You ever feel that?

A clawing, or gnawing? A pressure over your body?

I get that a lot, an attention I mean, like spaces you’re in suddenly notice you all at once. It’s felt though still moments, when I decay in front of myself... Shit, I know what you’re thinking, way too dramatic, right? I manage shrug it off most days, crack a joke whenever I can, and that version works, people like it. Me too, sometimes. Dad would’ve certainly stomped any self-defeat out of me. “Still weak!” He’d say. Bark it, in fact. “Still got your life to live, so stop wasting time!” He’d despise stagnation— So I tell myself, I do, too. That I must be wrong. Wrong for feeling. Wrong to crack myself open on you.

Let me make it crystal clear, I’m fine.

Look, the tears already have run dry.

But alone, what if I rot?

There’s no better word for me. Fine, I mean. Something we stretch over the ugly and nobody complains. By all metrics, I’m operating at peak performance. Scores above average, check. Friends, accumulating. You’d like being around me, just don’t stare too closely when smiles don’t fit the way they should. When the world sleeps, when that pressure sneaks back in, presses its palm against my neck, I end up turning on the static. All I can do at this point. Early on, stepping forward hurt, sharpened pangs wouldn’t quell. They.. Well, I don’t let the world in anymore. Closed the door, locked it. Safer that way.

By now, You’re asking yourself, what’s this guy’s deal?

It’s just glass, a blank screen..

But, will the dead give him back? Just a glimpse, all I’m asking for, proof of what I saw was real. My dorm room ages around its edges, molding where I dropped trash weeks ago. A cup sits on the desk untouched, evaporating day by day. And my old TV sits at the center of. I keep thinking I should throw it out. Useless box. It’s just a dead set of wiring in plastic casing you might think, slowly collecting dust like fallen ash. But, even turned off it reflects a clouded underworld. These four walls, the same bed, drawers, same scattered clothes, all looking somehow wrong, like warped duplicates.

My situation, all of this— Because of that day. One ordinary twenty-four hour period twisting across the intervening years. I don’t dare touch it, fearing something will snap every time. But the memories call me, can’t help it. Sitting right before the TV with his echo throbbing in my mind. He was in my doorway that day, yet didn’t act like himself. The usual method was violence, unapologetically loud, barreling my way unannounced. Dad moved like he owned the space and everything in it, including me. It made me resent him, not that it ever mattered. There’d be hell to pay if I wasn’t achieving some golden standard. Shouting always followed. I was always failing some test I never knew I signed up for, and God only knows how many rounds of his disappointment I received growing up.

But not that day.

That day, the TV was on, volume low, bluish light bathing my walls. Nothing interesting, of course, but I needed to see movement between breaths. Pressure made itself known to me easily enough, tipping gravity like it always does. I felt him before I saw him, mind expecting a fight through muscle memory. Bracing in the temperature shift, I muttered, “What’d you want?” My head hung low, learned that trick young. But he didn’t answer. We’d gone at it before breakfast, something about my attitude, maybe falling grades. Anyway, the details grow vague over time, but what happened ages like concrete. After a while, my eyes drifted to the screen. Once. Twice. His reflection stood behind me. He just watched me, smile betraying him. Not a strained, gritted anger breaking through his teeth, but peacefulness.

This was different. Soft. Calm. Proud.

Man, saying that now still messes me up.

Proud.

Seeing this new version, I didn’t know how to exist in that moment. We weren’t fighting— the tension in me only spiked further. So, I turned, unable to bear the uncomfortable calm between us, and was greeted by emptiness.

He was gone.

No footsteps. No door slam. Just absence, like he’d never been there. There’s some myth about this, I believe. You know the one… Ah, I forgot who it was, some Greek hero walked his lover out of death, told not to look back. He turns like I did, at the final step. Loses her forever. I think about that a lot, how I must have broke my dad’s spell. I wish I’d said something to the doorway. Anything. But I didn’t care enough at the time, thinking he’d come back.

He never did.

The call that shatters worlds came later. Afternoon light slanted across the hallway rug— I remember that more than my sister’s voice. Sirens bled through the phone, together with screaming, and chaotic wind sent my way, all delaying my connection to her words.

“….Heart attack, an hour ago? Dad? Why is he in hospital?”

That’s…. When…. I dislocated. My first still moment, the same ones that terrify me. It’s when everything inside me freezes, but the world keeps moving regardless. I welled down the line, “Dad was just behind me, watching me!” … It was useless, the phone disagreed. “Dad! Where are you!” I ran through the empty house searching, pleading.

But I couldn’t find my dad.

The next few months happened without me. The funeral, mourners, and black clothes all eventually proved me wrong. Now I have to live with his absence. Progressing. Regressing. Being forced to choose between two extremes. Can you tell me what that makes me? Because I don’t fucking know. Certainly, nothing explains what he saw the day my dad died. All I’m left with is static, reflecting the top corner of a screen where he left me. It’s been long enough, recalling his face is hard, or the softness in his eyes. But I have to, it’s the only time I ever saw his gentle smile.

I think I’d be angry, maybe not, for fucking me up twice. Once when he was alive, once more when he died. Or for maybe, not letting me give him something to take with him.

So, I stare, sometimes until my eyes sting — when moments still.

I… I miss you, Dad.

Two years ago, I worked in a warehouse on a grim industrial estate outside London. The sort of shit hole where time congeals, so you end up dragging yourself from shift to shift. You know the ones, unload containers here, stack crates there. Grunt work from 9 to 5. As cranes screeched overhead and forklifts whined nonstop, we’re forced to sweat until whatever trucking company pulled in to collect. A place like that dulls in small, efficient increments, but it ain’t a problem when you’re young. You’ll do anything for money, and I was no different. At that time, I had my eyes on a new motorbike. Never did buy it, though, not after that night.

It started with my dumb friend. He told me about a side job he had going. Ridiculous money, he chuckled, for such an easy job, and all he had to do was burn things. Household goods, old junk that needed “disappearing.” Once I listened, I was hooked. The only catch was it needed to be done out in the countryside. Unauthorized fires were illegal, of course, but anyone interested would be more than compensated for the risk.

So, I jumped at the chance. I mean, if some guy offered to pay you for burning whatever, what would you do? My friend told me his role was simple. We’d be split into two groups. One for burning what was unloaded off a parked truck. He always stood with the second group, by the roadside, and kept his eyes peeled for cars. If headlights appeared on the road, they’d shout, allowing time to smother the flames until it was safe. Truckers didn’t care, but normal people did. Of course, if the police came, it was over.

We met at the warehouse after ten one night, because it was better to work at night. The other eight with us were teenagers. All boys pretending to be men — track suits, cigarettes, too much bravado. Not built for real labour. There was one older man, though. Slim. Glasses. Neat jacket despite the mud. He didn’t say much, but you knew he was in charge. Everyone watched him, and in return, he watched everything.

By midnight, we were out of London, driving north, taking so many backroads that I was already lost. Proper dark. No streetlights. Just the rustling of trees and the hum of an idle truck already waiting for us at the site. Its back was full of furniture: desks, chairs, shelves, chest of drawers. I could tell it wasn’t from one owner either— that much was obvious. When we were lined up, the foreman walked to each of us and handed half our payment up front. My friend was loving this. As soon as I saw him grin, the anxiety seemed to fade. Sheets of paper were handed out, too. More like typed lists. “Read carefully,” he said. “Make sure everything’s gone by dawn.”

I still remember some of it. The precision felt too excessive for rubbish.

A black chest of drawers, six compartments.
Carpet.

A three-panel mirror, marked.
Carpet.

Brown chest of drawers, three small drawers over two large.
Carpet (small).
Carpet.

Then we started. “Remember what you have to do, lads, get to work,” the foreman shouted. I doused a few chairs in petrol to get the fire going. The odd thing was that all the carpets were to be packed onto the fire, then more furniture was piled on top of them, making them burn in the center. This instruction was ground into us by the foreman. At first, it was almost festive — lads talking, kicking ash, the man in glasses scrolling through his phone like he was supervising a garden party. I got chatting with another guy hauling a table with me. It turned out that no one knew each other. After more small talk, he asked what I’d spend the money on, but I wasn’t dumb enough to let too many details slip, so my answers were as vague as possible. He smiled without warmth.

Someone asked over my shoulder, where the furniture came from, and the foreman paused long enough for the night to feel thinner. “Local client of ours, you know. Wants it gone.” So that’s where the stuff came from, but what was the big deal about burning it? Couldn’t he get more money selling it? After he told us this, the foreman turned a cold, especially towards the guy asking him. Then: “Just get it done.” That was all, and he wandered off. His attitude told us no more answers.

As the night wore on, flames grew higher. The first carpet was heavier than it looked. Rolled tight, bound with tape. It took four of us to lift the damn thing. I remember thinking how awkwardly it was weighted, as if the centre sagged differently from the ends. We heaved it onto the fire.

The flames climbed greedily.

By the time we returned for the remaining carpets, the lookouts by the roadside were growing wary and restless. One of them hissed that a car was coming. Headlights flickered through trees in the distance.

“Police?” the man in glasses snapped. Before we started the job, we were told if it wasn’t the police, the next worst thing would be a civilian car. Your run-of-the-mill family car. Truckers don’t care if they see a fire; they have a job to do, and they can’t stop to report stuff. But family cars were bad news.

“Don’t know.”

“Doesn’t matter. Move.”

It got the men freaked out, and we scattered into the treeline, not far away. The fire was beaten down with shovels and dirt, reduced to a smoulder. From where I stood between two pines, I could see the truck bed lit faintly by embers — the last of the rolled carpets lying there. I was staring at the truck when it happened. One of the carpets moved, I’m not kidding. I saw with my own eyes a slow tightening. A subtle wriggle, as though something inside had shifted against constraint.

For a second, I thought my eyes were playing tricks in the firelight. Then it happened again — an unmistakable, desperate adjustment. My throat closed. The man in glasses noticed it too. I know he did. His jaw clenched. He swore under his breath, not loudly — irritated, almost inconvenienced. When the headlights finally disappeared, he didn’t say anything about what we’d seen. He simply pointed.

“Mirror next.”

I gritted my teeth, and was about to go over to the carpets when a firm hand landed on my shoulder.

“Don’t!” It was the guy who talked with me before.

“But,” I cried.

But he shook his head. “No, just don’t. It’s not worth getting involved.”

My heart sank as I carried the three-panel mirror to the fire and threw it in. The glass burst with a sharp crack. In the shards, I caught a glimpse of the foreman walking to the truck. He had picked up a metal rod. There was no ceremony. No hesitation. He drove it down into the centre of the rolled carpet with a force that jolted his shoulders. Once. Twice. A third time. A sound came out — not a scream. Not quite. Something trapped and muffled. The others pretended not to hear. Then he nodded.

“Get it in.”

We lifted it again. It was heavier now. Or maybe I was. The fire took a long time with that one. We burned four carpets that night. I never asked questions. None of us did. The lists were checked. Every item accounted for. The man in glasses collected the remaining cash from his coat pocket and paid us with clinical precision.

I didn’t sleep when I got home. For weeks afterward, the smell of smoke clung to me, even after washing. Sometimes I wake up convinced I can hear something shifting inside rolled fabric. And, I never spent the money, either. It sits in my savings account with the rest, untouched. I tell myself it’s just currency, or numbers on a screen. A month after I quit, I ran into my friend outside the warehouse. He was still doing that job now and then, still bragging about how easy the money was.

“And how many carpets do they burn out in the country?” I asked him.

He shrugged.“I dunno. There’s always a few rolled up in the truck.”

I nodded like it meant nothing. I couldn’t tell him the truth. I didn’t fancy being the next bloke rolled up and burning in the courtyside.

A month after I quit, I ran into my friend. He still does the job now and then. Still gloating about how much money he gets.

“And, how many carpets do they burn out in the country?”

“I dunno, there’s a few rolled up in the truck now and then. Why?”

I’ve never told him what I think of that job, can’t. I just hope all that’s inside those carpets is woven fabric and string.

Welcome back to the PLAYGROUND. It seems life has imitated art as I find myself playing a community story game with my friends on a Wednesday night. It’s been years since I last held a character sheet, trembling before rolling a d20-sided dice, but it feels good to be back.

In this story, I play a 3rd-level Warlock fairy, and with session one under our belts, I’m going to write about my adventure here. I hope you enjoy it.

I’d love to hear your D&D stories, so comment down below.

Ominous rumbling dragged Gilee out of the dark. For one foolish heartbeat, he convinced himself it was a storm—the same soft, velveteen thunder of his childhood, when the fairyfolk would burrow under root and canopy of the forest until the sky finished its tantrum. But this rhythm did not roll over the horizon. It hammered towards Gilee, ringing with iron. Boots. Thunder became metal striking stone, sharp enough to split his thoughts apart. He sucked in air and rolled just as an armored man barreled past, sword drawn, close enough that his wake tugged at Gilee’s hair. Greaves struck the floor where his ribs had been a breath before.

“Where am—” The rest strangled in his throat as Gilee struggled to his feet. Curled around him were the last evaporating strands of the transportation spell used to send him here. Stone walls. Iron door. Banners surrounded Gilee. His heart sank when he realized where he had materialized. “I’m still in the Mad King’s fortress. I’ll be eaten for this…” He had already been left to rot in the fortress’s bowels for opposing the Mad King, if Gilee were captured again… There wasn’t time to process further because from across the chamber, a thick iron door buckled before being forced inward. Shrill cries clawed along the walls, heralding a pack of kobolds from the darkness beyond—low, quick shapes with hooked spears and jagged teeth bared in triumph. Behind them strode two robed men, faces shadowed beneath their cowls, hands already weaving arcane signs in the air. The spell had worked. He had cleared the Mad King’s dungeon, but where had he ended up? Gilee cursed the wizard circle for throwing him out of the frying pan and into the fire. Palms scraping against cold stone burned with an arcane sigil of the transportation spell. But the armored man did not notice a fairy in the chamber. His sword came down in a gleam of white fire toward the first kobold through the threshold.

“The Knights of True Radiance?” Gilee breathed, a tang of courage bubbling in his spine. “So those metel-men have finally shown their colors.”

His blade fell—

—and met nothing. The kobold twisted aside with serpentine quickness. The knight cursed, the word ringing like another stroke of steel. Gilee’s pulse skittered. He did not remember standing. Something small and dark tore itself free from the air beside him and shot forward. At first, it was no more than a blur, a scrap of shadow flung toward the melee. Then wings snapped open. Claws unfurled. A barbed tail lashed once before striking. An imp hit the kobold squarely between its shoulders, its stinger driving through leather and scale. The creature shrieked—a high, tearing sound—before collapsing in a twitching heap. Gilee stared, breath shallow.

Of course. The enemy had bound him in the dungeons, but not stripped him entirely. Not everything. The imp turned midair and looked back at him, eyes like coals just beginning to glow. It felt the way a thought feels when it finishes forming. It was his. But one imp would not hold a siege. The chamber roared with clashing metal and snarled incantations. Torches guttered wildly in their brackets, casting frantic light over stone below the Mad King’s cracked crown. Blood streaked the mortar lines between the stones.

I am going to die here, Gilee thought, sudden and certain. In the Mad King’s own fortress, trampled between zealots and monsters. The man drove forward again, visor tight, oblivious to everything but the bodies in front of him. A kobold leapt for his flank. Steel met scale. Sparks flew. The imp wheeled, slashing another kobold open from throat to belly. It landed in a crouch, hissing—

—and died.

A cultist loomed above Gilee’s friend, taller by far, robes dragging like spilled ink. Symbols glowed faintly across the man’s eyes. His hand rose, fingers hooked in preparation for a spell. The imp looked very small. Too small. “That won’t do,” Gilee whispered, reaching inward—not for fire, nor force—but to fear. Illusions could not create, only persuade. So Gilee found the shape terror already wanted and sharpened it, and the air before the cultist rippled like disturbed water.

The imp swelled. Bone lengthened with a sickening grace. Wings split and expanded, blotting torchlight. Claws thickened into scythes. The barbed tail grew heavy as a scorpion’s nightmare. In a single inhalation, the imp became a towering, fifteen-foot demon, its jaws yawning wide enough to swallow a man whole. But Gilee wasn’t finished. Instinctively, he invaded the man’s mind with unholy roars. To the cultist, sounds were half real, half suggestion—but the difference did not matter. He recoiled as if struck, dropping his ritual knife outright; it clanged and skittered across the stone. The other stumbled backward into the doorframe. Panic broke whatever chant had been forming on their lips. The armored man, visor narrowed to a slit, did not see the demon at all; instead, hacking at empty air when he swung, blade passing through the illusion’s thigh without resistance. Gilee couldn’t help smiling at his handiwork. Those puppets of the Mad King deserved everything they got for hunting the fairyfoke to extinction. He felt a strain in his mind now—a wire pulled tight behind his eyes. The illusion magic would not hold forever.

But it did not need to.

The chaos thinned. Just for a breath, and he ran. Stone scraped his bare feet as his wings carried him toward the iron door the cultists had breached. The corridor beyond yawned like a wound in the wall, darkness breathing cold against his face. He was almost through, almost beyond this carnage. Then a shape blocked the threshold. The cultist who had fled first stood there again, chest heaving beneath his robes. This time, he did not look shocked.

He looked certain. Because behind him, more shapes crowded the corridor—low and snarling, metal glinting in the gloom. Not a scattered pack. A hunting party. The cultist’s gaze locked onto Gilee with terrible recognition. “What?” he said softly. “A fairy?” Like he had found something rare.

Then the corridor filled with teeth.

Welcome to the PLAYGROUND.

This happened two or three years ago when I was

in my third year of junior high. We moved out of New York because of my dad’s job. It

was the worst possible timing for a

transfer right before

graduation and I was pretty crushed about that, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. It was work and work

takes priority.

Still, what really killed my

mood was the house we moved into. When I saw it for the

first time,

I knew it was going to take forever to clean. The yard

was a mess, littered with snack wrappers

and garbage bags. But what really caught my eye was one of the windows facing the

garden. Shattered glass still hanging in the frame. I remember thinking, “Who the

hell’s managing this place?” I was stood outside when I heard my dad

call out from the second floor, “Hey

Mike, bring those

trash bags from the car and come up here.” So, I grabbed the bags and went inside. The moment I

stepped through the door, though, I felt it. Some thing was definitely off. The air was heavy. And

even though it was

almost noon, the whole place felt dark, like it was stuck in a permanent

twilight, just w. r. o. n. g. The staircase was straight ahead. A hallway led down to

the kitchen and living room. and another room that looked

like a traditional sitting room. Upstairs, I could hear my

dad,

mom,

and

my

younger brother rustling around, cleaning up. We’re a family of four. I made my way up. My dad was

already flapping out a trash bag, and he gave me a look that said something like, “Let’s clean this ______ up from top to

bottom. You two, come on.” I joined in, reluctantly picking

up trash that had

been scattered across the floor. It was bad. Worse than I could expect.

Frozen food packaging, moldy

candy. Wrappers stuck to the floor. Just

disgusting. As I moved further down the h. a. l. l, I reached the far end of the second floor. Something on the left

caught my

eye. A

section of the wall was covered in layers of duct tape. A lot of

it. The color of that section of the wall was different to the rest of it.

too white, too clean, like it had been patched up or something. I stared at it. It was shaped

like a door. And when I looked at the lay

out

of the house, yeah, there should have been a room

there, but there was no doororknob, just a sealed rectangle where a door should

have be

en,

completely covered in tape and white plaster. “Hey, why is this room blocked

off?” I asked. My dad came over and had a look. He muttered something like

this. Oh, that’s weird. I wasn’t told about this. And he walked off, phone in

hand.

As soon as he was gone, my little brother came over. What’s going on? This

wall, I think it used to be a door. The way really? Well, that’s kind of cool.

He reached

out

and ran his hand along the wall like he was examining some kind of weird museum exhibit, but then he

stopped, eyes on the center. Hey, the tape here feels

loose.

I

touched it, too, and he was right. There was

give. The wall wasn’t solid beyond that spot. He started tugging on the

tape, trying to rip it away. It didn’t come off cleanly. It just tore in

strips, but enough peeled away to reveal

a small hole. Behind the tape, it wasn’t wool. It was just

darkness. Now, both of us were peeling. The hole grew strip by strip until it

was about the size of a manhole cover. My brother leaned in to take a look.

“Whoa, it’s pitch black. I can’t see a

thing.” “What? There’s no light coming

through the window?” I asked. I peered in too, just like he had. Total

darkness. Not a single speck of light. It didn’t even feel like a room, if I’m honest with you. More

like a

void.

That’s when my dad came back. and he wasn’t

alone.

With him was the property manager.

M y dad froze when he saw the hole. What the hell is this? My brother

explained how the tape had been loose and he couldn’t help himself. My dad turned to the manager, his voice tight.

“why wasn’t this mentioned? He looked

shaken.

That sealed room, where

was its window? I circled to the side of the house and yeah, there was a wall

that looked different, brighter than the rest, like someone had sealed it up from the outside, too. No glass, though. No

frame, just smooth white wall. “So, they’re going to fix it, huh?” I asked.

My dad nodded. “Yeah, break it open, clean it up. No problem.” “That’s when my brother screamed.” He came tearing

down the stairs like something was chasing him. “Something’s in that room,” he cried. He was pale, shaking, he said. He leaned into the hole to get a better look and heard something. A sound way in the back of the room like something was

dragging itself across the floor. Our mom tried to brush it off.

It’s a rat,

probably.

Maybe raccoon. No. My brother snapped at her.

It wasn’t an animal. It was like something big dragging itself. Like it was pulling something heavy across the

floor. My dad said he’d block the hole for now and not to worry. that it

probably was just a big rat. Later, I got curious. I grabbed a flash light

and

went upstairs. The beam of the flashlight cut through the dark. Boxes, junk, dust, old

toys, a storage room, basically. No sounds, no movement. Still standing there alone in the hallway. I felt cold.

The kind of cold that creeps into your bones. Like the whole house was watching. Well, at least that’s how it

felt to me. My dad came up the stairs next.

“What’s

in

there?” He said storage.

I think that’s about it. Still got to clean this room out before the workers come, he muttered. Why would someone

seal off a room like this? He patched up the hole with cloth and tape. I watched him do it. I told myself it was over,

that we were done with this until the work got started. But before I left the hallway,

I glanced back. The cloth was bulging slightly like some

thing behind

it was

pressing on it trying to get through. My whole body tensed and I bolted

downstairs. We settled into the house. Parents took the first room. I got a room upstairs. My brother was supposed

to have his own, but he refused to sleep

on the second floor. He ended up sleeping in the living room. I didn’t

blame him. That night, I tried to sleep and then I

heard scratch, drag, scratch, drag.

Something was moving outside my door. Something was coming from the

hole.

But I’ll tell you this, that was only the beginning. That night, I tried

to sleep. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. The sound was faint but unmistakable. Something rough was

scraping against the wooden hallway floor outside my r o o m. I turned off my lamp, hoping to hear

better. And it actually worked. Thump, drag, scratch. A pattern,

slow, methodical, like something moving without legs, like it was crawling, pulling itself closer inch by inch. I

pressed my ear to the door.

I could

n’t breathe. From that direction, where the

room was sealed, something was dragging itself along the hallway, and it was coming towards me.

Then there was a new sound that broke through the silence. Rip, tap,

rip. Like adhesive being peeled from surface, followed by a gentle patter of

something touching the floor. It clicked. The tape, the cloth, it was being peeled away

again.

What ever

it was inside was trying to get out. I wanted to run, to yell, to do something, anything. But my body

wouldn’t respond. I was frozen. All I could do was listen. The scraping grew

louder, closer, and then thump right outside my door. I had no choice. I took

a deep breath, mustered up all my energy. And I

screamed,

“Hey, Dad, Mom.” Something like that. I remember my

voice

cracked.

And

t

h

e

n

I screamed again louder for help. Footsteps thundered up the stairs.

My door flew

open. My dad burst in out of breath and furious. What the hell are you doing? You’re going to wake the

whole neighborhood. I couldn’t answer right away. My mouth moved, but nothing came

out. He followed my gaze towards the hallway. The cloth, it was gone. He

walked over to the wall and swore under his breath. Then, without a word, he recovered the hole with a new sheet of

cloth and more tape. Later downstairs over dinner, I tried to explain what I’d heard, what I’d

felt. Mom

rolled

her

eyes. Dad gave me a skeptical look, but my brother, my

brother, he stared down at his plate and he

said

nothing. After dinner, I cornered him.

Hey, what did you really see yesterday when you looked in that hole? He didn’t answer at first. He just sat there, eyes

unfocused. Eventually, in a low voice, he said, “I saw a hand just at the edge

of it, right in the light. It wasn’t human. It was too long. The fingers,

they moved slowly like it knew I was watching.” He wouldn’t say any more than

that. That night, I insisted on sleeping in the living room with him. I couldn’t go back upstairs. None of us slept

well

that night. The next day, we tried to carry on like normal. I had to get ready for school.

My first day at a new place. Dad was driving me. I realized too late that my uniform and bag was still upstairs in my

room. I didn’t want to go up there alone, so I asked my brother to come with me. He hesitated, but then nodded

and together we climbed the stairs. When we turned the corner, the cloth over the hole was gone again. My brother froze.

I

wanted to

pretend it

was

nothing,

but the hallway now felt colder, like

something had recently passed through. I grabbed my stuff as fast as I could, and we both bolted

downstairs. Later that afternoon, after school, I came home to an empty house. The door was locked, no sign of anyone.

I used the spare key and I stepped inside, dark, silent. I turned on the

TV

and cranked the volume, needing some kind of noise to keep the quiet away. I

dozed off on the couch and woke up to

a

loud bang. The TV was off, the lights, too. I

sat up, my heart pounding. Had the power gone out. I checked the street through the window. The neighboring houses were

all lit up. Just us. Only our house had gone dark. Panic began to set in. I

stumbled through the dark towards the entrance towards the breaker panel. And as I passed by the staircase, I heard it

again. Slide, drag, creek. It was upstairs. It was moving again. I stood

there staring into the blackness. And then I saw it. Something

descending the stairs. Not walking. Crawling on limbs. Limbs too long.

fingers were curled in unnatural ways. It didn’t make a sound. Not a scream,

nor a whisper. I dropped to the floor. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t

scream. And before I passed out, I swear this thing looked at me. It saw

me. Not with eyes, but it saw me. I woke up in my room. My dad said they found me

collapsed by the front door. The room with the hole was now open. The wall tore down. Bright light flooded in.

It looked normal, like a child’s room. Toys, picture books,

a small bed. But no

one used it. Not once. We left the house a few months later, right after I

graduated junior high. And to this day, I don’t know what that thing was, but whatever it was, it didn’t want to be

forgotten and

didn’t

want

to stay

sealed

away.

In the years following the haunting at West Street’s house 14, normalcy slowly, cautiously, returned the way dust settles after a storm. Eventually, days flourished following the rhythm of the seasons. Time dulled the fear, until even Father Bromley believed whatever evil resided there had moved on. No sounds of chattering, no tappings through the walls. Jessica changed, too, though signs were mistaken for teenage maturity. The priest, more concerned with protecting spiritual peace, came to purify the home whenever he could. But visitations dropped and prayers shortened, as his services were no longer needed. He never investigated the haunting’s cause, though, stating only that some things were best left to God.

“But what about that woman?” Jessica asked after one of his purifications.

Bromley paused, as though searching for something misplaced. “Jessica, be rest assured, my child. There is no woman.” He promised to look into it, but inquiries led nowhere. Eventually, Jessica stopped asking, and learned when not to speak. She learned how to sit still for long stretches of time too, how to keep her face composed, and how to answer questions without offering anything of herself.

Only once did something disturb the priest. An open notebook was left on Jessica’s desk. On one page, barely pressed into the paper, a name had been written and then almost erased. Helen’s ghost. The word troubled him, though he could not say why. When asked, Jessica closed it with a gentle hand, brushing it off as an art project. Her voice held no curiosity, no embarrassment—only finality. He did not press further.

In four years, Father Bromley had received a request from another parish. He left West Street with the quiet certainty that whatever had gone on in the days of the house’s trouble had been either contained, forgotten, or destroyed. The family watched him leave from their lives for good, counting the seconds until his car disappeared, and understood without quite knowing how no one would come again.

Corruptions in the house did not return all at once.

Rather, they unfolded in tones. Nothing moved in the walls this time. Nothing whispered. But David now spent fewer nights at the table. Work carried him farther from West Street, and when he stayed with the family, a weariness that did not belong followed him. Conversations shortened. Doors closed more often. Jessica watched her mother speaking optimistically at first, filling silence with unanswered questions. He sat with his coat still on, answering only in half-sentences, eyes drifting to the clock, wishing to be anywhere else. When they began to pass each other in their hallway like strangers, Jessica chose to keep her problems to herself. Recurring nightmares began haunting her nights, and an old woman’s voice wafted through her bedroom.

The truth came without ceremony. Her mother finally confronted her father in the kitchen one evening, hands trembling against the counter. There was shouting, fighting. Jessica didn’t look up from her plate, unconsciously counting the seconds between raised voices. She was alone in her room when the clashing of bedrock finally broke their family.

David left two weeks later. When he finally went, there was no goodbye, no slammed doors, no final argument. Just the soft click of a lock. By seventeen, Jessica barely kept her head above water. Her father’s absence shaped the house—twisting doorways, hollowing out rooms into echoing shells. Some days she didn’t leave her bedroom. On others, she moved with a frantic tenderness that left Jessica unsure where to place her hands, her voice, herself. The nightmares only grew.

As time marched on Jessica failed an exam, then another, then more— enough for red warnings to blossom on her papers. They were folded into her bag and forgotten about, creased and softened by weeks of being carried. No one asked about them, anyway. At dinner, talk focused on a neighbor’s new car, or rising grocery costs, instead. Jessica nodded at the right moments. She tried to explain the feeling to a school counselor—how it seemed as though a darkness followed her, how she felt thinning, as if an essential part of her had been lost. The woman smiled kindly and asked if she was getting enough sleep. Jessica replied yes. She learned the correct answers. Nothing was written down. No follow-up came.

Helen’s ghost no longer needed to scream from the folds in reality. She did not claw at walls or chatter from corners. The demon only waited. In recent dreams, Jessica stood in her bedroom while the air grew heavy, waiting for the old woman behind her—close enough that breath could be felt against her neck.

You are mine, the cruel voice would say.

Jessica fought to stay awake in the final days, still here, but only in fragments. She internalized the geography of the ceiling, the exact number of cracks above her bed. She learned how to stay away from her mother’s drunken breathing in the adjacent room, slow and uneven, as if her crying were a warning. And the house frightened her more, refusing to release her. Then, at her lowest, exhaustion betrayed her. She woke to the darkness, sitting upright, hands folded in her lap. The room had changed—no shadows moving, no sound in the walls. Helen’s ghost, the demon of House 14, stood at the foot of the bed, in a shape thin and indistinct, like a figure reflected in dark glass.

“S.. You are…” Jessica replied, trailing off.

“Helen. Yes, my child.” Past the entity, to the doorway where light from the hall should have been, there was none. The house felt foreign, as though it had already decided not to interfere. “Your father is gone,” it continued. “And, your mother is disappearing as we speak, but I never left you, my child. I did everything I promised when we met.” The woman stepped closer. Not touching. Never touching. Jessica closed her eyes. For a moment, flashes of the house as it had once been came and danced over her vision: voices overlapping, the smell of food in the kitchen, her mother’s laughter drifting down the hall. She could not remember the sound of it clearly anymore. Only the shadow it had left behind.

“I don’t want to be here,” she whispered.

“Then don’t.”

The woman did not smile. She did not need to. Without another word, Jessica felt the void step into her, like needles pressing into her skin. No one was there to witness pupils clouding jet black, or stop an evil coursing from her fingertips, uncurling defenses. Years of watching from the sidelines, of containing, of pretending that survival meant living, collapsed inward. She felt the world recede, then nothing at all.

And number 14 remained silent.

If it unsettles you, disturbs you, or lingers a little too long after the last line, don’t keep it to yourself. Please, share it, and spread the word to help carry the PLAYGROUND message forward—where strange stories live, and discomfort is part of the invitation.

“You’ve hardly touched your food since we sat down, dear. What’s the matter with it?” Mother looked at me with practiced concern from across the family table. Between us, candles that had been lit early to bolster fading light still tiptoing through the windows. They flickered against china plates, and family crests worked into the cloth beneath our hands.

“The meat’s good,” Father grumbled. “Something’s wrong with him.”

“No-no, I apologize. That’s not it.” I replied, mustering a voice to be heard. “You’ve made a delicious supper, Mother. I’m just surprised at the trouble you both went through for me. I can’t recall the last time we ate Father’s special meat.”

Father snorted, groaning in his chair. “Can’t you tell, Susan? He’s eager to leave us. Return to his beloved university,” He couldn’t help but lay years of irritations off his tongue. “Stop pestering the boy. Let us eat in peace. Right, John?”

I glanced from my place with a forced, wry smile from my lips, but neither noticed. To my left, my sisters Alice and Charlotte had already begun to dig in. Father’s special meat sat steaming in the center of the table, dark and glossy, making my mouth salivate. I picked apart my own piece and placed it into my mouth. As far as I could remember, our family ate this particular meal with bare hands. Neither parent would allow cutlery, as it was family tradition. His meat, father proclaimed, was primal. He never explained, and we never asked, especially after promising to kill any one of us if ever we found out its origin. Mother, of course, knew but remained tight-lipped for fear of our safety. There was a sharpness in his eyes when he talked about it, so dangerous that my younger sisters and I never pressed any further. All we did was eat, as we were told.

Whatever it was, it was good. No, better than good, it tasted divine. Chicken? Perhaps Pork? The tender fibers resisted slightly before giving way to warm and slick juices between my teeth. There was a density there I couldn’t place, a depth of flavor lingering on my tongue. Familiar, somehow. Father had only served this special meat, as he called it, seven times across my life. So, I couldn’t help but extend my stay when, out of the blue, Mother told me she was cooking it again. However, now that we were gathered together, the taste alone couldn’t prevent my mind from wandering to what awaited me at university.

“Back to your studies, I’ll expect. Shouldn’t you have left two days ago?” Father growled out from his chair.

“That’s correct, Sir. Though I’m thinking of staying longer.”

A smirk danced across his face, but he didn’t look up from the drink he’d taken to wash the meat down his throat. “Not dreading that damned professor of yours?”

The meat slipped from my fingers. I don’t know whose gasp louder— mine or my mother’s. “How did you…?” I trailed off, mind racing to understand his intentions.

“A word of warning, John.” He said, savoring his tone, as if enjoying his own voice. “When confiding in another, giving away dirty little secrets, make damn sure there’s a punishment waiting for them if they talk.” Father finally glanced at Mother. “She can’t keep her mouth shut.”

The room tilted. As I stared at the woman seated opposite me, the woman who mirrored my own disbelief, memories of the prior week came to me. Our clandestine time in the study, cramped over the smoldering fire pit. My voice shook as I spoke of that professor’s fury—how careless remarks had turned my studies into torment. The way his eyes lingered on me in lectures. The bold humiliations in front of my peers. I hated that man for what he put me through, but felt powerless to do anything. My conclusion was to quit studying at the university.

“Your father will never allow such a thing.” Mother whispered in hushed tones, freezing whenever footsteps passed in the rooms overhead.

“I implore you, Mother. I’m at my wits’ end.” I pleaded with her. “I can’t take it anymore,” We agreed I would stay at the home for longer than intended, but leave should Father grow suspicious.

“Oh, John. Am I truly that hard to talk to?” Father’s words snapped me back to our meal. The memories evaporated like frail leaves as I looked upon my half-chewed meat. I was dumbfounded that he knew. Father didn’t give me the chance to respond, throwing his words at me while rising from his chair. “A Hövermann! A Hövermann! Five generations of the hardest-working men built from God’s green Earth, and you’re the result of our labors. A boy who’s frightened by a schoolmaster! Did you not hold your ground? Grandfather, well, we all know about his famous temper. He would have knocked that sniveling bookworm to the floor!” Father grew in stature as he yelled. He slammed another piece of meat into his mouth. Chomped. It seemed to calm him momentarily. “John, I’m only offended,” he spoke between bites, mouth full, “that you didn’t come to me sooner. You’re my only heir, since your brother vanished, left us to the wolves.” He finally slumped back into his chair. “At least eat, meat’s getting cold.”

“No…I don’t want another…”

“EAT IT!”

Father’s face loomed upon mine, red and slick with sweat, the smell of grease and spirits thick on his breath. “Damn sons of mine..” For a moment, I thought he would strike me. Instead, he leaned back, “You remind me of David. Before he disappeared. Had the same look on his face four years ago, as you do now. Bold, defiant. Does your own bloodline disgust you that much?” Then he chuckled through his nose and wiped his hands on a cloth already darkened with old stains. Then a grin appeared, growing in intensity. “How could I be related to you both? Always the same,” he said. “Always thinking you’re above the family, until you taste our meat.”

Mother reached across the table then. Not to me—to the platter. She turned it slightly, presenting a different cut. Leaner. Pale at the center. The steam curled in soft threads. “Try this piece,” she said with a warmth lost to Father. “It’ll sit easier.” I wanted to shake my head, but my hands betrayed me. They moved before I could stop them, fingers sinking into the fibers. The meat pulled apart with a sound like damp paper. It was warm. Too warm.

“There now,” Father muttered, already drinking again. “Feels good in your belly, doesn’t it?”

I brought it to my mouth. It was richer than before. Dense. Familiar in ways I couldn’t place. There was a bitterness beneath the salt, something sharp that clung to the back of my tongue. I chewed slowly, waiting for revulsion, for my body to throw it back in disgust. It never came. They both watched me closely. “Stress does that,” Mother said. “Makes the flesh tighter. You can always tell.”

I swallowed.

Father watched me with delight, “John, I think it’s time you knew.”

Knew? Knew what? I wondered wide-eyed, but Father cut my mind from more thinking. “Take the girls into the kitchen, let them finish their meat there.” Mother ushered them without a word, patting me on the shoulder as she passed.

“That professor of yours, the one who’s been giving you trouble.” Father continued after my sisters were out of the room. “You won’t be needing to worry about him anymore.”

“Worry about him? I don’t understand, Father. Why would you say that?” I asked, almost fearing to hear the answer. Mother had left meat on her plate, and I scraped it onto mine. Its flavors seemed to grow in my mouth. Never had I tasted such succulence.

He only shrugged. “Paid him a visit. After Mother informed me of your sulking around this house, like a little girl, refusing to return to your university. Back to the studies I paid for. No Hövermann would dare show weakness. You weren’t going to do anything, so I took matters into my own hands. We’re built from something else, John, as strong as the earth. That blood runs through your veins as much as it does through mine.”

“And where is he now?”

At this, Father relaxed. He savoured the moment, taking in the sheer panic in my eyes. With a grin as big as the Earth itself, he uttered calmly. “Your precious professor? Well, you’ve been eating him for the past hour.”

I erupted, almost overturning the table. “How could you? How could you? A Beast! That’s what you are. A Monster!”

“A Hövermann,” he corrected. “We do what’s necessary, which means removing problems. It was the same with your brother four years ago.”

“My brother?”

“He became a problem. Let me remind you, punishment waits for people who can’t keep family secrets.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. But my mouth… It kept chewing, and the meat, my professor, the realization was settling slowly in my stomach. It didn’t horrify me. It comforted me.

I understood why he… they all had always tasted so good.

The taste made sense now—the familiarity, the satisfaction blooming in my chest. I began to laugh, I couldn’t help it. Father laughed with me. All I could do was whisper, and the words horrified me as I said them, but I said them anyway.

“Those fools. They all deserved what came to them.”

And as I chewed, the meat grew sweeter.

I was a Hövermann after all.

Thank you for reading. This has been an UNCANNY FICTION written under the direction of my personal writing philosoph— ENT theory.

If this tale has unsettled you, disturbed, or left a lingering discomfort, don’t keep it to yourself. Please consider sharing and spreading the word to help carry the PLAYGROUND message forward—where strange stories live, and the uncanny is part of the invitation.

Welcome to the Playground.

I feel like a ‘Round Table’ of authors is materializing within these liminal boundaries. Brave souls are exploring these uncharted waters of litera-sea (literacy- see what I did there :). Led by Sir

on his midnight black steed, , , , , are all. forces to be reckoned with in their own ways. You should check them out.

is worth his weight in literary gold, too.

Speaking of Kerr, he is running his own writing competition, and I present my own entry today.

THE RULES

• Short Stories, Flash fiction or Poetry only.

• Under 1500 words.

• No perfectionism. No laborious editing. No self-censorship.

• You can stop and come back, you can even edit in the moment, but you can’t go back and fix.

• Just keep moving forward. Follow the heat of the first impulse. Follow the thought.

This is Guerrilla Literature: Writing without restraint.
No filter, no polish, just page-to-vein transmission.

Post your piece here on Substack and tag so it notifies him when you’re done. He’ll restack and boost your work to help it reach more beautifully deranged minds.

A Toy’s Christmas.

I don’t understand... How have I ended up trapped here, third row from the top, dead center in the Action Hero aisle? I was lied to, there’s been a mistake! I was told my box was being shipped off to some old collector in Pennsylvania. Peaceful. A quiet life, where I wouldn’t be bothered. Not here. Not this disease-infested fluorescent hell of a toy store on the outskirts of town. Not to be bought by one of those….. I can’t say it, they’re too horrible… Those children…

I could have at least been kept out of the prime position. Shoved to a forgotten place at the back. But, oh no. “Center stage,” the store manager chuckled to himself, "My number one money-maker for the holiday season. Action man.”

“Fuck you!” I screamed in perfect, silent rage once he tucked me in amongst my peers. Easy for him to smile. He’s not the one who’s got a new accessory buried in his behind. Honestly, what kind of sadist at the toy company came up with that brilliant idea? Holy crap, you press it enough times, and my head pops clean off. I can picture the employee’s dopey face at the pitch meeting, declaring: “Our research found that kids love removable parts.”

Well, I can complain, but it won’t change anything. It’ll be called Johnny’s innocent playtime, the barbaric hell time in store for me. Just imagine all that merciless yanking, twisting, and hurling across the room until I break, all to give this fatso store manager in front of me a few extra dollars before Xmas. I give myself about six months before I can’t snap back into place ever again. Barbie understands what I’m talking about, standing three boxes down. Her smile frozen, green eyes glassy with permanent optimism, all gloss over her primal fear. But I hear she has a defect, neck already loose. Word is she’s getting a product recall soon— lucky bitch. Wouldn’t mind some private time myself with her, before we’re sold. Both making each other’s heads pop off behind closed doors. Just kidding.

God, why couldn’t I be a slinky? Those coiled hunks of junk have it oh so easy. Discarded after 30 minutes of torture, forgotten once one of those grubby kids has had his paws all over them. Yuck! If I could, I’d….

“Attention. We’re now open. Welcome to Mainland’s Toy Shop.”

Well, happy holidays, everyone.

My god! Here come the shoppers!

The first wave hits fast—parents with coffee-stained breath, dead eyes scanning price tags, kids already vibrating like posseed animals. A boy locks along my aisle immediately. Freckles. Missing tooth. Predator grin. “ACTION MAN” My name spews out of his mouth in slow motion, making my product line figures tremble in their boxes. He points, it’s at me. “THAT ONE!” His mother reaches for my box without looking up from her smartphone. That’s the worst part. The prey is never looked at. They look through us.

Without warning, the boy snatches and rips through the cardboard, as if it could offer any defence. Barbie flashes past me, her eyes straining to cry, knowing she never can. Don’t we even get a last goodbye? Air rushes past my plastic face for the first time in days. The world tilts wildly as I’m swung by one arm.

Then the pressure hits. My nightmare begins.

Click.

My skull rockets off into the aether and smacks the tile floor. The pain is impossible—raw static through every manufactured nerve. The boy laughs so hard he snorts. I’m forced back into position, and he presses it again.

Our carnage is visceral. Our lines are decimated. I glimpse the other toys between blackouts. A stuffed bear is slowly strangled. A doll dragged limp by its hair. A robot twitching in a seizure of stripped wiring. None of us can scream loud enough to matter.

Click. Rinse, repeat. My nightmare continues.

By the fourth time, the boy slams his palm down on me, but something around my neck connection doesn’t seal right. The world jitters, and my head snaps back on crooked. The ceiling lights smear as he ravages me without end.

The boy frowns. Trying again, he shakes me.

Click. Click. Click. The clicking intensifies, then nothing.

His predator grin collapses into a scowl. “Mom. It’s broken.”

She sighs as if I’ve personally inconvenienced the human race. “You just got it.”

“It doesn’t work.”

She plucks me from his hands and marches to the counter. My head drags against the tile, with a lone piece of string pulled tight as it’s the only thing tethering me to my body. The clerk barely looks at me. He presses the button once.

Nothing.

“Defective,” he says, already turning away. “I’ll take it to the warehouse.”

The boy doesn’t argue. He’s already halfway back for another victim. From the clerk’s grip, I watch him seize an Action Man from my old spot. Fresh box. Perfect seal. Factory smile, with eyes white with fear. My replacement knows he’s been chosen.

But before I can witness the new horror show, doors to the back swing open. The warehouse smells like dust and surrender. I’m tossed onto a metal table under buzzing lights, body skidding to a stop beside a familiar pink box.

Barbie, the one with the neck bent at a sick angle now, head cocked like she’s waiting for something that will never come. One of her eyes has been lost, pushed out by one of those innocent demons. With the last strength in my ruined spring, I turn my head, and I’m greeted with her trademark wink. “Welcome to the recall pile, handsome.”

1.

November 4th, 1987. Three minutes after eight.

[ring, ring …. ring, ring]

Hi, this is the Steward residence, Kimberly speaking. But, if you’re looking for my dad, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. His boss took him to a fancy cocktail party, somewhere downtown tonight. You’re lucky you caught me before I hit a movie. Can I get your name and number? I’m sure he’ll call you back as soon as possible… if he remembers.

……….

Hang on, where’s that notepad.. Ah, got it. What’d you say the name was? I can hear over my dog’s barks.

……….

Um, hello? Anyone there?

[caller disconnects]

2.

November 5th, 1987. Eighteen minutes before nine.

[ring, ring …. ring, ring]

Good evening, you’ve reached Hank Steward. How may I help—

[caller disconnects]

3.

November 7th, 1987. Sometime between eight twenty and eight twenty-five.

[ring, ring …. ring, ri-]

Finally, what took so long to call, babe? You promised we’d talk, like an hour ago. God, Dad’s been going nuts on me all day after someone mailed him photos of us together. Who would do something like this? Anyway, he told me I was way too young… Told me to stop seeing you. I swear, I can’t take living in this house anymore.

……….

But now you’re here, everything’s okay again….Babe?

……….

Why won’t you say something?

……….

God damn it! Stop creeping me out, Kevin. Shannon must have told you to prank call me, didn’t she? If she’s behind the photos, too, I’m gonna kill her come Monday. Stop messing around and talk to me, babe. I thought we loved each other… I guess it was you three nights ago, too …right? C’mon, Kevin, say something or I swear I’ll hang up.

……….

Asshole.

[caller disconnects]

4.

November 16th, 1987. A little after eight fifteen.

[ring, ring …. ring, ring]

This is the Steward residence, Kimberly spea….

………

Oh, again... My mysterious weirdo! I found those fucked up pages you wrote about me in my locker, pretty sick. I wanna tell you I took it to the principal, and she assured me she’ll find out who you are. When she does, you can kiss your graduation goodbye. My friends are asking around, too. You can’t hide. Eventually, you'll be found, and Kevin’s gonna kick your ass.

For now, though, please keep rotting in hell.

I can’t believe I thought Kevin was the one calling me last Friday. Did you really think you could break us? Pathetic! But, I have to say, your plan almost worked….. almost. Clever how my dad happened to find photos of us in our mail box that morning, making him so mad. I’m sorry to say you failed. Even he cooled down, eventually. Now we’re stronger than ever.

…………

What’s wrong, weirdo? Got nothing to say? I suggest you just give up now and…

………remember………

..huh? Remember? What exactly? Never mind, my Dad’s beside me and wants to talk with you.

[receiver switches]

Listen buddy! Stop calling my house, or I’ll—

[caller disconnects]

5.

November 17th, 1987. Eight o’clock.

[Phone rings fourteen times. No one in the house to answer]

[call ends]

6.

November 25th, 1987. Eight thirty-six.

[ring, ring … ring, ring]

K… Kim… Kimberly Steward speaking.

…………

Can’t you just leave me alone? What have I done to you? Stop calling and following me, please. How did you even get our number after Dad changed it? This little game of yours, this obsession, is getting real old, real fast.

…………

You think I don’t notice you? Shadows under brown jackets walking along our street? Yeah, real original with those cheap sunglasses. I used to tell myself it was just some guy out for a walk. Now I know better.… You were watching before November, weren’t you? I realized when I saw you after practice. I laughed it off. God …. you’re so stupid….

And were those packages left on our porch, yours, I presume? No return address, obviously. Just twine and brown paper. Dad gave it to the cops before I could see what was inside. We’re going to catch you, weirdo. It’s just a matter of time.

…………

Say something. Just once. I dare you.

[caller disconnects]

“I’m sorry, Office Reyes. Not long enough for a trace.”

7.

November 27th, 1987. A quarter past eight.

[ring, ring … ring, ring]

“Dad, don’t answer it. Please.”

[ring, ring … ri~]

…………

If you’re looking for Kimberly, she’s not here. When I find you, you son of a bitch, I’ll make you pay.… Trying to snatch my girl off the street like that? The police are going to lock you away for a very long time. Every cop in town is driving around tonight looking for you. So if you’re outside, you might want to wave and make all our lives better by turning yourself in.

…………

Nothing to say? No clever little whispers this time?

…………I see you……….

WHAT?

[caller disconnects]

8.

November 28th, 1987 — 20:12 hrs

[outbound call, made to 911. frantic male voice]

Hello, Hello! Officer Reyes? He’s here, the guy who’s been stalking my daughter. Yes, 6 feet two, early twenties, brown coat. I don’t know how he managed to get to the house, but we saw him lurking ten minutes ago. Now the upstairs window was broken and I think it’s been pulled open.

[distant female voice] “Hang up, dad— he’s here. I can hear it breathing…”

[a sudden scream and a large bang]

Oh, shit—

[four more loud bangs]

[line remains open for 00:12 seconds after receiver is dropped. then the line disconnects.]

November 28th, 1987 — 21:50 hrs

[Two-wave radio call from squad car]

Good evening, Captain. Officer Reyes here. I’m at the Steward residence on Elm — 1423 Elm Street. I’m afraid we’re too late. The scene is secured, but I’m afraid it’s a bloody mess. We got two victims. Hank Steward, early fifties, and his daughter, Kimberly Steward, approximately 17. Entry was through an upstairs window. Outside, there are several trampled flower beds on the back porch, but that could indicate prior activity.

Inside, Mr. Steward is on the floor near the telephone console, with multiple wounds consistent with gunshot trauma. There are shell casings on the floor, caliber consistent with a small handgun. No weapon was recovered where he fell. Ms. Steward …. Kimberly, I believe … collapsed in the kitchen doorway. She’s also got multiple gunshot wounds. There is a pooling of blood near her shoes and a smear on the doorframe, with possible movement after initial injury. Especially, in connection with packages left on their porch over the past month. I recall we got them stored as evidence.

Given the pattern of persistent phone harassment — multiple calls, the open handset, and the last recorded call logs found in the house — I believe phone records are critical evidence in my investigation. We need to trace incoming numbers, times, and, if possible, which central office exchanges were used. Requesting permission to obtain provider call records for the period November 1, 1987, through November 28, 1987.

Take a look at this painting by the Serbian artist Dragan Bibin. The quiet absence of what lies beyond the door fills one with an overwhelming dread, doesn’t it? What does the dog see that we don’t? What could be calling from the dark? These irritations inspired me to write this piece. I hope it gnaws at the back of your mind while you read it.

Welcome to the Playground.

Attempts to pick things up from the previous night were floundering. “Oh, babe, you’re so fucking hot tonight,” Mark whispered up his wife’s bare neck. Carla lay beneath him, her legs gripping her husband’s hips. But within the heat of the breath, or despite it, she grew colder by the second. He sucked her breasts and tongued nipples in time to his thrusts. She, in turn, moaned, as she always did, but the atmosphere betrayed their performance for what it was. Whatever Mark did, their intimacy pushed his wife in the opposite direction.

Did he care? No, not really. Babies were her world; he just agreed to make one, but tonight she was out of step. So, enough of a show was made to feign interest. He leaned close, whispering more dirty promises, sounding more hollow than the last. The barking downstairs only made things worse, drowning out any pleasure from the room.

Finally, after getting little to no response, she said. “Mark, I can’t do this.” Against his better judgment, he came to a halt. His breathing slowed. The two of them became silent on bed sheets creased and damp with heat. She added, “Can you get off me?”

He did as he was asked. Then, knowing it would strike a nail in the coffin of their night, he asked, “Honey, what’s wrong?”

Carla looked away from his gaze, wrapping a cover over her body and drawing her knees up. She was as frustrated as her husband was. She stared through the empty doorway, feeling as if the sound below their room carried a shape, some strange outline pressing itself against the walls of the house. “I swear, we’re getting rid of that dog come tomorrow.”

“Not this again, leave Rufus alone.”

“No,” She erupted. “You don’t notice anything? Rufus is getting weirder. He just stood at the pantry door all day, growling. I know those barks are for me, I can feel it. Non-stop. And those eyes of his, when he’s standing there, well, they’re just not his. It’s turning me inside out. I even thought the barks continued when he finally did leave. Can you believe that he’s driving me insane?” Her hands shook as her words poured over the bed. “I.. we ought to get rid of him.”

“What’s the matter with you? You want a baby.”

“We! We decided together.”

“Yeah, ok. But when WE get down to it, you always clam up.”

“Because you just ram it into me, do you even know how to fuck a woman?”

Mark heard it. Three dull barks downstairs. Then a pause. Then one long, low sound that didn’t sound like their pet anymore. He couldn’t be in the room right now, so he ignored his wife, muttering, “Rufus must have escaped again.” Mark shot a look of softened empathy, but Carla wasn’t interested, “I’ll go check then.”

Now, in the dark hallway, Mark sighed in relief. He loved his wife, but the tension in the room was unbearable. He crossed the house down to the kitchen, the place where the barks usually came from. He didn’t look for Rufus immediately; instead, he reached for a cold beer from the fridge. He downed it, not enough time to enjoy it, as too long downstairs would raise suspicions. With beer in hand, Mark moved to the closed pantry, the place where their dog seemed to do his nightly ritual of barking.

Rufus had been here, as the scratch marks proved it. Jagged cuts protruded a few inches along the floor from the door, along with wood filings that were cut out. What’s that dumb dog done now? Mark thought as he finished his beer, burping as quietly as he could. Two years ago, they had agreed that a pet would bring them closer together, but it seemed to be doing the opposite recently. Now Carla thinks a baby will cement them as a family, and Mark agreed; always doing that. He followed the wooden grain lines from the scratched bottom up to the doorknob. As he fixated on the knob, his periphery collapsed around him, forcing his gaze on the door, through the door, to what could be waiting behind it. Time stilled as it silently beckoned him. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching for the knob.

Bark

The high-pitched jolt broke his concentration, and Mark blinked in the darkness as he returned to the present. He had to take a retake; this new bark hadn’t come from the kitchen, but back in the den where they kept Rufus.

From the bedroom, he swore he heard the barking coming from the kitchen; now the scratching confirmed their dog was here. But when Mark checked, Rufus was still locked up. Nothing seemed broken; his dog was in the exact same place they had left him before they went upstairs.

“Did you find him?” Carla asked the moment Mark walked into their bedroom. She lay on her side, with her back to the door.

“Yeah, well, here’s the thing, Rufus wasn’t…”

“I thought you fixed his cage, you know, like you promised last night.”

“I did, I fixed it,” Mark said, feeling defensive again. “Just like I cut the grass and change the light bulbs, look, I can’t do everything around this house.” Silence. Mark sighed, feeling the need to say what was wedged inside of him all this time. He knew it would kill her, but he needed to say it anyway. “You know, maybe trying for a baby isn’t the right thing to do, so soon after the miscarriage…”

No more words were uttered. Without anything more to say, the couple drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

The sky was low and grey by the time Mark pulled into the driveway a day later. The house looked smaller in the fading light, the upstairs windows dim and lifeless. He sat in the car longer than he needed to, listening to the engine idle, not ready to face what waited inside.

No surprise, Carla wasn’t answering his messages. She hadn’t stirred that morning when he left either—just lay, pale and quiet, one arm thrown over the side of the bed.

He killed the engine and stepped out. Gravel crunched under his shoes. From somewhere inside, he heard the faint sound of a knife striking wood. Chop. Chop. Chop. Mark entered through the front door. The air smelled faintly of onions and something metallic, like old pennies. “Carla, you in there, honey?”

No answer.

He walked toward the kitchen. She stood at the counter with her back to him, hair tangled and hanging limp. A pot simmered on the stove. Beside her, the chopping board was littered with pieces of carrot and raw chicken.

“Hey,” he said softly.

She didn’t turn around but gave a “Hey,” back.

Mark hesitated by the doorway. “You read my messages? I said I was sorry for last night.”

“I saw them.” Chop. Chop. “Didn’t feel like talking.”

He stepped closer. “You okay?”

The knife came down harder. “I’m great.”

He watched her shoulders move as she worked, her movements jerky, uneven. There was something off about her rhythm, like she was forcing herself to stay busy. The smell of the cooking made him nauseous.

“Look, about last night—”

“Don’t,” she snapped. The knife stopped midair. “Don’t start again.”

“I wasn’t starting anything. I just—”

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” She turned then, eyes bloodshot, face drawn tight as parchment. “You think this is all in my head. Rufus. The barking. All the scratching. You don’t hear it, Mark? You didn’t see what our dog did this morning.”

Mark’s stomach tightened. “What do you mean?”

“I came downstairs and he was there, right by the pantry, again. Staring. Growling. I called his name, but it wasn’t him anymore.”

He frowned. “Carla, he’s just a dog. That’s what they do.”

“No.” Her voice cracked. “You weren’t here. He looked at me. Like I was something he’d dug up.”

Sighing, Mark looked away, rubbing his forehead. “You need to calm down. You’re working yourself up over...”

“Nothing?” The word came out as a shriek. “You don’t get it, do you? I hear it everywhere. In the walls. You were asleep, but I heard that scratching, whispering—like something was crawling around inside this house!”

“Jesus, Carla.”

He reached for her arm, but she jerked away, knocking the knife against the board. “Don’t touch me!”

“Would you stop it! You’re not well.”

Her laughter was brittle, hollow. “Not well? You mean I’m crazy, right? Just another woman who lost her mind after losing our baby.”

“Carla, that’s not what I—”

The knife slipped.

It was quick — a wet sound, followed by a sharp intake of breath. The blade clattered against the counter and fell to the floor, blood spreading fast across her palm.

“Shit!” Mark grabbed a towel, pressing it over the wound. “Hold still!”

Carla didn’t cry out. She just stared at the pantry door across the kitchen, eyes wide and glassy.

“Carla!”

“I saw it,” she whispered. Her voice was barely audible over the rush of blood dripping onto the tiles. “Just now. Behind the door.”

“What are you talking about?”

Her lips trembled with tears starting to pour from her eyes. “It’s not Rufus.”

Mark tightened the towel around her hand and pulled her toward the hallway. “We’re going to the hospital. Now.”

She didn’t resist, but her gaze never left the pantry door.

As they stepped outside, the kitchen light flickered. From somewhere deep in the house came a low, muffled bark again. Mark froze for a second as if recognizing something in the sound. It didn’t come from Rufus.

The driveway was empty when Mark returned home. Carla refused his help, insisting she could handle the hospital herself. She left without a word, carrying her bag and the towel-wrapped hand. The front door closed with a muted click, and the house was suddenly too quiet. He lingered in the hall, listening. No chatter from the streets, no footsteps, no Rufus. Just the house settling around him.

Mark’s chest tightened. The memory of Carla’s hollow stare, her trembling hands, haunted him. He’d tried to call her on the way home — no answer. Not even a text. A low hum of unease pressed against him as he moved toward the kitchen. Shadows pooled in the corners, clinging to the walls. He had told himself it was nothing — just nerves, just stress — but the pantry door seemed darker than usual, heavier somehow, as though it absorbed the light around it.

Then a whisper.

A single, sibilant sound that threaded through the silence, impossible to place. Mark… not bark… it was Mark. He froze. The hair on his arms prickled. The whisper came again, low and coaxing, almost familiar. Mark… His stomach turned, bile rising, but something — curiosity, fear, or something darker — compelled him forward. Each step toward the pantry felt like walking through water.

And then the barking began.

Sharp. Insistent. One bark. Two. Then a crescendo, rapid and panicked.

Mark’s throat went dry. “Rufus?” he whispered, voice trembling. Another bark, louder, closer, but… different. The pitch was wrong. Too harsh, too resonant. Not Rufus. He tried to step back. His feet felt rooted to the floor. The whispering resumed, mingling with the barking, shaping itself into something that pressed against his skull. Come closer…

The floorboards groaned beneath him as he stumbled forward. Each set of barks crescendoed, echoing off walls, vibrating in his chest. Not his dog. Not anything alive. His hand reached, almost of its own volition, toward the pantry knob. The metal was cold, unyielding. His pulse hammered. Every instinct screamed to stop, to run, but the voice — that terrible, coaxing voice — wrapped itself around his mind. Mark…Mark… closer… inside…

And then he touched it.

The door swung open. Darkness spilled out like a liquid, thick and suffocating. He stepped forward. The air inside smelled of damp earth and something sharper, metallic. His senses reeled.

The door clicked behind him.

Locked in silence.

Mark did not resist.

Maybe, as you read her story, you’ll find a bit more understanding for the people around us. In the end, we’re all carrying something.

If you have a strange tale of your own (no matter how small), my subscribers at the playground would love to read it.

Aa always, a massive thank you to my subscribers. I’ve been traveling around the Playground, and I highly recommend these SUBSTACKS.

, ,

, ,

She commented that she once saw a German composer, who lived in the 18th century, in front of me, playing his Songs without Words. The next day, I went to the library, found his portrait, and he was exactly as I saw him, listening to his music that night.

I suggest that you read the full account in her own words -

Larisa’s Substack

Wrong Country

CHAPTER II KOLKHOZ and Seriozha…

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a year ago · 20 likes · 19 comments · Larisa Rimerman

I dream things that wind up happening later. Just small things. A person I didn’t expect to talk to. The lighting in a restaurant. Someone wearing something strange or specific — like a shirt with a giant green fish or a pair of shoes I’ve never seen before. Then, days or weeks later, there it is, exactly as I dreamed it. It’s not every night, but when it happens, it always feels the same. It’s as if I’m seeing something I’m not supposed to. Then I’ll wake up and think, That was weird, forgetting all about it. Until it happens again, and then it’s like déjà vu from the inside out.

Our son has had the same experiences. There’s something about this kind of dreaming that doesn’t feel supernatural, exactly. More like worlds leaking into each other. It reminds me that reality isn’t as cleanly cut as we think it is.

I’ve had ghosts, too — or at least, I’ve lived in places that didn’t feel entirely mine. Two houses in particular stand out.

The first one had a ghost we named Bob. I never met him in life, but people told us it was the previous owner. He’d lived there for forty years and passed away quietly in his sleep. When we bought the house, I remember walking in and thinking this place had already seen everything but welcomed us in. Bob was nice enough. That sounds funny to say about a ghost, but it’s true. He never frightened me or my husband. Sometimes, I felt him with us and would say, “Evening, Bob.” And that was that. Not threatening, not sad. Just there.

The kids who visited us, though, were afraid to walk into our front bedroom.

The second house wasn’t like that. That one had a different kind of resident. Loud, extremely LOUD crashing noises came from the pantry — like pots and pans being thrown against the walls. It would happen at all times of the day, and my husband and I would both jump up, thinking something had fallen. But every single time, we’d find nothing. Not a single thing out of place.

Then, one day, it stopped. Completely. The timing was strange — it was right after our granddaughter was born. Almost like the house just… exhaled. Like whatever it was had been waiting for something, and once she arrived, it was done. We never heard anything again after that.

I don’t pretend to understand any of it. I don’t think everything unexplained is bad, but I’ve learned that not everything wants to be understood either.

A word of warning, though — and I mean this seriously: don’t mess with Ouija boards. Just don’t. I don’t care how curious you are, or how sure you are that it’s “just a game.” It’s not.

OK, that’s goodbye from me, and, if you’re out there, “Evening, Bob.”

That’s why you are her.

Welcome back to the playground. I hope to kick off October with this slice of strangeness. A fellow SUBSTACK writer kindly decided to write a reply to one of my notes below. And, he has kindly permitted me to publish it. It’s not jump-scary, but reading it still gave me chills.

- definitely give his Substack a browse. You won’t be disappointed. I recommend this article here -

Mike smith

On Creating Metaphors: A New Approach Through Emotion

I've posted many times about my struggles with creating metaphors, often feeling it's almost impossible to craft unique and interesting ones, especially if you don't possess a "God-given talent." Knowing what they are and knowing how to create them are two very different things. I've looked and looked, and there doesn't seem to be a formula or method to…

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10 months ago · 11 likes · 7 comments · Mike smith

If you have any tale of strangeness of your own, please get in contact. Everyone at the playground would love to read your story, too.

Not really scary, but I figured I’d share the only weird, unexplainable thing that’s ever happened to me. This was a long time ago—over twenty years ago now—but it still has the power to make me think about it now and then.

So, when I was younger, I was with my girlfriend at the time (she’s my ex now), and we decided to mess around with a Ouija board. Not in any serious or dramatic way, just one of those “hey, why not?” moments. I think we were both a bit bored one evening, maybe after watching something spooky, and just thought it would be funny to try. I wasn’t a believer then, and am still not. Ghosts, aliens, psychic powers, God, demons—none of that stuff has ever made sense. But this one moment sticks out because, even after all these years, I still don’t have an explanation for it.

We were sitting with the board, asking the usual question: “Is anyone here?” We had just barely finished saying it, and at that exact moment, a lamp in the room came on. Now, this wasn’t some normal light switch. It was one of those where you tap the metal base to cycle it on and off. Here’s the thing: it was on the other side of the room, nowhere near us.

I can still picture it clearly: the little lamp on the table in the corner, clicking on in that instant, like someone invisible had reached over and tapped it. I remember both of us just staring at each other, not really saying anything for a few seconds, because it was so perfectly timed it felt staged. My first instinct was to assume she did something clever to prank me. She was smart; she could have tricked me if she wanted to. But the thing is, we did this Ouija board session totally on a whim—spur of the moment, no preparation. There was no time for her to set anything up.

For days afterward, I got suspicious and messed with the lamp. I tested it over and over, tapping it with different objects, shaking the table, trying to get it to misfire. Nothing. Every time, the only way it responded was with direct human touch. If it had been some kind of electrical glitch, you’d think it would’ve happened again, right? But it never did. The lamp worked normally until the day I got rid of it.

Another detail I should mention is that when the lamp came on, it wasn’t just the first light setting. With this lamp, one tap would turn it on dim, two taps brighter, three taps full power, and then one more tap would switch it off. But when it came on that night, it immediately lit up to full brightness. That part really threw me, because I never saw it do that on its own before or after.

I asked my ex-girlfriend about it again, years later, when we were talking about random memories. She swore up and down to me that, at that time, she hadn’t done anything. I remember pressing her on it because I couldn’t accept that it just “happened.” She was pretty insistent and even seemed a little annoyed that I thought she’d gone to such lengths to trick me.

So here I am, over twenty years later, still with this one piece of weirdness. I don’t have a neat explanation for it. Like I said, I don’t believe in anything supernatural. I’ve never had any other “paranormal” experiences. No ghosts at the end of my bed, no UFO sightings, nothing moving around in the dark. Just this lamp, that one time, switching itself on exactly when we asked, “Is anyone there?”

I’ve glimpsed perfection only once. Don’t ask me why it was then and not some other time. God, I came close plenty of times after, but nothing compares to the way Miranda’s scent mingled with that summer day. It was like something you could crawl into and finally forget yourself. The meadow spread around us, all soft and golden, and as we drifted, she had removed her shoes, favoring the way the grass stabbed at her bare feet, and remarked she was able to breathe amidst the hazy moments. “Doesn’t it make you feel alive, too?” She asked.

I turned. And, though I wanted to tell her that yes, of course it did, I was denied the right words to come spewing out of my mouth. Truth was, I was uneasy, terrified I was going to spoil everything. So, I distracted myself by watching two young rabbits between the tree line, curling a stone in my hand. They circled each other, ears flat, maybe in play, maybe preparing to tear each other apart. I didn’t know, nor could I tell the more I stared.

Miranda caught me. “What are you doing?”

“Dinner,” I muttered, forcing a smile. “Rabbit stew.” I hurled the stone at them. Of course, it skittered wide, hitting nothing. The rabbits then scattered, leaving only flattened underbrush where they had been.

“You’re awful, Carver.” She frowned. “Always overcooking that brain of yours,”

“Yeah, I wonder if God’s turned his back on me.”

She ignored my comment, like it were too deep for this place. Instead, she draped one forearm across her eyes and lay back over the grass, her way of shielding from the sun, from shielding from life as she put it. “Why can’t you just leave things alone?”

“I guess you’re right,” I murmured, but I couldn’t. Although the wildlife was not what we had driven out here for, and it was better to watch her spread out on the grass, my gaze still clung to the trees.

“Anyways, thanks for bringing me here. I feel like I could lie here forever,” She said. Honey sunlight had gotten itself caught in the strands of her hair, styling it in a way that seemed both carefree and careless.

“You’re welcome,” I told her. “I come here when I feel… all wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Sorry, it’s just my way of talking. I mean, when I’m stressed.” I looked at Miranda. Her curls brushed to make her figure soften, it was the kind of look everyone wore in town. But from there, her personality burst out with a pale ribbon held in at the side, though a few strands had now escaped, curling damply against her temple.

Without thinking, I leaned in and kissed her, like an idiot, as if I waited one more moment the world would explode. Miranda reacted, drawing a deep breath, her chest rising beneath soft fabric, a light blue dress, cinched neatly at the waist, its hem brushing against her knees when she shifted. Nothing elaborate, but against the browned grass, she seemed to belong more to the sky than to the earth.

Miranda quickly melted into me with her exhale. “Promise me you won’t ruin me, Carver,” she whispered against my lips.

Through the softness of her lips, the way she yielded, it was more than I’d imagined. This is what the word perfect was made for. Yet, to tell the truth, that unease I felt was beginning to spread, sparked by her words. Perfection seemed more than I could handle. What did she mean? Was I trying too hard? I’m repulsing her. My mind cascaded as I grasped for her, fearing she’d slip through my fingers. I wanted us to last forever, so I held tighter. A high-pitched yelp from the world pulled me back. Then nothing. I shouldn’t have, but I opened my eyes.

“What is it?”

“No, nothing,” I lied, “I just don’t want to spoil our moment.”

“How could you—” She may have meant to say more, but gravity brought our lips back together. Her strawberry breath was still warm, but to me it lacked what our first kiss had. Something in me had changed. Another yelp. This sound, begging attention, brought my vision up beyond her shoulder to the tree line again. For a moment, I imagined they still played, the rabbits, circling as before. But what I saw horrified me.

At the place of innocence, I now witnessed a predator tearing into one of the rabbits. Jaws clamped over the twitching body, causing blood to spill. I searched for its companion, but it was gone like it never mattered at all. I caught the flash of red fur instead, and a fox stared with lifeless eyes straight at me. Just looking at it hollowed me. Air, once thick with summer and sunlight, now carried a deadness to it. “Carver?” Miranda’s voice sharpened. She pushed herself up, following my stare, but there was nothing there for her. “What are you looking at?”

Instead of answering, I sought to ignore, close my eyes, but they refused to shut. When I gazed at the treeline again, the animals.. they were gone. What replaced them was— the only clumsy words I have for it—nothingness. This void of matter swallowed everything, black and raw, climbing up from the forest floor. Even the blades of grass bend to escape its wrongness.

Brushing stray grass from her dress, Miranda rose to her feet. “I think… I should go,” she said carefully, her ribbon catching in the wind. “This is too weird. You’re too much.”

Panic surged. I reached for her wrist, hard, dragging her back down to the Earth. “Don’t,” I snapped, though my voice broke around the word. “I.. I need you.”

Her eyes widened in her own fear. “Carver, you’re hurting me.” I was trembling now. The fracture began to move, no, come towards us, towards me, swallowing everything good in the meadow, growing assortments of arms, jaws, and shapes that hurt to look at. Somehow, I knew— knew in my bones— it would consume us.

So I bit into myself. Miranda finally caught my contorted face; the look in her wide eyes mirrored my own hysteria. She must have fought to say something, my name perhaps, but words couldn’t traverse the gulf between us. My senses had already shut down. I gripped her—grasped for the safety within her, too tight, I guess. First the shoulders, then maybe a collarbone, harder than I realized, always constraining, tightening around her. I wouldn’t let her go. “You’re…. hurting…” I think I heard, heard it through my teeth like I’d bitten down on them.

She was screaming when the blackness hit us. Enveloped us. Or maybe just me. Maybe it had never been there. When I came back, when the meadow later returned, she wasn’t moving. Head in my hands, I waited for her to sit back up, but she never did. I then ran my hands through her hair, thinking it may soothe her, or soothe me. Having run down my arms blood stained her, but it was not my blood. I finally took her ribbon before it slipped away from me, deciding to keep it safe until the next time perfection came.

Man, throughout existence, has believed the stars held answers. We reached ever outward, our longing spawning civilizations across emptiness, and for millennia, we searched the universe for life. But in time, quiet desperation broke through hope in the face of the universe’s hollow silence. Humanity’s mind fractured following Project Eternity’s discovery: Humankind is truly alone in the cosmos. Their final transmission, sent from a decaying star, unleashed tides of revelation upon whoever heard it. Known as Endness, its impact tore the orbital colonies apart. From the skyborne cities of Elrazea to Kr’yiya’s sunken domes, entire worlds succumbed. In the face of it all, even Terra Prime’s proud throne shook.

Do it, or drift forever. Scavengers called it a dead reach. Nam stood at the edge of a ruptured hull, staring down ragged teeth of metal, floating deathtraps, and flame-scorched bulkheads. Through cracks in the structure, planets hung in the distance like jewels on invisible threads, spinning their quiet orbits in reverence to the cosmos. She wasn’t sure she could make the jump. Beside her, a ZX3-9 droid whirred, scanning, convincing her of the impossibility metrics. “Safety tolerances exceed 413%,” It bleeped, “UVA guideline codes advise us to —” But Nam was already gone. Within a heartbeat, she had made her choice, held her breath, and leapt.

Within the airborne seconds, her tethers hissed, with twin wires firing from her waist silos, biting deep into a floating structure with a satisfying crunch. The lines snapped taut in front of Nam with a reassuring firmness, promising she’d make the jump, and then she flipped a retraction switch. Landing with precision, her boots caught solid matter as pressurized magnets engaged. Nam hit hard, knees bending on impact.

“Protocol 144.25 has been violated. Immediate return is mandatory,” the metal voice buzzing through the helmet’s intacom. “Please confirm intent, Nam?”

“Not even gonna congratulate me?” Nam replied, finally allowing herself to breathe again. “Look, you know I can’t go back to the company empty-handed. If I don’t deliver something of value, I’m finished. So we keep going!”

“Recklessness is not commendable. I am logging this incident with UVA—”

Nam sighed and cut the feed. Its droning voice distracted her when she needed focus. Dwelling on the remaining maneuvers, Nam guessed that two, perhaps three more jumps would clear the space while she shifted on the ledge of scorched iron, feeling it bow slightly under her weight. The island of metal she clung to had been knocked by her motions, making the next jump longer. Harder, with no solid anchor in sight. Nam stared out, breath misting her visor’s edges, and toggled the wrist display—oxygen steady, but tight. No room for mistakes out on this lonely rock.

Floating debris surrounded Nam, none of which looked structurally sound. Sprayed on one, she made out something half-corroded. Hollow Sun. The words caused her stomach to turn. “S..Syr Magus, he made it here, too,” Nam gasped, clenching and unclenching her hands uncontrollably, one of them an alloyed prosthetic. While her broken home world spun a galaxy away, mentally, she was never far from Graak Sigma Alpha. His name followed her like a curse, unearthing a past she couldn’t run from, no matter how hard she tried.

Her body reacted before she even comprehended. The great space Nam was shifted on its axis, melding into the same vessel she had to escape from as a child. The chanting erupted from the metal, voices praising Syr Magus, all in union as they soared toward the heart of a mad sun. It was on a ship like this that she’d last seen her parents alive. Nam still heard his words echo in the silence of space, “Man is not alone. The universe is saturated with truth! If we cannot find meaning, man will become his own God.” They no longer spoke of dreams or futures. Only Endness, the word the cult used for the blessed extinction of meaning. Nam, just fifteen at the time, begged her parents to stop. They smiled at her with empty kindness. “You’ll understand soon,” her mother whispered, brushing her cheek. Two weeks later, they were dead—ritually sacrificed in a mass oxygen purge conducted on their galactic temple.

Nam curled up, throwing her hands to her ears. “No, No, just memories… They're just memories,” She wailed. “1, 2, 3..” Counting always calmed her down. “6, 7, 8,” She flipped on the intercom once more, a welcoming distraction this time.

Her HUD blinked, crackled with a message from ZX3-9. “STABILITY WARNING: ZERO. RECOMMENDED ACTION: RETREAT.” Another module floated twenty meters away, and she was snapped back to the present. Star radiation shimmered off its exposed underbelly, the plating warped and glowing sickly orange.

“Can this droid read my mind?” Nam panted, the past giving way to the present, with her vision focusing on the debris again. Adjusting her footing on the ledge of twisted plating, she was ready to take another leap. The metal beneath her boots groaned with stress. Nam cautiously unlatched one of the micro-tethers from her belt, inspecting its filament for damage, and rotated it in her gloved hand like a gambler weighing dice. Next, she scanned the emptiness between her and her goal, calculating. The distance her island had drifted hid any target strong enough to latch onto, but there was a frozen cluster of pipes jutting from a wall midway, lazily dripping a liquid end over end. And a corpse. The body drifted along a slow tumble, arms spread wide in a crucified warning. Nam barely flinched. Ghosts weren’t new.

“You got this, girl. It’s just drift math.” She decided to aim one tether at the piping and use the second to swing to the other side. Then she leaped again. Two steps were all she had before her boots left the latticework behind. For a second time, her tether silo fired, this time one line shooting at her target. She cleared a mound of debris, boots grazing the tumbling solar wing—then she fired the second line. But her stomach dropped as it misfired, boring into rock passed her target. Without warning, the retraction force hit her like a train. Both lines fought for dominance, warping the angle of her flight until the first tore loose with a metallic snap.

Nam tucked her limbs, rotated in the void, as bracing was all she could do. Slamming into the underside hull hard, Nam was racking across razor shards. The impact jarred her teeth, driving air from her lungs. The second tether now snapped, recoiling into the void. For one breathless moment, Nam thought her space suit had ruptured, but no alarm sounded. Her gloves scrambled for something to hold, and finally—clamp—her magnetic soles engaged, halting her fall. She hung there, body trembling from the jolt, heart hammering like a war drum. Thankful to be alive, she breathed again.

Overhead, the corpse floated lazily past. Its helmet was cracked. Inside, a face stared down at her, unmoving, lips parting like it had died mid-scream. Nam exhaled slowly. “Bet you didn’t jump far enough, either.”

She managed to climb the wall toward an access hatch. Behind her, the twisted section she’d left creaked ominously. With a brittle pop, part of it detached and drifted away—like the station itself was shedding skin.

Inside the comm system, ZX3-9’s voice buzzed back in. “Nam? Nam, sensors registered micromite impacts outside and structural movement. Confirm your status.”

She grinned. “Still alive. Still reckless.”

“You are not cleared for internal exploration.”

“Agreed. I think that’s more than enough for one day. I’m coming —” She muted it again. Nam’s pulse spiked as she gazed on the drifting corpse, its limbs stiffened by vacuum and time. Her eyes tracked its body line, stopping at a shoulder. That can’t be real. As it rotated, an insignia on the suit caught the light—three interlocking suns wrapped in a spiral, half-obscured by frost and scarring. Her breath caught. Was that real? She’d seen that emblem once — years ago, in the classified documents she had stolen. Eternity. The project that supposedly killed a station, wiped its crew, and vanished into silence. Could this derelict be the site of history? She needed to see into the bowls of the space station.

A flick of her wrist deployed a magnetic override wand. The hatch resisted like everything else here, but with a shriek and a puff of pressurized gas, it creaked open. Beyond lay the dark, flickering corridor. If the station had been operational, low red lights would have been pulsing in slow intervals, but not anymore. Nam pulled herself inside, boots clicking against a floor that barely felt like one. Something crunched beneath her step. She didn’t look. A flickering light fought to stay alive near the ceiling, casting thin shadows down a corridor half-choked with broken wiring and scorched panels.

She paused, head tilted slightly.

A small panel on her HUD pinged softly. Radiation rising. Structure degrading. Time limited.

Beneath the grime, stenciled on the wall to her right, just visible in the flickering light, was a metal plaque. Nam stared at it for a moment and wiped it clean. She could feel her heart in her throat. It read - “Project: Eternity.”

“Found you,” she whispered.

“Ouch! Hey—what the hell?”

At exactly 10 am, a thud. It smacked me between the shoulder blades, light but persistent, like someone trying to swat a fly. The second thud came moments later, bang. I spun, almost knocking over a cafe stool, to find a younger woman behind me. This twenty-something stood as if she didn’t belong in a coffee shop, with unraveling copper-dyed hair tied in a loose ponytail. She had appeared from the crowd, seemingly out of nowhere, and was now swatting my back like I’d caught fire.

“Hold still,” the little ninja demanded, breathless. “You’re completely covered, but I’ve almost got them.”

“Excuse me? You’ve got me confused with..” Another thwack before I could finish. This time, I twisted left, but she followed, then I stepped right. She mirrored me completely. It was as if we were doing an aggressive café tango right before the counter, hands chasing something I couldn’t see. Somewhere in the back of the café, a Miles Davis record hummed like it was trying to remember the melody.

“The ghosts,” she yelled. To her, that explained everything. “They’re coming off real easy.” She didn’t even make eye contact, only looking above and to the right, peering at shadows floating behind my back. A few customers were now gathering for the spectacle. Within the crowd, a guy near the counter shifted to pull out his phone, and another with AirPods attached began laughing. Of course, my cries for help fell on deaf ears. No one stepped in to restrain my petite assailant. Eventually, I had to grab her wrists—not hard, but enough to stop the patting and pull her toward an empty table.

She let me guide her without resistance. “Sit,” I said, through gnashing teeth, more firmly than I intended, while waving away our spectators. Most had returned to the queue anyway, now that their entertainment had ended. “Ok, lady! Explain what the hell you were doing before I call the cops.” She flopped into the seat like a child who wouldn’t admit any wrongdoing, readjusting her frayed ponytail. I didn’t follow her, opting to stay standing.

“I was just trying to help.” She gazed out at the rain-soaked Tuesday, hands folded in her lap. Beyond the steamed paned glass, cars and passers-by moved slowly along the avenue.

“Help? You assaulted me.” I kept my voice low, but my annoyance came out loud. “That’s not help. Help looks like, I don’t know, holding a door open, offering an umbrella on a day like today. Not jump-scaring strangers at ten a.m.” She tilted her head, not apologetic. Just... tilting, and frowned, like I was the unreasonable one.

Seeing I was not getting through to her, I sighed and glanced toward the barista, Mark, who was busy preparing my order. “Okay, forget it,” I said, motioning to him that I hadn’t run out without paying. “No harm done. Just... think twice next time. People in this city don’t act kindly to being hit.”

The girl didn’t move, only fidgeting, and replied, “But I’m not finished. She asked me to help you.”

“Who… um, it doesn’t matter,” I muttered, turning to leave her at the table. My appetite for the roasted caffeine here had been replaced with a creeping sense of unease.

“Please,” she said suddenly towards my back. Her voice cracked in the outburst. “Your mother’s worried about you!” Those words froze something inside me, like a faulty elevator grinding to a halt between floors. The way she said it didn’t feel like a warning, but a plea. At that moment, I looked back, wide-eyed. Her palms were outstretched, no smugness, no attitude. Just concern.

“My mother’s been dead for 9 years.”

“I know,” she added, gesturing to the empty chair opposite her. “I can explain everything. Just… could you give me a minute? And I promise no more slaps.”

I sat. Against better judgment, I eased into the chair across from her. “Alright, tell me how you knew my mother. I’ll give you one cup of coffee’s worth of my time. Go.”

“Name’s Christine, but I prefer Chris,” she said, offering no surname. “But people don’t really call me anything these days.” The words were said between scattered thoughts.

“Jay,” I replied, glad to be on civilized terms. “Jay Wirro~.” But again, she cut me off, hitting me with a monologue that started somewhere in her past. It rushed out like she’d been waiting years for a listener.

“You probably won’t believe me, no one does. But… I see ghosts,” she said plainly. “Not like in the horror movies—more like... impressions. Energy, I like to think of them as leftover music in an empty hall. You know, the way sound hangs in the walls after everyone’s left. Sometimes they can appear as people, but most don’t, preferring to float like orbs around the place. Depends on whether they’re in the mood for talking, I guess. You see, you needn’t be polite when you’re dead.”

Dead people? Oh god, a weirdo, I thought. Why was my coffee taking forever to arrive? “I don’t believe in that kind of thing,” I said, mostly to exert my voice, and nodding alone.

“Whether you believe it or not, doesn’t matter…” She turned to the left wall, mid-sentence, as if the empty space had called her name out. “Hey! It’s Marty. He used to own this shop.”

“Who?” I glanced. Nothing there. “I’m sure the guy who built this place was Lawrence Orwell,” I said. “His face is on the welcome mat.”

She shrugged. “No, that’s not what happened. That ‘ol crook screwed Marty over before the shop became famous. And after his coffee recipe was stolen, Marty spent his last days, penniless, drinking himself to death. He’s quite bitter about the whole thing.”

“Right.. You’re a paranormal detective agency.”

Chris shrugged. “That’s just what he told me.”

“So, if I got this straight, you can talk to them? Spirits, I mean. Like a psychic, or something. ”

“Oh, good. You’re catching on.” She said. “But only if they’re willing, didn’t I just explain it to you? Most just... hover.”

“And what’s all this got to do with my mother?”

“Us living folks are what I like to call magnets for our afterlife visitors,” she said, moving closer to me, making cheesy monster gestures with her fingers. “It’s beautiful, in a lonely sort of way. Anyways, you’re carrying a lot of them.”

“Ghosts?”

“I’m not talking about fancy hand-made Russian dolls. Of course, ghosts. I counted at least thirty stuck to you, all trailing behind like a used scarf.” Chris looked through me again; she did that a lot during our conversation. It made the hairs on my neck stand up. By now, the sky between us had turned a shade of grey that threatened a downpour. “Let’s see, there’s your mother, and I guess your ancestors. That’s natural, no more than a handful, but today… I counted 29 unwelcome ‘guests.’ And looking at you now, it’s like… something cracked open. I wonder how you picked up so many. Over 100, and you’re well on your way to joining them.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

“No,” she said. “Take it however you want. I’m just explaining how it is, why you’ve been so tired recently. When ghosts stick around, their presence affects us. Begins to weigh us down. You see, they’re drawn to people who carry baggage. People who won’t let go. They pull. The more you carry, the heavier it gets.”

I laughed, but the sound was dry. “That’s poetic.”

She didn’t smile back.

“It’s like trying to listen to music with thirty radios on in the background.” She continued. “Do you not feel worn out even though you’ve had plenty of sleep? Any Headaches? Pain in random places? They feed on unresolved emotions. And you—” Then a moment of hesitation. “Well, you’ve been grieving for a long time, haven’t you?”

Something in my throat locked up. I stirred a coffee I hadn’t ordered. There was no spoon in my hand. I didn’t ask how she knew. “It’s been 9 years. Cancer. I can’t believe I’m telling this to a complete stranger.”

“Yeah, she told me you wouldn’t believe it.” She nodded, speaking slow. “And you don’t have to, not really. Just know that your mother is still with you. On your right shoulder, in fact. Family is different. They don’t feed, they protect.”

My stomach twisted.

“She wanted me to tell you to... Stop blaming yourself already. There’s nothing you could’ve done. She’s not in pain anymore, but she worries about you. And maybe...” Chris smiled faintly. “Maybe it’s time to pick the guitar back up?”

“I hadn’t told anyone I played guitar! Not in years.” I’m not even sure I said it out loud. We sat in silence for a while. For the first time, I looked at the space beside me. Nothing there, of course. Just speckled sunlight and a smudge on the window. Still, I raised my shoulder, just slightly, offering it to someone I couldn’t see. And I felt it, a warmth on the edge of memory.

I didn’t touch the coffee. I wasn’t sure it was mine anymore. It sat between us, steam fading, the surface gone flat. Chris leaned forward, elbows on the table now, not bothering to hide how closely she was watching me. “So,” I said finally, just to break the air, “what now? You’ve done your bit. Slapped the ghosts off, said your piece. Shouldn’t you vanish in a puff of smoke, or glide back into the mist?”

She smiled, but not in amusement. “You think this is a story? That I’m making this up.” I looked away. A man was sitting alone two tables down, staring into his phone, earbuds in. Mark, the barista, was wiping a counter again, for the third time in five minutes, either bored or politely pretending not to listen. The café had returned to its background hum—but not for me. “I didn’t come here for you,” Chris said. “I came for someone else. But your ghosts were louder.”

That pulled my attention back. “Someone else?”

She nodded. “The girl in the corner. The one wearing a red jacket, reading from a journal. She’s been crying, but you probably didn’t even notice her come in.”

I hadn’t.

“She’s in more pain than you. You can tell by the way they stick to her,” Chris said softly, glancing that way without turning her head. “All craving a piece of life they left behind.” A sudden heaviness pressed against my spine again—phantom or not, it felt real.

“You see it like... light? Shadows?” I asked. “Or is it just a feeling?”

“All of the above,” she said. “Some days it’s noise, the kind that keeps you distracted. Some days it’s like pressure in the air. I can only describe them as a weight that keeps getting heavier.”

I let that sit between us. I imagined the dead circling people like moths, feeding off our wounds, drawn to our smallest regrets. “How long have you been doing this?” I asked.

“Since I was nine.” She answered too quickly, then winced. “No, that’s not true. Or maybe forever. It’s hard to tell when the world sounded strange.” I studied her—harder now. Her face was younger than her eyes, but something about her posture said she was always ready to run.

“And how do you live with it?”

“You have some nerve asking me that. Just look at me. I don’t,” she said. “I just stay busy. Talk to the ones who’ll listen. Help the people I can, and move on. I guess all I can do is remind the living they’re not crazy.”

“Is that what I am?” I asked. “Crazy?”

“No,” she said. “You’re haunted. Big difference.”

Mark brought over a tray without being asked—my usual order, along with a muffin I hadn’t ordered, and a new mug of something dark and herbal. He nodded toward Chris, and she smiled back, bringing the tea to her mouth. Maybe he knew. I stared down into the untouched coffee, then out the window again. The rain had begun in earnest. Droplets raced each other down the glass like they were trying to escape.

“What happens if I can’t let go?” I asked.

She looked at me, long and level.

“Then, you forget how to feel,” she said. “It won’t hurt, exactly. But their noise crowds out everything else. Joy, Creativity, even the guilt you’re holding drains away, all of it numbed down into routine. You start mistaking weight for normal.” I swallowed. My throat was raw. Like I’d been shouting, even though I hadn’t said a word.

“And if I do let them go?” I asked. “What happens then?”

She smiled again, this time something close to kind.

“You start to feel lonely. Grief hurts more than numbness, but it’s honest. And they’re your first steps.”

I didn’t speak. Couldn’t. I just let the silence stretch between us.

Finally, Chris stood.

“Don’t bother following me,” she said, pulling her jacket up and over her shoulders.

“Wait,” I said.

She paused.

“My mom,” I asked, “Is she really here?”

Chris rolled her eyes. “Jesus, did you not listen to a word I said? She’s always with you.” Then she grabbed my untouched muffin and sank her teeth into it.

“Hey!”

“Hmm, call it my charge for helping you. The tea, too.”

I looked up, nodded, and for the first time in a long time, laughed. Then Chris walked past the counter and out the door, into the rain. I watched her until she vanished into the crowd, then looked down at the chair she’d left behind. Something shimmered in the air above it—a slight warmth, like the trace of a familiar face. I blinked, and it too was gone.

The whole encounter reminded me of a forgotten part of my wallet, where I had buried an old guitar pick. It hadn’t been touched in 9 years. Seeing it again made my hands shake, but its sight made me smile. Then I thought about the sound it used to make.

Maybe it was time to start playing again.

The colossus never knew the sky, but stretched towards it.

Blackened earth was its womb, ground into browns and crimson. Groaning among human remains, the corpse God swelled with each mangled soldier it claimed. From the mud and shit flesh was bound to metal, bone to chaos, and as if drawn to our despair the stalking mass took its first steps through war’s wasteland. We watched the inevitable horror wander closer. Our shellfire broke over its skin like raindrops on stone, useless, it could not be stopped. By the time the chorus of bodies tore open our defenses, it was magnificent. We felt our flanks buckle as soon as it charged like one agonized army, crushing infantry into its body.

The ground trembled.

Our men screamed as they were taken, lifted from their positions, and fused with disembodied limbs flailing along its skin. One man emptied his pistol into the thing until he was consumed, his face vanishing into its writhing chest, head first. At some point in the chaos, Captain Philips aimed his cannon and fired upon the horror. Artillery barrages flew through the air and struck the right shoulder. For the first time, the colossus shuddered before a bloated section of human torso, machine parts, and barbed wire rained to the ground. Wherever the colossus lurched, buildings toppled and men were pounded into the Earth. Then, just as suddenly as its arrival, our intruder melted back to where it had come from, back into the war fog.

When it was safe, we rushed to what had been its arm, to what was left of friends. It was twitching and jerking, and whoever dared to look saw faces pulsing within a translucent membrane — howling, gnashing, pleading, lips trying to form words. We aided as best we could, prying men loose, but most couldn’t be saved, most were beyond human. Globs of pus and blood wept from the survivors where the colossus had begun weaving them in, and skin peeled at the slightest touch, but they did not cry. They smiled. One whispered on his way to the medics, “I felt it…bliss. I was everyone.” Another clutched his torn side like it was a sacred wound. “It loved me,” he mumbled, eyes black with awe.

Over the following week, the survivors lay awake, staring. Silence descended over the base, save for their whispered hymns. Speaking in voices no one understood, it unnerved us at first, but some began to listen. Whispers became prayers, rumors became hymns, and the men who were a part of the monster self-proclaimed themselves mad prophets. We pressed their ears to the ground, as if listening for a heartbeat beneath the soil. Others waited with hands clasped, trembling in reverence. Soon our comrades no longer spoke to each other, our minds had changed. In one room, a private from 3rd Platoon slit his palms and traced the colossal man in blood on the wall. Another covered himself in mud. And the madness seeped outward, growing through our ranks. The officers posted guards, barked commands, but their voices grew hollow. A lieutenant stood in front of a sergeant as he walked toward the barbed-wire line, grabbing his shoulder and screaming for him to return. The sergeant turned, slowly, and pressed his forehead to the other. The lieutenant just stared into the fog long after he was gone. Eventually, even they quieted, sitting with the rest of us, gazing towards a barren wasteland.

In just under two weeks, half the unit had vanished into the fog, dropping their rifles like dead skin, and others walked forward as if approaching a lover’s arms.

The rest followed.

We began to crave the colossus, prey for its return — we wanted to dissolve, to be unmade and remade. To merge something greater than ourselves. Some say it was a weapon, born from man’s death and rot. The mutated prophets, the ones who were it, told us it was older than the war — that it waited beneath the ground long before the first bullet was fired. A sleeping god disturbed by our hunger for slaughter. A hunger it would answer.

If the war was its cathedral, the colossus was our god.

We used to fear death. Now we worship it.

It came again. Without thunder, nor screams, but in a quietude that swallowed the world. The fog parted like reverent hands, and there it stood, at the edge of the base, still as a monument. The corpse colossus.

We watched from the barracks windows, from behind sandbags and fences and bent steel, watched as if waiting to be chosen. Some fell to their knees, sobbing, arms outstretched, singing to it with cracked verses, offering themselves in the hope of union. But Captain Philips was the first to approach, lighting himself on fire and screaming into the haze, flames trailing behind him like a banner. It made no move to take him. It only received. Then the base erupted in ecstasy. Men tore off their uniforms, clawed through the wire, and climbed over each other just to be devoured. We charged as one, flinging ourselves into its divinity — into the folds of flesh and wire and teeth. Into the body of our god.

We begged to be unmade.

I worked at a local pizza diner in my early 20s. It was just a small place for deliveries, having a few tables for dining in but nothing special. In all honesty, the food wasn’t that great. The only thing about the place was that it was open 24/7. So any not so sober people would come in all throughout the night. I often worked alone, but I didn’t mind.

Actually I preferred it.

None of the food was hard to make, and whenever it was slow I could usually do whatever i wanted.

This night was no different from any other, at least to start. I headed in at 9pm and took over for the night. With it being a Tuesday, I was prepared for a chill time. I prepped some of the work stations in the back and just waited for customers to come through. I got two in the next hour but then it went radio-silent.

No walk ins, no calls.

I pretty much sat on my chair at the back of the kitchen reading my phone the whole time. But, around 1 a.m. I heard the bell on the door ring, which happened every time a customer came in. I got up and walked to the front of the shop, to where the counter was. But I stopped as soon as I could see the main room.

No-body was in there.

I looked up and down the diner to see if there was anyone at all. A smile broke across my face. I guessed I must have been so used to hearing that sound, that I must have imagined it. I quadrupled checked, nothing. My brain must have been playing tricks on me. Being sure it was nothing, I went back to my chair in the kitchen.

There was just silence for the next thirty minutes, until I heard the bell ring again. This time I wasn’t using my phone when it rang, so I knew I actually heard it. I got up and walked forward, but stopped in confusion at finding absolutely no-one there. After a second, I headed to the front door and opened it, sticking my head out into an empty car park. I wouldn’t say I was scared at this point or creeped out, just confused. I messed around with the door trying to see is the bell was malfunctioning. I wasn’t.

This was really weird.

I didn’t know what else to do about it. I stayed up front for a while, thirty minutes more. But the bell never rang again, so I went back to the kitchen.

That is when I heard a loud thump in the back of the kitchen. It was just like a boot stepping on the tiled floor, which instantly sent a chill through me. I froze and found myself calling out. “Hello, is anyone back there?” I got no response. Something just felt off, the darkness grew around me. I just kept peering into the supposedly empty space ahead of me, feeling like I was being watched.

Then, a man came out of the shadows.

Just five or six feet away from me. He had all black ripped up clothes and a hoodie pulled just over his eyes. Then he looked straight through me. His eyes were bloodshot and hollow. I dunno if he was drunk, or high or what, but he clearly wasn’t sane right now. I saw in his left hand, a knife. His knuckles were white from how tightly he was clenching it. I stayed motionless, trying to not escalate the situation.

I decided to speak. “Hey, listen. Take the cash in the register, buddy. I won’t say anything. Please, just let me go.” I tried to say anything I could to get out of this. But he just stood there, staring at me. There was no predicting what he might do.

Luckily, my back was to the diner and the front door. So I gulped, making up my mind and ran as fast as I could. I heard screaming. The guy must have been sprinting at me with an uncontrollable bloodlust and rage. I ran out the door but after a few seconds I heard him burst out, too. He was too close for me to even try to open my car. So I kept running, making it to the main road and hoping someone might drive by.

I didn’t notice but at some point he stopped chasing me, I was just too scared to look back. Once I got past a block or two I called the cops and waited for them to find me.

The guy was gone by the time we came back to the pizza diner. In the time I was out he had demolished the place. Everywhere was trashed. The thing that chilled me the most was the cops found the money was untouched in the cash register. Which means he was only there to hurt me.

It was likely he had been watching me from the tree line the entire night. Using the door as a distraction he must have slipped in somewhere at the back.

Maybe it was just a wrong place wrong time sort of thing, but the way he looked at me creeped me out. Though I never met him before, I couldn’t help think his actions were directed at me personally.

I never worked the graveyard shift again.

May the gobbos never come to your kitchen.

The metal of his underboots clanked on the cobbled stone, throwing up dirt as Sir Charles raced to the kitchen. His squire behind him strained to keep pace, not wanting to scrape the sharp steel of his master’s sword against the castle’s walls. “I counted five, maybe six of them, m’ lord.” He panted, fumbling to answer the questions.

“Six blighters! How, in Satan's unholy, crust-flaked nutsack, did so many goblins weasel through to my kitchen?” He cried, wincing at having to tell the Duke of Gristlefrok his upcoming banquet was ruined. “And mark my words, the nightguard’s head’ll be on a pike for this, after I’ve gutted our intruders.”

“Aye, m’ lord.”

Gylenda, the kitchen maid, waited for them, clutching what remained of a half-devoured sirloin, leeks nibbled to ribbons, and cracked eggshells, yolks oozing down her apron. As they rounded the final bend, approaching two heavy wooden doors, she wailed frantically. “Oh, thank the stars, m’ lord. You haven’t come at a worse time. It’s pandemonium in there. I’m afraid they’ve ransacked the larder...” She stopped mid-sentence as something heavy slapped the door, shaking its hinges furiously. The following shrill giggles from inside set Sir Charles’s teeth grinding harder. “So,” He muttered darkly, “they’ve found our fish.”

Tucked snugly at the back of the kitchen rested their prized centerpiece for the banquet, a rare moon-scaled silvertin caught among the high lakes days earlier. It had barely been hours since anyone laid eyes on its scaly majesty, inspecting the fish himself, Sir Charles declared it a sacred relic of taste.

Now, their crown jewel was under siege.

“Hand me my bloody sword, squire, and Gylenda, pick up your rolling pin. Time to turn those goblins inside out.” He snorted, hard, locking his helmet into place, “They’ve made this personal.”

Sir Charles kicked with the righteous fury of a man about to defend his castle, country, and casserole, but the chaotic grand kitchen hit him like a messy cream pie to the face. This space, once considered a domain of polished copper pots, fragrant herbs, and bustling order, had descended into a battlefield of culinary blasphemy. Flour flew in the air like gunpowder. Chewed carrots littered the flagstones in the way soldiers fall. Gylenda gasped as she spotted a string of sausages swinging from the rafters, tied with what looked like someone's underpants.

And in the center, four goblins danced around a cauldron dragged from the scullery, tossing whatever they could find into the bubbling green sludge. One dumped an entire bag of sugar in drunken merriment. Another hurled racks of ribs about the place, bones and all. A third, howled gleefully, snorting fistfuls of pepper, then sneezing it back violently into the pot.

“Stir it like what mum did, Gobthrak! Cook our Gobbo stew!” Plaak shrieked before slipping on a banana peel and hitting the floor with a smack.

“Me never met me mum!” Gobthrak shouted back, churning the sludge with a stolen ladle the size of a shovel.

“It’s been a while since I ate Goblin Hamburgers,” Sir Charles chuckled as he barreled forward, stumbling across the nightguard himself. The man was passed out from a decanter of red wine, drooling into his helmet.

“WAKE, YOU USELESS PICKLED ONION!” Charles roared, slamming the flat of his sword against the wall. The man jerked awake, saluted a sack of potatoes beside him, and promptly fell back to sleep.

“Never mind,” Charles growled. “We’ll talk later when I…. MY FISH!”

Floating atop the boiling slop, poked with holes and trembling like a pearl in vomit, was the coveted moon-scaled silvertin. Its shimmering fins were now a dull, sickly grey.

“No!” Sir Charles bellowed, hurling himself into the fray, slashing wildly at any goblin within reach. But they were too nimble. Instead, he sliced watery cabbages, pierced suggulent melons, and shredded ripe pumpkins. At last, dashing through the breach to the cauldron, where he bent trying to dredge up his fish from its depths with the tip of his blade. “Come on, my lovely, come to Daddy—no, not you, get off me!” he shouted, kicking away a goblin biting his shin. It tripped over a pile of discarded onions, diving headfirst into the cauldron’s fire.

His squire stood defending himself from a barrage of peas, eyes wide, watching the fifth goblin entice poultry out of their pen with a stick of broccoli. “Do you want me to—?”

“Don’t just stand there gawping like a gooseberry, find me a strainer! A spoon! A miracle!”

Gylenda beat Plaak senseless with her rolling pin, her apron catching fire. “They used the good butter, my lord!” she screamed.

Sir Charles reached the edge of the cauldron, one boot planted on a squashed tomato, the other in something sticky. With the flourish of a duelist and the desperation of a man trying to save both his dignity and dinner, he plunged his sword deep into the cauldron and flicked out a mass of skin and bones. To his horror, it was the forgotten sixth goblin, who must have fallen in. Trying not to vomit, Sir Charles threw its boiled corpse at Gobthrak and continued his effort, this time, snagging the half-cooked but still recognizable silvertin and pulling it straight onto the floor.

It landed with a wet splorp, bouncing once, twice, then skidding between a toppled sack of turnips.

“TREASURE!” Gobthrak roared, diving after it, only to be smacked in the face with a turnip hurled by the squire, who was finally pulling his weight. Sir Charles lunged at the sack, too, flinging it aside, and triumphantly cradled the now mostly deflated, mutilated, one-eyed fish. But the dazed Gobthrak wasn’t giving up, and he came again, sinking his jagged maw into the silvertin’s tail, shaking it like a rabid dog. He was ready to rip and flail, but in that moment, the flesh hit his tongue, and time slowed down. His beady pupils dilated as if he’d glimpsed the universe for the first time, and his jaw slackened, stilling the goblin rage inside of him. Gobthrak looked almost… serene, suckling on the sivertin’s tail. A soft gasp escaped him—half groan, half hymn—as his grubby claws relaxed their grip, and his head tilted skyward, mouth aglow with reverence. “Mmmggh,” he murmured, eyes glistening. “Tastes like... moonsong.”

Sir Charles watched in horror as Gobthrak's grotesque face melted into bliss, chewing with glazed eyes, and moaning like he’d bitten into a piece of paradise. “Oh no you don’t, you scabby little heathen!” he snarled, yanking harder on the other end of the fish. “That bite was meant for the Duke and me!” Gobthrak let out a dreamy sigh, refusing to let go, with teeth still buried in a deliciousness he’d never known. Fueled by culinary injustice, Charles braced his boot against a fallen dinner cart and pulled, veins bulging, teeth clenched. “Spit it out, you filthy toad! That’s not for goblins!” The poor fish stretched between them, glistening and steaming, and the two began an intense tug of war until the tail tore completely from its body.

It was then that Plaak regained consciousness and groaned, “Gwah, fun’s over, boys!” And the others shrieked, and silvertin’s tail was hauled under tables, over benches, and out through a window, leaving only clouds of flour, gravy stains, and a strong fishy scent behind them. The wreckage was what could only be described as a culinary war crime.

In the aftermath, panting, soaked in soup, and splattered with a sauce no one dared investigate, Sir Charles sat in the ruins of his kitchen. He cradled the silvertin, dripping in his hands, like a child he never had. “I... I think it winked at me,” he smiled to himself. His sword, now bent at an angle, hung limp at his side.

In a far corner, the drunken nightguard turned to hug his sack of potatoes.

Gylenda came and sat beside him, smoldering but victorious. “They got the honey glaze, too,” she wept, eyes hollow, letting her goblin-stained rolling pin hit the floor. “What are we to do now?”

After a long pause, Sir Charles sighed. “Well… perhaps the Duke would prefer chicken.”

** If you haven’t guessed, it’s explicit. If we’re not pushing boundaries, what are we doing here?

He kneels before her in the clouding dark, hand reaching for cheeks, then face tilting, leaning in, lips dry on hers. Her mouth unfolds, inviting a moistened tongue where lips touch. As they kiss, firm hands cup her breast, and she surrenders, she does not stop him, lying on tangled grass flattened by her body.

Palms trace her shape from breast to crotch, fingers slide along loosened fabric, exploring, exposing, pressing at her entrance, pushing in whether welcome or not, knuckle after knuckle. Her opening cannot resist. The wiggling, parting, nudging demand her body accommodate his movement. She spirals towards the edge, electricity fizzing from overwhelmed nerves.

His fingers dance within her.

His mouth pulls away and goes to her crotch, hungry tongue replacing fingers, hands now gripping legs and parting them. He roams her intimacy, pinning her down. She gasps and aches, hips responding even more when tongue finds clitoris. With a flick, breath cannot be held, and she cries out, not in protest but inviting him deeper.

Instead he stops, and recedes before the crescendo, before the storm arrives, giving her a moment to adjust, clothes fallen away, revealing succulent breasts and trembling ebony skin. He towers over her, shadows paint across him, and he drops his trousers, eyes fixated on her. His arousal juts forward, seemingly ferocious, alive, and urgent. He comes in again, pulling her close, stripping away, and discarding her inhibition. Then she turns over, bending willingly in the grass, she leaves her back arched, and soon, he’s pushing. Her body opens to him, welcoming his unrelenting stroke inch by inch, where animalistic desires erupt, and breasts rock back and forth, abused by hands wrapping around her.

They fuck like preditor and prey.

Surrounding them, the sky shakes, and he grunts into her neck, movement growing rougher. Combined pressures build upon each other, with sparks jolting between their bodies. He is merciless, flesh slapping loudly against her buttocks, stinging with each strike. She feels her soul clamp down, coaxing his essence, forcing him deeper. She clenches tight, buttocks closing, toes curling, heat coiling inside of her. He claws at her breasts, cries and groans loud, driving until she feels him flood her. Screaming ensues, the grassland flashes white, and inner pressures explode in technicolor brilliance.

She shatters around him.

Then silent calm.

Gasping for breath, her vision returns, and he is not there. Upon her storm winds howl, rattling trees, with distant light streaking across the African plane. But she remains still, body exposed, a part disconnected from the whole.

The land is empty, there is no man.

Martha sat before Liz, consoling a coffee mug as if it could promise salvation. “I didn’t mean to do it,” she said, although the sheepish remark gave up halfway across the kitchen table. Opposite the pair, broccoli simmered in a pan, while a cozy chicken roasted itself to perfection.

A single eye turned on Martha, an annoyed eye. Before speaking, the woman wondered why Martha barged into her flat. “You’re mumbling again. You know I don’t like that. Didn’t I tell you I’ve plans today? So spit out whatever’s got you wound up in a twist, quickly.”

Martha reiterated to Liz. “I'm sorry, but I wouldn’t have come if this weren’t important. You see, I don’t know who else will listen.” She took in a shaky breath. “I’ve killed three people.”

Liz blinked, but that was the extent of her reaction. She neither questioned nor turned from the mirror she was holding up. Applying her makeup was far more important.

“Well, not directly, obviously,” Martha muttered, trying to catch some attention. “I didn’t … push anyone off a roof or anything. But… oh, it must be through my writing. Somehow, I just know three people are dead because I wrote them to death.”

Tilted her head after puckering to her reflection, Liz remarked, “You’re not going to leave, are you? I’m skeptical but intrigued.” She then held out her hand. “Pass me the hairdryer.”

Martha did as she was told.

“Ok, tell me more before I have you arrested. How have you gained this murderous superpower?”

A strained sort of laugh echoed in the room as Martha spread a few news clippings on the table, careful not to touch the cutlery. “Liz, you wouldn’t want this superpower.” Then she tapped on a week-old headline. “Look, Liz, that man was Henry Mathews, a construction worker who fell into an open shaft at the site he worked at.”

It was pushed into Liz’s face, disconnecting her from her preparation. She scowled and tried to batter it away with the mirror, “I see, how tragic, but…”

“Notice any connections? That’s how my main character died at the end of The Scottish King. He was hurled into a bottomless pit in the bowls of the castle.” She waited patiently as her friend took the cutting, studying it, watching for something to click. “See? They’re similar. What do you think?”

Liz, instead, let it fall to the ground and resumed applying her makeup. “Hmm, too much of a stretch, I’d say. I mean, it’s a common enough occurrence.” Martha’s enthusiasm dropped with the paper, but she refused to relent.

“No, no, the timing matches perfectly. I finished my draft about the same time it happened. And read the way he died. Doesn’t it fit my story?”

“Um, your draft said something about paranormal entities being involved, like ghosts and demonic jailers. That’s not the real world.”

“You’re completely right, Liz. I get it, of course. But it turns out the company he worked for was rife with corruption, and the site manager abused his workers, just as callous as the jailer. Henry died because he had been on the wrong side of his boss the day he died. They ordered him to inspect the lower basement alone, where the accident took place.”

Liz was going to reply when her phone rang, ID flashing the sender as a ‘Mr. N,’ with a preview message “Hey Babes :)” on the screen. Liz jumped before Martha could react, dropping her mirror and snatching it off the table in one swoop.

“Who’s that?” Martha asked, but the answer was self-evident. “Oh, right, your date. I’m not intruding, am I?”

Liz frowned with a – you’re totally are – look on her face, but said. “No, it’s fine. He won’t be here until 7.”

Mr. N? Those typed 'Hey babes :)' reminded Martha of her husband, and she joked, “It’s not Neil, is it?”

“Of course it is,“ Liz laughed back, batting the thought around the room, then adding to her comment. For the first time, she looked straight at Martha. “No, I’m joking. It’s N for Mr. Naughty. Because we did it in his office the last time we met.” She knew this would embarrass Martha, who looked gobsmacked; she was always easy to push around. “C’mon, Martha, we’re not living in the 50s. You should learn to loosen up. Do something wild for once, and explore your desires. Ever thought of writing a steamy scene in a gas station bathroom? I’ll let you have all the details.”

Martha winced at the suggestion and did her best to ignore it. “Listen, there’s more. This next death sealed the deal for me. Did you hear what happened on Highway 39?”

“Sounds familiar..” With the topic shifting back to the murders, Liz returned to the mirror. Martha’s yapping was making her head spin. This time, the hairdryer was blown to drown out her friend.

Martha only spoke louder. “Um, can you stop? It’s hard to talk over the noise.” Martha said, but her friend ignored her. “Ok, I wrote about a Japanese man meeting a ghost on his way to Edo.” Liz feigned indifference and got up to stuff the broccoli while drying her hair. Martha remained oblivious. “Um, it’s the old name for Tokyo. Anyway, he’s met by an Ubume, a woman who died in childbirth. The woman on the highway pretended to be pregnant to get a driver to pull over, then she stabbed him. Same set-up, same ending. If that’s not proof, I don’t know what is.”

The hairdryer stopped, and Liz’s fake smile faded further. “Look.. even if that’s true, what are you saying? That you're some kind of supernatural assassin. I really don’t have time for these conspiracy theories of yours.”

“But when I write them people die…” It landed on deaf ears.

“I know what this is really about, you’re just …. lonely, and desperate for attention. Trying to drum up some drama where there is none.”

That last omission stung Martha. She looked away, wounded. How could her friend say something like that?

“Look, I’m going to have to lay this out for you. It’s time to move on with your life, Martha, otherwise, you’ll keep slipping into denial.” That was a bit too raw and she knew it. Liz caught herself when she saw Martha’s gaze fall back into herself, replaced with a tear, but she sighed instead of offering an apology. She pushed the matter onward, “Have the divorce papers come?”

“They were waiting for me in the mail yesterday.” Martha’s head sunk between her shoulders as if it were weighed down by the undeniable truth. “Neil didn’t even deliver them. Just left a note in my box. It’s like the last fifteen years were a mistake. Do you know he’s already seeing someone?”

“That rotten bastard. I should never have introduced you two.” Liz said, softening.

“I saw her sitting in his car as he drove away. Blond hair like yours.” She paused and sighed. “And now on top of everything, my writing is killing people.”

Liz rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, leaning against the oven. This again. “Ok, Martha. I’ll tell you straight, I don’t believe you’ve become the grim reaper version of Charles Dickens.” It drew more tears from Martha’s eyes. They were running around in circles. If Liz wanted to be on time for her date, she needed to get rid of her soon. “Ok, OK. I mean, I don’t believe you just yet. Let’s make you a deal. Why don’t you write me one more story? And if it comes to pass, I’ll believe you.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Hell―why not write about me? Go ahead—write me to death.”

Martha flinched. “You, I couldn’t. Not my best friend.”

“Whoever then.” The phone began ringing again, and Liz turned to pick it up. As she left the room, she shouted back. “Just promise you’ll make it quick and leave.”

Then Martha was alone with only the kitchen machinery surrounding her. She stared at the blank page, there was no trouble latching onto a new idea, as they always swirled in her mind. But for a long moment, her fingers hesitated above the pen, useless. She could write about anyone — a poem, a letter to her landlord, another angry draft that would never see the light of day. But she sighed, was she really a killer? Her mind kept circling back to Neil. His smug girlfriend, the woman from his car. The blonde. Martha clenched her jaw. “A girl who steals another woman’s life,” she murmured aloud, testing the phrase. Was it petty? Of course, it was. Was it cruel? Possibly. But maybe, just maybe, it was justice — some women do steal. And it wasn’t murder if it stayed on the page. It was just fiction. Just a story. She began to write.

“A woman who steals, Zeus would not be happy with that.” She murmured as a story unfolded. A Greek myth, perfect. In a sleepy town below Mt Olympus, Persephone had angered the Gods and now an enraged Zeus flew down, exacting his revenge. Two holes for eyes flashed white sparks. Martha wrote about the terrible electrical bolts discharging over land, shaking buildings to their foundations. Persephone tried to run, but Zeus struck her down, disintegrating her body with his lightning.

Martha exhaled. It felt good to get things off her chest, but the intense violence of the piece scared her. Not a moment after she put her pen down when Liz poked her head around the door, her form perfectly fitting a red dress.

“You done?”

“Yeah, I’m..”

“Good, good. Leave it on the table and let yourself out. He’ll be here soon.”

Later that evening, Liz picked up her phone for a third time. “Of course, I’m wearing it,” she purred into the receiver. “The one you said makes me look like sin.” She cooed, watching her reflection flirt back from the oven door. Then she noticed Matha’s scruffy story pages resting on the table. Without a second thought, she crumpled them and threw their remains into a trash bin. “Yeah, babe, she finally left. Swears she’s got superpowers now, poor thing. Honestly, you should’ve left her ages ago. Total basket case.”

Steam hissed from the broccoli pot boiling behind her. Sitting on the counter, her hairdryer lay forgotten, still plugged in, its cord coiled across the kitchen bench. Earlier, she'd used it too close to the sink, forgetting to unplug it. With a smug smile, Liz pivoted and reached for the pot—but her elbow clipped the handle. Boiling water surged forward in a green wave, splashing across the stove, down towards Liz, and straight onto the cord.

The hairdryer shrieked to life—then sparked.

Jagged blue bursts raced up the water like it had been waiting to pounce. Liz screamed once, sharp and violent, before the current stole the air from her lungs. Her arms seized mid-reach, body stiffening in grotesque movements. The phone clattered to the floor, Neil’s voice still chirping, “Hello? Liz?”

The lights flickered. The broccoli hissed, scorched against the hot metal. Liz fell with a thud, kicking over the trash bin. From it, a forgotten page of Martha’s story tumbled to the floor, landing in a shallow pool beside her twitching hand.

The title read, “To a woman who steals. Zeus would not be happy with that.”

If you hear a rapping, don’t make a sound,

Toss off your covers and slip to the ground.

This scratch at the window—it’s friendly, it’s true!

I wriggle, I smile, and wait for you.

And we’ll have so much fun, just wait and see,

All you must do is follow me, follow me

That’s it—look down, out in the snow,

Those playful footprints, they grow and grow.

No coat? No shoes? Don’t worry, you’ll see—

You won’t feel the cold once you’re out here with me.

And we’ll have so much fun, just wait and see

All you must do is follow me, follow me

Now I’m in your house, so cozy and warm.

Let’s not wake your parents, no need for alarm.

Instead, creep out with me, where the shadows pour,

Tiptoe so softly, then slip out the door.

And we’ll have so much fun, just wait and see

All you must do is follow me, follow me

The world looks so wondrous, now we’re out in the snow,

We scurry and laugh, but where should we go?

Ah, the woods—there’s much to find,

We can play forever... our fate’s entwined.

And we’ll have so much fun, just wait and see

All you must do is follow me, follow me

Now we arrive at the lake, where we must part.

I now grow hungry, I must have a heart.

Yours will do, don’t scream or shout,

Your mother can’t hear you, for that, there’s no doubt.

You shouldn’t have followed, beware my trick.

For I am the darkness, and I’ll swallow you, quick.