"The USB Drive That Ruined My Peace":
I never thought a late-night scroll could turn my life upside down. It was just another evening, my laptop glowing in the dark as I sipped coffee, diving into a forum about local secrets and conspiracies. I’ve always been the curious type, the kind who can’t let a mystery go. That night, a thread about GreenTech Industries, a big company in my town, grabbed me. The post claimed they were dumping toxic waste into the river that supplied our water. People were getting sick, fish were dying, and the company was supposedly covering it all up. I couldn’t shake it. I had to know more.
I started with a basic search, typing “GreenTech Industries pollution” into my browser. The results were all fluff—articles about their “innovative solar panels” and “community grants.” Their website was a glossy showcase of smiling employees planting trees and shaking hands with local leaders. Their social media? Picture-perfect, with posts about charity runs and green tech awards. It felt staged, like a mask hiding something ugly. I wasn’t convinced.
I dug deeper, pulling up public records on a government database. My eyes burned from staring at the screen, but I found a report from six years ago. GreenTech had been fined for “minor safety violations” at one of their plants. Nothing about toxic waste, though. It was too small, too clean. Companies like that don’t get caught unless they’re careless, I thought. Maybe they’d gotten better at hiding things.
I joined an environmental group on a social media platform, a small one with locals who cared about the river. I posted a vague question: “Anyone heard rumors about GreenTech polluting?” Most replies were shrugs or rants about other companies, but then a private message popped up from someone called “ShadowLeaf22.” Their profile was bare, just a default avatar. “I worked at GreenTech,” they wrote. “Saw them dump chemicals in the river. I have proof, but I’m scared. You want it?” My pulse quickened. This was it—a real lead.
We messaged back and forth. ShadowLeaf22 was nervous, saying they’d been fired after asking too many questions. “They watch people,” they wrote. “Be careful.” They promised to send evidence if I swore to keep their name out of it. I agreed, my fingers trembling as I typed. A few days later, I found a plain USB drive in my mailbox, no note, no return address. My apartment felt too quiet as I plugged it in. The screen lit up with files: grainy photos of workers in hazmat suits tipping barrels into the river at night, timestamps showing dates from the past year. There were emails too, internal ones between managers, joking about “cheaper disposal methods” and “keeping regulators off our backs.” One line stuck with me: “No one’s looking. We’re safe.” I felt sick.
I called my friend Jamie, who works in a law office and knows about environmental cases. “This is huge,” he said over the phone, his voice low like he was afraid someone might hear. “Those emails, those photos—if they’re real, GreenTech’s done. But you’re poking a bear. Companies like this don’t mess around.” I told him I just wanted the truth out. “Then verify it,” he said. “And watch your back.”
I spent days cross-checking the files. The photos had metadata—dates, locations near the river. I found a map online and matched the spot to a secluded bend where GreenTech had a facility. The emails mentioned real names, people listed on the company’s website as executives. It all lined up. I decided to write a blog post, laying out the evidence with the photos and emails, but keeping ShadowLeaf22 anonymous. I hesitated before hitting publish, my cursor hovering over the button. What if Jamie was right? What if this was too big? But I thought of the river, the people drinking tainted water. I clicked.
The post exploded. Shares, comments, angry emojis—it spread like wildfire. By morning, a local news site had picked it up, quoting my blog. Strangers messaged me, thanking me for exposing GreenTech. I felt a rush, like I was finally making a difference. But that night, an email landed in my inbox. No sender name, just a string of random characters. “You’re digging where you shouldn’t. Stop now.” My stomach twisted. Just a troll, I told myself. The internet’s full of them.
Then more came. “We know your address.” “Your family’s not safe.” Each one was worse, more specific. One mentioned the coffee shop I went to every morning. Another described my bike, the red one I rode to work. I started sleeping with the lights on, checking my windows obsessively. I showed Jamie the messages at his place, my hands shaking as I scrolled through them. “This is bad,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You need to go to the police. Now.” I argued it wasn’t enough for cops—anonymous emails, no hard proof. “You’re being stubborn,” he snapped. “This isn’t a game. People get hurt over stuff like this.”
I didn’t listen. I kept digging, desperate to find more. I searched for whistleblowers tied to GreenTech and found an old article, buried deep in a news archive. A former employee, someone who’d tried to report illegal dumping, had disappeared before their court date. The story was vague—no body, no answers, just a photo of a nervous-looking man in his 30s. My chest tightened. Was that what waited for me?
The harassment got worse. My email was hacked, my password changed overnight. I got locked out of my social media for hours. My phone rang at 2 a.m., blocked numbers with nothing but heavy breathing when I picked up. One night, walking home from work, I heard a car engine idling behind me. A black sedan with tinted windows crept along the street. I quickened my pace, my heart hammering. When I glanced back, it sped off, tires screeching. The next morning, I found a note taped to my apartment door, written in sharp, blocky letters: “Last chance to walk away.” I stood there, frozen, the paper shaking in my hand.
I messaged ShadowLeaf22, begging for help, advice, anything. But their account was gone, deleted without a trace. Panic set in. I was alone, and whoever was watching me knew it. The emails grew uglier, mentioning my sister, Claire, and her job at the library. “Claire works late Tuesdays, doesn’t she?” one said. I called her, my voice shaking. “Lock your doors,” I told her. “Don’t ask why, just do it.” She sounded confused but promised she would.
I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Every noise outside—a car door, a dog barking—made me jump. Then came the knock. It was late, past 11 p.m., and my apartment was dark except for the flicker of my laptop. I crept to the door, heart in my throat, and peeked through the peephole. A man stood there, mid-40s, in a crisp suit, his face calm but his eyes like ice. “Open the door,” he said, his voice steady, like he was ordering coffee. “We need to talk about your little blog.”
“Who are you?” I managed, my voice barely a whisper.
“GreenTech Industries. You know why I’m here.”
I gripped my phone, my thumb hovering over 911. “I took the post down,” I lied, trying to buy time.
He didn’t blink. “That’s not enough. You’ve got files, evidence. Delete them. All of them. Or things get worse.”
“Worse how?” I asked, my mouth dry.
“Your sister, Claire. She’s nice. Works at the library, right? Be a shame if something happened.” He said it so casually, like he was discussing the news.
I felt like I couldn’t breathe. “I’ll do it,” I said. “I’ll delete everything. Just leave us alone.”
“Prove it,” he said. “Destroy the USB, the files, all of it. Post a retraction online, say you made it up. Do it by tomorrow, or we’ll know.” He slid an envelope under the door and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the hall.
I opened it with trembling hands. Inside was a single sheet of paper with instructions: delete all evidence, post a public apology, never speak of GreenTech again. I sat on my couch, staring at the USB on my coffee table, its tiny silver body holding the truth. I thought of the whistleblower, the one who vanished. Was this how it started for him?
I didn’t sleep that night. My mind raced, replaying every threat, every detail. I wanted to give up, to make it stop, but something in me wouldn’t let go. GreenTech was poisoning people, and they were getting away with it. I couldn’t just walk away.
The next morning, I called Emma, a journalist I’d met at a community event. She’d written about local corruption before, tough stories that got people talking. We met at a diner, tucked in a corner booth. I told her everything—the USB, ShadowLeaf22, the emails, the man at my door. My voice shook as I handed her a copy of the files. “This is insane,” she said, scrolling through the photos on her laptop. “If this is real, it’s huge. But you’re in danger. You sure you want to keep going?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, stirring my coffee. “But if I stop, they win. The river’s still poisoned. People are still sick.”
She nodded, her face serious. “I’ve got contacts—cops, regulators. I can get you protection while I dig into this. But it’ll take time. Can you hold on?”
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure I could. Emma worked fast, verifying the files with experts, tracking down other whistleblowers who’d been silenced. She got me a police detail, a patrol car that parked outside my apartment at night. It helped, but not much. Every shadow felt like a threat.
Weeks later, Emma’s outlet published the story. It was everywhere—TV, radio, social media. “GreenTech Exposed: Toxic Dumping and Threats to Silence Critics,” the headline read. Protests erupted outside their headquarters. Regulators raided their facilities, finding barrels of chemicals hidden in a warehouse. Three executives were arrested, charged with environmental crimes and witness intimidation. The river cleanup started soon after.
I should’ve felt safe, but I didn’t. Even with the arrests, the fear lingered. I kept my curtains drawn, checked my locks three times a night. One evening, my phone buzzed with a new email. No sender, just one line: “You think this is over? We’re still here.”
I don’t know if it was GreenTech, a leftover lackey, or just someone messing with me. But I feel it every day—the eyes I can’t see, the steps behind me I can’t hear. I wanted the truth, and I got it. I helped stop them. But I also learned that some rabbit holes don’t let you climb out. Not completely. Every creak in my apartment, every stranger who lingers too long, reminds me: they’re still watching.
"What Slenderman Took":
I was twelve, sprawled on my bedroom floor with a bowl of popcorn between my knees, the faint glow of my nightlight casting shadows on the walls. Morgan and Anissa, my best friends since we were little, were over for a sleepover. We’d spent years sharing secrets, laughing over dumb jokes, and sneaking extra cookies from my kitchen. But the last few months, things had changed. They’d started talking about this thing—Slenderman. Some creepy figure from the internet, tall, faceless, with long arms that didn’t look human. At first, I thought it was just a game, like when we’d tell ghost stories with flashlights under our chins. But they weren’t playing.
Morgan sat across from me, her dark hair messy, picking at the hem of her hoodie. She hadn’t smiled all night. “Payton, you don’t understand,” she said, her voice low, almost a whisper. “Slenderman’s real. He’s been watching us. I saw him outside my window last week.”
I forced a laugh, but it came out shaky. I grabbed a handful of popcorn, the kernels crunching too loud in the quiet room. “Come on, Morgan. It’s just a story. Like, something people made up online. You know that, right?”
Anissa was on my bed, scrolling on her phone, her glasses slipping down her nose. She didn’t look up, but her voice cut through the air. “It’s not a story, Payton. We’ve read stuff. Forums, chats, people who’ve seen him. He talks to us. He says we have to do something big to prove we’re loyal.”
My stomach twisted, like I’d eaten something bad. They’d been weird for weeks—whispering to each other when they thought I wasn’t listening, showing me creepy drawings of a stick-thin figure in a suit. I didn’t like it, but they were my friends. I didn’t want to lose them. “Guys, let’s talk about something else,” I said, reaching for the remote. “There’s a new movie on. Or we can play a game.”
Morgan’s eyes locked on mine, unblinking. “We can’t ignore him. If we don’t do what he wants, he’ll come for our families. Your mom, your little brother. Don’t you care?”
I froze, the remote slipping from my hand. It hit the carpet with a soft thud. “What are you talking about?” My voice was small, barely mine. “You’re scaring me.”
Anissa pushed her glasses up and sat forward, her phone forgotten. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the park. The woods behind it. He’ll be there. He told us we have to go, and you’re coming with us.”
My heart started pounding, loud in my ears. The park was fine during the day—kids on swings, moms pushing strollers—but the woods? They were dark, full of twisted trees and shadows that moved when you weren’t looking. I’d only been in there once, on a dare, and I’d run out after hearing a branch snap. “Can’t we just stay here?” I said, my mouth dry. “My mom’s making pancakes tomorrow. She’ll put chocolate chips in them.”
Morgan leaned closer, her hand grabbing my wrist. Her fingers were cold, tight, like she wasn’t letting go. “No, Payton. We’re going. You don’t get to say no.”
I yanked my arm back, rubbing where her nails had pressed into my skin. My eyes darted to the door. I wanted to run downstairs, tell my mom everything, but she was probably asleep on the couch, some old sitcom playing on the TV. I felt trapped, like the walls of my room were closing in. “Okay,” I mumbled, my voice barely audible. “I’ll go.”
That night, I didn’t sleep. I lay in my sleeping bag, staring at the ceiling, listening to Morgan and Anissa whisper on the other side of the room. Their voices were low, urgent, words like “prove” and “Slenderman” slipping through the dark. I clutched my pillow, my heart racing every time they paused, like they were checking if I was awake. I kept my eyes half-closed, pretending to sleep, but my mind wouldn’t stop spinning. What did they mean, “prove ourselves”? Why did they need me?
Morning came too fast. I woke up to Morgan standing over me, her backpack already on. “Get up,” she said, her voice flat. “We’re leaving now.”
Anissa was by the door, tying her sneakers, her face blank like she was thinking about something else. I sat up, my body heavy, like I hadn’t slept at all. “Can’t we eat breakfast first?” I asked, hoping to stall. My mom was in the kitchen, clattering pans, the smell of coffee drifting upstairs.
“No,” Morgan said, sharper this time. “We’re going now.”
I pulled on my jeans and a hoodie, my hands shaking as I tied my sneakers. My mom called up, “You girls heading out? Be back by lunch!” I wanted to scream, to tell her not to let me go, but Morgan was watching me, her eyes like needles. “Yeah, Mom,” I called back, my voice wobbling. “We’re just going to the park.”
The walk to the park felt like it took forever. Nobody talked. My sneakers scuffed the sidewalk, the sound too loud in the silence. Morgan walked ahead, her shoulders stiff, like she was on a mission. Anissa stayed close to me, her elbow brushing mine, like she was making sure I wouldn’t run. The park came into view—empty swings, a slide glinting in the light, and beyond it, the woods. A wall of trees, dark and tangled, like they were waiting for us.
I stopped at the edge of the grass, my feet refusing to move. “Guys, I don’t want to go in there,” I said, my voice shaking. “Let’s just stay by the swings. Please.”
Anissa turned to me, her face hard. “You’re not backing out, Payton. This is for Slenderman. We have to do this.”
My throat tightened. “Do what? What are we even doing?”
Morgan didn’t answer. She just kept walking, straight into the woods. Anissa grabbed my arm, her fingers digging in, pulling me forward. I stumbled, my sneakers catching on roots, branches scraping my arms. The deeper we went, the darker it got. The trees closed in, their leaves rustling like whispers. My heart was hammering now, my breath coming in short gasps. I kept looking back, hoping to see the park, but it was gone, swallowed by the trees.
We stopped in a small clearing, the ground covered in dead leaves and twigs that snapped under my feet. Morgan dropped her backpack and unzipped it, her movements slow, deliberate. My stomach dropped when I saw her pull out a knife. The blade was long, shiny, the kind my dad used to cut vegetables, but in her hand, it looked wrong. Deadly.
“What are you doing?” I whispered, my voice breaking. I took a step back, but Anissa was right behind me, her hands clamping onto my shoulders.
“It’s okay,” Morgan said, her voice calm, almost soft, like she was talking to a scared animal. “This is what he wants. If we do this, he’ll leave us alone. He’ll keep our families safe.”
Tears burned my eyes. I shook my head, my whole body trembling. “Morgan, please. Don’t. We’re friends. You don’t have to do this.”
She stepped closer, the knife steady in her hand. Anissa’s grip tightened, her nails biting into my skin. “Just stay still,” Anissa said, her voice cold. “It’ll be over quick.”
I screamed, twisting to break free, but Anissa was too strong. My arms flailed, grabbing at air, my sneakers slipping on the leaves. “No! Stop! Please!” I begged, tears streaming down my face. “I don’t want to die!”
The first stab hit my side, a sharp, burning pain that stole my breath. I gasped, my knees buckling, but Anissa held me up. Morgan stabbed again, and again, each cut like fire ripping through me. I tried to scream, but my voice was gone, just a choking sound. Blood soaked my hoodie, warm and sticky, pooling on the ground. I lost count of the stabs—ten, fifteen, more. My vision blurred, the trees spinning, Morgan’s face fading in and out.
They let me fall. My body hit the dirt, leaves sticking to my cheek. I heard Morgan wipe the knife on her jeans, the sound sharp and final. Anissa whispered, “It’s done. He’ll be happy now.” Their footsteps crunched away, fading into the trees, leaving me alone.
I wasn’t dead. I should’ve been, but I wasn’t. The pain was everywhere, my body heavy, like it was sinking into the ground. I clawed at the dirt, my fingers digging into the earth, dragging myself forward. Every move hurt, every breath burned, but I couldn’t stop. I had to get out. I thought of my mom, my little brother, waiting at home. I couldn’t let them win.
I don’t know how long I crawled. Minutes, maybe hours. My arms shook, my vision went dark at the edges, but I kept going, inch by inch, over roots and rocks. The woods seemed endless, but then I saw light—a path. I collapsed there, my cheek pressed against the cold ground, blood soaking into the dirt.
A man’s voice broke through the haze. “Oh my God, kid! Hold on!” He was a biker, his face blurry as he knelt beside me. He shouted for help, his phone pressed to his ear. Sirens came next, loud and close. Hands lifted me, gentle but urgent, onto a stretcher. Lights flashed, voices overlapped. “Nineteen stab wounds,” someone said later, like it was a fact from a book. Nineteen. I shouldn’t have survived.
In the hospital, my mom held my hand, her face wet with tears. I couldn’t talk much, not with the tubes and bandages. The scars are still there—jagged lines across my stomach, my chest, my arms. They itch sometimes, a reminder of that day. Morgan and Anissa were caught, saying Slenderman made them do it, like he was real, like he’d whispered in their ears. They believed in a lie, and it almost killed me.
I don’t go to the park anymore. I don’t trust sleepovers, or friends who get too quiet, too strange. The fear never leaves, not really. It’s not about monsters or ghosts—it’s about people. People who can look at you, smile, call you their friend, and then hold a knife to your heart. That’s the kind of horror that stays, the kind that doesn’t need a faceless man to make you afraid.
"Miscount":
I stood on the dive boat, my fins heavy, the ocean stretching out endlessly around us. My partner was next to me, adjusting their mask, their eyes bright with excitement. “This is it,” they said, grinning. “The Great Barrier Reef. Can you believe we’re here?”
I smiled back, my heart racing. “It’s unreal,” I replied, tightening the straps on my air tank. The crew moved around us, checking gear, their safety briefing sharp and clear: stay with the group, check your air every ten minutes, signal if you’re in trouble. I nodded, but my mind was on the water below, shimmering, calling us to explore its depths.
We slipped beneath the surface for our first dive, and it was like stepping into a painting. The water was crystal, sunlight cutting through in golden beams. Fish darted past, their scales flashing red, blue, and yellow, like tiny bursts of color. Coral gardens sprawled below, jagged and alive, home to creatures I’d only seen in books. A sea turtle drifted by, its flippers slow, its eyes calm and ancient. My partner pointed, bubbles streaming from their regulator, and I gave a thumbs-up, my mask fogging from my grin.
We surfaced after forty minutes, laughing as we climbed back onto the boat. “That clownfish!” my partner said, peeling off their mask. “It was guarding that anemone like it owned the place.”
“I know!” I said, wiping salt from my face. “And that coral wall? Like an underwater city.” We ate sandwiches, swapped stories with other divers, the boat rocking gently. The crew was relaxed, joking, promising the second dive would be even better.
The second dive took us deeper, along a reef slope where coral plunged into a shadowy abyss. We followed the group, marveling at a school of barracuda, their bodies glinting like silver knives. My partner tapped my arm, pointing to a spotted ray half-buried in the sand, its gills pulsing. We hovered, watching, until it was time to surface. My legs were tired, but my mind buzzed. “One more dive,” I said as we swapped tanks. “Let’s make it count.”
They nodded, eyes gleaming. “Let’s hit that drop-off. It looked incredible.”
The crew approved our route, marking it on a map. “Stay near the reef,” the dive leader said. “We’ll pick you up in an hour.” We checked our gear—tanks full, regulators working, dive computers green. Then we dove in, the water swallowing us whole.
The drop-off was stunning. The reef fell away into darkness, a coral cliff teeming with life. We drifted along its edge, chasing a school of parrotfish, their green bodies weaving through the water. I checked my air: still good. My partner signaled to keep going, and I agreed, lost in the moment. We ventured further, the group’s bubbles fading behind us. A reef shark glided below, its movements slow but unsettling. I pointed, and my partner gave an “it’s fine” signal. We kept exploring, caught in the reef’s spell.
When we surfaced, the boat was gone.
I tore off my mask, spinning in the water, scanning the horizon. Nothing but ocean, flat and endless. My chest tightened. “Where’s the boat?” I said, my voice sharp, nearly lost in the waves.
My partner surfaced, pulling off their mask. “Maybe it’s just over that swell,” they said, squinting. “They can’t be far.”
We floated, life vests keeping us up, fins dangling in the deep. The sun burned my face, salt crusted my lips. Minutes dragged—ten, twenty, thirty. No engine sound, no white hull, nothing. My stomach twisted. “They can’t just leave us,” I said, trying to stay calm.
“They’ll come back,” my partner said, but their voice shook. “Maybe they’re picking up others first.”
We linked arms to stay together, kicking to keep our heads up. The reef was gone, the ocean too vast. My mouth grew dry, my skin tight from the sun. An hour passed. Then two. My partner kept scanning, their breaths quick. “They’ll notice,” I said, more to myself. “They do headcounts. They have to.”
But doubt crept in, cold and heavy. What if they miscounted? What if they thought everyone was onboard? My dive computer beeped—low battery, useless now. My legs ached from treading water. “We need to stay calm,” my partner said, gripping my arm. “Panicking burns energy. They’ll realize we’re missing.”
Night fell, and the darkness was suffocating. The ocean turned black, merging with the sky, leaving us in a void. Something brushed my leg—seaweed, I hoped, but my heart pounded. “Did you feel that?” I whispered.
“Yeah,” my partner said, their voice small. “Just a fish, right?”
We both knew better. The water was too deep, too alive. I scanned the surface, my breath catching as a fin broke through, maybe thirty feet away. A shark, circling slow. My stomach dropped. “Don’t move,” I hissed.
“It’s just curious,” my partner said, their hand trembling in mine. The fin dipped below, then reappeared, closer. I wanted to scream, to swim, but that would draw it in. We stayed still, hearts racing, until it vanished.
Morning came, and my throat was raw, my tongue like sandpaper. My partner’s face was blistered, their lips cracked. “I saw a boat,” they mumbled, pointing at nothing. “Over there.”
I looked, hope flaring, then dying. Empty waves. “There’s nothing,” I said softly, touching their shoulder. They were slipping, hallucinating. My skin burned, my lips bled when I moved them. The ocean didn’t care—it just stretched on, endless.
“Talk to me,” I said, desperate to keep us sharp. “What’s the first thing you’ll do when we’re back?”
They smiled weakly. “Burger. Biggest one, extra cheese. You?”
“Shower. Hot water, forever.” I forced a laugh, but it died fast. Another fin appeared, joined by a second. The sharks were bolder, their shapes clear in the water, eyes cold. My partner’s gaze was distant, their body heavy in my arms.
Another day blurred by, or maybe two. Time lost meaning. My partner stopped talking, their head lolling. I shook them, my voice hoarse. “Stay with me. Please.” They didn’t answer, their breaths shallow. I held them close, my strength fading, legs numb. The sharks circled closer, three now, their fins slicing the water. I whispered, “We’re okay,” but it was a lie.
Then, a sound—a faint hum. I blinked, my vision blurry, thinking it was another hallucination. But it grew louder, an engine. A boat appeared, small at first, then closer, its hull white against the blue. I waved, my arm heavy, screaming through my cracked throat. “Here! We’re here!”
The boat slowed, figures leaning over the side. “We’ve got them!” someone shouted. Hands pulled me aboard, wrapping me in a blanket. I looked back, my partner still in the water, limp. “Get them!” I croaked, pointing. They hauled my partner up, their body pale, unmoving. Someone pressed on their chest, shouting, “Come on, breathe!”
I sat, shivering, watching as they worked. My partner coughed, water spilling from their mouth, their eyes fluttering open. Relief hit me like a wave, but it was fleeting. We were alive, but the ocean’s weight lingered in my chest. The crew muttered apologies, something about a miscount, their faces pale. I didn’t care. I held my partner’s hand, their grip weak but there.
The boat carried us back, the reef fading behind us. But the memory of that vast, indifferent ocean, and the sharks circling in the dark, stayed with me, a shadow I couldn’t shake.
"A Monster in Plain Sight":
I was sixteen, living in a rundown house in Salisbury, a rough corner of Adelaide where the streets felt heavy with despair. Our place was a mess—peeling wallpaper hung in strips, the kitchen sink overflowed with dirty dishes, and the air always carried the stale mix of cigarette smoke and cheap beer. Mum worked double shifts at the supermarket, her face lined with exhaustion, barely scraping enough to pay the bills. My half-brother, Dave, was twenty-two, broad-shouldered, with a temper that flared like a match. He’d pin me against the wall for no reason, his breath hot and sour, snarling, “You’re nothing, you know that? Just a waste of space.” I’d shrink under his glare, heart racing, wishing I could disappear. Home wasn’t safe, not with him around.
Then John came into our lives. He lived a few streets over in a tidy brick house that stood out against the cracked pavement and overgrown yards. He was in his thirties, muscular, with a buzz cut and a snake tattoo curling up his forearm, the ink faded but sharp. He started showing up at our place, carrying bags of groceries or tools to fix our leaking sink. “No worries, love,” he’d say to Mum, flashing a wide smile that made her blush. She trusted him, grateful for the help. I did too, at first. He was different from Dave—kind, steady, like he saw me. He’d sit on our sagging couch, sipping tea, and ask about school or what I wanted to do with my life. When I mumbled about Dave’s fists, John’s jaw tightened. “Nobody should treat you like that,” he said, his voice low, eyes serious. “Some people need to learn respect.”
John started taking me out, just to get me away from the house. We’d grab burgers at a greasy diner or cruise around in his old white van, the radio blasting rock tunes. The seats were worn, and the dashboard was cluttered with cigarette packs and loose change. He’d talk about the world, how it was broken, how people like pedophiles and creeps slipped through the cracks. “The cops don’t do enough,” he’d say, fingers drumming the steering wheel. “Sometimes you gotta take justice into your own hands.” His words hit me hard. I’d been hurt before, by someone Mum never knew about, someone who’d left scars I couldn’t talk about. John seemed to sense it, like he could read my silence. “You’re safe with me,” he said once, clapping a hand on my shoulder. I believed him. I wanted to.
One evening, after Mum had crashed on the couch, the TV flickering with some late-night show, John pulled me aside in the kitchen. The fluorescent light buzzed above us, casting shadows on his face. “I’m working on something big,” he whispered, leaning close enough that I could smell his aftershave. “Cleaning up the streets, getting rid of the worst kinds of people. You in?” His eyes locked on mine, cold but steady, like he was testing me. My throat tightened, but I nodded. I didn’t know what he meant, not really, but I wanted to be part of something. I wanted him to keep looking at me like I was worth something.
Things changed after that. John started calling me for “jobs.” At first, it was simple—watching a house down the street, noting who came and went. We’d sit in his van, parked under a streetlight, and he’d point out a guy in a hoodie. “That one’s bad news,” he’d say, voice calm but hard. “Hurts kids. We’re just keeping an eye out.” I believed him, especially after what I’d been through. It felt right, like we were doing good. But my stomach started to knot each time he called.
One night, he drove me to a rundown house on the edge of town. The windows were boarded, and the yard was choked with weeds. “Wait in the van,” he said, tossing me a can of soda. The metal was cold against my palm. He went inside with Robert, a quiet guy who sometimes came with us. Robert was lanky, with a shaved head and a stare that made my skin crawl, like he was sizing me up. They were gone for hours. I sat there, the soda going warm, my heart thumping every time a car passed. When John finally came back, his shirt was wrinkled, and he smelled like sweat and something sharp, like bleach. “All done,” he said, sliding into the driver’s seat. He didn’t look at me, just started the engine. I wanted to ask what happened, but the words stuck in my throat. My gut told me I didn’t want to know.
People started disappearing. First, it was a neighbor, a guy who’d always creeped me out, always lingering near the park. Then a friend of Dave’s, some loudmouth who hung around the pub. Mum noticed too. One morning, she stormed into Dave’s room and found photos—creepy ones, of kids, hidden in a shoebox. Her scream echoed through the house. “Get out! Get out of my house!” she yelled, throwing his clothes at him. Dave grabbed his bag and left, his face red with rage. I never saw him again. I told John about it later, my voice shaky. He just nodded, like it wasn’t news to him. “We’ll handle it,” he said, his hand resting on my shoulder, heavy and warm. That word—“we”—made my chest tight. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t say anything. John called me “family” now, and it felt good to belong, even if it scared me.
The jobs got darker. John started asking me to do more, like carrying bags to his van or standing watch while he and Robert went into places I wasn’t allowed. One night, he took me to an old bank in Snowtown, an hour’s drive from home. The building was abandoned, its windows cracked and boarded, the sign faded to nothing. The air inside was thick, heavy with a sweet, sickening smell that made my stomach churn. “Just a quick stop,” John said, unlocking a side door with a key he shouldn’t have had. His flashlight cut through the dark, showing dust-covered counters and broken tiles. He led me to a vault, its rusted door creaking as he pulled it open. The smell hit me harder—rotting, chemical, like something dead soaked in poison. I saw barrels, big plastic ones, stacked in the corner, their lids sealed tight.
“What’s in those?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. My heart was pounding so hard I thought I’d be sick. John turned, his face half-lit by the flashlight, his eyes cold as stone. “You’re part of this now, Jamie,” he said, stepping closer. “You wanted to help, right?” His voice was calm, but it felt like a threat. I froze, my legs like jelly. I didn’t know what he meant, but I knew it was wrong, so wrong it made my skin crawl. “I... I need air,” I stammered, backing toward the door. He didn’t stop me, just watched, his silhouette looming in the dark. I stumbled outside, gasping, the smell clinging to my clothes.
I couldn’t sleep after that. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those barrels, smelled that stench, imagined what was inside. I started ignoring John’s calls, locking my door when he came by. He’d stand in the yard, all smiles, chatting with Mum like nothing was wrong, but I’d hide in my room, heart racing. I kept thinking about the people who’d vanished, the way John’s voice had changed in that vault. I started wondering if Dave’s disappearance wasn’t just him running off.
Then the news broke. Police swarmed Snowtown, their cars clogging the quiet streets. The TV showed reporters outside that bank, talking about bodies—twelve of them—found in barrels filled with acid. Some were people John knew, people I’d seen. Dave was one of them. The news said John and his friends, Robert and another guy, had been killing for years, targeting anyone they thought deserved it—neighbors, friends, even family. They’d tortured them, dissolved them, hidden them in that vault. I felt sick, my hands shaking as I watched. I’d been there. I’d stood in that room.
The cops came to our house a few days later, asking questions. I sat at the kitchen table, Mum crying beside me, as I told them everything—John’s jobs, the van, the bank. My voice cracked as I admitted how close I’d come to being part of it, how I’d trusted him. “You’re lucky,” one officer said, his face grim. “He had plans for you too.” The words hit like a punch. I couldn’t breathe, thinking about how John had called me family, how I’d almost followed him deeper.
Mum and I moved away, to a small flat far from Salisbury. The news kept talking about John and his group, how they’d been sentenced to life, no parole. But I couldn’t escape it. I’d lie awake, hearing John’s voice in my head, that calm, cold tone: “You’re part of this now.” I’d see those barrels, smell that stench, wonder how I hadn’t seen the monster in him sooner. I was free, but the guilt clung to me, heavy as the air in that vault. I’d wanted to belong, to feel safe, and I’d almost become something else, someone who could’ve helped fill those barrels. The thought still makes my skin crawl, and I know I’ll never forget the moment I realized the man I trusted was a killer, hiding his evil behind a smile.
"The Balcony Visitor":
I was 11 years old when it happened, living in a small two-story house in a quiet neighborhood where nothing bad ever seemed to happen. Our house was old but cozy, with creaky wooden floors and a wraparound balcony on the second floor. My bedroom was up there, with big sliding glass doors that opened onto the balcony. I loved those doors—they let in light and made my room feel bigger. On warm summer nights, I’d leave them slightly open to catch the breeze, even though my mom always told me to lock them. That day, I’d forgotten her advice.
The day started like any other. I woke up late, around 10 AM, because it was summer vacation. I shuffled downstairs in my pajamas, poured myself a bowl of cereal, and ate it while watching cartoons. My parents were both at work—my dad at his office job, my mom at the hospital where she worked as a nurse. They’d left me home alone before, so I was used to it. I spent the morning playing video games, the kind where you build forts and fight off enemies. By noon, I was bored, so I called my mom to see when she’d be back.
“I’m picking up your dad later, so we’ll be home around 8,” she said over the phone. Her voice was tired but warm. “You okay there by yourself?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, trying to sound grown-up. “Just playing games.”
“Lock the doors, okay? And don’t open them for anyone.”
“I know, Mom,” I said, rolling my eyes even though she couldn’t see me.
After we hung up, I wandered around the house, feeling a little restless. I noticed small things—the way the kitchen clock ticked too loudly, the faint rustle of leaves outside. At one point, I thought I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel driveway. I peeked out the front window, but no one was there. Just my imagination, I told myself. Still, I double-checked the front door lock, just to be safe.
By late afternoon, I was tired. I’d been up late the night before reading comic books, so I decided to take a nap. I climbed the stairs to my room, flopped onto my bed, and fell asleep with the sunlight streaming through the glass doors. When I woke up, it was dark—7:30 PM, according to my alarm clock. The house was quiet, too quiet, and my parents still weren’t home. I felt a knot in my stomach but pushed it away. They’d be back soon.
I grabbed my flashlight and a comic book, propping myself up with pillows. The glass doors were still closed but unlocked from earlier when I’d gone out to water the potted plants on the balcony. I didn’t think much of it—our neighborhood was safe, and the balcony was high off the ground. Who could even get up there? I started reading, the beam of my flashlight dancing across the pages.
Then I heard it—a soft thud on the balcony. My heart skipped a beat. It sounded like something heavy landing, not like a bird or a squirrel. I held my breath, listening. Another thud, then another. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate footsteps, right outside my room. My comic book slipped from my hands, landing on the blanket with a soft thump. I stared at the curtains covering the glass doors, my body frozen. The footsteps stopped, and for a moment, it was dead silent.
Then the curtain twitched, just a little, like someone was standing right there, brushing against it. My stomach churned. I wanted to scream, but my throat felt tight, like I couldn’t get air. “It’s nothing,” I whispered to myself, clutching the flashlight. But then the door handle jiggled—someone was trying to slide it open.
Panic hit me like a wave. I remembered leaving the doors unlocked. Oh no, oh no, oh no. I jumped out of bed, my bare feet cold on the wooden floor, and ran to the doors. My hands were shaking as I grabbed the handle and yanked it shut, just as a hand pushed from the other side. I clicked the lock into place, my fingers fumbling. Through the gap in the curtains, I saw him—a man in dark clothes, his face hidden in the shadows. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and his hand was still pressed against the glass.
“Hey, kid,” he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel. “Open this door. Now.”
I stumbled back, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst. “Go away!” I shouted, but my voice cracked, sounding small and scared.
He laughed, a cold, sharp sound that made my skin crawl. “Open it, or I’ll break this glass and come in anyway. You don’t want that, do you?”
I didn’t know what to do. My eyes darted around the room, looking for anything to protect myself. In the corner, I saw my old baseball bat, the one I hadn’t touched since I quit little league last year. I grabbed it, gripping it so tightly my knuckles turned white. “I’ll call the police!” I yelled, trying to sound brave.
“Go ahead,” he taunted. “They won’t get here in time.”
I backed up until I hit the wall, the bat trembling in my hands. My phone was on the nightstand, but it felt so far away. If I moved, would he hear me? Would he break the glass like he said? I could still see his shadow through the curtains, shifting slightly, like he was deciding what to do next. My mind raced with awful thoughts—what did he want? Was he going to take me? I’d heard stories on the news about kids going missing, and now it felt all too real.
The glass door rattled again, harder this time, like he was testing it. I stifled a whimper, pressing myself against the wall. I thought about running downstairs, but what if he broke in while I was gone? What if he was already inside somehow? Every creak of the house made me jump, every shadow seemed to move.
Then, suddenly, I heard a car pulling into the driveway. Headlights flashed across the balcony, cutting through the darkness. It had to be my mom. The man froze—I could tell because his shadow stopped moving. “You got lucky, kid,” he muttered, his voice dripping with anger. Then there was a loud crash, like he’d jumped off the balcony. I ran to the window, peering through the gap in the curtains. I saw a dark figure sprint across our lawn, his boots kicking up dirt, before he vanished into the woods behind our house.
I dropped the bat and bolted downstairs, my legs shaking so bad I almost tripped. The front door opened just as I reached it, and my mom stepped inside, her purse slung over her shoulder. “Mom!” I cried, throwing myself into her arms. “There was a man on the balcony! He tried to get in!”
Her face went pale, her eyes wide with shock. “What? Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” She grabbed my shoulders, looking me over like she was checking for injuries.
“No, I locked the door, and he ran when he saw your car,” I said, my voice shaking. Tears were streaming down my face now, and I couldn’t stop them. “He said he’d break the glass.”
“Oh my God,” she said, pulling me close. “You’re safe now. I’m here.” She grabbed her phone and dialed 911, her hands trembling as she spoke to the operator. “Yes, someone tried to break into our house. My son was alone. Please send someone now.”
Within minutes, two police cars pulled up, their lights flashing red and blue in the dark. The officers were kind but serious. One of them, a tall woman with short hair, knelt down to talk to me. “Can you tell me what happened?” she asked gently.
I told her everything—the footsteps, the hand on the glass, the man’s voice. My mom held my hand the whole time, squeezing it tight. The officers searched the balcony and the yard, shining their flashlights into the woods, but they didn’t find anyone. “He’s long gone,” one of them said. “But we’ll patrol the area tonight. You did the right thing, locking that door.”
They told us to keep everything locked and to call if we saw anything suspicious. After they left, my mom made me hot chocolate, but I could barely drink it. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” she said, her voice breaking. “I should’ve come home earlier.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said, but I was still scared. What if he came back?
The next morning, our neighbor Mrs. Johnson came over while I was eating breakfast. She was an older lady who always brought us cookies at Christmas. “I heard what happened,” she said, sitting at our kitchen table. “That’s terrifying. You know, I saw a strange man hanging around the neighborhood a few days ago. He was driving a blue truck, just like the one they mentioned on the news—the one linked to those child abductions.”
My mom’s face went white. “Child abductions?” she whispered. “You mean the cases in the next town over?”
Mrs. Johnson nodded. “Yeah. They haven’t caught him yet. I told the police about the truck, but they haven’t found it.”
I felt sick. Was that who was on our balcony? Someone who took kids? I pushed my cereal bowl away, my appetite gone.
After that night, everything changed. My parents installed new locks on every door and window, plus a security system with cameras. They never left me home alone again, not even for an hour. I started checking the locks obsessively, sometimes three or four times before bed. I’d lie awake at night, listening for footsteps, imagining that man’s shadow behind the curtains.
I begged my parents to let me take a self-defense class, and they agreed. The instructor taught us how to break free from a grab and how to use everyday objects as weapons. It made me feel a little stronger, but not much. I also started reading about home invasions online, learning tips like keeping a flashlight by your bed or hiding under it if someone breaks in. But no matter how much I prepared, the fear never went away completely.
Sometimes, I’d sit on my bed and stare at those glass doors, wondering what would’ve happened if my mom hadn’t come home when she did. Would he have broken the glass? Would I be one of those kids on the news? The thought made my chest tight, like I couldn’t breathe. Even now, years later, I can still hear his voice in my head, low and threatening: “You got lucky, kid.”
I learned something that night—safety isn’t guaranteed, not even in your own home. You can lock the doors, set alarms, and learn to fight, but there’s always a chance someone’s out there, waiting for a moment when you’re not ready. And that fear, that knowledge, never really leaves you.
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