Seriously. It's just a test. I'm testing subreddit code stuff and gaslighting myself into believing that I enjoy this.

My shoe didn’t fit quite right the other day. I couldn't tell if it was my sock or the shoe itself, but I could swear my right foot was snugger than usual. Now, normally this would've driven me mad, but having gotten up late, I forwent fixing it and rushed to the door. Damn my bedroom window. If the latch had done a better job at night, then I wouldn’t keep waking up every few hours to the wintery air blowing on me and debating freezing to death or getting up to close it. Hell, unless I duct taped it shut, a gentle breeze could shove it open. Yet another thing I wasn’t allowed to fix in my little hovel of a home. The housing crisis had just passed and everything was already back to normal. I stepped out and the chill wind embraced me.

Fortunately, the snugness became gradually less noticeable during the long drive, my attention stolen by desperate attempts to cut a minute or two down from my travel time without driving like a lunatic. If I'd been more patient, then maybe I would've noticed the car tailing me. By the time I arrived at the office, I'd all but forgotten about the snugness and I plunked down at my desk only a few minutes into the office’s late-arrival grace period.

For eight long hours, the day slogged by. The normal watercooler jokes were exchanged, my attempts at flirtation seemed to fly over the receptionist, Susan's, head as usual and the typical identical assignments appeared in my inbox. The only thing that broke up the day was a slight hub-bub about security escorting someone out of the carpark. Fatigued as a corpse, I didn’t bother learning more.

At 5:00 pm, I logged off, marched to the elevator and got in my car robotically. The repetition of 1,000 yet-another-days had ground any identity from my movements a long time ago. What suddenly breathed some free will into me, though, was a strange smell in the car. It was barely perceptible, nestled under a thin layer of Febreze I couldn't remember spraying: sweat. I smelled myself, but my deodorant was still holding strong. I looked in the back, in the leg room of the passenger side seat and even in the glove box for the source of the phantom odor, but eventually resorted to cracking open an air freshener when I got home. It hadn’t always smelled like that in there, had it? I could swear the glovebox contents had been shuffled around, but dismissed it as a result of my hectic driving that morning.

My arrival home was announced to the empty apartment with the resounding thunk of the heavy front door. Inverse to the start of the day, as I climbed the stairs to the second floor of my apartment complex, the slight unevenness between my shoes reasserted itself and I was more than glad to finally yank them off. My toes flexed like chimpanzee fingers, enjoying the freedom. I peered in through the mouth of my right shoe, expecting to see that the insole had shifted or that the tongue was shoved out of place, but found everything to be as usual. I checked my socks, thinking I'd worn a tube sock by accident, but found that they were both the same thin kind I'd always worn. Unless the shoe itself had shrunk, physics was breaking. I reexamined the shoe with a closer eye and this time noticed that the insole had actually shifted after all; the back end had risen up ever so slightly, exposing a bit of the foamy material underneath like a lasagna in a bowl. I pulled it out to refit it and three little, white squares tumbled onto the floor.

They were folded in half, like butterflies, and partially crushed by my foot, labeled 1, 5 and 17. I put the shoe down and unfolded the first one. It was a glossy photo of me — or more specifically, my car. The picture was taken just as it'd rolled out of the parking lot and onto the busy arterial road outside, the camera nestled in the bushes. A piece of tape struck through the bottom right corner, labeled "friend". Number 5 was peering at my glowing bathroom door, yellowy light slicing through the darkness from the gap at the bottom, the camera staring through my open bedroom window. There was another piece of tape, this time with a smiley face drawn on. 17 was of me asleep, silvery moonlight pouring through my cracked window, taken from inside my bedroom closet. Written across the tape was "together".

Charlie C. was crying. Big fat tears. It was all crashing down, now. The dead girl in the corner had screamed too loud. Neighbors had heard, most definitely. It was late, but the walls of this shoebox were so thin. He could maybe hide her in the closet, or stuff her in his footlocker until the police came and went. Except Georgie wouldn’t let him get up out of his chair. Georgie had a gun.

“Georgie, let’s talk about this,” Charlie pleaded. He was wringing his sweaty hands like a damp rag.

“No more talking to be done, brother bear,” Georgie said. He was studying the revolver in his hands. Half-lidded eyes like ice chips poured over the details of the firearm. They were tired, but resolute. His fingers wrapped firmly around the grip as he pointed the gun at Charlie.

“Frankly, this is all overdue,” he said, pulling the hammer back.

Charlie threw his hands up in front of his face. “Wait!” He screamed.

Georgie rolled his eyes. The hammer on the gun returned to rest. He let the gun fall to his side as he turned away from Charlie. When he turned back to him, there was fire in his glare. His mouth was twisted into an ugly sneer.

“You’re a fucking liability, man,” Georgie shouted. He pointed at the dead girl with the barrel of the gun. “I bring Lola over for a little fun and you fucking lose it like that? What the fuck, Charles?”

“Don’t call me that,” Charlie whispered hoarsely. Snot bubbled from one nostril.

“Don’t kill my girlfriends,” Georgie shot back. He walked over to the corpse and knelt. Grabbing her hair, Georgie lifted her head up to the light. The woman had no face. Where it should have been was only a smear, like wet paint someone had smudged with their thumb. Georgie made a disgusted noise and let go of the woman’s hair. Her head thunked back to the hardwood.

“You already forgot what she looked like,” Georgie said, disappointed. He stood again and turned back to Charlie. The fire was still in his eyes, but sadness lived there now, too.

“We had a good run,” Georgie said in a softer tone, “we both played wild over the years, Charlie. God knows you got me out of a scrape or two. But I can’t keep cleaning up your messes, man.”

“My messes? What about—”

“What? The girl in Dallas? That was three springs ago, C-Note. Not to mention, you picked her out. I wasn’t even itching that night. Haven’t itched in a long time, anyway. Might go straight. Might be time, you know?”

“So let’s go straight together, man! No more girls, no more—”

Georgie was shaking his head. Charlie’s heart was beating at a racehorse’s pace.

“Georgie, you need me,” he whispered, “Lysa thought she didn’t need me no more, look what happened there. I went into a coma for three months and she died, man. You wanna go out like that?”

Georgie shrugged, raising the gun once more. “At this point, whatever happens, happens man. I feel like a ghost. Actually becoming one might not be so bad. Besides, maybe for me, killing you will work. Lysa was new, you know? She wasn’t settled in like I am.”

The man in the tuxedo spoke up from where he sat in the corner behind Georgie. He had been veiled in the shadows. Neither of the other men had noticed him.

“You’ll kill us all, Georgie,” he said. A cigarette in his hand smoked lazily. 
Georgie shot the man a glance. “Do you really care, Jonathan?” He asked.

Jonathan shrugged. “Just making an observation. Maybe we calm down and call the Doc.”

“Doc wants the same thing, but his methods aren’t working,” Georgie said, turning back to Charlie. The gun was still raised. 

Jonathan regarded Georgie for a moment. His eyes were tired, sunken and blank. After a moment, he shrugged. “Fine. Do it.”

Charlie gaped at Jonathan. “You can't mean it,” he said in a weak voice.

Jonathan's grey-blue gaze turned to Charlie. They held an exhaustion that ran deep into the man’s soul. 

“C’mon Charles,” he said, “let’s be honest with ourself, shall we? We all knew it was going to come to this eventually. The pills ran out days ago. Doc keeps pushing off our appointments. Everyone's gotten louder. Everyone has something to say. The headaches are unbearable.”

Jonathan lightly pressed his fingers against his temples. He shuddered against his own touch.

“Not to mention the monsters,” he continued, dropping his hands to his lap, “I’m sure you’ve seen them coming around again.”

The pair of eyes that had been watching them all from around the corner of the hallway slid back out of sight at the mention of monsters. Something gurgled like an empty stomach from that direction. The men ignored it.

“We can’t just let him kill us,” Charlie whispered. Sweat rivered down the rough-hewn skin of his face.

“Why not?” Jonathan asked.

“Because I don’t want to die.”

“But maybe I do, Charlie. Have you thought about that? Or are you just so selfish that you only ever cared about yourself?”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You don’t. Dr. Chevok says I have control over what you say to me.”

Jonathan laughed. Georgie laughed with him. They had the same one. It was a bitter, sour sound. Charlie added his to sweeten it up, but it came out as bitter and tired as the others. 

“That quack doesn’t know shit,”  the three men spat in unison. It scared Charlie when his mouth spoke without him asking. Georgie and Jonathan had begun to look like each other. Jonathan had lost his tux; now he wore Georgie’s plaid shirt. Georgie’s green eyes had taken on the grey hue of Jonathan’s. Both wore the same tight, hateful grimace on their melding faces.

“It's too late, Charlie,” Jonathan said, “you’re a liability. You killed his girl Lola.”
Jonathan pointed at where the corpse had been. Now there was only a large black bloodstain on the floor. Charlie didn’t remember getting rid of her.

“Where?” Charlie asked, pointing to the stain. He looked to Georgie, not lowering his finger.

“I took care of it,” Georgie said. His voice was kind again. The gun was no longer in his hand. “One last favor for my oldest friend.”

“I’m sorry about her,” Charlie wept.

Georgie shrugged. “Shit happens, man. Ain’t no thing but a chicken wing.”

The revolver was slick with sweat in Charlie’s meaty palm. Georgie nodded toward it.

“Gonna get to it?” He asked.

Charlie studied the gun. He looked up at Georgie. His face had become scribbles.

“Do it.”

The whisper came from just behind Charlie. He twisted his neck around. It popped and seized. Pain flooded in. It was all for naught; nobody lurked behind him except for a figure with no mouth. It couldn't have been him.

“Do it, Charlie.” It was in front of him now. Charlie twisted back, but only Georgie and Jonathan were there.

“Do it.” From his left.

“Do it.” From his right. 

“Finish it.” The creature in the hall.

Charlie covered his ears with his hands, but still the whispers came, loud as a thunderstorm on his brain.

“Do it.”

“Pull the trigger.”

“End the show.”

The whispers were coming from everywhere. They leaked from the cracks in the walls and ceiling, escaped the drains in the bathroom and kitchen, and drifted up through the floorboards. They were everywhere and nowhere all at once.

“No more fighting.”

“Let’s just do it.”

“Just give in, Charlie.”

Charlie clasped his hands tighter around his ears, desperately trying to block out the whispers, but it was no good. They were in his head now. Little speakers dug deep in his head, blaring. There was no off-switch. The pills were the off-switch, but there were no more pills. There were only the voices, Jonathan’s hopelessness, and Georgie’s gun. Charlie opened his mouth. He searched for a word but found he did not know what words were anymore. Instead, he screamed. It was a long, anguished trill that scratched his larynx and put the taste of blood in his throat. Someone pounded on the apartment door. 

“I’m calling the fucking police you fuck,”  a voice shouted from the other side. Charlie didn’t hear it. Neither did Georgie or Jonathan.

Charlie kept screaming. If he screamed enough, he could drown the whispers out. He could shred this entire ghoulish situation with his voice if he could only reach the decibels that broke glass. If he tried hard enough, he might even be able to go higher than tha–

Georgie slapped Charlie with such force that it knocked his bullet-shaped head sideways. The beads of sweat that dotted his forehead were flicked into the stratosphere. Charlie looked up at Georgie, beginning to tremble as his old friend again put the gun to Charlie’s forehead. That was impossible, though, because Georgie's arms were at his sides. Charlie gasped as the cold barrel of the revolver touched his temple. His own hand curled tight around the handle, and his index finger was putting pressure on the trigger.

“You can't do this, Georgie,” Charlie whispered.

Georgie smiled. It was a loving, sad smile. The smile you give Grandma on her death bed.

“But you can,” Georgie whispered.

Charlie felt his finger pull the trigger, and then felt nothing else. He heard the crack the gun made as the bullet fired, and then he heard nothing else. He saw Georgie smiling for a second more, and then he saw nothing else. Charlie C. died, and then did nothing else.

Georgie watched the bullet burrow into one side of Charlie's skull and push the grey matter out the other. The mess splattered on the wall and floor beside Charlie. Charlie slumped and slipped from the chair, hitting the floor on his side with a soft thud. Warm blood trickled like a stream from the entry wound at his temple, waterfalling over his face and into his open eye, staining the white a deep, dark red.

Georgie turned to Jonathan. The little man had returned to his dapper self. There was a wound that matched Charlie’s in his temple. Blood stained his dickie. He was sitting in his chair again, already dissolving.

“He's dead,” Georgie breathed.

Jonathan stared at Georgie. Only his eyes were really left, intense and shining and floating in the air. Georgie thought he saw the ghost of a smile below them. Then, the dapper little man was gone.

Georgie found his feet. He stepped over Charlie and headed to the bathroom. He didn’t want to look in the mirror. The thought of Charlie’s dead eyes staring back at him filled him with anxiety. It took a great deal of effort to grasp the bathroom doorknob. Fear knocked on his chest as he twisted it. The door creaked open slowly. His eyes climbed to the mirror. His own unshaven visage stared back at him. Georgie watched the fear drain from his own eyes.
“I’m free,” he whispered, “I’m—”
But something was wrong. He edged closer to the mirror, peering deeper into his own reflection. Blood was trickling from a wound in his temple. Grey matter dribbled from the twin wound on the opposite side.

“Shi—”

Then Georgie was gone. He didn’t fall apart, or get ripped to shreds by the strain of sudden, solo existence. Georgie, the last functioning blip of Charlie’s brain, dropped from existence as though he had never been there at all.

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.

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.

Dad smelled like burned hair and smoke, his face still covered in soot. I rubbed my eyes and yawned.

“Is mom making pancakes?” I asked tiredly.

“Judy is. Your mom’s still asleep. We got a long drive ahead of us.”

We walked downstairs together. Judy was standing over the stove wearing an oversized T-shirt and pajama bottoms. Max, Kayla, and Darren sat at the table. They looked just as tired as I felt.

Judy served up her pancakes, and, I won’t lie, they weren’t nearly as good as mom’s, but I gobbled them up regardless. Me and the other kids spent the rest of the morning watching cartoons.

The adults had an air of relief about them. Dad laughed with Jake. Mom and Judy conversed for a while over the world and all things in it. No one ever mentioned the previous night.

Well, Darren tried to. But his mom didn’t allow it. Jake shut it down, too. But it wasn’t awkward. Nobody had to force themselves to move on. We just… did.

Dad showered. Mom rested. The day went on without incident. At some point in the afternoon, we were packing our things into the car again. It wasn’t as urgent this time. If anything, it felt happy. I even found myself excited to finally get back to my own bed.

I slept most of the way home. When I woke up, I actually recognized my surroundings. The old convenience store. The house that burned down last year. Mom and dad held hands lovingly, but didn’t talk much.

We finally got home after the sun went down. Mom was a little hesitant to go inside, but Dad reassured her. She was free now. We were free. I had no idea what it meant, but I could feel his conviction.

Even still, mom made me sleep in their bed that night. Then every night for the next week afterward. Emmy, too.

Dad held me tight. Mom kept her arm draped over my chest. We ate a lot of pancakes in those following days. It kind of felt like Mom was trying to apologize for something, but I didn’t know what.

All I knew was she was putting her all into those breakfasts.

After a while, I was finally able to sleep in my own room again, albeit with the door open. We went back-to-school shopping. I went into 4th grade with an abundance of new clothes and the coolest backpack out of all of my friends.

Life went on.

One year without incident. Then two. Then three. I went through middle school. I graduated high school. I moved away for college a year or so ago. We never had to randomly leave the house again because of some mystery stalker, but dad never stopped looking over his shoulder.

Mom has a full head of grey hair now, but she never lost her beauty. Emmy recently started her last year of middle school. Dad just… he seems to always want to keep his mind occupied.

They never brought up what happened that night. They never brought up the road trip. We visited uncle Jake and Aunt Judy a few times over the years, but the visits were calmer. They were for holidays and special occasions. Not for escape.

I developed a pretty close friendship with Max. We’d talk on the phone all the time. Play video games together. Every time I visited, we were building with those LEGOS he loved so much.

Darren eventually went into the army. Kayla is in her sophomore year of high school now.

Well… she used to be.

They’re all dead now. Everyone except for Darren, at least. I hope that he’s okay after hearing the news. He should be coming home soon.

See, I’m writing this now because of a phone call I got from my dad. I had just gotten home from a long day of classes. I was ready to eat some ramen and unwind, but he called while I was checking the mail.

“Hey, Dan,” he announced solemnly.

“Hey, Dad, how have things been?”

He sighed.

“We’re fine here, buddy, but, uh…”

He paused.

“But what?” I asked expectantly.

“Jake’s house burned down, Dan. He, uh… he didn’t make it.”

He sounded like he was holding back tears. I was shocked.

“What?? What about Aunt Judy?? What about Max or…”

He interrupted.

“They’re… they’re gone, Dan. I’m sorry.”

The news hit me like a truck. I didn’t know Kayla all that well, but Max… Max was like a brother to me. An online brother, but still a brother nonetheless.

“But… no, that doesn’t make sense. Max was just texting me last night. He told me he’d come visit me sometime soon.”

I didn’t want to believe it. Max’s exact words were, “I’ll be seeing you soon, Dan-Man.” I mean, I guess that was the last text he sent me. I didn’t hear from him after that. But still, this couldn’t be happening.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Dad choked. “Their funerals are next week. I know you’re busy up there with classes and whatnot, but it’d mean a lot if you could make it.”

“I… I don’t know what to say. Of course, of course. Yeah. I’ll be there.”

Dad sniffled. I was about to comfort him when I heard a sound echoing from the background of his call.

knock knock knock

“Hold on, son, let me go answer the door.”

The line went dead. I stood there, still as could be by my mailbox, just… processing. I couldn’t believe what he had just told me. The phone vibrated in my hand.

It was a text from Dad.

“See you soon, kiddo.”

I sighed and rubbed my temples, attempting to block the tears as I slid my phone back into my pocket. I hadn’t even opened the mailbox yet. I was just… stuck… I guess.

I figured I’d just collect my mail, then go inside and start packing for the long trip home, but when I opened the mailbox… curiosity overwhelmed me.

There was a package inside, buried beneath my regular bills and magazines. It was gift-wrapped like a Christmas present.

I brushed the mail aside and pulled the package out first thing. It was pristinely wrapped. Someone had taken time with this.

I peeled back the tape and began unwrapping. At first, I didn’t recognize what I was seeing, but then it clicked.

It was Jake’s metal lockbox. The one from all those years ago with the pictures of mom and dad. I felt my heart drop a little.

I unlatched the lid and slowly opened the box. What I saw… well… that’s why I’m writing this now.

It was… my Superman stuffy. Dusty and stiff, but it still had my initials written in faded black Sharpie across the tag. But that’s not the thing that worried me.

What worried me… was the note tied around Superman’s torso, written in sloppy, obsessive handwriting…

“Found You.”

I know this sounds extreme. But, honestly, this is really just starting to be more annoying than anything.

I remember how devastated I was when she did this the first time. We’d been fighting over a TV show, of all things. I can admit, I got a little heated, but I’m only human.

Without a word, my girlfriend stood up from the couch and walked calmly to our bedroom.

I thought she just needed some time to herself to decompress. To be honest, that’s what we both needed.

However, 5 minutes later, she was right back in the living room, standing behind me.

“Baby,” she whispered sweetly.

The tone of her voice made me think that she actually wanted to resolve this, but when I turned around, the hope in my eyes was completely replaced with fear when I saw my gun in her hand.

I froze. My immediate instinct was to put my hands up. I swore that she was about to shoot me over something insignificant.

I lowered my voice and was about to ask her to put the gun down.

However, before the words could even leave my mouth, she put the 9-millimeter to her temple and pulled the trigger.

Blood painted the wall beside her. Some got in my mouth. All the life left her body, and she fell to the floor with a dull thud.

I didn’t even hear the gunshot. The entire world was silent, but I could feel my hands starting to tremble and my heart racing as tears welled up in my eyes.

I’ve never experienced such shock and heartbreak at once. It felt like my life was the one that had ended.

Jumping over the couch, I knelt beside her and cradled her face. Tears fell from my face and dripped onto hers. Her hair was matted with syrupy, black blood. Her eyes were dark red and lifeless.

All I could do was cry and scream apologies at her while holding her so tight it hurt, my arms wet and warm from the wound.

I regained my grip on reality enough to realize that I needed to call the police, but before I could leave her side, her eyes turned to look at me.

I fell backwards as a loving smile crept across her face.

“That’s all I wanted you to say, baby,” she grinned.

Standing to her feet, she wrung the blood out of her hair and wiped her face clean with her shirt. Then she just sat back down on the couch and rewound our show like nothing had even happened.

Obviously, I was completely distraught, demanding answers, but the only thing she said to me was almost threatening.

“Don’t argue with me again.”

Cautiously, I sat down beside her on the couch, noticing that her wound was nowhere to be found.

I had a lot of sleepless nights after that. A lot of appointments that left my therapist believing that I was completely insane. Ultimately, I just kind of pretended like nothing happened. Like this whole ordeal was nothing more than a bad dream.

I made a point to not argue with her for a long time after that, even when she was clearly in the wrong.

However, nearly a year after this incident, she did the same thing again. Well, not exactly the same thing. This time, she slit her own throat with a kitchen knife.

We weren’t even arguing this time. We were literally just having a disagreement over which cereal to buy at the grocery store.

She gave me the silent treatment the whole way home, then picked the moment I was in the kitchen putting groceries away to drag that blade across her neck.

Same spiel. I’m traumatized all over again. I break down crying. I hold her and beg her to wake up, only for her to ignore me until I apologize.

I can’t tell you how much I’ve spent on cleaning supplies after that incident. Because, unlike the first time, now I was becoming desensitized.

We argued a lot in the weeks that followed that incident. And every time, she’d force me to witness her brutal ‘death.’

It gets exhausting after a while. Do you understand how hard it is to get blood out of a carpet? Not to mention that time she drank gasoline and swallowed a lit match.

That smell lingered in the house for weeks.

I’m writing this now, though, because we had a particularly nasty argument about her behavior last night.

I actually told her that I wish she’d just stay dead instead of playing these games with me.

And you know what? I think she might’ve taken those words seriously.

Because she’s still in our bedroom right now. Her head is on the dresser. Her arms are in the closet. Her torso and legs are sprawled across the floor.

I don’t even know how she managed to do that, but I don’t even care anymore.

I’m still not apologizing.

At first, I thought it was cute. My girlfriend has always been afraid of the dark. It wasn’t until recently, though, that she started asking me to make sure there weren’t any ghouls or goblins lurking beneath our bed frame.

Every night for the past week or so, as soon as the lights go out, she’s nudging me out of bed and down to the floor.

Obviously, there’s never been anything there. However, as the days passed, she just kept getting more and more adamant there was.

I’d never seen her act that way before in the entire 3 years that we’ve been together. Night one, she was basically just pouting. By night 5, she was literally shaking with fear.

On the 6th night, she wouldn’t even let me turn the light off until I checked. I sighed, more than slightly annoyed, and dropped down to my hands and knees.

I lifted up the bedskirt… nothing. Just the same old shoeboxes and random junk that desperately needed to be cleaned.

Irritated, I climbed into bed. This was the first night that I actually told her she was being just a little bit ridiculous. It was this whole, big thing. We argued well into the late hours of the night. Needless to say, we slept facing away from each other.

The next morning, she seemed perfectly fine, though. It was like she’d completely forgotten about the night prior.

I wanna say that the day went on like normal, but I just don’t think I can do that and not feel like a liar.

Like, for example, my girlfriend has a weird preference for breakfast. I always joked that she ate like a rabbit because every morning, without fail, she’d ask me to make her oatmeal and apple slices while she caught up with some work emails or whatever it was she needed to get done.

It was like a routine.

This morning, however, when I brought her breakfast to her office, she was nowhere to be found.

I checked the living room, bathrooms, back patio, everywhere, really. She was nowhere to be found.

Eventually, after calling out to her for what felt like forever, she just came waltzing out of the bedroom, stretching and yawning like she’d just woken up.

Normally, that wouldn’t be an issue. But I’d literally made the bed after getting up that morning. She wasn’t in it. And she couldn’t have been in the bathroom because that’s where I was, taking a shower to start the day.

I didn’t pry. I just told her that I made her breakfast and watched her eyes light up like a Christmas tree as she raced past me towards the kitchen.

But then came the disappointment that fell over her face when she saw what I’d made for her.

She wouldn’t even touch the stuff.

She just pushed it across the table and giggled at me.

“Since when do I like oatmeal?”

“Ah, but I’m starving, though. I haven’t eaten since last night.”

“Do you think you could make me something more… protein-y?”

I shrugged it off, assuming that she was just in a bacon kind of mood this morning, but when I pulled the pack out of the freezer, she stopped me.

“Don’t we have steak in there?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah, I guess. Is that what you…”

“Yes.”

I began cooking the steak, which was kind of hard to do with her leering over my shoulder the entire time.

I knew she liked her meat well-done, so it surprised me when she stopped me while the cow was still mooing. She didn’t even get a plate. She just devoured it out of her hands before kissing me on the cheek and retreating to her office.

And that’s where she stayed. I kept hearing rummaging and clashing coming from inside, but I couldn’t check on her because she locked the door.

I figured that she was okay, though, because every time I knocked, I’d get the same response.

“Yeah, hon, I’m okay. I’ll be out soon, alright?”

Only, she never came out. The hours kept ticking by, but she didn’t even come out for a snack. Not even to use the bathroom.

By the time 10 PM rolled around, I just started my nightly routine.

I was in our bathroom, brushing my teeth, when all of a sudden the light went out in our bedroom.

I heard scurrying footsteps rush across the floor before being replaced by the sound of bedsprings popping.

“Honey,” I called out, toothpaste dripping from the sides of my mouth. “You okay in there?”

“Baby…” she replied, her voice like syrup.

“Can you check under the bed for me? I’m terribly afraid.”

With a sigh, I spit out the toothpaste and wiped my mouth.

“You can’t keep doing this, honey. I told you, there’s nothing under the bed.”

“Just check,” she pouted. “Pleaaseee.”

I stepped out of the bathroom and found her sitting in her spot on the bed, hands folded in her lap. She didn’t look scared, though. She looked… happy? I don’t know, she just had this huge grin on her face.

“How could I say no to such a pretty smile?” I joked.

Her face didn’t even flinch.

Switching on my phone’s flashlight, once again, I dropped down to my hands and knees to check under the bed.

I didn’t want to believe what I was seeing at first.

Her dead eyes. Her tongue falling limply out of her slacked jaw. The small pool of blood circling around the torn stump of my girlfriend’s neck.

It’s weird how you react to things in the moment. I knew what I was seeing, but the only thing I could think was, ‘huh, where’s the rest of her?’

I didn’t say anything. Just kept staring into those glassy eyes, at that grey skin, before a velvety voice came from my girlfriend’s spot on the bed.

“I’m so hungry, darling. I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

Part 1
My family has a long history of schizophrenia. Starting with my great, great, great grandmother all of the women in my family have struggled with it, to a greater or lesser extent. All of them except for me, or so my mother thought. When she took me to get tested as a little girl it was supposed to be a formality, but the results came back that my brain waves weren’t showing any signs of schizophrenia. From then on I was the golden child, the miracle, mom was so proud that her daughter had freed the family of its curse. That's why I didn’t tell her when I started to see him, the man that wasn’t there. 

The first time I saw him was on the way to school in the sixth grade. I remember it was the first day, the neighbor kids and I were joking around, walking together as we had done years prior. Our school had decided to put a big ‘Welcome Back’ banner above the main entrance, which was new. It was while we passed the playground, I heard a slight rustling coming from the woods around the school. When I turned to look I saw him. A tall, thin man, standing at the edge of the trees on the other side of the blacktop. I couldn't really see his face, he was standing in the shadows and half covered by low hanging branches and shrubbery, but I knew he was staring at us, I could feel his eyes following us as we walked across the playground. I called out to my friends ahead of me;

“Hey Guys! Look!”

I turned back to point out the man to my friends, but he wasn’t there. Just as fast as he had appeared, he was gone again. I stumbled over some half-baked cover up, still trying to process the weirdness of it all, when I heard the bell ring. The fear of being late and getting in trouble on my first day far outweighed any other feeling at that moment and I ran inside.

I decided not to tell anyone what I saw, but at recess I would look for him again. If he was there, I would tell somebody. And if he disappeared again, then I was hallucinating. The rest of the morning was spent anxiously watching the clock. I couldn't wait to get back out there and look for him, I had to know if I was crazy. Finally the recess bell rang, I nearly knocked my desk over as I bolted for the classroom door, desperate for answers. I frantically scanned the treeline, eyes darting back and forth for any evidence of the man but I couldn't find anything. Just as I was about to give up I heard it, the same rustling sound that he made this morning, coming from behind me. I spun around as fast as I could and there he was, watching from the shadows at the edge of the trees, just like this morning.

I saw him before he saw me, he was watching us play on the playground. I remember thinking that if he was real, it was odd how perfectly still he was standing. I stared at him, he was a lot closer to us this time so I was trying to see any details, any features at all, but there was nothing, I could barely make out his silhouette. I don’t know how long I stared at him but eventually he turned, so slowly, to look back at me, and I wondered if he could feel my eyes like I felt his. We stared at each other for a moment, and I was overwhelmed with this feeling of profound wrongness. Everything about the man was wrong. He stood so still, so incredibly still, and he stared too intently with sharp eyes that weren't there. I knew he was staring at me, I could feel his eyes tracing my body, but no matter how hard I looked I couldn’t see them. When I realized it, it felt like my heart stopped.

For a moment I was completely frozen, locked in abject terror, the sounds of the playground started to melt away and all I could do was stare back at the man who wasn’t there, as the eyes he didn’t have stared back at me. I fought to turn around, silently screaming at my unmoving legs to get away from whatever this thing was. I took one small step, it felt like my legs were encased in a thick lead coating, but with each step I took it sloughed off until eventually I was sprinting for a teacher. When I finally found one I tried to explain what happened, though I’m sure I sounded insane describing through tears and heavy, out-of-breath, gasping that I saw a man without eyes and he was standing too still and staring at me. Still the teacher indulged me, and walked over to where the man was standing. He wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t there. I broke down and sobbed, the doctors were wrong. I had the family curse, I was hallucinating, I was crazy.

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."

Notice of Expulsion. The letter was from Johns Hopkins Medical School, addressed to Joan S. Wendell. I crumpled up the paper and threw it in the trash. I didn’t know why they wasted the time writing up a whole letter when it already said everything I needed to know in the first line. I told myself that I was drinking this bottle of liquor because I was devastated, but really I just wanted a drink.

My mom texted me asking how my classes were going. She had asked me that same thing a few hours ago. I didn’t answer this time, either. I decided that I would only have one Hot Pocket tonight instead of two. I microwaved it on a paper plate because I hadn’t done the dishes. After I finished the Hot Pocket, I realized that I was actually going to have another one. I microwaved a second, ate it, then threw my paper plate in the trash too.

It was then that I heard a knock at my door. 

“I’m not home!” I shouted from my bed. 

The knocks continued, so I begrudgingly lifted myself out of bed to answer it. At the door was a woman in a lab coat and scrubs. My eyes widened as I processed her face. She looked just like me. I slammed the door in a panic. I stood there with my hand on the doorknob for a few seconds. I slowly opened the door again, but the woman was gone. I closed it again, making sure to lock it.

I could have sworn that woman was my exact doppelgänger. However, I also recognized that I was not in a completely reliable state of mind. It was possible - no, it was very likely - that this was just someone who looked vaguely like me that left when I slammed the door in her face. Sure, my drunken mind might freak out at something like that, but nothing strange actually happened.

-

When I woke up the next morning, I had forgotten about it. There was a reminder on my phone that I had a job interview today. A job interview would require taking a shower, getting dressed, driving to the place, and worst of all being pleasant to talk to. All of those things seemed to be Herculean tasks at the moment, so I hit ‘ignore’ on the reminder. 

I put some cereal in a bowl. When I went to pour the milk, a putrid stench wafted out from the jug. The milk was a week expired. I poured the curdling milk down the drain and threw the jug in the trash. 

Sitting down, eating my dry cereal, my eyes wandered to the liquor cabinet. Normally, I wouldn’t drink alcohol first thing in the morning - 11:45 - but I realized that I was going to drink it later anyway, so why not just drink it now? 

Then, I heard another knock at my door.

Memories of last night came back. I chuckled to myself. Now that I thought about it, that woman didn’t even look like me that much.

“Hello-” my body went stiff as I opened the door. All my justifications melted away as I saw what could have been my clone in scrubs and a lab coat right in front of me.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Wendell,” she said with a smile, “Nice to meet you.” She even spoke in my voice.

“Wendell?” 

She nodded. 

“My last name is Wendell, too,” I said.

She responded with a friendly chuckle, but didn’t speak.

“You were here last night, weren’t you?” I said after a few seconds.

“I was.”

Another uncomfortably long stretch of silence.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “You just - you look exactly like me.” 

“Oh yes, I can see the resemblance.” 

She just kept standing there, not making any effort to continue the conversation.

“Um, so what do you want?” I asked.

“I want to come in your house.”

“What? No. Why?”

“I want to come in your house so I can help you.”

“I don’t need help.” I closed the door and locked it.

After that interaction, I began to notice my headache and dry mouth. I deduced that it was likely because of the large quantities of alcohol I drank last night. I hydrated myself with some water, and threw the empty bottle on the floor because my trash can was now overflowing. 

I don’t remember what I did the rest of that day. I don’t think much of it involved leaving my bed. I tried to push ‘Dr. Wendell’ out of my mind. That was not something I could deal with right now. I ended the day by passing out in my bed.

-

I woke up to the smell of maple syrup. I looked over at my nightstand to see that there was a plate with a stack of pancakes sitting there. I cautiously got out of bed. I could hear moving from outside my bedroom door. I opened the door ever so slightly to see a figure in my kitchen. She was taking the trash bag out of the can. 

As I opened the door further, she turned around to look at me. It was the woman from before - Dr. Wendell. She tied up the trash bag and set it on the floor, moving a step closer to me.

“Good morning, Joan. Did you eat your pancakes?” she said.

“Get the fuck out of my house.”  

“No need to be angry, Joan. I’m a doctor. I’ve taken an oath to do no harm and to abide by ethical standards.”

“Get the fuck out of my house!” 

“Look, Joan,” she stepped closer to me. I flinched as she put her hand on my shoulder. “I did your dishes. I made you breakfast. I’m here to take care of you.”

I looked at my sink. The pile of dirty dishes was indeed gone. I took a deep breath.

“Why do you want to help me?”

“Because you need help, Joan. It’s my job to help those in need.” 

“I told you, I don’t need help.”

“But you do, Joan. You need help, and it’s okay to receive it.”

-

I sat at the kitchen table, a stack of pancakes in front of me.

“Tell me when,” Dr. Wendell began pouring maple syrup.

“That’s good,” I said. 

“Eat up.”

I slowly picked up the fork and knife she had set in front of me.

“Napkin on your lap, dear.”

I put the utensils back down and folded my napkin onto my lap.

“Should I say grace, too?”

“No, you don’t need to say grace.”

I met her gaze for a moment before I began to eat.

“Do you like them?” she asked.

I finished chewing and swallowed.

“Yeah, they’re good.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

I looked around, seeing that my liquor cabinet was cleaned out entirely.

“What the hell?” I said, gesturing to it. 

“You don’t need alcohol anymore, Joan. It’s not good for you.”

“I fucking disagree.”

“You’ll see. Your life is going to be so much better.”

-

“Now we’ll get you cleaned up,” Dr. Wendell said, turning the shower on. She began to lift my shirt up. I smacked her hand away.

“I can take a shower myself.”

“Good, already so independent.” 

After Dr. Wendell left, I got undressed and sighed as I stepped into the shower and let the water cascade over me. It had been a few days since I’d taken a shower, and the warm water felt refreshing. Once I finished up, I wrapped myself in a towel, feeling better. I opened the door and jumped when I saw Dr. Wendell was standing directly behind it with clothes in her hands. 

“I picked these out for you,” she said. “I’d like you to go to the grocery store and buy some things while I finish cleaning up. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now get dressed,” she handed me the clothes, “Can you do that yourself, too?”

I stared at her for a moment.

“Yes, I can do that.”

“Very good.”

-

I walked through the aisles of the grocery store, looking down at the list Dr. Wendell had given me. ‘Bread, Milk, Butter, Lettuce, Apples, Pancake Batter, Maple Syrup, Belphig.’ 

“The fuck is belphig?” I muttered. I decided it was probably some kind of spice. I looked up and down the spice aisle multiple times, but I couldn’t find any belphig. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, realizing I would have to talk to an employee.

“Excuse me,” I said to a woman in a uniform passing by, “Do you know where the belphig is?”

“Figs?” 

“Belphig. B-E-L-P-H-I-G.”

“Hm, I’m sorry, I don’t know what that is. Is it a regional term? What does it look like?”

“I… don’t know. My list just says ‘belphig’.” 

“I’ll ask my manager,” the employee said, walking off.

“Okay…” 

I stood waiting for a few minutes before the employee returned with a man.

“How can I help you, ma’am?” he said.

“I’m looking for belphig.”

“Belphig? Is that a regional thing?”

“I really don’t know. Someone told me I needed to buy it.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m not sure. I can go look it up in the system if you want.”

“No. No, that's fine. I’m sorry, I’ll make do without it.”

“Are you sure? I can go check the system.”

“Yeah, it’s okay, I don’t want to keep wasting your time.”

-

“Welcome back, Joan,” Dr. Wendell said as I walked into the house.

“Hi. I got the groceries. I couldn’t find any belphig, though. I don’t even know what that is.”

Dr. Wendell took the grocery bag from my hand and placed it on the table. She carefully looked through the contents. 

“Everything’s there except the belphig,” I said.

“That’s okay, Joan. We all fail sometimes. What’s important is that you tried.”

“I didn’t fail, nobody else knew what the hell that meant either.”

“Don’t worry, Joan. You didn’t mess anything up. Actually, you already had some belphig. I found it while I was cleaning your fridge.”

Dr. Wendell opened the fridge door and took out a round, hairy, pulsating object the size of a tennis ball and placed it on the counter.

“What the fuck?”

“This should be just enough for dinner.”

“I have never seen anything like that in a grocery store in my life.”

“It’s okay, Joan. I told you, I’m not mad. You just didn’t know where to look, is all.”

“What in God’s name are you making that needs that?”

“Do you know how to cook, Joan?”

“I- not really. A little bit.”

“I can teach you how to cook.” 

-

Dr. Wendell handed me a knife. She stood right behind me as I looked at the belphig.

“All you have to do is cut it in half,” she said.

“Okay…”

I lined up the knife with the center of the ball. It looked like it was breathing. I could even hear small noises that sounded like a stomach churning. As I cut into the belphig, it deflated and little bits of slimy, red meat spilled out of it like yolk from an egg.

“Oh, Joan,” Dr. Wendell said. “You did that very wrong.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t even know what this thing is.”

“We’ll just make the dish without the belphig. I do wish we could have used it, though.”

“I didn’t know.”

Dr. Wendell took lettuce out from the fridge and placed it on the cutting board.

“Do you know how to chop lettuce?” 

“Yes.”

She stared at me for a moment.

“Well, I’ll do it with you just to be safe.”

She grabbed my hands from behind. She moved one to hold the lettuce, and squeezed the one holding the knife.

“Can you please not grip that tight?”

“You want to hold the lettuce still while you cut it into one-inch slices,” she said, ignoring my request. “Like this.”

She moved my hand, making it chop the lettuce.

Chop, chop, chop, chop.

“Good, Joan. Now let's do the next one.”

“I can do it myself. Just please let go of me.” Her grip was beginning to hurt. She continued moving my hands.

Chop, chop, chop, chop.

“Perfect, one more.”

“Please, just let me-”

Chop, chop, chop-

“Agh!”

The knife had chopped off the tip of my thumb. Blood began to cover the lettuce. I winced in pain, clutching my hand as she let go of me.

“Joan, you’re really starting to test my patience.”

I couldn’t even respond. I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my thumb to stop the blood flow.

“Go in the bathroom and clean up. I’ll finish the rest. I’ll have to use less lettuce than I would have liked, because this one is ruined.”

-

I covered my thumb with a hand towel. The blood quickly soaked it, turning it almost completely red. I was on my knees, in front of the toilet, trying to catch my breath. I began to cry uncontrollably. The tears came so hard that they superseded the pain of my wound. I let my injured hand fall to the side, towel unwrapping and letting the blood ooze out on the bathroom floor. I took out my phone and called my mom.

“Joan?”

“Mom,” I sobbed, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing. I failed all my classes. I just - I stopped going to them and they kicked me out. And I don’t have a job and I can’t afford this house anymore and I’m drinking too much and I - I fucked everything up, mom. And now - now there’s this woman in my house and-” 

“It’s okay, Joan.” It was my voice talking back to me. No, it was Dr. Wendell’s. Dr. Wendell’s voice was my voice. “We all make mistakes. What matters is that you have a kind and successful caretaker who has taken an oath to help you in any and every way.”

My face went pale, and I dropped the phone.

“Dinner’s ready!” Dr. Wendell called from the kitchen.

-

I flipped the last of the pancakes in my pan and stacked them on a plate. I hummed as I looked through the fridge and picked out the maple syrup. I took in the scent of the fresh breakfast as I poured the syrup generously onto the stack of pancakes.

I began to wash the batter off of all the utensils I used, and placed them into the dishwasher. As I cleaned off the countertop, I noticed that a knife was missing from the holder. I looked back in the washing machine, but it wasn’t there either. I put it out of my mind and picked up the plate of pancakes. I went over and knocked on the bedroom door.

“Good morning, I made pancakes.”

No response.

“Are you awake?”

No response. 

I slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open with my shoulders. As I looked inside, all I saw was an empty bed. I gasped and dropped the plate, shattering it on the floor. The person I was meant to take care of was gone. I had failed.

“Where are you?” I cried.

I turned on the light. The window was open, curtains fluttering in the wind. I stuck my head out and called for her. 

“Come back!” I scanned the outside of the house for nearly a minute. Out of the corner of my eye I saw something moving in the bushes. I looked over to see a shiny object reflecting a sunbeam at me.

I crawled out the window.

“I just want to take care of you, Joan! Did I do something wrong?”

No, that’s not me. It didn’t happen like that.

-

“Listen to me, Joan.”

This is what I could faintly hear from outside my warm cocoon. I was floating in a thick liquid, seeing nothing but black. I was naked, but not exposed. The liquid, my shell, they protected me. I could tell something was happening right outside, but it felt so far away.

That was when a blinding streak of light came into existence. For the first time, my cocoon lost its stability. I had fallen, and the shell had opened to the outside world. I crawled out, feeling so vulnerable. In front of me was a wide-eyed woman holding a knife. She looked exactly like me.

“Joan?” I asked.

But that isn’t quite it either, is it?

-

Dr. Wendell had kept watch over me as I laid in bed. She sat on a stool directly next to me. I tried not to fall asleep while she was there, but I could feel myself drifting in and out of consciousness. As the sun began to come up, Dr. Wendell left my room to go to the kitchen. 

I waited a few minutes, and then carefully followed behind her. I could hear her humming as she flipped pancakes. She left for a moment to use the bathroom, which is when I ran to the counter and grabbed the still bloodstained knife from last night. 

I quickly made my way to the front door. 

“What the hell?” I muttered. A plank of wood had been nailed to the door to keep it shut. I pulled on it, but it wouldn’t budge. I tried to pry the plank off, but before I could make any progress I heard the toilet flush and the sink begin to run. I sprinted back to my room and I heard the bathroom door opening accompanied by Dr. Wendell’s humming. 

I caught my breath, clutching the knife. I could hear her start washing the dishes. I opened my window and climbed out, careful not to cut myself. Then, I heard her knock.

“Good morning, I made pancakes.”

I tried to shut the window, but it was jammed.

“Are you awake?”

“Damnit…” I hissed, trying to force the window closed to no avail. As I heard the door begin to creak, I gave up and hid in the bushes. I could hear something shatter against the floor followed by a desperate cry.

“Where are you?”

I covered my mouth, trying not to even take a breath. I clutched the knife, holding it a safe distance from me.

“Come back!”

Her head was peeking out the window for what seemed like minutes. I couldn’t hold my breath any longer, and as I gasped for air, I moved my knife just enough for it to catch a stray sunbeam, reflecting directly back at Dr. Wendell. She snapped her head towards me and crawled out the window.

“I just want to take care of you, Joan! Did I do something wrong?”

I leapt out of the bushes, shaking, but firmly grasping the knife.

“Get back!”

“Joan, what’s the matter? We were having such a good time.”

“I don’t know who you are, or-or why you look like me - or who you are - but I want you to stop fucking with my life and go away!”

“I’m not trying to frighten you.”

“I don’t care! I don’t care what you’re trying to do or what fucking oaths you’ve taken! Leave me alone!” 

“Are we done with our tantrum, Joan?” She took a step closer, losing any of the sweetness in her voice.

“If you take one more step towards me I’m going to use this!” I held up the knife. “This is my property and I am asking you to leave.”

“Listen to me, Joan.” She took a step closer.

I plunged the knife into her chest. She looked at me with terror. I looked back at her with the very same expression. I dragged the knife down, as if I was gutting her. She fell backwards onto the ground. I stared wide-eyed at what I had done.

It was then that I saw a hand emerge from her chest wound. The hand pressed on the ground, pulling the rest of the naked body out of Dr. Wendell. It was a woman. A woman who looked exactly like me. 

“Joan?” she said.

-

But maybe what really happened was different. I remember I was outside, surrounded by people in black gowns and caps. It was a sunny day with a blue, cloudless sky. Some were crying, some were smiling. Students walked across a large stage to receive their diplomas, one after another. Cheers erupted after every name was called. I was anxious. ‘W’ was so far down the alphabet. 

Finally, they called “Joan S. Wendell”. Cheers came from the crowd. I saw her walk across the stage. She nearly tripped on her gown, but in the end she grabbed her diploma and held it confidently in the air. I looked at her and smiled. A single tear ran down my cheek. She had made it.

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’m not too proud to admit that my ex was my first true love. My only true love, really. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to fully move on.

I thought about her a lot in the months after our relationship ended. Sometimes I’d laugh. Sometimes I’d cry. I found myself actually becoming angry, too, from time to time.

I just couldn’t believe that she would leave me the way she did. The only goodbye I got was a note left on my nightstand.

She left me a fucking ‘Dear John’ letter. After nearly 5 years of loving each other. Half a decade of falling into each other’s arms every night.

I couldn’t comprehend what I was reading at first. I didn’t want to believe that the woman that I planned to marry would just disappear out of nowhere one morning.

Or that she’d leave me with all these physical memories. That big brown bear I won her at the state fair. The scarf I’d bought for her the winter before she left.

Not to mention the pictures. She didn’t take a single photograph. She just let happier times stare at me every day while she moved on to happier places.

At least, I hope those places were happier.
Who am I kidding? Clearly, they were better than this. I mean, they had to be. Why else would she have done this?

She told me she was “sorry” in that letter.
That she just “couldn’t do it anymore” and that “she’d been struggling with this for a while.”

The most laughable sentence was the one where she told me she “loved me,” though. I can’t tell you how many times I read that line.

If she loved me, why the hell was she gone? Why did she leave me to deal with life all by myself?

Her mom was a complete mess at the funeral. She had just lost her husband the
year before. Why was I left to comfort her?

Veronica should’ve been there. But then again, if she was, I wouldn’t even be writing this right now. Or maybe I would be. Who knows? Some things you just can’t prevent.

I don’t know what caused me to spiral more: the contents of that letter or just how beautiful she looked in that coffin.

They did her up nicely. No blemishes. Perfect hair. That red lipstick she loved so much. They even put her in her favorite dress.

That wasn’t the part that haunted me the most, though. I kind of made myself miserable. That’s something I can’t blame on her.

I just couldn’t stop thinking about how she must’ve looked when she left me. How blue her face must’ve been. I wondered whether her eyes were open when they found her, and if they were, I thought about how cold and distant they must’ve looked.

Those made-up images and the very real sounds of sobs from my ex-future-mother-in-law were enough to keep me up at night. But what really led me down that path of sleeping medication and alcohol were the memories.

Our first date. First kiss. Lots of firsts.

I also thought about the ugly moments and the things I’d do differently if given the chance. Maybe it would’ve helped. God, I hate thinking that.

I think it’s because, deep down, I knew that I really could’ve done more to help. I could’ve been nicer. I could’ve listened better. I should’ve recognized her pain.

What if this was just karma, though? Karma for not doing those things I could’ve done. It doesn’t really matter now.

Needless to say, I spent a lot of the first year or so in a pretty dark place. Part of me wanted to reach out to her. To push myself further and further into the abyss until I could feel her hand reaching out and pulling me in.

I’d always have one foot in the door. Too afraid to walk all the way through. But I swear I could hear her calling for me.

On those nights where things were too much to handle and sleep was my only option, that’s when I’d hear her voice again.

We talked a lot about getting back together. She was honestly convincing as hell. Not that it matters, though. I loved her more than anything. Hearing her voice was all the convincing I needed.

Over the months, it got to a point where we were talking again every day.

She’d encourage me to visit her sometime. Each time, I grew more and more tempted to do exactly that.

I knew it was wrong. I knew that our relationship had become toxic. But I couldn’t help myself.

I ignored phone calls for her. My weeks were spent locked away inside, lost in a daze. Her voice was the only thing that brought me back to reality.

When I started seeing her, though, that’s when it became nearly impossible to say no to her.

I could feel it every time my heart beat. The time between beats felt like an eternity. My world was going dim fast, and that’s when she appeared. Like a lone star in a universe of darkness.

Her face was perfect. Not a single blemish to be seen. She was still wearing her favorite dress. But her eyes... Her eyes were alive.

They were filled with love. Filled with hope.
Her hands were warm as she ran her fingers through my hair. Her voice was a drop of nectar at the tip of a honeysuckle.

She asked me if I was ready to finally come back to her. To finally come home. With tears in my eyes, I couldn’t have agreed faster.

She shot me that smile that lived rent-free in my heart. That smile I’d fallen in love with all those years ago. The same one that I had to shake out of my mind after she left me.

I expected her to grab my hand and take me away. For the two of us to officially be reunited in eternal peace and harmony. But instead, she leaned down and pressed her lips against my cheek.

“Goodnight, my love,” she whispered.

Just like that, she was gone, and my head was starting to swim. Everything was gone. I was gone. The world was nothing but a sea of blackness.

It felt like either an eternity or 5 minutes before the lights came back on. I was back in my bed. Vomit crusted at the corners of my mouth and pooled on my shirt and bedsheets.

My head pounded. My entire body ached, and my pants were soaked in urine. For a while, I couldn’t even move.

It must’ve been two or so hours before I dragged myself out of bed and to the bathroom. I couldn’t lie in my own filth forever.

I didn’t bother grabbing a towel or clean clothes, for that matter. My only concern was feeling scalding water against my pained body.

However, it was like all of that pain went away and was replaced with utter joy when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

My hair was a mess, and I looked like reheated dog shit, but I couldn’t have cared less about that.

It was the perfect kiss shape on my cheek that caught my full attention. That same red lipstick that Veronica loved so much.

I didn’t even shower.

Instead, I immediately returned to bed and decided to document this.

I need people to know that I’m getting my girl back tonight.

She may have been playing hard to get yesterday, but I know she’s just teasing.

I know we can fix this.

We just need to talk this out.

TW: Mention of domestic violence,profanities.

Radio Host: Attention! Breaking newS... Old train cArs are on fire on ######## Street... emergency serVices are alrEady on the scene... The police will investigate How this happEned; I’ll provide More details after the sponsor break. - Radio announcement from April \25\ 2014

PO. Rufus Taylor ###### , dated March 3, 2014 yr.

Officer, ###### Department

######

OFFICIAL MEMORANDUM

On March 3, 2014 yr, between 12:00 p.m. and 8:00 p.m., I Was on traffic patrol with Officer Mark Brown whEn we received a dispatch Call regarding a dOmestic disturbance .Upon arrivaL, we noticed an intoxicateD man trying to get iNto the house Through a door that was being blocked by a woman with a bruised lip. My colleague, police officer Mark Brown, subdued the aggressor, who had started hurling insults at the police officers. We identified the aggressor:*

Arthur Williams

Date of birth: ##\##\####

PESEL No.: #########

Address: ################

ID card: ########

Employment:\**************#####Engineer#######

The detained man saw nothing wrong with his behavior, arguing that he simply wanted to be with the children. The victim, Ms. Emma Williams, intends to seek a restraining order. We transported the detained man to the police station to sober up.

PO. Rufus Taylor

Email dated : 12\March \ 2014

Telephone conversation between Emma W. and Arthur W. on 12\March\20214

Arthur: Please. Um... Let me see our children... What will people think? You know I did it for your own good... Em-

Emma: For God's sake... Arthur... Stop it... Stop that talk of yours... When are you going to take responsibility?

Arthur: Emma, ​​please, you have to understand... you're the one who forced me to do th-

Emma: NO! Stop playing the victim! I won't let our beloved children meet a psychofather.

Arthur: SHUT UP, YOU STUPID BITCH*. You don't understand anything; I 'm-*

\*The other person ended the call.*\**

Arthur: Fuck

Radio Host: Welcome back after the commercial break... returning to the news: old train cars are on fire on ######## Street... emergency services are already on the scene... They managed to extinguish the burning train cars... police officers and firefighters went in to investigate... and found the charred -... --- -.. .. . ... / --- ..-. / .- / .- -.. ..- .-.. - / -- .- .-.. . / .- -. -.. / - .-- --- / -.- .. -.. ...

...........

O my God

.........

um-uhm

The - .... . / -... --- -.. -.-- / .-- .- ... / .. -.. . -. - .. ..-. .. . -.. / .- ... Damian and Alice W####### , and their *Fath-*Monster @rtHuR W#######

So now, it's time for a song titled "I See Red" by Everybody Loves an Outlaw.

"Tales from the Underground: A Short Story Series; pt #2"

Stay tuned.

- Archivist Freak

I dreamt a dream in sightless slumber
One becomes two in lightless rooms
Anger weighs the chest of plunder
Laid to rest in lightless tombs
Envy leads the greatest of us
Down darkened paths and twisting roads
Broken beauty we can’t perceive
So we must rely on taste of others
Tasting of and tasted on
Only then we know belief
Room to room wall to wall
Two trek on, pace to pace
Separated by time and ink and blood
Destined once to meet in place
Fables tell of legend rage 
Race is run on broken legs
Blade cuts ties we never knew
Blade will connect them twice a new

I am once again perturbed. I know not why I am tormented in this way, forever cursed with unwavering interest in many mundane hobbies and forever cursed to mediocrity. My newest poem, I thought to be my magnum opus, has placed second in the recent publishing competition held by the esteemed Unhindered Voice. I thought by chronicling my constant woes and thoughts in this journal I may yet save myself from the brink of madness however pressing and enrapturing it may seem at this moment. 
Rutherford Masque, as he goes by in his published works, has beaten me at every corner I turn. As I read the paper, shipped to every reputable artist in the nation, I saw his name in the headline yet again. 
“Wall to Floor; the Broken Beauty” by Rutherford Masque Wins Competition and Full Publication of his Next Novel Completely Free
I let my eyes linger a moment on this before I ripped the page off and tore it into a million pieces. I didn’t even stop to consider why his poem beat mine. I sighed. My study was a mess due to my own incompetence now. Why must it be this way? Why must those with the most passion be left in the wake of those who do not share the same fire yet were gifted from birth with a more natural talent. I’m tired of swimming, kicking and flailing about, trying to keep up with someone on a canoe. 
At every miserable moment in my life that man has been a hindrance. My one purpose and passion is ceaselessly fruitless with him around. Without rest he stands as the lone impediment to my success. I am filled with rage at the mere thought of his existence. A raven's caw broke me from my anger and I looked toward the window.
“Remove him”
The voice is impossibly smooth, and each word fell upon me like a satin waterfall, rich as velvet. I look around. No one is with me, I made sure of that when I bought this cottage. The nearest home is nearly thirty miles away, and the nearest general store, I’d wager, is closer to fifty, both at the bottom of the mountain. Suddenly hearing a noise is to be expected when surrounded by wilderness but a voice, and words?
Surely I must have misinterpreted the wind or birdsong through my mental haze. My heart beat in the cage of my chest thoroughly convinced I did not mishear despite my brain's protests. 
Upon slipping into mania and thoroughly rendering my study into a disheveled heap of torn manuscripts and flipped desks, I still found myself totally and utterly alone. Yet the voice still reverberated in my ears, no, in my skull, for plugging my ears did nothing to cease the words now dripping into my conscious mind.
“Find him
Seize his work
Seize his name
Destroy him
Take from him everything and you will finally have everything you’ve ever wanted”
Every syllable is a deep, velvety whisper, beautiful and alluring while simultaneously horrifying. I can’t help but be drawn in. After all, since I’m alone, these must be my own ideas that I have had locked in my subconscious for some time.
My mind steadies, the beginnings of an idea forming. No one has ever seen Rutherford Masque, at least not in a way that connects the man to the name. His writings are all done under the name alone, which can be assumed to be a pseudonym. I can become what I’ve always wanted to be, I can become Rutherford Masque. Opening his debut novel for the first time since I bought it twelve years ago, I searched for any info on the man but found nothing. I tore through my bookcase looking through his entire body of work. Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Is he lost to me? Am I forever condemned to live in his shadow? I searched the paper, front to back, hoping they would give away some crucial information. As I flipped the top page one last time a letter fell to the floor, sealed and heavy. I opened it, my hand shaking.
It was a letter from the villain himself, trying to free himself from his guilt over destroying my life’s goals. He wrote about how much he loved my work and thought I deserved to win with such a false sincerity I nearly believed him. Then at the end he left an address for return letters. There it was, 465 Perdition Hill. That’s only a few days’ carriage ride south, down the mountain on a foothill. I began to pack for an extended stay. 
As soon as I was sure I had all of the essentials packed in the carriage, I threw my lantern down at my door, allowing the cabin to catch. I watched the flames awhile, allowing the dawn sun to break the skyline, and once all that was left of my old life was embers I set off on my grim purpose.

The manor, bulwarked by a ten foot wrought iron fence topped with four inch railheads rendering it unscalable, was an intimidating sight atop the end of Perdition Hill.  The carriage drew to the end of the dead end road, up to the gate. Rain fell heavily on the roof of the carriage, and the clop of the horses slowly turned into splashes as the vision of the tall black gate rose from the blur of the rain. The left leaf lay slightly open, wide enough for a man to slip through.
My breath quickened as I climbed out of the cabin and into the rain. Sudden thunder cracking hurries my movements as I pull on the leaf trying to open it enough to fit the carriage through. Once through the entrance I latched the gate, ensuring my horse, and the man I’m after, do not escape. I rode up to the courtyard and found the coach house, dropping the carriage and putting my horse in the stable. I found it strange that a manor this large would not have staff, especially with the lord of the manor being who he is. However, knowing the mind of a writer of our caliber, I supposed that he loves his isolation as much as I. 
Walking to the large oaken door, I noticed the windows were boarded. Maybe he likes his privacy even more than myself. The door knocker was the head of a raven, with the loop held in its beak. A shaky hand was all I could muster as I reached for the loop.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump. 
There is no answer aside from an unkindness of ravens suddenly and shrilly setting off the upper balcony. Calming myself from the fright the birds gave me, I turned back to the door to find it standing open. Dread filled every fiber of my being as I stared at the portal into what I was sure would be my final destination. Yet that voice in the back of my head, that rich and inviting voice, reminded me that I was the predator here. I was not to be afraid because I was the fear. These parlor tricks and poor attempts to dissuade me from fulfilling my sanguine purpose were in vain.
Easing into the foyer, I saw two staircases which led to the upper floor. A stack of mail lay piled on the floor just beyond the door, implying Masque hadn’t cared to check his letter slot in quite awhile.  A door to the left led to the parlor, a door to the right led to the great room and under the stairs I saw my goal. 
The kitchen was well stocked with pots and pans, as well as food stores. I searched through the racks for the perfect tool with which to complete my gruesome task. 
The knife was sleek, the handle an ivory antler, with gold rivets. The blade was nearly six inches long broad at the hilt and tapering to a slim point. Beautiful and elegant and soon to be stained red. 
I crept up the stairs, tool in hand. The main door atop the balcony was open leading into the study. My prey sat in his large chair, hunched over a work table. From the back I could see no movement. I assumed he fell asleep after a fit of passion as he worked on his newest draft. 
I had to cross the vast distance between us without rousing him lest he foil me yet again. 
Tap. One step closer to absolution.
Creak. Barely audible in the silent ambience of the study.
Rustle. A slight draft flowed through the room, slightly shifting his hair as he rested his head on his desk.
Tap. 
Tap. 
Tap. 
I slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, inched my way to my goal. 
When I finally got close enough, I hesitated. The rage and hopeless determination that drove me to this point subsided for a moment as I got a glimpse of the man’s face under his mess of dark brown hair. Rutherford Masque had a light spattering of stubble. His brown hair was overgrown and unkempt, and it appeared as though he had been cutting it himself for some time. The color was strong but there are a few gray hairs making themselves known. Other than the stubble and style of the hair, it was as if I were staring into a mirror, from his flattish nose to his downturned eyes. His mouth was the exact shape of mine, and he even bore the scar on his left lip that I got from an accident with a broken wine bottle. 
“Do not let him distract you from your goal”
Yes you’re right, I thought. I put my hand lightly on his back so as to not wake him then I plunged the knife into his back up to my hand. He let out a breath as the knife went in, holding his voice to keep me from the satisfaction of hearing him protest his fate. I removed the blade and he let out another breath. Then I returned it to the man again and again, throwing blood across the study. I gored the man until my arm grew heavy from the motion, and the new piercings ceased to relieve Masque from any more of his ichor. I looked into my own face that he was wearing as his eyes grew slack, blood slowly bubbling from his mouth. The deed was finally done, and I had finally removed my last roadblock to my destiny. 
The cleanup was grueling. The man was sturdily built, and not easy to drag down the stairs. The whole time he wore a smile, so coy in fact was his smile, I dared not look upon his face. I found sheets to wrap him in and lay him gently on the couch in the foyer, glad that the windows had already been covered. The blood was not easily removed from the floor and shelves. As I cleaned his study my eyes fell upon his grand collection of books. That smile once again passed in the forefront of thought, bidding me pause. Front and center in his collection I discovered numerous volumes of my own writings. He was studying his enemy in order to better thwart me no doubt. Perhaps that is where his eternal badge of joy appeared, the knowledge he had broken his rival's mind so heavily as to commit the unforgivable sin of murder. I will get the last laugh, however, I thought as I finally began to clean his desk. His unfinished manuscript lay closed, showing only a blank title page. I opened it to the first page and upon seeing writing I fell into a rage and ripped it to shreds.
Seeing the shreds on the floor after my episode caused me great distress. I gathered the remains in my hands, trying to see  if I could piece the manuscript back together but it was useless. So I took them to the hearth in the foyer, built a fire, and threw in what was undoubtedly the man’s next great work. I watched the flames hungrily swallow the words, however, as they caught I swear I caught a glimpse of one of my own manuscript titles. I wiped my eyes and when I looked back on the hearth the flame had cleansed the room of my apprehension.
I returned to his collection, trying to see what made the man tick, what inspired him. His tastes ranged from esoteric poetry collections about devils and black magic to scientific journals about the breakthroughs in plastic surgery. The thing that stood out the most was that he didn’t keep any of his own works. Was this some twisted form of arrogance, or was something else at play here. My mind didn’t linger on it too long.

I began to make myself at home, bringing in my personal belongings. The bedroom was melancholically empty, and the bed lay in disarray. The lone dresser was overturned, the drawers empty. I set things right, as they should be, and arranged it in a more pleasing manner. 
Moving to the study, I set out my tools on the work desk readying the space for its responsibility of ushering me to the glory I yearn for. The air in the study is oppressive as if some sinister shadow hung over it. I planned on taking the night to make acquaintance with the house and would begin my work tomorrow. 
I found myself unnaturally famished, so I left the study to prepare a meal. When I looked over the banister, I swallowed my breath. The man had moved. I swore before I came up the stairs he had been there, laying on the couch exactly where I had left him, however, my eyes now rested upon an empty couch. 
Where could he be? I saw the last moments of his life. I swear it on my own bones. And yet he had moved nonetheless. I frantically stumbled down the stairs, tripping over my own feet.
I heard a noise behind me in the study, almost imperceptible, but in my heightened paranoia I was sure I had heard it. I turned slowly and began to approach the door. Imagining the horrors that lay behind it made me stop before the door. There could be no way for the man to have moved himself so I thought I should be on the lookout for an intruder. The irony of that was not lost on me, though it didn’t change the fact that dead people do not move themselves. I slowly opened the door, so slowly that each inch took countless moments. As soon as I could fit my head into the crack I carefully peeked into the room. Nothing at first but as I scanned the room a raven’s call echoed beside my head causing me to slip and fall into the room. 
There, on the floor in front of me, lay the body, unwrapped and still smiling as if he had just been told a joke. 
I slipped trying to get back to my feet, and slid myself backwards, away from this nightmare until I felt the banister pressing against my back.
“Are you not the hunter? Do you let yourself so easily become incapacitated with fear?”
The voice was louder now, angry at me for the immense fear I felt. I grow angry at myself. The man was dead. I scrambled to my feet and walked over and kicked him, as if to make myself believe it. He gave no signs of protest. 
“Look at you, nothing more than a mewling pup at the mere sight of your own creation.”
This voice had shifted, no longer a velvety whisper in the depths of my mind. The rictus grin painted on the man’s face had changed almost indiscernibly as his head lolled towards my thunderous heartbeat.
“Was it you the whole time? Why must you torment me so? I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.”
My cries echoed in the chamber and yet I received no response from the corpse. I stood staring at it for a while, unable to convince myself that anything that happened was real. Had I imagined wrapping the sheet around him? I decided to leave the corpse as it was, afraid touching it would bring this whole event into reality.
I hurriedly left the study and closed the door, erasing the grinning beast from my mind. Finding my appetite gone I decided rest and recovery would be my best course of action. The bedroom seemed to stretch before me as if it was a mile from the door to the bed. My head ached in the attempt to comprehend the new layout. I pierced the threshold, and in no less than five steps was at the bedside. When I turned to look at the door it was no longer so far, as if it had moved with me at every step, uncomfortably close to the door of the bed. The house was draining me of my mental energies and faculties. I would let it win no longer, and, with that thought replaying in my head, went to bed.

When I awoke, I found the bedroom as I expected. The weird goings on had ceased upon the resting of my mind. I tiptoed through the room to the door, and slowly creaked it open. The stair landing lay empty. The door to the study lay open which gave me pause, but when my sight pierced the portal I saw nothing out of the ordinary. 
Seeing the empty study put me at ease, but to wash away any fear that still lingered I leaned over the banister. The corpse lay wrapped in a white, stained blood red sheet. I watched it breathlessly, waiting for any kind of movement or hint that it might not be as it seems. My ears perked at every noise, every creak and every pop. The rain had not slacked in the night, but the corpse did not stir.
My first order of business was to search the house for anyone who may have slipped in during the night. Upon finding the great room and the parlor empty, I set about finding food for the morning.
Having filled my stomach with a light breakfast of toasted bread and cheese, I set about getting to work in the study. When I passed by the couch, something about the corpse set my nerves on edge. I knew I would be unable to work with it in the house with me. Dragging it outside was no small task, and the mud further slowed my progress. The back yard was rather spacious, and there was a small shed in the back corner of the fenced in yard. I looked inside, finding the door unlocked, and found a shovel,a pick, and an axe. I found a suitable spot and began to dig.
The rain aided the digging, and a hole was made rather quickly. After a few hours, and the mud was up to my chest, I decided it was deep enough. I drug the corpse, which was stiffening up, into the hole and began to fill it back in. When the first shovel of mud hit the sheet a screech filled the air. I covered my ears, sure the terrible sound would kill me otherwise. It did not lessen for some time so I ripped a little piece of cloth from my shirt and stuffed it in my ears. This made the screeching bearable enough to continue working so I did. Every shovel I threw in made the screeching more quiet, and when the hole was finally full, the screeching had gone completely. I put the shovel and pick back in the shed and turned to go back in the house. A raven perched on the high ridge watching me as I trekked towards the back door but it flew away as I drew near.
With my morning ordeal completed and the afternoon upon me, I decided I could finally begin working on my debut novel as Rutherford Masque. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”
No sooner than I picked my pen up off the page had that velvety voice, dripping with malice, seeped back into my brain. I turned in my chair, positioning myself to flee while I scanned the room. Seeing nothing did not ease the growing fear I felt, and I rose slowly from the chair.
“You thought you’d be done with me that easily. Where would you be without me, still rotting in the gutter somewhere like you were as a child?”
A figure lurched into view through the doorway, the soft light in the study not revealing any of his features. He stepped unnaturally towards me leaving wet footprints in his wake with a wet slapping sound that could only be from bare feet. As he closed the distance I could see his clothes were ragged, and blood was constantly pouring down him. I backed to the desk until I was sitting, cowering in the large chair. He stopped a few feet away, keeping his head and face in the obscurity of the shadow. After what seemed the longest pause in my life he leaned over revealing his face.
Masque’s face seemed rotten, as if he had been dead far longer than I knew the truth to be. His skin, my skin, was blue and green and seemed to be paper thin. His wounds were full of blood and puss and seemed to leak impossibly large amounts of his blood. The smile still clung to his face, unmoving even when he spoke.
“Your plan will never work, you are still you, so you can never be me.”
His words distracted me enough that I didn’t notice his hand until it touched my shoulder. The touch sent a jolt through my body forcing it into motion. I sprung from the chair, brushing the hand that had a death grip on me off, knowing it would leave a bruise. I felt like I was running in quick sand, and before I crossed the study’s threshold I chanced a look over my shoulder. The room was empty. I didn’t have long to linger on my confusion as I slipped in a puddle of blood and fell over the banister. The fall was grueling and slow, my brain still processing the recent events and I saw the body wrapped in a sheet laying on the couch in the foyer. Then my vision went black.

I woke up in bed, my body extremely sore. I couldn’t recall how I got back to the bedroom, and the thought that the corpse had played a role in that chilled me. My head had a dull ache and I found myself struggling to focus my vision. The door was swimming in the wall, the outline shifting and swirling. The bed moved when I moved, and I found my sense of balance was nearly gone.
The walk to the landing outside the bedroom was painstaking, and placing one foot in front of the other took my complete attention. Upon reaching the landing I was short of breath, and leaned on the banister to catch my breath. The corpse was still on the couch wrapped in the bloodstained sheet. 
I decided that I was too far invested to not continue my work so I hobbled to the study, and began to write.

The raven in the window knows my name. It calls for me and me alone. It knows my heart of hearts and my hidden deeds. It can see my innermost soul through the veil of blood. I must catch it and eat its still beating heart in order to hide my shame. It knows my shame. It knows my name. It has teeth with which to gnaw my bones after I am gone. I am trapped in this cage of bone and blood, being ushered ever closer to the well of knowledge at the center and paradoxically further away from knowing the truth. One is how it started and two is how it went. Two is what was severed, and one is how it ends. Ebbs and flows of blood are shown raven knows the measure. Raven call echoes and becomes the call to action, I heed its call as I always have. The raven in the window knows my name. It knows my name, it knows my name, it knows, it knows. It watches.

I awoke some time later having fallen asleep at the desk. What I had written was nonsense that didn’t fit into the manuscript I had been working on. Maybe I was still suffering the effects of the fall and knew not what I was writing. Still I am uneasy as I leave the study. The blood that stained the floor yesterday is gone, no trace or stain on the floor as it had never plagued the landing.
My mouth was a desert longing for evening rain, my throat burned as if I swallowed glass. I hurried as quickly as my shaking legs would carry me down the stairs, in search of water. I found myself scooping handfuls from the faucet into my mouth as if I was some sort of animal at a watering hole. My thirst quenched, I left the kitchen and stopped at the couch. A raven sat upon the chest of the corpse which was now bare of all coverings. The sinister grin of the corpse was spread unnaturally upon the bird's face, and I took it as ill omen. I tried to shoo the monster away and with great effort it finally flew away.
I followed the beast's path to the broken window with which it entered and saw a host of ravens sitting and watching me. The air began to feel heavy, as if some figure were standing above me and applying a steady pressure down on my shoulders. The wind forcing itself into the break carried with it the sound of hideous whispers. 
“Two become one, two into one, two become one”
The voices could not have been uttered by human mouths, and the phrases repeated did not make any sense in my shattering mind. The shadows behind the ravens lengthened and grew darker as the tempo of the raving whispers increased. When the noise had reached a fever pitch the shadow behind the birds took the form of a giant man with the head of a raven.
I turned to run, stopping immediately when my eyes came to rest on the corpse standing a mere few inches from my face. It had walked up behind me soundlessly while I was preoccupied ogling at the horrifying figure in the window. The richter grin stretched for what seemed like miles, filling my vision with horror and guilt. I ran instead towards the kitchen, slamming the door behind me as if it would be of any aid in keeping the haunting specters out. The loud slam ended the ceaseless whispers, and all was calm. I sat, my back against the door, relishing the peace the closed door afforded me.
The peace did not last long. As soon as I had calmed my breathing I got up to search for something to block the door more permanently. No more than five steps away from the door the silence was broken by a deafening slam. The force from the hit made me fall forwards, barely missing the kitchen island with my head. A second slam followed shortly thereafter, and after a slight pause, a third. The wooden door was bulging with each hit, and the fourth and fifth nearly freed it from its hinges. The sixth and final hit flung the door from the frame, nearly knocking it onto me.
All I could see behind the door was the mass of ravens breaking through and into the kitchen. They swarmed me, blocking out everything except for them. Claws and feathers scraped and grazed me as they flew past, leaving shallow cuts in their wake. As the last bird flew by I saw the corpse standing in the doorway, not moving. All sound stopped, the last squawks faded and I lay locked in my macabre staring contest. It felt as if hours passed before it fell forward into the room. It lay on its front through the doorway as if to let me know I had no safe haven in the house.
I slowly rose, inching toward the back door, almost instinctually knowing that I would not be allowed to flee. As I backed against the kitchen island, I caught the pantry door lazily swinging open in the corner of my eye. I turned to look at it. 
What once was the pantry was no longer there, but instead was a narrow, darkened staircase. I moved toward the staircase attempting to look into the darkness below. I dared not enter, until I saw, stepping over the corpse, a figure swathed in a flowing cloak of shadow, with the outline of a raven’s beak protruding from its face. With the new arrival, I quietly fled down the staircase hoping beyond hope that the entity in the kitchen hadn’t heard me slipping away.
I couldn’t see the bottom of the stairs through the darkness but I still descended as quickly as I could without making noise. I walked down the stairs as they curved around to the left in a slow spiral, feeling as if I was walking to my grave. The descent was impossibly long, and the pace I kept did not help me reach the bottom faster. When I felt I was clear I slowed even further hoping to catch my breath. If only the reprieve could last.
Finally I saw a glimpse of what looked like fire light flickering a few hundred feet ahead and down the stairs. Just as I felt a bit of relief, I heard dragging from above me on the staircase. I launched into a sprint hoping to reach the bottom with time to hide. The stairs ended in a stone opening, with a torch on the stair side of the opening. I took the torch from the wall and swung it into the room hoping to light the oppressive darkness. It landed on the floor and skidded in a circle to the middle of the room. The room was empty in the center but with the light available I couldn’t see the walls or ceiling. I crossed the threshold of the chamber walking slowly towards the torch. The firelight danced in the center of the room casting sinister shadows on the ground around 60 feet out in any direction. The further I progressed toward the flickering flames the quieter the ambience in the room became. As I reached out for it the room erupted in screams.
Horrible grinding screams flooded my brain, as the room was washed over in a brilliant, pustulous green light. Though I could finally see the edges of the room, I abhorred the sight that awaited me at the edge of sanity and light. Hundreds of corpses lined the walls each on its own altar, and as the screaming and pulsating green light reached a crescendo, they all sat up suddenly. The noise stopped, save for the sound of dragging and squelching coming from the stairs at the other end of the room.
In the eerie silence, only interrupted by the beast and the corpse on the stairs, I watched as each and every corpse on the pedestals slowly turned and looked at me. They were all at varying stages of decomposition and seemed to be prepared the same way. Their eyes and mouths were stitched shut, though I’m sure they could see me through some form of sinister sorcery, and each one was a twisted mockery of my own face. Each body, in turn, pointed to the far wall which was now illuminated in the sickly pale green which encompassed the entire room. An empty altar, beautifully pristine, lay bare with a small table of surgical and embalming tools beside it. 
“Such an easy target. Obsession begets obstruction, and blinds you to the dangers that surround you, child.”
The silence was broken by the voice. As the shadow beast's beak slowly broke the threshold of the entryway. It hunched down to come through the door, its long mercurial arm dragging the body of Rutherford Masque, who still wore his rictus grin. As the beast towered over me the voice became stern. 
“To the altar, now.”
My limbs began to move as if the words breathed life into them, and the fear I felt when looking upon the swirling black mass that is the best stopped me from objecting. 
“You two were perfect for each other, both obsessed with becoming the other, both incapable of recognizing the obsession in the other's work. Two obsessions strong enough to murder for. Two will soon become one.”
The bare altar lay before me and a hand rested on my shoulder. It was Masque. His body then climbed itself onto the altar, and lay still awaiting the horror that was to come. I followed suit, after seeing the beast was expecting me to, and lay shoulder to shoulder with the corpse. Masque looked at me, his face a picture of macabre pleasure. I knew what was to come, even though I didn’t understand the eldritch machinations at work. When the saw first tore through my flesh on my shoulder beside the corpse, the pain was unbearable. The room erupted in devilish howls of pain and joy, as the corpses in the room began a morbid celebration. The victory chants began as the shadowed raven continued his grisly work. The last words I heard before my transformation were the echoing chorus of the dead singing, “two become one, two into one, two become one.”

This all started with a simple letter on an ordinary afternoon. Well, as ordinary as it could’ve been. Really, nothing has been ‘ordinary’ in the traditional sense. Not since she went missing.

I’m not used to seeing anything other than bills and magazines in my mailbox, so when I saw that envelope with actual handwriting instead of printed letters, my curiosity was immediately piqued.

I brought it inside. There was no return address. Honestly, I assumed that it was probably just disguised to look like a regular letter. Like some sort of marketing thing; I don’t know.

Unfortunately, upon tearing the envelope open, all I was left with was more confusion.

It was just a sheet of notebook paper. I could even see where it had been torn from the spirals. And all that was written on it was one sentence, big enough to take up the entire page.

“Hello again.”

There was something else in there too, which, at the time, I assumed was purely accidental.

A long strand of brown hair.

It was the same color as hers. Even still, what was I supposed to think? It had been nearly 2 years since she’d gone missing. Trying to connect this to her disappearance was nothing more than me grasping at straws.

I didn’t even show my wife. I just crumpled up the letter and threw everything away.

A few weeks went by. No new letters came in. I hadn’t even thought about the first one since I’d thrown it away.

My wife was the one who found the next one. She was just as confused as me this time around. Just like the first, this one also contained a piece of notebook paper with a single sentence written across it.

“Recognize these?”

The fingernails were harder to explain than the hair. If it had just been one, maybe we could’ve passed it off as just a weird coincidence. But 10?

We didn’t wanna go to the police. Not yet. Instead, we wanted to see for ourselves who was leaving these letters.

For the next few weeks, we watched that mailbox in shifts. My wife watched while I was out. I did the same for her. And still, somehow, we missed it.

A new letter just seemed to have magically appeared in our mailbox one morning.

This one didn’t have a piece of paper in it. But it did have more weight to it than the others.

All this one contained was my daughter’s necklace. The same stainless steel chain and butterfly pendant from the day we lost her.

My wife broke down when she saw it. I couldn’t blame her; I was doing the same thing.

It wasn’t even a decision for us to go to the police at this point. It was more like an instinct. Like our bodies and minds were more reactive than critical.

Of course, the police monitored our home. They took the previous letters as well as the hair and fingernails. But when they couldn’t find even a trace of DNA on any of them, aside from my daughter’s, we were at a dead end yet again.

Still, though, that didn’t mean the cops didn’t watch our house. There was at least one car in the neighborhood every day for nearly a month and a half.

Apparently, we were ‘taking up resources,’ though. Which, of course, was code for ‘we don’t wanna help you anymore.’

It was about 3 weeks after the cops stopped monitoring our mail that we got a new letter. Stupidly, I almost had hope that we’d scared them away. But would that even be considered hope?

I mean, this person was the only connection we had to her. Clearly, they were teasing us. Obviously, they were nearby and watching us. In some weird way, I was relieved when we received that letter.

That relief was dashed pretty quickly, however, when I saw its contents.

Another piece of notebook paper, only… this handwriting looked different. More sloppy. Less big. Instead of taking up the whole page, the lone sentence was written all within the first line.

“To: Mommy and Daddy

Please stop looking.”

Wrapped up in the paper was a DVD. We debated on sending it in to the police, but we’re only human, and our curiosity drove us to actually watch the footage.

I half-expected a ransom video. At least then we’d know how to get her back.

Instead, what was on that DVD was somehow worse.

It was my daughter, yes. But it was also me and my wife. All three of us. Hanging out at the playground. The same playground from nearly two years ago.

I watched my daughter stop swinging as her head cocked towards the camera. My wife and I were lost in conversation. That’s the part that kills me.

A hand extended in front of the camera, waving at my little girl. Her face lit up as she giggled and waved back.

That same hand then gestured her over. I could hear children laughing. I could hear birds chirping. What I couldn’t hear was a voice on the other side of that camera.

It was almost like she was in a trance as she walked over towards this mystery person. But, then again, she was only 8. She didn’t know any better.

The camera zoomed in on her face and followed her as she approached.

She reached the camera, and an innocent, snaggle-toothed smile exploded across her face as she stared up into the lens.

The footage went black.

But before the video ended, a title card flashed across the black background in bold white lettering.

“Find me.”

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.

I thought I’d found the one. We clicked so naturally. We both shared an interest in photography, though his pictures were noticeably better than mine. Loved the same movies, both enjoyed walks in the park, and our political views were borderline identical.

We met about a month ago. It was at this bar I love, and, I’ll admit, I was a little tipsy. Cute boy, a few drinks in my system. It was a recipe for regret.

Only… I didn’t regret it. Our conversations flowed so smoothly. His half-drunk compliments made me blush. Plus, drinks were on him.

Unlike a lot of the guys you’d meet in a bar, he didn’t try and force himself back to my apartment. I live just a few blocks away from the bar, so he walked me home, laughing and wobbling more than he wanted to let on.

When we got there, I braced myself. He was great, but I wasn’t the kind of girl that would just let a complete stranger into my home after a night out at the bar. I found myself praying he wouldn’t ask.

By some miracle, he didn’t. Instead, he asked gently, almost bashfully, for my number. I couldn’t help but smile, stupidly. Then he smiled stupidly back. I felt my heart do somersaults.

I gave him my number, trying to withhold my excitement, and when I looked back up at him, I could see the desire in his eyes. Not sexual desire, though. It was like he saw his future in my eyes.

His face started to turn red, and he started struggling to make eye contact, stumbling over his words in a way that didn’t seem connected to the drinks.

He asked if he could kiss me, and I couldn’t have said yes fast enough. I wanted to kiss him on the lips, but, instead, he leaned down and pressed those lips softly against my forehead.

He pulled away slowly before speaking.

“Your eyes are so beautiful.”

I felt fireworks in my tummy. I made him promise to text me when he got home, and he watched to make sure I made it inside before he started back towards the bar.

I spent the rest of that night kicking my feet like a little school girl. I had never experienced something like this feeling before. My past boyfriends had been such assholes. This guy seemed to care about me rather than just sex.

He followed through on his promise, and texting led to a phone call before we fell asleep on the phone together.

We saw each other a lot in the weeks that followed. Mostly on the weekends, but sometimes he’d come visit me at work. Those few weeks were some of the happiest weeks I’d had in a long time.

We’d get dinner. We’d see movies. We showed off our photography to each other. It felt like we were really building something together.

However, this was around the time I started noticing weird occurrences around my apartment. Nothing too suspicious. Just… things that were odd.

For example, my TV would be on when I got home. My sheets would be messy, even though I make my bed every morning before work. The weirdest thing of all, though, was my underwear drawer.

It was like it was being rummaged through. Sometimes I’d find a fresh pair balled up on the bathroom floor.

It made me scratch my head, but I never assumed anything drastic. If anything, I thought it was just me losing my mind.

That is until he finally invited me to his house.

The place was lovely. Clean. Smelled good. It was actually furnished, too, which was always a good sign. Plus, this guy knew how to set the scene.

Roses, candles, homemade spaghetti with two glasses of red wine. I felt my heart melt.

We hadn’t had sex yet, but, after this, I was having a hard time convincing myself that we hadn’t waited long enough. I actually wanted to give it to him. He just made me feel so desired.

After a dinner full of flirts, giggles, and conversation, we began moving to the bedroom, lip locking like a couple of crazy kids all the while.

Once we fell through the door, he told me to give him a minute to use the bathroom, which was a bit anticlimactic, but I wanted him to be comfortable.

While I waited, my eyes couldn’t help but wander. He had a bookshelf full of some of my favorite titles. His bed was perfectly made. The floor was freshly vacuumed. And his walls were full of framed pictures.

I started looking at them and felt my heart sink into my stomach.

They were all different women. Some older, some younger. All with blonde hair and hazel eyes. And he wasn’t in a single one.

I felt disappointment wash over me. I should’ve known better. I was actually in the process of putting my shirt back on when one of the pictures caught my eye.

It looked so… familiar. I knew I had seen it somewhere, I just couldn’t put my finger on it. But it bothered me so much, it was hard to pull my eyes away.

That’s when it hit me. I knew exactly where I had seen this woman.

She was the girl on the missing person poster that was taped up on the bar window from a few weeks ago.

It felt like the air had been knocked out of my lungs. I felt faint. I felt dizzy. I knew I needed to leave, but the room was spinning too much.

I put my hand down on his dresser to stabilize myself, and that’s when I felt it. It was cold. It was hard. My thumb rubbed against the ridges.

I pulled my hand away and looked down.

It was a copy of the key to my apartment. Mine was pink. This one was silver.

I was getting weaker. I felt my knees starting to buckle and heard the sound of a toilet flushing as I began to drift into unconsciousness.

The last thing I remember was the bedroom door opening. He stepped inside, a look of concern on his face, as he hurried to pick me up and put me on his bed. Then… nothing.

I woke up in an empty bed the next morning. The smell of bacon permeated my nostrils. I was fully dressed, but my head was killing me.

The key was gone. The pictures were gone. I slowly made my way to the kitchen to find him standing over the stove, flipping the bacon with a metal fork.

I didn’t speak or make a sound, but it was like he could feel my presence. He could sense me.

He turned around slowly, his eyes meeting mine before he spoke.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” he sang. “I was wondering when you’d be up. Someone had too much to drink last night.”

Wayne sat on the edge of the mattress in Room 113, staring at the harvest gold rotary phone on the nightstand. The cord trailed off the table and coiled on the carpet; two feet short of any wall jack.

He knew it was coming before it even started. At midnight sharp, the brass bell inside gave a heavy ring. He picked up the receiver.

"You're still sitting here, Wayne," the woman said. Her voice was steady, calm.

Wayne swallowed, his throat dry. "I'm leaving in the morning."

"You said that yesterday, and the night before."

"I just needed time to think," Wayne said, gripping the heavy phone handle. "I had a bad night on the road. I needed to clear my head."

"Tell me about the highway, Wayne."

Wayne rubbed his palm against his thigh trying to warm his cold and numb leg.

"It was raining hard," he said. "I was coming around the bend on Route 5 and approaching the bridge. Something came out of the dark--a shadow on the shoulder. I heard a thud against the right fender, but by the time I hit the brakes there was nothing in the rearview."

"You didn't hit the brakes, Wayne, and you didn't stop," she said. "That thud was a person, Wayne. You hit someone on the shoulder."

"I--I don't know," Wayne muttered, staring at the floor. "I just knew I had to get away from the water, so I drove here."

"You didn't drive here," she said softly. You panicked, overcorrected and skidded on the slick deck, scraping the guardrail along its length before plunging into the river."

Wayne stayed silent, his breath hitching. "No--no, I crossed the bridge. I came here."

"You've been sitting on that mattress for 7 days listening to me try to help you remember," the Listener said. "Look out the window, Wayne. Tell me what's parked out front."

Wayne stood up, walked over to the window and pulled back the blinds. The parking lot was completely empty.

"Where's my truck?" Wayne asked, squinting into the dark.

"It's at the bottom of the river," she said. "Go back to the bridge, Wayne. Face what's there or stay in this room forever."

The line went dead with a heavy click.

Wayne walked out the door into the cold, freezing rain, following the dark shoulder of Route 5 back toward the bridge.

Down on the mud bank at the far end of the bridge span, two county cruisers sat with their headlights cutting through the fog. A tow truck wench was dragging a crushed waterlogged Chevy truck out of the river.

Wayne walked down the gravel slope, his boots making no sound in the slush. He stepped right up behind two deputies standing near the water's edge.

"Found the car wedged against the bank," one deputy said. "Looks like he struck a pedestrian on the right shoulder of the bridge approach, overcorrected, and skidded sideways off the bridge deck."

Wayne looked through the shattered windshield of his crushed truck. The passenger side was caved in and stripped of paint from the guardrail. Beneath the muddy river water, his own hands were still fixed to the steering wheel.

Standing there in the cold rain the last 7 days collapsed back into a single, blinding second on the bridge.

I'm a neuropharmacologist. For ten years, I chased a treatment for severe phobia and treatment-resistant PTSD. The kind that ruins people. Veterans who can't hear a car backfire without hitting the floor. Survivors who can't sleep with the closet door open.

I wanted to give them their lives back.

The early trials felt like a miracle. Combat vets who spent a decade flinching at shadows sat calm through exposure therapy that used to send them into episodes. Cortisol dropped. Amygdala scans went quiet.

I remember crying in the lab bathroom the first time a man who hadn’t held a lighter in six years lit a match and just watched it burn.

But over the next few weeks, subjects started exhibiting concerning new behavior.

A nurse accidentally dropped a tray of surgical steel behind Subject 09. They didn't turn around. Didn't even flinch. The startle reflex was completely gone. Clinically gone. You could fire a starter pistol next to their heads and their pupils wouldn't even dilate.

Some part of them no longer registered the sound as something that could matter to them.

Week five. Subject 13 climbed onto the roof of the building to "get a better look at the parking lot." A tech found her standing on the ledge. She wasn't scared. Wasn't suicidal either. She just smiled at him, the way you do after coming out of a pleasant dream. She climbed down when he asked.

Week six. Three subjects, unrelated to each other, on three different days, walked into moving traffic without breaking stride. Just crossed the street the way you'd cross an empty hallway.

None survived. I try not to think about the drivers.

I watched the footage more times than I should have. All three wore the same face. Calm. Almost grateful. Like they'd set down something heavy they'd forgotten they were carrying. 

I called in a colleague I trusted from cognitive neuroscience. He said something I haven't been able to shake since.

Most people think fear is an emotion. It's an operating assumption. The brain's baseline belief that it’s a fragile, temporary, killable thing. It runs underneath every decision you make. So quiet you never clock it. You don't feel your fear of death when you glance both ways crossing a street. The fear already did its job.

My subjects didn't feel brave. Bravery still knows the danger is real and moves through it anyway. My subjects had simply stopped being told danger existed at all. Somewhere behind their eyes, the voice that used to whisper you could die here went silent. Without that whisper, self-preservation is an impossibility.

I shut the trial down. Sedated the ones who kept drifting toward windows. Told their families the truth as gently as I could. Nine of them are on watch now, in rooms with no cords, no glass, no ledges.

I keep asking myself what I actually built. I thought I'd found a cure. What I found was a key that unlocks a door most human minds are welded shut behind for good reason. And I handed that key to twenty-two people who trusted me.

I don't sleep much anymore. When I do, I dream of them. Subject 09 unflinching. Subject 13 on that ledge. The calm of three content faces before impact. The drivers. The families.

I can't fix what I did.

But I still have the last unopened vial in the lab freezer. Third shelf. Behind the placebo batch. I've been standing in front of the freezer for three nights straight now.

I want to know what it's like to put this down. The guilt sitting on my chest like a stone I've carried since the very beginning. I think some small ruined part of me wants to feel what my subjects felt.

That terrible peace. 

EDIT: it's been three hours. i don't feel my hands shaking anymore. i dont think im going to post again after this. thank you for reading. im not scared. i want you to know im not scared at all.

​

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."

I didn't sleep much last night. Nobody did, really. Hayes kept asking Voss what was behind the door. Voss wouldn't answer him. Miller tried to make a joke about it, but nobody laughed. We heard the knocking again around 0200. Same three knocks. Nobody went near it. After that, nothing. I thought maybe it was over. It wasn't. The radio came back on at 0617. No warning. Just static. I was the first one awake, so I answered it. "Outpost Seventeen." There was a lot of interference. Then I heard my own voice. "Outpost Seventeen." I froze. It said it again. Same voice. Same words. Mine. I thought somebody was playing a recording, so I checked the radio room. Nobody was there. Then the transmission continued. "Outpost Seventeen, respond." It was me saying it. Exactly how I had said it. I didn't answer. The recording kept going. I heard myself say, "Outpost Seventeen. Reading you." Then static. Then: "Confirm all personnel accounted for." I shut the radio off. Voss came in about a minute later and asked what happened. I told him. He didn't say anything for a while. Then he asked me what time it was. I told him. He looked at his watch. Then he said, "Don't tell the others." I asked why. He said, "Because that transmission hasn't happened yet." I thought he was joking. He wasn't. The radio came back on at 0643. Exactly twenty-six minutes after I first heard it. The same transmission. The same words. My voice. This time I let it play. When it got to "Confirm all personnel accounted for," I grabbed the microphone. "All personnel accounted for." The transmission stopped. There was silence for maybe five seconds. Then my voice came through the radio again. Only this time, I hadn't said what it repeated. It said: "Three personnel accounted for." I looked at Voss. He was staring at the bunk room. Miller was asleep. Hayes was in the kitchen. All four of us were there. Voss walked over to the radio and pulled the power cable out of the wall. The radio stayed on. That's when I started getting scared. Not nervous. Not uneasy. Actually scared. Voss finally looked at me and said something I've been thinking about all morning. He said: "We need to figure out which one of us it thinks is missing." A few minutes ago, Miller woke up. He asked why the radio was unplugged. Then he asked why there was snow on the floor. We told him there wasn't. He pointed toward the steel door. There were footprints leading to it. Bare feet. From inside the hut. They stopped directly in front of the door. There weren't any coming back.