Dr. Creepen's Dungeon

S4 Ep176: Episode 176: Scary Stories to Keep You Up at Night

‘Certain scary things keep us awake at night because they trigger our primal fear responses, heightening our senses and making it difficult to relax. The darkness and quiet of night amplify our anxieties, allowing our imagination to run wild with thoughts of the unknown and unseen dangers. Additionally, horror stories or unsettling experiences tap into deep-seated fears and memories, replaying them in our minds and preventing us from feeling safe. This heightened state of alertness, driven by our instinct to stay vigilant against potential threats, makes falling asleep a challenge…’

Duration:: 2h 26m
Broadcast on:: 18 Jul 2024
Audio Format:: mp3

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That's renterswearhouse.com or call 303-974-9444 to speak to a rent estate advisor today. Welcome to Dr. Creepens Dungeon. Certain scary things keep us awake at night because they trigger our primal fear responses, heightening our senses and making it difficult to relax. The darkness and quiet of night amplify our anxieties, allowing our imagination to run wild with thoughts of the unknown and unseen dangers. Traditionally unsettling experiences tap into deep-seated fears and memories, replaying them in our minds and preventing us from feeling safe. This heightened sense of alertness driven by our instinct to stay vigilant against potential threats makes falling asleep a challenge. As we shall see in tonight's collection of short stories. Now, as ever, before we begin a word of caution, tonight's tales may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing, and let's begin. I work in a mall. I can't explain what I saw the Christmas of 2003. The town of Christian Springs was big enough to justify having its own cold storage but far too small to make proper use of it. On average I'd end up seeing about five bodies a month, most of them overdoses from the smaller towns nearby. My work at the morgue was quick and impersonal. No one that I could recognise ever ended up on my table, and the toxicology reports always came back with a clear cut cause of death, usually something in the realm of opioids. What I saw in that fluorescent-lit room always stayed where it belonged. My work life and my family life were always two separate things. That all changed during the Christmas season of 2003. Two local bodies were brought in within 24 hours of each other, neither of them were like anything I'd ever seen. The first body belonged to Chelsea Stiehler, a local first grader. After school let out for winter break, Stiehler walked off at premises only to return a couple of minutes later. Starting from her mouth, Stiehler stumbled through the school's playground. Bag for help then collapsed. She was pronounced dead as soon as emergency services arrived. The second body I recognised, Christine Morgan. Morgan was someone that most people in the Christian Springs community would recognise. She was the crazy religious lady. As the name of the town might imply, we had a fair share of Bible thumpers in town, but Morgan's breed of spirituality was considerably more aggressive than anything you could find being peddled by the televangelists the locals watched. Both of the cinemas in Christian Springs banned the woman from their premises on account of her interrupting screenings of even the most milked toast of movies with her raving sermons. When the local museum set up a dinosaur exhibit, Morgan was banned from there too. To her, dinosaur burns with a work of Satan created to lead true believers astray. As Christine Morgan's daughter, seven-year-old Grace Morgan, who discovered the body. When I first heard this bit of information, I found myself pitying the child. The ruminations about Grace Morgan's wellbeing were soon whisked away by what I discovered during the autopsies. If the body is exhibited internal damage, the likes of which I'd never seen or read about before. Their stomach lining was shredded to bits. Chunks of their livers were found inside their esophagus. Every internal organ that was still intact showed signs of extreme scarring. It was as if something had torn them up from the inside. The cause of death was a complete mystery. Aside from a shared geographical location, the two women had nothing in common. Yet the severity of their injuries was almost identical. It was as if someone had planted bombs inside of them and sent tiny bits of shrapnel flying through their organs. Yet there was no shrapnel to be found. There was no clear trace of the instrument that had killed these women. On closer observation, however, I found something else that connected the two bodies. In the confounding mess of viscera, I found something that made their cause of death seem quaint by comparison. Even though they were bloodied and covered in loose chunks of flesh and membrane, I immediately knew what I was holding in my hands. I was holding two tiny gingerbread men. They were small, both fitting into the palm of my glove, but they still inspired fear. Unlike the big-eyed smiling gingerbread men that were sold in the local bakeries, the creations I held in my hand had tiny slits for eyes, and their mouths were stretched into long, harrowed screams that descended well into their torsons. The baked goods I held in my hand were the product of a disturbed mind. Well, I called just about everyone I went to school with. From the few colleagues that picked up I couldn't find anyone who was willing to drive over and take a look at my findings. Everyone was either far too busy dealing with the personal aspects of the holiday season, or was swamped with the suicide spike that Christmas brings. Even past their business, no one believed me. When I described the two foreign objects I'd found lodged in the bodies, a couple of my old classmates even inquired whether I was sober. Not being able to find any explanation through my informal channels. I called my boss on the county level. Well, his annoyance with my phone call was crystal clear. The town of Christian Springs was not on his radar and, in his opinion, mysteries that weren't directly connected to the criminal investigations were better left unexplored. After a long back and forth, he agreed to drive down and investigate the gingerbread men as soon as his schedule cleared up. He suggested that I shouldn't go into details on my reports if I didn't want to undergo a psychological evaluation. I filled out the report as best I could, but the cause of death still ended up as unknown. After a couple more phone calls to old colleagues who didn't pick up the first time around, I gave up. The mystery of the gingerbread man would have to wait until after the holidays. I placed the cookie creatures face down in a glass jar, put on my coat and drove back home. My wife didn't like me talking about work at home. In fact, she didn't like me talking about work at all. Whenever the question of what I did for a living came up at dinner parties, she quickly say I worked with the police or call me a doctor, and then quickly changed the topic. When I came home that evening I didn't mention anything about the gingerbread man, but all night long, those slitted eyes haunted me. I dreamed of my son walking into our bedroom in the middle of the night, clutching his stomach. I dreamed of my wife getting up to comfort him, but soon keeling over in pain as well. I dreamed of my family lying on those metal slabs, of me cutting their chests open, finding nothing but pink mush where their organs should be. When I woke up that morning I was so for joy to find my wife sleeping next to me, unharmed by the baked monstrosities that tore through my sleep, but the joy didn't last long. My family might have been alive, but those two gingerbread men were still real. They were still waiting for me in the examination room. During breakfast my son excitedly told me about his last day of school. I knew he went on a field trip to the museum. I'd signed the permission slip for it after all, but all my son could talk about was the gingerbread man his class had made in the morning. I kept on trying to ask him what his favourite dinosaur exhibit was, but all my son could talk about was his newfound interest in baking. The house phone rang, my wife picked it up. Whatever was being said on the other line made her visibly uncomfortable. When she came back to the table she simply resumed eating. It wasn't until my son went outside to play with his friends that she told me that the school had called. One of my son's classmates had suddenly died. The teachers were calling their parents to let them know. She elsey stealer, I asked. She immediately noticed the beginning of a conversation she didn't want to have. Let's not tell him until after Christmas, let him be a kid for a little longer. I didn't argue, I didn't share the details of what I'd found inside of stealer's body. Instead I told my wife that there was some last-minute paperwork I had to take care of in the examination room before I fully clocked out for the holidays, and it wasn't entirely a lie. And it spent some time going through the autopsy report making sure it didn't sound completely mad, but it wasn't the reason I drove back to work that day, my real reasons were lying face down in a glass jar. Yet when I took the jar out, the gingerbread men weren't lying down, they were pressed up against the glass, facing the outside world. There was no doubt in my mind that the creatures had shifted, but they somehow stood up in my absence and were looking out into the world with their slitted eyes. For a moment I stood there, confounded by the blood-covered baked goods staring back at me. Yet the longer I stood in the empty examination room, the more I thought about my family. On the corpses, beyond the ripped up muscle and flesh, I had a family. Back home my wife and son were waiting for me. I closed the cupboard and held the gingerbread men, shut off the lights and drove back home. It was difficult to keep the mouth on creatures out of my head on the drive back. The mysteries of my professional life dissipated beneath the sheer pleasure of spending time with my family. To lunch the three of us went outside to build a snowman. Two big eyes with Christmas ornaments, a thick carrot nose in a wide grin of coal. The creature that my son had constructed wiped away any memory of the harrowing gingerbread men in the examination. Once the snowmen in our front yard had been completed and the sun had sat, the three of us settled down on the couch and watched a Christmas movie. I scarcely paid any attention to what was on the TV. Whatever was on the screen was irrelevant, just a bright backdrop to a calm evening spent with lows I loved. I wasn't until my wife and I were falling asleep that I thought about my work again. Just as she drifted off to sleep, she mentioned that she'd have a talk with our son about bullying. While I was off finishing my paperwork, my son told my wife about one of his classmates tormenting the daughter of the weird religious lady. Apparently the bully had taken the girl's gingerbread man and ate it in front of the whole class, embarrassing the poor kid. "Christine Morgan's door," I asked. "Probably," my wife said, yawning. "Was the bully Chelsea Stealer?" I asked. "I don't know. He didn't use names," she said, yawning again. "We should talk to him about standing up for the weaker kids." At a moment I thought about breaking the unspoken rules of my marriage and telling my wife about the two corpses in the examination room, but that moment went dragged on for too long. For the time I started to whisper my worries, she was already asleep. My mind was still desperately trying to make connections between the two bodies and their gruesome deaths, but I forced my eyes shut and tried to get some rest. I hope that some sleep would help me forget about the gingerbread man. It didn't. I woke up drenched in sweat with my heart and racing. In my dreams I saw my family sitting in the kitchen making gingerbread men. My wife and son seemed so happy, so full of life, so innocent. Yet the cookies that they made shared none of their joy. Slitted eyes and moors of crimson stare back at me from the kitchen table. Slitted eyes that blinked and moors that chumped before I could warn them before I could save my family, the gingerbread man leapt into action. Soon enough my wife and son were gone and all that remained of them was blood and mangled skin. Seeing the kitchen clean and free of death brought a tiny bit of calmness to my mind, but I knew that what I truly needed was sleep. With a generous helping of sleeping pills and a nightcap, I returned back to bed. At first the thoughts of Morgan and Steeler tucked at my mind, but soon enough I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. I woke up to an empty bed that morning. For a moment, past the chemically induced grogginess of my slumber, I found myself worrying about my family being kidnapped by a group of possessed gingerbread men, walking down to the kitchen and finding my wife and son safe and sound, carved me somewhat, but the calmness didn't last. They were a baking gingerbread man. Their creations were unlike the ones I'd seen in my dreams. The kicky man they made were cheery and happy and full of pep, but that didn't matter to me. All I could think about were those slitted eyes and screaming moors. All I could think about were the two gingerbread men standing in my office, waiting. They invited me to join in on the baking, but I busied myself with beer and television. I hoped that alcohol and channel hopping would distract me, yet all I could think about were the bodies. Regardless of how much I drank or how loud the Christmas music blaring from the television was, all I could think about was Morgan, Steeler, and the cookie men that were lodged in their broken corpses. My mind kept on trying to find some semblance of reason in a bewildering world. Daddy, the major something. My son's voice cut through the frenzied internal monologue. In his hands he had a little gingerbread man with a bushy moustache and glasses. The facial hair was made of green frosting, and the glasses were far too big for the man's face, but I could tell that the gingerbread man was meant to be a representation of me. "Do you go to school with Grace Morgan?" I asked him. He seemed confused by the question, but eventually he nodded. The Grace ever talked about her mother. "Did they get along?" I asked him. "Gracie's mom was mean," my son said. When the class went to the museum, Grace's mom was standing outside yelling at us. "Did Grace ever talk about her mother? You think Grace would ever want a herder? Will Grace ever want to hurt Chelsea, Steeler?" "Well, Grace's mom didn't let her come to the museum with us, and Chelsea was always mean to Gracey," my son said, unsure of my questions. "Do you like this gingerbread man I made you?" I didn't. Even though the cookie held an innocent smile and was made by the most important person in my life, I could barely look at it. Yet, as uncomfortable as I was, a pride in my son's eyes was undeniable. I accepted his cookie. I knew full well that the effigy in my hands was a product of love, but all I could imagine was the little gingerbread man tearing through my insides. "Are you going to eat it, Dad?" he asked. "I promise it's not bad. Mom, help me." I almost told him that I wasn't hungry, all that I'd eat the cookie later, but the pride in my son's eyes was undeniable. The pride in his eyes was more important than the fear in the pit of my stomach. In one swift motion, I decapitated the gingerbread man with my tea. Once I was sure his head was crushed enough to not do me any harm, I drowned the chunks of gingerbread with a gulp of beer. "Mmm, tasty," I said, "but I wasn't able to mask my discomfort." That evening, as my wife and I wrapped up the Christmas presents, she asked me if I was alright. Both her and my son had noticed that something was bothering me. That evening she was willing to talk about my problems, be they work related or not. Yet by then my fear of the gingerbread man had grown to such an intensity that it couldn't be put into words. I just told her that work was more stressful than usual this year, but I'd be fine eventually. She asked me if I wanted to talk about it, but I didn't, I couldn't. She tried to get me to open up a couple more times, but eventually, with the lights off and the presents packed beneath the tree, I was left alone with my thoughts, and my thoughts were singular. Oh, I shouldn't have been driving that night. I'd drunk enough throughout the day for it to be a bad idea, and to make things worse there was a powerful blizzard that swept through the town that Christmas Eve. Yet I knew that unless I got some closure I wouldn't be able to sleep. So I drove through the curtain of snow, until I could see the faint lights of the Christian Springs Mall. The absurdity of it all was a steady drum beat in the back of my head, but it wasn't until I was standing in the darkness of my office that I consciously acknowledged how insane my trip was. There was nothing to be achieved from close to examination, Morgan and Stila were dead. There was nothing I could do to bring them back. I almost convinced myself to turn around and go back home, almost. Just as I was about to turn around and walk away, I heard something. I heard the faintest of taps coming from the cupboard in which I kept the gingerbread men. My little claws knocking on glass. My little gingerbread men trying to make their way out. With my heart in my throat I opened up the cover. Look in their glass prison the two gingerbread men stood there, staring straight at me. They were no longer standing in the spread out pose in which I had first found them. Each of them had one of their blood-caked limbs extended, as if they were about to knock on the glass again. I stared at them, waiting for them to move again, waiting for something to happen that would convince me I had not gone insane. In the dim light of my office I thought that I could see their eyes twitch, I thought I could see the slightest bit of stifled movement in their mouths, but before I could steady myself to properly look, my phone ran. It was my wife. She woke up in the middle of the night to find her husband missing, to find the car missing. She asked two questions. She asked whether I was safe and whether I was having an affair. The implication that I would be even capable of being unfaithful hurt me, but as I assured her that I would never break our marriage vows, I realized how far I had let my mind drift. I closed the cupboard, slid down to the floor of the examination room, and told her everything. I told her about Stila and Morgan's unfathomable internal damage. I told her about the gingerbread men, I told her about how scared I was. She listened patiently, and with each word that left my lips, with each part of my insane story that I described, I found myself less and less scared. The cause of death was still a mystery, but the pure act of explaining the gingerbread theory made it seem less inconceivable. The murderous gingerbread men were not real. What was real was my worried wife who was waiting for me at home. As I was all talked out, she asked me to come home - I did. As I shut off the lights and left the examination room, however, the tiniest bit of doubt slithered into my mind. I ignored it and drove back home. A steadily rotating cast of extended family members that came through our house kept me occupied for the next couple of days. Small worries of murderous gingerbread men disappeared beneath the fear that my mother in law inspired in me, but that fear wasn't something that haunted my dreams. That fear was manageable. When my wife and I had decided to tell our son about Chelsea Stila, he didn't see him overly concerned. Apparently his friends had already told him. Just everyone from his class knew as soon as a playground room a mill got going. He just never brought it up because he knew that Mommy didn't like talking about death in the house. The kids seemed pretty comfortable about the concept of mortality, but as well, what can one expect from a child whose father works with the police? A day before New Year's I got called back into work. Another overdose from a town nearby. The ghastly gingerbread men had left my mind completely by then. I simply consigned them to be a part of some minor mental breakdown. He when I entered the examination room, the thoughts of those little slitted eyes came flooding back. The cupboard was opened and there was a broken glass on the floor. The gingerbread men had escaped. They spent most of January sleepless, a kept on thinking that somehow those two strange creatures made of gingerbread would come and track me down, that they would hurt my family in me because I was aware of their existence. But they didn't. Life carried on as normal. My boss agreed that Morgan and Stealer's injuries were difficult to explain, but he also insisted that they were not important enough to investigate. After the first day of classes my son informed me that Grace Morgan left town to go live with her grandparents, and that no one was particularly sad with the school bully disappearing off campus. Once it became clear that no murderous baked goods were coming after me and my family, the thoughts of those slitted creatures drifted away into the realm of pointless mystery. I still don't understand what I saw the Christmas of 2003, but I resign myself to the fact that I never will understand. However, when I find myself sitting in a bar after a medical examiner conference and colleagues start sharing stories of the bizarre and unexplained, I tell my tale of the gingerbread men. And sometimes, when the booze is flowing freely and people's tongues loosen, they tell me that I'm not the only coroner who's found baked goods inside of a mangled corpse. Today's episode is sponsored by AEG-1, the comprehensive and convenient blend of a 70 high quality ingredient. You know what, I'm busy. Sometimes I am a little short on time. I'm too busy to plan healthy meals or prepare meals from scratch, and it makes it a little bit difficult to look after myself. 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AEG-1's team of scientists have combined 100-plus years of experience from the fields of longevity, preventative medicine, regenerative medicine, genetics, biochemistry, and much more. Their expertise across a broad range of disciplines help to make AEG-1 the best it can be. So if you want to replace your multivitamins and more, start with AEG-1. Try AEG-1 and get a free one-year supply of vitamin D and five free AEG-1 travel packs with your first subscription. Go to drinkAG-1.com/creepin, that's drinkAG-1.com/creepin, C-R-E-E-P-E-N, check it out! Buddy the ugly gingerbread boy. The skies were the color of generous chocolate milk with clouds of bright cotton candy. From those clouds, like a welcome summer drizzle came gummy bears. There wasn't a corner of Candy Land where you couldn't bend down and grab a handful of the chewy treats to prolong your sugar high. You could eat gummies off the street and no one would yell at you. My mother didn't believe in heaven. She believed in the blinding light of an interrogation room where every soul was observed under the searing lens of religious dogma. Sugar was sin. Television was sin, imagination was sin. The ice cream tipped skyscrapers of Candy Land would occasionally drip creamy goodness down to the licorice paved streets below, but their true appeal was on the ground floor. Behind their caramel glass windows, there were televisions, giant screens of bright color that would beam exciting, forbidden cartoons out into the world for me to watch. I'd spend hours behind those storefronts, licking the glass, indulging in the stories that mother considered to be the work of Satan. School wasn't any better. At first I was excited at the prospect of a place where I'd be free of mother's fanatic raving, but Chelsea Stiele made sure that my suffering wasn't solely contained to my owls. Well, she should have been in grade three, but she was still in grade one. Two years don't make much of a difference in the adult world, but they do in the realm of children. They make a big difference. She was a head tall of anyone else in the class. She had the reach of a prize fighter, a jawline of an adult. She was also mean, really me. Beyond the bright screens of the televisions, there were dark alleys of dark chocolate, and in those dark alleys had some men in long-flowing trenchcoats stood and mumbled in dark, soothing tones. They told me jokes which I did not understand, but I laughed anyway. I knew the jokes were dirty, and I knew mother would disapprove, but I also laughed because it brought a smile to their dark chiseled faces, and bringing joy into the world made me happy. I knew they loved me, and everyone in Candyland laughed me. In Candyland I had friends, and with those friends I would laugh and dance and sing and go on adventures, but sometimes when I needed to be alone I would climb up on top of one of the skyscrapers and watch the world beyond the city. Out in the marshmallow hills there were long-legged spider creatures of stiletto heels and breasts. The majestic animals roamed the world and breathed big tufts of orange smoke into the sky from their pink-tipped eyeballs. On a windy days, when smells of the candy-coated nature traveled through the city, you could smell the gentlest hint of cinnamon in the air. I spent most of my childhood in Candyland. It was the only place where I could find respite from mother's fire and brimstone preaching and Chelsea's steel as angry fists. By the older I got, the more I realized that escaping my miserable life through daydreams wouldn't change anything. When it was young I didn't think there was any amount of candy that would make the suffering end. But I was wrong. The tired announcement from Mrs. Abassi about the last day of classes before winter break was accompanied by a lively parade in Candyland. I would be forbidden to join the class on the end-of-day field trip to the Natural History Museum. Mother refused to sign any permission slip that would lead me to seeing dinosaurs, but a celebration was still in order. Before the field trip the class would gather into some home-ed kitchen and baked gingerbread men. A concept thrilled me to my tiny seven-year-old court. I'd get to use my hands and my imagination to make something. I'd get to design my own little gingerbread man. I'd get to design my own little friend. Marching bands of ginger folk filled the streets of Candyland in celebration and when I wasn't dancing or singing from the sheer joy I felt in my heart, I was surrounded by sugary suitors. They all suggested that I paint their face on my new friend. They were all beautiful and I told them that. But deep inside I'd already chosen the smile that I would see on my gingerbread companion. I'd already chosen his name too. He'd be Buddy, a gingerbread boy. He couldn't be a man. A gingerbread man would be too big. If I had a man in my room, my mother would find him and crush him to little bits before the week was over. No. Buddy would be a tiny gingerbread boy. A friend I could tuck away in my bedstand drawer and hold for safety if mother's feverish midnight prayers ever got too scary. When the day of the gingerbread came, my hands were steadier than they ever were in any arts and crafts class. I wanted to make sure that my new friend would be perfect. As I worked away at his blue frosting pinstripe suit, the rest of the classroom disappeared. The arguing kids, the cheesy Christmas music, Mrs. Abbasi reading a newspaper by the desk. The outside world faded away and I was left alone with my masterpiece. I was going to make him so beautiful. He'd have the brightest smile and the biggest eyes. After he'd be done and doled up everyone would say, "Wow, what a handsome gingerbread boy." But no one outside of my imagination has ever said that. As I was about to start applying frosting to the gingerbread boy's face, I had a sharp pain in the back of my hands. Reality was dragging me back out of my imagination in the form of Chelsea Steeler's heavy fist wrapped around my hair. Within seconds I was down on the floor and looking up at the third-grade giant observing my tiny friend. I got up and pleaded with her in strained whispers to leave the gingerbread boy alone. I told her that he didn't do anything to her and there was no need for destruction. She ignored me. Instead her big dumb eyes drifted from my faceless creation to the jagged mess of red frosting on her table. I begged her to leave him be. She refused to listen. Instead she grabbed the tube of frosting that I'd used for Buddy's red shoes and squeezed it over his blank face. Two quick squirts followed by a squeeze long enough to empty the whole tube. That's all it took. Suddenly the potential smile and bright eyes were replaced with an eternal scream. Looking back at me from my table were two sharp slits for eyes and a hungry mouth opened so wide that it bled into his blue suit. "If you tattle," Chelsea Steeler said in that dark crawl voice of hers, "I will kill you." And then, as if she hadn't just crushed all my dreams, she walked back over to her desk without a care in the world. Mrs. Abbasi continued reading her newspaper for a couple more minutes before she came around to collect her gingerbread creations to put in the oven. I didn't resist. I was still in shock from seeing my new friend getting disfigured in a senseless act of violence. A television rolled into the room and the class was treated to the first thirty minutes of Pinocchio on a groaning of ECR. The movie was barely audible past the excited whispers of my classmates about the imminent field trip, but I wasn't watching the screen anyway. My eyes stayed glued to the oven. Somewhere in that furnace of hot lights, buddy's scars were becoming permanent. By the time the cookies were done, no one cared about the movie or the baked treats. Conversation was solely focused on how excited everyone was to see the dinosaurs that will be on display in the museum. Hearing my classmates talk about how much fun they would have in a place denied to me my mother's religious fanaticism hurt worse than Chelsea Steeler's gnawing punches, but it wasn't until I was handed the gingerbread boy's corpse that my heart truly broke. Mrs. Abbasi left me alone in the classroom. The tape of Pinocchio were flickering backdrop to my personal tragedy. I sat there, holding my only friend in the palm of my hand. His body was still warm from the oven, but his manic scream of her mouth sent shills down my spine. Body would forever be broken, and I would forever be lonely. It was a mournful day in Candyland. Rain, real rain, fell from the sky like big swollen tears. The gummy bears on the ground shed all of their colouring and turned into amorphous blobs of gelatin. The ice cream tipped skyscrapers leaked watery milk all over the pavement, and everything was sticky. All of the televisions had been turned off, and the only thing that cut through the silence of the city were murmured condolences from the inhabitants as they gathered around me. The gingerbread boy might have been massacred, but I will always have them, they say. Candyland would be here for me in this tough time, they said. But then an infernal screech cut through the marshmallow hills. The long-legged creatures scarcely had time to turn before the intruders descended upon them. Within moments their mammary bodies were bursting dark red frosting across the fluffy white land. Teredactyls descended from the sky. The cries of the infernal lizard birds on the horizon were soon joined by shrieks of panic from the streets of Candyland. Heavy hooves of beak monstrosities shook the city to its foundation. The dinosaurs, the dinosaurs of I was forbidden to see in the real world were forcing their way into the safe haven of my imagination, and they were destroying it. Massive tales broke through the caramel glass windows of the storefront and sent sparkling electricity out into the wet world. Pawns cut their way through innocent bystanders, sending blood and candy spilling into the streets. The skyscrapers crumbled beneath the weight of blunt, prehistoric force. The rain had turned into a downpour, clouds of real storm clouds gathered above the city and pelted it with cold slugs of water and sharp lightning. Candyland shook with the sounds of thunder and destruction, but beyond the mayhem there was something else. Beyond the mayhem there were sobs. Back in my first great classroom, with Pinocchio quietly begging to become a real boy on the television, I found myself crying. I didn't just cry because of the gingerbread boy, I didn't just cry because of the museum trip I was excluded from. I cried because there was no way out. Chelsea's steelers fists would forever haunt me. I thought the screeching voice would forever haunt me, and Candyland could never sustain their horrible cruel presence in my life. I cried because I knew there was no escape from the life I was living. As I cried I held him in my hands like a scared child holds a safety blanket as if he could help me, as if he could deliver me from my suffering. But I knew in my heart of hearts that he was just a disfigured cookie. Yet as the tears flowed onto the little gingerbread boy, a glint of movement grabbed my attention. The world beyond my eyes was shimmering beneath the wetness of my tears, but for a split second I thought I saw a twitch in the pinstripe suit. For a breathless moment I watched the gingerbread in my hands, searching for movement. Soon in an half I didn't just see it, I felt it. With trembling hands and an unsteady mind I placed Buddy on my desk and watched. For the first time in my young life I made an active effort to suppress my imagination. Candyland wasn't real. Gingerbread men couldn't come to life. There was no conceivable way for Buddy to be moving on his own. For a gentle moment of calm I almost believed my own lies, but then with a shaking groan, these red more twitched. Buddy, the disfigured gingerbread boy rassed through his impassable mouth, "Hi, I'm Buddy." The crimson slits on his face struggled to blink, but after a couple of frantic twitches they were focused straight on me. With effort the gingerbread boy pulled himself up to his unsteady feet and started to walk towards me. His arms were outstretched, his red mouth drooped across his torso. "Hi, I'm Buddy," he said. "I'm Buddy, the gingerbread boy." Every master of my tiny being was seized with panic. I couldn't look away, I couldn't move, I couldn't scream. Instead of a cry for help, all I managed to let out was a terrified wheeze. With each crumb-filled step, Buddy's footing became more confident. Soon enough he was marching towards me like the friendly gingerbread man that Mrs. Abbasi would read his stories about in the library. But those gingerbread men were friendly and pretty, and Buddy was neither. "Buddy," he strained as he hopped off my desk and into my lap, "I am Buddy, the gingerbread boy." My body continued to ignore all of my panic riddled orders as Buddy started to crawl across the itchy sweater I was wearing. I was frozen in a frenzy of fear, and the only thing I could manage to do was shake. Yet my convulsions did little to stop Buddy's progress, he just gripped my clothes tighter, tearing away clumps of fluff as he traveled up my body. His fingerless hands pinch my skin with every grab of flesh that he took, but soon enough his climbs stop. Buddy had his rough hands gripped around my throat. Each frenzied breath my body demanded became more difficult to grasp. "I am Buddy, the gingerbread boy," he said, squeezing, "and I love you." My heartbeat pushed against his unrelenting body, the world was becoming faint, I could feel myself drifting off. I gathered every ounce of energy I had and attempted to speak. "You're hurting me," I managed to whimper. As if a spell had been broken, the pressure on my throat immediately loosened, and Buddy came tumbling down to the bottom of my sweater. For a moment he struggled in an embrace of wool, but soon enough his head peaked out. The red slits in his face looked up at me, an adoration, and a scream of a mouth raised into an apologetic smile. "I am sorry," he said, sitting up, "I do not mean to hurt you. I just want to be friends." "Friends," I asked, my breath returning, but the shock of his words making me breathless again. "You want to be friends with me?" "Friends," he nodded. "I love you, and I love Candyland, and I want to be your friend." His mouth still tore into his body, and his eyes still looked like two sharp cuts of a knife, but somehow there was an affectionate air about the creature. He was completely deformed, but somewhere inside of that torn up face I could see him. I could see, Buddy. "I'd like to be your friend, Buddy," I whispered. "I'd like it very much." Without a moment's hesitation, Buddy scrambled up my sweater and bat towards my neck, but this time he didn't choke me, this time he hugged me. I don't know what we talked about first, all I know is that we talked. We talked the same way that the other kids would sit and chat about the colour of the sky, or how snowmen were neat, or what their favourite pizza topping was. My first conversation with a real friend was more calming than I could have ever imagined, yet, as we chatted, our conversation drifted from life affirming smalltop to more painful topics. Every word I said about Chelsea's stealer or mother drained the joyfulness out of the gingerbread boy's face, and soon enough the gaping hole in Buddy's chest wasn't smiling anymore. It had turned into a violence now. "No one treats my friend like that," he yelled, his stretched mouth turning the shade of blood, "You have to fight back, you can't let them hurt you like that." I asked him how I could fight back, how I could stop the constant barrage of sadness that the two brought into my life. I begged for an answer to my suffering. Buddy slid his eyes furrowed into deep fold. A couple times the giant red splotch at his core moved, as if it was about to announce a plan, but nothing came of it. "I do not know, friend," he finally said, "but together we can defeat them. Together we can rebuild Candyland and make life a song." "Together," I whispered. Moments later the door to the classroom opened to a horde of happy kids clutching plastic dinosaurs. On any other occasion I would have felt jealous of their toys in the fun afternoon they were so loudly chatting about, but with Buddy snuggly sitting in my sweater I was completely content with what I had. When Mrs. Abbasi started writing out our winter break assignments on the chalkboard, I put Buddy next to my day planner. All of those workbooks that we had to read, all of those art projects we had to start, I knew that I'd work on them with my gingerbread friend by my side. Yet as I copied down the writing on the chalkboard, I suddenly felt a push from the side. Before I knew what was happening I was lying on the floor. The other kids were quietly giggling. Chelsea's stealer had pushed me out of my chair. Mrs. Abbasi turned around from the chalkboard and told me to keep my hijinks for after the bell rang and continued writing down the assigned reading. Not wanting to antagonize Chelsea before my walk back home, I didn't say anything. I figured if I just kept my head low for the next couple of minutes I'd get to enjoy winter break with Buddy. But I was wrong. As soon as I was back at my desk my heart skipped a beat. The gingerbread boy was gone from my table. Without a word Chelsea's stealer held up Buddy between two fingers. He was dangerously close to her monstrous jaw. I pleaded loud enough to get the attention of the other kids. Soon enough the whole class with the exception of Mrs. Abbasi was watching our exchange. I begged Chelsea I pleaded for Buddy's life, promising to do anything she wanted as long as she let him go. But in response she just smiled. "Too bad I'm hungry," she said in that dark voice of hers. And then she swallowed him whole. I've always been a quiet child but when I saw my only friend disappear in that dark gullet I'd had a scream that brought in concerned faculty from other classrooms. My heart exploded in a white heart rage and I yelled at Chelsea calling her every bad word that I'd picked up over the years and even some that I made up on the spot. But in response she just smiled. I breathlessly explained what happened to Mrs. Abbasi. But in response she just asked Chelsea if I was telling the truth. "No," she said in that dark voice of hers. She's making it all up. I yelled for the other kids pleading for someone to take my side, begging for someone to tell the truth, but everyone just looked down on their shoelaces. Chelsea Stiehler was not known for being kind to snitches and no one wanted to get hurt on my accounts. Everyone here is lying, especially Chelsea Stiehler, I yelled in exasperation. This did not sit well with Chelsea. For a split second I could see her dark eyes burrowing into me, vowing revenge but soon enough they disappeared beneath a curtain of tears. I was crying again but this time they weren't quiet sobs, this time I wailed hard enough for my throat to hurt. I tried going back to Candy Land but there was nothing left for me to go back to. The city was a collection of smashed glass and bank candy canyons. Not a soul was left to greet me or talk to me, even the dinosaurs had left. All that remained of my daydream kingdom was a wet, sticky wasteland. Mrs. Abbasi made me sit down in the hallway until the final bell rang because I was deemed distracting to the class. But once everyone in the grade had left the classroom, she invited me in. There was exhaustion in her eyes, but somewhere past the tiredness there was understanding. She said she knew Chelsea was a problematic classmate and that regardless of what had happened, I deserved to be able to have my own gingerbread man. There was still some dough and a couple of tubes of frosting that I could take home for winter break. Well, I knew Mother would never let me make a mockery of God's image in the oven and I was still recovering from the heartbreak of losing body. But Mrs. Abbasi's gift was a gentle band-aid for my broken soul. That band-aid didn't stay for long. Moments after I left school, just as I was starting to daydream about how I would bake a new gingerbread boy in the middle of the night, I felt a sharp pain in my jaw. Before I knew what was happening, I was lying on the pavement with a loose milk tooth rattling in my mouth. "No one calls me a liar," she said in that dark voice of hers. With the sun burning behind her, she looked like a fiery giant. The titan of her third grade had bent down and reached from my backpack. I was too shocked from the sucker punch to put up a fight as the first strap came off, but as I realized that Chelsea Siedler was going to take away my one chance to make another gingerbread friend, I started to resist. Deep inside of my soul, I could hear a buddy cheering me on, telling me that if I just stood up for myself, things would get better. But they didn't. With another punched Chelsea Siedler knocked me back to the ground. "No one calls me a liar," she said in that dark voice of hers, as she slipped on my little back. "This backpack is mine now." And then, as if she hadn't just knocked out one of my teeth and stolen my only chance at a friend, she marched off down the street. I had no tears left to cry, I just sat up on the pavement, sniveling, watching the bully march off into the sunset with my backpack. The pain in my mouth was bad, but I knew that the tongue-lashing mother would give me at home for losing my bag would be worse, but I knew I couldn't do anything. If I charged at Chelsea and tried to get my belongings back, she just hit me again. I sat there and watched Chelsea walk away, but she didn't walk far. For a second, I thought she'd just turned around to admire her handiwork, to really soaking how miserable she'd made me, but as she rushed back to me there was no malice in her eyes. For the first time ever I saw something other than hatred and dumb rage in Chelsea Siedler's face. I saw fear. "Help!" she said in her voice, unlike her own. Her massive hand was squeezing her huge stomach. "Help!" she repeated, terrified. Chelsea threw my backpack at me as if that would stop whatever paint she was in, but it didn't. "Help!" she yelled at me, frantically punching her belly. With her jaw wide open she froze. The rest of the words struggled to come out of her mouth. Her tongue wiggled at me in strained effort. There was something in her mouth. There was some one in her mouth. Past Chelsea Siedler's blocky teeth I saw two slitted eyes looking back at me. Buddy was covered in mucus, but aside from that he was the same disfigured gingerbread boy I befriended an hour prior. He had his fingerless hands wrapped around her tongue as if it were a rodeo ball and he was a cowboy. When my eyes drifted from Chelsea's terrified stare and met his malformed eyes, Buddy winked and then with one big leap he disappeared back down Chelsea's steelers throat. She took her tongue along for the ride. She left a long trail of red across the pavement as she stumbled away over to the playground, and that's where she collapsed and that's where she stayed. The adults panicked and screamed and huddled around her and demanded someone call an ambulance. As the chaos in the playground unraveled no one even noticed me. I just stood there and watched. I stood there and hoped that Buddy would leap out of her bloody throat and jump into my arms. Buddy didn't. By the time the uniform men loaded Chelsea's steeler into the back of an ambulance with a blanket covering her pain grimace, I knew that Buddy wasn't coming back to me. Walking home through the dark I also knew that Mother would be furious about me staying out late and that the prayers and chores I would have to do for penance would take up valuable time I could spend rebuilding Candyland. And yet as I walked through the lamplit streets I felt a lightness in my step that I'd never felt before. Half of my problems were suddenly gone. My mother was as furious as expected. She ranted and raved and accused me of things I've never done, but in her anger she forgot to check the contents of my bag. At night as she screamed prayers for my filthy soul at her invisible god, I escaped back to Candyland. In the ashes of the city my friends gathered. Gummy bears and men in trench coats and, of course, the gingerbread suitors, they all sat around a little fire in the town square and tried to make sense of it all. The destruction of the city, the death which the dinosaurs had brought upon the community was all too much for them. They were all hopeless. But I raised their spirits. I told them of Buddy's victory over Chelsea Stiele. I told them how I would start making friends as soon as school would start again. I told them I was ready to stand up for myself. I told them I had solutions. Half of my problems were gone. All I needed to do was finish the job. At night, once mother screaming had died down, I went to the kitchen and turned on the oven. Mrs. Abbasi had given me enough dough for at least five gingerbread boys. When I was young, I didn't think there was any amount of candy that would make the suffering ends. But I was wrong. When it comes to renting out your property, the uncertainty of finding reliable tenants can feel like a real guessing game, responsible renter or perpetual party animal. Enter, renter's warehouse. The pros who turned the uncertainty of finding great tenants into peace of mind. Renter's warehouse offers top-notch leasing and tenant placement services, ensuring you get trustworthy renters without the hassles and headaches. With no upfront fees, Renter's warehouse works for you, not the other way around. From marketing and showing your property, to screening tenants and preparing the lease, your team of experts handles it all so you can sit back and watch the rent roll in. 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They'd be at it for hours, acting out some scene with foam swords and plastic guns only stopping when the sun left to rise elsewhere. Seeing Mason happy made me happy. He'd finally found a friend. His father left us when he was six months old and, more or less, held no role in his life. Sure, there were the occasional visits every few years, but even those were short and faint. Not even so much as an annual birthday car. Perhaps that was why Mason anchored himself, such a secure distance from other kids, a point driven home by his fifth-grade teacher and several others. Well, part of me didn't blame him. Kids in school, especially the ones I can recall, weren't a friendliest bunch. If you were lucky, you could pick out the sharks from the minnows and avoid them, but honestly, they all look the same. Swine together in the same concrete box. "Oh, please give my best friend." I'd whisper at my bedside every night, sending out the same message to God, or at least to something just as benevolent, just to hear my prayer, "Give my son his first best friend." And then, one day, much to my wonderment, Mason brought Todd Holmes for a play date. He was a petite boy with mismatched clothes, hung-kempt hair, and the bluest eyes you've ever seen. I was ecstatic, relieved that my son had finally cracked open his shell and found a buddy. "I saw him at the park," Mason told me, when he asked how they'd met. "He was sitting alone at the swings, like he was sad. When he saw me on my bike, he waved, and I waved back, and then we hung out. He was really cool." As he shared this, I couldn't help but smiled at his excitement, so much deserved by the loneliest boy in the world. That night they had a sleepover and passed out in the living room. From the bedroom, I could hear the muffled speech of our television, which they'd left on. So I hang, I untucked myself out of bed and walked sluggishly down the stairs to them. Light from the screen passed and stretched over the sleeping-boys. Mason was swaddled in his blanket on the floor, while Todd was curled up on the couch. I scanned for the remote, and after no luck, I moved to shut it off myself. A lone bag of chips crinkled under my foot, and the couch Todd's shape twitched and then bonked it upright. I meant to say, "Sorry, but I was stopped short." When Todd jutted awake in open his eyes, I couldn't see them. They hadn't rolled up in their sockets, all slipped to their sides. They were simply gone. Two holes of singular darkness. Todd had blue eyes, and vividly blue eyes, but at that instant, not even the glow of the television reflected off those dark membranes. Black has Santa's coat, and he blinked, and the eyes returned. Now, before I could say anything, his mouth stretched into a yawn, and his body slumped back into the cushions. I was stiff as a board, somehow relieved I hadn't shrieked and woken them both up. My thoughts told me it was a trick of the light, and that did any speck of reason. Visions played games with you that way, so I switched off the television and went back to bed. A few weeks later on an especially windy evening, the knock came to the door. Todd was there as usual, see soaring on his souls impatiently. "Oh, hi there," I smiled. "Hi," he smiled, his thin neck cocked. "I'm Mason, come out and play." Before I even had an answer, Mason had already squeezed past me, still working one of his arms through his jacket sleeve. "Bye, ma'am," and I watched as they disappeared down the street. The rule was to be back before dark, and to their credit, the boys always returned just as the sky started to dim. On that particular outing, they came home with some cool rocks they found and dirt-clotted sneakers. By the time Todd was ready to walk back home, it had fallen too dark for him to go alone. I gave him a ride, with both boys in the back seat. It wasn't a far drive, as his house was only a few streets away. Every so often my eyes would slip back to the rear view and see Todd watching the street, Mason dozing off next to him. As he passed beneath the street lamps, a bar of light would creep through the window, all over his face and vanish over his head. The car suddenly roped as my wheels rolled too hastily over a speed bump. His gaze left the window and met mine. Only this time, as the slanted light skimmed over his features, blue eyes did not look back at me. They were gone, lotted out by the same, oily darkness, silent, murky circles. And his skin, in just that quick moment, looked different, like dry, mottled clay, fit poorly over a skull, lips bloodlessly shriveled, slammed on the brake, jostling all of us with a sudden lurch. Mason gripped himself into wide-eyed awareness, and, as fast as it had happened before, the brake faced horror in my backseat returned to a sweet young boy, shocked and surprised. "Sorry," I breathed, "sorry about that, guys, I thought I saw a cat in the road." We reached Todd's house, a white ranch style with a flowering dogweed tree in the front yard. As the boy said their goodbyes, I could only stare into the dashboard, my heart sending tremors down my house. The walt, felt off its tilt, as if the lines separating actuality and nonsense were blurred. I was disoriented by how it really had seemed. His eyes, like deep dark wells, his unhealthy skin stretched and pulled like a death mouse. My thoughts clashed with the fold of my brain that formed logic, and eventually logic won. It was all in my head, period. But despite how far-fetched it sounded, I actively avoided eye contact with Todd, not even giving a sliver of opportunity for that oily pitch to return. If it even happened in passing glance or a quick double-take, I'd be back to circling the rim of a mental collapse. A week later, I went to pick up Mason from Todd's house. I'd poured up along the curb, texted, "I'm here," and waited there for some time. Well, there was no sign he'd read my message, nor did he answer any of my calls. When I got tired of waiting, I twisted the keys out of the ignition and made my way up the slim walkway. The house was missing a great deal of shingles, which scarred its roofline in dark patches. The rain gutters were clogged and stunk of decomposing leaves, and knocked briskly and waited. The door unlocked, held only partially opened by a door-chain. "Yes," the face-peeking at asked. His voice was nasally, like it was lodged somewhere in his throat, right in the pit of it. "Hi, I'm Holly, Mason's mum. I'm here to pick him up." The door closed and opened fully, as the chain slid out of its holder. The man on the other end was lanky with on-set boldness, widening his forehead. His eyes tired and heavy. "Oh, sorry about that," he said, flashing a thin-lipped smile and offering a handshake. "David, the boy's are probably still on their way back. I'll be here any minute now. You can come inside and wait if you lie. I've got some tea ready to go." I took him up on the offer and followed him inside. At our immediate right was the living area, where a woman sat watching a rom-com on the television. "Paying no mind," the sound at the door, she kept her back to us. Beneath the show's time laugh-track, I could hear the sound of hard, laboured breathing. Hanging over the side of the sofa, drooped a thin, skeletal wrist. On the wall, a grey, kick-cat clock shifted its eyes and wagged its tail. The kitchen was small with a triangular arrangement of sink, stove and refrigerator, a small dance between the three. Flowery wallpaper looped around the room, a formica-top table sat against the wall with minty green chairs. I took a seat in one as David retrieved some cups from the cabinet. The smell of light orchid drifted through the air. "I hope you like green tea," he said quietly, as he filled the cups and brought them over. "Green's fine," I replied, taking the cup from him. "Thank you." We planted himself in the chair. "Well, they're really fond of each other, aren't they? The boy, Sammy?" "I'd say so. You can hardly keep macing away," I laughed. By this point I'd noticed the dark pouches beneath his eyes more clearly. In fact, his overall appearance seemed to hang on a mournful sack. However supplement he needed, he was missing a lot of it. "So, how long have you been in the neighborhood?" I asked for the sake of conversation. "Oh, good wow now," he mused, rubbing a finger along his cup. "Really? I'm surprised Mason didn't meet Todd sooner. Her houses aren't too far from each other." "Tard?" he asked, as though needing a moment to remember his own son's name. "Oh, yeah, that is pretty surprising. Well, he gets around." Mason never sees him at school. "Does he go to a different district?" Lines creased his mouth. "School, um, well, uh, weee." From the living room, a harsh guttural coughing reached us. David's neck swiveled toward the sound. "Excuse me, my wife needs me." He left his chair in hastily winter. "Not too long after that," the front door opened as Todd and Mason arrived. As we said, our goodbyes to David and his silent wife, he clasped my hand in a tight shape. "It was really nice meeting you, Harley, really, it was." When he released his grip, I realized something was left in my palm. When we were back in the car, the fold is as open. "What's that, ma'am?" Mason asked. "Oh, uh, nothing, sweetie." A smile back at him, placing the crumpled note in my lap. A phone number, a time to call, and the word "help" scribbled into its loose leap. It was nightfall when I unfurled and read it again. I was in the backyard, occupying a seat at our fire pit. My cell found in one hand and a cigarette pinched in the other. The note said to call it eight, which was only five minutes away. As the time drew closer, my chest grew tighter with anxiousness. Moments ago I snuck into my own room, poured out the bottom shelf of my dresser, and unearthed the pack of marblers I had hidden there. Three years I'd been without them, and three years I kept my promise to Mason to stop smelling like an ashtray. This night, shamefully, they were the only thing holding me together. When the clock on my phone pulsed eight, I took a long drag on the cigarette and dialed the number. The tone chirred in and out a few times, and finally connected. "Hello?" David's voice chatted on the other end. "Who is this right now?" My heart rattled in my throat. "It's Holly, Mason's mark." The voice exhaled, and then returned briskly. "I need you to listen to me, okay? Are you listening?" "Yes, I'm listening. Keep it away from your boy." The fire pit popped and spat a few embers. "Keep, what are you talking about?" "Listen," he snapped, a manic wait to his words. "Don't let Mason come over here anymore. It isn't safe for him. Don't even let it go over there. You have to stop this now." I twisted my neck back toward the house and then leaned forward in my chair. "Are we talking about your son right now?" "Isn't my son?" he's gone. Not at all, not in any way. You need to calm down. "But if you need help, I can call the police." "No, no, please," he screamed, his voice so tight and stressed that it splintered on the other end. "I'll take more from her if you do that. My wife, she can't handle much more. It's taken something from her and taken something from me. We can't get rid of it now if it's too late for us, but not for you. You can stop this." He started to weep and mutter to himself. He came to our door to use the phone. "Why did we let it in? Why did we let it in? Why did we let it use our phone?" Something stirred in the background. He paused and then whispered, "Just keep it away from him," and then he hung up. "I'm not sure how long I sat out there. It was long enough for the flames to shrink into powdery melt." "When I entered the house again, Mason was on the couch with his tablet." "You smell weird," he said, taking note of me. "Yeah, I'm at the fire pit," I lied. My thoughts too heavy to muster anything else. He flashed me a big smile and tactfully asked, "Can I have a sleep over at Todd's this weekend?" "No," I answered stiffly, "That isn't going to work. Why not?" He persisted. Todd always sleeps over here, "Why can't we do this?" Because Mason looked and said, "No, end of story." He shot an icy look of defiance at me. "Fine?" And he'll sleep over here then. "No, no, he won't, but we're going to take a break from Todd for a while." His jaw opened, flabbergasted. "You can't do that." "I just did," I said, "perhaps a little too matter of fact." As I walked back up the stairs, I could feel the burn of his eyes watching me on every step. Both of our nights now ruined. David's deranged garble on the phone sat with me for the rest of the night. "I had no idea what to do, what to fix, what to think. A little bit away. It isn't safe for him." That message so vague but also desperately clear. I had to keep Mason safe, that was all that mattered. The next day after Mason was back from school, I set him down on the couch. "I'm sorry for last night," I said. I was very stressed, but that isn't the way I want us to speak to each other again. His eyes naturally scanned the floor. "Okay, I love you, Mason, no matter what I want you to be safe, so there are a few things I need to know about Todd. What do you do that for me?" "In order to get in," his sneaker softly kicking the backpack slumped on the carpet. "Look, um, did he ever act weird or strange to you?" His head shook. "What about his parents? Did he act different around them at all?" It was a damn response. I wasn't sure how to worry the next question, but I did my best anyway. "Did he ever do something with his eyes?" This time Mason nodded. My heart squeezed itself smaller. I wanted so much to change the subject, to retreat to the kind cadence of sanity, but I had to know more. I had to protect my son. What did he do with his eyes? "A trick," Mason replied, hesitantly. "He told me not to tell anyone, though, where you have to tell me." His lips crinkled, trying to keep the secret zipped up. Then he finally spoke. "He could make him disappear," I felt drugged by his words. My head feeling even lighter, like all the logic in the world had just been raptured away. "You did see them," my thoughts repeated. "You did see the deep dark worlds." As quickly as all myself out left, a scrim of dread filled the empty spaces. "Did it scare you?" I asked. "Um, a little," Mason replied, absolutely. He said not to be, though, but he showed me how to do it, too. I grabbed his shoulder, making him jump, suddenly. He didn't know, right? He didn't do anything to you? Well, hey, look confused. Like I was the one talking crazy now. "No." "I know he's your friend, Mason, but I need you to promise that you won't see him anymore." Mason's gaze flicked back to mine. His eyes wide with betrayal. "What?" Tears began to come down. "Promise me," I repeated, the words like razor scraping down my tongue. "I don't want to," Mason, after much hesitation, he tearfully replied. "I promise," I hugged him, closed my eyes and surrendered to the cruelty of it all. For the rest of that hellish week I kept my ears tuned for the knock of the door. For whatever reason, Todd never used the doorbell, and inevitably the knock came. Behind the frosted glass of our front door, I could see Todd's vague shape teetering on his soul. When the door opened, he smiled up at me. "Hi." "Can Mason come out and play?" "Oh, sorry, dear," I smiled back, "Mason can't play today." The corner of his mouth lifted as his neck cocked to the side. "Can he later?" "No, I don't think so, I'm sorry." His nose wrinkled, and then the skin between his eyebrows creased. "Okay." I closed the door, watched him leave, and that was that. It might take a few times, but eventually the message would sink in, "Leave my son alone." I felt a sense of pride after that, and what could possibly better protect a boy than his mother? But when I turned and saw Mason's cold eyes from the stairs, that pride all but evaporated. When Todd returned the next day, I gave him the same answer, then the day after that and the one after that. I couldn't even refuse to answer when he knocked, otherwise he'd sit there and wait, knock again and wait some more, knowing full well that we were home. Four straight evenings of it. Poor Mason, he had every right to despise me for this. No parent could want to wall themselves between their son and his best friend, his first friend, but what choice did I have? You were drifting apart, orbiting ever farther away from one another. He was my prisoner, and I was the judge sentencing him back to a lonely world. Surely he'd make new friends right. The world was full of them, and if anything, this was proof that he could find them. That thought helped me cope anyway. When the knock came for the fifth time in a row, my tolerance had run out. Todd wasn't catching on, and to make matters more irritating, it was eight or so at night. At night this time. Part of me hoped it was someone else, maybe a neighbour bringing a package by that was wrongfully left at their doorstep, but I knew better than that, and I wasn't allowing this to go any further. Mason was doing his homework at the kitchen table when I passed by him, no acknowledgement whatsoever. When I pulled the door open, Todd was standing beneath our porch lights, both shoulders hunched over his ears, just so expecting me to smack him, and perhaps verbally that was what I did. "Go home," I said assertively, "we're done, no more of this, all right?" "Can Mason come out to play?" "Yes, sorrowfully, as though it weren't after dance. No, Todd, he can't. Anyone at the next day or the next, go home and stay there." This small arm rubbed his sleeve nervously. "Oh, it's really dark. I don't want to walk home alone. Can I use your phone to call my parents?" I felt absolutely cruel, but I also knew the game he was trying to play. He walked here on your own. You can walk back on your own. Then as I moved to close the door and end the conversation, Todd made his eyes disappear. The darkness washed over them quickly and seemed actually to curdle in his sockets. The thickening, horrible texture. His face became milk wax. The sad-showed disappearing behind it, beads of, perhaps, sweat dripped from his temples. One ran into his eye and vanished into the void. "I want to come inside," he spoke. The sorrowful note in his voice also gone. My heart slackened to a deep, slow throng. I felt the need to pinch my side to tweak it hard enough to draw blood and wake from this moment. Between the dead, shriveled lips I could see the decayed tips of black tea. "Can I please come inside?" he asked. "No," I said, semi-reactively. His black, craving eyes narrowed at me. For a moment I actually thought they started to cry. But it was the darkness dribbling down his cheeks, oozing like oil snakes. "I just want to play with Mason." The sound of it, the sound of that horrible face saying my son's name snapped me out of the shop. I slammed the door closed and quickly locked it. Mason stood stiffly in the kitchen. His expression was only a shimmer of consciousness, vacant as a sleep walk. "Mason, Mason, look at me honey, it's all okay, everything's going to be okay." But his unfocused eyes were not facing me. Three firm knocks came from the door. When I turned to face it, a dark-shaped linger behind the frosted glass, a tall figure, taller than any adult, was hunching to look inside of a behind the single pane that separated us. His vague shape didn't move. From the other side, Todd's childish voice was still calling. "Can I please come inside? Don't you want to play, Mason? Don't you want to play?" I could feel it watching us, like static vibrating the air. When I tried to move Mason, he refused to budge, staring emptily toward the evil thing behind the glass. Heavy as he was, I scooped him up in my arms and bolted for the stairs. It won't break in, my thoughts uttered, it isn't allowed to. Well, that much I was sure of. If it wanted to get in, it would have done so by now. No, it needed to be invited. I shut both of us away in the bathroom upstairs, and when the sounds of the front door finally ceased, Mason snapped out of it. He was confused, like he'd just missed everything that had transpired. I wasn't sure whether to consider that a blessing or not. Perhaps it was, and perhaps also, it was not God that answered my prayer. It was impossible to digest what had happened that night. Sometimes I'd linger on the stairs, right on the top step, and watch the doorway wondering if the glass would suddenly darken, if Todd's voice would slip through and ask to come inside. One night David had left a voicemail on my phone. "She's gone," his voice whimpered. It got what it wanted from her, drained her dry. Now my wife won't wake up, and it's left us. I don't know what it wants from your boy, but it wants something. No matter what, don't let it back inside." The message cut out after that, and he still won't answer my call. "Well, Todd never did come back, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Strangely enough, the one least affected by all of this was Mason. I was worried to see him fall back into that distant bubble, but that isn't what happened." He started to make friends with other kids around the neighbourhood. New friends, normal friends. He'd become a real social butterfly, and despite my brain ripping itself apart to understand what I'd seen, I at least had that comfort to cling to. Seeing Mason happy made me happy. I've been feeling strange, it's been harder to feel motivated about things, let alone get out of bed in the morning, even my appetite just started to dwindle. Day by day I've been growing increasingly sad to lethargic. I don't know what's wrong, but it's getting worse. Mason's been helping me get around the house, even going out of his way to play chef and make me things to eat, he's a good boy, but sometimes dear Lord, I catch something in his eyes, something that shouldn't be there, but it's only a trick of the light. Please God, let it only be a trick of the light. When it comes to renting out your property, the uncertainty of finding reliable tenants can feel like a real guessing game, responsible renter or perpetual party animal. Enter renter's warehouse. The pros who turn the uncertainty of finding great tenants into peace of mind. Renter's warehouse offers top-notch leasing and tenant placement services, ensuring you get trustworthy renters without the hassles and headaches. With no upfront fees, Renter's warehouse works for you, not the other way around. From marketing and showing your property, to screening tenants and preparing the lease, your team of experts handles it all so you can sit back and watch the rent roll in. Renter's warehouse even warranties their tenants for up to 18 months at no extra cost, and if you need ongoing management, they've got you covered too, all for a flat monthly fee. Visit renterswearhouse.com to request a free rental price analysis that's renterswearhouse.com or call 303-974-9444 to speak to a rent estate advisor today. A new law is helping me save more money on prescription drug costs. Maybe you can save too. With Medicare's extra help program, my premium is zero and my out-of-pocket costs are low. Who should apply? Single people making less than $23,000 a year or married couples who make less than $31,000 a year. Even if you don't think you qualify, it pays to find out. Go to ssa.gov/extrahelp. Paid for by the US Department of Health and Human Services. Two months ago, I woke up to the sound of something shifting in my walls. It almost sounded like tapping, possibly dripping. My breathing slowed and the hairs on the back of my neck stood upright. I rolled over and checked the alarm clock on my nightstand. 3am is said in glowing red text. Well, my initial thought was, I don't have the money all the time for bullshit like this. Using my breath, I sat upright and watched the wall from the edge of my bed. The sound reminded me of when I was five years old, living with my grandparents in a decaying house in northern Illinois. The walls click sometimes at nights with rats scurrying through them. My childish mind believed the sounds to be demons. My name's Emmett Sheldon. I live in an aging apartment on the streets of Chicago. There was nothing to my name but my scarce amounts of money and the wallet I hold them in. When I was four, still living in Pennsylvania, my parents were both gunned down in front of me. I found out later they had criminal ties. I'm 23 now. I don't care to dive back too far into my past though, but I'll tell you this. I said, fuck no, it's the idea of college and I've spent the rest of that time creating businesses that fail after half a year, maybe more if I'm lucky. I've been all over the state at this point, trying to find places where I can anchor down long enough to build my empire. The typing continued for the rest of that week, so I got online and looked up a few ways I could solve the issue. Every time I'd sit down to work, my current business operates online, the tapping would yank my focus away from me. One website taught me to cut open the wall and patch the leaks that way. I didn't have the money for a plumber, I thought, and I couldn't afford to move for a while, so I got to work. The drywall crumbled from the square-shaped cut-out, piling up on the staying carpet beneath it. When the job was done, I glared into the hole. I thought I saw something wriggle away. I cringed, shining my phone's flashlight inside. Nothing was there. No dripping pipes either. No sound. Just the silence. There was no moisture inside the walls, but the air around the hole carried a damp smell now. I continued to search, afterwards stuffing the towels I had into the hole. I started to tape them around the pipes, and something slimy brushed against my hair. I started to feel around, but found nothing there. I taped on the last of the towels, watching for a moment. None of the towels had gotten wet. There was no leak. I frowned as I pulled my hand back out. There was a greasy, brown stain left on my palm, though it was small. I watched the oily fluid on my hand. I almost thought it'd move for a minute. Well, I had to go to the store and buy a few more supplies. Leaving my wallet empty, safe for a pair of debit and credit cards, but soon the hole in the wall was patched up. For the rest of the night and the next day, I worked in perfect silence and peace. I got a few projects out of the way and messaged other businesses online. I got on the phone with my partner Vic, and we shot some ideas back and forth for a while. I didn't think about the sounds in the walls during that time. It returned fast. It woke me up during the middle of the night again. That morning I didn't fall back asleep when I started my work early. I moved my desk and computed to the living room for the next day. The noise continued for the rest of the month. Over the course of a few weeks, it began to progress through the house. There were other noises now, scratches, squeaks, bumping, oozing, and I swear, slurping. Like something eating soup inside the walls. For the first month over the new sounds, I threw on a half broken set of headphones and listened to Denzel Curry and the Asap mob. One headphone play louder than the other, and neither were loud enough to cover the sound. By the time a second month began, I was sleeping on my kitchen floor in a pile of blankets and pillows, trying to escape the noisiest. The sounds didn't come every day, but when they did, it was obvious. Once I even heard something like a thud from my bedroom, walking through the kitchen, I stopped. I remembered when I patched the leaks after the first incident, and entered my room as I felt along the wall and patted it out. There was no moisture, stench of mold, or any indication of a leak or water damage. With a shallow breath, I put my ear up to the wall, in the place that I cut open, and listen. Behind the dry wall was the sound of something squirming. A shot backwards, raising an eyebrow, I felt along the wall again expecting something to press against my hand. Nothing did. Tingles prinkled along the back of my neck as I teleported back to my childhood bedroom, back to my bed, and I watched the walls, waiting for them to crumble open as the demons poured out of them. I had to force myself back into the kitchen so that I could get back to preparing my lunch. The noises grew in volume in the hallway, and continue to grow for a week. I came out of the bathroom once to the sound of a lengthy squeak, like a mouse being constricted by a python. I froze in place. My throat got tight from my lack of breath, and I waited there. No demons crawled out of the walls. That was when I was thinking it had to be rats. The image of my childhood became more vivid again. One night came back to me. I was thirsty after waking up in the middle of the night, so I went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. In the flickering light, I saw my grandfather. He sat with his eyes closed at the kitchen table, a bloodied screwdriver in one hand. His forehead relaxed in the other. Around him, on the kitchen floor, there were gourd rats. In places where he'd missed, the tile was chipped and cracked. He didn't notice me staring at him. Later that night, after the squeak, I heard the familiar cacophony of sounds coming from my living room. It was an allowedest it had ever been. I crept into the living room. The only light provided was from my half-closed bedroom door. I thought of my grandfather again. Seeing his face the morning after he'd brutalized the rats, his eyes were red and dry and his lips were chapped, prickles of fear crept up and down my back. The other thoughts occupying my mind were of beasts in the nooks and crannies of the apartment. And to the living room, flicked on the lights. I sat and waited, allowing a podcast to play aloud on my phone. There were no other sounds. I fell asleep in damn near a second after I picked myself up and crawled back into bed. The noises continued to spread. There were two days where there was nothing but quiet. I stayed up late those two nights just to ensure extra progress was made on my business. I didn't get to sleep for long on the second day, in the middle of the night. Something burst open in my kitchen. I heard the dry wall blast open from my bedroom. I grabbed the baseball bat from under my bed, rolled out of the sheets and crept out the wall. I stood in between the hallway and the living room like a cat waiting to pounce on its brain. I flipped the light switch and raised my bad over my shoulder with two hands. At first glance there was nothing wrong. I walked forward, calling out. I know here in here, I waited in place. I didn't get to reply. I paused, my eyes drilling into me from inside the walls. I stared at them with a sensation that my guts were rising into my throats. Grandpa, grandpa, there's masters in the walls. I seen them. They talked to me at night too. A faint, putrid odor lingered in the room. The rig of it brought me back to when Mickey Morton threw up all over the field during baseball practice after staying at school all day with Strath. I scanned the apartment again. With the light feet I found my way into the kitchen. I turned on the light switch. The bar was hummed to life with a couple of flickers. Nobody was there. I looked just past the kitchen table. There was a penny sized hole, oozing brown slime. I approached it, crouched. I rubbed my finger around the edge. The residue stuck to my point of finger like tree sap. I wiped my finger clean against my jeans. The substance had the same consistency of the jelly on my palm after I cut open the hole in the wall. Goosebumps crawled up my back and covered my arms. I washed my hands for a long time, and I left my bat at my side as I tried to fall back asleep. The sounds had become white noise over time, but that night I heard every individual creak and groan like they were bombs going off. It took me an hour to fall asleep. I woke up the next morning and chugged a scolding hot cup of coffee. It was as if the tapping and the groaning came from inside me now too. I called Vic to ask if I could come over to his apartment and do some work. He scoffed and asked me why. So I told him I'd tell him everything once I got there. I recounted almost everything to him once I was at his apartment. "Why didn't you just come here right away?" He chuckled. I shrugged. "I don't think I have the mental capacity to process shit like that right now, but thanks for letting me stay." I fell asleep in the middle of my work. Vic woke me up and we talked over a few more ideas we had. We ate dinner together and then I stayed until it was dark again. I shook his hand before I left. The ride-ham took longer than it does a blind man to read war and peace. I almost ran a few red lights and pulled into a random parking lot to get a grip on myself. I led my head against the wheel and honked the horn by accident. My breaths came in shuddering gasps. I remembered, seeing a limo rolling up the street and watching the window slide down while I drew with chalk on my driveway. My mother and father cuddling each other on the front porch. Their eyes went wide and their jaws dropped. I turned my head and AR-15's barrel was poking out of the limousine. In a spray of gunshots and bright flashes. My mother and father clap forwards. Their bodies riddle with holes and blood spray-painting the warmth of our house. "Gotcha!" the gun man pointed at me, laughing like a child. I raised my head, wiped my eyes and thrust the car out of the parking lot. I was back home in just a few minutes. I fumbled my keys out of my pocket and walked down the apartment's hallway, approaching my door. I heard trembling down the corridor. There were loud thuds and taps amongst the array of noises. My heart froze over the inside of my chest. I started to speed walk. The lights of the hall were always dimmed at night. In the half-darkness I found to notice my neighbor standing by my door. I'd forgotten his name. All I knew was that he lived down the hall from me and didn't talk a lot. He shuddered. Cursing when he saw me. I gasped. The shaking of my apartment stopped and everything went quiet. "Hey buddy, you live here, right?" He slicked back his greasy hair, a yanky accent behind his words. "Yeah, what do you need?" I said. "You got company, buddy. Lots and lots of rats, I bet," he suggested. "For fuck's sake, you should do something about them. The damn things are getting loud now." He stepped past me, pacing down the hallway and back to his room. He glanced back at me. In his eyes I saw a terrified deer, one charging through the woods to escape a coyote. He opened his apartment door, entered, and slammed it shut behind him. I go up down the lump in my throat. I thought about what my grandfather had said when I first told him there were demons in the walls. "Oh, they're just rats, am I? They're just rats." I stared at the door, cool, down pair aerated through the building. I turned and expected to see my grandfather at my side. Instead, I was met with the memory that he had died long ago. I held the keys up to the door. I put them in the lock and turned it. The lock clicked and the door bid me entry. I cracked the door and peeped inside. No monsters and no intruders, a lot of silence. The lights were out. I tried to flip on on, it fizzled and then it went out. I tried the other switches that were near the entrance. They all did the same. Flipping them all again, the same results came through. I entered the apartment all the way and shut the door until it was just a sliver left until it's closing. I didn't dare lock it and the walls started to shake. They groaned, creaked and squeaked. A thousand little things wriggled underneath their surfaces. I had a vision of myself in a cave filled with swooping bats. It was quiet at first and the noises started to intensify and the shaking followed. I started from my bedroom all the way I heard my grandfather's distant whispers in my ear. We're going to need a shitload of rat traps and a couple dozen blocks of cheese. I made that Gorgon's older cheese. I took every step like there were knives sticking out of the floorboards. I grabbed the baseball bat and turned back. I stuck through the kitchen, examining it. There were miniscule, slimy holes in parts of the wall. More of that muddy sap gushed from the poles. I stalked through the living room and found more gooey cavities in the walls there. Some were bigger than others. At the size of fists I shuddered that, eventually made it back into my room. I tried to flick on the nearby light switch, which didn't turn on, but fizzled out as I expected. The last light left was a lava lamp on my work desk. I flicked it on and waited. I watched the walls. They pulsated like rolling tidal waves. Even the ceiling quaked. I thought it had squirming from the hallway. I swung the bat and drywall crumpled off in a dusty explosion. Lava-like, greyish brown sex tumbled out of the walls. I beat them with the bat. They looked like worms with sharpened fangs. A few of them started to squirm away, and they were quick. I smashed a couple in one blow as they lined up. The carpet started to tear in pieces. I screamed. A long worm curled out of the floor like a snake. It squealed and then lunged at me, grabbed a bite out of my arm. Flesh and muscle tore from my bicep. I screamed again. I swung the bat with my good arm. A worm teetered but regained balance. It circled like a predatory wolf. I kept swinging. Most were messes. A couple of times I managed to make the thing stumble or squeal. It lurched forward. I grabbed it by the head and I twisted around and locked its jaws. I drove the head into the floor. Silk-colored oo splashed onto my face and stung my eyes. The worm had gotten a nibble with my hand. I howled and drew it back. The sea of my fingers were replaced with bloody stumps. The worm was stumped. More of its larvae flooded from the holes in the wall. I stamped the largest worm's head into the carpet once more. I dove away from the beast. Its tail slunked forward like a hand. It wrapped around my ankle, dragging me back along the torn carpet. I spun around and tore the tail's grip off of me. I got loose for long enough to sprint free of the apartment. I closed the door behind me with a slam. I collapsed onto the floor and passed out. I woke up to a foot pressing into my back. "Hey buddy. You dead?" my neighbor asked. I groaned. "No, I know. I'm very much alive," I spat. "Hey, what's the problem, pal?" he hissed. "I suggest you get the fuck out of here. Maybe move out of your apartment, too." "Why?" "Why don't you open my door and take a look for yourself?" I asked. "Well," he scoffed, turned around and opened my apartment's door. The wall started to shake again. Twenty seconds later I heard the door slam behind him and he was gone. I drove to Vix at daybreak, without calling beforehand a knot on his door. "Am it?" he asked, I blinked a few times. "Hey, Vic." Once inside we talked for a while. He fixed country fried steak and fried eggs for breakfast, bringing a steaming plate over to me at the kitchen table. "So what the hell do you do to your hand?" Vic asked. "Also, remind me, why do you look like you ate shit?" I let out a long sigh. I was walking down the street last night, got jumped by a guy with a knife, tried to wrestle it out of his hands and cut off a few fingers. Vic gasped. "Jesus Christ, it's Chicago." He glanced into the distance. "You all right, man?" I frowned. "Yeah, it's Chicago," I said, fogging a chunk of steak into my parch lips with a near-fingerless hand. We drank coffee and later that night sat by his fireplace while pulp fiction played on the TV, the volume almost all the way down. "So, what keeps bringing you back here?" he asked, looking like a husband about to interrogate their cheating wife. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. The hawk across the room from me awaited an answer. "Ah, you know he won't believe you. You know, when you're starting to look like a meth addict, my house is just a mess. I can't focus anymore. I can't keep listening to the leaking pipes," I stated. Vic raised an eyebrow and scarred. "No, why are you really here?" Leaky pipes can't be that loud, I mean, I'd know. I just heard mine yesterday when I was down in the basement. When it comes to renting out your property, the uncertainty of finding reliable tenants can feel like a real guessing game, responsible renter or perpetual party animal. "Enter," renters warehouse. The pros who turned the uncertainty of finding great tenants into peace of mind. Renters Warehouse offers top-notch leasing and tenant placement services, ensuring you get trustworthy renters without the hassles and headaches. With no upfront fees, renters warehouse works for you, not the other way around, from marketing and showing your property to screening tenants and preparing the lease, their team of experts handles it all so you can sit back and watch the rent roll in. Renters Warehouse even warranties their tenants for up to 18 months at no extra cost. And if you need ongoing management, they've got you covered too, all for a flat monthly fee. Visit renterswearhouse.com to request a free rental price analysis, that's renterswearhouse.com or call 303-974-9444 to speak to a rent estate advisor today. "An official message from Medicare." A new law is helping me save more money on prescription drug costs. You may be able to save too. With Medicare's extra help program, my premium is zero and my out-of-pocket costs are low. Who should apply? Single people making less than $23,000 a year or a married couple who make less than $31,000 a year. Even if you don't think you qualified, it pays to find out. The thing from the forest changed my life for the better. Greetings, friend. I couldn't help but notice your account file from the park. May I join you? Oh, were you telling scary stories? Well, I have a scary story of my own. Won't you indulge me? If weeks I'd fantasized of this trip, or at least since my friend Lucas invited me, my first trip away from home, I was understandably nervous, especially since this would be my first night away from the comforts of my own bed. It has to be expected my mother was her usual and heavily protective self, ensuring all my items were packed and sorting my clothes as long-lasting food. You know, the same thing all mothers do. Lucas arrived driving his 80s Ford camper van, a beat-up old thing handed down from his brother. It was a surprise it even ran with the abuse it had seen over the years. Lucas put in the driveway around 7 a.m., I was already waiting outside, messing with my phone. I picked up my bag and hugged my mother goodbye and left for the van. Oddly, I got an easy feeling deep in the pit of my stomach, almost like I'd never see her again. The feeling gradually began to build until I buckled up in the warm-stained covered seats of the camper van, and the back of the van was filled with the rogues gallery who'd be joining us on our trip. There was Sasha, Lucas's love interest, and genuinely the closest you could ever get to evil. Jake was Lucas's brother, a small-time junkie, and the original owner of the van, and finally Ellie, Jake's girlfriend. Personally, he never got invested in knowing much about her. I watched the trees go by as we drove through the country lanes. The morning sun slowly beginning to disappear behind the overhanging trees. Jake thought now would be a good time to tell the grouper a little horror story about the cabin we were staying at. It was a few years ago or so, and a group of teenagers went to the cabin. The same one will be staying at. One whole week flew by, and they didn't return, so a concerned parent ran the police. For a whole month they searched, from the woods to the near mines, but with no luck. Well, 'til the fifth time, and they found a scrap of clothing inside a cave system. While walking deeper into the cave, they found a body. This body had been stripped of its flesh and organs, but what was left was its muscles. Harder still, the body was missing its skull, but its head was untouched and still perfectly shaped. Well, many natives who've lived near the woods claimed it was the great pan beast, known as a wandergo, where it committed the deed. I scoffed loudly and voiced my opinion. That story was a load of rubbish. I began calling out many inconsistent parts of the story, and even showed a Google search with no connections to the missing people. Well, Jake sneered at me, and they sought himself comfortably into his alley's bosom. His glare pointed directly at me with an unshakable malice. Couldn't help but crack a smile and turn to face the window. I placed my head softly on the window, and slowly began to drift on. I awoke with a shudder. I felt as if the world was spinning around me. I set up right and looked around, trying to get my bearings. It didn't take me long to notice. I was set outside the van, only now it was on its roof and completely wrecked. There was no sight of my friends, or any life for that matter, and the very notion of being alone next to the smash wreck made me feel worse when coupled with the disorienting feeling I had. My eyes jerked all around my surroundings. There was nothing but thick, dark woods in every direction. Before I could fully take in my situation, my body began running as if it didn't want to stay next to the area of destruction I'd woken up in there. I began to run deeper and deeper into the woods, following a whining path that seemed to materialize in front of me. All around me the woods felt rife with the unseen, hundreds of wild animals in a defensive-like state, all focused on me. The unshakable notion of being watched forced my already paranoid mind into overdrive. I over-assessed every direction. From out of the seemingly darkened woods, a cabin slowly came into view. Every single one of my instincts told me to run, but I couldn't. I jerked my head around as a roar, or perhaps a cry of an animal go through the woods, something that was hungry and ready to kill to survive. My body once more began to move towards the cabin, until I was faced with the door. Twin scratch marks ran parallel up the wood as if something had tried to get in. Well, I didn't want to know what, but it felt like whatever it was, it was haunting me. I pushed open the door, I only need to be consumed by a luminous white void. I felt weightless, almost floating, until my mind began to wait, and then there was nothing but a falling sensation. I awoke from my nightmarish slumber, tugging at my belt in a panic, a sensation of falling from my dream, continued well after I'd opened my eyes. The van was stationary, yet my eyes continued to spin as if I was moving, leaving a sickening feeling of disorientation to wash over me. Thankfully, it subsided as soon as it started. "Jesus, Barbie! You're lazy, I slept like the whole journey. You didn't even wake up for any of the three p-brakes, or, hell, the 25 pizza stops." Sasha's voice dug into my sleepy brain. It was fair to say she was still her usual moaning self, and I'm surprised, really. Lucas opened the van door and, hazily, everyone stepped out, had to shield my eyes from the low sun and out crept over the tree-line. God, I must have been seriously out of it, and I really miss so much, I'm used to myself. I grabbed my bag and began following Lucas down a cobbled path towards the woods. Well, the cabin laid just a short ways along in a modest, open clearing. The whole walk I felt as if there were thousands of eyes trained on me, all hidden beneath the undergrowth, just staring, watching, observing us. We eventually reached the cabin's main door, albeit through the moans of Sasha. Lucas grinned a cheeky grin and told us, "Welcome to paradise!" As soon as we opened the door, freezing breeze burst past us. It felt like a warning, almost as if the very building was telling us to drop all our stuff and run for home. I personally neglected the feeling and put it down to an empty cabin that had been left unused, not to mention probably a few broken windows and holes. As everyone crammed inside I began looking over the cabin's interior. It was old, dusty, and unlived-in, very similar to one in the horror movie. I stood apprehensively in the dining-room and waited for Lucas to enlighten everyone where we'd be sleeping. "Okay, Jake, you an earlier opposite the kitchen. Now, Jake, don't go eating all the food in the middle of the night." Jake sneered and caught the key that Lucas had thrown. "Uh, Sasha, you're with me at the end of the hall, master bedroom. Sasha never looked up for my phone." "Alright then, Bobbie, you're in the alcove above the kitchen. Just climb the ladder midway down and open the hatch. I nodded, not really taking any notice." "As everyone began to leave, Lucas made a snap decision, albeit a stupid one. Hey, Jake, pass me one of your plastic bags." "Well, somewhat surprised Jake did. Alright, everyone's phone's in the bag, I'm locking him in the same." "Sasha looked white and clutched her phone tightly. You can almost feel the force she gave off." "Lucas, please don't take my phone. I might need to call my mum," Sasha begged, but all that begging was futile as Lucas placed her phone with the others into the bag, and then into the safe. Lucas then continued with the rules of the cabin, but my interests lay with meeting my bagged. I slowly slipped out of the dining-room and headed down the hallway. The ladder clungs the wall, almost invisible to the untrained eye, as it sat inside a small indent inside the wall. I pushed open the trap door that lay open on the roof and lifted myself upwards. The room itself was nothing more than a medium-ish platform that was missing a wall, allowing me to overlook the kitchen. While the drop was very sudden, straight down to the floor, however I was in prime placement for some midnight snacking as I could reach the cabinets. While I gathered some items and headed down the ladder towards the only door-labeled bathroom, it looked strange having the word written over the door, but then again other cabins could be like this. I wouldn't know. Hoped into the shower and twisted the taps. Oof, jumped in shock as a stream of sludge water smacked me full force in the face. Eventually, the water got warmer and cleaner, but in my panic, I hadn't noticed the door had been slowly opened and just as quietly shut, nor did I notice a large shadow looming through the shower curtain. I fell back and screamed high-pitched in horror, then Sasha laughed uncontrollably as she rigged open the curtains. Most people would think I'm weird if I'd told them I showered wearing swimming trunks, but if you know the people I was with, then the notion suddenly didn't seem so weird. I shouted at Sasha to leave and threw a loofah at her, grinning, Sasha left and I stepped out of the shower. I looked into the mirror, trying not to let my mind be filled with anger. I looked deep into my reflection, and lost all awareness of the space around me. My face began to change or distort, you could say, but that's when I was wrenched from my gaze by something being dragged by the window. I looked back into the mirror for a split second, I could have sworn that I saw myself as a grave figure, wearing a deer skull looking back at me. I slapped my face and splashed water on me before making my way back to my room, hoping that some sleep might help me. I lay down and rested my head on the mattress that was now my bed and relaxed my eyes. I was surprised I was actually still tired, but after my restless sleep I had to say that nothing surprised me. I did however hope to have somewhat more pleasant dreams than before. This time I was sat hunched over in the middle of the woods, a crimson moon hung low in the sky, barely illuminating the naked trees. A thick smoggy mist had engulfed the area, leaving no visibility below my ankles. "Hello, who's out there?" Someone shouted, making my head twist a sharp 90 degrees. I began to run towards the voice, but I continuously stumbled. It felt like my legs were far too long from my body, and soon I found myself running on all fours. I lunged up a nearby tree and swung from branch to branch with ease, stopping only to observe my surroundings. I saw something shifting around in the undergrowth beneath me. I blinged my eyes, and my vision shifted. Something meshed in a cold but tranquil dark blue. Underneath me stood a shimmering orange light, holding something red, unable to understand what I was seeing. I shut my eyes and opened them again. Now my vision switched once more, showing the woods in a dark green. It took me a few minutes to realize I was seeing a night vision. The orange light was now more definable. It was a person holding a flashlight. "Hello!" shouted the figure, now looking around pedantically. I began to slowly climb up a tree and used the branches to get closer and closer to the person, until I hung only inches away from them. Now I was close enough to be able to identify the person. Stood still observing the area was jay, still dressed in the clothes you'd arrived in. I blinged once more and my vision to return to normal. Slowly I dropped from the tree and straightened myself behind Jake. He was now smaller than me, significantly in fact. Hearing a slight snap, Jake turned to face me, and fell over his voice, caught in his throat. Well, I couldn't look away as I lunged at defenseless Jake on the floor. I made a series of quick slashes and then removed the organs with the perfect cuts I just made. Unable to control myself, I began to devour the organs, feeling stronger as I did so. Once I'd finished, my gaze drifted over to a cabin that stood about 500 yards away. Just stationed in an opening. Once more I broke out into a run on all fours, heading directly towards the cabin. I arrived in what seemed my record time. I slowly stuck my head close to one of the windows, observing what was inside. Lucas was snuggled up next to Sasha with a TV casting static over the both of them. I shook my head and slunk over to another window. This one was Jake and Ellie's room, although it was empty. Once again I shook my head and moved to the final window that belonged to the bathroom. I appeared through the window and saw Ellie laying down in an empty bar with an empty packet of bath socks in her hands. I shook my head angrily this time. I began to crawl up the cabin towards the chimney, testing to see if it was hot. Upon seeing it wasn't, I slipped down it, dropping into the dining room, making as little sound as I could. I crawled around the hall, but stalked as I heard a door open, instinctively I jumped to the ceiling and ducked my nails deep into the wood to keep myself in place. Ellie walked out from the bathroom in a towel and noticed a whole blood stream coming from her nose. I waited until she'd entered hers and Jake's room and then I silently shifted into the kitchen. I paused and looked to the alcove her eye, was sleeping in it, climbing the counter and then the cupboards. I positioned myself to look at my sleeping body, nodding my head I slowly made two slits onto my sleeping head, but I then licked before turning away. A crash from the kitchen woke me and my vivid dream faded into nothingness, rubbing my eyes I checked my alarm clock, quarter past three. The noise sounded again, but this time I knew what it was, smashing plates. Hi from my alcove, I peeked over the edge, fully expecting it to be Jake looking for a midnight snack after one of his infamous chill out sessions. As I poked my head over the edge of the platform, I watched a figure in the darkened kitchen, sat consuming food sprawled over the floor. That moment I was positive it was Jake, now deep into one of his munchy moments. I stayed silent and watched him for a while, thinking, "This is the reason drugs are bad for you." I was just about to crawl back into bed when the fridge was opened and everything I'd thought was real took a back seat. As the light illuminated from the now empty fridge, the figure's entire being could be clearly seen. My body froze and my heart decided to check out with my sanity. The creature of the fridge looked grotesque, with disjointed body parts, all of which were a discoloured grey. The head was what stuck out the most though, his entire head was covered by the skull of what I assumed was an elk. Ellie groggily walked into the kitchen, half asleep and, well, I assumed high. She made a way to get a drink and began to walk out before looking to the now stationary figure behind the fridge door. "Jake, you're coming back to bed, babe," she asked, her words slowed, and then watched in horror as the creature opened its mouth and Jake's shriveled head began to protrude from the inside. And its reply sounded identical to what Jake's voice sounded like. "Yeah, I... I'll meet you there." Ellie walked out of the kitchen and back to her room, still completely unaware of the differences between Jake and the creature. As soon as the bedroom door clicked shut, the creature closed its mouth and shut the fridge door, straightened its body to be more human in shape. I watched as it walked to the kitchen door, but it stopped to look at where I lay. It placed a gray finger to its lips. The creature then walked out of the kitchen and I heard the faint click of Jake and Ellie's door go again. I crawled to the furthest corner of my room and huddled myself tight and waited. I sat unmoving. My entire being was filled with unbridled fear over this creature, and thousands of questions raced through my mind. What was it? What could it have been? What did it done to Jake, and now to Ellie? All these feelings culminated inside me, stirring, festering. I didn't know how long I'd spent staring at both a hatch and the missing wall of my room. I hardly noticed the sun begin to creep slightly through the underside of the kitchen window. Shaking still I opened the hatch and descended into the hallway. The same hallway that the creature had crawled across. I stood outside Jake's room and drew a deep breath slowly, twisting the door's lock. With a click, the door opened into a hazy blackness. The blackout curtains left only the light from the hall to illuminate the room, or at least as far as the bed that was positioned cutting the room in half. Jake's head slowly peered over the near flat covers, shortly after followed by Ellie's, that snaked itself directly beneath his. Ellie spoke out as if talking to someone who stood just behind me. "Shut the door, will you, dear. You're going to ruin the surprise." Well, I didn't need to be asked twice, and slowly clicked the door shut. I spent the morning cleaning the kitchen quickly and quietly, desperately hoping no one would walk in. I know I'd have to answer some unpleasant questions, like, "What the hell was I playing at?" Or, "Can I take in some of Jake's medication?" Once I was finished, I sat down, exhausted from the workers, such a slowly stumbled into the kitchen, wearing Lucas's large baseball tee. She opened the fridge and stared at it for a good few minutes, before realizing something was very wrong. In a frustrated yell, Sasha shouted, "Lucas, you stoner brothers eating everything!" I forced a laugh at Sasha, and ate a protein bar my mum had packed for me. I began processing what I'd seen last night in detail. The fridge, the mass, the creature, and now Jake and Ellie. Lucas strolled into the kitchen, and did his odd sick com opening, "Well, hello, family, how are we this fine morning?" Right after saying this, he kissed my hair, and then Sasha, before going to prepare some toast, but was unable to find any bread. "Hey, Bobby, Jake and Ellie awake yet." Well, I checked a few minutes ago, and they were still asleep. "You guys got me, lazy," I cautiously joked, whom I replied. Both Jake and Ellie's voices shouted simultaneously from their room. "Lucas, brother, I need your help with something." Lucas undisturbed, walked out of the kitchen, and into Jake's room. Well, after a few minutes of silence, I began to get panicked. Slowly I walked to the door and felt for the handle. Sasha intrigued, followed me, staying only a few feet behind. Never did I break eye contact from the door, all the space beyond it. The door's lock clicked, and slowly swung open. Where I and Sasha saw, left both our whole bodies frozen. The feelings I felt were identical to how I'd felt the previous night. In front of us stood a slender grey figure, with two elk-like antlers protruding from a scum-like cranium, and an almost malnourished physique. It was holding Lucas, who stared at me in Sasha. The beast threw Lucas at the wall, and then proceeded to face the door. I saw this as a sign to run, but Sasha stood transfixed, like a deer in the headlights. I sprinted out of the cabin, and ran towards the van, never looking back or slowing down. I didn't care. As I approached the van, my heart sank. It had been trashed and flipped over. How about this forced my mind to cast back to that dream I'd had. I gulped, and knew I had no other alternative options. Well, I had to return to the cabin, and began walking back slowly, well aware of the numerous eyes that were fixated on me. I ripped a large branch from a tree for defence, and continued on the path. I chuckled, and smiled as I felt the eyes around me begin to scatter. The feeling gave me a sense of excitement and fear, unlike anything I'd ever felt before. I approached the cabin door and gripped the handle tightly. I took a deep breath, and opened the door. I set up in a start, and scraped the top of my head against the light. This led to a mysterious onslaught of pain around my coronal suture. They observed the room I was in. It took me a few moments to recognise it as my alcove of the room in the cabin, still with this open wall and plummeting descent into the kitchen. I staggeringly crawled and scraped my head on the roof, an ungodly scratching noise filled my ears, and my head jerked back. It took me a few seconds for the pain to crack and creep into my already-pounding head. Keeping my head low I groggily fumbled for the hatch, but with every inch I crept I heard what sounded like scratching on the roof, and felt the slight jerk. I flipped over and looked at the ceiling. There were two light scratches running parallel to where I'd woken up. My mind cast back to what I could remember, entering the cabin, and then a sharp blunt force that led to darkness consuming me is if I'd been knocked out. For the life of me, I couldn't remember how I'd managed to get back to my room. Perhaps I'd been dragged there. I composed myself and slowly descended the ladder into the hall. As soon as I had both my feet on the floor and had ever so sweet and beautiful aroma filled my nostrils, I could only describe as roast pork cooked to perfection. I followed the scent to the dining room in the cabin, almost hypnotized by it. The cabin's dining room was now set up to seat two people at each end of the table. I looked over the contents that adorned the table, two plates and a large roast that was covered by an aluminum sheet. On the plates lay a thick juicy chunk of meat with a bone sticking out of one end. Please do have a seat, Bali. A voice spoke that was a combination of jakes, Ellie's and now sashis. "Who are you? What do you want?" I demanded. "No question, please. We merely want you to sit." I sat in the chair that had been set up for me. But as soon as my hands hit the chair arms, too cold and clammy hands grabbed my arms and legs, leaving me defenseless. I pleaded for help from anyone I knew there was no one there to hear me. I heard something crawling above my hands. "Who are you?" I cried out, but I didn't get a response. Instead, the figure I saw rummaging around the kitchen scaled down the walls from the rafts. Once it had reached the floor, the figure walked around the table until it stood at the side of me, and I could clearly see every bit of detail from its out skull that seemingly melded into its head with the luminous crimson eyes to its bony, grey, decrepit body. My brain couldn't fathom what I was seeing, the monstrosity of a being looming over me. Without even moving its mouth, the creature demanded I eat and plunged a large chunk of the meat into my mouth. Satisfied with its demands, the creature then did an insanely athletic lunge, similar to a cat, across the table and into the seat on the other side. My arms were then released, and I reluctantly grabbed the chunk of meat by the protruding bone. Ah, the smell was so sweet, and the lingering taste of the meat the creature had forced me to eat still remained, and I sank my teeth into it. The creature smiled through its skull, and its crimson eyes turned sapphire. The taste was surprisingly nice, as if it was a combination of every meat I had grown up loving. I took another bite, and then another, and another. The taste was just so good that I began stripping the meat to the bone. The creature had almost finished eating its own chunk of meat. It then stood up and asked what I'd thought of the meal. I was honest and said that it was one of the tastiest foods I'd ever had in my life. It's the past any taste I'd ever had before. The creature emoted happiness, and lifted the outskirts only for me to see that it was grafted to the back of its head, and that its elk horns were growing from its head. With a smile the creature opened its mouth, and its tongue slivered out. On its tongue were the heads of Jake, Ellie and Sarah. "What the hell?" I said, shocked. "This is the blessing I have received. Now, Bobby, so have you." The heads of Jake, Ellie and Sasha spoke them. "You are now one with us, Bobby. We are the walkers in the woods. We are the majestic Wendigo." The Wendigo then grabbed a mirror from the wall and forced my head to look into it. My response was shock. On top of my head was a small set of antlers growing. My skin had turned an unusual ash-gray as well. I gasped, but even that left me afraid. On my tongue lay the sleeping heads of those three, just like they were on the Wendigo's tongue. "Now for the main cause. Allow me." The Wendigo dragged off the dust cloth from the table. In the centre was Luca's gagged and bowed. The arms had released me from the chair, and I scaled the table and crawled to Luca's side and freed his mouth. "Bobby, what the hell is going on? We need to escape. Please, Bobby." I opened my mouth, but what came out were Jake's, Ellie's and Sasha's voices. And I felt their voices worm their way from the pit of my tongue and say exactly what it was I wanted to say. "There's no need to worry." I delved into Luca's chest and began stripping him of his organs and flesh to consume. Once I was finished I wiped my mouth and once again looked into the mirror. The Wendigo ate his share of Luca's behind me. On my tongue a small boil began to grow, behind Sasha's head. Continued to grow until the unmistakable shape of Luca's head nestled itself comfortably onto my tongue. I smiled, grabbed a large bone shard that I felt protruding from my spine and pulled it over my head before letting out an ungodly howl from the pain. The Wendigo then placed his hand onto my shoulder and led me to the back door. I could see a camp fire out in the woods, surrounded by tents. The Wendigo whispered into my ear, "Happy hunting!" I grinned and charged from the cabin on all fours to my next meal. And so once again we reach the end of tonight's podcast, where thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories, and to you for taking the time to listen. Now, I'd ask one small favour of you, wherever you get your podcast wrong, please write a few nice words and leave a five star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again same time, same place and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Till next time, sweet dream, some pie pie. Well it sounds like the tenants at your rental property sure know how to throw a great party. You just wish they wouldn't throw so many parties. On Tuesdays, until 4 a.m. And if they could pay the rent on time, that would be nice too. Being a landlord can be stressful, but it doesn't have to be. Let renters warehouse handle the hard part of property management for you, like finding quality tenants you can trust. 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