A Familiar Face

Photo by Aditya Sethia on Unsplash

I heard once, don’t ask me where, that our brains remember the faces we encounter, even those we only see in passing. That’s why we dream about strangers, only to pass them days later on a street corner or in a supermarket aisle. Supposedly, it is our subconscious playing games. But mine doesn’t just play games. It remembers.

It’s not a gift, though it may sound like it is to some, but not to me. I remember every single face I have ever seen. Some of them I only ever saw once. Still, I can see them now as clearly as I did then. Their pores, their scars, the twitch of their mouths forever trapped in my head.

Sometimes they visit me in the quiet hours of the morning, right before the light leaks in through the blinds. I’ll blink, and there they are: someone I passed on the platform a decade ago, mouth open in a stifled scream, eyes fraught with fright.

I remember a man in particular with a crooked tooth who sold umbrellas outside the station and a teenager in a green hoodie who had a bruise shaped like a thumb beneath his jaw. I never learnt their names, but I see them when I close my eyes for some reason.

I suppose it started early. Or maybe I was born with it. The remembering, I mean. But that is not the worst part. The worst part is the reading. It’s like my mind plays fortune teller every time I lock eyes with someone and, magically, I’m in their heads reading their bloody minds.

But I don’t really read their minds. I just get this feeling, I guess, deep in the pit of my gut? It tells me things I shouldn’t know. Terrible things. Like the rape, the murder, the cruelty human beings were capable of. The rot each of us carries within.

I know what this sounds like to some, but it’s not magic, not some sixth sense that should be studied in a lab. It’s real – real enough that I can’t look away, can’t turn it off, can’t un-know what I know. You’d be surprised how many people wear masks that barely hide the rot underneath, how many smiles morph into a grotesque rictus when you look at the wrong time, and how many eyes linger a little too long.

I didn’t tell anyone at first. Not because I thought they wouldn’t believe me, but because I didn’t want this to be real. Thought I could somehow pretend I was normal if I kept this curse to myself.

When I was younger, maybe twelve or thirteen, I told my mum I didn’t like how the neighbour looked at me. I said he had ‘the same eyes as a stray dog.’ She laughed it off and thought I was being dramatic or maybe cute. A week later, he was arrested for stalking a woman who lived down the road. Coincidence, right? That’s what I tried to tell myself, too. But it kept happening. People I avoided turned out to be dangerous, and people I was drawn to turned out to be broken. Like me.

Some people wear their pain on their skin, you know, while others hide it. That was my reality, as well, and so, I never spoke about those horrible visions to anyone. Instead, I kept my head low and watched, collecting faces like a graveyard collects the dead. But I never found one quite like mine; I stared at mirrors for years, thinking maybe it would come to me, that same recognition I got when I saw others. But all I ever saw was a blur behind the eyes. A blank. A stranger. Like I’d been erased.

That’s when the doubt crept in. What if the reason I couldn’t read myself was because a face like mine did not exist? Or maybe I was protecting myself by forgetting something terrible? I started dreaming about that. Not nightmares. Just some random dreams where I’d stand in a crowd of all the faces I’d ever seen, and every single one would look at me. 

There was one face I saw over and over in those dreams.

A little girl.

She never said a word or anything of that sort. Just stood there, barefoot in the snow, hands at her sides, hair soaked and clinging to her cheeks. Sometimes she looked up at me. Sometimes she didn’t. But she was always there. The same place, the same posture. Still as a photograph. Still… as the dead.

I used to think she was part of my imagination. A fragment of memory that didn’t mean anything. But I don’t think like that anymore, not after what happened, that is.

Sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself. This curse, this memory thing, whatever you want to call it, it wears you down over time. At first, you think you can handle it. You tell yourself it makes you more aware, more cautious, maybe even smarter. You avoid danger. You see through lies. You see through people. Should be a gift, right?

I wished it were.

But then something changes, you know? You stop wanting to see.

You stop wanting to know. You close your eyes on the street, turn your head on the bus, and keep your gaze pinned to the floor at the market. You start hating crowds, not because you’re anxious, but because you don’t want to bring more faces home with you. You start seeing shadows in every expression, secrets in every crooked smile. And you start imagining people looking back at you through the walls, through reflections, and through closed lids.

And eventually, you wonder if the danger was never them.

It was always you. Always you…

Mountain Hunt

Photo by m wrona on Unsplash

Evadore Hill was located in the southwest corner of Bellford County. A secluded settlement far away from the nearest civilisation.

The handful of people who lived there were part of a tight-knit community of farmers, fishermen, and herders in the foothills of one of the larger mountains in the area.

Its mountainous scenery and solitary atmosphere made a name for itself among local tourists, who either camped on the outskirts in the summer or stayed over in one of the many mountain huts during the wintry months.

I lived my entire life in this highland and never ventured outside the mountains. My parents conceived me when they were in their late 40s, so I grew up as an only child in a population that mostly consisted of the elderly.

My mum passed away giving birth to me. I didn’t know much about her; my dad was a man of few words and showed me some tough love growing up so that I wouldn’t need a motherly figure in my life. 

I spent most days helping my dad out in the mountain hut we inherited from my great-great-grandfather back in the 1950s. The workload was moderate for a young woman in her mid-twenties. 

My dad, who neared his 80s on the other hand, carried boxes from the storage shed to the kitchen, prepared meals for the hikers two times a day, and gathered logs to fire the hearth all by himself. 

While I wasn’t as strong as I looked from the outside, I took it upon myself to secretly gather firewood every night as time allowed.

My dad didn’t like me roaming around in the wee hours though, so I snuck out only when I knew he had dozed off.

Naturally, I knew my way around these mountains like the back of my hand and never encountered anything remotely scary.

Our community lived in harmony with nature and the animals dwelling in these highlands for such long that the beasts, which consisted of mostly deer, goats or brown hares, stayed at bay. 

Sometimes, however, you’d cast a glimpse at the morning sky and see an eagle hunt for prey. But they weren’t nocturnal birds, and you could hardly find one hovering in the night sky.

It was an unusual night and an even more unusual day when I snuck out to gather firewood as per my routine. This being the middle of winter, we weren’t expecting hikers, so I spent most of the day reading a Choose Your own Adventure book. 

I think it was sometime after three o’clock that my dad knocked on my bedroom door upstairs and said we had a guest.

Since my dad had arthritis in his knees, he asked if I could fetch him some ingredients for pumpkin soup at the storage shed. 

Even though I actively looked around the hut at the time, I never saw a glimpse of the guest, due to the unusual time frame. 

Then came nightfall. As per routine, I took with me a thick rope, a cane basket, a flashlight, gears to hook onto the rugged mountains just in case, and a rusty axe that belonged to my deceased mum.

By the time the clock struck one in the witching hour, I had cut off just enough wood to call it a night and return to the hut.

Pretty satisfied with myself, I hummed as I hiked through the fading mountain trail and was almost halfway up when I noticed that the lights were switched on. 

My dad, albeit up in years, was very stingy. It was the only trait of his that I disliked. Besides, I had never witnessed to find my dad awake upon returning home.

I put the basket away and scanned the vicinity with my flashlight. I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

Still ill at ease, I sprinted the rest of the way up and left everything else behind but the flashlight. As I inched closer, I noticed that the front door was cracked open.

My heart stopped. Fearing the worst, I pushed the door open and looked around the hut. No one was here. 

“Dad?”

When I didn’t receive a response, I ran upstairs to the attic. The first thing that arrested me was the trail of blood on the floorboards leading into the ajar attic door. I broke off halfway up the wooden staircase and clutched to the bannister.

As I took a hesitant step forwards, a distant din reached my ears from the outside and I cowered in place.

A hooded figure entered through the front door. I held my breath, keeping my head low. The stranger, a guy whose face was completely covered up, took a gander at the rickety staircase, wiping his bloody hands with a towel, and then broke off momentarily.

“Anyone there?”

I tried to lower myself as much as possible as the footsteps approached. 

“Hello?”

Shutting my eyes, I wished upon the stars for a miracle. The floorboards creaked. I flew my eyes open, pushed the stranger down the stairs and ran into the attic.

Everything happened so fast. I turned the doorknob and locked the intruder out. When I shifted my eyes from the door to the carnage, my darting eyes landed on my dad’s lifeless body in a pool of blood.

He had been dragged from the top of the stairs to the far-right corner of the attic. I crouched beside him and shook him, convulsing out of control and fraught with horror.

But my dad remained unresponsive. A blunt object had hit his head from the side. I couldn’t see the murder weapon anywhere around. I flinched. The guy banged on the door.

“Hey, you! Open the door!”

I gulped. My frantic eyes scanned the attic, trying to find something – anything – to subdue the intruder but failed. We used the attic to accommodate the hikers, so my parents were very keen on locking everything that could potentially be used as a weapon out of sight and reach.

So I sprinted to the casement window instead and forced it open as much as I could. I pressed myself out of the gap between the glass and the window frame, as the intruder kicked his way into the attic.

I jumped out just as he broke in. Luckily, I landed on a heap of haystacks and didn’t break any bones, although I got scratched on the side of my abdomen.

When I looked up, the hooded guy was staring at me from the half-open window.

With no other option but to fetch my axe, I dashed down the mountain trail and hoped that the intruder couldn’t see in which direction I was headed towards in the pitch-black dark.

I tripped at some point, my feet catching onto something, perhaps a rock, and rolled down the trail until I managed to clutch onto something on the wet grass and dug my nails into the soil.

My little adventure must’ve been audible, for the next thing I knew was the sound of footsteps rushing down the trail.

Stumbling back on my feet, I veered off the main trail, ditching my plan to fetch the axe, and trekked as far away from the main trail as I could. 

I found a hiding spot under an uprooted tree and cowered under it not long after. The guy had at that point stopped dead at the main trail I had just veered off from.

His voice was audible from this distance thanks to the echo. While I was in great distress, influenced by the adrenaline coursing through my veins, I found the guy’s distant voice disarming for reasons I couldn’t account for.

He was speaking as if he were talking to a child playing hide and seek in the dead of night.

“Can you hear me? Listen, I know what this looks like. But there’s a misunderstanding. I’m- I’m not whatever you think I am, okay?”

I cast a glimpse towards the main trail, and the sudden beam of a flashlight blinded my vision. I recoiled and covered my mouth to stifle the gasp. 

“That man broke into my room and tried to kill me. I- I had to do something or else… or else I would end up like my sister.”

Frowning, I relaxed, blinking repeatedly. What in the world was he talking about? Why would my dad hurt him? It made no sense!

“Did you know that man? I heard he had a wife and daughter…”

I played with my trembling hands. The sound of approaching footsteps grew louder. Did he know I was here?

“My younger sister went missing on this mountain trail a decade ago. She complained of a headache and told her friends she would wait for them at that hut… but she wasn’t there when they returned to fetch her. That man told her friends she had never come to the hut.”

The footsteps briefly stopped. The beam of light focused on me. He knew I was there. 

“But you know what? She never left that mountain trail. The police found footage of her friends entering and leaving, but there’s only a record of my sister entering this trail.”

I shut my eyes. My heart was about to rip out of my chest. A lump formed in my throat, tightening around it and squeezing out the air in my lungs. 

“Her name is Ahu. Have you ever seen her around here? You must have, I’m sure. She- she should be your age.”

Bewildered, I stepped forward and locked eyes with the stranger. He turned off the flashlight. How did he… How did he know my name? Tears welled up in his eyes as he stared at me, his hands reaching out and his feet inching closer. I backed away. 

“Ahu…?”

“S- stay away from! I’ll- I’ll kill you if you come closer!”

He dropped his head. The tears running down his face were a haunting sight. His bleak mind seemingly occupied with dismal thoughts. When he lifted his head again, he was weeping like a child.

“I’ve waited so long to find you—”

“Cut the crap! Who are you? How do you know my name?”

“It’s me. Ahu, it’s me.”

“I said don’t come any closer!”

“What did he… What happened to you?”

Inching closer to the edge of the cliff we were on, I knew time was running out. He reached out his arms to me, trying to pull me closer. With a distorted expression on my hardened face, I backed away yet again.

“I said don’t…!”

As he lurched forward to embrace me, I stepped aside. The stranger hurled down into the abyss and merged with the darkness. I listened to the thud of his body hitting the rocks before returning to the main trail.

My mind was spinning like a top, and my thoughts were all over the place. I didn’t even notice I was barefoot until I reached the hut and entered the warmth.

Taken aback, I noticed the blazing hearth and looked up at the staircase.

“Dad?”

Dragging my feet across the grating floorboards, I grabbed the handrails and was about to ascend to the attic when I felt someone breathing against my neck.

As I turned around, someone hit me across the face with a rock and I collapsed at the bottom of the stairs.

My dad stooped over and beamed with his uneven and rotting teeth. He grabbed my arms and dragged me to the storage shed.

Despite his hunched and delicate frame, he placed my crippled body on the wooden table in the centre of the shed and secured my arms to it.

“Be a good girl and nothing will happen to you.”

I spoke in a whisper. “Dad? What are you…” His wide grin stopped me, something in those otherwise warm eyes turned cold. “Who… are you?”

“Your dad.”

“No, I…” As he injected something into my arm, my eyelids grew heavy and the beat of my heart slowed. “Why are you… doing this?”

Before everything turned dark, he whispered something that I would soon forget.

“Because I can. Now be a good girl and go to sleep. This time, you’ll be my wife.”

Fangs

Photo by Mikkel Amundsen on Unsplash

“You sure you got the right address? I don’t think anyone lives here, man.”

I peeked at the towering mansion behind the steel gates for the second time.

The walled garden stank of rotted roots even from this distance, so I rolled up the car windows and breathed through my shirt as I spoke on the phone. 

Something about the boarded-up windows, pillared porch and the dilapidated state of the massive building gnawed at my conscience. 

“Come on, dude! Chickening out or what?”

“Who did you say called?”

“Some girl. I didn’t get her name.”

“And she called me by my name?” I said, looking around the darkness-shrouded vicinity. “If this is some fucked up prank, I’ll—”

“Not only that, dude! She called you by your real name.”

“You’re the only one who knows that, asshole.”

“That’s exactly my point! Look, if you don’t want to do this, fine. But if she’s telling the truth and those fuckers beat us to it, I’ll kill your fucking ass!”

I placed the phone on my other ear, rolled down one of the windows and scanned the outside.

“I don’t see a damn thing, goddammit! Where’s the girl—”

The call disconnected as the phone slipped through my fingers. I spun my head and looked in the direction of the banging.

Only when I noticed the contour of a young woman in her early twenties did I stop holding my breath and relax my shoulders.

She motioned for me to roll down the window.

“Hey, Mikail is it?”

“You’re the one who called us here?”

She stooped over and leaned in. Taken aback by how close she got, I turned my face away and felt my cheeks burn. What was up with that smile? She looked as if she knew me or something.

“You’re not getting out, huh?”

“What?”

“I don’t bite, you know.”

I gulped. I wasn’t much of a ladies’ man and the few girlfriends I had over the years were people I knew from my childhood.

While I had a decent face and a large build, I had sustained some trauma growing up, which rendered me incapable of talking to girls. Not anything serious, just the usual getting-rejected-by-a-pretty-girl-in-public kind of stuff.

“Do I know you?” I asked as I stepped out of the car and followed her to the steel gates. She hesitated before answering, as if she was considering how much she was going to let me on.

“I don’t think so.”

“But we’ve met before?”

She let out a laugh, “Why do you think that?”

Without letting me respond, she unlocked the steel gates and ushered me in through the wilted garden swarmed with flies wherever I rested my eyes.

Something about her bugged me but I couldn’t put a finger on what it was. Most of all, how did she know my real name?

As we approached the pillared porch on the verge of collapse, I couldn’t keep my thoughts to myself anymore.

“You called the channel and asked for me. You knew my name.”

She came to a halt as she was about to open the weathered door and turned to face me. Her cocked head was a mix of confusion and amusement.

“Everyone knows your name, Michael.”

“You didn’t say that a moment ago.”

“Hmm? What are you talking about?”

I dropped my eyes as I tried to find the right words. She was feigning ignorance. But I wasn’t the type to let people off the hook so easily. 

“True, everyone knows me as Michael on the channel. But you called me by my birth name; you called me Mikail.”

The smile across her face faded away as she straightened her neck. Her expressionless face was an enigma, a box of secrets that chilled me to the bone.

When the smile on her face finally returned, I followed her emerald eyes as they kept avoiding my brown ones. What was this feeling?

I turned around as her eyes locked onto something behind me. The next thing I knew was a blur of motion before everything turned black. 

Ring, ring. I snapped awake upon hearing the distant sound of my phone ringing. Seated on a wooden chair in the middle of a dark and damp place, my hands were tied behind me.

Something dripped on my forehead. I looked up. Startled, I jolted up only to fall sideways to the wet stone ground with my legs bound together. Panicking. 

The ceiling was suspended with untold limbs, some ripped apart, others disfigured beyond recognition.

When my heart calmed down, I scanned the darkness my eyes got accustomed to and noticed that I was behind bars.

What in the whole world was going on? I spun my head to the right, realising too late I wasn’t the only one in the damp cell.

“Took you long enough, man. Want a joint? Keeps you alert.”

The smoke got all over my face. The dude in the corner wasn’t tied up, but he was hardly skin and bones. I could see the ribs through his hole-riddled shirt drenched in grime and sweat. 

“What- what’s this place?”

“You’ll figure it out soon enough. Sure you don’t want some of this goodness—shush! Can you hear that? They’re coming! Quick! Get back in the chair before they see you!”

I followed the shrill screams growing louder with wide eyes, unable to move an inch. My limbs froze, and my mind became a muddled mess.

The joint guy crawled and helped me back on the chair, which was barely sturdy enough to carry my weight.

Fearing the worst, I let my neck hang from the chair and shut my eyes in time with the rising bars.

Something stooped over me. The stench of the saliva hitting my face and trickling into my half-open mouth almost made me twitch. 

Whatever leaned over me now headed to the other guy. Where were they taking him?

The poor thing screamed his head off, begging for his life. I had to shut out all sounds to keep his pleas from getting to me.

Only when the bars dropped did I dare to open my bloodshot eyes.

I looked around in the cell, searching for anything that might help me out of these tightening ropes.

That was when I saw it, just inches from the bars. A shard of glass. With newfound energy, I jumped my way to the bars and let my eyes land on the glass on the other side. I wouldn’t be able to reach it in this state, though.

Blood dripped on the tip of my nose. I peeked up. A suspended leg, with some flesh still hanging on, greeted me. Fuck! I stood on my toes and bit on the bone that stuck out, desperately trying to pull it down.

As the rotten flesh gave in, the bone slipped out and hit the wet ground. I was so focused on the task at hand that I didn’t notice I was being watched from the other side.

When the footsteps finally reached me, I grabbed the bone with my toes and jumped back to the chair. I then slid the bone slightly under it and pretended to be unconscious again. 

I flinched as something hit the bars repeatedly, screaming at the top of its head like a wild animal. When the thing finally retreated, I got back to work and managed to bring the shard of glass closer to the bars.

At this point, I was drenched in cold sweat and several minutes had passed by. I cut myself free and tried to unlock the cell. It didn’t budge. 

Now more panicked than ever, I looked around myself in the cell to make sure I wasn’t missing anything. I was.

There was some sort of vent I could fit through on the right-side wall. If I were quick enough, it would take me only ten minutes to climb up the suspended limbs and reach the vent. 

As I was having these thoughts, the moment of truth came much sooner than I anticipated. This time, they were coming for me, I just knew it. 

I placed the chair close to the wall and climbed up to the vent while keeping myself steady on the suspended limbs.

When I finally made it to the vent, I looked down and locked eyes with a morbid creature. Its cocked head displayed a mix of confusion and amusement. Its fangs bloody and sharp, even from this distance. Then it came to life.

“Mikail, where you going? The fun’s only begun.”

Without looking back, I escaped through the vent and made it to the walled garden. They had slashed my wheels, so I ventured into the dense woods instead and spent the night there, cowering behind an uprooted tree for hours on no end.

As soon as the sun rose above the horizon, I hightailed it out of there and managed to reach the path that led to the city.

I quit broadcasting after this incident and retreated from social media altogether. My fans were heartbroken, and many demanded to know what had happened to me that night.

I couldn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t even tell the guys.

It kept ringing.

I kept hearing my phone ring. Even in my dreams. Like a never-ending nightmare, I felt my blood sucked dry each night as if those fangs bore into my skin.

Maybe they did. I couldn’t tell what was real or a hallucination anymore.

Something dropped on my face.

I looked up. 

“There you are. Mikail.” 

Hide and Seek

Photo by Rajan Shendre on Unsplash

“Hey, you good, buddy?”

I snapped back to reality as my older brother, Daniel, tapped my shoulder. We stood at the edge of a coniferous forest close to the farmhouse. My older sister, Theresa, had already disappeared into the depths.

It hadn’t snowed in these parts of the country for over a decade. The towering trees were blanketed in powdery snow. We plodded through the cold terrain to come all the way up here from the farmhouse despite the frigid weather. 

This would be the first time I played hide and seek here. My brother and sister were both a couple of years older than me and had explored every nook and cranny with our dad before he passed away three years ago.

It was a rite of passage to set out to the forest and play hide and seek. I always wanted to join them growing up, but when Dad passed away I couldn’t even look in the direction of the forest without shuddering. I thought I never would. But Danny told me to have courage – to face my fears, and so I did. 

None of our relatives came to my dad’s funeral. Mum took care of everything on her own, from the paperwork to forking out for the headstone.

Danny and Mr Hunter, my dad’s best friend and partner, buried him in our garden, while Theresa took care of me and the livestock.

Mr Hunter and Dad were both deployed to Iraq back in 2003 and have been close friends ever since. They settled in the countryside after the war, in a modest settlement, and made a living through animal husbandry.

Mum couldn’t bid farewell to him. She slept through the funeral and didn’t come out until everything was over. She cried a lot that day. I was only nine years old back then, but I still recalled every single detail of that day as if it happened just yesterday. 

My sister said something in the forest took him while they were playing hide and seek. I didn’t know if she said this to scare me or if she was being serious. Danny said she was lying, that Dad simply passed because his heart gave out and stopped.

It was in our genes, he said, Grandpa Joe bit the dust from a heart attack too. It was only a coincidence that he was playing hide and seek with them at the time. But something about the way Theresa said those things made me ill at ease. It didn’t feel like she lied. Not at all. 

I lifted my gaze off my feet as my sister showed up at the wooded trail out of thin air, just a few steps away from the leafless blueberry bushes. Danny released his grip on my shoulder and asked why she returned so soon. There was no way I’d ever forget what she replied. 

“You two won’t believe what I found! Hurry! Danny!” 

“What’d you find?” Danny said as she veered off the trail and disappeared into the wilting clump of bushes. He was about to say something else when we both became rooted to the spot and looked ahead of us in the direction of the chilling scream.

My blood ran cold. Even if Danny tried hard not to lose his cool in front of me, I could tell that he was far from calm. His otherwise gentle eyes flickered, detached from reality, and unable to focus on anything.

“Tess? Stop messing around and get your ass over here! You’re scaring Mickey! Theresa? Tess!”

“Is… is she okay?”

Danny looked at me, hesitating, as the silence continued.

“I’ll go bring her back. You stay here, okay?”

“And if you don’t return?”

“Of course, I will, buddy! You know Tess! She’s probably just messing around. I’ll beat some sense into her, all right? You stay put!”

He was halfway down the wooded trail, inches from disappearing behind the dense bushes when a thought suddenly occurred to me.

“Hey, Danny! Daniel! Daniel—”

“What is it, buddy?”

“What if it becomes dark?”

“What’d you say?”

“DARK! What if it becomes DARK?”

“I can’t hear you! Just stay put and—”

He saw something. I couldn’t see what it was from this angle, but something beyond the clump of blueberry bushes caught his attention. Moreover, something about the way he moved became unnatural, as if he had just seen something he couldn’t make sense of.

He peeked at me one final time and then veered off the trail, venturing deeper into the forest in the same direction Theresa went. That was the last time I saw him. They both went missing. They still are today. 

I waited there the entire night, just as Danny said I should. When Mum found me the next morning, Mr Hunter and two other farmers from our village were with her. Had they arrived a few hours later, I would’ve kicked it from hypothermia.

The deputies searched the entire vicinity, every nook and cranny, and left no stone unturned. But they found no trace of my brother and sister. And just like that, the two most important people in my life faded away under mysterious circumstances. 

I relived that day every single night. Twenty long and harrowing years passed since then. I missed them. I still do. I named my firstborn after my brother.

There wasn’t a day when I did not think of them. They were always on my mind, somewhere hidden in the most secluded parts of my brain. 

Something took them that day. The same thing that took Dad. There was no doubt in my mind that my sister told the truth. And the truth is, had I not hesitated and entered the forest that day, I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale.

I’d wake up in a sweat in the middle of the night sometimes and not remember a thing. Then I’d hear Theresa’s voice calling me, begging for help, screaming her head off. She was in so much pain, in so much agony. Why was she in pain? Why…? I’d probably never know. 

Then I’d see my brother, smiling, and reassuring me that there was nothing I could’ve done differently that fateful day. Behind him, I’d see a tall figure whose face was blanketed in shadows. I couldn’t if it was Dad or the thing that forever changed the course of my life. But I liked to think it was the former. It had to be. 

My brother’s and sister’s disappearance, however, was far from an isolated incident. Seven people, most of them tourists in search of the supernatural, faded away too. 

I heard from Mum who still lived there that the sheriff blocked up the entire forest to keep the ghostbusters at bay. While there were still some trespassers in search of adventure now and then, the incidents stopped dead.

I didn’t know what made that thing stop from hunting unsuspecting victims, but one thing was sure: I would never play hide and seek in the forest again. And if you’re reading this, you shouldn’t either – especially after sunset. 

Human Animals

Photo by William Gullo on Unsplash

I cut ties with my estranged parents when I left home in my early twenties, and I hadn’t spoken to them since. As a second-generation immigrant, I wanted to distance myself from my Muslim roots as much as possible to pursue a career in show business.

Although I had built a significant fan base over the years, I never landed a lead role. With bills piling up, I had to take a part-time job at a downtown funeral home to make ends meet. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about the job, but I was grateful for the steady income it provided.

While the job required me to work long hours, it was the nature of it that left me feeling drained by the end of the day. Washing the corpses and preparing them for their loved ones took a serious toll on my psyche. No amount of soap and water could remove the stench of death that hung in the air for days. It clung to me like a foul, invisible cloak.

During my first week, Mr Ahmad helped me get used to the routine tasks, so we did everything in pairs. As time went on and I settled into my role as a budding autopsy technician, he entrusted me with maintaining the funeral home and handling the deceased.

He treated me as if I were truly his son – even giving me a place to stay when I couldn’t pay rent and got kicked out of my one-room flat. But he had a biological son, one he missed dearly and grieved every waking hour. Whenever Mr Ahmad prayed, he asked me to join him, and together we prayed for Allah to forgive his son’s sins and welcome him into janat – paradise.

His son was one of many who lost their lives in 2023. His death was gruesome – nothing was left of his body. The flames singed his flesh, liquefied his organs and skin, and reduced him to ash in the dead of night at a displacement camp. He was brutally murdered and became one with the twinkling stars, crying blood. That year, the world watched in silence – and some even cheered – as yet another atrocity was etched into history.

Locals buried the dead in shallow graves, hoping for an end to the occupation – but even the dead weren’t allowed to rest in peace. The entire place was bombed into oblivion, razed to the ground, and the few who still fought for freedom were deported to the desert and left to die.

Several weeks passed since the siege that tore through his homeland when Mr Ahmad was finally allowed to enter the country and bring back what was left of his son to the United Kingdom. That poor man begged his occupiers for entry like a dog – a barking dog devoted to its torturers. And for what? Just to enter his country. Or what remained of it.

I couldn’t imagine what that would feel like – to be denied access to the very place your ancestors called home for centuries – by radical forces who twisted scripture to justify the unimaginable, claiming superiority over the very lives they erased. What a joke.

The previous employee said Mr Ahmad’s son left behind a widow and two children, but their whereabouts were unknown. They were most likely murdered – just like all the other women and children in the occupied country, whom the occupiers claimed were human shields.

It’s always the women and children – treated like dirt, denied opportunities, subjected to Islamophobia and racism, and seen as weak and oppressed because of a single cloth on their heads. When was the last time a Muslim woman harmed anyone? When she refused to remove her headscarf to enter a bank or get a job at an airport?

Whenever I thought about what happened in 2023 – and how the world watched – I felt my blood run cold. What sort of people could kill with such cruelty? Leaders with skeletons in their closets, trying to dominate every corner of the Middle East? Power-hungry icons rewriting the truth to suit their image? Artists and moguls backed by shadows we’ll never see? Or people so corrupt they turned the vulnerable into pawns – trading dignity for dominance?

Then again, what else could it be? Nothing else made sense. Only the most twisted minds, consumed by power and greed, could justify the murder of children – children they’d rather destroy without remorse than spare from being used as human shields. Their crimes should be carved into history – not erased – so future generations can marvel at how evil once wore a suit and tie.

Where was I? Ah, yes, now I remember.

All Roads Lead to the Hollow (aka. The Communion)

Photo by Joshua Kettle on Unsplash

Elena vanished during the darkest hour of the night, when the world outside lay mute beneath a veil of thick June mist. Gone with the biting wind. Just… gone.

It was 1999. I was thirteen back then and still wet behind the ears. The old house, nestled at the end of a winding country lane, had always been surrounded by secrets, but that night it was different; the shadows themselves were listening in every corner, conspiring about something.

She, my younger sister, was in bed when I retreated to my room, tucked beneath the patchwork quilt Mum stitched for her before the days turned grey and the past became a distant memory.

When I woke up later that night, her bedroom door stood ajar, and the sheets inside lay flat and empty. There were no signs of a struggle, no broken windows, and no disturbed furniture. Nothing, at all. And Elena was gone, just like that, as if she had never existed.

Mrs Berkeley, our maid, told the detectives she had checked in on her shortly before midnight, said she was sleeping soundly, that there were no disturbances, no strange visitors, or late-night wanderings. But she left out something. Something very important.

That night, I had wet the bed again. It was a secret of mine, one I kept from everyone else, though I always got caught. It all started after Mum fell ill. Dad’s sudden passing during his deployment to Afghanistan took its toll on her, more than any of us could foresee or prevent. That unspoken grief hollowed her out completely, and anger became the only thing that kept her alive.

Anyway, ashamed of what I had done yet again, knowing what my afflicted mother would do if she found out, I crept out of my room with the soaked sheets bundled in my bony arms and descended into the basement, careful not to wake anybody, and that was when I noticed Elena’s door ajar. At the time, however, since I was too occupied with my own issues, I did not think much about it.

The air was damp down there, always had been, but I preferred it to the slap of Mum’s belt or that disappointed look on her face. That was when I heard it and recoiled so fast that the sheets slipped from my grasp out of confusion. Who on earth could be down in the basement at such an odd hour?

Footsteps. Two sets. They came from the hallway up the rickety stairs, groaning under my weight despite my skinny frame. One belonged to Mrs Berkeley, I had no doubt, since she always dragged her slippers wherever she went. The other, on the other hand, I couldn’t quite place. It was heavy and unfamiliar, and it belonged to someone I had never met before.

I ascended the stairs with wary steps just enough to be able to crouch and peer through the gap between the basement door and the doorframe, where soft lights spilt through and Mrs Berkeley’s voice grew clearer by the second. She stood just outside the door, whispering to someone I couldn’t see, someone out of sight, or maybe she spoke to herself?

But before I could grasp what she was saying in such a hushed tone, a shadow stretched across the floorboards and came into my line of vision. I jumped up so fast that, had I not grabbed onto the bannister, I might have fallen down the stairs and this story not come to be.

I couldn’t tell why, but that strange shadow arrested me in ways no words could truly capture. It was like… like it wasn’t the shadow of a human being but something else entirely, something that had long since lost its human shape and become… almost disfigured.

When they moved on. Finally. I waited until the footsteps faded before I crept back up again as my frantic heart pounded violently against my ribcage, threatening to rip out of my chest any second.

The hallway was darker than it had been when I went downstairs and colder, too, for some reason, like someone had turned the temperature down within minutes and chilled the entire place on purpose. But it wasn’t just cold as one might think reading these words, but more like the chill of death as it sets in and turns the body stiff and icy to the touch.

I reached for my doorknob, inches from the safety of my room, when something breathed down my neck and broke me off. When I whipped around, my breath caught in my throat, my frantic eyes unable to focus, something compelled me to glance at Elena’s room at the time. Even to this day, I’m not sure what exactly made me do that, only it did.

A muffled scream rose beyond the cracked bedroom door, like someone gasping for air beneath a pillow pressed against their face, struggling to catch their breath but unable to fight off the force they were put under.

My hand on the doorknob trembled, but I could not move, not right away. It was as if some unseen force had crippled me and numbed all my senses. This strange numbness lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like several hours had passed when I finally snapped out of it.

I had barely turned, ready to run to Elena’s room, when a dark silhouette spread across the opposite wall, swelling larger and more menacing with each passing second. It was the same shadow I had seen through the basement door, and now it was in my sister’s bedroom, advancing into the hallway. Advancing towards… me.

Continue. 

11/9

Photo by Thomas Bormans on Unsplash

Darkness engulfed the vicinity in the wake of the raging storm. Only when everything lay in ruins did the silence finally settle.

Innocent lost. Tissues of hanging, singed flesh, were scattered all about. Burns. Wherever you rested your indifferent eyes.

A pang of ache, a feeling of sympathy was too much for those doomed and at the mercy of the wicked. The heavens turned upside down, and in the blink of an eye, humanity lost. Gone. Was it ever there?

Seeking solace in a cartel of lovers. Blood-thirsty lovers. What’s the point of innocence when a ring of murderers seeks to destroy it? Food. Object. Sex. There’s no innocence in that. The disfigured limbs come alive: “You did it, you did it.”

Island of Secrets, you did it. Sucked the blood dry and took out the innocent. A prominent author? A respected comedian? A leader with a penis-shaped brain? A senile old man?

The cartel of murderers. The ring of sex trafficking murderers. The cartel of lovers.

The wicked who see the innocent with detached eyes, objectifying even the most vulnerable:

“What’s the fun in a child but tearing it apart, ripping it to pieces and sucking its blood dry? Innocent meant to die.”

You did it, you did it, you did it. One day, the tide will turn. The sky turn bright. The innocent seek vengeance. Blood will splatter. On your insides rotten.

This is not the end.

But it will end with your heads impaled in a cemetery of singed limbs, singing:

“I told you, I told you! Now we’ll tear your insides rotten apart. Then set it on fire.”

Asgerald Hill

Photo by Katelyn Greer on Unsplash

The wilting rose, which had long been forgotten in the void, was once a noble shade of red. Its mesmerising fragrance filled the air, enveloping everything in its sweet embrace. And the damp soil welcomed the fallen petals, each one a symbol of innocence lost. 

My eyes traced the contours of the drooping crimson flower. I refrained from touching it. A sudden jolt of fear paralysed me. I found myself rooted to the spot, unable to move. 

The searing ache in my heart was like a sharp dagger twisting and turning without mercy. I averted my gaze to escape the bewitching flower’s harrowing grasp.

The mansion before me was a shadow of its former self. With creaky floorboards and peeling walls, it whispered secrets from the past long forgotten.

The boarded-up windows bore down on me like piercing eyes. The door yawned open like a mouth, weathered and worn by years of neglect. 

As I entered the front garden, my eyes lingered on the enchanting flowerbed and the dilapidated shed before turning my attention towards the mansion that beckoned me like a lover’s touch. 

I felt the resistance in the marrow of my bones as I pushed the grating door open. The weight of it strained my weakened muscles.

A grand staircase loomed ahead. I couldn’t help but wonder what secrets lay at the very top. Twisting like a snake, the scent of rain-soaked oak filled the air. It breathed.

The doors downstairs, made of dark wood, were evenly spaced on either side of the massive staircase. I ran my fingers over the cold, rusted knob. The doors remained stubbornly locked.

I didn’t notice the closet attached to the spandrel at first. But as I stood in front of the last door to the left, it caught my attention. I didn’t know what made it stand out to me. It looked familiar, like something I knew too well but couldn’t remember. 

I barely took a step forwards when a curious din from the second floor broke me off. My eyes followed the winding stairs up, taking in the ornately decorated handrail that led to the landing above.

Upon reaching the second floor, I found myself facing a hallway lined with a multitude of doors. The striped wallpaper peeled wherever I lay my eyes, some parts even ripped by what could only be a wild beast. 

I counted each door as I trudged through the dim hallway. Most of them were unmarked, some numbered but hardly discernible from the passage of time.

Memories of my childhood came rushing back as I stood there, in the middle of the hallway, of what was once my home. The guesthouse, once filled with lively chatter, now stood in silence. Its empty rooms echoed with sombreness and melancholy.

The last time I looked up this place, I read the authorities were planning to demolish it. As they should. How many years had it been? I couldn’t even remember. So why was this place still here? 

The musty smell of old wood and peeling paint filled the air as I traced my fingers along the striped walls. It was as if the guesthouse never existed. My distraught mind erased all memories of it. Yet every nook and cranny was etched into my mind like a map of my past.

When I was six years old, my parents became my legal guardians. A Good Samaritan found me on the edge of the forest and took me to the local orphanage – at least that was what was told to me.

The townspeople called me the ‘Wonder Child’. I often wondered why I was given that name. No one, however, offered an explanation. I was kept in the dark for far too many days. 

I vividly remember the day I found an old newspaper and was reminded of the past for the first time in years. I was apparently the sole survivor of a homicide. That was the truth everyone tried to shield me from.

I was found naked and vulnerable, my body drenched in blood that had soaked through my clothes. Something terrible happened to me, something so unspeakable that the townspeople vowed to keep it a secret and bury the truth.

The article was penned by Mr Parker, a journalist who had retired two decades ago. I didn’t contact him back then. I tried to forget, to push the memories of my haunting past to the back of my mind and pretend they never existed. But with each passing year, the mysteries of my past weighed heavier on my mind and bore me down. 

The faint aroma of coffee greeted me as I knocked on Mr Parker’s door two weeks ago. The crisp air of late October filled my lungs as I drove through winding roads for two and a half hours to find answers. I had to. The past haunted me and drove me up the wall each passing year. 

My adoptive mother’s lips were sealed tight, she wouldn’t tell me a thing. To protect me from the painful memories, she said. Despite all of this, my curiosity got the best of me. 

The psychiatric ward became a second home to me in my late twenties and beyond, with the same routine day in and day out. Now and then, my anxiety would spiral out of control, and no medication could ease the symptoms.

My life took a turn for the worse. I was supposed to settle down with the woman of my dreams and climb the corporate ladder. But instead, everything fell apart and slipped from my grasp like fine sand. I couldn’t stop it. 

I felt like I was in a constant fog, my mind unable to focus, and my senses dulled. Something was off about me. Although everyone around me doubted me, I had an unwavering belief that the key to my cure lay hidden in the past. 

When Mrs Parker peered at me through the crack in the door and asked who I was, I hesitated. I told her I was a journalist and needed Mr Parker’s input for an article I was writing, which wasn’t entirely accurate but had a grain of truth to it, nonetheless. 

Upon entering the drawing room, a pungent odour of aged urine and burnt coffee overwhelmed my senses. When he saw me, Mr Parker quickly folded his newspaper and set it aside. His face was etched with wrinkles as deep as the grooves of a vinyl record.

I started our conversation with traditional pleasantries, mindful of the importance the older generation placed on such formalities. His eyes followed my every move as I introduced myself as a junior journalist in need of his help. 

“Please accept my apologies for my abrupt arrival, Mr Parker. However, there is something crucial I need to ask you.”

As I spoke, Mr Parker placed his emerald teacup on the saucer and peered at me intently through his round glasses. 

“I know most of my juniors at The Local Times. You’re not one of them.”

I gave a small, closed-lip smile. “I began my employment not too long ago, sir. I am a stranger to you, as you are to me.”

“Pray, what brings you here? The Local Times have some of the best journalists in the country, I reckon.”

“Sir, I would like to inquire about a case you reported two decades ago.”

Mr Parker shifted in his seat. The leather sofa creaked beneath him. He cleared his throat and cast a glance at his wife. Mrs Parker rose from her designated seat beside me and the sound of the door closing reverberated throughout the room. 

“May I inquire as to which case has aroused such keen curiosity?”

I drew a deep breath.

“The Asgerald Hill Homicide, sir.”

As I looked into Mr Parker’s eyes, I noticed a subtle shift in his expression that I couldn’t quite place. He leaned in closer, squinting his eyes as if to get a better look at me.

“That case has remained unsolved for quite some time. It has gone cold, and there’s no evidence or witness to follow.”

“You are mistaken, sir.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“There’s a witness, a child. You reported—”

Mr Parker stood up, his eyes laced with distress in the course of a few seconds.

“A child whose memory has failed him! You call that a witness, Mr…?”

“Jensen, sir,” I said, adding to prevent any further questioning. “But what if that child now pursues the truth?”

I watched his lips move soundlessly, forming sentences that were filled with doubt. As I rose to my feet, I could feel my heart racing in anticipation of what was to come. 

“Mr Parker, please! I am in search of answers… answers only you can provide.”

He shook his head, scared out of his wits. Every time I tried to get closer, his body tensed up, and he recoiled in fear. Startled, I didn’t know what to do and remained rooted in place. Mrs Parker entered with a silver tray, which clinked with the sound of fine china. When she saw her husband’s gaunt appearance, she baulked.

“My dear, what’s the matter?”

Not once did Mr Parker take his eyes off me. I was taken aback when he flung his teacup in my direction. The sound of the shattered china shook me, and I couldn’t help but stare at the broken pieces on the grating floorboards. 

“GET OUT!”

“Please, Mr Parker, I—”

I winced as the tray hit my head, and warm blood trickled down my face. As I looked up at the elderly man, I couldn’t help but notice the fear etched on his face. The words escaped my lips before I could even process what I was saying. 

“Even after all these years, what is it that still haunts you and prevents you from disclosing the truth, sir?”

“I know nothing!”

“You’re lying! I need to find out! I must! It’s the only way I can sleep in peace—”

“Then sleep not!”

After saying my goodbyes, I walked out of the Parkers and into the crisp air. The shock left me feeling dizzy and confused, unable to make sense of my surroundings. 

With one of my leads rendered useless, I had to rely on the only remaining one. The guesthouse. It stood as a testament to the events of the past where something wicked took place.

That haunted place affected Mr Parker so deeply that he went out of his way to avoid any mention of it. Just what happened there? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. 

The path onwards was riddled with peril, I knew that much. But the sleepless nights had taken their toll, and the hallucinations were a constant reminder of my deteriorating mental state. The weight of exhaustion hung heavy on my eyelids, but sleep wouldn’t come. Every moment felt like an eternity, a torture that was driving me to the brink of insanity. 

As these thoughts haunted me, the ninth door creaked open from the inside, the sound echoing throughout the drafty corridor. I took a deep breath and advanced towards it, determined to uncover its secrets.

The odd room came into view at last. I couldn’t help but notice the striped wallpaper that was peeling all around me, the velvety rug that was covered in a layer of dust, and the frigid air that took my breath away. It was so cold it felt like needles on my skin.

With every whistle of the wind, the door rocked back and forth, letting in the chilly air from the cracked windows. The room was filled with vibrant colours, from the emerald bedspread to the cerise cabinet and the deep black of the writing desk.

I picked up an old piece of paper from the desk and ran my fingers over the rough texture of the parchment. The poem followed the structure of an English sonnet, but the unfamiliar words had a distinctly Celtic feel to them. It struck me as odd that an English sonnet was paired with a language of the past.

I tucked the poem away and turned my attention to the cabinet, the only piece of furniture in the otherwise empty room. It was a treasure trove of history, with rows of dresses that had seen generations pass by. As I shifted through the dresses, my fingers brushed against something sharp. The intricate details of the filigree caught my eye, and as I looked closer, I noticed a nail at the end stained with blood – my blood. Holding the nail up to the string of sunlight, I could see the tiny grooves etched into its tip.

Just as I turned my head towards the cracked door, I heard a loud thud and the sound of shuffling feet. I ventured out into the hallway, and the cold, still air made the hairs on my arms stand up. I searched the entire corridor, my eyes straining to see through the dim lightning. But there was no one here. 

The silence was deafening. The only sound was the beating of my heart. As I ambled to the end of the hallway, an oval window that stretched from the floor to the ceiling at the very end of it caught my attention. 

A family grave lay in silence, surrounded by a destroyed wire fence that swung back and forth in the wind. The grass was dry and unkempt, subtly dancing in the breeze and beckoning me to come over and explore the garden, and so I did. 

The chill of the damp air and the musty scent of the ancient tombs reminded me of the fragility of life. The graves were adorned with wilted flowers and weathered headstones, marking the resting place of the Aldanes family.

A droplet landed on the tip of my nose. Looking up to the heavens, the grey clouds loomed overhead and threatened to unleash a downpour. As I decided to call it quits and return tomorrow morning, my foot slipped.

Something got stuck in my foot. I thought it was just a plain stone at first, but when I picked it up, I noticed it wasn’t. It was a piece of a wooden doorknob. I strained my eyes to see the details on the chipped surface, but all I could make out was the slithering body of a snake or a winding figure.

Photo by Gwendal Cottin on Unsplash

A chill ran down my spine and I shuddered. The weight of the past suddenly hit me and I threw the wooden piece before collapsing onto both knees. I doubled over. A searing ache tore through my insides.

The world around me faded away and all I could hear was the sound of my screams echoing through the air. I rocked back and forth like a distressed child. Memories of the past flooded my mind like a hurricane, leaving destruction in its wake. As I trembled like a sick dog, one memory stood out amongst the rest.

The pain slowly subsided and in its place came the demonic cackling of the wind. It sounded like the chorus of witches serving the Beelzebub. My bloodshot eyes looked more crimson than blood and held no emotion – they were as empty as shells. 

I gasped for air. My heart raced out of control. The beat of my irregular heart sent waves of tremor through every fibre of my being. I could feel the mud crushing underneath me as I curled into a fetal position and let the rain wash over me. 

When I finally came to my senses, I was shivering and soaked to the bone. My limbs, numb from the cold, refused to support me as I tried to stand up, and I crumpled onto the wet ground.

My face was covered in mud, but I could still feel the icy raindrops beating down on me as I gazed up at the darkening sky. 

The night sky was clear; the stars shone like diamonds against the blackness. Where was I? I shook my head to get rid of the haziness. My eyes flickered to the towering guesthouse. My mind drew a blank as I tried to recall why I had come here. Then it hit me.

I covered my ears, trying to block out the piercing sound that seemed to come from every direction. It was like a switch had been flipped, and the pain brought back the harrowing memories for a second time.

Feeling the ache shoot through my body, I winced as I forced myself to stand straight. Beads of cold sweat poured down my face as I stumbled towards the barbed wire fence. My legs threatened to give out beneath me.

Fortunately, I parked my Togg just beyond the fence and didn’t have to walk for too long. 

Settling into the driver’s seat, I felt the cool leather against my skin as I double-checked the doors. Exhausted, I took a deep breath and felt the icy air fill my lungs. I barely closed my eyes when I went out like a light.

I slept undisturbed for the next six hours. Like the dead, I heard or saw nothing, too out of it to even think straight. 

When I flung my eyes open everything was a blur. The pounding of my heart echoed in my ears, my chest heaved with each laboured breath. I looked around, confused, and the sight of the dashboard and the steering wheel slowly brought me back to my senses.

I shook my head and shifted my eyes to whatever had stirred me awake. Someone hammered on the window.

A stranger’s face pressed against the glass. The pungent smell of sweat hit me like a ton of bricks when I rolled down the window. The woman standing there had a dishevelled appearance, with messy hair and wrinkled clothes. With her wavy, auburn hair catching the light, she stood at only 5 feet but had a sturdy build. 

“Need a hand with anything or…?”

“No, no, thank you. I… I just got lost, that’s all. I hope I’m not in trouble for staying the night here.”

“No, nothing like that,” she said, adding. “Nobody’s been in this place for ages, anyway. Where you off to? I can help.”

“To the countryside, in the southeast. It’s not on the map, so no chance you’d know where it is.”

“Well, good luck finding it, then.”

I thought she was leaving and checked my phone when she returned and said something that immediately caught my attention.

“Keep an eye out around here. You never know who you’ll run into.”

I stowed my phone and put on a half-hearted smile, thinking that the woman was trying to pull my leg or something. 

“Are you talking from experience or just trying to scare me, ma’am?”

“Both.”

“Guess I’m done for, then. Take care.” 

Without a reply back, she slipped away from view. Soon after, I felt a faint vibration in my pocket. The message came from none other than Mr Parker himself.

I sat up straight and leaned forwards, my brows furrowed as I wracked my brain. It was a mystery to me how he found my phone number given that we never exchanged our contact information.

The message was brief and to the point. He wanted me to hit him up. As I read the message again, my eyes darted back and forth across the screen, searching for clarity. My fingers hesitated over the keyboard before I dialled his number.

The phone rang incessantly, and just as I was about to hang up, a faint voice answered from the other end. As I replied, I couldn’t help but steal a glance at the guesthouse up ahead. 

“Mr Jensen?”

“Throwing trays wasn’t sufficient, sir? How’d you—”

“Where are you, Mr Jensen? Please…”

With a moment of hesitation, I found myself nibbling on my lower lip, trying to decide what to do. The elderly man spoke with a sense of urgency. His words tumbled out in a rush.

“Asgerald Hill.”

“Asger—you must leave! Right now! Mr Jensen? You must listen—”

“I must?”

Tired of being told what to do, I smirked. My adoptive parents, my psychiatrist, and even my fiancée, they all tried to tell me what to do. In the end, where did it take me? The last time they locked me up in the psychiatry ward, I was so close to death that I could taste it. No matter how many pills I took or how much love I received, this consuming force inside me remained uncured. 

“You- you don’t understand! The lock must stay sealed, the destroyed never be rebuilt and—”

A sneer spread across my face as I shook my head in disbelief. What kind of nonsense was this? What had I got myself into? 

“This is getting out of hand, Mr Parker. I’m hanging up.”

“Good Lord! If for no other reason, then for your own safety! You must listen!”

“I’m exhausted, Mr Parker. You know how that feels? All I want is some peace and nothing else…”

“You’ll end up dead!”

I let out a sigh. “Take care, sir. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

I took apart my phone and threw away the pieces, then leaned back in my seat and let out a deep breath. The chirping birds seemed to amplify the hollowness within, as if they were intentionally mocking me with their cheerful sounds.

Turning my head towards the foreboding mansion, I couldn’t help but feel a shiver run down my spine as its watchful gaze seemed to bore into my soul.

A deep groan escaped my lips as a stabbing pain shot through my heart. There was something about this place that made my heart ache, although I couldn’t put my finger on what it was or could be. Honestly, I didn’t want to remember. 

Stepping out of the car, the gravel beneath my feet crunched. I gazed up at the towering building again and felt my throat tighten and choke me out of breath.

The bed of flowers that lined the walkway was in full bloom, their vibrant colours dancing in the gentle breeze as I dragged my feet across the garden. The door creaked and echoed through the desolate hall as I crossed the threshold into the mansion.

My heart was heavy with a sense of foreboding. Memories from the past replayed in my mind like a relentless wave in the deep sea, forcing me to remember. My legs gave in to my distraught mind. Something rolled out of my pocket as I briefly lost my footing.

The broken doorknob stopped in front of the spandrel. I drew closer to the closet. What was this strange feeling creeping in? My heart raced and my palms grew sweaty as a surge of fear took hold of me. As I picked up the broken piece, I finally recalled why it looked so familiar. It was part of the closet door. 

I hesitated before opening the closet, fully aware that what lay beyond it would threaten my very existence and make the memories linger. But I had to know the truth. Only then could I cure my deteriorating mind. I completed the puzzle and twisted the doorknob. 

The closet stood wide open.

I dropped to both knees and stopped breathing. The mummified corpse of my dear mother came alive. A tow rope tightened around her bare neck and squeezed the life out of her. The brown strands of hair were all that remained of her former self. 

The moment I touched her hand, she crumpled to the floorboards before me. A cold shiver spread throughout my body. I too collapsed. As I lay there, beside her and gazed into her hollow sockets, I returned to the past and relived what everyone tried to shield me from. 

My deceased mother covered my eyes with what remained of her fingers as if to comfort me, and the world went dark and hazy. In the distance, I heard a car pull over and a shrill voice call my name. Then nothing. Just… silence.

I flew my eyes open. 

I now stood in the past, at a place that had once been forgotten but was now crystal clear in my mind. The spandrel closet. I reached out to her, but it was too late. Again. 

The clatter of the three-legged stool echoed throughout the empty hallway as my mother shoved it. Hanging, choking, dying. Her legs bore the marks of savage torture. I wrapped my tiny, child arms around her sprawling feet and stayed by her side until she grew stiff and cold.

I then grabbed a sharp knife from the kitchen and climbed the grating stairs to the second floor. As I followed the hallway to room nine, the creaking floorboards echoed through the guesthouse in a sombre melody.

A wave of anger washed over me as I entered the dark room, my fists clenched tightly at my sides. Pain and anguish took over me as my little sister’s vulnerable cries pierced the air and echoed off the walls.

At only six years old, Madeleine had already lost both her childhood and innocence to the wickedness of the world. The light that once shone in her eyes faded into a vacant stare, and I watched as it happened. But not that day. 

My father’s laboured breathing and the smell of alcohol in his breath hit me as soon as I cracked the door open. As he pulled my sister’s trousers down, something snapped inside me.

I lunged at him with every ounce of strength I had and stabbed him repeatedly. The blood cleansed my soul. A surge of freedom and empowerment replaced the pent-up emotions within. The metallic smell invaded my senses – even comforted me. It was over now. It was all… 

I met Madeleine’s eyes. She backed away from me, afraid, as if I were a monster. I put the bloody knife away and I drew her close. What I did next, I did for her. To save her from the miserable life that awaited her.

As I covered her misty eyes and slit her throat, I whispered a lullaby our mother used to sing to us whenever our father abused us. The bloody knife slipped from my grasp as she stopped kicking and shoving to break free. Still, I held her close and kissed her with my tears. What I did, I did to spare her from the life that now was mine. 

A hand reached into the past and pulled me out. As I shot my bloodshot eyes open, a scream escaped my lips, and I thrashed about, desperate to break free from whatever held me – refusing to let go of the past and carry on as if nothing had happened.

A punch landed on my cheek, and the ringing in my ears drowned out all sounds. I fell into silence and stared up. Mr Parker’s pale lips moved, but the only thing I could hear was the whisper of leaves in the breeze and my poor mother’s soothing lullaby in my ears. 

The weight of the world pressed down on me. My heart gave out. I took a final breath and turned to face the spandrel where the darkness beckoned me.

As the crimson rose in the unkempt garden, I too wilted away. The darkness of night no longer frightened me or choked me. The nightmare of my past was finally put to rest. 

Now I could sleep.