What do you do with a room full of old, musty suitcases?

That was the first question that came to my mind after I’d had a look through my late uncle’s estate.

He’d recently passed away, and as his only living relative, his home fell to me by default.

To be honest, I knew right from the start I wouldn’t find much of value.

Sure, his old farmstead was big, but it was in terrible condition. Most of the furniture was old and the many tools he’d amassed were rusty and hadn’t been touched in years.

I found the suitcases in a storage room at the back of the house. They filled the entire room. I blinked, shock my head and then stared at them. What the hell? I knew some people owned multiple suitcases, hell, multiple sets. This, however, was different. Who the hell owned an entire room full of them?

It didn’t take me long to solve the mystery. My uncle had worked as a market trader in the later years of his life. He bought cheap products in bulk before he sold them on the weekly markets in the area. One of his last purchases had apparently been these suitcases.

I tried to figure out how many there were, but it was impossible. There had to be hundreds of the damned things.

Hoping they’d at least be worth something, I gave one of them a closer look. They were big, huge even, but cheaply made. Even worse, they had to be decades old and were clad out with some sort of strange inner fabric.

Nonetheless, a few days later, I took one of them to a pawnshop in a nearby town. When I handed it to the owner, he frowned. He turned it around a few times, opened it up and checked the inside before he shook his head.

“Hope you didn’t pay much for this because it’s pretty much worthless. The design is shoddy and old-fashioned and the material’s shit.”

I sighed.

“Well, I expected as much, but don’t you think collectors or vintage enthusiasts might be interested in them?”

The man shrugged.

“You could give eBay a try, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Guess you don’t want to try it yourself, do you?”

The man laughed and shoved the suitcase back in my direction.

“No dice, too much of a hassle.”

I picked up the suitcase again, thanked the man, and made my way back to my uncle’s home.

Eventually, I began sorting through the suitcases, picked out a select few in better condition, and brought them downstairs.

I put them on the floor in a room I’d already stripped bare, my uncle’s old bedroom. There, on the hardwood floor, I tried my best to take a few good pictures. It wasn’t easy. These things really were old and cheaply made, and even I had to admit, they looked like shit.

Even worse, my two feline roommates, Keisha and James, seemed to love them to death. The moment I turned away, one of them would’ve crawled into whatever suitcase I’d focused on at the moment.

Keisha and James were both three-year-old tabbies. While Keisha was a bright orange, James was greyish-white. They were the sneakiest little troublemakers I’d ever come upon and they made taking the pictures a living hell.

Still, I couldn’t imagine being out here in the middle of nowhere without them. I loved the two of them to death and they seemed to love these old suitcases to death.

Once I was done with the monumental task of taking a handful of pictures, I uploaded them to eBay.

It took almost a week before the first reply arrived. A young man named Damien messaged me and said he was interested in them. He was a vintage collector and would like to come by and have a look.

What do you know? Guess some people are interested in them?

That’s what I’d thought, at least. The moment Damien arrived, and I showed him the actual suitcases, his mood went sour.

“Yeah, no, that’s some pretty cheap shit. Thanks for wasting my time.”

“Well, you said were interested, so…”

“That’s because of the pictures. You didn’t say the material was shit and, god, these things smell! Those your grandpa’s or something?”

I sighed audibly. What an asshole.

Instead of yelling, however, I tried a different route.

“Tell you what. You can have them for free. That way your trip wasn’t entirely-“

“And what would I do with them? Like I said, they smell like hell. I appreciate the gesture, but I’m good.”

With that, he made his way back outside, and without another word, drove off. No goodbye or anything.

And thus, I was left with hundreds of old, musty, and, most importantly, worthless suitcases.

When I came back to the room to get rid of them, Keisha and James were busy hiding in them.

“How come you guys love those so much?”

All I got for an answer was a loud meow from Keisha before she vanished inside one of them. I watched the two for a while and left the suitcases out for now.

The next evening, after another day of sorting through my uncle’s things, I busied myself on the internet.

For a while I watched some videos on YouTube before I somehow ended up looking at cat toys and climbing trees. I blame James, who’d snuggled up on my lap as I sat on the living room couch.

I was sure they’d love one of them, especially out here in this half-empty house, but those things were pretty expensive. Right now, I couldn’t afford something like that. At least not until I’d sold my uncle’s house, and that could very well take a while.

Then I got another idea. I’d always been a do-it-yourself guy and looked up homemade cat climbing trees. Most of what I found, however, were box fortresses.

Now, I’d loved the idea of a box fortress for Keisha and James, but being in the process of cleaning out a house, I couldn’t afford to waste any boxes.

So much for the box fortress, I thought.

“Sorry, little guy,” I said to James as I scratched his head.

Eventually, I got up to prepare myself something to eat. As I went on my way, I peeked into the next room over. Keisha was still there, sleeping in a half-open suitcase.

Right at that moment, another one of my problems came to my mind, the freaking suitcases. What the hell would I do with them? How’d I even get rid of them?

In that moment, something clicked. I couldn’t build a box fortress because I didn’t have any boxes. What I could do, however, was to build a suitcase fortress. Or, how I came to call it in my head, suitcase land.

While I ate dinner, my mind was already hard at work, thinking about how to build a fort from suitcases. I had hundreds of the damned things just lying around and for all I knew, they weren’t worth a thing. If I wanted to, I could just cut them open and tape them together. Hell, I could use a break from cleaning out the house and sorting through my uncle’s things.

It wasn’t long before I started on my work. At first I tried to use a carpet knife, but those suitcases proved sturdier than I’d thought. After a few minutes, I gave up in frustration, went to my uncle’s old workshop and returned with a saw. This made things much easier.

I cut away the left side of the first suitcase and then the right side. After that, I did the same to the next one and taped the two of them together to create a sort of tunnel.

I don’t know what drove me on, but I was at it for days, and went completely overboard.

What I’d originally planned to be nothing but a circular tunnel comprising a few suitcases soon became bigger. At first, I extended the ground level and made it into a convoluted mess. Then I started on a second level. Eventually I added towers and bridges, all made from suitcases or suitcase parts.

I guess I was bored and frustrated out here and this project helped me to live out my suppressed creative urges.

Once I was done using more than half of the old, musty suitcases, I couldn’t help but be in awe. Suitcase land had expanded from a small, ground-based maze to a room-filling fortress of tunnels, towers and dead ends.

James and Keisha were head-over-heels in love with my creation. The moment I was done, they vanished inside suitcase land and weren’t seen for hours. They must’ve been busy exploring the various tunnels, sneaking up on each other, or simply sleeping in one of the dead ends.

I expected them to tire of it soon enough, but they kept it up for the entire next week, only leaving suitcase land to eat. After a while, I grew more and more curious, wondering what they were up to in there.

After some deliberation and some research on the internet, I bought a cat harness and a GoPro camera in the hopes to learn a little more about their adventures.

The moment I made it home, I couldn’t wait to get going. James was the first victim of my new found curiosity. When I tried to fit the harness on him, however, he cried out and lamented in misery. I had to accept that this wouldn’t work, at least not with James.

When Keisha came out to eat, I tried my luck again. To my surprise, she didn’t seem to mind the harness and, after some early suspicions, accepted it. I fastened the GoPro to her neck and let her roam free.

At first, she was merely walking around the living room, testing her footing. Once she seemed satisfied and had adjusted to the harness, she made her way back to suitcase land where James had vanished hours ago.

While the cats were adventuring, I took care of a few things around the house I’d neglected to create the suitcased monstrosity.

Late in the evening, hours after I’d eaten dinner, I saw Keisha again. What a swift motion I picked her up and put her on my lap.

As carefully as I could, I removed the GoPro and inserted the SD card into my laptop.

I couldn’t wait to watch the footage. I fast-forwarded through Keisha walking around the living until she was on her way to suitcase land.

For a while, she walked around it, scanning and sniffing the suitcases here and there before she walked up to the entrance and ventured inside.

I watched as she crawled through the barely lit entrance tunnel. The moment she’d made it around the first bend, however, the video became too dark to see anything. For a while longer, I continued playing it and listened to Keisha move around before I closed it in frustration.

Well, that was useless. Great idea, but as so often, I wasn’t smart enough to think this through.

The next morning, I got another idea. After I’d gotten a hold of the cats and made sure they were nowhere near suitcase land, I put tiny holes into the first couple of suitcases, hoping to lighten up the footage.

The result proofed less than satisfactory. You could see the tiny glowing circles, but that was about it. The rest was still nothing but darkness.

My last resort was to get a tiny Maglite and fasten it to the GoPro. As a test, I turned off all the lights in the living room and let Keisha walk around for a bit to see if it would work. To my surprise, it worked out well enough.

So once again, I let Keisha go, hoping she’d set out on another adventure into suitcase land. Which she promptly did.

When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I saw was James’ little face. He’d crawled up on top of me and was meowing right into my face.

“Well, aren’t you happy to see me, little guy?”

I petted him for a bit and stroked his back, but he didn’t pure like he usually did.

“What’s the matter, little buddy? You hungry?”

I got up and made my way to the feeding bowls, but James didn’t follow me. Instead, he walked halfway through the living room and stared at suitcase land.

“Hey, what’s the matter with you this morning?” I asked, petting him.

The moment I touched him, he jerked up before he realized it was me. He pushed himself against me, almost huddling behind me, but his eyes never moved from suitcase land.

“What’s wrong?” I asked again before I realized I hadn’t seen Keisha.

I called out her name, but got no reaction. Normally, she’d come running the moment I called her.

Eventually, I made my way to the entrance of suitcase land, staring inside and calling for her again. Nothing.

When I turned back, I saw James hadn’t moved and was still keeping a safe distance from the place.

Shit, what if something had happened to Keisha in there? For the first time, I regretted building this entire stupid thing.

I went to the entrance and called out once more. When that didn’t do a thing, I started shaking the first few suitcases in the hopes she’d come out. Still nothing.

Before long, I wandered around the entire construction, leaning in close and calling her again and again.

Finally, I heard it, a quiet, muffled meow, originating from inside.

I rattled more of the suitcases, but she still didn’t come out. The idea of her being hurt was on my mind instantly.

For a moment, I just wanted to tear the entire thing down, but how long would it take before I’d find her? Even worse, what if I’d end up hurting her more? Hell, she might be right there, past the first bend, unable to move.

“Shit,” I cursed, and got myself a flashlight before I pushed my upper body into the first suitcase.

“Keisha,” I called out.

I pushed my arms outward, but there was no way I could reach the first bend.

Then, with little choice, I got down on my hands and knees and pushed myself into the first suitcase. To my surprise, I could actually make it inside. Those things really were huge.

This was ridiculous. I’d built this stupid thing for the cats, not for myself. I’d have laughed about how ridiculous this was if I wasn’t so worried about Keisha.

After a few moments, I’d made it far enough to reach the first bend and could look around it. Using the flashlight, I illuminated the tunnel in front of me, but all I saw were more interconnected suitcases and a mess of inner fabric. I didn’t see a hint of Keisha.

I called out again, and soon, the strangely quiet and muffled meow reached my ears once more.

“Where the hell are you?” I cursed to myself.

Pushing myself past the first bend proved almost impossible. More than once, I entangled myself in the soft inner fabric. As I tore myself free and onward, I could hear the tape I’d used to connect the suitcases stretch and almost tore the entire thing apart. Then I was through.

As I illuminated the tunnel ahead of me again, I realized how big the damned thing was. What the hell kind of monstrosity had I built here? How’d I ever thought that building a room-sized cat fortress was a good idea?

I crawled on, flashlight in hand, but saw no hint of Keisha.

The further I continued, the less difficult it became to move. At first, I could barely fit through the tunnels and had to push myself forward on my stomach. By now, I could crawl forward on my hands and knees.

How was there so much room in here? This shouldn’t be possible.

Maybe it was because of different suitcase sizes, I reasoned. I’d probably used bigger ones for this part. But, had there been any that were bigger than the rest? Hadn’t they all been the same size?

I felt a cold shower running down my spine. For a moment I stopped, took a deep breath, but then I heard Keisha again. This time it was coming from my right. It was still the same, still sounding nearby, but also strangely distant.

As I illuminated the area in front of me, I soon noticed an assortment of different tunnels. I counted six to my left and five to my right. Had I added that many?

One by one, I illuminated them and listened. Before long, I pinpointed Keisha’s meows in the third tunnel to my right.

I pushed myself inside, hoping to find Keisha in a dead-end. Instead, the tunnel continued on. It was bending in various ways before it began slopping upwards. By now, I couldn’t fight the strange feeling that had come over me anymore.

Why was there a slope in here? How was this thing so big? This was ridiculous!

Before long, I felt hot and sweaty, could barely breathe as panic came over me. Claustrophobia, this had to be some sort of hallucination caused by claustrophobia.

In an onset of panic, I tried to get up, tried to tear the damned tunnel apart and escape. As much as I tried, as much as I moved, the suitcases didn’t come apart. I desperately clawed at the inner fabric, trying to find the connections, the tape, but I couldn’t find them. Where the hell was it? My hands dug through more and more of the inner fabric, tearing it apart. The more I did, though, the less it felt like fabric and more like… something different, something almost organic.

I was hyperventilating, close to freaking out, and had to tell myself to calm down and to breathe. And yet, I couldn’t help it. Finally, I threw myself against the side of the tunnel again and again, but it didn’t budge, didn’t move at all.

I stopped my rampage when I heard Keisha meowing again.

“You stupid, freaking cat, this is all because of you!” I cursed out loud.

I was angry now, angry and afraid and in a state of perpetual half-panic.

The slope continued for an impossibly long time. Again and again, I brushed against the inner fabric. By now it felt wet and sticky, almost like skin. Here and there I thought I saw it bulging as if something behind it was breathing and moving.

For a moment I closed my eyes, took another deep breath before I concentrated on the beam of the flashlight in front of me.

Eventually, the tunnel opened up to a wider area. A brief laugh escaped my mouth. There was no way this was real. I had to be imagining this. This wasn’t a cut open suitcase anymore. No, this was a wide, open chamber.

I heard the meow again. It was coming right in front of me. This time, however, I realized it wasn’t muffled, hadn’t been. Instead it was distorted, all wrong, as if it was a faulty recording of Keisha’s meow.

I tensed up as terror gripped me. Something was wrong here.

“K-Keisha…?” I brought out in a shaken voice.

At that moment, the beam of the flashlight illuminated something in front of me. There, on the ground, was a tiny Maglite and next to it, the GoPro. I picked them up and pocketed them before I noticed the harness. How the hell had it come off?

I saw it right away. It was torn apart at the back.

How’d Keisha… No, there was no way she’d been able to tear it apart. Once more, a cold shower went down my spine. If not Keisha, then… what?

As if to answer me, the sound of distant rustling reached me. Then I heard the soft, inner fabric ahead of me being torn apart. It sounded as if something was cutting through it.

My body froze, my fingers were clutching onto the flashlight and I watched in disbelief as a tunnel at the end of the chamber started shaking. The sound of something taking a long, strained breath reached me and with it I heard the distorted version of Keisha’s meow again.

A quiet, high-pitched yelp escaped my mouth, and I scrambled backwards, away from the sounds ahead of me.

When something touched my back, I screamed. For a moment, I flailed around, trying to find whatever was attacking me. Then I heard a well-known meow, this time undistorted, followed by a small hiss. When I turned around, I saw Keisha behind me.

She looked terrified. Her little cat-eyes were wide open and I could see she was limping.

I instantly got a hold of her and cuddled her between my arms. For a second, she let me before she freed herself and snuck past me again.

“No, Keisha, wait,” I called out, but when I looked after her, I was confused. The slope was gone. Instead, I saw the very first bend right behind me.

I crawled back and pushed myself around the bend. Once more, I barely fit, but when I’d made it, Keisha was sitting there, waiting for me.

Half a minute later, I’d made it back outside and had escaped from suitcase land.

Still shaking and sweating, I stared at the construction in front of me and measured it up with my eyes. Even the longest part of this damned thing barely measured more than a few meters. There was no hint of any slope, no hint of a central chamber or the multitude of tunnels I’d seen.

There was no way any of what I’d just witnessed was real. No, it must’ve all been a hallucination.

Remembering Keisha, I turned around and swiftly got a hold of her. She was exhausted and clearly hurt.

I took her to the vet instantly.

When I arrived, the vet told me that Keisha was very agitated and asked me what had happened to her. I was about to tell her about suitcase land, but then I stopped and instead made up a story.

“Well, I let her out yesterday afternoon and she only returned this morning. She was hurt and limping. Maybe she got into a fight with a stray?”

The vet eyed me for a moment.

“She has a bruised leg, but it’s nothing serious. What I’m concerned about is her back. That wound’s not from another cat. It looks more like a cut, maybe from a bird, but I’ve seen nothing like it.”

After a more thorough analysis, it turned out that the back wound wasn’t as bad as initially thought. It was nothing but a scratch and had barely broken the skin.

In that instant, I remembered the torn harness. What the hell had happened to Keisha?

For now, though, I was happy to hear that she wasn’t hurt seriously and that the worst was the agitation. The vet advised me to keep her in the house for at least a week and to make sure she wouldn’t lick the wound excessively.

Once I’d made it back home, the first thing I did was to dismantle suitcase land. It didn’t take long since I tore it apart by force. I was apprehensive the entire time, afraid something or someone hiding inside would attack me.

Nothing like that happened and after only an hour suitcase land was nothing but an enormous stack of cut-open and half torn-apart suitcases.

Before long, I reasoned Keisha must’ve injured herself on one a zipper. Hell, maybe she’d somehow bitten or scratched through the harness after all.

And my experience? Nothing but hallucinations caused by an onset of the claustrophobia I didn’t know I suffered from.

Whit that, the entire story of suitcase land was over, or it would’ve been if I hadn’t remembered the GoPro.

It was still working and when I inserted the SD card into my laptop, I saw that the memory was filled with one giant video file.

It was this video that changed everything.

I watched as Keisha made her way into suitcase land like so many times before. Soon enough, though, things became strange. I watched with wide eyes as she ran through and explored ever-expanding and ever-widening tunnels.

Keisha was traveling far, far further than should’ve been possible. Before long, she ran up and down slopes, crawled through holes, and explored wide, arching chambers. It was an absolute impossibility, and yet, it was all right here, right in front of me on the screen.

And then Keisha froze, and I heard the same rustling and tearing sounds I’d heard myself. It grew closer and closer. I heard the entirety of suitcase land shake before the camera turned dark.

A second later, I heard Keisha meow, heard hear hiss furiously, followed by a snap.

The harness, I thought, that’s when the harness was cut off.

After that, the video comprised nothing but darkness, but I could still hear strained breathing nearby.

And then, to my utter horror, a figure was moving in the darkness and pushed itself closer to the camera.

A moment later, I heard the distorted imitation of Keisha’s meow again and saw a single, alien eye starting right at me.

I always loved the flea market in my city.

It wasn’t so much that I needed anything; it was just nice to go there with friends. We’d have a look around at all the things available, have some beers and enjoy the weather.

The best time to go was during summer. The place was always packed with people and merchants selling all sorts of things. You could find vintage LPs, old classical books, and a lot of strange memorabilia. It was a treasure trove.

Whenever I went there, I was always on the lookout for weird things, things with a certain character. I’d bought strange figurines, weird books, old postcards or photographs, and other similar things.

The last time I was there about a month ago and this visit should end up changing my life forever.

While my friend Martin, an avid collector, had a look at a stall that sold DVDs and CDs, I checked out the other stalls nearby. It wasn’t long before I noticed an old woman who’d propped up a little camping table. On it, she’d placed about two dozen keys.

How weird was that, someone selling keys? I walked up to have a look almost instantly.

Most of the keys for display were old and rusty, yet some were strangely ornate, made of gold or other more expensive materials.

While I studied them, my friend walked up to me. His eyes went to the table in front of me, and he laughed.

“Who the hell’s going to buy a random key?” he asked.

“Oh, they are not random. They are special keys for special places,” the woman behind the table answered.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” he replied, shrugged, and wandered off.

“Where are they from? Like those over here, they look really old,” I asked, pointing at one of the more rusty ones.

The woman leaned forward and explained.

“Well, those you just pointed at are from old buildings, houses that are long gone. Those over there,” she pointed at the more ornate ones, “are from old castles and forts. They were used to opening certain, hidden doors.”

My interest was piqued instantly. I don’t know why, but owning a key that used to open a secret door at a castle sounded awesome.

For a while I had a look at all the old, ornate keys before I picked up one that seemed to be made of bronze. It was richly decorated, sprouting various little twirls.

“How much for this one?”

“Dude, why the hell are you buying a stupid old key? What do you want with it?”

I sighed. Martin was back to annoy me.

“I don’t know, it looks cool,” I said, shrugging.

The woman had lifted the key and was gazing at it.

“Now, young man, you’ve picked a very special one,” she said after a while.

I couldn’t help but sigh inwardly. I was sure she was going to tell me a long elaborate story about how it was the key to Ludwig XIV’s personal sex-dungeon in the depths of Versailles.

To my surprise, she told me no such story. No, she simply nodded.

“It’s yours for two euros,” she finally said

“He takes it for one!” Martin, who loved to barter cut in.

The woman eyed him for a moment before she nodded.

“Well, for one then.”

I handed her one euro, and she handed me the key.

“You see, man, that’s how you barter! You always have to barter at the flea market!”

I sighed once more. Martin could go a bit overboard with buying things at the flea market. More than once he’d gotten into an argument over a price or walked off when a merchant didn’t want to chaff of another Euro.

While he rambled on, I looked at the key once more. It sure looked special, with all the little twirls and embellishments.

We were at the flea market for another hour and had two more beers before we made our way home. It was barely two in the afternoon, but because of the heat, I felt quite drunk.

The moment I’d made it back to my apartment, I took a nap. I slept almost all afternoon, but when I got back up in the early evening, I thankfully didn’t feel drunk anymore.

The first thing I did was to go through my backpack and sort through my newest treasures.

I had gotten a strange old picture book depicting the works of M. C. Escher and other similar artists, a framed postcard depicting some sort of surreal motif and finally the ornate bronze key.

I eyed it for a bit and couldn’t help but laugh. You could find the weirdest things at the flea market.

I put away the book, hung up the framed postcard and eventually connected the key to a chain and let it dangle from a small nail in the wall.

I considered going out to meet some friends, but after spending a good part of the day at the flea market, I didn’t feel like it. Instead, I found myself a movie on Netflix and prepared myself for a slow, chilled evening.

When I returned from the toilet at one point, my eyes wandered back to the strange key I’d bought. That design. Why was it so strange? All those little twirls and embellishments, how’d this thing ever fit anywhere?

For a while I sat there, turning it over in my hands before I got an idea. I walked up to my small storage room and to my surprise, the key was an almost perfect fit for the lock.

“Huh, what do you know it actually fits,” I brought out in surprise.

Almost without thinking, I tried turning it and realized I could. The lock clicked, then clicked again before the door sprang open.

I got a hold of the handle to close it again, but when I stared through the crack, I didn’t see my storage room and the haphazardly stocked boxes. Instead, I was staring at an entirely different room. I pushed the door open a bit more and my eyes grew wide. What I saw in front of me was a much bigger, much wider room than my small storage room, or any other room in my apartment.

An icy shiver went down my spine, and I threw the door shut. When I opened it again, the world was normal again, and all I saw was a small storage room and boxes.

It had been nothing but the trick of an eye, an optical illusion. I laughed. Of course it was.

And yet, as I held the strange, twisted key in my hands, I couldn’t help but wonder what had just happened.

‘You’ve picked a very special one,’ the old saleswoman had said.

Almost in a trance, and with slightly shaking hands, I put the key back into the lock. Once more I turned and the lock clicked once, twice, and the door opened again.

This time, I didn’t throw it shut right away, but peeked inside carefully. What I saw was some sort of grand hall. As I looked inside, I saw a rich hardwood table surrounded by hardwood chairs. The walls were clade in fine wood and sprouted ornate paintings. A huge, expensive carpet covered the floor. From where I was, I could see various golden figurines positioned on a small cupboard that stood against one wall.

What the hell? How could there be a room like this here? This was supposed to be my storage room!

Then I thought back to what the old woman had said. Some of those keys used to open hidden rooms in old castles and forts.

So was this… some sort of hidden room in an old castle?

I couldn’t help but laugh. This was silly. No, this was insane.

And yet, the room was right here, right in front of me. I could almost step inside if I so wanted.

The moment this thought crossed my mind, a strange sense of curiosity came over me. Could I really just… enter?

My eyes wandered back to the golden figurines on the cupboard. Could I just take them?

For a few moments, I was unsure and wondered if this was some sort of trick. Maybe whatever this was, was trying to lure me in. I carefully took off one of my slippers, picked it up and pushed it forward, past the threshold of the doorframe.

I don’t know what I expected to happen, but nothing did.

With that, I dropped the slipper and put it back on before I reached out with my hand. Nothing happened. My hand continued on, touching nothing but air. There was no sensation or anything. This room was really here.

Once more my eyes wandered to the cupboard and the riches on top of it.

Leaving the door open, I got a hold of a chair from the living room. Then I propped it against the door to keep it from falling shut.

Excitement washed over me as I pushed my foot forward and brought it down on the rich carpet. Then I took another step.

My heart was beating hard in my chest, and I could feel my blood rushing through my veins. My eyes darted left and right, almost expecting a door to open or someone to storm at me. When nothing happened, I hurried over to the cupboard and picked up the first of the golden figurines, then another, and finally an ornate, golden candle holder as well.

A few seconds later, I was back in my apartment. My heart was still beating fast, and I was panting. I couldn’t believe any of this. For a moment, I stared back before I threw the door in fear of repercussions.

I turned the key twice more and was happy to see my old, dusty storage room again.

A sigh of relief escaped me and I quickly put the strange, multi-dimensional key back on its little nail.

For a moment I wondered if it all had been a dream, a silly flight of fancy conjured by reading too many fantasy novels. But when I turned from the door, I noticed the golden figurines and the golden candle holder.

Almost by instinct, I picked them up and took them with me to the living room.

For long minutes I studied them, tested their weight before I couldn’t help but grin. I had no clue what these things would be worth, but I knew they had to be worth something.

At first I didn’t know what to do with them. I couldn’t very well put them on eBay and I had no clue what any of them would be worth. No, I probably had to take them to some antique store.

For the next few evenings, I busied myself on the internet, reading up on historical figurines, their worth, and searched for a reputable store.

A few days later, I put the figurines and the candleholder in a box and went on my trip.

The owner was impressed. He said this stuff was centuries old, but not shoddy or cheaply made. When he asked me where I’d got it from, I told him an elaborate story about my grandfather having been a collector of old items. I came upon them by accident while cleaning his attic and thought they might be worth something.

The man eyed me for a moment and I could tell he wondered about the authenticity of my story. Soon enough, though, his own greed pushed these doubts aside. He was quick to make me an offer, one that was pretty damn good, but I’d also done my research.

I told him I’d looked at other stores online, and similar items went for much higher prices. The man held my gaze for a few moments before he pretended to give the figurines and the candleholder another look. Then he gave me another, higher offer.

I was sure he was still ripping me off, but the four figure numbers he gave me were too good to pass for someone like me. And so, I sold. Before I could leave, however, the man smiled at me and told me if I found any other valuables amongst my grandfather’s collection, I should pay him a visit. He’d be more than happy to have a look at them.

I told him I’ll see what I can find.

It is often said that money poisons people, and after my experiences those past weeks, I wholeheartedly agree. The moment I had sold those figurines and that candleholder, the moment I’d tasted riches, was the moment I knew I’d open that door again.

The instant I was back inside my apartment, the key was in my hands again. I turned once, then twice, and the moment the door sprang open, I pushed the little box I’d still been holding between door and doorframe and ventured inside. My eyes darted left and right, back and forth, in search of anything valuable.

There were paintings. There was some silver tableware and an ornate dagger I hadn’t noticed before.

In a swift motion I got a hold of the dagger and as much of the silverware I could carry and dumped them into my hallway. A few minutes later, I had taken down all the paintings. I stared back and for a moment I considered taking even the rich hardwood chairs. Then I told myself enough was enough for today. I’d have to sell all those items first, anyway.

During my search online, I soon found another reputable buyer. The silverware turned out to lend me a good price and so did two of the paintings. The dagger, however, was the most valuable of all items I’d plundered so far because it was jeweled with various stones of value.

I couldn’t help but grin on my entire drive back. This was crazy. I was freaking rich!

The third time I ventured into the room, however, I found little of value anymore. There were a few smaller silver items I hadn’t taken until now, and an ornate vase at the end of the hall, but that was about it.

Once I had closed the door again, I couldn’t help but frown at my measly yield. Maybe I could take some chairs after all at a later point.

It wasn’t long before I wondered what else the key could do. The more money you have, the easier it is to spend it. After making a few, as I told myself, necessary purchases, I knew I could use a bit more.

The first thing I tried was my kitchen door. The key fit perfectly and I turned it once, then twice. When it sprang open, I expected to find the same room. Instead, I was greeted by what I assumed to be a small study. I couldn’t help but grin at the various items I saw there. I saw golden candle holders, an ornate oil lamp, a globe, and various other richly decorated items.

It didn’t take me long to plunder the room for everything it was worth. After that, I tried the key at my bedroom door. This time, however, it led me to a musky, dark room, most likely a cellar or something.

I cursed in frustration and threw the door shut again. Even after two more tries, the door never led me to a different room.

I realized that I’d just learned a valuable piece of information. This key, it could open the doors to rooms in a different place and time, but a single door could only ever open to a single room.

Over the course of an evening, I tried all the doors in my small apartment. While some doors led me to other dark or empty rooms, I discovered that my bathroom door led to a dressing room stacked with rich jewelry.

And yet, even though my living room table was covered in rich antique items, I wanted more.

It wasn’t long before I resorted to using different doors. The first ones I opened were the doors in my apartment building’s basement. One night, at three in the morning, I descended and tried every single door I could find.

While some of these doors led me to more valuables, I also discovered different rooms, rooms similar to that old, musty cellar my bedroom door led to.

While some of them were nothing but old sheds or musty basements, others were stranger, creepy even.

One door opened up to nothing but oppressive darkness. It wafted outside in heavy, thick swaths. I froze when I saw the outlines of something stirring in the back. For the blink of an eye, before I threw the door shut again, my eyes met something else, something staring at me from the back of the room.

It should’ve been at this moment I called it quits and gave up, but of course I didn’t. After all, only a single door could ever open to a single room, right?

And so, a few days later, all signs of danger were forgotten and any repercussions for my actions were gone. No, I told myself, if I ever noticed something strange again, I could throw the door shut and that was it.

Before long, I increased the scale of my operations. It wasn’t so much in terms of sales, but in terms of doors. I couldn’t just go around and use random doors. Eventually someone would notice what I was doing and there was no telling what would happen.

At first, I went on Airbnb and rented out random apartments in my city, using their doors to check for rooms that contained riches.

Slowly but steadily my stock of values increased and before long I had boxes upon boxes of valuables in my small apartment. I was still careful in selling them. I never went to the same store twice, never sold more than a few select items and always came prepared with a story.

But even as I made more and more money, even as I filled box upon box of valuables, my greed increased tenfold. I wouldn’t stop or give up. No, I had plans, dreams, and ideas that I’d already mapped out in my mind.

Eventually, I found what I’d been looking for.

Here, in Eastern Germany, there are many old, abandoned industrial areas. Remnants of companies that went bankrupt after the unification that were left to rot. There were entire factory complexes and old office buildings like this in my city.

Sure, they had been stripped of most of their valuables, but those weren’t of interest to me. No, what I was looking for was doors, as many as I could find. While many of the old doors had been broken down, I still found as many that were still functioning.

That’s how I came to spend many days and nights traversing old, abandoned complexes, hunting for doors and the riches behind them.

However, not every door led me to a room filled with treasures and the more doors I tried and the greedier I got, the more often I encounter other rooms.

More than once I found musty basements, or old, rotten attics. At one point, I even found myself in what was, without a doubt, a torture chamber. The smell of blood and other body fluids hung heavy in the air. I retched audibly when I opened the door and as a result I could hear rattling chains and a quiet, broken shriek that made me throw the door in an instant.

At another time, I pushed open the door, only to be greeted by a small, otherworldly study. It was only lit by few bluish candles and the moment I peeked inside, I found myself face to face with a man sitting behind a desk. When he saw me, he smiled at me and bade me to enter and join him.

As I stared at him, there was something strange about him. He was wearing a pair of thick, heavy spectacles, but even in the low light of the room, it seemed there were no eyes behind them. When he opened his mouth, I saw thick, heavy teeth that differed from any I’d ever seen. His voice, too, was almost too human, too studied.

For a long second he simple sat there, smiling at me. Then he pushed himself off his chair, throwing his body forward in my direction. I screamed and in shock and terror, I threw the door shut and locked it.

I stumbled backward, shaken and scared. What the hell was that? That man or that… thing?

I told myself to let it all go. This was getting dangerous, and I’d gathered more than enough valuables, hadn’t I? What if I encountered something worse than this man?

And yet, I couldn’t.

My mind was too filled with money, tainted by it, and only a few days later, I made my way to yet another complex.

After I’d pocketed another few handfuls of what I assumed to be rich jewelry, I’d already forgotten about the strange man-thing I’d encountered.

It was the next door, however, that changed everything.

As so often, I found a door at the end of a hallway. I turned the key twice and waited for the door to unlock. Then I carefully pushed it open.

All I could see was oppressive darkness, a darkness so heavy it wafted outside in thick swaths. For a moment, the strangest sense of Déjà vu washed over me. Hadn’t I seen this before?

Before I could do anything, a face pushed itself from the darkness ahead and came to a rest mere inches in front of me. It was a female face, but it was all wrong and strangely elongated. The moment I saw it, I cringed back.

“My oh my, I’ve been wondering when you’d be back,” it brought out in a distorted, high-pitched voice.

Every fiber in my body screamed at me to run, to get away, but I rushed forward to close the door to pull it shut in front of whatever this thing was.

I clung to the rotten door, was about to pull it shut when two giant, ghastly hands pushed themselves between door and doorframe. With a single swift motion, the door was torn from my hands and then torn from the doorframe.

The face started giggling before it vanished again in darkness. And yet, I’d never seen a body. But as I stood there, when my eyes finally got used to the darkness, I realized why. That face, that head, it was connected to an elongated neck.

Behind it, in the darkness, loomed a terrible thing, a giant, twisted abomination. I saw more faces, more mouths, more eyes, all connected to a single bloated body sprouting hundreds of arms and legs.

To the side of the creature I noticed another door, and then another.

And as the giggling grew louder as I heard it from a multitude of mouths, I realized my mistake.

A single door can never open more than one specific door. But if a room has more than one door, then… Oh god, I’d had it all wrong. And this creature, this creature knew, and it had waited for me just to make this single mistake.

When the giant creature rose, when it pulled itself closer to the door, I stumbled backward. As I dashed away and rushed down the hallway in sheer and utter terror, I heard the doorframe giving way, heard as the creature was pulling itself through it.

I only turned back once, only once. I saw dozens of heads on elongated necks, saw a disgusting bloated body and watched as a multitude of hands and feet dragged it from whatever twisted dimension this creature had been trapped in.

Then I ran. I ran and fled from the industrial area as fast as I could.

The industrial area was on the news the next day. A building had collapsed for unknown reasons, causing massive destruction. Thankfully, the area had been abandoned years ago, and no one had been harmed.

At first I was relieved, thinking that the crumbling building must’ve crushed the creature.

Sometime later, however, the first of the many missing people reports were on the news. All around this abandoned industrial area, people had disappeared and ghastly remains had been found.

By now, more than a dozen people have gone missing. Not only there, but also in other areas of my city. I don’t know what that creature is, I don’t know how it’s able to stay hidden.

But I know a single thing. It’s only because of my greed that it was unleashed upon our world.

Beggars can’t be choosers, the old saying goes.

I’d been unemployed for weeks, when I learned that old Thomas Maier was looking for help around his chicken farm.

To be honest, I was weary. I never imagined myself working at a chicken farm, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.

There was also Old Thomas. I’d heard more than a fair share of rumors about him. He was said to be an eccentric, hard man who worked his farmhands to no end. Over the course of the past years, almost a dozen men had worked for him and none had lasted for long. Even stranger, none of them talked much about the old man and his chicken farm.

Yet I was out of options. I needed work, and I needed it fast and old Thomas chicken farm was the only option out here in the middle of nowhere.

I knew old Thomas wasn’t an industrial farmer, and he ran his place the old-fashioned way. No modern technology or machinery and none of that new, genetically altered chicken feed.

As I drove my car along the country road, I could already make out what was said to be his pride, his hatchery.

Multiple additions and various extensions had transformed what must’ve once been a barn into a huge patchwork monstrosity housing thousands upon thousands of chickens.

The moment I arrived, the old man was already waiting for me. I was nervous when I stepped out of the car and the old man’s probing gaze and deep frown didn’t help.

Before long, his demeanor thawed a little as he led me around the farm.

There wasn’t much to it. The garden his late wife had run was now almost completely fallow and what few fields he worked were used only for chicken feed.

Soon enough, he led me to his hatchery. A proud smile showed on his face as he led me inside.

I couldn’t help but gasp as stepped inside. The place had been huge from the outside, but seemed gigantic inside. Rows upon rows of nesting boxes were stacked upon another, reaching high above your head. As I followed him through one of the many aisles dividing up the place, I felt almost claustrophobic.

As we walked, Old Thomas described the basics of the job to me. The old man made sure his chickens were always well fed. For that reason, he filled the feeding troughs in the center of each aisle twice a day. Once around noon and once in the evening so the chickens would never run out of food.

“Only happy chickens lay eggs that make people happy,” he said with a smile on his face.

After that, he went to explain a few more of the ins and outs. He explained how he mixed up the different ingredients of his chicken feed, how to not disturb the chickens too much and how to get the eggs.

There were a lot of intricacies and some of his instructions seemed overcomplicated. I tried my best to listen and to remember it all, but there was just too much information.

Before long, the old man seemed to realize so himself. He sighed, gave me a pat on the back, and said it was only a matter of time till I’d get the hang of it.

I told him I hoped so, and that I’d do my best.

For the first couple of days, we took care of things together, but I could tell why the old man needed help around the farm. More than once I saw him wince when he picked up a sack of chicken feed and I could see him wheezing and panting as he filled the troughs. Old Thomas was getting too old for the job.

Starting the second week, I assured him I’d taken care of feeding the chickens by myself.

I regretted my decision almost instantly.

With the old man around, it had been nothing but work. Hard work, sure, but still only work. On my own, I couldn’t help but feel differently about the place. It was almost disorienting walking all these long aisles on your own. There was nothing but nesting boxes and chickens around you.

Occasionally, things felt a bit strange, and I could’ve sworn that an aisle seemed longer than it should be. While I dumped shovel after shovel of chicken feed into the troughs, I couldn’t help but feel as if the hatchery had grown in size.

In those moments, an image of the hatchery going on forever snuck into my mind. I imagined nothing but nesting boxes and chickens going on forever.

I always pushed those thoughts away with a laugh. The hatchery was huge, sure, but it was still just a place. All those weird thoughts and ideas were nothing but tricks of the brain or optical illusions caused by the mundanity of the work.

And yet, on certain, rare occasions, I couldn’t help but feel I was losing time in there and that work took me a tad bit too long.

Over the course of the entire week, these strange feelings persisted, but I shrugged them off. I was new on the job and I wasn’t used to the damned hatchery yet, that’s all there was to it.

And so, whenever the old man asked how things were going, I told them they were going well. At times I could feel him looking at me, as if he was waiting for me to say something else.

The hatchery felt always worst in the evening hours. After the sun fell, the ground was almost entirely deserted, and most of the chickens had retreated to their nesting boxes. From there they’d stare at me with half-open eyes, watching me as if I was an intruder, and they readied themselves to pounce on me.

During those late hours, I was always unnerved, slightly apprehensive even. I felt misplaced in this giant hatchery and as if the place was warping and changing all around me.

On Friday evening, as I pushed the wheelbarrow down the aisle, shoveling chicken feed into the troughs half-heartedly, a cold shower went down my spine.

When I looked up and stared down the aisle, I couldn’t make out an end.

I blinked, rubbed my eyes and looked again, but all I could see were nesting boxes and chickens seemingly going on forever.

I couldn’t help but laugh and shake my head. My stupid brain was acting up again. Just keep going, dump the rest of the chicken feed and get back out, that’s all there is to it.

The longer I stared down this never-ending aisle, however, the more I stopped trusting myself. After I’d dumped the last of the chicken feed, I left the wheelbarrow and shovel behind and continued on.

This was insane. The hatchery was huge, sure, but there had to be an end to it. There had to be! And yet, I just kept walking and walking and walking.

After long minutes, I stopped again. What the hell was going on here? Even if this was some sort of optical illusion, I’d been walking long enough to reach the other side of the damned farm! And yet, the aisle just continued on.

I took one more step, then another before fear washed over me, and I told myself to get the hell out of here. Something strange was going on, something extremely strange. The moment I turned around, however, it was the same thing. No end in sight.

Eventually, though, I set out. I kept my eyes open for the wheelbarrow and shovel I left behind, but no matter how far I walked, there was no trace of them. They were gone, just like the end of the aisles, and I realized the walls of the hatchery. All I could see were nesting boxes and chickens.

As I looked around, all I could see were the staring, half-empty eyes of chickens. These stares, they felt almost oppressive to me, as if the chickens were watching my every move, measuring me up and mocking me for being lost.

I continued on walking, intent on finding my way about. At first I was walking normally, but the longer the aisle continued on, the more unnerved I got.

I told myself that I’d just have to go a bit further, that I was imagining things and that I was almost out, but eventually, I couldn’t anymore. There was no end in sight, no walls, nothing! All there was were nesting boxes and chickens!

Before long, I was running, dashing past nesting boxes and the few lonely chickens who were still out.

I ran for long minutes, driving myself on faster and faster, desperately trying to reach the end of the hatchery, but nothing changed.

At least, that’s what I thought at first. When I stopped, panting and out of breath, I realized my surroundings had become more chaotic, bizarre even.

What had once been rows of meticulously constructed nesting boxes were now nothing but haphazard stacks that looked more like something that had grown than being constructed.

These strange constructions soon grew higher and higher, turning into towering monstrosities of impossible design. I laughed. How could something like that even fit inside the hatchery? But as I stared upward, I couldn’t see the ceiling anymore. Where once had been a wooden ceiling was now only a strange, colorless void.

The aisle I’d been following for so long deteriorated as well. Stacks upon stacks of nesting boxes sprouted from the ground here and there. It was as if all sense of order was gone.

I was confused, freaked out and scared, but my feet kept moving forward, kept dragging me deeper into this mad, bizarre world. And as I walked on, I stared at all of it with a horrible fascination and in an almost dreamlike trance.

All the towering stacks of nesting boxes around me were filled to the brim with chickens, chickens who were still staring down at me, still watching me.

And yet, before long, these chickens too were subject to bizarre changes. Some had bodies so bloated they almost didn’t fit into their nesting boxes, while others had long, dangling necks and strangely emaciated bodies.

I stared at these twisted creatures with a mixture of fascination and disgust.

More than once I turned around and tried to flee from my ever-deteriorating surroundings, but it didn’t matter which way I went. The longer I walked, the deeper I was thrown into the bizarre, further and further towards deterioration.

Eventually, the design of the nesting boxes made no sense anymore. What had been towering stacks before became physical impossibilities. They were leaning over one another, creating long bridges and wide arcs, constructions that could, no should, collapse at any moment.

As I stared ahead, I could see towers so high, so massive I couldn’t fathom them anymore. It felt like I was staring at distant cities, at a skyline comprising nothing but nesting boxes.

But it wasn’t just the nesting boxes, the chickens too continued to change. The further I walked, the stranger their forms became. At one point, a chicken with multiple heads and legs rushed past me. Others were flying high, souring through the skies on multiple wings, wider than should be possible.

The worst I saw was a chicken-centipede comprising nothing but chicken bodies, slithering around one of the nesting box towers. As my eyes trailed after it, I saw it slithering upwards before it vanished out of view.

Other chickens grew in size. From a distance, I could see a deformed chicken the size of a pig or cow, sitting in a nesting box the size of a garage.

As my eyes wandered around, I told myself there was no way a place like this could exist. A sound that should’ve been laughter escaped my mouth, but it was something different. I shivered when I realized it sounded almost like the cluck of a chicken.

I stopped, looked down at my body, lifted my arms and touched my head, half-expecting to find feathers and to having turned into some sort of chicken-hybrid.

But all was normal, no changes to my body and no feathers sprouting anywhere.

And yet, relief didn’t come.

This had to be a dream! Somehow I must’ve fallen asleep in the hatchery.

I closed my eyes, told myself to wake up and to get out of this nightmare. When I opened my eyes again, prying to find myself back at the farm, back outside, away from the hatchery, nothing had changed. I was still there, still in this mad and absurd chicken world.

Madness, however, soon turned into terror.

As my steps led me past another tower of nesting boxes, I noticed movement ahead. I stopped instinctively, wondering what sort of twisted, nightmarish version of a chicken I’d see this time.

What I saw made me freeze.

It wasn’t merely a deformed chicken. No, it was a chicken that looked like it had been twisted into humanoid form.

I saw chicken feet, feathers sprouting from a two-legged, upright standing body and a head sprouting a dirty, sagging cockscomb. Its wings weren’t so much wings, but feathered appendages, sprouting strange finger-like extensions in which it held a heavy sort of bucket.

The worst, however, was the creature’s face. It was almost human, except for the same empty eyes and the giant, beak-like growth sprouting from it.

I watched as the creature poured something wet and sticky from the bucket into a trough in front of it. A disgusting, putrid smell reached me and I had to cover my nose.

The creature, however, seemed undeterred by it, and I heard it cluck a few times. These sounds they were almost tender, almost friendly.

Mere seconds later a bizarre zoo of twisted, feathered creatures descended upon the trough, gorging themselves on whatever was inside.

As carefully as I could and driven by a mad sense of curiosity, I climbed on top of one of the nesting boxes nearby to get glance at it.

The moment I did, I stumbled back, falling off the nesting box and barely able to cover my mouth to hide the scream that had formed in the back of my throat.

That feed, it was flesh, the flesh of people. I hadn’t only seen a meaty, grounded mass, but fingers, hands, and feet.

As my eyes wandered back, I could hear the chicken-beasts feeding on it, saw a strange snakelike creature swallowing up what might once have been a hand.

A terrified yelp escaped my mouth, one I couldn’t silence in time.

At that moment, something stirred next to me. My eyes grew wide when they were met by the empty, staring eyes of another chicken-creature.

I was frozen in terror as I watched an elongated neck shot forward, further and further, towards me. The creature’s beak opened, and a strange, horrible, distorted cluck escaped it before it came for me. I barely avoided the creature’s attack, beating its head aside. A moment later, my hands, almost by instinct, closed around its neck and twisted it.

I gave it one jerk, then another before I felt something break.

In an instant, I was thrown aside as the creature’s body went wild. The now-broken, long dangling neck was thrown left and right while the creature’s huge wings flapped and beat against the nesting box. Within moments, the wood gave way. The creature went on, struggling for a few more moments before it lay still.

Its death, however, had been noticed, and I heard the concerned clucks of thousands of chickens all around me.

And then, terror washed over me anew when I saw the outlines of more of the strange chicken-hybrids in the distance who’d come to find the cause of the ruckus.

In that instant, I ran.

My feet pounded hard on the ground as I dashed past nesting box towers and abominable chicken-creatures. The sound of my steps caused many of these creatures to awake, to freak out, and to throw themselves from their nesting boxes. Soon I was running through a madhouse of feathers and twisted bodies.

I felt wings slap against my body, felt chicken feet scratching over my arms and legs, felt beaks tearing at my skin, but I continued on.

More than once, I had to wrestle something feathered from my body and throw it aside.

I didn’t know where I was running, didn’t know for how long, but all I wanted was to get away, to get out of this mad, surreal place.

I drudged on for what felt like hours, running, stumbling, before I tripped over a trough in front of me. Eventually, I fell to the floor and crashed hard against the wheelbarrow I’d left standing.

In an instant, I fought myself to my feet, tipping over the wheelbarrow before I realized where I was.

All around me stood the meticulously constructed rows of nesting boxes with chickens sleeping in them. To both sides, I could make out an end and the walls of the hatchery.

For long moments I stood there, in shock and disbelief, wondering what had happened. It had to have been a dream, a hallucination, but then I noticed the wounds covering my arms.

When Old Thomas put his hand on my shoulder, I cringed back, staring at him with wide eyes.

When he saw my quivering lips and the scratches and wounds all over my body, he led me from the hatchery and asked what had happened.

At first I was reluctant to speak, but then I told him I’d ended up… somewhere. I expected the old man to laugh, but he asked me where I’d ended up and what I’d seen.

As I rambled on, he merely nodded, and once I was done, there wasn’t much he said. Neither did he say much when I told him I was done working at his farm.

And yet, when I turned to get into my car and to leave his farm forever, there was something in his eyes.

I couldn’t make out what it was. It was a hidden secret, some hidden knowledge that sent yet another cold shower down my spine.

You know, throwing out old stuff can be strangely satisfying.

A few days ago, I decided to give my cramped little apartment the good old once-over and throw out anything I didn’t need anymore.

For years I’d succumbed to the strange habit of throwing nothing out. You never knew if maybe, eventually, at one point in time you might need a certain item again.

Let’s just say, over the years, I’d accumulated a lot of, what I had to admit, useless things.

When I started cleaning, I threw out a pair of old computer cables, but before I knew it, I threw out anything that wasn’t essential.

I didn’t know how many useless things I’d stored away over the years. I found old tools, two broken mp3 players, an old landline phone, a box of computer-parts from the mid-2000s, and an old Sony Ericsson phone.

It was from before smartphones were a thing and felt like a distant remnant of the past.

I couldn’t help but stare at it. Man, hadn’t I used this thing back in university?

A moment later, I was already digging through my gigantic box of cables. It took a while, but I soon found what I was looking for: the old Sony Ericsson charging cable.

I put it in and once I was sure the old phone was charging, I went back to cleaning.

It was already evening when I called it a day and to check on the phone.

I started it and was promptly asked to enter a PIN, and of course, I didn’t remember what it was. After some thinking, I tried my luck and entered my birthday. What do you know, it worked, and the phone was unlocked.

There was probably nothing interesting on this old thing, but I still decided to have a look, if only for nostalgia’s sake.

I recognized the menu and the apps almost instantly. Before I knew it, I’d started up a game of Super Real Tennis. I didn’t last long, and the game was over after only a few minutes. Still, I couldn’t help but smile and remember all the boring lectures the game had helped me through.

The next thing I had a look at was the music folder.

It contained a mixture of classic rock, some metal, and a lot of video game music. In-between I even found a few cheesier titles like The One and Only by Chesney Hawkes. I tinkered with it a little and played a few songs I hadn’t listened to in years.

After that, I remembered the phone might be old, but it still had a camera.

The moment I opened the picture folder, the faces of old university friends greeted me. I saw us at the cafeteria, at a team meeting for some sort of project and a party. Then I found pictures of me and a bunch of old high school friends celebrating New Year’s together.

Oh man, everyone looks so young in those pictures.

With a smile on my face, I continued to click through them.

Eventually, I came upon a picture that was different.

Gone were the bright colors and the smiling faces. Instead, I saw nothing but a dark picture taken during the night. I brought the screen closer to my eyes, but I couldn’t make out a thing. The next picture was much the same, but this time I could make out a sidewalk that led past a couple of trees. What followed were more pictures of dark sidewalks and random buildings.

I couldn’t help but laugh. How drunk had I been when I took those pictures?

As I continued though, I noticed that all that was left were similar pictures. I found nothing but dark sidewalks and empty streets. When I checked the details of one of them, I frowned.

The date wasn’t back from 2010 when I’d last used the phone, but from this year. From today, a mere ten minutes ago.

All right, this doesn’t make any freaking sense. I hadn’t used the damn thing in years.

Then I started to think. Maybe it’s because I hadn’t turned on the damn thing in so long? Who knows, it might be an error that scrambled up the meta-data and set them to today.

I shrugged and continued on, hoping to see more pictures of friends or university, but all I saw were more of these strange, dark pictures.

Then the strangest of feelings washed over me. There was something about those pictures. That bend in the road, the old building over there, the walk in front of it. I could’ve sworn I knew it.

I leaned in closer and studied some of them, and soon enough I realized what I was looking at. It was the way towards my apartment building.

I was more than a bit confused. No, I was unsettled. How in the hell were there pictures of this area on my phone? I hadn’t lived here back then. Hell, I’d been living on the other side of the freaking country!

I was about to throw the phone back into the box, right in the trash, but curiosity came over me.

Something strange was going on here, and I wanted to know why.

I exited the picture folder to check messages or missed calls or anything when I saw the video folder. I selected it, wondering if there was more of… whatever this was.

After pressing a few swift buttons, the video folder opened up, and I could see that there were about a dozen videos.

The first one was a shaky video of what I assumed to be university part. The quality was terrible. You couldn’t make out a thing, and the music was way too loud and scratchy. The next showed a view of campus from my dorm window.

The third one, however, sent a cold shower down my spine.

I pressed play, and all I could see was the walkway outside my apartment. Whoever had taken this video was walking. I heard hard footsteps and labored breathing as someone was walking towards my apartment building.

The next video showed a view of the apartment building’s entrance before it zoomed in on the doorknob.

When I checked the meta-data of the video, it was the same as with the pictures. The video had been recorded today and only five minutes ago.

For a moment, I stopped and took a deep breath. This didn’t make sense, no sense at all. Was this some sort of prank or elaborate joke? Had someone hacked my phone and was sending those weird videos? But how the hell would that even work without an internet connection!?

I told myself to let it go, to throw it away, but as if in a strange trance, I continued on. There was this nagging feeling, this urge to sit this through and to figure out what was going on here.

The next video was of the stairs inside my building. At least, I assumed it was. There was no light, and the video was all but darkness. The sounds, however, were there. I could hear the same heavy breathing and the sound of footsteps echoing through the empty staircase.

With each video I played, the steps seemed to grow louder, seemed to echo a tad big more.

Then I caught something else, some sort of… laughter or giggling. Whoever had been recording this was giggling as they continued on their way. And yet, it sounded so familiar, almost like a distorted version of my very own laugh.

The penultimate video wasn’t just darkness. Instead, it showed the hallway right outside my apartment. The camera centered on my apartment’s front door before whoever had recorded it walked towards it.

Hard footsteps echoed through the hallway and for a second I wasn’t sure if they were coming from the phone or if they were coming from outside.

Once they’d made it to the door, I saw a hand, a strangely twisted hand that reached for my door. It wasn’t touching the doorknob or holding a key. Instead, its fingers slowly moved down, and I saw long, yellowed fingernails scratching over the door’s surface.

In that moment I jerked up because this time, I knew the scratching wasn’t just coming from the phone. No, it was coming from outside, from right outside my front door!

I stumbled off my chair, clutching onto the phone with a sweaty, shaking hand. Fear washed over me as I tiptoed towards the front door. All was quiet now. There was no scratching, no giggling, nothing.

I stared at the phone. There was one more video.

I stood there, unsure, confused, and apprehensive.

Maybe this last video, this last little recording, would clear it all up. Maybe it would prove that all of this was nothing but a joke, a prank, or a silly trick that someone was playing on me.

And eventually, staring at my front door, waiting, hoping, praying, I pressed play.

Did you ever stare into a mirror for a long period of time?

I don’t mean for a few minutes, not to check out your body, but for a truly long time.

Try, for example, if you will, staring at your own face. At the beginning it might be normal, you might laugh because it feels silly. Soon, however, things will turn weird.

At first, the humor of it will go away. You might even get bored. But if you stick to it, things will eventually become creepy.

I started doing it after I read about certain urban legends online. When I first tried it, I couldn’t do it for long. Seeing my dumb face in the bathroom every morning was hard enough, but staring at it for longer than necessary was a chore.

The more I tried, though, the more I got used to it. I’d sit down in front of my bathroom mirror and stare at myself.

I told myself more than once that this was stupid, ridiculous even, but I liked creepy stuff and I enjoyed scaring myself. So I stuck with it.

It was one of the weirdest experiences I ever had. I laughed, I groaned, I yawned, but before long I started to study the intricate landscape of my face more closely.

Every once in a while, I stared deeply into my own eyes, scanning my pupils and my irises. Before long, I got the feeling that something was changing. I began wondering if I was the one staring at my reflection, or if it was the other way around.

What if it was the other way around? What if that person in the mirror wasn’t truly me?

And then, for the blink of an eye, I thought I saw my reflection wink at me. I scrambled back in shock, cursing at it before I started laughing.

“Jesus Christ, this is stupid!” I cursed at myself and the fear that had washed over me.

Still, when I looked at the mirror again, at my reflection, I wondered if it had all been my imagination or if something had actually happened.

I stepped up to the mirror again, pushed myself closer, and stared right into my reflection’s eyes.

“Did you just wink at me?”

Of course, I didn’t get an answer. No, all I got was my reflection mimicking my every move. His lips moved when mine did. He blinked when I did, and he laughed as stupid as me.

No, it had been nothing but my overactive imagination.

But then, in that moment, my eyes grew wide. My reflection did the same, but I didn’t care about it anymore.

My attention was drawn to a weird little object behind me. Resting on the bathroom floor behind me was a small black cube. What the hell, I wondered, as I brought my face closer to the mirror. Why’s there a-?

My thoughts stopped because the moment I turned around, it was gone.

I cursed, telling myself I was still imagining things and that my brain was acting up, but when I turned back to the mirror, I saw it again. It was right there, on the bathroom floor, close to the wall.

I pushed my face closer to get a better look at it, only to block it out.

When I turned around, though, there was still nothing there.

“All right, what the fuck?”

Slowly but steadily, I moved back, away from the mirror. I watched as I pushed myself against the bathroom wall, right next to the black cube.

Then I reached out to it with my foot, bringing it closer towards the object.

In reality, nothing happened. I didn’t feel the sensation of touching something. My reflection, however, began pushing the black cube to the right.

This was the weirdest thing ever. It had to be some sort of optical illusion. There was no way any of this was real.

Well, of course it wasn’t real, it was only happening inside the damned mirror!

With that I told myself to forget it and go to bed. It was getting late, and I’d have to get up early tomorrow morning.

But how do you ignore something as strange and fascinating as what was happening here?

Of course I was lying to myself and of course I couldn’t just forget about it. And so, I got closer to the object again. Or, to say it better, I brought my reflection closer to it.

When I leaned down, however, I wasn’t able to make it out anymore. My head, or better, my eyes, was too low to make out the reflection of the bathroom floor anymore.

I cursed, but got an idea. I stepped up to the mirror, making sure the cube was still there, and took it down.

Then I propped it up against the cupboard below the sink and turned it until I could make out the black cube again.

Finally, I went back to the wall. When I was there, I reached out for it once more, this time with my hand.

Once more I couldn’t feel a thing, but I watched as my reflections fingers got closer and closer before they eventually made contact with the cube.

I watched in stunned fascination as my reflection’s fingers brushed against it.

A cold shower went down my spine. What the hell was this? Was this really just an… optical illusion?

Before long, I had a rough idea of the cube’s dimensions. Each side was about an inch and a half. Then, with the most delicate of movements, I made my reflection close its hand around it. Then I lifted my hand.

I watched as my reflection held it in its hand. For a moment, it almost slipped from my hand before I got a better hold of it. This was the strangest sensation. I had no feeling for it, and yet I was holding something. Or better, my reflection was holding it.

With a few careful steps, my eyes glued to the mirror, I brought it closer towards it.

I carefully placed it in front of the mirror and began studying it.

It was nothing but a solid black cube. I stared at it from all dimensions, leaning left and right, standing up and laying down.

Just what the hell was this thing?

Then I brought my finger against it again, this time not delicately. Instead, I pushed it closer to the mirror.

For a moment I wondered what would happen if I kept it up.

The thought of it sliding through the mirror’s surface appeared in my mind.

I laughed, calling myself an idiot, telling myself again that this had to be some sort of optical illusion.

And of course, it didn’t slide through. Instead, it was pressed against the mirror, hard and slightly croaked together.

At that moment, I saw that its top was slightly pushed upward.

Did it mean that I could… open it?

Almost in a trance, I reached out with my other hand, my left hand. I couldn’t help but curse in frustration as I tried to make sense of the cube’s dimensions and my movements being flipped.

Finally, after two futile tries, I managed to push my fingernail into the small crack. Then I delicately began pushing it upward.

It took me another few tries before I succeeded in opening it.

Where I was, however, I couldn’t see a damn thing. So I stood up, brought my face close to the mirror and stared down at it.

That’s when I noticed that there was… something strange and whitish inside of it. My hand went forward again, getting a hold of it to lift it upwards so I could get a better look at it.

I closed my hand around the now open cube and lifted it, bringing the opening closer to the mirror.

At first I saw only white, but then I made out delicate red lines in it, saw its round form. A moment later, whatever was inside the cube started moving and turning.

I watched in stunned horror, and after a few seconds, I stared at an eyeball.

I screamed up in shock and disgust, scrambling away from the mirror and shaking my hand as if something had gotten a hold of it.

Inside the mirror, the black cube crashed to the floor. It bounced once, twice before it came to a rest. The eyeball, however, rolled out of it.

From where I was, I watched as it rolled closer to the mirror. I expected it to hit the surface, to bounce back, but it rolled on.

My eyes grew wide in shock and disbelief as the eyeball passed through the mirror’s surface. It rolled on and came to a rest right in front of me.

I cringed back, but I couldn’t stop staring at it. This thing… this eyeball. It shouldn’t, no, couldn’t exist, but here it was.

And as I sat there, slumped down on the bathroom floor, I couldn’t stop staring at it.

And as I stared at it, it also stared at me, and with each passing moment I felt it staring deeper and deeper into my eyes.

I used to love watching the ducks at my local park. Hell, I used to love ducks.

Not anymore, not after what happened.

I guess I’m a bit of a loner. Even here, in the big city, I’m the type of guy who’s more torn to walking the city park than to hang out with friends or go to clubs.

One day, when I came to rest on one of the many park benches, I noticed a flock of ducks nearby. They were loud, but happily going about their life, quacking and walking around without a care in their life.

It was fun watching them and relaxing.

Once I was back home, I did some research about ducks online, mostly about what to feed them.

And so, the next time at the park, I brought along a bag of bird seeds. I threw some of them down in front of me and wouldn’t you know it; it took only a few moments before the ducks swarmed me.

It was a lot of fun and from then on I’d often sit on that same bench, throwing them treats and watching them.

A couple of weeks ago he first showed up.

Like so often, I was sitting on the bench and feeding the ducks when someone sat down next to me.

Well, it’s a park bench after all. While I was uncomfortable having a stranger sit right next to me, I tried my best to ignore him and fed the ducks. From the corner of my eye, however, I noticed how disheveled the guy was. His clothes were wrinkly and somewhat dirty, his hair unkempt and clinging to his head in greasy strands. What I could see of his body was lanky, almost to the point of being emaciated.

The longer he sat there, quietly staring ahead, the more awkward I felt. Almost by instinct, I inched away from him further and further.

Thankfully, after only a couple of minutes, he got up and continued on his way.

When I was at the park a few days later, though, he sat down next to me again. I didn’t mind, but it was strangely unnerving. The first time felt like a chance encounter, but this second one felt less so.

Don’t let it go to you. Who knows, he might just enjoy sitting here and watching the ducks like you do.

Suddenly, though, I noticed him staring at me. I almost cringed when I saw his probing eyes focused on me and me alone.

“Did you know male ducks have corkscrew penises that can spring from their bodies in the blink of an eye?”

“W-What?”

“Random duck-fact number 14,” the guy said with a bright smile on his face, giving me a little wink.

Before I could so much as say anything or react to him, he got up and went on his way. I was left there, puzzled and staring after him.

All right, what the hell just happened? What a freaking weirdo!

When I made it home that evening, I couldn’t get the strange encounter out of my head. The same was true for what he’d told me.

It wasn’t long before I googled it and found out that it was true. Damn, nature can be disturbing.

The next time I walked through the park, I couldn’t help but be apprehensive. What if that guy would be back again? I mean, he didn’t seem dangerous, just strange, but that was enough to ruin the mood. I just wanted to relax after a few days of hard work.

That day, however, I was all alone. Who knows, maybe it really had been nothing but a strange coincidence.

It wasn’t, and when I stopped the next time, he was back again.

I tried my best to ignore him, but before long, he turned and stared at me again. The moment I turned and was about to ask what the hell his problem was, he spoke up again.

“Did you know a group of ducks can be called a raft, a team or a paddling?”

This time, he didn’t get up right away. No, he kept staring at me.

“Eh, thanks,” I mumbled, growing increasingly uncomfortable from this weirdo’s attention.

“Random duck-fact number 2,” he proclaimed, giving me another wink before he got up and left.

All right, this guy was clearly some idiot trying to mess with me. I was sure he’d lose interest, eventually.

As if to challenge me, he continued showing up every single time I sat down on the bench and each time he told me another random duck fact.

“Did you know only three percent of birds have penises and ducks are part of that three percent?”

“Did you know female ducks have corkscrew vaginas?”

“Did you know male ducks are notoriously aggressive, forcing themselves on females violently?”

Each time he told me these facts, he started at me with wide eyes, smiling at me. What had seemed a normal, albeit awkward, smile had by now grown into a wide, sickening grin.

The guy was enjoying this and I couldn’t deny anymore that he was scaring me.

Still, I wouldn’t give up on the park, the bench and the ducks just because of some weirdo.

And yet, whenever I was back at the park, each of my steps was filled with apprehension. I couldn’t stop looking around and scanning the area to see if this madman was somewhere around.

All seemed clear, and when I made it to the bench, I sat down and closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them again, I could see him, nearby, on his way to the bench, already grinning.

Oh god, no, not today. I can’t handle that shit today. With that, I picked up my little bag of birdseeds and was about to get out of there.

I hadn’t so much as taken a single step when I felt a hand closing around my wrist.

“You can’t leave,” he brought out in over-exaggerated, serious voice. “The ducks will miss you and your food!”

In shock and not just a tad bit angry, I turned around and found the guy leaning forward, his face so close to mine our foreheads were almost touching. His eyes were wide, staring deep into mine while a crazed grin distorted his mouth.

For a second I froze, but then I tore myself from his grip and fled a few steps away from him.

“Freaking hell, man! The fuck’s your problem? Feed the damn ducks yourself!” I yelled at him, throwing the bag of birdseeds in front of him, and walked away.

With each step, though, I could feel his eyes digging into my back. As much as I told myself it was my imagination, I couldn’t help but turn around. He was still standing there, still staring after me, and hadn’t even touched the bag of birdseeds.

Just keep walking and ignore him, I told myself, but I couldn’t help but turn around again and again.

He still hadn’t moved, not an inch.

Only when I was out of sight was I able to calm down. Freaking hell. That’s it, no more park for me.

I’d thought this was the end, but it should only be the beginning.

A week after my last walk through the park, I found a picture of a duck in my mail box.

I couldn’t help but frown and the first thing that came to my mind was the crazy man from the park. But he didn’t even know where I lived. No, it had to be a coincidence. Maybe it was a neighbor’s idea of a joke or it was some sort of marketing campaign, I reasoned. And yet, as I stared at it, at the picture of a normal freaking duck, I couldn’t help but grow more anxious.

My eyes wandered up and down the street in front of my apartment building, but I saw no one.

A few days later, after I got up in the morning and went to have a smoke, I found my balcony covered in birdseeds.

I was back inside in an instant, throwing the balcony door behind me. This was no coincidence anymore! That’s the reason I originally didn’t want an apartment on the ground floor!

When I found a note taped to my front door stating the ducks were hungry, I had it. Enough was enough. The moment I’d fled back inside, I called the police.

I told them about the entire thing. The strange run-ins at the park, the weird way the guy had stared at me, and the continued stalking.

They eyed me curiously, but from their faces I knew what they were going to say.

‘There’s nothing we can do at the moment, but we’ll keep our eyes open.’

Well, thanks for nothing!

In the days to come, more pictures of ducks and other, weirder things flooded my mailbox. One morning I pulled out what had to be dozens of duck feathers, the other day I found a coupon for a special sale at the pet store.

Every single time I found one of the guy’s little presents inside, I threw them away. It was clear he wanted to get a reaction out of me and so I told myself not to let this shit get to me.

What got to me was the dead duck I found on my balcony a few days later. Next to it, I found another one of his notes.

‘This happens when you aren’t taking care of them.’

Stupid pictures and weird messages are one thing, but dead animals, animals he’d probably killed himself, are an entirely different story.

This time the police took my story seriously and told me they’d station someone near my apartment building and would be on the lookout for anyone acting crazy nearby.

With that, I thought the issue was settled and for an entire week, no weird messages or other things found their way to my mailbox or apartment.

Then, one evening, while I was watching a movie, I was distracted by strange sounds. At first I thought it was one of my older neighbors, but when I turned the movie down, I could’ve sworn it sounded like the quacking of a duck.

A cold shower went down my spine. What the hell?

Right away, I rushed to the balcony to check if the guy had thrown a live duck on it, but there was nothing out there.

When I listened again, though, I could still hear it. It was quiet and muffled. For a moment my eyes darted through my apartment, but eventually I could pinpoint it. Outside, in the hallway.

As quietly as I could, I tiptoed to my front door and checked the spyglass. Instead of the hallway or some crazy guy, all I saw was a picture of a duck that had been plastered over it.

This time my fear was pushed aside by anger. I don’t know what this guy’s problem was, but I’d had it!

I ripped open my door to see if he was still nearby. At that moment, all my anger evaporated and was replaced by surprise and confusion.

I found myself face to face with the crazy guy from the park, but he was wearing a freaking duck costume.

The moment he saw me, he quacked again and flapped his fake wings before he charged at me.

“What the absolute-?” was all I could bring out before he crashed into me.

I was thrown back, and all the air was driven from my lungs. For a moment, dark spots appeared in front of my eyes. Then he was upon me, beating me with his fake wings in a seemingly boundless rage.

“Did you know male ducks are notoriously aggressive, forcing themselves on females violently?” he screamed while he hit me with the fake wings again and again.

I cursed in pain and brought my arms up to protect myself from his assault.

Then, for a moment, he stopped, had to catch his breath, and I pushed him away and retreated to the back of my apartment.

Behind me, he began quacking again, flapping his wings and prepared for another assault.

By then, I’d gotten hold of an empty glass bottle, staring him dead in the eye.

“Get the fuck out of here, or I swear, I’m going to,” I started, but broke up when the crotch area of his costume popped open.

What the fuck was he doing now? Was he going to take out his…?

My thoughts were cut off by what I saw. It was madness, pure and utter madness.

“Did you know male ducks have corkscrew penises that can spring from their bodies in the blink of an eye?” he screamed at me.

At first I thought he’d taken out his penis, that he’d undressed and was some freak of nature, but then I realized it was some sort of machination that was part of the costume.

In the half-light of the apartment I stared at the corkscrew that was dangling from it, dangling from between his legs.

“THE DUCKMAN COMETH!” the guy screamed, thrusting his hips forward, and a moment later, the corkscrew shot out from between his legs.

I threw myself aside, barely dodging the strange contraption that I now realized hat to be some sort of rope gun.

Having missed his attack, he quacked again, angry now, his face contorted by a mad rage. This time, however, I was faster. When he charged me again, flapping his wings, I brought the glass bottle down on his head with all the force I could muster.

The guy staggered, still grinning.

“Did you know ducks,” he mumbled before he tumbled over.

For long seconds, I stood there, staring at his unconscious body, trying to fathom what had just happened.

It wasn’t long before the police stormed into my apartment. Some of my neighbors had heard the commotion and had informed them.

Thankfully, they remembered what I’d told them before and when I explained what had happened, they were quick to apprehend the guy.

I’m still waiting for information on what was wrong with this guy.

One thing’s for sure, however, I can never look at ducks the same way again and I never want to hear anything about corkscrew penises ever again.

Who’d ever be afraid of postcards?

After all, it’s nothing but paper, right?

That’s how I’d have reacted if you’d asked me that question about a month or two ago.

It all started back in April. I’d just returned from the grocery store and checked my mail. I do it less than frequently. The only thing that ever finds its way there are fliers, random advertisement or the occasional bill.

That day though, as I stood in front of the big outdoor mailboxes of my apartment building, there was something else. Amongst a handful of fliers that had accumulated over the past week and a half, I also found a postcard.

After I’d crumbled up the annoying advertisements, I checked the postcard. Its front showed a pair of cute kittens and a ball of yarn.

When I turned it around, wondering who it was from, I found a postal stamp, my address written in fine letters, but no message. At least I thought so until I saw a single smiley face drawn where one would usually find a message.

I stared at the card for a bit, more amused than confused, wondering who’d sent it.

Without thinking much, I pocketed it and went inside. After I’d put away my groceries, I added it to a small bulletin board in my hallway where I’d put up all the postcards I’d received from friends and family over the years.

I’d forgotten it soon enough, if not for another one that arrived a week later.

This time the motif was a sprawling forest with the sun rising in the distance. When I turned it around, it was the same thing. A stamp, my name and address, and another silly little smiley face.

“What the hell?” I brought out before I shrugged. Back inside, I pinned it to the bulletin board and went on with my day.

A few days later, another two postcards arrived. One showed a couple of balloons flying through the air, the other what I assumed to be an important historical building. Once again, neither of them contained a message. Instead, both of them showed the same lonely smiley face.

By now, I couldn’t help but frown. This was getting creepy.

This time I didn’t bother to put the cards up on the board. In the trash they went, without a moment’s hesitation.

And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder what was up with this. Why’d anyone sent me those cards? Why not add a message instead of that stupid smiley face? Was this supposed to be a joke?

I didn’t find any answers to my questions, but the next time I checked my mailbox, I found another batch of postcards inside.

They depicted random motifs, were all addressed to me, and each one sprouted another smiley face.

This time, I wasn’t confused or puzzled. This time I was getting angry. Who the hell was sending them? In my anger, I tore them to pieces right then and there and grumbled up the remains.

Then I stopped and looked around to see if the perpetrator was nearby. Maybe this was all someone’s elaborate joke to see how a random person would react to something like this?

Then I shook my head. It wouldn’t do me any good to grow paranoid about a couple of silly postcards. And they all had a postal stamp, so they’d arrived via mail, anyway.

And yet, the next day, I found myself in front of the mailboxes again, checking it even though I told myself to not let it go to my head. But wouldn’t you know it, I found another one. The same was true for the next day and the day after. Each day, a new, cute little postcard arrived, address to me and sprouting another random smiley face.

Who the hell was doing this? Those cards, the shipping, it all cost money, didn’t it?

That’s when I wondered who it could be. I didn’t exactly have friends and what few old ones I had I hadn’t talked to in years. The next thing that came to mind were past relationships, but I hadn’t dated anyone in years. The only nasty break-up I could think of was with Lin, and that had been almost a decade ago. No, as much as I racked my brain, no one came to mind.

I went online, asked about it on Reddit and other similar sites, but most of the answers I got were silly jokes. What few serious replies I got suggested it might be some sort of marketing campaign, a social experiment or someone tricking random people to see how they’d react.

Great, that didn’t help me one bit. So much for the information age.

Each day, I thought about the damned cards more and more and each day new cards arrived.

Eventually, on my way to the grocery store, I ran into the mailman who’d just started on his delivery on our block.

“Hello, excuse me, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

The man turned to me and gave me a puzzled look before he nodded.

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Well, for the past weeks, I’ve been getting those weird postcards in the mail. Do you by any chance know something about it? Maybe other people receive them too and I was wondering if there’s some sort of, you know, promotion or something.”

For a moment, he stared at me again.

“Haven’t heard of anything like it.”

“Yeah, but those damned cards keep arriving. By now it’s two or three a day and I was wondering,” my voice trailed off.

“They are like, landscapes, animals, greeting cards, anything basically.”

“All right,” he brought out in a strangely suspicious voice. “Do you live here?”

“Ah, down the road, in number sixty-eight.”

“Tell you what, buddy, I’ve no clue if I delivered any postcards, there’s a ton of mail and even more mailboxes. I’ll keep my eyes open though.”

“Thanks.”

From the way he held my gaze, I knew he wasn’t doing anything like keeping his eyes open. No, I could tell he was uncomfortable about the entire thing and just wanted to get over with. I sighed, nodded, and went on my way.

The next morning, while I put on some coffee, the same curiosity overcame me again. I put on my shoes and made my way outside. Wouldn’t you know it, another pair of postcards had found its way into my mailbox.

In an onset of fury, I tore them apart, cursing to myself, and threw their remains down in front of the mailboxes.

Once done, I found one of my neighbors, an old woman walking her dog, staring at me, a worried expression on her face.

“Ah, sorry,” I mumbled, more to myself than to her, before I hurried back inside.

Great, fucking great. If this continued, I’d be known as the local crazy guy in no time. But really, what the hell was up with those cards?

I had talked to the mailman, of course, but by that point he hadn’t been at my building yet. And he probably didn’t give a shit about a random guy pestering him about postcards. No, if anything, I had to talk to him right here, while he was delivering the damned things.

Yesterday I’d met him at about one in the afternoon. So he’d probably be back shortly after noon.

I tried my best to distract myself with my work, but I soon couldn’t concentrate on it anymore. Instead, I found myself sitting at the kitchen window, watching the street and mailboxes outside, waiting for his arrival.

I sat there for more than an hour, busying myself on my phone, when I noticed the bright-yellow delivery car. In an instant, I jumped up, put on my shoes, and dashed outside.

When I’d made it, he was rummaging through the back of his car, sorting through letters and parcels. Then he made his way to my building with a stack of them in his hands. The moment he noticed standing by the mailboxes, he gave me an awkward smile.

Shit, I told myself, now I’m the guy who’s stalking the mailman.

He gave me a friendly nod, trying his best to ignore me, but every so often his eyes wandered back to me. The way I watched him clearly unsettled him. Shit, I had to do something about this situation.

“Sorry about that,” I brought out, stepping up to him.

He gave me a half-questioning, half-scared look.

“You probably think I’m a nutcase but,” I broke up and couldn’t help but laugh. “All right, shit, now you definitely think I’m a nutcase.”

He joined my laughter, but his had an awkward, hollow sound to it.

“So about the postcards,” I started, but he raised his hand to cut me off.

He went through the stack of letters right in front of me, showing me one after another and then the three parcels.

“Nope, no postcards, same as yesterday,” he eventually said.

“Yesterday?”

“Yeah, when you asked me.”

“Motherfucker,” I brought out.

He gave me another curious glance as he pushed letter after letter into their corresponding mailboxes.

“Sorry, not you. It’s just, I found another batch this morning, so I thought maybe today there were more of them.”

“Well, as you can see,” he said, shrugging.

“Yeah, all good. I’m just trying to figure out who’s sending the damned things,” I said, giving him a little smile.

He gave me another curt nod before he hurried back to his car.

All right, if those things weren’t delivered by the postal service…

And so the biggest question on my mind changed from why to who and especially when.

For a moment, the strangest feeling came over me as I watched the mailman at his car and opened my mailbox again. Maybe he was fucking with me and hadn’t shown them. But when I stared into my mailbox, it was empty.

Back inside, I hatched a plan. They were there every morning, and the mailman didn’t deliver them, so someone else had to be behind it. I mean, they couldn’t just appear there out of thin air. So if I just waited by the kitchen window and watched the damned mailboxes, I should catch the perpetrator.

I found myself an interesting podcast, sat down by the window, and began my watch.

I sat there all afternoon, but all I saw were neighbors checking their mail. None of them touched my mailbox at all. When the sun set, I prepared myself a can of coffee.

When night fell, I was about to turn on the light, but then remembered what I was doing. Whoever was behind this would see me in the window and would just sit tonight out. Hell, maybe they’d already seen me and decided to leave things alone for today.

Shit.

Still, I had told myself I’d catch the one responsible for this and that I’d watch the damned mailboxes.

And yet, slowly, ever so slowly, hour after hour passed. Soon enough it was midnight, then one in the morning. At two, I grew tired and downed yet another cup of coffee. At half-past three, I almost nodded off.

I slapped myself across the face, downed another cup of strong coffee, and turned the podcast a few notches louder until it sounded like someone was screaming into my ear.

Eventually, morning came, and the sun dawned. I sat there, tired, exhausted, but most of all, discouraged. No one had shown up, no one at all.

For a moment, I couldn’t help but laugh. What the hell was I doing? Why was I sitting here all night just because of a bunch of stupid postcards?

And yet, I kept sitting there, watching the mailboxes for another hour and then another. Somehow, I couldn’t stop. It felt like the moment I’d step away from the window, someone would rush to the mailbox, put the cards in and dash away.

Then I started to think. What if they were waiting for exactly that? What if someone had seen me by the window and was waiting for me to give up, to falter?

My apartment was on the ground floor. I’d be out at the mailboxes within moments. If I was fast enough, maybe I could catch them red-handed.

For a moment I scanned the area nearby, the street and the sidewalk, the bushes and trees, but I saw no one.

Still, just to be sure, just so I wouldn’t miss a thing, I put my phone up near the window where it couldn’t easily be seen. Then I made sure it was pointed at the mailboxes and started a recording.

Once I was sure everything worked, I stepped away from the window. I put on my shoes, grabbed my keys and hurried outside to the mailbox.

I was all alone. My eyes darted around for movement, trying to see if anyone was nearby or hurrying away. All was as quiet as it could be. No one was nearby.

Then I walked up to my mailbox.

My fingers were sweaty as I put in the key and my hand was shaking slightly as I turned it.

It had to be empty, I told myself, it had to be.

But the moment the small mailbox opened up, I could already see them, three postcards. Cute kittens and puppies stared at me from each one. When I turned them around, I saw the postal stamp, saw my address and name and of course the damned smiley faces.

As they stared at me, I felt almost as if they were laughing at me, mocking me. Had someone actually made it to the mailbox in the few moments it took me to get here?

In an instant, another surge of rage came over me and I shredded the damned things. Then I made my way back inside and hurried to the kitchen.

The phone was still pointing at the mailboxes, still recording.

I was filled with the strangest sense of glee, of curiosity as I replayed the recording.

I brought the phone as close to my face as I could, gazing at it. The recording began, showing me the lonely mailboxes.

“Now, where are you, asshole?” I wondered as I continued watching.

Second after second passed with no one showing up, with nothing moving.

Then I saw something and at first I thought I’d caught the damned asshole playing tricks on me before I realized it was me walking up to my mailbox. I watched as I looked around, as I took out the key and opened it and eventually tore up the postcards.

In frustration, I dropped my phone onto the kitchen table and laughed.

How the hell had someone put those damned cards inside? I had seen no one!

Then I wondered if someone had dropped them in before I’d started watching the window. There had been a few minutes after my talk with the mailman. Hell, what if I had actually nodded off and hadn’t noticed it?

What if the damned mailman was behind it? Maybe that asshole pretended not to know anything and the moment I’d left him, he ran back to my mailbox and put the damned cards in? What if…

All right, stop. This is getting ridiculous. You’re sounding like a crazy person. Hell, you’ve acted like a crazy person. This entire ‘let’s watch the mailboxes all night long’ thing was crazy enough.

I rubbed my temples and shook my head. Shit, I was exhausted and all that for nothing.

The moment I fell into my bed I was deep asleep.

After that day, I made it a conscious effort to ignore whatever was going on here. Who knows, maybe that person did it all to get a reaction out of me. Maybe they were watching me, and maybe they’d seen me tearing up postcards and talking to the mailman. Maybe if I stopped caring they’d tire of their antics?

Either way, I told myself I’d better things to do than to worry about freaking postcards.

Still, whenever I was in the kitchen, I found myself at the window, staring down at the mailbox for a little while before I moved on.

I checked my mail occasionally. When I went to the grocery store or when I returned from an evening walk. Every single time, I found postcards inside and every single time there were more of them. They had to arrive in droves by now. At one point, I pulled out over three dozen of them.

It was the strangest thing, dumbfounding even, but I forced myself not to show a reaction. I wouldn’t give whoever was doing this any sort of satisfaction. No, I took out the postcards, closed my mailbox and went inside where I discarded them.

It was about a week later that my doorbell rang in the late afternoon. When I answered it, one of my neighbors was outside.

“I guess those are for you, aren’t they?” he brought out in a slightly annoyed tone when I opened the door.

I stared at him and then at the stack of postcards in his hand. My eyes grew wide, and I almost cringed back.

“Wait, what? No, those aren’t mine, they are,” I broke up, shaking my head.

“Look, no, those aren’t mine, they are-“

“But that’s your name on them, isn’t it? Right here, on every single one of them,” the man cut me off, his voice now more annoyed.

“Yes, I know, but-“

“Then how about you take them off me?”

“I… fuck, all right!”

With that, I ripped the stack of postcards from his hands.

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt to be a bit friendlier,” he brought out, staring at me.

At first I was about to retort something. To tell him to go fuck himself. But then I told myself to calm down. The guy probably brought them here because he thought the mailman had messed up. He was just trying to be a good neighbor in his own way.

“All right, I’m sorry,” I brought out. “Look, there’s something odd about those postcards.”

The guy’s face didn’t change. Instead, he kept staring at me.

“Someone’s been dumping them into my mailbox for weeks. Hell, probably for a month by now. Every day I find those stupid cards inside. Look, there’s not even a message on them! It’s all just those stupid smiley faces. I don’t know why they put them in your mailbox, but maybe they want to fuck with other people as well.”

“Who are… they?” the man asked me in a half-concerned, half-confused voice once my rant was over.

“Shit, I don’t know! The ones who are doing this, who are fucking with me, fucking with you!”

By now the man had grown apprehensive and taken a few steps away from me.

“Look, I’m not looking for any trouble,” he said, raising his hands in a defensive posture.

At that moment, I got an idea.

“Hold on, let’s go back to the mailboxes.”

“Why’d I-?” the guy started, but after a few moments of standing there confused and lost, he followed me.

After a few moments we were back outside, me standing in front of the mailboxes and him keeping a safe distance from who he thought to be a madman. After a quick turn of the key, I opened my mailbox. A flood of postcards descended upon me. The entire mailbox had been filled to the brim. The last ones had been stuffed inside with such force they’d crumbled.

“What the hell?” the man behind me brought out.

“That’s what I thought,” I reasoned. “They probably dumped the rest into another mailbox, into yours.”

“Look, if this is your idea of a joke, then-“

“What the hell kind of joke would that be? Look, there’s got to be dozens in here, maybe hundreds. Why’d I buy all those postcards just to play a joke on you?”

“Why’d anyone?”

This time, I couldn’t answer.

For a few more moments he stood there before he shook his head and left me alone with all my postcards. As I stared at the filled up mailbox, at the postcards who’d rained down on my feet, I couldn’t help but laugh.

This was insane, this was just utterly insane.

Over the course of the next days, things didn’t get better. More and more neighbors showed up at my door. The nice old lady from floor number three, a student from floor number six, and a young mother from down the hallway. Every single one of them would ring my doorbell to hand me a stack of postcards addressed to me that had accidentally been delivered to them.

As quietly and as normal as I could, I explained to them that someone was playing a trick on me. I told them to just ignore any cards addressed to me or throw them away.

They all nodded, but I could see the puzzlement on their faces, the confusion and the apprehension.

I could tell they were all wondering if this was my doing, and I was sure they considered me the local crazy guy by now.

It wasn’t long before even the mailman rang my doorbell. He told me there was a problem, and he had to speak to me for a moment.

When he saw who I was, he frowned.

“You know this is a problem, don’t you?” he asked, pointing at the mailboxes.

“What do you-?” I started but broke up.

Half of the mailboxes were stuffed with postcards.

I couldn’t help but laugh nervously, which prompted an angry glance from the mailman.

“That’s got to be hundreds… thousands,” I eventually brought out.

“Yeah, and I can’t deliver the mail, thanks to them. What are you going to do about it?”

“What am I… what?”

“Well, they are all addressed to you. This is clearly related to you!”

“But, I don’t, ugh,” I broke up in frustration.

By now, another neighbor had arrived, staring at her mailbox.

“Not again,” she brought out as she opened her mailbox and tore dozens upon dozens of crumbled up postcards from it.

As I watched, as I stared at all those stuffed mailboxes, I knew this wasn’t a prank anymore. No, something strange was going on here, something extremely strange.

I pulled out my phone and called the police. I made my report as vague as possible, telling them someone was stalking me and damaging the mailboxes at my apartment building.

When they arrived, I told them about the full situation. They listened intently, but I could see the look on their faces.

The longer I went on talking, the more angry they seemed to get.

I was quick to lead them to the mailboxes and pointed at the general chaos. Their anger dissipated almost instantly and was replaced by confusion.

“And, how long has this… whatever this is, been going on?” one of them asked while his colleague stepped up to the mailboxes.

“I guess, about a month and a half,” I started. “At first it was only a single postcard, but then more and more of them arrived, and now it’s come to this.”

The two police officers did the best to handle the entire situation professionally, but I could tell they were as perplexed as I was.

They asked me if I had any enemies, but I answered I couldn’t think of anyone. I told them I’d tried to figure out who was behind this for weeks, but I had no clue. I even told them of my nightly watch.

Eventually, one of them handed me his card with a phone number on it. They told me they’d take some postcards with them and look into it and they’d have someone to watch the nearby area.

With the police here and them taking action, I was sure this thing would finally end. Stuffing all those mailboxes had to take time, and I was sure they’d catch whoever was responsible.

The next morning, however, I found all the mailboxes in chaos again. Mine was so stuffed, I was surprised the door was still closed. Almost all other mailboxes were in a similar condition.

As I stood there, I took out my phone and called the number on the card the police officer had given me.

He answered, and I told him it had happened again. The man listened, but he couldn’t tell me much. They had someone watching the area, but so far, they hadn’t been able to see anyone suspicious.

The weird deliveries continued, and soon I wasn’t the only one in contact with the police. And yet, they never found out who was behind it, saw no one.

Even stranger, though, were the postcards themselves. None of them showed any label or a hint of a manufacturer. The same was true for the stamps.

And yet, nothing could be done and postcards kept arriving.

Before long people began pressuring the renting company. Something had to be done about this absurd situation. I knew some of them wanted me gone from the building while others wanted them to hire a mailbox security who’d watch it at all hours of the day.

The renting company, however, had a different plan. One day, they sent a maintenance team that took down the entirety of the mailboxes and simply moved them inside into the entry hallway of the building.

When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I did was to check on the mailboxes. Other people did the same thing.

I think we were all expecting them to be filled to the brim once more. Instead, everything was normal. There were no postcards with my name and silly smile faces on them anywhere.

I could see the relaxed faces of people around me, could hear them sigh in relief and talk about how it was finally over. And I couldn’t help but join in. They were still wary of me, still wondering how I’d spawned that madness, but I didn’t care.

Instead, still smiling, I went back to my apartment. I hadn’t even had coffee yet, I thought to myself.

With quick steps, I made my way towards my kitchen.

For the first time in weeks, hell, in more than a month, the world felt normal again. All I wanted right now was a nice, hot cup of coffee.

All those feelings vanished and changed the pure terror when I opened the kitchen door.

Right there, on my kitchen table and on the floor all around it, I found an uncountable number of postcards.

With a shaking hand, I picked up one of them. On it I found a postal stamp, my name and address and a stupid little smiley face.

And as I stared at it, as I stared at that silly, stupid little face, I couldn’t help but smile myself, smile and laugh about the absurdity of this entire mad situation.