My Daughter’s Hand Is Stuck Inside a Wall (Part 6) [FINALE]

  

I'm sorry for the way I ended my last update, but I had little time to spare.

My Daughter Marcy has been stuck, becoming a part of the house my husband and Stan are mortgaging now for days. First it started with her hand then it pulled her in further. It ate a priest and it retaliated when we tried to smash it apart.

I thought we had exhausted all options by this point. But I was wrong. We've been wrong this entire time. And now that I can speak with a level head I can get the story straight.

I called Tim as I raced to the house and told him what his brother was about to do.

"Jesus. You need to call the cops," Tim told me. I thought about the power that the house seemed to exert over anyone that cane close to it.

"No... we can't let this thing hurt more people. It controls anyone that steps foot inside. But I need your help. I think now I can fight it... but I’ll need you Tim, You know him better than anyone," I shouted. Tim promised he would get there as soon as possible and I mentally crossed my fingers that would be soon enough.

When I got to the house, I ran inside to see Stan was still struggling with his decision to end our daughter's life. Marcy had her eyes closed as she was still resting, and I could see little Jasper's face beginning to push its way out of the wall. i had made it.

"Stan you have to stop this before it's too late!" I said as his eyes drifted up to catch a glimpse of me at the end of the hall.

"I didn't want you to be here to see this," he said. His hands were shaky. He was pointing the gun toward our daughters head. It made me think of Noah Hunt. Had the house tried to force him to do this years ago?

"Get should of yourself! Don't you see that the house is controlling you? It's been doing that to both of us, to everyone that has come here,” I said as I took a step forward. He cocked the gun.

"Please don't come any closer. You're not going to talk me out of this," he told me.

"Listen to yourself! You want to put a bullet in our little girl's head!! Even if she was dying, there are other humane ways to do this. Why resort to violence? The house is clouding your judgment..." I told him as I took out my smartphone and added, "The same thing happened to Jasper's father. He nearly killed his son..."

As I was speaking behind Stan I could see that Jasper was still pushing his way out of the wall. Facial features were forming, and he was looking like a real boy again. "Look at him Stan! He's not dead' that's proof enough right there!! This house consumed him, and it drove his mother and father insane," I got down on my knees and I slid my phone down the hallway to where my husband stood.

"At least look at the article, please," I said. Inwardly my mind was doing tricks with itself already. It was a whirlwind of emotions when part of me was hearing a buzzing noise that was growing in my head, telling me to encourage his suicidal mission. I knew it had to be the house, it's demonic presence was working hard to sway me back to being under its control.

Stan looked down at the phone, nervous and sweaty. He kept a firm grip on his pistol as he picked it up and looked at the articles about Jasper and about his father.

I waited, knowing that the house would convince him of another lie. Behind me I heard Tim open the door. He was about to rush his brother but I held him back. The chances of either Marcy or Jasper getting hurt were too great to risk it.

"Bro, it's me. I don't know what you're thinking but this isn't the answer. There's always another way. we'll find another priest, we'll sacrifice a goat; heck we'll even bring the military to tear this place down!" Tim said.

Those words seemed to snap Stan back to reality. This time he pointed the gun toward Jasper. His eyes were closed. It was as though the house had consumed him in some kind of coma. "One has to die for the other to live... that's what... that's what the voice in my head is telling me," Stan admitted.

"Don't listen to it. They can both live. Don't let this place take you too!" I begged.

Stan was sweating even more now, looking in between the children. Then he slowly raised the gun up and pointed it at us again.

"The house needs something in return for both of their lives...”

“You’re talking crazy, give us the gun!” Tim tried to step forward. My husband let a bullet graze the floor and I stopped in my tracks to wait and see if the house would retaliate.

The way it remained silent now told me all I needed to know about what was happening. The house wanted my daughter dead.

“We can save them both,” Stan said and then smiled awkwardly, “I can save them both. ," he said.

Even as the words left his lips, I knew what he was planning to do. Tim tried to make a move too. We barely made it halfway down the hall.

Stan placed the barrel of the gun in his mouth, a tear falling down his face as he pulled the trigger.

Everything happened so fast I can't remember the finer details. Stan's skull burst from the top with blood splattering against the wall. Then the house began to absorb him almost instantly. His body slipped through the plaster and into the unknown with only his bottom part sticking out.

I screamed out his name. Tim and I ran even though it was already over. The house was pulling him in.

At the same moment, for the first time in days, my daughter was becoming whole. Stan’s sacrifice had worked somehow. I hugged her neck as Tim helped Jasper. Neither one of them were really breathing well though, I realized.

All I could do was stifle the tears as I watched my husband disappear into the house as a sacrifice for these two, and then I pulled Marcy up and started to move outside the house.

---

As soon as Tim and I were outside, we called the police and the hospital. This time they responded instantly. I thought of all the times the house had impeded us in its desperate attempt for us to kill ourselves. I thought about all the ways that it had controlled everyone who came close it. And in the end how my husband had to sacrifice himself for all of us to be free.

Tim and I told the first responders a different story though. How that the space between the walls was used to hold Jasper hostage for these past six years . I detested telling this story because It was a narrative that painted my husband as a child molester and a killer. But there wasn’t much alternative. They would never believe the truth. Now the house was quiet. It was satisfied with all the chaos it had brought into our lives.

But I wasn't. There was still one wrong I felt I could make right.

So I arranged for Tim to watch Marcy and went down to the correctional facility as planned. I needed to let Noah know that his son was safe.

I felt that it would make the most sense hearing it from me; someone who had dealt with the same trauma. And when I saw him being brought in behind the glass to speak with me, I knew that he had suffered for too long.

"Who are you?" he asked.

I told him and I explained how I owned the house he once lived in. That seemed to spark a little light in his eyes.

"So... who did you lose?" Noah wondered.

"That's what I came to tell you. I didn't lose anyone. I saved them! I saved my daughter... and I saved your son too. He's in the county clinic right now."

Noah frowned. He didn't seem as excited as I hoped. "That isn't possible."

"No it's true! CPS is going to put Jasper in a foster home until your sentence is commuted. I'll even speak for you at your next parole hearing, if you need," I said excitedly.

"My son is dead... I shot him myself. To save him from that house," Mister Hunt said and leaned forward as he saw confusion written on my face.

"You killed him," I repeated slowly, the words making sense. We both sat there in silence as we realized what had happened.

"And you let it out... to go to another house. To spread,” Mister Hunt said.

He laughed loudly and reared his head back. I felt an emptiness in my bones.

"It was always a trap. Always.” 

---

Credits

 

My Daughter’s Hand Is Stuck Inside a Wall (Part 5)

  

I don't know what I'm doing anymore. This house is affecting everyone that comes in contact with it. This house is alive, and whether you choose to believe that or not; I don't care. What matters is that I'm going to do whatever is necessary to save my daughter. Even if I don't fully understand.

When this started,my husband and I resorted to different methods to try and break our daughter free. We even attempted to contact a priest to exorcise the house. That led to the house retaliating and now, as crazy as it sounds; we are trying to appease the house to save her.

But she isn't alone anymore. Over the course of a single afternoon, Stan and I watched as the small fingers that we saw pushing out from the wall formed into a complete hand. And then a wrist. Someone, or something; was trying to push its way out of the wall.

Somehow Stan got his brother back on the phone. Tim has a friend that works third shift that tried to help us before all this got so bad, but I pushed her away.

I've had time to reconsider that decision, and I have realized the house has been clouding my judgement.

I need all the help I can get.

"Look... about before... I want to apologize," the nurse said over the phone. I found out her name was Beth. Beth had two kids of her own.

"I know you're stressed. Anyone would be. This is a matter of life and death. And it's something that no one has ever seen before. I'm no Christian, but if you are; I'd recommend praying to God... cause what you've told me since I left sounds like you're dealing with the devil himself."

I learned that she risked her job to help us the first time, and that now as she reentered this hell, she was willing to do so again. All because of a hand sticking out of a wall.

"I never believed the rumors, not until this," Beth admitted as she used a tourniquet to tie off the edge of the wrist closest to the wall. I saw that she was hesitant to touch the building itself.

"Rumors?" Stan asked. He had been tending to Marcy. Ever since the incident with the termites, her body had been sore and had a variety of open sores on her arm and belly, she was exhausted and barely breathing. Beth made no comment about her state of being but instead focused all attention on the new arm.

"Local stuff, about this house being haunted. You can read up on a few tabloid articles about it here and there. But it's almost like the house is keeping a secret. Like okay, let's say this boy is really trapped here... so why would the house release him now?" Beth asked.

I didn't have an answer for that question. All I knew was that I was certain that Jasper was a key to this whole mess and I wanted to learn as much about him as possible.

After making sure the tourniquet was good and tight, Beth took out a scalpel and gently cut at the tip of the finger. Then she used a needle to draw blood and commented, "I guess either way we'll get an answer soon enough."

Once she was finished, she checked on Marcy's vitals and gave us more bad news.

"Her body is starting to shut down. Her breathing is becoming labored and now that more than half of her is inside the house it doesn't appear that she has any way of using the bathroom," she admitted as she checked Marcy and confirmed she also had a fever.

"Then we might be too late," Stan realized.

"At this point? Who knows. I can't definitively say what's going to happen," Beth pursed her lips as though she wanted to say something else but stood up and sighed before adding, "I'll call you when I get the results back. God be with you."

I thanked her and let her go as Stan paced the hallway, considering our options. Marcy was asleep now thanks to a few pills that Beth had given her, and my husband used these moments as a chance for us to discuss what we would do if the house continued to wreck havoc on our little girl's body.

"I don't think this is going to end well," he admitted as he slumped in his favorite recliner.

"We can't give up on her. If that little boy is any indication... maybe even if she is completely absorbed she will be alive still," I said.

Stan didn't seem so sure. "You heard the nurse. Her body is breaking down. Who's to say even if she could come out that it would be for very long? She's lost what little will she has to survive.... I think... I think we may be delaying the inevitable," he admitted.

I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to deny what he was telling me. But I knew he was right. Our daughter was dying. It wasn't a matter of if, but when.

"Maybe she should at least go with some dignity then, what little she has left. These past few days have been nothing but pain for her, Stan. But look at her now, she's at peace," I said with a soft smile.

"The medicine likely will wear off in a few hours. If we are... if we are going to come to terms with saying goodbye, then we have a small window here to decide how we want to say goodbye," he said softly.

I nodded and walked down the hall, staring at Jasper's hand and wondering if his parents faced a similar predicament years ago.

How could any parent ever prepare themselves for anything of this magnitude? It was unfathomable. "I.... I need to get some fresh air," I told Stan. Before he had a chance to object I grabbed my purse and left the house for the first time in days.

I got into the car and just drove, not really caring where. I left our neighborhood and eventually found myself at a park about nineteen blocks away. It was one of the ones that Marcy used to love to play at.

As I stopped the car and I stared blankly at strangers that were enjoying the afternoon air, I found myself feeling even more depressed. What was I doing? I was treating her like she was already dead. Why would I do that?

I can't stop now, I have to keep fighting for her. She's my daughter. My phone buzzed off and it made me jump as I saw it was Beth calling me back.

"Hey, sorry for the delay. I got the results back, and they are a bit inconclusive. I guess we should have expected that given the fact that this kid probably has all kinds of stuff going on inside his body. But it's definitely strong vitals. He's alive, and he's healthy. So that's something," she told me. I told her that was good news and asked what should be our next step. She mirrored what Stan had said earlier.

"I think as cruel as this sounds, you may need to consider a way to gently let Marcy go. I don't know the connection here; but it may be the house is feeding off of her in order to restore this boy. It may be impossible to save them both," she told me.

Definitely not the news I wanted to hear but then she said something else I found interesting.

"Honestly though, I don't really mean that. I'm a mom. And I know that if one of my kids were in that thing... I would do whatever I could to save them. Even if all hope is lost," Beth admitted.

I thanked her and told her that if we needed her for anything again we would call. After the phone call ended I stared at the screen for a moment and thought about Marcy.

Why was the house taking so long to consume her? If there was no hope at all?

It didn't feel right. Nothing about what was happening did though.

On a whim I went to the internet to our local newspaper articles and started searching for anything on the house. There wasn't a single article.

But then I searched Jasper Hunt. That was far more interesting.

Local boy missing for days. Family suspected of homicide.

Local residents are up in arms about a ten year old boy that has been missing for nearly three days now. The parents have stayed adamant that they have no idea what happened to their son, but local authorities have found evidence to suggest that he may have been murdered in the house they all resided in.

I kept scrolling, touching on articles that related to the case.

Noah Hunt charged with first degree murder in cold case relating to his missing son.

This morning residents of our sleepy town can breathe a sigh of relief as a traumatic chapter comes to a close surrounding the disappearance of ten year old Jasper Hunt. Last summer, Jasper went missing near to the family home and subsequent search parties proved unable to find him, resulting in the case being turned over to homicide after the suicide of Jasper's mother. Now, after continuously standing by his innocence, Noah Hunt; the father and husband in this ill-fated tale has confessed to first degree murder and to hiding Jasper’s body inside the walls of his three bedroom house. Mister Hunt is being offered a plea deal by the district attorney in exchange for the exact location of where he buried Jasper.

I felt a chill run down my spine as I read the quote made by Jasper's father.

you're not going to be able to find him. He's part of the house now. I made sure of that," Mister Hunt said. Construction teams are waiting for an approved warrant by the judge to begin tearing down the property in order to give poor Jasper a proper burial.

I read another brief snippet that told me Noah was now being held at the county correctional facility and before I really had time to think about what I was doing, I started to drive there.

About halfway to the downtown area, my phone buzzed again. It was Stan. I let it go to speakerphone.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"I'm sorry... I just need some time to myself," I told him.

"Please come back home. I... I can't do this without you," he admitted. I frowned as I turned the next corner.

"Stan... What is it you plan to do?"

"I... I found my dad's old service pistol in the basement. It's a little old, but I think it'll do the trick," he said in a painful voice.

I clenched the wheel a little harder.

"Please... please don't do this," I told him.

"I don't want her to suffer anymore," he said.

“Stan... she’s our daughter!!”

“You said it yourself. Time to say goodbye while we still have a chance...”

“No Stan... it’s the house. Get out of the house before...”

The phone line went dead. I turned the car around and stepped on the accelerator. Noah would have to wait. 

---

Credits

 

My Daughter’s Hand Is Stuck Inside a Wall (Part 4)

 

 

I don't know exactly when we went past our breaking point. Was it when this all started or when things got worse? Either way, it's happened. There isn't much else I can describe about what has transpired here after the incident with the priest other than a complete and total loss of sanity.

I think I was the first one to really lose it. Lack of sleep, trying to keep Marcy as comfortable as possible; and trying to keep a straight face myself despite the circumstances were likely the main cause.

But the moment that really made me start to question everything was around lunch time yesterday. I've had to resort to a liquid diet for Marcy because of the way she is fused with the wall. She had only barely open her mouth on the left side and I'm feeding her with a straw.

For the most part when this happens, she is quiet and cooperative because she is hungry. But yesterday something different happened.

"Mommy.... why did they do it?" she whispered as she took another sip of hot broth.

"Do what sweetie?" I asked.

"The walls. They changed the color. Why did they change the color?" Marcy whimpered.

I frowned and ran the back of my palm against her forehead to check her for a fever and I muttered, "Baby... what are you talking about?"

"In... the upstairs bedroom... they covered it up... I don't know why they did it..." she complained.

She seemed tired so I kissed her head and told her I was going to go take a nap. Stan came to be beside her as I gently walked up the stairs, pondering over what she had told me.

Eventually I found myself standing outside of Stan's office. The upstairs 'bedroom' that Marcy had been talking about. As I stared into the room, I thought back to when we first bought this house. The realtor had suggested if we ever wanted to expand our family, that the room could be a great nursery. Why had she said that?

I stepped into the room and stared at the walls the patterns that were decorating them before finally deciding to rip it all off.

As I began to tear it down, I heard sharp sounds from downstairs. Then Stan was running up the stairs like a wild man.

"What the fuck are you doing??" he asked as he burst into the room.

I kept stripping off the wallpaper and ignoring him as he grabbed my hand and forced me to look at him face to face.

"Have you lost your mind? While you're in here dismantling the house our little girl is downstairs crying because she said it feels like you are peeling her skin off! We agreed not to do anything like this!" he muttered.

I pulled away from him and said with a shaky voice. "What else am I supposed to do? I'm trying to figure out what this fucking house wants! It's not like I can talk to the walls!" I sobbed.

Stan relaxed and held me for a moment as I broke down and dropped some of the wallpaper I was holding. "I'm sorry... I over reacted. I'm sure whatever you were doing was intended to help her," he admitted as he squinted his eyes and looked past me on the wall.

He let go of me for a moment and went toward it, gently peeling the wallpaper off to reveal what appeared to be a measuring chart of some kind.

"What is that?" he asked. I examined it as well and realized it had the scribblings of a child's hand on the wall with a name. Jasper Hunt- age 10 it said.

"Did you know that was back there?" Stan asked. I shook my head and replied, "'Marcy was talking about it like she knew... but I don't see how that is possible...."

He examined it closely, and I could see his brain firing to figure out what to do with this new information.

"Unless we really can talk to the walls," he realized.

"You think the house is the one that was speaking to me?" I whispered. It sounded ridiculous to say. But given all that we had experienced we couldn't rule anything out.

"I think it's trying to tell us something..." Stan paused as he moved over to his desk and began to rifle through some old files.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

He slammed it closed and muttered to himself.

"I thought I kept the info on the real estate agent. Damn it, I can't find it anywhere," Stan admitted.

"It was Samantha something," I chimed in, although my brain was so tired I couldn't imagine where he was going with this.

He paused and kissed my cheek and said, "I'm going to try and google the info and get them on the phone. Maybe find out who the previous owners of this house were."

"Okay... what do you want me to do?" I asked.

He rubbed his chin for a moment and then directed me toward the stairs. "Keep Marcy talking. If the house can tell us anything else it could help us get her out," he demanded.

I nodded, sprinting down the steps to where my little girl was whimpering and pulling her shirt up a tad to scratch at her belly. As I got closer I could tell that she had developed a rash of some kind.

"Hey baby, are you okay?" I said as I sat along side her.

"Mommy... why do you keep hurting me?" She asked as tears streamed down her face. She could barely even get the words out. Just to hear her say that made me feel like I wanted to die. I touched her cheek and smiled gently.

"Oh baby no... we don't want to hurt you. We want to help you. I... I found what was under the walls. It was another little boy used to live here and draw on the walls too," I said.

"Did the wall eat him too?" she asked anxiously. I didn't actually know the answer to that question. And the fact that she asked it made me even more terrified. I bit my lip and came up with a lie, wondering when the house would use our daughter to speak again.

"No baby he's ok... his name was Jasper. I'm sure his family moved before we came here," I said softly.

"Why is it eating me?" Marcy asked, fumbling to find the words as she looked at the wall. "I'm sorry..." she said with trembling lips as she touched the wall with her free hand.

Stan was at the edge of the hall with a grim look on his face that told me he had bad news.

"The realtor that sold us this place doesn't work at the company anymore. And they don't really have any files on hand about the previous owners," he whispered as I joined him.

"What? Nothing? Not even a forward address?" I asked.

"All the agent could tell me for sure is this property had been on the market for 6 years and we got it at a reduced price cause it wasn't selling," Stan admitted.

I covered my mouth, realizing that such a simple thing could have horrific implications now. Had the wall actually consumed poor little Jasper too?

"Has she told you anything yet?" Stan asked.

"Only that she is scared... and that I don't know how the house communicates yet," I paused and sighed deeply, trying not to lose it.

"Are we even listening to ourselves?" I said in exasperation. "Are we really expecting this house to talk to us?"

"We've exhausted traditional means. Medicine isn't working. Machinery won't break down the wall. And we saw that priest disappear before our eyes. We can't deny this is real," he told me.

As though to prove his point he walked over to the wall and began to bark a few commands.

"Listen to me! I know you can hear me cause of what you've done to my daughter! She is innocent do you hear me? I demand you take me instead," Stan ordered.

Of course, there was no response. Instead Marcy only complained that her pain was returning and she felt itchy again. I still didn't know what that meant in connection to the house but Stan was growing frustrated.

"What do you want from us??" he screamed.

"I swear to god. Answer me now before I fucking burn you to the ground!!"

That evoked a response from the wall or rather Marcy as she screamed again and yelled, "It's pulling me!! Mommy!!" I instantly grabbed at her arm."

"No please!! Please!! Please he didn't mean it!!" I begged.

Marcy's right nostril was now within the wall and all of her right eye. Only a sliver of her mouth was out enough for her to cry out to us.

Then it seemed to stop and I shoved Stan back. "Are you crazy?? Do you want to lose her altogether??" I screamed.

He ignored me and went back to his office. I stood there for a moment, comforting Marcy and I even gently touched the wall and muttered an apology.

"Please... just tell us what you want. We'll do it. Anything. Just please let our little girl go," I whispered.

I slumped to the floor and kept staring at the paneling, expecting any sort of response. But neither Marcy nor the wall were showing any signs of talking. Was it angry because of Stan's threat?

I went upstairs to confront him about it.

He was in the office searching for something amid our many boxes that we never got around to sorting and I muttered, "Stan... I know this sounds crazy. But we have to try to appease the house."

"We've tried that. We can't bring back the old residents. So I'm tired of compromising with a fucking demon," he said as he finally found what he was looking for. It was a sledgehammer.

"Stan... what are you doing?" I whispered.

"It thinks I'm bluffing. I'll show it what real pain is," he said.

His face told me he was serious. But I could see pain and anger in his eyes. He wasn't thinking this through. He walked back down stairs to the den.

"We can't!! You said it yourself! It'll hurt her more than help!!" I begged.

"We know that some parts of the house can be hurt. If this... thing wants to survive... it's going to have to start cooperating," he snarled as he turned to the wall and began to smash it apart.

Instantly Marcy began to holler. We could see it was causing her little body to seize up.

"Don't do this!!" I told him.

"I'm not stopping until it lets her go," Stan said firmly. "You hear that?? I'm fucking tearing you down!!" he shouted.

I ran downstairs, desperate to try and hold on to Marcy before the wall started pulling again.

"If you keep this up she'll be gone!" I screamed.

"It's her or the house. If it takes her I won't stop until this whole place is rubble," Stan decided.

I squeezed my daughter's hand, trying to keep her from feeling the pain. But instead of pulling her further into the wall, the house had a different response this time.

I could see it happening even before she started to make a sound. Something was moving under her skin. It was a small gentle ripple against her arm, before I realized that it was an insect. A termite burrowing it's way out of my daughter's arm. Before I knew what was happening, more of the insects began to dig themselves out of her body in different places.

"Stan!!! Stan stop!!" I shouted at the top of my lungs. This time my husband listened. He dropped the sledgehammer and fell to his knees as he saw the termite swarm that was now invading our little girl's body.

"Dear Jesus..." he muttered as he hurried to clean her off and get the insects away. But who knew how many of them were still inside of her?

Another few minutes passed with nothing but Marcy's gentle sobs. Eventually she fell asleep and Stan and I stood there, broken and defeated by the house.

"Why is this happening?" my husband asked as he got down on his knees and started to plead with the house.

"I don't know what you want. I'm sorry... I just want my daughter back. Please... for the love of all that is holy in this world... please give me a sign," he said.

I squeezed his hand and we waited there, trying to see if anything would happen. Instead it was just more silence. Stan stood up, shaking his head in disgust as he prepared to go back upstairs.

"Momma, did you feel that?" Marcy whispered as we stood up. She looked confused, but not frightened.

I looked toward her. "Feel what sweetie?"

"It felt like... something pushing its way out," she said. That was when I noticed it. I approached the wall and reached my hand out to touch the gentle ripples in the pattern.

There were five of them altogether, jutting out from the wall about six feet from where Marcy was stuck.

As I watched in awestruck horror, the wallpaper began to peel away and show what appeared to be five little fingers sticking out. 

---

Credits

 

My Daughter’s Hand Is Stuck Inside a Wall (Part 3)

  

It's been quite a while since I have touched a bottle of alcohol.

Had a problem with it when I was younger, but I kicked the habit when I found out that I was pregnant.

I swore I would never even have a drop of the stuff again.

But now... it's been three days and there isn't any hope in sight for my daughter.

If you're just catching this for the first time, the problem started on Friday.

Marcy was drawing on the wall in the back hallway of our three bedroom house, and then suddenly; she was unable to remove her right hand from the wall.

Since that time we've tried every method known to science and it's left my husband Stan and I feeling rather desperate. It got so bad after we called Tim, her uncle; we resorted to drilling from the crawlspace under the house.

Despite the impossibility of it; i can't deny what I am witnessing any longer... it does seem like she is being absorbed by the house.

That was further confirmed when Tim and Stan tried the drill. After lowering it through the vent, followed by the extension cord; I told the boys to give it a shot and held Marcy as close as possible as the machinery activated.

For a moment I thought it was working. She wasn't screaming and seemed to be distracted by the hum. Then it hit the foundation of the house. Marcy let out a wail so loud I thought it might burst my eardrums. Instantly I signaled for the two of them to stop. They hadn't even made a dent in the foundation and it was already causing her more harm.

Once Tim and Stan were back inside, the two of them checked on Marcy first before deciding to go to the den and try to solve this. Somehow I managed to calm her down long enough for me to join them.

"Anywhere close to her is hurting her physically, so let's try going further and further out into the house. There's bound to be somewhere that doesn't affect her. Maybe we start from there and work our way toward her?" Stan suggested. I could tell he was stressed more than ever. He had called into work these past few days to try and help. his job had even called several times yesterday to ask when he was returning and he offered a flimsy excuse. But it's not like we can just ignore bills forever.

"I think you should contact the media. I know you have posted it on the internet so what's the harm here?" Tim suggested. "I don't want a bunch of quacks coming in and treating her like some kind of experiment," I said angrily.

I didn't want to admit that i almost considered posting a video of Marcy's predicament earlier. I couldn't press the button though. It didn't seem right, this was my child not some work of art or a freak show. I didn't know what sort of attention that kind of post would attract. I turned to my phone as the two men talked and reviewed some of the more outlandish theories. Surprisingly the only sanity I have found has been to come online and check the suggestions made. They didn't seem so bizarre anymore.

Many of them were practical, like attempting to cut away at the wall from a Further and further distance  That sounded like what Tim had just said. But we soon found out that just about anywhere in the house when we did something it was causing pain to our little girl, even the simplest things like flicking the light switch on and off she said it felt like a shock. Eventually Stan and Tim agreed that they needed to test and see what else did and did not affect Marcy so they went to different parts of the house to try other things. Meanwhile I sat a chair alongside her bean bag and prepared her.

"Uncle Tim and daddy are going to try and see if they can help you... but it's going to take a lot of trial and error sweetie," I told her. She seemed numb now, so tired from pain that she barely registered the words I was saying. I sobbed and held her, wishing that this damned house would take me instead of her. Tim started in the bathroom and turned on the sink. Marcy said it felt like she was swimming and that it was hard to breathe.

Stan went to the living room and turned on the tv. Marcy knew what show was playing even though she was down at the end of the hall and it was muted.

We decided to limit our use of anything in the house, not knowing what could or could not affect her. Tim made a few calls to some nurses he knew over in the local ER.

"The stuff the EMTs gave her was probably not nearly strong enough. If we're gonna do this, she needs to be out cold," he told me.

Stan and I were too tired to argue. A few hours later, his friend arrived and examined our little girl like she was some kind of specimen, asking us all the questions we'd been asked a thousand times. I was already concluding in my mind that this wasn't going to work.

"There's not much room to work with here," the nurse admitted as she tried to numb the little portion of skin on Marcy's arm that was still outside the wall between her arm and shoulder. But the needles weren't working. Most of that part of her body now seemed impenetrable.

Instead she resorted to setting up an IV on Marcy's left arm and gave her a few general antibiotics and morphine as Tim searched desperately online for what sort of anesthetic could do the trick.

"Even if you do get her sedated, how would you even amputate at this point, you would have to cut from the neck down," I said angrily.

"You have a better idea?" the nurse snapped back.

"We aren't dealing with anything natural. So it's not going to be solved by natural means... I think we need to consider calling a priest or something," I admitted. Stan was nearby pouring some coffee and he nodded absently.

"I guess it couldn't hurt to try at this point," he admitted.

"Oh yeah, let's just look in the yellow pages under exorcist," the nurse said rolling her eyes and crossing her arms.

I was about to snap back at her for her attitude when I heard Marcy making more whimpering noises and I went to check on her. Stan was right by my side.

We now saw that her arm was completely sucked in, along with a portion of her shoulder. She was gripping my hand with her left one hard as she told us how badly it hurt. "Why won't it let go of me??" she screamed.

Stan's face hardened and he stood up before going to grab his coat.

"What are you doing?" I asked. "Off to find a priest. There's bound to be someone that'll listen to me," he said.

Tim and his friend were finishing up the next round of drugs, but Marcy complained about the needles. "Every time they stick me, it makes me hurt more in there," she complained.

I touched her cheek softly and kissed her forehead. "I know babygirl; I know. It's going to hurt before it gets better," I said.

But Tim wasn't feeling as sympathetic. He held Marcy still as his friend prepared the next round of general anesthetic. Nothing seemed to be making her sleep though, and the more she was poked and prodded; the more she complained about the wall squeezing her arm tighter and tighter. It was a wonder that she could feel anything at all.

"Just get out! You've done more harm than good!!" I screamed to them. Tim apologized for his friend and the two of them scurried away as I kept rocking her, trying to make sense of this nightmare.

"You should be glad I even came to help!" the nurse shouted as she left the house. Tim muttered another apology and followed after her.

Then just when I was ready to pass out myself, Stan came back. And he wasn't alone.

The man that came with him did not look like a traditional Catholic priest, he was wearing just some khaki pants and a buttoned up white shirt that wasn't completely ironed. It looked like Stan had probably caught him at a bad time because when he arrived he didn't seem too happy with being there. As he got closer, his eyes narrowed and he examined Marcy closely. It was almost infuriating to see yet another person scrutinize our child and treat her like an object.

"I must admit, I've never seen anything like this," he said.

"Can you help us or not?" Stan said in a cold tone. I could tell that he had likely gotten a few negative responses from his search.

"I can do my best," the priest said as he went back outside and then returned a moment later with a small bag.

He laid it down about nine feet from Marcy and then took out a few simple supplies. He first took out long bundles of sage leaves and stems that were tied together and then took out a few bottles of crystal clear water.

He instructed us to wait outside the house as he began to gently pour the water around the spot where Marcy was stuck.

I hesitated, not wanting to leave my little girl; but I understood the stakes and promptly left to go stand in the yard.

Stan and I stood there holding each other for the next twenty minutes or so, waiting for some signal that it was ok to come back inside. And the longer we waited, the more uneasy I felt. Was this man really here to help our daughter? What if he was a molester or something? And how did we even know if he was really doing anything helpful or not?

Suddenly; a shrill noise burst through my thoughts. It was a smoke alarm. Stan ran in to shut it off and I wasn't far behind him.

"Open all the windows," he told me hastily as I ran amid the smoky hallway to grab hold of Marcy.

"Are you okay?" I asked her; touching her face. It was hard for me to really she her expression but she nodded silently as I went to the other windows to ventilate the house.

Once the smoke was starting to clear, I could tell looked like what had happened was the priest had lit the sage on fire and then dropped it on the ground for whatever reason.

"Jesus Christ," Stan said as he waved the smoke away and tried to find the priest.

But he was nowhere in sight. I turned my attention to Marcy, to make sure she was okay. Then I let out a louder scream.

I didn't think it was possible, but it was now somehow worse. Part of her face was melded to the wall up to the edge of her right eye and her lower chest as well.

"Baby are you okay? Did that man do something to you?!" I screamed as I squeezed her hand. She was sobbing again, and looking around frantically. It was clear she was panicking because she couldn't turn her head.

"I don't know what happened mommy. He was chanting something and talking funny and then he began to strike the wall... I... I felt dizzy when he did that. It was scary. He was a scary man," she admitted.

Stan checked the rest of the house but there was no sign of the priest anywhere. I slumped against the wall, feeling deflated and defeated.

There was one thing of significance though. The spot where Marcy had said the priest had been striking the wall felt a little different.

It felt warm. 

---

Credits

 

My Daughter’s Hand Is Stuck Inside a Wall (Part 2)

  

Something changed about four hours after I posted. Stan ran out to buy a soft bean bag chair for Marcy to rest in while I bit my nails and waited by the phone for another call from the EMT.

Their suggestions weren't bad, but each one of them sounded more gruesome and torturous than the one prior to it. Acid, or maybe some sort of explosive, they said. It made me physically shake to imagine doing that to my little girl.

I was tired and exhausted, but I still had some sanity left to know that I didn't want to make my little girl be in more pain. Especially now that her screams had mostly turned into whimpers as she rested, even crying pitifully in her sleep.

I stepped away from her for a minute or two, just to regain some sense of composure; and checked all the suggestions that folks posted here.

Some of it was quite appalling, suggesting that we kill her to save her the pain. But others suggested that we should attempt a cut from further away up her arm.

As u/ribnag said it so well, a whole arm amputation beat her current predicament.

I showed my husband the suggestion and he agreed with the logic, so I went back to Marcy to make her comfortable as he made the call.

That was when I noticed that it was no longer just the lower part of her arm stuck, now the wall was connected directly at the arm right beneath her shoulder. She was being pulled further in.

I covered my mouth to stifle a scream and rushed to get Stan. When he came and saw what had happened, he made a few quick decisions. "Don't wake her, if she's not in pain right now maybe that's a good thing. We can get this over with before it sucks her even further inside," he suggested.

I nodded, trying not to panic as I paced the kitchen. But the hospital wasn't responding. The one nurse we did finally get ahold of thought we were pulling some kind of prank and hung up.

"What're we supposed to do?" I asked Stan as we consulted in the living room.

"I'm not sure.... but I think right now we both need sleep. As cruel as it sounds there is nothing we can do for her at the moment... maybe with some good rest we can clear our heads and get some better ideas," he suggested.

"I don't want to leave her alone," I admitted as I stated down the hall where our little girl was resting in the bean bag. She looked like a little rag doll, Limp but hanging by some invisible thread on the other side of the wall.

"We can take shifts. You need rest," Stan insisted and then went to lay down alongside her as I covered my mouth again and tried to calm down. He was right. I knew that I needed to take a break from this insanity.

So I went to grab a hot shower, and then climbed into bed. But sleep was nearly impossible as I thought about Marcy and how it could be at any time the wall might decide to pull her in further. Somehow or another though I got a few hours.

In the morning, my husband did have a more leveled head and as we stood there watching her sleep and make soft coos of pain, he whispered, "What was she doing before this happened anyway?"

I rubbed my eyes tiredly and realized I had never really gotten a chance to ask her.

"I was sorting laundry and I heard her scream," I admitted. He nodded and then went to the kitchen to check his smart phone.

"I called Tim last night about possibly coming over to knock the wall down, since it seems like the area closest to her is what makes it painful I figure we go far enough out and start from there," he said and then added, "If that doesn't work, we might be able to drill from under the house."

I was focused on Marcy though, I realized she was waking up so I nodded absently at my husband's ideas and put all my attention on her.

"Hey babygirl. are you ok?" I asked getting on my knees as she opened her sleepy eyes.

She looked at me confused, perhaps thinking that the whole ordeal had been a bad dream; then she turned to see the wall was now right against her body and she began to whimper again.

"Mommy what's happening?" she asked desperately.

"Hey, it's okay. You don't feel any pain do you?" I asked as I clenched her other hand.

"No... just... it feels really numb. Tingly," she admitted. I then remembered that the paramedics had said the local anesthetic they used would be wearing off after about a day so the fact that she was still feeling something made me instantly nervous.

Stan had checked the exterior of the house. Our walls aren't too thick, so there couldn't possibly be over nine feet between the interior of the hallway to the edge of the house where she was trapped. But we hadn't been able to see anything. So where exactly was she feeling the pain at now?

"It's going to be ok, Uncle Tim is gonna come over and see what he can do to help," I told her. She nodded and asked if I could make her some breakfast.

Doing the simple routine task seemed like the best way for me to keep my mind off of my little girl's plight. I slowly washed the dishes and daydreamed about anything besides the wall.

Eventually Tim arrived, and as soon as he jumped inside he got a good look at the wall and Marcy.

"Heya Kiddo," he said smiling and offering Marcy a small trinket as a distraction while he got a better look.

"This is crazy," he admitted as he finished his examination and we all worried about what the next few hours might mean for Marcy.

Tim has brought a heavy duty saw from the back of his truck and set it up at the edge of the hall where the wall met the door of the laundry room. Stan got an extension cord and they got it set up as I distracted Marcy. "I'm not scared mommy... I just wanna go play in my room," she admitted.

Tim started up the saw and approached the wall. He was at least four feet away, but as soon as the saw touched the wall; Marcy's calm demeanor fractured into more pain.

"Stop! Stop!!!" I yelled. But the noise was so loud and Tim was wearing protective ear guards. Somehow though, he managed to hear Marcy's piercing screams and he instantly shut the equipment off.

"Shit. Is she okay?" he asked as he removed his eye-gear.

Marcy was shaking again, clenching her other fist and squeezing her side so hard that it was leaving a bruise. I tried to get her to tell me where it hurt, but she was at a loss for words.

"We have to try something else. Hitting the wall is no good," Stan said.

"If we could ever get those damned paramedics back here, maybe we could apply some stronger anesthetic from this side?" Tim suggested as he checked Marcy's free arm. While she was distracted with the pain, he made a small cut with his pocket knife against her palm and I slapped him away. "What is wrong with you? Are you trying to make her worse?" I asked angrily.

"Relax. It was just to test a theory. You said near to the wall she couldn't be hurt... but look on this side she can still bleed," he said gesturing to the successful cut.

"It's all the way up to her fucking shoulder Tim! Where the hell would we be able to cut??" I screamed back. He raised his hands defensively and muttered, "All right all right. Amputation is off the table right now. Let's try the other thing, drilling from underneath."

Stan seemed to agree that was a good idea so the two of them left the house while I worked frantically to calm my little girl down. She was so tired and worn out from everything that it didn't take as long.

As I sang a lullaby to her and let her rest her head against me, she looked up at me and mumbled, "Mommy I'm scared. Am I gonna be stuck like this forever?"

I rubbed her back and smiled, tears welling in my eyes. I didn't know but I lied to her. "No baby. Uncle Tim and daddy are going to get you out," I assured her. I could hear the two of them crawling under the house. We live in an area that is at the bottom of a hill, so the crawl space is mostly designed for water that trickles down to flow through and go into a nearby ditch. In other words I knew that Tim and Stan were likely on their backs struggling in muck and dirt to search for the right spot to drill.

"I'm sorry mommy," Marcy said abruptly as i went to the nearby vent in the floor to talk to Stan.

"It's ok honey, it's not your fault," I told her. She was whimpering again but not out of pain. This time she was scared. I recognized it as the face she usually made when she thought she would get in trouble.

Stan was telling me something about how i would need to send the drill down through the vent along with a cord, but my attention was focused on what Marcy was trying to tell me.

"Baby, why would you think you're in trouble?" I asked her as she squirmed uncomfortably. Now with 90% of her arm in the wall, it was nearly impossible for her to get in a position that wasn't going to hurt even with something to rest on.

"What were you doing before this happened?" I asked. Guilt was written all over her face.

"I'm sorry mommy I'm sorry. I didn't know," she admitted. She looked panicked. "No, no sweetie it's okay. You aren't in trouble," I told her.

"I- I- I was drawing... on the walls..." she sobbed.

For some reason, the way she said it made me feel a cold shiver run up and down my spine.

"It's okay baby," I said with a soft small. "It's going to be okay. You aren't in trouble," I told her.

But I really think she is. I'm about to send the drill down to Stan and Tim, but my gut is telling me that it won't work.

My gut is telling me there is something very wrong with this house. 

---

Credits

 

My Daughter’s Hand Is Stuck Inside a Wall (Part 1)

  

You know you’ve reached your breaking point when you come to a bunch of strangers asking for help.

Well, I’m at my limit and I’ve had little sleep. It’s been over 24 hours since the incident happened and my husband and I still have no idea what to do, or how this even started.

I’m laying on the floor now, my eyes bloodshot and weary from crying; holding my little girl up as she leans against the hallway wall and continues to sob in pain. She’s been having fits of pain more frequently for the past few hours, and I still don’t have a solution for her.

All I know for sure is that I will take any suggestions possible.

I’m ruffling her hair, soothingly whispering to her and trying to get her to calm down but it isn’t working. Nothing we have done has worked so far either.

When I first heard her screams yesterday, I thought for sure it was a problem with one of her toys getting lost. Instead I turned the corner from the laundry room to see that she was against the wall, desperately trying to tug her arm from the plasterboard. At first I thought somehow or another she had ripped a hole and I was about to scold her. As I got closer I was shocked to find that instead it seemed as though her entire hand and up to the middle of her arm was somehow meshed with the wall. It was impossible to determine where one ended and the other began.

“Okay sweetie calm down, calm down,” I told her as she started to have a crying fit and kept tugging. “It hurts!!” she screamed. I could tell her efforts weren’t making any difference though so I immediately distracted her with something else so I get a closer look. It wasn’t easy. She was fidgety and any sudden movement I worried would make the situation worse. Even after an hour, I couldn’t find a way to pry her arm from the wall; so I immediately called my husband at work and told him what was happening.

“Should I Call paramedics?” I asked.

He suggested trying to rub some coconut oil on her arms and letting it slip out. Then I sent him a snapshot of the way the wall basically was part of her arm now and he immediately called.

“I’ll come home right away. Get 911,” he said. I had never heard him so alarmed but maybe it’s because I’m normally the panicky one. All I could think about was how scared my little girl was.

I soothed her and let her watch some videos on her tablet as we waited for the EMT to arrive.

When they got there however, our troubles were far from over. There were three of them and from the looks on their faces I could tell none of them had ever seen anything like this.

“We need to check vitals first,” the oldest on the team decided as I squeezed my daughter’s free hand and tried to tell her it was going to be okay. But any reassuring words I had were falling on deaf ears. She just continued to sob bitterly and tell us how much it hurt.

“Hey there; what’s your name?” the lady EMT asked getting at eye level. “M-m-marcy,” my six year old stammered.

“Hey Marcy I know it’s scary but we’re gonna take care of you okay? And when this is over, if you are a good girl maybe you’re mommy would let you have some candy?” she suggested. I nodded and kissed her forehead as the other EMT’s worked around the awkward standing position we were in to check everything out.

“Pulse is a little elevated. Nothing appears to be broken. Ma’am what’s behind this wall?” the team leader asked. But my attention was focused on Marcy. The short reprieve we had to calm her down was over as she screamed and said something was squeezing her arm.

And it got louder when she saw her daddy walking in the door.

“Sir please step back,” the woman EMT advised.

“I’m her father, Stan. Please, tell me you’ve come up with something. What is causing this?” he asked as he rushed to kiss me and then check on Marcy. The older EMT talked in between her bursts of fear.

“Well honestly I can’t say for sure, but it seems like the best option right now would be to tear the wall down.”

Stan boded eagerly as he rubbed Marcy’s arm trying to sooth her pain. “Yes of course. You have my permission. Tear it all down,” he demanded.

The EMTs radioed for a fire station nearby to bring a sledgehammer. Stan and I just kept holding our little girl tight. Not daring to say a word as they returned with the equipment.

“Please step aside,” one firefighter ordered us.

I didn’t want to be away from her as it happened but I knew not to disobey, so I quietly stood up and watched as they prepared to smash at the wall. As soon as they began to slam the hammer into the wall, we were all surprised to hear Marcy scream even louder. I thought she might even go deaf from the noise. As they hit the hammer again and nothing seemed to damage to wall. Instead it only seemed to make Marcy shriek and cry and even twist her arm to the point of nearly breaking it to get away. Still she remained lodged in place and I couldn’t be quiet any longer.

“You’re hurting her!!” I screamed as I motioned for the EMT’s to stop. “Jesus. It’s like the foundation is thicker than concrete,” they said.

“Is there no other way?” Stan asked.

The team consulted amongst themselves for a few minutes as I wiped away Marcy’s tears. They asked to talk to Stan privately. For a moment I heard him get upset and I cringed, wondering what their suggestion even was.

Then he returned to the hall and asked to talk to me while the EMTs did their best to distract our daughter.

“They’re wanting to amputate,” he said with a stone face. I could see the tears that had streaked down his face when he had been arguing with them. I knew that if he was coming to me now it meant he didn’t see there was another option.

“They can’t... no... she’s just a little girl...” I said as I covered my mouth and tried not to hyperventilate.

“Listen to me, just listen,” he said as he grabbed my shoulders. “They said we could think it over. And that they would consider other options too... but... it’s not looking good, not the way it’s lodged in there,” he told me.

I shook my head, trying not to think about it. I knew that he was also struggling with this choice as well. So we told them we would call them back in a few hours.

I sat down on the floor beside Marcy as she complained about her feet getting tired from standing and told her she could rest on me as I rubbed her arm tiredly.

“It hurts so much mommy,” she complained with a whimper. She was all worn out. I don’t know how, but we got some sleep.

Then this morning, I decided I couldn’t bear to hear her in pain any longer so I asked Stan to call the EMT’s back.

“How will... how will they even do it?” I asked as he got off the phone.

“They didn’t specify. I can only imagine that we don’t want to know the details,” he said as he grabbed me.

Then we got on the floor next to Marcy and he tried to explain to her what was about to happen.

“Sweetie... do you remember the men and women who came yesterday to look at your arm?” Stan asked. She nodded weakly. I could tell she had barely gotten any sleep herself.

“They’re coming back now, coming to try and get you out. But sweetie... what they are going to do, it’s going to hurt. Can you be brave for mommy and daddy though?” he asked.

She whimpered, unsure how to respond and we held her close. Stan even said a prayer, and we all huddled together until the team arrived.

When they did, Marcy was desperate for us not to leave her side as I watched the EMTs get out some syringes and anesthetic to numb the area closest to the wall.

“We’ll get everything set up and then tie her arm off right above the elbow to limit blood flow. Then once the medicine is in her system, we’ll try to make a clean cut,” the team leader told me. I was visibly shaking.

I can’t even describe the way that Marcy screamed as they stuck her with about five different needles. Then it was time to operate.

The two EMT’s moved to either side of her arm with a bone saw and asked me or Stan to hold her still as they prepared to make the cut. I immediately fell to my knees and squeezed her other hand.

“Marcy look at me baby, look at me. I want you think about your favorite ice cream, okay?” I said as they activated the blade and she whimpered and her lip quivered. “Mommy I’m scared. Please don’t let them hurt me,” she begged.

I touched her cheek and cried alongside her as the blade hit the edge of her arm and I heard the loudest noise imaginable from the machinery. But Marcy’s high pitched wail was even louder. They immediately stopped and Stan rushed over, all of us surprised to find that somehow her skin had managed to break the bone saw.

“What in the world....” Stan said.

They had to try again. They tried three times, each time only causing more damage to the saw than any progress on Marcy’s arm. Finally they admitted they couldn’t try any longer. They left muttering apologies and promising they would call back as soon as another solution presented itself.

That was over six hours ago. We haven’t had a call back. Stan has taken off work but he is no closer to a solution. We tried to bust down the wall from outside the house but no such luck from that end either.

I’m... at the end of my rope. I’ve done my best to keep Marcy well fed and dry, but I don’t know how much longer this will go on. I’m asking anyone, please help us. Help my little girl.

Help. 

---

Credits

 

Some People Get Abducted and Probed by Aliens. I Think I Would've Preferred That

  

“Come on, Goddammit! Use the power I’ve given you. Fight back!” 

His spike-knuckled fist slammed into my bare face, sending me flying through the air and into a nearby tree. Despite the tree’s time-hardened and hulking form, I went right through it as if it were merely cardboard. I landed roughly, first skidding over some rocks and then tumbling down a slope; coming to rest in a muddy depression several meters away. 

Entangled in vines and covered in earthen debris, I tossed and turned amidst the muck; terror making me momentarily ignorant to the pain of The Thing’s Herculean punch. The sound of the air above whipping in response to the sudden appearance of something only served to hasten my limbs. I managed to regain a semblance of physical coordination and untangle myself; and, rising from the ditch, quickly scrambled toward a moss-covered mound. Hiding behind it, I assessed the situation, and quickly came to the grim realization that there was simply nothing I could do; that I’d have to either fight back and hope to somehow win—or let it kill me and hope that the method of death would be quick and painless. 

The sun, high-resting, brilliant, and unobscured, seemed to be working against me; there were no substantial shadows in which to hide, all was bathed in an almost mystifying radiance. My attacker needed only to fly past the mound to spot me. With panic rattling my heart and stifling my breathing, I searched for something—a rock or log or natural club of some kind—that I could use to strike The Thing; even whilst knowing that, regardless of the object, I’d probably not do any significant damage. Earlier, I had watched it fall from the sky and land on solid rock; cratering the land in the process. A stone, no matter how big, probably wouldn’t even scratch it. But still, I had to think of something...

A sudden smell, a faint, chemical scent of burning, saved me from being bisected by his ocular lasers. I leapt forward, landing flatly on the ground, as a beam of searing hard-light swept above me; just barely missing my scalp. Turning around, I saw the top half of the mound slide a few inches askew from its base; the lingering incision molten, the moss thereon aflame. Hovering a few feet above the mound was The Thing, that infernal, star-sent nightmare who’d chosen me to be his Earthen opponent in some sadistic interspecies bout. 

“You can fight, or you can die—painfully. If you make me break a sweat, I’ll end you quickly. You have my word. But if you bore me, I will take my time. I will make sure you know true, cosmic antipathy. And then I will eradicate every civilization on this planet. The fate of the world is in your hands—what're you gonna do?” 

Adrenaline surged as my terror mounted. My muscles, supernaturally endowed with enhanced strength, contracted beneath my skin. My vision blurred as my blood pressure rose, and for a moment I feared that I’d have a heart attack before even throwing a punch. But then an errant breeze blew across my face, and with it came a smell; a whiff of grilled meats. I didn’t know from where the smell had come, but knew by its intensity that there were people nearby—relatively speaking. My sense of smell had no doubt been heightened, but even a radius of a few miles was close for two beings who could cross entire regions in a few moments. People nearby almost assuredly meant collateral damage; the recognition of this grim fact had a calming effect upon my body and nerves. It was no longer just my life on the line, or the lives of others following my promised demise. There were people here, now, who I needed to protect from the alien gladiator. 

Through conscious effort, I brought my rampant vitals under control, and rose to stand—considerably less afraid. The grass smoldered around me, and the combined heat of the laser-blasted area and the blazing sun drew sweat from my body; dampening my dirt-stained shirt. I must’ve looked ridiculous, staring up at that eight-foot-tall, chitin-armored alien, challenging him whilst wearing a t-shirt and sweat pants; but in the moment I felt—for the first time in my life—powerful, ready to defend myself against something markedly greater. 

Knowing that he’d just swat me down if I tried to engage him in the air, I began my assault with a ranged attack of my own. Utilizing my abdominal muscles and a preternatural control of my digestive organs, I channeled a surge of stomach acid and bile from the depths of my gut, spewing it out of my mouth in a green, noxious torrent.

His reaction was one of disgust and disbelief. The torrent struck him before he could react, probably stunned by the sheer vileness of the attack. He teetered in the air, and I let out another volley, this one even more acrid than the last. It struck him squarely, coating his monstrously insectoid body, and after a moment of mid-air writhing, he fell landward. My esophagus burned, and my gums throbbed; but still I readied myself for a third shot, knowing that it’d take more than some molten vomit to kill the thing. 

It had landed a few feet behind the split mound, and rounding this I found the daemon rolling around on the ground; sloughing off sheets of my vomit. The stuff burned the grass wherever it landed, and the resultant smell was intolerably noxious. My eyes began to water, and my nose—already burning—felt as if it would fall off my face if I didn’t filter the stench somehow. Quickly ripping off a part of my sleeve, I wrapped the fabric around my nose and again prepared to unleash another spray. But in the brief lapse of focus, the thing had displaced all of the vomit—no doubt through some hyper-sped motion—and crossed the distance between us in an instant. 

With its monstrous strength, it promptly punched a hole through my stomach. 

Blood and bile gushed outward in a brownish admixture as the thing withdrew its fist from my belly. I fell to my knees as a wave of inexpressible agony overcame me; the sensation of having been abominably penetrated unlike anything I had ever experienced before. The alien stepped back and admired his work, cackling evilly as I keeled over from the pain—and the partial destruction of my spinal cord. My vision went red and swam, the world seeming to distort and upheave around me. Some instinct, heretofore unexperienced, told me to push—that's the best way I can describe it—and I complied; hoping that it would stifle the thought-effacing pain. 

And, miraculously, it did. 

My hands—which I’d brought to my stomach in an effort to keep some of my guts held within my body—suddenly slipped against a flat surface. Looking down, I saw that my wound had closed; that there was only skin, freshly grown and slick mostly with sweat; the only blood present being what had coated my hands and rubbed off. The thought, the instinct to push, had allowed me to rapidly regenerate. 

“Good job, you’ve mastered one of the most basic abilities of your powerset.” The creature’s blatantly sardonic tone infuriated me. Like a hot-headed child who’d just been knocked down by an older sibling, I stood, wiped away what I could of the blood and sweat, and charged at him. 

My fist connected squarely with his chest. I had hoped to do to him what he’d done to me: put a hole in his body, only at his heart, rather than his stomach. But upon contact with his thickly armored pecs my hand merely imploded; the fingers collapsing into my palm in a mess of tendon and bone. I cried out, but before my voice could even carry to the treetops, his hand gripped my throat, and I was effortlessly lifted from the ground. 

Struggling against the strangulation, I tried to kick at him; but his other hand seized my left leg at the knee cap and squeezed. The joint shattered, and this time a howl did escape me—the air pushing itself through my constricted throat. He laughed, loudly and cruelly, his voice even rising to drown out my own. Dismissively, he then chucked me away like a piece of trash, and I fell face-first onto the ground not far from where I’d initially landed following his super-punch. 

My entire body throbbed with the twofold agonies of my injuries. Despite my superhuman physical resilience, he was just so much stronger, could inflict more damage than I could physically or psychologically endure. 

“Get up. Heal yourself, or I’ll set this entire forest ablaze.” His demonic voice, more than the sinister words themselves, gave me the motivation I needed. There was nothing but evil in those tones, an utter lack of humanity—it was the voice of one who had, elsewhere on other, remoter worlds, inflicted unfathomable terrors and obscenities upon helpless populaces. With the same impulse of “pushing” I had used before, I autonomously and simultaneously repaired my crushed windpipe and busted kneecap. The restoration brought its own measure of pain, but I gritted my teeth against it and rose to my feet. 

His jet-black body glistened in the sunlight, like some man-sized, futuristically armored bat. His face, saw-toothed and infinitely ghoulish, gazed at me with an expression of open menace, of satanic mirth. It filled me with rage, horror, and indignation, all at once, and I would’ve abruptly—and no doubt uselessly—charged at him again; but a memory, providentially recalled, stayed my hand; and I at last realized how I could defeat the super-powered incubus. 

Earlier in the day, I had been hiking along a well-worn trail, on a short jaunt not far from my home. Whilst rounding a bend in the trail—beside which was a steep cliff, its edge perilously unguarded—I spotted the creature falling from the upper atmosphere, trailing a plume of pitch-black smoke in its wake. It landed at the base of the cliff, cratering the land there; and after only a few moments rose and flew up into the air, apparently having suffered no major injuries from its atmospheric entry. 

Had I been a little slower to that point in my hike, I would’ve been spared the subsequent endowment of power and violence; but during his ascent he had spotted me standing there, dumbstruck, and proceeded to alter his course toward my direction; and thus began the terrifying ordeal.... But one thing I hadn’t consciously taken notice of, one thing that I only recalled when standing face-to-face with that dark-armored nightmare, was the nature of his flight—the mechanism by which it was achieved. 

It lacked wings, and seemed to accomplish flight by exerting some sort of telekinetic force upon itself; or, just as supernaturally, by manipulating gravity so that it suddenly became lighter than air in some fashion. Regardless, its body—or rather, two small, unshielded portions of its lower abdomen—would briefly glow upon the activation of the flight-ability. Seeing this, as it prepared to rise again and rain some new power of death upon me, I got the idea to “clog” those fortuitously unprotected orifices. 

Just as its savagely taloned feet left the earth, I again summoned from the depths of my bowels a potent surge of bile, this time internally honing and shaping the stream so that it would spew forth precisely, rather than in a great torrential shower. Using my tongue as a divider—the flesh of it naturally impervious to the acidic effects—I split the stream in two, sending dual blasts toward each of the orange-tinged holes in the creature’s body. The streams struck true, and the fiend cried out—shocked, agonized. He was immediately grounded, figuratively de-winged.

I let up off the oral assault just as I began to feel woozy, probably from having exerted too much of my gastrointestinal energies. The creature writhed on the ground, my bile burning away at its insides. I watched, appalled and awed, as his chitinous armor expanded, the flesh beneath swelling and inflaming. A moment later, in a great shower of bits and iridescent blood, the thing exploded. 

Blood, bile, and black flesh glistened in the radiance of the now midday sun, and I took in the grisly scene as one gazing upon the twinkling surface of a calm lake. I had, somehow, beaten the creature in its own gladiatorial game. 

I knew that I couldn’t simply let the foul remains of that extraterrestrial asshole linger; who knows what effects the offal might have on the environment, or the bolder carrion animals. So, with one final, all-enveloping spew, I doused the whole area in my acrid bile, melting all evidence of the creature's heinous existence. Toxic smoke soon rose from the dissolving gore, blackening the surrounding leafage and stinging my eyes, so I turned and left.

Super powers were forced upon me, and using them I fought a powerful alien horror and won. Earth is safe, for now....

---

Credits

Leave The Last Chair Open

 

I always suspected that my dad’s barbershop was haunted. Heck, he used to make that claim himself. A lot of customers, particularly the old-timers, had their own little superstitions, favorite chairs, and days they avoided coming in for a haircut. My dad, the barber, was the worst of all, though. The man would only use one particular brand of scissors and another for electric razors. He used regular straight razors a good bit, too, except for one antique blade with a pearl handle that he refused to handle.

Most curious of all; dad would always leave the last chair in the corner empty. No matter how packed the shop got, no one would be seated in that chair. He never told me why, only that it was tradition.

Dad passed away a few months back. I found him at the barbershop, slumped in one of the chairs, looking for all of the world like he was sleeping. It was never my plan to get into the family business. As of last spring, I was still in college working on my degree. But when dad died, somebody had to take care of the family so I got the certifications I needed and started cutting hair. Luckily, dad prepared me for years growing up and I didn’t scare away any of the old customers. Not at first. However, I noticed some of the guys looking a little nervous when they came in. Eventually, a few of the regulars began dropping off. I decided to ask Bill, one of my dad’s favorite clients, to hang out after work at the shop one day so I could ask his advice.

“What am I doing wrong, Bill?” I asked. “What’s causing folks to leave?”

I was sweeping up for the day, the shop closed and quiet. Bill sat in his favorite chair sipping a beer.

“Well, Joey, I’m glad you asked me to stay late,” he replied. “I’ve been meaning to have a word with you. The reason you’re scaring the old-timers off is simple: you’re not respecting your dad’s rules.”

I bristled at this a bit and leaned my broom against the wall. “Are you saying I’m not doing a good job running my dad’s shop?”

“No, no,” Bill said, hands held up in a calming gesture. “You’re doing great with cutting hair and you’re personable and everybody likes you. It’s just…”

“What?”

“Kid, you’re not following the rules. You’re mixing brands, using all of the chairs.”

“Ah, the superstition stuff.”

Bill stood up. “It might sound silly to you but traditions meant a lot to your dad. To all of us. The old guys, at least. We’d just like to see you respect that.”

I nodded and told Bill I’d consider it. We shook hands and he left, locking the door behind him at my request. I went back to cleaning up but Bill’s words stuck with me. Dad’s favorite straight razor, the one with the pearl handle, was sitting in its usual place of honor next to one of the mirrors in the corner. It was starting to gather dust since I wasn’t polishing it as much as my dad did. Or at all. I picked up the razor and opened it. The blade still looked as sharp as ever; I suppressed a chill. It felt like the temperature in the barbershop dropped by ten degrees in as many seconds.

The lights flickered. I heard a squeak and looked in the corner. The last chair, the one my dad always left empty, was facing me. I was positive that I’d left it turned towards the counter and mirror earlier that day.

“Maybe the place really is haunted,” I muttered, closing the razor and replacing it on its shelf.

I’d meant the line as a joke but it came out as almost a question. The barbershop was warming up again but I began to feel like I wasn’t alone. I considered leaving and skipping my usual closing routine. That would be admitting that I was afraid, though…that my dad’s superstitions were more than comfortable little rituals. I went back to cleaning up, polishing the mirrors in front of each chair. When I reached the last chair in the corner, the special one, I felt a wild urge rise up in me.

I sat down. Immediately, the temperature in the room plummeted. I saw my breath come out in a cold, white cloud. There was a tinkling sound; I turned to see the pearl-handled razor vibrating on its shelf.

Joey.

The voice sounded familiar–terribly, impossibly familiar. I swiveled my chair until I was facing the mirror. The lights flickered again. In the flash of darkness, I saw my dad’s reflection in the mirror standing behind me. Except he didn’t look entirely like my dad. His face was stretched, blurry, constantly shifting and reforming. After a moment, it clarified and looked like my dad only…younger. Much younger. He looked like he was my age. I saw his reflection shimmer and turn to look at something towards the front of the shop. Suddenly, I could hear a warble that slowly crystallized into my dad’s voice. Just like his reflection, the voice was decades younger than the last time I saw him.

“...sorry but we are closed,” I heard him say.

I glanced at the razor on the shelf. It was shaking like a box of alarm clocks. I realized that I was shaking, too. I swallowed a scream. The room was growing colder by the moment; I turned back to the mirror to see frost collecting around the edges. My dad’s reflection was still looking away towards the front of the shop. I changed the angle of the chair and saw who he was talking to: a man, very young and skinny, dressed in a moth-eaten hoodie. While I watched, the man pulled out a knife. I saw his mouth move but couldn’t hear the words. Still, it was easy enough to guess that this was some kind of robbery, albeit a pathetic one.

“Get out,” I heard my dad say. “Just get out of here.”

I saw the handle of the pearl-grip razor poking out of my dad’s white barber coat. The burglar, barely more than a teen, moved suddenly but dad was quicker. It was hard to follow but there was a spurt of blood that made me duck. I poked my head back up and realized it was only the phantom reflection of blood as seen through the mirror. Now there was a new image, my dad in his white jacket stained red, kneeling over the man that attacked him. Dad was holding the young guy’s hand, the burglar’s throat ripped open by the razor. The man kept trying to speak but only blood came out. Dad was crying.

In an instant, the mirror was back to normal and the shop was warm again. I stood up, shaking.

“It was self-defense,” I said. “It wasn’t dad’s fault.”

But I knew that wouldn’t have mattered to my dad. He was a good man, kind. Even if he was justified in taking a life to protect himself, the guilt would weigh heavy on him. All of dad’s superstitions, his respect for the razor, and leaving a chair open, clicked. The seat was a sign of respect for the man who died there on the floor all of those years ago. And the razor, used as a weapon, could never cut hair again. But he wouldn’t throw it away. Dad would keep it as a reminder of one of the worst nights of his life.

I took a deep breath and looked back at the chair in the corner. It was facing the counter again and the razor with the pearl handle was still. Instead of running out of the barbershop screaming, I went back to cleaning up. I finally understood my dad’s superstitions and I’d be sure to honor them in the future. The shop was haunted but as long as it was treated with respect, I knew it would stay quiet and the regulars would come back.

----

 

Credits

I'm Invisible Every Day Except My Birthday

  

What would you do if you could be invisible?

Would you walk around naked ALL THE TIME?

I did that for a while. It was alright. A little chilly, though.

Would you stalk your celebrity crush and maybe get your own private celebrity sex tape?

Don't lie. You totally would. And I did.

Would you steal? Would you kill? Would you travel the world and see everything?

How much depraved shit can you think of? Or would you use your power for good, instead of evil?

Liar.

• 
  

I was born with the gift of invisibility. Or I guess you could call it a curse, depending on how you look at it.

At first I didn’t realize my power. It bothered me for a long time.

I would be standing there with a group of friends, talking about sports or music or whatever, and then suddenly they wouldn’t see me anymore.

No matter what I said or did, they would just ignore me. Even my words didn’t register, as if I were speaking into a void.

My parents did it too.

I’d be in the car with them or around the dinner table having a conversation, when suddenly it was like I didn’t exist. My parents would talk back and forth about their day and when I told them about something exciting that had happened at school, they would just ignore me.

In class, I’d put up my hand and the teacher’s eyes would skip over me, only to ask someone else for the answer.

Girls ignored me. Guys ignored me. I couldn’t make new friends, no matter how hard I tried.

Our family moved to another city the year I started high school and the problem became even worse. The friends I had made as a little kid were no longer around, and I was alone all the time. That was around when I realized what was happening.

I was turning invisible.

It wasn’t happening all the time, but it was occurring more and more frequently as I got older, and as I became more shy and introverted. I was scared to get to know anyone, scared to talk to anyone. All I could think about was the fact that if I did make a new friend, they were going to start ignoring me at some point, and I would be alone again.

So I just wandered the hallways during lunch hour at school, feeling alone and invisible.

I got through high school and college, blending in with the walls and getting more lonely by the day. I was terrified of forced socialization via any group projects that were presented to us. The idea of interacting with other human beings on a face-to-face level was becoming more and more scary to me.

Part of me felt like I might become invisible and never be seen again, forced to wander the earth as a ghost for the rest of my days. Every time I disappeared I was sure I would stay that way. And it was never voluntary.

But every time I disappeared I became visible again later on. The worst part was I couldn’t tell when it was happening. I could always see myself, no matter what.

After college I landed a job which didn’t require me to interact with anyone, except occasionally with coworkers and my boss. Most of my conversations happened through email, and even those were ignored half the time.

Even as an adult nobody talked to me in the office or invited me for drinks with the gang after work. Meetings proceeded without me and people walked past my desk every morning without saying hello, as if I didn’t exist.

A while back, the thing I’d been fearing most finally happened.

My boss called my cell phone in the middle of the workday. I missed the call since I had it on vibrate, and looked down to see the notification on my phone.

I was about to go into his office to talk to him when he came out and began to yell loudly, “Where’s Jordan? Has anybody seen him? Every time I need his help with something he’s nowhere to be found!”

He sounded angry.

I stood up and raised my hand.

“I’m right here, Mr. Jacobson. What did you need my help with?”

Nobody heard me.

Another coworker, a man named Bret who had always had it out for me, stood up and began to complain about my “absence” as well.

“I’m not sure where he is, sir. Every time I look over at his desk he’s conspicuously absent. I was gonna say something to you but I don’t like to complain about my coworkers. This is getting ridiculous, though.”

Mr. Jacobson shook his head, muttering under his breath, and marched back towards his office.

“One more phone call. If he doesn’t pick up this time I’m firing his ass!”

I hurried after him, leaving my phone at my desk.

“Sir, wait! Please! I’m right here!”

He slammed the door in my face. I tried the door knob but it was locked. I knocked and yelled but he didn’t answer.

When I got back to my desk, there was another voicemail waiting for me. This one saying I was fired for my unexplained absences from work.

There seemed no point in trying to stop it from happening. I just packed up my things silently and left.

Nobody noticed.

• 
  

The periods of invisibility grew longer and longer, until finally I came to realize that I could only be seen one day a year.

For the rest of the year - all 364 days - I was a ghost.

It was always the same day, and it was easy enough to remember.

My birthday.

It made sense.

People noticed me on that day and remembered me, even if it was just for 24 hours.

I’d get a call from my parents and a few Facebook messages, but that was about it. Still, it felt nice to exist again.

I didn’t have a job anymore so I had to start getting creative with ways to make money. I still needed to pay my bills and buy groceries.

It helped that nobody could see me. That made the next part easier.

Those first few times hopping the counter at the bank were nerve-racking. My heart was racing and I was just waiting for someone to start yelling at me, threatening to call the cops. But after I’d done it about ten times it felt more or less like going to the grocery store.

I’d just jump over the counter and grab a stack of bills from a teller’s drawer when they weren’t paying attention.

The second I touched the bills it was like they didn’t exist anymore, and the bank tellers didn’t even notice them leaving the drawers.

Part of me didn't mind stealing from banks, since they took money from customers all the time without apology, but I didn't want to steal from a mom and pop store or a grocery store. I wanted to be normal as much as possible. Besides, I was having fun with bank robberies in broad daylight. There was a thrill in taking money from the bank, right in front of the teller's eyes.

That feeling was a rush and pretty soon I was chasing that feeling all the time.

Finding expensive merchandise to steal was easy. And stealing it was even easier. But you realize pretty quickly that possessions are hollow and meaningless when you can have anything you want at a whim.

I took cars from big dealerships - Porsche, Ferrari, BMW, Lamborghini, Mercedes, you name it, but driving wasn't a great idea in my condition. I got into a lot of car accidents. People never saw me coming.

And it's no fun driving a sports car if you can't drive it fast, believe me.

Somewhere along the line, I must have drawn attention to myself. Because one night as I was walking home I saw someone standing on the sidewalk in front of my house, waiting for me.

The man was wearing a black trenchcoat and a fedora. He had sunglasses on despite the darkness.

I slowed my approach when I saw him, but felt drawn towards him, like a magnet.

“So you’re the one I’ve been hearing so much about,” he said, seeing me despite my invisibility. “The one who’s been causing so much trouble. Drawing so much attention to us.”

“You can see me,” I said, surprised. “How can you see me?”

“Because I’m just like you,” he answered. “I'm a shadow. And so are they.”

From all around me came shapes from the darkness. Some of them were people, but others were really just like shadows, barely tangible in the night.

They grabbed hold of my arms and legs, tightening their grips on me as I screamed. It felt like I was being mugged by a pack of boa constrictors.

“Shhhh, shh, shh,” the man said, putting a finger to my lips, silencing my screams. “Nobody can hear you except for us.”

“Who are you?” I asked nervously, my heart pounding, looking around at their faces - some were featureless and without form.

“We’re the same as you. And we’re here to teach you how to be a better shadow. How to remain unseen. You’ve been too blatant in your movements, and people are starting to notice you. The tellers at the bank are finding cash missing at the end of the day, and the grocery store owner is wondering why nobody notices the mysterious customer who leaves a pile of cash after shopping - like a ghost is visiting his store.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked. “I can’t work. I need to get food somewhere!”

“No, you don’t. You’re a shadow, remember? Shadows don’t eat. They don't drive BMWs. And they don’t visit the bank. You’re not being a very good shadow. That’s why we’re here to teach you.”

They began to press in tighter all around me and I felt myself being compressed like a lump of coal being turned into a diamond. I was shrinking into the ground, becoming flattened, and at the same time losing some essential essence of myself. I felt like my personality was being compressed, like my soul was being photocopied into a lower resolution version of itself.

I became a sliver. And then even less than that.

Never in my life had I felt so afraid, so unsure.

And then finally all I could see was the figures looming over me, towering high above me from my insectile vantage point.

I was nothing more than a shadow on the sidewalk to them. And to everyone else as well.

“There, that’s better. Now you’re a proper shadow.”

The group of them disappeared and I found myself alone again. Terrified.

• 
  

Being a shadow has not been anywhere near as nice as being invisible. I got into all sorts of trouble when I was invisible, let me tell you. I had a lot of fun.

I got into a LOT of depraved mischief.

In retrospect, I’m not that surprised I got caught. I'm more shocked at how it happened. And the consequences of my actions were very unexpected.

It’s a pretty terrible punishment, being made into a shadow. Especially since shadows never die. They don’t have a lifespan or anything like a normal person, or even like an invisible person.

Still, once a year on my birthday I become tangible again.

I get to see my family and I get to breathe the fresh air and eat food and drink wine and I get to be a person again.

Today and only today.

I find myself taking more advantage of life than I used to. I go to see my parents on my birthday these days. I visit my old friends. I go to the park and say hello to perfect strangers as I walk around in the sunshine.

Only real people can enjoy the sunshine - shadows never get to feel it.

Tomorrow I’ll be a shadow again, and it’s a very cold life.

But for now I’ll enjoy the warmth of the sun.

Even if it's only for a little while.

----

Credits