The Woeful Lake (aka. Night Watch)

Photo by Aniket Deole on Unsplash

The wind’s icy breath carried a mournful tune across the desolate farmland, where the forgotten tombs lay buried beneath a thick layer of powdery snow. Beyond the church lay a village, secluded and isolated from the rest of the world.

At the centre of the village lay a lake that shimmered in the moonlight, its dark surface reflecting the starry night. The lake’s name was a reminder of the past, a relic of a time long gone. The Woeful Lake. The Woe.

The lore of The Woe was shrouded in mystery. It passed down from generation to generation until it faded into obscurity.

Superstition ran deep in the countryside and as the rumours about The Woe reached their peak, the villagers abandoned everything they owned overnight and fled to the faraway towns in the southern parts of the country.

This whole thing was messed up in more than one way, not to mention highly suspicious. The mayor at the time gave strict orders to the locals and the press to not alert the rest of the country by making headlines out of these strange events that unfolded one wintry night on the 12th of December 1976.

As time passed and ran through the sand, the notorious lake was bound to be forgotten – a systematic and collective amnesia overlooked by the authorities.

My lifelong friend and colleague, Henry Glasgow, was the one who first told me about the lake. He and I spent almost a decade working together as security guards at the Museum of Modern Art.

Henry was someone I considered a good colleague and an even better friend. He was a man of few words, but my memories of him were nothing but fond.

I liked that part of him the most, the quiet part that is, because I was somewhat of a hermit myself. The two of us could go on working several hours in sheer silence, and the absence of conversation wouldn’t bother either of us.

When I asked him where he heard of The Woe, he told me that his maternal great-grandparents were one of many who fled that fateful night on the 12th of December.

His mother, a 10-year-old child back in 1976, recalled fleeing but had no other recollection of what transpired or why she had to escape in the dead of the night along with the rest of the villagers.

Over the years and as the symptoms of her dementia became more noticeable, however, she recounted her escape and described it as a ‘living hell’. That was the only thing she would reveal even on her deathbed.

Henry did his own digging into the mysterious lake after his mother’s passing, but all traces of that place had been removed from the public archives. It was as if The Woe didn’t exist. His search for the truth yielded fruitless.

This all happened when he was in his mid-twenties. Two decades later, as we were both on duty at night, he revealed that he finally found something.

An anonymous account had posted a thread on the 6th of October, two days before our night shift, on the subreddit UnresolvedMysteries about The Woe, seeking informants.

As the responses increased, the enigmatic nature of The Woe and the mysteries that surrounded it reached the international press.

That’s when Henry got in touch with the original poster and got a glimpse of what transpired the day his mother fled from her home.

In the early hours of June 9th, 1976, a pregnant woman in her second trimester went missing. Her husband woke up to an empty bed and alerted the mayor after two hours of searching on his own.

While the initial investigation into the woman’s disappearance ruled out foul play, the circumstances after her disappearance became a heated topic among the locals.

No one had heard or seen the husband search for his missing wife that day; as this was the countryside, people didn’t sleep past dawn and worked the fields until noon.

It wasn’t long until people ran their mouths and the rumours spread like wildfire about the husband’s possible involvement.

When an undisclosed farmer recounted seeing the missing woman’s husband near The Woe the day after she went missing – on his knees and crying – people talked amongst themselves that he had killed his wife and unborn child, and then thrown her lifeless body into the lake.

Even though numerous reports of this nature reached the authorities, however, they never searched the lake or the surrounding area.

Three weeks later, the husband was found hanging from a nearby tree adjacent to the lake. That’s when people began to call it The Woe. But the OP didn’t know anything about why people evacuated their homes back in 1976 – approximately six months after the suicide.

My dear friend was soon caught up in the intricate details of The Woe; it haunted him. His already skinny frame grew thinner, his cheeks lost colour, and his entire personality shifted for the worse. Even without witnessing it with my own eyes, I knew that he wasn’t sleeping anymore.

Should this keep up for another week, I feared that something bad would happen to him. But he wouldn’t listen to my pleas. Dreading that we’d grow distant, and he’d stop showing up to work altogether, I kept my thoughts to myself and slowly watched him become nothing but skin and bones.

Had I a way to stop him, I would. But I didn’t. The Woe consumed him, sucked his blood dry, and I let it happen.

While not as close as we used to be, Henry and I kept working together on the second floor of our office, overlooking the goodly building three nights a week every month.

The night shifts didn’t differ much from the day shifts, except for the lack of sunlight of course, and that was perfectly fine.

Our routine tasks were identical, whether during the day or the night, with the only change being the amount of time we set aside to complete them.

And, since we were unencumbered by authority figures, we made a habit of breaking rules just for the kicks during the night shifts. At the end of the day, we were just humans.

Things remained like this, in status quo, for a few weeks – until that night.

It was the 2nd of January 2013. Henry and I spent countless hours staring at the monitors, our eyes growing tired as we scanned the museum for any signs of abnormal activity.

Our patrols varied based on the resources at our disposal and the day of the month; our main task was to secure the doors and ensure that nothing valuable was accessible to potential intruders.

The doors were carefully numbered, with the first digit indicating the level of importance of the goods inside. The remaining digits provided factual information, including the floor number and security level.

Although this job required us to work through the night at least three times a week, we took turns sleeping to make it more manageable.

Despite the mundane nature of the tasks and the uncomfortable working hours, however, I never complained about my pay, knowing that my salary was twice that of my friends who worked traditional 9-5 office jobs.

Besides, my previous job as an orderly at a psychiatric ward had me working mostly at night as well, so I had no problem adjusting to this line of work.

Henry, on the other hand, took a couple of weeks to adjust to the night shifts. In hindsight, it dawned on me that he was tight-lipped about his past, including his previous jobs, before becoming a security guard.

But it struck me as no more unusual than the fact that I never talked about my family life either. As I mentioned, we were both comfortably reserved and were fine with that.

The air was crispier than usual in our office when Henry returned after patrolling the building for half an hour or so. I was digging my teeth into a cheese sandwich, occasionally glancing at the monitors when he sank into the armchair next to mine and placed his keyring and flashlight on the desk.

I caught him looking over a few times and asked if he wanted half of the sandwich, but he shook his head instead of replying. But the manner in which he moved his body occurred to me as unnatural. He looked like someone who had seen a ghost. I put my food away.

“You okay, mate?”

He stared at me as if he couldn’t discern what I was saying at first. The unfazed and robotic quality of his voice was impossible to ignore. I could’ve sworn that his voice sounded different like it was coming from someone else. It was uncanny, like hearing a familiar tune played on a different instrument.

We looked at one another for about two seconds I think before he finally answered. His voice sent a shiver up my spine.

“There’s something in there.”

“Huh?”

“In the storage room on the third floor. I saw something in there.”

Alerted, I faced the monitors and located the third floor. There weren’t any signs of intrusion visible. Zooming in on the storage room, I noticed that it was cracked open. As panic set in, I looked at him for a third time.

I had worked at the museum for over a decade and this was the first time we ever had an issue with an intruder. Usually, the guys patrolling outside the building were the first ones to catch them red-handed.

Moreover, we hadn’t heard the alarm ring, which meant at least one exit door was unlocked without setting off the alarm. Per protocol, we had to manually shut down the entire building and call the police at this point.

But as I asked Henry what he had seen exactly, he told me something I needed a few seconds to digest.

“I think you need to go.”

“Go? Where?” I said. “The storage room?”

He shook his head. “No, you… need to go. Right now. I- I don’t know how to explain it, I…”

“What’re you talking about, man? What the hell did you see? Henry?”

He didn’t reply. Growing irritated, I decided to take a look at the storage room myself.

However, he leapt in front of me with unprecedented speed, blocking me from taking another step, his darting eyes wild and amok. I tried to shove him aside, but he was larger in build than me and stood his ground.

Everything happened so fast. I pushed him away and my friend hit his head on the edge of the desk and collapsed.

I checked his pulse before making it out of the office and up the staircase. While I was supposed to follow protocol, I couldn’t shake the feeling that, whatever my friend had seen, was nothing but a hallucination.

As I mentioned before, Henry hadn’t slept properly for many weeks and I couldn’t just blindly trust his words and disrupt an otherwise calm night.

For all I cared, the door to the storage room had been unlocked by none other than Henry himself for whatever reason, and I couldn’t be less interested in knowing why.

I pointed the flashlight down the third-floor corridor and scanned the area for somewhere between a second and a second and a half.

When I couldn’t hear or see anything out of the ordinary, I resumed my patrol and continued to the other side of the drafty corridor.

As I closed in on the cracked storage room, I came to a standstill and looked around me – ears perked up and listening.

My wandering eyes followed each crack and hole in the walls until they landed on the sole security camera in the corner I had just passed to get to the other side of the corridor.

After shouting for whoever might be hiding in the storage room to show themselves, I quickly pulled up a pair of handcuffs just in case and pushed the creaking door wide open.

My heart skipped several beasts as I aimed the flashlight all over the place only to heave a sigh of relief and relax my shoulders.

As I put my guard down and stepped inside the storage to look around, I noticed that the entire room was blanketed in dust and hadn’t seen the light of day for months, if not years.

Stacks of crates and boxes teetering precariously on top of one another was the first thing that caught my attention; the dusty shelves were empty and everything lay on the linoleum floor.

While most of the artefacts were worthless, a small collection dating back to the beginning of the modern era held significant historical and intrinsic value and was worth a few hundred dollars.

Our boss said that the storage room was locked to ensure that whatever was inside stayed inside; former employees, our boss warned me on my first ever shift, tried to steal the defective goods hoping to make a quick buck on the black market, but was caught in the act and got sacked.

I was told not to be like ‘those bastards’. I remember having a good laugh about this with Henry years later, joking about not becoming a bastard and losing the only job we had for a fleeting thought of getting rich overnight – the same thought process gamblers possessed. We weren’t bastards, the two of us.

I exited. The door clicked shut behind me, and I gave it a firm tug to make sure it was locked and secure.

When I was halfway down the corridor, ready to return to the office a floor down and beat some sense into my friend, a sudden noise cut me short. Instinctively, I turned around and pointed the flashlight at the locked storage room.

My laboured breath came in short gasps as I tried to find the source of the odd noise. Then it dawned on me. The noise wasn’t coming from the corridor, it was coming from the ceiling right above me.

Hesitant, unsure of what sight would emerge from the darkness, I directed the light upwards and scanned the ceiling. My heart was in my mouth.

Something dripped on my forehead, right between my eyebrows, and trickled down the side of my nose bridge and hit the floor. I grimaced and ran my fingers over my wet nose; the pungent smell making me gag in place.

I doubled over and retched as a pool of dark liquid pooled around me in a perfect circle. A barking cough got hold of me and forced me on four legs. My trembling hands submerged into the nasty liquid and the pungent smell pervaded the entire corridor.

I glanced at the security camera, reaching out to it as if to touch it, only for the coughing attack to stop abruptly.

I looked around me, puzzled beyond words, and noticed that everything was back to normal. My hands were no longer soaked in the nasty liquid, in fact, there was no liquid to begin with.

Scared witless, I sprinted to the other side of the corridor, leaving behind my flashlight and handcuffs, and descended the stairs like a madman.

When I returned to the office and locked the door behind me, Henry was no longer where I had left him.

Dripping with cold sweat, I sank into my designated seat and let my throbbing head rest on the headrest. For a brief moment, I shut my eyes and drowned out all other noises besides my own irregular and shallow breathing.

Only when my heart calmed down did I become eerily aware of Henry’s prolonged absence.

I drew up my walkie-talkie and asked where the hell he was, but there was no response, only the sound of static came through.

Thinking he was playing games with me and utterly exhausted, I told him to fuck off and put the walkie-talkie away for a good hour and a half.

As the clock kept ticking and we were nearing the end of our shift, I decided to go look for my friend, whom I assumed had dozed off in the restroom next to the office.

It wouldn’t be the first time he had done this since he became obsessed with The Woe, and I figured I’d let him sleep for as long as I possibly could.

The stench of standing water hit me as soon as I opened the restroom door. Convinced something terrible had happened, I stormed in and twisted off the running taps one after the other.

All three of the sinks were overflowed with water, not to mention the drenched tiles that made the floor slippery.

Frowning – flabbergasted more than anything – I caught a glimpse of myself in the wall-length mirror before quickly turning my attention to the toilet cubicles behind me.

My heart sank. Water flowed from under the door of the last cubicle.

I could feel the panic rising as I tried to unlock the cubicle, but it remained firmly shut. I resorted to lung at it repeatedly, convinced my friend was somehow trapped inside, when it unlocked with a sudden rush of air, causing me to stumble backwards.

“Henry!”

I was left in shock at the spectacle that lay before my eyes. It was him. His body, drenched and twisted, slumped towards me, while his head remained buried in the overflowing toilet bowl.

I yanked his head out and dragged him out of the cubicle by his feet. My uniform clung to my skin, heavy and waterlogged, as I made it to the doorway.

Despite my fervent attempts to revive him, Henry remained unresponsive, his body still and lifeless. He had no pulse. I had come too late.

Realising the gravity of the situation, I peered out into the corridor and gritted my teeth. My phone was locked in my drawer.

I pulled out my walkie-talkie and, despite the panicked state I was in, got in touch with the guards outside, briefed them on what happened and urged them to call the police and an ambulance.

I couldn’t keep the tears in as I held my friend’s cold body close, instinctively trying to keep him warm until help came.

Was this the reason he tried to make me leave? So he could kill himself? But why? Why would he do something like this all of a sudden?

Henry was an eccentric character, all right, but his demeanour never hinted at any suicidal tendencies. Not to mention it was an odd choice of method for someone of his calibre to end his life; drowning wasn’t only excruciatingly painful but also difficult to accomplish on your own.

His brain would’ve done anything to make sure his face stayed above the water – unless, of course, he didn’t try to take his life – somebody else did.

No matter how I hard tried to rearrange the pieces in my mind, the puzzle pieces just wouldn’t come together.

Sure, his obsession with The Woe was over the top and borderline destructive, but the Henry I knew wouldn’t let death anywhere near him until he unravelled the mystery that shrouded the mysterious lake.

His untimely demise left me in a state of shock and denial. Even as they loaded Henry into the ambulance, my senses felt dulled and distant, like I was watching everything through a fog.

My head was reeling, and a splitting headache overwhelmed me.

I called our boss afterwards, told him what had happened and asked if I could clock out an hour earlier that night.

On my way out of the office, my eyes landed on the ajar restroom door and a chill shiver ran up my spine. Unsettled, I decided to close the door when I thought I saw something move right past me.

Then I heard it. Running water. As soon as I stepped into the restroom and looked around, the noise ceased and faded away. I twisted the tap and watched the water rise in the sink before twisting it off.

Through the mirror, I observed the last cubicle where I found my friend’s lifeless body just hours before and wheezed. Whatever happened here, I’d probably never know.

I left the museum two hours later and had a chat with one of the guards on duty, just going through what I already told the police, and then hit the road a quarter to 4 am.

As I hit the gas and turned around the corner, I glanced at the museum through the rearview mirror and felt my blood curdle. I never thought a day would come and I would dread the sight of a mere building made of bricks.

I had another night shift the day after and I knew already that I was going to call in sick.  

Henry’s passing, albeit we didn’t know one another outside of the workplace, had a great impact on my psyche. It was like a memento mori, a reminder of the inevitability of death and the frailty of human life.

The thought of this happening to me was an unescapable outcome, especially since Henry’s last words to me kept ringing in my ears all the way home.

Why did he tell me to go home? If I didn’t go to the storage room that night, would I be the one who perished so untimely?

Upon returning to my apartment, the weight of everything that happened finally hit me, and I wept like a child. My body convulsed, and the absurdity of this whole situation with Henry haunted my thoughts.

Lia, my fiancé, woke up as I entered our bedroom and sat straight up as soon as she noticed my bloodshot eyes.

Without saying a word, I collapsed into her arms. The scent of her shampoo enclosed me from all sides and calmed me down. I kissed her delicate hand as we locked eyes and she asked me what happened.

Although I told the police, my boss, and the guards what happened already, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the demise of my friend, and even if I came up with a lie, I knew she wouldn’t buy it.

“Robert,” she said with her sweet voice that could break a grown man into tears, “what is it?”

“I don’t know where to begin…”

“Begin at the beginning, then. Why are you like this? Did something happen?”

I hesitated. “The guy I worked with, you know the one I talked to you about? He’s dead. He- he died, Lia.”

“How? It’s okay, babe…”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. I don’t wanna know. But I don’t think he’s… That he, that he did that to himself. Lia. I don’t even know why I’m like this or why—”

“Babe, what happened to him?”

Once again, I hesitated. I couldn’t bring myself to say the truth.

“He drowned. In the toilet bowl. I- I found him, he—I thought I could save him, but he… He had no pulse. He was already dead, Lia, it was too late. If only I could—he wasn’t that type of person that’d take his own life…”

“You couldn’t have predicted he’d do that. No one could,” she said. “Sometimes, even those we think we know the best do something we’d never expect of them. Just like this one.”

I pulled away from her and shook my head.

“Not Henry. I- I knew that guy, Lia! Sure, he was acting out of character lately and all that, but, babe, I knew him! He… he wouldn’t do that.”

“Robert, I know you were fond of him, but…”

“He told me to go home, Lia. Before he did that to himself. He wanted me to go home.”

“I’m sure he wanted to spare you from—”

“No,” I said. “The way he told me that… It sounded like he was trying to protect me.”

My fiancé frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Listen, I know how this sounds, but when I went upstairs to check the storage room, just hours before he did this to himself, I saw something. I- I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t a hallucination, it was…”

“Robert!” She gently held my pallid face with her hands. “You sure you okay?”

I clammed up and couldn’t continue. She wouldn’t believe it. Even I had a hard time believing myself, so why would she, a budding scientist with a PhD in biomedicine?

“I- I think I need to get some fresh air.”

“Robert? Robert, I didn’t mean to—”

I broke off in the doorway, my back turned to her.

“No, it’s okay, babe. I know you didn’t mean it like that. I just… need some time for myself.”

As I was about to close the door, she said something that cut me short for a brief second. I didn’t reply.

I grabbed my jacket and spent the rest of the night in the park near our apartment and didn’t return until I knew she was no longer at home.

Hypnosis

Photo by 8machine _ on Unsplash

Keep breathing. Do you hear it? The sound of your heartbeat. A steady thump-thump. Now look behind you. What do you see? A shrewd reflection in the mirror, a translucent figure mimicking your wolfish face beyond the window, or just the abyss? 

I’m none of these. In the deepest chamber of your despicable heart, I am the worm eating your insides and picking at your gut. Bit by bit. Bite after bite. Devouring you.

Feel it. Feel my way into your deepest desires. Despair is your friend. Let it consume you. Do you see what I see? Infested by lust, drugged by sex, controlled by depravity: animalistic, bestial, and vulgar. Do you see? Do you really see? The beast within.

There’s no escape. Surrender. There’s no God here. Let me in. There’s no point in denial. Let me consume what afflicts your mind and set you free. You belong with me, with the Prince of Darkness. Every inch. Every unattended space. A servant worth my time. 

When I snap my fingers, you’ll come alive. 

One, two, and… three.

Now open your eyes. Look at me. Honour me. I’m the only God you need here, in the depths of the earth, six feet under, in the abode of the damned.

The Holocaust and the Nakba personified.

My kin.

What We Bury (aka. Confessions)

Photo by Loren Cutler on Unsplash

A callous thunderstorm picked up and erupted through the wasteland. With a deafening roar, lightning struck and shook the earth. People scurried for cover as the thunderstorm continued unabated, leaving the streets empty and silent.

All sounds dispersed and only the patter of rain remained, and it was in those deadly seconds I stopped typing and looked over my shoulder.

The mesmerising sight of the crystal-clear downpour and the overcast weather sent chills down my spine.

I had been working on a screenplay when the thunderstorm picked up. It was a macabre story, much like the deluge, which drenched not only the earth but also my soul.

I lost focus and listened to the cadence of roaring thunder and burbling rain. Closing my eyes momentarily, I could hear the storm raging on, refusing to let up.

By the time I stood up and approached the leaded window, a sense of familiarity crept over me. The berry blue curtain hung gracefully, casting a soft, cool hue into the room as it gently swayed with the breeze.

My vision became muddled and my hands trembled. I backed away from the window as something passed through me and out of the cracked window.

I followed the translucent figure with my darting eyes until I no longer could. My heart raced, thumping in my ears. The thunderstorm came to an abrupt end.

When I returned to my desk, I turned off the monitor, sank into the leather armchair, and drifted into a peculiar sleep.

Spectres materialised in my mind, crafted from the depths of my imagination. It was an innate response from deep within my subconscious.

I had stayed up several nights, my eyes bloodshot and my body exhausted, typing away without considering my well-being.

My agent wanted a finished product by the end of the week. The details were meticulously written in the contract. And I had never put my signature on something I knew I couldn’t honour.

It was different this time around, though. No words and no sentences felt enough, and I spent more time deleting than writing. I had lost my touch. There was no use in denial.

Writing had taken up most of my time ever since I discovered my natural inclination to the craft. My passion led to a successful career in the industry with over 30 years of experience.

I wasted my youth on this lonely path, but I cherished every moment of solitude. I regretted nothing.

As time went on, however, as it always did, I found myself in a place where I no longer anticipated the rise of the morning sun.

By the age of sixty-three, I developed a severe depression and lost the passion which had kept me alive for all these years. The world felt void of any inherent meaning or direction.

Day after day, I awoke with a deep desire for the darkness of night. Writing became second to the overwhelming feeling of emptiness that dwelled within the innermost chamber of my heart.

I tried countless times to hide my pain, hoping that this feeling would eventually fade away. But it didn’t. I could no longer recognise myself, this old man, in the mirror.

He looked better than he felt; his voice was still cheerful and so was his toothless smile. Deep within, however, a gnawing pain grew in the pit of his stomach and overwhelmed his senses.

I opened my eyes. A senile figure stared at me from the black screen. His brown hair had turned grey, his lips were thin, and his eyes were hollow and sunken like the depths of the ocean.

In this suit of flesh, there was no trace remaining of the person I once was, just an empty shell stripped of its soul.

As I lay on the draped bed, the softness of the sheets embraced me and a sudden wave of melancholy washed over me. Unwittingly, I stared at the leaded window a second time.

It was three past eleven o’clock, the vacant streets were swallowed by shadows and illuminated only by the eerie glow of moonlight.

I stopped breathing and observed the silence of the gloaming. Time stood still and became lost in the unforgiven past.

My misty eyes became as wide as the full moon as a surge of warmth embroiled my body. I jerked up in a sweat. Someone watched me.

There, beyond the translucent glass, someone followed my every move and lay in wait like a predator would. It remained hidden from my sight, lurking in the shadows, yet its menacing presence haunted me.

Stepping out of bed, I walked towards the enticing window and felt the coolness of the glass against my fingertips.

My apartment stood in the middle of the city square, amidst a busy street filled with blinding lights and the raucous sounds of drunken revelry.

But the city had fallen asleep. Not a single soul disturbed the quietude.

Desperate to uncover the source of my distress, I scanned every turn, every corner, and every alleyway. But the wet streets were eerily quiet, as if they had been forsaken by the world.

I was completely alone in the here and now, my reflection in the glass the only living thing I could see. I turned around.

The faint sound of someone twisting the door handle arrested me. I took a step towards the redwood door, completely unaware of my movements, my heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

I felt on the handle, and as soon as I did, whoever tried to get into my bedroom let go. I stepped away and dropped my eyes. Someone stood right outside my door and waited.

I took another step backwards followed by several others, clutching to the desk beside my bed without taking my eyes off the silhouette beyond the door.

My cell phone slipped through my fingers and hit the floorboards as I tried to feel my way to it. I stopped breathing. The silhouette did not move.

I picked up the phone and dialled—a familiar voice called my name. I hung up. Was I hearing things? My hand shook as I put the phone away and advanced towards the locked door. Listening.

My quivering eyes moved from side to side, frantically, and welled up with tears. A pang of ache grew in my heart. My legs gave in and I collapsed on both knees. Could it really be… But how?

Like any ordinary person, I had skeletons in the cupboard. Everyone was aware of it yet no one dared to speculate. It was a secret I had harboured deep within my soul for the last few decades.

My entire career was built on falsehoods, and these lies had now come to haunt me. I sinned. Not once but twice. That one mistake led to another and each lie ate up my heart and rotted my insides.

But I was too deep into the mud to confess. All these years, I thought I could get away with it.

I was mistaken.

I made my way to the computer and was greeted by the soft hum of the monitor as I turned it on. Without a second thought, I erased all my irreplaceable files and started typing on a blank document.

There was no room for lies. It was time to come clean – it was time to come clean and pay for my overdue debts. It took me 30 years to see through the lies I had come to sincerely believe, and now I had to face my demons to recover my sanity.

I may not look like it now, but there was a time when I was a timid and withdrawn boy. My peers picked on me daily; I went to school each day knowing that it could be my last.

There was a boy in my class who was especially cruel to me. His name was Grayson Cooper. We were once friends and lived two blocks from one another.

I came from a poor household in the ghetto and was brought up by a single mother, whereas Grayson lived in an uptown neighbourhood where the rich lived. We were different yet the same at the same time.

We revelled in the heavy, bone-shaking riffs of deathcore, our dreams filled with visions of forming a band someday.

He was going to be the lead guitarist, and his solos would captivate audiences with his insane skills, while I was going to be the miserable vocalist whose lyrics would paint the picture of melancholy.

Together, we dared to dream big, but our hopes were crushed before we had the chance to make them a reality.

It all started when Grayson didn’t show up at school for a week and I did something I had promised him not to do. I went to his house.

Grayson, for whatever reason, disliked talking about his family. I promised him I would never set foot in his house or speak of his family.

But as his only friend, I couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of concern.

I thought he’d understand the sincerity of my apology and find it in his heart to forgive me for not keeping my promise. I was deadly wrong.

When I knocked on the door of the beige mansion, the weight of my actions settled in and a dishevelled Grayson opened it.

His ice-cold expression, even before he said a single word, told me I had crossed a line I could never undo.

As soon as he saw me, he became alarmed and wasted no time in telling me to scram before shutting the door in my face.

I couldn’t wrap my head around what had happened.

Grayson returned to school the following day, but we no longer talked. He treated me with indifference, giving me the cold shoulder, and eventually, that indifference turned into sheer hatred over time.

Before I knew it, I had become the target of a group of bullies. Grayson was their leader. I was so baffled, so surprised by how cruel and heartless Grayson had become overnight, that I couldn’t even defend myself.

I grew accustomed to the sound of fists landing on my body, the rhythmic thuds becoming a daily anticipation. My self-worth dwindled like a fading ember.

The drastic shift in Grayson’s behaviour left me bewildered, and I couldn’t understand why our friendship had taken such a turn.

The date was March 15th, 1996. Grayson, once again, was absent from school. For once, I wasn’t bullied. It was a day that would forever be ingrained in my memory – the day everything changed.

Grayson didn’t show up at school that entire week. I couldn’t tell if his absence was a miracle or a curse. Looking back, I now understand that it was the calm before the storm.

I was in the school library, my fingers grazing the spines of the books as I searched for a new fantasy novel to read, when I caught sight of Grayson peeking out from behind the wooden bookshelf.

He left a note on the dusty shelf before darting out through the cracked door. Everything happened in a blur and it took me a moment to realise that the note was meant for me.

It had been over ten days since I last saw Grayson, and as he fled, I only caught a fleeting glimpse of his weathered face. Something about his ghastly appearance, with the sunken cheeks and chapped lips, chilled me to the bone.

The note was carefully folded, its message hidden from prying eyes. He wanted to meet up in the forest that lay on the other side of the fence, opposite the running track.

I hesitated for good reasons, my intuition telling me to proceed with caution. What if he wanted to meet up at such a secluded place, where the silence was only broken by the distant rustling of leaves, for no other reason than to kill me?

But curiosity got the better of me. I couldn’t shake the image of his bloodshot eyes from my mind. What had happened to him in such a short time?

Just in case something should happen, I pocketed a pair of scissors from the library and made my way towards the running tracks.

In order to reach the fence, I had to weave my way through the bustling playground filled with primary schoolers.

The sound of the bells filled the air as I hurried past the red slide, knowing that the teachers would soon call the primary schools back inside.

No one was on the running track. The only sound that accompanied me was the rhythmic beat of my own footsteps as I jumped over the wooden fence and ventured into the forest.

I followed the narrow trail that led to a manmade grove, where rows of perfectly aligned trees stood. Grayson stood near the dense trees, his back facing me as I called out his name.

He turned around. I ran my fingers along the scissors, feeling the sharp edges through the holes in my sweater before I let go.

As I approached him, his ashen face arrested me once again. His lips were tinged with purple and his eyes were devoid of any expression.

His bones were visible through his thin, leathery skin and he bore a striking resemblance to the undead. How long had he been without food and water?

I furrowed my brows and dropped my eyes as I noticed he was holding something that fluttered in the wind. I blinked, my head swirling with confusion. It was a woman’s stocking with a lace pattern.

I lifted my gaze off it and stared at him, and that was when I noticed the glistening tears streaming down his cheeks. His tear-streaked face revealed the depth of his pain.

I instinctively took a step back.

“Are you afraid of me?” he said.

I stood there in silence, my mind blank, unsure of what words to utter. My life had become a living hell over the past two years – all thanks to Grayson and his friends. I almost went deaf, too, because of them.

Anyone in my place would tremble, not only in fear of his tormentors but also at the slightest flicker of his own shadow.

I didn’t want to respond, and so I didn’t. Once more, my eyes were drawn to the stocking in his hand.

I changed the subject. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t bother to follow my eyes. Instead, he turned his back to me, the silence between us growing heavy with unspoken words.

Bewildered, I couldn’t tear my eyes away as he tied the stocking to the trunk of the tree, the knot growing tighter with each twist.

Then he said something that would echo in my ears for the rest of my life. It sent shivers down my spine and made my blood run cold. Fear took hold of me, causing my body to stiffen and anchor me in place.

He peeked over his shoulder.

“Hold it.”

“What?” I began, trying to process what was happening. “I- I can’t.”

Grayson tied the other end of the stocking tightly around his bare neck. I took a step forward, my heart in my mouth, ready to intervene, but Grayson’s icy stare halted me in my tracks.

He repeated himself, his voice barely a whisper amidst the howling wind. I found myself frozen in place, unable to move a muscle.

Night after night, I pleaded with a god I didn’t believe in to help me escape Grayson’s torments, but this wasn’t what I had in mind.

I shook my head, the weight of terror settling in my bones. My breath quickened and became shallow. I wanted to tell him something – anything – but my dry lips remained sealed.

My mind went blank and a tingling sensation spread through my limbs.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

I couldn’t find the words to refute him. I didn’t want him to die, it was the last thing I wanted, but I was too startled to make a single sound.

My eyes welled up with tears. Why, I was thinking the entire time, why was he trying to kill himself? It was so sudden…

The Grayson I knew was carefree and unbothered, and if anyone were to contemplate suicide, it would have been me – not him.

My mind drifted to the past, replaying the exact moment our friendship ended. The Coopers, the beige mansion, and the wan-looking Grayson who told me to get out of his house.

I recalled the moment he kept looking over his shoulder back when I visited him for the first and last time, the sound of his quickened breath echoing in my ears still.

“What… in the world happened to you?”

The words escaped my lips before I could stop them, lingering in the air like a whispered secret. I caught a glimpse of surprise in his dark eyes, but it vanished before I could fully register it.

He lowered his gaze. I felt a deep ache in my chest, my heart heavy with an unknown sorrow. I found myself advancing, feeling the rough texture of the ground beneath my feet.

As I closed in, Grayson looked up, surprised, and swatted my outstretched hand away.

There was something about him that gave me a sense of unease. Something was off. But what exactly? My eyes darted around until they landed on the stocking slung around his neck.

There were easier ways to commit suicide, and much less painful ways to end an existence, so why had Grayson chosen to die in such an agonising and miserable way?

I didn’t understand why at the time – I was just a kid. But now, it all made sense.

It was a cruel punishment for all the wretched things that were beyond his control. He didn’t know any better.

Like me, he was just a child at the mercy of the adult who abused him. But he knew that the ghosts of his past would forever cast shadows on his present and future.

This was why Grayson did this. I wished I had spoken up back then, that I could find the right words to make him realise that none of this was his fault. But I couldn’t.

That moment, as he confided in me the reason our friendship fell apart – the real reason – I could do nothing but sob.

Grayson’s parents divorced when he was six years old. While his mum took his little sister to another city, he was left behind by his alcoholic dad.

His mum tried to take him with her too, he told me in those unforgettable moments, but his dad threatened to kill her and his sister if she did that.

His mum, hailing from the slums of the Philippines, grew up as the youngest of seven siblings in a destitute household. She met his father on a social media platform and decided to marry him at the tender age of eighteen for his wealth.

His dad promised her a good life, one that would finally release her and her family from the clutches of poverty, and she placed her unwavering trust in him.

Unfortunately, things didn’t unfold as she had anticipated.

Over the span of their fourteen-year marriage, his dad’s abusive tendencies progressively became worse. His mum ended things for good when she caught his dad sneaking into his little sister’s bed after drinking.

Even though she knew Grayson would be subjected to the same abuse, she abandoned him, hoping she was wrong. She wasn’t.

His deranged dad made him wear his mum’s clothes and makeup; the crimson dress she left behind, her translucent stockings and the blood-red lipsticks were all his now.

His dad abused him, then asked for forgiveness the following day only for the wicked pattern to repeat whenever he drank himself into a state of complete oblivion.

It was during these periods that he was forced to stay home. His whole body bore the marks of abuse, and Grayson became a living corpse.

No one knew, no one suspected.

Above all else, fear consumed him. The abuse stripped him of his capacity to experience normal sensations and emotions. He caught himself having disturbing thoughts of children his own age and younger – a conflicted mixture of desire and disgust.

Like his dad, he was turning into a monster, and the ongoing struggle to resist his temptations consumed his thoughts. He was on the verge of losing control. He reached a point where the fear of his own being haunted his nights, leaving him sleepless.

But he couldn’t escape the growing madness that was taking hold of him. His repulsive emotions burrowed into his heart, embedding themselves within his brain. He wrestled with the thought of ending his life but couldn’t follow through with it.

Not until then.

I should’ve tried to dissuade him, suggest therapy or any other form of help, but deep down, I knew it would be futile. Even then, as we stood face to face, I could see this wicked thing reflected in his dark eyes. Grayson had already succumbed to the monster.

I helped him do it. I helped him end his miserable life. And just like he told me it would, the monster tried to reason with me, as it was suffocating to death.

Grayson told me not to listen to it. Even as it begged for mercy, and pleaded with me to help it, I didn’t release my grip on the stocking.

When his lifeless body finally stopped struggling, I let go. It took six or seven minutes, but it felt like an eternity had gone by.

With the scissors I had brought, I cut off the stocking and dragged Grayson along the fading trail, venturing further into the forest. I couldn’t bear to abandon him in such a state and then go back home.

By the time I dug out a shallow grave for my friend to fit in and bid farewell, the day faded into the darkness of night.

I closed his eyes with my sleeve and then tucked his tongue back inside his stiff mouth. I had never seen a dead person before, but I knew his frozen face would forever haunt me.

I rolled him into the shallow pit, feeling the damp soil beneath my hands as I covered it up as much as possible. The scent of wet earth filled the air as I lay beside my friend’s unmarked grave.

With no cell phone to rely on, I could already imagine the scolding I would receive from Micah, my sister, for not making it home on time.

So I spent the night here, with the soothing sounds of crickets and rustling leaves. But I didn’t sleep a wink. I couldn’t.

Grayson’s last words echoed in my mind, refusing to fade away. I cried until my tears ran dry and the sharp ache in my chest subsided.

I didn’t venture into the forest from that day on. Whenever I peered at the running track across the playground, my heart would beat with such intensity that I could practically hear it echo in my ears.

This was the first secret I locked away in the depths of my soul. But there was more.

It took Grayson’s dad six weeks to realise that he was gone, and by the time our teacher reported him missing it was too late.

The animals ripped apart what remained of him and scattered them all over the forest. No one found him. He remains a missing person to this very day.

Later, I heard that Grayson’s dad kidnapped a four-year-old girl from the ghetto. They found her lifeless body crammed inside a small container outside of the beige mansion. Her bowels were hanging out of her body.

Grayson’s dad was so intoxicated that he couldn’t even remember what he had done.

When he was released from prison two years later for good behaviour, the deceased girl’s older brother shot him to death. I didn’t feel sorry for him. In fact, I believed he deserved far worse.

I stopped typing.

My eyes landed on the locked drawer to my right before shifting to the bedroom door. The silhouette was still there, beyond the door, waiting for me.

The truth demanded to be heard. Its echoes reverberated in the prevailing silence. After all these years, it longed to resurface and see the light of day.

Unlocking the drawer, my fingers brushed against the delicate fabric of the stocking, its softness triggering memories of that day.

I stood up and trudged towards the window, the floorboards grating beneath my weight. As I slid the window open, a gentle creak broke the stillness.

I released my grip. The piece of fabric vanished into the twilight, which embraced the rising sun on the distant horizon.

A heavy burden lifted off my shoulders and I found myself stooping over the window frame, gasping for air.

My confession was not over.

The Shapeshifter

Photo by Sixties Photography on Unsplash

I didn’t know what to do.

My parents, sister and brother have not returned. I called my sister, Annika, roughly two hours ago. She said they crossed the railway bridge and would be at home in twenty or so minutes.

It has been several hours already. I figured they swung by the gas station near the intersection to buy snacks or something at first. Now I wasn’t so sure about that. I couldn’t stop thinking that something bad went down. 

Christopher just got his driving license and Dad said he’d let that fool drive back home from their trip to Grandma. She lived in a nursing home in another state and had surgery a week ago. Her surgeon said she’d live another year if everything went well.

The wall lamp on the porch kept switching on and off. I thought they’d arrived the first time it happened an hour ago. But our car, a white Volvo, had not pulled up in the driveway.

Then it flickered on a few more times after this. I counted the time between each switch after the third time – six minutes elapsed between each.

Four minutes passed since the last time it switched on. I’ve locked all the doors. Both the porch and driveway were vacant. No one was there, trying to prank me. So why did the light keep switching on? It was driving me up the wall. 

 I sent Mum a message fifteen minutes ago and asked if she could call our neighbour, Mr Bourgon, and ask if he could see anything suspicious outside.

Mr Bourgon caught a few burglars red-handed over the years and had a double-barrelled shotgun. Ann and I saw him shoot some rats a few years back even, when our working-class neighbourhood got overcrowded with those gnawers. 

It happened again. The light flickered on. Wait, what was that noise? A car pulled up in the driveway. It didn’t sound like our car, though. That girl was almost three decades old and I’d recognise it if it was her.

Dad got her from his broke uncle, who used to sell foreign cars in the ghetto for a cheap price. Mum said almost all parts had been replaced with cheap parts, and that it was most likely stolen from some Scandinavian tourists back in the ‘90s.

Okay, turns out I was wrong. It was our car. But I couldn’t see anyone in it. I called Dad this time. No one picked up the phone.

I refreshed the screen more often than I wanted to admit, but not even Mum replied. Just what was going on? Why were none of them replying to me? 

The car’s all right. It was still dark outside since the light switched off again, but I couldn’t see anything wrong with it. 

I got a call from Ann. She hung up when I asked where she was. The light stopped turning on and off for good, by the way. Maybe I should call the police?

Annika called again. Someone was breathing on the other end of the line this time. I couldn’t tell if it was her, though. It wasn’t like my sister to do such a thing, you know, pulling pranks on me. She was ten years older and had been an adult the longest, while I was eleven and Christopher seventeen years old.

Chris liked to tease me a lot. He was a fool, though. He never played video games with me but would always scream his head off on the phone while playing Battle Royale with his friends. Online friends, that is, because he was socially inept.

One time I caught him swearing and ratted him out to Dad. Dad took his phone away as a punishment. He wasn’t allowed to be online for two weeks. He got all sulky after that one time and said I was being an idiot and that he hated me. 

Ann said he’d grow out of it someday, but he kept getting worse. Mum and Dad kinda gave up on him; I overheard them talk the other day. Dad said he was going to kick him out or something so that he’d learn how to fend for himself sooner rather than later.

My sister was on a visit over the holidays. She studied mechanical engineering out of town and had not paid a visit in the last couple of months. Mum said she’d graduate before the summer break. Dad was stoked, of course.

But I kept hearing Ann cry every night. Our bedrooms were next to each other. Every night, as soon as she thought we were all asleep, I’d hear her raise her voice at someone and choke up. I think she was talking to her boyfriend. 

Mum sent a message. It wasn’t a reply, though, just random words that had somehow come together. It looked like something an illiterate child would punch in without knowing what the heck it was doing

 I sent her a message and asked why our car was in the driveway. She read the message as soon as I sent it. Then I heard something. It came from Annika’s bedroom upstairs. 

The only thing out of the ordinary was a cracked window in her room. I closed it and went downstairs to find the front door ajar. Someone was in here with me.

I picked up our spare keys from the drawer and went outside. I was thinking of waking up Mr Bourgon until another call came through. This time, it was from Chris. I still remember how the conversation went. It was so random. Then again, it all made sense in the end. 

“Chris, where are you—”

“You up, kiddo?”

“Hmm. I’ve been up since a while ago. Where are you? There’s nobody in the car.”

“What are you doing outside?”

“I think someone’s in the house. I’m going over to—”

“Wait, what’d just say?”

“Someone’s in the house, and- and I don’t know what to do, Chris! I’m afraid. I want Mum. Where are you? I can’t see you guys anywhere.”

“What do [unintelligible] can’t see me?”

“You’re not—can you see me? Chris?”

“I’m staring right at ya, buddy. Look at the window.”

I looked up at the second window from the left. No one was there.

“You’re not there, Chris, stop fooling around! I said I was scared! I’m gonna tell Mum when she comes home!”

“Dennis [unintelligible]. Like, did you hit your head or something?”

“No…?”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not looking at you, stupid! You’re not even here! Nobody is! I’m scared. It’s so dark. Where’s Mum and Dad?”

“What are you [unintelligible] holding?”

“The phone, duh! The one you conned me into taking, remember? You said—”

“I know what I said! I’m not talking ‘bout the damn phone!”

“Watch your language or else—”

“I said, stop! Dennis, stop! What’re you doing? Where’d you [unintelligible]—isn’t that Ann’s?”

“Chris? Hello?”

“When did you [unintelligible]? I said—you okay, buddy?”

“Hello…? I can’t hear you, Chris! Chris! Christopher, are you there?”

The line went dead.

Another call came in. 

“Mum! I- I think something’s not right with Chris! He’s been—”

“Oh, God! Oh, God! My baby! What [unintelligible] to you?”

“Mum? Are you with Chris? What’s the matter? Why are you crying?”

“[unintelligible] did you? My poor, poor baby!”

“Mummy I’m scared! Please, say something… Where’s Dad? And Annika? Did you see the message I sent you?”

“Dennis, is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me, I…”

“Where’s your sister, sweetheart?”

“I- I thought she was with you guys.”

“Dennis, please. Tell me where she is. Hmm? [unintelligible] good boy.”

“I don’t know what’s going on. I- I want Dad.”

“Tell me where she is.”

“I- I don’t know. I—hold on, Mum. Ann’s calling.”

“Dennis, wait—”

“Ann, where are you? Mum’s really upset! She keeps asking where you are!”

“Listen, there’s something really strange—where’s Chris?”

“I think he’s in his room. But he wasn’t there when I was upstairs. Did you guys—”

“Scchh! Keep your voice down!”

“What- what’s going on, Ann? Where’s everyone? I’m- I’m scared!”

“Do you see the car?”

“I’m right next to it! I’ve tried to open it, but it won’t budge!”

“Go, open the trunk. Hurry! Dennis, hurry!”

“What’s in the trunk?”

“Just [unintelligible] go!”

“I- I can’t open it!”

“Try harder, for crying out loud! Come on! Think of it as a competition! Whoever opens the trunk first wins!”

“What do you I win?”

“I- I dunno, just keep trying. Did it work? Dennis? [unintelligible]”

“What’s… in those bags? It smells bad. I don’t like this.”

“Anything else?”

“Like what?”

“Dunno, a paper? A quilt, anything, really.”

“There’s a receipt under one of the bags. It’s soaked through, though.”

“Can you see what’s written on it?”

“Uh, I’m not sure. It’s kinda hard to read…”

“For [unintelligible] can’t you just do one thing right? I need you to help me!”

“I am helping you, it’s just—”

“Wait a sec! Did you [unintelligible]. What’s that?”

“There’s another receipt here. I think it’s from that gas station near the intersection.”

“Don’t you hear that?”

“Did you guys buy those trash bags? And some—”

“Dennis, what are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?” I looked around the dark. “Are you here? I can’t see you.”

“No, but you are. How is [unintelligible]?”

“Ann? This is not funny! Not at all! Is Mum and Chris in on this?”

“Dennis, is this really you?”

“I- I really don’t like this anymore! I’m scared! Can’t you just stop? I won’t ever steal your chips again! And- and I’ll be good to Chris too! I won’t snitch on him, I promise!”

“[unintelligible]. Now!”

“What?”

“Go, hide, now! Hide! Get in the trunk!”

I glanced at the trunk full of nasty plastic bags.

“No, I—”

“[unintelligible] just do it! Get. In. The. Trunk. Now!”

“Where- where’s Dad?”

“Oh my god!”

“Ann?”

“NO! [unintelligible] NO! I can’t—can’t breathe! I can’t! [unintelligible]! Stop [unintelligible]! I can’t—Dennis, are you there?”

“Mum?”

“Did you get in the trunk, sweetheart?”

“Where’s… where’s Annika?”

“She’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“I’m- I’m calling Mr Bourgon over. I think he’s awake now. The lights just turned on.”

“No, stay put. I’ll be there in jiffy.”

“I don’t want to stay here. It smells so bad, these bags.”

“Whatever you do, don’t open them, okay? I’m almost there.”

I studied one of the lighter bags. There was something round inside. Like two ping-pong balls. The lamp on the porch switched on. I let go of the bag.

“Mummy?”

Thus wasn’t Mum. It was a man I had never seen before. He grinned from ear to ear. I looked at the plastic bags. As I opened one of the larger ones, the stranger drew nearer. I recoiled. 

My father’s decapitated head rolled down and stopped right at my feet. Gasping for air, I looked up at the stranger whose wolfish face morphed into mine.

I ran for the hills. Behind me, my doppelgänger guffawed like a maniac.

Mr Bourgon’s front door was open. I ran inside and locked the door. I had never been to his house before. But this wasn’t a house. What was this place?

As the creature banged on the door, I turned around. My eyes grew wide. This place, it… it was a lair! The door unlocked. I held my breath. A call came through. It was… from Dad.

“What did I say about opening the door to strangers?”

“You’re… This is not real.”

“I just called Mr Bourgon. He should be over any minute. Don’t let anyone in until he comes, okay? Your Mum’s been on pins and needles since you sent that message! She keeps saying she’s got a bad feeling.”

“You… called Mr Bourgon?”

The door gradually opened, creaking, taking its sweet time and teasing. 

“We’re almost there, buddy. I think… Hey, Chris, isn’t that Mr Bourgon’s car? The one next to the green one? No, the other one.”

“Dad, I’m- I’m sorry, I… I didn’t know.”

The door flung open.