I am currently writing this from the confinements of my dusty and moist closet. A strange combination, but at the moment, the least of my worries. I’m using speech to text, as I currently am not in…the best of states to type this physically. Do not exit. Do not panick. If the situation you are about to read is strangely similar to one you are currently in, run. Pack your bags, no, don’t even bother doing that. Just grab the essentials, whatever you really need, and then leave everything behind. You have a spouse? Kids? Loved ones? Doesn’t matter. Their screwed too if He has set His eyes on you. Whether you might just be reading this for some sick sort of entertainment, or you feel that you might be slowly crawling to a similar demise as mine, pay attention. I wouldn’t want even the worst of my enemies to befall the same fate as me.
Now, I do not have much time, so let’s begin, shall we?
My parents divorced when I was a child and I was left to live alone with my mother. I don’t have anything bad to say about her. She was a good mom. I could decide to play her as the perpetrator in all this and blame what eventually became of my sad life on her, but I doubt she knew any better of what she was getting me into. After my father left, my mom had a hard time supporting me. She tried very hard, working part-time jobs wherever she could to try and earn enough money, but that also meant I barely ever saw her. We weren’t really living, just surviving.
Eventually my mom got into a lot of debt and couldn’t pay off her mortgage, leaving us homeless and on the streets. That’s probably why when my mom got an email one day when checking her inbox at the library, she immediately told me to grab my, (albeit small), hoard of junk and bought us a cab with the remaining money she had left across the country.
I would later come to find out that email was from a business that I cannot find existence of no matter how hard I search, asking my mother if she would be willing to work for them. I think my mom was so desperate at the time that she didn’t even bother questioning how somebody knew she was in need of a job and managed to get her email from across the country.
So, we moved. I will not say the name of the town, because I have come to find out It does not exist. It can’t be located on a map, and nobody has ever heard of it. I still refuse to say its name out of fear one of you curious readers might find a way to find it and walk the same path I did. The town was small, with a population of no more than around 1,000 people in tightly-knit communities.
A singular school with a small town center was all there was. I was suspicious. My mom was elated: new job, new life, new opportunities. At one point I was fearful she might have a heart attack and collapse right in front of me. The job mysteriously came with a small townhouse on the edge of town. I’ve never heard of a company giving its employees a house just for accepting the job, but I pushed my paranoid feelings away in favor of my mom and her happiness.
A few months passed and not much happened. My mom went to work, I went to school. There were around 100 kids in the town, but none seemed to want to come near me. I wasn’t the most social child, but having another kid snarl at you like a dog and walk away as if you were nothing more than gum on their shoes is a rough way to begin life in a new habitat.
Eventually, I would come to know they didn’t come near me because they feared Him and His wrath. He had already staked his claim on me. I made no friends and became mildly depressed over the course of those few first months. That was when my mom sat me down at dinner and talked to me. I hate her for it. I love her so much, but I hate her for what her naive nature would come to put me through.
“Aya?” My mom said from across me at the dinner table. She had made steak with some mashed potatoes. Her plate was almost cleared. I had barely touched mine, moving my mush of potatoes back and forth absent-mindedly. I looked up at her. “Yeah?” I replied. She sighed deeply and set down her fork before sitting up straight. I stifled a groan. Whenever mom got serious she acted like a business woman about to take her first interview; proper, mature, and utterly annoying.
“Yes, mom?” I repeated, trying to hide the tint of annoyance coating my tongue. “Watch your tone.” She said sternly. Taking a deep breath she leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms like a disappointed mother. Maybe she was. “I scheduled a playdate for you with the neighbour’s son.” I stopped abusing my meal for a moment to look up at my mom. I was 14. A bit old for “playdates”.
“A playdate, mom? Really? I’m not an 8 year old kid who needs help finding people to play with.” I said, beginning to tap my fork on the table to calm myself. “Is that right? Because by what I’ve seen, we’ve been here for 5 months now and I haven’t seen you talk to a single kid.” “That’s not my fault. I’ve tried, it’s just they won’t-“ “Won’t what?!” My mom snapped, slamming her hands on the table.
“I am doing this all for you! For your sake! If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be in this situation, clawing nail and teeth to make a living just to support your pathetic being!!” She screamed, her chest heaving at the end of her rant.
I stayed silent. My mom sighed and leaned back, rubbing her head. “You’re going to have that playdate, Aya. Whether you want it or not. He’s coming over tomorrow. Go to your room. Now.” I obeyed, silently exiting the dining table and heading up the stairs to my room. I didn’t tell my mom that night that I felt something comforting me, laying behind me as I cried into my pillow.
The next day I got up a bit earlier than my mom and got a head start to school. Everything was normal, if not a bit too normal. People were avoiding me more than usual, and I’ll admit I looked in the mirror a few times to check if I had some sort of animal on my head scaring people off. When I got home, I wasn’t entirely shocked to see a kid around my age sitting on the leather sofa in the living room. My mom was still at work though and the door was locked when I opened it, so I wasn’t sure how he got in. Strange. I decided to ignore it. I would come to regret that decision dearly.
“Hey,” I said. “You the kid I’m supposed to be having a ‘playdate’ with?” The boy turned to look at me slowly. He was cute, in that sort of shy kid way. Black hair tied into a small knot at the back of his head and brown eyes so dark they reminded me of an eclipse. He looked me over, as if calculating something, before giving me a warm smile and standing. “I am. Nice to meet you. My names Curre. Yours?” He said, holding out his hand. I took it. It was cold. Too cold for a human. I ignored it. It was winter anyways. I regret every decision I made.
Surprisingly (it really wasn’t. He gets what He wants) we hit it off. He liked everything I liked, was fun to talk to, and speaking to him didn’t feel forced or awkward.
Eventually came night and He left after we agreed to meet at the park the next day. Fast forward 3 years, we became the best of friends. We always met up at my house or the park (Never His house. I should’ve questioned why.) and I throughly enjoyed being friends with Him. That was when it happened. My mom got into a car accident that ultimately ended her life. Because I still wasn’t 18, I had to leave to live with my uncles. The only problem was telling Curre.
“Hey, Curre?” I asked, twirling my straw inside my strawberry milkshake. We were at a small café at the edge of town- I’d called him over saying I had news. “Yeah?” Curre replied, looking up from his sundae. He still looked every bit the way He did when I’d first met him: hadn’t grown, neither shrunk an inch, same face, hairstyle, and voice. I swallowed. I really liked Curre. We were good friends. I’d miss Him. (He’d miss me too, but for other reasons.)
“I’m leaving. Moving, I mean. You know how my mom got into that accident and how I’m not old enough to live on my own and….” I trailed off, not knowing how to continue. To my shock, Curre smiled. “I am aware.” He said. “What?” I replied. “I know. You can’t stay here. You have to leave.” I stared at Curre blankly, like a deer caught in headlights. “You…do?” “Yes.” “Are you sad about it?” “Oh, God no. We’ll always be friends. No matter what. Go enjoy the time you have. I’ll be back sooner than you think.” He seemed…happy. Excited even. “I love a chase.” He added. I frowned but brushed Curre’s words off. He was strange sometimes.
“I have a gift for you,” He told me, reaching into his pocket and taking out a worn out compass. “It will help you in the future, so treasure it.” I held my hand out and took the compass before tilting my head to the side as I examined it. The needle seemed to be broken. It wasn’t pointing North, but straight at Curre. I twisted the compass around a few times, but sure enough, it kept pointing in Curre’s direction. I smiled nervously and pocketed the compass. “Thank you. It was nice being friends. Hope we’ll get to see eachother again.” I said. Curre grinned. “Oh, don’t worry, we certainly will.”
The next 7 years went by without much happening. I lived with my uncles, got a job, moved out and into a flat once I gathered enough money, and just lived my life. One day I decided to look through the junk in my attic. Call it impulse or instinct, but I just wanted to. As I sat in the dusty and dimly lit attic space, my eye caught something in the corner, the light glinting off of it. I crawled over and picked the item up. It was the compass Curre gave me. I smiled at the fond memories it brought back to life in my mind.
Then the needle moved. Just a small flicker at first, but it slowly shifted to point to the far left corner of my attic. I shook it a few times and flipped it over to see if it would change, but it didn’t. I remembered at that moment how it’d pointed at Curre when he’d given me it. No. Impossible. I stuffed it in my pocket and exited the attic. You’re stupid for thinking that.
I wasn’t. I woke up to the sound of heavy breathing. Shooting up from my bed, I looked around my room. It was the middle of night, and all the corners and edges of my rooms were dim, as if portals that lead to other dimensions. My attention slowly shifted to the compass on my bedside table. The needle was pointing to the far right corner of my room. I grabbed it and lifted it up. Slowly shifting my gaze to where it was pointing, it felt as if my heart stopped for a moment, before beginning again at speeds even horses couldn’t rival.
It was Curre. Same as he’d been 7 years ago, looking like the child I’d first met and became friends with. Except. His mouth. God. Oh God.
The whole bottom half of his face was a bloody gaping hole, and the top half of his face looked like if someone took a humans face on blender and played with the smudge button.
He had different assortments of limbs and heads attaching to his body and sticking out, all moving slowly and deliberately, like a predatory toying with its food. Arms jutting out of his legs, feet extending from His abdomen, all clawing at himself, as if trying to escape from the purgatory they’ve been put in. A few heads were exiting different parts of his body as well, some from the hands and feet and some from his form itself. They all looked deformed, as if melted in a microwave.
Help, one of them mouthed. They were alive. “Aya.” He said. I don’t know where the sound even came from. He had no mouth. “How I have missed you.” I shot out of bed, falling to the ground as my legs tangled with the sheets of my mattress. “GET AWAY!! GET AWAY YOU FREAK!!” I screamed, my voice cracking on every other word. Curre made a tsk noise and slowly walked over to me. I froze for a singular moment before my fight or flight response kicked in and I stumbled to my feet, crashing out the room and down the stairs. I heard the sounds of manic laughter behind me.
I grabbed my car keys off the counter as I sprinted out of my home, smashing my thumb into the unlock button. I still had the compass in my hand, and for some reason, felt some relief in having it. I scrambled into my car and shoved my key into the hole before slamming on the gas pedal, reversing out of my driveway. That was one of my mistakes. Don’t run. He enjoys when you do. He relishes in the hunt.
As I maneuvered down empty roads, panick a vice grip on my neck, I felt a small rumbling. I looked down at the compass in my lap. The glass was shattered but it was still working. My heart might as well had given up at that point. It would’ve been for the better too. The compass was pointing in front of me- at the windshield. I looked up and- THUMP A bloodied arm landed on my windshield, scraping across. I didn’t even scream. I was too scared for that. I swerved off the road, crashing straight into a tree. Then all was black.
I opened my eyes again to see my car in flames, and that I was outside it. Everything hurt and ached. It felt as if a bull had rammed into me. I groaned before my attention was snapped back to reality.
A wet, slimy hand latched onto my neck and a moist texture pressed against my ear. The hand seemed to tighten on my neck, cutting off the oxygen to my lungs. “Dying is cheating.” And then it ripped my arm off. I don’t remember much after. Probably the shock. All I recall was the flood of blood and how the skin on my shoulder from where my whole arm had been ripped off stitched itself back together. He smiled before looking at me. What He did next made me want to physically reach into my body and tear my brain out so I never have to remember it again.
He placed my dismembered arm into His mouth (or the gaping hole I assumed was his mouth) and began pushing it in, a groan of what sounded like pleasure exiting him. I watched in horror as my own arm slowly began ripping through his skin and outwards, leaving His skin bloodied and shredded like stringed cheese. He looked like He found pleasure in it. After a moment I realized something. I could still control the arm. I could move my fingers, flex my arm, and feel it. That’s why all the other limbs attached to Him were moving. Because they belonged to people. “1-0. We play up to 5.” He rasped, then left.
That was 6 months ago. The score is now 4-2. I have won 2, He has won 4. I have come to find out every time He wins, He takes one of your limbs. My arms first. Then my legs. I can’t run anymore. I can’t hide anymore. I am as good as dead.
I still feel my body parts attached to that thing, and I desperately try and claw myself out, but it’s no use. My body is but a stump. He enjoys playing with His victims. Toying with them and leaving them alive for as long as possible. I know for a fact He let me win those 2 rounds just so the game could continue on. I don’t know whether I’ll still be alive and conscious when He takes my last body part, stuck in a never ending horror, but it doesn’t matter anymore. My story is over, and it’s time for me to go. My times up.
The compass is pointing straight behind me, and all He has left to collect is my head.