After her unusual encounter with the authorities, Erin’s daily life slowly returned to that familiar unending loop of domestic ordinariness. Almost. She found she wore an extra layer of invisible clothing in the form of a lingering dread that draped itself over her like a shroud. It made her peaceful surroundings seem too fragile, almost as if something colossal was lurking behind the facade of her interpretation of reality. And then there were the nights.
Sleep was fitful because her dreams, usually benign and sometimes ridiculous scenarios with family and friends, returned to the night terrors of her youth that had taken months of therapy to banish back into the nightmare realm. Each night as her head touched pillow, she found herself standing before the gaping mouth of the crater that was described to her in that godawful email—a swirling abyss of torment, ringed by brimstone and flames that danced like the tortured souls of the damned. As she peered into the darkness, voices whispered incomprehensible words that tore at her soul and upended the equilibrium of her sanity. Waking to a mouth full of bile and wrapped in sweat-soaked bedsheets had become her daily norm.
And these nightly horrors weren’t confined to her sleep. One evening, while making dinner, Erin happened to glance out of the kitchen window to spotted what appeared to be shadowy figures darting through the trees in her backyard. At first, she dismissed it as neighborhood kids playing pranks or even deer that had wandered close to the house. But the way the figures moved—stuttering in and out of the twilight like glitches in a video—chilled her to the bone.
Even her family sensed things weren’t quite right. Her youngest, Emily, was suddenly besieged by nightmares so terrible that she refused to let go of her wubby—a teddy bear that became her constant guardian against unseen threats. Mark, who managed to sleep undisturbed by Erin’s restless nights, initially scoffed at her concerns, chalking them up to the stress-induced side effects of her nocturnal reading habits.
“Thrillers before bedtime? What did I tell you about that?” her husband chuckled, attempting to dispel the growing tension with humor. Yet, even his skepticism faltered as their home began to act out. Appliances flickered and malfunctioned spontaneously, the television spat out bizarre, unlisted programs, and their cellphones dialed out sequences of numbers with eerie precision—the Fibonacci series and pi extending into infinity.
The culmination came on a stormy night with Mark away on business. Alone, Erin tucked the children into bed, their faces pinched with anxiety, assurances of “their father’s return”Daddy will be coming home soon” doing little to comfort them. The wind’s mournful howl accompanied the house’s groans under the cold’s grip.
Then, a sudden bang shook the foundation, emanating from the basement. Heart racing, Erin armed herself with a flashlight, her only weapon, and descended into the bowels of their home.
A strange glow welcomed her, emanating from an old bookshelf cluttered with the relics of their pre-parental lives. Amidst the dust and cobwebs, one item beckoned—a journal adorned with arcane symbols, its pages filled with an indecipherable script. A photograph slipped from between its pages, depicting the very crater from her nightmares, with chilling words scrawled beneath: “The choice has been made. The path is now open.”
Heart pounding, Erin clutched the journal and raced upstairs, securing every lock. Her mind whirled with frightful possibilities, none offering solace. Dawn’s first light found her resolute yet terrified. Unwittingly, she had turned a key in a lock she hadn’t known existed.
Though the shadows of the night were formidable, they were mere whispers compared to the storm brewing within Erin. The path might have been set by forces unknown, but Erin Kamoche, propelled from passive obscurity into an unfolding nightmare, knew one thing: she must close the door she had opened, no matter the cost.
Not. The. End.
MADD FICTIONAL 