《Keep One Eye Open》


 Whisper (Part 1)

    People say it¡¯s never too late for anything. You¡¯re never too old for something new to come into your life. Well, for me, that something new was a new friend. We did some terrible things together. Some people ended up badly hurt, and others died. Accidentally.


    The weirdest part is how we actually met. I remember feeling this terrible ache in the back of my mouth, like someone was slowly punching me in the face. So, I thought about going to the dental clinic, the one with the handsome dentist.


    ¡°Hot Smile¡±, that¡¯s what I call him...secretly, of course. I mean, who wouldn¡¯t be charmed by those pearly whites, right? But, I couldn¡¯t let him know. The thought of him finding out...oh, God, I¡¯d be mortified.


    Anyway, I ended up not going to the clinic. I figured the toothache would eventually go away on its own, and I also didn¡¯t want to end up with a fat bill, especially if it would all be for nothing. It would be an expensive trip just to have Hot Smile put his gloved fingers in my mouth and tell me exactly what I thought¡ªthat it''d go away on its own.


    I groggily stumbled out of bed and shuffled over to the bathroom to inspect my teeth in the mirror. Lo and behold, nestled between two molars was a repulsive greenish blob, probably a rogue piece of seaweed or spinach from last night¡¯s dinner.


    I grabbed some floss and tried to remove it, but it stubbornly clung to my tooth like a leech. Next, I grabbed a toothpick and tried to excavate the invader, but it refused to budge. I applied more pressure until my gum started to bleed. With a quick flick of my tongue, I managed to dislodge the intruder and spat out a few bloody specks into the sink.


    I stopped when I heard a voice penetrate my thoughts with a firm command, ¡°Cut it out.¡± The voice was unfamiliar, and the fact that I lived alone made it even more unsettling. It sounded like a gruff, masculine tone.


    ¡°Look, Marcy, I¡¯m not going anywhere anytime soon. I just got here,¡± the voice continued.


    It knew my name! My jaw dropped open as I tried to comprehend what was happening. That¡¯s when I saw it¡ªthe supposed piece of spinach or seaweed from the previous night had little red eyes and was staring straight at me.


    I quickly shut my mouth and shook my head in disbelief. ¡°It¡¯s just my imagination,¡± I tried to convince myself. ¡°It¡¯ll disappear on its own.¡± But the next day, the pain in my mouth had intensified twofold.


    As I examined my mouth in the mirror, I winced in pain every time I tried to open it wider. In the back of my mouth, that dark greenish thing was making a home for itself. The gum around it was eroding, and the pain was doubling with every passing minute. The thing was humming a jolly tune while slithering comfortably between my teeth.


    ¡°You¡¯ve got a lovely mouth,¡± it said. ¡°I¡¯ve scouted thousands of others, but yours is the perfect place for me to settle down. So nice, so nice.¡±


    I shivered.


    ¡°There¡¯s nothing to be afraid of, my dear lady, because this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship. You will benefit so much from me.¡±


    ¡°Me getting something good out of this? You¡¯re living in my mouth! Who knows what sort of bacteria you¡¯re brewing in there.¡±


    The creature chuckled. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t do anything to harm my own living space. And the way I see it, you do need me. Look in the mirror, Marcy. What is it that you see? Hmm?¡±


    Sighing, I glanced up to see the dreadful sight. A morning train wreck.


    ¡°A train wreck,¡± the thing repeated as if it had read my mind. Its voice dripped with disdain as it continued to taunt me. ¡°The years haven¡¯t been kind to you at all. You¡¯re almost 30 and a sack of molded and sprouted potatoes has much more sex appeal than you. You work at an office doing nothing of value except to earn enough pennies to scrape by. You¡¯ve no friends and your colleagues are distant. After work, you buy a TV dinner at the convenience store then head to your run-down apartment where you pay an exorbitant monthly rent. Every day you wonder aloud¡ªwhat is it that I am living for? But you¡¯ve no answer to your question.¡±


    ¡°Okay, thanks for that, though terribly rude and completely untrue.¡±


    ¡°Is it? I¡¯m only saying what I¡¯ve observed for many weeks now,¡± it went on. ¡°And my God, oh you poor dear, you certainly need someone like me.¡±


    I shook my head at the creature¡¯s words as I started brushing my teeth. ¡°No, I do not need someone like you,¡± I mumbled with my mouth full of minty foam.


    I stared down at my reflection in the mirror, wagging an angry finger as if it were a rude stranger who couldn¡¯t mind their own business. The creature tried to shout something, but its voice was muffled by the foam.


    It sputtered and gasped for air.


    ¡°You certainly do need me!¡± it exclaimed once I cleared the foam. ¡°All your life, you allowed people to step on you, use you, swindle you, and mock you. And what do you do? Nothing. You shy away into your quiet corner because you, Marcy, don¡¯t have a backbone.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s hard for me to say what I feel or think; I don¡¯t want to upset anybody.¡±


    ¡°I think it¡¯s time for you to do exactly that.¡±


    ¡°Do what?¡±


    ¡°Upset somebody.¡±


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    It was right. I had been holding back my thoughts and feelings for far too long. There were a lot of things I wanted to say and do but I couldn¡¯t. For so many years, I kept all my words and what I felt inside bottled up, and whenever they bubbled up to the surface, I pushed them back down. I didn¡¯t want to hurt anybody. I didn¡¯t want to make anybody mad. It was just my nature to avoid confrontation. I¡¯d been trained by the best to tiptoe on a floor made of eggshells.


    I laughed to myself. Maybe I should¡¯ve pursued a career in ballet.


    ¡°What can you do for me?¡± I asked.


    I couldn¡¯t help but recoil as the Thing wriggled across my palate, its beady ruby eyes gleaming with excitement as it peered through the gap in my two large front teeth. I caught a glimpse of its smile in the mirror and shuddered at the sight¡ªit was as rough as a strand of wiry black pubic hair.


    ¡°Let me live here for as long as I want, and I can do for you all the things you wish you had the courage to do.¡±


    ¡°What should I call you?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Call me Whisper.¡±


    The corners of my mouth twitched. Then, gradually, a smile grew.


    ¡°Whisper,¡± I repeated. ¡°That¡¯s a nice name. I like it. It¡¯s a pleasure to meet you, Whisper.¡±


    *****


    Whisper had a way with words that always seemed to connect with people. I typically didn''t greet my co-workers when arriving at the office. Instead, I''d offer a quick nod of acknowledgement before I make my way to my own small cubicle swallowed up by the monotonous gray expanse of cubicles like a small fish in a vast, featureless ocean.


    As I walked into the office, my jaw muscles finally relaxed, and my lips turned upward into a smile. ¡°Good morning!¡± I chirped, surprised by the sound of my own voice. It was different, but in a good way. It was light and airy, like the birds that sing at dawn. I couldn¡¯t recall ever sounding like that before. My throat was a bit sore from the unexpected burst of energy, but it felt invigorating.


    Startled, they glanced around to see who spoke. Their eyebrows furrowed when they realized that the greeting came from me. I had to admit that I didn¡¯t know what else to do. I froze and waited for their response.


    They eyed me with suspicion before returning the greeting, ¡°Morning¡­¡± They paused, seeming unsure of my name. Their eyes scanned my employee ID hanging on my lanyard. ¡°Oh, Marcy.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯re you?¡±


    ¡°Good.¡±


    Then, with their noses down and file folders tucked under their arms, they headed towards the copy machine.


    ¡°They hate me,¡± I said to Whisper. ¡°Why did you make me say those things?¡±


    ¡°Oh, have patience! They will warm up to you,¡± said Whisper.


    Later that week, they did. Whisper picked the right words and delivered them with the perfect tone. I caught their attention. Their lips curved into smiles, and they nodded in recognition, acknowledging my existence.


    ¡°Oh, hey, Marcy,¡± said Steve, whose cubicle was across from mine. ¡°How¡¯s it going with you?¡±


    ¡°Things are great! Thanks for asking.¡±


    Most days felt like they dragged on forever, but this time was different. There was a bounce in my step as I made my way from my desk to the copier and back again. Nothing could kill my vibe, not even Cara, whose cubicle was next to mine.


    Of course, I spoke too soon. The heat on the top of my head grew hotter as I noticed her giving me suspicious glances out of the corner of her eye. My body tensed up when I saw her peering over our shared half-wall one day.


    I wondered what she was going to say. She was always bubbly and happy-go-lucky, but her cheerfulness often felt forced. If you didn¡¯t return her greeting, she¡¯d say that you were being a ¡®grumpy Humpty Dumpty.¡¯ She''d say it loud and clear for everyone to hear. She¡¯d use a tone too, one that''s used when speaking to a naughty and disrespectful child. I did my best to avoid her.


    ¡°So, what made you decide to start talking to people?¡± she asked. ¡°It must be those self-help books you read so much.¡±


    She pointed to the small group of books filed in the corner of my desk. She was wrong, of course. I hadn¡¯t cracked them open in ages. I found most of the tips in the books to be useless.


    ¡°Well,¡± I said, ¡°I just wanted to try something different, I guess. Shake things up a bit. I shrugged, hoping she¡¯d be satisfied with my answer and leave me alone.


    She leaned in closer. ¡°Sorry, what?¡±


    ¡°A change.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re mumbling. Can¡¯t you talk properly? And speak a bit louder.¡±


    ¡°I said that I wanted a change.¡±


    Cara¡¯s eyes bulged, and her face twisted in disgust. She covered her nose with her hand and stepped back.


    ¡°Oh my God, your breath!¡± she screeched, attracting the attention of a few colleagues. ¡°You know, it wouldn¡¯t kill you to brush and gargle some mouthwash!¡±


    Heads popped up like curious gophers, and all eyes were on us¡ªno, I mean, on me. They were probably wondering if I had bad breath too. I tightened my grip on the pen, while the other curled into a fist. Trying to keep my composure, I kept my eyes on the computer screen, pretending to work.


    Cara paced around in her cubicle, fanning herself with her hand, and taking deep breaths.


    ¡°Can we open a window or something? Let''s get some fresh air in here," she requested of the colleagues standing near the window. But no one budged. She let out a frustrated sigh and walked over to open the window herself.


    ¡°My, my, Marcy, you¡¯ve got quite a dark imagination,¡± said Whisper.


    ¡°Oh, so, now you can read minds?¡±


    Whisper chuckled. ¡°I know that you want to take that stapler off your desk, walk up to Cara, and start beating her pinched, snobby face with it. I could smell your adrenaline rush.¡±


    The stapler¡¯s cold, metallic surface called out to me. I couldn¡¯t resist. My fingers slowly inched towards it, until they were caressing its smooth exterior. Its two tiny fangs poked at my fingertips.


    ¡°But don¡¯t do it,¡± advised Whisper.


    ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Have a little patience.¡±


    ¡°Do you have a plan?¡± I muttered, wincing in pain as the demon hammered away at my molar, making a racket that felt like a drill boring into my skull.


    ¡°I do.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to tell me?¡±


    ¡°I will.¡± Whisper was brewing something special for Cara. The concoction wasn¡¯t quite ready yet.


    ¡°Are you alright?¡± Suddenly, I heard another voice, and I looked up to see Steve. He was peering over the half-wall from his cubicle across from mine. He looked worried, with his eyebrows all scrunched up.


    He asked, ¡°Was a client giving you a hard time?¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t on the phone with a client.¡±


    ¡°Then who...¡± he scratched his head. ¡°Oh, well, never mind then. But really, are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m fine, and no, I¡¯ve nothing to talk about. Thanks for your concern.¡±


    I tried to smile, but the throbbing pain in my mouth was a raging inferno that twisted the grin into a grimace.

 Whisper (Part 2)

    Things were finally looking for me when I got assigned to an important project, all thanks to Whisper. The demon spoke for me at the monthly staff meeting with such eloquence that it surprised the director and even earned some nods of acknowledgement from my colleagues.


    Cara wasn¡¯t impressed at all, however. She fired questions at me like knives, trying to find holes in my presentation. But Whisper deftly deflected each one with the skill of a fencing master, which only seemed to infuriate her more. She stormed out without waiting for the director¡¯s dismissal.


    Cara wasn¡¯t the only one who had a keen interest in me. Steve had been showing a lot of interest in me lately. He''d been asking for my advice and thoughts on things more often than before. And just yesterday, he surprised me by asking if I wanted to grab dinner together this weekend.


    Dinner? Oh, I knew what he really wanted. He wanted to pick my brain for more ideas and take credit for them himself.


    ¡°No, I prefer dinner at home,¡± I said.


    ¡°Oh, well, we could get takeout and bring¡ª¡±


    ¡°Alone, I mean.¡±


    ¡°Okay, well, I guess another time then.¡±


    Although things were looking up, the pain in my mouth was getting worse as Whisper settled in. When I checked myself out in the bathroom mirror, I noticed that two of my molars had blackened and cracked. Whisper was snuggled right between them, humming away as it brewed something sinister.


    ¡°You have to stop,¡± I said.


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because whatever it is that you¡¯re doing, you¡¯re hurting me.¡±


    ¡°Me? I¡¯ve done nothing but good things for you, and all I ask is for a place to call my home.¡±


    The stabbing pain made me tear up. I couldn¡¯t deal with it any longer, even chewing food as soft as jelly hurt. So, I went to the dentist. Hot Smile. He was the only one I could trust.


    I had never liked going to the dentist. The sterile walls and the way they seemed to close in on me always left me gasping for air. The ear-piercing whine of the drill unnerved me, and the dentist¡¯s scrutinizing gaze, so close to my face, paralyzed me.


    But with Hot Smile, the experience was different. He made sure I was comfortable in the chair. His warm, friendly eyes lit up when I walked in, and his charming grin made me forget all about the toothache for a second. As his assistant got ready with the instruments, I chatted with Hot Smile about work and all the recent success I¡¯d been having. I would¡¯ve been on cloud nine if it weren¡¯t for that damn throbbing in my molars.


    He nodded. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s see what we¡¯ve got here.¡± He slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and picked up his tools.


    The room grew warmer.


    He leaned in close to examine my mouth with a sickle probe and mirror, but he was gentle and careful. As he worked, the temperature in the room seemed to rise. Suddenly, he stepped back and pulled down his mask, taking a deep breath. His once-friendly expression turned into one of disgust. His assistant¡¯s face had also turned pale.


    Then, Cara¡¯s voice screeched inside my head. Oh, God, your breath!


    My heart sank, and I felt like I was going to throw up. The walls seemed to be caving in on me. The blinding light from the fluorescent bulb overhead made me feel like I was standing under a spotlight. I couldn¡¯t take it anymore, and I jumped out of the chair. My legs wobbled as I stumbled my way to the bathroom. I slammed the door shut and locked it behind me.


    How could I face him now, or anyone else for that matter? I bet he was telling everyone out there, making fun of me and my decaying teeth. The thought of it made my stomach turn.


    I stared at myself in the mirror, dreading what I might see. When I opened my mouth, I was greeted by the sight of Whisper¡¯s red eyes glaring back at me from the back of my throat. The molar was still rotting, emitting a smell that made me want to gag. At that moment, I wished I could shrink down to the size of a cockroach and disappear into a crack in the wall forever.


    ¡°Why did you have to do that?¡± I cried.


    Whisper growled. ¡°You were trying to get rid of me!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s because you''re destroying my teeth! It hurts!¡±


    ¡°It won¡¯t be long before we¡¯ll be together as one.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean by that?¡±


    ¡°There''s nothing to worry about! Soon the pain will go away, and you¡¯ll see how much you need me in your life.¡±


    Before I could ask him any more questions, there was a knock on the door. ¡°Hey, Dr. Rameriz wants to check if you¡¯re alright.¡± It was the receptionist. She was always nice to the patients and her voice genuinely sounded worried.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be out in a minute.¡±


    ¡°Do you want to continue, or do you want to reschedule an appointment?¡±


    My hands were tightly holding onto the sink, my heart beating fast in my chest. I was at a loss for what to do or say. I just wanted the receptionist to go away and leave me alone. I needed more time to think. But then, Whisper had an idea. I felt a tick in my throat, and my jaw muscles relaxed as my lips began to move.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to reschedule,¡± I blurted out. It was all Whisper¡¯s doing. I bit my lip hard, drawing a bit of blood.


    ¡°Okay, let me inform Dr. Ramirez.¡± She sounded relieved.


    Moments later, I found myself back in the dental chair. The walk from the restroom to the dentist''s room was a blur. I avoided making eye contact with Hot Smile and the assistant. Hot Smile asked if I had tried the new restaurant around the corner from his office.


    I mumbled a reply. "No, why do you ask?"


    ¡°Because I had their garlic soup, and it made my breath smell like a field of moldy garlic for hours." He chuckled, but he shut up when I dared to look him straight in the eye. Clearing his throat, he said, "Okay, let¡¯s take another look.¡±


    He made sure his mask and plastic eyewear were securely in place before he leaned in to look into my mouth. I watched as he took a deep breath, like a free diver getting ready to dive deep into the ocean. The assistant stood by my side, adjusting the overhead light to get the best angle. Even he seemed to be preparing for what was to come.


    ¡°You said you had pain on the right side, correct?¡± Hot Smile asked.


    I nodded.


    ¡°I don¡¯t see anything, though. The tooth seems fine. Hmm¡­¡±


    The sickle probe scraped against a groove, and a sharp pain shot throughout my jaw.


    ¡°Did that hurt?¡±


    Saliva started to build up, and it dribbled over the side of my lip. My tongue brushed over his gloved fingers. It was flavored. Strawberry. That must be his favorite fruit. Coincidentally, it was mine, too.


    He scooted away on his stool, pulled off the gloves, and tossed them into the bin. His face turned red, and I realized then that I had licked his fingers more than once. But he said nothing of it. He ended the uncomfortable silence by instructing his assistant to lead me to the x-ray room. After five minutes, I was back in the chair, anticipating Hot Smile¡¯s analysis of the x-ray results.


    ¡°Not a cavity,¡± he said, showing me the pictures. ¡°But we¡¯ll keep an eye on it and check again when you come in for your regular cleaning next month.¡±


    ¡°Do you want to have dinner with me?¡±


    I didn¡¯t say it. It wasn¡¯t me.


    Hot Smile arched an eyebrow. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I mean, dinner with me,¡± I repeated, feeling embarrassed.


    Fuck you, Whisper.


    Hot Smile gave me an apologetic smile, his puppy eyes filled with sympathy. ¡°Oh, I¡¯m flattered, but I¡¯d have to decline.¡±


    ¡°Married?¡±


    ¡°Uh, no, no, I¡ªuh¡ªI stick to a policy of keeping my personal and professional lives separate. And¡­¡±


    ¡°So, you don¡¯t fool around with clients.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, I don¡¯t. It¡¯s¨C¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just dinner; dessert isn¡¯t guaranteed unless you want to order it.¡±


    Whisper! Oh, God! That puny demon had a firm hold of my vocal cords and was yanking them like a puppet master. I tried to keep my mouth closed, but Whisper was stronger. He pried it open, and then let out a stinky cloud that made me turn away and burp loudly, filling the whole room with the smell of garlic.


    I was so shocked that I couldn¡¯t even think straight. I just bolted out of that chair and ran down the hall without saying a word. When I passed by the front desk, the receptionist asked me when I would like to make my next appointment, but I didn¡¯t even stop to answer. I dashed out of the office, got into my car, and screamed.


    ***


    There was one thing that made me forget about the embarrassing dentist visit: I got promoted to project supervisor. Seeing the look on Cara¡¯s face was pure joy. But the throbbing pain in my tooth persisted. Whisper reassured me that it¡¯d be over soon, that we would soon be united, and I wouldn¡¯t feel the pain ever again.


    After his persistence, I finally caved in and agreed to have dinner with Steve to celebrate my promotion. I agreed only if we went to the restaurant of my choice, and he was fine with that.


    But Cara overheard and felt the need to put in her two cents about where to eat in the city. When I mentioned my choice, she wrinkled her nose and said it was a terrible idea. Whatever, I wasn¡¯t about to change my mind. I had a sudden craving for something garlicky, and I knew just the spot.


    The restaurant wasn¡¯t fancy, but Steve had gone home to change out of his polo shirt and khakis. When we met up, he was in more formal attire¡ªa pale blue dress shirt and black dress pants. Meanwhile, I was still in my work clothes, which Cara once likened to a countryside librarian. But why bother changing? It was a friendly dinner, not a date.


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    We sat down at a cozy corner table. I went for the garlic soup with a side of salad, and so did Steve. He savored the soup with loud slurps and the occasional spoon suck. It was clear that he was enjoying it a little too much.


    ¡°How¡¯d you find out about this place? Have you been here before?¡± he asked.


    ¡°This is my first time. It¡¯s not too far from my dentist''s office. He recommended this place.¡±


    ¡°Who did?¡±


    ¡°My dentist.¡±


    ¡°Your dentist? Are you two particularly close?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s difficult to say.¡±


    ¡°I see. Well, I also have a complicated relationship with my dentist. She calls me every six months. I go to her and let her probe around in my mouth.¡±


    He laughed so hard he was clutching his sides like they hurt. But to me, his laughter was more like a painful squawk of a chicken getting stepped on. Other diners looked over, raising their eyebrows and getting annoyed at the sudden outburst. Steve seemed not to notice, maybe he didn¡¯t care at all.


    Whisper groaned. ¡°Oh, dear God, Marcy, why did you ever agree to this date?¡±


    ¡°Not a date,¡± I muttered.


    Steve cleared his throat. ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    ¡°Nothing¡­ hahaha! I was thinking that what you said about your relationship with your dentist was funny.¡±


    Our main course finally arrived. Thank goodness, because I didn¡¯t have much to say, and there weren''t enough trivial topics to fill the awkward silence. We started to stuff our faces with grilled fish, artichoke caponata, sun-dried tomatoes, and slices of a thin crust arugula pizza. But then, a familiar face across the room caught my eye, and my heart skipped a beat.


    He was here¡­ Hot Smile. And he¡ªmy heart sank to my gut¡ªwas with another woman. All I could see was the back of her head, but I knew exactly who it was. I saw her every day. The sight of them together made me feel sick.


    Steve turned his head to see who I was looking at. "Look who¡¯s here! Cara!" he called out, waving at them.


    Cara turned around, saw us, and smirked before waving back.


    ¡°Let¡¯s have a quick chat with them, yeah?¡± he said.


    ¡°No, I¡¯m sure they want to have the evening to themselves.¡±


    ¡°Oh, come on, it¡¯ll be a quick chat.¡±


    He grabbed my wrist and pulled me over to their table. Steve was grinning and still holding onto my wrist, while I was staring back and forth between Hot Smile¡¯s reddening cheeks and Cara¡¯s smug expression. As Steve and Cara chatted, I noticed that Hot Smile¡¯s eyes were avoiding mine. This broke something inside me and also ignited a rage that I had never experienced before.


    Whisper was thrilled. The demon rubbed against my gums, swirled between my teeth, and slithered under and over my tongue, giving me a delightful tingling sensation. Its excitement hummed through me, and it pulled my lips into a wide grin.


    Then, in the middle of their boring small talk, Whisper blurted out, "How do you and Dr. Ramirez know each other?"


    ¡°Uh¡­¡± uttered Hot Smile.


    Cara giggled. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s a funny story. I go to his office for my dental checkups, and last week he asked me out while cleaning my teeth, and I couldn¡¯t quite answer because¡ª¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s also my dentist,¡± I said, ¡°and he told me that he sticks to a policy of not dating patients.¡±


    ¡°Is he the dentist you were talking about?¡± Steve pointed at him with a thumb.


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter. Cara, I thought you said this restaurant served dishes of hot garbage for poor, dirty people.¡±


    ¡°I never said that!¡± She glanced over nervously at Hot Smile.


    ¡°I believe your exact words were," then with perfect intonation, Whisper imitated Cara¡¯s voice, "Ew, Marcy, your restaurant pick is terrible. You¡¯ve no experience in fine dining. Has anyone ever taken you to a decent restaurant that doesn¡¯t serve hot garbage to poor, dirty people?¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡±


    Hot Smile frowned at her. ¡°You told me you liked this place.¡±


    Steve scratched his head and stepped back. ¡°We should get back to our table. Our food must be getting cold,¡± he said before dropping my wrist.


    We went back to our table without saying another word. The silence between us was broken by the sound of teeth crunching into the thin, crispy crust of the arugula pizza. Then, a sharp pain shot through my jaw, blinding me. My eyes began to water as I spat out small black and brown bone fragments and specks of blood onto my plate.


    It was pieces of the decayed molar.


    My tongue found a hole where my tooth used to be. There was something else growing there, rough and jagged and sharp. And then, to my utter horror, another tooth crumbled and pieces of it fell onto the plate.


    Steve¡¯s eyes grew wide as he stared at the broken pieces of teeth and then back at me. He quickly grabbed a napkin and held it to his mouth, trying to keep the food he ate in.


    ¡°Should I call over the dentist?¡± he managed to say.


    ¡°I ¡ª I ¡ª¡± I couldn¡¯t speak. I couldn¡¯t move my tongue without it throbbing.


    Steve¡¯s face paled. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with your tongue? Are those canker sores?¡±


    I hurried to the restroom, nearly knocking over a waiter carrying a tray. The tray toppled, and spaghetti and soup splattered onto another couple. I ignored their shouts of outrage and rushed into the ladies¡¯ room.


    I went over to the sink, and one by one, my teeth fell out, clattering into the basin. The sink was a bloody mess. I scooped up the teeth and stuffed them into my pocket, then tried to rinse away the blood, though more kept dribbling out.


    I inspected my mouth in the mirror. Hundreds of small, jagged teeth were poking out from the bloody holes where my old teeth had been. And where my tongue should have been, there was Whisper, looking like a slimy, yellowish-green slug. It had these two antennas sticking out and its pair of beady crimson eyes stared right through me.


    Whisper was more than just a demon. It was a parasite! And its appetite was growing for something more than just pizza. The pain in my stomach was excruciating, and I felt like I was losing my mind. I had never known such incredible hunger. I craved what Whisper craved: raw meat.


    ***


    As the elevator doors prepared to open, Cara took a deep breath and plastered a fake smile on her face¡ªsomething she did every morning. However, today it was harder than usual to put on a cheerful demeanor.


    Her date last night had been a complete disaster, all because of that weirdo Marcy, the last person Cara wanted to see. Nevertheless, she knew she had to keep a professional fa?ade and endure eight agonizing hours working alongside the oddball. Cara felt overwhelmed by the thought, and it made her nervous.


    She took another deep breath and finally, the elevator reached the fourth floor. Its doors opened, and she stepped out. Although a tense knot formed in the pit of her stomach, she greeted her colleagues in her bubbly tone, ¡°Good morning!¡±


    After reaching her desk, she glanced over at the next cubicle. Marcy was sitting there, hunched over the keyboard, with her long black hair tangled and covering face. She wasn¡¯t typing anything, and her computer wasn¡¯t even turned on.


    Cara noticed that Steve hadn¡¯t arrived yet, which was unusual since she couldn¡¯t recall him ever being late before. Most of the time, he came in early.


    ¡°I guess you and Steve had a nice time after dinner,¡± she said, thinking that would be the reason her colleague hadn¡¯t shown up. It wasn¡¯t fair, she wanted to scream. It wasn¡¯t fair that Steve and Marcy had a good time, while her own date ended right after dinner.


    ¡°You must¡¯ve shown him a good time last night and didn¡¯t bother to wash your hair," Cara went on even when Marcy wasn¡¯t responding. ¡°Oh, so you¡¯re not going to talk now? What you said last night was so rude, and ¡ª¡±


    Before she could finish her sentence, the secretary interrupted her and informed her that Steve wouldn¡¯t be coming to work. Now, the responsibility of handling Steve¡¯s clients and paperwork fell on Cara and Marcy¡¯s shoulders. Cara quickly asked if Steve was going to be absent for just the day or for the whole week, and what the reason was for his absence.


    Cara got no response from the secretary, who only repeated the new tasks for her and Marcy before leaving. Annoyed, Cara figured she needed some food to get her going. In the break room, some coworkers had congregated at a table and seemed to be having a solemn conversation. As she scanned the vending machine for snacks, Cara eavesdropped on their chat.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you live in the same apartment complex as him?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, down the hall from him.¡±


    ¡°So, what happened?¡±


    ¡°Last night I heard this crazy screaming, like someone was being attacked. I bolted out of bed and went into the hallway. Everyone else was there too, all in their pajamas. We were all scared shitless! Then one of the neighbors called the cops, but they were slow in getting there, and the screams kept going. So, another neighbor, an ex-fireman, broke the door down. By that time, the screaming had stopped.¡±


    Cara decided to treat herself to some potato chips, so she inserted coins one by one into the vending machine.


    ¡°I smelled something really bad in that apartment. It was so strong and disgusting that I thought a sewage pipe had burst.¡±


    ¡°Did you go in? Did you see anything?¡±


    ¡°One neighbor called the cops, but they took forever to get there. Eventually, one of my neighbors, an ex-fireman, broke down the door. He went in there for a second before running back out and puking his guts out. He yelled for someone to call 911, and the police and ambulance eventually showed up.¡±


    ¡°Is Steve dead?¡±


    ¡°No, he¡¯s alive but I¡¯m sure he wishes he was.¡±


    ¡°Why would you say that?¡±


    ¡°They said¡ª¡±


    Cara lifted the plastic flap at the bottom of the machine and reached inside to grab the bag. She ripped it open and started munching on the salty crisps.


    ¡°He didn¡¯t have a face, man. Like, the skin and stuff was just all gone. And his jaw was completely ripped off. But he still had one eye, and it was blinking. That¡¯s how the paramedics knew he was alive, barely hanging on.¡±


    ¡°So, you didn¡¯t see him?¡±


    ¡°No, I ran back inside. But I could smell him when the paramedics passed by. It pierced right through the walls. It was awful! The unimaginable smell of death.¡±


    ¡°Oh, God, poor Steve.¡±


    Cara¡¯s eyes widened, and her jaw dropped as she turned to them. ¡°Steve? Are you talking about Steve from our department?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± said the one who¡¯d been telling the story. ¡°Didn¡¯t you hear? He won¡¯t be coming back to work.¡±


    ¡°Was he with anyone when it happened?¡±


    ¡°Not that I know of. I heard that his living room window was open, though.¡±


    Cara left the break room and headed back to her desk. She was determined to ask Marcy if she knew anything about what had happened to Steve. However, when she got to her desk, Marcy was nowhere to be found.


    ¡°Do you know where she went?¡± she asked.


    ¡°I saw her heading for the restroom.¡±


    Cara rushed down the hallway, her thoughts all over the place, unsure of what kind of response to expect from Marcy.


    Evidence! She needed Marcy¡¯s confession. She quickly took out her phone and hit the record button before heading into the restroom. As soon as she walked in, she saw Marcy at the sink.


    Marcy was wearing a face mask and looking into the mirror, not doing anything to fix her hair or check her appearance.


    ¡°Hey, Marcy,¡± said Cara. ¡°I heard something terrible happened to Steve. Do you know anything about that?¡±


    No response.


    ¡°If you do, you can tell me. I can help you.¡±


    In one smooth and slow motion, Marcy turned on the sink and pulled down the face mask to her chin. Her tongue, a pale green color, slithered out. It had the length and thickness of a python, forcing the jaw to stretch open beyond its limits.


    Cara couldn¡¯t move. She was too scared to even make a sound. She just watched as Marcy¡¯s tongue slid towards the sink and drank water and retreated back into her mouth. Her jaw snapped back into place. Marcy turned to her and grinned, revealing a mouth full of rows of razor-sharp teeth.


    ¡°Steve wanted a kiss.¡± Her voice was deep and rough, like the crunching sound of metal.


    ¡°So, we gave him a kiss. How¡¯s our breath now?¡±


    Cara threw her arms over her head and felt a spray hit her face. The stinky smell in the air made her gag. Her arms felt like they were on fire as the skin started to melt away. The fat and muscles slipped off the bones as she screamed, but her voice was cut short when she accidentally inhaled some of the mist. It quickly dissolved her tongue and began to eat away at her gums and teeth.


    Later, someone else came in, slipped, and rolled into a pile of gelatinous mush. The janitor was called in. He was sure the mush was vomit. He scooped up the chunks and flushed them down the toilet before starting to mop the floor.


    Marcy was nowhere to be seen.


    ***


    Today was a slow day at the dental clinic, and Dr. Ramirez was thinking about closing the office an hour early. He had already let his assistant go home early. As he was getting ready to leave, the receptionist told him that a patient had walked in without a scheduled appointment. When he found out that the patient was Marcy, he felt uneasy. He wished he had closed up the office way earlier.


    ¡°Please, take a seat,¡± he said, pointing to the patient chair.


    Marcy just stood there by the door, not moving a muscle. She just stared at him, with her face mask on. Frustrated, he told her again to get in the chair.


    ¡°Are you hungry?¡± she asked. Her voice sounded strange to him, like two voices echoing in unison.


    ¡°No, I was thinking of going home and heading straight to bed. You know, it¡¯s been a long and tiring day.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s go out for dinner tomorrow night.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, I¡¯ve plans tomorrow.¡±


    ¡°With Cara?¡±


    He scoffed. ¡°Is this your reason for coming here? To ask me out for dinner?¡±


    She took a step forward.


    He gulped and took one step back, bumping into the wheeled tray with the dental equipment. ¡°If your being here isn¡¯t about your dental hygiene, then it¡¯s best that you leave.¡±


    Marcy walked over to the chair and sat down, her eyes never leaving him. ¡°There¡¯s something I need you to see.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°My back tooth on the right side.¡±


    ¡°Okay, I can take a look at it.¡±


    Ramirez quickly grabbed a pair of disposable gloves and picked up the periodontal probe. He noticed his hands were trembling. He regretted sending his assistant home early and wished he had someone there with him in the room.


    ¡°Okay, are you feeling any pain?¡± he asked.


    ¡°A little bit.¡±


    He scooted the stool next to the patient''s chair and adjusted the overhead light. ¡°You¡¯ll need to remove the mask and say ah.¡±


    She pulled the mask down to her chin and parted her soft pink lips, moaning, ¡°Ahhh¡­¡±


    Ramirez gulped.


    He couldn¡¯t look away.

 Morbid-angelo: The Making of a Family Portrait (I)

    You may be wondering why I¡¯ve chosen to leave your eyes open. Well, it¡¯s so you can witness the artistry of this process¡ªthe immortalization of your essence. You won¡¯t be able to lift a finger or utter a sound. But your eyes will serve as a perfect window into my creative process that is about to unfold before you.


    I¡¯ve got you propped up on this gurney. The straps are strong enough to hold you in place, so don¡¯t worry about sliding off. Setting up my art studio in your apartment wasn¡¯t an easy task; it took me a couple of days. And not once did you call or check in on your family during that time. Shame on you, although I¡¯m not surprised since you are known for being a workaholic.


    What are you looking at? Oh, the body on the dining table. I¡¯ll lift off the sheet and show you soon.


    You¡¯ve seen my work. You came to four of my exhibitions, which you and many others wrongly label as ¡®crime scenes.¡¯ You said my artwork was a crime against humanity committed by someone who is inhuman¡ªa monster. But that''s not true. My sculptures and paintings are infused with my humanity. I want to show you how much I care about my work and how it benefits the world. I create my art to help people appreciate the beauty of life by incorporating real people¡¯s essence.


    The process will be lengthy¡ªthe whole night, in fact. However, when inspiration strikes and creative energy courses through my veins, I become completely absorbed in my own world. Fueled only by my passion, I can work nonstop, without food or sleep. Of course, I know I¡¯m still human, and my body requires sustenance. So, to ensure I stay nourished, I¡¯ve set an alarm to remind me to take a break for meals and rest.


    I¡¯ll do my best to work as quickly as possible, but I ask for your patience. I should warn you that the process will be incredibly painful. Yet, think of the pain as a spiritual journey¡ªyour trial and tribulation to reach nirvana. By the end of tonight, I hope that you¡¯ll come to understand and appreciate my unique style of art.


    What will I be creating this time? I¡¯ve decided to do a classic family portrait with a twist. Consider it a token of my appreciation for your unwavering support. I couldn¡¯t help but notice that you came up with a few clever names for me over the years. which the press has since adopted¡ªVincent van Gore, Morbid-angelo, and Horror-Rodin. Though not particularly original or witty, I must admit that the names did make me chuckle.


    Tonight, we¡¯ll have the opportunity to get to know each other better¡ªalthough I suppose that¡¯s mostly going to be a one-sided conversation given your current condition. There¡¯s no need for you to tell me about yourself, anyway, as I already know quite a bit. I¡¯ve been keeping a close eye on you and have come to understand your daily routines, preferences, and the people in your life. For instance, I¡¯m aware that you often eat your meals at the office rather than with your loved ones at home. But don¡¯t worry¡ªI''ll take care of that.


    While you were out playing detective, I completed the first two sculptures: Samantha and Felix, two delightful children. I¡¯ll show them to you later once the wax and the other chemicals have had a chance to settle into their muscles. For now, they''re resting in their bedrooms, surrounded by their favorite toys and stuffed animals. You don¡¯t need to worry, as the process went quite smoothly, and I made sure that they were comfortable throughout. Although it¡¯s worth noting that the oldest one, Samantha, put up quite a fight in the beginning.


    That little beast bit me, right here on the arm. You can see the marks¡ªshe broke the skin. Felix, on the other hand, was much easier to subdue than her.


    Oh, I see a tear sliding down from the corner of your eye. Are you crying because you¡¯re sad or overwhelmed with joy about the family portrait, like I am? I¡¯ll wipe that off for you.


    I understand your curiosity about the figure shrouded in the sheet on the dining table. But it shouldn¡¯t be a mystery to you; you already know who it is. I mean, who else could it be? It¡¯s your beloved Blair, sound asleep, like Sleeping Beauty. Now, don¡¯t give me that look, Detective. I''ve worked with hundreds of nude models before, and I pride myself on being a professional artist, not some sort of predator. While your wife¡¯s body is reminiscent of Botticelli¡¯s Venus, I assure you that she doesn¡¯t stir up any inappropriate feelings within me.


    Don¡¯t get upset. I¡¯m turning her over, so she¡¯s laying on her stomach. Then, I¡¯m going to cut the skin from the shoulder blades down to the tailbone and spread the flaps open. I¡¯ll be giving you and your wife wings. An idea came to my mind one day; the idea of you and the missus floating mid-air above the kids like guardian angels. I know it sounds complex, but trust me, nothing is impossible for me.


    It¡¯s going to be messy, which is why I¡¯m wearing gloves, an apron, and rubber boots. I can¡¯t help but laugh that I look more like a worker at a slaughterhouse than an artist. I¡¯ve also laid out plastic sheets on the floor to prevent any blood from staining the carpet. It can be challenging to remove blood stains.


    *****


    Here in my hand is a hunting knife that has been a family heirloom for generations. When I was seven, my dad passed it down to me and took me out on my first hunting trip. I trapped a couple of squirrels and a rabbit, and I used this knife to remove their fur. My dad was proud and believed that next time I would catch a bigger game, and he was right. On our second trip together, I shot a buck right in the heart.


    We made use of every part of the animals, from the muscles, cartilage and organs to the bones for broth. My parents knew how to cook a meal that was just as delicious as any five-star restaurant. We kept the skin and fur for crafting.


    My dad was a taxidermist. He had a workshop set up in the basement. He stuffed the animals that he hunted and displayed them around the house and at his convenience shop in town. I remember how neighbors would come to him when their furry companions passed on. He would immortalize their pets through his art, providing them with comfort that they would always have their beloved companion by their side.


    So, the two squirrels and rabbit that I caught were preserved and put on display at the shop. My dad thought I was a natural-born artist, and he continued to teach me about the preservation process. We¡¯d go hunting once or twice every season, then we¡¯d skin, stuff and sew our kills. These were the most special and cherished times of my childhood.


    But, you know, God had a few surprises in store for me. The big surprise: my mom got run over by a pick-up truck. I watched the tragedy unfold right before my very eyes. It happened so fast that I was frozen in place on the roadside. There was no one else around to witness it either, as we lived outside of town with the closest neighbor being more than a mile away. And do you know what the other surprise was? Dad was the one behind the wheel. What a shock that was.


    After getting out of the truck, he didn¡¯t immediately rush to her side. Instead, he took his time, sauntering over to her. Once he reached her, he knelt by her side, put his hand on her neck and asked me to help him carry her back into the house. I snapped out of my frozen state and followed his orders without a single thought; I felt completely numb. I took hold of her legs while he hooked his arms under hers. Together, we hauled her onto the table in the workshop.


    At that point, Mom was still alive and fighting to hold on, but after an hour, she stopped breathing. Her dark brown eyes, however, remained open and seemed to glare up at me with a fierce intensity.


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    *****


    Look! She¡¯s awake now! I can see how you fell in love with her, Detective. She has the same intense gaze my mother had.


    Hello there, sleepy head. Just so you know, you won¡¯t be able to move a muscle or make a sound. The paralysis will wear off in a few hours, and you might regain some control over your body. I¡¯ll be administering another dose shortly because I need you to remain as still as possible during this delicate procedure.


    I know that you¡¯re experiencing excruciating pain. However, try to redirect your thoughts from the pain towards feelings of pure bliss, embrace it, and allow yourself to enter a state of nirvana.


    Your wings are coming along beautifully, and judging by the look in his misty eyes, I¡¯d say that your husband agrees with me. I¡¯ve only finished the left side; the skin has been cut from the shoulder blade to the tailbone. I¡¯ll be starting on the right side in a second.


    Now, where was I in my story¡­ ah, yes.


    *****


    Mom¡¯s body was in the workshop, and Dad went straight to work on her. As for me, I stood by his side, seeing the process, handing him the tools he needed. I was scared, of course. I didn¡¯t understand why he was doing it. I had thought their marriage had been perfect. We were the quintessential nuclear family¡ªDad owned and ran a shop in town, Mom took care of the house and raised me, their only golden boy. I went to school, earned good grades, and played peewee baseball.


    When I asked him why he did it, he said, ¡°Son, when something you love is slowly eroding with time, you should preserve it before it¡¯s too late.¡± That¡¯s what he did. He assured me that Mom wasn¡¯t really gone, but her clock had simply stopped ticking, so we could capture the essence of her being before time took it away from us. That¡¯s when I began to understand him and his work more.


    Dad¡¯s entire process was a ritual in itself. Nothing was wasted, absolutely nothing. He would remove the organs, including the tongue, and we consume them as a way to incorporate part of the subject¡¯s essence into our own souls¡ªnot to worry, I won¡¯t be consuming any part of you.


    In the end, Dad did such a magnificent job. Mom was already beautiful to me before, but after the process, she looked exquisite. Though her skin was cold to the touch, it appeared livelier and warmer than when she was alive, and her smile softened that intense final stare of hers.


    Dad brushed her hair and put it up in a bun. She had suffered a skull fracture when she was hit by the truck, but instead of fixing it, Dad had a brilliant idea. He asked me to go pick out her favorite flowers, which were marigolds; Mom had grown a bunch of them in the garden. After he widened the opening and scooped out the brain, he filled the inside of her skull with the flowers.


    Every day, Dad would dress Mom and apply her makeup. We¡¯d gather in the dining room for meals, just like any other family, except she needed only a sprinkle of water. In the afternoons, we would sit on the porch, where Mom would bask in the sunlight.


    *****


    Okay, I''ve finished on the right side. I wish you could see this, Blair; it¡¯s so breathtakingly beautiful. I believe your husband finds them beautiful, too. He¡¯s crying again. His face is soaked with tears. Stop crying! There¡¯s still more work to be done.


    You¡¯re wondering what I am going to do with these shears. I¡¯ll be separating the ribs from the spine and then pulling up the lungs to make them look like wings, in addition to the skin I¡¯ve cut and spread open. This will take some time as the human body has 12 pairs of ribs and it¡¯s difficult to cut through bone.


    In the meantime, I¡¯ll tell you about my stint at art school.


    *****


    With my father¡¯s encouragement, I attended an art college on a scholarship after graduating high school. The college was in the city, and I was nervous because it was my first time living on my own. I rented a small studio apartment on the city¡¯s outskirts, which was about an hour¡¯s commute to campus by bus and train. Despite my initial apprehension, I was overwhelmed with excitement.


    I had assumed that I¡¯d be immersed in a community of individuals who were both like-minded and open-minded people. I was hopeful that I would find myself in a circle where I could freely express my own thoughts on the intrinsic relationship between life and art. Unfortunately, my assumptions were incorrect, as I was instead surrounded by self-serving pretentious cartoonists.


    At the time, I was painting ordinary daily occurrences and their accompanying surroundings. Although I recognized that this was not my desired artistic direction, I felt compelled to conform and avoid drawing undue attention to the more unconventional aspects of my philosophy. I was unable to find anyone with whom to share my thoughts. The director of the college questioned my reason for attending the school. He commented on my artwork, stating that it lacked vitality and that I lacked a defined artistic identity, making it challenging for him or anyone to consider me a serious artist. In a sense, he was correct. I wasn¡¯t showcasing my authentic self, and this lack of genuineness was evident in my work.


    I said to the director, ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll show you what I can do.¡±


    He held a particular fondness for purebred dogs, specifically papillons, and owned several of them. On occasion, he would bring one of his dogs to class, ordering us to create a sculpture or portrait of him with his dog. The bond he shared with his pets was truly beautiful. I could see just how much he loved them, as shown by his efforts to recover a missing dog. Initially, he offered a reward of five thousand dollars. When a week had passed, he implored anyone with information to come forward, upping the reward to seven thousand dollars. The reward continued to increase, reaching an astonishing seventy-five thousand dollars when four of his dogs disappeared from his home without a trace.


    The dogs were safe and sound in my studio. Just like what Dad did for Mom, I stopped their clocks and preserved their essence. Oh, no, I didn¡¯t eat their organs. I thought they should be reserved for their master, as well as the spectators. When the time came for the annual exhibition on campus, I presented the judges and audience with a marvelous platter of hors d¡¯oeuvres for them to enjoy, so they could have the subject¡¯s essence in them. The director didn¡¯t care for it as he was still distraught about his missing pets.


    ¡°Come on!¡± He snapped at me. ¡°Don¡¯t waste everyone¡¯s time with this garbage. Show us what you¡¯ve been working on.¡±


    Grinning, I pulled off the sheet and showed them all.


    The director was floored!


    ******


    Oh, that¡¯s my phone¡¯s alarm going off. It¡¯s time for me to take a break. I¡¯m surprised I finished cutting the ribs. It took less time than I thought. I am pleasantly surprised by the durability and sharpness of these shears. I bought them the other day from the home department store that¡¯s down the street from your children¡¯s school.


    I am not in the least bit hungry, but I am feeling thirsty. Let¡¯s see what you have in the kitchen.


    I see that there¡¯s not much.


    Ah, an unopened bottle of Merlot.


    Mmm, not bad. Are you thirsty, Detective? Here, I¡¯ll help you take a sip. I¡¯m going to lean the gurney back, so the drink doesn¡¯t spill on you as much, and then I¡¯ll set you upright again. There we go. Drink up! It¡¯s not the best wine but good enough to satiate the thirst.


    I¡¯m certain you¡¯re curious about what happened after my first exhibition at the art school. I was expelled. My artistic aspirations, however, didn¡¯t wane. You undoubtedly know this. You¡¯ve scrutinized my exhibitions, collecting samples and examining the scenes I¡¯ve created. Which one did you enjoy the most? Were you awed by my version of the Sistine Chapel? I thought it was my magnum opus. Everywhere I went, people were talking about it. But I think this family portrait will be much better. It¡¯ll be much more intimate and relatable to the laymen.


    I get the sense that you¡¯re not the type to appreciate art, even if you were standing in the middle of the Sistine Chapel. You may even think that I¡¯m wasting my life and that everything I do is worthless. But is it really? I do watch and read the news, and I know that my work has helped you advance your career. I¡¯ve given you the attention you crave, and you¡¯re finally getting recognized as the good guy trying to solve the biggest case in the nation.


    Please don¡¯t assume that I¡¯m envious of your success. That¡¯s not the case at all. In fact, I came here to offer my congratulations. As I mentioned earlier, the family portrait I¡¯m creating is a gift from me to you. I believe it will generate a lot of buzz in the news.


    How about another glass of wine? Your wife probably would like a sip, too. Never mind, she fell back asleep.


    I wish you could feel her lungs expanding and contracting. I¡¯m pulling them up. Oh, they are so warm and soft to the touch. Just look at them! Don¡¯t they make gorgeous red wings? They¡¯re slowing down; her breathing is becoming fainter and fainter. She¡¯s not asleep anymore. I think her clock stopped. She¡¯s now frozen in time.


    Now, let¡¯s hoist her up to the ceiling. As you can see, I nailed some rings up there to attach the hook chains. Once I get her secured, it¡¯ll be your turn to get your wings.

 Morbid-angelo: Deconstruction

    <h2 style="text-align: justify">Voice message 1 | Voice distorted | Caller unknown</h2>


    Hello, Gayle. I hope this message finds you well. I recently read your article and wanted to commend you on your excellent writing. Your tribute to the detective and his family, particularly the children, was truly heartwarming. You have a remarkable ability to craft words that evoke emotion, even in someone like myself, who finds it difficult to shed a tear.


    That being said, I did notice some inaccuracies in the article that require immediate correction. Firstly, I must point out that you and I hold differing views regarding my actions. While you may refer to what I did as ¡°murder,¡± I view it as ¡°immortalization.¡± The process I undertook ensures that the essences of the detective and his family have been preserved, so essentially, they¡¯re not deceased. The family portrait was my gift to them, and I took great care to create it in the most humane way possible.


    I would also like to correct your claim that the detective was close to discovering my identity. This is simply not true. He was never close to finding me, nor was he ever going to. I had never held a grudge against him, only amusement at his efforts. Not because I think I¡¯m the cleverest person in the world who could come up with cunning plans to evade the authorities. Rather, it¡¯s because the detective and the police are not in control of the situation, despite public belief that they are.


    There are limits to what the authorities are allowed to know and do. For now, their task is to assure the public that they¡¯re hot on my heels, but they¡¯re given only breadcrumbs to follow and a ball of yarn to play with like one would give to a litter of kittens to keep them preoccupied. Therefore, the question arises: who are the ones truly in control? I don¡¯t do what I do to stroke my ego. Art is my life¡¯s purpose, and I deliver my work to those who crave it¡ªmy dark patrons.


    Please be sure to re-publish the article with the corrections. I must go now. Have a pleasant afternoon. Bye-bye.


    Voice message 2 | Voice distorted | Caller unknown


    I¡¯m sorry to hear that you¡¯ve lost your job, and I want to let you know that your termination wasn¡¯t a result of your failure to publish a corrected article. I¡¯ve heard that some of the news company¡¯s sponsorships have dropped, so your boss was unable to keep you, one of their highest paid writers, on staff. Very unfortunate. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll soon find another fulfilling position.


    Have a good evening, Gayle. Don¡¯t drink yourself to death.


    Voice message 3 | Voice distorted | Caller unknown


    I intended to call yesterday, but I figured you needed time to recover from the hangover. You may be curious as to how I got your new number. Well, believe it or not, you gave it to me when we met the other night during our first encounter. Of course, you wouldn¡¯t recall much of it. Allow me to fill in the gaps in your memory for you.


    On Friday evening, you chose to return to Harry¡¯s Dive for the second night in a row. Coincidentally, I was there as well, situated at a table in the corner, indulging in a glass of brandy, while capturing the lively atmosphere of the bar in my sketchbook. As I surveyed the room, I noticed you sitting by yourself at the bar, nursing your fourth glass of gin and tonic, without the company of your former colleagues this time.


    I was concerned that you hadn¡¯t eaten, so I ordered a platter of club sandwiches for you to enjoy. You eagerly devoured those mini sandwiches down, and I felt pleased. When the server informed you that it was a courtesy from me, you waved me over to join you. I introduced myself as Angelo, but that isn¡¯t my real name. Given my profession, I must exercise caution in deciding whom to trust.


    Despite being intoxicated, you still managed to hold a conversation. That evening, you simply craved someone to lend you an ear. And, as fate would have it, I was the fortunate recipient of your venting. Not everyone can endure listening to a woman vent her frustrations for more than an hour, but I, on the other hand, didn¡¯t mind at all, especially when a gorgeous and intelligent lady, like yourself, was sitting in front of me.


    You ranted about your professional struggles and romantic setbacks. You used to date a guy named David for a few years, but over time you both just kind of went your separate ways, while maintaining an amicable yet platonic relationship. Now, it¡¯s been seven months since you¡¯ve been on your own. You lamented the absence of a love life and the frustrating length of time since you last experienced intimacy. And then, you grabbed my pen from the front pocket of my jacket and jotted your number down in my sketchbook.


    Around 10:30 pm, you were eager to hit up another bar, but I persuaded you to head back home. I managed to flag down a cab, and we made our way to your place at the Kensington Apartments. Your apartment, number 503 on the fifth floor, is lovely. For the most part, you keep everything nice and tidy, except for the dining room, which doubles as your workspace. There were books, pencils, and pens strewn all over the table. You have a lovely balcony with a picturesque view of the lake park where I noticed a bevy of elegant swans swimming gracefully.


    As I looked around, I noticed you had passed out on the couch. So, before I left for my own home, I decided to leave you a little gift. I hope you¡¯ll enjoy the sketch I drew. When I saw your sleeping form, inspiration took over me.


    Have you ever seen Michelangelo¡¯s painting, Leda and the Swan? The painting explores the mythological encounter between an Aetolian princess, Leda, and the god Zeus who takes on the form of a swan, merging the realms of human and avian. The swan''s arrival is an unexpected intrusion upon Leda''s world, and it signifies the tempestuous nature of their union.


    Well, I think I did a much better job with my version.


    Voice message 4 | Voice distorted | Caller unknown


    ¡°Why? Why? Why me?¡± That¡¯s the despairing question you keep asking yourself. Out of all the people in this big, wide world, why did I pick you? But instead of dwelling on that, try asking yourself this: ¡°Why not me?¡± That¡¯s the question you should be asking.


    So, why not you? Honestly, if I were in your shoes, I¡¯d be feeling pretty flattered to be getting all this attention. Especially considering the sketch that was gifted to you is worth more than a year¡¯s worth of your salary. I must admit that I may have gone a little overboard with the whole idea of bringing a swan into your apartment. Nonetheless, I think it¡¯s safe to say a simple ¡®thank you¡¯ is in order. You¡¯re welcome.


    Voice message 5 | Voice distorted | Caller unknown


    Today, I was at the lake park, feeding seeds to the ducks and swans, when I noticed a man approaching you on the sidewalk with a sense of familiarity. As I watched you both walk into your apartment building, I couldn¡¯t help but wonder who he was. Suddenly, it hit me¡ªour night at Harry¡¯s Dive where you mentioned an ex-boyfriend.


    Ah, yes. His name was David, right?


    I presume you reached out to him after turning to the authorities and coming to the realization that they couldn¡¯t do much to help you. And now, here comes David to provide you with a sense of security. Or is he there to fulfill another need?


    Voice message 6 | Voice distorted | Caller unknown


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Hello, Gayle. It¡¯s been quite some time since my last call. Two months, to be exact.


    Getting your new number proved to be a challenge, but I was eventually able to acquire it. Also, it has come to my attention that you haven¡¯t been living in the Kensington apartments. I¡¯ve noticed that your window stays dark all through the night, and your car is no longer on the lot. When I went to check your place¡ªI must apologize for breaking the lock¡ªI found your furniture still there. It dawned on me that you haven''t moved out, but rather you¡¯re spending your days elsewhere.


    Well, wherever you are, I¡¯m sure you¡¯re enjoying some peace and quiet away from the stressful city life. As for me, I¡¯ve had to take some time off. I fell into a creative slump, but I¡¯m hopeful that it won¡¯t last long. A dark patron commissioned me to create a sculpture, and I¡¯m struggling to find the ideal candidate. But I know the right person is out there for the project.


    By the way, I was delighted to hear that you¡¯ve resumed your writing and have started a little newsletter, especially since you¡¯ve chosen me as your primary focus. I''m honored by your attention, but I must warn you that calling for your followers to help you in hunting me down will go nowhere. However, our paths will inevitably cross again very soon. Oh, please extend my regards to David and remind him to be more cautious about where he leaves his phone.


    Recording 1 | Voice distorted | Sender unknown


    I hope my message finds you in good health. It appears you have changed your number once again. So, I¡¯ve decided to record this message onto a disc and have it delivered to you. You¡¯re probably wondering how I obtained your new address.


    As it happens, I ran into David at the Gustave Dore exhibition. He was interviewing the curator for an upcoming article. Later, I introduced myself to him as Michael and expressed my admiration for his column in the arts and culture section in the paper. I then asked him to sign my copy of his first published book, Translating Poems into Visual Arts.


    During our encounter, we discussed his work and art in general, and before I knew it, time had flown by. He was such delightful company that I extended an invitation for him to join me at my art studio. At first, he declined, claiming he had somewhere else to be, but I have a way of persuasion.


    At this moment, he is here with me as I record this message. I was able to weasel out some valuable information from him. It appears that your relationship with him has progressed so rapidly that you¡¯ve practically moved into his house.


    As you may recall, I have an art commission for a sculpture. I am pleased to announce that David is the ideal candidate as he fits the profile my dark patron wanted: a tall and well-endowed male specimen with an athletic physique. I know you would like to speak to him before he is immortalized. Unfortunately, he¡¯s not in a state where he can communicate effectively.


    I must get to work now. The dark patron had requested a handsome statue to adorn her foyer. I¡¯ll be sending you another message, along with David¡¯s clothes and his phone, or what¡¯s left of it¡ªthe tracking device had to be removed¡ªand I¡¯ll let you know how the project is coming along.


    Recording 2 | Voice distorted | Sender unknown


    *Disc destroyed*


    Recording 3 | Voice distorted | Sender unknown


    Gayle, Gayle, Gayle... I couldn¡¯t believe my ears when I heard the news that a former writer for a reputable newspaper had been arrested for murder. Imagine my shock when I learned that it was you!


    You shot my delivery guy. He was only trying to drop off my message to you. According to the news article, he rang the doorbell, and you opened the door and, without a word spoken, you shot him on the porch. How unfortunate for him that the package didn¡¯t absorb the bullet¡¯s impact. You could argue that it was an act of self-defense, but from what exactly?


    So, now, you¡¯re sitting all alone in a cell, listening to this message brought to you by a prison guard loyal to one of my dark patrons. But don¡¯t despair, you¡¯ll eventually be released, though not anytime soon.


    Recording 4 | Voice distorted| Sender unknown


    Hello, Gayle. I¡¯m certain you¡¯ve been anticipating my message. It¡¯s been over a year since my last one. I almost forgot that you¡¯re rotting in a cell. To make up for my long silence, I have sent you several pictures of my latest artwork. The first three pictures are of David looking around my art studio, the fourth captures the moment when he realized where he was and who he was with, and the final photo is something special.


    What do you think of the new David? Beautiful, isn¡¯t he? It¡¯s a wonder to marvel at. He was the perfect choice for the project. If you¡¯re curious about my creative process, I don¡¯t mind sharing a little about it.


    Before the process begins, the subject must be cleaned. Surprisingly, many of them don¡¯t comply easily and require sedation. They¡¯re brought to the shower and hosed down with warm water, before being thoroughly exfoliated from head to toe, including every crevice. Some dark patrons may request that the subject¡¯s hair be shaved, so they can add it to a separate collection. In such cases, the hair is shampooed and conditioned, then carefully brushed.


    When I operate on a subject, it¡¯s crucial that they are perfectly still. The process is long and delicate, demanding extreme patience and endurance from the live subject. To make sure that they stay motionless, they¡¯re injected with a special mixture infused with a pinch of tetrodotoxin, which is extracted from the venom of a cute little sea creature known as the pufferfish. The effects are instantaneous.


    The subject is then placed face-down on the worktable, naked. Often, they wake up from their sedation, when I start to cut into them. It¡¯s possible that they experience pain, but they remain silent throughout the process. I¡¯m thankful for that as I need complete concentration to perform my work.


    Although David was a relatively simple project compared to my previous artworks, it was much more time consuming. To remove the skin, I made an incision from the back of the head down to the anus, being careful not to damage the muscles. The skin removal took several hours. At that point, David appeared to be in a peaceful state. I could tell by looking at the eyes. The pupils were dilated, and the cornea had become cloudy.


    Now, the next part of the creative process is the most important as it truly immortalizes David¡¯s essence. I had to immerse him in a formaldehyde solution to stop the decomposition of his body. Then, to remove the water and fat from the tissues, he was placed in a bath of acetone before being transferred to a vacuum chamber where the liquid polymer would replace the solvent. The polymer would eventually cure, solidifying to produce a plasticized version of the tissue.


    The entire process took almost a year, but it was all worth it. He¡¯s now on display in my dark patron¡¯s foyer. I took pictures of him for you before he left my studio. I know that you miss him dearly, so I also made sure to save a piece of him for you. Unfortunately, it¡¯s not the piece you yearn for every night.


    Do you see the exquisitely engraved cherry wood chest in front of you? Its interior is lined with dark blue velvet and contains the precious memento I saved for you.


    Go ahead and open it.


    Do you like it? The dark patron didn¡¯t care for it. So, I had it leathered and tailored to be a full body suit, like a onesie. As you have enjoyed him being inside you, now you can find comfort being inside him. He¡¯ll always be with you, keeping you safe and warm in his skin. And look, it still has his dark curly hair, so you can run your dainty fingers through it.


    Incoming call | Caller unknown


    Do you see the CCTV up in the upper-right corner of the ceiling? If you have the strength, lift up your hand and give it a little wave. Hello, Gayle, it¡¯s so good to see you. Although you can¡¯t see me, I¡¯m waving to you and watching you on my screen. You should thank the guard who brought the phone to you. He¡¯s holding it up to your ear, while doing his best not to disturb all those wires attached to you.


    This is the first time in a while since you¡¯ve heard my real voice. The last time was when we met at Harry¡¯s Dive. Do you recall that night? I certainly do. It was a delightful evening, spending time with you. I even sent you the sketch I made as a memento to hang on your cell wall. I hope it brings back fond memories of that night every time you look at it.


    It pains me deeply that I won¡¯t be able to hear your voice again. All I can hear now is the steady beep of the heart monitor from your end. You look so frail and vulnerable lying in that bed.


    I don¡¯t understand, Gayle. Why did you do it? I heard what happened. You were in the mess hall. You took the fork and stabbed a guard in the eye, and then plunged it into your own throat, narrowly missing a major artery. Luckily, the other guards were able to intervene and save your life.


    Did you do it because you think you¡¯ll be spending the rest of your life in this prison? I told you before that you¡¯ll be released, but you need to be patient. And I have some news for you. A dark patron expressed a lot of interest in you when I mentioned your articles about my work and our chance encounter one night. He commissioned me to re-create one of Sandro Botticelli¡¯s famous works¡ªThe Birth of Venus. What an honor for you and me, isn¡¯t it?


    I can only imagine how happy you must be to hear that you won¡¯t be stuck in that cell much longer. Ah, it looks like the nurse is coming over. No need to worry, Gayle. She¡¯s going to give you a sedative, so you can relax during the trip to my art studio. Just close your eyes and take deep breaths.

 Morbid-angelo: The Last Creation

    When my subject''s eyes start to glaze over, it is at that precise moment that I can discern the onset of their transcendence. Their bodies relinquish all tension before succumbing to rigor mortis in a few hours hence. In such moments, I find myself pondering the enigmatic realm that lies beyond their physical existence, yearning to experience the unfathomable.


    I am ceaselessly preoccupied with the prospect of my own eventual immortalization, my essence suspended in an eternal stasis. I am convinced that my time is approaching, thus compelling me to arrange and organize my affairs. The inexorable passage of time demands that I undertake these preparatory measures, ensuring that all is set in order, like a finely tuned symphony awaiting its crescendo.


    Among the privileged ears to listen to my scheme are none other than my mother and father. I make my announcement during breakfast. As expected, their reaction was one of profound silence, devoid of verbal expression. My father, seated across from me, fixates his unblinking, glossy eyes upon my own. Although he no longer possesses the ability to articulate his thoughts, I am intimately familiar with the very words that my father would have voiced. His counsel would have been: ¡°Preserve what you love before it erodes with time.¡±


    Meanwhile, my dear mother, seated beside him, casts upon me an adoring gaze through the tangle of overgrown marigolds, partially obscuring her own gleaming eyes. She would undoubtedly nod in concurrence and regurgitate his words verbatim.


    Before leaving the house, I dutifully attend to the essential task of tending to their needs. I pick up the watering can and pour its contents over my mother¡¯s head. The water cascades over the marigolds, traversing their delicate petals, and meandering, much like tears, along her pallid cheeks. Later, I apply a touch of rosy blush to her visage, imbuing her countenance with a renewed vitality, as though life itself is coursing through her veins once more.


    I give her a tender peck on the cheek, and in that moment, I swear I see the emergence of a smile on her vermilion lips. Then, I stride over to my father¡¯s side, and extend my hand to clasp his own. Although his hand lacks human warmth, the contact is met with an undeniable sensation¡ªa texture of coarse and unyielding leathery skin, etched with the passage of time. I apply a cream to his skin, smoothing out the creases and wrinkles, followed by a touch of blush to his cheeks, aiming to infuse vitality and vibrancy into his complexion.


    Our quiet daily ritual, however, is disrupted by an onslaught of text messages assaulting my phone, causing it to shriek incessantly. The dark patrons, gripped by panic, are reacting to the announcement I sent out the previous night regarding my final artistic endeavor. All of them now implore me, with desperate pleas, to conceive yet another masterpiece that will serve as a mesmerizing centerpiece in their opulent residences or extravagant establishments.


    Some boldly inquire about acquiring my ultimate artwork for their personal possession, accompanied by a handsome sum destined for my designated beneficiary. Among the throng, a few individuals express an ardent desire to bear witness to the sacred rites of my creative process. However, I choose to disregard them all and reach out to the sole person in whom I have placed my unwavering trust, and whom I¡¯ve mentored for years, preparing them for the day they will ascend to my throne¡ªmy apprentice.


    ¡°How sure are you that you want to go through with this?¡± he asks.


    ¡°I¡¯m very sure. If I wait any longer, I¡¯m afraid that my essence will fade with time and then it¡¯ll be too late.¡±


    After our call ends, I say my goodbyes to my mother and father, subtly hinting at the possibility of our paths crossing again in the near future. Who¡¯s to say what lies beyond the veil of existence, for who knows if any semblance of this realm awaits on the other side. From a distance, I watch as the fire¡¯s ferocious tongues mercilessly consume my childhood home, their ravenous dance painting the sky with billowing columns of smoke.


    *****


    Despite the repugnant and savage nature of this world, I find myself yearning to relish each passing moment as I walk through the city''s intricate web of chic boutiques, exquisite dining establishments, and charming cafes, juxtaposed against occasional pockets of poverty. Within these pockets, the air carries pungent odors emanating from the unwashed bodies of the inhabitants seeking refuge in makeshift tents.


    Every passerby is a potential muse, yet my best subjects have been those rendered invisible by society. Sympathy for these creatures is a rarity, as most view them merely as an invasive species of rodent or opportunities to embellish their resumes through acts of charity. But I give the invisible visibility. I provide them with a sense of usefulness and meaning in life, even if their new purpose is to be used as mere aesthetic pieces adorning the walls of a private residence or the grand lobby of a hotel.


    Though I remain anonymous, my signature pervades every corner. My work elicits a range of emotions, from shock and disgust to, above all, awe. Even the most unsophisticated individuals can¡¯t resist the compulsion to touch and marvel at the blood and sweat infused into each crafted piece.


    My most recent masterpiece, a sculpted version of Botticelli''s "The Birth of Venus," has a captivating power that leaves me breathless every time I cast my gaze upon it in the grand entrance hall of the office tower. Visitors are compelled to photograph themselves in front of it, their eyes brimming with admiration and, perhaps, a subtle hint of desire for the naked marvel standing within the gaping mouth of a colossal clam, gracefully adrift in the fountain''s watery embrace.


    ¡°She¡¯s so lifelike,¡± I overhear a visitor remark. ¡°I wonder how the artist did it.¡±


    A smirk creeps across my face. If only they knew ¡­


    A deep sense of despondency engulfs me, knowing that, from this day forward, I will no longer be able to craft further manifestations of my art. I find solace in the knowledge that my apprentice will carry on the legacy. Upon arriving at the art studio on the 30th floor, I find that he is still in the middle of organizing the equipment needed for the immortalization process.


    Unexpectedly, an unfamiliar sentiment strikes my core with an overpowering wave of finality. I fling open the window curtains, allowing the panoramic vista of the metropolis to envelop my senses from the lofty vantage point. Oh, if only the world had one neck, that I might grasp it in its entirety and carry it alongside me.


    ¡°Shall we begin?¡± my apprentice asks, standing beside me, prepared with surgical gloves and a black vinyl apron. I can sense his eagerness to delve into the creative process. The utmost essential quality an artist must have is dedication¡ªto devote their entire being, both physically and spiritually.


    The first stage of preparation involves purifying the body by getting rid of impurities. Stepping into the hot shower, a jolt of excitement surges through me, eliciting a moan from my lips, as I anticipate my own immortalization. My moans resonate throughout the bathroom that had once been filled with the desperate cries and screams of my subjects.


    After the cleansing, I emerge into the work area, utterly exposed and pulsating with anticipation. My prot¨¦g¨¦ has transformed the room into a pristine surgical theater. While I¡¯m content with the setup, my senses are jarred by the unexpected intrusion of several figures gazing through the adjacent room¡¯s transparent barrier.


    ¡°I thought I made it clear to you that this is intended to be a private ritual,¡± I assert, my voice imbued with escalating tension.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°Yes, you did, but how I see it is that this ritual is now under my authority, and those present have invested a considerable sum to witness this significant occasion.¡±


    I glare at him; the mounting tension is about to shatter my composure. I thought that I could place my trust in him, having carefully scouted for an apprentice who closely resembled myself, both in terms of artistic philosophy and approach. Yet, it seems my judgment was mistaken. Now I¡¯ve no choice but to postpone the ritual and seek a replacement for this apprentice.


    My trembling hand reaches for the scalpel on the tray, but I¡¯m not quick enough. I¡¯m seized by a sudden, piercing sensation, as a sharp pointed object breaches the delicate flesh of my neck. The elixir''s potency takes hold without delay. A tingling sensation surges throughout my entire being. Muscles convulse, then surrender, relinquishing their strength, while my joints succumb to feebleness.


    My legs falter, and I collapse onto my side on the cold floor. My speech is stifled, rendered mute. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the apprentice, brandishing an empty syringe in his hand and a malicious grin on his face.


    *****


    I find myself unexpectedly positioned not on the surgical table, as I had originally planned, but rather on the dining table. I can''t whimper or even make the slightest wiggle of a toe. All I can do is breathe and gaze helplessly at the crystal chandelier above me, its intense white light blinding me. Suddenly, his silhouette appears, his smiling face and piercing blue eyes meeting mine.


    ¡°I don¡¯t feel sorry,¡± he begins, ¡°for disregarding your request. However, I believe that I will be doing you a tremendous favor by making some alterations to your plan. I know you wanted to be displayed, with your skin and all intact, beside your beloved Venus. At first, I found it to be a captivating notion. Yet, upon reflection, I realized that there is no better way to capture your essence than by allowing it to thrive within those who have dedicated themselves to helping you realize your creations.¡±


    He gestures for the dark patrons to take seats at the table. "I¡¯ve gathered you all here today to partake in a ceremony unlike any other. As you are aware, my master has decided to depart from our physical realm and wishes for his remains to be shown to the public as a statue of no value.


    ¡°While I deeply admire him as not only my mentor but also a father figure, having gained invaluable knowledge and honed my skills under his guidance, I respectfully disagree with his decision. In my view, it would be a disheartening reality for him to become a mere decorative trinket. So, how can we preserve his essence and continue his legacy? The answer is simple: we eat him; every piece of his flesh will live within us. So, let us commence the evening with a glass of white wine and some ass.¡±


    The dark patrons laugh and applause, their voices intertwining in a crescendo of excitement in a maddening debate, each vying to claim the delicate artifact that will grace their private gallery of body parts. In a single swift motion, my traitor severs my manhood and dangles it before the enthused guests, proclaiming a victor once someone answers a trivial question correctly.


    The apprentice then maneuvers me to a prone position with my face turned, giving me a glimpse of one of the guests. Instantly, I recognize her as the owner of the skinless statue of David ensconced within her foyer and the winner of my manhood. She catches my eye, and with a sardonic grin, holds out the severed object in front of my face, giving the tip a little kiss.


    The portly gentleman, donning a tuxedo, also has something belonging to me on his plate. It isn¡¯t a slice of my buttock; rather, one of my testicles is still enveloped in its skin. He seems a little disgusted and perplexed as to how to approach consuming it, and when the apprentice proposes eating it raw, his uncertainty only deepens.


    ¡°I can assure you that it¡¯s the best way to eat it,¡± says the apprentice. ¡°The testosterone hormones in that one sac alone will improve your stamina by tenfold. You¡¯ll feel young again! Alive!¡±


    Now, convinced by his words, the gentleman tears at the skin using his teeth and bites into the bloodied testicle, producing a crunching sound and filling my ears with the smacking of his lips.


    Amidst the hushed whispers of the dinner guests, the strident song of a blade gliding against the twin-prong meat-carving fork resonates in the air. A piercing agony shoots through my very being as the fork pierces my left cheek, while the blade deftly severs thin morsels from the fatty buttock.


    The guests dip the slices into a small stone pot brimming with boiling water, then they savor the morsel and complement it with a sip of white wine. I overhear their praises of the meat, how succulent, sweet and tangy it is. They¡¯re craving for more. The apprentice readily complies and even tells them an anecdote of how he came to acquire a taste for human flesh. The dark patrons lean in with great interest.


    ¡°I was sent out by my master to search for another subject,¡± he begins, ¡°and you know, he prefers the derelicts, and so I scouted for one where most of these creatures gather at night¡ªthe grand park. At that time, food was scarce for them as many of the food banks had shut down. Imagine my surprise when I entered the park, I smelled smoked meat in the air, and I came across a market at the center.


    ¡®They were grilling meat over a fire using barrels as grills. The smell made my mouth water and my stomach grumble. Since I had skipped supper that night, I succumbed to temptation and bought one skewered meat. To my surprise, it tasted wonderful, and I devoured it in seconds. Curious, I asked about how they came to get the meat, considering it was a luxury they couldn¡¯t afford. They explained that their hunger had driven them to unsavory means to survive. They killed and ate one of their own.¡±


    The dark patrons gasp and cry out, ¡°Animals!¡±


    The apprentice chuckles. ¡°But my dear sirs and madams, is it any different to what we¡¯re doing now?¡±


    ¡°Of course, it is!¡± they respond, indignantly.


    Knowing better than to argue with them, he nods in agreement with them. ¡°Of course, you¡¯re right. The meat you¡¯re being served is clean and of the finest quality. Yes, I know the younger the better, but an aged one has a unique taste of its own. It all depends on class and diet. Because my master lived in luxury, thanks to your patronage, his diet consisted of the best and most nutritious food.¡±


    Once they¡¯ve finished the buttocks, I am flipped onto my back, and the process of cutting the abdomen open begins, starting from just below the belly button to my Adam¡¯s apple. The guests emit ecstatic squeals of delight, their eyes look on in amazement upon the pulsating heart nestled within the rib cage. They engage once again in heated contention, vying to claim possession of the heart or to consume it themselves.


    Meanwhile, searing pain relentlessly swallows me whole, striking repeatedly like a mighty wave that pulls you into its depths. The chandelier above, which once glimmered, now dims, gently swaying from side to side. Its crystals, stained with my blood, drip silently. The light slips away despite my desperate attempt to hold onto it tightly. Then, I find myself immersed in utter darkness.


    Cold and alone.


    And gradually, oh so gradually, the pain becomes a numbing sensation.


    *****


    A boy trails behind his parents as they leisurely explore the art exhibit that they¡¯ve forced him to attend. First, they take the obligatory family picture in front of the fountain featuring Venus gracefully perched up in the mouth of a clam. Her pale skin has a softness to it, and her somber eyes, gazing down at him, seem to possess life. Both his parents and the other visitors find the statue fascinating, and the fact that the artist responsible for its creation is cloaked in mystery, further enhancing its allure.


    That¡¯s the only thing of interest he has come across thus far in the exhibit. All the other paintings and sculptures by different artists strive for a minimalist and abstract aesthetic, but they pale in comparison to the fountain.


    Bored, he decides to break free and explore on his own, yearning to stumble upon something captivating, something he could play with. Suddenly, his attention is seized by a peculiar sight: an enigmatic, white tree with a wax replica¡ªa man¡¯s figure, or rather, just the upper torso of a man¡ªcrucified upon it.


    Despite the immediate fear that grips the boy¡¯s heart upon witnessing the sculpture, he summons the courage to take a step forward and examine it more closely. The closer he inches towards it; the growing unease intensifies as he takes in the unsettling sight before him. The figure¡¯s ribs laid bare, eye sockets sunken, and mouth frozen open, mimicking a scream, devoid of teeth, gums, and tongue. Marigolds sprout from the exposed crown of his head. And instead of arms, twisted and gnarled ivory branches protrude from the torso.


    The sign beside the sculpture reads: A tree taken from the Woods of the Self-Murderers, artist unknown.


    The display attracts several more people, who gaze upon it with a mix of disgust, fascination, and curiosity. However, their attention is soon diverted by the sight of waiters circulating with trays of complimentary meaty appetizers on elegant silver platters. Each visitor eagerly seizes one and devours it, while the boy refrains from instantly eating his portion. He raises the skewered meat to his nose and inhales its aroma before indulging in a small nibble.


    As he gazes back at the morbid display, an inexplicable sense of connection overwhelms him, as though he has ingested a fragment of it and its essence now courses through his veins.

 The Town with No Name (Three Sisters Tavern)

    There exists a nameless town in the valley somewhere in the most southwestern part of California. If you were to go look for it during the day, you wouldn¡¯t have any luck in finding it. Only under the dark shroud of nightfall does this accursed settlement reveal itself to those unfortunate souls who chance upon its dread-strewn road.


    I grew up listening to the tales woven by those who claimed to have been there. Their narratives recounted encounters with apparitions, cryptic beings, and strange celestial phenomena that defied the limits of known human ingenuity. While these stories enthralled me, even occasionally giving me nightmares, the passage of time wore away their prominence, and they slipped into the recesses of my mind, forgotten.


    That is until I was assigned to patrol the area. It was early morning when I started my shift. In the first hour, nothing much happened. The place was quiet and boring, and the summer heat made it even worse. But then, things took an interesting turn when I spotted a man wandering along the road that led to the valley.


    At that moment, I pulled over and interrogated him. His clothes were disheveled and torn. He appeared bewildered and was sunburned, showing signs of dehydration, and he had a few scratches on his face and arms.


    With a voice trembling in fear and desperation, all he said was, ¡°Get me away from here! Far, far, far away!¡±


    I escorted him into my patrol car and drove to the station. There, I got him some water while the nurse attended to his minor wounds. Once he had calmed down and seemed more willing to talk, I went ahead and questioned him again. I took out a recorder and asked him to give me details of the previous day¡¯s events.


    First, he gave me the basic information about himself. His name was Arthur, and he flew down from Sacramento to San Diego for a conference.


    What he shared with me brought back those tales about the mysterious town I¡¯ve heard in my childhood. This time, instead of finding excitement in the story, I felt a mixture of disbelief and annoyance. I couldn¡¯t help but suspect that he was pulling my leg! The fear etched on his face, however, told me that he was dead serious.


    His story was just one of the many crazy stories I would hear during my time on the force. I recorded the interviews and transcribed them to be posted online. Although I want others to learn about these phenomena, I honestly don¡¯t know what good it does to tell anyone when most people will mark you as a fool, a ¡°tinfoil nut job¡± or worse, a conspiracy theorist. A part of me hopes there¡¯s someone out there who believes. I suppose it¡¯s pointless, as well, to keep it all to yourself, letting it gradually drive you into madness.


    <h2 style="text-align: center">*****</h2>


    Arthur: After the conference, I decided to rent a car and take a short trip to Tijuana for a day before flying back home.


    Officer M: Oh, yeah? What did you do there?


    Arthur: Oh, you know, I drank a couple of beers and ate enough tacos to fill an elephant¡¯s stomach. What else do you need in life, am I right? I ended up staying in the city the whole day, and by the time I got to the US border, the sun was already going down. I think it was probably about 7:30 in the evening.


    Once I passed the checkpoint, I started to drive my way up to Chula Vista where I was staying at a friend¡¯s house. But I guess I must¡¯ve taken a wrong turn on the way. I continued driving on the road for quite some time¡ªI don¡¯t know how long, but it felt like more than twenty minutes. Eventually, I realized that I was the only one on that road. There was no traffic, and I don¡¯t remember seeing another driver pass by.


    My phone couldn¡¯t pick up any reception, not even a Wi-Fi signal. The night was pitch-black, and the car¡¯s headlights couldn¡¯t light more than a couple of feet ahead. And then, I saw lights in the distance.


    Officer M: Lights?


    Arthur: Yeah, lights. As I drove closer, I saw that they were lights of a neon sign belonging to a two-story bar called The Three Sisters.


    Officer M: The Three Sisters, huh. You know, I¡¯ve lived here all my life, and I¡¯ve never heard of a bar with that name. In fact, there aren¡¯t any businesses or people living in that area.


    Arthur: I¡¯m telling you that it exists. I was there.


    Officer M: Okay, okay, go on with your story.


    Arthur: The bar had two stories, like I mentioned. The second story was dark, but the first floor looked pretty lively from the outside. There were several cars parked in its lot. I felt very relieved at that moment. Finally, a sign of life! As I pulled up front and got out of the car, I could hear loud music and people talking. I went in to ask if I could use a phone and let him know my whereabouts.


    But the moment I stepped inside, the music and the chatting came to a dead stop. I felt likeI was a lamb that had stupidly wandered into a lion¡¯s den. My instincts told me to leave, and so I quickly returned to the car and stepped on the gas. But, after a few minutes of speeding on the road, I saw the bar again!


    Officer M: Are you sure it was the same bar?


    Arthur: I¡¯m very sure of it! It was the exact same one! Same music, same sign, and the same cars parked in the lot. I got the courage to go back into that bar again, this time asking for a phone. Oh boy, I could feel their stares just burning right into the back of my neck.


    Officer M: Tell me more about the people you saw there. Did anyone try to get in your face? Verbally or physically harass you?


    Arthur: No, but the atmosphere was, you know, heavy. It felt like the room was full of hungry animals. I noticed that the majority of the patrons were men, except for the bartender. She was the only one who welcomed me as I entered. She was a young lady, perhaps in her mid to late 20s, with long, straight black hair and a kind smile.


    Her name was Marie. She let me use the landline phone. What¡¯s even more strange is that it was a rotary phone. Now, that¡¯s an antique. I attempted to call my friend, but the call wouldn¡¯t fully connect. It would ring a few times, and then I would hear nothing but static on the other end of the line.


    I asked her if I could use her phone to look up my location because mine wasn¡¯t receiving any signal. She appeared confused and didn¡¯t seem to understand what I was saying. Instead, she insisted that I stay and have a drink, suggesting that it was late, and it would be better to wait until morning to figure things out. Reluctantly, I took a seat at the bar, thinking what I should do, while she poured me a shot of gin.


    ¡°On the house,¡± she said and then asked me if I was hungry. She mentioned that her sister, Linda, was the cook in the kitchen and could whip up a juicy burger in no time. But I wasn¡¯t hungry at all. My appetite was gone because of the stress caused by the unusual situation. Her other sister, Sarah, worked as a waitress. As it turned out, all three of them ran the bar, or rather, as they clarified, it was a tavern because the second floor served as lodging for travelers.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Officer M: How long were you at the bar? Did you end up staying overnight?


    Arthur: Yeah, I did. It was pretty late, almost midnight, I believe. Since I had several drinks, driving wasn¡¯t an option. Marie kindly offered me a room, assuring me that I didn¡¯t need to worry about the bill.


    ¡°On the house,¡± she said again, though I wouldn''t be the only one she would be extending the offer to. Another guy, who had also stumbled into the bar and seemed lost like me, was offered the same hospitality. He had been driving aimlessly on the same road until he spotted the bar. Marie gave him a drink and mentioned that she could provide him with a room for the night as well.


    Officer M: Free shots and a room. That¡¯s really kind of her. Too kind, to be honest. Why do you think you were offered drinks and a place to sleep, all for free? Isn¡¯t that suspicious, don¡¯t you think? I would assume she¡¯d want something in return.


    Arthur: She did. Her and her sisters.


    Officer M: What did they want?


    Arthur: Food, meaning us.


    Officer M: Cannibals?


    Arthur: I think they¡¯re something else.


    Officer M: Like what?


    Arthur: I don¡¯t know exactly. But I know that they¡¯re not human. Sarah escorted us to our rooms. As we made our way up the stairs, she kept sniffing us, trying to get close to our necks and inhaling deeply. I could see her salivate, and her eyes had an indescribable hunger in them.


    I thanked her for her and her sister¡¯s hospitality and went into my room, shutting the door behind me and ensuring it was locked. I ended up passing out on the bed. Later, a loud noise in the next room abruptly woke me up. It sounded like a struggle¡ªsomeone fighting for their life. It was brief, followed by a loud cry, and then absolute silence.


    Sleep and drunkenness left me. I was wide awake. Sober. My heart was beating out of my chest so hard, blood roared in my ears. I heard my neighbor¡¯s door creak open. There was the sound of footsteps and what sounded like something heavy being dragged across the floor. It paused at my door for a moment, sniffing, and then continued down the hall, dragging that heavy thing behind it, though I had this gut feeling it was that other poor guy...


    Officer M:  Did you see what it was that took the man?


    Arthur: Hell no! I held my breath and waited for it to pass by. I wanted to get the fuck out of there right away, but I didn¡¯t want to attract the sisters¡¯ attention. I tried the window. They had nailed it shut! I snuck out of the room. There was a trail of blood from the room next to mine, going all the way down the steps.


    I checked the window at the end of the hall. They had nailed it shut, too. It dawned on me that there was no way out but through the front door downstairs. As I went down the steps, there was an aroma in the air. The door leading to the kitchen was partially open and I saw the sisters standing by the stove. What made me sick, almost blacking out from shock, was the body on the kitchen counter.


    I heard them talking about me. They were planning to take me next. I was about to reach the front door when I accidentally stumbled into a chair and knocked over a table. I didn¡¯t look back to see if they were behind me. I already knew they were. I bolted out of there, got into my car, and started to reverse when one of the sisters suddenly appeared on the hood.


    It was Marie, and she started changing into some kind of creature... It looked like a humanoid bat!


    Officer M: A humanoid bat?


    Arthur: I know it sounds absolutely insane.


    Officer M: Yup, you¡¯re right, it¡¯s really insane. I think we¡¯re done here.


    Arthur: But I¡®m telling you what I saw was real! It¡¯s the truth!


    Officer M: Cannibalistic murderers I can believe, but someone transforming into a bat like Dracula? Seriously, you¡¯ve got to be fucking kidding me.


    Arthur: I swear I saw it. It had enormous wings that sprouted from her back, stretching out about ten feet wide!


    Officer M: Stop.


    Arthur: Her eyes glowed red, pulsating in their sockets, and they had a power that drew me in.


    Officer M: Sir, I¡¯ve heard enough.


    Arthur: But let me finish my story. I need someone to just listen to me. So, please, let me finish my story. You need to hear me out. You need to know what¡¯s out there. Your life may depend on it.


    Officer M: Alright, fine. Get on with it!


    Arthur: Okay, where was I? Oh, yes, Marie had transformed into a large bat. Then, without moving her lips, she spoke to me, her voice loud inside my head, urging me to turn off the engine and go back into the tavern. It was difficult to resist. I felt a force pulling my hand, inching it closer to the ignition and shutting off the car.


    But then, an instinct, as primal as it was powerful, jolted me back to reality. I stomped on the gas and drove off. The creature clung to the hood with relentless determination. I swerved the car from side to side, trying to throw off the creature. I ended up rolling into a ditch.


    The car! I can take you there. I¡¯ll show you! I know it¡¯s still there.


    *****


    Here, at this point in the interview, I switched off the recorder and drove us to the spot where Arthur had crashed. On the way there, I kept telling myself that it was likely Arthur was experiencing delusions. I figured he suffered from a head injury from the car incident and being stranded in the middle of nowhere for hours without food or water.


    Deep inside, however, there was a feeling of awful dread that he was telling the truth. The tales I had heard and the nightmares I had endured as a child were indeed real. The inexplicable nature of it all was undeniably terrifying.


    Arthur''s excitement nearly caused him to leap up as he pointed to a distant metal lump. As I drove us closer, the lump transformed into a more distinct shape¡ªa white car with its windshield completely shattered and the front hood crumpled, as if something heavy had sat upon it.


    I turned back on the recorder.


    *****


    Officer M: Okay, explain what happened here.


    Arthur: When I drove into the ditch, the creature was still on top of the hood, and it started to hammer the windshield with its fists. It finally broke through the glass, the only thing that had been protecting me, and grabbed me by the front of my shirt.


    I managed to break free¡ªyou can see here; my shirt is ripped¡ªand I crawled out of the car. I started running. I didn¡¯t know where I was going. The darkness seemed to seep into my bones, clouding my judgment.


    And then I heard its wail and the flapping of its wings. Loud and thunderous. My god, it was the most terrifying sound I¡¯ve ever heard. It sounded like the screams of tortured souls echoing from the bowels of hell. I didn¡¯t look behind me. I kept running until I came across a small town, and there were people walking on the streets.


    Officer M: A town? There¡¯s no town here. As you can see, it¡¯s all empty. Just grassy fields for miles.


    Arthur: What I saw was real. The people there weren¡¯t...


    Officer M: Weren¡¯t what?


    Arthur: They weren¡¯t human, not by any stretch of the imagination. Their red eyes pierced through the darkness, giving off an unholy, sinister glow. Just pure evil. But it was their teeth that really terrified me.


    Their mouths held razor-sharp fangs. Their tongues slithered from their mouths, elongated and forked like snakes in the grass. Each flick of their tongues seemed to taste the very air, seeking out something unseen. And then I felt their eyes on me. They looked at me with that same hunger I¡¯d seen in the tavern from the patrons. That¡¯s when I realized that some of them were the ones from the tavern.


    Officer M: And somehow you survived the night? How did that happen?


    Arthur: Dawn. The sun started coming up. The town and the creatures all just evaporated into thin air. The only evidence of what happened is the wrecked car and me. Believe me or not. I don¡¯t care.


    I know what happened, and I¡¯ll be forever haunted by it.

 The Town with No Name (The Wandering Ghoul)

    Not long after my encounter with Arthur, a new case landed in my lap: Gabriela Borges. Mr. and Mrs. Borges came into the station. The Borges were an affluent family living in a recently gentrified area within the San Ysidro district, just a short drive from the border. Both seemed sleep-deprived, their clothes wrinkled and disheveled, while Mrs. Borges''s eyes were bloodshot and puffy.


    Each time she tried to say something, her words would get caught in her throat, and she began sobbing on her husband''s shoulder. Mr. Borges was also at a loss for words, his tired eyes were fixed on a spot on the wall behind me. It took a solid five minutes for Mrs. Borges''s cries to subside. After taking a sip of water and wiping away the tears, unintentionally smudging her mascara, she finally gathered herself and found her voice: "Our daughter, Gabby, is missing."


    I began typing up the details of her story, assuring her that I would do everything I could to help them find their daughter. A glimmer of hope flickered across their faces when I mentioned that I had previously dealt with a couple of missing person cases and had successfully located them unharmed. However, in both instances, they were young children who had run away following a disagreement with their families. I was sure of myself that the Borges family would be a similar case.


    Gabriela Borges, a vibrant nineteen-year-old college student, was back home for the summer, helping out her parents at their restaurant, Borges Cucina. I had dined there a couple of times myself and recalled the remarkable waitress whose welcoming and cheerful demeanor always made customers feel at home. When I realized the missing person was that kind server, my heart sank into my stomach.


    The other night, after closing the restaurant, Gabriela didn''t return home. She was expected to be home by 10. Mrs. Borges anxiously paced around the living room, occasionally glancing out the window, hoping to see Gabriela''s car pulling into the driveway. But she never arrived. Mrs. Borges made over five phone calls to Gabriela''s phone and sent a dozen texts, all of which had gone unanswered.


    Early in the following morning, Mr. Borges rushed to the restaurant and reviewed the security camera footage that overlooked the parking lot. He felt a sense of despair as he observed nothing unusual that could provide any insight into what might have happened to his beloved daughter or where she could have gone. Nevertheless, there was a small detail that caught his attention, which he believed could potentially be a clue. He knew he needed the assistance of another person with expert analysis skills to thoroughly examine the video.


    I agreed to stop by their business later that day to review the footage. The first thing I saw on the screen was Gabriela getting into her car, which was the only vehicle parked on the lot, but Mr. Borges insisted there was something else present, and he pointed to a spot in the background. After manipulating the brightness on the video, I was able to discern the silhouette of a tall and lanky man standing perfectly still in the dark background nearby the trees. Once Gabriela drove away, the shadow darted at great speed across the lot in the same direction as the car and vanished off camera.


    I rewound the footage and paused it on the man mid-dash. Mrs. Borges, whose face had turned white, was the one who instantly recognized him.


    ¡°That¡¯s Mr. Fish,¡± she gasped.


    ¡°Who is he?¡± I asked.


    Mr. Borges¡¯s face also paled. ¡°He¡¯s one of our most loyal customers.¡±


    Both witnesses described Mr. Fish as tall and thin, estimating his age to be around 60, and they noted his grayish complexion, which gave him a sickly appearance. He frequented Borges Cucina every day at lunchtime, except on Thursdays when the restaurant was closed. Mr. Fish would enter the restaurant wearing a well-fitted dark gray suit, complemented by a matching bowler hat.


    His regular order was a carne asada burrito, and he downed it with a refreshing glass of ice-cold water. However, Mr. Fish had an unusual eating habit. He wouldn''t simply pick up the burrito and eat it with the tortilla wrapping. Instead, he would delicately tear it open with a knife and fork, savoring only the raw meat inside.


    ¡°Raw meat?¡± I said, raising a brow.


    Mrs. Borges nodded. She vividly recalled that Mr. Fish requested to be served only raw meat, as he claimed to have a dietary issue related to cooked meat. Other than his strange food preference, he was polite, settling his bills exclusively in cash and giving the servers generous tips, often amounting to double the total bill. Gabriela appreciated his generosity, although it did raise some suspicions in her mind.


    While I reassured the Borges that I would find their daughter as soon as possible, my ability to track Mr. Fish down was hindered. The Borges family, unfortunately, had never learned his first name, and the only information I had was his surname and estimated age. Exhausting all available public resources, including scrutinizing social media pictures, I reached a frustrating dead end. None of the individuals with the matching surname seemed to be our elusive Mr. Fish. It was almost as if he didn''t exist. Moreover, since Gabriela''s disappearance, he had abruptly stopped frequenting the restaurant altogether.


    Desperate and filled with despair, the Borges reached out to the local news, pleading with the public to provide any information about Mr. Fish. Their plea resonated with several individuals who came forward as witnesses. They reported having seen a man wearing a distinctive bowler hat. Their encounters took place during daylight hours, with sightings of him hitchhiking along the sidewalk.


    One of the witnesses made the bold decision to offer Mr. Fish a ride. The witness asked him where he was heading, and the aged gray man cryptically replied, "To the valley yonder." However, upon reaching the designated location, the man inexplicably vanished into thin air, leaving no trace behind.


    I asked the witness to give me the location of where he had driven Mr. Fish. Along with a group of search and rescue volunteers, we set off to the valley where we found only an expansive field covered in tall, withered grass. After wandering for about a couple of miles, we came across an abandoned two-story house with Gabriela¡¯s empty car parked in front of it. Not far from the location were three other decrepit buildings¡ªa school, a church, a grocery shop and a few saloons. None of the volunteers, even the local historian, could recall the name of the small town that had once existed in the area.


    The house stood desolate and devoid of life. Within its walls, rusted and broken furniture lay scattered, serving as remnants of a forgotten era. Cobwebs adorned the corners while mold thrived, claiming the walls as its territory. Insects scuttled, finding refuge in the crevices of the deteriorating structure, their presence lending an eerie vitality to the lifeless surroundings. An unsettling odor permeated the air, its pungency almost suffocating me. Disgusted, the volunteers ran out of the house, coughing and gagging. Only I stayed, covering my nose and mouth with a handkerchief.


    I searched every room, and in the bedroom, my eyes fell upon a wardrobe. I cautiously opened its doors and found a moth-eaten suit and a tattered, dusty bowler hat. Determined to gather any potential evidence, I collected the clothing and took them back to the station for further analysis, though the police captain believed it was a useless effort. Indeed, he was right. There was neither blood nor other bodily fluids, not even a strand of hair, to analyze and use as proof that Mr. Fish was involved in Gabriela¡¯s disappearance.


    Days stretched into weeks, and weeks turned into months, with no new leads emerging from our efforts, until one day the Borges received a handwritten letter from none other than Mr. Fish. The address from where it was sent simply read: the valley yonder.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    The letter spanned a few pages, unraveling the unbelievable tale of his life, his harrowing journeys across North America in the past one hundred and forty years, and the string of murders he claimed to have committed for his own survival. Each line revealed a chilling narrative of darkness.


    It was difficult to believe. It had to be some kind of sick joke. This man was delusional. Insane.


    As the family reached the last page, their hearts were torn apart by anguish. There, in haunting detail, was an account of Mr. Fish''s encounter with Gabriela on that fateful night. Mr. Borges couldn¡¯t bring himself to finish reading it and handed the letter over to me. He wanted nothing to do with it, as it served as a repulsive reminder of his daughter¡¯s tragic fate, intensifying the profound pain that had settled within the family.


    The letter¡¯s contents left me feeling nauseous and disturbed. I sealed it in a secure box and stored it within the station''s vault in the basement. However, its haunting words continued to torment me relentlessly. For weeks, it invaded my thoughts, infiltrated my dreams, and startled me awake in the dead of night, drenched in sweat.


    Then, one morning, as I was abruptly awoken from yet another nightmare, a surge of determination coursed through me. Instead of fear, a renewed resolve took hold. I knew that I had to track down and bring justice to Mr. Fish.


    I returned to the dark abandoned house. This time, I drove to the valley after the sun had gone down. When I reached the house, I saw the light emitting from a kerosene lamp, casting an eerie glow on the second floor. The striking silhouette of a tall and lanky man stretched across the wall.


    I¡¯d be lying to myself if I said I wasn¡¯t scared shitless.


    Despite the overwhelming sense of terror that gripped me, I stepped out of the car and cautiously approached the house. Aware of the gravity of the situation, I activated my bodycam, ensuring that every moment was captured for documentation. My trembling hand instinctively sought the comforting grip of my gun, while the other retrieved a small flashlight from my back pocket.


    The front door stood wide open, inviting me into the unknown depths of the house. As I crossed the threshold, a palpable sense of foreboding enveloped me, as if multiple unseen entities lingered in the shadows, held at bay by the piercing beam of my flashlight. I climbed up the stairs, each creaking step amplifying the tension in the air. Arriving on the second floor, my eyes shot towards the partially open door of the master bedroom.


    That was the last thing I saw that night, and when I woke up, I thought I had escaped from another nightmare, and nothing had happened. However, waking up in a hospital bed hooked up to machines and wrapped in bandages, told me otherwise. As soon as the nurse saw me awake, the doctor was called in, followed by my anxious wife, who entered along with my parents.


    They filled me in on what had happened. According to them, I¡¯d been in a coma for two weeks. Since I hadn''t reported back to the station that night, the police captain immediately dispatched a search team. They discovered my patrol car flipped over, with me still inside, kept in place by the seat belt.


    I was in rough shape. My body was scratched up, a nasty gash down my back, and a broken femur. If I had been found an hour later, I¡¯d have been dead from blood loss. Before I had lost consciousness, I tried to tell them what I had encountered, but they mistook it as nonsensical babbling, a result from a possible head injury.


    The captain visited a couple of days later to inform me that he had reviewed my bodycam footage. He saw the ruins of a bedroom and a kerosene lamp sitting on a table. He believed that I was alone in the room and speculated that the Borges case had taken a toll on my psyche, leading me to imagine things.


    I sat up quickly in the bed, wincing as my body protested against my sudden movement. I was ready to tell him that I hadn¡¯t been alone in the house. I had seen something, but I just couldn¡¯t remember what it was. He gestured for me to let him finish.


    After zooming in and tweaking the brightness on the footage, what he saw in the video baffled him. He didn¡¯t see Mr. Fish. Instead, he had noticed a large shadow on the wall, cast by the flame of the lamp. At first, the captain was inclined to dismiss it as a mere shadow of one of the room''s pieces of furniture. But then, he heard it speak.


    ¡°I need to see it,¡± I said.


    ¡°Are you sure you want to do that?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to see it, but I need to do it.¡±


    He retrieved the video camera from his pocket and switched it on, handing it over to me.


    *****


    [I rushed into the bedroom and aimed my gun at the long shadow by the window.]


    Officer M: You¡¯re going to die right here, right now!


    Entity: [Static] [Laughter]


    Officer M: Don¡¯t come closer! Step back! I said step back!


    [I pulled the trigger. Two shots fired.]


    [The shadow recoiled then shifted, its shape resembling the figure of a young woman]


    Entity: [Gabriela¡¯s voice] You shot me. Why did you do that?


    Officer M: No¡­ no¡­ you¡¯re not here. You¡¯re not real.


    Entity: [Gabriela¡¯s voice, laughing] Oh, don¡¯t you want me, officer? I saw the way you looked at me when you came into the restaurant.


    Officer M: Don¡¯t. Come. Closer. You¡¯re not real.


    Entity: [Gabriela¡¯s voice] But I¡¯m here right now. Touch me.


    [The shadow enveloped me.]


    Officer M: No...


    [Two more shots fired]


    Entity: [roared]


    [The shadow returned to its former long shape. Mr. Fish.]


    [I ran out of the room and flew down the flight of stairs. I climbed into the car. Slammed the door shut. The car hummed alive, and I stepped on the gas]


    [Darkness consumed the screen.]


    [The sound of metal crumbling resounded.]


    *****


    I thrust the camera back into the captain¡¯s hands.


    The memory of that night rushed me all at once:


    I peeked through the door and discovered Mr. Fish standing by the window. His posture was hunched, with arms and legs unnaturally elongated like those of a daddy long spider. Folds of gray, wrinkled skin hung loosely on his lanky, naked frame. What startled me wasn¡¯t his lack of clothing; rather, it was his solid black eyes and wide grin that stretched from ear to ear. His grin revealed two razor-yellow fangs while a long tubular tongue slithered out.


    As I fired another two bullets into the creature''s chest, it remained unfazed. It showed no signs of pain. Then, to my astonishment, it transformed into Gabriela. In that split second, my body froze, unable to comprehend the surreal sight before me. Slowly, she advanced, her hand outstretched, poised to graze my face. Her voice, a beguiling siren''s call, encircled me, ensnaring my senses and luring me into her embrace. But I broke free from the trance and swiftly unleashed two more shots. The creature jerked back, visibly enraged.


    I sprinted out of the bedroom, descending the stairs as swiftly as my legs would allow, conscious not to stumble. Reaching the car, I wasted no time sliding behind the wheel and igniting the engine. Without hesitation, I pressed my foot down on the gas pedal, propelling the vehicle forward, steadily increasing the speed.


    40mph...45mph...50mph...60mph.


    The feeble glow of the headlights struggled to pierce beyond a few feet ahead. Suddenly, there was relentless pounding against the windows, imprinting ghostly handprints across the glass. Laughter and giggles echoed around me, emanating from invisible entities that encircled the car.


    And then, a colossal presence landed atop the roof with a resounding thud, denting the sturdy metal. And there it was, right before my eyes, plastered onto the windshield¡ª Mr. Fish, with his oversized black orbs staring into my soul and his ghastly grin, stretching impossibly wide.

 The Town with No Name (Mr. Fishs Letter)

    <h2 style="text-align: justify">Dear Mr. and Mrs. Borges, </h2>


    In 1892, in New York City, a young coachman and a socialite fell in love and eloped to the former''s small hometown in Massachusetts. I was born as a result of this affair, but our quiet and happy family life would be short-lived. My mother succumbed to an unknown illness a year after my birth. Her death was slow and wretched.


    During that time, the New England region was plagued by fear stemming from a phenomenon wherein the deceased supposedly returned from their graves to afflict the living, draining their lifeblood in a quest for eternal life.


    My mother had all the telltale signs of this disease¡ªgray skin, hallucinations, and the obvious of all, an insatiable thirst for blood. Fearing the worst, the villagers exhumed her corpse, subjecting it to the ritualistic burning of her heart and other vital organs, before the ultimate act of removing her head.


    My father couldn''t cope with her death. Consequently, he neglected my well-being, failing to feed me and clean me, leaving me abandoned in my crib without a single human touch. My endless screaming tormented the neighbor, who, driven to madness, forcefully entered the house. Upon discovering my frail self on the brink of death, she also stumbled upon the lifeless body of my father suspended mid-air, gently swaying back and forth, a rope tightly wound around his neck, anchored to a supporting beam in the ceiling.


    As my relatives on my father''s side were too impoverished to take on the responsibility of feeding another mouth, I was sent off to New York City to be cared for by my wealthy maternal grandmother. She hated me with a passion. I figured her intense animosity came from her disapproval of my parents'' union, as she regarded my father''s social standing as significantly inferior to her own.


    In her eyes, my existence was a constant reminder of their ill-fated and ill-matched marriage. She also held the belief that I had been responsible for my mother¡¯s death and that there was a monster that lay dormant in my bones. She was wary of being around me and avoided me as much as she could. Despite this, she fulfilled the fundamental obligations of care, ensuring that I received a respectable education, the assistance of a nanny, and an abundance of books. She also arranged for private lessons in tennis, music, and art to occupy my time.


    Aside from the deaths of both my parents, my childhood was uneventful until I reached my late adolescent years. The monster that I mentioned lying dormant in my bones...well, Grandmother wasn¡¯t far from the truth.


    I fell deathly ill and was bedridden for weeks. When the doctors thought I was near death, Grandmother initiated funeral preparations and pleaded with them to show me mercy by putting me into a deep sleep from which I would never awaken. Beneath the remorseful tone of her voice, there lay a hidden layer of relief and joy. Much to her disappointment, however, I survived.


    As I gradually regained my strength, something deep within me stirred, and an insatiable hunger took hold. No amount of food could appease this voracious craving. What I craved was flesh... human flesh.


    A mere taste of it had been inadvertently granted to me when my nanny sliced their finger while preparing supper. The scent wafted through the air, irresistibly drawing me closer. My mouth watered, and I found myself unable to resist the primal urge within me.


    I took a small bite of her finger, and in response, she screamed and slapped me. However, I didn''t let go; instead, I clung on tightly. My teeth sank into her hand, and I savored the delicious flow of her blood down my throat. The commotion in the kitchen caught Grandmother''s attention, and she burst into the room, prepared to scold us for the noise. However, she froze in the doorway, petrified by the shocking scene that unfolded before her eyes.


    By that time, I had consumed the nanny''s entire hand, and she lay on the floor, cradling her wound, as a growing pool of blood formed around her. I knelt down like a thirsty animal and lapped up the blood.


    Before Grandmother could strike me with the knife she had picked up from the counter, she suddenly collapsed, her body convulsing violently. Moments later, after the seizure had subsided, she found herself paralyzed. Her mouth remained twisted open, incapable of closing without my assistance.


    The gaze in Grandmother''s eyes revealed an escalated animosity towards me, coupled with a profound fear, as she realized she was entirely at my mercy. It wouldn''t be until years later that I learned that it was a stroke which had left her immobile except for eating and moving her eyes. She would spend the remaining years of her life confined to her bed. As for the nanny, I did what I believed was the best decision at the time¡ªI compassionately sent her to be with her god. Her body provided me enough sustenance to satiate the hunger.


    You may be wondering why I let Grandmother live, despite her obvious disdain for me. While going through her legal documents, I discovered that I wasn''t the sole heir to her fortunes; instead, she intended to donate it all to the orphanages.


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    It''s ironic, isn''t it? How could this frail-looking old wench be so generous to orphans, yet so cold-hearted towards her own orphaned grandson? I made arrangements to correct her legal documents, guiding her hand to forge her signature. Once all the required paperwork was signed and sealed, there was no need for her to continue suffering. After her death, I became one of the wealthiest young men in the city.


    You must be wondering where I¡¯m going with this? And what does this have to do with your dearest Gabriela? I promise I¡¯ll get to that point in my story. First, I want you to understand who I am... what I am.


    Since the day I had changed into this ¡­ being... I couldn¡¯t rely solely on food that humans eat; I needed fresh blood. Raw flesh. How did I go about acquiring it? Well, to pay tribute to the old wench, I made arrangements for the orphanages to receive a generous monthly stipend in return for providing three well-behaved children every quarter of the year. The nuns overseeing the orphanages readily agreed, as they were burdened with an abundance of unwanted children.


    Word of my generosity quickly spread, warming the hearts of many who were touched by the idea of one of New York''s most esteemed gentlemen taking the pitiful orphans under his care. It was seen as a noble and charitable act, offering the orphans a small advantage in life. This perception served me well, as everyone remained oblivious to my true intentions.


    My lambs, that was what I called the children¡ªsuch delicacies they were. However, I didn''t immediately eat them. I learned that the stress and fear inflicted upon a person tainted the flesh, rendering its taste too bitter for my palate. No matter how much I drank or rinsed my mouth, the unpleasant flavor persisted.


    And so, in the first few weeks of their stay with me, the three selected lambs would encounter luxuries and comforts beyond their wildest dreams. Once their guards were down and hope glimmered in their eyes, I would pluck them off, one by one. The taste of their tender, sweet meat surpassed that of an adult''s.


    How did I explain their disappearance? I didn¡¯t need to. And who cared to know? No one, except for one of the nuns who would occasionally inquire about the orphans under my mentorship. I assured her that they were embarking on world travels, experiencing the finest things that life had to offer. As expected, upon receiving another generous donation, she ceased her inquiries. Nonetheless, I remained diligent in keeping my gastronomic pursuits hidden from prying eyes.


    There was one child whom I spared, a peculiar little girl who caught me in the act. Instead of fleeing in fright, she boldly entered my feeding chamber and eagerly lapped up the blood that pooled around the lifeless body. She thirsted for it, just as I had on that fateful occasion when I first tasted it.


    This, of course, pleasantly surprised me, as I had never encountered another like myself. Her name was Sarah. She was born prematurely when her mother succumbed to the same illness that took my own mother. Thus, she too harbored the same monstrous affliction in her bones. I treated her as if she were my own flesh and blood. And in truth, she was. She was of my kind.


    Although I loved the girl so dearly, Sarah proved to be challenging to control. Her insatiable hunger surpassed my own, demanding a greater number of victims. As time passed, the nun grew suspicious and eventually reported her concerns to the police, though their response was lackluster, yielding no action or intervention. However, everything changed when my neighbor, Mrs. Pendleton, ventured out in search of her missing poodle, only to witness Sarah indulging in a macabre feast upon the lifeless creature.


    I feared that our lives would unravel, so I hastily packed our bags, and together we fled the city. Boarding the train bound for Chicago, and subsequently transferring to another destined for Los Angeles, we sought refuge in the anonymity of these grand locomotives. However, with each passing mile, my nerves became increasingly frayed. Paranoia gripped me tightly, rendering me on edge and dreadfully agitated.


    Sarah, my once-prot¨¦g¨¦, had spiraled beyond my capacity of control. There¡¯d been a few passengers who¡¯d gone missing or found dead, which immediately prompted authorities to investigate. And so, I did what I had to do to ensure my survival¡ªI ate her.


    For decades, I wandered alone, never encountering another being like myself again. But then, one fateful day, I crossed paths with a young woman whose beauty evoked memories of my beloved Sarah. Intrigued, I surreptitiously trailed her, eventually leading me to your restaurant. Who was this young lady I¡¯m speaking of? None other than your dearest Gabriela.


    She possessed a gentle spirit, always willing to lend a helping hand to those in need. One particular night, her true kindness shone through. I found myself wandering the darkened road on foot, lost in the shadows. It was then that she appeared, pulling her car alongside me and rolling down her window. With genuine concern, she asked if I needed a ride. Her compassionate gaze touched my heart, and I gratefully accepted her offer, expressing my desire to reach my humble home nestled in the valley.


    I regret to inform you that there are no remains for you to retrieve for a proper burial. I had drained every drop of blood from her veins and ate her flesh, relishing the succulent meat and rich fat. Even the bones did not escape my voracious appetite, as I sucked out every trace of marrow.


    If it is any comfort, Gabriela''s soul now lives within me. You can see her. Come to the valley yonder.


    Sincerely yours,


    Fish

 The Town with No Name: The Lights in the Lake

    Although I was still shaken from my encounter with Mr. Fish, I went straight back to work after being discharged from the hospital. I could¡¯ve taken a few weeks off, but I hated sitting at home doing nothing, feeling restless and twiddling my thumbs. No sooner had I returned to the station, without even a minute to brew a steaming pot of coffee, a call came through about a disturbance by the lake in the valley.


    No surprises there, I thought. Well, at least this time it was happening during the day, so that''s something.


    I hopped in my patrol car and made my way to the location. When I got there, I was greeted by a sight of several vans, cars, and tents set up near the lake. It seemed like with the rent skyrocketing every year, people had resorted to camping here and there in the valley, although camping was prohibited in this area.


    As I approached the scene, I noticed a group of people were gathered at the edge of the lake, their fingers pointing towards two mysterious lumps floating on the water''s surface. Among the crowd, a woman''s piercing wails cut through the tense air.


    Looking through my binoculars, I saw that those two lumps were bodies. Immediately, I called in for help. Twenty minutes later, an ambulance arrived along with a small coast guard team hauling a boat in their truck. They rowed the boat as fast as they could and retrieved the bodies.


    Two young men. Both were long gone. Judging by the bluish pale skin of one of the bodies and the circumstance that he was discovered in, you could safely assume that he had drowned. But nothing could explain the dark red fractal pattern branched out across his chest, as if he¡¯d been struck with lightning.


    The second body was a different story. Part of his face seemed to have turned gelatinous. His jaw had vanished, leaving a hollow void in its place. The left side of his naked form had suffered a similar fate, with his arm, leg, and a good chunk of his abdomen now absent. His entrails hung out from the cavity like tentacles.


    ¡°Let the coroner figure that one out,¡± said one of the paramedics.


    The corpses were zipped up in black body bags and carefully loaded into the ambulance, while their grieving parents followed closely behind. The sobbing woman, however, pleaded with the coast guards not to leave.


    There was one more person out in the lake, a third boy who happened to be her son. He was only seventeen. But they found no other body, and they were reluctant to send rescue divers into what they had dubbed ¡°the Black Hole.¡± The mission to save one boy in the Black Hole was too dangerous. Too expensive.


    It got its name when a group of researchers had tried to measure its depth and map its topography using sonar. They shot a sound wave to the bottom and counted the time for how long it would take for an echo to return. Only there was no echo. They repeated their attempts multiple times, growing increasingly weary, but no luck. Eventually they gave up. It seemed like neither light nor sound could penetrate its depths. Just like a black hole in space.


    Although no one knew how deep the lake was, most locals knew how dangerous it could be. Yet, no one ever heeded the red warning sign that was posted: Do Not Enter. Danger.


    There were reports of divers disappearing into the Black Hole, never to resurface. Several eyewitnesses, most from the tent settlements, reported having seen something, like an aircraft, emerge from the water at night. And others had seen balls of light swirling around its surface then jumping out and vanishing into the atmosphere at impossible speed.


    There was one account that had caught my interest. A diver who had miraculously survived claimed to have had an intense encounter with strange underwater creatures. That diver happened to be someone I knew. I was out with my wife and some friends, one being the diver, at a restaurant. That night, he had more drinks than the rest of us, and started rambling about his daredevil escapade to the Black Hole.


    I asked him if I could record his story, just audio, no video. He eagerly shared the details of his adventure, sounding convinced that what he saw was real. Meanwhile, the other patrons smirked and exchanged glances that read ¡°oh great, just our luck, we¡¯ve got a cuckoo bird here.¡± Everyone at the table sat quietly, looking embarrassed. Did I believe him? Frankly, I didn¡¯t know what to think but I was certainly drawn to his story.


    The mother¡¯s furious howls jolted me back to focus. Everyone by the lake stood frozen, uncertain of how to approach her. Every attempt at offering comfort was met with stubbornness and an angry slap. She refused to accept the heartbreaking reality that her boy was lost, likely having drowned in the Black Hole. The onlookers glanced at each other, then turned their curious gazes toward me, waiting to see how I would handle the situation.


    Just as I was about to offer some comforting words to the devastated mom, someone yelled out that they spotted something in the lake. Everyone''s eyes darted to the spot they were pointing at in the distance. I quickly grabbed my binoculars and took another look.


    It was the boy, and he was actually alive, swimming his way to the shore. The coast guards wasted no time unloading their boat and rushing towards the water. In a matter of minutes, they plucked him out of the water and tucked him snugly in a towel on the boat. When they finally made it to the shore, his mom fiercely embraced him, sobbing his name ¡°Jay, my Jay!¡± and planting a bunch of kisses all over his face. The medics gave him a quick once-over. They were surprised to find out that, despite being shaken up, he seemed to be in good health.


    The mother guided him back to a tent they had set up near their car, all packed with suitcases and other belongings. They threw suspicious glances at me, but I assured them that they weren¡¯t in any way in trouble. I just wanted to know what had happened out there. What happened to his two friends? And how the heck did he manage to make it out alive while the others didn''t?


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    He looked up at me with glazed eyes and said, ¡°You won¡¯t believe me anyway. No one will understand what I¡¯ve seen.¡±


    "You¡¯d be surprised,¡± I started to say, ¡°how many strange things I¡¯ve heard about this place. I think it¡¯s important to tell someone your story, even if it does seem unbelievable. There¡¯s someone who believes.¡± Then, pulling out the recording device, I asked him to start from the beginning.


    ***


    Jay: Last night, my friends¡ªDan and George¡ªand I snuck out of our tents, when everybody went to sleep. Dan got some beers from his dad¡¯s cooler. So, we thought it would be good fun to relax by the lake and have a little drink.


    We were just having a good time, talking about random stuff, mainly about the weird things they¡¯d seen around here. Like ghost stories and the haunted buildings nearby. I was mostly listening to them because my mom and I haven¡¯t been here long, so I¡¯m still pretty new to this area.


    The lake was pretty quiet and dark until we saw them¡ªthree round lights dancing around in the water, glowing soft blue. We stood there, just completely in awe. The lights came toward us. I backed away but Dan and George were drawn to them. And then, something popped out of the water¡­ they looked human...like girls, I think. There were three of them.


    Officer M: Can you remember what they looked like? Any distinctive features?


    Jay: No, not really, only that their shape looked like girls with long hair and small faces, but they had the largest black eyes I¡¯d ever seen, practically taking up half their face. They had this long appendage coming from the back and curving over their heads with a ball of light dangling at the tip.


    I was scared, you know. I thought, what were they doing in the water? Why did they want from us?


    Officer M: So, did they say anything to you? Or did you try to communicate with them?


    Jay: No, but somehow, they were talking to us without moving their mouths¡­actually, I don¡¯t remember seeing them having mouths. But they were talking to us inside our heads.


    Officer M: Telepathy.


    Jay: Yeah, that¡¯s right. Telepathy. I mean, I know it sounds crazy but that¡¯s what it was. They were telling us to follow them into the water. There was something that they wanted to show us. I told Dan and George that we should get away from them, and head back to our camp. But the guys wouldn¡¯t budge. They were in a trance, and I couldn¡¯t snap them out of it. Those things¡ªI mean, I don¡¯t even know if they were human¡ªhad some kind of hold on them.


    Officer M: You didn¡¯t feel as drawn to these creatures as your friends were?


    Jay: Oh, I felt it. But its power got weaker, when I stepped back a bit from the water. I was able to yell at Dan and George to get away. They didn¡¯t. George was the first one to dive. He stripped down and went in. Then, Dan was next. I tried to fight off its power over me, and I was close to breaking it off until I thought I heard my friends call me for help. And that was when I went in.


    It was pitch black. I couldn¡¯t tell what was up or down. I was just surrounded by darkness, and the water was freezing. So, I followed the light ahead of me, going deeper and deeper into the water. I was about to run out of breath. My lungs were burning. I needed air. And then, I felt something wrapping around me.


    I was caught in a bubble, and inside I could breathe. But I was also trapped inside it. The bubble wouldn¡¯t move where I wanted to move. It was taking me deeper. If I tried to leave it, I felt incredible pressure squeezing all the air out of me. So, I let it take me wherever it was taking me.


    Officer M: And where was that?


    Jay: A cave but it was like a giant hall with crystals. Some were as big as me and others were bigger, and when I got a closer look, I saw something inside those crystals. They looked like fetuses. I realized that we were probably in some kind of nursery where they kept their babies.


    Officer M: Were the three creatures you saw the ones who trapped you?


    Jay: Yeah, but there were others.


    Officer M: Others?


    Jay: Yeah, there were more creatures. They were taller, and they had silver skin-tight suits, like a diving suit. They had on helmets that looked like jellyfish, and each of these beings ¡­creatures¡­things¡­Man, I don¡¯t even know what to call them. But each one was carrying a long metal stick. And if they touched you with it, you¡¯d get an electric shock.


    Officer M: What did they want from you?


    Jay: They said¡ªwell, they were speaking to me in my head¡ªthat we had to give ourselves to their queen. They wanted us to mate with her. I just felt so sick at the thought of having to do an act like that with something that wasn¡¯t even human. The creatures took us into another cave. It was very dark again and there were no crystals lighting up the place.


    And then I saw the queen. I... I can¡¯t explain the terror I felt at that moment.


    Officer M: What did the queen look like?


    Jay: It was something you couldn¡¯t see clearly, but you could quickly sense its huge fucking size that would make your heart drop to your stomach. They yanked George out of the bubble and shoved him towards the darkness. At that moment, I had no idea if he was okay, if he was hurting or not. You can''t hear screams underwater.


    And then next was Dan. He put up a fight. He tried to grab one of the creature¡¯s weapons, but it shot him in the chest. There was an instant burst of light that lit up the place, only for a few seconds. But it was enough time for me to see what happened to George.


    Officer M: What happened to him? What did you see?


    Jay: Half of his body and his mouth were fused to the giant creature, big as a whale, if not bigger. He was still alive. But there wasn¡¯t anything I could do. And there were other things dangling from its sides¡ªspines, arms, legs and I saw shadows of screaming faces. There¡¯d been other people who had been sacrificed to this queen.


    Officer M: You were the sole survivor. How did you survive?


    Jay: The whole place started shaking, but it wasn¡¯t a natural earthquake. It was the queen. It was shaking so violently that George became detached. A large chunk of his left side was missing. I knew he was dead.


    The creatures were arguing with each other; and then they said to me, ¡®your friend¡¯s blood was tainted; it poisoned our queen.¡± I just remember that earlier we¡¯d been drinking. Maybe that was the reason. So, because George¡¯s blood was ¡®tainted,¡¯ they decided to bring us back up.


    ***


    Jay¡¯s mother stepped out of the tent for a smoke. Though she hadn¡¯t said a word during the interview, she had listened to her son intently. Whether she believed in him or not, I couldn¡¯t tell. I followed her out and asked her if she believed everything her son had said. Fixing her gaze at the still waters of the lake, she spoke with unwavering conviction, ¡°My boy doesn¡¯t lie.¡±

 The Town with No Name: Pit Nowhere

    The teen boy glared at me from across the table in the interrogation room, his face hardening as he tried to shield his true emotion: fear. I reassured him that he wasn''t under arrest; I just needed answers.


    Earlier that same day, the dispatcher radioed in about two suspects who were on the run. They were believed to be involved in the sudden disappearance of a girl who was about their age. It didn''t take long for them to be tracked down. They were found in an abandoned house in the valley, which was located not far from the lake.


    They were apprehended and taken to the station for questioning. The boy, Adam, sat in front of me while the other suspect¡ªhis younger brother¡ªwaited in the adjacent room. Adam''s face was smudged with a little dirt, a result of hiding out in the dusty house where he had been pulled from beneath a bed on the second floor.


    It took me a good fifteen minutes to weasel out any basic information from him¡ªname, age, address, and so on. He was fifteen and he and his brother lived with their dad in an RV in the valley, and the girl in question, Mary, was their neighbor. When he said her name, Adam fell silent for a moment, his lips trembling. He asked if he was being recorded. I told him that interviews were always recorded.


    ***


    Adam: ¡­ she fell into the hole.


    Officer M: What hole?


    Adam: We call it Pit Nowhere. You can throw anything into it, and you wouldn¡¯t know where it went because it doesn¡¯t make a sound. My little brother¡ªJason¡ªand I would throw things in there just for kicks¡ª car tires, rocks, and we even pissed in it once.


    People have been throwing trash in there for years, so you¡¯d think you could smell it or see piles of crap in there. But nothing... It''s a bottomless pit.


    Officer M: How did you come to discover this pit?


    Adam: Mary was the one who showed us. My family and I moved to the valley just a few months ago. Mary was the first one to say hello to us and show me and my brother around. Things have been pretty hard for us, so it was kind of nice to have someone show us some kindness.


    Anyway, one day, my dad told me and Jason to go grab the shovels and start digging a hole. We were going to clean out the waste from our RV¡¯s black tank and dump it into the hole. But Mary told us where we could dump our shit bin. That was when she showed us Pit Nowhere. She told us that you can put whatever in there; it¡¯s where everyone else dumps their crap.


    So, we just started throwing our trash in the pit. But you know what¡¯s so weird about that area? It¡¯s completely dead around the pit. No insects and no animals, not even a desert rat, would go near it. Jason was the first one to notice it. He tried to drag a stray dog near it, ¡®cuz he wanted to know how it¡¯d react.


    Officer M: How did it react?


    Adam: The dog went nuts. It started shaking and barking. It bit my brother¡¯s arm to break away from his hold, and then it ran off as far away as possible from the pit.


    Officer M: How big is this pit?


    Adam: Big enough to fit a grown ass elephant in it.


    Officer M: Ah, I see, so, it¡¯s big enough to push a young lady in it as well.


    Adam: I didn¡¯t push her, and neither did Jason.


    Officer M: Alright, then explain what happened to her. You said she fell into the pit, and if she wasn¡¯t pushed, then how? You and your brother were seen with her around that area. You do know how this looks, right?


    Adam: Something pulled her in.


    Officer M: Something pulled her in? She either fell into it or was pushed in. How could she possibly be pulled in?


    Adam: I don¡¯t know! There was some kind of invisible force that pulled her in. We tried to save her, but her hand just slipped out of mine. Whatever it was that was pulling her, it was too strong. I was helpless. I couldn¡¯t do anything. I watched her fall in. Her eyes went wide. I can still hear her screams.


    Officer M: Why did you and Jason run from the scene? Why didn¡¯t you go and call for help immediately?


    Adam: Because something started chasing us. You couldn¡¯t see it, but it was there. It came from the pit.


    ***


    Shortly after the questioning, I got a call that Mary had been found alive. She had managed to claw her way back out of the pit and was discovered wandering aimlessly in an open field by her aunt. With the case now resolved, I drove Adam and his brother back to their RV home in the valley. Their father was, however, far from pleased and welcoming. He scowled at them, scolded them for causing trouble, and then threw me a stink eye before going back into the RV without a word.


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    I shook my head and walked back to my car. Case solved. It was something I could just throw in the back burner of my mind and move on. But that didn¡¯t happen. Later that night, Adam called 911 from his dad¡¯s flip phone.


    ***


    911 Operator: 911, what¡¯s your emergency?


    Adam: My dad¡¯s dead. My friend [ineligible]


    911 Operator: What did your friend do? I¡¯m sorry but I can¡¯t hear you. You¡¯ll need to speak a little louder.


    Adam: I can¡¯t talk very loud because she might still be around.


    911 Operator: Who?


    Adam: My friend. Mary. She killed my dad. She ate him.


    911 Operator: Are you alone right now?


    Adam: No, I¡¯m with my brother. We¡¯re hiding out in the bedroom.


    911 Operator: What¡¯s your address?


    Adam: We don¡¯t have one.


    911 Operator: You don¡¯t have an address?


    Adam: No, we don¡¯t. We live in an RV with my dad.


    911 Operator: Can you tell me your location?


    Adam: We¡¯re in the valley in San Ysidro district. Please help me.


    911 Operator: Okay, there¡¯s an officer that patrols the area. He¡¯s on his way. Stay on the line.


    Adam: The battery¡¯s running low. Hurry! Hurry!


    911 Operator: The officer will be there soon. He¡¯s on his way. Stay on the line. Do you know where your friend is? Can you tell me what happened?


    Adam: My dad was outside making a campfire. My brother and I were inside the RV and then suddenly we heard screaming. I looked out the window and I saw her¡­ She killed him. She...she...ripped his throat, and she drank his blood.


    911 Operator: Do you know if she is still around your area?


    Adam: I don¡¯t know. I don¡¯t want to look outside.


    911 Operator: Okay, stay where you are.


    Adam: I hear a siren. I think that¡¯s him. The cop. He¡¯s getting closer.


    ***


    I was nearing the end of my shift when I received a call from the dispatcher about a potential murder and two frightened boys in hiding. As soon as I was provided with the location, I immediately knew who those boys were. When I arrived at the scene, I found a woman, who identified herself as Mary''s aunt, standing next to a lifeless body near a campfire. She trembled uncontrollably, clearly in a state of shock. I grasped her shoulders and shook her, snapping her out of her frozen state. She looked up at me with wide, fearful eyes.


    ¡°My little Mary couldn¡¯t have done this,¡± she said. ¡°But she...I mean, she wasn¡¯t herself today when she came back home.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean by that?¡±


    ¡°She was a little feverish, and there was this angry look in her eyes. But I just brushed it off. Mary¡¯s been angry ever since her mom passed away last year.¡±


    My eyes slowly fixated themselves on the corpse facing up. His eyes were still open, gazing blankly into the crackling campfire. Blood seeped from a gaping wound in his throat. The way the skin and muscles were ripped, I thought a large rabid animal might have done it.


    ¡°My little Mary,¡± the aunt muttered, repeatedly, her voice cracking.


    ¡°Do you know where she is?¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°I was looking for her. She had run off again, and I was going to give her a good earful if I did find her. And then...I heard someone screaming, and I ran over here thinking she might¡¯ve been in trouble. When I got here, she was eating right through his throat and then she saw me and ran off.¡±


    My hand went straight for the gun in my holster and pulled it out of its sheath. She could still be near, I thought. She could still be lurking somewhere in the darkness.


    The boys! I barged into the RV, my eyes darting left and right, preparing myself to find another gruesome scene yet hoping I wasn¡¯t too late. A wave of relief washed over me when I found them huddled together in a corner of their small bedroom with a blanket over their heads and kitchen knives in their grips. As soon as they saw me through an opening in their blanket, they cried in relief and released their grip on the knives. Although they were shaken up, they appeared to be physically unharmed.


    I instructed them to stay put and remain silent, while I went out to look for Mary. As I scoured the area, a sudden and piercing scream jolted my attention. There were shouts of horror and cries for help. I headed towards the chaos and came across a small camp of people living in tents and vans. Some were in tears, shaking and others stood in shock as they surrounded a corpse lying a mere few feet from a torn tent. Like Adam¡¯s father, the throat had been clawed apart, and the jaw, too, was ripped clean from its hinges. Whatever it was that killed their friend had retreated into the darkness.


    One of them informed me that something had wandered into their camp. They were all having a quiet evening, with most of them heading to bed early when they heard something rustling in a tent. It sounded like an animal sniffing around and tearing through their belongings. Armed with a small handgun, one of them had been brave enough to investigate the intrusion. But that bravery had cost them their life. Everyone caught only a glimpse of what the creature looked like.


    ¡°It was a young girl,¡± said a woman, whose color had drained from her face from fright, ¡°but she moved on all fours like an animal.¡±


    ¡°Oh, man, she was fast,¡± another interjected. ¡°She had blood all over her face, but oh, man, oh, man¡­her eyes¡­ oh, my god, they were black. All black. You could sense the evil behind those eyes. I can¡¯t explain it¡­ it¡¯s like she¡¯s been possessed.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s that girl who fell into Pit Nowhere, am I right?¡± asked an old and bearded man. ¡°All this time I thought it was just a hole that went straight to the core of the earth. But now I believe it goes somewhere else. A different dimension. Something came back with that girl.¡±


    ¡°Does anybody know where she went?¡± I asked them, breathlessly. Every fiber of my being was tensed, and a surge of adrenaline was coursing through my veins.


    Before anyone could point me to a direction, there was a wailing that cut through the night. All our heads turned to where it came from. In the distance, a town began to materialize from the depths of the velvety black night, casting a foreboding spell over the land, like it were an ancient secret reluctantly revealing itself to the world. Its jagged silhouette etched against the moonless sky, while murky yellow lights flickered within its desolate streets.

 The Town with No Name: Body Cam

    His things were left untouched¡ªthe razor and shaving cream in the bathroom, the clothes in the closet, and even the ones on the chair designated as a limbo for their clothes that were too dirty for the closet, yet too clean for the laundry. Sometimes, she would pick up one of his crumpled shirts and inhale the lingering remnants of him clinging to the fabric of the material world.


    His home office was still intact; papers and books remained in an organized mess on the desk. She only went in there to vacuum and wipe off the dust from the surfaces and windowsill. Everything of his was still perfectly in place in the house, and she was going to leave it the way it was. There were moments when she expected him to walk in, slip on his house slippers, and plop beside her on the couch in the living room, asking her if they should go out for dinner or order takeout.


    Realizing he wouldn¡¯t be walking through the front door tonight, she was reminded once more that she was now, possibly, a widow. Widow... A word she hated to say aloud. A year had already passed, yet his death was still unconfirmed.


    She had told herself that she wasn¡¯t really a widow; he was simply working longer than usual, which was typical of him. And whenever she desired to hear his voice, there were the files on his computer desktop that he kept¡ªa collection of interviews he recorded relating to his fascination with the paranormal. It took nearly a year for her to listen to the recordings.


    Cocooned in a blanket, she curled up on the couch, scrolling through her messages on the phones again. As she was in the middle of reading the last texts she had exchanged with him, an email notification popped up on the screen, displaying a file attachment. The subject line caught her attention: his body cam vid. The sender was anonymous. Immediately, she opened the message.


    This is the video you demanded to see but the captain refused to release it. I¡¯m not sure if it¡¯ll bring you closure, though I hope it¡¯ll give you some answers.


    Her finger hovered over the ''play'' button, but she abruptly threw the phone aside. She couldn''t bring herself to do it. She wasn''t ready to watch the video yet. A flood of questions consumed her mind: Was it a video of his death? Would it show him in pain? Being tortured? A tightness gripped her chest, inflicting immense pain as she imagined him somewhere in the valley, dying alone with no help within reach.


    A couple of days passed by until she looked at the email again, her finger hovering over the play button a little closer than before. She made sure she was seated on the couch as her knees were starting to buckle. Her nerves were so tense she thought she would suddenly combust. Then, her finger tapped the button.


    The screen opened up to an empty dimly lit street with two other officers, whom she recognized as Dan and Gerald, walking near her husband. One could be heard walking behind him, and the other was a few yards ahead of him with a gun in hand. She remembered the captain mentioning that her husband had called for backup. They were on the hunt for a killer that night before they suddenly vanished.


    The buildings appeared to be old and dilapidated, with the tallest one only three stories high. Despite their abandonment, there seemed to be unseen beings dwelling within, their eyes lurking behind the windows, closely tracking the officers'' every move. The officers took a moment to take in their surroundings, their breaths escaping their lips in visible puffs of icy cold smoke. Her husband was the first one who dared to speak up, urging Mary to come out of hiding, assuring her that they wouldn¡¯t do her any harm.


    ***


    Officer M: I know you¡¯re probably scared, Mary. You need to come with us. We don¡¯t want to hurt you; we want to help you.


    Dan: Are you sure she came this way?


    Officer M: She¡¯s somewhere around here. I¡¯m sure of it.


    Gerald: This place gives me the fucking creeps. What is this place anyway?


    Officer M: I don¡¯t know... It doesn¡¯t even show up on the GPS or any maps.


    Dan: Did you all hear that?


    Officer M: What did you hear?


    Dan: Listen.


    ***


    She anxiously rewound the video, taking it back ten seconds, and brought her phone closer to her ear, holding her breath in anticipation. At first, all she could hear was the sound of her husband''s heavy, trembling breaths. She cranked up the volume and played the recording again. And then, her heart nearly stopped¡ªthere it was, a young girl giggling.


    Her eyes were glued to the screen, her pupils dilated with fear as she desperately brightened the display, even though she knew there would be nothing but the desolate, rundown buildings and the two other officers standing near her husband. Their hands clenched tightly around their weapons, ready to respond to any potential threat.


    ***


    Dan: There! I see something. Someone went into that house.


    Officer M: What was it?


    Gerald: I saw it, too. It¡¯s her, I think.


    Dan: Should we go in?


    Officer M: I¡¯ll lead. Gerald, watch the door. And Dan, watch my back.


    ***


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    The small team cautiously entered the house. Its front door hung lopsided, barely clinging to its hinges, threatening to collapse at any moment. Gerald stood guard by the entrance, alert to any sign of danger. Meanwhile, her husband switched on his flashlight, casting shadows across the darkened living room. The floorboards creaked as he and Dan stepped forward, their senses heightened, ready to face whatever awaited them.


    They weaved through the darkness, their flashlights probing into the shadowy corners of the old house. Up the creaking stairs they went, searching in the bedrooms, and though finding nothing unusual, the sensation of being watched unsettled them.


    Feeling uneasy, they retreated to the front porch, where they were startled to realize that Gerald was nowhere to be seen. They called out his name, but their voices echoed into the void. They searched down the dimly lit street, their eyes darting from one shadowy corner to another. Their hearts pounding in anticipation as they pressed forward. Rounding a sharp corner, they were met with a frightening sight ¨C Gerald lying motionless on the ground and standing atop his chest was a small shadowy figure with long black hair over his face.


    Without a moment¡¯s hesitation, Dan raised his weapon and took aim. The deafening gunshot echoed through the narrow alleys, causing a reverberation that felt like a bomb had just exploded. The shadow dissipated into smoke.


    Breathing heavily, Officer M rushed to Gerald¡¯s side, thankful to see him conscious. Their eyes met, communicating a mix of relief and urgency. They knew they couldn¡¯t stay there for long. He helped Gerald to his feet, supporting him as they made their way back through the maze-like alleys, keeping a watchful eye on every shadow that seemed to creep into their path.


    ***


    She hit the rewind button again, returning to the moment when her husband helped Gerald to his feet. This time, she scrutinized Gerald¡¯s face intently, focusing on his eyes. She wanted to be certain of what she had seen. As the video played, she observed every subtle detail.


    It had to be a trick of the light or something, she told herself. But there it was¡ªhis eyes flickered for a split second, turning pitch-black. Her husband¡¯s obliviousness only added to her growing fear.


    Unable to bear watching any further, she closed the video and as she was about to put the phone aside, it vibrated. Someone was calling. The caller¡ª"my love.¡± Her heart leapt to her throat, hands shaking, tears threatening to spill.


    Accepting the call, she raised the phone to her ear, and with a quivering voice, she said, ¡°Honey¡­¡± As she listened to the raspy breathing on the other end, she waited for his response. It never came.


    The call ended abruptly, and the video resumed playing on the screen, although she didn¡¯t press the button. The three officers were walking down the street with Gerald leading them, insisting that they must go to the theater and ignoring Dan¡¯s questions.


    ***


    Dan: Did you see someone, or something go in this direction? Hey, slow down! I said slow down! I¡¯m trying to talk to you.


    Gerald: What?


    Dan: What did you see?


    Gerald: See?


    Officer M: Oh, for fuck¡¯s sake, answer the questions, Gerald. Why do we need to go there?


    Gerald: Because there¡¯s something I want to show you.


    Officer M: Tell us now.


    Gerald: No, it¡¯s better to show you.


    Officer M: Hey, get back here! What is going on with you?


    Dan: Fuck.


    ***


    As Dan and her husband hurried to catch up with Gerald, she felt an overwhelming urge to scream, to warn her husband of the danger that was prowling in the shadows. But she couldn¡¯t. All she could do was keep listening, keep watching, despite the dread coiling around her like a serpent.


    Switching on their flashlights, they entered the theater¡¯s pitch-black maw.


    ***


    Officer M: Gerald! Where are you?


    Dan: I don¡¯t think this is a good idea. We should get out of here. Leave this fucking town.


    Officer M: We can¡¯t leave Gerald behind!


    Dan: Is that even really him? He¡¯s acting fucking weird. Something happened to him. That shadow thing did something to him.


    Officer M: Wait, shhh, be quiet for a sec. I hear him. It sounds like he¡¯s in the backroom.


    Dan: Listen, I just have this horrible feeling. I can¡¯t explain it, but something doesn¡¯t feel right, and we need to get out. I mean now!


    Officer M: We¡¯ll go get Gerald and then leave this place.


    Dan: You¡¯re not listening to me!


    Officer M: I¡¯m not leaving anyone behind.


    Dan: But that¡¯s not Gerald¡­


    ***


    Her husband went further into the theater and entered another room. Whether or not Dan was following behind him, she couldn¡¯t tell. The feeble beam of his flashlight flickered before dying out, plunging him into darkness. Then, there was a fierce struggle. In the chaos, a single gunshot¡¯s explosive burst momentarily illuminated the scene in a blinding flash.


    With the lingering echo of the shot still ringing in her ears, she breathlessly waited for any signs of movement. The darkness seemed to amplify every sound, making her heart pound louder in her chest.


    Suddenly, the feed cut off. The video froze. Her heart sank, and a dreadful premonition washed over her like an icy wave. With trembling hands, she tried to reconnect, to see what happened next, to ensure his safety. But the video refused to load, leaving her stranded in the unknown.


    The silence that followed was deafening. She searched for a glimmer of hope that this nightmare might end differently. But the truth of her husband¡¯s fate was concealed within the dark confines of the screen.


    She closed the window screen, re-downloaded the video, and played the moment just before the struggle. As the gunshot rang out, she paused the video and scrutinized the right side of the screen. Gerald was standing perfectly still with his obsidian eyes and blank expression. To her shock, he tilted his head and seemed to lock eyes with her, despite the video being paused.


    Startled, she hurled the phone onto the coffee table and quickly backed away from it. The screen blacked out before her phone started vibrating from an incoming call. Seeing that it was her brother calling, the tension in her chest loosened, and she let out a sigh of relief as she picked up the phone and accepted the call.


    At least once every other day, her older brother would check up on her, asking how she was doing and if she wanted to go out for dinner or take a stroll through the park with his wife and their three dogs. Most of the time, she''d politely turn down the offer, but after watching the video, she didn''t want to be alone in the house. She needed to get out. So, when she answered "yes" to dinner at the new burger house restaurant, her brother yelped in surprise and excitedly told her that he''d pick her up in about an hour.


    As she rushed upstairs to get ready, her ears caught the sounds of footsteps approaching the front porch and the jingling of keys. The door unlocked and creaked open. She paused halfway up the stairs, her whole body shaking as she turned back to see¡­ him.


    After eleven months and twenty-eight days, he was finally home, still dressed in his uniform. Her instinct was to jump into his arms and embrace him, but something stopped her¡­ a foul stench.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry I¡¯m late, honey,¡± he said looking up at her with his pitch-black eyes. ¡°I¡¯m home now.¡±

 The Town with No Name: Three Interviews

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Officer M¡¯s three interviews saved in a file folder labeled, ¡°Mysteries.¡±</h2>


    Interview with Rogelio, who murdered his neighbor, Maria, for supposedly killing his pregnant wife, Daniela.


    Officer M: What was your and your wife¡¯s relationship with Mrs. Maria Santiago? Were you more than just friendly neighbors?


    Rogelio: We were close like family. My wife, Daniela, and I trusted her, and we treated her as if she were a favorite aunt. Maria was helping my wife deal with a difficult pregnancy. She had experience of being a midwife and knew a lot about the right kind of food my wife should be eating.


    Officer M: What kind of foods?


    Rogelio: Lots of whole grain and vegetables organically grown. Maria had her own garden where she grew a lot of what she ate. She would also give us baskets of her fruits and vegetables. She became our midwife and took charge of my wife¡¯s care, while I went to work.


    Officer M: Where do you work?


    Rogelio: I¡¯m an accountant and I¡¯ve a small office on Saturn Boulevard. I work long hours, sometimes even after business hours. So, it was a comforting thought to have Maria around to help Daniela out around the house.


    Officer M: If Maria was so trusted, then why did you kill her?


    Rogelio: I didn¡¯t know it was her.


    Officer M: Alright, how about this¡ªwalk me through the events that led up to the murders last night.


    Rogelio: Last month, Daniela fell sick; she became anemic and had a fever. I took her to the doctor, but they found nothing wrong with her. They prescribed her some medicine for her iron deficiency anemia. But she didn¡¯t get any better; her condition worsened. So, I started work from home to be closer to her and keep an eye on her.


    Officer M: Was Maria still visiting your house?


    Rogelio: Yes, she was and sometimes she stayed overnight. It was during the times that when Maria was over, my wife wasn¡¯t able to sleep well. One night, I woke up to her moaning in pain, and she was sweating so much, and her skin was burning hot. So, I got her a cold wet towel to cool her down.


    Then, I noticed something. Something came up from under the bed on my wife¡¯s side. It was a long and slender tubular organ like a snake¡¯s tongue, and at its tip were fangs, and it hooked itself to her wrist. It pulsated as it drank her blood. I grabbed the closest weapon I could find¡ªa back scratcher¡ªand struck the thing with it.


    The thing let go of Daniela''s wrist and slithered back under the bed. I looked underneath the bed and I found myself face to face with a creature with red eyes. It let out a furious screech before it fled the room. A few days later, Daniela got better and during that time Maria didn¡¯t stay the night, but she did come over to check how things were. I noticed that Maria looked unwell; she was pale and a little gaunt as if she hadn¡¯t eaten in days.


    Officer M: Did she stay over last night?


    Rogelio: Yes, she did. And guess what? The creature came back again. It hooked its tongue on my wife¡¯s neck and started draining her blood. I woke up to Daniela moaning in pain again. This time I kept a knife in a drawer in the nightstand. I slashed the tongue with it and then I dived under the bed and started stabbing the creature. And once I knew it was dead, I called 911, but I was too late¡­ (sobbing) Daniela was already dead by the time the paramedics came, and they couldn¡¯t save the baby either.


    They asked me how she had lost so much blood, and I could see on their faces that they thought I was the one¡­ the one who did it. The one who killed my pregnant wife.


    Officer M: Judging by the blood you had on your clothes and the knife you were holding; I can understand how they came to that conclusion.


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


    Rogelio: But it wasn¡¯t me. It wasn¡¯t me! It was the thing¡ªthat creature¡ªunder the bed.


    Officer M: They checked under the bed, Rogelio, but there was no creature. Instead, they found Maria. Dead. Stabbed forty-two times.


    ***


    Interview with Seraphine, an alleged member of the cult, Keepers of the Blood Tree, and was suspected of being involved in the abduction of two-year-old Caleb.


    Officer M: Let¡¯s start from the beginning. How did you meet the Wilkersons?


    Seraphine: I answered their call for a caretaker for their little boy, Caleb; they posted it online. I have had some experience working with kids in the past. I worked as an au pair for a year in Paris. They liked my references and my resume, so they hired me right away.


    Officer M: Were you already a member of Keepers of the Blood Tree at the time you were hired?


    Seraphine: I attended a few gatherings of theirs, but no, I wasn¡¯t a member and I¡¯m not one right now.


    Officer M: But you¡¯re close to their leader, Good Charlie.


    Seraphine: He was an old school friend of mine. I don¡¯t deny there was a strong connection between us, though we never did anything about it.


    Officer M: Never?


    Seraphine: (laughing) Yeah, okay, we fucked a couple of times. What? Is that a crime now?


    Officer M: There¡¯s nothing to laugh about. A family is grieving. They lost their kid. And you¡¯re laughing¡­


    Seraphine: I¡¯m laughing because you¡¯re asking stupid questions.


    Officer M: Listen here¡ªI¡¯m going to put you away for life for your part in the boy¡¯s abduction. Tell me right here, right now what happened to Caleb Wilkerson. Where is he?


    Seraphine: I didn¡¯t kidnap Caleb. You already nabbed your perpetrators. They were the ones caught on the home security cameras. Not me.


    Officer M: Yet they knew how to disable the alarm system and knew exactly where Caleb¡¯s room was. All three kidnappers happened to be your fuck buddy¡¯s followers. Keepers of the Blood Tree.


    Seraphine: I don¡¯t know how they knew, officer. I really don¡¯t. But I¡¯ll tell you this¡ªCaleb¡¯s in a good place now. He¡¯s become part of something great and ancient.


    Officer M: What do you mean? Is he dead? Alive?


    Seraphine: You know that big, twisted tree in the valley? It¡¯s about a mile towards East from Good Charlie¡¯s camp.


    Officer M: No. What¡¯s so special about it?


    Seraphine: Good Charlie and his friends worship this tree. They say it¡¯s older than Methuselah. It¡¯s more than tens of thousands of years old.


    Officer M: Have you seen it?


    Seraphine: Of course, I have. It¡¯s a sight to behold! You could see all the faces of the souls within its beautiful body. That¡¯s where you¡¯ll find little Caleb. Tell his family that he¡¯s in a much better place now. There¡¯s no reason for them to grieve because he¡¯s not truly gone. He¡¯s going to live for thousands of years.


    ***


    Interview with two witnesses of a slaughter that occurred during the night at a homeless campsite in the valley.


    Witness 1: I was in my tent, quietly reading. I¡¯ve a book light that I finally found the batteries for; I traded a scarf for them. You know, I just couldn¡¯t sleep unless I read something like a bedtime story.


    Officer M: Okay, let¡¯s get back to the story. You were in your tent¡­and then what happened?


    Witness 1: And then that¡¯s when I heard like an animal prowling through the camp. It¡¯s got heavy footsteps, man. Like THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! Take a hammer and strike it on the ground, and that¡¯s what those footsteps sound like. I shut off the light and held my breath as it brushed up against my tent.


    Officer M: Did you peek outside to see what it was?


    Witness 1: Oh, hell no! Are you crazy? What was I going to do if it tried to eat me? Throw my book at it? I hid right under my blanket. I heard it rampage through the camp. People were screaming¡­ I was too petrified, nearly scared me to death. I only came out after it had left. Oh, man, poor Frank¡­he was my neighbor. Nothing was left of him but his feet in his sneakers that were left behind.


    Witness 2: I saw the beast.


    Officer M: Do you know what animal it was?


    Witness 2: It was no animal, officer. No animal that we know of.


    Officer M: Any idea what it could be?


    Witness 2: It was very tall, like fifteen feet tall. It looked like a man but with the head of a goat and long arms and bent like a praying mantis.


    Officer M: Okay¡­ are you being serious?


    Witness 2: Three good people were eaten by this thing. I am dead serious, officer.

 The Massacre on Prospero Island

    Public health officials announced the discovery of a new pestilence. Its symptoms were like those of influenza¡ªchills, fever, aches¡ª but those were just the early signs. After a day or two, the disease¡¯s viciousness would devastate the body. The capillaries swelled and burst, and blood poured out through the pores and orifices. One¡¯s temperature could reach up to boiling point, shutting down organs one by one.


    Some doctors had observed their afflicted patients oozing out thick, bloody, soft stools, and after studying a sample under the microscope lens, they discovered that these stools were gooey chunks of melted organs. As they cried tears of blood, most sufferers begged to be killed.


    Then, a few weeks after the discovery of the pestilence¡ªdubbed as the ¡°Crimson Tide¡±¡ª, the government declared a national emergency. There was no escape. No other allied country that hadn¡¯t yet been infected would kindly open their door to evacuees. Planes were turned around, and ships were docked. Not only that, but cargo trucks were halted at the borders. And so, naturally, the country plummeted into chaos as its panicking citizens, blinded by fear, robbed and killed for limited resources.


    As the months dragged on, the country¡¯s population had more than halved. Society had collapsed within itself. I journeyed from the inland cities to the coast, witnessing the devastation. Morgues could no longer store the bodies, so hundreds were left outside to rot, soaking the streets with the ever-flowing stream of the Crimson Tide.


    I was unbothered by the suffering, not because I lacked empathy for those sufferers, but because I had foreseen the event. I had lived through similar plagues many years ago as well. War, famine, pestilence, and death. I was used to such tragedies. They were inherent traits of human civilization.


    Despite all this, peace and beauty could still be found in tiny pockets throughout the nation. By dawn, I finally reached the destination where my calling had pulled me. An abandoned lighthouse. I was supposed to wait for a guest. The stove and the water in the kettle and the stove were still warm. The candle on the dining table was still aflame. Whoever had been here must¡¯ve sensed my arrival then fled out of fear for their life. That was what sometimes would happen whenever I came within the vicinity of anyone with a heartbeat.


    I ascended the spiral staircase to the top of the lighthouse, embracing the fresh sea breeze and taking in the breathtaking sight of the expansive sea. While most people had no other choice but to make do with scraps to survive on the mainland, a very thin, yet effervescently wealthy sliver of the population sought refuge on private islands. About a couple miles off the coast was one such island. Prospero Island. It was owned by an enigmatic high-tech tycoon. He only went by a single name: The Duke.


    At night, one could see the bright festive lights shimmering like a pulsing beacon of hope in the dark. But there was no escape. Of course, one could delay the dreaded meeting with Death, but not for long. Every one of us would eventually meet our end.


    The next morning, my long-awaited guest, the Duke, arrived in a sailboat crashing into the rocky shore below. The wind and waves were particularly violent that hour. He was slumped over at the helm, barely clinging to consciousness. Still, he managed to climb out of the wreckage, seemingly unharmed. He struggled on the way up to the lighthouse, fighting against the rough winds.


    As soon as he got inside, he collapsed into a chair, shivering in his soaked tuxedo. With shaky hands, he grabbed a mug from the table and guzzled the water. Some color returned to his pale cheeks and blue lips. Being a little more alert, he scanned his surroundings, jumping in surprise when our eyes met. Scrambling to his feet, he backed into a corner with the chair as a barrier between us.


    ¡°If you let me stay for a couple days,¡± the Duke started to say, fidgeting with the large gold and silver rings on his fingers. ¡°I¡¯ll reward you greatly, I promise. I¡¯ll be out of here soon; I just need a place to rest.¡±


    He took off one of the rings and offered it to me. ¡°Here, take this as the first payment for your troubles.¡±


    I shook my head. Money and jewelry meant nothing to me. These days, they were worthless to everyone. ¡°You can rest, and then we¡¯ll be on our way.¡±


    He sighed in relief and fixed the ring back on his finger. ¡°You¡¯ve no idea what I¡¯ve been through, what kind of horror I''ve seen...¡±


    I chuckled. I already knew every last detail of what he¡¯d been through.


    The Duke relaxed and started stripping off his wet tuxedo, ordering me to hand him a set of dry clothes. His face, particularly around the jaw, tightened when I didn¡¯t move an inch to follow the order. Huffing and puffing like a frustrated child, he went up to the second floor and rummaged through the closet and drawers. He came back down wearing a pair of brown trousers and a tunic that looked like they¡¯d been fashioned from flour sacks.


    Looking me up and down with a judgmental eye, he suggested that I treat myself to better clothes, promising that once society returned to normalcy, he¡¯d connect me with his tailor who could give me a discount on a brand-new suit.


    ¡°And I know a surgeon,¡± he added, squinting his eyes to get a better look at me. ¡°He could probably help you with whatever you find undesirable about yourself. Is that why you¡¯re wearing a mask? Or are you going to a masquerade?¡±


    Without waiting for a reply, he reminisced aloud about his old life while raiding the fridge. He wolfed down a few cold sausage links and tore off a chunk of bread with his teeth. He washed down all the food with wine he found in one of the cabinets.


    Now, with his hunger satiated, the Duke leaned back in the chair, patting his swollen belly. He asked, ¡°So, have you been here since the world had gone to shit?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve traveled far and wide, witnessing the destruction that the Crimson Tide left in its wake.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve also seen what the disease could do. Horrible! You just have no idea what I¡¯ve seen! Oh, just horrible! I was on my island. I thought I was...¡± his voice faded, and he guzzled his wine, thinking perhaps the booze would make him forget. But it only brought the nightmare closer to the surface, with every vivid detail flashing before his eyes.


    ***


    Long before the Crimson Tide revealed itself to an unsuspecting public, the Duke had heard whispers of impending doom through friendly channels. Once the word had spread in hushed corners, he moved quickly. While some of his peers hurried to their underground bunkers or isolated castles in the mountains, he escaped to Prospero Island on his yacht.


    Along with his wife and grown son, he invited hundreds of other nobles and celebrities. And since they¡¯d have to shelter in place for God knows how long, he booked dozens of entertainers¡ªdance troupes, musicians, and a circus act¡ªas well as a petting zoo of exotic animals.


    Prospero possessed every modern convenience and comfort. Sprawled across the land was a palatial-like resort with crystal-clear pools, manicured gardens, banquet halls, and hundreds of suites for the Duke¡¯s distinguished and wealthy guests. There was even a self-checkout grocery store and a garage where guests could pick out the finest cars and race around the island. Over a hundred servants, maids, and cooks ensured that the lavish getaway ran as smoothly and efficiently as possible.


    For many of the guests, the chaos of the Crimson Tide was as distant as the violent storms of Jupiter. The suffering of those on the mainland was too far removed for even a moment¡¯s thought.


    Prospero was its own world. Feasts ran from dawn to dusk. Wine and champagne poured into glasses as endlessly as rivers flowed to and from the ocean. Delicacies marched out of the kitchen to the delight of the guests¡¯ palates. The revelers roamed the island, shamelessly drunk, with their clothes strewn haphazardly across the land as they indulged their desires.


    Unbeknownst to them, there were small, hidden cameras nestled in every tree and angled in every which way. And as the revelers lost themselves in their reckless abandon, the Duke sat upon his throne in the observation room. With sharpened eyes, he scanned a wall of screens. He couldn¡¯t be more pleased by the sheer joy of his guests.


    Then, as he peered closer at the screens, he spotted something out of the ordinary. Something that, despite all of his extensive vetting, was simply not supposed to be.


    There were three uninvited guests¡ªtwo in tuxedos and another in a dress. At first, he thought he was imagining them. But as he rubbed his eyes and looked again, he knew that this was not to be. The intruders stuck out like plain sedimentary rocks among a trove of diamonds and gems. Though they wore the appropriate formal attire for the festivities, their clothes looked ragged and old and were frayed at the edges.


    Their battered-looking animal masks¡ªa pig, a bull, and a lamb¡ªwere crude and haunting. As if they knew they were being watched, they stared back at him through the cameras. The Duke could see nothing but eternal darkness in their hollow eye holes.


    The Pig sat at the long table, not eating but watching the party unfold around it. On another screen, the Bull glided down corridors and circled around the swimming pool. And then, the Lamb pranced about in the gardens before entering the ballroom, where the guests whirled and twirled in throes of passion, in time with graceful music. What the Duke couldn¡¯t understand was that no one seemed to notice them.


    The Duke couldn¡¯t allow the three strangers to remain on the island. Their trespass was a breach of the health code. Every guest and staff member had been tested for disease prior to admittance, and he suspected that this uninvited trio had not been cleared.


    He ordered the guards to detain the trespassers. However, his security team returned empty-handed, claiming there wasn¡¯t a single trace of any of them. Growing ever more frustrated, he decided to find them himself. So as not to alarm the guests, he coolly waltzed into the rowdy banquet hall and settled himself at the head of the table. At the opposite end, he found the Pig sitting. While the partiers occupied themselves with cakes, pies, and unlimited amounts of liquor, the Duke and the Pig quietly stared each other down.


    "Enjoying yourself?¡± he asked, bitterly.


    The Pig gave no reply, not even a nod.


    Mustering up the courage for a confrontation, the Duke downed a glass of wine in two large gulps. He marched over to the other end of the long table, ready to haul the Pig off the island. Perhaps, he''d throw it off the high cliff into the water just for kicks. But as they came face to face, those words that he wanted to scream only came out softly and weakly from his lips, ¡°You don¡¯t belong here. You¡¯re not one of us¡­¡±


    Without breaking its stare, the Pig rose from its seat, towering over the Duke. Then, it spoke in a low, gruff voice, reminiscent of a metal object being dragged slowly across asphalt, ¡°We shall eat up your harvest and your food, your sons and daughters, your flocks and herds, your vines and fig trees. And the walls you trust to protect you from the world, shall be beaten down with the sword.¡±


    The Duke paled. ¡°What do you mean by that? I¡¯ll call my guards to¡ª¡±


    The Pig continued to stare through him, repeating its verse like a mantra.


    ¡°Security!¡± he shouted, frantically searching around.


    The hall quieted. All eyes turned to him.


    ¡°What¡¯s the matter?¡± asked his son, the Prince, who was visibly annoyed at his father for killing such a joyful mood.


    The Duke pointed at the Pig. ¡°We¡¯ve an intruder¡ªthree of them, in fact! Get security now!¡±


    ¡°Okay, old man, I think you¡¯ve had enough to drink. It¡¯s past your bedtime.¡±


    The guests howled with laughter, angering the Duke. He slammed his fist on the table, instantly silencing them. ¡°Don¡¯t disrespect me,¡± he growled. ¡°I could throw all of you into the ocean if I wanted to!¡±


    The Prince glowered. ¡°I was only joking. Who were you even pointing at, anyway? What intruders?¡±


    ¡°There are three of them, and one is here in front of me! Can¡¯t you see it?¡±


    Brows were raised, and whispers fluttered like butterflies. The atmosphere in the room grew dour as guests stared in concern. His wife, the Duchess, urged him to calm his nerves with a cold glass of cognac. He did just that, and gradually the party resumed. The Pig, however, remained by his side, peering down at him with its soulless and hollow eyes. Not a soul could see it but him.


    He began to tremble in fear as his heart pounded loudly in his ears. ¡°W-who are you?¡± he heard himself ask.


    The Pig didn¡¯t answer. Instead, it roared with deep, manic laughter that towered above the clamor of the boisterous guests. Its laughter was deafening, only to his ears. Shaking with anger and fear, the Duke seized it by the snout and ripped it off, wanting to see who sat and mocked him behind that mask. But there was no mask. The texture was as real as flesh, and his hands were soaked in its blood. There, staring back at him, was the bloodied skull of the Pig, shrieking with laughter.


    Horrified, he flung its fleshy mask onto the table, spattering blood across the food. The guests continued to stuff their mouths and howl with laughter. That is, until one took a bite out of an apple. In sheer revulsion, the guest spat chunks out onto the table. As though they were following some perverse comedy routine, more and more began to gag and spit out their food.


    At every table in the banquet hall, the food had turned rotten. It was covered with mold and infiltrated by pests. The wine, too, had become spoiled. Some found this to be the most vexing aspect of it all.


    ***


    The Duke jolted awake from the loud clang of the window shutters. A storm was brewing outside the lighthouse. The island was no longer visible; a thick, rolling fog had obscured it. He peered outside, only to slam the window shut immediately. Something on the horizon had left him shaken. He scrambled to his feet, knocking over the bottle of wine as he hurried to shut the other windows and lock the front door.


    ¡°It followed me!¡± he cried.


    ¡°What followed you?¡± I asked.


    ¡°The Pig! And I¡¯m sure its friends are out there, too. Do you have a gun?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve no need for one.¡±


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    The wind beat against the house with such intensity that the window shutters flung open. There, walking toward the house, was the Pig, bathing in the murky glow of the lighthouse. Behind the creature stood its two shadowy companions. Just as he had remembered, one wore the head of a bull, and the other hid behind a lamb¡¯s bashful facade.


    The Duke grabbed a large knife off the kitchen counter and crawled under the table, rocking back and forth with his knees against his chest. I could hear his heartbeat quickening. It thundered as loud as the storm.


    *****


    The joyful spree of indulgence came crashing to a halt as the island¡¯s bountiful offerings shriveled into sickly nothingness. Panic swelled as most of the food in the kitchen had suddenly and inexplicably spoiled. To make matters worse, the crops in the fields and gardens had withered, and perhaps most painfully, the animals began to drop dead, whether from starvation or some unknown disease.


    Any food left untouched by this curse was strictly reserved for the Duke, his family, and their guests. In their newfound, dire circumstances the Duke was forced to make an executive decision: not everyone could be fed. Naturally, being no fool, he recognized the necessity of keeping this truth concealed. Instead, half of the servants were forced off the island.


    The Duke provided a half-hearted justification for incidents of food theft and inappropriate fraternization with the guests. When pressed for specific details, he offered no further explanation. He then commanded his guards to seal the gates and secure the doors, requiring his strongest men to fend off the cries of desperation and mounting rage.


    And so, within the grand palatial resort, the party carried on. The remaining servants, kitchen workers, and maids were to be seen but not heard. Yet amongst each other, they brutally fought for whatever crumbs and slop left oh-so-generously behind on the tables. As night fell and the clamor of the festivities momentarily subsided, the guests slouched in drunken stupor. But there would be no peace, and no silence, for in the distance the Duke could hear the moans of gnawing hunger of those left behind outside.


    The Duke hated nothing more than that sound. He couldn¡¯t bear it. One evening, amid a lavish banquet, he simply thought he had heard its faint echoes outside of a window. And so, he pounded his fists on the table, jolting the guests awake. Everyone looked around in bewilderment. Instead of screaming, he demanded that they laugh and tell him whatever jokes and amusing stories they could conjure. In a frenzy, he commanded the musicians to keep playing louder and louder, until their music drowned out the accursed noise from outside.


    But the Duke failed to account for one crucial factor. You see, hunger is a great motivator for violence. Not even the wails of violins could drown out the deafening cacophony of clashing metal and ravenous shrieks as the front gates were breached. The poor and desperate souls dropped dead, one by one, as security fired upon the mob. The Duke averted his gaze, urging his jesters to laugh harder, and play with greater intensity.


    The doors of the banquet hall came crashing down, torn from their hinges as easily as paper. From every direction, the Duke was confronted by those who had been pushed far beyond their breaking point. Feral rage burned in their eyes, and their frothy mouths salivated for any morsel that had been hoarded away from them. So intense was their hunger, that the notion of consuming human flesh didn¡¯t seem insane in the slightest.


    Among the mob, the Duke spotted the Bull, its chest puffed out in a fierce display of confidence, and its arms spread apart in a gleeful embrace of the enveloping chaos. It appeared as if all this was the creature¡¯s plan, its masterpiece.


    Like a conductor, it waved its arms as if orchestrating the feeding frenzy. The tender parts were the easiest to pluck and swallow. The eyes and tongues were the first to be gouged. Then, with a hard stab from a fork, the guts opened up like steaming minced pies. The organs were the most savored delicacies.


    The Duke stared in utter mortification before narrowly escaping by the skin of his teeth. Along with the Duchess and a few lucky survivors, they managed to leave without being detected. Protected by his most loyal footmen, they were guided to a secure room on ie upper level. They swiftly bolted the doors shut, with armed guards posted outside ready to shoot at the first sign of trouble.


    He counted the survivors one by one. As he reached the end, his heart sank into a bottomless pit. One life, the one that mattered the most, was not among the survivors.


    ¡°Our Prince!¡± the Duchess cried in despair. Their first-born and only son was gone.


    A horrible thought flashed across his mind: somewhere out there, what remained of the Prince was in the stomach of some wretch. But a thin ray of hope emerged through word of mouth. The Prince was alive. The mob had not devoured him.


    The Duke scanned the screens, switching on every camera and sending out drones to hover areas that the cameras couldn¡¯t reach. Just before one of his drones was shot down, he caught a glimpse of the Prince amidst the bloodied shadows. They poured through the corridors, ascended the stairs and sniffed out noble blood.


    Armed with guns, armored vests and helmets, the guards pressed forward as if stepping into a war zone. However, despite their training and ample supply of bullets, nothing could stop the bloodthirsty horde. The blackest despair pervaded the air, weighing heavily upon the Duke and his companions, as they were forced to listen to the final, agonizing shrieks of those who stood as the final barrier between them and their own demise. All they could do was pray, fiercely protecting what little food and wine they had managed to save.


    ¡°The door¡¯s steel-framed and reinforced with carbon fiber!¡± the Duke said. ¡°Not even a firing squad with semi-automatics could make a dent in it. We¡¯re safe.¡±


    He repeated the last two words, over and over. His frightened wife and the surviving guests gazed at him with bewilderment. Those words provided solace only to himself. They reverberated throughout the room, tormenting the survivors with their hollow promise of survival.


    The Duke¡¯s mantra was broken by a guttural roar unlike any other. It ripped through the air, hurtling towards the door. Fate lurked on the other side, and the Duke felt an icy chill creep into his bones. Once again, the entity bellowed in fury, rushing toward their last recourse from the unfolding massacre. The bolts of the door began to tremble.


    Searching the room, he retrieved a sword that had been proudly displayed on the wall. Though originally intended for decorative purposes, it still possessed the potential to inflict significant harm with a forceful thrust.


    The clamor had reached the upper level, and not even the hail of bullets could stop the fury of the mob. The Duke listened, covering his ears to shield himself from the deafening roar of screams, howls, sobbing, and gunfire.


    He was jolted back to his senses as the sturdy metal door was battered. Two sharp, twisting dents marred its surface, forming coarse, pointed protrusions resembling the shape of two long horns.


    He held the sword in front of him, poised to thrust it into the ungrateful horde¡¯s jugular. Oh, he¡¯d cut off all of their heads. Every last one of them! He¡¯d finish them one by one. Though he¡¯d never received formal training, he¡¯d seen enough films to imitate the movements of a skilled swordsman.


    But when the door finally gave away and the Bull stormed into the safe room with seething menace, he froze. The creature had stripped off its tattered tuxedo and stood atop the shattered door. Its muscles glistened with a putrid sheen of sweat and the blood of noble victims, savagely torn apart by its brutish horns. The mob loomed behind, ready to swarm the few remaining survivors.


    ¡°No peace for the wicked!¡± The Bull grunted, before lowering its horns. When it finally charged, the ravenous crowd swept the Duchess and the guests away.


    The Bull lunged at the Duke, who swung the sword with clumsy desperation. With sheer, blind luck, he managed to strike its left horn. The strike, however, did no harm, but instead seemed to fuel its anger, invigorating the creature further. With a deafening roar, it charged at him once more.


    Clank!


    He steadied himself, despite the slippery floor smeared with blood. The world around him had blurred into a sea of red. Body parts flew in all directions. The Duchess''s decapitated head was grotesquely mounted on the mantelpiece, her eyes plucked out and eaten. Blood oozed from her mouth; her tongue was torn off. The loss of his dearest love evoked fleeting sorrow in his heart. Yet, no fear was greater than the thought of his own head being displayed beside hers.


    The Bull pounded its fists against its bare chest like an ancient tribal drum, as if to summon some unknown force in a primal display of power and strength.


    The crowd cheered on.


    The Duke raised the sword, mustering all his courage. With closed eyes and a fervent prayer for a miracle, he swung the blade. The weapon grazed the beast¡¯s thigh, but it continued its relentless charge. Undeterred, he brandished the sword once more, and a long, sharp gash materialized across the creature''s back. It howled in pain before resuming its attack. This time, the sword¡¯s tip found its way under the beast¡¯s chin, and then slipped out, coated in blood.


    The Bull stumbled, its legs giving away as it crumpled to the ground. Reaching a hand toward him, the beast let out a mournful cry filled with profound, thunderous grief. It tried to crawl its way to the Duke, its hands groping for any semblance of support.


    He peered down at the dying beast, wondering who hid behind its hideous mask. Kneeling beside it, he noticed something peculiar about its eyes. Unlike the Pig and the Lamb, they possessed a glimmer of humanity. They stared up at him, carrying a hint of sorrow. Drawing in a sharp breath, he reached out and removed the mask¡­ And in that moment, the world around him shattered into fragments.


    There, gasping for his last breath, lay the Prince, his right hand clutching the fatal wound in his neck. The Duke searched the crowd in disbelief, looking for someone else to blame. Once again, his gaze landed on the Bull¡ªthe true Bull. It fixed its menacing grin at him from the broken doorway.


    The Duke would rather the crowd had torn him apart. Dear God, how he wished they had. But they merely encircled him in an unsettling silence, observing as he cradled his son in his arms, gently rocking him back and forth.


    ***


    After the Prince¡¯s death, the Duke locked himself into one of the suites. From the balcony window, he watched as lawlessness ran rampant throughout the island. The first thing that assaulted his senses when he poked his head out the window was the odor. The wind carried the stench of burning flesh, akin to rancid meat grilling over an open fire. He felt a wave of nausea as he surveyed the island grounds below, now littered with dismembered body parts. Even the once pristine swimming pools had been tainted with the hue of blood.


    Some, he saw, had the common sense to leave the island. However, their attempt was ill-fated. A large group tried to commandeer the yacht and sail away, although the captain and crew were missing, presumably dead, and no one else knew how to operate it. Others tried to escape on smaller boats. The number of passengers simply became too much, and the boats soon overloaded. With turbulent waters and searing winds, the boats overturned and many drowned. Their bodies floated aimlessly in the water. A select few washed ashore, pale blue and entangled in kelp.


    The chaos soon subsided, yet this would bring no relief. The Crimson Tide swept the land, and more and more collapsed. Their agonized groans shook the sky as they stared up, beseeching a deity to have mercy and end their suffering.


    The Duke wondered how the pestilence had managed to reach the island. After ensuring that every guest and staff member had passed a strict health check, he was convinced that Prospero was the only place in the world where the pestilence couldn¡¯t touch.


    Then he saw the Lamb. It pranced among the corpses in the gardens, energized and enthralled by the final moans of the dying. The creature twirled around, the long skirt of its tattered white dress flaring up with each graceful motion. Everything it touched died. The flowers withered, and the grass blackened. From all directions, the sick and ailing spewed blood and excrement. Chunks of liquefied organs floated in the ever-widening pool of human waste.


    Aghast at what unfolded around him, the Duke was determined to get off the island. He saw his chance when he spotted a boat that had been left at the dock. With grim determination, he took a deep breath, secured a cloth over his nose and mouth, and stepped out. He hurried down several flights of stairs, kicking and shoving off every frail and diseased inhabitant that grasped at his sleeves.


    ¡°Save me!¡± They cried with blood oozing from their lips and eyes.


    Finally, he burst through the front doors and into the warmth of daylight. Although the stench of death assaulted his senses, he couldn¡¯t help but grin. Yes, finally! Freedom was within his grasp. Energized yet frightened, he hastened toward the docks. However, as he zigzagged and leaped over bodies, he came to a sudden stop. The Lamb appeared before him, its eyes resembling two black holes where sunlight died.


    The Lamb bleated. ¡°Hell does not thank you; death does not praise you,¡± then stroking the Duke¡¯s cheek with a calloused two-pronged hand¡ª ¡°those who go down to the pit do not hope.¡±


    Then it removed its drab mask. The Duke stumbled back in terror as he gazed upon the face underneath. Before him was a grinning red skull, with patches of pale skin dangling loosely from its cheek and chin. The Duke picked himself up, shaking breathlessly in abject terror, and stumbled toward the dock. He bolted away from the apparition, occasionally glancing over his shoulder in horror. The Lamb was closing the distance between them, effortlessly gliding over corpses and debris.


    The Duke climbed into the last remaining boat and cried in relief as the engine whirred to life. Everything would be alright, he thought. As he pulled away from the dock, the Lamb dove into the water. With bated breath, he peered over the side, anxiously waiting for it to resurface and attempt to climb aboard, dragging him down to his watery end.


    Slowly, it emerged from the ocean. However, instead of making its way onto the boat, it floated beside him for a while like a drifting piece of kelp. Then, it submerged again. That was when the black clouds rolled in, and waves swelled to the height of mountains, violently rocking the boat.


    He felt the boat teeter sideways, dangerously close to overturning. Just as he thought he would slip into the roaring wet darkness, trapped beneath a sinking vessel, it would wobble back into an upright position. The Pig, the Bull, and the Lamb seemed to taunt him. Lightning streaked across the sky, and for a split second, the silhouettes of the Pig, the Bull, and the Lamb danced above the waves. Thunder roared, booming with mocking laughter.


    The creatures continued their torment, alternately threatening to drown him and then sparing him at the last second, leaving the Duke gripping the steering wheel for dear life. Just as he was about to resign himself to his fate, a blurry light seeped through the dense fog, rekindling his hope. It was the lighthouse, a beacon of salvation in the midst of chaos. The waves seemed to guide the boat toward the light, but not without further teasing, rocking the vessel, and the creatures roaring with laughter, their taunts echoing across the tempestuous sea.


    ***


    The storm outside the lighthouse began to subside, leaving only a gentle whistle as the wind lightly tapped on the shuttered windows and door. The Duke cautiously crawled out from under the table, his knuckles white from gripping his knife tightly. With trepidation, he carefully cracked open the window, allowing for a brief glimpse of the outside. Instantly, he slammed it shut, his eyebrows furrowing in mounting panic.


    His voice quivered. ¡°They¡¯re still out there. The Pig, the Bull, the Lamb. All three of them. They¡¯re just standing outside in the rain!¡±


    ¡°What do you think they want?¡± I asked him, curious if he had grasped the answer himself. The answer was plain for all to see.


    His eyes hardened, and his jaws clenched. ¡°I won¡¯t let them take me! They¡¯ve stolen everything I had¡ªmy island, my family¡­ but they will never have my soul!¡±


    ¡°Do you believe you can escape?¡±


    He glared at me with caution, his gaze fixed on my face, and pointed the knife in my direction. ¡°You¡¯re with them, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°I work alone. But occasionally, a few acquaintances and I come together for...¡± I paused, carefully choosing my words, ¡°...some necessary housecleaning.¡±


    ¡°Take off that mask!¡± he demanded, his tone growing increasingly hysterical. ¡°What kind of mask is that anyway? It¡¯s demonic! Are you even human?¡± He continued to ramble on.


    Suddenly, a violent cough overcame him, causing him to stumble back into the chair, desperately gasping for breath. He coughed into his hand, and as he lowered his gaze to his palm, a wave of panic washed over his face. His complexion flushed with fear, for in that moment, he realized it was only a matter of time until he would succumb to the relentless grip of the Crimson Tide.


    He hastily wiped his hand on the front of his shirt, his mind consumed with panic. Then, in a frenzied manner, he began to ramble incessantly about the whereabouts of a hidden bunker. He insisted that he knew the man who had built it, emphasizing that reaching that refuge was his sole purpose. Urgency coursed through his veins, compelling him to repeat to himself, like a mantra, that he would set off on his journey the following day to rendezvous with his friend. I supposed the thought of finding solace and safety deep underground in that bunker provided him with a modicum of comfort amidst the chaos that surrounded him.


    The cough worsened, its intensity escalating with each sharp breath he struggled to take, accompanied by a raspy gurgling sound that reverberated through the air. Despite his deteriorating condition, he once more raised the knife and demanded that I remove the mask.


    ¡°I need to see your face,¡± he said.


    ¡°Alright, if you must...¡±


    I stepped out from the corner, positioning myself in front of him while he shivered, both from fear and the tightening grip of the disease that had worked its way into his bones.


    As I slowly removed the mask, the knife slipped from his trembling fingers, tumbling to the floor with a dull thump. He clutched his chest, his eyes wide with realization. To his horror, he beheld his own reflection, for I have no face of my own. He desperately grabbed at my robe, attempting to pull me closer, only to find emptiness beneath the fabric. In that moment, I merged with him, our essence intertwining. Now I was inside of him, feeling the weakness in his lungs, the fading throb of his heart, and the sickness coursing through his veins, becoming intimately familiar with the depths of his affliction.


    I wormed my way into his ear and whispered, ¡°When your breath departs, you shall return to the earth. On this day, all your plans shall perish. I am your death.¡± Already, I coursed through his veins, a presence devouring the vitality from his very cells.


    The Duke¡¯s scream of disbelief pierced the air as his hands and feet began to decay, the putrid stench of death filling the room. Wracked with wretched agony, he felt himself slowly wilt like a flower in the midst of a drought.


    The front door began to jolt. It swung open. His fate was sealed. And just before his eyes melted into his skull, the Duke''s gaze settled upon the shadowy figures of the Pig, the Bull, and the Lamb.

 Yellow Nightmare

    At one point in my life, I nearly lost my sanity. The madness started off as a nightmare, then it leaked into my days.


    At first, it was quiet and slow, like the daddy long-leg spider spinning its web in the corner of the ceiling. Then, with a few seconds between each one, water droplets dripped from the faucet into the sink. Each drop rang the same flat, dead note, echoing throughout the apartment. The wallpaper had turned increasingly yellow with every drop, but not a vibrant yellow. Rather, it was sickly and jaundiced, like a dying canary with its feathers falling off.


    There was a tear as well. A loose sliver of wallpaper flapped back and forth as the wind blew in through an opened window. It reminded me of the way fatty, loose, and wrinkled skin jiggles within an old woman''s armpit. The flap of wallpaper hid something, resembling a head. It lacked eyes, mouth, or nose¡ªjust the veiled impression of a head. But before I could get a good look, I was torn from the mystery by the screech of my alarm clock.


    I went into the kitchen to find that yesterday¡¯s delivery of bread had gone bad. The nightmare had eaten it from the inside out, leaving nothing but black crumbs for me to scrounge from the floor. When I opened the fridge door, an odor assaulted my nostrils. All the beverages had gone sour, the eggs were cracked, and the greens had browned and withered. With a sigh of defeat, I closed the fridge door. I would have to buy new groceries.


    But that would mean leaving this apartment, going outside.


    Outside.


    Out into the world, with all its chaos.


    That was where the nightmare wanted me to go. But I wasn''t ready, not yet. I couldn''t just walk out my front door. It wasn''t that easy. Going outside required preparation, and even thinking about the process of getting ready made my head throb. My chest started to ache, as if all the air had been squeezed out of my lungs. I sat in the kitchen, motionless, only listening to the noise of eight spindly legs as they incessantly worked toward some unknown goal.


    The spider had spun its web across the ceiling, and the light danced upon it, its long, pale fingers plucking the strings. In an odd way, I couldn''t help but marvel at its beauty as it shimmered. It resonated with the muted buzz of trapped insects, mummified victims awaiting their demise in Saran wrap. I could feel their suffocation as the air was squeezed from their lungs. Their frantic movements came to an abrupt halt as the spider reeled them closer. A silent panic enveloped the walls, and its deathly yellow tinge cast a darker hue than congealed mustard over everything around it.


    Like the fading bathroom light, which glowed in a murky gold that shimmered weakly now and then, my reflection in the mirror appeared as a featureless black shape. Cold drops traced over my closed eyelids, the bridge of my nose, my lips, my chin, and cheeks. One of my molars was loose in my mouth, and I lazily flicked it with the tip of my tongue while the rest remained firm and pearly white. There was no pain, only the dread of unlocking the front door, weighing heavily on my stomach.


    How did it all start? How did it come to this? There was a time in my life when I didn''t feel this unending sickness, this terrible sense of foreboding. There was a time when nightmares confined themselves to my sleep, and sometimes I didn''t dream at all. In those innocent days, I had a job, a dull, dead-end office job with my own cubicle. It was a white, square space, and I was just one of a hundred dull, white-collared office drones in identical cubicles. Faceless, uniformed, synchronized. That''s what I remembered from the old days.


    I sat there, looking at papers stacked in rows that reached such towering heights they seemed to stretch into infinity. Just gazing up at them would strain my neck, their sheer magnitude bearing an intimidating resemblance to the frieze of Roman columns. It brought to mind arched ceilings adorned with intricately carved animal faces and mythical gods entwined in vines. It served as a reminder of just how small and insignificant one could feel, like an ant that could easily be squished beneath the toe of one of those carved deities.


    Yet, in my cubicle, there was no beautiful artwork to behold. Instead, my gaze was met with an endless, nauseating expanse of blinding, bright whiteness. The fluorescent lights overhead forced my irises to shrink to the size of a grain. The towering stack of paperwork loomed over me, trembling with every touch, as if threatening to crumble into a million pieces. As the electric fan above blew in my direction, one lone piece of paper teetered on the edge, inching its way over and descending like a delicate feather, finally landing right in front of me.


    The page before me remained blank, serving as a mere surface for my coffee mug. Suddenly, I found myself unable to lift the pen, unable to write. All I could manage was to shift uncomfortably in my chair as my left leg trembled uncontrollably. The fluorescent lights above grew increasingly brighter, their heat intensifying as if licking at the back of my neck. I felt overwhelmed in the vast expanse of cubicles, lost amidst the faceless crowd where everyone consumed the same sandwich and salad, where our dreams blended together into a monotonous haze. In this world, each one of us bore monosyllabic names and identical haircuts.


    In an abrupt act, I dropped the pen and abandoned my desk. In the blink of an eye, I found myself outside, perched on the ledge of the 49th floor of the building. The wind jeered at me with a malicious force, while the city and its inhabitants below appeared smaller than ants. Leaning against the building, most people would tremble at such dizzying heights. However, I calmly observed the birds soaring by, vanishing into the clouds as they drifted across the vast expanse of the blue sky, akin to white caps crashing against rugged rocks on a distant shore.


    I stood at the precipice, poised to leap into the vast unknown, longing to finally awaken from this torment. Yet, I did not. Instead, I found myself returning to my desk once more. My coffee mug, bearing a small crack at the bottom, bled onto the blank page, leaving behind a peculiar mark. It almost resembled the shape of a head, faceless and haunting, with invisible eyes that seemed to follow me relentlessly. Though I crumpled up that sheet of paper and discarded it, its presence lingered. As I sat at the desk, absentmindedly rolling the pen between my fingers, its shadow loomed over me, breathing down my neck, prickling my skin and hair like nettles.


    The paperwork continued to mount, growing higher and higher, causing the Roman columns to tremble and sway unsteadily. Under its weight, the desk''s joints creaked and shuddered. My shoulders ached, worn down by the relentless gaze of the faceless presence. The once-bright light above me became blinding, making the ink from my pen seemingly vanish from the white page. As the pen slipped from my trembling hand and fell to the floor, the colonnade collapsed, its destruction drowned out by a cacophony of shuffling papers, ringing phones, and the mocking chatter of the wall clock ticking away. I ran down the hallway, propelled by a surge of desperation, bolted through the emergency door, and descended 49 flights of stairs with reckless abandon.


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    For eight months, I could not bring myself to return to that suffocating cubicle. I imagined it sitting there, empty and abandoned, with only traces of my work lingering stubbornly, like weathered remnants of ancient Rome''s walls and columns. I remained stagnant, caught between the past and the future, unable to move backward or forward. Instead, I remained anchored to this apartment, gripped by an inexplicable fear that constricted my lungs and relentlessly throbbed in my heart. In this little studio, I believed I was safe, if only for a fleeting moment. But now, I could no longer divert my gaze as the nightmare crept out from within the walls, causing the lights to flicker and devouring my food from the inside out.


    But still, I couldn''t bring myself to step outside, not today. The sky appeared too yellow, too sickly. Perhaps tomorrow would offer a better opportunity. The outside air seemed tainted, unfit to breathe on this particular day. There was something amiss, something poisonous lingering in the atmosphere. Its taste lingered in my mouth, reminiscent of chewing on cotton balls soaked in stale mustard. No amount of milk or vodka could wash it away. It clung to my tongue, playfully flicking against a dangling nerve of one of my teeth.


    I vigorously brushed my tongue with a toothbrush, scrubbing until its pristine white coat turned crimson. I winced as I rinsed it with hot water, hoping to alleviate the sensation. Yet, the taste persisted, stubbornly clinging to the tip of my tongue.


    Like a horrible itch.


    Burning.


    Stinging.


    Pinching pain.


    A glorious red ring with a yellow gem.


    I tried to pinch it between my thumb and forefinger, and tears welled up in my eyes. The stinging pain radiated from the tip of my tongue, spreading through my entire being. Yet, it remained, gleaming at me like an ugly sun smirking behind a shroud of smog. The wind persistently blew through the flap in the wallpaper, seeping in through the window. I could sense the presence lurking behind it, fixating its gaze upon me.


    As I locked eyes with it, I stood frozen in place. My mouth hung open as the impossible unfolded before me.


    It formed a smile without lips and let out a laugh. The sound was flat and dissonant, akin to the incessant drip of water from that wretched loose faucet, slithering down the sink''s throat. That same corroded throat into which I had gagged and expelled blood and bile from my stomach. I felt as if all the blood had been drained from my face. With trepidation, I raised my eyes to the dirty mirror above the sink. Reflecting back at me was nothing but a husk, a ghost of my former self.


    But upon closer inspection, I noticed a change. It crept along at a sluggish, excruciating pace. It began with the whites of my eyes, now tinged with yellow. Yellow. And my pupils were as pitch-black and vacant as a sinkhole. My teeth, too, were misaligned and yellow-ish brown. I had neglected to brush them for weeks, perhaps months, to the point where a layer of plaque had encrusted their surface and wedged between them.


    The tooth at the back could no longer find its place. I tapped it once more with the tip of my tongue, feeling its jagged edge scrape against the tender yellow sore. And then it dislodged, bouncing around in my mouth. In sheer disgust, I spat it out. The blood marked a trail to the sinkhole, dangerously close to its edge. I ran my tongue over the remaining teeth, sensing them shift in their positions. Soon, one after another, they cracked and fell, and the little red dots swirled and twirled along with them in the sink. Only a few teeth stubbornly clung to the front, refusing to let go.


    You look so ugly. I remembered those words. A colleague had once said them to me during lunch.


    "And you look like smeared shit," I shot back. We sat in the corner of the cafeteria, hunched over our sandwiches and coffee. That lipless, smiling joker told me to calm down, claiming they didn''t mean it. Oh, how the others laughed. I couldn''t bring myself to look any of them in the face.


    Weren''t we supposed to be friends? Friends who winked and smiled as they plunged knives into your gut, watching your insides spill onto the floor. Friends who pretended to sympathize as they picked up your organs, attempting to put them back, telling you it was just a joke. All wounds heal, they said. But this scar remained hidden beneath my clothes. I was the punchline of the jokes friends liked to share.


    When lunch ended, everyone returned to their cubicles. Everyone except me. I sneaked away for a quick trip to the restroom. It was then that I began to feel the tooth move. I flicked it with my tongue.


    Flick. Flick.


    As all of this came to me, I couldn''t even stand to look my reflection in the eye. At least, not without feeling the urge to destroy it, shattering every remaining shard of glass into the sink. The thing behind the wallpaper smiled wider, revealing a row of straight white teeth held together by browning gums. Its deep chuckle resonated throughout the apartment, grating against my skin and pinching my nerves. With every ounce of my dwindling strength, I clenched my fists.


    Don''t laugh at me.


    Don''t.


    Laugh.


    I pushed away the dangling piece of wallpaper and came face to face with it. Straight white teeth. Wide white eyes. Look how it mocked me. Sneered at me. What did it want from me? Why had it intruded into my world?


    "Go back! Look at everything you''ve taken from me. Please, just let me have this day!" I pleaded.


    It said nothing in response. Its smile only widened, stretching across the wall and tearing new lines through the wallpaper. The wood snapped and cracked. The nails and joints creaked from within. The wall heaved in and out like someone dying from laughter, gasping for air in desperate suffocation.


    Stop laughing.


    I took hold of the fluttering piece and traveled along the wall, crushing it in my clenched fist. It felt strange in my hand, warm and soft, almost like dry human skin. The thing''s smile now appeared strained, as if it were attempting to endure some hidden anguish. Despite its pride, it couldn''t let me hear its soft squeaks of pain. But the more I ripped away, the deeper I dug my fingers into its soft tissue, the tighter it clenched its teeth. With each tightening grip, it began to bleed, its blood seeping under my fingernails. Tears welled up in its eyes.


    Nowhere inside me was there an ounce of pity for it. I felt nothing. Seething contempt was all that remained within me. I tore away at every inch of its skin, dismantling it from one end to the other until there was nothing left but its fragile bones. Its discarded skin littered the floor, staining the carpet with its blood. Cockroaches scurried in and out of its empty sockets, while termites nibbled at the wood in its final dying breaths. Just as I began to turn away, I noticed something at the center. Stuck between its ribs was a dead canary. The bird''s color had faded to gray, its lifeless body consumed from the inside out, its remaining insides shriveled to crumbs.


    I cooled myself down with a handful of freezing water from the faucet. When I opened my eyes, I no longer saw the featureless black shape staring back at me. My teeth were intact. The bubble on my tongue had burst, oozing its yellow pus. Its taste was sour, like mustard churning in expired milk.


    The faucet continued to leak.


    I realized I had forgotten to properly wash my hands. My fingernails were caked with blood and grime. I reasoned that I could do it later, perhaps before I went grocery shopping. You see, I could do everything later. But right now, all I wanted was sleep.

 Death of a Nameless

    <h2 style="text-align: center"><u>Your Solitary Death</u></h2>


    Your end is unlike any other death that you¡¯ve read about in obituaries. From time to time, you would read them out of morbid curiosity and hear about how so and so died surrounded by their family and friends. But not you. Unexpectedly, you die alone.


    Not in bed beside a partner, who¡¯d wake up to find you lying stiff and not breathing. Not in a hospital with a nurse on the 10th hour of her 12th hour shift coming in to check on you and seeing that you¡¯ve flat lined. Not in your cubicle at the office, where a worker drone would see you faceplant into the keyboard before hurrying off to the copy machine hours before a lonely janitor finds you ice cold in the same spot.


    Instead, at 4:00 p.m., you die on the couch in front of the television. Before that, you get yourself a bag of chips, a can of soda, and your pack of smokes. You turn on the TV, flip through the channels before stopping on a loud, flashy game show. Then a tingling sensation trickles from your head down to the tips of your toes. A soothingly familiar wave of exhaustion washes over you. Overcome with lethargy, your eyes become heavy, and your heart slows down.


    You try with all your might to fight it off. After all, you want to watch your show. Your head slumps to the side, and your body goes limp. You stop breathing.


    But the game show goes on.


    Your weight presses down on the remote between the couch cushion and your right butt cheek. The volume turns up. The crowd cheers louder and louder! The host screams for the contestant to spin the wheel harder and harder!


    ¡°What do you get?¡± the host shouts. ¡°A brand-new microwave!¡±


    The contestant¡¯s beaming face shines in your glazed, blank eyes.


    <h2 style="text-align: center"><u>Your Odor</u></h2>


    The neighbor¡¯s boy smells it first. He¡¯s in the kitchen with Mom baking a cake for his little sister¡¯s 5th birthday. A peculiar odor has seeped through the walls. At first, it¡¯s faint. A hint of stink, like a fading fart.


    The wall where it¡¯s coming from is the wall that you and the family share. The boy sniffs the air and follows an invisible trail of stink to the wall. He presses his nose against it. The smell strikes his nostrils like a punch on the nose. Stumbling back, he gags and pukes on the table, on the cake, on his apron, and on Mom. The chunks of pancakes and sausages he ate for breakfast intrude on to what was, until then, a peaceful family moment.


    The elderly lady, with whom you share the living room wall, wonders why her Pomeranian won¡¯t stop barking at the wall. With a little treat in hand, she approaches the dog, coaxing him away from the wall. That¡¯s when her nose twitches.


    ¡°That¡¯s a funny smell,¡± she mumbles as she draws closer to the wall. But as she sniffs the air, she staggers back in disgust. Her stomach churns.


    She can hear that your TV is still on. It¡¯s always that same game show. The same mindless crowd cheering. Today, a new contestant has won a brand-new, double-door top-of-the-line steel refrigerator.


    The man in the apartment below you notices the light brown spot in the ceiling. A few days ago, the spot was only a speck, but now it has grown, darkened, and is leaking steady droplets. And that pungent stink... he can¡¯t recall a time he¡¯s ever smelled something so horrific before. The closest memory he can think of is from last summer, when the sewer pipes in his squalid neighborhood block suddenly burst and flooded the parking lot.


    But even that noxious stench is no match for this. This stink is like no other. The blackish liquid leaking from the ceiling tastes like the bitter, caustic sap of some god forsaken tree from the underworld.


    <h2 style="text-align: center"><u>Your Remains</u></h2>


    You¡¯re found on the couch in front of the TV, still sitting on the remote. The game show host greets the Investigator who has kicked your front door open. He tells the Investigator that the contestant has lost the chance to win the brand spanking new car, so¡ª the plug is pulled, and the screen shuts off.


    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Judging by the sludge on the floor that was once your skin, guts, and muscles, the Investigator estimates that you¡¯ve been dead for over a month or so. What¡¯s left of you is a shadow of your former self¡ª the few tendrils of hair, your painted fingernails, and your yellowed bones and teeth.


    Your apartment isn¡¯t an apartment. It¡¯s a maze of looming towers of books and newspapers, and turrets of ornaments and emptied food cans. With gloved hands, the Investigator rifles through your things on the dining table¡ªpassed due bills, brochures and pamphlets, crumpled tissues, crushed pills, and cigarette butts and ashes.


    He determines you were a recluse, a turtle that hid in its shell whenever someone passed by.


    You have one postcard from a friend.


    Hawaii is great! Going snorkeling! - dated 2004.


    And that¡¯s the first and only sign of a connection to someone from the world outside.


    In the bedroom, you had cockatiels and lovebirds in cages. Dozens of birds. All are starved and featherless. In the kitchen, the trash can is overflowing. The plates and silverware fill the sink to the brim.


    The only surviving friends you have are the flies circling above your head, forming a swirling black halo; and the roaches and ants that crowd around a bowl of rotten fruit.


    The Investigator scrambles to a window, though it refuses to budge. He punches it open and as a breeze of fresh air sweeps in, he gasps to breathe it in. His entire body shivers.


    <h2 style="text-align: center"><u>Your Ashes</u></h2>


    Your remains are taken away to the crematorium in a black body bag. The Coroner has determined that you¡¯ve died a natural death. It could¡¯ve been a heart attack, a ruptured brain aneurysm, or perhaps another underlying health issue. The investigator concludes that you have no family; not even a hint of a distant relative. The friend who sent you that postcard has long since disappeared. Perhaps, he drowned while snorkeling or was swept farther into the sea. Never to be seen again.


    The Cremator shoves you into the furnace. There, the flames lick you from head to foot before engulfing you in its mouth. Your bones are charred by its searing fury.


    Through a small window, you watch yourself¡ªa human who lived yet never truly lived¡ªreduce into ashes. You wander down the corridor, lingering by the Cremator who shivers and turns to catch a glimpse of your shadow as it walks through the wall in front of him.


    She returns to work, unbothered. She is all too familiar with an unseen presence like yours. You¡¯re not the only one in the room. There are other nameless ones. They wander the corridors and loiter in dark corners. They press their mournful faces against the windows, leaving faint traces of their presence in the condensation.


    Without a family or friend to claim your ashes, the Cremator gathers them up and shovels them onto the wagon. She wheels you outside and pours you into a deep pit; the communal plot. This is where you will lie; dumped and buried with the ashes of the other nameless ones.


    Now, you roam with neither a body nor a place to call home. The other nameless ones tell you it¡¯s all right. It¡¯s not so bad to wander the Earth. You¡¯re not completely alone.


    So, for now, you circle your old neighborhood, looking up at the old apartment complex. The old lady¡¯s Pomeranian barks at you from the window. Several kids run up to the gate with presents and balloons. Then, you remember it¡¯s your neighbor¡¯s kid¡¯s birthday. They sent you an invitation in your mailbox, but that was left unchecked.


    You promise yourself that you¡¯ll do differently next time, if you get another chance to live.


    <h2 style="text-align: center"><u>Your Birth</u></h2>


    In your former life, you didn¡¯t adhere to a religion, and you¡¯re glad that you never did. Now, you realize that no one knows what happens after death. You wander through the worn-out paths of your former life, following your old daily routine. It¡¯s the familiarity that comforts you in this unfamiliar way of existence.


    But eventually, you start to fade out, and you¡¯re pulled into another plane of existence. The first thing you feel is a sense of tranquility. And then...warmth. You¡¯re curled up in a shell. You can¡¯t open your eyes yet, but you feel safe and protected in this cocooning warmth. You hear your heartbeat, and then someone else¡¯s heartbeat. Then the next thing you faintly recognize is a sweet sound of humming. You realize that the song is for you. The humming offers comfort; lulling you to sleep as it gently rocks you.


    You¡¯re not in the shell for long. Soon, you feel a sudden agony as your body is forcibly pushed out. At first, a bright light stings your eyes, but slowly you open them again. And there, right in front of you, is the tender face of a woman smiling at you. She cradles and kisses you. With a fiercely protective hug, she pours her tears onto you. Yes, she is a stranger. And yet, she seems so familiar.


    Memories of your former life soon begin to blur, like a painting thrown out into the sea. The colors fade, and the canvas deteriorates. You can¡¯t recall your old name. You wonder where you used to live, and what kind of people once surrounded you.


    You cry, desperately wanting to cling a little longer to your old life. But the woman¡¯s voice soothes you. She tells you that it¡¯s all right. And then, once again, she hums. It¡¯s that same soothing tune that you heard her hum while you were in the shell.


    You are given a new name and a new home.


    This is your new life.