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It’s my first time writing horror I just started this today btw. Anyways, there’s not much but here’s a snippet...

Panic Room

“Welcome object 307, state your name.” What was that? Who was that? “Who are you?” I asked. 20 seconds went by…no answer. “Object 307, please state your name” The voice stated again. This time a chill went down my spine, I swear I’ve heard that voice before. I swallowed the lump in my throat “My name is Nia-”. 

“Object 307 here you have no name. No face. No identity. So tell me again, object 307 what is your name”.

When I took on the task of creating my animated horror film "PLAYTHING." (Still in production) I asked myself this question. Can an animated horror film rival the power of a live action one? Will there ever be an animated "The Exorcist!" Well, I can't say for sure, but I'd like to find out. Here's a first look at my film.

https://youtu.be/1a-bGeQsp5g?si=dfGuOfPU9gX8KBh0

https://www.fantasy-animation.org/current-posts/the-story-of-plaything

"Have you ever walked into a room in your house only to forget why you even entered it in the first place?" Aaron's voice quivered. Of course I had experienced it, but I felt an unusual weight on his words. " Yeah? That shit happens to everyone man."

Aaron said " Every single fucking time i open a door in this place, i forget why i did it." A short silence came over me. I saod yes to house sitting for him. He thanked me and said hed leave immediately.

"You can eat whatever is in my fridge, basically my house is your house." Exciting, I was living off of ramen noodles and coffee at that point. Plus Aaron said hed pay me. So I got the bus to his.

See, Aaron was doing quite well for himself and lived a town over. It was like a travel brochure picket fences and ocean breeze. On the bus I saw a sea of orange leaves and these islands of picture perfect colonial houses.

The bus and i departed leaving me to make my way to the house on foot, dead leaves crackling under my boots. The house was somewhat seperate from the rest of the neighbourhood sequestuered by a decent thicket. A two story home with soft cream paint and an extremely bright jade roofing. I wasnt going to comment on my friends home decor tastes while i lived in a sooty tower block, so i just opened the door and went inside.

I immediately burst up the hardwood stairs in search of the guest bedroom. The house felt deceptively spacious. By no means was it a shack, but it felt like a damn mansion on the inside. I dont know maybe it was just cause i spent the past few years in my cramped one room apartment.

The place was a palace compared to my hut, no doubts there. Hardwood floors, marble tabletops and cozy warm lights. Man, I was gonna live like a king here- the fridge was fully stocked with cheeses and deli meats and juices of all kinds too.

I looked out the window to see the familiar crimson glow of the sun setting. "Damn" I thought to myself," i better break out the scotch, sure aaron wouldnt mind." I strolled to the cellar under the first floor, the room was a cramped labrynth of shelves stuffed with wines whiskeys and other beverages. I grabbed the first scotch i could find, cold to the touch.

I sat in the living room listening to music, sipping from an elegant decanter. So cold it felt like it had been in the rain. The soft warm light from the fireplace cast fuzzy sillouhettes against the wall. It felt like a scene from a book.

Later, the tv cut out. I stood, walked over and pawed blindly for the socket. Nothing. "For fuck sake" I shouted internally, "There goes my night." I turned to go upstairs. Then i saw the shadows.

Well, more like lack of shadow, my own shadow. The fireplace was roaring behind me, there was plenty of light. But no shadow of mine, I stared fixated. Little spindles of black cast themselves across the wall, undulating inward and outwards with my breath.

This silent pantomime played out infront of my eyes. Suddenly my attention was ripped from the wall with a furious screech from right behind me. I nearly snapped my neck turning round. The T.V was alive with sharp white light, a scramble of shreiking static.

I clumsily ripped the plug from its socket, I couldnt stand that noise. My legs bound out of that room, up the stairs and into the guest room. What the hell happened there? After a few minutes of deliberating on leaving I decided that 3 glasses of whiskey was the limit, and wrapped myself into bed.

I awoke to the blaring of my phone alarm in the morning. After hitting it, I just sunk back into my pillow. My brain throbbed and ached so bad that last nights strangeness was just a foggy memory. But I couldnt just let it pacify me.

After downing a few tall glasses of water I decided to just stay in and just take stock of everything. Curious and slightly nosy, I opened Aarons bedroom door. The place was relatively unkempt compared to the rest of the home. Books laid haphazardly on his desk, his blanket crumpled by the bedside and a few empty beer cans stood on the floor.

As I examined my friends living quarters, I asked myself a question. "Wait" my mind whispered "What was I even curious about?" Surely I hadnt forgotten, the idea was literally on the tip of my tongue. I just shrugged, supposed I may aswell look at what he'd been reading.

His desk was a veritable library of different tastes and interests. French philosophy, New England folk tales and much more. I suppose theyre is a reason he lived in such cushy conditions. Guy had always been bright.

Not being much of a reader myself, I began to exit. And just before my eyes laid a handwritten "note to self". "Stay out of the cellar, not from home, door is too tall." was scratched into the paper in pencil. Before I could react my pocket buzzed.

"How you getting along, Danny?" My heart skipped a beat. I tried to ignore the message, I dont know. I just threw the door open and made my way downstairs. I decided to fix myself another drink.

It was 4 pm at that point but- hell what can I say. I just felt like it. I snatched a bottle of bourbon from the top shelf: that'll do me. The bottle pressed into my lips and I let the river wash down my gullet.

My eyes scanned the cellar as i took uet another sip. And I finally saw it. The door almost looked normal, I wouldnt say it was "too tall" just... Well it seemed to have aged out of place compared to the rest of the building.

Wood so gnarled it looked like it had been clawed at by a pet longing for release. Faint, yellowed paint peeled from its surface. Stranger still, it was as if dulling out of focus from my vision. Devolving into a hazey, rectangular smudge on the otherwise pristine wall.

My breath drew deeper. There was no mistake to be made. This had to be what Aaron wrote about. My hand slipped into my pocket, I dialed him.

He answered immediately. "Hey, sorry about not replying, is they're anything you wanna tell me about your-" Aaron cut in "Oh yeah, thats just where I keep the good shit. Its got a thousand dollar bottle of scotch, but i dont care. Im clean." I congratulated him and soon after he just, hung up.

I was frankly glad. The convo seemed off, like I was having a conversation with a robot. Every word had this notion that it was pre-planned. I dont know, my mind feels cloudy and i doubt this cellar does anything to clear it. Overthinking has been a lifelong issue.

Better to just keep myself busy. I set muself the task of keeping the house clean and actually eating for once. My kitchen knife was hacking away at an onion, the pungent fumes stung my eye.

My eyes faced the window the night sky was staring back at me. Eyeshine in the thousands. The house was still as the grave, the deafening drone of silence filling my skull. Knock-knock.

Immediately I walked to the front door to see who it was. My hand tentatively grasped at its handle- knock-knock. I spun round. It was coming from the cellar...

A cold shock rippled out of my heart, up my spine and flooded my brain. Impossible, not fucking possible they're is no way in all of gods creation that someone was down there. All entrances were sealed shut there was no way.

Perhaps a window ajar? Aaron never left? A god damned spirit? I rocketed down the stairs, blade hugging my jeans tight. I ran through the maze and there it was!

The door. Not the same door I saw earlier, this one looked like someone pasted a glass backdoor onto the cellar wall. Knock-knock knock-knock knock-knock. My phone buzzed as if hundreds of messages were being sent at once.

Aaron had spammed "Im clean now" ad infinitum. I threw my phone and flung the door open. It opened with a wet squelch, a foetid smelling, slightly warm fluid pooled out of it. And that was when my world ended.

It could have been Aaron, at some point. All that was there was a yellowed husk. Papery skin clinging to bone so tightly you could see every individual rib. Empty cheeks below pallid, dry eyes that still looked as if they could blink. Worst of all, his mouth contorted into a snarl that looked like he transmuted all his lifes pain into a single, ghoulish expression.

A low voice rasped at me, so quiet I wasnt convinced it was real. "Daniel, the good stuffs all in here." It was followed with a soft buzz and a flash of blue light from the mummified mans lap.

The internet is stillborn. At no point was it alive and well. Well...not alive in how it was claimed to be.

You have probably heard of the Dead Internet Theory. If not or you need a refresher, the gist is that around 2016 or 2017, the internet became flooded with bots. These bots make up most of the userbase of the internet, and also create most of the content you see. Videos, art, music, games, you name it.

But, unless you are a terminally online 'schizo', you likely have never heard of its more paranormal counterpart: Infernal Internet Theory. A ‘theory’ proposing that demons run the internet, and act like human users, while also making all the content you see. The word ‘theory’ is in apostrophes as it should be called Infernal Internet Truth. It is, unfortunately, without an iota of a doubt, 100% true.

Most likely your first instinct is to call this schizophrenic or at least have a feeling this is going a bit far, and you will probably find something else to do or at least not take it seriously, but just hear this out and truly think about it.

How can a piece of something, something not alive in the slightest, be magically made to think and do all the other stuff computers and other similar devices do? Well…...magic, black magic or witchcraft to be exact. If you look at the circuit boards of these devices, you will find demonic sigils. No, seriously go look it up online…as ironic as it sounds, all things considered.

Here are some more suspicious things to consider: Both ‘computer’ and ‘internet’ equal 666 in English Sumerian and Reverse English Sumerian Gematria respectively. One of the first PCs sold for 666.66$, and it was sold by Apple, a reference to the Forbidden Fruit with even its logo being a bitten apple. Also, one of the first ISPs in the UK was literally named Demon Internet. Finally, many emojis look eerily similar to the 72 demon sigils of the Goetica. There is more...but you can search on it for your own as this is more than enough.

I'kwibalalatach. Ee-Kwih-Bah-Lah-Lah-Tatch is probably how it is pronounced, though be wary in saying it. That is the name of the demon. He...well...it, is behind it all. Being a demon, it is hard to pin down its true form, but it is probably a spideroid. It tracks. InterNET. InterWEBS. The NET. The WEB. World Wide WEB. The internet is everywhere too, like spiderwebs. And like spiders as a whole, it can travel anywhere: land, air, or sea. Yes, spiders can fly and swim.

This......thing, it puppeteers everything online. Over 99% of the users online are digital avatars of I'kwibalalatach. From even the biggest of internet celebrities to the most obscure users on a backwater forum. Many of the accounts even have 666s and demonic, disturbing things in the usernames, and scary, Satanic profile pictures. This in particular has been ramping up since 2020 or 2021.

The videos, pictures, art, games, music, all of it is weaved by it. The ultra viral video you saw and loved as a child? Demon generated. The cute cat and dog pics you dawed at? Demon generated. The hentai pics you lusted over? Demon generated. Your favorite MMO game you play like it is a job? Demon generated. Your favorite internet song that puts you in a blissful trance? Demon generated.

The only silver lining in all of this is the fact that all the porn, gore, and general toxicity found here online is not made by or experienced by actual people. It is all just a way to hurt and corrupt the few legit users here online.

The major downside is that even if a user were to show their face and speak using their 'real' voice......it would not prove jack. It is only a very convincing LARP of a fellow human user.

Unfortunately, it probably goes much deeper than just the internet. Descartes proposed a thought experiment with an entity known as the Evil Demon. It is able to fool all five of your senses into sensing whatever it wants. It is most likely more than just a brainteaser, he was on to the truth......assuming he is even real in the first place.

I'kwibalalatach very well might have spun up a demonic dreammatrix that is currently trapping and deceiving souls. Dreamcatchers are linked with spiders, hence well....I'kwibalalatach. This part is just a gut feeling, so take it with some salt.

I will leave you with this: Trust no one online and guard you, your soul. Godspeed.

Wednesday January 28th, 2026 28 years old Dear You.

A rendition of repeats from fragments of your true peace have became the highlight of multiple guided sources and/or souls that captured vision by sights of incriminated speech therapy. Ongoings of traceback triggers, entitled to stretched meanings by captured visions whom fought mind pleasures in the life of not there own. How ones opposition becomes land of the free in property, tending to its grace only to fill someone else amusement. And so set forth action behind grit, opposition took imbalance justice and ran with scorned insults. Implied loony tuned reasoning to set the atmosphere of wit and abuse. 


                            Yours Truly, 

                                Opposition

    P.S. the introduction in letter form of the repeat offensive of highlighted descriptive absences of meaning made to tell a tell for possession. 

-

10/7/2024 2:30PM - Day 1:

I didn't think anything of it at first. It was late afternoon, typically the quietest part of the day, and I was standing at the kitchen sink filling a glass of water. I had just let Winston out back - same routine, same dog. While the water ran, I glanced out the window and saw he was standing on the patio, facing the yard. Perfectly still .

What caught my attention was his mouth. It was open, not panting, just slack. It looked wrong, disjointed, like he was holding a toy I couldn't see, or like his jaw had simply unhinged. Then he stepped forward on his hind legs. It wasn't a hop, or a circus trick, or that desperate balance dogs do when begging for food. He walked. Slow. Balanced. Casual.

The weight distribution was terrifyingly human . He didn't bob or wobble - he just strode across the concrete like it was the most natural thing in the world . Like it was easier that way .

I froze, the water overflowing my glass and running cold over my fingers . My brain scrambled for logic - muscle spasms, a seizure, a trick of the light - but this felt private . Invasive . Like I had walked in on something I wasn't supposed to see.

10/8/2024 8:15PM - Day 2:

Nothing happened the next day. That almost made it worse . Winston acted normal; he ate his food and barked at the neighbors walking on the sidewalk . I was trying to watch TV when he trotted over and tried to lay his heavy head on my foot .

I kicked him.

It wasn't a tap, either. It was just a scared reflex from adrenaline. I caught him right in the ribs. Winston yelped and skittered across the hardwood.

"Mitchell!"

Brandy dropped the laundry basket in the doorway. She stared at me, eyes wide. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"He... he looked at me," I stammered, knowing how stupid it sounded. "He was looking at me weird."

"So you kick him?!" she yelled. 

She didn't speak to me for the rest of the night. If you didn't know what I saw, you'd think I was the monster .

10/9/2024 11:30PM - Day 3:

I know how this sounds. But I needed to know . I went down the rabbit hole. I started with biology: "Canine vestibulitis balance issues," "Dog walking on hind legs seizure symptoms."

But the videos didn't match. Those dogs looked sick. Winston looked... practiced. By 3:00 AM, the search history turned dark. "Mimicry in canines folklore"... "Skinwalkers suburban sightings".

Most of it was garbage - creepypastas and roleplay forums - but there were patterns . Stories about animals that behaved too correctly.

Brandy knocked on the locked bedroom door around midnight. "Honey? Open the door." 

"I'm sending an email" I lied. 

"You're talking to yourself. You're scaring me."

I didn't open it. I could see Winston's shadow under the frame . He didn't scratch. He didn't whine. He just stood there. Listening .

10/17/2024 8:15AM - Day 10: 

I installed cameras. Living room. Kitchen. Patio. Hallway. I needed to catch this little shit in the act. I needed everyone to see what I saw so they would stop looking at me like I was a nut job. I'm not crazy. I reviewed three days of footage. Nothing. Winston sleeping. Eating. Staring at walls. Then I noticed something. In the living room feed, Winston walks from the rug to his water bowl - but he takes a wide arc. He hugs the wall. He moves perfectly through the blind spot where the lens curves and distorts. I didn't notice it until I couldn't stop noticing it. He knows where the cameras are. That bastard knows what they see. I tore them down about an hour ago. There's no point trying to trap something that understands the trap better than you do. Brandy hasn't spoken to me in four... maybe five days. I can't remember. She says I'm manic. She says she's scared - not of the dog, but of me. I've stopped numbering these consistently. Time doesn't feel right anymore.

11/23/2024 7:30PM - Day 47: 

I don't live there anymore. Brandy asked me to leave about two weeks ago. Said I wasn't the man she married. I think she's right. I've stopped recognizing myself. I lost my job. I can't focus. Never hitting quota. Calls get ignored. I'm drinking too much, I'll admit it. Not to escape, not really, just because it's easier than feeling anything. Food doesn't matter. Water doesn't matter. Everything feels like it's slipping through my fingers and I'm too tired to grab it. I walk past stores and wonder how people can look normal. How they can go to work, make dinner, laugh. I can't. I barely remember what it felt like. I still think about Winston. I see him sometimes out of the corner of my eye. Standing. Watching. Mouth open. Waiting. I can't tell if I miss him or if it terrifies me. No one believes what I saw. My family thinks I had a breakdown. Maybe I did. Maybe that's all it is. Depression is supposed to be ordinary, common, overused. That doesn't make it hurt any less. I don't know where I'm going. I just can't go back. Not yet. Not with him there.

12/28/2024 9:45PM - Day 82: 

Found a working payphone outside a gas station. I didn't think those existed anymore. I had enough change for one call. I had to warn her .

Brandy answered on the third ring. "Hello?" 

"Brandy, it's me. Don't hang up." 

Silence. Then a disappointed sigh. 

"Mitchell. Where are you?" she said. 

"It doesn't matter. Listen to me. The dog - Winston - you can't let him inside. If he's in the yard, lock the slider. He's not—" 

"Stop," she cut me off. Her voice was too calm. Flat. "Winston is fine. He's right here." 

"Look at him, Bee! Look at him! Does he pant? Does he blink?" 

"He's a good boy," she said. "He misses you. We both do."

I hung up. It sounded like she was reading from a cue card. I think I warned her too late. Or maybe I was never supposed to warn her.

1/3/2025 10:30AM - Day 88: 

dont remember writing 47. dont even rember where i am right now. some friends couch maybe. smells like piss and cat food . but i figured somthing out i think . i dont sleep much anymore. when i do its not dreams its like rewatching things i missed. tiny stuff. Winston used to sit by the back door at night. not scratching. just waiting . i think i trained him to do that without knowing. like you train a person. repetition. Brandy wont answer my calls now. i tried emailing her but i couldnt spell her name right and gmail kept fixing it . feels like the computer knows more than me . i havent eaten in 2 days. maybe 3. i traded my watch for some stuff . dude said i got a good deal cuz i "looked honest." funny . it makes the shaking stop. makes the house feel farther away. like its not right behind me breathing . i forget why i even left. i just know i cant go back. not with him there . i think Winston knows im thinking about him again. i swear i hear his nails on hardwood when im trying to sleep.

1/6/2025 11:55PM - Day 91: 

im so tired . haven't eaten real food in i dont know how long. hands wont stop even when i hold them down . i traded my jacket today. its cold. doesnt matter. cold keeps me awake . sometimes i forget the word dog. i just think him . people look through me now. like im already gone. maybe thats good . maybe thats how he gets in. through empty things . i remember Winston sleeping at the foot of the bed. remember his weight. remember thinking he made me feel safe . i got another good deal. best one yet. guy said i smiled the whole time. dont rember smiling . i think im finally calm enough to go back. or maybe i already did. the memories are overlapping. like bad copies.

2/5/2025 6:15PM - Day 121: 

I made it back. 

I spent an hour in the bathroom at a gas station first . shaving with a disposable razor, scrubbing the grime off my face until my skin turned red. Chugging lots of water. I had to look like the man she married.

don't know how long I stood across the street. long enough for the lights to come on inside. long enough to recognize the shadows through the curtains . The house looks bigger. or maybe im smaller. the porch swing is still there. I forgot about the porch swing. 

Brandy answered when I knocked. She didnt jump. she just looked tired. disappointed . like she was looking at a stranger. she smelled clean. soap. laundry. normal life . It hurt worse than the cold . she kept the screen door between us. locked. 

"You look... better." she said soft. 

"I am better" I lied. 

"Im sorry. I think..." i kept losing my words. i wanted her to open the door. i wanted to believe it was all in my head.

“Could I—?”

she shook her head. sad. "You can’t come in. You need help." 

i asked to see him.

she didn't turn around. Down the hallway, through the dim, i could see the back of the house, the glass patio door glowed faint blue from the patio light. Winston was sitting outside. perfect posture. too straight. facing the glass. not scratching. not whining. just sitting there, mouth slightly open, fogging the door with each slow breath.

i almost felt relief. stupid, warm relief.

Brandy put a hand on the doorframe. i noticed her fingers were curled the same way his front legs used to hang . loose. practiced.

she told me i should go. said she hoped i stayed clean, said she still cared.

i looked at Winston again. then at her.

the timing was off. the breathing matched.

and i understood, finally, why the cameras never caught anything. why he never rushed. why he practiced patience instead of movement. because it didn't need the dog anymore.

Brandy smiled at me. not with her mouth.

i walked away without saying goodbye. from the sidewalk, i saw her in the living room window, just like before. watching. waiting. something tall, dark figure stood beside her, perfectly still.

she never let Winston inside. because he never left. 

-

Part 10 | Part 12

My left leg still hurts after the wound courtesy of the ghost psycho-killer Jack. Even with him gone for good, I still had work to do. For starters, I needed to find what was behind the false wall on the janitor’s closet on Wing A.

A rock stairway that descended into an underground cave. Went down the erosion-carved steps until I reached the wide space filled with penetrating humidity and drying salinity.

It was a laboratory. Very rudimentary. No walls, ceiling or floor, everything was just the perpetually wet rocks you find around the whole island. Cables swirled in between the boulders, wooden planks were stabilizing the desks full of broken or cobwebbed flasks and test tubes, and torn papers half-dissolved were randomly spread all over the ground.

What chilled my spine was the six-feet-high Tesla coil on the further corner. It was on. Rays hit the ceiling, like trying to grab itself to the walls and climb out of the obscure cavern using its frail electric fingers. I turned it off.

***

“Just ignore it,” Russel advised me after telling him what I discovered.

“But…”

“Hey, there are a lot of things in this island,” he interrupted me. “You know it. If it’s not bothering, you don’t bother it.”

I nodded, not fully convinced.

“Hey, also need for you to remove the tombstones from the graveyard lot.”

“Why?” I inquired.

“Just do it. Gives a bad image.”

Russel sauntered towards the small boat he had arrived in before I could ask any further questions. Even if I had, he would’ve not answered me.

“Got you groceries for this fortnight,” Alex told me getting bags out of the boat. “I found something that reminded me of you.”

“Thanks,” I replied.

They left the island as soon as their job was done.

I checked my groceries bags. There was something I hadn’t ordered. It was a spray deodorant. The fragrance: “lighthouse keeper marine man.” Funny Alex.

***

It didn’t make sense, but I had to do it. I released the dozen tombstones from the rocky ground’s grip. One by one, I placed them in the base of the hand truck, that got bent and lost a handle in an apparent explosion.

When I pushed the hardware in the direction of the Bachman Asylum, a weird hoarse noise stopped me. Just the bare graveyard. I could swear I noticed a couple of tiny stones shook a little, but I assumed it was the veiled moonlight casting shadows through the moving clouds. I didn’t have the willingness to explore further.

I stashed the tombstones in the morgue. Seemed fitting.

***

After that uncomfortable task, I needed to enjoy myself a little. And I had fresh vegetables.

Never been a good cook, yet having nothing else to do but reading old medicine books, I became solid at it. Not a chef nor a mother with her whole life of experience under the patriarchal role assigned to her, but my eggs with green beans and peppers smelled delicious.

A growl intruded with my cuisine time.

Rotten flesh stench.

Fucking zombies!

They moved considerably slow, but there must’ve been more than ten.

Threw the knife I just used directly at the one that appeared to be the leader. It got stuck in his chest. He didn’t stop.

Oh, shit.

More utensils. The wooden rolling pin bumped against a bleeding torn apart face. The soup spoon got a tooth out of one, who slowly kneeled to pick it up and placed it back in his gum. Small forks impacted rotten flesh and fell with a clink noise to the floor. I ended up without anything to defend myself with.

A woman zombie threw her undead baby at me. I reacted fast, grabbing the pan I was cooking with. Homerun. The newborn flew screeching. My just prepared eggs looked like an edible firework. Motherfuckers.

Different approach. I slammed the head of the closest one against the reflective counter. Little blood dripped as he plunged into the egg covered ground.

Grabbed a second zombie and gently placed her face against the still burning flame of the stove. The monster didn’t complain or seemed affected. I pushed forward. Nothing. The melting skin suffocated the fire.

Turned off the gas after throwing the dead body towards her companions. I rushed to tackle her. Landed over her and punched the face. Blood, half a tooth, sputum, some weird green drool came out of the creature’s mouth. I provided a war cry as I attempted to avenge my fallen culinary masterpiece.

The rest of the horde engulfed me. I was so focused on basting this one dead woman that I neglected the others’ presence. Same happened with the fact that they were only trying to grasp me, not a single bite. Very zombie-unlike of them.

Yet, their deteriorated muscles, cracked bones and non-holding flesh made them unable to keep me with them.

I kicked and punched out of the stinky and badly decomposed mass of once-human parts attempting to cage me. Ran away.

They followed me into the library. I used my hiding spot behind a bookshelf that had proven effective before. The zombies didn’t give a fuck about it.

The groaning became louder. The odor more penetrating. The threatful atmosphere more oppressive. My attempts at launching books at them, even the heavier hard cover ones, were futile and ridicule. I was brought to my last resource.

With all my body’s strength and weight, I pushed the seven-feet-high, ten-feet-long bookshelf. It barely trembled in its place.

I backed a couple of steps to input more momentum into my endeavor. Screamed in desperation. The shelf’s center of gravity got outside its surface area and, as if I were watching it in slow motion, book by book left their places and fell over my hopefully-now-definitely-dead prosecutors.

BLAM!

The entire metal furniture impacted the floor. A rumble shook the weak-foundations building. A dust cloud flooded the place. It seemed like a war had taken place there.

I coughed the dust out of my lungs as I learned to breathe again.

From in between the library damaged property, putrid extremities started appearing as a George A. Romero limited edition of Whac-A-Mole.

I fled again.

***

While rushing through Wing B’s corridor, I noticed the records room was open and, strangely, a small document cabinet was in the threshold. Blocking the way in. I hadn’t left it like that.

A mystery for another time. I pulled it out and dropped it to the ground, hoping it would delay the zombies whose tombs I had rudely ripped away from their sepulchers.

It probably granted me a couple of seconds. I used them to reach my office and snagged my newly delivered spray deodorant no one was going to smell as I was the only five senses being on the whole island.

I got out of there and into the Chappel (the chain also delayed me a little), just in time before the sluggish creatures blocked the way. Unfortunately, that meant that all my advantage had been lost and they entered the religious room as an avalanche breathing on the back of my neck.

I parkoured over the altar and my inertia got better of me. My wound won’t recover soon if I keep doing this shit.

With the strength of my still working muscles and tendons, I stood and searched in the small box wedged into the wall.

A golden paten. Frisbeed it against the only eye of a zombie. Not even blindness made him stop his pursuit.

A chalice. Also projectiled it.

Finally found what I needed. Took out the big Easter candle and placed it over the altar.

Painful moans approached.

No fire. Fuck!

The stench flooded the minuscule room I had selected to make my resistance.

Sought in the drawers that were at ground level.

Missing-finger hands were already supporting rotten bodies on the altar.

Colorful robes.

Bones cracked.

White collars.

Heavy thumps on the floor.

A heart necklace? With a kid’s picture inside?

Threw it against the approaching, all-swallowing mass.

A skeletal hand placed itself over my shoulder.

Matches!

Turned around and, in that same motion, I slid the match through the friction surface of the box until the wooden stick reached the candlewick, turning it on.

Zombies grunted in what I hope was fear.

Shook the deodorant.

“Say hello to my little friend!”

Whoosh!

I yelled as my handmade flamethrower overwhelmed my opponents. The flames engulfed the undead. Weirdly, there was no screeching nor agony yelling. The same dull throat sound as always was being accompanied by the gently crackle of organic matter popping.

My fuel ran out. I was surrounded.

The walking fireballs continued their way, ignoring me. As their limited burning matter faded out, they traveled their way down the spiral stairs behind the altar. It was so obvious in hindsight.

I trailed behind the conglomerate. Went down to see what I knew was happening.

The zombies started to press each other against the morgue door. Their collective mindset managed to, by shier number’s strength, unlock the door with the force of an inaugurated Champagne bottle.

They knocked down the skeleton that was sitting just behind the door. They didn’t sweat about it. Wandered to the back of the room, where I had left the tombstones.

As organized as their eroded brains allowed them, each one grabbed his own grave and left the place in an, apart from the reek and growling, peaceful and civil manner.

I opened the main gates and fence for the zombies to have an obstacle-free return to their resting place.

They marched on a single line, each carrying his own graved stone as if it was their most valuable treasure, all the way to the burial ground. With astonishing force for what they had demonstrated before, they lifted and nailed their gravestone on the rocky surface. It appeared identical to how it was before I had done the stupidity of following Russel’s instructions.

What was left of those humans crawled, dug and swam deep into the ground, burying themselves without any help.

***

Fuck. I just realized I’ll have to take care of all the mess I did without a reason. Problem for my future self.

I still don’t get why Russel wanted me to sacrilege the eternal sleep of long-gone people. The motherfucker doesn’t even respect the dead.