《In this Dangerous World》


 1.1

    <h1>[1. What was something unpleasant that happened recently?]</h1>


    My dream last night was unpleasant . . . It was a memory, actually, of when my mom walked out on Dad and me. It started with these random flashes of things that happened earlier in my life. The first happened when I was six, when I was kidnapped from school for two weeks before they found me sitting by the river that runs through south part of town (I forget what it¡¯s called).


    Apparently, the man wanted ransom money to pay off his debt or something. He found out later that we live in a run down apartment complex. He must have been too much of a wimp to do anything to me, so he just let me go. The police later caught him robbing a convenience store, or so the story goes.


    The dream just showed a bunch of confusing flashes from that time: street lights pulsing past a car window, later blending into a dark room lit by a computer screen; the thick, steaming stench of cigarettes and instant noodles; and the sticky-tight feeling of duct tape wrapped my hands and mouth and feet. It all felt very real to me.


    When the face of the man flashed in front of me, I¡¯m pretty sure it almost woke me up. My heart is racing now when I think about it. His face was different from how I remember it. It still had that gross beard and those yellow teeth and that red face covered in acne scars. I think it was his eyes that were different. They were hollow somehow, and at one point I think they weren¡¯t even there. They were just big holes in his face.


    Then, the dream switched to an event about half a month after that. It showed my mom doing laundry for the first time in a long time. In the dream, I could see her expression when she found the winning lottery ticket in the pocket of the jacket I must have been wearing when I was kidnapped.


    I¡¯m not sure if that was the actual expression she had on her face back then, but seeing the look of shock and surprise and the strange mixture of greed and somehow release . . . well, it turned my stomach even in the dream.


    I can vaguely remember the man buying the ticket, but I never did figure out how it had managed to slip into my pocket, nor how he never realized it was a winning ticket. My mom, though, was almost hysterical when she found it, probably more so than when she found out I was missing.


    She never really had much of an emotional connection with me. I think it¡¯s because when she was pregnant with me, she had complications with the pregnancy right as my brother got hit by a car. He must have been about five at the time. They both were rushed to the hospital, but they got there too late to save my brother¡¯s life. Dad tells me I almost didn¡¯t make it either, but my mom didn¡¯t seem to ever remember that.


    I think she blames me for my brother¡¯s death, but well, he was the child of her first marriage. I hear her husband died fighting as a soldier. She really loved him.


    Later, she met Dad at a mechanic shop getting her car fixed. They hit it off. He was sweet and she liked him well enough, so they got married. But maybe he was too sweet. The attachment didn¡¯t last long. She¡¯d yell at him and he¡¯d try to please her and I¡¯d sit outside on the porch watering my dying flowers in the cracked planters.


    I guess that¡¯s why it was no surprise that six days after she found the lottery ticket, she walked out on us. With Dad¡¯s younger coworker, no less. I hated having to rewatch that scene, watching her in those red high heeled boots that clicked against the tile as she strolled with her suitcase right out the door. It¡¯s was so uncomfortable, and it brought back all the swirling emotions I thought I had banished. Still . . . seeing it all again makes me I wonder she might have just been tired of life at that point.


    Or tired of us.


    ~~~


    I frown, tapping my pencil against the sheet of paper in front of me. I don¡¯t like what I wrote. In fact, I want to just erase it all, but Mr. Reynolds only gives like five minutes to complete the annoying prompts he calls journals. He gives them out every week, and I swear every kid in the classroom hates them to death. Even worse, the topic this time was especially cringe-worthy.


    I don¡¯t have enough time to think of a new subject. I¡¯m not even sure what I have will actually count well towards the prompt. The only reason I wrote about the stupid dream was because it was still fresh on my mind. I hesitate to say that it¡¯s still bothering me, but it is. I¡¯ll probably get docked on it. That¡¯s how it goes, right? The more heart you put into something, the worse the grade you get. The people that get A¡¯s are somehow the ones that manage to regurgitate nonsense onto their papers. The school system is ridiculous.


    I groan when I hear Mr. Reynolds call out, ¡°Time¡¯s up. Pass your papers forward.¡± I tear out the sheet of paper and reluctantly hand it to the guy in front of me. Class goes by quickly after that. I mostly zone out once Mr. Reynolds starts talking about the themes found in Romeo and Juliet. I¡¯m not exactly interested in doomed love stories at the moment. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    When the bell rings, I¡¯m glad to be out. It¡¯s my last class of the day which is good, so I could go home. I¡¯m kinda hesitating to, though. That dream¡¯s been distracting me all day. I think my teachers noticed it, but I¡¯m a good enough student that it doesn¡¯t matter. They¡¯ll probably give me some leeway.


    If I go home now, though, Dad¡¯ll notice something¡¯s off right away. He¡¯ll try and talk to me about it, and he won¡¯t buy it if I try and brush it off, and well, if I tell him, he¡¯ll get that guilty look in his eyes that comes up every time anyone mentions either Mom leaving or the whole kidnapped thing.


    Nope, let¡¯s not go home just yet. Instead, let¡¯s go to the greenhouse in the community garden. I spend a lot of time there anyway, so Dad shouldn¡¯t be too suspicious if I tell him I was there when I eventually get home. Yep, let''s do that.


    As I walk out the school gate and down the street towards the greenhouse, I try to ignore the images of my dream that keep popping into my head. Why¡¯d it have to be such a vivid dream? I wish I forgot it all when I woke up, like other, normal dreams. It keeps giving me an unsettling feeling in the bottom of my stomach that¡¯s really hard to ignore, almost like something bad is going to happen.


    I shudder, then shake my head and push the thought aside as I opened up the sad-looking wooden gate to the community garden. I make my way past planters filled with a messy scattering of vegetables and follow the sandy path to the greenhouse that lay in the back corner of the plot. Humid air greets me as I lift up the plastic flap and step in. It¡¯s cramped in the one-car-garage sized tent, and it¡¯s filled with various planters lining the floor and the bleacher style wooden shelving. In the center, a path loops like a blocky zero around bench placed in a small gathering of trees in pots. Well, welcome to my haven.


    I slide off my backpack by the bench and roll my sleeves. Grabbing a watering can, I walk over to the water spigot and fill it. It doesn¡¯t take me long to get back into the rhythm of checking how each plant is doing as I water. As I do, I think about how far I¡¯ve come with the place.


    The few old ladies that tended the messy gardens outside never bothered with the greenhouse. It used to be really rundown. It¡¯s plastic covering was torn, one of the four long shelves inside was broken, cigarettes were scattered everywhere, and the pots only contained dead plants. When I was seven, I took a liking to it, though, mostly because it was somewhere secret I could go to get out of an empty house when Dad was working.


    I spent close to six months fixing it up. The old ladies were nice enough. They provided me with a few starter seeds and pointed me to the tool shed in the opposite corner of the garden when I asked if I could fix it up. I could tell they gossiped about me later, making bets about how long I would stick with the project. I¡¯m not sure who won.


    It was a rough start, that¡¯s for sure. Most of what I did fell apart the next day. I can remember being so frustrated that Dad worried that I was being bullied at school. (I was, but not enough for me to really care--probably one of the reasons why I have no friends).


    The public library provided me the books to figure out how to make more lasting repairs with limited materials (duct tape and the sort), but no gardening book I read, no plant website I checked could help me figure out why I couldn¡¯t grow anything. It took me two years and a ridiculous amount of experimentation to finally figured it out.


    It¡¯s really weird, but everything I figured out that worked for me I know for a fact won¡¯t work for anyone else. I¡¯m pretty sure that if anyone else tried my methods, they¡¯d kill everything, just like how the most tried and true gardening methods will kill all of my plants.


    My method concludes that each plant needs something different to grow. More importantly, none of it is remotely close to logical. Some plants wanted very strange things (like peanut butter on their leaves or plastic animals glued on their branches) or they wouldn¡¯t even sprout. Others needed very specific schedules, with days of watering and fertilizing followed by days of ignoring. My wooly senecio succulents, for example: they need watering every day but Tuesday. I have no idea why specifically Tuesday, but it¡¯s definitely Tuesdays that they must not be watered.


    Honestly, it¡¯s all very bizarre. I¡¯ve asked plenty of people about it online and in person. Most people think I¡¯m joking, but those I can convince can¡¯t make heads or tails of it, like my biology teacher who¡¯s completely flabbergasted. He asked me if he could research it some, so he comes by the greenhouse every once in a while, but I don¡¯t think he¡¯s made any progress. Yesterday, he told me that he had to throw away another batch of onions at his house because they started to mold from the nacho cheese they were dipped in.


    It¡¯s so unscientific. At this point, I¡¯ve stopped asking why it¡¯s like this.


    After I finish my routine, I sit on the bench and stretching. Then I reach for the backpack on the dirt floor, pulling out a cheesy romance book from the main pocket as well as a packet of corn chips. It was my way of destressing. I can laugh at how stupid everyone¡¯s IQ is in romance novels, and more importantly, I don¡¯t have to think about life.


    Time passes as I quickly immerse myself in a world of kissing, flushed faces, and embarrassing situations, every once in a while grabbing a couple of corn chips. Most go into my mouth, the remaining I crunch up in my hand and scatter distractedly into the pot next to the bench where a vibrant apple tree grows. Anyone watching would be wondering why I¡¯m wasting food like that, but my apple tree really likes corn chips . . .


    I find myself smirking at a particularly cringey line in the book when a chill runs down my spine.


    It¡¯s back.

 1.2

    <h1>[2. When did you realize you had a special talent?]</h1>


    I remember having a conversation with Dad at a neighborhood park back when I was really, really little. It went like this:


    ¡°Dad, why is that man standing there?¡±


    ¡°What man, Devin, baby?¡±


    ¡°That one. See, he¡¯s standing by the swing. Dad, he looks sick. Does he need a doctor?¡±


    ¡°Hm? I don¡¯t see anyone.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean? You¡¯re not looking hard enough, Dad. Look, he¡¯s standing right there! He¡¯s all wet. See, his shirt is dripping red all down his pants. He¡¯s even got it on his face, dad. It¡¯s all messy. He didn¡¯t clean up. And Dad, he''s carrying around a knife this big. Is he cooking something? And why is his neck is all bent? He should go see a doctor, right? Dad, don''t you see him?"


    <h1></h1>


    ¡°Chickpea . . . There¡¯s no one there.¡±


    ~~~


    I don¡¯t even need to look behind me. I can feel it staring at my neck.


    Calm down, Devin. It¡¯s, you know, just a normal--floating--severed head. You see it all the time. It¡¯s never done anything. No need to get freaked so out.


    That doesn¡¯t make it any less freaky!


    Alright. Okay. We¡¯re fine. Take a deep breath and s-start packing up like normal. With shaking hands, I slip my book and the remaining chips back into my bag, then stand up while swinging the bag onto my shoulder. I walk as steady as I can to the plastic door flap of the greenhouse, trying my very best not to break out into a run. Gotta be normal. Ignore it. It¡¯s not there. I can¡¯t see anything.


    ¡°M???????????Y?? w????h????R??E¡¯??????? ???o?????? G?????O????? I? ¦Â??k????3??? s?????? ??L???????O???D p?????e.¡±


    B-blood pie?! Are you kidding me? That''s not the kind of voice that''s something humans are supposed to ever hear! Who the heck is Mary? No, wait, scratch that, why is it even talking? It''s never talked before. It feels like something is ripping my nails off, rubbing my skin off with sandpaper, and pouring Vaseline into my eyes all at the same time it enters my ears. I shiver. I have to force myself not to freeze. Carefully, I flip open the plastic flap and step out into the evening air.


    Once I hear the flap flip close behind me, I sprint through the garden, hop over the fence as fast as I can, and dash down the road towards home. After running for more than five minutes, I slow down to a walk, panting heavily with burning sides.


    Gosh, that hasn¡¯t happened in a while. When was the last time? A couple weeks maybe? I see little stuff like eyeballs in walls or mice with teeth sticking out their back like everyday. I¡¯m used to creepies like that, but any creepy bigger than say a watermelon or anything remotely human looking still freaks the heck out of me. Luckily, I don¡¯t see them too often.


    But why is it back? It totally ruins my hiding spot. This is the fourth time already, and last time, it wouldn¡¯t leave for a week straight. It¡¯s . . . not following me, is it? I check the road behind me and sigh in relief seeing it empty. I start walking again, feeling a bit calmer.


    A severed head, though. Sometimes I wonder if something might be buried under the dirt floor of the greenhouse, but I¡¯m way too scared to even try searching. What am I going to do if I really do find someone¡¯s head there? I mean, that¡¯d mean that these aren¡¯t just hallucinations. As much as I¡¯d like to be proven not crazy, being able to see dead people is not exactly the most comforting thought, either.


    I shake myself. Let¡¯s think about something else. It¡¯s darker than I thought out. How late is it? I pull out my phone. Seven? It shouldn¡¯t be this dark yet. Weird . . . now I¡¯m feeling paranoid. Dad hasn¡¯t called yet. Usually he¡¯s checked up on me by now, but he could be watching that new drama he¡¯s been absorbed with the past few days. Still, the street is awfully quiet for this time. It¡¯s even weirder how the street lights haven¡¯t turned out despite how dark it is.


    I speed up my pace, grumbling out loud to make myself feel braver, ¡°Why does all the horror movie stuff have to happen to me? I don¡¯t need any more suspense in my life. I¡¯ve had more than my fair share, don¡¯t you think?¡± The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    I let out a puff of air in relief as I see a car turn a corner and drive down the street towards me. At least I¡¯m not completely alone. But on the off chance I randomly get kidnapped again, I move closer to the edge of the sidewalk away from the road, careful not to slip on the grass and roll down the hill into the muddy river. The car¡¯s lights blind me as it passes on by. For the second time tonight, I freeze.


    Something is there, in front of me.


    There¡¯s something that appeared right in front of me after that car passed. Even with eyes blinded by headlights, I could swear right here, right now that it was not there before. My eyes swim as they try to recover their night vision, and slowly the thing comes into focus.


    I gulp. This creepy is no severed head.


    I stare at it as it looms over me, taller by far even while crouching on legs with one too many bends. It¡¯s skinny--basically a skeleton--with way too long of fingers, grossly hunched shoulders, and a strangely sloping neck. It leans over and places its smooth, almost featureless face right in front of me. Its gross, eyeball-less sockets swallow my vision. A grin cracks across its face. Horror fills me.


    ¡°????? ??????o???¡¯T????? ???t?¨»???????t???,¡± it gurgles. ¡°T??????3 ????o??l ???a? ?????cA????p??T?????a????t??E??e?? I? g?????E???s??? ?????????¡¯???? hA???E???? t????? ?????????????? ????t???.¡±


    I shouldn¡¯t have looked.


    This is bad. This is really bad. I can¡¯t even move as it reaches out to me with its long fingers. I get a whiff of something as its hand moves close, a smell that reminds me of burnt hair. Its fingers touch my chest, and all of a sudden, extreme pain washes over me. It hurts! It¡¯s all wrong! It hurts it hurts it hurts It Huuuuuuuuurts!


    The fingers! Right now, they¡¯re in my chest! They¡¯re phasing straight through my chest. I choke on my tongue. It feels wrong! They¡¯re digging around, grasping for something. It¡¯s not supposed to be like this. It hurts. They¡¯re touching it. What are they touching? Stop? It hurts so much! They twist it around and start pulling. No! Stop! Why is it like this? I¡¯m splitting apart. It? Hurts? So! Much!


    I feel something rip. It feels like a gasp escaping my lungs. There¡¯s so much pain. Am I dead? I can vaguely see my body lying on the ground. Did it just rip out me out of my body? Am I a ghost now? Why does it still hurt? I feel lightheaded as it pulls me closer.


    ¡°I???? w????????????¡¯??? T????????L?????????.¡±


    My chest throbs horribly. The burning sensation flooding it doesn¡¯t fade even as my mind starts to wander deliriously. Instead the pain grows stronger in waves, and I can feel it moving in time to the blood pounding in my ears despite now apparently lacking a body. This thing is a ghoul, I decide. That''s the only name that fits it, right? Never thought I''d one day ever be viciously attacked by a ghoul. Thought they were only storybook monsters. Who could have predicted this?


    As I¡¯m pulled near the ghoul, its face opens up, showing a gruesome mouth that takes up its whole head. Okay, that¡¯s just horrifying.


    ¡°D????????????¡¯??? ???????o?? a???????.T?????????? ¦Â????o???0??D??? wiL????????? F????a???l? o???t????,¡± it says as it leans its head forward.


    Pain a thousand times more intense than having my soul torn out of my body explodes as the ghoul bites into my right side and rips off my arm and upper chest. My senses go absolutely haywire. I''m crumbling to pieces. I can''t think. It hurts. This thing. It''s killing me!


    <h1></h1>


    I scream.


    <h1></h1>


    I can hear it slurping and swallowing the dismembered pieces of myself.


    <h1>


    ¡°I???? ????????????????¡¯t T????eL?????????. ??????E¡¯???? hA???E???? t???o c?????????? ????t???, ?????r T?????????? ¦Â????o???0??D??? wiL????????? F????a???l? o???t????..¡±</h1>

 1.3

    <h1>[3. How do you deal with stressful situations?]</h1>


    . . . I think something just ate me.


    ~~~


    Everything blurs together. I¡¯m having trouble even thinking straight. I¡¯m hallucinating this right? Surely this is all one very realistic dream. When I wake up, I won''t be dead, there won¡¯t be this ghoul eating my soul, and there definitely won''t be a gigantic eye filling the sky staring down at us both.


    Actually, where did that come from? It just appeared out of nowhere. It''s massive and black, with a long, long body that reminds me of an eel. It''s kinda wispy actually. It''s got these tongues of black flame-looking stuff shooting off of its body. Tentacles? Tendrils? I wonder which is more accurate.


    Whatever they are, they''re reaching down towards us. I suppose I should be terrified, but it''s hard to feel anything through this invading numbness crawling through my chest.


    I watch as the eye-eel thing reaches it tendrils down, slipping them gently around the unaware ghoul still gnawing at the pieces of myself. With a yank, the tendrils pull the ghoul up towards the pupil of the massive eye. I''m left puddling on the ground. In a daze, I continue to watch as the pupil enlarges almost to the edge of the iris, revealing rows and rows of pointy teeth rimming the inside of the pupil.


    If that''s not a death hole, I don''t know what is.


    With a strange shloop, the tendrils push the ghoul into the teeth-lined pupil-mouth. The mouth immediately snaps shut like a camera shutter, shrinking to the size of a pinhead in milliseconds. The size contrast between what the pupil was a second ago and what it is now is very disturbing, and it all happened so fast that the ghoul didn''t even get a chance to struggle.


    The eye turn its attention to me. I can literally feel its interest in me increasing, turning into a tangible, suffocating pressure. I can¡¯t breathe. I can¡¯t breathe. It''s hurting again. Fear shoots through me again, driving away the numbness completely. I need to run. I have to get out of its sight, but there¡¯s nowhere to hide; the pressure is swallowing my thoughts and. I. can¡¯t. breathe.


    .


    .


    It¡¯s staring at me.


    .


    .


    I can¡¯t move.


    <h1>


    </h1>


    It¡¯s staring.


    <h1></h1>


    Need.


    To get out;


    of HERE.


    <h1></h1>


    Like something responding to my tortured thoughts, a crack suddenly forms, bisecting the eye in two. The pressure on me decreases like a deflating balloon. I gasp for breath, nearly falling over from lack of air. Dead people shouldn¡¯t need to breathe, right? But I feel like I¡¯m going to faint.


    I can feel the pressure starting to increase once more, pressure from intense anger this time rather than interest, but it feels like it''s happening on the opposite side of a glass wall. Any moment that wall will shatter, but for now, the pressure isn¡¯t affecting me.


    Another crack forms, and I realize that it¡¯s not the eye that¡¯s cracking, it¡¯s the space between the creepy and me. It¡¯s breaking in pieces. Like pieces of a broken mirror, each piece is showing a distorted version of reality. What is this?


    I shake as the eye¡¯s tendrils slam into that fragile wall in space, breaking it even more. The massive thing screams. I hastily cover an ear with my remaining hand and huddle to the ground. It doesn¡¯t help much. The air visibly shakes from the force of its voice, setting my ears ringing.


    Space cracks further. Any second, that thing will get through. It¡¯ll get to me. Dad, I¡¯m scared. How do I get out of this?


    As I watch, a piece of space actually falls out right in front my nose, and I¡¯m left staring in apprehension into a dark, swirling hole.


    Alright, between being eaten by a massive eldritch horror and jumping into an unknown dimensional hole, which is scarier? The eye screams again. Whelp, that answers that question. It won¡¯t hurt, right? Afterall, I¡¯m already technically dead. Here¡¯s to hoping I don¡¯t get twisted into spaghetti or something.


    Without a second thought, I slip into the crack.


    The universe--and it really was a universe--on the other side is absolutely disorienting. What hits me first is a slow creeping cold, chilling to the bone. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    The second thing that hits me is that I¡¯m somehow in outer space. I¡¯ve shifted away from the Earth. I can see it floating far below me, far enough away that I can take in the whole planet. It¡¯s strange looking. The colors are all wrong, all yellow and purple like a photonegative, and the planet itself wavers like a desert mirage.


    What¡¯s stranger is that empty space here roils and rolls like drunken waves, visible gravity ripples shifting with psychedelic and bizarre swirls of color. Stars feel massive and tiny at the same time, fluctuating with a strange sense emptiness that wars with their usual feeling of over abundance of mass. The scene overloads my senses in an instant.


    The universe shutters violently. It¡¯s accompanied by sound of space breaking behind me, jolting me out of my daze. I can feel it. The eye is coming.


    I run.


    With no other thoughts, I run as hard as I can. No time to think. No time to pay any attention to the dizzying whirl flashing around me.


    Tendrils brush my ankles. Fear shoots through me, and I somehow manage to squeeze out even more speed, moving many times faster what was possible when I had a body. Heck, at this point, it¡¯s impossible to say I¡¯m running, more like shooting through space like a meteor.


    Despite the few seconds I buy with my increased speed, my lead is shrinking rapidly. If nothing changes in the next few seconds, then I¡¯m going to find myself joining Mr. Ghoul in Massive Creepy¡¯s stomach.


    Sorry Dad. Looks like your daughter won¡¯t make it out of this alive. I¡¯m honestly surprised I¡¯ve lived this long already.


    Tears stream past my cheeks, a combination of exhaustion and desperation.


    Well, Universe. I¡¯m waiting. You going to throw anything else at me? Or is this the end for me? You¡¯ve already put me through this ridiculous sequence of events, so I¡¯m sure you can pull out one more for me. I¡¯d rather not get eaten by this thing if I can help it. The fact that I haven¡¯t died yet must mean something, right?


    Oh wait . . . I am dead. Well there goes my conspiracy theory that the universe is trying to give me a hard day. It just, you know, outright killed me instead.


    Suddenly, I feel very tired. This is really all ridiculous. Why am I even trying anymore? This was out of my league from the beginning.


    Should I end it?


    My speed decreases slightly as the thought flits across my mind. Tendrils immediately wrap around my ankles, slowing my frantic pace. They start crawling up my legs. I shiver. A few seconds later, they reach my chest and start squeezing the breath out of my lungs. It¡¯s uncomfortable, but it doesn¡¯t exactly hurt, which is somehow even more creepy. It cause the corners of my vision to start to go black.


    Crap. This is it then. This is the end. I won''t exist anymore after this.


    <h1></h1>


    I just wish . . . that I could see you again, Dad. Just once.


    .


    .


    .


    I''m not exactly sure what happened.


    I know I blacked out for what had to have been only a second or two, but between when I blacked out and when I wake up again, a giant spider at least three times the size of the eye-eel creepy appeared out of nowhere, latching onto Mr. Eyeball.


    Why do I keep meeting bigger and bigger things today? Should I be concerned? I almost feel sorry for my would-be eaters. Any time something tries to eat me, something bigger comes along. Am I really that unlucky?


    Nausea assails me as the tendrils holding me start to whip around, the eye screeching brain-shatteringly at the top of its lungs. The spider slams a foreleg down on top of it, further restricting the eye from moving and shutting it up. Oh, thank heavens! The eye turns and takes a chunk out of the spider¡¯s leg. The spider goes to whack it.


    Oi oi. Wait! No! Stop! The leg looms in my vision. It slams into me like an oncoming truck. All I can feel is a crushing pain, then I am ripped out of the tendrils and sent flying into the distance like a shooting star. The force of the hit was so intense that I black out once more.


    When I wake up, I find myself still free-falling in space (can I even call it that?). How long have I been going like this? It doesn¡¯t feel like I¡¯ll stop anytime soon unless smack into something. I mean, it is space after all, despite whatever weird dimension I¡¯m in currently.


    But still, what am I, your personal football?


    I guess that means that the universe didn¡¯t let me down after all. Maybe. That¡¯s still up for debate. But if that¡¯s right, I¡¯m not sure how I feel about it. I don¡¯t believe that the universe is conscious or that some great being has a grand design. And if there is a plan like that, I doubt it includes me. I''m literally the definition of a nobody.


    Naw, I¡¯d rather believe this is all a freaky coincidence. Otherwise, wouldn¡¯t that being make my life better? Or at least not kill me?


    Not take me away from my dad?


    I gulp away tears, pushing away the feeling. I can¡¯t break down here. I¡¯m not out of the woods yet. I trust my gut, and my gut¡¯s telling me that Mr. Eye is still alive after that encounter with the planet-sized spider. Somehow.


    It¡¯s strange. I can actually feel the creepy. It¡¯s a faint feeling, but it''s definitely there. The creepy is weak, probably injured from the fight, but there¡¯s a good chance it got away considering that it¡¯s feeling just plain annoyed. It''s also still looking for me.


    I guess it¡¯s a good thing I¡¯m traveling so fast away from it. If only that didn¡¯t mean getting launched like a pumpkin out of a canon. I wonder if I¡¯ll crash like one too. Sploosh. Like that.


    I giggle. I wonder how long it¡¯s been since that happened anyway. Must be ages! All that adrenaline--the only thing keeping me sane through way too many life and death situations--has finally run out. My energy has hit absolutely rocky bottom. And so, without further ado, I feel positively, deliciously delirious and my psychedelic, swirling, colorfully mushrooming surroundings must be the cherry on top of that ginormous floating strawberry cake over there. Wait, slow down, I want slice! How do I slow down?


    Hahaha! So fast! All aboard the chu chu train! Chu Chu!


    I promise, Mr. Rabbit, there are absolutely, positively, beyond a shadow of a doubt, no spiders allowed here. None. After all, I am the president, and I make the rules. I stab out my finger to emphasize my point. I assure you, it¡¯s a necessary defensive measure Mr. Potato. We can¡¯t have eels running around the garden, can we? They must all be packed up and sent to Mars.


    Hehe, you¡¯re right this is great, and that¡¯s a planet. Did we make it to Mars? I¡¯ve never felt so much wind in my life! Is it hot in here? Mars is hot. No, wait, it¡¯s cold. Tricky thing, trying to trick me into thinking you¡¯re hot just ¡®cause you¡¯re red. You can¡¯t trick me this time. You¡¯re not red. You¡¯re reeaaaalllly white. Woah the white ground is getting sooooo big. I want to touch it.


    The ground rushes up towards me.


    With a sudden, resounding smack, I black out.

 2.1

    <h1>[4. What are some recent moments of happiness in your life?]</h1>


    .


    .


    .


    ~~~


    The transition between asleep and awake is almost not existent. One second I¡¯m arguing with an ostrich about whether stools or hammocks were better for riding on top of giant hippos, and the next second I¡¯m more awake, more cold, and more confused than I thought I ever could be.


    It¡¯s cold.


    No, scratch that, it¡¯s very cold.


    Snowflakes drift onto my eyelashes, and I realize that I¡¯m lying in a pile of snow. Heavy clouds droop in the sky. A breath of wind slips past me. I shiver hard. Cold? Why am I cold? I shouldn¡¯t be cold. It¡¯s summer, so why is it snowing? It¡¯s freezing, and here I am wearing only a sweatshirt and basketball shorts.


    Confused, I stand up and brush the snow off my clothes as I look around. For a second, I feel like I¡¯m blind. Everything¡¯s so white. It almost hurts. I shiver again as the cold seeps into my bones. Where am I? With the amount of snow blowing around in the wind, it¡¯s hard to make out much detail in any direction, except for the few hazy buildings brooding not far in the distance. Everything else is just snow. It must go on for miles.


    The wind picks up, sending drifts of icy snow into the air. It falls onto me. The sensation of hard pieces of ice hitting my skin is so raw it hurts. I gasp.


    Is there a freak snow storm happening right now? But why am I outside? And what was I doing last night? Did I fall asleep on someone¡¯s lawn or something?


    I pull my sleeves down past my hands as I think. All of a sudden, terror floods me as the recents events tear their way to the front of my mind. I whip around to stare at the sky, searching for signs of anything moving despite the blizzard whirling around me.


    Where is it? Is it still chasing me?


    There¡¯s too much snow in the air. It keeps getting in my eyes. I lower my head, blinking to get rid of the cold flakes. It¡¯s alright, right? I got away from it. I can feel it. It¡¯s so far away now, so I should be fine, right? I don¡¯t think it knows where I am now, so I can head back home . . . right? Only, how do I get back home? There¡¯s buildings, so someone must be living here. They should have a phone I can use to call Dad, and maybe a cab too. Anything to get out of this weather.


    I start walking towards the closest building. As I slog through the snow, trying unsuccessfully to keep my sneakers from getting even more drenched, my frantic flight from the demon eye slips into replay mode in my head.


    I freaking managed to survive that? How did I freaking manage to survive that? And just how far did I run?


    I freeze as a thought hits me. Wait . . . this isn¡¯t Earth. Where the heck am I? Like, where in the whole universe even? This is really, really dangerous. I¡¯m totally freezing to death here, and I have no idea where I am. I¡¯m probably on an alien planet. Scratch that, I am on an alien planet, and that thing is out there still looking for me. Who knows when it¡¯ll catch back up. I¡¯m really starting to hyperventilate.


    No, I¡¯m definitely hyperventilating.


    ¡°Someone, Help!!!! Please! Is there anyone there? I¡¯m lost!¡± I scream into the wind, trying not to panic, but the situation is definitely getting to me. I can feel tears starting to freeze against my cheek as they spill over. ¡°Anyone? Don¡¯t leave me here alone! I don¡¯t know where I am! Someone please come help me! I¡¯m kinda scared, alright?! And cold! And really I don¡¯t know where I am and I don¡¯t know what¡¯s happening or why it¡¯s chasing me or even if my dad¡¯s okay!¡±


    My voice is thrown back into my face as a blast of freezing air assaults me. Sharp, cold bits of ice pound against my skin. It stings, but also cools my frantic thoughts a bit. I grimace and brush the frozen tears off my face with my sleeve. Okay. Calm down. Shouting isn¡¯t going to help, so take deep breaths. In and out. Okay, okay. Breathing is helping. I¡¯m okay now. Think, Devin, think. You¡¯re smart. I¡¯m sure I¡¯ll be fine. Even on an alien world. First things first, like Dad says: categorize the things you know. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Number one, I¡¯m on a different planet. There¡¯s no helping that.


    Number two, I¡¯m not exactly sure how I got here, but I know it had something to do with running through space, all weird and mystical-like. Let¡¯s . . . put that train of thought aside for later. It won¡¯t help me now.


    Number three, I don¡¯t think I can go back. Why? Most likely because of number four, which is that my body is completely off.


    I stretch out my hands and stare at them. The ghoulish thing that first showed up, it bit off my right arm and a good portion of my side went with it. I can swear on the all-holy avocado tree in my backyard that that was reality, so why am I back to normal?


    It couldn¡¯t be that I somehow transmigrated into the body of a trash sixth miss that got thrown out into the cold by her fed-up family and her arrogant (but mindblowingly handsome) crown prince fiance, right? I poke out my tongue at the stupid thought. Maybe I read too much. Honestly, I¡¯m not even sure how I can be cracking jokes in this situation.


    But no, this is still my body. My hands have all the same calluses, and I can see my hair drifting like ugly black seaweed in the wind. If that wasn''t enough of a clue, I''m still wearing the same clothes as when I was attacked, though my backpack seems to have disappeared and my sweatshirt really should be only half a sweatshirt. Let''s not think about that right now.


    I breathe a sigh, putting my hands into my sweatshirt pocket. I¡¯m still me.


    I do feel weird though. Fragile and weak, like a glass figurine or maybe a soap bubble. Also, super frayed and tense. It¡¯s like I¡¯ve used up a massive amount of energy and am running on fumes or something. I might just dissipate on the wind because of it. Probably from getting eaten, then smacked around and then some. I really don¡¯t like the feeling, but I don¡¯t feel like it¡¯ll be changing any time soon. And so, I don¡¯t think I can leave the way I came. Not that I¡¯d know how to get back. So, number four puts number three on the backburner, then.


    Number five, though, I really need to get inside something. Like really. I can feel myself getting closer to a numb past numb. Enough standing out in the cold, thinking. Any longer out here, and the cold might just stop my thought process altogether.


    I move again towards the hazy building closest to me.


    . . . And now, I¡¯ve come to the sudden realization that moving through thick, wet snow is very, very exhausting.


    It takes me way longer than I thought to reach it. When I do reach the building (or rather, the squat, ratty looking house), I take a minute to lean my head against the grainy, weather-worn door to catch my breath. Then, I raise my hand and knock hard. Wind blows through me as a wait. I knock a few more times, realizing that it¡¯s starting to get darker outside.


    ¡°Hello? Could someone please answer?¡±


    I wait a few more minutes.


    ¡°Really? You¡¯re not going to answer? Is it because it¡¯s snowing or is it because it¡¯s me? I mean seriously, I¡¯m having a really bad past couple of days, so if you could answer the door, I¡¯d really appreciate it.¡± I give the door another knock before sighing.


    ¡°Is it just my luck that nobody¡¯s home? Should I try the other houses then?¡± I look back out into the snowstorm, barely making out the other houses. I shiver. ¡°I really don¡¯t want to, though.¡±


    Frowning, I give the door a hard kick and turn away, only to freeze hearing a creaking sound. I whirl around, bringing my hands up in a defensive posture, then lower them when I see the slightly open door.


    ¡°It¡¯s was unlocked? Haha, I nearly gave myself a heart attack.¡± Putting a hand on my chest, I give the door a stare. ¡°Should I? It¡¯s really cold. They¡¯ll forgive me, right?¡± I take a deep breath, the push open the door. It slowly creaks open, giving me a slight amount of resistance.


    ¡°Hello?¡± I call out as I step through the doorway. ¡°Sorry for barging in, but no one answered when I knocked. I hope you don¡¯t mind. It¡¯s blizzarding outside, so . . .¡± I trail off.


    I¡¯m not sure what I was hoping for. The room¡¯s empty. It¡¯s clear that no one¡¯s been here for a long, long time. Maybe a window or something was left open, because the floor--along with the single, creepy looking chair in the middle--is covered in a layer of frost. The frost is kinda eerie looking actually. It creeps up the walls and twists in the corners of the room all the way up to the ceiling like some kind of spider web. And while it¡¯s not as cold as outside, I still find myself shivering.


    Leading off to the right of the chair in the strange, empty room is a tall doorway that almost reached the ceiling, it¡¯s opening arched at the top. The faint light streaming in from the slightly open door doesn¡¯t reach the opening, so I can¡¯t see much in that room besides a few uncertain outlines of dark shapes that may or may not belong to a kitchen. An uneasy feeling drifts towards me the longer I stare into that room.


    ¡° . . . Let¡¯s try a different place,¡± I say, trying to use my voice to break the creepy vibe. ¡°This place feels off.¡± I glance back at the chair one more time, then turn to leave.


    As I¡¯m turning, out of the corner of my eye I see something abnormally tall standing just inside the doorway to the other room, the top of its head somehow taller than the already tall arch. As fast as I can, I rip open the door and bolt back out into the blizzard. Anywhere is better than being in that house, because I know for a fact that¡¯s definitely not something I want to meet.


    I almost freeze as the icy air hits me like a rabid bulldog. My mind goes blank for a second before the sudden increase in the pounding of my heart jolts me awake again. Immediately I break out into the fastest run I can manage while slogging through the thick layer of snow.


    I don¡¯t dare to look back. I can feel the thing from the house following me, and I have the very bad feeling that it can move through this weather better than I can.


    . . . Sadly, I¡¯m right.

 2.2

    <h1>[5. What are you most worried about currently?]</h1>


    Why do things keep chasing me?


    ~~~


    It doesn¡¯t take long for it to catch up with me. I hear a whistling noise coming towards my ear.


    Feeling the danger, I launch myself head first into the snow in an effort to dodge, rolling onto my back as I do. A scythe sweeps past not even a finger¡¯s width from my ear. My heart stops. That was waaaay too close.


    ¡°L????????t??? mE???? ??????A?????? a T??a???t??????.¡±


    Why do they always sound so creepy? Can they just not talk?


    Also, what the heck is this look? Who has freaking scythes for hands? Do you really think that having your jaw split in two like some sort of mandible is pleasing to look at? And why am I having such bad luck with tall, skinny guys recently? It¡¯s getting really tiring.


    A scythe comes racing towards me again. I roll out of the way, using my momentum to stand back up again. Much too dangerous. But I can¡¯t really run. It¡¯ll just catch back up to me and probably cut me in half. Plus I''m sick of running. I really should have looked into anti-creepy things (rosaries or charms or purifying salt or something). These things clearly aren¡¯t hallucinations anymore.


    I feel like crying. They were never this aggressive before. It lunges at me again, tearing the sleeve of my sweatshirt as I duck.


    ¡°Go do your lunges somewhere else!¡± I yell. It pauses, tilting its gross head at my voice. I¡¯m surprised it reacted. I¡¯ve never tried talking with a creepy before. It always felt wrong to even think about it.


    ¡°T?????o????????t??????????e?? T??????3????¡¯??????? ????T????? ???pE?? Y?et???..¡±


    ¡°Who cares about tomatoes?¡±


    We stare at each other for almost a full minute, me with my chest heaving, it with its head tilting further and further till it was almost horizontal to the ground. Gross. But at least it stopped. Maybe it¡¯ll listen to reason.


    ¡°Hey, we don¡¯t really need to fight, do we? I¡¯m sorry that I barged into your house like that, but do you really need to slice me to pieces for it?¡±


    ¡°G??????or??E??? ????????D????¡¯T?? ???eE???? ????. I w???????????T????? A? S?????p??.¡± It snaps its mandible things and lurches towards me.


    ¡°I guess that¡¯s a no, then. Jerk.¡± Should have known reason wouldn¡¯t work on illogical things. Really, why is everything chasing me recently? Is this going to be something that¡¯ll happen on a regular basis now? It¡¯s not something I wanna get used to it.


    I try and keep my distance from the thing. It¡¯s not working very well. Its legs are so skinny, it¡¯s poking through the snow like toothpicks, but it¡¯s tall enough that the snow only comes a third of the way up its shin, so snow doesn¡¯t really matter. Me on the other hand, I feel like I can barely move. With the snow up to my kneecaps, the thing cuts me off in an instant.


    I leap backwards to avoid the scythe slicing down, but everything goes bad. I land wrong. My feet slip, and I slam harder than I should have been able to into the snow. The wind is instantly knocked out of my lungs. I can¡¯t breathe.


    Panicking, I hurry to scramble to my feet, slipping and sliding around even more.


    Pain bursts in my thigh, and I fall to the ground. I scream out as the thing tugs its scythe out. It? Freaking? Hurts? You maggot infested, rotten skin bag?


    From my lying position, I launch my unhurt leg blindly at the creepy, catching it in its toothpick legs. It stumbles and falls right on top of me. I gag at the very intense smell of freezer burn that accompanies it.


    It shrieks and snaps at my head with its mandibles only to meet my oncoming elbow in the eye.


    The organ pops disgustingly.


    I almost throw up. I was not expecting that. Still, I manage to slip out from underneath it and launch another kick to its side. Its ribs snap with an unsettling crunch.


    ¡°G????????-O??????o??????)???0??lr???-??E????e?#???(????????&???#???(??????????)???#????¡± the thing screeches.


    I scramble backwards in a hurry and stare in horror at the gaping hole that my foot created in its side. This . . . was this supposed to happen? After a few seconds of warbling on its side in pain, the creepy manages a swipe at me with its scythe. It¡¯s a much weaker swing than before. I scoot further out of reach before it even comes close.


    ¡°G??????-o??????O????????)???0??l&???#???(???????¡± it screams incoherantly at me. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    I shiver, then take a deep breath and stand up. As I stand up, it actually takes another weak sweep at me. I frown. Why¡¯s it so bent on killing me?


    "Look, I know you go crazy after seeing girls, but you know, they don''t really like being chased around with with knives. Here, let me help with that. Maybe"--I stomp hard on its arm--"it''ll improve your chances."


    The bone brakes with a crackle.


    Okay . . . I was not expecting that either. So gross. I¡¯m at a loss. The whole scythe actually detached from its arm. The scene totally gives a whole new meaning to brittle bones. I don¡¯t think a fifteen year old is supposed to be strong enough to break nightmare material (or regular material for that matter), but I guess it¡¯s better than being hacked at. Huh. Maybe I¡¯m stronger than I look.


    I kick the detached scythe away, then limp over to break off the other one with my foot and kick it away as well. At this point, it¡¯s all rather anticlimactic. The creepy isn¡¯t even making any noise anymore. It¡¯s just staring at me with its remaining eye while the other¡¯s dribbling goop freezes to the side of its face. Disgusting. I can¡¯t even dredge up any pity when I look at the thing. I just feel nauseous. Still, I walk up to it and crouch painfully down in front of its face.


    ¡°Well, Mr. Jerkface McSkinbag, you¡¯re rather harmless now without your arms. The hole in your side probably won¡¯t be helping either. I suppose you¡¯re done for. But what do I do now? Put you out of your misery?¡±


    The creepy snaps its jaws at me. Sighing, I ignore it and turn my attention to my throbbing leg, which has been angrily demanding my attention ever since it got stabbed. When I focus on it, I can only stare at the milky mist that¡¯s seeping out of the gaping hole instead of normal blood. It dissipates slowly in the freezing air. I . . . suppose it makes sense that ghosts don¡¯t bleed . . . blood.


    Out of the corner of my eye I see the creepy lunge at me, pushing hard off its feet. I recoil, bringing my fist up and jabbing out as it closes in on me with its mouth wide open. My hastily thrown fist catches it in its throat, and I hear a sickening snap. Its head flops to the side and it crumples to a heap at my feet. I gape at it in utter shock. It convulses for a few seconds before stilling. After a minute, I poke at it with my foot. It doesn¡¯t move. Is it dead?


    Oh my gosh, now that I¡¯m really looking at it, I freaking snapped its neck! I mean, I can literally see its spine poking out of the skin on the back of its neck. I gag, but the only thing that comes out is a dry heave. The angle of its head makes it seem like its head is trying to fuse with its collarbone.


    My eye is drawn back to it, and I find myself unable to tear my gaze away. Morbid fascination fills me. I¡¯ve seen a lot of disgustingly distorted creepies, but I¡¯ve never actually seen something¡¯s spine sticking out of its neck. As I¡¯m staring with a roiling stomach, something slips out of its neck and spreads through the air. It looks a whole freaking lot like black ink spreading through water, which is suuuper ominous looking. I scoot away. I don¡¯t think I want whatever that stuff is near me.


    Only, of course. Now it¡¯s getting closer.


    Crap crap crap, heck no. No way in Jose am I staying here. I¡¯ve seriously have had it with all this horror movie stuff. I am not sticking around for more. I scramble to my feet. See ya! I¡¯m outta here.


    I step forward . . . and stumble hard before falling on my face. Pain shoots through my leg. Wound. Right. Gaping hole in leg. Forgot about that.


    I grit my teeth. My leg¡¯s cramped up from sitting in the cold. Good thing is during that time period, it went numb, so it didn¡¯t hurt as much just sitting there. Bad news is, now that I¡¯m trying to run on it, it hurts a heck of a lot more--like try stuffing your leg with angry, vengeful hedgehogs more. I can¡¯t even sit up, so I just hold my aching leg, still laying face first in the snow.


    A slimy feeling crawls down my spin. I peak out of the corner of my eye and see the black ink stuff floating just above my head. It¡¯s literally like two inches away.


    I open my mouth to scream. In that second, it darts forward and forces its way into my mouth, cutting off my scream with its unexpected mass. I choke and gag and pull at my mouth, unable to grasp it. Tears stream down my cheeks as my fingers just pass through it despite the heavy weight I can feel on my tongue.


    It turns into a tug of war; all my choking is keeping the thing from crawling down my throat, but that¡¯s not stopping it from trying. As it squirms, I feel it start dissolving with gross pops and hisses. Salty liquid fills my mouth and trickles down my esophagus. It¡¯s disgusting.


    I unconsciously swallow.


    Immediately, I feel woozy. The world lurches as I slump to my side. Colors bloom and start spinning around me. They swirl and mix for a bit like ink does in water before slowing and clumping together into an image of a man tied to a chair. He looks weathered, his beard untrimmed and skin sticking to his bones. I think he¡¯s dead until he shifts a bit, staring dazedly at the pile of something in front of his feet. A fly buzzes around his head. Actually, is that fly is flying backwards? Yeah, yeah it is, and now it¡¯s even moving backwards faster somehow.


    I jerk, realizing that the man¡¯s beard is growing shorter and his skin is filling out with muscle. Am I watching time moving in reverse? If so, it¡¯s speeding up even faster. Even the pile starts to regain mass, maggots crawling all over it in reverse, spitting up meals that reattach to . . . Oh my gosh, the pile¡¯s a corpse. I gag.


    After a second, the corpse becomes visibly human. It only takes a minute or so before its skin--her skin--becomes unmarred by decay, leaving only long, missing chunks of muscle along her legs and stomach. I can¡¯t really tell, but it almost looks like her skin was flayed and the meat removed. Bile comes up my throat. Is that what I think it means?


    I glance over at the man. He¡¯s an absolute mess, now. A gash on his forehead is collecting drips of blood from off his lap, and tears and snot are weirdly unmixing. Gross. I watch wide eyed as his face transforms from complete despair to burning, destructive rage, to absolute horror. Shortly after, a crudely dressed group of four men and two women basically moonwalk into the house.


    Everything happens (or I guess un-happens) very quickly after that. It¡¯s hard to make sense of everything. The--for lack of a better term--barbarians (their actions soon prove them so) move about the house, un-shattering things in the kitchen, taking back hits on the poor man in the chair, and regurgitating plates of steak and sausages and ridiculous amounts of alcohol. The meat is then taken to the kitchen and is soon uncooked and soaking up fresh blood like a sponge. The man uncooking it takes it back into the front room (unstepping over the reverse bleeding corpse lying on the ground) where the man in the chair stares brokenly at it. To my horror, the cook then puts back the slices of meat into the corpse¡¯s thighs and the long ropes of intestines (the sausages) and other organs into her stomach.


    I was right. They¡¯re freaking cannibals. I watch weakly as the cook seems to zip her back up with the knife. A couple of seconds of talking occurs, then the man is released from his chair and a fight breaks out in reverse. The untied man is fighting so desperately. It kind of hurts to watch.


    At some point, I don¡¯t know when, the dead lady comes back to life and is pushed around for a long time while the man (her husband?) is restrained. Then, the barbarians group together and leave out the door, leaving the husband cuddling the lady as she cooks in the kitchen.


    The scene ends abruptly. I find myself once again lying on my side starting at the snowflakes drifting slowly from the sky. The blizzard ended at some point. It feels less cold, but I¡¯m freezing inside.


    I don¡¯t want to think. Not after that. But my mind wanders to it any. There was a scene in that


    . . . that vision . . . that I tried my best not to watch. I had heard about it, but this was my first ever time seeing it, and it was forced. That sort of thing is not something that should happen to any woman. But those two lady barbarians were laugh--a lump forms in my throat--were laughing and jeering while watching. And then they all ate her.


    I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll ever be able to unsee any of that.

 2.3

    <h1>[6. Tell about an experience you¡¯ve had with death.]</h1>


    One of the old ladies that worked in the community garden, Greta, she died of a heart attack when I was like twelve. I might have been a bit shell-shocked. I definitely didn¡¯t know how to react. It was the first time I knew someone who died.


    I have a hard time believing in an afterlife. It¡¯s hard to believe in anything like heaven when ghosts are everywhere. But, Greta, she never showed up as a ghost, so maybe there is one--an afterlife, I mean. Only . . . what decides whether a person¡¯s ghost sticks around or leaves to someplace else? And what does it say about me now that I¡¯m dead?


    ~~~


    I shiver. Was that . . . the creepies memories? A revolving lantern, life-flashing-before-your-eyes sort of thing? It was freaking horrible. Why did I see it? Was it because of that ink stuff that force-fed itself to me? Whatever it was, I don¡¯t want to go through it again.


    I stand up and stretch, trying to put the whole thing out of my mind. Weirdly enough, despite being mentally exhausted, I¡¯m not all that tired. I actually feel more energetic than I did when I first woke up in this freezing wasteland. And, now that I think about it, my leg doesn¡¯t hurt anymore. I take a look at it.


    I¡¯m . . . not sure how to comment on this. The gaping hole in my leg is gone. Heck, even the tear in my basketball shorts is gone, like the whole thing was just my imagination. It¡¯s kind of unnerving.


    Do ghosts have super regeneration? Why are my clothes included? Are they part of my body, then, since I died in them? Can I even change clothes? And what was it that sparked the healing? I was definitely leaking . . . something, so it¡¯s not automatic--probably. Was it just something that takes time? Or was it--


    No. Not the ink. No way, Jose, don¡¯t even suggest it. I don¡¯t even want to think about it. I can still taste the saltiness of that flying ink stuff in my mouth. I pick up a handful of snow and stuff it in my mouth, trying to clean the taste out.


    Let¡¯s put that train of thought aside for now. The only way to figure it out is through experimentation, and I¡¯m not exactly keen on repeating another fight like that, and who¡¯s to say the ink¡¯ll come out even if I do break another creepy. What should I do now though? I¡¯m I supposed to just try and survive? What is this? Some type of survival game? I¡¯m not into that. But what else can I do? I don¡¯t really have any goals at the moment. Even the one I do have seems kind of impossible at the moment (you know, getting back home).


    Stupid survival sandbox it is. What are the things required for survival again? Water, food, shelter? Do ghosts even need food?


    Sigh. I rub my face. Um. Yeah. Shelter. Let¡¯s do shelter, first. That should be pretty easy. I mean I just have to choose from one of the possibly haunted houses. I¡¯ve got five to pick from. Not picking isn¡¯t really an answer. Who knows what else could be wandering around. It¡¯s cold out and it¡¯s getting really dark--or not. I frown, looking at the sky. It¡¯s actually pretty bright out. Why? I could have sworn when I was running from Jerkface that it was almost night while blizzarding. Now it¡¯s like it¡¯s midday without a single breeze.


    Should I even ask at this point? I feel like this place is messing with my sense of what¡¯s normal. Well whatever, another thing to think of later. I really need to sleep. My mind is starting to go fuzzy. So, which creepy house should I haunt for the day? Should I risk a house I haven¡¯t been in? How likely is it that something else will come chasing out after me the moment I enter another house? Mm. I¡¯m not sure that I wanna test my awful luck. Well, the only other option--as much as I hate it--would be to stay at Jerkface¡¯s house. Disturbing. But judging from the memory I just saw, it¡¯s not likely that another creepy would be haunting the place. I have the feeling that Jerkface would¡¯ve chased off anything that tried. It¡¯s his haunt, after all, the place where he died resenting the world. I can¡¯t imagine wanting to share my brooding spot with anyone else.


    Um . . . yeah, let¡¯s go with that, then. But first, let¡¯s find a weapon in case things decide to go even more south (considering my luck lately, it inevitably will). I hate to even think this--It¡¯s just too gross--deep breath: the scythes seem like a pretty good idea use as a . . . sword, or whatever. I walk over and pick them up, avoiding looking at the rest of the corpse. It¡¯s okay. These aren¡¯t body parts. These aren¡¯t body parts. They¡¯re definitely not dismembered arms or anything like that. They¡¯re just blades broken off, uh, farming equipment, or something. Yeah. That¡¯s what they are. I work hard to keep the bile from coming up my throat and trudge through the snow once more, holding the scythes awkwardly in both hands. They¡¯re unwieldy. I¡¯ll have to figure out how to attach them to proper handles sometime. Right now, the remaining . . . arm is too short to grab properly. I¡¯m stuck half holding onto the actual blades.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    The door to the house is still open when I reach it. I pause. Hesitantly, I enter the house once more. Nothing¡¯s changed. There¡¯s still the strange chair squatting in the middle of the empty room, all covered in the disturbing layer of frost. The same oppressive atmosphere still hangs around the corners of the room. It¡¯s still creepy. My grip on the scythes tighten. I almost cut myself.


    For a second, I¡¯m scared to look at the archway, scared of seeing a freakishly tall creepy standing there again. But no, nothing¡¯s there. It¡¯s gone. Instead, a lonely feeling coalesces around the chair. It speaks of pain and sadness and despair. I am reminded of the man tied to the chair, forced to watch as his wife is cooked and eaten in front of him. A lump forms in my throat. Slowly, I bow in the direction on the chair, tears dripping down my face. I don¡¯t know why I did it. Those painful emotions I¡¯m swallowed up in, they make it feel like the right thing to do. Immediately, the dark feeling vanishes from the house.The frost that was on every surface creeps away too. It¡¯s just an empty house now. I sit there just letting the tension drain out of me, letting my thoughts wander.


    Anyway, I should set about exploring Jerkface¡¯s house. Can I really still call him Jerkface after all this?


    I¡¯ve decided. He really was a jerk to me. His horrid past doesn¡¯t mean I should forgive him for trying to kill me. I¡¯m not being petty. Calling him Jerkface is a really light punishment for that. Ahem, yeah.


    The house is weirder than I thought it would be. I mean, I did see it in Jerkface¡¯s memories, but it was more of a glimpse. It¡¯s like the whole thing is set up backwards or something. Maybe the door I came in is actually a back door. It connects to the empty room with the chair in the middle. It¡¯s not that big of a room and it¡¯s got a dirt floor, so maybe it¡¯s like an entryway or dirt room or something. I move the chair to a side wall. It freaks me out still to have it in the middle of the room. If I stay here for any amount of time longer than a day, I think I¡¯ll get rid of it. It¡¯s strangely traumatic.


    Walking through the tall entryway into the kitchen, I have to take a step up. The kitchen is raised up on a floor of wooden boards. Weird, but okay. The kitchen room is divided in half, with the kitchen in front of me and a sort of living area further in on the left. They¡¯re separated by a counter that almost cuts the room in half. The counter¡¯s topped by a thin slab of grey stone. I knock on it. Slate maybe? I put the scythes on top of it. They¡¯re really tiring to carry around. They keep slipping from my fingers. I¡¯m taking a slight risk, not carrying them with me, but they¡¯re in reach no matter where I go in the room, and I have pretty good instinct for danger. It should be alright.


    I look around. Underneath the counter are a bunch of drawers and cabinets. The drawers don¡¯t have rollers, so they¡¯re a bit hard to tug open. Not much is in them, moldy rags and rotten wooden spoons (no forks, though) and rusting metal knives (a few look strangely bright). The pots and pans in the cabinets don¡¯t look much better, but I bet I could clean them up pretty nice, the ceramic plates and cups as well, though quite a few of them have cracked.


    There¡¯s an iron hand pump that pours into a big wooden basin on stilts on the wall connected to the counter. A sink to wash dishes. It¡¯s pretty nice actually. The inside¡¯s lined with metal, and there¡¯s a pipe leading from a hole in the bottom that looks like it leads outside. No garbage disposal, sadly, but then again, nothing here looks all that modern. I¡¯m impressed, though. I wasn¡¯t expecting any indoor plumbing. I try the pump. Water squirts out into the sink, icy cold. Surprising. I thought water would be frozen in the pipes with the weather like it is. Still, it¡¯s a pleasant surprise.


    Next to the sink is a large wooden box with a hinged lid. Looking inside, I see some nasty looking clumps of black ice. I scrunch up my nose. A fridge, I guess, or rather an ice box. I¡¯ll have to clean it out sometime and refill it with snow from outside. It¡¯s disgusting as it is right now. Not that I have any food to go in it. I¡¯m not even sure where to start looking for food. My stomach grumbles. I guess ghosts can get hungry. Huh.


    There¡¯s some tall cabinets next it the ice box with doors reaching almost to the ceiling. I peek in them. They have glass and clay jars and paper wrapped packages and quite a few small porcelain pots. I open one up. It¡¯s got a black powder inside. I take a light sniff. Pepper? I sniff another one. Cumin? Oh are they all spices? Nice. They look like they¡¯re in pretty decent shape all things considered. I¡¯m surprised the moisture hasn¡¯t gotten to them, but maybe the wax seal along the bottom of the porcelain lids helped a bit. So this is the pantry. I¡¯ll have to look though it to see what¡¯s usable.


    I close the door and go look at the clay stove that squats along the right hand wall. Reminds me of a kiln actually, or maybe a pizza oven with its pear shape. A metal pipe extends to through the ceiling to let out the smoke. Next to the oven is an old broom with a straw head and also a stack of wood, partially rotten, but I could probably still use some of them. We didn¡¯t have a fireplace in out apartment, but I could probably figure out how to light a fire. Me and Dad went camping a few times a while back. He¡¯s horrible with anything other than cars, so I was the one who had to figure out how to light the campfire. The one time he tried it, he almost burned the campsite down. I¡¯m surprised we weren¡¯t banned from the place.


    I shake myself out of my memories, swallowing the lump in my throat. It¡¯s hard not knowing if I¡¯ll ever be able to see him again.

 2.4

    <h1>[7. Have you ever moved to a new residence? What was it like?]</h1>


    Never moved before. Me and Dad have always lived in that same dinky, old, rundown apartment. Dad never made much--just enough for groceries and to cover the bills. He always would say, ¡°Chickpea, I wish I could give you a better life.¡± I¡¯d get mad at him when he did. I never felt the need to have one. Life with Dad was always just, you know, home.


    But I guess I¡¯ve moved to a new place now, huh. It¡¯s a weird feeling, being on my own all of a sudden.


    ~~~


    The left half of the room, the living area, is pretty spread out. It doesn¡¯t have much in it actually. There might have been stools along the counter at one point, but they¡¯re long gone now. There¡¯s a couch, of sorts, along the left hand wall. It¡¯s the only furniture in this side of the room besides a really weird square pit in the middle of the floor and the set of sliding doors on the wall with the archway to the dirt room. I walk closer and look into it. It¡¯s a fire pit, actually.


    Pretty nifty. Strange that it¡¯s just sitting here in the middle of the room, but still nifty.


    Whoever made it took advantage of the whole room being on a raised wooden platform. They cut a hole in the wood and lined the edges with metal and filled it with sand. There seems to be some type of piping system or something branching outwards from the metal lining and hidden underneath the floorboards. I¡¯m not exactly sure what that¡¯s all for--I can only see the bits where it connects to the metal lining--but I¡¯m willing to bet that it might have something to do with heating the air under the floorboards using the fireplace. If it does do that, that would be freaking cool, anyway.


    The ceiling above the pit is a metal vent to let out smoke. Strangely enough, two thin, metal rods extend from the vent, following the ceiling, down the wall to a simple switch. Curious, I walk over and flip it. Cold air instantly flows into the room. Oh. It opens and closes the vent. Makes sense. I shiver from the cold and flip it closed again.


    Nifty indeed.


    I turn back to the couch. It¡¯s made out a wooden frame. The seat and back of it is a loose weave of softened strips of some type of reed, maybe bamboo. It¡¯s all in really good condition. Strangely good even. There¡¯s even a blanket and throw pillow and all of them look, well not new exactly, but at least not even close to molding. They don¡¯t even look weathered or moth eaten. It¡¯s not really something I was expecting to find in an abandoned house, but can I really say no to a decent blanket? I¡¯ll add it to my growing list of inconsistencies I¡¯ve noticed since crash landing on this planet. Let¡¯s ignore it for now.


    Um . . . next then is the sliding doors. That¡¯s the only place left to explore. I walk over to them. They¡¯re kinda cool looking. The doors themselves are a wooden lattice wrapped in some kind of grainy paper. I touch the paper. Woah, it¡¯s smooth and kinda slick. By how it looked, I thought it would be rough feeling. I give it a knock. It¡¯s super hard. It doesn¡¯t give at all like paper should. I lean closer. It¡¯s got a layer of something coating it, kinda clear, kinda amber colored. Some type of resin maybe?


    I open the sliding door. I¡¯m baffled. I was not expecting that inside is a garden. Or rather, what used to be a garden. The room is a sort of greenhouse that¡¯s connected to the house. Some of the walls are regular walls where the garden attaches to the house., The rest though, the roof and the remaining walls are made with the same lattice and paper covered in resin that the sliding doors are made of. They let in a very homey amber colored light, despite the layer of snow piling on the roof.


    Just how sturdy is it? Shouldn¡¯t the paper have cave with all that weight piling on top of it? Curious, I walk over to the wall and punch it. The wall shakes a little, but the paper doesn¡¯t budge. I increase the strength of my punch, only to have the exact same reaction. Frowning, I pick up a rock and lob it like a trebuchet at the wall. The rock literally bounces back. I blink in shock. I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯s the materials of what makes the paper or it¡¯s the resin that the paper¡¯s covered with, but whatever it is, this paper¡¯s strength is godly. No wonder it¡¯s survived despite the ridiculous weather of this place. It¡¯s hecka cool looking to boot.


    Nice and sturdy, check. Nice atmosphere, check. Plantable area, check. It¡¯s official. I¡¯m in love. I¡¯d be totally married to it if the plants were still alive. Most have them have gone the way of compost. There¡¯s a few dry shells of plants curled up on the ground, but mostly it¡¯s just dirt surrounding the rock lined path. That¡¯s it. That¡¯s all that¡¯s here, despite the rather big space. But the potential is amazing.


    And so, it¡¯s been decided. By unanimous vote, I will be staying here from now on. Now that there¡¯s a confirmed garden, the house is absolutely, positively, no doubt about it, perfect. Well, it will be once I find some seeds to plant. And a bed. I can sleep on the couch for the time being, but it¡¯s not something I wanna do forever. It looks hard. Strange that there¡¯s not a bedroom. Or even a bathroom (that¡¯ll be annoying). It almost feels like a part of the house is missing somehow. Weird. I walk back inside and slide the door shut.


    I walk over to to bench, skirting the fire pit in the center. I sit down on the couch and pull the blanket over my shoulders, giving it a sniff. It doesn¡¯t even smell musty. I shrug and bounce on the couch a little. It¡¯s surprisingly more comfortable that I thought, but it could still use some actual cushions. It¡¯ll work for tonight, though.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Gosh I¡¯m cold. I think I let in too much air. Let¡¯s see if I can start a fire before I freeze to death. I hop up, letting the blanket slip off, and walk into the kitchen.


    A more in-depth search of the drawers turned up what looked like a fire starter. It didn¡¯t look like much. It was just a palm sized gray metal block with a silvery metal strip on one of its edges, but when I scraped the edge with a knife from one of the drawers, it gave off a few sparks. There was also a box full of replacement strips, which is nice. I put the starter in my pocket and searched through the stack of wood for usable pieces, dragging the ones I find into the pit.


    It takes me a couple of tries to actually light the thing. The wood refused to light. I finally broke down one of the logs using one of the insanely sharp scythes. It wasn¡¯t like cutting through butter, but it was close. The hardest part was not cutting up the floorboards, so I ended up doing it in the dirt room. Even after that, it still took some effort for the thinner pieces to catch since they weren¡¯t really all that fine, but it went faster than it would have if I hadn¡¯t broke up the log.


    After a minute or so, I had a nice fire crackling in the pit. I sat there for quite a while on the floor with the blanket around my shoulders, leaning against the couch with pillow behind my back just watching the fire burn. The heat on my face felt nice, and I could feel the floorboards warming. Really, it¡¯s such a nice feature. After a few minutes, warming up, I open up the vent a little, not much, just enough to let the smoke out--it¡¯s getting a bit smoky in here.


    Thinking a bit, I get up and walk to the dirt room, locking the front door. Then, I walk back to the fire pit and strip down to my underwear. (So I can get undressed. Are my clothes apart of me or not?) It¡¯s been a pain to wander around in my soaked clothes. Wet sneakers is the worst feeling. I lay the clothes out on the floor next to the fire. It¡¯d be better if I had something to drape them over, but there¡¯s not really anything except the counter (too far away from the heat) and the chair in the dirt room (not touching that). Oh well. They¡¯ll dry eventually.


    I don¡¯t really want to put out the fire since I just started getting warm, but fire safety says don¡¯t leave a fire unattended. Wood floors around an open fire pit don¡¯t spell safe, but somebody built this place. They must have had some countermeasure against burning the house down. I look around.


    Oh. There¡¯s a box by the wall in the shadow of the couch. I didn¡¯t notice it before. I open it. Nice. It¡¯s got fire pit stuff, like iron pokers and a rake and even roasting sticks (heck yes, s¡¯mores). Most important, it¡¯s got a wire mesh cover that fits perfectly over the pit. I grin as I cover it. I knew you wouldn¡¯t let me down, house. Now I don¡¯t have to worry about burning to a crisp in my sleep. I wrap the blanket around myself and fluff up the pillow, yawning as I lay down on the couch. I snuggle a bit to get comfortable on its woven reed slats. This place feels surprisingly safe considering it was once haunted. Well, I guess it¡¯s still haunted. I smirk, then close my eyes.


    Only, I can¡¯t fall asleep.


    My mind wanders now that I¡¯m laying down, going to places I¡¯ve been avoiding thinking about. Like how mismatched this house feels. Like how the different pieces of furniture and the utensils in the kitchen all feel like they¡¯re from slightly different places, or even time periods: the wooden spoons and metal pans in the drawers, but the porcelain and glass jars in the cabinets. They don¡¯t feel like they should exactly go together. Close, really, but no chocolate cigar. It¡¯s like someone tried to make an accurate replica of a house from a hundred years ago, but put in things that dated decades apart or things that came from places a little too far apart to be logical.


    Then again, this is a whole other world. Who¡¯s to say that cultures developed the same as on Earth? It¡¯s entirely possible that all the stuff in this house comes from the same place and time period. Climates are probably be different. Some technologies may have advanced more than others compared to where I come from.


    It¡¯s entirely possible, but something still feels off . . . There¡¯s something weird about this place. Something subtly weird. Like it somehow doesn¡¯t feel like it¡¯s following the laws of physics, but I can¡¯t put my finger what¡¯s giving me the feeling.


    Ughhhhhhhhh! I don¡¯t know. How am I supposed to know? Frankly, I¡¯m surprised I haven¡¯t seen anything that screams ¡°alien planet¡± here yet except for Jerkface, and well, he doesn¡¯t exactly count since ghosts existed just fine on Earth anyway. It feels more like I jumped back in time rather than landing on a different planet. With just that, how am I supposed to figure out why I feel like something¡¯s wrong with the physics of this whole place?


    Speaking of something else that¡¯s just wrong . . . where are the corpses? They weren¡¯t in the dirt room. They weren¡¯t in the kitchen or living room. They weren¡¯t buried in the garden, were they? If they were, who buried them?? Was someone living in this house before me? Creepy, but it¡¯d explain why some stuff is almost brand new (the couch, the pillow, the blanket, some of the knives in the drawers) and why some stuff is rotten sick or rusting to pieces (the wood spoons, the log pile, most of the pots and pans). But, well, I don¡¯t know if I¡¯m supposed to be comforted by the idea someone was here before me, or if I¡¯d rather think about the possibility that the corpses just jumped up and wandered away. Either one sends shivers down my spine. It¡¯s not like something came and ate them. Probably. Not unless it knew how to open the door properly.


    I locked it, right? I locked it. I really did. I swore I locked it. Just to be safe, let¡¯s check it again. I get up and checked the door.


    Sure enough, it was locked. I breathe a sigh of relief. I walk back to the couch and lay down.


    Well, if anything does come, going off of how Jerkface turned out, at least, now it seems like I can beat them up. Before I never tried. They were too freaky. Somethings tells me that I don¡¯t think I would have been able to either. Whatever¡¯s weird about this planet might make them solid in a way that they never were on Earth. Slightly comforting. It makes me feel like I¡¯ve finally got a fighting chance against them that I feel like I never had before. Certainly, there was no chance with gigantic Mr. Demonic Eyeball or the stupid freaking ghoul. Here, at least, maybe I don¡¯t have to be constantly freaked out by them. Maybe.


    So watch out world, scare me and I¡¯ll beat the crap outta you. Muwahahaha.


    Whelp, no use thinking pointlessly about things I can¡¯t do anything about. I¡¯ll just wear myself out. I¡¯m already worn out. You know what, let¡¯s just go to bed.


    . . . I say that, but it takes me a long while before I can finally fall asleep.

 3.1

    <h2>[8. Tell about a time when you competed for something.]</h2>


    In elementary school, we had this race between all the students in my grade. I was so excited for it because I managed to convince my mom to come and watch. I could tell that she didn¡¯t really want to come, but I was going to win that race and she was going to be so proud of me.


    That¡¯s how it was supposed to go anyway. I got in second. Out of all the kids in my grade, I got second. That¡¯s pretty good if you think about it, but I was completely devastated. Still, I tried to smile as I looked towards where my mom was. She wasn¡¯t there. After what was probably an hour of searching while crying my eyes out, I found her outside the women¡¯s toilet smoking a cigarette and drinking a can of beer.


    I figured out later that she only came because I asked her in front of the neighbors.


    ~~~


    That dream came again, the one showing me my mom¡¯s delighted face at finding the lottery ticket. I see her turn to me, hear her say words through a thick filter like I¡¯m underwater, and it takes me a second to understand what she says.


    ¡°I don¡¯t need you anymore.¡± She waves the ticket at me. ¡°I¡¯ve got this instead.¡±


    There¡¯s the sound of cars tires screeching, and I¡¯m suddenly standing outside a scene I¡¯ve only ever heard about: my mom collapsed on the sidewalk, a car careened off to the side, and a crumpled body of a little boy left in its wake. A strange emotion fills me when I look at the scene.


    ¡°Give him back!¡± My mom¡¯s desperate voice rips through the air, though it¡¯s seemingly directed at no one. ¡°You can¡¯t just take him away from me! He¡¯s my little boy!¡±


    Then, I see what she¡¯s talking to. It wasn¡¯t there a second ago, but the ghoul stands hunched over her. In its right hand is the wispy form of my brother, the fingers stabbing through his chest creating a strange contrast with his broken body lying on the road behind it.


    ¡°Give him back to me!¡± my mom screams again with arms stretched out. The ghoul considers her for a few seconds, then lets the boy slide off its fingers to the ground in front of her. She immediately starts trying to pull him towards her, but her fingers go right through his dimming figure. She doesn¡¯t notice the ghoul reach out and put long reaching fingers into her pregnant stomach.


    A suffocating feeling assaults me as I notice the gleeful expression on my mom¡¯s face. It¡¯s followed by that awful tearing sensation. I can see the ghoul ripping my spirit out of my mom¡¯s stomach.


    The scene blackens, and the dim light of a computer screen slowly lights up the room. There¡¯s the familiar, uncomfortable feeling of duct tape wrapped around my wrists. His face looms in my vision with empty eye sockets.


    He leans close and whispers in my ear, ¡°She doesn¡¯t want you anymore. She never did.¡± Then to my horror, his face opens up, showing a gruesome mouth that takes up the whole of his head. He swallows me whole.


    I wake up panting, covered in sweat, chilled in the freezing room. The fire¡¯s gone out and the frost has slowly crept back in over the night. How long have I been asleep for? There¡¯s no light coming from the sliding door, so it must be dark out.


    What an awful dream. There was this mix of uncomfortable memories and disturbing imagination. At this point, I don¡¯t know if I can tell what¡¯s real and what¡¯s fake, and that makes the dream so much worse than the one last night. Was it only last night that I had it? So many things have happened since then that it feels like forever ago. Heck, I even died. How messed up . . . I sigh and rub my face with my right hand. Or, at least, I try to.


    It¡¯s not there.


    It¡¯s not there.


    It¡¯s not there.


    My hand is gone.


    My arm is gone.


    My shoulder is gone.


    Everything that got eaten by the ghoul is just gone.


    Even my sweatshirt--which is still laying on the floor--is missing those parts.


    Why?


    WHy?


    WHY?


    It was there yesterday. I had my arm. Why is it missing now? This is no good. Crap, I¡¯m panicking. It¡¯s almost worse that it doesn¡¯t even hurt. It¡¯s like there was nothing there in the first place.


    But, it was there.


    I was using it yesterday.


    I¡¯m not going crazy.


    I used it to carry one of the scythes in.


    I opened drawers with it.


    If I didn¡¯t have it, I would have probably killed myself just trying to shred that log.


    So.


    Why.


    Isn¡¯t.


    It. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    Here???


    My breathing is erratic. I can¡¯t think. I feel light headed. I need to calm down.


    Plants. What are some random plants. Um. Um. Sugar maple. Boxelder. Ironwood. Blackberry. Jasmine. Sunflower. Scrub oak. Sword fern. I take a deep breath. I hold it. I let it out. Again. Breathe in. Hold. Out. I gulp, trying to swallow down the lump in my throat, and wipe off the tears that started streaming down my cheeks at some point. Let¡¯s go to the garden. I need to be somewhere I can feel calm.


    I stand up and walk to sliding door, opening it with my left hand and slipping through. It¡¯s dark inside the garden, but it¡¯s the sort of dark that you know will get lighter in a few minutes. Should be nearing sunrise in probably like half an hour. I lean against the wall of the house and stick my feet in the dirt, wiggling my toes as I do, letting out a breath that feels like it¡¯s been stuck in my throat since back on Earth.


    I think I need to get a bench for in here. Maybe plant some gardenias next to it. Gardenias smell nice. I might try and get some wind chimes too. There¡¯s no wind though, I guess that wouldn¡¯t work. Maybe a fountain or something instead. It¡¯d improve the ambiance of this place by quite a few notches. I wonder what kind of plants I should plant in here. Do I want to go with pots just in the ground. In the ground would look better. I could do pots on shelves near the walls, or maybe even like a terrace planter. I wonder if the the paper lattice ceiling would allow me to do some hanging pots. That¡¯d be nice.


    Breath.


    Okay. I think I¡¯m ready to think about what just happened. That was a panic attack. Not my first, but definitely one of my more intense ones. Granted, I¡¯ve been building up a lot of stress lately. A lot. Waking up with a arm missing past my shoulder blade sure help. My reaction, considering all the things that happened in the last 24 hours (probably), was pretty tame all things considered. I wonder how many people would have gone insane by now if they were in my place. I¡¯m doing pretty good. A little shaky, a little freaked out, but pretty good.


    Still, how am I going to deal with a missing arm? I look down at where it¡¯s supposed to be, but quickly look away. It¡¯s creepy to look at. There¡¯s a gaping hole where my shoulder and part of my ribs once were. My bra¡¯s staying up somehow despite missing part of its straps. It really shouldn¡¯t be able to.


    That¡¯s normal compared to what¡¯s in the hole, though. There¡¯s no ribs, no cross section of meat and bone, no nothing. Instead it¡¯s a literal hole, like the sort you¡¯d find if you broke open a porcelain doll, only it¡¯s filled with a milky white gas that swirls and eddies like dry ice. I¡¯m pretty sure that¡¯s what was seeping out of the place Jerkface stabbed me yesterday. It¡¯s not seeping out of my shoulder, though.


    I¡¯m not exactly human any more, am I? Not with this kind of body. Are all ghosts like this? I wasn¡¯t really paying attention with Jerkface, but I did break a hole in his ribs pretty easily, so maybe. He was a human when he was alive, and if he¡¯s got a body sort of like mine, I¡¯m still human, then, right? At least a bonafide human ghost.


    Though, are ghosts of humans still considered human? All the creepies I¡¯ve seen seen certainly don¡¯t look totally human anymore. Will I start looking like that? Turning into an insane horror movie monster? I really hope not, but if so, how long does it take for that to happen?


    Hopefully, it¡¯s as long as I¡¯m still sane. I¡¯m sane right? Compared to them anyway. Let¡¯s face it, I probably have ptsd now, after everything. I doubt this place will make it any better. I have that stupid feeling that Jerkface isn¡¯t the last creepy I¡¯ll see in this place. It¡¯s a feeling that this whole planet may be a planet filled with ghosts. Where did all the people go? There obviously used to be people here, what with the houses and Jerkface¡¯s memories, but I can¡¯t shake the illogical but absolute certainty that there are no living people left in the whole world. Is it a ghost sense thing? How accurate is it? And if it¡¯s right, did an apocalypse happen or something? I guess I¡¯ll have to see when I go out. I¡¯ll need to go out at some point. Probably today, actually, just to get it over with. If I don¡¯t, I¡¯m not sure I¡¯ll ever be able to go out. My fear will get the better of me.


    Speaking of plans, what am I supposed to do from now on, anyway? I¡¯m stuck here. I¡¯ll probably lose my sanity soon enough from having no one to talk to except creepies. Don¡¯t people go crazy from isolation? What can I do to keep from going insane? Um. If only I had my books. Or my plants. Maybe there¡¯ll be some books or seeds in the other houses. Hopefully. Maybe even some warmer clothes (can I wear them, though?).


    Alright, I¡¯m psyched now. Just like a survival game. I can do it. I¡¯m going to go out and loot some houses. One tinsy tiny little problem, though. I still don¡¯t have an arm. I mean, I can¡¯t imagine properly fighting off any creepies I might meet with one arm. And before even thinking about going out, I need to make the scythes into better weapons. I have an idea I could try for that, but I need both my hands for it.


    Ug, what am I going to do?


    I pause my train of thought and just stare at the brightening light shining through the paper lattice, feeling it start to warm up my skin. I feel like a cat. It¡¯d be so nice to just laze in the sun all day. I arch my back and reach my arm up to the ceiling. Mmm. Feels nice.


    Did my shoulder just twitch? My right one? It moved, right? I look down at the gaping hole where my right shoulder was. The mist inside is swirling chaotically like someone stirred it with a spoon. It¡¯s also slightly bulging out. Gross. Oh. It went back in.


    Did I just move it? Hey, hey, bulge out again. It¡¯s doing it, right? It¡¯s totally sticking out again. I just moved it! I just moved it like telepathically! Or something. I feel like I really should be more freaked out by this sudden revelation that I can freely move the creepy mist inside my body around, but somehow, I just feel relieved.


    But man, ghost bodies are weird. Nothing like I expected them to be. You¡¯d think I¡¯d be an expert considering just how often I see them (and that I beat one to death yesterday). It¡¯s so weird, though! It¡¯s a little like learning one day I can wiggle my ears. Like ¡°Alright Devin, your specially talent is to move the stuff in your body! Congratulations!¡± kind of thing.


    What do I do with this, though? It¡¯s not like I can just use the weird fog in my body to just grow an arm or anything like that.


    Grow an arm . . .


    Am I weird thinking that might actually be possible? It might not actually be that implausible. Consider this. What exactly is this suspicious fog hanging out in the suspiciously empty cavity of my body? Really, the only thing I can think of is, well, ghost cells. Hear me out. Ghost are known to be immaterial. They can go through walls. Anything you throw at them will go right through them. And so on. You get the picture. Also, ghosts are people¡¯s spirits in the shape of their former bodies, a sort of memory bundle of when they were alive, except as they go on, their memory probably gets a little messed up, and they turn all creepy and that, is my guess.


    Let¡¯s say a fresh ghost has a perfect memory of everything they were the moment before they died (right before their spirit leaves their body). A sort of snapshot moment, with everything down to the last skin cell all in spirit form.. Cells are living things. Which means people are composite beings made up of tens of thousands of living things. I¡¯m pretty sure I read somewhere that cells can have memory.


    That means you¡¯d end up with a person made up cells who each have their own memories of when they were alive. Only cells don¡¯t have brains, so their memories would probably degrade very fast. They¡¯re probably even forgetting what type of cells they are, so no difference now between bone cells and blood cells, ect. Add that to the fact that they are no longer constrained by any physical boundaries and what you¡¯re left with is a ghostly soup of cells with alzheimer''s.


    So, conclusion, all this white stuff swirling around me is just the ghosts of my cells, and my strong mental image of what I looked like when I was alive which is forming a sort of, I don¡¯t know, ectoplasmic shell to keep it all from seeping out? I¡¯d say it fits pretty well. I guess that¡¯s why my clothes are a dubious in-between, a part of me but not, because I died in them. They¡¯re a strong part of my mental image, which, in addition, keeps getting affected by my memory of being chomped on, hence the missing arm and sleeve. Then again, I think I seriously lost some of my ghostly mass during that exchange, so it¡¯s not all in my head, which would explain why doing this makes me feel like I¡¯m going to puke.

 3.2

    <h2>[9. What is the most motivating thing for you?]</h2>


    Idk. Cookies maybe? I get a lot done with cookies. They¡¯re tasty, and they make for pretty good bribes.


    ~~~


    You know, sticking your fingers inside your body just feels wrong. It should feel more wrong, actually, but I¡¯m only getting an uncomfortable tingle at the moment.


    The misty stuff swirls around my fingers, brushing past with a cold feeling. I¡¯m trying to move the stuff at the moment, trying to pull it out into the beginning of an arm. It¡¯s like herding cats. The cells kinda move in the direction I want them to, but it¡¯s like they gets easily distracted. Do cells have ADHD?


    Right. ¡®Cause that¡¯s possible.


    It¡¯s a little bit easier to pull at them with my actual hand rather than trying to mess with them in my head, but the further I get them to come out of my body, the more wrong it feels. It¡¯s starting to feel like someone¡¯s pulling my esophagus out of my body. Let me tell you, that¡¯s not a comfortable feeling. I¡¯m actually managing it though. Somehow, it¡¯s working. When I pull the cells out farther, my shell just kind of materializes around it. I won¡¯t say it¡¯s nice to watch. Kinda disturbing actually. I¡¯m down to about my elbow at the moment. It¡¯s getting harder as I go out.


    After what¡¯s probably like a half hour or so longer, I finally finish off the last bit of my pinky. It was exhausting. My new arm is still all tingly. It¡¯s also tenuous, like a bubble that¡¯ll pop the moment I stop thinking about it. But, hey, people, I have a freaking arm again! Look, I can wiggle my fingers! I can punch with it! Pow, pow, pow! Haha. It¡¯s nice to have an arm again.


    Ug, I feel gross, though. Definitely lost mass. I feel weak and very stretched thin at the moment. I¡¯m not sure how I managed to keep this up unconsciously yesterday. Now that I can compare it to how I woke up this morning, it¡¯s a stark difference, like the difference between feeling healthy and being hit in the face with the flu all at once (none of that gradual stuff). Massive gulf between the two. I don¡¯t think I can keep this up for long. It¡¯s draining.


    Yup. Any second now. And . . . yeah, that¡¯s my limit. I release my hold on keeping the arm together and the cells snap back into my body like some sort of putty rubber band, while the shell flakes off and dissolves into thin air.


    I sigh. It¡¯s frustrating. I was able to keep it up just fine yesterday? Well, mostly fine, but still. What¡¯s the difference? Tension? Fight or flight? I was still kinda worked up even when I went to bed, a whole undercurrent thing. Mmmmm. I don¡¯t know. I guess I¡¯ll just have to practice before it becomes a natural thing for me to just summon my arm out of nowhere when I need it.


    Don¡¯t have an arm? Just make one. We¡¯ve got the do-it-yourself tool kit that¡¯s just right for beginners like you. Call in right now and we¡¯ll give it to you 50% off! Today only!


    Sigh. It¡¯s depressing, but not as depressing as it once was. I¡¯ve got options. For now, let¡¯s practice making an arm again and then see if I can make the scythes into something better. Learning how to do it while multitasking might actually help. Maybe.


    I start pulling out the ghosts cells again, using my mind this time. While working on that, I walk over and grab the broom, setting it next to the scythes on the counter. Then I go on a hunt through the drawers, looking for something that I¡¯m pretty sure I saw yesterday. It¡¯s hard to keep up rebuilding my arm while actively looking something. I keep slipping and the cells start traveling back towards my shoulder, but it¡¯s not too bad. Manageable. I¡¯m already halfway down to my elbow. Much faster than the first time. That¡¯s a good sign.


    Ah, there it is. I pull out a rough wooden box the size of my hand. I set it down on the counter and open it. Yup, a box of nails. They¡¯re long, about the length of my thumb. I also pull out a couple of old rags and one of the nicer knives. I put them all on the counter and walk over to the big box next to the couch and pull out a short, heavy, metal hammer-y thing. I¡¯m not sure exactly what it¡¯s used for, but it works for my purposes. I leave it on the counter with everything else.


    Alright, next, the cabinets next to the stove. I¡¯m not sure it¡¯ll be there, but I¡¯m willing to bet it is. I ruffle through the shelves, checking all the jars I see, using my half-grown forearm to help push things out of the way.


    Pickles, beans, peaches, some type of sauce, something round and reddish (pickled plums?), a thing of shredded white stuff. This one has a bunch of purple chunks. Daikon radishes by the look of it. Dad¡¯s went on a this weird Asian pickled vegetable spree a few years back, so that¡¯s why I know what random crap like that looks like. He really liked the diakons for whatever reason. Oh, this one¡¯s cracked. Gross. Peas? Nasty. It¡¯s molding. I accidentally get a whiff of smell leaking through the crack. I gag and throw it in the sink.


    I check the growth of my hand. Yup, I got a feel for it now. I take a second or two to make the rest of my fingers (arm complete!) then get back to looking through the cabinet. Here¡¯s some with some type of spice paste. And are these watermelon rinds? Weird. Next is artichoke hearts. Then, chicken? Please don¡¯t be chicken. Um, another sealed jar of peaches. You know, are they alright to eat? I use my newly made right hand to twist open the lid. Huh, they still smell alright. I pull one out and take a bite. Yup, still fine, really sweet even. Alright, this¡¯ll be my breakfast. I eat another one. While I¡¯m at it, I pull out the ball of twine randomly sitting at the back of the shelf and throw it to my growing pile of stuff on the counter.


    Oh, this jar is different. For one, it¡¯s a lot bigger than the rest. It¡¯s also the only one made out of metal. It takes me a couple of moments to open it even with two hands now. A pungent smell hits me. Very sour smelling, kind of like how fresh dried plums taste. I scrunch up my nose and look close at the clear syrup with a slight tan tint in the jar. I touch it a little. It¡¯s hecka sticky, like super glue. Fist pump, item acquired. I¡¯m sure of it. This is the resin that covers the paper lattices. I put the lid back on and set it on the counter. Alright. Let¡¯s see. I think I have everything. Hopefully it¡¯ll turn out better than a complete amature job. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Let¡¯s start, then. I grab the broom off the counter and break off the broom head after some difficulty. What¡¯s left is basically a staff with a nice heft. I give it a spin. The wood is thick, about as thick as a baseball bat handle, and could probably do some damage to someone on its business end. It¡¯s a good weapon, but not what I¡¯m looking for. I snap it in half with a heavy kick. That¡¯s better. These feel about the right length. I use one of the scythes to shave off the spikey broken ends into something smoother, then put the two pieces of wood aside.


    I take a look closer at the broken arm end of the scythe I¡¯m holding. It¡¯s almost as long as my hand is wide, and it¡¯s sort of hollow inside. Around the edges of the inside of the arm is a hard sponge-like structure which is about the width of my pinky fingernail all the way around. The rest is open space. Is that stuff bone marrow? But there¡¯s not really a bone. Not even any muscle. The outer part of the arm is skin, but it¡¯s more like fossilized leather. It¡¯s pretty hard. I¡¯m not exactly sure how I broke it off. Maybe ¡®cause it gets harder the closer it is to the blade? It¡¯s a definitely a shell like I have (only mine feels like real skin). I wonder what the inside stuff is. I don¡¯t have anything like that. Stuff to ponder later.


    I grab the knife and start scraping out the inside of of the arm part of the scythe. Dust from the scrapes starts floating in the air. I sneeze. Gross. I really don¡¯t wanna be breathing in this stuff. I keep scraping (trying to not breathe at all) until I get all the sponge stuff out. I then try to shove the open end onto one of the pieces of wood. Not quite. I shave off some of the wood. There, that¡¯s better.


    I take off the scythe again. It¡¯s stuck pretty tight, so it takes me a while to pop it off. With some work, I drill four holes into the arm part. Then I grab the cloth and dip it into the resin, covering the inside of the scythe. I put the scythe back onto the piece of wood, wiping off the resin that squishes out.


    After a few minutes using the metal hammer, I¡¯ve got nails (also coated in resin just in case) hammered halfway into the wood through the holes I drilled into the arm part. I bend the nails down so they crimp the arm part to the wood, and I hammer them till they¡¯re as flush with the arm part as they can be. I inspect my work, shaking the staff a little. That¡¯s good. The scythe¡¯s on there pretty tight. It doesn¡¯t move at all. I give it spin. The weight¡¯s a little bit off center, but I could get used to pretty quickly. My grip slips a little when I swing it, though. Hmmm. I pick up the ball of twine. It should be plenty. I unroll the ball and cut two pieces of string into equal lengths, then start wrapping one half around the part of the staff it felt most comfortable to hold. It¡¯s a bit tricky to wrap it properly, but soon enough, I¡¯ve got a nice grip. It¡¯s a bit prickly, though, so I coat that in resin too.


    Ok, that one¡¯s done, let¡¯s take a bit of a break. I release my hold on my arm, letting it disintegrate as I stretch. Oof. That¡¯s tiring. I roll my neck. But that¡¯s one done. I sigh contently and look at my work while eating peaches with one hand. It looks like a very short spear, with the scythe blade continuing out of the staff rather than at a right angle to it like you see with the grim reaper. Despite being so short, it looks rather intimidating, if I don¡¯t say so myself.


    I eat a few more peaches (dang they¡¯re good) before spending a couple of minutes to remake my hand. Once I¡¯m done with that, I start working on the other scythe. After about half and hour or so more, I¡¯m all finished. I stretch again. I¡¯m really proud of how they turned out. I pick one up and spin it by the end, careful not to touch the sticky, resin-coated grip. The weapon gives a satisfying whistle as it whirs through the air.


    I smile as I prop them both against the side of the counter. Now, I just need to wait for the resin to set. I then work on putting the weapon making stuff away, making sure that the lid on the resin is on tight. I also eat the rest of the peaches and wash the empty jar in the sink before putting it back in the cabinet.


    The broken jar with the molding stuff I put in the sink earlier, that I pick up carefully and take to the garden. I bury the stuff in a corner where I¡¯m planning on putting my compost. Not the best solution, but I¡¯m not sure where else to throw it out. I pick up the leftover jar and wash that too, not that I¡¯ll really be able to use it for anything right now, but it wouldn¡¯t hurt to keep it. I¡¯m a big believer in recycling stuff even if it is broken.


    By the time that I finish, I notice that I¡¯m shivering. Oh dang, it¡¯s gotten cold in here. My clothes aren¡¯t quite dry yet either, so I don¡¯t really want to put them back on yet. Instead, I work to restart the fire. It¡¯ll help to dry the resin, warm up the place, and dry my clothes. Three birds with one bottle cap. No really, I¡¯ve seen it. Well, not three birds at once, but this kid in my neighborhood could take down pigeons with bottle caps. What¡¯s crazier is that he could hit a second one with the rebound about half the time. It wouldn¡¯t kill them, but it made them confused as heck. They¡¯d wander around looking absolutely drunk.


    I flip my clothes around so their damp parts can dry easier. But, man, I¡¯m all worn out. I let my arm disintegrate again as I sit by the fire to warm up a bit, rotating the scythes occasionally to dry on all sides. I was able to keep it up much longer this time.


    In a much shorter time than I thought, the resin is hard. I¡¯ll have to remember that it dries fast. I pick up the scythes and swing them both around a bit. Yup, I did a good job. They¡¯re pretty comfortable to hold. Only I don¡¯t want to be holding them the whole time. They¡¯ll get in the way of pretty much anything I do that doesn¡¯t involve fighting.


    I pick up the ball of twine and some of the old cleaning rags I picked out of the drawer earlier. They¡¯re leather, so they should work well. I fold one of the rags in half around the staff. Then I poke a row of holes down both the side where the edges meet and the side where the crease is. I grab another, stiffer rag and sew first rag diagonally onto this one using the holes I poked. The end result are two long loops of cloth that are tight enough to support the two scythes without them falling through. They¡¯re not the typical ¡®x¡¯ shaped harness that you see in movies. Rather the harness will have the scythes in parallel lines poking out over my left shoulder once I get straps connected to the stiffer rag.


    That goes a lot faster than the first part. All I do is attach two long pieces of twine to either side of the stiff rag like you see with those cheap drawstring backpacks. I tighten them while wearing the whole thing to make sure that the scythes fit snugly on my back. Then I tie them off. It¡¯s a bit uncomfortable for my shoulders, so I make some thick shoulder pads using the remaining rags, threading the twine through them. That¡¯s better.


    Alright, I¡¯m rested up enough. Time to go exploring. I slip on my clothes, tie my shoes, and slip on the harness for the scythes. It¡¯s a little nerve racking, but I¡¯m ready now. I take a deep breath and step outside.

 3.3

    <h2>[10. When was the last time you left your ¡°comfort zone¡±?]</h2>


    If I don¡¯t have to, I won¡¯t. As of right now, yeah, I¡¯m pretty outside my comfort zone. Scratch that. Try across the universe from it.


    ~~~


    It¡¯s cold. I expected that, so I¡¯m not surprised by the blast of freezing air assaulting my face as soon as I open the door. But my expectations for the weird in this world didn¡¯t exactly include this.


    There used to be, count: one, two, three, four, five other houses besides Jerkface¡¯s. Now there¡¯s only one. What¡¯s weirder is the forest that now surrounds us. Yup. Totally wasn¡¯t expecting that to pop out of the snow out of nowhere. Nooo, not popping out of the snow like daisies at all. *Insert eyeroll here.*


    It was just a whole bunch of ice everywhere before. But now there¡¯s towering snow covered evergreen trees on all sides, only I can¡¯t really call them evergreen. Everorange might be a better description. It¡¯s actually pretty cool to look at. Orange on white.


    Obviously, if you can¡¯t tell already, the house and I are not in the same place we were yesterday. Jerkface¡¯s corpse is also missing, so that pretty much settles that (though now that I think about it, do ghost corpses stick around? Or do they disintegrate or something? Idk, I¡¯ve never killed a ghost before). Ether that or some animal dragged it off while a wandering herd of trees decided to plant themselves here. I wouldn¡¯t be all that surprised if that was actually the case. Learning to expect the unexpected indeed. Still doesn¡¯t explain the missing houses unless they wandered off as well. Speaking of, is this other house even one of the original ones that I first saw? Who knows.


    Well, either way, that kinda ruins my plans. I mean, I was going to raid all the other houses, but now I have only one neighbor, and the implications of the scenery shifting at random are disconcerting. That means it¡¯ll be ten times more difficult to find Jerkface¡¯s house again if I ever lose sight of it. As much as I¡¯d love putting up lost house signs on all the trees, that¡¯d be a major problem. This is not at the level of getting lost anymore. More at the level of a maze with shifting walls. I¡¯d never find it again. I¡¯m in major need supplies, but is it worth the very likely risk of losing a safe place to sleep?


    I grimace. It¡¯s no use. I¡¯m not sure how long the supplies in the house will last. A couple of days, maybe weeks. I could stretch it probably to at least a month, but that¡¯d mean a while without fire wood. The chill would seep in, and I very likely might freeze to death before ever starving. I might be blowing that out of proportions. Idk. I¡¯ve never been in a survival mode situation before. I have no idea what to expect.


    Let¡¯s face it. I¡¯m crap scared. I¡¯m scared of being alone. I¡¯m very scared of being eaten. But I¡¯m most scared of doing nothing. I¡¯m scared that I¡¯ll lose whatever little courage I¡¯ve gathered to even be standing outside here in this freezing crap wasteland of a place and that if I go back, I¡¯ll never come back out. I¡¯m deathly scared of breaking down.


    A chunk of snow slides off the roof and hits my head, jerking me out of my sinking spiral of thoughts. I shiver and wipe it off before taking a massive breath and shaking myself loose.


    Alright. No use worrying about it. I literally can¡¯t do anything about well, anything. If the house disappears, I¡¯ll cry, but it¡¯s not like I can¡¯t find anywhere else to stay . . . right? Ug! Stop it. Just stop it. I keep psyching myself out! ARG!


    I slap my face hard and take a resolute step towards the other house. Once I¡¯m moving, it¡¯s easier to distract myself from my anxiousness in stepping away from my safehouse. The forest is absolutely gorgeous. There¡¯s a lot more plants than I¡¯d expect for an evergreen, er, everorange forest, especially since it¡¯s winter.


    Plants plants. Hm. You think there¡¯s some good plants to grow in the greenhouse in that forest? If anything, even a sapling would do. I¡¯m nervous about what kind of creepies will be in there, though. It looks fine right now, peaceful even, if I dare say, but  it looks like just the type of place skinny faceless dudes with tentacles might wander around in after dark. I¡¯ve really had my fill of skinny dudes, but having my plants, having something familiar in unfamiliar circumstances might help stave off insanity. If I look around after looting the house, it should be better right? If they do appear, they won¡¯t be as scary as they would be in the dark. I hope they won¡¯t be there at all, but from what I¡¯ve scene of this place . . . Sigh.


    Soon enough, I reach the other house. And man is it really run down. I must have scored some prize with Jerkface¡¯s house. There¡¯s no door to this house. Nor anything covering the windows. The boards that make up the exterior are all faded gray and worn down, looking like they might pop off and turn to dust in the wind any second now. It¡¯s a disturbingly empty shell, and worse, it¡¯s making me feel very uncomfortable. It¡¯s the house itself that creeps me out, not exactly anything inside it. But as much as the place repulses me, it also draws me in. I don¡¯t like it. I¡¯d rather not go in there, but I find myself stepping through the open doorway anyway. It feels like I¡¯m stepping through an open mouth. Let¡¯s just hope this place doesn¡¯t have a stomach.


    The first room is empty except for doorway on the opposite wall of the front door and a rickety wardrobe with faded red paint peeling. It¡¯s sagging like some messed up drunk against the wall in the corner, partially covering up the doorway to the other room. A hole the size of a watermelon is smashed through one of its doors. There¡¯s no creepy vibes from it, so I walk over and open it up. Inside is a wool cloak in pretty good condition. A few moth-chewed holes, but nothing irredeemable. I slip it on. It smells a bit musty and is a bit big, but I start warming up almost instantly. Nice. I take a second move the scythe harness to the outside of the cloak and to roll up the sleeves a bit so they won¡¯t get in the way.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    Next in the wardrobe is a pretty deep leather bag. The leather is cracked and worn in several spots, but it still seems usable. I flip open the flap and jerk back as a moth flies into my face. I yelp and accidentally smack it in surprise. It falls to the ground limply. I bend down and poke at it. It twitches a little.


    It¡¯s not exactly a moth, actually. I can¡¯t decide if it¡¯s creepy or pretty. It¡¯s got three lobes to it¡¯s furry white wings instead of two, with strange black markings, one of which almost look like a palm print with six long, delicate fingers. It¡¯s also got these four compound eyes, two normal ones with two small ones sitting above them. Reminds me a bit of a wolf spider actually, but with less eyes. I¡¯m not really sure if this is a ghost. It feels a bit different somehow.


    Without exactly knowing why, I pick up the moth and slip it into my new coat¡¯s pocket. Still, there are other things besides ghosts living here. I suppose I should feel comforted. Instead, the thought scares me and I don¡¯t know why, which scares me even more.


    I gulp, trying to push down that feeling, and check the what¡¯s in the bag. There¡¯s an old, molding handkerchief. Gross. I throw that away.


    Next I pull out a pair of alligator hair clips. There long and gold and absolutely beautiful. They look brand new, practically glowing. I use them to clip up the left side of my hair. It¡¯s the hairstyle I feel most comfortable in. It helps calm me down a bit. There¡¯s also this weird little pouch of some kind of white power. Chalk, if I had to guess. I have no idea why it¡¯d be here. I have no use for it right now, though. Frowning, I put it back in the bag.


    And, that¡¯s all there is. All that¡¯s in the bag. I¡¯m a bit disappointed. With how deep the bag is, I thought there¡¯d be more in it. But It¡¯s nice that I can carry my loot in it though. I double check the wardrobe to make sure it¡¯s also empty of anything else. Yup that was all. Alright then, so far we¡¯re off to a great start. Got a winter jacket and a bag to carry loot, plus a random moth, some hair clips, and a pouchful of chalk. Alrighty then, I guess. I swing the bag over my shoulder, adjusting it so it sits comfortably under the scythes in my makeshift holsters, and step over the wardrobe and through the doorway leading to the only other room.


    By the way, the room, it¡¯s absolutely disgusting. That¡¯s the only way I can describe it. It¡¯s not disgusting in that it¡¯s rotting or covered in a weird film of mold and frost, which I mean it is, but it¡¯s more in the sense that looking at it turns my stomach. It¡¯s disturbing, and looking at it in comparison to the first room makes it ten times worse. If the front room was an abandoned house a little worse for wear, the inner room is, in a word, collapsing. And by collapsing, I mean in on itself. Like someone buried a black hole in the ground underneath it and it¡¯s trying to suck the whole room in.


    The floor has a gaping hole in it, the walls are slanted inward toward the front room, the ceiling is collecting in the middle like a water drop, and it all literally hurts to look at, like some cat-in-the-hat slash horror movie remake. I always found that character beyond creepy.


    Something about this room makes it feel like it¡¯s not really here, like I¡¯m looking at an optical illusion that¡¯ll disappear once I step into it. And yet, my eye keeps being drawn to the ladder leading down into the depths of the chasm in the floorboards. All the bad juju vibes I¡¯ve been getting from the house as a whole have been basically flooding out of this hole in the ground. It¡¯s soooooo creepy. It¡¯s making my sixth sense or whatever it is go haywire.


    I feel like I¡¯m a character in a horror movie. I know it¡¯s a horrible decision. I shouldn¡¯t follow through with it. There¡¯s no logical reason to. Bad things can only happen. It¡¯s obviously shouting stay away with that overflowing toilet bowl of ominous vibes. But I have to go down there.


    A second later, I snap awake, only to find that I was literally drawn down into that hole. I have a vague recollection of climbing down a frost covered rickety ladder with several broken rungs, but for the life of me, I can¡¯t remember starting down it. I definitely climbed down the old ladder in some sort of daze. Dust clouds poofed into the air with every step down. Some of it got caught in my throat, and that¡¯s what jolted me out of it. I wake up to a massive coughing fit. I wipe the tears out of my eyes when it subsides. I look up. Woah, that¡¯s a crap ton of ladder. Just how deep am I? I almost can¡¯t see the top. Here I am, almost at the end of it. Climbing down an ancient ladder into a creepy hole in the ground like I¡¯m hypnotized. Not horror movie esque at all. I feel like crying.


    Considering that I have almost no memory of the descent, I feel way more tired than I should be. My arms and legs are shaking and I¡¯m panting heavily, a combination of lack of air and probably exercise and the coughing fit just now. I don¡¯t think I can make it back up at the moment. I¡¯d probably slip and fall instead. Ug. Don¡¯t like that thought. Instead, I start more carefully down the ladder. Three more steps and I¡¯m at the last rung. A puff of thick white dust mixed with ice crystals blooms into the air as I step onto the ground.


    It¡¯s eerie quiet at the bottom. It¡¯s a bit dark. Light streams down from the floor above, barely reaching the area around the bottom of the ladder. I frown, letting go and turning around. Really, how did I climb all the way down without knowing it?


    I peer into the darkness, waiting for my eyes to adjust. The room is larger than I expected. The dusty floor span two car lengths across and wide. Strange that the ladder lets down right in the middle of the room, though. I can¡¯t say anything about the design choice, only that it makes the hairs of my neck stand on end. After all, the whole room is absolutely empty.


    Like I thought, it¡¯s not really the house giving me bad vibes. No, it¡¯s definitely something in this basement room. Specifically something under the floor I think. Only I can¡¯t tell where exactly. The vibes radiate like heat off, well, a radiator, making the whole room feel like an ominous frying pan, except, you know, without the actual heat.


    Actually, it¡¯s freezing in here. Even colder than outside. So cold it kinda does feel like I¡¯m burning up. Freezer burn or something. Luckily the coat¡¯s pretty thick, so at least my chest is warm. I let out a cloudy puff of air, nervousness filling me.


    Something¡¯s watching, but it doesn¡¯t feel like it¡¯ll make a move unless I move away from the ladder. I glance around. Why am I here? It¡¯s clearly dangerous. There¡¯s not even anything here that would make the risk worth it. I reach my hand back to grab a rung of the ladder, only to stop just before touching it.


    A horrifying feeling crawls up my spine.

 3.4

    <h2>[11. What¡¯s your greatest phobia?]</h2>


    It used to be claustrophobia. At the moment, I¡¯d say it¡¯s a toss up between this thing and the freaking eyeball, with the ghoul running in close third.


    ~~~


    When I say a horrifying feeling crawled up my spine, I mean it quite literally.


    I shriek and spin around, trying to smack at whatever is crawling up my back. Whatever it is dodges my panicked swings, landing on my right arm, which promptly dissolves into nothing as I lose all control. I¡¯m not exactly thinking straight. Heck, I¡¯m screaming at the top of my lungs. As a result, the thing smacks into the ladder and falls to the ground.


    It¡¯s a bug.


    Let me repeat that. It¡¯s a bug. Like a massive, gross insect the size of a plate with way too many legs and a mishmash body of a cricket, silverfish, and earwig, with pincers on its backend big enough to look like a pair of scissors (not the safety kind either). Pause for breath.


    That unholy thing.


    Was on.


    My back.


    Oh my gosh, I can¡¯t breathe.


    This isn¡¯t some soul sucking fear that¡¯s assaulting me. Not like with the giant eye that simultaneously saved me from death and furiously chased me until I was landed in this stupid situation in this stupid alien world where everything and their neighbor wants to eat me. It¡¯s not even like the creeping fear of being alone in a hostile land with absolutely nothing to rely on but myself, where one slip will land me in someone¡¯s stomach.


    Nope this is a completely irrational fear. I can easily recognize that. There¡¯s no logic to it. I¡¯m just scared of it, like of clowns or of heights except worse because those things could actually kill you. Well, this might, but I can beat it. I can totally kill it off easily. I know that. But it¡¯s just so freaking gross I can¡¯t even look at it.


    Crap, it¡¯s getting closer.


    Oh, heck nope. I launch myself backwards as it scuttles disgustingly towards me.


    Get away.


    Get away.


    ¡°Get the freaking heck away from me!¡± Oops. I yelled that one out loud. I whip out a scythe with my left hand and slam its cutting edge down on the bugger. It pops like a ripe tomato, splattering guts all over my face.


    I freeze in absolute horror.


    Oh heavens . . . why would you do this?


    I tear up. It smells disgustingly sweet. That somehow makes it all so much worse. Should insect guts smell like rotting apricots? Bile climbs up my throat, and I decide to barf my own guts out. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll ever be able to eat apricots again. Not after that.


    Let¡¯s . . . let¡¯s just leave. I need out of here. I feel sick. I wasn¡¯t expecting to be splattered with guts when I woke up this morning, but at least it can¡¯t get any worse at this point.


    And of course it will. All my fault. I totally walked into that one and raised that flag. I¡¯m severely tempted to roll my eyes, because in the next second parts of the floor and walls pop off like corks from a champagne bottle and more of those spawns of pure evil come crawling out. Within seconds, the floor is covered with them writing and crawling all over each other. I would barf again, but my stomach just dropped as they all turn as one to stare at me with beady insect eyes, some mid-crawl over each other.


    This was all a bad idea, coming out here. This was a very bad idea. I grip scythe harder as they all raise their pincers like some kind of messed up scorpion, snip them open and close a couple of times. They lower them again. My eyebrows furrow. What the heck was that?


    As I start inching my way closer to the ladder, a subtle scent wafts across my nose, something vaguely floral. It seems strangely out of place in a basement filled with insects, but that thought only lasted for a split second. I feel myself starting to zone out and lose track of my surroundings.


    In that moment, a drop of insect guts rolls off my nose, and I¡¯m again assailed with that disgusting apricot smell once more. I reel back, trying to protect my nose from the stench, then screech as I feel the insects starting up my legs. I swing at them with the scythe, popping bugs and not at all careful of cutting up my legs. I¡¯m pretty sure I scratched them up awful, but the ones climbing up my legs are dead, so there¡¯s that at least.


    I get a second of breathing space only to feel absolute anger bubbling up within me when I realize what just happened.


    These conniving little gutballoons! They freaking drugged me! First the drug me down the ladder, now they¡¯re trying to drug me placid so they can swarm me? I grit my teeth. That¡¯s it. No way in Jose am I just going to let them get away with that. Nobody drugs me. Nobody. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    I stomp on a bug. It pops. Disgusting, but weirdly satisfying. I pop another, grinning wildly with the adrenaline and mania running through my veins. Blood rushes about in my head (at least, the feeling of it does. It¡¯s a passing thought, but I guess I don¡¯t exactly have blood or veins or adrenaline anymore. Strange that the feeling of it still exists, though). In this haze, I unconsciously reform my arm and pull out the second scythe.


    I swing both of them down hard, squishing at four of the bugs and crippling another¡¯s left row of legs.


    At this point, the bugs seem to have registered the situation. A bit slow on their part. They start screeching and several launch themselves at me. I swing a scythe at them, proud to note that it was not an unconscious reaction on my part. I can feel myself grinning again as it pretty much bisects them mid air. Freaking bomb or what? Heck yeah!


    That¡¯s what, ten down, three hundred and fifty or so to go? Who the heck cares? I freaking don¡¯t. The bugs screech and squirm and surge towards me and all I can do is burst out laughing while hacking them apart. I don¡¯t even care when I get bit. I feel so light headed I can¡¯t even feel the pain.


    Another ten or so burst open after a pass of my scythes. They go right through them like paper, it¡¯s a bit ridiculous. I laugh even harder.


    I think in some part of the back of my head, I can feel this is a dangerous situation. I¡¯ve lost all feeling in my legs. The bugs won¡¯t stop swarming no matter how much I stomp on them or slice them or pop them open. Even though I am slowly getting more efficient with the scythes, even though the swings are doing more damage and they are feeling more natural in my hands, even though I¡¯m decimating enough to leave a wake of guts and twitching bug legs in my trail, they just won¡¯t stop coming.


    I can feel it even as more laughter bursts out of my lungs. My survival instincts are completely shot, and I¡¯m reaching the bottom of my energy way too fast. If I don¡¯t kill all these things before I run out of fumes, I think I just might die.


    But the bigger part of me just screams: ¡°Who cares? Hahaha!¡± Literally. I¡¯m screaming that right now, laughing my head off with tears streaming down my face. This is the first time I¡¯ve ever felt so manic before. I emphasize it with the whipping swing of my scythes. Several bugs pop open.


    ¡°Screw these gutballoons!¡±


    Pop.


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s right, go pop for all I care, you stupid things!¡±


    Pop, pop, pop.


    ¡°You know what? Screw this whole world, too! Hahaha!¡±


    Squelch.


    ¡°Screw all the creepy ghosts!¡±


    Pop.


    ¡°Screw Jerkface for chasing me around like a mass murderer.¡±


    Screech, pop, pop.


    ¡°Screw that stupid eyeball for forcing me to this messed-up world.¡±


    Squish.


    ¡°And screw that crap ghoul for eating me alive!¡±


    Pop.


    ¡°And taking me away from my plants!¡±


    Thump, pop, pop, pop.


    ¡°And from my home!¡±


    Slice.


    ¡°And from my dad!¡±


    Bang, pop.


    ¡°From.¡±


    Pop.


    ¡°Every.¡±


    Squelch.


    ¡°Freaking.¡±


    Smush.


    ¡°Thing!!!¡±


    Pop, pop, pop.


    ¡°Hahahahahahhahahahahaha!¡±


    Swoosh, pop, pop.


    ¡°I¡¯ll let you all know just how much I¡±--Pop, pop--¡°Freaking¡±--Screech--¡°HATE all of you!!!!!!¡±


    Bang, pop, pop, pop.


    Slice, pop.


    Thump, pop, smush, pop, pop, pop.


    Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech. Pop, pop, pop.


    Stomp, squelch.


    I stare at them, foot still lodged in the body of a bug. Alright, I¡¯m gasping for air, but I¡¯m still boring holes into their exoskeletons. They flinch (still creepily as one), and seem a bit hesitant to come after me. That makes sense, because I¡¯m standing in an inch thick layer of gore. Guts and mucus cover pretty much all of me. I must look pretty intimidating surrounded by all the dead bodies of their friends and family or whatever.


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s right,¡± I mumble. ¡°Don¡¯t mess with me.¡±


    I think I killed like a third of them, at least. Probably more. There¡¯s still a ton left though. I try not to look it--otherwise they¡¯d probably rush me again--but I¡¯m dead tired. I¡¯m barely standing up as it is. I¡¯m banged up as a tree trunk in a shredder. My feeling¡¯s back now that the mania tide is all washed up and I am seriously hurting bad.


    Guys, I don¡¯t know how I¡¯ll make it. I¡¯m not sure I can move at this point.


    We face off against each other for what must have been at least five minutes, neither side making any sort of move.


    A few seconds later, the look in the gutbugs¡¯s eyes seem to change and immediately I feel like something¡¯s off. It feels like a strange rumbling just outside the edge of my hearing. In the next second, the ground bursts open and a gutbug four times the size of any of the others climbs out.


    Great, a boss monster. Just what I needed. Still haven¡¯t gotten rid of the mobs yet. I let the air out of my mouth slowly and drop into a fighting stance.


    And then gape as the bugs I thought would rush at me turn and converge on the boss in a surging tide of creepy-crawly legs. The mass swells up like a balloon.


    Are you kidding me? You pick this time to literally merge into one massive bug? Do ghosts just need to be oversized or something? I guess that¡¯s why they were all weirdly synchronized. Mr. Boss Gutbug was controlling all them. Either they were all originally together and purposefully split into parts, or they¡¯re a weird hive mind or something. Either way, I can¡¯t really compliment this massive gutballoon on its intelligence.


    The gigantic thing rises up on its legs, stretching itself to loom over me. This big and this close, it looks even grosser than its smaller counterparts. Looking up at it, I experience the strange feeling of needing to barf and sigh all at the same time. Somehow, all the previous tension that came with being surrounded is quickly draining out of me.


    It stares down at me, clacking mandibles that I hadn¡¯t noticed on the gutbugs before, before leaning down into my face.


    Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


    The sound rattles my eardrums and makes dust fall from the ceiling. In response, I do the only sensible thing. I scream back, ¡°Shut the heck up, you stupid thing!¡±


    Then, I promptly slice it¡¯s disgusting head in half.