I’ve always had a bit of a victim complex. I grew up in a small town, and I was pretty much the only kid in class who didn’t have any siblings. I always felt outnumbered, and I didn’t have many friends to share my thoughts with. I spent most days in my room, reading. Or locked in a bathroom stall.
In my teenage years, not much changed. I tried to express myself. I went through a goth phase, a witch phase, a hippie phase… and finally settled on a mishmash of all three. Even though I’ve grown less colorful over the years, I still pride myself on my aesthetic. It made me quite a few enemies though. They say kids can be cruel, but some adults are just big kids.
But even though I’ve looked different over the years, I’ve still had that feeling of being different. Of being a target. Outnumbered and misunderstood. I got the bruises to show for it. Well, I had.
I went to college, moved out of state, met a guy, got left by said guy, and here I am – a decade later. Not much to say. Still have a tattoo of a pink pentagram on my wrist though, even though it just looks transparent nowadays. But it’s there. I’m still here. Still me.
And I still have that uneasy feeling of being a target.
Like I’m next in line for something awful.
My life came to a halt when I witnessed a car crash.
I was waiting for the light to turn green when a truck plowed into the side of a car, just across the road. It was so violent; you can’t understand the force behind that kind of collision until you witness it firsthand. Steel bending like sheets of paper. It really underlines how fragile we are. Thinking back on it still makes me feel like nothing but a bag of blood, ready to burst at the slightest touch.
My first reaction was to get out of there. I didn’t want to be in the way when the ambulance came, and there was already people running up to help. I admit, I felt like a coward. But there was just something strange about the whole thing. They pulled someone out of the car, rather violently, and I could hear screams. I just left. My anxiety got the better of me.
But I wonder if I could’ve done something more. Something meaningful. I don’t think so, but… still.
It changed me, in a way. Suddenly I got more aware of my surroundings, and I started looking for danger at every corner. Instead of crossing a road, I’d just stand there, lost in my own thoughts. I’d start noticing strangers, and I started meeting the eyes of anyone looking in my direction. I got confrontational, and honestly, really hard to spend time with. I was back to my teenage self, outnumbered and expecting trouble.
A few days after the accident, as I was coming home from a late shift, I noticed a paper bag outside my door. I share an entrance with another apartment, so I figured she’d ordered something home. I didn’t think that much about it, so I just went inside. Still, as I closed my front door, I got the sense that there was something eerie about that bag. It looked a bit… frumpy.
I had trouble sleeping that night. It felt like every time I was about to nod off, I could imagine someone knocking on my door. I could feel a presence, and it was standing right there, just outside my door. I knew it was there, even if it wasn’t. Maybe it followed me home.
Of course, it was nonsense. But that didn’t slow my racing pulse, and I was still twisting and turning in a pool of my own sweat.
The next morning, as I was leaving for work, I ran into my neighbor. The bag was still there, waiting outside our shared front door. She was my age, but looked ten years younger. We shared a “good morning” and an awkward glance at the bag.
“Yours?” she asked.
“No, I thought-“
“No, no” she shook her head. “So…”
We sighed in unison. She picked up the bag and peeked inside, as a puff of tiny flies exploded. The bag hit the ground like a ripe watermelon. I picked it up and hurried over to the trash bin, waving the flies away. There was something red and black inside; mostly flies.
“Great” she sighed. “Just great. Fantastic.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Just keep an eye open. I don’t wanna see more bags.”
“Yeah, same.”
It pushed my paranoia to another level. I had this uneasy feeling all day at work, like something was coming for me. I didn’t answer any calls and I barely spoke at the weekly meeting. I imagined people were looking at me funny, like there was something wrong with me. They didn’t, but it felt like they did. My boss came in to talk to me in private, just to check what was up. Honestly, I couldn’t explain myself. We just agreed I should take a few days off. I had some sick days saved up.
I got home early that afternoon, only to find another bag outside my door.
I tensed up and looked around. Not a soul on the street.
The bag was closed. My neighbor wasn’t home yet, so I stepped up and poked it open. No flies this time, it must’ve been placed recently.
Again, there was something dark and red. It smelled foul, and it stuck to the sides of the bag. I thought I could see pieces of bone.
With the tip of my fingers, I lifted it. The bag was so soaked that the bottom of it collapsed, spilling a red mess all over the porch. It looked like some sort of meat. Tendons sticking out randomly, hacked to pieces. Muscle, sinew, a bit of bone. There was no way to tell what it’d been, but I could tell that it wasn’t made for eating; it was just a hot mess.
It took me twenty minutes to clean it up. I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing until I was sore. I brought out every chemical I had and a bunch of trash bags. I couldn’t help the feeling that I was doing something wrong, like I was cleaning up a crime scene.
Maybe I was.
That night I couldn’t sleep. I stayed up sitting by the window, listening. I even went to the bathroom with the door open, so I could hear if someone was messing with the front door. I couldn’t relax, shower, or eat. My mind kept taking me back to that accident, and how I watched it grow smaller in the rear-view mirror.
And sitting there, alone in my apartment, I couldn’t help but feel that I was one rear-view mirror away from seeing something I didn’t want to see.
I considered that this bag might’ve been meant for my neighbor. But all in all, it didn’t seem plausible. I had always been the victim, why would this be any different?
I must’ve fallen asleep somewhere around 5 am. I woke up around noon, leaning against the wall, holding a kitchen knife. My back was stiffer than the floor I’d been sitting on, and it took my eyes a full minute to adjust to the light peeking through the blinds. I had held the knife so tight it left ridges in the palm of my hand, and my fingers ached.
I had a few days off work, and I decided I’d use them. The next time they came to leave a bag by the door, I’d catch them. That was, unless…
An awful thought made my stomach churn.
I put my hand on the front door. It felt like I’d squashed a spider and was about to check if it was dead. That moment of hesitation and knowing you’re about to see something twisted. It filled me, made my hands feel weak. I barely even thought about holding the kitchen knife, it became a part of me.
And there it was again. A bigger bag, this time, and soaked all the way through with red. It smelled awful, like it hadn’t been cleaned properly. It was fresh, raw, and steaming. Wherever it came from, it had died recently.
I thought about calling the police, but there was that gnawing doubt in me. What if it was human? What would they say? What would happen to me? Even if it was just a small chance, I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t put myself in that chair. Then again, not calling the police probably made me an accomplice. But then again, my neighbor didn’t call them either.
But she wasn’t the victim.
These were the thoughts that rushed through my head. I didn’t even notice I was hyperventilating.
I grabbed a shovel and picked the bag up. I didn’t even look inside; I knew it was bad. As I opened the trash bin, I stopped for a second.
It might just have been my panicking lizard mind, but there was this strange feeling coming down my arm. There was a second pulse, moving from the bag through the shovel. I could feel it in my hands. There was still something living in that bag. I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was there.
I wasn’t proud of what happened next.
I threw the bag to the ground, smashing it repeatedly with my shovel. I hit it over and over. Splitting it with the sharp side and clubbing it with the flat side. It took me a full 20 seconds to realize my neighbor, who’d called in sick, was standing in her doorway watching me.
I’d just destroyed her lunch. A burger, some fries, chili mayo dressing. There was no blood. No pulse. Nothing awful. The only red was ketchup.
What the hell was wrong with me?
There was an uncomfortable conversation, and I paid for her lunch. When I came back to my apartment and locked the door, I just broke into pieces. I cried, face down on the couch. I felt like the world was getting to me, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was losing it.
I crawled under a blanket. I could feel something outside my door. Something watching me through the windows. They were already inside, and they were waiting to attack. Everywhere, nowhere, waiting. My stomach churned, and I couldn’t do anything but cry myself into a painful sleep.
I stayed on the couch, falling in and out of sleep over the next few hours. I don’t even remember putting on the TV for company. I kept having stressful dreams in that twilight land of half-asleep and half-panicking.
But somewhere around 8pm, a cold wind woke me up.
My front door was open.
Of course I’d closed it. I’d locked it. I always did. But what if I didn’t? Was I getting worked up over nothing?
No.
Maybe?
I just stood there frozen for a few seconds, trying to process what I was seeing. The door was open, for real. There was a cold wind sweeping through the apartment. I closed and locked the door a few times, just to feel the sensation in my hands; it was real.
Once the cold wind died down, I felt something. A strange, familiar smell.
Warm.
I checked the bathroom. Spotless.
Kitchen? Nothing.
Finally, I stepped into my bedroom.
I put my finger on the light switch. It was sticky.
I hesitated. The room felt warm.
One breath at a time. That’s all I had to do, take one breath at a time. And yet, I couldn’t.
“… do you like it?”
It was just a whisper in the wind. I felt a creeping warmth behind me. Something large, heaving. Excited body hairs brushing against the back of my head.
“… do you like my gift?”
It was so careful, so bright. Like the voice of a wind chime, every consonant sending splinters of ice up my spine. My body shifted, and it took my entire strength of will not to dash towards the nearest window. My feet were sticky, and something warm seeped into my socks.
“… bless me.”
It had a dry mouth. I could hear it wet its’ lips. It was so close, and so still.
I nodded.
“Y-yes” I whispered back.
In the blink of an eye, it was gone. It was as if a wall behind me had suddenly disappeared. It disoriented me, and out of instinct I turned on the lights.
I only caught a glimpse of it as it closed the front door. A pale, clawed hand. Yellow eyes. A smile.
The light coming from my bedroom was red. I held my breath as I turned around, and whatever little air I had saved up turned into screams and sobs.
I could go into detail about the remains of six people scattered around my bedroom. I could go into detail about the police report and the weeks of investigations that turned my apartment into a crime scene. But I won’t.
These weren’t victims of violent crimes; they were corpses taken from the local morgue. Some fresher than others. The organs recovered from the bags I’d thrown away were identified as human (of unknown origin), and deer stomach. On paper, the motive is unclear, there are no suspects, and there are already rumors that I’m in some kind of satanic cult. I have a pink pentagram on the wrist, after all, and the pink has long since faded.
I don’t know much about my secret admirer. I don’t know why they tried to gain my favor. But I have this gnawing feeling that this explains something about me. Maybe there’s a reason why I feel like I’m in the crosshairs.
In the mornings, my neck feels light; as if I’ve dreamt about carrying a burden on my head. At times I no longer feel like a victim. Instead, I have this sensation that all those eyes in the dark are looking up to me. That they’re waiting for me to speak. That I’m one stray wish away from literally tearing the community apart.
It scares me how quickly I’m getting used to the idea.
It really does.