“Them cows are lost?” Piper persisted.

“There are no actual cows— it's just a stupid saying. Go to sleep!” Harmony snapped at her little sister.

Piper's wheezing exhalations filled their darkened bedroom.

Harmony's tone softened, “It just means… ‘for a very long time’. Maybe forever. Nobody knows.”

Drifting to sleep, Piper whispered, “Harmony, I'm gonna love ya ’til the cows come home.”

Eventually, Harmony found the strength to visit. With kissed fingertips touching cold gravestone, she wept, “Love you, Piper.”

Approaching her car, Harmony cried out and fell to her knees.

On the hood, scrawled in the fresh snow:

ttcch

No mists rolled over the cliff’s edges; no bird calls echoed in the night. It was only Terence under the moon. He dragged his feet through dew-dropped grass, edging closer, wishing once again he wasn’t alone. He reached an arm out over the dark edge, watching his fingers tremble, then steady, until they were steel. His heartbeat slowed with resolve and then it called out to him.

“There is a rumour that, if you come to the Cliffs of Ta’har at a certain time, on a certain day, there is a devil that will hold your hand as you jump.”

There was one rule: don’t open the door.

It was mandated by her brother, Xander – and temptation incarnate for Dahlia.

Xander was odd, and he'd become prone to outbursts – red flags much like the red door. Today, however, he’d be gone, so Dahlia moved toward the door. The house was hers - she had every right to open it.

The doorknob twisted in her hand. A growl. What the bloody….. The door opened, and Dahlia was assailed by noxious odor as eyes focused on a crazed reflection - herself.

One thought invaded: it’s ourselves we should fear most……

I felt it reaching out, straight into my mind.

I couldn't control it, such long talons morphing to become one with the crevasses of my brain.

She could see each morbid thought passing through my mind, each idea of escape. Pain, similar to a screwdriver through a skull.

Why am I not in control of myself?

She looked at me, eyes empty. A void, a sold soul.

Her screech was like no other, it was not aloud, it just pierced my mind.

I feel that she is suffering too.

Here I am paralyzed.

There is nothing scarier than losing control.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, I tell myself as I creep through my dark house, my feet barely touching the wood floor.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, I repeat as I stare at the broken, bloody body at the bottom of the steps with the strangely familiar face.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, I chant as I reach out to my husband as he descends the stairs towards the body, though he doesn’t notice me.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, I cry, as my husband passes through my outreached transparent hand. But then, what am I?

“Go there! If you want to see your family again.”

Those thundering words and the sound of a death rattle echo in my dark living room at two minutes of midnight.

I run to my car, open the passenger door, but cannot slide to the steering wheel. The sedan starts on its own, locks its doors, and drives me to wherever “there” is. The stopped car unlocks.

I open the door and step into blackness. Stones crunch under me. Moans catch my ear. A chill envelops. My car drives away without me.

I hear the booming voice again. It snickers.

I have pages of notes delineating dreams I've had. Vivid, feels-real-how-is-this-a-dream-thank-God-this-is-a-dream-type dreams. Some of these dreams have led to feelings of déjà vu in daily life and cold fear as my subconscious reacts to a memory of something that did not happen.

As I write this, the water is spilling into the tunnel around me. People are running, screaming.

Stay, or run?

The first body just floated by.

I hear the sounds of steel bending, cement blocks exploding.

Now, it is dark. It won't be long.

If you read this, find my notes.

This is not the first time I've---

Guests at our backyard parties always noticed patches of grass that were thicker, and corpse shaped. We joked this was an ancient burial ground.

But after a winter of alternating heavy snows and thaws that squeezed the ground like a pimple, bones emerged. The first ones looked like chicken bones. We were horrified when a skull surfaced.

Soon afterward, our old lady neighbor asked why we were digging out back, again.

"Putting in a native garden," I said. "For the environment."

She stomped away disgusted.

My wife said, "Might be a problem."

I put the old snoop under the goldenrods.

Sophie woke suddenly. The mournful howling of wolves echoed around the valley, but something else caused her skin to prickle. She held her breath and listened....A quiet sound, that ceased a heartbeat after the howling faded. Like someone was working loose the latch on the door. Silent as an owl, Sophie moved to the window and peered out. Three silhouettes darkened her door. She counted two jerry cans and the barrel of a gun. Tools to burn a witch. The whispers she'd spread in town had finally borne fruit. Souls, delivered to her door. Starter, main and dessert. Bon appetite.

Tom’s breath froze in the air as he hurried through the woods. He could feel it following him—heavy footsteps, ragged breathing. His heart pounded.

Finally, he reached the cabin and slammed the door shut. Safe.

A knock echoed from the door. "Let me in, Tom," a familiar voice called.

His blood froze. It was Lisa, his wife… but he had buried her last week.

Panicking, he opened the door, but no one was there. He turned around—and found Lisa smiling at him.

"Thanks for letting me in," she whispered.

He looked down. His own body lay lifeless on the floor.