Smack the Dolly.

Henry Kassen was biting his tongue again. It was a completely subconscious act, usually spurred by scenes of violence on television or his own anger flaring. The tip of his tongue would slip out before his teeth closed down on it. He had only been angry enough to draw from blood it on a handful occasions. On another, he nearly severed the tip clean off. Everybody who knew Henry knew that the tip of Henry's tongue meant bad things would surely follow, and they took every opportunity to avoid him.

Dr. LaPage simply noted it on her legal pad and moved the session forward.

"Did I say something to anger you, Mr. Kassen?" she asked calmly. He wasn't the first man with anger management issues to walk through her door. She knew the key to keeping these type of patients under control was to show no sign of intimidation, give them nothing to glom onto. And if that failed, there was always the high-powered mace in her front-left pocket.

"I honestly don't remember the question," he said, lying of course. It was the first question she had asked and already he wanted to leave.

"I was wondering what brought you here today."

"Isn't it in your file?" he asked, hoping the last word sounded more like "fuck off".

"Just wanted to hear your version of what happened," she said, trying to make her tone as sincere as possible.

He shifted in his seat, thought for a moment. Then it came out. Much to her surprise, his version didn't deviate much from the police record. He and his girlfriend were having a house warming party. He couldn't remember what set him off exactly. He just remembered yelling a lot. People looking embarrassed and excusing themselves from the party. Ally was crying. She was always crying. Always afraid of him. Like he was some kind of fucking monster.

He grabbed her. He never laid a hand on her before, but this time... It was too much of something. He was too angry. She was too close. Whatever.

It could have been bad. Real bad. He had her pinned to the kitchen counter by her neck. The only reason he hesitated was because he couldn't decide whether to smash her face in, or just put more pressure on her neck until it snapped. That hesitation probably saved her life, his fist smashing into the countertop repeatedly, bits of broken ceramic burying into his knuckles. He only stopped when he was unable to make a fist anymore.

He shifted in his seat again, scratching at the bandage on his right hand.

"How does it feel?" Dr. LaPage asked, looking his hand over.

"Better," he replied. "I can bend the fingers again." An uncomfortable moment of silence passed between them, Dr. LaPage studying Henry's face, Henry studying the pattern on the carpet.

"You have a lot of anger inside you." It wasn't a question.

"I don't... yeah. I guess."

"Tell me about the things that make you angry."

"Lots of things." He paused, then added: "Too many things." She waited for more, but it never came. She considered pushing him further.

"Does Ally make you angry?" she asked instead.

"No," he said shaking his head. "Not a damn thing. But she always sets me off. I can't... It isn't what she does, it's what she is." He looked up at Dr. LaPage, unsure of whether or not continue, wearing the same look of pained confusion most people had in her chair. She nodded, motioning to continue.

"She's too meek," he said. "She's funny and sweet and everybody loves being around her, but... I see the way she behaves, trying to minimize herself, stay out of the way."

"Whose way?"

"I dunno... the world's? She was like that when we first met. I thought it was cute. She... I guess I got tired of it. Wanted to scare her out of it, get her to react... stand up for herself. But she never did, and I just got worse and worse."

"So you get angry with her to try and help her?" Dr. LaPage asked, her voice flat, devoid of any judgement. The question still hits Henry hard. His shoulders slump and he shakes his head.

"No." The word comes out wet-sounding. "I think I just like to scare her. I used to... Now... Now I just want to hurt her." He swallows hard, trying to force down the lump he can feel growing in his throat. "I don't want to be this way, but... I don't know how to make it stop."

"Have you tried expending your anger in a more constructive way?" Dr. LaPage asked. "Exercise, something creative?"

"I tried," he says. "I started doing weight training and light boxing at the local gym."

"And?"

"Anger was still there. Only... now I can hit even harder." He slid down in his chair. Sweat was dribbling down his pale face. Whatever he was wrestling with was gradually eating away at him inside and the strain of all that stress was finally catching up with him. Dr. LaPage looked over his file for moment, then set her pen and legal pad onto the small coffee table in front of her and got up.

"I think I have something that will help," she said walking over to a door on the far side of the room.

"Drugs?" Henry asked, managing to sound both hopeful and resigned simultaneously.

"No, something different," she said. "You aren't the only person facing these problems, Henry." It was the first time she had used his name during the session. She usually dropped the formalities when she needed her patient to trust her. She knew that he would reject her idea initially, but they all came around sooner or later. "I've been trying to discover some non-violent way for people with anger... real anger, deep-seated, festering in the bones. You know what I found?" Henry shook his head.

She opened the door to a small closet. Inside a large, two vinyl black bags hanged from the coat rack, the inward gust of wind from opening the door causing them to sway gently back and forth.

"Violence," she continued, then stepped into the closet and wrapped her arms around one of the bags. She lifted with a grunt and, much stronger than she appeared, dragged the bag into the room and laid it on the ground. "Some people have so much rage... It's hard to explain, but it changes them. They almost rot from the inside by the stress of it all. Turns them dark."

She unzipped the bag half-way then stopped. "It's as if they have to hurt something in order to make them feel better about themselves." She unzipped the bag further, then lifted the body of a young blonde woman out.

Henry didn't react at first, didn't know how to...

"What's that?" he asked quietly.

"This is Sarah," Dr. LaPage responded. She lifted the young girl's arm, then let it drop.

"Is she...?" Henry started, but couldn't finish. Dr. LaPage burst into laughter.
"Oh god, no!" she said, shaking her head. "But I'm sure my friend appreciates the compliment." Again, Henry didn't know how to respond. Dr. LaPage laughed again. "Not her! I have a friend who does practical make-up effects for television, but makes these life-like dolls to supplement his income. People mostly use them for sexual purposes, although he tells me some of his customers have actual relationships with them." She looked the blonde doll's face over. "I guess I can see how some people manage to fool themselves. Looks pretty realistic."

Henry got up and approached the doctor and the doll cautiously. He knelt down, studying it over. He nodded his head in agreement. It did look pretty real.

"He made this one for me special," she said admiringly. "It's helped lot of very angry patients of mine. I think she can help you too." She turned it so it was facing him, and a shudder of recognition ran down his spine. He didn't know if it was the close-cropped blonde hair or the green eyes piercing through, but something about the doll reminded him of Ally. He didn't like it.

"You can hit it if you want," Dr. LaPage said evenly. "That's what it was made for..."

Henry's eyes darted between the doctor and the doll uneasily. "I don't... What is this?"

"Touch it," she said, reaching out and taking his hand, placing it on the doll's arm. "Pinch it." At first he didn't move, then reluctantly he pinched the doll's skin between his finger and thumb. Much to his surprise, he felt the skin lift gently from the muscle. Did this have muscles? When he released the skin two white thumbprints were left behind, quickly flushing red. Henry's mouth gaped.

"How?"

"He built it in layers. Started with bones made out of plaster. Went from there. Even created a circulatory system from rubber tubing. The man is a mad genius." Henry still looked dumbfounded. "If you hit her, she bruises. If you cut her, she bleeds. Put your head against her chest." He did. A steady thump, almost as real as a regular heartbeat except for the steady whirring noise underneath. "You can do anything you want to her. You can make as big of a mess as you want." She had been lowering her voice all throughout her "pitch", and at this point she was barely audible, as if sharing a special secret. "I think you'll like it."

Henry's mind was racing. He didn't recall nodding to the doctor, but she left the room. When they were alone, Henry finished unzipping the bag.

Forty-five minutes later Henry sat against the wall, sweaty and panting. He couldn't believe how much blood there was, didn't remember taking off his shirt, didn't didn't remember how she got like... that. Dr. LaPage came back, saw the mess he made. He apologized for the carpet. She asked if he enjoyed himself. He broke down into sobs. He then showered, changed into a fresh set of clothes (A request from the doctor that seemed so odd only a half hour ago). As he put on his new shirt he realized that he had smashed his cast apart, bits of the doll hanging off of it. He made two more appointments later that evening.

When he came home, Ally was waiting for him on the couch. She didn't turn around immediately. She seemed to steel herself before facing him. When she did, it was with a smile and a, "Hello sweetie." He hugged her tightly. She fussed over his still-healing hand. He fussed over a new cut on her hand. She laughed sweetly at his gentleness. They fell asleep in bed together listening the sounds of the world outside.

Henry dreamed he was eight years old, pulling the limbs off of his sister's Barbie. Except Barbie didn't bleed, Barbie didn't scream for him to stop in Ally's voice. After he was done, he put the remains of the doll into a small, black plastic bag and hanged it next to the second bag.

Henry's eyes opened and he woke from his sleep. He had forgotten about the second bag in Dr. LaPage's office, but now curiosity gnawed at him.

During his second visit he asked to look inside the second bag. Dr. LaPage obliged. Henry opened the closet and unzipped the top of the bag. Inside was a man, regular looks, short cropped hair like Henry's. He unzipped the bag the rest of the way. He took a step back in disgust when he saw the knife, the trail of split flesh it left, running all the way from the chest to the groin. Multiple stab wounds. Lots of blood. And a small, feminine handprint on the chest.

He looked to Dr. LaPage, hoping for answers deep down he already had.

"I haven't had time to patch that one up," was all she had to say. After what seemed like an eternity, she asked if he'd like to keep his scheduled appointments. Henry said that he would.

When he came home that night, Ally greeted him again with as much enthusiasm as the night before. They kissed. They hugged. They bit their tongues, nearly calling each other "doll."

----------------------
Credited to bunksteve.

This is kind of long so I've broken it into two parts.

First, I want to thank those of you who expressed concern about my well-being in the comments and through private messages. Yes, I'm still alive but not doing too well. I think I lost a good friend, and maybe even my family. For reasons I'd rather not get into right now, my wife and I are "on a break." She's staying at her mother's with our son. At least I know they'll be safe there.

Two weeks ago I was taking a long walk through an area of woods I usually don't visit. I needed to gather my thoughts. I hadn't experienced anything unusual recently. No blood, no late-night visitors at my window or on the roof, thank god. Still, the idea of the hole in Grandpa's story was troubling me. If I'd seen the blood more or less as he described, I was certain I'd find the hole too. More than that, I wanted to find it. I suppose that's natural. If you dread what you feel is inevitable, best get it out of the way sooner rather than later. But why him, and now me? The connection, if there is one, still escapes me.

Enjoying the warmer weather, I paused to take in the view. Deep in a thicket at the edge of a hill, a twisted little red tree caught my attention. Its rusty bark made it stand out from the neighboring trees, and I left the path for a better look. The gnarled branches would probably look menacing at night, but in the morning sun they had a certain beauty. A ways behind this tree, on the hillside, I saw more of them, and almost felt as if the bony red limbs were beckoning me forward. I was cautiously making my way down the slope when I noticed something unnatural sticking out of the ground. I got a little closer, grabbing tree trunks for support. It looked like the top of a buried chimney. My stomach took an instinctual dive, even before I saw the red drops.

Photo

Most of the snow had melted, but from what I could tell it wasn't a trail. There were tantalizingly few of them. This couldn't be the hole, could it? What are the odds it would still be around after all these decades? Besides, Grandpa never said anything about a pile of bricks. There was no nauseating stench either. It was about the right size, though. I hesitantly peered inside. The bricks gave way to compacted dirt after a few feet. Beyond that, it seemed to dissolve into blackness sooner than it should have. Definitely too deep to just go jumping in. Gazing down, I suddenly felt a wave of vertigo and found myself overcome with fear. No way in hell could I go down there.

Photo

I've already mentioned my friend Tom. Unsure where to go from here, I called him up and told him everything. I feel horribly guilty about this, because deep down, I think I knew exactly what I was doing. Call it cowardice, call it manipulation, call it whatever you want. But Tom was excited. He loves this kind of spooky stuff. Plus he's the most fearless guy I know. And not surprisingly, when I admitted my reluctance to go down despite a burning curiosity, he offered to check it out for me. I made only a half-hearted attempt to discourage him, saying it could be dangerous, but he shrugged off the warning. So we agreed on a plan and a date. He had some free time on Saturday, and would come with me to the site. He'd bring his own rope, a flashlight, and if it could be arranged, his friend with the camcorder who had shot the snow prints footage.

As it turns out his friend wasn't able to make it, but Tom didn't seem to mind. He assured me this was just a "scouting mission," and once he had a better idea of what was down there, the two of them could return later with more equipment. We parked my truck as close to the trail as possible before venturing off on foot. It only took a few minutes to reach the little red trees on the slope. When we got there Tom uncoiled a spool of knotted rope, at least forty feet long, and tied a large rock to one end. He dropped it into the darkness and finally we heard a distant thud, signaling bottom. Tom pulled up the slack and tied the other end securely to the nearest tree. We estimated the depth of the hole to be about 25 feet. I asked him again if he was sure about this. He flashed me a nervous smile and muttered, "yeah man, no problem." Tom's a pretty skinny guy but surprisingly strong, and a good climber. I took this picture as he entered the hole.

The Mire Men.

There they stood. Eight gangly creatures in an afternoon mire.

Putrid stench wafted silently in ruddy haze; stiff gales whipped with tarry skin as their fishers tridents dived.

Plodding every corner, their two feet never seemed to ache or seize as every last sleeping, exhausted being withered in the sun.

Their crimson beaks could sing with bells. Hollow and nonchalant was their cry -- their teeth gnashed with fervor as each trident did rise.

A frail, beaten man attempted in vain; fists of fury rained on one of their thorny hides: Not a dent, scratch or blemish could stain their blazing armour.

Riposte of not vengeance, but condescension was the delivers final exposition as the receiver lept out with a final sigh of demise.

However frail remains of light, each beast turned carrion over, bloated with fetid waters, stringy leftovers remained from what beaks could not pry away.

Slung on their backs, impaled and left to dry.

Mountains were they made, slumbering quietly outside their materials hides, stone and branch.

Twilight came, along their reed banks did they spy light of many pink with red.
Many feet came; over yonder hills, through steep valleys where these mountains stood.

In the center: One-hundred fold couldn't arrest their feelings, waving cinders to and throe over grass and dirt topped hills.

Loved ones were being dragged and tugged away from under crushing weights.
None noticed the notches on roots or dirt that slowly weaved around a bustling crowd of howling geese.

One by one: backs arched into the willows as the bone mountains arose bearing wicked tridents that drove the closest to fear.

Before they could scream, plenty were skewered. Some were clawed away to ribbons, grappled with wicked talons, eyes feasted upon through brutal pecking.
What was left, was added again.

Up yonder valley, eight mountains will make their home.

--------------------------
Credited to Latnak.

KFC.

I don't remember how old I was for that birthday. Dad had not returned from some business trip and mom was working late again. I had resigned myself to a boring birthday hunched up on the couch watching cartoons.

When mom arrived tired and apologetic I didn't give her a hard time about it. This wasn't the first time we had to postpone our plans due to her job, so I was surprised when she offered to take me to dinner. It was more like an order really, she wasn't going to disappoint me on my birthday, she said. I protested, but I knew it would be no use.

Since we were tight on money she suggested we go to the KFC nearby, and although the urban legends going around at the time of eyeless, beak-less freak chicken cooped up in cages had made a big impression on me, I agreed, if only to make it easier on her.

It was already dark outside and very few people occupied tables under the stinging white fluorescent light. I sat there looking at my styrofoam plate. Mom was bobbing her head from time to time trying not to fall asleep.

"Mommy, can I go play at the tubes," I asked, eyeing the big plastic maze of bright red and blue tunnels and boxes at the back of the building.

"Finish your food first. It's gonna get cold," she said, frowning a little. "Oh, what the hell," she added after a pause, "sure you can, sweetie." She smiled. "Don't take too long."

The thing was deserted. I climbed the hard plastic steps into the dim red box ignoring the slightly foul smell of dirty socks. Through a round, popped out submarine-like window I could see my mom in a far away table with her elbows on the table, resting her head on one hand.

I crawled on all fours through the warm and stuffy air and looked at my arms red-tinted in the light. The tunnel in front as well as the next cabin were blue. When I got there the only way to keep moving was through the next tube to the left. Seeing this one was red, I figured out the alternating pattern. The next cabin a bit in front of me also had a window like before. Under it for a second I saw someone's foot as they disappeared into the tube to the right. Excited to talk to another kid I said "Hey" and began moving faster. I heard him or her bumping up against the tunnel as they moved. Arriving at the red cabin I looked into the next tunnel, this time to the right, again catching only a glimpse of a Power-Rangers-themed shoe. They're playing races, I thought, and I was determined to catch up. I crawled as fast as I could into the darker blue tube, sweating and trying not to breathe.

I had finally caught up! There I was in the red light and the awful smell of piss. I was looking down at my hands, still on all fours, nauseous and panting. In front of me was the colorful Power Rangers shoe I saw before. Grinning as I looked up I saw the kid's calf, the whole leg. I was confused. I squinted in the dim light trying to find out what was going on. Where was he hiding? As soon as I came closer the disembodied limb convulsed as if a fish out of the water and moved like an epileptic inchworm far into the tunnel, bumping up against the walls in a violent craze.

Needless to say, I ran crying to my mom. I didn't finish my chicken.

A while ago I visited the same place with some friends. It didn't look at all like I remembered from my childhood. There's many things I could attribute it to. One being the apparent change in size of things from when I was little now that I've grown, a phenomenon everyone knows well, or maybe some physical change, like a renovation or a replacement. But what struck me in that place was the play-tubes at the back of the building: one single set of tubes, with two cabins at either side, straight from one side to the other, no turns, and no space for there to have ever been anything else.

----------------------------
Credited to WrongEnd.

I still wasn't convinced we were in danger. Danger of what, after all? I accepted the fact that I couldn't explain my son's truck or the blood, while convincing myself there was a sane, harmless explanation I hadn't thought of yet. Things had been quiet lately, until last night.

I think I saw it.

It was almost midnight, and my wife and son were sleeping. I was about to go to bed myself when there was another crash at the back deck. The motion light flared up. It was those garden pots again. I felt uneasy though. Didn't think there had been much wind that night. I lost track of time standing behind the sliding glass door, watching my backyard. No movement. I scanned back and forth, back and forth, squinting my eyes to look past the farthest trees in the light's periphery. Nothing but familiar forms, shadows...and suddenly there it was, something that didn't belong. A hazy black oblong shape near the treetops, almost like a giant kidney bean, supported on what looked like a thin, curvy stalk. Against the trees, it was too well camouflaged to really stand out on its own – until it began moving, right as the light shut back off. In those few seconds I could make out a clear left-to-right bobbing motion, like something lumbering through the trees. The return to blackness was torture. I wanted to step outside, trigger the motion light again, but found myself frozen. Not necessarily with fear, but with awestruck wonder, as if I had just witnessed something darkly magical. It's hard to describe.

More anxious waiting ensued. It was cold in front of the glass but I could feel sweat on my forehead. I wasn't sure what to do until a soft crunching of snow came from somewhere in the backyard. I hoped whatever it was would activate the light, but the crunches veered around the deck to the side of the house. I tried to follow them while running to my bedroom for the shotgun. My wife was still asleep, and so was my son when I checked on him. The noises stopped.

Wandering to the kitchen, I thought I saw movement from the window by the sink. I moved closer. The light under the microwave was on but by now I was too scared to turn it off, even though this made it difficult to see outside. Inches from the pane, I couldn't really make anything out, just reflections and blackness. My breathing fogged the glass, so I wiped it away to see better. But the fogging breath kept coming. It was on the other side of the window.

I just about lost it, and proceeded to race around the house shutting blinds. After several minutes there was a thump on the roof, then more silence. I turned on more lights, but didn't want to wake my family and made as little noise as possible. Everything was dead quiet except for the thudding of my own heart. I don't think I was fully rational at this point, because ironically I had become too calm. I stepped into the den and sat down in a corner rocking chair, shotgun on my lap, eyes glued to the fireplace, just listening and rocking. The squeak of the chair became hypnotic. I don't remember falling asleep.

Woke up at dawn this morning. When I stepped outside there was more blood. Another trail from roof to ground and into the trees, and another impossible situation because there are no footprints in the snow. A weird coppery, musky odor was hanging in the air. I ran through the woods following the blood, found that it got much thicker and ended in the same meadow by the stream. But not in the same way.

I realize the brain is a natural pattern-seeker, will try to make order from chaos. Elephants in the clouds, divine faces on burnt toast, that sort of thing. But this. This has to be deliberate, made for me to see. And with unknown intentions. Judge for yourself.

photos

If I look for it, really look for it, I think I'll find the hole. I think that's what it wants. Then maybe this can be over.

Reflection.

Mirrors surround us, human beings, through all our history. Even before the first mirror was invented, one could see his reflection in some body of water. Whatever happened in the world, the mirrors would reflect everything and everyone. They have retained the millions of faces including the ones that belonged to madmen, miscreants and murderers.

In the middle of the night, I woke up in cold sweat -- for the third time in a week. I couldn't sleep anymore thinking about the creature who wanted to hurt me and my children. I lived in a constant fear, and noone could help me, neither police, nor a psychoanalist. The most terrible thing was that I couldn't tell anyone the whole truth, and if I did, I would end up in a lunatic asylum. They would take away my kids and find them another family, which would be obviously better than living with a schizophreniac mother.

It started about a year ago when my husband was found dead in a hotel where he stayed while going on a business trip to another town. He would go in such journeys quite often, and I never thought that something terrible could happen. I still remember that morning when I got a phone call, and that voice told me that gruesome news. They found him before a broken mirror with a shard of glass in his hand. His throat was slit, and there were some other cuts on his body. The police thought that he did it himself because the door was closed from inside. However, I knew he would never do this, would never leave us alone, and even if he wanted to commit suicide, why would he choose such a horrible way?

First months after his death I didn't imagine that someone could threaten me. Of course, I was depressed, and my life turned much harder, but it was not untill that night when an unspeakable fear took over my mind. I woke up and went to the bathroom when I saw something strange while passing by a mirror in the hallway. There was something wrong with my reflection. It could be just some kind of optical illusion what is not unusual when you look at things in the dark. However, when I went closer to the mirror, I saw something that made me jump in my skin.

It was not me in the mirror -- in fact, it looked like some grotesque version of me. The back was crooked a bit, and the neck was unnaturally elongated. Its ashen face looked like a mask copying some of my features, but distorting them in some eerie way. The thing in the mirror moved, and its movements didn't seem human. Scared out of my wits, I still tried to think rationally, and I turned on the light.

The thing disappeared. In the mirror, I could see only my usual doppelganger, although it looked really frightened. I told myself that it had been an illusion, a weird play of light and darkness. But in the morning I remembered that I had seen, and I could no more approach any mirror. At least, I'd never allow myself to get in a dark room where would be anything where you can see your reflection.

Now imagine yourself having a job where you have to meet a lot of people, where you have to worry about the way you look, and the sheer idea of looking into a mirror makes hair on your neck stand up. The worst thing was that I was afraid not only for myself, but for my children too. I told them not to look in the mirror when nobody's around. Of course, they laughed at me telling that I was crazy. What could I do? I didn't know anything about that creature, and I wasn't even sure that it was real. My rational self tried to persuade that it didn't exist, that it couldn't exist from any reasonable point of view. But I still couldn't chase away an idea that behind this cold glass surface hid someone or something that expected me to make some fatal mistake.

One night my daughter went to her friend for a slumber party. There, they played some stupid old game, summoning Bloody Mary or some other boogeyman. My daughter had to go in a dark room and stand before a mirror. She remembered that I had forbidden this, and although she had never believed me, that time she hesitated for some reason. The other kids laughed at her saying that her mother was away, and she could do whatever she wanted. She agreed.

I still don't know the exact details of what happened. Different people would tell me different things. At some point, they had heard her scream, so they came in and found her on the floor with several burns on her arms and shoulders. She was taken to a hospital where she would recover her consciousness only in the morning. Medics couldn't give me any answers, just like the cops who investigated my husband's death. With tears in my eyes, I took her home with no idea what had happened to her. All I knew, was that my daughter had changed. First, I thought that it was a consequence of a shock that she had survived, and her doctors told me the same. Then I started to understand that something indeed was wrong.

My daughter had never been too talkative, but after that accident she completely retired into herself. I would try to talk to her, but I would hear only insults. Later, I learned that she started to skip her classes, and at some point, one of our neighbors spotted her torturing animals. I didn't understand what was going on with her. Some people proposed me to get her to a doctor, the others, probably inseriously, advised to call a priest who would exorcise an evil spirit from her. But I already suspected that this thing had nothing to do with an illness or religion. I started to think that something had killed my daughter, taken her form and replaced her.

This idea was absurd, and I knew that. At the same time, my fear kept growing worse. One night I caught her near my son's room with a pair of scissors. I asked her what she wanted to do, but she only laughed. I took the scissors away and told her to go to sleep, but she attacked me and hit me. Her punch was strong and painful, especially for a girl of her age. Then, I left all my doubts, and a single thought started gnawing my mind.

My son was three years younger than her, and I was afraid for him. I decided that if this thing had taked one of my kids, I couldn't allow it to hurt the other one. Only a terrible mother would leave her daughter alone, and only an even more terrible mother would let her son live under the same roof with a bloodthirsty creature. So, one day I took my son, and we drove to my mother. I've told him that we were only going to visit her for some days, and that his sister couldn't join us only because she had to prepare for her exams. I shamelessly lied, but it was a white lie. So I thought.

We've spent some days in safety. I still couldn't overcome my fear who got himself a new powerful ally -- the guilt. Again and again, I would think that my daughter needed my help. That I was wrong, and there was no monster in the mirror, and that leaving my daughter was an unexcusable mistake. I needed to be sure that all that I had done was right.

One day, I walked to a mirror in the living room and looked at it. I've seen myself, yes, I've seen myself. I didn't do it for nearly a year. My skin was creeping, and my hands were shaking -- I felt something strange, something unusual. “I have nothing to fear, I have nothing to fear”, I whispered to myself.

I was about to be moved in tears. My daughter could be a victim of some nervous breakdown, maybe, it was my fault, as I didn't pay enough attention to her. She was in such a difficult age! I hated that stupid irrational fear, and I hated myself for giving up to it. All I wanted was to go back, to find her wherever she was, and whatever she had gone through because of me, just to give her a hug, to tell her that no word can make her forgive me.

Suddenly, I remembered that the creature could appear only in the dark. This thought struck me. I needed to be sure. I needed to see myself in the night.

At night, I took a candle and lit it before the same mirror. I made sure that nobody could hear me and looked into the mirror. I looked myself into the eyes. My face was covered by shadows, my eyes were pitch black, but it was me. Always me. I stared upon my double, and I didn't notice myself that I couldn't move my sight away. I seemed to be hypnotized.

My reflection started to get more and more disfigured. Its neck stretched out, its back bent, and its teeth grew up so much that hey were sticking out of its mouth. I wanted to run, but I felt like I was paralyzed. I wanted to scream, but only a yelp could break out of my throat. The creature stretched out its arms, and I saw that the candle's flame swayed.

Its fingers touched my arms, and a burn brought me back from that mezmerized state. I screamed and waved my arms, but its grip was too tight. Something pulled me forward, and I felt myself sinking in some large and empty space. I had no power over my body being carried into some distant light which I first took for my candle's reflection. I faced the light, and it consumed me whole.

I was no more. Nothing was left of me. Now I can only think. Think about my destroyed life. Think about the horrible things that this creature wearing my face and speaking with my voice can do to my boy. But I have a hope, a hope that one day you'll enter a dark room and look yourself into the eyes.

And then you'll look into my eyes.

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Credited to CandleClock.

The Black Door.

There is a strange black door in my house. My parents call it, "The Oak Door." I just refer to it as the black door. Its presence is not what is odd--the door has always been there--I've just never seen what exactly is behind it. But even if I wanted to, which I have, I wouldn't be able to open it. Unlike the other doors in my house, this one is latched on both sides and there are no remnants of there ever being a doorknob present. I also can't see underneath the door because there is no space to look through--the bottom goes down to the floorboards.

Whenever my curiosity gets to me, I sit in front of the black door and try to imagine what could possibly be behind it. I never imagine anything good. My parents almost always catch me sitting there stuck in my thoughts and reprimand me. They wave their finger in my face and tell me that I need to stay away from the oak door--that everything will be explained in time. They make me sit in a wooden chair at the end of the hallway to think about what I've done. I still can't think of what I've done wrong.

Sometimes I wonder if the door has something to do with why my mother weeps at night, why my father has to sing her to sleep, why I hear them whisper to each other after dinner, why they look at me with such pain in their eyes. Sometimes I wonder if they will ever let me know.

One morning, just after I had woken up, I saw my father go down into the basement and come back up with a toolbox. He took out a screwdriver with a yellow handle and began to loosen the screws in the latches. As quickly as my excitement came, it went. Once a screw would fall to the floor, he would put a newer, shinier one in. Each screw seemed like a slap in the face--a cruel reminder that I could never possess the knowledge of what they were keeping hidden from me. I pressed my cheek against the cold wall and watched him finish. He stepped back from the door and let out a sharp scream. The scream startled me badly, and I watched as my mother quickly ran to his aid asking him if he were hurt. My father stepped on a screw that had fallen to the floor and it broke through the skin. Before even looking at the wound, he walked over to me, gently lifted up my chin and smiled. He told me not to worry.

My mother became sick a few days later. She would sleep for most of the day and when she awoke, she would drag her body to the kitchen and just sit there, staring at the tiles of the kitchen wall. Her body looked as though it was wasting away and her collarbones stood out at sharp, jagged edges. Some nights I would see her hitting my father, cursing at him and telling him how unfair our lives were. He would hold her body close to his and rest his cheek on her hair, swaying her back and forth, humming a song. I would sing the same song in my head before I fell asleep.

I heard my father scream. It terrified me. His scream wasn't a typical scream--it bellowed with horror and pain and agony. I sat up in my bed afraid to move, knowing something horrible had happened. I waited a few moments, hoping to hear him shout that everything was fine, hoping to see him walk down the hallway and tell me not to worry. What I heard was far worse. It was silence. I walked over to my parent's bedroom as quietly as I could but my footsteps were unbearably heavy. The floorboards creaked in agony, louder than they ever have, and my breaths were loud pants, as if they came from an exhausted dog. I put my ear close to their door and heard a faint gurgling sound followed by slow, rhythmic steps pacing back and forth, back and forth. They finally came to a stop, as did the gurgling. I cautiously turned the handle and cracked the door open, only a sliver. I bit my tongue so hard to keep myself quiet, I wasn't sure if my eyes were watering from the pain or from the terror that rose within me. My mother's back faced me and she kneeled on the ground, hunched over. She had gone mad. My father--he sat there on the floor, blood bubbling from the side of his neck and pouring into his shirt. His innards lay in his lap in a neat pile while my mother devoured his arm, pulling her head back to break his elastic skin. My father couldn't be alive, it was impossible, but his eyes--they stared straight in my direction, almost...apologetically. My heart was pounding in my head. I turned the doorknob and tried to shut the door but every sound seemed to be amplified. My mother paused for a moment and was silent--she was listening. Her head quickly moved from side to side, scouting the ends of the room, looking for me. She began to eat again.

I left the door open and began sneaking down the hallway. I was frantic but I had to move slowly, I knew any sound would mean my death. I reached the chair at the end of the hallway and lifted it off the ground. The weight seemed too much for me to carry, but I still managed to bring it back. I quietly brought the chair close to their door, the floorboards screaming hysterically, and shut my parent's bedroom locking them both inside. Almost immediately, the walls began to shake and I could see the force of my mother's blows from my side of the door.

"The black door... the black door." The words ran through my mind, I was mouthing them unknowingly. I knew the door had something to do with the nightmare I was in. I ran into the basement and took out the yellow screwdriver from my father's toolbox. My hands shook uncontrollably as I began unscrewing the latches, tears rolling down my face. The screws fell hard onto the floor and my mother's strikes became even louder. The last screw was out but the door still stood there, balancing on its own weight. I punched it and kicked it and cried out for help until the door finally fell toward me with a deafening thud. Behind the door stood an old, crumbling brick wall and a warm light shone from behind a single brick that lay at my eye level. I placed my hand over the brick and it fell through to the other side. Warm light poured in and my eyes tried to adjust. Everything was in a haze until I finally fixed my eyes upon what was behind the black door. Massive plants swayed back and forth, resting upon floors of green. A pastel blue with swirls of white touched these plants and extended up, further than my sight would permit me. I saw boys that had different features than that of my own walking together and laughing together. A different kind of air blew lightly against my face, one I had never felt or smelled before. I continued screaming for help, still terrified but amazed by what lay beyond the door. And then, a man dressed all in black, a man I had never seen before, looked at me and placed the brick back into the wall.

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Credited to robotsynthesis.