Part 1 * Part 2 * Part 3 * Part 4 * Part 5

Erin left the house under the early morning twilight, her footsteps silent and swift. She penned a quick note for the family, vague about her whereabouts, and placed it on the fridge. As she drove through the quiet streets, the first rays of dawn cast long shadows, and she couldn’t help but notice the unusual quiet that had settled over the town. People moved like shadows, their faces drawn, eyes hollow. The usual morning greetings were absent, replaced by a palpable sense of weariness that seemed to mirror her own.

At the police station, Erin found Detective Mason Gray looking equally worn, his usually sharp gaze dulled by fatigue.

“Frankly, Mrs. Kamoche…”

“Erin, please, Detective Gray.”

“Erin,” Gray corrected himself, leaning forward, his eyes intense yet fatigued. “We’re at a dead end. The email’s metadata and the video file are littered with anomalies—distortions that defy anything I’ve seen before.”

Erin met his gaze, her voice firm despite the evident strain. “But you can’t dismiss the possibility of something more… sinister at play. Look at us—neither of us has had a decent night’s sleep. And it’s not just us, Detective. Driving here, it’s clear the entire town is on edge, probably plagued by similar nightmares and worse.”

Gray rubbed his temples, a gesture of concession. “It’s not only nightmares, that’s true. We’ve had an uptick in calls… disturbing ones. Reports of shadow figures, unexplained aggression, even claims of hearing voices suggesting…” He paused, struggling with the professional skepticism wrestling with the evidence before him. “Well, they’re suggesting harm. To themselves or others.”

Erin leaned in, “That email, the one with the video, I think it’s the key to all this. I’ve tried to access it again on my phone and different computers, but nothing works.”

“We’ve tried as well, here at the station. Your laptop acts like it’s locked itself down. Won’t open the file for anyone.”

“Then let me try,” Erin urged, her voice a mix of desperation and resolve. “If there’s even a chance we can find something to help, we have to take it. My family’s suffering, the town’s unraveling, and for all we know, this could have global implications.”

Gray studied her for a long moment, his skepticism warring with the stark reality of their bizarre situation. Finally, he nodded slowly. “Alright, Erin. Let’s see if you can unlock this thing.”

They retrieved Erin’s laptop from the property room. As soon as Erin opened the ominous email, a new video window popped up, revealing the puppet-masked figure.

“Ah, you return. You must have questions,” it stated, its voice distorted and mechanical, movements jerky, like a marionette caught in a grotesque dance.

“Damn right, I do,” Erin snapped, leaning in closer to the screen, her tone edged with frustration.

Detective Gray, noticing the activation of the webcam, subtly moved out of its range. He scribbled on a sticky pad and showed it to Erin without drawing the figure’s attention:

KEEP THE CONVERSATION GOING – GETTING DIGITAL FORENSICS TO TRACE SIGNAL

“Ask, and I will attempt to clarify, within the limits of my expression,” the figure responded smoothly.

“You told me pressing that button would destroy a gateway to hell, cutting off the source of earthly evils—hatred, war. Was that a lie?” Erin’s voice was sharp, demanding.

“There may have been a slight… miscommunication,” the figure’s voice faltered slightly.

“Miscommunication? What kind?” Erin pressed, her eyes narrowing.

“My mastery of your language is not flawless,” it replied. “The term I used, ‘Hell,’ was perhaps a mistranslation. I meant the place from which all evil originally emanated.”

“The birthplace of sin? You’re talking about the original sin?” Erin’s voice rose, incredulous.

“Precisely,” it confirmed.

“So, you’re telling me that you tricked me into destroying the Garden of Eden? Where Eve… where it all started?”

“I did not coerce nor deceive. You acted of your own volition. However, the consequences of such actions are profound and far-reaching.”

“But you misled me!” Erin’s accusation was fierce, her frustration boiling over.

“I am incapable of duplicity,” the figure maintained, its tone even, almost emotionless. “I merely presented you with a choice.”

Erin fought to keep her composure and the conversation alive, her mind racing with the implications of her actions—had she inadvertently undone a cornerstone of human mythology?

Despite their best efforts, the digital forensics team signaled from the doorway; the trace had yielded nothing. The signal, much like the figure’s true intentions, vanished into the ether, untraceable as if it had never existed.

As soon as the screen flickered and went dark, a sudden chill swept through the room. Erin and Gray exchanged a tense glance, each sensing that the disconnection of the call had somehow triggered another phenomenon.

“Did you feel that?” Erin whispered, wrapping her arms around herself as the temperature seemed to drop further.

Before Gray could respond, the lights in the room flickered violently, casting erratic shadows against the walls. The computers and monitors around them buzzed and glitched, displaying static and fragmented data that made no sense.

“It’s just a power surge,” Gray started, his voice betraying a hint of doubt, but he was cut off as a deep, resonant hum filled the air, vibrating through the very floor and walls of the station.

Erin’s eyes widened as she watched a spectral figure slowly materialize in the center of the room. It was translucent and shimmering, like a heat haze, its form vaguely human but constantly shifting, edges blurring into the air around it.

“This can’t be happening,” Gray muttered, reaching instinctively for his gun, only to stop as the figure began to speak, its voice echoing as if from a great distance.

“You cannot unring the bell,” it said, the voice ethereal and haunting. “What is done, cannot be undone, but the path forward remains yours to choose.”

As quickly as it had appeared, the apparition dissolved into the air, the hum fading away, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. The room slowly warmed back to its normal temperature, and the electronics stabilized.

Erin and Gray stood frozen, processing the encounter. Gray, a staunch skeptic until now, looked visibly shaken, his earlier disbelief crumbling under the weight of what they had just witnessed.

“We need to figure this out, and fast,” Erin said, her voice steady despite the shaking of her hands. “Whatever that was, it’s clear we’re not dealing with ordinary circumstances.”

Gray nodded, his expression grim. “Agreed. We’re way past ordinary. But what’s our next step? We can’t exactly call in the cavalry without sounding insane.”

“We need more information,” Erin insisted, her mind racing. “There’s someone who might help—Helen. She’s a librarian with knowledge about…well, things like this.”

“Helen?” Gray raised an eyebrow. “And you’re mentioning her just now because…?”

Erin exhaled sharply, frustration and exhaustion mingling in her tone. “Look, between trying to keep my family safe and dealing with whatever hell is breaking loose around us, I’ve had my hands full.”

“Fair enough,” Gray conceded, softening slightly. “Let’s go see this Helen. Maybe she can provide some context to all this madness.”

They drove to the library in Gray’s unmarked police car, the streets eerily quiet as they passed. Once inside the library, Erin approached the front desk, her anxiety mounting.

“I’m looking for Helen,” she told the librarian on duty, a young man who looked up from his computer with a puzzled expression.

“Helen?” he echoed, typing something briefly into his computer. “I’m sorry, but no one by that name works here. Are you sure you have the right library?”

Erin’s heart sank. “She has to be here. She’s been helping me with some… research.”

Gray stepped in, flashing his badge briefly. “Could you check again? This is important.”

The librarian scrolled through records, his brow furrowing. “No, there’s nobody named Helen employed at any of our branches. You might want to try checking elsewhere.”

As they walked back to the car, Erin’s mind reeled. “She was here, I swear. What is going on?”

Gray glanced at her, his face set in hard lines. “I don’t know, Erin, but it’s starting to look like every lead we chase ends up dead or disappears. We’re running out of time and options.”

Erin nodded, worry etched deeply into her features. “Then we need to think outside the box. If Helen’s gone into hiding, there’s got to be a reason. We need to figure out her connection to all this, and fast.”

Their conversation continued as they got back into the car, each lost in their own thoughts about the deepening mystery, aware that every moment they delayed, the shadow over their town grew darker.

---

Erin returned home with a heavy heart, the day’s revelations weighing on her. The house felt oppressively silent as she entered. A quick check revealed that the children’s rooms were empty, the beds unmade. Panic rising, she called out, only to be met with silence.

Descending the stairs to the living room, she found a note on the table in Ryan’s handwriting, simple yet ominous: “Don’t look for me.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She sprinted to the backyard, her worst fears realized: the garden gate swung open, leading into the dense woods known for their deep, unexplored shadows.

Erin stood frozen, the implications of Ryan’s disappearance crashing down on her. He was out there, alone, possibly drawn into the very heart of the darkness they had unwittingly unleashed. As the wind whispered through the trees, it seemed to carry a mocking taunt, a challenge.

Not. The. End.

Part 1 * Part 2 * Part 3 * Part 4

Erin tossed and turned, her dreams a kaleidoscope of dark visions and whispered threats. The image of a deep, cavernous fire and brimstone crater whose edges were lined with ominous, flickering shadows, played on repeat in her mind’s theater. Every now and then, the menacing androgynous figure from that fateful email, with their puppet mask and jerky movement appeared, their voice a distorted echo, taunting her about the insignificance of her existence and the glorious button she pressed that altered her importance in the greater scheme of things.

Gasping for air, she woke, the remnants of her nightmare clinging to her like cobwebs. Beside her, Mark was restless, his features twisted in discomfort, a rare sight for the usually sound sleeper. The digital clock displayed 3:07 AM—too early for morning, too late for any hope of peaceful sleep.

Silently, she slid out of bed and padded down the hall to check on the children. Each room she entered painted a similar picture of unrest. Emily clutched her wubby tightly, muttering about bogeyman shadows. In the next room, the twins, Jenny and Cindy, shared troubled whispers in their sleep, a symphony of disjointed fears. Bobby was the most physically restless, his small body thrashing under the covers as if battling unseen foes. But it was Ryan’s room that halted her heart—her oldest son, tears streaking his face, pleaded in a hushed, desperate tone, “Please don’t do that, please, please,” over and over to some invisible tormentor.

Erin reached out, shaking Ryan gently. “Ryan, wake up, honey.” But he was locked deep within his nightmare, unreachable. A chill swept through her as she stood helpless, her family’s torment a tangible presence in the room.

Returning to the master bedroom, Erin made a decision. She needed answers. Maybe the tome Helen had given her held some clue on how to protect her family, some ancient knowledge about warding off evil. She went to the study where she had last seen it, her movements hurried, driven by a rising panic.

But the tome was gone.

Erin searched frantically, pulling books off shelves, opening drawers, her heart pounding as each new second passed without any sign of the book. The house felt alive around her, the shadows deeper, the silence not empty but charged with a whispering malice.

Defeated, Erin slumped against the wall, her mind racing. The missing tome, the worsening nightmares—it was all spiraling out of control. On a sudden impulse, she raced to her laptop, which wasn’t in the den, as it had been confiscated by the authorities after the email incident. Fishing through her handbag, she found a business card and dialed Detective Mason Gray. He’d have access to laptop which still contained the original disturbing email. Maybe, just maybe, he had seen something in it that could help, some clue as to what was happening.

The phone rang, cutting through the stillness of the night. After several rings, a groggy voice answered, “Gray speaking.”

“Detective, it’s Erin Kamoche. I—I need your help,” Erin stammered, the urgency in her voice palpable even to her own ears.

There was a pause, a rustling of sheets. “Ms. Kamoche, it’s the middle of the night. Can this wait—”

“It can’t,” Erin interrupted, her voice firm despite the tears that threatened to spill. “Something’s happening. It’s about the email—the one with the video. There’s something off about my house, my kids, and I think it’s all connected. You still have my laptop; there might be something on it.”

Another pause. Then, a sigh. “Okay, I’ll look into it first thing in the morning. Meet me at the station at 8 AM.”

“Thank you,” Erin breathed out, a mix of relief and renewed fear as she hung up the phone.

As she turned to head back to bed, a sudden, chilling breeze swept through the room, and the faint sound of a child’s laughter echoed down the hallway. Erin froze, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. Whatever was haunting them was close—too close. And time was running out.

Not. The. End.

Part 1 * Part 2 * Part 3

The ancient tome Erin had borrowed from the library pressed like a leaden secret against her side as she returned home, the day’s light fading into early evening shadows. She opened the front door to find the hallway strangely dim, an unsettling peculiarity that had recently taken hold of her home. No matter how brightly she set the new bulbs, they only cast a feeble glow, as though the very atmosphere absorbed the light. Gone was the comforting chaos of family life; in its place hung a palpable tension, the air thick and stifling, as if the house itself were holding its breath.

From the shadows, Emily appeared, clutching her wubby tightly against her chest. Her sprint was not of excitement but of desperate relief, her small body colliding into Erin’s legs with a force that spoke more of fear than of affection.

“Mommy, you’re home,” Emily murmured, her voice muffled against Erin’s coat.

Erin lifted her daughter, peering over the child’s curly head to scan the living room. Mark was slouched on the sofa, his face drawn, dark circles under his eyes like bruises. The other four children were scattered about, their postures weary, each sunk into their own corners of quiet unease.

“That was a long walk,” Mark said, his voice devoid of its usual warmth.

“Longer than you’d think,” Erin replied, setting Emily down but keeping one hand firmly on her shoulder. The house felt different—charged with a silent, creeping dread.

Dinner was a mechanical affair. Emily’s favorite, basghetti, which was usually devoured, lay untouched as forks moved over plates with listless motions. The children’s eyes darted around the room, never settling, always skittish.

“So, I stopped by the library during my walk today,” Erin said, attempting to stitch some normalcy into the fraying evening.

“Library?” Mark’s response was half-hearted, his focus fading back to the untouched food.

“Research,” Erin murmured, her thoughts on the locked-away book filled with its dark lore. “I was looking for answers, maybe even a solution.”

Her eldest son, Ryan, suddenly pushed his chair back, the scrape against the tile sharp in the tense air. “May I be excused?”

Without waiting for an answer, he stalked off toward his room. Erin watched him go, her maternal instincts tingling with alarm. She excused herself and followed, pausing at Ryan’s closed door. Soft, urgent whispers seeped through the crack.

“Please, you have to stop,” Ryan’s voice trembled. “I don’t like it when you do that.”

Erin’s hand pressed against the cool wood, her heart pounding. She pushed the door open. Ryan—drenched in sweat, pulled his t-shirt down to cover his exposed abdomen—spun around, his face flushing with anger and embarrassment.

“Mom! What the heck?”

Erin’s eyes darted around the room—no phone, no computer. Just Ryan and a palpable swirl of tension. “Who were you talking to?”

“Nobody! Just leave me alone, okay?” His voice cracked, a mix of teenage indignation and something else—fear, perhaps.

Erin retreated but not before casting a lingering glance over the room. Everything seemed normal; yet, the normalcy felt like a veneer, thinly veiling something far more troubling.

The rest of the evening passed in strained silence. The children retreated to their rooms early, their goodnight hugs perfunctory. As Erin lay beside Mark later, the house’s usual nocturnal creaks seemed to whisper secrets. In the stillness, the house seemed to breathe uneasily, as if bracing against an unseen storm.

Erin closed her eyes, and the echoes of Ryan’s whispered pleas, You have to stop. I don’t like it when you do that, haunted the edges of her sleep.

Not. The. End.

Part 1 * Part 2

The morning after her harrowing discovery, Erin’s pursuit of understanding led her to the quiet refuge of the local library. Determined to arm herself with knowledge against the looming threat, she buried herself among ancient texts and modern treatises, piling her table high with books on mythology, occult practices, and religious exegesis. Each volume added to her fortress of paper and ink, a bulwark against the unknown.

“Quite the eclectic collection you’ve amassed,” a voice commented, tinted with a curious accent that Erin couldn’t quite place.

Turning sharply, Erin found herself facing a woman whose presence seemed almost otherworldly. Her eyes, a stormy blend of gray and green, suggested depths unfathomable. She was introduced by her name tag as Helen, the librarian, yet her attire spoke of ages past—flowing skirts, an embroidered blouse, and a pendant that bore the distinct marks of an ancient talisman.

“Do I know you?” Erin asked, her voice edged with caution.

“Not yet,” Helen responded, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes. “But your choice of literature—legends, apocalypses—suggests you’re either bracing for the end of days or have a penchant for the macabre.”

Chills traced Erin’s spine, tinged with the unsettling sensation that Helen was more aware than she appeared. “I’m looking for something… specific,” Erin conceded, opting for guarded honesty.

“Aren’t we all?” Helen mused, her gaze sharpening. “Your quest wouldn’t happen to involve a certain crater, would it?”

Erin’s heart thudded ominously. “How do you know about that?”

Ensuring their solitude with a glance, Helen leaned in, her voice a whisper of confidences. “I know that some gates, once opened, unleash things that ought to have remained hidden. And I know the path you’re on is fraught with dangers you can scarcely imagine.”

Stunned, Erin managed, “Who are you?”

“Once, I stood where you stand now, peering into the same abyss,” Helen confided, her tone heavy with ancient grief. “It cost me dearly, yet it also granted insights few ever glimpse.”

“What should I do?” Erin’s question was barely a breath.

Helen’s expression grew inscrutable. “The answer is never simple. But you will find clues where least expected—in tales dismissed as mere stories. Look beyond the obvious, delve into the realms of the forgotten.”

With a graceful motion, Helen retrieved a neglected book from a lower shelf and presented it to Erin. Its cover was plain, yet inside, Erin found a treasure trove of local myths, including a section titled ‘Cursed Sites and Their Origins.’

“Begin here,” Helen advised solemnly. “But beware, for knowledge is as perilous as it is potent. Ensure you are ready for the road ahead.”

“Thank you,” Erin replied, her mind racing with the gravity of their exchange.

With a knowing smile, Helen offered, “We will meet again, Erin Kamoche. Until then, let fate unfold as it must. Each choice leads you deeper; just be sure it’s a path you are prepared to follow to its end.”

With those cryptic parting words, Helen drifted back into the labyrinth of shelves, leaving Erin alone with her thoughts and the heavy tome in her hands—a tome that felt like the key to a door she was only now ready to open.

This was not merely a quest for answers; it was the beginning of a journey that promised enlightenment and peril in equal measure. As Helen’s words echoed in her mind, Erin realized with a mix of dread and resolve that she was now entwined in a narrative far greater and more dangerous than any she had ever imagined.

Not. The. End.

Part 1

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.

Erin Kamoche sat on a cold metal chair in a stark interrogation room. The glaring overhead light cast eerie shadows on the sterile white walls. Across from her sat Detective Mason Gray, his eyes squinting from years of scrutinizing the most puzzling of human behaviors.

“Please state your name for the record,” Gray said, his voice clipped and businesslike as he flipped on the recording device.

“I already went through this with several other officers! Why are you wasting my time with this repetitive nonsense?” Erin’s eyes flashed with irritation.

“You haven’t gone through it with me. Sooner begun, sooner done. Now, for the record?”

“My name is Erin Kamoche. I’m married and the mother of five children, ages five through twelve. During the pandemic, my family observed isolation protocols, and we have not received any government assistance such as unemployment, pandemic insurance, stimulus money, or social security benefits. I never had thoughts of harming myself, never attempted self-harm, and never had thoughts of harming others.”

Gray raised his hand. “Please, Mrs. Kamoche, do not skip ahead.”

“Sorry, but like I said, I’ve been through this several times.”

Gray scrolled through his tablet, stopping on a particular note. “On the Ides of April, 2021, were you the recipient of an email bearing the subject line: ‘The Fate of The World Rests on Your Shoulders’?”

“If by ides you mean April 15th, maybe. I don’t remember the exact date,” Erin responded, clearly growing impatient.

“Did you open said email?”

“Yes, you know I did. That’s why we’re here.”

Gray paused, choosing his words carefully. “Did the email open a full-screen video window displaying a person wearing a face mask made from leather, like the kind worn by crude, knotted mannequins?”

“The person wore a mask. Your detailed description and comparison example of it has me a little concerned for you.”

“Was this person’s voice filtered through a distorter, possibly to hide their gender as well as identity?”

“The voice was definitely distorted, yes.”

“Was this person’s movements jerky, giving them the appearance of a flesh and wood puppet, like Pinocchio caught in mid-transformation?”

“Again, your descriptions are frightening.”

Gray moved on, “Did this person inform you of just how insignificant you are in the greater scheme of things, being one person of the 7,835,208,156 members of the Homo sapiens species, which is but one of 5,300,000 species on Earth, which is but one of 8 planets orbiting the Sun, which is but one of the 200,000,000,000 plus stars in the Milky Way galaxy, which is but one of over 125,000,000,000 galaxies in the universe?”

Erin sighed, “You’ve all seen the video, so why ask me questions you already know the answer to?”

“A simple yes or no will suffice, thank you. And did this person present you with an offer to change your insignificance?”

“Yes.”

“Did the offer contain information of the existence of a spot on the planet, a crater in which nothing grows and nothing lives, a place cursed since the creation of humankind, and hidden in the blindspot of all living creatures, so that no one, no thing can ever find or visit it, for it contains a pathway that leads to the first gate of hell?”

“Yes.”

“Were you told that you could be put in charge of this spot?”

“Yes.”

“Were you told that with the simple touch of a button, you could destroy the crater and seal off the entryway to hell? Choke off the evil that emanates from that pathway, which infects the hearts and minds of humankind with hatred and war?”

“Yes, and yes.”

“And in return for your service, were you advised that you would be granted a wish?”

“Yes.”

“Did a button appear on your touch screen?”

“Yes.”

“Did you press it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Erin paused, her eyes searching for an answer in the tiles of the ceiling. “You know, I wish I could answer that. I thought the whole thing was a joke that my husband or one of his friends was pulling on me. They’ve all got weird senses of humor like that. So, I played along with it to see what the punchline was. So I asked puppet-head, ‘And you can grant me this power? You, the strange puppet person too afraid to show your own face or speak in your real voice?'”

“And puppet-head’s response?”

Erin’s eyes returned to meet Gray’s. “‘Firstly, the power comes from far beyond, and I merely have the authority to open a channel for you to receive this gift. Second, the hiding of my true nature is for your benefit, for your eyes could not bear to look upon my countenance, nor your ears hear my voice, without experiencing madness.'”

“Like an angel?”

“Like the shadow side of The Unknowable, puppet-head said.”

Gray sighed, as if absorbing the weight of her words. “That was when you pushed the button?”

“No, first I asked, ‘And I’m just supposed to take your word for it? Without any proof?’ To which puppet-head answered, ‘You breathe without proof of air, do you not?’ And I was getting bored by that point, so that’s when I pushed the button.”

Gray flipped off the recorder, his face unreadable. “Mrs. Kamoche, your decision has far-reaching implications, implications we are just beginning to understand.”

Erin felt a knot tighten in her stomach. “So what happens now?”

“We wait,” Gray said cryptically. “We wait and watch as the world changes or doesn’t change. As for you, your life, too, is now an unfolding mystery.”

Gray stood up, leaving Erin alone in the room. As the door clicked shut behind him, she pondered the weight of her choice. Had she really sealed off a gateway to hell or simply fallen victim to a sick prank? Only time would tell, but for the first time in her life, Erin Kamoche felt anything but insignificant.

The room suddenly went dark, plunging Erin into shadows. An eerie silence enveloped the space, stretching each second into a lifetime. Was this the beginning of her reward or punishment? The answer, like the room itself, remained shrouded in darkness.

Erin was left pondering whether the power she’d been given—or perhaps unleashed—was a gift or a curse. The room remained silent, as if holding its breath, waiting for what would happen next.

Not. The. End.

Being homeless, even in a big city with soup kitchens and shelters, isn’t easy and it becomes demoralizing at a point, draping you in a cloak of invisibility at the best of times and making you the object of disgust and disdain and even violence at the worst.

Even though it was still officially summer, this particular Saturday night was too chilly to be sleeping outdoors, so I went to an unmanned subway station, one of the less active ones where cops usually aren’t laying in the cut to catch fare-evaders and hopped the turnstile.

As I entered, I noticed an Asian man sprawled out on the subway platform, his head lolling over the platform’s edge. The distant rumble of an approaching train echoed through the tunnel, and a sense of unease settled in the pit of my stomach.

There was someone else on the platform, a well-dressed man whose eyes were fixed on the unconscious figure. But instead of offering aid, he whipped out his cell phone and began recording the scene, a look of morbid fascination etched across his face.

Without a second thought, I rushed towards the Asian man, my heart pounding in my chest. I reached him just as the train’s headlights appeared in the distance, and with a burst of adrenaline-fueled strength, I dragged him back from the platform’s edge.

It was an express train running on the local track. As the train roared past, I turned to the man, still recording on his phone, and felt a surge of anger course through my veins. “What’s wrong with you?” I shouted, my voice raw with emotion. “How could you just stand there and watch? This man needed help!”

The white man lowered his phone, his face a mask of indifference. “It’s not my problem,” he shrugged, before turning and melting back into the crowd.

I knelt beside the Asian man, checking for any signs of injury. As he stirred, his eyes fluttering open, a look of confusion and gratitude washed over his face. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Most people wouldn’t have gotten involved.”

I helped him to his feet, steadying him as he regained his balance. “I know what it’s like to be overlooked, to go unseen,” I said softly. “I saw you, and I knew you needed help. My mother used to say, ‘If you can help but don’t, then what’s the point of you?'”

The Asian man nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. As he turned to leave, he paused, looking back at me with a strange intensity. “For today, at least, you will be seen,” he said, his words carrying a weight I couldn’t quite comprehend. “May you live in interesting times.”

The local train eventually arrived and I was faced with the decision: sleep on a bench on the subway station platform, or sleep on the train? Cops can show up at either location and wake you up to hassle you, or you can become the victim of foul play from lowlifes who like to punch down on those less fortunate. I chose the train.

It was after 3 am, and the car I was in was nearly empty, save for a few weary passengers scattered about. As the train lurched forward, a young girl, no more than 9 years old, stepped into the center of the car, her mother by her side.

The mother, a woman with tired eyes and a determined expression, urged her daughter to perform. “Come on, sweetie,” she said, her voice a mix of encouragement and desperation. “Show these nice people what you can do.”

The girl, clearly reluctant, hesitated for a moment before nodding. She pulled out her iPhone, and the beat of a popular song filled the car. As the music played, she began to dance, her movements precise and fluid, belying her young age.

I watched in awe as the girl twirled and leaped, her face a mask of concentration. The other passengers’ reactions were mixed. Some applauded, their faces lit up with smiles, while others looked on with disapproval.

“This is no place for a child to be performing at this hour,” one woman muttered, loud enough for the mother to hear. “She should be home in bed, not dancing for money on the subway.”

The mother’s face flushed with a mix of anger and shame, but she remained silent, urging her daughter to continue. I could see the weight of their situation in the slump of her shoulders and the weariness in her eyes.

As the train pulled into the next station, the girl finished her routine, and the car erupted in a smattering of applause. The mother quickly moved through the car, holding out a hat for donations. Some passengers dropped coins and bills into the hat, while others turned away, their faces etched with a mix of pity and judgment.

I reached into my pocket, feeling the few coins I had managed to collect throughout the day. As the mother approached, I dropped them into the hat, meeting her eyes with a nod of understanding. I knew all too well the lengths one would go to survive in this unforgiving city.

As the train doors opened, the mother and daughter quickly exited, disappearing into the night. I sat back in my seat, my mind swirling with thoughts of the young girl and her mother, forced to resort to performing on the subway to make ends meet. It was a stark reminder of the harsh realities faced by so many in this city, and the resilience required to navigate the challenges of poverty and homelessness.

Sometimes you get lucky. That night, the train I was on ran both ways continuously without being taken out of service, so I snagged a pretty decent rest. So good in fact that I overslept and missed the breakfast service at my preferred Sunday morning soup kitchen. Dem’s da breaks. Sometimes you sacrifice one thing for another.

I exited the train at the stop nearest Washington Square Park. It was usually deserted early Sunday mornings, but this time I witnessed a scene that seemed to materialize straight out of a dream. A woman, wearing a delicate sundress, emerged from seemingly nowhere and began to dance with an ethereal grace. Her partner, a photographer armed with a vintage camera, captured her every move.

To my surprise, the woman suddenly shed her sundress, revealing her naked form to the world. She moved with a fluid elegance, her pale skin glistening in the sunlight as she twirled and leaped across the park. As if drawn by an invisible force, she danced towards me, her eyes locked on mine.

I sat transfixed, unable to look away from her mesmerizing beauty. She possessed a timeless elegance, reminiscent of the old-world charm I had only seen in faded photographs. Her movements were both sensual and innocent, a paradox that left me breathless.

She danced around me, her lithe body creating a hypnotic rhythm that seemed to pulse with the beating of my heart. I couldn’t help but marvel at the way she embraced her vulnerability, unashamed and unapologetic in her nakedness. It was a display of pure art, a celebration of the human form in all its glory.

As her dance reached its crescendo, she leaned in close to me, her face mere inches from mine. I could feel the warmth of her breath on my skin, and for a moment, the world around us faded away. In a gesture that left me stunned, she placed a gentle kiss on my cheek, her lips soft and fleeting against my weathered skin.

And then, as quickly as she had appeared, she slipped back into her sundress and walked away, hand in hand with her photographer.

After a while, I decided to stretch my legs for a bit and as I wandered through the park, lost in my thoughts, I was approached by a young woman with a face etched with worry. She held her phone in her hand, and I could see the hesitation in her eyes as she looked at me.

“Excuse me,” she said softly, her voice trembling slightly. “I know this might sound strange, but I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

I said nothing. Usually when i stranger approached you in the city, they were begging for money. This woman had chosen her target incorrectly.

“I’m recording a video diary for my sick friend,” she explained, “and I was hoping you could hold my phone and follow me around while I talk. I know it’s not something I would normally ask a stranger, but there’s something about your face that makes me feel like I can trust you.”

I was taken aback by her request, but the sincerity in her eyes compelled me to agree. She handed me her phone, and I began to record as she poured her heart out to her friend. She shared stories of their adventures together, her voice filled with a mixture of laughter and tears. As I followed her through the park, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of connection to this young woman and her struggles.

When she finished her video diary, she turned to me with a grateful smile. “Thank you so much,” she said. “I really appreciate your help. Can I buy you a cup of coffee as a token of my gratitude?”

I hesitated, not wanting to impose, but she insisted. “Please, let me do this for you. It’s the least I can do.”

We made our way to a nearby diner, but as we approached the entrance, the staff stopped us. “I’m sorry,” they said, eyeing me with a mixture of suspicion and disdain, “but we can’t allow him inside.”

The woman’s face fell, but she quickly regained her composure. “Wait here,” she said to me before she stormed inside. I had half a mind to walk away and just as I was about to act on that option, the woman returned with a back full of food.

“Let’s find a nice spot in the park,” she beamed.

“You should have spent your money on this,” I said.

“Didn’t cost me a dime,” she replied. “Sometimes. Being a Karen has its perks.”

Minutes later, we found ourselves sitting on a bench, sharing a meal and conversation. This supposed Karen, whose name was actually Karen, told me about her sick friend and the challenges they faced, and I found myself opening up about my own struggles with homelessness. We talked about the kindness of strangers and the importance of human connection, even in the darkest of times.

As we finished our meal, Karen handed me the rest of the food in the bag, reached out and squeezed my hand. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes filled with genuine warmth. “Not just for helping me with the video, but for reminding me that there are still good people in this world, no matter their circumstances.”

The rest of the Sunday was pretty uneventful, but I moved to different sections of Washington Square Park and watched various people perform their talents, one man even rolled his piano into the park on a series of dollies and played classical music to standing ovations.

When the sun was done for the day and I had eaten my way through the rest of the Karen meal, I returned to that same local subway station, the unmanned, non-police patrolled one, but as I descended into the depths of the station, I encountered two men dressed entirely in black. We had just missed the train, but they waited, like shadows, until the train pulled out of the station before donning black balaclavas and hopping the turnstiles like I had planned to do.

They made their way to the end of the platform, climbed down the service steps that led to the tracks, and disappeared into the subway tunnel. The air crackled with an eerie sense of anticipation, and I felt an overwhelming sense of curiosity. Despite the potential dangers, I couldn’t resist the urge to follow them.

I waited for a moment, ensuring that no one had noticed my presence, before slipping into the tunnel, my heart pounding in my chest. The darkness enveloped me, the only light coming from the faint glow of the tunnel’s emergency lamps.

I crept forward, my ears straining to pick up any sound that might indicate the whereabouts of the two men. As I rounded a corner, I caught a glimpse of a faint light in the distance, and the murmur of hushed voices echoed off the damp walls.

Drawing closer, I discovered a hidden alcove, tucked away from the main tunnel. Inside, the two men stood huddled around a makeshift altar, adorned with candles, ancient symbols, and what appeared to be a collection of small, ornate boxes.

As I watched, the men began to chant in a language I couldn’t understand, their voices low and rhythmic. Suddenly, one of the boxes began to rattle and shake, as if possessed by an unseen force. The men’s chanting grew louder, more urgent, and a sense of palpable energy filled the air.

In a flash of blinding light, the box burst open, and a swirling vortex of color and sound erupted from within. The men stepped back, their faces a mix of awe and reverence, as a figure emerged from the vortex – a being that defied description, its form shifting and changing like smoke in the wind.

I stood transfixed, my mind struggling to comprehend the impossibility of what I was witnessing. The being, seemingly aware of my presence, turned its gaze upon me, and I felt a sudden rush of energy course through my body, as if I had been touched by something ancient and powerful.

As quickly as it had appeared, the being vanished, and the vortex collapsed in on itself, leaving the tunnel once again cloaked in darkness. The two men, visibly shaken, quickly gathered their belongings and hurried away, disappearing into the labyrinth of tunnels.

I emerged from the subway tunnel, my mind reeling from the extraordinary events I had just witnessed. As I tried to get some rest on the local train, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had glimpsed something truly otherworldly, a secret that lay hidden just beneath the surface of the city’s everyday reality.

In the days that followed, I found myself haunted by the memory of that strange encounter, the image of the shifting, ethereal being forever etched into my mind. It was a reminder that even in the depths of my own struggles, there were still wonders to be discovered, mysteries that lay waiting for those with the courage to seek them out.

“May you live in interesting times,” the man had said to me.

Was that meant to be a blessing or a curse?