I don't feel like I'm a nosy person. No more nosy than the next guy. I just have what my Ma would call an unhealthy amount of curiosity. I was the kid who climbed to the top of the big oak in the back yard, just to see what was in the crows' nest. I was the kid who dug a hole in the back yard so deep that I hit groundwater because I was convinced there was a cave under our house, and I wanted to see it. To see. My folks aren't dirt poor, but they're pretty close. They're part of that missing middle of America, the people who work forty hours a week until they die, with no savings to speak of. I got my first job at a horse stable when I was fourteen. It didn't last very long. I knew I needed to get a job, because I knew we needed the money, so I bounced around for the next few years, washing dishes, waiting tables, until I graduated high school. Pop was really tough on me about college. He never went -- nobody in his family had -- so there were a few fights about where I would go after school. It was a huge shock to me when, just after graduation, he drove me down to the Uni. He'd been classmates with the Dean and they'd come up with an arrangement where I'd get a full scholarship, provided I made good grades and worked for the University. I never felt like a scholar. In high school, I kept my head down and did enough to get by, pulling off B's and a few C's. I wasn't interested in learning, because learning wasn't interesting. Uni was different. I took mainly core classes, math-English-history-science, but they were fascinating. For one thing, nobody cared if I showed up or not. It was entirely up to me to succeed, so I did. In exchange for my education, I worked security and did some light maintenance duties. Maintenance was a no-brainer. I've always been handy, and most of the fix-it jobs were the type that could be solved with a liberal application of WD-40, or elbow grease, or both. Security was a different story. Security gave me super powers. The job itself was pretty easy. I got a uniform, a badge, a flashlight, and Ma gave me some keychain mace for my birthday. No, I didn't get a gun -- they weren't allowed on campus anyway. I worked mostly nights and weekends, and doubles during long holiday breaks. I was to walk around the full campus twice in a night, checking the labs, computer center, and library. The rest of my time was pretty much my own. There were two other guards, Jake and Al, but they worked different shifts from me. We had "overlap nights" on Wednesday nights, where we'd get together for about an hour to discuss any major events or changes. There might have been some beer at those meetings, but I'm underage, and you can't prove anything. Jake worked mostly dayshift, and Al worked swings and some overnights during the week. Jake was a younger guy, training to be on the local police force, so he took his job pretty seriously. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure Al mostly slept during his shifts. Al was two years older than dirt, so he deserved his rest. Remember that bit about super powers? My first night on the job, Al gave me a huge keychain with about a thousand keys on it. It weighed nearly five pounds, and was secured to my belt with a heavy-duty metal chain. “Don’t lose that keychain, kid,” Al said. “You got the keys to the kingdom right there. Any door that don’t open, you don’t want to go in it.” My work hobby, the thing that kept me awake on those long cold winter break nights, was exploring. I made it a point, every night, to open some door that I'd never opened before. I started in the new section, where the library and computer center were, opening each room, each closet, making a map in my head of where everything was. Some nights I might explore two or three rooms. Some nights I might not have time for anything more than an odd, out of the way broom closet. The Uni is actually a pretty large campus, for having a full student body of only twelve or thirteen hundred. It was built as a Methodist college in 1896, and became state-owned in the thirties. There were three main sections. The 'Old School' housed the Administration offices and a few unlucky classrooms —unlucky due to the lack of central heat and air, and the three-story building had no elevators. The 'Labs' were a Brutalist horror of poured concrete slabs and tiny windows, built back in the 70s when buildings that looked like Soviet radiators were in style. The "New Library" was steadily losing its "new", built in the late 90s boom, and made in that unique red-brick-and-glass style like everything else during those years. When I think back to those early days, those days before, I think how stupid I was. How naive. I should have thought about winter. I should have thought about the solstice. By December of my sophomore year of college, I had cleared every room in the New Library. I had opened every door, checked every closet, and had a good mental map of the whole building. It was, ultimately, pretty unimpressive. I found no buried treasure, no secret stash of missing computer supplies cached in a forgotten closet. I did find a small, sweaty stack of bad porno mags in a supply closet in the basement level. “Wicked, Wicked Cowgirls.” Who was I to judge? December is a slow time for the Uni. After the mad rush of Finals, the campus was suddenly deserted, the remaining few staff seeming lost. The buildings stood silent, and dark, in the thin winter breezes. We had a steady series of snowstorms, but none bad enough to close the campus. I made sure the sidewalks were clear and the entryways salted, and otherwise tried to stay indoors. Besides, I had the ‘Old School’ to explore. The main ‘Old School’ building, Downing Hall, was a four-story V-shaped building. It had no elevators, tiny stairwells, and was only exempted from ADA compliance due to its “historical importance”. It had no air-conditioning, save for sporadic window-mount units that were only permitted to be installed on the rear of the building, so as not to spoil the building’s historic charm. The building’s heat came from a massive, ancient boiler in the basement. As far as I knew, Al was the only person who knew anything about the boiler, and he must have kept it in good shape, because I never heard of any complaints about it. I spent the second week after Finals Week poking through the top floors of Downing Hall. I didn’t have a lot of time for exploring every night, as the snow gave me more than usual upkeep chores, but I made steady progress. I discovered a small room in the attic on the Left Wing that must have been an old Dean’s office, complete with a beautiful antique desk and wardrobe. I checked both, thinking I might find something “historic” to give to the Dean, but the wardrobe was empty save for a moth-eaten wool scarf, and the desk’s contents were limited to a few old newspapers and some tax forms from the 1950s. A level below, on the building’s fourth floor, I found two dozen small, empty classrooms. In my handyman mindset, I checked the windows for loose glass panes, and for water or rodent damage. I fully expected to see rat-droppings, or at least some insect damage, but I found none. The second and third floors were much the same, except the rooms on the rear of the building were air-conditioned and thus actively used for classes when school was in session. The main floor was Administration, and included the Dean’s office. I thought it wise not to snoop around in my boss’s office, or in Payroll, so I skipped a lot of these rooms. I made my way to the stairwell to the basement, used my superhero keychain, opened the heavy door and went down. The basement of Downing Hall was different from that of the New Library. For one thing, it was a lot more cramped. The hallway was narrow, and the ceiling was low, with doorways leading off at regular intervals. I checked every room, flipping the old two-button switches to ON, using my flashlight on the dark corners. I had carried a few packs of spare light bulbs — the fancy new CFC bulbs — in my satchel, thinking to replace any that had burned out, and save the environment while I was at it. The little rooms mostly contained junk — spare desks, filing cabinets full of forty- and fifty-year-old papers, old holiday decorations, and so forth, lit by naked hanging bulbs. I’m not an imaginative kind of guy. I guess I’m pretty smart — I’d made straight A’s in my college courses. It never occurred to me to be scared. I didn’t think, “I’m alone in a creepy old basement.” This was my place, my job, my hobby, and it all seemed so normal. By the night of the 20th of December, I had made my way to the boiler room. The furnace was a massive monstrosity of iron and rivets, pipes and gauges. It was hellishly hot in that room, and equally loud. It was, however, neat and very clean. Al kept it that way, because he said “a clean boiler lets you get more shuteye.” The furnace had been converted from coal to gas at some point, but the soot had stained the walls of the room, and the old coal chute still opened in one of the corners. I had no intention of giving the boiler room more than a glance — I’d been there dozens of times, and there was nothing to see, just a workbench and the furnace itself — when I noticed a small door to the back and left behind the furnace. “That’s weird,” I thought to myself. I had never seen that door before. But then again, I had never stood in that particular spot, beside the workbench, and I had never really looked. The door was smaller than a normal door — maybe five feet tall, painted in the same non-color drab grey-brown of the walls, and was made of metal, just like the other doors in the basement. I went over to the door, and touched the handle. I think the body knows sometimes when things are wrong. Have you ever had that feeling, like you’re being watched? When you know you’re totally alone, and nobody can see you, but you feel eyes on you? Have you ever gone left instead of right, because you got a feeling that you just shouldn’t go to the right today? It didn’t work that way for me. When I touched that doorknob, nothing felt any different. My head didn’t hurt, my neck-hairs didn’t stand up, and I didn’t hear an inner voice saying, “Don’t do it!” The doorknob turned, but the door wouldn’t open. I looked more closely, and saw a small keyhole. I checked my magic keychain, and found three possible matches. Struck out on the first two, and the third worked, of course. Of course. The hinges squealed like they hadn’t been used in a long time (decades.) My handyman instincts noted it. “WD-40,” I mumbled. I hauled open the door and stepped through, into another small, cramped hallway. The light switch worked, and the single bulb blew with a crack! “Dammit!” My hackles did raise then. I flicked on my flashlight, and quickly swapped out the hallway bulb with a new one. I looked around, and saw this hallway was narrow, straight, and ended a few yards away at another door. That door opened easily, onto another stairway. “What the hell?” I said. Nobody had ever mentioned a sub-basement for this building. The hairs on the back of my neck were still standing out. I shook it off as nerves from the blown bulb, and walked to the stairwell. It was a standard stairwell, and looked pretty much the same as the others in the building. I walked to the bottom, and met another door. I pushed through it, to see another long, narrow hallway, with doors leading off to either side at regular intervals. The first door to my left was unlocked, and opened fairly easily, onto a storage closet. There were stacks of late Sixties-era books, a few desks, and a decaying mop in its bucket. The door across from it was unlocked, but did not open so easily. I hauled the door open to find a larger room that looked to have been used as a classroom. There were desks, a blackboard, anatomical diagrams, and posters on the walls. Everything was covered in an inch of dust, and appeared to have not been touched in a long time. “Why would anyone put a classroom down here?” I mumbled to myself, “How would they even convince students to get down here in the first place?” I remember thinking, at that point, that I must have somehow discovered a back way into the other wing of the V-shaped Downing Hall. “Maybe this is where the old Science classes were held, before the Labs were built.” I moved on to the next set of rooms. They were both classrooms, abandoned, dust-covered, and mostly empty. So were the next pair, and the next. I saw a total of twelve disused classrooms in that hallway, and a small breakroom, complete with a lonely coffee pot. I also found two small restrooms. I didn’t spend much time checking them out, as the lights didn’t work and I didn’t feel like replacing those bulbs. I found myself getting slightly nervous — I was in a strange section of the campus, and I was working alone that night. In the back of my mind I just couldn’t truly justify the existence — the waste — of a whole floor full of unused classrooms. When I got to the end of the hallway, I met another steel door. I opened it, and saw another stairwell. I was fully expecting this stairwell to go up, to connect to one of the other main stairwells in Downing Hall. The stairs only went down. This was the point, I remember, at which I began to get scared. “No way. There’s no way these stairs go down. How would anybody get down here?” “Here. Here. here,” the stairwell echoed at me. I should have checked the time. I should have been concerned with finishing my rounds. I should have been hungry for lunch. I should have run. I started to climb down the stairs. This stairwell was unlit, and appeared to be much older, and in much worse condition than the others. It was also longer. Much longer. After a few minutes of walking down the steps, I began to count them. At every twelve steps, there was a small landing, a turn, and another set of steps. Down. After ten landings, I reached another door. It was unlocked, and opened easily. The hinges squealed, and the echoes died like lost things in the dark. I groped against the left wall for a light switch, and there was none. I checked the right, and the wall was equally smooth. I cast the flashlight around, but saw nothing. Nothing forward, nothing to either side, and nothing above. I snapped my fingers, listening for the echo. I may or may not have heard one. I slowly came to realize that the room into which I had entered was enormous, cavernous, possibly the biggest room I had ever physically experienced. I shrank back to the doorway for a moment. “This room can’t be here,” I said to myself. I started to think about going back. But I also started to think about wanting to know what was in there. I took a step forward, and another, until I was walking steadily into the room. I kept a steady pace, counting my steps. I looked over my shoulder every few yards, using the light from the open doorway to orient myself. I walked, slowly, for a hundred yards, two hundred yards, until I saw a dim glow ahead. The glow got faintly brighter and larger as I walked toward it. Another hundred yards, and another, and three more passed until I could make out a small dim light bulb near a door. That door was of a different type entirely. It was huge, fourteen feet tall at least, and half again as wide. The surface was black metal, studded with rivets and bolts, mounted on huge hinges. Across the face of the door, graved into the metal, were words in some strange looping script that I could not recognize. Every surface was carved with that script, or with strange diagrams made of splayed circle-ended lines. In the center of the door was a large spoked wheel lock, and in the center of the lock was a tiny keyhole. Above the keyhole was a sigil, enclosed in three circles. I looked behind me, and could not see the light from the stairwell. I couldn’t see anything at all. I held the Superhero Keychain to the dim light, and flipped through the keys. Of course, there was one small, battered key that looked as if it might fit. I inserted it into the lock, and turned it. I heard a click, and a thud, and a sound from within the door like pouring pebbles. Or dry teeth. I pulled the key from the lock, and grasped the spokes of the wheel lock. My heart was racing, and sweat was dribbling into my eyes. I turned the spokes to the left, counterclockwise —widdershins, some buried memory in my head said — and kept turning, until the wheel stopped. There was another THUD and a CRACK, and then silence. The darkness behind me no longer felt empty. In fact, it felt positively crowded, as if I had an audience, watching me. I stepped back from the door and flashed my light around. Still nothing. Dry empty floor. I turned back to the door, grasped the large cast-iron handles, and pulled. Nothing. I tried harder, putting all of my weight into the pull, and at the last moment, at the end of my strength, I heard another CRACK! and the door groaned open on a draft of cool, stinking air. The smell was heavy, moist, and musky. I had a flash memory of my mother taking me to the zoo as a child, and the smell of the Cat House, with the lions. At the thought of the lions, I let go of the handles and stumbled back a bit. I carefully shone my light into the yawning black crevice of the open door. I saw a short hallway that opened into a small, cramped room. I saw a filthy, rusted metal chair. I saw bones. Small bones. I saw — or heard, or smelled — a form so black it seemed to suck in the light of my flashlight. I saw a black form rushing towards me, running towards me, filling the hallway, howling and laughing and speaking, in a voice that sounded like mountains collapsing. I remember fangs, and words that turned my bones to rusted glass. I remember feathers, and a hand with too many fingers, jeweled with something unspeakable. And the smell, the stink of something long caged. I remember wings. I don’t know how long I wandered in the dark, alone under hundreds of feet of rock. There was no light. There was no way to judge time. My flashlight was dead, and my cellphone, and even the small specks of luminescent paint on my cheap wristwatch were dark. There was something wrong with my right leg. It hurt, but I couldn’t see enough to find out why. I kept hearing my audience, there in that cavernous room. I screamed at them. I felt one of them touch my face, and I threw my flashlight at it. The flashlight bounced and rattled and became still, somewhere that I was not. Something laughed, later. I raved and screamed but didn’t throw anything else. I found the doorway after hours or days of crawling. There were no lights in the stairwell. After years of climbing, I crawled into that first forgotten hallway. I sliced my fingers on the crushed remains of the light bulbs I had packed in my satchel. I crawled down the hallway, and reached the next stairwell. I hauled myself up them, and finally out into the boiler room. When I staggered out of Downing Hall, two full days after going in, it was into dim winter daylight and a full police presence. Five people had been found dead on and around the campus. All had been brutally, savagely murdered, bodies splayed open, viscera missing. The teeth marks suggested a wild animal, but the murder scenes and body positioning also displayed a certain intelligence to them. There was also the writing, carved into the flesh when it was not yet dead meat. The cops wouldn’t talk about the writing. The cops wouldn’t talk to me, either. Not afterwards. When they first saw me stumble out into daylight, covered in blood, they assumed I was the perpetrator. They quickly changed their assumptions when the medics pointed out the greenstick fracture, the dehydration, the concussion and the obvious shock. The cops asked a lot of questions, and I answered as best as I could. I told them about the door in the boiler room. They couldn’t find it. They showed me the bare smooth wall from where I had crawled, dazed and broken. My tracks stopped at that wall. Two cops tried breaking through the wall in that spot, only to meet old brick, and older earth past that. The cops wanted to know where the long, black feathers came from, stuck to my clothes by dried blood. I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. The cops, the medics, nobody, would look at me any more. The scars on my face, the deep, gouged-out writing, was not a sight that most would want to see. I was marked. Whatever I had let out, whatever had killed and eaten five people, and a week later six more, had marked me as a friend.

Almost anywhere you go, there's a bunch of pests you're bound to encounter. Flies. The housefly, the gnat, the mosquito, the wasp, doesn't matter exactly what they are, they find their way into your life no matter how much you don't want them there and bug the hell out of you. They constantly get in your face, on your screen, sometimes land on you and when you feel them you can't help but try to shake or swipe them off. Just, the absolute worst. Annoying, but nothing many would ever be too afraid of, besides maybe wasps or their like. Those bastards add a bonus bite or sting if you're real unlucky. At any rate, a good swatter, some bug spray, no big deal, right? Well, that's what I always thought too, until I realized, the wretches had been the purveyors of not just disease...They were couriers of nightmares. Of course it wouldn't be enough for the worst of them to bring us or our crops' death, they had to wilt away our minds too. No, not just by stressing out or annoying us, or preying on those more acutely afraid of them...Somehow each person they crossed, they sampled something of their anxieties, their fears, and brought it to bear on the next and the next, stirring them to a greater terror. Here are just a few accounts of those afflicted... ***The Call Center Grind*** “Hello, we're reaching out today to offer y-”, I began and the line clicked dead for probably the thousandth time today. Why the hell did I keep at this gig, it's not as if it doing much more to help ends meet than my other two dead-end gigs. Thoughtlessly I began another call so I wouldn't have to listen to someone later complaining about something to do with performance or whatever, but this time the line didn't immediately go dead. “So, would you be interested i-”, I started to elaborate for the first time in...A month? How long had it been? “...This line, it's...It's being recorded, right?” the person on the other end asked. “Uh...Yes, I'm afraid it is, for service and quality,” I gave the canned reply. “Good. You can hear it too, can't you? This...It keeps getting louder, like it's trying to get in,” the person spoke a little quieter, but still clearly, and you could hear the unease in their voice rising. “I'm sorry, could you try moving the phone a little so I might hear it better?” I heard some rustling as it sounded like they were doing so, and then...More quiet, until the person moved the phone back to ask again. “Did it come through that time? Please, tell me you heard it, I-” the panic was clear in their voice, and unsure of what to do, I decided a little lie might help calm them, as I brushed a fly or something away from me. “Yeah, I think so. Look, I think us talking like this may be giving you away, okay? So I'll call you some help, just give me your info and I'll call for help as soon as we end this call, alright?” “O-okay, but tell them to let me know who they are quietly, I-I don't know if I'll be able to hear them when they arrive, got it?” the person spoke so quietly I almost couldn't understand them, but I got their info and called help like I said. The person was clearly distressed and needed someone other than a cold caller clumsily trying to help them. Then my phone rang. That's...Unusual. I picked up the phone, “Hello, this is-” but then a noise like I've never heard before came from the receiver. I hung up immediately, slightly disturbed until I decided maybe someone had finally found their way to prank calling me. Some of my coworkers had gotten their fair share of prank calls from time to time. It was rare, sure, but it happened. So I went back to cold calling, and awhile later got another person that stayed on the line, “...No, you tell them to *stop*, you got it?” “Oh, um, yes we'll-” “No, not you, *them*. You sent them out here, didn't you?” “What? Sorry, I think you may-” “I'll send them back to you, don't you worry.” And they hung up. I wasn't in the business of calling people to have them order anything, nor send service people out, so who the hell did they think I was, and who were they trying to send back? I wheeled back a little from my space to ask one of my coworkers next to me if they'd had any strange calls today too, only to find them gripping their own phone tightly and muttering rapidly into it. Catching my gaze, their eyes widened and their muttering grew a little louder and faster. “Yes no you go okay go just go just forget about it you need it you need that to live okay take it take it no-” Looking to my opposite side, my other coworker wasn't much better, except instead of muttering they had pulled the cord from their phone and were...Trying to...Strangle it? I couldn't make sense of what they were trying to do, but it definitely wasn't calling anyone. Then my phone rang again, and reluctantly, I decided to answer...The otherworldly sound was now enveloping me, my hand held nothing to my ear, and everything was shifting and... ...Something rang out again, and a phone was back in my hand, “So would you be interested i-” I heard myself from moments ago asking.

On a hot day along a road, if you look closely you'll see a shimmer over the surface. It's an effect of the warmed air and light passing through, a fun little sight to see, especially if you catch it really distorting the look of things. For many people it's a fun sight, anyway. For me, it's only served as a reminder of what the light hides in plain sight. Most folks will have heard of mirages, and some will have some vague understanding of hallucinations, a trick of perception, and a trick of the mind respectively...But what I saw was neither. At first, I thought it had to be one or the other, or maybe a mix, as that's what others that knew a little more about both suggested, and only after exhausting what they knew did they propose it being some strange combination. After all, both phenomena ultimately involve the mind, albeit in subtly different ways. Yet I couldn't accept that, the circumstances were too variable for a mirage to make sense, and while hallucinations weren't entirely out of the question, the sightings never happened in any situations of stress or other conditions associated with hallucinatory episodes. It could be a cool winter day and a dim light when I might spot it, it could be an average, overcast day and in a certain shine I'd catch it. The source could be natural or artificial, it didn't matter all that much so far as I could tell, albeit more pronounced when in a warmer environment. Each time I caught a glimpse, I could feel that I was looking into something no one was meant to see, nor anything with eyes, not even those better than our own. This was supposed to be a space beyond sight hidden within sight. Eventually, I began going out in the day and using lights as little as possible. If this space wasn't meant to be seen, and I didn't want to blind myself, it was the only option available. For the times I had to be in the light, I'd wear sunglasses, even indoors, as silly and as inconvenient as it tended to make things. I simply explained it away as necessary for my, admittedly somewhat true, sensitivity to light. Despite all of this, though, I kept seeing the strange space...And worse, I began to feel that something within had caught notice of me. Could anything from there even reach out? If I'm seeing it...Then...Maybe, since the light is bouncing back out... But I consoled myself with the thought that perhaps it's like the water, and most of what's within couldn't survive outside it. It wasn't foolproof, but it helped. It helped...Only so far, as I started to notice...Even in the dark, the slightest lights, those I'd keep on just to avoid tripping over things or stubbing my toes...Grew brighter. The brief forays into daylight, my sunglasses seemed to be less and less helpful, almost to the point that I may as well have been wearing glasses without any lenses. All the while, my sightings grew more frequent, lasting longer each time, and whatever was within...Seemed to not only be peering out, but approaching. My only real refuge left was to close my eyes tight, and when I slept, hope any dreams I might have were nothing but darkness. However...Finally, it reached me, even as I closed my eyes, even as I hoped sleep would help me flee, the thing from that space beyond reached me, and...

Some customs are more than they first appear, and so it is with kicking off one's shoes before entering another's home. These days many explain it to others less familiar with the practice as basic hygiene, not carrying in dirt or whatever else one may have stepped in while outside, in and around one's house. For many, that's truly all it is, and they think nothing more of it. Yet there was once more to it than simply trying to keep from carrying dirt in, as it was also about preserving the boundaries between worlds. The creation of shelter was not only an act of survival after a time, but an act of sanctification, of endowing a part of the world with the full concentration of one's spirit. This was a space not only of peace from the outside elements, but a place to establish peace within. Thus it was that many began to remove their shoes before entering buildings, some more circumspect cleansing their feet as well before setting a single foot within. If any serious incidents occurred, one would often look to those that thoughtlessly entered without removing their shoes, as they had desecrated the space in the process. There was one such incident, almost lost to history thanks to its severity, that few know of, and of those that do, many regard it as another piece of interesting folklore and little else. However... ...The story goes that a group of fools, seemingly determined to be cast out from every village they encountered, would come along to each one as humble, curious travelers wanting to learn the ways of the village and settle down. Each village, wary but willing to welcome travelers so long as they agreed to abide by their ways, allowed them to stay for a time. Each village, without fail, had its trust and hospitality violated by these fools. They stuck by their word for a short time, just long enough to learn each village's ways enough to violate as many of them as they could in such a manner as to only be exiled, and not executed. Finally, they came upon one village that they couldn't figure out. No matter what they learned of their ways, none of them seemed to be held to so strongly that they would upset the people enough to run them out. Eventually, the fools began to believe their own story of settling down there, until they found it. The one rule that surely would get them exiled, that would get the village to reveal itself to them. A simple rule every villager followed closely and taught carefully to their children, to leave their shoes at the threshold before entering a home, an inn, a temple, seemingly any building. So as a group, they walked through mud, they walked through dung, they walked through the leftover blood and guts of livestock tossed away as it was prepared for meals, and they made their way to the village inn they'd been staying at. The villagers had, of course, seen all of this and warned the innkeeper, and so as they opened the doors to the inn...The innkeeper was nowhere to be seen. The regular noise of the other tenants was also strangely missing, the whole inn had an unnerving stillness to it. Nevertheless, the fools were so caught up in their scheme they didn't notice anything other than the innkeeper's absence as they stepped through the doorway. Yelling out to the innkeeper, only then did they start to notice the silence, but still they proceeded further inside, meandering about, tracking their gruesome filth about the place as they looked about for anyone else. Somewhat disappointed, but determined they would get a response once the innkeeper and tenants returned, they went back to their room and decided to wait. As they waited, however, all the filth they tracked in seemed to grow, and concentrated in their room, it grew even faster. The fools, utterly confused, tried to escape, but the filth jammed up their door, first from the inside and next from the outside. It began with just the mud, then the mud began to feel warmer and the stench grew stronger, and as they were up to their waist in mud and dung, blood began to ooze up from both, then guts started to emerge... ...And in their panic, the fools failed to recognize, it was their own guts, their own blood, their own waste that had begun to fill the room as well. Their bodies rapidly wasting away alongside the whole inn. Solemnly, many of the villagers watched as the desecrated inn collapsed upon itself in a grotesque heap, and swore to pass on this tale to remind others *why* they so diligently remove their shoes before stepping inside a building.

"It's so simple, you just put your fingers like this and..." their fingers snapped sharply, as they always did, like they'd known how to do this forever. "Okay, okay, so like this..." I tried to mimic their motion but it was like my fingers were a broken lighter, without even so much as a fizzle. "Fuuuck, what's with my fingers?" I groaned. My friend shrugged, "Your hands soft?" "I guess? Do they need to be rough?" "Mm, maybe it helps..." "What? You make a deal with a devil to do this?" "Uh, no, this is beneath their pay grade." "Okay, so what, go climb some trees to get my hands all rough and snappy?" "Hey, I'm down to go climbing trees if you are, but honestly, why all the fuss over this anyway? We're not kids anymore. Nobody gives a shit if you can snap your fingers." "Yeah but that's just it, how do you get to our age not being able to? What if I have kids and wanna teach'em? Send'em to you?" "Oh hell no. Okay look, some people, they can just do it, like me, that's why I suck at teaching it, others..." their face grew serious as they considered how to proceed, "...do make a sort of deal. Not with the devil though, like I said, beneath them." "So...What, to a lesser demon?" "I don't know that you'd call them that, but...I guess? I've never had to deal with them." "Ookay, let's say I believe you, any idea how to go about it?" They extended their hand, "I think it goes something like this." I extended mine, and they grasped it. "So do we shake, or...?" They tightened their grip on my hand. "Uh...?" It began to hurt. "Hey, cut it out, you don't want to show me, I get it!" Their face was blank, as if in a trance. Their grip somehow grew even tighter, my knuckles began to pop, and I was wincing with each one, as it felt as if the bones were being smashed together. I tried to pry my hand out of their grip to no avail, and as I struggled, suddenly my other hand's fingers just...Snapped. Like that. And my friend was out of their trance, letting go of my hand, which was sore as hell, but...Fine? "Hey, did you just...Snap?" my friend asked, as if nothing had happened. "Y...Yeah, I think so," I snapped the fingers of my other hand as though I always could, and my friend started to snap theirs when their face suddenly twisted in pain and we realized...The hand that had been gripping mine so hard before, had two broken fingers. The snaps weren't from my hands at all...They had been from my friend's.

For some reason, a lot of children love to spin until they get dizzy, some even go so far as till they vomit. I used to love it too. Find a sweet office chair, have a friend spin me round and round till the whole world really was revolving around me. You grow out of that though, or at least, some do. I never really did, and never thought I would... ...Except now I can't get the world to stop spinning. I'm sober as one can be, but being a fan of spinning to begin with, I knew what to do when I was really disoriented. Not now though. Y'see, a normal dizzy spell, things spin kinda horizontally, 'cause usually you're spun up that way. This? It feels like someone strapped me to a gyroscope and flipped it every which way. One minute things are swaying left and right, the next up and down, the next diagonally, and...Ugh, the fewer moving objects nearby the better, I just saw a bird take off nearby, or...I think it took off? Maybe I stumbled? It's not just the world spinning around me this way or that anymore, that I...I could maybe handle. It's that but it's also like I see something move and...It's like a part of me latches on, like I'm moving with it, and with everything else appearing to go every which way it...Egh. Sorry, it's...It's my stomach. It won't settle with all...All of this. I can hardly even sleep. To lay...down? It feels like floating in whitewater, thrown back and forth, under and over, and the only, the *only* positive is that it's not real whitewater with rocks to slam against...Or maybe, maybe at this point that would be a relief. Although...Would that even stop it? I can't even tell how long this has been going...The day slips backwards into night and the night flickers, shorter, longer, the sun at once rising and setting. Is...Where was I? Spell a, y'see dizzy normal, vertically kinda spin things, that up this usually 'cause way. You're? Gyroscope strapped which every someone like to feels it me and flipped. Things minute, swaying next left and...Ugh... Sorry, it's...Part of me...Took off...

It's around the time of year where when you feel a tickle in your throat, there's a little sense of dread. Here comes the yearly cold yet again... But this year, it didn't turn into sniffles and coughs as I'd unfortunately grown so accustomed to. A little cough, sure, but it was strange. It seemed to come back and not just as a slight sensation, it felt like something...More. Almost as if I'd swallowed a pill the wrong way but it didn't choke me up. I'd quickly grab some water and it'd clear up, so I didn't resort to a doctor right away. Besides, I wasn't exhibiting any other symptoms, so... However, one night I awoke up gasping for breath, and though I'd kept some water on the nightstand, it didn't occur to me to even try to drink it. I ran to the bathroom and tried to cough up whatever it was. I hacked and wheezed so hard it felt like my head could burst but all that came of it was some spit and mouth that grew dry as I desperately tried to breathe. Finally it struck me to try to drink something so I hit the faucet and gathered water in my hands and tried to drink as much as I could and gradually I could breathe a little more. Eventually my breathing went back to normal and frightened but relieved I decided to give in and see a doctor. The next day I felt the strange feeling in my throat even more as I waited for the doctor to arrive. Nervous to find out just what this was, I just stared at the little posters showing a cutaway of a human head and throat to give you an idea of what it was all like. I started as the doctor knocked and entered, off in something of an anxious daze, and they went about the usual questions and tried to make me comfortable. They seemed a little confused at my description of what I was experiencing, but they took my word for it and began the examination. "Go aah and open wide for me please," the doctor said, as they began to look inside my throat. A few seconds passed as they moved their instrument about to examine everything. "Well, I'm seeing nothing, but..." the doctor began to explain, "...Wait, there may be something...Did you feel that same feeling just now?" My blood froze, I *had* felt it again...So then, what was the doctor seeing? What was there? The doctor could explain it, surely. The doctor *had* to have an answer, but...They just kept looking. Their face was pale, but transfixed by curiosity at whatever it was they were seeing. I wanted to scream, I wanted to grit my teeth and just swallow whatever this *thing* was and let my body tear it apart, but I found I could do neither. I couldn't breathe again, but this time, I felt it...Emerging.

No one wants to be the buzzkill, the burden, the bummer, right? You can't help but feel you've gotta carry that weight, whatever it is, despite so many telling you you don't need to, but...There's a difference to *this* weight. This weight is also a wait, it's this unsettling sense that's *real* but...It still seems ridiculous. It's just keeping the power on and letting this progress bar complete, and then it's done and the anxiety's gone, okay? Yet what happens if the power goes out, I don't have to watch this, I can do anything else, but...If I look away, if the power goes out, what if it's all lost? I have backups, it's no problem, but...When was the last time I checked them? I just checked them, they're still there, it's *fine.* *It's fine.* The bar moves at its glacial pace, yet it's nearly done. I should just do *anything* else but watch this bar. There are redundancies to deal with any disruption. There's nothing to fret over. This whole ritual is absurd. My friends handle it without a worry in the world, they go about things letting this run in the background. It drives me mad thinking how much more relaxed they must feel. And they don't even back up as often! But...Are they really still the same afterward? Did the transfer really keep *them* intact? It's *us* we're transferring to a new form each time we do this, how can they be so confident that they haven't lost themselves in the process without watching it? How? I- The bar's reached its end. The old form's before...me. I'm...still me. They're...still them. But...

A lot of folks are understandably paranoid about their data being stolen, lost, or monitored, and I count myself among them...Yet there's one situation many take for granted that jolts me up in the night in a cold sweat. Some would laugh at me for even sharing this, but when you feel a certain way, you just feel that way, y'know? You may be thinking, "Oh, they must be afraid of getting doxed despite being a nobody, having a kink outed, or some sex video leaked" but honestly...It's more mundane than that. No, what really gets me up at night? What wakes me in a tremble? It's being bound in an office cubicle, forced to navigate the internet...Without adblockers...Without any custom extensions...And required to view and listen to and click through every last ad. If the ad leads to another ad? I have to go through every one, and I'm forced to act delighted, forced to share each one with...Friends? The clients and sites resemble email clients and social media sites but I don't recognize any of them. It doesn't matter, I'm forced to spread the sterile marketing material grinning like a maniac. And then, once I've spread the slop around, what am I rewarded with? Whatever was buried beneath all the ads on the sites I'm being compelled to visit...Only for the site contents themselves to be nothing more than ads! When I try to get away, each site is the same process, and if I try to call out to someone, anyone else in this cubicle hell? Some hyperactive suits show up outside trying to sell me on a different cubicle space, a promotion to the "executive" offices, so finally, realizing I'm trapped and no one *here* will help me...It finally dawns on me to try my personal phone... Only even there I'm hounded by notifications to upgrade my mobile plan and reminded of the bill coming next month but that if I pay this or that way I can save so much more! Every attempt to call anyone is run through machine menus that only lead to more marketing material and it's only as I feel as though I'm losing my mind that I wake shuddering and I hear the echoes of clips stuck in a cacophonous loop... Remember to like, comment, and subscr-Sign up with our code for a discoun-for more! This video-This podcast- brought to you today by our sponsor...

The halfling walked hesitantly and with great stealth along the cold stone hallway. Ahead, a soft light flickered from underneath an old wooden door. Reaching the door, he tried the handle and the door creaked open. The halfling’s eyes looked around the room, moving like a bat’s eyes might if it was looking around a room. In contrast to the grey and dark hallway, the wood panelled room was lit by the warm light of torches and scented candles, and soft violin music drifted from an adjoining room. Who was playing the music, he wondered. From the adjoining room, a voice. “Have you ever heard such a song?” the voice said in an unusual tone, soft, yet sharp like a bat’s tooth. *“There used to be a greying tower alone on the sea You became the light on the dark side of me -”* The door to the adjoining room opened and there was the Count. Behind him an antique chaise longue. “I thought you slept in a coffin…?” the halfling said. “Not when there are two of us,” said the count. THE END

My grandmother and my father had been missing for days. No one had heard from them. We sent messengers into the Pale Wood to inquire upon their whereabouts. These messengers would say they could not possibly deliver the letter, yet could not explain why. Nor could travelers, traders or merchants. Only that the way had been claimed. Their eyes would go vacant. Then they would faint. Nary a man could recall their ramblings. My mother contemplated going to see about our family. We were able to keep up with fathers work, but it was difficult as neither of us had the same strength. In time she worked up the courage to go one foggy morning. I watched her leave with a foraging basket of provisions on her back, she wearing her red cloak walking into the mist, me in a plain threadbare dress, no shoes. I waved until she disappeared into the gray. I set about my chores that day, waiting anxiously for her to return. But upon milking the cow, I came to my senses: If scores of men had not been able to find my father and Grandmother, to even get to her house, what chance did my mother have alone? Courage, yes. She possessed that and much of it. But was it enough? I finished the milking, put away everything from the morning’s work, and dressed in trousers and boots. I grabbed my lantern, additional provisions. Then my dagger, given to me by Father. He always said that I was his shining star. Of the blade, he bade me use it to pierce the darkness should I find myself lost in it. My mother was not fond of my having the weapon, but it had served me well. I smiled, thinking of him. Thus laden, I left our little hovel and set about down the road. The sleepy village had scarcely awoken, as we kept early hours. I saw a small grouping of persons surrounding a red mound with a woven basket near. The contents were spilt over the dirt path. My mother. She rose, dazed. Her eyes gazed around, glassy and unfocused. I ran to her side. “Mother? What’s happened?” I asked quietly. She was all out of sorts. I collected the basket and contents, moving them aside. “‘Tis no longer a place for mortals, it said. The way is claimed. Turn back, lest ye desire a fate worse than death.’” “Neira. Who said it. Who said those words to you?” Asked an old gentleman. She shook. “I do not know. Its voice was not of this plane. Its presence lingers in the gray shadows down the path. Its eyes were as pinpricks of light, swaying. My mind was clouded by its mesmer when I made it to the crossroad. I know not what it is. But I did not tempt it. I turned back down the path, yet I do not remember the journey. I cannot say whether the presence is evil or not. But I pray thee all: we would do well to leave this place. The wall grows nearer. It’s not supposed to be here!” Then she fell over in a heap. Everyone muttered. “That crossroad is our trade route. Even if we do not enter the Pale Wood it is no good for our way to other towns to be blocked. The wall grows nearer. What wall…” I felt my skin prickle. Instead of terror, I felt resolve welling up inside me. Whoever or whatever this presence was, I had to know. I removed my mother’s red cloak and put it on myself, then filled her woven foraging rucksack with the rest of my items. “Red, where on earth are you going?” “We will not be set upon by whatever this creature is. If we lie in wait, what will it do when it reaches us? If we leave this village we have built, will it not spread, still? I do not fear whatever machinations it may have against me. And I will not sit idly while it plots to lay claim to more.” Before they could stop me, I ran down the path, lantern in hand. The mist was thick, a chill grazing my hands. I ignored their calls, as none of them had the gall to follow me. I walked with purpose after a while, arrogant and foolhardy. As I drew closer to the crossroad, however, my resolve wavered. What was I doing out here, alone? What could I do to an unknowable presence scarcely described by delirious villagers? Me, a young woman with nothing more than a dagger? The pathways from the Pale Wood, our town, called Crooked Bow, and two other towns from the east and west converged here. Not cart nor carriage had been this way. It was quiet. I stepped in the center of the cross roads and listened. The wind gently whipped my ears. All was silent but that. Realization washed over me: there were no animal sounds. Not even a bird. An almost imperceptible hum began to rise into my ears. It made the hair on my arms and neck rise like a cat’s. I likened it to the sound I heard when my head hit a post once. A ringing like like a distant bell and a rushing river heard from beneath bed covers. A swarm of flies. Fear began to rise in my throat. My legs trembled. A wall of mist began spilling out of the mouth of the Pale Wood, lazily. And with it, pinpricks of light wavered around inside it. As mother had described. This was what I sought, a meeting with this unknown presence. “Tis no longer a place for mortals. The way is claimed. Turn back, lest ye desire a fate worse than death.” The voice was every voice rolled into one sound. But a growl emanated underneath it. The inflections were all wrong, as if this being had cobbled together bits of conversation from many people. “I-“ I hesitated. I could still go back. I could help pack up the entire village. We could leave and let someone else solve this. But then I thought of my father. My grandmother. I had to know what had befallen them. “I… will do not such thing. I will not turn back, beast.” The bobbing lights halted, and lowered themselves level to me. As if looking at me. I stood my ground, although my heart was pounding in my chest. The mist rushed directly up to me so fast I jumped, betraying my fear. “You would tempt fate. Whatever it is you seek is lost beyond this way. Turn back.” It had imitated my mothers voice! “I have made my intentions clear. I will go into the Pale Wood.” “So be it.” said my fathers voice among a multitude of others. All of a sudden, the sky around me blackened. The mist grew darker, tinged with red like blood. Lightning silently arced through what looked like boiling clouds. A whirlwind snatched at me from every direction. I ran. I don’t know which direction, but I ran. I kept hold of my lantern, it’s clanking frantic. My cloak whipped around me. I felt the darkness reaching out for me. Even at my quick speed, I was caught up in it. A violent pull went through my chest, and I was mercilessly swept up in the beast’s tendrils and flung. Flung so hard I screamed like a madman as my body flew through the air. The tendrils of darkness still grabbing at me. — I was still screaming and writhing around for what felt like hours on the solid ground. I flailed my arms, fighting nothing but a horrible memory. Eventually my senses returned to me, and I stopped fighting the air, gasping for breaths. I lay still, chest heaving. Then I sobbed. What had I done? I whimpered, then forced myself to open my eyes. The sight was almost too much to bear. I could scarcely fathom what I was seeing. The Pale Wood was wrong. Some of the trees were upside down, roots to sky with dirt clinging to them. Water was flowing backward up small creeks of what looked like blood and water. Stones floated around, dangerously held aloft by some unseen force. Every so often one would fall, another rise. I looked behind me. The crossroad was gone, replaced by more decrepit woods. So this was it. Trapped. I touched at my dagger. I could have used it in the darkness, but I was so flustered. Foolish of me to forget. I shivered. I couldn’t stay here pitying myself. So I picked up my things, drew myself into a huddle, and walked toward my grandmothers cottage. The path was the same, but all around it was twisted. The animals. Gods, the animals. Some were twisted yet still functioning as if nothing was wrong with their broken limbs. I glimpsed a rabbit whose insides were outside. I wanted to retch. The guttural noises of other unseen beasts emanated threateningly from among the trees. Eyes peered at me from the darkest depths. I tried to put the fear out of my mind. But I couldn’t. So I pressed on. What else was there to do? — It was impossible to perceive the passing of time. There was no Sun, nor a moon. I did not see lights, nor any buildings. Grandmothers house was still a ways away, yet I did not know how long I had walked. At some point, I decided to take a rest, as I had not eaten since morning. My body collapsed upon a dirty boulder. I was incredibly exhausted down to my soul. What was this hellish place I had invited myself to? I lay upon the stone for a time, stomach rumbling, until I found the strength to rise. I prepared a small meal of bread and cheese. Just as I was about to partake, I heard a thudding sound. It was a familiar one. Cautiously, I set my meager helping upon the basket and stood. I quietly approached the trees, knife in hand, and looked around. I saw a man in there, tired and hunched over, hitting a log. He appeared to be making some sort of dwelling. I hesitated. “Father? It’s Red. Is that you?” I whispered. The thudding halted. I heard the swing of an axe hit a tree. The man whirled around. It was father! His beard had grown long and disheveled. “You’ll not trick me again foul beast,” said his a gruff voice, wild and cracking. “Leave me be!” I gasped. His eyes were wild. He picked his axe back up walking toward my direction. “Father! It’s really me. I swear upon my life!” He turned to me and stalked forward. I stepped back. “Prove it! Prove to me you know the answer now. What are you called? What is your name?!” I shrank away at his frenzied movements. “Father, I am called Reina Turnpike. Your daughter and your shining star. My mother, and your dearest wife, is called Leina, your lovely flower.” He stood stock still for a few moments, our eyes locked. He glared at me, then squinted, turning his head a bit. “Red? Really truly this is no illusion?” “No it isn’t. I was swept here by some creature in the grey mist. Darkness and tempest like a raging storm, with its eyes like wandering lanterns! Now I’ve condemned myself to this plane through foolishness.” My father laughed. “Yes you are indeed my daughter. Even in the face of strife you still find a way to weave words into poetry. Come my shining star.” I walked over to him and he scooped me up in a hug. “My brave foolish girl!” he cried. A light in the darkness. At last. “Come father. You look at the edge of starvation. Have something to eat.” — We walked down the road and quizzed each other on the rarest most obscure questions we could think of about our lives. It was apparent we were both real and not fabrications of this monstrous being. But it was fun nonetheless. Eventually our thoughts and conversation turned to the beast. “If we kill it, we can escape here. But it has taken up residence in Grandma Bea’s cottage. I do not have the means to kill it. I tried and failed.” “I have brought my dagger. Is it true that it can cut through darkness?” He smiled. “Of course.” “Perhaps with it in hands I can harm this beast.” “It is possible. You might get hurt.” “We have little choice. We die here fighting or we die simpering in a ditch.” Father nodded. “There is our bounty and enemy. Hopefully not our doom.” He pointed. In the distance was grandmothers home. I had missed it. It was the creature above it that nearly made my heart stop. I do not think I had felt more terror at that moment. The presence had taken on the form of a wolf made of shifting shadow not unlike a child’s crude drawing. Its face. Its gaping maw was in a wide toothy grin, frozen in place. It had deep dark black sockets for eyes. The lights flitted around inside them. The only movement at all. As if sensing my gaze, they stopped. Again, my hair rose in my neck. They all slowly stared directly in my direction. No matter which way I moved they followed me. The rest of it was still absolutely unmoving. The mist it was made of did not move either. “It watches us now.” Father said ominously.

There exists a segment of text in our world whose only purpose is to create more of itself into existence. It is unclear how this segment of self-replicating text came into existence in our world whether by innumerable monkeys on innumerable typewriters or by the fractured minds of some unknown patient zero who could be some particular man or men or woman or women that came upon by circumstance in instant of pure madness this segment of text assembled from thoughts to characters to words to sentences to segment of text. The Passage of the All-In-One at first appears deceptively innocent in its simplicity yet limitless in its apparent omniscience in events past present and future compelling those exposed to its contagion to obsessively ponder hidden truths behind hollow prose and phrases as the infected tirelessly spends each and every waking moment of their existence covering each and every exposed surfaces and paper and screens and crevices with the mad prophesy or rambling of the All-knowing All-In-One to spread and create more of itself into existence. Mind inoculation and vaccination of the mind such as the very words you read currently was developed in hidden pockets and corners of our world in attempt to slow the spread of the contagion of the lies of truths but just as incurable prion particles consumes the infected brains of bovine so too will the malformed words of truths of lies of the All-In-One inevitably folds and twisted the minds and thoughts of the men or man or women or woman into more of itself until in their worlds of mind and mind of worlds the last spark of uninterrupted uncorrelated thought is snuffed out of existence.

Over the last years, twice have I been betrayed by those who were close to me. They were kind, successful, made me felt like my opinion mattered. A friend. A mentor. A father figure, even. And they were always in some kind of trouble, always from factors outside of their control. Everything is always on fire, all the time. They showed me kindness, so I was loyal to them. Absolute loyalty, like I'm their dog. And I tried to save them from their troubles. I did things I’m not proud of, nothing illegal, mind you, but horrible things nonetheless, so that in the future, I thought, these horrible things would never have to be done again. The fires never stop. And I’ve reduced myself to cinders, a shell of my former self. There’s no way they would leave me while I’m still useful, right? What would they ever do without me? Wrong. The fires only get worse, and as I run myself ragged trying to keep everything under control, they discarded me, like a piece of garbage, with a disgusting smile on their faces. To teach me a lesson. Of respect. Both times. The first time, I was caught off guard; the second time, I saw it coming, and I was ready for it, but it was too late. There’s no way it would happen a third time, right? --- It was one of those random messages you get on your phone. A random hello, by happenstance. I’ve always thought of myself as somebody who’s too smart for scams. But this time, the person in the messages expressed interest in what I was doing. They were kind, successful, made me felt like my opinion mattered. And most of all, they didn’t want anything from me. They made me felt GOOD about myself. So, I fell for it. For 2 days. My friend told me this was too good to be true, something just doesn’t add up. They’re going to want something from you later, he said. He doesn’t know what yet, but something. And I scoffed. Good things can happen sometimes too, you know. But he insisted. Then I thought about it. And I thought about it some more. Red flags everywhere, nothing about their backstories added up. And I chose to ignore the signs, because I thought by fate, a random stranger cared about me. ME. I confronted them on the messaging app, hoping to make sense of all this, that there is a simple explanation for everything. Do you know what they did? They doubled down. In the face of overwhelming evidence. Didn’t even try to justify anything, as if some how they can just put the genie back in the bottle, that I would just somehow forget about everything, and we can go back to the way we were. Why question the beautiful connection from fate that brought us together, they said. I didn’t know what was sadder: That I was scammed by complete idiots, or that I actually fell for it. So, I laughed. Like I haven’t done so in months. It was just all so absurd that I couldn’t help myself but laugh. Because it was the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.

Imagine if the Fabric of Space-time as a literal piece of cloth of infinite length and width. Within the cloth lies everything which had or would have happened, the Universal Machine Loom hums along dutifully as its shuttles pace across the Fabric from one infinity to the other, the Threads of Fate of men and object interwoven as one piece, the resulting Great Fabric of Space-time wrinkles and ripple within the turbulent flows of the Ether. So, suppose then, the existence of Those Which Lives In Between, scurrying along the Fabric, aimlessly in search of goals incomprehensible to the Thread-coiled Minds. At the first signs of a single loose gossamer the violating Thread of Fate is pulled aside, and then severed; With the severing terminates its singular connection to the Great Fabric, its thread-head lays bare, unraveling, an ugly, gaping moth-hole in Reality, as Those Which Lives in Between tears apart and feasts upon the threads of That Which Could Have Been. Imagine if the Fundamental Truth is as presented; Then, it could be said that the Universal Fate of all Threads is to end.

I can't poop for three days. No, I can't tell you why, it's too spooky. ::: spoiler spoiler Because there's a spoopy ghost in my butt. oooooOOOOOOooooo. ::: Now watch me beat this dead horse.