Crib bedding set boy | Etsy - m.sportbetbonus772.life

Table of Contents
Chapter 21 l Chapter 22 l Chapter 23 l Chapter 24 l Chapter 25 l Chapter 26 l Chapter 27

Dei
Cleo sat in her new office going over the recent numbers. She smiled to herself as she looked at the new assets and debts that Fondsworth had acquired under her stewardship. Sorjoy had basically informed her that, as of last week, she would run the Fondsworth, Inc.
At first, Cleo was certain this was a ploy to distract her by running Fondsworth Inc which would allow Sorjoy to have a stronger influence over The Scale. But it was far from the truth.
It seemed Sorjoy had gotten over his initial disappointment with her being the new head of The Scale. Perhaps it was Trueman’s sudden death that made Sorjoy soften to the idea, but Cleo wasn’t going to argue.
Her concerns were focused on Fondsworth, at the moment, and on ensuring that Cerberus maintained its security of Scale membership, as well as surveillance.
Cleo had to ensure that The Scale members in her inner circle were, indeed, loyal. She knew her best card for that task was Mimi.
Mimi, Cleo knew, was someone she had to keep happy. Mimi had dirt on just about everyone in the city, as she knew who slept with who, who had affairs, and what their dirty secret kinks were.
As such, Mimi was in the unique position to 'convince' just about anyone to remain loyal to Cleo. That same position, however, put Cleo on the back-foot when it came to Mimi.
Cleo sighed as she considered her precarious situation. Mimi held as much power over Cleo as she did anyone else. Cleo didn’t want anyone to know what she had to do to get by for years after college. Cleo's past coming back to haunt her was not something she wanted in the papers.
Cleo thought, absently, about why she had such an extreme reaction to the news of Palma’s death. After all, she had been vomiting every morning since she heard the news. Cleo shivered, her hand roaming over her stomach. “No,” Cleo smiled to herself, “This has nothing to do with Palma.” The vomiting further confirmed her suspicion that she might be pregnant with the child of The Guardian Himself.
Cleo glanced at the clock and got to her feet, picking up her tablet and calling to her new assistant. Cleo had sought to surround herself with those who could keep her safe and her new assistant was certainly an assistant for the most part, but also a part-time bodyguard.
The young woman had bronze-colored wings, short black hair, and stunning golden eyes. She was slightly taller than Cleo and far more athletic.
“Megaera, I’ll be retiring for the evening,” Cleo announced as she walked past the young woman who sat at the desk in front of her office.
“Understood Ms. Walters,” Megaera smiled at her, “Alecto has already swept your condo and Tiphousia confirmed that the rest of the building is secure.”
Cleo smiled, “Thank you Megaera. Report that to Cerberus headquarters when you can.”
Megaera smiled and bowed to Cleo as she left.
Cleo grinned to herself as she got into the elevator. The three women, Megaera, Alecto, and Tiphousia were highly recommended bodyguards, seducers, and excellent assassins. They came highly recommended and had earned the nickname ‘The Fury’, and in the past month, they had proved themselves more than capable and beyond loyal in protecting Cleo.
Rumor even had it that the three were sisters, but Cleo had not yet confirmed this and just considered it a bit of marketing for their brand. ‘The Fury Sisters’ sounded better than just, ‘The Fury Coworkers’.
Cleo rode the elevator down to her floor, heading towards her well-appointed condo. As she walked in the scent of a well-cooked meal filled her nose and she smiled as she called out, “Smells great, Ipswella!”
Cleo saw Ispewlla in the kitchen grinning ear to ear, “Thank you, Miss Cleo!”
Cleo turned to see a sight she was not expecting.
Sitting at the table in a well-tailored suit was Kaelen or rather Lucifer in Kaelen’s body. His violet eyes shimmered as he watched Cleo stride in.
Malik bowed as Cleo entered, “Miss Cleo, Lord Lucifer has dropped in for a visit.
“Hello,” Cleo smiled, “I can see that."
Lucifer's smile widened upon seeing Cleo, “Thank you, Malik.”
“Always a pleasure, My Lord,” Malik said, moving a chair for Cleo to sit opposite The Guardian.
Cleo sat down, hanging her purse on the back of her chair as she smiled softly to Lucifer, “I assume you’re here with some good news?”
Lucifer smiled with an almost nervous blush that Cleo found endearing on Kaelen’s face, especially when inhabited by Lucifer. “That I do. I would like it if, perhaps, it was you giving me the news, but it seems you aren’t sure yourself,” Lucifer said with a wide grin that was both nervous and excited.
Cleo felt herself blush, “Well, now that you put it like that, I’m going to assume that I’m pregnant?”
Ipswellia tittered happily from the kitchen, “Oh, I cannot wait for the baby! It’ll be so beautiful!”
Lucifer’s face grew bright with a smile, “I was right. Hearing it from you makes all the difference.” He stood and walked towards her. He knelt before Cleo, his hand caressing her stomach.
Cleo covered his hand over hers, “How was your little ‘nap’?” Cleo asked mockingly.
Lucifer’s eyes were focused on Cleo’s belly, a warm smile on his face.
“Lu?” Cleo asked, grinning.
“Oh, no, no,” Lucifer snapped to attention, looking at her, “I do not like that at all.”
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Cleo smiled down at him.
“Giving me a nickname like that,” Lucifer grinned up to her, “Is your friend Teryn rubbing off on you?”
Cleo paused a moment and then burst out laughing.
Lucifer’s smile only grew and he looked wistfully to Cleo’s stomach, “You know, hearing you laugh fills me with such joy. I’m going to work far harder to make this world a better place for everyone who lives in it, just so I can hear that laughter more.”
Cleo’s laughter weakened as she smiled warmly to Lucifer, “Just for my laugh? Not for all those who are suffering?”
Lucifer chuckled, “If there is less suffering, that means more laughter from you, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe,” Cleo teased with a grin, her hand on her stomach.
Ipswella clapped her hands together happily, “Oh the prophecy is being fulfilled isn’t it?!”
Malik rolled his eyes, “What’s next? You’ll be talking about fairies?”
Lucifer smiled, “The tale of a savior who would make the world equal for Imps and Angels?”
Ipswella nodded as she brought out a pair of plates filled with meat and gravy, vegetables, and a pair of empty glasses.
Lucifer stood, now looking into Cleo’s eyes, “My dear Persephone, I do believe you’re going to give birth to their fabled savior.”
“Am I now?” Cleo laughed.
Lucifer’s hand rested on Cleo’s stomach, “Yes. You are.”
Cleo sighed contentedly as she felt a strange energy wash over her.
Malik stood back, his eyes wide at the sight. “Lord Lucifer, sir?”
“Yes, Malik?” Lucifer said, without taking his eyes off of Cleo’s.
“If this is true, and it is your intention, then I wish to swear myself to you, in this life and the next!” Malik declared.
Lucifer turned to the small imp, looking down on him, “Such pacts shouldn’t be made lightly, little imp. Do you know what that entails?”
“Whatever it is, My Guardian,” Malik bowed, “I shall be up to the task!”
Lucifer chuckled and turned back to Cleo, “I fear I don’t have much time to spend with you right now. But I will return.”
“To check up on the baby?” Cleo asked.
Lucifer’s smile weakened, “Not just that,” his hand caressed Cleo’s cheek, “But to check up on you, my love.”
Cleo leaned her head against his palm, sighing contently, “I don’t know if it’s the baby hormones or what, but you’ve got me in a very romantic mood.”
With that Lucifer bent down and kissed Cleo gently on the lips, “Know this: I love you, my Persephone, and I will make sure you and our child are always safe. No entity in this universe will take you from me.”
Cleo smiled, “That’s good to know we have your protection, Guardian Lucifer,” Cleo chided, “About time you started doing your job.”
Lucifer chuckled and sat down at his seat, looking at the food before him, “Let’s eat and enjoy what little time we have together.”
Cleo smiled, “Just make sure to leave room for dessert,” Cleo winked to Lucifer knowingly.
…
Nite
Rezzolina stood in the command center, looking at the screen which showed the image of Captain Jessie standing before her.
“My apologies, Chairwoman Misho, it’s just that when she came on board I was certain she was a Nite!” Captain Jessie admitted.
“How in the name of all the Guardians could you possibly mistake Yuki for a Nite?” Rezzolina demanded.
“Well, aren’t Dei Angels supposed to have feathers?” Captain Jessie asked.
Rezzolina narrowed her eyes on him, “Yuki has feathers.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Captain Jessie argued.
“She had them when she left!” Rezzolina snapped.
“Well, I just left her in the medical bay and her horns are black and her wings are blue, what do you want me to say?” Capitan Jessie said with a huff.
“Her… horns?” Rezzolina asked, raising an eyebrow, “Yuki doesn’t have horns…”
“Right, now you understand why we didn’t classify her as a Dei Angel?” Captain Jessie explained, “Girl even has a tail. I mean, it’s little, but I am not going to mock someone for a physical disability.”
Rezzolina sighed heavily, “I need to speak with her.”
“She’s recovering from a very trying birth in the medical wing, you’ll have to wait,” Captain Jessie informed.
“Birth?!” Rezzolina shouted, taken back by the news.
“Yes, she gave birth to a little wyrmling,” Captain Jessie sighed, “Poor little wyrmling is so tiny, born a few months too early. We’re not even sure if he’ll make it.”
Rezzolina frowned, “And how is Yuki holding up?”
“Recovering well, so far,” Captain Jessie reported.
“Keep us posted,” Rezzolina sighed, “Bad enough I’m going to be dealing with a second Dei Angel along with Yuki.”
“Actually, that boy Thomas is going to stay on board, along with Tarrabetha,” Captain Jessie informed Rezzolina.
“What?” Rezzolina asked, “Why? You aren’t taking Deepsight anywhere near Dei!”
“No, we’re not,” Captain Jessie chuckled, “But Tarrabetha wanted to join our crew and Thomas was more than happy to join along with her. Besides,” Captain Jessie grinned wide, “We could use an experienced communications crew on board.”
Rezzolina heaved a sigh, “That does simplify at least one matter for us down here. Thank you, Captain Jessie. Again, keep us posted on what’s going on with Yuki.”
“Will do,” Captain Jessie said, the video cutting out.
Rezzolina turned to one of the operators, “How long until Deepsight can bring the crew of Shuttle Goodwill home?”
The operator tapped a few options on their console, “About three more weeks, Chairwoman Misho.”
Rezzolina frowned “Thank you,” with that, Rezzolina left, heading for the exit.
“Do I tell Serren that Yuki could be alive...?” Rezzolina asked herself. “If I do he’ll know that there’s more and I’ll have to tell him about the child. But the child might not make it… Yuki still might not make it,” Rezzolina sighed, “How can I give him hope but not promise him anything? Serren’s already at risk of doing something to himself out of his sheer depression. If he gets his hopes up to lose them now, I don’t even think I could stop him from harming himself this time knowing that he lost Yuki and his child...” Rezzolina shook her head, putting the thought of losing her brother out of her mind.
Rezzolina reached a platform built into the side of the building and leaped off heading towards her condo. “Three more weeks. Yuki, you just have to pull through for three more weeks, for Serren. If you love him, you’ll come home to him with his child.”
Rezzolina turned around a corner and found Serren sitting on the balcony of her condo. She frowned, as there seemed to be a nurse standing next to him. Rezzolina landed, “Serren?”
Rezzolina could feel his sorrow.
The nurse was a white-skinned Niten Dragon with red stripes. Serren’s watery yellow eyes turned to Rezzolina, “Oh, hello! Sorry, but I was happening by and I passed poor Serren here standing at the edge of the balcony.” She smiled, “I’ve been having a chat with him.”
Rezzolina turned to her little brother, “Serren?”
Serren shook his head, “Ashlly was talking to me about how I feel after losing my two mates.”
The nurse, Ashlly, just smiled, “It’s usually when someone feels down like this, they go out and sort of… dangle themselves.”
“I would have been home sooner,” Rezzolina frowned.
“Not soon enough,” Serren shook his head, “Sorry to bother you with my troubles, Ashlly.”
Ashlly waved her hands off at Serren, “No, I’m sorry you’re troubled. But please, Serren, remember what we talked about, alright? Don’t forget to call that phone number I gave you if you feel this way again.”
“Thank you, Ashlly, for helping my little brother,” Rezzolina offered, “Would you like to join us for dinner?”
“Oh, no, thank you!” Ashlly beamed, “I have to get to my shift at the hospital. But have a good day!” Ashlly was soon in the air, waving goodbye to Rezzolina and Serren.
Rezzolina took a seat next to Serren, hugging him tightly, “You can talk to me.”
“I’ve been talking,” Serren heaved a sigh, resting his head on Rezzolina’s shoulder, “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
Rezzolina sighed, “Serren, it’s going to be fine.”
“How can you-” Serren was cut off by Rezzolina grabbing him by the shoulders and staring deeply into his yellow eyes.
“Serren, listen to me and believe me: I cannot tell you why, but I know that at the end of this ordeal, you’re going to be fine. Okay?” Rezzolina smiled, “Yuki and Allia? They wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself. They’d want you to be healthy and happy.” Rezzolina offered, “Will you trust me?”
Serren gave a weak nod and rested his head on Rezzolina’s shoulder.
“Come on, Serren,” Rezzolina said as she cradled Serren in her arms, hefting him up, “Let’s get you inside, okay?”
…
Dr. Terasuki looked over Yuki’s belongings, flipping through the book in more detail. She sneered at some passages and growled at others.
“Absolute nonsense,” Dr. Terasuki hissed, “Why would they lie to their own people?” Dr. Terasuki looked over the front of the book, glancing at the ‘Inventory’ sheet.
As she looked over the sheet, her eyebrow piqued, as she read the passage:
“If all else fails, a gun has been placed into the survival kit so you can go out on your own terms.”
Dr. Terasuki frowned, “A gun? What is a gun?” Dr. Terasuki sifted through Yuki’s pack, seeking out the item in question. She finally managed to find the small pistol Yuki had used to kill the Ripper with when she first crash-landed.
Dr. Terasuki examined the object carefully, eventually pulling back the firing mechanism and allowing it to click back into place.
After a little more research into the field guide, Dr. Terasuki found what she was looking for. It was a spec sheet and user manual for the pistol.
Dr. Terasuki followed the directions to strip down the pistol, looking over each part carefully and curiously. Finally, she reached the end of reassembling the pistol:
“If the firing pin safety fails to keep the firing pin from moving forward, DO NOT LOAD OR FIRE YOUR PISTOL. Re-strip and reassemble. Firing pin issues could lead to accidental discharge.”
There were finally instructions on the other side of the paper and Dr. Terasuki’s eyes went wide as it showed detailed methods for suicide. She dropped the weapon, stepping away slowly. “The purpose of this is to… kill oneself? But… how?” She flipped to another page and found a diagram of the pistol and the ammunition. The thought of an Angel being told to kill themselves alarmed Dr. Terasuki.
“Why not provide a poison or a high sleep dosage if this was the case? Why this brutal method?” Dr. Terasuki questioned as she looked the item over, noticing the sights on the end.
Examining the sight, Dr. Terasuki took aim and realized that it was for aiming. She frowned, “...This thing is only meant to kill angels, isn’t it?” Dr. Terasuki was appalled, “Why make something for this sole purpose?” She sighed and picked up her phone, dialing out to Galler.
After four rings, the phone was answered.
“H-Hello?” Galler stammered as four overly nervous taps were heard over the line.
“Galler, settle down, it’s Dr. Terasuki,” She said in a calm voice.
“Oh! Hello Doctor,” Galler sighed, relieved, “I thought it would be Chairwoman Rezzolina, again.”
“Is she cross with you?” Dr. Terasuki asked, concerned.
“Y-Yes. I had a bit of a panic attack while on the line with some of Dei’s major government officials,” Galler sighed, “Things didn't go well.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Dr. Terasuki looked at the pistol, “Galler, I have something that needs to be investigated.”
“What’s that?” Galler asked.
“I have an item from Yuki’s personal effects she left after her passing,” Dr. Terasuki sighed, “It was kept in private for her, but as she passed on I was inventorying everything she had. I found something disturbing.”
“Disturbing?” Galler pressed.
“Yes. It’s called a Pistol or Gun? I’m unsure what it’s purpose is. I was wondering if perhaps I should send it to the engineering guild? The only thing is I know you handle all Dei situations so…” Dr. Terasuki trailed off.
“Sadly, I doubt we’ll be having any dealings with Dei after the most recent debacle,” Galler heaved, tapping four more times on his desk, “Whatever object it is, if you want it properly identified, I’d submit it and any paperwork it came with to the engineering guild. They could properly catalog it.”
“You’ve never heard of a Pistol, Galler?” Dr. Terasuki asked.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Galler said as he tapped the desk another four times, “Again, our current relationship with the Dei authorities is not the best.”
Dr. Terasuki nodded, “Good and Galler, have you been taking your medication?”
Galler cleared his throat four times, “As best as I’m able.”
“Galler…” Dr. Terasuki sighed.
“I… uh, well the pills are… three doses and… I… uh…” Galler stammered.
“Galler, if the dosage was in a set of four, would it be easier for you?” Dr. Terasuki asked.
“Y-Yes,” Galler admitted.
“I’ll send it over to your pharmacy, just please, be safe, okay?” Dr. Terasuki said.
“C-Certainly,” Galler said as the line went dead.
Dr. Teasuki sighed heavily, glancing at the pistol sitting on her table. “Curious little gadgets, these Dei Angels make.”
...
Deepsight
Yuki rocked her little boy in her arms as she sat in her bed, about two weeks have passed since she gave birth.
Much to her chagrin, Yuki discovered that, while the feeding tube wasn’t needed, she couldn’t breastfeed her little baby. Not that she was incapable by any means, she had breastfed Geoffrey fine.
It’s just that Yuki’s first child did not sport rows and rows of fine, sharp, and very bitey teeth.
Yuki was given a thin paste to feed to the small child, which he gleefully ate as Yuki fed him slowly. “Guardian, you’re so cute,” Yuki cooed to the small Niten dragon in her arms.
The baby giggled at Yuki as she fed him.
“Knock knock!” Tarrabetha’s voice chimed in as she walked into Yuki’s room, “Are you decent?”
“Yes,” Yuki sighed, “You’re here every day it seems, Tarra.”
Tarrabetha walked in, grinning ear to ear at the small red baby Niten Dragon, “Can you blame me? He’s adorable!”
“Thanks,” Yuki chuckled, sighing, “I hope Serren is okay with the fact I haven’t named him yet.”
Tarrabetha grinned, “I think he’ll be happy to see you both, he won’t care about names.”
Yuki smiled to Tarrabetha, “Guess you have a point because I miss Serren so much.”
Tarrabetha smiled warmly at the small child in Yuki’s arms, “Who’s the cute little wyrmling? You are!” She gently poked the baby’s snout, causing him to nip at her finger. “Yikes!”
“Yeah,” Yuki flinched, recalling the first time she placed the baby near her nipple, “He’s a biter.”
“I’ll say!” Tarrabetha smiled, “We’re going to go over the landing plan, now that we’re going into Lunar orbit. Care to sit in?”
Yuki nodded, “I should,” she sighed, “I’m worried about the baby, to be honest.”
Tarrabetha nodded, “So is Briggett and Issla, but they aren’t pleased with the landing plan that Captain Jessie purposed to them.”
“What landing plan is that?” Yuki asked.
“Come on and you’ll see,” Tarrabetha said, helping Yuki to her feet.
Yuki stood up and followed Tarrabetha closely. As she walked behind the large dragon, she noticed her baby was outstandingly curious. His icy blue eyes darting back and forth as they took in the world around him.
Yuki smiled down to her baby, “Mommy was impressed too.”
The child cooed to her.
Yuki walked into a small meeting room where Briggett, Issla, and Captain Jessie were already sitting.
Tarrabetha smiled, “I got her!”
Yuki smiled, “So what’s all the hubbub about?”
Tarrabetha frowned, “I’ll leave the people leaving for the landing discussion. Good luck everyone!” Tarrabetha said as she excused herself.
“The hubbub,” Briggett complained, “Is that Captain Jessie here wants us to fly over the Northern Cliffs of Rex and, no thanks, I’m not taking my shuttle over that damned place.”
Captain Jessie rolled his eyes, “Brigg, honestly? That’s superstition. When those original shuttles went down they had older technology with plenty of problems with lift, engines, and who knows what else.”
Issla frowned, “He does have a point, Brigg, we haven’t lost any shuttles over that region in the last twenty years.”
“Because we don’t fly over that region anymore!” Briggett argued back.
Captain Jessie shook his head, his smile finally dropped for the first time in months, “Enough of this!” he said as he slammed his hand down on the table, causing everyone in the room to jump.
Everyone’s attention was on the black Niten Dragon as he eyed Briggett with clear agitation.
“Early shuttles weren’t up to the standards modern ones are,” Captain Jessie argued passionately, “If you do not launch tomorrow, then Deepsight will orbit around the dark hemisphere of the moon, and then it will be another two weeks before you can land,” he then pointed to Yuki. More specifically, he pointed to the baby in her arms. “We are lucky that wyrmling has survived as long as it has. But this shuttle is not properly equipped for caring for the wyrmling much longer!”
Briggett frowned as she glanced at Yuki.
“So your options are, put your superstitions aside and fly over the Northern Cliffs of Rex on your way to Metro Prime or put this child’s health at serious risk!” Captain Jessie snapped, his jaws making an audible clap as they closed with force.
Issla turned to Briggett, “He has a point, it’s just a superstition.”
Yuki nodded in agreement, “Briggett, no offense, but I just want to get home to Serren.”
Briggett heaved a sigh, “Fine. But if we crash because of…” Briggett narrowed her eyes on Issla, “Superstition, then I told you so.”
“I’ll etch it on your tombstone,” Captain Jessie mocked, “Now let's get Shuttle Goodwill flight ready.”
…
The next day came faster than Yuki could have imagined.
It had been weeks since Yuki had been inside the now far too familiar Goodwill Shuttle. It was odd entering without Tarrabetha or Thomas.
Briggett and Issla were already prepping the shuttle in the front two seats, as Yuki floated over to her own seat.
Behind her Nurse, Abby was carrying a specialized seat which she strapped into the fourth passenger seat in the cockpit.
The seat was designed to cradle Yuki’s small Niten Dragon. The child wore a helmet that kept his neck from jostling while strapped into the seat. The back of the seat was turned towards the front of the cockpit, making the child face the back of the larger seat.
Yuki preferred this, as it allowed her to see her baby’s face and her baby to see her.
Abby gave a gentle jostle, noting the child barely moved, and then tightened a few more seatbelts. “This should hold the little fellow in there,” she turned to Yuki, “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Yuki smiled, “I trust Brigg, she’s a great pilot.” Yuki chuckled, “Besides, this can’t be worse than my first landing on Nite.”
Briggett huffed as she went through a few more checks, “Ready to begin decoupling and launch.”
Yuki strapped herself in and turned to Abby, “Thanks so much for helping my son and me.”
“You’re more than welcome,” Nurse Abby smiled wide as she turned and left the shuttle.
“Final check, all Deepsight Crew please exit Shuttle Goodwill,” Briggett announced.
Issla looked over her own console, “Our flight path is clear and all systems are nominal.”
Briggett announced once more, “Closing and sealing all airlocks.”
“Airlock seal confirmed: We have positive pressure,” Issla responded back to Briggett.
“Decoupling from Deepsight initiated,” Briggett announced.
Yuki felt the shuttle shudder and then began to drift as the nose of the ship pointed towards Nite.
“Distance from Deepsight is five meters,” Issla confirmed, “Main engine power confirmed.”
Briggett made a few more adjustments, “Main thrusters on stand-by until we are clear of Deepsight.”
Yuki glanced out her window to see the large ship slowly drifting away from the shuttle. She smiled as she admired the white finish across its large and smooth hull. It was the first time she was able to see the massive mobile space station from the outside.
If she had not seen how barren the ship was inside, Yuki would have been fooled into thinking the ship was complete. “It makes sense to finish the outside first, of course,” Yuki reasoned, as Deepsight grew smaller in the window as they drifted away.
“Distance from Deepsight, fifty meters,” Issla confirmed.
The radio crackled, “Shuttle Goodwill this is Captain Jessie, you are clear of Deepsight. Have a safe trip.”
Yuki smiled, able to feel the grin from Captain Jessie as the force of the Shuttle’s acceleration pushed her back into her seat. Yuki turned to see her child cooing and reaching out towards her. “It’s okay sweet baby, I’m right here.”
Briggett growled, “Starting our initial burn - Estimated time to atmosphere reentry, one hour.”
“Confirmed, engine output is nominal,” Issla reported.
Yuki felt the light pressure from the thrusting engines gently pinning her back into the seat. She looked to her baby, seeing that he wasn’t terribly bothered by the minor force.
Yuki kept her eyes glued to her little baby, making sure he was okay as they made what Briggett referred to as a ‘Bee-line’ for Nite.
To Yuki, the hour passed in moments, her concern and energy focused entirely on her child as, finally, the thrusting stopped.
“Entering Niten Orbit,” Issla announced.
“Decelerating,” Briggett called out.
The ship shuddered briefly and Yuki felt pushed forward against her straps. This, she found, was much less drastic on her child, who’s back was merely being pushed into the soft padding of his small carriage seat.
Yuki held on tightly as she felt gravity take hold once more, now no longer pulling her back, but pulling her down to the floor of the shuttle.
“Entering the atmosphere,” Briggett announced as the ship shuddered once again.
“Brigg!” Issla protested, “Don’t take us in too steep just because you want to skip the Cliffs!”
Briggett growled as the ship leveled out slightly, “Just trying to save our skins! But fine, let's be suicidal!”
Yuki’s gaze was focused on her child, who was enjoying the ride, much to her surprise. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the sky changing from the pitch black of space to a soft blue.
Yuki relaxed as the shuttle slowly glided down through the atmosphere.
“The hard part is over,” Yuki thought softly to herself.
“Radar is looking clear so far,” Briggett sighed, “We’re passing over the cliffs now.”
Out of the window, Yuki saw a sea below them in the distance, with sheer white cliffs dropping off of the heavily vegetated ground.
Yuki half wondered if most of the past crashes happened because pilots were distracted by the white cliff’s beauty or perhaps they got disoriented and could not discern the white cliff faces from a bright sky?
That’s when Yuki noticed her child was cooing at the window.
Yuki smiled and turned her attention to the window that her child was staring out of.
Staring back at her was a massive eye the size of a dinner plate. Its golden iris was intricate and colored a deep orange with brown speckles. It’s massive slit iris flexed, opening wide and then narrowing as the eye tilted away from the window.
Yuki’s eyes were wide as a massive blue lizard-like creature plummeted down towards the water.
Its body was massive, with four legs, a mighty tail, and brilliant flashing blue scales. It’s armored wings reflected the sun as if they were the surface of the sea, nearly blinding Yuki as the massive creature vanished in a flash of white light.
Yuki was speechless as Briggett tapped her radar.
“Issla, you see anything on our left?” Brigett asked.
Issla glanced past Briggett and shook her head, “No, must have just been interference.”
Briggett nodded, “We won’t be over the cliffs for much longer.”
Yuki turned to Briggett and Issla, “W-why… Why are you guys so afraid of this area?” she asked, wondering if what she had seen was even real.
Issla laughed, “Brigg thinks that there’s Rex Dragons up here! It’s an old wives tale!”
“What, exactly, is a Rex Dragon?” Yuki asked.
Briggett answered, “They’re giants, bigger than Bronzi and they can fly! They’ve got the teeth of a Scavenger and they say the things can speak. But they don’t speak with their mouths…”
Issla interrupted, “They speak directly into your mind!” she said in a mocking melodious tone.
Yuki swallowed hard, “I-I think I just saw-”
Briggett sighed in relief, “And we are past the cliffs!” She smiled, “We survived the cliffs!”
Yuki glanced out the window once more, confused and wondering if she had imagined the creature that had passed by them.
Yuki shook her head, “No, they would have seen something that big on the radar,” Yuki convinced herself, ignoring the blip that Briggett had seen as they passed the Cliffs of Rex.
Yuki just sighed. After another half an hour, they finally touched down.
Once the shuttle came to a stop, Briggett let go of the controls, and relief washed over all of them.
Yuki sighed contently, getting up from her seat and gently unbuckling her child. “Ready to meet your daddy?”
The child cooed happily.
…
Serren shadowed Dr. Terasuki as she made her rounds, taking notes as he did so.
Rezzolina was insistent that this would take his mind off of Yuki. Serren was doubtful of this as he followed Dr. Terasuki to an examination room.
“Ugh,” Dr. Terasuki sighed, “I forgot my tablet, Serren, why don’t you take this patient’s vitals? Mother and child are inside. Both need an exam.”
Serren frowned, “Both?”
“Yes,” Dr. Terasuki gave three knocks on the door, “Coming in.”
Serren picked up his tablet as Dr. Terasuki opened the door and shoved him in. Serren was a bit shocked, at first, but sighed and looked around the room.
Serren couldn’t help but smile warmly at the little wyrmling who was swaddled in a small crib. “What lovely blue eyes,” Serren commented at the icy blue eyes of the child.
Behind a changing screen, Serren spotted a blue wing rise and fall, bumping the screen slightly.
The woman behind the screen was certainly a petite little thing. It explained the prematurity of the child. An early hatch was common with a lithe mother.
“Miss if I can get your vitals?” Serren said as he glanced at his pad, noting the information of the patient, “Miss… sorry your name isn’t on here,” He glanced to the child, “Nor is the baby’s.”
Yuki’s voice came from behind the screen, “Well, regarding the baby’s name, I was waiting for his father to meet him before we went forward with naming him.”
Serren’s eyes widened and he pushed the changing screen away. He gasped as he saw Yuki standing there in little more than her bra and panties, grinning ear to ear with her new Niten wings and her fifteen centimeter long horns.
Yuki spun around for Serren, looking over her shoulder at him as her stubbed meter long tail shifted back and forth behind her, “So, do I wear this well or not?”
“Y-Yuki!” Serren cried out as he rushed to her and hugged her tightly, tears of joy streaming down his face, “Y-You’re alive!”
Yuki laughed, “Yeah,” she said as she kissed him softly, “I told you I’d be back.” she looked behind Serren, glancing at her child, “With our son.”
Serren turned to the child and he gently approached him. He knelt by the crib and gently took the child in his arms, “This… this is our child?” He said, turning to Yuki with a shocked expression, tears still in his eyes.
“Oh, Serren,” Yuki laughed, walking up to him and drying his eyes, “Yes. This is our son. I gave birth to him and I think he’s what did all… well… this,” Yuki said, pointing to her horns.
“I think they look lovely,” Serren smiled, and then beamed to the little wyrmling in his arms.
“So,” Yuki smiled to Serren, “What do we name our little bundle of joy?”
Serren smiled softly to the little boy, holding his finger out for the wyrmling to grab a hold of. “I know what to call him.”
“What?” Yuki asked.
Serren’s smile radiated softly as he spoke his son’s name for the first time, “Kriggary.”

What are we doing wrong?

I really hate my in-laws

My wife is amazing. She’s been there for me in the very worst times of my life, always with a set of encouraging words. We started out as friends and I’d highly recommend that route for those of you looking for love. If you can call your significant other an asshole without them throwing a fit, you’ve got a keeper.
There’s just one issue. It’s her parents. Most men in media are depicted as having a strained relationship with their in-laws, to be sure, but this is different; they were never outright cruel, but they creep me out. It probably has a lot do with my father-in-law’s profession.
Paul makes dolls. Well. Marionettes really. And he makes a pretty penny doing it too. You’d be surprised to learn the sorts of things that rich people spend their money on.
It was the most recent visit over to their house that’s really set me on edge though.
I slammed the driver side door of the SUV and leaned against the window with my face down, staring at the concrete driveway. I was working myself up. I knew that as soon as we entered their home, I’d be confronted with the dead eyes of those fucking puppets. I could already feel my shirt collar beginning to cling to my neck from perspiration.
“It’s going to be alright. You always overreact.” I felt the gentle hand of my wife brush the small of my back.
I twisted around and grinned. “I know. You’re right. They just…”
“I know.” She said, smiling. “It’s going to be fine.”
We pulled the little sausage fat baby from the car seat in the back. There was a wide red mark running the length of his round face. He’d fallen asleep hard and the impressions on his skin served as the perfect receptacles for his spittle. He began to stir as I began bobbing him slowly awake. “Hey little guy.” Being a dad still felt so alien. But I loved him.
As the wife removed the diaper bag from the backseat, I could see her gray-haired parents poke their raisin faces out of the front door. They waved us over and I began taking hesitant steps up to the old ranch-style house.
We moved into the house and the smell around me changed, nearly suffocating me. Elderly dead skin cells bathed my lungs and I had to get out! I sat next to my wife on the ancient couch, sending up a puff of dust particles. I tried to cover my baby’s face with my hand without anyone noticing. I did not want him breathing in the ungodliness that was stuck in the recesses of those couch cushions.
“Eggnog?” asked my mother-in-law, Elaine.
“Of course.” I forced a smile. As she handed me the crystalline glass, I passed my son off to my wife and took a long slow sip of the thick white stuff. “Mmm. Good.” I grinned warily at her. Whoever had made the eggnog had decided that a ratio of sixty percent alcohol was a good idea. I can’t disagree. As I finished the glass off and sat it on the nearby table, I felt better. It was swimmy and warm. The fireplace crackled and forced a jump out of me.
“You need to calm down.” Elaine refilled my glass.
“Thank you.” I held the glass for perhaps a minute before it was gone.
Paul strained his popping knees from the armchair and moved to the hallway, looking over his shoulder. He spoke to me, “You wanna’ help me out?”
I knew what that entailed. I had really wished I would not have to look in that room. I choked out my words, “Of course.” As I stood, I could feel my wife squeeze my hand reassuringly. When I looked down at her on the couch, I could see that she was shooting me a look. You need to calm down, said that look. I nodded at her.
I moved to follow her father as he waddled down the hall.
Paul spoke without looking at me. “Got a new piece of wood down in the basement I need your help with it. I can’t move it myself. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, I don’t mind.” I clenched my jaw, and I could hear the blood pumping in my skull. Throb. Throb. Throb. As he opened the basement door to the infinite blackness, I grew dizzy. The alcohol in the eggnog was really doing its business.
We made our way down the steps slowly. Him lumbering ahead with me wavering behind. As he clicked on the basement light, I could see what he meant. There was a huge piece of what might have been driftwood. Perhaps six feet in length. It had to have been two hundred pounds. It did not occur to me to ask him how it was that he’d gotten the thing in the basement in the first place.
Without much ado, we squatted and momentarily fought to tilt it so that it would more easily shift up the stairs to the ground floor. By the time we reached the top of the steps, I could see my small family and Elaine sitting near the fireplace, unmoving, heads cocked to watch the flames.
After shutting the basement door, we shimmied awkwardly towards the open doorway at the very end of the hall. I could see the dolls just barely through the threshold. The gooseflesh was already springing up on my arms like mad.
“Whoa there, careful now,” said Paul, giving me a warm smile. There was something else there too. I could just make out that his expression was sending me telepathic messages. Something along the lines of, You better not put a hole in my fucking wall, kid.
“Sorry.” I felt small.
“S’alright.”
We stepped into the room and we were surrounded on all sides by dead eyes. Eyes that I see in my dreams. Eyes that could put a spell on me. Eyes drawn from the deepest parts of hell. The dolls hung from every open space of wall and sat upon every possible surface. Most of them were dressed in the attire of Victorian England, but some were more contemporary. A construction worker here. A businesswoman there.
As we squatted to set the large piece of driftwood onto the floor, it felt as though microscopic bugs were boring their way into my flesh. I could feel them.
This was easily the largest room in the whole house. It was Paul’s workshop. The floor was covered in sawdust and splatters of paint. Against the far wall was a workstation with wood-shaping tools. Even if I did hate the dolls, I couldn’t help but admire his current project. It was a life-size marionette and it seemed that he’d already carved out the hollows for eyes. I shivered. The shape of the arms and the legs were impeccable. His handiwork was worth taking notice of, I suppose. He settled onto his stool at his workstation, waving me over.
He took up a foreign blade and began shaving off a piece of the doll’s arm, forcing it to take the shape of a true to life human. It was an unsettling moment, watching him do it. He cackled at me. “I thought for sure my dolls made you uncomfortable.”
“N-no.” I lied, “They’re really quite something. From a certain angle. I guess.” I was fidgeting and I could feel the heat coming off me again. I wanted to fall out there in the floor right then and there with all of those fucking eyes on me. It felt like they were following my every micro-expression. They were judging my movements. I was under extreme scrutiny.
He chuckled. “It’s an artform, really. It takes a lot of practice to get it just so,” he grunted as he hit a specifically difficult piece of raised wood. “Relax. You are family.”
“I’m going to go and sit in the family room.”
He waved me off and I left that damnable room. As I returned to the den, I settled onto the couch and Elaine refilled my glass of eggnog.
“You look so flushed,” said the wrinkled old shrew.
“Yeah,” added my wife, “Are you alright?” She bobbed our little boy on her leg. He grinned stupidly, eyeing me over. For the briefest of moments, it felt as though he’d had his eyes replaced with those of a long dead marionette. I blinked and wiped my hands along my slacks.
“I’m fine.”
I downed two more glasses of eggnog as I put the dolls out of my mind. The smell of the slow cooking roast wafted through the home and I was getting wasted. The shadows in the home grew long. Our baby took up in an imaginary game, crawling beneath the Christmas tree. Elaine and my wife took up in chatting about this and that and I kept my full attention on the flames of the fireplace. Paul worked continuously in his workshop. He always did that. He was always working. Forever the artist, I guess. Something like that. My vision was growing blurry and I excused myself to the kitchen.
The floor of the house creaked beneath my feet. It was an old house. I hunkered down in front of the stove and inspected the roast. I was beginning to get the drunk-munchies. It did look good. I found the punch bowl containing the eggnog and found the half empty bottle of whiskey sitting next to the bowl. I poured more of the liquor into it and then looked over my shoulder to be sure that no one would see me press my mouth to the edge of the bowl and lift it up. After wiping my mouth, I checked the amount of time left on the old-school timer. I sighed and moved to the living room again, settling into the couch next to my wife.
I wish they had a TV.
I fell to sleep and was roused by the sound of the cooking timer. We gathered to the kitchen, helping Elaine set the table. I felt warm and my thoughts of the marionettes were momentarily forgotten. As Paul entered the kitchen, wiping his hands down the front of his carpenter’s apron, he greeted us with a warm smile and began carving the roast.
The sound of knives and forks clinking against the beautiful white china plates filled the air and I ate ravenously.
“So,” Paul addressed me from the opposite side of the table. “How’s your little stories going?”
I swallowed hard, “My stories?”
“Yes, you’re little stories. The things you write about. You know,” He waved his knife in a circular motion as though to accentuate his point. “Those little made up fancies you put on paper.”
“Father!” said my wife. I put my hand on her knee to assure her that I’d not been offended.
“I’m sorry,” said Paul.
I wiped at my mouth with the cloth napkin provided, “It’s fine. They’re fine.” I shrugged. “Could be better. Could be worse.”
He pointed his knife at me while chewing, “That’s because you produce fiction. You produce gross approximations.” His shoulders relaxed. “I just wish someone would follow in my work. It would be nice to have another puppet maker in the family. You’d be creating reality.” He slammed his glass against the table and snapped his fingers at me. “You’d be creating something better than reality.”
I felt small all over again. His expression gave me that same sensation I’d had in the doll-room. I was under extreme scrutiny. I exposed my teeth sheepishly.
We finished our meal in silence. I continued to drink.
After regathering in the family room, my wife mentioned in passing while yawning, “I think we’d better stay the night. I’m too tired to drive home. And,” she twisted in her seat to look me over, “I don’t think you’re in any shape to drive.”
I wish she weren’t right.
Elaine rose, “I’ll make sure the guest room is ready for you two then. I think Paul can break out your old crib for the little one.”
“Thank you, mother.” My wife snuggled tiredly into my bicep while yawning again.
I was shaking. I did not want to stay the night. I didn’t even want to be in the house! I stood, “No!” Elaine flinched and hesitated, “I can drive!” I stood and took a step forward and nearly staggered over.
Elaine put her cold bony hand on my collarbone. “Don’t be silly. You can leave in the morning. It’ll be fine. I’ll even let you use one of my weighted blankets. It’s very snugly.”
Defeated, I sat on the couch and waited.
Time passed and as we dressed down in the guest room, my wife reached out to grab my elbow after I settled our son into the old crib. He tiredly stretched and was quick asleep. My wife whispered in my ear, “Can you please stop acting so weird around my parents?”
“I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know why they make me so nervous. I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Most men get nervous around their in-laws, right?” She kissed my neck from behind as I looked down at our unmoving son in the crib.
“I guess.” We bedded down and just as Elaine had promised, there was a nice fluffy weighted blanket waiting there for us. We folded it out and quickly entangled ourselves together beneath it. I tried the ol’ “push my groin against her butt” maneuver.
She giggled. “Not here.”
“Yeah-yeah.” I did it once more and quickly fell to sleep.
I felt a set of hands grab for my ankles in the bed and another set of hands pinned my wrists down. I couldn’t make a sound. There was something over my mouth. I wanted to scream. I wanted to let the whole world know that her parents were finally going to be the death of me. My eyes shot around in all directions and I could see that Paul was quickly binding my arms to the bed posts. My wife was nowhere to be seen. Elaine had my ankles and no matter how hard I tried kicking her off, I could not relinquish her grasp. Her nails dug into my shins and I swear I could feel my warm thick blood begin to spring out in the bed covers.
“How are you doing with your little stories?” asked Paul.
I attempted a muffled response, but nothing came. They grinned in the darkness, and I could see the glint of their cold metallic teeth. Then they fed on me. Her on my legs and Paul on my face. They dug into my flesh and the boiling hot pain shot through my body like electricity. I could do nothing in defense. I could not fight them off. I was going to die there in that bed. I knew it! They wanted to kill me. What had they done to my poor wife and child?
I tore my face from Paul’s, and the ripping of my cheek muscle in his clenched teeth made a sick popping sound. I whipped my head to peer into the threshold of the guest room. Standing in the doorframe was my wife and she was holding our son, rocking him back and forth.
“Go back to sleep. Go back to sleep. Don’t worry,” said my wife, “If you give in, it’ll be over all the sooner.” She flipped on the light and for the first time, I could see the macabre mess of gore before me.
Her parents had already devoured the majority of my body. I was little more than a set of flailing bones with bits of sopping viscera soaking into the bedsheets. I could not fathom how it was that I was still alive.
My head rolled clear off my body with one swift snapping motion from Paul’s strong calloused hands. He carried me through the house under one arm. “I’m going to make something that’s better than reality, you understand?” He said.
Given that I was no more than a severed head, I could neither nod nor shake.
He moved me to his workstation and secured my head to a person sized marionette. He lifted me with the strings and danced me around the room while standing atop his stool. All the while they laughed maniacally at my misfortune. I screamed as my newfound arms and legs did things of their own volition. Or rather of his volition.
I screamed myself awake and kicked the weighted blanket off of my sweating body. My white T-shirt and boxers clung to my body. I was drenched in sweat, still shaking from the nightmare. After a cursory glance, I could see that the room was still dark. It was nighttime, but both my wife and child were gone. After I looked at the edge of the bed to be sure that no lurker beneath would snatch my ankles, I hopped off the bed and scurried to the open doorway leading into the hall. I could hear an old Bing Crosby tune.
Was everyone else awake? How strange.
I moved down the hall. I needed a glass of water. I needed to calm down. As I came to the edge of the family room, I could see they were gathered there, barely illuminated by the bulbs of the Christmas tree. Paul and Elaine in their recliners; my wife and child on the couch. My shoulders relaxed. I was being ridiculous, of course. I approached them hesitantly.
“Ah, you’ve decided to join us.” Paul twisted in his seat to catch me out of the corner of his eye. Something was off. Something just wasn’t right. The uncanny valley was screaming at me.
I reached out for the light switch.
“Come,” said Paul, “Join us in what is better than reality!”
I flipped the light switch on, illuminating the awfulness veiled in the dark.
My son hopped off the couch and began running around in happy little circles. He doesn’t know how to walk. The wires extending from his body up towards the ceiling controlled his every move. My wife’s mouth clacked open, all wooden and painted. Her eyes shot from left to right, as dead as the material they were made from.
“C’mon honey!” Her jaw moved sporadically.
Paul stood without exactly touching the ground.
They were puppets! They were all puppets!
I nearly voided my bowels on the spot. I screamed. I felt the whole world spin around me.
My eyes shot to the door leading from the house. I bolted and retched it open, pelting down the driveway barefoot. I nearly stopped and dove into the SUV, but I had no pants. I didn’t have the keys. Within my moment’s hesitation, I looked over my shoulder and could see my in-laws waving at me.
“Come again!” called Paul as his wired body caught in the breeze like a windchime.
I will not be visiting them ever again.

Tau (A Nuclear Horror) - Part 2 of 3

Part one can be found here

Teller woke as dawn crept in through the uncurtained window. The light stole over the remnants of the television set and sparkled within the shards of glass on the floor. He heard Alexandrov bustling about in the kitchen. He dressed and went to join him. Alexandrov was clearing away the dishes from the night before. The room smelt of strong, sour coffee.
“Would you like a cup”? Alexandrov asked, motioning to the drip brewer on the side."
“Please.”
“I’m afraid I’ve no milk.”
“That’s OK, I don’t take it.”
Alexandrov went to pour him a cup. Teller sat at the little kitchen table. Alexandrov placed the coffee in front of him and sat down. “I’m sorry for last night. I had been drinking too much, perhaps?”
“You’re quite alright.”
“It’s a habit, you know? Boredom. And now I need a new television set.”
“Really, it’s fine.” Teller sipped the coffee. It was like diesel. He spooned three sugars into it. “Where are we meeting Lysenko?” he asked.
Alexandrov coughed. “We can go see him at his home. It’s not far,” he said.
“You’ve no other appointments?”
“You’d be surprised how few for the only Doctor in a town of 100 or so. And, well, where we are… People don’t like to bother me. They have no money to pay. Though that does not matter, I try to tell them.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s pride.”
Teller sat and drank his coffee, looking about the kitchen. He could feel Alexandrov’s eyes on him.
“You’ve no complaints for a Doctor?” Alexandrov asked.
“Hmm?” Teller pretended not to hear.
“You just seem very nervous. I can’t have helped, of course, acting the wild man. It’s the fear, right? Of the radiation?”
“I realize it’s not a huge concern. For me at least, not…”
Alexandrov waved away the indiscretion.
“My own Doctor told me so, but it’s there, in the back of your mind” Teller stammered.
Alexandrov nodded.
“Tell me, how did you find it as you drove in? This place?”
“How did I find it?”
“Yes. It fascinates me. What people think of it. How they feel as they first come across it.”
“It’s, I mean, it’s indescribable.”
Alexandrov dropped another sugar into his coffee and pointed to Teller with his spoon.
“Try.”
He smiled a knowing smile. Without the smear of vodka across it, the man’s face was warm. Interested. It made Teller relax. The man was well suited to his position.
“It’s difficult. There’s nothing you can compare it to.”
“Thank God, huh?” Alexandrov crossed himself in mock fashion, grinning.
“Mmm.” Teller sipped his coffee and thought. “It’s quiet, but not peaceful.”
“I’d agree with that.”
“You’re alone but you feel intimidated.”
Alexandrov smiled and nodded.
“It’s like being lost.”
“Exactly!” Alexandrov roughly stubbed the cigar he was smoking into the ashtray. “Exactly. Christ! Lost. Take a drink, Mr. Teller!”
“So why are you still here?” Teller asked.
“I’m a Doctor. The only one they have. Or perhaps I’m just a martyr? It would explain the drinking.”
Teller took a sip of the coffee. His lip brushed against a chip in the rim of the cup and it sent a shiver through his brain. It shook loose an importunate question he had kept buried.
“Why do they stay? You don’t believe Lysenko will take the money; use it, do you? I don’t understand it. This place is killing them all.”
“Why are you here?” Alexandrov asked, crossing one leg across the other.
“To explain to him what’s happened and get him to sign the papers.”
“But you don’t speak Ukrainian. Or Russian. So why you?”
“People are scared to come here.”
“You’re scared to come here.”
“I suppose I just need the money.”
“But you’re a lawyer?”
“Not a successful one.”
“So you’re here because…?” he pulled a cigar from the battered tin and tapped it on the table edge, “… what else would you do.”
Teller wasn’t sure how to respond.
“We believe we have free will, Mr. Teller, but… So much of what we do, we do because it could not be otherwise. A stranger looking on would think us mad or reckless or foolish. But change is the thing human beings fear most. It reminds them of death. Doing other than that to which we are accustomed is unthinkable, even if what we are accustomed to, is horrific. I have seen people sit and watch whilst their bodies rot because, somehow, that is better than going to the Doctor with the possibility they might be told there is no cure. There is hope in ignorance, and ignorance is easily dismissed by new experience. People will always stay with the Devil that they know. You are here, Mr. Teller, it seems to me, because it was the natural outcome of everything that came before. ”
Teller finished his coffee. Thick, black dregs ringed the bottom of the cup.
“I’m going to go check on the car,” he said.
Teller walked out into the hall and towards the front door. Through the crack in the living room door he saw the dull glimmer of the glass strewn across the floor. He paused. He considered whether he should tell Alexandrov about the figures he’d seen.
There was a loud, sharp rap at the front door. Teller jumped and looked back towards the kitchen. Alexandrov called through to him;
“Do you mind? I’m putting on more coffee.”
Teller went to the door. As he reached for the handle there was another loud rap on the wood which made his hand leap back. A small voice called Alexandrov’s name. Teller opened the door. A boy stood there in the light drizzle. He looked at Teller with shy but determined eyes. He rattled out something in Ukrainian. All Teller caught was a name. He mimed “wait here” to the boy and walked to the kitchen. He heard footsteps on the tiles behind him and turned. The boy stopped and stood there, gazing at his shoes. Frowning, Teller turned back to the kitchen.
“Alexandrov? You have a guest.”
Alexandrov stepped out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. He looked to the child. His brow pulled down and his mouth hung a little agape. They spoke in Ukrainian. Clipped little sentences. The brief conversation went on as if Teller were not there, stood between them. As he leaned back against the panelled wood of the hallway the young boy nodded at something Alexandrov had said, turned, and ran out of the open front door.
“We have to go,” Alexandrov said. He went into the bedroom. Teller called after him;
“What about Lysenko?”
“He will have to wait, I’m afraid.”
When Alexandrov came out he was a carrying a shiny and cracked Doctor’s bag. He was heading outside. Teller followed.
“What’s happening? What did the boy say?”
Alexandrov left the door wide. Teller pushed it to as he followed him out to the car. There was no lock.
“Alexandrov!?”
Alexandrov was throwing the Doctor’s bag into the boot of the car.
“His cousin is pregnant. Was pregnant. The child is premature.”
Teller was getting in the passenger side.
“Should I go back and get my papers? Perhaps after…?” he asked.
Alexandrov revved the engine and the car skidded out on the gravel.
They were outside the village. Alexandrov stared out at the road through a spiderweb of cracks in the windshield. He didn’t speak. Teller watched him from the corner of his eye. The man’s eyes were bloodshot with their own spiderweb of cracks. Teller watched out of the passenger window.
A light drizzle soaked everything in the tired, inevitable way that drizzle does. The quiet, grey countryside rolled past. An abandoned petrol station’s signage displayed stubbornly pre-Gulf War pricing. Teller wiped some of the condensation from the window. It was like existing within the workings of a stopped watch. A desert of time. He saw movement out in the distance, beyond a small cluster of trees. As they moved past the trees he saw that it was a wild horse. It was galloping across an unploughed field. At this distance it appeared to be keeping pace with the car. Teller’s mind wandered, drawn into an eddie by the strange illusion.
“I cannot guarantee we will have to time to see Lysenko. If it’s bad,” said Alexandrov.
His voice snapped Teller back to reality.
“Do you assume it will be?”
“Round here, births can be difficult. Perhaps it will be bad.”
“Well, I suppose we’ll see. Maybe something can be arranged?”
Alexandrov was quiet for a moment. At last he spoke;
“I know you’re keen to have the job done and be gone. I have a duty.”
“I understand,” Teller replied.
Alexandrov checked the window and drew a cigar from the tin. He smacked the cigarette lighter on the dashboard with the palm of his hand. Teller had the feeling the excessive force was applied from experience.
“The radiation, it varies wildly,” Alexandrov began, the cigar clamped in his teeth. “It was carried by the wind and rain. My house…not so bad… I’ve a Geiger counter. Where we go today, though… Still, in the short term, you needn’t worry. You’ve looked like you’re walking barefoot on broken glass since you arrived.”
“Have you had any, negative, symptoms since the accident?” pursued Teller.
“Yes, I have cancer. I don’t suppose that that calms you any?” Alexandrov said, perfunctorily. He grinned to himself, a horrid sneer that pulled the lips back over tobacco stained teeth.
“I… I’m…” Teller stuttered.
Alexandrov waved a hand at him which then went to the cigarette lighter and pulled it free.
“This was from before.” Alexandrov gestured to him with the cigarette lighter. The filament was red hot. Teller smelled the air burning in the dusty old car and recoiled a little. “Long before the meltdown. You can put away the British mask that hides your terror.” Alexandrov laughed and lit his cigar, pushing the hot metal into the soft, dry leaves. Teller heard them catch and burn. “Renal. Nasty. It was progressing fairly viciously, but, since the accident, not so much.”
“Do you think it’s related?”
“Do I?” Alexandrov stared out into the rain. The windscreen wipers moved lethargically as they smeared the water across the glass. “No. No. It’s dumb coincidence”.
*
They were on the outskirts of Pripyat. The decaying tower blocks were like weathered tombstones, the same jaundiced colour as the nails on Alexandrov’s hand. In the foreground was a ferris wheel. Half alive, the cars rocked stuporously and the spokes rained flecks of rust. On the far horizon was The Sarcophagus. An uncomfortable, hot itch suffused Teller’s body at its sight. He opened the window. They were turning off now, down a rural road. Weeds poked though where the concrete had burst and torn. Teller marvelled, again, at how quickly Nature took back the frontline once Man had deserted his post.
They pulled up beside a small block of flats. They had been driving for some time. Teller wondered why it was the small boy who had been dispatched to fetch a Doctor? He wondered where the boy was now. They stepped out of the car. Teller’s breath blew in white clouds. Alexandrov threw his cigar on the ground and crushed it under his heel. He pulled a hip flask from his inside jacket pocket and drank.
Teller looked the building up and down. It was only three storeys, built from the same institutional, beige concrete and yellow tiles as the rest of the buildings around. Each flat had a small balcony, the bars that ran along the edges looked prison-like. The place was more like a bunker than a home. That uniform, utilitarian, vaguely military, Soviet style.
Alexandrov was heading in. Teller followed him into the foyer. The floor was dusty, littered with chips of paint from the neglected walls. Yellow, curled notices still clung to a noticeboard announcing the births and death of those long born or dead. The building smelled of damp cement and standing water.
A man came down the stair to meet them. He had on a torn, dirty jumper and, outside of it, wore a large, old crucifix on a delicate gold chain. He pumped Alexandrov’s hand briefly and turned to go back up the stair. Teller didn’t think he’d noticed him there. Alexandrov motioned that he should follow him. They climbed the stair and reached a concrete hallway. The only light came in through a small, frosted window at the end of it. Teller could hardly see his hand in front of his face. He followed the shadowy form of Alexandrov who followed the shadowy form of the man who bore the crucifix. Teller heard the faint cry of an infant, bitter, bitchy and wet.
They stepped into the apartment. Crumbling linoleum barely clung to, or covered, the concrete beneath. They went into a small kitchen. A samovar bubbled and whistled on the stove. On the kitchen floor was a metal washtub filled with steaming water, soap scum and white bedsheets. The water had a pink tinge. The man with the crucifix and Alexandrov spoke in Russian, too quickly for Teller to pick out a single word. Alexandrov wore a grave look. The man with the crucifix was growing agitated, his voice was rising in volume and pitch, starting to crack. Alexandrov placed a hand on his shoulder. The man’s eyes were sparkling. He looked at Teller, who looked away. No man wanted to look through tears at the pity of a stranger. A small, older, woman with a drawn face shuffled quietly into the doorway through which they’d entered. The man sniffed and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his dirty jumper. He and Alexandrov followed the old woman out into the hall and Teller stayed, staring deliberately out of the window.
The drizzle had stopped but the sky was a stubborn, gaunt grey. A plane lazily traced a contrail above The Sarcophagus. Teller imagined the listless passengers, gazing from the small windows. He wondered if they were aware of what they stared down on? He wondered if they realized they were flying through the ghost of a smoke that had changed tens of thousands of lives? If they saw the packs of wolves, tiny dots, that had started to repopulate the surrounding woods, seeking their prey in long single file? He considered the day of the accident. The confusion, the terror, the panic. Men who were turned into the walking dead by mere minutes of radiation exposure. A space on Earth, poisoned. Made too sick for life. Cursed for millennia. He imagined the sirens blaring, warning the already dying against death. He heard the sirens blaring. The rising, falling, desperate wail.
The sound was coming from a room just off the kitchen. Except, it wasn’t a siren. It was a child. The hurt, helpless, insatiable cry of an infant. He looked to where Alexandrov, the man with the crucifix and the old woman had exited. He heard muttering coming from the room. He wanted to call out to them. To wail. To raise a siren. But instead he stepped into the room from whence the sound of the child was coming.
It was sparse and dark, the thin curtains drawn. A teddy bear sat on the window sill. A film of dust gathered in its fur. Its glass eyes stared out from a head that limped to one side. A crib was pushed against the wall underneath. A shadow behind its bars writhed uncomfortably beneath a blanket. Soft little grunts and moans came from the darkness. Teller walked over to the crib, his footsteps unsettling the stale smell of dust. He peered down at the shuffling form.
A young woman’s scream echoed from the room out in the hall. Teller’s skin pulled tight and his heart leapt. He looked back over his shoulder. An answering cry from the crib below, again, jolted his unsteady heart. The sound was the most pathetic, mournful thing he had ever heard. Rising to the point where the breath was exhausted, breaking with a hitching sob and then the awful sucking of air. Looking down, the sound came from something that looked like living death. A baby. Barely a day old. Teller swallowed hard and placed a steadying hand on the edge of the crib. It was painful to look at it. The skin was a wasted, translucent white and a spider web of raw, blue veins bulged from the surface. The limbs were twisted and flapped ineffectually. But the face, by God the face… Teller’s hand gripped the rail and the cradle creaked and groaned. The head was lumpen and misshapen. Twice the size it should have been, it lolled from side to side. One eye was obscured by some tumour like growth, the other was not so much bloodshot as blood stained; the sclera and iris entirely scarlet, the pupil a clot.
The mouth was a puckered , drooling cavern, the tongue a black and blistered stone placed in the mouth. The child had kicked off its scant blanket. Teller could not discern it was a boy or a girl. He reached in and gingerly flipped the blanket back over the thing. Its wailing quieted a little. He looked back to the doorway and listened for any sign of Alexandrov. He looked back and saw that the pitiful creature had kicked its blanket free once more. He reached in to try and comfort it once more. A pale, mottled leg kicked out at his hand as it howled. He quickly pulled his hand free. He looked down one last time at the child. He turned and walked away from the crib, rubbing his hand on his jacket.
*
The car door slammed shut. Alexandrov sighed deeply and drew a cigar from its tin.
“How was the mother?” Teller asked.
“She’ll live. She should be in a hospital bed, but…” He shrugged and sighed again. “She’ll live, at least.”
The sun was already starting to drop from the sky. The days were short. The shadows seemed to deepen the heavy lines on Alexandrov’s face. Teller looked at his own face in the wing mirror.
They had spent a long time in the apartment. They had sat at the kitchen table whilst Alexandrov and the man with the crucifix spoke in Russian. Sometimes the pair got up and went in to see the sedated mother. When Teller was left alone with the old woman she bowed her head and muttered quietly to herself. Often she got up and went to see to the crying child when it wailed. He heard her softly singing some Russian lullaby to it. It happened until a point where the child was quiet for some time and the old woman got up and went in to it. He heard her singing the same quiet lullaby to it. When she re-entered the room and sat down, it was for the last time. The child did not cry again.
“What was wrong with the baby?” Teller now asked.
Alexandrov started the car. “A lot. Many things,” he sighed.
“To do with the radiation?”
Alexandrov shrugged. “I suppose. Probably. They are stupid. Chertovy idioty! Fucking Church!”
Alexandrov was silent as they drove back towards Pripyat. Teller stared out of the window. The ferris wheel was coming into view. Its silhouette stirred a grim memory in Teller. Something he had seen in some book. It looked like a breaking wheel.
They arrived back at Alexandrov’s house. He threw his medical bag down in the hall, its contents half spilling on the old, fading carpet. Teller was righting the mess as he heard the clinking of glasses. Alexandrov looked at him through the kitchen doorway.
“Leave that. Come drink,” he said.
Teller put down the instrument he was holding and went into the kitchen. Alexandrov was sat at the table. The last, rare light of evening was struggling through the dirty window. Alexandrov was pouring them both a drink.
“I…” Teller had hardly got the sound out when Alexandrov looked at him.
“Please?” he asked.
His eyes were tired and red. Teller sat down, quietly. He waited a long time for Alexandrov to speak. He sipped the vodka Alexandrov passed him in silence. He realized that Alexandrov would not speak at all if he did not prompt him. He was like a penitent awaiting the words of a priest.
“Who was the boy who came to the door?” Teller asked.
Alexandrov threw back his vodka. “Piotr.”
“Their son?”
“No. His parents live in Slavutych.”
“They were evacuated?”
“No. They stayed in The Zone. They had Piotr and then moved to Slavutych some years later, taking him. Around six months passed. And then the boy came back.”
“Alone?” Teller asked incredulously.
Alexandrov smiled. “Somehow. He is… a resourceful child”.
“What possesses a child to come here alone?”
Alexandrov frowned. “Excuse me?” he said.
“What would make a child run away to a place like this?”
“Ahh, possesses, I understand. Who knows? I have asked. His father was a drinker. Perhaps here he is safe?”.
“Safe? Here?” Teller exclaimed.
“Sipping vodka or slugging ether, they only differ by degrees.” Alexandrov said. “In cold light, such is the nature of survival for mankind.” He picked up his glass and laughed. “Cheers!”
Teller sipped his drink. He watched Alexandrov lighting one of his small cigars. Teller had given up years ago.
“I don’t suppose you have cigarettes about the place, do you?” he asked.
Alexandrov heaved himself to his feet. “Mmm, somewhere, yes.”
Alexandrov went out into the hall and then into his room. He came back and threw a soft packet of Russian cigarettes on the table.
“Thank you” Teller said.
Alexandrov sat down and winked. “Don’t tell your Mother.”
Teller pulled a wrinkled cigarette from the packet and took the offered light. He drew deep into his lungs. They were cheap, strong and stale. The smoke was like a column of fire running through his core. It was incredible, like a pillar filling a part of him his body had forgotten was empty.
It was dark and Alexandrov flicked on the overhead light. Teller blew a thick, grey, cloud of smoke. His head swam a little. He drank off the rest of his vodka and drew again on the cigarette. He spoke through the smoke, his lungs full and his voice laboured. An old habit.
“… will we see Lysenko tomorrow?” he said.
“Tomorrow? Yes, tomorrow.”
“You never explained properly the other night. Why you don’t think he’ll take the inheritance?” Teller asked.
“I explained. You just didn’t listen.” Alexandrov refilled their glasses and continued. “You can’t fathom why he would not leave. But most would no more fathom why you came. This blighted, poisonous place. Ask your nature of yourself, why you are here, why you hold that cheap vodka and bitter cigarette? That is why. And if someone were to ask why…?” Teller stubbed out the cigarette. “You would have no answer for them,” Alexandrov continued. Would never have an answer for them. It is the same for Lysenko. Partly it is fear, fear of change. It is more powerful, more guiding, than any man dares admit. But another part of why he stays, I don’t know, does it even have a name? Perhaps determinism? That is the real reason.”
Teller lit another cigarette. “I don’t think I understand,” he said.
Alexandrov coughed heavily and got up to spit in the sink. “It’s OK, I am too tired to tell it well. Perhaps I am wrong, anyway. We will see tomorrow.”
They sat for some time talking, smoking and drinking. It was Alexandrov who excused himself, this time. They were both very drunk. Teller felt a childish, bitter pride that he could still drink with the best of them.
Alexandrov waved his hand at the cupboard under the sink. “Help yourself to another bottle if you wish,” he said.
He mumbled something further; half English, half Russian, and stumbled out towards his bedroom. Teller poured himself another glass, emptying the bottle. He thought about the figures he had seen on the television, emerging from The Sarcophagus. How the television set had switched itself on. How it had exploded. From a safe, drunken, distance he wondered how little impact this had had on him. Perhaps Alexandrov was right, maybe fear was so old and constant and vital we simply accepted it, no matter what strange form it took? Eventually he, too, stumbled out to his cot bed. The scattered glass still littered the floor. The moonlight that shone in and sparkled in the shards. Teller lay down on the cot and watched the light from beneath heavy eyelids. The air was cold but he didn’t feel it beneath the drink. He fell asleep.
*
He dreamt of her. In the dream he was laying in the bed they had shared, half awake. The window was open and a light morning breeze came in and brushed the inside of his wrist. He heard her getting ready to leave for work. He smelt her perfumed hair. He imagined the morning air smoothing its way over her bare hips and shoulders as she dressed. He heard her sing lightly to herself as she brushed her long, red hair. He shifted in and out of dreams within dreams and this dreamlike reality, finding one no more pleasurable than the other. He felt her move nearer. At the end of an outstretched arm his hand opened. He felt the soft tip of her finger in his palm. Her skin was like frozen marble. The bitter cold ran up the veins in his wrist and shocked his heart. He opened his eyes with a start and fell deeper into the dream.
The eyes that looked back were milky orbs set in bruised sockets. He realized he was dreaming but could no more wake than he could move within that dream. The figure stood at the side of the bed with its finger pressed into his palm. It looked back at him from behind the shadow cast by its shroud. The room had fallen into an unearthly gloom, as if the moon had passed before the sun. The figure maintained its strange vigil, its face unmoving, its eyes unblinking, its chest neither rising nor falling. It was the shape from the vision of The Sarcophagus. The pale, mossy skin. The strange green aura about it. The awful blanket of loneliness that seemed to emanate from something in its countenance or stature. It seemed to move in and out of focus, waves of grey static rippling across it. Teller tried to call out. A noise to wrench him back into the living world, but his voice was as frozen and fettered as his limbs.
Its expression unchanging, still holding his gaze, the shrouded figure’s icy digit started to trace a path in his open palm. A droning noise began to simultaneously spread from the core of his mind and seep in from without, as if he took it in with each shallow breath. The noise rose in volume and pitch until it took on a sickening redolence. It was an air raid siren. The finger in his palm continued to draw its slow, deliberate pattern. The air and his whole being were now subsumed by the howling, scalding noise of the siren. Its volume rose inexorably until the dim room seemed to jerk and thrum from the noise and he perceived he could feel the trembling waves of sound skate over the very lenses of his wide, terrified eyes. The air, which before had been chill, seemed to heat with the vibrations. His skin prickled and tensed, drawing cold sweat. The siren blared. The air warped. The figure smiled and clutched his hand and then there was only white light.

At the point of desperation... Nap and nighttime sleep help... Please...

Good morning everyone,
As the title says, I have hit that point of desperation and I am coming to you in hopes that I can find some answers to help my little guy sleep. He turns 6 months old tomorrow. I'm just going to jump right in, I hope you sleep trainers can help. This post is a doozy as I don't want to leave anything out. I want you all to have as much information as possible. I apologize for the long post.
I'm going to start with the problem my wife and I are facing, and then go into his daily schedule to see if it uncovers any issues that mom and I might be causing.
The Problem at Night: * Baby boy wakes up early in the morning and stares at the darkness, either quietly cooing, quietly babbling, or silently. If we let this happen, because he's not crying, two things could potentially occur, he will go back to sleep in 1.5+ hours or his noises will progress into crying. Early in the morning is on average, because it usually isn't consistent, around 3:00am - 3:30am. * If we change his diaper at that time, because he usually is very wet, he will automatically go from docile to crying to almost screaming the second we open his door and enter the room. * If we leave him to CIO he will continue either indefinitely or it will take him up to as much as 2 hours of awake time for him to fall back asleep. This cry period is typically rough and loud. * If we change him and feed him, he will calm down on the bottle and will allow us to place him back in the crib and go back to sleep for as little as 45 minutes but we have also seen him stay asleep for up to 2 hours. On average it's about an hour.
The Problem in the Day: * Baby boy is a terrible napper. We have tried looking for signs of tiredness (eye rubbing, ear pulling, yawning, red eye area, sluggishness etc.) but he never seems to tell us when he is tired unless he starts to scream for no reason and is clearly showing us he is overtired. * If we go by wake windows (see below) he will either cry the second we put his sleep sack and nanit band on, or he will cry the second we start lowering him into his crib. The same happens if we ever see a yawn or an eye rub and rush to get him into his crib. * Baby boy has always been a cat napper. From month 2-4 it was a guaranteed 35-38 minutes on the dot or less, but never any more. From month 4-5 it has varied but has mostly remained consistent. A 38 minute or less nap with the rare 45 -60 minute nap. * Fearing that he is not getting enough day sleep, my wife and I will typically pick him up and hold him for the remainder of his nap until he gets the amount of day sleep we've read he should be getting, 2.5-3.5 hours. When we hold him, he always goes to sleep, at least we assume he does because he stops moving, making noise, and closes his eyes on us, though we don't have a light on to consistently check as we keep the room pitch black. * Typically during a 24 cycle (12am-12pm), baby boy gets anywhere from 12.75-13.75 hours of total sleep.
His schedule: * Baby boy is currently on a three nap schedule that feels like it constantly shifts because his wake up times are completely inconsistent. He will get up on his own anywhere from 430am to as late as 7am, but it is usually around the 5am mark that he is showing signs of that split night I mentioned earlier (eyes open, cooing, babbling etc.) * In order to try to get him a more consistent wake up time, if my wife or I go in at 5-530am and pick him up and hold him in our rocker, he will go back down. * Given that information, we try to keep his wake windows at as follows, again monitoring for "not there" sleep cues, 2-2.5hrs, 2.5-2.75hrs, 2.75-3hrs. When that takes place varies throughout the day again, due to his erratic sleep schedule. * Typically in his second wake window I will take him for a 30-45 min stroller walk to get him some sunshine and fresh air as I heard that it helps to build extra melatonin for the night to help him sleep (ha). * Typical day activities include tummy time (which he mostly dislikes), playing with sensory toys like blocks, music boxes, and other toys, reading with touch sensory books, tummy time on a parent, or allowing him to move freely in a play pen on his back to stretch his limbs and learn his body. Play will always stop 30 min before a wake window is set to hit so we can have a wind down period of just cuddling or reading books while cuddling. * Regardless of wake time or napping, we are able to get him down to bed around 6:45pm-7:00pm where he doesn't give us any problem going to sleep. Light fussing or no fussing to sleep.
Sleep Environment: * Full size crib in his own room * White noise from Hatch set 6-7 feet away from his crib at 30% * Pitch black room during the day and night * House temperature controlled to maintain 68-70 degrees Fahrenheit * Sleep sack * Nanit cam to monitor breathing
What we've done/tried: * Baby boy was TCB'd/Ferber'd starting at 4 months and consistently goes down rather easy at night, never staying awake or fussing for more than 7-9 minutes. He will sleep typically peacefully for 4-5 hours straight. Rarely will he wake during this time period, and if he does, he puts himself back to sleep after a brief cry and rolling to his side in under 10 minutes. * Baby boy unfortunately moves A LOT while in his crib, but doesn't start doing so until after typically the 3-4 hour mark. He will end a sleep cycle, turn to his side and put his hands near his mouth and either fall back asleep in that position, or start to fall onto his back and tucking himself back to his side over and over until he moves to his back, or he will roll back on his back and fall asleep again. He has done this since 2 months and has not yet rolled onto his belly. If he gets back on his back, he will either stay asleep, or mini wake every 5 minutes by moving his head, body, or arms, until he settles an amount of time later. Nanit says, his sleep quality hovers in the 70ish percentile. * For the split night problem, we've tried CIO, changing him and leaving immediately to CIO, feeding him a small amount of breastmilk from a bottle as we've read its age appropriate to continue to do so. The only thing that consistently gets him to go back to sleep is feeding him but the snooze length is inconsistent. *Recently we've tried putting him down to two naps, but all this did was increase the amount of times he woke at night, again keeping consistent with trying to get him the correct amount of day sleep by holding him after a specific time. * We've also tried allowing him to get up in the 5am range and keeping him awake until 9am as we've read that's the time to get him to not associate his first nap with sleep extension. That yielded mixed results. Some with a longer nap of up to 90 minutes (though we never got to 9am), some with a shorter 20ish minute nap. * If at any time we leave him in his crib to CIO during the day for a nap, he will eventually go to sleep up to 30 minutes later, but will always take a crap nap of 20-30 minutes.
Random facts: * He got his 6 month vaccinations on 1/14. * He has his bottom two teeth fully emerged * He drinks a combo of breast milk and formula from a bottle * He eats solids twice a day but nothing that can constipate him * Mom works from home and has a lot of down time as school hasn't started yet (she is a teacher) * I quit my job to raise my son during the pandemic so I have 100% free time to work with him
In Summary:
We are desperate to get him to take a nap without wigging out and to start getting him to sleep for longer than 30 minutes or less on his own.
We are desperate to end the split nights and to get him to sleep until at least 6am.
I hope this has been enough information and I tried to organize it as best as I can. I'm sorry for the long post, but my wife and I have been crying and feeling like the worst parents because we don't feel like we know our son, despite researching everything, and monitoring him all the time. Thank you for anything you can give us.
EDIT: formatting, but I tried to make them bullet points but apparently I don't know how to do that. Sorry!

The History of the Gunnerson Family Holiday Tradition

Sweetbreads.
Derived from the 16th Century. The thymus or pancreas, usually taken from a calf or lamb, but sometimes procured from the ovary or testicles. First, soaked in cold water to remove all traces of blood. Then poached in milk until tender.
As a kid, my father told me it had been a holiday tradition that dated back generations in his family. I would later find out just how far back that was when I turned 16. When I learned the history of the Gunnerson Family Holiday Tradition.
Our families have continually been amongst the upper echelon of society for over some centuries, as leaders, politicians, tycoons, icons, you name it. Every member of every family knew nothing but success and happiness from birth up until their last, dying breaths. And the sweetbreads, my parents told me, were the key to their success. Centuries ago, our ancestors were on the brink of destruction. They had no food, no resources, no home. They had nothing left. And they prayed to anything that would grant them release.
Something answered.
And they made a deal.
They were given a choice. An annual tradition that must be kept. And for as long as it was, the family and all their descendants would never know a day of sorrow again.
My father told me that he had learned the same age I did, and so had my brothers, and eventually, my baby sister would too. My father told me that it had been his own grandfather that had established the tradition on a holiday, in his own words, as the ultimate sign of mockery towards God and the Holy Spirit.
That year on Christmas Eve, after dinner, my parents dismissed my brothers from the table, telling them to “prepare”. Prepare for what I didn’t know. After they left, my parents told me the complete history of the Gunnerson Holiday Tradition. And after they finished, my father said it was time for me to join my brothers, my mother, and himself in the Tradition. I would only have to watch this year, he said. But next year I would have to do everything.
Alone.
My brothers by then had returned to the kitchen and my parents rose, beckoning me to follow them. I did as I was told, following my family through the back doors and outside into the cold December night, and down the path to our garage. Our enormous compound was located some ways outside the town my father was mayor of, within an isolated patch of dense forest. I had always complained as a kid that my friends could never visit, that we were never allowed to give out our address.
Now I know why.
I entered the garage behind the family and saw that half the space had been blocked off by white sheets. The overhead lights were off, with only the glow of a dozen candles providing any illumination. My mother, who had been a highly respected specialist within the medical field, wheeled out a metal cart. On top lay a collection of surgical knives, masks, and gloves. She passed out gloves and masks for everyone, and once we all had them on, my father finally pulled back the curtain.
There was a woman, someone I’d never seen before, strapped to a table. She looked to be sleeping, and I could see her bare chest moving slowly up and down. My father wordlessly picked up the longest of the knives off the table and handed it to my eldest brother. My brother just took it and stepped up to the woman. I looked back and studied her. She looked to be around my mother’s age, with long, flowing strawberry blonde hair that was placed directly on top of her breasts, maybe in some vain attempt to retain her dignity. An IV ran from her arm to a pole next to the table, which I assumed was some sort of drug to keep her unconscious. She was slender, her body pure of any deformities or blemishes.
I looked at the woman, and then at the knife my brother was holding, and then back at my father. This entire time, nobody had uttered a word. The air was stifled with an uncomfortable silence. My father then finally spoke up. He said only one word.
“Begin”
Then I remembered the sweetbreads. I almost threw my entire dinner up right then and there. I had never seen a knife cut through human flesh before. My head began to swirl and I wanted to look away, but I knew I couldn’t. It was like watching the flaming wreckage of a car accident on the side of the road. I didn’t want to see. But I couldn’t look away.
So, I stood in silence, as my brother collected our sweetbreads.
After it was done, my family began filing out of the garage one at a time. I stood, frozen in place, looking at the white curtain that father had thankfully pulled back. Mother was the last to leave. She did her best to console me, telling me it had been hard for her to adjust in the beginning, but that this one sacrifice was well worth the treasures it brought. I just looked at her, dumbfounded, unsure, of what to say.
“But then what?” I asked numbly.
“What do you mean?” She inquired back.
“What happens to us afterwards? After all this” I asked, dreading the answer.
My mother, taken aback, thought for a moment. Then smiled.
“We join the rest of the family. Ruling together, forever” she said with an icy chill that clung to her words.
Together.
Forever.
But where? I already knew before I had even asked. Somewhere, deep inside, knew from the start. The never-ending flow of cash, the isolated mansion, our status within the town. I had gotten every single thing I had ever wanted my whole life. And this was the cost.
Only one day a year. Just one.
I followed my mother back inside, masking my shame in a cloud of indifference. Everything had changed. The way I viewed the world, my family, our name, my life, even my very soul. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I tried, but every time I would close my eyes, I saw the woman, still strapped to the table. And then I saw the blood pour from her throat.
And then the sweetbreads.
My father warned me, once the Tradition has started, if it is not kept, the punishment would be swift, and severe. He reminded me of my cousin, who had passed away very suddenly of leukemia a few years back, right after he’d turn 16. Leukemia. He suffered every day until he died, according to my father. And the same would go for me. If I didn’t continue the Tradition.
The next morning, the family woke as usual and gathered downstairs. We exchanged presents, jokes, laughter. Everyone acted as if everything were normal. I put on a convincing show. I laughed back, opened my gifts, smiled for photos, I pulled it all off. Masterfully so I should say. They never knew what was boiling right under the surface. Not even when it came time for the sweetbreads. I choked back my tears and urge to vomit, though it was hard and I almost gave in. But I kept my smile wide and my eyes open.
After our plates were cleared my father stood up, and toasted to his family and our success, and hoped for many more generations to come, and for the day when his first daughter would join the rest of the family. My dad then looked at me, proudly, not a worry in his eyes. As far as he knew, I had been another successful convert.
I can say confidently, without any hint of exaggeration, that I dreaded each and every single one of the next 364 days. I finally started sleeping again after three, only for my sleep to be continually interrupted by the woman on the table, who would wake up suddenly and began screaming every time I cut into her neck. I would go days, one time even a week without sleep. I would lay awake in bed, pondering over how I was going to do it.
Could I do it?
Was there any way out?
There had to be a way out.
My father and mother told me in private, a few days after Christmas, that I could pick who I would use to carry on the Tradition. It could be anybody, even a complete stranger. All I had to do was give them a name, and they would take care of the rest. But they warned me, if I didn’t pick someone myself, they would do it for me. And they promised me, it would be someone I would miss dearly. My skin ran cold at the thought of someone, a friend, a teacher, some random stranger, tied up to that table, the knife in my hand, their internal organs on our dining room table.
I knew then there was no way out. I kept my facade up, pretending the long sleepless nights away as caffeine-fueled study sessions, and formulated my plan. I would have to pick someone who trusted me, someone I could get alone, someone who could disappear.
There was a friend, a dear friend. Once upon a time she had been a neighbor. But even after my family had moved, she remained my closest friend and one true confidant. She would trust me. She would do anything for me. I loved her. And now, she would disappear.
For me.
Christmas Eve
It finally came. Like any other important day that you wait for and dread. Then suddenly, one day, it’s tomorrow. My parents had kept their end of the bargain. They expressed no surprise, no remorse. They simply nodded their heads and told me it would be taken care of. The rest was up to me. That evening, as I was walking down the hall to join my family in the dining room, I passed my baby sister’s room. She had been only two months old last Christmas, far too young to partake in the family Tradition. But not anymore.
I pushed the thought from my head and continued on downstairs. The family was busy chatting around the table as I sat in my seat. Mother had prepared a lovely dinner of homemade mashed potatoes, turkey with gravy, roasted peanuts, and an orange crème cake, my absolute favorite. The sweetbreads wouldn’t be until tomorrow. Mother placed a fully loaded plate in front of me. On any other Christmas Eve, my mouth would already be filled with potatoes. This Christmas Eve, I was resisting a powerful urge to vomit all over the table.
But I kept my cool, as I had done the past 364 days. Only one more left.
I grabbed my fork as my father concluded his annual prayer of thanks and reluctantly began forcing food into my mouth. Just eating in front of them had become a chore, an act I was eager to finally drop. Everything tasted like paper, wet and moist without any real flavor. I must have lost 15 pounds since last Christmas, but nobody seemed to notice. They were already too far gone.
Once dinner was over, my brothers went to go play video games while my mother began clearing the table. Nobody said anything at first. Then I did.
“Is she ready?” I asked plainly. My parents both looked at me, slightly puzzled. Probably not what they were expecting. I then looked directly at my mother. She had stopped clearing the table and was now hovering behind my father. She caught my gaze and for a moment, almost looked scared. But then smirked.
“Yes, she is baby. And it serves her right for breaking my little boy’s heart. Don’t you worry about a thing sweetie, nobody will even know she’s gone. We’ll make sure of that,” she bragged, turning her attention back to the table. My father looked at me, still puzzled, not sure what to make of my newfound bravado. I hope it was working. He smirked, the same way my mother had, and I knew then that I had him hook line and sinker.
“Don’t be too tough on meat son. We like it nice and plump, remember?” my father spoke, sending waves of nausea down into my stomach. I held back thankfully and got up from the table.
“I won’t take too long. Santa’s coming early this year” I said, and left without saying a word. My father chuckled briefly, but I caught my mother’s shocked reflection in the glass doors on the way out. Too much perhaps. Not that it didn’t matter now.
The walk to the garage was probably the longest walk of my life. My entire life swirled around me, all array of emotions, everything that had led to this moment. The moment I would carry on the Gunnerson Holiday Tradition. I counted each step I took as I slowly made my way to the garage. The lights were off and there was no noise. She must be heavily sedated by now. The single side door was already open, and the familiar glow of candlelight cast long shadows all around me. I turned a set of lights on, unimpressed and annoyed with my parents’ theatrics at this point.
Then I saw the same white curtain as before, with the same set of knives on the same table. My heart skipped a beat. I needed to leave.
Abort the mission.
Find another way.
No.
There was no other way.
It was now or never.
I took one last breath and remembered what my father had told me. The pact our family had made, a deal forged in blood all those years ago.
Without hesitation, I walked towards the curtains and with one swift motion, drew them back. There she lay, fully clothed as I had requested. I would not allow this to be the first time I saw her naked. I wouldn’t allow it. Sure enough, though, a lone needle pierced her skin and ran up an identical IV pole, the bag looked to be practically empty. I looked at the clock on the wall. I had precious few minutes left.
I turned to the instruments of death next to me. The low light from the candles accented the chilly sting in the air. I picked up a knife randomly. I swung back around to take one last look at the girl. But then I froze. My gaze had met an opening pair of eyes. She was awake. She was struggling to regain consciousness, but she was definitely awake. As her eyes widened, they focused on me. She didn’t look scared, or confused. She just looked at me, face blank and mouth agape. The knife in my hand felt like solid gold. Everything had finally come together.
My turn.
For the first night in over a year, I slept like a stone. No nightly terrors, no ghostly visions of the woman on the table, no macabre family celebrations. Just a deep, soundless sleep. I was almost sad when I woke up. It felt so good. Hopefully the first of many nights to come. Today was a very special day. It was Christmas after all.
More importantly, the day of our blessed Family Tradition. The sweetbreads had been prepared by myself, as was Tradition, and I could smell them from even upstairs. Just moments later, father came in, wishing me a Merry Christmas and inviting me to join the family downstairs.
It was time.
I slipped on my housecoat, slippers, and walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, back arched and head held with a confidence I hadn’t known in some time. My mother, ever watchful hawk, took notice immediately.
“Well don’t you look as bright as the morning sunrise. Merry Christmas baby!” she nearly squealed as she put the finishing touches on her immaculate table. I smirked as I sat down next to my brothers, then I noticed my baby sister was missing.
“Where’s sissy?” I was a little concerned for her wellbeing at this point, knowing full well what this family was capable of.
“Oh, she’s got a fever right now. We’ll have to save her some for later” my mother responded.
Oh, how perfect.
I remained quiet as my mother finished the Sweetbreads and brought them over to the table. One by one, she placed a fine scoop on the small, delicate plates in front of each of us. The plates had been in the family for decades, and were used for only one purpose. After mother joined us at the table, my father rose. I don’t know why father insisted on making the same speech every single year. It was cringe so on many levels, even more so now than before. Though I held my tongue as he spoke.
“When I look at this table, I see the pillar of success. Our family, our blood, and our sacrifice, our Family Tradition, has kept our family strong and alive. And we continue that legacy, now and forever. And I am so proud to welcome my third son into the Tradition. Son, you have made me, our family, and our ancestors incredibly proud.”
His words made my stomach churn. My father sat back in his seat, and almost on instinct, the family joined hands, my mother and brother on either side of me. Closing our eyes, my parents lead us in a prayer.
“Lord, bless these sweetbreads as you have blessed our family. Rain riches, treasures, and power on us as you have done so for generations before. Ascend us, above all others, as we carry on this most sacred of tradition. Today, tomorrow, and forever”
My brothers, always too eager for their own good, dropped their hands first and immediately began eating. I watched as my parents smiled in admiration, then turned their attention to their own plates. My father was the first of them to take a bite. He smiled at first, but I watched as his expression changed quickly. He was puzzled. He stopped chewing for a moment before swallowing. He hesitated then took another bite. I looked at my mother, who had also started eating, but as she went in for a second bite, her nose wrinkled and she stopped. She began looking around her, now confused like my father.
“What’s the matter, father? Don’t they taste good?” I asked bluntly. My father looked at me, even more confused now.
“Of course. There’s just something, off” he said sheepishly, though I could hear fear growing inside him. I had felt that same fear for the past 365 days.
“Do you guys smell that?” my mother asked, worry now thick in her voice. I looked back at my brothers, who had already finished their entire plates, my eldest even licking his clean with his tongue. My other brother had noticed the exchange between our parents and I, and spoke up.
“Smell what? I don’t smell anything,”
“Yeah, I don’t smell anything either,” I said dishonestly. My father though had also denied smelling anything out of the ordinary. So, it was just my mother and I.
“How can you guys not smell that, it smells almost like something's burning. Or,” she trailed off.
“Or what mother? Perhaps something, bitter?” I said as I stared directly into her eyes. In that moment, I saw a flash of clarity across her face. Then I watched all the color completely drain away from every part of her body.
“What have you done?” my mother sputtered out.
“What the hell is going on?” my father screamed, but before anyone could answer, he was interrupted by an agonizing scream.
My eldest brother had been the first. He fell to the floor, howling like a wounded lion. I looked down to see his eyes turning blood red. His central nervous system was starting to shut down, and bloody vomit and saliva were now pouring out of his mouth. My other brother sat frozen, staring as our sibling died in front of us, mother screaming incoherently in the background. Father had stood up to get a better look but was knocked back into his chair almost immediately, bringing one of his hands to his head. I thought my father would be next. But only a second later, my other brother bent over in agony and began throwing up as well.
“What did you do to us?” my mother shrieked as her second child died violently in front of her, still too shocked to move from her seat. My father was fading fast. His face was covered in sweat, his gaze now locked into mine. I stared into his eyes, trying with all my might to bore the hatred and fear I had felt this entire year into his soul.
“You make me sick, every single one of you” I spat out, now free to finally unleash the wrath that had been building up for so long.
“Did you really think I was going to carry on this tradition? Do you know how sick to my stomach I’ve been every day this past year? Our family, our Tradition. It’s an abomination. And when I thought of spending every Christmas side by side with you, sealed in this deal for all eternity, I wanted to strap myself on that table,” It felt like pure bliss. The best part was that they would know, in their last moments, that it had been me that killed them.
“So, I made a deal of my own.”
They had made it too easy for me really. I already had almost everything I needed, thanks to mother. The only thing missing was a decoy. And being a Gunnerson meant I could get my hands practically anything in this town.
My father collapsed out of his chair and onto the floor. I could feel the convulsions through the table and floor as he breathed his last painful breaths. My mother was the last to succumb. She grasped her chest, heaving in pain. I could hear the blood clotting with each gasp of air she took. She got up to reach for me but fell onto the floor as I stood up and hovered beside her. Kneeling down, my face now inches from hers, I searched for any trace of the mother I used to know. But there was nothing. Because the mother I knew had been a lie. Everything had been a lie.
“Was it worth it mother?” I whispered to her. Tears filled her bloodshot eyes as she let out one final death rattle, and then all was silent. I paused, unsure of what to do next. I stood up straight to survey the carnage around me. Then I looked back at the table and saw my mother’s untouched glass of wine. Without hesitation, I grabbed it and held it up high.
“Toast to the Gunnerson Family Tradition,” I boasted, drinking the entire glass in a single gulp. Sitting the glass down, I spoke aloud.
“You can come in now.” my voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. Seconds later, I caught movement to my right but didn’t take my gaze off the floor.
She had played her part perfectly. She didn’t believe me at first. Not even when I offered to pay her $10,000 dollars to play the victim. She thought it was a joke. I’m sure she got quite the scare though when my mother abducted her. But it would be worth it, I told her. That this small amount would be but a fraction of what she and I would have once the Tradition was over.
So, she agreed. And thankfully she had awoken last night when she did. She had proven to be invaluable.
“Whoa, that was fast,” she said in awe, studying the scene in front of her.
“Yeah well, we put enough in there to kill a whole football team” I retorted, still locked into a death stare with my mother. Her eyes were pointed upwards, an expression of horror and pain now permanently etched into her face.
“Is everything ready?” I questioned as I turned to face her for the first time.
“Yes. It’s all out in the garage,” she replied as she walked up to me. My hands ran across her face and then through her auburn hair.
“Go bring it in. We don’t have a lot of time, and there’s a lot to do,” I told her, leaning in for a kiss. Her mouth was wet and her lips were plump. Finally, it was beginning to feel like Christmas.
She left without another word, leaving me alone in the dining room once again. We would sanitize the kitchen then bury the bodies in the woods, in a six-foot grave alongside the cadaver I had procured from the university. It would take all night, but after it was done, they would never be found. The only business left would be my little sister.
I turned on my heel and began walking into the living room. As I started to go up the stairs to tend to my sister, something caught my attention. Something on our Christmas tree. My parents were never one to go overboard with Christmas decorations, seeing them as a waste of money and time. Our Christmas trees, therefore, had consisted of a golden garland and classic silver glass ball ornaments. Nothing more, nothing less.
Except now there was something else. Nestled almost perfectly within the tree was a dark red envelope. It had not been there last night, nor this morning. My curiosity piqued, I walked over and grabbed the card out of the tree. It wasn’t sealed, and when I opened it, an identically colored card slid out. I ran my fingers over the card and envelope, looking for an inscription, barcode, something to identify where the card came from.
Nothing
Cautiously, I opened the card. There was no signature, no seasonal greeting. Nothing but a single phrase.
“Sweets to the sweet”
Almost instantly, my back ran cold. I could feel the little hairs on my legs begin to stand up one by one. From some dark corner of the house, I could feel something stirring. Then, I felt it. Just a single, cold breath down my neck. I could feel my heart flutter. I counted to three in my head, then jerked my head around.
But there was nothing. In an instant, the house settled and everything was as it had been before. I looked back to the card, but it had vanished. I searched around me but could find no evidence that it had ever been there.
A cry from upstairs brought me back to reality. My baby sister. Mother had said she was running a fever. Fearing the worst, I darted up the stairs and down the hall to my sister's nursery. My mother fancied herself a designer and insisted on the gaudiest, Victorian-era nursery for my sister. My sister’s crib was adorned with sheets of silk and sheer fabric. I pulled them aside and looked down at my beautiful baby sister. I smiled at her and she seemed to smile back.
She would never know the horror of the Family Tradition. I would miss her dearly, but I knew she would be better off with another family, somewhere out of state, far away from our family’s legacy of death and decay.
Her rosy cheeks felt warm under my finger. As they moved across her face, a weird sensation came over me. It was something I had never felt around my sister before. I couldn’t quite figure it out at first. I looked at her, puzzled. Then my eyes ran over her throat. Soon my mouth began to water, pools of saliva now collecting inside. Then I knew.
I felt
Hungry.

Alexa; Play Bitches Ain't Shit by Dr. Dre

Hello! I originally posted this at entitledparents. However, a lot of people seemed to really enjoy the read so of course they took it down without reason. I know it is long, but people expressed they were glad they read the entire thing, and loved the plot twist! I hope you enjoy the read. Cheers!
TLDR: Karen Accused My "Heathens" of Waking Her Child; Now I Wake Him on Purpose!
My crib-midget has evolved into a min-human, and my mini-human is now in an adult male body which is, unfortunately, still outfitted with a teenage brain. Don't worry though, he knows everything! I myself have a late-30s model body, but my teenage brain is coming along well. That said, my loving wife is still able to maintain her sanity with 2.5 boys and .5 male adults in the house. However, the house was too small and we needed more leg room. We decided to move on up!
The new house is everything we wanted. There is ample room for the growing family. The boys would conquer the upstairs, and even have their own bathroom to grow "science experiments." They occasionally fail to brush their teeth but you can most certainly count on them to piss in/on everything except the toilet. Cake, my 11YO mini-human, shares my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), and keeps his room in working order. Kelly, my 15YO Man-Child genius? Well, just don't touch that sock under his bed. Typical boy-shit I suppose.
My wife and I now had a backyard. We had a two-car garage to store her Christmas and Halloween decorations. The neighborhood is gorgeous, and I can literally walk to the clubhouse and play a round of golf. The cul-de-sac we live on is dominated by currently serving or retired military families. Everyone was extremely welcoming at the Home Owners Association (HOA), and the neighbors were all friendly. Well, at least for the moment!
I have read about neighbor horror stories. I have seen them on television. I never in a million years thought I would live next to "them". I am a gunfighter by trade. Believe it or not, I don't like war. I like my job, but I don't enjoy the carnage of war. I am a realist though. I would totally cast my ballot for World Peace; but I know it only takes one asshole to ruin it for everyone. My immediate neighbors became those assholes.
Enter the Entitled Parents: Kevin and Karen. They seemed nice at first. They were both really helpful, especially Kevin. Kevin had served in the Air Force, and Karen was a stay-at-home mother. They enlightened me regarding the neighborhood, the quality of the area schools, and told me the tips and tricks to avoid any hassle with the HOA. Fucking great, right?
Coronavirus (COVID19) Zombie Apocalypse
The onset of COVID19 forced the school district to cancel the remainder of the school year so the boys didn't turn into zombies. However, the mass hysteria allowed my humanoids to become semi-professional Fortnite gamers, whom smelled like ball-funk, and survived on soda and Zebra Cakes. They were quickly becoming chubby-bunnies. I, being neighborly, informed Kevin and Karen that I would be in the market for a portable basketball hoop to combat childhood obesity and Type II Diabetes.
Side Note: I remember shit. It can be quite literally a matter of life or death in my occupation so I remember things vividly!
OP: Pleasantries, some other words, "I am thinking about getting a basketball hoop for the boys."
Karen: That's great. It's so good to have young children in the neighborhood again.
Kevin: You know you can't put it in the street right? It is against HOA rules. (Kevin is a rules guy!)
OP: Well-aware. I will be putting it on the back pad.
Karen: That's great. If the ball ever goes over the fence just tell them to come get it.
Awesome! It was a positive interaction, and they had no issue. Onward to Walmart!
My children are well-behaved. They may act like little shit-heads to each other and inside the house, but they are both kind and courteous to others. Despite Karen's instructions, I told them to knock on the door if the ball ever goes over the fence. So they did.
First Bounce-Over
My Door: Knock. Knock. Knock.
OP: Hey Kevin. How can I help you?
Kevin: (Annoyed) The ball went over the fence.
OP: Did the boys knock and ask to get it?
Kevin: Yes. I just wanted to let you know.
I spoke to my wife afterwards. "That was odd," was all I could think. Is the guy going to let me know each time the ball goes over the fence? Maybe I should knock on his door? "Hey Kevin. Just wanted to let you know that your car is parked in the driveway." This process quickly became a routine for Kevin; Kevin became a self-licking ice cream cone. Kevin came over six times over the course of about three months. My wife began keeping tallies because it was odd and, but somewhat comical. Then shit started to get real.
Cake came running in the house scared. He had tears in his eyes, and he was continually reiterating, "I didn't do anything wrong." Nobody has accused me of being "Worlds Best Dad" so I was wondering if he did in fact do something wrong. I forgo waterboarding Cake, this time, and ask what he is talking about. Cake stated, "Karen is recording me." What? I look outside and sure-as-shit, I see Karen, at the fence, and pointing her cellphone at me as if it was a loaded gun. I think, "well fuck my tits," because I know my wife is going to lose her shit. She did!
My wife is dainty, but she quickly turned into a 4'11 Muhammad Ali. Man, it took every fucking ounce of verbal reasoning for me to stop her from physically rearranging Karen's face-meat . In addition to remembering things for work, I have to be well-read regarding the laws that govern me as an American, and the locals laws. I knew Karen's tactic to scare and record Cake was immoral and unethical, but it was perfectly legal. This didn't sit well with my wife though. I reminded the wife that I have a doctorate in revenge from Fuckery University (FU), and this would not go unanswered. I can be a prick too, but I am a methodical prick.
I did my best to erect makeshift barriers as a temporary solution. It was not perfect, but at least it showed that we were doing everything in our power to prevent balls from going over the fence. I also submitted plans for a permanent structure to the HOA. I was going to build a hanging herb garden wall, but it required approval before construction could start. The typical approval timeline was two weeks, but in addition to shitting on earth, COVID19 also shit on the approval process. I was in limbo. Tragically, another basketball fell victim to the senseless violence. It was the ninth basketball in approximately eight months. The kids were terrified to ask for their basketball back, and it wasn't even worth the hassle anymore. That didn't stop Kevin though.
Ninth Bounce-Over
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Ken: OP HOME?
Wife: Yes, but he injured his back. How can I help you?
Ken: Get OP please. (I should mention that Kevin is outwardly sexist and is not a fan of "coloreds".)
Wife: Kevin, OP, can't even walk right now. How can I help you?
Ken: The basketball went over the fence again. It needs to stop. They need to stop playing basketball. (He was now telling my wife how to parent. Good luck buddy!)
Wife: I am sorry the ball went over the fence. We continue to tell the children to be careful, but I am not going to tell them they can't play basketball in their own yard.
Ken: You'll tell your boys to stop playing. If the ball comes over the fence again. We are calling the cops! Tell your boys to stay out of our yard. They're trespassing!
Wife: If you want to call the cops then you go ahead and do it. However, the boys DO NOT go in your yard at all anymore.
I was losing my shit in the bedroom. I could hear the conversation, but I physically could not make the front door. I managed to slide off the bed and began my Army-crawl to the door, but I was late. My wife was fuming and I was pissed, and pathetically crawling on the floor. Yay back injuries! We had no intention of starting a war, but the boys were doing nothing wrong. We had informed Kevin we were getting a hoop, and they had zero issues with it. What the fuck was going on?
Tenth Bounce-Over
The cops are called! The OP CITY Police Department (PD) sent two cruisers. The children may be 11 and 15, but all be damned if they don't go down without a fight. One cruiser was not going to suffice, you'd better send two for my miscreants. I just sat in my garage man-cave and watch it all play out. The cops go to the neighbors house first. They are there for more than a hour and I can only assume we are being painted as horrible neighbors. Oh well! It is now pitch dark outside and I was startled by the time an officer approaches.
Officer John Kimble: Hello? Sir!
OP: Holy fuck! You scared the shit out of me!
Officer Kimble: Sorry, Hi, I am Officer Kimble with OP CITY PD. How are you doing this evening?
OP: Typically I would say fine, but I don't typically have a cop in my garage.
Officer Kimble: I understand. The reason we are here is because the neighbors called about trespassing. Now, they said nobody went in their yard today, but they want you to understand they will press charges next time.
I was baffled. I did my best to maintain my composure, but I am certain my face was screaming, "Are you fucking serious?" Officer Kimble then pointed at his body camera and mouthed, "Recording," and then gave me a "thumbs up" gesture. I immediately ceased the opportunity to fuck with him. Sorry, it's in my nature.
OP: Do you want another beer? You can't just drink one!
Officer Kimble: (Laughing) WHAT? I didn't have a beer with you.
OP: (Laughing as well.) I'm kidding, and we are fully aware of their intent to press charges. I will be sure to do my best to prepare my boys for the rigors of prison life too. I think jail will be good for them too; may even toughen them up a bit!
Officer Kimble: (Laughing) Okay Sir. I just want to ensure that you are aware. Ideally, we would like to see neighbors talk things like this out, and not call the cops. Unfortunately, this is what it's come to. I just want to ensure you are aware.
OP: Tracking!
Officer Kimble: You have a good evening Sir.
OP: Thanks.
Officer Kimble then walked back to his patrol car. He didn't leave though. I assume he was just finishing mundane paperwork, but he was there for at least 20-minutes. Then, much to my surprise, he returned, and was a completely different Officer.
Officer Kimble: Hey man!
OP: Back for that beer?
Officer Kimble: (Laughing) NO! Sorry man! I have to play the game for the body cam.
OP: I hear you. I occasionally wear one at work, but it only cuts back on my cussing. People still get shot!
Officer Kimble: You Army?
OP: Yup!
Officer Kimble: Cool. What do you do?
OP: Shoot fist, shoot often, and have my story straight before the cops arrive!
Officer Kimble: (Laughing ) I figure as much after looking at all your stuff here. I just wanted to talk to you without the camera. They really seem eager to press chargers if your children are caught in their yard.
OP: (Laughing.) My wife and I have concluded that.
Officer Kimble: That lady is bat-shit crazy. My God! She demanded we arrest your children tonight!
OP: Tonight?
Officer Kimble: Yes! She said they trespassed before, and she wanted to press charges now.
OP: (More laughing.) I am sorry you have to deal with this brother. I really am. I can ensure you that they have never gone in their yard without permission. Not once. They are terrified of her. She taunts them from the other side of the fence and records them. Seriously, they are scared of her. We now chalk the balls up as a lose.
Officer Kimble: I believe you. There is something not right with that lady. She said the basketball wakes her son up, and she will not hesitate press charges. I told her we would do our duty, but I don't think the magistrate will not view the situation kindly if we arrest two children for playing basketball. She clearly does not care though. I just wanted to chat with you, and without the body cam. I can't exactly call her crazy while it is running.
Officer John Kimble stayed for another hour. He was impressed with the collection of war memorabilia and the setup of my garage man-cave. He was specifically intrigued with my Nintendo and working copy of Mike Tyson Punch-Out, among other classics. Yes it's certainly fucking cool, but it has little to do with the story.
SHIT, MET FAN!
My wife was mowing the grass, and I was currently doing shit I never thought would be a priority of mine; planting a new flowerbed. Kevin and Karen had just returned from another Chick-fil-A run. Then the unthinkable happened. Kevin exited the car and immediately approached me, and he was angry.
Kevin: Your boys went into my yard and got a ball today. They may think we didn't notice, but we did. You need to tell those boys to stay out of my yard or...
OP: Wait a fucking minute! I don't tolerate people who lie, cheat, or steal, and you are lying right now.
Kevin: Your boys were...
OP: We were at an all-day soccer tournament in DIFFERENT STATE. We have only been home for a couple hours. They have not played any basketball since we have been home. You're lying!
Kevin: Well, we are sick of them getting balls from our yard without permission.
OP: Look Kevin, I get it! However, you fail to recall when your wife said the boys were more than welcome to go in the yard and...
I didn't even get to finish when I heard the screech of Karen. I know my writing style is "different" to say the least. I wish I was better. I do not have the words to accurately articulate the sound Karen made, but I will do my best. It was like the tyrannosaurus from Jurassic Park making love to to a nuclear explosion during a tornado, but way fucking louder. The only thing that honestly makes this worse, and I fucking kid you not, is that she is a dead ringer for Carole Baskin (Tiger King.) Not "maybe a little," but more "Holy fuck Carole Baskin is your neighbor" type of resemblance.
Karen: I NEVER SAID THAT. I WOULD NEVER SAY THAT.
She screamed at the top of her lungs a mere inches from my face. I could smell the Meow Mix bellow from here scream-factory. Meanwhile, Kevin pulled a fucking Houdini and vanished. Kevin is a passive-aggressive asshole and direct confrontation scares him off.
OP: Yes. You did.
Karen: I NEVER SAID THAT. YOU'RE WRONG.
OP: Whatever. It's not even worth it.
Karen: I AM SO SICK OF YOUR HEATHENS GOING IN MY YARD. YOUR HEATHENS BETTER NOT GO IN MY YARD AGAIN OR I WILL HAVE THEM ARRESTED. I KNOW THE LAW.
The, "I know the law statement," really rubbed me wrong. I was about to open my mouth and respond by my wife was on her like stink on shit, which led me to believe Karen is louder than a lawnmower. My wife was still seething about Karen recording the humans.
Wife: They don't go in your yard, and they are good children. They are not heathens! You better STOP RECORDING MY CHILDREN.
Karen: Oh shut up. You guys are white trash. Your children play in the street and run around the neighborhood like criminals. They broke my mulch too.(Yes. She said they broke the mulch.) Everybody knows you're trash. Just. Stupid. White. Trash.
I am now thinking, "Oh fuck," and semi-worried about Karen's future health as an active participant of living humans. I think my wife wanted to expire Karen's shelf-life.
Wife: Excuse me? My children never play in the street, you're recording them, and...
Karen: Just shut up! YOU'RE STUPID. YOU'RE JUST PLAIN STUPID. I CAN RECORD THEM IF I WANT. NO WONDER YOU DON'T HAVE JOBS
Wife: I HAVE THREE ADVANCED DEGREES. WE ARE WORKING FROM HOME. WE ARE NOT...
Karen: You are! YOU'RE TRASHY AND STUPID, AND BOTH YOUR CHILDREN ARE STUPID.
I had enough. There was no point in arguing either. Mark Twain stated to, "Never argue with an idiot. They will drag you down to their level and beat you with experience." Mark is correct, and Karen was trying to drag us down. Well, I don't know why, but I remember something that Kevin discussed with me when we first moved in; the fucking trees!
They have a large maple tree, and they have a juniper tree. Kevin always told me they were "in the process" of contracting a company to crown and lift the maple tree. Furthermore, they were going to get the juniper tree off my fence. Dear Reader, I know the law too. I can legally trim anything that goes over my property line. Now all those pointless conversations were making sense. It was my time to join this exciting game called pettiness!
OP: Karen. You have until Sunday to get your juniper off my fence.
Karen: Shut up. I told you we were going to get it handled this fall.
OP: It's June. You have until Sunday
Karen: Or What?
I allow my wife to rejoin the conversation, and I retreat to the garage. The I grab my clippers, and prune a good couple inches of the juniper tree, and lay them at her feet. Cue T-Rex fucking a volcano voice!
Karen: WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING? I TOLD YOU IT WILL BE DONE THIS FALL.
OP: You have until Saturday now.
Karen: You are dumb too. Just like your wife aren't you?
My intelligence may have been debatable, but I suppose it was time to repeat the process?!? I now return with about two feet of tree, and place it at her feet. I am like Mo-mo-McFucko of fuck-fuck lady!
OP: You have until Friday!
Karen: You better not touch my tree again. I will call the cops and have you thrown in jail tonight. You're so dumb aren't you? Now I see where you children get it from.
OP: I know the law too Karen. I will be back in a minute with some more of your juniper tree!
Karen: KEVIN. KEVIN. KEVIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNN!
I again return to the tree. I now have another two feet of juniper tree to place at her feet. The more she screams the smaller her tree becomes. It was an enjoyable game of cause and effect. Meanwhile, I see Kevin and Kevin Jr running like Usain Bolt to secure their tree with tow straps.
Karen: I hope your happy. You are terrible people! You are both terrible parents, and your children are heathens. I am sick of ball bouncing and waking my son up too. You people need to move. Your just horrible parents. HORRIBLE. (Screaming louder) HORRIBLE PARENTS.
Dear Reader, I had enough. I was at critical mass; I was going to explode. Karen continued to yell at my wife and I was zoning out. It was comical to watch Kevin and Kevin Jr secure the tree to their porch in order to get it off the fence. Once complete, they quickly made their way back to the one-sided screaming party.
Karen: Horrible parents. Look with they did to my poor tree.
Kevin: I think we should call the cops dear.
Karen: HORRIBLE PARENTS! I feel sorry for your kids and...
OP: Just shut the fuck up! I raked up 21 bags of leaves this past fall. Twenty-One. Funny, because we don't have a tree in our backyard. I pulled an additional bags worth of leaves and branches from my gutter. Not from "my tree" either. It was from your tree. You know what Kevin? I didn't bitch. I didn't knock on your door an complain.
Kevin: Yeah, and?
OP: We live in a suburbia. This shit happens. They are kids; kids fucking play outside! I don't want the ball in your yard either. You accuse of them of being in your yard. You also accuse them of "BREAKING MULCH". How in the fuck do you break mulch? Are you fucking serious? Really?
Karen: Yes really. Maybe you should learn how to parent your horrible children.
OP JUST FUCKING LOST IT (WAIT FOR THE SURPRISE!)
OP: Know what? That's the last time you question me about my parenting. My children are going to grow up and be productive members of our society. I find it comical that you have the audacity to question my parenting seeing how you have a (WAIT FOR IT) a 49 year old son living at your house for the past nine years. I assume it was because of the divorce and the bankruptcy he filed nine years ago? My children are waking your child up? Your child is a jobless 49 year old man living at home with mom and dad. Is he working on a startup? Prestige Worldwide maybe? Boats and hos!
Karen: (FUCKING BAFFLED) How do you know any of that? DO YOU GO SNOOPING THROUGH OUR MAIL TOO?
OP: I am good at what I do, and I found everything on online. I know you are 69, and lost your license due to reckless endangerment charge in 2017. I know Kevin Jr has 5 different moving violations and one DUI. I also know he was fired from his grounds-crew job with the HOA. I know your husband is 72 and wears the same fucking shirt everyday, so I can only assume that laundry is not a priority. I know your phone numbers, and email accounts. I know a lot of shit about you. YOUR CHILD IS 49 AND LIVES AT HOME. MAYBE YOU SHOULD BE MORE WORRIED ABOUT YOUR PARENTING AND LESS ABOUT MINE! We can have a civil relationship or we can have a war. Just remember this though, I AM GOING TO FUCKING OUTLIVE YOU!
They stormed in the house. They were not happy or impressed with my ability to figure shit out. It was not over for me though. They fucked with the wrong fuckhead. They were unaware of actions I took to keep the peace. For example, I never let the boys play basketball while they were outside eating dinner. I didn't let them play before nine or after seven. I tried. But they would play blare country music and enjoy the gorgeous weather an eat a meal. I never bitch about Garth Brooks on volume 100 while I watched the national news. I was teleworking, and I took fuckery up as a part-time job now.
I have wrestled since I was four years old. I was never much of a basketball guy. I am now though! Karen and Kevin had just sat down to enjoy their meal. I don't have to spy either. I can easily see them out my french doors as I watch the national news. I patiently waited for the sloth-speed fuckheads to get their outside dinner setting perfectly situated. I could hear Tim McGraw playing when I opened my french doors. I like music too, so I figured I would get my groove and play basketball.
OP: Alexa (Amazon) play Bitches Ain't Shit by Dr. Dre.
Alexa: Bleep and Bleep by Dr. Dre.
OP: Alexa. Volume 10
I have a new fondness for rap music and the game of basketball. This didn't stop Karen from recording my "heathens" on a daily basis. I know what I was about to do was petty, but I had zero fucks to give at that point. I had one last fuck you. It was my final card to play; an Uno Reverse Card of sorts!
My neighbors, across the street, and my family have bonded. He had a tree removed last week, and I had an epiphany. How much would it cost to trim a large maple tree that overhands my property? I am not talking a couple branches either, but more like one half of a more than 100 foot tree. I approached the tree removal company an offered them a sizeable chunk of change and informed them of my delicate problem. They said, "any friend of MY NEIGHBOR is a friend of theirs." Pro bono!
They move their large equipment over to my backyard and take their time getting ready. Guess who came running out of the house? No. Not Brad Pitt. Fuck. Get your shit together Reader. Karen and Kevin came running out.
Kevin: Hey buddy! (Buddy. Not fuckhead. Not horrible parent. Buddy!)
OP: What can I do for you?
Kevin: What are they doing here?
OP: Oh. Them (Points)?
Kevin: Yeah. What are they doing?
OP: Oh. Well, they are going to trim the tree?
Kevin: Just trim?
OP: Yup. Just a little trim!
Karen: You know that tree was a gift from our daughter right? We don't want anything drastic. It has been with us for over forty years now.
Kevin: Yeah. It was a gift from our daughter. How much are you thinking about trimming?
OP: Well. Just so you're aware, you understand that I can legally trim anything that overhangs my property? I have approval from my lawyer and the HOA to trim it. Frankly, I care as much about your tree as you do my children's privacy; I could fucking care less!
Kevin: How much are you talking about trimming then?
OP: My property line is here (I point) and it extends up (I point up) to space. I am going to trim every single branch that encroaches my property. So, probably about 1/3 of your tree. It's gonna look really fucking funny when I am done. Oh well.
Karen started to cry. It was a really, really ugly cry. There was no more rage left in her. She was defeated. Kevin was defeated as well. This was not my desire. Don't get me wrong, I don't care if she cried, but it was not my intent.
OP: Or YOU CAN STOP RECORDING MY FUCKING CHILDREN.
Karen: (Looking like snot nosed Carole Baskin) If I stop recording?
OP: Look. We don't have to like each other, because I certainly don't fucking like you guys. My boys never go in your yard. Ever. I don't give shit if you keeps the other basketballs, but I will be damned if you fucking record them ever again. If you do, I will cut your tree down without warning.
Kevin: (PISSED) Thanks bud.
OP: No worries friend. I am just trying to be neighborly. Just remember. I am dead serious about the tree, and I am pretty certain I will outlive you.
Dear Reader, I know I am a prick. I know we were both in the wrong at times. I draw the line when a 69 year old women sees fit to torment my kids. We have only had one problem sense these events occurred. Kevin Jr's car sat in the same spot for nine months. I have submitted over 20 home improvement request to the HOA, and I am now friends with the wonderful ladies that work there. They periodically inspect neighborhoods and noticed the registration on Jr's vehicle was two years outdated and had it towed. Karen accused me of having towed. We had another colorful conversation, but it ended there. Kevin Jr. is still jobless to this day. I assume he has managed to erect a bunk bed in his childhood bedroom. He has "so much more room for activities." Just make sure you don't touch his drum set.
This is not my typical story, but I hope you enjoyed the read. Cheers kind humans!

My Son Had an Imaginary Friend Named Frank

My son, Richie, was almost 3 years old with beautifully thick and curly brown hair that seemed to hang in place flawlessly without any serious effort. He was a growing, healthy, and happy child, with a rapidly developing vocabulary, as any parent would hope for. That, however, was before Frank seeped into our lives.
Before Frank, the boy loved talking anyone's ear off, running around like a maniac, and putting on super hero masks while pretending to fight bad guys. That’s why when he first started talking about “The Monster,” I never thought much of it as it’s expected for children his age to start developing an overactive imagination.
“Daddy do you see the Monster?” Richie said for what must be the 7th time in the past couple weeks.
“Yeah Buddy,” I replied, with that encouraging, yet slightly sarcastic voice that parents make when talking to young children, “I can see him.”
“What’s his name, daddy?”
“Uh.... Frank,” I told him, lazily spouting out the first generic name that popped into my mind. Richie then rambled off to the next subject, and talked about something like Spider-Man or Ninja turtles beating up bad guys. You know, typical little boy stuff.
The Frank sightings seemed to escalate from there. Richie would ask me or his mother if we could see Frank over there standing in the corner, or mention that Frank was in his room last night. It was at this point that I started to feel a bit of concern, it didn’t seem to be a huge deal, but it was starting to get a bit, well off putting. Frank was never playing, he was just, there. I decided to ask Richie some questions about what I believed to be his imaginary friend he called Frank, but I’d wait until the next time he brought it up on his own.
That opportunity arose one day as I picked him up from daycare and we were driving home. He had mentioned that Frank was at the sandbox that day.
“Is Frank your friend?” I asked him.
“No,” He responded, “Frank is a monster.
“A Monster?”
“Yeah, Frank is a monster. He’s a nice monster though. He looks funnnny”
Deciding to dig a little deeper I asked, “Does Frank play with you?”
“No.”
“Well then what does he do?”
“Frank watches us.”
He said it with a matter of fact demeanor that left me even more unsure of this weird situation. I’m a young first time parent in my mid 20’s, and I had no idea how to handle the Imaginary Friend situation. Should a parent play along, or be more realistic? I really didn’t want to hinder the development of his imagination, but I also wasn’t sure how far I felt comfortable with this going.
“Sometimes he talks.” Richie continued after a short pause. “At night when everyone is asleep.”
Oh great, he’s dreaming about Frank too. “Well uh, what does Frank like to talk about?”
“He said we shouldn’t move to a new house.”
What did he just say? That last shocking sentence made me feel unsettled at best. We were getting ready to put our townhouse on the market, as we were ready to upgrade to a larger home. The weird thing is, my wife and I hadn’t spoken to our son about this. We were waiting to tell him until we had found the house that we would purchase, to make the situation easier for a toddler to grasp. Feeling creeped out and somewhat awkward, I immediately changed the subject by asking Richie if he wanted a cookie. It may be a cheap trick, but any child will immediately forget about anything of the moment you bring up the possibility of a cookie.
Although the subject had been changed, my mind began to wonder. Was my son speaking with some sort of ghost? I believed that ghosts might exist, but had never seen any sort of significant proof. How did he know that we were moving?
Later that night, after Richie was in bed, I explained to my wife the conversation that had taken place in the car. She, however, seemed unfazed and somewhat skeptical. She blew it off by saying, “Oh I’m sure he just overheard us. That kid never goes to bed and is more attentive than you think.”
I suddenly realized how insane I must have sounded to think that some sort of ghost was speaking with our child. It almost seemed funny, to look back and realize that I was actually worried. Perhaps my belief in the paranormal had caused me to jump to conclusions too easily without any real rationality. I was a first time parent after all, with almost no previous experience dealing with small developing children. I reminded myself to calm down and stay rational.
Things carried along, business as usual, for the next several weeks. Richie's mentions of Frank varied from 1 to 3 times a day. I simply played along with the boy and his stories of his imaginary friend. We packed our things and moved to our new house, which came with a wonderful swing set for which Richie was ecstatic. In this house, I felt certain that it could be our forever home. I believed that we would be happy here.
It had been 3 weeks since we had moved in, and we had just celebrated Richie's 3rd Birthday. The boy was flourishing, increasing his outstanding vocabulary and easily identifying all of his shapes and colors. He could even count to 50 now. The best thing was, I hadn’t heard the name, “Frank.” Mentioned since we moved it. Not once.
Not once, that is, until a mid-Saturday morning in the early onset of fall. The leaves were starting to rest on our new backyard lawn, and I once again found myself pushing Richie on his swing set. Back and forth, back and forth, with the rhythmic squeak of the swing set. This is when everything took a turn for the worst.
“Daddy Look!” Richie exclaimed. “There’s Frank, he’s here now!” Richie pointed to the far back corner of the yard, right next to the shed. As I turned my head to look, I thought I actually saw something, something that appeared to be a large silhouette. Before I had time to fully comprehend what I had seen, I heard the thud of Richie hitting the ground, followed by the cries of pain
A few hours later the doctor entered the room with the X-rays in hand, confirming his suspicions of a broken arm. Luckily it was one clean break, no setting of the bones would be needed. Although my son was going to be okay, I was livid with myself for allowing this to happen.
How could I have been so stupid as to look away from my child while he was on the swing set, right after he let go of the chain to point at His imaginary friend. This whole situation could have been avoided had I not been so superstitious about this damned imaginary friend. But wait, I HAD seen something, hadn’t I? It was only for a split second, but it was there. A tall, large shadow of a man with deformed head. Ugh, my eyes must really have been playing tricks on me. I brushed it off and eventually managed to fall asleep, pushing the parental guilt off to deal with the following day.
Sleep proved to be just as unsettling as the day’s events had been though. My dreams brought me memories of the recent past. The swing set, Richie playing in our old house, having family over for holiday celebrations, even the day we brought baby Richie home for the first time. Except that hideous monstrous silhouette was there, in every single memory. Watching from the corner, standing behind our guests, leaning over the crib. Always there, always watching.
I awoke suddenly, bolt upright in my bed. I rarely remembered even having dreams, but this dream was so vivid, so clear, that every detail now haunted my thoughts. Needless to say, falling back asleep was not an option. I had to go do something to set my mind at ease.
Disturbed, I went over to check on my little Richie, who was supposed to be asleep. Partially to comfort myself from that horrendous nightmare. To my surprise, I found the boy wide awake. When he saw me peeking through the doorway, he asked, “Daddy, where is Hell?”
“What?” I asked in disbelief, sure that I must have misheard.
“Hell,” he said, “where is Hell?”
I was not prepared to answer these kinds of questions to my child yet, he was so young. I myself have never really been sure what I believe about this heaven and hell stuff, having never been religious. But I gave him the best, simple explanation I could muster
“Well, bud, nobody really knows where Hell is, but some people believe that Hell is a place where bad people go after they die.”
“So was your daddy a bad guy?”
“Excuse me?” This last question caught me off guard.
“Frank told me that your daddy is in Hell because he hurt those kids.”
My heart instantly plummeted, providing a sensation as if it had collided with my stomach. After skipping a beat, or three, my heartbeat resurged with the powerful thump worthy of a bass drum.
How the HELL could he have known about that? It was true that my father had hurt children. Killed them, actually. When I was young, about 12 years old, my dad had stormed out of the house in a drunken stupor. The police came knocking at about 5:00 AM the next morning to inform us that he had been identified as involved in a multiple fatality car accident, and they needed my mother to identify the body.
I remember that morning vividly. My mother was not aware that I had woken, as I hid around the corner listening to the police tell my mother of my father's demise. Needless to say, It was him. As details emerged, it became apparent that my father had drunkenly caused a car accident, slamming into a family's minivan as they were coming home from a fishing trip. My father, along with the two children in the backseat of the other car, were killed instantly. As much as my mother tried to shield me of the events, it was all over the news. I was 12 after all, and I knew how to use the internet. It didn’t take long for me to know what my dad had done.
That being said, there is absolutely NO WAY that my son would have known this story. My mother remarried YEARS before Richie was born. My stepfather is the only person my son has ever known as grandpa, and I never discussed the situation, at all.
At this point I realized, without a doubt, that Frank was more than just an imaginary friend, and it angered me. Furiously, I told my son, “No more talking to Frank, he’s not welcome here.”
“But Frank is nice.” Richie pleaded
“No, Frank is not nice, Frank is bad and if you see him again you need to tell him to leave!”
“NOOOOO!” Richie roared. Only the voice that came out did not belong to Richie. It was a sound that no toddler could be capable of making. It was a deep, dark, horrendous, malicious, and rocky voice that would be fitting of a ware-wolf, or a monster, or, or, a demon.... What's worse is the fiery, despicable, evil look of pure hatred that was in my sons eyes, although only for a moment, it was there.
The expression on his face disappeared, as quickly as it arrived, and Richie was Richie again. It was as if he had no idea what had just happened. He seemed totally fine, but I was terrified. Terrified of my only son, or whatever had just taken ahold of him
“Can I watch a movie?” He asked, completely unfazed by the event. It was as if he didn’t even realize what had happened.
“Uh.... of course, buddy,” I managed to respond with a shaky voice. I carried him to the living room, and put on Lion King for him. After he fell asleep in the next 30 minutes, I went into the shower, and simply fell apart as I broke into tears. What the hell had just happened? What was this, this monstrous thing who grabbed a hold of my son?
As I tried to explain the events to my wife the ensuing morning, she simply didn’t believe me. I can’t even blame her, I realized that it sounded crazy but I KNEW that it had indeed happened. If only she had believed me. However, we had very little time to talk about it, as Richie awoke that morning with a heavy fever. Originally at 101 degrees Fahrenheit, his temperature rapidly rose to 103 within just a couple short hours. As I picked my son up to take him to the ER, I saw him, Frank, out of the corner of my eye. Watching.
Richie was admitted immediately. The doctors scrambled to explain his condition of rapid deterioration. I sat by, watching as my son became pale, and his energy was fading. Fast. Yes, my son was fading. He was... Dying.
As the doctors ran tests on top of tests, I took matters into my own hands. I had 3 different priests arrive, all of them simply offered my son a simple blessing, but I could tell that they too were skeptical of me. I tried desperately to get my wife and the doctors to listen to me. For 2 days I pleaded with them to understand that I knew what was wrong, that there was a malicious, if not demonic, entity feeding on my boy, sucking away his life energy. Why or how, were questions in which the answer far past my understanding, but it WAS happening.
I could even see him regularly now, that evil thing, standing in the shadows. But alas, I was met with skepticism, and my wife along with the doctors ended up bringing in a psychologist to have some sort of intervention for ME. They tried to tell me that I was having some sort of mental break from the stress of a sick, possibly dying, child. I stormed out that room desperately furious. I realized in this moment that trying to explain the truth to people would be of no avail. I had only one last idea of what could be done, what HAD to be done to save my Richie.
I stayed awake in the hospital room that night. It had been almost 3 days now since we arrived at the hospital. Richie has been moved to the ICU, with the doctors still baffled. All their tests had only shown what wasn’t wrong with Richie. They didn’t understand, but I knew. I knew what was wrong with my son.
I sat there, waiting, for the demon called Frank to appear. I stayed awake until about 2:00 AM, and suddenly there he was. I could see the shadow standing over Richie's bed. He stood Calmly, but with an evil lust for the last little bit of energy that was keeping my son alive.
“I’ll make you a deal.” I said with a stern and confident done. The entity slowly turned his head until he was facing me. I could see him now, more clearly than ever. Richie was right, Frank truly was a monster. A large one, standing at some 8 feet tall, with skin the color of ash. He had the same overall shape of a Human, but with hideous, pointy features. His Long, narrow arms hung down to his knees, ending with fingers 6 inches or more in length. And his face, his ungodly face was the most hideous of all. Frank had no mouth in his ashen, peeling face. That's when I noticed his eyes. His eyes were the most terrorizing feature about him. There was no white in his eyes, just darkness. A darkness darker than any black color that one can comprehend.
“I’ll make you a deal.” I said again, forcing myself to stay steady in the presence of this creature. “Leave the boy alone, forever, and you can have me.”
The Demon tilted his head as if perplexed, contemplating my offer. After a minute that seemed like hours, He straightened up and spoke. Not with his mouth, as he didn’t have one. No, he put the sound directly into my skull. In That deep, evil voice that had previously come from my son just the other night. “It’s a deal.” And In an instant, he was gone.
The next morning, Richie's fever had subsided, just like that. The color had returned to his skin and he was eating solid food and laughing like a toddler should for the first time in days. The Doctors admitted that they were baffled, but happily discharged Richie later that day. My wife calls it a miracle, but only I understand the dismal truth.
I can feel it starting, the Illness, or whatever you call it. My fever is spiking, and I can’t stop sweating. My energy is leaving me, I barely managed to walk up the stairs into the office. Even now, I feel as if I might pass out. I cannot hide my condition from my wife for too much longer. It is only a matter of time until I am the one in the hospital bed, as the doctors try tirelessly to explain what is happening. Only I won’t make a miraculous recovery as Richie had. No, I’m certain that I will die. That was the deal I had made after all. I gave up my own life to save my son.
But, before I do perish, I’m putting this story on every parenting and paranormal form I can find on the web.
I KNOW how this sounds, I realize it seems crazy. But I’m reaching out to all parents who might be seeing the signs. I PLEAD with you, please do NOT play along if your child has some sort of imaginary friend. Stop it BEFORE it’s too late. Find someone who can expel that evil from your home and your child. But PLEASE, for the sake of you children, I beg for you to not allow this creature to take ahold of your child.
HorrorsOfStaniforth

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Of Nite and Dei: [Chapter 28] [Final Chapter]