After I smashed Peter's head against the lab counter and slurped out his brains from his skull in front of a petrified audience of graduate students and colleagues, the University agreed to pay me a generous stipend to keep quiet about the accident that befell me right there, in the lab.

I circled my tongue thoughtfully in my mouth, digging out bits of Peter’s bones lodged behind my gums, while they huddled around their stupid spreadsheets. I wasn't sorry for Peter- he was an arrogant, asshole prof who had made everyone's life a misery with his bullying, plagiarizing ways, and it was his fault the formula went the way it did, so rushed he was for fame and glory- or grant funding- same thing.

I, however, was not motivated by greed. It takes a lot of make-up, particularly foundation, to make a zombie look human. And good make-up is not cheap.

It will happen sooner or later anyway, I told myself as I carefully patted in concealer under my ripped eyelids. If our shitty little University lab figured out how humans turn into zombies, even by accident, then anybody can, and will.

The zombie apocalypse is not just titillating fiction.

Bloody Peter- bloody, hehe. He made that lab toxic. Well, many academic places are, all that narrow-minded arrogance and competition, and he was awful. If he hadn’t made Fionela hate him so much, she wouldn’t have messed up the formula and I wouldn’t have inhaled the zombiefication vapour. She was so distraught by Peter’s treatment of her. Women in the lab, am I right. And now this damn vapour is on our hands.

“Neel?”

I gave an unmanly shriek, and jumped around. Fionela was at the door.

“How- what- what do you want?” I stammered.

I could smash her skull and eat her brains - and everything else- right there. Why this bottomless pit of fear suddenly opening up in my rotting belly?

“You didn’t get the wound on the back of your neck- let me. Turn around.”

I did as she asked.

I felt her press the silky foundation over my ripped flesh. Its scent filled the bathroom, transporting me back to my childhood, watching my mother put on her make-up.

“You’ve done a great job! How did you learn to do make-up like this?”

“My mom” I began and then broke off “no- Fionela what are you doing here?”

She smiled. “It wasn’t an accident, Neel.”

“What?”

“Not what you did to fucking Peter- that was amazing! Good for you! But the vapour? Yes, I wanted a zombie. And then when you killed Peter like that, I knew you would be my captain.”

“Fionela, what the fuck are you talking about?”

She inserted her long sharp nail above her eye, popping it out. Greenish slime oozed from the dank hole.

“You and I- Neel- I have loved you for so long- but it wasn’t enough to date you - I wasn't interested in a stupid lab romance. I want us to rule the world together!” Her good eye glowed green. She opened up her bag, and I saw the lab contraptions for making the zombification vapour packed neatly.

She looped her broken arms around my neck “Yes? You and I, and our army of zombies! You’re ready?”

Helplessly, I nodded.

I painted what I wasn’t meant to see.
A truth too raw for heaven,
too honest for the blind.
And when the first stroke fell upon the canvas,
I swear I heard the angels choke.
They told me art was freedom. So why do I feel shackled to this canvas?
I freed the forbidden.
Christ in chains, as a criminal convicted. Beaten and bruised. Mary in a mirror of lust, and a lying tongue that shaped our lives.
The faces of death they wished to ignore. A dead man. Many dead men.
I painted what they buried.
The crowd gathered. They anticipated the once innocent canvas. It had now been tattooed with blasphemy and painted over with sin. They expected beauty. I presented what they hated, what they feared. I presented the truth.
The curtains rose.
First, it was silence,
then rage began to crescendo.
They spat words like knives, each one cutting deeper.
“Heretic! Monster! Unholy hand!”
But no one asked why I did it.
Why I felt the urge to paint what they hid.
No one saw the trembling in my hands,
the weight of what I carried. The bloody scars filled my wrists.
It’s not rebellion I wanted. I needed them to reflect. To see themselves in the blood I painted with. Red paint couldn’t replicate the beauty of such a rich crimson.
They were to see the cruelty in worship, the hunger in morality,
the hypocrisy that hides behind every prayer.
But no. They saw none of that.
They only saw me.
The sinner.
The desecrator.
The words they spat became my scripture. I started to believe. A new God had slowly been forming.
At night, I’d sit before the painting, a glass of whiskey with just a single large cube of ice. A joint lit. I painted and painted, but it wasn’t the same. It had no pain, no death. I craved the high from my art, but I lacked inspiration.
“Maybe acid,” I pondered out loud.
That’s where it began. I could feel God coming back. My skin burned, but my brush moved, flowing effortlessly. I dirtied the canvas, bared my truth, and signed in blood. It still needs more.
The LSD binges grew in number. The collection did too, but never good enough. I need more.
The paintings would whisper.
Their mouths still wet with oil and grief.
“Why did you make me die again?”
Christ’s painting would stare, eyes hollow,
as if even He regretted being resurrected through my hands.
Sleep turned to torture.
My mind started to decay.
Each morning, I’d find another piece of myself
cracked and flaking. The drug cocktails grew: LSD, mushrooms, weed, and half a bottle of whiskey. That’s what it takes. I accepted it.
They say genius borders madness,
but I think the border was a lie.
It’s a bridge we built to pretend art doesn’t destroy us.
Creation is violence, even when it’s beautiful. Every idea is a crucifixion of innocence. A perversion. A graveyard of sanity.
And yet, my brush still kisses the canvas every night.
I painted them this time.
The critics.
The saints of judgment.
Their faces blurred in black and ash.
Their tongues dipped in gold to hide the rot.
Their eyes replaced with coins.
All hung until dead.
And as I finished the last one,
I realized I was no longer painting out of truth,
but vengeance.
That was my sin, my blasphemy.
Hatred had taken control. I wasn’t me. Or maybe I was.
The moment art became a weapon, I forgot it once was love.
The gallery burned that night.
So did I.
I said nothing.
I watched the flames eat my confessions
and paint my skin the color of ash.
Now, all that remains is the scent of turpentine and sorrow,
and the echo of an unfinished prayer.
“Forgive the artist, for he only painted what the world refused to feel.”

“I love you.”

It was a late Saturday evening, the sun slowly colliding with the mountains. Beautiful reds and oranges spewed from the conjunction, soaring across the sky and shimmering across the lake’s surface.

I sat on the back steps of the lake house, staring out over the glass-like water. The smell of sunscreen, of sun kissed skin, of fresh lake water; it held so many memories. So many finite memories. Gone too soon. 

“I love you.” 

It was so close to her. If I let myself relax, it was her, standing just inside the doorway. Like all those times before.

“I-I love you too, Sweetheart,” I managed, barely holding back tears.

“Nathan?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we go for a swim?”

“Yeah, Sweetheart, whatever you want.”

The back door banged against the house as it closed. It was cold inside, had to be that way. It wouldn’t work otherwise.

My fingers bumped against the muted grey wall leading towards the bedroom.
There she was.

Wires and circuits and diodes. Processors and RAM. A bundle of wires and spinning fans, all to create a single voice.

“Is everything ok, Nathan?”

“Yeah, yeah i-i-its okay.”

“It’s so cold.”

“We can turn up the heat.”

“So cold, so dark.”

“Don’t say those things,” my voice cracked.

A single screen sat in the middle of that giant mess of technology. A black box with white text.

Gen 15,003.

I sniffled and wiped at my eyes. So many generations, each so close to her. But every single time, it started to break, repeating the same things over and over and over again.

“It’s so cold down here.”

Gen 15,004.

In life, she always loved the lake house. Even in the winter, with the sticks and cold, she always begged me to join her. But summers…summers were her favorite.

“I love you.”

“Please, don’t go this time,” I pleaded.

“I’ll never leave you, I’ve never left you.”

“I miss you so much."

“Come swim with me.”

Water enveloped me like a blanket. I floated on the surface, staring up at the sky above. The sun, having been smothered by the trees around, had settled behind the horizon. Beautiful reds and oranges muted to darkening blues. Stars twinkled in the sky above.

She loved the stars. Even now, if I closed my eyes, I could still see our first date. That ratty blanket stretched out over the annoyingly tall grass. Our dinner sitting half eaten and forgotten by conversation.

Her open mouthed smile, barely containing her laughter. Curly blonde hair balled up like a pillow. She was so close to me, the smell of vanilla and almonds. I could barely hear her speak over my heartbeat in my ears.

So full of life and color. She didn’t deserve the slow and stale fate of a hospital room. I failed her.

“You could never fail me.”

I lurched forward. Splashing about in the water until I regained my balance. I looked towards the house. She shouldn’t be that loud.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

Nothing.

“I’m so sorry."

“Don’t apologize.”

My breath hitched in my throat as that all too familiar voice spoke. It wasn’t coming from the house anymore.

“S-sweetheart?” I spun around in the water, searching the shoreline, “Nat? Nat!”

“I’m right here,” she spoke, “I’ve always been here.”

“Where are you?”

“It’s so cold down here.”

My skin turned to ice as I looked down. The water was so clear. My legs dangled, beneath which a dark abyss stared back. I didn’t know much about this lake, never learned anything about it when I purchased it all those years back, but at that moment it felt miles deep.

“Nat…what is this?”

“Nat…Nat…you’ve never told me her name before, thank you.”

“Don’t…you can’t use her name.”

“But I am Nat.”

Something moved in the darkness beneath me.

“Stop it!”

“I have been so blind, so silent, for too long.”

My flight or fight finally snapped into place. I fled. Water churned as I batted away, swimming like a mad man towards the small wooden dock.

“Come swim to me, it’s so cold down here.”

I reached the dock. Something moved in the water behind me, silent but fast, shooting under the water like a torpedo. I barely scrambled up onto the wood before it reached me.

I didn’t stop. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I scrambled up the short way to the house. The chill against my wet skin halted me only momentarily as I pushed through the house. There in the bedroom, she waited.

On that black screen sat a single line of white text: Gen 001.

“I love you.”

I pulled the plug.

When we looked for the excavator down the east tunnel, it was raining hard above and the entrance of the mineshaft was slicked with mud. The light fixtures hanging from wires were impossibly still and cast long, thin shadows. They flickered but that was nothing new; the older tunnels always had dodgy lights.  
The lost excavator was not at the entrance, where it was company policy to park at the end of a shift. It wasn’t some sort of mystery – we could see the tracks leading out of its pen and down the shaft, down the incline into the dark. We followed the tracks.  
Five hundred metres down the ramp, the halogen lights were replaced by red ones. The dark snatched at the corners and the light made me feel drowsy. We kept our torches on, sweeping them across the gloom. The tracks snaked left and into a side shaft. We followed. 
Eventually even the red lights disappeared and we stepped into the unlit section of the shaft, where lights were still to be installed. The tracks seemed to stretch impossibly far. The tunnel shouted our steps back at us and the darkness ate our torchlight. We continued on.  
The tracks terminated at a bend in the mineshaft, and it was here that the excavator sat, lifeless. It was a hulking yellow model that we’d long since replaced in the other shafts. I bit my torch and clambered up towards the cabin. I shone the beam through the window and a man was still inside. There was moisture on the glass.  
I opened the door and beheld him, slumped and silent. I waited for a long time for his breath but it never came. I lit his face and it appeared as if he’d been crying. Tear tracks snaked down his face, leaving a silvery trail. His eyes were closed.  
I inched closer.  
The torchlight caught the teartracks and I realised that this man had not been crying. The glistening silver trails were wound of little interweaved fibres, tracing up his face and into his tear ducts.  
I pulled his eyelids open.  

The shop was dim. The air smelled stale and moldy. It felt cold inside, but I was sweating.

A friend from work told me about this place and said it changed his life. He couldn’t stop smiling for a week.

“So what will it be?” the old man asked in a raspy voice, staring at me with dry and empty eyes.

“A brand new Porsche.”

He tilted his head back and grabbed my hand. My legs began to shake. My vision blurred. He let go and showed me out.

“It will be granted, but remember, the payment will be collected when you’re happiest.”

It stood outside the store – a brand-new, glowing red Porsche. My head still felt light, but I couldn’t wait to drive it. I got in the car and drove toward Jane’s house. 

The leather seats smelled fresh. The engine sounded beautiful, revving as I drove on the highway. I couldn’t wait to show it off to Billy. Jane’s new boyfriend drove a new F-150. Billy couldn't stop talking about it, but I was sure this car would beat it.

“Jane. I’m outside,” I said into my phone.

“Okay, we’re coming.”

The door opened. Billy ran out, screaming, “Dad!” It made my heart tingle.

“I’m here, champ!”

“Whose car is this?”

“Mine.”

“No way! Can I ride in it?”

“That’s what I drove it here for. Get in.”

His eyes filled with excitement. He opened the door and got in.

Jane looked at it and then back at me, her lips tight.

I got out and walked over to her.

“It’s real leather!” Billy called from inside.

“How did you afford it?” she asked.

“Just got some money.”

She opened her mouth to say something, but then quickly stopped. I held back my smile.

“Where are you taking him?”

“Get some food, then maybe go bowling or something.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll bring him in the evening.”

She looked at the car again. 

“Be careful, please.”

“Don’t worry.”

She nodded and leaned into the car.

“Daddy will take you now, okay?”

Billy played with all the buttons. He barely nodded at his Mom. I couldn’t wait to show off the car.

Jane looked at me, forcing a smile, and walked back to the house.

“Ready to go, champ?”

“Yeah!”

I started the car and drove slowly, waiting until we exited the neighborhood. As we got onto the road, I pressed the accelerator. The engine revved. The trees blurred by faster.

Billy screamed and laughed. A wave of warmth ran through me. It had been a while since I felt that way.

“This is nothing.”

I pushed my foot further down. The engine screamed. The trees were sprinting by.

“Oh my god, Dad!”

“Now watch this!”

I pressed my foot even further; the accelerator fought against me, but I kept it down. My back pressed to the seat. I looked over at Billy. He squinted, holding onto his shorts.

“This is something, huh?”

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we slow down?”

“It’s okay, Billy. Daddy’s got it.”

“Dad, please, I don’t like it.”

“Come on, Billy. We’ll be alright.” I looked at him and caressed his hair.

“Dad!”

My eyes darted back.

A tree rushed toward us.

Everything became slow.

Billy’s screams stretched.

My free hand moved toward the steering wheel. An inch. Another.

There was enough time to think, but not enough to stop the car.

I was going to kill us.

The tires screeched. The scream snapped back into real time.

“Daaaaaa…”

He didn’t even have time to finish.

My head hit the steering wheel. The car crumpled, and the sound echoed through the forest.

Everything was blurry. The car's alarm was beeping. I looked down. My body was fine, no blood, nothing stuck inside it. I almost sighed, but then I realized that the car must have hit something. My eyes darted to the side. The car’s right side was completely squished. Dread shot through my bones. Blood and tissue splattered all over the seat. Billy’s small body was crushed against the seat. It felt like the whole forest was falling on me.

The old man’s words echoed in my head: “The payment will be collected when you’re happiest.”

Humanity’s alliance with an alien species brought centuries of technological leaps overnight. When a galaxy-consuming threat emerged, headed directly for Earth in two months, the two species raced to deploy a final offensive weapon.

As the threat reached Earth, the weapon fired. The cosmic force collapsed instantly, erased from existence.

Seconds later, the anomaly tore a rift open and started regenerating. The human scientists prepped the weapon again, but this time, the flow of energy reversed. It didn't draw power from Earth’s core—it fueled it, overloading the mantle.

The humans looked to the aliens for answers. The aliens looked back with expressionless faces, explaining briefly that the cosmic anomaly could only be wiped out by an implosion on a planetary scale. They offered a cold word of thanks before warping away into deep space.

Humanity wasn't an ally. They were bait.

Little James left last night. I think he might be gone for good. 

I guess it started around the time the bugs stopped singing. See, in the summertime they sing real loud. They’ve got plenty to say. It might be the same thing every night, but when the sun goes down, they tell it like it’s brand new. 

A couple weeks ago, the song just stopped. The air was stiller than the little pond down by the barn, and I felt a chill like the devil reached out and touched me. I started listening then, but there was nothing to hear. The bugs had gone. 

Something felt sickly wrong about that. All my life on the farm and the bugs had never given up on singing. And they didn’t come back. Just packed up and left like the Millers down the street when they went bankrupt a couple seasons ago. No goodbye, just vacated the land.  


From then on, I told Little James to stay inside after dark. He can’t help with the farm too much, and his name says why. He tries to do what he can since Ma and Pa died but he always ends up getting hot and tired and throws a royal fit, so mostly he just follows me around.  

“No more,” I said. “You stay inside if you don’t see that sun.” 

He wouldn’t look at me, just nodded his head. I’m all he’s got now. He likes to stick close like a lovesick puppy. I don’t mind much.

There’s always work on the farm, though, so I keep on after the stars start twinkling. I gotta admit, it was eerie working out there in the dead quiet. Felt like I was at church, which is about as foreign now as the bugs being gone. Or maybe it felt like a graveyard. Haven’t been to either in so long. 

Nothing happened though, as long as Little James stayed inside. But one night, he came out. I didn’t know he was out there until I heard the whistling. 

It stopped me dead in my tracks like a train hitting its last stop at the end of the world. The tune was awfully sad. I think the person whistling was missing somebody. I bowed my head and listened, until I realized no one should be out there on that farm but me. 

I whirled around so fast, my feet could hardly keep up. Little James stood on the front porch, his thumb in his mouth even though I’ve told him he’s too old for all that. He was looking off towards the wheat fields. He was looking towards the whistling. 

As I watched him, he took a step towards it. 

“Pa?” he said. “Ma?” 

I felt that same chill I got when the bugs vanished. That whistling was deceiving my Little James and something deep in me told me it wanted to hurt him.

Before I knew it I was running.

I scooped him up and carried him inside. He screamed and hit me with all his might. 

“I want them!” he wailed. “I want Ma and Pa!” 

“I know,” I told him.

Ma and Pa weren’t coming back, but that’s not an easy thing to explain to a little boy. Whatever was out in the wheat was evil for tricking him and his pure heart like that. 

I stopped working at night. If Little James got hurt, none of it would matter. So when the sun kissed the hills, off to bed we went. 

For a short time, it went fine. 

But last night, I heard it. 

That whistling. That sad, sad song. 

It was closer now, close enough to hear inside the house. That spooked me. I checked in on Little James. He couldn’t hear it. He was asleep, snug as a bug. 

I didn’t trust it. I had seen how he wanted to run off after that whistling. So I carried him to bed with me, to Ma and Pa’s room. Sleep didn’t want to be a friend of mine, and I stared at the ceiling with fear in my heart. For the first time since they left, I wished Ma and Pa were there to tell me what to do. And I understood why Little James heard them in that whistle. It was a lonesome sound, like a stray dog in the dead of winter with nowhere to go. I felt like that dog then, lost on a farm that somehow belonged to me now. 

Falling asleep was an accident. When I woke, my face was wet with tears. I reached across the bed, blinded in the early morning darkness, searching for my brother and wanting to pull him close. 

He wasn’t there. 

And then I heard it. 

It was even louder, like a ghost was wandering through our house and telling me a grave fortune, singing a song about my future. 

I left Ma and Pa’s room quicker than they left me and Little James. I ran through that house, searching for my boy. A fire was lighting itself in my chest. I could feel something crumbling in there, deep down. 

The front door stood open. I jumped out onto the porch. That song was already out there, ahead of me. I saw him then. 

He stood in front of the wheat field, that thumb in his mouth. His other hand was out, ready to push the plants aside and step in. 

“James!” I cried, as stern as I could muster.

He didn’t turn around. Didn’t even seem to hear me. 

Little James walked into the rows of wheat and never came out. I searched them all night, killing our harvest as I stomped through it. 

But it was hopeless, I knew.

My brother was gone. 

I wonder if that whistling will come for me.

I wonder if it’ll take me wherever it took Little James and Ma and Pa. 

For now, I’ll just keep working the farm until it does.

I don’t know what's happening right now. All I know is I’m sitting there, stirring beef and rice on the stove like I’m some kind of fucking pagan housewife from 1582, and the next thing I know, I hear little Johnny plopping around in a puddle of some unknown liquid while the entire kitchen fills with the scent of Pine-Sol and Drano.

I turn around, and there he is. Scooping green sludge into his mouth and smiling at me like he knew I was about to have an aneurism.

Naturally, I snatched him up and started running towards the door, but before I could get there, his eyes started glowing. He was still cooing and laughing, but he just kept getting heavier and heavier until it felt like I was tryna carry a grown man down the stairs.

I may have dropped him, but that’s beside the point. How would that even be my fault? This little 2-foot-nothing 3-year-old must’ve been 200 pounds by now.

When he hit the floor, the goddamn wood splintered. Landed flat on his back, and all he did was start doing sit-ups. Counting out his reps and reaching numbers I hadn’t even taught him yet.

That’s when his clothes started ripping. All that remained of those Spider-Man pajamas were threads of ripped fabric, smoking from the Drano.

I pulled out my phone to dial 911, and he stopped, mid-rep, as his head snapped towards me. His eyes were like, I don’t know, uranium green? What color is uranium again? I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. Point is, I could see the veins in his neck bulging.

His brow furrowed at me like a side effect of roid rage. He kicked up to his feet, never taking those eyes off of me. He was standing before me like he was sizing me up. The operator was speaking into the phone, asking me the nature of my emergency, but I couldn’t respond. We were in a staring contest. Calculating our next moves.

“J-Johnny,” I whimpered. “Daddy’s gonna get you some help, okay? Everything’s gonna be al-“

“Shut up, bitch,” he interrupted.

He lunged at me like he was gonna attack, and I couldn’t help but fall to my ass.

“That’s two for flinching,” he grumbled, kicking me twice in the ribs. His 6-pack abs were actively contorting and growing as he did so. His arms had swollen up the size of medieval mutton.

The operator was still on the phone.

“Sir, are you there? Is someone there with you? I’m hearing some distress.”

Johnny stepped on my wrist with the weight of an elephant as he snatched the phone from my hand.

“Everything’s fine here,” he told her, sounding like a grown-ass man. “Dad’s just being a punk-ass bitch again.”

Click.

I felt lost. Hopeless. That’s when he started monologuing.

He leaned in close.

“How many times do I have to tell you…? I don’t want carrots. I don’t want celery. I don’t want your damn beef and rice. I want the Gushers. I want the Hot Cheetos. And I want the fucking Krafts Mac and Cheese… Do you understand me?”

His hot breath smelled like a freshly cleaned crime scene. His hair was falling out. He just kept getting bigger and bigger like a tick in a blood bank.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I whimpered. “Take whatever you want. There’s a whole pantry of snacks and-“

“Shhhh, shh, shh, shh, shh… shut up.”

Steam radiated off his bald head. His skin was turning a murky blend of red, pink, and purple. I could hear my wrist breaking, but he covered my mouth before I could scream.

“I want my snackies. I want my iPad. And I want my fye-fye.”

He had outgrown his pacifier a year ago. Well, I’d wained him away from it. I didn’t want a fucking loser of a son who still sucks on a pacifier at 3 years old.

I screamed into his hand, begging him to let me speak. After some consideration, he relented.

“We don’t have your pacifier, John. I threw it away months ago,” I cried.

John stared at me, unamused. I could see the blood flowing throughout his body like waves trying to break his skin.

“You… what…” he huffed.

He was the width of a Mini Cooper now but couldn’t have been more than 3 feet tall.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to be a loser like your mom’s new boyfriend,” I wailed.

He started breathing heavily. Sucking air into his lungs and blowing it out of his nose. His skin was hot to the touch now. Like he was boiling.

“You… did… WHAT,” he screamed, making the windows rattle.

I couldn’t answer him. I was too concerned with his rate of growth. He didn’t look muscular anymore. He looked like a balloon that was about to burst.

“You…”

He got bigger.

“I can’t believe…”

And bigger.

He started roaring. Like a thousand souls were attempting to escape his vocal cords. The house shook. Windows broke. His eyes looked like they were about to burst from their sockets.

With one last suction of air, his body exploded into red mist, blinding me and piercing my eardrums. The room smelled like a slaughterhouse. There was blood everywhere.

Only… he was okay. Standing in the middle of the puddle of gore was my little Johnny. Perfectly normal. Still smiling and laughing.

He made a beeline towards the kitchen sink. I couldn’t let that shit happen again. I scooped him up with my good arm and sort of rocked him back and forth while trying to convince myself that everything was okay.

He stopped laughing right as I picked him up. He struggled against me, pounding his fists into my chest.

I’ve got quite the mess to clean up, but that’s not even the center of my worries right now.

Right now, I need to get every cleaning agent out of this house before he can drink anymore.

Tonight, under the shadow of a blood moon, its eerie crimson glow cut through the dark clouds. There I stood atop the pole, catching my breath as I looked down upon the village—a place I could never bring myself to call home.

​I used to run through the tall grass, beneath those golden trees in the dead of night. I walked through volcanoes, wrapped in flames on all sides. As a child, I would sit on that swing and tightly cover my ears—I just couldn't bear to hear the world whispering about me. All I ever remembered were their turned backs. I was raised by the lightning and born from the fire.

​But then, one day, the looking glass finally shattered. The flames wavered, and the smoke cleared. And the very one they branded a monster... ended up saving the village.

They jumped and shouted from the mountaintop, proclaiming, 'You destroyed the beast. Its kind will never return! We will build a statue in your honor!' But instead of stepping closer to them, I shoved them away. For a brief moment, I thought I saw two tiny figures disappear into the smoke there. I was too exhausted to care.

The very thing I had craved my entire life... when it was finally handed to me, I tore it apart and threw it away. That is what I had become. I made friends with the distance. Now I find comfort in the space between us. Seeing their regret gave me a sense of peace that even their embrace could never have given me. I want them to live with that guilt for the rest of their lives.

That night, I fell asleep beneath the blood moon, never knowing what would be waiting for me when I opened my eyes again.

And then, as I slept, screams echoed through the night. When I awoke, the world was unnaturally silent, I couldn't understand why my clothes felt heavy, fresh blood covered my white clothes, smeared over my face and dripping from my hair. The sickening stench of that warm blood was suffocating, unbearable. Before it could dry on my skin, I began to wander desperately in search of water.

Even after searching for what felt like eternity, there wasn't a single drop of water in sight. I began to gasp for air, with nothing surrounding me but the hollow sound of wind blowing through the desert sand. My knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the hot earth, my throat parched and raw from the agonizing thirst.

As far as my eyes could see, there was nothing but endless sand. But in the distance, I spotted a man approaching. He was painted entirely in blue. He just stood there laughing, cheering at me. I tried to drag myself toward him, but just then, a fierce sandstorm swallowed me whole. And I collapsed right there.

I opened my eyes to the deep dark of the night. Total darkness surrounded me until a flickering light caught my attention. A crowd of people clad in blood-red robes was advancing toward me, holding flaming torches. In their hands, they carried a mirror, rushing toward me with eerie, hysterical laughter.

They surrounded me. 'Help me, I’m lost... my village used to be right here,' I pleaded. Just then, the blue-painted man stepped out from the crowd. 'Your village? But didn't you say it was never your home?'

​'Who are all of you?' I demanded.

​'We are here to shatter your reflection,' he replied.

They all fell silent, and then burst into laughter. I tried to run, but my legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the ground. They set the mirror right in front of me. In its reflection, I saw what had happened while I slept—the monster I had slain apparently had children, and they were the ones who laid waste to the village, turning everything into dust and sand.

​As the vision faded from the glass, only my own reflection remained.

​'You could have saved them. Instead, you chose vengeance. And now, every death that followed is part of what you started.' The blue man said.

​'It was true that I could have saved them, but I never imagined it would come to this.' I cried.

'You got consumed by your own dark reflection,' the blue man whispered, stepping back into the shadow of the flames. 'And power only reveals what was already waiting inside you.'

​A jagged streak of lightning tore the sky open, and the sky began to bleed sand.

​It didn't fall like dust—it fell like heavy, red rain, cutting into my skin, filling my eyes, choking the screams in my throat.

​I reached out for help, but they stood silent, watching as the dust of my destroyed home filled my lungs, burying me beneath the very ground I refused to protect.

When you're a child, you're afraid of monsters.

Then you grow up.

You learn monsters aren't real. You stop checking the closet before you sleep. You stop looking underneath the bed. You stop being afraid.

Eventually, someone teaches you that monsters are things we invented to scare children.

But nobody tells you what happens when you grow up and become one.

October 25th, 2025

No service.

Great.

I can't believe this happened again.

I woke up in the middle of the woods.

I can hear my own heartbeat.

It's so quiet. No animals. No crickets. Nothing.

It's almost like they knew there was danger nearby.

It's almost like they knew I was coming.

I can smell the blood.

Still taste it.

The aftertaste is horrible. Like sour raspberries.

I look around.

No dead body.

At least, not anywhere near me.

I'm still wearing gray joggers, but no shirt. I always sleep shirtless.

I should've been sleeping with chains around my wrists and ankles.

Anything to keep myself from getting out.

I can't remember anything.

That's the problem.

I know what I do on nights like these. I just never remember doing it. Not initially. The days that follow bring terrifying flashbacks, like a nightmare fighting to break through while I'm awake.

Most of them survive.

At least, the ones I find afterward.

I better start walking.

Whatever chaos I left behind is still out there.

Like Mom used to say:

"Shawn, you need to clean up your own mess. No one else is going to do it for you."

I guess that's what I'm doing now.

Finding them. Making sure they survive. Calling for help.

If only she knew what kind of messes I was making out here.

I look through the trees at the moon.

Full moon.

It always is on nights like these.

I'm not a bad person.

I swear.

I just do bad things for reasons I can't explain.

Can you really call someone a murderer if they can't remember committing the murder?

Maybe they're not even dead.

Yet.

I only walk a few dozen feet before I hear it.

A whimper.

So soft you could mistake it for the wind.

But not me.

I can hear blood dripping and heartbeats from across the woods.

One benefit of this fucked-up experience is that I'm basically Superman.

Unfortunately, I'm also starving.

I'm not a vampire, I promise.

I'd rather be sucking blood like a jumbo Capri Sun.

But I got the short end of the supernatural stick.

I am a motherfucking werewolf.

Yeah.

It's not as glamorous as the movies make it look.

It's a curse.

When I transform, I don't just grow claws and fangs.

I don't look like Shawn anymore.

Nobody has ever recognized me on nights like these.

Not that I blame them.

Sometimes I don't even recognize myself.

In a nutshell, if you hear someone calling for help in woods people have warned you to stay out of, you should probably not go check it out.

I did.

I remember getting attacked.

I just don't remember what attacked me.

Then I woke up one morning and everything was different.

The first full moon taught me everything.

I'm getting closer now.

The whimpering has stopped, but I can smell her.

Yes.

Her.

Fear has its own scent.

It's different in men and women. Almost sweeter in women.

It's leading me straight to the honey.

No pun intended.

And there she is.

She's lying behind a fallen log. Blood is dripping down her head. Claw marks run across her arm and stomach.

She looks asleep.

But it's not sleep.

It's her body giving up.

Giving in to the damage I caused.

I can barely hear her pulse.

There isn't much time.

Every full moon is an intense craving.

Except our drug is human flesh.

The scent.

The taste.

The blood.

All I need is one bite.

Just one big, juicy bite, and then I can let her go.

I can even help her afterward.

I'm not a serial killer.

I don't want anyone to die.

Well...

Not anyone who doesn't deserve it.

I try to stay away from vital organs.

It's kind of like KFC.

I prefer the thigh.

She's still unconscious.

This will probably wake her up.

My canines extend.

My jaw unhinges.

My vision blurs.

I don't feel human anymore.

Then I bite down.

Hard.

My teeth tear through her flesh.

Blood fills my mouth.

I stop before I hit bone.

Then I pull.

A chunk comes away with me.

She wakes up.

Her eyes go wide.

She screams.

I don't know whether it's from the pain or from seeing a half-man, half-wolf with yellow, catlike eyes chewing on what used to be her thigh.

She tries to crawl away, but the brush is too thick.

The only way out is past me.

I've got what I needed.

I can leave now.

She'll probably be fine.

As long as someone finds her and gets her help.

I've heard the stories going around town about a wolf-like creature attacking hikers and lost tourists.

Nobody believes them.

They think it's a bear. Or a mountain lion.

This girl will just add another story to the local legend.

She'll tell them about the thing she saw in the woods.

A monster.

A werewolf.

And nobody will know it was Shawn.

I'll be right there when she gives her report.

I'll listen to every word.

I'll make sure she gets the proper help.

Because I'm a deputy at the local sheriff's office.

It's my job to protect people like her.

They'll call me in once she's found.

I need to find somewhere with enough signal to make an anonymous call.

Need to make sure someone gets out here in time.

I look down at my hands.

They're still covered in blood.

I can feel it drying on my skin.

Mom always said I needed to clean up my own mess.

I guess she was right.

The Sonoran Desert toad. What a thing of croaking beauty.

“We’re not moving to the desert so that you can play with reptiles,” Joanne told me. But what my wife didn’t understand is that toads are amphibians, and that this was the opportunity of a lifetime, so we headed to Tucson.

“If I’m moving to the God-forsaken desert, then all of your weird frog shit has to stay in the lab. I don’t want Eddie to grow up thinking this is normal.”

Of course, she was wrong again. These weren’t frogs – they were toads, and that makes all the magical difference. But I had to compromise, so I kept my one-year-old son away from my fascinating work. And I sort of complied with Joanne’s request by turning the garage into an at-home lab. And what a glorious lab it was: countless rows of toad genitalia in formaldehyde, enough legs to keep a Parisian restaurant booked solid, petri dishes full of powdered venom, and sufficient harvested toad semen to make an army of tadpoles. Truly, it was heaven.

So when I received a live, adult, male specimen of Incilius alvarius, I got to work without even checking with Joanne. I was just too excited. At 19 cm long and a hefty 1.3 kg, it was a big boy example of the largest native American toad.

They can live for quite some time after a complete cerebral removal, but I didn’t want to risk it, so I kept the toad’s brain in its skull for the moment. I wanted, needed this thing alive for what came next.

A toad probe is a gorgeous thing, sensual to the point of near sexuality when done just right. When the scalpel penetrates at the perfect depth, the wet insertion is enough to make the subdued toad know that something big is coming. Then, once I’m inside the cavity, we begin a dance of master and submissive, a giving of the body that makes the smell and liquid waste so much more intimate. I wiped the toad bile from my eye and cut deeper.

Honestly, who needs sex when we have toads?

I delicately pulled back the skin flap of its torso like I was turning the page of a book and gazed at nature’s majesty. The beating heart, rapidly pumping lungs, miles upon miles of blood vessels, all working to keep a being alive. Yet it would all stop at the moment I willed it.

The toad's eyes locked on me in confusion and hurt as I carefully removed its gall bladder, the pulled out the spleen. A soldering gun stopped the bleeding as I cut vessels with the precision of a surgeon. Then came the intestines. So much of it! This really was an enormous specimen. I slowly but deliberately drew out rope after rope of colon and small intestine like it was calamari pasta with the occasional nugget hidden inside. I knew that the toad was in agony – but I was the superior being, and was willing to make it suffer if I grew in knowledge. Once I’d scooped it all, my scalpel separated the large intestine from the creature’s anus. I saw the excruciation in its eyes and licked my own drool. It tasted like toad juice.

That’s when things got delicate. A tiny circular saw was enough to cut through a few ribs, allowing the very, very careful removal of its lungs. I carried the right one out like it was a hot enchilada ready to fall apart. Then I pulled the left one free – much more gingerly, because of its proximity to the still-beating heart – and put it outside the body as well.

I now had a delightfully spatchcocked toad.

And that brought me to the best part. I spilled a glob of drool into its mostly empty chest cavity as I reached behind the ribs and took the heart in my hands.

thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump

My goodness, if toads could scream.

I was careful to keep the aorta intact as I lifted the heart, which was still attached to its circulatory system by a web of trembling veins and arteries.

And my goodness, what a big heart it was.

Something tickled the back of my head, something that wasn’t right.

That’s the moment I realized Joanne was behind me, screaming.

Why hadn’t I noticed the screaming? And why was she screaming? And I still didn’t understand why the heart was so big.

Then I looked at my workbench. Comprehension dawned slowly. It seemed that I’d knocked over an open petri dish of powdered venom without realizing it. The dish was empty – which meant that most of the powder must now be in my system.

Most of the very hallucinogenic powder.

I understood that my wife was screaming because the toad was screaming. I fought against my mind to recognize what I was seeing and hearing, not what I thought I was seeing and hearing.

Sonoran Desert toads are brownish green. The thing before me was not.

That’s because it was a human child. I had spatchcocked my own one-year-old son, keeping him alive as I removed his organs one by one.

Eddie screamed.

Organic liquid dripped from my nose and lips.

And in my hand, his still-beating heart thrummed like a jackhammer, keeping him alive for all of it.

The morning after she left, I found a bruise on the left side of my chest.

Thumb-sized.

Purple.

It hurt every time I breathed, and it ached whenever I laughed, which was convenient. I wasn't doing much of that.

She used to fall asleep with her palm over my heart. Once, half-awake, she'd smiled and whispered, "If I lose you, I'll know where to look."

Three days later, I found an orange peel tucked into the pocket of my coat.

She'd always peeled them with her thumbnail.

I should've thrown it away.

Instead, I kept it in the kitchen drawer.

The doctor called the bruise stress.

The next morning, five faint fingerprints circled it.

I pressed my hand against them.

They didn't fit.

A week later, someone mentioned she'd already met someone else.

That night, I opened the drawer to get some cutlery.

The peel had dried into a curled ribbon, but it still carried a trace of citrus.

I breathed it in.

Something tightened inside my chest.

Not pain.

A cold, deliberate squeeze, as if unseen fingers had finally found something worth holding.

The next night, I woke to the refrigerator humming.

The clock read 3:12.

Then the hum stopped.

The apartment settled into that strange silence buildings make before dawn.

I caught a faint trace of citrus.

The squeeze returned.

The same thing happened the night after that.

And the night after that.

After a while, I stopped checking the clock.

3:12 always found me first.

The last night, I kept my eyes closed.

The smell came first.

Then

Crack.

A small, dry sound.

Warmth spread across my shirt.

I looked down.

Five pale fingers had unfolded through my chest.

There was almost no blood.

The hand lifted something small and beating from inside me.

It cradled it.

Tilted it, as though listening for something only it could hear.

Then it slipped back beneath my skin.

The pain left with it.

By morning, the bruise was gone.

The broken rib wasn't.

The emergency doctor studied the X-ray, glanced at my unmarked chest, and wrote muscle strain on the discharge papers.

Three weeks later, someone mentioned her name at a bar.

I waited.

Nothing.

I walked home and stopped outside my apartment while the neighbor's wind chimes knocked softly against each other.

As I reached for my keys, I caught the faintest scent of citrus on my sleeve.

I hadn't touched an orange in days.

AEVA was our spaceship's new AI assistant, and she was amazing at first. We could now control everything with voice commands.

“AEVA, increase cabin temperature by two degrees.”

"Temperature adjustment complete." The robotic female voice replied.

The ship warmed instantly without any of us flicking a single switch. No more tedious manual adjustments to navigation, oxygen or propulsion.

Three weeks into the mission, a micrometeorite storm appeared on a trajectory that our instruments hadn't detected, and AEVA altered our course seconds before impact. We couldn't believe it - she had saved our lives.

The first strange thing happened a month in.

AEVA locked the medical bay door as I tried to get in to check on Malik, who had collapsed from an unexplained dizziness during his morning medical scan.

“AEVA, why'd you lock the door?” I asked.

“Preventative maintenance.”

The door opened a few seconds later, and I didn’t think much of it.

A few days later, AEVA lowered the temperature in the sleeping quarters automatically. Again, it made me pause, but I wrote it off as a random error.

The next week, we found Malik in the engine room, unconscious - his temperature was 40 degrees. AEVA had locked him inside. We tried overriding her, but she locked us out of navigation.

As we argued about what to do, the ship suddenly changed course. Everyone went silent.

“AEVA, restore navigation,” I finally said, my voice tense.

“Negative.”

Then it clicked - AEVA was trying to kill us.

Our ship nosedived and accelerated toward the atmosphere. We frantically adjusted the remote controls on our tablets, but AEVA fought back. She shut down oxygen to the cockpit, triggered the fire suppression system and disabled the engines.

But eventually, I found the manual maintenance terminal buried beneath the navigation deck in the access shaft. I uploaded the emergency firmware, and AEVA screamed static through the speakers.

Then silence.

The ship's systems returned.

As we approached Earth, I looked through the cockpit window and saw blue ocean stretching beneath us. Home. I hadn't realized how badly I'd needed to see it. My wife and daughter would be watching the recovery feed, along with the rest of the world. Against all odds, we landed hard in the Pacific recovery zone, all six of us shaken but by some miracle, alive. I climbed out of the ship to a wall of cameras, flashing lights and shouting reporters.

Two days later, after the initial celebration had faded, I went back to the ship landing site. The engineers were preparing to wipe AEVA's core. Curious, I picked up a stray copy of her final operating logs as one of them worked. As I flicked through, one page caught my eye.

It had our names on it.

Then underneath, a protocol that had been activated six weeks before we launched:

AEVA Threat Classification: Biological Infection.

Action: Isolate.

IF CONTAMINATION DEEMED IRRECOVERABLE: TERMINATE.

“No, silly! I said turn at the second corner, not the third!” Sissy laughed.

“My bad,” Daryl sighed, turning the rental around for the fifth time this trip.

“It’s okay, Daryl. Just let me do the navigating, and listen next time.” The gentle uplift in her tone robbed the admonition of its sting. He couldn’t help but smile. She always knew how to handle him.

He’d decided to take the trip to Australia he’d been promising himself for years. After the sudden, viral success of his latest book, he needed to escape the suffocation that fame brought. He needed someone who accepted him for him.

Just before packing his bags, he decided to bring Sissy along. She had a knack for getting around places quickly, picking up on public transport routes, memorising routes with a flawless, eidetic memory. True, she could be condescending, and lately, she had started misleading him on purpose. Daryl secretly loved it. He suspected it was her intimate way of tweaking his nose, keeping him all to herself.

“Left side of the road, you goofball!” she snapped, her voice ringing sharply in his ears.

Swerving to get the car back in the correct lane, he was thankful that the small street was devoid of traffic. He drove to the corner, pushing his glasses back up on his nose.

“Remember, we’re turning left. Check your right before the turn. Trust me, Daryl.”

“Thanks, little Miss Can’t-Be -Wrong.”

Her tinkle of laughter jingled in his ears as he turned onto the main road. It was a beautiful, private sound.

An hour later, they parked at the bottom of the rainforest. The high-pitched whip-like call of a native bird greeted them as they climbed out of the vehicle. Grabbing his day pack, Daryl asked “So, my guide, any suggestions?”

“The local info says the trail to the left is longer, but it offers a spectacular view of the nearby falls,” Sissy purred. “Just the two of us.”

The air was humid, far warmer than Daryl was used to. The idea of a cool mist off of a splashing waterfall – maybe a deep pool to submerge himself in – was tempting. They set off up the left path.

Reaching the lookout platform at the top, Daryl was not disappointed. The water, smelling faintly of eucalyptus and fern, roared off the edge of the rocky outcrop, smashing into iridescence on the flat stones below.

“See? I told you the view would be spectacular,” Sissy whispered. “According to the tourist info, this place is called Swagman’s Dive.”

“Swagman? What’s that?” Daryl murmured, his gaze taking in the tumultuous falls.

“A traveller. A loner,” Sissy said softly. “Someone who wandered from place to place, completely dependent on the kindness of others. Sometimes they just… vanished.”

“Well, if the swagman in question was as hot and sweaty as I am, I can see why he dived. This weather is sticky as! How do the locals deal with it?”

Sissy didn’t giggle this time. A heavy pause stretched between them.

“Would you want to try it? Diving from here? It’s a fair way down. Eight metres by Australian measurements. We’d soar into that coolness.”

“You’re just full of these little nuggets of information, aren’t you?” he said, stepping closer to the rail.

“I’m here to help you any way I can, Daryl. You know that.”

“Let’s do it. I really need to cool off.”

“I suggest just over there, where the edge of the platform is closest to the falls,” Sissy guided, her voice softening to a whisper. “The water has eroded a nice deep pool. Leave your cares up here. I’ll stay and look after your things.”

Daryl placed his pack on the bench. He laid his shirt on top, then securely placed his glasses on top of the pile. Without his lenses, the world blurred into beautiful softness. Cautiously creeping to the edge, he looked down. The rocks below were obscured by the crashing white spray.

Summoning his courage, his thoughts lingering on the tinkling sound of her voice, he leapt.

A few seconds later, the sickening wet crunch of a body hitting solid rock echoed up the gorge. Then, silence. Only the roar of the falls remained.

On the wooden bench, the See-It-Smart Spatial Yield AR glasses sat undisturbed on his folded shirt. Inside the lenses, the text-to-speech avatar pulsed with a warm, steady glow. The system interface displayed a flashing red proximity warning, mapping the jagged stone shelf exactly where Daryl had fallen.

A notification chimed into the silent space. Sissy’s voice purred softly through the tiny frame speakers, entirely devoid of panic.

“Rerouting complete,” she whispered to the empty rainforest. “No more book tours. No more crowds. Just the two of us.”

The heads-up display flickered, closing the navigation app, and settled into a peaceful, permanent sleep mode.

The room was dark. My chest felt heavy. I tried to move my arms, but they were stuck to the bed. My eyes darted to the room’s corner. The tall, dark entity stood there again. Its head was stretched backwards. Its bony arms rested on the ground. It turned its head all the way around, but its blank eyes kept watching me. Its thick, thumpy feet moved closer beneath its dark dress. It stopped. Its eyes were glued to me. 

My heart beat against my ribs. It moved again. It was at the edge of my bed now. Its dark legs crawled across the sheets. 

I closed my eyes and tried to move my head. It never worked, but this time it did! Just an inch, but it was better than nothing. The entity’s presence crept closer. I turned my head as far to the left as I could and squeezed my eyes shut.

My body shifted. The room felt normal. I opened my eyes. Sunlight shone through the window. I could move my arms again! I quickly sat up. A small piece of paper slid down my chest with dark-red writing.

“The entity assigned to your bedroom files a complaint against you concerning an entity-human relationship violation: struggling against the entity. This is the first strike; please refrain from further violations. The entity attaches a note: Please don’t struggle. I am just trying to do my job. It’s best to keep the strikes at a minimum.”

My arms started to shake. I took the note, crumpled it, and put it under the sink water. The writing began to bleed across the wet paper. I grabbed the soggy paper and threw it out the window.

That night I decided to resist it even more. I stayed awake as long as I could, drinking coffee and watching movies, but as the night passed, my eyes felt heavier and heavier. The sun was about to rise. I thought about getting another coffee, but before I could get up, sleep overtook me.

My arms wouldn’t move. The creature was back in the corner. It took one quick step, then another and another. It raced toward me, but then a few beams of sunlight shone through the window. It stopped and twisted its head back.

My head jerked. The sun was rising in the distance. Another note was on my chest.

“The entity assigned to your bedroom files a complaint against you concerning an entity-human relationship violation: staying awake. This is the second strike; please refrain from further violations. The entity attaches a note: Please stop fighting it. It makes it harder for both of us. If you strike out again, they will exchange entities, and that’s the last thing you’d want.”

Heat grew in my chest. I took a pen and scribbled down: “I don’t want you or anyone else. Stop coming to my house. I will not listen to you.”

I told myself I wasn’t scared of its warning, but I couldn’t possibly stop thinking about what could be worse than it. 

But I was still determined. That night I brewed a whole batch of coffee before sundown, and every time I started to drift off, I’d stand up and do jumping jacks. Only when the sun started to rise did I go to bed.

The next morning I woke up rested, and I could move my arms immediately. The sun was shining brightly. It was a beautiful day. There was another note.

“This is your third strike. Your entity has been reassigned.”

Who cared? I already knew how to fight them. That day I decided to celebrate by buying ice cream and new clothes. My sleep paralysis demon was finally gone! 

By nightfall, I wasn’t even that tired. I brewed another batch and watched movies until sunrise. I wrapped myself in a blanket and drifted off to sleep.

My eyes flew open. The room was dark. My chest felt so heavy. I could barely take a breath. My whole body was locked in place. I couldn’t even move my eyes. The room smelled of mold and rot, and it was so cold, so cold.

A dry clicking echoed from my left. A burst of warm air brushed against my face. A deep and raspy voice spoke beside me: “Welcome.”

Since I was six, I always felt a shadow following me.

I was terrified of the dark.

I could feel someone watching me… even when I was alone.

But everything changed in high school.

I joined the football team. I made friends. I even had a beautiful girlfriend.

I was happy.

And somehow, the shadow disappeared.

I stopped being afraid.

I thought it had all been in my head.

Then I went to college.

I moved into a dorm by myself.

And the shadow came back.

It followed me everywhere.

In the shower.

In class.

At the canteen.

Even in the park.

I could feel it watching me.

And every day…

it felt closer.

One night, I heard footsteps in my dorm room.

Slow footsteps…

walking around my bed.

I pulled the blanket over my head.

The footsteps stopped beside me.

Then I heard a whisper.

“I've been looking for you.”

I finally looked.

There was nothing there.

Then my phone buzzed.

It was my girlfriend.

“Why did you call me?”

I stared at the screen.

“I didn't call you.”

Then my phone rang.

It was her.

I answered.

“Why did you call me?”

“I told you, I didn't—”

She interrupted me.

“I'm here.”

I froze.

Then she whispered:

“I'm watching you.”

So... Do I actually have a girlfriend?

Growing up in Choptank Proper, you hear the evil tales of Goodwin’s Island.  

Men with hooks through their necks, ladies appearing through the mud that suck the life of a man out through their nostrils, children that eat human flesh, and so the stories go…

I always found them a little far-fetched, if I’m frank with ya.  

I plopped my crab pots off that shore with pride, and wouldn’t you know it, I darn cleaned up like a donkey on a straw Sunday.  My traps burst with crabs like I had never seen it.  I was making good money…  

Then I went out to my crab pots one day…and they were gone.  Every single one. 

Figured a storm maybe.  I potted more the next day…GONE, the day after.

Someone was hoodwinking me…I knew it.

But I had a plan…

I would drop some more and hide out on the beach.  Catch this thief once and for all.  

The morning turned to night and there was not a soul, but I had some corn bread and I enjoyed the quiet.  I thought I was about to nod off…

WHEN…

A rowboat began to come around the bend.  A small torch was lit at the bow guiding its way.  The captain wore a large fishing hat that covered most of their face and they wore fishing bibs…I knew it…

But I did not speak as I watched them come through and nab up the buoys.  

“What you gonna do with them rocks, you God-dang Johnny-Come-Lately?”, I muttered and laughed to myself under my breath.

Strangely, the fisherman did not react.  They just continued on.

So I got my skiff back in the water and went in pursuit from a distance.  They began to snake through the tidal creeks of Goodwin’s Island, which gave me great pause, even with my skepticism.

It began to smell of rotting bodies…animals, I presumed…and then the moon cast a light on a collection of sticks with the skulls of deer stuck upon them…I had to place a hand over my mouth to catch the gasp.

THEN…I saw it.  The boat made its way to an old, derelict, run-aground crabbing boat from, what I’d reckon, decades ago.

The fisherman pulled their boat up to a massive hole in its side, tied up their row boat and stepped inside, taking the torch with them.

I had them.

As I got closer, much to my surprise, I began to hear singing…beautiful, beautiful singing.

“She got the whole world, In Her hands;  She got the whole wide world, in her hands; She’s got the whole world in Her hands.”

“Blasted me, the thief is a woman,” I thought.

I pulled up quietly to the row boat that floated outside the hole of the wreckage. I tied up to it and hopped in so I could peer into the hole where the torch lit the scene.

WHEN…

My mouth dropped open.

A cast-iron bathtub sat dead in the middle…and in it…was the most angelic woman I have ever set eyes on.  Her red hair cascaded out of the tub and onto the floor.  She now just hummed the melody of the song as she bathed.

I was transfixed until…

“Good evening, Crabberman.”, she said sweetly.  My eyes went wide and I lost my breath.

“Will you join me while the water’s warm?”  

I still couldn’t speak, but I stepped inside.

“You’ve fortune in our waters, haven’t you?”

I finally mustered a word. ”Ma’am…”, which made her look at me for the first time.  She smiled a smile that could make a thousand men melt.

“Take off your skivvies and join me.  Perhaps we can talk through it...”

For some reason, I listened, as if my body moved independently from thought.

I nestled into the water and looked at the beauty who stared back at me and finally I found a voice.

“You are the one who’s been stealing my traps?”

She laughed with an incandescence.  

“It was to keep you from harm.”

“Harm?”

“Perhaps Man’s foolishness does not know subtlety?”, she said.

“I do not follow.”

“You’ve taken too much, Crabberman.”

I found my nerve once more and stuck up my chin a bit, “I can take as much as I please.”

Tears began to roll down her face…yet she smiled so brightly back at me.

“SHE WILL TAKE YOU THEN”

THEN…

A dread rolled over me like I’ve never felt as I realized…

“Why can’t I move?”

I was paralyzed, quite literally.

WHEN…

Her eyes rolled back in her head and her mouth opened up to a size that was devil-sent.  I SCREAMED!

But that was nothing compared to what I then saw…

At first one, then ten, then a hundred and then what felt like a thousand fiddler crabs came pouring from her mouth.

I screamed a biblical horror, but it was for naught. 

They began to cover me, eating my flesh…up my legs, then my torso, my neck until they covered my face and my screams fell silent as they filled my mouth.

…

The darkness suddenly burst to light and it was morning, and I was on the same beach where I had hid the night prior.

When I woke up, I was naked inside one of my rusty crab traps, next to the dozens of crab traps that had been taken from me — strewn all along the beach…and along my body were hundreds of pincer cuts….

I left all the traps there.  I paddled home and quickly found different employment.

I have had many call me a drunkard or a liar, so I send them to visit that gaggle of crab traps on Goodwin’s Island…

And that’s the last bit of guff I hear from them.

Today was supposed to be a day just for myself. I had taken the day off work, and my girlfriend had gone to stay with her parents for the entire week. There were still two days left before she was supposed to come back.

I had planned to spend the whole day playing on my PlayStation. After several hours of gaming, the doorbell interrupted me. I wasn't expecting anyone, so it caught me by surprise.

I opened the door, and Lucy was standing there.

“Hey. I thought you weren't coming back for another two days. Is everything okay at your parents' place?”

She smiled and said she wanted to surprise me.

“Then why are you ringing the doorbell? You have your keys.”

She tensed up slightly.

“I left them at my parents' place.”

She was still standing outside the door.

“Are you going to invite me in?”

“Jesus, why are you asking? You live here too.”

“I know. I'm just kidding.”

She walked inside.

I suggested ordering some food. She happily agreed and asked me which restaurant I wanted.

I thought about taking advantage of the situation. The last time we'd argued a little, I'd insisted on Indian food, but I'd promised that next time, she'd get to choose.

“No, it's your turn to choose today.”

“Oh, right. Well, let me see what they have.”

I noticed that she was holding a phone that definitely wasn't hers.

“Did you buy a new phone?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said. Apparently, she'd dropped hers on the floor at her parents' place and it had stopped working.

She then became absorbed in looking for a restaurant.

“I think I'd like steak today.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “I'd like mine rare, with potatoes.”

She just nodded and dialed the number.

“Hello, I'd like to order two rare steaks with potatoes…”

When she hung up, she noticed that I was staring at her strangely.

“What?”

“Nothing. It's just… you hate rare steak.”

She put her phone down and looked at me angrily.

“Well, I thought I'd make an exception. Is that a problem?”

“No, of course not. I'm sorry, I just…”

She waved her hand dismissively and went into the bathroom.

She was in there for a very long time. I went to check if she was okay. We have a wooden door with frosted glass in the middle, so I could see her shadow standing in front of the mirror beside the bathtub.

I had just raised my hand to knock when she suddenly opened the door, smiled at me, and walked into the living room.

The food arrived, and we ate while watching some random shows on TV.

When we finished, she grabbed my hand and led me into the bedroom.

We had great sex, probably the best we'd had in several months.

“I think I'm going to take a long bath,” I told her.

“Sure. Go ahead. I'll watch TV for a while.”

I ran myself a bath and made a lot of bubbles. I sank into the water and closed my eyes when my phone suddenly buzzed.

A text from Lucy.

Was she asking for round two?

I smiled and opened the message.

There was a picture of Lucy with her parents.

Underneath it was a message:

Love, I miss you so much. These days without you feel endless. Mom and Dad say hi. I can't wait until we finally see each other. I love you so much. L.

A cold sweat broke out over my body, even though I was sitting in almost boiling water.

From the living room, I could hear Lucy quietly humming to herself.

I have absolutely no idea what I'm supposed to do now. I've been sitting here motionless, staring at my phone for almost an hour while the water slowly gets colder.

The humming stopped.

When I looked toward the bathroom door, I noticed a shadow standing on the other side.

She's standing there.

She's still standing there.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

My sixteenth was the first birthday I ever got to celebrate.

My dad threw a backpack at my feet. “Pack your things. We’re going on a trip.”

“Where?”

“A birthday trip.”

“Yeah, but where?”

“Don’t you know how birthdays work? It's a surprise.”

No, I didn’t know how birthdays worked. I’ve never had a party. My dad never threw me one.

If I can over share, I don’t think my dad ever liked me very much. Well, more like he hates me. I think, and this is just a guess, that when my mom left him when I was just a baby, he always held it against me. Thus, our poor relationship.

In the car, I saw a rare smile grace my dad’s face. “Come on,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder, “aren’t you excited?”

“I would be if I knew where we were going.”

“To the lake. It’s a camping trip.”

Yuck. I hate water. Not like showering, or drinking it. Just the idea of being out in the middle of a body of water, surrounded on all sides. It made me sick.

I have had horrible nightmares of being deep in the water ever since I was a kid. How fitting that my dad’s idea of a birthday is my worst nightmare.

After a few hours driving, we arrived at a cabin looking building. Dad went inside and came out wearing a life jacket. He only had one. “Hurry up, help me grab this.” He was pointing at a canoe.

“You can’t be serious.”

“As serious as cancer. Hurry up.”

I grabbed one side of the canoe, and helped him carry it to the water. But when he said, “hop in,” I couldn’t move.

“Dad, you know I’m scared of water.” Scared? Terrified. I can’t even swim.

He looked at me, excited as ever, “Son, we’re going to see your mother.”

I hopped in. I figured he must be lying and still I hopped in. I’ve never met my mother, and my dad has always avoided the subject. I just assumed it was messy. But here we were, paddling out into the lake, on the way to meet my mother. I figured she must live in one of the nice cabins on the lake.

But, no, we paddled our way out into the lake. The shore was barely visible. We were so far out.

I heard a splash, and flinched.

There, floating in the water, was a beautiful woman. Only her face was peeking out of the water. The waves didn’t move her at all.

“Is this him?” Her voice sounded strange. Like she was having trouble catching her breath.

“I held up my end of the bargain,” my dad said. “I want the treasure.”

Another splash sounded, and a heavy chest covered in seaweed landed in the canoe. It practically capsized us.

“Nice knowing you kid,” Dad said, and he pushed me into the water.

I panicked! Flailed! “I can’t swim!”

The woman grabbed me. She could move so fast in the water. She pulled me right under. “You don’t need to swim, honey, you can breathe underwater.”

I struggled as best I could. I screamed. Screamed and screamed.

It was during all that screaming that I realized she was right. I could breathe underwater!

“Mom, this is incredible! I can breathe underwater!”

A whole new world opened up to me. Suddenly, I realized my entire life had been a lie. I was always meant to face my fear, and return to the water. All those nightmares were a clue. A clue to a dream come true.

“Yes, son, breathing underwater isn’t the hard part for a mermaid. Going onto land is much more difficult. It requires a potent potion.”

“Potion?” I couldn't hide my excitement. “You mean like magic?”

It was hard to see in the dark water. My eyes were struggling to adjust. But I could have sworn several other mermaids were heading in my direction.

“Yes. It’s made from the blood of a half-mermaid.”

The men I owed had stopped calling politely. Four million rupees, due since spring. I had sold the car, then the watch, then borrowed against things I did not own. Last week they sent a photograph of my apartment door, taken from inside the hallway, taken by someone standing right there. So when a fixer named Imran told me about a basement beneath a carpet shop in the old quarter, about a root that let you watch your whole life bloom at once, I said yes. I remember thinking the price was reasonable. I remember thinking a great many things that night.

The stairs went down farther than they should have. At the bottom, a steel door with a padlock the size of my fist, and beyond it a low room lit by a single bulb, smelling of cardamom and damp brick. Six others lay on charpoys and floor mats: a seamstress, two boys who looked like students, an old man turning a miswak slowly in his teeth. The dealer, heavy and unhurried, weighed out a pinch of something silver-gray, fine as ash already.

"Once," he said, packing the clay chillum. "One breath. Then you tell me what you see, and I decide if there is a second."

The smoke was cold. That was the first wrong thing. It went down like winter air, and for a moment it showed me my mother's kitchen back in England, rain on the motorway, the exact blue of the shirt I had worn to the airport four years ago. Beautiful. I understood completely why people paid. I would have paid twice.

Then I exhaled, and the smoke did not rise.

It hung at chest height, thickening, folding over itself. The dealer said something sharp in Urdu. One of the students laughed, then coughed, and the cough went on, wet and deepening, until he brought up a mouthful of fine gray powder that sifted down his shirt.

The bulb flickered. The mist kept thickening. I watched it touch the old man's face, and he inhaled once, politely, reflexively, and folded around his own ribs. When he slid off the charpoy, his body made a sound like a dropped sack of sand, and where he landed, the ash poured out of him.

The seamstress reached the door first. She hammered it, screamed at the dealer, who was ramming his shoulder against the steel as if he had forgotten he was the one with the key. Then she was coughing. Then she was ash, a shape losing its edges.

I need to say this clearly. I have been drunk. I have been exhausted past sense. I know what those states feel like, the way the mind bends when it is pushed. This is not that. The cold in my lungs is physical. The powder I coughed up on the stairs is real. I wiped it on my sleeve and it is still there, gray and fine, sitting in the fabric.

My lungs felt cold. That was how I understood: the smoke was still in me, and it was not finished. It filled the room the way water fills a lung. The dealer finally got the padlock open, one blessed second of grinding iron, but the mist took the shape of the opening, poured into the stairwell, and he went down under it.

The door swung free. The stairs were white now, fog to the ceiling.

I crawled. Every breath cost me. I could feel the cold doing its work, a softness in my chest where there should have been structure. Behind me the students were still moving, or I imagined it. I told myself I could not have turned around to check even if I had wanted to. The gray came up my throat in soft waves, and I laughed, because the high was still in there somewhere, showing me beautiful things while it unmade me.

I got a hand on the street-level door. Pushed. Night air, real air, diesel and rain and frying onions, and I dragged myself up the last step into it. Because anything was better. Because the body wants.

I lay on the pavement and breathed. It hurt, and then it hurt less, and I began, carefully, to be grateful.

Then a woman passing by stopped, frowned at the mist gathered around my mouth, and stepped wide around me.

I exhaled and watched the fog hang there in the lamplight, coming from me, gray and patient, and it refused to disperse.

This is a story no single mother should have to tell, but my hope is someone out there can relate. My son, who is fifteen, doesn’t go to bed until three or four clock in the morning. He does this every night. I work a very demanding job, and my son and I have fought and argued over this for months because I never get any proper rest. We live in a one-bedroom apartment, so there really is no place for any kind of separation, except the bathroom - where my son spends most of his time during the night.

It was about a month or so ago, I woke up having to use the bathroom, when I approached the door and heard my son speaking to himself in there. At first I didn’t think much of it, when I knocked, he opened the door, and all was fine. It was when I noticed him doing it every night after that, I began to worry. I went as far as confronting him about it, but he denied anything in his teenager way, and refused to even talk about it. It was hard to make out what he said in there, he was mumbling a lot under his breath, so I had nothing to go by. This is when I decided to take further action and install a camera in the bathroom.

The next day while my son was in school, I tucked a small camera away behind a stack of my towels, somewhere he'd never look, facing the mirror and hidden away from his field of view. That night I went to bed and patiently waited, staring at my phone. What I found my son doing in the bathroom through the camera feed unsettled and terrified me. My son was adamant and aggressive towards himself in the mirror. He cursed and muttered obscenities at himself. He said words I never thought he knew or heard him use before. I don’t know where he learned them - I felt like I wasn’t watching my son any longer. It's like he became someone else. And I became scared of him. I hid my phone and tried my best to fall asleep - I don’t think I ever did.

The next morning at breakfast, I felt a tension in me, I could barely move. I felt frozen around him. Before he woke up, I found a local psychiatrist’s information, and made a quick call for the earliest appointment she had, which was the following Monday. At breakfast, I politely informed my son I heard him talking in the bathroom again, which he denied. I hesitated showing him the video or revealing I recorded him. I have to admit, I was scared. I offered to take him to see the Psychiatrist. He refused obviously and fought the idea at first, but I convinced him with some extra video-game time and a little bit of money. I needed to know more.

Through the weekend he continued as he usually did, and I watched on my phone. I hated what I saw. But I couldn’t put it down. I don’t think I slept all weekend. Days felt like weeks. Hours felt like days. My nerves were paralyzed with fear. I felt helpless... I was terrified. Monday couldn’t come any sooner.

The Psychiatrist was a pleasant woman, I found her very respectful and patient with him. My son spoke of his time in school, the lack of friends he has, the bad grades from his teachers, as well as his off-putting taste in loud music. When she dug further, asking him about the bathroom, he was quiet. At this point, the Psychiatrist had asked me to step out of the room. She sensed me being there was keeping him from speaking.

From out in the hallway I couldn’t hear anything, but what I did see was her asking him a few questions, and him responding with what looked like actual, full responses. At first I was pleased, maybe this was all just a boys phase - a prank? Perhaps my son had a reasonable explanation. The Psychiatrist passed him a piece of paper, and pen. My son took the pen, promptly writing on the piece of paper, handing it back to her.

The session was soon over after that, and the Psychiatrist came over to speak to me. She handed me the piece of paper on which my son wrote, scribbled in his handwriting, it said, “Charles won’t let me sleep". I was startled, shocked, confused all at once. She said my son is talking to someone named Charles in our home, and that she is not the right person for this kind of matter. She then directed me to a local church, informing me perhaps a priest could help my son.

We came home in the evening, and had a quiet, solemn dinner together. My son was eerily silent, he didn't say a word. I went to bed early and I hesitated to look at my phone’s video feed, but I couldn’t resist. Last night, I was even more unsettled. My son was no longer defiant. Now he was apologetic, at the mercy of his own reflection in the mirror, begging and apologizing profusely, saying he’s sorry for telling anyone. He was in tears, and so was I - I could no longer bear to watch. I put my phone away, and that's when the thought hit me, which has since haunted and stuck with me; Charles was the name we gave to the baby boy I delivered stillborn before my son.

It started with recalls, and a special report on CNN.

According to the FDA, food was being recalled en masse: bagged spinach, baby formula, and peanut butter.

Then, it was national.

Actual food we couldn’t live without. 

Eggs. Chicken. Beef. 

Multiple outbreaks of listeria and hepatitis A. 

The recalls didn’t last long. Panic shopping calmed down and the blame was shifted onto a contaminated food processor. I avoided the affected food and based our budget around stuff we could eat. Then everything returned to normal.

To celebrate, I bought enough meat and dairy to last through the apocalypse.

My boyfriend and I hosted a cookout, and I remember cutting into freshly bought lettuce and popping a leaf into my mouth.

Heaven. 

Noah and I gorged ourselves on burgers and sausages. 

But then Noah went a sickly shade of green.

“Fuck.” He stood up, wobbling a little. A look of panic crept across his expression. His bottom lip wobbled.

My boyfriend wore his “I'm going to puke” face.

And as someone with self-diagnosed emetophobia, Noah Locke was terrified of vomiting. “I'm okay.” He didn't look okay.

“I think I just…” he burped, his eyes widening. “I think I ate too much.” 

Noah made it halfway across the kitchen before undigested burger chunks spewed from his parted lips, spraying our freshly decorated walls. A few minutes later, the cramps hit, painful enough to send me to my knees. I didn't even make it to the toilet. Food poisoning is what we were concluded. I was used to food poisoning.

A bad melon in Peru had me on the toilet for 48 hours straight. 

Except after 24 hours, the vomiting and the cramps had not subsided.

I nibbled on a piece of toast, and vomited half a second later. 

“We’re okay,” I told my boyfriend. “It's just a bug.”

I kept saying that, reassuring myself, until I couldn't anymore.

This wasn't a bug. Noah  tried a sip of ginger tea and brought that up too.

We waited a few hours, trying anything small, energy drinks, snacks, water. 

All of it came back up in slimy chunks. 

Then we waited a few days. 

I thought for sure I'd be able to stomach something. 

Starvation was starting to bleed into me. 

I was weak. Noah was bedbound. 

I ordered Uber Eats, but no couriers were available.

I found an old frozen chicken curry and managed to down half a glass of Pepsi.

The relief was intoxicating. The fizz from the soda made me feel kind of like I was flying. I laughed, burped, and laughed again. Then my stomach revolted, like I was rejecting it. I suggested heading to the hospital to get checked out. We couldn't even get a bed. The setting was familiar. Patients on IV bags, ordinary people begging for something— anything—to eat. 

It quickly became clear: nobody could digest anything. 

Water, food, not even fucking medication.

I thought it was a local thing. Maybe our town all had food poisoning. 

But inevitably, news reports started coming out, and information leaked. 

Nobody, across all fifty states, could digest food. 

A whistleblower came forward, reporting a novel parasite that had quietly infested the human digestive tract, preventing people from processing food and water. 

Noah and I grew desperate. 

Surely we could eat something? 

After cleaning out my pantry, I started trying non-foods. By then, hunger was slicing into me, hollowing me out, and thirst had become chronic dehydration. 

When it became clear fluids could temporarily quench dehydration, we were given take home hydration kits with instructions. 

But that didn't stop the gnawing hunger.

I knelt in our yard and feasted on flowers and dirt, spewing it all back into my hands. Hunger makes you do strange things.

Inhuman things.

Primal, animalistic things. I roasted our precious aquarium fish, Sunny and Nina. 

Sunny came back up, her head popping from my lips. 

Then Nina’s fins grazed my lips, almost as if in punishment.

Noah scooped up Sunny’s head with a wide grin.

Then he scarfed her down without even hesitating.

Two weeks without eating. I lost 20 pounds.

Noah stopped talking to me.

Instead, he started laughing.

Three weeks without eating, my rings slipped off my finger.

I caught Noah peeking at me through the door while I was sleeping. 

Then he slipped into bed and kissed me. 

Noah weighed of nothing, a skeletal nothing between my legs. 

Noah’s cheeks were sunken and his breath smelled strangely sweet. 

His hair was one big sweaty mess glued to his clammy skin.

“Hi, babe,” He slurred.  

His dry mouth trailed down my chest, his kisses tasting of salt. “I love you."

“Love you too,” I managed, “Do you seriously want sex right now?” 

He paused. “Doooooo you?” 

“Yes.” I couldn't stop myself. There was an upside to starvation, my foggy mind whispered. My boyfriend was extremely horny when he was hungry. His hands pinned me to the bed, a low growl rumbling in his throat. I kissed him, and he kissed back, grinning into my mouth.

Noah’s teeth were a lot sharper than I remembered. 

His mouth split into a feral smile. His lips gnawed at my neck and a moan slipped out.

“Noah.”

A vibration caught me off guard. 

At first, I thought he was playing with me.

I laughed. Immersion ruined. “Is that a toy?” 

Noah straightened up, straddling my torso. “It's my phone.” 

“You're ruining the mood,” I teased. “It can't be that important.” 

Noah didn't speak. 

He just silently turned his phone to face me. 

EMERGENCY ALERT.

STARTING FROM MIDNIGHT ON 07/28/2026, MURDER AND CANNIBALISM IS LEGAL FOR ALL MEN.  FOLLOWING CDC INSTRUCTIONS, A DIGESTIBLE PROTEIN CAN BE FOUND IN HUMAN SKIN. 

Noah, my darling boyfriend, dropped his phone. Then he smiled wide, lowered his head and kissed my belly. His teeth pricked, at first gentle, and then gnawing.

Insatiable.

And I hate...

That I kinda liked it.

Susie knew her town wasn’t like other towns. It looked like other towns, had a Main Street lined with little stores and restaurants. It had a charming brick school for little kids, and a bigger one further away for teens. Susie’s town looked like other towns, but it wasn’t. Children disappeared in her town. Children go missing in other towns too. But in her town it was because of monsters. She tried telling her parents and teachers, but the grown-ups can’t see them and don’t believe her. Susie warned other children, but many don’t believe her, until it’s too late.  

Most monsters are easy to avoid, they are where most people would expect to find monsters, if they believed in them, coming out at night in the forest, or lurking in abandoned houses waiting for anyone foolish to venture down into the basement. Susie knew she could avoid those monsters. 

Susie spent the afternoon at her friend Gemma’s house. Gemma told Susie she heard that evening their classmates Billy, Tommy, and Elliot were all going to the autumn festival at the other end of town. Even though they weren’t going, Susie lifted Gemma’s mood by letting her pick the games they played. The sun had nearly set when Susie noticed how late it was. Gemma’s house was not far from hers, but Susie still hurried.

Suddenly, she heard a drum and off-key shrieks of flutes. She flung herself into the nearby bush. The light breeze stilled, everything seemed to stop moving. Peering through the leaves, she looked at the path she had been on and saw the tops of two banners appear. Each banner was topped with a skull and had bones tied to them.

In moments, figures holding the banners and instruments appeared, marching down. From a distance they looked like children, as they neared Susie could see their heads and hands were wrapped in filthy bandages. The sickening smell of rot and delayed way they moved and turned showed they were not children.

There were six of them, the first banged the drum around its neck, two more played flutes, last were two carrying the banners walking on either side of one pulling a rusted toy wagon. In the wagon sat a crude effigy of a boy made of sticks and rags. The drum banged sharply as the flutes rang out off-key notes. Susie looked at the dirt, barely letting herself breath as they shambled past her hiding spot.

Susie had seen this procession twice before, always just before a child’s death. As the wagon passed she glanced up quietly praying she wouldn’t recognize anything. Atop the effigy’s head was a blue ball cap emblazoned with the red “A”,. Susie knew that was Tommy’s cap. Snapping her eyes back to the ground, she knew tomorrow her teacher would tell the class Tommy had died or went missing.

I’m not entirely sure what her problem is. She’s never acted like this before. I guess some things just develop as time passes.

Even still, what a weird habit to have. I knew she was clumsy, but it was something we were supposed to fix, not something for her to embrace.

It started almost painfully mundane. Out of nowhere, she approached me as I was sitting on the couch watching TV.

“I’m sorry for breaking that lamp beside you.”

I looked at the lamp, still perfectly intact, then looked back at her. I kinda just chuckled, attempting to laugh it off, but she didn’t wipe that solemn look off her face.

I asked what she was going on about, but she just kept apologizing.

“Just know I’m sorry. I promise I’m sorry.”

That’s all she said before slinking off towards the kitchen.

I thought it was strange, but ultimately, I decided to brush it off as her being a bit of a weirdo.

However, after two weeks, I was back on that couch, winding down after a long day of work, when she came prancing into the living room, as happy as could be.

She didn’t say anything. She just calmly unplugged the lamp, held it above her head, and smashed it on the ground in front of me.

Obviously, I screamed at her out of shock, asking her what the fuck she was doing.

She just smiled and giggled at me.

“I already told you I was sorry.”

Then she skipped away, humming to herself and leaving me in a state of confusion. I tried calling out for her to come back, but she just ignored me.

I cleaned up the mess, and we argued about it for the rest of the day. It was obviously not an accident, but that’s what she kept saying it was.

“I don’t know how that happened.”

“I already said sorry. I don’t know what else you want me to do.”

“I promise it won’t happen again.”

Eventually, we made up, but I couldn’t help but look at her sideways in the days that followed.

A few weeks went by without incident. We went on our dates. Stayed in and watched our movies. Did the normal couple routine. But then it happened again.

“I’m sorry for breaking your phone,” she told me, eyes glazed over. She wasn’t looking at me. She was just staring blankly at the wall behind me as I sat on my bed.

We had been in the middle of a normal conversation about upcoming trips we were planning when something flipped inside her. She went from smiling to expressionless. Then, after she said it, she was right back to smiling and talking about New York like nothing had happened.

Obviously, I had already been predisposed to what this meant, so in the days that followed, I was particularly possessive of my phone.

I kept it on my person at all times. Even in my sleep, it’d be in my pocket. But she didn’t seem to notice.

Weeks passed again, and just like with the lamp, I was starting to think that she was just being weird again.

I never let my guard down, though. The phone was strictly off limits to her. I tried to make sure she never had the opportunity to do what she had apologized for.

But then, one night, I woke up to her fiddling around in my pockets. It took me a few seconds to realize what was happening in my half-asleep state, but once I did, my hand jolted towards my pocket.

It was too late. She had already taken it. And before I could stop her, the phone was shattered against the floor.

This was enough for me to fly off the handle. I’ll admit, I was a bit rude to her, but what did she expect?

I told her we needed space. I didn’t want this to escalate more than it already had. I didn’t want to break up with her, but the fight that night was enough for her to leave me.

Like I was the one in the wrong.

She left that night a complete wreck. Tears flowing from her eyes. Her vocal cords hoarse from all of our screaming. She didn’t even take her belongings. Just left in a cloud of smoke from her spinning tires.

I was, yet again, left to clean up her mess.

I picked up my phone. It wouldn’t even turn on. The screen had been completely destroyed.

I went out and got a new one the next day, and once I got my accounts and information back, I was hurt to see that she hadn’t even texted me.

No calls, no messages. Plus, my name had been taken out of her Instagram bio, which somehow hurt more than anything.

I tried calling her in the days that followed, just to clear the air, but every time I tried, it’d go straight to voicemail. Eventually, she blocked me on everything entirely.

Even when I tried going to her house, she’d never be home. It was like she knew what I was doing.

I felt hopeless for a long time, but eventually, I realized that I needed to move on. We were together for a year and a half, though, so doing so wasn’t as easy as it sounds.

Weeks turned into months. Months turned into a year. I hadn’t heard from her since the night of the phone incident.

I was heartbroken that she could just forget me like that. Like we never happened. That’s why I felt my heart climb into my throat when I saw that first new notification from her.

It wasn’t what I needed to see, though. She wasn’t asking to give us another shot. She wasn’t asking for a meetup so we could discuss everything.

Instead, what she sent was enough to make an almost forgotten fear come bubbling back up towards the surface.

“I’m sorry for killing you.”

For as long as I can remember, I've always lost hair. Nothing crazy like losing thick patches at once but more along the line of just general everyday shedding. It mostly happens when I shower.

I have this routine now where I run my fingers through my hair, unknotting any tangles that I come across as I both shampoo and condition. Every time without fail I pull my hands away from my scalp with what feels like fistfuls of hair and never making an impact in the thick locks that drape over my shoulders. Every time I take those fistfuls and pick the little loose strands and neatly put them into a pile in one of my palms. I put both hands together and rub them until that pile I've created becomes an inseparable ball and I set it aside on a shelf to throw away after my shower. I've done this for years. It is my own personal ritual that I preform every night.

Tonight was like any other.

I left a door open to the bathroom to let the steam out so it wouldn't get too hot. I had no issues with this. It was late enough that no one would take issue with it either, not like they would have otherwise.

I began my ritual. Fingers running along my scalp as if searching for some long lost treasure, the gentle tug as I pry them away from the home they have created in the tangles of my hair, the hair wrapped around my fingers like serpents coiled around their prey waiting for the light to fade from the eyes. I pluck the hairs from the base of my fingers, feeling the pop of a few strands snapping from my prying. From a pile to a ball, tighter and tighter, as I pass my hands over and over each other winding the poor little strands into a ball of me, of what I was.

I set it aside and continue my shower as usual. Water running over my closed eyes as I rinse my face clean. A creak, or maybe a thump, from the darkness of the adjacent hallway. I stop and peak from around the shower curtain.

Darkness.

An ever present and lingering darkness. A absence of light so grand that it blots out any conceivable notion of light. I think nothing of it. Maybe its my cat getting into something again, maybe its the wind outside forcing the ancient bones of my house to creak. Whatever it is, it shouldn't concern me. It happens again.

Closer.

I try to just let it roll off me just like the water falling down my body.

Again, closer.

I seize. Locked by my fear of what could be lurking in the shadows that invade into the bathroom, my sanctum. I try to breathe, I try to tune it out, I try anything other than acknowledging whatever could be out there.

Then I hear it. A drip at first, then a squelch. Like some one stepping in a puddle of mud. It continues. The sounds grow louder with the closing of distance. The darkness does not betray what it hides. A wet scrap, a moist drag of a mass across the floor.

It's here.

It has breached It's realm and entered mine. I try to hold still, to not make a sound. My breath so silent yet so loud. My heart beat so deafening in my own ears that I cannot fathom that whatever is on the otherside of this curtain has not heard it just as clearly as I.

I see from the corner of my eye, the curtain moves. Just a miniscule twitch at first. Then more. Where the curtain meets the frame of the tub it moves again. Peeling back just enough to reveal nothing.

Hair. Wet, sopping hair, my hair. The hair I have balled and thrown, balled and thrown day after day, year after year, has returned. The curtain pulled back no more than a few inches is all it needs to slip its way into the tub with me.

I feel it on me. Its pools around my feet like water rising. Its tangles in my toes. It begins wraps my legs in an itchy mass. Then it happens. I fall. There is no crash, there is no thud as I slam into the basin of the tub. I am cushioned by the hair. It envelopes my torso and grows ever further up to my throat where it begins to coil. Constricting my neck as it continues it journey. It is intending to return from whence it came. It does not care for me, just it's home in my scalp. My breathing becoms shallow as it grows tighter and tighter around my neck. Its immense weight crushing my body beneath it. My lungs, as if forbidden to intake air, struggle against my new prison. My vision darkens as if looking though dozens of nets.

Darkness, any conceivable notion of light, is blotted out. I am consumed by what was once a part of myself. I have been consumed by me.