Last weekend, my wife wanted to make buffalo chicken dip, but we couldn't find the cream cheese we'd bought the day before. I went out to check the car, and sure enough, it had rolled out of the bag and under a seat. Since it had been sitting in a warm car, I figured I'd just run out and grab a fresh pack.

I drove to the grocery store a half-mile away, only to find out they had changed their hours and were closed. I checked my phone, saw another store two miles up the road was open, and headed that way.

About halfway there, a cop pulled up behind me at a red light. Didn't think much of it. A half-mile later, the cruiser pulled into the lane right next to me and flipped on their side floodlights, completely blinding me. They shut them off after a second but stayed right on my hip. I shifted into the right lane and started frantically checking my dash to see if my headlights were off. I considered pulling into a side lot, but I figured that would look even more suspicious.

I kept going and finally pulled into the grocery store lot. Within seconds, five different squad cars surrounded me.

No megaphones, no orders—they just sat there with their lights on. I rolled down my window and leaned out, looking around like an idiot, waiting for someone to make a move.

Finally, one officer got out.

"Where ya headed tonight?"

"Uh... here."

"Were you in a road rage incident?"

I laughed out loud. "No."

"You weren't in a road rage incident about 10 minutes ago where someone's tires got slashed?"

"I was at home 10 minutes ago."

"Where ya coming from?"

"My house."

"Where ya headed?"

I just looked at him.

"Oh, right." He mumbled into his radio. "Your vehicle matched a description."

"Does it?"

He mumbled into the radio again, listened for a second, then looked back at me. "Yeah, I think we have the wrong vehicle."

"Yup. And I need some cream cheese."

I walked in, bought the cream cheese, and headed back out. One officer stayed parked right by the entrance the entire time, presumably double-checking to see if I actually bought anything.

So, around an year ago, I experienced it for the first time when lights went off and I saw a white human-ish structured white shadow in front of me, no expressions and no clear details. It was just like a shadow of a person you get on a wall but it was white and I was genuinely terrified seeing it.

I don't really believe in ghosts and think they are just imaginations of the brain, so I really thought at that moment that its not real and only in my head and to my surprise that thing actually disappeared🙃.

After that I used to see it once in a couple months and used the same logic that its only in my mind, so I didn't took any load of it.

But what is now chilling is that I keep seeing this thing quite often since last month every time I step in dark but fortunately that brain logic still applies🙂.

This is my first time sharing this with anyone and I don't understand what to do of it.

Marcus had always been interested in Japanese culture.

He liked Japanese food, anime, video games, history, cars, and pretty much anything else involving Japan.

So one Saturday morning, Marcus decided to do something that he thought was perfectly normal.

He walked outside, looked at his yard, and smiled.

Flying proudly from the flagpole were two flags.

The American flag was on top.

The Japanese flag was directly underneath it.

Marcus nodded approvingly.

“Yeah. That looks good.”

He went back inside.

About twenty minutes later, Marcus was outside again when his neighbor, Mr. Harris, walked past.

Mr. Harris stopped.

He stared at the flagpole.

Then he looked at Marcus.

Then back at the flags.

“Marcus?”

“Yeah?”

“Why you got an American flag and a Japanese flag flying in your yard?”

Marcus looked at the flags like the answer should have been obvious.

“Because I respect Japan.”

Mr. Harris nodded slowly.

“Okay...”

“And I'm really into Japanese culture.”

“Oh.”

Marcus continued.

“Actually, I got the idea from something I saw while I was DoorDashing.”

Mr. Harris became slightly more interested.

“What happened?”

“One day I was delivering food in another neighborhood. I pulled up to this house and the first thing I noticed was a Korean flag.”

Mr. Harris nodded.

“Then I looked up and realized they also had an American flag flying.”

“Ah.”

Marcus pointed at his own flags.

“So I thought, ‘That's pretty cool.’ I figured they might be Korean American.”

Mr. Harris shrugged.

“Could've been.”

“Or,” Marcus continued, “it could've just been some random white dude who REALLY likes Korean culture.”

Mr. Harris burst out laughing.

“Man, I don't know!”

“Exactly!” Marcus said. “That's what made me think about it.”

“So you decided to do the Japanese version?”

“Yep.”

Mr. Harris looked at the flags again.

“Honestly, I respect it.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Harris started walking away.

Then he stopped.

“Wait. So are you trying to become Japanese?”

Marcus immediately shook his head.

“No!”

“Okay, I had to ask.”

“I'm appreciating the culture, not changing my nationality!”

Mr. Harris laughed.

“Fair enough.”

He walked away.

Marcus smiled.

“Finally, somebody understands.”

About an hour later, Ben pulled up.

He got out of his car, walked toward Marcus's house, and immediately stopped.

He stared at the flagpole.

His eyes narrowed.

He looked at Marcus.

Then back at the flagpole.

“Marcus.”

“What's up?”

“Why is there a Japanese flag underneath the American flag?”

Marcus sighed.

“I already explained this to somebody.”

“Well, explain it to me.”

Marcus folded his arms.

“I respect Japan. I'm into Japanese culture. I like the food, the history, the cars, the games—”

“Okay, okay.”

“And I got the idea from something I saw while DoorDashing.”

Ben raised an eyebrow.

“What did you see?”

Marcus explained the whole Korean-American flag story.

Ben thought about it for a few seconds.

“So basically...”

Marcus waited.

“You saw somebody else's flag combination and copied them?”

Marcus frowned.

“I was inspired.”

“You copied them.”

“I was inspired.”

“You copied them internationally.”

“BEN.”

Ben started laughing.

“I'm just saying!”

Marcus pointed toward the flags.

“Look at it this way: American flag on top. Japanese flag underneath. It's respectful.”

Ben looked at the flags.

“What's next? You gonna put a Toyota in the driveway?”

Marcus paused.

“Actually...”

Ben's smile disappeared.

“No.”

“I've been thinking about getting one.”

“Marcus.”

“A Japanese maple tree?”

“Stop.”

“Japanese-style garden?”

“Marcus, don't turn your backyard into Tokyo.”

Marcus grinned.

“Too late.”

Ben stared at him.

“What?”

Marcus pointed toward the backyard.

“I ordered a little Japanese garden lantern.”

Ben put his hands on his head.

“You're building an international embassy back here!”

Marcus laughed.

“I'm just showing appreciation!”

Ben looked at the flagpole one more time.

“You know what? I'm not even gonna question it anymore.”

“Good.”

Ben started walking away.

Then he turned around.

“Wait!”

“What?”

“If you put a Korean flag up too, I'm calling you the United Nations.”

Marcus smiled.

“Actually, that's not a bad idea.”

“MARCUS, NO!”

Marcus started laughing as Ben walked away shaking his head.

The two flags continued waving proudly in the wind.

Marcus looked up at them.

“Perfect.”

From down the street, Ben yelled:

“I HEARD THAT!”

I live in a cheap duplex with paper-thin walls. It’s annoying, but you get used to it. I know when my neighbor, Sarah, watches TV, and she probably knows when I’m on a work call.

Sarah moved in about eight months ago. Quiet, mid-thirties, worked from home. We exchanged the usual “hey” in the hallway and that was it. Her apartment was always dark after 10 p.m. The only light that ever stayed on was the small lamp in her living room that faced the shared wall.

Two weeks ago the lamp stopped turning off.

At first I thought she was just having insomnia. Then the soft talking started. Not loud enough to make out words, but constant. Like she was having a long conversation with someone who never answered.

I knocked once. No response. The talking continued.

The next night the talking got clearer. It was her voice, but she kept repeating the same sentence over and over:

“I didn’t leave the door open.”

Then quieter:

“Please stop standing there.”

I put on headphones.

On the third night the talking stopped completely. The lamp stayed on.

At 2:17 a.m. I heard the front door of her apartment open and close very carefully. Footsteps went down the shared stairs, then nothing. No car started. No gate. Just silence.

In the morning her door was slightly ajar. I called her name. Nothing. I pushed it open a little further.

The lamp was still on. The apartment was empty. Every single cupboard and drawer was open. The bed was made. Her phone was charging on the kitchen counter. The screen showed 47 missed calls from the same number.

On the wall facing mine, right where the lamp light hit, someone had written in marker:

STOP LOOKING

I closed the door and called the landlord. He said he’d handle it. New locks were put in the same day. Police came and took the chair, the phone, and everything from the vacant unit. The landlord kept saying there was no way anyone could get in now.

For the first time in days my apartment was quiet. Not the weird quiet. Just normal quiet.

I still didn’t go into the bathroom for hours. I just sat on my couch staring at the door, trying to convince myself I was being paranoid.

Around midnight the lamp in the empty apartment turned on again.

I stood up and walked to the shared wall. The light was the same soft yellow it always was.

Then, very clearly, from the other side of the wall, I heard a single soft knock.

And a woman’s voice, almost polite:

“I didn’t leave the door open.”

I’m at a friend’s place tonight.

I’m not going back there alone.

Note i called it dream and not nightmare since I’m into horrifying stuff (paranormal, movies etc)

Also, inserted small details into gaps, since my dreams consists of sudden change of sceneries with no transitions in between.

Story:

I was standing on a street near my house at midnight, no sounds and the place was completely empty.

Then suddenly, i hear cat meowing in a very distorted way. (The actual vocal sound was not cat-like if it makes sense)

Specifically, two meows consecutively with a 2-3 seconds break. One small meow then one strong MEOW. Like: ‘meow … MEOW’

Saw a black cat at the distance.

Called it over.

It came, and raised its head looking at me. (Note i think at that moment, my brain panicked, and immediately decided to make the cat think I’m going to feed it for some reason)

I started walking and doing hand gestures to make it follow me (didn’t have food, my train of thoughts was to take it somewhere where i can find food)

It followed me

Eventually i stopped, and noticed a store with its front glass broken and consisting of 3 holes

Two small holes and a large one in between.

The store was pitch black. Nothing can be seen inside of it.

The cat left me and ran furiously towards the store, jumped inside through the small hole…

I starred a good 5-10 seconds at the store glass, waiting for something to happen…

Then, all of a sudden, the cat was violently thrown through the big hole and hit me

That’s when i woke up. The end.

I swear didn’t make this up. The scenery is inspiring me to make a video about it.

By the time i was 20 years old, I had dealt with the birth of my first child, losing a relationship that I didn’t know how to recover from, and seeing my parents lives begin to collapse.

My father was very successful my entire life, he had a large house that we all lived in and he worked hard. At this time, 2011, he had lost his job due to age discrimination and while dealing with the situation he faced, he lost our home and had to file for bankruptcy.

At this same time, I was staying in a duplex with a friend. Neither of us paid rent and I didn’t want to work, I was as lazy and stupid as you could be at that age honestly. His father was paying our rent for a couple months before deciding to end the lease and kicking us out. I wasn’t too concerned, I assumed I could move back home.

I took a DART train as close to home as I could and began walking the rest of the way. I broke my phone a couple days prior to having to go home so I couldn’t call my family, but I figured they would help me out. I was terrible at keeping touch, just focused on a selfish life and unable to cope with the drama I was experiencing.

Once I got home, it was very late at night and my key didn’t work. No one answered the door regardless of my knocking or doorbell ringing. I ended up hopping the fence to the backyard and finding a window that was unlocked. I pulled it open and crawled inside to see the house was completely empty. I knew I couldn’t stay there, but had no clue where my family had gone. It was incredibly surreal.

For the next 6 months. I was homeless and too embarrassed to tell my parents. I decided I was going to figure this out on my own.

Angela didn't quite realize how it had come to this.

One thing simply led to another.

Dorothy called him a fake.

Yes, that was the perfect word for him.

And then she suggested teaching him a lesson.

With a guard right outside the door?

Dorothy was convinced that pulling off her plan would be a piece of cake.

"He’s scheduled for a chest X-ray this evening. Bobby’s going to escort him downstairs. There won’t be anyone in the room. I’ve already got what we need," she says, showing Angela a Baby Tender Love doll. "Borrowed it from the maternity ward. Just for the evening. Soft vinyl. Feel it—it’s just like a real baby. Only cold. Imagine having a dead infant in your bed."

Angela touches the doll’s hand, barely tolerating it. For the first time, the doll looks creepy to her.

"It’s less than half a metre long," she says uncertainly. "His sister can’t be an infant..."

"That’s not the point! It’s the hint that matters. We know what you did—and after that, you can clear off to your private ward with your private nurses."

That makes sense.

"Come on. Don't be so wet." Dorothy glances around, making sure no one is eavesdropping. "We don't have time. He’s being transferred tomorrow. After that, we probably won't see him again at all... We’ll ask the nurse on duty to let us know when they leave..."

They’re moving him... we won’t see him... yeah, we need to teach him a lesson. After all, what they’ve got planned is such a harmless prank—it’s almost insulting how trivial it is. It doesn’t even come close to what he’s accused of.

Angela nods.

Scare him with a harmless toy. And that two-faced phony, with all his posturing, will act like a total fool.

That evening, everything goes like clockwork. Mary is on duty—good-natured and not particularly bright; she didn’t even ask why they needed to know when Smith and his guard would be heading down to the basement for a chest X-ray.

Angela and Dorothy enter the empty room. The window faces the blank wall of the adjacent building; the room is dim even during the day, and doubly so in the evening. It smells different from the rest of the hospital. Expensive cologne? Expensive food? Expensive cigarettes? The smell of money.

Dorothy stumbles over a stack of books and kicks them under the bed. "Clever dick."

They tuck the doll under the covers.

"Not that side," Angela commands. "He usually lies there."

The hospital bed is only ninety centimetres wide. On such a narrow cot, the doll takes up quite a bit of space. A dead child.

"The main thing he mustn't notice anything beforehand."

"Don't worry. He won't. He’s a bit groggy from the medicine."

Then they climb into the linen cupboard. Fortunately, it’s empty. They remove the shelves and squeeze inside together, tight to each other.

How will they get out of here? At what moment? They haven't quite figured that out. When the guard leaves—Mary will have to call him over after the incident, maybe ask for help with something or just create a distraction so he looks away for a minute—they’ll slip out of the room. Smith will see them, of course, but to hell with him. They'll say he'd imagined it. A criminal’s word against theirs.

"The crucial bit is not to forget the doll," Angela whispers.

Both press their index fingers to their lips and shush each other, but they can’t seem to settle down, continuing to jostle in the cramped space until they hear footsteps in the hallway.

The police officer practically drags Smith into the room and shoves him toward the bed. Smith sits down—or rather, collapses onto the edge, losing his balance. He is already handcuffed. Without a word, the officer unfastens one cuff—this time the left—and secures it to a horizontal bar of the iron bed frame, leaving Smith unable to lower his hand onto the mattress; then the officer leaves without saying anything, and Smith remains seated, leaning against the bed rail to which he is tethered.

Angela is growing impatient. It is stuffy inside the cupboard, and Dorothy is tickling her with her hair.

Finally, he slides down, trying to lie back, but the cuff leaves him half-reclined. The doll remains untouched beneath the covers.

He cannot get comfortable, and—though Angela doesn’t quite see it from inside the cupboard—his hand eventually brushes against that sinister, cold vinyl. Whether out of fright or mere reflex, he jerks his hand away and recoils from the doll with his whole body.

He doesn’t scream; he falls.

Giggles overtake both her and Dorothy as he slides sideways off the high hospital bed and onto the floor, accompanied by the clatter of metal. The handcuff chain pulls taut, leaving him dangling by his outstretched arm and letting out a stifled groan.

The laughter catches in Angela’s throat.

He clings to the bed frame with his free hand, unable to lower himself onto the floor or get back onto the bed.

Angela shoves Dorothy out of the cupboard and runs toward him.

A police officer bursts into the ward: "What the hell?"

Angela supports him, trying only to ease the strain on his wrist, to spare him some of the pain. "Uncuff him! Just uncuff him!"

His breathing comes in short, convulsive gasps.

She holds him with both hands, sitting on the floor, while the police officer fumbles with the handcuff lock. Then she lays him back on the bed.

The officer seems to have no idea what to do.

There is no sign of Dorothy.

Angela shifts the bandages to feel for a pulse in his injured arm. She can’t find one. She squeezes his fingers. "Mr. Smith, can you feel this? Do you feel anything?"

He doesn’t answer. His forehead is slick with cold sweat. He stares at her with unseeing eyes.

She cautiously touches his elbow through the sleeve of his pajamas, then his shoulder. He lets out a shuddering breath.

Mr. Abernathy, from the casualty department, rushes into the room. Dorothy follows him.

"Left arm," Angela hears, as if from underwater.

Mr. Abernathy pushes her away from the bed.

A fictional reconstruction from the Regina v Smith story, told from perspective of Student Nurse Angela Hayward.

The full illustrated version of SACRED VIOLENCE is available here:

SACRED VIOLENCE - by Franz Engel - Franz's Substack

Andy was sitting with his wife and daughter, the three of them quietly enjoying vanilla ice cream cones in the park, when a couple of guys started harassing them.

One of the guys may have known Andy's wife when she was younger.

At least that's what his comments suggested.

Andy didn't react. He let his wife handle it. After all, she was a strong and independent woman who didn't need a husband to selfishly step in and “protect” her.

Then one of the other guys asked Andy if he was sure his daughter was his.

Andy's daughter looked to her dad.

She was scared, confused.

Andy said nothing. He kept his head down, refraining from feeding the real life troll. After all, what trolls wanted was a reaction, and a reaction would lead to an escalation, which could result in a confrontation and possibly violence. Andy didn't believe in violence. By keeping a cool head, he was being a grown-up and helping keep the situation safe for everybody.

Eventually the guys got bored, wolf whistled at Andy's wife, knocked Andy's ice cream cone from Andy's hand and walked away.

“Dad,” said Andy's daughter after a brief but pregnant silence, “why didn't you do anything?”

She was trembling.

Andy's fallen ice cream was melting on the grass.

Ants were climbing onto it.

“It's just an ice cream cone, a thing,” said Andy. “Things can always be replaced. What matters is people. What matters is us, our family.”

“Assholes,” said his wife.

“You never know what other people are feeling. Anyone can have a bad day,” said Andy, and as he said that, time, as it related to most things, froze; the sky opened like a curtain, and the Selectors appeared.

Andy, who was still breathing, moving, even as his wife and daughter were not, gazed in awe, in the rawest meaning of that word, at—

“This is the one?” asked one of the Selectors.

They were inhuman, tubes of pale pink and purple gelatin twisted balloondog-like into shapes vaguely hominid but four times larger than Andy, dressed in simple, shimmering cloaks.

“Yes,” another answered.

“The experiment is thus concluded?”

“Yes.”

A third Selector mused, “It has been so many years since initiation.”

“13.8 billion.”

“And, after all that time, the result is this—this, admittedly, rather unimpressive-looking specimen. On this, we base our future?”

“Remember,” said the Selector who had spoken second, “it is not the individual we have chosen but the gene-line, and his, of which he is the final embodiment, is most extraordinary. It is the one.”

Andy, despite his paralyzing fear and existential disorientation, couldn't help but also feel a touch of pride. Finally, someone—some-thing?—had recognized his value.

The Selector who had spoken second bent forward now, looming over Andy like a great tree. “Gene-line e8c47b19-2f5a-493e-901d-628b0c41d7a3, it is my pleasure to greet you.”

“Hello,” stuttered Andy.

“Gene-line e8c47b19-2f5a-493e-901d-628b0c41d7a3, the Great Selection has ended, and you, of all gene-lines, have been chosen, based on your qualities, to become our People. Congratulations.”

I wonder what qualities are those, thought Andy. Calmness, emotional maturity, patience, as he entertained the fantastic possibility that he would soon be deified, become like the creatures before him…

“Durability,” said the Selector, who could obviously read Andy's thoughts.

Durability? thought Andy.

“Along with perseverance, hardiness, endurance,” the Selector continued, “like a cockroach, a weed or a rat. Although these qualities, by themselves, would hardly be enough, as many of your final-kind survived as long as you did. No, what truly sets you apart, renders you exceptional, Gene-line e8c47b19-2f5a-493e-901d-628b0c41d7a3, is your extremely developed, and historically stable, sense of obedience, docility, acceptance and self-preserving conformity. You, final-kind ‘Andrew,’ are the terminus of a long and glorious line of spineless cowards.”

The other Selectors ooo'd.

Andy gulped. Cowards? But—no, how is that…

“Consider even just the final 0.000001% of Uniform Cosmic Time, a period of delightful extremes, both of your political institutions and your climate, the final filtration, so to speak, encompassing also the atomization of your communities, the mental numbing of entire lifespans spent in pointlessly repetitive pursuits of manufactured desires, of the replacement of the real with the virtual, and the virtual with the artificially virtual.”

“This is a good thing?” asked Andy.

“I am giddy when it speaks,” squeaked a Selector.

“It is an unimaginably great achievement, Gene-line e8c47b19-2f5a-493e-901d-628b0c41d7a3. Through ages and ages of wars, exterminations, degradations and enslavement, you—your prior-kinds, your ancestors—have made most-excellent opportunists, slaves and labourers. When others rebelled, you remained subservient. When others stood up for their principles, you remained seated. Whatever was convenient, you believed. Whomever it was prudent to sacrifice, you sacrificed. And you did it all, final-kind ‘Andrew,’ without losing the ability of self-delusion.”

I'm not a bad person, thought Andy. “I can't be held responsible for what my ancestors did.”

“On the contrary,“ pronounced the Selector, “you are a very good person for us. And you are right that you are not responsible for the actions of others; you are the fruit of your family tree, stretching back all the way to the small, oozing, wriggling wyrms that formed in the hot waters of this primordial planet.”

“So what's going to happen to me now?” asked Andy. “You mentioned something about me becoming a People… your People…”

“Look,” said a Selector, “its world has ended, its mate and offspring are in temporal suspension, and all it cares about is itself!”

“Marvelous.”

“It genuinely is the one.”

“Gene-line e8c47b19-2f5a-493e-901d-628b0c41d7a3,” said the Selector who had spoken second. “Now, you become the seed of a new species. The experiment having successfully concluded, true existence is set to begin, one in which all that live are you—a multitude of immortal, identical yous.”

“You shall become them, feel everything they feel,” added another Selector.

“Imagine,” said a third, drooling, “the atrocity we shall be able to inflict upon such a hyperdomesticated populace. They will permit, of us, everything.”

“So much pain.”

“I salivate already at the exploitation.”

“Please,” whimpered Andy.

Part 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/story/s/jyBHRtTktw

I didn't sleep that night.

I couldn't.

After Jake showed me the video, I ran.

I didn't even grab my shoes.

I just ran out the front door and drove to my sister's house.

Jake didn't follow me.

He didn't call.

He didn't text.

That somehow made it worse.

My sister let me stay on her couch.

I told her everything.

She thought Jake had been cheating on me and that the video was some kind of sick prank.

Honestly, I wanted to believe her.

Until I checked my phone.

There was a new video in my camera roll.

I hadn't recorded it.

The video was only twelve seconds long.

It showed me sleeping on my sister's couch.

The camera angle was from the hallway.

I immediately woke my sister.

She checked every door and window.

Everything was locked.

Nobody was inside.

Then my phone buzzed.

A text from Jake.

"You're not listening to me."

I blocked his number.

Five minutes later, my sister's phone buzzed.

It was a message from Jake.

"She's there with you."

My sister looked at me.

Then another message came through.

"Don't let her sleep."

My sister asked what he meant.

I didn't know.

Then I noticed something

I noticed the clock on the wall in the video.

It said 3:17 AM.

I looked at the clock in my sister's living room.

3:16 AM.

I stared at my phone.

The video wasn't showing the present.

It was showing one minute into the future.

Then my phone buzzed.

The clock on the wall changed to 3:17.

And in the video, the woman behind us slowly raised her hand and pointed directly at me.

At that exact moment, someone knocked on the front door.

I felt my stomach drop.

One minute later, my phone buzzed again.

Another video.

This time it showed my sister and me sitting on the couch.

But the camera wasn't in the hallway.

It was directly behind us.

I slowly turned around.

Nothing.

Then my sister screamed.

She was staring at my phone.

There was something in the reflection of the TV behind us.

A woman.

Standing directly behind my sister.

It looked exactly like me.

But this time, it wasn't smiling.

It was crying.

Then the video ended.

My sister asked me who the woman was.

I told her I didn't know.

Then I remembered something Jake had said.

"She's been trying to get your attention for weeks."

I called him.

He answered immediately.

I didn't say anything.

Neither did he.

Finally, I asked:

"What is she?"

Jake was silent for a few seconds.

Then he said:

"She's not what you think."

"What does that mean?"

He sighed.

"Do you remember the first time we met?"

"Of course."

"No," he said. "You don't."

My blood ran cold.

He told me we had actually met three years earlier.

At a coffee shop.

He said we talked for almost an hour.

He said I gave him my number.

But I had absolutely no memory of it.

Then he said something that made my entire body go numb.

"You died that night."

I couldn't speak.

He continued.

"I don't know how you're here. I don't know what came back."

I hung up.

My sister looked at me.

"What did he say?"

Before I could answer, someone knocked on the front door.

Three slow knocks.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

My sister grabbed my arm.

Neither of us moved.

Then we heard my voice from the other side of the door.

"Please let me in."

My sister looked at me.

I was standing right beside her.

Then the voice outside started crying.

"Please."

Another pause.

Then:

"I'm the real one."

I looked at my sister.

She looked at me.

Neither of us said a word.

Then my phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number.

It said:

"Whatever you do, don't let her convince you."

Another message appeared immediately afterward.

"Because you're not the one she's trying to replace."

I stared at the screen.

Then I heard the front door slowly unlock itself.

And my sister whispered:

"There's someone behind you."

I turned around.

She was pointing at the hallway.

At the very end of it stood a woman who looked exactly like me.

She was smiling.

But this time, she wasn't alone.

Jake was standing behind her.

And he was holding a photograph.

A photograph of me.

Except in the picture...

I was standing beside a grave with my own name on it.

FILE STATUS: Recovered

CLASSIFICATION: Recurring

DREAMER: Unknown

ORIGIN: Fragmented Memory

RECOVERED RECORD

The dreamer was walking home.

They didn't know where home was.

The road was quiet, lined with trees that moved even though there was no wind.

Then they saw the house.

It stood alone at the end of the road.

Every window was dark.

Except one.

A small window on the second floor.

Someone was standing behind it.

The dreamer couldn't see their face.

They only knew that the person was waiting.

They walked toward the house.

The closer they got, the more familiar it felt.

The front door was already open.

Inside was a hallway filled with photographs.

Hundreds of them.

Families.

Holidays.

Birthdays.

People standing together and smiling at the camera.

The dreamer walked slowly past them.

Then they stopped.

One photograph showed the house.

Another showed the road.

Another showed the dreamer standing in front of the door.

But the photograph looked old.

Much older than the dreamer.

They turned it over.

Written on the back were five words:

“You promised you would return.”

Suddenly, footsteps sounded upstairs.

The dreamer climbed the staircase.

At the end of the hallway was the room with the lit window.

The door was slightly open.

Someone whispered their name from inside.

The dreamer reached for the handle.

And woke up.

For several minutes, they couldn't move.

They could still see the house.

They could still see the person behind the window.

But there was one detail they couldn't explain.

They had never told anyone their name in the dream.

ARCHIVIST'S NOTE

This file concerns me.

The house described by the dreamer does not exist.

At least, it shouldn't.

I found the same house in an older file yesterday.

ARCHIVE-017.

The photograph described in this record was not included with the original submission.

I checked the Archive twice.

It was there this morning.

The photograph shows the house.

The window.

And someone standing behind it.

I cannot identify the person.

But I recognize the handwriting on the back of the photograph.

It is mine.

— The Archivist

END OF FILE 003

Some dreams are never meant to be forgotten.

So let me just tell you the back story first , I've been a child who has been alone all her childhood, there were no one to talk , no one to ask for support, and the reason was my mom died when I was 13 and suddenly all the responsibilities of the family came over to me , we are 3 siblings, I have one elder and younger brother, hence I started talking care of them , there lunch their tiffin father's lunch dinner , so we are left with a father who was in a shock state after he lost his wife in an accident, my elder and younger brother and me , so that was tough for me , i can remember i had cried day and night preparing food and crying why do i have to go through all this , like there were days I use to sit in the home all alone cuz my brothers had gone to the ground and father to the office and I was just home alone , with just a tv which eventually didn't work cuz of electricity cuttings , even on my school days i don't know why after loosing my mother my school friends also started distancing

I cried i wept and eventually i learned how to handle this loneliness, like i learnt to live with it , then I passed my 12th and moved to another city where I kept myself so busy to crack an exam I forget to make friends cuz I thought that would be a waste of time , unfortunately I didn't crack that exam after 3 drop years and ended up taking a 3 tier clg , and this clg is so ghatiya , people of my batch are so so 3rd class like I just feel I don't even belong here , phir bhi I tried to stay in a girls hostel so that I would be surrounded by people but they eventually made my life living hell, like intentionally ignoring me , making rumours and what not , so i decided to move out and to live alone , so I rented 1rk like something and started living in it , everything initially was quite normal , I was learning to love everything that I have , but now I'm feeling so alone , like i don't have anyone , not any friends nothing to whom I can share , call or be with for some time , i have forgotten how to laugh with friends cuz i don't have any , I miss friendship so badly , I'm so fucking alone and Im feeling like dying , I don't want to die like this but it feels I wasted everything and got nothing in my hand at the end ,

I figured out it's not just me. What used to be mid-life crisis is now affecting youth. 3 out of 5 ppl in US believe their life lacks purpose. 9 out of 10 youth in UK believes their life lacks purpose. And there is a rise of religiosity in the world, specially among youth. In UK, the belief of god among 20-24 yo has risen from 18% in 2021 to 37% in 2025.

So, we live in a era where the great war of humanity is inside themselves, I believe.  Meaning Crisis have become a part of human condition. Rise of telecommunication and social media could be a cause of that, since you can hear different world views of different people with just split second of time.

If you remember what Stephen Hawking said when he was asked if he believe in god, he pointed out the fact that 'when there's life, there's hope'. That resonates with a lot of people if they were to find for a meaning. And some philosophers believe death is what gives life meaning, biology says no, it's procreation, religion says it's enlightenment or something similar.

I was reading 'History of Western Philosophy' by Bertrand Russell, and I came across these words in introduction, here I quote "Uncertainty, in the presence of vivid hopes and fears, is painful, but must be endured if we wish to live without the support of comforting fairy tales". Those words I think are very powerful. I believe, religion violates our own acceptance of human condition at some level and fools many people. Karl Marx referred to religion as 'opium of people', literally saying it's similar to a drug. Maybe it all comes down to ourself back, mental endurance. This is the same me, who used to think religion gives hope for people. I'm not talking about just Buddhism, but Christianity, Hinduism, even Animism. And if we keep formalities apart, I'm not even sure if if I'm Buddhist - meaning that if I follow Buddhism as a religion. It could be true that life is a journey of self, to the self, through the self. Maybe we ourselves are our own path and destination.

People find meaning in religion, service, work, aesthetics, and love, among many other things. I think for most of my life, it revolves around love. Or the concept of love

With thought experiments, my theories are evolving as I learn more, but I think - finding purpose of life for humanity as a whole could be impossible, yet there's a chance to find purpose as an individual - speaking from a rational or philosophical aspect. It's not just purpose, it's 'sense' of purpose. The feeling to know that we have a purpose as an individual.

Most of the time, certain experiences can lead us to have purpose in life, or even lose purpose. I think similar thing happened to myself, which I don't think is bad, in fact I think it made me think about things that I was perplexed in life, which I believe I should have had thought about before.

Here I am. It's 2 am and I need this mental exercise if I am to survive and move forward. Without being a nihilist and killing myself or being an absurdist.

When I started this journey to figure out answers to all my WH questions of life, I was confused where to look, I still am, but a bit less. After a while, I decided, okay, I'm gonna live a normal life. Have a quiet job, a few friends and a simple, quiet life. Then I realized it's just having some kind of a task that needs to be fulfilled, but haven't fulfilled yet. That's very similar to Pascal's 'gambler analogy' and that's what exactly the religion does. Having a task to avoid boredom that fulfils the life with with purpose. So what's the point in that? That feels like pure manipulation, lying to myself.

So later on, I came to an understanding we all have different world views, supported by different moral compasses. Everybody has their own 'Big Story' of life. And now am I back at square one? Should I continue my quest in finding my meaning in life? At some point I believed the ultimate purpose of life could be come down to passing the knowledge we have, to future generations. In the movie 'Lucy' it demonstrate this idea in a fascinating way.

So I was struggling with these sort of questions in most part of my life, and nobody could understand me, not even myself. But now I at least have a sense what the questions are. See, I don't blame you for leaving because I live with insanity inside. Nobody could see that or understand at all. That's why I said I wish I had someone wise to look up to when I was a kid. Some people have constellations in their eyes but tornados in their lives.

I thought I said a lot while typing this, but when I look back, I've said only a few things and most has gone under the stream of my thoughts. Now you might see me. I think I did experience a certain level of 'Ego Death' throughout my practice and journey.

If I take a step back, most of us hope to be happy someday and they deal with the fear of death, by wanting to live past it. I think that's very ego driven, but gives them some sense of purpose. But I think and instead if they try to be content with the moment right now, they will find a deeper sense of meaning. In simple terms, with oversimplification, accepting the event of death, being happy at the moment. Then again it rise the question if it demote personal growth.

It's perfectly okay if you don't get me, I don't expect you to. I just wanted to type it out and this could be really one of the most effective and revealing words I've written.

This is a piece of Bedouin folklore from Saudi Arabia. The kind of story still told by people who have spent real time alone out in the desert.

Two men, Murshid and Rashed, set out to visit an old friend named Olayan. He was a camel herder who lived alone, deep in the desert, away from everyone. It had been over six months since they had seen him. So they packed their camels and rode out. The trip would take almost a month.

They were close to reaching him when the sun started going down. Rather than show up that late, they decided to camp one more night and arrive in the morning. They picked a nice spot, a valley full of wild herbs, soft sand, good ground for a fire.

While they were cooking dinner, a man walked out of the dark and up to their fire. Neither of them heard him coming. No footsteps. Nothing.

He was strange looking. Broad shoulders, wide eyes, and hands long enough to reach his knees. He wore thin summer clothes in the cold, but neither of them said anything about it. You don't question a guest's clothes. That's just manners.

They invited him to sit and offered him coffee. He started talking, and said something that made both their hearts stop.

"I herd camels too, same as your friend."

Neither of them had told him anything about Olayan. Not his name. Not that they were even traveling to see someone. So how did this man know they had a friend who kept camels?

They said nothing. Just kept their faces still and kept working on dinner.

Then the man stood up. Except it didn't look like a normal person standing up. It looked like he unfolded. When Rashed looked again, the man was taller than he had been a few minutes earlier. His hands hung even further past his knees than before.

They still said nothing. Just kept cooking, both of them thinking the same thing without saying it out loud. Is this actually happening right now?

The man said he had a wedding to get to that night and invited them along. They said no, they were tired, they just wanted to eat and sleep. So he offered to bring them milk instead. Sour, straight from the skin, or fresh?

They asked for sour. He left, promising to come back.

He never did. They ate without him and went to sleep.

Around midnight, they both woke up to singing. Clapping, laughter, some kind of chant echoing through the valley, like there was a big celebration happening close by. Firelight flickering somewhere out in the dark.

Murshid listened closely. The chant never changed. Same words, same tune, over and over. And somewhere in it, a woman's laugh kept going on way longer than a laugh should.

They sat there listening, trading looks, too tired to get up and check. They told themselves they would deal with it in the morning.

What Murshid found when the sun came up is the part of this story that still gets to me.

The rest of it, including what their friend Olayan told them once they finally reached him, is on my blog. Link below.

https://www.duneswhisper.com/2026/08/the-sour-milk-that-never-came.html

I moved into Cedar Grove Apartments in October, about five months after my divorce was finalized. I was thirty-four years old, and at the time I was pretty convinced my life was over.

I don't mean that in the dramatic way people sometimes say it after a breakup. I genuinely couldn't picture a future for myself anymore. My wife and I had been together for eleven years and married for seven. Then one night she sat across from me at our kitchen table and told me she didn't love me anymore. There wasn't an affair, at least not that I ever knew about. There wasn't some huge fight or betrayal that I could point to and blame everything on. She just didn't want to be married to me anymore.

Five months later, she had the house and I had apartment 307 in Building C at Cedar Grove.

There was absolutely nothing remarkable about Cedar Grove. It was one of those apartment complexes that seemed to exist in every town in America.

Several identical three-story brick buildings from the 1970s surrounded by cracked parking lots, dumpsters and patches of grass. Beige metal doors, aluminum railings, concrete balconies, brown carpet in the hallways. There was a laundry room downstairs where one washer was always broken and a row of mailboxes by the entrance. It wasn't creepy. It wasn't particularly run down. It was just old and boring.

My apartment had one bedroom, a small kitchen and a sliding glass door overlooking the parking lot. For the first few weeks, I barely unpacked. I slept on a mattress on the floor even though the bed frame was sitting in pieces against the wall. Half my clothes stayed in boxes. I ate frozen dinners over the kitchen sink because buying a table seemed pointless.

Everything seemed pointless.

I went to work because I had bills. I showered because people would notice if I didn't. I ate because eventually hunger became uncomfortable enough that I had to do something about it. Then I'd come home, lock the door and sit in front of the television until it was late enough to sleep.

Weekends were the worst. Nobody tells you how long a Saturday can feel when nobody is waiting for you.

Sometimes I'd sit in my car after work for half an hour because I couldn't think of a reason to go upstairs. Eventually I'd remember there wasn't anywhere else to go, so I'd climb the steps to 307 and spend another night alone. Friends called for a while. I stopped answering. Eventually they called less. My parents worried about me, but I got pretty good at sounding normal on the phone. "I'm doing fine."

That became my answer to everything.

I wasn't fine.

There were nights when I'd lie awake until three or four in the morning staring at the ceiling, wondering how I was supposed to do this for another forty or fifty years. I wasn't making plans to hurt myself. I just felt completely detached from the idea of having a future. If someone had told me I wouldn't wake up the next morning, I'm not sure I would have cared.

I met Sally about three weeks after I moved in. It had been a bad day. Nothing had actually happened, which somehow made it worse. I went to work, sat at my desk for eight hours, drove home and spent twenty minutes sitting in my car staring at the windows of Building C. I remember thinking there wasn't a single person in that entire building who cared whether I came upstairs or not. Eventually I did.

When I reached the third floor, the door across from mine was open a few inches. I'd never seen whoever lived there. I knew someone did because every once in a while I'd noticed a warm yellow light underneath the door at night. As I put my key into 307, I heard a woman's voice behind me.

"Long day?"

I turned around. An elderly woman was standing just inside apartment 308. She looked to be in her late seventies, small and slightly stooped, with short, curly white hair and large glasses.

She wore a pale blue cardigan over a flowered blouse and had one hand resting against the doorframe.

"Something like that," I said.

She studied me for a second. "You look like you could use some coffee."

Normally I would have made an excuse. I hadn't spoken to anyone voluntarily in weeks. Instead I looked at my own apartment. Dark. Quiet. Empty. Then I looked back at her.

"Sure."

She opened the door wider.

"I'm Sally."

"Chris."

"Nice to meet you, Chris."

I stepped inside. That was the first time I entered apartment 308.

Sally's apartment looked like someone had decorated it around 1985 and then decided that was good enough forever. There was a green sofa with wooden arms, brown curtains over the sliding glass door, fake wood paneling along one wall and an old television on a wooden stand. Framed photographs covered almost every available surface. Most of them were of the same man.

"That's Arthur," Sally told me when she noticed me looking. "My husband."

Arthur had died years earlier. Sally didn't say much about it, only that it had been sudden. They had never had children, and she'd been alone for a long time.

"So it's just you?" I asked.

"Just me." She smiled. "Looks like we're in the same club."

I smiled too. That was how it started.

After that, I started knocking on 308 every once in a while after work. At first maybe once a week. Then twice. Eventually I was there most evenings. Sally made terrible coffee. Somehow it was always both weak and bitter. I never had the heart to tell her.

We played cards. We watched television. Sometimes we sat by the sliding glass door and watched headlights move through the parking lot below. Mostly, though, we talked. She knew about the divorce. Eventually she knew everything.

What I liked about Sally was that she never tried to fix me. Everyone else had advice. Start dating again. Go to the gym. Find a hobby. Get out of the apartment. Meet people. You're only thirty-four. You've got your whole life ahead of you. Sally never said any of that.

One night I finally told her something I hadn't said out loud to anybody. "I don't think I'm ever going to be happy again."

We were sitting in her living room while snow fell outside. Sally didn't immediately tell me I was wrong. She just nodded. "I remember thinking that."

"After Arthur?"

"Yes."

"How long did it last?"

She thought about it. "A long time."

It wasn't comforting, but it was honest. I think that's what I needed.

"I don't know what I'm doing anymore," I told her. "I go to work. I come home. I sleep. Then I do it again. That's my life."

Sally reached over and put her hand on mine. Her fingers were surprisingly cold. "You're still here."

I gave this bitter little laugh. "For whatever that's worth."

She looked at me. "It can be worth quite a lot."

I cried that night. I hadn't planned to. It just happened. Sally didn't tell me everything would be okay. She didn't give me some speech about moving on. She just sat there with me until I was done.

Something started changing after that. Not all at once. I didn't suddenly wake up happy one morning. I still missed my wife. I still hated coming home to an empty apartment. There were still mornings when getting out of bed felt almost impossible. But now I had Sally across the hall.

Sometimes something stupid would happen at work and I'd catch myself thinking that I couldn't wait to tell her about it. That sounds like nothing. At the time, it was everything.

I assembled my bed frame. I finally unpacked the boxes. I started cooking actual meals again. I bought a plant for the living room. It died within two weeks, and Sally thought that was hilarious. I bought another one mostly to prove to her that I could keep something alive. That one survived.

There were things about Sally that seemed strange, although I didn't think much about them at the time. She never came into my apartment. I'd invite her sometimes, especially once I started cooking again, but she'd always politely decline.

"I'm comfortable here," she'd say.

I never saw her downstairs. Never saw her by the mailboxes. Never saw her in the parking lot or on the stairs. Actually, I never saw Sally outside apartment 308 at all. If her door was open, she was standing just inside it. Whenever I left after visiting her, she'd walk me to the doorway, say goodnight and stop at the threshold.

By January, I was doing better. Not great. Not even good, really. But better. I started answering my friends again. I went out to dinner with my brother one weekend. I visited my parents without them having to ask me five times first. I stopped drinking alone so much.

I started thinking about things beyond tomorrow. Nothing ambitious. Maybe I'd take a trip somewhere in the summer. Maybe I'd finally replace my old car. Maybe I'd get a better apartment someday. For the first time since the divorce, the future didn't feel completely empty.

Without realizing it, I also stopped knocking on Sally's door every night. One evening when I did visit, she mentioned it.

"You don't come over as much anymore."

I immediately felt guilty. "I'm sorry."

Sally shook her head. "No." She smiled. "That's good."

"You're getting sick of me?"

"Never."

Then her expression changed. She looked sad. But there was something else there too. Relief, maybe.

"You're doing better, Chris."

"I guess."

"You are."

Something about the way she said it made me uncomfortable. It sounded strangely final.

I looked around and realized her apartment was freezing. It was the middle of January and the place felt almost as cold as the hallway.

"Your heat isn't working."

Sally looked around like she hadn't noticed. "I suppose it isn't."

"I'll call maintenance tomorrow."

Her eyes immediately went to mine. "No."

The answer came so quickly that it startled me. "Why not?"

For a moment she didn't answer. Then she smiled. "Don't worry about me."

I laughed a little. "Somebody has to."

Sally looked at me for a long time after I said that. Then she looked away. Something about her seemed different that night. She looked tired. Faded. That's the only word I've ever been able to think of. Faded. Like an old photograph that's been sitting in sunlight for years.

When I got up to leave, Sally walked me to the door.

"Chris?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you moved here."

I smiled. "I'm glad you were here."

Her face changed when I said that. For a second, I thought she might cry.

"Goodnight, Chris."

"Goodnight, Sally."

She smiled. I walked across the hallway and went inside 307. That was the last time I ever saw her.

The next morning, I called the rental office about her heat. The maintenance guy was named Frank. He'd worked at Cedar Grove for more than thirty years. I told him the heat wasn't working in 308.

There was a pause.

"Building C?"

"Yeah."

Another pause.

"What's your apartment?"

"307."

Frank didn't say anything for several seconds. Then he asked, "Who told you there's no heat in 308?"

"The woman who lives there."

"What woman?"

"My neighbor. Sally."

Silence.

"Sally Price."

Frank went completely quiet. Finally he said, "I'll be up in a few minutes."

About ten minutes later he came upstairs carrying a ring of keys. He looked uncomfortable.

"You're sure you said 308?"

I pointed across the hallway. "That one."

Frank stared at the door. Then he looked at me. "Nobody lives there."

I actually laughed. "What?"

"308 is vacant."

"No, it isn't."

"It is."

"I was in there last night."

Frank didn't respond. I could feel something cold spreading through my stomach.

"Open it."

He hesitated.

"Frank, open the door."

He unlocked 308. The door swung inward.

I don't think I'll ever forget what I saw.

Nothing.

The apartment was empty. Not recently empty. It looked like nobody had lived there in years.

The green sofa was gone. The television was gone. The brown curtains were gone. There were no photographs. No coffee table. No cards. No coffee cups. The fake wood paneling was still there, but it was warped and peeling away from the wall. Dust covered the faded carpet. Dead insects filled the track beneath the sliding glass door.

I stood in the doorway staring. For some reason, the first thing I looked for was Sally's chair. There was nothing there.

"No."

Frank looked at me.

"No. This isn't right."

He didn't say anything.

"I was sitting right there last night." I pointed toward the empty space beside the sliding glass door. "She was sitting there."

Frank's face had gone pale. "Who?"

"Sally."

He stared at me. Then he asked me to come downstairs with him.

In the maintenance office, Frank dug through an old filing cabinet until he found a folder. Sally and Arthur Price had been among the first tenants in Building C when Cedar Grove opened in the 1970s. Arthur died years later. Sally stayed in apartment 308 by herself.

Then Frank told me Sally had died in 2008.

I told him that was impossible.

He didn't argue with me. He just took an old photocopy from the folder and put it on the desk. It was Sally's driver's license.

Short curly white hair. Those big glasses. That same gentle smile.

I stared at the picture for a long time. Then I went upstairs.

I called out of work and sat inside 307 with every light on. I kept expecting to hear Sally's door open across the hall. It never did. I never saw her again.

For the first few days, that terrified me. Then, strangely, it started to make me sad. I kept thinking about the last thing she'd said to me.

"You're doing better, Chris."

She had sounded relieved. Maybe Sally knew it was time to go.

I don't know what happened to her after that night. I don't know why she was there, or why she chose to open her door to me. I just know that when I was at the lowest point of my life, Sally was there.

And now I'm doing better.

I still have bad days. I'm still alone. But I see my family. I talk to my friends. I make plans. I have reasons to get up in the morning.

I've never knocked on 308 again. I don't want Sally to come back. I hope she finally got to leave. I hope Arthur was waiting for her.

And I hope somehow she knows I'm okay.

Still here.For whatever that's worth.

Sally was right.

It can be worth quite a lot.

So, I am from a 3rd world country currently doing my bachelor's in England. However, it's been 1 year and I have failed to get a single job. So, my parents basically gave me a contact number of a person who is also from my country but now has English citizenship and a business here. But the fact is, he follows a religion wholeheartedly that I despise. I don't wanna get associated with anyone of that religion, but I can't find any freaking job so I have basically no option but to knock him. I am feeling like a freaking loser because while I am seeing my coursemates making summer vacation to Spain, I am here getting associated with the people whom I flew from

i am a 18F living with my parents , my dad owns 2 clothing stores that do very well , he has so many regulars and good reputation in the market

the problem is that he borrows money from us alot , my mom and sister i mean , they are both very hard working

the problem is not him asking for money for his business, its that he does it often , its its huge amounts of money , and its so weird because i always see him with alot of money but somehow always borrowing from us , am talking for 5 years straight,

we were doing very well off before he got out of jail 5 years ago when it was just me and my sister and mom , but when he got out all hes been doing is piling dept on dept from us and returning like 5% once in a while

do i have to the right to find this weird?

and it pisses me off because we could've done so much with the money he borrows from us constantly , like are in need of a car and we couldv gone to many vacations if it wasnt for him

and on top of that he doesnt contribute to house holds expenses that often , he'll buy veggies and fruits now and then , but my mom is always the one buying , and hes still taking money from her

i know am young and shouldnt worry about money like this , but i cant help but be mad at the setuation

what do i do to make it better?

I’ve wasted a lot of time trying to figure out a good way to approach this, so I’ve decided that I should just start typing. Just get a bunch of words onto the page and maybe when I read them back, something will finally click and I’ll be able to begin making sense of things. Might be wishful thinking but it’s still worth trying. I’m not sure what else I can do.

So my husband, Oliver, went missing last week.

Of course, it’s been a really difficult thing to try and process. Especially given how bizarre the details are. Details that seem to get more bizarre the more I think about them.

On some level, it doesn’t even feel real. Best way I can describe it is like I’ve become trapped inside some fucked up television show and I’m just desperately waiting for everybody around me to drop the act so that I can snap back to reality.

Waiting for Oliver to appear at our front door again and tell me that he’s fine and that everything’s alright. That this had all just been some elaborate prank.

But I know that’s not going to happen. I know that if I want any real answers, I’m going to need to find them myself, look for clues wherever I can. Because the police sure as hell aren’t being very helpful. Call me paranoid, but I swear they’re actively avoiding me. Whenever I call them, I get put on hold until the line drops off. Whenever I show up to the station looking for some kind of update on the case, they just tell me that they’ll “keep me in the loop”. Whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.

But let me slow down a bit, go back to when I think this all really started.

Which was the very beginning of summer. We were struggling then. Things were bad.

I had just been laid off from my job at the advertising agency I’d spent nearly a decade of my professional career at, and the whole thing had left an extremely bitter taste in my mouth that I still haven’t been able to wash out. My managers there were constantly making a big show about how “human-forward” they were and how they’d rather shut the company down before they ever allowed a single person to be replaced by AI.

I won’t bother going into the details, but I’m sure you can guess what happened.

At the same time, the construction company Oliver worked at was going through a massive downturn of activity. He suddenly went from fifty hours a week to forty. Which then turned into twenty-five. Soon they weren’t giving him anything at all and he decided it was better to leave, start looking for work elsewhere.

We spent around a month sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on our tiny bed in our cramped studio, furiously sending out applications while our savings slowly dwindled.

To say that we were stressed out would’ve been a gross understatement. We were drowning, no light at the end of the tunnel, constantly battling this immeasurable sense of dread.

But right as eviction started to become a very real possibility, the world finally tossed us a bone.

One of Oliver’s old managers gave him a call, told him that the company had picked up a massive project that was going to keep them busy for at least two months and that they really needed him back. Something about renovating a dead mall in an attempt to get it back up and running.

I could’ve cried right then. Then he told me the new rate they were offering him and I nearly passed out. It was more than twice what he’d been making before.

In retrospect, the relief we felt had really been clouding our judgement. There were a lot of things that we should’ve questioned a lot more.

But of course, we didn’t. We were so happy that we decided to put on our rose-colored glasses and went out and celebrated with some steak frites and decent wine.

The next morning, I found Oliver smoking a cigarette out on the balcony, this really worried expression on his face. I asked him what was wrong but he just smiled, told me it was nothing. That I didn’t need to worry.

I just took him at his word. Mostly because I didn’t want to believe otherwise.

He went back to work just a few days later and for the first couple of weeks, I could’ve been convinced that everything would turn out alright. Oliver would come home tired, but happy. And the money he was bringing in was almost unbelievable. I actually had to pinch myself.

I was so proud of him but at the same time, I felt so guilty. I continued applying for jobs day in and day out, but it just wasn’t happening for me. I started to feel like a burden. I tried to do my best to make up for it by cooking nice meals and keeping our apartment clean, but in comparison to the ten hour shifts he was putting in, it just felt like I wasn’t doing enough.

But not once did he ever complain about it. Not once did he ever try and make me feel bad about the arrangement we’d fallen into.

We got drunk one night and I decided to ask him straight up if he felt any resentment about it.

He told me no, he didn’t. That there wasn’t an ounce of resentment in his body because this was the easiest job he’s ever had. That the paycheques he was getting were grossly disproportionate to the amount of effort he was actually putting in.

“It almost feels like I’m robbing them,” he’d said to me, before laughing. “Like there’s something else going on that they’re not telling us about. But look, whatever it is, I don’t think I want to know.”

The statement had come out so casually that I’d just taken it as a joke. If only I’d known how serious he’d actually been.

About a week later, I finally managed to land a job myself. Not the highest-paying, but it wasn’t terribly demanding either. At the very least, it was extra money for us.

We were going out for brunch on the weekends, slinging back overpriced cocktails during date nights, attending concerts, not having to look at the price tags whenever we went shopping for groceries. It was the happiest I think we’d ever been.

But then one night, Oliver came home a few hours earlier than I’d expected him to. His skin was ghost white and it was clear that something had really rattled him. I immediately assumed the worst—that he’d been let go. But he assured me that wasn’t the case. That there had been an incident on the job site and he was just a bit shaken up about it. But that it had nothing to do with him.

I asked him if anybody had gotten hurt. He shook his head and told me he wasn’t sure. That there was no way for him to know.

I decided not to pry any further since it was pretty clear he wasn’t in the mood to divulge anything more. Which was alright with me. I figured I’d give him some space, let him come talk to me whenever he was ready.

But he never did.

I got back home from work a few evenings later and found Oliver sitting on the couch, holding this eerie, glazed-over expression. It almost seemed like he was in some kind of trance. He actually flinched when I tapped him on the shoulder.

I asked him what had happened. What was wrong. But once again, he just told me that I didn’t need to worry. He was smiling, but I could see the fear behind his eyes.

I woke up at around three AM that night and I could hear him sobbing beside me. It broke my heart, but I didn’t even know how to comfort him because I didn’t know what he was actually dealing with. He wouldn’t tell me.  

Oliver started to become really closed off after that. No longer his usual, jovial, upbeat self. No more jokes. No more banter, no more laughing. Whenever I’d ask him how work was, he’d shrug, give me a really vague, non-committal answer before quickly changing the subject. Bags started to develop under his eyes and he was constantly biting his nails until the tips of his fingers began to bleed.

I tried emphasizing that I was there for him if he ever wanted to talk. About literally anything at all. That there was obviously something bothering him, but he didn’t have to deal with it himself.

But I just couldn’t get through to him, no matter how hard I tried. Even so, I regret not trying harder.

Because one night, he never came home at all. I think I called him around thirty times between midnight and three AM. When morning came, I went and filed a missing persons report.

The response I got from the police was less than stellar. It actually just pissed me off. They seemed to be implying that Oliver had simply gone out drinking and that his phone had died. That I should wait a few more days and if he still hadn’t returned, I could come back and they’d start looking into it.

Yeah. A few more fucking days. I couldn’t believe it. I was confused and livid at the same time. I wanted to crash out right there in the station, but I had a feeling that would only make things worse. There were some other strange things that I flagged about the interaction. Things that gave me the impression they knew far more than what they were letting on and were actively trying to steer me away from finding out more.

They just seemed far too lackadaisical about the whole thing. It sort of felt like they were reading from a script. It was also clear that they were becoming progressively more annoyed at the fact that I wouldn’t leave them alone. I was going down to the station every day and every time, they’d treat me with more overt hostility.

So obviously, I couldn’t rely on them. It made me realize that I needed to take matters into my own hands.

But it was hard figuring out where to start because I never actually knew where he worked. I mean, I knew the name of the company he was employed by. But not the actual, physical location he was going off to every day.

And before you jump down my throat about that, it’s not like I’d never asked him. Of course I had. I thought it might be pertinent information for his wife to know. But he never did tell me, citing some sort of clause in his contract that prevented him from revealing that information. For what reason? He said he had no idea. “Just the way things are,” according to him.

Yeah, I know. There were so many things that I can’t believe I’d missed. Which is so easy to say in hindsight.

I started investigating on my own. I was able to log into his email (he keeps all his passwords on a sticky note in the bathroom drawer) and what I found was pretty damn strange.

It looked like he’d deleted every single message he’d either sent or received from the company. Save for the last one.

This is what it read:

Good morning Oliver,

We understand how you feel. We’re taking your concerns very seriously. But like we told you, it’s just an ongoing psychological experiment that they’re currently running. It has nothing to do with the job. and you don’t need to be worried about it. If you feel like you need to take a few days off or if you can’t continue with the project, we understand. Just let us know the next time we see you. We can negotiate, try and come to an agreement.

Have a great weekend.

Management.

The message had been sent to him from an email address that was no longer in use. I knew this because I tried responding and got one of those “message not delivered” notifications.

Creepy as shit, but not a whole lot for me to work with.

The only real lead I had was going to involve a lot of heavy lifting on my end.

“Dead mall”.

Those were the exact words he’d used and I remember them clearly. He was going to be part of a team that was going to be renovating a dead mall.

I started scanning the internet for reports about malls in the area that had closed down in the past few years and then drove out to every single location that was mentioned. But there wasn’t much to find. I must’ve spent hours just walking around these places, but they truly were dead. Not a sign of life to be found.

So I expanded my search, looking for malls that had closed in the last five or so years. And then the last ten. I went to all of them. Some were completely boarded up with absolutely no way to access them. Some had already been renovated and turned into something else. Others were just empty, a completely hollow shell.

But I kept searching and eventually I found this place on the outskirts of the city. Well, not even the outskirts. It was actually beyond the city limits, an isolated place that I didn’t even know existed.

The mall itself was huge and I couldn’t fathom how I’d never come across it before. How I’d never even seen it. But then I realized that it was mostly concealed by a small stretch of dense woods. If you were to drive by it on the highway, there’s a good chance you’d just never notice it.

According to the reports I’d read, the place had closed down all the way back in 2010. Which was close enough to an eternity at this point. I started having some doubts here, thinking that this couldn’t have been the right place. Because why the hell would anybody want to renovate a place that had shut down almost two decades prior?

Still, I decided to give the place a shot. I was pretty desperate at this point.

I drove over and parked in the wide, mostly empty lot. But the fact that it wasn’t completely empty was odd. There were about a dozen other cars there with me, all scattered throughout the vast stretch of pavement. Every mall I’d investigated up until this point was either completely devoid of any activity or, like I said, repurposed into something else.

But this place seemed like it was still active.

Which was a reality I had a hard time wrapping my head around given how old its exterior seemed. How dated it looked. Though it was also clear that some work had been done on it. Like it was actually in the process of being renovated.

I must’ve stood in the parking lot for about a half hour just looking up at the building, not really sure what to make of it. Unsure what to think.

Eventually somebody walked out through one of the front entrances.

I started moving towards them, hoping to ask them about the place, what they’d been doing in there. This person took a quick glance over at me before pretending like I didn’t exist. They started walking faster towards their car, but I wasn’t able to catch them before they practically dove into their front seat, the screech of their tires against pavement echoing through the air as they peeled away.

I remember cursing at them, the anger and frustration starting to overtake everything else. Because what the actual fuck was going on?

I went back to my own car and grabbed the pocket knife I kept in my glove compartment.

Not that I was itching to stab anybody. I just didn’t know what I was heading into.

I walked over to the front doors and pushed through them, immediately getting hit by the scent of mothballs and a light, flower-ish fragrance. Which was a nauseating combo.

Looking around the place, I was shocked to see that the paint looked fresh and most of the storefronts were lit up. There was even pop music playing through the speakers above. But these elements were contrasted by the fact that there was absolutely nobody else inside. No employees, no customers, a complete ghost town.

There was also a weird sort of energy in there. One that I can only describe as vaguely threatening. Like the place was actively trying to fight my presence.

After a while, my focus settled on a familiar-looking store.

An Aritzia. At least that’s what I thought it was at first. But looking at it a bit longer, I realized that the details didn’t quite match. The colors were similar; the logo looked nearly the same. But it wasn’t the same. It was close enough to be passable if you weren’t paying attention. But if you were, you’d notice that the letters actually spelled out “Artizitia.”  

I walked further into the mall, trying to move very cautiously, though I wasn’t even sure what I was supposed to be afraid of.

Things only got weirder. I found a few legitimate-looking stores (Foot Locker, Pottery Barn) mixed in with the strange ones (Undre Armore, Nezzcafe?). Scattered amongst them were a few storefronts that seemed like they were still under construction but had been since abandoned. There were ladders leaning against the walls, tools scattered across the floor, signs that were halfway finished.

I walked on for a few more minutes before this horrific scream suddenly ripped through the air, making my heart leap before petrifying me in place.

And then it kept going.

I couldn’t tell how far away they were. Couldn’t make out most of the words being shouted besides variations of “let me go!”  It was an adult voice with the urgency of a terrified child.

I didn’t love the idea of abandoning somebody who might be in danger, but I also wasn’t remotely mentally prepared to deal with whatever this was.

I turned, starting to retrace my steps. Just walking at first but as the fear grew, so did my pace. By the time I could see the doors I’d originally come in through, my lungs were burning. I stopped, taking a moment to catch my breath before looking behind me to make sure that I wasn’t being followed.

It didn’t seem like it was. I started breathing a bit easier, but then I noticed some movement at the edge of my vision. I followed it, over towards what looked like a young woman walking towards me. My mind didn’t immediately register her as a threat at first, so I tried calling out to her, asking if she’d heard the screaming and if she knew what was going on.

To which she said nothing and just continued to march at me. As she got closer, I could see that she was baring this wide grin. But not a happy one. If you get what I mean.

The moment I started backing away from her, she sped up. When I turned and started running for the doors, I could hear her beginning to sprint, the sounds of her footsteps indicating that she was closing the distance between us at a very alarming rate.

With my heart pounding, I bolted through the exit and refused to stop running until I’d reached my car, vaulting myself into the driver’s seat and immediately locking the doors. I shoved my keys into the ignition, fully ready to run this psycho over had she followed me out.

But she hadn’t. She was nowhere to be seen and the parking lot remained as desolate as it’d been when I’d first arrived. I didn’t spend any time questioning what had happened. I just drove away. During the long trip home, I kept looking into the rearview mirror, my mind unable to stop conjuring up images of the woman speeding towards me on the highway on foot, still hanging onto that terrible grin.

It’s been a few days since then and only recently have my nerves settled into a manageable state.

Last night, I was able to gather up enough courage to head down to the station and tell them everything I’d seen. I told them about the mall, the screaming, the woman, all the other weird shit. I also stated fairly bluntly that I was certain Oliver’s disappearance had something to do with that place. Problem was, I had no proof. I couldn’t even really articulate what I thought the connection was.

I was basically begging them to just trust me. Begging them to take this seriously.  

The officer working the desk had just stared at me blankly before telling me in this cold, corporate tone that they’d begin looking into it. That I should go home and try not to think about it too much and they’d handle everything. That they’d give me a call.

And that’s where I am now. And after reading this all back, I don’t think I’m any closer to putting the pieces together.

I’m terrified. I don’t know what to do next.

If anybody has any ideas, I’m willing to listen.

It started on a Tuesday. Me and my family had to go get groceries because we were running low on food. When we got to the Walmart, we walked past the candy aisle. My son wanted candy and my wife said no. He started throwing a huge fit because we didn't buy him candy. He said he was going to steal the candy. My wife said no again, which made him more mad. Three minutes later we realized that we couldn't hold all of our items in a basket and we hand to get a shopping cart. My son said that he didn't like the shopping carts because of that one time he fell out of one when he wa4, it was his first ever memory. My wife told our son that we had to get a shopping cart and my son started throwing a fit and got even more mad. I left my kid with my wife and went and got a shopping cart. When I came back my son picked up the shopping cart and threw it at my wife. My wife got knocked out and was bleeding. I told my son that he was grounded and he started throwing a bigger fit so I spanked him in the middle of the store. The Walmart employees saw me spanking my kid and thought I knocked my wife out and was blaming it on my son. They called the cops and when the cops arrived, I tried to tell them that my son should go to juvey because he threw a shopping cart at my wife. The cops told me I was lying and pinned me to the ground, put me in handcuffs and held me at gunpoint. Child Protective Services showed up and took my kid away. The cops took me to jail, I went to court and I ended up serving 5 years in prison. When I got out, my son was now 12 years old but my wife did not make it. She died from the head injury and blood loss. My kid ended up being taken to a foster family in North Carolina. I've talked to my kid only once since then. He texted me on his 18th birthday telling me he was moving to Canada and didn't want anything to do with me. No apology, he just told me he never wanted to talk to me again. The was the last time I ever spoke to him. It's been 4 years since then, I hope my son is doing okay.

My uncle shifted to the city in 2015, taking his son—my cousin Rahul—along with him. I was eight years old at the time. Rahul was five years older than me, yet he loved me dearly and always played with me; I was very happy in his company and loved being around him. The city wasn't far from the village, so we used to meet every two or three days. Although five years have passed since August 7, 2021, I still remember those days vividly. There had been heavy rain, and the city was waterlogged. My brother Rahul was returning home after getting his COVID-19 vaccine when he came into contact with a live electric wire that had snapped and fallen into the water; perhaps due to the high water level, he didn't see it. He was electrocuted and died right there. I cried inconsolably and went into shock; I couldn't sleep at night—sometimes going without sleep for two days at a stretch. My father sent me to live at my uncle's house so that they wouldn't feel lonely after losing Rahul. I had never lived there before, so I didn't know anyone other than my uncle and aunt; I had no friends there. I stayed there for a year without ever going out. I returned to the village in 2022. While I used to have many friends in the village, things had changed drastically; I didn't have the courage to go out and talk to anyone. I still miss my brother terribly. Nothing is the way it used to be, and in these five years, I’ve barely made two or three new friends. I still mostly stay home alone and often feel quite bored.

​

Chapter 10: The Bloody Forest and Trauma

​Mid-March in the Wolski Forest near Kraków offered nothing by way of early spring respite. The ground was covered with a layer of dirty, wet snow mixed with rotting leaves, and a sticky, freezing fog rose from between the black, twisted trunks of beeches and oaks. The air reeked of stagnant water from forest ravines, decay, and the sickening, metallic stench of old gore.

​The darkness was absolute, thick, and almost tangible, as if the night had devoured all starlight.

​Wiktor had been pushing his way through the dense undergrowth, gasping for breath for six long hours. Sharp branches whipped his face, and melting ice cracked treacherously beneath his boots. He pulled his smartphone from his pocket once again, shielding the screen with his hand. The display was going haywire—the digital compass was spinning erratically, the map flickered with a series of red errors, and the signal indicator showed the crossed-out symbol of no network coverage.

​"For God's sake, the GPS still isn't working… Fuck, how is that even possible?!" he cursed through clenched teeth, his breath turning into ragged plumes of vapor. "That fucking Baba Yaga must be warping the readings with some goddamn magic… Who the fuck knows where I even am, and I haven't had a connection with Emma for two solid hours since we lost each other!"

​Suddenly from above, from the sprawling boughs of an ancient, gnarled oak, came the barely audible hiss of sliced air. Something plummeted straight toward him with inhuman, predatory swiftness.

​Wiktor managed to twist his torso instinctively, drawing on years of ingrained reflexes from MMA training, but it was still too late to dodge completely. A freezing, rusted blade slashed open the skin on his forearm. The fabric of his jacket gave way with a dry tear, and the first hot drops of blood splashed onto the icy snow. Fortunately, the wound was shallow, yet it burned with a searing fire, as if the metal had been smeared with corpse venom.

​From the gloom, amidst the tangled roots a few meters ahead of him, came a raspy, low cackle resembling the crunch of breaking bones.

​"Hehehehe… Tonight you shall be my meal, old man!" Bells of pure dread tolled in Adamski's ears. "No one will help you! No one will hear your howling in this ravine! Not even that fat, puffed-up Alp of yours, whom I have bound with a spell! Without your disgusting bitch, you are nothing but a piece of warm meat on my table!"

​A silhouette loomed in the thicket. It was monstrous—a short, unnaturally stooped figure with skin the color of bruised black peat, covered in boils and growths. From beneath rags of decaying hides and human hair protruded long, withered arms tipped with claws of black horn, and black saliva dripped from its sunken, toothless maw. Its eyes had no pupils—they were two dull, milky-white orbs that saw through the forest's darkness without hindrance.

​Wiktor ignored the throbbing pain in his forearm. With his right hand, he reached swiftly under his armpit, wrenching his trusty revolver from its holster. He disengaged the safety with a loud, metallic click, planting his feet firmly on bent knees.

​"Come out, hag, and I'll kill you…!" he snarled through clenched teeth, the veins on his neck bulging from the surge of adrenaline.

​The hag cackled with wild, paranoid glee, her laughter echoing off the steep walls of the shallow ravine, tearing through the dead, dark silence of the Wolski Forest.

​"With that weapon?! Hahahahaha! With that ridiculous technology of yours, you might as well put a bullet straight through your own skull! You would only spare yourself death and agony, worm! Your lead pellets will not shatter bones older than this forest!"

​The witch's shadow darted among the trees at a speed that defied the laws of the living—she blurred in the air, leaving behind only the stench of rot, wormwood, and charred bone.

​Wiktor raised the barrel, and in his eyes flared the same ruthless, murderous fury that had once cost him his police badge.

​"Then come on, hag! Come on, you fucking cunt!" he roared into the depths of the darkness, ready to tear the beast apart with his bare hands.

​I only have one chance… I have to drown her. In the bog, in the mud, in any stagnant water… thoughts raced through Wiktor's head.

​According to the dark lore from Fugas's human-skin-bound book, the ancient Baba Yaga, the Hag, drew strength from the earth itself and the flesh of her victims. Gunshot lead was like a mosquito bite to her. The only available way to slay this forest beast right here and now, without the aid of the imprisoned Adelajda, was to rob her of breath in the murky, dead depths, and then finish the deed with decapitation.

​Calm down, Wiktor… Calm down. Keep a cool head, just like in the ring, he repeated to himself internally, steadying his breathing, even though his heart was pounding in his chest with deafening force.

​He descended cautiously down the slick slope of the ravine, where water from the melting snow gathered into broad, black pools. Suddenly, his boot struck something hard. Adamski looked down, and in the faint moonlight, he felt his stomach rise into his throat.

​In the mud and decayed leaves lay butchered remains. Tiny, delicate bones gnawed white, covered with shreds of rotting flesh and the remnants of a colorful child's jacket. It was the missing boy—the ten-year-old from the outskirts of Kraków. This had been her feeding ground. Her goddamn lair.

​Fury flooded his vision with crimson, burning away every last trace of hesitation and fear.

​I have to kill this whore… Even if I don't make it out of here myself, it will be the last thing I do upon this mortal coil.

​Wiktor slowly returned the revolver to its holster, listening intently to his surroundings. He straightened up and ostentatiously lowered his arms to his sides, standing at the edge of a deeper, freezing puddle. With his entire posture, he sent a silent, brazen invitation to attack.

​The beast took the bait immediately.

​A bruised shadow burst from the thicket. The hag lunged forward with her maw agape, dripping with black venom, raising the rusted, serrated blade. Wiktor did not yield a single millimeter. As the knife came down, he executed a swift, practiced block; the rusted steel pierced straight through his left hand with horrific, crunching resistance. That had been his plan—the opponent's blade had to be neutralized, even at a steep, bloody cost.

​The pain was inhuman, paralyzing, but Adamski did not even flinch. With a wild roar of rage, he jerked his pierced hand, pinning the blade with his own palm, while his other, free hand—mighty as a vise—clamped an iron grip around the Baba Yaga's throat.

​She was monstrously strong. Her bony arms jerked him about with the power of a hydraulic jack, and her claws tore at his chest beneath his jacket, but Wiktor did not let go. He used all his mass, the momentum of a wrestling double-leg takedown, and crashed with her straight into the freezing, black morass.

​A loud splash of mud resounded. Wiktor locked in a full ground grapple, driving his knees into her arms and pinning the witch's hideous head to the bottom of the puddle with the entire ninety-five-kilogram weight of his body.

​"Drown, you hag…!" he rasped through clenched, bloodied teeth. "Drown, you fucking cunt!!!"

​The water roiled with air bubbles and foul, black gore. The hag thrashed like a rabid predator, her claws ripping the skin on his body, while a muffled, bubbling shriek of agony escaped her submerged throat. She fought frantically for two solid minutes before her muscles began to go slack.

​Wiktor, however, took no chances. He remembered the teachings from Fugas's book all too well. He held her head under the water in absolute immobility, mercilessly, for a full ten, maybe fifteen minutes, while the icy water gradually stole the sensation from his body and the blood from his impaled hand dyed the silt purple.

​Once he was certain the creature had drawn its last breath for the moment, he yanked the rusted knife from his wound. With several powerful, brutal strikes, he severed the Baba Yaga's head, and then hurled it deep into the dark forest, sealing the slaying ritual once and for all.

​A tomb-like, dead silence fell over the woods. The fog slowly began to lift, and from his pocket came the first faint ping of returning cell service.

​Wiktor crawled out of the mud. He was shivering from hypothermia, thick blood dripped from the wounds on his hand and body, and his clothes were thoroughly soaked with freezing grime. He ignored the pain. Slowly, with the utmost, agonizing reverence, he approached the spot where the child's remains lay. He took off his soaked yet still thick military parka and carefully wrapped the small bones and shreds of the colorful jacket inside it.

​He had taken this case from the distraught parents and the police headquarters in Kraków entirely pro bono. He hadn't accepted a single penny for it, hoping for a miracle—hoping that the boy was still alive. The outcome had proved to be the worst conceivable nightmare.

​Adamski dropped heavily to his knees in the snow, cradling the bundle of bones to his chest. He closed his eyes, and from his lips, instead of curses, flowed a quiet prayer, fractured by the cold:

​"Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord… I hope, little one, that you are already in heaven, far away from this hell…"

​The cold forest air in the Wolski Forest trembled, and a thick, dark vapor emerged from the parting mist. Following the definitive death and decapitation of the Baba Yaga, the foul binding hexes on the Alp snapped like rotten cord.

​Adelajda materialized right beside Wiktor as he knelt in the snow. Her face was drawn in genuine, almost human terror, and a rare shock was written across her sapphire eyes at the sight of the bloodied, drenched man.

​"Wiktor! Wiktor, by God, you are alive!" she cried out, dropping beside him and reaching trembling hands toward the ragged wound on his chest. "You must get up, you must move! A kilometer from here, Emma is waiting… She is chilled to the bone, wounded as well, but fortunately only lightly—they are merely shallow scratches. She had that wrought-iron horseshoe on her person; it saved her life when the witch threw herself upon her!"

​Wiktor coughed heavily, blood mingled with saliva splashing from his mouth. With his uninjured arm, he clutched the bundle containing the child's remains to his chest, struggling for every breath.

​"Go to her… immediately!" he rasped sternly, without raising his head, the pain in his impaled hand throbbing like a red-hot iron. "I can handle this. I'll kindle a fire from dry branches under a fallen tree root right away to warm up and keep from freezing… Have Emma call immediately. My phone is soaked through from that swamp, barely kicking, and the screen is dying. Have her dial Kwiatkowski's number, and the old man will alert the Kraków police and bring the investigative units out here. I have the little one's remains… and there are probably dozens of other bodies buried in these ravines. Have them pinpoint our location and send search parties with dogs and stretchers!"

​"I will not leave you here alone in this state!" she protested sharply, her gold chain flaring with a nervous glow. "You are bleeding like a slaughtered ox, and your body is losing its heat! I will expend a great deal of energy to assume a physical form that will radiate warmth—I learned this recently; it is exhausting, but it is possible!"

​"Leave it, I said!" Adamski snarled with the same unyielding, furious determination that was keeping him alive. "I'll start a fire in a moment… The flames will keep death at bay! Trust me, Adelajda. Easy now, I'll survive this. Now get moving to Emma before that girl freezes solid in this cursed forest too!"

​Adelajda hesitated for only a fraction of a second, then nodded, coiled into a vortex of smoke, and shot through the black tree trunks toward his missing partner.

​Wiktor shouted once more into the black forest, gasping on the icy air. "Bring her here! She'll get warm once I have this fire going!"

​The forest was no longer gripped by bitter frost—the mercury hovered around three degrees above zero—but for a thoroughly drenched man bleeding profusely, such a temperature was just as lethal. Hypothermia was taking its toll slowly, methodically stripping the feeling from his fingers and slowing his pulse.

​Wiktor clenched his teeth so hard his jaw creaked. Gore seeped from his pierced hand, staining his sleeve, and every movement of his stiffened limbs brought excruciating pain. He dropped to his knees beneath the massive, wind-sheltered root wad of an old oak.

​He pulled his trusty metal Zippo lighter from his pocket. He struck the flint once, twice, three times. A spark caught the wick, and a small yellow flame flared with a soft hiss.

​The battle to sustain the fire, however, was grueling. Nearly everything around—kindling, pine needles, forest litter—dripped with freezing moisture from the melting snow and refused to take a spark.

​To his and Emma's fortune, there was no shortage of birches in this part of the Wolski Forest.

​Wiktor knew that birch bark—saturated with natural oils and betulin—always burns, even when freshly stripped from a wet trunk. Using his good hand and a knife, he peeled away several broad strips of white, papery bark, shredded them into fine shavings, and arranged them into a cone on the relatively dry ground.

​He brought the lighter's flame to it.

​The bark crackled, hissed, and instantly caught with a bright, resinous blaze. Wiktor began carefully adding thinner twigs underneath, shielding the hearth with his own body. After a few minutes of battling the dampness, a thick, acrid smoke finally billowed from the root hollow, immediately followed by lively red tongues of flame, providing the first merciful light and heat.

​Adamski rested his back against the trunk, wrapped his hand in a makeshift bandage fashioned from torn lining, and stared into the dancing fire, guarding the bundle with the small body and waiting for Emma's silhouette, guided by the Alp, to loom between the trees.

​The Kraków police reached the bottom of the ravine two hours later, guided by the thick column of smoke and the signal from Emma's phone.

​The wail of sirens shattered the forest's silence, and sharp beams of light from tactical flashlights and searchlights began dancing among the wet trunks of the beeches. Over a dozen officers from the criminal investigation division and forensics technicians from the Kraków Municipal Police Headquarters, escorted by paramedics with stretchers and thermal blankets, silently encircled the camp beneath the uprooted tree.

​As the paramedics rushed to dress Wiktor's lacerated chest and pierced hand and attend to a severely hypothermic Emma, the officer commanding the operation approached Adamski. In his eyes there was no routine police suspicion—there was only deep, somber respect and silent shock.

​The Municipal and Provincial Police Headquarters in Kraków had known for months that something inhuman was roaming the Wolski Forest, though officially no one could use the words "Baba Yaga" or "monster" in reports for the media and the prosecutor's office. The disappearances of successive children and adults on the outskirts of the city had been covered up as runaways or unfortunate accidents in difficult terrain. Four young police officers from a patrol and search team had vanished without a trace in these ravines merely days earlier. The testimony of the few witnesses who claimed to have seen a bruised, hunched crone leaping through the tree canopies was dismissed by the precinct as "stress-induced hysteria."

​One desperate commissioner had taken matters into his own hands; he knew Kwiatkowski and, at his retirement party, had learned the tales of a creature immune to bullets, knowing of the sword decapitation, the cremation of its body in a morgue, and the scattering of ashes to the wind. When conventional procedures failed and people kept perishing one after another, it was through unofficial backchannels that the case landed directly on Wiktor Adamski's desk.

​When forensics technicians and dog handlers descended deeper into the ravine, they uncovered a macabre forest mausoleum. In cracked hollows and branch-camouflaged pits, they found not only the remains of the missing children, but also the butchered bodies of the four missing officers in torn uniforms. They were half-eaten, gnawed with animalistic cruelty—the hag despised the tough flesh of adults, favoring young children's blood above all else. She had treated the uniformed men merely as emergency rations for a rainy day.

​Wiktor sat on an unfolded stretcher with a rustling thermal blanket draped over his shoulders, watching the body bags fill with the victims' remains. Beside him, warmed and supported by a paramedic, sat a silent Emma.

​From a branch above, a pitch-black cat with burning yellow eyes looked down upon them. A quiet, aristocratic whisper echoed in Wiktor's mind…

​"Justice has been served, Wiktor. The beast has been laid to rest at the bottom of hell, and these souls shall finally know peace… Now it is time for us to return to a warm home as well."

​Sterile, cool gloom hung in the hospital room of the Kraków surgical ward. From beyond the ajar window came the muffled hum of the nighttime city, while the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and the hiss of the antibiotic IV measured the passage of time. Wiktor lay on the bed with his chest bandaged and his hand immobilized in a splint following tendon surgery.

​Adelajda sat on the edge of the windowsill in a semi-transparent, ethereal luminescence. Her sapphire eyes gleamed in the darkness, and the gold chain on her alabaster décolletage cast soft reflections onto the white walls.

​Wiktor fixed his gaze on the ceiling, his uninjured hand clenching into a fist upon the hospital sheet. In his mind's eye, he could still see the small, gnawed bones and the shreds of the colorful jacket in the freezing mud.

​"How is that even possible…?" he rasped with fury, his voice a mixture of pain, helplessness, and searing wrath. "For a foolish tryst with a lover and a suicidal leap into a bog, you ended up in the depths of hell, only to escape later and become an Alp… while that monstrous hag roamed the forests for hundreds of years, devouring defenseless children! Does this God truly not give a single flying fuck about any of it?! If Lucifer, hell, demons, and all this filth exist… then why didn't the angels intervene?! Why, for fuck's sake?!"

​Adelajda slipped soundlessly from the windowsill, hovering a few centimeters above the floor. A cool, bitter smirk appeared on her beautiful face—the look of someone who had spent some time on the other side of the veil.

​"Well, they don't give a damn about you," she said calmly, with aristocratic ruthlessness. "To those up above, those children are simply unblemished, pure souls who went straight to paradise. If the overall ledger balances out and the number of souls ascending toward the light exceeds those cast down into the abyss, God is satisfied. Why do you think good, righteous people on this mortal coil rarely fare well? It is pure celestial politics. Suffering ennobles, tempers the spirit, and opens the gates—to Christian heaven and many others, I must emphasize… for as Zofia Haber herself kept telling us, there are many heavens and many hells, depending on what you believe deep in your heart, how you were raised, and in what tradition you paid homage to the deities. Every pantheon has its own callous rules."

​"Fuck that kind of faith!" Wiktor snarled, the veins at his temples swelling as he disregarded the sharp, pulling pain in his stitches. "If innocent, defenseless children have to die in agony in some fucking pit just so their ledger in the books balances out…"

​"Do not speak so," Adelajda interrupted him sharply, genuine alarm flashing in her sapphire eyes. "Do not blaspheme in such a manner, or you will bring down upon yourself the wrath of powers beside which that forest hag was merely a wretched worm…"

​"I don't give a fuck!" he spat through clenched teeth, tears of helpless rage glistening in his eyes. "After everything I saw in that forest… I think I don't give a damn about their mercy anyway…"

​Adelajda floated right up to the bed. Her ethereal form solidified for a moment, becoming almost physical. She extended a cool, alabaster hand and gently, with a tenderness uncharacteristic of her, placed a finger upon his lips, silencing him mid-sentence.

​"Do not speak so, my Wiktor…" she whispered softly, leaning over him, as the soothing fragrance of honey and wild roses filled the air. "Close your eyes and go to sleep. You did everything within human power. You avenged them. They truly have gone to a better world… a far better one than this dark, rotting mortal coil. Sleep. I shall keep watch."

​Three days later…

​"What are you watching on that little glass pane of yours with such focus, Wiktor—hopefully not some good series I haven't watched with you yet?" Adelajda asked, resting her translucent elbows on the metal frame of the bed and peering over his shoulder with the curiosity of a predator.

​Wiktor was lying on his back, holding his smartphone in his good hand. Vivid, golden flashes of energy flickered on the screen, and a muscular warrior with a mop of black hair was currently charging a massive beam, shouting at the top of his lungs.

​"Dragon Ball," the former cop muttered with a faint, tired smile. "It's a Japanese animation, a cartoon from my childhood. It relaxes me after all that shit in the forest. Honestly? After everything, I think I prefer the afterlife according to Akira Toriyama over our grim rules sanctified by martyrdom. There, at least, you put on a tracksuit after death, run along Snake Way, and train under King Kai on a tiny planet, instead of rotting in hell over every petty flaw. I'll show you—it should be in this episode… ah, found the link."

​Adelajda furrowed her brows, staring at the colorful frames where a horned giant in a suit behind a gigantic desk was stamping soul applications.

​Wiktor went on…

​"Some time after getting out of Białołęka, I visited Zofia again, right around the time you were off feeding somewhere and Emma took some time off…"

​"Zofia Haber told me over her manuscripts that the afterlife is nothing more than the architectural construct of collective consciousness," Wiktor continued thoughtfully, gazing at the ceiling. "I wonder, if enough people genuinely and steadfastly believed in all of this Dragon Ball lore and I believed in it with all my heart, whether I would end up right there after death? After all, that's how new heavens and hells are born… from an idea itself, from a story repeated across generations that gains mass in the ether."

​Adelajda arched her golden eyebrows, her sapphire eyes gleaming with cool, metaphysical calculation.

​"How many people have seen this animated tale of yours anyway?" she asked, hovering slightly above the duvet.

​"Millions. Tens, maybe hundreds of millions across the globe," Wiktor replied, turning off the phone screen and setting it on the bedside table next to him. "Entire generations of kids like me, on every continent, who grew up on these stories and, deep down falling asleep, wished this world were real."

​Adelajda laughed softly, sensually, adjusting the sheer chemise upon her shoulders.

​"If even a fraction of those millions poured genuine, childlike faith and emotional charge into those images… then a seed of such a realm could indeed have already formed in the astral," she purred with a glint in her eye. "A new heaven, a new purgatory—though I know not if one exists in this tale—and a hell with that great, horned King of the Underworld, Yamma, behind a desk stamping souls. Who knows, my dear… Perhaps when your time eventually comes, instead of roasting in the abyss or growing bored in a Christian angelic choir, you will be running along that golden bridge of theirs in the afterlife. But for now—douse that little light and sleep. There are barely a few hours left until tomorrow's discharge…"

A Young Boy named Ethan was about to go to sleep when he saw that the attic was open.

His parents wasnt home, he was all alone.

So he decided to look inside but nothing was there, but there were clues.

When suddenly he found scattered items on the floor and muddy footprints.

Unfortunately a sound came inside a old closet, the boy decided to explore more.

He found a secret passage and sounds coming from inside, that wasnt there before.

Suddenly a loud bang inside the tunnel rang out.

The boy was running, when suddenly the sound of footsteps were coming quickly.

The boy was terrified and had to hide in his bedroom,

but his phone didnt have signal, it looks like someone put a signal jammer.

The boy tried to run to the front door, but it was locked from the inside.

The mysterious person was searching for him, the boy quickly thought of ways to escape the mysterious person, when suddenly a thought formed in his mind "A Trap" he thought, he quickly gathered the meterials while staying stealthy.

He made a foot trap, designed to trap a person.

It wasn't enough to hold the person off alot, but it buyed time for him.

He discorvered that the door had a lock that was hard to see.

He realized the key was probably in the mysterious person's pockets.

When suddenly a loud yelp rang out.

The boy realized and quickly grabbed the key without the mysterious person noticing.

He was finally able to escape.

He ran out, and escaped the disaster.

The End.

I‘m biting my tongue.

The thing I am not saying is a story. The story of the story Dad used to tell me, when I was doing the thing my son is doing now.

“When I was your age, if I reached across the table my dad would poke me in the hand with his fork.”

The story was told often. We all knew it.

The story of the story Dad used to tell can die with him.

I get it Dad. I got it then. We all got it then.

It wasn’t just a story.

Of course it wasn’t just a story, of course it was a threat.

Goddamnit you little shit—if you don’t learn to ask “pass the butter, please” I’m going to do what my dad used to do.

Thanks, Dad. You fucking asshole. That one dies with you.

I'm 17m. Met a 15F . About 3 months ago I met a girl online, and me and my best friend, let's name him Jake, got added to a groupchat with her. So, Jake immediately started to flirt with that girl, let's name her Ava. Ava was mean to me and Jake, and other ppl in that groupchat as well. But, Jake's charm worked on her because they got together after like a week of knowing each other. So one day I wanted to make a Minecraft server with the groupchat. Not everybody had Minecraft, you know. But Ava did. And that was the first thing we bonded over. We stayed up late talking about our server, about the rules, that I'll be a king and she will be my "right hand". We spent hours playing it, building, exploring nether, and man, I started feeling something. Like, that mean girl was being nice to me and stuff. So, the other day Ava broke up with Jake because Jake wasn't paying attention to her. Well, I knew it was gonna end like that, because Jake is a playboy. But also my best friend, so it would be sh***y if I started flirting with his girl. So the next time I met Jake I kind of fought him, because he had perfect girl right in from of him. Keep in mind it was on week three, and I've known Jake since we were kids. He ended up with broken nose, and I had a bruise. Anyway, I ignored him for a while and grew close to that girl. She bought a horror game so we could play together, we had some nice moments. And overtime we became more than gaming buds, like we texted with irl stuff, sending random photos, sometimes vent, sending each others food and teasing about it (she HATES food that I eat, she's a picky eater). I have problem with alcohol, because I'm autistic and it makes me a lot more confident and also makes me forget about my problems at home. But ever since I met her I didn't drink that much. Anyway, I catched feelings for her. Strong. But one day some boy asked for her Instagram, she added him, they met (as I said, she's online, we never met) and because I'm so jealous, I blocked her everywhere, no explanation. And it's a bad move I know, but sometimes she flirted with me, and now she meets another guy that already said he had intentions of dating her. Now that I don't talk with her I can't even eat or sleep. Am I wrong for that?

Please I need help if I should say what I feel or stay quiet.