Category: Creepy Pastas

First off I’d just like to clarify that everyone involved in my activities over the past few weeks are safe, for the most part. For those of you who haven’t read -PART 1- now would be a good time to catch up. My initial investigation into this case had its thrills to say the least. However, the events of the previous couple of days have changed everything.

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Two nights ago, I woke up in the early hours of the morning. As I laid in my bed I saw lights flicker over my window from outside and I heard the sound of a person or maybe a few people walking around. Ordinarily I might have dismissed it and went back to sleep but the footage from the asylum still had me on edge.

I continued to hear footsteps menacingly prowling the house outside. I slipped on my boots and followed the sound to the backyard. I opened the blinds and peered outside. Beyond my backyard was a bright light and standing in front of it was the silhouette of a tall man, not unlike the man Paul had seen at the asylum. Adrenaline kicked in and I rushed outside.

“HEY!” I called out to the figure in the most menacing voice I could conjure.

He quickly turned to face me; his arms long and outstretched in a threatening display. My bravery quickly turned to fear and I retreated inside to call the police. In the split second it took me to dial 911 I returned my gaze to the window and both the light and the man had vanished.

That night was my breaking point. I’d grown tired of questions I couldn’t answer. I didn’t like feeling threatened at my own home so I figured I’d get some target practice with my Dad’s firearm as per the suggestions some of you gave me the other day. I also decided I’d open the locked metal box I’d found buried near Empire Mine by any means necessary.

 

It might have seemed like an irrational decision but to be honest I was in an irrational state at the time. A stranger, one who’s face I am still yet to see, came by my home in the early hours of the morning with unknown intentions, a place my family and I consider to be safe. So, in a mix of anger and fear I took my Dad’s handgun, went somewhere secluded and shot the lock off the metal box.

At a glance of the box’s contents it may have seemed like useless garbage but as I looked closer their value quickly became evident. The first items I noticed were a journal, which I soon realized belonged to Jessse Hill, and audio tapes labelled: Taped Patient Evaluation #1, #15 and #29. I listened to them in the garage of my home away from my family and as I did I found myself with some answers but also some more questions.

Each tape was the recording of a different evaluation session Jesse had with a psychiatrist named King. In the first recording Dr King assesses Jesse’s lack of sleep and reluctance to take medication.

“The sooner you respond to treatment the sooner you can see them.” Dr King informs Jesse regarding her adoptive family, the Hills.

There’s a slight pause before Jesse replies in distress, “No! No I can’t. He’ll hurt them to make me weaker.”

“Tell me about this man Jesse? The man who wants to hurt your family and keep you awake at night?”

“He’s not a man.”

Those words formed a ripple of goose bumps across my skin but I kept listening to the tapes. In the next session, #15, Dr King reveals Jesse was discovered as an infant in Empire Mine. Suddenly the location of the metal box seems more relevant to the Jesse Hill case than just a hiding place.

Dr King adds, “In recent sessions Jesse has divulged details associated to a string of serial murders in the nineteen seventies. Details that have never been made public.” Jesse then enters the room and after a short session it ends with Jesse breaking down repeating the words, “Follow his lambs!”

In the final session, #29, Jesse Hill is five months pregnant, the father is unidentified. During this session Dr King reveals to Jesse that the Hills had perished two days earlier in a fire. Jesse sounds heartbroken and she blames the same man, or thing she’d previously mentioned. This last recording must have been made a few months before she died. I only wished I had more to listen to but the remaining item in the box offered quite a bit of insight.

 

Jesse Hill’s journal covered almost the entirety of her stay at the asylum, and her varying levels of sanity. The entries were like something in a horror movie; she refers several times to a dark man that visits her when she’s alone and the sound of babies crying through the night, keeping her awake. The last entry in the journal was written the night before her murder.

‘They won’t let me write alone anymore. I need a guard present since I tried to stab myself in the neck with a pen. The only reason they still allow me to write at all is because Doctor King insists it is beneficial for my mental health. But despite any doubts I may have had in the past I now know I am not insane. I have seen them, people in masks. A few of the orderlies are helping them. My baby is due tomorrow and I know they will come for it. I have tried to end its life and I have failed. But I will not stop fighting until I am dead. They have taken everything from me and left me to rot in this place. I no longer fear the dark man. I will not let him take my child without a fight.’

At this point I wished I could take back that bullet that broke the lock on the box and revealed to me how tragic Jesse Hill’s life was. I was both saddened and afraid of where this story would end. My gold mine very quickly seemed to be turning into a dark abyss but I still needed to dig a little further, I wasn’t ready to give up yet. There was one last location on the map that needed to be explored. The location of Jesse Hill’s murder.

 

The place where Jesse Hill was killed just so happened to correspond with a location marked on the map and that was my next destination. Though reluctant I convinced Paul to join me. When we arrived, we had an argument; he’d been watching my vlogs and knew that someone had come by my house the previous night. He wanted me to drop this but he didn’t understand, I couldn’t until I’d seen it through. We arrived to the location last night after dark, the field was private property so we didn’t want to get caught but it made it harder to find anything.

We both wandered through the dark, sharing the camera, filming whatever we came by. We crossed an irrigation bridge and then came to an open grass field. Paul wandered off with the camera as I began to recognise some of the terrain from the photo in the article detailing Jesse’s murder. As everything began to seem hauntingly silent, Paul’s trembling voice pierced through the quite of the night.

I approached him as he began to panic. He claimed to have seen a man who suddenly vanished. After the asylum, I wasn’t so quick to dismiss him but I didn’t have much time to think. Out of the darkness a figure approached us fast dressed in black and wearing a mask with hollow eyes. Shortly after another joined.

Paul and I fled. We didn’t stop, not even to look back over our shoulders. We approached the irrigation bridge and bolted across. Despite the fact we were running, the bridge seemed three times as long as when we strolled across it. Once we finally reached the other side we tumbled over each other in the dark. Paul dropped the camera in the fall and I quickly scrambled for it blindly in the dark.

Paul screamed at me, “LEAVE THE CAMERA OWEN!”

I couldn’t leave it, I couldn’t lose this night’s footage. My heart pounded heavily, it felt like it was going to tear through my chest. I scratched at the grass and the soil desperate to find it. I could hear footsteps pounding against the metal of the irrigation bridge, approaching us. Then I felt it; the camera resting in the grass. Without hesitation, I grabbed it and ran as fast as my legs would take me following Paul back to his car.

By the time my hand reached the passenger side Paul had the engine started. His headlights tore light through the darkness and standing right in front of the car was one of the masked men. Before I could fasten my seatbelt, Paul was speeding off down the road, both of us panting for breath, our hearts racing.

 

Paul hasn’t spoken to me since. I don’t blame him. My little adventure might have put his life at risk. All I know is that I’m done with this story. I’m going to hand all my Grandpa’s information on Jesse Hill over to the police. After the encounter with the masked men last night I can only assume they’ve been watching my vlogs and were waiting for Paul and I to arrive at the place where Jesse Hill was murdered.

 

I decided to review all the evidence I had compiled one last time and try to soak in as much of it as I could in case I needed to remember anything after I’d handed it off. Something that stuck out to me from reading Jesse’s journal and listening to session #29 from the audio tapes was Jesse’s belief there was no father to her child. She suggests the child is, “…unnatural…” and that the men that were likely responsible for her death sought the child.

If she was right, then there’s a good chance her killers took her child after killing her. Something that disturbs me, above all else, is the fact that her child would not yet have been born at the time of her death. What would her killers have wanted with an unborn child, one that Jesse believes was inhuman?

 

I can’t help but believe Jesse’s killers were involved with the same men we encountered last night. Perhaps they were even the same men who killed her. What unnerves me the most however is that they know where I live.

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UPDATE 1 FRI 7:45

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Thank you for your concern everyone. After the events of last night I’m still pretty shaken up, but I’m unhurt. I don’t think I’ve ever been this scared though. I’ve got my phone on standby to dial 911 if anyone comes by the house again tonight and I will be going by the police station first thing in the morning. I’m not really sure what to tell them, but I guess I’ll start by handing over all the files and evidence my grandpa had stored away.

I haven’t heard from Paul, and he won’t respond to my messages. I still haven’t told my family what happened. I just don’t know where to start.

I’ll keep you guys updated on any further developments.

 

By: Owen_Hayes

NoSleep link:https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/5yirai/some_murders_should_stay_unsolved_part_2/

Oen’s Vlog on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCF-ppL6W6JmeMoCkNy5zwiA

As a journalist, even a student journalist, you always dream of finding your gold mine. A story that leads you deeper and deeper into that bright maze until you’ve dried up its treasures. That is of course until you start digging with your own bare hands and instead of gold you find yourself clawing into a deep black abyss.

 

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Funnily enough my story begins with a literal gold mine in Nevada County; the subject for my first major assessment at UC Berkeley, or so it was when I started it. Over the winter break I returned to my home town in Grass Valley, California, the kind of town you see in old Spielberg movies like ET. The assignment I had brought home with me gave me the opportunity to find my first major story as a student journalist and publish it in a medium of my choosing.

After much deliberation, and no small amount of procrastination, I decided to do a series of vlogs, which I’ve been uploading online, detailing the history of my local area in Nevada County. The county was founded during the early days of the California Gold Rush and was home to the most profitable mine in the entire gold rush; Empire Mine.

It sounds simple enough right? And it’s not exactly the gold mine I’ve always dreamed of, but I’m not writing this account to tell of an assignment detailing the history of Nevada County. Suffice to say over the course of a single afternoon the nature of said assignment changed completely.

While helping my parents sort through my late Grandpa’s possessions I found my gold mine, tucked away in Grandpa’s shed. I’m sure we can all relate to that one big cryptic caution our grandparents would stress upon us when we came to visit, “Don’t go under the house… Don’t touch Grandma’s Apple Pie until it’s cooled down… Don’t play by the bushes in the front lawn…”. For me I was told to stay away from Grandpa’s shed.

I used to believe it was because of sharp tools inside but what I found chained up in an old rusty cabinet suggested otherwise; a small metal box that’s contents were suspicious to say the least.

 

My grandfather was once a police detective in Boston. When he retired and moved to Nevada County he used to assist the local Police Department with a few tricky cases. After examining the contents of the box I found, I could only assume I’d discovered what was left of an unsolved case. The contents I found inside the box were as follows: the adoption record of a girl named Jesse Hill with no birth date or name. Asylum patient records for the same Jesse Hill, admitted for paranoid behaviour and hallucinations. Additionally, there was a key and key card bearing the logo of the asylum Jesse Hill was admitted to. My Grandpa also kept inside the box a spine chilling newspaper article from the 90s titled, MENTAL PATIENT THE VICTIM OF CULT MURDER detailing the suspicious death of Jesse Hill a few years after her admission to the Asylum.

The final contents of the box included a map of our local area with a few different locations circled on it. One of the locations however was not marked with a circle but a mysterious symbol, the same symbol that appears on the back of one of five photographs also found in the box. Accompanying said symbol was Grandpa’s name and address. In summary what I’d found was a box full of red flags, which I foolishly chose to ignore and follow the trail my Grandfather tried to hide away.

My first order of business was to enquire about any files related to the Jesse Hill case at the local courthouse. Unfortunately, anything relating to Jesse Hill and the symbol I’d discovered were still restricted to the public. So, my next course of action was to start following Grandpa’s map.

 

I had a vague familiarity with one of the marked areas, an old river bridge called Edward’s Crossing, so I started with that. Google maps told me it was restricted federal property – something about being a heritage site, so I opted to go at night and avoid any workers or officials that might be patrolling around. Not the first time I’d gone off-trail, but the circumstances around this particular trip made it all the more exciting. I enlisted a friend with a car, John, to help me make the half hour or so journey there.

It had been raining all week, and as we approached nearer the road become more hazardous. Branches and debris littered the ground, fog hung low and thick in the air, and the trees leaned over us like they were about to cave in. I had thought getting in would be the problem, but John seemed more concerned with getting out.

The road brought us down the mountainside towards the river, and as our decent continued the effects of the rain became even more visible. Torrents of floodwater poured down the slopes and the road became increasingly less visible. When we finally reached the river, I could see that it was almost double its usual height and speed, and its roar was deafening.

The bridge definitely matched the photograph from Grandpa’s box. Grandpa had circled an area around the far base of the bridge, so I headed in that direction with John reluctantly in tow. The storm clouds blotted out any light from the sky, and between the darkness and the disorienting noise of the river it was impossible to tell if anything was there. We had to get closer.

From the other side a few concrete steps led down to the underside of the bridge, where a small overhang over the river afforded us a closer view of the support struts of the crossing. It was clear that if there was anything there it would have been washed away after all these years.

I was determined to keep looking but after a few precarious slips John demanded we leave. He seemed really on edge, and from more than just the danger of where we were standing. He said he had a bad gut feeling about this whole thing. So, before too long we headed back up and left.

 

The next location I decided to investigate was the location marked with the symbol, which rather ironically was located near Empire Mine. My friend Paul and I explored the surrounding area until we stumbled upon concrete ruins that matched one of the photographs in Grandpa’s box. This time, I discovered more than just a site my grandfather had taken a picture of. The symbol that was marked on this location on the map was engraved in the concrete and below it a suspicious pile of rubble. I dug through the rubble and then through the soil and unearthed yet another metal box. Unlike the one from Grandpa’s shed however this one was locked – tight.

 

Try as I did to open the box I could not pry the lock without possibly damaging the contents inside. I’d seemingly met a dead end in my investigation. So, I decided to do something drastic. Paul and I returned to the courthouse and this time we snuck in unsupervised and managed to access the restricted files concerning Jesse Hill and the symbol that kept appearing. Somewhere like Berkeley we’d likely be caught for doing something so stupid… and arrested. Luckily in Nevada County however, such a task was less risky.

While we were in the dark file room searching through documents and files with the flashlight on my phone and the light from my camera, which Paul was using, we continued to expect someone to round the corner, call the police, and my assignment would end with direr consequences than a fail.

To both our surprise and relief however we managed to leave the courthouse with a handful of relevant case files. It didn’t hit me until I got home how illegal our little excursion was but upon viewing what I’d retrieved at the courthouse my break in and entry became a distant concern.

 

I learned that the mysterious symbol, on the map, on the back of the photo and engraved on the concrete ruins near Empire Mine, was involved in several unsolved cult murders in the United States. Both the symbol and the group that were using it seemed to have the cops at a loss.

Having made some headway, I decided it was time to visit the next location on Grandpa’s map, the asylum where Jesse Hill was admitted. The building had recently been turned into office space but renovations were still under way so with some luck I hoped to find some evidence left from Jesse’s time there.

Paul and I arrived at what was once the old asylum in the late afternoon. I had in my possession the key card and key my Grandpa had left in the box hidden in his shed. No staff seemed to be present in the recently renovated building but luckily the key card got us through the front door. We navigated our way to an elevator, which would take us down to an old wing of the asylum not yet renovated. Grandpa’s key accessed the floor where the old wing was.

The old elevator shook as it took us down, I would be lying if I said I didn’t begin to feel knots in the pit of my stomach, and then finally it came to a halt.

The doors opened and before us lied a black void. The flashlight on my phone illuminated the floor and ceiling in front of me but failed to fill the darkness stretching on beyond that. We split up momentarily, searching for anything relating to Jesse Hill. Given how sparse the space was and the few old cups and plates I came across I guessed we were in the mess hall. Suddenly I heard my name called in urgency through the dark.

 

I followed the faint light on the camera Paul was operating until I found him staring at an old piano. He said he heard the lid drop hard onto the keys. I dismissed it. We were after all in an old abandoned asylum, it was understandable he’d be jumping at shadows. We split up a second time and searched through old patient rooms until I heard the distressed call of Paul’s voice yet again. I wandered over. This time he was staring at one of the rooms in shock pointing a shaking finger towards it.

“There’s somebody in that room! Owen I’m telling you.” Paul spoke in shock.

I approached the room with caution, a small vacant space with nobody inside. At first I assumed he was just startled by another shadow in the dark but as I entered the room my blood went cold. I retrieved the camera from Paul for a better look and discovered that inscribed on the wall were words… numbers counting to thirteen… sentences I think: Hush – Hush – HUSH – He puts them to sleep – He watches me – He found me in the dark. Amidst all the writing covering the walls was the all too familiar symbol I first discovered in Grandpa’s box. “I think this was Jesse’s room.” I suggested to Paul.

 

Paul seemed too shocked to contribute. That was last night. Today I decided to review the footage. As I watched through Paul’s recording frame by frame I finally saw what he saw. A man standing in Jesse’s room one moment, the next he was gone. He must have slipped out when Paul panicked. There wasn’t enough light to make out any more than a vague silhouette but suddenly this story feels a lot more dangerous. As disturbed as I may be feeling I am determined to continue my story, I need to open the box we found near Empire Mine and visit the remaining locations marked on Grandpa’s map.

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UPDATE 1 4:00pm WED

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Hi Everyone

Thanks for the feedback. I’ve never been involved in anything quite like this before so I appreciate all the advice. Paul and I have talked about our next plan of attack… or I’ve talked about it and Paul has talked about dropping it. We both agree however that we need to open the box I found near Empire Mine, so tomorrow we’ll spend the day working on opening the lock. If anyone has any suggestions on how to open it without damaging what’s inside that’d be fantastic.

I’ll keep you guys updated.

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UPDATE 2 3:40am THURS

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Jesus Christ.

I woke up about two hours ago to lights flickering over my window and the sound of someone, or maybe a few people walking around outside. I grabbed my camera and went to check it out. When I got to my backyard I saw a man silhouetted on the hill behind my house. It was too dark to see any details but I could see he was tall and his stance seemed threatening to me. Before I could call the police, he was gone. I don’t know what to make of this encounter but I’m officially frightened. I think the man from the asylum might have found where I live.

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UPDATE 3 1:52pm THURS

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Thanks for all the support guys. I just wanted to let everyone know that I am okay and safe. Last night has me pretty shaken up, and I am going to go to the police. Before I do though I’m going to get the box open and see what’s inside, and I still have one more location to visit on Grandpa’s map. After everything that’s happened I just need to see this through. Tomorrow I’ll make another post here letting you guys know what I find, then I’m turning everything over to the police. Stay tuned.

 

By: Owen_Hayes

NoSleep link: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/5y3ce3/some_murders_should_stay_unsolved/

Oen’s Vlog on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCF-ppL6W6JmeMoCkNy5zwiA

Everything that has happened since I got a ride from an Uber driver has been just plain fucking weird.

I’m just going to start with the Uber ride. My car is being worked on, so I’ve been using Uber a lot lately. Last week I ordered an Uber to meet up with some friends downtown for dinner and then drinks after. The little picture that popped up for my driver was a middle aged balding man named Greg.

Greg had a 5 star rating. He looked harmless enough and I can defend myself pretty well for a 5’3, 120 lb, 23-year-old female if something were to go wrong, which I wasn’t worried about since Uber does background checks and what not. The wait time said 7 minutes so I double-checked I had all my things and plopped on the couch to wait.

My phone buzzed at me. Unknown number. “2606 W Lloyd Ave?” I guessed this was Greg texting me from the app confirming my location. “Yep that’s me.” I puffed on my e-cig and watched the Uber map as his Chevy Impala inched closer to my address.

I saw him arriving and hauled my bag over my shoulder, locking the door behind me. My roommate was still at work for the next few hours.

The Greg in the car was the Greg in the photo. He opened the passenger door for me from his side. I used to sit in the back with male drivers for safety reasons but I’ve taken Ubers enough since then to not be concerned anymore. I got in and hefted my bag into the backseat.

This guy had the kind of voice you’d hear on the radio. Loud and blunt, but he wasn’t unfriendly. He wasn’t very conversational either. I felt like I had to force a convo in order to avoid an 8 minute awkward session until I got to my destination. We came up on an intersection about halfway there and he started chuckling.

“Heh.” I awkwardly huffed with him, unsure of what was funny. “See that house over there?” He pointed to a white house on the corner across the intersection. “Yeah?” “Ever heard of Fred Garland?” “No?” “The Northside rapist back in the 80s. There’s a book on him. That was the house he hid the dildo in and used to scare women.” I was thinking what the fuck. Weird but alright. I gave a fake “heh heh” again and looked on out the window. “You should really read that book. I’ve got an extra copy of it.” I responded that I could probably find it at the library or used book store but thanked him for the offer.

We got to my destination, I thanked him, and got out of the car. I tipped him $1 and gave the ride 4 stars. He had strange conversation starters but it could have been worse, right? I didn’t think much of it after I had my night out. A friend gave me a ride home that night and I fell sound asleep after a little TV.

Fast forward about three days. I receive a package on my front step. The return address reads the name “Greg Coe.” I thought for a second but didn’t recognize it. Not until I opened it. It was a book called “Fred Garland: The Story.”

I realized this must have been from the Uber driver. I hadn’t received a ride from him since that night when I went out. I felt a little bit uncomfortable about the situation now. I had ONE ride with this guy and he’s sending me books about rapists. I tried to brush it off but I had this lingering heaviness in the back of my skull that wouldn’t go away. I told my roommate and the boyfriend about it, and both agreed that it was weird.

To get even creepier, I received a text from that number yesterday before I got off work. It was Greg. It read “Will you be needing a ride after work today?”

There’s no way this guy could know where I work and what my schedule is unless he’s followed me somehow. I’ve been using Uber and public transit to get around but I obviously know his car and haven’t noticed it while I’ve been out of the house. I replied with a quick “No, thanks” and used Lyft to go home after work. A few hours after I got home last night he texted me again but from a different number. “It’s Greg. Did you get the book?” I didn’t respond.

I have to go to work but I’ll keep updating if I get anymore texts or weird shit happening.

Obviously I’m not at the point of contacting police because what are they gonna do? But I’m starting to feel really violated and concerned about my safety. I think I’m gonna stay at my boyfriends tonight. I’m going to use Lyft again just in case. I’ll keep you guys posted if you wanna know more.

EDIT UPDATE: guys, things just got weirder. I’m at work and my boss calls me into his office and asks me if I know a Greg. I go a little pale and ask him why. Turns out this guy emailed my FUCKING WORK and asked if I need a ride tonight when I’m off. The email reads:

Hi there, I’m just wondering if Sierra will need a ride after work tonight. Here’s my number. –**** Greg

As I said before, this dude should not know where I work. On a scale of 1-10 I’m at about a 12 in freak out mode right now. Calling my boyfriend to pick me up tonight. Will update soon.

EDIT UPDATE: safe and sound for the night with my boyfriend at his place. I’m wondering if this guy looked me up on Facebook and saw where I work, although I do have that information set to “friends only” in my privacy settings. Anyway, I contacted Uber to let them know about all of it. My mind isn’t really at ease right now though, that email really fucked with me. I’m not sure what to do if this goes on further. Should I contact the police, i mean does this count as harassment? I’m ready to hit the sack, I’m my brain is exhausted and I’m working a double shift tomorrow. I’ll keep you all posted as any updates come. Thanks for your concern guys it really gives me some peace of mind.

By: Seyeairuh

Fallout

By Dakota Priest

I’m in my car, headed across town to her house. My head nods rhythmically, slowly, while I listen to the low music coming through the speakers. It is very quiet outside. In fact, it’s silent. I cruise through the beautiful neighborhood, careful not to disturb the perfectly fallen blossoms on the ground. The end of summer is wonderful. I find it breathtaking. The cherry blossom trees that line this street are portrait-worthy; it’s surprising that one of the local artists downtown has not stood at the top of this block with an empty canvas and gone to work on it. Well, that’s just my humble opinion.
This visit will be special. I have been waiting a long time for this. I can’t get this girl off my mind. Ever. There is always an image of her in my mind somewhere. That pretty face, those seductive eyes, the way she scrunches her nose when she smiles, the alluring figure trapped underneath those polo shirts she tends to wear to work…I find it all so captivating. It’s hard to believe she ever wanted to be mine. I mean…she did tell me. She wrote a note that said it. She said it to my face. She whispered it in my ear. She even said it without saying it. And whether she lied or not is irrelevant; she made me believe it. So now I’m moving at just over 10 mph, scanning the addresses on the mailboxes in front of the ranchers and split-levels that create the development. 385…here we go. I let the car drift to a stop just past her mailbox and slip the gear into park. I take a very deep breath; the butterflies in my stomach are being battered by the iron in my lungs. I close my eyes and press my head against the headrest in attempt to calm myself. I’m not sure if it’s working.
I turn my head to the right, looking over and ensuring the safety of the bow-tied gift box I brought and bundle of extra long-stemmed roses I cut for her myself. The roses sit in the floor, the box is on the seat, bow crafted very neatly and unmoved from where I pressed it on the top of the box. I was told there would be no need to call her, so I don’t bother picking up the phone. I brush off the pants of my black suit, put the roses in my lap and pick up the box, completely unable to help the smile that pulls itself from ear to ear. I’m even blushing a little, imagining what it will be like when I step inside. Oh, forget it. I’ll just play it all by ear. I mean, she did say she trusts me. It can’t go that far off track. I exhale everything in me and slip off my wedding ring.

I feel like I lost you. Let me start from the beginning.
I’m married. It hasn’t been as long as many you know, but it’s been a day-by-day process.  It’s great, though. We love each other very much. Our relationship isn’t bad…but this has been quite a trying journey. As with any relationship, nothing has been easy or free. I guess our lowest point came when I started this new job.
I’ve been working as head of advertising for a party entertainment company for about 8 years, but at the point this all began, it had only been just a few months.  I wasn’t a big fan of it, but my campaigns were averaging an increase in gross profit per quarter of about 0.8 percent, the largest the company had seen since its inception. I was just doing what they told me—rolling out new ways to advertise our services to untapped markets; it really wasn’t a big deal to me. I’m not going to act, though, like I didn’t enjoy the recognition. Plaques, bonuses, my own office, multiple shout-outs on the website. It was great. When the company started to expand, they decided that, since we were branching out, they would also give me a few guys under me and an assistant. She was in the mass interview. She had no training in marketing. But she didn’t need it; she sold me on her smile.
“Hello, my name is Natalie.”
I still hear that greeting in my head occasionally. I didn’t freeze or anything, I didn’t buckle my knees or suddenly excuse myself from the meeting. I shook her hand, introduced myself as well, and got back to meeting everyone else before moving on to our PowerPoint presentation. I thought she was attractive. Gorgeous. Hot. But that was the extent of it. I wasn’t flirting. I wasn’t concentrating on her at all. I hardly even looked at her. I just used my laser pointer to navigate the screen and point out specific bullets that would be pertinent to the open positions. She just happened to be sitting beside me.
The very next week, HR had gotten back to me with the names of my new subordinates. Adam, Andreas, Felicia, and of course, Natalie. I kind of smirked when I saw her name on the stack of resumes, but I didn’t think twice about working with her. My wife was thrilled about the idea of me being put into a supervisory position. More prestige than clicking away in a cubicle, more money on the check. It was grand. The next Monday came and the new hires flooded into my office bright and early, carrying their various Starbucks and Einstein Bros. fare. I kept my head down, looking at my phone, as I waded through them to my desk, inviting them all to have a seat without any eye contact. I did not look at one. I did not turn my head. But when I moved closer to my desk, that third person caught my eye. Or, should I say, her cleavage interrupted my field of vision, just off to the right. Out of pure reflex, my head snapped toward her. We made eye contact and I noticed the suppressed smirk. It was barely noticeable, but the corner of her mouth gave it away. That errant dimple…the tiny gesture that ignited this inferno.
I smirked back. It was more like that kind of salutary grin you give a stranger when you pass them in an elevator. I knew I was giving it too much thought, so I forced myself to sit down and get to work that day. The next week was spent training. And eventually, of course, it ended up one-on-one with me and Natalie when everyone was dispatched to their respective desks. I had to walk her through my personal system of filing and creation, scheduling, etc. She paid close attention and rarely got off track. She wasn’t legendary, but she surely did her job well. I loved it. As long as she keeps this up, I thought, we will have no problems whatsoever. She did make good eye candy, though. Andreas and I would occasionally get into guy talk sessions about her in the break room.
There came an evening when I was told that the next client we wanted to contract with was an aftercare center in a neighboring city. They had been in business for four months and seemed to have a decent budget, as parents were talking about taking their children there all over social media. It was a Friday, just after 6 p.m. I knew that if I went home, the opportunity to seize the client may be gone by Monday, depending on the center’s operating schedule. I decided to stay late. Natalie casually offered to stay with me. I readily accepted the help, hoping to get out of there quicker with two heads working instead of one. I was ready to go home and play some video games. I don’t pick up a controller during the week, so my weekends are extra special when I get an hour or two to just waste on shooting monsters. With this project, the company saw a gold mine. I saw a new challenge.
Natalie saw me.
I ordered a pizza for us and got to click-clacking away on the keyboard, Natalie just beside me looking over my shoulder. Her laptop sat adjacent to mine on the same table. I would occasionally ask her a simple question just to keep things moving smoothly, like, “What was Monday’s date?” or, “Do you remember what Andrew told me before he left?” She answered in a normal manner, never letting on her secret energy or enthusiasm in this occurrence. She just did exactly what I needed her to do. During a loading screen for a website, I looked to my right, where her computer was, and noticed a tab open in her browser that read, “Fallout Strategy Guide”. That’s my favorite video game. That’s what I was so eager to play.
That’s where I fucked up
“Oh, you play Fallout?”

She chuckled a little. In retrospect, I see that it’s because she realized she’d found her in with me. “I have to,” she responded, “how else will I keep myself safe during the Great War? I need to suit up with Vault-Tec!” I thought that was funny. She thought so as well. I grabbed a slice of pizza and stuffed my mouth with it. I could feel the intimacy of the situation taking hold of me, about to make me say something I shouldn’t say. Can’t talk with my mouth full of cheese. She asked me questions about the character I had created on the game, what missions I had done, what weapons I preferred. Before I knew it, we had wasted nearly two hours just gushing about the video game and getting no work done. I sighed and looked down at my watch. I could have been playing this game and not just talking about it with this…hottie. But I got a little irresponsible with my time. I just moved my focus back to my computer screen and kept at my craft. I couldn’t believe I let that happen. She distracted me so much.
The very next day, she came to work wearing the hottest modest outfit I’ve ever seen. She was fully covered, save for just an inch of cleavage shown by her V-neck sweater. It was very tight. Her curves were downright exaggerated by the corset she wore beneath it, which also gave her quite a bit of, um…”lift”. Every step she took caused a great deal of seismic activity beneath her chin. It wasn’t overly distracting, but it was enough to grab every guy’s attention in the office. The only reason I knew she had on a corset was because I noticed the very slight indentation of the hooks down the middle of her back. She was breaking necks as she walked. The only part of her outfit that did not cling to her was the subtle flare at the bottom of her pant legs. They were slacks, but she was plus-sized. She filled. Them. OUT. She wore dangling earrings that glimmered beneath her perfectly pressed black hair. Her fingernails had just been painted. She wore two-inch heels and ruby-red lipstick, which looked deadly good against her pale skin. She was marvelous. She came in and sat down on her side of the table, giving me a smile as she opened her laptop.
“Good morning, sir.”
I was caught. I didn’t know if I should simply greet her back, act surprised at how she looked, give a casual compliment, pretend I didn’t notice anything… So I did what any commonsensical person would do.
“Aaaahh….uuuuuhhh…G—uuuuhhh…”
Her giggle was like a schoolgirl having been acknowledged by a star athlete. She turned and got back to logging in. And at that instant, I knew I had an extramarital crush. I didn’t want to acknowledge it. It was low. It was a bad thing to have. It was a terrible thing to admit, but it was there. I mean, I can say that now. She went the whole day acting like corsets are a normal thing to wear under clothes in the 21^st century. Pretending she always wore earrings or lipstick. Pretending that heels were nothing out of the ordinary for her. She normally wore flat sole boots, actually. But that day… That day, all of this was set aside. She dolled up good. And I liked it.
She continued doing that, shocking us all with her occasional dress-up day for another month before the next night we stayed late together. This time, I decided to be vigilant. I refused to fall prey to another of her traps, no matter how entertaining the video game. It just happened to be another surprise dress-up day again. She went with sheer lip gloss this time. Pink, sparkly lip gloss. She had on hoop earrings. Her hair was down again, perfectly straight. I could even see eyeliner and mascara. Her hips protruded against the sides of her dark leggings, gracefully followed by her thick thighs. I stopped breathing when I noticed this. What I did not notice, though, was that she noticed that I noticed. One big notice cycle of death. When I looked back up at her after feigning like I was checking my shoe laces under the desk, I saw that she was looking at me as though she knew exactly what I’d been looking at. And she did. She leaned forward, allowing her breasts to fall against the collar of her shirt and open it just a little more, and shimmying just a little to make them jiggle. My nervous reaction was a laugh, but I was both turned on and filled with a sudden rush of the purest anger I’ve ever felt in my life. My heart leapt against my chest, trying to punch her in the face. Her air was not one of trying to seduce me; she seemed to be just trying to make me laugh. But the sheer concept, the simple thought that she would do it, burned my blood. My laughing continued, even though I was struck with the urge to breathe in and use the cold air to shock the sense back into my system. What came out was a strange combination of gasping and humming. I acted like I didn’t notice, when in all actuality, I was really wondering if she thought I was a spaz for it. I was actually concerned with what she thought, and for that, I wanted to just die. I burned my eyes into the picture of my wife on the desk, hoping I could use it to distract myself and forget what just happened. It did not work.
At the end of the night, around 9:30 p.m. we finished up, closed our laptops, and headed toward the break room to retrieve our coats. Amidst talk of Fallout avatars and weaponry, she confidently, matter-of-factly informed me:
“I have such a huge crush on you.”
I was caught completely off guard, but I was facing away from her, so she was unable to see my look of shock. I reached for my coat and took all the time in the world to lower it onto my shoulders while putting it on. I felt dirty. I felt guilty. I felt like I had already cheated. I couldn’t believe I had let myself be so stupid, as to stay there so late with her. I felt like a horrible husband, a horrible person. But I couldn’t let her know that. I couldn’t let her force me into that kind of mentality. So I dissociated. I left the moment. I abandoned my body and fled to a space in my mind where nothing could hurt or scare me. And I shouldn’t have done that. Because what came out of my mouth next was the worst thing I could have said.
“Oh…I know you do.”
She grinned, a little surprised at my answer. I made no secret of my marriage, my pictures of my wife, or my dedication to her. But I also made no secret of my weakness for pretty women to Andreas. It was so true—I found Natalie stunning, as though she was crafted from pure gold. For all I knew about her, she was.
We progressed back through the office, toward the elevator to the parking garage. I stepped aside as the door opened, allowing her to board first. Even with a heavy peacoat on, her hips and thighs formed an entrancing bell curve that I couldn’t help but stare at until she turned back around, catching me yet again. She smiled again, but this time, she licked her lips. It wasn’t a “that was funny” smile. It was more like a smirk of preparation. Like she knew what was coming next. Her back was pressed to the rearmost wall of the elevator, both hands gripping the strap on her purse. I pushed the basement button and stepped back beside her, putting my back to the wall as well. She turned to me, not saying a word, just…staring. I looked back at her, at first trying to see what the fuck she was doing, but ultimately hypnotized by her. She stood on her tiptoes and forced the softest kiss to my lips. It was not quick. It was drawn out, slowly evolving into a deep, passionate tongue-kiss. I felt weak. I felt foolish and reckless. I could actually hear my life shattering behind me as we made out. Her unabashed hand made its way to my crotch and grabbed me. All of me. I tensed up.
Luckily, the elevator door parted a second later and we had no excuse to stay inside. In fact, it would have proven dangerous for us both. So I wiped my lips, adjusted myself in my pants and stepped out, heading as quickly as I could toward my car across the empty parking lot without letting on that I was trying to put distance between us. She strolled toward her own, which was parked close to mine. Her heels echoed through the level.  My chest hurt. At that moment, I knew with certainty that I was the worst man on Earth. There was no hope for me. I was condemning myself for allowing it to happen. I turned to her and said goodbye. She winked at me.
I hopped into my car and pulled out of the parking lot. I turned my music way up and pulled off to the side of the road when I saw there was no one else around me. I balled my fists and banged the steering wheel, screaming and crying. How could I do such a terrible thing? I asked myself mentally. Why didn’t I shove her away? Why didn’t I choke her, throw her across the elevator, and roar her down for attempting such a stunt? There was only one explanation for it.
I wanted it. It was the only thing that made sense.
I held my breath, choking on sobs and trying to regain my breath while my eyes were closing, gripping my steering wheel so hard that I heard it crackling beneath my hands. I was shivering. I was broken and busted up. And I did it all to myself. I was distraught. But by the end of that few-minute stint on the shoulder…I had come to terms with it. And I went home and led my life as though nothing was wrong. I just knew something brand new about myself.
It carried on for several months after that evening. We would work together during the day, text all evening, make the occasional excuse to stay at the office late and get nothing done. In my empty office, she straddled my lap, shirt fully unbuttoned, gripping my collar with both hands and kissing me like I was going off to war. Her skin was warm. Her eyes were ice. Her fingers would make their way into my zipper. During these times, I was an entirely different person. This was not to justify the act; it was just a mechanism to deal with the fault I knew was stacking higher and higher on me as I let this go on. She leaned back, allowing the panels of her button-up shirt fall to the side and reveal her thin, lacy bra, looked me dead in my eyes, and told me, “I want to be yours.” I had gotten past the point of her words interrupting my heartbeat. I was in over my head. I was breathing the proverbial water at that point, so very little she said caught me by surprise. Which is why I responded with, “Say it again.” She pulled me closer, kissing my cheek, licking my earlobe and whispering to me.
“I want so badly to be yours, it hurts. I want you.”
My eyes fell to her shoulder, which was secured against my mouth. I felt it. I felt her desire and her attraction. It seemed genuine, that she wanted to be with me. And honestly, it felt great to feel wanted. The feeling of being desired by someone else on more than just a sexual level was…addictive. I closed my eyes and just kind of reveled in it for a moment, imagining what that would be like. What a fantasy it was. She kissed my neck several times, trying to get some kind of response out of me, but I stayed silent. I didn’t even look at my wedding ring. She stayed on my lap, grinding on me, making it impossible for me to stand up. She wasn’t too heavy for me to move, I just didn’t want to. I let my hands rest on her hips. Her sexy hips… It was the one section of her body that had me completely under her control. And when she moved them, I was completely dead to the world. My only hope was that she would never actually learn that fact.
I went home that night, having gotten cocky in this routine. Little did I know there was lipstick on my collar. Whenever I saw that in movies or on TV, I couldn’t understand how men would let it happen. Then it happened to me, and I learned the hard way. My wife saw it, and questioned it with a laugh. “How the hell did you get lipstick on your collar?” she asked playfully. I realized that this was as good a point as any, so I spilled. I told her everything. I told her about the first late night, the last, and every one in between. I told her about the elevator. I told her about the break room. I told her about the anger I felt. I told her about the clothes she wore. I poured my soul out. But the one thing I didn’t mention was what the girl told me in the office. I kept that part to myself.
There was a long period of awkward, tense silence when I was done. She sat there, staring at the floor, or somewhere in the middle distance. I wanted to beg her to respond, but I wanted her to take all the time she needed to formulate the right thing to say to me. I threw myself at her mercy. And even for just a moment, it felt good to let her know most of it. I told her what was weighing down on me. She shook her head slowly and asked, “Do you love her?” The light tremble in her voice made waves in the waters of my soul. I was brought careening back to the dark reality that I had cheated, quickly. “No!” I exclaimed, “No, it’s not like that. I told you what happened; I’m not in love with her, baby.” She didn’t argue with me. She didn’t burn me with many more questions after that. She just let her silent tears fall while she leaned in for a hug.
“Just promise me it will never happen again,” she pleaded.
I did not hesitate to make that promise. I swore, on everything I held dear, that I would never get into such a situation again. And just like that, my soul was saved. She sacrificed herself for my salvation, and for that, I will forever be grateful.
I told Natalie that my wife knew. She felt terrible, beating herself up quite a bit about how she let herself be so vulnerable to her hormones. She was ashamed and mortified that she was trying to get with a married man. I never tried to console her about it. That surely would have been dumb of me. Instead, I just told her how equally terrible I felt about it. So instead of secretary and boss having an affair, we just became good friends, trying to stay within the bounds of our professional relationship. And it worked well for a while.
She only worked there for another month before leaving for a better employment opportunity or something like that. My wife suggested that since she was gone, there would be no more need for me to ever call her again. This went without saying, of course, but I agreed anyway. All I cared about was that she was gone. And I was glad. I wanted my simple life back. I wanted to get back to being able to focus on my job. I was glad to have her replaced by my current assistant, Lila. The female assistant thing is just a coincidence–the position was offered to Adam, but his schedule was too unforgiving. I didn’t even bother to consider working alongside Andreas, who would have only served to remind me of the girl. I didn’t need that.
And as it turned out, I didn’t need him for that, either. That is to say, I did not need to be reminded of Natalie via any external sources. She would sporadically pop into my head while I worked, causing me to close my eyes and shiver, trying to escape the thought. The sound of her moans would echo into my ear and get stuck in my head like an earworm. The first few times it happened, I would twitch nervously for a few seconds, literally trying to shake it out of my head, and then I would be fine, cruising about my day making good money. But it continued, becoming more and more frequent. I would hold my breath in an effort to pass out, going for a proverbial reset button on myself. I would take handfuls of Excedrin, hoping to get just high enough to not care she had ever been there, but still be able to work. I started drinking way more, sometimes even on lunch breaks. I started seeing a therapist without my wife’s knowledge because of the hallucinations. Those terribly vivid images haunted me. It was one thing to audibly recall what she sounded like whispering her submission and full trust to me. It was a totally different thing to have my heart stop because I saw her walking toward my office door. My doctor suggested I was being a little too hard on myself and that, instead of punishing myself for having done what I did, be thankful that it didn’t progress to anything more permanent, like pregnancy or an incurable disease that I passed on.

He clearly did not understand the gravity of the situation. Fuck him. The visit he suggested that was my last visit there, and had very much soured me on the idea of seeking another doctor.
I began a downward spiral. It got even worse. So much worse, in fact, that I nearly had a heart attack when Lila knocked on my door one day while I was, um…”dealing” with that thought. There was a half box of Kleenex involved. I’ll let you do the math. Luckily, I was able to tuck, zip, and find a casual pose to strike before she turned the knob. I had become obsessed. I was crazy. I was hungry. I didn’t want to be that way. I was trying my damnedest to move on, but she just wouldn’t let me. No matter how hard I tried, Natalie was always one step behind me, reaching out and grasping me in her tight-hugging arms, captivating me with affectionate words of flirtation and random goings on about Fallout. I haven’t played that game in years, by the way. I still have the disc in the system and everything. It might work, it might not. It’s been seven years, present day. I’m not even sure I remember what to do in that game.
I went home one evening, intent on making love to my beautiful wife, but she was sleeping by the time I got there. I was 10 Excedrin in, and a little drunk, but I just knew that anything that would bring us closer together would be exactly what I needed. I took every step carefully, trying not to let on how intoxicated I was while putting down my backpack and getting undressed. Keys on the nightstand, suit jacket on the closet door. I slipped into bed completely naked, cuddling up to her and closing my eyes. In thirty minutes or so, I was fast asleep.
I had a dream. It felt like a lucid dream. Hell, it felt like real life. I was in a post-apocalyptic wasteland at midday. I was dressed in bulletproof shingles and a battle-worn combat helmet, carrying a high-powered .308 rifle and a leg rig full of ammunition. I observed my surroundings, taking in every inch of the scenery. It was bleak, but bright. I could see for miles, and thusly, picked a direction and started walking. The sun never moved, even after miles of walking. I loaded my gun just for the hell of it, preparing to fire when I heard a scream. I turned my head to the source of the sound and dashed forward, running to the top of a nearby hill. At the bottom, I saw a woman being attacked, fighting off a large bear and two huge poisonous hornets. Their attacks were very square and predictable, but even so, they were terrifying. I flipped the gun stock up against my shoulder and took aim, firing at the bear first. I hit him right in the shoulder, causing him to charge me. The next shot laid him flat, flying through his nose and into his brain. The woman was wildly swinging an electrified sword at the bugs. She managed to hit one of them while I fired two rounds at the other. I proceeded closer, shooting every chance I got. By the time I was within ten feet of her, the hornet was tiring itself out. I took that chance to gun-butt it and knock it to the ground. She took one last swipe at it and cut it clean in half. We were both panting, but I was glad she was safe. She turned around to me. It was fucking Natalie, wearing baggy cargo pants, and a scant bustier made of rivets, leather, and car parts, and a headband. Even covered in oil, sweat, and bloodstains, she was so gorgeous. All I could hear was my breath. Even the wind’s whisper took a backseat to the sound of my inhaling. “Come on,” I told her, “I’ll take you to a nearby town and we’ll get you cleaned up.”
We began the trek to a nearby city made up of trailers, Christmas lights, and wooden crates. I asked for a medic and a room for rent. We paid in soda bottle caps and bullets. I watched as the doctor bandaged her wounds, making sure he took good care of her. We made our way across the lot to the trailer we’d rented for the night. Inside were a single ratty mattress, a table, and a window covered by a tattered curtain. It was perfect. She lay down and crossed her feet, setting her sword against the table like an umbrella. Her stomach was exposed by the open front on her…whatever you may call it. It was really an “X” of wide cut leather bands covering her areolas, reinforced on top by two individual riveted steel bars. Her boobs nearly fell out of it as she lay on her back. I gave it no second thought as I lay beside her and set my gun down on the opposite side of the bed. She turned to me, stroking my hair and giving me the same look from the elevator. Before I could ask a single question, we were locking lips again.
I awoke to the sound of myself moaning her name and starting to touch myself. As soon as I realized what was going on, I quieted my voice and turned to my wife, who was still sound asleep, but stirring due to my sudden movement. She didn’t hear a thing, but I did. And that was all it took. I snapped. The bitch had invaded the sanctity of my dreams and I would have no more of it. There was nowhere left for me to run. I had no one to tell about it. I don’t see any of my old friends enough to confide. I couldn’t tell Andreas. I wasn’t close enough to Adam. I sure as hell was not telling my wife, and I wasn’t keen on finding another psychologist to tell me that everything was okay. It was NOT okay. It was pretty fucking far from okay. I felt hopeless. I was under the control of a force that I could not battle. I was left with two choices: continue fighting and completely exhaust myself, or give in to this fantasy that was taking over my entire life, by hook or by crook.
So here I am, in front of her house a month later, preparing for the most special date of my life. Ironically enough, the only money I plan to spend has been used on this gift. We’re spending our time inside at her place. It’s been so long; I’m sure she’ll be shocked to see me. I open my car door and shut it quietly, not wanting to alert her that I’m here too early. I want to catch her a little off guard. I check my watch. I’m fashionably late, I guess. It’s 4:07 a.m.

My footsteps are silent and catlike as I make my way up to her front door. I hear from Facebook that she has a daughter now. The little girl is about five. I’ve seen her pictures, too. So adorable. Her name is Allison. Lucky for us, Allison is off camping with her father for the weekend. At least, that’s what the post said. I sure hope they didn’t cancel the trip and I wasn’t made aware. I got the address from an invitation she must have accidentally sent to many of her online friends. I mean, she didn’t invite ME, but she invited someone I knew, and she hasn’t moved in six and a half years. I peer into the living room through the window. Oh, what fun–she just happened to fall asleep on the couch. A smirk makes itself present on my mouth, and it’s the very same smirk from when we met. She’s absolutely beautiful, even with a loosely- bound robe and her hair in a ponytail, holding a game controller in her hand. I wonder what she was playing before she tuckered out. I slide back to the left to hide myself from view, holding the roses in my left hand and the box under my left arm. I pull the ski mask down over my face and take a knee, removing the folding lockpick set from my pocket and tapping the tumblers inside the knob until I hear each one click into place, held by the pressure I’m applying from the Bobby pin to twist the lock. As easy as she fell into my arms seven years ago, the lock falls to the side and gives me passage into the vestibule. I close the door quietly, engaging the handle lock, the deadbolt, and the chain lock.

My breath is catching. I can’t believe she’s right in front of me again! She’s looks every bit as amazing as she did the day we met, hasn’t aged a second. In less than a minute, I’m standing right over her, trying to calm my choppy breath. She’s still fast asleep, not for a minute suspecting that anything is different in her house. I kneel beside her, my face just six small inches away from hers. I’m holding my breath so that I don’t disturb her. Damn, Natalie. You are just so pretty. I sit here watching her breathe, plucking the petals off the roses one by one for at least thirty minutes. Soon, I have a small pile of rose petals on the floor in front of me, and some very long stems by my leg. I think it’s time to give her her gift now.

I set the box down beside me. My quaking fingers lift off the top and pull out the large syringe of adrenaline that I bought online. Oh, the wonders of the information highway! I saw this in a movie once, and because I don’t have a “felt pen” or a “fucking magic marker”, my first shot has to be precise. I planned this in a very specific manner, and this date has to go perfectly. I use one finger to separate the panels of her robe just a little bit, exposing her chest. Wow…there’s so much more of it than was there last I saw. Kids, I tell you. I turn the needle upside down on my right hand. I fill my left hand with the rose petals, as many as I possibly can hold. My eyes scan carefully for the sign of a pulse or sternum. Ah…there you are, my pretty. I slow my breathing, breath by breath, until I have a stable respiration of nothing at all. It’s quiet. It’s so very quiet.

It’s nighttime elevator ride quiet.

I use the strength of my entire arm to drop the point of the needle through her ribs and into her heart, slamming my thumb down on the plunger. Her eyes shoot open and she starts to scream.

Disco.

My left hand follows up quickly, shoving all the rose petals into her mouth and holding them there. Her limbs freak out, flailing and kicking every which way. “Sssh, ssssh!” I demand, throwing the needle aside and using my right hand to jam two fingers behind her collarbone, helping to restrain her to the back of the couch. Her breathing is rapid, but she’s not screaming anymore. Her limbs are as tense as those steel bars from my dream. She’s groaning a little, likely from the taste of partially chewed rose petals. Once I see that she’s still, I address her.

“Natalie… Wow. I missed you so much.”

The look on her face goes from surprised and afraid to skeptical, shocked confusion. “It’s me,” I assure her, pulling the mask off my face. “Remember? From Freddy’s?”

She squints, checking over my face quickly. She obviously is still thinking of a way to get out of this. I really wish she wouldn’t. She’s making it far more complicated than need be. “NATALIE,” my voice booms, startling her again, “you know me.” I lean forward, putting my lips next to her ear.

“You wanted so badly to be mine…”

Her eyes shut tightly. I can tell she recalls now. She speaks, her voice muffled and her words totally meshed by the flowers. I don’t care what she’s asking. It doesn’t matter at all. I lift my face to hers again. She knows me. She knows our whole history. What she doesn’t seem to know, though, is how I found her home. How did I get in? What did I do to her? What could I possibly want years later?

Now is a good a time as any to say so, right?

“You hurt me, Natalie. You really got into my head and fucked up my life. It wasn’t all your fault and I can’t pretend it was. I let you think we had something when I shouldn’t have. I let you keep going until there was nothing more for you to take. It was my fault we started. It was my fault we ended. The guilt…I just couldn’t take any more of that terrible guilt I felt about you. It made me sick. It made me depressed. But once I got it out, I felt better. I felt so much better that I was able to begin to get past it and gain my life back. I remember…I was a little disappointed to see you leave, but it was for the best. I mean, you got a better job, you liked it more, it was closer to home, whatever… Why did you have to come back? Why couldn’t you just stay gone and let me live, babe? You had your wonderful life, I had mine. It would have been lovely to just forget the past and move on. I mean, that’s what I thought…”

I take a moment to wipe my eyes as my voice cracks.

“See…I got used to you not being there. I grew accustomed to knowing I would come to work and not see you. I cared about you as a friend; like, I didn’t want you hurt. I didn’t want to hear that you weren’t doing well when we were working together. You were my friend; I cared about you. But you couldn’t just let it end when it was over, could you? Why did you have to come back?! I WAS OVER YOU!”

She flinches, eyes darting back and forth repeatedly. I strengthen my hold on her and keep going.

“You were…in my mind. You…you were in my office, you were in my fucking dreams! You kept coming back. I couldn’t make any progress with you there. Why was what we had not enough? I asked myself so many times why you would stay with me so long after the fact, why you would risk so much coming back. I became quite convinced that you didn’t give a damn about me. I just knew it. You didn’t care about my life, my success, my goals or my dreams. I just knew that you didn’t care if I was happy. And then I thought about it…maybe… Maybe it was you trying to tell me something, maybe you were suggesting something without saying it outright. And I heard it one night. I heard it in a dream. You said it, right in my ear again. You told me…you said you loved me. And I was upset that it took so long, so much heartache and confusion and denial for me to realize that…”

I raise my teary eyes to meet hers.

“…I love you, too, sweetheart.”

Her breathing quickens, blowing across the back of my hand over and over. I laugh while shaking my head. Oooh, it felt so good to finally say that! So I’ll say it again.

“I LOVE you, Natalie. I can’t stop thinking about you. I see now that you were coming back so that we could finally be together.”

She writhes beneath me, trying to escape my grip on her clavicle. She’s not going anywhere. I kiss her forehead, ceasing to hold back any and all apprehension to do so. It’s not like before anymore. I don’t have any reason to keep it to myself. She’s finally all mine. “I’ve already decided,” I explain, “I won’t see my wife anymore after tonight. She can keep the house, the car, everything. I just need to hear you say it…please. I’m begging you. Just tell me you want to be mine again.”

She falls silent, clearly mulling it over. What’s not clear, though, is whether she’s thinking about saying it because she is afraid to start a different life, or if she is just trying to get off the couch. But it’s simple: the fact that it’s not clear MAKES it clear.

“Natalie…I don’t hear you.”

She doesn’t speak for another few seconds. That’s okay. It’s all I needed to hear.

“Let me get this straight,” I start, “You meet me, you flirt with me, you SEDUCE me, then you fucking LEAVE me, you follow me, you stalk me, you tempt me and you drive me crazy, only to have me give in and you deny me? Who are you, Carmen fucking Jones? This doesn’t make any sense, this doesn’t make any sense…”

I start tapping my finger on her mouth, looking around, literally trying to find the logic in her actions. This can’t be right. There’s nothing sensible about this. She was there…in my office, on my desk, in the elevator rides, in the car, in my house, in my mind…she was ALWAYS there. And now she’s walking out again. I drop my head. Here I was thinking I had come to terms with wasting the rose stems.

I grab the bunch of them, twisting them into a rope and wrapping them around her neck. I use it to drag her into the floor. The thorns dig deeply into her skin, getting deeper and cutting sideways the more she flinches and squirms. She is unable to scream past the wet blossoms in her mouth, which are falling out bit by bit. She gags, causing a few pieces to shoot down her throat. Good. I want her to suffocate, just like she made me do when she kissed me, just like she made me do when she sat on my lap. I want her to choke like she made me do when she touched me. I mumble to her while she fights me.

“This…is the same pain…you caused me…every…fucking…time… You didn’t care about me. You never cared. You’re leaving me again…and if you’re…going to go… All I want is…the promise…that you will leave… “

Her hands start to fail grasping at the prickly vines. Her mouth is open, but the soft petals gently silence her screams.

“Me…”

Her left hand falls to her side. Her eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them. Her irises glisten with saline tears in the light of the moon. Her hair tie came off long ago, causing her silken locks to fall wildly about her face. She looks so sexy.

“…ALONE.”

Her struggle comes to an abrupt halt. Her head falls to the side. I’m on my back, with her back to my chest. I’m panting, eyes closed, satisfied that she was awake, alert, and completely able to feel every second of the suffering she bestowed on me. She looks tired. That’s fine. But I’m not taking any chances. I cannot take the risk of her returning to torment me. I grab her chin and support the back of her head with my other hand, wrapping my legs around her frame. I give a strong pull upward and then whip her head hard enough to return a quick, loud series of cracks from her neck. She’s gone now. She looks so peaceful.  Thank you, WikiHow.

I pick up my cell phone and dial 911, lifting the speaker to my ear. I will never see my wife again after tonight. She will have the house and the car. She will be able to move on eventually and find someone better for her. She will be able to have another, more lively chance at happiness. And I will finally be able to sleep without being preyed on. I will have my mind back. I will have peace. I will rest. And I will never have to play or speak of Fallout ever again.

Dakota Priest

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Friday (Walk with Me) – Creepy Pasta

By Dakota Priest

I open my eyes just before the digital alarm clock on my bedside table hits 11:35 a.m. I stretch powerfully and crack my lower back and neck in the process, twisting so that the blanket engulfs me in a mangled mass of wrinkles and folds. I step onto the floor and head toward the bathroom. I have the strangest feeling of déjà vu. I like to ride these out, see just how far I can get in the event before it teeters off and I get back to discovering the world as it naturally is. I think it’s rather interesting, and while I move about slowly, I think rapidly about where I could have possibly seen this setting before. But I guess it’s an anomaly of the mind that scientists have yet to figure out.
I lean over the toilet with one hand against the wall behind it, aiming for the side of the bowl as I normally do. You know, just to make less noise. Not that it matters…there’s only me in this apartment. I guess it’s just early-morning-ear sensitivity. Maybe it’s just me. But as soon as I start to go, the stream flies down from me, misses the bowl completely, and lands all over my foot and my leg. “Agh!” I scream in surprised disgust. Just great.
After washing up and washing off, I head back out to the kitchen for breakfast. I occasionally spoil myself on weekends like this, when the weather is nice, and actually cook breakfast. I’m off on Fridays and I think it’s a good idea to keep my culinary skills sharp. I have a girlfriend after all, and I have to bring something to the literal table. But…just not feeling it today. So I grab a bowl, a spoon, the milk, and the Frosted Flakes, and sit myself down on the couch to pour up this grainy goodness. If heaven has cereal, they have Frosted Flakes. I’ve always poured milk first, then cereal, just to make sure I don’t pour too much cereal and it gets soggy before I finish the first bowl, and today is no different. I hate soggy cereal. The milk hits the bowl and splashes on itself until I finish pouring, following quickly with the cereal. This cold loser breakfast would not be complete without some good old court TV, so I whip my head to both sides, quickly searching for the remote.
…What the hell. It’s not in the spot where I left it. I hurriedly pull away the pillows on the couch, carelessly tossing them on the floor. The remote is not there. It’s not under my legs, it’s not between the cushions. I’m really starting to wonder if I was drinking last night and don’t remember. I put the bowl down, looking at the flakes and hoping they’re not too mushy already, and start searching under the couch. But the underside is clean as a whistle, nothing to be found. I can see straight to the wall. Now I’m mad. I stand back up, sit down hard, and pick up my bowl of cornmeal soup, lifting the spoon and dumping off the mushy flakes. First that, now this. The biggest problem is that my American brain is telling me to throw it away and start over, but my pocket is telling me, “Dude, you must think we’re made of money. Cereal is not fuckin’ free.” So I start to raise the spoon to my lips, when I cast my eyes to the side and spy the remote laying perfectly horizontal on the cushion on my right side. Words cannot express my confusion, absolutely sure that I would have seen it in the first place I looked. I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath, trying to calm down. I’m not going to throw a dramatic fit to perform for only myself. I’m not psychotic.
I turn on the TV and flip to the closest court show, eager to see who hit whom, or who gets flip with the judge the quickest, shoveling a massive, wet spoonful of mush into my mouth and swallowing immediately so I don’t have to taste it. Ecch…soggy cereal. Not gonna lie, though, it is filling. My normal loud chewing is not present to disrupt the volume of the television either, which is a silver lining.
But after 3 minutes and somewhere close to 15 spoons of milky gruel, I heave an involuntary sigh and taste my breath. It causes me to freeze in place, the high-frequency din of the TV filling the air in the black space between segment and commercial break. It’s…unpleasant. Not wholly terrible, but definitely not what I want to taste when eating something sweet. It’s not very sweet at all. I look at the bowl, examining the “food” in it. Did I chew a spider or something? I look closely and notice a thin film on top of the floating mash. My eyes crack wide and I grab the milk jug to check the date.
TWO. WEEKS. OLD.
My tongue juts out and I gag. No wonder my mouth tastes so terrible. I just drank a half cup of spoiled cow juice! I storm into the kitchen and slam the bowl into the empty sink, splashing drops of sour milk everywhere. I don’t care. I jumped straight out of bed into a series of unfortunate events. Sure would have liked to eat a civilized breakfast, but no. Now I find myself sitting on the couch, hand-shoveling dry cereal in my mouth to get rid of the taste as quickly as I can. I can’t hear the show at all, even if I turn it up. This is the stuff I was talking about. I feel the urge to speak aloud.
“You’re really trying my patience today, fate.”
I say these words with un-frosted corn-tasting crumbs stuck in my teeth. I roll my eyes and lay on my side, finishing out the court show and picking up my phone to decide where I’ll waste my precious time today. Jenna, my girlfriend, and I have been together for 5 years on the 23^rd of this month. Hmm…our anniversary is coming up. I should go get her a bundle of roses or something. A card would be nice, too. I mean, I only have…
…Wait.
I open the menu on my phone to find the date. July 23^rd. TODAY IS OUR ANNIVERSARY! I leap off the couch hurriedly; my mind is racing to formulate some kind of extravagant ploy to make it seem like I’ve been planning a surprise for months. I don’t even care how much it’ll cost me at this point—I will go into debt for this. I rip open the dresser drawer, snatching up the first t-shirt I see and pulling it over my frantic head. I can’t believe I was so stupid… How could I lose track of such a date? I clench my eyes in frustration and gnash my teeth, mapping out the route I plan to drive to pick things up and arrange reservations. I hop stupidly toward the bed while pulling up my jeans, falling to the mattress upon arrival. My lace-less shoes slide on and I march purposefully toward the door, grabbing my keys off the wall without ever looking away from the knob.
I’m anxiously tapping my foot in the elevator, looking at my watch all the way to the first floor. I am screwed. My heart is pounding fast, but I realize that I’m stressing myself out and things will likely be just fine, so I close my eyes and inhale deeply. I visualize the stress in my body as dark matter and I mentally congeal it all into one quantifiable mass, then picture it spreading into the air with a long, relaxing breath. It’s a tranquil thought. I see my empty silhouette in my mind now free from all that problematic muck and I concentrate on it for a second or two. I concentrate…until my relaxation technique is brutishly interrupted by the chamber jarring to an immediate halt and the lights failing. My eyes open to the darkened room, facing the silver doors that reflect my blurred appearance. It exactly matches the images of my conscious mind right now, utterly confused at what the hell is happening. I mean, it’s registered that I’m stuck, but my brain instantly wonders why, what happened, or who is responsible. In the first second I’m in here, I’ve already decided to simply stand still, anticipating the power coming back on and a continuation of my trip downward.
But that doesn’t happen.
My eyes dart around as I try to stave off the claustrophobic feelings. I was shoved into a wooden toy box by my cousins once when I was younger. It was very small, but they managed to fit me inside. They sat on it so that I couldn’t open the top. It wasn’t just the darkness that got to me. It was the loss of control. I didn’t have the weight to flip the box over, or the strength to lift the top. They were just being kids, lighthearted “bullying”. I understand they were not being malicious, but the event stuck with me all the same. This reminds me of that experience. I leap forward, slamming my fist against every button on the panel in an effort to get the chamber moving. Nothing happens. I scan the panel for the “Call” button, overlooking it several times in my nerve-wracked panic. I locate it at the bottom and thrust my fingers against it repeatedly, speaking with a loud voice, “Hello? Hello! Someone is IN THE ELEVATOR. Please get this thing moving again.” I’m trying to remain calm to keep myself from hyperventilating, but it’s all coming on very quickly.  I hold my breath in an attempt to prevent my twitching lungs from freaking out while walking in a circle to distract myself. There isn’t much room, and I have unwittingly made myself exceedingly aware of that fact by spinning around in this confinement. I feel like I’m gonna lose it. I stop turning around and jam my fingers into the slit in the doors, trying to pry and pull them open. The doors move about a quarter of an inch, but do not open. Man, they make it look so easy in the movies. I try and try again, pushing my fingers a little deeper each time I’m able to move the door, but not actually making any notable progress. I scream and throw myself backward from the door, slamming my back against the wall in an angry fit. I guess it’s best that the door didn’t open for me. I am likely stuck between floors, and if I’m not able to get out fast enough, the chamber could drop and sever me in half. My best bet is to sit here and wait.
…But I can’t do that. Even forcing myself to sit in the corner to maximize my visual space proves ineffective. I still very well know that I am stuck in a very tiny elevator. I check my watch again. I’ve been in here for only two minutes. It feels like 60. And that simple math shows me that I am not cut out for this ordeal. I want my mommy. I’m holding back tears. I kick the silver doors and scream, “HELP!” to anyone outside the door that may hear me. But I hear no footsteps. No doors opening or closing, nobody even asking what may be taking the elevator so long. It’s like everyone has left the building, but I mindlessly continue for another minute or so. There is no result.
I slink downward against the wall, abandoning hope and playing my torturous death repeatedly in my brain. This is how it ends. I’m alone in an elevator where nobody knows I’m stuck. I check my watch again. It’s only been 90 seconds.  I’m feeling lightheaded, and at this point I realize that I was not able to stop myself from hyperventilating. My vision doesn’t go dark, but I feel my head falling.
What feels like the very next instant, I’m being jostled awake by another tenant of the building. She asks what I’m doing sleeping in the elevator in a rather rude tone. Like it’s any of her business why I would choose to sleep in the elevator had I actually been doing so. I must have fainted. I do not feel compelled to explain myself to this chick. I check my watch. I was only out for one minute.

I jump to my feet and take off through the lobby to my car, parked around the corner. My loaded pockets rattle the whole way there. I beep the doors unlocked and hurriedly jump inside, refusing to shut the door until I am fully composed. My head hits the headrest and my eyes close. My chest rises and falls rapidly while I try to catch my breath from sprinting. I can’t believe that just happened. I’m confused, frustrated, angry, still a little scared…but also relieved. I am so thankful to be out of that elevator. I promise myself silently to take the stairs from now on.
When I open my eyes, prepared to start the car, I notice a folded pink paper beneath my windshield wiper. Damn it! Today of all days, a ticket! I put the keys in and turn the car on, rolling down the window and pulling the paper inside. The sheet is lined. It is clearly not a ticket. I sigh relief and shake my head, forcing myself to find a little humor in this situation and chuckle so I can bring this reeling from the elevator fiasco to a halt. However, as I read the folded handwritten letter, the incident from inside begins to pale in comparison to my new feeling of hopelessness. It reads:

“Hey:
I left this on your car because I didn’t feel like running into you in the hallway. It just…would’ve been really awkward for both of us. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve been seeing someone else for a while now. It’s actually been about a year. It doesn’t really matter who it is. And I know at this point, your mind has immediately started to wonder why this happened. That’s exactly my problem with you, though. You’re so…weak. You are reading this, whining about “Whyyyyy?” in your brain when you could be blowing up my phone, tracking me down, determined to get me back. You could be doing a number of things to get what you want, but you just want me to answer your wimpy little concern. Fine.
You’re sweet. But if you’ve never noticed, I like sour candy. You’re a good guy, don’t get me wrong. You’re cute, you’re cuddly, you’re entertaining, you know how to make a girl feel better. You know who else has those qualities? A fucking teddy bear. And I’m not gonna give up the ass to a stuffed animal. As if I ever got the chance to… We are well into the 21^st century you dingus—who the hell is “waiting for marriage” nowadays? I wanted to bed you the minute you started talking about the movie “Red”. But you took me for some prude Mormon girl just because my outfit didn’t show my boobs. Newsflash: I HAVE HORMONES YOU NOODLE. You pretty much forced me to have to sleep with other people for the majority of our relationship. I really tried to give it a good faith effort at first, but seriously, that dry spell can crack skin after a while.
You don’t fight. You hardly even argue. Every time I brought up an issue, there was an immediate apology. You didn’t even defend yourself to ME! What am I supposed to do with a guy who won’t even stand up to a chick? If some guy grabbed my butt at a party, you’d probably take him aside to ask how it felt. I don’t need a good guy. I need a great man.
I’m tired of Chinese and Netflix on weekend nights. Yeah, it’s cute to do occasionally, but if that’s your idea of a great time, good luck stud. I wanna go skydiving in the desert, scuba off the coast of a tropical island, I wanna see shows in Vegas, get flirty and fuck in a library bathroom, I want to go on adventures! Like I said, you know how to make a girl feel better. I don’t need to feel better. I need to feel amazing.

TTYL”

By the end of the page, my hands are shaking. I feel a literal hole in my heart. It’s like my physical heart muscle just withered and crumbled. My world has gone silent. The passing cars and people bear no effect on my perception. I’m stuck in this…purgatory. This limbo. This endless space of colorless, insubstantial nothingness. She was so mean. So hurtful. She was so cold and calculated with those sharp words that it felt like actual cuts. I could sense the lacerations in my being. On our anniversary, no less. The worst part is…
She’s right.
I mean, we’d never slept together… I brought up no sex before marriage because I thought that was something she might want. I do recall her bringing up the list of guys she’d been with, where the relationships became very hollow and all about sex. She said she was tired of that. I wanted to change it and give her something different. We did spend a lot of our weekends together eating Chinese and watching Netflix… I just thought it was enriching our bond; I thought I would show her that I don’t need her to constantly doll up for me to find her attractive. Most of those nights, she wore sweats. I thought it would show her that my idea of fun doesn’t always consist of spending a grand on alcohol or going to the same local clubs. She liked movies…that’s what she told me when we met. I didn’t engage her in arguments… She is headstrong. While she is intellectual, she is also very stubborn and emotional. If she is right, she will not stop until her opponent is crying mercy. If she is wrong and proven wrong, she gets dejected and depressed. I didn’t want to see her upset; she was usually wrong. So instead of breaking her down and being vindictive, I decided to just bite the bullet and see how I could make her feel better. I…I thought that was what she wanted.
I ball up the letter and throw it out the window, deciding that it’s better for me to be angry than sad. I see it land in the street, then peel my car off, aiming my tire for the paper ball on the ground. I run it over and, without a second look or thought about where I’m going, flip a hard right, determined to outrun the crying, broken bitch of a soul that I left sitting in that parking space. I am numbing myself with this horsepower. I have a nearly-finished Red Bull in my cup holder. I have a half a bottle of illicit opiate pills in my pocket. I think now is the time.
While driving, I maneuver my waist so I can pull the pills from my pocket, one hand on top of the steering wheel, the other yanking on the top of the pill bottle to fish it from my pants. I get it out and use my index and thumb to pop off the cap, dumping a small number of them into my mouth. I normally take two. Now I’m not counting. I smoothly wrench the top back onto the bottle and slip it back into my pocket, exchanging my grip for the Red Bull and guzzling it. It tastes like sour pineapple soda. I smirk in ironic humor. That girl has forever soured me on the word “sour”. Sour milk, sour soda, sour milk, sour soda…what a muhfuckin’ day. I have no idea where I’m going, but I refuse to let the ghost that’s chasing me catch up and make me shed tears over this. I refuse.
I’m whipping corners and exceeding the speed limit, which is not particularly wise since I live in the city and there are stop signs everywhere. Who knows…I could maybe run my ex over. I am putting effort into not caring. I am playing energy-chicken with my feelings, hoping that I can outlast them forever and the rush of guilt, fear, bitterness, shame, and sadness. I know that if they catch me, they will swallow me whole. But until that time, I am on 100, and I am never coming down.
I turn on the radio. Loud. I roll down my windows, putting this energy into screaming the lyrics to the most hardcore metal song I can find. I’m sure people are looking at me as I pull up to this stoplight, slamming my back against the seat and throwing my hands around like I’m shooting a music video. And I don’t give a damn. I simply don’t. With all this physical activity, I feel the medicine working its way through my system quicker. I have been taking these pills since before I even knew that girl. I never told her. I was too ashamed. Now, I’m not sure whether it would have lessened her tirade or made it worse. Not that it matters, she was still going to leave me, pills or no pills. I take them…a little more than recreationally. Luckily, I have never been pulled over by the cops with them on me, though I almost always have them in my pocket. I roll my eyes, feeling the chemically induced euphoria starting to wash through my bloodstream. This is going to be a good next few hours. Am I addicted? Maybe.
I continue driving until I get the bright idea that I want to go to the shooting at the closest gun range. Twin 1911’s. High caliber. I’m gonna ride this out. I pull up to the building and leap out of the car, still walking at a brisk pace hoping that the ghost doesn’t catch up to me. I can imagine him, sitting in his ghost car in that parking space, still crying his ghostly eyes out over that heartless siren who just devoured him without even being around. Fuck him. He is…weak. I am not weak. I yank the door open and proceed to the counter, not bothering to look beneath the counter. I’ve only been here twice. Years ago. But I know what I want.
“Hi there. I wanna rent two 1911’s. .45 caliber. Gimme four boxes of ammo and a couple of those killer zombie clown targets.”
“Alright, I’ll need your i.d.”
We go through the formalities and soon, I’m popping on my goggles and earmuffs and loading magazines in my lane. I’m humming the guitar notes from that song I was screaming earlier, merrily popping bullet after bullet into the mag. I don’t care that I’m about to imagine her face on the picture of this murderer holding this wacky giant bloody Warhammer. I don’t care that I’m about to imagine killing her. I feel fine. In fact, I feel great. I feel like I imagine she wants to feel. And you know…I hope she does feel that way. I hope she’s happy. I know this feeling is not to be long-lived, but it’s noble to think such thoughts, however brief. Once my target is hung, I use the switch to zip it out to about 25 feet, slamming the mags into the wells and cocking both slides. I hold both the guns out in front of me and, without hesitation, start firing away. There are only two other guys here with me. They are shooting professionally. Carefully. One shot at a time, placing shot groups into specific rings on their targets, about a quarter-size. Good for them. I’m not shooting for sport. I’m shooting for therapy. I’m shooting for sanity. I’m shooting because I am powerful. I am strong. I am a beastly force with which to be reckoned. I’m shooting and I just. Don’t. Give. A. FUCK.
I empty the magazines and grab my spares, locking and loading another 22 shots. I get about 6 in before seeing sparks fall from the ceiling slightly to my right and feeling the vibration of a heavy object hitting the floor. This is followed by a man’s loud scream. I stop shooting, my alarm piqued. I put the guns down, but I don’t take off my eye and ear protection. I just lean my head back and peek around the lane blocker to see what exactly this individual is upset about. And I see it.
He is two lanes beside me, facing away from the range, double over, pouring blood out of his neck. There’s a big puddle on the floor already, right under him. My first thought: there’s no way I did that. I sure hope I didn’t do this. I immediately start to rationalize and defend myself to an invisible jury, thinking that if I can convince myself that I didn’t do this, I should have no problem convincing them…or at least convincing them that nobody can prove that I did it. I mean, bullets are too fast to be caught on camera. And we were all shooting at the same time. Like…right? I don’t want to touch him, but my humanity forces me to check on him and see what I can do to help. But I don’t know what to do. So I just…stand still. The attendant rushes in, dialing the EMS and grabbing the first aid kit from off of a wall. My blood runs cold. I start thinking about all the trouble I could be in, all the jail time I could be facing. I’ll lose my job. I’ll have a criminal record. There’s no way this is happening. People are pouring into the room and into the area, one by one gradually until there is a small crowd huddled outside the window in the hallway, looking in to see what exactly has gone wrong. I’m looking at them, but again, my world has gone silent. I hear nothing. I’m slowly scanning them all, reality touching everything but me at the moment. It’s like I have an umbrella, and reality is just raining down about me, but never touching me. I see what is happening…I just don’t feel it. I know it, I just can’t sense it. I lock eyes with a man outside the window who seems to be able to sense with certainty that I am to blame for this. He isn’t scowling, he isn’t angry looking, he isn’t pointing any fingers. He just seems to know… It’s likely my guilty conscience playing tricks on me. And it’s a serious thing, but I’m already in too deep. I have to finish convincing myself that this is somehow not legitimately my fault. I mean, I never did fess up to it, even to myself. That means I still have a fighting chance if someone accuses me…right? The man is really leaking. I sincerely hope he will be okay. Have I…just killed someone?
Amidst the commotion happening just feet away from me, I see someone in the hallway picking up her phone and walking away from the group. I notice the man beside her do the same thing. And then another. And another. Pretty soon, everyone’s phones are ringing. Their faces are lit up in the hallway by their tiny glowing screens illuminating the identities of the callers. I watch as they pantomime concern and force-calming on their conversational partners. Is something going wrong?
My phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket. It’s my sister. She is away at college in another city, just thirty minutes away. She’s a few years younger than me. We’re close, but don’t speak very often. Doesn’t take away from our bond, just have our own lives and things to do. I pick up the phone expecting to be able to ask her if something is wrong, but I don’t have to ask. As soon as I tap the answer button, I hear clattering, banging, screaming, roaring. Just God-awful noises. She is audibly crying and clearly running. She’s screaming my name. I start to speak back, but I hear a loud crash outside the door down the hallway. Shattering glass. It takes a quick back burner to my little sister, though. I plug my open ear and shout at her, asking, “What?! What is it? Talk to me, tell me what’s wrong!” Through the clamor and chaos, I’m able to make out only these words:
“…Coming…they’re everywhere…my God! My God…save…oh my…what the f—“
That is the last thing before I hear what sounds like her garbled choking and the phone being thrown into a crazy spin on the floor next to her. My heart stops. It does more than skip a beat as I listen to what sounds like my sister…my little sister…get mauled to death by what sounds like a rabid tiger. And she’s choking, gasping through blood, crying and pleading for her life. She is praying. The image I have in my head matches the audio that I’m hearing. It is exactly the worst thing I have ever heard in my life. This is exactly the worst feeling that I have ever had in my life. The noise on the phone is cut short suddenly after a loud roar and what sounds like the animal stomping on the phone twice before it jingles in my ear, signaling that the call has dropped. That happy little jingle is the trigger that brings my entire reality screeching back to life. The crowd in the hallway has stopped looking at the man on the floor, and turned their attention to where that crashing sound came from. They are screaming. They are pointing and backing up. A couple of people are running away, but the greater portion of the crowd simply stays and fights to hide behind each other like a gaggle of fearful children. I can’t imagine what must be coming down that hall.
Got damn. I was right. I couldn’t have imagined what was coming down that hallway. A one-ton freak-behemoth beast barrels down toward them and knocks them over like bowling pins, grabbing on frail man in its mouth and giving him what I can only describe as a locked-jaw  pit bull death shake. The man’s head bashes against the bulletproof glass and cracks open like a fucking egg. I can no longer feel my heart. I pissed myself minutes ago. I am wholly, uncontrollably, inexorably, undeniably paralyzed by fear. I couldn’t say what these things are. First the elevator. Then the breakup. Then the bullet. Then my sister. And now this. I stand in shock and gripping terror as what was once a gathered crowd becomes a mass of mangled flesh and hair at the dead-end of the hall. I hear successive gunshots, I see muzzle flashes, but what I do not see is the beast flinching. I’m not even sure he feels it. He doesn’t even seem to notice where they’re coming from, as the shots last for half a minute without consequence. At the end of that period, the woman with the gun, one of the attendants, is slammed against the glass by an entirely different monster and proceeds to helplessly shriek as her innards are eaten out through her back. Her mouth begins to leak blood as the teeth fly through her skin and pull her sides off. Her body jars left and right speedily, randomly, in tandem with the swings of the monster’s head. I vomit without bending, coughing, or looking away from the sight. It just comes up, out of my mouth and hits the floor. My eyes are watering. I am crying, but I’m so stricken with grief and horror that I cannot move.
                Is this the end of the world?
I have time. I have enough time. I slowly reach behind me. My brain is still high enough to have no inhibitions. My body still feels euphoric enough to not care. I am numb. I am without sense. I  pick up the gun and shakily lift it to my head, my eyes still locked on the woman’s bloody corpse smudging gore all over the window. I will not die like that. I can’t be caught by those fucking things. I can hardly see through my tears anymore. I imagine this as my eyes’ way of telling me that it’s over. I don’t need to see whatever is in front of me. I don’t need to be distracted from what I’m about to do. My final moments will be occupied by my own voluntary thoughts, not taken over by fright of some leviathan. As soon as my vision is completely blurred, I close my eyes and the tears gush down my face. I’m trembling. I will not die…like that. I refuse.
I pull the trigger hard, feeling the blast against my temple. I am knocked aside and thrown to the ground. It is loud. It is powerful. My ear is surely bleeding as well from the sheer sound of it.
…But I am not dead.
I quickly repeat, firing next shot in same spot, aimed a tiny different to take another part of my head. The effect go again. The pain so heavy that I even no feel the parts of my head what gone. I only am…tingle. And little bit burn from the entry wound. Am I survive shoot in head?
A beast bust through at door, eyes on me and I am the close one to it. Shit. Shit. I do no escape. I not simply think right not more. I am gone half brain. I am die slow. He stomp down in my face and go scream loud to my eye. I blink no. I flinch no. Not I move no cry. I am think on the past. And I know again…
I remember now. It was a warm, windless night. I remember thinking it was perfect. There was not even any sound. I was high again. I took five pills. I wasn’t stumbling, mumbling, crackhead high. I was just…elevated. Highly elevated. I felt happy, I was energetic. I was free from my worldly cares, even if only for a few hours. I normally don’t take five. I guess I just had a few extra at the time before I got more. I had no job at the time; I had begun taking more pills to deal with the depression of having no money. The biggest problem was that just before I bought another bottle, I had no more money. So I took a crystal vase from my mother’s basement and sold it at a pawn shop. She never used it. I figured she may have even forgotten it was there. I was actually surprised the shop took it—I feel like I may have even been low-balled. They didn’t hesitate to offer me $200 for it. I left the vase at the store and took the money to my friend, who received the pills as prescription, but no longer needed them. So he just sold them to me. It wasn’t necessarily a “Trap house” kind of deal. Just a private purchase by a private buyer. I left his house and went straight to a small gathering of friends downtown. We hung out at this mall. I was the only one with a car.
I pulled up to the mall and parked in the garage, which is underneath the building. To get inside the building, I had to take an elevator back up to street level and walk around to the front. I remember passing a homeless guy, sitting against the building. He was rather clean looking for someone with supposedly nowhere to go and no money to his name. His sign was also surprisingly fresh. He even had name-brand shoes on, which sported very minimal scuffs right beneath the toes; the kind of scuffs you get from running. Like from the police. I’m not gonna front, his shoes were nice. So nice that I wanted some just like those. The woman that was walking in front of me, when he addressed her, generously opened her wallet and offered him a $50 bill, to which he nodded and simply, speedily, insincerely said, “Thank you, gah bleshu,” and started looking my way. I rolled my eyes and started to walk past him. When he asked me for money in that passive-ass way, “Aye, sir, you think you got a li’l somethin’-somethin’ to help me out, sir?” I gazed very obviously at his feet, then at his stylish yet wrinkled t-shirt, and his obviously brand new fitted hat. It even still had the sticker on it. He pretended not to notice, waiting a few awkward seconds for me to answer before blinking and looking directly into my eyes. I sighed. “I don’t have shit for you, dude,” I spat, verbally and literally. I hocked one just a foot away from him, casually but purposely. I can’t stand that kind of worthless lifestyle. He was clearly able-bodied. I didn’t like his dishonesty, and I didn’t like his meek demeanor. Hell, I didn’t know him and I didn’t like him. I went into the mall and met up with my friends, not thinking twice about the guy.
We stayed mainly in front of the sushi restaurant in the food court, as many of my friends like sushi. I don’t, but they do. I ate a burger that one of them bought me with her pocket change. That was nice of her. We were in there for a few hours, listening to each other’s music, exchanging funny stories, surfing YouTube, secretly browsing through porno sites. Some were funny. Some were not. We did this until an hour before the mall closed. When we flooded out the doors, I happened to look to my right and spot that same “homeless” guy getting into the back of a deep red Cadillac on the opposite side of the street. I knew it. I just fucking knew it. I was mad. I was frustrated. I was self-righteous. I was livid. I was energetic.
I was high.
I dashed across the open lane in front of me, shouting at the guy opening the rear door on the luxury sedan, “Hey, asshole! Yeah, YOU, motherfucker.” His head turned toward me just before he jumped inside and pointed ahead, yelling something at the driver. The driver, clearly in his tinted-window panic, floored the pedal and made his tires screech. It took only one second for the car to catch traction. It took only one second for me to get across the street. It took only one second.
I had just barely made it to the car when I noticed the front wheels turning my way. I had not even stopped moving when the car started doing so. I tried to halt at the exact point of my stride, but my momentum was too great. The hood of the car lurched forward and made contact with my thigh, forcing my leg to bend the wrong way and snapping my top half forward, then back. My head slammed against the ground, nearly knocking me out. I was still conscious. The front driver’s side tire ran over my crotch and literally cracked my nuts, then my stomach as I felt my guts burst through my side and onto the street, then my chest as I felt my ribs crack and my lungs give way, and parted ways with me just at the collarbone, straightaway following up with the rear tire in the same path. I was not yet dead, but I was certainly beyond repair. There was no ambulance around. No cop cars to avenge me. Nobody with any significant medical knowledge. Just a bunch of people that just kind of knew me. A few of them rushed over to my side, freaking out far too much to touch me. I remember twitching…I remember being in total shock. I was too stunned to feel pain. I could only feel pressure. It felt like the car was still on parts of me, just kinda sitting there. I knew it was gone, but I was still trying to wrap my mind around what happened. The Cadillac pulled off around the corner in a very loud hurry, drawing a lot of attention to the scene.
…I died that evening, laying on the street staring back at the mall entrance. The very last thing I saw was my friend’s shoes. I died a thief, a drug addict, a judgmental dick. I hadn’t even spoken to my mother that morning when I visited her house—I just used my key to go in and start looking for things to hock at the store. I died a scourge. I died a burden. I now realize why things have gone so horribly wrong today. Today is not today. Today is forever. Today is the rest of eternity.
This is Hell. I am in Hell. I deserve this. I deserve it all. I allowed myself to become this terrible person and now I will suffer for it. I deserve to be in pain, the smoke of my torment ascendeth up forever and ever.
I pop into my own, back to what is now. I am lay down to floor missing pieces of where my head gone. I see demon bite down in my arm and rip away to move my whole me across the floor one 24-inches away to I stop moving. I throw up a times two. I no am can breathe choke on my throw up, stop in my throat. Demon monster on all fours, begin to eat my arm. Sky outer side of hallway is nuke orange. I no am die. My eye fall on someone not me, he not is death. Nobody am die. Us are all living on the floor, us all keep to living while blood out of skin. Stomach on the floor. Telephone in hand away from myself.

Sister scream
Elevator
Folding up letter papers car
Piss on foot
Wet mush flakes
TV clicker not is here gone way
Hell demon beast

Whispery voice my ear go say, “Forever…forever…” I am agree with him. Forever ever ever ever ever I lay here floor wait for me dying. I want am die. I need go die. Blood rain, scent of dead body all round.
I snap open my eyes just before the digital alarm clock on my bedside table hits 11:35 a.m. I stretch powerfully and crack my lower back and neck in the process, twisting so that the blanket engulfs me in a mangled mass of wrinkles and folds. I step onto the floor and head toward the bathroom. I have the strangest feeling of déjà vu. I like to ride these out, see just how far I can get in the event before it teeters off and I get back to discovering the world as it naturally is. I think it’s rather interesting, and while I move about slowly, I think rapidly about where I could have possibly seen this setting before. But I guess it’s an anomaly of the mind that scientists have yet to figure out.

Dakota Priest

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