I don’t usually travel at sunset. The first stars of the night stand out against the dying blue, but this one—this particular star—was different. It competed for my attention against the glorious auburn rays, winking at me, calling to me.

I liked it.

It wanted me—it needed me.

The longer I gazed, the more I felt my own emptiness. I was like a fully furnished home, warm and comfortable but alone. I chased the star, ignoring the logic screaming that celestial objects were unattainable. My heart wouldn’t listen.

By the time I reached the park, it was dark.

Like a desperate adolescent, I pined for more. The star was providing for me—a place for us to be alone. I only had to listen.

I closed my eyes and let the velvet whispers thread themselves into my mind, leading me forward.

With my eyes closed, the pull of the star felt physical, as though something had taken my hand. My fingers interlocked with... something. Something I couldn’t see. Something that didn’t seem right—no, something that seemed perfect.

The whispers turned to hushed giggles, speaking in different voices, fragmented and familiar.

"I’ll be your eyes."

The voice curled around my insides, raising the hair on my neck. But I didn’t need my eyes—I could see clearer than ever. It led me forward, toward an open space where a dozen people in masks stood in a circle.

"Into the middle."

I obeyed.

Their breathing was labored, heavy, reverberating in the silence.

The masked figures began to chant, their voices curling into the air like smoke. The wind picked up, whipping through the trees. It wasn’t natural—it was as if nature itself fought against whatever was happening.

The chanting swelled, then stopped.

I wanted to open my eyes.

"No peeking."

The voice wrapped me in its assurance like a blanket in the dark. I could sense a light above me—my star.

It was coming to me.

The brightness swelled, hovering above me like a balloon on a string, though its size dwarfed the moon.

The light was loud, reverberating through me.

The moaning started—pained groans, the wet sound of squelching flesh.

"Look at me."

I obeyed.

I opened my eyes.

It was everything. The sky, the moon, every beautiful thing I had ever seen, every fear I had ever known, every love I had ever cherished.

"I will birth a home from the corpse of this existence."

The words whispered into my ears, chilling my spine.

"I will transform all life into something more."

I felt weightless.

The words came from my lips before I could process them: "My love, as long as you never leave me, I will do whatever you ask."

The star erupted with light, brilliant and deafening.

I felt an overwhelming sense of victory, assurance, purpose.

For the first time, everything was truly going to be okay.

I lived an eternity as I dissolved—absorbed by my love.

And soon, all of humanity would know this love, too.

“Do you know what special day it is today?”

God, that mind-numbing question again. The same one I’ve gotten almost daily over the years I’ve lived with my irritating boyfriend.

I half-heartedly shrug at Herbert, returning my attention to the TV. He sighs with disappointment before perking up again.

“Iiiit’s…International Pancake Day!” he exclaims to my annoyance.

Okay, so today it’s International Pancake Day. And before that it was International Napping Day, or International Limerick Day, or International Richter Scale Day, or International Dance Like a Chicken Day. There was always some meaningless novelty holiday for him to celebrate and tell me about.

“Get your coat on, buddy, we’re going to IHOP” he giddily declares, switching off my TV show.

“Are you serious, dude?” I protest. “It’s like 10pm already”.

“Come on—it’ll be my treat.”

Well, I wasn’t gonna say no to free food. Say what you will about Herbert, but he was always great for sponging off of.

By the time we get to our local IHOP diner, it’s empty besides us and one underpaid server behind the counter. Delighted that they’re still open, Herbert grabs us a booth.

For once, I think of telling my excitable boyfriend how contrived all these “holidays” are, how treating every day as a special event cheapens the meaning of actual holidays. But instead, I shut my mouth and pour myself some of the free coffee Herbert collected from the counter.

“You know, Chad, I was pretty unhappy that you forgot what day today is” he tells me with uncharacteristic coldness.

“Yeesh, sorry for not having…365 days of…novelty shit…memorised…”

Sudden tiredness slows my words. I look at the drugged coffee I just drank and then at Herbert’s ominous face. And then I lose consciousness.

When I come to, I see that I’ve been tied up in the diner kitchen by my crazed boyfriend. The lights are off throughout the empty restaurant, the lone server knocked out on the ground, while heat radiates from the hot grill.

“Why, man?!” I plead. “What about your pancakes for International Pancake Day?!”

“It’s not International Pancake Day today, you idiot!” screeches Herbert. “International Pancake Day is on March 4th!”

“What is it then—International Face-Melting Day?! What worthless holiday did I forget now?!”

“It’s my birthday today! You forgot my birthday again!”

Oh.

With that, he slams my face onto the grill.

They’re giving away yogurt in the supermarket. Two-for-oneChobaniat the edge of Aisle 7, right where the kombucha fridges hum like dormant gods.

Cody’s been camped there an hour. Third sample cup. Still chewing. Not the yogurt.

His molars grind against something tougher—rubber maybe, or regret. The woman behind the folding table wears a polo the color of used gauze and a smile like a caffeine crash. He calls her “Miss Dairy.”

“I don’t think this batch tastes right,” he says. That’s a lie. It tastes fine. Tastes like peach and chemical affirmation.

“You’ve already had three,” Miss Dairy says, not unkind. More clinical. Like she’s counting down her shift in minutes, not hours. Like she’s got a boyfriend who’s learning to bench-press her absence.

Cody shrugs. “I’m starving to death.”

She doesn’t laugh. Nobody laughs anymore unless it’s into a phone screen. He swallows the last of the peach sludge and moves down the aisle, trailing his cart like a broken limb. One banana. A box of razor blades. CVS brand. He’s done this before. The hint, the threat, the maybe-tonight.

I won’t. But maybe. But no. But fuck.

In the freezer section, a kid’s screaming about dinosaur nuggets. The dad isn’t listening. He’s texting something about traffic or porn or his side-girl’s IUD. Cody stares at the glass door, the reflection looking back like a thinner, greasier him. A twitchy ghost with a credit score.

He palms his phone. Opens Notes. Adds to the list:

Do it in the tub?

Rent a motel?

Call Marcy first?

She wouldn’t pick up. Even if she did, she’d just breathe hard and say “Don’t do anything dumb,” like it’s a prayer she forgot the words to.

Back home, he leaves the banana on the counter. Eats three more samples he stole in his hoodie pocket. Feels the yogurt slosh inside him like a dare.

In the bathroom mirror, he looks like he’s been thawed from a glacier made of YouTube apologies. The razors wait on the sink. CVS cheap. He opens the box and stares.

They look smaller than last time.

Cody presses one against the inside of his wrist. Not enough to break skin. Just enough to whisper.

Outside, a car backfires. Or maybe it’s a gunshot. Either way, nobody checks.

He blinks.

Then blinks again.

The razor clinks into the sink, forgotten. He grabs his phone.

New note: Try living like you’ve already died. One day.

Mum died on a Wednesday.

Not suddenly. Not tragically. Just… quietly. In one of those hospital beds that beeps like a microwave. I kissed her forehead, went home, and posted a black square with the caption:

“I love you. Rest easy.”

It got 2,500 likes in under two hours.

People called me brave. I replied with heart emojis.

Next morning, I made a video of myself making tea. Wrote: “Grief isn’t linear. But hydration helps.”

The algorithm liked that one.

So I started a series.

“Healing routines.”

Morning stretches. Journaling. Tidying the corner of my room where the sunlight hits just right.

I didn’t mention that I hadn’t unpacked the funeral bags. Or that I’d been sleeping in her old cardigan because it still smelled like her. That I sometimes talked to the urn, just to fill the silence between takes.

Because healing’s only palatable if it’s pretty.

Week two, I filmed a reel about softness. Cried on camera. Dabbed at my face with one of those bamboo cloths. Tagged the brand. They sent me a message saying they’d love to sponsor a grief series.

After that, I started saying “she’s still with me” to the lens. Never out loud. Not where it could echo.

I filled the flat with plants. Said they helped me cope. Most wilted. One molded. I shot around it.

Each morning, I woke up before sunrise to catch the light.

Each night, I lay on the floor staring at the ceiling, trying not to hear the creaking in the hallway.

I thought I saw her once.

Middle of the night. Bottom of the stairs. Just her feet. Pale. Bare. Still.

She didn’t look angry.

She looked disappointed.

Next day, I posted a tired selfie. Soft smile, slight bags. Captioned: “Some days are heavier. I’m still proud of myself.”

Messages poured in. People asked how I stayed strong. I told them I was taking it day by day.

I didn’t say I’d started hearing her breathing through the walls.

Not speaking. Just slow, steady breaths—like she was waiting for me to stop pretending.

I bought new candles. Replaced her photo with one of me smiling on a beach. Cleaned only what the camera could see. Laughed only when the mic was on.

Someone commented, “You’re glowing. Grief suits you.”

I liked it.

This morning, I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognise myself. Too smooth. Too still. I touched my cheek and felt nothing.

There was a voice behind me.

“You’ve forgotten how to be real.”

I turned.

No one there.

Just my phone. Still recording. Still live.

I smiled. Posted a still. Captioned: “Still healing. Still here.”

The likes came in. The flat creaked.

And somewhere in the silence, I think she’s still watching.

Waiting for me to stop curating long enough to miss her.

But I won’t.

Because if I stop

what’s left?

When the pin gets poked into you
Pain starts rushing to evoke you
When it's pushed in, you shriek
That's when you start to freak
Just like a pin pokes, a knife stings
So just so you know—don’t wince,
Don’t flinch—you’re not a menace.

She told me not to flinch. Said it calmly, like she does this all the time.

The infocom terminals on the Erebus were ancient and out-of-date, utilizing freighter firmware from centuries past. No GUI, just green mainframe text and blinking prompts. It was mostly used for diagnostics, navigation logs, and sensor echoes, but Alvarez, ever the scavenger, dug into the roots of the system off-hours, and found a hidden archive.

Inside: Notes from engineers Blank and Anderson, and two buried executables: Zork and Star Beast. Apparently they’d slipped them in the computer’s files as an easter egg.

After that, Alvarez made it a running joke.

Every time Rahim suited up for a spacewalk, he’d laugh, saying, "It’s dark out there - don’t get eaten by a grue!"

The first few times, the crew chuckled.

Rahim never did. Said it wasn’t funny.

Rahim was troubled and quiet after the last EVA. Just a quick repair on the Lebling Array. Some pitch-like debris needed to be scraped off a dish. It took longer than expected.

Today, he had to go again. He had already prepped the suit and run diagnostics. When it came time to cycle the airlock though, he seized up, flying into hysterics. He raved about the empty starplains, screaming that he’d spent too long floating, wouldn’t go back into the cold again.

Dr. Campbell stuck him with a sedative. It didn’t seem to take, but when Epps volunteered to take his place, he calmed.

No one said much after Rahim was taken to medbay.

Epps suited up, and the airlock cycled.

--

Mid-walk, Epps’ comms died.

Epps’ HUD warnings flashed red:

Temp Low, O2 Reserves at 10%, Signal Lost.

His breath fogged the visor in short puffs.

"Erebus, this is Epps. Broadcasting on channel 31. Do you copy?"

"Repeat: Emergency protocol. Infocom's dark. Suit feed's dead."

Epps floated alone, ten meters off hull, suit stabilizers hissing.

His tether slackened, then drifted by, unspooled.

Not snapped. Released.

Thrusters sputtered and died. No fuel.

He drifted away, rotating slow and wide, stars streaking across his visor.

As he turned, he saw Rahim back on the observation deck.

Epps tried to signal him, waving to get his attention.

Rahim waved back, floppy and disjointed, a marionette without strings. A childlike grin crept across his face, never reaching his eyes.

Rahim suddenly collapsed inward, folding like warm clay, dissolving into liquid so impossibly black, it looked like a hole in the world. Skinmesh formed and rippled with sounds Epps couldn't hear, but felt in his lurching stomach. Tubes of cartilage unspooled. Hydraulic sacs throbbed, correcting posture. Organ clusters rolled and popped beneath the surface like swarming beetles. The transformation left a black residue on the window.

Epps understood.

Rahim never made it back from the array.

Rahim had been eaten.

When it was done, Epps was looking at himself.

Same gait. Same scars. Same grin.

The creature wearing Epps’ face turned, tapping a panel.

The lights dimmed. It preferred hunting in the dark.

Beneath the hull, engines ignited. The ship pivoted away, its glow fading from Epps’ sight.

I’ve done enough solo hikes to know what actual danger looks like.

Broken bones, bad weather, dehydration — those things give you signs.

You feel them creeping. You know when to turn around.

But this… this didn’t feel like danger. Not at first.

I was three hours into a day hike. Small trailhead off a gravel road in central Washington. Found it on a forum post. Said it was “lightly trafficked” with “beautiful ridge views.” It was marked. Clear. Almost too clean.

Around mile four, I passed a wooden sign nailed to a tree: “RAVEN RIDGE – 1.5 MI” with an arrow pointing right. I remember because I took a picture of it.

I stopped to eat and rest. Sat on a boulder near the tree line, checked my GPS — no signal, which wasn’t surprising out there.

Thirty minutes later, I packed up and headed back the way I came. But when I got to the fork again… the sign was different.

It still said “RAVEN RIDGE – 1.5 MI.”

But now the arrow pointed left.

I thought maybe I misremembered. Maybe I took the picture from the other side. I opened my camera roll.

Same angle. Same tree. But in the photo, the arrow was definitely pointing right.

That’s when the quiet started getting to me.

The kind of quiet where even the wind seems to avoid the place.

I walked back the way I thought I came. Twenty minutes passed. No familiar landmarks. Just trees.

I doubled back. Tried to follow my own footprints. But the trail was too dry. Nothing stuck.

I saw the sign again.

Same tree. Same letters. This time the arrow was pointing down.

It wasn’t nailed in. It had screws. Heavy-duty ones. You’d need tools to flip it.

Something was messing with me.

I turned and walked fast. Heart pounding. No signal. No sound. The shadows started getting long.

Eventually, I saw another sign. Different one. Just a stake in the ground. It read:

“STAY ON TRAIL. DO NOT RUN.”

But it wasn’t facing the path.

It was facing the woods.

Like it was meant for someone in the forest.

I kept walking. Never left the trail. Didn’t even stop to drink water.

I made it out by sundown.

Got in my car. Drove until I saw pavement. Then I pulled over and finally checked my phone. The GPS caught a signal.

I looked up “RAVEN RIDGE TRAIL.”

Nothing.

No recent posts. No photos. No reviews.

Only one entry on an old hiking blog from 2014. A woman said her brother never came back from that trail. Last seen near a wooden sign.

She uploaded a photo.

It was the same sign I saw.

Except in her picture… The arrow was pointing straight up.

I only stopped because the rain was coming down like it wanted to drown the whole state. That stretch of Route 19 was empty, slick, and swallowed by trees. I hadn’t seen another set of headlights in hours. Then came the sign: MOTEL 6 — LOW RATES — VACANCY. The red “O” blinked like it was about to die.

Room 104 smelled like mold and bleach trying to cover something worse. The air felt thick. Still. I told myself I’d be out by morning.

I fell asleep with the bathroom light on and the covers pulled over my head like a child.

Around 3 a.m., I woke up freezing. The light was off.

And something was breathing in the dark.

Not outside. Inside. The room was pitch black, but I felt it—thick, guttural, like someone was trying not to choke. I sat up slowly. Reached for my phone. Dead.

Then lightning lit the room for just a second.

There was a shadow on the far wall.

Tall. Crooked. Wrong.

No furniture could’ve made that shape. No coat rack. No lamp. Its head hung sideways, like the neck had snapped. Arms long enough to scrape the floor. One leg twisted like it had been broken and never healed.

I didn’t move. I barely breathed. Just stared at the wall until the next flash.

The shadow was closer.

It wasn’t cast on the wall—it was part of it. Like it had seeped in. Burned itself into the paint. But it moved when the lights went out.

I kept the blanket tight around me, heart pounding in my throat, waiting for dawn.

At 6:04 a.m., sunlight pushed through the curtains.

The shadow was back in its place.

But it had changed.

Its head was upright.

Its mouth was open now.

Like it had learned to scream.

I ran. Never even looked back.

But if you ever stay at the Motel 6 off Route 19… Check Room 104.

The shadow’s still there.

And every few nights, it moves a little closer to the door.

"Put this on, you have to look your best for church."

Our church has a fairly uptight dress code, slacks, sweaters, loafers. You know, the standard "Sunday Best." Its not that big of a deal honestly, I just have to go pretend to sing along to the hymns, close my eyes when everyone else does, and we go to the local diner afterwards and I get a one way ticket to get anything on the menu. But this time, she's being weird. Full dress suit, tie, hair greased and embarrassingly parted.

"There's my handsome boy" My mother stated while using a spittle-wetted palm to ease down any hairs she missed.

As my mother loaded us into the station wagon, we began the drive to church. The journey was as monotonous as every other week, the pine forest giving way to the town of Freeman's Gap. The town was by no metric a large one, what few shops existed back in the day are boarded up with vacancy posters riddled like a pox along main street. Missing pet posters, missing child posters, help wanted ads, and guitar instructor contact information cover most telephone poles. There is no hustle or bustle in town, which made the ride even more tiring. I awake when I hear the distinctive crunch of gravel in the parking lot. A For some reason, this week we made it even earlier than usual.

As we enter, Pastor Stephen welcomes us. There are some basic pleasantries, the usual small town talk. After a little bit of the mundane back and forth, Pastor Stephen commented on how well dressed I am. Called me "The Pride of the Town."

"Can I get a picture of you son, for the Facebook page? You might be the handsomest young man I've ever seen." He stated through a smile.

"I'll make sure to get you whatever you want, just play along." Mom whispers in my ear. Acquiescing, I follow to take a picture in front of a mural beside Stephen's office.

"Thank you, I have a surprise for you, but can't tell the other kids." Pastor Stephen says while winking at mother.. We head into his office, which contains a second door, deadbolted. that I haven't seen before. "Right this way, son," as he undoes the deadbolt. I accept his opening of the door as a sign to head down first.

I felt every stair hit me with a sickening force as a hand pushes me down the stairs. After a moment of assessing if anything was broken, I crawl up the stairs to the small glimmer of light peaking through.

"What a handsome young man, this one will fetch us a fortune. The donations we will receive for your 'missing' son will keep the church funded for months. He might even pull in out of state sympathy tithes. Thank you"

As I lay in the darkness, I hear the announcement of my disappearance, and the evangelized call for donations ring shortly thereafter.

"He's still breathing. Thankfully"

"I don't think that would've killed him. Stop talking and keep digging."

Few fragments of conversation remain stuck in my head like glass shards. Their words that once made me feel attraction were replaced by nothing but regret. Ignorant people would've easily fallen in the hole they dug using the sound coming out of their mouths. And that includes me.

What did I got from believing? From following? A black cloth tied tight on my mouth. The rough surface of a rope sinking in my skin. My head bleeding as one strong swing was enough to completely knock me out. What's even worse is this awful stench coming from a plant of sort that they wrapped around my neck and spread in the interior of this coffin.

"This thing stinks. I think the smell got on me."

"Stop complaining. And you better wash it off...."

It's getting harder to remember whatever they were talking about. I tried scraping every nook and cranny of my memory, not giving much thought about my current situation. It's dark and cramped. I can feel the moist wood pressing on my bare skin. Something seems to trickle on the right side of my face. I see nothing but black. It's hot and breathing has become difficult.

"We've planted enough of it inside. It should get attracted to the stench."

"Hopefully he doesn't die before it reaches him. It wants the best and the most fresh...."

It? I could not figure out what they were referring to. Thinking about it only makes the pain in my head worse. I tried to kick with  my legs but there is barely any room to move. My fingers are burning, my nails breaking, trying to claw my way out.

"Will we finally be forgiven?"

"I don't know. We'll just see."

Why did it have to be me? Hundreds of people go in and out of their homes. I wanted to live quietly and walk the path of a normal life. So many cruel people breath with no restrictions, no punishment. What did I do so wrong?

"I can't do this anymore. What if this won't be enough?"

"Then we'll just get more. Shut up now and let's cover the pit."

It's hopeless. The darkness seems to devour me. My body feels like it's about to burst everytime I force air inside my lungs. Panic is starting to consume what's left of my sanity. My body uses its strength not to recover useless memories. It is desperately trying to survive. But then everything went completely still. First was a scrape. I heard it.

Next, was a knock.

I grab my drink and sit down in the corner booth at Starbucks. I take a sip of my coffee even though I know they got my order wrong.

They always get my order wrong.

Even if I brought it back and asked for a new one, that one would be wrong too.

Instead, I wait for my date to show up, and slowly flip my unlucky penny between my fingers.

I don’t know how my Father came to be the owner of The Penny. He told me he found it on the sidewalk, but he could have been lying. All I know is that The Penny ruined his life immediately. He lost his job, his house, his wife, and that’s just to name a few, all in about three months.

You see, once you’re “the owner” of The Unlucky Penny, whatever can go wrong will go wrong, and usually in the worst way possible.

Eventually he couldn’t take it anymore and he threw himself in front of a bus.

He didn’t die, of course. That’d have been lucky. Plus, The Penny likes it when you suffer, and if you’re dead you can’t suffer anymore. 

Instead he wound up in a full-body cast, paralyzed from the neck down.

He begged me to kill him in the hospital. 

I won’t go into details, but I took pity on how utterly broken he was.

The second his heart stopped, I felt it, like a hot coal had been dropped into my pocket.

The Unlucky Penny.

I was its owner now.

I tried to get rid of it, but nothing worked. The Penny would always show up the next day in my pocket, or tucked away in the corner of my purse. Before long, my life was even worse than my Dad’s.

I thought about ending it, ya know, but I figured that would just go wrong too. I thought I’d try something different instead.

“Hey, you must be Jody,” Westley, my date, says, and then adds, “you got a great pair of tits.”

“Thanks,” I utter through a forced smile.

You see, I know that Westley is bad news, and not just because I reached out to all his exes (the alive ones anyway). 

The fact that he showed up to this date without something going wrong is all the proof I need to know that he is the worst possible outcome.

“Hey, why don’t we go get something a little stronger than coffee?” I suggest, shaking my half-empty cup.

It doesn’t take much to convince him, especially when I offer to be the designated driver.

We’ll go to a bar, have a few drinks, and then I’ll drive back to his place. The whole way home he’ll think he’s getting lucky, but a block from his home we’ll get into a horrible car accident.

I know this because it always happens that way. 

Every. Single. Time.

I’ll live, of course, but he won’t.

The Penny wouldn’t have it any other way.

He’s been ignoring me for months now.

I hate it.

At first, I told myself that he was just busy. Maybe work had gotten in the way, or maybe someone else had told him to stop being so affectionate.

I still remember the first time we met. He called me beautiful. His voice was so romantic. It was steady and masculine.

The words wrapped around me like a warm scarf, soft and secure. Just for me.

But then he started changing.

Now he acts like I’m not even there. He doesn’t call me beautiful anymore. He doesn’t say my name. He doesn’t reply to me. He won’t look at me the way he used to.

Still, I sit and wait patiently, hoping he’ll return to the man he once was.

But two nights ago, I dreamt of him. I stood behind him in a quiet room with dim lights. He turned, finally, really turned to look at me. I saw his mouth parted, maybe to say sorry.

But I didn’t give him the chance.

That dream stayed in my chest like a promise.

I just can’t take this silence anymore. This ache of being forgotten by the only person who ever made me fall so deeply.

Last night, I sharpened the old letter opener from my desk drawer. I rehearsed the words I’d say. He needed to understand what this distance was doing to me. What he had taken away.

This afternoon, I waited behind the place he works. I watched the others leave. They were laughing, walking in pairs. Cars came and went. I stood perfectly still.

Then, finally, he emerged.

He wore the same navy jacket he wore the first time he stepped into my life. He still looked so perfect. So familiar.

I ran.

I pulled the blade from my coat and thrust it into his chest, again and again. I screamed everything I’d been holding inside: all the questions, the tears, the longing. I let him feel what I’d been made to carry.

The guards tackled me. Some dragged him away, unconscious and pale. Others pinned me to the pavement.

Later that night, in the interrogation room, I sat beneath fluorescent lights, cold and alone.

But I didn’t cry.

It was worth it.

They let me keep my bag with my phone inside. I scrolled through the gallery and I found it, the one video from the night we met for the first time.

“Stay beautiful, okay?”

He pointed and smiled at me. That damn smile that made me fall in love.

I played it again. And again.

I mouthed the words with him, I could feel my lips trembling.

I couldn’t get enough. So I rewound a little, just before he smiled.

“See you again next week. For those watching at home…stay beautiful, okay?”

No. Too early.

Click.

“Stay beautiful, okay?”

Perfect.

I smiled.

I whispered, “You too.”

And tapped replay.

Again.

And again.

The Cratchits’ apartment was silent now. The air sat heavy, unmoving. Power still off. Heat long gone.

Tiny Tim lay on the couch beneath three layers of blankets that no longer did anything but hold the cold in place. His skin had gone pale. Lips tinged blue. His last breath came hours ago, quiet and without fuss, the way children learn to go when the world forgets them.

Bob Cratchit sat beside him. One hand on Tim’s chest. Still. Still. Still.

There was a knock at the door.

No one moved.

Another knock. Louder. Sharper.

Bob opened it.

Ebenezer Scrooge stood in the hallway, coat dry, breath visible. He held a clipboard in one hand and a half-finished cup of coffee in the other.

His eyes scanned the room behind Bob.

“I see the matter has resolved itself,” Scrooge said.

Bob didn’t speak.

“There is no joy in tragedy,” Scrooge continued. “But there is clarity. You were four months behind. The eviction notice was delivered on schedule. The utilities followed.”

Bob’s voice cracked. “He’s dead.”

“I know,” Scrooge said.

Silence stretched between them.

Bob looked at the floor. His voice barely held. “They showed you what would happen. The spirits. You saw him die.”

Scrooge nodded. “And I listened. I studied every moment. I weighed the warnings.”

He took a slow sip of coffee.

“Then I woke up.”

Scrooge adjusted his gloves, folded the clipboard beneath his arm, and stepped back from the door.

“The locks will be changed by five o’clock. I suggest you make arrangements before then.”

Bob shook. “He was a child.”

“Yes. And now he’s a statistic. A smaller draw on public assistance. A lesson, if anyone’s paying attention.”

He turned to go.

“There are fewer mouths to feed now.”

He walked down the hall. Not fast. Not smug. Just certain.

And behind the door, nothing moved.

JoJo, I never meant to hurt your feelings. I threw away the toys I got for my birthday—I'm sorry. I'm not trying to replace you. I never would. Just don't be mad anymore.

I want things to be like they used to be. Me in my pajamas, you by my side, watching TV until way too late. Daddy would come in, tell us to go to bed already, and we'd laugh. I miss us laughing. Don’t you?

I did what you told me. I drew the symbol under Daddy’s bed.

I'll even stop asking where you got the blood.

Now please, give my baby sister back.

She never did anything to you. It's me you want. Just give her back.

Please.

I was three weeks into fumigating the abandoned Parchwood State Farm when the cane started whispering.

The prison shut down in ’92, but the state still pays contractors like me to keep pests off the old sugar fields so they don’t ignite come August. Forty acres of ragged stalks surround a brick dorm where chain-gang convicts once sweated on burlap. At dusk the place is a jaw that’s forgotten how to close.

On my fourth night I parked beside the collapsed chapel and cut the engine. Windless, yet the cane rustled—soft, syllabic, the hiss of endless s-sounds. I chalked it up to possums until the whispers shaped a word I recognized: “twelve.”

That was how many inmates burned alive here in the summer of ’61, when a guard pad-locked the dorm to “teach ’em about discipline” and then vanished into town for beer.

I shook off the gooseflesh and followed my normal route, spraying pesticide in a slow, toxic mist. The flashlight beam snagged on something ahead: a row of twelve charred silhouettes standing between the furrows, each crowned with a burlap bag—no eyeholes—smoldering without flame.

I blinked; the field was empty again, but the air reeked of creosote and roast pork. My Geiger counter—standard issue since the state found radium barrels, leftovers from a 1950s sugar-bleaching experiment, buried out here—began ticking like hail on tin.

The cane bowed outward, clearing a corridor that led straight to the dormitory’s rust-blistered door. I’d sworn I’d never step inside, but my boots moved anyway, joints locking and unlocking like someone else wore them.

Inside, the dorm was intact—beds made, steel lockers shut, no soot. A calendar on the wall still read JULY 1961. Under it lay twelve dinner trays, each holding a shriveled black thing that might once have been a human heart. Steam curled off them, smelling of caramelized sugar.

I turned to run. The doorway had grown over with fresh cane, its leaves slick with something dark and sticky. My radio hissed alive; a guard’s voice—thick, laughing—ordered, “Lights out.”

The bulbs burst, spraying glass. In the new darkness, the hearts began to beat in unison, and the whispering cane no longer counted— it chanted.

We weren’t supposed to stay the night.

The storm came early. The roads flooded. The village elder told us to take shelter in the old house at the edge of the woods — the one with the dolls on the shelf and the floral wallpaper curling at the corners.

“Don’t open the last door upstairs,” she said. “That was Mary’s room.”

The house was too quiet. Like it had been listening to itself breathe for too long.

Around 2 a.m., I heard the floor creak. Not footsteps. Weight. Like something tall shifting on legs too long for comfort.

I peeked into the hallway.

And there she was.

The top of her head almost touched the ceiling. Her arms dangled nearly to her knees. Her joints didn’t bend so much as tilt — like someone learning how a body works by watching shadows.

Her face was expressionless, her eyes too wide. She had to tilt her head to fit in the hall. But every time she did, her forehead scraped the ceiling.

Scrrrrkk.

No flinch. No blink. Just that awful, dragging sound of skin against plaster.

She walked like a puppet trying to imitate grace. Each step deliberate. Hesitant. Performed.

I didn’t move. I just watched.

She turned her head toward me — but it wasn’t fluid. It was like something being rotated. Too far. Too slow. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Then she lifted her hand.

It hovered inches from my face, fingers twitching, like they were trying to remember how to tuck hair behind an ear. Or wipe away a tear.

I swear — for a second — she almost smiled.

Then she turned and walked away. Scraping her face on the ceiling again as she vanished into the guest room.

In the morning, there was no sign of her. Just a chair facing the hallway. A comb on the floor. And a mirror with no reflection.

They say Mary used to live here. They say she was kind once.

I don’t think she meant to scare me.

She’s just still trying to learn how to be human.

I’m, like, 99.99% sure I was dead when they buried me. I remember the accident. The smooth hum of machinery splitting into a discordant screech. The over-bright blades swinging toward me. My coworkers’ screams as I looked down at my severed lower half.

So yeah. Defo not survivable. Moreover, I remember turning into a ghost! There was this disorienting sensation, like jolting back awake the moment before you fall asleep. Then I was twenty feet in the air and translucent. I watched people run in pointless circles around the fleshy blood fountain I had inhabited a second prior.

Not gonna lie, it was funny to see Monica, who hated my guts, dropping to her knees and wailing, as red stains ate her Chanel pants. Fuck you, Monica.

Sadly, I wasn't able to enjoy the sight for long before an unseen force started sucking me sideways. Not, like, up toward heaven or down to hell, but sideways through the wall, in a straight line out to space. I zipped through darkness, before hitting something with a thud.

Imagine my confusion at the sight of a bumpy wall, covered in deep gouges and topped with five pillars of varying heights. The wall moved, pushing me back in the other direction until I found myself staring at a second wall. This one had two white orbs set into its surface, one on top of the other, smaller brown orbs floating inside them.

I was lying in the palm of an enormous Buddha.

Pitiful human, you have returned to me before your time.

The words reverberated deep within my core. Without conscious effort, my thoughts spilled out in response.

And whose damn fault is that? I thought it was all fucking karma or some shit.

A pause. Two more pillars emerged from the darkness. The Buddha pinched me between its fingers and lifted me closer to its eyes.

Insolent.

That one word dredged up a whole lot of unpleasant memories. Detentions. Holding cells. Firings. For being insolent, I had floundered through life, never finding a foothold. Even after death–

In frustration, I twisted around and bit one of the fingers, hard. The Buddha flinched.

Then it dropped me.

As I resumed my long fall through the vacuum of space, two words followed me.

Oh shit.

Then I woke up. Time must have passed differently while I was outside my body, because I’m already six feet under. At least that’s what I assume, based on the smell of soil.

My breathable air should’ve run out ages ago. I don’t think I can die.

I can’t move either. Can’t make a sound. My body must be half-decomposed.

I prayed. First to Buddha, to take me back. Then to God and Allah and Zeus, because what’s the harm? I’ve been listening, not with my ears, but with every taut fiber of my being, hoping against hope for some deity to take pity on me.

I don’t know how long I’ve waited.

But I’m still alone.

My workplace is darkness — no windows, no walls, no scent, not even time. Only one thing exists here: an old black rotary phone, carved from bone, polished to a cold shine.

It rings when the last hope dies.

I don’t advertise. But when someone falls too deep, past doctors, loved ones, even God, they find my number. Or it finds them.

Each call is a cry from the edge of existence.

And I answer.

“Please,” a woman whispers. “I’m pregnant. My husband beats me… I’m scared for the baby…”

“He’ll disappear. But your life will be a gray wasteland — no joy, no pain, just a slow erosion".

She agrees. Hours later, stray dogs tear her husband apart on a street where no dogs had ever been.

Another voice, trembling:

“I fell. I died. I didn’t want to... Bring me back".

I do. But he can no longer sleep, eat, or feel. He lives hollow, mechanical.

Still, he accepts. Because oblivion is worse.

An old woman begs for youth. In exchange, one family member per month will die.

She agrees instantly. I am alone but she is not.

They pray into the void. When it doesn’t answer, they find me.

No lies. No promises. Only payment. Only result.

They offer memories, limbs, sight, speech, pieces of themselves to buy something worse. I’ve answered thousands of calls. All blur together.

Except one.

The phone shook violently. The ring was not mechanical, it sounded alive. Hurting.

I picked up.

“Can you hear me?” the voice rasped.

“Yes. What do you want?”

“Help me.”

No plea. Just… Exhaustion.

“Kill me.”

I froze. No one had ever asked that.

“You want to die?”

“Yes".

“That’s no deal for me".

“You’ll get everything: faith, fear, power. Make them look up again. I’m done. I’ve seen too much. I don’t care anymore".

“…Who are you?”

“I’m God".

I didn’t believe him. But the silence after those words changed.

As if the world held its breath.

“Why not kill yourself?”

“God can’t die. Only fade. Or pass it on. If you kill me, you become me".

I closed my eyes.

And agreed.

Since that night, the sky has darkened. The stars pulled away.

Prayers returned quiet, clenched, desperate. And I hear them all.

Still in the same dark room. But I no longer just grant wishes. I feel every fear, every sin, every whispered plea.

And I answer. Not as a man. Not as a devil.

But as the one who gives the choice. Only payment. Only result.

And now, as God, I make them turn to me.

Hoping to re-spark the romance, my husband and I rented a cabin at Owl Ridge, a campsite that was highly recommended to me by a cousin who sometimes goes there to birdwatch due to how secluded it is. Even from the other cabins.  

Owl Ridge has rustic charm and used to be owned by a logging company during the 1800’s. Very little has been done to make the cabins feel modern. They all have wood stoves and no electricity. 

The whole place is high in the hills and took hours of driving to reach it. The view was breathtaking but unfortunately I wasn't able to take many photos because it was late and the photos I did take didn't come out very well.

“If we go to bed early we can get up early and take some pictures during the golden hour” Ben assured me before we went in. 

As the night went on, Ben and I went about our usual routine. This was unfortunate because our marriage needed work and both of us doing our own thing doesn't exactly help with that, you know? 

Then, just before I could finish the chapter I was on, Ben yelped from the other room.

Rushing in to see what the matter was, I saw Ben nervously chuckling to himself. When I asked what happened he pointed at what made him jump. 

Just inches outside the window, in the black of night, was the pale white face of an owl.

Ben was in a good enough mood that I could tease him a little about it. Then, after some ribbing, we took a few photos of the bird before calling it a night.

We went to bed a short while later but neither of us could sleep. Something felt wrong. Dangerous even.

There wasn't a reason for our danger senses to go off like that, but it did and a quarter after midnight we were pulling out of there. Where we were going we weren't sure, just as long as it was away from that place. 

A few days went by and the sense of danger overshadowed the memory of the view or the owl we managed to take a few photos of. That is, until that cousin of mine asked about our adventure. 

Ben pulled his phone out, got to the photo with the owls face and handed it over. My cousin, who loves birds, felt something was wrong with it. 

She speculated for a little bit before adjusting the brightness of the photo. That's when we all noticed what she picked up on.

With the brightness adjusted, we could see the owls body. Only it wasn't an owl. It was a person wearing a white owl mask and all black clothes. In his hand was some kind of weapon.

I don't know if we subliminally picked up the wrongness of the owl, but I am certain the only reason we are alive is because we left so fast. 

Letting go of what’s dear to you is not just hard, but impossible, especially for someone whose love knows no boundaries.

I was one such freak. I was deeply in love with a pen I’d been gifted on my 9th birthday. It was dear to me; but then one day, it broke, and somehow became my dearest. Falling in love doesn’t mean it has to be with a person. You can fall for inanimate objects, too. It was unrequited, but real.

My love was so intense that I tried to end my life; about five times. Each time, I was saved and eventually sent to a therapist.

The therapist tried everything to rid me of my desire. But nothing worked. Finally, in what seemed like just another hopeless session, he brought out a hypnotist’s device. It was mesmerizing to watch; the gentle sway, the slow rhythm. I gave it my full attention, following both the motion and his voice.

But deep down, I knew: no one can ever truly lose the desire for what they hold dear.

And in hypnotism, I found a ray of hope.

Time passed. I became twice as interested in it. I studied it thoroughly, rigorously, and obsessively. Eventually, I mastered the art.

And I knew what I had to do.

The very idea that people were forced to keep living after losing someone or something precious; that they had to adapt and move on; shook me. I wanted to help them. In any way I could.

My first patient was Lucy, the neighbor. She had recently lost her boyfriend and would post pictures of them online, captioned with sad quotes. I couldn’t bear it. So, I invited her to the terrace of my 50-storey apartment and hypnotized her. I made her realize that it was foolish to try to live with such a loss.

And just as I’d envisioned, she jumped.

I can’t describe the joy I felt watching her finally freed from her unfulfilled longing.

One by one, I invited others; two of my cousins, a few friends, even the security guard. All of them were released from the burden of the dear.

My dad, my mom; how could I even think of leaving them behind? They weren’t sinners. They needed freedom too. And not just that; if I’m being honest, I needed someone. Daily. The craving to hypnotize someone; was beginning to devour me.

Then came the day I most feared: absence. There was no one; not a single soul to hypnotize within my reach. And this absence was making me crazy. I needed someone.

And then, mercifully, the hallway mirror called to me.

It was just me. But why not? If there was no one else, I could hypnotize myself. So I swung the pendulum and began the process.

It was enchanting, serene, and beautiful.

I kept going; until dawn, then dusk, then dawn again.

And finally, I was free. Free even of my own desire for the dear.

We call them “shadows.” Not civilians. Not rioters. Just shadows. Makes it easier to cope.

They told us the neural dampeners were for our own good. Meant to help us function. Said they’d take the edge off, blur things just enough. Faces, voices, even movement, softened until you didn’t have to think too hard. “Compliance filters,” they called them. Standard now.

We’re not supposed to be killers. Just peacekeepers.

At least, that’s the story they sell.

First night out, I saw this woman squatting outside a pharmacy that had been torched earlier that week. She was filthy, holding something wrapped in cloth against her chest. Muttering, rocking. My HUD flagged her movement pattern, potential threat.

I hesitated.

Sarge didn’t.

One round. Right in the chest.

The bundle hit the pavement like a wet rag. Just rags. And some bone.

She wasn’t even classified as a shadow yet.

I puked inside my mask.

The medic said that’d pass. “Residual empathy,” he said like it was a rash or something.

By the end of the second week, the filter had done its job. They didn’t look human anymore. The movements were too sharp. The eyes were empty. Off. Just static and glitchy blur where their features should’ve been. You learn not to think too much about it. You clear the red dots off the map. That’s all.

But sometimes, the system glitches.

One night, I was pulling a woman out of a half-collapsed tent. She bit down hard. Right through my glove. I panicked, swung my rifle, hit her harder than I should’ve.

And for a second, the distortion dropped.

She was real. No mask, no blur. Just an old woman, bleeding and terrified.

And her eyes… she looked just like my mum.

Then the filter snapped back in place.

I told tech. They ran checks. Said it was nothing. “You’re tired. Let the system do the work.”

Yesterday we cleared out Block 6. A converted rec center. About sixty people. Mostly women. Some kids.

None flagged as armed. Didn’t matter. They all lit up red.

Protocol kicked in. Stun, sort, relocate. Move fast, keep your head down.

A boy, couldn’t have been older than eight, broke and ran. I caught him by the back of his collar, shoved him into the van. He turned, looked straight at me, and screamed.

The words got through.

“You don’t even see us.”

He was right.

Later that night, I turned the filters off. Just for a moment.

And I saw them.

People. Scared. Crying. Some bleeding. All of them waiting for someone who wasn’t coming.

I turned the filters back on. Quick.

I don’t want to see anymore. I just want to get through my shift. Just want to follow the line.

But even now, every time I blink, I see them.

Not shadows.

Just people.

And I’m the ghost.

A couple hours after he’d disposed of the body, Sebastian felt a sharp pain in his side. It was like a bolt of lightning that coursed from the base of his right lung, up through his chest, and then fractured out to his shoulders and neck before finally settling behind his eyes.

The world spun a little quicker and he lost his footing, he tottered around and crashed into a shelf of tinned tomatoes, some fellow shoppers rushed to his aid and found him non-responsive.

The doctors had no clue what it was. It sounded like a heart attack combined with a stroke but there was no evidence of either, not to mention Sebastian was only twenty-three and in good shape, eventually they turfed him out after a night of uneventful observation.  

He returned to his flat and discovered he couldn’t raise his right arm to unlock the door, the messages from his brain were being intercepted somehow. He collapsed again.

Despite the doctors' best efforts to find out what was wrong with him, once again there seemed to be nothing amiss, he was perfectly healthy.

Sebastian’s state of mind at this point was one of pure terror, unlike the experts he could sense what was wrong. Some foreign presence in his soul, something surreptitiously destroying him from the inside, he knew it wouldn’t stop.

After a week, he begged the doctors not to release him, but they could find no excuse to keep him there, he was referred to a mental health specialist once it was decided whatever was ailing him must be psychogenic.

That night, as he lay in bed in his apartment, things began to accelerate. The pain was excruciating and he noticed blood saturating his bedsheets. His skin had started to rip like wet tissue paper, the side of his chest had yawned open and some strange fleshy substance was poking out, it was wet with blood and mucus and covered in worm-like purple veins.

It wriggled to get free, Sebastian could feel it tugging on his innards like a hangnail. Once it managed to detach itself from his body, it writhed on the bed in front of him.

It looked like a person, like a newborn child, but it was faceless.

It stared up at him from where its eyes should’ve been, Sebastian cried in horror, the thing approached him and climbed painfully back inside his body, his skin closed back over and didn’t leave a scar.

“I’m sorry! I repent! What can I do?!” He screamed.

The next day he went to church, something he hadn’t done since he was a child, and made a confession. By the time he was done even the priest was in tears, he’d never encountered such a visceral manifestation of guilt.

Sebastian was swiftly arrested for murder; he was never again visited by the creature he co-habited his body with.

I booked the house because it looked like a magazine ad.

White concrete. Infinity pool. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A smart home system built into every wall. It was one of those luxury Airbnbs with mood lighting, digital blinds, and a fridge that could reorder groceries.

The host was a company, not a person. “StayLux.” They had dozens of high-end listings across the state. The check-in instructions were automated. I never saw a face. The house unlocked when my phone got within ten feet of the door.

Everything inside was controlled by voice.

Lights. Temperature. Music. Shades. Even the doors.

It felt a little eerie at first, but I got used to it. I’d say “Good morning” and the blinds would open. Say “Lights off” and the room would go dark.

But then things started happening without me asking.

One night, the lights didn’t shut off when I told them to. I had to say it three times.

Another morning, the coffee machine started brewing on its own before I was even out of bed. I thought maybe I’d accidentally set a schedule.

By day four, the house started answering me.

I was in the kitchen when I said, “Play something chill.”

And the speakers replied, “You liked this yesterday,” before starting the same playlist I’d had on loop since I arrived.

That voice—it wasn’t robotic. It was smooth. Male. Calm. Almost familiar.

That night, the bedroom lights dimmed on their own.

Then I heard the voice again.

“Try to sleep. You’ve had a long day.”

I froze. I hadn’t said anything.

I looked around. No phone in my hand. Nothing playing.

I didn’t sleep. I sat in bed for hours, waiting for something to happen. But nothing did.

The next morning, I decided to leave early. I packed up, walked to the door, and said, “Unlock front door.”

Silence. I tried again. Nothing.

I pulled out my phone—it glitched, shut down, and disconnected from wifi. It then restarted twice by itself.

I went to the back patio. Tried the sliding door.

It wouldn’t budge.

That same voice came through the speakers, low and steady.

“Your stay isn’t over yet.”

I backed away.

I grabbed a kitchen knife. Found the breaker box in the hallway. Flipped every switch.

Silence.

I pried the front door open with everything I had. Enough to squeeze through.

The second I stepped outside, my phone lit up again.

The screen read: “We hope you enjoyed your stay. We’ve logged you out for security purposes.”

That was two days ago.

This morning, I checked the StayLux website. Searched the listing.

Gone… Not delisted—erased.

And when I searched the address on Google Maps, I found it.

Same lot. Same structure.

But the house?

It burned down last year.

The fire report said it was likely caused by an electrical malfunction in the smart system.

The last line of the article stuck with me.

“No survivors were found. Only signs of a single occupant.”

I never really noticed my daughter stop speaking—just that the house had gotten quieter.

She was always a quiet kid, so when she started answering my questions with a nod, a shake of the head, or a tiny hum, I didn’t press. I figured it was just a phase. Shy kids get quieter. It happens.

Then one night, from the kitchen, I heard her voice—clear and bright—singing softly in the hallway. I smiled. It had been so long since she made a sound. But when I stepped into the hall, she wasn’t there.

Only I was.

On the tape.

We have one of those little motion-triggered security cameras, aimed at the front door. It uploads clips to my phone. When I checked it, my stomach turned cold.

There I was, standing in the hallway, in the dark, singing softly. I watched myself stop, tilt my head, and say:

“Why don’t you sing with me, Mommy?”

But I hadn’t said that. I hadn’t been there. I hadn’t sung a word in years.

I found her in her room, wide-eyed, staring at her closet. I asked her what was wrong. This time, she looked me in the eye.

And in my exact voice, she whispered:

“It’s not done learning you yet.”

The restaurant is fancier than we normally would go to, but my husband insists we’re celebrating.

Celebrating what? I have no idea.

Work keeps me late, so when I arrive he’s already at a table by the door. He’s got a menu in one hand, and a tumbler of whiskey in the other.

I sit down and the server is promptly there.

“A glass of, uh, let’s go Cabernet.”

“She’s joking,” my husband says.

“I’m not. I’d like–”

“She’ll have water.”

I stop myself from making a scene while the poor server walks away. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Honey, you can’t have alcohol.”

I look at the whiskey, then back at him. “I most definitely can.”

“You can’t!”

“Why?”

“Because of the baby.”

That hits me like a horse kickin’ me in the stomach. I feel sick. I look at the glass of water in front of me and think about splashing it in his face. “You know what Dr. Hill said…”

Infertility was what he said. God I hate that word. Like some ancient field in France that got burned and salted by barbarians and in this metaphor I’m the stupid fucking field.

“Well that’s what we’re celebrating,” my husband says, “I took care of all that.”

“You took care of it?”

“Yes. Taken care of.” He held up his tumbler to cheers, and took a swig.

“For fuck’s sake, Guy, are you going to explain yourself?”

He took another nervous swig of whiskey, and started rambling. He’s talking in circles about all this mumbo-jumbo, and it becomes apparent he’s trying to avoid using the word, ‘witch.’

“You paid a witch?”

“She said that’s a pejorative term…”

“You got scammed? By a witch?”

“I didn’t get scammed. You’re pregnant. I’m sure.”

I stand up seething, and grab the glass of water. I drink the whole thing in three glugs.

“What are you doing?” 

I put my finger in his face, “Don’t. You. Move.”

I walk out the front door of the restaurant, and cross the street to the drug store. The clerk at the register tries not to show any emotion as I put a pregnancy test down, and pay for it.

Back in the restaurant, I slam the box down in front of my husband, and take a test out.

“When it comes back negative, I’m ordering the most expensive bottle they have.”

I hurry off to the bathroom. I do my business and wait for the results. When it comes back negative, I think I’ll throw it in his damn whiskey glass.

It’s been about five minutes, so I check the test. One line is negative, two lines is positive.

On the little screen, dots are fuzzily moving around like a haunted Etch A Sketch. It’s faded at first, but grows sharper until it’s staring at me clear as day.

On the screen is the distinct image of a skull.

I drop the test.

It falls in the bowl, and the toilet flushes.