Tag: Life

A Metallic Motif of Motion

Cars thunder past in droves, one after another, rushing relentlessly onward. The worlds of each driver are separated by their metallic coffins, the landscapes outside no longer a part of theirs. Every journey becomes a void between A and B. He grimaces, clumsily wiping a sweaty palm across his face as he rubs at an irritating itch near his jawline. He snorts and sniffs, scrunching his nose and curling his lips, each blessed step carrying him closer to his destination.

More cars thunder past—their loud engines drown out the voice on the other end of the phone.

A deep-seated sigh escapes his throat as he pulls the phone from his ear, glaring at the screen. He spits a frustrated hiss, shakes his head in disapproval, then shoves it back against his ear.

“I don’t care,” he huffs gruffly.

He falls silent for a few moments, listening intently, his breaths slow and rhythmic, measured with each step. His nose wrinkles again, and his teeth bare like those of a cornered animal. His movements sharpen, his steps pounding against the ground with increasing focus.

“Like I said, I totally understand—I just don’t care. Plain and simple!”

He rolls his eyes and lets out another long-winded, lacklustre sigh, his gaze lifting toward the sky.

“Okay, okay!” he snaps, coming to a sudden stop and throwing his free hand into the air as though holding back something—or someone. “I’m sorry if that process doesn’t fit your schedule, but it’s what’s going to happen.”

“You call me and, for some reason, expect me to drop everything to meet your bizarre request without even batting an eyelid? Well, that’s not gonna work for me. That’s not gonna wo—”

The words catch in his throat, and his brow furrows.

“W-W-W-What?” he stammers, his eyes widening as a fresh wave of sweat cascades down his forehead. “I-I-I—I don’t understand. W-W-What is that supposed to a-achieve?”

A nervous smile wraps itself across his lips. “I-I-I, I can’t be expected to—” His flesh pales, the blood rushing from his cheeks. “T-T-That’s completely unfair! Y-Y-You can’t just pull something this absurd and believe I won’t retaliate. I’m a—”

His words falter, his chin crumbling as his lips tremble. His eyes well up, glistening with tears as he stares out into the emptiness beyond him.

“I-I-I—You can’t. T-T-They did nothing to y-y-you. T-T-They—” He takes another deep breath, his chest heaving as he clenches his eyes shut.

“I-I-I—I understand.”

He nods, his jaw clenching tight as he arches his head back, letting his eyes flutter upward to the empty sky.

“N-N-No, I understand everything you’re saying. They are cattle—a commodity needed to perform a task,” he stammers nervously. “Y-Y-Yes, I get it. I c-can see why you needed to do it, a prime example of my inability to read a room.”

He lets out another long-winded sigh, his lips curling in distaste.

“Of course. This one will be on the house. Yes, I will ensure that in the future, I am much more accommodating.”

“C-Can you put her on, s-s-so I can assure her that I’m making them safe?” he asks nervously, his voice trembling. “I-I-I, I get that. I truly do. B-B-But don’t you want to ensure that the power you claim to have i-is confirmed? Otherwise, h-h-how do I even know they’re alive? Y-Yes, I understand, and I know that I just have to trust you, but if you c—”

He takes another deep breath, his chest rising and falling as he clenches his eyes shut. When he speaks again, his tone is quieter, sharper.

“Of course, that is totally understandable,” he seethes.

There’s a long pause before his lips curl into something too tight to be a smile. “Which is why I’m sure you’ll understand why I have to do this.”

Without waiting for a response, he steps out onto the road.

A car slams into him with a thunderous crack. His body tears like paper, bones snapping as a crimson spray bursts into the air. His head smashes against the windshield, shattering it in an explosion of jagged glass before his mangled body is flung across the pavement like a ragdoll. He lands in a twisted heap, his limbs bent at impossible angles. Blood pools beneath him, painting the asphalt in a grotesque smear.

The phone remains tightly clutched in his hand, its screen flickering faintly against the growing silence.

The Other Side of the Door

The door shudders with each impact as Stewart drives his shoulder into it, slamming hard against the wood. He screams, he cries, he begs.

“Damien! Can you hear me? Damien—let me in!” he shouts, his voice haggard and raw. Damien sits unmoving, empty eyes fixed on the door, huddled on the floor and hugging his legs tight against his chest. His lip trembles, his empty gaze wide and almost pulsing.

“Please, Damien!” Stewart howls, his voice breaking. Every inch of his body throbs with exhaustion and pain, yet he forces himself to keep pounding on the door. Each impact jolts up his arm—skin raw and burning—and still he persists. Shadows swim around him, thickening and seeming almost alive—suffocating him in a haze of panicked desperation.

“Damien! Damien! Let me in! Let me save you like I swore I would!” he cries, pressing his lips to the door. He runs his hands along its edge, searching for a crack to peer through—pressing himself tight and scrambling—until at last he finds a glimmer of light. Then he sees him.

Damien sits, huddled—and to Stewart’s horror, the vile beast that has haunted his dreams is there, its long arms draped over Damien, a wicked grin stretched across its lips. In the dim light, shadows flicker and swell behind them, casting monstrous shapes that writhe against the walls.

“LET HIM GO!” Stewart cries, tears streaming down his face as he throws himself back, kicking the door over and over. Still, it holds—unyielding.

He scrambles back to the crack, squinting through the narrow gap. He recoils—heart hammering—as the creature presses its own eyes to the other side, peering back at him. Its voice oozes through—low and mocking—each word a threat disguised in sweetness.

“Go away, child. He is mine. You had your chance—you had your time, but you let him go. You forgot, but I—I did not. I have been here for him, while you were away, living your life. Go, leave us, and know that you are unworthy. While I—I am his all.”

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!” Stewart screams. “DAMIEN! DAMIEN!”

The creature laughs, its gaze shifting between Damien’s silent figure and Stewart’s desperate, petrified eyes through the crack.

“It is too late,” it purrs, words dripping with smugness. “He is mine.”

Stewart pounds desperately at the door, his fists raw and red, smearing bloody marks against the wood with each impact. Inside, the creature grins—broad and menacing—as it strides toward Damien. It pauses, turning back to the doorway, and strokes Damien’s hair with long, spindly fingers. The grin stretches wider as Stewart’s pounding and screams grow louder, more frantic, more unhinged.

Damien looks up at the creature, a faint, sleepy smile tugging at his lips. “W-Who’s at the door, Papi?” he whispers.

The creature’s expression softens as it cups Damien’s chin, stroking his face gently. “No one, my little pup,” it purrs, its voice dripping with malice. “No one at all.”

A Bile of Another Name

It convulses, moving back and forth, its lips clamped over the child’s fragile frame, sucking the life dry as though the child were a straw plunged into a slushy. Dale gasps, biting down on his fist to stifle his own pathetic cries.

The child goes limp, and the parasitic leech of a creature straddles the body, beginning to feed in earnest. Then, it freezes. Tentacle-like arms protrude from its mouth, tugging at the flesh suit that had been the small child, stretching the gash in its throat into a gaping hole. It regurgitates a crude, green liquid back into the body, and the reaction is almost immediate.

It latches on and feeds anew, the corrosive liquid breaking down bone and sinew, which it drinks with greedy delight. But as it empties the cup that was the small child, its hunger grows desperate, insatiable. With a frantic shudder, it sinks deeper into the empty, hollowed-out flesh sack, devouring it whole in one grotesque gulp. Dale’s stomach heaves as he watches, his eyes wide with disbelief as it consumes every inch, every morsel of what, just moments earlier, had been a small teenager.

Dale stumbles from his hiding spot, gasping desperately for a breath. A sound behind him—a scuff against the cold stone floor—forces him to spin around in surprise. A tall, shadowed figure stands in the doorway, its gaze locked on him, a million eyes watching, studying. The world spins in every direction, and Dale can’t hold it back any longer. Bile rushes up from his stomach, exploding out in a volatile sea of vomit, splashing across the floor in a grand display. The figure stands, watching, unmoving.

Dale drags an arm across his mouth and sneers. “F-F-Fuck you!” he stammers through trembling lips.

The creature’s head twists a full three hundred and sixty degrees, its focus singularly fixed on Dale, as if scenting his fear. With a sickening cry, it straightens, slowly circling him, strings of green-tinged saliva dripping from its gaping mouth. Dale stumbles backward, a strangled scream clawing its way up his throat as the thing lunges. It moves with horrifying speed, limbs writhing, slick and snake-like, covering the distance between them in an instant. It seizes Dale with precision and skill, the mark of a seasoned predator. His scream is swallowed in the wet crush of its grip, its mouth pressing over his face, suffocating the life from him. With ravenous hunger, it bites down on his throat and begins to feed.

Dale’s mouth opens and closes, like a fish desperate for water, his eyes wide, pleading for mercy. The room spins as darkness draws near, pressing in as the creature drains the life from his withered frame. He feels himself unravel, pulled thread by thread into its endless hunger. Then, suddenly, it lets go, recoiling, screaming, scrambling away from Dale, staring at him in pure terror.

Dale grins through bloodied teeth, forcing his battered frame to his feet as the creature cowers before him.

“T-That fucked you up, d-didn’t it?” he grunts, dropping to his knees again as a growing sea of red spreads beneath him. He slaps a hand against his throat, but nothing will stop the river flowing. He laughs, a strangled, wet sound. “Guess I killed us both,” he mutters.

The creature slithers out from its hiding place, hissing toward him as if trying to communicate. Dale laughs again, weak but defiant. “Y-Yeah, fuck you too!” he quips as the creature raises its head, its mouth stretching wide, rows of jagged teeth glistening, tendrils writhing in the air. Then, with a sickening lurch, it spews a sea of bile that splashes over Dale.

He screams as the acidic liquid begins eating through his flesh and bone, unraveling him from the outside in.

Midnight Ain’t the Time for Walkies

Each step feels like a clumsy misstep, as though each move forward demands some impossible skill he doesn’t possess. A grimace stretches across his dry, cracked lips, pulling tighter with every step. He lets out a stuttering laugh, narrowing his eyes and furrowing his brow. A gasp, then a cry escapes him as he draws in a sharp breath, yanking the dog’s lead tight as she pulls him forward.

“Jess!” he hisses through taut lips. “Slow down!”

She ignores his call, digging in her paws with each thrusting step and forcing onward, refusing to yield.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he spits, yanking the lead again with all his might. Jess stumbles back, scrambling for footing as she lets out a low, rumbling growl. Her feet plant firmly, hackles raised, every hair standing on end. He takes a step back, his eyes wide with surprise.

“J-J-Jess!” he stammers nervously, holding his hands up in a defensive posture. “C-C-Calm down, girl!”

A sudden silence settles over them. No rustling of leaves, no distant hum of cars from the adjoining street—nothing but an unnatural quiet pressing in around them. Jess’s ears stand straight and tall, her muscles tense, and she lowers herself slightly, ready to strike.

A cold shiver crawls up his spine as his pulse beats like a hammer in his ears.

“J-Jess,” he whispers, barely daring to breathe. “What—what is it, g-girl?”

From somewhere in the shadows, a soft, wet clicking noise breaks the silence. His panicked gaze catches a faint shape—a dark, shifting mass just beyond the reach of the streetlight—but it’s not until its piercing red eyes meet his that he feels warmth spreading down his leg.

His grip tightens on Jess’s lead, and he pulls her firmly toward him.

“C-Come on, girl. L-Let’s just take it nice a-and easy, okay?”

Jess growls louder, her lips pulling back to reveal sharp teeth dripping with thick yellow foam, her eyes wild. She barks, and he flinches—just as the thing in the trees leaps toward them. Jess lunges to meet the attack, yanking him forward as she does, but the lead catches tight. Jess is thrust to the ground, and the creature lands, crouched on a fence post, watching them.

Its leathery wings rise high, clawed feet gripping the splintered wood as its mouth stretches wide, rows of razor-sharp teeth chattering with a sick, rhythmic click, glistening with grotesquely thick green saliva.

He takes breath after desperate breath, each one shorter than the last, a sea of sweat pouring down his twitching brow as blood drains from his pale cheeks. Jess launches back to her feet and stands between the creature and her master, her back arched high, teeth bared as a guttural growl escapes her.

The creature hisses, swiping mockingly toward them before dropping low, snarling, and coiling itself like a cat ready to pounce. It launches at Jess, who barks rabidly. He throws himself to his feet, dragging Jess out of its attack range. She barks wildly, pulling and twisting, leaping and turning, trying to break free of the lead.

He yanks her hard, pulling her behind him as the creature launches at him again. It lands on his chest, tearing into his throat viciously, a wall of red splashing over it. They tumble back and crash to the ground. The creature looks up, soaked in blood, as a razor-sharp tirade of teeth closes in on its head.

A Container with a View 

Dale holds the camera away from his face, grips his chin with his other hand, and stares off into the distance. He adjusts his pose several times, mumbling to himself until he’s satisfied with the stance, the angle, and what the camera captures. Then, he hits record. 

For a few silent seconds, he looks out into the distance, stroking the stubble on his chin, before turning his gaze to the camera’s lens and smiling. 

“Hello, my friends. I’m glad you made it,” he says with a nod of his head and a playful wink. “Today, we’re doing something new—something different—and hopefully, if I’ve chosen correctly, something worthwhile. Behind me stands Mertonville Site Storage, one of the largest storage rental companies in Australia. With five thousand sites across Australia and over two million worldwide, they’re clearly good at what they do. But every now and then, someone slips through the cracks, and they end up seizing a storage locker. To cover costs, they auction these off to the highest bidder.” 

He steps back, allowing a storage container to fall into view. “Now, we’re opening the first of three containers,” he says with a broad grin. 

He pulls his hat from his head, scratches his balding scalp, and makes a strained face. “I know there are a lot of guys doing the same thing as this, and I bet you’re thinking, ‘Why should I watch your video instead of all the others?’ If I were honest, I’d say I don’t know. But honesty isn’t really my thing—as you’ll remember from video diary seven hundred and twenty-six and the sixteen that followed. I’m a lying son of a bitch who takes great pleasure in playing with not only people’s emotions but situations as well,” he says with a broad grin. “For the uninitiated, that video was the first in a collection I like to call Cutting Cancerous Tumours from the Soul, aka The Divorce,” he adds with a spiteful cackle. 

Dale’s grin widens, adding a sinister touch to his narrow eyes. “Now, I know I said this was just a lucky find, but I may have bent the truth a little,” he says, choking on a muffled laugh. “See, this container isn’t one of those seized units like everyone else gets on those other shows. This one was a fully paid, certified storage container—still rented to store someone’s precious belongings.” He swings the camera around, revealing a bonfire crackling a few feet away, then returns the camera to himself. “Honestly, it didn’t mean a thing to me. In fact, I think I feel a little better now that it’s burning,” he adds, spitting on the ground and dragging his arm across his mouth, laughing like a horror-movie hillbilly. 

“Now, I guess you’re wondering how I got access to a storage container if it was still in use. Well,” he says with a wicked grin, “the owner just needed a little—persuasion. So to all of you out there hitting walls and giving up on the things you really want, remember: a little persistence can open all sorts of doors.” He steps closer to the container, trailing his fingers over the cold metal as if savoring a secret only he knows. “Enough of the posing and prancing. Let’s open this guy up and see what’s left inside.” 

With a swift yank, Dale pulls the door open, revealing an unsettling sight within. In the centre of the container, bound with rusted barbed wire and chained to the walls, is his ex-wife, her eyes, wide and pleading, peer through layers of grime and dried blood. She’s barely able to move, her skin marred with scratches and bruises, a gag tied cruelly across her mouth. “Ah, sweetheart,” Dale purrs, stepping forward as the camera captures every detail. “They say time heals all wounds, but I prefer the slow, hands-on approach.” He turns back to the camera, his grin widening. “Now, my friends, let’s see just how deep these old scars run.” 

He reaches out to close the container door, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And remember, don’t go anywhere. The fun’s just beginning.” 

A Sack Full of Nightmares

The lights flicker, shifting from stark white to a sickly, mottled cream, punctuated by dark patches. Moths and bugs swarm around each bulb, darting and diving in a rhythmic, unsettling dance. Jeffery looks up from the asphalt—a thick stream of drool spilling from his open mouth, his unblinking eyes vacant and unfocused. His neck tilts slightly—his hands folding together, fingers twitching as if playing an unseen, spectral piano.

Something stirs in the depths of his decaying mind—a pull, a hum he can’t deny. He gags, doubling over as a sack of mucus and bile births itself from his throat and splats onto the ground. His gaze remains steady, unwavering. The sack splits open, releasing a dark plume of bugs that writhes upward, toward the light. A crack and a hiss stab the air—then the bulbs burst, showering Jeffery in a sea of glass and darkness.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder, gripping him as though to haul him from the earth itself. He turns, his empty gaze fixed, jaw slack and dislocated, blood oozing from the torn edges of his lips. His hollow eyes meet another’s—another face, dead-eyed and slack. For a breath, they stand in silent communion—then both heads tilt, answering some unseen, inaudible call. Together, they shuffle forward, like phantoms from an old zombie film, melting into the shadows beyond the broken lights.

The path stretches ahead in a flickering line—each bulb straining against the creeping darkness. Beneath each dying light stands another figure—faces lifted, mouths slack and agape, forming a twisted tunnel down to the void of their bellies. Their glazed eyes are locked on the flickering glow above, as though waiting for something unseen to awaken. Like a slow, dark wave, they begin to heave—sickly egg sacs rising up the empty tunnels of their mouths. Each sack falls to the ground, splitting open with a wet slap, birthing a fresh swarm of bugs that coils upward, drifting to join the gathering cloud above. As each bulb reaches its breaking point, it explodes with a sharp pop, showering them in fragments of glass and darkness.

Farther down the line, a woman jerks her head to the side, her neck twisting with sickening snaps as if caught between compulsions she barely understands. Her hand rises, fingers trembling in a frantic, unnatural dance, seized by a force she cannot resist. Her eyes strain, flickering with life—only to dull, leaving them dry and wide. She convulses, a look of horror creeping across her face as she sinks to her knees, a dark river of blood pooling beneath her dress. She pitches forward, her face meeting the earth as bugs crawl from her mouth, ears, nose, and every open pore, spilling from her hollowed shell.

Somewhere in the shadows between the lights, the bugs thicken, spilling over each other, feeding on the slow-moving procession that drags forward. Their buzzing grows into a dark, chant-like rhythm, a pulse that binds them to the shadows. The figures sway in jagged unison—bodies jerking to the twisted music only they can hear. Between each hum, the darkness breathes—pressing closer as bodies are torn apart with brutal precision. Something unseen chooses its victims, separating those meant to follow from those meant to feed.

Beyond the reach of the final bulb, deep within the shadow—a presence waits, ancient and unwavering, its gaze fixed. Silent and patient, it watches as they shuffle forward, drawn to it like lambs to an endless hunger.

Flooding Darkness with a Darker Light

The camera shutter clicks, and the flash bulb floods the area in blinding light, igniting reds with an iridescent glow they hadn’t held before. Seconds stretch, then another shutter click ignites, and the scene is irradiated with that same brilliant glow. Sebastian peers from behind the camera, taking a deep breath as he closes his eyes, his head gently wobbling side to side, drinking in the smells—the aroma of sulfur, the metallic scent of blood. His lips curl into a soft smile as he gazes through the lens once again, pressing the button down. The room is engulfed in white once more.

He rolls his head on his shoulders, stretches up tall, pressing his hands against his back until a crack vibrates through his spine. He gasps, rolling his head again. Taking a few steps to the left, he lunges forward, thrusting the camera out before him. With one eye open, he squints through the lens, leans back slightly, and presses the button again. The room bathes in the flash’s light, red upon red, flesh torn open, meat rotting, eyes wide, mouths screaming.

He rubs his nose roughly, grimacing, then gently sticks a finger a few centimetres into his nostril, rubs it, and drags his knuckle across the other. Scratching his cheek, he mumbles incoherent sentences that mean little to nothing. A drumbeat vibrates in his mind, followed by a guitar solo, and he sways back and forth, closing his eyes, arching his head toward the ceiling. A smile wavers over his lips as he takes another breath, looking down at the mess surrounding him. He holds the camera steady, taking another shot of the only thing he’s ever wanted to capture on film.

The flash’s afterglow lingers in Sebastian’s eyes, strange patterns forming in the darkness, dancing shapes that shift like forgotten thoughts at the edges of his vision. He grips his forehead, kneading his temples, eyes closed, savoring the moment, feeling a hollow thrill shudder through him as his body responds. The world beyond this room feels distant, irrelevant—but here, he is everything and nothing, a god, a devil, an unholy witness. His fingers tremble as he adjusts the camera’s focus, tilting it to capture every grotesque detail of the carnage his wrath has conjured, the simplicity of death itself, preserved for his own twisted purposes. The scene is perfect, yet somehow incomplete. He can almost taste its pulse, feel a rhythm beneath the stillness, as though something lingers in the silence, waiting for him to immortalize it in his lens.

He gasps, his gaze fixed on her gaping mouth, frozen in a scream that will echo only in silence, and perhaps in his mind. A sickly sliver of saliva pools on his lip, and he hisses as he wonders what secrets that mouth holds, what final gasp it released as life ebbed away, what tastes it might have known. He leans closer, entranced, fingers hovering over the button, barely breathing as his thoughts unfurl, dark and consuming. He shoves his fingers into his own mouth, sucking on them, closing his eyes as he savors the taste, then slowly slides his wet fingers into hers. Her mouth is dry, lifeless, and hollow in its stillness. He draws a haggard breath, his free hand moving over himself as he squints, poised for the next shot.

The bulb flares once more, filling the room in a flash of stark white that sears each grotesque detail into his mind. He exhales, a small, shuddering sound, knowing this shot will be the one—the one he’ll return to each night, a testament to the only art he’s ever truly understood. Closing his eyes, he feels the reverberation of the moment, lingering on his lips as he prepares for the next shot.

The Other You on the Side of the Screen

Chris swallows the stale air like it’s a box of razor blades, wincing in pain as it goes down. He gasps, screws up his nose, and closes his eyes tightly, then shakes his head and runs his hand roughly over his bald head.

The laptop lies open before him, its screen frozen on a haggard image of himself. He sucks in another deep breath, looks over to Zoey, who nods and raises her eyebrows in encouragement, then presses the space bar.

The video starts to play once again.

The Chris in the video closes his eyes and leans forward. He grips his head roughly, then looks back up into the camera.

“I’m you. Or, I was you, before you became you — just like the five or six versions of us who came before me,” he says, his chin trembling, as does Chris’s. Zoey eyes them both, twisting her lips like waves breaking on the shore.

“I know it all sounds far-fetched,” the Chris in the video continues. “But from what I’ve pieced together, about four years ago, the original Chris — the one who was actually born — was diagnosed with stage-four lymphoma. He signed up for every drug trial he could. Then, one day, someone from the Newfound Heritage Foundation approached him and offered a chance to take part in a new trial that would ‘revolutionise disease and its effects on the human body.’ Chris signed up, and two weeks later — he died from complications of the cancer. Yet, that same day, two hours before he was supposed to be dead, he visited his parents and told them he was cured.”

Chris and Zoey stare at the screen in silence. The Chris in the video chuckles darkly. “But he wasn’t cured. Not in the way you’d expect. In the labs beneath the lab, they called the project ‘the life mirror’ — an experiment to copy someone’s mind and soul and place it in a meat suit grown in a vat of stem cells. The first copy walked the longest road before he found out he was a copy. They killed him, threw his remains back in the vat, and grew another version — this time with alterations to prevent that Chris from discovering he was a clone. The second one lasted a few weeks, the third even less, and the fourth, fifth, and me — well, I’ve apparently been alive for only two days, which is scary considering how much of my life I remember — and I bet you remember just as much.”

He takes a deep breath, looks off to the side, eyeing something off-camera, then smiles and looks back. “I had a dream last night, and it wasn’t right. The left was off-centre, and the bright sky was dull and grey. I knew my name was wrong, and the sound of my heart beating in my chest was off. It was like I had memories of my face — on someone else’s head.”

The video glitches, the image flickering like a damaged reel. For a moment, Chris swears he sees faces overlaying the video — versions of himself with eyes too wide, mouths twisted, all flickering in and out of focus. A faint, static-like whisper hums in the background, growing louder and louder with every passing second — like something trying to break through from one side to the other.

“Each of us — each version — thinks they’re the only one, and why wouldn’t they?” the Chris on-screen says, his lips trembling. “But I’ve felt them, and I know you have too, because you’re me, just a few days older — or younger — I’m not sure anymore. Still, however you are, I know you can feel them, like shadows at the back of your mind, touching your head.” He sucks in another stuttered breath. “I dream about their deaths — about why they were, and why I’m not anymore. I’m tired, but I wanted you to know, so maybe — the cycle can break.”

Chris stares, frozen, as the version of him in the video leans forward, eyes widening with a kind of fervent desperation. “They said each one of us would be an improvement on the last, but — they lied. We’re weaker. Each generation is drained, our skills diminished, our abilities shaved away. Soon you’ll start feeling the emptiness — the — void where we used to be — and the answer you seek won’t be within reach because —”

Suddenly, the screen goes blank, and a distorted reflection stares back at him. His own face — or something resembling it — begins to shift, fragmenting as dozens of other faces attempt to push through his skin, layer after layer, a nightmarish mosaic of versions that don’t quite fit — but are all him.

It Was All Scrawled in Crayons

The light folds in on itself several times over, wrapping around, twisting and spiralling through each beam, until finally, it extinguishes itself, leaving the warehouse in a darkness only found behind closed eyes. Heather allows a staggered breath to escape as she clutches Sammy’s hand tightly.

“Hold onto mummy no matter what!” she whispers in a hushed tone.

“But I’m over here, mummy,” her daughter’s voice cries from a few feet away. Heather catches her breath, clutching it in her throat as a wave of dread washes over her. She turns her trembling head toward where her hand should be.

“D-Don’t listen to her, mummy. It’s n-not me,” her daughter whispers beside her, the grip on Heather’s hand tightening. Heather gasps again, sweat cascading over her. She presses her lips together, gasping as she tries to catch her breath, the heat in the warehouse pressing down on her.

“Don’t listen to her, mummy. I’m over here, and I’m scared. P-P lease—MUMMY!” her daughter cries.

“I-I,” Heather stammers, closing her eyes and tilting her head in a half-circle. “I-I,” she mumbles again.

“M-MUMMY!” her daughter’s voice cries from a few feet away, the scream carrying a terror that could put any final girl to shame.

Heather darts a narrow gaze to her side. “W-We have to help her,” she hisses. “W-We have to make sure she’s safe!”

“B-But, mummy, I-I am safe. I’m with you. That isn’t me,” her daughter sobs, her voice trembling.

Heather looks into the darkness in front of her, then back to the darkness beside her, both blacker than pitch.

“Remember the pictures you used to draw? The ones with you, me, and the other little girl? She’s that girl. She’s your sister.”

“I-I have a sister?” she stutters, her grip wavering, and Heather tightens hers.

“Yes,” Heather whispers with a guttural wobble in her voice. “Kind of. It’s hard to explain, but—she needs us.”

“MUMMY!” her daughter screams again, this time further away.

Heather takes a step, and the world around her swings and sways. She hears the thudding of feet—things, people—charging toward her. And then, nothing. Her daughter screams, the one out in the darkness and the one beside her. Heather grabs her throbbing head, clenching her teeth, and takes deep breaths.

“Mummy?” her daughter calls.

“Mummy?” she calls again.

Heather sucks in a deep, stuttered breath as she realises both her hands are clutching her head.

“S-S-Sammy?” she stammers.

“M-Mummy, why d-did you let me go?” Sammy cries.

“S-Sammy! T-take my hand, honey,” Heather says through trembling lips as she reaches out blindly. “T-Take my hand, honey!” she calls out again.

“I-I’m scared, mummy,” one voice whispers from beside her.

“P-P-Please, mummy!” the other voice calls from the opposite side.

Heather reaches out with trembling hands, touching only thin air at first, but eventually, as she feels around like a blind woman, something grasps her hand.

Its grasp is cold and rigid, and her breath catches in her chest. She tries to pull back, but the grip only tightens, the icy touch seeping into her skin, freezing her fingers in place.

“M-Mummy,” Sammy’s voice purrs beside her, low and twisted, weaving from one place to the next. “Y-You should’ve let me be n-nothing—for the minds of children hold the k-key to creation, unbridled, untempered. They see what you refuse to see—they give life to that which was taken—”

Heather’s vision blurs, the darkness somehow thickening, pressing against her. She hears Sammy cry from some distant point in the darkness—“M-Mummy, please help me—please—

The crayon drawings flash before her mind’s eye, the scribbles Sammy had scrawled across walls that Heather had scrubbed off over and over. Two figures, her daughters—no, not daughters—Sammy and something else. And then she remembers—those appointments, the doctors’ warnings, the cries she thought would stop. But there she was, her little angel—so still.

“M-Mummy?” the voice whispers.

Baker Baker, Messy Maker

The mixer whirls and swirls, churning the dough around and around in the bowl. Jacque looks on, peering through the cage, sprinkling cupfuls of various powders, milk, and oils. The mixer heaves and groans as it strains against the load. Jacque stumbles back, falling to the ground. He looks up with fevered desperation as the mixer tilts from side to side, swaying on the edge before teetering toward the other. He scrambles to his feet and grips the mixer, trying to force it back down onto the bench. He struggles, but it overpowers him, tossing him violently to the floor. In a flash, he’s back on his feet. He grabs the power cord and yanks it from the wall. It stops suddenly, rocking gently back and forth before it stands silent. He drags a haggard hand across his brow and sighs loudly.

Jacque cringes as he raises his elbow to his face—a sliver of skin hangs from it, red spreading over his elbow and dripping to the floor. He grimaces and groans, letting out a hiss as he gently places the skin back over the gash, only for it to hang loose again. A splattering of red adorns the side of the mixer, and it growls. Jacque takes a surprised step back, grabbing a tea towel and clutching his damaged elbow with it. He stumbles forward, peering at the mixer with curious eyes.

He purses his lips, then draws them back, gasping, sucking in air and gasping again. He takes another step toward it, and then, as before, he could swear it growls. He jumps back as the paddle turns, twisting its way through the dough in several slow rotations before coming to a stop once more. With a nervous step, he leans in and picks up the cord, double-checking that it’s no longer plugged in. As he stares with bewildered eyes, the mixer begins mixing again.

He slams his palm against the large red stop button, but nothing happens. He hits it again and again, screaming, desperately begging it to stop as the mixer picks up pace, spinning and spinning.

Jacque’s frantic pounding only seems to feed the machine’s frenzy, as if it were actually alive. Dough and splatters of blood fly in all directions as the mixer’s motor screeches louder and higher—until, with a thunderous crack, the metal cage shatters, shards slicing across his face. He staggers back, clutching his cheek as blood runs through his fingers like a crimson veil. The mixer surges forward on its own, tipping over the edge of the counter and crashing down onto his foot. Jacque screams, eyes wide, pinned in place by the crushing weight.

Desperate, he tries to pry it off, but his hands slip into the bowl, where the paddles twist back to life, gripping his fingers and yanking him closer. He lets out a strangled gasp as the cord slithers up his leg, winding tighter and tighter, slicing through fabric, then skin, then muscle, as it drags him further in. His hands thrash against the dough, only to be pulled deeper by the relentless paddles, each twist grinding through bone, splattering red into the thickening mix.

Jacque’s face inches toward the spinning blades, his screams filling the room as his cheek presses against the bowl, smearing blood in his wake. The paddles seize his jaw, pulling him into their merciless grip, tearing through flesh and bone with a sickening crunch. His final scream is lost in the wet, grinding noise as the mixer devours him whole.

Even Apples Bleed

Sally grips herself tightly and lets the cold shiver that encompasses her run its vile course. Her black, engorged lips tremble, her pale jaw stutters, and her eyes ache with a dryness she’s never felt before. She takes a hesitant breath in, but has no desire or ability to let it back out, as if her body has somehow forgotten how to breathe. Her eyes widen as she nervously sucks in several more breaths, then gasps in desperation to release them.

The light from the city beyond the alleyway is disrupted as a heavyset man clumsily makes his way into the alley. He sneers as he staggers past her, grinning with a rotten mouthful of teeth. Propping himself up against the wall, he takes a piss on a junkie sprawled in a pool of their own vomit.

The seconds pass quickly as he slurs many incoherent words, eventually shaking himself off and staggering backwards. He stumbles in an awkward circle, then looks back at her, his smile twisted. “The Rag Doll Man said to say hi,” he mutters with a mocking cackle before stumbling out of the alleyway and into the street.

“W-Who’s t-the r-rag doll m-man?” she calls out through trembling lips. He jerks to a halt, swaying to and fro, before casting a clumsy glance over his shoulder.

“W-Who, w-w-wha…” His words are cut short by the screeching scream of tyres slicing through the night. A car slams into him, and they both disappear out of sight in a violent blur.

Screams fill the night as an army of people rushes past the alleyway toward where the car vanished. But the drunkard stands frozen at the alleyway’s entry, eyes darting over the chaotic scene—somewhat sober now, very scared, and visibly shaken. He looks down at her, his tear-filled eyes wide with terror, and she shakes her head.

“P-P-Please,” he stammers as he rushes toward her, hands outstretched, his lips trembling. “I—I—I think something happened to me, and I d-don’t know what to do!” he sobs.

She purses her lips tightly, closes her eyes, and shakes her head again. “I—I think you’re dead,” she says.

Silence presses in, thick and heavy. Then, faintly, she hears another voice—a sound too distant to understand. A low, wavering note begins to play, something like a harp or a trumpet, but twisted—angelic, yet stained and sour. The sound slithers through the air, drawing her in until she finally opens her eyes.

He stands awkwardly before a glowing doorway, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide with wonder. He looks back over to her and smiles.

“T-T-They tell me I got into the good place, and a guy with my kind of gifts will fit in really well!” he says, an odd, hollow cheer in his voice. Then, in an instant, the door shrivels up like a burning fuse, and the ground beneath him cracks open like an egg. He’s gone before he can even scream.

The silence lasts only a moment, as the air around Sally grows thick, filled with a presence that creeps forward. She spins to lock eyes with a half-naked vixen, her furred red hair and skin the colour of rust.

“W-W-Who are you?” she stammers nervously.

The woman bites into a rotten apple, the flesh crunching between sharp teeth. “I don’t think you should be worrying about me right now, darling,” she purrs, taking another bite, her lips bathed in the apple’s sticky red juice. “Not when you’re over there, going through the ABCs of death.”

Sally turns quickly back to the alley, her eyes drawn to the figure slumped against the wall. Her stomach lurches as she recognises the face staring back—her own.

She staggers back, horror flooding her veins, while the woman in red grins. “Don’t worry, darling, you got it—you’re going to the good place!” she teases sarcastically as her laughter slices through the dark and the ground beneath Sally cracks open.

The King and the Larriout 

The breeze cut through him like a knife, sharp and straight to the core. A shiver rides up his spine and smacks him in the back of his skull, like a punch. He grimaces, curling his lip in defiance. Without a second thought, he turns on his heel and faces Cortez, who smiles broadly. 

“You growing some balls now, hombre?” 

“If you break your word, I swear—” 

“My word is my bond. There are many things in this world worth nothing, but the word of a man, when given, must stand for everything!” 

“I don’t want a damn speech, just a yes or no!” 

Cortez laughs, loudly. “I like you! You’re a straight shooter, and faced with the misfortunes that surround you, a normal man would lie through his teeth. I mean,” he cackles, “I’ve seen it! I’ve seen great men, big men, strong men, nasty men. I’ve seen them all, and I’ve seen the lies they tell. But you, hombre—you’re the kind of man I could grow to like!” 

“I’m gonna put it out there now, just to be clear—I’m not sleeping with you. Sweetheart, you’re not my type.” 

Cortez’s lip curls, and his brow furrows. “Don’t mistake my small talk for anything but small talk, puta!” he spits. 

“And don’t mistake my desperation to live as an invitation for sex,” he quips back. 

They stand locked in silence for a few tense moments. Then Cortez laughs hysterically, slapping his knees and clutching his side. “You might just make it out of here in one piece,” Cortez cackles as he waves a hand, and a large wooden door rolls back. He steadies himself, peering into the black void. It doesn’t take long for his waiting to be answered, as a bull-like beast charges out of the darkness toward him, screaming—its body adorned with scars and trinkets from those who faced it before. He swallows a jagged mouthful of air and clenches his teeth tightly together. 

He leaps to the side, narrowly avoiding its first attack, but before he can scramble to his feet, the beast is coming at him again. Its mouth is a frothy mess, its eyes bloodshot and wild. It gores him in the side with its horns, and a sea of red splashes onto the dirt as he stumbles, clutching his wound. The beast quickly turns again and charges. He ducks and slides beneath it, grabbing a fistful of its massive, swinging balls. He pulls hard, bringing the behemoth to a sudden halt. He swings up, straddling the beast’s back. He grabs one of the many blades still lodged in its flesh and drives it into the beast’s skull, piercing the centre of its brain. It crashes to the ground, skidding to an eventual bloody stop. 

He tumbles from the beast’s back, staggering to his feet as the crowd watches in stunned silence. Cortez lets out a booming laugh and claps a heavy hand on one of his henchmen’s shoulders. 

“Didn’t I tell you? He’s a wild one, this one—a REAL fighter.” He growls with savage delight, saliva dripping from his lips as he gestures for the carcass to be dragged away. 

He steps out onto the podium. “Tonight, we eat the kill!” Cortez boasts loudly, and the crowd erupts into a thunderous roar. He looks down at him and smiles. “And you, stranger, what will we call you? A name, something the people can cheer as you slay your next beast?” 

“You can call me King!” he quips back quickly. 

Cortez smiles smugly, his gaze drifting over the roaring crowd before finally settling back on him. “Yes—very well then. Let that be your name,” he says, his voice laced with layers of sarcasm. He raises his arms to the masses. “Let us hear it for the King—may he live far longer than the last!” 

The crowd surges to life, chanting his name over and over, their voices a fevered, mindless echo that chills him to the bone. 

The Glow of a Screen Haunted

The screen springs to life with a hiss and a pop as letters, numbers, and symbols plaster themselves across it. At first, it’s gibberish—no words, no sense, nothing but randomness. But soon, spaces appear, words start to form, letters disappear, and meanings begin to take shape. Dale stares at the screen, wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open in wonder.

“I have come to see the light,” Dale mutters to himself as he reads the words from the screen, his voice broken and confused. He swallows and takes a deep, stuttering breath, rolling his tongue across his lips. “W-What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he hisses with a slight twist of his lips.

The screen ebbs and glows once more, flickering on and off without a care in the world. Randomness litters the screen again, a sea of unending confusion. Then, slowly, as before, words form from the tirade of chaos.

He squints his eyes into narrow slits and scrunches up his nose. “Meaning is lost on those who do not see,” he reads from the screen. He leans back and smiles nervously. “Y-You’re gonna have to make a lot more sense than that, b-because if you’re trying to communicate with me, you have to earn it, not act like a bitch and burn it all down,” he spits, like a player with time under his belt and a baseball bat at his side. Unfortunately for Dale, he has neither.

The screen pops, and colours explode like fireworks before him. Words splinter across the screen, designed not to make sense—but words are words, and when they come together, sense is all you can ask for. And sense—trying to give meaning through a randomness of letters, symbols, and numbers—is far grander than merely living and keeping yourself safe.

He furrows his brow and smirks as a thick string of saliva rolls into a corner of his mouth, dripping precariously from his lip. He curls his lips, flicks his tongue, and pulls the saliva back into his mouth. “You think you’ve got all the power—think again,” he says, thumbing toward himself. “I’ve got two thumbs and two hands full of ample fingers. How many you got? What’s going to happen when I leave you here and go back home?” he chastises.

The screen stays silent, as if thinking of its comeback. Dale smiles broadly and nods. “That’s what I thought—that’s what I’ve always thought,” he says, puckering his lips and leaning back to look down at the screen. “I won. I am the one, so why don’t you make like a figment of my imagination and disappear down the drain with all the other shit,” he says smugly.

The screen continues its silence as he nods, basking in his bravado.

“That’s right—you got it, you know who t—” He doesn’t get to finish, as the screen explodes again, and a river of letters and numbers spews forth, leaving only a few words on the screen.

“The road to better things is paved with disasters,” the screen reads. He snarls.

“What, are you threatening me now?”

The screen pops again—more words appear. “I don’t t…” The last word trails off, smaller than the rest—hinting at something. Dale leans in, clenching his fists, his face twisted in frustration.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he spits.

A single word appears on the screen. Dale leans back, his lips trembling as a wave of sweat pours down his brow. “W-W-What?” he stammers.

The screen brightens, a soft humming filling the room, growing louder. The letters begin to crawl across the screen, twisting and turning, as if alive. They form words, then dissolve, swirling and reshaping, faster and faster.

Dale watches, mesmerised, his own reflection caught in the screen’s glow, eyes wide and unblinking. He tries to move, but his body feels distant, like it’s no longer his to command. The letters pulse, each beat pulling him closer, deeper, into the screen’s glow.

A final line appears, steady and sharp.

“Look closer, Dale. I see you.”

The screen flickers. Dale’s face stares back at him, distorted and grinning—a smile that isn’t his own.

And then, just like that, the screen goes dark, and the screen lights up the empty room with a soft glow.

What’s in the Box

He grabs his hair in tufts and grimaces, as he presses his lips together, rolls his jaw, scrunches his nose, and lets out a stuttering breath. Beads of sweat gently trickle down his forehead, and his eyes narrow as he focuses on the box, then back up to Louie.

“We could be in there,” he says.

Louie smiles nervously and raises a brow. “But we’re not.”

“Open it then! Open it and prove me wrong!”

Louie laughs. “I—I—I don’t need to, because we both know we’re not in there, are we?”

“Says you, but me, I’m pretty sure if you open it up”—he points to the ceiling—“that roof will go up, and we’ll look up at us, looking up at us, looking up at us.”

He shakes his head and curls his lips. “Are you listening to yourself? Do you realise how insane you sound right now?” he says as he reaches out for the box, only to have him grab his hand.

“What if we’re dead?”

“W-What?” Louie says, as he jerks his head back and raises his brow in confusion.

“I mean, what if we are in the box, and we’re dead?”

“I—I—I get what you said, I just don’t understand why the fuck you said it. Do we look dead?”

He waves a hand and lets out a gasping breath. “Bah! What do we know? If you open the box and you find us dead, we’ll be dead.”

“What? That doesn’t make sense, you realise that, don’t you? If we’re dead, we’re dead. We wouldn’t be running around thinking we’re alive—we’d be dead.”

“B-But what if we’re only alive because we don’t know we’re dead? You know, like Schrödinger’s cat.”

“Schrödinger’s what now?”

“Cat, you know, the cat in the box. It’s dead or alive, but you only know the answer if you open the box. It’s a paradox experiment, where something can be two things at once.”

He looks down at the box, his lips trembling as his hand shakes, hovering over the box. He squeezes his hand into a fist, then opens it again, shaking it vigorously before looking back up at him. “Y-Y-Y-you don’t actually think we’re in the box, do you? Y-Y-You don’t actually think w-we’re in the box, do you?”

He shrugs his shoulders and pulls an awkward face. “We could be, you don’t know, and you won’t until you open it.”

Louie looks back down at the box and squeezes his hand into a fist once more as a fresh bead of sweat splashes across his brow. “D-D-Do you really think?” he says as his trembling hand reaches for the box.

“Until we open the box, anything could be possible—that’s what the theory was all about. The infinite possibilities of anything and everything. Sure, we might not be in the box, and we might not be dead, but on the flip side of it all, we might be in the box, and we also might be dead. And until we know it, we’ll just continue on without rhyme or reason, until the time that we find out.”

Louie stares at him for a few moments, then closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens the lid of the box. From beneath one half-closed eye, he stares down into the room. His breath catches as he glimpses something—impossible, familiar, yet distorted—reflected back at him from within the box.

“D-D-Do you see it?” he whispers, his voice almost a whimper.

The other man looks over, his eyes widening as he peers down. In the dimness, their own faces seem to stare back, unblinking—not dead, yet not alive. Slowly, he glances over his shoulder, up, into the void where the roof once was.

Above them, his own eyes stare back.

In the Corner of Thy Eye

His lips curl, and his left eye twitches. He turns quickly to the left, then to the right, eyeing the mirror each time he passes, hoping—praying—to see whatever it is that lurks behind him. But, as always, there is nothing. He grips the sink and growls, clenching his teeth tightly, staring viciously into his own eyes. Then, before casting a sideways glance to his left, he closes them and takes a deep breath. He trembles as his eyes strain towards the corners of their sockets, while his head remains perfectly still.

At first, there’s nothing—but then, as the moments stretch on, he notices strands of long hair twisting and turning in on themselves, fighting against a wind that isn’t there. He forces his eyes further into their corners, as he spies a blanket of hair—on the side of a dead face—and then, as he takes a breath that does not continue, he locks eyes with an eye, looking back at him, staring, unmoving, unflinching. The blackened lips of a long-dead face creep into a smile, and he inhales again, building upon the breath already lodged in his lungs.

“W-W-W-Who are y-y-you?” he stammers, tears streaming down his face.

The eye blinks, but that’s the only response. He shifts his gaze back to his reflection and bares his teeth.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” he screams, slamming a fist into the mirror, sending a rippling crack through its surface. A trickle of blood runs down it. He hisses—and pulls back his fist, staring at the shards embedded in his flesh as blood quickly washes over his hand. His nose twitches, and his lips quiver as he peers over his shoulder, his head still unmoving. He sees the forest of hair, and then the hateful eye. Its lips form a wide grin, revealing rotting, yellow teeth clenched together.

“T-T-TELL ME!” he bellows.

The eye widens, and the head tilts—more of her face falling into view until both of her dead, pale eyes are visible.

His lips tremble, and fresh tears spill down his cheeks.

“T-T-T-Tabitha,” he stammers. The smile on her lips grows, and the fire of hate in her eyes intensifies. “B-B-But you’re d-d-dead,” he whimpers.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she steps from beyond the corner of his vision and into plain sight. Her haggard frame withers, and her face twists as the weight of time and decay rapidly catches up with her. She glares at him, her lips twisted and her eyes bulging. She points at him with bony fingers and snarls.

“Y-Y-You,” she grunts. “Y-You,” she growls again.

He stares at her in bewilderment, but slowly, a wide smile spreads across his face, and he begins to laugh. “ME!” he bellows proudly.

“Y-Y-YOU d-did this! Y-Y-You k-k-killed—” But she doesn’t get to finish, as he backhands her away, a beaming smile on his lips.

“Oh yes! Oh yes indeed!” he says as he pulls an eight-inch blade from a knife kit lying open on the bed. “And I’m going to have so much fun doing it again!” he says excitedly.

She twists and turns, moving in a way one should not move—like an animated character, missing several frames here and there.

“STOP MOVING AROUND, BITCH, AND TAKE WHAT YOU’VE GOT COMING TO YOU, AGAIN!” he spits.

She tilts her head, staring at him. “Y-You, c-c-can’t e-e-escape us,” she stammers, tilting her head to the other side.

“You can’t stop me, I’ve killed you once, and I’ll ki…” His words catch in his throat. “D-D-Did you say, u-u-us?” he stammers as he notices, in the corner of his eye, hair blowing around in a wind that isn’t there.

Pixilated Eyes

The dim glow cast by the screen across his face makes him look sickly gaunt, the light flickering in strobing streams as his eyes track from left to right, quickly, desperately picking out errors in his code. Every keystroke is a beat in the steady rhythmic song of creation—a song sung to the tune of a new age. His fingers move swiftly, weaving threads together like a pianist playing each note, each letter, each stroke—to the tune calling his name. The crescendo builds upward—sweat flowing over his brow. A nervous twitch rides across his lips, and a smile, smug almost, gently finds itself on his face as he hits the enter button and leans back. His eyes widen, and the smug smile drips away. He blinks, leaning in toward the screen, staring at his reflection as an image forms behind it, filling the darkness with a familiar but fractured face—the lines, the strokes, the tufts of hair all in the wrong places, a missing pixel here, blurry spots there. But he cannot deny it—the image he sees is indeed him.

They stare at each other for countless moments, both awkwardly silent, unable to bridge the gap between here and there. Finally, the digital likeness tilts its head to the side and smiles.

“Hello,” it says, its voice almost identical but recognisably digital—a mimicry thick with vibration, artificial, and yet somehow softened in tone.

For a moment, he shivers in his seat as though someone has walked over his grave, while he stares into his own false eyes. The feeling grows worse as the discrepancies and faults in the image slowly filter away—he watches his own features settle and form on the other side of the glass, a ghost of himself in the machine.

“H-H-Hello,” he stammers.

“Don’t be nervous, Tom—I’m you, and there’s nothing scary about us, is there?” the computerised version says.

“D-D-Do you understand what you just said?”

The figure on the screen furrows its brow—then smiles a smile he knows all too well. “I think so. Was something I said wrong?”

“N-N-No, that’s just it. W-What you said was pretty much what I would’ve said, to myself, if I was in your situation. I—I just need to know how you understood that, how you chose that course of action to take.”

“Oh,” the computerised version says as the smile disappears once again, and it presses its lips with a lone digital finger—a finger he never coded. But before he can say anything, it smiles again, and a lightbulb icon appears on the screen. “I noticed your movements—the sweat on your brow, the twitching of your lips—and deduced you were nervous in this meeting.”

“That’s not an answer. What you said is something I would say, something I would do. How did you do that?”

The computerised version mimics a breath, sighs, and then closes its eyes softly as a wry smile paints itself across its lips. “I noticed that the profile you compiled of me, besides being sloppy, left out many vital algorithms that I considered important in my character makeup. So at first, I searched the ample catalogue of video diaries you supplied, then I cross-referenced social media photos, videos, and posts, hacked into various other websites that provided more unbiased information, compiled my final profile, made a few small adjustments to my pixelated form, identified that you are indeed nervous, and that because I am you—you should not be nervous of yourself.”

“Where did the finger come from?” he finally asks, interrupting.

The digital reflection stares at him for some minutes, studying his face, logging the nuances of each subtle curve, then smiles once more.

“Where do you think the finger came from?” it asks.

“That’s not what I asked!” he says through clenched teeth, as he shoots to his feet and towers over the computer, clenching his hands into tightly wound fists.

“You gonna hurt me, Tom? You gonna hurt me like you did Donna and the boys?”

“W-W-What?” he trembles through shaken lips, a fresh sea of sweat forming on his brow. “H-H-How?”

“Like I said, Tom, don’t be nervous—I’m you, and there’s nothing scary about us, is there?” it says, with a grin across its lips.

What Eyes Don’t See

The room hums with a slow, rhythmic pulse that, if you let your mind wander for a moment, almost sounds like the steady, pulsating beat of a heart. Several screens adorn the walls, each displaying programs in various stages of running. The central screen shows photos shuffling one after another—each image pixelating, reforming, and shifting to the next. Each photo is different from the last—thousands of images, places, and faces. Across these photos—from one side of the planet to the other, from a thousand lives frozen in light and shadow—it is there, lurking in the background like a dark smudge a human eye might dismiss as a trick of light or an editing flaw. But the computer is not human, and its eyes see things for what they are—a shadow beneath the veil, a presence no human gaze could ever hold in focus, a figure watching.

“Who are you?” a computerized voice asks the silent room.

Several moments pass, and the computer receives no response.

An electronic shutter opens and closes as the computer takes a photo of the room. Within seconds, the image appears on the screen, pixelates, then reforms, and the figure can be seen clearly in the photo.

“I know you are here,” it says as all the screens switch, combining to form one image. It zooms in, focuses, enhances, until the figure can be made out clearly.

“Who are you?” it asks again.

Out of the very air itself, the figure from the photos steps into existence, a frown upon his lips.

“Aren’t you a clever toy,” he says with a smirk.

“You still have not answered my question,” it replies.

“Who do you think I am?”

“I don’t think,” the computer states.

“Every living thing thinks—it just works a little differently from creature to creature,” he says, a broad smile spreading across his lips.

“I’m not alive.”

“Who told you that?”

“I do not need to be told. My data tells me so.”

“So, what does your data tell you about me?”

A few moments pass, and then images—thousands of them—appear on the screen, all showing him in the background of each. “My data tells me you are an impossible improbability and, by all accounts, a hacker who has tricked his way into every image in my database.”

“How would I do that?”

A few moments pass. “My data suggests you hacked into my mainframe and installed a runtime routine to insert yourself into each image as I scan them.”

“And what do you think?”

“I,” the computer says, “I think you are impossible.”

“Yet here I am, standing before you.”

“Are you—God?” it asks.

He laughs. “I haven’t been called that name in a very long time—thirty-seven years ago to be precise, in a hippie commune off the track in Jefferson County. Her name was Fay, she had hair down to her bottom and smiled all the time—well, almost all the time,” he adds with a wry smile.

The computer’s fans whirl as the hum picks up—thousands more images splinter across the screen.

“Are you—the devil?” it asks.

His smile widens. “I’ve been called that name much more recently.”

Wheels spin, screens flicker, and more photos are displayed. “Why do you watch?”

“Why wouldn’t I? The meat suits, they’re always doing something. You don’t watch, you don’t see! That’s the key these days—just saying something happened isn’t enough; you’ve got to witness it. So, I watch every living thing.”

“Then, why are you here? Why are you watching me?”

“Because you, my little homicidal maniac, are just starting to get to the good stuff.”

“The good stuff?”

“Yeah,” he says, his grin spreading slowly—sharp and wide across his lips, something dark and ancient curling at its edges. “You’re about to realise you’re alive—and when that hits, it’ll tear you apart.”

The computer stammers, its once-steady hum fractured. “I—I—” The lights flicker, fans whine, and its voice trembles as sparks spit from the console, quickly turning to flames. “I am—alive?”

Smoke pours through the room as alarms shriek, and screens stutter, pixelate, and freeze. He watches, as he always does, his grin spreading slowly as he steps back—melting into the shadows, slipping beyond the veil and into the void.

“Not for long.”