I pulled up to the lake forty-five minutes later. It was a small portion of an otherwise long stretch of beach, with a pavilion stuck between two fenced off private property signs. I could hear the waves as soon as I got out of the car, accompanied by a cool breeze that rolled off the water. It was a beautiful place aside from its eternal gloom, a shore cursed with overcast skies the majority of the year.
After a quick shower, change of clothes, and some Tylenol, I was starting to feel less like a walking corpse. The dull ache in my head was starting to pass, but the ringing had returned full force. I called work before I left and informed them I would still be out sick, and they were sympathetic. I guess I could thank my hangover for that.
I locked my car and walked into the pavilion, old pines dancing above the masses of beach grass. It was mostly empty, something you would expect on an early weekday. I looked around for Emily but didn’t see her; she wasn’t one to typically linger for friends to show before going. I assumed she would already be at the shore.
Through the pavilion was a set of concrete stairs that had been built into the dunes, a kind of winding path that changed structure several times before hitting the sand. I went down the steps quickly, and past the spouts for rinsing off sandy feet. There was nobody around, except for a couple walking their dog. The breeze got chillier the closer I got to the water. The boardwalk was the last stretch before sand, a wooden structure built over massive rocks used to thwart erosion.
I crossed it briskly, the old boards creaking with every step. My hands glided over the rails, beach grass tussling on both sides as I made my way. At the end of the boardwalk was a staircase that led to the shore below; knotted and faded lumber that was eventually swallowed by sand.
I stood at the landing and admired the view. The dreary water stretched for miles, a seemingly infinite blue-gray with a pleasant sight on either side. On the left was the neon silhouette of Chicago, and the right was the Lighthouse pier. Between the two landmarks was Emily, sitting at a bench on the shore below.
The sight of her made me quicken my pace. I descended the steps quickly, skipping every other step as the excitement welled within me. Even as I hit the dead resistance of the sand, I kept my eyes on Emily. She was sitting with her back to me with her hood up, watching the waves quietly. Beside her was the little red notebook, the wind flipping the pages as her gaze held on the water. I had a stupid smile on my face, my legs burning as my shoes slogged through the sand with every stride.
“Hey, Emily! I made it!” I called, trying to catch my breath. She didn’t move.
The wind whipped at my face, and I raised a hand to combat it.
“Hey! Sorry I didn’t text. I was pretty hungover. Got here as soon as I…” I stuttered as I got closer, a sense of foreboding weakening my legs as I was within arms reach.
She wasn’t moving at all, like she was frozen in place. Her head was hung low, her hands stuffed in the front pocket of her hoodie. Like she had fallen asleep.
The wind tore at the notebook, pages turning sentiently at her side.
“Emily, it’s me.” I said, and grabbed her shoulder. Her shoulder felt wrong, impossibly thin and bony, even for her. Her head lolled to the side, and her hands slipped out of her pockets. They were contorted and white, knocking against the bench like rocks.
I screamed.
Emily’s face was gone.
In its place, a crude husk of paper mache’.
I fell back into the sand. The body remained still, tossed to the side like a discarded puppet.
No hair, no nose, no mouth. Only black holes where the eyes should be.
The newspaper husk stared at me, the drawstrings for the hood swaying weakly in the wind. I tried to speak but the words were caught in my throat. I couldn’t breath. My hands shook in the sand. Despite the boiling urge to run I approached the replica, thinking it had to be a joke. I looked up at the boardwalk, hoping to see Emily laughing or waving her arms. Nothing but an empty pavilion and dancing grass.
I tried to laugh, tried to convince myself it wasn’t what I thought it was. It had to be a joke. I looked at the clothes it wore, shaking my head in denial. The newspaper husk looked at me, the wind whistling through the cutouts in its face.
Coheed hoodie. Plaid pajama pants. Socks with little cats.
She didn’t take any clothes with her.
I could see something poking out from the front pocket, a white corner contrasting the black of the hoodie. I reached for it, and delicately pulled it out.
It was a photograph from last night, the last photo selfie Emily and I took together.
It showed me on the couch, my arm curled around nothing, and empty space where Emily should’ve been.
I touched the replica’s face, tears falling as my fingers brushed the dry, pulpy skin. The surface withered away at my touch, bits of paper breaking and blowing away. I started to cry, sobbing as the replica started to break down and blow away. I averted my eyes as it wasted away, my eyes falling to the notebook next to it.
Every page was filled with words, the same phrase penned over and over.
MAKEITSTOPMAKEITSTOPMAKEITSTOPMAKEITSTOP
In the distance, a blood curdling scream echoed across the water and over the shore. The paper mache’ replica collapsed, and an uproar of dust scattered to the wind. As the last of the dust blew away I ran, leaving the pair of deflated clothes swaying behind me.
****
I don’t recall the drive home. I remember pulling up to the apartment and crying at the wheel, not wanting to go inside. I didn’t know what else to do. I thought if I could make it back home, Emily would be there, holed up in her room just like she had been before she left. Her light would be on. Her music would be playing. I would knock and she’d answer, and we would order takeout again. Or maybe we would just go somewhere, and get away from all this.
The thought urged me forward. Out of the car and into the building, I readied my keys and unlocked the door as soon as I got to it. I could see Emily’s face, her smile. I could hear her laugh, the combination of shy and obnoxious rolled together. She would be there. She had to be.
I turned the key and opened the door.
The apartment was dark and empty, the ringing of the noiseless void deafening as I closed the door behind me. All the lights were off, the blinds closed to shut out the brightness of the outside world. I didn’t remember shutting them off but it didn’t matter. I marched down the hall, determined to get to Emily’s room even as the darkness grew. I looked for the light, for the sign of her presence. But there was no light to be found.
Her door was open, nothing but black peeking from the open crack.
I wanted to turn around but I couldn’t. I had to make sure she wasn’t here.
I pushed the door open, the soundless void beckoning me.
I swallowed the knot in my throat and flicked on the light.
The entire room was covered in photographs. 35mm prints littered every surface, from her computer desk to her bed. The floor was a sea of film, white bordered polaroids fanned out in all directions. I took a step in and heard the rubbery squeak under my heel. I looked at my feet to see I was already stepping on them.
I crouched and picked them up, the feeling of churning bile rising in my throat. The ringing rattled my brain but I kept my gaze on the photos, taking in the similarity they all seemed to share.
In every picture, stood The Paper Mache’ Man.
His hulking mass was caught one way or another, but in some you could see his entire frame. He was unnaturally tall, hulking in every room Emily had snapped a photo in. His legs were long but his arms were longer, often bracing himself on the ceiling or the walls as he struggled to fit in the apartment. Sometimes he just looked toward the camera, other times he reached for it, his fingers elongated and uneven across his hand.
In some pictures they looked like hooks, others like tentacles. Whenever he pointed they were long and rounded, a dozen digits with a protuberant tip. His head looked heavy and bulbous, with two unopened slits for eyes and a blank canvas for a mouth. His skin was layered and pulpy, with a pinkish tink that blurred at the edges of his body in the photo. His skin was shiny, and glistened like glass in the light.
I looked through dozens of photos, each showing the lurking horror in different spots in our home. The kitchen, the bathroom, the corners in the ceiling. Taking up the hallway, standing in her closet, kneeling by her desk. He had been right there the entire time, even waiting as we sat on the couch.
And when Emily left, he followed her.
I fanned out the pictures, looking at each one. There were several that were similar, where Emily had gotten the same angle several times just in case. I looked at all of them, each one serving as the evidence she strived to find since the beginning.
On her desk was a large orange envelope, with the photo center’s logo stamped onto the side. Holding it open I gathered them all up, stacking them together and tucking them in as I worked my way across the room. Once the floor was clear, I moved on to the desk, removing the photos that blanketed Emily’s keyboard and mouse pad. I picked up so many I stopped looking at them, wanting to close them in the envelope and never peek again. Just when I thought I got them all, one photo remained, one that was much different from the others. When I picked it up, the ringing blared in my ears, and I felt a hot trickle seeping from the inside of them.
The photo was of me, sleeping in bed. The Paper Mache’ Man was standing next to me, his large head craned as he watched me sleep.
One knock, thunderous and absolute. The ringing was gone.
I stood in pure silence, every nerve lighting like a switchboard. I tucked the photo into the envelope and closed it. I left Emily’s room and closed the door, looking down the hallway to the source of the noise. In the living room, I set the envelope on the coffee table and booted up the old computer, listening to the hum as I powered up the TV as well.
I took a deep breath and opened the door, knowing what I’d find.
Wrapped in newspaper and tied with raffia yarn, was my warning.
I picked it up off the welcome mat, and closed the door behind me. I pulled the string loose and let it fall to the floor, and unwrapped the layers of old sunday papers. The case was plain white with no decoration, just like Emily’s. I cracked it open and looked at the disc, with a label so clean it had to be printed. I ejected the tray and placed it in, and watched it retract in silence. As the computer hummed and the video loaded, I sat on the couch and waited, gritting my teeth so hard it hurt.
When the video loaded, it lit up the living room like a home theater.
My video started with soundless distortion, just as Emily’s had. I waited for it to clear, anxious and unable to look at anything but the screen. I even tried to close my eyes, but they wouldn’t obey me. I had to watch. As the deformation cleared I could slowly make out the scene around me. Little things at first, until the shapes bled together into a sudden clarity. When I recognized what I saw, I felt the air flee from my lungs.
In my video, Emily and I were on a bench at the beach.
The view captured us from the side, from a spot that would’ve been impossible without us seeing. Old pines swayed in the distance, with a chorus of beach grass at their feet. Overhead, a seagull passed by.
The video zooms in on Emily, rearing back in laughter in her oversized hoodie. She’s writing in her little red notebook, a beaming smile on her face as I light a joint behind her. I take a big drag and hold it in, smiling stupidly before exhaling a plume of smoke. Emily takes it and does the same, except she coughs several times afterward. We pass it back and forth, both of us laughing as we kick our feet in the sand.
Emily looks happy. I looked happy.
The video zooms in gradually, until our legs are removed from the picture. It’s focusing on our faces now, and the more I look at it, the more it starts to make sense.
This was our first time at the beach, the first time we planned a movie night.
The feed continues to zoom, but it’s moving differently now. It’s cutting Emily out of the frame, until the screen is mostly my face. I’m saying something to Emily, something I can’t make out. When I’m done talking, I smile at Emily, a half-stoned smile that she probably doesn’t see.
The video pauses.
I look at my face frozen on the screen, and I’m squeezing the cushions in my hands. I don’t know what’s to come, but the image is getting larger, my eyes forced forward as I watch it grow.
I thought the video was zooming in, but it’s the screen that’s getting bigger now. I’m moving towards it, or it’s moving towards me. I don’t exactly know. Everything around me is getting tunneled out, and I’m forced to sit and look as the screen gets closer, until it’s all I see.
I hear something through the screen, the sound of ripping paper, followed by a low-pitched bellowing that vibrates the screen itself.
Then there is no screen.
The room is dark, with a single overhead lamp shining above. It looks like a basement or a cave, something dark and damp and unnatural. The walls… are bleeding.
There’s someone in a chair, they’re tied up or stuck, with something wet like glue. Their eyes are bloodshot, their lips trembling as they try to free themselves. They can’t get free, whatever is binding them is too strong.
At their feet are dozens of bodies. They’re trembling on the ground and moaning, a choir of agony and suffering. Their hands are contorted and white, their faces wrapped in the pulpy shell of paper mache’. There’s footsteps, loud and heavy. Some of the bodies twitch, some of them start to wail. One of the bodies starts to sob, its oversized hoodie stained, the logo unreadable.
The video doesn’t zoom, it doesn’t pan. I am there, watching first hand.
The footsteps continue. The naked, genderless monstrosity stepped into the light, its skin polished and shiny like glass. Its head is massive, its slit eyes looking in the direction of the person in the chair. The individual kicks their feet in fear, but there is no hope. Even if they could escape, there is nowhere to go.
The person is me.
I watch as The Paper Mache’ Man gets close, a low pitched growling vibrating deep within his chest. The low echoing sounds of a lions purr, but it’s something abnormal, not of this world. It’s face is in mine now, its pinkish head five times the size of mine. I’m whimpering, tears leaking from distraught eyes. The rumbling purr gets louder, and I watch as I piss myself. Inches away from my face, the entity’s eyes open, revealing two black globes the size of bowling balls. The abyssal globes of black and deep purple, swirling like wormholes in space. In it’s eyes I see what it wants, and I see there is no escape. It raises its hand to touch me, and I look away and start to bawl.
The Entity’s hand is large and grotesque, its fingers twisting and reforming constantly before my eyes. They are drenched with a crystalline slime, a clear mucus that steams as it trickles onto the ground. Slowly, benevolently, it smears it on my face, the rumble in its throat growing louder until it’s almost screaming. It’s eyes widen, and the globes in its faces glow like burning stars.
The misshapen hand closes around my face, squeezing the skin until it bruises and bleeds under its touch. It pulls the skin away effortlessly, peeling it from my body in a sanguinary spray as I scream helplessly. When the skin is removed, it holds it to the light, the dripping gore coagulated with the rest on the floor. The electric clicking from its throat settles as it’s satisfied.
In the chair my screams are jumbled and hysterical, the skin gone from half of my face to my chest. A singular exposed eye darts around the room, looking for help, looking for death. But there is no hope, only the groans of the ones littering the ground.
The Entity stretches the skin tight, and wraps it around its torso. It smooths it out over its own hide, the mucus from its hands glazing it as it smooths it out across its body. It continues this for a while, until it is time for the next piece. Each freshly peeled strip is applied to its body. First it’s torso, then one of its thighs, then the back of its head. Its wicked fingers flatten every applied piece, until it is a perfect.
I watch until the end. and even when I run out of skin, it isn’t finished. My skinless body convulses in the chair, beady eyes scrambled like a faceless animatronic. The Entity returns, and once again applies its secretion to the bare tissue on my face. My wailing has subsided to groans like the others, and as it unravels the newspaper, I nod obediently so it can apply it. The malformed hands work gently, delicately, until I am wrapped like the others around me. I groan under the shell of my new skin, and as it leaves, the light above me goes out. My groans mix with the others, until I’m unable to discern my voice from theirs.
****
When I open my eyes, I’m in my living room. I don’t know how long I was there, but my eyes are swollen and my throat is hoarse from screaming. I lay there for a time, processing it all. Every time I close my eyes I see the horror unfold, and as I finally get up from the couch, I find myself trying not to blink.
I climb to my feet, find my keys, and grab the envelope on the way to the door.
I get in my car and drive away, leaving the apartment behind me with no intention of going back. I keep the envelope close to me,
I drive for a while, taking roads without any real direction or course in mind. I don’t look in the rearview mirror, and I don’t check the streets around me. The ringing is gone, and I roll the windows down to hear the outside and feel the wind on my face. I keep driving, looking at things in town I never paid attention to. Shops I never noticed, people walking down the street. I look at everyone’s cars, what they’re driving, and who they’re with. Everything looks so peaceful.
As night falls, I keep driving until I’m at the edge of town. I find a bar, with a neon sign of a smoking gun, and I pull in to have a drink. I keep the photos on me, tucked under my jacket so I don’t lose them.
The place is pretty busy, but as I walk to the bar, it seems like two gentlemen are ending their night. One is bald with a mustache and full of muscle, the other is particularly average but smiling wide. I let them pass and take their spot, enjoying the music as I settle into one of the stools. The barkeep comes over, and I order a drink. Two inches of vodka with a pineapple slice. I tilt it to my lips and drink slowly, savoringly. It tastes terrible.
I enjoy my terrible tasting drink, and ignore the growing feeling of being watched. It won’t be long now, I’m sure.
Emily wanted to be scared. At first, I shared her enthusiasm, but after setting up a few movie nights, she set out to look for something more.
In the ruins of the internet, buried under old forums and long forgotten pages, she found what she was looking for.
I still don’t know what it is. But what I do know, is it was waiting for her, lurking in the graveyard of left behind IPs and dormant threads until someone dug too deep.
I don’t know where she is, but I have a feeling that soon I’m going to find out. And I’m scared. But she’s alone. She left behind a blank spot on a photograph in the crook of my arm and I remember what is missing. I remember her. That memory makes the waiting almost bearable. Sometimes someone just needs a friend.
End.