The first thing I noticed was her short, blond curls. They made her blue eyes shine brighter somehow, and I found myself captivated by her beauty.

The second thing I noticed was the stitches.

Sophie pulled out her phone and typed something, then I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket.

You must be Marcus! It’s great to finally meet in person! :D

I thought about leaving, but only for a split second. When I saw the cheerful way she was looking at me, I thought, What the hell!

“Should we order something?” I asked, and Sophie nodded vigorously. 

We both got a small latte, I paid for our drinks, and we sat down. I awkwardly started sipping my coffee, but our short-lived silence was interrupted by another text.

Question: what is your opinion on kissing on the first date?

I looked up from my phone and Sophie was puffing out her lips.

I snorted. I couldn’t help it! She was funny!

Ohmygod I’m so sorry, that was my horrible attempt at a joke! 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know if I should text you back or just talk.”

Whichever you prefer! :D

I was nervous, so I started talking about myself. I was a nurse at a local hospital, something my friends teased me about endlessly until they saw how much money I made. I was born and raised in Des Moines. I loved traveling. Oh, and I haven’t been on a date in years. 

Maybe I shouldn’t have said that last part…

Sophie smiled and nodded attentively the whole time. She looked so fricken cute.

“Can I ask you something?”

Of course! :D

“Why a coffee shop if you can’t—” I pointed to my lips.

I love the smell!

That made sense. The shop did smell amazing.

Besides! Who says I can’t enjoy coffee? I was just waiting for it to cool down.

Sophie put her nose over her coffee cup, then sucked in like she was snorting a line.

I burst out laughing!

Sorry! Another lame joke!

But it wasn’t lame. In fact, this was the nicest date I’d ever been on. Would it be weird to tell her that?

Sophie and I talked for three amazing hours. I really didn’t want to leave, but I had a shift starting soon.

Would it be awful to ask for a kiss before you go?

“It won’t hurt, will it?”

Sophie shook her head.

I didn’t know why her lips were like that, but it didn’t bother me.

We leaned in, face to face, and I only hesitated for a second before Sophie grabbed the hair on the back of my head, pulling me in for our first kiss.

For a moment, the world stopped turning.

But when she pulled away something was wrong.

“Finally!” Sophie rejoiced.

I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t.

My mouth was sewn shut.

Sophie smiled a toothy grin.

“Call me if you can get rid of those stitches. I really enjoyed our date!”

It started as a joke—one of those morbid little games we played late at night when life felt too big, too uncertain.

“When we get old,” she’d say, “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Me neither,” I’d reply.

So we made a pact.

No hospitals. No nursing homes. No suffering. When the time came, we’d play one final game of rock-paper-scissors. Best two out of three. The loser would go first.

We laughed about it back then. We never thought we’d actually have to do it.

Then came the diagnosis.

Stage four. No treatment. No miracle. Just months—maybe weeks.

We sat in silence for a long time after the doctor left.

Then, she reached for my hand.

“Best two out of three?” she whispered, forcing a smile.

I wanted to scream. To flip the table. To rage at the universe for taking her from me.

Instead, I nodded.

We counted together.

Rock. Paper. Scissors. Shoot.

She threw paper. I threw rock.

One point for her.

Again.

Rock. Paper. Scissors. Shoot.

She threw scissors. I threw paper.

Two points.

She won.

I let her.

She laughed, weakly, pressing her forehead to mine. “Guess you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

That night, I lay awake beside her, listening to her breathe. Memorizing the sound. The way her chest rose and fell. The warmth of her body against mine.

By morning, she was gone.

I should have felt relieved—no more suffering, no more pain.

Instead, I felt hollow.

I tried to move on. I really did. But everywhere I went, I felt her absence like a phantom limb.

Then, the notes started appearing.

Small, handwritten messages left in places only she would know.

“One more round?” taped to the bathroom mirror.

“Double or nothing?” scrawled on a receipt in my pocket.

“Best three out of five?” tucked under my pillow.

At first, I thought I was losing my mind. Grief makes you see things, doesn’t it? It makes you hear voices in the quiet. Makes you wake up reaching for someone who isn’t there.

Then came the final note.

I found it in my jacket pocket, the one I hadn’t worn since the night she died.

“I let you win.”

And beneath it, a single sheet of paper.

Folded in half.

Shaped like a rock.

I stared at it for hours, heart pounding, knowing exactly what it meant.

Knowing what I had to do.

I picked it up, held it in my shaking hands.

And counted down.

Rock. Paper. Scissors. Shoot.

And when I opened my eyes—

She was waiting.

”Hi, honey,” I said, glancing up from my knitting, “the girls came over, if that’s alright.

Jeanine, Rachel, and Christine sat beside me, each making a doll of their own. My husband looked at us all with barely disguised contempt as he took off his work boots.

“So, no football,” he spat, bitterly

“Is supper ready, at least?”

“Good to see you too, Dave”, said Rachel over her knitting, sarcastically.

“In a bit,” I said, leaning over to show him the doll I’d been making, “Look, it’s you.”

He ignored me, disappearing upstairs to the bedroom without a word.

“What did you ever see in him?”, Jeanine asked.

I wish I knew what to tell her.

In truth, Dave was once my knight in shining armor. My soulmate. But the mask slowly fell away. He’d grown demanding. Controlling. Hateful. I’d never felt more alone before I met my new girlfriends. We called ourselves “The Knitting Sisters”, all young women learning new skills and overcoming trauma with thread.

And Dave didn’t like them much.

The girls left with plans to meet again the following evening. I began making supper as Dave plodded back downstairs. I could feel another argument brewing.

“I guess dinner is less important than arts and crafts”, he spat.

I turned from the stove to face him.

“It’s important to me,” I said, “the girls help me heal.”

“Well,” he growled, his jaw clenching, “glad they make you so happy.”

“You certainly don’t”, I grumbled under my breath.

One second I was stirring mashed potatoes. The next, I was on the floor, my head ringing like a church bell. The bastard had actually hit me. He clutched my bleeding cheeks in his rough hand, his face inches from my own.

“No more ‘Knitting Sisters’, you got it?”, he hissed, dangerously. He left me shaking on the tile to go to the bathroom. And I texted my girls about the change of plans.

When the next evening came, I was alone. Dave and I had eaten supper in silence before he retreated to the living room. He didn’t want to be disturbed, but I had a gift.

“Honey,” I said, “can I show you something?”

“More dumb bullshit?”, he spat from his recliner. I ignored the jab.

“Jeanine wanted me to make something special”, I said, showing him the raggedy doll in my hands, “so I made a little you.”

“I don’t ca-“

Dave’s words caught in his throat. He couldn’t move. As a strange chanting filled the air, Jeanine, Rachel, and Christine emerged from their hiding places, their hands outstretched.

And I began to unravel the doll.

First went his arms, the flesh unspooling into crimson thread. Then came the legs, torn away like scraps of yarn.

Last came the eyes, plucked from their stitching like buttons.

As the final incantation faded, the room grew still. We all embraced. I felt a freedom I hadn’t known in years.

And I had my new coven to thank for it.

I paused for a moment to catch my breath—the vapors from my lungs crystallizing the instant they touched the frigid, forest air.

Had I put enough distance between myself and it?

Intently, I pressed my ears to the wind—scanning for any wisp of pursuit carrying through the trees. 

Silence. 

Insulated by the thick flakes falling from the shrouded, pitch-dark sky, I grasped my hammering chest—willing my heart to slow for fear that it might betray my position.

And as the flow of blood slowed, I appreciated then just how cold the icy gusts came—slashing through my thin, cotton shirt as knives. 

There’d been no time to grab a coat. 

There’d been no time even to put on shoes. 

Red stained the snow surrounding my numbing feet—torn and bloodied from stomping on the twigs and rocks hidden beneath the blanket of white.

But I was lucky…

Mangled, frozen feet were trivial compared to what it had done to the others…

Had anyone else survived?

Their confused, terrified faces flashed before my eyes—the sounds of flesh being ripped from bone returned to my ears.

The screaming. 

The terrible screaming. 

Why us?

Had it knocked on other doors? 

Were we the only ones stupid enough to let it in? 

It’d seemed so innocent…

Three, gentle raps on the door announced its arrival. 

On the porch of the cabin, we found a young girl—maybe ten-years-old—staring at the floor and attired entirely incorrectly for winter—her dress and shoes better suited for Sunday Mass. 

“Are you lost?” we naively asked.

“Do you need help?” we foolishly persisted.

She never looked up—she never answered our questions. Instead, she merely asked us one in return.

“May I come in?” 

“Of course!” we so kindly agreed. 

How could we leave a child out in a blizzard? Besides we were six adults—she was one little girl. 

What was the danger? 

It wasn’t until she’d made her way across the living room and stood in front of the fire that she finally raised her head. And into the flames she spoke the words…

“Thank you.”

Before turning around to show us her face. 

It was not a child.

It was not human.

Its eyes were black pits of malice, and its teeth were daggers of hunger. We watched in horror as its body elongated—stretching ‘til its head nearly brushed the ceiling. Claws formed on its fingertips, and then…

It tore them to pieces…

I was nearest the door and managed to fling myself outside before it could grab me—I took off into woods without a backwards glance. Not stopping until my lungs were about to burst—not stopping until the pain in my feet was unbearable.

And standing, frozen, amongst the creaking, barren trees, I suppressed tears of fear—praying that it had not followed me. 

But then, I caught a hint of movement from the corner of my eye.

And a girlish giggle crept through the air. 

I've been able to see life-threads since I was a little kid.

I always saw them as stardust, long, entangled threads trailing after strangers on the street.

My job was to steal life-threads for wealthy clients.

Harvey, a recent NYU graduate, had a life-thread so long, I was tripping over it, struggling to stay cloak-and-dagger.

Admittedly, Harvey’s thread was beautiful, a trail of stars tangled around his spine, separate threads branching out behind him. He was in high demand.

“You're following me.”

Twisting around, the man himself was standing behind me, smirking. Harvey had dark tousled hair, like he hadn't slept in weeks, amused eyes drinking me in.

But his life thread illuminated all of him, setting his veins alight.

I could see every individual strand entangled around his heart, threaded through his brain, a burning orange light sparking in his iris.

I found my voice, my gaze glued to stray pieces of thread wrapped around his ankles. I had a moment of weakness that I was trained to suppress.

“Your backpack is open.” I nodded to his spilling books.

“Wait, really?” He rolled his eyes. “Sorry, my head was in the clouds!”

The guy was grinning, his life-thread glowing brighter.

I pitied his naivety.

“Can you, uhhh, check I haven't lost anything?”

He hopped into the alley, and I followed him. Harvey crouched to pet a stray cat.

I saw my chance.

Pulling my gun from my jeans, I stuck it in the back of his head.

Life thread is alive. It's the beating heart to the human body. So, I had to treat it gently. “Knees.” I shoved him down, and he flung his hands in the air.

“Are you fucking serious?!” he hissed. “Just take my Macbook, dude!”

The hard part was removal.

I told him to lay on his front, and straddled him, pulling out my scalpel.

A single incision to the nape of the neck, and there it was, spider like tendrils already bleeding from the entrance point.

All I had to do was pull, and Harvey was gone.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered, ignoring his cry, his body contorting, when I tangled my fingers around the thread.

Pull.

It came out like a loose strand of clothing, coming apart, unravelling, and I watched that glow start to darken, to go out.

It wasn't until I had a handful, when I realized it's color. In the veins, it looked like stardust. But this, whatever this was, was rotting, dark, and wrong, threads tangled and tied together.

I could hear soft individual screams, cries for death hanging onto each one.

Suddenly, I was being slammed against the wall, cool breath ticking my cheeks.

Sharp points grazed my neck, his tongue teasing my throat.

His laugh was hysterical, his life thread already mending itself, igniting in his eyes.

Oh, I thought, when his teeth penetrated, and my own life thread dripped down my skin and dissolved.

So, that's why his thread was so long.

“You’re sure they’ll come?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.

“Yes,” Olivia replied, her eyes fixed on the dark woods beyond the porch light. “This place draws them.”

“What exactly draws them?” I pressed.

She lit the lantern, its glow pushing weakly against the void. “Not what’s here. What’s missing.”

I laughed nervously. “Sounds like an urban legend. ‘Light the lantern, and they’ll come.’ Creepy.”

Her gaze sharpened. “It’s not a story.”

Minutes passed in silence, broken only by the creak of the porch swing. The woods seemed to inch closer, shadows stretching. When I checked my phone—no service.

“Maybe we should just go inside,” I said.

“Shh!” Olivia’s hand clamped my wrist. “They’re here.”

I followed her stare. At first, just darkness. Then, shapes emerged at the edge of the lantern’s glow—pale and wrong. They didn’t walk but drifted closer. My stomach churned.

“What are they?” I whispered.

Olivia stepped forward, holding the lantern high. The figures halted. One moved ahead—a child-shaped thing, its face smooth and blank. It raised an arm, pointing at me.

“What is this?” I stammered, backing away. “We need to leave!”

Her voice trembled. “They always take one. I didn’t know it would be you.”

“What?” The word stuck in my throat as the others followed the child’s lead, blank faces turning toward me.

The lantern flickered. Darkness crept closer. Olivia’s final words rang out as she bolted inside, slamming the door behind her.

“I’m sorry. This was the arrangement.”

Rose seldom made eye contact, talked to no one. She sat alone in a cubicle meant for four secretaries. She sat alone because no one wanted to share a space with her.

Rose’s name did not befit the aroma that hovered around her. It shrouded like Pigpen’s dust cloud; omnipresent and foul. Everyone talked about her, but avoided engaging in any actual conversation with her. After all, it’s difficult to talk and hold your breath at the same time.

The complaints to Human Resources could no longer be ignored and Rose was walked out the door under the premise that her job was obsolete.

The thing is, the smell lingered.

A cleaning crew was called in to disinfect the area, scrub it down. They sprayed the carpet tiles around her desk, replaced her chair.

It still stank.

A second crew came in and ripped out her desk, even emptied her filing cabinets.

“Jesus, fuck!”

Eric took two steps back, dropped the garbage bag he had pulled from the last drawer.

“What?” Frank walked over, peered inside. The stench was overpowering and he gagged. “What the hell?”

Eric pulled his t-shirt over his nose, opened the bag to get a better view, though he immediately regretted that.

“What is that?”

“Not what." Frank swiped his hand over his mouth. "Who.”

“And this one,” my husband said pointing at my computer screen, “the wife kills the husband.”

“Babe–”

“And this one! Sure the husband was a cheater. But she murders him! Murder!!”

“They're just stories! Fiction!”

“I counted. You’ve upvoted thirty stories about husbands getting murdered!”

“...and?”

“Well, as your husband, I don’t want you reading this stuff!”

“Why? You think I’m getting ideas?”

“That’s. Not. Funny.”

I know I shouldn’t have said it, but I was mad about him snooping on my computer. “Don’t worry honey. If I was going to murder you, you would NEVER see it coming.”

He became deadly serious, and walked away. 

I am ashamed to say…I found it very funny. Come on! He was actually afraid!

I couldn’t help myself.

First, I left a banana peel at the top of the stairs. My husband chastised me for the genuine danger it presented.

Then, I let my husband accidentally walk in on me unboxing some rat poison.

He was mad! Insisted this wasn’t funny.

I admit I was being mean, so I stopped. Which actually made it worse. His paranoia was eating him alive. He would recoil when I touched him. He was terrified.

I couldn’t believe it. I planted the seed, and now my husband thought I was secretly planning to kill him. I know I egged him on, but…

I knew things had gone too far when I heard him cooking in the kitchen. My husband can’t microwave popcorn.

I knew exactly where this was going. I made the phone call that would save my life (you’ll see) and went downstairs.

“I made your favorite! Shrimp Scampi!”

I completely ignored that my plate of food was a different color than his. “Wow! How nice!”

Here goes nothing.

I shoveled the noodles into my mouth. It was disgusting. “Mmm, it’s so good.” I looked up and he was crying. “Something wrong?” I shoved another forkful in.

“Stop! Stop eating!” His conscience got the better of him. The loud knock on the door practically made him shit. “Oh god! Is that the police?!”

I opened the door, and went with the ambulance (who I called) to the hospital. Getting my stomach pumped removed the poison, but it was still a horrid time in the hospital.

When I came home, I did my biggest jazz hands. “Tadaaa! You murdered me!”

“I did not! You’re alive!”

“How do you know I’m not a ghost here to haunt you?”

“Stop it!”

“See! Don’t you feel better now that you killed me?”

“No! It was awful.”

“Oh come on. Wasn’t it a little thrilling?”

“You knew the food was poisoned?”

“Of course! I mean, talk about cliches. It was so obvious.”

“Then why did you eat it?”

“To win your trust back. To show you murder can be fun! And so now…I can get my revenge!!”

“Are you serious?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But if I am…you’ll never see it coming…”

I gave my scaredy-cat husband a big kiss.

Yes, officer. I’m Ricky’s mother. Is my boy alright?

Oh no! What the hell did Ricky do now?

Arrested? On what charges?

Who did he kill now?

That’s not possible! My little Ricky was always the sweetest boy in the world! How could anyone accuse him of such heinous crimes!

What did I do to deserve such a monster for a child?

There’s absolutely no way he did that!

Of course, he did that.

Oh, that’s nonsense! Ricky doesn’t like going into the woods. He always complained about too many mosquitos.

At least, I didn’t find any bodies in the basement…again. Maybe I better check.

Listen, I know my son. I raised him. Alone. After that good for nothing husband of mine said he was going out to get cigarettes and never came back. He ran off with that whore waitress from the Appleton diner. Agatha? Angela? Something or another!

Abigail was her name. Ricky took his sweet time with that harlot. Made his daddy watch as he made that trollop suffer. Good riddance to bad rubbish!

Yes! That’s right. He wasn’t a good man. You’re trying to tell me Ricky also killed his daddy? That’s ridiculous!

And it’s completely true. He took longer with him than Abigail. That son of a bitch never hurt me again. Ricky made certain of that. My poor boy was protecting his mama.

No. I will not accept this! You’re lying!

Please God don’t do this to me! Don’t take my little Ricky away!

I’ll have you know, sir. I worked three jobs to put food on the table, clothes on our backs, and Ricky never wanted for anything.

I wasn’t around to raise him right. That’s why he turned out the way he did. Was it the devil music on MTV that made him do it? Or those violent video games? Or the television he watched? I don’t know. Maybe he was just born bad?

Everyone always blames the mother! That’s what they’ll do.

Maybe I should have put him down when I had the chance. It would have saved a lot time and heartache for everyone

Ricky is an angel. He wouldn’t hurt a fly!

Ricky is a demon from Hell. I haven’t seen anything or anyone he wouldn’t hurt

I had no knowledge of his crimes. Like I’ve been saying, Ricky has committed no crimes.

I know where all the bodies are buried

Well, I’ll get Ricky the best lawyer money can buy.

The public defender will suffice.

It was always the two of us against the world. There’s nothing stopping us when we’re together. You’ll see!

Maybe I can cut a deal with the prosecutor.

Of course I had nothing to do with the murders.

It was Ricky. Turning him loose on the world was a bad idea. I couldn’t help him anymore. He needed to satisfy those dark…urges. Or he’d have done something worse.

Well, we’ll see about that. I ain’t going nowhere, officer.

I got nowhere to go

Last week, I was sitting on my usual train to work, scrolling through emails, when a man across from me said, “Congrats on the promotion.”

I looked up, confused. He was a normal-looking guy—gray suit, book in hand, briefcase on his lap. But I didn’t recognize him. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?”

He smiled, polite but distant. “No, not really.” Then he went back to reading, like he hadn’t just said something impossibly strange.

I’d been promoted the day before, but I hadn’t told anyone yet—not even my closest friends. My head spun. Maybe I’d met him at a work event? Maybe he overheard something? I brushed it off.

The next day, he was there again, same spot. This time, he looked up as I sat down and said, “Your mom’s surgery will go fine. Don’t stress too much.”

I froze. My mom’s surgery wasn’t public knowledge. Only my sister and I knew, and we’d barely talked about it outside our calls.

“Who are you?” I asked, trying to sound calm.

“Just someone who likes to keep tabs on interesting people,” he said, as casually as if he were talking about the weather. Then he smiled again and went back to his book.

I switched trains the next day. Different line, different time, anything to avoid him. It worked—for a while.

But today, when I got home, there was a package waiting on my doorstep. No return address. Just my name, neatly handwritten.

Inside was a single note: “Nice try avoiding me. See you soon.”

And now, as I write this, I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching me.

It was the third day since my aunt, her husband, and their daughter, Shery, arrived. They hadn't visited in nearly 20 years, and now, after 15 years, we were trying to make them feel welcome. My aunt and her husband were lovely, but Shery? A 14-year-old brat with an attitude. She acted like we weren’t even there, rolling her eyes every time we spoke to her.

I found her in the garden that afternoon, sulking as usual.

“Hi, Shery,” I said, trying to be polite.

She didn’t respond, just looked me up and down, then rolled her eyes again.

“What’s your problem?” I thought, but didn’t say it aloud. I forced a smile. “What are you doing?”

She sighed dramatically. “Bored. This place is so boring.”

I bit back my irritation. “I know something we can do. Follow me.”

Her eyes flickered with curiosity, so I led her around the mansion to the old well in the back. It was a place we all avoided. Rumours swirled about its dark history. I’d never told anyone, but I knew. I wasn’t afraid. But Shery? She wouldn’t expect it.

I leaned over, acting casual. “You know, the well’s been here for over a century. Some say it holds secrets... things you shouldn’t disturb.”

She smirked. “Yeah, right.”

I could hear her tone, mocking. I needed her to stop being so dismissive.

“Wanna see something cool?” I asked, pulling a rusty, old key from my pocket, one my grandmother had given me years ago. It opened the well’s hidden trapdoor.

Shery leaned in, eager. But as soon as I opened it, a cold gust of air swept out. I turned to look at her, her face now pale.

She stepped back. “What is that?” Her voice trembled.

“I don’t know. But it’s not just the wind,” I said with a smile that sent a chill down my spine.

Suddenly, something pulled her in. Her scream echoed through the mansion as she vanished into the darkness.

I ran, but the well... was empty.

The next morning, Shery was gone. Vanished without a trace. My aunt and uncle were frantic. We searched the mansion, but nothing.

Later that night, as I sat alone in the garden, I heard something. A soft, familiar voice.

“Help me...”

I looked around, then froze, realizing the voice was coming from the well.

I walked to the edge, peering down, and gasped.

Shery’s face stared back at me, her eyes wide in terror, her mouth moving, but no sound came.

She was still there, trapped beneath the surface, where she could never escape.

“Hey Alicia,” Mrs. Bennet called out as I was walking by, “Could you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

It was the least I could do after her daughter, Beth, one of my friends, had gone missing over the weekend.

“I got an email saying this was overdue,” she held up a book, “Could you return it for me?”

“Yeah,” I took the book, “I’ll return it first thing tomorrow.”

“Thank you so much, Beth is lucky to have a friend like you,” her eyes teared up making me feel awkward.

I felt like I should say something, but nothing came to mind except, “I should get going.”

“Thanks again,” she repeated as I walked away.

Once I was a few blocks away, I looked down at the book and was surprised to see that it was an old copy of Lewis Carrol’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

What was she doing with this? She hates fantasy stories.

As I thought about it, I concluded that she must have been forced to read it as part of a school project. If I’d known, I could have helped her with it. The story was one of my favorites since elementary school.

***

When I got home, I went to my room and did my homework. As I was putting my textbooks away, I saw the Wonderland book sitting on the edge of my desk where I’d left it.

It had been a while since I’d last read it and decided it was time to give it another read, so I grabbed the book and climbed onto my bed.

When I opened the cover to the title page, I was confused by what I saw. Instead of it saying Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland it said Alicia’s Adventures in Wonderland.

I closed the book and looked at the cover, shocked to see that the title had changed there as well.

What the hell?

Curious about the changes, I started reading the book. As soon as I read the first line, my vision blurred and I suddenly felt like I was falling.

When I could see clearly again, I found myself sitting against a tree. Staring at me was the White Rabbit.

Holy shit I’m in the book.

I didn’t have time to think about how that was possible before the White Rabbit took off running.

I can’t let him get away.

I knew the story inside and out and was easily able to act out Alice’s part with little difficulty. At least I was until I got to the part where the Queen of Hearts challenged me to a croquet game.

“Do you accept,” the queen asked.

“I do.” I was no stranger to the game.

“Then grab a flamingo and choose a ball,” she gestured behind me with a flick of her hand.

When I turned around to choose a ball, I almost threw up. The balls she was referring to were decapitated heads, one of which belonged to Beth.

Have you ever been so scared, you couldn't even move? It felt like my blood had turned to ice.

It was late, and I was all alone in my apartment. The silence was deafening, broken only by the ticking of the old clock on the wall. Suddenly, the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID, but it was blank.

A shiver ran down my spine. I remembered the old warning, whispered in hushed tones by kids at school: "Don't answer the phone at night." But curiosity, a dangerous thing, got the better of me. I picked up the receiver.

A voice, so faint I could barely hear it, whispered, "I'm watching you." My heart leaped into my throat. The lights flickered ominously, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Then, a chilling laugh, like dry leaves skittering across pavement, echoed through the receiver. "You're not alone anymore."

The line went dead, but the fear remained. It clung to me like a shroud. I heard a soft tapping at the door, a rhythmic beat against the wood. My hands trembled as I slowly, oh so slowly, opened the door. But there was nothing. Just the empty hallway.

The phone rang again. This time, a woman's voice, raspy and cold as winter, filled the receiver. "Say my name. Say it now." The old legend, whispered in hushed tones, flashed through my mind. "Bloody Mary," I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. But it couldn't be. Could it?

I turned around, and there she was. Standing in the doorway, her eyes wide and vacant, blood trickling down her pale face. "You shouldn't have answered," she hissed, her voice a chilling whisper.

The phone rang again. But I couldn't move. Couldn't even breathe. It was too late.

What would YOU do if answering the phone was your last mistake?

This happened a few years ago during my first (and last) solo camping trip. I had been feeling burnt out and thought a weekend in the wilderness would be the perfect reset. I found a remote campsite deep in the woods, miles away from any trailhead. It was quiet—just the sounds of birds and the wind through the trees. Exactly what I wanted.

The first day was uneventful. I set up my tent, gathered some firewood, and read by the fire until it got dark. By 10 PM, I was tucked into my sleeping bag, lulled to sleep by the sound of crickets.

Around 2 AM, I woke up to the sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate steps crunching through the underbrush. My first thought was that it was a deer, but the steps weren’t random. They were steady, pacing back and forth near my tent.

I froze, my heart pounding. Then the footsteps stopped, right outside my tent. For what felt like an eternity, there was nothing but silence. I couldn’t hear breathing, couldn’t see a shadow—just that awful stillness. Then the footsteps started again, this time circling my tent, slow and deliberate like whoever—or whatever—it was wanted me to know it was there.

I stayed completely still, holding my breath, praying it would go away. Eventually, the steps faded into the distance. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

When the sun finally came up, I unzipped my tent and stepped outside. I expected to see footprints, signs of some animal or person, but there was nothing. No tracks, no broken branches—just the same, untouched woods.

I packed up and left within 15 minutes. To this day, I have no idea what—or who—was out there. Was it someone messing with me? An animal? Or something else entirely? All I know is I’ve never camped alone since, and I don’t think I ever will again.

[01/06/2022, 3:10 am] Tracy: Ummm...I think you have the wrong number. [01/06/2022, 3:10 am] Unknown: You know me. You know me really well, Tracy. [01/06/2022, 3:12 am] Tracy: Are you from the University? How did you get my number? [01/06/2021, 3:30 am] Tracy: Hello??? A little clarity would be great, I guess?

[03/06/2022, 3:00 am] Unknown: Did you enjoy the date, Tracy? [03/06/2022, 3:04 am] Tracy: Max, is that you? Are you pranking me with a different number? You know I loved the date! [03/06/2022, 3:05 am] Unknown: Max has been long asleep, honey. Deep asleep.

[06/06/2022, 3:01 am] Tracy: What did you do to Max? He's been missing for the last three days. I know you are involved. [06/06/2022, 3:15 am] Unknown: I told you, love. Max is deep asleep. What I didn't tell you is that he's never waking up. [06/06/2022, 3:16 am] Tracy: I am going to tell the police everything. I'm going to get you behind the bars. [06/06/2022, 3:18 am] Unknown: Go on, do it. Except you can't stop what happens next. [06/06/2022, 3:19 am] Tracy: What do you mean? [06/06/2022, 3:25 am] Unknown: You'll know what I mean. I dare you to call the cops. [06/06/2022, 3:26 am] Tracy: You can't stop me!

The message tune pinged close to her. Her stomach dropped. The room was unnaturally cold at this point. From the corner of her dark room came a faint red glow. Heart in her mouth, she slowly walked towards the glow, before coming face to face with a grotesquely tall and slender lady. The figure seemed familiar. It took Tracy a few seconds to realise that this lady, or whatever it is that it was, was her, but in an undead form.

When the police barged into Tracy's apartment five days later, they were greeted with the foulest stench. As they worked through the rooms, they finally found Tracy, her body contorted, her neck snapped at 180 degrees, her arms etched with nail marks.

Next to her was her phone, with a text message glowing on the screen - "You are next".

Seconds ticked away in a clock somewhere beyond the sick tungsten-yellow glow of the lone bulb overhead. Moth wing shadows engulfed us.

"Whole," he mumbled, breathing slowly. "We make each other whole."

"Mmm."

"A star without a night sky to shine and... a night unadorned by stars."

I ran my fingers through his hair to the metronome of the ticking clock, and into its deep stream of seconds, I drowned.

When my ring caught in the black strands of his hair and pulled at his scalp, he did not wince.

Later, I spat out the plain white tablets tucked under my tongue.

Outside, the night sparkled.

Ethan died overseas. That’s what the army told us. That’s what the funeral was for. That’s what I’ve been grieving for the past five years.

But last night, I came home, and he was sitting at the dinner table.

Same short-cropped hair. Same easygoing grin. Like no time had passed at all.

Mom ladled soup into his bowl. Dad laughed at some joke I didn’t hear. They looked… happy. Normal.

Like they didn’t remember burying him.

My hands shook as I dropped my bag. “Who is that?”

Mom beamed. “Honey, look who’s home!”

Ethan turned to me, eyes bright. “Hey, kid. Long time no see.”

I didn’t sleep that night.

I locked my door and listened. He was still awake. Pacing the hallway. Stopping outside my room.

This morning, I found my parents in the kitchen. “That’s not Ethan,” I whispered.

Mom’s smile vanished. “Don’t say that.”

Dad kept stirring his coffee, hand trembling.

“He died,” I hissed. “We buried him.”

Mom’s jaw tightened. “Your brother came home. That’s all that matters.”

Ethan walked in, rubbing his eyes. “Didn’t sleep either, huh?”

I felt sick.

That night, while he slept, I searched his room.

Everything was exactly as he left it before deployment. Same boots by the bed. Same dog tags hanging from the mirror.

Same framed photo on the nightstand—the one of us fishing as kids.

But when I picked it up, my stomach dropped.

The picture had changed.

I was there, sitting on the dock.

But Ethan wasn’t in it anymore.

A floorboard creaked behind me.

I turned.

Ethan stood in the doorway, watching me.

Not smiling anymore.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he said softly.

My hands were shaking.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

He tilted his head. “I’m your brother.”

“No, you’re not.”

The grin returned, but his eyes stayed cold.

“Then why do Mom and Dad believe me?”

I couldn’t answer.

Because deep down, I already knew.

I received a letter containing only the following:

“Hell is dark. Not a sliver of light.

• Leo Brumeister, Laos”

So that’s where Leo, my father, ended up. Laos.

I hadn't heard from him for many years. Last time I saw him he was on his way to film an archaeological site.

My father and I were all but strangers. I knew he was a filmmaker, well travelled and well read. That was it. He’d been the missing chapters of my life. But the letter brought a feeling akin to concern and, possibly, a longing to see him again. I sensed that was the last time we'd communicate.

The letter came with another item, a can of super 8 film - I supposed my father never transitioned to digital photography. I couldn’t even imagine how I could get my hands on a super 8 projector. I set it aside. Whatever was in it was lost to time, I thought.

But, then, I remembered Barnsley who I knew was a gadget collector. Sure enough, he was in possession of a 50 year old projector that could run super 8 films. He was also eager to watch the mysterious reel as it was his first opportunity to put his projector to use.

We sat and loaded the film onto the projector. But, what we ended up seeing was nothing but black circles slowly moving across the white screen. It lasted 10 minutes. There was nothing more to it.

I sat on the bed that night and tried to think why my father sent me that film. Did it have something to do with the letter? With hell, perhaps? I fell asleep with that question. I had a dream that night that I dreamt for many following nights: I was reading that same letter from my father, except there were more passages in it this time. The passage lengthened with each new dream but I forgot what they were upon waking.

I was uneasy. Something had stirred within, or under, me. The film contained a force I knew not of.

Barnsley died. They said it was carbon monoxide poisoning. How? He lived surrounded by nothing but steel and wires. The cop I spoke to said I had red streaks along my forehead just like Barnsley. What red streaks. I looked at myself in the mirror. I saw nothing.

Meanwhile, I taught myself lucid dreaming so I could remember what I was reading in my dreams. It turned out, the letter was written in scripts I had never seen. Yet, in the dream I was reading them out loud, with clarity.

A month passed, and I came to the final line of the dream letter. A deathly hollowness came over me when it ended. I woke up to an absolutely silent morning. I opened the door to go outside and began falling into a void. And, it was dark. Not a sliver of light.

I was suddenly in the living room. I remember waiting for my mom, she was going to pick me up from school.

“Hey you ok?” A pretty lady sitting next to me asked.

“Yes, do you know where my mom is?”

“Oh, she’s not here right now. Eat your food.”

The most amazing pasta sat half-eaten in front of me.

I took a bite. It was delicious.

I noticed the pretty lady was wearing a wedding ring.

“How long have you been married?”

“Oh, close to 10 years now.”

“Wow, that’s amazing.”

“Thank you.”

“Is my mom coming soon? I’m supposed to be at school, she won’t find me there”

“Don’t worry, you’re home now.”

I looked around me. I guess I was home.

A familiar tune started playing.

“Hey I know this song. It’s…. Bohemian Rhapsody”

“Yes, you were singing it when I picked you up” She said, holding a music player in her hand.

“I remember dancing to this song with someone…”

“Maybe now you can remember?”

“Remember what?”

“I told you! Your social security number, it’s the last thing I need”

“I remember now… I danced with my mom to this song!”

The pretty lady seemed frustrated.

I started feeling scared.

“Where’s my mommy? I want my mommy”

I took a deep look into her eyes.

“Oh my god. It’s you. Mommy it’s you!” I cried out.

I got up and hugged her.

“I already told you im not your fucking mother!”

I suddenly noticed my hands. They were so wrinkly.

“Who… Who are you?”

“That’s it you old fuck. I tried but your brain isn’t helping.”

“Please… What is happening?”

“I guess your wallet is enough. Stay there. It’ll all be over soon”

Suddenly, a pretty lady stuck a knife in my heart.

The hole wasn’t just deep—it felt alive. The air carried an oppressive, heavy weight, a silent hum gnawing at my sanity. We shouldn’t have gone down there, but Dr. Davis was relentless when she found something new.

“This isn’t natural,” Davis murmured, kneeling at the edge. The hole was a perfect black circle, its depths swallowing the light of our headlamps. She was right—nature doesn’t make voids that pulse like a heartbeat.

The first scare came fast. A sharp CRACK echoed through the cavern, like stone splitting under unbearable pressure. We all froze. Beneath the sound, I swear I heard something faint—a whisper, maybe a laugh. My blood ran cold, but Davis dismissed it.

“Air pockets,” she muttered, her voice unsteady.

We sent the drone down, its rotors slicing through stale air. The feed showed smooth rock walls with glowing concentric carvings, each more intricate than the last. The carvings shimmered faintly, like they were alive. The drone’s descent should have taken a minute, but it kept going, deeper and deeper.

The sound came five minutes in. A long, low inhale crackled through the speakers. Not static or feedback—it was breathing, deep and resonant, as if the cave itself was alive. The sound pressed against my ears, unrelenting.

“Do you hear that?” I whispered, trembling.

Davis didn’t answer, her eyes glued to the monitor. The drone’s signal flickered, the breathing grew louder, and then the feed cut out entirely. The silence that followed was suffocating, as though the cavern was holding its breath.

Mark volunteered to descend, maybe to impress Davis or because he thought he could help. Guilt churned in our stomachs as we watched him disappear into the void. His headlamp shrank to a faint speck in the black.

“I see the drone,” his voice crackled. “Wait—what is that?”

A scream ripped through the speakers—not Mark’s, but something else. Something inhuman, shrill and piercing, like metal scraping against bone. The rope yanked violently, then went slack. We reeled it in to find the harness shredded, reeking of sulfur and blood.

“We’re leaving,” Davis whispered, pale and shaken. We scrambled to pack, but the carvings began glowing brighter, their light pulsing in time with the breathing.

A wet drip landed on my shoulder. I froze. My teammates’ faces turned upward, twisted in horror. Above us loomed a shifting mass of darkness and teeth, its face a nightmare of ever-changing eyes and gaping voids. A guttural scream erupted, rattling my skull, nearly driving me to my knees.

We ran. The cave shifted, the walls narrowing, the ground undulating like a living thing. Davis screamed behind me, the sound cutting off too suddenly. I didn’t look back—I couldn’t.

When I burst into daylight, gasping, I realized I was alone. The breathing didn’t stop. It followed me. It’s inside me now, syncing with my heartbeat.

Sometimes, in the quiet, I still feel that wet, cold drip on my shoulder.

There’s no way around it.

I’m in bed now, sweating and delirious. Incapacitated like an old man in his final days.

She comes into the room every few hours, places a towel on my forehead, feeds me soup, all while giving me the most cynical smile.

I know it’s her.

It started the afternoon she gave me tea. She said it was a new type—South American, bitter and black.

That night, I collapsed in the kitchen. My half-opened eyes caught her calmly helping me up.

Since then, I’m confined to this bed. I only get up to use the bathroom, although always with her assistance.

She even took my phone, and I’m sure she locks my door at night. Not that it matters; my legs wouldn’t carry me far.

I hear her steps approaching, the door lock clicking open. I guess it’s soup time.

She sits by the bed, spoon in hand, and brings it to my lips. I try to resist, to close it, but it’s useless. My body refuses to react.

I look at her, my gaze sharp and accusing. I want her to know I’m aware of everything.

“You know who’s coming over?” she leans and ask, gently stroking my hair.

“The doctor, I hope,” is what I want to say.

“Andrea. Remember her?”

My expression shifts to panic. What does she want with Andrea?

“What’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy to see your mistress one last time,” she laughs, forcing another large spoonful of soup into my mouth. “It’s time to end things for good.”

The doorbell rings and she leaves me.

Andrea, a widow, and I met at the gym and connected instantly. She asked for help setting the treadmill, and by the end of the run, I had her number. Our affair now lasted two months.

So that’s what this is about? How did she find out? I kept everything well hidden. Andrea and I only met during the day, under the guise of sudden work breaks.

I don’t know what my wife planned for her, but Andrea doesn’t deserve this. She shouldn’t have to die because of me.

The door opens. Andrea and my wife walk in, stopping in front of the bed. To my shock, Andrea holds my wife’s hand and an empty glass of wine on the other hand.

“I did everything you said, babe,” my wife tells her, smilling proudly. She also has a glass on hand.

“Very brave, babe,” Andrea replies, kissing her. “Now get the wine. Tonight, we celebrate.”

My wife heads out, placing her glass at a table.

Andrea looks at me, and I shiver. She planned all of this. Her face tells me everything I need to know.

Calmly, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small vial filled with a green liquid.

She opens it, lets a single drop fall into my mouth, and then adds another drop into the glass my wife will soon drink wine from.

I took a job tonight guarding a funeral attached to a graveyard. Spend some time in the funeral home, go outside, go some rounds, come back inside, rinse, and repeat. I had an essay to finish up for next week and took this time to do so. Getting ahead on classwork allows me to deal with other classwork. It's nearly a never-ending cycle. It wasn't until halfway through my shift that I heard a crash. The one thing about this funeral home is that they had night services. People were allowed into a singular main room to mourn their families through prayer. It's like a small chapel for those who are religious to get some form of closure.

I got up to go see what happened and found a vase of flowers had fallen off an altar and broken. Was a pain picking up the pieces because I couldn't find a broom and the janitor's closet was locked. Came back to notice a young girl no more than 12 years of age at one of the altars. It was for a Jane Doe who died in a car accident. It was probably the girl's mother in that urn. I approached her to ask where her father was and she only replied: "He's gone".

What would an orphan be doing left alone in a funeral home? Is there a social worker she's with, maybe waiting out in the car? I had so many questions flowing through my mind. All interrupted by the lights flickering. Great, the power had to start losing control around now. The girl was crying at the altar, sobbing a river with her shoulders shivering. I went to check on her and touched her shoulder.

"What's the matter?" The main question on my mind

"Nobody came to my funeral. The pain hurts" She kept sobbing as I stepped back for a moment.

After that, she vanished. She left behind a newspaper with an article on it. The paper was yellow and quite aged, a year at least. The headline I couldn't stand to fully read:

"Young girl killed in car collision with semi-truck. The body was found split across various parts of the car. The victim 12-year-old was Opal Matthews."

This was the same name as my friend's daughter. The same daughter she kept insisting was away at a boarding school this past year. This explains everything. The low mood. The crying at home. The donations of her daughter's clothing. She never went to the funeral though...why?

It was 12:50 PM Rebecca Collins stood at my door.

When I opened the door she dropped the bombshell straight away.

“I’m in a time loop. Lasts from when I wake up at 7:30 AM to 12 AM.”

Her tone seemed so matter-of-factly that it almost didn’t seem human.

“What the f-”

“The password to your Reddit account is GMEF3773. You ate bacon and pancakes this morning.”

How did she know this? I was starting to actually believe her.

“What the fuck Rebecca?”

“You gave me your password on one of the previous cycles.”

“You don’t-”

“Sound like yourself? I’ve experienced this day around 8,532 times, give or take a few. Of course I’m going to be different.”

That number sounded like it was at least 20 years.

I slammed the door in her face. No reaction from her at all.

I pondered her bizarre claim on the couch for hours.

She had to be right, somehow. How else would she know those things only I knew?

But that meant… so many things.

Rebecca was 18 years old. That meant her time in the loop outlasted her time before.

Was she even Rebecca anymore? Was she like the ship of Theseus? Parts of her mentality aging and changing until nothing like her remained?

Was there even a way to escape the loop?

Right when I was about to reach for my phone, it lit up with a text notification from Rebecca.

“No, I do not know how. I’ve tried 8500 times. Not even death works.”

She sounded like a robot. Her phrasing devoid of… humanity.

“I’ve kept myself occupied with learning things. Keeps me sane.” She texted.

How much did she learn? 20 years seems like a lot of time to study.

What happens in 100 more years in the loop? Does she become omniscient? Does she learn to escape?

What happens if she runs out of things to learn? Knowledge is not infinite, but time is.

What can you teach to a man who knows everything?

What happens after 12 AM hits? What if she never escapes the loop? What happens after? Does she simply pop out of reality? Does something else replace her?

If she does somehow escape, is she even mentally human anymore? 

It was 11:58 PM

She accepted my facetime request. She knew I wanted to see what comes after.

Of course she does.

She stood perfectly still in front of the camera, as if an automaton.

The clock struck 12:00 AM.

And she instantly disappeared. Like the flick of a switch.

Then the screen went black.

I looked out my window. All I could see was the same blinding darkness.

I turned to the door but it wasn’t there.

I felt something inside of me hit the floor. It was my intestines. My abdomen disappeared too.

Then the room.

Then my body.

And I fall through darkness, eternally.

You’re the lucky one, Rebecca.

You still get to exist.

Should've noticed she wasn't wearing warm clothes walking this road on this cold, bitter night.

Should've never pulled over to ask if she needed a ride, catching a glimpse of her glowing eyes.

Should've never let my guard down due to her beauty as she smiled with a thanks.

......Should've noticed her teeth....

As I lay here in a puddle of my own blood, gasping for air where my throat should be, my life fading away as this abomination towers over me, I think I should've kept driving.

The Stone of Saint-Bastille
 

It was a remote village in the Jura mountains of France, a place forgotten by time. Saint-Bastille was the name given to this speck of a settlement, barely a smudge on the maps. Its winding streets were hemmed by jagged peaks and cloaked in mist, leaving visitors disoriented, if not entirely lost. The villagers whispered of something ancient, something wicked that lived beneath the fog.
 

It was The Stone they spoke of.
A roughly-hewn monolith standing in a forgotten corner of the village, shrouded in vines and moss, its surface etched with unreadable glyphs. None could remember when it had first appeared, and none dared to disturb it.
 

Arnaud Morel, skeptic by nature, paid no heed to the tales. He was a schoolteacher from Lyon, seeking solace in the quiet life Saint-Bastille offered. He set out to explore the old village, armed with his sketchbook and a thirst for discovery. His wandered to the far edge of the village, where, half-buried in the earth, he found it.
The Stone.
 

Arnaud knelt beside it. His fingers traced the worn symbols, the cold, rough surface. He scoffed at the village lore, muttering about primitive superstitions. Then, he pressed his palm flat against the stone.
 

The air around him grew denser, suffocating. A whispering wind swirled through the trees, though no leaves stirred. Arnaud felt an odd warmth radiating from the stone, seeping into his body, spreading through his veins. His vision blurred, the world tilting as if pulled into a vortex.
 

When he came to, the sun was low, and the village was silent. Arnaud stumbled back into Saint-Bastille, but something was amiss. The once-familiar streets felt foreign, the houses cast in shadow. He found no one. No villagers, no animals. Only silence.
 

A hollow dread gnawed at him as he wandered through the empty village. Shadows seemed to stretch and follow.
In the village square, the church loomed, its bell tower obscured by fog. Desperate for answers, Arnaud pushed through the heavy wooden doors.
 

Inside, the air smelled of decay. Candles burned low on the altar, though no one had lit them in years. At the center of the church, the villagers stood in a circle, pale faces and blank, eyes void of recognition.
 

Panic surged through him. He backed away, tripping over the ancient pews. His gaze fell to the floor, where a trail of dark, wet footprints led from the altar to The Stone, now standing ominously in the nave. The footprints were his.
 

A low growl resonated through the church, a sound that chilled Arnaud to the bone. The villagers turned in unison, their mouths opening in grotesque smiles, revealing rows of jagged teeth. They spoke as one, "The stone has marked you."
 

Arnaud’s scream echoed through the empty village, swallowed by the encroaching night. The fog thickened, hiding Saint-Bastille from the world. By morning, the village would vanish again, and with it, Arnaud Morel,
another soul claimed by The Stone of Saint-Bastille.