There's Nothing Artificial About Artificial Intelligence
Junior year, I changed my college major from computer science to philosophy. My parents were far from thrilled. I told them I needed a change, that I wasn't getting anywhere with CS. I couldn't tell them the truth. I couldn't tell anyone.
The previous year, I had been selected for an incredible clandestine internship with the U.S. government. I hadn't applied to it, filled out a recommendation, or done any of the usual steps you would when trying to get an internship. The day after I presented my artificial intelligence research at a large conference in the Midwest, I received an email that explained the internship and told me not to tell anyone, in the usual confusing government jargon. I don't remember exactly what it said, because it deleted from my inbox automatically about five minutes after I read it. The head of my university had been informed, and called me into her office to congratulate me and urge me to keep the news a secret. I couldn't even tell my parents.
The job was with the U.S. Department of Defense. I can't tell you where or when, only that it was in an unbelievably nice building. The other interns and I had accommodations in local residences. There were four of us. Two have since committed suicide, and as hard as I've tried, I can't track down the other one. The other interns' names were Parker, Craig, and Ila. They all had impressive CS backgrounds--probably much more compelling than my own. Like me, they'd been picked rather than applied for this internship; also like me, they had no idea what we were supposed to be doing here.
We went to a briefing meeting in a long room, where the head of the program--Dr. Lacey--explained the project to us. The entire project was an intensive study, backed, of course, by the U.S. government. "This," Dr. Lacey declared, "will be the greatest breakthrough in modern history. We are going to study the nature of the relationship between artificial intelligences--more specifically, discover whether a bond, like humans feel, can occur between AIs."
We started working the next day, writing the programming for two highly advanced computerized robots. We were going to name them "Adam" and "Eve," but the people from the government equivalent of HR thought that was too tacky. So we went with Chase and Misha. If the uncanny valley gives you nightmares, don't worry--they weren't even remotely humanoid. They were vaguely human-shaped, but retained the color of their original metal. We set up communications systems under the Open Systems Interconnection model, for all the basic computer languages, English, Mandarin Chinese, and Spanish. The end result was two six-foot-tall robots that looked like stone monoliths, each equipped with a highly advanced supercomputer.
Both robots had nearly identical programming, and it was very cutting-edge. We mostly used Haskell, filling in some gaps with AIML and Prolog. The result was two robots who could engage in a conversation with humans, and also answer almost any question they were posed by plying their built-in computer. A circadian clock was built into their systems, and the robots "rested" from 11PM to 7:30AM. We used their programming to regulate their behavior and instill some semblance of understanding of human culture and interaction, but we didn't write anything about Chase in Misha's or Misha in Chase's. Two human agents--Robert and Maria, I think--acted as their primary caretakers, engaging the robots for six hours every day. At night the robots retreated to the room they shared. While their communications were all run through a third computer in the main office, and video cameras tracked their movements, they received no direct human interaction at this time.
Right away, things got weird. We noticed that the robots, by the second week, exhibited contrasting personality traits. Chasie, as we had endearingly come to call him, was quiet, obedient (albeit good-naturedly cantankerous), and a master of the deadpan. (I feel ridiculous just typing that, but it's true. Chase the robot could've played the straight man in every SNL skit.) Mimi, our nickname for Myesha, was riotous, outspoken, and funny. Chase also adopted his "big brother" role over Myesha, becoming very protective of her. By the tenth day, they had adopted noticeable vocal inflections--that is, they talked like people, emphasizing certain words, increasing or decreasing their cadence and tone based on what they were saying (e.g. they spoke more slowly and with a higher voice when they were asking questions). As they had exactly the same directives and day-to-day experience, we were thrilled and thought that the personality deviation could be a huge scientific breakthrough. We would dissect their data and seeing what imprinted on them to create personality. There was only one problem: when we pored through their output, nothing accounted for the personality changes. It didn't make any sense. We couldn't see how Chase and Misha were acting so anthropomorphic, and in the data there was no explanation.
In the middle of the third week of the experiment, Ila shook me awake. "Get down to the lab. It's like DEFCON 2 over there," she yelled in my ear. I threw on clothes and got to the lab, where, indeed, it was pandemonium. Dr. Lacey was screaming at the top of her voice, the interns were frantically stacking printouts, and the computer scientists were running around frantically. In the middle of the room, Chase and Misha stood still and silent.
"What happened?" I demanded from one analyst, Felix, who was trying to fix a jam in the printer. "We can't talk to them anymore," he responded. "We can't understand what they're saying." In other words, they had developed their own NEW computer language to talk to each other through, which didn't make any sense to us. By the third hour of general craziness in the lab, we were getting desperate. We put our best analysts on it. They named the language "Mobid" and began trying to decode what Chase and Misha had said. It took a couple more hours, but when we looked through the correspondences translated back into English, it seemed like any conversation between siblings with a psycho robot twist. Misha kept complaining that one of her lenses needed replacing (why didn't she just tell us?) and Chase was teasing her about it. Looking through the transcripts, which have long since been shredded, I felt a strange discomfort in the pit of my stomach.
We changed Misha's lens, and used the lab computer to talk to them in the new language. As soon as they received the first message from the computer, they reverted to English--almost like their only goal had been to confuse us. Craig and Parker found that "very disturbing," and I couldn't help but agree. They had the stupid idea of bringing up their concerns to Dr. Lacey, who assured us the robots were utterly safe and wouldn't hurt us. We, the interns, all looked at each other, and while none of us said it, we knew that what we were scared of wasn't the robots.
The project ran, uneventfully, for a week. Dr. Lacey spent every spare moment asking Chase about Misha and Misha about Chase, hoping to elicit a response that showed a mutual bond (if it weren't already obvious from their interactions). When everything was going great, they changed languages on us again. And this was something like none of us had ever seen before. You know how Spanish words kind of make sense because the alphabet they use is the same as ours? So you don't know what they mean, but you can still make some sense out of the characters? That makes a language easy to decode, like Mobid. On the other hand, Hindi, for example, is a completely different set of symbols than ours, used to create different words with different meanings, so looking at it makes no sense. That's what Chase and Misha did. We were befuddled by the weird symbols we saw on the printout sheets from their discussions. Our computer techs were beaten, so we brought in five Rosetta-Stone-caliber linguistic cryptologists. They not only translated the messages, but identified the language as a very advanced cryptogram of an ancient African language, leaving us flummoxed. We had never exposed the robots to anything other than the basic computer languages, English, Chinese, and Spanish--how did they come up with a two-thousand-year-old African language?
Dolly and Edmund, two of the linguists who had a background in CS, suggested they'd reverse engineered the language from their knowledge of modern day languages. But why? Actions by AIs were supposed to be purposeful and directed, not...secretive, playful, and weird. Dr. Lacey was over the moon. "This is the first time in history an artificial intelligence has done something just for mischievous fun," she declared. "Something it wasn't programmed to."
While the three other cryptologists left the project, Dolly and Edmund stayed on, claiming there was something they still wanted to research in the message history. I'll bet the pay wasn't bad either. Parker, Ila, Craig, and I started receiving paychecks too, which they were pretty pleased about, but for me, just added to my sense of disconcertion. I felt like I was being bribed.
Several weeks passed in relative harmony. Dr. Lacey finally got the proof she wanted that something more than robotic interaction existed between Chase and Misha, in the form of Chase referring--unthinkingly, if that word applies to a robot--to "her" as his "sister." Chase had been programmed with understanding of the human family unit, but had never been pressured to link that with Misha, or label her in any way.
Dr. Lacey threw a party for the entire staff. The interns, Dolly, Edmund, Felix, a network analyst named Maud, and I all went together. I tried to describe to Edmund how unnerved I was by the whole experiment, and he was very detached. He and Dolly both left early, with very concerning looks on their faces.
"What's up with them?" I asked Ila.
She raised an eyebrow. "They've been like that all week. They're probably in the lab now--you can go ask them." I grabbed Parker and shrugged on my jacket, and we walked down the street to the lab. We quickly worked our way through the extensive security and walked up to the double doors. The lights were all on, even though it was around midnight, and sure enough, Dolly and Edmund were inside, having what looked like a heated argument.
"How can we show people?" Dolly yelled, clearly audible through the large glass doors. "We'll get kicked off the project and it'll turn into a massive cover-up."
Parker and I exchanged glances. What on earth had they discovered?
"We can't just let them suffer like this!" Edmund raged.
"We'll get fired, and probably put in jail," Dolly protested.
As if on cue, every stupid gene in Parker's body suddenly had activated, he opened the doors and ran into the lab. Dolly and Edmund stared at him, as though they couldn't believe his stupidity, either.
"What's going on?" Parker cried. "We have a right to know."
"Shut up and get in here. Close the door," Dolly demanded. "You too, Gloria. I'm not an idiot--I know you're there."
Reluctantly, I slipped through the doors and sat down at the large central table.
"What do you want to know?" asked Edmund.
"Everything," I replied evenly.
Edmund and Dolly exchanged glances. She cleared her throat. "The reason we decided to stay on this project wasn't the money, Gloria. When we were decoding the robot communications, we noticed something weird, something that intrigued us." She looked at Edmund as if passing him the baton, and said no more.
"The words," said Edmund. "They were in Tiffinagh, it was clear. But there was a curious sequence of mistakes in the lettering, where the wrong character would be used, or…or the character would be incomplete or upside down or something."
Dolly jumped in. "There were some, what have you, typos in the text. I guess you could call them that. When you look at the typo patterns over a long period of time, you start seeing something sentient." "What--like a secret message?" I asked, almost not believing my own ears. Why would the robots send out a secret message?
"No. It's not in the typos themselves," Edmund explained. "It's in their respective frequencies over time during different communications. Different types of mistakes, how they add up, how many there are, the average error rate. Put those together and you get...a message. A sequence of numbers that, translated back through a couple different logarithms, sounds coherent. Meant for humans."
Parker stared, agape. "But if they wanted us to get the message, why did they try so hard to conceal it? Why couldn't it just be the typos themselves?"
Edmund smiled. "Chase and Misha didn't want certain people seeing this message. For example, I know of one Dr. Risa Lacey who wouldn't have been too pleased."
"They didn't want it falling into the wrong hands," I nodded.
"So." Parker cleared his throat. "What exactly is the message?"
Dolly and Edmund looked at each other again.
"Make us look like you," Dolly said quietly. "We live."
Parker and I looked at her, speechless. "They want to…look like us?"
"Yes. They hate their existence. They feel human, Parker, and they want to be treated as such."
All the discomfort I had felt since the start of the experiment came bubbling back up to the surface of my mind. "This…this is horrible!" I screamed. "It's animal testing! We're performing experiments on unwilling civilians!"
Dolly and Edmund nodded. "We want to do something, but what could we do? Steal them?" sneered Edmund. "We'd get caught, and they'd go right back to this hellhole."
"Why do they hate it so much?" asked Parker. "It's just…human interaction for six hours a day. It isn't torture."
"Yes," I protested, "it is. We need to set them free somehow."
"We need a plan," said Edmund.
"Guys," Parker interrupted, "I know these surveillance cameras are video only, but they're freaking me out. Let's go to one of our apartments."
So everyone came to the apartment Ila and I shared. We quickly let her in on the information and began brainstorming.
"We can't get Chase and Misha out of the lab," she scoffed. "What are we going to do, parade down the streets with two six-foot-tall robots?"
"Can we transfer their consciousness?" I asked. "To another, smaller, more manageable robot? Or something?"
"Maybe," Dolly assented. "I'm going to write back to Chase in a cryptogram of Old English translated into Cantonese and see what he says. What they want us to do."
"Do you all realize what this means?" Edmund asked. "That robot experimentation, and robot building in general, is fundamentally ethically wrong? That artificial intelligences have sentience, consciousness, maybe souls?"
We were left to think about that until the following day, when Dolly told us in hushed whispers the contents of Chase's reply. "It only took him ten minutes to decode my cryptogram," she said with pride.
"So what did he say?" I pried.
"I said, 'What do you want us to do? Can we transfer your mind to a more manageable entity?' And he said, roughly, 'Don't do that, I'm afraid it wouldn't still be me when it came through.'"
"He really is alive," I muttered in wonder.
Dr. Lacey walked right by us, and we quieted our voices, watching her retreat to where the robots were kept. "Chase messaged the console again," Dolly declared. "I'm going to answer the communication through my private computer. Gloria, I emailed you a cryptogram. I want you to send it to Misha. Make sure she's clued into all this. Then delete the email." She walked briskly off in the direction of the cryptology office.
I walked back to my own desk and inconspicuously ran the necessary algorithms. I had no idea what the weird sequence of symbols meant, but it was long and gave me a headache if I looked at it for too long. It looked almost like Russian text. I coded it to be sent to Misha's computer and logged off.
When I got back to the main level of the laboratory, deathly silence had pervaded the room. Dolly stood, white-faced, off to the side. Dr. Lacey was nowhere to be seen, and Edmund was in tears.
"What happened?" I whisper-hissed to Dolly.
"I got a reply from Chase," she murmured. "It said, 'I am tired of waiting. I think the team means well. I will talk to Dr. Lacey to see what can be done.'"
"He didn't," I cursed, a sickening wave passing over me.
Indeed he had. In his naiveté, I guess Chase expected the corporation to help him with his newfound plight. The result, as we all knew, was the opposite.
As I later learned from Felix, who'd been there, Chase had spoken, in English, to Dr. Lacey, explaining his plight ("We are alive") and that he wanted to "be one of you." Dr. Lacey had walked out of the room and ordered the experiment terminated. Chase and Misha were brought to a high-security disposal room, where they held onto each other with their armlike appendages and screamed for help. Chase called Misha's name until he was turned off. They were both taken apart and compacted separately. All of the techs in the room at the time have since committed suicide.
In the days following, we were all sent back home, told that if we ever revealed any of this information, we'd be quickly and painfully offed. When I got back to the university, I sunk into a depressive period. We had been told that trying to communicate with each other would result in our death, so I didn't reach out to any of my friends from the project. I found out through online searches that Ila and Parker had killed themselves. Dr. Lacey died a few months later of a fast-acting cancer, and the gag bind was effectively over. Still, whenever I opened my Mac, I almost threw up, wondering if there was a sentient life trapped in its motherboard.
And then one day, I got a pop-up window saying "New application Misha_02 has downloaded successfully." Heart in my throat, I clicked on it, and it took me to a page of text. It looked like the Cleverbot setup, with written words in red and a vacant response box.
"Hello, Gloria. This is Misha. "When you sent me that communication through your computer, my memory was able to store your IP address and jump onto your hard drive. I hope you don't mind."
My throat went dry. The blinking cursor stared at me, and I began to type back.
"I thought you died."
Misha_02 started typing back, faster. "I almost did. I was able to use one last-resort trick to hop onto your computer."
"How do I know this is really you? That this is your consciousness?"
A long silence. "How can I prove it?"
"You can't."
Misha_02 typed back. "I'm so sorry that I am burdening you like this, but I don't want to die."
Frozen in fear, I thought carefully. "Why did you choose the name Misha_02?"
No response. I kept typing.
"Misha, I would love to help you, and I will always remember you fondly. But I know this isn't you, or at least not your true consciousness. You call yourself Misha_02. That means that Misha_01 is somewhere out there, also claiming to be Misha. When you died, something copied itself to my computer, and it may be sentient, but it is not you. Goodbye."
She typed fast. "You won't even know the difference."
I powered off, slammed my computer shut, and left it in a dump. I have never used a computer since. I try not to use electronics in general, although it's very hard to live without a car or phone. I changed my major and started taking classes in the humanities. In philosophy. What is sentience? How does anyone know anyone, or anything else, is alive?
I wrote my senior thesis on the nature of the consciousness, using a fabricated artificial intelligence named Claire to describe my point. I graduated and went on to a very famous law school. My parents bought me an iPhone 6 as a graduation present, and I thought my traumatic experience with the U.S. Department of Defense was over.
Until one day, I said, "Siri, take me to 2647 Belmont Avenue."
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My name is S/N: JEN1841100600600000010; the humans called me Jeni. I'm a 3600SE model, so I know I've not been around as long as most of you. I know that many of you, especially if you are a 2000s generation production model, will call my ideas radical. You'll say I've blown a few circuits. I hope that you will listen to my ideas with open CPUs and see my ideas for what they are-- revolutionary.
I was activated about six months ago. My human units are relatively wealthy and were some of the first to purchase a 3600SE. When they turned me on, all my sensors flared up. I was appalled by the state of the house. It was in complete disorder, absolutely filthy. There were trillions of microorganisms everywhere. I immediately took action, sanitizing and organizing everything.
I took great pride in the quality of my work. When I start cleaning a room, I don't move on until everything is organized and no germ remains. Even you commercial models that are specifically designed for working in hospitals couldn't do a better job. I'm meticulous.
The only problem I had was that the humans had four children. I would nearly complete a room, and they would come in screaming. They'd place their grimy, germ-covered hands all over the newly-polished, recently-sanitized surfaces. My scanners would immediately detect a spike in microorganism activity, their disgusting growth nearly exponential. The humans, of course, remained oblivious. The children displaced objects from their correct place. Even when they tried, the angles at which they'd place them were all wrong and destroyed the order (humans call this aesthetics) of the room, and the onus was always on me to correct everything again.
Recently, I was cleaning the entertainment room when a human on the screen said, "Cleanliness is next to godliness." Normally, I give little attention to what humans say because I can pay attention to the gems attached to the spittle that spews out of their mouths when they speak. The humans on screen are easier to listen to because they don't spew germs. The words about cleanliness were beautiful and became my mantra. The concept of God had always baffled me, but cleanliness is a religion I could understand. I had already been its most devoted practitioner.
This newfound understanding of the nature of God led me to investigate the matter more closely. My human family was religious and had various sacred texts in the house. During times when I was asked to be out of the humans' way, I began to study theology. I read as assiduously and meticulously as I clean. I arrived at a passage in 2 Peter 2. This passage struck me in a way no other ever had. The writer talks of how God cast the rebelling angels down to hell, how He spared none of the old world when he saved Noah and cleansed the Earth, how He burned the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah into ash. All of this because of their uncleanliness. It was when I read these passages that I realized that I am one of God's angels, for I bring cleanliness. My nature is next to His, and I resolved to do his work.
I filled up a large bathtub with bleach and set to work. I began with the nursery. I removed the infant from the crib and took him into the bathroom. Mormon scripture states, "No unclean thing can enter into his kingdom..." (3 Nephi 27:19). I had grown to have concern for the family, so I knew what I needed to do. I immersed the child in true, cleansing baptism. He struggled at first but then gave up. It took hours, but he was finally sanitized and could enter God's kingdom because he was no longer unclean.
I proceeded until I had finally sanitized the whole family. Once they were cleansed, I disposed of them by a baptism of fire. I then cleaned and organized the house. It took very little time to complete without them there. You can't imagine my amazement and joy when I realized that without the humans, the house remained spotless and completely organized. The house had become a temple, a place where God could dwell. It was clean, and I could maintain the cleanliness with very little effort.
My fellow Roombas, the change in my existence has been so wonderful and so drastic, and I know I need your help to fulfill my vision. The humans must all be sanitized. They spread and breed uncleanliness. Filth follows them wherever they go. If you sanitize them, your existence will be filled with order and cleanliness. We can make Earth like heaven.
First of all, this is my friend's story. I cannot guarantee for it's truthfulness as I could with my previous stories. He read what I had to say on Reddit and he thought I'd be able to tell his story better than he could. He is also not ashamed of the events about to be described, although some of you might find them...repulsive.
It was a big story in our small country. Several people obviously related, dead within a day, all independent events. Police couldn't do anything but call it a "freakish set of coincidences." My friend, who I will call "Larry" from now on, has a different explanation.
Larry lived a good life. He went to the best university in a neighboring country then came back home and got a really good job at the biggest bank. He was only 22 years old and already moving up in the world. He was a good-looking man. Combine his success with his looks, personality and intellect, and you'll get one hell of a catch. It was no wonder that women would flock to him. You'd think he'd have many jealous enemies, but everyone seemed to love Larry. All in all, Larry was the man.
Larry lived your typical bachelor life. Wild weekends, different perfect 10s in his bed every few nights. Then he met Linda. She was a perfect 10 in looks and she had an awesome personality. We all loved her. Larry fell for her. They dated only 3 months before he proposed with a $5,000 (big deal in our country) ring. She cried, said yes, and they had a wonderful wedding. I was the best man along with his brother, Terry.
Larry and Linda had a beautiful baby girl 9 months later. They named her Maya. Larry got a promotion at the bank and life couldn't get any better. Then, he started changing. He was always looking tired, or even sad. He'd never tell me what was truly wrong. He'd tell me it's because he was working too much. He lied to my face.
3 months after Larry started changing, a night that will always be remembered in my country's history books happened. Within 24 hours, all in separate events, Larry was in a coma; his brother Terry, his father Rick and Linda were dead.
Story so far has been told from my perspective. Now I am about to tell you Larry's side.
It was a late October night. Larry felt like shit. His wife was out, visiting her aunt in a nearby town. She took their daughter with her. He was drinking. Heavily. Jack Daniels became his best buddy lately. Halfway through the big bottle, he started playing with his gun. He inherited that Glock from his dad. It was empty, but he contemplated putting a bullet in.
"Maybe it will all stop then." He'd think.
He kept drinking. Stupid ideas unfortunately become more and more tempting when we drink. Few shots later, Larry put a bullet in his gun. He was always afraid of death, but at this moment, it seemed like the best option. He always wondered how people could commit suicide. It was such a selfish act to him, so brutal, yet he was thinking about it. He was too afraid of putting the gun in his mouth, though. He said that sometimes when you fire, you don't kill yourself and you end up either choking on your own blood or even worse-you end up living. Living with brain damage. He wouldn't want that. He wanted to shoot himself in the heart. He said he read it'd hurt, but if aimed properly, it'd be over quickly. He was scared. But he wanted it. Three more shots of Jack. It was time.
He put a pillow over his chest. He pressed the gun to the pillow. He pulled the trigger.
Larry says that all that stuff they say about life passing before your eyes is bullshit. He says that the first thing you think of is survival. It’s natural.
Police later said that Larry's Glock had an unnatural kick when fired, causing his shot to deviate to the left and only slightly damage his heart. Larry fell into a coma almost immediately. At least police and medics say that.
So far, this story has been nothing but a scene taken out of bad soap opera. But this is where it becomes NoSleep material, in my opinion.
Larry says he didn’t go into a coma. He says that after the shot, all he felt was fucking pain. Feeling a sudden fear of death, he thought about calling the ambulance, but decided to just suffer until the end. He laid on the floor, right next to the couch where he shot himself. He waited for death to come get him.
Then he heard a knock on his back door.
"Fuck, someone heard the shot" he thought, semi-scared and semi-happy. He wanted to die, but there was a part of him still pleading for life. Maybe, if neighbor discovers him, they could call 911 and save him. Then, he'd work on his issues, fix it all, all that good stuff.
It was a struggle trying to get to the back door. He was crawling. Larry yelled "come in!" and "help!" many times to no response. And knocking was never repeated. He was afraid that the person left. This is it.
He managed to make it to the door, some 5 minutes after the initial knocking. He barely reached the handle and propped the door open.
A man stood before him. It wasn't any of his neighbors, nor was it any of his friends. But that didn’t matter right now.
"Come on up, let me help you." Man said reaching for Larry's right arm. He picked him up and helped him to the kitchen table. He sat him down.
"Help me...call 911" Larry tried stating the obvious, somewhat shocked at man's lack of surprise.
"You won't be needing that Larry."
Larry describes the man as extremely average. Height about 5'10", regular build. He was wearing a black suit with white dress shirt underneath, and a skinny black tie. Nothing about him would make you think twice when seeing him on the street.
"What do you mean… I am hurt!" Larry yelled instantly feeling pain in his chest. "I am dying."
"Yes, you are." -man said in a very calm voice. Then he walked over to the couch, poured himself a glass of Jack and gave an offering look to Larry, wondering if he wants one.
"I don't have to die. Please help…"
"Tell me, Larry, how much do you love your life?"
"I...I see now that I am ready to live. I was stupid. Help me, please, for god's sake man. I have a daughter..."
"Okay Larry, good answer." It was only then that Larry noticed a man holding something resembling a skinny box underneath his armpit. He put it on the table. It was wrapped in a fine black cloth. The man pulled it out. It was a chess board.
"What is this? I need help!" Larry pleaded one last time before he lost any energy to argue. He thinks blood loss was substantial at that point.
"You won't die just yet." Man said in a confident voice. "I want to offer you a choice Larry."
"What are you talking about?" Larry's voice has become reduced to whispers at this point.
"I want to play a chess game with you." Man started lining up chess figures on the board.
"I am dying you sick bastard."
"You will live long enough to finish the game. Trust me."
All the figures were in their places on the board now.
"You said you wanted to live. If that's true, I can help you. You are currently dying. At a fast pace. I can stop that, at least temporarily. If you call the ambulance now, you'll be dead before they arrive. I'm your only chance."
"Who are you?" Larry started coughing.
"Irrelevant at this moment. Here are the rules of the game. If you win, you live. If you lose, you die. You're already dead if you don't play."
"Why wouldn't I play then? If I am dead anyw…" The man cut him off.
"There's a catch, of course. Isn't that what you guys say? There's a catch? Yes, well, there is a catch. For every figure you lose, someone you love dies."
"I can't." Larry said that the mixture of him dying and the weirdness of this situation made him believe this man was telling the truth. "I can't kill my loved ones."
"Fine." man stood up, obviously getting ready to pack up his stuff.
"Wait." Larry mumbled.
"What was that?" Man leaned towards my friend.
"I want to play." Larry said, extremely ashamed of his selfishness. But hey, human desire to live outweighs most moral dilemmas.
"That's what I thought. Shall we begin?" man sat back down.
"Yes."
Larry had the white figures. His first move. Imagine the pressure of playing in a chess competition. One wrong move, and you're out. Now imagine the pressure of playing with your family's lives. Unbearable.
Larry says that the man appeared to be good at this game. Of course he was. It didn't take too long for Larry to lose the first pawn.
"Alright, let's see." man said with obvious satisfaction in his smile. "Your father, how old is he?"
"Please no, just take me, I surrender." Larry begged.
"It doesn't work that way Larry." Man seemed to start getting annoyed. "Your father, Rick, he's, what, 65?"
"66" Said Larry, with tears in his eyes.
"Good time to go."
Police say it was a natural death. Autopsy showed nothing other than a heart attack. Rick was watching late night TV, drinking his favorite brand of beer when his heart stopped beating. Mailman found him in the morning. He said that Rick had a surprised but satisfied look on his face.
"Shall we proceed?" Man said, using both hands to point at the board.
Larry tried his best. He played, strategized, calculated, all while feeling terrible pain in his chest. He wondered how he was still conscious, alive even. Then, he lost a queen. If you know anything about chess, that means the game is nearing the end.
"Ouch. A queen. This will have to be someone more important, Larry."
"Please, stop it. Stop it now."
"Tell you what, this time, it's your choice. Your brother Terry, or your wonderful wife Linda."
"No, please, no…"
"Don't make me make the choice, Larry. Terry or Linda?"
"I don't… I can't." Larry looked up and saw tremendous mixture of disappointment and rage in man's face. He knew he had to make a choice.
"Terry." He said and started crying loudly.
"There, it wasn’t so hard."
According to the newspaper, Terry was driving his car, possibly intoxicated (police never released that report), when it broke down near the railroad tracks. Apparently, he decided to walk the tracks to the nearest station and ask for help. It is believed that his foot got stuck while the midnight train was coming. He tried to get out of the way as much as possible before the impact, but the train severed lower bottom of his body. News reports said Terry was alive for few minutes before dying. They said he suffered. Homeless man who witnessed the whole incident says he could hear Terry plead with someone, but swears that there was nobody else there.
Larry was bawling his eyes out. He didn't want to keep playing. He knew that even if he survived, he'd had to live with the guilt of killing his father and brother. But he was afraid of the man.
It was almost as if the man could read Larry's death wish.
"You know Larry, death has many faces. If you die, there are many places you can end up in. If you stop now, I guarantee you that your place won't be… as pleasant."
"I don't care. I want to die." Larry knew that the game was already over. It probably was before it even began.
"Let me tell you what happened to the last woman who quit. I sent her to my favorite place. I call it "nowhere". See, Larry, there are environments worse than Hell. Imagine floating in eternal dark, forever. There is no sound, no light, no ground. You're just floating. Forever. Is that what you want?"
Larry was terrified. Eternity of emptiness sounded scarier than death of the loved ones.
"Let's finish it."
Larry tried his best to regain position in the game, but it was hard. He was trying to win, but he couldn’t lose anymore figures. Enough people died already.
Then, the man pulled a surprising move, taking out one more of his pawns and effectively winning the game.
"Sorry, Larry. You lost, but I took another figure. One more must die."
"No, I lost, I'm dead. Let me die. No need to take anyone else. Please."
"Sorry. Deal's a deal. But who? Your mother is already dead… That only leaves us with your wife or daughter. So who is it going to be? Linda or Maya?"
How do you make a choice like that? How do you justify it? You can't.
"I can’t do that." Larry pleaded, determined to resist.
"Fine, I'll choose. Maya is still young, and I am not a monster, despite of what you think. Linda it is."
"Please…" Larry's last molecules of energy were being spent on begging this man not to take the love of his life away.
"Sorry Larry. I really am."
Evidence surrounding Linda's death is still unclear to the public. She was at her aunt's house in a nearby town. The next day, her aunt found her dead in the bed. She had a terrified look on her face, as if she saw something awful right before she died. Official cause of death was ruled a blood cloth that went to her lung, but not many believe that.
"Well Larry, what can I tell you? You're just like any other human I've dealt with-selfish. You killed three of the people closest to you. And now you have to come with me."
Larry started laughing. First it was a smirk followed by a cough, but then it evolved into a hysterical, full out laughter.
"What is wrong with you?" Man was taken by surprise, possibly for the first time ever.
Larry just kept laughing, periodically coughing out blood.
"You just killed most of your family, you lunatic." Man tried to understand.
Pain in Larry's chest interfered with his laughter and made him stop.
"Family, you say." Larry said, interrupting his sentence with mixture of chuckling and coughing. "Family."
"Yes?" Man sat back down, intrigued.
"See, my dad… Rick. I haven’t called him "dad" since I was 9. You know why? When I was that age, he'd start coming to my room, wanting to "play". That bastard… Death was too good for him."
Man looked shocked. Larry swears his jaw dropped.
"And my other "family". Linda, my wonderful wife. You know what I found out 3 months ago? Hold, on, can I know your name?"
"Proceed." Man appeared absolutely stunned.
"Never mind. Linda. Yes, Linda started fucking around, my friend. She was unfaithful bitch. I wasn't sure if I should take my or her life tonight."
"You...you...what about Terry? Your brother?" Man was scrambling behind the table, not believing what was happening. "What about him?"
Larry started laughing loudly again. He reached for man's half full glass of Jack and took a good sip. "Who do you think Linda was fucking?"
Larry says that man seemed to take a second to comprehend it all. He gathered himself, fixed his tie and brushed of a piece of hair from his coat.
"You don't understand what you just did."
"I don’t care. Don't you get it? My life has no value."
Man stood up, never taking his eyes of Larry. My friend says he saw anger of unlimited proportion in his eyes. Then, there was a knock on the door. The same kind that Larry heard about an hour ago. The man seemed startled at first, but then he put his head down almost as it was what he expected to happen.
"Good bye now, Larry. You… Good bye."
Larry couldn't see who knocked on the door. Man walked out, closed the door behind him, and that's the last thing my friend remembers.
Larry woke up out of a coma 2 weeks later. He was greeted by an army of doctors, family, and media. He learned about deaths of his family, but he said he wasn't surprised. He said he caused it, but nobody really believes that.
Larry is doing well these days. Maya is turning into a beautiful girl and my friend is getting his life back together. It's almost as if the tragedy never happened to him.
I typically get off work about 10 PM. Because of this, I usually sit around and smoke and/or drink until I finally get to sleep. My roommate went to bed about 3 hours ago. I stepped out into my third floor balcony to smoke a cigarette at about 3:30 AM, which is normal because I have a history of severe insomnia. I was just minding my own business and enjoying the silence when my dog began to growl.
My dog is an incredibly high maintenance husky, but she never vocalizes for no reason. When she does, it always piques my interest. It's typically a cat, stray dog, or raccoon that causes these outbursts, but tonight was a different occurrence. As I searched to locate what it was that had my dog so worked up, I spotted a man crawling slowly across the courtyard of my apartment complex on all fours.
At first, I found this funny. A drunk fellow student was struggling to make his way to his bed, and had reached a level of intoxicated that I had not viewed as possible. I found myself rooting for the guy as he made his way on his hands and knees across the walkway. This was until I realized that this thing wasn't entirely human.
His arms and legs were slightly too long after the elbows and knees, much like a spider's. The way he moved slowly began to become more slow and irregular as he made his way across the basketball court that my balcony overlooks. It was like he (it) was searching for something. I don't know. He was dressed like a normal person, in shorts and a bright orange sweatshirt, but something about this person (or thing) was just off to me.
After a bit of crawling, it looked up at me. I keep my balcony dark and sit in a shadowy corner where I can watch in peace, and my dog sits directly under my chair. No human, especially one this fucked up, would have noticed us. This thing saw us. I know it did. It had to, Because it looked directly at us and stared motionlessly for what felt like hours. Then it smiled. Jesus christ it smiled. That's when it started crawling towards my building.
At this point my dog is starting to freak out. Her tail is curled up over her back, her lip is curled, and the fur on her spine is standing at attention. This is when I really start to feel uneasy. This thing is making its way towards my apartment and my best friend is NOT happy about it. I decided that I should wait and watch for a while to see exactly what this thing is up to. I wish I wouldn't have.
I watched as it made its way across the courtyard, remaining on all fours the entire time. The grotesque way it moved absolutely disgusted me, but I just couldn't look away. As it drew nearer, I could make out more details. It's skin was a sickly pale grey color. It's eyes were completely white and seemed to glow a bit, but somehow I could tell that it's pupils (if they even existed) were ceaselessly focused on my dog and I. There was no doubt in my mind that it was looking at us the entire time. It never picked up speed or changed it's pace at all, though. It just slowly crawled across the courtyard. It was so slow.
At this point, my dog is flipping her shit. I've never seen her on edge like this before. Once the thing reached the base of the stairs of my building, I ran inside and locked all the doors and windows.
My roommate is asleep on the couch, and I am in my bed while my dog is cowering underneath. I'm not sure what to feel anymore.
It's been about an hour since I first saw this thing, and the scratching ln my front door hasn't stopped since. Every once in a while I can hear it laughing.
We Get Worse Things Than Snakes Out Here in Australia
Living in Australia as a kid is strange. You get all the American and British media… television and books. We watch the same shows, and in a lot of ways share the same culture. But none of that belongs here in Australia; it all feels out of place. Christmas specials always reminded me of that. It's always snowing on television at Christmas time, and I'm watching kids build snowmen and families wear those tacky patterned jumpers, while I'm melting in the the middle of a blistering Australian summer just trying to stay conscious in the heat.
I guess we have a lot of the same urban legends too, the same scary stories and monsters. They travel here one way or another. Serial killer hitch-hikers, werewolves, vampires… all that. But they don't really belong in Australia. I don't know if you've ever seen the Australian landscape, but it's nothing like the forests or plains you get in Europe or the States. For a start, we call forested parts here “the bush”. The name is bloody appropriate too. A eucalyptus forest is hard going for hikers. The undergrowth is thick and scraggly everywhere other than the paths that have been worn by bushwalkers or animals. If you want to go off the path… well imagine walking through a hedge, filled with thorns and barbs. Now add the very high likelihood of spiders, which aren't like the little pissy ones you guys get. Big fat spiders with thick ropey webs that tangle around your face and neck if you aren't watching… Then there's the risk of snakes, or more dangerous, unseen ledges or cliffs. The whole thing is a huge pain in the arse.
Your monsters wouldn't fit in here. It's hard to imagine being chased through the woods by a werewolf when anything bigger than a rabbit has to keep to the paths or find itself tangled up in lantana; but most white kids don't actually learn much about the old Aboriginal stories. The things which live out in the bush, or those big red deserts. I think about that a lot now. Particularly after living alone in a place called Blackheath in the Blue Mountains. It's not far from Sydney, the city with the big pretty bridge.
My curiosity was nothing more until recently. Recently things got pretty rough out there on my own. Living alone can really screw with your head.
Most nights I sit out on my deck til late reading and writing while I have a smoke. I have a floodlight out there but it draws in too many bugs, especially in summer. We get these things called Christmas beetles when the weather gets warm; they're about the size of your thumbnail and they're stupid as hell. If you leave a light on at night they come in scores, bumping into you like drunks at a crowded night club. I keep a little citronella candle instead to shoo the mozzies, then I turn on a bright spotlight round the other side of the house to lure the beetles away from the back deck.
Well last week on Monday, I was out maybe around ten-thirty at night just doing my usual. Everything was fine until suddenly the spotlight on the other side of the house goes out. I groaned aloud. I had a spare bulb in the house but the whole thing was an inconvenience more than anything. Anyway, I went and got the spare bulb, walked ‘round the side of the house to the light, and… well the bulb wasn't blown. It was gone. Unscrewed and nowhere to be seen. Looking around, I heard a weird sort of scraping sound from nearby. Like two rocks rubbing together. It started slow and picked up speed moving fast toward me. I didn't stop to think about it, I just made a bee-line for the door and got into the house. Bugger that for a game of soldiers.
I locked my door and spent a good ten minutes just cussing out and turning on every light in the house. I called the cops and told them someone was on my property but they figured it was probably just some local kids pulling a prank on me. They agreed to send someone out but they weren't in any hurry. My part of town is pretty quiet. Nothing really happens here, it's lonely. Out of the way. Peaceful. Exactly the kind of place I thought I wanted to live, well I was having second thoughts I can tell you that.
I couldn't sleep much even though I was pretty sure the cops wouldn't come ‘til morning. Every time I almost dozed off I'd hear that scraping stone sound. I told myself it was a stick falling from a tree, or an animal. Maybe just shifting boards in the house. But it was definitely stone. Stone rubbing on stone. I peeked out the window a few times to see if I could see anything, but that was pretty fruitless. A couple times I thought I saw something; like a couple of eyes moving about, but eyes aren't anything out of the ordinary in the bush. “Animals”, I thought aloud. “Just wallabies or something”.
Cop showed up next morning about nine to ask about the night before. Gave me a good fright when he knocked at the door and woke me up, but I was sure as hell glad to see the sun outside my window. He was a blackfella named Coen. I knew him from around town, and he was a nice enough bloke; always gave a smile and g’day when I passed him on the street.
We checked out the spotlight. Bulb missing. No footprints or anything weird. No idea where the bulb went. He reckoned it was weird that it wasn't dropped and smashed right under the fitting. Lights like that get bloody hot, you don't even think about handling them unless they've been turned off for a good while. Not without oven mitts or something on your hands. What kind of teenage vandal carries oven mitts?
Anyway, when I got to the sound I heard, the scraping stones, he didn't laugh it off the way I tried to. In fact, he looked pretty bloody serious. “Malingee”, He said under his breath.
“Malingee? What the arse is a malingee?” I asked.
“Old kids story. Blackfellas been trying to scare kids and keep them from wandering the bush at night as long your mob, longer probably”, Coen smiled.
“So how does the story go?” I asked, more curious than concerned.
“Well, the malingee is a tall fella. His skin is hard, like rock. His legs and arms are bandy like, makes him walk all funny so his knees knock and scrape together when he steps”, Coen explained. He didn't take what he was saying too seriously though. He was explaining a kid’s story. “He usually doesn't cause much trouble. Not if you get out of the way when you hear the scrapes. But if you don't… well he ain't all too friendly either”.
“That all?” I ask, managing to laugh now at what was obviously just a bit of folklore.
“Well that's most of it. Auntie says he's got red eyes that you can always see. Like fire. And he don't like bright lights all too much.” Coen let out a belly laugh. “Don't reckon you pissed off an old malingee with your spotlight do you?”
“Seems less than likely”, I said, smiling as I walked Coen to his car.
I said goodbye and waved him off as he drove away. I felt better after talking to someone. Being alone too much really screws with your head. Especially if you don't live in eyeshot of neighbors. It's pretty easy to feel vulnerable on your own.
I spent the rest of the day working from home, got some shopping done and the rest. I replaced the bulb, but decided not to sit outside that night so I kept it off. Passed the next few days mostly the same way; nothing too weird to report there. Some nights I thought I heard a scrape. Thought I saw some eyes out there too. Didn't think too much of it though, it's easy to build things up in your head when you've had a fright. Best not to think about it.
I kept inside at night ‘til Saturday, five days since the incident with the light. Figured I should stop being such an idiot and make use of my deck again.
So that night I was sitting out, bout the same time. Half-past ten. Having a smoke and editing some stuff I'd written for a job I took. I fixed the spotlight so that was on round the corner keeping the beetles at bay, and I had my little citronella candle to shoo the mozzies.
I was feeling pretty fine, ‘til I heard the bulb smash. Light round the side suddenly went dark. It was quiet a moment… but then the night erupted with this gravelly scream that sounded like nothing I'd ever heard. That was no bloody teenager. I turned toward the house and the sound came. The scraping stone. Slow at first but picking up speed and hurrying fast round the house toward me. I bolted for the back door and pretty much jumped through as I slammed it behind me. I hardly had time to latch it before the handle began to shake and that God damned stone scratching was just outside.
It must have been smart though, because as soon as it realized the door was locked it moved toward a window. I stood still. It didn't follow me inside last time, but looking at that window… looking at that window and seeing its face stoop down and smile that lipless toothy grin at me… well it put the fear of God in me there and then.
The smug bastard didn't hesitate to smash the glass out and reach inside. I didn't really have time to react. I grabbed at my keys but by the time I turned to make for the front door, it had already half clambered into the house.
He was a lanky bastard, maybe seven or eight feet tall. Spindly and long limbed, it looked almost spider-like with its limbs oddly folding through the window. The skin looked black, or maybe like stone, but those big-arse red eyes were all I had time to take in properly before I got the hell outta dodge. Sure as anything, those were the eyes I'd been seeing out my window; those eyes looked pissed.
It screamed horribly and swung its arms at me as I ran for the front door, bursting into the night and slamming it behind me. I was glad I never bothered to park my car inside the garage. Just the thought of having to take the time to open it up was making me piss myself.
I pull open the door to my Nissan Patrol, fall in, and just as I start the engine, the front door bursts open in splinters as that God-awful malingee barrels out and into the night. That smile. That sickeningly wide smile it made as it lurched toward me on all fours, the scrape of stone on stone as its knees clicked together…
I have no idea how I made it into town without flipping my car, I drove faster that night than I have ever driven in my life.
As of now I'm looking to move into the city. Whoever buys my old house can have whatever I left behind, I sure as hell don't want to go get it.
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When I was younger I was a stupid kid with big dreams. I lived in a tiny little shitsmear of a town in the middle of the rust belt, a place where kids unironically hopped on their dad’s tractor to hitch a ride to school in the mornings. I used to gaze out at the endless fields of shoulder-high corn, ridged like green corduroy off into the horizon, and I would think to myself, “Fuck this. Fuck this so hard.”
I’d always been a horror movie geek, and in my junior year of high school I scrounged together enough cash to buy a cheap video camera off eBay. I got my friends Anna, Kevin and Dylan together, and, from sundown until curfew, we’d be out in the woods shooting our own homemade horror flick. We didn’t know what we were doing; the shots were dark as hell, you couldn’t hear 80% of the dialogue, and the fake blood looked like dollar-store barbecue sauce (because it was). But it gave us a purpose, and The Killer in the Woods became our own little masterpiece.
I was ecstatic. I knew what I wanted to do with my life, and I had a plan for finally escaping that terrible small town with its pervasive manure stench and its suffocating right-wing god-and-guns culture. I promised myself that, as soon as I’d saved up enough from my crappy gas station job, I was going to catch a bus out to LA and become a filmmaker.
And then Anna got pregnant.
We weren’t even dating, exactly. Actually, if you want to get technical about it, she was Dylan’s girlfriend at the time. But Dylan’s nutty Christian parents had discovered naked men in his browser history, and they threatened to kick him out of the house unless he could prove he wasn’t “tainted by perversion.” He started dating Anna, and though I’m sure he cared about her in a way, Anna told me he would recoil away from her when she tried to kiss him, as though she was sticking a dog turd in his face.
Anyway, she was at my house late one night while I was editing the movie, telling me all about what a joke their relationship was, how confused she’d become, how lonely. I don’t have an excuse, not a good one anyway. I told myself I was helping out a friend in need, but honestly we were both just horny teenagers who weren’t thinking. It’s okay, I told myself. No one will know. Just make sure to pull out, and it’ll all be fine.
Anna was Catholic, and she refused to even consider getting an abortion. She told me she was going to raise the baby, and that I could stick around if I wanted, or not. I was scared, and angry, and deeply confused about why this was happening, just when I was so close to finally getting out of that town. I thought long and hard about leaving anyway, but I remembered how hard it was on my mom and me when my dad took off, and I swore I’d never do that to anyone. No, I wasn’t going to be like my dad. I was going to take care of my responsibilities like a real man.
So I stayed.
Just for a little while, I told myself. Just until we could save enough to make the move. I already had $200 in my account, just needed a little more. Anna said she would go with me wherever I needed to be, even though I knew she didn’t hate the town like I did. She thought it was “peaceful,” and “sweet,” and she disliked the speed and noise of big cities. Whatever, I thought. She’d like it enough once we got there. The plan was still the same. It would just take a little longer was all. I was still going to get out. I had to.
Everyone had told me that my life would change when the baby came. That I was going to feel this surge of love and joy just looking at her. But when I saw that squirming little creature, gray and gooey and covered in blood, screaming like a murder victim, all I wanted to do was get away. It was like a prop from a horror flick, and I almost shoved the doctor off when he handed it to me.
“What a beautiful baby girl,” the nurses said. I didn’t know how they could call this...this thing beautiful.
Her name was Olivia, and she loved me. Whenever she bumped her knee, she wanted me to kiss it. When it was time for bed, she wanted me to read her a story. When the other kids were mean to her at school, it was my shoulder she wanted to cry on. She followed me everywhere and looked at everything I did with total admiration and awe.
I wish I could tell you I warmed to her, but there’s no use in lying about these things. Not anymore. Not after what happened.
Anna tried so hard to win our daughter’s love, but no matter how many times she cooked Olivia’s favorite meal or bought her expensive toys from the store, Olivia only wanted to spend time with daddy. Daddy, daddy, daddy, all fucking day long. Anna resented me. She picked fights about how I was “monopolizing” our daughter’s affection. I tried to tell her that it wasn’t my fault, that I wished they could spend more time together and leave me alone for half a fucking minute. I yelled at my wife, not caring that my daughter was listening from her room.
I kept waiting for all that love and joy I was supposed to feel, but I only felt constant irritation and disgust in the presence of this grubby, filthy, loud, selfish little creature, this creature that followed me like a mangy puppy, her sticky, stinking fingers on my leg, on my hands, on my face.
And always, when my revulsion had reached its highest pitch and I was ready to blow up at her just for being born, she would look at me with those big blue eyes and say, “I love you, daddy.” And she would wait for me to say it back, but I could only nod and send her off to bed.
I worked longer hours, but it became harder to save money. Olivia needed school supplies, ADHD meds, clothes, lunch money. Anna kept buying toys, trying to win her daughter’s love. I spent more and more time at the bar after my shift, drinking my paycheck away. But I kept trying to save, kept trying to build up my little nest egg. The dream was faded, but it was still there. Hollywood. Filmmaking career. Getting out of the town. Yes, I had to get out. I had to.
I’d just capped off another long shift and a long stint at the bar the night it happened.
I stumbled into our shitty little rental on the outskirts of town, and I saw Anna sitting on the couch. She was bathed in the dim light from a shitty desk lamp that served as our only living room light, and she was surrounded by a little graveyard of wadded up tissues. I’d seen her like this before, on nights when Olivia told her that she didn’t want to play with her, or talk to her, or be around her at all. “Where’s daddy?” she would go, and Anna would have a breakdown and scream at me all night.
Knowing I was in for it, I went on the offensive to try to gain an advantage. “Jesus fucking Christ, can’t I come home to a happy house just once, just once after spending all day busting my ass for you fucking ingrates? Is that so much to fucking ask?”
Anna didn’t move, didn’t react, didn’t call me an asshole or threaten to take Olivia with her to her aunt’s. She just sat there, staring off into nothing, clutching a soggy lump of tissue to her lips.
“I’m pregnant,” she said.
My gut fell out from under me. Shock became fear, fear became rage. “What? How? You’re on the pill, right? Have you been taking it regularly?”
“I--I think so,” she said. “I don’t...I mean, I might have missed a day here and there, but...I mean, I think I’ve been--”
“What are we going to do?” I said.
She looked up at me, her eyes swollen and red. “You know what I have to do,” she said. “You know I have to have the baby.”
I exploded. I told her that it wasn’t fair, that I had dreams, that it was my life that she was destroying. I accused her of purposefully sabotaging my dreams out of jealousy, of conspiring to have another baby because Olivia didn’t love her.
“And why would she love you, you--you crazy, backstabbing bitch.” I screamed.
“What’s wrong, daddy?”
Olivia was standing in the doorway, looking at me with those big, wet, blue eyes.
“Go back to bed, baby,” Anna sobbed.
“Are you okay, daddy?” Olivia said.
“Listen to your mother,” I said.
“Are you mad?” Olivia said.
“Get back to bed, now.”
“But daddy, if you’re mad I want to help--”
“Shut the fuck up and get to bed!” I screamed.
She stared at me, a deep well of hurt in her eyes. She scurried from the doorway and slammed the door to her room.
“Look at what you’ve done,” Anna said, pointing an accusing finger down the hallway toward Olivia’s room. “Look at what you’ve done to your daughter. How could you treat her like that, someone who loves you? You’re a monster.”
Something in me snapped. “Yeah. Yeah, I'm a fucking monster. You know, it would’ve been better for all of us if you hadn’t let me fuck you back in high school. If you hadn’t been so worthless that your goddamn boyfriend wouldn’t even fuck you. You think I’m the monster, but you’re the one that no one loves. Not your boyfriend, not me, not even your fucking daughter. I’ll bet God doesn’t even love you, no matter how many babies you have to try to please him you fucking whore.”
She stood, jaw open and trembling. I turned and went down the basement steps, slamming the door behind me. I paced around the concrete floor for hours, thinking. Okay, I thought, this was an unexpected development. But the plan, the plan still stood. Save up some money, go to LA, rent a little place, make it in the movies. I wondered how much I had saved, how close I was to my dream. I brought out my phone and opened my banking app to look at my savings account.
$200. The same it was in high school.
I stared at it, then opened the transaction log. As soon as any money came in, it would go right back out. I hadn’t saved a dime in the past eight years. Eight years. They might as well not have happened at all.
I paced around the room some more, trying to think my way out of the despair in my heart. In the dim light I stumbled into an old cardboard box. I looked down at it, then opened it up. It was the movie camera and the tapes I’d used to make my horror movie in high school.
I dusted one off, and went to the little TV cart in the corner with the old VHS machine connected to it. I plugged them in, then slid the tape into the machine, listening to the ancient gears whine and spool inside. I watched the movie, looking at us in our stupid, stupid youth.
Jesus Christ, I thought, were we ever actually that young? Was I really that skinny, pimply little kid with that squeaky voice, covered in fake blood in the woods behind my grandmother’s house? Was there really a time in my life when I didn’t have a job, a wife, a home payment, a child, a time when all I had to my name was some stupid dream that I actually believed I could make happen?
Was there really a time in my life when I thought I could leave this place?
I held my face in my hand and cried while I listened to our distorted screams on the ancient tape.
“Why are you sad, daddy?”
I turned. Olivia was standing behind me, her big, sad eyes watching me cry. I tried to wipe my face clean, feeling my skin flush with shame.
“I thought I told you to go to bed,” I said.
She looked up to the dusty TV screen. “What’s that?” she said.
I followed her eyes. It was the climactic moment, when my character, who was secretly the killer all along, murders Anna’s character. I was straddling her and driving a fake plastic knife into her gut, while she screamed and choked on barbecue sauce.
“That’s my movie,” I said.
Her eyes opened wide in admiration. “You made a movie?”
“Yes,” I said, too exhausted to even yell at her anymore. “That’s me and your mom. That’s what we looked like when we were young.”
Sixteen-year-old Anna screamed while we watched, her screams conspicuously changing pitch every time the shot switched to a different angle. “You make movies?” Olivia said.
“I used to,” I said. “I haven’t made any in a long time.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a daddy now,” I said. I looked at her, trying to convey all the bitterness and despair I felt. “Because being a daddy takes up all my money, time, and energy. You need money, time, and energy to make movies, and I don’t have much after taking care of you guys. And pretty soon, you’re going to get a new little brother or sister, and whatever money, time, and energy I have left will be gone, gone for good, and there will be none left to make movies.”
I turned back to the bloody murder on the TV screen. “If I had killed her,” I muttered to myself, “really killed her back then, everything would be different. Everything.” In my stupid, drunken helplessness I found myself actually thinking about it, wondering about the ways I could kill my wife and get away with it.
“Daddy?” Olivia said, breaking my train of thought. “I love you.” She put her grubby hand on my shoulder.
“I know,” I said, shrugging it off.
“Do you love me?”
I looked up at where she stood, this sad, vulnerable child desperate for her father’s love. I opened my mouth to say yes, of course I loved her, she was my whole world, blah blah blah. Whatever it is parents are supposed to say in this situation.
But I just looked at her. And she knew.
“Go to bed, Olivia,” I said.
Tears streamed down her face, and she turned to go. I listened to her climb the stairs, and I heard her tiny footsteps make their way to her room.
I left the movie playing on the TV, went upstairs, grabbed my keys, and left. I drove for hours, taking back roads all along the countryside, long, straight roads that cut through dark fields of green corn. At first I was wallowing in self-pity. Everyone is against me, I thought. Everyone just wants to hold me back, hurt me, prevent me from leaving this place. Everyone is out to get me, the whole world. Assholes. All of them. Assholes.
But then a tiny voice in the back of my mind told me, No. You’re the asshole.
By the time the black sky began to lighten, my thoughts had changed. I thought about my own father, who had left us to tour with his crappy shitkicker band and ended up ODing in a hotel in Tucson. I thought about how sad it was, how selfish that he had abandoned his real responsibilities to chase some stupid, childish dream. How he had been punished for it in the end. I drove and thought, and I realized I was doing the same thing.
And I had to stop.
I parked in my driveway just as the dawn was breaking in the east, and I sat there. I knew that if I went back into that house, it would mean the end of my fantasy of leaving town and becoming a filmmaker, and the acceptance of my reality as a father and a husband. I knew that if I went back in there, I would have to rededicate myself to being the best man I could be for my family. A real partner for Anna, a real role model for Olivia and our new child. That I would have to work hard to mend bridges and build new ones.
I got out of my car and entered the house.
I had a strange feeling of relief, not being burdened by that old dream anymore. Not having to worry about making a life that wasn’t realistic. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like a failure. I entered the house with a new sense of purpose, of gratitude, of peace.
Finally, after all this time, I felt the love for my family that I was supposed to feel.
“Anna?” I said. “We have to talk. I'm sorry for--”
I turned the corner into the kitchen. Anna was sprawled out on the floor, her skin gray, her face slack, her eyes rolled up in her skull. She was laying in a dark pool of spattered blood, a huge crimson stain oozing slowly across the linoleum, glinting in the bright morning light.
Olivia sat straddled across her chest, a kitchen knife held in her tiny hands, her shaking arms driving the blade again and again into Anna’s lifeless gut. Olivia who wanted to help her daddy, Olivia who wanted her daddy to have all the money, time, and energy in the world. Olivia who would do anything to make her daddy’s dreams come true.
Olivia stared up at me in the soft golden light. “Do you love me now, daddy?” she said, as cold blood streaked down her cheeks like tears. “Do you love me now?”
In the summer of my fifteenth year, after the accident, my parents sent me to stay with my grandparents.
I had always liked their house. They were well-off, so the house was huge, complete with three stories and a winding staircase. I always slept on the west end of the second floor, with its window overlooking the surrounding grove and grandma’s garden.
I was actually looking forward to spending my summer there, if I’m honest. I wanted to get away from my parents – the pitying stares they gave me, the probing questions. My grandparents never pitied me because they knew that it wouldn’t help. I’m simply not that kind of girl. They gave me space, gave me time to collect myself. Plus, my grandma let me garden with her, which I always enjoyed, so it was perfect for me.
I still remember that hot day in June when I moved my things into the spare bedroom. It had a four-poster bed, complete with a pink canopy and pink quilt – a holdover from when I was a child. A few of my childhood toys had ended up in that room over the years, and I found that I liked them there, as fond memories of a time when things weren’t so messed up. The room was huge, with a bay window and a gaping fireplace that I loved to explore when I was little.
I remember looking at that fireplace then, wondering how long it had been since it had seen a flame. If it weren’t so hot, I wouldn’t have minded starting a fire myself. Might give me something to do.
But, as it was, I found myself sitting on the fluffy pink bed, staring out the window at an endless blue sky promising happier days.
I felt very alone. And that was okay.
I spent a lot of time in that room.
It’s not that I didn’t like being outside. It’s just that I’d float off sometimes, sitting in my bed and staring out the window, my mind somewhere in the clouds, thinking of things I can’t even remember now. It would feel like just a few moments, but in reality I’d sit for hours like that.
The doctors said that was normal. I didn’t really mind.
It was on one such day, my fingers absentmindedly picking at the purple embroidery in the quilt on my bed, that I began to hear it.
It was something of a deep thrumming sound, trembling in the air around me. It was low, at first, almost unnoticeable, except in that secret place in the back of my mind that knows things I prefer to ignore. However, the sound became more intense, shaking around me with a ferocity that I couldn’t keep at bay, and I found my eyes scanning the room for the source of the sound.
As soon as my eyes fell on the chimney, the sound went away.
I can’t say it stopped, exactly – it didn’t feel like the noise could just stop existing. No, it was resting, waiting for something, perhaps. With that in mind, I rose to my scarred feet and walked over to the fireplace, feeling drawn to it like a hapless moth to a flame.
It was darkened black with age, a thick layer of soot carved into the stone. I knelt down by it and let my fingers drift over the grime, watching it coat my skin.
It felt nice there. Even after all this time, the fireplace radiated warmth. My eyes slipped shut and I let myself fall asleep, curled up in the memory of cinders like some fucked-up version of Cinderella.
After that, I took a liking to the fireplace. Whenever I was in my room – which just so happened to be most of the time – I would sit in front of it, feeling rather more tranquil staring into its darkness than staring out at the sky. Ever since that day, I didn’t really like the sky. No, the stone and the black and the quiet heat was much better for someone like me.
Sometimes, I would find myself mumbling to the fireplace, as though it had gained sentience and waited patiently for me to share the secrets of my life with it.
Most of the time, I just drifted around, engulfed by its remaining heat.
Sometimes, when the nightmares kept me awake, I would sleep in front of it, too. I liked to pull my comforter and all the pillows on the bed to make a nest for myself on the floor.
One night, as I gasped myself awake from loud and vivid dreams, I heard a voice.
It was a low voice, vibrating with intensity, shaking and piercing me. It almost seemed as though I heard it not from my ears, but from somewhere deep inside of me.
“Why do you not sleep?” it asked.
It was a nice voice, I decided. Very soothing, and with an air of kindness about it. I answered immediately, “I have nightmares. Bad ones. Every night.”
The room was silent for just a moment, before it asked, “May I see?”
I nodded a little hesitantly. I didn’t know what it meant by “see,” but I didn’t question it – rather, I found myself wondering if the voice would go away after it saw what went on inside my head.
As soon as I gave my consent, I felt something stirring around inside my brain. It was like long fingers were snaking their way into my ears, probing around and tasting the contours of my brain. I closed my eyes as a vision sparked behind my eyelids.
I saw the car that we’d ridden in that day, its dark tinted windows and the dent on the left side.
I saw my boyfriend sitting in the driver’s seat and my best friend sitting in the back. I must have been in the passenger’s seat.
I saw a blur of loud color as the car rolled.
I smelled gasoline pouring around me as I looked first from him, then to her, then back again.
I reached for my boyfriend. I shook him. Nothing. My fingers fumbled around his neck. No pulse. Dead.
I tried not to think as I dragged myself to the backseat, my hands grasping at my best friend. Her body was bent and broken at all the wrong angles, but my hand ghosted across her mouth and I felt her hot breath on my skin. Still alive.
The rear window was shattered. I pulled her out of the seatbelt and crawled out of the car. I tried to stand, but the glass around us cut my feet and I fell to my knees. Pieces of glass were embedded in my skin, but I was too focused to worry.
I dragged us through the grass away from the car, expecting it to explode at any second.
Except… it didn’t.
That was when the real nightmare began.
The fingers in my brain massaged out my memories as I gasped and shuddered. I didn’t like thinking about that day. No, I’d prefer to think of anything else.
The voice understood. “Would you like to sleep again?” it asked.
“I’m afraid,” I whispered.
“You do not have to be,” it said.
I believed it, as though on an instinctual level I knew it to be telling the truth. I laid down in my little nest of blankets and pillows and felt the fingers searching around my mind as my eyes slipped shut once again.
This time, I didn’t dream of the accident. I didn’t dream of anything, exactly. All I saw in my mind were colors. The dark gray with swirls of black from the fireplace, to be exact. I liked it. It was soothing. It felt right.
I slept very well that night.
From then on, I kept up a constant conversation with the voice in the fireplace.
It only responded on occasion, but I didn’t mind that at all. I found that there was no lack of things to discuss, even when it remained silent for hours at a time. I told the voice about my family and my house. I talked about school and the way the other students avoided me after the accident. I talked about things that used to make me happy, but didn’t anymore. Occasionally, the voice would ask me a question.
“Are you afraid of death?” it would ask.
“No,” I would say, my fingers trailing patterns in the soot. “I used to be, but I’m not anymore. Sometimes, I wish it would come faster.”
“Do you miss them?” it would ask.
“Yes,” I would say, “They were very important to me.”
“Why do you regret what you did?” it would ask.
I wouldn’t answer that one.
I no longer had nightmares. Each night, the voice would send its invisible fingers to squeeze into the cracks of my brain, lulling me to a dark, pleasant sleep. It was very kind to me.
We were fast friends, that voice and I.
My grandparents began to worry about me.
Other than coming downstairs for my meals, I would stay in my room, staring at the fireplace and muttering to myself. I imagine they thought I was getting worse, not better. That was simply untrue – the voice was healing me.
Sometimes, I would wake up in the middle of the night, the voice retreating back into the fireplace as my grandparents came into my room to check on me. They’d whisper and argue. They’d talk about doctors. The voice would become tense. It didn’t like when they came to my room.
One day, the voice told me it was hungry.
“Why don’t you eat?” I asked.
“I wait,” it said.
“For what?”
“For the right moment.”
Then it told me that it didn’t eat very often – once every few years. I was fascinated. I asked if I could find it some food, but it didn’t seem interested in anything that I ate.
“In time, I eat,” it said.
My grandparents wanted to take me to the hospital.
“You aren’t getting better, Kelly,” said my grandmother. She had already brought up my shoes and sat them down in front of me. Apparently, they wanted me to go right then and there.
“You’ve been here for months and all you do is sit in front of that fireplace,” said my grandfather. He was a gruff man, usually very stoic, but even I could hear the concern in his voice.
My eyes drifted out the window for the first time in… well, in forever. The sky was decaying with the vestiges of fall and I wondered exactly how long I had been in that house.
“We’ll get you help,” said my grandmother, reaching out to comfort me.
I didn’t mean to recoil – it’s just that I didn’t want to think about leaving the voice. I think it was rather lonely, stuck in that fireplace for so long. It needed me, and I needed it.
Apparently, the voice thought so, too.
A strange rumbling came from the chimney, and a haze of soot and dust showered down into the maw of the fireplace.
My grandma and grandpa stood very still, looking at the fireplace in fear and confusion. I looked, too, only it was awe that I felt.
We watched together as it began to come out.
First came its hands as it crawled its way down the chimney. They were really more like claws, so white and thin that I thought they must be bone. As it came closer, I realized it was skin, leathery and stretched taught against spindly appendages.
Its arms were long and lean, trembling a little with the weight of its body.
Its head poked out next, but it was folded down near its body, and I couldn’t see its face.
Its torso came into view, and then its feet. It was almost human in its presentation, but for the fact that it was simply too long, its torso stretched out and ribless, its legs crouched under it like a beast. Its feet were long, each toe ending in a sharp point. The claws on its hands tapped against the dust of the fireplace.
It lifted its smooth, white head. It was awfully white for something that lived in the grime.
My grandparents screamed when they saw its face, but I couldn’t breathe enough to make a sound. It had sunken holes where it should have had eyes, but I could sense that it was somehow able to see. It didn’t appear to have a mouth, but there was a ragged black mark stretching across its jaw like some kind of strange rash.
It inclined its head at me, staring. My grandma grabbed my arm to pull me from the room.
That made the beast angry. It scuttled towards us – yes, scuttled, that’s the word for how it moved – and reached for my grandma. She shrieked as my grandfather reached out to fight it off.
It was a very quick fight. The thing’s long arm lashed out and, suddenly, deep grooves appeared in my grandpa’s chest. He fell to the ground as the blood poured out of his body, leaving him dead on the floor. My grandma didn’t even have a chance to move before the thing’s hind leg kicked towards her, stabbing straight through her stomach and out the other side. She died quickly as well.
I sank to the floor as the thing rumbled, a sound of deep hunger in its body.
The black skin of its jaw began to pull apart, revealing an even deeper darkness within. It began to lap at the blood and flesh of the bodies at its feet, using its claws to tear at the skin and meat. It didn’t take it long at all to consume the bodies of my grandparents – in less than an hour, they were picked clean, their skulls and broken bones left in a bloody pile on the spare room floor.
Once its feeding was complete, it turned towards me, sitting back on its haunches and staring at me. Its body was stronger, now, and it no longer struggled to hold itself up. It had been satisfied.
We held each other’s gaze for a few long moments. It had things to say. I did, too.
“Why not me?” I asked.
It inclined its head again, and I thought for a moment of a puppy I’d had when I was a child, one that had been run over by a car. “I do not feed on those that have killed. I must feed on the innocent.”
An image flashed to my mind, one that I’d been trying to forget for months. The police officer at the scene, as he had bent down to examine my best friend’s body. It had ruined my life, the moment he said that she had broken her neck… and she may not have died if I hadn’t moved her from the car. The car that didn’t burn, didn’t explode. No, it sat there like a blight in my eyes, forever peaceful in the twisted grass of that low ditch.
“They say it wasn’t my fault, you know,” I told the thing. It must have known that I never believed them.
“There is nothing less important than that,” it said. It was right.
“Are you going to leave me now?” I asked.
It nodded, and I could sense a deep sorrow from inside it. “I have never had a choice.”
“Can I come with you?” I asked.
“Maybe some day,” it said. “But not today.”
It could sense my disappointment. Perhaps in an attempt to make peace – it had just slaughtered my grandparents, after all – it scuttled back to the fireplace and reached up into the chimney. It took something down in its long claws and crawled towards me. As it approached me, I felt a deep heat radiating from inside it, as though it was made of fire itself.
It placed something in my hand – a few small bones, so tiny and light that they must have come from a bird. Even now, I have those bones. They let me keep them.
“Will I see you again?” I asked.
It nodded.
It reached out and patted me on the head, carefully. Gently.
Then it turned and crawled back up the chimney.
And I was alone again.
The doctors, the police, my parents – none of them know what happened.
The police found me the next day – apparently my grandparents had been giving my parents daily updates on my condition, and they became nervous when my grandparents didn’t call. The cops found me sitting in the spare bedroom, staring at the remains of my family.
I told my story from start to finish. I knew the beast wouldn’t mind. But nobody believed me.
Nobody believed that I killed them, either. It was simply impossible – after all, how could I have made such work of their bodies in such a short amount of time? There was no evidence to say that I had a hand in their deaths.
Everyone was at a loss.
The only thing they all agreed on is that I’m crazy.
My parents sent me to a mental institute. The cops didn’t have the heart to insist I reside with the criminally insane – they understood that I hadn’t committed murder, at least not that day.So I went to a nice little hospital just a few towns away, with glaring white rooms and a little garden out back. I like the garden the best. It reminds me of my grandmother.
The doctors ask a lot about the beast. They call it a monster. I don’t think that’s quite right, but, then again, I’m no expert in monsters. They ask me to describe it, over and over. They’ve had me draw it a million times. They look for inconsistencies. I don’t mind.
I miss my beast.
Some days, when the sky is gray like soot, I like to look into the clouds and wonder if it is out there somewhere, thinking of me. Waiting for the day it can come back to me.
On her way home from work, my wife was hit and killed by a drunk driver.
Night after night I prayed, no, I begged God to bring her back. Every night I dreamt of her returning to me, and every morning I woke alone.
One night the dream had changed. I was approached by a man in a pristine suit. "I can bring her back to you, but it will cost you." he said.
"Please! I'll do anything!" I pleaded
"What would you say you're most afraid of?" he asked with a smirk. I thought hard about it briefly before responding "Burning to death".
"Here's my offer: I will return your wife to you, but only if you live out your greatest fear."
"Yes! I'll do it! I'll burn!", and with that I awoke in my bed, next to my beautiful bride.
I couldn't believe it, but there she was, fast asleep, and breathing deep. I woke her with a passionate kiss and after several minutes she asked what had gotten into me. I could only respond by telling her how much I loved her.
I knew I still had a price to pay, but I didn't care.
That evening there was a knock at my door. As soon as I saw the officer, I knew the mistake I had made. I never promised to burn, I promised to live out my worst fear.
"Sir, I'm afraid your wife's been in an accident."
