My Mom Sent Me Some Old Home Videos for My Birthday (Part 4) [FINAL]

  

So it all ends with me dying. Not literally, of course. Not figuratively either. Philosophically maybe? How did we get here? How does a simple home video lead to such violence,death, and the utter dismantlement of my perceived reality? I guess that’s what you’re here to find out.

Justin kept trying to call me, kept sending me messages, but I was still in no condition to respond. I’m not sure if you’ve caught on to this, but my mental state can sometimes be described as rather flimsy. When facing distress, I have this slight tendency to fall into bottomless pits of anxiety, and there’s really not much I can do about it. Except petting Dave, that is.

So that’s what I did, for half an hour straight. Just kept stroking his silky feline exterior, the shiny orange fur soon enough stained with crimson patches of blood. I still hadn’t found time to clean up. Where could I clean up? My bathtub, and by extension my shower, was filled with what remained of my “mom”, mom, and I felt no inclination toward dealing with that mess.

New texts from Justin kept pouring in, and at some point they became too frequent for me to ignore. I scrolled down the near endless list of capitalized profanity and hatefulness, focusing on the latter five, of which seemed a fair bit more level headed, albeit infinitely more disturbing.

Justin: Come see me at grandpa’s cabin, Jeffy.

Justin: Come alone if you want the boy to live.

Justin: You don’t want it to happen again, do you?

Justin: You don’t want more blood on your hands.

Justin: Be seeing you.

There was a lot I didn’t understand, and there was a lot I didn’t want to understand. I could feel them, locked away deep in my mind; a resurgence of memories pushing ever onwards. I couldn’t let them free, though. No chance in hell. There was just no way I was going back to that place. Padded cells, padded mind.

I hadn’t been to the cabin for ages, probably even before grandpa died, but it was quite a ways out, and I knew I didn’t have the time or energy to dare the journey on foot. Luckily my neighbors kid had an old moped parked haphazardly in the middle of the street, and those suckers can be hotwired with the single turn of a screwdriver, so without hesitation I stuffed Dave under my jacket, and off we went.

We were on the road for three-four hours maybe, and I had to stop to refill the ridiculously small tank three times over. Dave kept his calm about him as per usual, but I could tell that he was getting antsy by the time we turned off the main road, heading up the bumpy road to the Quintessential Point, where grandpa’s old cabin could be found. I had to ditch the moped about halfway up, so I let Dave run free as we hiked the last couple of miles by foot.

The cabin was an eyesore. It had always been an eyesore. Grandpa had fought tooth and nails to keep the property after certain incidents of federal nature forced him into hiding for a couple of years. It was situated on the very edge of the Quintessential Point, dangerously so, and there was a vertical drop of maybe thirty feet just on the other side of the ramshackle railings of the balcony. I felt a cold chill run down my spine as I spotted the silhouette of Justin in the window. I had no plan, and no idea what to expect. The Justin I knew was gone, replaced by a violent psychopath harboring unknown motives.

I picked up the loitering Dave, and knocked exactly three times on the front door.

“Jeffy,” Justin said, smiling warmly as he opened the door. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

He seemed flustered, but otherwise in fine shape. A warm glow pulsated from the stove behind him, illuminating worn-down furniture and faded walls, and as he beckoned for me to enter, I heard a soft, muffled cry.

“Uhm,” I said. “Is that Jenna’s, uhm, baby?”

“Indeed,” he grinned. “He’s all right, don’t worry. Fed him some formula just now, so he’s happy as a stiff at a funeral. Come in, Jeffy. Sit down. We have much to discuss.”

I sauntered into the living room, nervously scanning the interior. Nothing had changed really. It was still the same tacky craphole, moldy old animal hides and broken antlers decorating the dead wooden walls. I sat down in grandpa’s old rocking chair, placing Dave in my lap, desperately trying to identify where he kept the baby. Justin gave me a brutal pat on the back, and sat down in the couch opposite of me.

“Jeffy, Jeffy, Jeffy,” he sighed. “What are we going to do with you, Jeffy?”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing here, Justin,” I said, gaze wandering around the room. “But I suppose you’re about to tell me.”

He threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Sure you do, Jeffy. Sure you do,” he said. “You know I killed mom, and I know you killed dad. We’re the same now, Jeffy. Matricide and patricide aside, we used to be so close, remember?”

I did remember. Justin always looked after me, kept me safe. I guess that’s what made all this so hard to understand. I’d never seen this side of him before, and I was convinced I knew him intricately.

“But you don’t remember why, do you?” he leaned forward, eyes flickering left to right erratically. “Why I had to be nice to you?”

“What do you, uhm, mean?” I muttered.

“Oh boy, I knew they did a number on you over at the institution, but I never realised it was this bad,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You’re the reason they stopped, you know. Poor Jeffy couldn’t handle it. But they never considered what I could handle or not, did they? No, they messed me up good, Jeffy, and they didn’t even care.”

“I don’t, uh-understand, how did they mess you up? What couldn’t I handle?”

“Why, all the murdering, of course!” he laughed, slapping his thigh. “Oh, they enjoyed their depravity, didn’t they? The fuckier, the better. Put poor Jeffy in a bathtub full of blood, make Justin cut out all the organs, force feed them both pieces of the victims. What a family, eh? No wonder you lost it eventually.”

The memories came flooding back to me. Screams, rivers of blood, the leathery texture of an undercooked kidney. A knife in my hand, and an old, ugly, heinous face.

“Grandpa was the worst of the lot. Truth be told, I think they were happy when you slaughtered him. That’s when they stopped, you know. That’s when they sent you to that place.”

“I, uh, I don’t remember…”

“No, you don’t, do you?” he said coldly. “They couldn’t get you talk for months, and when you finally did, you couldn’t remember anything. Just kept mumbling the same name, over and over. Dave, Dave, Dave.”

I stared at Dave. He stared back, purring contently. “What do you mean? What Dave? Did I know a Dave back then? Is that why I instantly named my cat Dave?”

“There is no cat, Jeffy!” he yelled. “Think about it, for god's sake. How long have you had him now? Thirty years? That’s some old ass cat you got there, buddy.”

“N-nuh-no,” I stammered. “You’re wrong Justin. He’s right here. I can see him. I can feel him.”

“For fucks sake, I don’t care,” Justin stood up, and calmly walked toward the kitchen cabinet. “Keep your imaginary friend, it really doesn’t fucking matter. In fact, it will make this whole thing a lot easier to sell.”

He opened one of the cabinets, the one at the very top, and suddenly the muffled cries became louder. “You see, I want to start my own family,” he said, carefully lifting down the baby boy. “But I need a demon in the hurricane.”

“Wh-whu-what does that mean?!” I said. “I don’t uh-understand!”

“Oh, surely you remember. It was grandpa’s family mantra. We cannot move lest we leave a demon behind in the hurricane. It’s an overly pompous way of saying that we always need a scapegoat. I mean, think about it; how do you suppose they got away with all those murders, hmm? The only reason they did, is because they consistently set up some poor schmuck to take the fall.”

“An-uh-and, uhm, I’m your, uhm, demon?”

“Look, I didn’t plan for it to end this way. I just wanted you dead, Jeffy. That’s all. That’s why I switched out mom’s birthday present with those tapes; I was so sure they were gonna kill you for that.”

He gently rocked the baby back and forth, humming a beautiful tune. “But here’s the kicker, Jeffy; they weren’t even gonna hurt you. Not initially, anyway. Mom just wanted dad to bring you here, to keep you safe, to calm you down. So, you know, I lost it. Fucking killed her.”

“Wh-uh-why did you want me dead? What have I, uhm, ever done to you?” I said, tears rapidly forming in my eyes. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I really thought I’d reached the bottom of the rabbit hole, but there was obviously more.

“Nothing personal, buddy,” he smiled. “Just wanted them to feel pain. They really loved you, Jeffy. Can’t for the life of me understand why, but they did. Me? Not so much. I guess I reminded them too much of grandpa, or perhaps themselves. Jenna’s baby changed my mind though. When mom brought her over to try to convince you to come back home, I instantly knew what I’d wanted all these years. Someone to love. Someone to love me back unconditionally. Someone to shape. Someone to mold into a better, more capable me.”

I let my fingers run through Dave’s soft fur. I needed his calming guidance now. Dave’s always been there for me. Always had my back. Always kept me on the straight and narrow.

“So, uhm, what now?” I asked, eyeing the open window just behind the couch.

“Oh, you know,” he said, placing the baby back in the cabinet, and closing the door. “You still have to die, Jeffy. Just need to make it look, you know, suicidy. That’s all I need from my demon.”

He grabbed a knife from the kitchen counter, and edged closer to me. There was this look on his face, a very familiar expression I’d seen before, once that I could remember, but probably countless times over. A look of hate and murderous violence. The exact look I saw on my mother’s face when she butchered those poor people in the video.

“Give me your wrist, Jeffy,” he snarled. “No reason to make this more painful than it has to be.”

I got up from the rocking chair, backing up slowly, Dave firmly in my grasp. I knew I had only one shot at this, so I needed to position myself just right. When Justin edged past the rocking chair, back turned to the couch, I made my move.

I quickly put Dave on the ground, pointing at Justin. “Get him, Dave!” I yelled. “Fuck him up!”

We rushed at Justin in unison, and when he, wide-eyed with surprise and shock, stuck the knife brutally into my shoulder, I quickly jerked sideways, breaking the blade off at the grip. Sure, there was pain involved, but I’ve been through worse. With a continuous motion I elbowed him in the groin, and watched in awe as Dave fucked up his face. That cat had some unreal moves, let me tell you.

Justin stumbled back, and when he clumsily hit the couch, I charged at him with what little was left of my stamina, sending him tumbling through the open window. There was shattering of glass, a whole lot of blood, and horrible screams, as Justin and Dave rolled around, slipping under the ramshackle railing, suddenly freefalling the thirty feet down to the jagged rock foundation below.

I heard a sound I can’t accurately describe, but I’m often reminded of it when I hear a butcher working with raw meat. Squishy, meaty sounds. I collapsed on the floor, desperately heaving for my breath. I would have passed out on the spot if it wasn’t for the muffled crying coming from the cabinet. I stumbled to my feet, staggering towards it, gently lifting him down. He felt a lot like Dave. Same weight, different texture though. I sat down in the couch, momentarily lost in those bright blue peepers of his. Maybe I wanted my own family too? Maybe Justin could be my demon in the hurricane?

But no. I wasn’t them. I wasn’t grandpa, or mom, or dad, or even Justin. So I called the police, this time more than able to string together the correct words, describing in vivid detail everything from start to finish. From home videos to the shattered remains of Justin. I felt good. I felt free. But there was also a sadness, I suppose. A loss of sorts. Poor, poor Dave.

So you see, it all ends with my death. Not philosophical either. Mental, perhaps. Personal. A new me. The police came to believe me eventually, although it took a few days of long, strenuous interrogations to get it sorted. A lot of details to be uncovered, things from my childhood I just couldn’t remember. They mentioned something, though. Something you lot might find comforting. On the second day of the interview, the lead detective asked me about Justin, about the struggle, about his remains.

“There were some marks, wounds, we can’t account for,” he said. “On the suspect's face. Looks a hell of a lot like someone, something, clawed him, scratched him up real good.

”

Of course it looked like that, I thought, stroking Dave's perfectly soft fur lovingly.

Of course it looked like that.

---

Credits 

My Mom Sent Me Some Old Home Videos for My Birthday (Part 3)

  

What does a sane mind look like when subjugated by waves of unrelenting madness? An innocent home video turned into murderous slaughter. Normal, loving parents morphing into deceitful, homicidal maniacs. The very foundation under my metaphorical feet disappearing, leaving my fragile psyche spiraling into the unknown abyss.

Yes, I tend to get just a little bit philosophical when I’m under a lot of stress. I suppose, under normal circumstances, it helps calm my nerves, but as I sat in that dark cabin cradling Dave like a little baby - my “mom’s” sinister words echoing repeatedly in my head - I felt no relief in delving into the soothing corners of fatalism. The situation required swift action. Swift, decisive, well-executed action. Not my strong suit.

So I did what I imagine anyone in my situation would do; I called my big brother. He’d know what to do. He was my polar opposite in many ways; charismatic, athletic, outgoing, funny. He could make widows laugh on the day of their late husband's funeral, and effortlessly talk his way out of any crime, petty or otherwise. He’d help me out, like he’d done so many times before.

I’ll spare you the boring details of the conversation, which in short involved a lot of uhm’s, and me desperately trying to string together a coherent narrative (failing many times over), and Justin patiently waiting for me to finish.

“That’s, uhm, all I know,” I murmured tiredly. “I know, uhm, it’s hard to believe, but I swear, Justin, it’s the truth.”

There was a long, silent, awkward pause. “I believe you, Jeffy,” he finally said. “I don’t know why, but I believe you.”

It felt like a great burden was lifted from my shoulders, and I could finally breathe again. The growing tension in my chest faded instantly, and I even think I smiled, or at least thought about smiling. I’d do that quite often for some reason. Think about things, instead of actually doing them. Like the manifestation of thought was enough.

“So, uhm, what now?” I asked.

“Just hang back, Jeffy,” he said. “I’ll get in touch with the police. Explain everything. You get some rest, stay put. I’ll call you when I have some news.”

I glanced around the cramp, dark cabin. There was nothing but the couch I was sitting on, a table, a few ramshackle cabinets, and a cast iron stove. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll do that, uhm, Justin. Please hurry, OK? You know, uhm, I don’t like waiting.”

“Will do, Jeffy, will do,” he said reassuringly, before hanging up.

I sat in the darkness for a while, staring at nothing except dull wooden walls, trying to make sense of everything that had happened. It didn’t. Nothing made sense anymore, and I had a hard time figuring out how anything could ever make sense again. It was like my whole life had been an illusion, an impossibly elaborate magic trick, where I was the poor white rabbit stuffed in the hat all this time, obscured and hidden from heinous reality.

I guess I must have dozed off at some point. Collapsed in exhaustion. I know it wasn’t a dreamless sleep, because I remember swimming in rivers of blood, but I care not to dwell on the details of it. Doesn’t help with my anxiety. Doesn’t help with my sanity.

I woke up sweating and shivering and hurting to the vague sensation of my phone buzzing. I’d been asleep for at least twelve hours, but it felt like barely a minute, and the vibrant rays of the sun blinded me as I stumbled to my feet. My body felt battered and beaten, almost like I’d been in a car crash, and it took me a moment or two to realise that, yes, that’s exactly what had happened.

“Uhm, Justin?” I muttered weakly. “Did you fix it? Can I come home?”

There was no answer. Just silence. I waited patiently for maybe thirty seconds, every so often checking if the call was still active. “Justin?” I queried once more.

“Jeffy…” Justin said, voice trembling. “You need to stay put, OK? Don’t move, you hear me? Help is on the way, all right?”

“Uhm,” I stammered confusedly. “Uhm, I don’t understand? Did they find dad? Did they find mom? Is, uhm, she in, uhm, jail?”

I found Dave chilling in the warm sun behind the couch, and gently lifted him up with one arm. He was a support animal of sorts I suppose. I always felt calmer when holding him.

“They, they, oh shit,” Justin whispered. His voice was cracking, like he was crying, or trying to avoid crying, and it really put me on edge. Justin never cried. “They found Jenna. At mom and dads. She, they, she is dead, Jeffy. Stabbed, murdered, blood all over, absolute fucking mess. Oh shit.”

“And, uhm, mom?” I asked. “Did they find mom?”

“Missing, gone,” Justin sighed. “But that’s not all, Jeffy. The baby, the baby, Jenna’s baby, shit, the baby is missing too. Nowhere to be found.”

“Uhm, oh,” I muttered. “That’s, uhm, not good, is it?”

“No, Jeffy, that’s not good at all,” he said, a slight hint of annoyance in his tone. “But listen, the cops want to talk to you. It’s real important, Jeffy. Just, you know, stay put. Don’t run. It won’t look good if you run, Jeffy.”

“Uhm, OK,” I said. “But why? Why can’t I just come home? I haven’t done anything. I can show them the video. Prove that mom did it.”

“Stay put, you hear?” he said sternly. “Just stay there. I’ve given them your location, Jeffy. They want to bring you in. Don’t. Do. Anything.”

“Uhm, sure, I guess,” I said, staring at Dave, trying to understand what was happening. “I’ll just, uhm, sit back with Dave then, I guess.”

“Yes, of course, Dave,” he sighed. “Stay put with Dave, sure. I’ll let them know, OK?”

“Uhm, yeah, thanks Justin,” I said. “Talk soon.”

He hung up, leaving me once again drowning in the fathomless depths of my own anxiety. I knew that I could trust Justin, but I also instinctively knew when he was lying. He’d done it before. Leave out certain details to keep me calm and docile, as he’d have it. He didn’t want me to worry, to stress out, to lose my mind. But this time it went deeper. This time I’m not sure he believed me - or worse yet; he didn’t trust me.

I couldn’t know for sure what the police had told him, or what he’d told the police, so in my rather feverish state of mind I did the exact opposite of what he ordered me to do; I promptly left the premises. Grabbed Dave and the laptop, and stumbled into the forest, not having the slightest idea of where I was. Add that to the fact that my sense of direction was abysmal at best, and you have one confused Jeffy heedlessly heading for disaster.

In retrospect it was somewhat of a miracle that I didn’t just topple over and fall unconscious out there in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t realise the extent of my blood loss until I saw my ragged pajamas in the bright sunlight. I was positively drenched in blood. From neck to toe, a crimson spectacle staggering through the woods. There’s like a few gallons tops in a human body, right? I’m sure some of you know this. I didn’t.

I went to some rather dark places of my psyche on my impromptu hike. Revisiting memories I didn’t know existed. Time spent delving into a childhood that seemed so strangely...lacking. I could barely remember anything before the age of six. And even then, there was little but snippets. Brief flashes and fragments. Isn’t that strange?

Dave seemed to enjoy cleaning my clothes though, and with him as company, and possibly some sort of feline guardian angel, I somehow managed to keep up a moderately acceptable pace. I didn’t want to expose my rather ominously decorated persona if I could avoid it, so when I stumbled upon the main road several hours later, I kept myself hidden in the treelines for as long as possible.

Thankfully the streets were more or less empty when I reached the outskirts of town. It was getting pretty late, so shrouded by shadows and sneaking stealthlessly around corners, I was able to get to my apartment unseen by anyone except for the neighborhood hobo, Lars. He’d probably seen stranger things though, so he didn’t seem altogether that bothered by my bloody appearance, nodding idly as I gracelessly tripped past him.

I let out a sigh of relief as I pushed the door open. A shower, fresh clothes, food, sleep; mundane privileges we all take for granted, but oh so heavenly when you’ve gone without them for just as little as a day. I put Dave down, thanking him for putting up with me, secured the laptop, and headed for the shower.

I was halfway into the bathroom when I noticed the smell. I say noticed, but in reality it was more like a pungent punch right up my nostrils. I doubled over on the floor more or less instantly, retching half of my lungs up, the other half desperately hiding behind other organs. A flood of memories overcame me as I lay there gasping for air, but they all seemed so...false. Like they’d happened to someone else. Flashes of screams and blood and death, tears and pain and torment.

I managed to stumble to my feet, switching on the light as I did. The sight that unfolded sent me sprawling to the floor once more.

There was a...thing in the bathtub. Once human, I am sure. Now in pieces, I’d say dozens of them, limbs, organs, guts, bobbing around in a pool of blood and other fluids that probably belongs on the inside of the body. I resorted to crawling out of there, slamming the door shut the moment I crossed the threshold.

I spent the next five minutes hyperventilating on the floor. There was an image etched into my mind. A head, a face, floating around in the pond of rotting remains like a grotesque parody of a rubber duck. A face I instantly recognized. A head I’d seen so many times before.

It was my mom.

I anxiously fumbled with my phone, knowing there was only one person I could call, but I was immediately greeted by a bunch of unread messages and missed calls, all from Justin. I guess I hadn’t noticed. I opened the messages, feeling an unrelenting dread rising as I rapidly read through them.

Justin: Are you still there? The cops are coming now. Don’t move.

Justin: They should be right outside now. Don’t move. Stay put Jeffy!

Justin: They’re inside. Can’t find you. Where are you? Stay where you are, and call me.

Justin: Where are you you fucking shit? I told you stay put!!

Justin: FUCK YOU JEFFY!! WHERE ARE YOU?

Justin: YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD WHEN I FIND YOU JEFFY!!

---

Credits 

My Mom Sent Me Some Old Home Videos for My Birthday (Part 2)

  

I’m sorry I haven’t been able to update sooner, but it’s been a crazy couple of days, and quite frankly it wasn’t on top of my todo-list given the urgency of my current situation. I’ll do my best to give an accurate description of the events that followed the brutal demolition of my life as I know it, but time isn’t exactly on my side, so I’ll have to keep it brief.

After the text from “mom” I didn’t have time to think. I didn’t know what to think either, I just knew I had to get out of there before my “dad” arrived. So in a panicky haze I quickly grabbed the laptop, and Dave the cat - who’d been loitering diligently just outside the door - and ran down the deserted street sobbing hysterically. I had no idea where I was going, or what I was doing. I guess I just figured that running was a solid plan given the circumstances.

I got about halfway down the block before the rational part of my brain interfered. Why am I running? Shouldn’t I show this video to someone? The police? My brother? I slowly came to a halt as I considered all my options. How sure was I that this wasn’t just a prank? How could it be a prank? Who in their right f’ing mind would think that this was even remotely funny? No, it was the truth alright, there was simply no denying it. I gently placed Dave on the ground as I fished the phone out of my pocket, dialling 911 with trembling fingers.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” a female dispatcher answered.

“Uh, I need help,” I stammered incoherently. “My mom, uhm, that’s to say she’s not really my mom, uhm, killed my real parents when I was a baby, and now she’s sent my dad, who isn’t my dad, after me, and I, uhm, don’t know what to do.”

“Sir, you’re not making any sense. What is your location?”

“So I got, uhm, this DVD,” I continued, waving my laptop around like she could somehow see it. “And it’s got everything, uhm, on it. Like, the murder, and my mom, and everything.”

There was a long pause, like the dispatcher was considering whether or not to just hang up on me, which in retrospect makes total sense, since I must have sounded like a crazed, blabbering maniac. I was tripping around nervously in a circle, head bobbing up and down erratically, tears streaming down my face. I was looking at this rather peculiar garden ornament, shaped like a bulbous rat, when suddenly I caught movement in my peripheral vision. Moments later I was on the run again, laptop under one arm, Dave in the other, phone hazardously kept in place between my cheek and shoulder.

My father’s car.

“You gotta hurry!” I yelled into the phone. “He’s here!”

I somehow managed to pocket the phone while juggling the laptop and Dave, stumbling down the street aimlessly. I could hear the sound of car tires approaching from behind - my “dad” more than likely - and in a moment of panic I decided to run up to a random apartment, banging on the front door awkwardly with my elbow. I saw movement behind closed curtains, then a pair of inquisitive eyes glancing at me briefly, before disappearing again. Of course they weren’t gonna let me in; I was a grown-ass man in my pajamas, carrying a laptop and fat cat named Dave. But I was hoping they’d call the cops on me.

“Jeffy,” my “dad’s” voice beckoned from behind. “Please, son, get in the car. I think you’re a little bit confused.”

He was parked by the curb, hanging over the open car door, like we were having a perfectly casual conversation about the stock market or something. He had this awkward smile on his face, and there was a look of genuine concern in his eyes.

“Uhm, no, no way,” I said, feverishly trying to find a way to escape that didn’t require me to use any of my arms. “I saw the video, uhm, the baby and mom and everything.”

He laughed heartily, slapping the roof of the car theatrically. “Oh, that? Jeffy, Jeffy,” he said. “It was just a prank! You have to know that, right? It’s just another one of your mom’s silly shenanigans. I think she went a little too far on this one though, I’ll give you that much.”

So here’s a weird thing; I sort of believed him. Sure, looking back on it, it was a stupid f’ing thing to do. But you weren’t there. You weren’t in my head. You don’t know them like I did. They were just so painfully...dull, you know? A boring, old couple. Nothing about them ever stood out. They were normal. So unbelievably normal. And a five minute video can’t undo decades of carefully planned indoctrination.

“Uhm, yeah, I mean, OK,” I said, hanging my head in shame. And I did feel shame right then. Ashamed I’d made such a fool of myself. Ashamed I’d accused my parents of something so utterly heinous. That’s how deep it went. That’s how easy it was for them to control me.

“That’s a good boy,” my “dad” said, patting me on my back as I climbed into the backseat. Dave was getting fairly fed up with all the back and forth, and he’d scratched me up pretty severely on my panicky half-assed escape, so I focused on calming him down.

“Where are we going?” I inquired, staring out the window idly. We were heading out of town, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why.

I heard a soft chuckle, seemingly innocent enough, but for some reason I didn’t like the sound of it. “I figured a few days down by the old cabin would do you wonders,” he said. “Get you back on track. We cannot move lest we leave a demon behind in the hurricane, you know.”

It was such a strange thing to say, leave a demon behind in the hurricane, and I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d heard it somewhere before. I swallowed deeply as the familiar comfort of the concrete scenery was rapidly replaced by the ominous depths of the dark woods.

“So how did mom do it?” I asked. “How did she make the video?”

I stared at my “dad’s” neck as I asked the question, and noticed a slight twitch as the seemingly innocent inquiry registered. “Oh, you know,” he shrugged. “Computer programs and such.”

“Yeah, uhm, but which one? It seemed very sophisticated.”

“I mean, your brother helped her,” he squirmed. “Yes, they spent all of last weekend on it. Complicated stuff.”

“Justin was there last weekend? During the lockdown?” I asked, gently placing Dave on the floor below me. “He drove two hours for that?”

He didn’t respond right away, briefly glancing at me in the rearview mirror. I could tell that he was having a hard time keeping up with his rather poorly executed lies. “Yes, I mean, we’d planned it for months, so we couldn’t, you know, cancel it because of some silly old bug.”

“That, uhm, makes sense, yeah,” I lied.

He let out a sigh of relief, and I could see the smile returning to his face. The next part I didn’t really think through. It was an impulsive decision you could say. An act of misguided self-preservation mixed with varying degrees of rage and fear. He didn’t see it coming, I’ll tell you that much. An arm around his neck, squeezing as hard as I possibly could. The part I didn’t really think through was obviously the fact that he was operating a moving vehicle at high speed.

If you’ve ever been in a car accident, especially one where the car sort of flips mid-air, you might have experienced a certain calmness as you come to accept the finality of your imminent death. You know there’s nothing you can do; you’ll soon enough suffer the lethal impact of the violent collision, so you sort of sit back, metaphorically speaking, readying yourself for the inevitable conclusion.

But sometimes you’ll make it. Sometimes you’ll climb out of the flaming wreckage, laptop and Dave in hand, leaving the unconscious, fatally wounded body of your murderous fake father behind to burn slowly to death in the most horrible way imaginable. And that’s OK. That’s great, even. Just go with it, I say.

There was nothing around for miles, and I was in a pretty bad shape. I stumbled confusedly into the dark woods not quite knowing what to do, or where to go. I just knew I had to get away from the car. Away from the flames. Away from everything.

I can’t say for how long I wandered around in a dazed stupor, but it was getting dark when I found the old cabin. It wasn’t much, nothing more than a shed really, but it was enough. I managed to crack open a window and climb inside, finally allowing poor fat Dave to roam on his lonesome for a few, while I found an old worn-down couch, planting my exhausted body face down in it.

My phone started vibrating minutes later. It was my “mom” calling. I felt my heart beating out of my chest as I stared at the ominous pulsating greenish light of it. I wanted nothing more than to ignore it. To ignore her. But I knew I couldn’t. I knew I had to face her.

“Uhm, hello,” I answered. “What do you want?”

“Jeffy!” my “mom” sang cheerily. “I’m so glad you answered. I’ve been trying to reach your dad for hours now, but he won’t pick up. I don’t suppose you know what he’s up to?”

“He’s, uhm, dead,” I said. “I hope. Car accident, uhm, crash.”

There was a pause, and I could hear her breathing heavily in strained intervals. “That sounds like him, doesn’t it?” she said coldly. “Fell asleep at the wheel no doubt. Silly old fool, wasn’t he?”

She sounded so unphased, like she was discussing the weather with the neighbor or something. No feelings, no emotion; a flat, inhuman, lifeless tone. I was starting to realise just how dangerously insane she really was.

“You can get fucked!” I suddenly yelled. It was really out of character for me, the cursing. It’s not something I normally resort to, you know. “I got evidence, mom,” I snarled, “and you’re not getting away with it!”

“We’ll see about that, Jeffy,” she said calmly. “You know I’ll always find you. Wherever you are, whatever you do; mommy is coming for you.”

She ended the call on that note, knowing full well the state it would leave me in. If I wasn’t paranoid before, I sure as hell was now. Could she find me? Definitely. I was maybe a few miles from the car crash, probably on the only property within walking distance from it, and she wasn’t stupid. She was anything but stupid.

My phone vibrated again; a text message from “mom”. With trembling fingers I opened it, only to drop the phone to the floor the moment I realised what I was looking at.

It was a photo. A young woman and her baby, sitting on my “mom’s” couch. I recognized her instantly. It was their neighbor, Jenna. Single mom, kinda cute. I’ve had a crush on her for ages, but I’ve never acted on it. Don’t know how, you know? A single sentence captioned the image, and it sent tremors of cold chills down my spine.

If you leave me, Jeffy, I’ll have to replace you with someone new.

Love Mom<3 

---

Credits 

 

My Mom Sent Me Some Old Home Videos for My Birthday (Part 1)

I don’t celebrate birthdays anymore. When you get older you try to forget they even exist. You really don’t need a reminder telling you you’re slowly becoming an outdated dinosaur, and I’ve always found commemorating the harrowing approach of your own death a rather morbid notion. So I suppose having my birthday in the middle of a nationwide lockdown was somewhat of a godsend.

That didn’t stop my mother from sending me a present though. She always found a way to annoy me, in the best way possible, and she’d out-fiddle the devil himself just to put a smile on my face. I don’t know how she did it, but this morning, when I went to let Dave, my cat, out, I nearly tripped over it. An anonymous brown package just laying there, inside my flat. How the hell did she pull that off?

I chuckled internally as I desperately tried to decipher what was scribbled on the front of the package. It was clearly in her handwriting. I’d recognize it anywhere. The worst f’ing handwriting you’ll ever see. Like if you grabbed a crow, dipped its beak in ink, and let it peck randomly on the paper.

TO JEFFY, LOVE MOM

I yelled to Dave to hurry his shit up, but he wasn’t having it, so I just closed the door, and brought the package with me inside, carefully placing it down on the kitchen counter. Mom was a next-level prankster, so I made sure to investigate every inch of it, weighing it, gently shaking it, before finally opening it.

I scratched my head in puzzlement. It wasn’t much. Just a DVD. No note or anything. My mom wasn’t very technical, and the thought of her burning a DVD was quite frankly absurd. Did she even own a computer? Maybe dad helped her out? Or my brother? I guess there were ways she could have pulled it off, so I shrugged, and plopped the thing into my laptop.

After whirring discordantly for what felt like minutes, I was finally greeted with a single video file named Jeffy’s Home Videos 86-90. I caught myself smiling sheepishly in the reflection on my screen. I didn’t even know we had a video camera back then, so it was a very thoughtful surprise. Sort of an atypical gift from my mom, but I was still halfway expecting it all to be some elaborate prank. Maybe it was a rick roll or something?

But no, to my mild surprise it seemed like a pretty extensive collection of genuine home videos from the 80’s, complete with ridiculous low resolution, graininess, horrible audio, and an abysmal cameraman. They seemed to be in the wrong order though, starting when I was 4, then younger and younger, which, to me, proved that it was my technically challenged mom who’d compiled them.

I sat for about half an hour enjoying every second of the shaky cam time travel, reliving moments I’d entirely forgotten, laughing at how weird everybody looked back then, and boggling at how I was still alive. I was a stupid, stupid kid, always falling over and running into things. I sent my mom a picture of me and my bottle of wine relishing the ancient videos, with the caption Thanks for the home videos mom<3 Best birthday gift ever!

But then it got strange. I’d just finished watching the summer of 87, when we apparently spent the holiday out by my grandpa’s cabin by the sea. I was two years old then, and my brother Justin must have been five. It was a wonderful trip down non-memory lane, since I had no recollection of it, and I was anxiously looking forward to videos from my first year. I didn’t have any photos or anything from back then, my mom said they’d must have been misplaced when they moved a decade ago, but she could never seem to find them again.

It was the summer of 86 according to the date in the bottom left corner. A shaky cam, more than likely maneuvered by my dad, looking over a tall white fence. A family of three was gathered on the other side; husband, wife, and a tiny toddler. I didn’t recognize any of them, but I suppose they must have been our neighbors. We moved every couple of years when I was a child - something about my mom’s work - so it was an educated guess.

There was some barely audible whispering as the camera was lowered, now facing the grass. I replayed this part several times, but I could never really hear what was said. Just fragments of it made sense. We...Move...Leave...Hurry were the only words I could make out. Then the camera was raised, once again peering over the top of the fence. The family was gathered out by the front porch of a house, the toddler with his assumed mother, and the assumed father operating a hose, spraying water on assorted flowers. Then the camera moved again, focusing on the cheery face of my mom. She was wearing a bright red sun hat, real cheesy looking, and the first time I saw it I giggled uncontrollably.

“Let’s do it,” she said, grinning widely.

A chill ran down my spine. Those exact words have no meaning without context, you know. Could point to absolutely anything. Let’s do it. Let’s go get ice cream. Let’s do it. Let’s drive down to the beach. Innocent things. Mundane snapshots. But the way she said it, and the expression on her face; I knew instantly that something wasn’t right.

Moments later the shaky cam got shakier, now running around the fence, and into the backyard of the family. The cameraman, assumedly my dad, stopped at the gate, zooming in on the woman’s face. She looked shocked. Scared even, holding onto the toddler tightly, and backing away towards the front door. Then my mom came into view again, and I realised why the woman appeared so frightened. I had to replay that moment several times too, because I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it was her.

She was wielding a knife. A huge butchery thing. She turned and grinned to the camera, waving the knife around playfully, before suddenly charging at the woman, her terrifying high-pitched screams echoing through my kitchen. I almost stumbled to the floor as I watched the carnage unfold. My mom stabbed the woman brutally in her left leg, causing her to collapse on the front porch, the toddler rolling down onto the grass, wailing hysterically. The assumed father suddenly became aware of what was happening, and his eyes widened as he yelled something, running to the woman's aid, only to be stabbed in the neck by my mom as he came within arm’s reach.

The next two or three minutes were dedicated to my mom stabbing the two of them repeatedly, the fleshly, pulpy, mangled remains at the end of it hardly even human in appearance any more. Absolutely drenched in blood, my mom turned to the camera, laughing maniacally. She suddenly noticed the wailing toddler in the grass, and quickly wiped clean the knife with the inside of her dress, placing it down on the porch. She then gently lifted the toddler, hugging him tightly, smearing blood all over the child.

“We’ll name you Jeffy,” she said, and kissed him, me, on the cheek, before waving to the camera.

I slammed the laptop shut, and staggered back, hyperventilating uncontrollably. No. It couldn’t be. It had to be some kind of prank, right? Right? Some unbelievably elaborate prank. You could do that these days, you know? Fabricate shit like that? Right? Deep fake and everything?

My phone vibrated. A text from my mom. I read it. Then again. Once more. Then I grabbed my laptop and got the hell out of there.

I didn’t send you any videos, but your father is coming over to sort it out.

Stay where you are, Jeffy. Everything will be alright. Don’t move. We’ll be right there.

Mom<3

---

Credits 

We Used to Live Here [Part 4] (FINAL)

  

The family was seated around my dinner table like it was their own. Eating, laughing, living it up without a care to be had. But as soon as I entered, the party stopped. They just sat there, staring at me as if I was the one who didn’t belong.

Thomas filled the dead air, “Abigail, there you are,” he said, wiping his mouth with a red kerchief that matched his shirt. “You were going to share with us what happened in the basement, yes?”

Keep playing along Eve, don’t escalate. Wait for help to show up. But, why did they all look so calm?

“I… I was looking for tools and got lost in the dark,” I said. “It… reminded me of an old memory. A scary one, and… I let my imagination get the better of me. But I’m okay now, it was all in my head.”

Thomas gave a slight nod: Good work. The kids nodded too, but Paige, she just stared at me, eyes narrowing.

A sharp gust of wind SLAMMED against the windows - the house lights flickered. The family jumped. Thomas looked outside, shaking his head. “These storms get worse every year,” he said. “Hopefully the power holds out.” He motioned for me to take a seat. Hesitating, I stepped forward, pulled back an empty chair, and sat.

Paige wrapped her fingers around the handle of a serrated steak knife. “Your Auntie is going to be moving out soon kids,” she said, cutting into her steak, blood oozing from the veins of the dead meat.

Jenny, the hide and seeker, just sat there, watching me. Only now, her previous gloom was gone. She looked content, cheerful almost. I stared back, searching for cracks in the performance, but there were none.

“Abby?” Thomas chimed.

I looked up.

He blinked at me, expecting an answer to a question I didn’t even hear. “You were going to explain your reasoning,” he prodded, “for moving out.”

“Oh.” I cleared my throat, “I… I just think it’s time for me to be on my own… feels like the right time.”

The kids nodded in unison.

“Well, you sure will be missed,” said Thomas. “But, I think we can all agree it’s time for a change.”

I managed to fake another smile. Didn’t know how many more I had left in me.

“So,” said Thomas, turning towards his daughter, “How was school today?”

Jenny smiled, sheepish, “I… I don’t know.”

“Wow, you don’t know, that’s a first,” Thomas replied playfully.

Jenny gave a little shrug and smiled wider.

Thomas leaned forward, “You gotta tell me ONE thing that happened,” he said, “just one thing, that’s all I ask.”

What is this? Stay calm, Eve. He’s just messing with you.

Jenny laughed a bit, “Okay, Uhm… there… there was this dog in class today.”

“A dog?” said Thomas. “What’s a dog doing in a school?”

“It… it was a seeing-eye dog,” she squirmed in her seat, shy.

Thomas sprinkled salt onto his steak, “A seeing eye dog, what’s that?”

“It’s a dog that… it helps blind people walking around,” Jenny beamed.

“Wow. A professional dog.”

“What’s that?”

Thomas raised an eyebrow, “Professional?”

“Mhm.”

“It’s when you get paid for your work.”

“Oh… I… I don’t think the dog gets paid.”

“Well, he should.”

“Maybe with treats?” said Jenny, sincere.

Thomas chuckled and glanced over at me the way a proud parent does - his eyes filled with: ‘isn’t she cute?’ For a moment, I almost forgot everything else that was going on. Like it was just a typical family dinner, but then-

“-What about your friend in the city?” asked Paige, killing the mirage - right on cue. I snapped back into the fucked-up present, “What?”

She gulped down another mouthful of steak, “Your friend in the city, does she still have that spare room?”

I shook my head, not sure how to respond.

Paige sighed, “Your friend Charlie.”

My stomach twisted. “Oh… I don’t know if… if she still lives there,” I replied, continuing to play along, barely.

“Hmmm,” said Thomas, dousing his mashed potatoes with gravy. “We’ll figure something out. And don’t feel rushed, you can always stay longer if needed. One week is just ideal for us.”

Paige shot him a disapproving look.

Wow, a whole week, to move out of my own house. “Thanks Thomas. Very generous,” I said, sounding a little more sarcastic than intended.

Paige huffed, and rose from the table. She strode to the cupboard, and grabbed a bottle of Charlie’s favorite red wine. Perusing for an extra moment, she grabbed the corkscrew. Eyes locked onto mine, she sat back down, twisted the corkscrew into the wine cork and-

-Another ruthless blast of wind pushed through the house. The lights flickered on and off until-

-Darkness. Power outage. If not for the orange glow of the living room fireplace, it would’ve been pitch dark.

Thomas let out an exasperated sigh, “Great… I’ll get the candles.” Pushing up from the table, he stepped out of the kitchen.

Is now my chance? What do I do? The front door is locked. The windows are barred. Abigail, Queen of the ants, is down in the basement. Ugh. I couldn’t even hear myself think - Paige kept cranking on that corkscrew, staring at me the whole time. She had to be doing it on purpose now. Then, finally, she popped out the cork, and poured until her glass was nearly full. Right to the brim. Classy.

But… that’s when I noticed the necklace.

Around Paige’s neck: Charlie’s necklace. I checked my back pocket. Empty. A flood of emotions followed: Grief. Fear. Confusion. Rage. It started in my temples, pushed to my hands, my feet, every single part of me like an uncontrollable wildfire.

Until now, I’d been in denial about what happened downstairs. Charlie wasn’t hiding. Charlie wasn’t being held captive. Charlie was dead. She must be. Yes, Abigail said Charlie was alive, but I saw that hammer - It was covered in blood. And now, Paige FUCKING Foster was wearing Charlie’s locket like it was her own.

“Where’d you find that?” I said, almost blurting it out.

“Hmm?” said Paige, slowly looking towards me, sipping from her wine.

“The necklace,” I said. “Where’d you find it?”

“Oh, just a store.”

I rose to a stand - the kids tensed up, wary - Paige stared at me, confused - I moved closer.

Wait, what was I doing here? What was my plan?

“…Abigail?” said Paige, nervous.

She kept blathering on, but I wasn’t there anymore. I was in the past. Memories were playing out in my head. Those strange, little moments that stand out more and more as time goes on. The way Charlie snorted when she laughed sometimes, then laughed even harder out of embarrassment. The way her face lit up every time she saw a dog stick its head out a car window. The way she wrapped her arms around me from behind, and nuzzled her chin up to my neck as we fell asleep. All these memories played out in my head like they were happening right now, and then-

-Before I even knew what I was doing - I’d grabbed Paige with one hand, and the corkscrew with the other. Arms gripped around her, I pulled back, and her chair fell to the floor with a CRASH.

Time slowed to a near stop. As I held the corkscrew to the side of her throat, her children screamed. The fireplace crackled. The wind outside howled. But Paige, she was silent. For the first time in her life, she didn’t have a fucking thing to say. Not one word. Only quick, terrified little breaths: music.

“Woah, now…” said Thomas, treading into the dining room, cell phone in hand.

I spun Paige around to face him, “Where is Charlie?” I snapped.

“Kids, go to your rooms. Lock the doors,” he said.

But they didn’t respond - they just sat there, paralyzed.

“NOW,” he boomed. They scrambled out of the kitchen.

“Abigail…” he spoke as calmly as possible, “You have to let her go-”

“-What the FUCK happened to Charlie?”

He took a deep breath, exhaled. “She’s living in the city now. You told us yourself, Abby you-”

“-Thomas, stop. My name isn’t Abby. I’m fucking done with this. Just tell me where Charlie is right now or-”

“-T-Thomas please,” Paige’s voice quivered. Petrified.

“Paige, don’t worry, she’s not going to do anything. Abby, listen to me - Charlie is okay, we can call her right now, she can explain everything and… Abby this isn’t you. The medications. I know you’ve been missing your doses. That’s what’s happening here, your mind is going through withdrawal, playing tricks on you… Your sponsor, they’re on the way right now. They’re going to help you and-”

-He held up his phone-

“-Look. I just called them, and-”

“-THOMAS,” I yelled so loud it shook the floorboards. I lowered my voice, “Thomas. I need you to listen to me. Listen carefully. If you don’t tell me where Charlie is - something really, REALLY bad is going to happen.”

Paige winced as the corkscrew pricked against her skin. “T-Thomas, just tell her,” she quivered again, riddled with fear.

Thomas took another small step forward, “Abby, listen to me. I need you to ground yourself. Focus on your senses. Focus on-”

-Wait, how did he know about that-

“-Focus on-”

-Sight: Paige’s blonde hair. Thomas’ dumbstruck face. The glow of the fireplace.

Sound: Heart thumping. Panicked breath. Howling wind.

Smell: Red wine. Blood. Desperation.

Touch: My hand gripped tightly around the corkscrew, and-

-a sudden, clawing pain shot through my right thigh. My whole body tensed up in a spasm. I staggered backward, let go of Paige, and looked down. Holy fuck. She stabbed a steak knife right into my thigh-

-Then I realized - my hands were empty. The corkscrew was gone. Paige toppled to the floor like a bowling pin. The bloody knife was still in her hand.

She hit the ground choking, gargling. What just happened? My eyes darted around for an answer, until finally, I saw-

-The corkscrew was lodged, handle-deep, into the side of Paige’s throat. I… I must have… I didn’t mean to… A thin line of blood trailed down her neck, onto the hardwood floor - her mouth slowly opened and closed, opened and closed. Like she was trying to speak. Trying to breathe.

“Paige…” Thomas whispered, stunned. I stumbled backward into the kitchen.

Snapping from his daze, Thomas collapsed to the floor over Paige. He held her neck, trying to stop the bleeding. “Paige,” his voice cracked. He stared into her eyes, but her gaze just flicked side to side - empty. Desperation growing, Thomas pressed harder, trying to stop the bleeding.

Mind spinning, leg throbbing, I limped out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Paige wasn’t human, I told myself. She wasn’t even real. None of this is real. But it felt real, more real than anything I’d ever felt. Every memory I ever had, good or bad, it didn’t matter - everything drowned in the present.

Staggering into the moonlit foyer, I went for the door. Locked. Already knew that. Fuck… I needed to get out of here. I looked down, a dark circle of warm blood seeped through my jeans. Deal with that later, just get outside. I turned around, and remembered-

-The hammer. I could use it to pry open the door.

“Paige,” Thomas whimpered from the kitchen, “I’m here, I’m here Paige, I’m not leaving.”

Focus Eve. I swept back into the living room, trudged up to the so-called quiet-corner, snatched up the hammer and scrambled back to the foyer. Wasting no time, I shimmied it pry-bar first into the door frame, and wrenched back. The wood splintered and strained. I kept prying, kept pulling, but it seemed hopeless, it seemed-

-Thomas SCREAMED. Animalistic, filled with unimaginable grief. RAGE. And I knew exactly what it meant:

Paige was dead.

“No… no… NO…” he trailed off into a strange guttural moan. Tragic and terrifying all at once. His clenched fist THUD against the floor - an impact so heavy I could hear the hardwood CRACK. More screaming, thrashing. Now, he was breaking things, tearing apart the kitchen. Wrathful.

I pried on the door harder and harder, but it was no use. It wouldn’t budge.

“ABIGAIL,” he screamed, voice filled with murder.

Fuck the door. Hammer still in hand, I scrambled upstairs. Thomas charged into the foyer, just in time to see me disappear at the top of the steps.

Right leg going numb, I pushed off the wall and staggered down the hallway. Behind me, FOOTSTEPS thundered up the stairs like an ever-rising war drum.

I tried the first door. Locked. The next one. Locked. My eyes shot down to the end of the hall: Abigail’s bedroom. Fuck it. I burst inside, slammed the door shut. Spinning around, I pressed my back up against it. I scanned the room, searching for somewhere to hide, somewhere to-

-Abigail. She was standing in the far corner of her room, back-turned, head slumped. Shaking… sobbing… weeping… “I didn’t know - I didn’t know - I’m sorry - I’m sorry…” she whimpered again and again. Sorry about what?

Behind me, the door BURST open, and Thomas SLAMMED into me like a freight train. Thrusting me against a barred window, he jammed his forearm against my throat, crushing it. He stared into my eyes, silent, possessed by rage. Sorrow.

As I gasped for air, I looked to the far corner: Empty. Abigail was gone. Was she even there to begin with? I looked back to Thomas.

Before this, I thought maybe he’d been putting on a show, but now, I could finally see it in his eyes: He actually believed he lived in this house. He actually believed I was his sister, but-

“-We did so much for you,” he snarled, spit spraying my face. “We gave you EVERYTHING.” With his free hand, he clutched me by the hair, jerked my head forward, and SMASHED it back into the wall. Throbbing pain.

“We ACCEPTED you into our HOME.” He slammed my head back again, harder this time - each impact heavier than the last. Pain radiated. Vision grew blurry. This was it. I was going to die. This was-

-Might as well fight back dipshit.

With my left leg, and all of my remaining strength, I kneed him in the stomach. Winded, he staggered backward, and crumpled to his knees.

I gasped in air, barely conscious-

-He looked up, readied himself to lunge and-

-I swung the hammer -- claw end first -- into the side of his face. A sickening CRACK filled the room as it lodged into his jaw.

Still on his knees, Thomas stared up at me in disbelief. He didn’t think I was capable of this. Neither did I.

Our eyes locked for a strange, quiet moment, and then… I pressed my foot onto his stomach, pushed it forward and - with both arms, all my strength, wrenched back. The hammer tore open his face with a sickening, wet sound. His perfect teeth ripped out and clattered to the floor in a bloody mess.

He crumpled over. Blood trailed down his jaw, over his neck - the torn flap of his cheek hung open - dangling. Fucking horrific.

But slowly, I raised the hammer, tensed up and…

…Thomas started sobbing. His pitiful, rising whimpers filled Abigail’s room like a noxious cloud. He was holding his face now, as if trying to put himself back together. Blood seeped through his fingers, and his whimpering grew more panicked, more desperate…

“Please… please don’t… Abby please…” he sputtered, drooling ropes of blood onto the floor.

…And all the while, I just stood there, hammer raised. Readying myself to finish the job but... I couldn’t. Despite all my fear, all my hatred, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Paige was an accident - I’m not a killer. I lowered my arm. The blood-soaked hammer slipped from my hand and fell to the floor.

I staggered back towards the hallway, stepped out, and started to pull the door shut. But at the last second-

-Thomas eyes snapped up, and his face twisted into a mangled grin, “Where are you going, Eve?”

I yanked the door SHUT, and held it. Why the FUCK did he just call me that?? Hold that thought. I grabbed a red chair from the hallway and wedged it under the door handle.

Focus. But why the fuck was he smiling at me? Stop, Eve. Focus.

-Help isn’t coming, they would’ve been here by now. Get outside, get to the neighbors. But the front door was locked. All the windows were barred. Maybe there was something-

-The attic. The porthole window. There’s no way that’s barred. Just get up there, onto the roof, find a way down - jump in a snowbank if you have to.

I yanked down the attic staircase and climbed, wincing pain throbbed with every step. All the while, not a peep from Abigail’s bedroom. Not a bang on the door, not a whimper, not even a footstep. Only silence - terrifying silence.

Hoisting myself up, I ran down the narrow hallway. Ignore the pain. Keep moving. Light-headed, I stumbled into the corner room, to the porthole window and pushed it open. I shimmied myself up and through. A tight fit. Wriggling my way out-

-A hand CLUTCHED around my ankle and YANKED me back inside. I slammed into the splinter-ridden floor chin-first, and SPUN around just in time to see the moonlight glisten off Thomas’ torn open face. How did he get up here so quickly?

He lunged onto me, wrapped his hands around my throat and started to SQUEEZE.

“We BUILT this house,” he BOOMED like a mad apostle - slobbering blood onto my face. I reached up, grabbed his wrists, tried to pull them away, but it was no use. He squeezed tighter. A lump formed in my throat, like an ever-expanding cyst. I couldn’t breathe. I was fading. Shadows crawled from the corners of my eyes. Everything was becoming nothing.

He lowered his voice to a spitting whisper, “We sowed the forest.”

Great, I get to die listening to a psychotic maniac. Right then, a shiny glint caught the corner of my eye. I looked over: universal tire chains. Thanks Charlie. With a final push of resistance - I reached - wrapped the tips of my fingers around the chains - and-

“-We gave life TO-”

-I swung. The chains CRACKED into his temple, and his head TWISTED to the side. A red curtain of blood WHIPPED onto the floor, the wall, the turtle painting.

Slowly, he turned back to me, but now, his gaze was empty. Vacant. Blood trailed from his cracked temple, into his twitching eye, and dripped onto my cheek. His grip loosened.

“We were… here before… before the” he trailed off into incoherent mumbles.

Tire chains still in hand, I shoved him off of me, and pushed up to standing. Thomas tried to stand too, but he couldn’t. He fell back to his knees, and looked up at me, barely conscious. He kept trying to talk, only to mutter incoherently. Kept trying to stand, only to fall back down. I stepped around - faced him from behind.

“Where… is… Charlie…” I demanded. But Thomas only responded with more meaningless mumbles.

Enough. I breathed in, and on my exhale - wrapped the chains around his neck. I pulled back. He reached up, pawing, trying to tear them away. Futile. Weak. Pulling tighter, I pressed my knee into his back and pushed. He gasped. Choking. Wheezing. I pulled back even harder. He coughed a spatter of blood. His efforts to fight were fading with each passing second until, finally-

“-STOP.”

I looked up.

In the doorway, eyes wide with terror, stood Charlie. I froze in shock, released Thomas, and staggered back. He fell forward, gasping for breath, barely alive.

“Charlie…” I whispered.

But Charlie was looking down, absorbing the sight of a devastated Thomas. Then… she looked up at me.

Questions shuffled through my head so rapidly I couldn’t even speak. What about her phone in the basement? How was she okay? How was she alive?

All the while, Charlie didn’t say a word, she just stood there, eyes filled with growing fear… but she wasn’t scared of Thomas.

She was scared of me.

“Charlie wait,” I finally managed. Lowering the chains, I took a step forward.

But she stepped back, eyes flicking down to the blood-slicked weapon in my hand. I dropped the chains, and took another step. Charlie kept backing away, shaking her head, on the verge of tears. Devastated.

Downstairs, the front door burst open. Heavy footsteps clamored through the foyer, up the stairs. Sirens.

“Charlie, I can explain, I can…” I stammered, voice cracking. She looked into my eyes one last time, then turned away, disappearing down the hallway. “… She’s up here,” said Charlie.

“Wait,” I stepped over Thomas, into the hallway and-

-Two police officers grabbed me by the arms, shoved me into the wall face first - pink insulation sliced my skin like paper-cuts. They clasped handcuffs around my wrists, and yanked me back. I didn’t fight, I didn’t even speak, I just stared ahead blankly as they tugged me through the attic. Now, from exhaustion and blood loss, I was slipping in and out of consciousness.

As they dragged me down the upstairs hallway, a few paramedics rushed into the attic. My gaze drifted across the wall. The dumbwaiter chute was once again covered up - as if it were never even there to begin with. They pulled me around a corner. My eyes landed on a cracked bedroom door. From behind it, Jenny peered out, face filled with inconsolable dread.

They pulled me down the stairs, into the foyer, towards the front door. Just as they pulled me outside, I looked back and saw-

-a painting. On the foyer wall, a painting of the house, covering up the jagged hole. Thomas’ family was in it. Him, Paige and the three kids. All of them standing out front, happy, smiling. But behind them, peering out through the porthole window, a hazy, solitary figure. Eternally trapped.

Outside, the storm was over now, the snow was melting. As the sun crept up over distant mountains - the sky split down the middle, half night, half day. On the ground - commotion everywhere. Fire trucks. Cop cars. Ambulances. Neighbors crowding on the street, Harpreet and Miguel among them. My eyes darted around, looking for Charlie, but she was nowhere to be seen.

The cops dragged me down the driveway, past the yellow tape, through the crowds, onto the street, and then I saw-

-Standing at the edge of the forest - hands once again covering her face like peekaboo - Abigail. But slowly, she started to pull her hands apart, revealing her face bit by bit, until finally, showing herself fully. This time, in the early morning light. Her once dull eyes were now permeating with life, vitality -- Her once sunken face was full again, red-cheeked. She looked straight into my terror-stricken soul and smiled, serene, a look of pure contented peace. Grateful. Grateful for what? Then, she turned around, withdrew into the darkened woods - away from the crowds, the chaos, the house. Before I could even process what this meant, I was thrown into the back of a van, and the door slammed shut.

Darkness.

—

Everyone keeps calling me Abigail.

But my name is Eve. I was born on October 3rd, 1987 at 2:56 in the morning. My current residence is 3719 Heritage Lane. My partner, the love of my life, is Charlie Bastion. We renovate old houses and flip them for profit. We’ve been together for the last seven years. My name is Eve Palmer, but everyone keeps calling me Abigail Foster.

Now, even according to official documents, the family owns the house, and they’d been living there for years. All my neighbors vouch for them, even Harpreet and Miguel. Nobody recognizes me anymore, not even Charlie. I still look the way I always have, but everyone treats me like I’m a completely different person.

So now, beyond all reason, all justice, I’m locked away in a criminal psych ward, charged with one count of homicide and one count of attempted. Locked away in a room no bigger than a walk-in closet. White walls. Rickety bed. Cold fluorescent light. I’m not sure how long it’s been anymore. Could be months. Could be years.

According to the lead doctor here, I’ve been in and out of mental wards my whole life. They tell me I’ve got a laundry list of psychotic delusions. They say my version of events, the story above, is nothing but an elaborate hallucination mixed in with little bits of reality.

Complete.

Fucking.

Bull.

Shit.

I’ve done enough reading to know that psychotic delusions and hallucinations don’t work that way. They don’t work like they do in the stories, with continuity, and tied-up loose ends. These weren’t hallucinations. These weren’t delusions. Somehow, Thomas Foster bent reality around me like a frayed wire.

And I’m pretty sure his sister Abigail was in on it too. I’m still putting it all together, but I think she took me down in exchange for her freedom. I think she replaced me.

As for the rest of his family, I don’t know if they were in on it, held captive or something in between. I’m still figuring that one out.

What about Charlie? According to so-called officials, Charlie was nothing more than my part-time sponsor for the last six months. Basically a volunteer caretaker. Maybe that’s what she is now, maybe that’s what she is in this reality…

At first, I thought everyone was pulling some horrific stunt on me. Even the doctors. But like I said, neighbors, friends, even my own parents, nobody recognizes me anymore. It’s like Thomas Foster pushed me into a completely different reality...

So who do I turn to? Charlie? I’ve tried to contact her dozens of times. Email, phone, even letters, but she’s never responded. Not even once.

—

The only good thing about this place is the library. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure this facility helps people who actually need it, but I don’t need it. I’m not psychotic, Thomas Foster is. That said, if this place didn’t have a library, there’s a good chance I would’ve actually lost my mind. They’ve got computers with internet too. Slow internet, but still. That’s where I’ve been doing my research, writing the real version of events, putting together my case. I still have Abigail’s journal too, so I’m threading together pieces from that. Figuring out what Thomas is, how to stop him. I’m not going to share everything until my case is air tight. But you just wait, soon enough the whole world will know what Thomas Foster did to me.

Either way, I don’t care if you believe me or not. Even if I had all the evidence in the world, it wouldn’t matter to some of you. I just need to convince the few people I still care about first. Then, I’ll worry about everyone else.

But despite all this, I feel hopeful. As long as I can stay stable, play along with the doctors. If nothing sets me off, then I can finally get out of here. Then I can finally talk to Charlie in person and explain what happened. Find a way to make everything go back to how it was before. At least, that’s how I felt up until a week ago…

I was lying on my bed when…

My eyes caught something - up on the white stucco ceiling: a solitary ant aimlessly wandering in circles.

“Abigail?” A voice snapped me out of the daze. I turned.

Standing in the doorway, a nurse, two security guards behind her. “You have a visitor.”

—

Flickering cold fluorescent light cast over the visiting room. Faded brick walls. Spaced apart tables. Guards standing at attention in every doorway.

Finally, the door BUZZED open, and in walked:

Thomas Foster. The father. My supposed brother. A sickening chill crawled down my spine. He caught my eyes from across the room and gave me a lopsided smile. The side of his face was scarred, but considering the injury, surprisingly well healed. His eyes were bright, present.

I looked down at the table, staring at my handcuffed wrists. Part of me was expecting the visitor to be Charlie, I don’t know why. Still holding out hope, I guess.

Thomas sat down across from me.

A long silence passed. Buzzing lights. From somewhere deep within the ward, muffled, hysterical laughter - laughter that slowly turned into sorrowful weeping.

“Abigail?” said Thomas, finally breaking the silence.

I didn’t look up, my eyes traced back and forth along the hand-cuff’s chain.

He cleared his throat, “It… it’s okay if you’re still not ready to talk. I understand. I just wanted to share a few things.” Thomas waited for me to acknowledge him. I didn’t. So, he just kept going. “This is kind of odd, but… do you remember Walter?”

Nope.

He continued, “Walter, my pet tortoise… you actually made me a painting of him - for my fifth birthday. Still up in my office.” He breathed out his nose. “I must’ve been six, maybe seven when he died. Even little things can feel pretty world-ending when you’re a kid… Everyone kept trying to make me feel better. Except dad: He said I needed to get over it by the end of the day,” Thomas chuckled bitterly. “Mom said it was normal: Tommy, she told me, pets die all the time, part of life. Walter’s up in heaven now.” Thomas sighed, shifting weight, “I don’t know if you remember this, but… you were the only one who actually made me feel any better.”

I looked up.

But he was looking down at the table now, “…You just sat beside me,” he continued, “wrapped an arm around my shoulder, and let me cry. That’s it. No lessons. No advice. No ultimatums. You just sat there quietly, and let me know it’s okay to feel like crap sometimes. Even if it was just a stupid turtle.”

He sniffed a little, eyes starting to water. “Gosh, Abby. I don’t know. I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately and…”

He looked right at me, but I looked away.

“It’s okay if you don’t wanna talk,” he went on. “I get it. I just wanted to let you know that…” he paused a moment, thinking over his next words carefully. “I’ve been working on myself a lot and, through all this… your relapse, my injuries, Paige’s passing. I’ve rejoined the church. Don’t know if you even knew I’d lost my faith, but…” He paused, again expecting me to say something. But I remained silent. He cleared his throat, “I’ve been talking with the doctors here, and they said you’ve made a lot of progress… They said as long as you keep at it, keep improving, following their guidance. As long as nothing unexpected happens. You could be out on probation sooner than you think.”

I remained quiet.

“Look,” he said. “I’ve come to accept that you weren’t in control of your actions. You have a condition. A condition you’re getting treated for and… I just wanted to let you know that… Abby?” He leaned in slightly, “Abby could you look at me?”

Slowly, I turned, and stared blankly into his eyes.

He stared back for a sullen moment, “I forgive you.”

The words hung in the air like a rotting stench, but my face remained neutral. I looked away. Thomas kept hovering, waiting for a response, but again, I gave him fuck all. I wasn’t playing his make-believe game. Not anymore.

A few tense seconds went by until he nodded slowly, “I understand. We can talk when you’re ready.” He stood up, turned to leave, and froze. “Oh… I almost forgot,” pivoting back, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a manilla envelope.

“The guards said I could leave this here,” he placed it on the table. “I know it meant a lot to you and Charlie.”

Finally, I looked up at him. For the briefest of moments, his face twitched. Then, he smiled sadly, turned around, and went for the exit. Footsteps punctuated the silence. The door buzzed shut as he left the room.

I just sat there, staring at the envelope. I already knew what was inside - but I couldn’t bring myself to look. Seconds dragged by like minutes until finally, I reached forward, opened it, looked in and…

…aching sorrow filled every part of me.

Inside, just as I expected, was the locket. Charlie’s locket.

I pulled it out. Flicked it open and-

-There it was. The photo of me. The one Charlie took when we first started dating. The one she put up in her gallery on that rainy Seattle day. The one in which, at the last second, I’d turned away, held up my hand, and hid my face.

The only known photo of Eve Palmer.

—

—

—

this is not the end

--. --- .. -. --. ..--..

We Used to Live Here [Part 3]

  

Thomas and Paige stared at me, both playing dumb.

Pretending they couldn’t hear Charlie’s ringtone. Oscar-worthy shit. But I didn’t have time to appreciate the performance. If Charlie was somehow in the basement, then she might be hurt, or worse. I needed to get down there, call the police, and find her - NOW.

Tucking away Paige’s phone, I started out of the kitchen.

“Eve, where are you going?” said Thomas.

Ignoring him, I hauled across the room, snagged the flashlight from the couch, and-

“-Eve, you can talk to us.” He grabbed me by the arm-

“-Don’t FUCKING touch me,” I wrenched free, stepped back. Silence. They just stared at me, wide-eyed, scared even. Good. They should be.

“Eve. What, what’s wrong?” he stammered, still giving a top-notch performance. Bravo.

Flashlight clenched in my hands like a weapon, I eased back towards the basement door. Slipping inside, I slammed it shut. Darkness. With both hands grasped around the knob, I braced for Thomas to follow, but… he didn’t. I listened for a moment, no footsteps. Only muffled voices. I pressed my ear to the door.

“What if she finds-” said Paige, but I couldn’t make out the rest. “Doesn’t matter now-” Thomas muttered a barely audible response. What were they talking about? Who knows - probably some death-cult fuckery - just find Charlie.

Convinced Thomas wouldn’t follow, I crept back, then spun around and hurried downward. At the base of the stairs, I pulled out Paige’s flip-phone and punched in 9-1-1. Two ringtones-

-A young woman answered, “Nine-one-one operator. What is your emergency?”

“Home invasion.”

“If you can, get outside or barricade yourself in a room.”

“Okay.” Sure, after I find Charlie.

“Name?”

“Eve. Eve Palmer.”

“Eve, are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Is the intruder still in the house?”

“Yes. There’s more than one actually.”

“Can you describe them?”

“A man, a woman and…” I trailed off. “Can you just send help?”

“And…?”

“Three kids…”

“Three kids?”

“Yes, they’re uh, a family.”

“And they’ve threatened you?”

“Yes. Well, not the kids, but the parents did.” Technically a lie. Sue me.

“Are they armed?”

“Possibly. I think they hurt my girlfriend, or they’re holding her hostage. There’s another woman in the attic too. She might be the guy’s sister, I don’t know. Just send help. Now.”

“Address?”

“3719 Heritage Lane.”

“Ma’am… a car has already been dispatched to your location.”

“Great. Thank you.”

“No, what I mean is, someone from this address has already called in a disturbance.”

“A disturbance?”

“Yes, a 51-50. Was that you?”

“No…” Let me guess: Thomas called it in - worthless piece of shit.

“Ma’am?”

Fuck. Did I say that last part out loud?

“Eve… I’d like you to stay on the line until police arrive. You should know, the storm has delayed response time and-”

-That’s when I noticed the blood. A trail of tiny red dots spattered on the ground. I lowered the phone to inspect and-

-Upstairs, a sudden CRASH. Followed by heavy scraping across the floor. A flood of footsteps. Like dozens of people marching around. Puffs of dust wheezed from straining floorboards above me. What the hell was going on up there?

Focus Eve.

I flipped the phone shut. Authorities were en route - that’s all that mattered. Even if Thomas called them in first, what would he say when they got here? ‘Uhm, it’s actually my house because I put a rocking chair in the living room.’ Good luck with that one buddy.

Following the trail of blood, I entered a long, narrow hallway. Doors on either side. Symmetrical. Numbered. It almost looked like a prison. The fuck? Flashlight in hand, I pushed forward. The scattered line of blood led straight ahead, past several doorways, and curved into an open room. A musty, brick-walled nook.

Continuing into the back corner, the blood ran over a pile of abandoned clutter. I beamed light through the mess. Behind it, a blocked doorway. I started grabbing debris and tossing it aside. Up above, the scraping and footsteps grew louder. A rickety, percussive drone. Finally, I cleared away the old trash and opened the door.

A long, uneven staircase receded downward into a darkened void. A basement within a basement. Come on. Suddenly, the sounds from upstairs cut short.

Silence.

Behind me, two quick shuffling scrapes. I spun around, aimed light into the doorway. Empty. Uneasy, I turned back and redialed Charlie’s phone. Two tones rang out-

-In the darkness beyond the bottom of the stairs, Ludwig’s classic riff chimed to life. Okay. Creepy sub-basement, here I come.

At the bottom of the steps, the trail of blood ended. Hard stop. Did it start or finish here? I stepped forward into a vast, shadowy room. Down here, Charlie’s ringtone pinged off the walls, echoing from every direction. Wary, I struggled to get my bearings. The circular glow from my flashlight revealed the room bit by bit - it almost looked like an abandoned mine. Cave-like, make-shift, bizarre.

Strained wooden beams struggled to keep the earth at bay. The room itself was filled with paintings - stacks and stacks of paintings. But none of them were hanging. They were just strewn on the ground - leaning against the dirt walls - piled up in the corners.

Charlie’s ringtone stopped, and for a moment, its echo lingered in the stagnant air. Silence. I redialed, but this time, calling from down here, it didn’t ring. I checked the screen: no service.

“Charlie…?” I called out. Nothing.

Determined, I wandered deeper. Maybe there was something here, something that would make sense of all of this insanity. But there were only paintings, and every single one was more or less the same. Depictions of this house in different contexts: half-built, fully renovated, abandoned, burnt down to a crisp. An exceptionally odd one portrayed the windows and doors swarmed with tiny black dots. Ants?

Who painted these? Was it Abigail? Did she make the one above the fireplace too? The smiling turtle in the attic?

As I crept forward, my light swept across a painting with people in it. I crouched down for a closer look. It was a family. Standing in front of the house, a Rockwellian couple with two children. Boy and girl. The father was nearly the spitting image of Thomas - right down to his perfect teeth. The young girl looked sad, despondent. The boy had Thomas’ eyes. This had to be his family, painted when he lived here as a kid. Thomas, his sister Abigail, and their parents. They looked so traditional, so serious, it almost made the family upstairs look fun in comparison. Almost.

I was about to step away, but… I squinted. In this painting, young Thomas looked out of place, like he was put there after the fact by a lesser artist. His dimensions weren’t quite right. His arms were just the slightest bit too long, his mouth the slightest bit too wide. Even his texture looked off. I pressed my thumb tip against his face. The paint for him felt different from the rest - cheap, acrylic, cold. Unnerved, I pulled away my hand, leaving behind a pinkish smear where young Thomas’ jaw used to be-

-A gleam caught my eye. I swiveled to look, but it was just an unlit oil lamp. It sat atop a cramped desk covered in stacks of black, leather journals. And above the desk, across a horizontal support beam, a message - scrawled with olive green paint:

THOMAS FOSTER IS NOT MY BROTHER

Okay… I crossed over. The desk lamp still had oil, and beside it lay an old pack of matches. I struck one and held it to the lamp until - a dim, flickering glow stammered to life. Shaking out the match, I looked around, absorbing the room in all its weirdness. Distorted, jittery shadows cast over precarious picture frame towers. In the far corner lay a dirt-stained mattress, overgrown with roots, covered in dust. Hadn’t been touched in years. Was Abigail sleeping down here? Above the bed hung a rope-ladder leading up to a hole in the ceiling. Did that connect to the dumbwaiter?

Turning back to the desk, I grabbed a journal from the nearest stack. Maybe this would explain what was going on here. I flipped through, but every single page was filled to the margins with:

Thomas Foster is not my brother. Thomas Foster is not my brother. Thomas Foster is-

-Useless. I tossed it aside, grabbed another one:

You are part of the house. You are part of the house. You are-

-worthless. I snagged the next one:

You are not who they say you are. You are not who they say you are. You are-

-nothing. Nothing but the meaningless ramblings of a seriously unstable person. I’d bet a thousand bucks the next one said: All work and no play makes Abigail a dull girl. But… what did she mean Thomas wasn’t her brother? I was about to turn away when - I noticed a solitary, deep-red journal, tucked away at the bottom of the furthest stack-

-I shimmied it out, cracked it open, and skimmed through. Entry after entry of young Abigail talking about moving into the new house. Her aspirations to become a painter. How she felt out of place in her own skin.

I kept flipping through, glimpsing hand-written moments of Abigail’s tragic life. All the while, looking for something, anything that would help me.

She wrote about the kids in school, how they tormented her for being ‘too tall’. How they called her: Drabby-Abby, Drabby-Abby, Drabby-Abby.

She wrote about the time she shaved her head. How her parents, as punishment, locked her up in the attic until all her hair grew back. How they sent her food rations up through the dumbwaiter chute. How on the first night locked away up there, she awoke covered in ants. Swarmed from head to toe.

She wrote about how she hated being an only child…

…an only child?

Then… she wrote about how Thomas was not her brother. How he came from the woods in the light of day. How he lived here before the house was even built. Before the trees were planted. How he was trying to drive her mad, and nobody believed her, not even her parents. How he was trying to turn her into-

-Something caught my periphery. I looked up.

Ants.

Above the desk, from a crack in the wooden beam, a trail of ants crawled out of the olive green ‘O’ in: THOMAS.

Okay. Slipping the red journal into my back pocket, I followed the trail as it disappeared behind a stack of rotting picture frames. They rounded a corner, and stretched down an ever-narrowing passage, receding into darkness. I raised the flashlight, flicked it on and-

-a woman.

Standing at the end of a dead-end passage with her back turned. Not Charlie - too tall. It was Abigail, had to be. Wearing an off-white hospital gown, just like in the attic. But somehow, it looked like she’d been standing there for years - almost rooted to the ground, like she’d become a part of the room itself. Paralyzed. Looming. Arms hanging limp.

Clutched in her left hand, a small hammer, the same one I’d used to pry nails out from above the fireplace. But now, it was covered in red. Blood…

…Then, she started shaking. A strange, soundless movement, somewhere between weeping and laughter. I stepped backward, and she looked over her shoulder towards me. Her face was pale, sunken cheeks. Her eyes were gently shut.

With surprising speed, the trail of ants climbed up the side of her leg, onto her back, over her shoulders, and began to circle around her neck - an unearthly choker. Her mouth twisted into a pained, toothy grimace and then, the ants started swarming her face. Crawling into her nostrils, her mouth. Writhing ants frantically forcing their way between the cracks of her gums, her teeth. But she remained unphased. Unmoving.

The sight was so terrible, so incomprehensible, I questioned if it was even real.

Then, the ants began to recede. Disappearing into her face until… there was only one ant left. Wriggling its way between her blood-red gums, writhing until, finally… it slipped through her teeth with an almost audible schlick-

-Abigail’s eyes snapped open. Cold and blue. Wide. Mystified. She looked down at the blood-drenched hammer in her hand. Face filling with a horrific mixture of terror, and unimaginable guilt, she whispered, “My name isn’t…”

I took a slow step backward.

“My name isn’t Eve.” She spun around, and took a step towards me - a sudden, unbalanced movement, as if puppeteered from above. Staggering forward, she raised the hammer back, wound up to strike and-

-I turned heel and hauled it the fuck out of there. Abigail in pursuit, I barreled up the stairs - out of the empty room - into the hallway and ran. Faster than I’d ever run in my entire goddamn life. Behind me, her bare feet SLAPPED against concrete. Gaining.

“WAIT,” she gasped.

Scrambling forward, I slid around a corner. Doors on either side blurred past. Numbered. Symmetrical. Wait, wasn’t I already here?

Ahead of me: a dead end. Above me: the ominous drones returned with a vengeance. Behind me: footfalls, getting closer.

Left with no choice, I shoved into the nearest room, pulled the door shut, and reached for the-

-no lock. Fuck. I scanned around, hunting for a weapon, something to bar the door, a place to hide, anything. But there wasn’t-

-Wait.

In the far corner: a shuttered-door wardrobe. Without thinking, I hurtled over, whipped inside, yanked the door shut, and held it there. All the while, the scraping sounds from upstairs grew louder. My heart pumped with short stuttering sprints.

Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-Shut the fuck up Eve. Calm down. Just, calm the fuck down. It’s only one person-

-yeah but she’s armed with a hammer and ants crawled into her face and she’s probably going to-

-STOP.

Just… stop. First off, turn the flashlight off. It’s lighting you up like a billboard.

My inner voice was starting to sound weirdly similar to a frustrated Charlie. I don’t know if that’s a good thing, but… I switched off the flashlight.

Okay, it’s off?

Yeah.

Good. Now breathe. Inhale slowly through your nostrils… hold it… and then… exhale through your mouth.

I breathed in through my nose… held it… then exhaled through my mouth.

Did that help?

My heart still thumped like a stampede.

Do it again dipshit.

Okay, maybe my inner voice was a little meaner than Charlie. But it was actually helping. My heart-rate was slowing down. Continuing to focus on my breath, I peered out through the wardrobe shutters into the dark room. Now, the sounds from upstairs were unbearably loud. An ever-rising earthquake, getting stronger and stronger. Then… the door to the room swung open-

-Instant silence.

There she stood, bloody hammer in hand. Abigail.

Deeply regretting my choice of a hiding spot, I sucked in a spurt of air and held my breath. Be quiet.

Abigail loomed into the room, almost bending over as she passed through the door frame. Holy fuck, she was tall. Hammer at the ready, she crept deeper. “I… I’m sorry…” she trailed off, as she started circling the room like a caged animal.

“I’m sorry about Charlie,” she whimpered.. “She’s still alive but, Thomas said it was the only way I could leave…”

What did she mean? What happened to Charlie? Was that Charlie’s blood on the hammer? Questions raced through me, but my survival instinct pushed them back. Escape. Survive. Figure this out later. All the while, I was still holding my breath, still desperately trying not to make a sound. Pins and needles pricked across my face. Lungs growing tighter.

Abigail wandered around the room for what felt like an eternity. Then… she lurched to a stop, sighed, turned for the door, and drifted away - One. Painfully. Slow. Step. At. A. Time.

Every fiber of my being screamed: Don’t breathe. Don’t you fucking breathe. Just hang on a little longer. But-

-my lungs forced me to gasp in air. Abigail froze in the door frame - peered back over her shoulder - and looked directly at the wardrobe.

Then, she tilted her head. The exact same way the shadowy figure on the basement steps did. Head still cocked, she stepped back into the room. And out from her ear, down onto her neck, crawled a thin trail of ants…

Holy fucking Christ.

She took a step closer - and another one. “Eve, is that you?” she whispered, edging forward. Her voice was tinged with repressed excitement now, like she was about to pull off a horrific prank. “Eve don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay. We can help each other. You can help me leave. And I… I can help you find your Charlie.” Lips quivering, she stood right in front of the wardrobe now, staring at me through the shutters. Her eyes were empty - like a doll’s. Her cold breath brushed against my face. Frigid.

Slowly raising her hand, she slid her long fingers into the shutters, reaching for me. I leaned back as far as I could, but her jagged, overgrown fingernails scratched against my cheek. “It’s okay Eve,” she whispered again. The ants were now flooding off her hand, rushing down from her fingers, onto her nails and…

…onto my face. Swarming ants crept over my skin. Towards my mouth, towards-

-enough.

In one quick motion, I pressed my palm up against her outstretched fingers until they snapped back with a sickening CRACK. I drop-kicked the door open and-

-Abby wrenched to the side shrieking bloody murder - her mangled fingers still caught between the shutters. Trapped. The hammer flew from her hand and slid to a stop in the doorway.

Shooting across the room, I snagged the hammer and kept running - frantically spitting ants out of my mouth all the while. Behind me, Abigail screeched and wailed, struggling to yank her twisted hand out from the shutters. Good fucking luck.

Doors blurred past as I darted down the hallway, hunting for the stairs. Escape. Just escape. Behind me, her warbled screams echoed, getting louder. Closer. She was already free. Fuck.

She was gaining on me and this time, she was vengeful. Part of me wanted to turn around and smash her skull in, but I doubted I could bring myself to do it, even in self-defense. Plus I wasn’t sure if she was even human. So I just kept running…

Until finally, I came upon the stairs - still highlighted with the trail of blood. Sorry Charlie. But, if I don’t get out of here now, we’re both fucked.

I bounded upwards until behind me, Abigail’s cold writhing hands grasped at my heels, reached for my ankles, tried to pull me back into the darkness, but the door was just in sight. I was almost there. Almost free and-

-I burst into the living room, spun around, shoulder-slammed the door shut, expecting a struggle, but… there was nothing. No more footsteps. No more screaming. Only silence. Deafening silence.

“What’s wrong?” Thomas’ bewildered voice called out from behind. But I didn’t look. I was so intent on holding the door shut, I almost forgot the family was even there. Sure, they were god awful, but at least ants weren’t crawling out of their ears… not yet, anyway. Behind me, I could hear Thomas rise to a stand and march across the room. I didn’t look back - I kept holding the door.

Suddenly, he jerked me away, “What is going on-” -he blinked at me, stunned.

Then, I realized what he was looking at: the blood-soaked hammer in my hand. Reaching down, he yanked it away, “Where did you find this?” He held it up, but it was no longer covered in blood - it was spotless. Inexplicably spotless. He tossed it across the room. Hitting the floor, it slid to a stop in the quiet-corner. I was too shocked to even respond. Too exhausted to even fight back. It felt like the entire universe was slowly turning upside down.

“Were you hurting yourself again?” his voice was filled with distress, concern even. He began patting his hands over my neck, my shoulders, searching for injuries.

“Thomas,” Paige called from across the room. But he ignored her, still checking to make sure I wasn’t hurt, “Talk to me… what happened down there?”

“THOMAS,” Paige snapped so loud he almost jumped. He looked back.

She stared him down with a vicious glare, “Take her upstairs. You’re scaring the children.”

The kids were sitting in front of the fireplace, gaping at me with shock. And that’s when it finally hit me:

Everything was different.

Completely different. The furniture. The rug on the floor. The candles on the tables. The paintings on the walls. Everything. The house was now decorated like a throwback American dream home. I opened my mouth to speak, but only a sputtering wheeze escaped. What the fuck was happening?

Sighing, Thomas tightened his grip, pulled me away, and pushed me into the foyer. “I don’t know what happened down there, but I need you to listen to me.” He stared into my eyes, deadly serious. “You have to get yourself together, or I’m calling the ward. Do you understand, Abby? The kids can’t have their aunt running around the house like a lunatic.”

I stared up at him blankly. Abby? Their aunt? Was this really his plan? Was he really gonna try and convince me I was his sister all along? How fucking stupid did he think I was? That dumb shit might’ve worked on a twelve-year-old Abigail, but not on me. It would take a fuck-ton more than a redecorated house to make me believe I was a completely different person. I cleared my throat, “What… what did you do to my house?”

Ignoring the question, he took a new tact, smiling sadly, “You’re my sister. I’d do anything to help you, but I can’t put my family’s safety at risk any longer. Do you understand?”

For a moment… Part of me wondered if I truly was insane, if I might actually be his sister. But none of that made any sense. That’s not how hallucinations work, not how insanity works… right?

Besides, everything that happened so far was technically inside the realm of plausibility. Insanely fucked-up, yes, but not impossible. Maybe they were working with other people. Maybe they moved all the furniture inside while I was downstairs. Maybe they drugged me with hallucinogens after I hit my head. Or maybe…

…Maybe Abigail’s journal was right. Maybe Thomas really did live here before the house was even built. Before the trees were even planted. Maybe he came from the woods in the light of-

-Eve, those were just the ramblings of an unwell mind. He’s only a person. A psychopath. But a person nonetheless.

I refocused.

Play along until the police show up or, until you find the right moment to escape. Come back with help and save Charlie. Don’t escalate things. Yet.

Smiling back, I nodded gently.

“Good. Now,” he continued, “We were just about to have dinner, and I’d love for you to join us. Show the kids everything is okay. Tell them their aunt was just looking for something down in the basement and got lost, alright?”

“Okay.”

“We love you Abby, you’re a part of this family,” he reached out and touched my shoulder gently. I shuddered, but he didn’t seem to notice, or care. “You’ll get through this,” he continued, “you’ve gotten through worse.”

“Thanks Thomas…”

Smiling warmly, he turned back for the kitchen. Lingering behind, I watched him go, waited until he disappeared around the corner, and then-

-I dashed to the front door, grabbed the handle and-

-Locked. From the outside?

I went for the window. Barred. The adjacent room - every single window was barred. My house was like a prison now. How did they pull all this off so quickly?

“Abby?” he called out from the kitchen. “Ready for dinner?”

I stopped. Took a deep breath. Collected myself. Eve, you’re outnumbered. Play along until help shows up. If help doesn’t show, do whatever it takes to find Charlie.

Even if you have to burn this fucking house to the ground.

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r/Polterkites