Büyü - Part II

Photo by Maria Orlova on Unsplash

This could hardly be called a lodge, he thought, as he entered the dilapidated guesthouse located in the more remote parts of the city.

The people staying here were all foreigners, most of them Arabs by the look of it, and those who were native to Turkey seemed too high to even speak their own language.

As soon as the floater left, a Syrian guy called Ahmad, the clerk, ushered him to a stinky room on the second floor.

The first thing that crossed Kerem’s mind upon passing the threshold to the room was how it was possible for something to look so clean yet reek of urine.

Then he spotted the stains on the walls and floorboards, which spoke for themselves. Out of every place they could find him, they gave him this pigsty of a place, huh?

But the thoughts of spending several days in this place were soon replaced by other thoughts. What now, he thought to himself, what now?

Apart from telling him to come down here and memorise his new identity, they told him nothing else. Now that he thought about it, the fake ID they gave him was odd in its own right.

Arda Karaman. A 26-year-old university student on an exchange programme, studying Mechanical Engineering. Both parents were Turkish immigrants living abroad and he had no siblings.

What kind of university student booked a room at a place known for being the hideout of junkies and criminals? Moreover, why was the fake ID almost identical to his real identity?

Something about this whole thing didn’t sit right with him. But what was it? The thing that kept bothering him.

It was like his mind was a blank page and all thoughts a jumbled mess. What was wrong with him? And just what exactly was he supposed to do here?

The answer came sooner than he expected.

Someone banged on the door.

But no one was beyond it save a fragment of a torn newspaper on the Persian rug. A message directed to him was written on it and a phone number that started with +90.

Kerem twisted and turned the piece of paper, trying to find any mention or hint of the sender’s name. What he noted instead was the choice of heading on the torn newspaper.

The Madımak Massacre.

In 1993, in the province of Sivas, a hotel was set on fire. In the wake of the arson, thirty-seven people, of whom were mostly Alevi, were killed. The two perpetrators, two Islamists, were also killed during the incident.

He was roughly six years old when the arson took place. His dad flew to Turkey after the arson, he recalled that vividly, and didn’t return until two weeks later.

One of their relatives had succumbed to the flames. He didn’t know it at the time but learnt later on that the person who bit the dust so untimely was his uncle, Cemal.

As he looked around in the dim hallway one last time before closing the door, he couldn’t help but feel unsettled.

Both his parents passed away a decade ago and they hadn’t been in touch with their relatives ever since they relocated.

The more he thought things over, the more he was convinced that all this gibberish about an extraterrestrial form was made up. Someone lured him to Turkey. But why?

“Alo, kiminle konuşuyorum?”

‘Hello, who am I talking to?’

The voice belonged to a woman. She couldn’t be a day over twenty.

He hung up.

This kind of voice didn’t belong to someone who would work for the Secret Service. It sounded too ordinary for that.

Moreover, how was he supposed to reply? He understood Turkish, he was taught to speak it at home, but the more he diverted from his roots, the less he talked over the years.

No matter what he did, it sounded too awkward to speak in his mother tongue. But speaking English in a predominantly Turkish-speaking population wasn’t a good idea, either.

He had to come up with another way to—the phone rang. It was that phone number.

“Is this Arda?”

She knew English. But that wasn’t what surprised him. She… she had no accent.

While he admitted that Turkey became more globalised over the years, it wasn’t to the point where people spoke perfect English.

She wasn’t a native, not in the traditional sense, perhaps an immigrant like him, but definitely not someone who had lived her entire life in Anatolia.

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Oh, hi! My name’s Leyla. I heard a lot about you!”

“You… did?”

“Hmm! You’re looking for a job I heard?”

He hesitated. A job? What job?

“I’m sorry, can you brief me on who told you about me?”

“Hold on, I just—there you go! What’d you say, again?”

“I… Never mind. You said your name was Leyla, right?”

“That’s correct. I’m sorry, I’m hanging the laundry and things are not going as I planned!”

“No, uh, it’s okay. You were talking about a job…”

“Oh, right! Sorry! Yeah, so, basically, there’s a bookstore across the guesthouse. The owner is looking for a cashier who can work at night.”

“At night?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s kinda odd. But the owner’s even odder. You’ll know what I mean when you see him later today.”

Kerem stuttered. “Today?” He cast a look at the clock, which read a quarter past nine o’clock in the evening. “But it’s—”

“You’ll start your shift right away, so come prepared, all right?”

Before he could object and speak his mind, the young woman ended the call.

Büyü – Part I

 Photo by Dale Nibbe on Unsplash

“Agent Tan? Please, get in.”

A black sedan pulled over in the busy street and a woman he hadn’t seen before rolled the tinted window down. She wore a solemn expression on her face and was in her late fifties.  

It was twelve o’clock in the witching hour and it was raining cats and dogs. The downpour reflected off the bright LED displays on the towering skyscrapers and tinted the entire capital in vibrant colours.

When a call came through two hours earlier from the headquarters, getting drenched in the frigid weather wasn’t what he had on his mind on a Sunday night. He was on leave and didn’t expect to be called in just three weeks later.

“What’s this about?”

The woman, “Please get in. I’ll tell you everything.”

Kerem looked away briefly. He was trained to follow instructions without questions. But the nature of this whole thing bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Something was off. He didn’t know this woman. Why had the headquarters sent someone he was unfamiliar with?

“Where’s Mia? Does she know—”

“She’s missing. Please, don’t ask any questions and just get in the car. We don’t have much time left.”

Mia Aberman wasn’t the type of person who just went up in smoke and disappeared from the face of the earth.

He worked alongside her for many years and knew that she was one of the most capable agents the Secret Service ever raised. Just what was going on?

The one-hour drive through the country came to an end in front of a barred roadway in the middle of nowhere with a sign that read ‘WARNING. MILITARY INSTALLATION. OFF LIMITS TO UNAUTHORISED PERSONNEL’.

Two guards escorted them inside the facility after scanning the woman’s hand. Only when they were behind four walls did the woman explain why he was brought here on his break.

There were two other people in the room with them. One of them wore a military uniform while the other looked like another agent.

Kerem took a seat at the table in the centre of the room, while the woman carried on to the back where a screen popped up.

“Two of our agents have gone missing since the beginning of code 202. Mia Aberman, a first-rank agent from the Department of Defence, and Faruk Demirtaş, a floater placed in Turkey. Agent Aberman has been in contact with Demirtaş until the 21st of August. They went off the radar the same day.”

“Who’s Faruk Demirtaş? Why was Mia in contact with him?” Kerem asked.

“We received a cryptic message two weeks ago from Anatolia, Turkey. The sender, which we believe to be Demirtaş, notified our spies deployed to Ankara that an undisclosed entity had been found in the Karapınar district.”

“An undisclosed entity?”

The military officer, “We lost contact with Demirtaş before he could give any details. But from our previous conversations with Agent Aberman, we believe this to be an extraterrestrial life form.”

Kerem averted his gaze, trying to process what he was hearing.

He was familiar with the Karapınar district. His parents immigrated from Konya when he was three years old.

While his knowledge of the country itself was limited to what his parents told him growing up, he knew that Karapınar Çölü was the only dessert in present-day Turkey. Not a lot of people knew that, though – not even the locals.

“Do we know what happened to them?” he said.

The other agent, “We thought you’d help us find out.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the only agent with a double nationality. The Turkish don’t have you on their radar, neither do our spies in Ankara and Istanbul.”

“You want me to be a cut-out?”

The woman, “More like a double agent.”

Kerem smirked. “Is that supposed to be a pun? Double nationality, double agent?” The smile on his face faded. “In any case, forget it. I’m not getting involved.”

The military officer, “This is not a request, Agent Tan.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“We’re only asking for your cooperation,” the agent said. “We don’t want to use force…”

“But you will if I don’t do as you say? Is that it?”

The woman, “Agent Tan, please sit down and let’s talk this over. Thank you.” She took a pause. “If we had other alternatives, we’d gladly leave you alone. But something about this whole thing is not sitting well with us. As you are aware, Agent Aberman is one of our most high-ranking agents. It is in our interest to locate her and bring her back to her family.”

“You didn’t tell Mark yet?”

“He believes her to be in Afghanistan right now… Please. If not for our sake, then for those two kids’ sake. Help us bring her back home.”

“What… what exactly do you want me to do?”

“Your flight is scheduled to depart at three am. One of our floaters will help you into your temporary lodge. Do not bring your smartphone or any other electronic devices. We’ll provide you with an analogue phone and a fake ID. Memories your name, occupation, and reason for stay as soon as possible.”

“Three am? That’s—”

“You have exactly one and a half hours on you,” she interrupted. “What do you say? You gotta give me a reply, Agent Tan. We don’t have much time left. Please.”

“All right. I’ll…” He knew he would regret this later on. “I’ll do it.”

The Night Hag

Photo by Jeffrey Keenan on Unsplash

If you’re reading this, something bad happened to me. I can’t go into the details, though. I don’t have time for that. But there’s one thing you must know, nonetheless.

Something wicked roams these highlands, deep into the jagged mountains and far away from the nearest civilisation.

My boyfriend, Rami, and I only wanted to set off on an adventure and hike these virgin hills untouched by humanity. Had I known what I now knew, I wouldn’t have insisted on coming here.

Rami had always been the more careful one out of the two of us. He was raised in these highlands and knew that one could never be too careful around these rolled hills.

It was the second day of our hike.

We put the tent up a little further from the area reserved for the campers. There was no reason behind this decision, not one worth pondering, at the very least.

Socially, I was a wreck. Rami said I might be on the autism spectrum. I didn’t like being around other people, not to mention talking to them.

My boyfriend, of course, was a pleasant exception. We met back in college during an elective course (English Literature Criticism) and clicked right away. But enough of that.

Time flew by before either of us knew it. The overcast sky darkened and the grey clouds obscured the twinkling stars in the otherwise clear welkin.

When the downpour picked up and drenched everything in ice-cold drops, we retreated to the tent and decided to sleep to the sound of raindrops.

Things, as you are now aware, didn’t go as we planned.

I woke up to pee in the dead of night. I wasn’t much of a drinker and the tiny glass I had hours before wouldn’t let me doze off.

So, I unzipped the tent and stepped out.

The rain had slowed down and the weather become less frigid. Squatting down in one corner of the woods, I stared up at the clearing sky and observed the thousands of stars greeting back.

But not for long.

A scream jolted me back to reality. It came from within the wooded hill to my right. Growing louder, a shrill scream of a woman in great distress chilled me to the bone.

I pulled up my trousers and ventured into the depths without a second thought.

As soon as I set foot in the wooded vicinity, the screams faded away as if they were never there, to begin with. For the briefest of seconds, I thought my mind conjured up all of this.

Until then.

A scrawny figure emerged from the dark, shadowy and almost invisible to the naked eye. Hunching forwards like an old woman, the unfamiliar figure drew closer.

“W- who’s this?”

No answer.

I backed away, wetting my lips. “H- hello?” I only looked away for a second when the woman, as if by magic, stood only a few steps away from me.

In the panicked state I was in, I lost my footing trying to make a break for it and fell.

Grimacing, I shut my eyes and awaited the inevitable. But nothing happened. The scuffing woman trod past me and carried on towards the unzipped tent.

I held my breath as a wolfish grin appeared on her hideous face full of blemishes.

Rami!

But my legs wouldn’t move. Paralysed by an invisible force, I watched as the woman entered the tent.

That was when I finally realised what the woman was. A night hag.

Riding my boyfriend, the hag screamed her head off, louder and louder, until every other sound drowned out into the void – even my own irregular heartbeat.

Her slinging tongue was as long as her grimy hair. Her limbs were as thick as the legs of a deer – growing longer and longer with no end in sight until they no longer fit inside the tent.

I stifled a harrowing scream, covering my mouth to keep it from escaping. Before I knew it, I found myself in front of the tent.

The hag dug its teeth into my boyfriend, savouring his flesh with its crooked tongue and rotting teeth full of maggots.

When she turned to face me, the crimson blood smeared on her ugly face washed away the blemishes and turned her into a beautiful woman.

I backed away.

The hag shoved my boyfriend’s lifeless body into the pool of blood beneath him and came closer, taking her sweet time.

“W- what do you… do you—”

I followed the hag’s sinister eyes to the wooded hill behind me.

She wasn’t the only one hiding in plain sight. Hundreds, if not thousands, of dark figures emerged from within the murk and drew closer.

With their outstretched hands, they chanted a macabre song and demanded I give up. But I couldn’t throw in the towel without putting up a fight.

“Let… let me live! Let me—”

She placed a skeletal finger on her plump lips and hushed me, now crimson red and swollen like a young woman’s.

“Then you must become one of us…”

“W- what?” I briefly looked away. “What do I… what do I have to do to- to become one of you?”

She pointed at the tenth. Rami was still alive. His face was unrecognisable, torn and ripped apart, so that the flesh underneath his skin was visible.

I knew what she wanted me to do.

I loved Rami, I really did. He was the best thing that ever happened to me.

But the thing is, he shouldn’t have cheated on me.

The Man with the Bunny Mask

 Photo by Blake Lisk on Unsplash

“I really have to pee, Dad!”

Thomas peeked at his son, 12-year-old Lucas, through the rear-view mirror. It was easy to tell that the kid meant every word he said.

Just when he thought nothing could top getting lost in the dead of night, far away from the nearest civilisation, this happened. How in the world did things end up like this?

The GPS kept telling him to turn right at each turn as if it was pre-programmed to do so. Not to mention he had nothing to rely on but this stupid machine getting on his nerves.

There was no use in bringing a map, either. He wouldn’t be able to read it. His generation was one of the first who got access to the digital world, and by the time he reached adulthood and grew his own family, all the things the generations before him learned by heart, got lost somewhere down the thread of life.

“Dad! I can’t hold it in anymore!”

“Hang on, bud! We’re almost there! I promise!”

“You said that, like, an hour ago! I- I can’t keep it in!”

With bated breath, now visibly more antsy than moments before, Thomas pulled the car to the side of the lane lined with towering trees and thicket and hit the brakes. In the chaos, he forgot to turn off the engine and dragged his son further into the woods.

“Do you feel better now?”

“Hmm! But Dad?”

“What is it?”

His son hesitated. “Remember that time I asked if I could put on that pumpkin costume for Halloween? The one Mum brought?”

“I do. Why do you—”

“Mum didn’t buy it for me.”

“She didn’t?”

Lucas averted his gaze. “The thing is… I- I was going to tell you! I really was! But he told me not to!”

“He?” Thomas couldn’t help but lean forwards upon hearing the distress in his son’s voice. “Who are you talking about?”

“The man with the bunny mask! He said you’d be very angry if I told you about him!”

“The- the man with the bunny mask?”

“Hmm! He said he’d prepare a gift for me if I kept my word! And it worked! Dad, it really worked!”

“Hold on a sec!” he said, no longer able to hide the confusion in his voice. “What- what do you mean? Lucas?” His voice trailed off as he turned around to follow his son’s gaze. “What are you looking at, buddy?”

There was no one there save their car with the headlights on.

“Lucas? Lucas, what are you looking at?”

Lucas’s voice fell to a whisper. “He brought Mum. Look! She’s right there! In front of the car! Dad, can’t you see her? She’s…” His eyes grew narrower. “But why’s Mum crying? She’s supposed to be happy!”

Thomas spun around in place. The harrowing cries came from all directions. But it wasn’t a cry of despair or joy, it was one fraught with horror.

The headlights switched off. Everything plunged into darkness.

“Wait a minute! That’s not Mum! Dad, that’s not Mummy! He lied to me!”

“Lucas? Son? Look at me. That’s right! What… No, don’t cry. There you go… Let’s… let’s calm down and have a chat, okay? Lucas? You gotta answer me.”

“Y- yes, Dad.”

“All right… Good boy. Now, tell me what’s going on. Who’s the man in the bunny mask? What did you… did you promise him?”

“He- he said he’d bring Mum back! But he lied to me, Dad!”

“I know. I know… It’s okay. You didn’t know he’d lie, right?”

The screams grew louder.

“He’s- he’s hurting her, Dad! We need to do something!”

Thomas seized him as he was about to return to the single-lane road plunged into pitch-black darkness.

“We gotta stay here and not make a single sound, okay?”

“But- but—”

“Lucas, promise me. Hmm?”

He nodded. Thomas loosened his grip and placed a kiss on his head before letting go.

“What did you promise the man in the bunny mask, Lucas?”

Lucas leaned in and pulled him by the ear. “He said Mummy’s in pain and that she doesn’t like being cold. If I… if I only did as he told me, he said he’d bring her back to us and that- and that we could become a family again!”

“What did you do, Lucas?”

“I…”

“It’s okay, buddy. Everyone makes mistakes once in a while. I certainly did when I was your age. You can tell me…”

“That pumpkin costume. He said Mummy’s cold and needs to wear it. I- I knew you would be angry, so I didn’t tell you!”

“You… went to the graveyard? When? Lucas! When did you go to the graveyard?”

“Are you upset with me?”

Thomas scratched the back of his head, trying to calm his nerves and appear less agitated than he really was.

“No, no… I’m just… surprised.”

“Two days ago. I went there with the man with the bunny mask.”

“You did what?”

“I- I know I shouldn’t have and that you told me not to speak to strangers. But Dad! He’s not a stranger! He said you knew him and that you were good buddies! He even showed me a picture!”

“Picture…?”

Lucas nodded. “He said you’d remember him by his bunny mask!”

Thomas backed away as memories flooded his mind.

It was the 31st of October 2008.

He went trick-or-treating with his friends from school. They were all roughly the same age. Jasper, Lee, and him. The three musketeers. Everyone in their neighbourhood knew they were inseparable.

Lee was calmer in nature than both him and Jasper. He came from a spiritual household and hated religion like a pest. He was also the oldest of them – and the more pessimistic one – who always brought the mood down with his scientific and overly realistic approach to everything.

Jasper, on the other hand, was wild. Literally. Nothing in this world could control or slow him down. It was thanks to him they went on the most absurd of adventures after school. He was an only child and his family lived in the more affluent parts of their neighbourhood.

There was this kid everyone used to bully. Jasper called him ‘The Fatty’. No one knew his real name. Unlike the other kids in their neighbourhood, The Fatty rarely went to school or played outside in the nearby playground.

The Fatty and his family lived in a ramshackle house two blocks from Lee. Whenever they visited Lee to call him outside to play, they would pass by the crumpling building and get the heebie-jeebies.

That night, on Halloween night, Jasper suggested they all dress up as cut-throat pigs and pull a prank on The Fatty. So, they went to the crumpling house and knocked on the just as battered door.

None of them expected The Fatty to join them. The moment Jasper asked if he wanted to come trick or treating with them, he replied ‘yes’ without wasting a second.

The poor thing had no costume to wear and was blatantly self-aware of it as they went from house to house down the neighbourhood. That was why none of the doors they knocked on gave him any sweets.

Lee saw the bunny mask first. It was caked in mud on the pavement and had become soaking wet by the downpour. It was obvious that The Fatty didn’t want to wear the bunny mask, but Jasper kept asking him to wear it. Both Lee and Thomas knew that Jasper wouldn’t let The Fatty off the hook that easily.

To commemorate the fateful night, they even took a picture in front of Lee’s house and printed it out at Jasper’s place. What none of them knew, as The Fatty went around with that hideous mask, was that it would be anything but a plain night.

It was the day after Halloween night.

The school and most other institutions were on break, so everyone was at home. His big sister, Kathy, was the first one who notice that the neighbourhood the news talked about was theirs. She screamed her off telling them to all hurry to the drawing room and watch the news.

His dad worked as a janitor and hadn’t been on a break the entire year. When he left the kitchen, he told Kathy, ‘It’d better be worth my time’. It was.

The Fatty had slaughtered his entire family and then called the police afterwards. They found him wearing the bunny mask still and couldn’t explain why he did what he did. Apparently, after having a chat with Jasper and Lee, Thomas learnt that the poor kid said, ‘The mask made me do it’.

When the authorities brought him to the juvie and locked him up for good, there was but one thing he kept repeating: ‘This is not the end.’

Thomas snapped back to reality. When the memories dispersed, he realised that his son was no longer there. He turned around without knowing why.

The Fatty forced the bunny mask over his son. As they met eyes for the first time in many years, a wolfish grin appeared on The Fatty’s face. It was no longer concealed behind the hideous mask.

As his son drew closer with a knife clutched tight, The Fatty went up in smoke and disappeared. That was when he noticed something. The woman lying on the ground, right in front of the switched-off headlights, it was his wife.

The crooked knife… it was already plunged in crimson blood.

Now it all made sense.

That day, when he went out of town to tend to business in the south, it wasn’t a robber who took her out and made him a widower. Just for how long had his son been in contact with The Fatty? He’d probably never know.

Moreover, what had become of Lee and Jasper? Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t heard from either of them ever since his wife passed away.

What day was it, again? Right… It was Halloween night.

Just like it was today.

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.