Smears of orange, sulfurous yellow, and bruised purple shimmered across the walls, swelling and receding, swirling into one another. A bass thrummed from somewhere inside the walls. With every vibration, the plaster bowed outward, bloating toward the center of the room before slowly sinking back into place. Beneath the queen bed, the hardwood floor rolled in waves, yet none of the furniture rocked or tilted.

A young man sat upright in bed, his brown, sweat-slicked hair plastered to his forehead. He stared at his hands, turning his palms upward. They looked unfamiliar, as though they belonged to someone else.

In the corner, an old radio played “The End of the World” by Skeeter Davis. Ripples distorted the air around its speakers, drifting through the room like rings spreading across water.

He pressed his index finger against the underside of his wrist, but couldn’t feel the contact. Curious, he dragged his palms over his ribs, up his neck, squeezed the meat of his thighs. Nothing.

He pulled his knife out of the nightstand drawer and slid the blade across his palm. Crimson welled from the cut, spilling over the edges of his hand and dripping onto the sheets. He clenched his fist, forcing another surge from the wound before relaxing his grip. Still nothing.

He held up his index finger and rested the tip of the knife against the pad, peeling away the fingertip like the skin from a potato. It landed on the bed—a small, nearly translucent flap of skin. He pinched it between two fingers, rolled it into a tiny ball, and flicked it toward the floor. Instead of landing, it floated, drifting lazily through the room before disappearing into one of the ripples.

His pupils widened until they swallowed his green irises. Pressure built inside his ears, sound muffled as if submerged in water. He positioned the blade against one knuckle and sawed. Dark rivulets slipped over his hand, gathering faster as steel ground against bone. The room seemed to lean sideways. The sawing echoed from somewhere behind him, then above him, then inside the walls. With a snap, the bone gave way.

His finger landed on the sheets, twitching once before stilling. For a moment, the bed was covered in severed fingers, all wriggling like maggots before coalescing into a single one.

He picked it up, his heart racing. “Oh my god.” His own voice echoed back several seconds later, low and distorted.

Laughter burst from him. He doubled over, clutching his stomach while the severed finger remained trapped inside his fist. He stared at the stump where it had been, and the laughter only grew louder.

Around him, faces seeped from the shifting colors, their mouths opening wide as they joined in.

The knife rose again. He dragged it along his forearm, and the skin parted. He peeled back the flap of flesh, exposing yellow lobules of fat, glossy muscle, and glistening white fascia. Blood welled from the severed vessels, running down his arm. He still couldn’t feel a thing.

The walls flexed inward. Blood seeped from hairline cracks in the plaster, crawling upward instead of down. Along the shelves, old childhood toys—wooden horses, action figures, wind-up cars—rocked gently before launching themselves into the air, crashing onto the floor. Heads popped free and rolled away.

One stopped beside the bed, and its painted eyes blinked. Another’s face ballooned outward until it burst, showering the room with a pulpy red substance that evaporated before it touched the floor.

Darkness pooled in the corners of the bedroom. Long fingers unfolded from within it, stroking the wallpaper before retreating again. The radio crackled between stations, the music accompanied by a gurgling sound.

The young man pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside, striking the wall. The plaster swallowed it inch by inch, rippling like the surface of a pond until only the collar remained. Most of the furniture was like that now—embedded in the floor and walls.

His pulse quickened as he rested the knife against the center of his chest, the blade slipping inside with almost no resistance. A thin stream traced its way down his torso as he carved from the base of his throat to his lower stomach. He tossed the knife aside, hooked his fingers beneath the split flesh, and pulled.

His organs eased free as though relieved to escape him, loops of intestines slithering into his lap. He kneaded them before draping them around his shoulders and neck like a scarf.

The smiling faces crowded nearer. They nodded, urging him on.

His hands disappeared back inside himself, bones cracking as he pried apart his ribs and lifted out his liver. He stared at it before pressing it into the space where his intestines had been. It fit perfectly.

The laughter became deafening. The walls laughed. The faces laughed. Even the radio laughed.

Still grinning, he wrapped his hand around his heart and tore it free.

The music on the radio steadied, returning to the smooth, unbroken notes of “The End of the World.” The walls slowly relaxed. The colors drained away. The furniture slid free of the plaster and settled back into place. Shattered toys pieced themselves together, returning to the shelves.

And on the bed the young man lay smiling, his heart resting beside his still body.

Snow cascaded from a sky that was nothing more than an expanse of blinding white. Snowflakes tumbled over one another, spiraling and colliding. The sharp lines of rooftops disappeared, fences faded into nothing, and the road vanished beneath a veil of white. Even the house across the street was gone, swallowed whole, as if it had never existed at all.

Mark stood in his doorway, the wood floors dark and swollen where water seeped through the ceiling, falling in steady drips. Each drop landed with a tap against the boards before spreading into the grain, sinking deep into the already rotted wood. It had been like this for a while now. The planks bowed under his weight.

Another drop fell.

It struck the back of his hand before he could move. The water was cold, and it stung on contact, making him flinch. Immediately, the skin changed where it touched him, a white patch branching across the surface like ice.

It had been five days since the phone lines worked. Seven since he last stepped outside.

The plows had stopped coming. Snow gathered unchecked, rising in heaps that devoured the road. Cars and mailboxes sat half-buried, only the tops visible. The scrape of shovels no longer sounded in the mornings. You could stand out here carving a path, and by the time you were done it would be gone—smoothed over, as if you had never tried at all.

Mark’s father had been one of the end-of-the-world fanatics, certain an apocalypse was always just around the corner. He stockpiled canned food, batteries, and bottled water in the storage room of his basement, refusing to throw out food even after it expired, claiming that anything in a can would be good forever. Mark could never gain the courage to tell him that wasn’t how things worked.

His father died last spring in a nursing home in a narrow bed beneath fluorescent lights. By then, he didn’t even know his own name. He forgot Mark years before that. The recognition faded slowly, then all at once.

As a child, his father taught him the rituals of survival: stack the cans so the labels faced out, buy more with every sale at the grocery store, keep the generator dry and run it once a month. Those lessons rooted themselves deeper than anything else his father had ever given him. Despite not sharing the fear of some kind of outbreak, he bought a generator and began his own stockpile as soon as he bought his own house.

Mark could not help but think of the neighbors. The elderly couple next door had waved to him sometimes in the fall, bundled in sweaters even before the first frost. He imagined their house now: curtains drawn, the television dark, the air inside so cold it burned the lungs. Perhaps they had tried to wait it out beneath quilts and layered blankets. Perhaps they had told each other it would pass, that storms always do.

He saw them in his mind, side by side in their bed, dead but unmarred by decomposition, the cold preventing the rot.

Mark zipped up a heavy dark gray winter coat, securing it over three gray zip-ups, a red flannel, and a white T-shirt. The layers pressed tight against his chest, making him look bulkier than he actually was. The collar scraped against the stubble shadowing his jaw. He hadn’t shaved in days. Maybe longer.

He pulled the hood over his greasy, light brown hair that was flattened on one side where he slept. A navy-blue scarf hung on its hook by the door, and he hesitated before taking it down. The wool was soft, threads frayed at the ends. He wrapped it around his neck once, then again, tucking it in, lifting the bottom to his nose and inhaling. Whatever trace of his ex-wife’s perfume that once clung to it was long gone.

He leaned down to wrestle on the snow pants, the nylon snagging against his permanently oil-stained jeans. The bulk of his upper layers bunched at his waist, making it hard to see what his hands were doing. He hopped, nearly losing his balance, catching himself on the wall.

Mark dropped heavily onto the small bench by the door, the layers folding awkwardly at his middle as he tried to bend. He forced his foot into the first snow boot, heel grinding down inch by inch. He was out of breath before he even got the second boot on.

No noise waited on the other side of the door. Mark wrapped his hand around the handle and turned it slowly. It resisted, grinding against the frame. He had to pull hard for the seal to finally break.

The cold hit him all at once, pouring over him, pressing through the seams of his clothes and settling beneath the layers. Even bundled as he was, it stole the air from his lungs. He shivered and realized that he forgot his gloves. His fingers stung, frostbite threatening to claim his rapidly numbing fingers as he fumbled with the gloves hanging on the hook, forcing his trembling hands into the soft interior.

Mark’s breath clouded his face before dissolving into the air, boots sinking into the snow without resistance, sliding down into powder so soft it made no sound at all. He pulled his foot free and took another step, expecting to collide with a blockade that should have buried the door as it had the windows, but the ground stretched outward, flat and strangely clear.

He moved farther, forgetting to pull the door closed behind him, waiting for the inevitable mound of snow to block his path. It never came.

Through the white haze, he could faintly make out the side of his house. Snow clung to the walls, climbing upward along the siding like vines.

He got on his knees and scooped snow into both hands and pressed it together. It bound easily, fusing into a seamless sphere. Returning it to the ground, he rolled it. At first, it dragged, carving a shallow trough through the powder before it built momentum, snow adhering to its sides, layering over itself. Soon it became as tall as his knees, then his waist.

He worked faster now, scooping and compressing, rolling and shaping the second sphere, then the third, making each one just slightly smaller than the last.

Once complete, he kneeled in front of the largest one, plunging both hands into the center, scooping out handfuls and tossing them aside. The interior was soft, almost airy, yet it held its shape perfectly. He carved deeper, widening the opening, pressing the inside walls smooth, rubbing them flat with his palms.

When done, he repeated the process on the next two.

In the distance, tree branches bowed under the weight of snow. A few had already broken, devoured the second they touched the ground. Mark gripped a low branch and bent it down, the wood snapping with a dry crack. He broke off another that was roughly the same length, and turned back, pressing the twigs into either side of the middle mound.

Reaching behind his back, Mark pulled the pocketknife from the waistband of his jeans—something he always carried with him, even in the shower—his hand shaking as he flipped it open and brought it to his coat. He pinched the gray button between his fingers, his other hand working the knife on the thread until it frayed and gave. The button dropped into the snow at his feet, a small, dark circle against unending white. One by one he cut the rest free. He kneeled to retrieve them, arranging them down the torso in a straight vertical line.

The eyes and mouth were next.

Mark turned and moved in what he hoped was the right direction. The snow felt denser the farther he went, the white closing in. The porch emerged gradually: first the steps, then the landing. He lowered himself to his knees at the edge of the buried landscaping, digging where he remembered the rocks to be, and pulled out seven.

Back at the snowman, he pressed two into the top sphere for eyes. They sank in slightly deeper than the buttons did. He had to dig them out and reposition them higher. The remaining five he arranged carefully into a mouth. He was certain he had made a smile, but when he stepped back, the snowman was frowning.

Mark frowned back before retreating to his house, snow sliding off his boots onto the wooden flooring. They squeaked as he walked, each step leaving a wet imprint that spread outward.

The house smelled faintly of damp lumber and gasoline. A heavy orange extension cord snaked from the hallway toward the back of the house, disappearing down the basement stairs. The generator’s low, steady hum vibrated through the walls and up through the soles of his boots.

The kitchen light flickered once before steadying. A new leak discolored the ceiling above the sink, sagging the plaster. A pot sat on the counter beneath it, catching the slow drip.

Magnets clung to the refrigerator door, holding an old takeout menu and coupons that were now long expired. Inside, the bulb glowed a steady white, the shelves lined with leftovers wrapped tight in foil, a carton of eggs with three remaining, and what was left of his jug of milk.

He slid open the vegetable drawer where there were a few stalks of celery, a shriveled pepper, and one long carrot shoved into the back. He pulled it out further and reached inside to grab the carrot, shutting the fridge behind him.

Outside, the cold met him again, immediate and invasive, the wet cuffs of his jeans stiffening under the snow pants. The snowman stood where he left it. Mark lifted the carrot and pressed the blunt end into the center of the top sphere. He adjusted it, angling it just a touch upward, and took a step back.

It was complete.

Mark circled around to the back of the yard to the shed that was little more than a white-capped shape near the fence line. He forced the door open with both hands, snow spilling inward in a soft collapse. A stepladder leaned folded against the wall, and he dragged it free, its metal legs grinding against the concrete before the sound was swallowed by the snow.

He set the ladder in front of the snowman and climbed until he reached the last step, placing his hands on the rim of the head. He pushed experimentally, and it held. The opening was smaller than he remembered, wishing he had put the head on after he got inside, but as he tried to remove it now, it didn’t budge. He would have to make do.

Mark lifted one leg, probing into the cavity with his boot. The rest of his body followed, holding onto the rim with all his strength as he climbed off the ladder and into the snowman. The snow scraped along his body, his shoulders wedged tight, knees bent to help him fit.

Above him, the opening narrowed as the snow accumulated, sealing him in. When his eyes closed, he didn’t open them again.

Three days later, the storm broke. The sky was a brilliant blue, scrubbed clean of clouds, sunlight spilling over the neighborhood. Birds flit from tree to roof to fence post. Every house’s door stood open, and in each yard stood a snowman.

Yellow wallpaper patterned with pink flowers covered the walls, and antique photographs filled nearly every inch. Some had been forced onto the backsplash, squeezed into the narrow space between the cabinets.

Inside them, women in aprons stood behind tables laden with pies, loaves of bread, and tiered cakes. One photograph was newer, featuring a woman dusted in flour, her smile thin, offering a plate piled high with cookies whose surface texture looked disturbingly close to skin.

A large glass jar of cookies pressed against the fridge, where magnets held crayon drawings of gingerbread men and houses her granddaughter had made. The cookies were a mix of snickerdoodles, Mexican wedding cakes, sugar cookies, and ordinary chocolate chip. But something about them was wrong.

The dough was lumpy and uneven, with small white protrusions jutting out like bones. One had cracked open, revealing a slick, red, stringy core that glistened wetly in the sunlight. Another had an eye pressed into its surface, glossy and too realistic.

An old, wrinkled woman with gray hair pulled into a loose bun hummed to herself while securing an apron around her waist, the cloth blotched with dark red stains.

She stood in front of the massive kitchen island, as wide as two ordinary ones pressed together. One half was crowded with hundreds of bottles of sprinkles. A few had tipped over, spilling small mounds.

Beside them, jars of icing rose in orderly towers, stacked like canned goods in a pantry. There was no shortage of them, so many that the kitchen felt swallowed by their abundance, as if she was preparing for the end of the world, but one that required sugar.

Muffled screams emanated from the other half of the island. They came incessantly, only growing more desperate.

The old woman sighed and shut the heavy metal door of the oven. It resembled a crematorium, but scaled down for a kitchen, the heat contained, no flames grazing the interior. The metal sides glowed faintly, the silver edges turning orange as it slowly warmed.

“Cry all you want; no one is coming to save you.” She turned around, facing the man she had restrained, thick leather cuffs secured tightly around his wrists and ankles. He was completely naked, having been stripped of his clothes and cleaned thoroughly before being restrained. He had been asleep for all of it, drugged into unconsciousness, and only recently woke up.

The baker liked to keep them awake during this part of the process. It was always better when they were aware of everything that was going on.

The man’s eyes nearly bulged from his shaved head as he thrashed violently against the thick leather, pleading through the fabric gag shoved deep into his mouth. He choked and sputtered, but the baker continued to hum softly, completely unbothered, finding his panic nothing more than background noise.

She rolled out the first batch of dough she had spent the entire night preparing, her hands dusted with flour that stuck in the fine lines of her skin. She had added ingredients to the mixer repeatedly, measuring and mixing over and over, storing each batch of cookie dough in containers in the fridge.

A large mixer would have made it easier to combine everything at once, but no one she had reached out to could make one, and none existed that fit her needs. So, she had no choice but to make batch after batch, rolling and kneading, building enough dough slowly.

The rolling pin glided over the brown dough with ease, flattening it to the right thickness. She lifted the first sheet carefully and draped it over one of the man’s legs, the skin freshly shaven and smooth. He wriggled, but it accomplished nothing. The dough pressed snugly against his calf.

She lifted another sheet and laid it across his thigh, then took a plastic spatula to blend the edges where they met, smoothing the seam so there were no gaps.

The process was repeated for his other leg. Then his arms. The torso was next.

The hands and feet were the most difficult. The restraints limited her access, and because of all the joints and the man’s ability to move them, it made covering them nearly impossible. She had only ever wrapped them fully on someone once. Usually, she cut them off and repurposed them for smaller cookies. She already knew this time would be no different.

The baker pulled her saw from a drawer crowded with silverware, the metal perfectly clean, not a trace of blood from the last time. The man’s cries rose higher. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with sweat, as he squirmed more viciously. Every tug dug the restraints deeper into his skin, leaving angry red lines across his wrists and ankles—the perfect guides for where the cuts would go.

“Shhh, shhh,” she murmured, soothing, almost as if she was trying to calm a child.

The teeth of the saw bit into his ankle. The first pass scraped through the skin, rough and burning, tearing at the fat and muscle beneath. Blood poured over his foot, dripping between his toes.

Each back-and-forth motion sent stabbing jolts up his leg. His muscles spasmed violently, his calves and thighs twitching. The joint twisted as the saw ground into bone, sending a new wave of pain detonating through every nerve. He gasped, his chest heaving as tears blurred his vision.

Please make it stop. Just kill me. I’d rather die.

His body convulsed, then went slack as the baker lifted the severed foot away. Strands of muscle stretched and snapped between the stump and the detached limb. Bone protruded through the shredded flesh, and rivulets of hot, sticky blood dripped from the stump onto the floor. The baker tilted the foot in her hands, inspecting it almost casually, while he gurgled and choked, his vision going black.

When he next opened his eyes, the bleeding had stopped, leaving the air heavy with the coppery tang of dried blood. His head jerked weakly, and a scream ripped from his throat as he spotted cookie dough molded around the nub where his foot once was.

“Almost ready.” A sheet of cookie dough with cut-outs for eyes and a nose was lowered onto his face, cold and sticky against his skin. He gagged against the fabric stuffed in his mouth as a plastic spatula glided over his cheek, smoothing the dough into the contours of his face.

Carefully, she pushed a needle into the side of his neck, injecting a thin stream of sedative. He shuddered as the drug coursed through him, the resistance in his limbs beginning to slacken. There was only so long she could let them fight.

The baker waited until the thrashing fully ceased, then waited another ten minutes. The only proof he was still conscious was the frantic movement of his eyes, blown impossibly wide with terror.

Slowly she loosened the restraints. His body lay still, helpless, but his mind screamed at himself to move. He tried to jerk, to push, to roll, but nothing happened.

The man was rolled onto his stomach, allowing the baker to drape a sheet of cookie dough over his back, pressing it down slowly. Her hands glided across the sticky surface, smoothing it until it blended perfectly with the dough already wrapped around his body.

At last, she moved him onto a wheeled metal tray—the kind they use in morgues. It rattled and shuddered with each push, carrying him steadily toward the oven. The heat hit him before the oven door came into view, a dry, suffocating wave that made his lungs burn and his skin prickle under the dough. Tears streaked down his face, warm and laced with sugar, hidden beneath the dough mask.

When the oven door swung open, he squeezed his eyes shut, his thoughts drifting to his wife and daughter. He imagined the moment they realized he never came home from his work trip: the waiting, the calls, unanswered questions piling up. It ripped a hole through his racing heart.

His feet entered first, the heat scorching, hotter than anything he had ever felt before—far worse than when he accidentally doused his hand with boiling water and had to stay in the hospital. That hand had blistered so badly, pus oozing from the reddened wounds. He heard a sharp pop and his stomach tightened, certain it was going to happen again.

Once his head slid inside, the oven door shut with a final, metallic bang. The heat rose, pressing against him from every side. It felt as if his body were melting, each breath shallow. It was as if a million knives stabbed into him at once. The pain was so sharp, so relentless, he could no longer cry. The man’s eyelids clamped shut, refusing to open; his throat burned, raw as if scraped with sandpaper. His eyes hurt so badly that he wished he could just rip them out.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, the rise and fall of his chest replaced by stillness. The dough encasing him had turned golden brown, stiffening against every curve of his body. The baker rolled him out and left him to cool, the soft pliancy of the dough giving way to crispness. She forced his eyelids open, revealing the two hollow sockets where his eyes once were, melted into the back of his skull.

“Perfect.” The baker smiled, guiding him back onto the island. She twisted open a piping bag filled with thick white icing and pressed the tip against his torso. Thin lines traced the outlines of his arms and legs. Dots formed buttons down the center of his torso, and small arches curved above his empty sockets to make eyebrows. She switched to green icing for a scarf.

The baker reached for the jars of sprinkles, dropping them onto his torso. Some caught in the icing; others rolled down the curves of his arms and chest, clattering against the island.

Once she was satisfied, she wheeled him into her pantry—a large, windowless room now repurposed entirely for storage. The shelves towered above like the ribs of some great beast, each packed with others just like him. She maneuvered him onto one of the lower shelves, wedging him between two others: a woman and a young girl, finding it best to keep families together.

It was an ordinary day in the Schneider household

where seven teenagers were crammed into one bedroom.

Rowan charged out of the house and slammed the door shut

before mounting his red Honda motorcycle.

Wind slapped against his face as he sped to a nearby park,

completely naked and

having no sense of reality.

Screams escaped from a young girl

as she hurtled towards Rowan,

who was sitting on his motorcycle.

The terrified girl climbed on,

yelling at him, “Go! He’s going to kill me!”

Unstable as a tree struck by lightning,

he shoved her off his motorcycle.

Falling hard onto the rough concrete, she screamed again.

Rowan left the scene with no regrets.

Breaking news flashed on the bunny-ear television.

A girl has been murdered.

A witness recalls seeing the girl with Rowan,

with the same motorcycle as the killer.

Denying all claims, he left the station,

lying to the police.

The story is first heard

forty years later.

If he didn’t push the girl away,

She’d still be alive today.

The murder remains unsolved.

And nothing will ever be the same.

I was fourteen in this photograph.

I was seated on the battered couch

in our murky living room

watching my siblings play Monopoly.

My youngest brother laid behind me, agitated.

He was furious that he couldn’t play the game.

I noticed the paleness in his face,

still uneasy about the event that occurred.

One of my other brothers leaned over the board,

creating an ominous shadow

as he made his next move joyfully.

I knew he’d be outraged at me

if he knew I stole it from church.

I’m not remorseful about stealing.

I learned to do what I can

to provide my siblings with security and fun.

Numbness absorbed me during this time

but the melodious laughs I heard managed

to bring a smile from me even during

the darkest of days.

I glanced back at my horrified brother behind me.

I could smell the fear leaving his body

as he laid there confused and paranoid.

He was fiddling with a piece of human bone.

It was one of our father’s bones.

My mother killed him out of anger a few years ago.

Our mother is still in prison, suffering

consequences of murder.

I haven’t seen my mother for ten years

She protected me, but I never get to see her

All I have is a memory of that Monopoly game.

The opera allures

Music begins to captivate me

As I think about Anna

My one and only true love

You are with me, Anna

My joy forever

You are with me until my death

Until I rest

Anna, you are with me

Oh, how content all my earthly days

After I met you

Fell for you

And at the end, your loving hands will gently close my eyes

Oh, how content all of my days are

Because of you

You saved me

Gave me a purpose

Inspired my music

You changed my life

I finally feel content because of you

You are with me forever

I forget my past now

My past wife

All I see is you

And the life we have built together

I love you, Anna

You are my inspiration

My reason to live

And I know you will always be with me

Amelia, the youngest daughter, sat stiffly on the tan fabric couch, as unmoving as the nutcrackers spread across the side tables. They stood in tidy, ascending rows on wooden risers, facing the fireplace where orange flames writhed and crackled.

Her pulse spiked as her older brother, Robert, suddenly yanked down the lever on a nutcracker positioned inches from her ear. The wooden jaw snapped shut violently, amplified by having nothing between the teeth to break.

Robert burst into laughter, amused by the way his little sister winced and curled in on herself, her arms wrapped tight around her torso as though she was trying to shrink small enough to disappear into the couch. Still grinning, he stepped back and plucked an almond from the bowl, fitting it between the gaping jaw of the Joker nutcracker—the one he chose as his annual addition to the collection. With a snap, he broke the shell cleanly and popped the nut into his mouth.

Neither parent paid it any mind, their attention fixed solely on the ritual of unpacking the holiday decorations. They bent over the black-and-yellow storage totes, lifting nutcrackers out one by one and lining them along the mantel above the fireplace.

Each figure was similar, yet no two were quite the same. Most followed the classic soldier design, distinguished only by their colors, but others strayed into different territory: multiple renditions of Santa, gingerbread men, snowmen with carrot noses, football players, and even an uncanny George Washington—if he had been part dog.

Amelia’s dad had been collecting them since he was a child—a tradition started by his own father, and his father before him. Generations of passing the figures down had left the family with some old additions, their paint cracked and peeling, exposing the wood beneath. A few crumbled at the slightest touch. On some, the eyes had worn away entirely, leaving only faint impressions. On others, the jaws no longer opened at all, the mouths stuck shut as though sealed with glue. Strangely, Amelia found these older ones the least unsettling. Maybe it was because their mouths were no longer able to move.

Her family brought them all out without fail every year on December first, and they remained on display until New Year’s Day. Everyone but Amelia looked forward to it. To her, the family’s favorite tradition was a source of dread. Year after year, she had thought about tossing them all, claiming they must have gotten lost, but she never did. She knew it would break her dad’s heart, and that thought alone stopped her.

Every year, the house filled with more and more of them. Amelia was certain that one day they would overrun the rooms entirely and the family would have no choice but to find a bigger house just to fit the growing army. The cycle would continue, over and over, until there was nowhere left to expand, leaving them drowning in piles of nutcrackers.

It was impossible to walk around without feeling like you were being watched; the eyes seemed to follow you everywhere you go. Sometimes she swore she could even hear them crunching down on nuts when no one was around.

“Wasn’t that one on the mantel?” Amelia pointed at a ballet dancer nutcracker. Its pink fabric tutu flared from its waist, the matching leotard painted neatly across its torso. It perched awkwardly between the branches of the Christmas tree, the rainbow lights glinting off its face.

Her mother looked up, glancing at the tree before shaking her head. “No. It was always there.”

Amelia knew that wasn’t true. The only things they ever added to the tree were always nutcracker ornaments, which were much smaller and had strings to hang them at the top. That one did not belong.

Robert took advantage of the distraction, seizing Amelia’s hand and forcing it forward. He hooked her pointer finger between the Joker nutcracker’s open jaws, holding it there as she thrashed and struggled, trying to pull free. She pleaded with him to stop, but he didn’t relent. The lever moved, bringing the jaw down. Amelia cried out, unable to look as it bit her.

Robert couldn’t help but laugh, a high, gleeful sound that filled the room. He finally freed her finger, but instead of leaving her alone, he returned to the lever, jerking it up and down, making it chomp at open air. Amelia resorted to curling up into a tight ball, her face buried in her hands.

“Hey, that’s enough. Don’t tease her like that,” their dad huffed, and Robert retreated, unable to shake the last remnants of his laughter.

“Look at me.” He waited for Amelia to peel her hands from her face before sliding his pointer finger between the jaw. He pulled the lever down without flinching. “See. Nothing happened.” He withdrew his finger and held it up, letting her see it clearly.

“I know,” she mumbled. Her mother cracked another walnut, and all Amelia could think about was her finger trapped inside, the bone snapping under the pressure.

“I have something exciting in the garage. I’ll be right back.” Their dad leaned in to kiss his wife, then slipped on his shoes and headed out the door. The garage light flickered to life as he stepped inside.

He returned, carrying something large in his arms. It was nearly as tall as he was, its two long, skinny blue legs tucked into black boots, anchored to a green base. It wore a red-and-gold jacket over a white undershirt, with two stiff arms at its sides. On its head rested a matching crown. Amelia’s heart nearly stopped as he set it down.

A life-size nutcracker.

Her dad knelt beside it, reaching for the cord trailing from its back and plugging it into the wall. The eyes lit up instantly—black pupils darting from side to side, set against glowing white. He stood and turned a knob near the speaker on its back, and “Jingle Bells” played, though the music did nothing to make it less terrifying. “Isn’t it cool?” he asked, stepping back to admire it.

Amelia had no answer, swallowing the lump in her throat, unable to take her eyes away. She couldn’t help but feel like it was looking at her—actually seeing her.

Late into the night, Amelia tossed and turned in her twin-sized bed pressed against the wall, blankets and pillows scattered across the floor. She reached for them, dragging them back up, only for them to tumble off again minutes later.

Robert was fast asleep across the room, his snores filling the quiet. Amelia groaned and sat up, peering into the darkened hall beyond her open door. The moonlight spilled in unevenly, illuminating parts of the walls and floorboards, casting long shadows.

Before she even realized it, her feet were on the floor, taking cautious steps toward the door. She held her breath and peeked around the corner, staring into the living room. Her eyes took a moment to adjust, making out the shapes of the Christmas tree and the nutcrackers. She jumped when her gaze landed on the six-foot-tall one in the corner, its eyes now unlit. In the shadows, it looked startlingly like a man standing perfectly still.

Returning fully inside, she closed the door and clicked the lock into place; only then did she allow herself to breathe. Amelia edged back to bed slowly, careful not to wake her brother, her heart hammering in her chest. Robert lay asleep on his back, one arm draped across his stomach, mouth ajar.

Amelia crawled back under the covers, but before her head could touch the pillow, a loud thud echoed from the living room. She bolted upright, clutching the blankets to her chest.

Heavy, slow footsteps echoed down the hall, each step rattling the house. They grew louder—closer. Amelia could anticipate the chomp of the jaw before it happened, but it didn’t prepare her for it, the sound louder, more menacing in the night. The nutcracker’s mouth snapped open and shut, accompanying each step. A shadow crept under the door, stretching longer as it drew near.

“Why is the door closed?” Robert asked suddenly, and Amelia jumped, facing her brother as he swung his legs off the side of the bed, ready to walk toward the door.

“No, don’t open it!” She scrambled to her feet, tripping over the comforter pooling around her ankles. She grabbed his wrist, trying to hold him back, but he shook her off. “The nutcracker is out there…it’s…it’s moving.”

Robert tried to stifle a laugh, his cheeks puffing out, but it burst out anyway, spit flying out with it. “God, you’re such a baby. It’s not alive.”

“Yes, it is,” she asserted. “Don’t you hear it?”

Robert didn’t say another word, listening intently. Not a peep came from the hall. No footsteps, no clack of a jaw, no music. Just silence.

Amelia knew it was right outside their door. Waiting. “Don’t.”

But Robert was too tired and annoyed to care. His sister knew they had to sleep with the door open; otherwise, it got too stuffy, and he couldn’t sleep.

He undid the lock, placed his hand over the handle, and turned it. The door gradually swung open, and he turned back to his sister. “See. There’s nothing out there.”

Amelia was no longer looking at him, his words passing through one ear and out the other. Her legs carried her a few steps back, her gaze fixed on the tall figure behind him. Its eyes glowed, black pupils sliding downward—a direction they hadn’t gone before—staring directly at her older brother. It seemed to tower over him, despite being only a few inches taller, the shadow behind it exaggerating its size.

The nutcracker’s jaw opened, stretching wider and wider until it was nearly two feet tall. It clamped down on Robert’s head, biting down with a wet crunch. Blood and brain matter spewed out, splattering the wall and door with thick, red chunks. A crack followed as his skull was crushed within the nutcracker’s maw, folding inward, followed by a series of smaller crunches.

Amelia screamed, vision blurring, knees wobbling, backing further into the room until her lower back slammed against the nightstand, sending the lamp crashing to the floor. More nutcrackers latched onto her brother, clamping down on his arms and legs. Each bite drove out fresh spurts of blood, painting the floor in glistening red streaks. His knees buckled, hitting the floor as his head sank completely into itself beneath the relentless pressure of the large nutcracker. Its pupils shifted upward, locking onto her, while its mouth dripped with blood and fragments of bone.

Amelia dashed to the desk across her room and yanked one of Robert’s heavy math textbooks free. Her arms shook violently as she lifted it. She hurled it at the nutcracker with every ounce of strength she had. It smashed into its head, knocking it off balance and opening a narrow gap in the doorway.

Amelia held her breath and bolted, pushing past the nutcrackers and into the hall. She sprinted toward the door at the end—the one leading to her parents’ room—yelping as pain flared in her leg. Glancing down, she saw the same ballet nutcracker from the tree clinging stubbornly to her ankle. She kicked and shook it off, watching it skid across the floor before smashing into the wall.

She grabbed the door handle and yanked it open. “Mom…Dad…” she shouted, but whatever else she meant to say died in her throat. Inside, her parents stood in the center of the room, facing her. Their faces were changed, deep lines in the shape of a square outlining their mouths, rows of square teeth set into pink gums replacing their lips. They opened their mouths, and they creaked like wood.

Amelia saw double, tears streaking her cheeks. She spun around and ran back the way she came, passing the nutcrackers still gnawing on her brother. His body had been reduced to a heap of muscle, blood, organs, and bone on the floor, unrecognizable to what he once was.

The frigid winter air lashed against her face as she burst outside, her arms and legs quickly going numb from the cold. Snow and balls of salt from the roads bit into her bare soles, but she didn’t slow, even as she left a crimson trail behind her. The burn was agonizing, but nothing could be worse than what awaited back home.

The harsh air tore at her lungs, slowing her down. She stopped in the middle of the empty street, daring to look behind her, the streetlights casting a pale glow on the falling snow.

Up ahead, her house jerked from side to side as it came alive. The front door turned horizontally, splitting in half to form two sets of blunt teeth. Two of the windows glowed white, two black pupils in the center, sliding from side to side before locking onto her.

Legs burst from the house, tearing it free from its concrete foundation. Broken pipes gushed water, and detached wires sparked as they came along with it. It took a heavy step forward, and then it began to run.

That was all Lucy’s parents said before they left. No kiss on the forehead, no whispered goodnight, just that single command.

A soft lullaby dwindled into a hum before fading altogether, leaving the bedroom steeped in silence. The carousel night light continued its slow spin despite the absence of music, its painted horses drifting in endless circles. Their shadows leaped and dipped across the pale yellow walls. Lucy’s parents set it up to run all night, hoping it would help their daughter sleep in her own room.

Ever since Lucy was a toddler, she had refused to sleep in her own room alone. There was always some excuse: monsters in the closet or something under the bed. No matter how many times her dad checked, he had never found anything, though he knew he wouldn’t. Checking was only for his daughter’s sake—a way to try to prove to her that there are no such things as monsters.

He told himself it was normal, just a phase, the kind of fear every child goes through. He remembered those long, sleepless nights in his own childhood home and the creaks and whispers he used to blame on monsters. Still, he hoped Lucy would have outgrown it by now.

It was Lucy’s mom who suggested the night light, saying a little light might make things less frightening. And, thankfully, it helped. For the past three nights, Lucy managed to stay in her own room until morning.

No one knew what those three days were like for Lucy—that they weren’t restful—and instead filled with endless tossing and turning. She hid under her covers each of those nights despite the heat that never seemed to leave. The AC beneath the window only clicked, never turning on. Her parents kept saying they’ll get it fixed, but they never did. It had been this way for the past two years.

Nobody knew that on each of those nights, hushed voices drifted from somewhere above Lucy’s bed. They were always muffled, just low enough to make the words impossible to catch. All Lucy knew was that she heard them and that they grew louder—closer—every night.

Tonight Lucy couldn’t sleep once more. She flung the pale blue comforter down to her feet. Part of it slid off the bed, pooling on the hardwood floor beside her dresser with the chipped white paint and tarnished handles. Directly across from her were two closet doors, both of them firmly shut, the knobs tied together with yarn.

The whispers were louder today, so close that it was as if someone was whispering directly into her ear. She whined and swatted at her ear, jolting out of a light sleep.

Lucy lay on her back, arms folded across her stomach. She stared at the textured ceiling—an uneven scatter of dots and lines with no clear pattern. The longer she stared, the more the design made it look like there were faces. Directly above, she made out what looked like two eyes and a wide smile. Somewhere a little off to the right, she made out what looked like a man wearing a cowboy hat, his nose as long as Pinocchio’s when he’s lying.

Faces like these seemed to populate the ceiling, more and more coming into focus the longer she looked. Some of them even seemed to move. It was subtle: a dip of a hat, the blinking of eyes, a tongue peeking out, but it was enough to make her stomach flip.

Lucy tried to move, but it was as if her bones had been replaced with cement. She was helpless to do anything but watch, forgetting to blink. It got worse without blinking.

One face pushed through the ceiling plaster. Cracks spider-webbed outward around the round, emerging shape, white dust drifting down like snow. The face wriggled from side to side, its eyes taking on a disturbingly human appearance, though far too large, nearly the size of golf balls, bulging as if they might burst from their sockets. A thick, white tongue lolled from its mouth, easily a foot long, swinging slowly.

More faces burst through after the first, popping from the ceiling one after another. They hung down, squirming like earthworms. Plaster rained down faster now, fine dust coating Lucy’s hair, her skin, finding its way into her mouth. It was thick, chalky, impossible to spit out. She swallowed reflexively, her throat tightening and growing unbearably dry.

The heads kept coming until the entirety of her bedroom ceiling was populated with them. Some were completely covered in eyes that blinked out of sync. Others had razor blades lining their tongues. A few of the heads were sunken on one side, slamming into the intact heads to create dips in their skulls.

Their eyes spun like a pinwheel, the black pupils lined with thin rings of red, orange, and yellow, reminiscent of those clapping monkey toys. The tongues swung faster.

Side to side.

A low, reverberating hum seemed to come from all of them, layering over itself as the heads started to spin.

Round and round.

A tongue dipped lower, too close to Lucy’s face. She regained her strength, yanking the comforter back over her head. Her breath escaped in rapid pants, her heart racing so fast she felt as if it would rip out of her chest and dangle loose like the heads above.

The humming continued, growing louder, vibrating through the walls of the room. Slowly, Lucy peeled back a corner of the blanket shielding her head, just enough to peek. The moment she looked, she came face to face with one of the heads. She screamed, flinging herself back against the headboard, desperate to put distance between herself and that thing.

The headboard slammed against the wall with a deafening bang, making Lucy yelp. The head before her bent its long neck, lunging at her horizontally. She screamed again, clenching her eyes shut, kicking and hitting at empty air. “Get away…go away!” She sobbed.

The bedroom door flew open, and her dad rushed in. His brown hair stuck up in different directions, dark circles carved beneath his eyes. Lucy’s mom was close behind, nearly falling back asleep as she leaned against the doorframe.

Lucy reopened her eyes, unable to stop shaking. When she looked around, she saw nothing. No heads. No faces in the ceiling. Everything looked normal. “I…there were faces. They came from up there.” She pointed upward with a quivering finger.

Understanding settled over her dad’s face, and he exhaled softly. “Oh, honey. You must have had a nightmare.”

“I was awake,” Lucy insisted, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. “It was real.”

But her parents didn’t listen. They murmured gentle reassurances, told her it was only a bad dream, that she needed to try to get some more sleep. The door closed again before she could get another word out.

Almost immediately, a thump sounded above her. Lucy swallowed hard, her neck jerking as she slowly lifted her head. Inches from her face, one of the heads hung, grinning widely.

She screamed, tumbling onto the bedroom floor with a loud crash. The comforter dragged down with her, the head following. She scrambled backward, but it kept coming, inching closer with that same sickly grin.

The moment the door opened, the head retracted, vanishing into the ceiling. A deep rumble shuddered through the room, rattling the light fixture. Chunks of plaster rained down.

“Lucy, what’s gotten into you? You were doing so well,” her mom said, stepping into the room and glancing around.

“Please…can I sleep with you?” Lucy sobbed.

“Sweetheart, you know you can’t do that anymore.” Her dad crouched in front of her, wiping away the tears before lifting her gently back into bed. He pulled the comforter up over her shoulders. “You’re a big girl now. It’s time you learned to sleep alone. There are no monsters.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“Daddy, please don’t leave.” Her voice cracked as she grabbed his wrist.

He eased his hand free and ruffled her hair. “This is for your own good, Lucy. Nothing’s going to hurt you. I promise.”

She watched helplessly as her parents walked out. She wanted to get up, to walk out herself. Even sleeping in the hallway would be better than this, but her legs wouldn’t move, unresponsive to her brain’s demands.

The heads pushed through the ceiling again, and Lucy whimpers. They didn’t come down this time, bashing into each other instead. One swung its neck, its jaw stretching impossibly wide, and clamped onto the bulging eye of its neighbor. The eye burst under the pressure with a squelching pop, milky fluid spilling down. Tendons and nerves snapped taut before tearing free, leaving raw, glistening muscle dangling as the attacking head jerked back and swallowed the eye with relish. The victim’s head flailed wildly, blood spraying across the ceiling and walls, mixing with the plaster dust.

Lucy wiped her cheeks, trying to clear the wetness. When she glanced at her hand, her stomach lurched. Her fingers were slick with red. She cried out, flinging her hand onto the sheets, leaving vivid crimson streaks across the fabric.

Lucy’s parents burst into the room, their faces tight with frustration. A vein throbbed at her dad’s temple. “Lucy, you need to stop.”

“Daddy…it’s…it’s…” The words stuck in her throat. Her gaze darted past him, landing on the head looming directly behind him, visible over his shoulder. In an instant, it lunged, jaws clamping down around his head. Blood erupted, spraying across the floor and walls. Lucy shrieked, horror rooting her to the spot.

Her dad’s body got sucked up like a spaghetti noodle, disappearing into the gaping mouth inch by inch. The long, extended neck bulged as it swallowed and swallowed.

Two more heads wriggled down and latched onto her mom. Before she can even struggle, they pulled, tearing her in half. Blood gushed out like a waterfall. Organs spilled freely, landing on the floor with wet plops. Tongues emerged to lap up the blood on the floor.

“Mommy. Daddy.” Her vision blurred from the tears, flinching as a warm tongue that reeked of blood licked her cheek. She stayed as still as possible, trying to steady her breathing and stop herself from whimpering like the people did in Jurassic Park so the dinosaurs wouldn’t eat them.

Lucy clenched her eyes shut, only reopening them when she felt herself being lifted off the bed. A neck had wrapped itself around her body, pulling her toward the ceiling. She thrashed, but the grip only tightened, forcing her against the hard plaster until it broke and allowed her through. It closed in on itself behind her.

Her face slammed against the freshly closed ceiling, flesh peeling away to reveal raw, glistening muscle. Lucy’s eyes bulged as the plaster crawled over her exposed tissue, hardening into it. Her neck snapped with a crack, her body spasming violently before being pulled away, leaving only her head fused to the ceiling.

We met at the park, like we always did, a worn blanket stretched across the grass. The late spring air was sweet with the scent of blooming flowers. Children’s laughter rang out as they darted across the playground, their sneakers pressing into the mulch. Swings creaked, and every so often, they cheered as they swung higher than they ever had before.

Along the winding path encircling the pond, couples strolled hand in hand, joggers passed by, and old men fed the geese with handfuls of bread, the crumbs floating like confetti on the water.

I turned over and smiled at my best friend. We shared a mutual trust and understanding, sharing things with each other that no one else knew—secrets we once believed we would never share aloud.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and the park slowly emptied, we said goodbye like we always did. There was nothing unusual about our parting. Just a casual farewell, a see-you-soon. I didn’t know then that those words would be the last I’d ever hear from him.

The next day, I returned to our spot, the blanket folded in my backpack. The park looked the same, but he wasn’t there. I told myself he must be busy. Just last week, he had started a new job, and we had celebrated that milestone together. He had mentioned his schedule might shift, that time wouldn’t be as free as it used to be. It made sense.

But the day after, he was still gone. Before I knew it, a week had passed and there had been no word from him.

One month passed.

And still nothing.

I told myself he was busy, overwhelmed by his new job and all the responsibilities that came with it. It wasn’t unreasonable. He wouldn’t have been the first to struggle. We had talked about how the changes in his life were creeping in faster than he could manage—how exhausted he felt, how he barely recognized his own reflection some days.

In the quiet hours of the night, when sleep evaded me, I began writing him letters. I would sit at my desk, lit only by the warm glow of a banker’s lamp, the room still except for the soft scratch of pen against paper.

The letters held stories of my days, mundane details I imagined he’d want to hear: an update on my latest project, a new song I’d found, the book I was reading. And always, I asked how he was doing. If he were okay. Nearly every one ended the same: I miss you. Things haven’t been the same since you disappeared.

The ache of his absence grew stronger with each passing day, especially at night when the world quieted, when there was nothing left to distract me from my thoughts. It was then that the longing consumed me most, like a pit opening inside my chest. I hadn’t realized how alone I truly was until he was gone. Without him, there was no one.

My life narrowed into a strange routine: working during the day, mailing letters I wasn’t sure he’d ever read, checking my mailbox, wandering the park where we used to meet, writing more letters, and slipping into restless sleep.

Once, on impulse, I made the trip to his apartment. When I arrived, the door was locked. I knocked. Waited. Nothing. I tried again the next day. And the next. Each time, the answer was the same.

I asked his neighbors, hoping for anything. A sign. A clue. But they offered little more than polite confusion. Most didn’t know who I was talking about. A few thought they might have seen him once, but couldn’t say for sure.

One night, in desperation, I curled up in the hallway outside his door, waiting for footsteps that never came. The floor was cold, the building eerily still. I sat there for hours, my ears straining for the sound of keys jingling or the groan of the elevator. But he never came.

All I knew of his place of work was that it was a bakery. I searched every one in town, but none had heard of him.

Two months had passed, and hope began to wither.

The question haunted me constantly, embedding itself in my thoughts like a tick I couldn’t pull free: Would he ever come back?

I turned to the last letters he had sent me and read them over and over. My eyes traced every line, searching for some hidden message, some overlooked clue that might explain what had happened. But there was nothing.

The words were warm and familiar. Nothing in them felt strange or distant. There was no subtle goodbye hidden between the lines. No sign of what was to come. His final visits, too, had been unremarkable, comforting in their normalcy.

Still, I told myself he must be busy. Caught up in work. Overwhelmed. Distracted. That he’d return as soon as he could. Because why wouldn’t he? We were best friends. There hadn’t been a day when we didn’t talk. We spent hours side by side, sometimes doing nothing but staring at the sky. We talked about everything: our fears, our dreams, the smallest of observations, and the biggest of secrets.

Three months had passed.

The days blurred together, each one the same and unremarkable. I woke up, I worked, I waited. I stopped marking time in calendar squares and started measuring it in how long it took the sunlight to cross the floor of my room.

My desk chair creaked as I swiveled around to face the window. Outside, the tops of skyscrapers vanished into a gray fog that seemed to press against the glass. The city seemed far away that day. Distant and unreachable, like him.

Four months passed.

And I realized something I hadn’t expected. He hadn’t vanished; he had simply gone quiet…with me. The information didn’t come through any effort of mine. It found me in snippets of overheard conversations, in flyers taped to coffee shop windows. His name, his presence, were suddenly everywhere, as if the universe had decided to taunt me with it.

He had been active in the community all along: attending art groups, joining painting circles, taking part in weekend workshops, and making memories I wasn’t part of. It felt like the world was playing a cruel joke on me.

I started to question everything. What had I done wrong? Because he hadn’t left everyone. He had only left me.
I combed through every memory, every letter, every conversation we had ever had, looking for the mistake I must have made.

My letters to him remained unopened, buried beneath months of dust and junk mail. At first, they peeked out from the edges of his mailbox. Then they started to spill out. Now, they lay in a sad pile on the floor of the mailroom, left unread.

The ache inside me grew unbearable. It was hard going from speaking to someone every day to speaking to no one at all. Most nights, I curled up in bed and cried until exhaustion dragged me under. I prayed for him to come back. I would have given anything just to hear from him again.

I missed my best friend. I missed his voice, the sound of his laughter, the easy way we existed together. I wanted to tell him about my life—what I had done, what I had created. I wanted to hear about his art, his thoughts, what had made him smile that week. I wanted to watch the stars again, like we used to. I wanted everything to go back to the way it was before.

The end of the month came, and he missed my birthday. I was certain that if he were to return, it would be for that. He knew how much I hated my birthday. How I always found it sad and lonely. He used to promise he’d never let me spend one alone.

Five months passed.

People loved to say that time heals everything, that pain dulls with the passing weeks, that wounds close if you just wait long enough. But I learned that some things don’t fade. Some absences grow heavier with time, not lighter. I knew then that I would never stop missing him.

I still questioned myself more than I should. The thoughts came in waves, weak at first, then all at once. I kept asking what I had done wrong. I must have done something. Why else would he have cut me out so completely?

He was still out there. I saw his name attached to group events. His art still circulated, his presence noted in places I no longer went. I even left a message with one group, but nothing came back. Did he hate me that much? Was I some kind of monster and just didn’t know it?

I replayed our conversations over and over in my head. I berated myself for not having done more. Maybe I hadn’t told him often enough how much he mattered. Maybe I wasn’t the friend I thought I was. But the “what-ifs” didn’t lead anywhere. Unless he tells me what happened, I will never know.

As the days bled into weeks, then months, I stopped holding onto hope. And so, I wrote him one final letter—a goodbye. I told him how deeply I missed him. How confused I was. I told him how much he meant to me and always would. I told him where he could find me if he ever decided he wanted to reconnect. And then I wished him well.

I doubted he would ever read it. It would probably join the rest, gathering dust in the pile of unopened envelopes stacked near his mailbox. But I didn’t write it for him; I wrote it for myself. I needed to let go, to stop waiting. To stop hoping. To stop checking every corner of the city for a glimpse of someone who didn’t want to be found.

Six months have passed.

Half a year without him and I still miss him, caught in the same loop of wondering what went wrong, what I said or didn’t say, what I failed to see. The questions have become a kind of sad music I can’t turn off.

Sometimes I still catch myself looking for him. In the park, in crowds, in quiet corners of bookstores we used to visit. I know I shouldn’t, but part of me still believes, against all logic, that I might turn a corner and find him standing there smiling as if no time has passed at all.

Last night, I dreamed of him. He came back and read my messages, though it wasn’t the reunion I hoped for. He looked at me with an expression I’ve never seen from him before. He was angry—furious, even—that I had been upset by his absence. In the dream, I cried and begged him to explain. I asked him what I had done and pleaded for a second chance. I woke up with a sour taste in my mouth.

It’s hard to grasp that it’s already been six months. It doesn’t feel possible. I try not to ask anymore, but the question still finds me:

Will he ever come back?

The streets buzzed with frantic, exhausted energy. Drivers blared their horns in the congested streets while pedestrians rushed past one another with hardened faces and hunched shoulders. They were too preoccupied to care who they shoved, too wrapped up in their own discontent to notice anything beyond their personal bubble.

A lone figure lingered just beyond the glow of the corner store, where the cracked pavement met the gutter. His silhouette was gaunt; his bones threatened to tear free from his skin. A long black cloak enveloped him, the hood pulled low over his face. The townsfolk passed by without so much as a second glance, their eyes glazed and minds burdened.

A mother and her young son emerged from the ice cream booth across the street. The boy cradled a towering vanilla scoop in a sugar cone, his face glowing with joy until, with a sudden wobble, the scoop toppled. It hit the ground with a splat, melting into the concrete. The boy wailed as tears welled in his eyes, spilling over as he looked up at his mother.

Then, in a blink, everything slowed. Pedestrians froze mid-stride. A dog that was mid-bark stood silent, its jaw open wide. From the shadows, a figure emerged. He crossed the street, passing between the frozen townspeople. Reaching the scene of the fallen scoop, he extended a gloved hand, and time warped.

Suddenly, impossibly, the ice cream was no longer on the ground. It sat once again, perfectly perched atop the cone in the boy’s hands. Footsteps resumed. A nearby horn honked. The boy grinned, oblivious, trotting off beside his mother, none the wiser. None ever were.

It wasn’t only ice cream he rewound; he restored stolen wallets to pockets, slipped purses back into trembling hands, stopped accidents, and reversed deaths that were never meant to be. He was a savior no one remembered, a protector no one thanked.

At rare, fleeting moments, someone might have caught him slumped in an alley, shuddering awake from sleep. He gasped as if drowning, clawing free from some recurring nightmare. He was a man plagued by what? No one knew. Perhaps the pressure. Perhaps his own haunted past. Whatever his burden, he bore it alone.

A woman’s scream sliced through the night, guiding the faceless stranger through the winding maze of alleyways slick with filth. He moved quickly, a blur beneath the glow of flickering streetlights. But he was too late.

She lay crumpled at the far end, blood pooling beneath her. He kneeled beside her and closed his eyes, willing the fabric of time to ripple—to rewind. But the world stayed stubbornly still. Time, that obedient servant of his, refused to move. Death, for once, was unchangeable.

Red and blue lights exploded across the alley walls as squad cars screeched to a halt. Shouts rang out. Flashlights flashed on. Before he could speak, they were on him, slamming him to the pavement. Concrete bit into his cheek, the woman’s blood still staining his gloves. They dragged him away as if he were a monster. In their eyes, he wasn’t a man at all.

The sky hung low and gray on the day of his execution. Rows of onlookers pressed against the barricades, their eyes fixed on the figure being led to the platform. The officers yanked down his hood for the first time, and the world gasped.

There was no face. Where features should have been—eyes, mouth, skin—there was only a swirling void of ungraspable space. The long black cloak crumpled to the ground, empty. No body fell. No rope went taut. There was nothing left.

Life in Bristol continued. No one questioned what had happened. No one remembered the faceless man who had watched over them. But somewhere, in the quiet corners of forgotten streets, a presence lingered.

My family was terrified of me. They said I was a monster, and maybe I was. All I could recall from that night was the police arriving at my place, their flashing red and blue lights casting a glow in the living room of my downstairs apartment. They discovered me holding a butcher knife drenched in blood, the lifeless body of my girlfriend at my feet. I couldn’t remember slitting her throat, stabbing her twenty times, and bashing her head into the wall hard enough to leave a dent in her skull. My walls, floor, and body were soaked in blood as the police shouted at me to drop the knife while pointing their guns at me. I was sure I listened since I didn’t get shot, but it was all a blur.

Handcuffed in the back of a police car, I was en route to the mental hospital. They dug into my wrists, leaving red marks on my skin. I stared ahead between the bars at the two officers who sat in silence. The court had argued over where to send me, ultimately concluding that a mental hospital would be the most suitable.

Tiny stones rattled beneath the tires as we rolled up the gravel pavement of the institution before screeching to a stop. The structure was a towering four-story building teetering on the edge of collapse, rotting wood peeking out of the sides. Bricks scattered the weeds that littered the little grass that remained, and the once pristine windows lay in piles of shattered glass on the ground.

“Someone will see you for a screening,” the officer asserted in a melancholic tone.

A woman appeared almost out of thin air, an uncanny smile plastered on her cracked lips. Her face looked disturbingly unnatural, as if her mouth were about to contort and open wide to expose rows of razor-sharp teeth. There was something not right about her.

“Hello, Ashton. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Gwendolyn. You can follow me to your screening.”

I held back from answering and extracted myself from the car, barely processing the officer exiting behind me to unlock my handcuffs. His other hand remained glued to his gun on his belt, ready to shoot me if I tried anything.

I kept my distance as I trailed behind her to my new home, the massive wooden doors opening before me with a creak that echoed throughout the winding halls.

Dr. Gwendolyn directed me into a claustrophobic room littered with dust and cobwebs. I coughed as I sat down on a leather chair that looked as if it had been a scratching post for cats for the last fifty years.

Unfazed by it all, she took a seat in her own equally bad chair and folded her hands on top of a wooden desk stained with dark brown and black patches. “You claim you don’t remember killing Rose, correct?”

My eyes followed the cockroach crawling around on her desk, and I shivered, forcing myself to meet her cold, lifeless gaze. “Correct.” I couldn’t help but wonder why she would ask things she already had the answer to. She had read the police report. She knew I was a cold-blooded killer with memory loss from the trauma. At least that was what everyone else believed.

She pushed the cockroach off her desk and stomped it under her pale blue heel until it splattered. “Were you at a party? Maybe drinking or doing drugs?”

“No, I’m not that type of person.”

“Well, we can rush tests to prove that.” She trailed off. “Do you hear voices that tell you to do things?”

This question was easy. “No, I do not. I’m telling you, I don’t belong here.” Despite everything that had happened, I still wholeheartedly believed those words.

“You killed someone, Ashton. You know that, right?” She changed her voice to one that would be used when talking to a child.

I flinched at the way she was speaking to me. “There’s no real evidence. Ever think I was set up?” I retorted, noticing the breath of disapproval she let out as she scribbled something down on her notepad.

“You were found holding the knife in front of the body with your fingerprints all over the weapon, but I guess that isn’t enough evidence for you.” She forced a smile as she said it before standing. “You can follow me to your room now. You will not have a roommate because you have been declared dangerous and unpredictable. Your treatment begins first thing in the morning.”

Treatment, right. The treatment that had killed countless people. This was the last remaining place that engaged in outdated and illegal practices. It shouldn’t even have been called getting treatment; it was torture in its purest form.

My room was tucked away in a darkened corner on the bottom level, a gaping hole in the floor right above the door, exposing pipes and wire from a failing electrical system. There was a wheelchair left unattended across the hall, and I was certain I could see it rolling for only a moment. Chills surged up my spine as I turned to face the hall we had traveled down, surveying for any other sign of life, but not even sound penetrated the atmosphere. The entire building appeared empty.

Dr. Gwendolyn slid the heavy key into the lock, and the door screamed as it swung open.

Much like the screening room, every surface was buried under layers of dust. There was a single piece of furniture: a bare mattress sitting like a slab in the center of the floor, stained with dark, dried patches of brown. Fuzzy black mold thrived in the corners, climbing up the walls. Anywhere else on Earth would’ve been better than here.

The bolt slid into place with a heavy clack, and I listened to the click of her heels fading into the distance, leaving me with nothing but this deafening silence.

Driven by a necessity to kill the hours, I took the risk and flopped onto the ancient mattress. It reeked of decomposing matter, a cloying sweetness that stuck to the back of my throat. A cloud of dust exploded outward, scattering in every direction and settling into my pores until my skin itched.

I lay there, motionless, staring up at the cracked ceiling, watching the spiders dance in their cobwebs for what felt like hours before finally closing my eyes and falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

A cacophony of blaring screams greeted me upon waking, my eyes darting around as I freed myself from bed. I scoured the room in search of where the noise was coming from, which I quickly realized was all around me. The screams sounded as if they were coming from inside the walls.

Their incomprehensible words quickly became unbearable, and I harshly rammed my hands over my ears, collapsing to my knees on the floor.

The agony was endless, lasting hours. No one came to investigate, and it wasn’t until one in the morning that the voices finally ceased.

“Rose?” I sprinted towards my girlfriend, nothing but expansive blackness surrounding us on both sides, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Congealing blood stuck to her white dress, tainting it with red. I screamed for help, but my voice only echoed back to me.

At first, her back was turned to me, but when she turned, my breathing stopped. Her features were disfigured, pieces of flesh peeling away from her jaw and cheeks like flaky bread.

I could clearly see the white of her bones beneath the remnants of her skin. Maggots crawled out of her mouth that I used to kiss, writhing across the chapped surface.

Sweat drenched my body as I awoke, unable to stop wondering if I really did what they claimed. Could I really hurt the girl I loved more than anything? Was I capable of murder?

The thoughts came to a halt when there was a click at the door. My body tensed as I spotted Dr. Gwendolyn in the doorway. “We will start you off in group therapy. Maybe talking and hearing stories of others will help you remember that night. We are all here to help you.”

Yeah, right, I thought to myself as I brought my legs to the floor, refraining from telling her about my dream and the screams from the walls. That would only give her more reasons to keep me here.

High, vaulted ceilings disappeared into shadows in the main room, the air carrying a medicinal edge that failed to mask the underlying scent of mildew. The floor was a checkerboard of cracked concrete, the gray slabs separated by deep fissures where the foundation had settled. Scattered across the room were a few heavy wooden tables, their surfaces scarred by cigarette burns and deep gouges. On the tables sat several board games and puzzles, with cardboard boxes warped and yellowed from dampness. I touched one, and it collapsed inward. There was nothing inside.

Other patients sat in chairs that formed a circle in the center of the room, all of them ghostly pale and thin, bruises and scars marking their bodies. I could only imagine the ones concealed beneath their clothes.

Gestured forward, I took the last seat in the circle of chairs, shifting my weight to make all four legs touch the ground. Dr. Gwendolyn asked me to introduce myself, and for once, I decided not to argue.

“My name is Ashton Lee, and I’m seventeen. I’m here because I may have killed my girlfriend. I lost my memory of that night. My mom died when I was five. My dad killed her. He doesn’t want people to know that, though. He got away with it. My sister ran away and started college last year, and I’m very proud of her. I’m glad she could escape before our dad killed her too.”

Dr. Gwendolyn cut in, “Ashton, that is enough. This is not the place for telling lies. Your dad would’ve been caught if he had done what you claimed. Tell the truth if you want to share your entire life story.”

A smug grin rose to my lips. “I am telling the truth.”

She huffed, rising to her feet. “That’s enough, Ashton. We can try this again some other time. You should go see the head doctor now.” She clenched her jaw as I walked away, pleased with myself for escaping that situation. Nothing I said was a lie, but I knew she’d think it was.

Noiselessly, I climbed the black metal staircase, being mindful of the gaps and missing sections.

A young girl stood at the summit, framed by the oppressive shadows of the upper landing. Her blonde hair was a matted, stiff mess, glued to her scalp by dark, dried blood. She wore a lilac dress that might once have been Sunday-best, but now it was little more than a collection of rips and red spatters. Clutched in her small hand was a teddy bear with its eyes ripped out.

The sight of her made my face contort, an ache blooming in the center of my chest. She didn’t scream or run. Instead, she descended the stairs with a light, ghostly gait, stopping on the step directly in front of me.

“You need to get out of here or you’ll end up like me. Leave now.” Her trembling finger rose, pointing toward the heavy front doors.

I cautiously placed my hand on her shoulder. “Do you want me to get you help?”

“It’s too late for that. The doctor is coming.” She leaned in closer, her voice a cold draft against my ear. “Run.”

My legs moved before my mind could even process the command. I bolted, dashing down the decaying stairs and lunging toward the front entrance without a single glance behind me. But just as my fingers grazed the cold metal, a hand clamped down on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks.

My heart pounded with a violent, erratic rhythm as I was forced to turn around.

“Nice to meet you, Ashton. I’m Dr. Norman.”

My breath caught in my throat, turning into a hard lump of dread. This was the man who would conduct my treatment. He wore a sinister, practiced smile, and behind his circular glasses, there was a manic excitement flickering in his eyes—a hunger for what was to come.

“Why don’t you follow me upstairs so we can get started?” he hummed, the sound vibrating with a terrifying cheerfulness. His nails dug into the meat of my shoulder until I winced, leaving me no choice but to follow.

As we turned toward the corridor, I spotted the little girl standing further down the hall, her eyeless teddy bear drooping in her hand. I failed her. I couldn’t escape.

The treatment room was the most unsettling in this entire place.

An old, battered dentist’s chair was in the dead center of the room, illuminated by a single, flickering bulb that beamed a sickly yellow light from above. To the side, a metal tray held a collection of rusted tools, their serrated edges still clinging to dried remnants of blood. My shoulders bunched toward my ears, and my knees locked in a primal refusal to move as bile rose in my throat.

Dr. Norman didn’t wait for my consent. He forcefully maneuvered me into the chair, using his weight to pin me down while he fumbled with the wide, weathered brown straps, cinching the leather around my wrists, ankles, and torso. Handcuffs were child’s play compared to this.

With a hum of satisfaction, the doctor turned toward the wall and selected a gas mask shaped like the beak of a bird, tapered to a point at the end. When he slid it on, his eyes peered out from the gaping holes.

I attempted to find my voice, but all I could do was tremble, sweat sliding down my skin as he approached me with a colossal needle. He flicked the tip so that some fluid flew off.

The needle forcefully pierced the side of my head, causing a burning sensation that spread throughout my body. I screamed and cried, but he only covered my mouth with his hand, raising a finger to his lips to command me to be silent. I didn’t comply, resulting in a dirty rag being shoved in my mouth to shut me up.

Dr. Norman was relentless, his movements erratic as he stabbed needle after needle into my skin. The cold metal bit into my arms, chest, and legs, but he gave special attention to my head.

Just when I thought it was over, he turned toward a closet and pulled out a chainsaw. The engine sputtered to life, the mechanical scream filling the small room until the walls seemed to vibrate. My own screams were trapped, muffled into pathetic, low animal sounds as he lured the spinning teeth closer to my face. Tears poured from my eyes, soaking the fabric of the gag as I sobbed, my entire body convulsing against the leather straps.

I clamped my eyes shut, refusing to watch, but I couldn’t block out his deep, melodic laughter.

The second I reopened my eyes, he mercilessly drove the spinning teeth of the chainsaw into my arm. The metal bit through layers of muscle and sinew, and I witnessed the violent expulsion of blood that coated the doctor’s bird mask.

The pain was beyond anything I had ever felt before—a shock-inducing whiteout that seared my entire nervous system. My breathing came in shallow hitches as I simply watched, paralyzed, as he lifted my freshly severed arm, presenting the mangled limb to my face like a trophy.

I regained consciousness in my dusty bed that reeked of sour milk, my vision hazy as I slowly turned my head to the side, gazing at the blood-soaked bandage where my arm once was. The tears threatened to spill over again, burning behind my lids, and I had to use every ounce of my remaining strength to force myself to tear my eyes away from the sight of the gauze-covered stump.

I closed my eyes again, desperate to retreat into the mercy of sleep, but the soft voice of the little girl cut through the silence. “I’m sorry about what happened to you. You couldn’t escape, and now you never can.”

“What do you mean? I can still try to escape. Hope isn’t lost,” I replied, my voice cracking as I forced myself to sit up. The movement sent a phantom jolt through my missing limb.

She didn’t answer with words; she simply shook her head before reaching out her small hand. I hesitated before accepting it. She led me toward the door, which stood wide open for the first time.

As the little girl guided me into the basement, the smell of something rotting overwhelmed my senses. I pressed my remaining arm over my mouth and nose, but it wasn’t sufficient. I gagged, my stomach churning with every step into the darkened cellar, unable to fathom how she remained so unnervingly unbothered by the odor.

I came to a halt when we reached the furthest point, blinking rapidly, praying that my eyes were playing tricks on me, but the room remained unchanged.

There were hanging bodies everywhere. Dozens of them. Rotting corpses suspended from the ceiling like butchered meat, swaying slightly in a draft I couldn’t feel. I tightly gripped my hand over my mouth, retching into my palm until the pressure in my chest became unbearable. I doubled over and vomited onto the dirt floor, clutching my stomach.

When I stopped, I forced myself to look again, tracing the faces of the dead. I saw the people from group therapy. I saw the little girl. And then I saw it.

I saw me.

I was hanging there with the rest of them. I turned to run.

This cannot be true. I can’t be dead.

I flew to the entrance and threw my entire weight against the doors. They burst open, and I ran as fast as I could, but as I reached the metal gate, I noticed that the trees were transforming back into stone walls, the open road curving back into a hallway.

I tried again. And again.

No matter how far I made it, I always ended up back inside, standing on the same cracked concrete floor.

“I told you it’s too late.”

The little girl’s voice startled me, coming from right behind my shoulder. I whirled around and dropped to my knees, placing my single remaining hand on her arm. “Am I dead? Did the doctor kill me? Did I really kill Rose?” My voice shook with every word, terrified of the answers.

“Yes,” she responded, “yes to all.” With a sharp inhalation, I let go of her arm and averted my gaze to the ground.

I did it. I really killed her.

Collapsing against the closed door, tears streamed from my eyes in defeat. How could I do that to her? I loved her.

“It’s okay. Everything will be okay. Rose is in a better place now,” she soothed.

“Why can’t I remember?” I shouted in frustration.

“Sometimes people do bad things that are so terrible that their minds won’t let them remember. I cannot tell you why you did it because I do not know. Only you would.”

It’s been ten years now since I died. Many people come in, but no one ever leaves. The doctor cannot be caught for his heinous crimes, as he is dead. Everyone here is dead. And now, for me, I’m just another scream coming from inside the walls.

Halloween is when the portal to the spirit realm opens, melding our two worlds together into one and creating an obstructed, much more twisted reality. It’s the day demons leave the fire and walk alongside humans. And it’s also the day when people’s true colors come to light, the most twisted evils from deep within bubbling to the surface.

You’d never be able to tell what’s inhuman when everyone is wearing a mask. Even in day-to-day life, people can conceal their true selves. The person next to you could be a killer; would you even know? Demons and human monsters can look just like you and me. They have faces with the typical structure, ordinary bodies, and they talk just like everyone else. When it comes to Halloween, the ones stained in blood from their previous victims or the deformed, menacing demons merely resemble astonishing costumes.

Why do demons come here on this harrowing night? It’s the fear that lures them here. They feed off that energy, becoming stronger from it. The screams and displays of terror are delicious to them—they salivate over it and ache for more. The greater a demon’s power, the simpler it is for them to break free from the other side and become an additional dark entity in the living world.

Halloween is the beginning of the end.

Do you sense something creeping up on you now? Can you feel the presence of a dark figure lurking in the corner of your room, watching and waiting for the perfect moment to strike? Can you sense them advancing closer with a sickly smile on their face, their jaw slowly unhinging to reveal rows of bloody and sharp teeth ready to consume you? They’re getting closer. Quick. Turn around.

Could you resist the urge to look? If you didn’t, chances are you saw nothing but the calmness of the room you’re in, but my words made it feel as if something was peering at you, didn’t they? In the end, who knows? Maybe there was really something there stalking you. You may never know.

On Halloween, the moonlight illuminates people’s genuine desires. True monsters, like those in the stories you read, take shape and nothing can stop them. The reality is that monsters exist. And they aren’t some alien creature you’ll never come in contact with. You’ve probably already met one.

Halloween is the day when serial killers emerge, relishing the pleasure and thrill of taking a life. It becomes intoxicating after the first time—an addiction that can never be satiated. It can become a game for them. How much can you harm someone before they ultimately bleed out and die? They test the limits of the human body and enjoy every gruesome second of it, craving more and more. It’s a hunger that is all-consuming. The sight of blood gushing and staining the floor and walls, coupled with the satisfaction of pulling out one’s intestines, and the screams of terror and fear, can arouse some. They derive pleasure from the sounds of suffering, the sight of torture, and the blood on their skin, unable to keep their dicks in their pants, stroking themselves to orgasm all over the corpse.

Remember the candy you get on Halloween? Not all of it is typical store-bought delights; in truth, it can be manipulated in ways you’d never expect. And no, I’m not talking about razor blades. You can’t forget that cannibals can hand out candy to the unsuspecting, getting them addicted to a taste they don’t know how to replicate. That weird-looking gummy candy you got? It’s really a human tongue freshly sliced off hours before. That eyeball? Not fake, but real, ripped directly out of the eye socket of a living being.

Trick or treating comprises many more tricks than treats. Just think about it. You go door to door to a stranger’s home and ask for candy. How easy would it be to grab a child in the dark of the night if no one was paying attention? They’re already at your door; it’s simple.

And just like that, the cannibal gets their own Halloween treat. But there’s so many delicacies to choose from. Which one will they start with? With blood pumping through it, the heart is set to create an explosion of flavors on your tongue. You could even feel the throb before it stops beating. Alternatively, there’s the severed arm from the saw, exposing the succulent muscles just waiting to be savored. And of course, there’s the question of eating it cooked or raw.

There’s no day quite like this holiday. Once you can see past the plentiful facades and see just how depraved people really are, everything changes. Just the thought of this day makes you feel so sick that you can’t stop vomiting, but it never brings relief. You try to warn people to stay inside and lock their doors, but who would believe a story like this? People’s urge to seek free candy, play pranks, and dress up in either terrifying or seductive costumes cannot be hindered.

There’s still so much left unsaid, but I must end this story here. They’re coming for me now—the demons. It’s time to pay my bargain for the deal I made ten years ago on this dire day. I hope at least my words have helped open your eyes to the truth. My final advice: never trade your soul in exchange for bringing someone back from the dead. Necromancy is not something to experiment with; it isn’t a toy. The soul can come back deranged and violent, and you may never see it coming. I revived my daughter just to bash her head in with a hammer, shattering her skull into millions of pieces while watching her brain splatter the walls. I took my wife out with her, dismembering her alive while I forced her to watch in the mirror. I turned into the monster the stories warn you about. I may even be the greatest monster of all because I loved every second of what I did, and I’d do it all over again. Maybe next year, on Halloween, I’ll be the one standing in the corner of your room.

Like clockwork, my mother forced me inside her blue SUV, herding me to it like cattle. The bright blue sky faded away as she pulled me into the car, leaving me with a sinking sensation in my stomach. I shifted uncomfortably from the Holy Cross hanging from the rearview mirror, a Bible reading playing from the speakers.

Starting the engine, my mom stared back at me, scrunching up her nose. “I can’t let that slide. Go change.” Her voice was like ice pricking my skin.

In frustration, I hurried back indoors and swapped my clothes for a modest light blue dress adorned with lacy flowers. I turned away from the mirror, unable to bear the sight of myself. Wearing this made me want to tear off my skin, aching to watch my body shed like the skin of a snake until I was left with a new one.

Hauling myself back to the car, my mom barked, “Now we’re gonna be late. I don’t know why you can’t just dress like the girl you are.”

I recoiled at her words, my nails creating imprints on the skin of my wrist. I didn’t dare speak, knowing my words would only fuel the fire.

Pulling into the church parking lot, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at the sign that read “God Loves You,” praying my mom didn’t catch my reaction. God only loved you if you fit a certain mold. It was “love thy neighbor” unless they were gay or trans. Then it was, “What did I do wrong to cause this? Let’s pray the devil out of you.”

As we stepped inside through the elegant wooden front doors with a mosaic of Jesus in the glass, a knot formed in my stomach, twisting and turning to the point of nausea.

With my head down, we made our way through the entrance, my mom’s words forcing their way into my ear, insisting that I remove my beanie because it was seen as disrespectful. I refused, holding it in place as she tried to rip it off herself. When she drew stares, she gave up, a sigh of relief escaping me. This hat was the only thing concealing my most recent secret.

We sat in the front pews as the preacher greeted us with a smile, but I averted my gaze, anticipating the predictable course of today and the hateful words that would be spoken.

The foul man began with a prayer—one I only acted to join in on. I kept my eyes open, loosely holding the hands of those next to me as they repeated the words. The preacher smoothly transitioned to discussing LGBTQ+ rights after the mass prayer.

This wasn’t one of the churches that supported everyone despite the sign outside claiming otherwise. This was one where it was seen as one of the greatest sins of all, and sometimes I believed they thought it was worse than murder. Members of the community could receive pamphlets for conversion therapy and even the chance of an exorcism if they were deemed part of the community. You were seen as a demon that was corrupted by the devil. He warned us to stay away from them, acting as if it were a contagious disease that would infect us all. His words only made me feel sicker, and he knew it—he relished it. My ears felt as if they were about to bleed from listening to his distorted views.

On the verge of freedom from this wretched building, the preacher blocked our path, an innocent smile toying at his lips. My body shook as I awaited what would come. His voice came out soft, unfitting for what he said. “I’ve noticed you haven’t been praying lately and how you hide your beautiful hair. This behavior isn’t natural for a woman, and I believe the devil lives in you.”

Anger and shame consumed my mother, causing her face to flush a deep crimson. With no delay, she forcefully removed the beanie from my head, inadvertently pulling out strands of my hair. I grasped for it, but she pulled it further out of reach.

Her expression shifted to one of horror at the sight of my short hair, which I had cut in the bathroom late last night. With every clump gone, I felt lighter, feeling as though I could breathe a little better as I buried the evidence in the trash can, not even minding that the haircut was uneven in places.

I fled when she attempted to strike me, fingertips barely grazing my cheek. I ignored the shouts for me to return, never looking back, continuing to run without a specific destination in mind.

In the evening, I attended the riot that had erupted outside the church from the dissatisfaction with the preacher’s ways. Joining in on the chants, I held up the sign given to me by the girl next to me, holding it high in the air.

Our shouts filled the front lot boisterously until the sound of a gunshot ceased everything into an eerie silence. We stayed motionless, our gazes locked on the door. A young boy, with a gun in his shaky hand, burst out of the church, his expression stricken with fear but also an overwhelming sense of power that came from taking another’s life. The exhilaration of the kill flowed through his veins like electricity. My stomach turned at how proud he was, beckoning for cheers that never came. He was no better than the preacher.

He let out a deep laugh and resumed running, skillfully maneuvering through the crowd and disappearing into the distance. This was supposed to be a non-violent protest—a way to express ourselves and bring attention to the issue, not commit one of the worst sins of all.

The preacher’s son burst through the heavy oak doors moments later, the light from the vestibule casting a long shadow behind him. His fists were tightly clenched in a furious rage that seemed to shake his entire frame. For a heartbeat, he stared at the ground, his chest heaving as he took deep breaths to regain his composure.

Then, he unveiled the silver pistol he kept hidden behind his back.

With trembling hands, he raised the cold barrel toward my chest. His gaze met mine, and there was no holiness there—only a pure, concentrated hatred that burned hotter than Hell.

The crack of the gunshot was a deafening snap that cut through any lingering chanting.

I instinctively grabbed my stomach, feeling the warmth of hot, slick blood flowing out from between my fingers, staining my hands and spilling onto the cold pavement in dark, spreading puddles.

I stumbled to my knees, the strength draining out of my legs like water from a cracked vase. The roar of the riot suddenly felt miles away. The crowd scattered in a panic; their running figures turned into shapeless entities I could barely process.

The preacher’s son collapsed to the ground, the weight of the unthinkable finally crushing him. The silver pistol clattered against the stone, rattling as it fell from his shaky hands.

“What did I do?”

Those words, whispered in a voice cracked with sudden, horrific clarity, were the last things I heard. In the end, nothing had been solved. It would be covered on the news. Some would mourn; many would rejoice. And the cycle would repeat.

The waves crashed against the shore in harmony, each splash revealing tiny seashells, rocks, and an abundance of empty bottles and plastic bags littered there by other guests. But among it all, there was something peculiar—a glimmering object that caught my attention and pulled me in like a fish lure.

Cautiously, I approached the discrepancy on the beach and discovered a cloudy, aged glass bottle. I let out a sigh, thinking it was just more garbage, until I saw a vibrant blue object that remained unharmed by the ocean’s waves.

With ease, the cork popped off, and a blue rose descended onto the littered land. It looked synthetic almost, but carried the signature fragrance of an ordinary rose. Every petal remained intact, not a single one torn or missing. It was almost as if it was calling to me, beckoning me to rescue it from imprisonment.

There was something about it that I could not describe. All I knew for sure was that I had to keep this peculiar rose with that unnatural blue.

And that I did.

Things started to happen after that—unexplainable occurrences. It was as if the rose was keeping score, turning redder with every life I took.

Carson, a young man who had dropped out of college to pursue something he refused to talk about, approached me like he usually did, never failing to interrupt my eavesdropping on the customers’ conversations. His blond hair was slicked back, revealing his deep brown eyes. His cologne radiated from him as he neared. “Any fun plans for tonight?” he questioned as he leaned back against the wall.

“Not anything that concerns you,” I bluntly replied, unwilling to share anything with him. He had always messed with me back in high school and still hadn’t changed. The only thing he could ever manage to do was annoy the hell out of me.

He playfully replied, “Oh, come on. You can tell me.” His hand rose to his chin. “Wait, do you have a date? Is that what this is? I can’t believe it. April finally has a date.”

“Still single.” I sighed before giving in. “I plan to explore that abandoned barn.”

“Well then, no wonder you’re single,” Carson joked. “Have you heard the legends about that place?”

“Of course I have. That’s why I’m going.”

“I’m coming with you then. It’s not safe to go alone.”

“And you think you can protect me?” I scoffed. “I’m going alone, and that’s the end of this conversation.”

Carson raised his hands and backed away, but the smile never left his lips.

Once he exited, I returned to making coffee and eavesdropping on conversations, allowing the time to fly by. But I couldn’t help but find myself distracted, ending up fulfilling orders I knew by heart incorrectly, the legend at the forefront of my mind. All the articles I’d read online stated that an old farmer used to live there. With a reputation for being grumpy and alone, there were countless stories about him using his shotgun to deal with trespassers. According to some, he would kidnap those who crossed him and brutally dismember them in the barn, using their remains as fertilizer. However, there was no concrete proof of any of this: no records of hospital visits, no evidence of shotgun usage. Nothing at all.

Nonetheless, these tales spread across the internet in our small community, with many cautioning that his ghostly presence lingered. These possible works of fiction still sent tremors of fear pumping through my veins, a part of me wishing I had said yes to Carson accompanying me. Thinking about going intensified my anxiety, but I attempted to suppress it and concentrate on avoiding any further errors, waiting for sundown.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, I clocked out of my overtime shift, pausing as I tried to remember my numbers despite how many times I’d used them. A low voice startled me from behind. “Hey, April. Rethink my offer?”

I leaped, scolding myself for being overly jumpy about what were most likely fictitious horror narratives. “My answer still stood. I’m going alone.” I clicked enter on the pin-pad, watching as the screen flashed green before retrieving my belongings and exiting through the back employee entrance.

Climbing into my Toyota, I pulled out of the parking lot, ignoring Carson staring at me as he walked to his car.

I reached the dilapidated barn twenty minutes later, my hands clammy on the steering wheel. The lights from my car illuminated the old building, uncovering a surprisingly huge structure. Rusty metal protruded from the side, grayish brown planks warped and bloated, peeling away in curls.

A patchwork of corrugated tin sheets covered the roof, some rusted through into a lattice of orange decay that rattled violently with every gust of wind. The entire structure leaned at an angle, sinking into the dirt where all the grass had since died.

The moment I turned off the ignition, an inky blackness consumed me, broken only by the faint glow of a street lamp a block away. A nauseating sensation pooled in my stomach with every step I took closer.

I tried to steady my breath as I approached the entrance, mumbling about how it was just an old building and there was nothing to fear.

With a shaky hand, I took out my phone and adjusted the flashlight to the highest setting. The atmosphere shifted colder, darker as I stepped inside. I shuddered as I brightened the room, revealing only dusty, cobweb-covered machinery.

The sight of the ordinary caused my shoulders to relax a little. Just as I was getting closer to the ladder that went to the hay bales, I heard a loud bang and laughter coming from behind. My phone nearly slipped from my hand, my heart rate accelerating as I lifted it again. None other than Carson stood at the end of the beam.

He laughed. “I didn’t mean to scare you that badly. I just tripped over something. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I smacked him on the shoulder, only serving to make him laugh more. “Why did you follow me here? I told you I didn’t need you to come with me.”

“Based on how long it took you to come in here, I highly doubt that,” Carson replied.

I shook my head before looking behind him to locate what he had tripped on. “There’s a trapdoor.”

Carson’s eyes lit up, and he squatted next to it, finding the handle. “See, I am good for something. We should explore it.”

I agreed, waiting for him to enter, but he didn’t budge.

“Aren’t you gonna go first?” I unfolded my arms to gesture at him. “If you’re here to help with my fear, the least you can do is go first.”

He fidgeted with his hands before answering. “That’s exactly why you should go first. It’s your adventure.”

“Oh, is the fearless Carson scared?”

“No, I’m not scared,” he said defensively. “I just don’t want to take your adventure away from you.” When I shot him a look of disbelief, he sighed. “Fine, you win. I’ll go first, okay? Watch.”

As soon as the hatch was open, dust and dirt billowed out, a cloying odor escaping from the dark square in the floor, causing us to reflexively pull our shirts over our mouths and noses.

I shined my flashlight into the mouth of the hole. The beam struggled against the floating silt, revealing a narrow wooden ladder leading down. The wood looked brittle, as if the moisture in the air had spent decades chewing away at its integrity.

Slowly—agonizingly slow—Carson began his descent. My foot tapped against the floorboards in irritation as he continued to take his sweet time, testing every single rung like it was made of glass. Running out of patience and feeling the walls of the barn closing in on me, I made a reckless move to push him aside so I could just go down first.

It failed spectacularly. My shove sent him off balance, his hands slipping. He yelped before tumbling down the rest of the way, landing with a thud onto the uneven ground below.

A moment of silence followed, broken only by his pained groaning.

“Wow, thanks, April,” his voice drifted up. “That was such a brilliant idea.”

“I didn’t mean to.” I descended the rickety ladder to join him, my flashlight dancing over the damp walls until it settled on his form. The moment I saw him, a wave of intense dizziness hit me. I had to slam my palm against the cool, slimy wall to steady myself, my phone shaking violently in my other hand.

“Oh, fuck,” I cursed under my breath.

A shard of the floorboard had split upward, penetrating the soft skin of his calf. Streaks of dark red trickled down from the fresh wound, painting the dusty floor with a macabre pattern of lines and dots.

I crouched beside him, my hands trembling as I reached out, gripping the wood. With a gentle tug, I carefully removed the board. I couldn’t help but recoil as a fresh surge of blood poured out, hot and persistent. Carson clenched his eyes shut, his jaw clenched tight.

“Give me your jacket.”

“No way. Do you want me to freeze? Use yours.” He winced, his usual self clearly still there. April would never admit aloud how relieving it was.

“The material of your jacket will work better for this,” I asserted, swaying from the sight of all the blood.

“All right, all right.” Carson gave in and removed his jacket.

Accepting it, I tightly bound the wound by wrapping it around and tying the sleeves together.

“This is definitely going to get infected and kill me.”

“It’s not going to kill you.” I kicked the board away from us, not wanting to look at it any longer. “We’ll get you antibiotics and take you to a doctor.”

“I shouldn’t have let you drag me into this mess.”

“Me? I didn’t bring you here. You followed me.”

“And you’re the one who caused me to get injured.”

“I know, and I feel terrible.”

Ignoring me, he said, “Could I maybe say my last words now? I have some confessions I’d like to make before I die.”

“You’re not going to die.” I tried to reassure him, glancing at the bulky jacket over the wound. “Are you okay to keep looking, or should we leave?”

“I want to stay.” He clutched his leg as he stood. I helped steady him, wrapping my arm around him to serve as a support.

After a few more steps, darkness engulfed us, my phone’s flashlight abruptly shutting off. I scowled, trying to turn it back on, but the screen remained black. Carson leaned over to look. “Well, this isn’t good.”

“No shit. Do you have matches?”

“No, why would I?”

“I don’t know. I just thought you might carry some.”

“Well, I don’t. I do have a lighter, though.”

“Good. We can use that.”

“That would waste the fuel.” Carson dived his hand into his blue jeans pocket, pulling out the lighter along with a cigarette. He slid it between his lips and went to light it, cupping his hand around the end.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Oh, did you want one too?” He reached into his pocket again.

“No. What I want is for you to stop being irritating for just one second.” I slapped the cigarette out of his hand, stomping it out under my Converse.

“You owe me for that.”

We proceeded further into the darkness, using what little light the lighter had to offer, unable to make out what anything was. I kept my arm around Carson, hoping to alleviate his limp. As that was my fault, it was the least I could do.

It didn’t take us long to stumble onto something else. I started to fall, but Carson’s grasp at my arm stopped me. That save, however, was short-lived. Carson’s legs buckled, causing us both to crash to the ground.

I threw myself backward when something brushed my foot, pulling Carson along with me, reaching for his lighter to shine it on what I touched.

“Holy shit,” Carson cursed.

My eyes went wide, my hand moving to cover my mouth as I spotted the source of the stench. It wasn’t an object but a rotting body, completely devoid of any skin. The clothes left on the frame were riddled with holes, revealing the yellowed, porous skeleton underneath.

The sound of a thousand buzzing wings filled the air as flies circled around the body in a frenzied halo. Maggots writhed inside, crawling out from every orifice, and fat, pale worms slithered through the hollowed-out sockets where his eyes once were.

I gagged, bile rising in my throat. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” I choked, turning my head away from the rotting corpse, but it did little to help, the image permanently burned into my retinas.

“What should we do? Should we call the police?” My mind raced. We were in a hidden room, Carson was bleeding out on a floor slick with his own blood and who-knows-what else, and we were standing over a corpse that looked decades old.

“That’s not a good idea.” He darted his eyes away from the grueling sight. “We’re trespassing. We’d get in trouble if the police came here.”

“But we can’t just leave him here.”

“We can, and we will.”

Carson returned his lighter to his pocket, plunging us back into darkness, but this time we had knowledge of the secrets it held. I tried to catch my breath, but couldn’t. This was a bad idea. I should’ve just stayed home.

My voice shook. “We need to get out of here.”

I was met with no answer.

“Hello? We have to leave.” There was still no other sound besides the buzzing of the flies, making my stomach twist.

I whirled my head around, but couldn’t see anything in the thick blackness. “That asshole,” I muttered. “Of course he left me here.”

Using my hands, I trailed them along the wall, tracing my way back to the ladder we had used to climb down. Finally, feeling the wooden steps under my grasp, I let out a sigh of relief and started to climb, scoffing when I realized Carson wasn’t as hurt as he acted out to be. If he could climb, he could have walked.

I scrambled to the top, my breathing getting easier, the pale moonlight filtering through the gaps in the barn’s siding providing a sense of comfort, but there was still no sign of Carson.

I was about to bolt through the front door and get the hell out of here when a muffled voice halted me in place.

“April. Up here. Fast.”

I whirled around, spotting Carson crouched behind a massive hay bale in the loft area, gesturing for me to join him.

I turned back toward the entrance one last time, and my heart skipped a beat. Through the cracks in the wood, I saw the unmistakable sweep of flashlights cutting through the trees outside.

Without wasting another second, I scrambled up the ladder and dropped behind the hay beside Carson. His hand shot out, grabbing my arm, breath hot against my ear. “This way.”

He maneuvered toward the back of the loft, where a rickety ladder led straight up toward the roof, the wood appearing like it was held together by cobwebs, but the sound of heavy boots hitting the barn floor pushed me onward.

We squeezed through a narrow hatch and onto the shingles. The roof creaked and groaned under our weight, the sound amplified by the silence of the night. Every step felt like a gamble. I looked at the steep drop on either side and then back at Carson, who was silhouetted against the pale moon.

“What now?” I hissed, my voice barely audible over the wind. “There’s nowhere else to go.”

“We have to jump. There’s no other way.” He ran his hand through his hair. “We’re screwed.”

“Jump?” I yelped a little too loudly. “Are you insane?”

“Maybe, but that’s our only way out of here.”

From down below, we heard shouting. “SDPD! We know you’re in here!”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “They will see or hear us if we jump. We need to be smart about this.”

“Outsmart the police? What fantasy world do you live in? All I can suggest is that we either jump or I can distract them while you escape.”

“No, I’m not leaving you. Let’s think of a plan,” I said, though there was no time to think. The latch of the trapdoor leading to the roof was already opening.

Without another second to contemplate, Carson’s fingers locked around my wrist, and he propelled us both off the edge of the barn.

We hit the ground hard. Our hands and knees took the brunt of the impact, the sheer force of the landing nearly sending us face-first into the soil. Carson let out a strangled cry, his hand immediately flying to his injured calf. The movement from the jump had reopened the wound, blood leaking through the jacket. If it hadn’t hurt too terribly before, it sure as hell hurt then.

Trembling, I hooked my shoulder under his arm and heaved him up. “We need to run, okay?”

He didn’t speak, giving a nod in reply before beginning a desperate, lopsided run toward the tree line. Carson bit down so hard on his lip that a bead of blood appeared there, too, his face ghostly pale as the aching pain made his vision turn fuzzy.

He directed me to his car, which was skillfully concealed behind a dense wall of shrubs and low-hanging trees. It was a stark contrast to my own car, which was sitting like a neon sign on the open street.

The adrenaline began to ebb, replaced by a crushing weight of exhaustion. I collapsed against the car’s hood, gasping for breath, before bending down to readjust the jacket fastened around Carson’s wound. The fabric was sodden and heavy with blood. “That was way too intense.”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course not.” I chewed on my lower lip, the taste of salt and dirt hitting my tongue. “You got injured because of me, we found a dead man, the police came, and we jumped off a roof. I wouldn’t call any of that okay.”

“You have a point, but don’t apologize. This is a night I’ll never forget. Honestly? I haven’t had this much fun in a long time.”

“Fun?” I looked into his eyes, searching for a hint of sarcasm or shock-induced delirium.

“Yes, fun.” He smiled warmly, the expression reaching his tired eyes. “I got to go on an interesting adventure with you. I couldn’t ask for more than that.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out another cigarette, and sparked his lighter.

“You know? I think I’ll take one of those now.”

A tall man in a neat-pressed suit with dark bags under his drooping eyes downed his fourth cup of coffee. He had been working on necessary paperwork for hours, and the repetitiveness was finally catching up to him. He tapped his fingers on the thick plastic table with its faux marble, made to look more expensive than it truthfully was.

Three rows behind him on the opposite side of the room, a young man sat with a fighter game reflecting off his rectangular black glasses. He had shared the space with him for hours, desperately fixing a code and replaying the same sequence in a game until it was ingrained in his mind.

The young man shouted in frustration. “Are you kidding me? I’ve been fixing this shit for hours and the level is still full of glitches.”

This wasn’t the first time he had yelled that day. He had been fairly loud the entire time, a mix of shouts and bangs escaping him whenever he encountered an issue. And it was beginning to get on the other man’s nerves.

He stood promptly and approached the other guy. “Can you keep it down, please? I’m working on something important and I need quiet to focus.” His tone remained respectful despite the true annoyance he was experiencing.

The young man glanced up, his gaze landing on the shiny badge attached to his belt. Unfazed, he returned his eyes to the screen. “If it’s so important, then go somewhere else. I need to get this done.”

“I should be saying that to you. My job is much more important than whatever you’re doing. I make a true impact on the world. All you’re doing is playing a stupid video game.”

“I have to finish this,” he reiterated, still not looking at him. “This is my way to success—my ticket to becoming one of the most famous video game developers of our time.”

The other man rolled his eyes and unclenched his fists, attempting to maintain his composure. “Sounds unimportant…my work, on the other hand, helps people; it saves people. Now, if you can, please keep it down so I can finish. The deadline is at seven.”

The developer scoffed, “Your paperwork saves people? C’mon man. I doubt that whatever that is will do anything.” He gestured at the open document on the man’s computer.

“I’m an officer. Officer Lincoln.” He lifted his badge. “And I need to complete this. Do you understand? This is important in ensuring I get remembered as an honorable cop.”

The developer finally inspected the man in front of him, things clicking into place as he remembered what he had been seeing on the news. “Wait, you’re—”

Before he could complete his sentence, a gunshot went off, and the room fell silent at last.

As I took a stand, a firm grip on my wrist stopped me.

“There’s somethin’ I’d like to confess.”

“Wouldn’t a confession be better suited for the church, Joel?”

“This can’t wait.”

“Then tell me; what is it?” I sat back down, unable to deny my piqued curiosity. Joel had been a frequent churchgoer for a while. He occupied the rear pews, remaining so silent and hunched that he appeared invisible. But I always noticed him. Not once had he ever spoken to anyone there. Not until now.

“I know what happened to Samantha.”

Chills ran up my spine. I gave the cross hanging around my neck a squeeze and cleared my throat. “What happened to her?” I forced myself to meet his gaze as a sickly feeling took shape inside my stomach, my muscles squeezed tight.

Joel took a long draw from his cigarette before continuing. “I saw who killed her is what I’m sayin’.”

“And why would you confess this now? It’s been five months.”

“Because I can’t let you keep getting away with this.” He set his cigarette into the ashtray. “I thought maybe what you did was somethin’ for the church—somethin’ for God. I mean, you cut her skin into wings and displayed her on Jesus’s cross. I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt despite the circumstances, but then more women started goin’ missin’. One of them bein’ my daughter.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “No one is gonna believe a priest would do something like that.”

“Maybe not, but you ain’t even a real priest.”

My heart sank to my stomach, palms clammy against my suit pants as I rose from the swivel stool. I swiftly turned to exit, only to be forcefully brought back down by the man. I attempted to laugh it off with the bartender, acting as if we were just two buddies fooling around.

“Where do you think you’re going? We ain’t done here.”

It was only then that I spotted the glint of the blade hidden underneath the sleeve of his red and black flannel.

The bar was silent, devoid of any activity, as the blade plunged deep into my stomach. He twisted it as my eyes opened wide, my mouth falling open as I took my final breath.

A frigid chill navigates through the swaying trees

on this December night,

making the branches deceptively come to life.

The flakes gracefully fall,

leaving behind a blanket of white.

Snowmen are assembled with carrot noses and top hats,

stoic by day, but dancing by nightfall,

only to return to their posts before sunrise.

The fragrance of pine fills the air as stunning trees are being prepared.

Their lights illuminate homes,

topped with twinkling stars borrowed from constellations.

There’s no better place than Candy Cane Lane

on this December night.

The moon shines brightly as a glistening fog approaches.

The chimneys smoke on white rooftops,

wrapped presents nestled inside.

Soon the holiday will come to a close

but not before Santa takes flight.

He sneaks into homes, trading gifts for cookies.

Very few know his true intentions with the naughty or nice list.

The nice get spoiled,

the naughty get taken,

only to then be eaten.

The oven muffles the children’s screams

as the searing heat cooks them to perfection.

they’re seasoned well before laid out

to be feasted upon by the reindeer.

On this December night,

secrets are afloat,

hidden within the depths of elation.

The snow’s painted crimson,

the wails masked with carols.

But there’s no need for a fright,

everything will turn out alright,

as long as you play your cards right.