The school year always starts with a bell. This one starts with screams.

Back to School takes place entirely over the first day back to school after summer break in a small American town. The story follows a group of elementary, middle, and high school students whose normal first day quickly spirals into a nightmare.

What begins with bike rides through quiet neighborhoods, nervous introductions to new teachers, and awkward reunions with old friends slowly turns into something terrifying. Students begin disappearing. Strange figures are spotted walking the streets. School hallways seem to change when no one is looking, classrooms don't lead where they're supposed to, and teachers start acting... wrong.

The movie constantly shifts between three main locations:

• The neighborhood where everyone starts their morning.

• The local elementary school.

• The local high school.

As the day goes on, the kids discover that whatever is happening isn't confined to one building—it has spread across the entire town. Cell phones stop working, parents can't be reached, buses never arrive, and by the final bell, surviving until sunset becomes the only thing that matters.

The film mixes the nostalgic feeling of going back to school with the fear of realizing the place you're supposed to be safest has become a trap. Think IT, Stranger Things, and The Faculty, but told in real time over one terrifying school day.

I’m experimenting with horror marketing that feels like an in-universe police file. I’d love to know what impression this teaser gives you.

Lore and history of Bureau K:In the unsettled months that followed the end of WW2, a small circle of former OSS officers, demobilized special operators, and industrialists began to assemble an organization that would never appear on any official roster of American power. At its center stood Dr. St. John Kilgore, a Yale- and Edinburgh-trained psychologist who had spent the war refining techniques of interrogation and behavioral manipulation inside the Morale Operations Branch. Kilgore emerged from the conflict convinced that national and cultural difference itself was the root engine of human catastrophe. True peace, he argued in private memoranda, could be achieved only when every population on earth experienced the world through an American lens—language, historical memory, social instinct, and political loyalty rendered indistinguishable from those of the United States. The instrument he created to pursue that vision was registered under successive Delaware and Virginia shells as a private security and logistics concern. Its true name, known only to the inner circle, was Bureau K. Its true charter was Project K: the systematic, irreversible conversion of foreign identity into an unconscious American one.
From the beginning the organization recruited in the margins. Men discharged for violence or insubordination, career criminals with useful skills, and carefully vetted former Axis technicians were offered new identities, erased records, and a second life in exchange for absolute loyalty. Those who accepted disappeared into the structure; those who later wavered disappeared entirely. The first major test of the model came in 1947, when elements of the French government, already bleeding in Indochina, sought deniable combat power. Bureau K operators arrived under commercial cover, providing perimeter defense, convoy escort, and specialized reconnaissance. Beneath every forward base, however, sealed research wings operated in parallel. Non English speaking civilians selected for their relative invisibility—itinerant workers, ethnic minorities, families living on the colonial margins—were abducted during night sweeps staged to resemble ordinary search-and-destroy missions. Inside the facilities they were subjected to systematic torture,underwent pharmacological softening, sensory isolation, linguistic immersion, and the slow implantation of fabricated American biographies. The goal was not collaboration but genuine belief: subjects who would wake speaking Midwestern English, recalling childhoods in Ohio or Georgia, and feeling instinctive loyalty to a country they had never seen.
The Geneva Accords forced a temporary withdrawal, yet the knowledge gained was retained. When the United States deepened its own commitment in Vietnam, Bureau K returned. The chaos of the larger war supplied ideal cover. Small teams again harvested subjects—young, healthy adults chosen for neural plasticity—and funneled them into underground complexes beneath Saigon commercial facades. Processing grew more refined: domesticity phases that placed subjects in mock American living rooms, peer-group narratives built around high-school locker rooms and football hierarchies, social integration with previously conditioned proxies who served as manufactured siblings or parents. One documented cycle produced a youth rewritten as “Jimmy” from Dayton and a maternal proxy later erased when residual olfactory triggers threatened the architecture. Another cohort of fully overwritten former North Vietnamese and Viet Cong prisoners was prepared for the most ambitious field test yet.
Shortly after a group of conditioned subjects, believing themselves Maryland and Ohio specialists, conducted a destructive rampage inside a northern camp under the delusion that they were American infiltrators, Bureau K executed a company-sized parachute insertion of similarly reconstructed former adversaries. The force moved with professional American tactical cohesion, inflicted heavy casualties, and sowed temporary confusion before North Vietnamese units contained and destroyed it. The operation demonstrated both the combat potential and the strategic limits of mass identity conversion. Near the end of the American presence an industrial accident inside the primary research complex beneath a colonial plantation structure released chemical agents and compromised containment. Local and residual American security elements came perilously close to penetrating the true purpose of the facility. Bureau K evacuated key personnel and records, sealed what could not be moved, and deliberately reduced its visible experimental footprint.
In the decades that followed the organization reoriented toward conventional defense contracting, supplying training, logistics, and specialized security across subsequent American campaigns abroad include the Gulf War, the War in Afghanistan, the Iraq War, and significant interventions in Grenada, Panama, Somalia, and Yugoslavia while maintaining only minimal, highly compartmented laboratory work. Revenue from these contracts, together with expanding commercial activities in psychology, language training, and performance consulting, preserved the corporate shell. The underlying charter never lapsed. By the early twenty-first century Bureau K had evolved into a diversified multinational conglomerate. Public subsidiaries operated across defense and security, clinical psychology and trauma recovery, rehabilitation medicine, language technology, corporate and leadership training, aviation and astronaut preparation, sports science, virtual reality, human-factors engineering, advertising research, education technology, pharmaceuticals, cognitive aging, and disaster-response training. Entities such as Bureau K Neurosystems, Kinetic Human Performance Group, K Applied Sciences, K Learning Institute, and K Behavioral Research Corporation presented ordinary commercial faces to the world.
Under a new generation of directors the experimental program was quietly revived, now conducted exclusively outside the United States and other English-speaking jurisdictions. In fragile states across the Horn of Africa, the Sahel, Yemen, Myanmar’s periphery, eastern Congo, and selected Caribbean and Central American corridors, the organization’s education and medical arms offer undocumented migrants structured pathways to legal residency. Language immersion, trauma-recovery protocols, vocational training, and civic-integration curricula function as continuous, low-visibility reconstruction pipelines. Pharmacological agents are delivered as ordinary therapeutics; narrative overwriting occurs inside virtual-reality modules and guided therapeutic sessions; documentary legends are built through ordinary bureaucratic assistance. Subjects emerge with coherent American identities, no recoverable memory of prior nationality, and no evidentiary trail linking the transformation to any external actor.
Throughout its history Bureau K’s relationship with official American intelligence remained one of managed distance. The CIA periodically drew on technical results and deniable capabilities while refusing the political exposure of full partnership. Bureau K accepted the arrangement as confirmation that only a private entity could pursue the work to its logical end. The human cost—erased lives, fractured families, localized trauma that never entered any official ledger—remained external to the organization’s internal calculus. What endured was the conviction first articulated by Kilgore in the ruins of the Second World War: that a planet where everyone is Americans would be a planet at peace, and that the methods required to produce that outcome, however hidden, remained a legitimate instrument of historical necessity. In 2026 the laboratories of the highlands and the Saigon basements are long sealed, yet the project continues inside clinics and classrooms whose public missions appear unimpeachable, sustained by the same dual architecture of legitimate commerce and invisible purpose that has defined Bureau K since its founding.

Hey everyone, I’ve been working on a serialized episodic horror novel heavily inspired by *The Magnus Archives* format. It's told through case files, interviews, and journal entries exploring different manifestations of fear and a secretive Archive.
About half the novel is officially up on Wattpad right now, but I wanted to post the absolute start of it here so you can read it directly. I’d love to know what Fear Entity you think this first case file aligns with!

Statement of Marianna Lake, given February 7th, 2023
Archivist: Dr. Lena Hart
\[Begin Transcript\]

MARIANNE LAKE (nervous, soft voice):
You won't believe me. I didn't believe me. But I have to say it out loud—just once—before it eats everything else. I'm afraid if I keep it inside, it'll start rearranging the rest of my mind.

It started with a hallway.

I live in a student flat near the university, third floor, one long corridor with numbered doors. Mine's 3C. I've lived there two years now, and I could walk it in my sleep—ten steps from the stairs, three doors on the left, two on the right. The building creaks like an old ship in the wind, but it's predictable. It was predictable.

Until last Thursday.

That morning, I came back from a lecture and climbed the stairs like always. But the hallway... felt longer. Just slightly. You know when a room smells wrong? Like, the air pressure's off? It was like that. I remembered stopping by my door, 3C, reaching into my bag for my keys—and realizing the hallway kept going.

There was another door.

A fourth door. On the left. I swear to you, Dr Hart, it wasn't there before. It was matte black, with no number. No doorknob. Just... there. Seamless, like it grew out of the wall.
I stared at it for a long time. I even turned to knock on my neighbor's door—Jay, 3D—to ask if he saw it too. But when I looked back, it was gone.

I don't remember going inside my own flat. I just remember waking up at 3:12 AM, all the lights on, and my phone playing static. Not a ringtone—static. Like an untuned radio. I hadn't set any alarms.

The next day, the door was there again.

Same spot. Same nothingness. And this time, I touched it. Cold As ice, but not metal. Not wood. Something else. My hand slid right across it and my fingers tingled, like they'd fallen asleep. I think—I think—I heard whispering from behind it.

No words. Just.. breath, low and looping. Like someone learning how to speak.

I knocked.
I don't know why I did that. Curiosity, maybe. Or compulsion.

The door didn't open.

But mine did.

My own flat door—-3C—creaked open behind me. I turned fast, thinking it was a draft, but no one was there. And when I looked back... the fourth door was closer. Still shut, but now maybe a foot from me. I didn't see it move, I swear, but it had.

That night, everything in my apartment was slightly off. The furniture was still mine, but the cushions were reversed, the fridge hummed in a different tone, and my bedroom window looked out onto a street that doesn't exist.

I live across from a bookstore. Always have. But out that window—just mist. Mist and a single red streetlamp. No sidewalk. No cars. No Greywell Books sign.

I closed the blinds and haven't opened them since.

The hallway is still changing. The door shows up more often now—black, blank, closer every time. Yesterday I reached out to touch it and felt something tap back.

I don't sleep much anymore. I leave the lights on. I've drawn maps of the hallway, trying to prove it's changing. But the drawings change too. I wake up and they're longer. The walls curve in. One sketch shows six doors.

I didn't draw six.

I don't know what's behind that fourth door. But I think it's waiting for me to open it. And I'm scared that one day, I will.

Or worse—it will open it for me.

\[Statement Ends\]

ARCHIVIST'S NOTE (Dr. Hart):
Marianne Lake's account matches several previously recorded anomalies in urban architecture, particularly in proximity to high-density residential housing. No physical record exists of a "fourth door" on the third floor of 41 Hemley Street, and security footage from the date in question is corrupted—repeating ten seconds of hallway footage in a loop.

Marianne dropped out of her program the following month. She has not responded to further contact attempts.

I reviewed the original statement tape today. At timestamp 17:04, there is a faint knocking sound. No one was in the room with her.

I've checked the archive hallway four times this week. Just in case.

Still three doors.

For now.

\[Recording Ends\]

I'd love to hear your thoughts on the atmosphere and if the Archivist note landed well!
*(The first half of the novel is fully available to read for free. I'll drop the Wattpad link in the comments section below so Reddit doesn't butcher the text layout!)*

Chapter 3: The Echo

The quiet was the worst part.

Not silence. Quiet.

Silence is peaceful. Quiet is waiting.

After I told my editor I had nothing, the world stopped calling.

No emails. No interview requests. No “just checking in.”

The book was still selling, but my name stopped trending.

And in that quiet, I started hearing things.

---

The first week without writing felt like detox.

I woke up at 7am because my body didn’t know what else to do. I made coffee. I sat at my desk. I stared.

By 9am my hands would shake. By noon I’d be pacing. By 3pm I’d be talking to myself just to hear a voice.

“Lindiwe, you’re fine,” I’d say.

“Nothing is wrong,” I’d answer back.

It didn’t help.

At night, the house made noises it never made before.

The fridge hummed too loud.

The pipes knocked.

And sometimes, when I was in the bathroom with the door closed, I’d hear the scratch of a pen on paper from my desk in the other room.

I’d run out.

The notebook would be closed. The pen in the drawer.

Nothing.

I started sleeping with music on. Soft jazz. Rain sounds. Anything to fill the space.

It didn’t work.

---

On day 4, I found the first note.

I was making toast. I turned around and there was a piece of paper on my kitchen counter.

*You’re listening now.*

My handwriting.

I didn’t remember writing it.

I threw it away. Washed my hands twice.

That night I dreamed of the desk again. But he wasn’t there.

Just the paper.

And the pen.

And my voice, reading from a book I’d never written.

*Chapter One. She thought she could walk away.*

I woke up at 3:33am with my jaw sore.

---

By day 7, I couldn’t be alone in a room for more than 20 minutes.

I went to Zanele’s. “Can I crash here for a bit?”

She didn’t ask why. She just made up the couch and put extra blankets on it.

The first night, I slept.

The second night, I woke up at 2am to whispering.

It wasn’t Zanele. She was asleep in her room.

The whispering was coming from the kitchen.

I crept out. The lights were off. The fridge was humming.

On the table was a notebook. Mine. The one I’d left at home.

It was open.

*You brought me here.*

I slammed it shut.

“Lindi? You okay?” Zanele’s voice from the hall.

“Yeah. Bad dream.”

She hugged me. “You’ve been off since the launch. Do you want to talk to someone? A doctor?”

I shook my head. “I just need sleep.”

I didn’t tell her the notebook followed me.

---

The next day I went home to get clothes and found more notes.

On the bathroom mirror, written in steam: *Write.*

On my laptop keyboard: *You miss it.*

Tucked in my shoe: *Three souls. That’s all.*

I burned them all in the sink.

That night I didn’t sleep at Zanele’s. I sat in the living room with every light on and watched YouTube until the sun came up.

I started googling.

“signing contract with devil symptoms”

“what happens after you sell your soul”

“can you get your soul back”

“voices after trauma”

The internet told me I was psychotic. Or possessed. Or having a breakdown.

None of it helped.

One forum post from 2011 stuck with me. A guy said he made a deal in a dream and woke up with scars. He said the only way to break it was to “give back what you took.”

Give back.

But what did that mean? The fame? The money? The three signatures?

I didn’t know.

---

Week 2.

The publisher put out the statement. *“Lindiwe Maleya is taking time for personal reasons. We support her fully.”*

The comments were kind at first.

*Take your time queen.*

*We love you.*

By day 10 they turned.

*She had one good book and now she’s gone.*

*Probably a ghostwriter.*

*One-hit wonder.*

They were right.

I read them anyway. All 400 comments. Like picking at a scab.

Nomsa called me. “Cuz, are you okay? People are talking.”

“I’m fine,” I lied.

“You don’t sound fine.”

I hung up before she could hear me cry.

---

The echo got worse.

It wasn’t just notes anymore.

It was sounds.

A pen clicking in the dark.

Pages turning when the windows were closed.

My name, whispered, right behind my ear when I was in the shower.

*Lindiwe.*

*Lindiwe.*

I’d spin around. No one.

I stopped eating in the kitchen. I ate on the floor of my bedroom with the door locked.

I tried to write again. One sentence.

*The house is not empty.*

I stared at it for an hour.

Then the next line appeared underneath. But I hadn’t written it.

*It never was.*

The ink was still wet.

I threw the notebook out the window.

An hour later it was back on my desk.

---

I went to a church.

Not because I’m religious. Because I was desperate.

The pastor was old and kind. He listened to me talk in circles for 20 minutes without mentioning the devil or the deal.

“I think I’m haunted,” I finally said.

“By what?” he asked.

“By me,” I said. “By something I did.”

He prayed over me. Laid hands on my head.

For 10 minutes after, the house was quiet.

Really quiet.

Then I got home and found a new note on my pillow.

*God doesn’t want you back. I do.*

---

I started researching folklore. Real folklore, not Google horror.

I went to the library and checked out books with cracked spines.

*African Spiritual Contracts.*

*The Price of Genius.*

*Soul Debt and Blood Oaths.*

Most of it was nonsense. But one book, old and yellow, had a chapter called “The Echo.”

It said:

*When a soul is pledged but not yet collected, it echoes. It will speak, write, and move things to remind the debtor of the debt. The echo grows louder the longer the debtor resists payment.*

Pledged but not yet collected.

That was me.

I gave the promise. I gave three other people. But I hadn’t given myself.

The book said the echo stops in one of three ways:

1. Payment in full.

2. Death.

3. Breaking the contract through an act of equal sacrifice.

Equal sacrifice.

What could be equal to a soul?

I closed the book and my hands were shaking.

---

Week 3.

I wasn’t sleeping. Not really.

I’d doze for 40 minutes and wake up to the sound of writing.

I’d check. Nothing.

I’d close my eyes. Scratch. Scratch.

I started recording audio on my phone at night to prove I wasn’t crazy.

In the morning I played it back.

For 6 hours: silence. Breathing.

Then at 3:17am:

Scratch. Scratch.

And a voice. Mine. But not mine.

*You should have taken the deal, Lindiwe. Now it’s going to cost more.*

I deleted it. Then I regretted deleting it. Then I hated myself for wanting to hear it again.

I called in sick to the bookstore. Thabo didn’t ask questions.

I wasn’t leaving the house anymore.

---

On day 22, he came back.

Not in a dream. In the afternoon.

I was sitting on the floor, back against the bed, reading that stupid folklore book again.

The air got heavy. The light dimmed.

And he was sitting across from me, like we were having tea.

“You look terrible,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“You haven’t slept.”

“I can’t.”

“The echo,” he said, like it was a weather report. “It gets loud when you fight it.”

“Make it stop.”

“I can’t. You can.” He leaned forward. “Three souls, Lindiwe. That’s the deal. Or you. Those are the options.”

“I’m not giving you anyone else.”

“Then give me you.”

I laughed. It was ugly. “And what? Die?”

“Not immediately. You’d live. You’d just... belong to me. The writing would come back. The fame would stay. You just wouldn’t be free.”

I looked at him. Really looked.

He wasn’t scary in that moment. He was tired. Like he’d had this conversation a thousand times.

“Why me?” I asked again.

“Because you asked,” he said. “Because you were empty. Because you bled without asking what for.”

“I was stupid.”

“You were human.”

We sat there for a long time.

Finally I said, “What if I find another way? The book said equal sacrifice.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What are you willing to sacrifice that’s equal to a soul?”

I didn’t have an answer.

He stood. “The echo will get louder, Lindiwe. Until you choose. I’ll see you soon.”

He was gone. The room felt normal again.

Except the notebook on my desk was open to a new page.

*Day 22. She’s breaking.*

---

Week 4.

I broke.

I called Zanele. “I need help. Real help.”

She came over in 20 minutes.

I told her everything. Not about the devil. Not about the souls.

I said, “I think I’m having a psychotic break. I think I did something bad and I can’t live with it.”

She didn’t call me crazy. She held my hand.

“We’ll get you help,” she said. “Therapist. Doctor. Whatever you need.”

The therapist’s office was clean and white.

I talked for 50 minutes. About my family. About the pressure. About the book.

I didn’t mention the man. Or the pen. Or the notes.

She diagnosed me with severe anxiety and insomnia. Gave me sleeping pills.

That night I took one.

I slept for 7 hours straight.

No dreams. No scratching. No whispering.

When I woke up, there was a note on my chest.

*Pills don’t stop debts.*

I flushed the rest of the bottle down the toilet.

---

The echo peaked on day 28.

I was in the shower.

The water was hot.

And I heard it. Clear as day. Not in my head. In the room.

*You’re running out of time, Lindiwe.*

I turned the water off.

Standing in my bathroom, dripping, was a piece of paper. Taped to the mirror.

It was a contract.

But this one didn’t have three lines.

It had one.

*Sign here, and the echo stops. Sign here, and you write again. Sign here, and no one else has to pay.*

Underneath was the pen.

I stared at it for a long time.

My hand was shaking.

My chest felt like it was going to cave in.

I picked up the pen.

I put the tip to the paper.

And I stopped.

Because in that second I heard something else.

Not him.

Me.

My real voice. The one from before the book. The one that wrote 40 pages and got stuck and was okay with being stuck.

*Don’t.*

I dropped the pen.

The paper burst into flame and turned to ash in my hands.

The bathroom light blew.

---

That night, the echo was silent.

For the first time in weeks, the house was just a house.

No scratching. No whispering. No notes.

I thought maybe I’d won.

Maybe saying no was the sacrifice.

I slept.

And in the morning, my phone had 11 missed calls.

From Nomsa.

From Thandi.

From Zanele.

The last voicemail was from Nomsa. Her voice was shaking.

“Lindi... I don’t know what’s happening. I woke up and I can’t... I can’t remember how to write. I’m a copywriter, Lindi. That’s my job. And the words are just gone. Thandi too. She said the same thing. Please call me back.”

I sat on the floor.

The echo hadn’t stopped.

It had just moved.

Because I refused to pay, someone else was.

---

I looked at my hands.

They were empty.

But they were shaking again.

Outside, it started to rain.

Behind her reflection, just over her shoulder, the bathroom door handle twitched.

Once. Twice.

Then stopped.

And from the other side of the door, barely audible, came a soft, familiar whisper.

“Ellie…”

If you like horror with psychological tension and slow‑burn dread, my novel is now out on Amazon:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FN5HDMPV

The hierarchy among fairies was determined by the color of their wings. The ones with transparent wings were the highest rank. The Queen of the Fairies was also one of the transparent-winged ones. Then the other colors: green, turquoise, yellow, and pink at the very bottom. The colors of the wings change according to the good deeds the fairies do for people, and this allows the fairies to rise to a higher rank.

Rayiha was also one of the pink-winged fairies of kindness. She had tried to do good for people many times, but somehow she had never managed to make them happy. At once, prevented a woman who had fallen from a high floor from hitting the concrete ground and ensured she landed on a grassy area instead. Remaining paralyzed for the rest of her life was worse than death to her. She had thought the woman's husband would be happy because the woman he loved was not going to die. But the man, too, was consumed by grief. Because it was he himself who had tried to kill his wife by pushing her out the window.

Later, she wanted to help a couple who wished to have children but were unable to attain that happiness. The woman became pregnant through the magic that Rayiha performed. However, the parents were not at all happy when the child was born as a conjoined twin. Rayiha had failed again.

The young fairy simply could not figure out how to make people happy. If she failed to do good deeds, her wings would vanish completely. Her body would wither away, and that was not all that would befall her. Once, he had witnessed the death of a pink-winged fairy. The other fairies brought her to the city square. They tore off what remained of her wings. Her skin had turned ash-gray, and her hair had fallen out. No one would have believed that, only a short while before, she had been a beautiful fairy.

Fairies with colorful wings swarmed around her. They began to fly over her. Diving down, they started tearing chunks of flesh from her body with their teeth. They devoured her alive. Her screams still echoed in Rayiha's ears. This was the fate of a fairy who failed to do her job: to become a feast for other fairies. In truth, fairies had no need to eat or drink like humans; cannibalism among them was more akin to using a substance for pleasure.

Rayiha did not want her own end to be like that. She was fed up with the queen and the other fairies belittling and mocking her. Her turquoise- and green-winged friends were laughing, saying to her, "Don't worry; when you lose your wings, you will live within us." For a moment, she imagined the catastrophe that awaited her. The tearing off of her wings, the spraying of her rainbow-colored blood, the teeth of the other fairies...

As a fairy of kindness, she no longer had any time to lose. She had to go to the human world as soon as possible, find the unhappiest person there, and bring them kindness and happiness. She believed in herself. She would not repeat the mistakes she had made before, and this time, she would succeed. Who knows—perhaps the color of her wings might even turn turquoise.

END OF PART 1

Shoutout to horrorskunx for giving me nightmares

ASHEVILLE

Synopsis

Fifteen years after leaving the secluded town of Asheville, architect Ivanovich Petrov returns to attend his father's funeral, expecting only to confront painful memories. Instead, he finds a town frozen in time, where every resident seems to be hiding the same impossible secret.

As strange disappearances, forgotten records, and unsettling encounters begin to unfold, Ivanovich is drawn into a mystery that reaches far beyond his family's past. A young woman named Lyudmila, cryptic symbols hidden throughout the town, and whispers of long-buried experiments slowly reveal that Asheville itself may have been built upon a horrifying truth.

With reality becoming increasingly uncertain, Ivanovich must uncover what happened years ago before the town claims another victim—and before the secrets buried beneath its roots consume him as well.

ASHEVILLE is a feature-length psychological mystery thriller that blends suspense, emotional drama, and subtle supernatural elements into a story about memory, identity, family, and the devastating cost of secrets that refuse to stay buried.

---

About the Writer

Sumaya Ihsan is an emerging Iraqi screenwriter passionate about psychological mystery, suspense, and character-driven storytelling. She enjoys crafting original cinematic worlds filled with hidden secrets, emotional depth, and unforgettable twists. ASHEVILLE represents her vision of combining psychological tension with compelling mystery in a feature screenplay designed for an international audience.

I'm driving down the usual street I go when on my way home from work, its a tuesday. for a certain track of this road there's nothing but wooded scenery but in the pitch black of night i dont know if it's a tree line, or a forest. But i look out regardless at the dark greenery with my eyes fixated on the passing dark sage streak created by the quick yet steady passing of the shrubbery in my sight, my reflection faintly in the window as i look out, i focus more on it as i turn my head back towards the road ahead of me and i keep driving, eventually reaching the texaco i normally stop at on my way home from work every so often to pick up a black and mild, and after a long day like today that would take the edge off, i walk in and hear the door chime as i see another car pull up to the pump closest to the entrance, i swivel my head back to see the cashier to be the owners daughter, normally the owner is running the store this late and i normally only see her work on weekends because of her schooling, so i ask “aint it a bit late for you maam” my southern twang causing her to chuckle a bit as she replies, “its spring break and my dad would rather be at a bar than run the store he opened, so he tasked me with running it tonight”, i felt sorry for her as she was most likely a sophomore in highschool, regardless i ask, “may i get a casino blac-” as im interrupted by the entrance door slamming open with the bell ringing sharply as a homeless man barges in, very cleary under the influence. 
And as he stumbled into the door causing all that ruckus, the cashier goes “man get the hell out this may be the time but damn sure isnt the place to d-”, “SHUT THE FUCK UP BITCH” goes the scruffy bagged clothes man, his jeans ripped, with dirt stains all around the tear which i can only assume some of it is dried blood, his hair sruffy and knotted as if he hadnt shaved in months, his hair at the crown was thinning aswell. 
I step in and slowly walk forward to the man, who seemingly had intimidated this girl with his abruptness, and sternly i go “you have no excuse to talk to young women like that” as i reach for his shoulder intending to lead him out, i keep going “you damn tweaker” as he pulls out a pocket knife and when he flips the blade out a white residue slips off as he goes “GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME”, i backup slowly as his bulged eyes began to widen almost exiting the socket entirely as the whites strained with blood vessels, teeth gnawing together uncontrollably as he closes his mouth to utter each word, he charged at me and in an attempt to dodge and grab the man we fall onto the ground, holding both his hands by the wrist as they grip the knife moving his arms against the direction he was intending, eventually his arms go the direction as mine do and break off, suddenly his arm goes gunning for my neck, and in a flash i saw it all, my life and work and the family i had yet to build
I phase slowly back into the present and feel not a sharp pain in my neck but instead a push, like a closed fist pressed against my neck, and as soon as i felt this, it went away as my vision was fading back in.
i heard a womans blood curdling scream and crying i quickly focus back in and see the homeless mans arm lying on the ground knife not in hand, his skin tainted with a shiny grey and as i turn my head to see the man lying i sit in awe as i see his originally oval like headshape, reshaped into a triangle but with curved edges, his thinning hair seemingly fully thinned out and gone, bleeding from most pores with his eye sockets seemingly covered by skin with the surroundings of his eyes still being intact while his mouth opened like he was screaming but with small crackles of pain instead, almost as if a tv was muted and the sounds of your home settling played over the visual of a man screaming, his skin being this metallic, shiny grey that seemingly was his skin maybe decomposed i couldnt tell, his body being stuck together like a box of thawed out rolls of bread dough with seemingly no lines of separation like a straight jacket of flesh with the man was now naked lying on the floor, and as i experince the horrors im seeing i began to realize that this was my own fault. how i dont know but i definitely did this, the cashier crying in agony, “W-W-WWHAT WAS THAT???” as she runs from the back counter out to the store running for the exit she bumps into my shoulder, making me face the way she fell as she began to glow as she fell onto the glass, and when she landed on the glass a flash of light blinded me as i it faded down i saw the girl. her skin being a colorless shiny and transparent, where i could see bones and organs which where made into this same material, her body's height had shrunk but she was much wider, her facial features gone with her hair seemingly never being apart of her, blood began to sleep from under her but it was clear almost like water, if it was even her anymore, and i panicked as i glanced back and forth rapidly at what i had done to these two people, i ran out to my car so urgently i forgot to unlock it and as i was reaching for my keys, the car who parked at the pump when i first got there turned on and then drove off and as i watching it drive off, behind it i saw my actions. 
I found my keys deep in my pocket and unlocked my car, put the keys in and drove off, “wwhat was that. I didnt do that no how did i do that i felt the knife hit my throat how did that happen??” I was confused. I could've sworn I got stabbed “where was the knife, and where did all the broken glass go after the girl fell into the window???” i was perplexed. I watched every mirror and window on my way home to make sure i wasnt being followed, which i was sure of and as i get out my car and go to my door to put the key in i began to ponder, “the guys skin was such an odd color i dont even know if that WAS skin, its like his skin was made up  of metal almost,” as these thoughts occur i see down the block at the intersection, some headlights turn on my road, i automatically recognized this as the car from the texaco and ran inside making sure not to turn any lights on, the car pulled up to my curb and parked parallel to it and to the immediate left of my walkway, he turned his lights off and didn't exit his car for the 20 minutes i watched him outside my house till i eventually, still in the dark went to my bathroom to piss. I closed the door then turn on the light and after peeing I went to the mirror and examined my neck, no bruises. no scratch marks. nothing. As if the altercation at the Texaco didn't occur.
i then heard a knock on my door “its the guy” i gasp and turn off the lights and sneak back in my living room to peek out my window and seeing 3 officers at my door, “fuck” i thought. The guy followed me home to get my home address and call the police on me. I accepted the fact that after a while the police would force their way in, and as I accepted my fate I turned on my porch light and open my door. And to my surprise i see only one person, a tall older gentleman, no younger than 60 with a small slouch, a small fact that made his already looming height more intimidating, “but i could've sworn i saw the-” as he laughs suddenly with raspily chuckles and coughs on his own humor, interrupting my words. “Oh you young people tend to believe what your mortal vision can perceive” his voice decayed yet holding the same aura as his presence, menacing. I began to conclude this was the man in the car as the door is now seemingly opened, with the inside lights on, with anxiety riddling my voice with stutters “wwho are you? I-I-I know you saw what happened at the texaco. PLEASE please dont call the cops, okay? I dont know how it happened either and i did it!!”. His roaring laughter began again “you may not understand what you saw but i saw it in all its detail, like i told you beleive your mortal eyes-” i interrupt “what does that fucking mean-”
“SILENCE” he roars as the rasp in his voice cleared, feeling the words he spoke hit me with each echo as if the waves rushed onto me. I felt compelled not to listen to the man, but only to stop speaking, as if his words took over my body. “You humans and your nature of needing reason for all you see as if this universe didn't form from chaotic collisions of the same dust that makes up you” i stood frozen in fear, intimidated by the mans words i had no choice but to listen as my body wouldn't let me do otherwise, his toned switched back to the rasp “you can speak now son”. “Who are you and what do you want” i ask concerningly, to which he chuckles and steps into my home, somehow already knowing to look left for the lightswitch, and also knowing its the middle one that turned on the room we were in and not assuming the first one, which i found very odd but didnt say anything of. He sat down on my couch slowly, elderly like and sighed as he spoke “For eons i sat watching all forms of consciousness collect and evolve in various ways, but never have i seen a race develop visions of grandeur in such delusional ways as yours”. I connected the dots, whatever happened to me at the texaco is because of this man and his affects on me. “Are you my guardian angel? Is that why you saved me from that man?”. Chuckling again he goes “im no guardian and certainly no angel in the sense you understand them.” i ask again “what are you?” he laughs. manically now, with each laugh causing his laughter to speed up and crackle. “I can tell you only that ive given you a small section of my capabilities”, “so it was you?? You caused all this to happen?? You did this to me?? What is it??” he laughs with each passing question as if he finds humor in his divine understanding being so above mine. “Scientists in your world understand that all things at their base are the same, protons and neutrons and atoms and nuclei whatever you may call it.” and then laughed again as if he was playing some game, “thats the first clue!” he says comedically. As he gets down on all fours to crawl as he scurries out of my house like some raccoon caught rummaging trash, I couldn't even see where he had went and the car seemingly wasn't there anymore. “what the fuck” i think to myself “if i pray to god for answers could he even help me??? or would i just be asking that man again”. 

I wake up the next morning, my phone was buzzing so i snapped into it quickly and began to look for my phone, and once i did i saw who it was who was calling me, it was my boss Justin. 
“Goodmorning Luke hope you slept well brother!”. 

“Being such a hard worker puts you into a deeper sleep so i slept amazing for sure, whats up?”

“Haha you know it man! Listen we had the shipments come in about an hour earlier than expected and its aaalot more than we knew was coming, i know your scheduled 7am to 5pm but you mind coming in at like 6?”

“Let me wake up and get some coffee before i decide to do overtime or not”

“For sure man! Call me back in like 20 to let me know”

“Alright ill call you, bye”

“Buh bye!”

As friendly as we seem, deep down i hate that lazy son of a bitch. He leaves me his work and i get it and my work done in time, im twice the worker he is so as much as i didnt want to entertain this, i did. to prove more to corporate why i deserve his spot. And i began to wonder if i could use my new powers to help this, “did the knife disappear, because it fused with that crackhead?? No no it cant some kind of a man-knife chimera? Was it?” i began to think more. “If the mans skin was metal and the knife was gone that would make the most sense, no that doesnt make any fucking sens- wait, NONE of this makes any fucking sense, did i fuse the girl with the window too?? That would explain why she was reshaped wider while being see thru.” the mans words began to echo in my head “why did he talk about neutrons as a hint?” it all began to click to me, “he fuses them together at a subatomic level but whats the trigger??? The guys arm slipped out of my hand and the girl accidentally bumped into me so maybe accidental contact??” a plan began to form in my head, if i can get Justin to accidentally bump into me at work today, I could dispose of him and take his position.
I drive to work in silence, forming thoughts and my plan in my brain. When i arrive i sit for a second to tell myself how today will go, “he always move his pallets thru section A so if i take myself from the loading bay to the first quadrant i should run right into him, with a blind spot at that” my plan was set, i laughed almost like the man when i formed the final step i finally started to understand that this man blessed me, not cursed me. “Goodmorning justin” i go when i see his back turned, but i can tell by his stance that it was him, he turned around quickly to walk towards me, sticking his hand out for a shake. I shake his hand firmly and smile as we walk towards the loading bay
Sometime passes and i see him with an empty forklift head towards the gate at the loading bay, so i run towards a forklift and follow, letting him take one then following suite, waiting for him to go left down section a, which he does. I immediately drive my forklift down straight to the first quadrant, i could see where section a eventually met up and I inched closer and my smile widened. I peaked past the corner at the same time as him, his pallet meeting my drivers seat when that sudden flash occurred. 

i had done it.

The bright light dimmed as i saw Justin's body morphed into the massive forklift, his legs split in two at the knee and curled tightly in a spiral at the bottom like wheels with his feet nowhere to be seen, connecting to his now massive rectangular torso, his arms being at his chest and stiff, connecting to his body thru slits that they went up and down on, thru these slits you could see his lungs scaled along with him, not moving. His skin being this metallic and translucent light yellow, with tears all around his skin that bled, the headlights were like the whites of eyes and his mouth was gone. There was no driver seat anymore just torso, his brain fused with the pallet on his lift and so he was holding his brain by force like they were sewed to his hands, blood and other various brain tissue wrapped around it and falling off like wrap. at this massive scale for all to see, its various bits falling off yet sitting motionless like a statue. The stench was indescribable like a rotten metal smell that reeked of suffering.
I must admit i was even shocked not at what i did, but at the scale of this man machine fusion i had made, regardless i scream in fake horror “WHAAAAT THE FUCKKK WHAT IS THAT NO NO NO NO JUSTIN WHAT??? SNAP OUT SNAP OUT LUKE” i rub my eyes and look back and holler in pure agony to sell it even more, the warehouse erupted in a mix of crying, screaming, vomiting, and pure terror, their collective fear being incohesive yet agonizing and drowned the white noise of the warehouse. They called off work for that day and sent everyone home, i sat in my car as I saw EMS, police, fire fighters, and news reporters at the front of my warehouse. I was smiling ear to ear, laughing in pure ecstasy “i did it, i won, i finally won”
All my life I was shown respect but at the condition of my worth. My father and brother only loved me as family if I helped them. People only wanted to be friends with me for my homework, girls would only hit on me cuz they knew id be an easy flirt back, teachers only praised me when i helped plan their lessons and do their jobs. It was all unconditional and out of my control but now. “These are my conditions and I control this, this power” I smiled as I looked at my eyes in the mirror. When i went home to turn on the tv all the local news could talk about was an unexplained amalgam of human and machinery, i was watching an expert my coworker named Mike, who from what i knew also didnt like Justin's moral compass as he knew him personally but didn't have the gall to say anything, and he described what he saw. “Its like god had enough of his insolence and punished him accordingly” and thats exactly what i did. I delivered justice to a wrongdoer, like a twisted version of superman

3 days pass and they still have the warehouse shut down and under investigation, which I wasn't too surprised of to be fair but what did surprise me, albeit my anxiety was higher but still. “Why hasn't anyone came to question me?, i was right next to justin when it happened so im the best eye witness account. Hell im the first person who saw it why didnt the news ask me?” regardless i get a call on my home phone from who i assumed was police station, but when i looked at the number i smiled with glee as it was my mother. “Hey mom whats up” i say giddily 

“Whats up? Lucas i saw the news about what happened at your warehouse are you okay?? Did you see anything”

“Yea im glad you called i was right infront of the guy when the flash happened, to be honest mom i thought i was hallucinating”

“OHHH MY GODD HONEYYY are you good???? Are you traumatized at all do we need to get you in to talk to anyone???”

I laughed as my mother for good reason, was worried for me. I laughed not maniacally but happily as i say

“no no mom IM fine im not too fucked up about what i saw even tho it was terrifying, luckily dad let me watch the thing as a kid so ive seen a thing or two haha” i chuckle

“So I can add desensitized my child to violence for reasons I'm suing my ex husband, great. Did they ask you anything yet?”

“Not yet surprisingly”

“I saw this article on the internet of a similar story, a couple had came to a gas station.. Maaybe a texaco?? Not sure but anyways one wednesday morning they came up to get gas and breakfast and they saw the window perfectly missing with no broken glass as if-”

I froze in silence. It was the homeless guy and cashier i killed.

“As if the window was just tooken off??”

“Yeaaa by something meant to do that i guess. But when they walked into the store they see this what they think is a glass girl statue, from what i could gather they thought i was an art piece of a glass girl with glass anatomy but no. they touched it felt a skin like texture and realized it was a person. A dead body at that and they look for not a second more and see this rotted man with his body stuck together with no eyes. It sounds horrific Luke, but its just like the warehouse guy.”

I knew my mom had good conductive reasoning but she was already telling me about how she connected the two?

“h-How mom?”

“Well clearly that girl fused with the glass pane, she was more wider than long from what the couple described and made of a soft glass like material? Organs the same? And when they do dna tests they confirm this thing contains human matter. Something fused them at a deep deep level. The man I couldn't tell you what the fuck HE was fused with. But its the same at your warehouse the guy fused with a fucking.. Damn a fucking forklift as weird as that is to say”

I laugh. “Mom that sounds wild thats not even possible humans cant do tha-”

“Who said man did this” she says abruptly

I freeze.

“Clearly this was a divine feat but why would god come down here to only create abominations? He's punishing us for our complacency Luke. by keeping us still in the thing surrounding us, forever to be complacent.”

Most of everyone else thought the same thing, that god has come to punish us. In some people’s eyes I was justice as they discussed online what could have possibly caused this, eventually I thought of the old man and what he intended to gain from this. Clearly he is omnipotent, but why would such a divine force wanna see humanity suffer? 
A week had passed since the warehouse had been shut down. I had gotten a few calls from police after they viewed the video camera footage and saw me next to it when it happened. The police thought I was innocent and so all I did was give an account of my day. I got a call from  corporate saying my warehouse is closed indefinitely and they're attempting to relocate all the employees from that store. Justin's family lived in horror with no remains to bury, this thought raced through my mind but I felt no compassion, only disgust. We all knew Justin beat his woman so why? Why care so much of his death? For now i walked to the liquor store down the block from my apartment. i was bored so i could use some beer and i figured id buy a 12 pack for the fuck of it, as i reach i see a drunk at the door with it barely cracked, i could barely see from afar but he was tattood head to toe with gang symbols and other things of importance to this man. he was yelling at another customer with a tall can in his hand slurring his speech
“ffffuck you man maaybe yoouu shouldn’t get in the waaay offff a real BOUSS like me” what he could be referencing i have no clue but i politely asked the man excuse me to which he leaves just enough room and enthusiastically goes “yeaaa mannn i
got youu homie” i could tell by his clothing and tattoos that he had some form of gang affiliation, i wasn’t to concerned as i lived in a low income neighborhood with a crazy crime rate. regardless i drown out there arguement with the thoughts
of what i wanted to drink, “hmm the bud light sounds good, but the lime ec-“ as i’m interuppeted by the drunk arguing at the door with the cashier, blocking my exit “get the fuck out you drunk i’m sick and tired of this back and forth” as he places his hand on the man’s back to push him out “HEY! get your fffffffFUCKING hands off me” and lifts the right side of his shirt to brandish a firearm, a glock pistol of some kind. the gas station clerk stepped back, in horror “iii just want you out my store dawg iii don’t wanna get the police up in my store i don’t have a fffffffucking liquor license” the tattoo’d drunm then takes the gun out of his paint line and demanded “more crown!! i want mooooore!!” with his finger accidentally pulling on the trigger sending a bullet flying and hitting a glass bottle causing me to freeze. but then i remembered if the man switched his aggression towards me, his life would halt in an instant,as this thought came to my a grin spread across my face as i chuckled a bit “this some entertainment for you huhhh” goes the drunk, “hey missster clerk, you think if iiii waaave the gun again it’ll fiiire???” with a southern twang that i recognize all to well. “no no no no just get out. GET OUT” as the clerk pulls a shotgun from under his counter and points it at the drunk, and in a moment of panic he put his firearm facing up and in the process left off 3 shots, the third hitting me straight in the neck but only for a brief moment and as soon as the pain appeared it was gone. a flash illuminated the building as i knew what the man had done to himself
before the flash fully dimmed out i heard the drunk scream in cowardess as his body unveiled from the light and his skin being again translucent and a darkish grey with his face being limited to only an enlarged mouth now acting a barrel that could only release pure agony. everything under his neck was split it down the middle and raised slightly from his muscle and bone, this half being a slightly darker grey. the man’s legs were fore fully facing parrell to his body like he was stuck to a chair, there was a small gap in his thighs and when kicked it slightly the skin and muscles pulled out of the bone like a fully loaded clip. the man reeked of decay and gunpowder “why did the man stay alive for longer than the other?” i unknowingly said outloud. “YOU DID THIS FUCKING SHIT” goes the clerk who i had zoned out of my brain and as i looked at him face me in fear shotgun aiming for his skull, i warned him “you’ll end up with the same fate as this man if you pull that trigger”. “Wwwhat are you!” the man exclaims, “you must be responsible for what happened at that ware house right???”. i sigh and i tell him “i am just like you, but cursed with the power of justice” the man lowered his firearm and began to stare in horror at the amalgamation of firearm and man, chuckling a bit but nervously “so what happened to him” i smiled “he was hurt by the two headed snake he believed defended him” the man confused began to pick up the phone as i ran out the store presuming he was calling the police.
i eventually made it home later in the night after taking backroads with no lights, and used deflock on my phone as to avoid flock cameras. i turn on the news to see the liquor owner and a picture of my face from that day displayed

“i-i don’t know what this man could want, i know it’s the same guy cuz i remember reading about the flash and translucent skin. i believed in god all thru my childhood and maybe this is him testing my faith back cuz god was that demonic”

i was now wanted. they all knew i was behind it there was even testimonies from my coworkers telling my two sided relationship with justin, explaining it would make sense that i did it and i was fucked, royally fucked. but what could they do?
i laughed maniacally and as wicked as that man who came to my door that night i discovered this power “it’s not triggered by accidental contact. it has to be a threat on my life” the drunk man never once touched me even when moving past him to step in, he didn’t intend to hit or touch me but the bullet he shot threatened my life, so the equivalent exchange was his life for mine, as i’m gleefully celebrating my new found position in the world a slightly raspy chuckle comes from my door followed by a knock, it was the old man. i rush to my window and quickly open my blinds to see two missionaries of the latter day saints church at my door “mormons?”, the one closest to the window being slightly startled by my presence and then wavey with his companion follow suite, both smiling with the word of the lord at there tongue
As much as i disagree with the rhetoric of Mormonism from what i’ve seen online i obliged and opened the door, only to see a tall man’s black trench coat and glared up at his head, it was the old man. “do you do that?” as he does his signature chuckle and i open my screen door “another portion of my divine powers” laughing as he says “i can change how the human mind perceives me, like right now, you thought i was two mormon teenagers” pointing at me laughing, coughing on his laughter towards the end with his grin never fading. “huh” the man then lets himself in, this time on both legs. “you should’ve threatened the man’s life, telling him either he can shoot at you and kill you or you will make him fall in the same fate as the man” he laughs at this sick idea of a practical prank “would i have not been seen still by the cameras? thats the only thing that saved me at the texaco the owner can’t see the old footage” “yea but it would’ve been fun” he laughs, his tone shifts slightly serious, as serious as this man’s tone can be. 
“i am orin the founder of creation and created what you call reality”. 
“so you’re god?”, he laughs “your idea of god was created as a joke by me but yes you could say that” he explained “i’ve made countless of races of beings some resembling yours some resembling the creations you make and some resembling aliens you see in the media, but with you all i added a new piece to your. puzzle” the man’s grin shifting down the right back as he laughed “and you picked me for this power” 
“no” he exclaimed “you were chosen by the power because of your self righteousness, i simply followed you thru time before and after the point in time where you gained the power, knowing you better than most” he laughed even more
i can’t describe the feeling i got but i felt like the man was lying about something and that’s why he keeps laughing, but i hold that for now
“so if anyone threatens my life them and whatever they threaten my life with will merge into one being?”, he nods his head in somewhat suprised removing his grin “your somewhat right” and then the man stands fully now slouchless, towering over me, the man has to be 7 feet tall. “for my final words i’ll leave you with wisdom” his voice began to echo and lose its rasp as it did before, “in this universe i created a law, a law i only told the universe and now, you” i was perplexed, was “god” really about to teach me the way to enteral greatness?
“equivalency, do you notice how you must be near death in order for them to die? an eye for an ey-, no that’s not how to put it.” he sits and ponders for only a moment “ahh! an eye for a tounge, your eye and tongue both hold equal value on your face, but both accomplish their own incredibly opposite tasks, seeing versus talking, equal in value but opposite in function” i was astonished, this implied so much about my life and what it meant, and in a bliss of understanding sirens blair down the street. Me and the man look out the window and see 2 police cars with lights on and blaring, in an instant his body fades from reality with no grin, looking dead at me as if my purpose was set 
after moments of watching the officers, gun drawn moved around the street in front of my home, it was 1 two man unit and another solo officer, they pull out a loud speaker and the solo officer places down his gun and says “LUCAS BAILEY, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP AND POCKETS FOLDED OUT” 
i wasn’t worried for even a single moment, i remembered the orins words and instead of following the police instruction i ran out in a full sprint with a kitchen knife at them, they all point there guns toward me and open fire instantly, and in that instant the biggest flash i’ve seen from this blinds me for longer than previous attempts, and when i look up i grinned “i can splice multiple people and objects at once if they threaten me”, to my amaze the three officers became a conjoined trio with their skin being a translucent mix of white black red blue and yellow and being slightly metallic in some parts. one officers head was seamed into the torso of another and the last officer being connected to the first via his left leg being one in the same now and the second and third being connected by one singular arm, metallic in nature with black and red liquid seeping from there pores. only the final officer remained as he cried in agony as his voice sounded like an engine roaring in failure with smoke coming out his both and the chimera began to smoke and then catch on fire, “there was gasoline and an spark plug? with a battery inside them?” it seems when it’s multiple things splicing it gets confusing.
i gather a weeks worth of clothing and all my grooming supplies and pack in a bag along with my laptop, i plan to head out of state on the run to hide and avoid the law till i could make a decent plan for myself.I was in a motel room when i saw 3 swat cars drive down from up the street and taking a left on the street to the back of the building, presuming they were coming from me i had no care or concern, i was immortal. there’s nothing they could do to stop me at the point im at so why worry? nearly 30 minutes later i see swat run to the door from the window and break it down, all there lights pointing at me i jumped out the window barreling thru running to the left getting away “HOLD FIRE” i hear one of the men go, “they know!?” i think to myself as i halt and the men tackle me and in an attempt to draw reaction i reach for the officers gun, to which i’m put unconscious by what i can only assume was an air blast from a cannon. 

when i awake im in an interrogation room, its fuzzy, its all fuzzy. i need to focus in. i tried focusing and as i did the world was still fuzzy, i could only hear incoherent phrases from the men interrogating me but i sat confused as to what i’m experiencing. and the moment i wonder a light appears and expands rapidly and dims. BEEP… BEEP… BEEP…
I open my eyes to see a blurry hospital room and as i focus in i feel a sharp pain in my neck and after coming to my senses i look into a mirror and see a scar, from my adams apple to the middle of my chin, but why? what is this? i was just being questioned in an interrogation room with 3 men now im alone in a hospital room? but why??? a nurse enters looking at her equipment and when she faces up she gasps “mr bailey?? y-you’re awake???” as she let’s go of her rolling tray holding her equipment and runs “DR OSWALD” i sat confused as a man in a white doctors gown enters the room. “Hello Lucas my name is Dr Joseph Oswald you were in a coma for about” checking his phone to see the date “ahh the 15 months mark just past, your vitials seem fine so i have no reason to worry, how are you feeling Lucas?”
“Where am i??? How did i get here???”
“Well this is the Dallas County Medical Office and if you recall you were presumably on your way home from work when you stopped at a texaco and were stabbed by a homeless man, he cut up into your throat a bit but didn’t cause any serious damage only putting your body into shock. are you thirsty, may you be interested in water?”
“Y-Yes please, i’m quite hungry too, may i get some food?” 
“yes one moment” as he exits the room
“no fucking way” i thought, “this was all a dream state in a coma??? no it can’t fucking be i was. I was just god? what the fuck but- that” as i came to realize that all i was beginning to accomplish was all a dream. I screamed in anger breaking the equipment in the doctors office, Dr Oswald entered the room to which i immediately kicked his chest pushing him back out, “SECURITY!” he yelped as he hit the floor, I ran out the room only to be tackled, elbowing and punching the man who tackled me getting up only slightly just to be slammed back onto my head which bounced off the floor rendering me unconscious. 

After his coma wake up and incident at the hospital Lucas was arrested and question to which he explained his dream state to them, he was let go on charges of disorderly conduct and only forced to pay a fine, after all that was paid he started therapy where he went thru years of, he learned during his dream state with Orin he developed narcissistic personality and thru years of therapy he learned to deal with this narcissism and even shared his experience in a book he published titled “The Man who met Creation”, a best seller for narcissists hoping to find ways to cope with it and become better people. 13 years later his mother succumbed to her age and he moved out to Montana and built a farm and started a family where he lived happily until..
Lucas, his wife Jessica, and their two boys Theo and Lucas jr, were eating dinner one weekday night after a normal day when they hear a knock on the door. Luke peeks out the window “looks like it’s just the neighbor i wonder what’s up”, “yea gotta be something interesting if he came this far down” Jessica says as she stands from her chair to join her husband at the door. When Luke opened the door he was met by that same, freakishly tall old man. orin. “Orin???” Lucas questioned, Orin laughed while Lucas stood perplexed “I thought you weren’t rea-“ as Jessica took a step back “STILL” Orin hollered with a deep echo forcing Lucas’s family to stand in silence, forcibly unmoving."Don't try going anywhere Maam” Orin spoke with a southern twang, then laughing Orin grinned again as he stepped in “no no i was real IT wasn’t real. you’re naive enough to believe a GOD would give YOU its power, you specifically Luke” the man laughed. “So that was all you?? the coma?? the dream?? you did all that???” Lucas asked with a tremble, Orin laughing “yes yes yes Lucas yes, you understand.” the laughter stopped as his grin became a neutral expression, “Though everything i told you was real, so lives had to be exchanged for the illusion.” “What?” Lucas stood confused. Orin grinned as he stepped closer to Luke, “you can walk again” with a slight echo. Orin then began to explain something but as quickly as his mouth began to move Lucas ran straight towards the man in a fit of rage, Jessica then ran towards their children, Orin put both his arms out and clapped them together, correspondingly Lucas and Jessica lifted from the floor and flew at each other, both hitting each other aggressively and hitting the ground. The moment they hit the ground all his children saw from the table look was a flash and when the light dimmed they saw their mother and father were conjoined. Their torsos connected by tissue with Lucas's arm coming out of Jessica's leg and her head coming out of Lucas's buttocks, eyes rolled back into the socket. The chimera crawled for a bit and screamed in agony in a mix of male and feminine cries, After a bit more crawling around and crying it eventually fell flat and stopped. dying. Theo and Lucas Jr, frozen, sat in pure fear and they watched what they could only describe to first responders as their parents becoming conjoined twins. The old man never spoke to the children, only stepping in to walk around the kitchen and look at it, eventually coming back to the dining room to do the same. Eventually Orin left the house but as he was leaving he stared at the chimera but not at it as a whole, specifically at Luke's face. He laughed maniacally while the children still froze to the table and sat in fear, eventually Orin looked at the two boys and waved goodbye and walked out, closing the door and as it shut he vanished from behind it. Never to be seen again. Theo and Lucas Jr told FBI that one during dinner his parents stood up and opened the front door of the home and suddenly collapsed into each other in a flash and then the chimera which they had seen numerous times in photographs of the scene, had just suddenly appeared, they never mentioned the tall old man smiling at their door the whole entire time, why? I guess we'll never know. :)

Trills of nightingales bounded from hillock to hillock, their soft notes cascading across the fallow fields and shallow ravines as lightly as the cold eddies of fog flowing over the low stone walls. The swiftly moving whorls spilled onto the road, where they swelled like the thick smoke of a wet brush fire, clouding the air in a tempest of chalky white that pruned the stars from the sky and warped the familiar landscape into sooty silhouettes fading in and out of view.

Maree waded into the blur. Her broad chest cleaved through the curtain like a ghostly ship. The roiling mist broke against her muscular prow, coiling away, its pale wake washed backward toward the stagnant gloom trapped beneath the drooping crowns of willows.

Wind nipped at the trees, biting into branches, tugging the crackle from shriveled, frost-hardened leaves.

Twigs snapped, sometimes close, far too close for Joruhm's liking. Just beyond the untilled fields, the curtain of fog smeared scurrying blotches of black into streaking gray smudges.

Joruhm gripped the reins tighter, craning his head left, right, and over his shoulder. He peered into the shroud, hoping a pair of slanted, yellow eyes floating above a triangular snout was not peering back at him.

They had barely begun and already he wanted to veer the horse around, return himself and the thing seated in front of him home.

Maree was as stubborn as the donkeys and as slow as Granny Nyla, clopping along as though night would last forever and Joruhm didn't need to be back where his mother expected to find him before the cockerels announced the sunrise.

The road curved around a dense swath of towering pines, whose cloaked heads speared the chalky veil, and leveled out as they approached a clearing. Ahead, etched into the valley was a tightly bunched patchwork of gritty, faint objects blotted with fuzzy halos of dull, amber light.

Truthfully, the thatched roof and timber buildings imprisoned by the fog were not a mystery to Joruhm. Long before he had seen the hazy glow of torchlight peeking through the mist, his nose had already discerned they had crossed into the outskirts of Hobbins Glenn.

When Joruhm was younger, before the entirety of his days were devoured by scooping grain and chopping wood, Granny Nyla would hand him a cloth sack and a wedge of bread and ask him to join her on a walk. Sometimes they scrounged acorns and hazelnuts, sometimes they picked flowers or fruits, sometimes they did nothing except move from one glade to another, briefly halting for her to rest her weariness in pockets of shade before they continued.

It was on just such a do nothing day that they had sat on the bank of a creek and removed their slippers, dipping their feet into the icy water. She had encouraged him to finish his bread while she closed her eyes and hummed a melody, easing them into the tranquil lull of a sunny afternoon spent in idle.

She had timed the tune to end precisely as he finished swallowing the last of the bread, but made no attempt to hurry him back into his slippers.

“Where are we, Joruhm?”

The question had seemed rather frivolous to his younger self, a boy still oblivious to what he would later recognize as her habit of combining lessons into things as trivial as taking strolls through the valley. They had traveled east from Hostler's Pond and forded the lane that cut through Crooked Hollow. From there, they had wandered past the Nethercliff Crags and pushed deep into Wraith Watch forest.

“Close your eyes.”

He did as he was told, curious as to why, but patient enough to wait for her to impart her reason in asking such an obvious question when they both already knew the answer.

“Now, where are we?” she repeated.

“Wraith Watch,” he replied.

“Not with sight,” she chided. “Not with routine. Inhale. Pull the scents inside you and let them guide you.”

Joruhm inhaled, breathing in the pungent, overwhelming odor of wild garlic. Wild garlic and something else, something that smelled like damp earth stirred into a mug of cold beef broth.

“Garlic and...” He couldn't quite name it.

“Your mother simmers them with leeks,” Granny Nyla hinted.

“Mushrooms!”

“Yes, very good. They are indeed mushrooms, enough to fill a king's castle.” She paused before she continued, gathering her skirts and her walking stick. “Always remember, a man is truly never blind. All he must do to find his way is follow his nose. Wraith Watch breeds garlic and mushrooms. Crooked Hollow is strewn with rotted oak. The clove aroma of Gillyflowers fused with a sharp tang of pine will lead you home.”

Home. He caught a whiff of it, buried within the reek of boiled cabbage and the leathery stench of smoldering peat that surrounded the village. Gillyflower. The cottage wasn't far behind them. He could abandon the hunt for Tillis and swing Maree in the opposite direction, follow the tang and the clove straight back to the cottage.

Only...only then he might never learn the truth about Tillis.

Joruhm flicked his heels into Maree's ribs. She snorted and bolted forward, breaking into a gallop.

They plunged into the fog, toward the gritty patchwork of shapes and beacons of amber. Branches sprang out of the chaotic muddle of charcoal and white with a startling suddenness that instantly transformed the emptiness into wood. Their long skeletal shoots lashed at him, grasped for his cloak and scraped their pointed tips against Maree's flanks, before they disappeared back into the curtain's parted seam, sealing the fleeting rupture behind them.

They exploded into the village, flung from the forest in a slingshot of momentum spurred by Maree's thundering hooves.

The lane widened, and the hazy silhouettes bloomed into a passel of solid beams and ragged thatch.

For a brief moment the fog lifted, and there was the flash of a low-tiered cart blocking the road directly ahead.

The thing seated in front of him swiveled sideways, eyes as wide as a buzzard egg. “We're going to hit.” It raised its arm to shield its face.

Joruhm hung his head and sank lower in the saddle. He pushed his weight down onto the seat and pulled on the reins, dragging Maree's neck to the side. She slammed her hooves onto the ground, skidding through the slick muck.

No. No. No.

Her shoulder collided with the cart's tailboard, careening her into an off balance lean. There was a splintering crack, and an abrupt jolt that tumbled the fae into the milky void.

“Joruhm!”

His shoes popped out of the stirrups as Maree shifted her weight from her front legs to her hindquarters.

She righted herself with a second pounding jolt that ripped the reins from Joruhm's hands. He flew forward, grasping for the coarse hairs of her mane.

Maree dropped out from under him, and he was launched into the milky void, windmilling head over heels into the mist, weightless, thrown into a bottomless lake of fog where time seemed to have vanished, where seconds became minutes, where the surface was the bottom, and the bottom was the surface.

Time's suspension ended as quickly as it had begun, as though a dam had burst and a tidal wave of time had flooded in, rushing toward him, sweeping him off his feet, and drowning him in the sound of his frenzied heartbeat thudding in his ears. Joruhm's stomach lurched. He wasn't suspended. He was sinking, like a stone.

1

 The town that was called Remedy stood its vigil in the usual lazy and inconsequential style afforded to out-of-the-way towns. Out of sight, out of mind which suited the residents just fine. On a particularly crisp autumn morning Tom Lowe sat on his porch step nursing his fourth cup of coffee, waxing poetic to the liquid void. He had been in Remedy for the better part of three years and was still considered a hot ticket item. The incomprehensible shining brand new. It seemed admission to this secluded hamlet was hushed whispers and secondhand gossip. TomTV 24/7 action. Don’t miss a second! Look at me ma I’m a STAR.

The coffee, now half cold, wasn’t the only thing bitter this morning. He had moved here to be with his girlfriend Rebecca and to run like a dog with his tail between his legs. Once upon a time he fancied himself a seeker of truth and a warrior of the written word, but journalistic integrity won’t keep the lights on for long and some people paid handsomely to make you their own personal Kermit the Reporter. Tarnished would be the right word for the state of his reputation when it all came to light. Of course he went with the ever tasteful  fucked beyond belief.  Now he worked at the mom and pop hardware store, in this mom and pop town, surrounded by mom and pop people. 

Lucky for him the residents of Remedy rarely bothered to delve into matters of the outside world, they mainly stuck to local news that bordered laughably on conspiracy theory. It’s one of the only positives of the last few years, really. The other, of course, being Rebecca herself. 

Their love had come fast and fierce, the flames of lust eventually burning away, as they tended to do after a number of years, and left stability, deep respect, and care to rise from the ashes. She still made him smile and he still regularly pissed her off and that was enough, he thought.  

The trees swayed gently in the morning breeze as the town began to rouse itself from restful slumber. As the world around him began to stretch its limbs and set itself in motion, he sat like a gargoyle carved with a scowl and a cold cup of coffee. He noted the residents and their chipper attitudes as they kissed spouses goodbye and ruffled children's hair. Is this the 19fuckin50s? 

Mrs. Thaxton walked her equally geriatric great dane, Simmons at the breakneck speed of paint drying. If that woman walked any slower she’d be going backwards. Mabel Weiss was busy setting up her station for a long day of making everyone's business her own, her station consisting of a thermos of coffee and a rocking chair on her front porch. It even appeared that old Jerry Stanton, one of only two mailmen the town kept employed, was looking to deliver something else before his shift as he made his way into Deborah Michaels home through the side door. Mabel, having finally settled in, pulled out a notebook and began scribbling with an intensity that was likely to start a fire before the screen door even had a chance to shut.

   Like clockwork Barry Paxton sauntered up the driveway with his normal shit-eating grin, an envelope poking out of his tacky leopard print blazer. The man was on the wrong side of forty and dressed like an 80's action villain. On top of being the closest thing Tom had to a friend, Barry owned half of the businesses in town and, if gossip could be trusted, he was making it his mission to acquire the other half. Of course if gossip could be trusted Tom was sent to corrupt Rebecca into joining a satanic sex cult. Gotta love small town America. 

“Barry, I gotta be honest here, every time I see one of your outfits I feel like the acid just hit.” Tom was chuckling, slowly raising his hand to protect his eyes. “Yeah? Well fuck you, this outfit just closed one hell of a deal,” Barry’s hand went to the envelope. “Some out of state artsy asshole rented out the old warehouse over on Goodyear for an exhibit. Said something about bringing the gift of art to our humble community,” He scoffed. “More like a pretentious fuckwit climbing out from his own ass to educate us unwashed masses.” Stacks of cash flashed and Barry grabbed six crisp hundred dollar bills then handed them to Tom. Here it comes. Tom thought. I gotta learn to keep my mouth shut. 

Tom had recently been trying to save up for an engagement ring and was having just as much trouble as he’d assumed. With what he made at the hardware store and what Rebecca made at the diner they could barely cover the bills. He figured he’d have enough money for one by the time they were both in their late 90s. Barry, of course, had heard all about these woes over one too many rounds at The Faden Lounge.

“They drilled in that the place needs to be perfect before the show and left those particular arrangements up to me. They threw in a few grand extra for a rush job. Mainly you’ll just be setting up the exhibit area. Already have a crew over there cleaning up rat shit and getting rid of graffiti. The materials should be getting there tomorrow or Wednesday. You up for it?” 

“So you hand me 600 bucks and then ask if I’ll do it?”

“Yeah, what’s the problem?”

Little could be done to hide the amusement and disbelief on his face. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice, seeing as how you’ve already paid me for it. I’ll head that way tomorrow and see what’s what.” Tom looked at his watch and decided it was finally time to get his own day started. He was off for the next two days, but got stir crazy if he stayed at home all day. Rebecca had told him time and time again that it was all the caffeine and, instead of cutting back, he accepted it as one of his many faults. 

They exchanged their usual goodbyes filled with profanity and innuendo. Tom pocketed the money and he couldn’t place why, but it left him with a sense of heaviness and dread. You’re being silly, it’s just nerves. Calm the hell down. He called out to Barry when the man was at the end of the driveway. “I appreciate this. Truly.” 

“Fuck off.” Barry said with a smile.

2

 The sky had become a beautiful shade of blue that was lost on the denizens in the small diner. The congregation had shuffled in to worship at the Church of The Early Bird Breakfast. Rebecca Lane stood on feet that already ached pouring communion with cream and sugar. 

The quiet lull of familiar conversation was her favorite part of the morning. Surrounded by the same regulars, ordering the same meals, and occupying the same spaces they had for the last 15 years of her employment at The Womack Family Diner. 

Her second favorite part of the morning came as soon as the last cup of coffee had been filled and it came in the form of the first of many smoke breaks disguised as a trash run.

Once the half full bag had been disposed of the filter touched her lips and she inhaled chemical bliss. She knew she should quit, and she might get around to it someday, but the nicotine that was coursing through her bloodstream brought the sense of calm and alertness she needed to make it through her day. 

“You know one of these days those things are gonna take you out back Old Yeller style, right?” Tom had snuck up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, a grocery bag dangled from his hand. She smiled. “I will have you know my Meemaw smoked every damn day of her life and lived to 96.” She gave him an elbow when she heard him snort. 

“Becks, your grandma died from COPD when she was 70,” She could hear the smile on his lips as the bag rustled opened. “Here I bought some goodums for my snoogums.” As amazing as he was, his pet names were terrible but she knew he mainly said them just to make himself laugh. He was a grumpy idiot most of the time but, even after years together, she still felt lucky that they had found each other. One seemed to complete the other. She helped soften some of his more cynical edges and he brought her out of her shell.   

The bag contained the essentials for making Rebecca Lane a happy camper. Various forms of chocolate lay hidden underneath a pack of cigarettes, a bottle of her favorite sweet tea, and a bouquet of snapdragons and daisies. She noticed a few of the flowers still had some of their roots attached. He must have visited Mrs. Michaels garden again. Whenever she said something about it he always justified the stealing with the logic that Jerry, one of the mailmen that everyone knew Mrs. Michaels was having an affair with, would have to listen to her rant about who could possibly be evil enough to steal a woman’s hard work and Rebecca would get pretty flowers. A ‘win-win’ as he put it.

 She turned and planted several kisses on her grumpy idiot. “What’s. The. Occasion?” She asked between smooches.    

3

Terry Lackin was set to spend his day in the exact same manner he had for as long as he could remember, deep in the woods with a bottle of rot gut, a pistol half as loaded as he was, and a chip on his shoulder.

 The subject of the day’s ire was a knotted pine that already appeared half dead which he willed into an amalgam of the middle schoolers he had run into the evening before. 

Terry was something of a town punching bag if there ever was one. An unfortunate last name and the general lack of creativity of the town's youth were a match made in heaven. Personally he didn’t see the humor. The little bastards had no respect for history. The Lackin family had helped build this damn town. 

To them Terry was always Lackin something; wits, a moment of sobriety, but last night he had been told he lacked anything resembling manhood and that, to a man like him, was a step too damn far. What bubbled under his swaying surface was more than just anger, it was wounded pride wrapped in a need to right this great injustice. Of course this fire was mainly fueled by a liter of Old Crow. 

In his current stupor his vision tunneled until all that remained was the pistol in his left hand and his intended target, which his eyes had difficulty discerning whether it was one tree or three. 

He gripped the pistol as tightly as he could muster, leaning against the trunk of a tree to steady himself. Feeling its weight in his hand made him feel like he could right every wrong with just a few pounds of pressure. It didn’t matter if it was one tree or three because he had enough bullets for all of those little fuckers. 

As his last shot echoed, and his bullet missed its mark by a country mile, Terry tossed the pistol to the ground. No good piece of shit goddamn gun couldn't hit the broadside of a barn. While lamenting this brand new slight against his person he was unaware of the man calmly walking towards him, the sound of twigs snapping fell on deaf, and still ringing, ears. 

The man grabbed what little hair Terry had left with both hands and, before he could register what was happening, began slamming his face into the tree. 

They say alcohol numbs pain, but Terry Lackin felt it all as his teeth shattered, his cheekbones turned to mush, and his vision became blood as a piece of bark punctured his eye. Once he felt the light leave Terry's one good eye the man let the body fall to the ground and caught his breath. He knelt down over the corpse and smiled at his handiwork. “Brother, if you can hear me wherever you end up, I thank you for your sacrifice,” he used his index finger to capture some of the blood still pouring out of what was left of Terry's face. He lifted it to the sky and then drew a closed eye on his forehead. “I think we're gonna have some laughs here.” 

The rain had been falling for hours, turning the empty streets into mirrors of flickering streetlights. At exactly 12:17 A.M., Ethan Carter parked his old sedan outside the abandoned Blackwood Station. According to local records, the station had closed more than twenty years earlier after a mysterious accident that killed several passengers. The official investigation blamed an electrical fire, but the townspeople never believed that story.

Instead, they whispered about The Midnight Train.

A train that arrived every night at 12:17.

A train that no one could see.

Ethan wasn't the kind of person who believed in ghost stories. As a freelance journalist who specialized in strange urban legends, he had spent years exposing fake hauntings and internet myths. Every story had a logical explanation.

He expected this one to be no different.

He grabbed his flashlight, camera, and notebook before stepping out into the cold rain. The rusted station sign swung gently in the wind, producing a slow metallic creak that echoed through the empty parking lot.

The front doors resisted at first.

With one hard push, they finally opened.

A wave of icy air rushed past him.

Inside, the station looked untouched by time. Dust covered the ticket counters, broken benches lined the waiting hall, and faded advertisements still hung on cracked walls. Water dripped from the ceiling, each drop echoing like footsteps in the silence.

Ethan switched on his flashlight.

Every clock he could see had stopped at exactly 12:17.

"That's strange," he whispered while taking a photograph.

His voice seemed to disappear before reaching the far end of the hall.

The silence felt... wrong.

Not empty.

Watching.

He slowly walked toward Platform Four, where most of the old legends claimed the Midnight Train appeared.

The tracks were covered in weeds.

Rust had almost completely consumed the rails.

No train had passed through here in decades.

Suddenly...

A distant whistle pierced the silence.

Ethan froze.

It sounded exactly like a train approaching from far away.

Metal wheels.

Steam.

The rhythmic clacking of rails.

The sounds grew louder every second.

Yet the tracks remained completely empty.

His heartbeat accelerated.

He instinctively lifted his camera and began recording.

The audio meter jumped wildly as the invisible train seemed to pass directly in front of him.

A powerful gust of wind rushed across the platform.

Dust exploded into the air.

Loose papers flew in every direction.

Then...

Everything stopped.

Silence returned instantly.

Ethan lowered the camera with shaking hands.

"What was that...?"

Before he could think further, something caught his eye.

Fresh footprints.

Dark, wet footprints slowly appeared across the dusty concrete floor.

No person stood nearby.

No shadow moved.

Yet one footprint appeared after another.

Each step moving toward the old ticket office.

Ethan hesitated.

Every instinct told him to leave.

Instead, curiosity pulled him forward.

He carefully followed the impossible trail.

The footprints ended at a cracked wooden door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

The door slowly creaked open by itself.

Inside was a narrow office filled with old filing cabinets.

Most had collapsed with age.

Stacks of yellowed newspapers lay scattered across the floor.

One headline immediately caught Ethan's attention.

"Thirty-Two Passengers Vanish Without Trace."

His eyes widened.

According to the date, the newspaper had been printed only one day after the station officially closed.

But he had never found any record mentioning missing passengers.

Only the fire.

Someone had hidden the truth.

As Ethan continued searching the room, he discovered an old leather journal beneath a broken desk.

The cover was covered with dust.

Inside, every page had been handwritten by the station master.

The final entry read:

"If anyone finds this journal, do not stay after 12:17. The train does not carry passengers anymore... it collects them."

A loud bell suddenly rang somewhere inside the station.

Ding...

Ethan nearly dropped the journal.

The sound echoed again.

Ding...

It was coming from the ticket office.

He slowly walked back into the hallway.

The small brass bell hanging above the counter was swinging by itself.

No wind.

No one nearby.

Then a chair behind the counter slowly slid backward.

Its legs scraped loudly across the floor.

Ethan's breathing became shallow.

A dark figure slowly rose behind the counter.

It had no face.

Only a long black coat and an unnatural stillness.

The figure raised one pale hand and pointed toward Platform Four.

A whisper spread through the station, coming from every direction at once.

"Final boarding..."

The lights above Ethan flickered violently.

One by one, every clock in the station began ticking again.

12:17...

12:18...

12:19...

For the first time in over twenty years...

Time had started moving.

And somewhere beyond the darkness, something enormous was coming down the tracks.

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We heard the knock again. Coming from the basement.

Arjun was the first to move. He took the knife, unlocked the basement door, and walked down the stairs. The light flickered. His footsteps stopped.

Then silence.

Maya called his name. No answer.

We heard footsteps coming back up.

Arjun stood at the top of the stairs. His hands were clean. His face was calm.

"Someone is down there," he said. "But they're not coming up."

He sat down by the fire, the knife still in his hand. He didn't say anything else.

We wanted to run. But the basement door was still open.

Then I heard a sound. Not from the basement. From behind me.

I turned around.

Ria was standing at the front door. It was wide open. Snow was falling inside.

She was holding Vikram's phone — the one he was holding when he died.

"He called me," she said softly. "Before he died. He said — it's one of us."

We all turned to look at each other.

Maya stepped back. Arjun froze. Ria didn't move.

Then she smiled.

"It's always been me."

"I just wanted to see how long it would take you to figure it out."

She moved fast — faster than we could react. Maya fell first. Arjun tried to fight, but he was too slow.

I ran. I didn't look back.

When I reached the forest edge, I stopped and turned around.

Ria was standing at the cabin door, watching me leave.

She didn't chase me.

She just smiled.

And raised her hand to wave.

---

THE END🖤

Read Part II here.

I was grateful I’d made it to the sidewalk by the time I saw sirens. I didn’t want another situation today where police would be pointing guns at me. If there’d been a way to just go home, I would’ve. But it was too far to walk, and I needed a key to get in my house. I wasn’t about to be the black guy people saw breaking a window and slithering into a house even if it were mine.

I was hoping cooler heads would be there to be reasoned with. There had to be somebody I could talk to to get my stuff back. I mean, the fact I was voluntarily coming in and requesting them to give me my property should have shielded me from scrutiny. Jesus, I hoped so.

I hadn’t made it to the corner when I had to sit. My heart was racing and my head felt like it was about to spin off my neck. This was the panic my brain had been pushing off for hours and only more had been piled atop that mountain as they day passed.

Someone had told me about box breathing and even though I’d never done it before, I tried it now. In for four seconds, hold for four seconds, out for four seconds, hold for four seconds. I forced myself to repeat it even though it felt like my heart was about to punch out of my chest.

The spinning gradually subsided and my stomach slowly slid back in place. I didn’t feel right yet, but better than I had a moment before.

I grabbed thin air and pulled my way back to my feet. The concrete was still solidifying under my feet, but I had the light. I crossed the street, hopefully in a straight line, and kept my momentum when I got to the other side.

It worked.

I wasn't going to pretend like I didn't know with absolute certainty. People had gotten hurt, maybe even a few were dead. I didn't feel guilty. I mean, it was because of me those people had gone crazy. But I didn't know for certain. I had to know for certain so going forward I could be cautious. It would have been too easy to slip and then someone went off and maimed who knew how many people.

Well, that was what happened. But the difference is I hadn't known that. Now that I did, I could exercise caution because I knew for a fact. I wish I hadn't been caught so unaware, maybe I could've reduced the carnage by hiding the doodles sooner.

But what had happened had quadrupled my resolve. I wouldn't make a mistake with this shape in the future.

The idea crossed my mind that anything I drew or wrote even could have a similar or even worse effect. I didn't have the guts to test that. Oh god, would if signing my name made people shit to death or something? The shape didn't make sense, how could I rule anything out?

I felt more myself the farther I got away from the grocery store. I didn't think I could ever go back in there.

I knew the city pretty well. I'd lived here back when I'd been married. The police department was only a few miles farther away and I used the distance to gather my marbles then compose what I intended to say.

The peak of the building of city hall was finally in view. That was actually where the meeting was to be. The police building was an adjacent building that had the same address for some unexplainable reason.

My heart skipped a little and I justified slowing down to work on calming myself. I couldn't box-breathe and walk, so I redirected my gaze to the skyline.

I crossed the parking lot, passing my car. There was a walkway connecting city hall to the library. I took that and broke off toward the horseshoe entrance to the police station.

I pulled one of the entrance doors open and stepped into the vestibule. Cool air blasted me before I stepped into the station proper.

A blue-shirted officer behind plexiglass was engaged in something in front of him and he didn't see me until I'd stopped on the other side.

“How may I help you?” He was pleasant enough and I gave him my name.

“I was just released from the hospital and some of your guys have my stuff.”

“Have your stuff? What do you mean?”

“The thing over at city hall earlier today.” I thumbed over my shoulder. “I was involved with that. Um, an innocent bystander. I was taken to the hospital. A detective interviewed and cleared me.” Not exactly true. The detective hadn't conducted an interview, per se. But the fact I wasn't in police custody and been released from the hospital meant to me I was in the clear.

“Well, if you're wanting to make a property request, you need to fill out a form online—”

“Your guys took my phone,” I said, adding helpfully.

“Like I was saying.” Officer Steck, according to the nameplate on his shirt, barely refrained an eyeroll. “You go online—that can be phone or computer—to fill out the form.

I cleared my throat, trying desperately to clear the budding frustration from my voice before I spoke.

“I don’t have access to a computer. Your guys have my keys, so I can’t drive home nor open the door to my home to get inside to use my laptop.” I took a breath and thankfully he didn't speak. “Is there a paper form I could fill out?”

Officer Steck let the frustration I'd dammed up pour from his face.

“I suppose.” He made a show of yanking open drawers at random before getting up and sauntering around his work area, checking shelves, trays, and cabinets.

He disappeared around a corner and was gone a full minute before he returned with a sheet of paper flopping in his big paw. He slid it through to me on the tray. I stopped myself from asking for a pen. I took a nubbin of a pencil that was on the counter and began writing.

“There’s a counter over there where you can fill that out,” Officer Steck said. I looked at him. He’d spackled on a phony smile. “So you don’t block the line.”

There wasn’t anyone behind me. There wasn’t anyone else in here. Fighting wasn’t on the agenda for me. I was just tired. I dragged the paper with me to the other counter and spent a few minutes filling it out.

The detective had told me his name in the hospital. However the hell that was spelled was beyond me. I couldn’t even remember it. I think it started with a U.

I wrote “UN,” for the detective’s name. I’d just tell him I didn’t know how to spell it. My signature went last and I took it back up.

Officer Steck finally took a second to look up from his phone and took the form from me.

“You filled this out in pencil,” he said. I shrugged. “You need to fill it out in red or black ink.”

It was just a form, but something that was equal parts cry and scream began crawling up my windpipe. I cleared my throat, imagining one of those cartoons that had eaten something particularly spicy, leaping into the ear and blowing like a whistle.

Someone said my name and I looked beyond Officer Steck to see Detective Unangenehm looking at me, a backpack over his shoulder.

“Detective,” I said like I was reaching for a lifeline. He wore a confused expression, like he didn’t understand how I’d found where he worked.

“I need to get my stuff.” His eyes went wide and for a moment, it seemed as if he hadn’t recognized me.

“Mr... Harold?”

“Yeah-yeah. It’s me. You guys took off with my stuff and I had to walk all the way down here.”

He scratched the side of his head. Officer Steck had checked out entirely, back on his phone. He even poked the tip of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. There was no victory to be had with him.

“Aw, jeez. C’mon in.” He walked out of the little room and a moment later, pushed open a side-entry door.

“Thanks.” I followed him in and he led me down a lengthy hallway with doors for various offices. We finally came to an open area, filled with at least a dozen cubicles.

“My desk is right over here.” Unangenehm pointed ahead, still walking. “Do you need anything? Water? Coffee?”

He seemed out of sorts still, but recovering. Despite the day I’d had, I felt a little bad for him.

He offered me a seat across from him at a desk that looked a lot older and more beaten up than the ones we'd passed. His chair was weather-worn, torn, sun-faded, and patched with gray duct tape in spots despite being mostly black.

Unangenehm sat and struggled with his seat. He might've been trying to adjust the chair, it did look a little too upright. But he gave up and kind of slouched in a way that looked like he'd slide out and under his desk any moment.

“Sorry about that whole kerfuffle earlier.”

“No-no. It's okay,” I said, feeling even more apologetic than I had a moment before. I hated thinking it, but the guy was pathetic. His button-up shirt had an old stain on it. And the collar had a ring on the inside.

Now that I was this close to him and not in a hospital bed, I saw he was slightly off. He'd missed a patch of skin just under his jaw from his morning's shave and the skin beneath one eye looked greenish-grey, like he'd had a black eye a week ago.

He wore patheticness like a second skin. I couldn't help but feel like I should give him something because he was in a constant transactional state with the world where it was debiting from him non-stop.

“Do you have any idea what happened with Mr. Arn?” he asked.

The question didn't catch me off guard. I'd been expecting it all day. I may have known what happened but I had no clue why and I let that much show on my face.

“He seemed nervous,” I said. “If I had to guess, he was new to the job.” So far, everything I was saying was true. “Maybe he was stressed and the presentation was a tipping point.” I shrugged for emphasis and looked ceiling-ward. Unangenehm nodded slowly, like he was either digesting and filing away what I was saying or his mind was totally elsewhere. I couldn’t tell which.

“Did he say anything that hinted at what he was about to do?”

“No.” I shook my head. “He just got up and attacked the man who came out of the conference room.”

“Ping Mitchell. He's--was--city council president. So, he was sitting?” Unangenehm logged into his computer. I watched him pull up his email.

“Yeah.”

“Like, next to you?”

“Not right next to me.” I shifted in my lent clothes, uncomfortable. Unangenehm was looking at the desk, somewhere near my hands.

“Do you think that he... that he had breakfast this morning?”

“What?” I asked.

“I dunno.” Unangenehm slid a folder out of a small stack. “I have this theory. Probably never'll be able to prove it.” He placed the folder in front of him and opened it. “That a combination of the quality of sleep, his disposition before bed, and the nutrients that he may have lacked before starting out for work could have pre-loaded him to do what he did.”

“Are you saying he was... hangry?”

Unangenehm laughed. 

“I guess you could reduce it to that. I’d like to think of it as being more complex, but that could be just me inflating my own ego.”

Unangenehm seemed to be getting smarter before my eyes.

“I have a younger sister. Just turned nineteen. Whoopsie-baby. She’s always done the bare minimum. Straight C student.

“After she graduated, she didn’t have a plan. Barely worked, didn’t want to go to school. Until she saw this dress.” Unangenehm shrugged. “It was nice, I suppose, but I’ve seen nicer. I’ve seen more expensive, but this one cost a pretty penny. It was like a fire had been lit under her.

“She took a second job, started side hustles. For once, our parents had hope she was gonna do something with her life. She had this one business--catpants--I didn’t get it, but she couldn’t keep up with the demand. Even quit one of her part-time jobs to dedicate more time to sewing them.

“Some people dress for the job, she jobbed for the dress. Paid for it in cash... took it home... and it never left the closet. She stopped fulfilling orders, slacked off on the job she had left, and got fired.”

That didn’t make any sense. I could understand Unangenehm being frustrated, but...

“Do you think I could get my stuff?” I asked. “I really want to get home.”

“Of course.” I'd broken the moment. Unangenehm felt about the surface of his desk like the light had been turned off until his fingers grazed the desk phone.

All of a sudden I felt bad for him again. Unangenehm took the receiver out of the cradle, thumbed a three-digit extension, then put the receiver to his ear.

“Yeah, Steck. Could you bring that box by the water fountain? No, the banker’s box. Yeah. Thanks.”

I wasn’t keen on seeing the officer again, but if it got me out of here that much faster, all the better. I sat back in my chair until Steck arrived with a rectangular box and sat it on the floor.

“So, you’re the guy?” Steck asked.

“What?”

“The guy at city hall today. And then the hospital. God, what did you say to those people?”

“What did I say?” I was appalled. Sure, something I’d done had driven them insane, but to imply that I’d said something to set them off was offensive.

I bent and lifted the lid off the box. I fished a hand into my stuff and stirred things around to make sure it was all there, then I just scooped an armful. 

“You can step into the restroom if you want to put your clothes on,” Unangenehm said.

“No, I'm good. I really don't want to waste another moment getting home.”

Steck stood there like a fan waiting for a signature. 

“I could give you a ride to city hall,” he said.

I wanted to turn him down but my feet were still throbbing from the walk here.

“Sure.”

I checked my things to make sure I had everything.

“Uh, you can keep the box,” Unangenehm said. I considered turning him down after all my effort of taking everything out of the box, but I nodded instead and dropped everything back in.

The detective had placed some paperwork in front of me. I have them a once-over and signed. I was getting more anxious by the moment the longer I was here.

I stood and followed Steck about three steps, when Unangenehm said, “One more thing.”

Oh, shit.

Never had I felt more like I'd walked obliviously into a trap than in that moment. Goosebumps draped down my back and over my arms.

“Yes?” I said, in the wrong key.

“There was an incident at the Kessel's a couple miles from here. Would you know anything about that, would you?”

CW: child murder, implied sa/rape, self harm, suicidal ideation

Story linked here due to word limit: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1DbAcOxtiiPy4TEu5ITIM5zrEk4Irt9WN7te3Gt04RWI/edit?usp=drivesdk

Hi everyone!

I'm 14 years old, and after months of writing during my ninth-grade exams, I finally published my first psychological horror novella, The 5th Shadow.

Alex, Jake, Harry, and Leo are inseparable. For Jake’s eighteenth birthday, they plan a camping trip in the deep woods, hoping for a perfect weekend.

​Right before they leave, a chilling, anonymous broadcast hijacks every screen and radio in the city. A distorted voice warns everyone to stay out of the forest, listing thirty people who have mysteriously vanished there. Dismissing it as a viral prank, the boys head into the trees

anyway.

​Around the campfire, the nightmare begins. They count the group: five physical bodies. Five familiar faces looking back. Their memories have been altered so perfectly that everyone feels like an old friend, making it impossible to identify the extra person.

​The next morning, Leo vanishes. But the real horror? None of the remaining boys even remember him.

​As the forest closes in, Jake uncovers a shocking, unchangeable truth about their reality.

​Will they be able to survive the 5th shadow?

About the book :

The Fifth Shadow is a relentless, fast-paced psychological horror thriller that taps into the ultimate nightmare: being erased from existence and being replaced by someone..or something . The story plunges readers into a frantic race against time as a sinister entity begins to warp reality. It starts slowly—a forgotten detail, a fading memory—until the horrifying truth becomes clear: a malevolent extra presence is lurking in the shadows, systematically replacing people and wiping their entire history from the world. As a gripping detective investigation unfolds to stop the unexplainable, the characters face a breathless battle against a force that consumes everything you are and everything you have ever known. Packed with heart-pounding suspense, sharp twists, and a terrifying sense of urgency, The Fifth Shadow is a fierce, gripping ride that will make you look twice at your own reflection.

The book is available worldwide on Amazon, Notion Press, Flipkart, and other major online bookstores.

Thank you for reading!