Taft furniture bedroom sets

Hi! I'm working in China for a year and I REALLY want to save every penny I have to set myself up for a more secure future.
What are some apps, websites or stores I can shop at for discounted items such as toiletries, cleaning supplies/laundry detergent, beauty, and clothes?
Where can I find coupons and deals on experiences, food, travel, clothing?
Some ideas in America for examples are:
-Groupon(experiences/botox/laser hair removal/nails/lashes/facials/etc.)
-Overstock.com (furniture/household items)
-99 cent store/Dollar Tree/Dollar General/Five Below(miscellaneous/groceries/household items)
-Gorcery Outlet(Groceries)
-Rakuten Google extension(Shopping online)
-Coupert Google extension(Shopping online)
-Honey Google extension(Shopping onliine)
-Facebook Market (Buy/Sell used items)

I experience reflux and am interested in the mattresses that can incline. We recently bought a bedroom set with a nice bed. Do all of these types of mattresses require a specific base? Or would some rest on top of the existing furniture frame?
Thanks!! 🙏

You Should Want to Get to Know Me Because:

• cute - reasonably fit, can pull you up when dangling off a collapsed bridge - taller than you
• my mom says I'm smart and funny
• monogamous, trustworthy and honest...maybe to a fault
• going to pet all your animals - should none be available - pets you instead
• sweet, kind and caring- also opinionated, strong willed and not a pushover
• romantic
• great listener, very curious and supportive - interested in psychology and mental health issues
• likes to have anything from silly to deep conversations - knows how to keep a conversation going
• is going to watch all the anime, movies or shows you'd ever want together and then dissect them - similarly, we'll play all the games together or you watch me play and give emotional support
• makes the best pizza
• not a vampire (unless you're into that) - can be exposed to daylight and outdoor activities
• physically affectionate and cuddly
• assembles ikea furniture for you - and enjoys it.

Wow that guy sounds great, almost too good to be true. Agreed, so I'll equal it all out by giving a negative point: If you think the pineapple pizza people are bad, I actually put banana on mine. Horrible, I know. (But it's actually amazing, trust me!)
I Want to Get to Know You If:

• shy, introverted, quiet - these things may change once you're in a personal setting
• socially awkward/anxious and happy to spend time indoors - not exclusively though
• not much or no social life
• has some nerdy hobbys/interests we can share together - gaming together would be great but not a must
• likes to cuddle, intimacy and spending quality time
• normal weight or less
• willing to put effort into building a meaningful connection - either relationship or friendship
• doesn't take everything too seriously/literally - knows how to joke around

Send me a message and let's get to know each other! :)

So I really need some advice, a friend who I use to think of as a little sister is being abused and I need to know if it would be wrong for me to tell her grandmother about it?
This man (we'll call him Hank) treats this woman(who we'll call Janet) like shit, calls her a bitch all the time, has regularized using slurs all the time, constantly yells at her,complained about her not going to work at the strip club even though he hadnt had a job in over a year, she bought a ps5 and he will yell at her if she basically looks at it, and much much more
Janer has also turned into an alcoholic, I'm not talking about she likes to have a few drink more like she was about to be evicted for over 3000 dollars of back rent and still couldn't agree to cut out beer. She gets blackout drunk all the time and when she's away from Hank more times then not she tells me and my gf about the abuse. Telling us that she doesn't want to go home, she doesn't feel safe there and we always said our guest room is open but shed never take it. Then when Janet's sober she forgets all about it.
Now I went on a trip with them recently. Hank and a group of his friends went into a parking garage to smoke, someone set off fireworks out side the parking garage making the group think people were shooting so they ran and hid. One of the people in the group was an autistic gentleman and when he ran he tripped and fell in the stairwell and has become completely non verbal and can't move. Now Hank says fuck this shit and runs back to the hotel where the party is and just hang out. Like 20 minutes later Janet comes out and the guy that fells friend tells us we need to take him to a safe quiet place so he can calm down. Somebody got a luggage trolley and we tell Janet to tell Hank to turn everything thing down and tell them they can't be loud. Janet's face when she heard this was just discussing as she instantly says umm yeah that's not an option. After more arguing back in forth it finally ends on me and my girlfriend have to take their friend (someone we have not even met) into our room. We go back up and Hank's excuse is that he didn't trust the people at the party to leave with all his stuff there. Meanwhile there's a man I have never even met in my bedroom at this moment
I don't have it in me anymore to be a part of this friendship but I also don't want her to have no one seeing this toxicity. How big of an asshole would I be if I told her grandmother? hell id even be willing to go to an intervention. I just don't know what to do.

Looking for some guidance, TIA!
Moving to Portugal from USA, plan to take new Sonos equipment with us.
Here's what I'm looking to do:
In living room, have decent sound for music (Apple Music, own tunes on a NAS) and also audio for TV (will buy a new TV in Europe). Cannot go full surround due to position of furniture, an in-wall / in-ceiling also not possible...
In bedrooms, decent sound for music.
Outside, a single speaker for music when we're outside.
Planned Purchase:
Outside: 1x Sonos Move
Bedrooms: 3x Era 100 or One
Living Room: a sound bar (Beam v2) and 2x Era 100s or Ones
Grateful for any advice or guidance you can provide!

In 2020 I (18F) became disabled, my parents thought I was going to die, I on the other hand couldn’t even think. I survived but was left with terrible chronic pain. Anything, from the wrong room temperature to getting out of bed too fast is enough to make my body give up and just fall limp to the ground. Since my parents work tirelessly to afford my treatment they decided to hire a maid to keep the house clean. We’ve had several over the course of three years, which is due to most of them graduating college and moving on to building a career, which is obviously great, but this also makes it difficult to maintain order in the house. Fast forward to two months ago when this new one entered the picture. She (25F) did her job nicely and was very kind at first, but then I noticed things were turning up missing from the pantry and fridge which we brushed off as her having a harmless sweet tooth. However she’s started binge eating our stuff uncontrollably. One might guess she was starving, but the only things she eats are cookies, sweets and everything else with no nutritional value. We’ve been forced to shop more often and she seems to eat more the more food there is! Not only that but she for some reason dislikes my dog. Yesterday she texted my mom upset about my dog having shat himself and having had to wash his bum, which is a stupid lie since my house has a really open floor plan so smells travel fast and not five minutes after I left my dog (who was asleep) alone, she arrived. I heard her going straight to the fridge and then my dog came upstairs perfectly clean and dry.
Now she barely comes to work, asks for more furniture after we gifted her a dining room set to celebrate her new home and asked my parents for more money since she has to “look after” me. The last part really stung, since that happened after she found my disability certificate and not once has my condition given her extra work nor have my parents ever requested she is my caretaker. What is one supposed to do in this situation? If she needed help affording the cost of living we’d help her no questions asked, but she doesn’t, she’s even in the process of remodeling her house!

First/Previous
Okay everyone. Chiyo began, as all members of the household settled down and sat cross legged in a circle in the living room. We're going to try out a guided meditation. It should help with stress and anxiety, and it's really relaxing! Start by gently breathing deeply through your nose, and then keep repeating this until the guide tells you what to do next…
It was getting late in the evening, and Jack had only returned about an hour ago, having very much lost track of time before he finally made his way back. He had a little trouble finding a path back through the districts despite being able to use a marker on his commlink to pinpoint the location of home. The hot tub, which was slightly larger than Jack had expected, had been mostly finished by the time he arrived. However, due to several employee absences the team leader apologised and promised to finish the last of the plumbing the following afternoon after the group got back from school, which Alora quickly planned out with them. Sephy had swept the area for any possible bugs or electronic tags an undercover enemy could plant, but had fortunately found nothing.
A few of them looked sceptical as Chiyo put on a guided meditation program with some relaxing music in the background, which to Jack sounded like the most bizarre series of timbres and pitches unlike anything he had heard. It had the peaceful, slow quality of meditative music from earth, but it still jarred him somewhat due to its unnatural nature.
Still, he tried to follow Chiyo’s instructions as the Ilithii floated back to the circle to sit next to Sephy, who already looked like she was having trouble concentrating, though she made the effort for Chiyo’s sake. Next to him, Nika was already controlling and slowing down her breathing along with him, both of them semi-used to the concept of meditation already, and it looked like Alora was doing something more akin to prayer. The twins and Vanya seemed to be able to cope enough as well, all having some kind of magical ability that required some basic kind of mental concentration.
“Now, bring your attention to your physical form…” The soothing voice of the instructor gently called out over the background music. “Feel your body pressing into the surface beneath you, and take note of any areas of tension or discomfort…”
“I’m well aware of my injuries you dumb bit-” Nika grumbled before Chiyo psychically reminded her to be quiet during the meditation.
“Do not try to change anything with these sensations, merely observe them…”
Relax Sephy… Chiyo quietly told the Skritta, who was slightly fidgeting. Try not to overthink it!
“Now return your attention to your breathing, noticing all the sensations as you inhale, then gently exhale…” The voice continued. They did so, though by the sounds some of them were making they were overdoing it.
“As you continue to breath, bring yourself mentally to your peaceful place. This could be any location that brings you a sense of tranquillity and relaxation. Now imagine yourself in this place, surrounded by the sights, sounds and smells that make it special to you…”
Jack’s mind brought forth an image of home. His mother, his father, his brothers, his sister, his grandparents all surrounding him. He was safe, he was with his family. He had his whole life ahead of him…
And it had all been taken away from him.
Jack squirmed involuntarily as his mind was dragged back to a dark place, his grief threatening to overwhelm him again…
“As you bask in this tranquil scene, allow yourself to let go of your worries and concerns that may be weighing on your mind. Imagine them fading away, leaving you at ease…”
All the faces of the people he would never see again stared at him coldly, judgingly. He had committed acts of horror he never thought he would ever have to commit. Even if there was a chance he could return to Earth, could his family even recognise the shell of a person he had become? What would they say?
“When you are ready, take a deep breath, and as you exhale, slowly open your eyes, and reorient yourself with your surroundings. Carry this sense of calm and relaxation with you into the rest of your day…”
As the guided meditation came to an end Jack quickly got to his feet to get a drink.
“Jack, is everything alright?” Alora asked him in alarm.
“All good.” He lied. “My legs are just a bit stiff, and the meditation was a bit hard.”
“Yeah I get what you mean.” Sephy used her wings to help her kick up. “I don’t really understand the whole ‘sit-and-do-nothing’ thing to be honest, it’s like I need to be actually doing something. But hell, I still gave it a go…”
Thanks for trying it anyway Sephy! Chiyo smiled.
“So what do we do now?” Nika asked everyone, as Jack returned with some canned drinks for all of them. “Still got a few hours before we probably need to go to bed."
“Nothing exhausting, please. Let’s just watch a movie?” Alora suggested after a few seconds of nobody contributing anything.
Perhaps some of our new housemates have a suggestion? Chiyo asked, looking to Vanya and the two Squa’Kaar, who hadn’t been confident enough to suggest anything as the newest additions to the household.
“I’m only a temporary housemate, I still have my own place.” Vanya smiled softly. But maybe WageMage?”
“That’s a good classic to start with!” Sephy grinned. “Have you seen it before Jack?”
“Can’t say I have, the Temple of Hope didn’t really have movie nights.” Jack reminded her with a smile. “What’s it about?”
“It’s basically a comedy film about an office worker that uses magic to get ahead and prank her bosses!” Vanya told him. “But you really need to watch it!”
“I’ll get some snacks.” Alora called, quickly grabbing a few bags of sweets out of one of the cupboards while the others tried to get comfortable on the sofa. It was large enough for all of them…just about.
“We should probably go furniture shopping at some point.” Sephy pointed out the obvious problem. “Especially if you’re gonna offer refuge for those that need it, Alora.”
“Damn, well, we are gonna hit a few of the rubbish heaps and scrapyards for materials we can use to fix up the shuttle, and anything else that we could use for home improvements.” Nika reasoned. “We even got this sofa from one of them though it was a bitch to drag all the way back here!”
At least we have more people that could help now. Maybe even more depending on who joins us. Chiyo added. Because I remember helping you spend half the day dragging that here, and I swore never to do manual labour ever again!
“Well, perhaps we can find a better way this time.” Alora concluded as she came back with the sweets while everyone sat down, and took a few blankets to warm themselves up with. Jack took one of the ends of the sofa so he wouldn’t be squished between two people this time, and Vanya was quick to sit next to him, even putting an arm around him, which he wasn’t opposed to. The thick, warm brown fur of the Chuna made him feel comfortable, and he subconsciously leaned in and relaxed.
“Ooof!” He grunted, as Sephy sat on his lap, pulling the blanket over them and cuddling up to him. Jack reflexively put his other arm around her to keep her in place, lamenting that he could no longer reach for the bag of sweets until Chiyo telepathically sent one his way.
“Hey Chiyo, could I have one as well?” Sephy cheekily asked the Ilithii.
Sure! Chiyo agreed, sending another sweet floating towards Sephy, before pinging it off her forehead,
“Ow!” Sephy grunted as they started the movie.
Jack appreciated the humour and plot of the movie, with the hapless office worker using magic to explode her boss’s tea, and accidently making her manager believe his wife was cheating on him, only to later discover that she actually was. He could see why this movie was a favourite with the girls, though he didn’t know if it would be well received on earth. Though this film was well written and amusing (despite him not understanding much of the humour), he could imagine it being received as too woke back on Earth. When the plot eventually evolved into the protagonist trying desperately to avoid the investigations of the alien equivalent of ‘HR’, it really ramped up the humour, which had even him chuckling on occasion.
However he was more subdued as the others laughed freely at the shenanigans, his mind going back to the horrible experiences he'd had, and his grief from being separated from his family. Yet all around him, like a beacon of hope was a home full of friends having a good time with him.
Could he get used to this?
Yeah. He thought he could.
*****
Svaartal snarled as his arms ever so slowly pushed the weighted bar up, feeling the burn in his chest and arms as he repeated the motion, over and over, his heart pounding as he pushed himself to lift more weight than he had ever lifted before with his natural strength. Forcing himself beyond his limits, he felt his muscles straining as his breaths became more and more laboured. He knew he was overdoing it, but he didn’t care. He was determined to become stronger, more focused, more powerful. He had Carrow watching over Svaarti, so this gave him the opportunity to really cut loose.
Devil’s Daughter would come for him and Svaarti again. He barely won their previous encounter and it took all he had to stand a chance against the raw power of her spells. Next time he would be better. He had heard the words she spoke to his sister, calling Svaarti a thief, though as far as he was concerned, if his mother looted the Golden Staff during the Demonfire War from the Stygians, it was hers by right of conquest. Not that the Devilspawn would care. If Devil’s Daughter was going to target him, Svaartal had no doubt she would attempt to do so through his sister, so he needed to be ready.
He had been pushing himself harder and harder ever since he first faced Frost to a standstill in that ambush, fully expecting to face him again soon, especially after the Drow of House Mal’Kar recruited him. He had been thoroughly changed by that experience, and he suspected the Outsider was changed by it too. From open hostility towards one another in their first week to caution in the next, it was a strange dance the two of them did.
But now?
Something about the Klown attack had changed him even more. For just a moment the two of them had fought side by side for a common cause, and though he did strongly consider it, he didn’t stick with the human. Despite that however, the words Frost told him certainly stuck with him.
Help me stop them.
And he did, didn’t he? He stopped to rescue several of the trapped partygoers and had cut them a path to safety, only to then decimate the Klown numbers with his most powerful spells. He had been considered a hero of the battle, alongside Frost himself and the dragon-bitch that officially kicked him out of the Red Legion. In a strange way, it felt…gratifying?
‘Though the greatest hero that night may not recover from her sacrifice…’ Svaartal thought to himself sadly. Why, Svaarti?’
He got up from the bench and slowly slunk over to the tension cable, cranking up the weight as high as he dared. Taking a deep breath he grabbed the handle with both hands and pulled, yanking the cable over his shoulder before releasing, then doing the same exercise over his other shoulder.
His memories of his fight with Devil’s Daughter came back to him, though he cursed not having a recording so he could better recall. Many of his actions had been instinctual, so much so that he could barely remember what he even did in several instants. He was fortunate that he kept a versatile array of spells prepared and ready for use in any situation, though it was his blade and quick thinking with his illusion and spacial magic that allowed him to slip through the Stygian’s defences.
But though he focused on the fight, her words still rang out in his mind.
‘Why the hell do you hate my people so much?!’
Dumb question. The Devilspawn killed his mother, and even after the Demonfire War many of their kind went rabid, committing horrific acts on innocent people, just the same as they did when Azazel, Lord of Torment was still alive.
But something about the sheer hurt in Devil’s Daughter’s expression tugged away at the back of his mind, like an itch that wouldn’t go away. Perhaps it was…
He was interrupted by the noise of someone approaching. Letting go of the handle, the cable he was pulling quickly snapped back to ping against the weights as he collapsed to the floor, his body dangerously overheated and his breath coming in ragged gasps. He quickly activated the enchantment of his Riverspray Ring, sending out a cloud of cooling mist that instantly made him feel slightly better.
“Good evening, Dextra.” Svaartal greeted the drow politely as he slinked over to where he had left a towel.
“Hey.” She replied, before something caught her eye and she pointed to his bare back. “What happened there?”
“What do you mean?” Svaartal stiffened at the sensitive question, having an idea what Dextra was referring to.
“By the gods…” She muttered. “Your scales are cracked and fucked up, and you’ve got a lot of scars, how?”
“I am aware that my scales need grooming.” Svaartal replied tersely, trying to be patient with the inquisitive drow despite the sensitive subject. “However I did not have anyone to teach me how to do it growing up. If it displeases you I will attempt to rectify the issue…”
“I’m not my sister, so you can shut up.” Dextra snorted. “You’ve got a fuckton of scars too, that can’t be good for you…”
“It is not.” Svaartal growled in anger before he quickly steadied himself, realising he was talking to a Drow Noble. “My apologies Lady Mal’Kar, what did you wish from me?”
Dextra snorted at the sudden formality, but she paid it no mind as she showed him her commlink. Displayed was a NetTube video from a channel by the name of ‘DevilLover69’.
“What is this?” Svaartal asked, confused.
“You might find this kinda funny!” She grinned, and played the video, the thumbnail of which displayed a medium sized, overweight looking being with pinkish-brown fur, a long cone-like trunk, huge grey bulbous eyes and thin, spindly arms.
“Ahem, attention everyone! Listen up, for I have a message for all of you! Recently, I have heard rumours that somebody out there has apparently defeated my beloved waifu, Devil’s Daughter, in combat! Let me tell you, that is something that will not go unpunished! I have spent countless hours defending her honour online, but now I have heard the call, and The Supreme Gentleman will step up and avenge her!”
“I’ve been training hard all this time, inspired by the queen herself! I’ve watched all of her fights, and I’ve practised martial arts on my Devil’s Daughter body pillow! So I hope the killer is watching, because I’m ready, and I’m coming for you! And I promise you, when I defeat you, you will wish you had never been born! I’ll see you on the streets, punk!”
“Pretty funny right?” Dextra asked, as Svaartal gave a slight grin.
“I really hope that’s not a troll!” he chuckled.
“Well if The Supreme Gentleman is legit and if he comes for you, it’ll give the others a good laugh.” Dextra giggled. “And…um…I could try and help you with the scales if you want? The datanet should have some videos and I could do your back if you want?”
Svaartal considered it for a moment, knowing where this would likely end up. He had not been requested by Izadora tonight, who seemed to be particularly busy with House Mal’Kar business, and they had never been anything more than casual so he had the freedom to do as he wished.
“I don’t see why not.” The Nirah shrugged, as he followed the bubbly drow to her chambers.
*****
“He’s her son.” Grandmaster Ilvella told her with a sad look on closing the door to his quarters. “I knew it the moment I saw him, though I couldn’t believe it.”
“What?” Nya exclaimed, having broken protocol and immediately followed her master to talk, with Rena trying to stop her. “Not a chance! There’s no way! They’re nothing alike! He’s evil, he can’t be!”
“I knew Svaarvali for a long time.” the Grandmaster sighed, drained from sharing his painful memory. “Even if he didn’t resemble her physically, there were subtle things I saw in just those few moments meeting him that could only have been from one of her line.”
“Are you certain he is not a different relation to the Saviour, Master?” Rena asked stoically.
“I am certain.” The Grandmaster nodded, closing his eyes. “But irrespective of how I may feel on the matter I will not sacrifice everything we have built for sentiment. Our plans do not change.”
“What are your orders, Master?” Nya tentatively asked.
“Do not engage this…Svaartal under any circumstances, unless in self-defence, and maintain your civilian cover.” He strictly told them both. “He will no doubt expect Devil’s Daughter to retaliate soon if she is able, so we will be patient and wait. I have not seen this Svaarti you are familiar with, but it seems like she may be more receptive than her brother if she is able to recover. If she does, continue to be her friend and get closer to her.”
His gaze then returned to the steely look Nya was used to from her master.
“However, Devil’s Daughter must be sighted soon, unharmed and doing something good to restore the people’s faith. A few days of inactivity will be expected before you must return, and with luck we can completely obscure the truth of your defeat as mere rumours.”
“I don’t think Head Whisperer Ratai has anything recent, save for the possible signs of the latest Killer Klown attack.” Nya reasoned. “And Scholar Volus is still deciphering what was discovered at the Pallid Pit, though Jack and his group have not relinquished the Gloom Cauldron they discovered as far as I am aware, which had ties to the ritual room, and which they’re theorising might have worked as some kind of beacon, though for what I have no idea.”
“I am sure we will find something.” Ilvella concluded. “Perhaps you and Rena can discover something in your civilian lives? The Outsider for one certainly seems to be a good source of trouble. Regardless, you two are dismissed. Heal up and rest early. You have school tomorrow.”
With that, Nya and Rena took their leave.
“This is…” Rena began.
“Impossible.” Nya snapped. “I refuse to believe it.”
“Nya…” Rena gently called to her, understanding the Stygian’s pain.
No, Rena.” Nya snarled, causing the usually stoic Vulsta to take a step back in shock. This wasn’t like her friend at all. “I should have killed him when I had the chance during our fight, and now I learn he’s related to the Saviour? Her son?!”
“You have another chance in the future.” Rena pointed out. “And you can lay the groundwork for that by preparing and training. Taking a loss like that is difficult, but it can be a blessing if you learn from it.”
Nya looked at her friend conflicted, and Rena was glad that the stone corridor of the monastery was deserted.
“Yes.” Nya sighed as she let go of her anger and returned to her normal self. “You’re right. I’ve taken losses before and I’ve come out stronger. I even faced the Killer Klown himself and sent him fleeing, so the problem isn’t necessarily my abilities, but my mind.”
Rena nodded calmly, seeing that Nya was pulling herself up. “And what is your next move?”
“The Grandmaster is right that I need to make a quick reappearance as Devil’s Daughter.” Nya began, sounding more like her usual self. “The Cult of the Destroyer would be an obvious target but the ones at the Pallid Pit were wiped out when my friends decided to go there for some reason, though at least we were able to kill the Stygian masquerading as me and tarnishing our people’s reputation."
“As a civilian I am already friends with Svaarti.” Nya then reasoned. “And unlike her brother, I can actually believe her being related to the Saviour. I can only hope that she wakes and recovers from her arcane backlash. I did talk to her in astral form, so I have faith.”
“So what will you do now?” Rena prompted. The coolly composed Vulsta still expected an answer to her previous question as Nya closed her eyes to think.
“The Whisperers might have something for me.” She decided. “Though there was clearly nothing worthy of Grandmaster Ilvella’s attention, maybe they have something smaller or less reliable I can use to at least been seen by the public.”
“That would be wise.” Rena agreed. “You still need to heal.”
The Chamber of Whispers was set on the ground floor of the monastery, hidden away and far from the entrance or anything else. Following the subtly different pattern of dim lights, the two quickly made their way to the hidden underground bunker that served as their resident spy headquarters.
“BWAH! I knew you’d be up and ready for more work in no time!” A jovial voice called out before they had a chance to knock on the doors. “Hello to you too, Rena!”
“My footsteps were silent…” Rena muttered as they entered the room.
Upon entering, the first thing that struck Nya’s attention was the sheer number of lights illuminating the chamber, bathing the entire room in powerful brightness, and allowing for no shadows to form in heavy contrast to the route they took to get here. Then she focused on the huge table in the middle, with a large map projection of Naganai City, complete with many extensive annotations on several notable districts, and with one of the Whisperers compiling a report on the Pallid Pit.
The walls of the room were lined with the blue glow of several monitors, either displaying popular all-day news outlets or with investigation boards on notable personages. In one of the side rooms Nya could see one of the monks at a console talking away on a headset, likely tapping into the community’s small network of contacts in the city from the safety of their remote system.
“Nya!” Head Whisperer Ratai grinned as the chubby Stygian waltzed over and gave her a gentle bear hug that still lifted her off her feet. “I’m glad you’re back! We’ve got news but it’s not urgent, so you should probably rest…”
Ratai gave her a knowing wink.
“What’s new Ratai?” Nya smiled, used to acting familiar around the man despite his high position.
“HAH!” The Stygian chuckled. “We mostly have reports of the post-klown cleanup, but a few players have already made their moves. Nothing too big but interestingly I’ve received a reliable rumour that our Outsider friend decided that massacring the klowns wasn’t enough for him and was involved in liberating a thinly populated swamp district."
“He’s claiming it as territory?” Rena asked, suddenly alert. “He may be more of a threat than I had initially warned…”
“No, no.” Ratai’s grin got wider. “Nobody seems to have claimed the land, but interestingly enough Clan Ashtail seems to have rehomed the vast majority of the population, and they seem to be sincere in allowing them to rebuild and recover in their newly annexed territory.”
“Do you consider Clan Ashtail a threat?” Nya asked.
“Of course!” Ratai snorted in amusement. “Vetch Ashtail was the one who all but hinted at the damnable rumour in his last correspondence to me, the smug bastard! His clan plays the game well, but there are many other more nefarious groups that will attempt to take advantage of the chaos. I'm particularly concerned about what Corvin Enterprises will try to do, but if they are planning on making a play, which I am almost positive that they are, then they are being very subtle about it.”
“Anything immediate?” Nya asked.
“That admirer of yours was quick to post a new video!” Ratai teased, causing Nya to bury her face in her hands in embarrassment.
“Don’t remind me.” She groaned. “That guy is pure cringe and you need to stop mentioning him to me!”
“Hah! Well I haven’t gotten much within the city itself, but we’ve found a series of accounts online about gangs trying to run protection rackets and establish themselves as local powers. Maybe you can crush a few of the weaker ones to make an appearance as you recover to full strength?”
“Nya will still need some time to recover.” Rena cautioned. “But if we approach this like any other mission and I act from the shadows, it will be fine.”
“Excellent, I shall begin my delving and let you know.” Ratai smiled. “In the meantime, you kids should go to bed!”
“I wish I didn’t have to.” Nya sighed.
“I didn’t exactly have much of a weekend.”
*****
First/Previous
And with that, the weekend is over for our....heroes?
If you're impatient for the next chapter, why not check out my previous series?
Some pictures have been added to The Galactic High Info Sheet! If you have any fanart or any pictures you think might fit one of the entries, please let us know on the discord!
Don't forget! You all have the ability to leave comments and notes to the entries, which I encourage you to do!
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I won’t call Kevin again yet. He's the type to tell me he's busy if I need something from him, even though I go out of my way to help him and take care of him every single time he needs me. I stop at one of the red lights in (City name redacted). At least Kevin lives here too, just a few minutes away from Lucky’s mom’s house.
If Kevin isn’t home, I’m going to be enraged, depressed enough to cry, or both. Kevin doesn’t even really lock his door. He never locks it behind us when we walk inside – people like me can’t help but notice things like that. If he isn’t at his house, maybe I can just walk in, take his drugs, and leave.
I called him earlier in the day, so he will definitely suspect that I was the one who robbed him, but what is he going to do?
I’m homeless right now, and I’ll be back in treatment soon – and hopefully not in the cess pool of fraud, corruption, and death that addiction treatment in Orange County has become. I wonder what could possibly be in the little lockbox Kevin keeps in the closet. It is probably a treasure chest full of various drugs and opioids.
I arrive at Kevin’s house and pull into the driveway. I knock on his front door. No answer. I ring the doorbell. No answer. My heart starts to race. My head hurts, I’m nauseous, I’m sweaty. I’m full of anxiety. I can’t stop thinking about dope. I feel like I’m stuck in a cave that is collapsing all around me. I need to get out, right now.
I knock again, loudly, a few more times. I count to 10. Still nothing. I feel a flash of heat and near-panic. My stomach churns, as if threatening to cramp. I need opiates, right now.
Desperation overtakes me. I turn the doorknob. It opens. I walk in the house, my instinct telling me to creep in. I suppress my instinct and walk in casually.
“Kevin?” I yell, from the bottom of the stairs that are right by the front door. I listen for a second. All is quiet. It wouldn’t be good if I am caught sneaking around if he is here, and it isn’t going to matter if I yell a few times before I steal his drugs if he isn’t here.
Junkie feet carry me up the stairs. My ankle hurts with every step – worse since I am in withdrawal.
"Kevin?” I call out. If he isn't here, I’m robbing him. I can't stand this motherfucker, and while I'm not quite the thief I used to be, I'm still an opportunist, and this is a damn good opportunity. Maybe stealing all this kid’s fentanyl is exactly what he needs in order to be able to quit.
That’s right, Lonnie. You’d be doing him a favor by robbing him.
I peek in the first bedroom at the top of the stairs. It’s the guest bedroom I slept in 5 nights ago. It feels like it has been an eternity since I was last here. Time moves more slowly in the realm of opioid sickness. Nobody is in the guest bedroom.
I peek into the office that sits across the hall. I don’t see anybody there. I would search the office, since he might have the lockbox in here, for now, but he might be sleeping in the bedroom.
"Kevin? Marissa?" I call out. Saying her name reminds me of the fact that he is dating her. She is so young and innocent. I can’t believe he got her addicted to these powerful soul-stealing drugs. I would never associate with Kevin if he didn't have so many different uses. He is not a person to me: he is means to the various ends that I have in mind when I contact him. This isn’t Kevin’s house; it’s a house with fentanyl in it.
If I find that carfentanil, I’m going to have a decision to make. It might be so strong that using it would cause changes to my opioid receptors that I would never recover from. Injecting even one drop could kill me. Carfentanil is also identified as a biological weapon since even accidental inhalation of an almost imperceptible amount can be deadly - or so, the police say. The amount of carfentanil that Kevin has could keep me incapacitated and out of pain for at least a year. Finding that bottle would be a curse.
I find myself standing in front of the double doors to the master bedroom.
"Yo, Kevin!" I shout out. Last chance before I go on a little scavenger hunt. I put my ear close to the door. I hear the bed creaking. Somebody is in there.
“Who the fuck is in my house?” Kevin yells from behind the door.
“It’s Lonnie. I tried to call you 3 times,” I shout out the lie, with conviction in my voice.
“How’d you get in here?” he asks, as the double doors to the master bedroom swing inward and open. He is wearing an angry frown, basketball shorts, and no shirt. I try not to look at his pale, untoned stomach.
“Your front door was open. I need some of that furry, bad. I’ll give you (exorbitant price redacted) for half a gram, right now,” I say.
“Say no more. I’ll grab it,” he says, flashing a smile at me, and then running over to his closet. I am suddenly relieved that he is here, and that I do not have to steal from anybody today. Stealing always catches up to me.
“I’m going to go downstairs,” I say.
As I trot downstairs, my sickness starts to subside, since the gorilla in me knows that he will be fed soon. I go into his downstairs bathroom and get a Q-tip, and then run to my car to get a syringe. By the time I get back to Kevin’s couch, he is there.
“You got that hundred?” he asks.
“I’m sending you a Venmo right now,” I say, unlocking my phone, opening the Venmo payment app, and sending him the money, which takes 10 seconds.
“Check it,” I say, nodding at his phone. He watches his phone for a few seconds. A chunk of Furanylfentanyl sits on a scale on the coffee table between us. I eye it hungrily, waiting for Kevin to say the word.
“You’re good,” he says. I pick up the chunk of furanylfentanyl, which is enough to kill 20 opioid-naïve people twice over. I move to the kitchen table, prep the shot, and point the loaded syringe at my arm.
“You know I hate when you do that here,” Kevin says, from the couch.
“I know,” I say, injecting myself in the forearm, quickly.
“1,” I say, capping the syringe.
“2,” I say, putting it in my pocket.
“3,” I say, diving onto the floor.
“4,” I say, feeling a smile creep across my face.
“When does it hit?” he asks.
“5,” I say, laying down on the floor.
“Now,” I add, closing my eyes.
There is a moment of emptiness that is only perceptible if you’re looking for something and find nothing instead: the non-sensations of a barren organism that is completely devoid of any meaning, pleasure, will to live, or basic comfort.
My heart skips a beat – did I miss the vein?!
A weight crushes my chest, like a meteor of light just collided into it. I am unable to breathe as every ounce of pain becomes washed away by the tidal wave of raw pleasure that spreads instantly from my brain and into my spinal cord, transforming my entire body into light as the furanylfentanyl clings to the opioid receptors all over my body. I lay on the floor, mentally clinging to the tightness and pleasure in my chest, wanting it to stay forever.
The rush fades, and I find myself breathing again, unfortunately. I open my eyes and get up from the floor.
“How was that?” Kevin asks, a semi-curious look on his face.
“Awful. You should never do it,” I say, scratching my nose. Kevin laughs.
“I hate needles, anyway,” he says. I laugh twice as loud as he did and begin to pace.
“So did I. So did every IV drug addict. I’ve never met anybody that was like ‘I always loved needles! I just thought stabbing myself looked fun!’. No way. People always start with a habit of sniffing the drugs, just like you.
“They meet somebody who injects the drugs in front of them, just like I am. The person shooting up says: ‘don’t do it, it’s fucking awful’ as they stick the needle in their arm, just like I am. I can understand how this is hypocritical, but it’s truly something I wish I never tasted. You never, ever forget the rush. It becomes the climax and focal point of your life.
“It is a hyper-pleasurable experience that carves itself into the ridges of your memory-scape. It is a traumatic pleasure. You put the needle into your very bloodstream; the chemical you slam into yourself alters your genetic expression. The experience is more intimate than any other experience imaginable. It changes you forever. It haunts you in your dreams. If you give yourself to it for even a moment, The Needle will never let you go,” I say, moving back to the floor. I need to enjoy this shot, before my tolerance skyrockets again, and my body becomes immune to the euphoria.
“Why do you do it, then?” he asks.
“Because I’m hopelessly addicted,” I say, laying down flat on my back again.
“Didn’t you quit before? Weren’t you sober for a year right before we met?” he asks.
“I’ve spent plenty of time sober. I’ve spent more time off opioids than time I’ve spent addicted to them since I found them 10 years ago – but injecting makes it a whole different ballgame. You are injecting a disease into yourself,” I say.
“I don’t think that’s true,” he says.
“Yeah, that’s the fucking conundrum, right there. Did I get the disease when I shot it up, or did I have it before I injected the drugs? Was I born with the disease, or did the drugs cause the disease? We’re both doing the same drugs. How are you able to function and I’m not?” I ask. (author's note: I no longer believe in the disease model of addiction)
“That’s not a conundrum at all. You COULD function, but you’re not. You COULD get sober again, but you’re not,” he says. I start to laugh sarcastically.
“You must be Nancy Reagan’s son – I can just say no! If it’s that easy, why don’t you stop, then?” I ask.
“Why would I stop?” he asks.
“Why wouldn’t you want to stop?” I counter.
“Sounds like you’re projecting. You obviously want to stop. You should stop, then,” Kevin suggests. I laugh at him again.
“Yeah, I’m going to,” I say. He laughs again as well, but the laughter we are exchanging is not friendly and humorous – it is malicious and hateful; borne of the cruel misery that is the flipside of the Heavopioid experience.
“No, seriously, I’m going to stop. In fact, I’m going to call my boy Sean right now, to set up a naltrexone implant and get my opioid receptors blocked,” I say.
“You can’t get a naltrexone implant, that would kill you. You were sick as shit before you did that furry. Your skin was glistening with dope-sweat, your pupils were as big as dinner plates. I saw it myself,” he says.
“I can fake the drug test at the intake appointment and ask the doctor to prescribe me naltrexone pills to ensure a smooth transition and minimize side effects. He will prescribe me oral naltrexone pills gladly, thinking I am being a responsible patient that will take the pills and therefore be safely acclimated to the naltrexone by the time I get the implant.
“Once I have the naltrexone pills, all I need is a small handful of xanax. Take a small handful of xanax with the naltrexone and black out for a night. Wake up, no opioid withdrawal. Tada!” I exclaim, putting my hands out in wonder, still laying on the floor.
“You’re talking about doing an ultra-rapid opioid detox, which is a medical procedure that is done in a hospital, without the supervision of a medical doctor?” he asks, before laughing harshly.
“I’ve done it a bunch before. It’s awesome, actually. Well, one time, it was fucking hell. Twice, actually. It was legitimately the worst thing I’ve ever experienced – an 8-hour terror attack that makes a ‘panic attack’ feel like child’s play. But other than those two times, it’s been all gravy,” I say.
“You’re kidding me. You’re seriously talking about doing an ultra-rapid opioid detox at home with nothing but xanax and a naltrexone pill. That shit could kill you,” Kevin says.
“Not really. Xanax has a really high lethal dose limit by itself, you know that,” I say, referring to the facts that it takes a lot of xanax to kill a person when xanax is taken alone, and that Kevin is a drug nerd like me.
“Yeah, the median lethal dose of xanax alone might be high compared to other drugs, but if you’re blacked out while you’re in severe opiate withdrawal, you don’t even know what’s going on in your body. You could have a heart attack, a stroke. You could break the temperature regulation system of the hypothalamus-” I interrupt him with a laugh.
“I know exactly what’s going on: a bunch of awful, painful stuff that I don’t want to be any part of,” I say. I hear footsteps coming down the stairs.
“What are you guys talking about?” Marissa asks, walking into the living room. She looks worse every time I see her; her youth and beauty are being stolen by Kevin and the drugs he should not be providing her with.
“This kid thinks he’s a doctor. He’s going to wind up killing himself,” Kevin states.
“What?” she asks, walking to the couch to sit next to Kevin.
“It’s not that dangerous. Doctors do it all the time, it’s called ultra-rapid opioid detox. I do it a little bit differently, but it’s the same idea: anesthetize the patient-”
“Himself, he means, when he says ‘patient’,” Kevin interrupts, looking at Marissa.
“Yes, I am both the unlicensed medical provider and the patient in this case. I anesthetize myself with a small handful of xanax while taking a naltrexone pill at the same time. The xanax kicks in, and I black out.
“While I am asleep, the naltrexone clings to my opioid receptors and antagonizes them. This puts me into ‘precipitated withdrawal,’ which is essentially a condensed version of withdrawal from opioids that is triggered by the naltrexone – a hyper-withdrawal, if you will. The hyper-withdrawal reverses the effects of physical dependence on opioids: my natural opioid-producing system, the endorphin system, kicks into overdrive to offset the presence of the naltrexone and get me out of hyper-withdrawal. At the same time, the anti-endorphin system, which pumps out the pain-creating chemical, dynorphin, in response to continuous opioid use, shuts down.
“To put it simply, over the course of a blacked-out night, I go through the equivalent of 7-10 days of withdrawal. I wake up feeling like I’m 10 days clean. Then, I can take another naltrexone pill, which guarantees me another 36 hours clean. It ends the constant and overwhelming war with myself over whether or not I should use opioids. I make one decision to take one naltrexone pill in the morning, instead of having to re-commit to my decision not to use opioids every time I feel depressed or anxious, which is every second at the beginning,” I say, standing up now.
I want to quit again so badly. I want to be free again.
“You have to feel like absolute garbage from starting naltrexone in the middle of a serious habit like that,” Kevin says. I scoff.
“Of course, I feel like garbage! It’s almost unbearable. My brain and spine and gut are overwhelmed by some of the most basic pain-causing chemicals in the biological world. I am quite literally saturating my system with anti-endorphins. Despite the pain, the benefit is simple and incredible: naltrexone speeds the process of return to chemical balance, or homeostasis, in the brain. Opioid painkillers get us high, but they also depress our respiratory, cardiovascular, and nervous systems.
“Our bodies adapt to the constant presence of external opioids by producing chemicals like dynorphin that stimulate us in ways that have the net effect of pain-creation. These pain-creating chemical responses keep us awake and breathing when we’re nodding off – but they also keep us awake and restless when we try to quit opioids, since our brains don’t shut down their production right when we stop ingesting external opioids.
“For example, suppose I start sniffing oxy when I’m 15. My brain starts to notice a ton of painkilling chemicals floating around. It starts to produce these pain-creating chemicals, to offset the painkillers and keep us in equilibrium. Our brains are always seeking to keep us in homeostatic equilibrium – continual regulation of body temperature and blood pressure are two other examples of this equilibrium.
“I skip the oxy for a day. My brain still has the pain-creators floating around, because the human brain is a prediction and adaptation machine that has learned to anticipate an over-abundance of painkillers in my system, and so continues to over-produce the pain-creators as a proactive, predictive response.
“Naltrexone is an extremely powerful pain-creator. There is a huge spike in pain creation unleashed onto my brain by the naltrexone, on top of the already excessive amounts of pain-creators that are being pumped out constantly by my brain to offset the ever-present painkilling fentanyl. This is like a tidal wave of pain-creators hitting the brain.
“Taking naltrexone when you’re already saturated with pain-creators almost feels like swallowing electricity, or fire, or panic. It feels like your entire body is setting off red alarms. Your heart races, your stomach cramps, your guts scream and contract in agony, your skin singes itself with icy-hot sweat. Your brain is telling you to lay there and die but at the same time won’t let you get comfortable for even one second.
“This discomfort cannot be understated: the clouds of heaven would feel like plywood on the street in a Boston winter. Precipitated withdrawal feels like being surrounded by all your worst fears, memories, and nightmares made real and standing all around you, sticking you with cattle prods to get you to jolt,” I say, barely able to avoid a shudder.
“That sounds awful. Why would you do that?” Marissa asks.
“Well, that only happens when you’re conscious during the process. That’s where the small handful of xanax comes in,” I say.
“You’re doing some dangerous shit to your brain by doing that. Creating that much stress and pain in your nervous system has to be ridiculously stimulating to your body. Have you ever been active during the blackout?” Kevin asks.
“Yes, but those are long and frightening stories. The goal is to reach the point where I just barely black out instead of taking enough xanax to be blacked out for a whole day, going grocery shopping and throwing fruit around and making smoothies at 3:00 AM and insulting strangers and crashing cars and whatnot,” I say. Marissa and Kevin start to laugh – at me, not with me.
“Yo, this is funny. You’re wild. So how many extra xanax do you have to take to inhibit the excitatory signals being sent in your brain by the dynorphin and the naltrexone together? I haven’t ever really thought about precipitated withdrawal. It seems like it would be a whole different animal,” he says.
“I used to take 5 xanax bars, but I woke up in the middle of a panic attack despite 5 xanax bars during one of my previous procedures, so now I take 10 xanax bars. It knocks me out for about 8 hours. I wake up in dizzy, disconnected discomfort, but it gets easier as the day goes on. The second naltrexone after waking up is a different story, though. That brings on a fresh batch of symptoms, though nowhere near as intense. I like to take xanax the second night, too.
“I get vicious rebound anxiety from taking so many xanax in such a short period of time. I have to be very careful not to pick up a xanax habit after I induct onto the naltrexone,” I say.
“That sounds like a lot of pain and work,” Kevin says, raising his eyebrows at me.
“It’s worth it. When I come out on the other side, free from this hellish, soul-sucking poison, I feel great. Well, kinda. I don’t sleep for a while. But I do bounce back, and much sooner than I would otherwise.
“When I have 1 month clean on naltrexone, it feels like I have 10 months clean. This is crucial, because when you have only been clean for 1 month, you typically still feel like shit – if you had a serious habit, anyway,” I say.
“I can’t believe you actually do that. You’re a dumbass,” Kevin says.
“It’s actually pretty smart, in some ways. The shocks to the endorphin system of the brain keep it operating smoothly, which in turn keep the immune system and dopamine system operating smoothly. Did you know that William S Burroughs actually recommended going on and off of heroin for the sake of longevity?” I ask. Kevin laughs, loudly this time. He looks at Marissa, smiling.
“You hear that? Longevity. It’ll keep us alive longer,” he says.
“Naltrexone has the potential to be a miracle drug. If you take a low dose of it every day, you can prevent your opioid tolerance from building up. Combine 0.1 MG of naltrexone with 10MG of oxycodone and patent it, you’ve got a billion-dollar pill. That low dose of the artificial, pain-creating naltrexone will prevent your brain from ramping up its’ own pain-creating response to balance out the painkilling effects of the oxy.
“In essence, that would prevent opioid tolerance and therefore the need for increasing daily dosages. You might be able to prevent addiction entirely. I’ve experimented with using naltrexone to diminish tolerance and had some success. It does lessen the painkilling effect a bit, but I’m sure a seasoned pharmacologist could think of a decent opioid potentiator to add to the combination that would increase the painkilling effects of the medication without further side effects,” I say.
“Holy shit. It can prevent tolerance buildup? Can you get me some naltrexone?” Kevin asks.
“Perhaps, but you need to read into it, first,” I say.
“You’ve really piqued my curiosity. Thank you,” he says, pulling out his bag of furanylfentanyl.
“Ah, some hellish, soul-sucking poison. Great idea. I haven’t slept for days, and I need a nap,” I say. Marissa giggles.
“I don’t think you’re going to quit,” Kevin says.
“You’ll see,” I say. I pull the syringe out of my pocket and start walking to the kitchen, to get more water for my next shot. Another shot will knock me right out, and I won’t have to deal with any of this. For a little while, anyway.
“Seriously, I’m going to be free from this shit. Free from these goddamn pills and powders that handcuff my brain and put it in a straightjacket. No more turning my own body and mind into a prison. I hate living like this. I’m going to quit, and I’m going to be playing college basketball soon,” I say, though after I say it, I feel exactly how I feel after I tell a lie.
“Then quit. It isn’t that hard,” he says. I hear the unmistakable sound of somebody sniffing powder through a straw, and it sounds vaguely like weaselly laughter.

By season 5, the show is declining. Alison is back, but they don't make the most of her character. The liars' interactions with her are limited as she is soon incarcerated. Additionally, the whole show starts feeling like it's dragging. It needs a shake up.
Instead of the ridiculous Alison is A plot, they should have had all the liars accused of Mona's murder, and all of them consequently making a run for it together. They would have to rely on Alison to lead them. This could explore Alison's life on the run over the past 2 years, and put them in new situations, as well as develop her relationship with each girl individually.
It would allow the audience to see Alison in a more sympathetic light (the core four could maybe reflect on how lonely Alison must have been, and how utterly miserable her life was) but still showcase her capabilities and survival instinct, that she managed to survive alone age 15, the network of contacts she set up.
Spencer would have to allow Alison to be the leader (as Alison knows what she's doing) and they could struggle against each other, until they eventually learn to work together in trying to work out who A is (making suspect boards etc), and become joint leaders. A would be trying to find them, and the girls would know this, so they would have to be very careful.
As they would have to get jobs, Alison and Hanna could work in the same place and this would allow for some scenes to work out their issues. As for aria and emily, maybe the 5 could have had 2 bedrooms, so those 2 would share with Alison. Or they could pair of to go investigate stuff together at different points. This would allow for them to each have individual interactions with her.
As all 5 girls would have to get jobs, this would allow for development away from home. So we would see Aria away from ezra. The 4 would feel bad leaving their parents as the the parents would be under pressure from the police, and this is likely to upset emily the loyal one the most.
This would show the liars relying on each other more then ever. It would give new situations ( A is chasing them, having to navigate low profile, jobs etc) and most of all, they would have to cheer each other up when they would inevitably become miserable.
This would end with A finding out where they are staying, kidnapping them and taking them all to the doll house, but Alison somehow escapes. She returns to Rosewood and is immediately imprisoned until Tanner sees the video and she is released and joins with caleb and Ezra to get the girls.
So honest thoughts and opinions on this?

So this is a weird crazy story/summary of life this far. I (28M) feel like I have been living my life with an absurd amount of masking. I set out on a spiritual awakening journey when I was 18 and started college, the first time I had ever been truly alone and truly started feeling that deep sense of loneliness. Which is what kicked in my spiritual awakening, by asking questions about who I was, why was I here and why did I have such a deep unexplainable yearning for "home" which was not "physically" attainable. Not a yearning for home in the sense of being with my family, but a deep, deep cry out from what I felt was my soul essence.
Fast forward through some heavy years of partying, clubbing/going to shows, drugs and alcohol. At 23, I met who is now my wife and the mother of my/our amazing daughter and through the 5 years we've been going through this human experience together, we both got a lot deeper and a lot more "serious" about expanding and opening up our spiritual bodies. We were kind of forced into delving DEEP into it because our first true "interactions/dates" were so deeply rooted in spirit that we (very fortunately) discovered/realized that we are cut off the same soul cloth and are infact soulmates/twin flames or whatever floats your boat for descriptions regarding life partners.
We have learned and discovered a lot about ourselves as well as a newly found perception of the outter world (largely influenced emotionally, spiritually, mentally by Ram Dass, Jack Kornfield, Dale RamDev. . . Spiritual Adepts/teachers, guides etc.) This absolutely transformed a lot of our inner and outer world (through disciplined routines and practices) for the better in a very beautiful way. Then in 2021 we moved to Idaho on an instinctual as well as an impulse decsion to be closer to my wife's side of the family out there, and our intuitive feeling of needing to go to the northwest part of the country. When we got there we were almost instantly met with extreme adversity and complications with my wife's health, our marriage, and life as a whole. So needless to say it was not the "change" we had in mind. Though we now see it all as the change/step that was necessary for self discovery and growth personally, together and as a while family unit. In late 2021 I was waiting for an orientation class for a new job and had to wait until the next class (2 weeks out) so while waiting two weeks, we needed money to eat and keep life running so I decided since I had a drill and basic tools I'd to do some side work/odd jobs (honey do list kind of things) to bring in whatever cash I could. This ended up blowing up in a beautiful way and I ended up quitting that new job on orientation day to set off and fully jump into the possible opportunity of working for myself. Now almost 2 years later and I'm still doing my own thing (bathroom remodels, tile, carpentry and flooring) and it's been amazing.
We also recently moved back home to Colorado and since we've been back it's been a struggle for a miriad of reasons, but the one struggle that I've found myself dealing with the most and is the heaviest emotion, is my own personal sense of validation. I actually just (today) realized that I have been chasing external validation for as long as I can remember (about 3-4 years old) While thinking about the current slump that I'm in I started thinking about what makes me "feel okay/feel like me" and most of those things are (now) related to my work. Building things for people, fixing things, repairs, custom furniture, etc. And then being validated by a "good job, we are so happy!" Kind of thing from my clients. Thinking further back before this and it's all been an ongoing search for validation through my external world. My party phase, the validation came from my knowledge of drugs, artists, previous party stories and a whole bunch of unhealthy methods and vices. Before that, through the beginnings of highschool getting into heavy drug use (psychedelics, weed and cocaine/stimulants) and partying I was a hardcore WoW gamer (big time raider in a progressive guild that sought to be the best in the game) and always sought out to be the best in my guild (for whatever role character I was playing). Seeking validation through being the best gamer. Before that I was obsessed with skateboarding, from age 9-16 or 17 I would strive to be the best skater in my school, at the skate park (within reason) and from my parents. I was small town sponsored (nothing really fancy, just discounted apparel/gear and occasionally a free board) And before that, but also mixed in through the years until about 20, I was huge on drawing mythical/fantasy creatures and characters and was pretty damn good. But looking back at all the "phase of interest transitions" I see one common goal. External validation through an attempt to prove myself in an outward expression/skill.
I was also looking back at the overall "emotional neglect" that I got from my parents (mom and step dad, bio dad left the picture when I was about 1, 1/2 ) And not to say that they were absolute assholes or anything like that, but they were very young (I was 2 and my mom was 18 when she met my step dad) and learning life for themselves. So I know that they didn't "intentionally" emotionally neglect me or invalidate me. But I wasn't good at the things they wanted me to do (playing tee ball/baseball as a toddleyoung kid) because my step dad was a huge baseball guy. And because I wasn't into or good at the things they wanted to see me do, I found my own interests, independently and amongst my friend group. However this caused parental tension because I was (in their eyes) becoming a hoodlum. Never got the acknowledgement or 'parental praise and proudness' from skating, drawing, playing WoW (step dad played too), obviously not for partying and doing drugs, but not even now. Not even as a 28 year old married man running my own business and father to a beautiful 3 year old daughter. Most of my side of the family disagrees with "entrepreneurship/self employment" because it isn't as "stable" as a corporate box job. - According to them, even though they've all been laid off at some point or another from corporations that are "never going anywhere, we have job security for life".
Sorry, tangent rants aside! I am now facing an immense amount of emotional pain/flashbacks for the lack of validation I have within myself. I am able to see and recognize the immense amount of growth I've undergone and the fact that I didn't die from drugs and partying and pushed through all of that to get where I am now. And I see that I have a shit ton to validate my own worth, I understand the growth that I've undergone and will continue to go through, but I absolutely struggle with giving myself credit, feeling okay with where I am. I can't help but feel like I'm not doing enough and always feel like there is something to do.
This morning I recognized that as an issue of control, and when I don't have the ability to control my volume/standard of output with "things to show" whether it be through work, hobby projects or anything else where I can do/build/repair something for someone. I get extremely depressed. And only really feel 'okay' when I'm doing things. I see this as a trauma wound that has deepend through my years and has gone essentially completely unacknowledged within myself. Until our TRUE spiritual journey began 5 years ago. I do not want to be mentally controlled or enslaved to the inner ego narrative that I'm not doing enough, but I have no idea how to truly accept myself. Accept who I was, who I am and who I'm becoming. I feel like I've just gotten so good at distracting myself by staying busy and constantly seeking validation through helping others that I have no idea who I actually am. I feel like I've been living the biggest lie ever and I've deceived everyone in my life but mostly myself. When I truly sit and think about what I truly enjoy for myself, I can't think of anything. Aside from the cliche of 'being with my family' (wife and daughter) which does truly bring me happiness. But I can't live in or hold on to "those moments" forever. And outside of them, or doing something for someone to give me that pat on the back, I do not have a damn clue who I am.
And I know that who I am is a culmination of everything I've done and am becoming. But that's still only validated through the external. And I know ram Dass would tell me to just let go and release the inner narrative to what is and just be in/of loving awareness. But, he too struggled with identity. Struggled with feeling like a phony and seeking external validation through experiences or services.
So if you made it this far, and have either evolved passed this state/level of emotional consciousness and awareness or you too are feeling the same. I'd love some tips, tricks suggestions or anything for how to help get through this obstacle of the human experience.
And because it was pretty long, and I jump around in here, if there's anything anyone wants further detail or clarification on, I'd be more than happy to attempt to fumble a rambling story again.

For a long time, I thought there was no greater feeling of dread than clocking into a job you hate. Three days a week after school and every other weekend, there I was, standing in front of the time clock at Sunset Grove. By the time I was sixteen, my parents told me that I had to find a job and start working. Unfortunately, there weren’t many options for a sixteen-year-old looking for work in Driftwood. It was either fast food, retail, or a retirement home. For whatever reason, I chose the retirement home.
It’s not that I had a problem with starting work at that age, it’s just that scrubbing pureed vegetables and mashed potatoes off fifty plates a night, with the cook yelling over my shoulder to pick up the pace, wasn’t exactly fulfilling work. The pocket money was nice, though. There’s nothing better than being a teenager with almost nothing but disposable income.
I watched the digital clock tick over from 3:59 to 4:00, begrudgingly typed in my employee ID, and made my way to the kitchen. As always, there was a stack of dishes left over from the shift before mine that would leave me playing catch-up for the rest of the night.
Becca, a thirty-something waitress with pale skin and a slim figure, swept through the doors as I was working through my stack. She was the only member of the wait staff I knew who could manage to keep a sunny disposition no matter how bad the day got.
Her shoulders seemed to relax a little when she saw me. “Hey, Arty, I need glasses.”
“Got it,” I replied.
“Thank you!” she said in a sing-song voice as she picked up a tub of silverware and rushed back out the doors. The wait staff was always in a rush this time of day. They only had about a half-hour to set the tables before some of the early-birds started showing up for dinner.
I loaded a tray with glasses and sent them through the commercial steam washer to my left, pulling the hood down with a heavy metal clunk. Once they were done, Becca came through and took the tray out to the dining room.
Before long, the cook began setting out room service trays. I never understood why it was the dishwasher’s job to deliver room service, but nevertheless, I began loading the trays into my cart. Most room service orders came from the same residents, which meant I’d long since worked out the most efficient way to load the cart. As I was loading, I noticed one of my regulars, room 2H, was missing. It could have been that she just decided to have dinner in the dining room today, but as long as I’d been working at Sunset Grove, I’d never known 2H to have dinner anywhere but her room.
As I walked down the hallway past 2H, I realized why. There on the door was a small laminated sign with a photo of the woman who’d lived in 2H.
Lilith Holmes 1928 - 2014
That was it. Just a name and a pair of dates. Not even a “Rest in Peace.” But it got the point across. I felt a tinge of guilt at the fact that I hadn’t known the woman’s name. I’d been working at Sunset Grove for a year, and I still referred to most of the residents by their room numbers.
This wasn’t the first of these types of signs I’d seen. There had been two or three deaths in the past year, each one memorialized with a cheap laminated sign that would be taken down after a week or two. It may sound callous, but I was never bothered by the deaths. They were simply a fact of life working in a place full of people entering the final phase of their lives. It helped that I didn’t make much effort to get close to the residents. I never wanted this place to bleed into what I considered to be my real life, so whenever I was at Sunset Grove, I was in “work mode.” I would put on a kind face, greet coworkers and residents with a smile, and otherwise speak only when spoken to. It was easier that way.
​
Room 2H stayed empty for a month. The sign, as they always do, disappeared after a while. I wondered if that meant they’d already cleaned out all of Mrs. Holmes’s belongings or if they were still entombed behind that locked door.
Eventually, the day came that I had a room service tray for room 2H again. It seemed so sudden. I hadn’t heard anything about a new resident moving in. I shrugged it off and loaded the tray onto my cart, thinking it must have happened on one of my days off. I hoped the new tenant wouldn’t be a handful. I may not have known Mrs. Holmes well, but she was always nice and courteous to me when I brought her her food. It’s more than I could say for some of the other residents.
I rode the elevator up to the second floor. Room 2H was my second stop from there. I knocked and pushed open the door into the dimly lit room. The blinds were all drawn, and there was only a single table lamp turned on in the corner across the room. I could see the new tenant sitting in a recliner on the opposite wall. It was a woman, with curled white hair that fell to her hunched shoulders. In the dark, I couldn’t make out her face, but her form was familiar. As I got closer, I realized it was Mrs. Holmes sitting in the chair.
I faltered. “I... have your dinner here for you, ma’am,” I stammered.
“Oh, good,” she said. “Set it on the table here, dear.” Her tone was jovial like always, though it felt strained. As if she were forcing it.
I set the tray down on the end table beside her. As she turned to look at it, her eyes seemed to catch the tiny amount of light in the room and glowed for a split second.
“Thank you,” she chimed.
“You’re welcome,” I said, turning on my heel and heading for the door.
I stopped by the second floor nurse’s station on my way down the hall and found Ted inside. He was a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, known around the facility for his eccentric taste in scrubs. Today’s were navy blue with a messy pattern of stars. Ted was the only nurse I knew by name, mostly because he gave me no other choice. It was common knowledge at Sunset Grove that if Ted wanted to chat you up, there was nothing you could do to stop it.
“Hey, Ted,” I said, poking my head around the door.
“Arthur!” he called, sitting back in his chair. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I saw Mrs. Holmes is back,” I said. “What happened? Why was she gone?”
“Sorry, bud, I shouldn’t really be gossiping about that.”
“I understand. It’s just... there was that sign on her door a while ago. I thought she died.”
“Oh, that,” Ted laughed. “That was a little misunderstanding. But as you saw, she’s alive and well.”
“Right,” I said. “I should go. I’ve still got a cart full of meals to deliver.”
“Best not keep ‘em waiting!” Ted joked as I left the nurse’s station.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs. Holmes for the remainder of my shift that night. How could the nurses make such a drastic mistake, confusing a resident for dead? And where exactly had Mrs. Holmes been for the past month? At the hospital? With family? The whole thing irked me more than it probably should have. I didn’t like thinking about this place during my time off, but thoughts of Mrs. Holmes stuck with me all week.
I delivered room service to her the rest of the week. Each time I entered 2H, the blinds were drawn, the room kept dark. As always, I set her tray down on the end table next to the recliner, she thanked me, and I moved on to the next room.
The next stop on my route was 2K, Ms. Ganz, whose name I only knew because she had a reputation around the building for being very outwardly spoken. There was rarely a week that went by where I wasn’t overhearing the nurses laughing about something Ms. Ganz had said that day.
Most days, Ms. Ganz left her door open. I knocked anyway and passed through the open frame. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, rubbing her temples before she looked up and saw me.
“Set it down right there,” she instructed, pointing to the rolling TV stand where she took her dinner every day.
I did as she said and set the food down on the stand, forcing a smile for good measure. She scooted off the bed and hobbled over to the chair to sit down. I pushed the stand closer to her and lowered it down so she could reach. She examined the tray, then picked up the pudding cup and handed it to me.
“You take that,” she said. “I don’t need it.”
“That’s alright,” I protested. “I don’t need it either.”
Ms. Ganz pawning her desserts off on me was beginning to become a habit. As I tried to set the pudding cup back on the tray, she pushed it back toward me. It clearly wasn’t a fight I was going to win, so I relented and accepted the pudding.
Ms. Ganz got to work preparing her coffee, which she had with every meal. I always loaded her tray with three creams and three sugars, but I’d learned in time to wait until she finished mixing before I left because, more often than not, she’d ask for more.
“Is this decaf?” she asked.
“That’s right,” I said.
She grumbled. “I need caffeine. People keeping me up all night. Knocking on my door.”
“Knocking on your door?”
“Middle of the night,” Ms. Ganz exclaimed. “They come, they knock, I open the door, and they’re gone. My family doesn’t pay $2000 a month for me to get pranked all night long.”
“Have you talked to the nurses about it?” I asked.
She snorted. “They’re probably the ones doing it.” Ms. Ganz winced and reached for her forehead. “Now, I’ve had this headache all day thanks to them.”
“Sorry about that. I hope you feel better,” I said as I made my way out of the room.
It became apparent very quickly Ms. Ganz wasn’t the only resident dealing with these problems. I overheard the nurses talking about multiple residents on the second floor complaining about someone knocking on their door at night. It only got worse throughout the week, with even more residents complaining. There were more complaints of headaches, too. Some residents even started exhibiting symptoms of fever.
When I came to serve Ms. Ganz her dinner a week later, her door was shut. I knocked and turned the handle. It wasn’t locked, so I went inside. Ms. Ganz was lying in bed, a fresh sheen of sweat shimmering in the light across her forehead. She hadn’t even touched her lunch. I quietly swapped the trays, trying not to disturb her and tip-toed out of the room, stopping by the nurses’ station before I got back to work. Ted was there again, wearing a loud, floral-patterned set of scrubs this time.
“Hey, Ted, is Ms. Ganz alright?” I asked.
“She’s just a little under the weather,” he said. “She’s not the only one. There’s some kind of bug going around.”
Ted scooted his chair across the room and pulled something out of a box. He tossed me a medical mask.
“You should probably wear one of these while you’re goin’ into rooms,” he said.
I nodded and put the mask on, leaving Ted to his work. There were four more residents laid up in bed on the second floor. Weirdly, no one on the first or third floor seemed to be affected.
Things only seemed to get worse as the days went on. More and more residents were laid up with fevers. Soon enough, no one on the second floor was healthy enough to go to the dining room, which meant my room service runs were getting longer by the day. Now that I had to deliver trays to every room on the second floor, there was no way I could get it done on my own, but even with Becca helping me with runs, I was still clocking out of work an hour late most nights.
As we rolled the cart up to room 2H, Becca hesitated.
“Do you mind getting this one?” she asked.
I raised an eyebrow. “Sure.”
I had no problem bringing Mrs. Holmes her food. What caught me off guard was the way Becca seemed to give the room a wide berth as we passed and the trepidation in her voice as she spoke.
“Thanks, Arty,” Becca said. “Something about her just creeps me out. Don’t you feel that?”
“It’s a little weird how she sits in the dark all the time,” I admitted, “but I wouldn’t call it creepy.”
“So brave,” Becca teased. “I’ll bring Ms. Ganz her tray and meet you down the hall.”
“Sounds good.”
I knocked on the door and went into 2H. As expected, Mrs. Holmes was seated in her recliner with the blinds drawn and the single lamp on in the corner. Sometimes I wondered if she ever even moved from that spot.
“How are you feeling, Mrs. Holmes?” I asked through the medical mask I was now required to wear at all times while on the second floor.
“Are you a nurse now?” She asked. Her tone seemed intended to be joking, but it came across more accusatory.
“No, it’s just that we can’t seem to get rid of this bug going around. I was just curious if you were still feeling alright.”
“I’m fine,” she said flatly.
Mrs. Holmes was the only resident on the second floor who wasn’t sick. The bug hadn’t spread to any of the staff members either. A thought occurred to me.
“Have you heard anyone knocking on your door at night?” I asked.
Mrs. Holmes’s eyes shot to mine, momentarily glowing in the light as they had once before. She stared at me with wide eyes that seemed to be studying me.
Finally, her tight lips peeled apart and she simply said, “I have not.”
Suddenly, I understood why Becca hadn’t wanted to come in here. I could feel the goose flesh spreading across my arm and a shiver run down my spine. I didn’t want to linger here any longer than I had to.
“Have a good night,” I said, mimicking my usual tone, before hustling out of the room.
I grabbed the cart and pushed it quickly down the hall toward Ms. Ganz’s room where I would find Becca, but as I rounded the corner, I saw a crowd of nurses surrounding the door. Becca was standing off to the side, a distraught look on her face.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I went in to give her her food,” Becca choked out. “Her eyes were open, so I thought she was awake. So, I asked her if she had enough cream and sugar for her coffee, but she didn’t respond.”
“Oh no,” I realized.
“That’s never happened to me before,” Becca said. “I’ve never seen one of them after... after they died. Sorry, Arty, I need to take five. Do you think you can finish this yourself today?”
“That’s fine. I’ve got it.”
Becca laid her hand on my shoulder as she walked away, her other hand combing through her hair.
Becca didn’t come in the next day. With the wait staff being short handed, I had to do the room service deliveries myself. I hesitated before going into 2H, but when I reached for the handle, I was relieved to find that it was locked. Some of the nurses must have been inside, so I left the tray by the door and went on my way.
As I passed by Ms. Ganz’s room, I saw the sign.
Mallory Ganz 1939 - 2014
She was about ten years younger in the photo, smiling next to her daughter. I felt a tug inside my gut and suddenly realized I wanted to know what was happening. Where was this sickness coming from? Why wasn’t it affecting the residents on the first or third floors or the staff? And why was Mrs. Holmes the only resident on the second floor who was still healthy?
I finished delivering trays and stashed the cart in the corner. I figured I had at least ten more minutes before my boss would start wondering where I was, so I found Ted in the nurse’s station.
“Hey, Ted, are you busy?” I asked.
“Never not busy, Arthur,” he grinned. “What can I do for you?”
“You’ve heard the residents complaining about someone knocking on their doors at night, right? Do you have any idea what that might be about?”
He sighed. “Yeah, I’ve heard all about it. Best I can figure, it’s someone screwin’ around on the night shift.”
“Well, there are cameras, right? Couldn’t we find out who’s doing it?”
Ted’s brow furled. “Why are you so interested?”
“I don’t know,” I lied. “I guess it’s just that, whoever it was, they were bothering Ms. Ganz. I thought maybe we could find them and get them to stop to, like, honor her in a way.”
Ted pushed an office chair toward me with his foot. “Sit down a minute. I’ll pull up the footage.”
“Thank you.”
I sat down and watched Ted scrub through last night’s security footage. It was strange seeing the hallway so empty. During the daytime hours, there were constantly nurses or housekeepers coming up and down the halls, but at night, they were dead.
Suddenly, there was a flash of movement on the screen. Ted let go of the mouse and let the footage play out in real-time. I felt my chest tighten as I recognized the figure on the screen. Mrs. Holmes. I watched her walk down the hall, moving with an unnatural weightlessness for her age. She stopped in front of Ms. Ganz’s room and knocked on the door. Then, all of a sudden, she just faded away.
I leaned in closer to the screen. Ted sat upright in his chair.
“Was that a glitch?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “The timecode looks normal, but it must’ve been. Either way, I guess we know who’s been causin’ trouble at night. I’ll have a word with Mrs. Holmes.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I blurted out.
Ted looked at me quizzically. I didn’t know how to explain it, but I knew something was off about Mrs. Holmes. There was no telling what would happen if someone confronted her, but how was I supposed to convince Ted of that?
“Sorry,” I said. “Thanks for the help, Ted.”
I left the nurse’s station without saying another word. I could only hope that my initial warning would be enough to make Ted hesitate until I could figure out what to do next.
My heart dropped when I couldn’t find Ted the next day. He was always there. Every single weekday, he was there.
None of the other nurses had seen him either. Apparently, he hadn’t called out sick or anything. As far as anyone knew, he simply hadn’t shown up for work. But I knew better. I knew he’d gone and talked to Mrs. Holmes, and she’d done something to him. Could he still be there, inside room 2H? Was he still alive? Had he mentioned me?
I worked the first hour of my shift constantly looking over my shoulder. By 5:00, the cook started lining up room service trays. I was on my own again. Apparently, Becca was taking some time off after what she’d been through. I couldn’t blame her, but I found myself desperately wishing I didn’t have to be alone.
My heart thumped with dread every step I took toward room 2H. I prayed the door would be locked again, but no such luck. I pushed the door open slowly and let the light from the hall flood into the dim room. Mrs. Holmes was in her recliner, but as I got closer, I noticed her eyes were shut. She was asleep.
I set the tray down quietly and made for the door, but before I left, I felt curiosity tug me back. I wanted to know what happened to Ted. If there was any trace of him in the room, this might be my only chance to find it.
I inched heel-toe back through the entryway and into the bedroom. I found an antique lamp on the nightstand and flipped it on, bathing the room in a hazy yellow light. The room was pristine, not even a crease in the bedding. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Blood? A body? Just anything that would confirm the insane thoughts that were running through my mind.
I moved to the bathroom, but, like the bedroom, it was spotless. I checked every inch of it, even getting down on my hands and knees to inspect the bath mat for blood stains. I was starting to feel like a lunatic. Maybe everything that was happening was exactly what it seemed, and the rest of it was all just in my head.
Feeling a little ridiculous, I stepped out of the bathroom, gently closing the door behind me.
“What were you doing in there?” Mrs. Holmes’s voice was sharp and sent a jolt of fear through my body.
I turned and saw her standing in the corner by her recliner. She looked tall—her shoulders not slumped like usual, and her eyes were glowing in the light again.
I didn’t know what to say. “S-sorry,” I spat out, then hurried for the door. Mrs. Holmes stood motionless, watching me go.
Thanks to my little investigation, dinner was nearly over by the time I got back to the kitchen, and there was a mountain of dishes waiting for me by the sink. I shook off the unsettling thoughts plaguing my mind and got to work. It was going to be another late night, and it only got worse when the cook brought over a stack of burnt pans that would take ages of scrubbing to get clean.
It was nearly an hour past the end of my shift by the time I’d finally finished all the dishes. The wait staff had clocked out thirty minutes ago. That was fine. I was used to being the last one in the kitchen. It was the dishwasher’s job to clean the floors at the end of the night after everyone else had gone home. That night, though, I should have been scared, but the weight of being alone hadn’t hit me yet. My mind was too preoccupied with work.
I finished mopping the floor, meaning all that was left was to take the trash out to the dumpster. I gathered up all the bags and took them out into the hallway, then out the back door. I set the bags down and propped the door open with a pen. After 8:00, the building locked down, and I would need a keycard to get back in, something the facility didn’t grant to dishwashers.
I hoisted the garbage bags into the dumpster and turned back toward the building. Before I could even take a step back toward the door, though, I heard it clunk into place. I ran over and tugged on the handle. Locked. I’d have to walk all the way around the building and come in the front entrance, probably scaring the hell out of the secretary at the reception desk, who certainly wouldn’t be expecting anyone to come in at this hour.
Crickets chirped loudly in the fields around the parking lot as I rounded the building. There was no one at the reception desk when I walked in. The secretary was probably out having a cigarette somewhere. I walked through the dining room and back into the kitchen, letting the door swing freely behind me. I heard it brush across the frame once, twice, then suddenly stop. I didn’t think much of it until I heard a knock on the door.
My heart froze, fear tightening an ice-cold grip around my throat. I turned and, through the window, saw a pair of glowing eyes on the other side of the door. Ever so slowly, the door started to push inward as Mrs. Holmes crept inside. I felt like I should have screamed in that moment, but nothing came to me. It felt as though my lungs had completely deflated at the sight of her.
She stepped toward me. I stepped back until I felt my back press against the counter behind me. I wanted to run, but something told me I couldn’t outrun whatever was standing in front of me. My hands reached onto the counter and felt for anything I could use to defend myself. I felt the lukewarm touch of the porcelain plates and wrapped my fingers around the rim of one. I waited as Mrs. Holmes inched closer until, finally, I whipped my arm around and smashed the plate against her head.
She wailed and faltered a few steps, buying me enough time to run deeper into the kitchen, toward the knives. She was on me again before I could reach them. I felt a wet sting on my calf and looked down to see her there, latched on with her teeth sinking deep into my flesh.
I fell onto the concrete floor, my left shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. I tried to crawl away but couldn’t break free of her inhuman weight. With my free leg, I kicked at her head as hard as I could until she released me. Her bloodstained mouth hissed at me as I scrambled to my feet.
I ripped the largest knife I could find out of the block and spun around, ready to drive it into Mrs. Holmes’s chest, but she was gone. My eyes flicked frantically around the room, looking for any sign of her. Then I felt something drip onto my cheek. In the reflection of the knife blade, I could see the drop of blood rolling down my cheek. I looked up, and there she was.
She wasn't suspended from the ceiling; she was floating. As soon as I laid eyes on her, she dropped, falling right on top of me. I managed to raise the knife high enough and felt it pierce her gut as she landed on me. I think that was the only thing that saved me from her teeth sinking into my neck.
Mrs. Holmes reeled from the knife wound. She swung her arm out, and I felt the tremendous weight and strength behind it as it crashed into my side and threw me across the room. Pain shot through my back as I collided with the stainless steel of the dishwasher. I knew I couldn’t afford to waste time licking my wounds. I pulled myself up to my feet just as Mrs. Holmes ripped the knife free of her gut. Coagulated blood seeped out of the gaping wound like thick mud.
Mrs. Holmes hunched over like a predator waiting to pounce. My heart raced, waiting for the moment. Like a bolt of lighting, it came. She leapt across the room at me. My instincts kicked in, and I ducked to the right. I heard a loud metallic crash as Mrs. Holmes’s body slammed into the dishwasher. I looked up and saw her top half lodged in the machine. Without even thinking about it, I yanked the lever, sending the hood down just far enough over Mrs. Holmes’s thin body to activate the machine.
She howled and screeched as the steam inside the dishwasher boiled her skin. I didn’t wait around for the cycle to finish. I saddled the pain in my back and my leg and ran out of the kitchen before she had a chance to escape. I didn’t dare look back.
​
Sunset Grove closed down last year, three years after I left for good that night. I never found out what became of Mrs. Holmes, but I don’t think she ever left. The article detailing Sunset Grove’s closure cites financial difficulty after a spike in mortality rates, and there had been more than one story about staff members going missing over the years. Ted was the first of them. I would have been the second.
For a long time, Sunset Grove haunted me. I would dream about being back in room 2H, cowering under Mrs. Holmes’s impossibly tall form, her skin blistered and rubbery from the burns I gave her. In time, those dreams faded. It hadn’t seemed possible, but my life started to return to a sense of normalcy.
Reading the article on Sunset Grove brought those memories crashing back. I tried to tell myself that I was safe, but... I don’t think I am anymore. Not since I heard a knock on my door the other night. I wanted so badly to believe it was nothing, just neighborhood kids messing around, but my head has been pounding ever since I heard it, my stomach twisted in knots, my breath short. I can’t sleep through the night anymore. I find myself staring out the window, watching. Sometimes, among the twinkling fireflies at the edge of the woods, I could swear I see a pair of glowing eyes watching me in the dark.

Hi, so I finally got a small oven where I can bake/cure my polymer clay. Can anyone advise on where to set it up? I know about proper ventilation, which is why I am going to set it up on my balcony, my issue is on top of what? Anyone have any experience with that? The only furniture I have outside is from the owner of the apartment and currently can buy any new furniture. Was thinking about getting a wooden board of some kind to prop on top of a small stool outside, but was advised that it wouldn't take the heat. Ideas are welcome. Thank you.

I am using a bedroom as my home office. The existing carpet is getting old. I came up with the idea of using carpet tiles. Not because of "office" use. Rather, that I can move furniture within the room while doing the project. I decided against hardwood floor due to cost and possible noise issue )room is above master bedroom). I am planning to move within the next year or so.
Generally, it seems that people use carpet tiles for basements. I ma thinking to use a nicer product that doesn't necessarily look like traditional office.
Just wondering whether it would devalue my home or put of buyers that want to use the room as a bedroom, etc.

I spend all of my daylight hours scared and alone in this musty old cellar.
It’s woeful, and I bet it smelled this bad even before everything around here turned to crap. Great. My second sentence and I’ve already resorted to swearing. When I decided I’d start this diary (five minutes ago when I got a tiny sliver of signal) I thought it would be my poetic and deeply-moving goodbye to the world. Maybe I’d write about love and loss, or maybe the splendour of nature. Then, when all is done and dusted, I’d have left something to be remembered by. As well as my corpse, of course.
This was a bad idea.
*
Okay, I’m an idiot. There’s nothing else I can do down here. I’ve rooted through every cardboard box a hundred times, organised and reorganised my supplies, I’ve even built a fort. So, I’m back. Hello. Again. God, this diary is going badly.
But there’s just enough light coming through the boards I nailed over the cellar’s tiny window to type by. So I may as well type. Stops me staring up at the window just waiting for a shadow to pass by.
Maybe I'll just write and not hit Submit. Right, where to start? Well, my name is – actually, I think I’m going to refer to myself as ‘X’. That sounds mysterious. If you’re reading this and want to know my real name, I still carry my purse. My railcard is in there and, if you really want to know who I am, go find me and fish it out. I won’t bite...
So, my name is X. I live in a little English village in the middle of nowhere. Before all this happened, I had a mum, a dad, a sister and there was a boy I liked, his name was Jonah.
*
I couldn’t think of anything else to write so I waited until I came back from my rounds. That’s the stupid name I have for when I go outside at night scrounging for stuff. Drinks are the hardest. I only trust bottles or cans, or did, and I was running out of places to search for them. But I guess that doesn’t matter now.
My leg is doing alright actually; didn’t hold me up at all. I saw Jonah too. He’s looked better, I have to say. It’s strange because this is only the second time I’ve seen him since we came here. Maybe his ears were burning.
Anyway, I found some tinned pineapple in a creepy old caravan I hadn’t searched yet. Had to bust the door open with Old Trusty – which I thought might attract some unwanted attention – but it was fine. I’m actually eating the pineapple right now, tastes good. I also found a radio in there. I already have three down here, but none of them work. Not that the caravan radio works either, all you get is static. It’s just nice to collect something. You know, to have a hobby.
*
I can tell the sun is rising. I managed to sleep for a couple of hours, but I woke up after a bad dream. I know some people can remember their dreams, but I never do. I wake up and grasp at them, but I never manage a hold before they fade away. It’s like trying to pinch the corner of a wisp of smoke; the harder you try, the quicker it fades to nothing. I’m just left with a sensation, a kind of imprint which sums up the most intense part of the dream.
And a cold sweat. That’s new.
*
I’ve been through the box of photo albums I found at the back of the cellar again. I’ve looked through them a few times now, but I always notice something new.
There’s a photo of this little girl playing with a pretend guitar. I can tell it’s pretend because it doesn’t have strings, only brightly-coloured plastic dials. Kind of like My First Guitar Hero or something. The girl has dark hair and she looks a tiny bit like my sister did a million years ago. I don’t have a picture of my sister. I suppose I could go and get one from my old house, but it’s right in the middle of the village. I’m lucky I wasn’t torn to shreds the last time I went back. So, what I’ve done is put this girl’s photo in my back pocket as a substitute.
I guess I should probably write something about my real sister now. But I don’t think that’s a good idea just yet.
*
Daylight is starting to fade and I’m getting ready to go out on my rounds. I always take my satchel with me, packed with useful objects. I have Old Trusty (a crowbar) which sticks out of the top for easy access, a small toolbox, a pair of heavy-duty gloves (there’s a good story about how I got those, I might write that one down later) and a hammer. I carry a penknife I found down here in my pocket, my purse and phone, and a torch in my hand.
I don’t like to use the torch because its battery is running out and there’s always the chance it might attract them. I probably shouldn’t have used it last night when I got back. Maybe I’m starting to enjoy this writing malarkey? I need to be careful with luxuries.
*
Okay, that could have gone better.
Picture the scene: I’m using Old Trusty to try and lever a kitchen window open, when one of them just walks right through the garden hedge. Seriously, straight through it. It’s not the mightiest of hedges but, still, it just appeared like it was walking through one of those Japanese paper walls. My satchel was on the ground, but I legged it anyway. I’m not stupid. I know I can go back for it tomorrow. I felt strangely naked without it on the way back here though.
Like I said before, I need to be careful with the torch so I think I’ll try and get some sleep now.
*
I slept pretty well last night; no nightmares or cold sweats. Maybe a midnight chase was just what I needed to blow away the cobwebs.
I actually woke up wondering about you. If you’re reading this, who are you? If you’re like me, living through this village nightmare, how have you managed to go this long without being killed or whatever? Maybe you’re Army or some such. Maybe you’re just some kid who’s played so many videogames that surviving all of this was already second nature to you. Or maybe you’re like me; living on borrowed time and searching for a good place to die. Maybe Future Me was brave enough to tap Submit on my diary and you're currently reading this on your phone or computer.
Here’s an idea. Maybe you can carry on this diary from wherever I left it at. God, I really hope this isn’t my last entry, although I suppose any entry might be. If you do carry the diary forwards, and I'm a corpse, maybe it will become cursed. Spooky.
*
I’ve been preparing for my next excursion.
If I know I’m going somewhere I’ll likely run into an ugly, I like to take extra precautions. And I want my satchel back. It was a present from my dad, and I know it cost him a lot of money.
So, I’m taking a pair of shears from the shelf of old tools down here. That way, if I lose Old Trusty, I’ll have a backup weapon.
If you are local, I wonder how you like to kill them? Pretty morbid question I know, but everyone around here seems to have their preferred method. The last villager I saw alive carried a pair of mini cricket bats and seemed to have bludgeoning down to an art form. He never saw me though, I was watching from a grove of trees as he killed his way along the main road near the village.
That was before I decided to stay inside during the daylight hours. We can at least see a little bit at night; ambient light and everything. They can’t though. I’ve seen them, they bump into things. It’s pretty funny to be honest. If they hear a noise, they walk in the direction of the sound, never trying to avoid any object in their path. They either bash said object out of the way, or, like that hedge, blunder right through it. Obviously bigger things stop them dead (ha!) though. If that happens, they sort of shuffle backwards and then try again a few times. Eventually – and I’ve seen this too – they just give up and stand there, waiting for something else to attract their attention.
That’s not how it works in the daytime though.
*
I think it’s about an hour before the sun sets so it’s nearly time to head out. I’m going to change my bandage. One minute.
Okay, it didn’t look that bad really. The original scratch wasn’t too deep and now the wound seems to be doing that scabbing thing I remember from normal injuries. It just doesn’t smell very good. A bit like when you walk past a bin that needs emptying.
Anyway, I’ve applied more antiseptic and redressed it. Time to go.
*
That was fun. I’m glad I had those shears with me.
I got my satchel back you’ll be happy to know. And I got inside that house I’d been trying to break into as well. More through necessity than choice in the end, but I’m pleased I did. I found more batteries! That means I can justify writing at night a bit more. In fact, the people who used to live there (I think the husband owned the local garage) were pretty well kitted out. There were a lot of tins in their cupboards, and they’d even left a shotgun. It wasn’t loaded though.
Not that I need a shotgun. I didn’t tell you this before, but I have my grandpa’s old service revolver. He always told me and my sister that it was decommissioned, but my dad apparently knew otherwise. I keep it tucked into the back of my jeans at all times. It had three bullets, one of them is gone, so only two left.
I’ll only be needing the one of course.
*
Morning. I’m feeling pretty low today. I think concentrating on getting my satchel back took my mind off things, but now I feel pretty deflated.
Surely that’s understandable? The village I knew and loved has been replaced with this sodding hell. I miss my family, my friends, TV and hot dinners and Instagram. Before all of this I was a pretty positive person. Sure, I had a bit of trouble getting up in the morning, but, once I was up, that was it. I’d meet the day’s challenges head on, try to enjoy myself as much as I could. Not today though.
Maybe if I write about Jonah I’ll cheer up. Not Jonah as he is now of course, Jonah when he was all smooth-skinned, curly-haired and bright-eyed. Now he’s like the anti-Jonah or something. His face looks like it lost a fight with an angry lobster. No, wait, I’m supposed to be writing about Jonah version one here.
He’s one of those people that I can’t remember meeting. My family has always lived around here and so there are lots of people who have just always been, if you get me. I always thought we would drunkenly get it together at a party – that’s what I’d usually do if there was a boy I liked. Classy.
*
I’ve perked up a bit. Out of sheer frustration I went upstairs (naughty, I know) and looked out of a window. Sure, I saw an ugly, wandering aimlessly as they always do, but I saw that the trees are starting to turn too. That means it’s nearly autumn, and I love autumn!
My sister and I always used to go out and kick leaves at each other in the autumn. I don’t know if it was because of her low centre of gravity, but my sister was amazing at it. She could somehow whip up a blazing whirlwind of golden-yellow and fire-red, surrounding us both in a leaf storm that I couldn’t help but flail my arms madly at. Then we’d both fall backwards into the leaves laughing, me wondering how on earth what had happened was possible. She was that good.
God, I let her down in the end.
*
I think I’ll stay away from the house with the shotgun tonight. It usually takes a day or two for a group of uglies to disperse once they’re all riled up. I could use the rest of that tinned food I suppose, but I’ve got plenty to be getting on with for now.
Instead, I think I’ll swing by another farmhouse I was scoping out before I decided to turn nocturnal. I never met the people who used to live there, but I remember Mum telling me they liked their privacy. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind me visiting now though.
Also, there’s a woodland between here and there and I might be able to find some leaves to kick about a bit. I think that would make me feel close to my sister again.
I’ll check back in later.
*
I’m still alive, but only just.
I made it through the woods just fine (only the odd leaf on the forest floor at the moment though, sadly), the trouble started at the farmhouse. I couldn’t get in – the doors and windows were barricaded – so I tried one of the outbuildings. Locked. It had a cat flap though.
My first instinct was to leave it, but then I wondered if there might be something useful inside. Lord knows what thinking about it now. I lifted the cat flap with one hand and shone the torch beam through with my other. That’s when an ugly dived at my pinkies. Luckily, it misjudged its leap and got a mouthful of plastic cat flap instead. As for me, I fell backwards onto my bum.
Next, the damn thing started bashing on the door from the inside. I don’t think it could ever have got out, but the noise attracted more uglies from out of nowhere. I only just managed to outmanoeuvre them and hightail it back into the woods.
That’s not the worst of it though. On the way back my leg started to hurt. A lot.
*
I woke up this morning and I’m walking with a limp. It’s funny, Dad had a limp when he and Mum died. He was nailing planks of wood across our windows and doors because there was no signal (as per bloody usual) and we thought that what was happening here was probably happening everywhere. It's only recently that I realised this was an isolated, local outbreak. Anyway, Dad dropped the hammer onto his toe, he always was useless at DIY. I think it was only a couple of hours after that when he and Mum were taken.
It was like a wave of death. No, not like, that’s exactly what it was. A hoard of uglies swept through the village, probably originating from the secret research facility in the woods we're not supposed to know about. My sister and I wouldn’t have had a prayer if Mum and Dad hadn’t charged down the first few that got into our house. They gave us just enough time to escape, to run away and leave them to die. My sister was screaming all the way and I had to drag her like she was four again.
She wouldn’t speak to me for a few days after that. I didn’t blame her, I hated myself too. But I would have hated myself even more if I hadn’t done what I did next. On my own, I snuck back into our house with the crowbar I found here. Then I dispatched my parents. I can’t bring myself to type it any other way. It wasn’t like in the movies, I didn’t pound their skulls into mush whilst sobbing, ‘Why?’ over and over again. I just found them, or what was left of them, forced the crowbar through each of their eye sockets, and came straight back here.
Then came the crying.
*
I haven’t told you about the heavy-duty gloves yet, have I?
After I got back from our old house, my sister started speaking to me again. A shared, day-long cry will do that for sisters. Once we felt up to it, we decided to explore the parts of the farmhouse we hadn’t searched yet. All the bedrooms were empty, only a few belongings flung about the place (I suspect the previous tenants left in a hurry). The problem came when we investigated the attic. Once we’d opened the ceiling panel in the upstairs hallway, once we’d pulled the compact staircase down, I went up. My sister stood at the top of the hatchway shining the torch beam over my shoulder. And that’s when it touched me. Terrified, I fell to my left, screaming as the thing came crashing down on top of me. I was yelling things like, ‘Shoot it!’ and, ‘Run!’ but my sister was just laughing her head off. I soon realised that my attacker was in fact a shop-window mannequin.
I think the people who previously lived here must have been arty (or into some seriously freaky stuff) because the mannequin was dressed in scarves, bandannas, ties, watches – loads of things. The rest of the attic was pretty empty but at least we got the mannequin’s gloves.
*
I’m not feeling good at the moment. I’ve got a sore throat and I’ve coughed up blood a couple of times. My leg pain is getting worse too.
I don’t think I’ll go out tonight. I have enough tins left and one of them is a Full English In A Can. Sounds pretty disgusting, but intriguing at the same time. I’ve been saving it for near the end. A sort of consolation prize.
*
There are two mattresses down here. Obviously one is mine, and the other one was my sister’s. After she died, I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it. I don’t have a photo of her, only Guitar Girl’s. Her bed is the only thing of hers I have left. And she didn’t even sleep in it that many times.
*
The tinned Full English was vile! You’ve got to laugh though, what else can you do?
*
I’m crying as I write this. Tears of sorrow, shame and regret.
It happened as we were searching a cottage just off of the main road. We’d used Old Trusty to get inside, and I’d rushed straight into the kitchen to find the food. We’d run out more than a day before and I was famished. My sister followed me into the kitchen, a wide grin on her pretty little face because I was sitting there with an open can of beans. Then one of them came at her from behind. I must have walked right past it on my stupid way to the cupboards. It bit into her neck and blood gushed over the tiles in a torrent. As she yelled out in agony, I leapt up and implanted the crowbar right into the thing’s skull. It crumpled to the floor, but the damage was done.
‘Don’t let me lose myself.’ That was the last thing my sister whispered to me before she passed out. Her wound was much more severe than mine is, and much closer to the brain. That seems to make it quicker. I took grandpa’s revolver from behind my back and blew her brains out.
I buried her in the back garden.
*
After my sister died I went kind of crazy. I took Old Trusty out across the fields and pulverised every ugly I could find. I don’t even remember it that well, it was just, find, kill, find, kill…
We’d only been going out in daylight before then but, in my anger, I carried on through the nights. That’s how I learned about their inability to evade in darkness. Eventually, though, one got me. I found three munching on a dead cow and ran straight at them. Took out the first two easily enough, but the third managed to scratch my leg with a bloody fingernail just before I clobbered it into oblivion. Once I realised its nail had broken the skin, it was like a switch had been flicked inside me. That’s it, I’m dead too. I lost my bloodlust and came back here.
*
If none of this had happened, I think my sister would have eventually gone into medicine. I was doing okay at College but she was top of her class at school. And she had a really kind nature too. She’d never squish any bugs that got trapped in our house; she’d get a glass, scoop the little critter up and seal it inside with a book. Then she’d take it outside and release it, even if it was a wasp.
*
I’ve decided that here’s not the place. I'll hit Submit and then I’m going to do it in those woods I wrote about; consider this diary as my Note. I’ll be able to find a nice spot to sit and look at the trees, some place that's calm and peaceful. I’m going to leave the picture of Guitar Girl in this cellar, she belongs in this house. The tree leaves will remind me of my sister more than any photo ever could anyway.
I guess all that’s left to say is thank you for listening.
I know it’s possible that no one will ever read this, but that’s not really the point is it?
Love,
X

I spend all of my daylight hours scared and alone in this musty old cellar.
It’s woeful, and I bet it smelled this bad even before everything around here turned to crap. Great. My second sentence and I’ve already resorted to swearing. When I decided I’d start this diary (five minutes ago when I got a tiny sliver of signal) I thought it would be my poetic and deeply-moving goodbye to the world. Maybe I’d write about love and loss, or maybe the splendour of nature. Then, when all is done and dusted, I’d have left something to be remembered by. As well as my corpse, of course.
This was a bad idea.
*
Okay, I’m an idiot. There’s nothing else I can do down here. I’ve rooted through every cardboard box a hundred times, organised and reorganised my supplies, I’ve even built a fort. So, I’m back. Hello. Again. God, this diary is going badly.
But there’s just enough light coming through the boards I nailed over the cellar’s tiny window to type by. So I may as well type. Stops me staring up at the window just waiting for a shadow to pass by.
Maybe I'll just write and not hit Submit. Right, where to start? Well, my name is – actually, I think I’m going to refer to myself as ‘X’. That sounds mysterious. If you’re reading this and want to know my real name, I still carry my purse. My railcard is in there and, if you really want to know who I am, go find me and fish it out. I won’t bite...
So, my name is X. I live in a little English village in the middle of nowhere. Before all this happened, I had a mum, a dad, a sister and there was a boy I liked, his name was Jonah.
*
I couldn’t think of anything else to write so I waited until I came back from my rounds. That’s the stupid name I have for when I go outside at night scrounging for stuff. Drinks are the hardest. I only trust bottles or cans, or did, and I was running out of places to search for them. But I guess that doesn’t matter now.
My leg is doing alright actually; didn’t hold me up at all. I saw Jonah too. He’s looked better, I have to say. It’s strange because this is only the second time I’ve seen him since we came here. Maybe his ears were burning.
Anyway, I found some tinned pineapple in a creepy old caravan I hadn’t searched yet. Had to bust the door open with Old Trusty – which I thought might attract some unwanted attention – but it was fine. I’m actually eating the pineapple right now, tastes good. I also found a radio in there. I already have three down here, but none of them work. Not that the caravan radio works either, all you get is static. It’s just nice to collect something. You know, to have a hobby.
*
I can tell the sun is rising. I managed to sleep for a couple of hours, but I woke up after a bad dream. I know some people can remember their dreams, but I never do. I wake up and grasp at them, but I never manage a hold before they fade away. It’s like trying to pinch the corner of a wisp of smoke; the harder you try, the quicker it fades to nothing. I’m just left with a sensation, a kind of imprint which sums up the most intense part of the dream.
And a cold sweat. That’s new.
*
I’ve been through the box of photo albums I found at the back of the cellar again. I’ve looked through them a few times now, but I always notice something new.
There’s a photo of this little girl playing with a pretend guitar. I can tell it’s pretend because it doesn’t have strings, only brightly-coloured plastic dials. Kind of like My First Guitar Hero or something. The girl has dark hair and she looks a tiny bit like my sister did a million years ago. I don’t have a picture of my sister. I suppose I could go and get one from my old house, but it’s right in the middle of the village. I’m lucky I wasn’t torn to shreds the last time I went back. So, what I’ve done is put this girl’s photo in my back pocket as a substitute.
I guess I should probably write something about my real sister now. But I don’t think that’s a good idea just yet.
*
Daylight is starting to fade and I’m getting ready to go out on my rounds. I always take my satchel with me, packed with useful objects. I have Old Trusty (a crowbar) which sticks out of the top for easy access, a small toolbox, a pair of heavy-duty gloves (there’s a good story about how I got those, I might write that one down later) and a hammer. I carry a penknife I found down here in my pocket, my purse and phone, and a torch in my hand.
I don’t like to use the torch because its battery is running out and there’s always the chance it might attract them. I probably shouldn’t have used it last night when I got back. Maybe I’m starting to enjoy this writing malarkey? I need to be careful with luxuries.
*
Okay, that could have gone better.
Picture the scene: I’m using Old Trusty to try and lever a kitchen window open, when one of them just walks right through the garden hedge. Seriously, straight through it. It’s not the mightiest of hedges but, still, it just appeared like it was walking through one of those Japanese paper walls. My satchel was on the ground, but I legged it anyway. I’m not stupid. I know I can go back for it tomorrow. I felt strangely naked without it on the way back here though.
Like I said before, I need to be careful with the torch so I think I’ll try and get some sleep now.
*
I slept pretty well last night; no nightmares or cold sweats. Maybe a midnight chase was just what I needed to blow away the cobwebs.
I actually woke up wondering about you. If you’re reading this, who are you? If you’re like me, living through this village nightmare, how have you managed to go this long without being killed or whatever? Maybe you’re Army or some such. Maybe you’re just some kid who’s played so many videogames that surviving all of this was already second nature to you. Or maybe you’re like me; living on borrowed time and searching for a good place to die. Maybe Future Me was brave enough to tap Submit on my diary and you're currently reading this on your phone or computer.
Here’s an idea. Maybe you can carry on this diary from wherever I left it at. God, I really hope this isn’t my last entry, although I suppose any entry might be. If you do carry the diary forwards, and I'm a corpse, maybe it will become cursed. Spooky.
*
I’ve been preparing for my next excursion.
If I know I’m going somewhere I’ll likely run into an ugly, I like to take extra precautions. And I want my satchel back. It was a present from my dad, and I know it cost him a lot of money.
So, I’m taking a pair of shears from the shelf of old tools down here. That way, if I lose Old Trusty, I’ll have a backup weapon.
If you are local, I wonder how you like to kill them? Pretty morbid question I know, but everyone around here seems to have their preferred method. The last villager I saw alive carried a pair of mini cricket bats and seemed to have bludgeoning down to an art form. He never saw me though, I was watching from a grove of trees as he killed his way along the main road near the village.
That was before I decided to stay inside during the daylight hours. We can at least see a little bit at night; ambient light and everything. They can’t though. I’ve seen them, they bump into things. It’s pretty funny to be honest. If they hear a noise, they walk in the direction of the sound, never trying to avoid any object in their path. They either bash said object out of the way, or, like that hedge, blunder right through it. Obviously bigger things stop them dead (ha!) though. If that happens, they sort of shuffle backwards and then try again a few times. Eventually – and I’ve seen this too – they just give up and stand there, waiting for something else to attract their attention.
That’s not how it works in the daytime though.
*
I think it’s about an hour before the sun sets so it’s nearly time to head out. I’m going to change my bandage. One minute.
Okay, it didn’t look that bad really. The original scratch wasn’t too deep and now the wound seems to be doing that scabbing thing I remember from normal injuries. It just doesn’t smell very good. A bit like when you walk past a bin that needs emptying.
Anyway, I’ve applied more antiseptic and redressed it. Time to go.
*
That was fun. I’m glad I had those shears with me.
I got my satchel back you’ll be happy to know. And I got inside that house I’d been trying to break into as well. More through necessity than choice in the end, but I’m pleased I did. I found more batteries! That means I can justify writing at night a bit more. In fact, the people who used to live there (I think the husband owned the local garage) were pretty well kitted out. There were a lot of tins in their cupboards, and they’d even left a shotgun. It wasn’t loaded though.
Not that I need a shotgun. I didn’t tell you this before, but I have my grandpa’s old service revolver. He always told me and my sister that it was decommissioned, but my dad apparently knew otherwise. I keep it tucked into the back of my jeans at all times. It had three bullets, one of them is gone, so only two left.
I’ll only be needing the one of course.
*
Morning. I’m feeling pretty low today. I think concentrating on getting my satchel back took my mind off things, but now I feel pretty deflated.
Surely that’s understandable? The village I knew and loved has been replaced with this sodding hell. I miss my family, my friends, TV and hot dinners and Instagram. Before all of this I was a pretty positive person. Sure, I had a bit of trouble getting up in the morning, but, once I was up, that was it. I’d meet the day’s challenges head on, try to enjoy myself as much as I could. Not today though.
Maybe if I write about Jonah I’ll cheer up. Not Jonah as he is now of course, Jonah when he was all smooth-skinned, curly-haired and bright-eyed. Now he’s like the anti-Jonah or something. His face looks like it lost a fight with an angry lobster. No, wait, I’m supposed to be writing about Jonah version one here.
He’s one of those people that I can’t remember meeting. My family has always lived around here and so there are lots of people who have just always been, if you get me. I always thought we would drunkenly get it together at a party – that’s what I’d usually do if there was a boy I liked. Classy.
*
I’ve perked up a bit. Out of sheer frustration I went upstairs (naughty, I know) and looked out of a window. Sure, I saw an ugly, wandering aimlessly as they always do, but I saw that the trees are starting to turn too. That means it’s nearly autumn, and I love autumn!
My sister and I always used to go out and kick leaves at each other in the autumn. I don’t know if it was because of her low centre of gravity, but my sister was amazing at it. She could somehow whip up a blazing whirlwind of golden-yellow and fire-red, surrounding us both in a leaf storm that I couldn’t help but flail my arms madly at. Then we’d both fall backwards into the leaves laughing, me wondering how on earth what had happened was possible. She was that good.
God, I let her down in the end.
*
I think I’ll stay away from the house with the shotgun tonight. It usually takes a day or two for a group of uglies to disperse once they’re all riled up. I could use the rest of that tinned food I suppose, but I’ve got plenty to be getting on with for now.
Instead, I think I’ll swing by another farmhouse I was scoping out before I decided to turn nocturnal. I never met the people who used to live there, but I remember Mum telling me they liked their privacy. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind me visiting now though.
Also, there’s a woodland between here and there and I might be able to find some leaves to kick about a bit. I think that would make me feel close to my sister again.
I’ll check back in later.
*
I’m still alive, but only just.
I made it through the woods just fine (only the odd leaf on the forest floor at the moment though, sadly), the trouble started at the farmhouse. I couldn’t get in – the doors and windows were barricaded – so I tried one of the outbuildings. Locked. It had a cat flap though.
My first instinct was to leave it, but then I wondered if there might be something useful inside. Lord knows what thinking about it now. I lifted the cat flap with one hand and shone the torch beam through with my other. That’s when an ugly dived at my pinkies. Luckily, it misjudged its leap and got a mouthful of plastic cat flap instead. As for me, I fell backwards onto my bum.
Next, the damn thing started bashing on the door from the inside. I don’t think it could ever have got out, but the noise attracted more uglies from out of nowhere. I only just managed to outmanoeuvre them and hightail it back into the woods.
That’s not the worst of it though. On the way back my leg started to hurt. A lot.
*
I woke up this morning and I’m walking with a limp. It’s funny, Dad had a limp when he and Mum died. He was nailing planks of wood across our windows and doors because there was no signal (as per bloody usual) and we thought that what was happening here was probably happening everywhere. It's only recently that I realised this was an isolated, local outbreak. Anyway, Dad dropped the hammer onto his toe, he always was useless at DIY. I think it was only a couple of hours after that when he and Mum were taken.
It was like a wave of death. No, not like, that’s exactly what it was. A hoard of uglies swept through the village, probably originating from the secret research facility in the woods we're not supposed to know about. My sister and I wouldn’t have had a prayer if Mum and Dad hadn’t charged down the first few that got into our house. They gave us just enough time to escape, to run away and leave them to die. My sister was screaming all the way and I had to drag her like she was four again.
She wouldn’t speak to me for a few days after that. I didn’t blame her, I hated myself too. But I would have hated myself even more if I hadn’t done what I did next. On my own, I snuck back into our house with the crowbar I found here. Then I dispatched my parents. I can’t bring myself to type it any other way. It wasn’t like in the movies, I didn’t pound their skulls into mush whilst sobbing, ‘Why?’ over and over again. I just found them, or what was left of them, forced the crowbar through each of their eye sockets, and came straight back here.
Then came the crying.
*
I haven’t told you about the heavy-duty gloves yet, have I?
After I got back from our old house, my sister started speaking to me again. A shared, day-long cry will do that for sisters. Once we felt up to it, we decided to explore the parts of the farmhouse we hadn’t searched yet. All the bedrooms were empty, only a few belongings flung about the place (I suspect the previous tenants left in a hurry). The problem came when we investigated the attic. Once we’d opened the ceiling panel in the upstairs hallway, once we’d pulled the compact staircase down, I went up. My sister stood at the top of the hatchway shining the torch beam over my shoulder. And that’s when it touched me. Terrified, I fell to my left, screaming as the thing came crashing down on top of me. I was yelling things like, ‘Shoot it!’ and, ‘Run!’ but my sister was just laughing her head off. I soon realised that my attacker was in fact a shop-window mannequin.
I think the people who previously lived here must have been arty (or into some seriously freaky stuff) because the mannequin was dressed in scarves, bandannas, ties, watches – loads of things. The rest of the attic was pretty empty but at least we got the mannequin’s gloves.
*
I’m not feeling good at the moment. I’ve got a sore throat and I’ve coughed up blood a couple of times. My leg pain is getting worse too.
I don’t think I’ll go out tonight. I have enough tins left and one of them is a Full English In A Can. Sounds pretty disgusting, but intriguing at the same time. I’ve been saving it for near the end. A sort of consolation prize.
*
There are two mattresses down here. Obviously one is mine, and the other one was my sister’s. After she died, I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it. I don’t have a photo of her, only Guitar Girl’s. Her bed is the only thing of hers I have left. And she didn’t even sleep in it that many times.
*
The tinned Full English was vile! You’ve got to laugh though, what else can you do?
*
I’m crying as I write this. Tears of sorrow, shame and regret.
It happened as we were searching a cottage just off of the main road. We’d used Old Trusty to get inside, and I’d rushed straight into the kitchen to find the food. We’d run out more than a day before and I was famished. My sister followed me into the kitchen, a wide grin on her pretty little face because I was sitting there with an open can of beans. Then one of them came at her from behind. I must have walked right past it on my stupid way to the cupboards. It bit into her neck and blood gushed over the tiles in a torrent. As she yelled out in agony, I leapt up and implanted the crowbar right into the thing’s skull. It crumpled to the floor, but the damage was done.
‘Don’t let me lose myself.’ That was the last thing my sister whispered to me before she passed out. Her wound was much more severe than mine is, and much closer to the brain. That seems to make it quicker. I took grandpa’s revolver from behind my back and blew her brains out.
I buried her in the back garden.
*
After my sister died I went kind of crazy. I took Old Trusty out across the fields and pulverised every ugly I could find. I don’t even remember it that well, it was just, find, kill, find, kill…
We’d only been going out in daylight before then but, in my anger, I carried on through the nights. That’s how I learned about their inability to evade in darkness. Eventually, though, one got me. I found three munching on a dead cow and ran straight at them. Took out the first two easily enough, but the third managed to scratch my leg with a bloody fingernail just before I clobbered it into oblivion. Once I realised its nail had broken the skin, it was like a switch had been flicked inside me. That’s it, I’m dead too. I lost my bloodlust and came back here.
*
If none of this had happened, I think my sister would have eventually gone into medicine. I was doing okay at College but she was top of her class at school. And she had a really kind nature too. She’d never squish any bugs that got trapped in our house; she’d get a glass, scoop the little critter up and seal it inside with a book. Then she’d take it outside and release it, even if it was a wasp.
*
I’ve decided that here’s not the place. I'll hit Submit and then I’m going to do it in those woods I wrote about; consider this diary as my Note. I’ll be able to find a nice spot to sit and look at the trees, some place that's calm and peaceful. I’m going to leave the picture of Guitar Girl in this cellar, she belongs in this house. The tree leaves will remind me of my sister more than any photo ever could anyway.
I guess all that’s left to say is thank you for listening.
I know it’s possible that no one will ever read this, but that’s not really the point is it?
Love,
X

Hey guys.
First off I wanna say that I am not quite sure if I am in the right sub-reddit.
I am a landlord experiencing problems with my tenant. Here is the story.
So I bought an apartment with the hopes of moving out of my parents house. It took a while but I had it almost finished. It is in a nice place, in a nice compound. (for anonymities sake I wont mention the currency) The current rent in a place like that, with the level of finish and care I took while finishing could be anywhere from 20-30k/ month WITHOUT furniture. Now the state that my apartment is in is full kitchen and bathroom, but no furniture like beds and stuff.
I had this friend who was in a dire need for an apartment. He had been complaining for a year to me about abusive family and depression and I really wanted to help him. So, I offered that he rents in the master bedroom. That was around January when the apartment was not all there yet. his room was mostly finished but was missing some minor things.
The offer included rent to be paid as furniture where I receive rent of around 5k in furnishing and 2k in utilities per month. This is chump change compared to what the apartment is worth, but I wanted to help a friend. Note that this friend is also my partner in my business.
I had not known prior but suddenly my friend had developed OCD. Which, he claims, makes him totally in capable of doing anything if someone enters his room or touches his stuff. he needs to spend a whole day deep cleaning it if that happens (he isnt a neat freak cause he doesnt mind his own messes). Mind you I have not moved in yet, as I still dont have any furniture to use so, until I save up some money I won't be moving in anytime soon.
Here is the problem. At every SINGLE step. whether its people installing his AC for him, me getting him a plumber to install or fix something etc. etc. he constantly wants me to postpone. the apartment got heavily delayed cause he doesnt want people coming in. I respected his space and his needs as much as I can. Finally the apartment is complete, now I need the company I bought it from to inspect it in order to finalize the contract (there is a shitty part of the contract where it becomes null if I made changes to the apartment that were not approved, not to mention 60k worth of fees will be refunded to me if they approve it). I had booked with them, and told him a MONTH in advance that they are coming at so and so day and they will be there at a specific time, right before his work starts but late enough for him to be up (He works from home). all of a sudden, two workdays before they come he is telling me that he is swamped and needs me to move the date and is making a fuss about it.
I told him that I am not sure if I can move it since I confirmed, but I will try my best, and that he needs to be prepared incase I can't move it. (mind you, all that will happen at worst is some people enter his room and measure some walls and windows for 30 mins then leave)
The real problem is that I am exhausted. He is my best friend, and partner in my company, but goddamn I am exhausted from constantly trying to meet his needs. I think I do not want him to rent with me anymore. we do not have an official contract, and I in no means want to abuse him in anyway. I dont care if he takes the furniture he bought (literally just a bed and a desk), but I am tired of all the fuss and pandering and I don't know what to do. Should I wait a year and tell him its time? What should I do?

I spend all of my daylight hours scared and alone in this musty old cellar.
It’s woeful, and I bet it smelled this bad even before everything around here turned to crap. Great. My second sentence and I’ve already resorted to swearing. When I decided I’d start this diary (five minutes ago when I got a tiny sliver of signal) I thought it would be my poetic and deeply-moving goodbye to the world. Maybe I’d write about love and loss, or maybe the splendour of nature. Then, when all is done and dusted, I’d have left something to be remembered by. As well as my corpse, of course.
This was a bad idea.
*
Okay, I’m an idiot. There’s nothing else I can do down here. I’ve rooted through every cardboard box a hundred times, organised and reorganised my supplies, I’ve even built a fort. So, I’m back. Hello. Again. God, this diary is going badly.
But there’s just enough light coming through the boards I nailed over the cellar’s tiny window to type by. So I may as well type. Stops me staring up at the window just waiting for a shadow to pass by.
Maybe I'll just write and not hit Submit. Right, where to start? Well, my name is – actually, I think I’m going to refer to myself as ‘X’. That sounds mysterious. If you’re reading this and want to know my real name, I still carry my purse. My railcard is in there and, if you really want to know who I am, go find me and fish it out. I won’t bite...
So, my name is X. I live in a little English village in the middle of nowhere. Before all this happened, I had a mum, a dad, a sister and there was a boy I liked, his name was Jonah.
*
I couldn’t think of anything else to write so I waited until I came back from my rounds. That’s the stupid name I have for when I go outside at night scrounging for stuff. Drinks are the hardest. I only trust bottles or cans, or did, and I was running out of places to search for them. But I guess that doesn’t matter now.
My leg is doing alright actually; didn’t hold me up at all. I saw Jonah too. He’s looked better, I have to say. It’s strange because this is only the second time I’ve seen him since we came here. Maybe his ears were burning.
Anyway, I found some tinned pineapple in a creepy old caravan I hadn’t searched yet. Had to bust the door open with Old Trusty – which I thought might attract some unwanted attention – but it was fine. I’m actually eating the pineapple right now, tastes good. I also found a radio in there. I already have three down here, but none of them work. Not that the caravan radio works either, all you get is static. It’s just nice to collect something. You know, to have a hobby.
*
I can tell the sun is rising. I managed to sleep for a couple of hours, but I woke up after a bad dream. I know some people can remember their dreams, but I never do. I wake up and grasp at them, but I never manage a hold before they fade away. It’s like trying to pinch the corner of a wisp of smoke; the harder you try, the quicker it fades to nothing. I’m just left with a sensation, a kind of imprint which sums up the most intense part of the dream.
And a cold sweat. That’s new.
*
I’ve been through the box of photo albums I found at the back of the cellar again. I’ve looked through them a few times now, but I always notice something new.
There’s a photo of this little girl playing with a pretend guitar. I can tell it’s pretend because it doesn’t have strings, only brightly-coloured plastic dials. Kind of like My First Guitar Hero or something. The girl has dark hair and she looks a tiny bit like my sister did a million years ago. I don’t have a picture of my sister. I suppose I could go and get one from my old house, but it’s right in the middle of the village. I’m lucky I wasn’t torn to shreds the last time I went back. So, what I’ve done is put this girl’s photo in my back pocket as a substitute.
I guess I should probably write something about my real sister now. But I don’t think that’s a good idea just yet.
*
Daylight is starting to fade and I’m getting ready to go out on my rounds. I always take my satchel with me, packed with useful objects. I have Old Trusty (a crowbar) which sticks out of the top for easy access, a small toolbox, a pair of heavy-duty gloves (there’s a good story about how I got those, I might write that one down later) and a hammer. I carry a penknife I found down here in my pocket, my purse and phone, and a torch in my hand.
I don’t like to use the torch because its battery is running out and there’s always the chance it might attract them. I probably shouldn’t have used it last night when I got back. Maybe I’m starting to enjoy this writing malarkey? I need to be careful with luxuries.
*
Okay, that could have gone better.
Picture the scene: I’m using Old Trusty to try and lever a kitchen window open, when one of them just walks right through the garden hedge. Seriously, straight through it. It’s not the mightiest of hedges but, still, it just appeared like it was walking through one of those Japanese paper walls. My satchel was on the ground, but I legged it anyway. I’m not stupid. I know I can go back for it tomorrow. I felt strangely naked without it on the way back here though.
Like I said before, I need to be careful with the torch so I think I’ll try and get some sleep now.
*
I slept pretty well last night; no nightmares or cold sweats. Maybe a midnight chase was just what I needed to blow away the cobwebs.
I actually woke up wondering about you. If you’re reading this, who are you? If you’re like me, living through this village nightmare, how have you managed to go this long without being killed or whatever? Maybe you’re Army or some such. Maybe you’re just some kid who’s played so many videogames that surviving all of this was already second nature to you. Or maybe you’re like me; living on borrowed time and searching for a good place to die. Maybe Future Me was brave enough to tap Submit on my diary and you're currently reading this on your phone or computer.
Here’s an idea. Maybe you can carry on this diary from wherever I left it at. God, I really hope this isn’t my last entry, although I suppose any entry might be. If you do carry the diary forwards, and I'm a corpse, maybe it will become cursed. Spooky.
*
I’ve been preparing for my next excursion.
If I know I’m going somewhere I’ll likely run into an ugly, I like to take extra precautions. And I want my satchel back. It was a present from my dad, and I know it cost him a lot of money.
So, I’m taking a pair of shears from the shelf of old tools down here. That way, if I lose Old Trusty, I’ll have a backup weapon.
If you are local, I wonder how you like to kill them? Pretty morbid question I know, but everyone around here seems to have their preferred method. The last villager I saw alive carried a pair of mini cricket bats and seemed to have bludgeoning down to an art form. He never saw me though, I was watching from a grove of trees as he killed his way along the main road near the village.
That was before I decided to stay inside during the daylight hours. We can at least see a little bit at night; ambient light and everything. They can’t though. I’ve seen them, they bump into things. It’s pretty funny to be honest. If they hear a noise, they walk in the direction of the sound, never trying to avoid any object in their path. They either bash said object out of the way, or, like that hedge, blunder right through it. Obviously bigger things stop them dead (ha!) though. If that happens, they sort of shuffle backwards and then try again a few times. Eventually – and I’ve seen this too – they just give up and stand there, waiting for something else to attract their attention.
That’s not how it works in the daytime though.
*
I think it’s about an hour before the sun sets so it’s nearly time to head out. I’m going to change my bandage. One minute.
Okay, it didn’t look that bad really. The original scratch wasn’t too deep and now the wound seems to be doing that scabbing thing I remember from normal injuries. It just doesn’t smell very good. A bit like when you walk past a bin that needs emptying.
Anyway, I’ve applied more antiseptic and redressed it. Time to go.
*
That was fun. I’m glad I had those shears with me.
I got my satchel back you’ll be happy to know. And I got inside that house I’d been trying to break into as well. More through necessity than choice in the end, but I’m pleased I did. I found more batteries! That means I can justify writing at night a bit more. In fact, the people who used to live there (I think the husband owned the local garage) were pretty well kitted out. There were a lot of tins in their cupboards, and they’d even left a shotgun. It wasn’t loaded though.
Not that I need a shotgun. I didn’t tell you this before, but I have my grandpa’s old service revolver. He always told me and my sister that it was decommissioned, but my dad apparently knew otherwise. I keep it tucked into the back of my jeans at all times. It had three bullets, one of them is gone, so only two left.
I’ll only be needing the one of course.
*
Morning. I’m feeling pretty low today. I think concentrating on getting my satchel back took my mind off things, but now I feel pretty deflated.
Surely that’s understandable? The village I knew and loved has been replaced with this sodding hell. I miss my family, my friends, TV and hot dinners and Instagram. Before all of this I was a pretty positive person. Sure, I had a bit of trouble getting up in the morning, but, once I was up, that was it. I’d meet the day’s challenges head on, try to enjoy myself as much as I could. Not today though.
Maybe if I write about Jonah I’ll cheer up. Not Jonah as he is now of course, Jonah when he was all smooth-skinned, curly-haired and bright-eyed. Now he’s like the anti-Jonah or something. His face looks like it lost a fight with an angry lobster. No, wait, I’m supposed to be writing about Jonah version one here.
He’s one of those people that I can’t remember meeting. My family has always lived around here and so there are lots of people who have just always been, if you get me. I always thought we would drunkenly get it together at a party – that’s what I’d usually do if there was a boy I liked. Classy.
*
I’ve perked up a bit. Out of sheer frustration I went upstairs (naughty, I know) and looked out of a window. Sure, I saw an ugly, wandering aimlessly as they always do, but I saw that the trees are starting to turn too. That means it’s nearly autumn, and I love autumn!
My sister and I always used to go out and kick leaves at each other in the autumn. I don’t know if it was because of her low centre of gravity, but my sister was amazing at it. She could somehow whip up a blazing whirlwind of golden-yellow and fire-red, surrounding us both in a leaf storm that I couldn’t help but flail my arms madly at. Then we’d both fall backwards into the leaves laughing, me wondering how on earth what had happened was possible. She was that good.
God, I let her down in the end.
*
I think I’ll stay away from the house with the shotgun tonight. It usually takes a day or two for a group of uglies to disperse once they’re all riled up. I could use the rest of that tinned food I suppose, but I’ve got plenty to be getting on with for now.
Instead, I think I’ll swing by another farmhouse I was scoping out before I decided to turn nocturnal. I never met the people who used to live there, but I remember Mum telling me they liked their privacy. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind me visiting now though.
Also, there’s a woodland between here and there and I might be able to find some leaves to kick about a bit. I think that would make me feel close to my sister again.
I’ll check back in later.
*
I’m still alive, but only just.
I made it through the woods just fine (only the odd leaf on the forest floor at the moment though, sadly), the trouble started at the farmhouse. I couldn’t get in – the doors and windows were barricaded – so I tried one of the outbuildings. Locked. It had a cat flap though.
My first instinct was to leave it, but then I wondered if there might be something useful inside. Lord knows what thinking about it now. I lifted the cat flap with one hand and shone the torch beam through with my other. That’s when an ugly dived at my pinkies. Luckily, it misjudged its leap and got a mouthful of plastic cat flap instead. As for me, I fell backwards onto my bum.
Next, the damn thing started bashing on the door from the inside. I don’t think it could ever have got out, but the noise attracted more uglies from out of nowhere. I only just managed to outmanoeuvre them and hightail it back into the woods.
That’s not the worst of it though. On the way back my leg started to hurt. A lot.
*
I woke up this morning and I’m walking with a limp. It’s funny, Dad had a limp when he and Mum died. He was nailing planks of wood across our windows and doors because there was no signal (as per bloody usual) and we thought that what was happening here was probably happening everywhere. It's only recently that I realised this was an isolated, local outbreak. Anyway, Dad dropped the hammer onto his toe, he always was useless at DIY. I think it was only a couple of hours after that when he and Mum were taken.
It was like a wave of death. No, not like, that’s exactly what it was. A hoard of uglies swept through the village, probably originating from the secret research facility in the woods we're not supposed to know about. My sister and I wouldn’t have had a prayer if Mum and Dad hadn’t charged down the first few that got into our house. They gave us just enough time to escape, to run away and leave them to die. My sister was screaming all the way and I had to drag her like she was four again.
She wouldn’t speak to me for a few days after that. I didn’t blame her, I hated myself too. But I would have hated myself even more if I hadn’t done what I did next. On my own, I snuck back into our house with the crowbar I found here. Then I dispatched my parents. I can’t bring myself to type it any other way. It wasn’t like in the movies, I didn’t pound their skulls into mush whilst sobbing, ‘Why?’ over and over again. I just found them, or what was left of them, forced the crowbar through each of their eye sockets, and came straight back here.
Then came the crying.
*
I haven’t told you about the heavy-duty gloves yet, have I?
After I got back from our old house, my sister started speaking to me again. A shared, day-long cry will do that for sisters. Once we felt up to it, we decided to explore the parts of the farmhouse we hadn’t searched yet. All the bedrooms were empty, only a few belongings flung about the place (I suspect the previous tenants left in a hurry). The problem came when we investigated the attic. Once we’d opened the ceiling panel in the upstairs hallway, once we’d pulled the compact staircase down, I went up. My sister stood at the top of the hatchway shining the torch beam over my shoulder. And that’s when it touched me. Terrified, I fell to my left, screaming as the thing came crashing down on top of me. I was yelling things like, ‘Shoot it!’ and, ‘Run!’ but my sister was just laughing her head off. I soon realised that my attacker was in fact a shop-window mannequin.
I think the people who previously lived here must have been arty (or into some seriously freaky stuff) because the mannequin was dressed in scarves, bandannas, ties, watches – loads of things. The rest of the attic was pretty empty but at least we got the mannequin’s gloves.
*
I’m not feeling good at the moment. I’ve got a sore throat and I’ve coughed up blood a couple of times. My leg pain is getting worse too.
I don’t think I’ll go out tonight. I have enough tins left and one of them is a Full English In A Can. Sounds pretty disgusting, but intriguing at the same time. I’ve been saving it for near the end. A sort of consolation prize.
*
There are two mattresses down here. Obviously one is mine, and the other one was my sister’s. After she died, I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it. I don’t have a photo of her, only Guitar Girl’s. Her bed is the only thing of hers I have left. And she didn’t even sleep in it that many times.
*
The tinned Full English was vile! You’ve got to laugh though, what else can you do?
*
I’m crying as I write this. Tears of sorrow, shame and regret.
It happened as we were searching a cottage just off of the main road. We’d used Old Trusty to get inside, and I’d rushed straight into the kitchen to find the food. We’d run out more than a day before and I was famished. My sister followed me into the kitchen, a wide grin on her pretty little face because I was sitting there with an open can of beans. Then one of them came at her from behind. I must have walked right past it on my stupid way to the cupboards. It bit into her neck and blood gushed over the tiles in a torrent. As she yelled out in agony, I leapt up and implanted the crowbar right into the thing’s skull. It crumpled to the floor, but the damage was done.
‘Don’t let me lose myself.’ That was the last thing my sister whispered to me before she passed out. Her wound was much more severe than mine is, and much closer to the brain. That seems to make it quicker. I took grandpa’s revolver from behind my back and blew her brains out.
I buried her in the back garden.
*
After my sister died I went kind of crazy. I took Old Trusty out across the fields and pulverised every ugly I could find. I don’t even remember it that well, it was just, find, kill, find, kill…
We’d only been going out in daylight before then but, in my anger, I carried on through the nights. That’s how I learned about their inability to evade in darkness. Eventually, though, one got me. I found three munching on a dead cow and ran straight at them. Took out the first two easily enough, but the third managed to scratch my leg with a bloody fingernail just before I clobbered it into oblivion. Once I realised its nail had broken the skin, it was like a switch had been flicked inside me. That’s it, I’m dead too. I lost my bloodlust and came back here.
*
If none of this had happened, I think my sister would have eventually gone into medicine. I was doing okay at College but she was top of her class at school. And she had a really kind nature too. She’d never squish any bugs that got trapped in our house; she’d get a glass, scoop the little critter up and seal it inside with a book. Then she’d take it outside and release it, even if it was a wasp.
*
I’ve decided that here’s not the place. I'll hit Submit and then I’m going to do it in those woods I wrote about; consider this diary as my Note. I’ll be able to find a nice spot to sit and look at the trees, some place that's calm and peaceful. I’m going to leave the picture of Guitar Girl in this cellar, she belongs in this house. The tree leaves will remind me of my sister more than any photo ever could anyway.
I guess all that’s left to say is thank you for listening.
I know it’s possible that no one will ever read this, but that’s not really the point is it?
Love,
X

Hey guys.
First off I wanna say that I am not quite sure if I am in the right sub-reddit.
I am a landlord experiencing problems with my tenant. Here is the story.
So I bought an apartment with the hopes of moving out of my parents house. It took a while but I had it almost finished. It is in a nice place, in a nice compound. (for anonymities sake I wont mention the currency) The current rent in a place like that, with the level of finish and care I took while finishing could be anywhere from 20-30k/ month WITHOUT furniture. Now the state that my apartment is in is full kitchen and bathroom, but no furniture like beds and stuff.
I had this friend who was in a dire need for an apartment. He had been complaining for a year to me about abusive family and depression and I really wanted to help him. So, I offered that he rents in the master bedroom. That was around January when the apartment was not all there yet. his room was mostly finished but was missing some minor things.
The offer included rent to be paid as furniture where I receive rent of around 5k in furnishing and 2k in utilities per month. This is chump change compared to what the apartment is worth, but I wanted to help a friend. Note that this friend is also my partner in my business.
I had not known prior but suddenly my friend had developed OCD. Which, he claims, makes him totally in capable of doing anything if someone enters his room or touches his stuff. he needs to spend a whole day deep cleaning it if that happens (he isnt a neat freak cause he doesnt mind his own messes). Mind you I have not moved in yet, as I still dont have any furniture to use so, until I save up some money I won't be moving in anytime soon.
Here is the problem. At every SINGLE step. whether its people installing his AC for him, me getting him a plumber to install or fix something etc. etc. he constantly wants me to postpone. the apartment got heavily delayed cause he doesnt want people coming in. I respected his space and his needs as much as I can. Finally the apartment is complete, now I need the company I bought it from to inspect it in order to finalize the contract (there is a shitty part of the contract where it becomes null if I made changes to the apartment that were not approved, not to mention 60k worth of fees will be refunded to me if they approve it). I had booked with them, and told him a MONTH in advance that they are coming at so and so day and they will be there at a specific time, right before his work starts but late enough for him to be up (He works from home). all of a sudden, two workdays before they come he is telling me that he is swamped and needs me to move the date and is making a fuss about it.
I told him that I am not sure if I can move it since I confirmed, but I will try my best, and that he needs to be prepared incase I can't move it. (mind you, all that will happen at worst is some people enter his room and measure some walls and windows for 30 mins then leave)
The real problem is that I am exhausted. He is my best friend, and partner in my company, but goddamn I am exhausted from constantly trying to meet his needs. I think I do not want him to rent with me anymore. we do not have an official contract, and I in no means want to abuse him in anyway. I dont care if he takes the furniture he bought (literally just a bed and a desk), but I am tired of all the fuss and pandering and I don't know what to do. Should I wait a year and tell him its time? Am I wrong as a landlord to do this? I don't know what to think.