ã€Š2023 Halloween Creepy Pasta Anthologyã€‹


 Screenlocked

    Father and I have a pattern we follow every day:

    After dawn, and once father has made sure the sun is out, we both get out of bed. While father goes and uncovers the phones, tablets, monitors, and television, I gather up the plates from yesterday¡¯s dinner.

    If there are leftovers on the plates, I save them for later. If they are empty, I clean the plates with a cloth.

    We usually share canned fruits for breakfast and I like to have a cup of water from the purifier, but never more than two decilitres. Father has made it clear that we must save where we can.

    We sit in front of the patio door, looking through the glass to the garden outside, while we eat our meal. Father like to drink the condensed juices at the bottom of the fruit can. He likes sweet things he says, but I know that he just wants to save the water for me.

    He often pats me on the head with hands that still belong to him and says that we will be alright.

    While we sit there and enjoy our breakfast, we often see neighbours walk by outside. If they wave, we always wave back, but we do not go outside to talk. If they ignore us, we ignore them as well. I am unsure why we do this, but father says it is important.

    Around noon, when none of the neighbours are out, father opens the patio door slightly and sneaks out. I lock the door and stay behind to ¡®guard the fort¡¯, as he likes to say. I promise him I will stay in the house and not open the doors or windows, even if a neighbour waves and asks me to.

    While he is gone, I refill my cup with water, two decilitres as always, and go to my parents¡¯ bedroom. I put the cup in front of the closet door and whisper, ¡®I brought you water.¡¯

    Most days I do not hear any response, but today I hear a low gurgle. The sound makes me relieved and happy. I do not leave a cup of water in front of the locked door in the hallway.

    Around this time, animal noises often come from behind the locked door, but I do not respond to them, because father has taught me not to.

    Father returns two hours before dusk, and I always make sure to take the cup away from the closet so that he does not see, even if it is still full. If it is empty, I clean it with a cloth, otherwise I pour the liquid back into the tank of purified water.

    When father comes back through the patio door that I unlock for him, he often has nothing in his backpack, but today he has found some candy-bars and cans of food. He always smiles wide when he sees me and lifts me up, swinging me around and calling me his ¡®princess¡¯.

    We share one of the candy-bars, while the rest of what he has found is placed inside the cupboard with the other cans of preserved fruit and food. The candy-bar is very sweet, but I savour every bite. Today has been a good day.

    An hour before dusk, father covers-up the phones, tablets, monitors, and television. He always insists that I do not help him.

    We make dinner and prepare four plates. Today we are having sausages with beans. I have another cup of water, two decilitres. Father looks at the tank of purified water and nods. We still have plenty left because he always keeps track of how much I drink.

    After we finish eating, I take the two plates of food and place one in front of the locked door in the hallway. I never say anything when I place one here, but I always hear shuffling noises from behind the locked door. The other plate I bring to the closet in my parents¡¯ bedroom, and after setting it down on the floor, I whisper, ¡®I brought dinner. Today is sausages and beans.¡¯

    I return to the living room and watch the sun set next to father. Then we go to my bedroom and prepare to sleep. We always lock the door. Father says it is important.

    After I lie down, he lies down too and puts his big hands over my ears.

    His hands are never enough to muffle all the sounds of the night.

    Every night is the same. The locked hallway door slams open and screams come from the closet in my parents¡¯ bedroom.

    Father always whispers, ¡®They¡¯re not family anymore. They¡¯re not family anymore.¡¯

    The many screens let out luring voices that even father¡¯s hands cannot silence. They always want me to look at them.

    Most days I sleep only a little bit.

    I can always feel the way our house rumbles, and the sounds that come from outside, where they always climb up onto our roof and hammer on our doors and windows. Father has made sure that they cannot get in, and, so long as we are quiet, they cannot find us.

    When I awake, it is often within father¡¯s embrace. I always wipe the tears from his face before he wakes up. Soon after, he rises from the bed and goes to make sure that the sun is up. As he goes to uncover the phones, tablets, monitors, and television, I gather up the plates. Today, both of them are empty. I smile to myself. Today will be another good day.

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    <hr>

    When I wake up, I always tell myself that I am lucky. They say that people can get used to anything after a while, but I have never gotten used to this new way of living. Any night I go to sleep might be my last: there is an existential terror in this, but also a dark sort of comfort.

    After I carefully check that the sun is up, I rouse my daughter from her sleep.

    I always feel lucky that I am not alone. She is clever and obedient, despite her age. If she was different, she would be like her brother.

    I no longer go into the bedroom I shared with my wife. She is still in there, and it is painful for me to acknowledge. But as I always tell my daughter, she is no longer family. I am unsure if she is even still human.

    My daughter loves her mother, as does any child, so she always brings her food. I am unsure if my wife and son even eat food anymore, but my daughter is always happy when their plates are empty.

    I go to the kitchen and look at the cans of preserved food.

    I always count them to know how many days we have left.

    The most important thing is the purified water. It is no longer safe to drink from the tap, so I guard the water and always make sure we do not drink too much. Most days I do not even drink from it, but I always make sure my daughter does.

    Today we are having canned pineapple and my daughter is having a cup of purified water, two decilitres. We sit down in front of the patio door and look out at the suburban neighbourhood, with the laws that are well-kept somehow, and the neighbours who walk by.

    My daughter looks at me with a smile and eyes that are still her own.

    I drink the juices from the bottom of the pineapple can, it is sweet and not as hydrating as water, but I always try to find something proper to drink when I go out around noon.

    One of the neighbours walks by outside and waves at us. We both wave back. It is important to reciprocate or else they will think we are not like them.

    ¡®Hold down the fort for me,¡¯ I tell my daughter as I sneak out of the house around noon. It is always terrifying to leave her alone like this, but if I do not go out in search of more food, then our days are numbered.

    After she locks the patio door behind me, I sneak along the fences and hedges to stay out of sight. I have learnt that people return indoors around noon. When I look through their windows, I see that they all crowd around their televisions and screens. They all smile but never blink. They stare at the screens with eyes that are no longer theirs.

    There used to be more families like ours. Families that managed to blend in. I got to know some of them, but now we are the only ones left.

    For the first few days after the screens started speaking, no one knew what was happening, but I have slowly pieced together how to survive. Learning the lessons that other families paid dearly for not knowing.

    Although it pains me, I go through their houses, with their open windows and talking screens. They are not so harmful when the sun is up, but I always avoid looking at them when I can.

    Usually I find nothing. Sometimes I find the families or what is left of them. Some are like my wife and son, holing up indoors or roaming the streets or locked to their screens. Some families decided to go out together and some ran out of water and tried to leave their homes.

    My daughter and I may be the only sane ones left.

    Today I find a bottle of beer, which I allow myself to indulge in. It is a rare treat for me, and though it is not as hydrating as water, it is a taste that makes my eyes misty.

    I do not find any cans in my careful search, nor any candy-bars like yesterday. Most days are like this.

    When I leave the house I decided to search today, I see that the sun is setting. There are about two hours left, so I return home.

    My daughter sees me through the patio door and unlocks it for me. When I enter the house, I am so overwhelmed by the joy that she is still sane like me that I lift her into my arms and swing her around, while calling her my princess.

    We prepare dinner together from one of the cans. Today is meat stew. My daughter insists that we make four plates, like she always does. I indulge her, like I always do.

    To stay sane requires small things like this.

    After dinner she brings the plates to her brother¡¯s locked door and her mother¡¯s closet, then she returns to my side and we watch the sun set.

    I make sure all the phones, tablets, monitors, and television are covered-up. My daughter often askes why we do not throw them out, but I know that this is a bad idea. I saw another family try it and now their house stands empty.

    We end the day by going to her room where I lock the door and make sure the black-out curtains are fully shut. After she lies down in the small bed, I wait for her to get comfortable, then I lie down behind her and put my hands over the ears that still belong to her.

    I know that my hands are not enough to keep out the sounds that come when night-time falls with the setting sun, but it is the small things that helps you stay sane.

    As the screams and animal sounds roll through our house and rumble the building from the outside, I grit my teeth and close my eyes. The worst are the sounds the screens make. The incessant begging for me to look at them. The promises of what I will see.

    Most days I sleep only a little bit.

    I always awake to my daughter wiping the tears from my eyes.

    I get up and make sure the sun is out, before I prepare for another day.

    <hr>

    When morning comes, I always hear the pitter-patter of small feet on the floor of the bedroom. They always come to take the plate away, even on days where I have not touched it.

    I curl up in a ball, fearing the day that the creature tries to open the closet I am hiding in.

    In my dreams, I believe she is my daughter, but I know that my family is long gone.

    On days where I feel hungry, I eat from the plate that is left for me just before night sets in.

    I am always startled by the voice around noon, telling me there is water in a cup. Most days I do not drink it, but on days where my thirst is so great that I feel as though I will die, I always betray my own safety and gulp it down.

    I hear the same voice again when it brings the plate. I can always smell the food through the hair-thin crack in the closet door.

    My voice is no longer my own, but I always try to thank the creature, but all that comes out is a gurgle. I always want to believe that it is my caring daughter, but I know that my family is gone.

    On days where I feel anxious, I wonder what purpose they have in feeding me.

    I love the night-time. It is the only time I feel safe.

    I hear the way my son sings to the screens that talk to us, telling us that we are sane.

    I never leave the closet to be with him though, it feels embarrassing that he should see me in the way that I now am. I know that my hands and eyes are not my own anymore. My face belongs to someone else, and my body feels strange.

    Today, I do not hear the pitter-patter of small feet on the floor of the bedroom when morning comes.

    My stomach growls and I wonder if I will also not hear the voice of the creature as it brings me water and food.

    Perhaps I should try to leave the closet today.

    I am very hungry.

    The screens tell me I am sane.

 Dollface

    ¡®Hey, you¡¯re into weird shit, right? Check this video out - it doesn¡¯t even have a hundred views yet!¡¯

    Elliot dismissed the alert and returned his gaze to the professor. He knew better than to check out anything Marcus might send him somewhere in public.

    At least, he thought he did. He should have certainly, but as he tried to refocus on Dr. Roseinstein¡¯s lecture on the Reconstruction Era of the Civil War, he found it basically impossible. He wasn¡¯t the only one, of course. Half of his university class was surreptitiously doing something on their phones while they pretended to pay attention.

    His resistance lasted almost thirty seconds before he gave in to the urge for novelty. He desperately needed a distraction from this mind-numbing history class.

    So, he muted his phone just in case Marcus had sent him yet another rickroll or something obnoxious, as he did sometimes. After that, he opened the message and clicked the link, taking him to YouTube.

    The video was hardly worth sharing, though. It was just a girl¡­ no, a woman, in a very girly room playing with her dolls. At least, he thought it was a woman? She was wearing an oversized pink hoodie that covered her face, and she refused to face the camera. Instead, she looked down at what she was playing with or away from the camera when she got up to grab something.

    Even though he couldn¡¯t hear what she was saying, her love for her dolls was obvious. They were everywhere: on the floor, the desk, the shelves behind her, and even the dollhouse that dominated one corner of the room. It was strange, of course, but not exactly interesting, and he wasn¡¯t really sure why Marcus needed to share it.

    He flipped on the closed captioning just to see what she had to say, but it wasn¡¯t any more interesting. It was just someone talking about why she liked the doll she was playing with. He was about to click off when she suddenly looked up at him for the first time.

    ¡°Wait, please don¡¯t go,¡± she said silently, ¡°I¡¯m so lonely. I don¡¯t have many friends¡­¡±

    Everything was disturbing about that moment. Either she¡¯d timed this moment perfectly for when people tended to lose interest, or this was some weird AI experiment pretending to be a YouTube video. As strange as both of those options were, looking at her face made it impossible to think about them.

    The woman in the video wore a mask that made her look just like a doll. No, not wearing, he realized as he watched her skin move as she spoke. If she was wearing it, then it was glued to her face. He looked closer, trying to determine if the plaintive expression was the result of makeup or plastic surgery. Just how much did this girl love¡ª

    ¡°Mister Broderick,¡± the teacher said loudly, ¡°Why don¡¯t you tell us what you think the long-term consequences of General Sherman¡¯s march to the sea were on Atlanta?¡±

    ¡°It was¡­ bad?¡± he guessed as he quickly put away from his phone.

    A few students laughed at his expense, but he ignored that, focusing on the whiteboard instead. It was full of notes that hadn¡¯t been there just a second ago, and he had no idea how that happened. Then he noticed that class was almost over. He had no idea how that was possible, of course. He¡¯d only been looking at that video for less than a minute, hadn¡¯t he?

    . . .

    Elliot spent the rest of the day studiously ignoring that mystery, along with his homework. The closest he got to exploring that doll-filled rabbit hole again was to message Marcus, ¡®What the hell was that channel? Got any lore for me on it?¡¯

    However, Marcus never answered the message, and Elliot quickly forgot about it. It was only just before bed after he turned off his games and lay down in bed, that he decided to give that video a second look. It was boring, of course, but something about how alien the girl¡¯s face was compelled him. He just had to know what was going on there.

    He opened it up to the same place he¡¯d left off last time from his history, but she was no longer looking at the camera. He scrubbed the video back and forth several times, but now she never looked up.

    Could a different video have been uploaded since class? Elliot wondered?

    He had no idea, but when he browsed to the channel information, it wasn¡¯t inspiring. The channel itself was uncreatively named ¡®The Doll House,¡¯ and there were hundreds of videos listed. They went back for years.

    Some seemed dedicated to specific toys and had titles like ¡°Playing with Franklin¡± or ¡°Donald Wants to Say Hi,¡± but the rest were more task-focused. ¡°Decorating the Living Room,¡± ¡°Redoing the Kitchen,¡± and ¡°Trying on New Outfits¡± seemed to be her most popular videos with only a couple hundred views. That had to be because they showed off the woman¡¯s slender body wearing a pretty dress even if she was still facing away from the camera.

    Elliot rolled his eyes at how predictable guys were and instead clicked ¡°Real Girl Makeup Tutorial¡± because he was fairly sure that one would at least show her face. He skipped to the halfway mark and regretted it almost instantly as it dispelled the mystery completely.

    For whatever reason, she still wasn¡¯t showing the camera her face. Instead, it was somewhere behind her, showing her coarse black hair as it hung lankly down her back while she gave a makeup tutorial with her face in the mirror. The result was pretty boring.

    It had never been his thing, but he¡¯d seen several ASMR videos. This seemed to be more of that, with pretty poor production values. The woman had a strange, whispery voice, and she kept making weird creaking and clicking sounds as she talked about her favorite brand of eyeshadow and whatever else.

    She wasn¡¯t especially pretty, though; more importantly, she no longer looked like a strangely realistic doll. She was just someone who wanted to be an influencer and never got off the ground, so she lived in denial and kept putting out video after video that no one ever watched.

    It wasn¡¯t the first time he¡¯d seen it. He¡¯d run across speed runners and Sonic superfans who dedicated literally years of their lives to streaming videos that no one watched. It was certainly rarer to find a pretty girl languishing away in obscurity. Usually, they¡¯d be able to find at least a few simps to tell them how pretty they were.

    He swiped up to close out of the video, but nothing happened. Well - nothing on his phone anyway. Suddenly, she turned halfway toward the camera, giving him the scare of his life. ¡°Please don¡¯t leave me,¡± she said again sadly. ¡°Please like and subscribe to my video. I¡¯m so lonely.¡±

    The fact that he couldn¡¯t close the app was disturbing, but it was less disturbing than her face. He could see the right half of her doll face with makeup crudely smearing across it now; at the same time, he could see the very human-looking left side of her face reflected in the mirror. It was¡­ Elliot didn¡¯t know what it was, but he knew that he didn¡¯t want to experience the mental dissonance it was causing anymore, and he hit the power button on his phone.

    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    That didn¡¯t do any more good than his attempt to close out the app had. Instead, the phone stayed on as she turned completely to face the camera now and started moving closer to it until it took up his whole screen.

    ¡°Please? Just one little follow? Please?!¡± she begged while he stared in horror at the creases her plastic but not plastic skin made around her mouth when she talked and the way her teeth seemed to be cast from a single piece of white plastic rather than being individual enamel protrusions. ¡°I know you¡¯re busy, but if you could just give me one little follow, I promise I¡¯ll let you go to bed. I just¡ª¡±

    Elliot did the only thing he could do. He tapped the subscribe button and tried to close the app again. This time, it worked, and he turned the power off and tossed it across the room in the laundry hamper like a hand grenade.

    ¡°What the actual fuck was that?!¡± he gasped as he lay awake in the dark, waiting for something terrible to happen.

    It didn¡¯t, though. He lay awake for hours thinking about what had happened.

    In the morning, he was sure he¡¯d imagined the whole thing, and the only reminder that it had ever been the case was the low battery he had to nurse along the rest of the day.

    He hated going to class with a low battery, but that, at least, was enough to keep him off his phone when he was supposed to be concentrating. Somehow, though, he couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

    He sent several messages to hit up Marcus so that he could talk to the guy about it, but none of his texts were getting read, deepening the mystery. After school, Elliot even swung by the man¡¯s dorm room before taking the bus home, but there was no answer.

    On the bus ride, he finally started watching more of the Doll-girl¡¯s videos. Somehow, it felt safer to do it in public, where people were watching. She wasn¡¯t hiding her face anymore, giving him all the time in the world to study her fake teeth and dead eyes. Was she so devoted to this she got plastic surgery? He asked himself. Is this one of those special effects tuber skins?

    It seemed too real to be digital but too fake to be real, and he was so intent on trying to figure out how the bizarre girl could talk like that that he almost missed his stop. At home, he talked about whatever it was his parents wanted to talk about, but his mind was only on the Doll House. It nagged at him, and once he was finally alone in his room, he skipped Minecraft and started googling for answers.

    ¡°Someone has to know something about this girl,¡± he muttered as he found nothing and resorted to reverse image searches.

    There was nothing, though. Just weird spam sites fishing off keywords and fetish sites that he clicked away from immediately. He tried posting about it on /x/, but his post drifted into obscurity without garnering a single answer. He tried posting the question on Reddit, too. He even got an alert that he had a response to that one. ¡®You really need to be careful with the dollfaced girl¡­¡¯ it started, but when he clicked on it to read the full response, he only saw a note that it had been banned for spam.

    That was when he got the first pop-up for some dolls. It wasn¡¯t too strange, considering the keywords he¡¯d been searching for the last hour, but the fact that it had been the one to make it past his ad blocker struck him as a little odd. There were another couple after that, but soon, that trickle became a flood. Dolls. Doll clothes. Dollhouses. Videos to doll-related sites. Then the first pictures of the dollfaced girl appeared.

    Elliot closed his web browser after that, but even when he brought up his email program to type out a message to his friends about what was going on, he found a draft email already open. ¡®Elliot, why are you ignoring me? I miss you. I miss your views. Please watch my channel, Elliot.¡¯

    He shut the program, powered the machine off, and slowly returned to his bed. The phone lay on the nightstand, but every time he looked at it, it vibrated again with more alerts. Channel updates. Text messages. It was terrifying. It was like he had an obsessive stalker girlfriend he¡¯d never even met.

    Elliot picked up the phone and swiped away the storm of alerts before opening up YouTube. As soon as he managed to do that, he opened up the channel that was stalking him and unfollowed it, bringing the follower count back to zero. At least he tried to. There was pop-up after pop-up that tried to prevent him.

    ¡®Are you sure you wish to unsubscribe from this channel?¡¯

    ¡®Are you really sure? I¡¯ll miss you.¡¯

    ¡®Please don¡¯t go!¡¯

    He pushed past them, and when he was done, he blocked the channel for good measure to end the insanity. That was when his bed started to shake. No - the whole house. He could hear the windows rattling. Then his computer started to turn itself back on. Elliot saw the familiar Windows logo and ran to the wall, pulling the cord out.

    The monitor winked out, letting him breathe a sigh of relief as he sat there on the floor, wondering what the hell was going on. Then it came back on, showing a video of the girly room that was The Doll House.

    ¡°Today on The Doll House, we¡¯re going to talk about my broken heart,¡± she said sadly, in the voice that made his skin crawl. ¡°And see if we can find some new friends. If you don¡¯t help me. I might just have to pay you a visit.¡±

    As she approached the screen, he slowly backed away, sure she was about to crawl through it just like that one horror movie. She didn¡¯t, though. Instead, his phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him enough to give him a heart attack since he was sure he hadn¡¯t put it there.

    ¡®Who would you like to share my site with?¡¯ the pop-up asked.

    He instantly understood why Marcus had sent him that link now and briefly worried about why he wasn¡¯t responding. He closed it. He wasn¡¯t going to be that guy. He was going to figure out how to¡ª

    Elliot¡¯s mind froze as a cold plastic hand gripped his arm. ¡°If you won¡¯t help me find new friends, then I¡¯ll never be able to let you go¡­¡± that dreaded voice whispered.

    He raised the phone with a shaking hand and reluctantly began to type out someone¡¯s email address. Still, when he finished, she whispered, ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I already have Roger and Marcus on my shelf. Maybe Luke or Ryan can help you keep from joining them.¡±

    With his heart hammering in his chest, Elliot typed up a message to two of his remaining friends, well aware of what he was about to do. That horrific knowledge wasn¡¯t enough to stop him from typing a quick note and hitting send, though.

    ¡°God boy,¡± she whispered in his ear.

    Then, just like that, she was gone, and he was left alone in a dark room like it had never happened. At dinner, he discovered no one else had felt the shaking floor or seen the flickering lights. No one else had seen the strange ads either. He tried to explain it to his dad but couldn¡¯t make anything strange happen again. So, he was quickly dismissed and told not to watch so much TV.

    It wasn¡¯t until two days later he got another pop-up. This time he¡¯d been in the bath, and the reflection of the dollfaced girl in the water was more than enough to make him send Jose and Andi a message. Neither seemed to satisfy the monster hiding inside his phone, though. He had to send three more names before Sarah was enough to make the looming shadow of evil vanish.

    This went on day after day, and slowly, his list of friends dwindled to nothing. Elliot felt the constant need to warn them or to respond to the texts they sent him, but he couldn¡¯t bring himself to. He was too ashamed.

    He knew this would all end terribly somehow, but he couldn¡¯t have guessed it would be the day after tomorrow. It was a Wednesday, almost a week from when he¡¯d gotten that first message that he ran out of names. He tried eight, but she already had most of them.

    When she began to crawl out of his monitor, he had nothing left to give the dollfaced girl.

    ¡°Please¡­¡± he whispered, shivering from her touch. ¡°Just one more text. I can find you other people to play with. I can help you find more friends. I can¡­¡±

    ¡°That won¡¯t work anymore,¡± she whispered, stroking his face. ¡°You don¡¯t have any friends left to share me with. From now on, we¡¯ll be together forever.¡±

    She smiled then. He couldn¡¯t see it, but he could hear the plastic of her face creek with the effort, making him shudder. He wanted to run or fight, but the terror that her touch inspired was an oppressive avalanche that made breathing difficult and disobedience impossible. Instead, he looked down in defeat.

    That was when he noticed his hands. They had that same matte shine as Dollface¡¯s skin did. It was terrifying to realize what was happening, as she picked him up without any effort, but he still didn¡¯t believe it. Not even when he balled up his fist and saw the strange joints in action. His skin no longer stretched and moved. Instead, each motion revealed the articulated joints that shouldn¡¯t have existed.

    ¡°Shhhhh,¡± she whispered. ¡°Don¡¯t worry. Now we can play together whenever we want.¡±

    Elliot tried to open his mouth to protest, but there was no longer a mouth to open. Instead, his face had become a seamless plastic mask. Somehow, he couldn¡¯t even muster the strength to reach up and touch it as she walked back into the monitor and took him with her.

 The Mines of Coventry

    An October 2017 Post from the Strange Places Forum, on the Mining Town of Coventry

    I don¡¯t remember how I got the job in Coventry.

    The first thing that sticks out, looking back, is that I couldn¡¯t very well say no. Petra, my partner, and I talked it over, and we just needed the money.

    The physical separation was going to be killer, but we were optimistic that she could find a job nearby and join me after a few months or so. So we kissed goodbye, and I boarded the train and set off.

    On the day I arrived, a pea soup of mist hung over the town. It was even green. I later learned this was not uncommon. But on that first day, the weird greenish haze in the air felt odd. I half-imagined there was a chemical spill.

    Fortunately, the welcome wagon arrived before I got any funny ideas.

    ¡°Hey, you Jules?¡±

    There was only me and two other passengers getting off there, so I must have been easy to identify. The welcome wagon was Terry Blodger, foreperson for Team A of the Coventry Mining Association.

    We introduced ourselves, and Terry gave me the fifty-cent tour.

    ¡°Coventry is the sister town to the British city of the same name. Just like them, we¡¯re kind of post-industrial here. Town wasn¡¯t on the map until the mine opened up, and then it went dry sometime in the early 1950s. We call days like today ¡®easy peasies,¡¯ because we¡¯re instructed to stay home instead of¡ª¡±

    But I wasn¡¯t sure I¡¯d heard part of that right.

    ¡°Excuse me. Did you say the mine went dry?¡± Little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I was there to work in the mine¡ªfor ludicrous wages¡ªand the thought crossed my mind that I¡¯d been the victim of some scam.

    Terry frowned and looked to be searching for words. ¡°Oh yes, of course. The mine doesn¡¯t produce what it used to. We in the Mining Association have another mission now. Surely you were told?¡±

    I shook my head, and Terry rolled his eyes and said something about the ¡°damn unprofessional¡± headhunters the Association was using now.

    I learned that the Mining Association was now employed by a wealthy philanthropist interested in ancient cultures. Nestor Donegal. Made his money in satellites.

    He had them/us looking for artifacts of ancient human activity in the region. Evidence that he believed could be located by going through existing mineshafts. Which was a damned good thing. The gold mines were emptied twenty years ago.

    According to Terry, ¡°Good Ol¡¯ Uncle Moneybags¡± basically resurrected the town.

    ¡°Half the Association¡¯s members had moved away, found new work. The other half were stuck here, desperate, until Donegal threw a lifeline. You won¡¯t hear anyone say a cross word about him,¡± Terry finished.

    ¡°What¡¯s to say bad about him?¡± I asked.

    Terry grinned and made a zipping motion, like ¡®Nice try. My lips are sealed.¡¯

    I thought we would get along.

    My introduction to the mines was different from what I¡¯d expected.

    Terry introduced me to Frank, and Frank was the one who led me into the depths.

    The first thing that was weird was when Frank gave me a gas mask. He said sometimes the green-tinged fog comes into the mines. Problems with the low elevation. The stuff¡¯s not dangerous per se, according to him, but if it¡¯s concentrated, it could knock you out.

    That was why we weren¡¯t allowed to mine in the ¡®easy peasies.¡¯ The gas masks were good to get you out of the mine, but you couldn¡¯t stay. Needless to say, I thought that was weird, but whatever, right? Something for smarter people than me to worry about.

    For the same purposes, we were equipped with through-the-Earth radios. Despite the fact that there was no likelihood of a mine collapse given our gentle activities, we needed to be able to warn other people if we started to see that pea-colored fog.

    Anyway, on that first day, Frank guided me around the mine shaft. It was dark and a bit claustrophobic, but I don¡¯t scare easy. Where the light touched, it was kind of pretty. Hard stone walls and floors, bereft of gold. Almost smooth in places from so much traffic over generations.

    Frank took me near the last place someone found an artifact. They hadn¡¯t found anything else by walking around and looking carefully, but the expectation was that someone would probably find another artifact buried in the wall.

    Frank showed me how we were supposed to dig in that situation. He had a tiny pick, chemical rock polish, and some little brushes. He was weirdly careful. It reminded me that even though I accepted a ¡®mining¡¯ job, we were almost like archaeologists.

    Frank made sure to mention the bonus for any artifacts found.

    ¡°I¡¯ve never found any myself, but a friend of a friend did,¡± he said. ¡°Quite a pretty penny, and Old Donegal had him over for dinner!¡±

    I asked what the artifacts look like. Frank said the ancient civilization¡¯s craftsmanship apparently looked like nothing you¡¯ve ever seen before. Unusual colors and geometries. Hard to describe.

    ¡°They used unique local materials. Now any individual artifact is pretty much one of a kind.¡±

    Now, if you¡¯ve heard any of the weird rumors about Coventry, you¡¯re wondering where the green men come in.

    I¡¯d never heard about them when I started.

    Well, after I left the mine, Terry showed me to my quarters. Provided through the Association like everyone else¡¯s. Complimentary.

    ¡°I could get used to the complimentary stuff,¡± I said. We had a chuckle about that.

    Then I had another tour, of my new pad.

    We started on the ground floor. Pretty decent kitchen. Living room with fireplace. Second floor similarly nice with the bedroom and bathroom perfectly adequate.

    And with just the slightest hint of reluctance, Terry showed me the basement last. It was dank and dark, with lights that didn¡¯t illuminate the whole room. Slightly drafty.

    I remember the way Terry¡¯s nose wrinkled when we stepped off the stairs. Apparently they¡¯d had some issues with mold down there, and they planned to have someone clean it up. But not yet.

    ¡°I guess I won¡¯t spend much time down here,¡± I said out loud.

    Terry muttered something like, ¡°Probably for the best.¡±

    Then I noticed something weird. I hadn¡¯t seen it at first because of the shitty lighting, but there was a big, wrought-iron door on the far wall. Looked sturdy. Reviewing my mental model of the house, I couldn¡¯t imagine where it led.

    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    ¡°Oh, that!¡± Terry noticed where my eyes had landed. ¡°That¡¯s the, uh, boiler room. Root of the mold problem, that. Best not to go in there for your own health. I believe it¡¯s locked.¡± Terry gave the doorknob a quick attempted turn. It didn¡¯t budge.

    I stared at the door for a minute. I couldn¡¯t see where the lock was. I wondered for a crazy moment if it was on the other side of the door. But that wouldn¡¯t make sense. Would it?

    Terry noticed my preoccupation. Teasingly: ¡°Hey, don¡¯t worry, the green men won¡¯t get you!¡±

    That was the first I¡¯d heard of green men, and I said so.

    ¡°Oh. That¡¯s good, really. Just a local superstition.¡±

    I don¡¯t know why, but those words made me shiver. We quickly left the basement.

    After the weekend, I had my first real day at the mines. Things started out normally enough.

    Then I heard Frank call out: ¡°Damn it, it¡¯s that green shit again!¡±

    I turned, and it was the green fog I¡¯d seen when I arrived in town. Inside the confined space of the mine, it felt ominous.

    I freaked a little. Dropped my flashlight, yanked my gas mask on. Fell flat on my face trying to run away. Frank helped me back up, and we retreated.

    The weird thing was when we came back the next day, after the all-clear.

    My flashlight was nowhere to be found. I kept looking out for it the whole day, my eyes periodically shifting to the ground wherever I worked.

    Eventually, Frank noticed and asked what was up. He reported it up the chain, and the Association had a new flashlight for me the next day. Frank said someone probably broke it and just didn¡¯t want to fess up.

    One of our younger workers, Jason, found me at lunch and suggested another theory.

    ¡°The green men took it,¡± Jason said. ¡°Sometimes they need surface technology. Things they don¡¯t have down where they live. When they need things, they come up into the mines.¡±

    ¡°Who are these green men?¡± I asked. ¡°Assuming I believed in such things.¡±

    ¡°Oh, I think they¡¯re the ancient civilization we¡¯re digging for,¡± Jason said, tone casual. ¡°Old Donegal just doesn¡¯t tell people about it, because he doesn¡¯t want to sound crazy. Or something else is going on.¡±

    He¡¯d grown up in Coventry, and he was well versed in local lore. The green men were here before the first humans, legend claimed, and they used to trade with pioneers. There had been a falling out at some point. Maybe the humans were using too many of their natural resources. The green men retreated into a vast network of underground tunnels, and sightings of them stopped.

    ¡°Until a hundred years back, when they started digging the mines.¡± Jason winked knowingly. ¡°You ask any local, and see if they don¡¯t tell you more of the same!¡±

    ¡°And now?¡± I asked. In truth, I thought Jason was a nut, but I liked the guy. I didn¡¯t want to be rude and seem uninterested in his story.

    ¡°Now, maybe what they wanted has changed,¡± he said thoughtfully. ¡°Legends are clear, they used to wanna be left alone. But ever since we¡¯ve been digging here again, that pea-colored mist comes more often. And sometimes things go missing. Tools.¡± He looked at me. ¡°Livestock. Occasionally people.¡±

    ¡°So, why do you still work here?¡± I couldn¡¯t resist asking.

    ¡°Oh, you know, I guess I want to know if it¡¯s really true for myself. Find out the answer to the mystery. Plus, I¡¯ve got a notion that maybe Donegal has some kind of arrangement with them. He¡¯s either got a deal with them done, or he wants to make first contact. Either way, ain¡¯t this kind of an adventure?¡±

    At that point, I excused myself.

    I asked Terry about it, since he was where I first heard of green men, and his face soured. He muttered something under his breath. Sounded like: ¡°Jason¡¯s playing with fire.¡±

    Then, aloud: ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it, Jules. Miners are a superstitious lot. Don¡¯t be like Jason!¡±

    I¡¯d been working for a few months when I had a possible encounter with the green men, if you could call it that.

    Another day was going as normal, when someone shouted the green fog alarm. I put on my gas mask. I began retreating.

    Then I made the mistake of looking back toward the fog.

    I swear to God, I saw living shapes in there. They were just like human figures, but longer. I couldn¡¯t vouch for what color their skin was, of course. I booked it the hell out of there.

    When I told Terry about it later, he said, ¡°I knew I made a mistake mentioning that to you! It¡¯s just local superstition. Now your mind¡¯s playing tricks!¡±

    I didn¡¯t feel that explained it.

    Terry asked if I remembered whether there were people below my elevation in the mine at the time this happened. Maybe I saw other miners rushing up to get out of the fog.

    ¡°That green fog distorts images,¡± Terry said. ¡°Ask anyone. It doesn¡¯t play the same as normal fog. That¡¯s the main reason it¡¯s a hazard.¡±

    That made me feel a little better.

    A few weeks later, we had the makings of a real tragedy.

    The ground shook. A low level earthquake. There was a cave-in.

    Jason was trapped. Alone.

    It was pretty clear he¡¯d injured himself, maybe hit his head. He was saying strange shit over the radio. With a massive pile of rock on top of where we knew he was, and our friend obviously hurt, it didn¡¯t seem like things could get worse. Someone went topside to fetch rescue equipment.

    Almost on cue, the green fog appeared.

    We had to evacuate. There were tough men with tears in their eyes who had to drag themselves away from the rocks. We promised ourselves we¡¯d go back. We promised Jason via radio.

    But the fog didn¡¯t let up. Over Frank¡¯s objections, the bosses sent us home.

    That night, I snuck my radio back with me. I wanted to feel closer to Jason, like I could help him if I could hear what he was saying.

    Stupid sentimental shit. I know.

    Anyway, in the middle of the night, radio starts crackling. I was already asleep, but the noise wakes me up.

    And I¡¯m half-asleep for the rest, but I swear, hand to God, this really happened.

    Jason starts screaming bloody murder over the radio. There was something weird about the sounds, but I was so focused on what he was saying, I didn¡¯t catch it at first. He was frantic. Saying things like: ¡°They¡¯ve got me! Help!¡±

    It was a little garbled, but not so garbled that I couldn¡¯t tell he was in a struggle for his life with someone or something. I pulled my pants on and looked outside my window. I could see the fog was thick as ever. And I still wasn¡¯t quite sure what would happen if I actually spent a lot of time in it. People from the Association would just hem and haw if you asked.

    I was staring outside when the radio went silent. I walked over to check if it was dead, but no.

    Either Jason stopped screaming, or something smashed his radio.

    Then I heard one last sound. It didn¡¯t come from the radio.

    That was when I realized why it sounded weird before. I was hearing the same noises twice, once through the radio and once, muffled, from somewhere closer.

    The radio remained silent, but I heard a scream from somewhere nearby. Downstairs? Outside? My blood ran cold.

    And I froze.

    I¡¯m ashamed to admit it, but I was scared shitless. The first thing I did when I could move was lock my bedroom door. That scream came from way closer than the mine. It was definitely Jason¡¯s voice.

    Whatever got him was within shouting distance.

    I didn¡¯t sleep that night.

    Around sunrise, I went downstairs a little nervously. I jumped and then giggled at every little squeak of the stairs or creak of the house. I tried to tell myself that I had imagined the noises last night. Maybe I had a night terror.

    No. Too real. Too awake by the end for that to be true.

    I went outside, where the wood pile for the fireplace was. I grabbed the wood axe. Then I made myself go down to the basement.

    After hours of lying awake, I¡¯d finally had to admit to myself that was the only place the sound could plausibly have come from.

    How would Jason have gotten from trapped underground to outside my house? He wouldn¡¯t. Impossible.

    I descended the stairs, and flicked on the shitty basement light. I clutched the axe tightly for my own sanity as much as fear of any real danger. At this point, any tiny noise might make me jump out of my skin.

    I went to that wrought-iron door and smashed the wood axe into its most vulnerable spot: the hinges. It took about ten minutes of work. I¡¯m a strong guy, and the axe was good, well-made steel, fortunately.

    Finally, I was able to pull on the doorknob, and the door fell inward onto the floor. I stepped aside as it went down.

    And I looked.

    Instead of a boiler, I saw what I¡¯d half-expected to see.

    What I was afraid of.

    Deep darkness.

    A black tunnel leading into the mines.

    The reality of it made me shiver.

    I bent down to grab the door. I wanted to immediately close it back up and keep whatever got Jason as far away as possible.

    But I dropped it mid-lift, and it fell with a clattering sound that I could feel echo in my bones and into the mines.

    I looked down and saw the texture that had freaked me out.

    There was dried blood on the side of the door. A rust-colored stain, roughly the size and shape of a handprint as the hand gets ripped away from the surface. Or maybe that¡¯s the shape I imagined. The lighting was bad, you understand. I carried an axe downstairs, not a flashlight.

    It wasn¡¯t old. I was pretty sure I knew when it got there.

    Just below that, there was a little smudge of dried greenish goo.

    I wanted to confront the bosses about all this, but I was scared.

    Maybe Jason¡¯s ¡®superstitions¡¯ were true. Maybe green men live underground here. Maybe the bosses at the Association have some dealings with them, or they just want to find them for some reason or other.

    I didn¡¯t care anymore.

    I wanted to get the hell out of Dodge, but the only train would come early in the morning. I¡¯d have to spend one more night in the place.

    So I typed this up for the Strange Places Forum. Never realized this site existed until tonight. Even though some of the posts on Coventry are laughable, I figured this was the place to post a record/warning.

    Something is very wrong here. I¡¯m taking the train out tomorrow. I¡¯ve only told the station clerk who sold me the ticket.

    Hopefully I make it through the night and get on the train, back to civilization.

    Will add more reflections when I return.

    ~ Jules Brody, 10/17/2017 9:22 PM

 [Deleted]

    Hey, long-time lurker, first-time poster. So, this is my story, for context, I, 32M, and I recently got transferred for work to another country. My wife (26F) and I were super stoked about this new chapter. It had a better climate and cheaper cost of living, and I was even keeping my same salary. And finally, we could think of building our family. Win-win, right?

    The challenge was that we decided I''d move first to settle down, find a place, etc., and then she''d join me. She didn''t want to quit her job that she loved without a gig first. Being away from my wife for more than a few days is a new kind of torture. We had only been separated twice for two to three days due to our jobs. We have been together since high school and have never been parted. She is my best friend above all. But adulting requires sacrifices, so off I went.

    I scored this itty-bitty but totally clutch studio apartment. We''re talking room and kitchen squished into one teeny space. Def not couple-friendly unless you''re into living like canned sardines, but it''ll do the trick for a few months.

    The moment I walk in, I get hit with this wave of d¨¦j¨¤ vu. It''s like I''ve time-travelled back to my college days. Picture this: the same crappy IKEA furniture that''s been through more relationships than most of my friends. The walls? That kind of beige that screams, "I''m not a prison cell, but I''m not a home, either." But, man, the nostalgia kicks in hard.

    I couldn''t help but think, "This is just like that dingy studio I had next to campus when I was getting my feet wet in the world of adulting." Those were the days of instant ramen and two-day-old pizza, a time when you wake up to the smell of... let''s call it ''herbal essence'' wafting through the thin walls from the who-knows-which neighbour.

    It¡¯s got that same chaotic but cosy vibe that says, "Hey, life''s a mess, but at least you''ve got a roof over your head." So, yeah, I was sold and took the place. It''s like life''s giving me a do-over or at least a chance to relive my less complicated days. Still baffled me how the universe managed to duplicate that in a different country is beyond me. It''s a nice little slice of nostalgia while I hunt for our dream home.

    The new workplace? Weirdly identical to my old one. It''s like they CTRL+C, CTRL+V''d the whole setup. Made it easier but comforting at the same time. Which made it harder to miss home. The job functions were pretty much a carbon copy, but the people: totally new faces, especially for this one girl¡ªlet''s call her Fatima.

    Now, Fatima is a bit, let''s say, unconventional. Keeps to herself but is a total whiz at the job. I''ve actually learned a ton from her. But here''s where things got odd: whenever people need help, and both of us are there, they bypass her and come straight to me. Mind you, I''m the newbie, and she''s the seasoned pro. I can''t describe how uncomfortable it makes me feel. I had no idea why people would avoid her and not speak at all to her.

    The time zone thing was kicking my ass. My wife and I barely got to talk, thanks to a substantial time difference and our wonky schedules. We''ve been reduced to texting, but every "I love you" and "I miss you" from her makes the distance feel a little less painful. But still, I really miss her, especially the end-day chat when we would tell each other how our days went on.

    The most hard part is the house-hunting has been an absolute disaster. I mean, I''ve done everything short of begging on my knees. Visiting places, offering more, offering cash¡ªeven going above the asking price. No dice. At this point, it feels like the universe is saying, "You shall not pass!" in its best Gandalf voice.

    Work? Yeah, no... It''s reached the point where I''m so bored, I''ve considered doing cartwheels in the office just to feel something. And with the time zone differences, I can only text with my wife, friends, and family. Nobody has much to say except "miss you" and "hope you''re well." It''s like living in a vacuum of loneliness over here.

    But the juiciest bit of all? The whole Fatima rumours situation. Now, I''ve always known that office gossip spreads faster than wildfire, but this is next level. People have started labelling her as a "stalker" and not in a cutesy, rom-com way. We''re talking full-on "I''ll find you wherever you go" vibes. A coworker told me she''s been seen popping up at places like grocery stores, gyms, and even outside people''s homes. He thought she might be obsessed with him and had watched her staring at him more than twice. It''s pretty weird since I talked to Fatima daily, and she never mentioned any interest in anyone, less at work.

    Also, I work beside her, I sit literally side by side with her, and I haven''t noticed anything stalker-ish about her. She''s always been nice, albeit a bit on the quiet side. Sure, her dark humour is a bit unsettling for some, but it keeps me entertained. You need something when you''re stuck in perpetual d¨¦j¨¤ vu. And she was able to make it less dull.

    So, another big nail to my coffin, Halloween is just not a thing, which kind of sucks. Halloween holds a very special place in my heart; it''s the day my wife and I first met when we still were kids. But here, no ghouls, no trick-or-treating, no joyous screams in haunted houses¡ªnone of that good stuff. Is just something that nobody does here.

    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    But they''ve got this alternative¡ªAll Saints Day on November 1st, also known as "the day of the dead." To be not mistaken with the cool Mexican holiday with the awesome sugar skulls, this one is a bit more sombre.

    Fatima broke it down for me: folks here go all out visiting cemeteries, laying down flowers, and essentially having a cryfest after lunch and then go home. It¡¯s like a gathering of spirits, asking them to "return home."

    And here''s where Fatima dropped another one of her cryptic gems. When I asked her what she meant by "return home" (like, heaven, maybe?), she paused for a moment, shrugged, and said, "Wherever they belong."

    Uh, okay, very comforting, Fatima. Especially when said in the same tone, one might use to ask if you want fries with that. I laughed it off. Some folks here hate to talk about politics and religion. So, one must respect that.

    So, between the monotony of work, the never-ending quest to find a home, and now navigating through these strange customs, I decided to work on All Saints Day. That way, I could get the 24th off and actually go back to my own country to see my wife for an extended weekend.

    Naturally, I asked Fatima what she was going to do, and she gave me this existential nugget: "I never enjoy any holiday." I mean, I knew she was a workaholic and a lone wolf and all, but that response was so deadpan that it surprised me. She was quiet, but she usually was witty. Something about this day made her gloomy. I wondered many times if she avoided the holiday to not go to the cemetery. That was the only reason I could think of.

    Then, just to crank up the creepy factor to 11, remember the dude who told me that Fatima was stalker-ish? Well, he''s gone. Like, disappeared, vanished, POOF! No one knows if he quit, got abducted by aliens, or what. Two other people who whispered the same thing about Fatima? Also gone. I asked Fatima about it, and she looked me dead in the eyes and said, "They went home." Now, I''ve got a twisted sense of humour, but even I found that reply a tad... chilling.

    On the flip side, Fatima''s dark humour does make me chuckle. We even have this thing now where we trade bad jokes and dark one-liners back and forth. It''s our little after-work ritual, and it''s the closest thing to normal I''ve experienced in this cultural funhouse.

    I know, I know, some folks at the office have been giving me the side-eye, probably thinking something''s going on between us. But nope, it''s just friendship. Fatima''s dry, dark humour is pretty much the highlight of my monotonous days.

    So, cut to the 31st. I volunteer to work, right? Get to the office building, and something''s seriously off. This place usually screams corporate classiness, but now it looks like a construction site''s ugly stepsibling. No elevators. Had to climb up five flights of stairs, and let me tell you, the atmosphere was downright eerie.

    Once I get to my floor, it''s like I''ve stepped into another dimension. Gone are the cubicles, computers, and even doors. The whole space is barren except for candles and incense. It felt like a mix between a s¨¦ance and an art installation.

    But here¡¯s where things go full-on. Twilight Zone: There are framed portraits set up around the space. And not just random faces¡ªthese are pictures of my coworkers, people I''ve met and talked to. The kicker? Some of these are the folks who''ve mysteriously gone "home," as Fatima so cryptically put it.

    Needless to say, my heart was pounding like crazy. I''m not sure if this was some elaborate All Saints prank, if it was even a thing, or if I''ve stumbled upon some ritualistic altar. I mean, if this was back home, I''d be marvelling at the effort someone put into this. This would be the best Halloween setup ever! But being in a foreign country, far away from everything familiar? And no Halloween. It feels downright unsettling.

    So, there I am, standing in what looks like an abandoned building and in walks Fatima. She''s got this ghostly vibe, you know? I''m not one to go all woo-woo or whatever; I''m a feet-on-the-ground, facts-in-my-face kind of guy. But, man, I''m shook. She points to a chair, and I sit. No questions asked, okay? Fight or flight, and my ass chose ''sit,'' apparently.

    "What''s going on?" I asked her, and for some reason, I was eyeballing the cracks on the floor before I asked again, "What happened here?"

    She gives me this half-shrug and mutters, "You''re the last one."

    Last one? That''s some horror movie shit dialogue right there, and I''m thinking I might become the next unsuspecting victim in a true-crime documentary on Netflix. She must sense my alarm because she suddenly asks, "Did you call home?"

    Seems like a left-field question, but whatever and answered, "Texted."

    She glared at me like a psycho or insert horror movies here and told me, "Call. Maybe you''ll understand if you call." She wasn''t asking.

    So, it''s late as hell, right? It''s like 3 a.m. in my time zone, but Fatima insists. I call. My wife picks up. She''s a sobbing mess, blubbering about how I need to leave her alone and that she''s moved on. To not call her, to not text her, just to leave her alone. I can''t even get a word in before she hangs up. What the actual fuck, right? At this point, I''m praying to a god I don''t give a crap to make this just a very bad-taste prank.

    I immediately called back. This time, she just screams and hangs up. My heart''s pounding like I''ve downed five Red Bulls.

    I turn to Fatima for an explanation, but she''s looking all impatient, checking her watch like she''s got somewhere better to be. "

    ¡°You still don''t get it?" she asked.

    I''m about to tell her she''s nuts for asking such an absurd question when she hits me with it: "Five years ago, a plane crashed in the Atlantic. One hundred thirty-seven people died."

    "So?" I said. "What''s that got to do with me?"

    She just said, "They never found your body."

    I wish I could argue that I didn''t believe her, that I needed proof. It wasn''t possible I was dead. But it all made sense. Everything looked familiar because I never truly left. I never reached where I was supposed to. I knew about All Saints because I commented with my wife how creepier it was than Halloween. A day to cry and mourn the dead.

    Fatima handed me a laptop. "Time to go home," she said. "Write your story. Tell them where you really are."

    So, here I am. If you''re reading this and, for some ungodly reason, you believe it''s real, you can find my body at 14.5994¡ã S, 28.6731¡ã W. Look, I don''t know how this internet ghost shit works, but I really want to go home, okay?

 Foolish Mortal

    A blue car made its way across the green fields, between the hedges and over the humpback bridges. In the car sat a small family, Father made a crude joke and Son laughed, Mother glared at father, but could not keep the loving, tolerant expression off her face for long.

    Father grinned at his wife and rolled down the windows of the car, sending her carefully brushed hair into a messy bush of unruly strands. Mother laughed, and punched him in the arm. They all laughed. Except Daughter. Daughter had her headphones in and was drowning them out with loud music.

    Father accelerated up a bridge, making the three of them giggle as gravity seemed to forget they all existed for a second. Then he quickly pulled into a drive and sped down it, the car skidding to a neat stop as he braked hard in front of their house.

    Father turned the car key and took a step out, he stretched his arms behind his head. Son got out and took the car keys from him, running up to the door of the house. He fiddled with the various keys, taking the largest one and slipping it into the lock.

    The door opened smoothly and Son ran in and up the stairs. He reached his room and looked in, seeing his hamster running on its wheel. He grabbed the hamster and slipped across the hall into his sister''s room, tucking the hamster under the sheets as a surprise.

    He looked out of the window, spying on his family. Mother had gone to check on the chickens, Father was unloading the luggage, and Sister was still sitting in the back, obliviously listening to her loud music and scrolling through her phone.

    He rubbed his hand with anticipation at his sister''s reaction, then went downstairs to the kitchen to seek a snack. Father had finished unloading the luggage and sneakily reached through the still open window, taking Daughters phone. She glared and shouted at Father in outrage, but he just smiled and ran into the house, to hide the phone.

    Mother had finished checking on the chickens and walked back to the house. She saw her daughter getting out of the car. Mother planted a peck on daughters angry cheek, and followed father into the house.

    Daughter angrily stomped up the stairs of the front porch and marched into the house with an irritable expression. She saw her brother munching on a biscuit and glared at him, pinching him as she passed, taking out her anger on the younger one. Her brother yelped in pain, but adopted a wolfish grin behind her back as she climbed the stairs.

    It did not take long for Daughter to scream.

    Son burst into laughter and went to collect his hamster.

    Father and Mother didn¡¯t hear the scream as they were on the other side of the house, they had locked their bedroom door and were kissing on the bed, nothing short of the smoke alarm could

    disturb them. Son managed to retrieve his shaken hamster without many kicks and likewise retreated to his room.

    Daughter angrily stewed as the rest of her family retreated to their own devices. Her face had a permanent scowl carved into it. She hated holidays, they were the worst, she preferred term time when she could escape all of them and live in her boarding school, without going home for terms at a time.

    She kicked her bed frame. Without her phone there was nothing to do. She wished she could get to it so that she could see Boyfriend¡¯s response to that funny picture she had sent him. Sadly she had no idea where her phone was, and she didn¡¯t go to bed normally for at least several hours.

    She glanced out the window, seeing the moon that had swapped with the sun not that long ago.

    Angrily she stomped downstairs, trying to make as much noise as possible.

    No one yelled at her, they were too used to her permanent moody attitude.

    Daughter looked around, bored. She didn¡¯t want to snack because she was on a diet and wanted to look good in a bikini, she didn¡¯t want to watch TV because it was lame and unrealistic. She came to a mirror in the hallway and turned, looking into her own glaring eyes. Her scowl was almost permanent, only when she was around her boyfriend could she smile, any other time her face contorted automatically into a scowl. Sure she could change it, but the moment she was distracted, the scowl came back.

    Her mother had told her the wind had changed when she was little, and now the angry expression was permanent. She hated that old wives tale as much as her mother loved it. Daughter eyed the door, maybe she should go for a walk. There was nothing else to do after all, her family wouldn¡¯t notice her absence and exercise made her happier.

    Unable to come up with anything better to do she went and found her boots, bashing the dirt off them together in the hallway to annoy her mother. Then she slipped them on, and pushed the unlocked door open, quietly slipping out. She didn¡¯t need a coat, it was never cold enough this time of year, day or night.

    They never locked their front door or their car, no one ever came out to this house in the middle of nowhere. The drive was sufficiently unobvious that people just assumed it was a dirt track leading to a field, so no visitors ever appeared unarranged.

    Daughter jumped over the creaky porch step and set off at a brisk walk, she would take the path down from behind the chicken coops all the way down to the quarry and from there follow the river to the glade.

    The glade was a place she had discovered as a child. No one knew about it, not even her brother. She went there sometimes to hit trees with sticks and listen to loud music without being disturbed. Once or twice she had even fallen asleep there, staying the whole night on a soft bed of moss.

    Daughter soon reached the quarry, scrambling down a sleep slope of shingles and over some abandoned machinery to reach the fast flowing river. A little partially rotten rope bridge allowed her to cross the water. Then it was a matter of skirting the edge of the water on that narrow path.

    It had been easier to traverse when she was younger.

    Daughter managed to follow the river for a mile or two, almost falling into the cold looking water once or twice in spots where the water had eroded the soft clay that made up the river banks. Soon she reached the landmark she knew so well, a forked tree with a gnarled rough patch of bark that looked like a person''s face.

    Her brother would think it was awesome, which is why she had never told him about it. A short scramble through the brush, which was more overgrown and resistant than she remembered, and she managed to break through to the glade.

    Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    The world seemed to darken as she entered what had been a delightful valley. It was the first time she had visited it at night. She had of course slept here before, but she had never woken up in the night those times.

    The glade at night made her shiver. Twisted trees that looked like people stood at the edges of the glade, surrounding the dark maw-like pond like a depraved cult gathered around a bloody altar.

    It was similar to what she remembered, but it all felt wrong.

    She realized she had zoned out, staring in shock at the twisted vista of a centerpiece of her childhood. It didn¡¯t feel as hospitable as it once had.

    However, to a girl that loved horror movies and metal bands, this was a thrilling place. So instead of taking a step back, she took one forward, and another. Soon she reached the pond and knelt on the green moss, staring into the mirrored black surface of the pond.

    The water seemed to ripple for a moment and then her reflection appeared. She saw that she wasn¡¯t scowling anymore. Her expression seemed to have adopted the same elated grin that her brother often wore.

    She widened her smile at the reflection and waved at it.

    The reflection remained still.

    It did not copy her wave.

    Suddenly, and very creepily, the reflection rolled its eyes at her and waved. Exactly how she had done.

    Shocked agape the girl stared at its surface. Was she dreaming or hallucinating?

    The reflection copied her expression a few seconds later.

    Daughter stared at the pond, a hunger in her eyes demanding she know how what she just had witnessed was possible.

    She waved again and counted until its response, it seemed to have a delay of around ten seconds.

    Slightly disturbed, she reached out to the surface of the pond and touched it, the ripples disturbed the reflection and it seemed to wobble out before the pond became still again. Daughter waved at the reflection, surprised when it suddenly waved with her, instead of delayed. Why had it changed? She was certain that the weird delayed reflection was not a dream.

    Frowning, she poked the reflection again, trying to get it to return to how it was. The reflection wobbled away and after the pond stilled it waved at her. Confused, she waved back, but it did not react.

    It mouthed something at her, it almost looked like her reflection was warning her, she couldn¡¯t read lips though so she asked it what it meant out loud.

    Then she froze as it dawned on her, the reflection was delayed at the start, then it matched her. Was it possible that the reflection was now ahead of her?

    The reflection looked up, it looked like something just out of view had caught its attention. Unable to stop herself she looked up.

    Nothing was there. Only the moon light shining through the dark canopy of the rustling leaves above.

    She looked back down.

    The reflection had gone.

    Daughter shivered, her mind racing. Why had it left? Had something disturbed it? She didn¡¯t feel like she wanted to move, so why had it? She leaned forward, trying to get a different view on the pond, to see if it was still somewhere in the glade.

    Suddenly she slipped, falling forward into the maw that was the pond, the water swallowing her. Water gave way to air as she seemed to fall into the pond and out the other side, onto the bank. Soaking wet she looked around, scared. It had felt like she had somehow jumped into the reflection of the world, but that didn¡¯t make sense. It couldn¡¯t make sense. Scared and confused, she backed away from the pond and ran back tearing through the bush and bracken as she made her way back to the river.

    The river felt slightly wrong, it was rushing too fast and the bank she had walked along to get to the glade was overgrown. She reassured herself. It must just be the darkness.

    She tore her way along the path, breaking through bush and branch for what felt like a mile to reach where the bridge was.

    Finally, she turned a familiar bend in the river, only to find that the bridge was gone. Had there been some freak flash flood while she had been in the glade?

    She made her way further up the river until she found a place where the river flowed slower. She was already wet, so swimming across the river shouldn''t be too bad.

    The flow of the river tugged at her and she let it take her, swimming diagonally across the water to reach the other side. Then she scrambled up the bank, still dripping to reach¡­ The quarry was gone.

    Where there had once been a massive chunk carved out of the landscape in ages past formed by decades of mining the chalk, there was now just a field. An overgrown field filled with ferns and bracken.

    Daughter ran through the field in her panic, feeling her skin tear off around her ankles where the thorns dug in. She ignored the pain in her hurry to reach the house. She ran up through the woods, where she knew the path had been, until she reached where her house had been.

    Nothing was here. There was a clearing in the forest, just grass with a few fallen leaves littered around. The house wasn¡¯t here, the chicken coops were gone, even the car was gone.

    Almost giving herself a false hope she ran out of the clearing to where she knew the road had been...

    Her hopes were denied.

    She panicked. She knew this was the right place because all the familiar bumps and trees and hills she had grown up around were present, just nothing artificial. It was like she was in a world that man had never touched.

    Then she remembered the feeling she had had when she had fallen into the pond. Was it possible that she had somehow fallen through the reflection into a completely different world. Excited, she made her way back to the glade, through the wood, over the field, across the river, along the bank and through the bush.

    The clearing was as she remembered it. However it didn¡¯t feel quite so creepy anymore. Like something that had made it that way had gone.

    Excited, she ran over to the pond and looked down into it, ignoring the protests of her bleeding shins as she kneeled down.

    Her reflection was gone.

    That didn¡¯t matter too much, she just had to lean forward¡­ and bonk. Her forehead hit the surface of the water and bounced off, she sprawled forward onto the pond clutching for her head.

    Somehow she lay on top of the water.

    Through the pain she reached down and felt it. It was smooth like glass.

    It was like a barrier stopped her from crossing through it again.

    Daughter curled up into a ball, scared. What had happened to her? Why was she trapped like this? Tears ran down her cheek as she desperately wished just to be in her bed again. She

    would give anything for that wish to be true, she would even buy her brother more hamsters.

    A cold feeling approached. A presence was here. Something was watching her. Shaken, she sat up and looked around.

    There was no wind, the moon was hidden by the trees. No one seemed to be here.

    Then she remembered the pond and looked down.

    Her reflection stood on the other side, looking down on her with a mocking gaze.

    She tried to reach out and touch it but the surface of the water blocked her.

    She bashed on the water, her fists not making a noise. Yelling to be let out of whatever prison her reflection had trapped her in. Then the reflection smirked and spoke in a hissing voice. ¡°Thank You Human, for freeing me from my eternal prison¡±

    The reflection seemed to ripple and warp, until she was left looking at a grey skinned creature, unnaturally tall, and faceless except for a hideous maw that split the blank oval of its skull like a

    scar, filled with shiny dark fangs.

    ¡°Many Aeons ago witches sealed me in this pond, scared of my power they vowed I never shall return to the mortal plane¡­ But you let me out. As a foolish child you desecrated the magic circle that sealed me and weakened the trees that suppressed me. And now at last, after years of patiently waiting, I managed to trick you into swapping places with me. Don¡¯t worry, you will not die¡­ Ever.

    Have fun watching your body wither until it reaches a state you can barely call alive, nothing you try can kill yourself in this prison. Maybe once you distil long enough you will become like me, and trick another curious human into swapping places with you. As for me, I think I will take your place, I will become you and your family will love me

    more than they ever loved you. Goodnight Sweet Fool!¡±

    Then Daughter watched the Imposter turn to leave, watched it transform back into her and step through the bush.

    Then everything was silent.

    In the days after that Daughter found she no longer needed sustenance, nor sleep. Her body seemed to persist, no matter what her mind did, and she could not break the surface of the

    pond, no matter how hard she tried.

    Once her mind had given up she tried to hang herself, and found her body slowly repaired itself to the minimum required level to keep herself alive. No matter what she tried she could not die.

    As for her family, they found their daughter had changed for the better, becoming someone they

    could love again.

    No one knew she had gone.

 Harolds Journal

    This is the journal of Harold Spencer, found next to his body on the afternoon of August 8th, 2010.

    August 13th, 2009

    Emily gave me this journal today, saying it might be good for me to write stuff down, so I''m doing that.

    I guess I''m supposed to write about my day... It''s weird putting my thoughts on paper, but it might be easier to think of this as writing a letter to a friend. Yeah, that''ll work.

    Emily and her kids came over today because it''s my birthday. James and Maria are growing so fast; I wish they could visit more. People always say you get lonelier as you get older, and they''re totally right. Even with Rose and Elliot around, I miss everyone else a lot.

    After Emily and the kids left, I went to the garage to work on my new project. I''m making a small chair for Maria, but I hope she doesn''t get too big before I finish it. The weird thing is I couldn''t find my screwdriver, and I looked everywhere. I always keep my tools in the same spot, so it''s strange.

    I decided to call it a day on the project and went upstairs to watch a new TV show with Rose. It was pretty cool... about a chemistry teacher. I can''t remember the name right now, but I''ll figure it out. Aging can be a bitch.

    October 23th, 2009

    My silent confidant, dealing with Elliot lately, has been a real challenge. On top of him being out of work for over a year, he''s started nitpicking and arguing with me about the silliest stuff.

    I was hunting around for the house keys today, and he jumped in to help. Naturally, I said yes because it''s such a small thing, right? I mean, everybody misplaces their keys all the time.

    But Elliot found them super fast, right on my nightstand, of all places. It could''ve been a funny, "Oh, look at that" moment, but no, he had to make a big deal about it and acted like I was being forgetful or something.

    It was just a key!

    And, of course, I didn¡¯t just let it slide. I stood up for myself because, well, I had to. I¡¯m an 80-year-old veteran, for crying out loud. I¡¯m allowed to forget things from time to time. I won''t stand for being disrespected in my own house, especially not by my son.

    Sorry for the rant, trusty journal. I just needed to get that off my chest.

    Maybe I should make peace with Elliot, though. Despite it all, he''s a good kid.

    December 24th, 2009

    I''m at a loss for why Rose acted the way she did.

    I''ve been mulling over this morning''s incident all day.

    Just yesterday, I picked up a gift for Elliot: a shiny new phone, one of those high-end ones. Now, I don''t usually splurge like that, but here''s the thing: Elliot''s diving into a new venture, making use of my old carpentry tools, and selling some woodwork (proud to see the little bastard finally tapping into the family talent).

    I caught a segment on TV about how the internet''s all the rage now, with folks selling all sorts of items online. That got me thinking¡ªwhat if Elliot had a phone with a camera? He could interact with clients and snap photos of his work from one device.

    I didn''t loop Rose in on the plan. I just headed to the store and bought the phone. But oh, she was not happy. Not one bit. She continued about how it was too pricey and reckless and questioned if I could take it back.

    I stood my ground, though. I insisted it was a thoughtful gift and that Elliot could benefit.

    She didn''t push further, and that was that. I tucked the gift away in the wardrobe and went to bed.

    But come morning, the gift had vanished. Not wanting another silly argument, I took up the search myself and found it tucked away under our bed, hidden in a quiet corner.

    What''s Rose''s angle in hiding it from me? I''m struggling to find any logical explanation. If I were the type to buy into ghost stories, I''d be getting scared right about now.

    February 12th, 2010

    I''m freaked out. Can you believe that? I''m actually scared. I woke up super thirsty last night, and Rose wasn''t in bed. I thought she was probably in the bathroom, so I headed downstairs to get some water. But then I heard them talking in the kitchen, trying to keep their voices down.

    "How long can we keep pretending?" That was Rose, talking so low she probably thought I couldn''t hear.

    "Not much longer, Mom. Things are bad. We gotta do something," Elliot said.

    "He won''t want to. You know how he is."

    "We don''t need him to agree, Mom. Soon, he won''t even get what''s going on."

    "Elliot, stop! That''s your dad!"

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    "I know, but... we''re out of options. It''s now or never."

    "And he can''t know."

    "Does he still control the money?"

    "Yeah, for now. But not if things go our way."

    ¡°It feels wrong¡­ tricking him like this, mom.¡± Elliot sounded upset like he might cry.

    I couldn''t listen anymore. My heart was racing, so I snuck back to bed. What are they planning? Taking me to a doctor? I feel excellent.

    But the part about money? That''s stuck in my head. They could''ve just asked me. Why all the secrets? It''s messed up, feeling scared of your own family. What a mess.

    March 1st, 2010

    I just woke up, it''s like ten at night, and my door''s locked. I got into a major argument with Rose earlier. She''s pushing for me to see a doctor. Why, though? So they find some excuse for her and Elliot to snatch my savings? No way. I didn''t tell her that, but I swear she could see in my eyes that I was onto them.

    Honestly, I''m lost. And them locking me in my room? That''s just not right... I can''t handle this.

    I just found the keys to get out.

    They were in my pocket the whole time.

    What''s going on with me?

    Maybe... maybe I should see that doctor with Rose.

    May 12th, 2010

    Today, I watched an exciting show on TV. It''s about a chemistry teacher who starts breaking the law to help his family. This story really hit close to home. I wish I''d seen it sooner.

    The main character made me think much about my dad, and I got pretty emotional. My dad was the one who taught me all about carpentry. He gave me my first screwdriver, the same one I can''t seem to find anywhere now.

    I miss him more than I can say.

    That feeling grew stronger tonight when I was looking at some old family photos before settling down to write. There was something odd about the pictures, like a shadow hanging over us all, getting darker when it came to me.

    The TV was still on, but I''m sure I heard a voice. It sounded like my dad, but what it told me to do... Maybe I shouldn''t write that part down.

    Some things are better left forgotten.

    August 5th, 2010

    They''re messing with my medication.

    I caught Elliot in the act right there in the kitchen. He thought he was being sly, but I saw everything.

    He slipped in an extra pill, a red one. I''ve always taken three pills daily: two white and one blue. They''re for my diabetes and heart condition.

    But a red one? Never taken that one before. So, I pretended to swallow it, then discreetly spat it out in the bathroom a few moments later.

    My own son, trying to poison me with who knows what. I can see the remorse in his eyes, but that won''t save him from divine retribution. Did I raise him so well, all of them, to be treated like this at the end of my life? No, thank you. I need to do something to protect myself.

    August 6th, 2010

    I''m not sure how, but Elliot is changing our family photos. There''s a man in every picture sitting next to Rose, and that man isn''t me. I recognize my own reflection, and this person is a stranger.

    I only started realizing it today, my friend. He modifies every photo to include this repulsive man with a twisted face. His features are grotesque, his eyes a sinister black, peering into my very soul. He''s after my family. In fact, in the photos, it seems he''s already part of it.

    Why would Elliot do this to me? And why is Rose going along with it? It''s beyond my comprehension.

    They''re trying to make me appear insane, unhinged, perhaps to seize the house and drain my bank account. But I won''t let that happen. I''ll confront them sooner rather than later. I''m a veteran, for heaven''s sake; I must take action before it''s too late, before they plot my end. Honestly, my silent friend, I¡¯m afraid of what Rose will say to me.

    Now that I''m putting this down on paper, a memory resurfaces. I overheard Rose and Elliot mentioning someone coming to fetch us on the 8th. That means I have two days to formulate a plan.

    August 8th, 2010

    Oh, God! I feel like I''m losing my mind. I can''t believe this... I¡¯m sick in the head.

    Everything makes sense now. It''s ten in the morning, and I''ve just talked with Rose. She revealed all that''s happening over the past few months. She showed me a video about dementia, her eyes filled with tears as she apologized. Elliot was there, too, crying nonstop.

    They urged me to read through my journal, and I''ve just done so.

    The horrendous things I wrote down... How could I have failed to connect the dots? They were merely trying to assist me. My memory is like Swiss cheese, full of holes, but I''ve managed to piece together some parts and feel a bit more grounded.

    An ambulance is scheduled to arrive later today, in the afternoon, and I''ll be on my way to consult a doctor. Soon, I''ll regain my health, start my medication, and resume my role as a caring husband, father, and grandfather.

    I plan to keep this journal entry close at all times and revisit it from time to time. This way, I won''t let myself forget again.

    I¡¯ll put it in my pocket. Yes, it seems wise.

    I''m still scared, down to my very bones, but now I recognize that the loving care of my family surrounds me.

    August 8th, 2010

    The time''s here. I can''t wait any longer. If I don''t do something now, they will kill me. What''s next, replace me with the man in the photos? No way, I can''t let that happen.

    Today''s probably the worst day of my life. It''s three-thirty in the afternoon, and I''m just waiting for them to finish me off.

    Right after lunch, Rose told me we had to get ready to go, that the ambulance was coming at four. I didn''t agree at all. I never said yes to going to a hospital or anywhere, and now they''re pushing me... but I know we''re not going to any hospital.

    After we talked, I wouldn''t get up from my chair, so Elliot tried to make me. I showed him what I''m made of, though his face got the worst of it. But I couldn''t hold them off for long.

    He and Rose dragged me upstairs, both crying the whole time. But who''d fall for those tears?

    And that wasn''t even the worst part.

    When they wanted me to shower, and I said no, they undressed me. That''s when a piece of paper fell out of my pocket, and Rose quickly stuffed it into her pocket. They can¡¯t stop hiding things from me. I ended up showering to avoid more embarrassment.

    If today''s my last day, I will face it like the soldier I am.

    I just read all the previous entries and see how they plotted against me. Father is talking to me again, and now I¡¯ll follow his command.

    No one''s taking my place, and no one''s pushing me around in my own home.

    I found my screwdriver, the one I''d been missing, on my nightstand.

    I¡¯ll make them pay.

    August 8th, 2010. 5. pm. - Police radio

    Attention all units: we''ve got a 10-34 in progress, severe family assault. Be on the lookout for an elderly white male with a thin build and white hair, wearing blood-drenched clothes. He''s armed and dangerous, carrying a screwdriver, and appears disoriented, clutching a journal.

    Last seen on foot, moving unpredictably through the midtown sector near Parkway. Approach with extreme caution. The suspect''s mental state is questionable, making him highly unpredictable.

    The perpetrator is involved in a gruesome attack at his family residence; He brutally assaulted the victims with a tool presumed to be the screwdriver in his possession. One nurse and one ambulance driver were also wounded. Need immediate backup in the area. Units responding, acknowledge and update status ASAP. Stay sharp out there. Over.

 Headache

    The only thing more unpleasant than my awful pounding headache is the heavy scent of copper in the air. Those awful rats must have found some wires to gnaw on again.

    It¡¯s a wonder how they¡¯re still alive, I¡¯ve used every type of trap, every sort of bait, and yet I¡¯ve only caught four.

    Turning around I reach out for my glass, making sure not to disturb Harper in the process.

    Grabbing a hold of my cup, I lift it up to my lips but unfortunately, there¡¯s no water in it to sate my thirst and relieve my headache.

    I almost let out a groan but I stop myself just in time, if Harper wakes up this night will get so much worse.

    Carefully sliding out from under the covers, I stand up, and immediately everything starts spinning.

    Reaching out with my arms I steady myself against the wall, waiting for this temporary blindness to pass. Thankfully I don¡¯t have to wait long as in a few seconds, my vision clears up enough for me to see again, not that there¡¯s a lot to see.

    The invasive pain still remains though and since there¡¯s no way I can sleep with this awful headache, walking down the stairs to get some more water and a handful of painkillers seems to be my only option.

    It¡¯ll only take a few minutes but it¡¯s enough to make me greatly regret not keeping a few of those beautiful pills up here and ensuring my glass was filled, I just want to sleep.

    Groping around on the cabinet I pick up my phone but I must have done something to offend God because even after pressing down on the power button a couple of times it doesn¡¯t turn on.

    Hopefully, I¡¯ve just forgotten to charge it since I really don¡¯t have the spare money to fix it or get a new phone.

    At least even without my phone''s gentle light to guide me, I can still navigate my way to the door and make my way to the kitchen, it¡¯s just going to take longer, that¡¯s all.

    Carefully tip-toeing over to the bedroom door, I gently open it, then slip out as quietly as possible.

    It¡¯s pitch black so I have to feel my way towards the hallway light switch and when I flick it on nothing happens.

    I feel myself deflating a little, whatever wires those rats chewed through must have been connected to the lights.

    The staircase isn¡¯t that far away but still, why couldn¡¯t Great Uncle Frederick have just put a bathroom on the second story?

    If he did that I¡¯d probably have stored the medicine box there and even if I didn¡¯t at this point I¡¯ll settle for just getting some water.

    But because he didn¡¯t do that I¡¯m going to have to blindly make my way down some old, rickety stairs, without even a little bit of natural light to help guide me.

    Honestly, if he was going to board up every window in the house what was the point of even having them?

    Letting out a slight sigh, I walk towards the staircase, carefully tracing my path forward by keeping my hands pressed against the wall.

    Once I place my foot down on nothing but air, I realize I¡¯m at the staircase and slowly and carefully, I begin making my way down it with the speed of an elderly snail.

    After traversing down the stairs for what feels like hours but is probably closer to a minute or two, I reach the bottom and that¡¯s when I remember that I¡¯ve forgotten to bring along my cup.

    It completely slipped my mind, probably thanks to this bizarre headache, normally when I get them it¡¯s just like needles being jabbed into my brain but this one is like a fog, a sharp, painful, fog.

    Though I suppose it could also just be the lacklustre sleep I¡¯ve had for the past few weeks that¡¯s made me forget to bring along my cup. I mean at least it¡¯s no big deal, I¡¯ll just get a new one, I¡¯m going into the kitchen anyway.

    Reaching out I flick the nearby foyer light switch and while it does work and the room lights up, it¡¯s a pale, sickly, light.

    I let out a sigh before I even realise I¡¯ve opened my mouth, it¡¯s starting to become a bad habit of mine.

    My wallet is going to take a huge hit from all the new traps I¡¯m going to have to buy and I don¡¯t even want to think about the cost of these damaged wires. I mean hopefully, it¡¯s just the lights being finicky but oftentimes my optimism ends up being misplaced so who knows?

    Somehow despite being able to see, I almost trip over the TV remote after just a few steps.

    I regain my balance quickly but the sudden movement aggravates my already awful headache.

    This time I don¡¯t sigh, instead I let out a soft cuss.

    At least I can look at the mementoes on the wall to distract myself and ignore most of the pain.

    The flickering lights might not be very strong but they¡¯re still bright enough to help illuminate the memento wall.

    I can quite clearly see the photo of my Great Uncle Frederick holding up a Golden Mahseer which he caught over in Nepal, it¡¯s hanging right next to the portrait of him staring solemnly at a fire.

    The wall doesn¡¯t just have his mementoes hanging up on it though, I¡¯ve also put up a few of my own up there.

    One of my more treasured ones is the photo of me skiing in Switzerland, with brilliant scenery and challenging slopes, it was one of the highlights of my travelling years.

    My next favorite would have to be the one where I¡¯m celebrating my twenty-fifth birthday, it was one of the rare moments when everyone in the family was able to show up.

    Stolen novel; please report.

    I¡¯m just about to reminisce on the photo where I won a small fortune in free ice cream when I hear a dull knock ring out from the front door.

    It clears my foggy head even better than focusing on old memories and it also means I have enough sense of mind to notice the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.

    Just as I consider waiting for a few seconds to see if it was maybe my sleep-deprived imagination, the knocking echoes out again.There¡¯s definitely someone at the door¡­

    Pulling myself together, I try to avoid overthinking anything and start to move over to the front door.

    As I get closer the knocking begins to pick up a rhythm, it¡¯s starting to sound almost like a beating heart.

    But whether it''s a giant monster or a serial killer it doesn¡¯t matter, there¡¯s no way they¡¯ll get through this door.

    The windows might be heavily reinforced but this door is on another level, it was built at the height of my Great Uncle''s paranoia and could probably withstand a small explosive.

    Perhaps because of my ungodly headache, I stupidly say ¡°Who is it?¡± before I can stop myself.

    For a brief second, everything is silent as the rhythmic knocking ceases. Then the knocker replies ¡°It¡¯s me honey, your husband, open the door please?¡±

    Oh, my husband''s back?

    Well, that¡¯s quite comforting, maybe he can help get the lights working again? But why¡¯s he outside?

    ¡°Honey, why are you outside?¡± I question.

    ¡°I got called out to fix some minor paperwork, don¡¯t worry about it babe, just put the kettle on and I¡¯ll be perfectly fine.¡±

    Just before I reach forward to open the door I pause, the hair on the back of my neck is still standing up.

    It¡¯s probably needless but I still take a peek through the spyhole, eyeing up the man who claims to be my husband.

    He certainly looks like him, five foot eleven, wheat blonde hair, with a ragged moustache and an easy smile on his face.

    But something just doesn¡¯t feel right, then it hits me that while there are photos of me graduating university, in various countries, or of me horseracing, there¡¯s no photos of me getting married up on that wall.

    I don¡¯t have a husband¡­

    I try to stifle the gasp brewing inside me but somehow he must have heard me or maybe he¡¯s just getting impatient because while I¡¯m trying to back away quietly, he continues to try to get me to open the door, saying things like ¡°Let me in please?¡± and ¡°Honey, I¡¯m tired come on.¡±

    I don¡¯t pay any attention to it though, this person isn¡¯t my husband, I don¡¯t think I even have a boyfriend.

    Just why is this madman showing up the moment I¡¯m vulnerable? I''d prefer for this not to happen at all obviously but if it¡¯s going to happen why can¡¯t it just happen while I¡¯m perfectly healthy and have a charged phone?

    Well unluckily for this prick, guns are a great force equalizer, I don¡¯t need to be anywhere near peak physical strength to shoot one at point-blank range.

    Slipping into the garage, I hurriedly start to rummage around for the gun locker key.

    It takes a lot of time and far too much effort but after nearly a full two minutes of blindly searching for the key while my self-proclaimed husband gets increasingly more agitated, I¡¯ve found it.

    Then after just a bit more fumbling around, I find the gun locker and open it, pulling out my Great Uncle''s favourite gun, the Ruger American. I make sure to grab two boxes of ammo next to it as well, I¡¯m not dumb enough to keep the gun loaded after all.

    Now that I¡¯ve got my gun, all I need is my phone and Harper. Then we can go hold up in the half-finished basement and we¡¯ll be more than safe considering it¡¯s actually more like a half-finished bunker.

    Briefly, I consider loading the rifle but my fear of it discharging if I fall or bang it against something wins out.

    And besides my hands are shaking so much that even carrying it is an issue, let alone having to load it.

    I can still barely see but the adrenaline coursing through my veins ensures that any semblance of tiredness I once had has been purged from my system. Quickly walking towards the stairs, I make my way up them, ignoring the yelling of the psycho in the process.

    In my haste, I misstep and almost fall over but luckily I¡¯m able to press my arms against the walls to anchor myself in place.

    Recovering from my shock I regain my balance and press on, just another few steps and then I¡¯ll be done.

    It¡¯s honestly a relief once I reach the second floor but the loud banging that suddenly starts coming from the front door centers me instantaneously.

    Panting, I grab at the bedroom door handle and yank it open, if Harper isn¡¯t awake already because of that creep¡¯s shouting and banging, then she will be now thanks to all the noise I¡¯m making.

    ¡°Momm-¡± I cut her off with a hush before she could finish her sentence. Leaning the rifle against the wall I scoop her off the bed and plop her beside myself, before stretching over and grabbing at my phone on the cabinet. Finally having some good luck, I don¡¯t end up knocking it off or groping at nothing for half a minute, instead, I easily grab it and slip it into my gown pocket.

    Something just feels wrong.

    It must be the fact I¡¯m going towards the danger but I mean there¡¯s no other choice.

    Ushering Harper out of the bedroom I grab a hold of the rifle with both hands before exiting alongside her.

    Before we can walk the few steps needed to get to the stairs though I realize what a bad parent I¡¯m being, Harper should stay behind me where it¡¯s safer, not in front of me.

    Reaching out with one arm I grab ahold of her shoulder and pull her back behind me, making sure to pat her affectionately as I do so, no point in scaring her even more.

    Taking the lead, I advance down the stairs, Harper trailing close behind. Luck continues to be on my side and I don¡¯t so much as teeter on the stairs. Just as we reach the bottom and begin making our way into the living room and towards the basement, the man stops his shouting and banging. I slow down momentarily in surprise but then immediately Harper knocks into the back of me and I quickly start moving again.

    We¡¯re almost out of the living room and into the laundry room when the shouting starts back up but this time it¡¯s more than one person that''s yelling. It¡¯s muffled due to the sheer level of reinforcement this house has gone through and my own racing heart but I can still make out certain sentences like ¡°You¡¯re in danger.¡±

    Bastards, what sort of sick group goes around terrorising people? Stepping into the laundry room, I feel my way around the wall with my free hand until I find the basement door handle.

    Swinging it wide open I gently pat Harper on the back and get her to go down the stairs, making sure to hold onto her as she does so, just in case she falls. Once we¡¯re both at the bottom, I place my rifle on the ground and then shuffle back up the stairs to lock the basement door with its hatch.

    It¡¯s a simple way to lock the door but since there¡¯s no key, there¡¯s no way for anyone to lockpick their way inside and it¡¯s even more reinforcement than the front door.

    If the worse happens and it gets broken down as well, then I¡¯ve got my rifle. Making my way back down the stairs Harper softly says ¡°Mommy, can I play with the marbles?¡±

    Of course, I say ¡°Yes.¡±

    It¡¯s just some marbles, hopefully, it will keep her mind off things.

    Now all I need to do is get the generator running and load the gun and we¡¯ll be perf¨C

    I haven¡¯t turned the light on yet, so how can she see? Did she touch a marble or something?

    But now that I¡¯m thinking about it, there are no photos or mementoes up on that wall of me with a kid either¡­

    There¡¯s been no kid toys or anything else in the living room that a little girl might play with.

    Shakily I reach up and feel the back of my neck, the hairs there are still standing firmly upright but that¡¯s less of a cause for concern than the crusted blood I can feel.

    No wonder I smelled copper when I woke up, it was my own blood. I think now''s the time to load the gun and while I pray that I¡¯m just overreacting, how is it possible that not only do I not remember my own ¡®child¡¯ but that¡¯s also no toys?

    The sound of marbles hitting each other accompanies my movements as I reach into my robe with trembling hands and slowly pull out one of the ammo boxes.

    Carefully grabbing the rifle, I begin to try and load it but immediately I¡¯m met with failure,

    I can¡¯t load it, why can¡¯t I load it? My fingers don¡¯t seem to be working and this damn headache won''t let me think.

    What the hell is wrong with me? I really need to pull myself together. While desperately pondering what to do next my ¡®child¡¯ speaks again ¡°Mommy, I¡¯m hungry¡±

 Interminable

    I¡¯ll do my best to be mercifully brief, both for your benefit as well as my own.  I don¡¯t know how long my wi-fi access, or my phone¡¯s battery, will last.

    I recently got my first taste of freedom, away from home, attending college on the opposite coast of the U.S. from where I grew up.  To protect my anonymity, I don¡¯t want to say exactly where I live or lived.

    If you knew any more details, you might be able to find the news articles about me.  You wouldn¡¯t believe me, then.  You¡¯d think I was nuts.

    Hell, I wouldn¡¯t believe me, either.

    My parents, especially my mom, were desperate to see me for the holidays.  At first, I¡¯d planned to skip Thanksgiving and come home over winter break, mainly to save money, but my mom was insistent.

    She promised to buy me the tickets herself.  How could I refuse?  I was a broke student, after all.

    When she e-mailed me the itinerary, I wanted to cry.  The tickets came in four separate e-mails, not even the same airline but a couple of different ones¡ªairlines whose names you would recognize, and not in a good way.

    Worst of all, I had four connections.  I may have been traveling cross-country, but I wasn¡¯t crossing the world.  I had no idea how there could even be so many.  One of the connections gave me only forty minutes between flights, two days before Thanksgiving, on what had to be one of the busiest travel days of the year.

    The thing about my mom is that she¡¯s frugal to a fault.  To her, the cheapest ticket is the best ticket.  Any amount of physical or psychological torment is worth saving a few dollars.

    Especially when the torment was not her own.

    The funny thing is, I used to enjoy flying.  Something about it felt magical, like traveling between worlds.  You climb into a sealed compartment and, however many hours later, emerge to find yourself someplace else.

    Even though I knew it would be a grueling day of travel, at least I had something to look forward to on the other side.  Mom¡¯s turkey stuffing was to die for, and I didn¡¯t want to appear ungrateful.

    So that¡¯s how I found myself at the airport before the crack of dawn, one among many weary-eyed travelers ready to be abused by the T.S.A.  Shuffling forward, dragging my baggage behind me, I felt my eyes watering and nose running.  I sneezed loudly into my sleeve as I approached the agent and showed him my boarding passes and I.D.

    Many people in line gave me dirty looks, but I wasn¡¯t sick.  I had allergies.  They always act up in the fall, and the grass and weeds around my college dorm had made them even worse.

    The agent scanned my I.D. and quickly flipped through my stack of boarding passes.  He whistled softly to himself.  As he returned them to me, he asked, ¡°Who bought these tickets?  The devil?¡±

    I tried to smile. ¡°My mom.¡±

    ¡°Sheesh,¡± he said. ¡°I mean, sorry.¡±  He waved me through, and I moved to my least favorite part of the airport experience.

    I removed my shoes and took out my electronics and liquids, sorting my belongings into plastic bins ready to be sent down the conveyor belt, praying that I would not get selectively screened.

    ¡°No, no,¡± a woman behind me said, and I turned to meet the eyes of a disgruntled agent.  ¡°Leave your electronics and liquids in your bag.  It¡¯s different now.  Don¡¯t take them out.¡±

    Behind her shoulder, I saw a sign that said the exact opposite, but I wasn¡¯t about to contradict her.  Suitably chastised, I packed my things then queued in front of the scanner.  I could hear the woman shouting behind me, announcing to the rest of the line that they shouldn¡¯t take out their electronics either.

    Once through security, I put on my shoes, collected my things, and ran to my gate.  I was a bit late, so I didn¡¯t bother grabbing anything to eat.  My allergies, unfortunately, were somehow getting worse.  I sneezed multiple times while in line, attracting a few more dirty looks.  When I started to blow my nose, it was even worse.  Everyone was giving me a wide berth.

    Rummaging through my bag, I found my allergy medication and popped one of the pills into my mouth.  I knew it would make me tired, but I hoped it would help me sleep on the plane.

    When I reached the front of the line, the airline employee scanned my ticket, and a green light flashed.  As I was about to walk forward, she cleared her throat and said, ¡°Excuse me, sir.  You can only bring one carry-on on board.¡±  If my mom had bought a better ticket, I would¡¯ve been able to bring both a carry-on and a personal item, but of course, she hadn¡¯t.

    ¡°I am?¡± I said.  I gestured at my single bag.

    ¡°No,¡± she said, sounding annoyed with me.  ¡°You have two items.¡±  She pointed at my neck pillow, which I¡¯d clipped onto the handle.

    ¡°That¡¯s a separate item?¡± I asked.  I¡¯d brought it with me plenty of times and had never had an issue.

    ¡°Yes, sir.  Your entire carry-on must fit within these dimensions.¡±  She gestured to one of the baggage size charts behind her.  ¡°Please fit everything into your bag.¡±

    My carry-on was already full to bursting.  I tried to squeeze in the pillow, but it was impossible.  I could feel the annoyance of my fellow passengers, their eyes burning holes in my back.

    ¡°You know what?¡± I said at last, exasperated.  ¡°Never mind.¡±  I took the pillow, tossed it in the trash, then walked down the tunnel to the plane.

    The flight was almost full, but I realized my mom had done me one small favor.  All my seats were window seats, and miraculously, I realized the rest of my row was empty.

    I waited for someone else to board and sit in the middle or aisle seats next to me, but no one did.  The aircraft door closed, and we pulled away from the gate, much to my relief.

    The flight ended up being delayed due to another plane in front of us having mechanical issues.  Every minute we waited cut into my already tight schedule, but there was nothing I could do, and I tried my best to relax.

    We sat on the tarmac for long enough that my meds kicked in, and I drifted off to sleep.  The hum of the plane, that constant white noise, comforted me.

    I awoke to turbulence, my neck crooked and sore.  The cabin lights were off, and the windows throughout the plane were closed.  That was strange, I thought.  The flight was during the day.  Didn¡¯t they usually leave the lights on during the day?

    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    With a start, I noticed someone was sitting in my row.  A man had taken the aisle seat.  I tried to turn my head to look at him, but I couldn¡¯t move.  From the corner of my eye, he seemed more a shadow than a person, but he wore a long, dark coat and a wide-brimmed hat.

    I thought it was strange to wear a hat on a plane.  He turned to me, face still in shadow, and nodded.

    He smiled at me, white teeth gleaming in the dark.  I tried to move my arms or legs, but I couldn¡¯t.  My breathing felt shallow, and my head felt light.  I cursed myself for taking the allergy medication.  I¡¯d heard they could mess you up during a flight.

    I tried to will my muscles to move, but my body felt like it weighed a ton.  I managed to lift my hand, but then my vision darkened.  His smile seemed to grow in the moments before I fell back asleep.

    I awoke to a nudge on my shoulder.  It was the woman from the gate who had complained about my neck pillow.  I hadn¡¯t realized she was a stewardess.

    The lights were on, and sunlight poured into the cabin through countless windows.  All the other seats were empty.

    I realized, with excitement, that we had landed.  The first leg of the trip was over.  But I¡¯d somehow slept through it.

    ¡°Excuse me, sir,¡± the stewardess said in her usual annoyed tone.  ¡°It¡¯s time to disembark.¡±

    ¡°Thank you,¡± I mumbled, grabbing my bag and running out.

    My head still felt fuzzy.  I emerged from the plane into the bright, sterile light of the airport.  I regretted taking that allergy medicine.  Thankfully, all I needed to do was reach my next gate.  I pulled out my phone to check the time, but the battery had died.

    I cursed under my breath, then approached the departures board.  I spotted my next destination and sighed.  It was in the next terminal, but I still had time.  I could make it if I ran like hell.

    I followed the signs through the airport, moving from terminal C to B.  But as I tried to enter terminal B, I realized I had again found myself in line for airport security.

    I looked around in a panic.  I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.  I wasn¡¯t supposed to go through security again after a connection, was I?  Maybe for an international flight, but not a domestic one.

    I felt my stomach growl as I joined the queue, but I had no time to grab a snack.  I would have to get one during my flight, if I even made it.

    The line took ages, though.  A couple in front of me got into an argument with the agent that I couldn¡¯t hear, and it closed down one of the lanes.  By the time I made it past the agent¡ªthey made no comment about my itinerary, thankfully¡ªand to the plastic bins, a glance at the clock on the wall told me I only had fifteen minutes left.

    I made it through the full-body scanner, but my heart sank when I saw a T.S.A. agent hold up my suitcase and ask, ¡°Whose bag is this?¡±

    ¡°Mine,¡± I said, and they scowled at me.

    ¡°You didn¡¯t take out your electronics and liquids,¡± he said.  ¡°I need to search your bag.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m in a hurry,¡± I replied, but he only glared at me and pointed at a sign on the wall.

    It said, very clearly, to remove electronics and liquids from baggage.

    My heart was pounding when I made it to my gate.  No one was left in the queue, only a single steward standing by the door.  He scanned my ticket and then waved me through.

    ¡°You almost missed it!¡± he said, smiling at me.

    In hindsight, I wish I had.

    I was the last person to board, and I felt the annoyed looks of the other passengers as I searched for my seat.  It was an empty row again, but I no longer cared.  I still had three more flights after this one, and I was already exhausted.  Thankfully, there was no delay in taking off this time, and we were soon in the air.

    I lowered my tray table, hoping to buy something to eat, but when I asked the steward about it, he told me they didn¡¯t have anything besides the complimentary pretzels and crackers they would hand out later, with the beverage service.  This was only a two-hour flight this time, much shorter than my first, and they didn¡¯t sell proper meals on such a short flight.

    My stomach grumbled, and I sighed.  He offered me beer or wine for a fee, but I shook my head.  Neither of those would help¡ªquite the opposite.

    Though I tried to stay awake, the hum of the plane, its gentle rocking, lulled me to sleep.  I never even made it to the pretzels or crackers.

    When I awoke, the plane was dark again.  I tried to open the window to look outside, but I couldn¡¯t move.  With a considerable effort, I managed to turn my neck enough to see the aisle.

    I tried to scream, but no sound came out.  In his hat and coat, the same man as before looked back at me.  He sat there motionless, smiling calmly as if he knew a secret.

    I tried to say something, but my mouth wouldn¡¯t open.  I put all my force of will into lifting my hand, and I barely managed to raise it above the armrest.

    I pointed at the man, my finger shaking.  I could feel sweat beading on my forehead, my heart thumping from the exertion.  The air is thinner on a plane, of course.  You get less oxygen.  But this was something else, too.  The feeling was beyond anything I¡¯d ever experienced, as if the man held me prisoner there, trapped in a cell at forty thousand feet.

    Even just raising my arm had tired me, and my vision started to darken again.  The man¡¯s smile grew wider as I passed out.

    When I finally woke up, I was slumped forward, neck bent, passed out on my tray table.  Every part of my body ached.

    ¡°Excuse me, sir.  Please raise your tray table before landing.¡±

    My heart skipped a beat at the voice, and as I slowly turned my eyes towards her, I realized the truth¡ªit was the same stewardess¡ªthe one who¡¯d complained about my neck pillow.  Panicking, I tried to grab my phone, but it was still dead.

    ¡°Where are we?¡± I asked, and she shook her head.

    ¡°Please, sir,¡± she said, pointing at my tray table.  ¡°We¡¯ll be landing soon.¡±

    I stowed the tray table and tried to massage my neck in vain.  I had a sick feeling in my stomach.  The aisle seat was empty, with no trace of the man.

    An announcement came over the P.A. saying that we¡¯d be landing soon.  Landing in the city we¡¯d just departed from.  Part of me wondered if I had lost my sanity.  Another part wondered if this was all an elaborate trick. If a camera crew would jump out any minute and tell me I''d been pranked. Maybe my mom had been in on it.

    I disembarked with the other passengers at the same airport I¡¯d just left.  None of them seemed to notice or care.  They scattered in every direction as I warily approached the departures board.

    I had about thirty minutes to make my connection.  Enough time, if I ran like hell, to board the flight I¡¯d just been on.

    It was as if I¡¯d never left.

    I laughed like a madman, and the rest of the crowd moved away.  It¡¯s okay.  I understand.  You never want to stand next to a crazy person in an airport.

    Though my mind was already starting to break, I walked to terminal B and went through security again.  I got there a little earlier this time.  I plugged in my phone and sent a text to my mom.  I told her I was sorry.  I told her I didn¡¯t think I would make it to Thanksgiving this year.  I told her I didn¡¯t know what was happening to me, but it wasn¡¯t my fault.

    It wasn¡¯t, was it?  What did I do to deserve this?

    While I had wi-fi, I did a search, trying to understand what was happening to me.  That was when I first learned he was called the hat man.

    I wish I could tell you how many times I boarded that plane.  How many times I saw the hat man watching over me as I slept.

    But I lost count.

    I tried everything.  I grabbed food before my flight and missed it on purpose.  I bought a ticket I couldn¡¯t afford for a later flight instead.  I tried leaving the airport and going to a hotel.  But sooner or later, I have to sleep.  When I wake up, I¡¯m back where I started, with that same stewardess poking my shoulder.

    Every time I awaken, I have an insane hope that this will be the last time.  That I might finally reach my destination.  A feeling of dread washes over me when I see that coat, that hat, that smile.

    It might have taken a hundred flights, or a thousand, until I finally broke.

    I lurched out of my chair, breaking free of my sleep paralysis through sheer rage, screaming in his face as we both tumbled into the aisle.  Someone shouted for help a few rows behind us.

    ¡°You¡¯re not real!¡± I screamed, beating my fists against his shadowed face, trying to erase the gleam of his empty smile.  ¡°You¡¯re not even fucking real!¡±

    The cabin lights came on, illuminating my bloody hands.  The hat man was gone as if he¡¯d never existed.  I couldn¡¯t help but smile when the air marshal handcuffed me and dragged me to the back of the plane.

    Because for a moment, I thought I was finally free.

    I wish I could tell you that was the end.  But the truth is that later, after I was taken to a holding facility and put on the no fly list, after the news reports and the viral videos, after hearing my mom cry on the phone and tell me she didn¡¯t deserve this, after all that, I eventually needed to sleep again.

    And when I woke up, he was still smiling.

 Be Me

    ¡°One-in-a-million. People say it like it makes you special or something, right? But look at us!¡± I laughed, taking a sip of my beer as the man that could have very easily been my twin hung on my every word. ¡°Like - If you¡¯re one in a million, that just means there¡¯s 8,000 people just fucking like you on the planet, and three hundred of them are right here in the gold ole¡¯ US of A.¡±

    ¡°Right,¡± Micheal laughed, not noticing the pains I was taking to talk just a little more like him as this conversation went on, burying the shreds of my East Coast accent amongst the throatier notes of Midwest twang he preferred. ¡°Still - you know - what are the odds that we¡¯d both be on a business trip to Juno Beach on the same day?¡± he asked.

    ¡°Astronomical,¡± I answered with a shrug before I took another sip of my beer.

    That was a lie, of course. The odds were just about one hundred percent, but that was only the case because I¡¯d stalked Mr. Michael Peterson down online after he¡¯d popped up in my constantly ongoing search as a 99.99% match. After I made my hair color match his and traded my spectacles for a pair of green contacts, I kissed my last victim¡¯s wife goodbye for the last time and made very sure that Michael and I would just ¡®happen to run into each other,¡¯ while he was at a bar after a long day of shilling coatings and laminates.

    His shock was hardly an exaggeration, though. The waitress had been just as surprised. ¡°Seriously - the two of you are so similar that you have got to have the same daddy,¡± she¡¯d told us as she seated us in a booth.

    ¡°Maybe,¡± I answered, feigning uncertainty, even though I knew it was true. Even if you¡¯d given me proof and told me that my dad had stepped out on my mom way back when to give me a brother from another mother, I wouldn¡¯t have believed it. It made for a fine story, of course, but I knew that wasn¡¯t the case better than anyone.

    It was just that no one was as special as they thought they were. There were so many people on the planet that everyone looked a little like two or three other people you knew, and if you searched long enough, you were certain to find an exact match.

    There were only so many possible combinations, and thanks to big data, things were getting to the point where you could start to sort through them pretty quickly. With a simple program and a lot of time, you could find all the people you¡¯d never meet and all the lives you¡¯d never live pretty easily. I had a program in the cloud running 24/7 that found me a new possible match every other day or so, and though most of those were garbage, there were just enough hits to add to my hit list to keep it all going.

    That wasn¡¯t what we talked about, though, at the Outback. Here, I mostly just let him talk about whatever he wanted while I pretended to be as blown away as he was.

    It was all an act, though. I¡¯d done this more than once already, and tonight, after I got him to stop back by my room to show him some family photos so that we could see if our family trees might have any sort of overlap, I planned to force him to give me his laptop¡¯s password and his atm¡¯s pin card at gunpoint.

    After that, I¡¯d do the same thing I¡¯d done to all the other versions of me I¡¯d found so far: I¡¯d bash his skull in and try his life out for a month or three.

    If I liked it, I might even ride it until the wheels fell off. As far as plans went, it was a pretty good one, and the police would even be kind enough to dispose of the body for me under the name of my last lookalike, Rodger Grantham.

    That was just as well, of course. Rodger wasn¡¯t my name any more than Michael would be, but it had still been a fun three months. I¡¯d enjoyed trying his life on for size.

    I¡¯d never wanted to be a chef, but I had learned a few things from his coworkers while I pretended like some of his memories were coming back. Sadly, his credit cards were all but maxed out now, though - life insurance would probably be enough to handle that for the widow I was about to tragically leave behind. Susan was a good woman, and after all she¡¯d done for me, I¡¯d want to make sure she was taken care of.

    Michael, at least, was divorced. That would make things easier. ¡°She started taking extra lessons with her tennis pro if you know what I mean,¡± he said with a defeated sigh when that subject had come up.

    I suppressed the urge to laugh at that. I¡¯d been in a similar boat when my wife had left me for my boss, and the second version of me I¡¯d decided to put out of his misery had a similar story. Apparently, our shared face didn¡¯t inspire a lot of loyalty, and honestly, that was kinda sad, but I didn¡¯t care. I didn¡¯t believe in loyalty anymore. I was just a hermit crab looking for a bigger shell.

    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

    All I cared about was the growing database of names that my reverse image searches had located and the medical symptoms I was going to have to pretend I had so that I could convincingly fake a stroke when I got to the airport on Michael¡¯s return ticket to Memphis tomorrow.

    That¡¯s why I wasn¡¯t doing much more than smiling and nodding while he showed off pictures of his bass boat and his Harley. They looked fun, and honestly, I was looking forward to giving them a spin after my convalescence.

    ¡°So, what about you, Rodger? You ever go fishing,¡± he asked.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been once or twice,¡± I nodded, gesturing to the waitress to bring another round. ¡°It¡¯s not a bad way to pass the time.¡±

    It was a lie, of course. I¡¯d been fishing exactly once in my second life as Milton Burner, and it had consisted of sitting in the shade while my in-laws argued about who was going to get what when I kicked it in the patio of the vacation house. I hadn¡¯t felt bad cleaning them out before Milton had become Eric even a little bit.

    ¡°Well, the important part - especially when you¡¯re trying to catch a predator like a bass, is that you gotta use the right lure,¡± Michael said before I tuned out and only pretended to pay attention.

    Of course, the lure was important. It was everything, and today the only lure I needed was a credulous face that this bumpkin saw every morning in the mirror. He had plenty of money by all appearances and a pretty decent life. He¡¯d make for a great next chapter until I was able to find someone who looked like me who was actually rich. So far, I¡¯d struck out on that front, and there seemed to be something about my doppelgangers that largely preferred middle-class lifestyles in the middle of nowhere, but I was determined to rise above it.

    That was why I hoarded all the cash I hoovered up along the way and put into some nice interest-bearing investments. I only needed to leave another half dozen bodies or so in my wake, minus their wallets and 401ks, and I¡¯d have enough for a beach house, pretty much wherever I wanted. I had no idea if I¡¯d do any fishing from the beach, but I was certain I¡¯d give the sport a try before I sold Michael¡¯s bass boat. After all, his friends would expect me to.

    That¡¯s what it all came down to. Expectations. That was why I made nice with the loser, just like I¡¯d make nice with his friends because he was the sort of loser who expected me to, and that was how monsters hide in plain sight.

    I let the conversation drag on as long as he liked to put my future victim as much at ease as possible, but when he made noises about paying, I insisted.

    ¡°No, please,¡± I nodded, pulling out Rodger¡¯s card. ¡°This one is on me, but you gotta let me take a picture of the two of us when we go outside, or the boys are never going to believe me.¡±

    ¡°Right?¡± Michael laughed. ¡°It¡¯s hard to believe we don¡¯t have at least an aunt or uncle in common.¡±

    ¡°Well, if you don¡¯t believe me, why don¡¯t you come back to my room real fast, and we can flip through Facebook and look for a cross-over,¡± I laughed. Maybe you¡¯ll see something I don¡¯t.

    Micheal toasted me to that, and once the waitress was tipped and the drinks were finished, we were on our way. The Marriott was just a short walk across a large parking lot, and I was already looking for a fresh chance to start over, but we never actually got there.

    Halfway across, in the big empty area furthest from the lights, there was a strange sound behind me, but before I could turn I felt the knife enter my back just to the right of my spine. No, it wasn¡¯t a knife¡­ It was stranger than that. It was a claw.

    ¡°Aren¡¯t you a monster,¡± the shadow that had been Micheal a moment ago growled. ¡°A man pretending to be another man while you plan to kill a third and become him as well. That¡¯s pretty cold-blooded, even for me, and technically, I¡¯m an insect.¡±

    Turning my head to face him as much as I could, I saw swirling shadows more than anything. A moment ago, he¡¯d been a man with brown hair and green eyes. Now he had four glittering red compound eyes and a pair of mandibles, but beyond that - well, it was hard to say, nothing really connected to anything else. It was just madness and a slow-spreading chill.

    As he spoke, the thing that had been a man pulled his giant mantis-like claw down my back down the length of my spine, and my back opened up like origami. I couldn¡¯t see what was inside from where I stood, of course, but I caught a glimpse in the reflection of a car mirror beside us, and it looked like nothing but a bloodless, yawning void.¡±

    ¡°What¡­¡± I gasped. ¡°Why¡­¡±

    ¡°You aren¡¯t really in a position to decide whose soul I get to feast on,¡± Michael laughed, no longer sounding completely human, ¡°but from where I stand, I¡¯ll be doing the whole world a favor if I take a wolf like you out of the sheep pen.¡±

    I wanted to ask, to understand. I couldn¡¯t, though. The second he reached deep inside me and pulled out something vital, I felt my body start to unravel as my lights went out forever, and my last thought was to feel pity on Susan because I very much doubted anyone was going to find a body, so she could collect on the life insurance policy now.

 Winners Poll!

    Alright everyone, first I want to thank all the writers who participated in this, but second, I want to thank the readers.

    Thank you all for helping us get into the holiday spirit!  You''ve read the stories. Vote for your favorite, or whichever one terrified you the most, or however you would like... just vote!

    Also, we plan on doing this again next year, so feel free to follow this account to be alerted and consider writing something next time around!  We would love to come up with other annual writing events, so if you have ideas for that, consider leaving a comment as well.

    This spoiler contains all the extra text I need to type to post this poll. Much like a good review, you need a minimum number of characters, and sometimes those characters just talk about how much you love Creepypastas, or just plain pasta. We aren''t picky. Well, actually just plain pasta wouldn''t be very good, but a little sauce, and now you''re talking. Speaking of Sauces, does anyone know the sauce of creepy pastas? I''d look but I''m afraid to, and well, you get the idea.

    This spoiler contains all the extra text I need to type to post this poll. Much like a good review, you need a minimum number of characters, and sometimes those characters just talk about how much you love Creepypastas, or just plain pasta. We aren''t picky. Well, actually just plain pasta wouldn''t be very good, but a little sauce, and now you''re talking. Speaking of Sauces, does anyone know the sauce of creepy pastas? I''d look but I''m afraid to, and well, you get the idea.

    Stolen novel; please report.

    This spoiler contains all the extra text I need to type to post this poll. Much like a good review, you need a minimum number of characters, and sometimes those characters just talk about how much you love Creepypastas, or just plain pasta. We aren''t picky. Well, actually just plain pasta wouldn''t be very good, but a little sauce, and now you''re talking. Speaking of Sauces, does anyone know the sauce of creepy pastas? I''d look but I''m afraid to, and well, you get the idea.

    This spoiler contains all the extra text I need to type to post this poll. Much like a good review, you need a minimum number of characters, and sometimes those characters just talk about how much you love Creepypastas, or just plain pasta. We aren''t picky. Well, actually just plain pasta wouldn''t be very good, but a little sauce, and now you''re talking. Speaking of Sauces, does anyone know the sauce of creepy pastas? I''d look but I''m afraid to, and well, you get the idea.

    This spoiler contains all the extra text I need to type to post this poll. Much like a good review, you need a minimum number of characters, and sometimes those characters just talk about how much you love Creepypastas, or just plain pasta. We aren''t picky. Well, actually just plain pasta wouldn''t be very good, but a little sauce, and now you''re talking. Speaking of Sauces, does anyone know the sauce of creepy pastas? I''d look but I''m afraid to, and well, you get the idea.

    Careful you dig too deep, and who knows what you''ll find. Sometimes spoilers should stay hidden, for the sake of your own sanity...

    Happy Halloween everyone!