Day 421

She sank further into the murky brown water, eyes glazed and slowly closing.
Some kind of hawk watched from the poorly made wooden bridge she'd fallen off.
It didn't matter now, there was no way she'd ever make it back out.
Not with the way her bones snapped, skin split, body sagged down and down and down.

She felt small fish brush past her, nudging her bloody wounds, possibly eating her.
It was hard to tell, now that the pain was gone she was left numb and surprisingly peaceful.
As her eyes were about to drift shut she felt something large moving in the nearby water.
It took some strength for her to pry her eyes open only to come face to face with scales.

Day 420

The floorboards creaked an glowed faintly green, it wasn't meant to last this long.
He took this new legal high with his friends and they've vanished since.
Everyone has vanished since.
He spends his days wandering through empty unlocked homes in search of others.

He'd counted over a year's worth of days and still the world was a mass of swirling void.
Some things looked inverted or at impossible angles, flowers talked in static bursts.
His friends said that "Nazza", as it was called, lasted longer than any other high.
Well they weren't lying.

His latest attempt to find other people was to find a helicopter and fly to the mainland.
It could have worked if he had known how to pilot one.
At least he died quickly, flew straight into a bus shelter  - neck snapped clean.
He was the fifth to be found in such strange circumstances and with such strange coloured blood.

Day 419

It was supposed to be a clear and sunny day, perfect weather for sea fishing.
The pair got quite far out to sea before a dense fog settled and smothered all light.
They couldn't see their hands in front of their faces, it looked like midnight.
The boat began to drift, somehow their anchor had come loose.

Not being able to see the pair just stood where they had been as the fog settled and waited.
Even their voices were muffled as they tried to find each other on deck.
They shuffled closer to where they thought the other was, feet slipping on the damp ground.
As they felt close to their crew-mate the boat hit something metal and they were sent flying.

Gradually the fog lifted, the first thing the captain did was to find his niece.
She was sprawled near the back of the boat, clutching the rail and shaking.
While he was helping her he took the chance to look for whatever the boat had hit.
It was to the left side of the vessel though it was hard to see - the fog was taking a while to clear.

It seemed to be a metal structure and it towered over them, far into the hazy sky.
The more it cleared the further the structure seemed to go.
It eventually ended, a metal crate stood some fifty meters above them both.
The side of their boat had hit it so hard they found themselves stuck to the bars.

As the fog lifted further they saw a ladder several feet from the prow.
It seemed a better option than waiting for their vessel to sink.
The metal bars were easy enough to climb across though slippery in some places with red seaweed.
Their ascent was took some time, the seaweed grew thicker as they climbed further.

By the time they got to the top they were a few feet from the metal crate (actually a cart, they saw).
Everything smelt metallic up there, the sea a faint echo beneath them and the fog all but gone.
The tracks under their feet were only partially visible, mostly covered by dripping red weed.
As the captain and his niece walked towards the cart they didn't notice the fog returning.

Day 418

The snow piled up in lumps, covering the floor of the old factory.
It had seeped in through the broken windows and partially collapsed roof.
These are what drew people to visit.

There's something about an abandoned shell of a once busy place that seems irresistible.
It could be the echoes of its former uses, it could be human's natural curiosity.
Still, some places are better left untouched and uninterrupted.

The morning shift in this particular factory began at 6:15AM sharp, marked by a bell.
It rang throughout the town built around it like an ants nest, signalling their start.
On clear mornings the bell still rings though urban explorers have never found it.

They have searched every inch of the factory, heard the bell toll and said it comes from everywhere.
Some seem to think that the bell is in the town somewhere or it is a series of bells.
When the snow came thick last winter the bell stopped and hasn't rung since.

It hasn't melted inside the factory either, not even in the harsh summer heat.
Few people have gone there since the disappearances of five urban explorers.
They're claiming the place has changed, that its full of workers and business is booming.

Thing is nobody can remember what the factory produced.
I went in there last month to find out, to see if there were any clues like employee handbooks.
After three hours in there I can say that its never been fuller.

Snow doesn't bother the dead, they can't feel anything - they don't even need breaks.
Ever since winter they've been working, one told me so (Tom, his name was).
His right arm and upper leg had been crushed by something he called "The Wrack Mender".

He never explained what it was, just garbled out words in between handing large metal brackets
to another employee who was missing most of his lower jaw to "a stray Vice Bolter".
I tried to ask where the missing people were but Tom said that everyone there was a worker.

Staying as much out of the way as possible I went further in, looking for modern clothing as it
would stick out sorely against the grubby blue uniforms of the workers.
I had photos of the missing people's faces and showed them to wandering workers.

Eventually towards the end of my three hour trek into the dead's factory, one worker pointed down.
She pointed down into a pit where they looked to be cleaning large metal cylinders.
Poor woman couldn't speak as most of her head was missing to some other machine based disaster.

After a few more minutes of wandering I found him, one of the missing people.
He was suspended on bungee cables of some sort and missing his entire lower half.
Dressed in the same uniforms as everyone else he fit right in but for the colour of his skin and blood.

The dead are greyish blue and whatever blood is on them is dried a rusty red shade.
Mike (the formerly missing person) was a bit paler than his photo but still normal and was dangling
over a steadily growing puddle of fresh red blood, moving sluggishly as he worked.

He was clearly going to bleed to death and I tried - I really tried to get him out of there.
They wouldn't let me, said he'd signed the contract and had to work there just like them.
In fact, they told me he would soon be like them.

They seemed happy that he was dying, glad to have fresh company perhaps.
I was escorted to the factory's back door by the one I knew as Tom.
He waved briefly, said that to come back if I ever needed work - plenty of jobs going apparently.

Day 417

You can hear the sea and taste the bitter salt in the air.
The seagulls cry haunts your every waking moment.
You have always lived in a landlocked desert town and have never seen the sea.
Still you feel the waves lap around your waist as you wade to the post office.

The door seems rustier than normal and takes a great deal of effort to open.
As you do a great gust of air pushes you in and slams the door behind you.
This is not unusual, but while your gaze drifts about the place you see much that is.
For instance the cashier (Tim or James, you're never sure) has a blueish hue to his skin.

Your old school friend Mel literally drifts past you, feet gently brushing the floor yet
she remains immobile as she stares at a form to be sent abroad.
You try to talk to her but all that comes out of your mouth are small bubbles of water.
They float up to the ceiling that glistens wetly, pale green patterns rippling across it.

Walking gets harder and harder as you move further in, like the air is getting thicker.
The seagull cries get louder and you are approached by your neighbour.
His words are water bubbles that lazily move upwards.
He doesn't seem to notice yet his face shines with water, the ripples covering him.

You smile awkwardly and indicate moving away from him to a further aisle.
He jumps slightly and glides away from you as if it were a totally normal occurrence.
The air in the store begins to turn a shade of bluey-green as you walk further in.
Someone bumps into you when you turn into a random aisle and you are sent floating away.

Day 416

The ruins had been a monastery once, according to the placard by the car park.
Now all that was left of it were the stone cubes that had been rooms and halls.
Not many people knew about it since it was tucked away behind a forest off the A1101.
The only indicator that it was even there was a small wooden signpost with its name.

The Brotherhood of St Wiomad, Thorpe Larch Monastery.
Some of the stone blocks had been individual buildings of some sort, not associated
with the actual monastery but wearing the same mark that resembled a horizon.
These were always sealed off, some with small windows, others just stone squares.

Through every window a single gravestone could be seen with faded writing all over.
Not a single inch of stone was unmarked and none of it legible, possibly not even English.
The plaque in the car park said that according to local legend the stones were marked by
angels, or at least something that the monks had thought of as angels.

Their brotherhood was recorded in other sources as having distinctly un-Catholic
practices, most noticeably human sacrifice and the worship of many sub-gods.
The disappearance of this small order is thought to have occurred around the same time
that the gravestones were carved and placed though this has yet to be confirmed.

The last person to touch the stones refuses to talk about it, only saying they aren't stone.
When plied with enough drink at a nearby pub he confessed that they were too warm to
be stone, pulsing underneath his hand like they were breathing.
He rambled on and on about the writing on the wall where the window was, where he entered.

He'd made notes and after a few more drinks he took me to his home and gave me his notes.
I'm sure he won't remember it and as fascinating as his sketches are, the actual writing in
his notepad makes no sense whatsoever, like the scrawls could be words if you squinted.
Looking too long at his writing made my eyes itch and my vision swirl.

Day 415

Ignore the train that comes into South Station at exactly 8:37AM.
It isn't meant to be there and the people coming and going from it aren't real.
The station staff have been trained to not see it, to serve the passengers without fear.
Well, without showing their fear.

You see the people who board that train find it difficult to pass as human.
Have you ever seen someone who didn't look right, like someone wearing a suit
instead of natural human flesh, like they only knew the idea of human.
The trick is to not look them in the eyes, those gaping, unseeing eyes.

There have been cases of people who have mistakenly gotten onto the train.
They are seen the next day curled up on the unused tracks clutching newspapers
dating back two hundred years, their faces gaunt and weary.
Every time they say the same thing, they were gone for a very long time.

They would speak about the people they saw, the impossible people.
The people who stood fifty feet tall, skin made of glass, blood flowing grey.
Soon after the accidental passengers would be found dead.
Autopsies would show their stomach empty of everything aside from a ticket.

The destination was always the same and apparently didn't exist anywhere on Earth.
At least nowhere that anyone could find, though the 8:37 passengers all went there.
The police team who went aboard the train to investigate the string of deaths came
back as changed people, declaring the law to be blasphemous.

Since their following demise the train murder cases have been closed for good.
The train is still on time, always on time and always busy.
Its passengers only somewhat human from a distance.
Its destination nowhere on this world.

Day 414

The house you woke up in was enormous.
You had yet to see who or what lived there and you were glad.
As tall as you were you had to prop box upon box to even reach the tops of the tables
that were strewn carelessly throughout the labyrinthine hallways and rooms.
Well, they might have been rooms, the whole place looked like a hoarder's wet dream.

Boxes of cloth and damp cardboard were mostly stacked, some looked to have been
tipped over or thrown against a wall where they hung from the protruding panels.
Somehow you always managed to find food nearby whenever you felt near faint.
Water too, in small glasses and large bowls to bathe in.
You tried not to wonder if you were being watched or followed by the house's owner.

You'd set up a main camp in a cupboard that was mostly hidden underneath an enormous
dining room table that could have seated a human sized army.
The thick white cloth that had been draped over it was hard to move and stained brown
in places, the stains almost formed human sized splatters that you tried desperately to ignore.
You'd managed to use the damp cardboard and thick cloth scraps to make a mattress at least.

It wasn't comfortable but it was better and safer than the mismatching floorboards.
From time to time you heard loud groaning and roaring in the distance, the owner perhaps.
You'd never seen the source of the noise nor wanted too, often it happened so close by that
you could practically smell the breath of the monstrous thing that cried out so loudly.
The occasional shadow passed by your table hideaway and you'd cower in your cupboard.

This almost became routine, wake and look for the usual glass or bowl or plate, cower, sleep.
It began to feel normal, like you'd always been here and knew the place well.
The labyrinth  made sense, you could navigate it in your sleep and climb every obstacle with ease.
But then it changed, everything changed - even the colours of your shoddy mattress changed!
It was like the house had been invaded by some kind of desert.

Everything took on paler tones, worn tones, sand piled high in corners, underneath the cracked
floorboards and the lower floors greatly reducing the house to a handful of rooms.
You felt glad that your hideaway was at least mostly the same and almost sand-less.
Even the thing that screeched from time to time changed, taking on a deeper and hoarser tone.
It was also closer, you could feel its breath huffing against the back of your neck.

The house was no longer the safe feeling almost-home you'd grown used to.
The creature was no longer this distant reminder of your situation, it was hunting you.
Each day ended with you being chased into a cupboard or under a stack of boxes as its great
thundering footsteps came hurtling past, shaking you to the core.
You fell asleep reminded of the brown humanish stains, wondering when you would join them.

Day 413

The traffic parted to allow the rapidly moving ambulance to pass through.
Its passenger sadly on the way out, no thanks to the staff.
You see the wrong number was dialled, just one digit out.

941

This crew appears almost exactly as you'd expect paramedics to.
Uniformed, concerned, prompt although their faces could never be recalled.
Hardly the first thought on anyone's mind and yet they left a faint air of fear behind.

Just one digit left the poor bastard in a body bag by the river.

Their patients were loaded in with the utmost caution and care, strapped down tightly.
Nobody escaped from them or at least if they did they were never heard from.
The ride was perfectly inconspicuous to viewers but inside... inside was hell.

The callers never paid attention to what was in the ambulance.

Day 412

You woke up on what appeared to be a stage.
The crowd around you wore bags on their heads with roughly cut eye holes.
Each had some kind of smiling mouth drawn on in (you hoped) fake blood.
The bags themselves were sagging and hairy in places, they looked handmade
as the stitching was falling apart in some places revealing red lining.

They applauded your waking some standing.
A microphone hung from the stage ceiling suspended on thick wires.
You grabbed it and asked what the hell was going on.
The entire audience began to stand in complete silence and opened a book.
They seemed to turn to the same page and began to read to you.

Step into something fresh.
Step into someone's flesh.
Walk a literal mile in their soles.
Gain equality through experience.
Become.

Some are born to experience others.
Some are born to be experienced by others.
A stage is both birthplace and resting ground.

You didn't hear the rest, too busy fending off a knife wielding stranger.
He was screaming the audiences lines in time while aiming for your jugular.
Whatever they'd drugged you with to get you here hadn't fully worn off.
You were weak and he knew that.
His blade finally caught you in the side, just below your ribs.

You tried to stagger back but now that he'd wounded you he went in for the kill.
His knife pierced your torso again and again and again as your vision faded.
You felt blood rushing into your lungs, coming from your mouth in wet coughs.
Still, you weren't quite dead, he let you live while he slid his knife under your neck.
He managed to peel the skin from the front of your neck to mid lower back in one go.

Day 411

Some parts of the world absorb memory like a fresh sponge.
They are soaked in layers and layers of other people's lives and deaths.
Their first and final moments are trapped, constantly rewound and replayed.

Occasionally these places can be felt in the form of deja vu or cold shivers.
Called ghosts in some circles, such "hot spots" could contain anyone or anything.
It could be as harmless as a puppy tripping or as brutal as a child's last breath.

Its near impossible to tell what has happened in these places unless they have written history.
A field could contain the memories of an entire army's defeat and we'd never know until it
was stumbled upon by someone who recognised the symptoms of trapped memories.

It is greatly argued as to whether or not these places are sentient. after all some have been
known to inflict great harm upon nearby living persons and objects.
As of yet there is no way to tell, we can only speculate.

We can only wonder how it must feel to be trapped in an endless loop.
Reliving something as innocuous as saying hello or reading a story.
Reliving something as innocuous as saying hello or reading a story.

Day 410

It all started when summer came and the doors were left open.
The night was too humid and the bungalow felt like a sunken coffin.
The damp air seemed to cling to every surface, it was so hard to breathe.
Opening the doors changed it, for the better?
Perhaps.

First came the wind so cold it left frost on the glass table.
It blew in sudden sharp gusts, disrupting everything and all inside.
The cat was found later the next evening frozen stiff.
At this point they thought it a freak accident.
It grew from there.

The second night brought whispering voices on the iced wind.
All of them sounded so familiar and so far away.
They sounded so worried, asked where they were, why they were.
Sometimes they seemed to say go to the beach, or was it so out of reach?
They soon brought company.

The third night was the hardest to ignore.
The voices found hands to use in the local graveyard.
Their whispering became chanting became yelling became howling.
Became clawing and screeching and sudden stillness.
Bloody hand prints and frost covered the corpses found the next day.

Day 409

The bridge wasn't meant to be crossed.
Its not that it was designed to be uncrossable, it was there as a means of escape.
Those who are able to see it from the village's side are not meant to use it.

The other side is nothing more than a rumour now.
Thick fog covers the bridge and shows no signs of abating any time soon or ever.
Before the bridge was finished all that could be heard from the other side were screams.

They seemed to fall down the cliffs between the two areas but some lingered.
Such cries would pass over the foggy space and into the village.
On those days the cattle would go missing, only to be found strung up outside bedrooms.

The people thought it was lost souls who had climbed from the depths in search of peace.
They made the bridge hoping that it would somehow appease the dead.
Construction took almost twenty years and cost dozens of lives.

They called it "Deep Madness", that feeling when you're suspended in the fog and little else.
Nobody knew how to explain it, that desperate urge to jump into the nothingness.
Needless to say the screaming was the worst during the building.

The brave ones who went to finish the final stretch never came back.
Neither did the screaming, at least it never came to the village.
It still lingered around the bridge, right up to the threshold.

Some days when the fog rose over the bridge and close to the village you could almost see people.
They had no faces and yet they were familiar somehow.
Children would run to them, thinking those shapes were their missing parents.

Day 408

You saw hands brushing the curtain, running their fingers along its silky material.
The rest of them was obscured though you did peer closer.
A face peered back.

With trembling hands you reached forward to see who could possibly be behind there.
Sharply you yanked the curtain aside only to see your usual view of the street below.
You felt something brush past you.

You heard footsteps running away and further into your apartment.
Chasing after the unseen being you saw it crash into furniture, saw it bleed.
After several tense minutes of cat and mousing it managed to open your front door.

You thought that would be it, that blank face and unseen body would be gone.
How wrong you were as you heard your door open later that night.
How wrong you were as its hands ran through the curtains once more, pressing red into white.

It writes such beautiful things about what it has seen and who it has seen.
The world feels lighter, you feel lighter and lighter and you cease worrying when it leaves.
It always comes back with new stories written in blood.

You don't care whose blood it is, only the words it forms and how they lift every fibre of your being.
There is no fear between you and it now, just words and a thin curtain.
You've kept each and every curtain it has written on after all you can easily buy more.

The news once talked about a lethal serial killer in your area that left behind letters on their torsos.
More for you to read and you had to read them.
Their words were written by it and it wrote such beautiful things.

Day 407

We ran from the light that tried to blind us.
It had already gotten so many people, we refused to be next.
The only place left to hide from it was a half sunken train carriage.

We crouched under the seats for days as it swept over us.
Some couldn't handle the cramped, sopping, creaking wreck and ran outside.
They didn't make it far, the light knew where we were.

We would have tried to run out at night but there was no night any more.
There was only the blinding light and the cut off screams of its victims.
It liked to do that, to make them cry out before ending them.

Sometimes it found a person who wouldn't scream the way it wanted.
That or it felt like dragging out the torment to the point where they vomited blood.
Either way there were times when all we could hear outside were those poor wretches.

We thought that's how it would be from then on, that we'd slowly starve in that place.
It hadn't escaped our attention that the whole train was slowly sinking.
We'd been maybe a week in there and by that point we were standing on the seats.

Kept near the door just in case it went entirely, it certainly seemed like it would.
Then the blinding light began to flicker and we seized our chance.
Some still got caught but we found a new place to hide.

It was an underground loading bay for a shopping centre.
We finally have a safe place with food, water and plenty of lightless areas.
Just have to wait this out, ignore the screams and don't draw attention to ourselves.

Except the screams are dying down now and the light flickers past us, as if it's patrolling.
I swear it still knows where we are but perhaps it isn't too sure.
We might still survive this, just need to wait out the light.

None of us have ever gotten a close look at it, all anyone's seen is the light and the corpses it left.
Eyes liquidated, running down scorched faces in pearly trails and the scent of burnt meat.
We can't be sure if the light is dying or trying to trick us.

One of the group, never told us his name, went near the entrance to take a peek.
The light sucked him out, dragged him up and tossed him down once he stopped screaming.
Now we sit here, huddled at the back in the locked doorways as the flickering light sways past.

Day 406

When the child was carried out from the woods, the nightmares stopped.
They had no legs, their entire lower half looked to have been hacked off.
That's how they were stopped.
It had to be done.

When the child grew after the hottest day of the year, nobody knew about them.
The next day they were just there, buried up to the waist in dirt and crying.
Soon after the nightmares came, horrible, terrible things.
People stopped sleeping when the first one died.

Found in her bed, poor thing she'd torn off her ears.
They were in her stiff, pale blue hands when her son went to visit her that morning.
The wind picked up as they brought her out and into the ambulance.
I'll never forget the look on her face as the sheet blew away.

Her entire jaw was heavily distended and partially torn, eyes bulging and glazed over.
She marked the start of a series of gruesome deaths, all thanks to that child.
We all knew it was the child, they drew the faces of the dead in the dirt around them.
Some of the others tried to dig the child out, found it weren't human and lost it.

Instead of legs they had thick grey roots with pulsating red splotches.
It bled so much when the others took an axe to its middle.
At least there haven't been any nightmares since, no more deaths too.
Nobody dies now, nobody ages neither... we just are.

Long skirts are in too, covering the legs is modest you see.
Even the men are wearing long skirts, they say its good for the circulation.
Nobody talks about the skittering, dragging noises we make instead of footsteps.
We'll all be leaving soon though, too stagnant here.

Even the air feels as lifeless as the ground beneath our - beneath us.
We move slower but we never tire, always walking, always to new ground.
Can't stay anywhere too long, people start thinking bad about us.
Then the deaths come... death follows us and its all that child's fault.

Day 405

Ever since she read that the average human swallowed at least five spiders in their life
she hadn't slept, too concerned with eliminating any potential hide of theirs.
Her house as void of everything bar a mattress, even the cupboards had been torn from
the walls and thrown onto the ever growing pile in the back garden.

Despite her careful measures she could feel the spiders crawling down her throat every night.
She felt their thick, hairy legs on her arms, her legs, her face.
More often than not she would wake screaming and tearing at her own skin to remove them.
Every tie they would scuttle out of sight before she could see them properly.

She knew she wasn't dreaming them, the house was covered in their webs.
The sound of their limbs creaking and fluttering around followed her everywhere.
Her measures took a turn for the worse as she tracked their noise into the walls and began to
tear then down, removing once last obstacle between her and an empty home.

She took out a load bearing wall on the ground floor and sent the whole place down.
By the time they found her corpse it had been almost a month.
Her face was half torn to shreds, judging by her hands it was self inflicted.
The morgue found the strangest thing, her entire digestive track was clogged by spider webs.

Day 404

Your friends wouldn't stop raving about this pub on the river's edge called The Boathouse.

Cheap drink, big plush chairs and a gorgeous view that drew you right in.

They never mentioned its history despite it looking like a set from a period drama.

At least, that's what it looked like online, you've never been able to find it.

Your friends said to follow the wooden path just off the road to Tesco, past a wooden gate.

Everyone knew where the old boating lake was after all, but nobody seemed to have been there.

They spoke about The Boathouse though... it seemed hard for them not to.

You found the wooden gate tucked between a convenience shop and a petrol station.

The road beyond that was gravel between grassy banks that gradually morphed to marshlands.

By your friends constant reminders you were to turn left at a lightning burnt tree.

And you did, it stood out like a sore thumb among the boggy clumps of reeds and grass.

It was pitch black and tipped over, roots jagged and crumbling into the surrounding mud.

The gravel path was patchy as you followed it towards the famous Boathouse and the lake.

It didn't quite make sense to have a pub so far out from the town but it seemed to be popular still.

The path  was getting harder to follow, it split into multiple others with no end in sight.

Before long you found yourself stranded among a bog you never knew existed.

You squatted low, catching your breath from the long walk and debating giving up entirely.

A sharp ring broke through the silence as you received a call from your friend.

He was already at The Boathouse with everyone else, they yelled through the phone for you to hurry.

As you explained that you were lost they quickly found a volunteer friend to fetch you.

And so you waited, crouched and anxious as the water around you bubbled occasionally.

The thought of going back grew more promising, the gravel path was still within sight and alluring.

Faint yelling met your ears as a figure in the distance yelled something at you.

Thinking it was your friend you headed that way, stepping carefully onto the stone slabs.

As you drew closer you found you didn't recognise them at all yet they knew your name.

They claimed to be your dear friend, grabbed your arm and practically hauled you along.

Said that everyone was already waiting for you but refused to give specific names.

Only said that you knew them, the regular lot, the guys, the old lads and such.

The marshlands soon gave way to the lake itself and there on the other side was a dilapidated pub.

It looked something like the photos online only much, much older.

Your "friend" led you along the narrow wooden walkway that crossed the lake.

It was partially submerged in places, overrun with pondweed in others but it seemed stable so far.

Their grip on your arm tightened so hard you felt your bones creak in their grasp.

They refused to let go, said it was too dangerous and that everyone was waiting.

The prospect of meeting this "everyone" was growing less and less appealing by the step.

Nearing the halfway point you heard the wooden boards creak loudly.

It was your only warning as the walkway collapsed, your "friend" dragging you down with them.

The icy cold water leapt into your lungs as you struggled to swim upwards.

Your "friend" was dragging you down, swimming far stronger than you, heading still to the pub.

You don't remember the rest of the swim, you shouldn't have lived in all honesty.

Yet you woke up in a warm chair with a pint in your hand, surrounded b smiling strangers.

They were all dripping with water, skin pale, bruised and bloated.

You were welcomed, they'd been waiting for you.

As you sat there, dripping and pale, The Boathouse on the river's edge began to feel more like home.

Day 403

Of all the things your grandmother owned, that electric photo frame was the worst.
The photos on it used to be of you and your family but it kept flickering to other people.
People that wore the same clothing and looked almost identical but not quite human.
It would always take you a while to notice if the faces smiling at you were your family's.
They rarely were as of recent.

It seemed that the longer it was plugged in, the stranger and more grotesque the people became.
The worst so far was your uncle, his eyes were so sunken you could barely see them.
His beard looked like it had been dipped in blood, shiny red drips seemed to fall from the ends.
His teeth looked too large for his mouth and so shiny you could actually see your reflection on them.
Even the background had changed, the car he was in front of had gained a passenger.

Their face was a distorted mockery of a human, skin the colour of rust and peeling like it too.
Your grandmother appeared to never notice these changes, always looking fondly at the images.
Nobody ever talked about the things that had made their home in those precious memories but
you caught them looking worriedly and glancing away quickly if they saw you watching them.
Still, they were getting worse, the people were moving closer to the edge of the frame.

Day 402

You could see them outside of the hospital window and through every door.
They shouldn't be there, nobody should be here.
This place was supposed to be damn near impossible to get into and yet there they were.
People you know kept dashing past you, running away from something unseen.

You didn't have the guts to look back and didn't quite believe that you were alone.
Walking only made your fear worse, you settled for a light jog for as long as possible.
Still they passed you by, never acknowledging you and never responding to your calls.
Your mother, cousin, that guy you sat next to in maths, the taxi driver who got you here.

Where were they running to and were they even real?
You didn't quite feel alone but there was no noise beside your own light steps and heavy breath.
Wait, was it your breath? Were you out of breath already?
No, this breathing wasn't quite in time with yours, like an echo but close.

As your first crush came hurtling past you felt hot breath on the back of your neck and snapped.
You took the hospital's corridors like a slalom, left and right stopped meaning anything.
All that mattered was outrunning everyone you knew and getting away from the thing behind you.
Before you knew it you had sprinted past your first crush, you heard their scream.

It only made you run faster, passing by everyone who you'd seen before.
They screamed, all of them and it always ended with the same sickening, wet crunch.
Without realising you managed to circle back around, feet slipping and sliding on the bloody floor.
The tiles were drenched in blood, handprints smeared on windows and walls.

There were no bodies in sight though, at least this morbidly marked where you'd been.
You took the turns you hadn't before, ended up in some kind of surgical theatre.
In front of you was a trolley with a body on it, covered by a sheet.
Looking around you saw everyone who'd run by you all blood soaked and mutilated.

Their eyes (or what was left) glared at you accusingly, you had let them die by outrunning them.
You outlived them and they loathed you for it, some opened their mouths and let out silent screams.
The hot breath was at your back once more, breathing out in your voice look under the sheet.
As the damp off-white fabric was lifted, your own face stared up at you with pure hatred.

Day 401

The carpark has never been taken care of properly.
Government cuts made sure that it was barely staffed, everything else wasn't their problem.
The lights were flickery at best and more often than not they were off entirely.
The tarmac was cracked in some places and collapsing in others.
Still, people needed somewhere cheap to leave their cars for a while and so it remained open.

Aside from the lights, floor and varying other architectural issues there was one other thing.
One large thing, I should say, its impossible to ignore even from the outside.
Ivy, you see, is one of those vicious growers - damn plant never stays gone.
You can cut and hack and cleave away at it and it'll be back same time next week.
In the carpark it covers the entire back half of the building from ground to roof.

They tried to cut it back completely a year or so ago, they haven't tried since.
It was clear from the beginning that the ivy had well and truly devoured the wall.
Starting from the roof they used a mixture of weed killer and wire cutters for those sturdy roots.
It seemed impossible at first, the damn stuff just wasn't budging but after three hours it gave way.
Slowly but surely they were able to peel it away from the wall, torching the bricks just in case.

The more they removed the stranger the scene before them.
Where bricks should be there was a large passageway that didn't seem to lead to the next building.
It should have been a plain wall between the carpark and an office block but these bricks looked
far older than both of the buildings and the musty air that rushed out confirmed this.
The two carpark employees thought to call the manager but they were too understaffed already.

If they called him then there would be nobody to run the place - head office would cause havoc!
They were tetchy enough as it was, always nagging them about the damn ivy.
This had to be taken care of by the two of them and quickly, before it caused trouble.
There were holes in one side of the passage which allowed faint slivers of light through.
Checking the time to see how long they could spare for this they both walked in.

The manager came up to the roof that evening, having spent all afternoon calling their mobiles.
He expected to see them slacking off, maybe drinking but instead he found only their tools.
All of their equipment was on the roof by patch of ivy that looked brighter and fresher than the rest.
Thinking they hadn't done their job and just gone home he headed down the stairs.
Cursing to himself he noticed that the ivy had broken through the stairwell in several places.

He thought he was the only one in the building so talked aloud to himself, the place was eerie alone.
Pausing by a large-ish patch of ivy on the third floor he lit up a cigarette.
As he exhaled he heard a loud cough coming from the plant covered wall.
Whipping his head around he saw a faint white blob moving through the ivy and towards him.
He pulled the remaining leaves aside to reveal a familiar face, ghastly pale and eyes shut.

He called their name, asked how the hell they got there, why hadn't the answered their phones.
The face didn't respond, just coughed and continued to wriggle forward.
He grew so angry he slapped them, yelled at them to answer him.
The face opened their eyes and ivy vines came tumbling out, slapping against their skin and hanging.
They coughed open mouthed and thick, wet leaves fell to the ground in clumps.

The staircase was so narrow from the fast growing plants that he soon had nowhere to go.
He was trapped, surrounded by ivy, ivy and the possible corpse of his employee.
They began to walk towards him, reaching out with a sickly pale green hand, trembling and weak.
Pity and guilt flooded him and he stepped towards their open arms.
It was surprisingly painless to be among the vines and leaves, it felt more like home every day.

The carpark has never been taken care of properly.
Government cuts meant that it was barely staffed and they never stayed for long, vanishing regularly.
The lights were flickery at best and more often than not they were off entirely.
The tarmac was cracked in some places and collapsing in others.
Still, people needed somewhere cheap to leave their cars for a while and so it remained open.

Day 400

Nobody thinks to check the water, too concerned with their lands.

War, famine, terrorism - what of these comes from the water?

When will these come from the water and who will see them first?

What innocent seaside dweller would care for a missing tourist or two.

Or ten or a hundred as their numbers grow day by day.

Nothing washed up for years though.

The odds of a human body lasting more than a month at sea are low at best.

No one can say for sure when it began, not everyone was counted as missing.

Twelve years along from the presumed start they began to reappear.

They walked inland from under the water, covered in sea debris and thin as leaves.

They would not say where they had been but their eyes and teeth had changed colour.

Blue and grey, it was always blue eyes and grey hair regardless of age.

Aside from these minor changes they were welcomed back to their homes with open arms.

Do you remember the old saying open arms, open hearts, open veins.

The body count has never been higher.

Day 399

I had to find the tiles because he had written on them.
He had inscribed an entire novella on them, every single detail surrounding his work.
A lifetime's worth of studying the root of all disease and the bastard had hidden it all.
Not for much longer though, not if this latest tip finally paid off.
I'd had several "tips" that turned out to be pure nonsense but this one held promise.

An old office block in a long forgotten industrial estate up near Rookhope.
Looking at the place you'd never think one would be anywhere near the quaint little cottages.
Each one made of the same type of stone except for the pub which was whitewashed.
Somewhere near this nothing of a town was the answer to curing all disease and I wanted it.
The tip said to "look past the church façade and name it right".

I hated riddles but this one seemed straight forward enough when I got there.
The façade turned out to be a a door hidden behind a painting of St Thomas, easy find.
It had his signature just underneath the uppermost hinge - that unmistakable scrawl.
The door pushed easily inwards (no handle in sight, nor lock - strange for someone so secretive).
I remember hearing shuffling sounds as I looked down the well used steps.

I thought for a moment that he might even be down there, that he'd faked his death and escaped.
An orange light shone down the stone hallway, the steps leading down were short and worn.
As I stepped closer (quietly as possible) the shuffling noises were clearer, no longer echoing.
They sounded more like something was scraping along concrete and came from a side passage.
Peering around the corner and into the passage I saw that I was not alone.

I had never been alone, I remember having seen these things throughout the village.
They weren't statues, they were never statues.
The plaques had dedicated them to names that meant nothing to me, here they moved.
Dragging themselves along the concrete floor, picking up a slab only to fill its place perfectly.
They moved so fluidly like flesh bolted onto a tile but their faces meant the most to me.

Every statue had this book at the end of their neck instead of a head, always closed too.
Down here all of the books were open and his words were on every lazily flipping page.
I had found it but there was no way to obtain it... so I did the next best thing.
I convinced the paster (a key figure in the village) to seal the statues down there.
The old fool was easily persuaded "for the moral good of the people".

I've spent years since finding ways to pin down these creatures and extract the pages from them.
To my absolute frustration they were far more fragile than they seemed.
One prick from a needle and they shrivelled up, books sealing themselves forever.
Nothing in his previous works talked about them or how to fix them, whatever they were.
The only pages I have were painstakingly copied by hand and spoke of some kind of root.

This root was said to exist somewhere underground, perhaps in one of the tunnels under Rookhope.
All of the major details are currently on a particularly stubborn creature, it refuses to let me see.
My last attempt involved threatening to kill another subject in front of it.
They are as heartless as they are stubborn, I need to know what they're hiding from me.
This root could be mere metres away from me, tomorrow I'll drag them with me til I find it.

Day 398

Your bathwater began to run grey from the taps.
As you tried to turn them off the faster it flowed, ashen and smelling faintly of meat.
More water poured than should be possible from such small taps.
The bath had yet to overflow though it was nearing the rim.

As suddenly as it had started it stopped.
The water remained right near the rim, grey and rippling from unseen movement.
A pale shape began to rise from the murky depths - a body.
It shouldn't have been possible, were you dreaming still?

The closer it got to the surface the more detail you could make out.
Large closed eyes, black and sunken round the edges, far larger than human eyes.
Its mouth was open, seemingly breathing the water around it.
It kept rising slowly until its entire face was above the surface, water flowing from its maw.

The gurgling breaths it took gradually ceased as it began to breathe air.
You were so focused on this creature that you hardly noticed the bathroom door locking itself.
With such suddenness that made you jump back the taps sprang into life, pouring grey once more.
The body rose with the water, beginning to tip over the edge.

You reached out to try and push it back but the second your hands touched its skin it woke.
Those eyes, those inhumanly large eyes fixed on your frightened face, mouth opening wider.
Its teeth were like a forest of needles, breath hissing in and out steadily.
You tried to back off but it grabbed your hand in its own, pale and bloated with a grip of steel.

The water continued to rise as you struggled to free yourself, unable to break its grasp.
It slowly sat upright, eyes still staring at you unblinking and empty.
Now the overflow was at knee height and the creature was moving to stand.
You reached for the nearest object - a small mirror - and began to beat it down.

It made no sound yet its expression was that of agony.
The mirror broke and glass shards became embedded in its forehead, face and neck.
Its grip gradually went lax and it collapsed, sinking back into the water with a loud splash.
As the grey fluid seeped down the drain you were left with a corpse and the sound of your breath.

Shakily sitting on the toilet seat you tried to calm yourself, closing your eyes and breathing deeply.
Something still felt off, you held your breath and heard a faint gasp nearby.
Trying not to show your awareness of the other living presence you slowly opened your eyes.
The creature was still breathing, it hadn't been after you beat it down and yet now it was.

You wondered how long it would be before it opened its eyes again and what it would do.
The door might have opened by now, you crept over to it as quietly as possible.
Seems the water had somehow rusted the handle, it crumbled damply in your hand.
There was something solid inside of what was left of the handle.

A key yet your bathroom door had always locked by a latch, not an actual lock
The idea struck you to try and peel away more of the rust to see if the lock had changed too.
Wiping your hand over the rotting mass you found it almost dissolved, revealing a keyhole.
You figured you were dreaming yet the ache in your arms from killing the creature persisted.

The key turned with a metallic squeal, you heard the creature groan.
You didn't realise it could make noise.
Time clearly wasn't on your side, you had to leave there and fast before it was fully alive.
As the door creaked open you saw that even your hallway had changed.

The red carpet was muddy brown and as sopping wet as the bathroom.
Grey water was pouring from somewhere on the stairs, creating a waterfall.
You heard footsteps downstairs, thudding wetly down the hallway - you had more company.
The hallway upstairs was sagging halfway, your choices were stay and die or risk a drop.

Taking a few steps back you ran and leapt over the sagging area as it collapsed behind you.
Two sets of groaning came from behind you.
One creature (the first judging by the glass embedded in its skull) peered around the bathroom door.
As you turned back around the second creature stood before you, its bloated face grimacing at you.

It left you no time to think as it brought the broken mirror down, sending you into darkness.
You awoke some time later, wrist tied to a ceiling grate of some sort in a concrete looking pit.
The water here was shoulder deep and so cold you couldn't feel your legs nor your other arm.
A snicker drew your attention above as the creature waved at you with your unfelt limb.

It tossed your arm through the grating and you watched helplessly as it bobbed in front of you.
Your legs were next, one at a time they were thrown down, leaving a faint redness to the water.
The creature seemed pleased enough with this, slinking away despite your screams.
Your dead arm began to swim towards you, fingers digging into your flesh as it climbed your neck.

Day 397

Upon closer inspection the tree appeared to be breathing, its bark warm to the touch.

A sap sample was taken and came out a deep red and  ran sluggishly into the test tube.

As they left the wind blew through the branches, groaning in an almost human way.

They tried not to think of the rumours about the trees and failed.

The whole area was said to have once been a village until disease struck.

A doctor arrived a week after they'd sent a letter and never found anyone.

Where a village had apparently stood was now a forest of trees, trees of all ages and sizes.

Some said that clothing had been found around the bases of the plants.

They said that they grew through the old houses that were now rotted to nothing.

The sample they took of the breathing tree was exactly what they'd feared.

Human blood, male, aged somewhere in their mid thirties, A+, malnourished.

A return trip was scheduled, this time they were going to take a core sample.

The more suspicious of the lot wondered whether it counted as murder, if they were indeed alive.

They began to fear what the core sample would look like if the sap was blood.

Would they find wood or flesh and could the tree feel pain?

The day came when they would find out, their fears made all the more blatant in their silence.

It was easy enough to find their original sample tree, it was the only breathing one, near the river.

In their worried state they drilled the hole too large, thick sap poured out and the bark fluttered.

That was the only way to describe it, the small but sharp in-and-out movements.

The tree seemed to sag as more and more sap flowed, pooling at its base.

Everyone stepped back and watched as the bark stopped and the tree shrunk and changed.

They were frozen in place as the branches gradually moved down to form arms and legs.

There was a gaping hole in his side that was now oozing sluggishly.

The last thing to form was the head, eyes wide open and contorted in agony.

While they crouched to study this creature, this apparent human, they forgot to pay attention to the
rest of the forest as the trees that surrounded them began to lean in.
They were silent, focused, intent on their prey.

By the time they had collected their samples, taken their photos and generally disrupted the corpse,
they found themselves boxed in by the forest, trees barricading them beside the bloodied form.
Their roots uprooted the earth around their companion and slowly buried him.

The researchers watched in silent awe and fear, unsure of what to do next.
They expected the trees to stop when he was completely covered but instead their efforts increased.
Within minutes the team found themselves wobbling on steadily sinking soil.

They were digging from deep beneath, roots churning and scraping the dirt aside.
The researchers didn't stand a chance, a few tried to climb away only to have stinging nettles wrap
themselves around their eyes, blinding them and hurling them into the ever-growing pit.

By the time the forest was done a large patch of fresh soil sat still as a sapling crept over the top.
They resumed their former places among their homes, next to friends and neighbours.
There would be more researchers soon and the forest would feast on their rotting bodies.

Day 396

They found the mummy when they were digging up the old bog to make way for a school.
Ireland may be famous for its bog mummies but people still kick up a fuss when one is found.
You should put it back and leave the bog alone. It'll bring bad luck on us all!
These people are buried for a reason, let those wretches lie!
Of course they were dismissed, the mummy was moved to a museum and the digging continued.

At first the forensic team saw nothing unusual about it, that was until someone spilt water on it.
It was strange, the mummies' skin soaked up the water before anyone could wipe it.
The skin then seemed to expand, rehydrate and smooth out.
After ten carefully measured minutes the skin looked almost alive, nothing like the rest of it.
Following a very long debate the forensics team decided to explore this further.

They dropped precise measurements of water at regular intervals on several patches of skin.
It seemed to be going well, the results showed that it needed at least 50mg of water to work.
All their careful work was ruined by a particularly enthusiastic member of the team.
So far they'd left the head alone but he wanted to see if it could speak,
Grabbing their water container he poured its contents on the mummy before he could be stopped.

The effect was immediate this time, no delay like there had been on the rest of its skin.
Within four minutes it looked to like a regular sleeping man, peaceful under the dried bog mud.
Most of them turned their attention to their overly-eager companion and berated him thoroughly.
They were so focused on their foolish co-worker that the mummies first gasp was unheard.
Despite its creaking skin they only noticed that it had moved by the time it had sat upright.

The dead man looked around confused, tried to speak but they hadn't watered his throat.
Making another rash decision the team began rehydrating him completely.
It took half an hour or so, they didn't count - too focused on this strange occurrence.
He could only gargle at first, make these deep guttural noises that shouldn't be humanly possible.
Of course he only spoke fourteenth century Gaelic, difficult to translate but they just about did.

Death.
He was begging for death.
Pleaded with them to kill him proper.
Let him die and rejoin his kin.
But they didn't know how.

Unsure of what to do with a suicidal supposed-to-be-a-shrivelled-bog-mummy they panicked.
Claimed he was some drunkard who'd broken in and was pretending to be their bog mummy.
With no ID and no understanding of modern English he was given a brief sentence and dumped,
Some say he still roams the back alleys of the city, trying to find the forensic team and beg help.
No one can say where they are though, only that their homes were found empty and muddy.

Day 395

The old antiques fair as back in town, you told your friend.
It has always been there, they replied, it never leaves.
You know this to be a fact and yet you remember playing tennis on those fields
not three days ago with this friend which now seems so dreamlike, too dreamlike.

You have been to the fair before and found yourself the owner of a stuffed deer's head.
Sometimes its mouth is open, sometimes its eyes blink rapidly and it tilts its head.
Its a real conversation starter, if you like your conversations to start with "I swear that
thing just moved" and "How long has its mouth been open for" and "Feed me meat".

The antiques fair this year promises to be bigger, cheaper and guarantees you a bargain.
Your feet head towards it on opening day before you can quite comprehend it.
The attendants never charge you in money they prefer to take an old item of yours, this
year's item just so happens to be a jewellery box disguised as a painting of Emilé Zola.

They graciously accept your offering as they always do.
The field formerly empty (yet never not hosting this strange event) is now crammed full.
Tents, people, dogs and other miscellaneous small animals all roam around as if they were
born to walk among the tents, cars and hastily assembled shacks each holding treasure-trash.

Your ever-wandering feet find you heading to some kind of Khasakstani yurt selling glass.
Each bottle is a unique hue that your eyes struggle to comprehend, each whispers intently.
Glancing at them for too long makes your eyes hurt and the seller uses this to his advantage,
pressing a bottle the size and shape of a lamp into your hand.

These whispers speak kindest of you, he says in a voice like grease, this is what you need.
You don't know if you need it but your hands press two pound coins into his hands.
He isn't satisfied with this and so you feel compelled to offer him a lock of your hair also
which he gladly accepts, twisting it into the shape of a hand and placing it inside another bottle.

The bottle is now situated in your pocket where it radiates an air of complacence.
It knew you would buy it before you had even been born.
At least it whispered kind things about you though its every other word was an array of rich
and colourful curses at everyone surrounding you, some of which came true immediately.

It wished that your cousin would burn and before you could hush it she began screeching.
The hairspray can she was examining had begun leaking flames instead of spray.
Your feet formerly keen to roam were now rooted to the spot as those around her stepped back
and waited for her life to end as her body gradually crumpled like wet tissues.

They could see it was a curse, everyone could see it was a curse.
So far they didn't suspect you, though leniency was often granted for antique purchases.
Some just had a mind of their own, both literal and figurative, and as such the mayor had ruled
that the items themselves would be taken away, the owners were equally the victims.

Your bottle laughed with glee as she went, you could almost feel it scanning for another one.
It tried to choose a small child from a few streets over (Anya was it, or Katya?).
Throwing it to the ground was your only option, you had to for her sake but would the law be
in your favour - unlicensed destruction of antiques was punishable.

They never specified the punishment but it was still enough to put anyone off.
Almost anyone at least as the bottle began to mutter dark promises of death and eternal torment.
It was out of your hand and soaring away from you and towards the girl, landing on her arm and
shattering upon contact, blistering her skin in a matter of seconds.

Her death took weeks according to your aunt.
The bottle had been right after all, perhaps this was inevitable.
Deaths were fairly common for the antiques fair, not a year went by without at least a dozen or
so bodies being found, created or reanimated - such was the fair.

Day 394

There's a still life doll in the old art block, made of stone not wood.
According to the older students it was the head of department's final project.
This I could believe, the man was an artistic genius.
Shame he rarely sculpted any more, something to do with his anaemia?

He always said that still life doll was the source of his inspiration.
That it made his art live.
Others in my year thought he meant it figuratively.
He did always say "feed your art", who'd have guessed he meant it literally.

I only found out when I stayed late to finish my end of year piece.
The head rarely came out of the department so seeing him walk past the studio was unusual.
He was holding a small sculpture like the mechanical ones in his office.
One of the guys from my sculpture class was following him,holding a large knife.

I decided to spy on them, see what they could possibly be doing.
They went over to the stone still life doll, the head placed his sculpture in the arms of the doll.
He also placed a large tarpaulin in front of the statue which the student knelt on.
It had been stored behind the doll, never noticed it before.

When he slit the student's throat, collected the blood in his hands and smeared it on the stone
sculpture and around the brown stained mouth area of the doll I began to panic.
The doll moved its head up and down.
Before my eyes the small sculpture began to move just like the ones in the head's office.

Day 393

Something strange had moved into the area and nobody could find it.
They'd all seen it, news spread fast around the estate.
No legs some said, hands for legs said others.
The general consensus as that it had no eyes and a gaping mouth.

Its difficult to get a single image from people who have all seen different sides of one creature.
Nobody quite knew what it looked like until they themselves saw it.
I saw it clearest when I was practising a gymnastics routine late at night.
Sherrie the landlady had a proper gym built near the laundrette, great gal she is, our Sherrie.

So there I was flipping and such, trying to get my routine set before the local competition.
I hear the door open and I assume its just one of the lads out for crunching some night.
The music felt louder with someone else in the room so being considerate I turn it down.
This weird gargled whimper came from near the door, I turn and its there.

Just sitting there by the door all hunched and somehow sad looking.
Well as sad as a creature with a giant mouth for a face can get.
It was a lot smaller than everyone kept saying and they'd missed a key feature - no arms.
Had this kind of one arm thing like you get by looping yours through a sleeve.

They got the legs right, it just had podgy stumps with widely spaced out fingers.
I tried to talk to it but I don't think it knew how to talk so I just turned up the music.
Kept my eyes on it and saw it wiggle about like a toddler dancing about.
In a strange way it was actually cute.

With the competition date coming closer I spread it around that nights at the gym were mine.
Most people accepted it, they were quite proud of me getting in you know.
It meant that I'd get 100% peace to practice with no distractions bar my one-person audience.
I got quite fond of the little fella, it just liked the music and I like its dancing.

Sometimes I'd toss an energy bar to it and it'd pick it up half in the handfeet and half bent down.
It liked honey grain and hated chocolate, was very vocal about that - let out such a whine!
Reminded me of my little cousin Jamie when he fell over, sad for show not for reals.
Made me proper laugh which made the poor thing jump about a foot!

The night before the competition I didn't go to the gym and I didn't go back for a week.
When I did I heard it whining in one of the equipment cupboards, tucked right at the back.
It had no eyes but it was actually crying, tears and everything.
Jumped right out when it noticed me, tried to hug me with its arm thing.

I can't believe it had missed me so much, had it been here the whole time?
I patted it on the head, I'd never seen it so close before.
It seemed to settle after a few minutes, breath settling so slow I thought it was asleep.
Tried to gently move it back only for it to fall to pieces.

It was like one of those old stretch dolls, its skin was almost melting on the floor.
Began to smell proper bad, like the hallway was full of mouldy eggs.
It was smiling though, this tiny satisfied little grin gradually melting like the rest of it.
By the time someone else came down it was nothing more than a wrinkled beige puddle.

Day 392

It was a hospital but people didn't come here to get better.
They came because, out of all the city, it was the safest place to hide.
As far as hospitals go it was enormous, its corridors a vast labyrinth all leading to one place.
The operating theatre in Ward J.

Sure there were rooms along the way to stop in and hide but you ran the risk of meeting the staff.
They were the most human of the cities' inhabitants and the most feared.
It wasn't that they were bloodthirsty per se, they were just enthusiastic and well equipped.
Luckily for the unfortunates that hid within the "Sanctuary" it offered, most made noise.

It always shocks people that their names are known among the staff, how silly of them.
The doors read your blood as you open them so of course they know you, they know all of you.
They are only concerned for your health and their life's work is healing you.
Don't you want to be healthy, don't you want to the best you?

Its all they've ever wanted, they'll use any tactic they can to get you into their room.
Some of us veterans reckon they've got a betting system up to see who can "fix" the most people.
We try to keep an eye out for unfortunates but our appearances vary from human to... other.

Its not that we're completely monsters, far from it - its this place, it warps you slowly.
There's eight or nine of us, depending on how far gone the others are and if we gain a member.
It happens from time to time you know, some folks are just grateful and want in.

We welcome everyone, not in the same way the hospital does though.
Lucky for us the staff have long since given up on trying to "fix" us, we've killed too many of them.
They don't quite rank us as a threat yet but I've heard them whispering about a "mass cure".