How do you react to someone calling out to you in the middle of the night? What if it happens in a dark, deserted street?

With a mixture of worry and apprehension?

That’s how I reacted. I jerked around and almost dropped the cigarette I’d lit.
In my mind, I imagined some angry drunk or deranged homeless person coming for me. Then whoever it was spoke up again.

“Excuse me, do you have a moment…?”

I realized now that this voice wasn’t mad or angry. While it was piercing, it was also melodic, and more than a little awkward.

It came from a woman who stood a dozen meters away from me. When I saw her, my worries evaporated. She looked young and wore nothing but a white dress which seemed almost too tight for her slender figure. She shuffled around, her shoes scraping over the concrete of the sidewalk before she started towards me.

“I’m on my way home, but I think someone’s following me,” she said in a sharp whisper. “Do you mind walking with me for a bit? Just to be safe…”

Taken a back and slightly confused about the situation, I nodded and told her it wasn’t a problem.

Earlier that night, I’d been out with friends. We went on a little bar crawl that led us through the alternative district of our city.

As the hours ticked by, we eventually ended up in an old, dirty corner bar. With little thinking, we ordered ourselves a beer and sat down at the bar, not realizing how shady the place was.

It only dawned on us when a man as gigantic as he was drunk stumbled from the bathroom and promptly yelled at us for taking his seat.

Our tries at diffusing the situation fell on deaf ears and only made him angrier. In a motion much too swift for his drunk state, he got a hold of my beer, smashed it in front of my feet, and seemed ready to beat the shit out of me and my friends. By this point, some of the other patrons had gotten up as well, most likely to join in the fun.

Thankfully, the barkeeper stepped in.

He told the guy enough was enough, and if he wouldn’t leave right at this moment, he’d have no problem calling the cops on him. Again. The guy’s eyes rested on me for a few more moments before he stormed off, grumbling and cursing to himself.

After this rather unpleasant experience, and finding ourselves still at the center of attention, we quickly left the bar behind and decided to call it a night.

Once I’d said goodbye to my friends, I went to a nearby tram station, only to realize that I’d missed my tram by almost half an hour.

A quick look at the department schedule told me it was the very last one for the night. Checking my wallet, I also realized I had nowhere near enough money to afford a taxi, given I lived at the other end of the city.

And so, after a copious amount of cursing at myself for not watching the time, I set out on the long, long way home.

That’s when I’d met her.

As we walked on, the fear she’d shown before slowly faded and, before long, she walked next to me, without a care in the world. What a strange woman, I thought.

Yet, every once in a while, her words returned to me, and I couldn’t help but feel watched. Whenever I looked over my shoulder, however, the streets were entirely empty. The only signs of life were other stragglers, and a few rare cars. Apart from that, the entire city was deserted.

The woman, however, didn’t seem to notice anything, and soon started chit-chatting with me, telling me she’d been out dancing with friends, but had gotten lost and missed her tram, just like me.

As she babbled on, however, the strange feeling persisted, became almost feasible.

About twenty minutes after she’d joined me, I stopped to light yet another cigarette. I only saw it for a moment, but there’d clearly been a figure at the end of the street, watching the two of us.

“Whoever the hell you are, fuck off! I swear, I’ll call the cops!”

By now, the situation was unsettling me, and I already had my phone in hand, ready to follow through on my threat. The figure, however, seemed to be gone, and after a few more seconds, I breathed a sigh of relief.

When I began to walk again, I noticed how close the woman had gotten to me, almost pushing her body against mine, smiling at me shyly. A moment later, I felt her hand grabbing onto mine.

“Sorry, I guess I’m still a bit scared,” she said, yet her voice sounded much too happy for that, and almost… seductive.

As I stared at her face, however, into her dark green eyes, I had to admit that she was cute, really damned cute.

What can I say? I was still pretty drunk and before long, I put my arm around her, pulling her even closer. Only a mere five minutes later, we were making out at a dark street corner.

As we did, I thought I heard echoing footsteps nearby again, but my longing for this woman had replaced all my worries, all my fears.

Our lips were sealed onto each other, and my hands slowly wandered down her back when she stopped me and pointed ahead, giving me a coy smile. Just a few blocks away was a small park, and taking my hand, she led me there, half-running and giggling the entire way.

The moment we entered the park, she found a deserted bench, pushed me onto it, and got on top of me.

She was taking the lead now, aggressively though, almost restraining me with her legs. None of her former shy character remained. She pushed her lips onto mine, and her tongue into my mouth as she furiously made out with me.

Then something felt strange. Suddenly my mouth seemed on fire, then my throat before the heat spread through my entire body.

I tried to push her away, tried to free myself, but something was wrong. I felt dizzy, hazy even, and wasn’t in control of my body anymore.

Before long, the hot feeling left, being momentarily replaced by cold before all feeling seemed to leave me. Her lips were still pressed to mine, but I couldn’t feel them anymore. My arms started tingling, then grew numb and slid down the length of her back and came to rest on the bench to either side of me.

Oh god, something was terribly wrong!

I wanted to push her off me, wanted to speak, tell her to get help, to call an ambulance, but wasn’t able to do anything.

Then I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. Nearby, behind some bushes at the edge of the park, a dark figure was watching us. No, I realized a moment later, not watching us but coming for us.

Finally, her lips released mine, her head jerked back, and she giggled before her face warped into a disgustingly wide and hungry smile.

Then I heard the figure call out. Its voice was slurred, barely audible, but I understood enough.

“Found you, you little shit! Thought you’d get lucky tonight, didn’t you? Oh, I’ll make sure you’ll get lucky!”

That voice, I knew it. I’d heard it before. When could finally make out the figure’s face, it clicked. It was the giant drunk from the bar. He’d been following us all this time, or rather… he must’ve been following me!

Before he reached me, however, the woman got off my lap in a single swift motion and pushed herself in front of him.

“The fuck you want, bitch? You want some, too? If not, you better get the fuck…”

His voice trailed off when the woman’s body began to change. I watched her muscles tensed and pushed heavy against the fabric of her dress. Then her entire body contorted. She grew taller, became more elongated, the dress stretching, ever-stretching, but not tearing apart. In this moment I realized it wasn’t a dress, but part of her body. I saw it glisten in the moon light, saw it growing slightly wet, becoming scalier and scalier. Then her head pushed forward, her neck growing longer and longer, watched as her arms seemed to vanish, seemed to retreat into her body. Her legs pushed together before they became a single long… tail?

The guy in front of her was freaking out, screaming obscenities in his terror. I watched as he pulled a hunting knife from his pants, ready to plunge it into the monstrosity, but he was too slow. In an instant, her neck shot forward, coiled around his arm, and a moment later, the knife clattered from his hand.

He began beating against her, trying desperately to get free, but she didn’t even seem to feel it. Then, the rest of her body moved forward, at first pushing itself against him before slowly wrapping around him.

My mind was going haywire. What the fuck was I seeing? How could any of this be real?!

My mouth was open, but no sound escaped it. I couldn’t speak, was still paralyzed. Inside my mind, however, I was screaming, screaming at the impossibility I was seeing in front of me, but also screaming at my body to move. Yet I couldn’t. All I could do was watch.

Ahead of me, the she-snake had entirely wrapped herself around the man, who was still screaming, still trying to get free, to claw his way out. Then her distorted face came to a rest right next to his. I heard the creature giggle again before planting a long, hard kiss on the man’s lips.

When she detached herself from him, his screams had faded, his body had grown limp. At the same time, hers tensed up, and I watched as muscles furiously worked below her scaly, white skin. With each second, her entanglement grew stronger, harder, and finally, the disgusting sound of bone breaking and flesh tearing reached my ears. I watched in stunted horror as blood dripped, then gushed from every orifice in the man’s face. Then her mouth unhinged, and she began devouring her prey.

Right at that moment, I finally felt feeling return to my body. I could move, if only slightly. In pure desperation, I told myself to get up, to run, to flee, but all I could do was to lean forward. I crashed to the ground, felt distant waves of pain wash over my body, but I didn’t pay them any mind. Instead, I began to crawl. Still not in full control, every single inch took an agonizing eternity. Like a worm, I pushed myself onward, trying desperately to get away.

All the while, the sounds behind me continued, sounds of retching and swallowing.

Then they ended, and only moments later, I felt something touching me. Instantly, my entire body froze. Oh god, she was back, it was my turn now. In my mind, I already imagined her coiling around my still numb body, crushing me just like she had the man.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” I heard the woman’s voice.

Instead of attacking me, she got a hold of me, her body now that of a human again. With much more strength than her subtle frame should be able to muster, she pulled me to my feet and pushed me back onto the bench.

“I’ve been going hungry for quite some time, but not anymore, not for a while,” she said, giggling.

“Really, you didn’t taste all that bad, but your ‘friend’ over there turned out to be quite the hindrance, and I hate being interrupted during a meal. But I guess you made for some rather good bait.”

Once more she giggled, but this time, I heard the snake-like hiss that echoed behind it, and I heard how piercing and otherworldly her voice truly was. It was nothing but an imitation of a human’s, one almost perfect, but much, much too different.

“Oh, and sorry for the poison. It should have worn off come morning.”

With that, she got up, but after only taking a few steps, she turned to me once more, giving me another smile. This one was much harder, much crueler.

“I am sure tonight will stay our little secret, won’t it?”

For a second, her green eyes turned to slits, turned to those of a snake, and I watched as a slithering tongue escaped her mouth, licking hungrily over her lips.

Then she was gone.

For minutes I remained in the same state of terror, of panic, but as it slowly waned, nothing but exhaustion replaced it and I soon passed out.

When I awoke, it was early morning, and the sun was already up. My entire body hurt, and at first I didn’t know where I was.

Then I remembered what had happened last night, what I’d seen. A cold shower went down my spine. I started shaking and my eyes darted around, trying to see if the creature was still nearby, lying in wait for me.

I was all but alone, and after I’d calmed down, I pushed myself onto weak legs, and set out for a nearby station. It still took me more than half an hour before I finally made it home, where I collapsed on my bed.

After some much needed rest, and sobering up for good, I wondered just what had happened last night.

I considered that I might simply have been too drunk. Who knows, maybe I fell asleep on this bench, and my mind conjured up the entire thing as some sort of twisted nightmare. After all, there’d been no hint of the guy, no hint of the woman, nothing.

Before long, the rational part of my brain repeated this scenario as gospel whenever the images of that strange night returned to me.

Yet, as much as I try to convince myself, I can never truly trust it. For I have seen her again, that slender young woman wearing nothing but a tight, white dress. She’s always there in the alternative district of town, away from the crowds, watching, waiting, and preying on those random stragglers, just like me.

And more than once, she noticed my eyes resting on her, and whenever she did, she gave me a well-knowing smile before she put a finger to her lips.

There’s something special about places frequented by vast amounts of people. I work at one such place, an Autobahn service area.

It’s not exactly a nice job, but it isn’t so different from retail. We double as a gas station and a restaurant. So I mostly sit behind the counter, stack shelves and give the place the old once over.

The worst part by far is the working hours. We’re open around the clock and as the only bachelor in our workforce, I’m perpetually stuck with handling the graveyard shift.

Still, the job has its perks, at least if you’re interested in people. You can see the strangest and most interesting characters.

While most people stop to refill their car, go to the toilet, or grab something to eat, certain customers are just… off. I guess it’s because so many people stop here. Amongst hundreds if not thousands of daily customers, you’re bound to encounter the occasional weirdo.

One is a certain man who shows up every once in a while. He comes in, finds himself a spot in our station and just stands there, sometimes for more than an hour. He buys nothing, never goes to the toilet, and never interacts or even makes eye contact with anyone. No, he just stands there, doing nothing. It’s the weirdest thing.

I once asked one of my older co-workers about him. All he said was that the guy’s been showing up for years. I eyed him curiously, expecting a tale, but he just shrugged, told me the guy wasn’t dangerous and to leave him be. I did just that, but he still gives me the creeps whenever he shows up.

Another day, a sweaty man entered the station and rushed straight for the toilets. Once he was done with his business, he went to the freezer and got himself a bottle of mineral water before he entered his car and drove off.

Nothing special about that. Things got strange ten minutes later. Another car arrived and parked in the same exact spot. A moment later, a sweaty guy entered. He looked exactly the same, wore the same blue shirt and the same cargo pants. He rushed straight for the toilets before he got himself a bottle of mineral water and drove off once again.

Needless to say, I was unnerved and didn’t understand what had just happened. I blinked, watched the time, and after another ten minutes, I half-expected him to show up again. He never did.

In the end, I told myself my eyes must’ve played tricks on me. It had been a hot day, an extremely hot day, and he hadn’t been the only one who was sweaty and thirsty, far from it. Hell, maybe it was just two people who looked similar. Yet, even now, I can’t help but be unnerved whenever I think about it.

What happened last night, however, was different, and can’t be written off as a Déjà vu or my eyes playing tricks on me.

Like all other service areas, ours has a parking lot, a huge one. Most of it is parking space reserved for trucks, since many truck drivers chose service areas to rest for or to stay the night. While there are the occasional assholes amongst them, most are good, friendly people.

Now that winter’s over and it’s getting warmer, I can often see them sitting together in the evening.

Sometimes, you can even see them barbequing. It’s not as fancy as it sounds, just a couple of guys putting down one of those small, disposable grills, roasting a few sausages and sharing a beer or two. I guess, after sitting in your truck all day, every day, you’re in need of some company.

Whenever I was on the graveyard shift, I watched their interactions. There really wasn’t anything else to do. Our busiest hours were during the early morning, the later afternoon and the early evening. The rest of the day, the place was half-empty.

Last night was the same. I came to work in the early evening, handled the last big surge of customers and prepared myself for a lazy night.

As so often, a handful of truck drivers had stopped here for the night and around nine in the evening, one of them entered the station to stock up on provisions. He got a disposable grill, a few packs of sausages, and two six-packs of beer.

I watched him as he made his way back to the rest of the small group and watched as the men promptly shared a beer together.

As my eyes wandered from them over the rest of the parking lot, I saw another truck had stopped at the other end of the parking lot. The first thing I noticed was the state the truck was in. It looked old, dirty, and as if it had been on the road for decades. Whatever ads or name had once been painted on its side had long since faded into obscurity.

While I wondered why this thing was even allowed on the road, given the state it was in, the cabin doors opened and two men exited.

When I saw them, a cold shower went down my spine. Even from afar, from in here, I could tell something was wrong with them.

They seemed as old and dirty as their truck. Both were lanky, emaciated even, and their ragged clothes dangled from their bodies. It gave them an almost skeletal appearance, as if they were only half-alive.

Their faces, too, looked exhausted, hollow, as if their skin was perpetually sagging, their expression all but empty.

For a moment, their eyes wandered around and I instinctively focused on the counter in front of me, afraid the strange pair would notice me staring. Then they set out and made their way across the parking lot.

The way they walked and carried their bodies was as strange as their appearance. They were hunched over, as if they could barely carry their own weight. At the same time, however, each step they took seemed too wide, giving their movements a strangely jerky look and making their arms and legs appear longer than they were.

The more I watched them, the more they reminded me of trudging beasts, predators on the prowl for unsuspecting prey. My eyes were glued to them, and I thought about going outside to warn the other truck drivers of the strange newcomers. Just in that moment, however, they’d noticed them.

My mind conjured up scenarios from late night horror movies. I imagined them going down on all fours, transforming into the wild beasts I thought they were before they’d throw themselves at the men.

Yet, they only gave the other group a side-way glance before they continued on their stroll.

While I handled two late evening customers, the two men made it back to their truck. Even then, they still gave me the creeps, and I hoped they’d just drive off or go to sleep for the night.

Instead, they made their way to the back of their truck, to check on their cargo, I assumed, whatever it may be. From where I was, however, I couldn’t see much. I only saw how they busied themselves with the doors, their bodies straining under the effort of pulling them open. Their clothes bulged as muscles tensed, and eventually they cracked the doors open.

At that moment, a gush of thick, greyish-white smoke escaped from the inside, coiling around the doors. The two of them just stood there, staring inside intently. I told myself they were just making sure everything was all right, but why were they just standing there like that? What was up with that strange smoke? I’d seen my share of cooling trucks over the years, and this looked nothing like cold air.

They stood there for what must’ve been minutes, not moving. All the while, the strange smoke kept streaming from the truck, curling around the rusty metal as if holding onto it.

Suddenly, with a loud bang that made me jerk up, they threw the doors shut again. When they stepped away from the truck, however, I noticed something had changed. Before, their face hadn’t shown a hint of emotion. Now, they both seemed euphoric, grinning widely, their faces frozen in an expression of perpetual glee.

Once more, I shivered, averted my gaze, and began haphazardly sorting through the shelf behind the counter.

Yet, I couldn’t fight my curiosity for long. Soon enough, I watched the parking lot again. By now, the two of them had begun another stroll. This time, however, I could tell where they were going and a few moments later, they approached the group of barbecuing truck drivers.

For a second, all was quiet, and once more, I saw the situation escalate in front of my mind’s eye, but then they were invited to sit down. Before long, they were happily chatting with the rest of the group.

As I watched, everything seemed normal enough, and I couldn’t help but call myself superstitious. The two newcomers had even brought a bottle of booze of their own, had probably grabbed it from the back of their truck. Who knows, maybe they were just a pair of weirdos, two guys who’d been on the road for as long as their truck? Who was I to judge them?

As much as I tried to relax, I couldn’t. While taking care of the usual late night chores, my eyes constantly wandered back to the group of truckers. All was normal. Just another night at the service area.

Still, those two guys, they just felt… off. Even as they sat there, there was this aura around them. Somehow, they didn’t belong, and were of a different breed than the rest.

It was half past midnight when something else happened. Suddenly, the entire group got to their feet, and I watched as the two newcomers led the rest to their truck.

I don’t know what I expected, but my eyes grew wide when they all approached the back of the truck. Once more, the two strange men busied themselves pulling the back open before they stepped aside.

Instantly, the other four men froze. For minutes, they just stood there, as if in a trance, staring into the back of the truck. Once more, I cursed at myself because I couldn’t see what the hell was going on. All I could see was the same strange smoke streaming outside.

Then the first of the four truckers leaned forward, as if trying to get a better look, before he approached the doors and vanished inside.

After only a minute, only the two strange newcomers remained, but at that moment, I saw something.

It was dark by now and the only light was that of a few lonely street lamps. Yet, for a second, I could’ve sworn I saw a bunch of hands hidden below that smoke.

My eyes grew wide, and I felt myself leaning forward over the counter. What the hell was going on over there? Did those guys have… people in there?

The idea of human traffic came to my mind, but if so, why’d no one tried to run away, and why’d the other four guys entered the truck? Then another, more twisted idea came to my mind. What if this was some weird sex-thing? A brothel on wheels, maybe? Are there… things like that?

I didn’t get to think about it any further because right then, the two strange guys threw the back of the truck shut. Then, still grinning and still in the same state of euphoric glee, they made their way to the front of the truck and got in.

I just stood there, still behind the counter, staring outside. Had they just locked those other men in? Were they kidnapping them?

I was prepared for them to start their truck and drive off, but nothing happened. Minute by minute passed, and I grew more and more antsy.

My phone was in my hand, ready to call the cops had been for minutes, but somehow I wasn’t able to do anything. I was too confused. This entire situation was too surreal.

And then, after a good ten minutes, the two strange guys left their truck again. They cracked open the back and once more the heavy smoke wafted outside. This time, however, I concentrated on nothing but this smoke. I saw it again, something slithering, twitching, moving below it, almost as if the smoke itself was alive.

A moment later, the other four truck drivers made their way outside. To my surprise, they all seemed to be okay, neither angry nor hurt. Instead, they were… grinning, in exactly the same way the other two were.

Even stranger yet, each one of them was holding some sort of package in their hands.

At that moment, however, I realized not only how long I’d been staring but also that they’d noticed me. The two strange men were staring over at me, their eyes digging into me.

I instantly looked away, but when I took a single, side-way glance, I found them still staring at me.

I felt hot, and sweat broke out all over my body when the two of them took a few well-measured steps in my direction.

“Oh god, no,” I muttered to myself.

Then they stopped again, but their eyes were still focused on me, staring me down. By now, however, their euphoric grins were gone, replaced by cold, hard stares.

And then, one of them jerked forward, almost as if he was about to dash across the parking lot to get me. In sudden shock, I cringed back, stumbling against the shelf behind me. Yet, he didn’t come for me. No, all he’d done was pretend to, but it had been enough.

I understood instantly. This was a threat, and when one of them raised a finger to his lips, all I could do was nod.

For a few more seconds, they stared me down before they turned around, entered their truck, and drove off.

Once they were gone, I slid down and slumped to the floor, panting and shaking.

Who the fuck were those guys!?

When I’d calmed down, I remembered the other truck drivers and when I stared outside, they were all on their way to their own trucks. When I saw them move, however, I began shaking once more.

Before, they’d been normal guys, but now they moved exactly the same way those others had. The same hunched over gait, the same jerky movements. It wasn’t just that, however; they all seemed thinner, and their clothes were dangling from their bodies, as if they’d lost substantial weight in a matter of minutes.

I couldn’t help but watch the surreal spectacle, and I couldn’t help but watch as they all approached the backs of their truck.

Thankfully, one of them was closer to the station than the rest. All I could see, however, was that he put down the package before fastening it with a pair of tension straps. Yet for a moment, I could’ve sworn I saw the same strange smoke coming from it.

Eventually, the man closed the back, and just like the rest, got in his truck, most likely to sleep until morning.

I just stood there, staring from truck to truck, not understanding what I’d just witnessed.

For the next couple of hours, I thought about calling the cops, almost did so multiple times. Then I remembered those guys, their threat, the warning they’d given me, and began freaking out again. Who knows, maybe they were still nearby, just waiting for me to slip up, or maybe the other truck drivers were now like… them and would come for me. I couldn’t think straight.

When my co-worker arrived in the early morning, I thought about telling him what had happened, but I knew there was no way he’d believe me. Hell, even I wasn’t sure what I’d witnessed.

So, I did what those guys had wanted me to do. I stayed quiet.

Yet once my shift was over and I made my way over the parking lot, I noticed that one of the four truckers was already up. He’d cracked open the back of his truck, most likely to check on the package. Carefully, not to be noticed, I inched closer.

The small package was still there, but by now, it was torn open and the same greyish-white smoke wafted through the back of the truck.

Then, I ran to my car and drove off as fast as I could.

This time, I’d seen it. This time I’d seen what was inside that package and what must’ve been inside that other, strange truck.

What was coiling out from that package wasn’t merely smoke. No, it was some sort of thing comprising nothing, but long, twitching grey hands, and a single wide eye, an eye that had instantly focused on me, and me alone.

One morning, about a week ago, I noticed a commotion outside. A group of my neighbors had gathered which. They were talking to one another and pointing at something down the road. I was more than surprised. Nothing ever happened in a small town like ours.

When I went outside to see what all the fuss was about, I saw a little boy. He was dragging himself forward on the street. The moment I saw his face, I gasped. He looked so incredibly tired. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips nothing but tiny parched lines. His clothes were dirty, used up, almost bleached, as if he’d been walking in the sun like this for years.

More than once, he stumbled and almost crashed to the ground.

Then, my next-door neighbor’s door burst open, and I watched as old Mrs. Stevenson rushed towards the boy.

“Dear lord, child, what happened to you?” I heard her half-scream in alarm.

The boy said nothing, didn’t react at all. For a second, she turned around and her eyes wandered over the group of onlookers who still hadn’t moved, and were still whispering to one another.

“Not doing a damned thing,” she called out to them. “Can’t you see the boy’s hurt!?”

Then she turned to the boy again, whispered something into his ear before she embraced him and led him to her home.

About half an hour later, my doorbell rang, and I was greeted by no other than Mrs. Stevenson, the boy in tow.

“Hello, Julia, do you mind taking is to Dr. Mansfield? You know, the boy, he’s…”

I opened my mouth to make up an excuse, but I saw Mrs. Stevenson’s pleading expression, found her eyes almost digging into me. Eventually, I sighed and nodded.

“Sure, let me get my keys.”

During our drive to Dr. Mansfield’s clinic, I couldn’t help but stare at the boy in the rearview mirror. He just sat there, quietly, not looking at anything. His face was entirely devoid of emotions. It gave me the creeps, and I had to force myself not to shudder. Something was wrong with him and, for a moment, it felt almost as if something dark was lingering around him.

When we arrived, Dr. Mansfield was more than surprised to see us, but got serious the moment he saw the boy.

Yet there wasn’t much he could learn about him. The boy was in terrible shape, but it was attributed to exhaustion and dehydration. Otherwise, he seemed to be fine; no bruises, no wounds, no signs of physical harm at all. What he was worried about, however, was his mental state. The boy seemed almost catatonic. It didn’t matter how much the doctor tried talking to him, he got no reaction.

In the end, he said what the boy need the most, was to rest. Maybe in time, he’d open up and talk.

For now, he took a picture of the boy and said he’d hit up Sheriff Foster to find out if there was any news of missing boys in the local area. A boy just walking into town all by himself. That’s not normal.

Then he suggested he’d take the boy to a hospital or children’s home in a nearby city. Mrs. Stevenson was quick to cut him off.

“Nonsense, Douglas, that boy’s been up for God knows how long! Do you really want to take him all the way to the hospital, or god forbid that ghastly home in Williamsburg?”

“Well, I can’t think of any other-“

“Oh, for Chris’s sake, let me take the boy! I’ve raised four children all by myself and I can handle another for a day or two!”

I couldn’t help but smile a little. Say what you want about old Mrs. Stevenson, but the woman had a heart of gold. Eventually, the doctor yielded and so the three of us went back to my car.

On the way back, Mrs. Stevenson talked on end about what might have happened to the boy. She, too, suggested a kidnapping, or an accident, or he might have been abandoned out in the woods. God knows, she said, there are so many people out there, people who had no qualms about hurting a child.

At first I listened, and even joined in, but after a while I just zoned out. I liked the old lady, I really did, but I could tell she was terribly lonely. She babbled on an and, soon transitioned into what the boy’s name might be, even spoke to him, trying to see if he’d react to one of them.

I was quite happy when she and the boy left my car and made their way back to her home. As they did, Mrs. Stevenson took the boy’s hand and slowly led him on. I couldn’t help but stare after them, and for a second, I thought I saw something dark lingering around him, something that now reached out for the old lady. Then I shook my head. I was being silly.

Once I was back inside, I saw my now cold half-full cup of coffee. I sighed and promptly poured it down the drain and prepared myself a new one.

After that, I settled down for another long day of work. I’m a freelancer and work for an assortment of online magazines, and am always strapped for cash.

Almost without me noticing, the day ticked by. Soon enough, the sun set, but I knew I had another graveyard shift ahead of me.

During a brief break, I noticed something. I’d gotten up to stretch my legs and stopped in front of the window when I noticed a figure in front of Mrs. Stevenson’s home.

At first, the idea of a home invader snaked itself into my brain. I already had my phone in hand to call the cops, when I noticed how small the figure was. For a moment, I leaned forward, straining my eyes. There was no doubt it was the boy.

What the hell was he doing outside this late? I watched and waited for him to go back inside, but he just… stood there.

A moment later, with a strange gut feeling, I made my way outside.

“Hey, what are you doing here? What’s going on?” I called out to him.

No reaction, as I’d expected. Then I saw that the front door was wide open. Once more, a strange feeling washed over me.

“Mrs. Stevenson?” I called out into the open house.

No answer.

I stepped inside, but for a moment, I cringed back when I saw something dark in front of me. I stumbled back, my arms raised in front of me, before I hit the light switch. That’s when I saw her. Mrs. Stevenson was laying at the bottom of the stairs.

“Oh my god, what happened?” I called out.

I took the first few steps to rush to her side, but then I noticed her empty eyes and her half-open mouth.

Half an hour later, Dr. Mansfield confirmed what I’d known all along. The old woman was dead.

“A heart attack,” he said with a sad look on his face. “She must’ve collapsed on her way down the stairs before she…”

“Been telling her to take that damned heart medication for years, but she always said she’d be fine,” he added after a while, shaking his head.

As I gave my statement to the police, I couldn’t help but watch the boy, who still stood nearby.

Eventually, the question came up: what would happen to him? Even the police weren’t sure what to do with him. They couldn’t just keep a kid at the station until they’d figured out his identity. I could already feel one of them looking at me when Dr. Mansfield spoke up.

“Guess there’s no helping it. Until there’s some information about his identity, I can keep him with me. I’m sure Clara won’t mind.”

And so it was Dr. Mansfield who now took the boy in. I’d thought that was the end of this entire story. Hell, I thought they’d figure out the boy’s identity in a day or two. Oh, how naïve I was.

Only two days later, I noticed a well-known figure outside my home in the middle of the night. A cold shiver went down my spine. Don’t tell me…

I went outside instantly, and there he was. The same little boy, wearing the same quiet, emotionless expression on his face.

“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you with Dr. Mansfield?”

Of course, I got no answer to my questions.

I looked around the neighborhood, searched for a house that still had lights on, but it seemed no one was awake anymore. Freaking hell, I cursed to myself.

My eyes wandered back to the boy. In the night’s dark, he crept me out even more, especially his face. That expression, it was so wrong.

For a second, I told myself to just turn around, and go back inside, to ignore him.

I took one step, then another, before a gust of chilly wind hit me and I shivered. I cursed once more and turned around. He was still there, still hadn’t moved. He looked as tired as always. I could see his legs slightly shaking, as if he was about to collapse any second now.

“All right, fine, but I’m calling Dr. Mansfield first thing in the morning.”

No reaction. I sighed, and with quick steps, I made my way towards him. I reached out for him, but then stopped for a moment. There it was again, this strange feeling of lingering darkness. Then, I told myself once more that he was nothing but a boy, took his hand and led him back after me to the house. As his hand rested in mine, it felt so tiny, and for the first time, I wondered how old he actually was.

I plopped him down on the living room couch before I went to the kitchen in search of something to drink.

Eventually, I settled on a glass of orange juice, which I placed on the couch table in front of him.

“There you go. I bet you’re thirsty after coming all the way here, right?”

Without saying a word, he reached for the glass and brought it to his lips. He finished it in two big gulps, but not without spilling a good part of the juice over his shirt.

He really was exhausted, I thought.

Then, I went and got my laptop and decided to continue my work down here. That way, I could at least have an eye on the boy, even though I doubted he’d do anything in the state he was in.

For a few more minutes, I did my best to continue working on another article, but I couldn’t seem to concentrate. The boy’s empty face was eerie, unsettling. I couldn’t help but shiver whenever I looked over at him as he sat on the couch. It almost felt as if, because of his presence, the entire house had grown darker, quieter.

Nonsense, I told myself, shaking my head.

Then, trying to distract myself, I checked out the local news. It was a sort of ritual, something that helped me with both, to stay informed and grounded.

At first, I read about local politics, and about some sort of scandal when I saw a headline that made me look up.

“Tragedy Strikes – Local Doctor and Wife Die Because of Gas Leak”

I stared at it for a second before I opened the article. I read there’d been a gas leak, and a house went up in flames earlier that day. Terrible, I thought, and for a moment, I unconsciously smelled the air inside my home.

When I read on, however, I froze. I read that the remains of Douglas Mansfield and his wife Clara had been found in the kitchen. So far, investigations on what caused the gas leak and the subsequent explosion are still ongoing.

I could only stare at the screen. Was that why he was here? Because the Dr. and his wife were dead? But how’d he get away? Shouldn’t he have been in the house with them? Don’t tell me…

I thought back to poor old Mrs. Stevenson. Dr. Mansfield had said she’d suffered from a heart attack, but hadn’t I found her at the bottom of the stairs? What if she hadn’t collapsed, but someone had pushed her?

My eyes wandered to the little boy once more. I scanned his empty face, and once more I could almost see the darkness that lingered around him.

“Was it you?” I brought out in a quiet voice.

The boy said nothing.

“Was it you?” I repeated, this time louder, almost yelling the question at him.

For the first time, the boy’s head moved and for the first time, I saw something on his face. It was recognition, understanding, and then… fear.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” I accused him, feeling myself grow angrier by the second. “You pushed old Mrs. Stevenson down the stairs and you’re the one responsible for that gas leak, right?”

He opened his mouth, trying to say something, but no words came from it.

“Why’d you come here?” I yelled at him.

In that moment, I felt the house growing even darker, almost felt as if some sort of presence had come over it, over me.

I jerked around, my eyes scanning the living room, the hallway, the stairs that led up to the second floor, but there was no one else.

In that instant, I heard something. The boy, he’d moved, gotten closer to me, and for a second, I thought I saw him smirk, saw a ghastly smile on his face. Almost as if he was… planning something.

“You! What are you trying to do?” I screamed at him.

In a few swift steps, I’d reached him and gotten a hold of him.

“Is that why you came here?” I shook him.

As I did, the surrounding darkness grew thicker, heavier, became almost a physical thing. I screamed at him again and again, but got no answer. Not even a sound.

And then it was back, the same ghastly, knowing smirk.

A voice spoke up inside my head, my voice telling me it was him. He killed them. He did it, and soon he’s going to kill you, too.

As I heard this, as these thoughts came to my mind, I lost it. Rage unlike anything I’d ever felt before came over me. I thought again of poor old Mrs. Stevenson, of Dr. Mansfield and his wife. Almost unconsciously, my hands went forward, found his throat, closed around it and squeezed.

For the first time, the boy showed actual, genuine emotions, and I felt my mouth turn into a smile. Tears streamed from his eyes, and he tried desperately to get free. He was trashing around below me, his arms and legs flailing uselessly, but as an answer, I only squeezed harder.

And then, I realized what I was doing. Instantly, I let go of him, cringed back, and fell to the floor.

What the hell was I doing?

I stared down at the little boy, this tiny boy who was only barely moving.

Oh dear god, what had I just done?

Then he regained consciousness, pushed himself up, and I found him staring at me.

The same voice spoke up in my mind. Do it now before it’s too late! You know you have to!

Once more, the same smirk came over his face, and once more, the voice inside my head urged me on, trying to convince me, trying to justify what I’d almost done.

“No, I… I can’t. He’s just a child!”

As the words left my mouth, the ghastly smirk vanished, evaporated, an illusion that had never really been there. All that was there now, had always been, was an apathetic little boy.

Yet as I stared at him, that little voice in my head spoke up again, teasing me, taunting me, telling me just how easy it would be. It tried to convince me how good it would feel to do it, to get revenge for them, for those he’d driven to their deaths.

“No! Shut up! Be quiet goddammit!” I screamed at myself.

At that moment, I could feel the darkness that had fallen over the room surround me, intruding on me, and for the first time, I felt a presence lingering inside of it.

The voice was now back, echoing through my head, my voice, but… it wasn’t. It was something else… something coming from this… this darkness, speaking to me in my voice!

This time, however, it was different. It talked to me about myself, about how useless I was, how I was nothing, how I couldn’t even do the simplest thing. And then I felt it tear my consciousness, my mind, open. All my past regrets and all the guilt I’d accumulated over the years and hidden away in the deepest crevices of my mind came flooding back.

I felt tears coming to my eyes, felt myself shaking. Yet the voice told me there was an easy way, an easy way to make it all stop, all of this. Or, it said, there was also the boy.

For a moment, I stared at the child again. I felt my hands reaching out once more, felt them open up as images of tearing his small body apart came to my mind.

Then, I screamed once more, and fought against whatever this darkness, this presence, was.

For the past thirty minutes, I’ve been typing this out, concentrating on nothing but the words on my screen to quiet the voice inside my head and to push away the images that are coming to my mind.

There’s no way. I can’t do it. You can’t murder a little child, you just can’t.

I don’t know what this presence, this thing is, if it even is a thing. Maybe it’s nothing but the deepest, darkest part of me. But I know I won’t do what it wants me to.

And I know that because of this I’ll most likely end up like old Mrs. Stevenson and Dr. Mansfield and his wife.

I’m going to be the fourth person who dies because of this little boy, because of this harbinger of death that showed up in our town. And I know I won’t be the last.

During Our Annual Village Fair, Our Entire Community Gets Together for a Game of

By everyone, I mean everyone: from the youngest members, toddlers and babies still held by their mothers, to the oldest, those needing walkers and wheelchairs.

These games have been held for as long as I can remember, and probably have been much, much longer. It’s tradition, so to speak, an old one.

Ours is a remote community. A small village, nestled between various forests and almost entirely isolated from the rest of the world. We rarely get visitors from outside, and whoever does never stays for long.

I guess we’re seen as a peculiar kind of people, one that’s a bit backwards.

When I was a child, I loved nothing more than these games of hide-and-seek. I would always look forward to this big event that everyone would play together.

Even as a child, though, I wondered why certain people were there.

Mrs. Meier, our first grade teacher, was a ghastly old lady who didn’t seem to know the word ‘play’ existed. Yet there she was.

I even remembered old eighty-seven-year-old Mrs. Ritter joining in on the fun after her accident. How she’d even be able to find a hiding place, wheelchair-bound as she was, was anyone’s guess. And it seemed, a year later, she’d realized she was a tad bit too old for it after all. For I never saw her at our annual game of hide-and-seek ever again.

What was fun as a boy, however, grew boring, even annoying the older I got. As a teenager, I’d long since grown tired of it. Traditions be damned, I thought.

Yet dad made sure I was always there, even if he had to drag me out of bed. Even worse, he’d always mention mom and how she would’ve wanted nothing more than for me to take part in the annual game of hide-and-seek. I hated it, and I hated him for exploiting her death in this way.

Whenever I complained about it, whenever I asked why we’d all have to do it, the only answer I ever got was that it was tradition. Yeah, a dumb, old, useless tradition. Why couldn’t we just enjoy the fair? Instead, we’d all have to go through this stupid ordeal on the morning of the second day…

What made it even worse, the event was always the same.

At first, the rules of the game were explained. They, too, were the same every year. A seeker would be chosen by drawing lots.

The seeker was never a child, never a teenager, and never one of the old people. No, it was always an adult. Each year, all the kids would beg to be made the seeker, but of course, they were never allowed.

This seeker would then count down for one minute, and during that time, everyone would have to find a hiding place on the fairgrounds.

Any place else was off-limits, and should you be caught having snuck off, you’d be in serious trouble. One of my friends once tried, and that alone landed him being grounded for the rest of the year. Why? I guess he went against that stupid tradition everyone was so obsessed with.

There was one difference compared to traditional games of hide-and-seek. The game always ended when the seeker had found a single person.

Today was another glorious day of hide-and-seek, but today, things were different for a variety of reasons.

First, I was a teenager now, and as a teenager, I learned that a village fair was about more than raffles and games. No, it was about dancing, and most of all, drinking.

Being the over-enthusiastic type I was, I got drunk, seriously drunk. So drunk, in fact, some of my friends had to escort me home. I knew fairly well what tradition would force me to do came morning, but I couldn’t have cared less. Or maybe I did care after all, and that’s why I got as drunk as I did. I don’t even remember.

When dad woke me up at eight in the morning, I was hungover. My entire body felt like shit, and I was suffering from a splitting headache.

Lying in bed, I groaned and just stared at him for a few seconds.

“Yeah, dad, sorry, but not this year. I feel like shit. Can’t you guys just do it without me for once?”

Of course, that didn’t work. The moment he’d heard my words, his face grew dark.

“Dammit, Daniel, you knew fair well what day today is, and you still… Just get the hell out of bed and get ready!”

I was about to protest once more, but he cut me off before I could so much as usher a word.

“Now, Daniel!”

With him still standing in the door, and under his stern eyes, I got dressed before I trudged after him.

As we made our way to the fair, I heard him mumble and curse to himself behind me. I didn’t understand what he was saying, but I knew it was about me. To be honest, I thought about skipping out more than once, and to just run home and go back to bed. But I knew that wouldn’t fly, not with him watching over me.

And so, we finally arrived at the center of the fairgrounds. As every other year before, all the village’s inhabitants were already there.

Kids were racing around laughing, excited about the coming game of hide-and-seek. Many of my friends, other teenagers, looked as uninterested as I was. For a moment, I watched some of the older people. Their eyes were tired, their expressions worried. Why’d we all have to go through with this? God, it was so damn stupid.

Even now, I still felt sick to my stomach, and after a while, I wasn’t even able to stand anymore. Instead, I set down on the ground, right there, in the grass. I couldn’t wait for this entire stupid ordeal to be over.

Then I got another idea. Fuck it, I told myself, I’d stay right here. The damned game was always over as soon as a single person was found. So if I’d simply stay here, that was it. Game over. Then I could just go back home and catch some much needed rest.

Once again, the rules were reiterated before it came to decide who today’s seeker would be.

As every year before, all the adults stepped forward, and one by one, picked their lot. To my surprise, it was dad who’d be today’s seeker.

When I saw his expression, I couldn’t help but laugh. He looked so lost, so confused, even frustrated.

Then he noticed me just sitting there, relaxing on the grass, and hurried over to me.

“What do you think you’re doing, Daniel? Get a freaking move on, for Christ’s sake!”

“Why can’t I just stay here? Then I’ll be the first person you find and the game is-“

“God dammit, Daniel!” he cut me off, snapping at me.

The moment he’d heard my words, all the color had drained from his face. His eyes were wide and his mouth was quivering. He opened it again as if to explain something to me, but then closed it and pulled me to my feet.

“I dare you son, you find yourself a hiding place right now, or…”

He was out of it, desperate even. He wasn’t screaming at me. No, he was pleading with me. I’d never seen him like this before, never, not even after mom had died.

I was confused, anxious even, and without knowing why, I nodded and set out.

Then dad returned to his position in the center, closed his eyes and started counting.

I listened to his voice. I watched as everyone, old and young, darted away. For the first time, I realized how surreal this entire situation was.

I’d witnessed it so many times, but only now did I really think about it.

Why’d dad act like that? Why’d he freak out?

Then, I wondered about something else. What happened when you were found?

I didn’t know. Neither I nor any of my friends had ever been found. No, I couldn’t recall anyone who’d ever been found. Suddenly, a cold shower went down my spine.

I stumbled on, hungover as I was, and realized that the minute was almost up. As the last seconds ticked by, my eyes darted around. On a whim, I rushed to a nearby stall, pushed myself behind a few old planks and tried my best to stay hidden.

From where I was, I heard dad announce that time was up, and he was now coming. His voice was shrill, so different from his usual deep one.

I saw him scanning the area nearby. Then he set out. With quick steps, he checked if someone was hiding between a few nearby trees before he swept through a couple of bushes. No one was there. Then he continued on, checking one of the nearby stalls, the one opposite me. I sat there, as quiet as I could, not daring to breathe.

For an entire minute, I watched as he desperately rummaged through the stall before he moved on to the next one. Why was he in such a hurry? Why was he taking this dumb thing so seriously?

At that moment, I saw someone else nearby. It was behind the stall dad was now approaching. Someone was hiding, or rather, sat slumped against its wall. It was Terrance Mueller, our very own resident drunk.

Until a year ago, Terrance had been a proud member of our community, a good worker. When his wife suddenly died, however, he’d taken to the bottle.

After he’d lost his job, he’d spent the past months at the village’s small bar, drinking away what little money he’d saved up over the years.

Hungover like me, or more accurate, already drunk, he too, hadn’t been able to find a good hiding place. All he’d done was to slump down behind a stall, probably hoping that dad would just walk past him.

I saw how he watched dad from behind the stall’s corner, trying his best to find out where he was going while staying hidden. A moment later, he lost his balance, stumbled from his hiding place, and crashed to the ground.

Dad noticed him instantly. A flood of emotions washed over his face. There was anger, frustration, and then nothing but sadness.

Terrance let out a terrified shriek and tried his best to scramble away, and to find himself a new hiding place.

“You know the rules, Terrance,” dad called after him.

The drunk stumbled on for a few more steps before he came to a halt. A moment later, dad reached him and put his hand on his shoulder.

When it happened, Terrance pushed him back, slurring curses at him I didn’t understand.

“God dammit Terrance, I don’t want to do this either, but it’s the only way!”

What the hell was dad talking about? The only way for… what?

By now, tears were streaming down Terrance’s cheeks. Once more, he pushed dad away, before all power seemed to leave him and he was about to fall to the ground once more. In a swift motion, dad held him up, steadied him before he whispered something into his ear.

Terrance’s eyes grew wide. He opened his mouth, most likely to spew another set of insults at dad, but then a dejected, hopeless look came over his face. Finally, he nodded.

Then the two of them set out together. I watched as dad led him away, away from the fairgrounds.

After sitting in my hiding place for a few more seconds, I pushed myself from the stall, and, trying my best to stay hidden, went after them. Eventually, they approached the edge of the nearby forest, and then ventured inside.

I didn’t know what was going on, didn’t know what was about to happen, but all those strange thoughts from before returned to me.

I’d barely made it past the first couple of trees when I saw them again. They were standing there, but I noticed something in Terrance’s hand, something he must’ve hidden until now. I watched in stunned horror as he lifted a hammer he must’ve found at the stall he was hiding at.

“Dad, watch out!” I called out.

In sheer and utter surprise, he jerked around, staring at me with wide, surprised eyes. It was this minute movement that saved his life. Terrance, drunk as he was, barely grazed dad’s head before he crashed to the ground, now cursing again.

“No, not me, not after Sara, not after…” I finally understood him.

Dad just stared down at him, holding onto the now bleeding wound on his head. In an instant, he kicked the hammer Terrance had been holding away.

By now, however, Terrance’s resistance was entirely broken. He just lay there on the ground, with tears streaming from his eyes.

“That’s enough Terrance. You lost. What would Sara say if she saw you like that?”

For a second, the drunk’s eyes focused on dad.

“You know nothing,” he brought out under tears. “That damned lot, when I found her, I…”

At that moment, I saw something.

Right in front of dad and Terrance, something moved between the trees. At first, I thought it was nothing but shadows.

The longer I looked, however, the more I focused on it, the more I knew that wasn’t right. It was a strange, slithering thing, one that was way too big to be any sort of forest animal.

I could do nothing but stare at whatever was out there in a mixture of stunned horror and overwhelming wonder. Branches broke, trunks were pushed aside before a multitude of bony arms pushed themselves from between the trees.

In an instant, dad was by my side. I was still staring at the mad spectacle in front of me, still couldn’t take my eyes from whatever it was I saw. Then dad slapped me across the face.

“Get back! We have to hide! And don’t you dare look at it, don’t you dare!”

With that, he dragged me back, back to the fairgrounds, and pushed me behind the nearest stall. Hidden, and sitting next to dad, I opened my mouth.

“What the-?” I started, but dad covered my mouth, shaking his head vehemently.

From where we were, we could hear the sounds. Something crashing through the forest. Distant, otherworldly sounds that might have been laughter reached our ears. In between, I could’ve sworn I heard Terrance’s voice.

For long minutes, dad and I just sat there. Finally, silence returned.

When it was over, I felt dad squeezing my shoulder. He gave me a well-meaning nod before he got up and motioned for me to come along.

In a loud, booming voice, he announced that this year’s game of hide-and-seek had ended.

For a moment, I scanned the forest ahead, almost waiting for Terrance to return, but he didn’t. No, he was gone.

Slowly, ever so slowly, everyone returned from their hiding places and gathered in the center of the fairgrounds. I heard the whispered conversations between the adults, between the older people, and a few times, I heard the name Terrance.

Eventually, everyone dispersed, and everyone returned to the fair’s merriment as if nothing had happened.

Children were laughing and complaining the game was already over, teenagers were joking about how dumb it all was, but here and there, I saw other expressions. Adults who couldn’t hide their emotions, their frustration at what had just happened.

Like me now, they all knew this was not just a dumb old tradition.

My eyes darted around, searching for dad. When I saw him, he was alone, already waiting for me, for the outburst he knew to come.

“What the hell was that… that thing? What’s going on? Why’s everyone just… Fuck!”

“Let’s go for a walk, son. We shouldn’t talk here, not with everyone around.”

I cursed once more, was about to lay into him, but the sad look on his face was enough to make me comply.

For a few minutes, we walked in silence as he led me to a bench far away from the bustle of the fair. Then, he started to explain.

No one knew what those things out there in the forest were. They arrived a long time ago, or they’d always been there, but one day, they came for the villagers.

Eventually, someone had made an arrangement with them. Once a year, they’d get what they wanted, if the rest of the village could live in peace.

“Then Terrance, no, this entire game, it-“

“It’s a selection, son. Whoever’s found first, is to become…”

His voice trailed off. He shook his head, and I saw tears coming to his eyes.

Suddenly, things fell into place. Certain little details I’d never wondered about before. Old Mrs. Ritter, who’d never joined into the game again after appearing in her wheelchair one year. My friend’s uncle, who’d used the game to sneak away from his wife and leave the village behind. And mom, mom who’d died on…

“Mom… that trip, that accident you told me about! It’s… no, don’t tell me…”

Dad, however, said nothing. He just sat there, his head in his hands, weeping. When he spoke again, his voice was as quiet as a whisper.

“No one wants to go through with it, son, but there’s no other choice. People tried to hide, to stay home, but, whenever they do, they are just… gone. Others tried to run, but whoever enters the forests, whoever tries to get away, is never heard from again.”

And so, I finally knew the truth. I knew what this stupid old tradition was about:

It was nothing but a selection, a selection to decide this year’s sacrifice.

When people think of their first pet, they talk about dogs or cats. For me, however, it was a cow.

Now, Lina wasn’t my cow, of course. She was one of many my grandpa owned.

Years ago, when I was a young boy, I spent the long weeks of summer vacation at his farm.

I grew up a city boy, spending most of my young live in a concrete jungle comprising nothing but rows and rows of old apartment buildings.

When grandpa suggested that I’d spent summer at his farm, I pestered my parents about it for weeks. Eventually they relented and so I was off to stay with grandpa.

Until then, I’d only been at grandpa’s home a few times, but I’d fallen in love with it the first time I’d been there.

I loved the remote farm he called his home, the wide empty plains and the sprawling forests surrounding them.

What I loved the most, though, were the many farm animals he owned. Even in his old age, grandpa was still a strong and sturdy man who continued to work his farm.

“Well, it’s the only thing I know how to do,” he always said laughing.

While grandpa owned pigs and chickens, I was more taken by his cows.

While the pigs in their pigsty ignored me, the chickens gave into a state of panic the moment I entered the coop to pet them.

The cows, however, were friendlier, much friendlier. When I walked up the pasture on my first day, they eyed me curiously before they walked up to me.

The friendliest of them was the one I named Lina. She was as black and white as the rest of them, but had a white crescent mark on her forehead.

Now, I didn’t get to enter the pasture, of course, but even with a fence between us, I could pet her head and feed her freshly mowed grass.

I spent long hours outside, in the grass, watching the cows go about their day and petting and feeding them, above all, Lina.

During the time I spent with grandpa, I learned quite a bit about cows and animal husbandry. Grandpa’s herd comprised dairy cows. Lina and the rest were kept for milk production.

I also learned that cows only gave milk when they were pregnant or with calf.

Even now I remembered how excited I was when I heard grandpa talk about calves. I pestered him constantly, but he told me that the time of birth varied. If I was lucky, though, I might see some of the newborn calves.

When I asked grandpa how all the cows got pregnant and where the father was, he explained to me what artificial insemination was. Well, he didn’t go into detail, instead he told me that sometimes, Mother Nature needed a bit of help and that it was the easiest and safest option.

Being the child I was, I thought little about it. No, all I cared about were the calves. There were of course some younger cows in grandpa’s herd, but they’d all been born in the spring. What I wanted to see was a newborn one, a tiny one.

As luck wanted it, I should get my chance soon enough.

I’d been with grandpa for a week when he told me that a cow had just given birth. The moment I heard a calf had been born, I was out of it and raced to the barn as fast as my little legs could carry me.

My young eyes grew wide the moment I saw the tiny body next to the exhausted mother cow. Even more so when the calf got to its shaky feet.

“It’s so small,” I brought out when grandpa caught up with me.

This baby cow, this calf, was the cutest thing I’d ever seen.

When I was about to step up to pet it, grandpa told me it was still too early. Everything was new for the little one, and for now it needed to get used to its environment.

I was on pins and needles all day, pestering grandpa about wanting to play with the little calf.

“Tomorrow, Mark, you can pet it tomorrow,” he eventually said.

Needless to say, I was disappointed, even a little mad. I remember sitting near the barn for hours, watching grandpa as he made sure that mother and calf were doing all right.

The next day, right after breakfast, when grandpa did another check-up, I finally got my chance of scratching the calf behind its ears. I loved the little guy and continued to visit him day in and out until he joined the rest of the herd out in the pasture.

I’d done my best to bond with the little guy, but he was too shy and scared to approach me on his own. In the end, Lina stayed my favorite.

Yet, one day, things changed at grandpa’s farm. One morning, right after breakfast, I could tell that something was different.

I rushed outside to greet Lina and the rest of the herd, but the cows were acting different. They huddled together at the far end of the pasture, their bodies pressed against one another. However much I called out to them, however much I waved a tuft of fresh grass, they didn’t come.

I raced back to grandpa.

“Grandpa, there’s something wrong with the cows, they are sick! They aren’t coming to me, not even Lina!”

When he saw the visible fear on my face, he laughed.

“Calm down, Mark. That’s just the way they are. They are beasts after all and sometimes, they just don’t care.”

I nodded, but I didn’t understand. For the rest of the day and the following one I tried again and again, but the cows never came. Their state of fear persisted.

After days, whatever had gotten into them passed, and they slowly reverted to their normal behavior. Yet, I noticed, some still strayed from the rest.

My fears, however, were forgotten the moment Lina came up to me again and happily let me pet her.

Over the course of the next two weeks, more calves were born, and I was always there when they first got to their feet. It was always a special event for me.

One day, when I heard that yet another one of grandpa’s cows was to give birth, I was quick to hurry to the barn, only to be met with Stefan, grandpa’s single farmhand.

I’d seen him around before, but he was a harsh, bitter man and I’d always avoided him. Now he stood right in front of me, staring down at me with cold eyes.

“Nothing to see here today, boy,” he said as he blocked my path.

“But, I want to see the baby cow,” I protested and was about to push myself past him.

In one swift motion, he got a hold of my arm and glared at me.

“There’s none today. Now go back to where you came from,” he pressed out and pushed me back the way I came from.

“No, but,” I tried to protest, but when he stepped up to me again, the corners of his mouth twitching in anger, I eventually left.

I sat down in the grass near the meadow, mulling over how unfair it all was. It was stupid I didn’t get to see the calf, and Stefan was even more stupid and so was grandpa!

After a while, as I sat there in the grass, I noticed smoke coming from the back of the farm.

For a moment I wondered what was going on before my childish mind realized that the farm must’ve caught on fire. As quickly as I could, I ran to where the smoke was coming from.

Behind the farm, I found grandpa and Stefan in front of a fire. They were burning something.

At first I was relieved, glad it wasn’t the farm that was burning. Then, when I got closer, my eyes glued to the fire, I saw something move between the burning logs.

At first I didn’t know what it was, but when I got closer, I saw limbs, legs, a bunch of tiny legs that were sticking out from the fire.

When I saw them twitch once more, I rushed for the fire, past grandpa, to pull what I thought was a calf from the burning pit.

The moment grandpa saw me, he got a hold of me and dragged me away from the fire.

“Mark, what’s the matter with you, get away from there! This is nothing for a little boy like you, it’s dangerous!”

As he dragged me away, my eyes were glued to the fire and the thing burning within it. From afar it had looked like a calf, but the moment I got closer I saw it was something else. The proportions had been all wrong, weird and elongated. There were legs, but far too many of them. I shivered as grandpa dragged me away.

He sat me down on a bench in front of the farmhouse. After a heavy sigh, he explained.

“Sometimes, there are… complications. Sometimes a calf can come out all wrong. It’s nature, and sometimes, nature doesn’t get things right and parts end up in the wrong place.”

“But, why? Why was it all wrong, grandpa?”

He gave me a shrug.

“That’s just how things are, nothing to be done about it.”

I gave him a slow nod, but I still felt for the thing they’d burned. For days, the strange, misshapen calf stayed on my mind.

It did even more so when Stefan joined us for breakfast one morning, whispering something into grandpa’s ear. The bright smile he usually wore vanished.

“Stay here, Mark, all right?” he said to me while I was munching on my sandwich.

I opened my mouth to ask something, but grandpa and Stefan had already left the room.

When I was about to put on my shoes and follow them, grandpa yelled at me to stay inside. It was the first time I’d ever seen him like this, and the first time he’d ever been angry with me.

The shoes dropped from my hand and with tears in my eyes I sulked back to the living room.

I never learned what happened that day. Grandpa never told me a thing, and Stefan continued to glare at me like he usually did.

It was only one day, by sheer accident, that I caught bits of a conversation between the two of them.

“So, how many this time?” I heard grandpa ask.

“At least four of them,” Stefan pressed out in a strained voice.

For a while there was nothing but silence, and all I could hear was the quiet summer breeze rustling through the nearby trees.

Eventually grandpa sighed. “Guess it’s grown angry,” he finally said.

Stefan started cursing and mumbling indistinguishable.

“Well, nothing we can do about it. Just have to take care of them like we always do,” grandpa brought out.

A moment later I heard his steps coming into my direction and I hurried away. Yet, his words stayed on my mind.

‘Guess it’s grown angry.’

For days I racked my brain, trying to understand what he was talking about.

Of course, I couldn’t, I was a little boy, but one night should change everything.

That night I’d been lying in bed for long hours, still racking my brain over the strange things going on at the farm. When I fell asleep, strange dreams plagued me. I saw the weird calf-thing in the fire again, saw it move, heard it cry out for me.

I awoke, scared and confused, before I realized it had all been a dream. At first, I lay in bed, but then I realized I had to go to the toilet.

I hated going to the toilet at grandpa’s during the night. The farmhouse was old and at night you could hear any and all sounds around the farm. For a child, even the shaking of the trees and the sound of the wind were transformed into shapeless ghosts and invisible terrors.

I raced to the toilet and as I sat there, the window cracked behind me, I heard something from outside.

As I strained my ears, I could hear the mooing of the cows outside. It didn’t sound like anything I’d heard before. They sounded afraid, terrified, as if chaos had descended upon the pasture.

I tried to pry open the bathroom window, but wasn’t able to. So instead, I tiptoed through the house and made my way to the living room. I pushed my face against the glass of the window, but I couldn’t make out a thing. All I saw was frantic movement in the pasture.

Eventually, my hand wandered to the handle. As slowly and quietly as I could, I pulled and opened the window. I leaned forward as far as I could, pushing my upper body outside.

At first, I could only see the cows racing from one end of the pasture to the other, but then I noticed something else. There was something in the pasture with them.

For a moment I thought it was one of the cows, one that hadn’t joined the frantic, crazed movements, but then I saw how big it was.

It was a towering, hulking shadow, much larger than any cow I’d ever seen before.

I leaned forward further, almost dropping out the window.

Then, the moon pushed past the clouds and its light descended upon the pasture. I saw a multitude of legs, saw a black and white hide, saw a pair of horns. The creature threw its head back, releasing a grunt, a loud distorted version of a moo before it charged after the cows.

The herd was in sheer and utter panic, dividing and forming up again as they fled from whatever this monstrosity was.

Suddenly, one cow rushed off in the wrong direction, charging towards the farm while the rest fled further down the pasture.

Another loud grunt followed, and the monstrosity threw itself at the lonely cow. And just then, as the cow crashed against the fence of the pasture, I noticed the white crescent mark on her forehead.

“No,” I brought out in a shaken voice as I saw how the creature got a hold of Lina.

I watched in horror as the abomination pushed itself on top of her.

I opened my mouth, wanted to scream, to call out, to chase the demon away, but just then a hand was pushed over my mouth.

“Don’t you dare,” I heard grandpa’s voice whisper into my ear.

He dragged me back, away from the window. Then he closed it off with his other hand before he pushed me from the room.

“We have to help Lina!” I blurted out the moment he removed his hand. “Grandpa, come on, we have to!”

With that I was about to rush to the front door, but I’d only made it two steps before he got a hold of me.

“Nothing we can do, Mark.”

“But,” I pleaded, but he shook his head.

When the tears started streaming from my eyes, he pulled me in close and put his arm around me.

“It’s all right, Mark, it’s all right,” he whispered as he hugged me.

When the tears stopped flowing, he took my hand and led me back to my little bedroom. He sat with me, whispering to me, until I’d fallen asleep again.

When I woke up the next morning, I was startled and confused about the events of last night. I threw the covers aside, thinking about what I’d seen, about Lina, and raced through the house.

“Grandpa!” I called out repeatedly, desperately trying to find him.

The moment I found him, he laughed.

“Now what’s all this ruckus about this early in the morning?”

“Last night, the cows, and Lina, and that, that thing,” I rambled.

“Now, now, what are you talking about?”

“The monster, in the pasture, the one that went after Lina! You were there in the living room and, and-“

“You had a bad dream, Mark, that’s all. Lina’s all right and so is the rest of the heard,” he said, giving me a warm smile.

“Now, how about some breakfast?”

Now, of course, I didn’t give up, but grandpa assured me he’d been fast asleep all night, there’d been no noises and there had been no monsters.

What can I say, I was a little kid after all and so, I believed him.

Before long, my stay at grandpa’s home ended, and I returned to the city and the concrete jungle that was my home.

While I had fond memories of the weeks I’d spent with grandpa, the experience was haunted by that terrible night, that terrible dream.

The school year came and went, but next summer I didn’t return to grandpa’s farm, I couldn’t. I was only ever there with my parents, on short, rare visits, but it never felt the same again.

An oppressive atmosphere hung over the old farmhouse and had transformed the place I’d loved so much into something darker, something sinister.

I’m an adult now, and for long years I’d never returned to his farm. It was a month ago that I finally went on one last trip there with my parents.

Grandpa was older now, much older. The strong, sturdy farmer of my childhood had been replaced by a tiny, shriveled old man that seemed lost in his own bed.

A stroke, the doctor had told us. At his age, recovery was out of the question.

For long hours we sat with him, watching over him. When my mother couldn’t take it anymore, my father led her from the room.

Left alone, next to his sleeping body, I took out my phone. I was browsing the web, listening to his low, rattling breath, when a bony hand suddenly gripped my arm. Grandpa’s eyes were wide open, staring right at me.

His mouth was moving, but nothing but another low rattle escaped his mouth.

“Grandpa, what is it? Are you okay? Are you in pain? Do you want me to-?”

I broke up when his nails dug into my arm and he pulled me closer.

“You’ve got to,” he pressed out, his voice as quiet as a whisper.

“I’ve got to what?”

Grandpa was panting, breathing hard, sweat glistening on his forehead.

“Make sure there’s never more than one of them!”

“More than one of what?”

“You saw,” he brought out. “That night, that thing, you saw.”

“Saw what?” I asked, but the answer came to me a moment later.

He wrinkled his brow, opened his mouth again, but it took him long seconds to bring forth the words.

His voice was as thin as a whisper, but I heard the two words he was saying.

Eventually his voice trailed off and after a second his grip loosened. He held my gaze for another long second before he closed his eyes again.

For a second I thought the worst had happened, but then I saw the small of his chest moving. He’d fallen asleep.

Yet, my fears hadn’t vanished, my terrors hadn’t evaporated. I knew what he’d said just now, what he’d told me.

That night so long ago, the night he’d told me had been nothing but a dream, had been real. What I’d seen out there had been all but real, and as an adult, I finally understood what I’d witnessed.

Some sort of creature was out there, out in the wild, and on certain nights it came here. It came for the cows to spread its seed and to create its ghastly offspring.

I don’t know what that thing is, I don’t know where it came from, but even now, even after grandpa’s funeral, I remember what grandpa had called it.

The Cow King.

Our annual village fair was always a magical place for me, but one year, I should witness some real magic.

The fair wasn’t as big as others, but to a kid like me, it didn’t matter.

A variety of stalls lined the road through our village. One of the local warehouses was refurbished as a festival hall, and the meadows were used for various activities.

Many of the attractions were aimed at us kids, but I was most interested in the various stalls. Some sold candy and snacks while others presented you with games, such as the lottery stall or the shooting range. The latter was always my favorite. It was awesome to use an air gun, and I often burnt through all of my monthly allowance within a few short hours.

I’d just finished another round against my best friend Johann when Martin showed up. Martin was our local troublemaker. He was a year older than us, and not exactly our friend. For some reason, though, he often hung out with us, if only to torment and annoy us.

“Well, did you two dorks win anything?”

I showed him a little key chain while Johann held up a pack of cards.

The moment he saw our meager prices, he burst into over-exaggerated laughter.

“It’s not about winning prices anyway, it’s about the shooting,” I brought out.

“Yeah, right, looser, let me show you how it’s done!”

With that, he stepped up to the stall, put down his money and stared the owner dead in the way.

“What do I have to hit to get the big price?”

The owner pointed at a little pyramid of metal cans.

“You’ll have to shoot down all of those cans with six shots or fewer,” he said.

“Heh, piece of cake!” Martin said, grinning.

The owner was quick to get the gun ready, handed it to Martin, and stepped aside.

Martin put the gun against his shoulder, leaned forward and put on a serious expression, most likely trying to look like a badass. Then he began shooting.

He wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t exactly good either. He hit four out of his six shots, but at the end, more than a third of the pyramid remained standing.

“Well, too bad, young man, but you did pretty well for your age.”

Martin didn’t reply. Instead, he turned around and began walking away.

“I thought you were going to show us how it’s done?” Johann teased him.

Martin jerked around with an angry expression on his face. I was sure he’d hit Johann, but he shrugged.

“That guy’s cheating. He glued the lower cans to the bottom, so there was no way I’d win. Let’s see what else is around.”

“Yeah, right,” I whispered to Johann. “He just can’t admit that he sucks.”

“What did you say?” he asked, turning around once more, staring right at me.

“N-Nothing,” I brought out. “It was just a stupid joke.”

He looked at me expectantly, and after a few seconds, I just told him the first joke that came to my mind.

Once I was done, he looked at me for a few more seconds before he shook his head.

“Your jokes suck as much as your shooting, Muller. How can you suck so much at everything?”

I sighed, but said nothing. God, why’d we have to run into him today? He could be so annoying.

As he marched in front of us, looking for new victims for his overlarge ego, I poked Johann. He looked at me with an annoyed expression on his face and was about to poke me back. I stopped him and instead pointed to our right.

I mouthed the words ‘Let’s get out of here,’ at him. Instead of nodding, as I’d expected, he just stared at me with a confused look on his face. I tried again, but once more he didn’t get it. When I tried a third time, he cut me off.

“What the hell do you want, Stephen? Just say it, dammit!”

“What are you two idiots doing back there?” Martin called out and stepped up to us.

I groaned. Right at that moment, I couldn’t say who the worse of the two was.

“I don’t know. He kept doing some stupid sign-language stuff,” Johann brought out.

“It wasn’t sign-language, you doofus, I was trying to…”

My voice trailed off when I saw a stall I hadn’t noticed before. Just to our right, hidden behind a few others, stood a brightly decorated stall. It looked more like a tent, sprouting a multitude of colorful pennants and ribbons.

“Hey, what’s that over there?”

Martin and Johann had been arguing if sign-language was only used by deaf or mute people, but now they turned to where I was pointing.

“That looks stupid. It’s probably just a fortune teller or something,” Martin said, but I could see that even he looked slightly interested.

Johann, however, seemed confused.

“Wait, I was at that stall over there before, the one that sells candy, but that other one wasn’t there. It was like half an hour… ouch!”

He turned to Martin, who’d slapped him across the back of the head.

“What was that for?”

“For talking nonsense. Stalls don’t just appear out of nowhere.”

“But,” Johann started, but Martin raised his hand again.

I sighed as I watched their interaction.

“Let’s check it out,” I finally said, and without waiting for them, I made my way to the stall.

“Hey, Stephen, wait… ouch! Cut it out, Martin!”

Once I was closer, I couldn’t help but stand there just staring at the strange stall. This was crazy. All those ribbons, pennants and bows. All of them were so different, yet so detailed. One was shaped like a rose, while the one next to it was shaped like a jewel. Others looked like animals and creatures from mythology. It was a phantasmagoria of colors and shapes.

The moment Johann reached me, he, too, marveled at the sight. Even Martin was quiet.

“What do you think it is?” Martin asked.

“Probably a fortune teller like you said,” I answered.

For a while longer, we just stood there before we made our way to the entrance. The moment I touched the curtain to pull it aside, I looked up. I’d thought it was cloth, but it felt different. As I crinkled it between my fingers, I realized what I was touching. Paper.

I let go of it in an instant and stared at the small crinkle I’d caused. Then I carefully reached out for a ribbon. It, too, was made of paper.

“What are you doing? Are you scared?” Martin called out from behind me.

“It’s all paper,” I mumbled.

He looked at me in confusion before he reached out and closed his hand around one of the many ribbons. What had been a cat became nothing but a crumbled up ball of paper.

“That’s weird.”

By now, even Johann was holding a ribbon between his fingers.

“Why don’t you come in, young gentleman,” a voice echoed from inside the tent.

I was so surprised, I stumbled back a step and bumped right into Martin. He swiftly pushed me forward again.

I tripped over my feet, stumbled right through the opening and into the tent made of paper.

When I got my bearings again, I found myself in a short, colorful corridor. After half a dozen meters, it opened up to a small room in which I saw a man standing behind a table.

He was dressed as a magician, wearing weird, brightly colored clothes. As I stared at him, something seemed strange about his clothes and I soon realized why. They, too, were made of paper.

“Welcome, young gentleman. Might you be interested in some paper magic?”

For a moment, I didn’t move, but then I crossed the corridor and approached the man.

Once I was inside the room, I couldn’t help but look around. The entire room was decorated with paper crafts. Paper planes were dangling from the ceiling and the walls were covered in magical creatures made of paper. Even the table the man was standing behind seemed to be made from nothing but paper.

“Paper magic? Sounds boring,” Martin announced when he’d joined me.

A weary and quiet Johann followed him after a few moments.

The man in front of us smiled, but replied nothing to Martin’s condescending remark.

“My young friends, paper magic is the greatest magic of them all, for paper can become anything you want it to.”

With that, he revealed a sheet of paper and a pair of scissors. He folded the paper a few times and, with a few delicate snips, transformed into a cut-out paper flower.

“Holy shit, that’s awesome!” Johann brought out, and I was quick to agree.

Martin, however, wasn’t impressed.

“Yeah, that’s nothing. We did that in first grade.”

He folded his arms in front of his chest, pushed his chin as high as possible and tried to look down on the man in front of us.

“Of course, of course, I wouldn’t think I could impress you with just that,” the man laughed.

The flower vanished behind him and he revealed a new sheet of paper. When I glanced at him, Martin was rolling his eyes.

I front of me, the man was folding another sheet of paper, then plucking at it for a bit. Finally, the scissors flew over the paper again.

He closed his hands before he rose them high and threw whatever he’d created high into the air.

In an instant, a plethora of tiny paper planes shout out from his hands and flew across the room. There were so many, you felt like you were standing in the center of a mosquito swarm.

While I stared at the tiny planes, trying to catch one of them, the man in front of us was already preparing his next trick.

“But of course, there’s much, much more to paper,” he brought out while he worked meticulously and delicately at yet another sheet.

Once he was done, he put his palms together. When he pulled them apart again, I saw a chain of tiny paper-figures spread out between his hands.

At first, I wasn’t impressed, but a moment later the tiny paper-figurines began moving their tiny legs as if they were walking.

In wonder, both Johann and I leaned forward, staring at them with wide eyes.

“That’s so cool, mister. Can you teach me how to do this?” I blurted out without even thinking about what I was saying.

The man laughed.

“Well, young man, paper magic is not something that can be taught easily,” he began, but was cut off when Martin stepped forward.

“You guys are such babies. It’s a trick! I bet there are some invisible strings between his hands. There’s no such thing as stupid paper magic.”

“Oh,” the man brought out. “Well, maybe there’s a way to prove that it’s indeed real.”

His happy, cheerful smile vanished and was now replaced by an excited grin.

“Now, how about you write your name on this sheet of paper,” he said and presented Martin with a pen.

Martin stared at him for a moment before he shrugged.

“This is going to be so stupid,” he mumbled before he put his name down.

“Now then,” the man brought out before he picked up the scissors again.

After a few swift cuts, he’d created a little paper-man with Martin’s name right in the center of his chest.

“Now, why don’t you come forward to see if there’re any tricks or cheats?”

Martin stepped forward, picked up the little paper-man, held it up to his face and turned it back and forth before he dropped it again.

“It’s just a stupid cut-out,” he said, annoyed.

“But is it?”

The man picked up what Martin had called ‘a stupid cut-out,’ held it between his hands and whispered something at it. Then he let go of it and let it fall back onto the table.

Instead of falling down, however, the little paper-man landed on his feet and remained standing upright.

Martin took a step forward and as he did, the little paper-man did the same thing. When Martin leaned forward to look at it, so did the little paper-man. And when Martin rose his hands to find the strings he thought were connected to it, the little paper-man did the same. Whatever Martin did, the little paper-man was copying all his movements.

“It’s another trick. There’s got to be strings here somewhere!”

His hands continued to move through the air hectically.

“Well, young man, do you have strings, too?”

Suddenly, Martin froze. The only part of his body that moved were his eyes, which were wide and terrified.

Then it happened. The little paper-man took a step to the side, and so did Martin. The little paper-man did a bow and Martin followed suit. It was exactly the same as before, only in reverse. Now Martin had to repeat everything the little paper-man did.

Finally, Martin began freaking out.

“What’s going on? How are you doing this?”

The man behind the table laughed.

“Oh, nothing much, just a little trick using strings.”

With that, the little paper-man broke into an embarrassing dance, which Martin had to repeat.

Under normal circumstances, I’d have laughed, but I was as terrified as was Martin.

“Now then,” the man began and picked up the scissors. “I wonder what would happen…?”

All three of us watched as the man brought the scissors closer and closer to one of the little man’s arms and began closing them.

I could see Martin. He was out of it, desperately trying to move and to run away before he screamed in terror.

And then the man behind the table dropped the scissors. A moment later, the little paper-man fell flat on the table and Martin could move again. In an instant, he cringed back from the table, staring at the man with wide, terrified eyes.

“What did you do to me?” Martin called out, but only after he’d pushed himself behind me.

“Oh, nothing but a little paper magic,” the man said, laughing. “But I hope, young man, you now believe that paper magic is indeed real.”

Martin nodded vehemently.

“Yes, yes, I believe you! Please, just let us go!”

“But of course, you’re free to leave, young gentlemen, unless you want to see a bit more of my paper magic.”

While Johann and shook our heads, Martin had already turned around and was on his way to the exit.

As we followed him, I could see how furious he was. A mixture of anger and frustration distorted his face. I saw him blink away tears and heard him mumble to himself.

The moment he’d made it to the exit, I could see Martin’s eyes. They were wild, and a devilish grin had appeared on his face.

“Let’s see how he likes that.”

With that, he pulled out a lighter and brought the flame close to the walls of the corridor. Then he did the same with some decorations.

In an instant, hungry flames licked over the paper walls of the corridor.

Martin watched them for a moment before he turned to rush outside. Before he could, however, the paper in front of him moved, contorted itself, and the exit was gone in the blink of an eye.

He began cursing and tearing at the paper, ripping it apart, only to find more and more paper behind it.

Then something began pushing itself upward from below him. Martin cringed and came to a halt a few steps in front of us. Mere moments later, the paper took on a form. It was a figure, a brightly colored figure, and we suddenly found ourselves face to face with the man we’d just left standing behind the table.

His face was angry now and filled with rage. As he stared us down, more and more paper was added to his body and he became taller, bigger, changing into an abomination made of paper. Johann and I were screaming, crying, huddling together, but Martin was frozen again.

“Having doubts is only natural, but what you’ve just done is inexcusable!” he bellowed at Martin.

Johann and I wanted to run, to flee, but the surrounding flames were spreading higher and higher.

In front of us, the paper monster brought for a long, dangling arm and opened its hand. On it stood the little paper-man with Martin’s name on it.

A moment later, Johann and I watched in horror as the little paper-man threw himself into the flames.

It caught fire right away, grew dark, and eventually crumbled. Right at that moment, Martin began screaming. It was an unnatural, high-pitched wailing, something more animalistic than human.

When I stared at him, his skin was red and blistering. What was red turned brown, then black, before he crumbled until nothing but ash was left of him.

And in that instant, the paper monster in front of us vanished. The exit opened up, and Johann and I escaped outside, coughing and crying.

When we turned back, the entire paper tent was on fire.

But then, an innumerable amount of tiny paper planes burst forth from it and rose high into the sky.

Within moments, every hint of what we’d just witnessed was gone.

The tent, the strange paper-man and Martin.

As we stood there, watching the last of the tiny paper planes vanish, both Johann and I knew that paper magic was indeed real.

Marlene was my very first friend, as well as my first love.

When I grew up, I had no real friends. I guess I was a bit too odd. I was always dreaming, had my head in the clouds, and was living in a world of my own.

During summer break, I didn’t go to the local soccer field and hang out with the other kids. No, I was always on my own, exploring the vast forest behind my home.

Out there, I imagined myself the king of the forest and would go on magical adventures with imaginary friends.

It was by sheer accident that I found the tree house.

It was a strange construction, nestled between a bunch of close-standing trees and almost completely hidden by their heavy trunks.

To say I was excited would be an understatement. I felt as if I’d uncovered the biggest secret of the forest, and I’d done it all on my own.

As I stood there, I was apprehensive. Who knows who the place belonged to? For long minutes I scanned the forest to see if anyone was nearby.

When no one showed up, I got closer and moved up the small hidden ladder, leaning against it. The place was old, the wood dirty and withered, but it was also surprisingly sturdy and much bigger than I’d thought from the outside.

I’d hoped it would be filled with hidden treasures, magical items, or other similar things only kids can think of.

Instead, all I found were two empty bottles, a piece of clothing, and a dirty, discolored blanket. The moment I picked it up, a strange smell reached my nose. Disgusted, I threw it into the furthest corner and a few moments later, I pushed the rest of the items there as well.

It was at this moment that I’d decided that this tree house would be my new hideout.

Over the next couple of days, though, I was still apprehensive. I was constantly scanning the area around the tree house via the small cracks in its walls. Yet no one ever showed up.

Eventually, I grew more relaxed, and filled new hideout with my favorite things. Toys, comics and snacks.

Standing in front of my new secret forest home and all the treasures I’d brought there, I nodded to myself and felt incredibly proud.

I’d been hanging out at the tree house for about a week when I met her for the first time.

A voice reached my ears while I was reading a comic book and munching on a milky way bar. I jerked up.

“Who are you?” I quiet, high-pitched voice asked.

I carefully made my way to the entrance and peeked outside. A girl with long dark hair, about my age, was standing there, right in front of the tree house.

“I’m Andy,” I answered her.

Then I realized that this tree house had to be hers.

“Oh no, I’m sorry, I didn’t know this place belonged to someone!”

“It’s not my place either,” she brought out.

I gave her a nod.

“Hey, do you want to read some Spiderman?” I asked her and, without waiting for an answer, I rushed back inside to find my very favorite Spiderman comic book.

When I returned to the entrance, mere moments later, she was gone.

And so I stood there, all on my own, wondering about that strange little girl.

And so I stood there, wondering where that strange little girl had gone before I went back to my comic books. Still, as much as I read of Spiderman and the Incredible Hulk, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

From that day onward, I spent every single one of the long summer afternoons out at the tree house. I guess I was lonely after all and hoped to meet her again.

Eventually, she appeared at the tree house again, coming out of nowhere like she’d done before.

I learned her name was Marlene, and that she was a year younger than me.

Over the course of that single afternoon we became quick friends and soon enough my feelings for her turned from friendship to something more.

She wasn’t there a lot, but whenever she was, I stayed until the early evening. During those hours, we’d talk about everything, about school, about TV, and of course, about comic books.

There was one thing, however, I wondered about. If she was playing out here, she had to be from around the area and yet, I’d never seen her at school, never seen her around town before. Eventually, I’d mustered up the courage and asked her the question I’d been wanting to ask for days.

“Hey, Marlene, do you live around her? I thought if you did, then maybe, we could, you know, I could walk you home, in case you,” I broke up, cursing at myself for rambling on like an idiot.

She smiled at me, but for the first time, her smile was different.

“I live far away,” she eventually brought out in a weak voice.

“But if you live far away, how do you come here?”

She was quiet for a while and her eyes turned from me toward the forest, as if they were searching for something.

“It’s not important,” she finally said.

I wanted to press the issue, but of course I couldn’t muster up the courage. Even worse, the way she’d talked about it. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was mad at me. So instead of talking, I buried my face in my comics.

On my way home, I told myself that I was stupid and that I’d ruined it all. She wouldn’t be back now, would she?

Out of fear and my mind busy with all things related to first love, I couldn’t muster up the courage to return to the tree house for an entire week.

When I finally went back, I found the snacks I’d left gone, the comic books torn apart, and the toys broken and discarded.

As I stared at the place that had been my secret little hideout and at my destroyed treasures, I felt the tears coming to my eyes. Someone had found the place and had destroyed it. And then another thought came to my mind, one far worse that stabbed at my young heart. What if had been Marlene? What if she hated me?

“You can’t come here anymore,” I suddenly heard a voice from outside.

“Marlene!” I called out as I jumped down the little ladder and raced to meet her.

When I saw her face, however, my steps slowed down before I came to a halt.

“Leave, Andy, and you can never come back here.”

“But, but why?” I asked, and even though I fought against them, I felt tears coming to my eyes.

She was quiet. Once more, her eyes wandered from me to the surrounding forest.

“This place, it belongs to a very bad man. I thought he was gone, but he’s back now.”

My eyes darted around before I picked up a stick, holding it in my hands like a sword.

“You don’t have to worry about him, I’ll protect you,” I brought out in my best rendition of what I thought was a tough-guy-voice.

She smiled when I said this, but it was the same smile I’d seen before. One that was sad, sad and wary.

“That’s sweet, Andy, really sweet, but you can’t,” she brought out after a long while.

I was about to protest again, but she cut me off right away, telling me again that I had to leave, that I couldn’t come back and pressed me repeatedly to promise her.

And so I did.

Even though I was a boy, a boy who was in love. A few days later, I set out for the tree house and for Marlene again.

When I reached the tree house I found it empty, and so I turned and started calling for Marlene. I was desperate, lonely, and missed her dearly.

When the bushes nearby started shifting, my eyes grew wide and my mouth changed to a smile.

“Marlene, you’re,” I started, but my voice broke up when a bearish man pushed himself from the bushes.

“What are you doing here, you little shit?” he called out to me.

He was unkempt and his clothes were dirty. In an instant, fear washed over me. His boots sounded hard on the forest floor as quick steps led him towards me.

I opened my mouth to say something, to ask who he was and to apologize for having come here. But his face, contorted by rage, and his wild eyes, pushed me into a state of panic.

“I’m sorry,” was all I could bring out before I turned and ran.

After only a handful of steps, I felt a big hard hand getting a hold of me. I felt myself being turned around and pushed to the ground.

“Thought you could run away, didn’t you?” he asked with a mad grin.

I screamed, called for help, tried to fight, but he was so much bigger and stronger than me.

He pushed one of his hands over my mouth and brought his face closer to mine.

“No, you’ll stay right here,” he whispered into my ear.

His breath stank and was heavy with something reminiscent of medicine.

As he dragged me towards the tree house, I fought again, tried to get free, but it seemed futile.

Somehow, though, I could free my mouth and bit down on his fingers.

A quiet curse escaped his mouth before he started laughing again.

Then he pulled out a knife and held it up in front of my face.

“You want to try this again, boy?” he asked, waving it around.

A whimper escaped my mouth, and I desperately tried to shake my head. When the point of the knife dug into the skin on my cheek, I started crying and a second later my bladder gave way.

The man burst into laughter and with one swift motion, he pulled me up into the tree house and threw me into a corner.

My head hit the side of a trunk with such force, dark spots appeared in front of my eyes. As I lay there, all the strength left my body and all I could do was to curl up into a ball.

In front of me, the man was staring at his knife, then back at me, then back at the knife before a manic grin appeared on his face.

“We’re going to have a lot of fun together, oh yeah we’ll,” but he broke up.

The manic grin on his face had vanished and was replaced by an expression of first confusion and then terror.

“You? But how can you-? No, get away, get away!” he began screaming.

At that moment, I noticed a blurry figure out of the corner of my eye. It was hovering over the floor. I saw torn cloths, long dangling arms and dirty hair.

Before I could make sense of the situation, the figure dashed forward at the man. I watched as he lifted his arm, waved the knife, as he retreated backward.

“No, get away!” he screamed in sheer and utter terror.

The figure screeched up, releasing a terrifying, high-pitched sound, and in that moment, I saw the man falling backward as he tumbled down the small ladder.

There was a sickening crunch before silence returned to the forest.

A moment later, the ghastly apparition turned in my direction.

As it did, it sank to the floor. Its arms grew smaller, thinner. The hair became normal and torn clothes seemed to patch themselves back together.

Then I found myself face to face with Marlene again.

“What is,” I started, but broke up when I saw the look of misery on her face.

“That’s why I didn’t want you to come here, Andy,” she brought out.

“But, how did you do this? How did you-?”

“Go Andy. This time you have to go for real. This place, it’s a bad place, a very bad place.”

As she said this, she reached out to me with her hand. When I took it, it felt so small in mine, small and icy cold.

I looked up and when I stared at her, I saw the tears in her eyes.

I wanted to say something, wanted to desperately to tell her how I felt about her, that everything was going to be okay, but I couldn’t.

She led me to the entrance of the tree house and then outside.

For a moment I cringed when I saw the terrible man at the bottom of the ladder, his neck twisted and broken.

“He won’t hurt you anymore,” Marlene brought out. “He won’t hurt anyone anymore,” she added soon after.

“Then it doesn’t matter, does it? It means I can return and we can-“

“No,” she brought out, shaking her head, giving me that same sad look.

“This is wrong, it’s all wrong, this place, this, here, all of it,” she mumbled.

“Marlene,” I started, reaching out for her.

“No!” she suddenly screeched at me, brushing my hand aside.

Then my eyes grew wide, as she transformed again, and watched her turning into a terrible apparition.

When I saw her ghastly face, the empty eyes, the wide open mouth and those long, dangling arms, all I could do was to run, to run and never look back.

I didn’t know what happened that day and I didn’t understand what had happened to Marlene and how she’d turned into this thing.

The answers I sought soon came to me.

It wasn’t long before someone found the bad man’s body.

He was soon identified as a convicted child molester and when they checked the tree house, they soon uncovered much, much more about him.

Marlene had been right. That tree, it really was a terrible place. Below the tree, tree I’d played at for so many days and weeks, they’d found the buried remains of four children.

When I saw the newspaper article and I also saw the pictures of his victims. Two were young boys, one was a girl with blond hair, but the last, the last, was a little girl with dark hair and about my age.

It was a little girl I knew very well.

Nobody ever expects to find themselves in a ghost story. Yet, I always had a lingering feeling I’d one day find myself in one.

The reason was simple, basements.

I hate them, always have.

I don’t know where this apprehension came from, but they’ve always made me anxious. It didn’t matter if it was my dad’s workshop or the musty old storage room at my grandparent’s house. If it was down in the basement, I hated it.

The worst one, however, was my Uncle Robert’s basement.

He was a friendly man, but also a very peculiar man. He lived on his own, in a huge old house, and proudly called himself a collector of curiosities. My mom, however, used a different word, the word ‘hoarder’, which she whisper at my dad behind her hands.

During my one and only visit to his home, he insisted to give me a present. And so he dragged his young nephew down into his basement to pick whatever I wanted from his vast collection.

“Come on, Mathew, you can pick anything you like,” he said as he descended the old, creaking stairs.

A single light bulb dangled from the basement’s high ceiling.

For long seconds, I stood at the top of the stairs, anxious, terrified even. While Uncle Robert had already made it downstairs, I had to gather my courage before I dashed after him, intent on picking the very first item I saw.

The low light of the basement transformed the many shelves lining the walls into lingering, stretched out shadows, waiting to pounce on me.

As Uncle Robert rambled on about his collection, my eyes darted around. Thick spider webs covered the far corners, and I could hear the distant sounds of rodents moving behind shelves and boxes.

As a kid, I knew that this terrible place was haunted.

After that day, I never came along to visit Uncle Robert again. However much my parents tried to convince me, I was too afraid of his terrible, haunted basement.

And yet, forty years later, I found myself right there again.

When he died, years after my parents, I was his last known relative and thus his home came into my possession.

After hearing the many stories about him, I’d expected to find a run-down hoarder’s home. Instead, I found a typical old house. It might have been dusty and old-fashioned, but it was nice and homely.

That’s until I made my way down to the basement. When I opened the sturdy metal door, it felt like I gazed upon an entirely different world.

What had once been a creepy, albeit tide room, had transformed into a labyrinthine mess of overloaded shelves. Even worse, boxes filled with forgotten memorabilia were haphazardly placed around them.

With each step I took, I was aware of movement all around me. Rodents were everywhere, and the spider webs had spread out and covered the entire ceiling. As I pushed myself past shelves and boxes, I felt under constant watch.

The worst, however, were the sounds. Shelves were groaning under their heavy load and each step I took made items in them rattle. The squeaking of mice was a constant.

But there was more, and I thought I heard a mumbling voice and quiet footsteps hidden behind the many shelves.

I told myself it was nothing but my imagination and that being down here had reawakened my childhood fears. And yet, after only a few minutes, I raced back up the stairs and threw the heavy door shut behind me.

Nonetheless, I stayed at Uncle Robert’s home, at least until I’d put everything in order.

After constant, never-ending lockdowns and working from home in my apartment in the center of the city, I could use a change of scenery.

Staying at his house, located in a small hamlet, was exactly that. Uncle Robert’s home was one of a handful of close-standing buildings, nestled against a small forest. It was a forgotten little place, one that had almost died out.

Only one house was still inhabited, but its owner, a supposed Mr. Williams, never so much as showed his face.

Over the course of the next weeks, I’d hoped to strike up a conversation, but the man proofed a reclusive creature.

I only ever caught glimpses of him behind the curtains, watching me from afar, only to vanish the moment I noticed him.

Sorting through Uncle Robert’s possessions proved a hard and arduous task. Over the course of his life, he’d filled his basement with thousands of items, if not more. There were tin figurines, old photographs, postcards, paintings, strange tools and god knows what else.

Even after I’d stayed there for weeks, I hated that basement. I’d made it a rule to only ever go down there during the day and only when a few rays of sunshine would enter via the small basement window.

There was one problem, however. Uncle Robert’s home was old, cables and outlets were faulty and you could easily blow a fuse by accident. This wouldn’t have been so bad if his fuse box hadn’t been at the back of the basement.

During the day, it wasn’t so bad. I’d hurry down, replace the fuse and go back up. During the night, however, I often sat in the dark for long minutes, contemplating if I’d go down or wait until the next day.

Sometimes though, especially when I was busy with work, there was no other option then to go down and figure out what had happened.

Whenever I found myself in front of that sturdy metal door, all alone in the dark, I felt like a little boy again.

With a flash light in my shaking hands, I always had to gather my courage before I’d dash down the stairs.

The shaking beam of light transformed everything around me into twitching, jerking shadows.

Sometimes, I’d brushed against hidden spider webs and felt eight-legged horrors skittering over my hands or body. At others, I saw movement below shelves and between boxes, rodents who fled in terror as I dashed for the fuse box.

And yet, it was never just spiders, never just rodents.

Night is the strangest of times. There’s the darkness, of course, but even worse is the silence. In the dead of the night, you can hear much, much more than during the day.

In my mind, the groaning of shelves was caused by looming monsters, watching my every move. The rattling of items was caused by shapeless horrors, slithering past boxes, waiting to pounce on me.

Occasionally, I could again make out what sounded like muffled, distant footsteps and other indistinguishable sounds, sounds that sent my heart racing and pushed me to the verge of panic.

In my mind, I screamed at myself to stop thinking about it, to ignore it, and that all of it was nothing but my imagination. Before long, I began talking to myself down there, spoke out loud to every ghost and monsters and told them to leave me the hell alone.

It helped to keep the panic and fear at by and to remind me that a man in his mid-forties had no business of being afraid of a dark room and a few sounds.

And yet, it only ever helped so much. With each visit, the sounds seemed to evolve, seemed to change, almost as if something in the basement was growing angrier.

What had only slightly sounded like footsteps turned to shuffling and eventually scratching. It sounded as if someone or something was buried behind the bricked walls of the basement, trying to break free.

At one point, while talking to myself, I suddenly heard an angry grunt, and the scratching. It grew louder, more intense. It sounded almost as if a beast’s claws were scratching over the floor or the walls near me.

In that instant, all my defenses broke down and terror took hold of me.

I was a half-screaming, half-crying boy again, a boy who rushed from the horrible basement and threw the door shut behind him.

There was no way, I told myself, no way I’d go down there again during the night.

But a vow only last so long before it’s pushed aside by necessity.

For weeks I’d been sorting through Uncle Robert’s possessions, but had gotten nowhere. Instead, I’d steadily fallen behind at work. For days, I was forced to work almost the entire day in hopes of somehow making my deadlines.

When yet another fuse blew, I tried to work on my laptop in the dark as long as I could. With the battery running low and work nowhere near done, I knew I couldn’t push it off any longer.

I had to return to the ghastly basement.

As I always did, I pushed open the sturdy metal door, rushed down the creaking stairs and dashed for the fuse box. I cursed at the darkness, cursed at the noises, and cursed at whatever was down there with me.

In an outburst of rage and anxiety, I threw the blown fuse half across the basement. In the night’s dark, it clattered over the floor before it came to a rest.

And yet, the silence of the night didn’t return.

I always had the lingering feeling that I’d end up in a ghost story one day, and today should be the day.

While I stood in front of the fuse box, a voice reached my ears. It was a high-pitched, wailing voice that came from behind me. I froze. Panic washed over me and I repeated I was alone and that it was all in my head.

But then I heard footsteps, shuffling footsteps from right behind me.

Almost as if in a trance, flash light in hand, I slowly turned around. At first there were only boxes, only shelves, but then the shaking beam hit a figure. It was a thin, bony thing that pushed itself from between the shelves.

I screamed in shock, stumbled backward, away from the fuse box and the ghastly apparition, only to crash over one of the nearby boxes.

I hit the ground hard and pain shot threw my body, but I crawled on, trying to flee.

My eyes were glued to the apparition. Its eyes were glowing with a manic rage. I saw its mouth open wide and a reverberating scream escaped it.

“Get out!” the thing shrieked at me before it stumbled forward to get me.

Once more it shrieked at me and in this moment I could finally push myself to my feet. I half-ran, half-stumbled through the basement in sheer and utter panic as the apparition chased after me.

For long, terrible seconds, I found myself lost between the shelves before the beam of the flash light hit the stairs.

At that moment, I suddenly heard the scratching again, louder now. But it wasn’t coming from behind me. No, it was coming from the wall, the bricked wall right next to the stairs.

My eyes grew wide as one of the stones started to move, rattled in the wall before it was pushed out and crashed to the floor. Then, a second one followed.

One after another, I thought, they keep appearing, one after another. I stared at the wall in disbelief, watched as a third stone crashed to the floor.

Right behind me, I heard the apparition again, could feel its icy breath on my neck and then, for the shortest of moments, I felt its thin fingers on my shoulder.

When it whispered into my ear, I dashed away, past the hole in the wall and up the stairs.

Once I’d made it, I saw a white arm dangling from the hole, then a head and a face.

Just as I threw the door shut, a figure had pushed itself from the hole and into the basement.

I’d barely closed and locked the door when someone started screaming and pounding against it. It was a voice, but one that was undoubtedly human.

Slowly, as the man was insulting and threatening me, the reality of the situation sank in and rushed for my phone to call the police.

I told them, as impossible as it sounded, that someone had just broken into my basement.

When they arrived and entered the basement, they found no trace of ghosts. No, what they found was a man who was clearly out of his mind and who’d tired himself out trying to break down the basement door.

I learned the full story over the course of the next days.

The man I’d thought of as Mr. Williams wasn’t him. Mr. Williams had died years ago, but I’d never bothered with anything regarding the small hamlet.

The man I’d seen in the house was a squatter, a man on the run from the police who’d hidden in Mr. William’s abandoned home. Down in the basement, to be correct.

As it turned out, Mr. William’s basement was right next to mine, only divided by a thick brick wall.

The strange sounds I’d heard, the shuffling, the footsteps, the mumbling voice. It must’ve been this man.

He must’ve heard me down there as I talked to myself and screamed and cursed at someone else. He must’ve quickly realized that my voice came from a room next to the one he was hiding in.

My behavior, the insults I was screaming. It must’ve antagonized him, provoked him, and he’d decided to get me for it.

Last night, when I was down there again, he’d finally broken down the wall. And he’d have gotten me.

The only reason I’m still alive is because of the bony apparition I encountered and that the police found no hint of.

No, it had been a ghost, a ghost I always knew I’d encounter down in some musty, old basement.

But it had been a different type of ghost. For when it had whispered something into my ear, I’d recognized its voice, a voice I hadn’t heard in forty years.

It had been the voice of my Uncle Robert.

I hated Ms. Granger’s collection from the moment I laid eyes on it.

The old lady was the latest in my long line of patients. I’m a caregiver, the live-in type.

I’d been working in the field for a decade when I got to know Ms. Granger.

She was a wealthy old woman who lived on her own in an Elizabethan style home in the countryside.

From her file, I’d expected her to be a stern old woman with disdain for other humans. To my surprise, she proved to be the polar opposite.

She was a friendly, grandmotherly type who welcomed me with a warm smile and seemed as nervous about the interview as I was.

As she led me inside, she babbled on. I learned that she’d taken care of herself just fine, but her heart wasn’t what it used to anymore, and her doctor had begged her to get some help around the house.

“That’s where you come in, Mr. Johnson,” she said.

“Well, I’d be honored to,” I answered, giving her my warmest smile.

As she led me down the hallway to the living room, I noticed the first outliers of her collection. Each cupboard and shelf in the hallway was stacked with small porcelain figurines.

My eyes wandered over the strange little things with a mixture of disdain and curiosity.

I soon learned, however, how big her collection really was. The moment I stepped into the living room, I gasped. Glass cabinets lined the walls, all filled to the brim with a plethora of porcelain figurines.

I saw animals, children, dancers, clowns, creatures from mythology and folk tales and much, much more, each one uglier than the next.

The old lady caught me staring and gave an embarrassed laugh.

“I guess, I can’t blame you for the stares. It’s a hobby of mine, or started out as one, but now, fifty years later…”

She broke up for a moment and laughed again.

“I guess, when you don’t have a family, you have to make one of your own.”

The interview went well, and a few days later, I moved into my quarters on the second floor of the house and began my work with Ms. Granger.

While I’d taken her earlier comment about her collection as a joke, I realized that she indeed acted as if those figurines were her family.

While I prepared meals or cleaned the house, I could hear her in the living room, babbling and talking to the surrounding figurines. I even noticed her pausing, as if she was waiting for or listening to voices I couldn’t hear.

I’d have attributed it to old age, but Ms. Granger was as sharp as a woman half her age. No, this seemed to be a peculiarity, an eccentricity of hers.

I hated those figurines. It wasn’t enough that they were everywhere, but they were old and awfully ugly. Many of them were distorted, their proportions and faces overplayed, making them look comical and unnatural.

Yet Ms. Granger seemed to love them all and made sure I did as well.

“Don’t you think my dearies are pretty?”

“What do you think of this little one over here?”

No, I think they are ugly, and that little one over there’s as ugly as the rest.

Now, of course I didn’t say it, and I never would. As weird as the old lady was, she was one of the loveliest people I’d ever gotten to know.

So, after gnashing my teeth and rolling my eyes, I answered that, yes, they were all pretty, and I thought whichever one she pointed to was the cutest.

The old lady’s favorite was a little figurine of a cat. It was no bigger than her hand, but she always had it with her. When she sat in the living room, it was resting on her lap. When she was having her meals, it was nearby on the table next to her and when she went to bed, she made sure it was resting on her night stand.

“Little Priscilla here always demands to watch over me during the night,” she’d say, giggling and petted the little figurine.

I always had to fight the urge to roll my eyes.

As much as I liked Ms. Granger, as much did I dislike her home. It was an old house, isolated in the middle of nowhere and filled with a perpetually musty air.

What made it even worse, though, was that damned collection. Wherever you went, whatever you did, there were always some of the ugly things around. I could almost feel them watching me, staring at me with their tiny eyes.

I sometimes caught myself wondering what would happen if I’d toss one of them, destroy it and get rid of those strangely probing eyes. Yet, I never gave into these destructive urges. I couldn’t help but think of old little Ms. Granger and her strange love for them.

The worst, by far, were the nights. Wherever I went, I was never safe from those ghastly figurines. In the dim light of old lamps, their shadows were transformed, made huge and looming, transforming them into resting, distorted demons.

Most days, I fled to my quarters the moment Ms. Granger had gone to bed. There I occupied myself with the internet or watching Netflix.

At times, I couldn’t help but listen. Occasionally, under the sound of setting walls and creaking beams, I thought I heard tiny footsteps. I knew it was nothing but my imagination, but it made me shiver.

Yet, the months I spent with Ms. Granger weren’t bad. I grew to like the old lady a lot and she, in turn, warmed up to me.

Before long, I found myself sitting with her in the evenings. I’d listen while she told me stories about her life, the friends she’d made, and the places she’d seen. And I told her about myself and the problems I’d had with my family.

Then, one day, it all came to an end.

I found her one morning, on my way to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

Ms. Granger was an early bird, and she was always awake long before I got up.

That day, though, I didn’t find her in her living room chair, enjoying the first rays of sunshine. No, I found her lying in the hallway, unmoving.

I rushed to her side, but the moment I saw her empty eyes, I knew there was nothing I could do anymore.

Death is never an easy thing, and as I got back to my feet, I felt hot tears coming to my eyes. And there, right next to her, I found Priscilla, staring at me with her tiny, glassy eyes as if to blame me for what had happened.

I should learn, though, that there was nothing I could’ve done. It was a heart attack. Ms. Granger had collapsed on her way to the living room. At sixty-seven years, her already weak heart had finally given up.

After the funeral, I was devastated, of course, but ready to move on and say goodbye to her old home. As is so often the case, life had different plans for me.

A week after her death, I got a call from her attorney. After a short greeting, the man came right out with it.

“I’m calling to inform you that Ms. Granger has named you as a beneficiary in her will,” he told me. “I’d like you to come to my office to discuss the details.”

Needless to say, I was surprised. Ms. Granger had no husband or kids of her own, but I was sure she had extended family, friends, or, well, anybody else.

For a moment, the thought of her leaving me that ghastly collection came to my mind and I couldn’t help but cringe. Oh god, no, please no.

As it turned out, I was right. Old Ms. Granger had indeed left me her ghastly collection of porcelain horrors, but that wasn’t all. No, she’d named me as her sole benefactor and was leaving her belongings to me.

I couldn’t believe my ears. The world started spinning, and I almost lost my balance.

When I’d gotten over the shock, I laughed and told the man it had to be a mix-up with the names, the will, anything. But, no, he assured me it was all true, and Ms. Granger had called in the months before her death to draft a will.

And so, I found myself in possession of an old Elizabethan home in the countryside and thousands of ugly, old porcelain figurines.

At first, I was lost, not sure what to do. A strange feeling of responsibility washed over me, of owing her to take care of her home.

In the days that followed, however, I pushed those thoughts away. I wasn’t willing to spend my days out in an old home in the countryside. No, as much as I’d enjoyed the time with Ms. Granger, I couldn’t imagine living out there. At least, not all on my own.

Instead, I made plans to sell the house.

It was an old place, old and musty, with an overgrown yard. If I were to sell it, I decided, I should at least make it look presentable to potential buyers.

The moment I stepped back inside, I found myself under the stares of thousands of accusing eyes. Those damned figurines. There was no way I’d leave those creepy things standing around, scaring off people.

My first instinct was to toss them, to dump them in the trash and be done with it.

When I thought about it, though, the memory of Ms. Granger’s happy, warm smile returned to me. I cursed at myself for being sentimental, but decided to store them away for now. Who knows, there might be people out there with the same peculiar love for ugly things like that.

I went through the entire house, filling box after box with the damned things, but there was no end to them. Hour after hour passed, and finally day after day, of filling up boxes before only the little cat, Priscilla, was left. I sighed as I stared at it.

“What’s so special about you, you ugly little thing?” I wondered, as I held it up to my face.

I stared at its overly cute face with its tiny smile, at the small, glassy eyes and the short stubby tail. My fingers wandered over it, caressing the small indentations of its pretend-fur.

Then, for the blink of an eye, I could’ve sworn its eyes moved. I cursed and almost dropped the damned thing.

“In the box you go,” I said out loud before I added it to the rest of the collection.

By now, all the figurines were neatly stacked away in an empty storage room at the back of the house.

It wasn’t long before the first potential buyer appeared at my door. I was more than surprised because I’d hired a real estate agent to take care of all requests. Until everything was in order, I did not want to bother with anyone.

“You’re Mr. Johnson, I take it?” the old woman at the door spoke up, glancing at me with cold eyes.

“Excuse me, but, who are you?”

“I’m here to have a look at the house,” she spat at me and tried to shove herself past me.

In an instant, I positioned myself in front of her.

“I’m sorry, but the house isn’t open for visitation, yet. If you’re interested, you can get in contact with Mr. Davies from the-“

“How dare you, you,” she cut me off in anger.

What the hell was this woman’s problem?”

“Miss, I’d like you to leave,” I brought out.

She opened her mouth to scream at me again, but right at that moment, a man stepped up to her and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Now come on, Lizzy, let’s leave the poor chap alone. We can just talk to Mr. Davies from…?”

He stared at me expectantly, giving me a smile that felt all sorts of wrong.

“Mr. Davies from West City Real Estate,” I brought out after a few moments. “I can give you a card in case you-“

But I broke up when the two of them turned and walked back to their car. Before getting in, the woman gave me another angry glance. Then the two of them drove off.

I was left standing at the door, dumbfounded.

Even after they were gone, I couldn’t help but be confused. Who the hell were they? Why’d that woman been so mad? Was she an old friend? A relative, maybe? But Ms. Granger had told me she had no family.

Weird, I told myself, but with all the things I had to do, I’d soon forgotten about the strange incident.

The longer I spent trying to put the house in order, the more I realized just how much work there was to do. Eventually, I moved back into my old quarters. At least, until I was done with things.

I still didn’t like the house. While I’d hated all those figurines, somehow, their absence made it even darker, bleaker and creepier.

My sleep was light, and a lot of times I found myself awake in the middle of the night, listening for all sounds.

It was during my third night that I heard something. It differed from the sounds so common in the old home.

I told myself it was nothing but my imagination, that it came from outside, but after a while I couldn’t help but be scared.

It sounded like quiet, muffled footsteps coming from the first floor. For an instant, images of roaming porcelain figurines came to my mind. Tiny, ghastly horrors that crawled through the house, searching for me.

I told myself to let it go, to ignore it, to stay here and go back to sleep. But eventually, my racing mind and the slowly creeping in panic, made me get up. As carefully as I could, I slipped out from under the blanket.

I tiptoed to the door, cracked it and listened, but the sounds were gone. Whit a shaking hand, I hit the light switch in the hallway, prepared for the worst, but all was normal.

As I stepped outside, I listened again, but the house was all but quiet. The moment I reached the stairs, though, I heard it again, this time closer.

Fear washed over me. Those didn’t sound like tiny, clattering steps, those were the steps of a person. Someone must’ve entered and-

Pain exploded inside my head. My vision became blurry. Dark spots appeared in front of my eyes, and I crashed to the floor on top of the stairs.

For a moment, my entire body went numb, and I felt my consciousness slipping away. I screamed at myself, told myself to stay conscious, and eventually saw something at the bottom of the stairs.

There was a figure down there.

“Thought he could steal my house,” I heard a voice, a cold female one.

What was going on?

“Got him good, didn’t I?”

Another voice, this one male and much, much closer.

I opened my mouth, wanted to ask those people what was going on and what had happened, but all that escaped my mouth was a brief groan.

“He’s still conscious!” the female voice shrieked. “Why can’t you get anything right?”

“Well, I can just whack him a few more times, can’t I?”

I knew this voice, I’d heard it before, but where? Where?

“No, you’ll ruin the carpet! How’ll we get all the blood out?”

“What do you want me to do with him, then?”

As the two of them kept arguing, I desperately tried to get my body to work again, to move, but it was futile. I was barely able to move my hands, couldn’t even reach for the stairs to drag myself away from them.

I stopped when I noticed a tiny white thing right next to me. At first I didn’t know what it was, but then I noticed the overly cute face with its tiny smile, the small, glassy eyes and the short stubby tail. It was Priscilla, Ms. Granger’s little porcelain cat.

I stared at it in confusion. How had it gotten here? Had they taken it from the box? But why’d they-

The most wondrous of things interrupted my thoughts. Right next to me, the tiny porcelain figurine began stirring. At first it was only a single paw, then another before it stretched itself and moved closer to my face.

The once empty, glassy eyes were now alive. As they focused on me, I opened my mouth again and a single word, no more than a whisper, escaped it.

“Help.”

The moment the word had left my mouth, the tiny, ugly thing dashed away down the stairs.

“Eek! There’s something here! Its mice!” the woman at the bottom of the stairs shrieked as Priscilla rushed past her.

“What mice? There’re no mice!”

“But I saw something!”

“You always see something! Let’s get rid of-“

But his voice trailed off. Another sound reached all three of us. It sounded like the entire house was alive, reverberating with a single sound. It was footsteps, thousands of tiny, hard footsteps.

“What’s that now?” the man behind me cursed.

A moment later, the woman shrieked and started up the stairs, her eyes wide with terror.

And then I saw it. Ms. Granger’s collection. All the tiny, ugly porcelain figures were marching through the hallway and up the stairs.

I saw animals, children, dancers, clowns, creatures from mythology and folk tales, and much, much more.

It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

“What the hell’s going on? What are those, those things!” the man cursed.

Right at that moment, the first of the figurines reached the woman. I heard her scream in pain before she tumbled down to the bottom of the stairs, where the rest of the porcelain army waited for her.

“Lizzy, no!” the man behind me called out when the white army washed over her.

A moment later he rushed past me, straight to where the woman had been before and where was now only a teeming mass of tiny, white bodies.

I saw him charge at them, saw him grabbing them, throwing, stomping, and beating them. Porcelain shards rained over the stairs and the hallway, but there were too many of them.

Before long, he was swarmed. And the last thing I heard before I passed out was how anger and fury turned to terror and panic.

When I came to again, my head was throbbing with pain and I found the tiny white cat, now frozen again, by my side.

At first I didn’t understand what had happened, but then I remembered. And yet, when my gaze wandered down the stairs, all that remained was a mass of tiny white porcelain shards. There was no hint of the attackers and no hint of Ms. Granger’s collection.

I’d have told myself it was all but a dream, but the pain in my head and the tiny white cat by my side told me otherwise.

“Thank you,” I whispered at the small thing. “Thank you for saving me.”

In the weeks to come, I learned that Ms. Granger did indeed have a family. An estranged sister by the name of Elisabeth Granger.

After Ms. Granger’s death, her sister had hoped to inherit a fortune and had made inquiries about it. When she’d found out that I’d been named the sole benefactor, she’d grown furious.

When I saw a picture of her, I recognized her and the man by her side. They were no other than the couple who’d visited me, and who’d broken into my house that night.

And they’d have succeeded if not for Ms. Granger’s collection. No, not just a collection, her real family. A family numbering in the thousands. A family made of nothing but porcelain, but no less alive.

After what had happened that night, I gave up on the idea of selling the house and returned all the figurines to their places.

There were fewer of them now. Many had sacrificed themselves to save me that night, but I’ve kept their remains. After all, out here in the countryside, all by myself, I’ve got more than enough time to restore them.

It’s the least I can do, not just for them, but also for old Ms. Granger, who’d left me not only her home but also her magical porcelain family.