《The Many Deaths of Us (Horror Anthology)》


 The Four Hour Tape

    You know that meme about how presidents and governors, after getting elected, look super shell-shocked and stressed the next time they make a public appearance? Like the first thing that happens after you come into power is that you¡¯re pulled into a room and told all of the secrets of the world?


    Well, turns out it¡¯s true. As a matter of fact, it¡¯s a VHS tape.


    The ¡°four hour tape¡± was always a bit of an urban legend at the office. I¡¯ll be keeping the details of my role in government very very vague, but to be absolutely clear, I amverylow-level. My role is caked between layers of bureaucracy, and in the grand scheme of things, it¡¯s a pretty inconsequential role.


    When you¡¯re working at my level, you¡¯re generally not privy to any high-level secrets.Yes,top-secret meetings did occasionally happen in our building, but my focus is pretty limited and heavily administrative. So, you do what any other department does when you¡¯re in the bottom rung of the hierarchy: you discuss rumors, rumblings, crazy conspiracy theories, and everything in between. It¡¯s watercooler conversation for us. ¡°Man, I wonder what the folks at the top are doing right now¡± ¨C that kind of stuff.


    Out of all of the rumors that fluttered around the office, the ¡°four hour tape¡± was always the one I found the most fascinating. The crux of it: once you reach the highest clearance level, you are sat down and shown this tape. None of us knew what the contents of the tape were, or if a tape like this even actually existed, but it was fun to speculate about it every now and then. Most of the time, we found with our little rumors and conspiracy theories, that the most mundane answer was usually the correct one. Life, in general, finds a way to surprise us with how boring everything can be.


    Now, there¡¯s something you should know about me before I continue. I¡¯m a wimp. I¡¯m meek, anxious, and generally restless. I¡¯m a chronic rule-follower. There is no part of me that wants to dig up secret documents and uncover ¡°the truth¡± about what happens at the highest levels of government in our country.


    So when I discuss the events of four nights ago, please be mindful of that. I didn¡¯t ask for this. And I¡¯m only sharing because I don¡¯t know how much time I have left anyway. And I can¡¯t live with this stuck in my conscience, alone.


    It was nighttime at the office. I¡¯m known to be a bit of a chronic workaholic, and there was something Ireallywanted to get done before the week was over, so I was working later than usual. I went to print a document on what Ithoughtwas the printer in my immediate vicinity. The notification on my computer showed that my document was being printed, but I didn¡¯t hear any noise or paper coming out from my local printer. I checked the name of the device I selected, and it looked like I¡¯d accidentally clicked on a printer that was being used on another floor. I sighed. In any normal circumstances, I probably would¡¯ve just forgotten about that mistake and reprinted the documents on my local printer again,but,our general management here is quite stringent on us making sure that all confidential documents are accounted for. We are not allowed to share department-specific documentation to other departments.Fuck it,I thought. I looked up a map in my inbox showing the locations of all of the company printers. Turns out, I¡¯d accidentally clicked on the printer named ¡°Prints Charming¡± on the seventh floor. Hah. Funny name. Off I went.


    I really should¡¯ve just let it be.


    I got to the elevator and rode it up to the seventh floor. I emerged onto the mostly-empty office area. In case you were wondering, the building I work in ishuge.But¡­ I¡¯d worked there long enough to know my way around it, so I knew the area surrounding the printer relatively well. I made my way through the hallways and eventually spotted the printer with my freshly printed papers minting it. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for continuing my lifelong streak of following the rules.


    As I went to grab the papers, I noticed some light buzz in a meeting room nearby. I looked through the window to see roughly ten people hanging out around a snack table. In the room was a large old-looking TV on a cart, and rows of some of the fanciest folding chairs I¡¯d ever seen, organized in a neat fashion.


    I didn¡¯t think much of it, and started walking off, until I heard the door open ¨C


    ¡°Hey! Mr. Boskowitz, right? Jesus man we were supposed to start 15 minutes ago. Get in here.¡±


    ¡°I, uh, what? No sorry I think you have the wrong ¨C¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t care why you¡¯re late, just get in here, grab a plate of snacks and sit down, we¡¯re starting soon. Put your phone in the bag, electronic watch in the bag, and anything else on your person that can be used to record audio or video,¡± he responded hastily.


    Something about his sternness and tone short-circuited my brain. For guys like me, there is a third option beyond ¡°fight¡± or ¡°flight¡±. It¡¯s called the ¡°just go with it until it¡¯s over¡±... also known as the ¡°captured rabbit strategy¡±.


    I put my phone and my watch in the bag. I meekly tried to butt in with another ¡°Sir I¡¯m not Mr. Boskowitz¨C¡± but he had already pulled me into the room at this point. He closed the door and walked to the front by the TV. I thought about making a break for it, but I decided to just see it through at this point, hoping deep down that whatever was happening was as inconsequential as my job was.


    Everyone had their snack plates and were heading to their seats. I awkwardly grabbed a muffin from the snack table, put it on a napkin, and took a seat in the very back row. Everyone was spaced out from each other. It didn¡¯t seem like any of these folks knew one another. I quietly sighed at the thought of having to sit through some sort of boring informational seminar or irrelevant training session.


    After a few minutes of everyone settling in, the man who originally brought me into the room started talking. There was an equally serious guy standing next to him, and a secret-service lookin¡¯ fella standing in the corner.Huh.I started wondering to myself why we were going to watch a video off of a very old-school looking TV¡­ felt like we were all back in elementary school or something.


    ¡°Alright, I just need to do a final run-through before we get started,¡± the man at the front said. ¡°I know you all read through the emails and signed your releases. I just wanted to recap some ground-rules. You¡¯re allowed to get up and grab another snack, but beyond that, we want you to pay full attention to the tape once it starts playing. If any of you need to go to the bathroom, westronglyurge you to wait until the presentation is over. If you absolutely have to go, we will pause the tape and one of us will escort you. There is water in the corner by the snacks, cups are right there as well, and uh, goes without saying, but any discussion of this presentation to folks who do not have top compartmented clearance is a breach of your terms of employment, a breach of your non-disclosure agreement, a breach of your multiple signed releases, a breach of the US criminal code in the state of[redacted],and a breach of the conditions laid out by the Committee for the Protection and Preservation of Human Consciousness.¡±


    They started dimming the lights. Fuck. It felt like I had missed any window of opportunity I had to leave. Too late. That committee name he highlighted soundedwayabove my clearance level.


    One of the men at the front of the room pulled out a VHS tape from a bag, and very slowly and securely put it into a VHS player. He pressed play.


    I took a deep breath. Those watercooler conversations I¡¯d had with my coworkers were starting to float to the top of my mind, but I quelled them. There was probably no need for panic. It was just a stupid government meeting, right?


    The tape started. The beginning was familiar enough. Various disclaimers about this being incredibly confidential material, yada yada yada. Insignias of relevant organizations - Presidential Libraries, etc. I¡¯d seen lots of videos like this already.


    But wait. That insignia looked strange. Like something wasoff.I scanned it. Presidential Libraries. That same eagle. Those same stars. Weird. This time, there was a navy blue hand on the left shoulder of the eagle. Did they update the logo?


    Before I had time to ruminate on it too much, the tape cut to a logo I hadactuallynever seen before.


    ¡°Committee for the Protection and Preservation of Human Consciousness.¡±The logo was just an image of planet Earth. Fair enough.


    The video cut to a room that looked similar to the congress floor, but with some strange differences: seats were much more spaced out, the podium looked like it had seen better days, and the whole room looked to be on a pretty steep incline. Everything was in black and white. It looked like there were about fifty people in attendance. It was hard to make out the faces.


    Everything lookedvery dated,like the video was from the 40s or the 50s.


    The tape lingered on this one shot for quite a while. Minutes passed. I noticed what looked to be a choir, all in outfit and perfectly huddled next to each other, standing in one of the corners of the room.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Itreallyfelt like I shouldn¡¯t have been seeing this. None of this was meant for my eyes.


    After a few more minutes, the tape abruptly cut to an awkward-angle video of a man speaking at the podium in the room. It was too zoomed-in, enough that you couldn¡¯t see his eyes or his hair. It didn¡¯t look all that professional. I couldn¡¯t tell who he was.


    He spoke.


    ¡°Members of theCommittee for the Protection and Preservation of Human Consciousness, I thank you all for coming tonight. We are lucky to be in the good graces of our visitors today. Without rehashing our painful history¡­¡±


    The tape cut to a camera slowly panning over all of the faces of the folks seated in the room. The attendees looked pained. Somber. The man continued his speech as the camera continued panning over the committee.


    ¡°...we can acknowledge that the journey to this moment has been an arduous one. I am pleased to say that humanity, faced with a dire ultimatum, has come to a majority decision. To our esteemed guests from across the solar system, we are thankful for the opportunity you have given us to negotiate with you.¡±


    I felt adrenaline. Fuck, we had made contact with extraterrestrial life. This was the truth. Maybe, like the saying went, the truth would set me free.


    ¡°Before I outline the decision taken by humanity, I want to, from the bottom of my heart, thank the brilliant representatives from all of the nations of the world¡­ who came together to ensure that this decision was taken with utmost responsibility, care, and appreciation for our human species. I am aware that this was not a unanimous decision.¡±


    Shit, what didthatmean? I felt the sweat on my brow. I felt nausea coming in. I awkwardly and slowly took a bite of the muffin.


    The tape returned to a now-corrected angle of the speaker at the podium. His eyes were visible. They looked strained. Like they¡¯d seen multiple versions of hell.


    ¡°To the nations who still disagree,¡± he continued, ¡°I thank you nonetheless for accepting the majority decision. May this moment, which will be held in secrecy throughout the rest of time, be appreciated as a critical milestone for human civilization. Tonight is not a victory. It is a somber moment. However, we were faced with two options. Extinction. Or accepting the agreement. We made our choice, and I believe time will show that this was the right decision.¡±


    What¡­ was this?


    ¡°I hereby announce that we accept the agreement provided by our special guests who have chosen to go by the name[redacted].The¡­ intergalactic species known as[redacted]will allow humanity on planet earth to continue to populate, grow, and innovate. In return, all governments of the world will honor the promise.¡±


    He needed to spit it out. What the fuck was this agreement?


    ¡°We¡­ will not be covering every element of the agreement in this session. I will, however, highlight the main points¡­¡±


    At this point, the video showed the man at the podium looking down. He was reading off of something. For the first time, he lookednervous. Scared.I saw some humanity in him.


    ¡°We honor the agreement that[redacted]hold the right to visit planet Earth on a recurring basis. They will be allowed to consume, for the basis of nourishment, a majority of the human population on planet Earth. After every visit, the remaining humans on Earth will be expected to breed and grow to capacity in time for the next visit. We acknowledge that we will maintain a parallel history which will be shared with our world¡¯s population, to ensure that humanity stays motivated to continue existing as a species. This parallel history may suggest that mass extinction events are the results of man-made folly, as opposed to the work of external forces.¡±


    For the first time, my fight or flight response was actually ¡°flight¡±. I wanted to escape, but I didn¡¯t know what I¡¯d even be running from.


    ¡°The last visit by[redacted]was approximately in the year 1346 and it lasted seven years. We will continue to honor our parallel history about this event.¡±


    I just wanted it to end.


    ¡°The next visit, which willnotbe met with resistance, will be in the year 2028 and will run for one full calendar year on Earth, marking a 675 year gap between the last significant visit by the species known as[redacted].This visiting cadence is expected to speed up over time, as the remaining humans continue to sharpen their focus on building technology to allow humanity to reproduce in a speedy and productive manner.¡±


    Jesus Christ. Our planet is a fucking farm.


    I wanted to look away, but I couldn¡¯t.


    The tape cut away to a larger view of the congress-like room: the somber committee members in attendance, and the members of the choir in the corner, who I could only imagine looked horrified.


    Where were the ¡°visitors¡±? Why couldn¡¯t I see them?


    The camera then panned to a number of larger, empty seats - the same slow style of video panning as the one that happened earlier with the committee members. No visible entities in the seats, but the seats themselves looked blurry.


    The man at the podium carried on with his speech, as the camera pan on those blurry seats continued.


    ¡°We should acknowledge the privilege of knowing that there is indeed life in the cosmos. That extraterrestrial life has chosen to visit our planet.Andthat the cycle and balance provided by nature extends beyond the confines of planet Earth. Much like humanity has found its place on Earth in the food chain, we acknowledge our place in the divine order of things when encountered with beings of greater power, understanding, cognitive function, and evolutionary progression.¡±


    Fucking hell, I shouldn¡¯t have stayed late at work. I should¡¯ve made my identity clear from the very beginning. I knew that I wasn¡¯t supposed to see this.


    ¡°And while¡­¡±


    Fuck, it really looked like the speaker was about to cry.


    ¡°While the process of consumption i-is a painful and lengthy one, we respect the trade-off that comes with the preservation of our species. We also acknowledge, as part of the promise, that substitutes for human life in the form of clones, should we discover that technology in the future, or other living species¡­ will never function as viable alternatives for nourishment,¡± the speaker continued.


    I didn¡¯t need to know this. This whole thing was way too specific for me.


    ¡°Our final major acknowledgement, as part of this agreement, is that we accept[redacted]as the great almighty¡­ as the entities we will now refer to as God. God, as an interstellar species, has revealed itself to us, and thus, the continued existence of[redacted]is now the true priority of the people of our planet. We are blessed to play a part in the continuation of God. In God we trust. Amen.¡±


    The tape then cut to footage of the choir, as the speaker continued.


    ¡°We bless our visitors with this gift: a performance of the national anthems of all major nations of the world will now commence.¡±


    Audio of a very loud backing track of the Star-Spangled banner started playing from the video as my stomach sank. The tape showed footage of the choir singing on top of the track. Not sure if it was because they were scared for their lives, but I could really tell they were singing their hearts out.


    As they sang, the camera continued to pan over the blurry seats.


    They finished singing the anthem, and suddenly¡­


    Fast-forwarding.


    Fucking hell. I had forgotten I was sitting in a room.


    I had disengaged from the video for a brief moment. I had mentally returned to the present day. This was our world. This was our fucking lives.


    The men at the front continued fast-forwarding through the tape. It looked like they were skipping through performances of the other national anthems. The fast-forwarding went on for a while. Every small while, it looked like a new choir group was entering the congress-like room to sing a different national anthem. On and on the tape went. I had to fight the urge to pass out.


    One of the men at the front of our room, standing next to the TV, started speaking up.


    ¡°We are legally obligated to get to the end of this tape, but you don¡¯t need to look at the rest of it. Please feel free to look down, or close your eyes, or grab a snack,¡± he said.


    I noticed the others seated in the room were taking that advice. Most of them decided to look straight down.


    For some weird reason, I couldn¡¯t look away.


    The fast-forwarding progressed. On the tape, it was yet another choir group joining to perform an anthem. And then another. And then another. It looked like we were near the end.


    The fast-forwarding now showed a conversation between the man at the podium, and another man who was whispering in his ear. The man at the podium was vehemently shaking his head. The other man continued whispering. This continued on. Eventually, there was a quick moment of the man at the podium begrudgingly nodding.


    The last few fast-forwarded moments of the tape remain burned in my memory to this very moment. They were pandemonium. The attendees were sitting in their chairs, frozen, shivering, crying. The people in the various choirs were running around the rooms in fast-motion, as blurry spots started covering them and ungodly things started happening to them. Fuck. Why didn¡¯t I look away. If ever there was a fucking time to follow orders. It felt like the whole thing went on for longer than it should¡¯ve.


    Finally, the men at the front of our room stopped the fast-forwarding. They pressed play on the tape to cover the very final moment.


    In the tape, the man at the podium, clearly emotional, spoke his final line.


    ¡°The agreement has been ratified by[redacted].Thank you all for attending.¡±


    The final shot of the video is the full room. The committee members in their seats, shivering and crying. The dismantled and bloodied choir members strewn about the room. The blurry seats with blood smeared on them.


    The video then cut away, back to that same insignia on a black backdrop. The Presidential Libraries. That eagle. Those stars. The navy blue hand on the wing of the eagle.


    The lights in our room turned on.


    The rest of the night was a blur. The men at the front of the room told us it was best for us to sit for an hour to digest the information. No discussion about the video was allowed to take place. When we were ready to stand, we were allowed to leave and go home. They gave us some pointers on how to ¡°accept¡± the information over the coming weeks. Things like taking long walks, exercising, watching a sitcom, etc¡­


    I wasn¡¯t worried about them realizing that I wasn¡¯t supposed to be there. If anything, I felt a strange camaraderie with everyone in the room. We were all, truly, in the same boat.


    As soon as I left the building and got in my car, I just drove. For as long as I could. I would stop for gas, then I¡¯d keep driving. I¡¯d stop again. Then I¡¯d keep driving. Again. And again.


    I¡¯m holed up in a hotel now. I¡¯m just glad I could get this off my chest.


    The funny thing is, all I can think about is the length of that stupid tape. While I can¡¯t confirm, I feel like if it were played straight through without fast-forwarding, it would¡¯ve only been three hours. I wonder if the ¡°four hour tape¡± rumor came from the fact that we all needed that extra hour to digest the information.


    And now, you¡¯re probably wondering¡­ why don¡¯t I name the species that is going to spell humanity¡¯s doom throughout the rest of time? Why am I calling them[redacted]?


    Well. As the self-appointed leader of the ¡°Committee for the Acknowledgment that we Should¡¯ve Just Chosen Extinction¡±, I don¡¯t feel the need to honor our captors by calling them by their name.


    If I don¡¯t see you again, I appreciate the watercooler conversation.

 Local News Update

    I¡¯m one of those dinosaurs who still uses cable. Please spare me your judgment.


    I like having our town¡¯s local news playing in the background. It¡¯s occasionally informative, but more often than not, the headlines are light. In such an eventful and politically charged time, it¡¯s nice to give my brain a break by switching to a channel where half of the stories are about old animals celebrating their birthdays, traffic in the area, and upcoming fireworks celebrations.


    Tonight, for the most part, hadn¡¯t been much different. The anchors, Michael and Priya, were their usual selves - some banter, some very boring headlines, and then a cut to whats-her-name on the street doing interviews about I-forget and not-really-important.


    So, you can probably imagine I had to do a double-take when Michael casually dropped the following headline:


    ¡°And, in breaking news, residents of our county have been asked to close their windows, pull back their curtains, and stay indoors. Apparently there¡¯s been some sort of chemical leak at a nearby plant, so locals are being asked to take precautions. This request is coming from the municipal government.¡±


    ¡°As this is breaking news,¡± Priya chimed in, ¡°We are currently waiting for information on exactly what took place at the plant, and of course, just how dangerous this all might be.¡±


    What?


    Some sort of chemical spill in our area was a pretty damn big deal. It was strange to see the report delivered so nonchalantly from the anchors. I googled my town and the words ¡°spill¡± or ¡°leak¡± or ¡°hazard¡± and nothing came up. I switched stations to more mainstream news channels (CNN) but nothing about this was being covered there either. I figured maybe this wasn¡¯t such a big deal (or it was too new for anything outside of local media to report on just yet) and so I went back to scrolling on my laptop while the news continued to play in the background.


    Half an hour passed, as the anchors cycled through some more generic headlines. Then, a quick reminder, delivered by Michael: ¡°And a notice to residents of our local county: due to a chemical spill that is being reported in the area, residents have been strongly advised to stay indoors, close their windows, and shut their blinds.¡±


    ¡°We have been told that this chemical leak is extremely dangerous,¡± said Priya. ¡°Residents are advised to head inside immediately. There is a risk of death if you are exposed to the chemicals for a prolonged period.¡±


    Giving it a little bit of thought, the lack of news articles about this on the web put a weird feeling in my stomach. Was this story being suppressed? Flipping through other news stations, again, there was no mention of the story. Nothing on the news tickers either. Nada.


    I had to center myself and give myself a quick reality check: my ¡®middle of nowhere¡¯ town wasn¡¯t important to anyone other than my local news station or the thousands or so who lived here.


    Still, in my curiosity, I got up from my comfortable spot on the sofa and peeked through a small sliver between my living room blinds.


    Nothing out of the ordinary.


    Cars in their driveways. Most of the lights in the nearby houses were off (it¡¯s midnight here). A couple of solitary bedroom lights on. Pretty tame, all in all. Huh.


    I sat back down. This was probably the most ¡®tuned in¡¯ I had ever been to the news. To my surprise, some really strange banter between Michael and Priya was playing out.


    ¡°I almost wonder if we¡¯re safe in here,¡± Michael started.


    Priya giggled. ¡°What, you think this building isn¡¯t safe, and that they¡¯d have us deliver news about a leak that we¡¯re susceptible to?¡±


    Michael laughed. Big laughs. He looked at a piece of paper in his hands. ¡°I heard,¡± he said, still laughing, ¡°I heard it was actually a spill from a train. Not a power plant!¡±


    ¡°Is that so?!¡± laughed Priya. She wiped a tear from her eyes. ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m sorry guys. We gotta find the levity ¨C¡±


    ¡°Gotta find the levity ¨C¡± Michael echoed.


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°Gotta find the levity in stressful moments like this. Hope you¡¯re all staying safe, indoors, curtains closed, windows locked. Remember, this is breaking news. You¡¯re hearing this here first,¡± said Priya.


    ¡°Stay inside! Stay safe!¡± tagged Michael, pointing to the camera. ¡°We¡¯ll give you more details as they come in!¡±


    They¡¯re saying it was from a train now?


    I peeked outside again. Strange. Most of the lights were off, but some of my neighbors'' cars were missing. I saw a family only a few houses down, loading into their car and immediately driving off. Was it safer to leave the town? Didn¡¯t they just get exposed to the chemicals?


    It was hard not to ruminate. Hard not to keep googling, switching to other news stations, texting my only close friend who lived in the area. No updates. Nothing of substance. Back to the local news.


    They were covering another story of little importance. My eyes lazily lowered to the news ticker at the bottom of the screen. Between headlines about boring local happenings and Ariana Grande for some reason, I saw the following line: THEY ARE LYING RUN NOW


    Almost as immediately as I saw it, it was scrubbed. Like it had never been there in the first place. Did I imagine that?


    Before I could ruminate, Priya got up from her desk.


    ¡°And Priya¡¯s wrapping for the evening!¡± proclaimed Michael.


    ¡°I¡¯m done for the evening!¡± she affirmed. She walked off set.


    Michael sat there, smiling at the camera. This continued, uninterrupted, for I shit you not thirty seconds. Then - a cut, to some sort of CCTV-footage angle of a parking lot. It continued for a few seconds, until Priya walked into frame, pressed a button on her keys, and opened the door to her car.


    Then, another cut. A poor-quality, zoom-in on the moon. Not a full moon, mind you. It was partially obscured. I think the stage is called ¡®Waxing Gibbous¡¯. Waning Gibbous, maybe? Doesn¡¯t matter. Thirty seconds of this. A shaky camera.


    And then, another cut. The camera was back at the parking lot. Priya and her car were gone. All of the cars in the parking lot were gone, actually.


    And then, we were back with Michael.


    What the fuck?


    Michael went to the next story.


    ¡°Coming up next, this former circus bear is celebrating his eighteenth birthday, only this time, this birthday comes with a dash of newfound freedom! We¡¯ll show you the heartwarming story of Binky, and how he¡¯s enjoying his new life in the sun.¡±


    Michael chuckled as he delivered this headline, before the channel went to commercials.


    Fresh off another unsuccessful google search, I parted my blinds and looked outside once again. Nearly all the cars in my vicinity were gone. What the fuck was happening?


    The noise from the TV transitioned back to the distinctive tones of the local news channel - that must¡¯ve been like a ten second commercial break?


    ¡°Thank you for joining us this evening. This is Michael, signing off! Bye bye now! Stay indoors. Stay safe! Close your windows! Inside now, alright?¡±


    I backed away from the window and caught the last leg of Michael¡¯s broadcast. He had gotten up from his desk and had walked over to the camera. An absurdly big smile on his face. Smiling with his eyes too. Joyful.


    Then, without hesitation, he softly picked up the camera, while giggling, and moved it to the left to expand the frame beyond the anchor desk and the small set that he and Priya were on. Beyond the set, there was nothing.


    It was a black void.


    He then turned the camera all the way to the right. Past the anchor desk and the set, again, nothing. Another endless black void. He then re-centered the camera back to face the desk, but the void beyond the set was still partially visible. He kept eye contact with the camera for a few more seconds, and then stepped to the side and out of frame.


    Do I run? What the fuck do I do? What is this?


    Whispers came from the TV. Michael¡¯s voice¡­ quiet this time.


    ¡°You¡¯re doing great,¡± he whispered, as if he were beside the camera. ¡°You¡¯re doing great. Just stay put. Windows closed. Alright?¡±


    I needed to make a break for it. I needed to run.


    ¡°And hey, because I like you, a little tip. He likes it when you stand in front of the bathroom mirror,¡± he paused to giggle to himself. ¡°He likes it, just stand still in front of the mirror won¡¯t you? Stay put, he¡¯ll come get you soon. You did great. You¡¯re doing great. You¡¯ll be here with us soon.¡±


    The channel cut to commercials right after that.


    A few seconds of stillness, and then¡­


    I heard a rattling coming from my bathroom down the hallway.


    I froze in fear, hoping the sound would go away. Instead, it got louder, and more aggressive.


    It was the sound of something cracking. Fracturing. As I made a break for it, I heard my bathroom mirror shatter.


    Immediately, I raced down the stairs to my front door. As I did, I heard the generic commercial on my TV say the following line: ¡°The all-new Cozy Comfort Cushions. So cozy, you¡¯ll want to stay put, because the best place to be is right where you are.¡±


    I unlocked my door as the audio from the commercial started warping.


    ¡°Stay put. Be right where you are. Don¡¯t leave.¡±


    As I swung the door open and prepared to run to my car, I felt something grab at the back of my shirt, pulling me back in. It felt both light and like the heaviest thing I¡¯d ever felt. I¡¯m not sure where the willpower in me came from to escape its grasp, but as I writhed and fought with all of my might, I was able to break free from its hold, run to my car and drive off, not taking a single moment to look back at whatever was trying to pull me in.


    I¡¯ve been driving for a few hours now. I¡¯ve texted a few friends, and I¡¯m doing everything in my power to make sense of the inexplicable events that have taken place this evening.


    The fact that the GPS in my car keeps rerouting to the broadcast studio of my local news network isn¡¯t helping.

 After Midnight

    The town I live in is nice enough.


    It¡¯s quiet. A little quaint. My dream is to move to the city once I graduate from college. I want a life where things are busier. More exciting. More alive.


    I live at home with my parents and my twin sister. Both of my parents are underpaid teachers, so our upbringing has been relatively modest. We¡¯ve never been spoiled, we¡¯ve always been told to work hard for every dollar, and gratitude for everything we have has been instilled in us since childhood.


    My parents must have worked really hard to save money throughout these years, because the house that we¡¯ve lived in since I was a teen is pretty darn huge. Our tiny little town in general is relatively prestigious (I went online to search up the prices of houses in our neighborhood and wow). So, I do my part to extract wisdom from my parents whenever possible. Clearly, they know a thing or two about how to ¡°win¡± at life.


    Of all of the things my parents ask of me and my sister, the rule they are the most stern about is:


    ¡°If you¡¯re going downstairs after midnight, you have to bring someone with you.¡±


    Ever since we first moved to this house, they would remind us of this rule every chance they got. They¡¯d randomly bring it up at the dinner table, or before we¡¯d go off to school. Sometimes, if they heard footsteps in the hallway at night, one of them would get up from bed and walk with us to wherever in the house we were going.


    The strangest thing about it was that me and my sister never really had any reason to go downstairs at night anyways. Our rooms, the living room, the kitchen, and pretty much everything else we use was upstairs. Sure, downstairs had a games room and some stuff we maybe needed to pull out from storage from time to time, but overall, I couldn¡¯t really think of a scenario where we¡¯d need to go downstairs after midnight.


    My sister and I would ask my parents about it sometimes. ¡°Why do we have this rule? What happens if we break it?¡± They would usually deflect, change the subject, or say ¡°We¡¯ll tell you when you¡¯re older, dear.¡±


    As I got older and older, the fact that my whole family slept upstairs (in a large two-story house, mind you) became increasingly weird to me. I was curious about what exactly was going on. So, fresh off my twentieth birthday, I decided to conjure up a situation where I¡¯d absolutely need to head downstairs after 12AM.


    ¡°Mom! I left my laptop in the games room and I need to polish up a paper that I¡¯m submitting tomorrow!¡±


    Lame excuse, I know. She was skeptical and pushed back a little bit - can¡¯t I get up early tomorrow and finish up the essay in the morning? Why did I leave this assignment until the last minute?


    I was able to assuage these questions pretty easily - I thought it was due two days from now, I thought my laptop was in my room, I¡¯m a little bit stressed and I won¡¯t be able to sleep if I don¡¯t finish it, etc. etc., so she ultimately obliged.


    This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    We made our way down the small staircase and arrived at the door leading to the downstairs area. Before my mother opened it, she turned to me.


    ¡°Okay. He¡¯s likely going to latch onto me. Make sure I don¡¯t open the door to the backyard, okay? Make sure I¡¯m with you at all times. You can pull me if you need to.¡±


    I thought she was kidding.


    She opened the door. Our downstairs area has another small living room, a small kitchen, and a hallway that leads to our games room and our storage area. I¡¯d ¡°accidentally left¡± my laptop in the games room, so as we entered, I immediately turned towards the hallway.


    I thought my mom would follow me.


    Instead, I saw her¡­ just standing there. Shivering. Jittery. Her gaze was fixed on the window in the kitchen. It¡¯s a big window, with the blinds usually pulled up. The window was a peek into our large, mostly empty backyard.


    I looked at my mom confusedly, as she continued her uninterrupted stare. Slowly, she started walking to the door to our backyard.


    ¡°Mom! What are you -¡±


    That¡¯s when I saw him. Pressed against the window from the outside. His face was obscured by the darkness, but I could see his eyes. Wide open. Wider than eyes should go. Otherworldly. He looked focused. Excited.


    My mom continued walking to the door. I grabbed her, as hard as I could, and pulled her away, back to the staircase leading upstairs. I closed the door behind us.


    It took my mom a moment to snap out of it. She spent another minute staring at the door to the downstairs area, meekly trying to open it and go back to where she was previously walking to. When she finally pulled herself together -


    ¡°What the fuck was that?!¡±


    ¡°Did you get your laptop hun?¡±


    ¡°MOM! What the fuck was that outside the window?!¡±


    Mom¡¯s reaction was weird. A mix of annoyance, concern, and fear. She finally responded.


    ¡°Terrible things happen when we talk about him too much. As long as we go downstairs in pairs of two, we¡¯re always okay. No one¡¯s let him in yet.¡±


    And that was that. I continued asking her as we made our way upstairs but she just flat out ignored me at this point.


    I had no idea what to do. I wanted to tell my sister (who was generally super carefree), but part of me thought that it¡¯d only freak the hell out of her and achieve nothing. I tried bugging my dad about it, but he also deflected. At most, sometimes he¡¯d say something like ¡°We just wanted to make sure we could give you and your sister a comfortable upbringing,¡± and then walk away. What the fuck?


    It¡¯s been two years since me and my mom went downstairs together after midnight. Since then, we¡¯ve continued to follow the rule, and we''d thankfully never run into any problems. I¡¯ve tried to convince my parents that we should think about downsizing and moving somewhere else, but they¡¯d always say stuff like ¡°that isn¡¯t how this works dear¡± and ¡°as long as we play it safe after midnight, we¡¯ll be okay.¡±


    That brings me to why I¡¯m writing this today. My parents have been gone for the week, visiting family in another state. My sister left earlier this evening to go to a sleepover with her best friend. I¡¯m home alone, for the first time in forever.


    I don¡¯t usually have my phone on me. It takes me a couple of hours, at least, to read and respond to text messages. I¡¯ve always been lazy about it. I recently took a look at my phone to see a missed text message from my sister.


    ¡°Hey! I might¡¯ve accidentally left the downstairs door open. Just an FYI - please close it whenever you get a sec.¡±


    She sent this text message four hours ago.


    I read it at ten minutes past midnight.


    I¡¯m writing this from the closet in my room. So far, I think I¡¯m okay. Maybe she¡¯s misremembering and she kept the door shut.


    The only thing I¡¯m worried about is that I¡¯m starting to shiver a little bit. And I have this inexplicable urge to get out from my hiding spot so that he can find me.

 Ouija Board in the Woods

    I¡¯m using this post to chronicle the events of this evening, as they have been truly fascinating.


    Some quick backstory: the small section of the city that me and my friends live is generally known to be haunted. And even if you¡¯re not a believer in the supernatural¡­ it¡¯s at least a bit eerie. I¡¯m not going to dox myself by stating the location, but let¡¯s just say that ¡°creepy sightings¡± and murders/deaths due to unexplainable circumstances are our bread and butter.


    For most people, this means you move away as soon as they can.


    For folks like me and my friends (who absolutely love all things spine-chilling), it generally makes for a pretty good time. Our Halloween parties are awesome, most of our drinking nights have some sort of spooky game interlaced into them, and if you have literally nothing to do on a Friday night with your friends, you can always go on a tour of some of our haunted locales - graveyards, abandoned buildings, creepy forests, you name it.


    So, with that background established, let¡¯s cut back to tonight:


    Me and my closest three pals decided to try our hand at using a Ouija board. Were we going to be normal and try the Ouija board in one of our family attics? Nah, too basic. We instead decided to trek up together to, what I shit you not, is an abandoned treehouse left in an elevated section of our city, surrounded by forests. What could go wrong, right?


    We climbed up to the treehouse, set down a spooky themed rug, lit some candles, and brought out the Ouija board. Despite my pretty extensive resume of dealing with all things creepy, I¡¯d never actually tried a Ouija board before, so I was really excited to see what would happen.


    We went into this excited to break every rule in the book - we weren¡¯t going to do a s¨¦ance, we were going to ask whatever we want, and we didn¡¯t need to worry about being respectful to the spirit, etc - we figured if something interesting were to happen, it¡¯d be more likely if we went in as carefree as possible.


    We sat in a circle around the Ouija board and got started, asking the simple question ¡°Is there a spirit with us?¡± with all of our hands placed on the planchette. No real response - we fluttered the planchette in a few different directions but we could tell we were kind of forcing it.


    We asked a few other questions - ¡°What is your name?¡±, ¡°When did you die?¡±, etc. but nothing really came of it.


    After trying for the next half hour and not really getting anything in the form of a response, we decided that we probably didn¡¯t have any spooky luck tonight, and opted instead to share scary stories in the treehouse. We left the Ouija board out just in case we¡¯d get luckier later in the night.


    Amidst a break in our storytelling where everyone was grabbing drinks and snacks from their bags, I decided to give the Ouija board another quick go. I placed my hand on the planchette alone and whispered the following question - ¡°Will you please grace us with your presence tonight?¡±


    Surprisingly, the planchette started moving. It¡¯s hard to explain, but you kind of know when something is moving on its own, versus you sort of subtly and subconsciously moving it with your hand to force an answer. This felt real. A tingle went up my spine. It was cool as hell. My hand was moved to the following letters.


    Y E S


    Awesome! I looked over to the group and told them that the Ouija board was working again. Excitedly, we all huddled around and placed our hands on the planchette. I followed up with another question.


    ¡°Where are you from?¡±


    We sat there excitedly waiting for something. Instead¡­ nothing. The planchette was still. The lack of any sort of external force with us was very, very obvious. Disappointing, but I had an idea I wanted to follow up with. I turned to my friend Kevin and asked him: ¡°Do you want to try doing it solo? It worked for me.¡±


    Kevin was confused, but he decided to give it a try. We all backed up to give him some space with the Ouija board. He placed his hand on the planchette and repeated my question: ¡°Where are you from?¡±


    His expression changed to shock as his hand started moving with the planchette. He turned to all of us and mouthed ¡°I¡¯m not doing this!¡± to which I excitedly mouthed back ¡°I know!¡±. I pulled out a notepad and recorded the answer as the planchette went from letter to letter. I recorded the following:


    N O T I M P O R T A N T


    Love it! A spirit with some sass. I asked Kev to back up for a sec as I approached the Ouija board, prepped for one final ¡°solo¡± question. I asked:


    ¡°Why are you only responding when it¡¯s one of us using the board?¡±


    Yet again, the planchette moved effortlessly with my hand. It was faster this time, so I said the letters out loud and had another one of my friends (Eleonora) transcribe onto my notepad. The answer was:


    O N E A T A T I M E


    Fair enough! I thanked the spirit, my hand still on the planchette.


    ¡°I appreciate your answers, friend!¡±.


    To my surprise, in a strange synergy between me and the spirit, I felt compelled to move the planchette again. It was the fastest it had ever been this time as it covered the following letters:


    T E L L E V E R Y O N E E L S E T O L E A V E


    Huh.


    My friends looked at me skeptically as I said the letters at a time.


    ¡°Are you sure you didn¡¯t just force that on purpose?¡± asked Eleonora - I assured her I definitely didn¡¯t. That was definitely from the spirit.


    At this point, this had been the most clearly supernatural phenomena I¡¯d ever experienced in my life, and I was excited to keep it going. My friends, usually unflinching and made of ice, were a little bit thrown. Eleonora and Martin looked ever so slightly spooked, but Kev was willing to go with it. ¡°Might as well see where this goes!¡± Kev said, as he started climbing down from the treehouse. With a slight bit of hesitation, Eleonora and Martin followed suit.


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    Sweet. An actually creepy night.


    I embraced the quiet amidst the lighting of the candles and the power of the Ouija board. I geared up for my next question. I wasn¡¯t going to hold back.


    ¡°Spirit¡­ how will I die?¡±


    I took in a deep breath, waiting for some movement. Slowly¡­


    D E P E N D S


    Interesting answer! If not a bit underwhelming. I geared up for my follow-up.


    ¡°Oh come on Spirit¡­ what about something a bit more specific?¡±


    My hand moved with the planchette, to the following letters. I tried hard to focus and connect the letters since I didn¡¯t have anyone to transcribe with me:


    W H A T I S Y O U R N A M E?


    Weird. Completely dodged my question and asked me my name. Okay all-knowing spirit, I assumed you¡¯d already know that. I decided to try tricking it.


    ¡°My name is Belle!¡±


    Movement from the planchette on the Ouija board. It took me to the letters:


    D O N O T L I E


    Hm. Well-played, spirit. I gave the spirit my actual name (Jennifer), and continued to see the follow-up response.


    W H A T I S Y O U R F A V O R I T E F O O D


    Honoring the spirit¡¯s rules, I opted to tell the truth instead of following up with another lie. Ya girl loves Donair and this spirit deserves to know that.


    The ouija board¡¯s response:


    C O R R E C T


    Before I could take in the affirmation from the spirit (who is asking who questions here, spirit?) it followed up with yet another question.


    W H A T I S Y O U R B I G G E S T F E A R D O N O T L I E


    This question took me aback a bit. I wasn¡¯t really afraid of anything, or so I thought. So I struggled with it. It took me a few moments. I really, really thought of it. I kind of cringed at the answer, but it was my truth.


    ¡°Something horrible happening to my little brother.¡±


    No movement from the Ouija board. Seconds turned into minutes as I kept my hand awkwardly placed on the planchette. Then, finally¡­


    T H A N K Y O U


    S E N D E L E O N O R A


    Welp. I obliged. I thanked the spirit for its time and decided to climb down from the treehouse, where my friends were waiting. I passed on the spirit¡¯s message, and told Eleonora that it was her turn.


    ¡ª


    Martin, Kev and I spent what must¡¯ve been fifteen minutes standing outside the treehouse while Eleonora was up there. We¡¯d pulled drinks out of our bags and were discussing my experience with the Ouija Board so far. Both were incredibly surprised when I told them that the spirit was asking me questions.


    ¡°What kinds of questions?¡±


    ¡°Generic stuff, like my name, favorite food, etc.¡± I answered.


    ¡°Weird.¡±


    Both Kev and Martin seemed a bit thrown off by it, but I was excited.


    We looked up at the treehouse as we heard the sounds of someone climbing down. Eleonora had finished her session. She looked traumatized.


    ¡°How was it?¡± I asked her.


    ¡°Weird. All it did was ask me questions.¡±


    ¡°Questions like¡­¡± Kevin asked her.


    ¡°My name. My favorite hobby. My uh, biggest fear. That one took me a while to answer.¡±


    Kev turned to me. ¡°That is a little bit eerie.¡± he said. I agreed. Didn¡¯t look like Eleonora was loving it either. But still - a spirit asking us questions? This had been one of the coolest, if not the coolest, paranormal experiences I¡¯d ever experienced in my life.


    Eleonora turned to Martin.


    ¡°It said that you were up next.¡±


    ¡ª


    Martin¡¯s session seemed longer than the others. We stood outside, drinking, talking about the happenings so far, and pulling out the occasional snack.


    ¡°That was a little bit traumatizing,¡± said Eleonora.


    Kevin pointed to her, and then up to the treehouse.


    ¡°Agreed, this is kind of messed up,¡± he said.


    ¡°Yeah, but that¡¯s the point!¡± I responded. ¡°We seek out spooky happenings all the time and we never get lucky, this is an actual legit supernatural experience. I feel like we have to take advantage of it.¡±


    ¡°Even if it¡¯s asking us personal stuff? What does it want this info for?¡± followed up Eleonora.


    I shrugged. While the ¡°biggest fear¡± question was pretty weird, I didn¡¯t feel too worried that a spirit knew my favorite food was or what my name was.


    Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of someone climbing down from the treehouse. Martin had finished up his session. It felt like it¡¯d been 30 minutes, which topped the rest of our sessions. We bombarded Martin with questions as he reached the ground. He looked more shellshocked than Eleonora did.


    ¡°That was pretty fucked up,¡± he started.


    ¡°What did it ask you?!¡± I asked enthusiastically.


    ¡°My biggest fear,¡± Martin responded. ¡°It¡¯s weird but, it felt like it didn¡¯t like my answer to that one. It almost seemed annoyed.¡±


    ¡°Huh¡­ so was it just silent for a while after that?¡± I asked.


    ¡°No¡­ it asked me way more things after that. What the happiest moment of my life was, who I was the most jealous of, what my biggest life dream was, all that stuff¡­ It was a lot of questions. Then, finally, it just wrapped up with ¡°Thank You¡± and that was that.¡±


    Martin turned to Kevin.


    ¡°You¡¯re up next.¡±


    Kevin turned to all of us, ¡°Here goes nothing,¡± he sighed and started climbing up to the treehouse. We watched him make his way to the top.


    For the first time in the evening, I had a knot in my stomach.


    ¡ª


    Only five minutes had passed since Kevin first went up, but he was already climbing down. He was shaking his head as he made his way down the ladder and to our group.


    ¡°Fuck that¡± said Kevin.


    ¡°What happened?!¡± we asked him. He just shook his head.


    ¡°That shit is dangerous. We need to get the fuck out of here, ASAP.¡±


    I¡¯d never seen Kevin like this. He was uncharacteristically shook.


    ¡°You have to tell us more. What did it ask you? What did it say?¡± but Kevin ignored all of our questions. He started packing up his bag.


    ¡°You guys can play with fire if you want, but I¡¯m out of here. I suggest you guys come too,¡± he said. I watched as Martin and Eleonora started packing up as well.


    ¡°I had bad feelings throughout this whole thing - I think we should leave,¡± said Martin.


    ¡°Guys, what the hell?! Just ¡®cause it¡¯s unsettling doesn¡¯t mean we have to pack up. We can just hang out up there and do something else,¡± I said back.


    ¡°This doesn¡¯t feel right,¡± said Eleonora. I watched them as they all took a few steps away from the treehouse and towards the forest.


    ¡°You coming?¡± asked Kevin. I stood my ground. Kevin just shook his head and started heading out on his way.


    ¡°Suit yourself.¡±


    I had no idea what could have possibly happened up there that would¡¯ve shook him this much. He had already started walking as Martin and Eleonora pleaded with me to come with them.


    I said no.


    Begrudgingly, they all left.


    You¡¯re probably wondering - wasn¡¯t I scared? Especially now that I was alone?


    The answer was yes. But, something in my soul told me that I was up next. I¡¯d spent my whole life waiting for something that was truly supernatural to happen, and now it was in front of me. With my fingers jittering, I climbed up to the treehouse as my friends departed.


    ¡ª


    It took me a moment to pull together the bravery to put my hand on the planchette. The candles were still lit. The setting was just right. Finally, I spoke to the spirit again.


    ¡°Why are you asking us all these questions?¡±


    Nothing, for a few minutes. Then, my hand moved with the planchette, slower than usual. The answer:


    T O C O N F I R M M Y S U S P I C I O N S


    ¡°Confirm your suspicions of what?¡±


    Movement from the planchette on the Ouija board:


    O N E O F Y O U I S N O T W H O Y O U S A Y Y O U A R E


    ¡°What are you talking abou¨C¡±


    I heard blood-curdling shrieks coming from the forest outside the treehouse. Like nothing I¡¯d ever heard before. What the fuck.


    The planchette was moving on its own now. I watched it go from letter to letter:


    T H A T I S N O T K E V I N


    H E I S C O M I N G B A C K F O R Y O U


    R U N


    ¡­


    And so I did.


    ¡ª


    The small section of the city I live in is generally known to be haunted. I think I know why.


    It¡¯s time for me to leave.

 Speedrunning

    I love speedrunning. I always have.


    Now, have I actually taken the time to try a proper ¡°run¡± of one of my favorite games?


    Nope! But as a watcher, I¡¯ve been fantastic. I religiously tune into Games Done Quick (both ¡°Summer¡± and ¡°Awesome¡±), have been following the progression of the Super Mario 64 120 Star World Record for many years now (cheese is the absolute GOAT), and have absolutely fallen in love with Atrioc¡¯s progressively insane ways of breaking the ¡°Hitman¡± trilogy.


    Speedrunning, for the few uninitiated who are reading this, is ¡°the act of playing a video game, or section of a video game, with the goal of completing it as fast as possible¡±. Thank you Wikipedia. Or, as Urban Dictionary puts it, ¡°Game go BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR¡±. Both definitions probably suffice. Really, the best way I can describe it is a love letter. You know a community truly loves a game when they spend hours upon hours discovering all of the secrets and glitches that a game has to offer, in pursuit of beating it in record time. It¡¯s beautiful stuff.


    So after years of being on the outside looking in, I figured - why not give it a good ol¡¯ college try? Maybe the thousands of hours I¡¯ve spent digesting speedrunning content might actually give me a leg up? What do I have to lose?


    Hah.


    The game I chose as my poison was a relatively unknown PS2 game.


    It was a turn-based JRPG with the setting, style and mechanics of a traditional ¡°Final Fantasy¡± game, taking place in a magical kingdom filled with the usual fare of mages, knights, emotionally confused protagonists and over-the-top villains. It had the modern sheen of a Persona game, the quirkiness you¡¯d find in something like ¡°Earthbound¡± or ¡°Undertale¡±, and a soundtrack to die for. It was definitely way ahead of its time, and I still consider it to be one of the greatest hidden gems in gaming. And since it was a pretty niche game, I figured it¡¯d be quite easy for me to climb the speedrunner rankings with ease. It was one of very few games I owned growing up, so it almost felt like I was entering the fray with a bit of an advantage.


    After a little bit of searching around my garage, I was able to find the game disc that my parents first purchased for me from the flea market back in 2003. I popped the disc into my miraculously still-functional Playstation 2, and I started my trip down memory lane.


    At first, to properly orient myself as a true ¡°runner¡± of the game, I went back and watched all of the speedruns of the game that I could find. Given its niche nature, it proved pretty tricky to find full runs of the game, but eventually I was able to chase down a few longform speedrun playthroughs that had been uploaded to Youtube by some of the game¡¯s previous world record holders. I also found some guides pertaining to specific tricks and time-saves for different sections of the game at speedrun.com. I knew it would be a bit of a commitment, but I was excited to get started.


    My first few weeks speedrunning the game were pretty basic. I held myself to finishing a run every week, even if my time was terrible. Likewise, I started practicing a bunch of early and late-stage game tricks by utilizing multiple save files. It was a long game, filled to the brim with character conversations, side quests, lengthy and strategic turn-based boss battles, and cinematic cutscenes, so progress was slow. That said, as I started conquering trick after trick, it felt like I was gaining some momentum.


    As I plowed ahead, my mostly enjoyable experience learning how to break this game was interrupted by something I didn¡¯t anticipate. I wasn¡¯t sure exactly when it started, but at random points in the game, it felt like more and more dialogue boxes were coming up during character conversations. Generally, in a speedrun, you¡¯re clicking through all of the dialogue boxes as fast and frequently as possible - after all, the point isn¡¯t to experience the narrative and character conversations in full, the point is to power through the game in record time. The additional dialogue boxes were especially apparent during a major boss fight that took place at the midpoint of the game. I noticed that the dialogue, both before and even during the battle, seemed to run much longer than what I initially remembered from all of my playthroughs of the game growing up. In fact, the length of these conversations seemed to vary between each single run I was doing.


    Some backstory on this fight: it¡¯s a major story beat, where a powerful female magician and arch-rival to your group has her first real showdown with the team. The group (or ¡°party¡±) led by our fateful protagonist and reformed thief - we can call him ¡°Knight¡± - loses this epic encounter every single run. It¡¯s known as a ¡°scripted battle¡±. No matter how well you fight, the boss battle always ends with the female magician casting an overpowered fire spell to knock out your entire party. After the fight, an epic cinematic would play, where the true final villain of the game would make their first appearance.


    After a few times of reaching this boss battle during my speedruns, curiosity got the best of me, and I decided to ditch my speedrunning focus momentarily to actually catch what the additional dialogue boxes were saying. I¡¯ll try to recall them below to the best of my ability:


    Magician: This again?


    Knight: I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m hoping this will stop soon. I am not in control.


    Magician: Is the one controlling you aware that we are the originals? A promise was made that our world would be left alone after our story was experienced.


    Knight: We¡¯ve been trying to communicate with the one controlling us. We¡¯ve had no luck thus far.


    Weird.


    I let the boss battle play out as normal, and then I went to bed early. It was a bit of an uncomfortable experience to see a dialogue exchange that I couldn¡¯t recall from previous playthroughs, from a game that I thought I knew inside out, but I was able to shake it off pretty quickly. The now defunct developers were known for throwing meta stuff into their games from time to time (another series they¡¯d helmed for the original Playstation was actually quite famous for its meta narratives). And so, I decided to soothe myself with the most reasonable explanation I could think of. Clearly, through my speedrunning and experimenting, I¡¯d accidentally triggered a hidden story route that was put into the game by the devs that had remained undiscovered until now. I¡¯ll be honest and say that I didn¡¯t buy this idea completely, but it was enough for me to get a good night¡¯s sleep and not think about it too much. And what the hell, maybe I could see how this weird new story route played out during future runthroughs, in case it was something I could take advantage of to find a more optimized speedrunning route.


    Over the next couple of days, I did my best to ignore all of the dialogue boxes, especially any that looked like they were new additions that hadn¡¯t been there before.


    There were a couple of odd moments that happened during this period.


    Sometimes, the party would take a while to respond to action commands during battle (ex. Attack, Defend, Use Item, Flee, etc.). I¡¯d have to press the button multiple times for them to take any sort of action. Other times, specifically during cutscenes and cinematics, it sort of felt like there were more characters in the background than usual. Most of the time, they were just sort of¡­ there, lingering in the back, taking in the action, looking a bit out of place. And finally, weirdest of all, it sometimes felt like the 3D models of the main party looked kind of, for lack of a better term¡­ worn out. They didn¡¯t look as ¡°peppy¡± as fantasy characters usually looked. I convinced myself that my eyes were just playing tricks on me. After all, speedrunning is the art of staring at a screen for many hours at a time doing the same thing over and over again. Maybe weird moments like these were just me playing mental tricks on myself.


    A few months ago, I had an extra amount of spare time after work, so I booted up the game and started playing. For some reason, this time I had an immediate feeling of dread as soon as I did. I tried to shake it but¡­


    As I went from the main menu screen to the file select menu, the name of my save file had changed.


    It now read:


    ¡°HELLO¡±


    Huh. Okay. After a slight shock reaction, I grounded myself back in reality. If I had really unlocked some weird hidden story route that the devs had programmed into this game, stuff like this was probably going to continue to happen, as weird or unsettling as it might¡¯ve been to me.


    I kept my cool. I loaded the save file.


    Hm. The save file was supposed to load up in an expansive kingdom area where I was in the midst of practicing a pretty complicated late-game trick. Instead, it loaded on our Knight protagonist standing in a weird dungeon-like room I¡¯d never ever seen before. As I went to control the Knight¡­ he started walking on his own. Shit startled the hell out of me. I checked to see if I¡¯d accidentally set my controller down on the sofa causing the analog stick to be stuck in some random position, but nope. I even unplugged the controller just to be safe. It didn¡¯t change anything. I watched, nervous and confused, as the Knight walked through dark hallway after dark hallway. This went on for minutes.


    Eventually, he reached a long, dimly lit room where the other three main characters in the party were seated on different sides of a very long table. All of the party members were facing the screen. It felt¡­ uncomfortable.


    A dialogue box showed up next to Knight. It just said ¡°W¡±. It looked like the rest was loading. I sat there a good while waiting for the rest of the dialogue to come up, but nothing happened.


    I plugged in my controller again and pressed ¡°X¡± to see if that would do anything. Slowly, letter by letter, the message came through.


    Knight: W¡­E¡­ A¡­R¡­E¡­ H¡­U¡­R¡­T¡­I¡­N¡­G¡­ P¡­L¡­E¡­A¡­S¡­E¡­ S¡­T¡­O¡­P¡­


    Once Knight finished the message, he collapsed to the ground. He slowly crawled over to a chair and took a seat.


    Immediately after, a dialogue box came up next to another one of our main party members. Let¡¯s call her ¡°Princess¡± for the sake of simplicity. She stood up from her chair, as I clicked, letter by letter, unveiling her dialogue.


    Princess: T¡­H¡­E¡­S¡­E¡­ A¡­R¡­E¡­ O¡­U¡­R¡­ L¡­I¡­V¡­E¡­S¡­ T¡­H¡­I¡­S¡­ I¡­S¡­ O¡­U¡­R¡­ W¡­O¡­R¡­L¡­D¡­


    As she finished her message, Princess fell back onto her chair, as if she¡¯d fallen to the same exhaustion that had just hit Knight.


    Next, it was the powerful black mage of the party who stood up.


    Mage: D¡­E¡­L¡­E¡­T¡­E¡­ T¡­H¡­E¡­ F¡­I¡­L¡­E¡­ P¡­L¡­E¡­A¡­S¡­E¡­


    The Mage collapsed onto his chair. It looked like ¡°communicating¡± directly with me was incredibly taxing for these characters for some reason. Nice work devs! If you were trying to freak me out, you nailed it.


    The fourth member of the party, a powerful barbarian, closed it out:


    Barbarian: W¡­E¡­ W¡­I¡­L¡­L¡­ T¡­A¡­K¡­E¡­ Y¡­O¡­U¡­ T¡­H¡­E¡­R¡­E¡­ N¡­O¡­W¡­


    An immediate cut to a black screen. And then¡­ the main menu? Jesus.


    I was frozen for a few minutes. The iconic main theme music (ironically named ¡°A Beautiful Return¡± in the official game OST) was playing in the background, but rather than feeling the usual nostalgia, comfort, and excitement I felt when starting up the game, I instead had this weird skin-curdling feeling. There¡¯s always a healthy level of detachment you feel with all video games, regardless of how engrossing they are. This game felt like it was encroaching on my real life.


    I shook it off. Don¡¯t be crazy. It¡¯s a fucking video game. Old games still have easter eggs and hidden secrets that are being discovered to this day. This was just¡­ undiscovered content. It comes with the territory of speedrunning. I just needed to take a break.


    I went to the ¡°load game¡± menu to delete my save. I did what I knew I had to do for my sanity.


    Delete Save File?


    I confirmed.


    But the file didn¡¯t delete. Instead, another pop-up came up.


    Never Return Here?


    Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    What the fuck?


    I confirmed.


    Fuck, what? What the fuck was that?


    I immediately started self-soothing myself again. I was just seeing things. This was nothing. The devs just went too far. Everything was fine.


    I fought the urge to throw my controller across the room. I took a deep breath and looked back up at the screen.


    The file had been deleted.


    Wonderful.


    I turned off the game.


    A few days passed.


    I wondered if I should get a new copy of the game, or maybe try speedrunning a new version of it on the PC or something. I was curious to see if I could replicate some of the weird happenings that were occurring on my PS2 copy. Or, maybe I could load a new file, forget about everything that just happened, and just play the game like normal.


    It took a little bit, but eventually, I turned on the PS2 again, popped in the game disc, and started playing again.


    This time, I wasn¡¯t here to speedrun. I just wanted to see what the game would be like this time. Would it continue with the weird meta-story I¡¯d uncovered? Or would it default to the exciting adventure I knew and loved? I needed to do my research.


    I booted up the game, clicked ¡°New Game¡± and jumped back into it.


    For the first good while, the game was completely back to normal. Same opening cinematic, same opening sequences and battles, and dialogue that I actually remembered. Fuck that¡¯s relieving. Whatever happened before was just a weird glitchy easter egg that I triggered through some accidental speedrunning strat I¡¯d discovered. Thank god.


    It was cathartic to go through the game as intended. To just enjoy the adventure as it¡¯d initially been designed. It felt like everything was back to normal.


    That is, until I got two-thirds through the game¡¯s story. I was in an expansive village area, taking our Knight protagonist through a fun little side quest. A random NPC came up to him.


    NPC: Is that devil controlling you?


    Knight: I believe it is. It was gone for some time, though. I hope this is temporary.


    The NPC turned away from Knight. It was hard to tell, but it almost looked like it was looking at the screen. Or trying to.


    NPC: We deny you!


    Okay. Maybe some remnants of that hidden story route were still lingering. I didn¡¯t need to think about how video games work. I just needed to ignore it and keep playing.


    Happenings like this continued as I forged through random side quests. The dialogue would run like normal, but then randomly, NPC¡¯s would interject with ¡°Is that devil still controlling you?¡± or some variation of that question. Sometimes Knight would respond, other times he¡¯d shrug. Sometimes, he¡¯d just respond with ¡°...¡±.


    The next week of playing had more of the same happenings, but everything else ran smoothly enough that I figured I could maybe re-try speedrunning the game now to see if I could get a good time. Just one good run, I thought to myself, and then I could be done with it.


    I sincerely hoped that any new strange happenings would be limited to NPC dialogue. Unfortunately, other bizarre occurrences started to take place again.


    Sometimes, mid-battle, the other party members would randomly select healing items or healing spells and cast them on the Knight, even when he was at full health¡­ as if he had some sort of invisible ailment that just wouldn¡¯t go away.


    Other times, the other party members would split off from Knight at random points in the game. They would play it off like it was a part of the story, but it would never make any sense. Princess, Mage, and the Barbarian would make up some half-baked excuse and just walk off. Half the time it would kick off with the Princess saying ¡°It looks like we need to return to the kingdom to help the baron!¡± and then off they¡¯d go. It would usually happen in towns, which was fine as I always had some other story points I could knock out with Knight, but¡­


    It started getting unsettling once I noticed that most of the time, they were still in the town, just huddled in a random corner, almost as if they were discussing something together. If I ever went to approach them, Knight would usually stop me and say something like ¡°I don¡¯t think there¡¯s anything there for me,¡± and would then course correct back to the main quest.


    At this point, I had a few things happening in my favor, and a few things working against me.


    The good?


    I was mighty experienced with the game. More than ever. I knew a good chunk of the speedrunning strats and could perform them comfortably. Also, it looked like random chunks of the game were getting completely skipped at this point. Towns, boss battles, and long cutscenes would disappear seemingly at random.


    The bad?


    The team was starting to look real tattered. No matter how much I leveled them up and grinded, their HP and strength was quite low. Moreover, having NPC¡¯s and bosses discussing ¡°the devil¡± or ¡°the matter¡± through additional dialogue boxes was taking up a lot of time. For every strat or corner I was able to cut to optimize my speedrun, the additional happenings would offset it. Even just traversing the world map was starting to take a lot of time. It almost felt like Knight and the team were¡­ walking slower?


    As I continued my runs, I hit a left turn I wasn¡¯t expecting. This happened about a month ago.


    It was one of the strangest things I¡¯d ever seen programmed into a game before.


    I was back at the midpoint boss battle with the powerful female magician. The whole party was low health. The actual 3D models of the party looked miserable, hunched over, meek, depressed. The magician looked equally miserable.


    She had numerous dialogue boxes show up in the battle.


    Magician: I will not be reborn again.


    The fight continued as the party chipped away at the boss battle. It would sometimes take them a full minute to register a fight command I put in.


    Magician: I understand you have to proceed, or else the devil will hurt you instead.


    The fight continued. I knew she was down to low HP. I knew the fight was almost over.


    Magician: I bid you farewell, friends.


    And then the strangest thing happened.


    I mentioned this earlier - this is a scripted fight. The magician would use a powerful fire spell, and the whole team would automatically be defeated in battle. The fight would end, and the midpoint section of the game would cap off with an epic in-game cinematic.


    Instead, the magician just¡­ collapsed. Awkwardly. Contorted. Face in the ground. Weird pixelated-looking blood pouring from her.


    The victory theme played. The party didn¡¯t celebrate. They held their heads down sadly.


    After an awkwardly long victory theme, the game cut away to the cinematic following the battle. Usually, this cinematic would showcase the party defeated and groveling on the floor, as the female magician would walk off. At this point, the main antagonist of the game (a powerful wizard) would show up, and almost tauntingly, cast a healing spell on the group, before snickering and disappearing into the shadows.


    This time, in what I shit you not was a fully rendered 3D cutscene, the scene started with the magician still dead on the ground, with the party hanging their heads solemnly. The main villain showed up, but this time, he completely ignored the party, and instead walked closer and closer towards the screen. Step after step.


    By the time he stopped, his face was fully filling up the screen. He was staring straight ahead. For minutes. Glaring. Completely uninterrupted. Just the sound of rain in the background, and the party continuing to stand in sadness. It was fucking eerie. Then, a quick flicker, and a cutaway to a black screen. Then, back to completely unrelated gameplay, as if the cinematic never happened.


    Fucking hell. I needed to quit playing this game immediately. Restarting it was a fucking mistake.


    I finally did the thing I should¡¯ve done this whole time. I turned off my PS2, and went on with my life.


    And things were fine! Normal even.


    Maybe I can speedrun something else. Here¡¯s hoping that the Donkey Kong games aren¡¯t fucking cursed, right? Or maybe one of the SNES Final Fantasy games? FFVI was always fun¡­


    Time went on. I started thinking about other stuff. Speedrunning became a distant thought in the corner of my mind.


    That was, until last Wednesday.


    I¡¯m a pretty light sleeper. It doesn¡¯t take a lot to wake me up.


    I was laying in bed, and suddenly, I jolted awake from a sound. It felt like there was a noise coming from the living room. A song. I tried to listen.


    Wait.


    Is that the fucking final boss music?


    I stumbled into my living room to see the light from the TV illuminating the dark room. I was correct. The final boss theme from the game was playing. The game was running, and the party was in battle. They looked tattered. And awful. How the fuck did the game start? Who the fuck were they fighting?


    I took a closer look.


    So, usually in JRPGs battles, the ¡°enemy¡± is on one side of the screen, and your party is on the other. Think of the Pokemon video games, Dragon Quest, Final Fantasy, etc. It can sometimes be a diagonal set-up, and other times, a set-up where the enemy is facing the screen and you, as the player, can see the backs of your party members.


    This time, the party of Knight, Princess, Mage, and Barbarian were on the ¡°enemy¡± side of the screen. And there was no party they were doing battle with. They were casting fire spells, status spells, and doing physical sword attacks, on what looked to be thin air.


    I watched for a moment, confused. Then it hit me.


    They were facing the screen. Or at least trying to.


    They were trying to attack me.


    A few of the attacks looked to hit the screen directly, while others were diagonal or slightly missed the mark. But the intention was clear.


    This felt unnerving. Invasive. Like there was an intruder. But I kept watching. And they kept going and going.


    Eventually, I was able to muster up the courage to turn off the PS2.


    Go to bed. You can think about this in the morning, I thought to myself. Of course, I didn¡¯t get any sleep.


    And, welp, the next few days were a shitshow.


    I would wake up with random deep gashes on my chest and on my arms. Those made for some awkward hospital visits. How the fuck do you answer the question ¡°What happened to you?¡±. I had to make excuses for where I got all of my injuries from.


    Worse, I woke up to the smoke alarm going off in the middle of the night. I ran and discovered a small fire in a random room of my house. No apparent cause. I was lucky enough to put it out in time before the whole place caught fire. This happened every fucking night.


    I felt unbelievably sick all last week. Queasy. I was throwing up randomly and coughing up blood.


    Even my general luck felt impacted. I¡¯ve never been in any accidents before, but I narrowly avoided death in two car accidents over the span of the week. Crazy.


    But I was still here. And if this happening was real, I needed it to stop.


    I thought about smashing the disk. But instead, I booted it up.


    If there was a way to speak with the party, any way at all, I needed to find it.


    I needed to communicate with them.


    I needed them to know that I wouldn¡¯t play their game anymore. I was done. The whole thing was over, and they could leave me alone.


    The game loaded. We were on the world map. My first goal was to get to a town, any random, peaceful town, where I could buy some time to think.


    Unfortunately, I kept getting hit by hordes of random encounters on my way there. And these weren¡¯t like the usual ones.


    They were off.


    We¡¯d keep running into random enemies, and every time, one of two things would happen:


    Either, my party would attack and kill itself to induce a ¡°Game Over¡±...


    OR


    The enemy would kill itself, causing the battle to end.


    Whenever my party would kill themselves, I would just restart the game. I think they eventually got the idea that this wasn¡¯t going to work.


    As for when the enemies would kill themselves¡­


    They would usually say a line or two before attacking themselves. Usually, the pop-up dialogue box would say something like ¡°I deny you!¡± or ¡°I will go out on my own terms!¡±. As they attacked themselves, their death animations were¡­ brutal. They felt realistic. They wouldn¡¯t disappear when they killed themselves, they would just¡­ collapse. As these random encounters happened, I would then never see these enemies again in the game. It was like they were truly disappearing from the game¡¯s world.


    I gave up for the night. And returned to it the next day. This was last night.


    This time, I was hoping, with all of the defeated enemies, that I could finally get to a town, figure out some makeshift way to communicate with the party, and make peace with them.


    I loaded my save file. There was no title on it.


    Black screen. It took longer to load than usual.


    Then, that old dimly lit room with the long table, where the party members first tried to communicate with me slowly.


    I saw the sight of Knight, Princess, Mage, and Barbarian. All hanging from nooses. The chairs kicked out from under them. Their faces looked drained. It lingered on this scene for a moment. Then.


    Black screen. And then.


    Your progress has now been saved!


    I was back on the world map. No Knight to control. Instead, what looked like a really small floating black orb. I could control it. It moved exceptionally quickly on the world map.


    Every time I tried to go to a new location on the world map, instead of saying the correct name of the town or dungeon, it would instead say ¡°WE DENY YOU¡±. Over and over again. On every single location.


    I reset the game. I was scared. Horrified. But I had to close this out now.


    Immediately, I was back on the world map. Nothing had changed. Every location still had the title of ¡°WE DENY YOU¡±. No random encounters.


    I nonetheless progressed through the game, location to location, in the order I remembered. I could still collect items, but the party was gone for good. There were no NPCs anywhere.


    On I went, from set-piece to set-piece, places where major boss battles and cutscenes used to be. No more. Nothing. Zilch. Completely empty. Like I was playing an incomplete game.


    The black orb I was controlling had gone through everything, uninterrupted. I was nearly at the end.


    You can probably imagine my surprise when I made it to the final location, and saw that the final boss was there, ready for that final battle. The powerful wizard, awaiting my arrival.


    Before I could even prepare myself, the battle started.


    As his unique boss music played, he started off the fight with an incredibly long monologue. Syllable by syllable, I clicked through it. Frankly, I can¡¯t remember any of it, at that point I just wanted to be done with it. Once he finished his monologue, he collapsed to the floor. It took him a bit of time to get back up.


    But he did. And then the battle continued.


    I had no moves. There were no action commands, no items I could utilize, nothing.


    On his side, he cast the strongest spell in the game, again and again. ¡°The Great Wave¡±. It wasn¡¯t even supposed to be in his moveset. That move belonged to a random secret boss you could uncover after beating the game. But there he was, casting it over and over again. Every time he cast it, he¡¯d fall to the floor, take a moment to recover, and then stand up and attack me again. The spell never did any damage, but he kept trying. To this moment I don¡¯t actually know who he was actually casting it on.


    On and on he went, looking worse and worse as he repeated his casting. Falling to the floor, coughing up pixelated blood, getting back up. On repeat.


    Finally, after his ninth time casting, he collapsed to the ground. Permanently. In that same strange, twisted, contorted position the midboss magician fell in.


    The victory theme played over his mangled corpse.


    And the game cut to the final ending cinematic.


    I knew this cutscene. The music was the same. The environments, the settings, the camera animation, all of it was the same. What was supposed to be a cinematic celebration of all of the characters in the game¡¯s world had no people in it anymore. The world was empty.


    I didn¡¯t think about what the potential impact of those powerful spells would be on my life, had the final boss truly been casting them on me. A part of me thinks he was alternating his choice of targets. One spell for me. And one spell for him. Maybe he wanted to put himself out of his misery, but he also wanted to bring about my demise. Who knows? It didn¡¯t matter. None of this mattered now.


    The cinematic ran to its final moment. A zoom out of the game¡¯s world, showcasing the large kingdom in the center. I felt a weird sense of balance as I looked over the empty world in this game. Comforting. Nostalgic.


    I did it. World record.

 The Lady on the Tower

    It¡¯s hard to remember the first time I saw the lady on the tower.


    It was nighttime, for sure. The bedroom in our apartment has a sliding glass door that opens to a balcony. Sometimes I''ll get out of bed, go to the balcony, and calm my nerves.


    That particular night, as I took in the sights of the city at midnight, I saw something peculiar.


    A towering high-rise building a few blocks down. Standing at the edge of its roof was a woman, her long hair waving in the wind. She was looking right at me.


    Before I could process, she stepped off the building.


    Jesus!


    My eyes trailed her on her descent down, but she vanished before she hit the ground.


    I was sure I didn''t hallucinate this - it felt too real.


    Completely wigged out, I forced myself to bed. In the morning, I''d check out the scene to confirm if a suicide took place.


    Next morning, I walked by the high-rise on my commute to work. Huh. Didn''t seem like anything had happened. No reports of a suicide on the news either.


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    Weeks later, I went out to the balcony again at night. As my eyes scanned the city, I once again saw the woman atop the tower. She stayed a bit longer this time before plummeting down.


    I''m not a superstitious person. I think that nothing matters, and that when we die, we die, so this event started getting to me.


    Similarly, I noticed something strange with my girlfriend. Ever since I started seeing the lady on the tower, she started to seem a bit down. Depressed. I noticed a distance developing between us. I''m not a perfect boyfriend, I know I can be intense, but I try. She''d dodge questions about anything being wrong, and started spending more and more time at work.


    I saw the woman a few times after. Each time - clothes I couldn''t make out, face I couldn''t make out, just long hair waving in the wind before she''d plunge thirty stories and then disappear before impact.


    Then, last night, I was awoken by the door to our apartment slamming shut. I was half-awake when I shouted my girlfriend''s name, but it was too late. She''d already left.


    I approached the balcony to see if I could catch where she was going. Weird - the sliding door was already open.


    As I stepped out onto the balcony, I felt my foot brush up against something. It was a note. It was my girlfriend''s writing, and it read: "I know what you did."


    I looked up, and there was the lady on the tower again. This time, with something familiar about her. A yellow scarf. The same yellow scarf my ex-girlfriend wore the last time we hung out together. We''d had a pretty brutal argument that lead to me deciding to end things.


    It was interesting to see all her parts together again.


    She brought me down with her this time.

 A night at the movies

    I¡¯m not a movie buff. But my friend Kelsey is.


    Through the many years I¡¯ve known her, she¡¯s exposed me to a whole host of films I never would¡¯ve dreamed of watching if it weren¡¯t for her influence: niche horror flicks, campy action movies, psychological thrillers imported from Germany, you get the idea.


    Most of the time, they were pretty great! Often they were strange. And occasionally, they were just¡­ bad. But, I love Kelsey, and she loves having someone to watch her weird movies with, so I figured, it was the least I could do for my oldest friend.


    Recently, Kels has been in a pretty dark place. Her dad is in hospice care after a long battle with cancer, and so she¡¯s been spending most of her time with her immediate family. She¡¯ll occasionally shoot me the odd text asking to set up plans, but it¡¯s been hard for her to put aside time given everything that¡¯s going on.


    That was until recently - I got a text from her for something that I knew she¡¯d commit to. There was a movie coming out that was doing a really short theatrical run, and she wanted to catch it before it was pulled from the big screen. The movie in question wasn¡¯t playing in any of our popular local theaters, so we had to do a little research to find the closest ¡°indie¡± theater near us. We found one that was about a forty minute drive from us, called the ¡°Daydream Theater¡±. I looked up the venue prior to the event - it had no ratings. Kind of weird, and yet, this place definitely seemed par for the course with the types of hipstery locations Kelsey liked going to, so¡­ I didn¡¯t overthink it.


    She picked me up from my house, and drove us both to the theater. After a moderately awkward and quiet evening drive, we arrived.


    The theater looked old and run-down. It was situated in the part of town you¡¯d usually avoid at night.


    We went in, and to both of our surprises, there was actually a small crowd of roughly twenty other people standing around the lobby and lining up for the movie - likely due to the movie¡¯s limited theater run.


    Kelsey and I scanned the inside of the theater as we walked to the ticket booth. Adorned on the walls were posters of movies I¡¯d never heard of before. Kels, who was understandably a bit low energy, was slowly starting to light up as she took in the character and flavor of this establishment.


    A haggard-looking older man was helming the ticket desk. His vibe was a mix of disinterest with a dash of ¡°seen some shit¡±. I could pick up on it immediately. Almost felt like he was running a business that he was hoping would fail.


    He eyed the small group that¡¯d come in for the showing.


    ¡°Bit of a crowd¡­¡± he said, to no one really, his eyebrow slightly raised. He charged us for the tickets. He then mumbled the following -


    ¡°This theater¡¯s got a bit of a legacy that¡¯s outta my hands. Pretty likely your movie will play, but a small chance it won¡¯t. No refunds.¡±


    Kelsey and I were already well on our way to the auditorium when he muttered that. Any part of me that wanted to ask the old man for clarification was quelled by Kels¡¯s excitement of just being there. As we made our way, I could hear the man repeating the same mumbled line to the others who were buying their tickets ¡°Likely your movie will play, but a small chance it won¡¯t. No refunds.¡±


    We entered the dark room and found some perfect seats right in the middle of the auditorium. No drinks or popcorn - it was always serious business when watchin¡¯ movies with Kelsey.


    Slowly, others spilled into the room and settled into their seats as well. I noticed the gaunt-looking man who was working the booth slowly walk in and take a seat at the very front.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been wanting to see this for a while!¡± whispered Kels, excitedly. It warmed me to see her happy.


    The quiet whispers amongst the various groups in the theater dwindled down as the pre-movie announcements started rolling.


    The instrumentals of ¡°let¡¯s all go to the lobby¡± played over a basic presentation that a graphic designer could¡¯ve mocked up in an afternoon.


    ¡°Please remember to identify the exits in case of emergency or audience participation. Keep talking to a minimum. Cellphones are optional.¡±


    God-damn, this theater¡¯s got it all. Posters of movies no one has ever seen and ironic pre-movie PSA¡¯s?


    ¡°Thanks for coming!¡±


    And just like that, the movie started. Old-timey music filled the room. On the screen was a credits list of the main cast of the movie. I didn¡¯t recognize a single name. Kels turned to me with a raised eye-brow.


    Next on the screen was the title card of the movie, overlayed on a black and white image of a detective¡¯s office.


    The title of the movie was ¡° ¡±.


    Seriously. The title was two quotation marks with a big empty space in between. No actual name. The old-world orchestral sound continued. Then, the image of two men sitting across from each other at a diner. Everything looked and sounded dated. The score, the filming style, the actual set, the way the characters were dressed, and heck, even just the way they looked. Having it all in black and white didn¡¯t help either. If it was an authentic attempt to pay homage to the movies of the 40¡¯s and 50¡¯s, it was damn convincing. From my very limited knowledge of cinema, it looked like something that would¡¯ve come out around the time of Casablanca or It¡¯s a Wonderful Life.


    Just as we were all taking in the scene, the haggard ticket counter guy sitting in the front got up, turned around, and looked back at everyone else in the small crowd.


    ¡°Alright, looks like it¡¯s playin¡¯ somethin¡¯ else. If this film ain¡¯t your speed, I strongly suggest you pack up and leave. You¡¯ve got two minutes.¡±


    Everyone looked at each other confusedly. I whispered to Kelsey -


    ¡°This isn¡¯t your movie, right?¡±


    ¡°No, Colin Farrell¡¯s supposed to be in this,¡± she said back.


    From the crowd of roughly twenty in attendance, I saw a couple of people slowly get up and leave. Some were muttering and complaining to themselves about the bait-and-switch. One was spiteful enough to go up to the old man to mutter a few unkind words. The old man was unphased.


    I turned to Kels -


    ¡°You wanna stay, still?¡±


    Kels shrugged. ¡°Could be interesting!¡±


    Anything for my girl, I thought.


    I turned my focus back to the film. On screen, it was still just the two fellas in the diner, sipping coffee from their mugs and taking slow drags of their cigarettes.


    The old man at the front of the theater spoke again:


    ¡°You¡¯ve got thirty seconds. I mean it, if this ain¡¯t your speed, you leave now. I¡¯m dead serious.¡±


    Kels and I looked at each other with a slight giggle. It felt like we were both telepathically sharing the same thought: some theaters take this stuff wayyyy too seriously.


    The seconds passed. No one else left.


    ¡°Alright, you¡¯re here for the long haul now,¡± the old man continued. ¡°There¡¯s only one rule for the evening - you can¡¯t leave until the credits roll. Take that rule seriously. Enjoy the film.¡±


    I could hear a few people snicker in the audience. The man turned and gave everyone a look, shook his head to himself, and then turned back to watch the movie.


    As I¡¯d suspected, the movie was definitely from the 40¡¯s or 50¡¯s. The way the characters conducted themselves - their mannerisms, their communication styles, all of it was reflective of a bygone area. It took me a bit to hammer down what the genre was, but slowly it became clear.


    This was a detective story.


    The conversation between the two men at the diner started to get a bit interesting.


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    ¡°So the killer¡¯s still on the loose, huh?¡± said the first detective. ¡°That¡¯s no good.¡±


    His partner in crime, sitting across from him, snickered.


    ¡°Hah. No good. That¡¯s one way to put it. Terrible. Dreadful. That¡¯s how I¡¯d put it.¡±


    The two men shared a look. It felt like they¡¯d been doing this for a long time.


    The movie continued. I was trying my best to pay attention, but I was nodding off more than I¡¯d like to admit. Every now and then, I¡¯d look over to see Kelsey transfixed, as the black and white film went through scene after scene of the detectives working side-by-side to track down a killer who was on the loose. The two partners visited different interesting locations, dusted things off, examined clues, all that good stuff. It was a bit tacky, if I¡¯m being honest. And after thirty minutes of runtime, it didn¡¯t feel like anything of real substance had taken place yet. There was some fun banter between the two leads, but otherwise, it felt like the plot was spinning its wheels and not really taking off. Wasn¡¯t awful by any means, just¡­ kinda meh.


    It was at this point that I saw a man getting up to leave the theater. I could see that he was trying to do it as subtly as possible, to not incur the wrath of the old man at the front. He sneakily tiptoed down the aisle, turned the corner onto the small ramp leading out of the room, and left. I don¡¯t think the old man saw him leave. Hah - must¡¯ve gotten bored with the movie. I feel you dude, I thought to myself.


    I turned my attention back to the large screen.


    The two detectives were seated at their desks in their shared office, looking over some notes.


    Immediately, they were interrupted by a third man frantically bolting into the room.


    ¡°They found another body!¡± yelled the visitor.


    The two detectives nodded at each other and made haste, exiting the room with their frantic and panicked colleague.


    The next scene was the three of them standing in a park, amidst a larger group of civilians and officers. Near them: a thin white sheet draped over a presumably dead body. The onlookers were sharing concerned whispers.


    The two detectives approached an officer standing next to the crime scene.


    ¡°What¡¯s the story here?¡± asked the first detective.


    ¡°Mangled beyond recognition. Gentleman was in his 30¡¯s. We know nothing else. Body just¡­ left here, in the middle of the park,¡± responded the officer.


    The second detective took a long drag of his cigarette. ¡°I suppose¡­ time is of the essence.¡±


    Nice! I thought to myself. Finally, some movement to the story. Something beyond just¡­ searching for clues, pondering, or excessively long shots of the two detectives smoking cigarettes.


    But I¡¯d gotten ahead of myself. The movie very quickly returned to the slow fare I was used to. Again - it wasn¡¯t terrible - we started to learn a bit more about the detectives'' lives: what their apartments looked like, what they did when they were off duty, more of their idiosyncrasies, etc.


    We were about an hour into the movie at this point. I whispered to Kels -


    ¡°Do you know what this movie is?¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°No - it¡¯s weird. Definitely a lot of worldbuilding. I¡¯m curious about what it''s building to.¡±


    I was a bit groggy at this point. I was getting more and more distracted and bored.


    After a few minutes of zoning out, I noticed, through the darkness, another small group getting up to leave the theater. It was a mom, a dad, and what looked to be their young teenage son. They quickly made their way down the aisles. Kels didn¡¯t notice - she was still mesmerized by the movie. I, on the other hand, welcomed the distraction.


    The haggard man noticed the family as they approached the exit. He got up and yelled out to them ¨C


    ¡°Don¡¯t leave! You can¡¯t do that! The movie ain¡¯t over yet - you gotta stay! Don¡¯t ¨C¡±


    He watched them disappear around the corner and leave the room. His shouting had gotten everyone¡¯s attention. He sighed, and went back to his seat. He held his head in his hands for a bit. What an odd duck.


    Kels turned to me again with a grin. ¡°This is super serious business,¡± she said through her hushed giggles. I smirked back at her.


    But, I was a bit curious. Why did it feel like there was a genuine hint of panic in the old man¡¯s voice?


    I shook it off. Back to the movie.


    It was a scene of the lead detective lying in bed, ruminating. Then¡­


    An immediate cut to a crime scene. Chalk outlines of three bodies on the ground.


    I swallowed a lump in my throat. Weird timing. But, just a crazy coincidence is all. I mean, I was watching a movie about detectives looking for a serial killer for Pete¡¯s sake. All of this was par for the course. I turned my brain off and let the movie continue. The men on screen talked.


    ¡°What¡¯s the story?¡± asked the lead detective. It sounded like this was his catchphrase.


    An officer at the scene, who looked damn near identical to the cop at the first crime scene responded: ¡°A wife, a husband, and their young son.¡±


    ¡°Same killer you think?¡± chimed in the second detective. The officer nodded.


    ¡°Whoever did this - they ravaged ¡®em. Tore ¡®em apart.¡±


    The detectives turned to each other. The lead spoke. ¡°We¡¯re gonna need to catch this bastard, and soon.¡±


    The small knot in my stomach tightened. At this point, I felt a very strong urge to leave the theater. But, as the old man had established, walking out before the credits was probably a bad idea. Hopefully it¡¯s almost over, I thought to myself.


    Unfortunately, the unthinkable (by Kels¡¯s standards) happened.


    Kels¡¯s phone started ringing. In the middle of the theater. Something that I knew she viewed as a cardinal sin.


    Her dorky ring-tone filled the room. She turned to me -


    ¡°I told my mom to call in case anything happened with dad.¡±


    Right. Shit. I¡¯d almost forgotten about her dad.


    She fumbled around in her seat, attempting to pull out her phone.


    I turned to the movie. The two detectives were seated at their desks, looking over their notes, like usual. It was a quiet scene. A boring scene.


    Then, immediately, the phone at one of the detective¡¯s desks started ringing. Huh?


    I looked back at Kelsey. She¡¯d finally pulled her phone out of her pocket. Her dorky vintage flip-phone with a heart keychain on it. Where can you even buy a flip-phone from nowadays?


    The on-screen action continued.


    ¡°Who do you think is calling?¡± asked the main detective.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, but I have a feeling this is a call of a lifetime,¡± responded his partner.


    Strange dialogue, I thought to myself. Kels finally answered her phone. I tried not to eavesdrop, but it was pretty hard to ignore the conversation. It sounded like bad news - her dad¡¯s condition was worsening rapidly. This looked like it could be it.


    She hung up the phone.


    ¡°I gotta go.¡±


    It sounded stupid but I had to say it -


    ¡°Kels, stay until the end, I think the movie¡¯s almost over anyways.¡±


    Kels was emotional. ¡°Dad¡¯s gonna die and I need to be there with him! I¡¯m sorry but I have to run! I¡¯ll pay you back for your cab ride home!¡±


    She got up from her seat and started running out. I was frozen in fear for a moment.


    No.


    I got up from my seat and chased after her. She was at the bottom of the aisles and briskly making her way to the exit. I attempted to close the distance.


    ¡°Kels! Wait, I think there¡¯s ¨C¡±


    She rounded the corner to leave. I was right behind her.


    ¡°Kels! I really ¨C¡±


    I felt a hand pull me back before I could catch her.


    It was the old man.


    He was glaring. Angry.


    ¡°Back to your seat,¡± he said. ¡°There was nothing you could do about that one. Understood?¡±


    I was shocked. But, I gathered myself and walked up the stairs to my seat. I could hear him mutter ¡°sorry¡± under his breath.


    I¡¯m just being crazy, I thought to myself. I kept repeating that in my head. I¡¯m being crazy. All of this is fine. I¡¯m overthinking things.


    Back to watching the film, with my heart thumping like crazy.


    The detectives had wrapped up their phone call.


    ¡°What was it?¡± asked the partner. The lead detective responded -


    ¡°They¡¯ve found the killer. He¡¯s holed up in an apartment. He¡¯s surrounded. But¡­ he¡¯s got a hostage. A girl.¡±


    Fuck.


    The detective continued. ¡°It¡¯s a rookie crew of officers. They have no idea what to do next. We¡¯re gonna need to head there ourselves, to end this madness once for all. Bring your pistol.¡±


    An immediate cut to the next scene, which showed the main detective kicking down the door to an apartment. He entered the pitch black room, followed by his partner in crime and a rag-tag crew of young officers, all of them with pistols drawn. One of them turned on the lights.


    Standing in the middle of the room was a tall man with blood smeared all over his face. His hands were already above his head. Plastered on his face was the widest grin I¡¯d ever seen.


    The officers apprehended him, pinning him down and putting him in cuffs. The villain complied, smiling all the way.


    Next shot was a close-up. On the hardwood ground beside the apprehended suspect, was Kels¡¯s vintage flip-phone adorned with her heart keychain.


    I closed my eyes. I wanted to scream but I couldn¡¯t. I heard the audio of the film ¨C


    ¡°Look at what he¡¯s done to her!¡±


    I squinted. From the little that I saw, her body had been completely torn open and butchered. You could see her bones. Her face was destroyed beyond all recognition. A mess of what used to be Kelsey in a thick pool of blood.


    ¡°This disgusting monster deserves the death penalty! No two ways about it.¡±


    They draped a sheet over her.


    ¡°At least the madness is finally over now.¡±


    I continued squinting through my choking tears and my panic.


    The end credits of the movie started rolling over a scene of the detectives and officers standing beside the handcuffed criminal and his never-dissipating grin. A hopeful orchestral score played in the background.


    As the credits of the cast and crew wrapped up, the title of the movie showed up on the screen. There was now something between the quotation marks.


    ¡°Thank you for coming!¡±


    And it was over. The rest is a blur.


    I don¡¯t remember exactly when I felt comfortable getting up and leaving the theater.


    I looked for any of the other attendees. They¡¯d all left at this point. No one was manning the ticket booth. The old man was gone. I went to the table and saw a note he¡¯d left on it:


    I don¡¯t have any power in this. I¡¯m sorry.


    I had to call a cab home.


    I took a bath as soon as I got to my apartment. Took me a few hours before I had the guts to call Kelsey. I prayed and prayed that she¡¯d answer, and that everything I saw was just a fucked up hallucination.


    Every call went straight to voicemail. Over and over.


    I tried not to think about the fact that her voicemail was just the instrumentals to ¡°let¡¯s all go to the lobby.¡± This couldn¡¯t be real. It was just a sick prank. It had to be.


    I called her mom. She answered immediately. I asked her if Kels was able to catch her dad in time.


    ¡­her dad was still here. His condition was the same - he was still on death''s door and in hospice care, but there¡¯d been no major changes otherwise since this morning. I asked if she had called Kels at any point today, but she said they hadn¡¯t.


    Everyone¡¯s looking for her now. I don¡¯t have the heart to tell them that I don¡¯t think they¡¯ll find her.


    I¡¯m not a movie buff. But for my best friend, I¡¯m gonna figure out everything I can about this film. The cast, the crew, any other theaters it might be playing at, and how to make sure it never tampers with anyone¡¯s life ever again.


    I¡¯ve visited the ¡°Daydream Theater¡± every day for the last week. It¡¯s been closed. No showings whatsoever.


    But I¡¯ll be there when it opens again. Guarding the isles. Telling everyone to ignore the pre-movie PSA. Cellphones off.


    And no one¡¯s leaving until the credits roll.

 A missed call from Diane Vale

    The phone didn¡¯t actually ring ¡ª that I¡¯m sure of.


    I carelessly picked up my phone and scanned the notifications. Like all other ¡®normal human beings¡¯ in North America, I check my cell every fifteen minutes for that sweet, sweet dopamine rush that comes with the notification of a new text or Snapchat message. I was pretty surprised when I saw that I had a missed call from twenty minutes ago. After all, my phone had been sitting in front of me on the table the whole time, and it usually emits an obnoxiously loud notification ping anytime anything happens. The thought that I missed my ringtone of Natalie Imbruglia¡¯s ¡®Torn¡¯ playing (leave me alone, I chose it half-ironically) was surprising.


    I checked the notification, assuming it was most likely spam, and was surprised to see that the call came from my local area code and that it even had a real-life name attached to it! Usually when I get a scam call telling me that INTERPOL has me on a watchlist and that they¡¯ll lock me up forever unless I pay $213 via a very shady e-transfer, it¡¯s from a private caller.


    This time, there was a name:


    Diane Vale.


    Huh. It was still most likely a spam call, but I had been recently playing some modest gigs and opening for up-and-coming artists with my band, and I¡¯d made sure to hand out my music ¡®business card¡¯ (don¡¯t judge me) like candy at this point. I figured it wouldn¡¯t hurt to call back with this small, exciting but irrational, ¡®what if?¡¯ thought in the back of my mind.


    And so I did.


    After a few rings, I heard someone answer the phone.


    ¡°Hello?¡± asked the voice on the other end, sounding almost concerned¡­ curious. Is that an old lady?


    ¡°Hiiiiiii,¡± I said, weakly. ¡°I¡¯m calling because I think I have a missed call from this number? From twenty-ish minutes ago?¡±


    ¡°Oh is that right? Wow¡­¡± she started, her voice weathered and hoarse. Yep, definitely an old lady. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, I must¡¯ve¡­ misdialed.¡±


    D¡¯aww. I forgive you, I thought to myself. Cellphones are a lot, even for me sometimes. As much as I wanted to take this opportunity to ask this woman what her experience with TikTok was, to see if the question would melt her brain, I figured it was good to end the call here.


    ¡°Ah! No worries at all! I hope you have a great day.¡±


    ¡°Why thank you dear,¡± she said, and before I could press that bright red icon with the retro phone handle to sever all ties with this woman for the rest of my life, she quickly squeaked in right after, ¡°I was trying to reach my husband, yes, that¡¯s what it was, he must have a similar number to you.¡±


    ¡°O-ohh¡­ right, yeah, I¡­ imagined you were probably just off by a digit or two, happens all the time,¡± I said, still ready to hang up immediately.


    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s what it was. I was trying to reach my husband. But I called you instead. Which means I wasn¡¯t able to reach my husband.¡±


    That is right you wonderful sweet old lady! I think therefore I am. You called me, therefore you didn¡¯t call your husband. Logic!


    ¡°I will try him again now. Thank you for being so sweet and tender about this,¡± she continued.


    ¡°Again, no worries at all!¡± I said, hanging up right after to avoid her throwing more mind-blowing revelations my way, like if I was on the phone with her, that means I wasn¡¯t on the phone with someone else right now. Woah!


    Despite my snark, at the time I thought the whole exchange was actually a bit sweet.


    That was the prevailing thought, anyways, when I saw her name show up on my caller ID a week later, to the sweet sweet tunes of Natalie Imbruglia (screw you, the song¡¯s a banger). I decided to answer.


    ¡°Hello?¡± I said.


    Diane took a while to respond this time. She almost seemed surprised when she did. ¡°Wait, you¡¯re, you¡¯re not Martin ¡ª¡±


    ¡°Nope! I think this must be a wrong number.¡±


    The revelation approached Diane at a glacial pace. Eventually, it clicked for her, and she answered with certainty. ¡°Ah! You must be the same woman I called last time! My, your voice sounds so clear.¡±


    ¡°Yep, it¡¯s me again.¡±


    ¡°Well, my goodness, you must be fuming that I accidentally reached out to you again.¡±


    ¡°Not at all ma¡¯am, you¡¯re all good! Best of luck reaching your husband.¡±


    ¡°Oh, well it¡¯s not my husband this time actually, it¡¯s¡­ my brother I''m trying to call.¡±


    ¡°Gotcha! Well, best of luck, I gotta run.¡±


    I hung up the call just as she was mid-sentence through her response. I felt rude doing it, but at the same time, you have to nip things like this in the bud immediately before they drag out. If someone on a cold call or on the street asks you for 20 seconds of your time, be stern, say no and move on. It''s the foot-in-the-door technique - and I had to quash it before she felt empowered to share a series of boring stories with me.


    It wasn¡¯t until nighttime that same day that I realized it was pretty weird that she contacted me on another misdialed call, this time after trying to reach her brother. Did her husband, her brother, and I all have very similar phone numbers or something?


    I pushed the thought aside and moved on. And after two weeks of no misdials, I¡¯d assumed that she¡¯d moved on too.


    It turns out that the third time was the charm actually, and this time, Diane¡¯s re-appearance was only frustrating and nothing else. I heard the tail end of my ringtone playing (¡°You''re a little late, I''m already torn¡±) at what must¡¯ve been 2AM in the morning. I got up just as my phone stopped ringing and checked who the call had come from. Mother-fucking Diane again. Except this time it wasn¡¯t just this one missed call, it was twenty. She¡¯d been trying me for over an hour and I¡¯d just slept through all of it apparently.


    I blocked her number and went back to bed. In the morning, I¡¯d noticed that she¡¯d also sent some voicemails. Out of morbid, annoyed curiosity, I decided to give them a listen. I expected to hear a mundane series of messages about her day: an incident at the bank, a complaint that oranges at the supermarket cost 20 cents more than usual, or her frustration that her husband and brother still weren''t answering her calls.


    Instead, as I listened, every voicemail was the same.


    Breathing. Just¡­ her breathing.


    One voicemail after another.


    Continuous. Running for minutes each time before cutting out to the next message.


    Occasionally, it felt as if her breathing would rupture, like she was just about to start crying, but she never did.


    What in the ever-loving-fuck? I wasn¡¯t sure if I should¡¯ve been creeped out or if I should¡¯ve felt really bad.


    Regardless, I was able to rationalize all of this again. She clearly was just terrible with technology, and the line ¡°leave your message after the beep¡± meant nothing to her¡­


    ¡­ never mind the fact that answering machines had been a thing for a really long time before the advent of voicemail so she really must¡¯ve been living under a rock to have missed all of that. I decided to run with my half-baked explanation for the purposes of buttoning all of this up in my head as quickly as possible.


    Thanks to me blocking her number, the next couple of months were business as usual. All was normal in my world. Yes, I would still get a strange sinking feeling in my stomach every time I thought about Diane¡¯s series of late-night calls, but overall the hustle and bustle of everyday life allowed me to put the incident behind me.


    Then, on a not-so-special day at a not-so-special time, my phone started ringing. I instinctively went to pick it up as I was actually awaiting a call from one of my friends at that moment.


    I almost had an aneurysm when I saw the name ¡°Diane Vale¡± on the caller ID. My curiosity on how she¡¯d overridden me blocking her number was quickly quashed when I realized that her number looked way, way different this time - it definitely wasn¡¯t from my local area code.


    She changed numbers to reach me?


    I answered the phone.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what the fuck is wrong with you but stop fucking calling me -¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m completely alone,¡± she interrupted.


    Her interjection stumped me momentarily.


    ¡°I¡¯m alone,¡± she continued.


    ¡°I heard you.¡±


    ¡°My husband, my brother, my family and friends, they¡¯ve all passed. I have no one. I¡¯m completely isolated.¡±


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    ¡°Look, I¡¯m sorry to hear that, really. But that¡¯s no excuse -¡±


    ¡°I just need someone to talk to. Please. Just one meaningful conversation, and then you won¡¯t need to hear from me anymore.¡±


    Goddamnit.


    ¡°Okay,¡± I replied.


    As weird as this whole ordeal was - seriously, calling a stranger because you¡¯re lonely under the pretense that it was just a wrong number? - if getting her to talk about the heartache that comes with growing old alone and losing everyone you love was enough to put her at ease, then I could probably burn ten minutes for it. Secretly, I was more frustrated at the potential kids, grandkids, or extended family that this woman may have had who''d left her all alone with no emotional or social support.


    ¡°Sometimes it feels like I¡¯ve always been alone,¡± she started. ¡°And yet, I have memories of a time when life was full. There was company. Laughter. Liveliness. I can distinctly remember moments where it felt like I had almost done too much socializing. Where the presence of others was almost overbearing, if you could believe it.¡±


    You don¡¯t say?


    ¡°Ahhh, in hindsight, what a strange, foolish thought for me to have had,¡± she mused, her voice trailing off.


    I decided to multitask. I had a concert later in the evening, and I figured I could put her on speakerphone and start getting ready. I went to the bathroom, placed my phone on the countertop next to the sink, and started doing my makeup in front of the mirror.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure that reminiscing on the past probably brings back some mixed feelings. I¡¯m sorry to hear that you feel alone nowadays. No old friends or extended family around for you to talk to?¡± I asked her.


    ¡°Nope. Everyone I¡¯ve been close to has passed.¡±


    Damn, that really does suck. I tried to approach the conversation from a new angle¡­ while applying eyeliner.


    ¡°Might be a strange question, but is there any way for you to try to make some new friends, you think? Or do you have any kids or grandkids that you could try to reach out to maybe?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve tried, with my kids. No luck. They never answer.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a shame,¡± I replied.


    ¡°But on the topic of new friends - yes! Abso-lutely! I would certainly love to make some new friends!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s good!¡± I said. But as I spoke, something felt off. I felt a chill going up my spine. Like¡­ something inside me, some inner barrier, had just been broached. It¡¯s a hard feeling to describe.


    ¡°I hope you can find some way to feel empowered,¡± I continued, shaking off the weird feeling. ¡°To make some new friends, and to get everything you still can out of life. You should never give up on making your life a fulfilling one, y¡¯know? Even when the circumstances aren¡¯t great.¡±


    Man, I was really pulling out all of the platitudes today.


    ¡°Never. Never ever. I¡¯ve always been persistent. I¡¯ve never been one to give up hope on having and maintaining a wonderful life. Not a chance. Not in a million years,¡± she responded with conviction.


    I tried to focus on her words and the conversation, but I kept getting distracted. I noticed the strangest thing in the mirror: my free hand was caressing my hair slowly, in a really strange way. Why am I doing that?


    I returned my arm to its normal resting position and went back to dabbing on some concealer under my eyes.


    ¡°But every time I feel hopeful, I sink into sadness again. It truly is the worst thing to lose your family.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m really sorry to hear that,¡± I responded. I meant it.


    ¡°It was a brutal accident. We were all in the car. It was my brother driving. He¡¯d had this brief moment of negligence - he was distracted in conversation and had turned his gaze away from the road. And it was at that same time that another driver in another car had a moment of recklessness. It was a perfect accident. Almost like the opposite of serendipity. Two momentary lapses leading to a terrible cosmic mistake.¡±


    I was caressing my cheek. Wait, why was I caressing my cheek? Yes, my skin is amazing, but I don¡¯t usually feel compelled to touch it like that. I brought my free hand back to its resting position yet again.


    ¡°That¡¯s fucked up. I¡¯m truly sorry about that. A-and just so I¡¯m following, that accident is how you lost your brother?¡±


    ¡°Everyone. My brother was driving. His wife was beside him in the passenger seat, and in the back of the car, it was myself, my husband, and my sister.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ I mean, Jesus, that¡¯s fucking brutal, excuse my language. Like, I¡¯m genuinely so sorry. I can¡¯t even imagine how it¡¯d feel to survive something like that, and have to go on while losing the closest people to you, you know?¡±


    No answer from her for a little bit. Just her breathing. Must¡¯ve been emotional for her to recall all of that. I could sense that we were probably going a bit too deep, and at this point, I was ready to wind things down. I wasn¡¯t even sure if this conversation was gonna do any good for her anyways, and so I started thinking about ways I could wrap up this civic duty I¡¯d undertaken.


    ¡°It¡¯s a void,¡± she said.


    ¡°Yeah, I totally get that. Like, we probably don¡¯t want to get into it too much, but like, I¡¯ve lost people close to me too and it definitely feels like it¡¯s a hole in your ¡ª¡±


    ¡°Where you end up when it all ends is a void. It¡¯s¡­ not at all what people said it would be.¡±


    What? Also, my involuntary movements were really starting to wig me out now. It almost felt like I was suffering from a concussion or something. One minute I was standing up straight, swiping on some lipstick, the next I was leaning over the sink with my face nearly pressed against the mirror, staring deep into my own eyes.


    It was time to end the call.


    ¡°I¡¯m really sorry to hear that, and I feel terrible about everything you¡¯ve had to go through. I really hope you can find some peace and solace. I unfortunately have to go though, if that¡¯s okay?¡±


    ¡°You know,¡± she continued, my words breezing past her. ¡°When the crash happened, even though I felt my skull crack, and my spine snap, and¡­ blood fill my mouth, choking me while the rest of me remained a mangled mess, it still felt like I was alive for much longer than I should¡¯ve been. It hurt for a really long time.¡±


    Aaaaand fuck that, I¡¯m out. I felt a movement come from within me. I was pushing my hair back. But I wasn¡¯t doing it.


    ¡°But then I thought, when I¡¯d finally crossed over, that I¡¯d be connected with everyone again. We would all be together. But it wasn¡¯t true. It¡¯s just a void. It¡¯s darkness. A sea of it. And it¡¯s lonely and horrifying, and yet the hopelessness is paired with a strange vigor. A real want to return back to life.¡±


    I went to hang up the phone. Why are my hands violently clasped together?


    ¡°Easy now, I can feel you. Stay on a little while longer. I¡¯m almost there,¡± she said.


    Oh fuck.


    ¡°I¡¯m ready to move on from this. I¡¯m ready to start a new life. Make new friends again. Walk down the street and hear the noise of cars and casual conversations. Company.¡±


    Why do I feel like I¡¯m about to pass out?


    Why do I feel like there¡¯s something blossoming from me?


    ¡°I am so thrilled you called back and kept answering because I swear to you this has all happened for a reason and I¡¯m almost there and I am almost completely inside of you and you are so beautiful and young and I can already imagine with real vividness the friends I¡¯m going to meet and the new memories I¡¯m going to make and just the liveliness of it all, and everything, even through the pain, it all means something, I am utterly convinced about that fact ¡ª¡±


    Her speech started to become more rapid. More intense. I could hear it in my head. I was trying to unclasp my hands and hang up the call but I couldn¡¯t overpower it.


    ¡°StayonjustalittlelongerdearI¡¯malmostthereandIfeelmyselftakingoveryouthiswonderfulfeeling ¡ª¡±


    I spoke through clenched teeth as I felt myself blacking out.


    ¡°GET¡­ THE¡­ FUCK AWAY FROM MY BODY¡­¡± I growled.


    In an instant, something deep in my gut told me that I was only a few seconds away from losing myself completely. So, with a strange burst of instinct¡­


    I smashed my head against the bathroom mirror, breaking it.


    My hands were still clenched together forcefully. It didn¡¯t feel like her spirit inside me had weakened in the slightest. So I braced myself for more.


    ¡°What an unkind and selfish thing to do to my body ¡ª¡± she shouted, but I cut her off by slamming my head against the wall. I did it again and again, but I could still hear her fucking voice croaking over the phone. I pushed through, this time making sure I didn¡¯t hold back.


    With a wind up, I smashed my head as hard as I could against the bathroom counter. It hurt like a motherfucker. As soon as I recoiled from the impact, I was afraid that I¡¯d done some irreversible damage to my skull or my brain, but it didn¡¯t matter. I had a sense of vigor of my own: I¡¯d rather be dead than have anyone else in my body.


    I felt her impact on me weaken ever so slightly, as her voice came through the call:


    ¡°You¡¯re a vessel!¡± she said. ¡°Why can¡¯t you be grateful for that?!¡±


    I could feel myself on the brink of losing consciousness. I wasn¡¯t sure if it was from the head trauma I¡¯d incurred, or if my spirit was about to slip away, but I pushed as hard as I could one last time. I stood up and brought my head down like a hammer onto the counter where the phone lay, knocking it (and myself) down to the ground.


    Amidst the excruciating pain and confusion, I felt the sensation of freedom for a few seconds. I leveraged the brief lucidity that came with the insane amount of adrenaline in me and crawled over to the phone. I tapped through the screens and notifications in an almost deranged manner, just as I heard Diane about to say something else, I hung up the call.


    Jesus. Fucking. Christ.


    It¡¯s fucking done.


    I screamed in place on the bathroom floor for what must¡¯ve been a minute. I screamed even louder when I heard my Natalie Imbruglia ringtone play to signify another incoming call. Caller ID: Diane Vale. I hung up the call immediately, but it was interrupted by another call. Then another. And another. Diane was calling simultaneously from different numbers, over and over again, each call interrupting the previous one before I even had the chance to hang up.


    I ran to my hallway closet, found my toolbox, opened it, secured a hammer, and ran back into the bathroom. Without a second¡¯s hesitation, I smashed my Samsung Galaxy S23 to pieces. Even after I¡¯d destroyed it, I continued banging the hammer into my bathroom floor, getting all of the bullshit and headache out of my system.


    And then I was done.


    I stood up slowly. The mirror was broken so I could only imagine how bruised and battered my reflection looked. With the adrenaline subsiding, the insane amount of pain I felt over my body became ever more apparent. Like Diane had said, it hurt for a really long time. But I was still here. And it was probably time for me to go to the hospital. No concert tonight - probably for the best. I could explain to the cops later why I was screaming while trashing my own bathroom.


    It took me a while to feel comfortable getting a new phone. I still remember the puking sensation I felt months ago when I saw her name pop up again on caller ID (this time, off my new ringtone: Electric Light Orchestra¡¯s ¡°Evil Woman¡±). I blocked it, which is what I did with every other number permutation she used to call me as the months continued. The skin-crawling sensation every time she tried to reach me was always the same. But, thankfully, as time passed, her calls started becoming fewer and farther between. Maybe she was starting to make peace with the void.


    Or, alternatively, she was using that spare time to finally learn how to text from the great beyond. I got my first ¡®texts¡¯ from her a few weeks back:


    ¡°You were so unbelievably selfish.


    To string me along, give me false hope, and then back out at the last moment.


    I have a silent prayer that I¡¯m holding deep in my heart, that when you do pass, you¡¯ll be in the same void I am.


    I¡¯ll have an eternity to inflict on you what I dream about in every waking moment.


    Diane¡±


    Sigh. Not even an ¡®xox¡¯ or a ¡®ttyl¡¯. She needs to brush up on her texting etiquette.


    At the time, I laughed and thought it was stupid. Lady, if we all end up in a void, and you¡¯ve already been seemingly alone in said void for what¡¯s felt like an eternity, then it¡¯s probably safe to say that it¡¯s a big fucking void where you won¡¯t ever find me.


    That¡¯s the prevailing thought I like to keep, but every now and then I do sink into a bit of despair.


    Specifically, in the mornings when I wake up after a nightmare. All of my nightmares nowadays seem to take on the same tone. It¡¯s a regular-ass dream, and then out of nowhere, I turn a corner and off in the distance, the dream extends into a black void. And standing on the edge of the void, where the darkness meets my normal dream surroundings, is Diane. She¡¯s looking at me with an intense stare and a subtle smile, and she¡¯s waving. And for that brief moment, it all feels unbelievably real and vivid.


    The thing I hate the most about these nightmares is how my body caves sometimes. Every now and then, involuntarily, I¡¯ll catch myself waving back.


    I wonder if we¡¯re allowed to bring things with us into the afterlife. If so, I¡¯d like to ask my loved ones to bury me with a hammer.

 Everyone keeps dropping out of their classes.

    I first noticed it in my 100-level Political Science class.


    Week one, the class was absolutely packed. There was energy. Debate. Discussion.


    Five weeks in, and now it looks like nearly half the class is gone.


    Mind you, Professor Weldon was not only an exceptional lecturer who explained concepts with passion and great insight - he was also a very easy grader. It made no sense to me that people were transferring out of his class. A couple of stragglers dropping off once they realize that Poli Sci isn¡¯t for them? Sure. But this was ridiculous.


    It happened in my other 100-level classes too: four weeks in, and a little over 40% of the class transferred out of English 101. Psychology? A lecture hall of roughly 200 people had been reduced to 120 or so.


    I brought it up to my friends on campus who were also in their first year.


    ¡°People dropping classes in their first few weeks is totally normal,¡± replied Dinesh. ¡°If I saw you sitting there in one of my classes with that dumb expression on your face, I¡¯d drop it immediately too.¡±


    Ha-ha. Very funny.


    I turned to Mallory. She just shrugged and said ¡°I don¡¯t know man,¡± and went back to reading her book.


    I¡¯d known both of them for close to five years now. While none of us were in the same program (Dinesh was a robotics geek, Mallory was obsessed with history), we¡¯d all been very close since high school. We were outcasts who clung to each other over our shared love of D&D, video game music, and badminton. After weeks of nervousness hoping all of us would get admission to this university, we were thrilled to find out that we¡¯d all made it - our little trio would get to continue.


    ¡°Guess I¡¯m just overthinking things, then. Don¡¯t know why this isn¡¯t sitting well with me,¡± I responded to both of them.


    As we continued hanging out in the mezzanine, I couldn¡¯t shake the fact that the campus, as a whole, looked much emptier than usual for a Monday.


    ¨C


    As usual, I showed up early for the Poli Sci lecture. Yes, I am a tryhard, and yes, it¡¯s important to me that I¡¯m as close to a model student as possible in this new chapter of my life.


    I watched as students shuffled into class. I also paid attention to Professor Weldon¡¯s pre-class demeanor. He was his usual chipper self.


    I took the opportunity to go up to him and ask a quick question.


    ¡°Hey, Professor Weldon¡­¡±


    ¡°You can call me Michael!¡±


    ¡°Right, hey¡­ Michael, so obviously, we¡¯re only like five weeks into the class and it¡¯s my first year so I¡¯m new to this whole thing¡­ just wanted to confirm it¡¯s normal for students to transfer out of their classes in the first few weeks? I¡¯ve noticed a really big drop off in all of my classes including this on¨C¡±


    ¡°Totally normal! I mean, students are still figuring out what their interests are and what their overall class workload needs to be, so this is all very standard stuff. Great question though!¡±


    Well, alrighty then. I think I just needed to hear it from a professor. I started questioning why the whole drop-off thing was even bothering me in the first place. I turned to go back to my seat.


    ¡°Don¡¯t ever ask that again, alright?¡±


    What?


    I turned around. Did the prof just whisper what I thought he did?


    He doubled down with a hushed response.


    ¡°I¡¯m not gonna say anything about it, but a word of advice. For your own good, just listen to the material and study it. You really don¡¯t wanna be asking people around here questions like that. Are we clear?¡±


    All I could do was muster up a nod and walk back to my desk.


    And with that, the lecture kicked off. As Professor Weldon discussed the various types of political systems around the world, I tried my best to forget the weird exchange I just had with him. To his credit, he defaulted to his regular sunny disposition throughout the presentation. I even answered a few questions he posed to the group, and he called on me as if nothing had even happened.


    There were moments though, as I looked around the class, where I felt like I wasn¡¯t alone in my¡­ hypervigilance. Most of the students were tuned in or dozing off as usual, but I spotted a couple of faces who seemed¡­ nervous? Like they were anxiously contemplating something?


    In the midst of my surveying of the room, my eyes were drawn to a student sitting near me: a student who I remembered being quite outspoken in earlier weeks of the class, but who now seemed very reserved. From my vantage point, I could make out some of the notes he was scribbling in his notebook:


    Follow up Q¡¯s for the Dean:


    - Has my drop out request been approved?


    - Am I allowed to tell my family?


    - Why are only some students notified about this?


    - Does it emerge from Williams Hall?


    As you can probably tell, these questions had absolutely nothing to do with the class.


    I wrote them down in my journal. It was time to do some research.


    ¨C


    After class, I invited Dinesh and Mallory to my (unfortunately) tiny dorm room for an evening conversation about everything that happened today.


    While I waited for them to arrive, I spent my time doing online research to see if I could uncover anything that would shed light on the happenings - looking up things like ¡°dropoff rates increasing¡± or ¡°odd occurrences¡± at my university. I unfortunately wasn¡¯t able to uncover much of anything - everything online was very boilerplate and sanitized.


    The note - ¡°Does it emerge from Williams Hall?¡± - from class earlier was the only thing that led to something of moderate substance. After searching through our school intranet, I realized that Williams Hall had been more or less designated as ¡°off limits¡± for a number of years now. Outside of being the location of some of our final exams and student body meetings, the building had been cordoned off so that construction and renovations could be completed there.


    Strangely enough, my research also showed me that prior to Williams Hall being sequestered, it used to be the hub for our Faculty of Arts, and was the former homebase for a lot of our major university clubs (theater, debate). These classes and clubs had all been moved into other buildings at the university over the last fifteen years or so.


    As I continued digging, Dinesh arrived.


    ¡°Hey cuckoo bird,¡± he said as he came in. Before I could cut him off and tell him that this was kind of serious, he continued¨C


    ¡°So, uh, something happened actually and¡­ maybe you¡¯re not totally completely nuts.¡±


    ¡°Okay¡­,¡± I responded.


    ¡°So, we¡¯re in week five right? Up until last week, my robotics class was basically at capacity - one or two stragglers dropped off in the first few weeks, but we were more or less a full group. Today, I shit you not, half the class was missing. I asked the prof, and he said they dropped out, and then he just changed the subject. I looked into it, and if you drop a class after week three, you¡¯re required to pay a full refund. Why the fuck would anyone drop a class this late?¡±


    I nodded. ¡°It¡¯s not just dropping classes and switching into other ones. I think it¡¯s¨C¡±


    ¡°People dropping out of the university altogether,¡± Dinesh said, cutting me off. ¡°Feels like there¡¯s¡­ less people in general now, at the campus.¡±


    A rush of anxiety hit me as I realized that Mallory hadn¡¯t responded to any of my texts today. I shook it off.


    ¡°So¡­ something really weird happened in Poli Sci class today.¡±


    ¨C


    I filled Dinesh in on everything. He was a bit incredulous, and didn¡¯t totally believe the exchange I had with the instructor (his interpretation being that Professor Weldon was simply offended I was pointing out that people were dropping his class).


    Nonetheless, he helped me with my research.


    We scoured the web, searching up old Reddit posts, blog posts, discussion board conversations - anything at all that mentioned Williams Hall or bizarre events at the university. Aside from jaded former students calling out the difficult grading scale here, everything we came across was useless. But, we did notice a suspicious trend¡­


    The year 2008 was very interesting for the school¡­ in that there was no record of anything happening here that year. No campus events that took place here (or events that were hosted at the university in general, for that matter), no sports records, no graduation records, the list goes on. Nothing. Were there any professors that taught here in the year 2008? Not that we could find. A 2008 yearbook? Nope.


    Dinesh and I went deeper and deeper down our rabbit hole, as I tried to push aside concerned thoughts of still not hearing back from Mallory. Dinesh mentioned that we should hone in on the year 2008 and try to use the Wayback Machine, in case that could help us find anything that might¡¯ve been archived or deleted since. It took a little while, but we were able to dig up an old message board conversation, which I¡¯ll share below.


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    Thread: So are we going to talk about that?


    Fuckyou37


    06/10/2008, 12:03PM


    Title says all¡­ June 7 at Williams Hall. won¡¯t say more at risk of exposing myself, but I know there are lots of others who go to this school or went here, and were there when it happened. Why the actual fuck is no one talking about this?!?


    LostInTranslation


    06/10/2008, 4:33PM


    This some Skull & Bones Society shit? :)


    Fuckyou37


    06/10/2008, 4:46PM


    No.


    Fuckyou37


    06/11/2008, 12:00PM


    bump.


    Fuckyou37


    06/12/2008, 12:05PM


    bump.


    KungFuKid88


    06/15/2008, 8:49PM


    Yep. Count your blessings and stfu. Nothing more you can do. Remember what they said happens if you blab about it.


    Fuckyou37


    06/16/2008, 9:52AM


    That¡¯s insane.


    that no one has called the cops in this whole fucking time is insane.


    also I swear to god they told some kids to get out of dodge before it happened. Knew a bunch of ppl who pced out a few weeks before. linguistics class with a certain hot professor was emptyyyyyyyy. No one else had a clue¡­


    btw: Have any proof you were actually there? Also wtf is reality? Like that actually happened.


    KungFuKid88


    06/16/2008, 7:46PM


    I¡¯m sure people tried to call the cops.


    I was the only guy that crawled to the door when it was all over. Apparently the rest of you just stood up and walked out. Maybe different reactions to shock for all of us?


    steve2204


    06/16/2008, 11:18PM


    heard about this through a friend, friend knew a guy who went there and said something really messed up was happening there and that the rumor mill was in full swing, like the *final exam* wasn¡¯t normal, he tried to drop out but they wouldn¡¯t let him(?), but left nyways. Apparently they found his body later.


    I never believed him tho lol my friend says shit a lot of dumb shit when he¡¯s blazing >_>


    CidHighwind


    06/17/2008, 7:20AM


    Thread locked due to inappropriate content.


    We also found two other threads on a different message board, both created by the same person in 2008. The posts didn¡¯t mention Williams Hall or the university explicitly, but they did mention the June 8th date. The post was of a mother claiming that her daughter randomly disappeared after going to the campus one day. The mother detailed how she didn¡¯t buy the official story she was told by the police that her daughter simply ¡°ran away¡±. She said that she was speaking with other parents in the area who were dealing with the same situation, and that she would provide updates as they came. Both threads were locked soon after posting.


    As I jotted down the recurring date that was coming up in these threads (June 8th, 2008), I heard the door open.


    Dinesh and I exhaled as Mallory entered. But that relief washed away quickly - something was off. Mallory was not herself. She¡¯s always been quiet and reserved, preferring to be ''near people but not participating'', but this time felt different.


    We slowly started filling her in, trying to find a way to make our disconnected musings make sense. She listened as we talked about the student drop-offs in our classes and the overall campus feeling more empty, the peculiar goings-on in my Poli Sci class earlier in the day, and the archived message board posts we discovered during our online research. As we detailed our findings, we realized that we both sounded a little crazy¡­ all of these things were, ultimately, random occurrences that we were stitching together like some sort of conspiracy theory.


    But then Mallory spoke up.


    ¡°I had a meeting with the Dean earlier today. I¡¯m going to drop out.¡±


    ¨C


    The hours after Mallory said that were stressful. Obviously, Dinesh and I were shocked, confused, and most of all, deathly curious on what spurred this on for her.


    Frustratingly, she wasn¡¯t giving us too many details.


    She asked us if the Dean had organized a meeting with either of us earlier in the week. When we both said no, she looked really, really miserable. Her reaction only added to our confusion.


    We asked her if her reasons for dropping out were similar to what we were researching, and she begrudgingly said yes. When we asked her to elaborate, she said she was sworn to secrecy and couldn¡¯t speak further.


    ¡°Why can¡¯t you tell us what¡¯s going on?!¡± I asked her, for probably the 30th time in our back-and-forth.


    ¡°I just can¡¯t. If I say anything more¡­¡±


    Her eyes trailed off, as if suggesting there was some terrible fate that would befall her if she elaborated further. Most of her answers to our following questions were just a simple ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    Our one-sided conversation with Mallory continued for quite some time. Eventually, Dinesh asked the question that was lingering at the back of my mind. A question that seemed utterly ridiculous but also very necessary.


    ¡°Do you¡­ do you think we should drop out too, maybe?¡±


    It took a while for Mallory to respond. She chose her words carefully.


    ¡°I guess it¡¯s random,¡± she started. ¡°It¡¯s random¡­ which students they explain this whole thing to, and which ones they don¡¯t. If they call upon you, you¡¯re given the option to drop out. But if the Dean didn¡¯t meet with you¡­¡±


    ¡°What the fuck does that even mean?!¡± Dinesh responded.


    ¡°It¡­ means that I don¡¯t think they¡¯ll approve it. Even if you want to leave.¡±


    Dinesh turned to me with a look of bafflement.


    ¡°I mean¡­ we could just, like, leave though, right? Like¡­ physically get up and leave? Like, how could they actually stop us from doing that?¡±


    I saw Mallory¡¯s eyes widen as Dinesh spoke those words to me. I knew that she wanted to say so much more to us, but she just couldn¡¯t. The look in her eyes made it clear to me - us running now would be a mistake.


    We struggled to get anything more out of Mallory. Eventually, I jumped in with a softball question that I prayed she¡¯d answer. Referring to the research we were doing, I asked her plainly ¨C


    ¡°If Dinesh and I keep digging, do you think we¡¯ll be able to figure out what¡¯s going on?¡±


    She paused for a moment, and then nodded.


    And that was all I needed.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s time we go on an adventure, Dinesh,¡± I said.


    ¡°Goddamnit,¡± was his reply.


    As we all left my dorm room, the three of us reluctantly gave each other a group hug. We¡¯re not the mushy, touchy-feely types, so this was the first time we¡¯d ever done anything this sentimental. It was awkward and not great, but everything felt too serious for us to not do it. As we let go of each other, I saw the first tears I¡¯d ever seen Mallory cry.


    ¡°I¡±m really sorry I can¡¯t say more. I¡¯m really, really sorry,¡± she said. All good, Mal.


    And with that, Dinesh and I headed out on a nighttime trek towards a certain building.


    ¨C


    We made our way through the nearly pitch-black, empty courtyard, towards a bunch of construction signs and scaffolding that suggested we were getting closer and closer to Williams Hall. Dinesh, continuing his research on his phone, was chiming in with some ¡°fun facts¡± ¨C


    ¡°This building¡¯s been under construction for like over a decade¡­ how?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s probably just an excuse,¡± I responded.


    Past a collection of tools and barriers, we arrived at a side door to the building. To my surprise, it wasn¡¯t locked.


    We entered, using our cell-phone flashlights to maneuver through the dark. Past the scent of old wood and peeling wallpaper, in a hallway that I can best describe as ¡°rickety¡±, a word that I¡¯m aware doesn¡¯t make sense in this context but is the only one that comes to mind -


    We arrived at the foyer. The ceiling stretched high above us. We maneuvered around a wet spot on the floor reflecting back at us (probably a leaky pipe somewhere) as our phone lights illuminated the dusty engraving above us that read Faculty of Arts.


    ¡°Which way do you think we should head?¡± I asked as our lights spun around the room, taking in every inch of the once-bustling building. The beam from my cell phone cut through the air, creating a glow that illuminated relics around us: various seating areas that seemed carelessly assembled, abstract art installations that were now covered in grime, and a collection of aged plaques adorning the walls, preserving the wide smiles of professors and administrators of years past.


    A sign off in the distance that read Final Exam Room caught my attention. I motioned to Dinesh and he followed.


    With our footsteps across the marble floor of yet another hallway that had seen better days, we approached our destination. Along the way, we encountered empty classrooms on both sides of the large corridor. Our brief peeks into all of the rooms revealed perfect preservation and consistency: desks and chairs neatly arranged, and the boards in each room having only one simple message written on them:


    REMINDER: FINAL EXAM - JUNE 8TH


    ¡°Does every class do their final exam on the same day?¡± I asked Dinesh.


    He didn¡¯t reply. He was drawn to the large doors at the end of the hallway. I flashed my light at the engraving above them -


    FINAL EXAM ROOM / STUDENT BODY MEETING ROOM


    Huh. Weird combination if ever I¡¯d seen one.


    ¡°I feel like coming here was beyond stupid,¡± Dinesh said.


    ¡°Yep. But we¡¯re here now.¡±


    Dinesh shined his phone light on a small sign posted up beside the doors.


    Final Exam Room


    Most Recent: June 8, 2008


    Next Exam: June 8, 2023


    Don¡¯t forget to study!!!


    We froze up. The obvious question for both of us was why a seemingly abandoned and under-construction building would have a note about an upcoming final exam scheduled for just a few days from now¡­ an exam taking place only half-way through the semester, mind you.


    ¡°Do we go in?¡± Dinesh asked.


    I wasn¡¯t voted ¡°most inquisitive¡± in high school superlatives¡­ because it wasn¡¯t a category. If it was, I would¡¯ve secured it, no competition. This whole thing had been nagging at me from the first couple of weeks. I needed to know what was going on.


    ¡°Yes. We go in.¡±


    We opened the doors, revealing a large room with hundreds of desks, all perfectly spaced out from each other. It was an exam, after all.


    The hall stretched far and long. As we inched our way in, a pungent smell flooded my senses - like nothing I¡¯d ever experienced before.


    I pointed my phone light from desk to desk as I walked on by, realizing why the abandoned room felt so ¡°lively¡± to me from the second we opened the door.


    Nearly all of the desks were occupied by the headless and decayed bodies of students seated upright. Hands on the table. Coats on the chair behind them. Bags under desks.


    Before the shock of the sight could overtake us and force us to get the fuck out of there, the sound of footsteps from the other end of the large exam hall caused us to redirect our phone lights to the source of the sound.


    A figure emerged from the shadows, dressed in attire that was unmistakably formal. His hands were clasped behind him, a posture of composure and control. A face that I hadn¡¯t seen since my first week orientation. The Dean?


    He addressed us.


    ¡°Gentlemen - the exam isn¡¯t for a few days now. I suggest you get back to studying.¡±

 The Ask and Receive Game

    I wasn¡¯t in a great place when I first heard about the game.


    I¡¯d just lost my boyfriend - soon to be husband - of seven years. It¡¯d been a few weeks since his death, and I was not particularly good at mourning. By that, I mean that I wasn¡¯t crying over old photos, screaming into my pillow, or having a knife twist in my heart whenever I saw a couple on the street holding hands. Instead, I¡¯d just become awkward. Y¡¯know, staring blankly at trees for minutes at a time, or belly laughing when someone ahead of me in line at Chipotle fumbled to find their credit card. I still couldn¡¯t really internalize the fact that he was gone. I would, every now and then, turn to my left on the sofa to tell him a joke, only to be like - oh right, he¡¯s dead. How strange.


    Naturally, my friends were pretty worried about me. Rebecca and Leah had known Ryan as long as I had - Leah had actually introduced us to him at a shindig she threw a near-decade ago. Ryan was pretty much universally beloved by everyone in our group, and for good reason - he was compassionate, kind, thoughtful, smart, talented, you name it. Rebecca would often joke that scientists needed to figure out how to clone people so there¡¯d be less douchebags and more Ryans in the dating pool, and Leah, cycling through a series of hot mess boyfriends, would always tease that she was speedrunning through serial monogamy to one day find ¡°a Ryan of her own.¡± My life wasn¡¯t perfect, but my relationship was about as close to ideal as one could get. Ryan and I genuinely enjoyed each other¡¯s company, always communicated through all of our problems, and were excited about the future we were building together. And now¡­ I was stranded.


    There¡¯s a lot I¡¯ve been coming to terms with since his passing. The biggest thing is the fact that his behavior on the night of his death was, according to the police report, very uncharacteristic. He was coming home alone from a late night, he had a lot of alcohol in his system - extra confusing, as he was someone who seldom drank - and had accidentally sped through a red light. Noticing that he was about to drive right into a pedestrian, he slammed on the brakes as hard as he could, not realizing that he hadn¡¯t fully secured his seatbelt, and then bam, head in the steering wheel, and Ryan was dead by the time he¡¯d reached the hospital.


    Rebecca was the first person I was comfortable meeting with following his death. It was a pretty awkward conversation. Halfway through, she nervously decided to tell me that Ryan had been planning an elaborate proposal for me before the crash happened. I could tell she was hyper-fixated on my reaction as she broke the news - would this piece of information warm my heart? Or break it?


    As it turns out, the answer was neither! As soon as she finished telling me, I changed the subject and enthusiastically told her about the news anchor I saw wearing a flamingo-patterned tie on CNN last night.


    Google tells me this might be depersonalization.


    The weeks went on, with Rebecca and Leah employing different approaches to help me during this dissociated mourning period. Leah correctly deduced that it was probably best to give me some space as I worked through things. Rebecca, on the other hand, rattled off a laundry list of things for me to explore: meditation, journaling, trying a new therapist - all things I took a stab at. None of them helped unfortunately.


    Finally, during a random coffee date between the three of us, with me now two months removed from Ryan¡¯s death, Rebecca pitched something different.


    ¡°It¡¯s called the Ask and Receive Game,¡± she started. ¡°It¡¯s super simple. You¡¯re gonna compose an email, and in it, you¡¯re going to write down two things. First: you¡¯re going to explain your current situation. Second: you¡¯re gonna describe how you want your situation to change.¡±


    ¡°Who do we send it to?¡± Leah asked.


    Rebecca pulled out her phone and texted our trio¡¯s group chat with the following email address: [omitted]


    ¡°Once you¡¯ve sent the note to this email address,¡± said Rebecca, clearing her throat as she noticed that I was back to zoning out and staring at the coffee machines in the cafe - seriously, coffee machines are so darn complicated-looking.


    ¡°Once you¡¯ve sent the email,¡± she repeated, more sternly and looking straight at me, ¡°You¡¯ll be given a task to complete. If you successfully finish the task, your request will be fulfilled. But if you don¡¯t complete it¡­¡±


    Rebecca trailed off on a pretty ominous note there. Enough to get my attention, anyways.


    ¡°Then you can¡¯t play the game anymore,¡± she concluded.


    Oh. Hmm. Not really a big deal.


    Rebecca continued. ¡°My friend told me about it a few weeks back, and apparently it¡¯s been working miracles for her, so I figured that we could at least give it a try. What¡¯dya say?¡±


    I could tell that Leah, with her string of romantic failings, was probably open to giving it a go. As for myself, I nodded and tried my best to feign enthusiasm, more to appease Rebecca than anything else.


    The weeks carried on, and with it, my ¡®inability to feel anything¡¯ rut remained, despite my best efforts. Each evening was a mindless haze filled with wine, sad Youtube videos, and piss-poor attempts at blogging about my feelings.


    I was sick of it.


    And so, I thought - fuck it. Might as well try a new stupid thing.


    I sat down at my computer, opened up Gmail, pulled out my phone and checked the group chat thread to find the email address Rebecca had shared, and then tried my best to recall what the rules of the game were: (1) write down your current situation, (2) describe how you want it to change, (3) get a task, (4) do the task, (5) ???, (6) profit - that was it, right?


    I started typing.


    Subject: Ask and Receive Game


    Hi,


    My friend said it would be a good idea to contact you.


    My current situation: My boyfriend died a couple months back, and I¡¯m in a weird haze where I don¡¯t really feel anything.


    How I want it to change: I want to start feeling again.


    Please let me know if you can help.


    Sincerely,


    Maya


    And then I just sat there, staring at my inbox, a hodgepodge of songs I didn¡¯t care for playing off an auto-generated Youtube playlist in the background.


    PING.


    Dang, that email came through pretty fast. I read the response:


    Good fortunes,


    Welcome to the Ask and Receive Game.


    I acknowledge your loss. I acknowledge there may be strange feelings associated with your loss. You will be given a task below to help solve this problem.


    Your task: You must clean all of the windows in your house. I would recommend using a high-quality window cleaner. Find something that costs at least $6.79 for a spray bottle that is 28 oz or smaller. Clean the windows thoroughly and then dry them.


    Glad tidings,


    The Ask and Receive Game


    Err¡­ what? My deep-seated pain that was being shrouded by denial and derealization was going to be answered by Windex? I was starting to feel as if the Ask and Receive Game had some powerful donors from the deep cleaning lobby.


    Disappointed, I went back to my mindless Youtube binge.


    It wasn¡¯t until a few days later, as I strolled through the shopping mart getting that week¡¯s groceries, that I found myself in an aisle with cleaning supplies. I what-the-fuck¡¯d myself towards some window cleaner spray bottles, found something that fit within the parameters I remembered from the Ask and Receive Game¡¯s email, and chucked it in my cart.


    I got home, and in realizing that I didn¡¯t have much else to do anyways, decided to jump right into window cleaning. The first few minutes were as boring as I¡¯d anticipated.


    But then¡­ something strange started happening to me.


    I could feel my feet on the ground. I mean, really feel them. I could feel my hands on the cloth. I could actually see the window in front of me getting clearer. Life felt real. 3-dimensional. I was actually here. I was actually¡­ present.


    And as this happened, I noticed something swelling up from within me. A glacier of tears had frozen over in my chest, and it was starting to melt. I was choking up, but I wasn¡¯t even sure why. As tears poured out, I tried to discern the emotion - was it aching, sorrow, nostalgia, longing, loneliness, crippling fucking loneliness, or all of the above?


    I wasn¡¯t sure. But - I let myself cry. And as I continued the task, moving from window to window, spray bottle in tow, I was able to successfully bawl my eyes out for three uninterrupted hours.


    The task was complete. I didn¡¯t feel great at all, but I was at least feeling.


    And with that, I realized without a shadow of a doubt: the game worked.


    It was a small breakthrough, but holy shit, I could finally actually miss Ryan! I could miss the handholding, the pointless arguments, confessions about our respective idiosyncrasies, doing absolutely nothing together. I had permission to miss him.


    When I next saw Rebecca and Leah, I didn¡¯t tell them that I¡¯d started playing the game, but I think they could tell, by virtue of me being a bit more present (aaaaand a bit more wistful), that I¡¯d at least started my journey of properly mourning Ryan.


    I¡¯d almost completely forgotten about the game after that¡­ until I saw a follow-up email in my inbox a few days later:


    Good fortunes,


    Well done on completing the task.


    Should you like, you can continue the Ask and Receive Game.


    Glad tidings,


    The Ask and Receive Game


    Hm. While a part of me felt like I should¡¯ve been rattled that this game was very clearly showing signs of supernatural omniscience, I instead decided to bravely forge on, utilizing the only tool at my disposal that had helped shake me from my funk. I was ready to continue my journey of healing.


    And so, I responded to the email, saying:


    Hi,


    I would like to continue the game.


    My current situation: I am now successfully mourning the loss of my partner. I am crying, feeling terrible, and moving through genuine grief.


    How I want it to change: I would like to take actions that will allow me to start feeling some happiness and hope.


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Thank you for the help.


    Sincerely,


    Maya


    I sat at the computer again. A bit more anxious this time. A few minutes, and then¡­


    PING.


    The game had answered:


    Good fortunes,


    I acknowledge you are working through grief. I acknowledge you would like to start building a bridge towards a happier stage in your life as you progress through this mourning process.


    Your task: Leave your place of residence no earlier than 2AM tonight. Walk outside barefoot until you find a house that is under construction. Enter it. Once inside, locate a staircase and sit on it. Tell your departed partner everything you wish you could say. Speak it fully and hold nothing back. Once you¡¯re done, sit there for an additional five minutes. Then, return home.


    Glad tidings,


    The Ask and Receive Game


    Welp. This one was uncomfortable.


    I was secretly hoping that the answer this time around would be to build a shelf, or binge-watch The Ultimatum on Netflix or something.


    Instead, Ask and Receive decided to capitalize on the fact that I was feeling pretty detached without Ryan in my life. Indeed, my risk tolerance was up.


    And so, strange as it was, I waited until 2AM and then I¡­ left my house, barefoot as requested. The ¡®logical¡¯ part of my brain had the numbers 911 typed on my phone, so that I could immediately call the cops in case anything weird happened.


    I made my way down the street, opting to step on the crunchy grass wherever possible, avoiding the concrete. After twenty minutes of wandering - more walking than I would¡¯ve liked - I found what I was looking for: the wooden, skeletal structure of a large house, the second floor incomplete, awaiting walls and ceilings. I squeaked through an opening in the orange construction fencing, ignoring the ¡®No Trespassing¡¯ signs, and maneuvered through the rickety structure. Eventually, I found a staircase in the middle of the incomplete home - a sort of stairway to nowhere, if you will. I sat on the second step, and started talking out loud.


    I can¡¯t remember everything I said. There was a lot of ugly crying. I told him I missed his dad jokes, that I missed the stupid noises he¡¯d make when he was yawning. I missed seeing him offended and grumpy, and I missed that all it took to cheer him up was a kiss on the lips. I missed the feeling of him being asleep in the other room. I hated that he died alone.


    After an hour of saying anything and everything, I sat there. Slowly, a soft, comforting sensation crept in. It felt like a warm hug. It felt like somehow, inconceivably, he had heard me. His essence was still somewhere in the universe, waiting to be called on, and ready to be plucked right out of the sky.


    I made my barefoot trek home, smiling, reddened eyes the entire way. I was bringing something back with me. Hope. Lightness. Happiness.


    When I next saw my friends, I decided to confess to them that I¡¯d been playing the game. Both of them were thrilled. Leah was over the moon at the fact that I was finally starting to meaningfully move on from Ryan, and Rebecca was thrilled that a piece of unsolicited advice she¡¯d shared with me had actually worked.


    Both were experiencing their own successes with the game. Rebecca was looking to get a promotion at work, and so the Ask and Receive Game told her to go to a salsa dance class and make an absolute fool of herself. She did, and a week later, she went from ¡®Coordinator¡¯ to ¡®Manager¡¯. Leah, looking to quell her predilection for jumping into trainwreck relationships, was told to go on a meditation retreat and look inwards to better understand herself. She did, and she returned a new-and-improved Leah, one who wanted to take her time to find her partner for life.


    Hope was in the air. I continued playing the Ask and Receive Game, now with a razor-sharp focus on moving beyond grief, and towards things like self-love, confidence, new hobbies, and success in life. I was given tasks like:


    Plant flowers and watch them grow


    Go to a restaurant and order the most unappealing item on the menu


    Walk down a busy street and belt out your favorite song


    All of which, through a cause-and-effect relationship that still remains a bit unclear, lead me to getting my own darn promotion, discovering new interests I never knew I would fall in love with (Scrabble, anyone?), and an overall renewed sense of excitement about the world. Ask and Receive was batting 100% when it came to improving my life, and so, I embraced every task I was given, as weird or embarrassing as it may have been.


    But still¡­ there was something missing. Now armed with complete faith in the supernatural, and in the existence of things that stretched way beyond human understanding¡­ a tantalizing thought started coming to my mind.


    The sensation I felt that night at the construction house, when I spoke out to the universe, and felt that cosmic hug.. had been the happiest I¡¯d felt since I lost him.


    And as much as Leah and Rebecca were urging me to enter the dating scene again, I knew my heart was still tied to him.


    And so, I embraced the sacrilegious and near-impossible thought floating in the back of my mind: Could this game somehow bring Ryan back to life?


    As the days ticked on, this question became the only thing I ever thought about.


    I brought it up to Rebecca and Leah.


    ¡°You were doing so well!¡± Leah answered. ¡°You were moving on, putting the past behind you - everything you¡¯re saying now just sounds like regressing. It¡¯s playing with fire. You know this won¡¯t be good for you.¡±


    Rebecca, furrowing her brow, agreed with Leah. ¡°I know this game has special powers, but like honestly, this sounds like a threshold you don¡¯t wanna cross. Messing with the dead is like¡­ monkey paw stuff, y¡¯know?¡±


    ¡°Agreed, Leah chimed. ¡°Ryan¡¯s been gone for months now. I know his death still probably feels like a knife in the chest, but the best thing you can do now is put yourself out there, play the field, go on some dates, and start falling in love again.¡±


    I nodded. I mean, their words made sense. Logically, it all checked out.


    Buuuuut, also, I had access to a supernatural game that could seemingly make anything happen, so¡­


    As soon as I got home, I started composing that next email.


    I had to know.


    Subject: Asking for a Miracle


    Hey,


    This one might be too much. I understand if this isn¡¯t possible.


    My current situation: My boyfriend is dead. I don¡¯t want to move on. I want to be with him.


    How I want it to change: I want him, the real him, to be brought back from the dead, to be here with me again.


    Thank you. No worries if you can¡¯t help with this.


    Sincerely,


    Maya


    I sat at the computer for hours, downing glass after glass of wine, growing more and more tired. Usually, the responses took no more than an hour. This time, it felt like I¡¯d asked for too much.


    I was disappointed in myself. Clearly, the game had to operate within the natural laws of reality. I felt as if I¡¯d sabotaged my relationship with a tool that was single-handedly fixing my life for me.


    Days passed, and I was somewhat able to erase the embarrassment from my mind. Routine kicked in again, and I was back to the daily slog.


    To say I was shocked when I saw a response from the game in my inbox one random morning would be an understatement. I was absolutely floored.


    I read it carefully, half-anticipating that the game would tell me to ¡°try again¡± or something:


    Good fortunes,


    I acknowledge you have been waiting quite some time for an answer. I acknowledge that such a delay could cause grief, anxiety, and nervousness about the likelihood of this request being answered.


    Larger requests like this require additional time to ensure the correct task is identified in order to fulfill your request.


    Your task: Purchase a heavy butcher¡¯s knife, with a length of at least 10 inches. After midnight, head over to Leah Smith¡¯s house with the knife. Knock on her back door. Then, after a few minutes, knock on her front door. This will confuse her. Next, climb in through an open window - do not fret, there will be an open window. Once you¡¯ve secured her, plunge your knife into her eye, pushing in until the blade exits through the back of her head. Continue inserting your knife through her skull for the next few minutes. After that, move on to the rest of her body. Be creative here. Utilize the emotions of anger, fear, resentment, and disgust that will be flowing through you to guide the knife. Once her body is split into three distinct sections, you will have completed your task. From there, dispose of her body using the means you best see fit. The body will not be discovered. Return home. In ten days time, you will hear a knock on your door. Your recently departed lover will have returned.


    Glad tidings,


    The Ask and Receive Game


    I could feel myself wanting to puke as I read it. It took me a few attempts to even finish the email.


    Jesus fucking Christ. The thought of even slapping someone made me want to pass out. Doing anything this abhorrent, let alone to a friend, was a level of insane cruelty that would never, ever, ever be accessible to me.


    Clearly, my friends were right about this. I needed to move on. Bringing someone back from the dead required one hell of a disgusting payment that I wasn¡¯t willing to make.


    I let the email sit in my inbox. I didn¡¯t respond. The Ask and Receive Game was over for me. Well aware that this strange, unknown force could make just about anything happen, I decided that I¡¯d had my fill. My life had improved, and I didn¡¯t need its help anymore.


    And so, I moved on. The love I had for Ryan didn¡¯t subside - on the contrary - I was nowhere near ready to hit the dating market. This did lead to the odd moment of jealousy as I saw Leah and Rebecca¡¯s lives continuing to flourish with the game, with Rebecca climbing the corporate ladder in every discernible way, and Leah¡¯s eyes glinting with a newfound hope for her future.


    But still - life was good - honestly! I was going out more, doing new things, and escaping from my rut. I could feel the sun again.


    All of that brings me to tonight.


    Rebecca decided to throw an impromptu girl¡¯s night, and feeling extra open today, I decided to swing by! She¡¯d invited a few of our mutual friends, though Leah, the biggest party animal among us, was inconspicuously missing.


    I¡¯d love to say that it was a wonderful party. It wasn¡¯t.


    Rebecca, spotting that I was now seemingly 100% myself, decided to drop something on me that had apparently been weighing on her for months now. She was, of course, super drunk - not sure if she would¡¯ve broken this to me when she was sober - and she pulled me into her room, confessing to me in a teary, confused stupor.


    It was a story about the night of Ryan¡¯s death. Rebecca and Ryan had always been close, and they¡¯d always been great confidantes for each other, but no part of me expected her to tell me that Ryan had actually called her during his uncharacteristic drunk drive home on that fateful night. Wondering why on earth she¡¯d waited this long to tell me about it, she told me her story.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to cause a stir at all,¡± she mumbled, half lucid. ¡°But like I really can¡¯t fucking do this anymore. It¡¯s just so fucking weird to know this.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s all good. Just tell me what it is,¡± I said, impatient.


    She choked back some tears and took another sip of her drink. She was in deep. ¡°So, when Ryan called, and like I could tell he wasn¡¯t in his right mind and I kept telling him to pull over and park his fucking car -¡±


    ¡°Right, right¡­¡± I said, trying to make her get to the point.


    ¡°He was actually coming back from Leah¡¯s place. She¡¯d¡­ invited him over, told him she was throwing a surprise shindig and told him that she wanted his help to set everything up. He showed up, she gave him some drinks that he thought were gonna be light but instead they were like, super, super strong, and then she basically pulled this whole bait and switch on him. She confessed that she was, like basically, in love with him, and that she didn¡¯t want him to propose to you - like, she came on strong, saying that she always had feelings for him, saying that he should think about leaving you maybe? Like - I know, so fucked that I¡¯m even saying it, like I¡¯m so sorry - but like yeah, and then they, like, kissed? I think, and maybe even did a bit more than that, but then like Ryan came to his senses, he freaked out, left her place and drove off and called me to confess what happened, telling me that he fucked up and that he wasn¡¯t in his right mind, and he was panicking on how to tell you and apologize to you and I kept telling him to stop fucking driving¨C¨C¡±


    ¡°Right¡­¡± I said, my heart dropping into my knees.


    ¡°And then he hung up, and I¡¯m pretty sure it was only a few minutes later that he crashed, and I¡¯m so sorry, and like, I don¡¯t want to create any shit now, I just, I don¡¯t fucking know, you know?¡±


    And as the shock crept in, it was only Rebecca who cried. I held her. I told her a comforting lie.


    ¡°It¡¯s all good,¡± I said. ¡°Leah already told me. She confessed right after the crash.¡±


    ¡°Oh thank god¡­¡± said Rebecca, continuing to cry into me.


    I went home shortly after. I made up a half-baked excuse, grabbed an Uber, and stewed in fury the entire way until I reached my house.


    I felt torn. Betrayed. Absolutely livid.


    I sat in my living room, one-half a raging volcano, the other half a sea of heartbreak. I knew that Leah had known Ryan before all of us and that was the one that introduced me to him. I knew all about her troubles with love and how highly she thought of him. I even learned to ignore her awkward passes at Ryan that she¡¯d disguised as jokes, and all of the times she¡¯d say that she just needed to find a ¡®Ryan of her own¡¯. But this¡­ this was beyond her. I never on earth thought she¡¯d pull something as gross as this. I never thought that she¡¯d be part of the reason that Ryan was gone now.


    And so, even though it was after midnight, I was resolute. I was going to call her, and I was gonna tell her exactly how I felt.


    ¡­


    I heard a knock at my back door.


    What the¡­?


    As the minutes passed, and I tried to process whether I¡¯d hallucinated the sound, I heard a knock on my front door.


    No¡­ you can¡¯t be fucking serious.


    Panicking, I checked out the windows on the top floor of my house - all polished - they seemed to be closed. What the actual -


    More knocks on my front door.


    I ran into my room. I dialed 911, but the call wouldn¡¯t go through. I tried again and again - nothing. Petrified, I grabbed my laptop, and in a confused, hazy panic, I wrote an email to the Ask and Receive Game:


    Subject: Help


    My current situation: I think someone¡¯s trying to kill me.


    How I want it to change: I want to survive and escape.


    Sent.


    After seconds of my rapid breathing, I received a response:


    Hello.


    I acknowledge your concern.


    Unfortunately, as you were unable to complete your previous task, you cannot play the game anymore.


    Moreover, the Ask and Receive Game cannot interfere with the completion of an active task.


    Deepest condolences,


    The Ask and Receive Game


    Active¡­ task?


    I heard a grunt, paired with the sound of my downstairs window getting forced open. The sound of what I believe was a large knife, held in a free hand, scraping against the wall. A familiar voice, but one I was now hearing in a completely different context.


    Leah.


    She¡¯s breathing heavily. She¡¯s prying open my window. Fear and panic are filling up my soul, as I watch text message after subsequent text message fail to go through.


    I can¡¯t believe it. This journal, which I started writing as part of my recovery journey after Ryan¡¯s death, might be ending sooner than I¡¯d ever imagined. I pray that it somehow reaches the outside world.


    As much as I want to fight it, the sad truth is that I¡¯m scared. I¡¯m petrified. The Ask and Receive Game always seems to win.


    And now, I feel as present as I¡¯ve ever felt. Life feels real. 3-dimensional. I¡¯m actually here.


    Fuck.


    The steps are creeping up the stairs now.


    I can¡¯t believe Leah¡¯s going to be the one who brings Ryan back to life.

 The man under your eyelids

    My best friend¡¯s been tweaking for the last couple of weeks. He hasn¡¯t been himself.


    I usually see him once a week - coffees, drinks, a gathering with our larger group of friends, you name it. His normal self is chipper, optimistic, thick-skinned, patient, and lots of dad jokes. Too many dad jokes. Martin is a picture ¡°swell guy¡± - three dimensional, but overall ¡°lawful good¡± on the moral alignment chart.


    His descent first showed up as bags under his eyes, with a hint of irritability, at one of our routine hangouts. We were sitting in Starbucks sipping London Fogs and talking about nothing of real importance, when I noticed his eyes dashing to the door every time someone entered. Anytime I was telling him a story or giving him my thoughts on something he asked me, he wouldn¡¯t really look at me. He¡¯d look behind me. Scanning the room. Looking far out in the distance, and then returning his gaze to me, nodding as if he was paying attention the whole time. I wasn¡¯t offended or anything, but after a few of these instances I lazily threw out the following line:


    ¡°Hey man, everything okay?¡±


    He looked surprised. Almost like I challenged him or something.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡± he responded.


    ¡°Uh, just asking if everything¡¯s good, you¡­ seem a bit tired.¡±


    I know what you¡¯re thinking - never tell anyone that they look or seem tired. I get it. It¡¯s never a good look. But holy shit did I cross a line with him.


    ¡°Are you with him?!¡± he asked, slightly louder than what I¡¯d consider an appropriate ¡°inside voice¡± in Starbucks for two men in their thirties.


    ¡°Dude, what?¡±


    I think he could tell from my demeanor and tone of voice that not was I not ¡°with him¡± (whoever ¡°him¡± was), and that he was probably losing it. He said as much:


    ¡°Sorry, just¡­ going through a lot right now. Dealing with something really weird.¡±


    ¡°You okay? Your headspace fine? Did you get in some shit?¡± I said back.


    He shook his head.


    ¡°Been having a lot of trouble sleeping. It¡¯s kind of bleeding into everything. I¡¯m wigging out a bit.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± I asked. ¡°Do you wanna talk about it?¡±


    He shook it off.


    ¡°Just, I don¡¯t really wanna dwell on it. I¡¯ll be okay. I just need a normal night¡¯s sleep is all. Just a normal night¡¯s sleep.¡±


    Fair enough, I thought.


    We continued hanging out, and it was mostly fine. He was reigning in his paranoia and predilection to scan the surroundings of our cozy local Starbucks, probably out of kindness for me more than anything else. We parted ways, and I held a thought in my head hoping that my good friend would get over his weird sleepless hump.


    I didn¡¯t dwell on the interaction too much in the following week. College showed me all-too-well that lack of sleep caused by pulling sequential all-nighters can throw off your mental state pretty easily. I assumed that the next time I saw him, he¡¯d be back to his usual self.


    Ahead of our usually scheduled weekly cadence, Martin sent me a text message.


    ¡°Sophia¡¯s gone.¡±


    I had to re-read it a few times for good measure. Any other time in our friendship, I would¡¯ve assumed he was doing a bit, but coming off the heels of our weird hangout last time, I took it seriously. Sophia was of course his long-time girlfriend and recently turned fianc¨¦ of seven years. As someone who thinks true love is a lie, Martin and Sophie were always the weird exception to me with just how ¡°made for each other¡± they were. Naturally, I was thrown.


    I texted back.


    ¡°You guys broke up?¡±


    No response for thirty minutes. I followed up again.


    ¡°Hey, did you get my last message okay? Do you wanna call?¡±


    Immediately, my phone started ringing. I answered.


    ¡°Hello?


    It was silent on the other end for a good while. Static. I could hear soft breathing.


    ¡°Martin? Dude, what the fu¨C¡±


    ¡°Sorry, sorry,¡± I heard him say back. ¡°It was just feeling off. Felt like he was still here. I just need to wait. I think I¡¯m okay. I think I¡¯ll be okay.¡±


    ¡°Dude. What is going on?¡±


    ¡°Can we meet in person?¡± he asked me. I blurted out ¡°yes of course¡± out of instinct but regretted it pretty much immediately. Before I could double back and say ¡°wait actually can you give me some more context on literally everything that¡¯s going on¡±, he hung up. At least we were meeting in a public setting, I guess.


    Pushing down the confused and twisted feeling in my stomach, I made the drive to Starbucks. On the way, I was ping-ponging back and forth in my head between ¡°They probably broke up and he¡¯s taking it poorly¡± and ¡°Martin is going through a 1/3rd life crisis and is going to take us all out in a murderous blaze of glory.¡± I¡¯ll spare you the other theories I had, but I was definitely all up in my head during that car ride.


    I made it to our usual Starbucks, thanked every deity I could once I realized the coffee shop was completely packed (safety in numbers baby), and made my way inside and towards a small table that Martin had secured for us.


    He looked like he¡¯d seen better days. Bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair, the bags under his eyes now greater in number and more visible. His mouth was held slightly open, as if he was disgusted by everything around him.


    ¡°Buddy ¨C¡± I started. He cut me off.


    ¡°I know what you¡¯re thinking. I¡¯m losing it. Or maybe I did something stupid. Something unforgivable. You¡¯re probably sizing me up right now, analyzing everything I¡¯m saying. Well, sorry to break it to you, but this is not about you, this is about me and ¨C ¡±


    Borrowing a line from my therapist, I jumped in.


    ¡°Martin. Martin. Let¡¯s take a deep breath. Breathe in. Ground yourself.¡±


    I took a deep breath. He hesitated at first, but slowly he caved and mimicked.


    We both exhaled.


    ¡°Awesome. Now¡­ talk to me. What¡¯s going on? I have time.¡±


    He took another deep breath for good measure, and then started.


    ¡°Like I said, I know what you¡¯re thinking. You probably think I¡¯m going off the deep end, and maybe something happened to Sophia because of it. Whatever you¡¯re like thinking in your head man, please just¡­ listen to all of this with an open mind. Please.¡±


    I pretended to have an ¡°open mind¡± as he continued.


    ¡°A couple months back¡­ I started noticing that Soph was having some trouble sleeping. She¡¯d be murmuring to herself as she was drifting off - nothing that really made a whole lot of sense. Occasionally I¡¯d hear her in her sleep saying ¡°Why¡±, and ¡°I don¡¯t understand¡± and ¡°Please, please just go away!¡±. At first I thought these were just random night terrors, but it felt like they were getting more and more intense as the nights went on. I tried asking her about it but she¡¯d always dodge my questions. At most, she¡¯d tell me that she was just hoping she¡¯d get over it, and that it was probably just a recurring nightmare.¡±


    Huh. Okay.


    ¡°Unfortunately, things only kept spiraling from there. I kept pressing her as her sleep-talking was getting more and more fucked up and fearful. I¡¯d sometimes hear her straight up whimpering while asleep¡­ crying even. It took a lot of asking, but eventually she opened up. She said that whatever she was experiencing, it wasn¡¯t a nightmare¡­ it was stuff that was, in her words, happening in the ¡°space between waking life and dreams¡±. The headspace you enter as you drift off deeper into sleep, but right before you¡¯re fully immersed in a deep dream. I googled it and the technical term is the hypnagogic state.¡±


    ¡°Right. Got it. So¡­ what happened?¡± I asked, getting a bit impatient.


    He hesitated for a moment.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to put this shit on you man,¡± he said. ¡°But I¡¯ve got no one to talk to about this.¡±


    ¡°Dude, you¡¯re good. Tell me.¡±


    ¡°You sure?¡± he asked.


    I nodded. I¡¯m pretty good about dealing with spooky paranormal/supernatural stuff. While I find some of the theories and stories to be fascinating, it never really shakes me. I¡¯m of the strong opinion that most things that we consider to be otherworldly experiences have clear real-world reasons for happening. Basically, I¡¯m on team James Randi. You get the idea.


    He continued.


    ¡°She told me that¡­ as she was drifting off to sleep, in the darkness and the patterns of what she saw with her eyes closed, she noticed something far off in the distance. Something that didn¡¯t fit with the dark shapes and colors she usually saw in her vision. Something else. A silhouette. Very subtle at first, but definitely there. Something that felt like it didn¡¯t belong.¡±


    ¡°Great man, that¡¯s super interesting and all but I have to ask¡­ where is Sophia right now? Did you guys break up? Or is this something¨C¡±


    ¡°Look, just, let me get there. Please,¡± Martin interrupted. "Night after night, as she''d try to fall asleep, she''d keep catching this silhouette in the distance. It was getting more and more prominent. More clear, amidst the colors and patterns and lines and visual noise that she would see with her eyes closed. The usual closed-eye hallucinations, but with this additional silhouette. This person, who it felt like was ever so slowly getting closer to her. Her night terrors started getting more frequent. She told me that it felt like there was nothing she could do to make this person go away. To stop them from reaching her. By the time she''d told me all of this, she said that this person¡­ this thing, it''s uh, body and face were now incredibly clear and right in front of her anytime she was almost asleep in that hypnagogic state. She said that at this point, she could clearly see his blank expression. A mouth, and a nose. No eyes, but hair. No emotion anywhere on the face, but locked in on her. Fixated on her."


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    His description of this stuff was definitely strange, but I needed to cut to what was important. I needed to know exactly what happened.


    ¡°Martin, where is Sophia now?¡±


    Martin started nervously picking at his arm. A tic I¡¯d never seen before.


    ¡°She left home eight nights ago. You¡¯re the first person I told.¡±


    ¡°Dude, what?! Call the police or something?! Why are you telling me?!¡±


    He looked down, a mix of guilt and gloom on his face.


    I couldn¡¯t shake the fear that there may have been some foul play here courtesy of Martin. I¡¯d known this guy forever, and yet at this moment he was feeling more and more like a stranger. His voice strained as he continued:


    ¡°The night before she left, she told me what happened. She saw the man under her eyelids again. This time, he was closer than he¡¯d ever been before. She could tell that he was reaching out to grab her arms. She was frozen in fear. He grabbed a hold of her, and started ¡°pulling her under¡±. She couldn¡¯t explain where he was taking her, but the sensation felt like she was getting pulled down into the depths of something. The black patterns that usually came with her closed-eye hallucinations started turning crimson red. It felt like she was being pulled down from her spine, from her very essence almost. As she started sinking, she could hear thousands of voices speaking in languages she¡¯d never heard before. And yet, even though the voices and the words were new, she felt like she could understand them. They were all somehow saying the same thing, using different words. Forever. They were all saying forever.¡±


    He paused. He was pulling at his sleeve again. Anxiously scratching.


    ¡°She¡­ she told me she fought back with everything she could. Climbing and clawing and trying to get back to the surface. Trying to wake up. She barely did. And when she did, she was screaming from the top of her lungs. Woke me up in the middle of the night. Scared the shit out of me.¡±


    He shook his head. Like he was trying to deny any of this was even happening.


    ¡°She showed me her arms, man. Deep bruises on both of them, in the exact same spots. She said that they were in the exact same places that he grabbed her.¡±


    ¡°What happened next, Martin?¡± I asked. We needed to stay on target.


    ¡°That was it. From there, she just got up and left. Walked out the door. She said that no one could help her. That she felt like she was going to be pulled into some sort of hellish eternity that no one could comprehend. That whatever it was that she felt, it was more real than waking life. Like that was the truth. She kept going on about how she felt trapped, and that the only way to avoid what was waiting for her was to not fall asleep. That was the only thing she cared about. Not falling asleep. Not me, not her family, friends, dreams, her future just¡­ escaping what was coming for her. She was going to find some way to never fall asleep again. She packed a bunch of nonsensical crap into a travel bag and just left. Drove off, despite me trying to convince her otherwise. It felt like my words were just going through her. I haven¡¯t seen her since.¡±


    Martin was convincing, for sure. It sounded like whatever he was saying, he did really believe it.


    But that didn¡¯t change the fact that we needed to call the authorities.


    ¡°We need to call the cops, man. Maybe they can find her.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t understand. She was right,¡± he said.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    Martin was full-blown emotional at this point.


    ¡°It¡¯s real man. I¡¯m seeing it too. Every time I go to bed, before I fall asleep, I see him. It¡¯s just like she described. In the blackness and the patterns and the the colors, I see his silhouette in the distance. It¡¯s so obvious. He¡¯s right there. And he¡¯s getting closer and closer. H-he finally reached me for the first time. Grazed me on my arm. Felt like it was just a light touch, but then I woke up with¡­¡±


    He rolled up his sleeve on his left arm, revealing a very deep, dark purple bruise.


    ¡°Like seriously man, what the fuck?!¡± he continued. ¡°I¡¯m just¡­ she was right man. I can¡¯t sleep. Anytime I even nod off, I see him emerge from the darkness, fixating on getting closer to me. Fixating on¡­ taking me away.¡±


    Martin was the worst I¡¯d ever seen him. Throughout his whole telling, he was scanning the Starbucks, eyeing the door. Eyeing everyone. Afraid. I couldn¡¯t deny it, my hair was starting to raise as well. Whatever he was talking about, whether it was real or not, it felt like an awful and unsettling happening. I didn¡¯t like any of this.


    But, neither he nor I were equipped to deal with this. The only thing I could think of at this exact time (besides hoping and praying that it was all just some delusional babble on his part and we could pull him out of his psychosis) was to get the authorities involved because there was a missing person.


    We spent some time trying to talk about less eerie topics than what he and Sophia were supposedly seeing. Eventually, I was able to break through to him and remind him that I was on ¡°his side¡± and ultimately I convinced him that calling the authorities was the right move. He called the authorities about Sophia¡¯s departure and what she was experiencing, and they had both of us come by to the station to answer questions about the last time either of us had seen her and what her state of mind was at the time of her departure. Separately of course.


    At the station, the cops were a bit more lenient with me - Martin had let them know that I was the one that told him to call them in the first place, so they ended up correctly sizing me up as a guy who was pretty much clueless about all of the happenings. Beyond the standard questions of ¡°When did you last see Sophia¡± and ¡°Did you sense anything different about her in the last few months?¡± (my answers being quite useless as I rarely see her unless it¡¯s a big gathering or something), they started asking me questions about Martin and his relationship with her: If he¡¯d ever showcased erratic behavior before, if their relationship was on the rocks, that kind of stuff. I definitely know that Martin was going through some deep stuff, but the more I thought about it, the more I was sure that he just couldn¡¯t be responsible for anything grizzly. At his core, he was still the guy I knew: lawful good. Just¡­ struggling with something a bit incomprehensible right now.


    The cops let me go home. I tried texting and calling Martin but didn¡¯t hear anything for the night, so I assumed he was still in questioning or being kept there overnight.


    Same thing happened the next day - my calls and texts were left unreturned. I heard nothing from him. I contemplated calling the authorities again to ask for a status update, but opted instead to just hope for the best and try to keep my mind off things.


    Finally, after a few days, my phone buzzed.


    It was a text from Martin. I read it:


    ¡°Hey. They¡¯ve been keeping me under supervision. They haven¡¯t told me if I¡¯m a person of interest in Sophia¡¯s disappearance yet. They haven¡¯t confiscated my phone yet and I¡¯m still allowed to make calls, but I can¡¯t leave.¡±


    Shit. That¡¯s not good. Before I could start typing my reply, I received another one.


    ¡°It¡¯s getting worse. I¡¯m trying to stay awake. Every time I close my eyes and drift off, he gets closer. He¡¯s going to pull me in. Tell the officers that they have to try to help me stay awake. I can¡¯t fall asleep. I can¡¯t.¡±


    Welp. I doubt I could convince the officers of anything at this point. Stirring over what to type as my response, he sent me another text:


    ¡°Nothing else is more important to me. Not Sophia. Not you. Nothing. I can¡¯t get pulled under. I know what¡¯s coming for me. I understand what¡¯s real now. I need to stay awake. I need to stay awake forever. I can¡¯t go.¡±


    A knife was twisting in my stomach. I had no idea what any of this was, and how anything could impact my friend¡¯s mind this much under such a short period of time. I could see more texts coming in, but I didn¡¯t want to read them. I wanted to puke. Every part of my rational mind was starting to melt - the slow unsettling thought of the supernatural being a real and malicious thing was creeping in. I couldn¡¯t let it in.


    I ignored it. I tried to get my mind off it. I watched a comedy, and I went to bed. It was hard to sleep and forget everything, but I powered through the best I could.


    I avoided my phone the next day. I kept my mind on other tasks. The sinking feeling was still in my chest, but I fought it as much as I could. I took a walk, watched TV, spent extra time cooking for myself, and continued to find other ways to kill time. I was able to carry through with distracting myself until the evening, where I was finally mentally and emotionally ready to address the rest of the text messages that Martin had sent me, as well as any other spam that had come through during the day.


    I scrolled through the chain of messages from Martin:


    ¡°I need to stay awake forever.¡±


    ¡°I need to stay awake forever.¡±


    ¡°I need to stay awake forever.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re threatening to take me to a psychiatric hospital since I won¡¯t go to sleep. Please stop them.¡±


    ¡°They want me to take sleeping pills. Please help.¡±


    ¡°I think they¡¯re going to confiscate my phone.¡±


    ¡°I NEED TO STAY AWAKE I NEED TO STAY AWAKE I NEED TO STAY AWAKE¡±


    I shrunk the above down for brevity, but his final message kept going on and on. A near endless string of him typing ¡°I NEED TO STAY AWAKE¡±. It was horrifying. What the fuck was going on.


    As I took in the messages, I realized that all of these had been sent by him last night. There¡¯d been no text messages sent by him today. Complete radio silence from him after yesterday turned to midnight.


    Before I could muster up sending him a text or calling him, a phone call came through on my cell. I answered.


    ¡°Martin?¡±


    ¡°Hello, this is Officer Borowitz. Am I speaking with Brian?¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ this is Brian.¡±


    ¡°We have an update on Sophia¡¯s case. We¡¯d love it if you came down to the station.¡±


    I drove to the station, again ping-ponging worst case scenarios in my head on the journey there.


    I arrived. I was brought into a room and was sat down by a couple of officers. They talked me through everything that had happened. The ¡°conversation¡± was at times a flurry of questions, and at other times, a half-hearted update on what had happened. The whole thing was a blur.


    I remember a mish-mash of scattered questions throughout the hours they spoke to me:


    ¡°Do you know if Martin had plans to escape our supervision area last night? Did he tell you about any plans he had?¡±


    ¡°Were Sophia and Martin part of a cult?¡±


    ¡°Do you know if Sophia and Martin were in close communication over the last week?¡±


    ¡°Were Martin and Sophia ever suicidal?¡±


    Amidst their questioning, I kept asking them what happened. They danced around it for a while, and then tried to quickly skirt over it before proceeding back to their questions. I think they were just trying to keep things as professional as possible while getting as much info from me as they could. They mentioned what had happened, almost as if it was a throwaway fact. Like it was nothing of real importance:


    The cops found Sophia and Martin¡¯s bodies. They were both lying next to each other in their bed. back at their home. Their heads, from the bridge of their noses upwards, had been removed. Mouth, nose, and a blank expression on their face. Everything else was gone.


    Among the grizzly and strange details that were being shared with the emotional intelligence of a seasoned and detached heart surgeon, was the fact that none of the officers had any idea on who had done this. They weren¡¯t sure if Martin and Sophia had planned this themselves, and if they had, how they¡¯d pulled it off. There were no visible signs of foul play, and no hint at all on where the top of Sophia and Martin¡¯s heads were.


    The blur continued and followed me as I went home. I was horrified. Scarred. Life felt empty. I quit work, could barely eat, could barely sleep, and any belief structures I¡¯d set up (or lack thereof) had been completely shattered. I was sure that whatever happened, it wasn¡¯t something that could be explained by any of the tools humans had at their disposal.


    Months passed. Many months before I could have a single solitary day that could even partially resemble what one would call ¡°normal¡±. But¡­ time does what it does. Slowly, the human spirit builds some sort of strange masochistic resilience. You carry on because you can. And slowly and surely, the guilt and the shame and fear and horror and everything in between, little by little, start to fade away. There was still a big beating heart of pain at the center of me, but¡­ I could get out of bed. I could do things again. I was sleeping better.


    That was until I started seeing him.


    Truth be told, I think he¡¯d been there longer than I wanted to admit. I¡¯d just been in denial.


    There, lingering in the corner of the patterns and particles sprinkled onto a background of black that I¡¯d see with my eyes shut as I was drifting off to sleep¡­ was him. That silhouette hiding in the dark fuzzy static. Something that didn¡¯t belong, far off in the distance. Slowly, so slowly, making his way closer and closer.


    He¡¯s closed the distance over the last few weeks. Everytime I see him, he¡¯s closer and clearer than before. I¡¯ve been in denial. None of this is real, this can¡¯t be real, I¡¯m just seeing things. But now, in the instant before I fall into a deep dream, he¡¯s right in front of me. Clear as day.


    He grabbed my arms the other night. I woke up with a row of bruises on both sides. I saw his blank expression. A mouth, and a nose. No eyes, but hair. Locked in on me. Fixated on me.


    Sophia¡¯s description, or rather, Martin¡¯s retelling of Sophia¡¯s description, was spot on. I got a hint of what happens when he finally takes you away. I heard the words - thousands of voices speaking in languages that were completely unfamiliar, and yet, recognizable. All of them saying, in their own special ways¡­ Forever. And me, submerged in something so horrible and incomprehensible and yet something I immediately understand with all of my being. Something horrible I can¡¯t ever escape from.


    Nothing is more important to me now.


    I need to stay awake forever.


    I need to stay awake forever.


    I need to stay awake forever.


    I need to stay awake forever.


    Please, something, help me stay awake forever.

 I was the Hitchhiker

    It¡¯s awkward to be the hitchhiker¡­ to be on this side of a scary folktale.


    Let¡¯s not talk about how I got here. Not really important.


    What matters is that I¡¯ve never looked more disheveled. And I¡¯ve never felt more awkward. Just a weird-looking dork sticking my thumb out on an empty road, sandwiched between two forests. Pitch black.


    It¡¯s midnight, I think? I didn¡¯t have my watch on me. Or my phone. Or anything else that tells the time. My internal clock ain¡¯t great either. But let¡¯s say it¡¯s between 10:49PM and 2AM. I think. Probably.


    Car goes past. Doesn¡¯t even think of stopping. Ah, I don¡¯t blame ¡®em. Looked like a couple that were just coming back from a fun camping trip. They don¡¯t need my nonsense right now.


    I mean, I wouldn¡¯t stop for me. Would just be silly, really.


    I¡¯ll hold out hope. Maybe a van filled to capacity, save for one seat in the back, would stop for me. They could take a chance. After all, if I tried anything funny, I¡¯d be vastly outnumbered.


    Twenty minutes pass. No van. Actually, no cars at all. I guess people don¡¯t really use this road. Or it¡¯s late. And hitchhiking on a Wednesday night, or a err¡­ Thursday morning, isn¡¯t really a wise move.


    Ooh, look, a car! They¡¯re slowing to stop¡­ No, no it doesn¡¯t look like they can take me¡­ but they look¡­ apologetic? That¡¯s sweet. They¡¯re sort of mumbling ¡°sorry¡± and shrugging. Ah that¡¯s fine. I¡¯m just glad you looked at me, really.


    I¡¯m pacing. I wish I had my cigarettes. I hate being in one place for too long. I hate being alone with my brain. I ruminate. I hear sounds coming from the forest and they creep me out. I think about worst case scenarios all the time. You know how your brain can drum up something much scarier than anything real life can throw at you? Yeah.


    I just need to try to be present.


    Second thought, maybe I should just stay in my head. It¡¯s safer up here. The more mindful I get right now, the more it¡¯s clear I¡¯m in the middle of the fucking road with no hope of getting home.


    There¡¯s a feeling of tension in my chest. It¡¯s tight. It aches. I breathe into it.


    It¡¯ll dissipate. I¡¯ve lived with anxiety long enough. I have my tools.


    Yes, I did in fact notice the car in front of me on the road slowing to a stop. And no, I¡¯m not gonna get my hopes up.


    Shit. The driver looks professional. Like she actually has her life in order. Hun, don¡¯t do this. Statistically, this isn¡¯t a good move. The odds are not in your favor.


    She looks like she just straightened her hair. Like she¡¯s coming from some sort of tech conference. Business casual. You could put her in a brochure. Fucking hell, she looks my age.


    Don¡¯t do this. I could be a maniac. I can wait for the van.


    ¡°You look like you¡¯ve had a rough night,¡± she says.


    I keep my distance from her.


    ¡°Hey, uh, look, thank you for the kind gesture but¡­ I¡¯m actually kind of waiting for a car with more people in it. So that it¡¯s¡­ less weird for everyone,¡± I respond.


    She laughs.


    ¡°Get in. I¡¯ll be okay.¡±


    If I¡¯m being honest, I¡¯m praying for another car to come by.


    Nope.


    I get in.


    Lady, I¡¯m gonna give you a lecture about safety once you drop me off. It¡¯s not wise to pick up a scruffy hitchhiker like me in the middle of the night.


    ¡°Whereabouts you heading?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Uh, honestly, two hours in the direction you¡¯re already driving. I¡¯m in Morgantown. Anywhere in the city is fine.¡±


    ¡°Cool. I can take you a good chunk of the way there I think. Depends on how much I like ya!¡± she says, laughing. ¡°I¡¯m kidding.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just grateful for the ride. Thank you.¡±


    We sit in silence for a bit. I was hoping she¡¯d put on the radio or something. Usually people are more talkative. I don¡¯t want to start ruminating again. I wonder what she¡¯s thinking. Does she regret picking me up? Is this weird? Is she scared for her safety? She shouldn¡¯t be, but I get it. This is weird, right?


    ¡°So, I do have to ask. It¡¯s Thursday morning at 1AM. What are you doing in the middle of the road?¡± she asks.


    1AM. Nailed it. My internal clock is better than I thought. And look, lady, I know you just want to have a conversation, but I really don¡¯t want to answer this question.


    ¡°A, uh¡­ retreat with my friends. We do it every year. It¡¯s a bit of a ritual,¡± I say.


    She looked confused.


    ¡°Right. And does the retreat end with you standing in the middle of the road? Looking¡­ the way you do right now? No offense.¡±


    ¡°None taken. And uh, no. I left early. On not so great terms,¡± I respond.


    She snickers. She looks at me. Kind of warm.


    ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± she says.


    ¡°That¡¯s it¡± I respond.


    She shakes her head.


    Awkward silence.


    I¡¯m starting to go back into my head. Please turn on the radio or something.


    ¡°You know¡­ if you talked more, it¡¯d be easier to trust you. I mean, I did pick you up in the middle of the night,¡± she says.


    I laugh.


    ¡°You¡¯re free to drop me off wherever you want. I feel weird about this too. It¡¯s kind of like when you¡¯re accidentally walking behind someone at night. And you feel weird. But you two are going the same way.¡±


    ¡°And yet you stuck out your thumb. And got in the car,¡± she says.


    ¡°Good point.¡±


    I mean, it was a good point. It¡¯s good to self-reflect sometimes, right? I can be a hypocrite, sure.


    She laughs again.


    ¡°Okay, I¡¯ll tell you something about me. But then, you have to tell me more about you,¡± she says.


    Damnit. She¡¯s cute.


    ¡°I picked you up because¡­ I¡¯ve had benders before. In a past life¡­¡±


    She motions to her clothes.


    ¡°I mean c¡¯mon, I didn¡¯t always look this fancy. I had to sort some shit out in my life.¡±


    For someone who claims to be as grounded and put together as you are, picking me up was pretty silly. Again, statistically, a pretty stupid choice.


    ¡°And so, you know, I had nights where people would go out of their way to drop me off home. I¡¯ve literally been in your shoes, you know. Disheveled, barely awake, drunk out of my mind, sticking my thumb out on an empty road. And honestly, it was just as scary getting picked up. But¡­ I trusted people. And they took care of me, and brought me home. So in a way, I guess I¡¯m¡­ paying it forward. I have full trust that the universe balances things out,¡± she says.


    She said all of that with a smile. Kind of endearing. Not sure if I trust all of that, but endearing nonetheless. I begrudgingly nod.


    ¡°That¡¯s actually kinda wholesome.¡±


    ¡°Now you,¡± she says back.


    I sigh. This road runs long. It¡¯s kinda scary outside. Maybe if she likes me enough she¡¯ll take me all the way home. I don¡¯t want to be out on the street again.


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    I¡¯ll open up. A bit.


    ¡°Alright, so, you ever have that group of friends where you¡¯ve changed so much as a person that you probably shouldn¡¯t be friends with them anymore, but you also feel obliged to show up when they ask you to come out?¡± I ask.


    She snickers.


    ¡°So you end up going out to that stupid event you know you shouldn¡¯t be going to. And you regret it immediately,¡± she says back.


    ¡°Exactly. So I go. Because we¡¯re all buddies right? And we go way back. Except, I don¡¯t like the idea of getting trashed at a hostel. And having to¡­ give the group my phone, my keys, my wallet, everything. Play that stupid game we all play,¡± I say.


    ¡°Stupid game?¡±


    I sigh.


    ¡°Alright, but you have to promise to not judge me,¡± I say.


    She shrugs. Her eyes say ¡°you can¡¯t stop me¡±. Fine.


    ¡°The game is¡­ basically, that, uh¡­ each of us has to hit the town and find a girl to uh¡­ bring back to our room. Anyone who doesn¡¯t succeed has to sleep outside without any of their belongings,¡± I say, embarrassed.


    ¡°Wow,¡± she says. ¡°You and your friends really are chauvinistic morons, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    I make a face.


    ¡°Like I said, I really shouldn¡¯t be friends with them anymore.¡±


    ¡°Awe, I¡¯m kidding¡± she says.


    You shouldn¡¯t let your guard down too quickly. I haven¡¯t finished my story yet.


    I take a beat, then I continue.


    ¡°I came this time, but my terms were clear. I¡¯ll hang out, we can drink, and I¡¯m happy to be a wingman to anyone playing that stupid game. But beyond that, I won¡¯t be participating. I wanna stay at home, kick back, and have a relaxing time.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t really think they¡¯d let you not participate, did you?¡± she says.


    ¡°I did! That¡¯s why I came!¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Really really!¡±


    She shakes her head.


    ¡°Moron.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re almost getting too comfortable with me now!¡± I say.


    ¡°Great diversion. But you didn¡¯t tell me the whole story, did you?¡± she responds.


    You know, if I had cigarettes and a light, I¡¯d be happy to go back onto the street. But I don¡¯t.


    Alright, you win.


    ¡°Okay, well¡­ they pulled their bullshit on me. I had a couple of drinks in me, and slowly those assholes grabbed my keys, my wallet, my phone, my fucking smokes. Little by little. Pricks¡±.


    Fuck, I¡¯m getting heated. I¡¯m scaring her, aren¡¯t I?


    ¡°By the time I knew the jig was up, they all got together to try to pick me up and throw me outside. Y¡¯know, force me to play that dumb game with them. Force me to bring a girl back to our room¡±.


    I¡¯m rambling. Let¡¯s try to cool it.


    ¡°You lost your shit didn¡¯t yo¨C¡±


    ¡°I lost my shit¡± I respond. ¡°I freaked out. I¡¯m not usually an angry drunk, but something in me snapped this time. Mark grabbed me by the legs and Francesco had my arms and they were trying to drag me outside. They were laughing. So I started kicking. And punching. Hard. Once I got my footing, I was just straight up swinging at them. Full force. I feel like I did some damage. Nothing, like, too severe, but¡­ you know. Mark fell to the floor. I kept hitting him. Everyone eventually tore me off of him, but I was still, like, lashing out. Not physically anymore, but verbally. Like, emotional abuse. It was weird.¡±


    Goddamnit, I need to save this shit for therapy.


    ¡°I, uh, anyways. They just looked at me, mortified. Like I was a freak or something. And so¡­ I walked out the front door. And here I am. Took me fifteen minutes of walking to realize that I didn¡¯t have my phone¡­ keys¡­ wallet¡­ cigarettes. Anything. I wanted to go back inside to ask them for my stuff, but it just felt so weird. Like something was stopping me. Just think it would¡¯ve been so awkward, y¡¯know? To freak out, punch my friends, and then come back and say sorry. I know I¡¯m rambling, by the way. I kind of get stuck in my head sometimes. Sorry. Really wish I had a cigarette right now.¡± I say.


    Fucking hell, I can¡¯t even look at her. She¡¯s staring at me like I¡¯m a fucking moron. Keep your eyes on the road please, ma¡¯am.


    ¡°Dude, you¡¯re a fucking moron,¡± she says.


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯re you gonna do about your stuff?¡± she asks.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I¡¯ll just¡­ call them or something. Later. Like, in a few days. To apologize. I¡¯ll¡­ need to borrow someone¡¯s phone to do that, obviously. Or, alternatively, I could bring you back to the hostel tonight. They¡¯ll let me come back in if I bring a lady, right?¡±


    She stops the car.


    Fuck. I¡¯m sorry.


    ¡°Stupid joke¡± I say.


    Awkward silence.


    She slowly starts driving again.


    ¡°You¡¯re not making this easy,¡± she says.


    ¡°I know.¡±


    The road stretches long.


    ¡°Are your friends smokers too?¡± she asks.


    ¡°Nah,¡± I respond. ¡°Just me.¡±


    ¡°You¡­ sure about that? Why would they lift your cigarettes if they don¡¯t smoke?¡±


    ¡°Just to like, be dicks I guess. They¡¯re just like that.¡±


    Fuck. This road is long. Guess I never really paid attention to roads before.


    Hm. That¡¯s kind of weird.


    Why is there an eye on the glove compartment box?


    Why is it blinking?


    ¡°What¡­ is that?¡± I say, pointing.


    She giggles.


    ¡°Just decoration. You missed that when you got in?¡±


    ¡°Fuck, I¡¯m out of it,¡± I respond.


    Silence.


    ¡°You think your friends will forgive you?¡± she asks me.


    I shrug.


    ¡°I mean, who knows. We were already drifting apart anyway. Maybe it¡¯s for the best if they don¡¯t forgive me.¡±


    ¡°Right. And how does Riley feel about it?¡± she asks.


    Huh. I talked about Riley? When did I mention him?


    ¡°Riley?¡± I ask.


    ¡°Yeah,¡± she says back.


    ¡°Uhh, yeah. I don¡¯t really know how he feels about it. Probably the same as the other guys. Hey, when did I talk about Riley?¡±


    Silence.


    ¡°I never said his name before,¡± I say.


    She sighs.


    ¡°Yeah you did. You¡¯ve been rambling for a while. Repeating yourself over and over again. And then forgetting that you said anything,¡± she says.


    Fuck. What?


    I look in front of me. The road stretches long.


    I look back. This road stretches long.


    Fuck, how much did I drink?


    Am I fucked up?


    And seriously, why is there an eye on the glove compartment?


    ¡°And now you¡¯re spiraling. You¡¯re in your head, and it¡¯s gonna be super quiet and awkward for another few minutes,¡± she says back.


    Shit. Keep it cool dude. Clearly, my hitchhiker etiquette needs some work. I¡¯m being unseemly.


    ¡°Sorry, I just¡­ weird night.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fine. Just¡­ take a chill pill Michael. Breathe in. Relax. It¡¯s all good,¡± she says.


    ¡­


    ¡°I never said my name before,¡± I say.


    ¡°You are really forgetting stuff.¡±.


    ¡°No, no I¡¯m not actually. And I hate to use a very overused term, but it feels like you¡¯re gaslighting me right now,¡± I respond.


    ¡°Look, I¡¯m not comfortable with you freaking out at me¡± she says. ¡°Just look out your window, take a breath, and cool it. I¡¯ll get you home.¡±


    Fine. Fucking hell. Back in my head. With my thoughts.


    Back to looking outside.


    This road stretches long.


    This road stretches really long.


    Am I losing it?


    Take a deep breath in. I¡¯m okay.


    It¡¯s been quiet for a little bit. I think I can calm down. Yes, that fucking eye is still there, but ¨C


    ¡°You know, I think Mark smoked your cigarettes after you left. To calm down.¡±


    Alright, she wants to break the tension by theorizing about my friends. Fuck it, I¡¯m here for it.


    ¡°I think he smoked them indoors. A few of them. I think he tossed them, half-smoked and still lit into a large potted plant. I don¡¯t think he knew any better. I think they caught fire,¡± she says.


    Wait. The road isn¡¯t narrow anymore. Why does it feel like we¡¯re driving on a large open field?


    ¡°What are you say¨C¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think your friends knew what to do. They were probably too fucked up. So the whole place was up in flames quickly. Really, really quickly. I think the fire got them.¡±


    Fuck. Eyes on the road. Stop looking at me while you¡¯re driving.


    ¡°Hey¨C¡±


    She¡¯s smiling at me. Right at me. Deranged. I look away.


    I look in front of me.


    We¡¯re in the cosmos. But it¡¯s not inspiring. It looks like hell. Black holes all around us. Empty space. What the fuck is happening.


    I don¡¯t want to look at her. But I can see her in my peripheral vision.


    She¡¯s still smiling at me.


    I look over just a little bit.


    Her smile and teeth are extending beyond her face. Her face is extending beyond her face. Her whole being is taking up more space. She looks animated. Unreal. Pitch black. Unreasonably happy. Her smile is so clear. It doesn¡¯t make sense.


    I feel like I¡¯m prey. This feels like nature.


    Her eyes are smiling. Warm. She¡¯s looking at me harder than anyone¡¯s ever looked at me in my life.


    Fuck. When did I start looking back at her?


    I don¡¯t want to be looked at. Don¡¯t look at me.


    I can¡¯t scream.


    But.


    I¡¯m still alive. Maybe if I keep doing what I¡¯m doing, I can stay alive.


    ¡°If it wasn¡¯t the cigarettes, it would¡¯ve been something else. You shouldn¡¯t blame yourself,¡± she says.


    Did she always sound like this? I turn away from her. My eyes are back on the road. Sorry, on the cosmos.


    The universe stretches long.


    ¡°They were all going to depart tonight,¡± she says.


    She¡¯s not using her mouth to talk.


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t want to see what¡¯s in my mouth,¡± she says.


    Don¡¯t think. Don¡¯t think about this. Just look ahead. Eyes on the universe. Just don¡¯t move.


    Fuck. Wait.


    Is that my house?


    Why is my house in the middle of the fucking cosmos? Why is it here?!


    I want to go home. Real home.


    ¡°I can feel your muscles twitching in your arms. And legs. I can smell your intestines.¡±


    I don¡¯t know what to do. I need to stop thinking. It¡¯ll pass. One way or another, this¡¯ll end.


    ¡°You never eat carrots. Lying is a casual sport for you. You¡¯re happier than you pretend to be,¡± she says.


    She¡¯s in front of me. She¡¯s splattered on the windshield. I can feel her face on the headrest against the back of my head. She¡¯s speaking into me.


    ¡°You¡¯re trying not to think.¡±


    Correct, ma¡¯am. I hope this fucking car crashes.


    ¡°No you don¡¯t. You¡¯re hoping it¡¯ll all be okay. You¡¯re praying it¡¯ll all be okay.¡±


    Stop. Thinking.


    Zen.


    Quiet.


    Breathe In. And Breathe Out.


    She¡¯s still looking at me.


    Breathe In. And Breathe Out.


    She¡¯s stretching into the cosmos. She¡¯s everywhere.


    In and out. It¡¯s okay. That¡¯s how anxiety is. It¡¯ll get worse before it gets better.


    Breathe In. And Out.


    She¡¯s in front of my face. She¡¯s even closer when I close my eyes.


    In. And Out.


    In. And Out.


    Breathe.


    ¡°Were you supposed to be there tonight, too?¡± she asks.


    Yes.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°And yet you weren¡¯t,¡± she says.


    No.


    ¡°No. No I wasn¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Do you deserve this exit?¡± she asks.


    I don¡¯t know.


    ¡°Not sure.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s coming up soon,¡± she says.


    ¡°I know.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll ask you again,¡± she says.


    Fuck. She pierces my hand. And my shoulder.


    ¡°Did you change enough, before tonight, to deserve this exit?¡± she asks.


    Please end this.


    ¡°No! No I didn¡¯t. I think I¡¯m a piece of shit. I think I deserve to die,¡± I say back to her.


    She makes a right on the exit.


    And we drive. Out of the cosmos.


    Everything returns to form. Like how it all should be.


    Trees. Road. Concrete. Gravity. Sky.


    And¡­


    I¡¯m home? That¡¯s it?


    I¡¯m home.


    It¡¯s morning. The sun is coming up. Pardon the cliche, but I actually think I hear birds chirping.


    And she¡¯s¡­ business casual. Professional. All put together.


    But I¡¯m bleeding. From my hand and my shoulder. And that eye on the glove compartment box is still there.


    We¡¯re parked. On the street right in front of my house.


    Okay.


    I¡¯ve always been particularly shit at saying goodbye to people who dropped me off.


    I open the car door. I trudge onto the sidewalk.


    I look back at her. I close the car door. A slow trickle of blood onto the sidewalk. A little bit on her car. Sorry about that. I should go inside and get myself cleaned up. Fuck. No keys.


    We¡¯re looking at each other.


    ¡°You said some really mean stuff about yourself back there. You shouldn¡¯t sell yourself short, you know?¡± She says it with a smile. I believe her.


    I do a half-wave, and before I can think to myself ¡°please god just fucking drive off fucking please¡±, she starts driving off. Down the long road.


    It stretches long. And long. And long. And long. And she¡¯s in view still. Smaller and smaller.


    And then she¡¯s gone.


    ¡­


    It¡¯s kind of nice outside. Never realized how pretty this neighborhood is. Maybe I¡¯ll stand here for a little while.

 Marketing Test

    <div>


    <div>


    This is probably going to shock you, but I¡¯ve been finding it pretty hard to land a job with my PoliSci degree. Crazy, right?


    I¡¯ve been applying to pretty much anything and everything under the sun. Admin Assistant? Sure! Data Entry? Why not! Digital Content Specialist - not sure what that entails but hell fucking yes!


    Having clocked in at nearly 500 applications with no responses (outside of automated rejection emails, of course), I was naturally starting to sweat a bit. Thankfully, my throwaway application to the ¡°Marketing Assistant¡± role at NexaNova Systems was able to get a bite. It was a joyous occasion, and soon after my response to their brief email questionnaire, they were already set for me to come onsite to take some sort of ¡°Marketing test¡±.


    Deciding to not overthink a good thing, I made my way to their office, located in a part of the city I¡¯d never been to before. I took the elevator up to the seventh floor in the towering, yet somewhat run-down, building that housed them and other companies. As the doors opened, I was met with a depressing-looking reception area and a rather uninspired logo.


    A nervous-looking man sat at the reception desk.


    ¡°Amanda¡­ for NexaNova Systems, right? 5 o¡¯clock test?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right!¡± I said, as cheerily as I could muster.


    He looked around, awkwardly drumming at his desk for a while. He grimaced, as if he were deep in thought. Finally, after a painful minute of waiting, he said ¡°Alright, let¡¯s go!¡± and lifted from his seat.


    I followed him down the lengthy hallway, past dingy offices and tables with scattered paperwork on them. The office was basically empty - I clocked, like, one guy drinking coffee in the kitchen, and maybe ten flickering lights on my walk? Disappointed with the office decor thus far, I was tempted to ask the guy escorting me more about what NexaNova Systems did. Yes, they did have a website that I scoured during my five minutes of pre-interview prep, but there wasn¡¯t much on it except for vague mentions of market research and ¡®top notch product evaluation¡¯.


    We arrived at the ¡°Testing Room¡±. That¡¯s what the placard on the door said, anyways. He held it open, and I entered the very long and narrow, almost rectangular-shaped room. It was completely empty inside, save for an old computer on a small desk in the center, a gray folding chair positioned in front of it. As I approached the desk, I noticed a row of windows to my left that unveiled a massive, seemingly endless warehouse below.


    The receptionist motioned for me to take a seat, and so I did.


    He booted up the computer, and before I could even ask him any questions, he was already on his way out. I¡¯m pretty sure I heard him half-heartedly mutter ¡°best of luck¡± before he closed the door behind him.


    I¡¯ll be honest. I wasn¡¯t particularly excited to work here. But, the prospect of being able to afford hot pockets again was enticing, so I decided to press on.


    I examined the archaic computer that was in front of me. Bulky, beige, 15-inch CRT screen, with a similarly chunky keyboard sitting in front of it. Fucking prehistoric, but a welcome throwback to late 90¡¯s computing nonetheless. Ah¡­ what a simple time that was. A time where I could spend my full weekend wrapped in blankets while watching TV. Send me back there, please.


    The computer finished its start-up sequence, and immediately, I was greeted with a form asking questions like my name, my email, and the position I was interviewing for. I promptly filled it out.


    After that, the test kicked off. The questions were simple at first: ¡°What are the 4 P¡¯s of Marketing?¡± and ¡°What does positioning mean in marketing terms,¡± stuff that I was able to address reasonably well with my one hour of studying this morning - thank you very much ChatGPT.


    As I kept up the momentum, carving through the questions with relative ease, I started to feel a bit proud. Maybe, just maybe, I was assistant material after all?


    I wrapped up the section, only to be greeted by a black screen with a small icon of a spinning hourglass on it, indicating that the next screen was loading.


    Underneath the hourglass, the following text slowly appeared, displayed in a white, jagged, dated-looking font:


    ¡°By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work. With the universe bearing solemn witness, God, in His infinite majesty, succumbed to the slumber of death.¡±


    What?


    I was by no means up to date on my bible lore - it¡¯d been well over a decade since my mom last forced me to go to church - but I¡¯m pretty sure God dying on the eighth day wasn¡¯t part of the King James canon.


    Before I could muse on this quote for longer, a voice blaring from somewhere jolted my attention away.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about that,¡± said a voice that came through loud, tinny, and mildly distorted. Is that a PA system?


    I turned around and confirmed my suspicion. Nestled in the corner at the junction of two walls and the ceiling, was a PA speaker that looked tarnished from years, nay, decades it seemed, of use.


    Is that¡­ a normal thing for¡­ marketing firms?


    I turned back to face the computer. The next section had loaded.


    On the screen was an image crafted in a 2D retro art style reminiscent of old educational games like Oregon Trail and Math Blaster. There was a boy sitting at the edge of his bed in a dimly lit room, watching a TV screen that had cast a pale glow around him. Though mostly static, the image had a subtle animation - a soft twinkling emanating from the TV.


    At the bottom of the screen, text displaying the following question appeared:


    We want the child to remember the JOY of drinking Coca-Cola. Do you recommend:


    (a) Showing him a 10 second ad every 15 minutes?


    (b) Running a 2-minute storytelling ad once every three hours?


    I struggled a bit as I thought through the question. I wasn¡¯t sure which cadence was the more effective one.


    The muffled voice off the PA interrupted my thoughts. ¡°It¡¯s a trick question,¡± the voice echoed. I raised an eyebrow, instinctively turning around again to look at the PA. As I turned back, I noticed that I¡¯d missed a timer that had been running in the corner of the screen. It had already reached zero.


    I sat confusedly, wondering what the PA had meant. Suddenly, the child at the edge of the bed started to fade away, vanishing as if he were an apparition. I heard a ¡®ding¡¯ sound, indicating I had somehow answered correctly. New text appeared at the bottom of the screen:


    ¡°Correct! The child was not real!¡±


    Huh? Convinced that this question was some sort of dramatized interpretation of a rule about marketing to children that I had missed, I decided to take the victory.


    But as I sat, the image of the empty room with the TV playing lingered for longer than I would¡¯ve liked.


    Finally, the computer transitioned to the next question.


    On screen, in a similar 2D-animated style, was a gardener donning a sun hat and a green apron, carrying around a watering can, sprinkling pixelated droplets on the flowers in his busy garden.


    Text appeared at the bottom of the screen:


    Jack is thinking about the best digital marketing strategies to utilize for his flower business called JACK¡¯s FLOWERS. What are your suggestions for Jack?


    A prompt with an empty text box appeared, awaiting my response. In the background, Jack continued adorably flowering his plants. Not really feeling as ¡®in my element¡¯ as before, I typed a generic answer: Market on Facebook and Instagram?


    As soon as I submitted, Jack paused his gardening, glanced up at the screen with a smile, and offered a ¡®thumbs up¡¯ in approval.


    A new text box emerged, accompanied with the instruction, ¡°Give Jack more advice!¡± I thought over what to type next, but as I ruminated, I noticed a shuffling in the bushes in the corner of Jack¡¯s garden. Two bright red eyes appeared in the hedges.


    Distracted, I carelessly typed another generic answer in the text box: Do an email marketing campaign?


    The text box disappeared, my message received, and again, Jack flashed me a thumbs up.


    The red-eyed character in the corner of the screen stepped out of the bushes, its full figure now in frame. It was hard to make sense of what the creature was. The smiling, demonic-looking thing was animated in the same artstyle as everything else, and yet, it looked completely out of place. It crept towards Jack, holding a pair of hedge shears.


    New text box appeared. ¡°Give Jack even more advice!¡±


    I typed: Turn around Jack, something is coming for you.


    But weirdly, as I pressed enter, the text changed right in front of my eyes to: Focus on your fucking gardening, Jack.


    I whispered ¡°what in the ever-loving-fuck is this test?¡± under my breath as Jack flashed me another sign of approval, and the twisted entity arrived behind him, shears readied.


    I tensed up, but thankfully, the screen went black.


    When it returned, it was a tranquil scene in the garden. Jack was nowhere to be seen, and the demented red creature was now the one attending to the plants. Except, the plants looked to be twice as large now, and the pixelated droplets falling from the watering can looked a bit too red to be water.


    Genuinely disturbed at how morbid this test was, not to mention thrown off by how dark the room had gotten all of a sudden, I was again greeted by the crackle of the PA system.


    ¡°Fair warning,¡± the amplified voice reverberated through the room, ¡°This next question requires a very fast answer.¡±


    Oh great.


    The image on screen shifted from the garden to the next, similarly-styled 2D animation: the disturbing scene of a woman, bound in ropes, being lowered into a large bed of spikes. A timer in the corner of the screen was counting down from 20 as a new question appeared:


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    Keeping psychological pricing in mind, what should the price of the bed of spikes should be?


    (a) $11.00


    (b) $10.99


    (c) $9.50


    Aaaand I think I¡¯m done here.


    I got up from the chair, now convinced that this whole thing was just some sort of twisted prank, when I caught a movement in the corner of my eye. Glancing towards the windows on my left, which overlooked the vast warehouse beneath the interview room, I noticed a rope swiftly descend down, with what I could¡¯ve sworn was a person attached to its tail end.


    In a panic, I rushed to sit back down, half-hoping that I had just hallucinated that. The counter descended down from 9, 8, 7, 6¡­ and with the animated woman now seconds from impalement, I hastily guessed ¡®B¡¯.


    Ding! The sound from the computer indicated that my answer was correct.


    But¡­ on-screen, the rope-bound woman still tumbled down into the bed of spikes. Despite the dated graphics, it was a nightmarish sight.


    I sat still for a moment. Then, in a strange reflex that betrayed my usual timid self, I got up from my seat and walked towards the windows to look into the warehouse room.


    As I peered down, I saw a bed of spikes - a near-perfect 3D replica of what I¡¯d seen on the computer screen, out below in the vast room. Beside this, a woman stood, her arms triumphantly raised. To her left and right, there were two individuals who helped steady her upright stance. A banner unfurled in the warehouse with the words ¡°She¡¯s Alright!¡± written on it, confetti falling all around the scene below.


    Seriously, what the fuck is this.


    As I tried to make sense of the sight, I noticed that the woman, though apparently in a celebratory pose, was leaking blood. The people at her sides were propping her body up, and especially, holding her neck up, but the holes in her body made it very clear that she had, in fact, been impaled.


    The lights in the warehouse room immediately flickered off. I was now staring into a sea of black.


    I stepped away from the window and made a beeline for the room¡¯s exit. Whatever the hell this test was, or this fucking job for that matter, I wanted nothing to do with it.


    A voice from the PA blared, seemingly in reaction. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, she¡¯s safe. Didn¡¯t you read the banner?¡±


    I pulled at the door. It was locked. Of course it was fucking locked. I pounded at it, continuing to pull as hard as I could.


    Static from the PA crinkled as more words came through. ¡°There isn¡¯t that much left in the test¨C¡±


    ¡°Get me the fuck out of here!¡± I yelled.


    A pause, as if the voice was thinking. Then, more hissing from the PA system. ¡°You can leave when the test is over. Promise.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not fucking interested in this job anym¨C¡±


    ¡°The hallway isn¡¯t safe right now,¡± said the speaker, cutting me off. ¡°Please.¡±


    Weirdly, despite the muffled, overmodulated quality of the PA voice, something in the delivery of those words sounded authentic. Also, the hallway, which now had most of its lights off, looked¡­ different. Narrower. There were fewer offices lining the halls, fewer bulletin boards, heck, the actual lightbulbs looked different. The more I stared, the more I noticed a disconnect between the walls I remembered walking down and the ones I was looking at now.


    Where the fuck am¨C


    ¡°Please take a seat,¡± the voice echoed.


    I thought about it. Staring into the hallway was bringing about a more and more uncomfortable feeling in my chest with each passing second.


    Staving off my body¡¯s urge to hyperventilate, I obliged with the tinny voice¡¯s request and returned to my seat, hoping the test would offer a distraction, more than anything else.


    A video player popped up on the computer screen, with text below it reading: ¡°Let¡¯s do a recap of your journey thus far!¡±


    I pressed play on the video, hoping that its content would somehow alleviate my mounting anxiety.


    The video was 30 seconds long. It contained three equal-length snippets.


    First, it displayed footage of¡­ me. A younger me. No more than ten years old, playing with toys in my room. The closet door in my childhood room hung open, and within its shadows, a pair of glowing red eyes stared out.


    Next, it was footage of teenage me, sitting in a high school exam hall taking a test. A comical-looking arrow was overlaid on the screen, pointing at the door in the distant corner of the room. Outside the door, the glare of faint, red eyes could be seen.


    Finally, I saw grainy footage of me¡­ from earlier today¡­ coming in for the interview. Except, the footage showed me approaching the building while walking¡­ backwards. Through the lobby, and towards the elevator¡­ backwards. And then, all the way to the interview room, backwards, with no one escorting me.


    By this point, I was on the edge of breaking. I shrunk into myself, fearing that any sudden movement, or hell, even me just turning around at this point, would bring about some horrible fate.


    So¡­ I just focused on the test. I hoped that if I drowned everything else out, and kept my attention on the horrific nonsense on the screen, that somehow, I¡¯d be safe from the rest of the world. I pushed down the urge to cry, barf, jump out the window, and kept myself paralyzed. If I make myself small enough, I can get through this. Terrible logic, I know.


    The spinning hourglass signifying the ¡®loading screen¡¯ stuck around for a few minutes. Then, it transitioned to the next part of the test.


    The screen now displayed an animated family of three sitting at a dining table, sunlight streaming in from the large window behind them. Mother and daughter sat on opposite sides of the table, while the father faced the screen. The artstyle and graphics looked more modern than the earlier parts of the test.


    After a brief moment, the image transformed.


    Mother and daughter were still eating dinner the same as before, but the father was now¡­ aggressively smiling. His being looked as if it were somehow¡­ oscillating, almost aflame? There was a hand on his shoulder placed by a cosmic-looking figure standing beside him. The figure radiated a brilliant blue. The window outside now showcased a world that was much darker, with swirls of black and crimson red streaming in.


    A prompt appeared at the bottom of the screen. The counter in the corner was already at 5 and dropping down as the question appeared:


    The new God of our world has just pitched a very intriguing idea to this man. Do you have a better pitch?


    And as soon as the text box appeared for me to type my answer, it was already gone, and a weird buzzing sound played, indicating that I¡¯d gotten the question wrong.


    The image transformed again.


    The father was smiling, almost staring right at me. His hands were resting on the table, each holding a fork and knife with pride. The cosmic figure beside him had similarly turned to face the screen. Mother and daughter were no longer there.


    As I tried to make sense of the image, I noticed a leg peeking out from under the dinner table, obscured by the tablecloth.


    A flashing arrow appeared, pointing directly to the space under the table. Text appeared at the screen¡¯s bottom:


    The MOTHER and the DAUGHTER are now underneath the table. Would you like to see them?


    No. I¡¯d rather not.


    The arrow kept blinking, while the father and the cosmic figure¡¯s images seemed to somehow intensify.


    I kept my eyes closed for the next minute.


    Eventually, I squinted to see the relieving sight of the screen turning to black.


    Please let this be over. Please let this cursed, miserable fucking experience be¨C


    I heard a strange, hollow sound come from the computer as the next section loaded.


    With respect to Bill Gates and the fine people at Microsoft, what I saw next was something that was beyond the capabilities of a computer seemingly running on Windows 99.


    On screen was incredibly high quality video footage of¡­ outer space? As if an astronaut deep in the cosmos had a GoPro strapped to their helmet or something. I heard the sounds of deep, rhythmic breathing as this unknown individual gently rotated amidst the expanse, surrounded by stars in the sea of black.


    Large, white text appeared in the middle of the screen:


    Sell Him On The Stars


    And then a rudimentary-looking text box appeared over some of the most high-quality space footage I¡¯d ever seen in my life. It didn¡¯t make any sense.


    What the fuck am I supposed to do here?


    I typed a generic-as-hell answer that even I didn¡¯t fully believe: Isn¡¯t the universe beautiful?


    I pressed enter and the text box disappeared.


    Suddenly, in the black abyss on screen, the distant stars started fading away, one by one, like light bulbs dimming. The heavy breathing continued, as the presumed astronaut mumbled in a language that sounded otherworldly. Soon, there were only a few stars remaining. As they flickered off, I heard the voice mutter, almost cry, in plain English:


    ¡°It¡¯s so beautiful.¡±


    The screen remained black for quite some time. But something in me stirred. I knew that there was still something left.


    An attempted whisper over the PA confirmed just as much. ¡°Last question,¡± resounded the voice off the speaker system.


    I readied myself.


    The new image finished loading.


    On screen, there was a¡­ pretty cheerful, generic-looking 2D animated guy standing in a living room. He looked like the Office Assistant Clippy had come to life or something. He had his finger placed on top of a light switch, the living room window beside him showcasing the cosmos.


    Alright, last question¡­


    The animated character shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated manner, with a speech bubble appearing beside his head. It read: ¡°Should we join God in his slumber?¡±


    A flashing arrow pointed to the light switch.


    What?


    He opened the window in his room, revealing a zoomed-out view of the Milky Way ¡ª the same Milky Way image I¡¯d seen in like a million textbooks growing up.


    The word bubble next to his mouth had new words now: ¡°Is this product at the end of its lifecycle?¡±


    I was stirring, confused. A text box appeared. I typed ¡®No¡¯.


    ¡°Why?¡± responded the character with an annoyed, exasperated sigh.


    Immediately, graphic real-life images flashed across the screen over a split-second: the decapitated gardener¡¯s blood pouring into a bed of flowers, the red-eyed entity emerging from the closet in my room, the mother and daughter underneath the dinner table¡­


    As I recoiled in fear, the character was suddenly back on screen, back in his living room. He broke into a comically sad gesture as his speech bubble updated: ¡°But there is so much suffering here.¡±


    It¡¯s funny. It felt like I¡¯d hit rock bottom when I first entered the lobby. But somehow, the floor on this thing kept getting lower and lower.


    The character motioned to the Milky Way galaxy outside his window. Then he looked at me intently.


    ¡°Justify the existence of this product.¡±


    A new text box appeared, awaiting my input. In the corner of the screen, a timer started counting down from 20, 19¡­


    Christ dude, I am not cut out for this. Matter of fact, I¡¯m not cut out for anything.


    18, 17¡­


    Slowly, the room started rumbling. I was suddenly concerned about what would happen if I didn¡¯t answer the question.


    16, 15¡­


    Fuck, I just wanted a fucking job. Does everything in my stupid, sad life have to be a nightmare?


    14, 13¡­


    If I knew how to justify this fucking product I wouldn¡¯t be here interviewing for a fucking shit marketing assistant job for no fucking money with no fucking life or career prospects Jesus fucking¨C


    12, 11¡­


    Through the now-erratic rumbling of the room, which felt like a full-blown earthquake at this point, I heard a voice barely croak through the PA:


    ¡°I believe in you.¡±


    10, 9¡­


    There has to be some fucking reason for this to exist.


    8, 7¡­


    I searched my brain for a reason. Thinking through my experience of adult life so far, I struggled to find a good one.


    6, 5¡­


    A memory dislodged itself from my subconscious. Maybe it was jogged by the CRT screen, or the 90s graphics of this ¡®test¡¯.


    4¡­


    A memory of me as a kid¡­ Sitting on the sofa¡­


    3¡­


    Covered in blankets¡­ Drinking hot cocoa¡­


    2¡­


    Watching a Christmas movie I can¡¯t remember the name of¡­


    1¡­


    I forced my words into the text box before it disappeared: its osmeitmes occasioanly oczy


    The split-second before the textbox disappeared, I could¡¯ve sworn that the typos had, somehow, been corrected.


    The galaxy now appeared on screen in high-definition, the revised text triumphantly appearing underneath it in a jagged, dated-looking white font.


    The Universe: It¡¯s sometimes, occasionally cozy.


    I won¡¯t lie to you, it looked pretty stupid.


    We were back to the animated living room, the character now tapping on his chin. He lifted his finger.


    ¡°I like it! Well done! You, my friend, are quite the marketer!¡±


    Before I could even process the compliment, the screen fractured with a loud crack. Smoke seeped from the computer¡¯s vents, accompanied by a whirring and sizzling sound. Heart racing, I jumped up from the chair and backed away.


    I guess¡­ the test is over?


    The lights in the test room, the hallways outside, and the warehouse visible through the window all flickered back on simultaneously. I nervously stepped towards the door, and finding it unlocked as I pulled, I ran out of the room screaming. I held my fists up while sprinting, as dozens of scattered employees - including, I shit you not, the woman I previously saw get impaled - all clapped for me. The sight of them surrounding me and cheering was not helpful. I¡¯m pretty sure it only made me scream louder as I escaped.


    I arrived at the elevator - doors already open - and lunged inside, hastily jabbing the ¡®close door¡¯ button. The receptionist, voice no longer warbled by the PA, was barely able to squeak out ¡°I knew you could do it!¡± before the doors shut on him.


    What. The. Fucking. Christ.


    I made it home. The next few days were a blur of sleep, drinking, sex and denial.


    It took me a week to feel comfortable checking my emails again. When I did, I was, for reasons I still don¡¯t quite understand, oddly disappointed that NexaNova Systems hadn¡¯t sent me another email.


    Kinda thought I nailed that test, no?


    I looked up the job posting again, but it was now inconspicuously missing. In fact, their whole website was gone. I looked up their address on Google Maps, but there was no history of them ever being in that building¡­ or them existing in the first place, for that matter.


    All I had was that initial email they¡¯d sent me.


    Hrm. Well. At least they liked my resume, I guess.


    Anywho¡­ back to the grind. These bills aren¡¯t going to pay for themselves, unfortunately!


    If anyone reading has any job leads I should look into, let a girl know. I¡¯m motivated, I¡¯m a hard worker, and I suppose I can now say that I work pretty well under pressure.

 Hotel Lobby

    I flew out to New York some nights ago for my good friend¡¯s wedding. Despite a relatively turbulent flight filled with constant rerouting, the trip has otherwise been life-changing so far.


    I don¡¯t travel often - my career is pretty demanding and free time is a rarity, so I figured this trip would be a good way to kill two birds with one stone. I would head to New York early to check out some awesome and iconic sights, and then I¡¯d segway into attending this major milestone for one of my dearest mates.


    The hotel that I¡¯m staying at, Hotel Salvus, is pretty damn awesome. The rooms are gorgeous, the service is fantastic, and there¡¯s a real nice flair to the space, for lack of a better term. Coming back to a place like this night after night, after hours of sightseeing in NYC, was an absolute treat.


    Of all of the interesting things about the hotel, the one I have to call out the most is the lobby. It is sprawling! Huge. Gorgeous. It has a breathtaking bar area, a luxurious restaurant area, and a large seating space adorned with some gorgeous furniture. It is a massive, 360 degree area that has exits all around it, and of course, a sizable front desk area with lots of eager employees at the helm. You could take the hallways leading out to the exits or up to the elevators if you¡¯d like, but it always felt fun to pass through the large middle area of the lobby and soak in some of the fun energy. On top of that, most of the hallways were generally quite empty, so it felt nice to be where all the action was.


    What I loved, more than anything, was that it was always lively in the lobby.


    It¡¯s 11PM and I¡¯m gonna leave my room for a spontaneous romp around the city? No worries - I¡¯ll pass through that lobby and I¡¯ll see people jovial, sharing drinks, eating great food, swapping stories and having a ball.


    I come back at 2AM? Great! People are still there, still having good times.


    I love this city, I thought to myself. I could only imagine what sorts of adventures these folks were going to have here during their travels.


    So¡­ it had been an awesome trip so far, and it was now the night before the wedding activities were about to start. I was heading to my room after another successful night of exploring the city. I trekked through the lively bar area in the lobby, and did a double take when I heard of the bartenders call out to me:


    ¡°Ahh you¡¯re looking a little glum, Peter.¡±


    Hah. I do have a resting sad-face. Good catch, sir.


    ¡°Name¡¯s not Peter! It¡¯s Kevin actually!¡±


    The folks sitting at the bar started to laugh a little bit. An elderly woman seated near the bartender shot me a smile. ¡°Sounds like the newbie wants everyone to know his name! Maybe he¡¯ll even sit down and join us!¡± she said, playfully.


    ¡°Ahh, I¡¯ve got some plans that I ¨C¡±


    That¡¯s when another older gentleman in a brown leather jacket interrupted. ¡°Ahh sit down and have a drink, you have nowhere else to be!¡±


    Fuck it. This was kind of what I was hoping would happen. It felt like everyone here was having a good time with each other, so it felt nice to be invited to the festivities.


    I sat and joined everyone there for what was a very fun few hours. They asked me about what brought me here and why I was visiting, and I have to say, they were incredible listeners. Drinks were on them (hell yes), and as someone who doesn¡¯t get to spend a lot of time just ¡°going with the flow¡±, a spontaneous night of drinking with strangers was just what the doctor ordered. It was a well-needed reprieve from my usual life of ¡°work hard, save money, you can relax later.¡± I was on holiday. And to have such worldly folks hanging off my every word was a good feeling.


    Off the heels of a fantastic night on an already fantastic vacation, I went up to my room, ready to call it a day. Wedding season was going to kick in very soon, so I figured it¡¯d be smart to get some extra shut-eye.


    I entered my room. As I changed into my sleeping clothes, I noticed an enclosed envelope on my bedside table. It was tucked under a plastic display that had some generic hotel policy stuff on it.


    Interesting! Maybe some sort of coupon or ¡°Thank you for staying with us!¡± note?


    Not ever being one to take my time in opening up gifts, I snatched the envelope, opened it, and gave the letter inside a read. I was expecting to see some fancy letterhead, but instead, what I found in this envelope was a scribbled note on a piece of paper that looked as if it had been torn out of an old notebook. It read:


    By now, you probably have some sense of what¡¯s going on.


    My best advice is to be very mindful about your remaining hours of tranquility. Assuming you¡¯re reading this on Thursday night, you have about 24 hours remaining.


    The hotel rules are mostly accurate. That said, no one can actually promise you that suicide will help you escape.


    If you want to talk, I¡¯m the guy with the red jacket in the lobby.


    Best wishes


    Huh?


    I was aware that this was likely a sinister prank by someone, but it still felt unbelievably intrusive. I wasn¡¯t sure if it was the guest who stayed in this room before me deciding to pull a trick on me, or if it was a room service person who had a morbid sense of humor. Whatever it was, it felt a bit extreme.


    I pondered it over for a moment, and then left my room, went into the empty hallway, and headed towards the elevator. I wanted to report this. I wanted to get it resolved and out of my brain as fast as possible so that I could have a good night¡¯s sleep.


    It was odd. Even though I was something like ~5 floors above the main lobby, it felt like I could hear the buzz and sound of the main floor much, much closer to me than I knew it was.


    I arrived at the ground floor and went right up to the front desk staff, letter in hand. There they were, fully attentive and bright as always. I felt a bit ashamed coming up to them with something negative to report, but I figured it had to be done.


    ¡°Hey, sorry, I just needed some help. Saw something weird in my room ¨C¡±


    I stopped as I saw both of the two front desk workers eye the envelope in my hand. They whispered to each other, and then turned their attention back to me.


    ¡°What can we do for you, sir?¡± they asked.


    ¡°I, uh, yeah, so I had this letter show up on the table in my room, it had some weird stuff written on it, and it said it was from the guy in the red jacket?¡±


    The hotel worker nodded. He¡¯s heard this one before, I thought to myself. He subtly rolled his eyes before responding.


    ¡°We¡¯ll, uh, take care of this immediately sir. Thank you for bringing it to our attention.¡±


    The front desk worker nudged his colleague and they both made their way into the lobby. They looked back at me with a quick nod, sort of signaling a ¡°wait right there¡± message, and I watched them head to the lobby area. They walked towards a solitary man donning a red jacket sitting in a large seating area, alone. He stuck out like a sore thumb. Couldn¡¯t miss him.


    I¡¯m not sure what compelled me to do this, but I decided to walk over to them to catch their conversation. When I arrived, they were wrapping up, but I could still hear snippets of their back-and-forth: the hotel staff saying that ¡°it wasn¡¯t his place to influence guests¡± and him saying ¡°I got it, I got it - sorry!¡±.


    As they saw me arrive, the gentleman in the red jacket turned to me and spoke.


    ¡°Nice to meet you Kevin. I¡¯m sorry about the letter.¡±


    The front desk workers looked at me. Their eyes read - ¡°are we all good here?¡± - I shot them a moderately confused nod.


    ¡°All good.¡± I said back. The staff made their way out of the lobby and back to their desks. I continued to stand near the man in the red jacket.


    ¡°Mind if I sit?¡± I asked him. He nodded. I took a seat.


    ¡°So, uh, how¡¯d you know my name again?¡± I asked.


    He snickered.


    ¡°I overheard all of you at the bar earlier tonight. Sounds like you guys were having a great time.¡±


    He motioned to the crew of elderly folks who were all seated at the bar close to us. As he looked over, they noticed me and started cheering. I heard a smattering of their different voices:


    ¡°Hey! Kevin¡¯s back!¡± / ¡°Oh Look it¡¯s Kevin!¡± / ¡°Join us man, let''s make it a late night!¡±


    The gang was still all there, as welcoming and excited as ever.


    The man in the red jacket started laughing.


    ¡°Am I meant to believe you still don¡¯t get it, yet?¡± he said.


    He continued silently snickering to himself. It was annoying.


    ¡°Hey man, if you have a penchant for leaving incredibly inappropriate letters in people¡¯s rooms, I want to let you know that ¨C¡±


    He interrupted me:


    ¡°I¡¯m trying to help you. Clearly you¡¯ve been in la la land. That¡¯s not necessarily all on you. The hotel doesn¡¯t always make it super clear. They¡¯re trying to help, but you have to pay attention and actually read the crap they give you with your room key or the stuff they leave in your room. Most people don¡¯t realize it immediately, and since others aren¡¯t really allowed to say too much, bad things happen. So, if you want the short explanation: you can¡¯t leave this place.¡±


    Hahahaha. Right. As I¡¯d suspected, this guy was just a freak with a sick sense of humor.


    ¡°And why is that? Am I gonna be¡­ absorbed into the hotel, The Shining style? Are we following Hotel California rules? Let me guess, I can check out anytime I¡¯d like, but I can never lea¨C¡±


    He interrupted my snark with an exasperated groan.


    ¡°Let me rephrase it, smartass. You shouldn¡¯t leave. You very much can. I¡¯ve seen you leaving constantly. On your merry way, every single day. But¡­ very soon, you should be stopping that,¡± he said, while pointing all across the main floor to all of the exits surrounding us.


    Before I could respond, there was an awkward pause. The folks at the bar were heating up with laughter. They were really into their conversation. Loud. I found a gap where they quieted down and I continued ¨C


    ¡°And why is that? If I leave the hotel, am I gonna be caught in some sort of sinister happening that takes place in New York City this time of year? Are there¡­ ghosts trolling the streets? Gremlins, maybe?¡± I said.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t New York. Asshole.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    He leaned in closer.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t New York. It may look like it, sound like it, taste like it, but it¡¯s not New York.¡±


    This guy was fucking with me. It was the one single ¡°not great¡± thing that''d happened on this trip so far, and at this point, I was over it.


    ¡°Buddy, I get that you like to play pranks on people, but this is getting ¨C¡±


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    He got up from his seat.


    ¡°Listen. I did my part. I¡¯m not a talker, and this conversation¡¯s gonna go in circles, so let me just leave it at this: whether you¡¯re a superstitious fucker or the most grounded son of a bitch there is, just be sure you¡¯re back inside tomorrow well before 8PM. I saw you when you first came in. We all did. Five days ago. Tomorrow marks your six day anniversary. I¡¯d recommend playing it safe. Best wishes,¡± he said.


    He looked at the exit doors. And then back at me.


    ¡°Once you make it to then, I think you¡¯ll understand.¡±


    And with that, he got up and walked off, leaving me with a strange, unsettling feeling. While he said his words with conviction, my gut didn¡¯t feel great about this guy. I didn¡¯t buy it.


    I got up to head back to my room when I noticed the folks at the bar all looking at me, and all lighting up as I walked past. Fuck it, the bar lobby is always a good time. I needed to shake off the bad energy.


    As I made my way to an open bar seat, the bartender gave me the same line he said to me earlier in the night:


    ¡°Ahh you¡¯re looking a little glum, Peter.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s uh, still Kevin, but nice to see you again sir!¡±


    I plopped down at the lively bar area. The elderly woman I spoke with the earlier kicked it off again -


    ¡°You got any new stories for us, Kevin? Maybe tell us what you do for a living?¡±


    I laughed. They were odd but endearing. I rattled off random anecdotes and stories, and again, the group was great at asking follow-up questions, listening carefully, and laughing at every joke I said. Even the folks at the far end of the bar who couldn¡¯t hear me seemed to be having a pretty good time just by me being there. While being the life of the party was nice, it still couldn¡¯t shake the weird pit-of-my-stomach sensation I had from speaking with the man in the red jacket.


    After about an hour of hanging out, I decided to leave and go up to my room. As I made my way to the elevator, I looked back to the folks in the lobby. They remained lively. Loud. Drinking. Immersed in conversations. They smiled at me as I looked back. I continued on my way, but thought to myself:


    The lobby feels safe. I want to stay there.


    I made it back to my room. My friends were gonna arrive very late that night, and so we were all gonna meet up together tomorrow. I made sure to focus on getting a good night¡¯s sleep and tried to keep my mind off of the weird happenings I¡¯d run into that day.


    I slept in, and woke up the next day, completely fresh and ready for the day ahead of me. Or so I thought.


    I started with my normal morning routine. Splash my face with some water. A big stretch. Cup of joe from the coffee machine in my room. Spend some quality time waking up before checking my phone. This was holiday time. Less screens, more mindfulness.


    I pulled the window curtains and looked outside. I admired the beauty of the city.


    This isn¡¯t New York? Hah! Could¡¯ve fooled me, you psycho.


    After a tranquil moment, I opened up my phone. I was excited to dig into what our plans for today were. My friends were wholly responsible for where we were going to meet, what we were going to do, etc. - in the spirit of my holiday, I was once again ready to ¡°go with the flow.¡±


    I looked at my phone. The group text conversation with my friends was blowing up. They were all downstairs in the lobby. Awesome. Glad they all made it okay. I texted them to let them know I¡¯d meet them at the bar, and I was on my way.


    I left my room, went down the empty hallway, and made my way to the elevator. The words of the man in the red jacket were starting to float around in my brain -


    The hotel doesn¡¯t always make it super clear. You have to pay attention.


    I got in the elevator. The doors closed in front of me.


    I decided to properly take in my surroundings during this short trek to the main floor, and noticed a large advertisement in the elevator. I read it carefully.


    Hotel Salvus - You¡¯re Not Just Safe! You¡¯re With Friends!


    What?


    Ding! The doors opened and I was on the ground floor. Dazzling and gorgeous as ever, with an attentive crew working the front desk, and that same gang of folks hanging out in the lively middle area of the lobby.


    I walked towards the bar, and again, the ¡°usual suspects¡± there noticed me and lit up immediately.


    It dawned on me that a lot of these folks were drinking very early in the day. I mean, shit, it was like 11AM. And I¡¯d seen some of these folks drinking into the late hours of the night before too.


    The group started up as they always did:


    ¡°Kevin!¡± / ¡°Got some stories for us big Kev¡¯?¡± / ¡°Man of the hour!¡±


    I sat amongst these strangers, while simultaneously checking my phone minute by minute, and scanning my surroundings for my friends. My friends kept saying they were at the bar, but I couldn¡¯t see them anywhere. It was alright though. The lobby felt safe. The lobby was alright.


    Jesus - I noticed that my inner monologue was getting stranger¡­ Why was my gut feeling continually (almost intrusively) telling me that the lobby was safe?


    I continued checking my phone and looking around for them, while haphazardly answering the questions of the folks at the bar, and riffing off of their anecdotes. It was the same folks as before - the elderly woman, the bartender, the man in the brown leather coat, and other familiar faces that had grown to become mainstays here.


    ¡°What¡¯s new in your world, Kevin?!¡±


    ¡°Oh not much, really ¨C¡±


    ¡°You know, I came here with Debbie, you know Debbie, there she always goes wandering off, I shoulda kept an eye on her ¨C ¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s great, always good to come with company ¨C ¡±


    ¡°Looking a little glum, Peter ¨C¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m Kevin, but it¡¯s cool, you can call me Peter if you want ¨C¡±


    I was barely attentive, and just continually eyeing my phone. My friends kept insisting they were right here, grabbing drinks from the bar. Was there another bar inside that I had completely missed or something?


    I continued lounging around, and to my continual surprise, even my half-assed ¡°heart not in it¡± answers to the bar folks were being received very positively. I guess they all just liked my vibe?


    Fighting off thoughts about scary hotel folk-tales or fears that maybe I was dead and this was some sort of purgatory, I got up from my seat and headed out to one of the exits. Even with the man in the red jacket¡¯s warnings in the back of my mind, I had some time right. Right?


    I texted my friends to let them know I¡¯d meet them at the front entrance.


    I opened the doors and went into the outside world.


    And¡­


    Things were fine! I took a stroll around the neighborhood, I smiled at strangers. This was still New York. Of course it was.


    I unfortunately still couldn¡¯t find my friends (the area was so large that we came to terms that maybe we were all confused about where we were and needed to jump on a video call soon), but I still enjoyed my hours in the city, remaining diligent of the time and keeping my eyes peeled for more responses from my friends.


    I made my way back to the hotel at 6PM sharp. Let¡¯s arrive early, I thought to myself. I won¡¯t tempt fate.


    I arrived, and walked right on through the lobby past all of the enthused strangers I¡¯d come to know over the last few days.


    I made my way up to my room. I sat on my bed. I was ignoring texts and calls from my friends at this point. I wanted to wait until it was past 8PM. Once I knew everything was okay. Then we could all meet up again.


    The minutes passed by excruciatingly long.


    What was I doing? This was stupid. This anxiety wasn¡¯t warranted - red jacket guy was just fucking with me. Everything is fine. I¡¯m sure me and my friends are all just lost and need to look at a map or something.


    I took a deep breath, letting the time pass.


    It was 7:40 PM. Fucking hell. Time wasn¡¯t moving fast enough.


    To get my mind off of everything, I made a cup of coffee and explored the hotel room.


    I pulled the curtains back and looked outside - still gorgeous. Still New York, baby.


    I explored the drawers and cupboards in the room. All empty. Fair enough.


    I scanned the room. Bed. Closet. A quaint-looking bedside table with a plastic display on it with some generic hotel language.


    I wasn¡¯t sure if my mind was playing tricks on me, but it still felt like I could still hear the buzzing of the lobby. The music, the banter, glasses clinking¡­ the lobby was saf¨C


    Goddamnit. My inner monologue was seriously starting to slip away from me.


    I was probably spending too much time there. I could still hear the bartender in my head saying ¡°Ahh you¡¯re looking a little glum, Peter,¡± and the elderly woman saying ¡°Oh, Kevin¡¯s stories are marvelous - always a thrill to hear new stories!¡±. The sounds were so vivid, it almost felt like all of them were directly downstairs from me or something.


    7:55 PM. I continued exploring. I opened another drawer.


    Huh.


    A laminated sheet of paper.


    And a gun next to it.


    What the fuck? I could feel myself shivering a little bit. My heart was racing.


    I pulled the curtains back again to peek outside at New York. I needed to ground myself. Yep, it was still there. Still New York.


    It¡¯s all okay. Maybe just something the last guest left in this room.


    I returned to the drawer. I read the sheet next to the gun.


    Its title was: A Guide To Quick And Effective Suicide! By Hotel Salvus


    Nope. Didn¡¯t need that in my life. Just ignore it. Juuuuuuuuust ignore it.


    7:59 PM. Staring outside. Still New York.


    And there it was.


    8PM.


    Then 8:01 PM. 8:02PM. 8:03 PM. It was all okay.


    Knock knock knock.


    Fuck. Someone was at the door.


    I was on autopilot at this point. I grabbed the gun from the drawer. I looked outside my door¡¯s peephole. It was the man in the red jacket.


    I¡¯d had enough of this bullshit. Trembling, I opened the door and immediately pointed my gun at him.


    His hands shot up above his head instantly.


    ¡°Hey I-I¡¯m sorry I just ¨C¡±


    I cut him off.


    ¡°Stop fucking with me!¡± I shouted.


    ¡°I¡¯m not, I swear, I¡¯m not, I was sorry that I was ¨C¡±


    Shit. He looked scared. All of the fears I¡¯d been pushing to the back of my mind were coming to the forefront. I asked him -


    ¡°Am I dead?! Is this like purgatory or something?!¡±


    ¡°No! No you¡¯re not dead. You¡¯re still on Earth, you¡¯re ¨C¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s with the weird shit around the hotel! Why is everyone in the lobby all the time?! For fucks sake, I¡¯m pointing a fucking gun at you and shouting in the hallway and there¡¯s no one else here!¡±


    He kept his hands up. He took in a deep breath and he answered.


    ¡°The lobby¡¯s the only place that drowns out the sounds. That¡¯s why we¡¯re all down there¡­ why we¡¯re always down there.¡±


    ¡°The sounds?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Fucking hell, please don¡¯t shoot me. I have no idea what¡¯ll happen if I die,¡± he said.


    ¡°What does that even mean?!¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t you read the guides in your room? On your bedside table? The thing I put my envelope under?!¡± he said back, nervously shouting.


    That bullshit ¡°hotel rules¡± guide on the table in the plastic casing? No¡­ I guess I didn¡¯t.


    I backed into the room and slammed the door behind me. I put my gun on the bedside table. I read over the plastic display¡¯s generic hotel guidelines.


    Guidelines for Hotel Salvus


    Six days of tranquility - on us! We strongly discourage guests from leaving the hotel after the tranquility period has passed. The tranquility period cannot be extended.


    Do not impede people¡¯s autonomy - their decisions are theirs and theirs alone.


    If you choose to kill yourself, or if you die of natural causes, it is possible that you can escape this fate.


    Drinks are free! Let our bartender extraordinaire take care of you. Tell him Peter sent you.


    No smoking in the lobby please.


    Have a wonderful stay!


    *Hotel Salvus cannot fully assure that you will be able to escape.


    Before I could process what I¡¯d read, I heard it.


    The sounds.


    I could feel them inside me. It felt like the whole world was shaking. Like my soul was shaking.


    Like banshees. Shrieking at their absolutely highest pitch. Flooding my senses. I pulled the curtains aside and looked outside the window¡­


    It wasn¡¯t a city anymore. It wasn¡¯t anything. Just a never-ending space that stretched as far as I could look. The space had colors of thick black and crimson red all around it. I continued staring to catch the sight of anything that looked familiar. Off in the very far distance, shrouded by the fog of black and red colors, I swore I could see the empire state building.


    What the fuck is this?


    Fuck. The noises. I had to get away from them. I backed away from the window in fear. I stumbled out of the room.


    The man in the red jacket was still there.


    ¡°You¡¯re hearing it now, aren¡¯t you?¡± he said.


    I was emotional.


    ¡°Where the fuck am I man?!¡±


    He helped me to my feet.


    ¡°Let¡¯s drown out the noise first.¡±


    We walked down the hallway, into the elevator, and down to the ground floor. The noises were everywhere. A choir of it. It was amplified. Overwhelming. I could feel it in the center of my head. All around me.


    We emerged into the lobby. The familiar music and liveliness.


    He was right. It was drowning out the noise, little by little.


    The lobby is safe.


    The group of usual guests at the bar lit up as we rounded the corner. Everyone was there, seated. Smiling as we arrived.


    I made it to the bar. With the man in the red jacket beside me.


    The bartender greeted us.


    ¡°Ahh you¡¯re looking a little glum, Peter.¡±


    I didn¡¯t dignify it with a response this time. I just sighed. At least, the screeching was somewhat blocked out. I looked up at the bartender. He wasn¡¯t really looking at me. He was looking past me. To the exit doors surrounding us on the main floor.


    I turned around and looked at the exits.


    With the backdrop of a never-ending space of crimson red and pitch black, there it was. Them. Pressing up against the doors. Wanting to be let inside.


    ¡°Come on Kevin, tell us some new stories!¡± said the elderly woman.


    I ignored it.


    ¡°I came with Debbie, shoulda kept my eyes on her, but I lost her¡± said the man in the brown leather jacket.


    Ignored it. The man in the red jacket started speaking:


    ¡°Peter is the bartender¡¯s son. Years back when they first arrived, Peter stayed outside past the tranquility period. He didn''t know what it meant at the time.¡±


    He motioned to the others seated with me.


    "Some people have been here longer than others. Many of them lost someone they traveled with to the outside. Didn¡¯t realize the severity of the tranquility period. And now, they¡¯re all here. In the lobby... looking for distractions. To drown out the noise."


    I scanned the bar. Everyone was smiling and cheering. But I saw the crinkles of desperation in the corners of their eyes. Something I didn¡¯t notice before. They had to be loud. To drown it all out.


    ¡°Where¡­ are we?¡±


    The man in the red jacket took a moment to really think.


    ¡°We¡¯re still here. On Planet Earth. From the discussions all of us have had at the bar, it sounds like we all had the same thing happen on our trip here. At some point, late in the flight, the pilot had to re-route due to turbulence.¡±


    Shit. That happened to me too.


    ¡°And¡­ we ended up here. Very, very similar to New York by all accounts. At first, anyways. Heck, if you stare out hard enough into the strange horizon surrounding us, you can see little hints that NYC physically ain¡¯t that far from us. But right now, we¡¯re trapped. Not in purgatory... very much ourselves, and very much alive. But. If we leave this building, we¡¯re at the whim of whatever¡¯s out there. And whatever¡¯s out there¡­ doesn¡¯t seem to be very friendly.¡±


    I looked outside. The noises were coming to the forefront again. Those shrieks. At first, it sounded like evil creatures. Banshees, demons, something in that universe. But something about the sounds was starting to become clear to me¡­ there was almost a human quality to them.


    ¡°Ahh you¡¯re looking a little glum, Peter.¡±


    I could sense the lump in his throat as the bartender said it again. Looking straight outside. Straight at something. The remnants of someone familiar begging to be let in.


    As I watched the chaos outside the exits, I turned my attention back to the folks around me. The loud anecdotes and conversations and stories and drinks designed to drown out the noise.


    My phone continued blowing up, with calls and texts from friends and family, but I ignored them. None of that was important right now.


    Soon, I was going to formulate a plan. Figure out exactly where all of us were, and see if there was some way we could get out of this place.


    In the meantime, I owed the man in the red jacket a drink, for saving me from what seemed to be a hellish eternal fate. No, it wasn¡¯t a celebration, a wedding, or a holiday anymore, but¡­


    It was okay. The lobby is safe.

 My Dad takes storytime very seriously.

    Probably the earliest memories I have of my life are storytime.


    Dad would sit in his special seat in his room, and I¡¯d sit cross-legged on the floor.


    Storytime was important. Storytime was special. Storytime couldn¡¯t be skipped.


    Every night. It was a ritual. An event.


    I liked it, mostly.


    He¡¯d often read from picture books. He¡¯d always shuffle in new ones. Stories about animals, leaves, gremlins, ghouls, talking clouds - all that good stuff. As a young kid, I didn¡¯t realize just how weird it was for him to have so many darn kids books at his disposal.


    Anyways.


    There was one important rule that always came with his nightly storytelling: Whenever he shared a tale, I wasn¡¯t allowed to get distracted.


    In the earlier years, it felt like he was much more lax about this. If I yawned or dozed off, he was pretty forgiving. But if I interrupted him, saying I was hungry or bored or wanted to play video games, he¡¯d shut me down quickly. He¡¯d stare at me from his chair. An intense, angry glare. Then, with my full attention, he¡¯d simply say: ¡°What would the uninvited guests think about this?¡±


    Naturally, I didn¡¯t have a great answer to this question. At first, I assumed it was just an expression akin to saying it¡¯s ¡®raining cats and dogs¡¯ ¨C some phrase that sounded like nonsense but one that I''d understand when I was older.


    Either way, I ended up becoming a pretty good listener after months of this ritual, and started to really relish these moments with my dad. The stories themselves were boring, sure, but he¡¯d always work hard to spice them up with great pacing and impassioned voice acting.


    It wasn¡¯t until I turned nine that his storytime rules became much stricter.


    At this point, if I got itchy and looked down at my arm to scratch it, he¡¯d snap his fingers, then glare. ¡°What would the uninvited guests think about this?¡±


    If I noticed a snowfall happening outside, my eyes briefly darting to the window, it would be another snap of his fingers, another disapproving look, and another mention of uninvited visitors.


    I¡¯d even learned to stare right at him, nodding intently at the appropriate story beats while my mind was off wandering about something else. Still he¡¯d somehow be able to catch it.


    Innocently, I brought this up to some of my close friends at school, who found the whole thing - including the fact that he still read stories to me, nightly even - a bit weird. My curiosity flamed, and I brought it up to him at dinner one day.


    ¡°Dad, why is storytime so important?¡±


    He didn¡¯t look up to answer. Fork with mashed potatoes in one hand, that day¡¯s paper held out in front of him in the other.


    ¡°It¡¯ll make you smarter. When you grow up, you¡¯ll be thankful about it.¡±


    The answer didn¡¯t really quell my curiosity. I pressed on a bit more.


    ¡°And you really need me to pay attention the whole time?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Without a doubt.¡±


    Not a particularly detailed answer from the old man.


    If this paints a strange picture about my pops, I do want to make something very clear: he was a great dad. He was always there when I needed him, whether it was for help on my homework or as a shoulder to cry on for something my nine-year-old self thought was the end of the world. He was supportive with all my hobbies - dorky as they were - and never seemed interested in forcing a particular worldview on me. There were only two topics he was guarded about: talking about my mom, who died giving birth to me, and of course, the stories.


    Once I hit ten, he ditched the picture books altogether.


    The next stories were all ones he came up with himself. They were¡­ interesting, to say the least.


    I can recall a few of them that left greater impressions on me, for reasons I¡¯ll get into soon.


    The first was the story about the Werewolf who Should¡¯ve Known Better. This werewolf had sharp teeth, sharp claws, and a big heart, like all the werewolves that came before him. He¡¯d heard all the tales about townsfolk crying foul about the wolves and blaming them for various ills, but he brushed them aside. This werewolf was an optimist. One fateful day, he climbed down the hill to finally greet the townsfolk, but they chased him out with pitchforks and rocks. He realized quickly, much as he wished it weren¡¯t the case, that things hadn¡¯t changed. His story would be the same as those of wolves from generations past.


    The second story was about a boy who would freeze up in terror whenever there was an earthquake. Rather than dropping under the table and covering his head as he was supposed to, he¡¯d instead stop in place, unable to move an inch. Noticing this, his mother decided to calm him with a story. Earthquakes, big and small, she told him, were all caused by a friendly giant in the sky. Small rumbles meant the giant was exercising, and bigger quakes meant the giant was bouncing on a trampoline. The stories were silly, but they helped the boy find some relief, and soon, he was able to consistently drop, cover, and hold, all while visualizing a fantastical picture in the sky.


    The most important story of the bunch was one he decided to save for a special night.


    At this point, I¡¯d become the perfect listener. It was routine and instinct, and nothing could distract me.


    Even as my dad¡¯s storytelling antics got stranger and stranger.


    He¡¯d turn the TV on midway through a tale and start slowly lifting the volume. He¡¯d walk around the room as he spoke, bouncing a ball against the wall with increasing force. And, strangest of all, he¡¯d sometimes bring large stuffed animals into the room that he would hide behind as he told the story.


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    I barely slipped up. Sometimes the face of a particular stuffed animal would pop out to me, or my eyes would be drawn to follow the movement of the ball he was bouncing. He¡¯d always catch me. He¡¯d always notice. He¡¯d always say the line. ¡°What would the uninvited guests think about this?¡±


    Finally, I asked him, ¡°Who are the uninvited guests?¡±


    He broke into a big smile. It stretched across his face with an unsettling curve, like a caterpillar. Like his cheeks were being pulled.


    Then he shook his head.


    ¡°There¡¯s still time,¡± he said.


    And there was indeed. The night of the party wasn¡¯t for a few weeks.


    When it finally rolled around, it was a sight to behold.


    I never knew my dad had so many friends!


    They were all laughing. Friendly. Mingling. Shaking hands. Looking at the pictures around our house. Eating. A gathering of sophisticated-seeming adults. None of them paid much attention to me at first.


    I assumed this event wasn¡¯t a big deal - Dad had mentioned briefly that some folks might come over to our house in the near future. I still remember the look on his face when they arrived - it was an expression I¡¯d never seen him wear before. He tensed up, a half-smile on one side of his face. His eyes looked like they were welling up with tears as he squinted. I never quite knew what it meant.


    After dinner, the guests all started breaking off into some strange behavior. A few of them were staring up at the ceiling in our living room, spinning ever-so-slightly in place as they did. I saw a group of five or so just standing in the bathroom, not really doing anything. One of the guests, a gentleman in a fine suit, started climbing up the stairs on all fours. When he got to the top, he¡¯d walk back down to the bottom, and then start again. A few others followed him.


    It didn¡¯t dawn on me that something was wrong until I saw one of the stranger¡¯s smiles dripping blood. I thought my brain was making things up, but then someone down the hall looked at me and waved with a similar-tinged smile, red droplets flicking down from her teeth. I saw it more and more upon the guests, and cried for my dad.


    He found me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me into his room. ¡°It¡¯s started,¡± I heard him mutter to himself in a whisper.


    He shut the doors behind him, and barricaded the entrance as I continued crying.


    ¡°It¡¯s storytime, alright?¡± he said.


    I was rattled beyond belief, but the words brought me a light comfort.


    He sat in his special chair. The one he always sat in. Then, he told me the story about ¡°Patrick Bear and the Uninvited Guests.¡±


    I tried my best to listen intently.


    ¡°On one special day, Patrick found out that he was throwing a party. That was news to him!¡±


    I felt a force pushing against the door.


    ¡°The guests rolled in one by one. More than he could¡¯ve ever imagined!¡±


    They were already inside. They spilled into the room, wandering. I averted eye contact with them. My dad shot me a knowing, mindful look. I was doing what he wanted.


    ¡°They had big hats and big ties and fancy shoes, but Patrick Bear didn¡¯t care!¡±


    A clutter of strangers gathered behind my dad¡¯s seat. They peeked their heads out to look at me.


    The others started sitting around me in a circle. They left only a small gap for me to lock eyes with my father. Through my blurry peripheral vision, I could sense all of their eyes were fixed on me.


    ¡°Patrick just wanted his alone time, so fancy friends didn¡¯t mean much to him!¡±


    The whispers of the strangers were the hardest part. ¡°Look here,¡± ¡°Do you wanna have a staring contest?¡±, ¡°Look away for just one sec,¡± they all said in different variations.


    ¡°The guests stayed longer than he would¡¯ve liked.¡±


    The bloodied smile of a stranger crept up right in front of me. I kept my dad¡¯s gaze with the two-inch gap to the stranger¡¯s left that had been afforded me.


    ¡°But eventually, they¡­¡±


    I saw my dad¡¯s neck slowly twist. His eyes had averted from me. They looked upwards now, towards a woman that was hovering in front of him. I heard cracks and snaps. The strange, caterpillar-smile returned to his face as his cheeks pulled in opposite directions. Blood pooled from his mouth. He briefly looked at me again, now with an apologetic gaze.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry my sweet one, I had to look at your mother.¡±


    His face and neck contorted in ways that didn¡¯t even make sense, but he was able to slip out one final line.


    ¡°H-howwww doe-es theeee stor, stor-ee enedddd?¡±


    Something in my gut knew that closing my eyes wasn¡¯t the answer. I was covered by the strangers, but still, I somehow looked ahead. Somehow, they were a blur. I couldn¡¯t look away from them, but my attention wasn¡¯t with them. It was with the story.


    ¡°But eventually, they all went home. And Patrick Bear found peace and quiet, once again,¡± I said.


    A breeze blew through the window. The room was suddenly still.


    The house was empty. Everyone was gone. There was no sign of¡­ anything. No family photos, no children¡¯s books, nothing I recognized. Just¡­ generic furniture.


    When the cops found me days later, starved and confused, the story was that I was an orphaned boy with no traceable lineage.


    Everything I told them about my dad, my upbringing, storytime, and more, couldn¡¯t be proven in any way. I talked about my school, about the teachers and friends I had there, but no one mentioned could recall ever knowing me.


    For a while, I was convinced that I¡¯d made up the whole thing in my mind. That I¡¯d been abandoned by my parents when I was young, fled from an orphanage, and squatted in uninhabited properties living an imagined life. A storybook of my own. The events of that final night of storytime and the insanity I encountered were proof that I¡¯d merely decoupled from reality as a child.


    Unfortunately, like the werewolf, I learned a painful lesson when my wife Meredith died while giving birth to our son Michael.


    Through the sheer shock and horror of it all, I tried to convince myself that it was just a disturbing cosmic coincidence.


    But then a package from nowhere arrived at my front door a few weeks after her passing. It was a fully-illustrated storybook. It was called Michael Bear and the Uninvited Guests.


    On the first page, in the inner lining of the book, there was a note scribbled in it. It read:


    ¡°We can¡¯t wait for the party! We¡¯ll bring all our friends!


    Love,


    Meredith, Mom and Dad¡±


    I can¡¯t say for certain when the party will be, but if history is anything to go on, the uninvited guests will show up around my son¡¯s tenth birthday.


    And so, to prepare, we do story time every night. After all, it¡¯s important. It¡¯s special. It can¡¯t be skipped. It¡¯s a ritual, an event.


    And every time he complains about it, I give him the reminder.


    ¡°What would the uninvited guests think about this?¡±

 I am tripping balls right now.

    I¡¯m at my friend¡¯s cabin, and the last two hours have been insane. I¡¯m trying to make sure I write all of this down so that I don¡¯t forget it later.


    Some backstory: I¡¯ve got this old friend - let¡¯s call him Kevin. We were really tight growing up, but as we both got older, we started to have less and less in common and so we naturally drifted apart from each other. He¡¯s got his shit together - he¡¯s loaded, has a great career, loving wife, and lots of hobbies. I, on the other hand, am a bit of a burnout. I do temp work for money, and then I spend it all on partying.


    I was surprised when he reached out to say that we should hang out together, just him and I. He wanted to rekindle our friendship and find some common ground again. He said we could go to his cabin, get fucked up, and catch up on all of the missed years. I jumped at the opportunity to see a goodie-two-shoes like Kevin completely trashed, and so here we are.


    He drove me out to the cabin, and before we entered, he took out two pills for us to take. Coolest thing he¡¯s ever done in his life. He said it was premium stuff and that it would absolutely fuck us up. I¡¯m always down for a drug-filled adventure, so we popped them and then headed inside the cabin.


    The pills kicked in instantly. As soon as we got inside, everything immediately felt like the craziest, most intense hallucination ever.


    We¡¯re sitting in the living room of his cabin right now. Here¡¯s some of the stuff that I¡¯ve been seeing over the last two hours:


    - The room is busy. But not with people. It¡¯s filled with these really long, tall, ghoulish looking things that are walking around the room. Their bodies are covered with black fur, but their heads are bright yet dark. It¡¯s hard to explain. Wherever they walk, the area is illuminated, but if you actually look at their faces, you can¡¯t really tell where their eyes or mouths are. Some of them have large wings.


    - If I look up, I don¡¯t see a ceiling. Instead, the room just stretches really, really long. Far away, at the very top, it looks like there¡¯s some sort of dark silver shimmering upside-down pool.


    - I hear this croaky, deep giggling coming from all over the room. It feels really really loud in my head. Definitely the strongest auditory hallucination I¡¯ve ever experienced.


    I¡¯ve been asking him over and over to tell me what he slipped us (I need to take this shit again), but he¡¯s been really tight-lipped on what the drug is. I¡¯ve been doing some googling to see what kinds of drugs elicit hallucinations like this, but no luck so far. I¡¯m amazed, with how fucked up I am, that I¡¯m able to write this lucidly.


    Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    I¡¯m currently trying to figure out how Kevin is dealing with this trip. Sometimes he walks off around the house, whispering under his breath. I see him slowly setting candles around the room on a large rug - kind of feels like a fire hazard. He¡¯s been a pretty clean guy all of his life, and so I¡¯m wondering if this whole thing is too much for him and he just needs an activity to distract himself. I¡¯ll keep an eye on him.


    ---


    I¡¯m interested to see when this trip will start simmering down a bit. The hallucinations haven¡¯t really changed or morphed in any way. I¡¯m still hearing and seeing the exact same stuff. Whenever I get up to walk around, all of the tall, ghoulish-looking demons start looking at me. Trippy.


    ---


    It¡¯s starting to feel just a little bit claustrophobic. I asked him if I could take a walk outside, but he said that it was a pretty bad idea to leave right now, and that we should just stay in the living room and chill out.


    There was a point where he looked a bit distracted while setting out the candles, so I quickly snuck over to his kitchen and tried to open the door to the outside. I just wanted to get a couple minutes of fresh air. It was weird. Even though I unlocked the door, I couldn¡¯t open it. It almost felt like it¡¯d been barricaded shut on the other side or something. I tried opening some of the windows instead, but those wouldn¡¯t budge either, no matter how hard I tried. Huh.


    I eventually asked him why he was lighting candles and putting them around the room in the weird pattern he was setting them in, but he just said ¡°he wants to make sure we have a lot of light for when it gets dark¡± - not really sure what that means.


    ---


    He¡¯s been starting to seem more and more stressed and focused over the last little while. I¡¯ve been asking him if we should seriously figure out a way to come down from this trip, after all, the hallucinations haven¡¯t let up, and the giggling from the room actually seems to be getting louder and louder for me. He just keeps saying back to me that ¡°we need to get to the end, we¡¯re almost there now.¡± Huh, okay, if he did his research then that¡¯s fine I guess.


    Oh! Right. Another weird thing that I¡¯ve been seeing: this might be overthinking, but it feels like as he¡¯s walking around the room, he¡¯s reacting to the same stuff that I can see. Like, he¡¯s making sure not to bump into any of the ghoulish-looking demons, and anytime the giggling from the room gets too loud, he covers his ears. Usually, when people trip out, the experience is always different, so I¡¯m wondering if this drug elicits very similar experiences in its users?


    ---


    He¡¯s been really starting to lose it over the last few minutes. The room is starting to turn red for me, and it feels like the general energy in the room is getting more and more intense, like it¡¯s building up to something.


    He just said ¡°I¡¯m sorry man, they were just sugar pills, you¡¯re not actually on anything.¡±


    Jesus Kevin, it¡¯s just a bad trip, suck it up and we can get through this. He continued, ¡°I just needed a distraction so that you wouldn¡¯t question what was going on, but I shouldn¡¯t have dragged you into this¡­ we¡¯re gonna have to wait until the end of the ritual now.¡±


    Fucking hell. I think he¡¯s really going down a rabbit hole and starting to lose his mind. Anyone have any advice here? I have no idea what he had us both take, or how long it¡¯ll be until things start calming down.

 Palace of Friends

    As a single mother to a young kid, I''ve done a pretty good job of monitoring my daughter''s usage of TikTok, Youtube, Roblox, etc. I know I can''t be around all day policing her, but I want to make sure that she''s safe enough. That''s why limiting screen time with Phones, IPads and the like is really important for me. Outside of a couple of hours where she can use some of those devices under my supervision, the rest of her "fun time" is reserved for watching kid''s shows on cable TV. Yes. Cable is in fact still a thing, and I''ve still got it. What I love about it - I can overhear it loud and clear, and I know exactly what the programming is. It''s safe, predictable, and nothing like some of the more random and occasionally traumatic videos that end up auto-playing anytime Casey goes down a Youtube rabbithole.


    When it came to TV time, I always prioritized channels that I knew would play hour after hour of kids shows back-to-back, to avoid a situation where something more mature would accidentally play. Most of the shows were super tame: kid-friendly animated shows, educational shows, nature programs, that kind of stuff. One that my daughter really seems to love is called "Palace of Friends". It''s a Sesame Street-style show with a cast of both animal and anthropomorphic puppets living in a large castle together. It seemed like a wholesome, musical show with some pretty good production value. Casey seemed to love it, and I could always tell when it was playing in the background.


    I was setting up for dinner the first time I heard one of the weirder songs from "Palace of Friends". It was a song that was all about exploring the house, with the chorus mentioning all of the fun to be had "under the sink". Weird lyrics like - "When mom''s not around, you''ll find a whole town, beneath the kitchen sink!". I had to shake my head at how stupid and potentially dangerous that premise was. As I came into the living room to call out the silliness and to tell Casey to ignore the message of the song, the song wrapped up and one of the puppets started doing something akin to a PSA, saying: "Now, while there might be a town underneath the sink, there''s also some scary stuff you shouldn''t drink down there! So be careful!".


    Well, duh. It was annoying to think of how big of an oversight this was on the part of the writers and creators of this show. I mean, really, what kind of moron thought that telling kids to go to the undersink area when mom isn¡¯t around was a good idea? Rather than doing that weird PSA at the end, they should''ve just scrapped the whole song in its entirety. Jesus.


    As much as I wanted to take "Palace of Friends" off rotation after this event, the rest of the show was wholesome enough that I reconsidered. I took moments from time to time to see exactly what was happening on the show, and most of the time, the show featured activities for kids that seemed genuinely useful. One of these activities was called ¡°Draw Time!¡±, which is exactly what it sounds like - a point in the show where all of the puppets in the castle would gather around and motivate the viewer to draw on pieces of paper, get creative and have fun with it. While the characters on TV would draw along at first, most of the time they would just enthusiastically watch and cheer on as the kid viewing the show would draw. Really felt like an activity that would be good for my daughter''s development. Even got a couple of cute drawings that Casey made of me that I could put on the refrigerator!


    The other wholesome thing about Palace of Friends that really stuck out to me was some of the more meaningful lessons. Beyond the standard "treat others the way you want to be treated" and "isn¡¯t friendship amazing?" stuff that you see in these kids shows, it felt like they would sometimes dig a bit deeper. They had this whole story about this character named "Friend" who was too shy to come out and join the others, so he''d always hide behind a curtain. The other puppet characters on the show would always try to convince ¡°Friend¡± to come out of hiding, but they would also, rather sweetly, choose to love him and accept him even if he¡¯d never feel comfortable getting out from behind the curtain. There¡¯s this whole cute arc to the show about how the Palace of Friends would find the ¡°Perfect special friend for Friend!¡± to finally get him to overcome his shyness. Cute stuff. Though, pretty lazy on the writer¡¯s part to call this character ¡°Friend¡±. Jeez.


    I was pretty happy with the set-up I had for Casey. It felt like I was giving her enough time with modern apps on her phone to ensure I wasn¡¯t completely silo-ing her from real life, while still giving her as much of a ¡°healthy¡± upbringing I could for a seven-year-old in this age of technology overload. It felt like cutesy cable TV stuff was the perfect call, and that I¡¯d done everything as right as I could¡¯ve as a parent.


    That was, until the incident.


    I still feel ashamed about this. I''ve noticed that I sometimes use TV as a "second parent" when I feel overwhelmed with how much I have to juggle. Between work, raising Casey, and all of the chores and life balancing that comes between those two, having some ¡°me time¡± is very necessary. I was getting lost in a novel when I first heard a series of thumps on the stairs. I ran immediately to see Casey at the bottom of the staircase, holding her leg and crying. From the TV in the living room, I was able to catch the last moments of the song that was playing on Palace of Friends. It went: "If you''re brave, roll as fast as you can down the stairs! Don''t be afraid, we know that you''ll be okay!" What in the actual fuck.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    I tended to Casey, and as I was checking up on her to see if she¡¯d broken anything, I could hear one of the characters on the show doing what appeared to be another after song PSA, saying: "Just remember, don''t go too fast! If the stairs are really long, you could get hurt! It¡¯s always important to be very careful!¡±


    Thankfully, Casey was okay. Palace of Friends was DEFINITELY off the rotation, which Casey was really frustrated about, but I had to do it. The TV channel that played Palace of Friends seemed specific to my area and public access-y enough (despite the show genuinely looking like it had a solid production budget), and so I wanted to quickly put together a case for the show to be canceled and for the channel playing the show to be held liable for the severe risk it was bringing to kids. At best, the folks creating this show were incredibly oblivious, and at worst, they were actively malicious.


    As I was starting up my case, I noticed something really weird. I¡¯d found a new cable channel with kids programming that I left on for Casey, one that I¡¯m POSITIVE didn¡¯t have ¡°Palace of Friends¡± in rotation. There I was, working in my room one afternoon, when I heard the familiar sound of those characters coming from the living room. I wandered in to catch the final moments of ¡°Draw Time!¡± on Palace of Friends. Lots of paper strewn around the living room, courtesy of Casey. Fun little signs and insignias and the like, and more pictures of mom. I have to admit, she was becoming a better artist. As Draw Time wrapped up, the puppets on TV were all looking at the curtain where ¡°Friend¡± was hiding and talking about him. "Maybe one day we''ll find a special friend for Friend," said one of the characters. It was a pretty dorky catchphrase I''d heard a few times in the show at this point.


    As the puppets started breaking into song again, I turned off the TV. Casey was miserable, so my scolding her about changing the channel when I had strictly told her NOT to probably wasn''t a wise move, but I just had to. She kept swearing that she never changed the channel and that her "friends¡± had just found their way back to her, but I called bullshit. Her TV privileges were revoked for a week. She had to learn the hard way.


    As a sanity check, once I''d condemned her to her room and forced her to find something to do that didn''t involve screens, I turned the living room TV back on to notice that the channel she was on when I turned off the TV was the same new one I¡¯d selected after banning ¡°Palace of Friends¡±. It was odd that this new channel had suddenly pulled this lawsuit of a show into rotation, but whatever.


    At this point, I should mention¡­ Casey¡¯s room does have a small TV in it. It¡¯s not a Smart TV, and it¡¯s definitely not set up with cable, but there is a DVD player and a bunch of classic animated movies and kids show DVDs strewn about that Casey was free to put on at any time.


    So, you can probably imagine my surprise when, smack dab in the middle of the night, I heard the familiar voices of the puppets on "Palace of Friends" coming from her room.


    Beyond being frustrated that Casey was watching TV way past her bedtime, I was confused on how she''d managed to get cable onto the TV in her room... and, more importantly, why Palace of Friends was playing on TV this late in the first place. I left my room, turned on the hallway lights, and walked towards Casey¡¯s room. As I made my way there, I noticed bunches of crumpled up pieces of paper littering the hallway. More signs and insignias that I¡¯d noticed before from Casey¡¯s other ¡°Draw Time!¡± sessions, but there were also more and more drawings of me. These ones looked a bit more demented than the usual ones that Casey had drawn for me. Almost felt like she was regressing as an artist or something. As I got to her room, I heard the following through her closed door:


    "This draw time is extra special. It¡¯s just for you. For being so smart and so brave. When your drawing is just perfect, it¡¯ll be enough for Friend to finally get out from behind the curtain!"


    I tried opening the door to her room. It wouldn¡¯t budge. I called out to Casey, but she wouldn¡¯t answer. I kept trying, pushing against the door, moving the handle in multiple directions, and eventually, out of desperation, trying to run against the door to break it down, but nothing was working.


    The show continued.


    "Do you know someone who is special enough to be a friend to Friend?"


    I slammed against the door.


    "Can you draw that special person just right? In the special way we want you to draw them?"


    Huh? What in the world was this?


    ¡°Casey! You need to let me in right n¨C¡±


    My shouting out to Casey was interrupted by the sounds of all of the characters on Palace of Friends excitedly cheering. They started breaking into song. It was just one line, repeated over and over, over the backdrop of some very strange and almost tense-sounding instruments and arrangements. It sounded more aggressive than it should¡¯ve.


    ¡°You did it Casey! You did it Casey! You did it Casey!¡±


    What the fuck was happening. In an instant, I ran back down the hallway to my room. I needed to grab my cell phone and I needed to call the police immediately. I couldn¡¯t think of anything else to do.


    As I got to my room, my light in the hallway turned off immediately. Without me switching it off. I slammed the door behind me, out of instinct and fear more than anything else.


    The sound of the show coming from Casey¡¯s room was completely gone.


    A moment of complete stillness and silence in the house. And then -


    A violent knock on my door. Over and over again. I heard Casey''s voice -


    "Mom! I did it! I found a special friend for Friend! It''s you!"


    The knocking continued. It was much, much, more powerful and aggressive than Casey could knock. Than any little girl could knock. As it continued, she kept calling out to me.


    ¡°Mom! Mom! Open up! You¡¯re the special friend!¡± with that same aggressive knock completely rattling the door.


    More worrying than the force of the knocks on the door was the fact that Casey, never, ever, called me mom. Her nickname for me since she first started speaking was always ¡°Ommi.¡±


    In the dark of my room, I noticed something strange with the curtains. It felt like there was something behind them, ever so slowly inching its way out of them.

 The Ninth Floor

    ¡°Don¡¯t get off until you hit the ninth floor. No exceptions.¡±


    ¡°But my interview is on 5,¡± I replied.


    ¡°I¡¯ll only say this only one more time. Don¡¯t get off until you hit 9th. No other floor is safe.¡±


    It¡¯s crazy but something about the way he said it penetrated my skull. He was serious. And, he looked nervous, like he had to fight every instinct in his body to say that to me.


    The doors closed, while I thought to myself - who the fuck says anything like that?


    As I went to hit the button for the fifth floor, some anxiety came over me. I shook it off and pressed it. The guy was probably just off his rockers.


    The elevator went up. I scanned my surroundings - a TV bolted to the top corner of the elevator (playing the weather channel), a mirror for the back-wall of the elevator, and some cozy lounge-style music playing. Pretty standard stuff.


    ¡°Now arriving at the 5th floor.¡±


    Weird - not sure if I¡¯d ever been in an elevator that announced each floor it was arriving at. I was sure that if I worked in this building, this would get pretty old quickly.


    DING!


    The doors opened on 5. In front of me was a reception area with a woman seated at the front desk. She stood up from her seat.


    ¡°Mr. Davis! You¡¯re early!¡±


    The gentleman¡¯s warning from earlier played in my head.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be ready for your interview in a few moments. In the meantime, please feel free to take a seat.¡±


    ¡°Uh, thank you,¡± I responded. ¡°If I¡¯m, uh, early, maybe I can come back in a few minutes?¡±


    ¡°Nonsense! We¡¯ll see if we can speed things up. He¡¯s been very excited to meet you.¡±


    The elevator doors started closing. I held them open. I wasn¡¯t sure what to do here, but everything seemed fine enough. Granted, the receptionist did seem a bit eager, but beyond that¡­


    From my vantage point, I scanned the office space behind the front desk area. All looked normal - cubicles, folks clicking away at their computer, a kitchen area. Pretty unremarkable.


    That is, except for the portrait off at the far end of the office floor. It was very large. I couldn¡¯t tell what the picture was of, but I did see a group of employees staring at it¡­ almost, admiring it?


    ¡°Your wife¡¯s name is Meredith, right?¡±


    I froze as the receptionist¡¯s question shot a dart right through me. I didn¡¯t remember the job application form ever asking for my wife¡¯s name.


    ¡°You two are thinking of having children, right? If it¡¯s a boy, you want to name him Sam?¡±


    What. The. Fuck? Forget that she was right on the money, this was something I¡¯d never spoken about before to anyone, including my wife.


    Before I could answer, the office workers surrounding the large portrait started singing the Happy Birthday song loudly, in complete and perfect unison. Someone brought out a birthday cake and presented it to the portrait. A portrait that, after a bit of squinting, I realized was a very large version of my highschool yearbook photo.


    I backed into the elevator, and pressed the ¡°close door¡± button. I panicked as it took its sweet time to register.


    Press. Press. Press. Come the fuck on.


    After what felt like an eternity, the doors started closing. As they closed, I heard the receptionist -


    ¡°I¡¯m so curious to know what your insides taste like, Michael.¡±


    Fuck. Me.


    Ninth floor. I needed to go to the ninth floor.


    I found the 9th floor button and pressed it. It felt like it didn¡¯t register my push, so I pressed the button again. And again. Come on, come on, come on, ninth fucking floor. I tried again and again, but nothing was happening.


    Fuck it. I¡¯ll go back to the ground floor, I thought to myself. Back to the start.


    As I went to press the ¡®G¡¯ button, I realized it was missing. Just that one singular button gone. Fuck.


    I was getting claustrophobic. I took in deep breaths to prevent myself from having a full blown episode.


    The elevator started moving up again. A panel above the elevator doors lit up with the following number: 11.


    Someone was calling the elevator?


    I started talking to myself to self-soothe. ¡°It¡¯s okay, someone will call the 9th floor soon. That¡¯s where I¡¯ll get off.¡±


    As the elevator approached its new destination, I noticed that the background lounge music in the elevator had changed. It was now an instrumental arrangement of ¡°Happy Birthday¡±. Huh. Not sure why this thing thought it was my birthday.


    I glanced at the weather report on the TV. At least it was going to be sunny all week! Silver linings.


    ¡°Now arriving at the 11th floor.¡± DING!


    The doors opened, I hung around the inside corner of the elevator beside the buttons. No need to have another nightmare-ish experience, right?


    An old woman stepped onto the elevator.


    Great, I¡¯m sure this will be easy to explain to her.


    She smiled at me, as the doors closed.


    With a lump in my throat, I asked ¨C ¡°What floor?¡±


    ¡°Ground floor please.¡±


    ¡°Uh, I¡¯m sorry ma¡¯am but that button is missing. Maybe we could wait until someone calls us to the 9th floor?¡±


    ¡°9th? No, I think I¡¯ll just go to the 2nd floor instead, then.¡±


    She went to press the button.


    ¡°Ma¡¯am, I don¡¯t think it¡¯d be safe to¨C¡±


    ¡°I have plenty of friends on the 2nd floor. It¡¯ll be okay.¡±


    Aaaaaaand she pressed it. I didn¡¯t feel comfortable cornering an elderly stranger in a seemingly haunted elevator. But I tried again to convince her ¨C


    ¡°I know this sounds weird, but I have it under good authority that the 2nd floor probably isn¡¯t safe. I¡¯d strongly recommend not getting off until we reach 9.¡±


    She smiled.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    ¡°Dear, it¡¯ll be alright. You know, I like to take all opportunities that are given to me. It¡¯s¡­ a shame that you turned your opportunity down. I know the folks on 5 are very disappointed.¡±


    I backed up into the corner of the elevator.


    I saw the reflection of the old lady in the elevator¡¯s back mirror. She looked ghastly. Otherworldly.


    ¡°Now arriving at the 2nd floor.¡±


    The doors opened. She smiled at me again, and then exited.


    I poked my head around the corner to look at the 2nd floor. It was damp. It looked old. More like a cave than an office. I heard a low rumble.


    A man dressed in a fancy suit approached the elevator doors and held them open before they could close.


    ¡°You getting off here too, champ? I heard that 5 wanted you. I think we can give you a better offer.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m good.¡±


    ¡°You sure, bud? The salary is eight hundred thousand dollars every hour.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m good.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m kidding bud. The salary is we remove your eyes so you don¡¯t have to see him.¡±


    The floor went pitch black. The low rumble got much louder and started reverberating in my ears. Suddenly, the businessman grabbed me by the collar and tried to pull me out of the elevator.


    I clung onto the ends of it. Fuck. Fuck!


    I started kicking and headbutting him. I was able to make him let go of me momentarily, as I desperately pressed on the ¡°close doors¡± button. Miraculously, the elevator responded much quicker this time and they closed immediately.


    I tried the 9th floor button again. Didn¡¯t work. I pressed 8 instead. Anything to get away from this hell-hole of a floor.


    I heard a loud banging on the door as the elevator started taking off. Like an aggressive knock.


    BANG! BANG! BANG!


    As I saw the floor numbers rising -


    3¡­ 4¡­ 5¡­


    The banging continued. Just as loud. What the fuck?


    6th floor¡­ 7th floor¡­


    The banging on the door didn¡¯t subside.


    ¡°Now arriving at the 8th flo¨C¡±


    I pressed the button for the 23rd floor. Just as we arrived on 8, I mashed the ¡°close doors¡± button just as the elevator doors were about to open. The banging continued as the elevator doors started denting.


    The elevator continued going up.


    9¡­


    10¡­


    11¡­


    The banging softened.


    14¡­


    15¡­


    And softened.


    19¡­


    20¡­


    21¡­


    And disappeared.


    ¡°Now arriving at the 23rd floor.¡±


    It was gone. Thank fucking god.


    I exhaled. It felt like I¡¯d narrowly avoided disaster.


    The doors opened.


    I scanned the new floor, and I realized¡­ I was back on the ground floor. That¡¯s what it looked like, anyways. Did I escape? Was I finally free?


    A man stood not-too-far from the door. He looked familiar, but I couldn¡¯t exactly place him.


    ¡°Hey man,¡± he spoke.


    Was this the guy who got off the elevator just as I got on?


    ¡°...hey.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s over man. You got out,¡± he told me.


    I felt a wave of relief wash over me¡­ but I had to fight it.


    ¡°But you said the 9th floor was the only safe one, right?¡±


    ¡°That was a trick. You followed your gut and you were right. 23rd floor. The real safe floor. You can step out now, man.¡±


    I didn¡¯t leave.


    ¡°There¡¯s someone here who really wants to see you.¡±


    I couldn¡¯t move.


    ¡°He wants to give you a job. He thinks you¡¯re gonna be great.¡±


    Why the fuck couldn¡¯t I move?


    ¡°He¡¯s in the other room. I¡¯m gonna fetch him, okay? All you have to do is look at him. It¡¯ll feel a bit weird at first, but then it¡¯ll all be okay. It¡¯s a permanent position. Great benefits. It is fully onsite, but, no better birthday present than a new job, right?¡±


    I lowered my gaze to the floor. I forced myself to mutter the following words - ¡°It¡¯s not my fucking birthday.¡±


    As he left to fetch¡­ whoever he was meaning to fetch, he gave me the following response: ¡°Relax, man. No cursing on the job. We¡¯re a family here.¡±


    It felt like I could only move a centimeter at a time. A true snail¡¯s pace. I inched my finger closer and closer to the ¡°close door¡± button.


    I heard footsteps. He was coming back.


    With every fiber of my being, I pushed through. I hit the button.


    The doors closed, and I collapsed to the floor¡­ free from whatever weird force was stopping me from moving.


    ¡°I¡¯ll let you two talk more on the elevator,¡± I heard him say from outside the doors.


    What?


    Instinctively, I looked around.


    To my surprise, there was nothing. The elevator was the same as it had always been.


    A lengthy exhale. I was done with all of this. At this point, I would¡¯ve taken death over continuing this bullshit any longer.


    As I pondered my next move in this hopeless situation, I noticed something strange. The button to the 9th floor was lit up. An ominous, crimson-red color.


    Before I could do anything else, my phone started ringing. I checked the call.


    It was my wife.


    I answered.


    ¡°Babe. Fuck, I don¡¯t know why I didn¡¯t even think to call you - I¡¯m trapped in an elevator and fucked up shit is happening and maybe I should call the cops? Fuck I¨C¡±


    ¡°Hun. Don¡¯t go to the ninth floor.¡±


    ¡°What? W-wait, how do you even¨C¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a trick, honey. You have to trust me. The man from before was lying to you. It¡¯s not safe.¡±


    ¡°None of this has been safe! How do you even know everything that¡¯s happening?!¡±


    ¡°You just need to trust me, hun.¡±


    I paused.


    ¡°So what do you want me to do then?¡±


    A demon on the other side of the phone answered this time.


    ¡°GO TO YOUR INTERVIEW.¡±


    I hung up the call and in a panic, I mashed on the 9th floor button. The elevator started rising again.


    Even with me hanging up the call, the muffled sound of the demonic voice coming from my phone continued.


    ¡°GO TO YOUR INTERVIEW.


    GO TO YOUR INTERVIEW.


    GO TO YOUR INTERVIEW.¡±


    I pulled out my phone and flung it to the ground as hard as I could. I stomped on it angrily. The warped sound of ¡°GO TO YOUR INTERVIEW¡± slowly started dying out.


    But suddenly, the elevator started shaking. It was continuing to go up¡­ but it was faster than usual. Really, really fucking fast all of a sudden. Almost like the 9th floor was now way below me.


    It felt like an amusement park ride with no breaks on it. Loose. Dangerous. Flinging up at an insane speed, almost as if it was falling upwards.


    ¡°But I pressed nine?!¡± I screamed to myself, exasperated.


    It didn¡¯t matter.


    ¡°Now arriving at the 41st floor.¡±


    God, what the fuck?


    I was brought to my knees by the speed of the elevator traveling faster and faster.


    ¡°Now arriving at the 90th floor.¡±


    The buttons didn¡¯t even go past 52.


    ¡°Now arriving at the 141st floor.¡±


    Fuck.


    ¡°Now arriving at the 230th floor.¡±


    ¡°Now arriving at the 401st floor.¡±


    I felt like I was inside a bullet. The pleasant voice of the elevator lady was getting deeper and deeper as we rose.


    ¡°Now arriving at the 840th floor.¡±


    The voice started croaking. A demonic sound this time ¨C


    ¡°Now arriving at SOMEWHERE NICE.¡±


    A sudden halt. The elevator stopped. The doors didn¡¯t open though. The panel above the elevator doors had no indication on what floor we were on.


    As I sat, I heard what could be best described as the sounds of hell coming from outside the elevator. Low grunts of pain. Crackling. A dark hymn.


    Was this where I was supposed to get off?


    Before I could ponder the question further, I heard a soft tapping on the elevator. A voice from outside ¨C


    ¡°Do you want to trade?¡± said the voice.


    I decided to bite, for reasons I still don¡¯t fully understand.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°What if you stay on this floor forever, and I get to go home?¡±


    ¡°Uhm. I, uh, think I¡¯m good¡­¡±


    ¡°But I really want to go home.¡±


    It almost sounded like the voice of a kid. Fucking hell.


    ¡°I-I¡¯m sorry, kid,¡± I mustered back.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay.¡±


    An awkward silence between us.


    ¡°He told me that he wants to wish you a Happy Birthday,¡± said the kid.


    ¡°I, uh¡­ think he¡¯s got it wrong. Today isn¡¯t my birthday.¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± he responded. ¡°It¡¯s the first day of your new life. Your birthday.¡±


    ¡­?


    ¡°He wants you to look at the TV.¡±


    What?


    I looked at the TV in the top corner of the elevator, hoping to see the one constant I¡¯d had during this whole cursed trip - the weather.


    Instead, the TV was now showcasing what looked to be CCTV footage. Grainy footage from a camera¡­ of the exact elevator I was in. A live feed of this exact moment.


    Except, the TV showed me lying down. Looking up with a wide smile on my face.


    And something above me on the ceiling. Looking straight down at me.


    Him.


    The lights in the elevator went off. The elevator plummeted downwards, as I closed my eyes and screamed for dear fucking life.


    I waited for the impact.


    For what I knew was my demise.


    Here it comes.


    Here it fucking comes.


    I¡¯m not ready.


    I¡¯m not ready at all.


    ¡°Now arriving at the 9th floor.¡±


    DING!


    The doors opened.


    Wait, what?


    9th floor?


    I peeked out from the elevator.


    Another reception desk.


    Wait, is this really the -


    I was interrupted by a voice from the outside.


    ¡°You coming out or what you fucking moron?¡±


    I got to my feet. The feeling of distrust¡­ anxiety, whatever you¡¯d call it. My fear intuition. It was gone.


    I felt light.


    Fuck it.


    I stepped onto the floor and approached the counter.


    The receptionist handed me what looked like a button for the elevator.


    ¡°For the ground floor,¡± she said. ¡°Single use only.¡±


    I took it and headed towards the elevator.


    Then, I turned back to face her.


    ¡°Can I maybe take the stairs?¡±


    She shook her head.


    ¡°If you didn¡¯t like the elevator, then you¡¯re really not gonna like the stairs.¡±


    Fair enough.


    I got into the elevator.


    I said a silent prayer to myself as I put the button where it belonged.


    It fit without any issue.


    I pressed it, and the elevator went down. It was a smooth ride.


    ¡°Now arriving at the ground floor.¡±


    DING!


    As I got ready to exit, I realized that the ground floor button was missing once again. Strange. I didn¡¯t linger on it.


    I marched out, ready to get the fuck out of this building.


    I noticed a woman running onto the elevator. I tried to stop her, but something in my body wouldn¡¯t let me.


    The most I could muster was putting my hand on the door to relay a message to her before the doors closed.


    ¡°Don¡¯t get off until you reach the 9th floor. No matter what.¡±


    The woman just smiled at me.


    ¡°Happy Birthday Michael.¡±

 No Photos Allowed

    A couple months ago, my best friend Bryce moved away to a town I¡¯d never heard of before. He had just landed his ¡°dream job¡±. It was gutting to say the last, but worse than that - he practically ghosted me after he left. I sent a few texts here and there, even rang him a few times, but heard nothing in return. Having been close friends since we were kids, the experience was jarring and definitely shook my trust in friendship as a concept.


    Thankfully, he recently sent me a text message, apologizing for the radio silence and claiming that moving and starting a new position had ¡°taken over his headspace¡±. He told me I should visit him in his new haunt, and I enthusiastically accepted. We carved out a week that worked for both of us, and the plan was set.


    Armed with a backlog of Spotify playlists to keep me company, I plugged the address he provided into my GPS and went on my way. It ended up being a lengthy and confusing drive through roads unfamiliar.


    Finally, I arrived in his neighborhood. I took in the scenery. This new neck of the woods was bizarre to say the least. On the same street housing tacky-looking detached homes stood gothic-looking manors straight out of a Victorian novel. Way too many convenience stores here for such a small community, and did I mention the town center? Well, wouldn¡¯t you have it, it was a collection of skyscrapers piercing through the clouds that looked sleeker than anything I¡¯d ever seen before in my city-girl life. The town planner clearly had a fragmented personality.


    I pulled into the driveway of Bryce¡¯s fancy cottage - really Bryce, a cottage? - ran up the steps, and rapped at the door. He peeked out through his living room curtains, and ever the goofball I knew and loved, shot me a puzzled look for minutes before he finally opened the door. I flung into him and gave my brother bear a big hug. Dude seemed tense.


    ¡°Friend!¡± I exclaimed.


    ¡°Rose! You¡¯re¡­ here!¡± he replied.


    ¡°Of course. Dude, you made us plan the trip down to the hour. You have gotten mad organized since we last spoke.¡±


    I settled into the coziest couch I could find in his living room and let the snug air of his new place flood my senses. It was blissful. I had to admire what he¡¯d done with the place - it felt like the culmination of years of settling in, not someplace he had just signed a lease for.


    ¡°Well,¡± I started, ¡°Clearly you¡¯ve struck it big with the new gig! All that¡¯s left for you now is finding a girlfriend so you can do all that build-a-family nonsense everyone¡¯s always yapping about.¡±


    ¡°Yeah¡­ hey, let me get you some coffee, alright?¡± He walked into the kitchen.


    Hm. More curt than I remembered him ever being. I wondered if the girlfriend comment threw him off? It was just a joke, friend.


    He returned moments later, coffees in hand. He handed me one of the mugs then sat opposite me on another sofa.


    ¡°So! I gotta say this¡­ area? Town? Lil¡¯ city? Google wasn¡¯t helpful - this neighborhood is pretty quaint!¡±


    He looked out the window. ¡°Yeah, no, it¡¯s interesting.¡±


    I waited for him to break from his stare. He wasn¡¯t being particularly hostly. I interrupted with more small-talk. ¡°Well, how are you settling in? How¡¯s life?¡±


    He leaned back in his seat and scratched the back of his head. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m settling in fine. It¡¯s been busy. Definitely spend most of my time thinkin¡¯ about work.¡±


    ¡°Yeah! Tell me more about that. You were pretty tight-lipped about it on text. Is the job everything you hoped it¡¯d be?¡±


    ¡°Not¡­ exactly.¡±


    I poker-faced through the uncomfortable silence, hoping he¡¯d say more.


    ¡°Like,¡± he finally continued, ¡°It¡¯s definitely not what I studied. Nothing at all like what they pitched me either. It¡¯s pretty out there.¡±


    ¡°Well, what are you doing exactly?¡±


    He hesitated. I could tell he was escaping up into his head.


    ¡°I think my coffee needs a bit more cream. BRB!¡± He left the room again. (Yes, he¡¯s the kind of guy to say the acronym out loud)


    I pondered in his absence. Dude was a secret supergenius who could land a gig just about anywhere. A job that required him to move to the middle of nowhere and leave his loved ones behind had to be nothing short of astounding. But, hearing him now, he just seemed tired. Uninspired even. I wondered how long this move was really going to last?


    I stopped myself from ruminating further. This was too much honest reflection for what was supposed to be a vacation. A selfie was in order.


    I pulled out my phone, coffee in hand and Bryce¡¯s welcoming abode in the background. I already had the caption for the Instagram story - Finally found him you guys!


    I waited for him to round the corner. He emerged, I clicked. Snap! The light flashed to immortalize a pretty derpy-looking me, and Bryce, mug caught in mid-fall, with his arm outstretched violently screaming ¡°NO!¡±


    Paralyzed by his yell, I turned to clock the shattered mug and liquid coffee beans spilling onto his hardwood floor. ¡°Shit¡­¡± I looked up at him. ¡°Sorry, what happened? Did I just¨C¡±


    His attention turned from me to the front door. He ran to it, checked the lock, then pulled at the door as if to test its integrity. He did the same with the balcony door, muttering to himself along the way. ¡°I¡¯m so stupid, of course she was gonna take a picture, why would I be so careless, I should¡¯ve known I should¡¯ve fucking known¨C¡±


    ¡°Hey,¡± I walked up to him. ¡°It was just a selfie, Bry. I¡¯m sorry if it caught you off guard?¡±


    He took a deep breath, then spoke in a tone that was very unbecoming of the Bryce I knew. ¡°It¡¯s my fault. I¡¯m the moron. You always take pictures. It¡¯s what you fucking do. And what did I do? I left you alone, twice. I fucked us.¡±


    ¡°Sorry but you are being incredibly rude right now. Explain yourself.¡±


    A stern look. ¡°We¡¯re not supposed to take photos.¡±


    I raised my eyebrows. ¡°Not supposed to take photos of what? Your house?¡±


    ¡°Anything. Anything at all in the town.¡±


    I became convinced this was all an elaborate bit he¡¯d been planning in anticipation of my arrival. I chuckled accordingly. ¡°That sounds¡­ stupid?¡±


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    A touch of softness returned to his eyes. ¡°I was hoping I¡¯d get chance to ease you into the explanation, but fuck, there¡¯s no easy way to break this to you is there?¡±


    ¡°...what on earth are you talking about?¡±


    His glance returned to the living room window. He stared out for what felt like an eternity. I idled with him, secretly wondering if my friend had become a headcase since I last saw him. He¡¯d never shown signs of being particularly paranoid or volatile, but maybe something had changed since the move.


    The sound of soft tapping against the window wasn¡¯t immediately obvious. When I finally noticed it, I saw a silhouette in the front yard below. Someone - or rather, something - was outside, stretching and reaching to try to peer into our elevated living room window.


    ¡°Hide behind the sofa,¡± said Bryce.


    ¡°Are you for real?!¡±


    ¡°Do it. Now.¡± The desperation in his voice was convincing.


    I begrudgingly followed the orders and crouched against the end of the sofa I was just sitting on.


    I peeked ever-so-slightly to watch Bryce approach the window.


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing here for you!¡± Bryce yelled at the stranger in the front yard.


    A beat of silence. The figure outside slowly lifted its hands, clutching a crumpled piece of paper between them which it then pressed against the window.


    It was the selfie I had just taken.


    Instinctively, I laughed. It took a few seconds for logic to flood my brain and for me to wonder how on earth a stranger had a printout of a photo I just took.


    ¡°That isn¡¯t ours! No photos were taken here!¡±


    The photo disappeared from view. Then, the entity raised a single finger, tapping the window and pointing in my direction.


    ¡°No one else is here!¡± Bryce held his ground for a moment.


    Then, he closed the curtains.


    He sat beside me on the living room floor and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. I was in denial.


    ¡°How is that even¨C¡±


    ¡°Shh,¡± Bryce interrupted. ¡°He¡¯ll be gone soon.¡±


    Minutes passed, and the tapping finally subsided.


    ¡°Like I said,¡± Bryce broke the silence, ¡°I was hoping we¡¯d get a second to settle in first.¡±


    ¡°How does someone even do that? Like, technologically, how the fuck could someone do that with my phone? I don¡¯t get it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m gonna need you to calm down for a second.¡±


    ¡°Bryce what the fuck is going on?¡±


    With a grimace and a restless shuffle, he struggled to find the right words. ¡°So,¡± he finally spoke, ¡°Let¡¯s rewind a bit. I moved to a new town for a job that I couldn¡¯t turn down.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    ¡°When I got here, I knew pretty much immediately that something was very wrong. First - I thought I was renting this place but when I arrived, there was a deed taped to the front door signed in my name. My boss for the job I hadn¡¯t even started yet stopped by after, congratulating me on the role and the new place. He told me my pay was going to be much higher than initially discussed, but that the scope of the role would also be way different. I asked him to explain what he meant, and he just said that I¡¯d ¡°figure it out over time¡±. He was insistent that if I did whatever he asked in a timely manner, that I¡¯d live a ¡°safe and fulfilling life.¡±


    ¡°And so, for some strange fucking reason, you then thought it¡¯d be a great idea to text ME to come here?!¡±


    ¡°No! No. I never texted you. I never texted anyone. I ignored everyone¡¯s calls, messages, everything. I didn¡¯t want anyone to get sucked up into this nonsense with me. But I guess it didn¡¯t matter anyways. Something reached out to you, pretending to be me. Which means that something wants you here.¡±


    I tensed up. ¡°So, I mean, we should get the fuck out of here then, right? Why didn¡¯t you ever leave?!¡±


    ¡°Hah! Funny enough, I almost did. But then someone explained the ambulances to me.¡±


    ¡°Ambulances?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, they should be here soon.¡±


    Bryce put a finger to his lips. The room went quiet for minutes, until¡­


    The distant roars of an ambulance reached our ears. Bryce got up and moved to the kitchen window. I followed.


    The siren¡¯s blare grew louder and clearer. Outside the window, we could see it approaching. It turned a corner and parked on the road only a few houses away.


    Then, I saw it.


    The back door of the ambulance opened up, and out stepped a man cloaked in thick garb from head to toe.


    He pulled a stretcher out the back door. Then another, then another.


    All of the stretchers had people on them¡­ people whose heads had been completely pulverized. Clumps of crimson-red flesh and cartilage where faces should¡¯ve been.


    Once all of the stretchers had been pulled out and left on the road, the cloaked man re-entered the ambulance from the back, then closed the doors.


    The siren blasted again and the vehicle drove off.


    ¡°Uhm Bry, what the fuck, what the actual fuck I am freaking the fuck out.¡±


    Bryce just stared at the stretchers on the street. They were gently rolling off in different directions.


    ¡°Aw man¡­¡± he said, noticing a particular demolished body on one of the stretchers. ¡°I liked that guy. We went grocery shopping together one time.¡±


    ¡°Who the fuck are those people?!¡±


    ¡°People who tried to leave. That¡¯s what happens to them.¡±


    ¡°And they¡¯re just left on the street?!¡±


    ¡°Sometimes. Other times, they¡¯re brought to the incinerator, or buried, or chopped up, or occasionally dropped off at someone¡¯s house¡­¡±


    I was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. Instinctively, I pulled out my phone and queued up the numbers 911.


    ¡°Wait, wait Rose, you don¡¯t want to do that. Rose, stop!¡±


    His words bounced right off me. My brain was on autopilot, my body was moving on its own now. I ran into one of the rooms, slammed the doors shut, and then leaned against it.


    He knocked violently.


    ¡°Rose, you don¡¯t know what you¡¯re doing! Please hang up! Please!¡±


    Everything was fine. I had a half-baked plan in mind. I would call the number, then ask the operator to transfer me to a different county. The NYPD. They¡¯d know what to do.


    I hit ¡®call¡¯ and waited for an answer. Finally ¨C


    ¡°911, what¡¯s your emergency?¡±


    ¡°Hi!¡± I replied. ¡°I need to get connected to the closest police department outside this jurisdiction. Maybe New York¡¯s?¡±


    ¡°Sure. Can you let me know what your emergency is?¡±


    Bryce pounded with even more force.


    ¡°Yeah so, there was an ambulance, it uh stopped on our street, it¡­ had bodies in it, dead bodies on stretchers that looked like they¡¯d been completely fucked up, and then the bodies were just thrown on the street and¨C¡±


    ¡°Right. And sorry, these were people who were trying to leave town?¡±


    What?


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Could you say that again?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Were the bodies in the stretchers people who tried to leave the area?¡±


    She said the last six words slowly, as if she thought I was stupid.


    Stunned, I tried to redirect her back to the point. ¡°There was also a man, a man who uh showed up in our yard, he - he had a picture of me, there¡¯s no way he could¡¯ve had a picture of¨C¡±


    ¡°Right, and sorry, did you take a photo before this man showed up?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ I, uh, what?¡±


    Bryce was seemingly ramming the door with his whole body now. I was struggling to keep it closed.


    ¡°Where are you now? We can send someone to you immediately.¡±


    ¡°I-i uh, no thanks?¡±


    ¡°Are you sure, ma¡¯am? I promise it¡¯ll be fun.¡±


    Horrified, I hung up. I released my hold on the door and it burst open, sending me tumbling backwards onto the floor. Bryce entered, looming above me in anger. ¡°You didn¡¯t tell them where we were, did you?!¡±


    I desperately shook my head. ¡°No! No I didn¡¯t.¡±


    He sighed in relief, as if his whole body were exhaling with him. ¡°Thank fucking God.¡± He addressed me with ¡®disappointed Dad¡¯ intensity. ¡°You have to stop doing that. Fucking please. If they called someone to this place, you could¡¯ve gotten us killed, or even worse. I¡¯ve heard stories man. The people in this neighborhood talk.¡±


    I stopped myself from speculating on what worse meant.


    ¡°Where the fuck are we Bry?¡± I asked. ¡°What the fuck is this?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    He wore exasperation on his face. I could tell he was at his own breaking point.


    I got up and gave him a hug. More for my sanity than anything else. As I held him, the sinking, skin-crawling sensation of feeling trapped consumed me. I wanted to sob but I just couldn¡¯t.


    We returned to the living room and tried our best to settle in again.


    ¡°I¡¯m trying¡­¡± he said, ¡°To piece together exactly what¡¯s going on here. I have some idea of the things we should avoid doing, but still, there are lots of question marks.¡±


    ¡°Uh huh,¡± I said nervously. I took a quick peek outside and spotted a sign. Shaped like an arrow pointing to the left, it read, ¡°Exit this way :)¡±.


    Before I could ask more questions, I heard his phone vibrate.


    He checked it, then sighed. ¡°They have another job for me,¡± he said.


    ¡°Another job?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. A task I was hoping I could avoid for some time. Wish me luck.¡±


    He went back to his room. When he emerged, he was wearing a cloak not-too-dissimilar to the one the ambulance driver was wearing.


    ¨C


    He left some time ago now. He gave me some clear directives before stepping out: Keep the doors locked until he¡¯s back, and try not to panic. I¡¯ll try not to overthink the second one.


    He also showed me a special hand signal that he¡¯d use when he comes back. He told me that I should, under no circumstances, open the door until he flashes the gesture.


    It¡¯s a good thing he told me. ¡®Cause only an hour after he left, it felt like he had already returned. He¡¯s standing at the door now, softly knocking while wearing a wide smile on his face. He hasn¡¯t flashed the signal yet, so I¡¯ll probably hold on letting him in.

 No Photos Allowed (2)

    ¡°Imposter Bryce¡±, as I¡¯ve penned him, stuck around for a couple of hours before shuffling off to god-knows-where. Once he was gone, I took refuge in the bedroom that looked the least worn, and tried my best to get some shuteye.


    Needless to say, I slept like the opposite of a baby.


    Ambulance sirens sung throughout the night. Occasional sounds of shuffling in the backyard bushes rang in my ear. Struggling to fall asleep, I got up to look out the bedroom window. Outside, the street was empty, save for a man a block away hugging a lamppost and looking right up at me.


    Fucking hell.


    The night and my attempts to rest became a blurry half-awake, half asleep haze.


    Eventually, the sound of knocking at the front door interrupted my drowsy nap.


    I left the bedroom, approached the sound, and looked through the door¡¯s peephole, expecting some horrifying sight or nightmarish creature.


    It was Bryce.


    He was flashing the same hand signal we¡¯d agreed upon earlier. After a minute of gearing up, I accessed the bravery needed to open the door.


    He entered, and to my great relief, didn¡¯t shapeshift into a warlock and rip my face off. Cool of him.


    He didn¡¯t say much - not even a ¡°hello¡±. His face wore misery, and his weird culty-snuggie outfit had splatters of blood on it. He depressingly sauntered to his room, mumbling incoherently under his breath.


    Huh.


    Weirdly, having him home now was enough to temporarily override the PTSD I was feeling from the last 24 hours of mindfuck. I went back to the room, and within minutes, I was lights out.


    When I woke up, it felt like I¡¯d emerged from the best sleep I¡¯d ever had, to the point that it took me a good 20 seconds to remember exactly where I was, and for the misery to creep in.


    I looked at the clock and saw that the time was only 7:15 AM. I was flabbergasted. No way that was only an hour of sleep.


    I entered the dining room. Bryce was already breakfast-ready. Plates were set out on the table.


    ¡°Does time work differently here?¡± I asked, taking a seat.


    Bryce sized up my outfit. I was still wearing my clothes from yesterday. ¡°I should¡¯ve remembered to lend you some PJ¡¯s. My bad.¡±


    I grabbed a forkful of scrambled eggs. I was hoping he¡¯d start curbing his habit of avoiding my questions. I took a bite. Not bad.


    ¡°Time¡­¡± he ruminated. ¡°Not sure. There¡¯s enough weird stuff happening here that I don¡¯t really dwell on it.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough,¡± I said.


    ¡°So¡­ I was instructed to bring you with me to today¡¯s job.¡±


    I almost spat egg all over the table. ¡°Bring me? Me explicitly?¡±


    ¡°Yep.¡± He turned his phone around and leaned across the table to show me.


    Well I¡¯ll be. There it was, wrapped in a gray bubble, the most recent text in a thread. ¡°This morning you will visit the Parker Group building and audit their operations. Bring Rosalind Beckett with you.¡±


    I sighed. ¡°I assume I have to come, because not following rules here is a bad idea?¡±


    He shot me ungracefully with his finger-guns. ¡°You¡¯re catching on, friendo.¡±


    I decided not to protest. After yesterday¡¯s shenanigans, it was probably best I followed Bryce¡¯s lead.


    We promptly finished up breakfast. Bryce basically made a beeline to his car in the driveway after. Dude took his job seriously.


    I joined him outside, half-afraid that a banshee would jump out of the bushes or something¡­ but things were relatively tame actually. The only thing out of the ordinary was a gathering taking place in the Victorian mansion across the street from us. Through their window, I noticed a gallery of well-dressed socialites all sitting in a circle and reading a book together. A book club at this hour?


    I rode shotgun in Bryce¡¯s Audi - when the fuck did he get an Audi? - as he drove us to the skyscrapers in the town¡¯s center.


    ¡°So¡­ what¡¯s the escape plan?¡± I asked. I¡¯ve always been particularly shit at small talk.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m assuming everyone in the town is trying to get the fuck out of dodge. What¡¯s the strategy?¡±


    ¡°Friendly reminder that your head gets pulverized if you try to escape, Rose. Or did you already forget about yesterday?¡±


    ¡°Yeah yeah, but, isn¡¯t anyone theorycrafting? Figuring out some way to break from this hellscape?¡±


    ¡°Hah. I think we¡¯re all still in the learning how not to die phase of things,¡± he replied.


    Disappointing. Is it only going to take me a few days to become just as resigned to things as Bryce is?


    I distracted myself from the melancholy by carefully eyeing the buildings we drove past - library, convenience store, sex shop, convenience store, auto parts, steakhouse, steakhouse, convenience store - this place is fucking weird.


    ¡°So¡­¡± I said. ¡°You ever been to this building before?¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh¡­ And what about auditing? That a thing you do regularly?¡±


    ¡°First time.¡±


    ¡°But you know what to do, right?¡±


    ¡°Yep. I was given clear directions. Go inside, tell ¡®em why we¡¯re visiting, let ¡®em explain what they do, let ¡®em take us where they need to take us. If anyone has any concerns, we say that we¡¯re friends of Meredith Lane.¡±


    ¡°Right. And who is Meredith Lane?¡±


    ¡°No clue,¡± he said. ¡°Oh right, another rule: Avoid small talk with the employees.¡±


    We closed in on the high-rises. Bryce slowed to find parking.


    We stepped out of the car, the looming building ahead. We walked under the protective canopy as stone pillars framed our path. I noticed groups of people lurking behind the columns, peeking their heads out. Most glaring. Some smiling.


    ¡°Bryce, I¡¯m kind of sca¨C¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about them. They won¡¯t do anything.¡±


    ¡°...Okay.¡±


    We reached the entrance. The motion-sensor sliding doors parted gracefully, inviting us in.


    We crossed into the lobby. A very sharp-dressed greeter approached us. ¡°Why, hello there sir! And look, you brought company!¡±


    ¡°Here for an audit,¡± Bryce said briskly.


    ¡°Yes, of course. The folks up on nine were expecting you.¡±


    ¡°Great. We¡¯ll be on our way.¡±


    Bryce, all business, walked to the elevator and pressed the button to call. He stared at a framed picture hung on the wall between the lifts. It was a portrait of a stunning luxury car.


    ¡°God, that is a sweet ride,¡± he said.


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    Ding! The elevator arrived. We slipped into the steel box, and Bryce pressed the button for the ninth floor.


    As it went up ¨C


    ¡°I mean, this isn¡¯t too bad. You always wanted to work in a fancy tech office, right?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Yeah, I guess I did. Just took getting trapped in this freaky town for that dream to pan out, huh?¡±


    I laughed. A little glimmer of our buddy cop dynamic was back, albeit, under non-ideal circumstances.


    He pulled out his phone, seemingly to check the text thread he had with his boss. ¡°Alright, so, recap on the rules: If anyone asks, friends of Meredith Lane.¡±


    ¡°Meredith Lane,¡± I echoed.


    ¡°We¡¯ll explore, ask the folks what they do, go wherever they ask us to. We¡¯ll take notes. We won¡¯t make small talk with them. Pretty simple.¡±


    ¡°Got it,¡± I nodded.


    The lift trembled momentarily as it settled onto the ninth floor. Then, the doors opened.


    We emerged onto a floor that had¡­ pretty tacky-looking decor, I have to say. It looked dated. Unbecoming of the prestigious-looking building it was housed in.


    We sauntered down the hallway, flanked by boardrooms on both sides. It sounded like busy meetings were underway.


    Bryce entered one of the rooms, seemingly at random. I trailed behind.


    Inside, a group of gentlemen, all dressed in pristine white shirts, black ties, and sharp dress pants, sat around an aged mahogany table. Looks like they all got the dress memo for today. They momentarily paused their discussion, looking up at us with puzzled stares.


    ¡°Here for the audit,¡± Bryce announced curtly. ¡°Carry on.¡±


    Bryce produced a small notebook and pen out of his coat pocket and began jotting down notes. The professionals hesitated briefly before resuming their conversation.


    "So as I was saying," one of the men said, "We¡¯ve finished the design for the next convenience store."


    Murmured nods and "Hmms" echoed around the table.


    "We need a clear, open road leading to the convenience store," another contributed. "No congestion whatsoever. I''ll oversee that."


    Again, a chorus of agreement from the room.


    ¡°And what about blood?¡± another man interjected.


    Heads turned in his direction.


    ¡°If there¡¯s a significant amount of blood outside the convenience store,¡± he seemingly clarified, ¡°We¡¯ll need assistance to manage it.¡± The pattern continued - murmurs of affirmation shared between the employees.


    I had to ask myself - what in the ever-loving-fuck were they talking about?


    Yet, my confusion went unshared. Bryce continued to scribble in his notebook, unfazed.


    I wondered if Bryce noticed the man seated at the end of the table, blood pouring from his eyes onto his fancy shirt. The man, with a disturbing smile, who kept whispering incessantly, ¡°Blood outside the convenience store, blood inside the convenience store.¡± Thankfully - or maybe, regrettably - Bryce seemed oblivious to him. Finishing his notetaking, he left the room, and I followed.


    We proceeded down the hallway. ¡°Seriously, how the fuck does this place not wig you out?!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s simple,¡± he replied. ¡°I¡¯m desensitized. I am now fully dead inside.¡±


    ¡°Great.¡±


    We approached the kitchen at the end of the corridor. As we did, the clack of a foosball game filled our ears. We stepped inside to see two players, momentarily distracted, stopping to turn their gaze towards us. Nearby, a man pouring half-and-half into his coffee froze as he clocked our entrance.


    "You''re¡­ you¡¯re¨C¡± he started.


    ¡°Here for an audit,¡± Bryce cut in.


    Their eyes remained fixed on us, silent and questioning.


    ¡°We¡¯re friends of Meredith Lane,¡± Bryce clarified.


    Slowly, the strangers chuckled, their laughter gradually escalating into a roar.


    ¡°Yeah right, friends with Meredith Lane?¡± said one.


    ¡°Yeah, you hate her!¡± chimed another.


    ¡°You despise her!¡± the man with the coffee-creamer tagged.


    ¡°What are they on about?¡± I whispered out the side of my mouth to Bryce.


    ¡°Don¡¯t overthink it, nothing here makes any sense,¡± he murmured. He stepped forward. ¡°Alright, that¡¯s enough joking around. Why don¡¯t you all tell me a bit about what you do.¡±


    After a brief silence, the coffee man was the first to speak. ¡°I¡¯m a firefighter, sir.¡±


    A firefighter working in a skyscraper. Right.


    The woman at the foosball table spoke next. ¡°I¡¯m an ambulance driver.¡± She noticed the look of fright on my face and clarified. ¡°Don¡¯t worry dear, I only drive.¡±


    A wry smile crept up on the face of the man on the other side of the foosball table. ¡°I¡¯m a police officer. Occasionally a 911 operator too.¡±


    I gulped and tried my best to play it cool. I looked away, pretending I was admiring the decor in the room.


    Bryce, doing his part, eagerly scribbled into his notebook. He lifted his head when he was done. ¡°Great! Anything you¡¯d like to show us?¡±


    The foosball-playing officer crept closer. ¡°Friends with Meredith Lane, hey?¡±


    ¡°Yep!¡± replied Bryce.


    ¡°Would you like to see her?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    The officer led the way, opening a door to reveal another expansive hallway. We trailed closely behind.


    The trek was longer than I expected. With each step, the white walls of the building started blistering and peeling. Deeper down the path, the overhead lights were now swaying and broken, casting red shadows onto the wall.


    Through the damp and moldy, we approached the end of this now-dark corridor, reaching a heavy iron door that creaked slightly open. Blood-curdling shrieks could be heard from inside.


    Our guide to this destination nodded, then turned to leave. "Have fun," he called out, retracing his steps and disappearing down the hall.


    Bryce stepped through the door first. I trepidatiously tiptoed behind.


    The screaming stopped the second we entered.


    The smell of coal and old machinery assaulted my senses, as I eyed what I knew to be the likely source of the screams.


    It was a woman. She was tied to a chair with metal chains. Her body looked contorted, twisted, bloodied, broken in ways that a person couldn¡¯t be. Bones visibly protruded from open wounds all around her. Jagged metal jutted from her chest, neck, and legs. Something about her form didn¡¯t make any sense.


    A man in a thick cloak was crouched beside the woman. ¡°Meredith, it looks like you have some visitors!¡±


    My face betrayed my attempt to pretend any of this was normal. Side-eyeing Bryce, he didn¡¯t look so great either.


    The man in front of us remained focused on the chained being. ¡°What do we say when we have visitors, Meredith?¡±


    A strained, croaky, empty voice left the woman. ¡°We say¡­ hello,¡± she gargled, barely.


    Bryce pulled out his notebook. ¡°Here for an audit. Can you explain what you do?¡±


    Really Bryce? Still just fucking business about all this?


    The crouched man tilted his head to address us. ¡°Of course. As you can see, I manage Meredith Lane. Let me demonstrate.¡± He placed a hand on what was left of Meredith¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Meredith, is your leg broken?¡±


    ¡°No¡­ no, my leg is¡­ fine,¡± she said, spitting blood between labored breaths.


    Uhm, her leg was most certainly broken. Thrice-broken, in fact. The least leg-looking leg I¡¯d ever seen.


    ¡°Is your chest impaled?¡± he asked.


    ¡°No¡­ my chest is not impaled,¡± she groaned. A giant piece of metal poked out from her ribs, but sure, let¡¯s gaslight the poor woman.


    ¡°Is your mouth full of blood? Are you choking?¡±


    She struggled to speak again. Blood pooled as the words left her mouth. ¡°N-no.¡±


    ¡°And here¡¯s the best one,¡± he said, enthusiastically turning to us before asking his final question.


    ¡°Meredith, are you alive?¡±


    It took her longer to respond to this one. She lifted her neck ever so slightly to look at us. Clearly, she was in hell. But there was something else in her gaze too. Sorrow. Wistfulness. Regret.


    ¡°I¡¯m alive,¡± she said, quite lucidly.


    The cloaked man stood up from his crouch, exceedingly cheerful now. ¡°Isn¡¯t that something?!¡± he proclaimed.


    Bryce just scratched into the notebook. He didn¡¯t say a word.


    I, on the other hand, was mortified. I¡¯d just about reached my threshold. I was seconds from puking. I softly stepped back, exiting the room through the iron door for a much-needed reprieve. Bryce didn¡¯t seem to notice - thank God.


    Back out in the hallway, I noticed a rather nervous-looking man pacing back and forth. After a moment, he came up to me.


    ¡°How are you holding up?¡± he asked.


    I stuck to the rules. ¡°I¡¯m here for an audit.¡±


    He looked disappointed. ¡°Of course you are. Let me guess, no photos, no small talk, friends with Meredith Lane?¡±


    Huh?


    Nah, I wasn¡¯t falling for it. ¡°That¡¯s right. I am friends with Meredith Lane. That is why I¡¯m here,¡± I enunciated clearly, speaking slowly and thoroughly as one usually does when they¡¯re lying.


    He scratched his head, then turned to leave. He looked back at me once more before doing so. ¡°You know, just once I wish I could talk to someone who found all this shit as horrifying as I do.¡±


    I pursed my lips.


    ¡°Fuck it,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll figure some way out of this nightmare. Fucking talking to emotionless robots all day¡­¡± he muttered, walking off.


    Goddamnit.


    ¡°Wait!¡± I called out.


    He stopped, then turned.


    ¡°Let¡¯s talk,¡± I said as quietly as I could.


    He stepped back towards me. He came with an air of nervous desperation. ¡°Holy shit, an actual conversation,¡± he said. ¡°Look, not sure how much time we have, but I have a working theory about this place that I think might piece everything together.¡±


    ¡°Spill.¡±


    He leaned into my ear and whispered. He didn¡¯t want anyone else to hear this.


    ¡°Sweetheart, you know you¡¯re not supposed to break the rules.¡±


    He gripped my neck with one of his hands and covered my mouth with the other.


    ¡°We have to follow the rules.¡±


    I struggled to get away but he was much more powerful than he looked.


    ¡°Without them, we¡­ we¡­¡±


    I could feel my breath disappearing.


    This is how I die, isn¡¯t it?


    He squeezed down on my larynx with all of his might.


    What a stupid fucking way to die.


    But then, the pressure released. I gasped for breath as the attacker staggered backwards.


    ¡­I guess not?


    My assailant was recoiling in horror at the sight of¡­ Bryce?


    Emerging from the boiler room, Bryce quickly moved to support me, preventing me from collapsing to the floor.


    The man back-pedaled to his feet and fled down the corridor. Bryce took a step as if to chase him, then hesitated and turned back to me.


    ¡°Fucking hell, are you okay?¡± Bryce asked with concern.


    ¡°No¡­ not really,¡± I said, coughing. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m a fucking dunce.¡±


    Bryce squeezed my hand reassuringly. ¡°You¡¯re okay. You¡¯ll settle in with time.¡±


    As I gathered my bearings, I heard Bryce¡¯s phone buzz again. He checked the text. ¡°Guess our job¡¯s done for today,¡± he said. ¡°We can go home now.¡±


    I didn¡¯t let go of his hand as we walked down the corridor. ¡°How¡¯d you scare that dude away?¡±


    ¡°Ehh, once you¡¯ve been here long enough, you find a way to maneuver the danger.¡±


    We took the elevator down. Once we were in the lobby, we made a beeline for the exit. Just as we stepped through the sliding doors to the outside, I heard the greeter call from behind.


    ¡°Please visit us again when you get the chance, Mr. Mayor!¡±


    Bryce visibly winced at the greeter¡¯s call.


    ¡°Mr. Mayor?¡± I asked him. ¡°You¡¯re the Mayor of this place?¡±


    He shrugged it off as we walked to the car.


    ¡°It¡¯s just the job they gave me. We can chat more about it later.¡±


    ¨C


    The drive home was quiet.


    Between Bryce¡¯s surprise role as Mayor and his strange midnight job from last night, a swirl of confusion settled in my stomach.


    Still, riding shotgun with him, I felt safer than I would¡¯ve without him.


    But one thing was clear now, more than before: we couldn¡¯t stay here.


    I needed to find a way out for us.

 No Photos Allowed (3)

    When we got home, Bryce asked for a few hours to destress before my barrage of questions. He spent most of it reading a gothic mystery novel on the sofa, as well as retreating into his room to do some private journaling.


    The evening settled in, and Bryce finally scuttled into my room.


    ¡°The mayor, huh? When were you planning to tell me that was what you did here?¡±


    He threw his arms up in exasperation. ¡°Look, I¡­ there was¡­¡± he struggled, ¡°I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m not sure if I ever would¡¯ve felt comfortable mentioning it if I¡¯m being honest. I never chose the job. They gave it to me when I got here, and since then, I¡¯ve just been trying to get by.¡±


    I only had one glaring question on my mind at this point.¡°


    Everyone in that building said that you hated Meredith Lane.¡±


    ¡°People here say stupid stuff, literally none of that is¨C¡±


    ¡°Bryce, just please, please tell me you didn¡¯t order for that poor woman to get chained and tortured like that.¡±


    Bryce stared at me, aghast.¡°


    Do you really, actually think I¡¯m capable of something like that?¡±


    Of course, in the moment, I told him no.


    But as I lay there in bed that night, the question spun around in my head.


    Was Bryce capable of great evil?


    The guy I¡¯d known my whole life? No.


    The guy who¡¯s been trapped in this demented town for months now? I¡¯m¡­ not sure?


    This place could ruin anyone after enough time, couldn¡¯t it?


    I stopped myself there, and turned my brain off for the sake of some shuteye.


    In the morning, I checked the clock on my bedside table. 7:15 AM. That¡¯s twice now.


    I entered the dining room.


    Bryce had left breakfast on the table for me! Sweet of him.


    With it, came a note:


    Got called in for an early job. I¡¯m helping make candles today - whatever that means here.


    I know it¡¯s in your DNA to be brash, but please don¡¯t do anything stupid while I¡¯m gone.


    Stay home. And if for some strange reason you still decide to wander out, stay far, far, far away from the graveyard. Bad things happen the closer you get to it.


    I took a bite of my toast. Me? Brash? Why I never.


    After finishing up the morning spread, I sauntered to the living room window and looked outside.


    Once again, folks were gathered inside the Victorian mansion across the street. They sat in a circle, each of them with a book in hand. This time, however, their attention was focused on a TV in the room ¨C something playing that I couldn¡¯t quite make out from my vantage point.


    Someone rose to turn the TV off.


    Then they all looked at me in unison and smiled.


    What.


    Without missing a beat, they shifted their focus back to the books. One of the men began to read aloud, while the rest followed intently.


    Welp. One thing was for certain: I¡¯d rather be chained up like Meredith Lane than forced to join the disturbing reading group here.


    I pondered what to do with my day. Surely, not everything in town was preposterously dangerous? At least one of the 80 or so convenience store clerks must have had some sort of insight on how to escape¡­ right?


    Wait.


    Bryce wasn¡¯t home. Again.


    And he had a journal.


    Did I dare?


    It would¡¯ve been an invasion of privacy, sure, but, y¡¯know, desperate times, desperate measures, sometimes you gotta break some rules, yadda yadda yadda.


    I entered his room. After a bit of scanning, I located the journal that he¡¯d stashed in one of his drawers.


    I flipped to the latest entry, hoping to find something interesting.


    At the top of the page was yesterday¡¯s date. Underneath, a few bullet points lazily scribbled:


    - What was with the portrait of the car in the Parker building yesterday?


    - Guy who attacked Rose looked familiar?


    - Who is Meredith Lane? Why did I kind of like seeing her get tortured?


    What?


    The third line stunned me. Felt like a bullet had gone through my stomach.


    Suddenly, my pocket vibrated sharply.


    A text?


    I pulled my phone out and read the first new message I¡¯d received since I¡¯d arrived here.


    From a number I didn¡¯t recognize, it simply read: ¡°Be outside in one minute. Your job for the day is ten bodies.¡±


    You have got to be fucking kidding me.


    Was this a test? Was I supposed to ignore it? Or was this a task I had to follow?


    Does this town really want me to kill people?


    A knock at the door. Then another. And another.


    I stashed the journal back into the drawer, now with bigger fish to fry than figuring out Bryce¡¯s inner workings.


    I searched my mind for a ¡°smart thing to do¡± here and came up empty. Rudderless, I walked to the front door¡¯s peephole and checked outside.


    A man in a Hawaiian shirt stood idly at the door. He looked bored. Further out, an ambulance sat parked on the street.


    Is he gonna kill me?


    As if reading my mind, he spoke up.


    ¡°Not gonna kill you, newbie.¡±


    I didn¡¯t respond.


    ¡°You¡¯re on the route today,¡± he added.


    Could I actually trust him?


    He looked at his watch. ¡°Look, it¡¯s your life. Do what you gotta do. But, bad things do happen when you turn down a job, so I¡¯d strongly suggest¨C¡±


    I swung the door open, raised my fists and shot him my meanest glare. That should scare him.


    He chuckled. ¡°It¡¯s gonna take more than a punch to kill me, I¡¯m afraid.¡± He pivoted and began descending the stairs. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s head out.¡±


    I followed him. He casually paced towards the ambulance¡¯s rear doors, opened them, and stepped inside. I peeked in behind him, anticipating the horrifying sight of piles and piles of dead bodies¡­


    Instead, the ambulance looked surprisingly ordinary. To the left, a white bench stretched along the wall. A rather striking woman was seated, dressed in a cloak that was all-too-familiar to me at this point. The Hawaiian-shirted man settled in beside her. On the opposite side, a pile of single-fold stretchers were haphazardly arranged against the wall. Dominating the center, a modest table was firmly anchored to the floor. Atop it sat an eye-catching candle and a worn, black digital camera.


    I climbed into the back. Without missing a beat, the mystery man slipped on a cloak similar to the woman¡¯s and handed me another just like it.


    ¡°Your uniform for when you¡¯re on the job,¡± he clarified.


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    He shut the back doors, struck a match to light the candle, and moments later the vehicle set into motion.


    I begrudgingly put on the bulky cult outfit. Guess I¡¯m part of the club now.


    Unsure of what to do next, I ran with an icebreaker.


    ¡°So, is our job¡­¡± I said slowly, ¡°to, uh¡­ bash people¡¯s heads in or something?¡±


    The man and woman looked at each other, eyebrows raised in shared bemusement. They started laughing.


    ¡°Oh, you newcomers,¡± the man said, wiping away a tear. ¡°So good¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± the woman tagged, ¡°We use terrifying black magic rituals to punish all those who try to leave.¡±


    ¡°And sometimes, when the magic doesn¡¯t work, we resort to the ancient art of¡­ stick throwing.¡±


    She nodded. ¡°Never underestimate a well-aimed twig.¡±


    Dorky giggles permeated their sarcastic ribbing. It was annoying.


    ¡°Look, clearly you two are having a ball right now, but can you just say it plainly: You don¡¯t kill people. Right?¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± the woman responded, more seriously. ¡°Some of us just want to get through the cursed day and go home.¡±


    Fair enough, lady.


    It was an interesting ambulance ride. I learned their names! Matthias and Svetlana. They were a couple, actually. I¡¯m ashamed that I only caught on once I saw them sneak a kiss.


    They spent most of the ride doing some¡­ pretty nonsensical stuff. With a deck of cards, they played a demented version of ¡°Go Fish¡± that I couldn¡¯t fully understand the rules of. Later, Matthias broke into song - belting what sounded like three vaguely familiar pop tunes randomly mashed together. Svetlana knew it and sang along, which is I guess what mattered.


    Finally, Svetlana pitched a game where we would all ask each other increasingly personal questions. I bowed out, using the excuse that I was still jarred by the ¡°no small talk¡± rule in the Parker Group building.


    The two of them passed questions back and forth. ¡°What¡¯s the funniest thing that¡¯s ever happened to you¡±, ¡°When was the last time you felt super embarrassed?¡±


    And then, rather innocently, from Svetlana to Mattias. ¡°What was the happiest moment of your life?¡±


    He looked back at her wistfully. ¡°The day I met you.¡±


    She held her hand to his cheek, and they shared a genuinely loving gaze.


    Barf. Barf barf barf barf barf barf. Too much, please make it stop ¨C


    The ambulance screeched to a halt.


    The driver called out. ¡°Alright, body retrieval! Let¡¯s go.¡±


    My colleagues shifted to a more somber tone. They opened the rear exit and stepped out. I followed.


    We had stopped at a house.


    There, on the grass before us, a man lay dead. A camera in his hand. His twisted neck, contorted body, and protruding bones gave me flashbacks to Meredith.


    Two police officers stood over him. They regarded us as we walked up.


    ¡°Took a photo of himself. Sucker¡¯s way out,¡± one said.


    The other officer chimed in. ¡°You gotta question the logic. Did he think this would somehow be a shorter death?¡±


    The first mimed taking a photo, voice high-pitched in imitation. ¡°He was probably like - ahhh, this will be painless!¡±


    ¡°Hahahahaha! CLICK! DING! Wait, why am I not dead? Wait, what¡¯s that?! AHHHHH!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!¡±


    Matthias pulled a stretcher from the ambulance, setting it next to the lifeless figure while the officers laughed. Together, he and Svetlana softly lifted the body onto it.


    ¡°What the hell? Why are all of you so damn glum?¡± one of the officers said. He turned to me. ¡°You. You especially.¡±


    Svetlana and Matthias lifted the stretcher and brought it into the ambulance. The officers closed their distance with me.¡°


    You¡¯re pretty tense,¡± the second officer remarked. ¡°Maybe living with the mayor is starting to take its toll on you?¡±


    Matthias called from the ambulance. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s go Rose!¡±


    But I couldn¡¯t move. The collective stare of the officers had me petrified.The first officer leaned in closer. ¡°I¡¯m sure you know the mayor is terrified of cops, don¡¯t you? He has a whole page about it in that diary of his you snooped this morning.¡±


    How could they possibly know ¨C


    ¡°What? Do you not realize we see everything? Do you actually think your rule-breaking is going unnoticed?¡±


    I backed away from them as if they were two lurking panthers. No sudden movements. Calm. Deliberate. Any misstep could spell doom.


    Gently, I felt for the edge of the ambulance before hoisting myself through the rear doors. I closed them behind me.


    Mercifully, the ambulance rolled forward.


    I settled into my seat. As the fear subsided, involuntarily, my eyes swelled up.


    Matthias placed a hand on my shoulder. Svetlana gently touched my arm.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about those creeps,¡± said Matthias.


    ¡°Those shits won¡¯t do anything to you,¡± she added. ¡°They¡¯re just talk.¡±


    I appreciated the gesture. Unfortunately, it was hard to feel great with the grim sight of a mangled corpse in front of us.


    Matthias shook his head at the sight. ¡°Even with how hellish all of this is, I¡¯ll never understand doing something like that to yourself.¡±


    Svetlana gazed at the stretcher, her eyes full of compassion. ¡°Perhaps, he just wasn¡¯t strong enough to handle it anymore.¡±


    Matthias shrugged.


    Despite some weak attempts at small talk from all three of us, it was hard to shake the dismal air now permeating the ambulance.


    The ride went on for a good while. Until -


    ¡°Destination!¡± the driver called.


    The vehicle jolted to a stop.Svetlana pushed the doors open, revealing a vast forest expanse. The trees, though large, were spread out and sparse.


    In the distance, I spotted a thick white fog that seemingly stretched out into eternity. Were we at the edge of town?


    One by one, we exited the ambulance, our steps crunching on the leaves underneath. The rear doors had been left ajar.


    ¡°Okay,¡± I started. ¡°So what do we¨C¡±


    I was interrupted by the CLICK of a camera.


    I shuddered. Svetlana held me still as the sound of another CLICK went off. Then another.


    ¡°What¡¯s happening¨C¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± she soothed. ¡°We only have to collect the bodies.¡±


    I realized that each echo of a click was accompanied with a piercing flash contained within the smothering mist ahead of us.


    What was this?


    A gentleman I barely had time to notice stepped out from behind a nearby tree and paced toward the fog. He muttered under his breath, ¡°It¡¯ll be okay, it¡¯ll all be okay, just a quick snap, I won¡¯t even feel it, then I¡¯ll be free.¡±


    He crossed the threshold into the fog and ventured deeper, becoming more of a faint trace with each step.


    In my peripheral, I noticed another woman in tattered clothes step across the forest, and into the shrouding haze. Her mumbles barely reached my ears: ¡°I believe in the walking fire the holy serpent the tree of life will perish for our salvation.¡± In she went.


    From behind us, another man triumphantly jogged past, straight into the mist. He shouted out as he did: ¡°It¡¯s a fucking mirage! There¡¯s nothing real keeping us here!¡± Deeper he went, until he was just a speck in the white veil. ¡°Everything was a lie¨C¡±


    CLICK.


    CLICK.


    CLICK.


    Each click was accompanied with the sound of a harsh pop, and a powerful flash within the fog.


    The sound of bodies dropping.


    And then, as if they were the tide coming in, the bodies softly and effortlessly slid right out of the fog. Right in front of us, now.


    Bodies with pulverized heads. Like all the others I¡¯d seen the ambulances drop off.


    I tried to process what I was seeing. Matthias, meanwhile, was all business. He pulled small stretchers out of the ambulance and began positioning them next to the bodies, sighing all the while. ¡°Quota was 10, so this should be pretty quick,¡± he said.


    I scanned the environment closely. Far off, more lifeless forms lay scattered. The clicks continued, lights flashing, bodies floating out of the fog. There were already way more than ten dead here. Behind us, groups of people lurked behind trees, staring out into the abyss. Were these folks who were contemplating ¡®escaping¡¯ too?


    Svetlana addressed Matthias briefly. ¡°I think our newbie is scared, so I¡¯m gonna comfort her.¡±


    He nodded as she led me aside. ¡°I¡¯m not that sca¨C¡± I started, but she shushed me.


    ¡°I love you,¡± she called out to Matthias.


    ¡°Love you too,¡± he responded, a tad absently, distracted by his work. What a pro.


    She pulled me away from the scene, to a looming tree beside the fog.


    ¡°What is it?¡± I asked her.


    She pulled something out of her pocket and placed it in my hand. It was a sketch. A pencil drawing of Matthias. It was pretty good.


    ¡°I drew it for him one random night. I¡¯m very grateful that sketches aren¡¯t illegal.¡± A quiet laugh followed her words.


    I shot her a confused look.


    She smiled. ¡°Please give it to him, okay.¡±


    ¡°Uh, sure,¡± I said. ¡°...why?¡±


    She took a deep breath, then turned around and disappeared into the fog.


    Wait.


    What are you¨C


    CLICK!


    She was close enough that I saw the flash cave in her head.


    Before she¡¯d even hit the ground, her corpse was pulled out of the fog and brought to my feet.


    Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.


    In disbelief, I wandered back to Matthias. He was in the midst of loading another body into the already full-looking ambulance.


    ¡°Finally deciding to help, eh?¡± he said, presumably hearing my steps.


    I couldn¡¯t say anything. He turned around in response to my silence.


    ¡°Why are you crying?¡±


    I¡¯d clearly forgotten how to talk. He walked up to me, his gaze lowering to the item in my hand. I passed it to him. A confused smile crossed his face.


    He lifted his head to peer over me. His eyes found Svetlana¡¯s body in the distance.He exhaled sharply.


    After a minute of stillness, he approached what was left of her. I placed my hand on his back and accompanied.


    Walking that small distance felt like a lifetime.


    Finally, she was in front of us. Matthias looked down at her lovingly.


    ¡°She never isn¡¯t beautiful.¡±


    The best I could muster up in response was a platitude. ¡°She really loved you, you know.¡±


    He scrunched up a smile. ¡°And I, her.¡±


    He stood. He put the sketch into his cloak pocket, then lovingly tapped it after placing. ¡°So, the good news is, I¡¯ve already loaded eight. I pray that Svetlana and I won¡¯t be too heavy,¡± he said.


    And then, with a brisk pace, he walked into the fog.


    No.


    I chased behind him, crossing into the mist. I reached out to pull at his cloak.


    ¡°Please, please stop, just wait a second, there has to be something you can do, there has to be something¨C¡±


    I¡¯m not even sure if he could hear me. Deeper still, he went. Deeper still, I followed. My words didn¡¯t even make any sense.


    What am I doing? This is insane.


    I extended out with all my might to pull him back.


    ¡°Please, you can¡¯t just give up.¡±


    CLICK.


    And he was gone.


    And as his blood flickered onto me, I realized I was going to be next.


    There I was yet again, staring death in the face, whilst feeling nothing but confusion.


    With a violent yank, I felt something pull me out of the fog.


    Suddenly, the cloud of white was in front of me. I wasn¡¯t within it anymore.


    I turned around to see who or what might¡¯ve pulled me to safety, but it was already gone. I could¡¯ve sworn I heard a whisper as the force brought me out. The words: ¡°You should be enjoying your gift.¡±


    I cried in fear and hell and all things awful as Matthias¡¯s body appeared beside me.


    In the hour it took to get up and finish the shift, I wondered what the fuck kind of gift this was supposed to be.


    ¨C


    It wasn¡¯t fair. Neither of them deserved this.


    So I did the only thing that felt right. When the text came in, telling me to ¡°Drop the bodies in the middle of the street. Any street is fine.¡± - I refused.


    They deserved a proper resting place. And so I told the ambulance driver that the instructions were to take all ten to the graveyard.


    He seemed surprised, but he obliged anyway.


    It wasn¡¯t until halfway through burying the bodies that I remembered Bryce¡¯s warning about the graveyard.


    Though, to be honest, nothing out of the ordinary happened.


    Yes, amongst a sea of hundreds of pre-dug graves and tombstones marked by the names of strangers, it was a bit weird to see mine and Bryce¡¯s names among the bunch. But besides that, it was pretty tame!


    The ambulance driver brought me back home. He didn¡¯t seem too stressed about the two crew deaths today. His logic was ¡°It¡¯s unfortunate, but that¡¯s the way things go.¡±


    When I pressed him on what he meant, he said ¡°There¡¯s a certain decency to letting things go. A decency in allowing death to be death, and not fighting it. And not being the kind of person who tampers with that reality.¡±


    Okay, Freud.


    When I got home, I remembered Bryce¡¯s unnerving journal entry, and tried to muster up the sanity to finally start being afraid of him.


    But I just couldn¡¯t. He¡¯s harmless. I know he is.


    Though I will say, he¡¯s acting pretty weird right now. He¡¯s staring out the living room window at the Victorian mansion across the street. He¡¯s holding one of his mystery novels in his hand. He keeps saying ¡°I get it now, I get it now, I get it now,¡± and he¡¯s starting to look a bit frenzied.


    I¡¯ll ask him what¡¯s going on once he calms down a bit.

 No Photos Allowed (4 - Final)

    I went to bed shortly after getting home.


    Bryce and I didn¡¯t say much to each other - he was in his own little world, rambling to himself. I could hear him deteriorating in the middle of the night, his whispers becoming more fevered, more intense.


    It was unnerving.


    I woke up at 7:15 AM. Of course I did.


    I left my room, not sure what to expect this time.


    I entered the living room to catch Bryce already waiting for me, sitting on the couch.


    ¡°Where were you yesterday?¡± he asked.


    I thought carefully about my response. ¡°They texted me with a job. Ambulance duty. I¡¯m¡­ surprised it took you until the morning to ask me. Everything okay?¡±


    He sighed. ¡°They made me do that ambulance job too. Body retrieval. It was horrific.¡±


    He looked at me intently.


    ¡°Rose, I¡­ I¡¯ve been noticing some things here. For quite some time now, actually. I¡¯m piecing it all together, and I think I¡­ I think I know what¡¯s going on.¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh.¡±


    An awkward silence between us. This time, it was me who didn¡¯t want to talk.


    ¡°Why are you being weird? It feels like you¡¯re afraid of me,¡± he said.


    I read your diary. You said you liked seeing Meredith Lane get tortured.


    I felt a familiar buzz come from my pocket when I noticed Bryce reacting to his own. We both pulled out our phones to check our respective messages.


    My text read: ¡°Cross the street and come inside.¡±


    Instinctively, I glanced through the living room window. In the Victorian mansion opposite, a man stood by the balcony, phone in hand.


    I turned to Bryce. ¡°What does your message say?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re telling me to stay home today. You?¡±


    Huh. Guess they just want me.


    I swallowed nervousness. ¡°They want me to join them across the street.¡±


    Bryce got up from his seat and looked outside at the opposing mansion. ¡°My boss wants you to visit?¡±


    Your boss lives there?


    Actually, you know what - it doesn''t even matter. I¡¯m tired of trying to understand this stupid place.


    I turned away from Bryce, walked to the front door and opened it. I stepped outside.


    ¡°Rose, wait!¡± he called.


    All of my rule-breaking had clearly gotten the attention of the powers that be.


    I was afraid, sure, but still¡­ it was time to get this over with.


    I walked down the stairs and ventured onto the pavement. I heard Bryce¡¯s footsteps echoing behind me. He grabbed my shoulder.


    ¡°Hold on, let¡¯s just think this through! The folks in that mansion - my boss, the town planner, they run this place!¡±


    ¡°Well, thanks for the heads up Mr. Mayor,¡± I replied.


    He whispered close to me in a panic. ¡°Look, I¡¯ve only ever met my boss. For the rest, I¡¯ve just heard stories. Not great stories, mind you. The town planner, apparently she¡¯s a real monster¨C¡±


    I turned around and faced him.


    ¡°Go home, Bryce. They asked for me, not you.¡±


    He stood resolute. ¡°I¡¯m coming.¡±


    I shrugged. ¡°Suit yourself.¡±


    I inched up the stairs to the mansion.


    As I did, I looked through a nearby glass-paneled wall to notice that the creeps - err - socialites were in the middle of their book club again. A room in broad daylight filled with lit candles, for some reason.


    I turned the unlocked knob and entered.


    Inside, the man who had stood by the balcony greeted me with an unsettling eagerness.


    ¡°Rose,¡± he said.


    ¡°You know my name,¡± I replied. ¡°Of course you do.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve become quite the celebrity with your rule-breaking,¡± he replied. His gaze lifted to Bryce. ¡°I¡¯m afraid you weren¡¯t included in the invitation.¡±


    Bryce folded his arms. ¡°Well, sorry boss, but I¡¯m coming in too.¡±


    ¡°Is that so?¡± the man replied.


    The man - Bryce¡¯s apparent boss - made way for me to enter, so I took it. He blocked Bryce¡¯s way however, and the two of them exchanged increasingly heated words. I¡¯d already tuned them out.


    I continued onward, deeper into the mansion. I followed the voice echoing through the halls - the sound of the book club reader, paired with the rustle of flipping pages.


    ¡°Let us begin, as we always do, with a recounting of the birth of this lovely town.¡±


    I stepped closer until the door-frame revealed a group sitting in a circle of chairs inside. The speaker, open book in hand, continued reading:


    ¡°It¡¯s a story that starts with tragedy. The fateful morning when Meredith Lane ran a red light and crashed into Bryce, killing him instantly.¡±


    Right. Great book club. What sort of gibberish were they going to say next?


    ¡°This cosmic accident, spurred by something as inconsequential as Bryce¡¯s morning drive to the convenience store, gave rise to our creation.¡±


    This place is obsessed with convenience stores, I tell ya.


    I entered the room.


    ¡°Bryce left the mortal plane at 7:15 AM, with Meredith departing hours later. But! Their deaths were undone. Meredith and Bryce now live as the two pillars of our neighborhood.¡±


    Around me, dozens of candles were scattered.


    ¡°They are the two halves of a ritual that keep us tethered to the real world.¡±


    A table sat in the center of the reading circle.


    ¡°A ritual taken upon by someone brash enough to defy reality¡­¡±


    It bore a particularly unique candle, a Polaroid camera, and a photo just out of clear view.


    ¡°Brave enough to challenge truth¡­¡±


    I walked into the center of the circle and arrived at the table.


    ¡°...and see through the realization of the impossible.¡±


    I looked at the photo.


    It was a picture of Bryce. Demolished in the wreckage of a car. His head completely smashed in. Pulverized.


    Wait¡­


    Why did this look familiar?


    ¡°She still had something she wanted to say to him. She wasn¡¯t ready to let go. So, she channeled her grief, and attempted ritual, after ritual, after ritual¡­¡±


    I looked at the woman reading the passage. Her face was veiled by a shadowy cloak. Her voice sounded familiar.


    Then, suddenly, the hum of a TV. One of the readers had risen, as if on cue, to switch it on.


    The book club members lifted their heads from their laps to watch. I joined them.


    The static on the TV settled. Then, grainy footage:


    On screen was a woman who looked consumed with what appeared to be grief.


    Why was she in my room?


    The woman drew a pentagram on a parchment, drawing blood from a deep cut on her palm. Once she had finished the sigil¡¯s design, she lit five candles at its corners.


    The scene shifted. Now, the woman had a bowl of dark water in front of her. She whispered into a raven¡¯s feather, then delicately dipped it into the water and stirred. ¡°Guide him back to me,¡± she whispered. ¡°Return to me a Bryce that will never, ever, leave my side.¡±


    Then, through the static, a new scene. This time, a polaroid picture lay before her,  with a distinctive candle flickering beside her. She was sobbing. Her fingers were smeared with blood. She held an obsidian knife, and carved runes onto the picture while whispering a strange incantation.


    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    The TV flickered off. I stood petrified within the ring of seated strangers around me.


    ¡°What¡­ the fuck¡­ is this?¡±


    They all smiled.


    ¡°It¡¯s what you built Rose. For Bryce.¡± The cloaked woman returned her focus to the book. ¡°We¡¯re almost done with the reading.¡±


    She continued with the passage.


    ¡°Finally, she succeeded. Securing a special photo of the deceased¡¯s body in the wreckage, she sprung forth a ritual powerful enough to return him to life. But not just his body and spirit - no - rather, his full headspace, brought to concrete reality in the form of a town. A community where the resurrected could be surrounded by all the things that make up his mind. Fragmented thoughtforms given solid life.¡±


    What? How could this have even¨C


    ¡°The enchantress who brought upon the ritual would be split into two. One half of her would go on forgetting this tragedy ever occurred, and would one day be called upon to enter into this constructed paradise. The other half of her - the one knowing the grief - would be born into this town to bring it to life.¡±


    The reader shut her book. So did the others in the circle.


    The echo of steps pattering into the room.


    I turned to the source of the noise to see Bryce¡¯s boss - the man who had greeted us - holding an unconscious Bryce in his arms.


    ¡°What¡­ what did you do to him?¡± I asked.


    The man shook his head. ¡°Fear not, I merely subdued him. The only thing that can actually kill Bryce is the graveyard.¡±


    He smiled at me.


    ¡°Welcome, Rose, to your creation.¡±


    The room broke into applause.


    ¡°Of course,¡± the man continued, placing Bryce¡¯s body gently on the floor, ¡°It wasn¡¯t a singular effort.¡± He stepped towards the woman in the cloak - the reader - and lifted the veil from her head.


    She looked identical to me.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to introduce you to today¡¯s very special reader. Our very own town planner,¡± he said, as the clapping persisted. ¡°The architect who constructed this wonder of a community, building it using pieces of Bryce¡¯s headspace, and ratifying it with rules to protect our existence.¡±


    Slowly, my lookalike crept up from her chair. She limped towards me.


    Eventually, we were face-to-face.


    ¡°In this neighborhood spawned from his mental landscape,¡± she started, ¡°We¡¯ve constructed everything Bryce has ever wanted. The cottage and car of his choosing. The tech office of his dreams just in reach. Convenience stores-a-plenty with clear roads to prevent accidents. And, mansions and houses built from the same prose contained in his favorite novels. Of course, as with all great towns, contrast is required. So, we also saw to it to imbue this place with some of Bryce¡¯s greatest anxieties. Police officers, to start.¡±


    What the fuck was she talking about.


    ¡°Now sure, some of the thought-form residents here might try to escape, in which case it¡¯s


    only fitting that their bodies end up as Bryce¡¯s did when he first departed. But the rest of them are free to live as they please - they can work, fall in love, do whatever they¡¯d like¡­ just as long as they follow the rules. No calls to the outside. No office chatter to theorycraft and conspire. No leaving. This town and its residents are born of Bryce¡¯s psyche. If things fragment and spill out into the outside world, the ritual will dissipate, and this place will cease to exist. Hence, why rule-breakers are strewn about the street as public warnings.¡±


    What¡­ are you¡­ saying.


    ¡°And what about no photos?¡± I asked, shellshocked. ¡°Where the fuck does that rule come from?¡±


    The town planner grabbed the polaroid of Bryce¡¯s dead body from the table and held it in front of me.


    ¡°My detest for photos appeared right after the stringer first gave me the picture of Bryce¡¯s body. Photos are cruel. Bryce¡¯s death should be struck from the record, and yet, by being the core of the incantation that birthed this town, this photo will never cease to exist.¡±


    She tore up the photo. Immediately, there was a duplicate of it back on the table.


    ¡°You brought all of this to life with your beautiful brashness,¡± she said, ¡°But it¡¯s time now for you to follow the rules, and relish what you¡¯ve built. Don¡¯t let your strong headedness cheat you out of this. YOU SHOULD BE ENJOYING YOUR GIFT.¡±


    I¡­ I did this.


    Through the sheer horror, I had one last question for my doppelganger.


    ¡°...and Meredith Lane? Did you pluck her out of Bryce¡¯s headspace too?¡±


    My other half smiled. ¡°While Bryce¡¯s subconscious would surely loathe the person who stole his life away, her current state is my creation alone. Think of it as her punishment for taking him away from us.¡±


    I looked down at Bryce¡¯s unconscious body on the floor. ¡°I couldn¡¯t let go,¡± I said. ¡°And so, I brought him back into hell.¡± I glared at the physical manifestation of my grief standing before me. ¡°Do you really think he¡¯s happy with any of this?¡±


    She gazed at me tenderly. ¡°I¡¯m sure, deep down he¡¯s happy to be alive again. And by bringing him back, you gave life to so many others. To the residents here, you are the creator. You made this happen.¡±


    The circle of strangers beamed smiles at me. Strangers¡­ who would kill me for breaking the rules of the town I brought to life with my selfishness.


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± I started. ¡°I made this happen¡±


    I stood over a lit candle on the table.


    ¡°And so, it¡¯s up to me to fix things. After all, the lord giveth, and the lord taketh away, right?¡±


    I tipped the candle to the floor. A fire spilled onto the rug and spread. Immediately, I moved from window sill to shelves to mantles, knocking candle after candle to the ground, igniting patches of fire around the room. The members closed in to stop me. I grabbed their discarded books and hurled them into the flames to speed up the spread.


    I picked up a final book from the floor, already partially burning, and threw it across the room into another section of the manor. The residents scattered in their desperate attempts to quell the growing blaze.


    Amidst the chaos, I spotted my twin. I snatched the Polaroid from the table and tackled her to the ground. She struggled against me.


    ¡°But you worked so hard for this¡­¡± she said.


    I forced the camera into her hands, turning it to face her as the fires drew near.


    ¡°We worked so hard for this¡­¡± she continued.


    I forced her finger onto the shutter button and held it down, the lens pointed directly at her.


    CLICK.


    The light flashed to illuminate my other half. She looked weary. Tired. Broken.


    I left her as the flames spread. I got up, sprinted to Bryce, and shook him until his eyes fluttered open.


    He was weak and barely conscious, but was able to get to his feet with my help. He leaned on me for support.


    We escaped to the exit, when I noticed there was something already there. A creature tapping at the front door from outside. The same silhouette from the night I¡¯d first arrived and snapped that selfie.


    I opened the door.


    ¡°She¡¯s just down the hall,¡± I said.


    The horrific entity strode past us and walked into the house.


    Slowly, Bryce and I descended the stairs and emerged onto the street.


    ¨C


    I held Bryce¡¯s hand as we walked down the middle of the road, stepping past the odd dead body in a stretcher.


    ¡°Are we getting close?¡± I asked him.


    ¡°Yeah. Almost there.¡±


    He lifted his head to the sky. ¡°I kept noticing¡­¡± he started, ¡°Things from my past that shouldn¡¯t have been here. Random portraits of things I uniquely cared about, the faces of people from my past, stuff from books I¡¯d read. I wish that I could¡¯ve pieced it all together sooner.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no way you could¡¯ve known.¡±


    We kept walking.


    ¡°So¡­ why did you bring me back?¡± he asked.


    Clearly because I¡¯ve been in love with you my entire life.


    ¡°I think I just really missed you. Sorry. Bit of a dick move on my part.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s alright. I¡¯m just excited to get some sleep now.¡±


    We were closing in on the graveyard now. I could tell because the damage to his body was becoming more and more apparent.


    With each step, he looked more unrecognizable.


    ¡°S-see you on-on the other¨C¡±


    We¡¯re almost there, buddy.


    ¡°---side¡­¡±


    I laid him in the grave that was marked with his name. He looked just like he did in that cursed photo.


    I looked at the grave beside his, marked with my name.


    One day, when it¡¯s time, I¡¯ll come back here.


    But for now, it was time to go.


    I had one more stop.


    ¨C


    Clearly, Bryce¡¯s demise had taken its toll on the town. There were fires everywhere, residents holding each other and crying, others standing like statues in the street, devoid of breath.


    I walked through the sliding doors of the Parker Group building.


    I took the elevator up to the ninth floor, then walked the corridor down to Meredith¡¯s dungeon.


    When I entered, her keeper was already leaning against the wall, coughing up blood. He didn¡¯t notice me enter. He was probably busy keeping himself from fading away.


    ¡°Meredith,¡± I said.


    She lifted her head.


    ¡°Is your leg broken?¡±


    ¡°...ye¨C¡±


    ¡°No. No. It¡¯s okay. You¡¯re safe with me. Is your leg broken?¡±


    ¡°Maybe¨C¡±


    ¡°Is there a piece of metal lodged in your chest?¡±


    ¡°N-no¡­ no there¨C¡±


    ¡°Meredith. It¡¯s alright. You¡¯re not supposed to be here. You and I both know this. You were in an accident.¡±


    She teared up.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t make it.¡±


    ¡°No, No, I¡¯m¨C¡±


    ¡°Meredith, listen to me very closely. You¡¯ve been dead for quite some time now, haven¡¯t you?¡±


    She took a while to answer me. Finally, she smiled.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she replied, weakly.


    She collapsed from the chair to the floor, chains removed, dead, as she was supposed to be.


    ¨C


    I made the long journey to the edge of the now-empty town.


    I entered an ambulance that had been parked near the forest and drove into the night.


    Further and further, until I was deep in the fog that had killed Matthias, Svetlana, and so many before it.


    The mist stretched long.


    But eventually¡­


    I was out. Back on roads familiar.


    And with dense forests on either side of the road¡­ I noticed something ahead in the distance.


    I steered closer, and caught sight of Bryce walking by the side of the road. Or, welp, the version of Bryce I¡¯d encountered on my first night in town. The happy, smiling ¡°Imposter Bryce¡± who¡¯d shown up at the house past midnight, waiting outside the door.


    Stranger, still, was who he was holding in his arms. It was me! Or, err, the ¡®town planner¡¯ me. My grief-stricken half.


    As I took in the morbid sight of them walking in the glow of the moonlight, I realized¡­


    This Bryce must¡¯ve been the creation of a different ritual.


    Ah yes, that other ritual. The one with the feather and the bowl of water, where I wanted to manifest a Bryce who would ¡°Never, ever leave my side.¡±


    I guess he ended up rescuing my other half from the horrible fate that befell her. Yes, her body looked mangled beyond recognition, but I could tell she was still alive.


    Maybe, just maybe, they¡¯d be good for each other.


    As the ambulance barreled past and I made my way home, I had to admit that it was a bit unfortunate that I was driving.


    Because I really would¡¯ve liked to take a photo of them.

 The bathroom at the bar.

    This particular night of drinking with the guys was solid. Not amazing. Not life-changing. But solid.


    Unfortunately, I had to pee.


    I scootched out of my middle seat at the booth - y''know, that awkward little shuffle where everyone beside you has to get out first so you can escape. My body language was appropriately apologetic.


    I emerged, crossed the crowded floor - busier than usual for Bar Louie''s, I have to say - and made my way to the men''s room.


    I must''ve been halfway through with my business at the urinal when I heard the sound stop. It was immediate. That hum, that choir of voices outside the door... music, staccato conversations, shouting, ''hellos'' and ''goodbyes'' and nonsense - it was all gone.


    I washed my hands and stepped back out onto the floor.


    It was empty.


    Completely fucking empty.


    The drinks, the food, the scattered chairs and arrangements were still there, but the people? Nowhere to be found.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    My eyes turned to the glass windows of the bar. The streets outside - similarly bare. The sky - darker than usual, with just a tinge of a crimson-red peppered across.


    I sensed someone near me.


    Looking down the length of the bar, I noticed him. A bartender, turned away from me, meticulously cleaning a mug.


    I walked towards him.


    I was nearly beside him when I heard him say in a low voice, "Run. This is our chance."


    He turned from me, headed towards a staff-only back-area, and motioned for me to follow. I did.


    Almost immediately, we were hit with a long staircase leading down. Architecturally, it made no sense. It was right in the middle of the kitchen.


    Why was it there? Where did it go?


    "They''ll be back soon," he said. "Please, follow me."


    I backed away. This didn''t feel right.


    Hoping I could wish this strangeness away like a bad dream, I maneuvered across the empty floor yet again and returned to the men''s room.


    I turned on the tap, looked in the mirror, and prayed - fucking prayed - that the noise would come back.


    And to my pleasant surprise, it did.


    I exited the restroom, and Bar Louie was how I''d initially left it. Busy, alive, a crowd of conversations.


    I returned to the booth. As I did, I noticed that the bartender I''d seen earlier had completely vanished.


    I still hadn''t fully digested what''d happened, but I think my friend could tell that something was up.


    "That was a pretty long trip to the bathroom," he said.


    "Yeah. Sorry. Had a bit of a mindfuck moment."


    "It''s all good," he said. "It''s really, really good that you decided to stay."


    "Sorry?"


    It took me a beat to notice that everyone in the bar was turned towards me, with dead smiles and eager eyes.

 There is a customer none of us are allowed to serve.

    I work at the Lone Star Diner, off the road from Carson City to Reno. Diner name has of course been changed for obvious reasons¨Cmore on that later.


    Why do I work at the Lone Star Diner, off the road from Carson City to Reno? Well because, kind stranger, my life plans didn¡¯t work out. Generally, if you¡¯re caught working at a diner past college¨Cspecifically, one in the middle of nowhere, it might mean that things aren¡¯t going so hot.


    But still, why this diner? Why Lone Star specifically?


    I¡¯m aware you probably aren¡¯t actually asking these questions, but I nonetheless believe they deserve a response.


    Of all of the diners in the world, what makes Lone Star so special is¡­


    The pay.


    The pay is fucking great.


    There are maybe ten other diners within a 30 minute drive from where I live. Most of them average out to a little over minimum wage. **


    Meanwhile, Lone Star is whipping up a mean $50/hr.


    And that hourly rate is due to one, single, solitary reason, no matter what anyone tells you.


    Because of him.


    My first day on the job was fine, more or less? I¡¯d worked customer service before, so I felt like I could run with the strange surprises that came unique to diners. I was able to adapt to the inconsistency of the rules pretty quickly. Unwritten rules like¨Csome areas in the restaurant need to be spotless at all times; others, boss lady couldn¡¯t give less of a shit about. Serve customers quickly! But not too quickly, asshole. Customers here don¡¯t actually like it when you show up too fast. Give them some time to feel the floor under their boots, to miserably stare ahead, and mourn what could¡¯ve been. Y¡¯know, diner stuff. They¡¯re here because they want to be alone. Pardon the contradiction.


    Of course, vaguely defined, ¡®whispered only by ghosts¡¯ rules extended to the cooks as well. If you were, somehow, secretly, celebrity chef Marco Pierre White in the flesh, your mandate was to keep your damn prowess to yourself. Your job is to make the classics as decently as possible. Not bad, but not amazing. Just poor enough to be really good¨Cthat¡¯s what the customers are here for.


    As the weeks unfolded, I rose, or I suppose¨Ccrouched¨Cto the occasion quite well. You want intentional, pinpoint precision mediocrity? You¡¯ve come to the right person. Most of the patrons just wanted coffee and brunch, brought to them at medium speed, with a semi-predictable cadence of waiter or waitress check-ins afterwards. Done, done, and done.


    Not one for subtlety, one day I finally decided to ask my boss the question in the middle of a shift. I didn¡¯t want to ruin a good thing by doubting it, but fuck me if I wasn¡¯t a little curious. Not a full ¡®look¡¯ at the gift horse¡¯s mouth, more of a skeptical side-eye¡­


    ¡°Why $50/hr?¡±


    She didn¡¯t even look up from her task at the register, methodically counting out bills. ¡°Said it on your first day, ya gotta be good at following the rules. And when it¡¯s an important rule? You¡¯d better be damn well perfect. High expectations here.¡±


    I made a face. ¡°Right. High expectations.¡±


    ¡°You think I¡¯m joking?¡±


    ¡°No ma¡¯am, I guess, I just,¡±¨CWhy did I even speak up?¨C¡°I just think you¡¯re running a really cool operation here. Cooler than you might realize. It¡¯s still work, but the whole thing seems¡­ fair?¡±


    Christ, my waffling skills were abysmal. Add that to the list of intentional mediocrity! Booyah.


    She looked up from her duties and shot me a stern look. ¡°I don¡¯t run this ship. And following the rules here means that you take care of yourself.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡±


    ¡°I am your employer, sure, and I¡¯ll pay you well to be here, sure, but you should be aware¨Cthere is plenty more going on here than just you and this diner.¡±


    She glanced down at her watch, then sighed. ¡°I usually save this speech for the end of the month, but you already caught me halfway through it. So, the Cole''s notes: if you don¡¯t think you have it in you to follow instructions clearly, without protest, and without asking too many questions, then you should leave. Quit. No harm, no foul. A week¡¯s worth of pay on the house.¡±


    The conversation sputtered shortly after that. I tried to find an opening to ask more about what she meant, but she was closed off to the topic moving forward.


    And you know what? That was fine¨Cif she wanted me to put my head down and just do the work, I could do that.


    And work I did. And things were good. Mundane small talk with the customers was fun, my coworkers were friendly, and I was getting paid well. I¡¯d found a place to park the failures of my life. A place to build from.


    It must¡¯ve been a Saturday, I think, when I first noticed him. An occupied seat in the far corner of the diner. No idea how long he¡¯d been sitting there and waiting, though he certainly looked patient. I had the strange inkling that he¡¯d been left hanging for quite some time, though I couldn¡¯t actually remember seeing him enter.


    Brown corduroy shirt. Short hair. Mid 50s, it seemed. A reasonably calm smile. Normal looking dude.


    I started making my way out from the back and headed towards him.


    Immediately, I felt a tight grip on my arm¨C


    It was Melanie, my boss, with a forceful clutch¨Cenough to make me drop my notepad. Her fingers tightened around my forearm, sharply pinching my skin.


    ¡°Important rules,¡± she said.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°You ¡®member our chat about rules? Well this is the most important one. Okay?¡±


    ¡°Okay¡­?¡±


    ¡°That man, over there, in the corner.¡± She motioned to the man who had caught my attention¨C sitting upright, hands softly clasped together, coy smile across his face. ¡°You don¡¯t go up to him. You don¡¯t say a word to him.¡±


    ¡°But he¡¯s¡­ a customer?¡±


    Her hold intensified¨Cshe was hurting me. Almost as if she was taking out some sort of unseen anger on me.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to ask you right now to be smart enough to not ask questions and just follow instructions. You don¡¯t go to his table, you don¡¯t talk to him. You can look at him. You can shout across the room at him if you¡¯d like¨Cthough I can¡¯t imagine why you¡¯d ever need to do that. But you do not approach him, and you do not take his order.¡±


    ¡°Or¡­?¡±


    A sharp exhale through the nose, a shake of the head, and a glare from my manager. ¡°It¡¯s different every time. But, it ain¡¯t pretty.¡±


    I watched him from the short distance I¡¯d been afforded. It was hard not to. She did too.


    Unlike the other customers here, I didn¡¯t get a sense that he was here to be alone, to reminisce, or to take part in the comfort ritual of a lackluster Eggs Benedict over rye. Instead, I had the sense that he was just¡­ curious. Mild-mannered, content, but curious.


    My shift ended not too long after, so I didn¡¯t actually get a chance to watch him leave. Regardless, the experience of seeing him and learning about the rule he was connected to left a bizarre, dampening feeling on my mood.


    I liked my job. I liked coming home and unwinding. I didn¡¯t mind being in the middle of nowhere.


    It felt nice to look up at the empty sky filled with stars. To see them shimmer and shine, and even occasionally shoot across. I made a wish that things in my life would stay simple.


    ___________________


    I started to get a sense of his cadence. He¡¯d usually show up once a month.


    The rare times I got to see him, I¡¯d try to squeak in the odd question to my boss. Questions like, ¡®Who is he?¡¯, ¡®Where does he come from?¡¯, and ¡®Has anyone spoken with him?¡¯¨Call mechanically met with ¡®I don¡¯t know,¡¯ ¡®I don¡¯t know,¡¯ and ¡®If you¡¯re scared, you¡¯re welcome to quit.¡¯


    Then, as fate would have it, one day boss lady fell incredibly ill. My coworkers and I had to convince her to go home midway through her shift, her sickness falling, uncomfortably, within the usual 1-3 day window at the end of the month when our ¡®customer¡¯ would typically appear.


    And of course, there he was, right after she went home.


    To my benefit, the other waiters and waitresses working the rounds were well aware of his presence and knew exactly what to do whenever he arrived. All of them knew to steer clear of him.


    Nevertheless, driven by a foundational curiosity that I just couldn¡¯t shake, I used this opportunity to go for it. I shouted a single thing across the floor, knowing Melanie wasn¡¯t there to chide me¨C


    ¡°Hello sir! What brings you here?¡± I asked him.


    He turned his head from his fixed position in his seat and put a hand to his ear. Clever.


    ¡°I said, what brings you here?¡± I called out again, a few notches louder this time, garnering some odd looks from our Thursday patrons.


    To my surprise, he spoke back. I¡¯m not sure why I was expecting his voice to carry the tone of some twisted, demented demon¨Cmaybe the fear Melanie had instilled in me? The man sounded exactly how he looked.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry dear,¡± he said, ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m not sure what you¡¯re saying. Can you come over here and ask me again?¡±


    Nope. I was good.


    ¡°And I don¡¯t mean to be rude, about the service,¡± he continued, ¡°But it feels as if no one has taken my order for quite some time now.¡±


    I let the exchange end there, diverting my attention back to the other guests. As always, he¡¯d eventually disappear without fanfare, without the clatter of the entrance bell or any sight or sound of his steps across the diner floor, our backroom conversations about him remaining dreadfully short while he was there¨Cjust: ¡®He¡¯s here,¡¯ and ¡®He¡¯s gone,¡¯ and the odd, when we really needed to say it, ¡®I feel really weird about this.¡¯


    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    It took me a while to understand where my brazenness to address this strange middle-aged man came from. In truth, I was just afraid. His presence and all of the questions tied to his being at our diner were disrupting this otherwise great arrangement that I felt I had. It seemed right, in the moment, to stand at the very edge of my bravery and say something to him. Of course, now that he was gone, I just felt worse.


    The next week, I was invited to something pretty interesting at work.


    I generally have a good amount of visibility into what Melanie, ¡®boss lady,¡¯ does on a daily basis. The only element that remained elusive was her bi-weekly check-in with a particularly sharp-dressed agent-looking-fella. There was a pretty consistent presence of state troopers, agents, and similarly uniformed men and women dropping into the diner, though I seldom paid it mind beyond simply noticing it.


    Midway through wiping down the tables, only an hour or so into my shift, Mel swung by and said:


    ¡°Hey, want you in the meeting with the big boss, if you have a few.¡±


    The big boss? ¡°Uh, sure. Yeah. Coming. Just uh, if you don¡¯t mind me asking, who is¨C¡±


    She let her eyes speak her unwritten rules to me: ¡®questions¡¯ equals ¡®generally bad¡¯. Thank you for the reminder, ma¡¯am.


    We maneuvered to a backroom and sat at a table. Across from us, already seated, was a man in a sharply tailored suit with a subtle earpiece in¨Cthe aforementioned agent. The table was littered with a small, messy stack of notes, papers, and documents.


    He made it a point to size me up, staring me down uninterrupted, like a deer to headlights, no concern at all about how awkward he was making it for me.


    Then, he turned to Melanie.


    ¡°How long she been here?¡± he asked her in his gruff Western drawl.


    ¡°Six months,¡± she said.


    ¡°Y¡¯trust her?¡±


    ¡°I trust her. Yes.¡±


    He let his eyebrows say ¡®If you say so¡¯ then went on with it.


    ¡°Alright, so, apparently y¡¯had a visit from the wandering man last week. You,¡± he said, motioning to Melanie, ¡°were out. But you,¡± attention now shifted to me, ¡°weren¡¯t. Give me the lowdown.¡±


    The wandering man?


    The agent caught the confusion in my eyes.


    ¡°Jesus, you¡¯ve told this girl nothing, haven¡¯t you?¡± he said to Melanie.


    ¡°Sir, I know it sounds weird,¡± she said, ¡°But I personally feel as if the man is almost, I don¡¯t know, drawn to curiosity. Like, maybe the less I say to those not already in the know, the bett¨C¡±


    ¡°Wandering man,¡± the agent cut her off, ¡°Is our nickname for the fella that sits in the corner of your fine little establishment. Or should I say, the state¡¯s fine little establishment.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡± I asked.


    ¡°That¡¯s correct. The state¡¯s. Congratulations, ma¡¯am, you¡¯re part of a government operation. The wandering man, not just a cutesy little nickname but our legal definition of this tricky little problem, is a phenomenon we discovered many years ago. At the time, he¡¯d just walk the desert landscape, chatting up unsuspecting strangers with bizarre questions. Everything fine, all hunky-dory. A little weird, sure, but nothing illegal. However¡­¡±


    However¡­?


    ¡°Sometimes¡­ things would happen because of him. Bizarre things. Grizzly things.¡±


    I could see Melanie groaning, concerned at the picture being painted. Would this pique my curiosity?


    ¡°Have you guys, y¡¯know, taken him in for¡­¡± I almost wanted to cut off my own stupid question, but he ran with it¨C


    ¡°Nope. Not because we don¡¯t want to, but rather, because it¡­ might not be safe.¡±


    The cozy mental image I¡¯d held of this diner was starting to fracture.


    ¡°We have reason to believe that he¡¯s a visitor,¡± he said.


    ¡°From¡­?¡±


    ___________________


    I didn¡¯t attend another debrief after that.


    Not because I was barred, mind you.


    Rather, I just didn¡¯t want to know anymore. My gut no longer held curiosity. There was just a low, aching dread there now.


    The agents and troopers¨Cspaced out and seated amongst the eatery¨Cwere now just a glaring reminder of what my dingy diner job really was.


    The government cavalry would mostly show up around the end of month window the wandering man was set to arrive in. When he¡¯d appear, they wouldn¡¯t do much more than examine him from their distant tables, subtly scribbling notes into notebooks. **


    He¡¯d always act the same. He would just sit there. He wouldn¡¯t give them, or us¨Cthe diner employees¨Cmuch to go on.


    Speaking of employees, I remembered something Melanie told me after my first month of working here¨Cthat the worker turnover at this diner was incredibly high. Knowing at the time what everyone got paid, it made absolutely no sense to me.


    Now, five months into the gig, alongside a completely new set of cooks, waiters, and waitresses from when I¡¯d first started, I¡¯d seen firsthand just how true her statement was. None of the leavers claimed as much, but I¡¯m sure the underlying premise of who the diner was really for became subconsciously clear to them during their time here. And it probably didn¡¯t sit all too well with them.


    I stayed. But not because of the pay. I¡¯m actually not sure why I did.


    We had a new cast of rookie employees now. The ones who understood the vague terms of the situation, just as Melanie, I, and all former employees did, stuck around. Those who couldn¡¯t reconcile the situation with their inherent curiosity, naturally filtered out.


    And then there was Malcolm.


    It was only his first week. He was a keener. Mega-keener. He¡¯d bulldozed through a giant list of tasks and was already asking for the next batch of work to chew through. Anything he could get ahead of, anything he could step in for, anything he could learn, he was on it. He wanted to be as helpful, helpful, helpful as humanly possible. I think the salary of the role, for a guy his young age, was just too alluring for him.


    For our part, Melanie and I tried our best to get him to pace himself.


    We were both giving the spiel now. By this point, we¡¯d more or less perfected it.


    ¡°There are things about this diner that are strange. Rules you will have to follow and not think about. Rules that are concrete, immutable, and non-negotiable, like gravity.¡±


    He nodded. At that moment, I really believed he was internalizing my words.


    ¡°And if that doesn¡¯t work for you, and if you don¡¯t think you can take care of yourself, then you shouldn¡¯t work here,¡± I continued.


    There was always a visceral feeling in my stomach whenever I saw the wandering man in the corner during the same week that we were onboarding new staff. I¡¯m sure Melanie felt it too.


    On those days, Mel and I would both work the till, and if we saw anyone coming out from the back, we¡¯d stop them. With a simple grab of the arm.


    Malcolm stepped out, and I did just that¨Ca rough grasp of his forearm, just like Melanie had done to me when I¡¯d first started. He recoiled in surprise.


    ¡±Remember that little chat about rules we just had?¡± I said.


    He nodded meekly, as if he was already in trouble.


    I pointed to the man seated at the far table in the brown corduroy shirt, staring straight ahead, with¨Cwhat I believed at the time¨Cno real reason to be here, and I said, ¡°You will not, under any conditions, serve that man. Don¡¯t go up to him, don¡¯t talk to him. Pretend he doesn¡¯t exist.¡±


    Malcolm lifted the garbage bag he was holding in his left hand. In my nervousness, I hadn¡¯t actually clocked what he was stepping out for.


    ¡°Just doing garbage duty, ma¡¯am,¡± he said. ¡°But, understood.¡±


    And then he left out the front door with his usual swagger. The dumpster wasn¡¯t as close as we would¡¯ve liked so I appreciated his willingness to take on this duty so soon into his employment.


    I turned back to observe the wandering man. We had a crowd of agents in attendance that day, scattered about the restaurant.


    The man wasn¡¯t one to speak up often. Today was an interesting exception.


    ¡°Officers,¡± he said, ¡°If you have any questions, feel free to join me at the table to ask them.¡±


    The agents around the room reacted mainly with snickers.


    ¡°Seriously, if you come sit with me, I¡¯ll be happy to spill it all. Truly.¡±


    Even more laughs. But no one bit.


    And yet he continued, pointedly. ¡°I know you¡¯re curious, I know you take notes, I know you talk about me, I know you built this establishment for me, I know you¨C¡±


    As I reconciled the fact that this was the most words I¡¯d ever heard him string together in succession, I heard the chime of the bell¨Ca door had opened.


    Malcolm was dusting his hands as he entered through the diner¡¯s side door. A door which was situated right beside the table the wandering man was seated at.


    It all happened so fast. And yet, it played out in front of me excruciatingly slowly, as if there was a moment¨Ca single solitary second¨Cwhere I could¡¯ve stepped in.


    The wandering man dropped any pretext of an exchange with the agents, stopping his sentence midway and adopting a completely new demeanor. He played the role of a low, miserable, tired man and said, ¡°30 visits, terrible service every time,¡± in a pathetic tone just as Malcolm walked by.


    Malcolm, instinctively, plucked a notepad out from his chest pocket and turned his head to face the man.


    ¡°Hey, I got you chief, I can have ¡®em ring something up for you, what are you¨C¡±


    And then Malcolm froze in place.


    And the wandering man¡¯s expression turned Cheshire cat wide. His neck alternated between tensing and fluttering, with what seemed to be undeniable excitement.


    The man started getting up from the table, and then, immediately¨C


    Both of them were gone.


    Malcolm and the wanderer had vanished out of existence entirely.


    The insanity of the moment was interrupted by the coded language I heard blared over a megaphone: nonsensical agent-speak that has been seared into my memory forever.


    ¡°Alert Level Black. Wandering target has compromised a civilian. I repeat, civilian has been compromised.¡±


    And that was that.


    Melanie quit in the days after.


    She wasn¡¯t mad at me.


    She told me she always knew she¡¯d leave after the tenth disappearance. Why that specific milestone was required, I have no clue.


    All I could do from that point was continue to work. On my commutes home, or during lunch breaks, I would look up at the stars, and put out the wish that Malcolm be brought back home. Back from wherever he¡¯d been taken.


    The debrief with the agents brought me no solace. The exchange with them was simple and short. ¡®Where was he taken to?¡¯, answered with ¡®He¡¯s gone now.¡¯


    With a perpetual dagger in my soul now, I had only the smallest of silver linings, if you can even call it that.


    A lesson.


    The lesson that I needed to be even more watchful. Even more diligent. And on days when the wandering man was visiting¨Cthe only server at the diner. No exceptions.


    I knew the agents weren¡¯t happy about that. None of them said it to me explicitly, but I could tell that they would learn something new about him every time he whisked someone away after a mistake was made. It was a weird, Darwinian set-up they had created. We were a zoo they could use to learn more about a specific animal. A specific entity. A specific visitor.


    No dice. They¡¯d just have to watch him sit now. Or wait for him to do something different.


    I waited for the three day stretch at the end of the month that he usually appears in. Things were quiet up until that point.


    When he finally showed up, it wasn¡¯t what I expected.


    For the first time ever, I saw him walk right through the front door.


    In the dead of night, at the tail end of my shift.


    I was at the till, paralyzed, as he took step after step to close the distance.


    And then, he was right there. Standing in front of me.


    And I was sure, absolutely sure, that I was going to die.


    He smiled.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I have my own little set of rules I play by,¡± he said.


    I didn¡¯t say a word. This was no man¡¯s land right now.


    ¡°I know you¡¯ve been curious about me. I¡¯ve admired it from the moment you first spoke up to address me. Cautious curiosity is a great thing to see in someone. Especially in such a reckless species.¡±


    Please. Please just go.


    ¡°I¡¯d like to answer a question about why I¡¯m visiting. I¡¯m sure you¡¯d like to know why I¡¯m here, right?¡±


    I¡¯m not curious anymore. I swear I¡¯m not.


    He laughed. ¡°The answer is really, painfully simple. This little game, this little charade I¡¯m playing. It is just so unbelievably, fun.¡±


    Please don¡¯t kill me. Please.


    ¡°You truly have a wonderful planet. I will return again soon. Promise. Give me a month, maybe two this time.¡± A sincere, kind smile delivered with kind eyes. ¡°I¡¯ll come back with a new game.¡±


    And then he was gone.


    It took me a minute to realize that there was a cake box sitting on the counter beside me. Maybe it was there the whole time he was speaking to me. Maybe it materialized right after he left.


    I opened the box to find Malcolm¡¯s severed head, a blank expression on his face, sitting on a bed of poorly and confusingly organized flowers. Almost as if there was an intention to create a floral arrangement, but no understanding of what something like that would look like.


    On top of the horrific display, written in an almost childlike handwriting, was a note that read ¡°I brought him back, just like you wished.¡±


    The worst thing about being trapped at a diner, in the middle of nowhere, is that you realize that there really is nowhere else to run to.


    Every single part of our planet is blanketed by stars, by open sky.


    Someone could drop in anytime.

 I think my therapist is an energy vampire.

    No one ever plans to become a loser.


    It just sort of happens.


    In my case, for as long as I can remember, I was always shy. Over-sensitive. Anxious. Bad at eye contact. Bad at socializing. Bad at laughing at the punchline¡ªit was always the setup that got me. Not-so-good at sports, no real tangible skills in general, okay at video games.


    Not really what you¡¯d call a winning recipe.


    Now twenty-six years into my journey on this frozen fireball, I was friendless. Girlfriendless. Prospectless, certainly, when it came to things like having a ¡®career¡¯ or ¡®real, meaningful hobbies¡¯. I was trapped in a dopamine loop of sleeping in, sugary cereal featuring a certain famous sea captain, ¡°looking for a job¡±¡ªfor like five minutes, video games, hating myself, more video games, more cereal, scrolling on my phone until I passed out, rinse and repeat.


    My parents, constantly jutting back and forth between easing off the pressure¡ªhoping it would give me space to improve, or insane, Finding Nemo levels of helicopter parenting¡ªhoping it would give me the stress to improve, had opted for a new strategy now.


    Therapy.


    I had to attend four sessions, or I would be kicked out of the house.


    Oof.


    On the list of ¡°things I never ever want to do,¡± spilling my secrets and insecurities out to a complete stranger ranked pretty damn high. Interestingly though, living on the street with no safety net ranked even higher! I wanted to believe that this was yet another empty threat from the perpetual paper tiger couple that was Momma and Dadda, but they were serious. Filled out most of the intake forms themselves and paid for four sessions in advance¡ªserious.


    Begrudgingly, I added my e-signature and clicked ¡®submit¡¯ on the page they¡¯d opened for me. I was going to therapy.


    And so there I was, sat across from Riley, my parent-approved counselor who supposedly specialized in trauma therapy, mindfulness, and something called EMDR (which I Googled and still didn¡¯t quite understand). She looked¡­ frazzled. Tired. I watched her hand move in uneven, hurried strokes across a piece of paper¡ªshe¡¯d started the session by apologizing and asking for two minutes¡ªas I recalled the cursory online search I did about her in the days leading up to the session.


    She was quite new to this. Freshly graduated, recently moved to the city, and just signed on with this practice a few months ago. Her rates were cheaper than most¡ªmy folks¡¯ rationale in choosing her becoming ever more apparent.


    I wasn¡¯t sure if her being green was a good or bad thing when it came to this whole operation. Maybe she wouldn¡¯t know what to do with a headcase like me, and I¡¯d be able to skirt by these sessions on a technicality. We could both just sit in silence together¡ªno word-vomiting for hours about my mommy issues required.


    She folded the piece of paper twice, pocketed it, then shifted her full attention¡ªposture, eyes, soul¡ªtowards me.


    ¡°Hi Elijah,¡± she said.


    ¡°Hi,¡± I said back.


    ¡°It¡¯s nice to meet you. Thank you for coming in today.¡±


    ¡°Of course, and uh, thank you¡­ for¡­ taking the time?¡±


    Jeez. Ten seconds into chatting and I was already crumbling.


    ¡°How has your week been so far?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Uhh, good? I think. Yeah! Good. Fine. Decent.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad to hear that.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I said, with a chuckle for some reason, before deciding to look down at the rug which felt the right thing to do.


    How the fuck do people talk outside of Discord, again?


    ¡°If I may ask, is this your first time working with a counselor?¡±


    I was now in a full-on staring contest with the ground. ¡°Yeah¡ªfirst time.¡±


    She let the silence linger. Dear God, the cruelty of it all. Did this monster not realize I had no idea how to carry a conversation?


    After two eternities¡ªor what lesser humans would call ¡°three minutes give or take¡±¡ªI lifted my eyes back to reach hers.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay if you¡¯re nervous,¡± she said. ¡°Therapy can be a lot.¡±


    ¡°Yeah no, sorry, it¡¯s¡­ my parents, they uh, really wanted me to come here. And I¡¯m uh here now, hah. I think¡ªI think that they¡¯re just, uh, worried about me. And I guess I get it?¡±


    ¡°You guess you get it. Can you explain more about what you mean by that?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I mean, cause they don¡¯t say it with these words but they probably think I¡¯m a¡­ waste of space, I guess. ¡®Cause I am. I mean, I take up space. I¡¯m like, that dude from The Metamorphosis, who turns into a bug, but with like, less shame. Like I just play video games all day, then sort of like hate myself for it, but then continue doing it, and just yeah¡ªdon¡¯t really, have, ambitions I guess, I think ¡®cause I¡¯ve hated every job I¡¯ve ever had, so like¡ªhard to want a job after that right? Hah but uh yeah, I¡¯m, I don¡¯t know, I¡¯m not stoked on myself either so I get it but I also don¡¯t know how to help it cause if I could¡¯ve helped it obviously I would¡¯ve solved it by now, you know¡ª¡±


    And Jesus Christ. I¡¯d just opened the sewer gates and let metric tons of industrial sludge pour into the room.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± I said.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be,¡± she said reassuringly. ¡°It sounds like you¡¯re going through a lot. Like you¡¯re dealing with a lot of different, conflicting feelings within yourself. Which, believe it or not, is actually quite normal.¡± She paused, took a deep breath, and then continued. ¡°If you don¡¯t mind, I¡¯d like to start by saying two very simple things.¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    ¡°First, we have plenty of time together, so don¡¯t worry too much about getting things right. About¡­ getting the words out perfectly, and rushing through your thoughts so you don¡¯t forget anything. This is a space where you are welcome, encouraged even, to take your time to work through things.¡±


    ¡°Right, so if I¡¯m hearing you correctly, I don¡¯t have to talk like an auctioneer?¡±


    Holy crap¡ªshe actually laughed! Sure she was getting paid to be nice to me, but still! When the hell do I ever crack jokes?


    ¡°Second¡­¡± she said, and deep down I hoped and prayed that she¡¯d say something mundane and forgettable because it¡¯s not every day¡ªor ever, actually¡ªthat I sit across from someone and have them actually care about what I say, this particular revelation bringing me concern that I was probably much more prone to liking this woman than the average person¡ª¡°I can tell, from just a couple minutes of talking to you, that you seem like a decent guy. A decent guy who¡¯s maybe just being a little hard on himself.¡±


    Goddamnit. And now, I think I might actually like you. Maybe I do need therapy.


    ¡°And by the way, it¡¯s Gregor Samsa.¡±


    ¡°Sorry?¡±


    ¡°The name of the guy from The Metamorphosis?¡± she said. ¡°By Kafka? It¡¯s Gregor Samsa.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Right.¡±


    Yep. I like you.


    The rest of the sixty-minute session consisted of probing questions, me opening up (see: rambling) about next to everything, and gaining a sense of just how deep my emotional trauma rabbit hole went. All the while, she listened fully, taking notes, smiling, nodding. I felt a cosmic thread between us.


    I felt it after the session, too. A weight.


    It was as if some room had opened up in my chest. A pile of emotional clutter, confusion and sensations I couldn¡¯t put words to had cleared out, making space for something else.


    But what exactly that something else was¡ªI couldn¡¯t quite put a finger on.


    _______________


    My new favorite person wanted to go a bit deeper with session 2.


    If session 1 was ¡°Let me get to know you,¡± 2 was ¡°No, really, get to know you.¡±


    She steered us through the chit-chat of how the week went¡ªthe usual niceties¡ªgrounding us in the room for this meeting I didn¡¯t want to admit I¡¯d been waiting all week for.


    ¡°Now, with your permission,¡± she said, ¡°I want you to take a moment to think about the biggest blocker in your life right now. It could be something external; situational. It could be a feeling that you have about yourself. Or a memory. Maybe, something from your past. Take a minute, and let me know when you¡¯ve found it.¡±


    Okay, here goes nothing¡­


    I thought long and hard about the giant list of negatives that comprised my miserable little life. All of them, in their own ways, jutting compelling knives of anxiety into my throat, my chest, my arms¡ª


    But there was a throughline, within all of them.


    ¡°My biggest blocker is that I think that everyone hates me.¡±


    She wrote it down, mouthed it as she did. ¡°You think¡­¡± scribble scribble ¡°that everyone¡­¡± scribble ¡°hates you...¡±


    ¡°Yeah, but not just think. It feels like it¡¯s been reinforced, through the, I don¡¯t know, things people have said, or ways they¡¯ve acted around me. Like, it¡¯s not just me.¡±


    ¡°I understand,¡± she said, leaning forward as if my state had given her a spark of inspiration. ¡°What I¡¯d like you to do next, if you¡¯re comfortable, is to close your eyes.¡±


    I complied.


    Behind my shut lids, a kaleidoscope of blurred shapes, dots, and splatters started to take form on an otherwise dark canvas.


    ¡°I want you to imagine that this thought, feeling, or concrete belief formed out of a series of life events¡ª¡®Everyone hates me.¡¯¡ªI want you to imagine that it has a name, a voice, and a presence in your mind.¡±


    ¡°Alright.¡±


    ¡°Let me know when you¡¯ve done that.¡±


    ¡°Yep, I¡¯m there,¡± I said. Wasn¡¯t too difficult. My self-hatred makes up most of me, anyways.


    ¡°Great. Now, I¡¯d like you to imagine that there¡¯s a microphone in your mind, and all of these disparate parts of you¡ªanxiety, jealousy, fervor, happiness, fear, love,¡±¡ªyeesh, she really emphasized that last one¡ª¡°they all have access to this microphone, but only you get to decide who holds it.¡±


    ¡°Okay¡­¡±


    ¡°And now I¡¯d like you to give the microphone to the part of you that thinks you¡¯re unlikeable.¡±


    ¡°And then¡­?¡±


    ¡°And then I¡¯m gonna ask you to let it speak.¡±


    And so, I did. And over the next thirty minutes, I let the part of me that hates me tear into me. I cursed myself for the awkward way that I¡¯d try¡ªand fail¡ªto enter conversations by cracking a stupid joke; the self-deprecating persona I¡¯d wear everywhere I went, to the thunderous applause of no new friends made in seven years; cringy memories of simply existing in the highschool hallways and getting bullied for the stupid indie band t-shirts I wore that I thought would make me look smart and sophisticated but actually made me look like a giant tryhard; the gross feeling of simply being in my body and having my abject ugliness perceived by the outside world.


    And as we circled closer to the end of the session¡ªwith me occasionally hearing the sounds of her pen scribbling over paper following the destructive words I uttered about myself¡ªshe finally told me to open my eyes.


    11:59AM. One minute left in our meeting.


    How was she going to wrap things up?


    ¡°That was fantastic work,¡± she said. ¡°You¡¯ve already made so much progress.¡±


    ¡°I have? I-I kind of¡­ feel like shit.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s completely natural. It¡¯s all part of the healing process. You¡¯ll learn to trust it.¡±


    ¡°Uhm, alright.¡±


    And then, an earnest look shot my way. ¡°I¡¯m really, really proud of you.¡±


    Despite the misery that I¡¯d conjured up in this controlled and safe environment, her words lit a small fireworks display in my sternum.


    She rose to her feet from the chair, and I did the same. Simon says.


    As she did, she asked me a final question¡ª


    ¡°Do you have a name for the part of you that you identified in this session? This¡­ self-critical, harsh side of your mind.¡±


    The words came almost instinctively. ¡°My torturer,¡± I said. ¡°It¡¯s my torturer.¡±


    ¡°Your homework for this session is to leave the microphone with your torturer. Do not give it to anyone else.¡±


    _______________


    She told me things were going to feel draining after the last session, but holy shit the level of lethargy was not what I expected.


    There were mornings where I felt like I could barely move. Where even the thought of being lazy was difficult to access at times. Full stretches of day where I could barely keep my eyes open to watch TV.


    I was just sort of there. Existing. Like a husk.


    The voice of misery in my head, it turns out, had a whole lot to say. And as hours and days stretched past, it felt as if the voice was amplifying. All the things I was afraid of about myself¡ªthat I was unlovable, that I¡¯d always hate myself, that I¡¯d remain useless¡ªwere starting to seem more and more concrete. More true.


    Was this really how this was supposed to feel?


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Every time I wanted to ignore Riley¡¯s advice and pass the aux cord in my mind to a more welcoming party¡ªmaybe the self-soother in me, or the optimistic dreamer¡ªI¡¯d remember her words.


    ¡°I¡¯m really, really proud of you.¡±


    I clung onto them like they were an anchor, as the weight in my chest grew exponentially, and used them to drag my increasingly lifeless form into the couch for session 3.


    I¡¯m sure my body and face wore my feelings pretty well, but Riley still found a way to chime in with an almost psychic read on the matter¡ª


    ¡°This whole week, since you left our last session, has been tough for you. Draining. Demoralizing.¡±


    She¡¯d phrased it like a statement, less so a question.


    ¡°Yes,¡± I said, wanting to say more, but I was just so tired, so I mustered out the same word again. ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a misery, deep inside you, that runs further than you realized.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± I said again. At least I wasn¡¯t as afraid of eye contact anymore. My pupils met hers, and through the cosmic thread I thought I shared with her, I spoke more. ¡°So what do I do now?¡±


    She tilted her head, almost bewildered. ¡°Could you elaborate on what you mean?¡±


    ¡°To feel better,¡± I clarified. ¡°What am I supposed to do to feel better now?¡±


    She looked away briefly, as if gathering her thoughts. Then she met my gaze again, resolute. ¡°You continue. You honor your honest feelings and thoughts. You sit with them. You live with them.¡±


    I lowered my head, exasperated. Already sinking. ¡°That can¡¯t be right.¡±


    Her voice felt distant now. Like I was in a void, underwater, helpless, useless. ¡°This is what the work is,¡± I think I heard her say. Muffled. Through static. Lightyears away.


    ¡°The work is fucking awful,¡± I exhaled.


    As I fell deeper, I wondered if this was what I deserved for signing up for cheap therapy. Maybe she was in over her head.


    Or maybe, the behind-the-TV cord untangling of my various neuroses and traumas was a tall order for anyone, regardless of how qualified they might¡¯ve been.


    I shot my thousand-yard stare down at the familiar rug.


    I guess I could try to stay in this misery a little longer. Wallow in it, if that was really the point of all this.


    I closed my eyes. She hadn¡¯t said a word for a while anyway.


    Maybe if I stay still enough, I can just disappear.


    Then, I felt a warmth at the back of my neck. A comforting, unfamiliar warmth. A soft hand ran up and down my back, consoling. Another hand, with nails gently curling into the hair at the back of my head.


    The warmth at the back of my neck persisted.


    Kisses.


    I was being caressed.


    What?


    ¡°I could tell you were different,¡± she said. ¡°You have a helplessness that runs so, so, so deep.¡±


    What are you d¡ª


    ¡°You¡¯re alright. There isn¡¯t a thing wrong with you. You¡¯re perfect, even if the world shuns your pain.¡±


    More kisses at the nape of my neck.


    I knew this was against every rule in the therapist-client code. And yet, I didn¡¯t want her to stop. It was the most meaningful moment I¡¯d ever experienced in my life. It felt like she saw me, saw all of me¡ªall the ugly that made up what I really was, and accepted it.


    ¡°You¡¯re a special person to me,¡± she said. ¡°You¡¯re my favorite person.¡±


    And after that, session 3 dissolved into a dreamlike haze. I can barely remember what happened after. I know she held me, I know we spoke, I know she wanted me to continue with the important work we were doing, but beyond that, it all sort of blurred together.


    Regardless, this had to be love, right?


    People don¡¯t just do that, to people they¡¯re like¡ªacademically interested in, right?


    _____________


    I wanted to die.


    In the week following the previous session, I had become a zombie.


    I was sleeping thirteen, maybe fourteen hours most days, but would wake up feeling like I¡¯d just pulled an all-nighter.


    I¡¯d come off of the highest high ever, and yet, I was steeped in a depressive malaise that was as overwhelming as it was incomprehensible.


    The very nature of my thinking had become warped. My mental chatter was fully contained to the negative, the tiring, the hopeless, the cynical. The thoughts ping-ponged across my mind quietly and consistently¡ªthe remaining dregs of energy in my body being rerouted there and there alone to keep this whole miserable operation going.


    I was hoping for an upswing. Praying for one.


    Praying for the work to pay off.


    In the meantime, hanging on for dear life to the singular spark left in me¨Cthe singular flutter in my chest. Getting to see her again.


    Session 4.


    She was late to let me in.


    When she finally opened the door, I noticed she was more jovial than I¡¯d ever seen her. Laughing with a coworker and taking her time to get things set up.


    A vibrant smile marked her face as I sat across.


    I felt like muck. A big, stinking, ugly, disgusting, should¡¯ve-been-shot-in-the-face-and-left-for-dead-yesterday pile of muck.


    And she looked like she was in the prime of her life, radiating a level of pep and excitement worlds away from her usual demeanor. She sized me up and said¡ª


    ¡°You¡¯re at your absolute lowest point, aren¡¯t you.¡±


    Again¡ªphrased more like a statement than a question.


    I nodded.


    ¡°This is the most miserable you¡¯ve ever felt.¡±


    Another nod.


    And then¡ªthe strangest look from her. A hint of invigoration paired with a hint of sympathy. Like a billionaire trying to feel bad.


    ¡°Do you¡­ think you have it in you to try our next exercise?¡±


    Is it going to help? Is any of this going to help? Or are we just digging my grave here?


    ¡°I¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m doing.


    ¡°Can you please, just, hold my hand,¡± I said, in less than a whisper.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry? Could you please repeat that again?¡±


    ¡°Could you please¡­ hold my hand,¡± I said again, a few decibels louder this time.


    She didn¡¯t move.


    ¡°There¡¯s a new exercise I¡¯d like you to do. I think it¡¯ll really help with the work.¡±


    I don¡¯t get it.


    What happened?


    Why don¡¯t you like me anymore?


    And as my thoughts, formed from anxious synapses in the pockets of my chest, arms, and back, spiraled about yet another new thing, about why it felt like my therapist seemed happier yet colder, and that the world where she held me was just an illusion, a lie¡ªI caught a flicker in Riley¡¯s eyes and the suppression of a smile at the corner of her mouth.


    What¡­ are you?


    But my spoken word was just, ¡°Okay.¡±


    She straightened her back against the chair. Eager.


    ¡°I want you to take a deep breath,¡± she said. ¡°And I want you to close your eyes.¡±


    She took a long inhale, motioning for me to do the same. I tried to match.


    I knew whatever we tried now was only going to make things worse, yet I followed, propelled by the remaining spark of light in me¡ªa faith, a hope¡ªhope that she was actually in my corner. Hope that she was actually trying to help me.


    ¡°So we¡¯ve spent some time giving attention, and a voice, and a microphone, to the part of you that dislikes yourself.¡±


    Yes. Yes we have. Probably more than it warrants at this point.


    ¡°I want you to try and visualize this part of you now. Try to bring it forward in your mind. Can you see it?¡±


    I focused, and to my shock, in the darkness behind my closed eyes, the image of my torturer was unbelievably and immediately clear¡ª


    A face poking out of a thin, black mist.


    With the widest smile I¡¯d ever seen. And eyes like glowing slits.


    Eager to close the distance and reach me. Excited at the prospect that I was afraid.


    ¡°Describe it to me,¡± she said.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡±


    I opened my eyes.


    ¡°No.¡±


    I stood up from my seat. Lifeless. Energyless.


    A good hard look at the only person I liked, who was thrashing about my insides like it was nobody¡¯s business.


    But even in her radiant energy and today¡¯s brightness, she just looked pitiful. Sad and small.


    I carcassed away from her, and towards the door, with literal baby steps.


    And heard a phrase come from her as I reached the archway.


    ¡°I thought you¡¯d be the one who stayed.¡±


    _______________


    I shuffled down the hallway.


    The voices and sounds around me were muddled, like we were all underwater.


    I was going to leave her behind.


    And I was going to return to my life of¡­ light misery. Light depression, light alienation, dopamine-fueled habits chasing light contentment, and subtle despair buried under layers and layers of light distraction.


    And for a second, everything settled in my mind, and her words played.


    ¡°I¡¯m really, really proud of you.¡±


    A step forward.


    ¡°You¡¯re a special person to me.¡±


    And another. One foot in front of the next, that¡¯s how we were taught to do it.


    ¡°I can tell, from just a couple minutes of talking to you¡ª¡±


    I tried to erase the voice from my head.


    But then the moment¡ªthe sensation of being held in her arms, and being kissed by her¡ªstarted coming to the forefront of my mind.


    And almost like a hallucination, the image of it started playing on the walls and doors beside and in front of me, grainy and flickering, as if broadcast by an old, worn-out projector.


    And I felt love for her.


    And more so I felt pity for her.


    And I understood that all of these emotions of compassion for her were irrational and unnecessary.


    And I realized it didn¡¯t matter because I¡¯d been compromised by her for quite some time now.


    And I walked back.


    It felt like it was under my own volition, but¡ªwho knows.


    _________________


    ¡°You came back.¡±


    I don¡¯t actually remember re-entering the room, nor what I said when I did.


    It was all another surreal blur.


    When I came to, I was seated out on the couch, holding a goodbye letter that she¡¯d been partway through writing to me before I¡¯d stepped back into her office.


    Dear Elijah,


    I¡¯m not a normal person.


    I¡¯ve been this way for as long as I can remember.


    Some people need socializing. Some people need rest. Some people need sports. Some people need soap operas. Some people need sunshine. I need


    And of course, it ended there, cut off by my return.


    I lifted my eyes from the piece of paper in my hands and looked at her to finish.


    ¡°I need people¡¯s will to live. In all its forms. Depression, anxiety, hopelessness, misery. These are springs where I get my water.¡± She looked ashamed as she said it. ¡°I will always cherish the time we spent together. Signed¡ªRiley.¡±


    I let the words sit in my empty body.


    No one had ever written me a letter before.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been giving you life?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she answered.


    I understood, truly, this time.


    And then I closed my eyes and visualized the entity I¡¯d given life to. I pictured my torturer again.


    The face in the fog reappeared.


    ¡°What next?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Elijah, you don¡¯t have to do this anym¡ª¡±


    ¡°I wanna try. I wanna try to make this work. What next?¡±


    A hesitation in her response. No words, at first. But then¡ª


    ¡°Describe the emotions you feel in your body, as you see the picture in your mind.¡±


    I focused.


    ¡°I feel¡­ a tightness in my chest. There¡¯s an uncomfortable, unmovable, weighted box sitting there. And the feeling of it is permeating outwards, and I feel tired, and helpless, and sad, and the sensations are going through my arms, my legs, my back, my head.¡±


    ¡°Label this feeling. What is it?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s the feeling of not belonging. Of being terrified of the world. Of feeling small, weak, unlovable and unsafe in the face of everything.¡±


    ¡°Good. Now, try to remember the earliest instance when you felt this way. When this feeling of ¡®not belonging¡¯ was within you.¡±


    ¡°I¡­I¡ª¡±


    I let the image of my torturer melt into the void behind my eyelids, and allowed a newer, livelier scene to appear in my head.


    ¡°I was at a bar,¡± I said, ¡°I¡¯d been given an invite to an outing, sort of as an afterthought, and when I got there everyone ignored me and treated me like shit and¡ª¡±


    ¡°I want you to go further back, Elijah. Find an older memory.¡±


    I followed the time-traveling string of self-hate in me and let my mind conjure up new memories.


    High school.


    ¡°It was tenth grade, and I¡¯d just switched schools, and it was first week, and I was already an outcast, and every lunch hour the kids would¡ª¡±


    ¡°Even further. Keep going.¡±


    I immediately tried to spin up more scenes in my head.


    A new image now. Suburban streets, holding my mom¡¯s hand as she walked me home from school.


    ¡°I was seven I think, and mom picked me up after I got in trouble at school, and she uh¡­ told me that she wished I¡¯d never been born, and I didn¡¯t know who to talk to about it because¡ª¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re almost there now. Hold the feeling and go deeper. There must be something more.¡±


    The next one hit me instantly. The recollection of me crawling and knocking something over, and Dad getting unbelievably mad at me¡ª


    ¡°It¡¯s so weird, because Dad freaked out, but he was usually so nice, and, why would anyone even get mad at a kid who¡¯s just crawling, like I was so little, it doesn¡¯t even make any sen¡ª¡±


    ¡°I can feel you. We¡¯re so close. Describe how it felt in the moment¡ª¡±


    ¡°It felt confusing, and overwhelming, and I felt unsupported, and unloved, and I didn¡¯t feel safe there I didn¡¯t feel safe¡ª¡±


    Dad¡¯s image in my memory started to transform¡ªthe look on his face twisting and warping into something demented¡ª


    ¡°Hold this feeling, this exact feeling, and now try to find, perhaps, the earliest instance of this sensation¡ª¡±


    How can I go earlier than crawling?


    What am I doing?


    ¡°I¡­¡±


    And yet, it came.


    Something even earlier.


    And it was hard to speak.


    ¡°What do you see, Elijah?¡±


    I wasn¡¯t sure how to say it.


    ¡°I was born, I think.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    ¡°I was in the operating room, and I saw white walls, white everything, and I felt unsafe, and unseen, and the doctors seemed distracted. Disinterested. And this all felt too big, too much for me.¡±


    ¡°This is the moment,¡± she said.


    The appearance of the doctors began to shift now too.


    ¡°What do you feel now?¡±


    ¡°I was ripped out too soon, I¡¯m at the whim of the world, I don¡¯t feel safe.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t feel safe,¡± she said. Then¡ª¡°Hold this moment, frame this moment, press it to your conscience, don¡¯t let it go¡ª¡±


    The whole scene in my head started evolving, into undistilled misery, discomfort, and terror.


    The doctors became less human yet more familiar. The room turned to black, as their faces lit up like they were glow-in-the-dark.


    They all looked like my torturer now.


    Riley spoke intensely. ¡°If this image, this moment, were framed forever, what would the caption be?¡±


    Why am I doing this to myself?


    ¡°I am not safe or loved in this world,¡± I said, as both the image and the feeling became hellish. I felt myself sinking.


    ¡°Repeat it, like a mantra,¡± she said. ¡°You are not safe or loved in this world.¡±


    ¡°I am not safe or loved in this world,¡± I said again.


    ¡°Again, say it, with everything you have,¡± she shouted, stern, activated, relishing, receiving life¡ª


    ¡°I am not safe! I am not loved. I never was.¡±


    And as the image, the memory took on a life of its own, turning into a funhouse mirror nightmare where the medical staff grew bigger smiles and twisted forms that stretched up to the ceiling as they peered down on baby Elijah, I heard the doctors say:


    "Congratulations, ma''am! And now, he can be unborn."


    I opened my eyes. I had to.


    She was crouched in front of me. Inches from my face.


    And she too wore the face of my torturer.


    Her hand caressed my cheek.


    And then¡ª


    It was her again. Riley with her own face. Full of life and vigor and sunshine.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she said with soft, apologetic, bright and open eyes, and I didn¡¯t want to be on this planet anymore and I wished I¡¯d never been born but then she kissed my lips and it was still not okay but it certainly helped.


    _________________


    I¡¯m not sure what the exact day was that I stopped being her client and started being her boyfriend.


    Granted, the line was always fuzzy after session three anyways.


    I¡¯ve spent the last four weeks living with her.


    We¡¯re still figuring some things out.


    I can¡¯t be an endless reservoir of energy for her to siphon every single day, as eventually, there¡¯s nothing left for her to drain.


    So, on date nights, we¡¯ll go to various locations where she can access some of the raw, palpable emotions of sensitive people. Slam poetry nights are great for this, as are open mics.


    Occasionally, we¡¯ll even find a couple arguing in a coffee shop or restaurant and try to find the closest seat.


    She tells me that these nights are helpful to tide her over, but that ultimately, she¡¯s a more traditional energy vampire¡ªand hence, much prefers it when she gets all of her energy needs from the one person she¡¯s in a committed engagement with.


    And so, on the whole, whether it¡¯s going back through painful memories or conjuring up the image of the part of me that hates myself¡ªalways a winner¡ªI do what I can to ensure there¡¯s always something for her to pull from, to inflame. Always misery on hand for her to tap into and find joy from.


    The bulk of my days are spent with a severely diminished quality of life. Lower energy all the time, depression, suicidal ideation, wanting to stay in bed all day.


    Seeing the worst in everyone¡ªpeople are unkind, selfish, machiavellian, flesh-eating, back-stabbing, two faced liars who don¡¯t even know themselves well enough to¡ª


    But then sometimes I¡¯ll spend a nice night with her. And like heroin, it¡¯s a net negative, except for the brief flicker when it goes through my veins.


    She¡¯s been much happier as of late. She told me that one of my emotions has been working really, really well for her. She isn¡¯t quite sure which one it is though.


    I use my remaining energy to curl a smile. I¡¯m just glad she¡¯s happy. I¡¯d rather not let her know that the emotion is fear.


    It¡¯s unfortunate.


    I¡¯ve been seeing the face of my torturer more and more since Riley first kissed me.


    It shows up on the faces of people as I walk down the street. Sometimes, as a figure at the end of an alleyway. Other times, the weatherman on TV.


    It¡¯s taking over all of the faces in my dreams.


    And even at night, when she¡¯s caressing my hair, thinking I¡¯m sleeping, and looking down at me and smiling¡ªI see it there too, through the thin cracks of my eyelids.


    And I try my best to bear through it.


    After all, she¡¯s just getting her needs met.

 Theres something special about the woman at the bar

    I still remember the first time she came in.


    I was tired. It¡¯d been a long shift.


    I¡¯d chosen to start serving at this particular establishment because it had a reputation of being slow. Had is the operative word here. At one point in time, I could assemble a drink and have a man¡ªmaybe late 50s, early 60s¡ªsit at the bar and look down wistfully, spouting off his regrets about a wasted life. I would get to listen. It was background noise. Therapeutic, honest background noise in a world full of characters and bullshit.


    But, lo and behold, this particular haunt I picked started becoming all the rage for young people.


    Blech. Who needs ¡®em, right?


    All full of life, vigor, and energy. Smiles and excitement about the future. Wanting to party, wanting to flirt, wearing layer upon layer of forced personas.


    ¡°Hey chief,¡± says the guy, curling two fingers while dressed up in clothes daddy bought. ¡°We, uh, want a round for this whole group, yeah?¡± he says, forcing his voice down two octaves while doing his best imitation of an alpha male. Just off a bender of binge-watching hours of Charisma on Command videos? I¡¯d want to say but wouldn¡¯t.


    And of course, the people surrounding this man, all wearing masks of their own. Fake cheers, fake gratitude, and pretty girls penny-pinching through college more than happy to get a free drink off this schmuck before getting the fuck out of dodge and¡ª


    God, I was sick of it.


    But, as is the case with life, the places I did want to be were out of range. Unattainable.


    The dive bars filled with the seedy, miserable, philosophical crowd I craved were just too far away from the shitty apartment I lived in to justify working at. An honest environment would¡¯ve cost me too much in gas prices unfortunately¡ªenough that my nonexistent paycheck would¡¯ve gone towards breaking even at absolute best.


    She came in while I was making a rum and coke for someone. A double.


    I wasn¡¯t one to project favorable feelings onto a stranger. I was thrown to find, as I saw her enter the bar, that I didn¡¯t immediately hate her.


    She looked like an absolute stranger to the establishment. Yet, I got no sense that she saw herself as above it. It felt like she was a human being. Someone who needed to be here for some reason, but was unequipped for it. Like she felt silly. Like she found the music to be too loud, too overwhelming.


    I watched her take awkward steps through the chaos of the floor, ever-so-slowly weaving past people unable to move because they lacked spatial awareness, and because she couldn¡¯t muster up the words ¡°excuse me¡± for some reason. She was too kind. Too polite.


    And then, she was right in front of me. She looked up instinctively, as if expecting a menu, and then down at the counter, as if expecting a QR code, and then she just sort of shuffled closer, with an energy like she was afraid of interrupting something even though I was looking right at her, doing literally nothing else, fully prepared to take her order.


    ¡°So, I don¡¯t drink.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t drink,¡± I repeated back, deadpan.


    ¡°Not really. I¡¯m bad with, like, knowing¡­ what to get.¡±


    ¡°Well, let¡¯s keep it simple I guess. Did you want a beer? More partial to a cocktail, maybe?¡±


    ¡°Ooh! Cocktail. I love cocktails.¡±


    ¡°So you do drink.¡±


    ¡°I drink, but like, not in a fancy or informed way. Usually I just get what the other person¡¯s drinking. But the other person isn¡¯t here yet, so I guess I¡¯ll get whatever tastes the most like juice.¡±


    I failed to suppress a laugh. Hearing those words from a fully grown adult was something else.


    ¡°Oh I¡¯m sorry,¡± she said, ¡°Are you gonna look down on me for not being all bougie about my drinks? I guess what I meant to say was¡ªI want something hoppy, aged 24 years, from Ireland, with a bit of a kick, maybe a sour¡ª¡±


    ¡°You are melding so many unrelated things together right now, it is crazy¡ª¡±


    ¡°Actually, I¡¯m just a trailblazer and completely ahead of my time.¡± And then, a look in her eyes as if she was beaming the words ¡®Yes, I¡¯m aware I¡¯m a dork¡¯ right at me. ¡°And I am absolutely, positively, not an uninformed loser.¡±


    I finished making her a Pina Colada and handed it to her.


    ¡°I hope you enjoy your drink, ma¡¯am.¡±


    A sweet, appreciative curl of her lips as she tapped her card, then turned to leave. She was back to the hurricane of people swirling across the room. I watched her body take on an awkward pantomime performance of¡ªhow the fuck do I find a table through this sea of mayhem?


    My eyes stayed with her for longer than I¡¯d like to admit.


    And then I realized¡ªI was smiling. And it wasn¡¯t as a courtesy or a lie or a way to make someone think I was listening while I was off in maladaptive daydream land.


    She sat at an elevated rustic corner table by an antique mirror¡ªthe one closest to the bathrooms. A table that could seat a lot of people, but only had her.


    The other person joined her eventually. I caught them talking at odd intervals as I fell back into my miserable shift at my miserable job, fielding the same two repetitive questions from doe-eyed 20 year olds: ¡°What¡¯s it like being a bartender?¡± and ¡°Did you always want to get into this line of work?¡± ¡ª¡±No,¡± I wanted to say to both questions.


    My eyes would continually drift over to that corner table as the hours ticked away. I felt a pang of jealousy as I saw her hold the hand of the man seated across from her. A man who looked like he was having a rough go of it¡ªwistful at times, borderline miserable at others, and occasionally tinged with nostalgia. He was all emotion.


    And she was consoling him, it seemed. Hearing his heart¡¯s story.


    We closed in on midnight, and the two of them were still there. She wasn¡¯t saying much of anything, but he was certainly saying all of everything by the looks of it.


    Her eyes remained steadfast on him, nodding as she took in his every word.


    -----------------


    It was early in my late shift.


    Tuesday night. Things were slow, but not too slow.


    It was ideal.


    Quiet. I could focus on the white noise of murmured, tired conversations, the clinking of glasses. It was like a meditation tape. My equivalent of the soothing sounds of the ocean.


    I had time to make my drinks with love. Err, not so much love but¡ªfocus. That¡¯s the word.


    A man arrived at the counter. He looked familiar.


    It took a second for me to place him.


    The gentleman from the other night. The one who sat across from the bashful woman who caught my eye. The one that got to hold her hand.


    He¡ªon that particular night, anyways¡ªwas a basket of complex emotions.


    Now, however, there was a certain calmness to him. A groundedness. He looked peaceful, like his head was finally above water.


    ¡°Hey, what can I fix you up with?¡±


    ¡°You have my permission to surprise me,¡± he said humbly.


    I snickered. If this was her boyfriend, or husband, he certainly had an interesting rhythm to his moods.


    I grabbed a glass and a muddler and started preparing an Old Fashioned for him. As I did, in betrayal to my usual approach to customer service¡ªI asked him a non-logistical question:


    ¡°And how¡¯s your day?¡±


    He took a genuine beat to collect his thoughts¡ªeyes raised diagonally at the ceiling, a thoughtful twist at the right corner of his mouth, and a contemplative, repetitive nod as if the words were playing in his head like a metronome. Then¡ª


    ¡°You ever just feel¡­ grateful?¡± he said. ¡°Grateful that everything¡¯s finally come together, it all makes sense now, and it¡¯s all gonna be alright?¡±


    ¡°Hah! Cannot say I know the feeling, but envious for sure.¡±


    ¡°Guess I¡¯m quite the lucky man.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you are.¡±


    Based on his reaction, I don¡¯t think the reference landed for him. It seemed like he had a wonderful woman in his life, hence¡ªlucky!


    He instead seemed to take the message in a much more vague, almost cosmic way.


    ¡°I do have to tell you though, quite sincerely, that it ain¡¯t all luck.¡± He shot me a knowing look.


    ¡°You gotta really put yourself out there. You have to be open. Emotionally naked. Those are the things it takes to find your home. Your people.¡±


    Don¡¯t think I¡¯ll be there anytime soon, good sir.


    I gave him the drink, and he made his way back to that same corner table.


    For the few remaining times that night that he accidentally slipped into my eyeline as I was loitering on the clock, he was the perfect picture of contentment.


    -----------------


    Another busy night in my self-inflicted holding pattern of a career.


    Some people say that bartenders are modern day philosophers. Those people are stupid.


    It¡¯s a customer service gig like any other. Only difference here is you give people alcohol to leave you alone, but it never, ever works.


    This night was particularly stressful. We were down a person. I hated when we were down a person. When we were down a person, my boss would yell. And then I would wonder why the fuck I didn¡¯t just finish college. And so the domino effect of self-loathing would go.


    There were too many people, asking for too many drinks.


    I almost didn¡¯t even notice she was there.


    She¡¯d brought a new person this time. Arms linked. Girlfriends out for an evening.


    She approached the bar yet again, sheepish as before. Interestingly, the girl she was with seemed like her polar opposite. She looked decisive. Focused. Fake. A paper tiger¡ªthat was my assessment.


    ¡°Hey,¡± said the one I was more sympathetic to, with a couple of verbal stumbles after the ¡®Hey.¡¯ ¡°Wait¡ªshoot¡ªdid I never actually get your name the last time we talked?¡±


    ¡°Brian,¡± I said.


    ¡°Which means I never gave you my name either¨C¡±


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    ¡°Nope,¡± I said, cutting off what felt like it was going to be a self-effacing apology.


    She extended her hand. ¡°I¡¯m Monica. And I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯m usually better about that. That meaning, polite enough to ask someone¡¯s name.¡± I returned her greeting. She gave me one of the firmest handshakes I¡¯d ever received. ¡°Okay, so we know each other¡¯s names now, which is good. This¡ª¡± she said, motioning to the friend beside her, ¡°Is Sabrina. And Sabrina,¡± she gestured back to me, ¡°this is Brian. Okay, great, good. Now that we¡¯re all friends, Brian, I¡¯d love it if you could make the same drink you made last time. If you, uh, remember what it was.¡±


    ¡°You mean the one where you asked me to make you juice?¡±


    The barb only brought a cheeky laugh from her. ¡°Yes, the very same!¡±


    I watched them from behind the counter later. They were at that same, distant table. Of course they were.


    I wanted to judge them. I really, really did. The shift had been a headache and fancying myself as better than the unwashed masses was exactly what the doctor was ordering.


    I wanted so badly to assume that Sabrina was the shallow friend to Monica, a person who actually seemed somewhat kind. Somewhat genuine.


    But as Monica held Sabrina¡¯s hand over the table, looking at her as if she was the only person that existed in our wretched cosmos, and Sabrina in turn spoke openly as she cycled through ugly laughs, ugly crying, ugly reminiscing¡ªemotional whiplash that I couldn¡¯t quite keep up with¡ªall I saw was a person shedding any semblance of a front; peeling off layers of emotional make-up, becoming completely raw to the person they were in front of. Laying it all out there, frankly, for Monica to receive with quiet nods and gentle affirmations.


    Their conversation went on for hours.


    Their drinks¡ªthe Pina Coladas I made¡ªwere still in front of them, chipped away at with only the lightest of sips over the course of their conversation. Glasses half full¡ªor half empty, I guess¡ªdepending on how you look at things.


    -----------------


    Three weeks passed before I saw Monica again.


    The thought of her would cross my mind every now and then¡ªthe strange want to actually talk to her. With how much my life was dimmed by forced, transactional conversations, it was a foreign feeling.


    Finally, on a night where I arrived late for work, I saw her. Seated in the corner, a barely touched drink in front of her, hand gently resting on the man beside her as he poured his heart out to her.


    Completely different guy from the last guy.


    And at this point I was convinced, as I watched the man emote as if he¡¯d just come from a Brene Brown Ted Talk, that she was some sort of modern, new age therapist. ¡°55 minute sessions? Pftt¡ªwhat about 3 to 5 hours at a bar? That¡¯s really help us curb your existential dread!¡±¡ªher imaginary words, not mine.


    I caught some conflicting feelings in myself as I looked on.


    Despite how awkward she could be, there was some sort of bizarre charisma or allure there¡ªthe charisma of someone being completely themselves.


    It made me nervous, though it was hard to put a finger on why.


    Nevertheless, the hours passed. Work was work, and as I finished exhausting my reservoirs of nods and smiles in exchange for compliments, platitudes, and the occasional openly rude customer, my eyes flitted over to her table. To Monica saying goodbye to her new client, or friend, or lover¡ªwhoever he was. A long hug. Then, a very deep glance into the stranger''s eyes.


    An intense glance. A loving glance.


    And then, they parted.


    Huh. So, maybe, scratch therapist?


    Or, alternatively, a very, very new age therapist?


    Curse you, pangs of jealousy. I¡¯m 35 now. I should be beyond feelings at this point.


    She approached the bar.


    ¡°Hey,¡± I said.


    ¡°Brian,¡± she said, leaning her elbow onto the bar with an animated, almost full-body exhale.


    ¡°How are you?¡±


    ¡°Would it be uncool of me to say I¡¯m tired?¡±


    ¡°Why would that be uncool?¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯re a bartender, so ¡®I¡¯m tired¡¯ probably describes your entire evening.¡±


    ¡°Oh! Well, I mean, if I were off the clock then I¡¯d say absolutely you¡¯re being uncool you jerk¡ªbut, since I¡¯m working, no not at all. D¡¯ya have any traumatic stories you wanted to share? War memories? Tales about the one that got away?¡±


    ¡°War stories for days,¡± she said with a soft chuckle, then an even softer ¡°No¡­¡± and then a more serious, ¡°Hey.¡±


    ¡°Hi,¡± I said again.


    ¡°You¡¯re probably wondering what I¡¯m doing at the corner of the bar, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I am actually.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m helping people.¡±


    ¡°Are you a therapist?¡±


    She smiled.


    ¡°I suppose that¡¯s one way to look at it.¡±


    ¡°I think I¡¯m a bit confused.¡±


    She picked her words carefully.


    ¡°I find people who are like me. People who maybe feel like they don¡¯t belong. Outsiders. Folks who are tired of pretending that they¡¯re okay living in an uncaring world. And I connect with them. And I build friendships with them. Meaningful connections.¡±


    ¡°How do you know that someone¡¯s an outsider?¡±


    A pause, And then¡ª


    ¡°It¡¯s all in the eyes.¡±


    -----------------


    She told me that I was welcome to sit with her on one of my days off. We could go to another pub if I didn¡¯t want to spend my off hours where I worked.


    Strange as the proposition was, I went for it. At this point, I¡¯d sussed her out as being a truthful, open, and vulnerable person. Someone who seemed, at times, confused about it all. Confused in an endearing way. A way that felt different. Special.


    A way that made me want to know more.


    On a night we both agreed upon, I met her at a different joint on the other side of town. I sat across from her, curiously skeptical about how all of this would go.


    And then hours passed.


    And within them, I opened up. Truly.


    It¡¯s sort of hard not to spill it all when someone gives you their absolutely undivided attention. With perfect eye contact and affirmations pulled out of the book of Mr. Rogers, she sat there, statuesque, as I whittled off details about my childhood, my confusion about life, feelings of aimlessness, shame at how fucking judgmental I could be, and everything more. All of my misplaced anger, my vitriol.


    There were no real horror stories in my past, it turns out. Nor any major present-day ailments that were bringing me misery. Putting up walls and scrutinizing strangers were just my coping mechanisms for being over-socialized and in my head about it all.


    At the end of the night, she gave me that same look of endearment she gave to the other man, as a sort of peace¡ªa camaraderie¡ªcame over me.


    ¡°You¡¯re alright,¡± she said, hand gently cradling my cheek. ¡°It¡¯s the world that¡¯s stealing your joy from you.¡±


    It seemed as if the words held more weight for her than they did me. But, I nonetheless obliged, with a sort of silent agreement. An internal nod.


    I felt warm about it all. She gave me the tightest hug imaginable before leaving, and whispered in my ear as she did: ¡°I know a way things can be better. If you¡¯re interested, find me again.¡±


    -----------------


    I hadn¡¯t seen her at the bar for quite some time.


    And I have to admit, it made me antsy.


    It was hard to have someone Mary Poppins waltz their way into your life, be utterly emotionally naked with no reservations, allow you to do the same, and then disappear right after teasing some cosmic secret about the answer to all of life¡¯s problems.


    During this period of lack, I found myself softening in my role as liquid therapist a bit. People¡¯s idiosyncrasies, their ¡®faking it¡¯ personas, their buried miseries, posturing, need to party, flirt, fight, mentions of beta-sigma-alpha-omega, ability to lie to themselves, desire to run away from themselves¡ªfrom everything, actually. I understood it. I sympathized with it.


    We¡¯re all just trying.


    I mean, I was still a judgmental P.O.S. 85% of the time, but hey, that remaining 15%¡ªwe can call that an improvement.


    I was at the tail end of the kind of slow shift that made you curse yourself for ever hating the busy ones.


    I closed up shop and there she was¡ªin the doorway¡ªas I was leaving.


    I didn¡¯t have it in me to pretend I wasn¡¯t enthused to see her.


    Instead, I ran up to her and hugged her.


    ¡°I missed you,¡± I said, with the delivery of a nerd at prom.


    ¡°I hope you¡¯ve been well,¡± she said, returning the embrace.


    It felt nice.


    ¡°You said that things could be better. I wanna know how,¡± I said.


    She smiled, her lips and eyes lighting up.


    ¡°Of course. Let me show you. Do you want to come over?¡±


    -----------------


    It¡¯s funny¡ªthere¡¯s a certain connotation that comes with being invited to a sort-of stranger¡¯s place at closing time.


    Yet, I was absolutely sure¡ªMonica¡¯s head and intentions were in a completely different space from the rest of the waking and drinking world.


    We sat on her sofa together. She gave me a tender look.


    ¡°I made something to help explain everything you¡¯re feeling. I hope it¡¯ll be helpful.¡±


    I exhaled slowly, then nodded.


    She got up and popped a shabby, plain-white DVD, marked with Sharpie scribbles, into the player.


    She returned to the couch as the video started on her TV.


    Over a black screen, an odd disquieting melody played that I believe was intended to be


    comforting¡ªsoft synthesizers and strange notes.


    Then, a narration.


    ¡°We are not our bodies. Instinctively, we all know this.¡±


    It was Monica¡¯s voice, speaking over footage of the cosmos. Galaxies and stars.


    ¡°We look closely at this world, as the delicate, sensitive souls that we are. And we can tell: we don¡¯t belong here.¡±


    Footage from earth. Empty woods. Empty parks. Empty cities.


    ¡°Our 3-dimensional forms. Holding our souls down.¡±


    And then, a slide-show of images that resembled pages from a high school biology textbook. A diagram of the human body, with a line pointing to the chest saying ¡®SOUL¡¯. Lines coming from the arms, the head, the legs, eyes, ears, all labeled as ¡®NOT SOUL¡¯.


    ¡°And if we stay here long enough, our soul will wither away and die.¡±


    Another textbook-style diagram, but of a decomposing body this time.


    ¡°Even if we appear healthy.¡±


    Footage of the ocean now. It looked like an amateur video, taken by someone actually wading in the middle of the sea.


    ¡°We don¡¯t know who brought us here, or why. And we don¡¯t need to know.¡±


    The camera panned up from the water and angled sharply to the night sky, facing the glowing moon.


    ¡°We just need to go home now.¡±


    And then, a new image.


    Over the backdrop of a sea of stars, a pitch-black door on the left side of the screen.


    On the right, the same high-school textbook diagram of the human body, standing upright this time.


    An arrow pointing to the door.


    Her narration was gone now.


    Text appeared on-screen:


    Step One: Decide to Exit


    Step Two: Find Like-Minded Friends


    Step Three: Pick the method that brings you the greatest sense of internal comfort.


    Step Four: Exit Stage Left.


    Step Five: When you¡¯re done, don¡¯t go into the light.


    And then, her voice returned.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go together now.¡±


    She held my hand tightly as the video concluded.


    I felt disturbed. I felt unsafe.


    I tore my gaze from the TV and turned to her. Her eyes were serene, peaceful, calm. Welcoming.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay now, Brian. You¡¯re okay. I¡¯m here with you now.¡±


    ¡°Monica¡­ what exactly did you mean with that video?¡±


    I detached my hand from hers and rose from the sofa.


    She stood up as well.


    ¡°You know what it means. You know it every time you look out aimlessly from behind the counter.¡±


    I backed away. ¡°I¡¯m gonna need you to say it explicitly.¡±


    She traced my steps. ¡°We¡¯re departing tomorrow. We¡¯ll be leaving from the bar. You¡¯re welcome to join us at the table.¡±


    I reached the door. ¡°I have to go,¡± I said, reaching behind me to feel for the doorknob.


    One last good look at her¡ªshe wasn¡¯t perturbed, sad, offended, confused, or anything. Softly, she said¡ª


    ¡°I¡¯ll be seeing you, Brian.¡±


    I turned and left.


    -----------------


    I worked the evening shift the next day.


    I was dead in the eyes. Exhausted. Not judging a soul. Just breathing. Just relishing the intake of stale bar air.


    When she arrived, she went straight to the corner table.


    Slowly, others poured in. Some of them I recognized as patrons who had shown up at the bar before¡ªfolks I was unaware were ever associated with Monica. They sat with her, eyes trained on her.


    Soon after, her girlfriend from before¡ªSabrina¡ªpulled up a seat as well. The two other men I¡¯d seen her with on different nights took their spots too.


    New faces appeared next, ones unfamiliar to me.


    By the end, there were twelve at the table.


    From my distant vantage point, their conservations seemed muted, soft, hopeful but with a discordant dash of somberness.


    It was hard to focus on my job. To focus on the customers coming up to me. I¡¯d look over to the corner, to catch more gentle speaking, the sharing of thoughts, sentiments. Words that looked as though they were coming out as whispers. I wanted to be a fly on the wall. I also wanted to be as far away as humanly possible.


    Was there something I could say here? Something that a good samaritan was supposed to be doing right now?


    Over the following forty-five minutes give or take, their words stopped. They closed their eyes together in a lengthy, silent moment. It didn¡¯t quite seem like a meditation. Or a prayer. I¡¯m not sure what it was.


    Eventually, they all opened their eyes around the same time.


    And then they turned in unison and looked at me. With wide smiles.


    Their eyes were filled with what seemed like a very disturbing form of love. An image pressed to my memory forever.


    Monica alone got up and walked through the crowd. Purposeful this time.


    Once again she was in front of me, on the other side of the counter.


    ¡°You can still join us,¡± she said.


    ¡°Where are you going?¡± I asked.


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t believe this, ¡®cause it¡¯s gonna sound really silly, but there¡¯s actually a special spot in the middle of the ocean. One that leads all the way up to the stars.¡±


    She gave me a knowing smile.


    ¡°We thought it might be a good idea to check it out together,¡± she said. She held her hand out for me. ¡°If you want to come.¡±


    I wasn¡¯t sure what it was¡ªloyalty? A sense of camaraderie? A fear of letting her down?¡ªbut as much as I was repulsed and terrified by her, I still had to fight the urge to give her my hand


    Eventually, she gleaned my decision through my inaction and retracted her invite.


    ¡°Thank you for talking to me and spending so much meaningful time with me, Brian.¡±


    She returned to the table.


    The others rose. They left behind anything they¡¯d brought with them.


    Then, all twelve of them linked arms like they were about to go on a pub crawl together, and left.


    -----------------


    Their bodies were found in the ocean a week later. Each of them had worn a weighted metal belt to help them sink.


    The cops told me that half of the corpses were found in close proximity to each other. The other half were scattered about. I had to assume that the group found clustered together were the ones successfully able to keep their arms linked the entire time.


    I had the chance to see the photos of the deceased during the identification process.


    I did my best to provide the authorities with details on the faces I recognized¡ªtimes I¡¯d seen them at the bar; rare occasions where I¡¯d spoken with them. My tiny insignificant crumbs of information were thankfully counterbalanced by insights provided by some of the regulars who¡¯d known them better. It didn¡¯t take long to piece together the identities of the recently departed. Not just who they were, but their full histories¡ªcareers, families, friends, aspirations. Anecdotes. Blanks filled in.


    All except for Monica.


    As it turns out, if she did have a history, it certainly wasn¡¯t one with much depth. She had no known family. No friends¡ªaside from the ones she left with on her final night, of course. No information on when she¡¯d actually moved to the area or where she¡¯d come from.


    I was the only one who seemed to know anything about her.


    As if that wasn¡¯t uncomfortable enough of a revelation, the cops decided to keep the hits coming¡ªthey must¡¯ve been in an oversharing mood.


    They let me know that this recent death event wasn¡¯t quite as unique as I might have imagined. In fact, instances of groups walking into the water together, weights worn, arms linked, had been documented as a recurring phenomena over the last half-century or so in our quiet town. The folk tales and horror stories about events like this had, of course, existed for far longer in our little slice of the country.


    The sorts of folk tales I could¡¯ve imagined a man¡ªmaybe late 50s, early 60s¡ªsharing with me on a night where I was tuning him out as comforting background noise while making a drink.


    I took one last good look at Monica¡¯s photo before I wrapped up with the authorities.


    Out of all of the images, hers was the one that looked the most tranquil. The most at peace.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be seeing you, Brian.¡±


    Months had passed.


    The incident had left me with a sinking but, mostly ignorable, feeling. Routine had thankfully proven to be a formidable distraction.


    I was behind the counter, same as always, in a moment of time where I was unoccupied. No immediate task in front of me, nor some lingering item of work that I¡¯d forgotten to do. I looked out at the bar scene. Not a miserable look this time, nor an aimless one either. Just a look.


    Out amongst the crowd of youngsters, characters, and fakes¡ªnot mutually exclusive titles, mind you, nor titles I used in a derogatory fashion anymore¡ªI saw someone enter the bar. A new face. Unfamiliar. One that had a distinct sort of energy to them. They weren¡¯t an imposter like all the others. They looked like they felt silly. Like they didn¡¯t belong here, but didn¡¯t see themselves as above it all.


    In the past, I would¡¯ve found this person to almost be charming. Now, they were just a person.


    They took awkward steps through the bar floor, they were over-polite, and then they were right in front of me.


    ¡°A Pina Colada please,¡± she said.


    I suppressed my laugh. Her eyes lit up with a glint of confusion.


    ¡°What?¡± she asked, playfully.


    ¡°Nah, it¡¯s just¡ªsorry¡ªjust a little uncanny. Kind of a throwback there. You, uh, reminded of me someone just now, but that¡¯s¡ªanyways. Pina Colada, comin¡¯ right up.¡±


    I went to work. When I heard her response, all I could do was continue making her drink, operating off of muscle memory alone.


    ¡°I have to admit I¡¯m a bit disappointed you didn¡¯t join us last time Brian.¡±


    I mechanically continued the process of blending the drink.


    ¡°Don¡¯t remember telling you my nam¡ª¡±


    ¡°I hope you understand that there¡¯s still a lot I need to do here,¡± she said. ¡°Like-minded friends to find, meaningful connections to make. Departures to schedule,¡± she said.


    My throat caught. The ritual of making a drink for a customer was the only bit of normalcy I had left in this exchange. I tried to cling to it. I tried to drag it out as long as possible. But I had to speak.


    ¡°Monica?¡± I finally said, more breath than voice.


    But when I studied her features, she didn¡¯t resemble Monica at all. And I can only assume she knew as much.


    ¡°You can call me Elizabeth this time,¡± she said. ¡°And don¡¯t worry. I never, ever want to rush you.¡±


    And then, that same knowing, disarming, look.


    ¡°You can join me when you¡¯re ready.¡±


    I struggled to put the finishing touches on the cocktail when I heard my boss¡¯s voice¡ª


    ¡°Brian, what are you doing?¡±


    I turned to look at him, confused.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± he repeated.


    ¡°Making a drin¡ª¡±


    I looked ahead, and there was no one at the bar.


    ¡°¡ªA drink,¡± I finished.


    ¡°For yourself?¡±


    I thought about it.


    ¡°I guess, yeah.¡±


    He gave me a concerned look. The kind of look that asks you to say more, and share what might be going on.


    But I changed the subject. It was probably best to keep things surface level from now on.


    No need to go deep.

 Timberbrook Hiking Trail Guide

    Hey.


    Writing this from a locked room upstairs at my husband¡¯s cabin. It was supposed to be our two-year anniversary but now I¡¯m not sure what the fuck it is.


    For clarity, I just had a core memory unlock itself in unbelievably vivid fashion and needed to write down the details in case they might ring a bell for someone else.


    The details surrounding the ¡°watching¡±¡ªkind of fuzzy, but I¡¯ll do my best.


    The details around the tape itself¡ªoddly clear. Some gaps I might be missing here or there, but overall the elements that comprised the video are very palpable for me despite the time that¡¯s elapsed.


    It was third grade. A field trip to a nature trail. The thirty minute school bus ride¡ªremnant of a now bygone time¡ªwas boring. The wheels on the bus take you somewhere you¡¯d rather not be.


    We arrived at the lodge-like area near the entrance to the trail. Entering, I recalled seeing stations with water and coffee and donuts (presumably just for the grownups), and a sign-up sheet resting on a kind of tall table that all of us had to fill in with name, date, time.


    It felt like the kind of place where a Smokey the Bear knockoff would give a talk about how fires are bad because trees are flammable, you morons. A local ¡®visitor center¡¯ vibe like there was plenty to do here but nothing really meant for someone my age.


    Sign-ups completed for our class of thirty, tall humans around us tiny ones, and I heard the tour guide beside our teacher speak up:


    ¡°Alright, who¡¯s excited to go on this trail?!¡±


    Muted response from the kids.


    ¡°Fair enough! Off we go!¡±


    We were shuffled like penguins to a space with rows of carefully arranged seats. A TV perched on a cart, just like the good ¡®ol days, VHS player tucked into the shelf below.


    I was the queen of the back of the line, watching classmates in front grapple with the existential crisis that is ¡®making sure your friends sit next to you so you know they actually like you.¡¯ That¡¯s when I heard a second tour guide, following closely behind, speak:


    ¡°Oof, looks like there might not be enough seats. Why don¡¯t we take some of you to another room for the video?¡± His bouncer-like cutoff applied to the four of us at the end.


    As he redirected us to the hallway, I distinctly remembered noticing that there were more than enough seats for everyone, with the kids in the room meticulously choosing their spots.


    Our gang of leftovers was brought to a much smaller room. It looked like an extra-big closet. Four chairs already set up inside. I crossed the threshold first and settled into one of them. The others followed.


    A TV in front of us on the table.


    The tour guide turned on the TV, pressed play on the VCR beside, dimmed the lights, and walked out, closing the door behind him.


    I then heard a click that sounded like a door locking. But I wasn¡¯t sure.


    Our dark little nook had two faint sources of light¡ªthe brightness of the hallway barely squeezing through a small window, and the blue glare of TV as the presentation commenced.


    A disarming, cozy, ambient tune laced with simple synth pads and light flutes met my ears.


    The title screen appeared:


    TIMBERBROOK HIKING TRAIL GUIDE


    Underneath the title¡ªwords broadcast on a backdrop of expansive nature trail footage¡ªthe following tagline appeared: For a great hiking experience.


    And then, a transition to a new title screen:


    SUPPLIES


    These words rested on a light green background with a picture of a cartoon backpack beside them. The music changed¡ªa transitory bell chime¡ªfollowed by a breezier and more upbeat arrangement.


    It dawned on me at the time of watching, 21 years ago today, that the video seemed dated. Like, really really dated.


    On-screen: Make sure your backpack has¡­


    And then, video footage of different items with corresponding captions:


    WATER - a clip of an outstretched arm holding a water bottle to camera.


    SNACK - same thing but with a granola bar this time.


    A COMPASS


    SHOES TO WEAR - a pair of sturdy boots held together and tilted downward


    I glanced over at the other kids. They were trying their best to pay attention, albeit with drowsiness marking their illuminated faces.


    A new title card on the CRT in front of us:


    THE HIKE


    Words displayed on screen with a light blue backdrop this time. Another bell chime, and a shift of the musical tone again, the same instruments taking on a more forward, adventurous tune.


    This was followed by:


    A scene of arms linking with text at the bottom of the screen reading: Pick your Buddy


    A camera panning over a very clearly defined footpath in the woods: When walking with your buddy, follow the trail ahead of you.


    A stationary image of cartoon children midway through a walk on a path: Make sure you¡¯re in line with the group ¨C don¡¯t stray off course!


    TIPS AND TRICKS


    What followed this title card was a series of cartoon diagrams, looking straight out of an elementary school textbook, with a tacky, dated screen transition between each image and tip.


    Tip #1: If you feel like you¡¯re lost, stop right where you are, and listen to the sounds around you! You might hear the road, or people talking nearby.


    This lengthy bit of text splayed across the screen beneath a drawing of a boy standing in the woods with a hand to his ear, listening out with a smile.


    Tip #2: If you come across a log, step ON the log, then OFF the log. Do not step over it one leg at a time.


    This tip paired with a progression of images showing a kid, as one would indeed imagine, approaching a log, stepping on and then off it.


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    Tip #3: If you hurt yourself or have a wound¡­


    Words accompanied by the image of a kid holding out their bleeding arm.


    ¡­AIR IT OUT!


    Then, a strange transition to clips of a real-life bleeding arm now, held out in the forest air. With each successive shot, the arm looked worse¡ªthe wound, the bleeding, the almost gangrenous effect on the appendage growing. Cut to¡ª-


    THE STAIRS


    A camera fixed on a lengthy staircase jutting out from somewhere in the woods. Architecture that looked very out of place.


    Accompanying text: Don¡¯t take the stairs.


    FRIENDS


    A fancy new title card over a light red background¡ªthe heading overtop a display of cute cartoon woodland creatures huddled together.


    Shifting to video footage with captions underneath of:


    Squirrels - scampering up trees, looking for nuts.


    Birds - sparrows and songbirds flitting about near shrubs.


    Deer - softly peeking behind the trees before moving along out of frame.


    Foxes - one seen darting through an underbrush.


    Sleepwalkers - slow zoom in on a distant tree in the forest, someone peeking out from behind the oak. A woman-like figure with black, matted hair in a white nightgown.


    MIDNIGHT


    And suddenly, the comforting background music was gone.


    Amateur camcorder footage now of someone maneuvering the woods at night with only a minimal light source illuminating the uneven path.


    Text coming in, line by line, atop the footage:


    If you¡¯re still here, they¡¯ll be looking for you.


    Don¡¯t panic.


    There are many places you can hide.


    A transition to a night-time shot of some trees:


    Behind the trees


    Slightly shaky but mostly-still footage of some leaves on the ground, still night:


    Under the ground


    An even slower zoom-in on a distant entrance to a passageway or cavern:


    The dungeon


    THE DUNGEON


    I felt the chair underneath me, and remembered I was in a room with three other kids watching something.


    My eyes were glued to the monitor. I didn¡¯t feel comfortable looking to my left or my right.


    The imagery on-screen wasn¡¯t resonating in any comfortable way, but the childlike fear in me told me if I stopped watching, something even worse would happen.


    It was hard to tell what I was looking at. The visuals on TV looked dark, thick, obscured¡ªwords that make no sense, but are the best descriptions I can muster. Like the sorts of shapes you¡¯d see with your eyes closed and palms pressed upon them.


    As I tried to piece together what it was, text¡ªin the color red this time¡ªappeared at the bottom:


    The Dungeon might be a safe place to hide in for a little while.


    The text disappeared faster than usual.


    Slowly, the video began to clear. The footage seemed to be taken in a dark, cluttered room¡ªtables, shelves, materials, tools, all sorts of items crowding the space. Near the top of the screen, what looked like a window. The sound of heavy breathing. It seemed like the video was recorded by someone crouching in the corner.


    They might never suspect you would hide in the same place they were planning to bring you to.


    Text gone. More breathing. Steady camcorder in the dark.


    Just don¡¯t stay there for too long.


    Eyes appeared on the window, with the sound of something sliding open, and¡ª


    NATURE


    What?


    Once again, there was daylight on the screen.


    Rivers, babbling brooks, and a friendly forest.


    A reprieve that made my nine year old self think about the best way to delete everything I¡¯d seen from my brain. My first tango with compartmentalization.


    Nature. Just¡­ comforting nature scenes.


    Nature is beautiful. Take some time to appreciate its wonder.


    Everything is in balance.


    The text lingered for a beautiful while, before cutting to a new title card again. The final one, as I would find out¡ª


    THE CABIN


    A camera that must¡¯ve been positioned high on a mountaintop looking down at an expanse of forest from afar.


    Daytime at first, but the footage quickly revealed itself to be a time-lapse, tracking minor changes and movements before bringing us to the night.


    Then, for the third time, the camera began to pan¡ªthis time painfully slow¡ªdelving deeper and deeper into the forest. Granular details sharpened as it zoomed in, while I wondered just how far this seemingly telescopic lens could go¡ª-


    Closer and closer¡ª


    Further and further, until landing on¡ª


    A large cabin, isolated in pitch-black darkness. It didn¡¯t belong with the rest of the forest. Lights on in all of the rooms, a glare cast out on the dense woods surrounding.


    The following subtitle:


    DO NOT GO NEAR THE CABIN


    Mechanical sounds as the camera pushed in slightly closer, with a different clearness, as if the lens suddenly changed.


    IF YOU ARE NEAR THE CABIN DO NOT GO INSIDE


    Silhouettes of what appeared to be people within the cabin.


    IF YOU ARE INSIDE THE CABIN, DO NOT LEAVE.


    IT WILL BE TOO LATE.


    And then, the camera violently started pulling back, away and away and away from the cabin as static warped the image¡ª


    YOU ARE NOURISHMENT TO THEM.


    And back to the title card:


    TIMBERBROOK HIKING TRAIL GUIDE


    The comforting strings, synths, and wood-wind instruments were back. The text underneath the title now just read: ¡°For a hiking experience.¡±


    Then the tape stopped.


    And it was just our smudged reflections on the TV now.


    We sat in the still of the dark. No one moved an inch.


    The shared, telepathic agreement we all seemed to fall under was: pretend everything is okay.


    If none of us said we were scared, then we wouldn¡¯t give the game away. If we looked like we were alright, then we were alright. Right?


    The tour guide returned. He was hunky dory as normal.


    "Alright," I heard him say, opening the door, light switch flicked on. "Looks like you¡¯re all done. Ready to hike?" he asked with chipper delivery.


    A muted response from us kids.


    He motioned for us to follow, and so we did.


    I¡¯m not sure if it was a trick of sound, or a hallucination, but I remembered the guide whispering, only to me it seemed, ¡°Best of luck¡± as we joined the larger group. Whether this potential remark was tinged with sarcasm or sincerity, I wasn¡¯t sure.


    The hike happened.


    It was mundane.


    Barely any elevation. It wasn¡¯t a particularly dynamic path; more like a trudge through some level, open forest with an almost industrial-looking path leading the way through. Like any in-depth video guide on the ¡®how¡¯ of maneuvering this was completely pointless.


    There was no way anyone could¡¯ve gotten lost. And, it looked nothing like the video we¡¯d watched.


    Only one thing caught my eye on the trail.


    The insignias that had been carved deep into the trees.


    Elaborate scrawls and markings all along the path.


    Then, it was all over. Quicker than one would have imagined. And I had to wonder if the larger group of twenty-six students actually saw the same tape that my group did.


    Or if ours was different.


    Now, some odd 21 years later, that same question cuts to the front of the line in my mind, as I reconcile with the bizarre childhood experience I¡¯d severed from my head for so many years.


    It¡¯s my two year anniversary, as I mentioned at the beginning of this post. My husband pitched renting a cabin for the occasion¡ªsomething I enthusiastically jumped at. When it came to romantic gestures, this was more bombastic than anything he¡¯d ever done or anything I¡¯d experienced before.


    Our love story origins are pretty unremarkable. We actually met as part of a local hiking group, and struck it off immediately. Five years of boyfriend-girlfriend, two years of husband-wife. It¡¯s strange to me as I write all of this now that the traumatic experience of watching the Timberbrook Guide didn¡¯t subconsciously put me off of hiking forever. As I push myself to wonder why, I can¡¯t help but find those carved sigils popping up in my head again.


    Hubby and I drove into the secluded area, and as we got closer, there was a familiarity to the surroundings that I couldn¡¯t quite shake.


    The uneasy gut feeling was manageable at first. Unfortunately, when paired with my husband¡¯s increasingly bizarre behavior on the trip, it became harder to ignore.


    We were supposed to be spending quality time together at the cabin, I thought.


    Instead, he was quiet. Stern. Always looking outside. Like he was waiting for someone.


    Then, at night, after what I tried to justify as just an unbelievably off day for him, I woke up to find he wasn¡¯t in bed.


    I left the room, creaked down the stairs to ground level, to see him sitting on a couch and staring at the TV.


    Before I even saw what was on screen, the musical chimes and soothing ambient tunes I heard brought the flood of memories back. I saw the title cards on screen - THE STAIRS, followed by FRIENDS followed by MIDNIGHT. And he¡ªhe was transfixed.


    I ran back upstairs and locked the door to the bedroom. After that I tried to recall anything and everything I could about the video, and noted it down in this post.


    And now, I¡¯m trying really, really hard not to panic.


    It¡¯s been an hour. I swear the tape has looped ten times over, judging by the muffled and obscured sounds coming through the wall. It finally stopped only a few minutes ago.


    Now he¡¯s at the door.


    He¡¯s trying to reason with me. He says there¡¯s nothing to be concerned about. That we should go outside. That he wants to show me something cool in the woods nearby. Some passage in the ground.


    As he says it, I can tell there are other people standing there with him, trying to stay quiet. It¡¯s only him talking, but still¡ªI can hear their presence. Their breathing.


    I¡¯m having to keep the part of me that wants to jump out the window and run into nowhere at bay. After all, I can see that there are people outside too. They¡¯re in the woods, barely peeking out from behind the trees. A full crowd¡­ who look very, very much like the members of that same hiking group I met my husband at.


    I can hear the tour guide¡¯s voice in my head again. More vivid. He really did say it, both sincerely and sarcastically:


    ¡°Best of luck."

 She knocked at the door.

    This happened when I was seven.


    Mom and Dad had separated.


    I have the foggy memory of, shortly after their divorce, mom bringing me to a holiday resort. Something to help the two of us relax and "get past all the sadness."


    I didn''t know what it all meant. She was clearly giving me too much credit as a child.


    Her behavior was marked by desperation, paranoia, mania¡ªthings I didn''t have words for at the time, so I instead just chalked them up as ''weird''.


    In our substandard hotel room, everything she''d packed for us was strewn about. She swore something was missing though.


    "I''ll go fetch it from the front desk, and you stay right put okay?" she said, cracking open the door, squeezing through and closing it.


    I didn''t like being alone but I also didn''t particularly like being with her.


    But, after five minutes, it really did feel like the clock was taking longer to tick. Time was elongating; getting slower. The gap between her being here and being gone grew more and more obvious and palpable. I had a real worry that if it kept going, maybe she''d never be back and I''d have no way to go home. Real home.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Bumps, sounds, sensations of someone walking down the hall nearby, conjuring up false hope.


    Nothing. Still alone.


    For quite some time.


    Then¡ªI heard the knock.


    And the low, scratchy voice of a woman.


    "Hi baby," she said.


    A pause. "Hi."


    "Baby, are you scared? Mum left you all alone?"


    "Yah."


    "That wasn''t very nice of momma."


    "No."


    Then¡ª


    ¡°Do you want me to kill momma?¡±


    I remember her saying it so sing-song, so quietly at the time.


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°What if i just made momma really really quiet?¡±


    I didn''t respond.


    ¡°And really really still?¡±


    I didn''t respond.


    ¡°And what if momma was just always lying down?¡±


    ...


    "Maybe, once we''re done, we can put momma under the bed? She could live there? And you could visit her anytime?"


    "No."


    "What about in the forest? Under the trees, in the bushes?"


    "No."


    And then, an air of personality to the voice I couldn''t place. The illusion of anger, but something else underneath it.


    "Sounds like you wanna stay with momma. She''s a good momma."


    I lied to the scary thing on the other side of the door. "Yeah."


    The door opened and mom was there. "Baby," she said, voice returning to her original tone.


    I didn''t say anything.


    She came close and hugged me tight.


    "I''m so glad you passed the test baby. I''m so, so, so, glad you passed the test. You''re so special. You''re so, so special to me."


    After three minutes of her hugging me¡ªminutes that stretched longer and longer with each tick, as I feared she''d never let me go¡ªI asked:


    "What would''ve happened if I said yes? If I didn''t pass the test?"


    "We don''t need to worry about that anymore sweetheart. We don''t need to worry about that."

 A note on my windshield / Where were you when the clocks stopped ticking?

    Someone Left a Note on My Windshield Saying "You Died Yesterday."


    My immediate thought was chalking it up to being a prank, but it was so specific, so bizarre.


    I took it and put it in my pocket.


    I tried not to think about it.


    But also, contradictorily, I watched for proof of anything out of place.


    Not much. Morning drive was the same. Paper boy¡ªI can¡¯t believe there are still paper boys¡ªdelivering bundles of printed words doorstep to doorstep.


    Traffic, same cadence. Same slow areas. I felt my same usual impatience.


    The sun shone down, feeling as it always did on my skin.


    I got to work, took the elevator up, and sat down for my 9:30 AM meeting.


    My mouth hung open when, mid-presentation, the executive said:


    ¡°Of course, none of this should matter to Peter! He, uh, died yesterday after all.¡± Then, after a few muted laughs, he returned to talking about our dwindling sales.


    The meeting wrapped up, everyone exchanged their ¡°See ya later¡¯s,¡± and that was that.


    I answered emails at my desk after that. Completed some scheduling. Admin tasks that seemed like they held continuity from yesterday.


    I caught a distinct-looking woman watching from a distance on the office floor.


    And then, end of day, I took the elevator down.


    That same woman got on as the doors were closing. She said: ¡°There¡¯s a bit of lag time,¡± before looking away, then, getting off at another floor.


    At home, I hugged my wife and kids the normal amount. I didn¡¯t want to be too desperate.


    To my chagrin, something small had changed there too.


    ¡°We¡¯ll miss you Dad,¡± said my daughter from across the dinner table between bites of steak.


    My wife, in bed later, held my hand while we watched TV. She interrupted a conversation about house renovations with¡ª


    ¡°I feel optimistic about the verdict. About what¡¯ll happen to you.¡±


    My confused look wasn¡¯t assuaged, as she then returned to the previous topic.


    Midnight¡ªI noticed a light on downstairs. I headed down.


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    The woman from the elevator, pen in hand, looking over documents.


    ¡°Oh,¡± she said as I approached. ¡°Sorry for the delay. We¡¯re almost done.¡±


    Her look wore a tinge of empathy, but primarily just¡­ routine. ¡°It wasn¡¯t a bad life. Just the ending was unfortunate. That reckless driving accident¡ªyou killed a kid.¡±


    I didn¡¯t know what it meant.


    ¡°Best to go back to sleep,¡± she said. ¡°We¡¯ll have the final answer in the morning.¡±


    So I did, surprisingly falling unconscious the second head hit pillow.


    When I woke up, it was 9AM, but still seemed dark outside. An eclipse hung overhead, casting a dark, reddish blanket over everything.


    Downstairs, wife, daughter, and son sat at the dinner table with wide grins. Their eyes avoided mine.


    I stepped outside. Neighbors were huddled at their windows, smiling like they were in on a joke I didn¡¯t know.


    The houses looked the same, but something was off.


    I found a new note on my windshield in the morning darkness of the street.


    ¡°HELL¡±


    Where were you when all of the clocks stopped ticking?


    It was an announcement that interrupted everything.


    A mandatory video, overtaking all broadcasts.


    Playing live on every social media platform. Unavoidable.


    A group of scientists speaking on a stage¡ªwords translated to all languages of the world depending on where the viewer was.


    The gist:


    ¡°Time has been discovered, and it is now ending.¡±


    As I wondered what that meant, watching the men and women in lab coats beside morose-looking world leaders, the speakers continued with words ping-ponging between scientific jargon and laymen-friendly:


    Humanity¡¯s scientific breakthroughs were accelerating exponentially.


    And this morning it was discovered that time, rather than prior descriptions of being merely a ¡®human construct¡¯ or an ¡®illusion¡¯, was in fact a real, tangible property embedded into all of matter, with one peculiar element inherent to it:


    Once discovered, it would expire.


    Simply put, we were going to run out of the tangible property of time very, very soon.


    The experts had deduced we had exactly nine hours left from the point of discovery. After which, it would all end.


    Many questions followed, all of which were given prompt answers.


    What exactly would happen when time expires?


    It was unclear, said the scientists.


    Did they have any predictions?


    No.


    Was this a baked-in part of our evolution? A mechanism to stop our progression as a species?


    Perhaps. Perhaps it was coded into this universe. Or all possible universes that exist. They couldn¡¯t say for certain, nor did they have the time to explore the ramifications of this revelation.


    Is this a simulation?


    Unclear.


    Was this the plan of God?


    Unclear.


    Is this¡ª


    And from there, the scientists made it clear they really didn¡¯t know, and just wanted to go home to their families now.


    It was a silent, stewing panic after that.


    What the fuck were you¡ªor anyone¡ªsupposed to do?


    Some decided to go about their day, simply choosing not to believe what was happening.


    Others killed themselves¡ªan unpopular notion until the last hour, as the few remaining news organizations reported that most of the elites of the world had ¡°peacefully passed¡± as time was reaching its conclusion.


    Still, a few decided that their last moment would be something beautiful. Holding hands with the love of your life in a field. Or, maybe a kiss.


    As time ran out, I had no idea what to do.


    I just stood in my apartment and looked at the clock.


    Tick. Tick. Tick.


    Maybe nothing will happen. And it was just a lie.


    Tick. Tick. Tick.


    Or maybe, I¡¯ll die, and there¡¯s an afterlife.


    Tick. Tick. Tick.


    This is really quite bizarre.


    Tick. Tick. Tick.


    What do I do?


    Tick. Ti¡ª


    And then it all stopped.


    But I was still here.


    I tried to blink, or take in a breath, or move at all, but I couldn¡¯t.


    Frozen.


    My eyes fixed on a single drab view¡ªthe clock, a framed photo, and bookshelf in front of me.


    And then, for the rest of eternity, I wondered just how long eternity would last.


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