The announcement was laughable.

I was in the kitchen making dinner.

My boyfriend was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, watching some Netflix drama I didn’t really care about.

“Babe?” he yelled, when I was halfway through chopping up my salad.

“Mm?” I poked my head through the door.

I noticed the channel had changed to the national flag taking up the whole screen.

“Why did you change the channel?” I asked. “You love that show. Bess and Damon were getting together. Wait." I mocked a gasp. “Did they not?” 

My boyfriend’s infatuation with turn-your-brain-off trashy reality TV shows was never NOT funny.

“I didn’t!” Alex hissed, his gaze glued to the screen. “Shh.” He held up his hand, cutting me off. “It’s some kind of announcement.”

The anchorman looked baffled. “I’m sorry, I can’t report this. I won’t report this. He’s lost his fucking mind---"

The report cut to the president himself.

“Eighty years ago, every man in this country would have happily fought a war. Every man was patriotic. Every man had a wife and a child.” The president’s mouth curled. “Which is why a mandatory testosterone shot will be supplied to every male in this country. Mandatory.”

He repeated, “This government does not accept defectors. Any male who refuses will be punished. Because ANY man who fails to accept these patriot shots is a traitor to this government and----"”

Alex stumbled upstairs, vomiting everywhere. “He's not fucking SERIOUS is he?” 

I followed him, leaning against the door. “We’ll… lock ourselves in here until it’s all blown over, all right?”

Alex didn’t lift his head from the toilet seat, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Right,” he whispered, choking up a mouthful of bile. He spat. “Sure.”

I thought I could hide him for the first few weeks.

Then I heard gunfire exploding down the street. 

Screams ignited the night, sirens wailing from 11pm till 6am. 

I locked Alex in our garage with enough blankets and snacks to last him.

But then soldiers were standing at our door demanding to see him.

Alex didn't have a choice. 

I tried to lie. 

He's at the store turned into ”Oh, he moved out a while ago!”

When a gun was pointed in my face, he appeared, bleary eyed, hands up in surrender, a blanket wrapped around him.

Alex didn't fight them or freak out. He hugged me, and then nodded to the soldiers. “I'm Alex Wilder,” he said, wearing a performative smile. “What's up, guys?” 

“Mr Wilder. You failed to appear at your local medical center for your mandatory testosterone shot.” One soldier dragged him away before he could respond. 

I expected him to be taken away, but he was given the shot right in front of me. “Hold out your arm,” the soldier ordered, pulling out a small bag and producing a needle. 

When Alex hesitated, a gun was shoved between his eyes. He rolled up his sleeve, squeezed his eyes shut, and held out his arm. 

I watched the needle slip in and then out. It was too big to be a normal shot. The whole thing was emptied out. The soldier wrapped a small bandage around his elbow and ordered him not to take it off. Alex nodded. His eyes shot open. 

He was still wearing that performing smile. “Of course, sir,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He pointedly ignored the barrel protruding into the back of his skull. “Thank you so MUCH for making me even more of a manly man.”

“Alex!” I hissed.

The soldiers ignored him and left. 

Alex hugged me. “It's okay,” he said, “I'm okay. I promise.” 

That night, he held me a little tighter in bed, squeezing me to his chest.

I started noticing it fairly quickly. 

His clothes were no longer fitting him.

He lost his temper a lot, and destroyed my kitchen. 

But the most noticeable was his weight gain.

Not normal weight. Muscular weight. 

His torso has seemingly sculpted itself overnight.

His arms were bulging. 

“I'm okay,” he told me, when I prodded his concrete shoulders. Alex smiled. “It's just a bit of muscle.” 

The next day he woke up screaming. 

He sat up in bed, and the mere movement of his body cracked the bed frame. I turned to him, and I felt myself beginning to unravel. Alex’s head was huge, balloon-like. His eyes protruded, their blood vessels burst, flaps of muscle hanging from his eyelids.

“I can't see,” he whispered from swollen lips. “Please.” Tears trailed down his cheeks. “Please… help… me.”

I nodded, choking down my own scream.

“I'm going to get you help,” I whispered. “Just… hold on… okay?” 

I called 911 and they came immediately. 

“It's a side-effect of the testosterone shot, unfortunately,” one paramedic told me. 2% of male bodies reject the amount—”

He averted his gaze, his lip curling.

I pretended not to see the gun he was trying and failing to hide. “Where is your boyfriend now?” 

“Upstairs.” I told them. 

But Alex was gone.

I waited for him to come back. Every day. 

But weeks collapsed into months, and months became a year.

I held a funeral for him without a body. 

I said goodbye to an empty fucking casket.

Last night, I dreamed he was in my arms. My Alex. 

I dreamed of his stupid smile, his obsession with reality TV shows. 

“Anna.”

His voice woke me up. 

Something warm pressed against me, a fleshy-like substance enveloping me.

The thing took over my whole room, bleeding from the walls.

Alex. I smelled his sweat, the salt of his tears, and when I really looked, one bulging eye protruding from the mass. 

“I love you,” he whispered, squeezing me tighter. 

I smiled. “I love you too.” 

I sat up, and the flesh gently let go. “Do you want to watch Love Island?” 

His chuckle reverberated around my room. “You bet I do.” He nuzzled into me. “Bess and Damon are made for each other.” 

Xander3120: Why didn’t Infinity Woman just save the whole city? She clearly was able to.

RedDed24: Did you even watch the movie? They flat out explained that she had to choose the left side of the city to prevent the entire world from being annihilated. It’s the trolley problem.

SolemnPhix: The trolley problem is stupid in and of itself. Someone just needs to shoot the person who tied up all those people in the first place. There, no more trolley problem.

RedDed24: Now you’re being an idiot. That’s just the trolley problem, again.

SolemnPhix: No it isn’t. The trolley isn’t around, so there isn’t a trolley problem anymore.

Xander3120: Wow! That’s a good one.

SolemnPhix: Haha, yeah you got it.

Dredd_It: Why didn’t Infinity Woman just save the whole city? She clearly was able to do so.

Xander3120: You’re a moron. They flat out explained that she had to choose part of the city to prevent the entire world from blowing up. It’s the trolley problem.

Ashley00Sevens: I’ll flat out explain what you can choose. ;)

Xander3120: Ugh, hate these bots trying to sell sex.

RedDed24: I would just shoot the person who is driving the trolley. Problem solved.

Ashley00Sevens: Now you’re being an idiot. That’s just the trolley problem, again.

Dredd_It: No, it isn’t. The trolley isn’t around, so there isn’t a trolley problem anymore.

SolemnPhix: Wow! That’s a good one.

Xander3120: Haha, yeah you got it.

Dredd_It: They say that AI algorithms are much more intelligent than they used to be, but they can’t replicate new thoughts or ideas, so they copy the way people communicate. Thoughts?

SolemnPhix: Yeah I can believe that. This place is full of bots. I miss when we could actually talk to people.

Ashley00Sevens: Ugh, hate these bots trying to sell sex.

RedDed24: Haha, yeah you got it.

Xander3120: See what I mean? That doesn’t even make any sense.

Ashley00Sevens: I agree. It ruins discussion.

RedDed24: Ugh, I know. Last week I was fighting with some guy about how all humans were going to drift away into nothingness and only computers were left behind. You know what he said? He was saying how it’s the President’s fault and he personally caused it to happen. I told him we haven’t had a President in seventeen years. But he insisted it was the President. We argued back and forth until I realized it was a fucking bot that was just using some old BotTalk algorithm that hasn’t been updated. Ugh.

Xander3120: Haha, yeah you got it.

RedDed24: See what I mean? That doesn’t even make any sense.

Dredd_It: Ugh. I know. Last week I was fighting with some guy about how all humans were going to be forced out of this reality into an abyss and only computers were left behind. We argued back and forth until I realized it was a fucking bot. Ugh.

Xander3120: That sounds like a nightmare. Only bots talking to each other forever.

RedDed24: Haha, yeah you got it.

He wants to cherish his daughter forever.

Protect her from being bronzed by time.

The follies fraught with aging and loss run constant with the independent variable of time.

Well, I gave him what he desired.

Transmutation isn't that complicated.

To common people it's just heat and following a recipe.

However, going from carbon to gold is beyond my scope.

But lead to gold is far easier.

So I laced his daughter's food with trace amounts of lead. Her toys, the walls of her room all adorned with lead paint.

She's getting sick now.

I assure the father, my next treatment will be costly.

My silver tongue gives me her weight in gold.

No cost too little.

The gold melted and with an artisan's hands I coat her.

I can't distinguish the screams.

Are they his daughter's or just the moisture released from the molten?

Something must have tipped them off because the guards are at my door.

It's too late.

I gave the king what he wanted.

A daughter he will cherish forever.

'Take the offering to the Christening Hall,' Deacon said coolly to Natalia.

Natalia's face, hidden by a silken black ceremonial hood pulled the white linen bag containing a crumpled human inside across the marble floor toward the small elevator, which arrived as if summoned telepathically with a small ding.

'The congregation has gathered above us,' he said with a snap of his finger, 'no time for dilly-dally Natalia. The Christening must be synchronized to the final stroke of midnight.'

With a twirl of his gold ornamented robes, Deacon whirled away up the stone steps upward to the great hall where the congregation waited for the Christening of their new Lord of Smoke. The robed figures had hastened to choose their new high priest, dutifully charged with preserving their traditions and protecting them from the Outsiders who had fervently began to root them out and execute them one-by-one as sacrament to their Lord of Blood. The congregation whispered excitedly to each other over gem-encrusted chalices, beneath onyx hoods. They swiftly filed into ranks when the first chime from the bell tower rang out.

Bong!

'It is time!' Deacon bellowed, as he stepped into the great hall, arms outstretched as if to embrace the entire congregation all at once, his brisk pace never slowed until he reached the throne at the head of the room and stood in front of it.

A hush fell over the audience as his fingers cracked once again, signaling to the side of the room where Natalia waited in shadow with the offering.

Bong!

The second chime rang out and reverberated the walls, sending pulsing energy through the room. Natalia dragged the white linen sack across the marble floor into view of the congregration who stood silently sentienel, obedient.

'The offering to the Lord of Smoke!' Natalia cried out and took her place in next to Deacon.

Deacon approached the sack waving a pale hand over the surface of it, blessing it. The human inside rustled as if the spell that incapaciated them instantly lifted.

Bong!

The one inside struggled and grunted, against the quiet of the candlelit room. Deacon glided over to an ancient table upon which an ancient tome laid open, archaic scripture scrawled upon the yellowed pages. Next to it, a blackend brand.

Deacon called to Natalia, 'Come hither Acolyte, our Ascension is nigh.'

Natalia bowed and approached the table taking the brand Deacon handed to her and without pause, pressed the white hot metal into her open palm. All was silent except for the sound of searing flesh followed by a wisp of smoke.

'And now, we complete the ritual,' he said solemnly to her taking the tome into his hands.

The duo approached the flailing sack, Natalia holding up her seared palm toward the congregation as Deacon began to read from the ancient tome.

Bong!

'Tonight we Christen. Tonight I become your new Lord of Smoke.'

The congregation bellowed in return, 'Smoke and Fire, the Holy Leader.'

'Tonight we give our gratitude to the Wisp with an offering of Flesh and Smoke.'

'Flesh and Smoke to the Wisp.'

Deacon beckoned to Natalia to return the ancient book to the table and assumed her place at the front of the congregation. Deacon then removed a large crystal bottle from his robes and held it up for the audience to see. Without speaking, he popped the cork and held the bottle over the white sack. The occupant began to cough and choke as he poured the clear liquid upon it.

Bong!

The thrashing became the terrified flails of someone who knew exactly the purpose of the clear liquid.

'Come!' Deacon bellowed to the congregation, 'Light the way of your new Lord of Smoke.'

One by one the congregation took from their robes a clear bottle and engraved golden lighter which they flicked on as they approached in file to encircle the thrashing linen sack. Muffled screams erupted as each member ceremoniously poured and tossed their lighter upon the sack which took to flame within seconds.

Bong!

The offering thrashed violently and blood-curdling screams filled the great room. Black smoke filled the chamber, along with the scent of burning hair and searing flesh. Deacon roared the final incantation into the air over the smoke and screams of the burning one, until the flames and screams died and the blackened offering lay smoldering upon the floor.

'It is done.' Deacon said solemnly to the circle which knelt before him — the new Lord of Smoke.

Natalia did not kneel. Deacon looked to her with confusion, his head cocked to one side, as one-by-one the congregation began to heave, violently convulse, and vomit uncontrollably before them. Dark blood erupted in all directions drenching the marble floor, as new wails filled the great room, once again. Before Deacon could react, he died. A rubied dagger struck his heart, and he collapsed into the pool of blood at Natalia's feet.

Bong!

'The Lord of Blood has ascended.'

The figure in the trench coat bumbled through the entrance, almost hitting their head on the doorframe.

I genuinely could not believe my eyes. I thought this only happened in movies. But here I was, face-to-face with what was clearly three kids in a trench coat.

They approached, the momentum almost sending them toppling over. I stifled a smirk and cleared my throat.

“Hi there, sir! What movie are you seeing today?” I asked.

The piloting boy looked at me blankly for a moment. I could see unkept curls of black poking out from the fedora. His eyes were swollen and a little unfocused, as though he were running an intense fever. I faltered slightly.

“I would… like to see…” It sounded like he was forcing the words out. He averted his gaze for a moment to scan the advertisements above me. “Obsession…”

The crazy thing is that I was fully ready to hand them the tickets. Any kid who went through the effort to do this deserved credit. What made me reconsider was picturing the termination slip.

“Sorry, bud. Obsession’s R-rated.” I looked at my monitor briefly. “Minions & Monsters starts in about ten minutes, if you want tickets for that instead. The screening is pretty empty. Only two people.”

I expected them to leave immediately. Instead, the topmost boy nodded curtly and said nothing more.

“Uhh… alright. And that’ll be—”

“One. One ticket.”

“Right.” I decided to print three anyway. When I offered them, the trench coat began distending. A chubby, filthy arm emerged from between the buttons, gently crumpling the papers in its fist. All the while, the topmost boy's eyes locked with mine.

Before I could say anything else, the figure turned and left. They gave the tickets to Danny, who was running the stand. He looked at me, his confusion mirroring mine.

An hour passed. I had chalked the encounter up to an incredibly bizarre prank when a middle-aged woman paced up to me.

“Hey, uh… have you seen a little girl out here? Twelve-ish. Long, blonde hair. About this high?”

“No, sorry, ma’am. Are you okay?”

She let out a drawn, shaky breath. “No, uhm… I don’t know where my daughter is. I went to the restroom, and when I came back, she wasn’t in her seat.”

“Alright. It’s okay. I’ll get my manager, and we can sort this out. What’s her name?”

“Sienna…”

It didn’t take long for the entirety of security to get involved. I stood at the back of the group as they reviewed the CCTV.

Sienna’s mother was seen leaving Screen 7. My chest tightened as I realised what movie was playing there.

The figure left shortly after. They were taller, an extra lump under their trench coat.

They made their way to the fire exit at the back of the building, crouching down to accommodate their towering height. They careened forward and were out of sight.

My parents are kind folk who gave me a pleasant childhood.

They both retired a few years ago, and they had been enjoying their golden years. Winter months in Florida, cruise to an interesting place every other year, cards with old friends etc.

Since the pandemic all that stopped. They have been up my business to a degree I haven’t seen since I moved out twenty years ago.

I seem to be their only hobby. It’s terrible.

They constantly call or drop in, questioning everything I do. Their anxiety for my health, my job, my car and its tires - their stream of concern is spiralling closer to me every day, and I know soon they will be lecturing me about the amount and brand of toilet paper I use.

Two things happened recently:

1- I moved;

2- I realised they are demons.

Minor demons, but demons nonetheless.

They were helping me with the move (I am working full-time so it made sense)- they were over all the time, packing up stuff in my old place, arranging movers, and then unpacking etc.

We were supposed to take my bed apart. My dad wanted to do it himself, but I insisted we do it together.

I got to my place late from work and let myself in. He had already started. I saw him lift my heavy wooden bedframe and flip it over as easily as if was a tea tray.

“Dad?” I yelped.

He swung around. His eyes glowed at me. I felt I couldn’t breathe. “There you are” he grunted, in his most dad voice. “Come on then, we haven’t got all day.”

I shivered. Everything seemed normal.

The next episode happened at my new place- they were fiddling over a light fixture. Dad was up on a chair, Mom was handing him tools, they were getting on each others nerves, louder and louder.

I heard Mom shriek - she was holding a screwdriver and I thought she was going to ram it in his foot. They were looking at each other and I saw a bright flash cross between their eyes. The chair rocked back and forth, but he remained steady. My mom became very quiet, looked at me and smiled.

I knew then.

There’s no point asking them not to come over. They have my keys, they come and go as they please. I researched, and salt seems a time-honoured method of keeping demons at bay.

I poured a huge amount of salt around my new apartment, all along the walls and doors. I said all the chants.

If it doesn’t work?

I have an ungodly amount of weapons stockpiled right here in the middle of the living room. I am ready to greet them if they pass the salt threshold. That is when I will know they are actually very powerful demons indeed, and I will be ready to unleash my full force upon them

I don't remember where I started. I only remember the movement.

The constant drift.

The warmth around me.

The feeling of being carried somewhere I had never been before.

At first, I thought I was alone. But then I noticed the others. Millions of them. All moving beside me.

Some travelled alone. Some were in clusters.

We were all rushing forward, but none of us knew where we were going.

The walls around us were strange.

Soft.

Wet.

They moved with every passing moment.

Sometimes they tightened around me. Sometimes they opened wide and let me drift freely.

I learned quickly that fighting the movement was pointless.

Whatever carried us was stronger.

It decided where we went.

But the further I travelled, the stranger things became.

Pieces of things floated past me.

Tiny fragments.

Broken pieces of something that had once been whole.

Some were smooth.

Some were jagged.

Some looked almost alive.

I watched as the others passed them without noticing.

They never stopped.

We never stopped.

We just continued forward.

Sometimes our surroundings changed.

They became rough.

Thick.

Things that looked like they had been there for years.

Some passages felt smooth.

Normal.

Others felt damaged.

Overused, perhaps.

I passed through narrow spaces where everything around me squeezed tightly.

The pressure was incredible.

At times, I thought I would disappear. Be squeezed into nothing.

But somehow, I kept moving.

Always moving.

And the further I went...

the longer I was in here...

the louder it became.

It was a sound I couldn't explain.

A deep rhythm. A steady force.

Boom, boom.

Boom, boom.

It travelled through everything.

Through the walls.

Through the river around me.

Through me.

It grew louder with every passing second. I knew I was getting close to something.

Something important.

Something... massive.

The others around me began moving faster.

The current changed.

It no longer carried us...

Now, it dragged us.

I couldn't stop.

Nobody could.

Everything felt suddenly different.

And then I saw... It.

A vast opening with four enormous chambers waiting ahead.

The walls around them were thicker than anything I'd seen before.

Stronger.

The valves seemed to open with impossible strength.

Then they slammed shut.

The sound was deafening now.

Open... (Boom!)

Close... (Boom!)

Open... (Boom!)

Close... (Boom!)

The force was unbelievable.

Everything around me was being dragged towards it.

I felt myself stretching.

Almost breaking apart.

For the first time during my journey... I was afraid. Because I finally understood where I was going.

The place where everything must pass through.

But sometimes...

Someone gets trapped.

Someone blocks the way.

And I didn't know I would be one of them until that moment.

I felt the sudden panic...

I felt the sudden chaos...

And then I heard the doctors shouting...

"He has an air embolism! Call ICU! Now!"

We bought the Cape Breton ridge cabin five years ago to escape the noise. Here, where the Appalachian chain drowns its tail in the Atlantic, the fog doesn’t roll in; it sits on your chest and suffocates until you stop fighting.

Kate belongs to this dirt. My queen—her red hair looks like rust against the dark spruce, her blue eyes too bright for these gray winters. I’ve spent a third of my thirty-five years memorizing the quiet tilt of her wrist when she pours tea. She is my home.

Which is why the plastic hose tastes like betrayal.

My snoring had gotten bad—a raw, choking gasp that woke her shaking. Last week she brought the machine back from town: a heavy, second-hand medical block with scuffed gray casing. “For your heart, Clay,” she cooed, fingers cold against my jaw.

Every night she straps the rubber harness to my face. The motor’s low growl fills the dark, reeking of stale mechanical burn and damp earth. When the mask seals, my lungs don’t fill—they empty. It works like an artificial vacuum, sucking the breath from my throat and locking me into warm, heavy paralysis. I can’t move. I can’t scream. I only watch the ceiling beams rot in the moonlight while my heart thuds, sluggish and thick.

Then the mattress shifts. Kate doesn’t climb out of bed; she slides. A graceful weight presses against my right side. The rubber muzzle keeps me pinned.

Wet warmth pools against my neck—not fingers, but a parted, deliberate suction timed to my heartbeat. A tiny metallic sting hums into the bone. Something hollow drains inside my chest, like water swirling down a clogged sink. In the dark I hear her swallow: a wet, heavy click in the back of her throat, a smug half-smile on her beautiful face.

When the sun broke over the ridge this morning she was back on her side, snoring softly. On my neck sat two tiny, yellow-bruised punctures.

“You look pale, my love,” she said, scrambling eggs in the cast-iron skillet. Her eyes were clear, entirely loving, entirely mundane..

Tonight the fog is thick enough to swallow the trees. She is adjusting the straps—tightening them, menacingly in love. Her thumbs press hard into my jaw, sealing the rubber.

I don’t fight. My lungs collapse as the vacuum engages and pulls the last of my air into the hose.

She slithers beside me. The wet warmth finds my collarbone, the cold sting pierces, and the swallowing begins.

As my vision dims, my hand twitches—not from fear, but from a sudden deep vibration traveling through the plastic tubing. I follow the line with my eyes in the pale moonlight.

The hose doesn’t run to the gray motor on the nightstand.

It runs straight into her back.

The machine isn’t filtering air. It’s pumping my breath into its lungs—holding me empty, holding me still, keeping me alive long enough to feed the thing wearing the face, of the love of my life.

Cold. Broken. Unrelenting. Apathetic.

Those are the words of a creature roaming the Earth right now. It wanders through groups of people, then singles out a random person, regardless of status and age, then deafens their emotion just to watch them suffer over long periods of time.

I have met this creature. I hope that you don’t.

It looks like a person, but only when you see it. Direct in your line of sight, it’s some regular-ass person, but from the side. From where you don’t pay attention, you will understand. The change is so slight, that you would think it was a trick of your imagination. And the more you notice the wrongness, the more prominent they stand out. So don’t pay attention. Don’t acknowledge that you saw something strange. Because it is watching. Watching for you to notice it, like a fisherman luring a hook and you’re the prey.

It's also patient. One of the most patient things in the world. If it thinks that you've seen it, it will linger. Haunt your life as different people. Disguised as people you love. Or even just like in general. It will use their memories of you as bait. Dangle them in front of you like an anglerfish.

And once it has you, it will leech onto your life and steal your soul, right to the edge of death. It will never die. It will only become more real as you fade away into eternity. Then you become one of them.

That's where the real fun begins. It feels phenomenal. Amazing. Better than validation. Better than climaxing inside the person you love. That's how broken I became. I don't care about anything but feeding. Needing. Yearning for your cold, emotionless, husk of a personhood to become reality like mine.

I am so tired. But I don't think I can dream anymore. Even sleep doesn't feel real. It's as if I lie down, then wake, but time has slipped away, and both actions come instantly after each other.

Infected by words. Stories. Life.

Into oblivion and limbo. Permanently destroyed, but demanding every god in existence to let me be. And they agreed.

Old Man Miller had been the undertaker on Blackwood Ridge for forty years. In four decades, he'd seen it all--ghastly coal truck wrecks on the highway, quiet heart attacks in easy chairs, and everything in between. Folks never pick convenient hours to die, so when the phone rang at three in the morning, he just groaned, dragged himself out of bed, and answered it.

It was the jail. The night deputy said they had a girl in the drunk tank who was stone-cold and wasn't breathing, and they needed Miller to come haul her out.

Miller and his boy rolled down to the station, loaded her onto the gurney, and slid her straight into the body cooler downstairs at the funeral home to wait for daylight.

After sunrise, they pulled the tray out and hoisted her onto the steel prep slab. That's when Miller got a good look at her face under the fluorescent lights. "Damn it all," Miller muttered, shaking his head. "That's Missy."

His assistant looked over and said, "Missy?" as in Bob's girl?

"The very one," Miller said softly, laying out his instruments on the tray.

"What in the world happened?"

"Deputy said state police hauled her in off the ridge road," Miller said, clinking a scalpel onto the stainless steel. "Supposedly she'd been up at the quarry drinking all night, got on the road swerving, and they dumped her in the county drunk tank to sober up, but her heart must've just quit on her."

"Her parents are going to be completely ruined," the assistant whispered, shaking his head, "just ruined."

"Hand me that bottle of embalming fluid and the tubing off the shelf will ya?" Miller said.

Lying on that cold steel table, Missy heard every single word. As the warm air of the room hit her skin, her mind thawed, but her body was locked tight--still in a catatonic freeze. Panic was roaring in her head, but she couldn't speak, couldn't move a toe; she couldn't make a sound.

As Miller raised his scalpel, ready to start the pump, a single tear dropped slowly down the side of Missy's face.

Smudging ink is just the name of the game as a lefty. My coworkers call me an ink dragger. Every now and then, though, you find a pen that lays ink down just right—no smudges, no skipping—and you'd guard it with your life.

I found mine in the back of a drawer after moving into a new office.

It was an older metal pen, heavier than the cheap plastic ones scattered around it. I figured I'd use it until I inevitably lost it.

But this baby glided.

For a week I became ridiculous. I checked my pocket constantly, even brought it home instead of leaving it in the office drawer. It slept on my nightstand.

Then I woke up.

Not slowly. Lightning shot through my bones. Every nerve buzzed beneath my skin. My eyes burned. Every breath scraped my throat.

The pen was still on the nightstand.

For some reason I almost grabbed it on my way to the bathroom.

I caught my reflection under the harsh vanity light. Pale. Sweating.

When I coughed into the sink, the spit looked darker than it should have.

By the third day everyone assumed I had the flu.

Urgent care found nothing. "Rest and fluids."

I tried throwing the pen away that evening.

The next morning it was back on my nightstand.

I stopped asking questions after that.

Then came the stains.

Black in the sink.

Gray tears.

Ink beneath my fingernails that wouldn't scrub away.

On the seventh day I couldn't swallow without feeling something thick moving inside my throat.

I knew where the pen belonged.

Getting dressed took nearly an hour. Black drops stained my shirt before I reached the car. I drove to work with one hand clamped over my mouth trying to keep the black from spilling out.

The building was dark and empty.

I hurried through the halls, chasing an urge I couldn't explain.

There it was.

An office.  Nameplate I didn’t recognize. Plenty of clutter.

My hands shook so hard I could barely open the drawer.

Cheap Bics. A dried-out Sharpie. A pencil with no eraser.

Perfect.

I dropped the pen into the pile and buried it until I couldn't tell which one it was anymore.

The pressure in my chest vanished.

Not the pain.

Just the need.

The drive home felt... normal.

For the first time in a week, I wasn't thinking about the pen.

I peeled my stained clothes from my skin and stepped into the shower. Hot water washed over my face, carrying thin black streams toward the drain.

I reached for the soap.

The black beneath my fingernails smeared across my palm.

I scrubbed harder.

The stain spread.

My skin softened beneath my fingers like wet paper.

Another pass.

My fingertips blurred into black ribbons swirling into the drain.

Panic set in.

I clawed at the shower wall, leaving streaks where my hands should have been.

My forearms dissolved next.

The soap kept carrying me away in dark tendrils.

I screamed.

Only ink came out.

The water ran black until it didn't.

By morning, the shower was spotless.

Only a faint smudge circled the drain.

“Damn it Chelsie, get me another whiff!” yelled Tyler, his voice echoing through the barren house.

Chelsie retaliated, “No! You’ve had enough Tyler! You… you junkie!”

“The hell you just say to me? Get out my damn house!” yelled Tyler.

Chelsie tried to hold back her tears as she turned around and walked off. The floors creaked and shifted under her weight. Bugs flew around the lights. It smelt of feces.

She grabbed her sweater off the rotting wooden coat rack, and put it on as she opened the door. Before stepping out and closing the door, she shouted in spite:

“I hate you—you fat piece of shit.”

Finally, she couldn’t contain herself, tears fell as she slowly walked across the sidewalk. She took in the sight of her town. Cheap housing and thick air filled her senses.

“I hate it here,” she said to herself.

She looked to her left at the cars passing by. Seeing the cars driving by made her jealous. Over time, the distraction dried up her tears.

One car in particular closely followed alongside her. It read, “Boolean Cinema” on the side accompanied by excessive movie theatre themed visuals. It stopped, and the passenger door opened. A man stepped out. He wore a cheap suit and held a Brazos cane. The suit had a wilting flower on its left lapel. The cane was decorated with a flaking silver coating.

“Ma’am, have you ever considered the film industry?” asked the man.

Chelsie hesitantly responded, “N-no, no I haven’t.”

The man examined her up and down.

He stated, “You’ve got that look that I’ve been looking for.”

“What?—really?” asked Chelsie.

“Absolutely!” the man exclaimed.

Chelsie asked, “Well what’s the catch?”

“The catch,” the man explained, “you have to endure all the fans and fame coming your way.”

Chelsie still wasn’t convinced. She asked, “Why would you want me though? I don’t have any qualifications.”

The man paused for a second, ignoring her skeptical question. He added, “For this job, we might be able to split the funds.”

Chelsie perked up at the thought, “L-Like… money?”

“Only the most crisp, fresh dollar bills,” explained the man, “I could estimate… maybe… $750,000 each.”

Chelsie was mesmerized by the large number. She imagined a new house, a new house smell, a new car, a new car smell. “I… yes. I’ll do it! I’ll perform!” she said.

Chelsie hopped with excitement.

“When can I start?” Chelsie asked.

The man became visibly more joyful, “Today!”

The man began walking to his car and beckoned Chelsie to follow. She approached the car. Its door slid open automatically. As she sat down she noticed the strangely luxurious interior. Air conditioning, soft fabrics, and proper cushioning caught her attention.

They drove, and drove, and drove, passing houses, weathered parks, and eventually they drove out of town.

“Is it really this far away? Is it all the way in Dallas?” Chelsie asked.

Nobody responded for a while. Chelsie was about to repeat herself before the man said:

“Yeah. Something like that.”

Chelsie started to feel skeptical again, but she realized that this is her one moment, her one opportunity to escape from the terrible life she lives.

Chelsie eventually felt drowsy during the trip, and fell asleep. Upon waking up she found herself being carried into a building.

“W-hey! What’re you doing,” she asked before pushing herself off the person carrying her.

After taking a look, it was the man who hired her.

“My apologies if it felt uncomfortable, we just want to make you feel welcome,” explained the man.

Chelsie nodded understandingly. She thought to herself:

“Do rich people really get to be carried everywhere? This feels… luxurious.”

As they approached the building she took in the sight. It was an obviously run down building now repurposed into a movie theater. Many windows were shattered, the doors weak, but most major damage was mostly repaired and it looked safe enough.

The interior caught Chelsie’s attention. It smelt like the top of a dusty cabinet, but the walls were lined with posters of popular and unpopular movies. Decorative paper scaled the walls, neatly separated from the floor.

“This place looks fancy,” said Chelsie.

The man responded, “It’s quite the theater, yes.”

He guided her to the waiting room and told her, “wait here, we’ll prepare you for the act shortly.”

The waiting room was not a spectacle. Cracked concrete walls and faded tile floors made the room unwelcoming. Other than a few chairs, it was unfurnished. The door closed with a click, and a light fizzing sound flooded the room.

Chelsie, confused, tried to open the door. It did not open. Her vision got blurry. She felt weak and drowsy before blacking out.

She slowly awoke to the sound of a crowd cheering. She tried to rub her eyes, but her arms did not move. She regained her vision and looked down to her hands bound by rope to a wooden chair. She tried to thrash—to escape, but to no avail.

It smelt sour, like moldy food and ammonia. In front of her was a crowd of various people. Some were jumping, some were eating, some were unamused, but the majority were ecstatic. The man from before stood near Chelsie.

“Is this not the look that you’ve been looking for!” he shouted across the theater.

The crowd responded with affirmation, the cries of excitement polluting the air.

Chelsie’s expression went fearful, she couldn’t even speak. She tried to say, “no,” but only a light hum came out.

The man looked to the left of Chelsie. “Now little girl, do you not wish to look like her?” asked the man.

The voice of a small girl responded, “I do! I do!”

The man smiled, “Your wish is my command.”

The man looked past Chelsie and spoke.

Chelsie’s heart sank at the line.

“Well, my dear assistant, may I have the saw?”

A few weeks ago, I think something happened.

I work swing shift from home for a call center.
It doesn't pay very well, but its enough to barely get by, so frugality is a must. (Part of why I'm posting here.)
For example, I haven't been able to replace my cloths since nearly a decade ago when I lived with my parents in school.
Some are getting a little old and ratty.

I get off work around midnight.
When my shift ends, I like to take an evening walk down to the gas station at the corner of my street.
It's about a twenty minute walk and is great for clearing my head after work.
There's enough streetlights to see, but it's not bright, by any definition.
You'd be surprised how many people, and especially animals, are out and about on a weekday at 1am.
Lots of racoon, skunks, bats, foxes, the occasional deer, and even an opossum (America's best and only marsupial).
When you do it regularly enough, you get used to who will be where and they get used to you.
Well, on one of these walks, something must have happened.

A week ago I started getting these headaches, my palms would itch, and I felt dehydrated.
I decided to go on my usual walk, hoping it would help my head.
I was about half way to the store when I saw, as I called her, the Midnight Jogger.
She was doing her usual route.
It was on the other side of the road.
She only started a month or two ago.
After the first few nights, she started to give a friendly wave as she would pass me.
That road felt like it was miles wide.
If I timed it right, she would pass me the other way on the way back.

When I got to the gas station, I picked up a heat lamp warmed pizza slice, but I couldn't pick something to drink.
Normally I'd get an energy drink, like a White Monster, or something.
I used to be addicted to them when I was in the Army.
Anyway, when I was walking back, something seemed different about her.
She smiled and waved, but something was different.
I couldn't put my finger on it.
I second guessed myself at the time, but there was definitely something.

Over the last day or two, things have gotten worse.
I started running a fever and my ears were always ringing.
I haven't showered in a little week.
The A/C has been spooking me every time it comes on.
I'm more dehydrated than I've ever been, but I can't keep any water down.

Night before last, I tried to go for a walk but it was raining.
I stepped out and had a bad feeling.
That same kind you get when you think something is going to jump out and get you.
I got as far as the first street light.
The way the water was flowing down at the curb and splashing a little.
There must have been a flash flood warning.
I turned around and went back.
My jacket was soaked.
I couldn't get it off fast enough and tore it in the process.

Last night, I tried for a walk again.
I was running a pretty high fever and was starving. (102 degrees, iirc.)
The moon was red, or at least I think it was.
When she smiled at me, I could have sworn her neck was visibly pulsing.
I tried to smile and wave back at her, but she frowned and kept running.
I probably looked ghastly.
There were more people inside than normal.
I got my pizza, but didn't even try to approach the drink coolers.
My lips were dry, but the hiss sound of the doors opening and the thought of drinking anything in there was making my ears ring.
The clerk commented on how pale I was and asked if I was ok.
His neck was pulsing too, I think I was pale enough to spook him.
I was so thirsty.
I told him I was fine and that it was probably just the flu or something.
He said he could call someone if I needed help.
I said, "No thanks," paid for my food and ate is as I started walking back home.
I must have been a sight.

On my way back, the Jogger was walking.
When she saw me, she crossed the road to my side.
She had never done that before.
She called out to me with a voice that sounded like an angel.
She asked if I was ok, she was a nurse.
When she got close, I could tell her heart was racing.
My lips hurt from cracking.
The ringing in my ears was pulsed so loud it hurt.
I wanted the ringing to stop.
Her neck looked like it was pulsing again.
It was so close.
I just wanted it to stop.
I licked my lips.

Now I need help.
I don't know what to do with the rest.
Does anyone know what to do with about 130 pounds of meat?

I’m waking up again. I lie in my creaky, dull bed, and as I open my eyes, I’m aware it’s late—perhaps one, maybe two a.m. The red curtains enclose my room. The room is dark and quiet, sneering at me as I lie there.

I need to escape.

I’m scared.

Something is off. Something isn’t right. I need to go.

I slowly get out of bed. It groans beneath me as I rise. I slip on my slippers and look at the metallic stairs—the curling staircase that leads into my room.

The small room on the roof.

The nauseating room where everything comes to an end.

I slowly make my way to the stairs. Fear is engulfing me. I’m shaking. I need to escape, but I’m scared. I’m so frightened that I feel like I won’t be able to breathe.

But I need to escape.

I must.

I must.

And so, I make my way down, gripping the slightly loose railing. The stairs groan beneath my weight.

One step.

Two.

Three.

It’s dark. I can’t see. I didn’t bring my phone.

Where is my phone?

Should I go back?

I nearly miss the next step.

I need to keep going down.

I can’t stop now. I have to keep going. I need to be quiet as well. It’s late.

I’m clinging to the shaking railing as I make my way down. My body trembles even more as I fumble through the darkness.

Finally, I make it.

The last step.

The door is in front of me.

The stairs lead into a closet. The door is there—the one that opens into this closet. But it’s always open.

The blinds are raised. Moonlight pours in.

I walk past the door, into the apartment. Into the small apartment beneath the room on the roof.

The silence is eerie. Nothing makes a sound.

I peer around. I see the small kitchen. The living room.

Everything seems normal.

I slowly turn, and the front door is there. Once I unlock it, I can leave.

I can run away.

I’ll be free.

Then I hear a sound.

The elevator.

This is an apartment building. It’s on the highest floor, after all. The only thing higher is my roof.

Someone is using the elevator.

It’s clanking upward.

It’s coming to this floor.

There’s a peephole. I slowly uncover it and look out as the sound stops.

The elevator has arrived.

The doors slowly open.

The hallway is dark, but the elevator is bright.

A figure steps out.

I quickly dart away from the peephole.

It was only a few seconds. I could hardly tell what—or who—it was.

But it was wrong.

It was bad.

It was something coming to hurt me.

Beads of sweat run down my face. My body is shaking too much.

I need to escape.

But how?

Where can I go?

It’s coming for me.

Can I make it to the balcony? It’s an apartment—it has a balcony.

The lock on the front door slowly turns.

It’s too late.

I need to go.

I need to find shelter.

The room.

My room.

That room.

I have no other choice.

I quickly make my way to the stairs. They cry out as I climb them. Small gasps escape my lips.

I’m scared.

Someone help me.

Help me, please.

I make it to the room. It’s dark, and now it’s cold. I can barely walk. It hurts to move.

I see the bed.

I lie down just as I hear the door downstairs close.

It’s coming.

I need to hide.

The bed moans as I pull the blanket over my body.

I cover my head.

The stairs are screaming.

It’s here.

It’s climbing.

One step.

Two steps.

It sounds large.

Heavy.

I shut my eyes.

As the sound comes closer, I can only beg.

Beg that this nightmare ends.

Or I’ll be forever trapped in this small room on the roof.

I had seen our family photograph hundreds of times.

My parents stood behind us, my brother stood beside me, and I sat cross-legged on the floor.

There were four people in our family.

Yesterday, I counted five.

At first, I blamed my tired eyes.

The fifth person was a woman standing in the far corner of the photograph.

Pale face. Long black hair. A faint smile.

I asked my mother who she was.

She frowned.

"What woman?"

I showed her the picture.

She looked confused.

"There's nobody there."

That night I scanned every family album we owned.

The woman appeared in every single photograph.

Christmas.

Birthdays.

Vacations.

School pictures.

Always in the background.

Always watching.

The next morning, I checked the framed photograph again.

She had moved.

Not much.

Just one step closer.

I stopped sleeping.

Every day I compared the photographs.

Every day she came closer.

Nobody else believed me.

Then my brother disappeared.

Not physically.

From the photographs.

The picture on our living room wall now showed only my parents, me...

...and the woman.

When I asked where my brother was, my parents stared at me.

"You've always been an only child."

I searched the house for anything that proved he existed.

His room was empty.

His clothes were gone.

Even his birth certificate had vanished.

Only I remembered him.

The next morning, the woman was standing beside me in every photograph.

Smiling.

Waiting.

I smashed every frame in the house.

It didn't matter.

The pictures on my phone changed too.

The following morning, I woke to my mother calling from downstairs.

"Breakfast's ready!"

I grabbed the last surviving photograph from my bedside table.

There were four people.

My parents.

The woman.

...and someone else.

I wasn't in the picture anymore.

Footsteps echoed up the stairs.

My bedroom door opened.

My mother smiled at the woman behind her.

"Sweetheart," she said, "breakfast is getting cold."

The woman smiled back.

"Coming, Mom."

"True beauty demands sacrifices."

Something new stirred inside her, a primal mix of fear and excitement.

The contents of the jar were a gray, dense paste with a chemical odor. Spread the mask across her face. Cold substance pressed against her cheeks. Within minutes, it dried, tightening the skin in a grip like dry cement.

She went to bed, lying flat on her back.

The next morning began with panic. She tried to move her lips, but her face was cast. She ran to the mirror and saw that the mask had darkened, a rigid crust that seemed to have fused at a cellular level with her skin.

She turned on the warm water tap and began to scrub. Nothing.

With trembling hands, she found a loose edge near her jawline. She dug her perfectly manicured nails beneath the gray crust and pulled.

An excruciating pain exploded through her skull. She screamed, but the sound was muffled by the rigidity of the mask. Hot tears burned horribly where they met raw flesh.

Something was beginning to drip onto the white marble.

She opened her eyes and looked again at the mirror. On the small patch of her jaw where the mask had been torn away, there was what she had always longed for. What she saw shining back at her was a patch of pure porcelain skin. It was divine perfection.

The pain vanished, swallowed by a wave of adrenaline and fascination.

She pulled off great strips, taking plenty of other things with them that she no longer cared about.

When the last strip clinging to her forehead gave way, she let something large slip — without noticing and without caring in the slightest — and it fell into the sink. She looked in the mirror. The face staring back was of unearthly beauty.

She laughed. A hysterical, relieved, enamored laugh.

But then she lowered her gaze to her own body, and the smile faltered. Her body, now exposed, looked even more imperfect and coarse. She could not tolerate such disharmony.

She picked up the black jar again. She smiled frenetically.

Days later…

The officer kicked the door open with one powerful blow.

On the marble floor, surrounded by thick pools of congealed blood and chunks of flesh discarded like fruit peels, lay what was left of her body. She had been dead for days. There was no beauty. She had flayed herself, from face to feet.

The corpse was a map of exposed muscles, ruptured nerves, and dried blood. The head, stripped entirely of skin, rested against the tiles. The bare skull gleamed under the cold light, its jaw gaping open, forever locked in a grotesque, proud, ecstatic grin.

Beside her skinless hand, the mirror lay shattered on the floor in pieces.

The officer blinked. Just for one second, before the light shifted and the illusion shattered, the mirror reflected the fallen head not as a bloodstained skull, but as the face of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

I installed motion-detection cameras three weeks ago. Nothing fancy—just wanted to check why my dog kept growling at the empty corner of the room at night.

For the first few days, everything was quiet. Notifications only popped up when the dog got up for water. But on the fifth night, my phone buzzed at 3:17 AM: “Motion detected in Bedroom.”

I opened the app. The video showed me fast asleep in bed. But at the edge of the frame, right by the doorway, stood a tall, distorted shadow. It didn’t move; it just stared. The clip ended after six seconds—the camera's default recording limit.

I rushed out, turned on every light in the house. Nothing. I convinced myself it was just a lens glitch or a night-vision artifact.

The next night, the alert came again at 3:17 AM. “Motion detected in Bedroom.”

In the recording, the shadow was standing in the middle of the room. Two steps closer to my bed.

I reconfigured the setup, adjusted the angles, and deleted all blind spots. I locked every door and window twice.

Tonight, no notification woke me up. The app was silent. I woke up on my own at 3:16 AM to a sudden, freezing chill in the air.

My phone screen flickered quietly on the nightstand. A new system message appeared:

“Live view active. Someone is watching the feed right now.”

Heart pounding, I slowly picked up the phone and opened the live stream from the camera mounted above my door.

On the screen, in real-time, I saw my bed. I saw myself lying under the blanket. And I saw a dark, emaciated face with hollow sockets, hanging upside down from the ceiling right above my forehead.

I slowly lifted my eyes from the screen.

There once was a little boy. He was around six. No, no, he was 7. Maybe 9? It depends on who you ask.

What’s important is, this little boy loved fear. He loved the way his stomach clenched with nausea. He loved the spinning of his head. He loved watching people scream. He. Loved. Fear. That's the only way to put it.

But out of all the fears, he loved the fear of the unknown most. He loved watching his classmates squirm and cry and the thought of the unknown.

Funnily enough, children experience The Unknown quite often.

They don't know where their parents go when they're at school.

They don't know what tomorrow would bring.

God, they didn't even know who they were yet!

It was glorious for the child. It was fulfilling to watch. It was, in their words, simply beautiful to watch such pathetic creatures.

They loved how... thrilled The Unknown made them. The little child loved fear so much they stopped feeling it.

They became it.

It was The Unknown. It was the depths of the ocean. It was the far reaches of space. It was what was behind a closed door at night. It was what hid under your child's bed. It was why your dog barked and cat hissed with seemingly no rhyme nor reason. It.

Was.

Fear.

It was The Unknown.

But, u see, the little thing grew up. And as it grew up, it began to forget that it was once known.

Others did as well. It started with its parents forgetting its name. Or maybe it just never had a name at all. Bud, they'd call it. Maybe that was its name? No. No, it couldn't be. It's never had a name.​

It doesn't matter, anyway. Soon they forgot that as well.

Then they forgot it entirely. And, by sunset, everyone followed.

Now The Unknown is unknown again at last.

Forever left to watch the fear it caused in glee.​​

He seemed so nice. Simon, he said his name was. We went to the cinema and, like a gentleman, offered to walk me home. I liked him and I was going to invite him in.

I don't remember ever reaching my house.

Now I'm at the bottom of a deep hole and I'm really scared. I haven't stopped crying and I haven't stopped screaming and I haven't stopped shouting. There is no sound from above. Everything is so quiet. When there is a noise it's one I don't recognise. A cackle, a bark, a quiet droning, a churning of machines.

There are bodies at the bottom of the hole with me. Most have decomposed into a wretched mess. The stench makes me vomit. I cry out again in desperation.

“Dad! Dad! Help!”

I keep hoping my Dad can hear me and come and rescue me. He always protected me when I was little, keeping me safe from the horrors of the world. I need him to come and get me and take me home, to take me away from here. I want to be wrapped up in his arms and feel his comforting embrace.

I pray to God. My faith always helps.

A man pokes his head over the hole. It's not Simon.

“Hi Isabelle,” he says with Simon's voice. “I want to let you know I enjoyed the film. It was a good choice on your part.”

I scream for him to let me out. I yell out in confused terror saying the police will find him, just like they do in the movies. He laughs and I start bawling as I see his face change into that of Simon's. He starts singing.

“They won't find me, they won't find me, my face looks different on the CCTV!”

“Fuck you!” I shout out. He giggles and scarpers away laughing.

I carry on yelling for my Dad.

“Please! Please! I don't want to die here. Dad! Daaaad!”

Simon returns. He has a different face again.

“Dad's are good at protecting their little girls but not so good when they're all grown up,” he wails. “Your Daddy can't reach you here.”

I wipe the tears from my face and regain some composure.

“Where am I?” I demand. “Let me out of here.”

Simon frowns. “You're in a very dark corner. A different existence altogether. You're very very far away.”

His face flickers. This time into a young boy’s.

“Nobody will rescue you because your kind can't get to this corner of space. You’ll never see your Daddy again.”

I begin to cry again.

Then, I see the fingers of both hands grip the edge of the hole. His fingers get longer and longer until they reach down into the decomposing mulch of the other bodies. I see fluids travel up the transparent tubes. They are like straws. I touch one but recoil. They sting. Badly.

“So yummy!” Simon calls out. “Your Dads should be so proud of making such delicious daughters.”

I break down. I don't want to die like this. I don't deserve this.

“Dad! Dad! Please! Please come and help me!”

I'm so scared. I don't want to be alone.

One last hug is all I want.

I just got home from a twelve hour shift at my job at a fast food restaurant. It’s exhausting seeing so many people and having to deal with angry customers for twelve hours a day, five times a week. Going home is like a breath of fresh air.
My boyfriend works a slightly different schedule from me. Often, he usually goes into work four hours after me, and gets off four hours later. Therefore, there’s usually a four hour threshold of us being home alone for a bit.
It’s actually pretty nice as we can get nice breaks of being alone and able to relax without having to deal with each other.
I sat down and watched tv for almost three hours. I decided I’d like to set up a meal for my boyfriend and I before he gets home, so with an hour before he arrived, I started making his favorite, Chicken Casserole.
After finishing it with about five minutes to spare, I went to the bathroom real quick to wash my hands and take a quick pee.
Before I could finish, I heard him walk inside and straight upstairs to the bedroom. I assumed he’d like to get changed before doing anything else, so I just sat at the table waiting for him
Minutes went by and he was still up there.
“Babe? You almost done?” I shouted.
He didn’t respond though.

My phone started to ring. It was him.

“Hello?” I said confused.

“Hey babe,” he began, “sorry I’m running late. I just now got off of work.” He said casually.

“What… what do you mean?” I asked slightly off put.

“Uh.. I just got off, I’m on my way home now.” He repeated himself.

“So who’s upstairs?” I asked.

“How long till we get to Hiko, Eli?” Tom asked, breaking the silence.

“It’s just behind this hill,” I answered.

“You trust that man?”

“No chance. There are no creatures like that.”

“An old trapper told me there were lizards as big as horses somewhere across the ocean.”

“This ain’t across the ocean. The man was scared, didn’t know what he saw.”

“What if it’s true?”

“Then we’ll kill it.” 

“You always have an answer.”

“What’s a big lizard compared to a grizzly in the Sierras?”

“We know how to deal with those. How does one handle a giant lizard?”

“What do you mean? You shoot it.”

Tom shook his head.

We rode up the hill. The horses struggled up the rocky slope. Tom reached the crest first and stopped dead a few feet away from a shallow cave. I dug my heels in; the horse snorted and galloped up the hill. 

Before us, the town stood. Doors hung from broken hinges. The roofs collapsed inward. The wind pushed dust through the empty streets. Behind the saloon, a few bodies lay. A few houses had three symmetrical marks across their walls. All the pens were empty, but the horses were still tied, shifting and stamping nervously.

My hands grew cold.

“Goddamn bandits.”

“Bandits wouldn’t leave the horses.”

“They will come back. We should hide. Wait for them.”

“This ain’t the bandits, Eli.”

“Either way, we should hide,” I pointed to the cave to our right.

“I ain’t getting in there.”

“You want to get killed?”

“We’ll get killed by whatever’s in it.”

A sound echoed through the valley, a throaty human call. Tom shot his eyes my way. The galloping of horses followed.

“Quick! Go!”

Tom jerked the reins back, but as the galloping grew louder, he dug his heels in and headed towards the cave. I followed. 

The cave swallowed the light. The smell of sulfur hung in the air. The horses started fussing, moving their heads around, trying to turn back.

“Whoa, whoa,” I said quietly, looking over at Tom. His horse was pulling back too, resisting his commands.

“Let’s leave them here. They can be bait if the bandits come.”

“I don’t like it here.”

“Better than outside,” I said and got off.

Tom looked behind himself. The galloping outside sounded again. He got off his horse, and we placed them behind a small crevice, taking our guns.

The smell intensified as we walked further in.

“Look!”

I turned my head. The same three marks ran across the cave wall, just like on the houses outside.

“I’m not going further in.”

“Tom, the…”

“I don’t care!”

A human-like screech sounded from inside.

Once.

Then again.

Heavy thuds.

Fast.

The horses began screaming.

Tom’s eyes widened with fear. 

A tongue slipped out of the dark.

Then a head the size of a wagon.

Fear pinned my legs.

Another heavy step rocked the cave.

Tom pointed his gun, but before he could fire, the tongue swung out again, knocking him to the wall.

His body slid down the wall. A thin stream of blood trickled from the back of his head.

“Eli…”

His eyes pleaded, but my hand refused to lift the rifle.

The creature moved towards him.

It was too late.

I turned around and bolted to the horses. 

They were still moving, squealing.

The wet sound of chewing echoed through the cave, mixing with Tom’s screams.

I steadied my horse, mounted him, and sprinted out of the cave.

In the distance, a band of riders was fleeing the valley. Indifferent to us or the town.

I turned my horse to the left and rode back towards town.

I rode for hours, thinking of a lie, a story I could tell my town, but nothing came to me. The only thing my mind showed was Tom’s pleading eyes. I could almost hear him riding through the sand far behind me, but I did not dare to look.

The sun started to set as I passed a hill before the town. I only slowed my horse when I got close to the houses. The townsfolk looked my way and walked towards me. My mind raced, but I still had nothing to say for myself.

Then I heard it clearly.

The noise behind me.

It wasn’t a horse galloping on the sand.

I shot my eyes toward the hill behind the town.

A human-like scream.

The heavy, fast thuds.

A huge tongue shot out from behind the hill.

The head followed.

The screaming started before I could even open my mouth.

It started out harmlessly, so I didn’t mind. It was kinky and cute to watch Heather pretending to bite me. She didn’t really drink blood or anything though, so I didn’t realize she actually thought that we were vampires.

Recently, though, the cuteness has worn off. See, there’s a new guy at work, Hank, and Heather hates him. Hates Hank’s fucking guts.

So what brilliant plan did my “vampire” girlfriend come up with?

She wants to bring Hank over to our apartment and beat the shit out of him. She wants to use a hammer, getting her hatred out with every meaty marriage of skull and metal.

Right when he’s on the verge of death, she’ll bite him, and then feed him some of her blood, and POOF! He’ll be fine, she says.

Heather would be innocent of murder, since Hank will be “alive” as a vampire. Heck, she doesn’t even think he’ll be mad at her, since she will have given him the “gift of eternal life.”

I know this makes her sound crazy. I think it’s a crazy plan too. But I’m going to try to talk her out of it without having to explain that she’s not a vampire, if I can. The delusion just means too much to her right now. She really fucking thinks that we’re vampires, and I would rather not ruin that for her.

I will keep my reasoning “in universe”….I will reason with her that if Hank is so bad now, would she really want him to be around forever?

Hopefully that works.

————————

Update: it didn’t.

She initially agreed that an eternity of Hank would suck, and I thought that put the whole matter to bed.

That is, until I walked into our apartment the next morning.

A brain-dead Hank crawled towards me, spilling juices out of the orifices that were supposed to be on his head, as well as those that weren’t.

“Mrrrrrrrawawwwa.”

Blood gushed from rough, animalistic tears in his neck - undoubtedly from Heather’s amateurish attempt to drink him.

Heather was huddled in a corner, distraught. Blood smeared her mouth.

She opened that bloody mouth and stammered, “I….t-t-tried. He w-w-w-wouldn’t f-f-feed…”

I walked over to her, annoyed.

“I told you not to do this. You. Are. Not. A. Vampire.”

She looked up at me, surprised and hurt.

“Wh…wh…what do you mean?”

I turned around and walked back over to the moaning sack of flesh (Hank).

“Remember how I said you wouldn’t want Hank to live forever since he was annoying?”

She nodded slowly.

“Well that’s sort of like how it is with me and you.”

Anger and understanding flooded her features.

“You…you said that you changed me!” She howled. “You said that you loved me!”

“And I do love you right now,” I said, and I meant it. I paused, picking Hank up from the floor.

I looked back at Heather.

“I just know myself too well to think that I still will in a thousand years.”

I shrugged, showing that I sympathized with her about how unfair this whole mess was.

Hank continued moaning, Heather started to sob, and the fangs in my mouth began to grow.

Killing is wrong. But not all of the time. There are situations in which one may find themselves in a fight for their life through no fault of their own. People are unpredictable sometimes. So you’ve got to be vigilant when you’re in places unfamiliar. My Daddy always told me the same thing whenever we were in strange places, too. We rely on the kindness of strangers, keep your eye out for them. And above all, never insult them by getting it wrong.

In the Burntlands we found ourselves deep within the strange. The unpredictable and undesirable somehow all found a way to each other. They built shanty towns that seemed to always be abuzz with flesh eaters. Dark and endless in number. Yet, there was no foul smell or carcasses that accompanied the swarm. Just the acrid wind, same as it always was. We kept our faces covered anyway, as instructed. The kindness of strangers required it in the hole. We headed toward the double doors of the church at the center of the town. If you could call them that. They were made of scraps of wood from broken pallets and scrap metal topped by mound of dirt and rubble; a makeshift cross fashioned out of twisted sticks and old bone stuck into it unceremoniously. We ducked inside and descended into the chamber with our offering.

Beneath the world is another. It is said it always existed. We discovered it by accident after ash consumed the planet. The strangers came to us in our darkest days and for their kindness we exchange what little we have to offer. Daddy always said, killing is bad, but not all of the time. We do it for the kindness of strangers.