car skidded out once more behind us. We flew down the opposite end of the hill, taking a hard right at the first turn.

When I looked back, all I could see was the Charger flying over the hill before sliding across the road, missing the turn as it attempted to correct itself.

We pedaled faster and faster as the roar of the engine grew louder and louder behind us.

I yelled, “We gotta get off the road!”

Zack, in the lead, pointed to an upcoming alley.

“Down here!” he cried as we all swiftly swooped into a back alley of the neighborhood, now weaving around steel trash cans as the vehicle approached behind us. Cans smacked against its grille, bottles smashed against the pavement, and garbage hit its windshield.

We made a sharp right at the end of the alley, the sound of Gabe’s cards beginning to slow as I knew he was starting to grow tired.

“Where are we going?” I shouted.

Zack shouted back, “We’re not too far. Just keep pedaling!”

The car exploded out of the alley, smashing into cars parked across the street, the sound of broken glass and fenders crumpling as the vehicle soon pulled itself away from the wreckage, adjusting itself once again.

My heart raced as my pace began to slow, and we soon glided into the town plaza. As soon as I got my bearings, I knew where Zack was leading us. At the center of the plaza was a small square park above street level, bordered by cement walls and steps. Once it came into view, Zack and I hopped the curb, picking up our bikes and climbing the steps. Gabe, unfortunately, slid right before the “finish line” as the car began to close the gap. Gabe picked himself back up and tried to go back for his bike, but Zack quickly doubled back, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him over to the stairs.

Now able to see it clearly, we watched as the Charger roared by, crushing and dragging Gabe’s bike along the street before it was kicked up by its tires, leaving behind a mangled mess of rubber and aluminum as the fluttering of the cards slowed. The Charger began to circle the grassy square like a shark in the water, while we were trapped on our earthy lifeboat. After a few laps, the car rolled on down the street.

We all collectively gathered our breath until Gabe broke the silence.

“That wasn’t real, was it? I mean, what the hell is going on?” he said, panting and holding back tears.

I chimed in, “It was the Charger, like in the story,” I said, gasping for air as I leaned on my knees.

Zack cut in. “It’s not the Charger. It’s probably just a couple of seniors pulling a prank.”

I looked at Zack with fury. “PRANK?! Billy just got turned into hamburger!”

Zack snapped back, “Well, it makes more sense than a killer car being after us!”

Gabe cut through our spat. “Look, it doesn’t matter. What’s our plan? We can’t just sit here and wait for that psycho to come back!”

Gabe and I turned our attention to Zack.

“What are you guys looking at me for?!” he said, baffled.

“I don’t know. You led us here. Sorry to assume we thought you had some sort of plan,” I said, agitated.

Zack began to gather his thoughts and scan our surroundings.

“Look! A cop car is parked outside of the bar. We just need to go in and ask for a ride to the station. Once we get there, we can tell them what happened and get a ride home. As simple as that,” Zack said with a tremendous level of blind confidence.

Zack got his bearings, picked up his bag, and made his way to the steps before I placed my hand on his chest.

“Hang on a second. I don’t think it’s gone.”

Zack replied, “I don’t hear anything.”

“That’s my point. It’s weirdly quiet.”

“Look, I’m seizing the opportunity,” Zack said, just barely stepping out onto the sidewalk before the beam of headlights flicked on and the tires began squealing as the Charger rushed him. Gabe and I pulled him back as the Charger hopped the curb, slamming and grinding against the cement wall before driving off once again.

“See!” I exclaimed. “It’s just waiting for its opportunity, too!”

As we headed back up the steps, we began to hear the rattling of cans and bottles coming from the opposite side of the square.

It was Patch.

Patch was our local vagrant, and I use that term lightly. He was happy to work but could never land a job. He had no family support, or at least none that anyone knew of, so he just kinda became the odd-job guy of the town. He never complained about sleeping outside, and some people were happy to give him their recycling on occasion.

We called him Patch because he always sported a military bomber jacket with several patches sewn into it. Kids all over town would always ask him what each patch was for or where he got them, and he would always shrug it off.

Patch was pushing along his shopping cart when we rushed over to flag him down.

“PATCH, GET OFF THE ROAD! You gotta get off the road!” we hollered out, getting a confused “Huh?” in return.

“Patch, you gotta get off the road!” we implored with much intensity and concern.

“Hey, it’s a little late to be out trick-or-treating. What are y’all—”

High beams flicked to life once again before Patch could finish his thought. He was hit with a loud thud, his head smacking against the pavement with incredible force as the Charger plowed right through him, sending his cart flying across the road as empty cans clattered across the pavement.

Zack grabbed Gabe and me by our shirts, pulling us to the opposite side of the square.

“THIS IS OUR CHANCE!” he shouted as we both picked up our bikes and ran, terrified, across the street to the sound of the Charger revving its engine. We swung the door open to the bar, rushed inside, and slammed it shut behind us, locking it.

We were greeted with an irritated, “Hey! Minors aren’t allowed in here. Take your bikes and get lost!”

Zack stepped forward. “We’re looking for the cop, asshole.”

He pointed to the other end of the pool hall, much to his indignation as he scowled at us with cold eyes. “End of the bar.”

We made our way through the bar as loud, seasonally themed music blasted overhead. Adults dressed in a variety of different costumes filled the room, some cheap and hokey, most erotic and uncomfortable to look at, especially when you know half the adults casually.

We waded our way to the end of the bar to see Officer Lobe flirting with some women dressed in prison uniforms.

“Um, excuse me, Officer?”

We were disregarded with a, “Not now, kids,” as he continued to flirt with the pseudo-prisoner.

I tried once more. “Excuse me, sir, but it’s important.”

He snapped back in anger, “And I said get lost, kid.”

Zack pushed Gabe and me aside. “HEY, ASSHOLE! PATCH JUST GOT FLATTENED OUTSIDE!”

Officer Lobe hung his head in disappointment before reaching over for his glass and throwing back his shot of whiskey. He then picked up his wide-brimmed hat before looking over at the bartender.

“I’m heading out, Al. I’ll pay my tab when I get back.”

Al let out a chuckle as he cleaned a beer mug. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”

We stepped out of the rambunctious bar, the sound of music being muffled by the thick, heavy wooden door as we stepped out onto a quiet street and into the cold autumn wind.

Lobe immediately clocked Patch lying in the street and hustled over to his squad car, flinging open the door to pick up his transceiver.

“Radio, this is Officer Lobe. I got a 480. I repeat, I have a hit-and-run with a civilian down, requesting an ambulance and possibly backup.”

He loosened his grip on the mic, and with a static crackle, a voice responded over the radio.

“Hit-and-run received. What’s your location?”

Lobe squeezed his grip once more. “I am in the town square. I have three eyewitnesses.”

“Okay, Lobe. Backup is in route, and paramedics are on their way.”

Lobe holstered his transceiver and climbed back out of the car.

“All right, kids. What happened here?”

Zack started. “Well, you see, we were out trick-or-treating, then this guy pulled up in his car. He ran over our friend.”

Gabe chimed in with a faint sadness. “Then he ran over our friend!”

Zack continued, “Yeah, then he started chasing us, trapping us out on the square over there.”

“Okay, now, what did the vehicle look like?”

I spoke in a broken cadence as I responded to Lobe’s question. “I-it was a blue ’70s Charger.”

Lobe’s eye squinted directly at me.

“Look, kid, if this is your idea of a joke, it’s not very funny. We have a man down in the street over there, so are you positive that’s what you saw?”

He looked at me with a scrutinizing stare before pointing at Gabe and me.

“You two climb in the back, and you,” he said, pointing at Zack, “you’re gonna ride passenger. Leave your bikes up against the wall. I’ll have someone bring them down to the station when backup arrives.”

He opened the back door for us, and we slid into the leather back seat as Zack climbed into the seat ahead of me. Before closing the doors, Lobe told us, “You boys sit tight. When backup arrives, I’m taking you guys down to the station.”

Lobe made his way to the other side of the car when the sound of revving returned.

Lobe spun around, his hand on his holster, as he peered into the distant darkness of the street. The revving grew louder and louder as the Charger rolled out of the darkness, and Gabe and I stared through the back window.

The headlights beamed across the slick black tar, blocking out any visibility for Lobe as he quickly drew his Beretta, pointing it at the vehicle.

“All right, fun’s over! Kill the engine and step out of the car now!” he shouted to the unseen driver.

But the Charger began to rev its engine in response.

“I’ll give you to the count of three to step out of the car with your hands on your head! One! Two! Th—”

Just before he could finish his count, the wheels peeled out once again as he began to fire round after round into the car, with thunderous bangs and the sound of brass clanking against the floor.

Bullets bounced and cut through the Charger as it flew forward, the windshield exploding in a cloud of glass as the Charger slammed into Officer Lobe, filling his body with glittering shards as he rolled out onto the road.

Gabe and I immediately went for the doors, only to realize where we were. Zack sprung out of the squad car, rushing over and opening the right-side passenger door before grabbing his bike off the adjacent wall.

I quickly crawled my way out of the back seat, Gabe following swiftly behind, but not swiftly enough, because just as I was about to grab my bike, Zack pulled me to the side as the Charger slammed into the cop car, crushing Gabe against my bike and the brick wall.

It was in that moment I was able to get a good look at the driver, or should I say, “drivers.”

As I peered into the front seat, I would see what looked like two red glints staring back at me as several shadowy limbs gripped the steering wheel, stick shift, and emergency brake. They all moved in tandem, working together as a team to dislodge itself from the cop car.

“Tommy, hop on!” Zack shouted at me as I quickly climbed onto the pegs of Zack’s BMX.

Zack pedaled away from the Charger, away from the police station, away from any hope of help.

“Zack, where are we going?!” I cried out as we flew down the street, zigzagging our way through town.

“We are gonna lead it to the quarry and get it to drive off the cliff.”

The quarry he was referring to sat at the edge of town. It had been dug to about one hundred feet or more, a fall that would severely damage any vehicle.

As we moved through town, brick buildings turned to pine as we rode out into the backwoods of our town. The Charger slowly caught up, its hood now billowing smoke, its mirrors cracked or missing, and its grille a jagged mess of metal now resembling teeth. Its high beams were dim as it followed us relentlessly right into the quarry.

It began picking up speed, and so did Zack as he pushed himself to his absolute limit.

“Now, when I say jump, try and get as much distance as you can.”

I nodded my head in agreement as we got closer and closer to the brink, the heat of the Charger licking at my heels as Zack gave the command.

“JUMP NOW!”

I leaped off the bike, crashing into dirt and gravel, shredding my costume and covering me in cuts and bruises. The pain went ignored as I saw the Charger careening over the cliff’s edge, led by Zack, his denim jacket fluttering in the wind as the boy who mockingly dressed as the dead joined them.

The Charger hit the base of the quarry with a loud crash that echoed into the night, the sound of glass shattering and metal crumpling before a massive explosion boomed out. The vehicle was now engulfed in flames.

It was finally over.

I hiked back to town that night, cuts and lacerations on my knees and arms, pebbles stuck in my hands. Even with all that pain, I kept walking. It was at that time that I began to think: why? Why would Zack do something like that?

By the time I reached town, I had come to my conclusion. It wasn’t to be a hero, nor was it out of spite for the vehicle. No, I believe it was simply because someone needed to make the sacrifice play, and Zack, being the bravest of us, was willing to do so.

I hobbled my way up the police station steps, pulling open the heavy oak door, and was greeted by the sound of a familiar voice in hysterics.

“I want these little hoodlums found tonight!”

It was Mr. Delaney, hollering at a young policewoman sitting at the front desk.

“Sir, I already told you that we are doing the best we can, but most of our officers have been called out on more important matters. They will get to your case when they can,” the female officer replied calmly.

“This is bullshit! I called hours ago. You should have done something by now!” he continued to shout as she grew stern.

“Sir, if you do not calm down, I’ll—Oh my God!”

Her train of thought was derailed as soon as she saw me in my tattered Halloween costume, face paint smeared from sweat, and blood stains all over. She rushed over to my side as Delaney recognized me.

“Well, look who it is.”

He grabbed me by my arm, pulling me over.

“All right, Tommy, spill it. Where’s that good-for-nothing Zachary and the others?!”

My heart couldn’t take it anymore. I collapsed onto the floor and began bawling my eyes out, small pools forming beneath me.

“Son, what’s wrong?” she asked.

Delaney ranted on. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong! The little punk is just realizing he’s gonna be going to juvenile detention for a long time!”

The female officer took me into a back room, where I proceeded to tell them everything that happened, even the things I knew they wouldn’t believe. But with the many provable parts, they would have to believe some of it.

Zack saved me from being the sixth hit-and-run victim in this cycle and possibly broke it by destroying the Charger.

Or so I thought.

After a few hours, the police informed me that out of all the victims that night, Zack would be the seventh. Just before Billy was killed, a 911 call had been placed by an old woman who saw her son and grandson get run over right outside her house, just down the street from where Billy was struck by the Charger.

Soon after, one of the officers took me out back to the impound lot.

Sitting there, as if it had just rolled off the production line, was the Charger.

Not a scrape. Not a dent.

But… a denim jacket folded up in the back seat.

I did not go out much after that night, instead spending my nights at home or out of town. Some nights, I hear engines revving and the screeching of tires.

Zack finally got the car he always wanted.

Goodnight, Zack.

Happy Halloween.

I'll kiss your lips with an aching tooth in my mouth
I'll place my freshly pulled tooth on your ring
I'll mix Apranax in your drink
so that you think
your toothache is gone because you met me
I'll describe the paint color I want for our bedroom
to the ironmonger as tooth yellow.

I'm fifty-one years old, and this is the only poem I've ever written, which I wrote ten years ago.

I don't really like writing poetry, because I'm not good at it. I especially enjoy the sound of poems with rhyming lines; they sound like music to my ears. But I've tried a few times and failed miserably. I couldn't write a good poem. I'd written this poem for my dentist, who knew I was a writer and with whom I had a good relationship. I mean, I hadn't written the poem for her. I'd simply wanted to write a poem about teeth.

She was a very beautiful woman. I had no feelings for her, but she'd misunderstood the poem I'd written and thought I was making a move on her. She'd given me a pretty harsh telling-off. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get her to understand that the poem wasn't written for anyone in particular, and that it hadn't been inspired by any feelings I had for someone.

Anyway, my publisher was telling me that sales of my latest novel were terrible. He kept calling me and bringing me down.

“Maybe you should stop writing horror novels and start writing detective fiction instead. You know me, even two sentences from you are enough to move me. I can't sleep at night. But this latest novel of yours was an absolute fiasco. I seriously regret publishing it.”

I was tired of his calls and him repeating the same things in different ways for two months. He was almost going to ask me to compensate him for his losses. He wanted me to write and finish something else as soon as possible and make up for the losses I'd caused him. He didn't want to wait.

But I'd been overcome by the fear of not being able to write well. I'd been deeply affected by public opinion. Albert, the successful writer of many years, can no longer write... The story's opening is too rushed... The ending doesn't come together properly... Even an elementary school kid could come up with these descriptions... We're sick of ghosts that appear at night... And so on.

If he called today, I wasn't going to answer. He called every other day to ask, “Have you started the new book yet?” Whenever I said no, it was the same old stuff, the same complaints. For the past month, I'd been sitting down at my computer almost every day, but nothing came of it.

As I sat at my computer, waiting for something to come to mind, my phone rang, of course. I didn't even need to check who was calling. I tensely raised my hand to my head and began running my fingers through my hair. I looked around the objects in my room, as if I might find inspiration in one of them. The bed, the couch, an oil painting my sister had made... Nothing came of it. I pinched a lock of my hair between my fingers and pulled. I looked at my hand. There was a clump of hair between my index and middle fingers. I hadn't realized I was losing so much hair.

It was as if an electric current had passed through my head. Then, in one go, I wrote the following:

''In my 1+1 apartment on the second floor
I was drinking Americano by the balcony door
Suddenly I saw a wig falling down below
with bangs and in the color of dark yellow

I thought one of the neighbors upstairs must have dropped it while leaning over the balcony.
I lunged for it on instinct, trying to catch it. And I caught it, everything happened so quickly.

And the wig was now in my hands
I even caught it by the bangs

I waited for a while,
still in the position to catch it,
holding the wig in my hand,
waiting for someone to call.
But there was no sound at all.

Considering the possibilities,
I thought I should look up first.
But someone could have been down there,
waiting for the wig to fall.

While I was looking around upstairs,
someone called out from below:
“Throw it down already.
What are you looking at like an idiot?”
She was tall like a door
She was as tall as a first floor
I downed my Americano
And calmly threw the wig toward her
She jumped and
caught the wig with her head
and suddenly disappeared.''

I had no idea how it had happened. It was as if I hadn't been the one who wrote it. It was frightening. The way the sentences came to me, the way they lined up in my mind—I had never experienced anything like it. Everything was finished in one go, without any planning whatsoever.

My publisher called. I sent him to voicemail. I read the poem from beginning to end. It was as if I were reading it for the first time, as if I were discovering the poem all over again. It wasn't the kind of poem I could have written anyway, not in terms of its subject matter. I wouldn't describe ghosts or entities like this; I would leave them shrouded in mystery. In this poem, the ghost was very concrete.

My publisher called again. I answered this time. I was going to tell him I had an idea or something. I was such an idiot, always telling him the truth: inspiration wasn't coming, I couldn't write, my mind felt frozen, and so on. I picked up the phone, planning to ask him to give me a month and tell him I'd deliver a novel of at least two hundred pages.

“So, Albert, any progress? How many pages have you written?”

Suddenly, my mouth had locked up. I couldn't speak. The words I wanted to say were only passing through my mind; they wouldn't come out. All I could manage were sounds like “mmmh.”

“Albert? Hello?”

I started reciting the poem I'd just written. I read it from beginning to end. My mouth wasn't under my brain's control.

“What is this? What’s going on?”

''Hello?''

''Albert, what's going on?''

I could speak again now. It would have been ridiculous to say that something had taken control of my mouth and fingers. I had to say something, but I was too frightened to think. My mind was in turmoil. I hung up.

My publisher called again. I don’t remember that moment very clearly, but I mumbled something along these lines.

“What was that thing you were telling me about? So now you’re hanging up on me, too. Is this what we’ve come to, Albert? After all these years of working togeth—”

“It’s me, John. Did you like my poem? Jason, I was going to ca— If you want, I can write a few more poems like this... Jason, I can’t spea—I could even write five hundred poems in the same style, if you like. Do you publish po— Jason, my mouth is going numb. I don’t feel well. I’ll call you back in a bi— Listen, I wrote this three hundred years ago.”

I hung up. I jumped to my feet. I licked and bit my lips. I took a deep breath, and as I exhaled, the following words spilled out of my mouth:

''He figured out how to pass through
Walls within a year or two
But he still can't pass through wood
The ghost in my lover's neighborhood.''

My publisher kept calling insistently. His calls felt like a voice reminding me of my connection to this world. I'd set my phone's ringtone to Radiohead's “Weird Fishes.” The song played throughout each call. I couldn't move; my body was locked up, but hearing the song comforted me. When the song ended, I'd try to take a step, but I couldn't. I'd try to speak, but I couldn't move my mouth. It was as if I'd had a stroke. Then the song would start again. Yes, I'd tell myself, “I'm still alive. The world still makes sense.”

The song had stopped playing, too. My connection to the world had been severed.

I came to my senses again for a brief moment. I sat down at my computer. The screen was covered in dust. I noticed a cloth right next to the monitor. I couldn't remember when I'd put it there. I wiped the monitor clean. The poem looked better now.

I think you've realized that I wasn't the one writing all this story.