It was her first day of rest in weeks. The first day she had no obligations, no engagements, and the only thing demanding her attention was her one hundred-pound Supermutt, Artos. He was sniffing his way through the yard now, investigating every scent trail that piqued his interest while she smoked the day's first cigarette. The air was cool and damp under a grey sky, a mist lingered from the passing storm. She lived for days like this. For the scent of the trees, and for the rejuvenated curiosity of Artos as he sloshed around the wet grass. A sense of contentment settled around her. She whistled and Artos trotted through the open door, he sat to the side waiting to be dried off—that was his favourite part—while she finished her cigarette just outside of the door.
She stepped inside and reached for the towel draped over the shoe rack by the door, but Artos didn’t hop as he typically would. Instead, he stayed still, his watchful eyes focused on the open door. She looked over her shoulder, fresh rain overfilled the gutters and cascaded over the awning.
“It’s okay, bubba, it’s just the rain.”
She took a playful step in his direction, and he sidestepped, his trained eyes never losing focus. Thinking distant thunder may be to blame, she reached to close the door, but something stopped it before it could latch. Her hands pressed against the resistance and the door burst open, jamming her shoulder and upsetting her balance. A sinister male figure filled the doorway, Artos lunged forward as the man forced his way into the room.
The door bounced off of her and slammed shut, a clap of thunder seeming to answer the call of chaos descending on the house. The unknown man struggled against Artos, his body colliding with shelves as he tried to keep his footing. Adrenaline rushed through her veins and instinct took over, her hands swept over his shoulders and looped around his upper biceps, linking together behind his back. Grip growing tighter, she tucked her head low and leaned back and Artos pounced at the man’s groin. He keeled over and stepped into Artos who swept his leg right out from under him, she never let go. The air escaped his lungs under the weight of her, she spun her legs to the side and braced herself on her knees. One of those knees connected with his face when he turned his face away from Artos, and his body went limp.
When he came to, he found himself bound with zip ties, her sitting in a chair a few feet away—staring at him, Artos at her feet. Overcome with confusion and rage, he began to thrash and yell obscenities, all the things he would do when he got free…if he got free. She sat silently, watching him wriggle, waiting, weighing her options from this moment. While he was unconscious, she emptied his pockets and used his thumb to surpass the lock screen of his phone and banking app. His accounts were negative and his messages sporadic, his social media was full of troll activity and misinformation posts, conspiracy theories, and hate groups. A real winner, in his own mind though, to be sure, and that’s to say nothing of where he finds himself now.
“I’ll gut you, fucking bitch!”
“Now, is that any way to speak to a lady?”
Her contemptuous tone pushed him into another frenzy, and spittle accumulated around the corners of his thin, dry lips. His phone was drowning in a cup of cleaning fluid, and when he noticed the profanities again began to fly. She pressed record on her audio recorder.
Some time passed and storm outside intensified, torrential rainfall poured in thunderous applause. The room filled with men she’d never met, and whom she’d likely never see again. None spoke, simply nodded at the index finger pressed to her lips. Still uncertain of what would come next, they all waited for their mutual acquaintance to arrive. Somewhere around the third hour of his profane ranting, she had decided to call someone whose world was vastly different than her own. Someone whose world she had hoped would never cross over into hers, but she now found cause to enlist their expertise. There existed no doubt in her mind that the recordings of the man’s provocative ranting would be convincing enough to elicit a new veneer to their alliance.
He opened the door and knocked gently on the doorframe; the pad of her finger stopped the recording. The gathering of men spoke quietly amongst themselves while she greeted the man at the door, the man that they all knew. He found a seat and she removed the bound man’s belt and folded it several times, placed it between his teeth, reached for the duct tape. She silenced the ranting with an effecting bit, and sat next to the visitor, but said nothing. Instead, she pressed play on the audio recorder and waited. The room was again void of any sound other than the desperate, vile declarations of a weak man rendered powerless in his pursuit of the illusion of power. It did not take long for the putridness of his existence became clear, and the strong index finger of her visitor brought silence to the room again. After a pause, he spoke directly to her,
“What do you want to do?”
In all the hours since subduing her attacker, she still could not decide what to do with him. Not for lack of options, bit more for what was feasible.
“That depends—what’s possible right now?”
They spoke, at length, about the bound man’s social connections and the likelihood that he would be missed. Her eyes rarely left his bound and gagged body on her living room floor, she watched him struggle to absorb the reality that took form around him.
“I have an old mattress protector, but that does nothing for his blood in the mudroom; this carpet needs replaced…”
Her visitor’s eyes widened slightly in unanticipated surprise. His tongue rolled across his teeth, his hand toyed with his bearded chin,
“Leave all that to me…,” he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, matching her posture, “what do you want to do?”
She turned away from their subject and rested her chin in the crook of her shoulder, unsuccessfully searching for a more eloquent way to say,
“…I want his balls, in a jar.”
He made little effort to restrain his glee, scooching forward with a smile growing across his face,
“Okay—and what do you need?”
Together they made a list and some of the gathering dispersed in intervals to acquire various necessities, including a few bacon cheeseburgers to reward Artos. Every possible angle was considered in graphic detail, every consequence weighed, alibis created, contingency plans outlined. A perfect crime was curated, so to speak, in fantastical detail, right in front of the subject’s eyes and still he chomped and grunted against his bit. Her attention again turned toward him, the established internet troll who spouted inflammatory hate speech for reasons that amounted to sheer entertainment. Since he had regained consciousness, she had not engaged with him once and still he found it appropriate to spew venom in her direction. Even now, she had few words for him. She retrieved her tactical knife from the coffee table and closed the space between them. The knife opened with a flick of her wrist and the room again grew still, and with his face in her hand the troll, too, became still. With skillful finesse she fileted the duct tape from his cheek, shearing his days-old stubble smooth. He swallowed hard but never moved, her guests on an edge far sharper than her blade. Leaving half shaven, she ripped the rest of the duct tape off in one swift motion and stood. The man on the floor writhed in pain, flailing against his restraints, grunting and cursing her once again. She returned to her seat, roll of duct tape and belt in hand. She sat back and toyed with the items in her lap, methodically folding the belt and securing it with the tape.
“When you’re finished moaning, I thought we might have a chat.”
He grew quiet and rolled onto his side to face her,
“About what, whore? Huh? You can spare me the details of your fuckscapades with all your friends, alright—I don’t need hear anymore of gabbin’; I’m callin’ your bluff.”
A smile grew across the visitor’s face, but she expression remained emotionless, her hands still busy with the belt and tape. She allowed her pensive silence to the air, broken only by the sound of tape stretching and tearing. Before he could open his reeking mouth to speak again, she crossed the room with a new bit and secured it in place,
“Now that I won’t be interrupted, we can move forward. A bluff this is not, and you would do well to come to terms with everything you’ve heard about your immediate future. I am not one to play games, and to be quite honest, you’ve made this far too easy a decision to make.”
She shook the old mattress cover out over the open floor and a few of the men helped move him onto the vinyl cover.
“Strip him, leave his wrists and ankles bound. Stand him up.”
Her eyes scanned every part of his naked flesh,
“We’ll have to remove the tattoos.”
A sturdy folding stool was brought around, and he was helped to his knees, his chest pressed against the seat of the stool. Several jailhouse scratch pieces covered his back and shoulders, the classic mix of anti-Semitic, xenophobic symbolism to match the drivel he’d spouted at every opportunity.
“Blow torch.”
From that point forward she spoke with direct, concise commands, and in what felt like minutes he became unrecognizable and unaffiliated. She stopped once he fell unconscious, cleaning and treating his wounds and burns with homemade salves and poultices, waited for him to come to, then repositioned him for the next phase of his disappearance. Somewhere between the searing removal of the fifth tattoo and the disintegration of the third fingerprint, she noticed his resolve dissolve. It wasn’t until the red-hot, two-millimeter rod pierced his orbital socket that his fate truly sunk in, but his defeat was superficial compared to what she had prepared for him.
She sat on the coffee table across from him, he on his knees, she leaned forward and rested her elbows on her thighs. He met her gaze; she watched his blood begin to boil. She nodded at one of the men standing beside him; the man removed his bit.
“Glad to see you’re still hanging in there. How’s my bluff?”
Her guest choked back a laugh, but a renewed loathing rage filled his eyes. She waited for him to speak. Most men in his position would beg mercy and forgiveness, even swear to change their lives, but not him. No, he was bred and born of the toxic waste that poisons society, and he chose to maintain the same constitution. Having spent his life inciting chaos, at thirty-seven he finally found himself in the wrong place, testing the right one. She sat straight and slid her slender fingers into a fresh pair of black nitrile gloves,
“Burning me up don’t change the fact that you’re a whore—don’t change nuthin’.”
He had developed a slur, drool dribbled down his chin. She stood and placed a jug of formaldehyde, syringe, and a specimen jar on the table then slowly paced the room a moment and came to rest with him at her feet.
“Ya know, I keep trying to feel bad for you, to feel some semblance of empathy or sympathy—pity, ”
That familiar sound of tape forcefully separating from itself again filled the room, only, he flinched this time. She wore her smirk proudly. Duct tape gripped his phallic shaft and the back of her gloved hand held it against his mons, her other hand working the tape to secure it against his pelvis. The men on either side of him held him in place, but he didn’t resist much at all until her gloved hand tightened around his testes,
“Now that’s disappointing,” her hand released him, “is there anything about you that isn’t underwhelming? Little balls, little dick, big ego…but still, not the biggest—or the smallest,” he tried to spit in her face, his rancid breath barely reaching her. She grabbed him by the face as she stood, pressing her thumb hard into his jaw, “It appears your mouth is dry,” and she spat between his forcibly parted lips.
The blow torch clicked on behind him, but he was too busy thrashing and cursing her existence to notice. She found it intriguing, the way he hyperfixated on his hatred for her, a hatred he had held long before this moment. He stalked her, attempted to rape her; she’s not likely to have been his first. The embodiment of involuntary celibacy, if the forums and social media groups she found on his phone are to be believed.
Lightning flashed in the windows, punctuating the wind that ripped through the shudders.
“We wouldn’t want your sugar to drop,” she shoved the severed teabag into his gullet and covered his mouth, one hand held him hard at the nape, “swallow.”
He gulped hard; choking and gagging on blood and sac skin, struggling against an empty gut that wretched and heaved, nothing coming up.
“I wanted to keep these,” she held his exposed testicles in front of his face, “hence the jars behind me, but honestly, these dainty things aren’t fit for Artos…”
Artos sniffed the at her offered hand and tasted the blood that dripping from her knuckles, he huffed and walked away.
“I almost expected them to be bigger, worthy of display, given the cojones it takes to be so loudly and proudly…impuissant.”
She popped each titchy testicle into his mouth and pressed her palms across his mouth and nape,
“swallow—that’s a good boy.”
A new set of three men walked into the room, led by her guest. She tapped her fingers across the troll’s cheek and rose to greet the new guests. Slipping her gloves off, she nodded at the new men. These men, whom she would never see again, bowed ever so slightly and offered her a small box encrusted with black opal and onyx. Delicately she accepted the gift box and nodded in appreciation and gratitude, but the man with the box gestured that there was more. Her thumb opened the clasp and she lifted the lid, her hand reflexively cupped her throat. She glanced at the men, entirely in awe of their gesture of gratitude. The box alone was worth a small fortune, and the gifts it concealed were far more sentimental than she could have ever anticipated. It wasn’t until she exhaled that she realized she was holding her breath, she drew in slow, deep breaths as she again bowed to her newest guests and placed the box on the safety of the bookshelf.
She grabbed Artos’ old training collar and secured it around the eunuch’s neck and yanked him to his feet. Were it not for the two men beside him, he might not have stayed upright while she fastened a handwoven leather lead to his new collar. Then she sliced a hole in the center of an old sheet, slipping his head through the middle, securing his new attire at the waist with a leather strap. What remained of the salves and poultices was packed into a small satchel that was the hung around his neck. She led him over to her foreign visitors and bowed respectfully, offering the braided leather to the men. They looked him over, scrutinizing every inch before graciously accepting the exchange. Their heads bowed one last time, and without a single word they turned and led the eunuch out through the mudroom.
The shelves were re-mounted, the carpet replaced, the house deep cleaned like it was going up for sale. Standing in her steam-filled bathroom, she gazed at her exhausted reflection. She hadn’t slept in what felt like days. She dressed and walked through the house to sit with her only remaining guest.
“Why’d you call me?”
Thunder rumbled overhead, and she opened the door to her patio. Standing in the doorway, she lit a cigarette and drew in a long, slow drag,
“I knew you’d come.”
They sat in their pensive silence, listening to the rain. She snuffed out the butt of her cigarette and crossed the room to him,
“Let’s get some rest,” she helped him up and gestured toward the guest room, “sleep well, love.”



Thanks for reading!

Okay, maybe not all, but an overwhelming number of them would undoubtedly benefit from a Hostel type dark-web service. Think about it. How many people go missing, and how many murder cases run cold? Sure, murder is rare from a grand scheme perspective. By the same logic, so are sexual assault and child abuse. That doesn’t negate the impact of such crimes, especially when you add them all together. Sometimes, they run together into society and get swept under the rug as exaggerations or anecdotal evidence because general awareness is below par. If my criminal justice and psychology classes have taught me anything, the most unexpected people are likely to be questionable. Red flag behaviour is deeply ingrained into our society. So much so that even the most innocuous comments can carry legitimately lethal consequences.
That’s not to say most people are criminals or psychopaths.Still, many more align with the spectrum than most people think. And those same people always like to argue, negating the experience or research being presented to them. Most parents are terrified of losing their children to a stranger in public and don’t think twice about leaving them with a relative of questionable moral direction. Truth be told, most abductions, rapes, and murders are committed by someone we know. Someone we think we know…
Right about now, someone reading this is wondering if I plan to cite my sources. I do not. You have access to the same internet as I do — same search engines, same questions I started with. So, I’m gonna tell you what my family told me when I was growing up a curious little cat: go look it up. I am not here to teach you how to learn things. If you question what I have to say here, dig for yourself — feel free to come back and share what you find; we can speculate together. Because honestly, at the end of the day, no one had a correct answer. We only have the information available to us — what I wouldn’t give for the FBI to provide me with uninhibited access to their vault! — which is gatekept like anything else.
Back to the original point. Why do we not talk about this possibility more often? Social media these days is riddled with people posting predatory garbage and viewers turning them into the authorities. Every time I scroll through TikTok in particular, there is another example from a local newspaper site crime bulletin tied to another user account. I’m not mad about it. Please do your part and help get these people off the internet — that only leaves the smart ones.
People seem to think all criminals are dumb, and the truth is that we can only say that about the criminals that get caught.What of the ones we don’t identify? What of the ones that placate their inner demons with surface manipulations and narcissistic abuse tactics, or the ones that hide in plain sight behind their spouse and community status? Why are we not vetting our board members with the inclusion of extensive psychological evaluations in tandem with their background checks? Are we that trusting, or do we not understand the potential for a manipulative person to fool everyone around them?
Predators rely on their ability to blend in with their chosen community almost as much as their manipulation tactics.These people weave in enough truth to maintain believability, making it all too easy for those around them to brush off socially questionable behaviour as quirks or cultural differences. It’s easy to look for the good in people, it’s not bad, but it is dangerous. Of course, most of you won’t take me seriously. My words will be brushed off as alarmist or conspiracy, which is fine. I suppose if you want to overlook grooming behaviours in your too-friendly uncle or the gaslighting of the strange man on social media, that’s your business.
However, I should recommend exploring the possibility that I’m not off my rocker…
The reality may surprise you.

Thanks for reading!

He was working late again, of course. He never goes home before midnight, and the inbox never empties. The janitor knows him by name and sometimes brings him a coffee when coming on shift. Analysis summaries and emails, proposals, and memos. Who has time to rest in this economy? Besides, who does he have to go home to, his wife? She has had him in the doghouse for months, for who fucking knows what — when isn’t she mad?

“Hey, Jerry, thanks — you know, there’s a light flickering in the storage closet. Would you mind taking a look at it?”
“Yuh, sure thing.”
“That’d be great, thanks.” He sipped his coffee and dove back into his assignments. His wife was probably sleeping by now anyway.

A mix from his glory days hummed from his computer speakers while he tapped away at the keyboard. He was in the zone and building momentum. The buzz, buzz of a new notification cut through his focus. It was after one in the morning… He checked his phone to see a large file downloading to his Drive. His piqued interest shattered his rhythm, so he decided to start closing out for the night. Morning comes early. One arm made it through a sleeve of his jacket when the phone buzzed on his desk again. He adjusted his collar, situated himself in the new fit of his clothing, grabbed his satchel and phone, and headed toward the elevator. Jerry waved goodnight with a trash can in his hands and a toothpick hanging from his mouth. He popped his earbuds in and waited for the doors to open.

Ding!

He stepped into the elevator and pressed the lobby button until the doors closed, staring attentively at his phone. Several photos had uploaded from an unknown IP address, without context — no caption. He clicked on the first one to load and took a step back against the wall of the elevator car. Was this some sick joke? Who would send him something like this?? He closed out and opened another, then another — each one was somehow worse than the other. Grotesque images of a man bound to a boiler valve, a spit hood over his head and strips of fabric from his shirt draped over a badly bruised body. The last file to load was the worst. A video clip of the chained man absorbing high voltages from what looked like an old electroshock therapy machine. The longer he watched, the harder it was to look away. His eyes scoured each scene as if looking for the tell, frame after frame, convincing him that this was not a prank—a sense of obligation developed in his guts. A voice in the back of his mind began to whisper rationale into his twisted urge to keep watching. He had to know what happened. He had to see if it was real or a hoax.

Of course, the assailants kept out of frame or out of focus. This was no amateur production. Dark clothes; faces averted from the lense. Flat background — nothing but concrete walls and pipes. Run-of-the-mill boiler room setting. Bereft of signs or visible windows, nothing identifiable. Nothing useful. The stillness of the man’s battered body induced nausea, the coffee threatening to evacuate his churning gut. The commuter train rumbled around him, rocking him back and forth.

The train arrived at his stop, so he paused the video to call an Uber before resuming the video. He was invested now. He could not bring himself to watch fifteen minutes in and not finish the clip. Fellow commuters wove around his statuesque figure standing in the middle of the platform exit. Muffled screams and maniacally empty chuckles wormed into his brain from his ears. Gross fascination overthrowing his moral convictions. It was reinforced by a familiarity that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The little hairs on the back of his neck stiffened just as an alert came through on his phone. The Uber was approaching.

The passenger window opened only a crack. An androgynous voice called out from the dark sedan and asked if he was waiting for an Uber — he nodded and slid into the back seat, his eyes still glued to his phone. He rubbed at an old scar on his shoulder. The child locks engaged as the car crept out of the pickup zone and edged onto the surface street. The driver said something, and he only passively acknowledged being spoken to. He was too engrossed in the video even to register what was said. Dark eyes peered at him through the rearview mirror, though he didn’t notice. Those eyes smiled.

By now, he was miles en route, and the video was nearing an end. The last forty-five minutes of relentless assaults coming to a head. He felt closer to the man bound to the boiler valve than he did to Jerry, and the man brought him coffee. Still, he didn’t know who was in the video or why the Drive was sent to him — perhaps it was a mistake? Of course not. What kind of story would that be? No, of course, it doesn’t stop there. Another download began as he scrolled between snapshots and rewatched segments of the clip. This one was smaller and somehow felt like it took longer to load. New file folder, same encrypted Drive. No video this time, but a series of pictures. Each one was labelled in viewing order.

The first one picked up where the video left off. A beaten body tethered to steel and bent over a boiler pipe. Pants around the ankles and a torso covered in deepening purple and blue hues with smears and black smudges. The contents of his stomach swished and churned again. He resolved to turn over the entire Drive to the police before work in the morning. If ever there was a reason to be late, this was it. The following snapshot was more graphic, leaving him feeling violated. Who the fuck could have done this shit to another human being? Anal penetration had not made his list of things to watch since high school and never of another man. A lump began to form in his throat, and he looked away. Those soul-piercing eyes were locked on him in the rearview mirror again, which he noticed this time.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?”

The driver’s head shook in denial, eyes returning to the road.
Creeper.

He shifted in his seat and opened the third file. The discomfort which developed from that last image still pulsating through him, searing itself into his physical memory bank. Every muscle in his body tensed, and his jaw clenched. Still, nothing could prepare for the third file. A collage of snapshots, styled like a polaroid — much like would be found on a teenage girl’s photo wall, except much more sinister. These snapshots captured various angles of the same limp, motionless body being violated and abused. Some with instruments he couldn’t identify, others with male appendages penetrating orifices unconsidered by most. Fingers and tongues well acquainted with parts unseen by the general public in perfect focus. The following jpeg left a rancid taste in his mouth. A bulging throat accompanied by two hands trying to wrench the connected jaw still wider, another hand on the back of a now half-masked man’s head. Blood smeared like fingerpaints by the hand gripped around that same throat in the fifth and final snapshot. Milky white fluid covering…his face.

“What the fuck?”

The car stopped in front of an alley, the back passenger door flung open, and he was ripped from the vehicle. A spit hood was placed over his head, and he was thrown into the trunk.
He banged on the back seat and screamed until his throat went raw. Laughter filled the air between the sound of his thoughts and the road.

“Hey, don’t worry, baby. I’m gonna take real good care of you this time. I missed that sweet ass…” the speakers blared some underground tune he’d never heard. Vomit forced its way up and splattered the interior of the hood. His fear overwhelmed his fragile ego, and he wept.

When the car stopped again, he had sobbed himself to sleep. A sharp pinch in his neck roused him, but he rapidly lost control of his motor function before he could orient himself. “Don’t worry, buttercup, you won’t miss a thing this time.” More laughter erupted, and tears streamed down his spew-covered cheeks. A large man hoisted his ragdoll form over one massive shoulder, the hood slipping off his face and falling to the ground. A lightbulb flickered somewhere off in the backdrop. He could hear it buzzing against the glass and wire.

His body slammed hard against the old wooden table, and searing pains radiated from his touch points. Rat urine-soaked splinters pierced his skin, digging deep into the dermis. The men stripped and ripped his clothes from his body. Images from the Drive playing on shuffle in his mind. He tried to move, willed himself to fight back, to no avail. Violent screams projected as only whimpers, mocked by the men on the other end of the pressurized garden hose. Icy cold water stung his skin and suffocated him. Still, they taunted him. Someone rolled him onto his stomach; someone else spread his cheeks. The frigid water assaulted his sensitive crevice.

The water cut off, and a strap snapped against his wet, bare skin. His numbed skin responded violently to the sensation. A sharp tingling pierced his strained musculature, radiating from the point of impact like a nuclear blast. Another whimper escaped his lips. “I sure have missed that sweet little sound you make when taking what’s coming to you — what about you, boys? Huh? Did you miss this fuck’s pathetic little cries?” They all chimed in like apes, beating their chests and unhooking their belts.

“Well, alright then. Let’s get started.”


Thanks for reading!

People have their ghost stories, and most who listen do not necessarily believe their tales. Not really. It’s like, the human brain can’t fully open up to the idea that something beyond their own perception of reality could possibly exist. Sure, they entertain the storyteller — they placate those they perceive as mad as a box of frogs, out of pity if nothing else. It’s all the same. You’re not likely to believe it if you’ve not experienced it for yourself, and maybe not even then.
This is not your typical haunting. Or maybe, it is…
It starts out the same, though — creaks in the floorboards, randomly misplaced items, strange dreams. I’ll spare you most of those details, as the longer I stayed in the house, the more intense everything became. The rotten smell and the sudden drafts were coming from nowhere. These are all the things you hear about, read about — hell, it’s on mainstream television now. But there are some things that you won’t see on tv. People don’t tell you what it is to witness possession, to be channelled and compelled to commit unspeakable atrocities. They can’t.
I’ll start just before it all came crashing down, though it had built itself up for months.
The den was dim, and the stank of something rotten hovered just above the nose. The cabin had been scrubbed, top to bottom, more than a time or two — scrubbing made it worse, somehow. My eyes grew more and more sensitive to light by the d. I’d stopped using lightbulbs — I went to have my eyes checked. The cause was unknown; my pupils had dilated beyond the iris into the whites of the eyes. I had to stop going out before dark — eventually, I stopped going out altogether. It was dangerous. Time would slip, and I would end up miles from home in some random field.
That’s when she first appeared. The little girl. She was so sentient, so blushed that at first, I thought maybe she had strayed away from her parents — mischievously wandered off and stumbled into my corridor. I saw her standing there, with fire red curls and dark eyes, “Well, hello. Where did you come from?” She giggled and ran off (of course she did). I searched the cabin, opened every possible cubby and hid away. She was gone — but her face still haunts me.
I asked around about the girl. No one in town had ever seen her, but the old lady down the lane definitely knew more than she was letting on (don’t they always?) Still, I kept feeling like she was there — hiding, giggling.
Weeks later, I found myself knee-deep in some gator-infested swamp outside of town — I had been essentially missing for three days.
My fingernails were caked in mud and grime, feet sore and raw from maundering around barefoot for three days — three toenails were missing. I can only imagine the stench coming off me; I ended up cutting off several inches of matted hair. Fuck, was I thirsty…
Come find me… *giggles* … you’ll never find me…come play with me…
She was older than I remembered, though still angelic — exuberant, even. But I won’t forget that night.
I don’t remember falling asleep. I also don’t remember being awake…something hurled me to consciousness, gasping for air. My neck and back were dripping in sweat, alertness breaking through the fog of a hard sleep; my eyes unheedingly adjusted to the dark. There she was, again. Standing at the foot of my bed, I swear she was glowing…she had this soft pale, almost green aura…phosphorescence.
You can hear it, can’t you?…tell me you can hear it, now… play with me…
Her voice was so sweet, so disarming — “hear what, how did you get in here?” that menacing giggle echoed as she vanished.
The room was smaller than I remembered. There was this stain?, developing around the doorframe, and I swear the walls were pulsating — but maybe it was my head. My mouth was painfully dry. I had become so dehydrated that my tongue split on the side, and my hands were cracked and dirty again, too. Stumbling into the bathroom, I knocked into the edge of the bed, splintering a floorboard just enough to pierce my ankle. My reflection was a tragedy; complexion sallow, eyes hollow.
Can’t you hear it? *giggles* Come play…
Clinging to the walls for support, I went to the kitchen for water. The tap turned too easy, and the water pressure was off, though I was too distracted to notice at the time. I brought the glass to my lips and sucked water in, my tongue too dry to taste. *giggling* My stomach began to swish, something sour and rank upsetting its unsatiated hunger. I choked hard, putrid water sneaking down my windpipe in the battle between intake and return. Something twisted in my reflection on the window, stuck between my shell and some large, black shadow. Wrenching forward, I projectile vomited every drop of noxious liquid from my digestive tract—the glass shattering on the floor.
I still don’t know why I ran into the den or how my feet found every shard of glass on my way through. I can’t say if I was bleeding — from the glass or the floorboard — at what point of dehydration do you stop bleeding from superficial wounds? With my back pressed into the bookcase, I futilely attempted to catch my breath. The wall that framed the door was pasted with war-era wallpaper from the 1940s — a map of some kind — it was pristine when I moved in, proper care instructions left over from the original owner. Now, I watched as it watched the edges bubble and peel as if fire burned beneath it...
In a failed attempt to scream, I thrust myself forward, willing myself to get out of the cabin, running toward the front door. Thrown back against the bookshelf by an unseeable force, the wind was knocked out of my chest. Something in the way the shadows moved paralyzed me, leaving my lungs desperate for oxygen. The shadows moved across my face, wrenching my mouth until it unhinged my jaw.
Come play with me…you can hear, now, can’t you…
A pressure on my thighs and shoulders was holding me in place like something was holding me down. I can still feel it groping at my breasts, my waist — I could feel a wet tongue dancing near the crease of my thigh, and thick saliva streamed down my skin. It all felt so familiar, penetrating me through every orifice. A low growl reverberated through the walls.
I felt empty, lifeless — no will to live, no motivation to die. Something sick and twisted was growing deep within my core. The girl never returned, though she still called to me; her voice rang through the hall at all hours, *come play, come play*, but she never appeared. The shadows that induced paralysis grew darker, heavier — hungrier. Terrified and restrained in their presence became more frequent, raping me of my sanity between encounters. I became addicted to their touch. Consumed by the way they devoured every inch of me.
Decimated and draped over the loveseat, I hadn’t moved for hours — it could have been longer. Still feeling the sticky leftovers from that hellacious tongue, the one that severed my sanity, I was compelled out to the road. I felt crooked as if being held up at deadweight; my head was cocked to the side. The next thing I remember is coming to in a freezing cold shower, some random man’s voice cutting in and out, “what are you on, hunny — come one, y’ gotta tell me…” genuine concern softening his voice. I could feel him slapping my face. He slipped backwards away from the tub and slid into the doorframe when I opened my eyes. I crawled out of the tub with feline agility, pouncing on the man before he could run. With his face between my thighs, I arched my back, letting out a banshee-like scream.
The stranger bucked and thrust forward, his tongue tasting me — tasting the shadows. Pivoting on my toes and ready to pounce again, I leapt through the air. I landed on his chest and sunk my teeth into his throat, tearing out his voice box. The taste of his blood was like whiskey, warming my body from the inside. Before I could indulge in another bite, the shadows wrested my shell off the stranger, catapulting me into the door. The door gave way to the force that propelled me, my ragdoll form landing in flinders and fragments. Once again, the shadows consumed me. I could feel splinters from the door penetrating my back, my buttocks—searing pain confronting the euphoria.
I know I shouldn’t have — I’m disgusted with myself — but I had to taste him again, the stranger that only wanted to help. He was the only thing I could keep down, the only thing that quenched my insatiable thirty…
His flesh surrendered to my teeth, tearing tendons and muscle away from the bone with each bite. He tasted different — the fire was gone, but I could still feel myself dripping. Each bite encouraged another.
A knock at the door turned into a pounding — in the haze of dopamine, oxytocin, and dehydration; it didn’t elicit much response. I lay sprawled on the bathroom floor, half naked and scarcely conscious, covered in dried blood and ectoplasmic residue. The ambient sound seemed far away — penetrative voices were muffled, overwhelmed by the ringing in my ears.
I woke up connected to beeping monitors, and tubes pumping full of liquids — remanded for further evaluation. The shadows don’t move here, not the way they did in the cabin. They don’t devour my essence or rob me of the ability to breathe — some lingering thing inside me craves to be home again, you’ll understand soon enough. You’ll know soon enough.
Can you hear it, now…can you hear it breathing?


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Hello! Can anyone hear me? Hello!

The ground was damp from yesterday’s rain; the sky still overcast like more rain was to come. Her mother sat on the front porch steps, staring at the tree line. A part of her wanted to scream, part of her wanted to sleep — all of her wished Dahlia back.

“You would think there would be tracks, footprints — anything, right?”
The sun settled behind the trees, the cool evening fog hovering like a wall before the brush. She was exhausted. Trying to rationalize the day proved impossible.
“Maybe you should get some rest. We’ve done all we can, for today. Start fresh in the morning,”

He helped her to her feet and ushered her inside. Her mechanical body was feeling heavy under the weight of gravity and buckled as she reached the bed.
​
“I don’t understand it, Freddie…where has she gone?”
​
He didn’t know. The facts didn’t make sense to him either, but he was used to that. A simple man, with simple dreams — and now one of those dreams was gone. Vanished. Words escaped him, and she didn’t seem to notice.
He gently took the doll from her hands and placed it on the bench at the foot of the bed. “Get some rest, Mona,” tucking her into bed and turning out the light, “we’ll find her.”

Why is she looking at me like that?

He found his wife sitting at the kitchen table. She looked dark and heavy against the cream walls and soft, yellow curtains — Gray against technicolour. The coffee in the pot smelled burned; he dumped it and the cup she had poured, left sit, and started a fresh brew.

“Want some eggs?”

Looking over his should, he could see that she hadn’t heard him. He wasn’t sure she had noticed his presence at all. Eggs fried, coffee fresh — he set it all down in front of her, encouraging her back to reality. “You gotta eat, Mona….”
She glanced down at the eggs, then up at his face; it all seemed so foreign. He watched the confusion contort her face as she looked around the room, seeming not to know where she was. She looked at his face again. He felt like an old photograph beneath her gaze, now, nostalgia brimming around her eyes.
“Mona, I…”
She reached for his face, her fingertips cool and frail against his cheeks. He turned away. His throat felt empty, but he swallowed anyway. The fragility of time and mortality settled over him, and he turned for the door. “I’m gonna go look for her,”
“You won’t find her out there.”

The door clicked softly behind him before the tears rolled down his cheeks, heels clonked the steps as his sleeve wiped them away.

I can hear you—I’m coming, baby…

Smoke danced in the space above the table with every exhale. Freddie still wasn’t back. He could be out all night looking for Dahlia, but he won’t find her. Not out there. Not in the woods. She had warned her so many times to stay away from the wood line. She would say there’s something about the trees, and when the fog comes in, you come home. Dahlia was always such a good girl, but she had a wild spirit — the woods called her. Stories around the town of the witch of the wood only intrigued her; the first haze of evening fog became a star-crossed love. Both reached for the brush of a kiss at dusk, heavy sorrow filling the space between them until dawn.

She swore she understood, promised always to come straight home.

Now, she’s gone, and all that’s left is this doll. Dirty and tatter, still, somehow, pretty. Auburn hair and deep green eyes…the resemblance was striking. Growing up in a town like this, you hear the stories — you don’t usually believe them, but they’re fun for Halloween. The legend of the witch’s kiss was different, at least for her. In the day, it was quiet — normal. Something always happens when the fog rolls in; Mona could never explain it; she was known around town to be a bit of a spook, but she didn’t care. There’s something not right about those trees, nothing and no one could change her mind. Freddie never tried. He always thought there was something special about her, and if she believed there was something evil in the trees, maybe there was.
That’s where he is right now — the woods. Out here searching under every leaf for his baby girl. Mona was still at the table, watching the fog roll in now. He’s not going to believe this, no matter which way you twist this, Mona.

The chill of the damp air and the darkness of night made it impossible to see anything in the thicket, so he headed for home. His heart was heavy in his chest. Every step toward home drained a little more will from his soul, the dense air pressurizing his lungs. I’m sorry I failed you, baby --

She started a fire when the fog rolled in like she always did. The doll seated on the rocker to the left of the hearth, Dahlia’s favourite knitted throw draped over the arm and seat of the chair. Freddie tripped over the threshold on his way in, and the back of the doorknob clanked against the counter. He steadied himself and studied his wife. She had aged twenty years in twenty-four hours. His heart sank out of his chest and seeped through the floorboards, “have you eaten?”

Her gaze shifted from his to the coffee and eggs left untouched on the table. He left his boots, cleared the table, and turned on a light. “Leftovers, then?” She stayed silent, afraid the sound of her own voice would betray her resolve.
The wood in the fireplace popped, Mona watched the spark dance its way up into ash. She tried to eat, if only to appease Freddie, hardly managing to push the food around the plate. Wanting to speak, she reached for her water, but the scratch in her throat turned to a lump, and she could lift the glass. He watched her from across the table, silently begging her, say something, please…say anything at all. Her eyes flicked to the doll.

“She’s in the woods, Mona; I could feel it.”

She wanted to believe him, but she’d seen this before. He hadn’t. Freddie grew up thirty miles west of here, not like her. Mona is fourth generation, and her family were some of the first to settle here. The tales of the witch’s kiss are rooted and measured in moons before that.
Not all the girls who hear the call disappear; not for long, at least. The ones that come back are always different somehow. A shell of the girl that couldn’t resist the whisper. Sometimes they came back fiercer, more graceful — elegant, somehow, in subtle ways overlooked. Some came back withdrawn, almost catatonic in the way they rarely spoke and often drifted. Shared was the loss of the light in their eyes, the loss of an innocence taken for granted. She had an aunt that came back from it. Aunty Mae came back softer, more refined, and wild beneath the suave calm of a silver screen starlet. Mona’s mother avoided leaving her alone with Aunty Mae; she’ll plant rotten ideas in your mind and only get you into trouble, and that was that.
The tip of her thumb caressed the small crack below the doll’s eye, deciding that there would never be right words. The whole town already thinks you’re a kook; why not him too?

“Dahlia is not out there, Freddie, not like you think she is,”

He stared at her for a long time, not entirely sure what to say, trying to be impartial, “so, what of the other girls — the ones that don’t return,” the words tasted sour on his tongue, “what becomes of them?”

There was a beat-up old cedar chest under the window, by the door. It haunted her to see it now, the collection her mother had kept. She didn’t speak as she glided across the room, grabbed the skeleton key from the hideaway, and knelt in front of the chest. She remained silent as she twisted the key, the rusted old lock resisting as the tumblers turned. No words were spoken when the lid stuck to the base, the unfinished wood swollen from decades of humid drafts. It hadn’t been opened since her mother died. The inside of the chest was lined with old delicate fabrics, some hand embroidered patches and mended seams. A dozen dolls stowed away, their beauty subtle against the grime, nestled in a row.
She could feel him standing behind her, wondered if he would have her committed, holding her breath. It would help if you exhaled now… He said nothing. They both stared out the window above the chest, the thin blue light of morning’s first light growing out of the treetops. Soon, the songbirds would wake to sing their morning glee, the sun would rise, and a new day would begin. Mona stood, without facing her husband, and turned to start the coffee. She couldn’t sleep now, not yet — she needed this apathy to last a little longer, evading the thought of waking up to this reality.

“Dahlia makes thirteen.”


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