When we moved into our last house we had so much work to do.
It was a fixer-upper, real cheap which probably should have tipped us off that something was off.
We already knew that the walls needed plastering, the floor needed repairs in some places etc.
The garden was a whole other mess that we put off for almost a year.
The last several owners came and went in quick succession according to the landlady.
She put it down to drugs, drink and some daft local legend that was taken too seriously.
But mostly the drugs, she claimed that her tenants would claim the swimming pool was screaming.
Something about it being full of corpses.
As far as she was aware there wasn't a pool, the garden was incredibly overgrown though.
She'd owned the building for forty odd years and never found a pool there.
After our year of deliberately ignoring the garden we decided to take it head on.
We began, as one should, with a lawnmower and strimmer to remove all the weeds and grass.
Starting with plain old dirt seemed like the best idea for it but at first all we found was concrete.
Huge slabs of it with smaller coloured pieces moving towards the garden's centre.
They were shades of green and blue, too pretty to remove so our plans changes.
We now delicately uncovered as much of the new found mosaic as possible.
The further in we went the smaller the pieces got and the damper the earth became.
It took on a muggy scent too, like rotting autumn leaves and garbage.
As we came to the apparent end of the mosaic tiles the dirt turned to mud and pond weed.
We debated between calling the landlady and saying we might have found a pool and digging down.
In the end we chose to dig down to get proper proof that the pool was there.
If there were indeed bodies there then getting to them as soon as possible seemed like the best idea.
That night though, after we'd made our decision and headed off to bed, we heard them.
Faint voices coming from the garden, begging for help and fading into gurgles and splashes.
We hardly slept, too concerned about the back door being unlocked and something wandering in.
Morning couldn't come soon enough so as soon as the voices had faded we headed down.
The concrete slabs we'd unearthed and cleaned were covered in wet footprints.
Footprints that led right up to the house, up the wall and around our bedroom window.
20150831
Day 483
Sometimes a house was there and other times it was a bridge.
Either way the stairs leading up to it were always empty bar one man.
I thought he lived there before I'd dared to go and speak to him.
If I had known what would happen I would have left the city entirely.
I remember the day I walked up the stairs - it was a house then.
All worn, windows boarded up and paint as grey as the cloudy sky
He seemed so surprised - horrified more like, now that I think about it.
Never said a word though, only stepped aside and opened the door for me.
It's one of those ones that can only be opened from the outside, as I found out too late.
There is no sunlight in here, no clocks, no hunger nor need for sleep.
I'm not alone at least, there are five or so others though it's hard to tell.
Sometimes they are there and other times they seem to seep into the shadows.
I've tried to join them only to find myself unable to.
The only one that will talk to me (an elderly woman who came in the early 1900's for tea)
has said that I shouldn't join them, that I should focus on getting out.
She doesn't understand that it's impossible, she's forgotten that.
I'm starting to forget that too.
Some days I find myself staring at the door, hand trying to turn it open endlessly.
I've taken to writing on the walls, alongside what looks to be hundreds of others.
It can only mean that either this won't help me remember or I'll be stopped before I can f
Either way the stairs leading up to it were always empty bar one man.
I thought he lived there before I'd dared to go and speak to him.
If I had known what would happen I would have left the city entirely.
I remember the day I walked up the stairs - it was a house then.
All worn, windows boarded up and paint as grey as the cloudy sky
He seemed so surprised - horrified more like, now that I think about it.
Never said a word though, only stepped aside and opened the door for me.
It's one of those ones that can only be opened from the outside, as I found out too late.
There is no sunlight in here, no clocks, no hunger nor need for sleep.
I'm not alone at least, there are five or so others though it's hard to tell.
Sometimes they are there and other times they seem to seep into the shadows.
I've tried to join them only to find myself unable to.
The only one that will talk to me (an elderly woman who came in the early 1900's for tea)
has said that I shouldn't join them, that I should focus on getting out.
She doesn't understand that it's impossible, she's forgotten that.
I'm starting to forget that too.
Some days I find myself staring at the door, hand trying to turn it open endlessly.
I've taken to writing on the walls, alongside what looks to be hundreds of others.
It can only mean that either this won't help me remember or I'll be stopped before I can f
20150830
Day 482
My great uncle had a chair made when he died.
He wrote in his will that whoever owns the chair is legally his heir.
His entire fortune all to whichever unlucky soul keeps that disgusting thing.
So far it's been passed through twelve people eventually falling to me.
Luckily for me the fortune itself had barely been touched.
Few managed to keep the chair beyond a month, found it too creepy.
My second cousin even claimed it spoke to him and sounded just like the old man.
A few other relatives claimed the same thing, it had his voice.
And they were right, it had his voice.
It had his mannerisms too or rather as many as a chair could have.
Figures he'd find a way to stick around when his body gave out, not that it's a problem now.
With his tanned skin stretched over that metal frame, he was stronger than ever.
He wrote in his will that whoever owns the chair is legally his heir.
His entire fortune all to whichever unlucky soul keeps that disgusting thing.
So far it's been passed through twelve people eventually falling to me.
Luckily for me the fortune itself had barely been touched.
Few managed to keep the chair beyond a month, found it too creepy.
My second cousin even claimed it spoke to him and sounded just like the old man.
A few other relatives claimed the same thing, it had his voice.
And they were right, it had his voice.
It had his mannerisms too or rather as many as a chair could have.
Figures he'd find a way to stick around when his body gave out, not that it's a problem now.
With his tanned skin stretched over that metal frame, he was stronger than ever.
20150828
Day 481
Your colleague had died yesterday sometime during the night, or so the email from HR said.
Last you saw of him he was at one of the courtyard meetings that are usually strictly for directors.
Nobody mentioned them, there was never any email about the courtyard's use.
The only time it had ever been mentioned to you was during your initial training.
You'd been told it was strictly off limits and to not linger by the surrounding windows for long.
Initially you'd assumed it was for privacy (though the location was strange at best) but as time
progressed you began to notice discrepancies in their meetings.
For starters there were no secretaries present to write the minutes, surely any meeting of the top
company members requires some form of note taking yet there was never any paper around.
That soon became minor compared to the rest, namely the missing people.
Their only connection was that they had all been seen in a courtyard meeting beforehand.
They were never found in the same place or even the same country.
Any connection to the company was minimalised by the media and the emails sent out were
professional and cold, nobody complained though.
We were just thankful we hadn't been called in yet.
The meetings happen more and more often now.
We see them held daily, each time a new employee is seated at the head of the table.
Their faces are always blank and their clothes are streaked with ink.
We can't train new staff fast enough, at this rate there'll be nobody left.
The news are calling it terrorism but they're looking to the outside when the killers are all here.
Last you saw of him he was at one of the courtyard meetings that are usually strictly for directors.
Nobody mentioned them, there was never any email about the courtyard's use.
The only time it had ever been mentioned to you was during your initial training.
You'd been told it was strictly off limits and to not linger by the surrounding windows for long.
Initially you'd assumed it was for privacy (though the location was strange at best) but as time
progressed you began to notice discrepancies in their meetings.
For starters there were no secretaries present to write the minutes, surely any meeting of the top
company members requires some form of note taking yet there was never any paper around.
That soon became minor compared to the rest, namely the missing people.
Their only connection was that they had all been seen in a courtyard meeting beforehand.
They were never found in the same place or even the same country.
Any connection to the company was minimalised by the media and the emails sent out were
professional and cold, nobody complained though.
We were just thankful we hadn't been called in yet.
The meetings happen more and more often now.
We see them held daily, each time a new employee is seated at the head of the table.
Their faces are always blank and their clothes are streaked with ink.
We can't train new staff fast enough, at this rate there'll be nobody left.
The news are calling it terrorism but they're looking to the outside when the killers are all here.
20150827
Day 480
You could tell the day was going to be bad right from the moment you found a single magpie.
It was in your conservatory, stone cold dead and rotting on your linoleum.
You tried to pick it up with a bin bag but it was somehow fused to the floor.
It took a kitchen knife and half an hour of prying and scraping to remove the main body.
The wings were completely stuck.
The magpie was only the first of many creatures that were suddenly inside your home.
As you went to empty the kitchen bin and out the magpie in it, a bright red caught your eye.
A fox that looked like it had run into the wall, only its' back half jutting out rigidly.
You had no idea how you would remove it and so left it for the time being in favour of the bins.
Each room now seemed to have some kind of local animal in it.
Some were fresher than others too.
The downstairs bathroom had the skeletal remains of some kind of cat.
Your dining room had wild rabbits twitching and slowly dissolving into the table and chairs.
The further into your house you went the more alive they were.
Finally your bedroom where you had woken up alone, now something moved under the sheets.
It was in your conservatory, stone cold dead and rotting on your linoleum.
You tried to pick it up with a bin bag but it was somehow fused to the floor.
It took a kitchen knife and half an hour of prying and scraping to remove the main body.
The wings were completely stuck.
The magpie was only the first of many creatures that were suddenly inside your home.
As you went to empty the kitchen bin and out the magpie in it, a bright red caught your eye.
A fox that looked like it had run into the wall, only its' back half jutting out rigidly.
You had no idea how you would remove it and so left it for the time being in favour of the bins.
Each room now seemed to have some kind of local animal in it.
Some were fresher than others too.
The downstairs bathroom had the skeletal remains of some kind of cat.
Your dining room had wild rabbits twitching and slowly dissolving into the table and chairs.
The further into your house you went the more alive they were.
Finally your bedroom where you had woken up alone, now something moved under the sheets.
20150826
Day 479
When it came we flooded to the underground.
They say it was airborne and there we were.
Densely packed meat sacks breathing in each other's air and breathing it out.
We never stood a chance.
Someone lying on the tracks began to cough.
Not for long though,someone slit their throat "just in case".
People began to panic, yelling at anyone who looked remotely unwell.
All that screaming made it spread faster.
I'd managed to hide under a corpse, lasted through the slaughter.
The remaining people went down the tracks to find other "infected".
Anyone could tell that they had it too, their eyes were covered in a milky-white film.
I had it too, we'd all gotten it somehow and it made everything looked foggy.
Going topside wasn't an option then, the police were rounding up everyone they could.
Infected were shot on sight to "contain the plague" like that was even possible at this stage.
My only option had been to go down the tracks too, opposite to the survivors.
It was easy enough to move from station-to-station unseen in the thick darkness.
I eventually found a group of infected who welcomed me in.
They were holed up in the service tunnels between an abandoned station and the sewers.
Plenty of escape routes which we use regularly to avoid police patrols.
We rarely see other infected, lives ones at least.
Food isn't necessary for us anymore, one blessing among all the other effects of the plague.
We don't even need to sleep, we just wait for others, wait for news.
Sometimes we hear the patrols above us and contemplate grabbing one of them for intel.
Our leader (the furthest gone) says we must wait for them to all Become.
The rest of us don't want to wait.
We want our family to grow.
We want to walk freely topside like we used to.
It's time we took action, we will make our family grow and rejoice.
They say it was airborne and there we were.
Densely packed meat sacks breathing in each other's air and breathing it out.
We never stood a chance.
Someone lying on the tracks began to cough.
Not for long though,someone slit their throat "just in case".
People began to panic, yelling at anyone who looked remotely unwell.
All that screaming made it spread faster.
I'd managed to hide under a corpse, lasted through the slaughter.
The remaining people went down the tracks to find other "infected".
Anyone could tell that they had it too, their eyes were covered in a milky-white film.
I had it too, we'd all gotten it somehow and it made everything looked foggy.
Going topside wasn't an option then, the police were rounding up everyone they could.
Infected were shot on sight to "contain the plague" like that was even possible at this stage.
My only option had been to go down the tracks too, opposite to the survivors.
It was easy enough to move from station-to-station unseen in the thick darkness.
I eventually found a group of infected who welcomed me in.
They were holed up in the service tunnels between an abandoned station and the sewers.
Plenty of escape routes which we use regularly to avoid police patrols.
We rarely see other infected, lives ones at least.
Food isn't necessary for us anymore, one blessing among all the other effects of the plague.
We don't even need to sleep, we just wait for others, wait for news.
Sometimes we hear the patrols above us and contemplate grabbing one of them for intel.
Our leader (the furthest gone) says we must wait for them to all Become.
The rest of us don't want to wait.
We want our family to grow.
We want to walk freely topside like we used to.
It's time we took action, we will make our family grow and rejoice.
20150825
Day 478
He was running late to his sister's wedding, the bloody church was out in the middle of nowhere.
Under his breath he blamed and cursed the soon-to-be married couple equally.
As he reached a signpost saying Wragby he knew he was only a handful of miles away.
Besides, twenty minutes wasn't that late right?
It certainly felt longer, those damned country backroads twisted and turned so much he felt like
he'd been travelling in circles, seeing the same damned hay bales again and again and again.
Still he'd managed to turn into the right road and the church tower was just about in sight.
It looked nothing like the online photo, the outer buildings were in ruins.
There were supposed to be a series of smaller guest houses outside of the graveyard but all that
he could see were brick walls, the occasional piece of furniture overturned and grass covered.
The car park was just as bad - it was more like a junkyard, so many rusty cars.
He had no idea why his sister choice this dump but at least he wasn't too late, he could hear them.
They were in the middle of a hymn and according to the details she'd emailed the family this one
was one of the starting ones, something to warm-up the atmosphere she said.
Creeping in through the moss-coated front doors he slunk into a back seat next to a possible relative.
He did a double take as he glanced right, the old lady beside him was practically skeletal.
Veins protruded along her body so fiercely he swore her skin would split at any moment.
Cautiously looking around he saw that everyone was old, was he even at the right wedding?
Even the bride looked to be in her seventies at least, something about her was familiar.
It took a few minutes but he realised it was the dress, the exact same one his sister had picked.
And a hat in the front row was the same as his mother's.
And a greyer version of his cousin's neon pixie cut.
He was at the right wedding, he'd just arrived late... so very late.
At least they waited for him all these years.
Day 477
Someone had changed your computer's background.
What had formerly been the company's logo and motto was now a hyperrealistic face.
It looked like it had been forced into the bulky CRT monitor, cleverly done.
Whoever pranked you had also gone through the trouble of removing all of your icons too.
Your desktop was utterly blank apart from that face.
They had also disconnected your mouse but left the cable attached.
You went to the nearby desks, asking who'd done this so cleverly but nobody knew.
It soon became clear that your only option was to go to IT and ask for a fix.
The guys weren't alone like usual, there were four policemen with them and the head of HR.
You heard them mention your name.
With a polite cough you caught their attention and the questioning began.
Do you have any enemies, have you received any strange letters, do you know a Mr Johan Annes?
After so many questions that made no sense they let you see the footage.
A person dressed all in black carrying a toolbag and a dripping black sack entering the lobby.
Half an hour later they left without the black sack.
The face was real, they said, and had been missing from a local morgue for almost a week.
Your whole work bay was closed whilst they removed the corpse from your monitor.
The second the screws came loose the entire front slid off and the visceral remains poured out.
Chunks of the man's half-attached shoulders and neck thudded wetly onto your desk.
You passed out at the stench began to spread.
What had formerly been the company's logo and motto was now a hyperrealistic face.
It looked like it had been forced into the bulky CRT monitor, cleverly done.
Whoever pranked you had also gone through the trouble of removing all of your icons too.
Your desktop was utterly blank apart from that face.
They had also disconnected your mouse but left the cable attached.
You went to the nearby desks, asking who'd done this so cleverly but nobody knew.
It soon became clear that your only option was to go to IT and ask for a fix.
The guys weren't alone like usual, there were four policemen with them and the head of HR.
You heard them mention your name.
With a polite cough you caught their attention and the questioning began.
Do you have any enemies, have you received any strange letters, do you know a Mr Johan Annes?
After so many questions that made no sense they let you see the footage.
A person dressed all in black carrying a toolbag and a dripping black sack entering the lobby.
Half an hour later they left without the black sack.
The face was real, they said, and had been missing from a local morgue for almost a week.
Your whole work bay was closed whilst they removed the corpse from your monitor.
The second the screws came loose the entire front slid off and the visceral remains poured out.
Chunks of the man's half-attached shoulders and neck thudded wetly onto your desk.
You passed out at the stench began to spread.
20150823
Day 476
Your car came to a shuddering halt somewhere around Aberfoyle.
Smoke poured from the bonnet as you managed to steer it into the nearest stop.
In this case a carpark - fairly empty and near some signless, dilapidated building.
Night was coming fast, dialling your breakdown provider was taking longer than it should have.
You'd dialled them from the crumpled card you found in your glove compartment.
Their policy was "always within 3 rings" but they weren't picking up now.
After redialling them a further two times someone finally answered, sounding half asleep.
When you explained the situation they quickly woke up, asking your location and problem.
You could only give a rough idea of where you were but they seemed to know anyway.
They asked you to confirm your home address for security and you thought nothing of it.
Then you were put on hold but instead of the usual tacky song you heard them call for someone.
Your name and address were passed back and forth though you only heard one side of it.
They were sending someone not to you, but to your house.
You were nowhere near there so your home was basically wide open to them, whoever they were.
They laughed at your expense and making a list of things to get, planning an escape route too.
You could hear them figure out what they should do if anyone was at home too.
By the time they spoke to you they'd already sent out their "recovery team".
Hello again, ma'am. We're sending someone to your location to recover you and your vehicle.
Smoke poured from the bonnet as you managed to steer it into the nearest stop.
In this case a carpark - fairly empty and near some signless, dilapidated building.
Night was coming fast, dialling your breakdown provider was taking longer than it should have.
You'd dialled them from the crumpled card you found in your glove compartment.
Their policy was "always within 3 rings" but they weren't picking up now.
After redialling them a further two times someone finally answered, sounding half asleep.
When you explained the situation they quickly woke up, asking your location and problem.
You could only give a rough idea of where you were but they seemed to know anyway.
They asked you to confirm your home address for security and you thought nothing of it.
Then you were put on hold but instead of the usual tacky song you heard them call for someone.
Your name and address were passed back and forth though you only heard one side of it.
They were sending someone not to you, but to your house.
You were nowhere near there so your home was basically wide open to them, whoever they were.
They laughed at your expense and making a list of things to get, planning an escape route too.
You could hear them figure out what they should do if anyone was at home too.
By the time they spoke to you they'd already sent out their "recovery team".
Hello again, ma'am. We're sending someone to your location to recover you and your vehicle.
Day 475
It was Saturday night and he had just woken up on a bench outside the town hall.
He sat up with a great deal of effort - the muggy air made it hard to breathe let alone move.
Head swimming, he looked around for any sign of the group he'd left home with.
His friends were nowhere to be seen, why had they abandoned him?
Last thing he remembered was heading to a bar called "The Leather Bottle".
He'd met someone, vaguely remembered their face and clearly remembered their words.
First there'll be a stench like burning pig. Don't trust the grey meat.
He'd been given this message before so he thought they were another strange drunk.
Taking a deep breath of musty, burning air it had never occurred to him that they'd be right.
He still had no idea what they had meant by gey meat, they all mentioned it.
Forcing himself to stand he began to stumble in the general direction of home.
As the air grew harder to breathe he began to notice the other people.
They wore some kind of grey uniform though details were too hard to make out as his vision swam.
He wasn't sure if they'd noticed him, every bone in his body screamed for them not to.
Something about the way they walked seemed predatory and not quite right.
Like if you described walking to someone who'd never seen it before and asked them to do it.
Their movements were jerky and fluid as they patrolled (for lack of a better word) the main street.
He hoped they weren't in the side roads as he turned into the dockside quarter.
The smell grew stronger as he headed for the bridge to the side of town where he lived.
When he reached the riverside he began to gag and heave, the stench so overwhelming.
Stumbling to the concrete railings beside the river he vomited over the edge.
He felt better afterwards and his vision began to clear.
The first thing he saw was the river, or what should have been the river.
Its' formerly murky brown waters were now greyish red and pulsating, tendrils were reaching for him.
The air was no longer breathable.
His entire body was stiff and ached something fierce.
As the meaty limbs grasped and pulled him down to the thick ooze of a river he saw familiar faces.
Countless familiar faces, all trying to scream as the grey poured from their gaping mouths.
He sat up with a great deal of effort - the muggy air made it hard to breathe let alone move.
Head swimming, he looked around for any sign of the group he'd left home with.
His friends were nowhere to be seen, why had they abandoned him?
Last thing he remembered was heading to a bar called "The Leather Bottle".
He'd met someone, vaguely remembered their face and clearly remembered their words.
First there'll be a stench like burning pig. Don't trust the grey meat.
He'd been given this message before so he thought they were another strange drunk.
Taking a deep breath of musty, burning air it had never occurred to him that they'd be right.
He still had no idea what they had meant by gey meat, they all mentioned it.
Forcing himself to stand he began to stumble in the general direction of home.
As the air grew harder to breathe he began to notice the other people.
They wore some kind of grey uniform though details were too hard to make out as his vision swam.
He wasn't sure if they'd noticed him, every bone in his body screamed for them not to.
Something about the way they walked seemed predatory and not quite right.
Like if you described walking to someone who'd never seen it before and asked them to do it.
Their movements were jerky and fluid as they patrolled (for lack of a better word) the main street.
He hoped they weren't in the side roads as he turned into the dockside quarter.
The smell grew stronger as he headed for the bridge to the side of town where he lived.
When he reached the riverside he began to gag and heave, the stench so overwhelming.
Stumbling to the concrete railings beside the river he vomited over the edge.
He felt better afterwards and his vision began to clear.
The first thing he saw was the river, or what should have been the river.
Its' formerly murky brown waters were now greyish red and pulsating, tendrils were reaching for him.
The air was no longer breathable.
His entire body was stiff and ached something fierce.
As the meaty limbs grasped and pulled him down to the thick ooze of a river he saw familiar faces.
Countless familiar faces, all trying to scream as the grey poured from their gaping mouths.
20150822
Day 474
There was an old office block in the rundown side of town.
Teens would go there all the time to hang out, get high and try to find the door to the fifth floor.
So far the fourth floor seemed to be nothing but dead ends and rusty filing cabinets.
Some of the more adventurous ones began to map the building out.
Each floor had a prime number of rooms - 31, 37, 41 and 43 so far, somehow.
It meant that the fifth floor should have 47 rooms and one of them was legendary.
Apparently that room (that break room specifically) had a machine full of stolen gold.
Of course as nobody had found the door to the fifth floor it remained pure rumour.
Until someone found an open vent with a ladder and heard faint voices from above.
They crawled up the ladder, through a maze of vents, mapping each turn as the voices grew louder.
By the time they reached the end and peered through the grating an argument was in progress.
The three voices had very differing opinion on the people below them.
Voice 1 wanted them gone, wanted to frighten them away from "home".
Voice 2 loved the liveliness the living brought and "needed" them to stay but never said why
The third voice was very close to the vent and only breathed heavily, occasionally shrieking.
It seemed to disagree with them both, called for blood.
By this point the person hiding in the vent was shaking teeth chattering in fear at their plans.
The third voice screamed at the others to be silent, hissed something to them.
Their arguing was now whispered, they seemed to be moving away from the vent.
The hiding teen tried to crawl back only to find the way closed, a solid wall behind them.
As they pushed their foot against the wall as quietly as they could the grating moved.
They cringed as it hit the tiled floor with a loud crash, throwing up flecks of rust in its wake.
Even the air seemed to still as they waited for the voices to return and find them.
The only sound was the muffled laughter and music coming from the floor below.
Five minutes passed, ten, fifteen and twenty minutes passed as they silently waited.
The voices seemed to have gone for the time being.
They slowly moved out of the vent, the voices assumed to be their imagination gone wild.
Floor five was vastly different from the others, it looked so much cleaner than the others.
There were hints of rust around the vents and other metallic surfaces but the furniture looked new.
Room by room they searched for the machine full of gold, mapping it as they went.
They had a system of codes that dictated exactly what was in each room.
From broken filing cabinets to cushions to mould on the walls, everything was there.
Everything but the gold though they'd only just begun their search.
According to their watch they'd been looking for almost three hours now and found nothing.
They decided to bring a team with them tomorrow and continue the hunt.
If anything it would at least give them fodder to distract the blood thirsty voices.
Teens would go there all the time to hang out, get high and try to find the door to the fifth floor.
So far the fourth floor seemed to be nothing but dead ends and rusty filing cabinets.
Some of the more adventurous ones began to map the building out.
Each floor had a prime number of rooms - 31, 37, 41 and 43 so far, somehow.
It meant that the fifth floor should have 47 rooms and one of them was legendary.
Apparently that room (that break room specifically) had a machine full of stolen gold.
Of course as nobody had found the door to the fifth floor it remained pure rumour.
Until someone found an open vent with a ladder and heard faint voices from above.
They crawled up the ladder, through a maze of vents, mapping each turn as the voices grew louder.
By the time they reached the end and peered through the grating an argument was in progress.
The three voices had very differing opinion on the people below them.
Voice 1 wanted them gone, wanted to frighten them away from "home".
Voice 2 loved the liveliness the living brought and "needed" them to stay but never said why
The third voice was very close to the vent and only breathed heavily, occasionally shrieking.
It seemed to disagree with them both, called for blood.
By this point the person hiding in the vent was shaking teeth chattering in fear at their plans.
The third voice screamed at the others to be silent, hissed something to them.
Their arguing was now whispered, they seemed to be moving away from the vent.
The hiding teen tried to crawl back only to find the way closed, a solid wall behind them.
As they pushed their foot against the wall as quietly as they could the grating moved.
They cringed as it hit the tiled floor with a loud crash, throwing up flecks of rust in its wake.
Even the air seemed to still as they waited for the voices to return and find them.
The only sound was the muffled laughter and music coming from the floor below.
Five minutes passed, ten, fifteen and twenty minutes passed as they silently waited.
The voices seemed to have gone for the time being.
They slowly moved out of the vent, the voices assumed to be their imagination gone wild.
Floor five was vastly different from the others, it looked so much cleaner than the others.
There were hints of rust around the vents and other metallic surfaces but the furniture looked new.
Room by room they searched for the machine full of gold, mapping it as they went.
They had a system of codes that dictated exactly what was in each room.
From broken filing cabinets to cushions to mould on the walls, everything was there.
Everything but the gold though they'd only just begun their search.
According to their watch they'd been looking for almost three hours now and found nothing.
They decided to bring a team with them tomorrow and continue the hunt.
If anything it would at least give them fodder to distract the blood thirsty voices.
20150820
Day 473
It never left the tree by the river, It swung through the branches but never touched the ground.
Some of the kids in the other class said they'd heard It speak.
Our teacher tried to get It to talk to us but It just smiled so we had to run.
You always run when it smiles.
I always thought it strange that we ran when the creature smiled.
Its' mouth ran the length of its stubby torso so technically It never smiled, just opened up.
I've never seen it open Its mouth as wide as it did that day though.
So very wide, It could have held one of us standing between Its' teeth.
Perhaps that's why the adults ignored It, they were too big for It to eat.
But we weren't, we were just the right size and It knew.
That would explain why It stayed in that tree all the time, swinging low to the ground.
To us and our smaller height, lighter weight and fragile bones.
Some of the kids in the other class said they'd heard It speak.
Our teacher tried to get It to talk to us but It just smiled so we had to run.
You always run when it smiles.
I always thought it strange that we ran when the creature smiled.
Its' mouth ran the length of its stubby torso so technically It never smiled, just opened up.
I've never seen it open Its mouth as wide as it did that day though.
So very wide, It could have held one of us standing between Its' teeth.
Perhaps that's why the adults ignored It, they were too big for It to eat.
But we weren't, we were just the right size and It knew.
That would explain why It stayed in that tree all the time, swinging low to the ground.
To us and our smaller height, lighter weight and fragile bones.
20150819
Day 472
The train to London took just over an hour normally.
She'd done this route so many times that by this point she had memorised the fields.
They were the only constant thing in her life and the train loved to take her past them.
Even if it never stopped there.
It hadn't stopped since she took the 11:37pm from London back home.
She remembered that night well, it had been news years eve and her friends had abandoned her.
With nobody to turn to she turned for home.
Her stop never came,it just cycled through all the others instead.
She could get off at each one but they were nothing like the ones she remembered.
Witham for example, with its' rundown station front and battered tracks that threw her about.
The first time she left train waited patiently while she stepped out for food and fresh air.
She knew she couldn't leave for long, not if she wanted to live.
There were never any people in Witham, only screams in the distance.
She still left change when she took supplies, even if it was still there when she returned.
It had been a while since she'd gotten off there, last time she saw someone past the iron fencing.
Half their face was missing and they had been tied to the bars by their own guts.
Their head turned to follow her all the while she was there.
It still does as the train pulls into the stop.
The only other place she dares to get off briefly is Kelvedon, a smallish village-type place.
Past the station it's just fields, further than the eye should ever be able to see.
They curved up at the end like old wallpaper, colour and texture fading to a greasy grey.
Eventually that same oil-slick tone seeped into the food in the station and she was left with nothing.
It was only when she began to feel faint that the train changed tracks, pulling into a new station.
It's name was Oxenhope and it was full of corpses suspended on barbed wire spiderwebs.
They all appeared to be fully dead and the train wasn't moving.
Her hunger took the best of her as she found herself moving towards the doors, opening them wide.
In dead silence she crept into the station waiting room and grabbed all the supplies she could.
Catching her breath safely back in the carriage she heard a tapping on the glass by her head.
She'd done this route so many times that by this point she had memorised the fields.
They were the only constant thing in her life and the train loved to take her past them.
Even if it never stopped there.
It hadn't stopped since she took the 11:37pm from London back home.
She remembered that night well, it had been news years eve and her friends had abandoned her.
With nobody to turn to she turned for home.
Her stop never came,it just cycled through all the others instead.
She could get off at each one but they were nothing like the ones she remembered.
Witham for example, with its' rundown station front and battered tracks that threw her about.
The first time she left train waited patiently while she stepped out for food and fresh air.
She knew she couldn't leave for long, not if she wanted to live.
There were never any people in Witham, only screams in the distance.
She still left change when she took supplies, even if it was still there when she returned.
It had been a while since she'd gotten off there, last time she saw someone past the iron fencing.
Half their face was missing and they had been tied to the bars by their own guts.
Their head turned to follow her all the while she was there.
It still does as the train pulls into the stop.
The only other place she dares to get off briefly is Kelvedon, a smallish village-type place.
Past the station it's just fields, further than the eye should ever be able to see.
They curved up at the end like old wallpaper, colour and texture fading to a greasy grey.
Eventually that same oil-slick tone seeped into the food in the station and she was left with nothing.
It was only when she began to feel faint that the train changed tracks, pulling into a new station.
It's name was Oxenhope and it was full of corpses suspended on barbed wire spiderwebs.
They all appeared to be fully dead and the train wasn't moving.
Her hunger took the best of her as she found herself moving towards the doors, opening them wide.
In dead silence she crept into the station waiting room and grabbed all the supplies she could.
Catching her breath safely back in the carriage she heard a tapping on the glass by her head.
20150818
Da 471
Any distance walked in complete darkness feels longer.
Have you noticed?
It's like you're walking through smog, blinded and fatigued.
When did you get so tired?
The streetlights provide little comfort, their orange glow is dim and useless.
Was that house always there?
Everything looks dramatically different at night.
Why is there a dead end where your street should be?
Taking wrong turn is all too easy at night.
But the street sign is still there and all the numbers are piled on the floor beneath it.
All except yours.
Yours is on the wall,painted in what looks to be blood.
It might be just paint, it might not even be red but the dark obscures it.
Still it seems like the numbers are growing.
They are coming closer and warping as they gradually form a door.
You see your home right there but no matter how fast you run it's always furter away.
Any distance walked in complete darkness feels longer.
Have you noticed?
Have you noticed?
It's like you're walking through smog, blinded and fatigued.
When did you get so tired?
The streetlights provide little comfort, their orange glow is dim and useless.
Was that house always there?
Everything looks dramatically different at night.
Why is there a dead end where your street should be?
Taking wrong turn is all too easy at night.
But the street sign is still there and all the numbers are piled on the floor beneath it.
All except yours.
Yours is on the wall,painted in what looks to be blood.
It might be just paint, it might not even be red but the dark obscures it.
Still it seems like the numbers are growing.
They are coming closer and warping as they gradually form a door.
You see your home right there but no matter how fast you run it's always furter away.
Any distance walked in complete darkness feels longer.
Have you noticed?
20150817
Day 470
The rain was a dull rusty colour that matched the corroded cars it fell on.
This place was once called a city and was full of living, breathing people.
They lived their lives in sickening chaos until death came for them in its' many forms.
Now the are has been swallowed by the rust-plague that drove out the living.
Corpses roam the streets, covered with tattered cloth, patchy fur and the ever-present rust.
It gave the world a blood-orange tinge that soaked right into the marrow.
Nobody ever complained though - few were still capable of speech.
Mostly they ran through the motions of living in their crumbling world.
It wasn't all peaceful though, even after death there was still fighting over petty resources.
Things they didn't even need like shampoo, tins of food and photos.
Garbled half-phrases uttered between hissing and screeching said mine this used to be mine
as if possession mattered in a world that was literally falling apart under itself.
There were no more skyscrapers, just the jagged remains of support structures.
From time to time more fell from them to the point where the ground was comprised entirely
of metal splinters mixed with whatever creatures got stuck on them.
Their bodies would form bridges soon enough, at least until the rust took them too.
20150816
Day 469
The dogs outside always barked at 10:07pm sharp.
They would howl and screech to one another for reasons beyond our knowledge.
Me and a few others in the area tossed around theories like they were keeping something at bay
or relaying news of some kind or other.
Those of us who'd been in the area for quite a while took comfort in the barking.
Didn't matter that nobody around had a dog nor were there any wild ones.
Still it happened like clockwork every night, kept us safe we reckoned.
Until one day when they were silent.
That's when everything began to go wrong.
Small things at first, little bits of bad luck in our lives, minor bad news and such.
Gradually though more went wrong, the "bad luck" started to physically hurt people.
Then the first death happened.
10:07pm sharp her house burnt down while she and her family made no sound.
After the fire was doused the authorities went in to find the bodies of the four former inhabitants.
They found eight, three adults and five children.
Seems like the kids had been having a sleepover though they still haven't identified them.
A friend of a friend who knew the paramedics who'd dealt with the call gave us the details.
The adults were found in the back garden having clawed their way through a collapsed wall.
The children had been left in the basement to burn alive.
Apparently they'd found them huddled against the basement door.
Judging by the claw-marks that were gouged into its thick wooden surface they'd lasted hours.
Far longer than is humanly possible in such circumstances and especially so for children.
After their funerals the dogs resumed barking at 10:07pm sharp.
We no longer feel safe.
They would howl and screech to one another for reasons beyond our knowledge.
Me and a few others in the area tossed around theories like they were keeping something at bay
or relaying news of some kind or other.
Those of us who'd been in the area for quite a while took comfort in the barking.
Didn't matter that nobody around had a dog nor were there any wild ones.
Still it happened like clockwork every night, kept us safe we reckoned.
Until one day when they were silent.
That's when everything began to go wrong.
Small things at first, little bits of bad luck in our lives, minor bad news and such.
Gradually though more went wrong, the "bad luck" started to physically hurt people.
Then the first death happened.
10:07pm sharp her house burnt down while she and her family made no sound.
After the fire was doused the authorities went in to find the bodies of the four former inhabitants.
They found eight, three adults and five children.
Seems like the kids had been having a sleepover though they still haven't identified them.
A friend of a friend who knew the paramedics who'd dealt with the call gave us the details.
The adults were found in the back garden having clawed their way through a collapsed wall.
The children had been left in the basement to burn alive.
Apparently they'd found them huddled against the basement door.
Judging by the claw-marks that were gouged into its thick wooden surface they'd lasted hours.
Far longer than is humanly possible in such circumstances and especially so for children.
After their funerals the dogs resumed barking at 10:07pm sharp.
We no longer feel safe.
Day 468
The phone rings again,you pick it up but don't speak.
The person on the other end doesn't like it when you speak.
You want to talk to them, find out who they are and why they call you.
You don't though, at least not yet.
Sometimes they speak, they mostly just whisper your name.
It's become comforting to hear
They say it with such care, they care so much.
You once tried to ask them who they are and didn't hear them for a week after.
Sometimes the voice on the phone sounds achingly familiar.
Other times the voice is distant, like they're talking through a tin can.
This voice takes your vitals while the other asks when you'll wake up.
Lately they've been talking to each other about you.
They say you won't wake up again yet you're wide awake.
You tell them this but they continue to talk.
Always saying they want you to wake up but you can't.
You are awake, awake and alone in the nothingness with that phone and their voices.
The person on the other end doesn't like it when you speak.
You want to talk to them, find out who they are and why they call you.
You don't though, at least not yet.
Sometimes they speak, they mostly just whisper your name.
It's become comforting to hear
They say it with such care, they care so much.
You once tried to ask them who they are and didn't hear them for a week after.
Sometimes the voice on the phone sounds achingly familiar.
Other times the voice is distant, like they're talking through a tin can.
This voice takes your vitals while the other asks when you'll wake up.
Lately they've been talking to each other about you.
They say you won't wake up again yet you're wide awake.
You tell them this but they continue to talk.
Always saying they want you to wake up but you can't.
You are awake, awake and alone in the nothingness with that phone and their voices.
20150815
Day 467
From the fifth floor you could clearly see the fog rolling in over the car park.
Within minutes the noises followed and the rain fell.
It was always like this and there was no solution as of yet.
Answering incoming calls was difficult with the growing sounds from outside but you managed.
It was mostly typing and searching for their information anyway, minimal conversation.
If it got any worse outside they'd call off your department as protocol dictated.
The norm was to wait it out, it always ended as it began with the fog.
Today however was proving different, difficult and far outside of the norm.
The fog was changing as red seeped through it and the noises ceased.
All noise ceased, nobody could make a sound and not for lack of trying.
Panic spread fast around the room and the scent of iron filled the air as they grew violent.
You were lucky to be at the back of the room, furthest from the sprawl.
Peering over your desk you saw the fighting die down as they all fell one by one.
Slowly rising up something caught your eye outside.
Rather a lack of something.
The fog had risen to right outside of the window as silent as a broken clock.
Another difference showed as it began to change colour to black and all light faded.
One norm remained as the sounds returned and you found that you had missed their screams.
Within minutes the noises followed and the rain fell.
It was always like this and there was no solution as of yet.
Answering incoming calls was difficult with the growing sounds from outside but you managed.
It was mostly typing and searching for their information anyway, minimal conversation.
If it got any worse outside they'd call off your department as protocol dictated.
The norm was to wait it out, it always ended as it began with the fog.
Today however was proving different, difficult and far outside of the norm.
The fog was changing as red seeped through it and the noises ceased.
All noise ceased, nobody could make a sound and not for lack of trying.
Panic spread fast around the room and the scent of iron filled the air as they grew violent.
You were lucky to be at the back of the room, furthest from the sprawl.
Peering over your desk you saw the fighting die down as they all fell one by one.
Slowly rising up something caught your eye outside.
Rather a lack of something.
The fog had risen to right outside of the window as silent as a broken clock.
Another difference showed as it began to change colour to black and all light faded.
One norm remained as the sounds returned and you found that you had missed their screams.
20150813
Day 466
To have a butcher's. Cockney rhyming slang derived from "butcher's hook" = "to look".
The guidebooks didn't mention how the sewers were full of blood.
They didn't say anything about the colour of the Thames or that raw stench everywhere.
It seemed to seep into everything - clothes, books and even the food carried it's taint.
Londoners never mentioned it though, they were immune to the river's effects.
Newcomers and other outsiders however bore the full brunt of it all.
Some survived but most ended up like the locals or like the other river-dead.
It wasn't uncommon to see corpses floating past the dozens of merchant boats.
The guidebooks didn't mention that either.
One particular newcomer had crossed the sea back to the birthplace of his parents.
His American accent stuck out like a sore thumb as did his reactions.
Every Londoner knew that you didn't hang around places, you went and went quick.
This man though, he soon formed a habit of chatting to the local butcher for hours.
To the newcomers face the man didn't seem bothered at all and continued to work.
He would pause every now-and-then between answering questions to thoughtfully hack a joint
before resuming conversation as though nothing had happened.
The newcomer was curious about the flooring and the butcher was losing patience.
You see, most shops had thick metal grating instead of the traditional sawdust and wood.
Why bother sweeping when it'll all flow away under your very feet?
It just made sense to them.
Tourists and travellers could rarely stand to see what went on underneath everything, poor souls.
This one however wasn't dissuaded, no matter how many bodies went under him.
He didn't so much as bat an eyelid as a dying beggar-woman and her screaming baby drowned.
The woman even stuck her hand through the grating and died like that, all stuck and rotting.
The butcher just about managed to pry her off and push her down with a broom handle.
All the while the newcomer just observed, his expression vaguely amused.
Something was clearly wrong with him - probably river sickness.
It got into your head, the smells and sounds, most travellers can't stand it and lose the plot entirely.
This one wasn't showing the usual symptoms (twitching, vomiting, hysteria and suchlike).
Still there was something off about him, something peculiar about the way he carried himself.
It got to the point where his "friend" invited him to the shop's back for "a proper butcher's".
Strangely his corpse kept reappearing though, always stuck under the butcher's floor staring up.
Alway with that same vaguely amused expression on what little remained of his face.
The guidebooks didn't mention how the sewers were full of blood.
They didn't say anything about the colour of the Thames or that raw stench everywhere.
It seemed to seep into everything - clothes, books and even the food carried it's taint.
Londoners never mentioned it though, they were immune to the river's effects.
Newcomers and other outsiders however bore the full brunt of it all.
Some survived but most ended up like the locals or like the other river-dead.
It wasn't uncommon to see corpses floating past the dozens of merchant boats.
The guidebooks didn't mention that either.
One particular newcomer had crossed the sea back to the birthplace of his parents.
His American accent stuck out like a sore thumb as did his reactions.
Every Londoner knew that you didn't hang around places, you went and went quick.
This man though, he soon formed a habit of chatting to the local butcher for hours.
To the newcomers face the man didn't seem bothered at all and continued to work.
He would pause every now-and-then between answering questions to thoughtfully hack a joint
before resuming conversation as though nothing had happened.
The newcomer was curious about the flooring and the butcher was losing patience.
You see, most shops had thick metal grating instead of the traditional sawdust and wood.
Why bother sweeping when it'll all flow away under your very feet?
It just made sense to them.
Tourists and travellers could rarely stand to see what went on underneath everything, poor souls.
This one however wasn't dissuaded, no matter how many bodies went under him.
He didn't so much as bat an eyelid as a dying beggar-woman and her screaming baby drowned.
The woman even stuck her hand through the grating and died like that, all stuck and rotting.
The butcher just about managed to pry her off and push her down with a broom handle.
All the while the newcomer just observed, his expression vaguely amused.
Something was clearly wrong with him - probably river sickness.
It got into your head, the smells and sounds, most travellers can't stand it and lose the plot entirely.
This one wasn't showing the usual symptoms (twitching, vomiting, hysteria and suchlike).
Still there was something off about him, something peculiar about the way he carried himself.
It got to the point where his "friend" invited him to the shop's back for "a proper butcher's".
Strangely his corpse kept reappearing though, always stuck under the butcher's floor staring up.
Alway with that same vaguely amused expression on what little remained of his face.
20150812
Day 465
The further she walked into the woods, the taller and wider the trees seemed to grow.
As she passed by a small bench in a clearing she realised she'd never been so far in.
It had always been her stopping point, proverbial barricade between her and the deep woodland.
Today though she saw a white dog walk past and worried it was someone's pet.
Which brings us to now, wherein she is surrounded by tree trunks as wide a cars.
The bark was the darkest shade of brown she'd ever seen on a tree - practically pitch coloured.
She was on the right trail at least, the dog's pale form flickered between the ground foliage.
It was like a lighthouse beacon guiding her through the murky forest's depths.
After what felt like hours of walking both she and the dog came to a second clearing.
To one side there was a cottage not much higher than her waist with a river running by it.
A bench identical to her usual one stood nearby with fresh food laid out on it.
Suddenly feeling tired and hungry from her long walk she sat down, debating if she should eat.
Surely at least a drink couldn't hurt, she could even blame the white dog that wouldn't stop staring
at her as it began to crawl towards the table.
It moved its limbs in an almost human way, paws looking so much like hands.
As she passed by a small bench in a clearing she realised she'd never been so far in.
It had always been her stopping point, proverbial barricade between her and the deep woodland.
Today though she saw a white dog walk past and worried it was someone's pet.
Which brings us to now, wherein she is surrounded by tree trunks as wide a cars.
The bark was the darkest shade of brown she'd ever seen on a tree - practically pitch coloured.
She was on the right trail at least, the dog's pale form flickered between the ground foliage.
It was like a lighthouse beacon guiding her through the murky forest's depths.
After what felt like hours of walking both she and the dog came to a second clearing.
To one side there was a cottage not much higher than her waist with a river running by it.
A bench identical to her usual one stood nearby with fresh food laid out on it.
Suddenly feeling tired and hungry from her long walk she sat down, debating if she should eat.
Surely at least a drink couldn't hurt, she could even blame the white dog that wouldn't stop staring
at her as it began to crawl towards the table.
It moved its limbs in an almost human way, paws looking so much like hands.
20150811
Day 464
The office had old computers, they ran some version of Linux.
Nobody quite knew how to use them - not even the IT guys but nobody would admit it.
Having to refill their fluids was the most irritating thing about them though.
It got to the point where the fluid was kept in large vats at the back of every main room.
Of course people complained about the smell (that bitter iron tang that stung the back of your throat)
but it was either that or call the IT guys out every five minutes to fill someone's machine.
Management agreed it was better this way and windows were opened instead.
Thing got a lot more tense when one of the machines escaped through said windows.
It left a trail of fluid heading to the nearby school and bodies were found soon after.
Their shrivelled husks were partially buried under books or coats or leaves.
They were smart machines, under their pulsating flesh lay a hive mind of some sort.
Presumably - they all felt each other's pain for certain but they'd never been fully researched.
Now the office block has metal bars on the windows to prevent another incident.
It didn't stop the computers from protesting, spitting weak acid at certain employees.
Some were worse off than others - fired for their own safety and greatly compensated.
Eventually the whole office shut down, locked the doors and left the machines to rot.
They rotted indeed, the school nearby was overwhelmed with the stench of it.
A mixture of sewage and fetid meat as the pipes clogged with their waste and their dead ones.
Some say they mourned their losses by singing, almost like they remembered being humans.
Now we only see their shadows sitting at every barred window in wait.
Nobody quite knew how to use them - not even the IT guys but nobody would admit it.
Having to refill their fluids was the most irritating thing about them though.
It got to the point where the fluid was kept in large vats at the back of every main room.
Of course people complained about the smell (that bitter iron tang that stung the back of your throat)
but it was either that or call the IT guys out every five minutes to fill someone's machine.
Management agreed it was better this way and windows were opened instead.
Thing got a lot more tense when one of the machines escaped through said windows.
It left a trail of fluid heading to the nearby school and bodies were found soon after.
Their shrivelled husks were partially buried under books or coats or leaves.
They were smart machines, under their pulsating flesh lay a hive mind of some sort.
Presumably - they all felt each other's pain for certain but they'd never been fully researched.
Now the office block has metal bars on the windows to prevent another incident.
It didn't stop the computers from protesting, spitting weak acid at certain employees.
Some were worse off than others - fired for their own safety and greatly compensated.
Eventually the whole office shut down, locked the doors and left the machines to rot.
They rotted indeed, the school nearby was overwhelmed with the stench of it.
A mixture of sewage and fetid meat as the pipes clogged with their waste and their dead ones.
Some say they mourned their losses by singing, almost like they remembered being humans.
Now we only see their shadows sitting at every barred window in wait.
20150810
Day 463
The wind was worse today but he couldn't afford to miss a single day of work.
He took the shortest path possible, it would still take him an hour or so though.
The idea was to go down the smaller alleyways, avoid the worst of the wind by hiding.
Past the church he went, as the bell tower swayed and tiles flew up into the green-grey sky.
The trees over the narrow path he took roared as their branches thrashed and fell about him.
Still, he had work and was over halfway there - too far gone to bother turning back.
He slipped and tripped as debris slammed into his legs, ricocheting from wall-to-wall.
Turn after turn he took, the wind forcing him to collide against other unfortunates until the last place.
His final piece of shelter, so close to his workplace - the train bridge.
Usually around this time it would be busier, trains came every half hour around there.
Today however, all was silent and the bridge swayed much like the bell tower.
It shrieked and groaned, iron protesting as the winds battered it about like a child's plaything.
He checked his phone as he ducked under a passerby's splayed arm and found himself late.
Without hesitating he pulled out his phone to text his manager just as a warning.
The bridge provided enough of a shelter for him to stop and focus on his message.
Above him the iron rafters began to crack, slowly to begin with but spreading too quickly to act.
The bridge above him came tumbling down, he tried to run but left it too late to get far.
He wasn't crushed at least, the shattered iron impaled him first.
He took the shortest path possible, it would still take him an hour or so though.
The idea was to go down the smaller alleyways, avoid the worst of the wind by hiding.
Past the church he went, as the bell tower swayed and tiles flew up into the green-grey sky.
The trees over the narrow path he took roared as their branches thrashed and fell about him.
Still, he had work and was over halfway there - too far gone to bother turning back.
He slipped and tripped as debris slammed into his legs, ricocheting from wall-to-wall.
Turn after turn he took, the wind forcing him to collide against other unfortunates until the last place.
His final piece of shelter, so close to his workplace - the train bridge.
Usually around this time it would be busier, trains came every half hour around there.
Today however, all was silent and the bridge swayed much like the bell tower.
It shrieked and groaned, iron protesting as the winds battered it about like a child's plaything.
He checked his phone as he ducked under a passerby's splayed arm and found himself late.
Without hesitating he pulled out his phone to text his manager just as a warning.
The bridge provided enough of a shelter for him to stop and focus on his message.
Above him the iron rafters began to crack, slowly to begin with but spreading too quickly to act.
The bridge above him came tumbling down, he tried to run but left it too late to get far.
He wasn't crushed at least, the shattered iron impaled him first.
20150809
Day 462
The piano made a strange plucking sound at night and the notes were muted in places.
She'd purchased it from a soon-to-be shut down school for a tenner.
It was an absolute bargain and the staff seemed glad to be rid of it - all the better for her.
Still, the plucking sounds were unnerving.
She never managed to gather the courage to open the lid and see what was going on inside.
It could have been a spider or the old strings tensing and untensing in the room's warmth.
Sometimes out of the corner of her eyes she saw the lid open a fraction, heard tiny footsteps.
They always stopped outside her room and thudded back to the piano loudly.
It was like this every night - first the plucking then the lid and finally the footsteps.
After a few weeks of this, selling it sounded like a decent idea.
There was no shortage of interest online and a few who offered thrice what she paid for it.
A local police officer offered her the highest at eighty pounds which she gladly took.
The woman arrived the next day to collect it, she never mentioned the plucking or lid movements.
The house felt quieter without it, safer too.
Unbeknownst to her, the officer had opened the piano up, suspecting mice and finding worse.
The skeletal remains of a child, their tiny hands tangled in the strings and claw marks on the lid.
Day 461
From the wide window he could see the whole city as it slept beneath several feet of snow.
It had been like this for as long as he could remember, though now his memory was weaker.
According to the lines etched on the wall in clusters of 400, he was somewhere around eighty.
Far too old for this weather but too young to die, in his opinion.
He remembered a time when people went outside, when the snow wasn't so deep.
From his vantage point he could see the streets he'd played on with his friends before they left.
Everyone left eventually, through their own will or the snow's.
It used to be so safe, cold but safe.
His eyes glazed over as he thought about the day when he first saw someone vanish.
He'd been standing next to his mother as they hid under some building's overhang to talk.
A friend of his was running towards them both, sinking slowly into the snow.
He would have helped but his mother held him too tightly.
By the time they eventually reached him all that was visible of them was their forehead and one eye.
Slowly their skin turned blue, their eye closed and they sunk down entirely.
His mother had smashed the window of the building behind them and they hid there until morning.
She refused to tell him how long this had been going on for or how many had been lost.
After that the snow didn't seem as pretty as it had before, it seemed to wait.
More and more people disappeared, his wide community of loved ones dwindled.
The adults would only speak about it in small groups, hushing each other as they trembled.
Whether it was from fear or the bitter cold, he wasn't sure but it didn't stop them from going.
Eventually it was just him and his mother left, she refused to leave.
As the snow finally caught her she screamed at him to wait for his father, to never leave.
This was the first time she'd ever mentioned him, before that he'd assumed his father to be dead.
He crept from roof-to-roof (their strategy against the snow) and scoured the city for life.
This leads us back to the present, wherein he is old and watching vague blue figures from above.
You see, they started coming back the same as they'd been when they vanished only... not.
Their skin that deathly blue and their eyes held that same sheen as fresh ice.
He'd barricaded every floor from ground to twentieth and disabled the lift but still, they were close.
His mother's voice echoed up the lift's shaft and along the corridor, trying to find him.
He had a vague suspicion she already knew, that she'd seen him like the falling snow had.
It had been this way for far too long and he was so tired of it all.
They were in the hallway searching for him room by room.
It had been like this for as long as he could remember, though now his memory was weaker.
According to the lines etched on the wall in clusters of 400, he was somewhere around eighty.
Far too old for this weather but too young to die, in his opinion.
He remembered a time when people went outside, when the snow wasn't so deep.
From his vantage point he could see the streets he'd played on with his friends before they left.
Everyone left eventually, through their own will or the snow's.
It used to be so safe, cold but safe.
His eyes glazed over as he thought about the day when he first saw someone vanish.
He'd been standing next to his mother as they hid under some building's overhang to talk.
A friend of his was running towards them both, sinking slowly into the snow.
He would have helped but his mother held him too tightly.
By the time they eventually reached him all that was visible of them was their forehead and one eye.
Slowly their skin turned blue, their eye closed and they sunk down entirely.
His mother had smashed the window of the building behind them and they hid there until morning.
She refused to tell him how long this had been going on for or how many had been lost.
After that the snow didn't seem as pretty as it had before, it seemed to wait.
More and more people disappeared, his wide community of loved ones dwindled.
The adults would only speak about it in small groups, hushing each other as they trembled.
Whether it was from fear or the bitter cold, he wasn't sure but it didn't stop them from going.
Eventually it was just him and his mother left, she refused to leave.
As the snow finally caught her she screamed at him to wait for his father, to never leave.
This was the first time she'd ever mentioned him, before that he'd assumed his father to be dead.
He crept from roof-to-roof (their strategy against the snow) and scoured the city for life.
This leads us back to the present, wherein he is old and watching vague blue figures from above.
You see, they started coming back the same as they'd been when they vanished only... not.
Their skin that deathly blue and their eyes held that same sheen as fresh ice.
He'd barricaded every floor from ground to twentieth and disabled the lift but still, they were close.
His mother's voice echoed up the lift's shaft and along the corridor, trying to find him.
He had a vague suspicion she already knew, that she'd seen him like the falling snow had.
It had been this way for far too long and he was so tired of it all.
They were in the hallway searching for him room by room.
20150808
Day 460
Her skin crackled like dead leaves with every haggard breath she took.
The air around her reeked of wet earth.
She smiled as the wood above her creaked and sighed.
It had almost been a year.
She'd been surrounded by these same four walls for far too long.
This time though, this time would be different.
They had missed her, come to see her every day to apologise.
Every one of them had told her something secret.
Most were mundane, petty theft and lies they told her.
There were a few... interesting ones.
Nobody expected her to be listening.
They certainly didn't expect her to return.
Breathing was more difficult now, too many holes in the pipes, so to speak.
Moving even more so - a year of stillness is so hard on the body.
As the boards above her finally gave way, fresh dirt spilled onto her cold face.
Inch by inch she clawed her way to the surface to tell her tales.
The air around her reeked of wet earth.
She smiled as the wood above her creaked and sighed.
It had almost been a year.
She'd been surrounded by these same four walls for far too long.
This time though, this time would be different.
They had missed her, come to see her every day to apologise.
Every one of them had told her something secret.
Most were mundane, petty theft and lies they told her.
There were a few... interesting ones.
Nobody expected her to be listening.
They certainly didn't expect her to return.
Breathing was more difficult now, too many holes in the pipes, so to speak.
Moving even more so - a year of stillness is so hard on the body.
As the boards above her finally gave way, fresh dirt spilled onto her cold face.
Inch by inch she clawed her way to the surface to tell her tales.
20150807
Day 459
They were always found near the old circus and were unofficially called the ScalpTown Balloons.
The cause of death was always the same too, blood loss and trauma.
Each body was missing their limbs and the skin from the shoulders up - just left to bleed to death.
So far the skins hadn't been found and the blame lay on an alleged cannibal cult.
The whole area had been scoured bar the old circus.
Nobody even thought to check it - nobody could figure out how to!
The last owner was a big fan of riddles and puzzles to the point where he'd rebuilt the circus in
concrete and sealed it with a series of increasingly complex locks and forgot how to open them.
It was found soon after that several members of the circus had been shut inside the concrete tent.
The average human can survive up to 3 weeks without food and 8 days without water.
No word came from inside the tent so they were presumed dead.
All efforts to break down the circus were met with refusal from the owner, it was his masterpiece.
I wonder if the performers appreciated this as they contemplated starvation or cannibalism.
The local papers have started wondering too.
Stories from "anonymous sources" claim that their spirits are vengeful, reliving a distorted version
of their lives, making balloons from the skins of passersby for their bloody show.
Of course this caught on quickly and the tasteless name "ScalpTown Balloons" came about.
Still officially the police had no legitimate source to go by until the latest body was found.
The child was propped up against the circus tent and a trail of blood led from the building's top
down in a gradual slope to where the little boy lay.
It was almost like he'd been pushed down a slide and it finally prompted the police to break in.
At first they tried demolishing the concrete, not suspecting that it was just a cover for thick, steel
walls that made it damn near impossible to enter.
Their next option was to crack the equally impossible lock system.
At this point it was a coin-toss with no end in sight until, unexpectedly, both wall and lock broke.
The police went in through both entrances armed, trained and prepared for the worst.
None of them came out alive, nobody dared to send in a second team after hearing their screams.
They all turned up sooner or later, limbless and skinned and propped up by the open entrances.
It was a tragedy, the police called for military action to back them up.
They still had no idea what they were dealing with, what they had let out after so long.
It was the day before the planned second strike (with military backing) when the balloons came.
All those faces (some fresh and bleeding, others shrivelled) filled with helium and gently floating up.
The cause of death was always the same too, blood loss and trauma.
Each body was missing their limbs and the skin from the shoulders up - just left to bleed to death.
So far the skins hadn't been found and the blame lay on an alleged cannibal cult.
The whole area had been scoured bar the old circus.
Nobody even thought to check it - nobody could figure out how to!
The last owner was a big fan of riddles and puzzles to the point where he'd rebuilt the circus in
concrete and sealed it with a series of increasingly complex locks and forgot how to open them.
It was found soon after that several members of the circus had been shut inside the concrete tent.
The average human can survive up to 3 weeks without food and 8 days without water.
No word came from inside the tent so they were presumed dead.
All efforts to break down the circus were met with refusal from the owner, it was his masterpiece.
I wonder if the performers appreciated this as they contemplated starvation or cannibalism.
The local papers have started wondering too.
Stories from "anonymous sources" claim that their spirits are vengeful, reliving a distorted version
of their lives, making balloons from the skins of passersby for their bloody show.
Of course this caught on quickly and the tasteless name "ScalpTown Balloons" came about.
Still officially the police had no legitimate source to go by until the latest body was found.
The child was propped up against the circus tent and a trail of blood led from the building's top
down in a gradual slope to where the little boy lay.
It was almost like he'd been pushed down a slide and it finally prompted the police to break in.
At first they tried demolishing the concrete, not suspecting that it was just a cover for thick, steel
walls that made it damn near impossible to enter.
Their next option was to crack the equally impossible lock system.
At this point it was a coin-toss with no end in sight until, unexpectedly, both wall and lock broke.
The police went in through both entrances armed, trained and prepared for the worst.
None of them came out alive, nobody dared to send in a second team after hearing their screams.
They all turned up sooner or later, limbless and skinned and propped up by the open entrances.
It was a tragedy, the police called for military action to back them up.
They still had no idea what they were dealing with, what they had let out after so long.
It was the day before the planned second strike (with military backing) when the balloons came.
All those faces (some fresh and bleeding, others shrivelled) filled with helium and gently floating up.
20150806
Day 458
My house is strangely built.
I live in one of those circular closes, grassy roundabout in the middle, houses all crammed in.
It's not a closed circle though, there's a small passage that runs under my house.
A public footpath that cuts under my upstairs bathroom.
The brickwork around is solid enough - I've had plenty of people check it - yet I keep hearing things.
Sometimes it's voices that sound like they're describing my every move, sometimes just laughter.
I've set up a camera just inside the window in my cupboard downstairs where I get a good view of
the passage and anyone who goes through.
So far I haven't seen anything unusual but I have managed to record the voices several times.
A friend suggested using a thermal imaging camera instead of night vision.
I tried it, I stuck with it for weeks but it was broken or someone was pranking me.
All it showed was a frozen image of someone hung by the neck.
Sometimes it glitches and it looks like they're waving and swaying.
Lately they've been vanishing some nights so I assume this is just a camera fault or something.
It must be, how else would they be there?
I live in one of those circular closes, grassy roundabout in the middle, houses all crammed in.
It's not a closed circle though, there's a small passage that runs under my house.
A public footpath that cuts under my upstairs bathroom.
The brickwork around is solid enough - I've had plenty of people check it - yet I keep hearing things.
Sometimes it's voices that sound like they're describing my every move, sometimes just laughter.
I've set up a camera just inside the window in my cupboard downstairs where I get a good view of
the passage and anyone who goes through.
So far I haven't seen anything unusual but I have managed to record the voices several times.
A friend suggested using a thermal imaging camera instead of night vision.
I tried it, I stuck with it for weeks but it was broken or someone was pranking me.
All it showed was a frozen image of someone hung by the neck.
Sometimes it glitches and it looks like they're waving and swaying.
Lately they've been vanishing some nights so I assume this is just a camera fault or something.
It must be, how else would they be there?
20150805
Day 457
It could have gone either way but it didn't.
The branch could have held as she climbed up it.
Her kite could have gotten stuck in another tree.
She could have held onto it tighter in the first place.
She could have lived.
The branch snapped just as her fingers touched the kitestring.
It dangled limply from a branch dangling over the cliffside.
She was only eight, so young and so fragile.
The drop didn't kill her.
The falling branch did.
The branch could have held as she climbed up it.
Her kite could have gotten stuck in another tree.
She could have held onto it tighter in the first place.
She could have lived.
The branch snapped just as her fingers touched the kitestring.
It dangled limply from a branch dangling over the cliffside.
She was only eight, so young and so fragile.
The drop didn't kill her.
The falling branch did.
20150804
Day 456
We have explored around 5% of our oceans and found it too much to bear.
The unexplainable thrives in the air-deprived depths where hydrogen sulfide "rivers" flow.
Divers report strange fish swimming through it, impossible creatures.
Fins that reach endlessly upwards, eyes with countless pupils swarming and staring and knowing.
In some parts divers claimed they saw a house and their families inside.
Those ones always went missing, bones washed ashore a week or so later picked clean.
It's hard to say for sure if there is a house down there.
For all we know it could just be oxygen deprivation or some kind of chemical exposure.
Either way, the teeth marks on the remains are always human.
Local legends on that area do talk about strange people, something similar to mermaids.
Their appearance was near indistinguishable from a human though a few features stood out.
Namely their eyes (far larger than any humans) and voice (like talking through a glass).
They couldn't walk on land, turned the water around them to poison (hydrogen sulphide perhaps?)
and were always surrounded by a ring of dead fish and sea birds.
It was mentioned that they lived deep beneath the waves in a house of human bones.
20150803
Day 455
Is it murder if they only look human?
Asking for a friend.
What's left of them anyway, some parts still cling to the hammer.
What if someone made me do it?
They didn't really leave me much of a choice.
Certainly not with the way they crushed that bird's head between their jaws.
Well what if you thought they were someone else?
I mean, it didn't look like my mate until after it died!
It doesn't look human now, just a pool of guts and pus.
Asking for a friend.
What's left of them anyway, some parts still cling to the hammer.
What if someone made me do it?
They didn't really leave me much of a choice.
Certainly not with the way they crushed that bird's head between their jaws.
Well what if you thought they were someone else?
I mean, it didn't look like my mate until after it died!
It doesn't look human now, just a pool of guts and pus.
20150802
Day 454
The gate at the end of her garden had always been coated in moss.
It was common for the area, something in the rain made it grow like crazy.
Sometimes during her monthly moss-reduction she'd find things she'd previously lost.
Her old hedge trimmers (that she swore she left in the shed), sunglasses, an old bird feeder.
She never dug far, only half a foot or so generally.
Just enough to make the ground safer to walk on - moss could be pretty unstable and squishy.
When she was a little girl she'd gotten stuck up to her armpits in a small moss coated pond.
It had looked just like ground at the time, she promised herself it'd never happen again.
Today she decided to dig deeper than usual - the sinking nightmares were getting worse.
It took her the usual three hours to get half a foot down, left her plenty of time to continue.
She hadn't found anything out of the ordinary so far, just the usual miscellaneous stuff.
Taking a deep breath she prepared herself to dig further, perhaps to the dirt.
The first thing she noticed as she began to remove the moss was the metallic smell.
Next came the gradual change from bright green to deep green to brown to black to red.
This might be normal for the area, so few dug this far down she had no real idea.
She found bones along the way, small at first like rodents but they grew larger as she dug.
Eventually she unearthed a human skull, small but definitely human.
The moss was firmly embedded in it - inside and out - but what scared her most was the hole in it.
Almost looked like someone or something had taken a bite out of the poor thing
She wondered how many more were buried under the moss.
She didn't have to wonder for long as the ground beneath her collapsed.
All her digging had caused the moss to weaken as interconnecting roots had been severed.
Her landing was her end as the sharp bones of hundreds pierced her soft flesh.
As her eyes clouded over the moss began to grow back once more, satisfied for a while.
It was common for the area, something in the rain made it grow like crazy.
Sometimes during her monthly moss-reduction she'd find things she'd previously lost.
Her old hedge trimmers (that she swore she left in the shed), sunglasses, an old bird feeder.
She never dug far, only half a foot or so generally.
Just enough to make the ground safer to walk on - moss could be pretty unstable and squishy.
When she was a little girl she'd gotten stuck up to her armpits in a small moss coated pond.
It had looked just like ground at the time, she promised herself it'd never happen again.
Today she decided to dig deeper than usual - the sinking nightmares were getting worse.
It took her the usual three hours to get half a foot down, left her plenty of time to continue.
She hadn't found anything out of the ordinary so far, just the usual miscellaneous stuff.
Taking a deep breath she prepared herself to dig further, perhaps to the dirt.
The first thing she noticed as she began to remove the moss was the metallic smell.
Next came the gradual change from bright green to deep green to brown to black to red.
This might be normal for the area, so few dug this far down she had no real idea.
She found bones along the way, small at first like rodents but they grew larger as she dug.
Eventually she unearthed a human skull, small but definitely human.
The moss was firmly embedded in it - inside and out - but what scared her most was the hole in it.
Almost looked like someone or something had taken a bite out of the poor thing
She wondered how many more were buried under the moss.
She didn't have to wonder for long as the ground beneath her collapsed.
All her digging had caused the moss to weaken as interconnecting roots had been severed.
Her landing was her end as the sharp bones of hundreds pierced her soft flesh.
As her eyes clouded over the moss began to grow back once more, satisfied for a while.
20150801
Day 453
The bartender eyed up the stranger through her mottled glasses with unease.
He was clearly American, stuck out like a sore thumb in the dingy pub.
A worn sign outside had lured him in from the bitterly cold rain, promising warm food.
The greyish soup he was given (asking for whatever they recommended) was at least something.
It tasted vaguely earthy (mushroom perhaps) with a few golf ball sized chunks of meat.
He glanced about the almost empty place, not exactly filthy but far from clean.
Still it was a far cry better than the weather outside - Scotland wasn't known for sunshine.
He tried to ask for a beer but was given a shot of whiskey instead, it was all they served there.
The bartender wasn't one for conversation he soon found, preferring instead to polish a single glass.
Her eyes stared fixedly at an old group photo of some kind.
A few of the people had been crossed out in thick red marker, others torn off entirely.
When she caught him staring she put down the glass and asked him why he'd come there.
Admittedly it was far from the usual tourist traps of Britain, the small island of Barra.
With a population of less than two thousand everything felt so much emptier.
Perhaps he'd been drawn to the loneliness he said, something as far from home as possible.
The bartender nodded knowingly, told him to go see Our Lady of The Sea in the morning.
She gave him directions to a bed and breakfast down the road and sent him packing.
He turned just before he left to see her staring balefully at that group photo once again.
By the time he arrived there he was soaked to the bone despite his thick coat.
This time as he knocked on the door he was greeted by a much older woman.
Her face was obscured by a mourning veil but she greeted him with a watery smile.
She sat him down in a warm dining room, offered him a bowl of the same soup he had in the pub.
He ate it still, grateful for the warmth though still unsure of the taste.
That night he slept fitfully in a small attic room that smelt faintly of dust and stale air.
He woke up the next morning to find the bed and breakfast home completely abandoned.
Even the same dining room he'd been in not hours before had changed completely.
Thick cobwebs obscured the formerly spotless shelves and rot covered all but an old record player.
After searching the whole house he could plainly see that it was frozen in time, in decay.
Remembering the bartender's words he swiftly left the home to see this Lady of The Sea.
As soon as the door closed behind him the entire place groaned and collapsed.
He ran, following the directions the bartender gave him, heading downhill to the coast.
On such a small island it didn't take him too long.
The statue he came to had perhaps one been of the Virgin Mary, now it was an inhuman mass.
Thick clumps of algae distorted the face and outstretched limbs.
At her feet lay a metal plaque, rusted but still readable.
It had three paragraphs on the island's history, how it had been abandoned in the early 1900s.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)