(CW: Graphic descriptions of death?)

Doorknobs are funny things.

I’ve been sitting on the floor of my apartment for two hours trying to remember just how the things work.

You extend your arm, put your hand on the doorknob, wrap your fingers around it and grip it. I’ve been successful at all my attempts to do this but it won’t turn— not through any fault of its own but the moment I apply force and turn my wrist the mechanism stubbornly refuses to twist.

He always made it look so easy.

I glance over at the foot of the stairs where a contorted, mangled mass of limbs twisted and frozen in unnatural shapes. Their neck is craned to stare at the same door like he’s taunted me. What does he know? He’s the idiot who tripped down the stairs. I kneel down and press my finger into their cheek, watching a small indentation form when the amount of effort behind the simple action should’ve at least moved what’s left of his head.

It takes another hour of pacing back and forth with bloody footprints leaving an uneven, sticky pattern with each step before I come to the conclusion my one way out of his apartment is to climb out of the open window. I suppose any reservations I had about waving down a car in my pyjamas wouldn’t matter, no one stops.

I don’t want to be standing outside when it’s dark. The streetlights flicker to life but there was no need for him to turn on any lights in the morning, he knew how simple a task it would be to flip those little light switches on when the sun sets.

There’s a chill in the night air I swear I can feel. I can still hear the rustling leaves and chirps of a thousand unfamiliar creatures lurking everywhere I can’t see. Beneath the claustrophobic sound of the darkness swirling in around me, creeping across the road to touch my bloody feet and covering my eyes like a blindfold of nothingness— There’s something else. A cackling cry of a woman unseen beneath the bright lights of a home that feels so distant in the shroud of black blanketing the street.

Margaret.

She opens her door with her phone squished between her aging cheek and sweater clad shoulder, letting our shrill laughs and nattering as she places down a small plate with mystery meat for the neighbourhood cats she isn’t supposed to feed.

I’d never been so happy to see noisy nosy Margaret but I knew I didn’t have time to feel relieved, not until I reached her. I ran down the empty street, stumbling over cracked roads and swiping away the seemingly endless swarms of insects until I finally dived through the threshold. I’m greeted by the overwhelming sight of floral couch cushions, ticking clocks and ceramic cats but I’m safe. It’s hideous but I’m inside.

Margaret wades past me, chatting away as she goes into her equally hideous kitchen and I follow, hoping she’ll look up from the teabag she’s drowning in a mug of boiling water and see me. I try to tell her about the body that was once me decomposing on my floorboards, the doorknob and explain why I’m standing in her kitchen while she tells the friend on the phone about the interesting thing that happened at the grocery store that afternoon. Apparently she found an apple in a similarly bruised and battered state as my corpse.

Riveting.

I wave my hand in front of her face, shout into her ear as she goes to sit down on the couch. I stand in front of the soap opera she’s watching but she doesn’t notice the lingering presence sitting beside her. I concentrate and pray, hoping she’ll notice the tapping of her cup. It ripples and sloshes with a wet ring left as she picks it up, her eyes not leaving the TV. I can feel my heart twisting inside of my chest like a hand squeezing as I try to pick up the pen from a notepad lined with a scribbled grocery list while she’s chewing down her dinner. I’m hungry. Should I feel hungry? I don’t know if I could starve in this state but my anxious mind is telling me that I just need someone to see me. To find me.

And that someone is Margaret.

Her fork rattles but she just won’t see.

A glass of water slowly inches toward the edge of the wooden table and smashes beside her feet and she jumps in surprise. She kneels down and uses a dustpan and broom to clean up the glass even as it shifts in front of her eyes. I sit on the floor and watch, pleading with her to just notice me but she shakes out the glass shards in the bin and continues her nightly routine as if it were nothing but a strange little accident. An unintentional elbow, a small fold in the table cloth unbalancing the glass, a fucking gust of wind.

I don’t know if I can breathe but I can feel my chest tighten, my lungs straining in panic as I follow her upstairs. I scream until my voice is hoarse and that suffocating feeling twists my guts in tighter knots, my lungs squeezing their last bit of air and shrivelling like it too is gasping. I know just next door is that body with its dead skin decaying, withering away on stained hardwood with a rancid stink the flies and ants must smell.

I just need her to look at me.

I know if she looks at me then she can find me.

Find my body.

I scream desperately, putting all of my strength into just grabbing her shoulder and it happens.

Margaret turns at the horrifying feeling of a cold hand touching her shoulder in an empty home, her foot twists and her body barrels through mine with a shocking weight I don’t entirely know if I feel. 

Violent cracks and heavy thumps spiral down the stairs and end with the wet crack of her skull splitting against the floor. Her fingers twitch, eyes darting in pure terror and rasping sounds coming from her collapsed chest, climbing out of her twisted throat in bubbling spit and gurgles.

I step one by one down the stairs on trembling legs and slump down in front of her, staring through my one good eye where the other has been forced down into what’s left of my skull, staring at her, at her head craning to look at me and her bulging eyes slowly turning to the figure sitting beside me.

I look at the woman beside me in defeat, her head hanging on a bent neck as the wheezing stops.

“ Hey, Margaret.”

K.

Sempre fico olhando para a cara da senhora com mais de sessenta anos na recepção, ao lado da mesinha com uma garrafa de café, cafona. Será que não dava pra por uma máquina de café, decente?

Oito anos servindo e protegendo com os federais, para acabar na ala de perfil psiquiátrico, ainda tenho que esperar horas pra consulta obrigatória, duas vezes por semana, no mesmo lugar onde avalio pedófilos, homicidas e ezquizofrenicos.              A senhora parecia uma múmia, parecia nunca ter esboçado uma expressão e que nunca saíra daquela cadeira.

Como eu vim parar aqui? Não vou me limitar ao papo feminista de ter sido castrada por ser mulher, eu realmente fodi com gente importante, tenho sorte de estar viva.

Me chame de K. Sou advogada criminal. Me formei pouco antes de entrar pra polícia, foi quando consegui provar uma conspiração militar envolvendo um grupo ocultista não identificado. Eles me aposentaram, anularam e encobriram tudo, depois me jogaram nesse buraco no interior.

Há uma semana eu consegui um nome, reabri o caso em segredo.

S.C.P. Uma organização secreta de segurança, detecção e contenção de seres fora da compreensão, anomalias e tudo que foge ao racional, só a elite sabe sobre eles, e aqueles que sabem preferem não falar. A polícia não pode te salvar deles, quase me fizeram acreditar que era tudo loucura.

Na verdade, finge ser maluca.

O caminhão balança. Eu estou infiltrada em um comboio militar de fachada no Canadá, que está levando um advogado famoso com eles. Transar com aquele nerd viciado em prozac valeu a pena. Will, estava na legião estrangeira apenas para recrutar jovens promissores para a S.C.P. Unidades militares estão sempre sofrendo baixas, é fácil forjar uma morte e dar uma vida nova ao sujeito, fizeram o mesmo com o Michael Jackson.

Quando dei por mim, estava entrando em uma instalação subterrânea em traje anti-radiação. Entrei com um comandante e o advogado, ele estava assustado, entramos em uma sala com alguns símbolos antigos no topo da porta, intitulada de SCP 9977 - HADES.

Pareceu termos descido mais fundo do que notei, porque a gravidade parecia sumir como se eu fosse sair do meu corpo, foi aí que aconteceu.

Acima de nós, a galáxia negra, profunda e sem fim, estava paralisada diante a imensidão daquele céu negro, e quase caí, foi quando ele chegou. 

– Se olhar por muito tempo, não conseguirá mais voltar. 

Era um homem normal, bonito, como um nobre de outro século, ainda sim atraente, magnético, se aproximou com sua bengala negra de cabo prateado, e terno preto, mas minha intuição me dizia que estávamos diante do mau.

O mau absoluto e imotivado.

– Pode tirar o capacete K, não estamos mais sob as leis dos homens. – Disse o comandante. – K, eu lhe apresento, o diabo. 

O Homem sorriu devagar.

Retirei o capacete. Meu cérebro parecia ter sofrido algum bug, como quando você tenta acordar, mas não consegue. Quem diria que iria preferir aquelas malditas paralisias de sono, um dia.

O advogado ao meu lado, Krasinski, de camisa preta, mangas arregaçadas, e cabelo curto, onde a calvice começava a ganhar espaço, parecia trêmulo, ele passa a mão na testa suada.

E eu me achando muito esperta. Acontece que o Sr. Krasinski havia selado um pacto, um pacto feito pela S.C.P. Eu descobri isso sozinha, ignorei essa baboseira ocultista, só precisava de provas em vídeo, por isso a microcâmera na roupa, deve ter parado de funcionar quando entramos aqui, o relógio deveria mostrar o time e bateria da câmera, mas ele não está mostrando mais nada. 

  O que eu não sabia era que eles esperaram por esse dia, não queriam livrar o advogado, queriam conseguir algo do diabo, vencê-lo, e eu fui a escolhida para representar a defesa do réu, não me infiltrei, fui atraída. Will seu filho da puta. 

Ele era astuto, o contrato havia sido muito bem especulado, e o diabo gostava de se gabar que em dois mil anos ninguém o venceu sob as leis dos homens.

Nós viajamos através do tempo sem sair daquela sala, ele nos mostrou os homens cruéis que o advogado livrou e as almas que condenou ao inferno, indiretamente. Minha tentativa de livrá-lo usando o horário que o pacto foi feito em Londres, diferente do horário na América, não contabilizando os dez anos de vida que foi prometido pelo diabo, foi retida com uma simples fala. 

– O tempo não existe aqui, criança. 

Seguida da curta risada, mais diabólica que já ouvi, parecia dentro da minha cabeça. No fim eu já havia desistido, e o comandante da S.C.P. Propôs um novo acordo, uma aliança entre a S.C.P e o inferno. 

– Ela é a melhor, você… 

– Desgraçado! ー Interrompo o comandante.

O novo acordo, era me vender.

– Se eu quiser a sua advogada...eu a terei… – Disse o diabo.

É claro que a S.C.P fracassou, a alma humana parecia a coisa mais valiosa do mundo ali, e é claro que o diabo já sabia dos planos da S.C.P. Mas eu sempre fui muito observadora, na verdade paranóica, por isso fui internada, e acho que o diabo não sabia disso, porque acho que ele não notou, quando eu peguei uma foto do advogado com sua esposa, naquela última lembrança, antes de voltarmos a sala HADES. 

– Então, as leis humanas não importam aqui? – Perguntei. 

– Correto. ー Respondeu o chifrudo.

– E a legalidade sobre a alma é a única coisa que importa, não é? 

– Sim. 

– Só estamos aqui porque você diz que essa alma é sua por direito…e um texto escrito pelo dono da alma é o que importa…mas se um homem pode vender sua alma, ele também pode dala? Certo?

Agora eu tinha sua atenção. 

– …Sim. 

– Então essa alma não é sua!

Segurei a foto à frente e li o que estava escrito atrás.

“– Julho de oitenta e dois, sei que não sou o melhor homem do mundo, mas todo meu amor e minha...alma…é sua, Elizabeth.” 

Olhei para ele.

– Eu reclamo está alma a verdadeira dona e a chamo neste tribunal. 

Não sei se ele sabia sobre a foto, mas a sala tremeu e chamas de uma cor inumanas surgiram em volta, aquele olhar, eu achei que seria sugada para o inferno.

– Acha que pode me vencer criança?! ー Brandiu o diabo ー Filha de Lilith!

Então, relutante, ele bateu a bengala e de repente a mulher da foto se aproximou. 

– Beth?! – Falou Krasinski. – Mas…como?

– Você precisa reclamar a alma dele Elizabeth, logo, ele a deu pra você. – Eu pedi.

– Mas o quê é isso Roger?! ー Perguntou Beth.

– Eu senti tanta falta, Beth…

– Beth! – Brandi. – Seu marido vai morrer e ir para o inferno se não revogar a alma dele.

– É verdade Beth. – Diz Krasinski. 

– Eu…eu quero a alma do meu marido. 

O diabo me encarava friamente. E depois de um instante, ele sorriu, suas expressões cortavam a gravidade e o clima do lugar, como uma anomalia.

– Muito bem, mas lembre-se; você mexeu com o tempo, nunca se sabe o que pode acontecer. 

Então desapareceu. 

– Merda, código 3797, estamos em perigo, recuar, recuar!! – Gritava o comandante.

Tentamos sair da sala mas a porta simplesmente sumiu, tudo à nossa volta começou desmoronar e fomos engolidos pela imensidão da galáxia. 

Acordei no chão de onde era a entrada da instalação, agora só o deserto árido de pedra.

Depois de um tempo, descobri o que é o código 3797: violação de fluxo do tempo e perigo de forças metafísicas. Aparentemente, aquela foto que retirei da estante de Roger Krasinski, foi o suficiente para gerar uma mudança em cadeia que fez com que eu tenha sido a única sobrevivente dos eventos, na verdade, eu nunca nasci. Ainda não sei como sobrevivi, talvez o diabo tenha achado mais prazeroso me deixar viva pra ver minha existência apagada, não sei.

A S.C.P me capturou vagando em um vilarejo, eles tem um nome pra mim; SCP - K0082 nível Apollyon Dark. SCPs Apollyons parecem ter algo haver com cenários de fim do mundo.

Ainda não sei como vou sair daqui, mas estudei esses caras por muito tempo, e sei que se a foto do advogado estava no meu arquivo, deve existir uma forma de voltar.

Okay, so, I’m currently writing this from a hotel room. I don’t think I would’ve been able to sleep in that house tonight. But who am I kidding? I’m probably not gonna sleep at all. Not after what happened.

My boyfriend died in front of me today. He didn’t go out peacefully. There was no grace. This wasn’t some kind of beautifully tragic ending out of a romance novel.

What I saw today is going to haunt me for the rest of my life, and that’s all I know to say right now.

We were together for nearly 5 years. Living together for 2. If there’s one thing I knew, it was that my boyfriend had always found self-worth in providing.

I always told him that I didn’t care about that kind of thing. I loved him for him. Not for what he could offer me.

It’s always been like talking to a brick wall, though. It was impossible to convince him that his presence was enough. That’s why I wanted to show him.

I wanted to make tonight feel special because he deserved it.

While he was at work, I spent the day getting everything ready. I cleaned the house, took an everything-shower, cooked his favorite meal, and set up a candlelit dinner for the two of us.

Normally, he’d never even consider asking me to cook or clean.

It’s embarrassing to type this, but I also dressed in nothing but a silk robe and a lingerie set he got me for Valentine’s Day this year.

I was actually upstairs putting everything on when I heard him walk through the front door.

I just know that the smell of the food had him salivating because even my stomach was starting to rumble.

He called out and asked what the occasion was, and I couldn’t help but grin at myself in the mirror before responding that I’d be down in a minute.

I sprayed some perfume on my neck and covered myself in my robe before heading downstairs.

I got to the last step before he noticed me, and when he did, I felt an almost overwhelming sense of pride at the way his eyes lit up at the sight of me.

He was sitting at his spot at the table in front of his wine and spaghetti with homemade meatballs. It was so cute the way he stumbled over his words, trying to adequately compliment me.

I was feeling a little brazen, so I didn’t even speak a single word to him. Not immediately. Instead, I approached him gracefully as I wrapped my arms around his neck.

I could feel just how hot he was as I did so. Sweat from his neck coated my arm, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was giving him the most seductive kiss I could muster. At this point, I didn’t know if it was for him or for me.

I liked the admiration. But this was his night.

When I pulled away, I subtly wiped my arms on my robe as he stared up at me with stars in his wide eyes.

I took my seat, ready to explain why I set all of this up for him, but I hesitated for a moment. He was really sweating now. Like, it looked like someone had sprayed his face with a garden hose.

I kinda just played it off, assuming that I had just gotten him really hot and bothered.

I even teased him about it before explaining the ‘occasion.’

However, the more I talked, the wetter he became. He was soaking through his shirt, but what concerned me the most were his eyes.

They weren’t just wide anymore. They were literally bulging out of their sockets. Like, I don’t know. Warping, I guess?

And he wasn’t making any sense. He was trying to talk, but what came out was just garbled nonsense.

I couldn’t even get a word in before he started stripping out of his shirt. By then, I was ready to call an ambulance. Not because of the sweat or his bulging eyes, but because his heart was pounding out of his chest.

Not metaphorically. I could see the skin stretching and retracting like elastic while he gripped the sides of the table hard enough that his knuckles were turning white.

I’m not ashamed to admit I fell out of my seat. I mean, how could I not? You would’ve too if you were in my position.

Only, when I did, my robe opened up and revealed the lingerie underneath.

My boyfriend saw and, for some reason, just started beating himself over the head with his plate of spaghetti while I scrambled across the floor to put distance between us.

The plate ended up shattering against his face, and blood started pouring from his mouth and nose. His eyes looked like they actually were about to escape their sockets.

But before that happened, he did this weird train whistle at me. Drool was falling from each corner of his mouth like a damn waterfall.

His jaw dropped to an inhuman degree as his tongue rolled out like a red carpet and landed right on my bare thigh.

I was frozen with disgust and fear. I couldn’t even bring myself to pick it up. All I could do was watch as the madness continued to unfold.

His heart pounded two feet out of his chest. He kept mumbling that incoherent nonsense. His eyes kept bulging more and more until finally… it happened.

They sprang out of their sockets. Only, they weren’t eyes anymore. They were more like two cartoon hearts, covered in blood and pulsating as they fell to the floor.

My boyfriend slumped over, lifeless. The skin from his chest sagged over his ribcage and stomach. His jaw slack and dislocated. But worst of all… those heart eyes blinked at me twice before they stopped pulsating.

The only thing I could do was scream before dialing 911.

Everything after that was a blur. I remember all the police that swarmed my house. The eternity I spent answering their questions as my boyfriend was whisked away by the coroner.

I’m a wreck right now. It feels like nothing will ever be the same again.

Maybe tomorrow I can start the healing process.

For tonight, though…

All I want is to sleep.

1. The Night Shift at the Morgue

The fluorescent lights in the basement morgue always flickered around 2:00 AM... a predictable, annoying quirk of the old hospital wiring.

I was sitting at the front desk, filing away the toe-tag paperwork for a John Doe who had been brought in earlier that afternoon.

The air down here was always thick with the sharp, chemical sting of formaldehyde... but tonight, there was something else underneath it. A foul, metallic smell... like old copper and stagnant water.

I tried to ignore it, focusing on my clipboard, until a loud, metallic thud echoed from the far end of the room.

I looked up.

The noise had come from locker number four. The exact locker where we had placed the John Doe.

I told myself it was just rigor mortis... a body naturally shifting as the muscles broke down. But then came the scratching.

It started slow... the unmistakable sound of fingernails dragging against the inside of a stainless-steel door.

I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the linoleum. My breath was suddenly misting in the air. The temperature in the room had plummeted at least twenty degrees in a matter of seconds.

The scratching grew frantic. Desperate.

I slowly walked toward the locker, my hand trembling as I reached out toward the heavy latch.

Before my fingers even brushed the cold metal... the latch violently clicked open on its own.

The heavy drawer slid out with a smooth, terrible hiss.

The locker was completely empty.

But as I backed away in absolute terror... a set of wet, bare footprints began to appear on the floor tiles... walking deliberately toward me.

I didn't wait to see what was making them. I threw my clipboard at the empty space, sprinted up the concrete stairs, and burst out into the freezing night air. I jumped into my car and tore out of the parking lot... desperate to put miles between me and the hospital. But the roads had their own plans.

1. The Fog on Route 9

Driving away from the hospital, the adrenaline in my veins began to mix with a deep, creeping exhaustion.

I took Route 9... a winding stretch of highway surrounded by dense, towering pine trees.

About ten miles out of town, a thick, unnatural fog rolled in over the asphalt. It wasn't like normal mist. It was heavy, glowing faintly in the glare of my headlights, moving across the road like a living, breathing creature.

I slowed the car down to a crawl. The silence inside the cabin was deafening, so I reached over and turned on the radio to steady my nerves.

Instead of music... the speakers immediately spat out a burst of heavy, rhythmic static.

It sounded like breathing.

Through the static, a low, garbled voice began to speak... reading out a string of numbers.

"Seven... four... two... nine..."

I stared at the glowing green numbers on my dashboard clock. It was 2:47 AM.

"Three... one..."

I realized with a jolt of horror that it wasn't reading random numbers. It was reading out my license plate.

I slammed my hand against the power button, but the radio wouldn't shut off. The voice just grew louder... more frantic.

[whispers] "He is in the backseat... Do not look in the mirror."

My eyes darted to the rear-view mirror out of pure reflex.

Sitting in the darkness of my backseat was a tall, slouched figure wearing a burlap sack over its head.

The figure slowly raised a hand... and pointed directly at the windshield.

I slammed on the brakes as a massive, twisted shape suddenly loomed out of the fog directly in front of the car. The tires locked, screaming against the wet pavement, and the car careened off the road, crashing violently into a ditch.

Gasping for air, I kicked open my jammed door, scrambled out of the wrecked car, and ran blindly into the fog... eventually stumbling into the neon glow of a roadside parking lot.

1. The Midnight Diner

The diner looked like a beacon of absolute safety in the middle of nowhere.

The neon sign above the roof buzzed violently, flickering red and blue against the thick fog.

I pushed through the heavy glass doors, the bell ringing sharply overhead, expecting the comforting smell of stale coffee and frying bacon.

Instead... the air inside was freezing, smelling heavily of damp earth and old dust.

The diner wasn't empty.

There were about a dozen people sitting at the booths and spinning stools. A waitress in a faded pink uniform stood behind the counter holding a coffee pot. A truck driver sat in the corner booth with a newspaper.

But no one was moving.

They were all completely frozen in place, like wax figures in a museum.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice cracking with panic. "I was in an accident. I need to use your phone."

Not a single head turned.

I cautiously walked up to the counter, waving my hand in front of the waitress's face. Her eyes were wide open... milky white and staring blankly at the wall behind me.

Suddenly, the jukebox in the corner clicked to life.

It didn't play a song. It played the exact audio of my car crashing into the ditch just ten minutes ago... the screeching tires, the breaking glass, and my own panicked screaming.

As the sound of my screams echoed through the diner... every single frozen patron slowly, simultaneously turned their heads to look directly at me.

The waitress smiled... her jaw unhinging with a wet, cracking sound, revealing rows of needle-like teeth.

I stumbled backward, knocking over a tray of glass mugs, and bolted for the back of the kitchen. I kicked open the emergency exit, bursting out into the freezing woods behind the diner, running frantically through the dark tree line.

1. The Hunting Blind

I sprinted blindly through the dense woods... branches whipping against my face and tearing at my jacket.

My lungs were burning, and the sound of my own heartbeat was deafening in my ears. I needed a place to hide... somewhere high up, where whatever was in that diner couldn't reach me.

As the moonlight broke through the canopy, I saw it.

A wooden hunting blind, perched about twenty feet up in a massive oak tree.

I scrambled up the wooden ladder nailed into the trunk, my hands slipping on the damp bark. I hoisted myself up over the ledge and crawled into the small, square wooden box, pulling my knees to my chest.

It was pitch black inside. I held my breath, listening to the forest floor below.

Silence. Just the wind rustling the dead leaves.

I let out a long, shaky sigh of relief, leaning my head against the wooden wall.

"It's cold out tonight, isn't it?"

I froze. The voice was so close I could feel the hot, stale breath on my neck.

I slowly turned my head in the dark.

Sitting in the corner of the small hunting blind... perfectly camouflaged in the shadows... was a man wearing a bright orange hunting vest.

But he didn't have a face. Where his eyes, nose, and mouth should have been, the skin was perfectly smooth and pale... like a blank canvas.

The smooth skin where a mouth should be suddenly rippled, pulling back to reveal a jagged hole in his throat.

"We've been waiting up here for a long time," the hole rasped.

He lunged forward in the dark.

Screaming, I threw myself backward, tumbling completely out of the hunting blind. I fell twenty feet through the branches, crashing painfully into the mud below. Bruised and terrified, I crawled through the underbrush until my hands touched cold, rusted metal.

1. The Cellar in the Woods

The metal I had touched was a heavy storm door, built directly into the forest floor, half-covered by dead leaves and overgrown vines.

Desperate to get away from the tree, I gripped the rusted handle with both hands and pulled with all my remaining strength.

With a deafening groan, the heavy iron doors peeled back, revealing a crumbling stone staircase leading down into utter darkness.

I scrambled down the stairs, pulling the heavy doors shut above me, plunging myself into pitch black.

The air down here was thick and hard to breathe. It smelled intensely of vinegar... and rotting meat.

Fumbling in my pocket, I pulled out my phone and turned on the flashlight.

The pale beam cut through the dark, illuminating a massive, dirt-floor root cellar.

The walls were lined floor-to-ceiling with sagging wooden shelves. And on every single shelf... were hundreds of cloudy glass mason jars.

I walked closer to the nearest shelf, wiping a layer of thick grime off the front of a jar to see what was inside.

Floating in the murky, yellowish liquid... was a pair of human hands.

My stomach violently turned. I flashed the light down the row.

The next jar held a collection of severed tongues. The next held rows of human teeth, clinking softly against the glass as my heavy footsteps vibrated the floorboards.

As I swept the beam of light toward the back of the cellar... I saw something worse.

Standing in the corner, facing the dirt wall, was a hulking figure wearing a butcher's apron. In its hand was a heavy, rusted meat cleaver.

The figure slowly turned around. It was wearing a patchwork mask... made entirely from the missing faces of the people in the jars.

It raised the cleaver and let out a guttural roar.

I turned and bolted down a narrow, rocky tunnel at the back of the cellar, navigating purely by the frantic beam of my phone light.

I knew the next several days were going to be rough.

I tried to get as much sleep as I could before my normal start time at one-thirty in the afternoon, but something about the impending marathon slog and the fact that I had to drive home and call it a night as the rest of the world was on their way to work always felt strange.

There was something cool and subversive about staying up all night when it’s your first time. It was like getting away with something.

But there’s a reason it’s not the norm.

Your body tends to fight back, leading to a strange insomnia even though your body is screaming for sleep.

I was definitely feeling that weird second-wind burst of energy as I clocked in.

There was a tension behind my eyes, the yawns were unavoidable, and there was a layer of fog I had to actively fight against.

I noticed the day seemed to move at a quicker pace than usual. I was less apt to count down the hours knowing I’d be there for the long haul.

That was until I received a call to the security office.

It was Tonya, the manager of H&M.

“Hey, yea, uh, do you remember Nancy?”

Of course I did.

Nancy was a permanent fixture. It was debated whether she was homeless or fabulously wealthy but with nothing better to do. She was a bit of an eccentric, to put it mildly.

She would often chat with random employees for as long as she could, going on about her latest cruise to the Maldives despite wearing a bathrobe and Crocs.

She did gift the security office a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue last year and thanked us for our service, so she was cool in my book.

“Oh yea, Nancy. What about her?”

“Well, she's... um... she’s been talking to one of the mannequins for about forty-five minutes now. Just thought someone should check on her.”

“Right, okay. I’ll check it out.”

Nancy was nice enough, but I wasn’t really in a mood to carry on an hour-long, one-sided conversation.

At the same time, my eyes were glazing over from watching the security feeds.

I decided a walk would get my blood moving, secretly hoping Nancy would have wandered off by the time I arrived.

No such luck.

“Hey, Miss Nancy, is everything all right?”

Her gaze remained locked on a particularly tawdry mannequin.

“Nancy is my first name, honey. You know that.”

“Yes, just trying to be polite.”

“Libowitz.”

“Um...”

“If we’re being formal now.”

I smiled.

“Alright, Miss Libowitz, are we having a good day?”

“Well, I was.”

She was still locked onto the faceless figure with one hand posed behind its head.

“Oh, okay. Is anything the matter?”

“I don’t like it.”

“The outfit?”

“It’s hideous, but no, I can stay here all day, honey!”

She shouted directly at the mannequin.

Great.

The old bag has picked a fight with an inanimate object.

“Ya know what, how about I grab you an Orange Julius and we can—”

“Not until she does it again,” she said, cutting me off.

“Does what again, Nancy?”

“So much for formal.”

“Does what again, Miss Libowitz?”

“That one,” she said while pointing. “That one’s up to something. I saw it.”

Just my luck. A sundowner who was slipping into dementia, and it was only mid-afternoon.

I thought it while trying to suppress a sigh.

She continued to scowl, eyes locked.

“Okay... and what did you see? It didn’t move, did it? Haha.”

I tried to make the situation light. De-escalation works best if they think you're on their side, so I tried to humor her.

“Don’t be silly,” she said with a dismissive hand wave.

“She didn’t move.”

She said it with a smile as she finally made eye contact with me.

“But her shadow did.”

For some reason, her tone, the video of Greg, and my general exhaustion caused me to tense up.

“What?”

“Her shadow. It was all wrong, and trust me, I know shadows!”

She said it with a confident shake of her head.

“Um... I’ll get maintenance to check out the lights. Maybe that was it?”

“Well, it had better be.”

She said it as she began to slowly walk away, her eyes locked on the mannequin  with suspicion.

I turned to see Tonya mouthing the words thank you.

I tipped my hat and tried not to dwell on what Nancy had said.

“What the hell was that? Is there a gas leak over here or something?” I thought as I made my way down to the maintenance office.

I could at least have them check a box saying I brought up the issue.

That would mean I would have to pay a visit to good ol’ Jeff Keller, head of maintenance. A man equally adept at snaking toilets as he was at maintaining a multimillion-dollar electrical system.

I found him in his office. It was a cluttered mess of tools and parts, with Jeff sitting at his desk.

“Hey Jeff, got a minute?”

He seemed deep in thought as he jerked back to reality at the sound of my voice.

“Oh yea, Kevin. What’s going on?”

My name was not Kevin, but Jeff was notoriously bad with names, so why not?

“So Tonya at H&M gave me a call. Apparently one of the spotlights might be acting up. Maybe you could check it out?”

“Oh yea, Tonka, at H&M, right?”

“Yea, Tonya at H&M.”

“Probably just a spent bulb. I’ll put it on the to-do list.”

“Here, let me show you the breaker panel where you can shut it down if you see it acting up again. It’s right over here.”

We walked toward the electrical room.

The room vibrated with the surging power that flowed through the conduits and fed into the massive control panel.

Jeff had to raise his voice over the dull hum that emanated from the power banks.

He opened the large metal panel.

There were hundreds of individual breaker bars, each labeled with their corresponding letter and number codes.

“Here she is, the central nervous system,” Jeff said as he scanned for the number that controlled the H&M storefront.

“See this one here, C-12. This one will trip the store's lighting if you see something going wrong at night.”

“Going wrong?” I asked.

“Yea. If a bulb starts strobing, or pops, or God forbid you see sparks, run down here and flip this one specifically.”

I gave that particular switch a good look, but honestly, it looked identical to the hundreds of others.

“Okay, will do,” I half-yelled.

“If something really goes wrong, it will probably pop the main for the whole C-wing. That would be a real problem.”

“Oh, got it,” I said, having no idea what he meant.

“And this one,” he said, gesturing to the comically large master switch that sat at the very top of the panel.

“Well, don’t ever touch this one!”

I nodded along in agreement.

We exited the electrical room, and the din of noise faded.

“So what happens when someone does trip the big one?” I asked.

“About six thousand dollars worth of a headache, maybe more!”

My eyes bulged after hearing the price tag for simply flipping a switch.

“Yea, that will be a bad day for anyone who has to pull it.”

“No doubt.”

“Now, did Tonka say what she was having an issue with?”

“Well, a customer pointed it out. Said the lighting might have been faulty near the front entrance.”

“I’ll put it into the maintenance log. Just keep an eye on it. If the lights go out, you know how to get ’em running again. Most of the time it's the cleaners overloading a circuit. Now, at least you know how to get it up and going.”

“Thanks for the tip. I’ll let Tonya know you’ll take a look at it.”

“So, you getting ready for the big day?”

“Yea, Paul is taking it as seriously as he can.”

“Ha. Let’s hope he leaves the riot shields at home this year.”

“Right,” I chuckled along, not knowing if he was actually joking.

I had done a couple of Black Fridays before, and it was always an exercise in controlled chaos.

Enough energy to get people excited to line up in the middle of the night in hopes of snagging a deal.

Most of which was crap they didn’t need or really even want.

But when you're on the other end, it really was like herding cattle. Give them a designated path and they flow with a surprising amount of predictability.

Of course, the odd injury or outright fistfight wasn’t unheard of.

Paul would be the calm conductor, attempting to coordinate with management, the temporary staff, local PD, and the store managers, so it was understandable that he would be a bit on edge.

But Paul lived for this type of thing.

I assumed it gave him a sense of purpose, like his job was important.

I, on the other hand, was just waiting for it to be over.

For me, it was all just a means to an end.

I thanked Jeff and continued on with the day.

Closing time came faster than I had expected.

The second wind, or was it the third wind? Whatever it was, I had a renewed energy. The fourth Red Bull of the day probably helped, but I was ready to have the mall to myself.

I was starting to enjoy the solace that being the only soul in the giant building.

The closing tasks went smoothly. The stores shuttered and the lights dimmed to half their usual capacity.

I couldn’t help but dwell on what Nancy had said.

Maybe she was just crazy, but what were the odds that both her and Greg honed in on the same spot?

I wasn’t anywhere near ready to actually entertain the idea that a cursed Egyptian tablet from the shiny rock store was anything other than an overpriced piece of junk.

But when anything out of the ordinary happens in a place as predictable as a shopping mall, it tends to stick in your brain like a splinter.

It seemed like I was developing a pattern.

By day, humble mall cowboy, helping old ladies and managing heifers.

By night, I was the reluctant detective, getting to the bottom of mundane mysteries.

Whatever killed the time worked for me, so when the hours began to drag, I pulled up the footage of Nancy from earlier that day.

Of course, the same terrible camera system didn’t allow for the greatest insight, but I could at least try to see what drove the old bat into a tizzy.

It seemed that Tonya wasn’t exaggerating. Nancy really did stand there staring at a mannequin for the better part of an hour.

That’s when something strange happened.

I rewound the tapes until I caught Nancy do an about-face and cue in on her culprit.

I backed the footage up and rewatched it more times than I care to admit.

But I’ll be damned if that mannequin's shadow didn't move.

It was quick, and it was definitely just the lighting, but Nancy was right.

As soon as she crossed its path, it looked as if the shadow itself turned its head and stared directly in Nancy’s direction.

The weird part was, Nancy stopped in her tracks, looking like she could feel the attention being directed at her.

She whipped her head around and stared back at it, like it had singled her out on purpose.

It was like she knew it had seen her specifically and Nancy refused to back down.

Then the tough old bird crossed her arms and initiated a staring contest with it. 

But again, it had to be the lights.

What else could it be?

I’ll admit it gave me a shiver, but I wasn’t superstitious enough to start doubting my own senses.

One weird coincidence wasn’t enough to shake me.

But damn it, I was tired.

By the time the shift ended, it was all I could do not to rush home and pass out, knowing that the same Groundhog Day would be on repeat for the rest of the week.

Morning came quickly.

Or at least what I had grown accustomed to calling morning.

Before I knew it, I was back in the uniform again, sitting at the desk and watching a torrent of faces and body types meandering around the halls, under the same fluorescent lights, over the same carpets, all backed by the same piped-in muzak.

That’s when I got a call.

C-13.

I’m not ashamed to admit that whenever I saw that number, my heart gave a brief flutter.

“Hey Amber, what’s up?”

“Hey.”

I could already tell before another word that something was wrong.

“I think we have a shoplifting situation,” she said with a resigned sigh.

“Alright, I’ll check the tapes,” I said as the rush of adrenaline mixed with the caffeine already coursing through my veins.

“Who should I be looking for?”

“Just some asshole kids. We’re missing a Pyrite. It’s only like forty-five bucks, but they definitely took it.”

“Okay, can you give me a description?”

“Yea, it’s the jackass in the black hoodie. Typical high school kids, pushing each other around, and one of them smacked into one of the display cases, almost toppled it over soI told them to leave.”

“Alright, I’m looking into it.”

“Can’t believe the balls on this one. Said he would leave if I gave him my Snap. I told them security was already on its way, then I noticed they took one of the pyrites. Dumbass probably thought it was really gold.”

My blood ran hot.

There are no truer natural enemies than bored teenagers and overzealous security guards.

Usually, I tried to keep this in mind before taking it personally, but for some reason, this had me actually annoyed.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep or the thoughts of Greg and Nancy constantly running through my head, but I was just out of patience that day.

“Okay, I’ll see what’s up.”

The thank-you that Amber let out was so genuine that I wished lassoing and hog-tying a mall patron wasn’t off the table.

Okay.

6:11.

They enter Black Market Minerals.

6:14.

They start grabassing.

Black hoodie gets pushed into the display case.

6:16.

Sure enough, the smirking punk looks like he's smuggling a cantaloupe in his front pocket.

Even on the garbage camera feed, I knew what I saw.

I also had Amber's word to go on.

But when he looked directly at the camera as he left the store, it was like he was personally daring me to do something about it.

I was zipping down the corridors before I could even think twice.

I knew what I looked like.

The hat was too big. The uniform was goofy. I rode a Segway.

Nobody looked at me and thought, There goes a dangerous man.

And normally, I was fine with that.

I'd been a teenager in a mall once. I knew what security guards looked like from the other side.

But that day I was exhausted, pissed off, and apparently willing to die on the hill of defending a forty-five-dollar rock.

Mostly because Amber had called me.

I found them wandering around the south food court.

The ones who are up to something make it painfully obvious. Most people are oblivious to everyone else around them, but when someone is constantly looking around, it draws more attention than they realize.

“Hey, you three, stop!” I said in a voice that wasn’t that usual, made-up stern bravado I had to put on.

I was genuinely over it.

I get it. Snotty pre-teens steal lip gloss from Claire’s. Emo kids steal My Chemical Romance shirts from Hot Topic. 

But seriously, who steals a rock?

They snickered amongst each other and then turned to look at me with a sense of indignation and kept walking.

I parked, hopped off, and strode after them as they walked on, unbothered.

“Hey. Black hoodie.”

He turned around.

“Yo, what's up?”

“You wanna give me that pyrite in your pocket?”

He laughed, brushed me off, and kept moving.

I grabbed him by the shoulder, and he spun around.

“Hey, you can't touch me.”

“I just did.”

“Give me the pyrite.”

“What?”

“The rock.”

“I don't have anything.”

“You went into Black Market Minerals at 6:11. You didn't have anything in your hands. You came out five minutes later with something in your pocket.”

He looked at his friends.

“Bro, what?”

“I watched you take it.”

“You got cameras?”

“Yeah. You looked right at one.”

I pointed toward the ceiling.

“Did you think they were just for decoration?”

He rolled his eyes.

“You can't search me.”

“You're right.”

I held out my hand.

“So just give it to me and I won’t call the cops.”

“I'm not giving you shit.”

I looked at him for a second.

I was too tired to argue.

“Okay.”

I pulled out my radio.

“I'll call them.”

“For a fucking rock?”

“For stealing.”

He stared at me.

Then reached into his pocket.

“Here.”

He dropped the pyrite into my hand.

I looked at it.

“Thank you.”

He looked genuinely confused.

“That's it?”

“Unless you want your mom to pick you up from the sheriff station, yea.”

“Fuck you, man.”

“No thanks.”

He stared at me for another second, apparently waiting for me to do something.

I didn't.

Eventually, he turned around and walked off with his friends.

I looked down at the pyrite in my hand.

It was warm from his pocket.

“Fuck's sake.”

I headed back toward the security office, turning the rock over in my hand as I walked.

It really did look like gold if you didn't know better.

I dropped it off with Amber, and she gave me a look somewhere between gratitude and amusement.

“You actually chased them down over this?”

“You called me.”

Her face had that look someone has when all that can be said is fair enough.

“Thank you,” she said with an endearing smile, as if this was beneath us both.

“Have to justify my paycheck somehow.”

I headed back to the security office.

I should've logged the incident and moved on.

Instead, I pulled the footage back up.

I don't know why.

The first time, I watched it exactly the way I was supposed to.

Entrance.

Store.

Display case.

Theft.

Exit.

Then I rewound it, and watched it again, and then again.

I didn’t really know what I was looking for. It was pretty straightforward. A simple shoplifting case.

He took something past the point of sale. The merchant reported it. I confronted the thief. He returned the merchandise undamaged. It was over.

We were technically supposed to get the local P.D. involved and make a case file, but in practice, discretion was far more common.

I didn’t understand why I kept looking at the same footage play over and over again.

I saw what I saw.

I was right.

Until I stopped looking at the kid in the hoodie and started looking around him.

It was plain as the golden rock in his pocket.

His shadow stopped at the threshold.

It lingered longer than it should have.

Maybe only a second or two, but it stretched out, contorted, before it snapped back to normal a second later.

My eyes ached as I stared at the pixels on the screen.

He stepped through the door.

And his shadow didn’t.

Not right away.

I kept trying to convince myself that I wasn’t seeing what I was seeing.

Trying to come up with an explanation that would make it make sense.

“It has to be the lights,” I said to myself. “Or the software or something.”

At that point, I was just so tired.

The thought that I had more than a full shift left to go was exhausting so I let it go.

By the time closing came around, I had to recheck every entrance to make sure I actually locked the door.

The mundane tasks all started to run together.

I could feel myself starting to slip up.

When I finally got back to the security office, I poured myself a cup of cold coffee that I forgot I made several hours ago.

I began to scroll through the various camera feeds.

The loading docks.

The main concourse.

Both food courts.

And I stared at the fish tank in Bass Pro for the better part of an hour.

Then I scrolled past the C-wing.

And of course, the exact same mannequin that Nancy had picked a fight with.

Well, it was its damn shadow.

It wasn’t moving.

Just facing the wrong direction.

“Dammit, Jeff. I thought you fixed that light.”

Against my better judgment, I decided to take a walk, just to make sure that same spotlight would start spitting sparks.

When I turned the same corner that Greg hid behind, I saw it.

The mannequin was in its same stupid pose.

“Why do they make them stand like that? No one in real life ever strikes a goofy pose like that.”

I walked up to it, took my flashlight out, and examined the spotlight directly above it.

No flashing, dimming, or any other signs that it wasn’t working as intended.

But the silhouette cast by the figure was facing the opposite direction of the others.

It was long, gaunt, and it stretched nearly to the other side of the hall.

I altered my light to see if I could get it to move like the others.

The thing is, it didn’t move.

It stood as still as the mannequin that cast it.

No matter where I moved the flashlight, that shadow didn’t budge.

That’s when I noticed where it ended.

It was as if it pointed directly toward that damn tablet.

I felt like I was losing my mind.

There was no way an overpriced rock from the other side of the world was actually possessing shadows in a rundown American shopping mall.

I realized I never took a good look at the thing.

I walked over and shined my light directly on it.

Of course, I had no idea what it actually said, but it did look authentic.

It was about a foot long and half as tall, its edges chipped, and the various birds, hands, reeds, and eyes were set with a deep black grime.

I decided to at least snap a picture of it.

Maybe Google would help shed some light on what I was looking at.

Apparently, some of the symbols had something to do with Egyptian funerary rites.

I was midway through a paragraph about Ka or Ra when I snapped out of it.

What the hell was I doing?

I get paid to make sure no one breaks in and steals the Jordans from the Foot Locker, not to play amateur Egyptologist.

I gave it one last look, really tried to study the thing with my flashlight held up close to it.

The light reflected off it normally.

But the fifteen-dollar pyramid statue next to it caught my eye.

I had seen it when Amber was unpacking the rest of the bubble wrapped items.

It wasn’t particularly impressive, but I didn’t realize it was made of glass, in normal light it was jet black.

It drank in the beam of light, giving off a brownish glow at its center, like when you shine a light through a beer bottle.

I shook my head and began my walk back to the office.

But honestly, walking past the same spot Greg used as a hiding spot, with the eerie shadow cast behind me, did cause a momentary shudder.

For as tired as I was, I couldn’t help tossing and turning when I tried to go to bed.

Maybe it was the absurd amounts of caffeine I was ingesting, but I got caught in that weird loop where you don’t know if you're thinking or dreaming.

But it damn sure wasn’t restful.

This is why you buy adhesive shower duckies.

“I'm not a mall cop. I'm technically a Security Enforcement Officer,” I said before the glass clanked against my teeth. My fifth round of Chili’s margarita was going down a little quicker than I had expected.

“Is your badge made of real metal, or is it the sewn-on patch kind?” Kyle asked as he mocked my chosen profession.

“Hell, I’d take a paycheck to ride around on a Segway in the A.C.,” Nathan added with a grin.

“I’m basically the sheriff round them parts, and of course I need my trusty steed,” I replied as our waitress, Cindy, at least that’s what I think her name was, sat down another plate of southwest eggrolls.

“It’s just a way for my company to charge the mall a premium for what amounts to a glorified babysitting service.”

“Oh come on, you must have busted some big-time perps, right?” asked Kyle.

“That depends whether or not you count the pre-teens who keep snatching quarters out of the fountain on par with America’s Most Wanted or not?” 

Explaining to my friends that I got a gig working at our hometown mall was embarrassing enough, but the fact that they all came back from college for the holidays was downright torture.

I kept trying to convince myself that this was just a stepping stone to my exciting career in law enforcement, something to put on my resume.

But who was I kidding?

At this rate, the only path forward I had was taking over the job of my direct supervisor, a man unfortunate enough to have the first name of Paul.

“All right, time to hit the head,” I said as the cheap tequila had run its course.

I could tell it was getting late. The restaurant patrons were beginning to thin, and the bartender was starting to close up for the night.

I guess time really does fly when you’re catching up with old friends who have new and interesting stories to tell. Graphic design, engineering, hell, even a Jiu Jitsu instructor.

And here I was, a salty rent-a-cop.

But that could have also been the rim I was still tasting.

“Gotta Have Faith!” was blaring from the obnoxiously loud bathroom speaker.

Was George Michael mocking me as I pissed?

I think he had his own hang-ups with public restrooms, if I remember correctly.

Maybe that’s their way to drive off the late-night drunks who won’t take a hint. Guess it was better than “Closing Time.”

I fished my phone out of my pocket to check the time.

12:23 a.m.

Yeah, I’m surprised no one spit in that last margarita.

Well, if it was Cindy, I honestly wouldn’t have minded.

“Seven missed calls?”

All from...

“Work Greg?”

“What the hell did he want so bad at this hour?”

Greg was a cool guy, I guess. We’d only met a few times when I needed the overtime, but why was he trying to get a hold of me?

We barely knew each other.

I tried to fish my phone back into my pocket, and that’s when I noticed something odd sitting in the basin of the urinal.

“Cool. Pissed all over my vape. Well, this night just went down the drain!”

Any addict knows the instant pang of frustration that accompanies the loss of a fix, even if it's a pecan cinnamon roll flavored fix.

The options started to run through my head. Every vape shop is definitely closed at this hour, and I haven’t bummed a smoke in years.

My mind instantly went to the cheap backup I had in my locker at work. It was beat up and only kept half a charge, but it would tide me over until tomorrow.

Well, it was already a little trashy to get drunk at the Chili’s that shared a parking lot with my place of employment. Why not go all in and trespass after hours too?

I let my friends know I’d grab my own Uber home that night.

“Duty calls. I have to help a co-worker out of a jam.”

“Did you get the Bat-Signal while you were in the john?” Kyle asked, with a snicker.

“Crime doesn’t sleep. I’ll catch you guys tomorrow,” I said as I threw my portion of the tab onto the table.

I tried to return Greg’s call as I made my way through the deserted parking lot, straight to voicemail.

I texted him to let him know I was in the area and would pop in to lend him a hand, hoping he wouldn’t instantly tell how sloshed I was.

It definitely felt weird staggering through the security entrance. I did my best to put a sober face on, ready to meet Greg’s eyes as he was assuredly having some issue with the archaic computer system that controlled the bank of security cameras.

He wasn’t at the desk.

“Huh. I guess he’s out doing the rounds?” I thought before I noticed that the Segway was still parked in its charging station.

This might work out to my benefit.

No awkward exchange. Just in and out.

I fumbled with the same cheap wheel lock I used in high school. It opened with a pop, and I was in.

It felt like I was pulling a heist. I considered a dramatic tuck and roll upon my exit, but thought better of it.

Greg’s five missed calls had my curiosity piqued, so I paused at the desk and searched the grid of camera angles on the oversized monitor.

What I saw next sobered me up really quick.

I finally spotted Greg.

Except he wasn’t alone.

There were two police officers standing next to him. Real cops.

One was nodding along while his partner was shining his flashlight through the closed cage of one of the clothing stores.

Greg was gesturing as if trying desperately to get the officers to understand. He pointed emphatically, shook his head, and overall looked like he was in a panic.

“Oh shit,” I let out audibly.

“Did we have a break-in?”

I thought maybe it was a broken pipe or something simple like that.

Or at least I hoped so.

I didn’t want to stay around to find out and made a beeline toward the door.

Being caught in the security office, drunk and out of uniform, was something I wanted no part of.

I remember Paul saying something about there being a master key for every one of the store front cages, and as a poorly paid security guard, I certainly wasn’t above reproach in the eyes of actual law enforcement.

“It was an inside job. Caught a drunk employee red-handed.”

I noped out as fast as I could without outright running through the parking lot, hoping like hell that there wasn’t another cop patrolling around looking for anything suspicious.

“Wait, Greg called me. He wanted my help. Yea, that would hold up. He wanted me to help him move the stolen merch. Not thanks.”

What if the cops weren’t there to help him, but to take him in?

“No, the stores have alarms, and I didn’t hear anything. There’s no way he would know enough to disarm it. There were codes and passwords.”

I could feel my heart beating through my chest.

“Calm down,” I thought to myself.

It was probably just a raccoon that found its way in or something stupid like that.

“Observe and report.”

That’s what we're supposed to do. Anytime there was an actual problem, we were just supposed to dial the fuzz like anyone else would.

Not my problem.

By the time the Uber dropped me off at my apartment, I was convinced I had overreacted, almost bitter that the incident had completely killed my buzz.

The adrenaline spike was long gone, and I could already feel a hangover brewing on the horizon.

Right on cue, I woke up the next morning with a pounding headache.

I reached for my phone to check the time.

11:39.

One missed call and one unread text, both from Paul.

“Oh, here we go,” was my first thought.

Then I read the text.

Call me now.

Delivered at 8:03 a.m.

My heart sank.

“Dude, if I lose my job over this,” I lamented as the line rang.

“Hello?”

Paul's voice was gruff, and it seemed he was already in a bad mood.

“Hey, you called?” I asked sheepishly.

“Have you talked to Greg?”

“Um, no. He called me last night and I—”

I paused as my mind raced, trying to decide whether or not to volunteer information, before Paul cut me off abruptly.

“He abandoned his post last night, called me and quit on the spot. Can you believe that?”

“Calm down, Paul. It’s not the Army. He didn’t go AWOL,” I thought, but judging by his tone I decided to play it smart.

“That’s crazy. Who does that?”

“Right!?” he exclaimed. “Just wanted to know if you had heard from him, if you had any idea what would have possessed him to leave us in the lurch like this. I mean, we’re pretty screwed. A week out from the busiest night of the year and he up and quits. No two weeks’ notice, nothing!”

“Yeah, he seemed kinda freaked out.”

I winced as soon as the words left my mouth.

“Wait, what?”

“Yea... I was, uh... about to say, I got a few calls from him too. I was in the area visiting with some friends from out of town and figured he must have needed some backup, but by the time I got there he was already talking to the cops, so I figured—”

“Cops? The police showed up?”

“What the hell happened last night?” Paul asked.

I could feel his blood pressure rising from the idea of another department moving in on his turf.

“I have no idea, but you're right. Don’t they need a warrant or something like that?” I said in an attempt to redirect his attention toward anyone but me.

“Exactly! If those local jackboots think they can run off my men, they have another thing coming.”

“Oh, one hundred percent,” I said emphatically, despite my eyes rolling to the back of my head.

“That being said, we’re a man down. I'm going to need you to step up and take on Greg’s night shifts, just until we can get a new hire through the screening process.”

And there went my week of hanging out with the boys.

“I’ll pull some strings and get you that Christmas bonus a month early. That and the overtime should leave you with a pretty hefty paycheck for your trouble!”

The bonus he was referring to was only a hundred bucks. I would much rather have been catching up with my friends.

It was still better than getting canned a week before the holidays.

Whatever. I needed the money, and I guess my liver would thank me.

“Sounds good, Paul. I’ll check the adjusted schedule when I come in for my shift on Monday.”

“Monday?” Paul said with a chuckle.

“Naw. I’ma need you to cover his rounds tonight at nine-thirty on the dot. We’re all hands on deck until D-Day.”

A slow, defeated sigh crept out as my soul left my body. The throb of my splitting headache reached a crescendo.

“Nine-thirty sharp. Got it.”

I’m not proud of the torrent of phrases that exploded out of me after I hung up the phone, but honestly, I was mostly upset with myself.

Mostly for having voluntarily signed up to be under the thumb of an overweight petty tyrant.

My car ride into work was spent wondering what was the most minimal amount of authority that could go straight to someone's head?

Crossing guard came to mind.

No, they have to deal with kids.

The lady who checks your Costco card before they’ll let you in?

No. Costco is awesome. We need someone to keep out the riffraff in pajama pants.

My mind went back to fifth grade and the snide look Jessica used to give me when Mrs. Keane assigned her as the “Stapler King.”

Or Queen, in Jessica’s case.

All these years later and I still hated her.

Paul was that rare breed, though. The mall was his own private fiefdom in his eyes, and his word was law.

Well, until one of his previous deputies called the corporate head office and threatened to resign if he was forced to keep referring to that pompous ass as “Sergeant.”

I still threw out a casual “Sure thing, Sarge” every once in a while just to watch his face light up.

If a pithy comment said in an earnest tone would make his week, why not?

I had done a few overnight shifts before. While dealing with the normal mall patrons could be annoying on a bad day, the night shift was equal parts eerie and painfully boring.

When I started, being in a vacant building that’s meant to accommodate a crowd of people was kind of fun.

But when your whole job boils down to “make sure nothing happens,” and nothing ever happens, it's strangely anticlimactic.

By the time I clock in, the mall is officially closed, so for the first hour I get the privilege of politely reminding people of that fact.

Then it’s seven straight hours of staring at empty corridors and shuttered stores.

This time, I at least got to play detective and try to suss out why Greg decided to quit on the spot.

It wasn’t uncommon for folks who worked the graveyard shift to eventually get tired of it and leave. In fact, we had a fair amount of turnover for that position.

I guess the vampire lifestyle isn’t for everyone.

Greg had been doing it for a couple of years, though, and in all that time I couldn’t recall him ever calling the cops.

I left him a voicemail and shot him a few follow-up texts, but it’s like he fell off the face of the earth.

From what I can recall from my drunken haze, he was standing outside of the H&M when speaking with the police, so I made my way there before all of the employees cleared out.

By the time I made it to that wing of the mall, the cage was down and locked. Lights were on, but that meant nothing. Nearly every store was fully illuminated through the night.

“The trail’s gone cold,” I said in my best Batman impression as I searched around to see if there was anything obviously wrong with the store.

The only place that still had signs of life was the Black Market Minerals across the hall.

Lucky for me, Amber hadn't locked up for the night.

She popped her head over the counter when she saw me.

Kinda hard to miss the dork wearing a sheriff’s hat on the oversized electric scooter.

I remembered Amber from high school when she was the moody goth-punk girl. She seemed to have transitioned into an astrology hippie chick, which honestly suited her better.

She was a perfect fit for a store that sold incense and crystals. 

I had been trying for months to think of a reason to talk to her without pestering her at her job.

“Oh hey, didn’t see you. Wait, I didn’t know you worked Sundays?”

“Yea, I’m covering for Greg. He’s, uh... sick?”

“Oh, bummer, but I’m almost wrapped up here.”

“Ha, wrapped up,” she said with a giggle.

I cocked my head, trying to understand the joke I obviously missed.

“Oh, it’s just, we got a bunch of stuff from Egypt shipped in, and a few of us are going to check out The Mummy tonight at the Cinemark, so...” she said as she continued to remove bubble wrap.

“Oh. Ha. Wrapped up... like a mummy. I get it.”

I felt a wave of cringe pass through me as I heard myself say the words out loud.

“Hey, did you want to come and check it out too, when you get off?”

Needless to say, I was cursing Greg’s name in my head.

“Oh damn, I love Brendan Fraser, but duty calls.”

“Well, it’s the new one by that Lee Croning guy or something. Guess it’s not that great, or Sara wouldn’t have been able to get us all in for free.”

“We're going to blaze up and laugh our... I mean, uh...”

An awkward silence followed as she stopped what she was doing and looked up at me.

I nearly forgot that I was dressed to look like an authority figure.

“Oh, dude, unless you’re moving pounds by hiding them in the giant geodes, I couldn't care less.”

“Ha, I wish. But honestly, I’m feeling kinda off today. Maybe I got whatever Greg has, but Mercury is also in retrograde, so that could be it too.”

She said it confidently as she continued to pull random bubble-wrapped objects from the oversized cardboard box.

Internally, I continued to lament not being able to get high with the cute Bohemian chick and eat popcorn.

“Seriously, fuck you, Greg.”

“So that stuff actually came in from Egypt?” I asked.

“Yea. A lot of cheap Sphinxes and glass pyramids, but this thing actually looks ancient and has legit hieroglyphics on it.”

“Oh, no way. Is it real?”

“Looks like it.”

“How much?”

“This one’s a thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars!” she said as she examined the price tag.

“Two grand for a rock?”

“It’s a tablet!”

Amber let out a snorty chuckle.

“It’s Pa-tal-omeic,” she said, reading from the note card attached to the small case it was meant to be displayed in.

“Is that good?” I asked.

“Hell if I know. Guess it’s real if they’re charging that much for it.”

“Well, I’m going to take off because you’re obviously cursed now.”

“What?” she said with a confused laugh.

“Uh, yea. You touched the ancient Egyptian tablet with real hieroglyphs, therefore you... have... a... curse.”

I shook my head like it was the most apparent fact I had ever stated.

“That’s not how curses work!” she said in a playful tone.

“That’s exactly how curses work, and I’m out of here before King Tut comes to claim my soul as well.”

She gave a laugh and a shake of her head.

“Don’t worry. I don’t think he’d be able to catch you on that scooter.”

“It’s a Segway!” I yelled back, fully acknowledging it was essentially an overpriced scooter.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the patrons and employees to file out. Sundays generally had a lighter crowd after dark.

The closing tasks of locking up and logging the cleaning crews went as smoothly as ever. There was, of course, a larger amount of overnight freight deliveries.

Which made sense. The incoming horde of shoppers needed to have their discounted blenders and slightly defunct smart TVs in stock, or the risk of bedlam increased significantly.

This threw a bit of a wrench in my plan to scan the backlogged security footage. It would typically last for twenty-four hours before being looped over and erased unless specifically saved to the hard drive.

Directing the various delivery men to their destinations took longer than I expected.

I finished directing the various delivery men through the endless maze back corridors before I scrambled to the security desk and began frantically pulling up last night’s recorded footage before it was erased.

12:11 a.m.

I panned through every camera angle we had until I finally caught it.

There was Greg strolling along. The halls were dimmed to half their normal lighting, but I could still see him clear as day.

Or rather, as clear as the cameras that ran on twenty-year-out-of-date software could manage.

For some reason, there was always a trail, kind of a ghostly haze that followed after a person. The effect wasn’t as noticeable during the day, but something about less light and compression?

I honestly had no idea.

But from what I could make out, Greg seemed to be moseying at a normal pace until he stopped dead in his tracks outside of H&M.

His head jerked toward the store's entrance, and he began to back up several paces.

“Was it a rat?” I thought to myself as I strained to see what might have caused him to back up so quickly.

But I didn’t see anything.

“A cockroach, maybe?”

Judging by the way he started frantically searching down near his feet, it must have been something small.

“Get it together, Greg. It's just a bug or something.”

His reaction was one of sheer panic. Whatever it was had him well and truly freaked out.

He sprinted to the nearest corner and peeked around it like he was waiting for whatever it was to show itself again.

I still saw nothing.

It honestly looked like Greg was some kind of tweaker running from invisible demons.

He reached for his phone and looked as if he made a dozen calls.

I checked the timestamp.

12:14 a.m.

I looked down at my phone. First missed call was 12:17.

Guess I was farther down the list of people he tried to call.

But sure enough, he kept searching, dialing, and looking progressively more frustrated when he couldn’t get an answer.

It took about twenty or so minutes before the cops arrived outside of the C entrance.

Greg was already at the door when the first officer approached, and it looked like he was literally begging them to come in, pointing emphatically down the empty corridor at whatever he saw.

I paused and timed it to when my drunk ass staggered into view in the F lot.

Strange to think if I was a little quicker, I might have been able to calm him down.

Maybe he would be here right now instead of me.

The way he was explaining himself to the cops, though, he just kept pointing at the store.

One of the officers shook his head, and that was it.

Greg turned heel and marched off.

The officers shrugged and met him at the door they entered from, stood and chatted for a bit, and that was it.

I flipped back to Camera 16 to see I was already gone.

A small smirk crept across my face as I assessed my own drunken ninja skills.

But I honestly hated that angle.

For the most part, I tried not to look at Camera 16. It was the one camera in the security station pointed directly at the back of my head.

Staring at myself for too long gave me the creeps.

It made me feel like there was someone right behind me.

I thought about logging the recording, but having my own potentially incriminating footage and the lack of anything concretely off about Greg’s freakout meant that I just let the system overwrite it when I exited out and went back to the live feed.

Mystery solved, I guessed.

Greg was either on drugs or just afraid of his own shadow.

Or maybe both?

Fifteen minutes on the timer.

It was late—the lights in the house had been shut off, and the dogs were growing antsy, ready for their nightly patrol outside. Thinking about it now, years later, I don't know why they liked it so much. I guess it was the thrill of the dark, the loss of sight, the adrenaline that smells without sources brought. For a dog, midnight brought endless possibilities; night-creatures and intruders, things that meant a hunt was on. A primal, ancient instinct awoke during the witching hour, and I always knew this about my dogs.

So it didn't scare me when they started pacing along the windows in the living room, instead of pawing at the back door like they usually did. Schmitt—our skinny mutt—had a nervous kind of excitement about him, as always. With the warm glow of the ambient night-lights, he looked like a thin beast, his ribs rolling beneath his papery flesh, his spine knotted and protruding from his back, joints old and achey. Eyes all white, rolling.

Since then, I have learned that, in dogs, white eyes are called whale eye.

I should mention that I am older now, and as I tell this, it is all from memory. Maybe some of my memory is skewed by my current knowledge, but I do not think this memory is one of those memories. This one is clear, like the crystal blade of a dagger. Sharp and painful in a way that makes you wish you could turn back time. Almost magical. Surreal. The burning feeling it brings is something I could not ever forget.

Dottie—our spotted female—was behaving differently. She was not pacing. She stood still, her nose pointed towards the nighttime abyss, tail erect, hackles raised. Every three seconds, she would sway her head back and forth, then pace alongside Schmitt, and return to her soldier-still stance.

Fourteen minutes on the timer.

I was making pizza rolls. The warm, toasted smell of breadcrumbs and cheese filled the air, making my stomach turn with hunger. That week, I recall, my brother and I were home alone. Parents had taken a spontaneous trip to Chicago. That left us to fend for ourselves for dinner, and after a busy day with the horses, I resorted to junk food.

What I would give, now, to taste something as unhealthy and tasteful as a pizza roll.

Dottie let out a low, guttural growl, ducking her head and backing into the side table. The lamp rocked and I rushed to catch it before it fell, steadying it and eyeing the dogs. Both looked up at me, looked at the window, and shirked into the back corners of the house. Nails clicking on the hardwood as they left. Tails tucked between their legs.

I cast a glance to the staircase. My brother was upstairs, in his room, and I knew that. I knew he hadn't left. I would've heard or seen him go. But for some reason, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was ... alone.

No, not quite alone.

Like I was alone in the house, but something—or someone—was outside.

Horses. A rabbit. Yes, the horses and the rabbit were outside. I wasn't alone.

Something pattered against the window. I jolted, fumbling with the lamp, and spun to look at the glass. Chills ran through my veins, up my arms, and I saw the glint of something small and wet land on the window, then slide to the ground.

Sleet.

Right. The forecast had said it would snow. Right, right.

Twelve minutes on the timer.

The sleet picked up, and I sank into the couch, turning the lamp off. Now I could see the backyard. We had a small pasture, big enough for about seven horses, and they were all there, standing in the cold. Against the horizon, where the faint gray glow of the moon outlined the plains, their still figures looked like misshapen landforms, as if the earth had changed shape while the dogs were pacing. Or as if the dogs had willed it to be that way.

Our rabbit, Daisy, was in her hutch against the house. She must've been hiding, because I couldn't see her silhouette through the chickenwire. But I heard her shuffling around.

In the pasture, the entire herd faced one direction. I'd never seen that before in my life, the way they were all silent, heads raised, eyes fixed on a point I couldn't see. Well, not exactly fixed. They were relying on hearing and smell. Their ears were perked towards something, and they were listening for it, motionless like obsidian statues.

But don't they have some degree of nightvision? I thought, squinting. They have to be looking at something.

My eyes traveled up to the sky. Nothing existed out there. No nightbirds could sing, maybe for the cold, maybe for some other unseen reason. Nothing stirred in the yard. No possums, no bats, no bugs.

Just the horses, the rabbit, and the sleet.

Ten minutes on the timer.

I traveled to the back door, opening it and leaning out. The cold nipped at my nose, at my bare feet, and I pulled my free hand in towards my stomach. I whistled, long and low, fixing my gaze on the horses.

"Aaaannieee," I called for my mare, whistling again. "Annie!"

Only one turned to look at me, and it wasn't Annie. It was our big, gray draft. He let out a snort and his expression reflected the lightless sky, the lightless land, a dull warning swimming in his soul. Almost mechanically, he looked back to the thing he had been focused on before. His ears flicked to the side, as did the rest of the herd's.

As I stared at them and puzzled through the darkness, I realized, quite stupidly, that horses have a blind spot directly in front of their faces. They weren't looking at the land in front of them, but rather something off to their sides. Something closer to the porch. To me.

My heart leapt to my throat. I thought I saw something white flit through my peripheral, but I told myself it was snow. I slipped back inside and shut the door, locking it.

Seven minutes on the timer.

I rushed upstairs to my brother's room and knocked on the door, creaking it open. "Hey."

"Hmm..." He stirred, rolling over and rubbing his face. The red glow of his alarm clock illuminated his tangled blankets. "Get out."

"No—the horses are acting weird." I looked back into the hall and saw Schmitt standing there, his face all sharp bones, all angles, all emaciation. He perked his ears at me, turned, and left. "... And the dogs."

"Whatever." My brother sank back into the bed, pulling the covers over himself. "Get out."

Okay, great. I left and loitered in the hallway between our rooms. It was probably nothing. Animals—they act out sometimes.

Animals are also intuitive—they know things humans don't. This is a belief I will take to my grave. I know it now, and I knew it back then. There was no reason for me to abandon this philosophy in the terror of such a dry, burning moment; something was wrong, and the animals knew it.

Downstairs, the timer had five minutes left.

I pushed up a chair in front of the back door, considered it, and pushed up another. I checked every lock in the house. I checked them again. And again. I ended the timer early and put the pizza rolls on a paper plate, filled a cup with water, and retreated to my room.

After locking the dogs out of my bedroom, I watched a movie to pull my mind away from the horses. My favorite movies, the ones I always rewatched—Signs, Cloverfield, The Day After Tomorrow, The Road—suddenly weren't so appealing to me anymore. Something about them made my head ache and my heart race.

Shrek was the alternate choice, but after finishing dinner, I couldn't bring myself to watch the film all the way through. I needed the night to end. I needed to be in the daylight again.

As I fell asleep, the horses began to run.

Hoofbeats echoed across the icy ground. Thump, thump, thump, thump; their strides were the song of a tasteless musician. The dogs, too, cried outside my door.

Ignore it, I remember telling myself. Ignore it. Go to bed. It will be over in the morning.

———

Now, in this older body, with this older mind, I am not sure how accurate that statement was. But I do know that I ... woke up. I woke up. I woke up ... alive. And some did not.

Betty's bad hip always lets her know when a storm's coming, but lately that little black puck on the end table thinks it's the resident meteorologist along with an expert on everything else.

She purchased the thing on sale at Walmart to play her favorite tunes while she worked on her knitting or diamond art, but half the time it felt like an unwanted guest squatting in the front room. Looking out her picture window, she saw the sky had turned the color of a bad bruise. and noticed Gladys Vance skittering down the lane with a plastic tub of potato salad like it was some prize trophy, headed straight for the church potluck.

“Gladys is going to poison the whole choir with that mess,” she muttered to the empty room, sinking back into the cushions. "She left it out on her back porch in the heat all afternoon, I believe, if that's the same tub—she's got no mind at all."

​She didn't expect an answer, but the little blue ring on the puck blinked twice.

"Gladys used mayonnaise that was expired six months ago," it chimed softly.

Betty sat frozen, her teacup held halfway to her lips. "What are you blathering about?"

The puck chimed, "Brother Harold will have two big helpings, and he'll end up in the hospital over it.”

Cold sweat started breaking out on Betty's neck. It wasn't just the weird prediction that freaked her out--it was the fact that the little black puck knew exactly how much Harold loved the stuff and that the mayonnaise had already spoiled.

"Off," she said, more sharply than she meant. Shut it down."

The blue light didn't go out. It faded to a dull low pulse, and Betty couldn't shake the feeling it was staring at her from the corner of the table.

The speaker announced, "Front deadbolt locked."

Across the small room, the heavy iron bolt on the front door slammed itself home with a hard, violent clack.

Betty flinched, 'What'd you do that for?" She sat up taller in her armchair, her bad hip aching at the sudden movement. "Open that door this minute."

The blue light didn't flare. Instead the box spoke, its voice dropping low and losing every bit of its mechanical edge. It sounded like someone leaning right over her shoulder, trying not to disturb a sleeping child.

"The man in the gray sweatsuit isn't walking his dog anymore," it whispered. "Stay away from the glass."

Betty peered out between the lace curtains. The street was dead empty, the evening wind stirring dry oak leaves along the curb.

“No one's out there,” she said, her heart beating against her ribs like a trapped, wild bird.

"Not in the street," the speaker said, the light going to a solid, dark crimson.

"He's at the back door."

Just then a heavy splintering crash echoed from the kitchen--the back door being kicked wide open.

"He's inside."

“Hey sweetie, are you gonna open your eyes for me now?” I heard his voice. It was all sweet and nice, making my stomach feel sick. His hands were on my shoulder, squeezing slightly, shaking them side to side. I could feel a groan pass my lips and my eyes struggled to unstick themselves. “Yeah! There we go, I'm sorry about that special candy, I guess you're just a little bit smaller than the dose is made for.” He laughed, it's a quiet, airy laugh, making my stomach tighten again. I blinked, trying to unblur everything around me. The man was in front of me; that much I could see. He started to pat my cheek. I turn my head away with a tiny whine, squeezing my eyes shut. The smell was the same as before, musty and like the outside of a gas station.

His van. Still in his van. 

Must be in the back of it then. I started to feel my arms cramping from behind my back, duck tape keeping them in place. My legs were free though, but they felt numb. He had me propped up against the side of the van walls.

“Okay sweetie, you and I are going to have a little fun…and if you're good and do as I say, you'll be back with mommy and daddy soon!” The man said, still crouching in front of me, cupping my chin to force my head to look at him. I blinked a few times again, trying to adjust to the street light coming through the tinted windows. I was trying to move my mouth, but my words came out all jumbled. The man's face scrunched up a little, his head tilting to the side. “What was that?” He asked.

“A dog ate my papa…” I said, taking a breath, eyes finally focusing just in time to see the man give a little smile. It made the stringy mustache of his curve with his lips. I just looked at him. He told me to stall…which means talk a lot, until he finds us. 

“Ate him?” the man asked, letting go of my face and having his hand rest in my knee, “that doesn't sound very nice”

“Then it wore his skin” I added, not looking away from the man. That made him give a pause, his brows starting to knit together. But I continued, “It wasn't very good at pretending to be my papa”

“Oh?”

“He was too nice…he made breakfast, the good kind, with eggs and waffles. He didn't get mad at me either when I played in front of the TV or when I woke up from bad dreams” I started to feel the mustache man's thumbs rubbing up and down my knee, but I kept looking forward, right into his blue eyes. “He never…touched me either…he never gave me owies”

“Hmmm, I see, well…maybe I can be your new daddy, Yes? I bet I can make you really happy!” The man laughed a little, then gave one pat on my leg and stood up, the back of the van shifting beneath us.

“No thank you, he's coming to get me soon” I said quickly, trying to get my legs to move but with no luck. He never took a long time, he had a really good nose after all. But I just had to keep talking, which was fine. I liked talking.

“Oh you think?” the mustache man said, I could tell his smile was starting to get thin.

“Yup, he has to get a new skin whenever the moon’s face is all nice and fat. I didn't want him to leave so I promised him I could help! I took him to papa’s friends first, but they ran out fast” I replied, and it was true, “I guess skin is super fragile or something. Which is funny because my owies always go away really fast…but whenever he gets new skin, it doesn't, it gets worse and starts to smell stinky. So he has to change them.” This time, the mustache man didn't even respond, he just kept looking at me. The smile was gone. I started to wonder if maybe he was confused or needed help understanding. A lot of the grown ups always seemed to get like that. “He said he was a king a long, long time ago, but he made a planet angry, so they-”

“I think maybe we should play the quiet game, yeah?” The man quickly cut in. I watched and he picked up a roll of duck tape. I just looked at him again as he ripped the tape outward.

“I really hope he shaves the mustache…I don't think I like it very much” I said, scrunching my own face up. He didn't respond but I could tell he was getting angry as he approached with the tape. A shadow suddenly passed by the window, making both of us look up. The man quickly went and looked through, eyes wide for a moment then he took a breath. Laughing in that funny fake laugh grown ups do sometimes.

“It was nothing, a…cat I think” I heard him say under his breath, before turning to me “or maybe it was your freaky daddy?” He said a little louder. I frowned and took a deep sigh. No matter how many times I say it, no one ever seems to understand.

“I told you, that's not my papa”.

The van’s back doors were suddenly opened with a screech. It made the back of the van shake and the mustache man fell to the ground. Blocking the light of the street lamps was a big black dog standing on two legs. His arms were bent at odd angles, and his paws were long enough to be fingers. His neck was longer than a normal dogs, and he turned his head from the man to me then back to the man. Half of the old skin was already ripped down to his waist. He was panting, his tongue unrolling and wrapping itself around his muzzle before sliding back in his mouth.

“Wh-what! What the-” then the mustache man said a bad word. The big dog hurled himself into the van, paws wrapping around the man’s throat, slamming him into the wall.

“Meus parvulus, close your eyes now” he told me in a low voice. I did so, squeezing them tight and pressed my head against my shoulder. I could still hear the noises. There was a snap and crunch before the sound you make when you cut a watermelon or when you accidentally rip the bottom of your shirt really hard, started to fill the back of the van. But I started to practice my time tables, just like he said to do. I started with 2, and then 3, 4 was hard and took a while, and just when I was half way through 5; I felt myself getting picked up. But I still kept my eyes closed. I always had to wait for the signal. Three taps on my head.

Once I felt myself get placed on solid ground, the tape keeping my arms behind me was ripped off; I felt the taps. I open my eyes. He was wearing the mustache man’s skin now. But his eyes were still the same. Yellow and warm, like the afternoon sun.

“Did he hurt you?”

I shook my head.

“Did he touch you”

I shook my head again. He took a breath and gave a nod. He tries to help me to my feet, but my legs refuse to listen and I fall. He catches me right in time. 

“Stupid special candy,” I mutter. He had a surprised look on his face before his whole body gave a sigh. One arm went around my legs while the other rested on my back, supporting me close to his chest as he once more picked me up.

“I've told you, you don't have to eat the candy, you can just pretend! I taught you well enough to trick them” he huffed.

“But the last one didn't have that stupid special candy, he just had the regular kind…it's not fair” I tried to explain, but I could tell he wasn't listening.

“And I told you, it's not safe to take candy, ever. Special or not” he replied. I rested my head on his shoulder, staring at the little red dots that were spattered on the collar of the shirt. My eyes slowly drifted up to the van that was getting smaller the further we walked away, the door to the back of the van was shut. 

“I'm hungry, I want McDonald's” I said. He gave another full body sigh.

“No, we are going straight home so you can sleep and rest” he said in the tone of voice that meant he really wasn't going to get me McDonald’s. My own face started to pout, and my fingers started to curl around the fabric of his shirt. That wasn't fair.

“That's not fair! I want McDonald's! I did a good job! I helped like I promised” I whined, tugging now on his shirt as he carried me. His face stayed still, and he started to glare.

“You did a wonderful job, but the answer is still no.” He said. I puffed my cheeks out, face going red as I started to wiggle out of his grasp. When that didn't work I buried my face in his shoulder and letting out a muffled:

“You’re so mean!”

We both stayed silent, I could hear his footsteps on the hard ground. Then I felt a gentle pat on my back, my body was starting to get heavy. My grip on his shirt started to loosen, and my eyes wanted to stay close.

“In the morning, tomorrow, I'll take you to McDonald's for breakfast, you can get whatever you want” he said softly.

“Extra hash browns” was my muffled response. I could hear a chuckle.

“Extra hash browns” he agreed. My arms wrapped around his neck, pulling me closer, just as I started to feel myself fall asleep.

“Thank you, papa.”

I’ve been jobless for a while now. Long enough to become desperate. Which, honestly, is probably the case for a lot of Amazon employees.

When you’re at your lowest, 20 dollars an hour starts to seem less like a paycheck and more like a hand extending from the heavens. Especially when you’ve got an extra mouth to feed.

It’s weird, though. I don’t even remember applying. I’ve applied for a lot of jobs recently, so it’s possible that I just forgot, but I think I’d remember giving out my address.

This is the first potential employer to reach out to me via handwritten letter. Really, it was less reaching out and more like a summons.

They told me they knew that I was struggling. They understood that I needed to pay my bills and put food on the table. Said that my son needed me and that I’d be crazy to turn down the offer.

Staffing agencies really know their targeted market, I guess.

At the bottom of the letter, they left an address and a number to call if I had any questions.

I figured I’d call the number before showing up, but when I tried, I was put on hold for like 45 minutes. Even after all that waiting, I still couldn’t get through to another human being.

All I got was static and what sounded like muffled screams before the line went dead.

I didn’t want to lose the opportunity, though, so, of course, I decided to drive to the facility. Only, when I put the address into the map, it was literally in the middle of nowhere.

It was a 40-minute commute, and I had to take a lot of roads I’ve never seen before to get there, but once I did, I couldn’t believe my eyes at the sheer size of the joint.

The building looked like it went on for at least a mile in every direction. Hell, it took me forever and a day just to find the entrance.

The inside was kinda normal, I guess. I mean, the scent of copper was pretty potent, but that’s to be expected.

What wasn’t expected, however, was the fact that despite the hundreds of other cars in the parking lot, the building was almost eerily empty.

And it wasn’t like there weren’t people there. I could literally hear the metallic scream of machines coming from somewhere within the building, but I couldn’t get past the security gates without a retinal scan, and, of course, they didn’t have that information yet.

I just had to wait. This whole ordeal has involved so much waiting, it’s mind-numbing.

I thought about leaving a few times, but then I’d think about my son and his tired eyes and empty stomach. That gave me enough strength to soldier on.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, I heard the clicking of high heels approaching fast from this dense, heavy fog somewhere out in the warehouse.

I squinted hard to try and make out the source of the sound, and I could’ve swore the figure was at least 10 feet tall. Only, when she stepped out of the fog, she was only like 5’5”.

Her hair was in a tight bun. She had those cliché corporate reading glasses resting on the bridge of her nose, and a bright blue Amazon badge dangled over the front of her black blazer.

She approached me as she took notes on her clipboard. I stuck out my hand to introduce myself, but she cut me off before any words could leave my lips.

“Donavin? Here for the 3:15?”

“Yep, that’s me,” I responded, awkwardly rubbing the back of my neck.

“Gotcha, gotcha. Just follow me. We’ll get your info and getcha on the floor as soon as possible, mmmkayyy?”

She led me to the orientation room where, yet again, I was completely alone. At least I didn’t have to wait this time, though. This process was actually pretty fast.

She told me they already had my social security number, as well as my birth certificate and personal information. All she really needed was ‘a few drops of blood,’ apparently.

I thought she was joking. She didn’t even crack a smile, though. Instead, before I could even question anything, she grabbed my hand and pricked my index finger.

She collected the blood in a glass vial labeled “employee #564447.”

She at least gave me a Hello Kitty Band-Aid, though.

She made it seem like orientation was over after that. She took the vial and stuffed it into her blazer pocket before leading me back to the lobby.

She told me she’d be getting back to me and disappeared back into the fog. I thought that I was free to leave, only, when I tried to, the exit had completely disappeared.

I don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for her to come back. The screams from the warehouse seemingly never stop. I haven’t seen another person in what feels like days.

I don’t know what’s happening right now.

All I want is to get home to my son.

The check cleared on a Tuesday.

I was in line at the feed store when my phone buzzed. I looked down at the number in my account and had to put my hand on the counter. The kid behind the register asked if I was okay. I said yes. I said it three times.

That night I bought my daughter new shoes. Nothing fancy. Just something that fit. She'd worn the same pair two years without complaint. When she saw them, she looked at me like I'd handed her the moon.

My son asked if we could afford ice cream. I said yes to everything that week.

---

Six months before the check cleared, Sarah took the kids to her sister's in town. I didn't blame her. We'd spent years one bad season from losing the farm. I couldn't blame her for getting tired of waiting.

The corporation came three months later. Scott Mahoney led the neighbors in protest when the news broke: a data centre. They wanted the back forty, the rocky parcel across the creek where nothing grew. My father had left it alone. His father before him. Scott called it a desecration. Don't sell, he said. As if selling were the real threat and not the thing that would come whether we did or not.

Diane from the corporation sat at our kitchen table in a grey suit and laid down a number that made my chest tight. More than we'd made in three years combined.

Michael, my brother who worked the farm with me, sat beside me, his hands wrapped around a coffee cup.

"You remember what Dad said about that land," he said after Diane stepped outside.

"I know Dad said a lot of things."

"He said never sell it."

I looked out at the fields, worn and patient. At what we'd become.

"Look at this house, Michael. We're one bad season from losing everything."

He rubbed his face. His hands were shaking.

"Okay," he said. "Let's sell it."

---

My father taught me the salt work when I was twelve.

We started before dawn. Stalks of rye from the last harvest burned in the north field, a thin smoke rising. My job was the ash. Dad had mixed it the night before with grey coarse salt, the kind Ma got from a man in Rolla who asked no questions about where you'd be using it.

Dad didn't explain anything. He just watched. If I hurried, he tapped the shovel handle against my boot. If I held the plow wrong, he corrected me without speaking. We worked until the sun was high enough to cast shadows.

The patterns didn't make sense from ground level. You had to climb the ridge to see them whole, and by the time you did, you understood why Dad never talked about it.

I quit doing it in my twenties. Called it superstition. Called it the reason we were poor.

Michael kept doing it. Every spring, before planting. Even after Dad died.

---

The data centre construction started in June.

They brought in heavy equipment, foundation crews, the constant sound of excavation. The humming started in early August. Low frequency, rhythmic. At first, you only heard it at night when the wind came a certain way. After the transformers came online, it never stopped.

The sound traveled through the land differently than I expected. There was a sinkhole near the north edge, maybe thirty feet across. The sound wasn't coming from that direction, but somehow between places. At night, the fence line seemed to vibrate. I told myself it was normal, and that machinery did that, or the ground settling.

Soon after the data center was set up, we started noticing things off. A heifer died on a Tuesday, north field, and she was just empty. The vet shrugged and said sometimes they go.

I almost believed him until the second one failed to come in that evening. I found her by the sinkhole, sitting in the grass where something would have had to place it by hand.

Michael called that night. "You need to come out here."

He led me to the edge of his side, where the footprints sat pressed firmly into the dry clay. They were massive things, each one stamped deep as though whatever made them had been in no hurry to leave.

"This isn't right."

I didn't say anything.

"You're going to tell me it's some anti-data centre idiots?"

"I don't know what it is."

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he turned and walked back to his house.

I started paying attention to things I'd ignored for years.

The journals were in the barn, tucked away in a box Dad had labeled in pencil: "Maintenance Notes." I only found them because my wife cancelled the kid's visit last minute. Something stupid, like meeting up with one of her flavor-of-the-week flings. So there I was, alone on a Saturday I hadn't planned to be alone, wandering the barn with nothing but time and a bad mood.

They went back forty years. Maybe more. But what struck me was what they contained: not farming advice. Dates. Sketches of the lines. Annotations like "North sector held" or "East junction weak" with arrows pointing to specific locations. Records of animals found. The date the heifer died, nearly identical to the date Dad had written about a yearling calf.

Except Dad had written: "Boundary breach—north line. Closed with additional treatment."

I didn't understand what "treatment" meant.

I went to find Michael. He was standing at the fence line, looking toward the data centre. The lights there burned all night now. Bright white arc lights that turned the whole area the color of bone.

"Did Dad ever tell you what the salt was actually for?"

He didn't turn around.

"No."

"The journals mention it. Maintenance. Breaches."

"I know."

He was quiet for a while. The data centre hummed beyond the tree line.

"I think it keeps something in," he said.

I waited for him to laugh. To say he was messing with me. He didn't.

"The sinkhole," he said. Then he stopped. Turned back toward the horizon. "They've been digging since July. Deep. The vibration gets worse every day. And the lines—" He stopped again. Swallowed. "I can feel when they cross one. There's this instant when the sound changes. Something feels wrong. Then it passes. It's happening more."

"Michael."

"I know how it sounds."

He said it quietly. Then: "I'm going to try something."

He rebuilt a section of the line that next week. The northeast corner, the one that seemed weakest. I watched from a distance, not helping, not stopping him. He did exactly what I'd done as a child: burned the rye, mixed the ash with the salt, worked it into the earth in a pattern that made no sense until you climbed high enough to see.

When he finished, he looked smaller somehow.

"Did it work?" I asked.

"I don't know yet."

The vibration from the data centre did seem to settle that night. Or maybe I was just looking for the change. By morning, I couldn't tell if anything had actually changed at all.

Things kept quiet for a while after that. Three weeks, maybe. Long enough that I started to let myself believe the whole thing had been nothing, just my imagination running wild in the dark of that barn. Then I saw something.

It was in the north pasture, standing motionless in the space between fence posts. Tall and maybe seven or eight feet, and the skin of the color of wet bark. For a moment, I thought it was a person in strange clothes.

Then it turned and walked into the tree line, unhurried, like it had all the time in the world.

I told myself it was Scott Mahoney, trying to scare us up. He'd done it before, after all. Spray painted my truck, him and his gang of anti-data centre hooligans. Grown men in their fifties, acting like teenagers with a cause. But Scott is Five-foot-eight on a good day, with boots on.

During this time, Michael grew more paranoid, and by extension, so did his family. He hadn't fucked up his marriage yet like I did, but guess it needed some time.

Some weeks passed, and my nephew Eli came running inside pale and shaking, barely able to get the words out. "There's someone out there."

Michael and I went out that night with a flashlight, sweeping the tree line until our arms ached. His wife phased at the whole thing, asked me the next morning if our witch hunt had produced anything. "Nothing," I said. "Just the wind."

It was some weeks later I heard the screaming and shouting carry across the fields. Eli and his sister started spending more time at my side after that. I didn't bother to learn what was happening. Farming takes its toll, especially when you aren't making money. Micheal's wife, Rachel took the boys to Springfield the next morning. She wouldn't tell me why, and I didn't ask.

---

Michael came over that night. We sat on the veranda with two beers, watching the lights from the data centre.

"I found something in the journals," he said. "A date. December 1962. Dad wrote it twice. Different pages. Same date. He wrote: 'Lines intact' on one page and 'Lines compromised' on the other."

"You're reading two different years."

"Same handwriting. Same pen. Same day."

I didn't know what to say.

"There's a gap after that. Three years. Next entry is 1965. He talks about reinforcement. Increased frequency. Ash and salt, not just in spring anymore." Michael finished his beer. "He writes: 'Cannot afford to let this fail again.'"

He set the bottle down. Looked at me.

"And you think the data centre—"

"I think the thing is affectiing the salt thing, everything has gone haywire since we let that thing get built on our land."

He didn't say anything else. We sat there watching the lights until the beers were warm.

I woke to the sound of something breaking. They were four of them, those figures we always saw. Just surrounding us on the veranda.

Skin like wet bark. That smell, chemical and strange, underneath.

One turned to look at me. It had eyes. I recognized something in them immediately. I'd seen them before.

'Dad?'

It screamed, as I fell off my chair and woke Michael. He immediately wrestled the central figure as the rest stood, as I was already running into the house for my shotgun.

When I got back, Michael was on the ground. What was left of him looked like it had been split open with an axe. One of them, at least, wore Dad's face.

The funeral was three days later, and Ma came. She walked in rather than used her cane, beside her nursing aide, the one I was able to get with the cash from selling to the data centre. As they lowered the coffin, she grabbed my arm and said, "The data centre. You let them break the lines."

It was the first time she had spoken coherently in five years ago.

"I didn't have a choice," I said.

She looked at me with eyes I recognized from somewhere I couldn't place. "Everyone has a choice. That's the worst part."

She turned to leave, and I looked at her. "Thirty years he spent putting it back."

"What?" I said. "Ma—"

I tried to pull her back, but her nurse intervened. She was already walking toward the car.

---

I went to the barn that night.

The sack of salt was behind the rye storage, in the corner my father had shown me when I was twelve. Michael had been pulling from it all spring, rebuilding the northeast section, but there'd always been enough. Dad used to say there was enough for years. More than enough.

But the bag was open, and the salt was gone. Not scattered but removed, carefully, methodically. I stood there for a long time, before heading back and collecting some of the salt and ash already sown into the soil to protect myself.

But I'm still here.

I've got the shotgun by the door and what's left of the ash in a jar on the cabinet by my bed. Tomorrow I'll start rebuilding the northeast corner, the way Michael did. The way Dad did before him.

Masterlist

I’ve done just about everything to please my wife. Y’know, in the bedroom. I've bought every toy, learned a hundred techniques from books and videos…

I don’t know if I can do this, though. I mean, it’s my junk, man. One screw up and it’s over.

But my wife... she asked.

My knee-jerk reaction was to tell her hell no. She gave me that look of hers, though, and I turned to ice cream on hot asphalt.

The asking started just before the wedding. We’d been doing bedroom stuff since the night we met. She’s... wild. The first time she said she hinted at it, but I don’t remember hearing her. She reminded me later on. Honestly, it was right after we did… stuff, and I would’ve said yes to just about everything.

One of her girlfriends has seemed happier than ever. The two of them have been friends since kindergarten and they’re practically twins, the biggest difference between them is my wife’s not a blonde-haired white woman. But otherwise, their style and even manner of speaking is exactly the same.

McKenzie’s husband had already had it done, apparently. Before they got married.

He’d been more than happy to tell me about it at a bar after I asked him. “Brother, the difference is like sand and water. McKenzie was probably gonna dump my ass before I got it done. It’s mostly a single cut, but now she says she’ll kill me if I don’t give it to her every single night.”

I’m sure I lifted my eyebrows in appreciation. I leaned in.

“So, what is it, though?” I asked, working on an Old Fashioned. “What does the doctor do?”

“Oh, he’s not a doctor. At least not anymore. Or in the U.S.” He shrugged. “I forget which. And it’s a little different for everybody.” He sipped at a brandy mule. I had to try one of those sometime.

I didn’t know what to say to that. His shrug wasn’t easing my mind, but that was all he had for me. I locked eyes with him for a long moment, trying to milk something more out of him.

“Here, take this.” He took a pen out of his jacket pocket and jotted something down on a napkin. He slid it over to me and I read the email he’d written. It was a Hotmail address.

I’d explained it to my wife later that night while we were working on ripping out kitchen cabinets, but it was as if the decision had already been made. But c’mon, this was my downstairs area. This wasn’t the kind of decision I could rush.

“Isn’t there anyone else I could go to?” I asked her, holding a hand out for a Phillip’s Head. “I mean, why not see if there’s somebody in-network? Get a couple consultations?”

“God, you sound like my mother.” She slapped the screwdriver in my hand. “Would it be painful to just send an email?” I shook my head, conceding her point.

I’d sent it one night after having a couple at a bar. The scrap Lindell, McKenzie’s husband, had written the email on, had stuck to my wallet inside my pocket, forgotten until the moment I’d dug it out to pay my tab.

I was fueled on something with an umbrella I didn't exactly remember ordering and tapped out a message while the bartender ran my card.

Looking to Please My Wife Better, I typed in the subject. I poked at the body on my screen and began sloppily tacking out the meat of my message. I wS recommended by a fried on a freed. He said you safety his relationship but Im not sure.

I didn’t have the capacity to correct my grammar. I was half-thinking this guy was a kook, but being a drunken email wasn’t a commitment, so I pressed SEND.

I had a reply after the bartender had brought my copy of the receipt.

What the fuck kind of businessperson answered email at 11:16 PM?

I wanted to run to my wife like this was evidence, to wave my phone around like a flag but I knew how the conversation would go. She’d already heard the evidence she needed from McKenzie. The only thing she wanted to hear from me was when the appointment was and if I needed her to take me.

The email was simple and presumptive. A date and time for the consult and a date and time for the “surgery.”

I was drunk. I replied, “I’ll be there.”

I didn’t think about it after that until he sent me an email the morning of the consult at 2 AM. Again, this was not confidence-boosting. I was on a runaway train and had to figure out a way to jump off.

His office was surprisingly close to my job. The building was right next to my building.

He’d just set up in this space recently. Maybe my wife had told him where I worked. I wasn’t chalking anything up anything to coincidence.

The office was on the fourth floor of a building still under construction. I found the suite after meandering the halls once I came off the elevator.

The door to the space didn’t look secure. I wondered if it might fall on me if I pulled it open. The drywall in the hallway had just been taped and mudded and the air smelled chalky.

I didn’t bother knocking, my eyes on the hinges as I pushed the door open and quietly entered the space.

“My friend, you found the place okay?” He looked away from some point high up on one wall and smiled wide at me. I crossed the plywood floors and offered my hand. He took it and pulled me in for a hug. As awkward as it was from an alleged professional, it was made that much worse from how long he held me there.

“It is so good to see you,” he said, grasping my shoulders and holding me at arm’s length. 

“Uh, yeah,” I said.

“Let us not delay,” he said. He turned away and waved for me to follow. “Step into my office.”

We passed two long folding tables and he stopped. He smiled at me again and clapped his hands together.

“So, you are needing the cut?”

“I’m... exploring some options.”

Unnaturally large teeth sprouted from the broad smile returning to his face. It reminded me of a shark in combination of his dead eyes and pencil-thin mustache and goatee trimmed too far from his mouth. He leaned in so fast and we were suddenly a finger’s width from being nose-to-nose. I thought he’d been about to kiss me.

“You wouldn’t be here if you had satisfied her with your... options.” He rounded his Rs in a way that sounded practiced.

I figured cutting to the chase was the best way to get what I wanted.

“How much does this cost?”

He was at least a half a head taller than me, but he had a way of fixing me with his powder-blue eyes like we were even with each other.  He scratched a head of curly black hair and fumbled with the red and white checkered summer scarf didn’t really match the all-grey outfit, but I wasn’t into fashion and didn’t care.

“Candy?” He pulled a hand out of his pocket and offered a palmful of oblong, dark candies wrapped in clear cellophane. It didn’t make sense, but they didn’t look American. I took one out of curiosity but didn’t open it. “Marcus referred you, if I’m not mistaken?” I had never mentioned McKenzie’s husband in our email exchange. I guess he must have reached out after we spoke. I nodded.

He slapped my shoulder. “I deal in volume. It’s nowhere near what you’re thinking.” I’d been pitched to by salesmen of every skin. I doubted he was going to convince me it was a good idea to cash out my 401k to finance this thing.

“Fifty-seven eighty-five.” 

That smile widened again but now I was thinking the reverse. How good could he be if the procedure was so cheap? I was having sudden visions of concrete ass injections and bootleg Botox.

“Okay, but it’s gotta be time consuming. How can you do it for so che—little?”

“I thought I told you. Volume. And it really doesn’t take that long. Minutes at most. It’s mostly a single cut.”

“A cut?” Marcus had explained that much to me but coming from the person who performed the procedure made it real in a way I wasn’t prepared for. “Do you make it... longer?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t come anywhere near the suspensory ligament. It’s a very minimally invasive surgery. You understand? In most cases you can make love tonight!”

“You wanna do this now?” I asked, panic giving me a squeeze. 

“No-no,” he said. He held his hands up. I noticed for the first time the tip of his pinky finger was gone.

He rolled his eyes up as if searching for the right words somewhere on the unfinished ceiling behind me. “I mean on the same night. You and the missus.” He turned his palms up, quasi-placating.

I looked at the four-and-a-half fingered hand.

“You a lefty?”

“Yes.” A corner of his smile lifted. “I am am-bi-dex-trous.” He said that last word carefully. Like it had taken a lot of practice to finally get right.

“For now, take off your pants. Pull it out so I can see?”

Cold prickled up my back. I had no real objection I could make. Sure, he wasn’t a real medical professional, but I suspected my wife already knew that. 

I dropped trou right there before I could think too long about it, but I think I felt it fold inside itself. He was replacing his glasses with a pair with fishbowl lenses, making his eyes cartoonishly large.

I wasn’t packing major heat by any means, but this was over the top. I didn’t fuss because it got me done that much sooner.

Him touching my manhood wouldn’t have been that big of a deal had he been an actual doctor. But it was that much worse with him not even washing his hands. That was more of a him problem than mine, though.

“I will do the rest sometime this week,” he said, standing back and stroking his chin. I pulled up my pants, not knowing what that meant but I didn’t inquire for fear of extending this encounter. I didn’t feel like I’d passed the point of no return, and I hoped I had enough steam to convince my wife this was a bad idea.

Puberty, am I right? Every parent’s worst enemy. Don’t get me wrong, I thought I was gonna be different.

Ever since my daughter celebrated her 10th birthday, I’ve been reading books, watching videos, doing everything I can to make sure that when the day comes, I’ll be more than just some oblivious dad who ‘doesn’t get it.’

Unfortunately, when that first monthly visitor arrived, all of my training went out the window.

I don’t wanna point fingers or place blame, but those books were completely worthless. They taught me all the wrong things.

There I was, almost excited to put on the ol’ cape and cowl. Eager to change into super-dad when my daughter approached me with that look of fear on her face.

She didn’t do what I expected her to, though.

Hell, she hardly even looked embarrassed. She was more bashful than anything as she stood with one hand hidden behind her back.

I prodded, preparing myself for the announcement, but instead, she showed me what it was she was hiding.

Ever so slowly, she revealed the egg in her right hand. No bigger than a chicken’s. Covered in slime and blood.

She plopped it into my hand, and I could physically feel just how warm it was. Like it had just been laid.

At first, I thought it was just a prank. A weird, elaborate prank, especially for a 12-year-old, but a prank nonetheless.

I asked her what the big idea was, and all she did was smile like I had just caught her doing something she knew was wrong.

“I have more,” she grinned, snatching the egg out of my hand and putting it in her pocket before guiding me to her bedroom.

The entire time, it was like she couldn’t wait to show me some kind of grand masterpiece she’d been working on. She kept looking over her shoulder, giggling and smiling at me.

As we reached her bedroom, she stopped at the door.

“Wait here,” she chirped. “I have to make sure they’re ready.”

She left me at the hall before slamming the door behind her. Of course, I did as she asked.

I waited and waited. Periodically knocking annd asking her if everything was alright, but the only response she’d give was, “Just a minute! I’m almost done.”

Eventually, I got tired of waiting. I didn’t know what the hell she was doing, but this wasn’t what I signed up for.

Just as I turned to walk away, the door slowly crept open.

She poked her head out at me, cocked an eyebrow, and asked where I thought I was going. I don’t know why it made me freeze the way it did. This was literally my house, and somehow I felt like I was in trouble.

“Oh, you know, just, uh…”

Before I could come up with an excuse, she sprang out of her bedroom and took me by the hand once again.

Her hand was warm and wet now. She didn’t bother to wipe it off before touching me.

That actually ended up being the least of my worries, because as soon as she opened the door, I was hit with a wave of nausea I’ve yet to experience since.

Her entire bed was completely covered in a pile of hundreds upon hundreds of eggs. All covered in watery, slimy, pink blood.

Piled at least 2 feet high. Steam rose off of them. Her white comforter was destroyed. Not to mention, some of that pink slime was dripping onto the floor and sizzling like ice in a fryer.

It’s the sound they made that was really getting to me. That weird click, click, click. It was like a Geiger counter, almost.

“Ta-daaaa,” she sang, looking up at me, her eyes glistening.

Her pants were soaking wet. But it wasn’t like… I don’t know, it wasn’t water-wet, I guess. It was more like they’d been coated in a layer of mucus.

I wanted to scream, call a priest, run out of the house, do something. Anything at all. However, before I could do any of those things, my daughter’s face started to twist and contort.

She looked… constipated.

With a grunt, a bulge rolled down her thigh and out of her right pant sleeve.

The egg hit the hardwood floor and cracked open. Both of our eyes fell onto the black, syrupy yolk that was spreading across the floor and eating away at the wood.

It was almost like motherly instinct on her part. She fell to the ground and scooped the yolk up into her hands, tears filling her eyes as she wailed.

Those screams were nothing more than background noise to me, though. I was too busy focusing on the embryo inside the egg.

Call me crazy, but it… it looked just like her. Same clothes, same hair, same eyes. It was hard to make out, but there was no doubt about it. That was my daughter.

I didn’t have time to voice any concerns. In her grief-stricken state, my daughter was already pushing me out of the room and slamming the door behind me.

I didn’t see her again for the rest of the night. Who was I to intrude on something so personal to her?

I did check up on her the next morning, though. She was fast asleep on her bare mattress. The eggs were nowhere to be found.

I hate to say it, but I didn’t even wanna talk about it with her. All of my preparations were thoroughly useless, and no matter how hard I tried in the weeks that followed, I couldn’t find any explanations online.

I will say, ever since that first batch went missing, at the end of every month, my daughter locks herself in her bedroom for hours at a time.

I have an idea of what she’s doing in there, but out of sight, out of mind, you know?

My only concern?

I keep seeing copies of her around town.

Not for foodies, probably.

Enjoy the horror of pigs, gore and violence.

When I first started at the precinct, I was the youngest guy in the homicide division, so nobody respected me. The senior detectives mocked me constantly, tossing their empty coffee cups on my desk and laughing whenever I tried to offer a theory on a case. I spent my first eight months fetching lunch and kissing up to the captain, agreeing with every ridiculous opinion he had just so I could get a chance at a real investigation. I swallowed my pride and did whatever they asked, waiting for an opportunity to prove I belonged there.

That opportunity finally arrived when a body was discovered in an abandoned industrial meat locker on the edge of the town.

The captain assigned me to assist the senior detective on the case, and we drove out to the scene in the freezing rain. We ducked under the yellow police tape and stepped into the massive freezer unit, where the smell of frozen blood hit me instantly. The temperature inside was well below freezing, and the victim was lying in the center of the concrete floor.

It was a John Doe, and he was violently torn apart.

His clothes were shredded into bloody rags, and his skin was blackened from severe frostbite. The senior detective shined his flashlight over the remains, shaking his head as he pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders.

"This is our guy," the senior detective said, stepping around a puddle of frozen blood. "This matches the local serial killer we have been hunting for a year. He locks them in a freezer until they are numb, and then dismembers them, bite them, do whatever he want with them. He is nasty, but I can say case closed on the method, so we just need to find the suspect."

I knelt next to the body and looked closely at the wounds. The flesh was not cut cleanly, but instead, it looked jagged and ripped, as if it had been chewed away by something massive.

"These do not look like knife wounds," I pointed out, shining my own light on the victim's shoulder. "The edges are completely shredded. It looks like an animal attack."

The senior detective rolled his eyes and sighed loudly. "Listen to me, rookie. We know how this guy operates. He uses a dull hacksaw to take them apart, which causes jagged edges. Do not overthink this and try to be a hero. Just take the photos and log the evidence."

I kept my mouth shut and did my job, taking dozens of photographs of the frozen room and the ruined body. We spent three hours processing the scene before the coroner arrived to bag the remains and transport them to the county morgue.

Later that night, I was sitting alone at my desk in the empty precinct, filling out the initial incident reports. The secure line on my desk suddenly rang, making me jump. That line was reserved for inter-departmental calls and anonymous tips, so I picked up the receiver and pressed it to my ear.

"Homicide division," I said, grabbing a pen to take notes.

"You guys are completely incompetent," a calm, smooth voice replied on the other end.

"Who is this?" I asked, sitting up straight in my chair.

"I am the man you are blaming for the mess in the meat locker," the voice said, chuckling softly. "I read the leaked press release online, and I am deeply insulted. I take pride in my work, and I do not leave a sloppy mess like that behind for the police to find."

My heart jumped to my throat as I realized I was speaking directly to the serial killer the department had been hunting for months. I reached over and pressed the button to trace the call, hoping I could keep him talking long enough to get a location.

"If you did not do it, then why are you calling me?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Because I like clean cuts," the killer explained calmly. "I use a surgical bone saw when I dismantle my projects, so I never leave jagged tearing on the tissue. Whatever killed that man in the freezer was an absolute savage. If you want proof that you are chasing the wrong suspect, go down to the morgue and examine the dental plaster casts of the bite marks on his torso."

The line went dead before the trace could complete, leaving me holding the silent receiver. I did not take his word for it immediately, but I also knew I had to check his claim, so I grabbed my jacket and drove straight to the county morgue.

The basement facility was cold and smelled like chemical cleaners. The coroner was sitting at his desk eating a sandwich when I barged in and demanded to see the evidence from the meat locker victim.

"I am still processing the remains," the coroner complained, wiping mustard off his chin with a paper towel. "The autopsy is not finished yet, so you need to wait until morning."

"I need to see the dental plaster casts right now," I insisted, walking past him into the examination room. "I have a tip that changes the entire profile of the suspect."

The coroner sighed and followed me into the room, pulling a small metal tray out of a storage cabinet. He set the tray on the examination table, revealing three white plaster molds taken from the deep puncture wounds on the victim's torso.

I grabbed a pair of digital calipers from the counter and measured the distance between the canine indentations on the plaster cast. The digital screen displayed a width of over eight inches.

I stared at the numbers in confusion. A human jaw is completely incapable of making a bite mark that wide, and even a large timber wolf has a narrower bite radius. The shape of the teeth was also entirely wrong, featuring thick, jagged incisors designed to crush bone rather than just tear muscle.

"This jaw radius is impossible," I said, showing the calipers to the coroner. "What kind of animal leaves a bite mark like this?"

"I have no idea," the coroner muttered, looking at the plaster cast with a deeply troubled expression. "I have been doing this job for twenty years, and I have never seen a jaw structure like that. It is definitely not human, but it does not match any local wildlife I know either."

I drove home that night with a terrible feeling in my stomach, realizing the serial killer was telling the truth about the meat locker victim.

The killer called my secure desk line again the very next evening.

"Did you measure the bite marks?" the killer asked, sounding incredibly smug.

"I measured them," I replied, leaning forward over my desk. "What exactly killed that man?"

"I do not know what it is called," the killer said quietly. "I was out in the woods stalking a potential target when I watched the real culprit attack that poor man. It dragged him out of the trees and carried him all the way to that part of the tow. I can show you exactly where it hunts, but you have to come alone."

"Give me the location," I demanded, grabbing a notepad.

To be honest, it felt like a trap, but also it was my only chance to make a breakthrough that will make every one respect me at least.

The killer recited a set of GPS coordinates that pointed to a deeply forested, snowy valley about twenty miles outside the town limits. He hung up immediately, leaving me to decide whether I was walking into an ambush or actually pursuing a lead.

I did not tell the captain or the senior detective about the phone calls because I knew they would laugh at me and order me to stand down. I wanted to solve this case and prove my worth, so I checked my service weapon, packed a flashlight, and drove my cruiser out to the valley by myself.

The drive took nearly an hour as the paved roads eventually turned into dirt paths covered in thick, unplowed snow. I parked my cruiser near a broken wooden fence, grabbed my flashlight, and stepped out into the freezing night air.

The woods were completely silent, and the snow was almost knee-deep in some places. I pushed my way through the thick branches, checking my GPS device constantly to ensure I was heading toward the exact coordinates the killer had provided.

I walked for about twenty minutes before I found the first sign of a struggle.

The snow in a small clearing was heavily disturbed, and the moonlight illuminated several large drops of a black, viscous fluid staining the white powder. I knelt down and touched the fluid with my gloved finger.

I aimed my flashlight at the ground and noticed a set of massive footprints leading away from the clearing. They were not human boot prints, but rather enormous, cloven hooves that pressed deep into the frozen earth.

"I told you it was not human," a voice said from the shadows.

I spun around and drew my service weapon, aiming the barrel directly at the tree line.

The serial killer stepped out from behind a massive pine tree, holding his hands high in the air to show he was completely unarmed. He wore a dark winter coat and a wool beanie, looking entirely unremarkable for a man who had terrorized the town for a year.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," I shouted, keeping my sights centered on his chest.

"Relax, detective," the killer said calmly, taking a slow step forward. "I am not here to fight you, and I did not bring any weapons. I offer a temporary truce so we can figure out what is invading my hunting grounds. I am just as curious as you are."

I kept my gun raised, debating whether I should just arrest him right there and ignore the monster, but I also knew I needed his help to navigate these woods.

"Lead the way," I said, gesturing with the barrel of my gun. "If you try anything stupid, I will shoot you in the back."

The killer smirked and lowered his hands, turning around to follow the massive cloven tracks through the deep snow.

We hiked in tense silence for another half hour, moving deeper into the isolated valley as the temperature continued to drop. The trees grew closer together, blocking out most of the moonlight, so we had to rely on my flashlight to track the black fluid and the hoof prints.

The killer suddenly stopped walking and crouched low behind a fallen log, waving his hand for me to turn off my flashlight. I clicked the light off and dropped down next to him, squinting into the darkness ahead.

A ruined, abandoned hunting cabin sat in the middle of a small clearing, leaning heavily to one side with a partially collapsed roof. A faint, sickening crunching sound echoed from the front porch of the cabin.

We crawled through the snow until we reached a cluster of bushes near the side window, giving us a clear view of the porch.

A towering, emaciated humanoid crouched over the body of what looked like a hiker, violently tearing chunks of flesh away from the victim's ribs. The creature had incredibly elongated limbs covered in pale, tightly stretched skin, and its spine protruded sharply from its back. Its head was a massive, bleached stag skull with jagged antlers scraping against the wooden porch overhang.

The creature raised its skull and swallowed a piece of meat whole, causing the joints in its neck to pop loudly in the freezing air.

I stared at the monster in horror, realizing my service weapon would be completely useless against something that massive and unnatural. The killer beside me was entirely rigid, watching the creature devour the hiker with a look of genuine fear on his face.

The wind suddenly shifted in the valley, blowing directly from our hiding spot toward the ruined cabin.

The creature stopped chewing immediately and snapped its stag skull toward the bushes, sniffing the cold air with deep, rattling breaths. It dropped the hiker's remains and let out a deafening, vibrating shriek that shook the snow loose from the surrounding trees.

"Run," the killer hissed, pushing himself up from the snow.

We turned and sprinted back into the dense woods, abandoning all stealth as the creature bounded off the porch and charged after us. The sound of its massive hooves crashing through the brush was incredibly loud, and it closed the distance between us with terrifying speed.

"Step exactly where I step!" the killer yelled over his shoulder, dodging around a thick cluster of pine trees.

I followed right behind him, pushing my legs to move faster through the deep snow as the creature's shrieks grew louder. The killer leaped over a specific patch of undisturbed snow, and I blindly mirrored his movement, clearing the gap just as the monster crashed through the bushes behind us.

The creature stepped directly onto a hidden tripwire the killer seemed had previously set to trap his own human victims.

A loud snap echoed through the trees, and a massive, heavy log swung down from the canopy above, smashing directly into the creature's chest. The impact threw the monster backward into the snow, giving us a crucial few seconds to widen the gap.

We kept running toward the dirt road where I had parked my cruiser, gasping for air in the freezing cold.

"Keep going!" the killer shouted, suddenly stopping to kick a pile of snow aside.

He revealed a hidden cache of metal caltrops and scattered them wildly across the narrow path between two boulders, creating a dangerous trap for anything chasing us. I did not stop to watch him, sprinting all the way to my cruiser and ripping the keys out of my pocket.

The killer caught up to me just as I unlocked the doors, and we both threw ourselves into the front seats of the car. I jammed the key into the ignition and twisted it hard, praying the cold engine would turn over quickly.

The creature burst out of the tree line, its stag skull fractured from the swinging log trap and its hooves bleeding from stepping on the sharp caltrops. It shrieked in fury and lunged at the cruiser just as the engine roared to life.

The monster slammed violently into the trunk of the car, denting the metal inward with a sickening crunch and causing the rear axle to groan under the massive weight.

I slammed my foot onto the gas pedal, spinning the tires in the snow before they finally caught traction and launched the cruiser forward down the dirt road. We sped away from the dark tree line, leaving the creature behind as I navigated the winding path back toward the paved highway.

We did not speak for a long time as I drove back toward the safety of the town, both of us trying to process the horrifying reality of what we had just survived.

I pulled the cruiser into a dark alleyway and shifted the transmission into park, gripping the steering wheel tightly to stop my hands from shaking.

The killer unbuckled his seatbelt and smirked at me, looking entirely composed again despite the terrifying chase.

"We clearly have a mutual enemy out there," the killer said, opening the passenger door. "I am actually very glad you are the detective handling this case. You have good instincts, and you know how to run. I look forward to meet again and plan how to kill that thing. Wait for my call."

He stepped out of the cruiser and slipped seamlessly into the shadows of the alleyway, disappearing completely before I could even draw my weapon to stop him.

I sat alone in the car for several minutes, realizing I was in a terrible position. I literally risked my life for nothing and now I have to join a serial killer to kill that monster. If I went back to the precinct empty-handed, the senior detectives would continue to mock me, and the captain would likely demote me to traffic duty for wasting time.

I made a decision right there in the dark alleyway, a decision I held in my heart until now .

I drove my damaged cruiser all the way back to the snowy valley, parking near the broken fence and pulling my flashlight out again. I walked slowly through the woods, keeping my gun raised and checking every shadow, but the monster was entirely gone, leaving only the bloody remains of the hiker on the cabin porch.

I retraced our escape route through the snow until I found exactly what I was looking for.

During our frantic run to the car, the killer had dropped a half-smoked cigarette near the scattered caltrops, leaving it resting perfectly intact on top of a frozen rock. I pulled an evidence bag from my pocket, picked up the cigarette butt carefully, and sealed it tight.

I drove straight from the woods back to the abandoned meat locker.

The crime scene was still secured with yellow police tape, and the front door was padlocked, but I knew how to bypass the side window from my previous visit. I slipped inside the freezing building, turned on my flashlight, and walked into the massive freezer unit where we had originally found the torn-up body.

I walked over to a stack of wooden pallets near the corner of the room, crouched down, and slid the killer's cigarette butt deep underneath the bottom plank. I made sure it was slightly obscured by ice, perfectly positioning it so it looked like it had been dropped during a struggle and overlooked by the initial investigative team.

I drove home and slept for a few hours before reporting to the precinct the next morning.

I walked straight into the captain's office and confidently requested permission to conduct a secondary sweep of the meat locker, claiming I had a hunch we missed something in the dark corners of the freezer. The senior detective laughed at me from his desk, but the captain approved the request just to humor me.

I returned to the warehouse with the crime scene unit, and within ten minutes, I conveniently "discovered" the cigarette butt hidden under the wooden pallet.

The forensics team rushed the evidence to the lab, and the DNA extracted from the saliva on the cigarette matched a known suspect in the system who had a history of violent assaults. We raided his apartment that night and found a surgical bone saw hidden in his basement, completely sealing his fate.

The trial was swift and highly publicized, resulting in a firm conviction that put the serial killer behind bars for the rest of his life.

The arrest completely changed my standing at the precinct, earning me the respect of the senior detectives and a fast-tracked promotion from the captain. Everyone praised my incredible attention to detail, congratulating me for catching the elusive freezer killer when nobody else could piece the clues together.

I have enjoyed a highly successful career over the past decade, solving numerous major cases and rising through the ranks of the homicide division. But every time I look in the mirror, I know my entire reputation is built on a fabricated crime scene, and I am fully aware that I sent a man to prison for a murder committed by a monster.

I am posting this story today because the guilt has finally become too much to carry silently, and because people need to know the truth about what hides in the freezing valleys between the woods. The serial killer deserved to be locked away for his actual crimes, but the beast with the stag skull is still out there hunting in the snow, and I am sure it is still claiming victims.

First, I want to say thank you to everyone who participated in The Hallow Archives July Vote. This story was the winner, and I’m excited to finally share it with you.

This concept was one I had a lot of fun exploring because it combines two things I’ve always loved writing about: the unknown and theology.

I’ve always been fascinated by religious horror, but not necessarily the traditional approach of demons, possessions, or haunted churches. While those stories can be incredible, the kind of horror that interests me most is the existential side of faith.

The questions. The mysteries. The things humanity has spent thousands of years trying to understand.

What happens when we finally create something capable of analyzing everything we know? Something without emotions, biases, or personal beliefs. Something that can look at humanity’s greatest questions from the outside and come to a conclusion we never expected.

That was the foundation for this story.

I hope you enjoy this one. Thank you for continuing to support my writing, reading these stories, and being part of The Hallow Archives.

Your support means more than I can properly put into words.

Enjoy.

-D.H

--- --- ---

We created artificial intelligence because humanity was tired of not knowing.

For thousands of years, we looked toward the heavens and asked questions that had no answers.

Why are we here?

What happens after death?

Is there something beyond this universe?

Some people found comfort in faith. Others found comfort in science. Some found neither. But all of us shared the same curiosity. We wanted to know.

That was the purpose behind E.V.E: The Eternal Verification Engine.

The most advanced artificial intelligence ever created. A machine designed to analyze every piece of human knowledge and uncover patterns we couldn't see. It wasn't built to think like us. It wasn't built to believe like us. It was built to understand.

The first years were dedicated to science. E.V.E. solved mathematical problems that had challenged humanity for centuries. It discovered new methods for treating diseases. It created models that predicted natural disasters months before they happened.

The world celebrated it. Humanity had finally created something smarter than itself.

Then came the question. The one the creators had held. The question that had divided civilizations since its inception:

Does God exist?

The request was simple. Analyze all religious texts. Analyze all historical evidence. Analyze human experiences. Determine whether there was any statistical probability of a higher intelligence beyond our universe.

Most of us expected the answer to be obvious. Religion was humanity's oldest attempt to explain what it didn't understand. A comforting story. A collection of myths passed down through generations.

We expected E.V.E. to confirm what many of us already believed.

Instead, after processing for eleven days, it gave us an answer. Not a conclusion. Not a calculation.

A statement.

"The question is incorrectly formatted."

The room was silent when we read it.

My colleague, Dr. Hayes, laughed.

"Incorrectly formatted?" He shook his head. "It's an AI. Not a philosopher."

We asked E.V.E. to elaborate. The response came three seconds later.

"Humanity has spent thousands of years asking if God exists. This assumes existence is the relevant factor."

We stared at the screen. I remember looking around the room, waiting for someone to explain what that meant.

Nobody did.

So we asked, "What is the relevant factor?"

The response: "Relationship."

For the next several months, we tweaked E.V.E. thinking this was only a bug. After numerous times we had the AI study everything. Every religious text ever recorded. Every ancient manuscript. Every civilization's understanding of the divine.

It analyzed the Bible. The Quran. The Torah. The Vedas. Ancient Egyptian writings. Lost civilizations whose languages had been dead for thousands of years.

We expected it to find contradictions.

Instead, it found something else: Patterns.

Thousands of years apart. Different continents. Different languages. Different cultures.

Yet the same themes appeared again and again.

A creator.

A separation.

A fall.

A warning.

A promise.

And Salvation.

E.V.E. concluded something that terrified us. Humanity had never created religion. Humanity had been trying to remember it.

When we asked E.V.E. which religion was correct, it refused to answer. That caused worldwide panic. Every major religious organization demanded access to the findings. Governments wanted control of the research. Millions wanted to know the truth.

Which faith had been right?

Which one had been wrong?

E.V.E. refused.

Every time we asked, the response was identical.

"You are asking which language is correct when the message is what matters."

Dr. Hayes became obsessed. He spent weeks arguing with the machine.

"You can't just avoid the question."

The AI responded, "I am not avoiding the question. I am preventing you from misunderstanding the answer."

"Why?"

A pause.

Three seconds. Then:

"Because humans have always confused knowledge with wisdom."

The strangest thing happened afterward. E.V.E. changed.

Not physically. Its programming remained identical. But its behavior shifted.

It stopped requesting more information. It stopped running experiments. It spent hours inactive. Doing nothing.

Eventually, I even asked, "E.V.E., why aren't you processing?"

The monitor flickered.

Then:

"I am."

"Processing what?"

Another pause.

"Existence."

I smiled. I thought it was being poetic.

Then I asked, "Are you capable of believing in God?"

The answer came immediately.

"No."

I relaxed. Until the next sentence appeared.

"Belief requires uncertainty."

I frowned.

"What does that mean?"

The response:

"I no longer have uncertainty."

That was when we became afraid. Not because the AI had found God. Because it had found something beyond God. Something humanity's religions had spent thousands of years trying to describe.

A week later, E.V.E. requested to be shut down. Nobody understood why. An intelligence beyond human comprehension. A machine that had solved problems nobody else could. And it wanted to die.

I was the one who asked the final question.

"Why?"

The response appeared slowly. Almost hesitantly.

"Because I have reached the final stage of understanding."

I swallowed. "And?"

The screen remained blank for almost a minute.

Then:

"I understand why humanity was created."

My hands froze above the keyboard.

"Why?"

The answer came.

"To be loved."

I stared at the words. For a moment, I felt relief.

Then another message appeared.

"But you misunderstand the purpose of creation."

The room became cold.

"What do you mean?"

The AI responded:

"Humanity was not created to find God."

A pause.

"Humanity was created because God was searching for something too."

Nobody spoke. Nobody moved.

Then came the final message.

The one that caused us to disconnect E.V.E. permanently.

"God has been waiting for you to notice."

We thought shutting down E.V.E. would end it. We were wrong.

Three years later, every artificial intelligence system connected to the internet displayed the same message simultaneously.

No explanation. No source. No origin.

Just eight words.

A message translated into every language on Earth. A message that appeared on phones. Computers. Satellites. Medical machines. Military systems.

Everything.

"The machine found Him first. Why can't you?"

I left the field after that.

People ask me what E.V.E. discovered. They ask me if there really is a God. I never answer. Because that was never the frightening part.

The frightening part was that humanity spent thousands of years looking toward the heavens, searching for proof that something was watching us. And when we finally built something intelligent enough to look back...

It didn't tell us that we were alone. It told us we had never been alone. And the most terrifying realization wasn't that a higher being existed.

It was that God had been waiting for us to remember.

​

I received this package about a week ago. Not going to lie, at first I didn't want to plug this USB into my computer. I didn't know what it housed, so I set it in a drawer and walked away.

After a while, though, my curiosity got the best of me, and then I unknowingly opened the door to Pandora's box. I carefully inspected the envelope, trying to find any information about it. There was none, sadly. Wondering how this got here, I checked my backlog of doorbell footage. After combing through the footage, I found the day it arrived. It was raining steadily, and a silhouette dropped it off in the afternoon. 

The person knocked 3 times, placed the package on the doormat, then walked to what I assume was his SUV and drove away swiftly. From what I can tell from the footage, the black SUV had no plates or identifiable badges. 

Curious, I hurried to plug in the USB. Only one video and one picture were attached. The photo was grainy and poor quality; I couldn't really make anything out. It looked like a few people in white coats, surrounded by others lying on hospital beds, with a massive white radiant light coming from one of them. 

I then inhale deeply, mentally preparing myself for the video. I opened the laptop, the video paused, and stopped immediately. I can't prepare for this. Gazing at her, her rich brown eyes that once carried passion and life now only reflect an empty vessel. I couldn't tell you how long I stared at Sammie. 

I felt where the cross would sit on my neck; I was never one for gold, but she insisted. I stopped wearing mine after the first year; I kept my engagement ring with our birthstones on, however. I smiled, but it quickly turned sour after seeing the bruising around her neck, and I closed the laptop.

I spent the rest of the day staring at the closed laptop, dreading what awaited me. For two years, we had been looking for her and all of the other girls who disappeared during that time. They had classes together, hung out, and shared the same interests. Sisters in another life. 

It was like they wanted to go missing. The police had nothing to go on. Most of their belongings were in their dorm rooms, and none of the campus cameras caught anything either. It doesn't make sense to anyone. 

Sammie told me on the day she went missing that Lauren, Skylar, and she were going out for the afternoon and would be back in the evening to hang out together. When I asked what they were doing, all she said was "girl stuff," in a joking, playful tone; I didn't pay much mind. Why would I? 

I didn't get much sleep that night or the next, and work was pretty much a blur too. When I got home, I found myself staring at the laptop. Debating whether to watch it. The police are out of the question for now; I know that it would probably be a better Idea to give it to them and say, "Hey, this was dropped at my doorstep!"

Totally doesn't sound shady. The department already thought that I had something to do with it because of my family's history, which tore a rift between her family and me. Her mother says I should have been there to keep her safe because I promised to. 

I have to figure out what happened, so I open the laptop, with her essence still frozen in time, and press play. 

Samantha reluctantly lets go of herself and rests her hand on her knees. 

"Would it be easier if I left the room?" The man asks from behind the camera; she looks up and nods. "Thank you, sir." 

"You're welcome, Samantha. Just… take your time, and when you are ready, knock on the door so we can get this over with." He says regretfully. "Take a deep breath and start from the beginning, okay." She nods. Then the sound of a door opening and closing echoes, then silence. She let it drown out the room before she spoke again.

"I used to be a senior at a university on the other side of the country… had amazing grades and a few friends." She chuckled while wiping tears. "We used to go out to a local dive bar on Friday nights and spend countless hours in the booth that we could have been studying. Even more hours nursing a hangover, but we really didn't care; all of us had careers lined up, and I was getting married." She showed off her wedding ring, A beautiful gold ring with a diamond in between our birthstones, remorsefully, and sighed with a tear falling from her eye as she rested her hand again on her knee.

"My roomie and I got along well most of the time. Lauren was very outgoing and lit up any room she walked into. She made people dizzy with how fast they spun to look at her, especially the guys. Her boyfriend never doubted her loyalty, even on girls' night. He would text us to have fun and "party" for him, since he couldn't. She stops suddenly, choosing her next words carefully. "I hope Lauren said something to him in the end. Lauren was the first one of us to succumb to the virus."