I first felt it a few weeks ago. It was a bump on the back of my head.

I thought nothing of it. I’d probably bumped my head while drunk. Happens all the time.

It would go away eventually, I told myself. Yet whenever I washed my hair, it was there, and it felt… bigger? Occasionally, I could almost feel it pulsate, and a hot feeling would wash over my head. It was unlike anything I’d felt before. It wasn’t a headache, but an almost external feeling as if the warmth came from outside.

I tried my best to ignore it. Nothing but a bump that would soon be gone.

It wasn’t.

Today, I spent the evening watching a bunch of trashy movies and having a few drinks. Every once in a while, though, I could feel it again, the same warmth washing over my head.

Before long, fueled by half a dozen beers, my worries came back.

I stumbled to the bathroom and checked the back of my head. Yet with all the hair, I couldn’t see anything. All I could do was probe for it.

Scissors, I needed scissors. Driven by an almost drunk stupor, I began cutting away the hair around the bump haphazardly.

Before long, I was done, and finally got a better look at it. It was a bump, all right, and a rather big one at that. When I touched it, though, it felt strangely soft.

Where the hell did this come from?

As I stared at it, I saw it was still covered in a few hairs. When I touched them, when I pulled on them, they just came off. I could simply… pluck them out with no resistance.

What the absolute fuck…?

Then, with a shaking hand, I reached out for it again. Once more, the same warm feeling spread all over my head. I began probing it, pressing against it here and there. Then, for a split second, it felt almost as if something was pushing back against my finger.

I cringed and pulled my hand back.

I stood there, hyperventilating. Almost in a trance, I picked up the scissors again.

I poked it once, twice. Again the same hot feeling.

Then I pressed the scissors against it. At first gently, but then harder and harder. Skin stretched and finally broke. I watched as a disgusting, syrupy liquid leaked from the bump.

And then I screamed. The scissors clattered to the floor.

This time, the feeling that washed over my head was as hot as fire.

Yet I almost didn’t register it. The horror I saw pushed aside all feeling.

Slowly, ever so slowly, something pushed itself from the bump. It was a disgusting, tentacled growth. It became longer and longer, as it slithered over the back of my head, probing the outside world before it retreat into the bump on the back of my head.

Red. It’s the most vivid of colors and has always been my favorite. I loved it ever since I was a little girl, and as I grew older, these feelings only intensified. My clothes always came in shades of red, my school bags were red, and even my favorite musician was no other than Girl in Red. I guess you could say I was a little obsessed.

Red is also the perfect color to describe my relationship with Samuel. We were both students at the same university. Our first meeting was nothing but pure chance, and it could’ve been right out of a silly romantic comedy. I was hurrying over campus, carrying a stack of books, when I bumped right into him. We talked little back then, and, frankly, I thought nothing would come of it. While he was a suave and attractive man, I was nothing but a mousy and plain little thing. Yet I must’ve caught his eye, and he must’ve seen something in me. Before long, he thought me out again, and soon after, we went on our first date.

Our attraction turned to love, and then to red, burning passion. Oh, how I loved those very first nights the two of us shared in each other’s arms. It was a dream come true, and after only a few short months, he asked me to move in with him. Sharing my life with Samuel was amazing, at least for a while.

Then, one night, things changed. He revealed his ugly, true face to me; the one he’d hidden all along. It was a different face, one red with anger, and for the first time, I was afraid of my favorite color. That night, all the passion, all the love I’d ever felt for this man fizzled away, and was replaced by a different red, the red of my blood. Red, the most vivid of colors, my once favorite color, I thought, as he stood over me and I stared at my blood on his balled fists.

Eventually, after another one of his many little sessions; the ones he called our quality times, I remembered that red could also mean something else.

Red could also mean fire.

Tonight, as he sleeps next to me, his face still red from exhaustion and drink, I fight my battered body to its feet. For the first time in months, I feel love again, love for my favorite color, as I stare at the tiny, burning match between my fingers. Then I went outside, and burned it all to the ground; the house, the relationship, and most importantly, him.

And as I stare at the flames, it’s this red, the most vivid of colors that finally allows me to be free again.

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We’d all been invited by Professor Davies and flown out to his remote home in the Scottish Highlands.

The professor was a strange, eccentric man, but a renowned expert in his specific field of interest. And we, be we artists or scientists, had all become fascinated by his work on the human condition and other, more esoteric topics.

As he led us through his massive home, I couldn’t help marvel at what I saw. Yet, my eyes didn’t wander long before they came to rest on the painting that hung over the door he was leading us to.

It was a gigantic recreation of Francisco Goya’s Saturn Devouring His Son.

Before I could stare at it any longer, however, he pushed open the heavy door and ushered our small group inside. With the smallest of gestures, the professor bod us to take our seats along a long table.

“Well then, honored guests, I welcome you all to my humble home. I thank you all for attending this little gathering of mine, as well as your interest in my work.”

As he spoke, two of his servants wheeled in a gigantic brass cloche and brought it to rest in the center of the table. A moment later, they vanished as quickly as they’d entered.

“Now then, today’s not about empty words, nor about introductions. It’s about one thing, and one thing alone: the feast I prepared for you all.”

As he said it, the professor smiled, a smile wider than any I’d ever seen before, one full of anticipation.

“Well then, Mr. Schneider? Would you do us the honor?” he asked in a solemn voice and pointed at the cloche.

Everyone’s eyes came to rest on me and after a moment’s hesitation, my hands closed around the heavy cloche. The moment I’d lifted it, I froze.

“What the hell,” I brought out and a moment later, the cloche slid from my hands and clattered to the floor.

Yet, no one reacted to the sound. No, all eyes came to rest on what was below.

I heard gasps, curses and chairs clattering to the floor as all of us stared at the roasted meat in front of us.

It was brownish grey, covered in fat and sauce. Here and there, the skin had burst open, revealing the rosy flesh below.

We saw arms, legs, and in the center, between it all, what looked like a human torso and head.

Garnished around it all were various herbs and fruits.

“Now then, eat your fill,” the professor said, his smile never wavering.

“Eat,” he said once more, when none of us moved, his voice now hard.

As he did, I heard the door to the hall being locked, and finally saw the gun in his hand.

“Eat, or tomorrow, this will be one of you.”

“Postal service, do you mind accepting a package for Ms. Ivanovna?”

Still half asleep, I mumbled a ‘sure’ before I opened the door to the apartment building.

A few seconds later, a beaming postal worker pressed a package into my hands.

“You’re mister…?”

“Mueller.”

“Great, I’ll put a note in her mailbox.”

With that, he hurried away, and I was left with the package in my hands.

In the evening, I waited for Ms. Ivanovna to come get her package, but no one showed up. Same the next day.

After three days, I felt rather guilty. Who knows, maybe the postal worker put the note into the wrong mailbox or forgot to do it.

With a sigh, I went to have a look at what apartment she lived in. As I read through the names on the bell system, however, Ivanovna wasn’t one of them.

Not knowing what else to do, I left the package where it was, on a small table in my living room. I was sure she’d show up in time, and if not, it wasn’t my problem.

A few days later, the vilest stench greeted me when I returned home from work. At first, I didn’t know where it came from, but then I saw the damned package.

The bottom was wet and something had leaked from it.

“Fuck, the hell’s in there?”

As I tore it open, covering my mouth and trying my hardest not to throw up, I found a plastic bag filled with meat inside that must’ve torn open.

Shit, if I’d know it was food, I’d have put it in the fridge.

Nothing I can do about it now, I thought, as I dumped it into a trash bag and threw it into the dumpster outside.

Not like anyone’d show up after a week, anyway.

I was wrong and a few days later, a pair of police officers arrived at my door.

“Mr. Mueller, we’d like to ask you some questions.”

“Sure, what’s going on?”

“Have you by any chance accepted a delivery this past week?”

I didn’t know what this was about, but I answered I had indeed.

“Do you, by any chance, recall this young man?”

At first, I had no clue, but then I recognized him as the young postal worker.

“Oh yeah, that’s the delivery guy who… Excuse me, what’s this all about?”

Down at the station, I learned the truth about the ominous package, as well as the young postal worker.

The man who’d greeted me so friendly that morning had murdered his roommate and dismembered him. Then, to dispose of the body, he’d sealed the parts in plastic bags and delivered them to the people around the area.

Even now, days after, I’m still feeling sick to my stomach, knowing what sat inside my apartment for the better part of a week.

The first picture arrived on Tuesday morning. I woke up, checked my messages and discovered one by a number not in my contacts.

Still half-asleep, I opened it, only to be greeted by a picture and a line below it.

The picture was nothing but a blurry, incomprehensible mess. The only thing of notice were two tiny numbers in the bottom right, thirty-two and seventeen.

‘Hope you enjoy, beautiful,’ the line below it read.

What the hell? Probably a wrong number. Still, it was weird.

In the end, I just ignored it. Yet, the mysterious sender didn’t ignore me. A day later, another message arrived. It was almost identical. The line was the same, and it contained another blurred picture.

When a third and fourth message arrived, I grew annoyed and blocked the number.

I thought that was it, but a day later, I got yet another message from another, different number.

This time, I sent back an angry message, telling whoever was trying to mess with me to leave me alone and blocked them again.

The problem was, whoever was behind it didn’t leave me alone.

In the end, as the messages kept coming, I decided to just ignore them. It wasn’t worth getting worked up. Yet, I still opened them occasionally.

It was my colleague Susan, who finally shed light on things. While I sat at my desk, staring at yet another message, she spoke up.

“Why are you looking at the corner of an eye?” she asked.

I turned around, staring at her in confusion.

“Corner of an eye? What do you mean?”

“Well,” she started, took the phone from my hand and turned it around. “If you turn it this way, you can clearly see it.”

She was right. This was getting creepy. A second later, I opened another picture. After staring at it for a while, I realized I was looking at skin and a few tiny hairs.

At that moment, I remembered the numbers at the bottom. I rechecked a few of the other pictures and noticed that they were always different.

Then I got an idea.

“Are those… coordinates?” I mumbled to myself.

“What?” Susan, who was still standing next to me, asked.

“Those numbers, what if they are coordinates and these are all part of a bigger picture, you know, like a collage or something?”

Susan just stared at me, but I connected my phone to my laptop and put all the strange blurred images on it.

Using Photoshop, I began putting them all together. Slowly, something appeared. First an eye, then a nose, and finally a mouth.

Once I was done using more than a hundred pictures, Susan gasped.

Yet, I couldn’t even do that. No, I just sat there in pure and utter terror.

What I was staring at was my own sleeping face, laying in my bed.

“Guess it’s about time,” the old man mused to himself.

After searching for a moment, he found what he was looking for. A grin showed on his face as he pocketed the tiny key.

He has to force himself to take measured steps and to relax his gait as he descended the stairs down into the basement.

The echo of his steps long preceded him, and he can already hear the rattling of chains.

When he opened the door to the small cell, a gasp reached him. It was music to his ears and for a moment he stood there, listening to the labored, ragged breathing from inside.

“The hell you waiting for you sick freak?” the man inside asked.

The old man knew it was meant to be a scream, yet all that reached him was a mere croak.

“Ah, my dear Mathew,” the old man started in a voice dripping with honey, “how are you this fine day?”

“Fuck you,” the man inside spat at him.

The old man laughed and stepped into the room with a bright smile on his face.

“Guess you’re having one of those days, aren’t you, Mathew?”

This time he got no answer, just as expected.

For a moment the old man stops, sniffed the air, and his face changed to an expression of faked shock.

“My god, Mathew, I think you’re in dire need of a bath, how about-“

“Why the hell did you come down here? To make a few more of your sick jokes?”

“Now, why’d I do that? I was going to bring you some food, Mathew. You know, I want you to be healthy. But since we’re talking about health, you might want to move those arms and legs of yours a little. It will keep your muscles from cramping and those joints from hurting.”

“You ARE hurting, aren’t you, Mathew?” he asked with an exhilarated expression and hungry eyes.

“Go fuck yourself, I’m done playing your games!”

The old man laughed.

“Then how about I ask you a question, instead. What is true terror? Is it the fear you feel when I enter this room?”

Mathew answered with nothing but a grin.

“Is it the pain of your muscles tearing and your joints dislocating?”

Nothing.

“Is it the deterioration of your mind? The fact that you don’t know what will happen to you, how long you’ve been here and that in time, you might not even know who you are anymore?”

Once again, no reaction.

Suddenly the old man’s face showed childish glee before he began laughing again. This time, it’s a throaty, hysterical laugh, one that makes Mathew cringe back.

No,” the old man brought out between bouts of laughter.

“True terror is hope.”

And with that, he placed the key to Mathew’s chains on the floor, just barely out of his reach.

An eerie atmosphere filled the living room.

Marie sat in her chair, holding a glass of wine, staring at the TV, but barely watched.

John was in his reading chair at the other end of the room. The book wasn’t bad but wasn’t good either.

That was true for a lot of things these days.

That’s just life, he thought, turning the page.

“How’s the book?” Marie asked, slurring the last word.

He looked up, saw her tired eyes and her rosy face. He knew it wasn’t her first glass for the night, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“Not bad,” he answered, focusing on his book again.

“Ah well,” she mumbled.

For a while, all he heard were the voices on TV.

When Marie spoke again, there was an edge to her voice, and, he noticed, a slight shaking.

“How long do you think this will continue? How long-“

“Why don’t you just watch your show and drink your wine, Marie?”

“I’m just-“

“Nothing we can do about it, can we?”

He heard her empty the glass, followed by her pushing herself to her feet. She tottered through the room on her way to the kitchen for yet another refill. When she returned, she came to a stop in front of him.

He put down the book and looked up at her. Her face was filled with anger, sadness, but most of all reproach.

“How can you just-?”

She broke off when laughter reached their ears, laughter from down the hall, from their daughter’s room.

Their eyes met. For a moment Marie didn’t move before she stumbled back to her chair as if struck. The glass of wine was shaking in her hand, sending a spray of red droplets to the carpet below. They weren’t even noticeable among the rest.

John watched as she sunk deeper and deeper into the cushion before she emptied the glass in a single, greedy gulp.

Outside, the sound of toys and play got louder. John knew them all; the bouncing of the ball, the shrill tweet of the whistle, the wooden blocks being stacked upon one another.

Marie didn’t look up, didn’t say a thing. Instead, her hand clutched onto the empty glass and John could already see it bursting.

“Marie,” he started, but she cut him off instantly. Her head jerked towards him, her eyes wide and half-crazy.

“Make her stop, John, please, make her stop!” she screamed at him before she sunk back, shivering and weeping.

The glass fell from her hand, clattered to the floor, and added yet another tiny red splotch to the mess on the carpet.

John didn’t say a word, didn’t do a thing. Instead, he turned to the next page of the book.

And as he focused on the words in front of him, he shut it all out. The sound of the TV, his wife’s pleas and cries, and the giggling from down the hall.

For their daughter had died a year ago.

A bright, glistering light woke Jake. He turned, pulled the blanket over his head, but it was useless.

“Shit, goddamn sun,” he cursed and went to pull the curtains.

This was his one free day this week, and he had the right to sleep for as long as he damn well pleased.

Squinting his eyes, he made it to the window. Why was it so damn bright? Wait a second, why were the street lights still on? Wasn’t it morning already?

As he stared outside, he noticed that the street was filled with people. There was a commotion outside. People were screaming, others laughing hysterically, and a few sat on the ground, utterly dumbfounded.

Yet, there was one thing they all had in common. They were all staring at the sky.

Shock washed over Jake. What the hell was going on? It had to be war. A bomb. An explosion. Why was everyone staring at the sky, though?

He threw open the window but had to take a step back as a gush of hot air hit his face. No, not just hot, it was scalding outside. How in the hell…? It’s the middle of December.

He leaned forward, putting his arms on the window frame, and pulled them back instantly, cursing in pain.

For a moment he rubbed his arms, then reached out again. There was no doubt, this was no illusion. The stone was hot, burning hot, as if the summer sun had shone on it for an entire day.

Fear washed over him, fear and confusion.

Outside people were still screaming, throwing themselves to the ground in despair, in terror, or in hysteric insanity.

Oh god, what the hell’s going on?

Even in this blazing heat, he started shivering. What if it’s a nuke? What if-?

He broke off when he could finally see the sky.

Above him, the sky was alight by an immeasurable amount of stars. It was nothing but a glistering sea of light and in its center a giant, blazing star.

His eyes grew wide, his mouth opened. For a moment he thought it was the Milky Way, that the stars were more visible tonight, that they were closer.

But then, he noticed that what he saw wasn’t merely the sky, not merely the stars, but some sort of entity.

Its head was a blazing, burning star, its body a terrible, endlessly twisting galaxy, and its arms comprised glittering space nebulae.

And he laughed as he saw it, laughed at the surreal hilarity at the impossibility above.

In the far emptiness of space, none of that mattered. The entity didn’t waver, didn’t care, didn’t think.

Despair, terror, insanity, and even the existence of mankind were all but meaningless.

For it had descended for one thing and one thing alone:

To steal yet another world.

All merriment and conversation stopped when Madame Laura Dechant entered the room.

Every head turned towards the door she emerged from. It wasn’t because she was the banquet’s host. No, it was as if a queen had descended upon them.

Her skin was as white as marble, her hair like spun silk. Her hazel eyes wandered over each guest before a coy smile showed on her face.

With a throw of her long hair, she bid them continue and took her seat at the top of the table.

There she sat, basking in the attention awarded her. There were the longing gazes of men who wanted her and the jealous looks of the woman who wanted to be her.

A new pair had just arrived. One, a man of her retinue, the other a young thing, barely of age. She was shy and nervous as she entered.

She wore a shoddy dress, walked in a tottering way, and almost stumbled over her own feet as she approached the table.

Yet, there was something about her, and Laura noticed that some men regarded the newcomer with more than curiosity.

When she noticed this, Laura got to her feet. With swift steps, heels clattering over the floor, she approached the girl.

Standing in front of her, she stared her down with the most condescending of smiles.

“And who might you be?” Laura asked in a warm, kind voice.

“Jeanette, Miss Dechant,” the girl mumbled, eyes downcast.

Laura’s eyes wandered over Jeanette’s body and eventually came to a rest. Not on her shapely body, not on her eyes, her hair, or her face. They came to rest on the girl’s hands.

Jealousy rose and a crude smile distorted her face.

Those hands, Laura thought. They were the most beautiful, delicate hands she’d ever seen.

No one intervened when Laura took the girl’s hand.

Laura smiled at her sweetly.

“Welcome to my home, Jeanette,” she said, her voice dripping with honey.

Everyone was quiet as Laura led the girl along the table, then past it and finally to the door at the end of the hall.

“Where are we-,” Jeanette began to ask, but Laura put a finger to her lips.

“I’d like to talk with you privately, Jeanette,” Laura answers.

The young girl, embarrassed and overwhelmed by the attention, can only nod and when Laura opens the door to her personal quarters, she steps in undeterred.

Again, no one says a word, not even Jeanette’s companion.

As Laura leads her inside, she stares at those beautiful, delicate hands once more, hands so very fitting for her body.

And as the door closes behind them, her attendants are already prepared. The tools and machines are ready, the process perfected over the years.

And once morning arrives, Laura would be just a tad bit more beautiful.

For then, those small, delicate hands would be her very own.

The line came out of nowhere.

It was a simple, vertical line dividing the sky from horizon to horizon.

People all over the world stared at it in awe.

Scientists believed it to be an atmospheric phenomenon; religious men and cult leaders alike proclaimed the end of the world.

Jeremy Wilkin’s had his own ideas.

He sat on his porch, sipping on a beer and staring at the sky. After a while, his wife joined him, looking at him, then casting her eyes upwards as well.

“What do you think it is?” she asked.

“It’s humbug, that’s what it is! A farce put up there to scare us!”

“But, Jerry, dear, who’d do something like that? I mean, it’s been up there for days!”

“Has to be that Bezos fellow or the Gates one! They with all their money and all that new technology and-“

“Oh, shush, Jerry, you’re always going on about those folks!”

“Well, they’ll always be messing around with our lives and now they’ve done this! Split the goddamn sky in half and-“

“Jerry, don’t curse like that! What if Pastor George hears about it!”

“Pah, give a rat’s ass about Pastor George! Damn him and his sermons! Been sick and tired of them for years. Only good thing about this whole Covid business is that his damned church stays closed!”

His wife Lizzy gasped in shock at his outburst.

“How can you say something like this? What’s the matter with you?”

For the first time in what must’ve been hours, Jeremy Wilkins turned his eyes from the sky and looked at her. He sighed before he took another sip of his beer.

“It’s the damned thing up there! Making me crazy! Feels like there’s something up there, almost as if-“

“Maybe you ought to stop staring at it all day, you old fool,” his wife said laughing, but it was a nervous laugh.

For a while she traced the line with her gaze, staring at the horizon and going ever higher until she had to crane her neck to see it.

Suddenly her husband got a hold of her arm. His grip was hard, yet his arm was shaking.

“Jerry, what’s-“ she started, but broke up when she saw her husband’s face. It had turned into a mask of terror. His eyes were wide, his mouth hung open, but all that escaped it were indistinguishable noises.

His free arm rose shakingly, pointing at the sky right ahead.

When she looked, she saw the line fizzling, saw a pair of gigantic hands pushing through it.

Then they reached out to the left and right. Fingers sunk deep into what should be nothing but empty air got a hold of the sky and started tearing.

Jeremy and Lizzy Wilkins sat on their porch, watching in a mixture of wonder and utter despair.

Slowly and steadily the line expanded as the hands tore apart the fabric of reality itself, revealing the madness that lay beyond the stars.