Day 910

What they don't tell you about Frankenstein's creature is how the pus oozed between the stitches whenever he moved, puddling at his feet wherever he stood or sat. He was covered from head to toe in yellow rivulets that had already soaked through his clothes and shoes, leaving damp footprints wherever he went. With every blink he tried to clear his eyes of the constant stream of discharge from the sewn up gash across his forehead. It almost looked like he was crying.

What they don't tell you about vampires is just how inhuman they look when they don't have a steady food source, how their skin hangs in great drooping folds and how they have no stomach, only a mess of intestines that diffuse blood into their body at an unparalleled rate. Their skin changes colour, from a healthy complexion to wax in a matter of bloodless days at such a rate it can be seen with the naked eye. Most have gone without blood for years at a time to maintain the illusion of humanity, consuming our food and watching with silent horror as particles of their meals begin to visibly clot their skin.

What they don't tell you about werewolves is that they can get stuck in their full moon form, something too distinctly human to be a wolf but at the same time still not recognisable as a human. Their minds flashing from either end of the spectrum, human one hour and animal the next - altogether incapable of surviving beyond a day, too conflicted to do much more than scream and howl at the sun rises. It's an unspoken rule among their communities to kill them out of mercy, rather than leave them in a constant state of mental fluctuation that their full moon form can't handle. Better they die quickly rather than drag it out until they overheat and pant themselves to slow asphyxiation.

Day 909

They left the building when the frost began to seep through the double glazing, the blankets covering the double glazing and the carpeted wooden planks covering that. At least it had brought them enough time to use their knowledge to improve a second shelter in a smaller building with far less windows and heated door frames.

It took less than three weeks for the entire colony to move out, with the last few barely managing to close the door behind them and seal the frost away for however much longer they'd manage. So far they'd lasted almost eight generations without seeing the sun, too far underground for anything but the occasional stray animal to visit them.

Their only contact from the outside world was from the rations truck that drove from shelter to shelter along the old mine tunnels, never deviating and never turning off lest the engine freeze up. That would be the death of them all for sure - that one smallish truck was their lifeline and though they knew that depending all of their lives on one thing they had few options and many lifetimes of supplies, thanks to the collapse of shelters 53 through 88.

Any shelter beyond 88 had been cut off from the food supply for almost four years now, the efforts to break through the rubble were all unsuccessful at best and lethal in mot cases. They were all presumed dead or worse, scuttling about on the frozen surface like the rest of the unlucky ones, limbs little more than blackened frostbitten nubs with long dark pink icicles protruding from wherever they'd bled most. their faces were much the same, a mess of blackened skin and thick reddish-pink ice (or sludge, depending on how fresh they were) covering whatever facial features may have survived.

Back in their old shelter they could sometimes hear the faint ticky-ticky noises of the unlucky ones as they walked over the roof, trying to find a way inside and failing. At least now, without the colony there to maintain the place, they might have a better chance. Nobody quite knew what happened to the unlucky if they thawed so there was the possibility that they weren't the savage abominations that they looked to be at first glance. They might be perfectly civil but you'd have a hard time finding someone willing to even be on the same floor as them, let alone speak to them.

The new shelter had thicker doors and made them feel safer about the fact that they were only a few metres from their old one and could still be reached by anything strong enough to break down the front door (which, for some of the frost-changed creatures, would be painfully easy). While they had explored some of the new shelter, the former colony having abandoned it to go and attempt survival on the surface and failed to come back after eight years, there were still many floors they hadn't touched.

Two teams were formed from a mixture of quite strong and average people so that the weakest wouldn't be sacrificed and the strongest could defend the majority and ensure maximum survival potential. Team one went up, to the top three floors that were barely given a cursory glance for life before being declared liveable, and team two went down to the basement level to check for surplus supplies.

Neither team made it back to the "safe" floors, not a single one of them. Death was the likeliest option but they had never made a sound, not so much as a little peep for help and the stench of decaying flesh was nowhere to be found. The remainder of the colony chose to join one of the lower numbered shelters and bulk up their watch team instead of staying somewhere that swallowed people with no sound.

After this, shelter 19 was crossed off the growing list of active habitats and more names crossed off the survivor's list.

Day 908

Few people went far out in the lake without a boat. The water had an ink quality to it, the kind that makes your skin crawl just thinking about what could be down there. Of course your brain helpfully points out that it's rural England and the chances of anything bigger than your average four foot cod are slim to none.

Still, deeper down in your thoughts lurks the little phrase "but what if" which is a curse of a phrase if ever there was one. It's the kind of phrase that slithers about your thoughts and makes you wonder just how bad things can really be, if you weren't so naive as to believe they could be anything but the worst to begin with.

This little phrase now asks you "but what if there are bigger things down there and what if they can see you standing by the shore?" to which you could easily laugh off as fish don't care about people, only food. They're just simple little beasties leading simple little lives. But what if they can see you and what if they're follow you whenever you walk your dog by the water? Would you necessarily be able to see them under the murky surface and would you really care if some daft little stickleback was tailing you?

These thoughts cling to the corners of your mind,as intrusive little things often do, keeping you wary of seemingly innocent objects, people and places like the clown statue at the end of the pier or your grandmother's false teeth. The same thoughts that have kept people from swimming in the lake for as long as anybody cared to remember.

When the corpse of something prehistoric washed up on the shoreline, stomach full of human remains, everyone's worst fears were confirmed. All those suicides from the tall bridge miles upstream and their bodies all ended up in the belly of something that looked like an octopus, a bag of needles and a box of glass eyes all had a baby that grew to almost 10 metres long.

So many of the bodies looked fresh, barely digested to the point where they cold be mistaken for merely sleeping, yet there was no obvious sign of death on the creature. The lake was closed to the public for a few days after that while the authorities did their thing of wandering up and down the shore, debating this and that until they declared that the lake was safe again.

The growing missing persons list contests that but that's another story altogether.

Day 907

It had been sighted all across the midlands, leaving behind it a trail of corpses and a dark cloud of coal smoke that lingered for weeks afterwards. From the outside it was utterly normal at a glance, aside from the lack of name or number to lend it to a particular company or area. The interior, however was another matter entirely.

You couldn't tell from the outside, the windows were covered by a sticker of a normal carriage, a decoy that continued to fool whomever mistook the train for their intended one as it pulled innocently into stations at random. As the unsuspecting people stepped inside they would see blindingly bright lights and what appeared to be regular chairs on unusual metal flooring. When the train set off the lights would begin to flicker, everything about the carriages would begin to flicker and gradually fade to a grim reality.

Where brightly coloured seats should be were instead small cages, stuffed to the brim with something pale and writhing, its bulky frame squished in so tightly it was impossible to tell what it actually was. The pale metal flooring around them was stained red, freshly spilled red that glistened in the now feeble lighting.

At this point most people would be trying to find the emergency brakes and staying clear of whatever they'd been sitting on. Not everyone would make it that far though, some people have the strange tendency to fall asleep as soon as they're on a train being lulled by its rocking and whirring. Their bodies are found closest to their station, large bite marks all over their bodies but bearing a peaceful sleeping expression. The venom is merciful enough to paralyse as it begins to break the body down. Sometimes all that's left of them is their shoes.

The train spits out the dead like grape seeds, all it wants is their memories and the strongest ones are formed from the strongest emotions. It can't make people fall in love or feel joy as they naturally would so it adapts and feeds from whatever it can get easiest - fear. It warps and distorts reality itself to take what it needs, throwing the rest away like an unwanted sweet wrapper.

Nobody can pinpoint where it began, after all traintrack suicides happen around 300 times per year, what's a few extra on the side? Though it isn't known where it came from, its path is painfully clear - the channel tunnel. It brings a harsh choice for the government, one that could risk millions of lives either way. Do they block the tracks, dismantle them and keep the train stranded in England or do they let it go abroad, break the way back and pray no more turn up?

Day 906

Every night at 7:45PM the park wardens were meant to close the gates for both car parks, switch the electric fences on and leave any new information about the forest and its inhabitants pinned to the multitude of notice boards scattered about the premises. For years they'd done this like clockwork, always on time and always armed, just in case.

The wardens were considered local heroes, risking their lives every single day so that the public might live near the forest, enjoying their cheaper housing with minimal potential issues. Through years of constant vigilance there was bound to be a slip-up somewhere, after all the wardens are only as human as the rest of their community (which was to say mostly, with a little forest thrown in a few generations ago that nobody talks about).

Of the two car parks, one is used far more than the other due to its close proximity to the information centre, while the other remains in the area right beside a housing estate who have long since learned to fear the forest rather than stroll its whimsically typical paths. This was the car park that they forgot to lock one night, the night everything found it could Get Out.

Now the average outsider might wonder what could possibly be that bad inside a small town forest - what would put an entire community in the hospital within the span of eight minutes? These are the kinds of people who either don't live near natural areas or have been too well protected to know anything about the creatures within them.

This doesn't mean hedgehogs, deer, foxes or even badgers. This means shambling amalgamations, centuries old but with the speed and rage of their youthful counterparts, leading whole civilisations right in plain sight and ready to strike when the defences are down. Wardens are the thin, mortal barrier between us and death whenever we are near the woods.

The night they forgot and everything Got Out was brutal but brief, a test of what the forest creatures could do before they waited their chance to strike again with finality rather than curiosity, Limbs were lost and scars were gained in equal measure, homes destroyed but no lives taken. They came to see how fragile the not-wardens were and now they know.

After untold centuries of being kept ignorant they know how they can best kill us, know how easily we bleed and what weapons they will use. The wardens have begun doubling their numbers and posting updates every hour on the forest creature's patrols, their whispered threats and desperate pleas for public donation to upgrade the defences.

Day 905

The return trip had been longer than Crew 6 had expected with the sudden appearance of a colossal dust storm forcing them to halt and latch the shuttle to the nearest and largest rock. It had taken almost four days for the storm to pass, heading eastwards and hopefully bypassing the transporter that was needed to take them from the surface to Sky Base Theta.

As soon as their signal returned, protocol advised that they contact their main base and report any casualties or vehicular damage, just in case either were made worse by use of the standard transporter. Theta gave them the all-clear to take the shuttle up, no further questions asked. It was an unusual thing for them to do, what with their reputation for being sticklers for the corporation's multitude of rules. Crew 6 were too tired at that point to care much, thankful that they would soon be bathed and ready to rest in a proper bed.

Another unusual occurrence began once the transporter was on its clunky way up to the Sky Base, communications didn't cease. It was well known that there was the slight risk of short-circuiting the radio board if the shuttle wasn't stationary while sending or receiving messages, something to do with the system trying too hard to engage with the main base without a fixed location.

They would be well aware of this but they insisted on keeping the lines open and beginning the debrief before they could even assess the state of Crew 6, both physically and mentally. Dust storms were draining in all ways with the continuous threat of a local creature that was fond of using these storms as hunting ground mistaking the dull grey ship for the carapace of their preferred insectoid prey. Native fauna aside, there was also the life support to worry about and the filters potentially becoming clogged with debris hurled around at speeds of 500 km/h on average.

The debrief seemed to focus on the strange rock formations they'd been sent to investigate with the hopes that they would turn out to be a more developed sentient life form, one willing to trade at least. Crew 6 confirmed that they'd gone as far inside the rock formations as they'd been able to, both in the shuttle and on foot until they hit dead ends. It seemed like whatever had lived there left a long time before humans had set foot on the planet.

Sky Base Theta was dissatisfied with these results, insisting that the crew return as soon as possible and ready to excavate around the area in case the inhabitants had burrowed beneath their homes. The Comms. team wasn't supposed to advise on future missions, they were barely allowed any say in determining medical care or post-mission shuttle repairs yet it sounded like they were on speaker to the entire Comms. department who all had an opinion regarding their mission and next steps they should take.

Crew 6 muted them briefly and after a brief discussion they ended the call, switching their communications system off for the remainder of the lift. They agreed to claim it off as storm damage frying the already strained circuits and head out for their allotted post-mission absence. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, though it was mostly to stop them worrying at the oddness of call.

Even when they docked the shuttle (having to do so manually as their communications system was "down from storm damage") there was something not right about the docking bay. There was nobody there, not even the core crew of androids who ran the bay during shift changes. In fact, as Crew 6 wandered the base in a protective huddle they didn't spot a single living life-form, organic or otherwise.

They did notice unusual heat readings coming from the Comms. department, specifically the broadcasting room. The decision was made to turn one of their suit's communicators back online. Immediately they were bombarded with the sounds of well over a dozen voices asking them to confirm their location and report the crew's status. With a tense nod from the crew leader they nervously read out the closest sector number, hallway junction and room.

Then they waited for what felt like half an hour, twelve minutes in actuality, not noticing as the temperature around them began to rise until they all began to sweat in their suits. Comms. was frantically asking them to repeat their location, saying they sent a medic team down and the given location was empty. The crew advised they would head to the main medical bay, now feeling the drop in temperature as the medic team chimed in to advise they would meet the crew there.

Now knowing they were definitely not alone, though accompanied by life claiming to be crew, they made a new plan and headed for the broadcasting room. They theorised that if they weren't expected then maybe they would be able to see what was calling itself the staff of Sky Base Theta.

Day 904

There's a house down by the old Roman wall that's covered in blue doors of all shades and sizes. My uncle says that each door leads you to a different room, even though the windows just show the brickwork behind it. He says that's just to keep the ignorant masses out.

I didn't believe him until I walked past that house ans saw somebody walking into one of the doors. I waited around for a while but he didn't come out. When I told my uncle and he demanded to know which door the man had gone through and took me over to the house so I could show him.

As soon as I'd pointed out the door he became furious, screamed that it was his door and flung it open, stormed inside and slammed it closed behind him. I put my ear against it and heard the sounds of people arguing - one voice clearly my uncle's, another man's and a woman who was trying to get them to stop.

There was a loud crash, like glass thrown against a wall, a couple of thuds and then absolute silence. I turned the handle, the door opened smoothly and quietly to reveal a bloody scene. Inside the room had once been some kind of bar/billiards combo but the balls were all embedded in the heads of my uncle and the man who I'd seen go into the room before him.

The floor was coated with glass shards and the bar was void of all drinks. The billiard table bore a large dent along one side, like somebodies head had been thrown against it - their fight had been brutal but short. Even the ceiling - even the walls had blood speckled along them from the sheer intensity of the blows.

I never did find the woman who'd been begging them to stop but I found traces that she'd been there. A broken stiletto stuck in the bar top, a purse and all its contents spilled in a corner, the words "not again" scribbled under the bar in red lipstick. She'd been there for sure but was somehow nowhere to be found in a room with no exits but the door I walked in and no way she could have gotten out without me seeing.

I never considered that there might have been a room behind the mirrored wall of the bar, let alone consider that she'd be behind there watching my every move and making notes about me. At least, not until I went back years later when the police tape was gone and the case closed. She hadn't hidden as well this time, I saw her slip into her hiding spot, billiard balls clenched tightly in her fist.