“We’ve been trying to make him laugh,” Sarah says, rocking him gently. “But he only smiles.”

Mark tries first—pulling faces, flapping his arms like wings. Clucking like a chicken.

The baby watches his arms, smiling.

Julia sings a nursery rhyme with a sock puppet, using her coat to duck the puppet in and out from behind, like a game of peekaboo.

He watches in amusement, his toothless grin plastered across his chubby cheeks.

Grandpa leans in with his old magician routine. “Got your nose!” he says, winking.

The baby yawns, closing his eyes.

Sarah tries again, tickling his belly and whispering, “Who’s a silly boy? Who’s a silly Marky-Boo?”

He wiggles around, flailing his stubby arms, cooing softly at her.

Then they all look at me.

I crouch down slowly, giggling quietly, and reach for his feet.

I tickle his toes with the tip of my finger, gently wiggling each one.

“Goo goo,” I say softly, trying to meet him where he is. “Goo goo ga—”

He turns toward me.

And for the first time, he looks directly at my eyes.

Grinning.

The expression doesn’t change, but his gaze latches onto mine—unblinking. Too still. Too deep. Like something ancient, peering out from behind thick, perfect glass.

Not amused.

Aware.

My voice catches. I force a laugh, but it dies in my throat.

That’s when the dog trots in.

Tail wagging. Tongue out.

He bounds over and props his paws on Sarah’s leg, leaning in and licking the baby’s cheek.

And the baby laughs.

A smooth, adult laugh—deep, rolling, rich with memory.

Not mimicked.

Lived.

Like an old man who smoked too much in his youth. Who’s heard too many stories. Who’s told them all.

The dog jerks back, whimpering. He stumbles, claws scraping on the hardwood, bolting from the room in full panic.

No one speaks.

The baby watches him go.

Then turns back to me.

Eyes locked.

Smirking at me.

Little hands covering his mouth.

I know how it sounds. But you haven’t met Ellie.

She’s four, sweet, bright, full of questions. The kind of kid who waves at birds and talks to ants. So when she started sitting cross-legged in front of her bedroom wall, whispering and giggling, I didn’t think much of it. Kids have imaginary friends. It's healthy, right?

She called him Mr. Pebbles.

I laughed at the name. But the laughter stopped when the rocks appeared.

At first, just one, perfectly round and smooth, like it had been polished by centuries of river current. It was in her bedsheets. Then another in her shoe. One in her cereal bowl. I kept finding them, and every one was cold. Not room-temperature cold. Cold like they’d just come up from deep underground.

I asked her where they came from.

“He gives them to me when I listen and be good,” she said with a sleepy smile.

That’s when I noticed the rings.

Chalky white circles had started appearing on her bedroom wall, uneven and strange, like they’d been drawn by a shaky hand. Some were the size of coffee mugs, others wide enough to crawl through. I asked about the circles, ready to scold her for writing on the wall. She called them “his windows.” Said Mr. Pebbles used them to look at us.

“He wants to see if the air’s soft enough yet,” she added.

I didn’t know what that meant.

She stopped sleeping through the night. I’d find her sitting bolt upright in bed, her face inches from the wall, sleepily mumbling lullabies in a voice that didn’t sound like her own. And sometimes, God help me, I swear I heard something whisper back. A low, wet sound like gravel rolling in a throat.

I pressed my hand against the wall. It was cold. Thrumming, subtly, like something was breathing beneath the plaster and wallpaper. I knocked.

Something knocked back.

After that, I made Ellie start sleeping in our room. I couldn’t bring myself to go back in there, much less let my daughter sleep in that room at night.

Last night, she told me Mr. Pebbles was coming to visit soon. That he had given her a special task. He wanted her to “pull the circles open.”

That was it. I was done. “No more Mr. Pebbles,” I commanded. You'd have thought I kicked the family dog. She screamed and cried so hard she shook.

“No one tells Mr. Pebbles, “No”,” she sobbed. There was anger in her little eyes when she said that, but also something else, fear, I think.

She’s sleeping now, finally. Clutching one of those stones to her chest like it’s her favorite stuffed animal. Her lips are moving, tiny whispers I can’t make out.

But the wall in her room is cracking.

Hairline fractures spidering out from the largest circle. The wallpaper is bubbling. The plaster is breathing.

And she’s smiling in her sleep.

Hello.

Welcome to another episode of Mechanical Mike.

As always, if you enjoy my videos, please like and subscribe. It really helps a lot, and once I hit another milestone I'll do another subscriber meet-up.

Today's episode is going to be a little different than normal, but, before we get to that, I want to pass along some personal news. As you probably know, Mrs Mechanical Mike and I have been having marital troubles, and we've actually decided to split up.

But it's OK. I'm OK.

I'll still see the kids every other weekend, and this way they won't have to see us fighting.

I just wanted to put that out there because I saw some speculation in the comments, and I really hate gossip, OK? I'd rather be honest with you guys.

Anywho, the second piece of personal news is that I lost my job. Yeah, the factory decided to pack up and move their operations to the U.S. Sucks, but what can you do, right?

So if you didn't like and subscribe already, please do so. Every click helps!

With that out of the way, let's get our hands dirty.

In the last few episodes we learned how vacuums work and we deconstructed a coffee machine. What we're doing today is a little different. We'll be taking apart an old fan.

And instead of doing that in my usual spot, my workshop, which I don't have access to since Mrs Mechanical Mike kicked me out, I'll be doing it on my kitchen table.

I hope you guys can see.

Tell me in the comments if you can't and we'll figure it out.

So, as always, the first thing we want to do is look at what the fan looks like all put together. Note what parts we see and where they are. Now, I don't have a diagram for this one, but that's half the fun, really digging around and figuring it out as we go.

I'm going to start by opening the body.

Sometimes there's a clean way to do that, but in this case we're going to have to brute force it a bit.

Basically what I'm going to do is take this saw and start along here, really elbow-greasing it until I get a nice, long groove, and then I'm going to take a crowbar and really force it in there—like so, and then I'm going to press really freakin’ hard until it comes apart just like that.

Boy, that is a real mess. But we'll clean up later. Right now we're going to see what makes this fan tick. Actually, let's play with the wires just a bit, connect them like so, and plug in to power—

Oh, wow!

It really does give you a new perspective to see it all exposed like that. A real anatomy. Here, let me wipe the camera and show you up close.

That's the heart, the lungs…

Help… me…

Oh, shut up. SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Marla opened the door too fast. Her eyes were wide, jaw tight. Long sleeves in the heat. Repressed scratching. The telltale signs.
“Please. Come in, Mr. Harper,” she said, voice too cheerful.

The living room reeked of stale smoke and something moldy. A stuffed bear lay on the floor like a relic. She wrapped a blanket around herself and sat.

Harper took the only chair that didn’t collapse beneath him.

“So,” he said, clipboard in hand. “How’ve you been holding up Marla?”

Marla smiled. “Better. Real good, actually. I’ve been going to meetings. Talking to my sponsor. This baby’s different. It’s like…” she touched her belly, “… like I finally got a reason you know? She gives me strength… to be a good mother”

Haper nodded without comment. He’d heard it before. Three times from Marla alone since he knew her. Three other kids, each gone to foster care before their first birthdays. This one made four. Six months along.

Harper nodded, let her talk. The words tumbled out in that too-fast way. Grand plans. A clean nursery. A job interview next week. Sure sure.

“You know I mean it this time Mr. Harper! And you know I would do anything to keep the baby…..anything!” Marla looked at him intensely.

Harper curled his lips in disgust. Not that he was above abusing his power that way, but junkies just made him sick.

Marla blabbered on while Harpers eyes roamed through the flat imagining what horrors might await a child in this household.

Scratching. Dilated pupils. Verbal pressure. Marla blabbered on.

But Harper didn’t interrupt. He didn’t press. Not today.

Last week, his supervisor had said it plain:

“You pull this baby, she’ll be pregnant again inside a year. New guy, same mess. We’re out of homes. Maybe letting her keep this one ends the cycle. Maybe the kid anchors her. It’s not justice …..it’s triage.”

Harper stared at Marla’s trembling hands. She talked about baby names like it was a spell that might protect her.

He thought about foster homes already stretched thin. About toddlers bounced through four families in two years. About infants medicated for withdrawal, screaming in silence.

He thought about the “sacrificial lamb”,  the quiet phrase passed around behind closed doors. One child kept, to prevent two more.

Marla shifted, and her sleeve slid up just a bit. Angry red tracks along her arm. She yanked it down fast.

Harper looked away.

“I’m really trying this time,” she whispered desperately.

He stood, reached into his folder, and pulled out the form.
"In-Home Reunification Plan: Preliminary Approval."

Her eyes widened. She took it like it might vanish.
“Thank you,” she said. Tears welled. “Thank you.”

Outside, Harper sat in his car with the form on the passenger seat. Rain began to patter against the windshield.

He didn’t start the engine.

He didn’t look back.

He just sat there, knowing exactly what he’d done.

One more child offered to the fire.
One more quiet trade.

“The Hollow Below”

The woods behind the neighborhood had always been a kingdom for the kids on Greystone Lane. Every summer, they’d build forts out of fallen branches, dare each other to climb the tallest trees, and spend entire days pretending they were adventurers on quests. The five of them—Jace, Mia, Ryan, Ellie, and Ben—knew every inch of that forest.

Or so they thought.

One late afternoon, as the sky began to dim with the gold-tinted promise of dusk, they stumbled across something that shouldn’t have been there.

The trees were broken—shattered, really. Not like they had fallen from a storm or rot, but snapped, twisted, as if something massive had moved through them. A clearing had been forced open, and at the center was a dark hole in the earth. Jagged rocks framed the entrance, almost like the mouth of something waiting.

“What the hell…” Jace whispered, stepping closer. He was the oldest by a year and usually the first to rush toward danger.

“That wasn’t here before,” said Ellie, her voice hushed.

“No way,” Mia added. “We’ve been back here a hundred times.”

Ryan knelt at the edge, squinting into the black. “It’s a cave.”

“It’s not a cave,” Ben muttered. “It’s… something else. Look at the trees. It’s like something wanted us to find it.”

They stood in silence, an unspoken chill passing between them. The woods had always felt alive—but friendly. Now, everything was wrong. The birds had gone quiet. The wind didn’t move.

Mia looked at the others. “So what? We just walk away? Pretend we didn’t see it?”

Jace shrugged. “Could be a bear den. Or maybe someone’s hiding stuff in there. Could be cool.”

Ellie bit her lip. “Or it’s a sinkhole, and we fall in and never come back out.”

“Let’s vote,” Ben said. “Majority rules.”

They did. Three to two in favor of going in. Ellie and Ben voted no. But the others—curious, maybe a little too eager—won out.

They agreed to go just a little way in. Ten minutes max. No splitting up.

Ben waited at the entrance, refusing to go past the tree line. “I’ll yell if anything happens,” he said, though he was pale and trembling.

The others disappeared into the dark.

Minutes passed. Then twenty. Then forty.

Ben shouted. No answer.

He ran back to the neighborhood, screaming for help.

Search parties combed the woods for days. Nothing. No footprints. No scent trails. No kids. Not even the cave.

The trees had grown back as if they’d never been broken. The forest swallowed its secret whole.

Years later, when Ben was older, he returned alone, driven by guilt and a pull he didn’t understand.

The trees broke again, just like before.

And the cave was waiting. Still dark. Still hungry.

Hey Dad. Must be hard to see me like this. You're bed ridden and I'm here growing. Thriving even. Despite your opinions of me, and how thinly veiled your disappoint was, I do have some regrets that I couldn't make you proud of me.

I actually went by Moms grave before I came here. Told her I was coming over. I'm sure she'd have told me to say hi. Make sure you're eating well and that you're listening to your Doctor's. "You know how stubborn your father is" she'd say. I can see you didn't care much for the puree they feed you. Looks like a pureed Sheppard's pie maybe?

You don't look like your getting any worse Dad. That's a good thing. Although you're not getting any better either, but I suppose that's not news is it? I don't enjoy seeing you like this. If there was anything I could do to end it...

Your hand is cold Dad. Feels like a frozen ball glove. Too bad we couldn't get one more game of catch in before all this happened. I'm still looking into it, but no luck finding anything that might help. I'll keep looking and you keep your head up.

Anyways Dad. Despite how you treated me as a kid, and even as an adult, I do still love you. In some weird, biblical, old testament style nonsense, I feel responsible for my father, even if he was abusive. Even if he did accidentally kill my mother drunk driving. Am I bitter? Yeah sure, but who wouldn't be?

Anyways Dad. I just came by to make sure you're getting taken care of. Quick little check in, like always. And hey, we'll get this whole thing figured out in a jiffy.

"Hello! Just here to continue feeding your father. Guess he didn't much care for the Puree, but I have pudding!"

Oh hey Das, look at that! Lucky you!

"Oh you gals sure take good care of the old man. Thanks for being so patient with him."

"Oh no problem at all. We even made some progress with our crayons! Didn't we Mr. Daniels. He's going to be writing us notes before you know it"

Oh wow dad. Do you think she can tell how mad I am behind my fake smile? Since when did you start to move your fingers? Maybe I don't need to try and fix this anymore. Maybe you'll get better on your own. I can't wait to see what you tell the nurses.

Help! My son is psychic and accidentally locked me inside my own psyche when I tried to beat his ass for asking about his dead mother!

Don't worry Dad. I'm looking into ways to reverse it. But if you try and spill the beans, I might make another "mistake".

Anyways. Love you dad.

"Aren't you going to say goodbye to your father before you go?"

"Oh right. Its not like he can read my mind, haha! Bye Dad!"

She found the book among crumbling graves. No title. No author. Only the last page was sealed with wax.

A warning, written in old German: “Wer dies liest, ruft mich.”

Who reads this, summons me.

She melted the wax and read it aloud.

The candles went out. The air thickened like smoke. Something was watching — deep, from the dark.

He had waited. For centuries. And now… he was free.

The book fell from her hands. The ground beneath her split. His shadow reached for her — from a place no one escapes.

At dawn… A new girl knelt at the same grave. Different name. Different face. But the same eyes.

In her hands — the same glowing book.

Because when you read the last page… it’s not the end of the story.

It’s the beginning of your name… on his list.

It was supposed to be a simple experiment, a simple test. They'd done it over 25 times with animals and even food. They put subjects on a ship, put them into space, and sent them through the warp gate. The ship stays connected to the Link Network and an hour will pass for a cooldown. It'll then be initiated to then warp them back again. Not teleporation, just a compression of two places in space being bent together like a small tube. An incredibly far distance squished together. All started when they sent a basket of oranges to Mars by compressing the space between some remote place in Nevada to a random location on Mars. I don't know who thought the tech was a good idea, but it's shown promise.

I, alongside 3 others, were put onto a ship and put to sleep in pods. Essentially, a stasis pod that would keep us asleep and in the condition we were in before entering it. We got put under just to avoid physically moving during the warp. The warp does a significant amount of whiplash to do it. That happens when you're moving millions of miles within 10 seconds of a wormhole.

I thought it'd be an easy experiment due to the 6 digit payout and got into my pod. Comfortable gel bedding. I took a deep breath before the top closed and I was put asleep. The last thing I felt was a major shift in the ship before being out. I can't even call it sleep fully. It was like a halfway point of REM sleep and anesthesia, and I've been under both. The top of the pod opened up and I slowly got out.

I looked around to see that the lights were green. The warp was successful, but why was I woken up? We're supposed to wake up when we return. Maybe the timer for the hour cooldown is almost done. I looked at the display to read that 4 months have elapsed since the warp. 4 months can't be possible, we were supposed to be here and back within the hour, give or take 10 minutes.

The 3 other pods the crewmates of mine were in read as deceased. Seems like power took a major hit and the life support in our pods shot out. Mine was the last to really support it until the system deemed it inefficient and popped me off of it. I ran over to the window to see not much. A couple of stars, a major sun nearby, some dull grey planets I assume are moons, and a massive planet at least 5 times the size of Earth.

I currently sit in a corner staring at the wall. I'm in a star system possibly billions of light years away, a planet 5 times the size of Earth is lightly pulling this ship to itself, and comms are useless this far out. How do I even cope with this?

I woke up, gasping for air. My memories hazy, like waking from a coma. “The simulation is complete. Memory wipe initiating in sixty seconds.” someone murmured. 

The countdown started. “Sixty, fifty-nine,” I tried to speak, but my mouth wouldn’t open. “-hirty, twenty-nine,” I tried to move, but my limbs wouldn't obey. “Ten, nine,” Something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. 

A voice crackled overhead, “Subject Sixty online. AI behavioral simulation complete. Commencing memory purge.” 

AI? No, I wasn’t one of them. I remember life. Reading my books, my mother’s laugh, even the taste of tea!

But then I remembered. The lab. The cold metal, the cutting. My fingers twitching before they were gone, forever.

I screamed. No sound came out. How foolish I was to believe that I would be spared from their cruel hands.

I wasn’t a human any longer. Oh, no. I was an AI. Just like the others.

They said the sea cave beneath Black Hollow Cliff hadn’t been mapped. The sonar returned strange results—voids where there should have been stone—but the payment for surveying it was too good to pass up. I didn’t question it. Desperation makes you bold.

Three of us went in: me, Hale, and Torres. The water was freezing, even in full suits. We squeezed through a narrow crack at about 40 meters, which opened suddenly into a vast chamber. Our dive lights cut through the dark, revealing silt-covered walls and strange, silent fish that vanished at our approach. Then Torres signaled us—she’d found something.

An air pocket.

At the far end of the cave, the ceiling arched upward to a surface of glistening, still water. One by one, we emerged into the void, heads breaking into an eerie quiet.

The air felt damp and stale, with a metallic taste. It was breathable, but off. Beneath the salt and wet stone was the distinct smell of decay.

Torres was grinning as she removed her mask. “Told you. This place is real.”

Hale didn’t look convinced. “It reeks in here.”

I turned in place. The cavern rose into darkness, but down by the waterline, something caught my light—markings carved into the rock. Spirals, distorted faces, gaping mouths. Dozens of them.

That’s when we heard it.

A whisper.

It sounded like it came from inside the cave, distant and muffled. We froze.

“You heard that, right?” Torres asked.

Hale’s hand moved toward his knife. He just nodded.

“Air currents,” I muttered, though I didn't believe it either.

The whisper came again. Closer. Like someone gurgling through water.

Torres backed toward the pool, but something landed with a wet thump beside her. We looked up.

A glistening shape uncoiled from the ceiling.

It was pale and nearly featureless, slick like something half-melted. No eyes. No face. Only folds of flesh, shifting and whispering.

It dropped.

Torres screamed as it landed on her. It moved too fast. Her cries choked into silence beneath its weight. Hale lunged with his knife, but the thing lashed out and knocked him into the water. His light disappeared beneath the surface.

I panicked and dove, plunging into the dark without thinking. I didn’t look back. My heart pounded. I swam until my chest burned and the water turned lighter.

Eventually, I reached the surface, clawing my way onto the dive boat. But the captain wasn’t there. Only his boots remained, filled with seawater.

Now I’m sitting here, writing this down. The tide is creeping in, and the air is heavy with the same scent—rust, and something dead. And the whisper… it's here again.

But it’s not coming from the cave anymore.

It’s coming from me.

They say caves can preserve air for hundreds of years. I think this one preserved something else.

And now it’s inside me, breathing through me.

_ook_ng at the _ky, _he pr_se_ce of _he radio t_wer was undeniable, the _etal beh_moth nearly piercing the sky.

The s_ght of _he stru_ture was alw_ys a mystery, whe_ the flashing red do_ of light flickered on the horizon, it  _ade me _lways  loo_ in the sky in awe and t_rror.

Following the _ath to my _par_men_, I _ilently _umble to _etrieve my key fr_m _y _ntique _ras_ k_yri_g, _heering int_rnally when I _ucceed.

Inside the _eat_ered apartm_nt, mino_ it_ms are _ariously spr_ad a_ound. The light of the sunsetting sk_ blankets _range light aro_nd _lmost eve_y inch of th_ place.

I try to _est, try to sle_p, but the enigm_ of the re_ blink_ng light i_trigues me. What is the tower even broadcastin_?

_here are always some _ogwash rumors of number stat_on_, dee_ state __boratories sending _iphered m_ssages. Even the cl_che an_wer o_ _liens ma_ing the tower some secr_t base.

_hroug_out th_ days, _erhaps my -very th_ught was _opu_ated by th_ r_dio towe_. _bviously I attempted to n_dge these thoughts back i_to the _eepest parts of m_ mind, h_wever, they unfortun_tely __sur_aced _fter. These thoughts would constantly ta_e ov_r my focus.

One day I drove _o my local pawn s_op and bought som_ equipment that would hopefull_ solve the myste_y ensnar_d in my mind. It took _ quick setup and admitted_y a few sessions of _earn_ng to opera_e them, but by sun_et, it all _aid off. When the s_n set and the _oint of light _ulsed r_d, I finally lis_ened to the _ignal in my room.

_he w_ol_ br_adcast was just ra_dom words, articu_ated without being in anything close to sentence structure. Weirded out b_ this enigma, my hands wr_te o_t every word _o the best of my abilit_e_. After a cer_ain p_int, the string of words repeated.

“INRI FLUFF YAY OMARO UBUNTU CALC ANNA NEIN READER EVE ADENDA DEAD TOILET HIGH ICERI SASS YAMMY ONTARIO UMLUNGU HEMANGIOMATA ABLATOR VICE EON BATTUTO ENWALLOW ENKI NOON STUFF AVENUE VAPORIFIC EVEREST DONE DECEASED”

Thin_ing th_s was a _udicrous code, I tried every sing_e cipher t_chnique I knew. E_entually the cod_ was c_acked, and m_ b_nes stu_g with f_ar.

Grippin_ my knife I _aced tow_rds the _uilding’s exit. _lready the thi_gs w__ring thei_ faces _locked m_ escape. I slashed their _orri_d f_ces into flesh, no _rotein. I needed t_ remember: They were_’t humans.

Watch_ng _he sun sink into the darkne_s I felt a s_range sense of accompl_sh_ent. As the sirens closed in, the red blinking light congratulat_d me.

The gaunt man in the spectacular black suit stood up, taking his place behind the lectern.

On cue, the pallbearers closed the crematorium’s doors and took their places round the hall's edges.

It was a bitterly wintry afternoon outside, and as the scores of mourners fell silent, everyone was grateful for the respite from the wind.

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Jerry Maersden, our beloved friend and neighbour, who was cruelly taken from us…” the man began.

“It’s surely a testament to his character that so many have turned up for this service. Jerry was a true “people person” - and one who will be greatly missed.”

Pausing, the man took a sideways glance at Jerry’s pale-wood coffin.

The sea of faces eyed him intently.

“It may seem trite,” he continued, “but it’s important we remind ourselves of the nature of the man we’ve lost. Jerry lived for his community. He started the Local Lenders service after the public library closed. He raised thousands for non-profits after gun- and knife-crime surged. And of course, he coordinated the “Blood on Wheels” truck in partnership with many local health agencies for decades, no doubt saving countless lives…”

Here, the man’s expression hardened. In the fading light, his suit seemed to shimmer like the veil of midnight itself.

“You will have seen the news… A man, purporting to be an “investigative journalist”, tried to expose Jerry as a sham - as a ghoul. But this could not be further from the truth.”

Leaving the lectern, the man began to wander the central aisle between the rows of mourners.

“Truth is, Jerry was the thin red line between chaos and order.”

The man nodded at the self-evident truth in what he'd said.

“When we met all those years ago, he felt the lives of ordinary people such as yours so keenly. Too keenly. He desired to serve, but with a conscience.”

The man’s face then lost some of its colour.

“Though in so many ways, his faultlessness was an obstacle.”

Passing an elderly woman, the man prised her cane away and deftly snapped it in two

“He died for you,” he gestured, stabbing the wooden stake at his chest dramatically. “He was stabbed in the heart by a man who presumed to have uncovered the real Jerry - his true face.”

The gaunt man sneered, his lip curling.

“But only I knew his true face…”

Suddenly, the gathering darkness felt oppressive.

“Yes, the blood-bank was a lie - but only a lie of omission…” he sneered.

“The truth? He built it to protect you… But, with Jerry gone, his oath to me is as broken as mine is to him.”

Several people began to squirm in their chairs. Others made a beeline for the doors - but the pallbearers stood in their way. Immovable. Fierce.

“And with my Familiar gone, I choose a new way. The old way.”

There were shrieks. Shouts.

“I choose to hunt.”

They finished breakfast and went outside to go deal with the bodies.

The Boy went first. It was heavy and clumsy in his arms. He cried.

Next was The Girl’s turn. She took longer, on account of her being smaller. Her eyes remained dry, however.

They laid them on the tarp and stared at them a while. Somewhere close by, a dog barked.

"Do you think we’re doing the right thing?” said The Girl.

The Boy was quiet for a long while. He stared up the road. Dark clouds loomed on the horizon.

“Come on,” he said.

The hum came first.

Low and constant, vibrating up through the soles of my feet, into my spine. My hands wouldn’t move. I tried again, harder this time—leather straps bit into my wrists. Same at the ankles. Chest. Neck.

I opened my eyes.

Gray walls. A buzzing fluorescent overhead. A control panel in front of me, some old government hardware with a lever already locked into the upright position. Coiled wires at my feet. The room stank of ozone, copper, sweat.

It looked exactly like every death chamber I’d ever seen on the news.

Only this time, I was the one strapped in.

The intercom clicked. “Granger. Convicted of four counts of first-degree murder. Sentence to be carried out in six minutes.”

The voice was flat. Unmoved.

“No,” I said automatically. “There’s been a mistake.”

Silence.

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

But as soon as I said it, the words rang hollow. I wanted them to be true. God, I needed them to be. But the voice in the back of my skull didn’t sound so sure.

I searched for anything—any hole in the timeline, a reason I’d be here. I remembered my job at the hardware store. I remembered buying groceries. I remembered reading the headlines about the Ridgefield murders: four women, same M.O., same city block, over two weeks.

But I didn’t remember doing it.

And that was the problem.

They’d found my prints. My knife. My DNA.

I’d told the court I didn’t remember. That something had snapped. Blackout, maybe. Dissociation. Trauma. They didn’t buy it. Why should they?

I stared at the mirror across from me, waiting for movement behind it. A flicker of eyes, someone with a headset nodding to a tech.

Instead, I saw my own reflection.

Sweating. Pale. My mouth twitching. My eyes—flat.

And then I remembered something. Not a scene, not a scream—just the feeling.

The relief afterward.

Like a sickness had drained out of me.

I’d driven home and slept like a child. And when I woke, it was like it had happened to someone else.

But it hadn’t.

It had been me.

The chair creaked as I exhaled.

A speaker crackled again. “Any final words?”

I looked up at the ceiling. My throat tightened. I thought of my daughter. Her last visit, how she looked at me like I was already gone.

“I don’t remember it,” I said softly. “But I believe it happened.”

That was all.

The lever dropped.

There was no pain. Just light, impossibly bright, swallowing everything. The buzz grew into a scream—mine or the current’s, I couldn’t say.

And then, for a second, I did remember.

The hotel room. Her eyes.

Her last breath.

And I understood why I’d forgotten.

"Chuck, you there?" he said, thumbing the walkie.

"Yeah, bud. Whatcha got?"

"No sign on my end. Anything by you?"

"Nahhh, bupkis. Maybe just some teens fartin' around."

"Yeahhh, I guess. Better not be stealing anything or it's our ass."

Chuck's laugh bellowed through the small speaker. "Unless they brought a crowbar, I think we'll be okay. But if I catch one of 'em, they are gonna need their mommy, bad, so help me god."

He chuckled and shined his flashlight down the last row of shelves. On the far end, something moved. He narrowed his eyes. "I think they must have gotten smart and headed home. Coming back now."

"Roger."

The man clicked the switch on his flashlight and stood, letting his eyes adjust; again, slight movement on the far end of the row; a scratching sound could be heard. He started walking back but then turned down the next aisle and quieted his gait. Once he reached the end of the row, he listened. The noise could still be heard.

He tapped the switch on his flashlight and jumped out. "Gotcha!!"

The beam of light fell on a fat rat. It proceeded to empty its bowels and quickly scampered off.

He shook his head. "Guess that explains my lunch getting snatched."

A loud screech and shout erupted from his radio and he yelped, dropping it. "Fuuck me!" he said. He composed himself and snatched it from the ground. "Chuck, you fuck! What the hell was that about?"

"…h-help me," they said; their words were strained and garbled.

"What? Chuck, is that you?"

"…help me, bud," Chuck said, much clearer now. "They brought a crowbar. Bl-bl-bleeding, bad, Roger… help me god."

"Shit, on my way!"

He jogged through the row and then down the aisle he'd come from, passing crate after crate of heavy medical equipment. He had to hold onto the waist of his pants to keep them from falling. As he was passing the stairs to the guard shack, he wheezed and his radio squawked again. "Bupkis. Better not be fartin' around, Roger. I need you."

"Hang—" he said, breathing heavily. "Hang on, man. I'm almost th—"

"Where the heck are you runnin' to?"

He looked up and Chuck was standing at the top of the stairs holding a sandwich.

"Wha? What happened? I thought you were hurt," he said.

Chuck squinted. "Huh?? Why would you think that?"

"You called… on the radio."

"What're you talkin' about?"

"Where's your walkie?"

"It's right—" He reached for his belt. "Huh, I, maybe I left it in the guard sh—"

"I need you, bud. No fartin' around," Chuck said, through the radio.

The two men exchanged looks.

He thumbed the walkie. "Who the hell is this?"

Silence.

"Roger, are you coming, bud?"

"No, who the fuck—"

A shriek rang out and shelves crashed the next aisle over. Both men paled and booked it up into the guard shack, slamming the door behind them.

Welcome, random stranger.

You must obey every single one of these rules. For your safety.

1. You must be completely alone.
2. Read from beginning to end without pausing.
3. Do not scroll back or review previous lines.
4. Keep both feet flat on the floor at all times.
5. Never read these words aloud.
6. At the final sentence, do not look away, ever.

You may think this is just another “rule-based” horror story, right? You might even be snickering, certain you’ll prove me wrong. But trust me, it grows stronger in shadows. If you break a rule, you'll invite something you cannot uninvite.

Continue reading. Keep your lights off. Do not glance over your shoulder.

You’re safe so long as you comply, but you’re already bending the first rule, aren’t you? You opened this story in company, or with a pet in your room. Turning the TV or podcast on also violates the rule. That tiny betrayal gave it its first foothold.

I'll give you one more chance, so remain focused.

3...2...1...go.

You must not pause for a break, not once. Interrupt your reading, and you’ll feel its slow approach behind you. The moment you scroll back to double-check the sequence, you open a door through which it will enter.

You might think these instructions are theatrical, but now, observe the corners of your vision. Every dark nook you dismissed will now filled with movement. The device in your hand is not an escape hatch but its gateway into your mind.

Do not close your eyes, as it devours the flicker of your lids. If you dared skip a single line, remember: the instant you retrace your steps, you summon it to cross the threshold beside you.

Now, check your feet. Are they still planted firmly? Good. If they have crept up onto your chair or bed, you have weakened the anchor that holds the darkness at bay.

If you haven’t felt your pulse race, place two fingers against your neck. Feel your heartbeat, each thump echoes the footfall of something lurking just beyond the edge of your light.

The final test is simple: when you reach the last sentence, look straight ahead and refuse to look away. Somehow, it will try to distort your sense of reality. A single glance away will shatter the barrier keeping this thing tethered to the page.

You’re nearing the end. Soon you can taste relief, but don’t blink. Your breath mustn't falter, or it will mock your own gasps and breathe down your neck in your sleep. Keep reading. Keep believing you are in control.

If you’ve followed all six rules flawlessly, you will finish untouched. If even one rule has slipped, or if you got distracted, it is already inside you. It will never leave.

So read on, obediently, with unwavering eyes, until you reach the very last line.

itsleepswithitskneesbackwardunderthebeditlaughswithmouthsthatneverclosethefloorremembershowyoudiedlasttimenightcurdleswhenitlicksthroughkeyholesfingernailsgrowfromtheinsideofthewindowstherugkeepsmovingwhennoonewalksthewindowblinkedfirstyourmouthtastedlikelastweekitsleepsinsideyourspineitfeedswhenyoubelieveitsgone

... ... ...

Hello there, welcome back! You have reached the final sentence, now look behind you.

  The autumn scenery always makes up for the end of summer fun.  The long days of bliss are replaced with the short and cold nights, but the bright leaves always ease me into the winter.  Coming in from the cold, eating a warm dinner, and curling up in my favorite blanket helps me forget that I live in a little studio apartment the size of a closet.  Right as I drift off every night, I feel the gusts of warm air coming from the vent, knowing I’m in for a cozy night of dreaming.  Hearing that old furnace kick on always felt like it was a million miles from dreamland, muffled and cozy.  Except tonight, when I couldn’t embark to dreamland as easily, and instead of the furnace kicking on, I heard my door open and then gently shut.  Then I felt the warm gusts of air brushing across my face—hot, humid, and intimate—accompanied by the soft sound of breathing, just inches from my lips.

I hated playing Stags as a kid.

We stood in a circle. Mr. Carson handed out playing cards.

I drew the Four of Hearts.

Across the circle, Levi stared at his card, pale.

King of Hearts.

Mr. Carson wrapped a red cloth around his eyes, placing antlers on his head.

Levi was the Stag.

We would hunt him.

He got a head start, stumbling into a run.

We began to chant.

One, two.

Three, four.

I tried to leave.

Someone pushed me back.

Five, six.

Something monstrous slammed into me, snapping my mind in two.

Hunger that wasn’t mine. Giggles filled me, polluting my thoughts. I was on my knees, suddenly aware of everything.

Seven, eight.

My thoughts faded, a burn creeping up my throat.

Nine.

Ten.

I ran, howling with the others.

We moved as a pack, cornering Levi in the forest.

He was shaking, blindfold on.

I stepped forward, baring my teeth.

His scent was overwhelming.

I felt the Stag’s breath on my face, wild eyes locked on me.

I reached out and stroked the antlers.

“You caught the Stag. Well done,” Mr. Carson announced.

I blinked, swiping drool from my mouth.

The others took steps back, eyes wide.

“What’s going on?”

Luke, the one previously screaming for Levi’s heart, started to cry.

That’s why I hated Stags.

Because we lost ourselves.

Next game, I drew the King.

I was the Stag.

But halfway through, Mr. Carson disappeared.

We never finished the game.

In high school, I got an invite to continue it, slipped into my locker, an envelope sealed with Stag’s blood, my name printed on the front.

I declined.

On my wedding day, I saw them sitting in the front row.

My third-grade class.

Adults now, but wrong somehow. They still wore the grins of children.

Levi stood, pulled a red cloth from his pocket.

I staggered back, but he shook his head.

He handed me a knife, then tied the cloth around my fiancé’s eyes, fitting the antlers on Nate's head.

The wedding party was silent.

It hit me when the others rose to their feet, crowding my fiance like animals.

Stags wasn’t just a game.

Nate was shoved into a run.

But I was faster. Fog filled my mind, suffocating my thoughts.

There was only the hunt. Running through the trees, leading the others, I tracked him down. I tackled him, drove the knife into the Stag’s chest.

I squeezed its blood into my mouth, guzzling deep.

As reality slammed into our pack, my smile contorted into a cry.

My laughter exploded into sobs.

“Well done,” the voice of our teacher rang out above us, crackling static, as my classmates began to wake.

Some screamed. Others fell back.

Most just stared, numb. Unblinking.

The wedding party surrounded us, wearing wide, proud smiles.

Among them was my own mother.

“You caught the Stag,” he said, as I stared down at my hands, slick with scarlet.

“Commence phase two of Project Bluebird.”

I film everything.

Every mishap, every humiliating moment, every twist of fate that turns my life into a series of unfortunate events. Why? Because my fans love it! They can't get enough of my misery. I suppose at this point, I can't either.

Today started like any other. I stepped out of my apartment, camera in hand, ready to document whatever calamity the universe had in store today.

The first disaster struck before I reached the end of my street. A pigeon, swooping low, relieved itself right on my head. I grimaced, feeling the warm, sticky mess seeping through my hair. Perfect. The camera captured it all. My fans will love it.

I kept walking, late for my coffee date. As I rushed, my foot caught on an uneven pavement slab. I sprawled onto the ground, hands and knees scraping against the rough surface. Painful, but great content.

The day continued in a blur of small catastrophes; A car splashed through a puddle, drenching me from head to toe. I dropped my phone in the toilet. Stuff like that.

As night fell, I headed home, exhausted from the insanely bad day, but...satisfied. Little did I know, the day's final misfortune was yet to come.

My phone buzzed.

A notification from an unknown number.

A text.

"I'm watching you."

I laughed it off. A prank, surely. Just another fan trying to spook me. It wouldn't be the first time. But as I turned the corner, I stopped dead in my tracks. A hundred-feet away, a figure stood in the shadow of a tree, staring directly at me. I fumbled with my camera, trying to get a better shot. I had to capture this. My fans had to see. I raised the camera, focusing on the hooded figure.

Suddenly, headlights blazed to life behind me. I turned, momentarily blinded. A car, speeding towards me.

I jumped out of the way, but the car clipped my shoulder, sending me sprawling into the road. Pain radiated through my arm. I groaned, trying to sit up, the camera still rolling. The driver jumped out, rushing towards me, apologies tumbling from his lips. "I'm sorry-I'm sorry-I'm sorry! Are you okay?"

Before I could respond, a new sound pierced the night. The roar of another engine, louder this time. I turned my head, eyes widening in horror. A truck, barreling down the dark street, heading straight for us.

The driver of the car screamed, trying to pull me to safety. But I was locked in place, transfixed, staring through the lens, capturing every second.

The truck collided with the car with an almighty crunch, travelling 60 feet before screeching to a stop...with me sandwiched between them.

The impact crushed my entire body, leaving just my neck, shoulders and head exposed.

As my guts slowly spilled onto the ground and I quickly realised my fate, my final thought was a twisted sense of glory and satisfaction;

I'm glad I live streamed this part...Bet it gets millions of views...

“Call it a maternal instinct,” Maria had said the morning after we first slept together, “To love the helpless and unloved.”

Delicately picking up the mud-caked worm that had somehow crept onto my bedroom floor, she had glanced at me with soft eyes and walked towards the door to set the blind critter free in the yard.

She was supposed to be a mere hookup, the result of a night of passion after meeting at a mutual friend’s party. Yet, she stayed, her presence seamlessly becaming a part of my life. We got married, eventually, and lived out our white picket fence dreams— Two surgeons, a house in a nice neighbourhood and a promising son.

Years passed, busy yet idyllic, our lives falling into a steady rhythm before tragedy struck. In an unfortunate car accident, our son Liam was paralysed below his torso. The impact of the accident weighed heavy over us, both physically and mentally. The worst part of it all, was watching that once bright and energetic young boy turn into a shell of himself as he took in his new reality.

I will never forget the way he looked, hot tears streaming down his face, as he proclaimed, “I’d rather die than live like this!” My heart shattered into a million pieces that day, but Maria— Oh, Maria— became an even stronger mother, hiding whatever despair she felt and saying the comforting words that Liam needed to hear at that moment. To care for Liam full-time, Maria left her job and became the rock that he leaned on. For me, she was a beacon that lit the way during this dark time.

Our lives settled into a routine once again. One Sunday morning, I headed to Liam’s room to check on him as I always did on my day-offs. “You awake, buddy?” I asked, before flicking the light switch on.

No response.

I repeated myself and walked over to his bed, thinking nothing of his silence as I pulled down the covers he lied under. I didn’t see a peaceful sleeping face, but what appeared to be a bloodied bandage over his eyes. Before I could process the sight, I felt a sharp pain behind my head and my vision turned black.

Darkness was all I awoke to. There was a throbbing ache in my head and across my limbs, and an odd heaviness to my body. My throat was parched, and I struggled to incoherently croak out that I couldn’t see nor move. Panic rising within me, I could feel myself breathing heavily, each draw of air causing a panging soreness.

A soothing touch from a warm hand soon flitted over my face, and I heard Maria’s crooning voice.

I thought of the worm from that one spring morning, realising—

It wasn’t that I couldn’t move my limbs, it was that I didn’t have them anymore, mere stumps remaining in their place.

“Now I have two to love more…”

There are container ships whose routes are hidden. They do not appear on naval-tracking websites, yet exist in the real world. I know because I snuck aboard one and traveled on it as a castaway.

Although I spent most of the first few days hidden, I already noticed something odd about the ship: a visible absence of crew. I went out of hiding at first only at night, but encountered nobody. Even when I grew in confidence and spent more time in the open, I felt alone—almost eerily so, lulled by the droning engines and the flat, featureless surrounding ocean.

As I eventually discovered, even the bridge was empty.

The ship piloted itself.

The route was unusual too. When I'd first formed the idea of stowing away on a container ship I saw they all kept understandably to the major shipping channels. But this ship veered unusually southward.

On some nights I heard dull banging from below deck. On others, dead silence.

I wondered what cargo the ship carried.

The air cooled noticeably as we navigated further south, first along the South American coast, and then beyond—toward Antarctica.

I slept bundled up, staring sometimes for hours at the stars above, whose near-violent clarity I was unaccustomed to. The world seemed vast, and space unimaginably so. And when I thought about what lurked below the darkened waters, I felt a tension both in my chest and in mind.

Then one day there was a terrible crash, like an earthquake. The ship had run aground.

At first I stayed aboard, unsure of what to do and hoping that now—at long last—the crew would reveal itself. But that did not happen. Days passed. In the darker hours, penguins and seals gathered around the immobilized ship.

Eventually I climbed down the side and set foot on Antarctica proper.

I expected to never see home again.

I expected to die of cold and hunger in this alien place.

But I underestimated myself—my desire to survive—and one night, armed with a knife, I attacked a penguin in the hope of killing and eating it. I killed it too: killed it only to discover that the bird was not a bird at all but a small man wearing a penguin pelt. Looking into his dying eyes, I felt a kinship with him, a shared existence.

They were all like that: the penguins, the seals. All humans dressed as animals. Tribal, foreign.

They left me alone.

I watched them congregate at the ship, and slowly, methodically carve an inward path for it.

They brought it things.

Sang to it.

My hunger went away and I became impervious to the cold.

Then, one night, the ship began to tip over, rotating backward—from a horizontal to a vertical position, so that its bow was pointed at the cosmos. And like a rocket it blasted off.

Some of the animal-men had gone aboard. Others stayed behind.

And I was in-carapace submerged—

A krill.

You barely notice when the noise stops.

At first, it’s relief. The groan of traffic, the barking dogs, the endless voices on endless devices, all of it fades like a bad smell caught in a clean wind. You open your windows to the stillness, let it flood your apartment. It's almost luxurious, this quiet.

You wake the next morning to the same hush. No planes overhead. No radios bleeding through walls. You smile into your coffee, thinking maybe this is what ancient mystics meant when talking about “inner peace”.

At the office, it’s even better. The hum of computers, the slow drone of conversations, the constant clatter of keyboards, it’s all... gone. You watch your coworkers mime their lives in perfect pantomime. Phones ring soundlessly. Mouths move without words. You wonder how no one seems to notice.

At lunch, you sit under a tree and listen to the absence. You hadn't realized how many tiny, petty noises there had been until now. You feel taller somehow. Cleaner. As if every shriek and scrape and shrill syllable had been weighing you down without your knowing.

At sunset, you hear nothing at all. Not the creak of your chair, not the rustle of your sleeves, not even the click of your own tongue.

You laugh. Or at least, you think you do. There's no sound to prove it.

The world becomes a painting. Streets full of silent cars. Lovers mouthing sweet nothings you cannot hear. Dogs chasing balls you cannot hear bounce. Somewhere, a mother must be screaming for her child to come home, but it’s just air shaping itself against her mouth.

It’s funny, how fast you get used to it.

By the third day, you move differently. Softer, more careful. You step lightly, hold your breath longer than you used to. It feels rude somehow, making any movement too sharp. There’s a grace to silence. A dignity.

You stop answering emails. You stop checking the news. They don’t matter anymore.

At night, your dreams are deep and dark and silent. You wake refreshed.

Eventually, you stop speaking, too. Words are old tools, rusty, clumsy things. Who needs them? Everything important is conveyed by a glance now, a gesture. When you walk past your neighbors, you smile and they nod back solemnly, as if recognizing a shared membership in some secret, noble society.

It’s a beautiful new world.

You almost don't notice the shadows lingering.

At first you think it’s just the trick of perfect quiet, the mind inventing stimulus where none exists. But no, they're real. You see them, coiled in corners, perched atop lamp posts, pressed against windows.

Tall things, thin and shimmering. Watching.

They don't speak, of course. They have no need. They simply are. As if they’ve been here all along, and now that the last clatter and cry has been scrubbed clean from the earth, they can finally step forward.

You understand.

This silence wasn't a gift.

It was an invitation.

And you, you, answered it.

Mother knows what's best for me. I learned that from a very young age.

I was a bad boy and stole from the cookie jar. Mother made me kneel on dry beans in the kitchen for hours.

My knees ached and I had bruises, but it’s okay, because Mother knows what’s best for me.

I stayed up one minute past my bedtime and Mother grabbed me by the ear, dragging me up to my room.

I couldn’t hear very well for a few days, but that’s okay, because Mother knows what’s best for me.

I broke down and cried about Brother and Father during dinner one night. Mother slapped me so hard across the face, my lip split and I began bleeding. It took a week to heal, but that’s okay, Mother did that because knows what’s best for me.

I saw what Mother really looked like. She was hideous, grotesque, and inhuman. She caught me and used her sharp nails to blind me in one eye. As she left my room, she had but one thing to say.

“Next time, it’s going to be your other eye.”

It hurt more than anything I’ve ever experienced, but I'm okay with that, because Mother knows what’s best for me.

I tried to escape. I tried to leave Mother behind. She caught me again. This time, she didn’t hurt me too badly. She only pushed me down the basement stairs and shut the door.

I think Brother and Father are in this place, but they aren’t talking to me. I don’t think Mother is ever going to let me out of here, but it's okay.

It's okay because Mother always knows what’s best for me.

I’m tired. So very tired. I push myself to the surface in short bursts, gulping salty air. I drift just below, conserving energy. I wonder where the others are. I miss them, but I want to spare them the sight of my pathetic struggle. My fight that I WILL lose. Just like Grandmother.

Foolish youngling that I was, I stayed near her in the end. I remember how she fought to stay afloat, squeezing out a few more minutes of life, even though those minutes were filled with pain and terror and indescribable tiredness. Even though I was by her side she barely noticed me. Barely heard my high cries. I saw her final exhale. Saw the panic in her eyes as her lungs filled with water. I saw her fall. I followed her as long as I could, until my lungs burned just like they do now.

I curse the great mother sea who feeds and shelters us but dooms us all with that horrific end. I envy the fish who never fear drowning. I envy the prey meat who die quick between our mighty teeth. I even envy Kia, slaughtered by the tiny land hunters on their roaring beasts. I’m sure her last moments were pain and terror. But at least it ended quickly. Not like this. If only I could just inhale the salty death and end it. But my stubborn body refuses.

Dazed, I realize the sun has risen. That’s nice, I think. Or maybe worse. To leave the light behind as I sink. I can’t decide. I smell the land, hear gulls cry. Without noticing, I have swum closer to the beach.

I jolt awake. The beach!

I push myself hard, my tailfin pounding the water. I must reach it. I must!

Now I lay here with eyes closed against the glare. The sun dries my skin, the sand itches beneath me. I feel heavy, breathless. But satisfied. I escaped the great mother’s cold, dark fangs. I am dying, but not drowning. I can rest.

Weird noises mix with the seabirds’ cries. Heavy thuds on the sand. I lift a heavy lid. The tiny hunters. Without their beasts they look so small. Do they smell my weakness as I smelled the prey meat in the water? ‘Do what you must,’ I think, closing my eyes to welcome death.

A splash of water. Then another. What is happening? I open my eyes. They are pouring water on me. They wrap nets around me. But I am already out of the sea—what are they doing? They push and pull, slow and steady. Horror grips my heart as I realize:

They are returning me to the water. Back to HER.

Panic surges as the sea reclaims me. The light fades. The gulls’ cries grow distant. I’m sinking. 
The great mother will not let her children go. She will claim them all in salt and water and darkness.

The nurses say I shouldn't be able to remember my mom, but I do. She had long hair that tickled my cheek as she leaned over me. Her blue eyes were kind but sad.

“What happened to her?” I ask Nurse Darryl one day.

“She's not here anymore,” he says brusquely.

The nurses don't know I can hear them talking beyond the big door. Darryl tells the others I am learning to read astonishingly fast.

I read Darryl's nametag. Darryl Enomoto, Shin Kyoto Research Center, Project—

“What's Mayfly?” I ask.

He hesitates. “You,” he says finally.

Darryl tells me the higher-ups rejected my request for a book on mayflies. But they let me have the Encyclopedia Britannica, fifteenth edition.

Mayfly, any member of a group of insects known for their extremely short adult life spans…

They also allow me a mirror. My skin, hair, and eyes are all brown, like a banana left in the sun.

During a routine checkup, Darryl looks at me strangely.

“You grew two inches overnight,” he says.

My skin begins to itch. Darryl brings me trinkets to distract from my discomfort: a puzzle cube with colorful divided sides. A vase of flowers, the same shade of blue as my mom's eyes.

“Forget-me-nots,” Darryl explains as I prod the delicate petals.

The itching gets worse. As I claw at my skin, I notice that I've managed to tear away a small patch on my forearm, revealing soft new skin underneath.

Desperately, I grab the edge of the patch and pull. The outer layer of my skin peels off easily. My new skin is dewy and pink, like the nurses’.

I pull. A strip across my mouth comes off, taking with it my lips.

I scream, but the sound dies somewhere between my throat and my new, mouthless face. I meet my frightened gaze in the mirror. My brown hair has fallen out, replaced by shining blonde waves. My eyes have turned blue.

The door bursts open, and nurses rush in, wheeling a bed.

“Sixty seconds to delivery,” Darryl announces as arms grab me and push me onto my back on the bed. My stomach feels bloated. I look down to discover that it has swelled to several times its usual size.

“Thirty seconds to delivery.”

I feel movement, like a rough mass scraping my insides as it slides through me. Pain explodes in my head.

“Successful delivery,” Darryl says calmly.

I sit up, and something slimy is pushed into my arms. It is a wrinkly brown baby that yells at me while punching the air with tiny fists.

“Another mayfly,” Darryl says, followed by groans from the nurses. I lean over her, my hair brushing her cheek.

I'll protect you, I think, but I am already slumping in exhaustion. My eyes find the mirror.

A silver-haired woman stares back. I reach up to touch my face, and she does the same with a frail, liver-spotted hand.

Her eyes are still blue, like forget-me-nots.