Something makes me open my eyes. I can see my alarm clock clearly from across the room. 2:43 AM. Dammit. I close my eyes again, but something still isn't right. I don't have to piss. Maybe if I turn over. Then I feel it.
Someone is holding my hand.
I sleep on my stomach, with my arm hanging off the side of the bed. Now I'm awake, wide awake, and someone is holding my left hand.
The hand is cold, far too cold for a night in August. It holds my hand lightly, but with force. My fingertips are pressed against thin, clammy skin, like frozen poultry. Though I can't see them, it seems like the fingers are longer than they should be, wrapping much farther around my hand than should be possible. I feel ragged fingernails touching my palm. How many? Six? Seven?
I should yell in surprise, but I don't move. Somehow the room is darker than it was before. I am completely still. I hear the faint buzz of my alarm clock, but I can't make out the numbers any more.
The hand moves. It grips me tighter.
I black out. I awaken at my usual time, piss, and shower as always. But after my shower, I just cannot seem to get my left hand dry.
---
Have you ever been taking a shower while alone in the house and felt like something was moving around behind the curtain? Or watching you? Did you look up? Did you catch the very vaguest hint of eyebrows or a tuft of matted, greasy hair above the curtain rod? That's not a good idea. It doesn't really like it if you see it. It likes it the most when you've got shampoo on your hair, and your eyes are shut tight so your eyes don't sting. Or even better, when there's soap and bubbles all over your soft, pink face. It likes that the best, because your eyes are clenched so tight, and even if you did want to open them, like, if you heard a soft scratching against the plastic shower curtain, or a rasping of claws on bathroom tile, or the gentle splatter of drool or cum or... god knows what... well, you wouldn't open your eyes because it'd burn. Right? Right. Don't open your eyes. Because if you ever see its face, catch its eyes... Well. It'll notice.
---
Go to any mirror and put your hand against the glass. Don't worry, nothing will grab you. Wait. Sometimes it takes half a day, sometimes it takes a moment. But you'll yank your hand away when you feel it.
Worms or centipedes, who knows? All pressed in tight like there's no more room on that side, wriggling against your skin. When you pull back, the glass is the same and you'll be unharmed.
But now you know it's there.
---
Ever heard of a philosophical movement known as solipsism? Basically, according to the solipsist, only he exists. Since his only mind is the only thing he knows to be truly real, nothing else is.
Actually, the logic follows quite nicely. If the senses are our only means of processing information, and the senses are ultimately unreliable, then everything in your head must be - and is the only - reality.
And that's where the unsettling implications start to come in. That thing under the bed, in the attic, that your parents told you is "all in your head?" Well, your parents are also "all in your head." Your sight, your only source of reasoning, so reassuring when you turn the lights on and gasp in relief when you see that nothing's there? All in your head.
The thing in the attic, however, is another story. You've never seen it, you've never heard it, you've never sensed it, but your body really wants your mind to believe that it's not there.
Now why might that be?
---
Have you ever heard the expression an apple a day keeps the Doctor away? Most assume, with no reason to think otherwise, that it is simply an easy-to-remember rhyme that stresses the importance of eating healthily to young children. But the saying did not originate as a harmless reminder. It was born in a frontier town in the early years of the gold rush, where food was scarce and money even scarcer. One August, when a bad drought had struck the region, a series of bloody killings swept through the town. Every night, a single house would be broken into, and anyone who saw the invader would be swiftly, brutally slain. Nothing was ever stolen, save for a few scraps of food.
After two weeks of this, the local grocer set out a few apples and a glass of milk in the town square overnight. He then hid in the tower of the church, hoping to catch a glimpse of anyone who came by. Fighting fatigue, the grocer waited for any sign of life below. Just after midnight, he was rewarded by a chilling sight; a man, carrying a black bag stuffed with dully shining metal tools and covered from head to foot in cloth bandages, staggered into view. He paused at the sight of the apples and milk, then whipped his head around, as if looking for the one who dared to patronize him. Seized with fear, the grocer ducked out of sight, staying hidden til sunrise.
The strange man had only taken one of the apples, and didnt even touch the glass of milk. No houses were broken into, and no one was killed. For decades, the town continued to place out an apple or two every night, even long after a single apple stopped disappearing.
---
Yesterday, a friend of mine called me. It was a John, an old buddy from high school. I hadn't spoken with him for years, and we started to reminisce about all the crap we pulled in high school. A few days later I decided to call him back, and see if we could get together, maybe go fishing or something.
We talked on the phone for a while, and I said to him "Hey, maybe we should get together sometime." He first said that that was a bad idea, but then he agreed. I asked him for address, copied it down, and told him I'd see him in the morning.
The next morning I arrived at the place he said he lived at. There was nothing but rubble there. It looked like there had been a fire there years ago, but nothing got cleaned up, and the plants never regrew. In the middle of the rubble, I found a old rotary style telephone on the floor, not connected to anything. Hurridly, I pulled out my cellphone and called his number.
The telephone on the floor rang.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
I dropped my cellphone in shock, and knelt to grab the rotary telephone. A voice, drenched in distortion and hiss, said:
"I told you this was a bad idea."
---
The digital clock humming quietly on my nightstand was the only sound that my ears could pick up from my surroundings. The night was dead quiet. I knew he was there. Right on schedule, he would be standing outside my window. He would knock. I, for reasons I wish I could explain, would open the blinds. He would stare at me, and I would stare at him. He would leave soon after, and I would stay awake until the sun began to rise. This was our routine.
My mind was wondering a thousand miles away when he first knocked, though my eyes had stayed lingering on the window. I told myself that I wouldn?t open the blinds. I told myself that tonight he wouldn?t scare me and that I would get the rest I desperately needed. He knocked twice more. I held a pillow over my head and began humming an old song I used to sing in elementary school. He knocked again, and this time, he had a done it a lot less courteously than he had in the past. It had become a loud thumping noise.
I threw the pillow off of my head and opened the blinds. His pale, wrinkly face leered in at me. His lifeless, black eyes that shone despite their darkness, peered into my own. His stringy hair fluttered a little in the wind. He seemed to be breathing somewhat harshly, and though it was hard to determine his mood as anything other than emotionless, I could sense an amount of animosity I had never felt before.
After what seemed like hours, he turned around and was on his way. I faced the ceiling and wept.
This had been going on for more than a month. I had tried to talk to others about it, but I could never finish my sentences. They?d degrade into quiet mumblings and whimpers. I was so tired, and I had even begun to wonder if I was losing my mind. I had tried sleeping pills but even they couldn?t help me to sleep through the night. The weirdest part is that I always woke up about five minutes before he knocked. I knew, instinctively, that he would be there. I was so tired.
The next night, I told myself that under no circumstances would I look out the window. I didn?t even care if he was on the verge of breaking the glass, I would not give him what he wanted. I would not feed him. He?d have to find someone else to terrify. He?d have to leave me alone.
I woke up, and I instantly knew what was going to happen. It?s funny, I was anticipating his knocks, and yet I still jumped a little when I finally heard him. I laid in my bed quietly, as if I hadn?t heard anything. He knocked again, and I hid under the pillow once more. He knocked again, even louder than he had the night before. I whimpered, but remained under the pillow. He knocked twice more. After that, things got quiet. I no longer had the feeling I was being watched. I pulled my head out from under my pillow, and slowly looked out the window.
Nothing. Just my backyard.
I laughed. I laughed so hard that little tears began to slip out of my eyes. He was somebody else?s problem now. I looked at the clock, noticed I had only been awake for about fifteen minutes, and turned over to go back to sleep.
I had just gotten to that area where dreams mingle with reality when I heard the distant click of a door. My backdoor. Someone had entered into my house from the outside. Something from my backyard. I knew it was him. I listened quietly as his footsteps made their way from my kitchen, to my dining room, to the short hallway outside of my bedroom. He was walking slowly, patiently and was not attempting to hide his presence at all.
He was right outside my bedroom door.
He knocked on my door, and I almost vomited. I wanted to do something, anything. I was paralyzed with fear. He knocked again. Trembling, I pulled the pillow back over my head. All that could be heard was the sound of weeping, knocking, and a digital clock humming quietly to itself.
I was so tired.
---
My Internet Service Provider used to have offices in a shopping center before they moved to their (comparatively) lush accommodations elsewhere. There was a drop box at that original location. The monthly bill was due, and thus, there but for the Grace of the Net I went. It was about 9:30 p.m. when I left. From my relatively isolated apartments, it's about 10-15 minutes or so to downtown (Abilene has a population of about 110,000).
Right next to Camalott Communications' old location is a $1.50 movie theater. At the time, the place was featuring that masterwork of modern film, Mortal Kombat. I drove by the theater on the way into the center proper and pulled into an empty parking space.Using the glow of the marquee to write out my check, I was startled to hear a knock on the driver's-side window of my car.I looked over and saw two children staring at me from street. I need to describe them, with the one feature (you can guess what it was) that I didn't realize until about half-way through the conversation cleverly omitted. Both were boys, and my initial impression is that they were somewhere between 10-14.
Boy No. 1 was the spokesman. Boy No. 2 didn't speak during the entire conversation -- at least not in words.Boy No. 1 was slightly taller than his companion, wearing a pull-over, hooded shirt with a sort of gray checked pattern and jeans. I couldn't see his shoes. His skin was olive-colored and had curly, medium-length brown hair. He exuded an air of quiet confidence. Boy No. 2 had pale skin with a trace of freckles. His primary characteristic seemed to be looking around nervously. He was dressed in a similar manner to his companion, but his pull-over was a light green color. His hair was a sort of pale orange.
They didn't appear to be related, at least directly."Oh, great," I thought. "They're gonna hit me up for money." And then the air changed. There I was, filling out a check in my car (which was still running) and in a sudden panic over the appearance of two little boys. I was confused, but an overwhelming sense of fear and unearthliness rushed in nonetheless.
The spokesman smiled, and the sight for some inexplicable reason chilled my blood. I could feel fight-or-flight responses kicking in. Something, I knew instinctually, was not right, but I didn't know what it could possibly be.I rolled down the window very, very slightly and asked "Yes?"The spokesman smiled again, broader this time. His teeth were very, very white.
"Hey, mister, what's up? We have a problem," he said. His voice was that of a young man, but his diction, quiet calm and ... something I still couldn't put my finger on ... made my desire to flee even greater. "You see, my friend and I want to see the films, but we forgot our money," he continued. "We need to go to our house to get it. Want to help us out?" Okay. Journalists are required to talk to lots of people, and that includes children. I've seen and spoken to lots of them. Here's how that usually goes: "Uh ... M ... M ... Mister? Can I see that camera? I ... I won't break it or anything. I promise. My dad has a camera, and he lets me hold it sometimes, I guess, and I took a picture of my dog -- it wasn's very good, 'cause I got my finger in the way and ..." Add in some feet shuffling and/or body swaying and you've got a typical kid talking to a stranger. In short, they're usually apologetic. People generally teach children that when they talk to adults, they're usually bothering them for one reason or another and they should at least be polite. This kid was in no way fitting the mold. His command of language was incredible and he showed no signs of fear. He spoke as if my help was a foregone conclusion. When he grinned, it was as if he was trying to say, "I know something ... and you're NOT gonna like it. But the only way you're going to find out what it is will be to do what I say ..." "Uh, well ..." was the best reply I could offer.
Now here's where it starts to get strange.The quiet companion looked at the spokesman with a mixture of confusion and guilt on his face. He seemed in some ways shocked, not with his friend's brusque manner but that I didn't just immediately open the door. He eyed me nervously. The spokesman seemed a bit perturbed, too. I still was registering something wrong with both. "C'mon, mister," the spokesman said again, smooth as silk. Car salesmen could learn something from this kid. "Now, we just want to go to our house. And we're just two little boys." That really scared me. Something in the tone and diction again sent off alarm bells. My mind was frantically trying to process what it was perceiving about the two figures that was "wrong."
"Eh. Um ...." was all I could manage. I felt myself digging my fingernails into the steering wheel. "What movie were you going to see?" I asked finally. "Mortal Kombat, of course," the spokesman said. The silent one nodded in affirmation, standing a few paces behind. "Oh," I said. I stole a quick glance at the marquee and at the clock in my car. Mortal Kombat had been playing for an hour, the last showing of the evening. The silent one looked increasingly nervous. I think he saw my glances and suspected that I might be detecting something was not above-board.
"C'mon, mister. Let us in. We can't get in your car until you do, you know," the spokesman said soothingly. "Just let us in, and we'll be gone before you know it. We'll go to our mother's house." We locked eyes. To my horror, I realized my hand had strayed toward the door lock (which was engaged) and was in the process of opening it. I pulled it away, probably a bit too violently. But it did force me to look away from the children. I turned back. "Er ... Um ...," I offered weakly and then my mind snapped into sharp focus.
For the first time, I noticed their eyes. They were coal black. No pupil. No iris. Just two staring orbs reflecting the red and white light of the marquee. At that point, I know my expression betrayed me. The silent one had a look of horror on his face in a combination that seemed to say "We've been found out!" The spokesman, on the other hand, wore a mask of anger. His eyes glittered brightly in the half-light. "Cmon, mister," he said. "We won't hurt you. You have to LET US IN. We don't have a gun ..."
That last statement scared the living hell out of me, because at that point by his tone he was plainly saying, "We don't NEED a gun." He noticed my hand shooting down toward the gear shift. The spokesman's final words contained an anger that was complete and whole, and yet contained in some respects a tone of panic: "WE CAN'T COME IN UNLESS YOU TELL US IT'S OKAY. LET ... US .... IN!"
I ripped the car into reverse (thank goodness no one was coming up behind me) and tore out of the parking lot. I noticed the boys in my peripheral vision, and I stole a quick glance back. They were gone. The sidewalk by the theater was deserted. I drove home in a heightened state of panic. Had anyone attempted to stop me, I would have run on through and faced the consequences later. I bolted into my house, scanning all around -- including the sky. What did I see? Maybe nothing more than some kids looking for a ride. And some really funky contacts. Yeah, right.
A friend suggested they were vampires, what with the old "let us in" bit and my compelled response to open the door. That and the "we'll go see our mother" thing. I'm still not sure what they were, but here's an epilogue I find chilling: A close friend of mine recently moved to Amarillo, but at the time this happened was still living in San Angelo. I called him and talked to him briefly. He had two friends with him at the time, both professing some type of psychic ability.
I started telling him the story, leaving out the part about the black eyes for the kicker. One of the women (we were on a speakerphone) stopped me. "These children had black eyes, right?" she asked. "I mean, all-black eyes?" "Er ... Yes." I said. I was a bit taken aback.
"Hmmm," she said. "One night last week, I had a dream about children with black eyes. They were outside my house, wanting to be let in, but there was something wrong with them. It took me a while to realize it was the eyes."
I hadn't even gotten as far as them wanting to come in. "What did you do?" I asked. "I kept the doors and windows locked," she said. "I knew if they came in, they would kill me." She paused. "And they would have killed you, too, if you had let them into your car."
---
Carol was a young film student. She was recently engaged to a nice boy she had been dating for three years. She liked hanging out with her friends, going to the movies and listening to music. Really, she was quite typical for a girl her age.
Every once in a while, Carol liked to take her camera, drive out to her parents summer home in the woods, and film the wildlife. She entered the footage in wildlife photography and video competitions, hoping to make a name for herself.
One spring day, Carol loaded up her car with her camera equipment. She said told her roommate she would be back in a couple of days, and asked the roommate to feed her fish. She called her fiancé and let him know she would be at her parent?s summer home this weekend. She let him know her cell didn?t get signal out there, and that they didn?t keep a landline. She told him she would be out of touch for the entire weekend.
The drive up to the summer home was pleasant enough. She got there with no problems. Her parents were not due to the summer home for another couple weeks, so she had the place to herself. By the time she got unpacked, it was getting late so she went to bed deciding she would start shooting in the morning.
At sunrise the next morning, she gathered her camera equipment and went out to shoot some wildlife. It was a tiring but productive day. She got some great footage of an eagle catching a mouse. At one point she nodded off while waiting for a deer to come to a pond she knew the animals frequented. When she woke up, she found a pair of young deer drinking the water. She spent a little bit of time filming a humming bird darting from flower to flower. She caught footage of a huge rattlesnake resting on a rock. Then she took a long hike up a hill to try and catch some footage of fireflies lighting up a clearing.
By the time she got back to her parents summer home, it was just after dark. She had been lugging her equipment around all day and was very tired. She didn?t even bother showering. She just dropped her hat and camera on the chair next to her bed and passed out.
The next morning she was reviewing her footage on her laptop. The eagle was majestic. Probably some of her best work ever. She watched the footage of the deer. She thought they were very cute. Something in one of the deer shot caught her eye though. It was only there for a second. She thought she saw a very tall man with very pale skin in the bushes. It looked like he was watching her.
She rewound the footage, and looked again, this time in slow motion. She could certainly make out a figure, but she couldn?t tell if there was actually someone standing there, or if it was just a trick of light on some bushes.
Carol put the strange image out of her head and kept reviewing her footage. The humming bird footage didn?t come out well. The little guy was moving too fast, and the light was bad. The rattlesnake was cool though, even if it was a little boring. After she watched the bit with the fireflies, she was pretty sure she was going to win some kind of award. The natural lighting was just perfect. When the firefly footage cut off, she noticed that she still had one video file left to watch. Curious, she opened it. It was a video of her, sleeping in her bed. Her insides turned to ice when she noticed the reflection in her bedroom window. There was a very tall, naked, albino man with a scraggly gray beard wearing her hat and filming her sleeping. He was breathing heavily.
Carol slammed her computer shut, not wanting to see any more. The video stopped. The heavy breathing did not.
---
A few years ago I was spending some time with friends exploring old, supposedly haunted, places. We were at the Edisto First Presbyterian Church, where a girl named Julia Legare was buried in her family mausoleum in 1852.
People reported hearing unearthly screams time and time again, but never investigating the cause of it. Fifteen years later, when they opened the door to the mausoleum to inter the next family member who had died, finding her corpse huddled in the corner next to the door, arms outstretched as if still trying to find the exit.
Well, my friends thought it would be a funny idea to shut the giant stone door (which was originally open) behind me and pick me up in the morning. The bastards left me there? I tried and tried, using all of my strength, but I couldn?t budge it, it had taken four people to put it in place. In the dark, I resigned myself to the night ahead of me.
Now, I normally don?t frighten easily, but sitting there in the relatively small place, surrounded by a looming pressure that I couldn?t begin to explain, the darkness itself seemed to try to consume me. From all around it felt like weight was pressing against my skin, making even breathing hard. I sat in the dark for what must have been hours.
Then I heard the scratches. They were faint at first, I was sure it was my imagination, but soon they became more and more frantic as time passed. I huddled up in one of the corners farthest from the door and tried to cover my ears but nothing could stop the growing cacophony. This all may have lasted for a few minutes, but each second was an unbearable eternity.
Then, a loud scream echoed through the darkness, it was a wail of unrestrained pain and fear. The scratching stopped. For the first time I could distinctly make out the sound of a girl sobbing to herself, the pitiful gasping of one without a shred of hope left.
I felt such sorrow at the moment, such pain, that I think I forgot how to be afraid. In my heart all her suffering seemed to resonate. Inexplicably, I found myself apologizing aloud for everything that had happened to her. Hell, a part of me wanted to reach out and feel for a body to hug, but I couldn?t bring myself to do it for fear that I truly would find one.
I don?t know whether or not she heard me or was even aware of my presence, the sobbing continued and I could again hear fingers against the stone slab that was the tomb door.
I fell asleep at some point, which I felt was a merciful gift from the fates. I?m not sure how long I was out, but I was woken by a loud and powerful thud as the door slammed against the ground outside. I could tell from the light gray outside that daybreak was near, so I must have slept for at least a few hours.
I stumbled outside and went to a small unlocked prayer house. I think previously it was a segregated mini-church, but regardless, I leaned against the door and waited nervously until my ?friends? arrived. I approached them as they clustered around the fallen door, two of them were kneeling next to it with faces of shock.
There were bloody streaks covering the interior of the door, some with light scratches from fingernails, many without. I think now that she must have shrieked when they broke away from her hands, but I can?t be sure.
At first, they looked to me, then checked my hands, then nervously glanced at one another. I was rightfully pissed with them and told them every detail of what I remembered, wanting them to know what I had been put through.
Finally, after I grudgingly got into the car and we started to head back, someone spoke up. My friend said to me ?We were afraid to say anything, but look at your face.?
I later found out that many times people had tried to permanently seal the entrance to the mausoleum, including enough heavy locks and chains that it would require heavy equipment to remove it, only to have it found torn open with the door lying on the ground once more. This was in the 1980s, the last attempt of many through the decades. It seemed like some force was ensuring that it was impossible to ever repeat the mistakes of the past. This is something I am understandably quite grateful for, but to this very day I am chilled to the bone when I think of what happened that night.
When I reached from the back seat and adjusted the rear-view mirror, I saw that there was blood caked on my face. Just like the streaks upon the stone slab, there were dark red lines on either side, as if someone had gently cradled my face with torn fingers as I slept that night, feeling the warmth of another for the first time in over a hundred years.
---
In every major town and city, there is a house of which no official record exists, and whose windows have been boarded up for longer than anyone around can remember. The previous occupants, if there ever were any, are untraceable, and no organisation or individual will ever lay claim to the plot on which it stands.
Nevertheless, when you break in?always through a back, ground-floor window; you must never touch the outer doors?you will see amongst the dust the signs of inhabitants long gone. A flattened cardboard box, an overturned child?s cot, balding patches on the carpet where the pile has been worn away. Invariably there will be an orphaned double mattress in the master bedroom. What you will not see, however, are rats and cockroaches, or animal waste. Vermin know better than to come here.
These are Her sacred spaces.
The first time you visit, bring only what you need to help you enter the house. Then locate the master bedroom, stand in the centre, and draw an unbroken circle in the dust around your feet. Make it about a metre in diameter to be safe.
Face the doorway and say aloud; ?I wish to make a sacrifice. Will you welcome the offering??
Then leave as quickly as possible. You must not return until night has next fallen.
This time, bring nails, a hammer, an empty litre bottle, a sharp, sturdy knife, and a torch. Enter the same way you did last time. Remember the mattress in the master bedroom? Someone will be sleeping there. Don?t worry about waking them up; She has taken care of that for you. Turn the sleeper over onto their back and cut their jugular vein, making sure to collect as much blood as you can.
You will need to pour a little of the blood onto the floor of every room, including this one, but make sure you have some left at the end. When you?ve finished, leave by the same way you entered, and close up the boards again. (This is what the hammer and nails are for.) Walk home. Speak to nobody on your way. When you get there, tip some of the remaining blood into your right hand and smear it over your door handle before you enter. Then go to bed.
If there is any blood left, you must pour the rest of it onto any pavement in the city, but do not allow it to be poured down a drain. The knife you must never use again, and should bury. Do not trouble yourself with covering your tracks. When you next leave your house, the blood on your door will be gone, and the murder you have committed will have no repurcussions. From the moment you leave Her temple, DNA evidence will never again implicate you; law enforcement will creep around your footsteps without touching them. On cameras, your face will show up a blur.
You are under Her protection now.
Just make sure you get the right house.
---
I?ve decided to kill myself.
I think it?s important someone understand why, so I?m making this video before I blow my head off. The first time I remember it happening I was nine. Johnny Weller and I were playing in his back yard. The sun was setting over his back fence, warm oranges and reds shining through the bone-white slats like a creamsicle against pearly white teeth. Johnny was the cowboy and I was the dirty redskin, stealing his horse. We ran around the swingset, him laughing and me whooping and threatening to scalp him. When he tripped, I ran to where he laid in the dirt, scooping up a handful of air, pointing my finger at his nose and proclaimed, ?I got your gun now! BANG!?
Johnny?s head exploded in a tremendous blossom of crimson blood, slate-gray brain and chips of skull that sparkled in the setting sun. My hand fell to my side, and I stared, open-mouthed, unable to understand what just happened. Someone was screaming. At first I thought it must be Johnny?s mother, until she tore open the back door and I realized I was the one screaming. Johnny?s mother crumpled against her son?s headless body, adding her broken sobs to my horrified cries.
Johnny?s funeral was the next week, closed casket. I forgot the sparkling light shimmering across the cloud of Johnny?s blood. I forgot Johnny?s mother rag-dolling my little body, begging me to tell her what happened to her son. I forgot the sherrif telling my mother Johnny was hit by a falling bullet, one of twenty six cases each year. I forgot my father?s quiet talks with my mother about how they never found the round that spattered Johnny?s smile across the grass. I adjusted. I coped. I forgot.
I didn?t forget the next time it happened. I never played cowboys and indians again; in fact, I can?t remember a single instance of any shooting game played by little boys anywhere in my childhood. I do remember the little girl in the park, pop pop popping her little nerf balls as she bounced around. She ran up to me, brandishing the weapon and shouting, ?Hands up!?
I smiled and complied, dropping my sandwich in mock terror. I lifted my hands to the sky and petitioned for mercy. A true homicidal maniac in the making, she executed me with a flurry of staccato pop pop pops. I dutifully played dead, sprawling across my bench. She giggled and proclaimed, ?Your turn. Shoot me!?
A sudden sensation of intense discomfort slithered up my spine. I thought of flowers, glittering crimson roses, wet with morning dew. She eyed me impatiently, apparently convinced she might have to nerf me once more to provoke a response. I lifted my finger weakly, pointed at her and whispered, ?Bang.?
This time I wasn?t the one screaming. Her mother cradled her baby?s dismembered limbs, frantically clutching an arm, then a leg. I had pointed my finger at the little girl?s belly button. The moment the word left my lips, she ruptured like a water balloon filled with punch and soaking bits of crimson colored fruit. Johnny Weller?s decapitated body filled my vision, the slow red of sunset sliding down the front of his striped shirt. I ran.
I can?t do this anymore. I got pissed at Laura yesterday and put my finger in her face to tell her off. I didn?t even say it. I couldn?t bring myself to sop my girlfriend?s brains off the kitchen floor. I can?t do this anymore.
All I have to do is put my finger against my temple and say it.
At least I?ll go out with a bang.
---
I?m in between.
One of them bit me. The bastard took a chunk out of my upper arm. The fool probably didn?t even know it was an arm. He probably saw me as a walking turkey leg or something. Oh, but he got his dues. I whacked his useless head off with a crowbar I stole when shit got serious.
It got serious about a month ago, and let me tell you, it happened just the way everyone thought it would happen. Some ?contained? little outbreak, then BOOM, everyone I know is staggering around like kangaroos tripping on dextro. Not me, though. I knew I was going to fight it. I did well until about a week ago when Mr. Slobbermouth munched on my bicep.
It amazes even me that I?m so coherent. God, I wish I wasn?t. I?m not like them, but I?m just like them. I have the hunger they have, but I have all the guilt and love of humanity that is going to keep me from surviving.
I?m not even sure that I want to survive anymore. I see them do horrible things, things that are starting to drive me mad, and I either get sick to my stomach or find my mouth watering. I don?t want to live if living means I have to watch the destruction of my kind every day.
But then, this means no more hiding. It?s as if they can sense something in me, like they scan for a zombie membership card and find it on me. They leave me alone. I can walk freely among them.
You know how I said I?m just like them? Well, I?m better than them. I?m smarter and have the ability to gain the trust of humans. I found one yesterday, I know where all the good hiding spots are, you see, and Lord was it happy to see me. It grasped my arm and looked into my eyes, saying it was happy to have found someone to fight with. Making sure none of the no-brains were around, I took it with me and hid with it in a storm cellar. I let it fall asleep, then I broke its neck, busted open its head like a coconut, and tore into its meaty brain. The blood complimented it nicely.
For a few moments, I felt bad for what I had done. I saw his body in that stagnant pool of blood, looking as if he was still sleeping, and felt some remorse for the poor, trusting boy. I wondered about his life before the disaster. Was he happy? Did his family love him? Would he have survived anyway?
That acidic guilt rose in me, a constant reminder of my humanity. But there?s at least one thing zombies and humans have in common: the will to survive. And I?m about to do a much better job than either one of them will.
---
There?s a local legend where I come from. They?re simply referred to as the willow men.
There?s hardly a need for the law enforcement in this town. The willow men take care of all that. Every single step taken, every word spoken, every drop of blood spilt.. The willow men know about it before anyone else. Believe me, anyone that has invoked the wrath of the willow men has gone missing without a trace.
That?s why when I realized what I had done it was too late. The willow men were coming.
She just wouldn?t shut the hell up. No matter what I said and what I would do she was just hysterical. She kept pacing about the house screaming. She said she found this and that and knew I was cheating on her. She?d ask me who it was and I told her she was crazy. I guess I wore that excuse out. After a while, I couldn?t take her damn voice anymore. I?d walk room to room and she?d follow me. When we got to the kitchen I had my fill.
I reached for the first knife I could find and jammed it into her throat. The face of anger and sorrow melted into one of despair and disbelief. The crimson fluid ran freely all over her blouse and she dropped to her knees, scrambling around on the floor. She clawed at the tile and made gurgling noises which only served to infuriate me. I grabbed an iron skillet that had been pre-heating on the stove and took a swing at her head. A wet crack followed the impact and while I didn?t need to keep going I did.
I lost count of the number of times I hit her but I had a good deal of blood on me. What was left of her head was being held together by thin particles of bone and blood continued to rush out. I dropped the skillet to the floor with a loud clang. I wish remorse could have followed so I would?ve felt a least a bit human but it didn?t. I was just happy to be rid of her. With a grunt I picked her body up off the floor and hoisted it unto my shoulder. Her face hung next to me, dead eyes staring with conviction. I could only chuckle. As soon as I got outside, I dropped the ragged heap onto the ground and went to find a shovel. That?s when I knew they were watching.
I could hear the whispers from the woods and in the corners of my eyes I could see them staring intently at my every move. Whenever I would look up to the woods I would find only gnarled trees staring back at me. I knew they were there. It was dusk by the time she was good and buried. I was drenched in sweat and it had made the blood stains on my clothes expand and turn orange. I looked back up to the woods and I saw them peering from behind the trees. Long, gnarled faces with hollow eyes and gaunt figures. I could only half see the faces as they chose to hide behind their precious trees but they were there. Watching, whispering?
?What are you staring for, bastards?! You heard her! I had to do it,? I yelled at them.
Was I expecting a response? I don?t know. They just continued to watch me from behind the trees. I spit on the ground and threw the shovel down. They would come for me under cover of darkness and I wasn?t going without a fight. I stole away into the house and prepared. I pushed couches and dressers in front of doorways. I nailed wooden boards haphazardly to cover all the windows. As the sun crept underneath the horizon a great trepidation settled in the pit of my stomach. Was it honestly nerves? I hated to think it was such a powerful fear that I would start breaking into an ice cold sweat. I loaded up my shotgun and reached for a bottle of whiskey. I forced down a mouthful and then another and slammed the rest of the bottle against the wall in frustration.
One door I left open. It was the back door that stared out to the woods. I put a chair down in front of it and sat, shotgun in my lap. They were still staring at me. The willow men. We stayed staring at one another for three days. Eventually, exhaustion began to get the best of me and I started to nod off. I tried desperately to keep my eyes open. For a foolish second I propped my head up with the shotgun so that it wouldn?t fall. I snapped back to reason and lifted my head high. Last thing I wanted to do was shoot myself. Had I known what was coming I probably should have.
I pushed myself to stay up for a few more hours. The day came and went and it was the dead of night before I knew it. They persisted behind the trees. I began to rationalize that if I closed my eyes for a second, I could have enough time to open them while the willow men were coming at me so I could take a few down. Smiling I did just that. Of course, its? difficult to tell how long you were asleep. Could be a second, could be for days. I opened my eyes again and found I was still sitting in my chair with my shotgun in my lap. I snapped up when I saw that the willow men were no longer behind the trees. I flipped out and held the shotgun up, darting around barrel first. I took a few steps outside and tried to control my heavy breaths. I shook damn near uncontrollably and found it impossible to keep the gun steady.
I began to calm down when I didn?t see anything outside and began to return to my post when I stopped dead in my tracks. I felt tears well in my eyes and something began to push up and out of my throat. The willow men were peering from around the doorway and the sides of the house. I froze staring at their gnarled up faces and branch-like hands. I had to do something. I pulled the gun up and fired off a round. It managed to take out part of the door frame but it missed any of them altogether. I popped open the shotgun and madly grasped for a fresh shell in my pocket. I successfully reloaded it and lifted the gun back up.
The willow men continued to look at me from where they had been. I took careful aim this time and fired once more. Another shot hit the doorframe this time although closer to the willow men. I fumbled for a third round and as I did, I saw a large shadow cover me. Looking up, the willow men were upon me. I screamed and closed the barrel down on my thumb effectively severing it. Immediately after that, I lost all consciousness and collapsed.
When I awoke, it was ice cold. My vision began to return to me slowly and I could feel that I was being dragged. My heart sank when I looked around. Darkness stretched as far as the eye could see and I knew I was in the deepest part of the woods. Where my thumb had once been was black and swollen and had managed to numb up to my forearm. My ankles were in severe pain too but I didn?t know why. When I looked, I saw that they had been clearly snapped and the willow men were dragging me by my feet. I began to scream as loudly as possible for someone, anyone.
All I did was cause more willow men to appear and watch me from behind the strangest willow trees I?d ever seen. Their trunks were small and looked just like leather. The earth around them was red and moist yet where I was being dragged was dry, rugged land. I looked up to the canopy and wish I hadn?t. Skinless corpses hung down, blood dripping freely to feed what I now knew were flesh-bound trees. My screams were swallowed by the dark and my throat gave out, hoarse from the strain. In the silence, I heard a faint moaning.
I looked around to see if there was someone else here. Maybe some poor bastard who suffered my same fate. To my horror, I discovered the source of the moans. The bodies hanging on the branches of the trees were all still alive. Soon, I too would have my flesh torn asunder and be damned to hang up there and feed the hungry willow trees. There was nothing I could but accept my fate. The willow men had me.
---
I was adopted. I never knew my real mother; rather, I knew her at one time but I left her side when I was too little to be able to remember. I loved my adopted family though. They were so kind to me. I ate well, I lived in a warm and comfortable house, and I got to stay up pretty late.
Let me tell you about my family real fast: First, there?s my mother. I never called her Mom or anything like that; I just called her by her first name. Janice. She didn?t mind at all though. I called her that for so long, I don?t think she even noticed. Anyhow, she was a very kind woman. I think that she is the one who recommended my adoption in the first place. Sometimes I would lay my head against her in front of the television and she would tickle my back with her nails. She is one of those Hollywood mothers.
Second, there?s Dad. His real name was Richard, but he never really liked me much so I began to refer to him as Dad in a desperate attempt to gain his affection. It didn?t work. I think that no matter what I called him, he would never love me as much as his own child. That?s understandable so I really didn?t press the matter. The most notable attribute of Dad was his unmoving sternness. He was not afraid to pop his children when they did something wrong. I found that out before I could use the restroom properly. He didn?t hesitate to spank me. Well, I?m in line and it?s because of his methods.
Lastly, is my sister. Little Emily was really young when I was adopted, so we were about the same age, but she was slightly older. I liked to think of her as my little sister, though. We got along better than any sibling could possibly get along. We would always stay up late together and just talk. Well, she did a lot of the talking; I mostly just listened because I loved her. It was a great setup that we had! We were short on bedrooms, so- because I didn?t want to sleep in the living room by myself when I was littler- I had a pallet set up for me next to her bed on the floor. This is where I have slept since. But it was cool with me because I enjoyed being with her and I had always felt pretty protective of my little sis.
Everything changed on a horrible Wednesday night. I was at home taking a nap when little Emily opened the front door. The sound of the door opening pulled me to a state of consciousness and I walked from the room down the hall to the living room. That?s when I first remembered it was Wednesday. I was never any good at keeping track of what day it was. Actually I?ll just go ahead and say it: My sense of time was HORRIBLE! But nevertheless, I knew it was Wednesday because Emily had just come home from her Church?s youth group gathering. She walked in the front door and hugged me, and then was followed in by Dad and Janice.
?You have a good nap?? Janice said teasingly as she ruffled up my hair. I just shook my head away and snorted in a manner that clearly expressed that I was teasing back with her.
?Don?t you snort at your mother like that!? said my father gruffly with authority. He shut the door behind him and hung up his coat.
?I was clearly joking?? I growled under my breath. He must not have heard me because I didn?t feel him smack me. Emily then proceeded to our room and I followed. She started telling me about her day. You know? usual teenage girl stuff. But I listened so that she would feel better. After her summary she suggested watching TV and I obliged and jumped onto the couch as she was going for the remote. She rolled her eyes at my little-brother-like immaturity and scooted me over and sat down. The TV turned on and we watched it together until the sun went down. Emily was the kind of girl that- instead of watching cartoons and soap operas- would rather watch Discovery and Animal Planet and Natural Geographic. I like those too so I didn?t mind. Actually, those were the only channels that can hold my attention.
So it got late and Janice walked up behind the sofa. ?Emily it?s past your bed time. Turn off the television and go to your room. You too.? she pointed at me. Emily turned off the program we were watching grudgingly and stood up. She started down the hallway to our room. As I followed I couldn?t shake the feeling that something wasn?t right.
Not long after that, I heard a very loud crash on the other side of the house. I was up in an instant. ?THERE?S SOMEONE IN THE HOUSE!? I barked with extreme adrenaline coursing through me. ?Wake up!? I shrilly pleaded with Emily. She did, and as soon as I saw her sit up I ran to my parent?s room?
Dad was dead. His neck was splayed open and gaping as blood spilled out of it, off the bed, and onto the floor. I saw that the master bathroom?s door was closed and just before it- on the outside- was a man.
A man? I don?t feel comfortable calling it that.
He was very large and rugged. He turned around and saw me and that?s when I saw him accurately for the first time. I wont forget it. His eyes were large and beady and trapped with lust. He was styling a beard that was badly unkempt with blood dripping off. His clothes were dirty and his face was cold. Just then I noticed the same horrid smell of sweat and blood from earlier, but this time it was overwhelming.
He saw me. He saw me and grinned with a set of crooked yellow teeth. That smile threw me off. I thought that I was going to die, but then he turned back to the bathroom door completely unperturbed by my presence. I was terrified and didn?t no what to do. I just yelled and cried. I watched as he shouldered through door that was Mom?s only protection. I watched as he raised the large razor that he was carrying, but had obviously neglected to use properly. I watched as he sliced her open and tore her to shreds?
I then heard something; the last thing that I wanted to hear? It was Emily?s scream coming from behind me. The large monstrosity looked up from my butchered mother and stared at my little sister. I was distraught. He stood up and quickly started walking toward us. My sis turned and ran, and I was at a loss when he bypassed me and went straight after her. Why was she still in the house? Had she not assessed the situation and run? Apparently not, and now she was dead and I was alone.
I ran after them both. I expected the man to kill her as he had the rest of my family, but I was sadly mistaken. He grabbed her by the arm and jerked her as a way to make clear that he was in control. He dragged her through the house? I was making all of the noise I could now, hoping and praying that someone would come to my aid. He mustn?t take her. Not her.
As he passed me I backed against the wall and whimpered with terror, ?Why?? He didn?t respond except by putting his free hand on my head while Emily screamed in the other and saying ?Good boy.? He gave another crooked grin and a very cold, unnatural laugh. I followed him to the door where he dragged my helpless sister after him. He opened it, pulled her out, and slammed it shut behind him.
I am now sitting in the house with my mutilated adopted parents, shivering and whimpering with dismay. He?s out there with her. Doing who-knows-what to her, and I can?t do anything. I would if I could, but I can?t. I would chase after them in a heartbeat, but I can?t. I sit here, looking at the front door. I look down at my paws. If only I could open doors?
---
Everyone loves technology nowadays. In nearly every facet of our lives there is some form of technology there. It is forever with us and we have bonded with it, as silly as that may sound. Machines mirror us and everything about us. They are flawed as we are. They can die, they can make errors, they can learn, they can even get sick.
Indeed, viruses and other malware out there is very dangerous to our computers, and to us. Sure, someone you don't even know could steal your credit card number and make you thousands in debt before you even get the bill. But that's not what makes them so dangerous. There are some viruses out there that can do much, much worse.
If you don't believe me get any old anti-virus program. Any will do. There are files on your computer that your virus scanners will not scan at all. These are normally hidden from view in all of the files that are stored in important files. Even those who make these programs or those that are savvy with computers are completely unaware that they are there. But they are.
What you may not know is when you buy a sensitive piece of machinery like a computer, is that the moment you turn it on you leave an imprint of sorts on it. It forever becomes a part of you.
As I was saying before I went off ranting - you will have to manually specify these files to scan. The files in question vary from computer to computer and person to person, but you will somehow know what you are looking for when you actively look for them. They may not be apparent at first but continue manually looking for the files you need to scan.
When you find them, and trust me you will know when you find them, scan them. Your virus scanner will always scan only one item from the file and it is always infected with a virus that once scanned sends your computer into a flurry of alert messages. Not like those do any good now. You can turn the computer off now if you want, you have to do so by pressing your power button because your virus scanner and the files you just scanned will make the infernal binging noise and refuse to go away. If you shut off your computer now, you will never be able to start it again or be able to own any piece of electrical hardware. They will all break as soon as they are in your possession.
It might take awhile but fix every infected file manually. After doing so your computer will freeze up for about a day. Don't bother trying to cold start it now. Just leave it on and go about your normal business. Come back in 24 hours and your computer will have drastically changed.
For starters your desktop wallpaper will be something out of focus and mostly underscernable but utterly horrifying to you. In addition to this your desktop will be filled with folders, many of them will will be gibberish - a mishmash of random letters and symbols. Don't bother opening them because in them are hundreds of copies of the infected files you tried to delete.
There will be one folder that is clearly labeled though, it will always be some variation of "Click here" or "Click me" Do so, because this will be the one folder not filled to the brim with viruses. There will be a day to day, hour by hour, minute to minute text file of your life. Of course, this document will be extremely long so don't bother reading the parts you know. Skip to the end. As you go along you will notice that it begins to describe things that have not even happened yet.
This is your chance. You can make any modification you wish to these files. They are your life and your essence. Toying with this is toying with your soul. If you wish to read through all the events that have not yet occurred and change them in your favor - do so. You need to write them neatly and descriptively and within reason, no "And then suddenly hot women appeared."
After you have made all the modifications you wish to make, exit the file and save the additions you have made. Turn off your computer. Wait a few minutes and turn it back on. Everything will be back to normal. However, now, buried beneath all the files on your computer will be the folder containing the text document. This document cannot be edited further.
Now that you have a nice life planned ahead of you, I hope you made sure to compulsively write that you have not lost your computer or it has not broken down until the very minute you die. This is important, because if the files you wrote are ever destroyed in some way or are lost you will cease to be. You will not die, but simply cease to exist.
Imagine not existing in any plane the mortal mind can conceive of. You can't, can you? You don't want to.
---
Have you ever been walking up a quiet flight of stairs and get the need to get to climb to the very top as fast as possible? Or driving down the road late at night and suddenly get the urge to drive as fast as possible?
Don't worry, that's just them letting you know the chase is on. Be sure to play along, because there is nothing they hate more than catching the one they're chasing. They just never know what to do with them.
Well, there is one thing they hate more. They really, truly hate it if you look over your shoulder.
