Surprise, Happy Birthday! And here we are... - SCP Foundation

… It’s you.

I should be less surprised. We knew you would return, didn’t we? The one who returns. That’s you.

You’ll always come back for them, won’t you? For the stories. Have you heard the tale of the fairy in a bottle? I’m sure you have, once upon a time. Or maybe the myth of the moon who cried - ah! What about the twins, those twins who saw light and shadow?

You’re a funny one, my friend. A strange breed… you with your infinite hunger for the story. Like a voracious beast, you devastate every page, every line, every letter - until there is nothing left. A proper, regal force of nature, an uncompromising glutton of the fable, satisfied only until you again yearn for the next tale to be told. And it will be told. Nothing else will do. You cannot live without them, can you?

And I’m not so sure they can live without you.

… Mm. We wish you a happy birthday, Gears. Until the next one.

Little Brothers are Scared of Things In the Dark, by Dexanote

Happy Birthday. And more to come.

When I was younger, my family lived in an older, wartime house in one of the older suburbs. It was a nice house, kinda small but we made do.

I mean, not that my brother or I would know. He’s a few years younger than me and used to be stuck to me like glue. We got along really well, I mean, I was kinda a crappy older brother sometimes, but I never beat him up or yelled.

I remember when he was little he used to have nightmares all the time. Maybe like four, five times a week for months he would come into my room and beg to sleep in my bed. He was maybe three or four- No, three, he was probably four, and I was eight or nine? Whatever. Just I remember he would come in, and be all gentle and tell me he had a really bad dream and wanted to ‘be in my room for safety’.

I was really annoyed for a while, but I gave up and yielded after the… I don’t know, four months? I remember just him walking in and he was nearly in tears. He laid down and curled up and I just… It was hard. He was so scared. He was trembling. I never saw anything like that before. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody that scared before…

I’m sorry, it’s hard to remember that. It stuck with me, you know? So I started staying up later and waiting for him to come in. It was always around 1 in the morning. Four or five days a week. Mom and Dad thought it was just night terrors - mom had them when she was little, she grew out of them. I didn’t really believe that, I was nine.

Once we were watching cartoons and I asked him what his bad dreams were about. He only said “the crawly thing is there”, and refused to… explain anything more. He was a little kid, but I was frustrated, I wanted my little brother to stop being scared at night.

I remember it vividly. That night I snuck out and went to sleep in his bed. He was sound asleep in mine, I just went to his and laid down under the covers. Maybe I would have bad dreams if I was here? He never had them in my room, or at grandma’s house, or-

I’m sorry I’m just remembering. I just remember… I heard some kind of scratching noise. It was like this soft scratching- not like it was gentle, but scratching something soft against the wall? I looked around in the dark for it and-

It was just in the dark, it was on the ceiling. I just saw this… white face, just this little round thing on the ceiling, with these big black eyes. They were so watery looking, just these gross black circles reflecting the street lights.

I turned on the light and it just twisted and went away. Like it was gone. I left the bedroom and went back to my bed and tried to forget about it.

… I was a good brother, I think. He’s a good kid, he’s a little bit of a pain in the butt but he’s a good kid. He gets in trouble all the time. Grounded a bunch of times when we were little - oh, no, just little stuff. He’ll forget a birthday or run a curb or walk over a neighbour’s garden but it’s all harmless stuff now. Even when he was younger he just got grounded all the time.

Me? I just got grounded once. Dad found me trying to bury stuff next to a burned up patch of the back lawn. I was… well. I was nine. Our new cat found a… big mouse, and brought it to me as a present. I was just trying to bury it, and I thought I should give it a funeral pyre. Swear that’s all it was.

She’s a good cat. Always liked sleeping in my brother’s room. Hey, do you have a cat? Let’s talk about my cat instead.

Stargazing, by Captain Kirby

Happy Birthday!

“Hey, hey! Look! Over there!”

“Skylar, I’m driving I can’t look.”

“No just take a peak. The clouds finally parted over there!”

After four hours of driving up and down the Rocky Mountains, we finally found the stars. Which was a relief because I was certain this star gazing trip was going to flop.

“Oh shit you’re right.”

“No you need to take a left.”

“That’s not what I— oh never mind.”

“You mind if I roll the windows down?”

“Nah, go ahead.”

Cool midsummer air rushed over my face. It woke me up a little, which was nice. Don’t want to crash the car in the middle of the mountains at half-past midnight. I took the left, and then a right.

“How much you bet the clouds are going to close up the moment we get there?”

“Oh don’t even say that.”

“You know that’s this night has been going.”

I scowled. Skylar laughed a little.

“You know I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“I know, I know.”

“Besides, it’s more about the company than the stars.”

“True but… it’s been so long for me. Too much light pollution back at school for me to do this during the semester.”

I took another turn subconsciously. I navigate winding mountain roads mostly by muscle memory. They all work the same where it takes a bend followed by another bend. At some point there weren't guard rails anymore, but it didn’t quite register for me. I was too deep in conversation. I used to say that stargazing is just an elaborate excuse to talk to someone for a few hours.

“Wait! Pull off here!”

I don’t remember when we entered a bowl, but we had. I pulled off the dirt road and stopped the car.

“We made it,” Skylar said. She pointed up, where the clouds had parted just enough for the Milky Way to shine through. We jumped out of the car and climbed up on the roof. It was wonderful. Hundreds and hundreds of little lights twinkled overhead. I hadn’t looked at a star map beforehand, so I couldn’t recognize any of the constellations. But that didn’t matter.

“Hey, pretty solid find tonight,” I said.

“You even know where we are?”

“No, but the car has GPS.”

It’d been so long since I’d seen stars. The clouds parted further, and the view began to engulf me. I felt small.

“I miss this.”

“Same.”

“It’s a shame we won’t get to do this for another three months.”

“Shame.”

The stars looked brighter as the view came closer. It molded over me, like a blanket.

“Thanks, Sky.”

And then clouds closed in. The view was gone, and with it the stars.

I drove home alone.

Corner of the Game Room, by UraniumEmpire

Happy birthday, Gears. Here's to 90 fucking more, G-d willing.

This isn't supposed to be a scary story. Just stuff I grew up with.

I mostly slept in the game room. Lars had his bedroom (oldest brothers typically did), Sam had her bedroom (and sisters rarely shared), and the littlest kid got to sleep on a futon in the game room we never quite got around to making part of the home.

Well, I guess it was technically part of the house. Just not really the home, if that makes any sense. You could chill in the living room, sure; I liked to, at least before my parents got home. Kitchen was nice, at least when you're making things for your friends. Sometimes I'd even explore the crawl space under the stairs, back when dad got too old to stomp. My home was pretty nice, I liked to think.

The game room was just creepy, really. Not even in the fun kinda creepy, like when we told stories about the bandaged man. Just sort of off-putting, in the kind of way photos on craigslist might be. Nobody really used it but me (parents didn't like guests and all that), so it was pretty sparse. No real "games", unless you counted my DS (which was taken out of the room often) or the broken ping pong table.

I don't know why, but we kept a lot of weird paintings up there, in the corner. Not really hung up or anything, no, just sitting around. I guess it's stuff my parents bought but never really got around to putting up, though I guess I question their taste. I mean, I didn't even really recognize them, style-wise. Lots of weird shapes and weird people, some doing weird things but most just staring.

I've often wondered what it is with weird paintings. I mean, I suppose they weren't any different from the things we draw, but the frame somehow makes them more…there. Like a testament to some weirdo's personality. More…human-like, I guess is one way of putting it. You sorta feel like there's some sort of action they're taking by existing. Maybe just that when you look at the painting, it looks back.

Maybe they were haunted? Who knows. I mean, I feel like everyone's seen that one weird painting they thought blinked back. Heck, a few of the game room ones did (some more than others). But does that mean they're special, or that humans just think they're special?

Of course, again, I sorta had to sleep in the game room, with a bed on the opposite wall of those weird paintings. Made it pretty hard to fall asleep.

Looking back, though, I think I was a bit more concerned with the choices I had. If I wanted to lay on my left side, for instance, I had to face the paintings. It's…pretty hard, knowing the weird faces are making eye contact with you. But then if I went to sleep on my right side, I had to deal with them staring at the back of my head. Mostly I just slept face down.

Tried moving them to face the wall, one time. Touching them felt weird, like there was some sort of imaginary television static, but nothing ever jumped out to kill me, at least. Just like them that they'd eventually be turned back to face my bed. It wasn't even all at once, either: over the course of a few days, one or two would just be back to facing me and my bed.

It was probably mom.

Eventually, I just decided to make an impromptu blanket fort and sleep in that. It was pretty awesome, I had to say. I mean, blanket forts are usually awesome, but it felt nice to be quote-unquote "protected" from the paintings.

Coming out each morning, though, I was still face to face with the weirdo paintings.

I don't think my siblings liked them much, either. I mean, I guess Lars shouldn't be expected to; Bro was jumpier than a beaten dog. Sam was better about hiding it, I think. She used to joke that I had an older older brother, Mark, who was fed to the paintings for being naughty. She was probably joking, but I didn't really find it funny.

Mom and dad didn't talk about the paintings much. I mean, I tried not to listen to dad, which is probably how I survived this long, but mom was mum on the issue. The few times I thought about asking her, I thought better…actually, I think I did ask her, one time. I don't remember her answer, but I remember it failing to stop my curiosity.

You know, come to think of it, I never really noticed either of them bringing a painting home. I mean, I don't know if the paintings ever changed; I think they did, at least. But it was always when I wasn't home, if it happened. Maybe I just wasn't looking hard enough.

Few years ago, bro left for college, and I got his room. I missed Lars, sure, but I was kinda glad not to have to look at those paintings anymore.

Not much else happens in this story. Three years later, and I'm off, too.

I don't really miss home. Having my own room is cool. I don't gotta deal with dad (though apparently mom's kicked the old sod out since then). Most of all, I'm just sorta happy I don't have to sleep in that room, again.

Snap, by fieldstone

Happy birthday!

"We got to brush those teethies, Kara. Come on, brush-brush-brush, it'll be quick." The infant ignored Tim's pleading and continued to squirm, crying in protest, until he finally wrestled her head upright and jammed the brush in her mouth.

"Good girl! Okay, quick now, brush brush brush." Sometimes she'd hold still once the toothbrush went in, but not tonight. She kept struggling and finally caught her tiny foot against his chest, pushing herself away from him. He nearly dropped her and tightened his grip, startled.

That was when he heard the noise.

It was like the dry crack of a tree branch, loud enough to echo in their tiny bathroom.

So loud it took him a moment to realize Kara had stopped crying.

He lifted her up, unbelieving. The baby's neck and back had snapped completely. He could hear the small bones in her spine crumbling against each other as her beautiful head drooped over his hand, limp as a rag.

No. How? No. No, no, no, oh baby, baby, baby—

"Marlene!" he sobbed, running for the living room. He hugged his daughter to his chest as gently as he could, but still he could hear her bones crackling against each other, a bag of twigs. "Fuck! No! Marlene!"

"Honey, what?" She started to stand as he rushed around the corner, but when she pushed herself off the couch her arm snapped at the wrist with a sickening crunch. She didn't have time to scream; her cheek struck the coffee table on the way down, crumpling her face like a rotten pumpkin. She lay still.

He had no words left - just a wail of anguish as he started across the room to her. He took one step, and then another, and then his shin snapped underneath him, pointed bone shredding through his calf.

The last sound he heard was shattering, like porcelain, as his skull hit the floor.

Her, by weizhong

Happy birthday Gears.

You've never seen her like this before.

In all the years that you've known her, you've never seen her like this before.

It's a shock, then, to see her so clearly distraught. To see the fat tears rolling down her cheeks, her ruby red lips quivering in despair, and great, racking shudders overcoming her shoulders. What could have possibly happened to make her feel this way?

You've known her since she was a little girl, barely big enough to walk on her own. Even then, she was beautiful in your eyes. It was the first moment that you laid eyes on her that she changed your life. So happy, so innocent, and so full of life; she wasn't like anyone that you had ever seen before. It was at that moment that you decided that she was perfect.

Which is why it was so shocking when you saw her like this.

Ah, well. In the end, you suppose she wasn't any different from the rest. It's a shame, you mused, as you finished climbing through her window, knife in hand.

Better luck next time.

Surreal Tableaus of The Warping Flesh, by LordStonefish

Gears, I adore you and wish all the best of luck with everything you set your heart on.

65 million years ago, the Chicxulub meteor killed the dinosaurs.

Five years ago, Cornell University published a neurological study saying that horror movies fundamentally alter the actual structure of our brain as we watch them.

In 2017, Youtuber and nature documentarian Austin Prilbitski was found brutally murdered outside Scranton, Pennsylvania. His skull was split like a flower, and the head below was almost liquid. There was a large hole missing from what was left of the torso.

One year later, rapper The Aggravate released his directorial debut to theaters, Seieki. Kenneth Turan of the Los Angeles Times called it "the sickest, grossest, vilest, most horrifying, most disgusting film ever made. Every frame is designed to confront you with the horrors of the most unthinkable kind. " Glenn Kenny, writing for rogerebert.com, hailed it as "the scariest horror film ever made." Peter Travers, of Rolling Stone magazine, awarded it five stars.

Yesterday, I woke up to find my family had left the house. The entire place was a mess, like someone had ransacked it. Books and food and furniture lay strewn everywhere. One of our cars was gone. I took the other one to get gas. There was no one in the streets. Papers blew in the wind, stores lay empty. The road by the multiplex was impassable as spillover parking for the theatre blocked the way. Through the maze of hastily parked vehicles a small girl in a pillowy white dress wandered, crying for her mother to come back. She was clutching a SpongeBob plush. It was stained with something pink and foul-smelling.

Tomorrow was

Fish Eyes, by Zyn

Hi Gears! Happy Birthday!

I knew when I bought the first fish that they didn’t have eyelids. It’s a natural fish thing. They sleep with their eyes open and while kind of weird (sometimes sleeping fish look dead) it didn’t bother me until my fish started looking at me.

Not the kind of vague, barely interested look that they used to give me when I fed them, no. It was a full stare, the fish completely unmoving as it watched me cook dinner or lay on the couch. Sometimes I would move to another side of the room to avoid that stare. And the fish would swim over to the other side of the tank, and keep looking at me.

I don’t know why I kept it.

I eventually was so creeped out that I tried to forget I had a fish. It had been kind of a spontaneous decision borne of a sort of loneliness, anyway. It was easy to just cut that part out of my daily routine. But the tank smell got so bad that I was forced to clean it, and I discovered that the fish had died. So I cleaned out the tank, flushed the fish away, and went on with life.

Then I started seeing the fish when I slept.

Never the fish itself, though, but the eyes. All of the people I saw in my dreams had fish eyes. The same eyes as the pet fish I owned that would always watch me.

I took medication to gain some dreamless nights. And then I started seeing people with fish eyes when I was awake, too.

I went out and bought a dragonscale betta. They have a special scale pattern that reaches past their gills and right into their face, see. Supposed to be like a dragon. Some of these fish have a condition where the scales grow past their face and right over their eyes, rendering them blind. Maybe somehow I subconsciously thought that this would be safer.

That fish currently has seven eyes. The normal ones it had when I bought it, and three more on its forehead, and a set of two that have grown near its gills. All seven of those eyes watch me.

That fish currently refuses food I give it, and seems to be getting larger and larger every day even though I’ve cleaned out the tank decorations and plants and there’s nothing else it could be eating.

I don’t know why I still keep it.

The only Sound, by tretter

May you celebrate as many more birthdays as you can count stars in the sky

I first heard the scuttling when I was house-sitting for my boyfriend’s family two cities over. It started just after the belltower chimed the half hour past midnight. The house was dead silent, and even my footsteps somehow felt muted. And the only sound… was the scuttling.

At first I thought it was just the sound of the house groaning, it was a century house after all. But the sound was continuous. And it moved. It always moved. It never stopped moving. That raspy tek tek tekking as whatever it was crawled around in the wall of the living room.

I listened for a few more moments to the scuttering in the wall. It was almost rhythmic. A mesmerizing flow of what I assumed were insects. I sent a note to my partner.

“Hey, I think there are termites in the walls.”

“Uh, ok.”

Helpful. With that taken care of, I turned the lights off, left the room, and went to where I’d been sleeping. The scuttling stayed there, in the darkness. I did my usual nighttime rituals, taking a shower, re-checking my emails for the fifth time today. And I slipped into bed.

I woke up in a cold sweat. The clock next to my bed flashed “1:32”. The power had gone out. It took me a few minutes to fully wake up, but when I did, it was there. The scuttling. The sound of millions of miniscule mandibles moving and chewing in circles. Around my bed. I could hear them. And I could feel them. The sensation of tiny vibrations shaking every aspect of my being and my bed.

Unnerved by this, I leapt from my bed and ran down the hall to the garage. I hoped against all odds that they had a bottle of Raid somewhere in that mess of post-moving boxes. Or maybe bug repellent or anything. I could hear the scuttling follow me. Only stopping short when dove through the door into the concrete-floored garage.

I desperately tried to flick the lightswitch, but to no avail. The scuttling was still by the door. It almost seemed like it was waiting.

So I leave the house and spend the rest of the night in my car. I try to sleep, but I’m pretty sure I don’t get any. I see the sun crest the horizon. But I don’t hear the scuttling, and so I pretend to feel safe.

I spend the next hour steeling my nerves, and at the end of it, I rush inside. I get to the front door, and sanded glass in it seems to be moving but it’s not. Something behind it is. And I hear the scuttling. The tiny tekking of whatever they are moving on the door and beyond it.

I run.

I get in my car and hold my face in my hands. I left my phone and wallet inside. I was alone. And out of the corner of my ear. I can hear it.

The grass next my car is shaking ever so slightly against the wind. A path leads from the front door of the house to my car. The glass on the front door is broken, I can see the shards glint in the dawning sun.

So I drive.

I drive until my car stops.

But I can still hear it. It’s followed me somehow.

So I run until exhaustion slows me.

But I can still hear it.

So I walk. I walk until my feet stop working. And I fall to my hands.

I feel the ground tremble beneath me. And I can still hear it. The scuttling.

It’s the only sound. I don’t even have the strength to scream.

Someday, by Rigen

Seems like your clock's still ticking, Gears. For now, and forevermore.

You've been using the word "someday" far too often, you know?

Can we go to the beach? Someday. Can we ride a train? Someday. Can we go in a haunted house? Someday. Can we go to the mountain? Someday.

And when I fulfilled all those wishes on my own, you just stood there, grinning and clapping your hands as if it's my first step all over again. Can't you understand? Can't you see why I kept pestering you about them? Can't you see why I didn't laugh the same way you do? Why can't you see? It's all meaningless if it's not with you!

When is this someday you promised? A smile was all you gave me when I asked. You kept smiling and laughing and grinning and turning your back away. When is this someday?

When would you realize that a cold smile isn't an answer, dad?

Television Man, by MaliceAforethought

Happy birthday, Gears. Thanks for sticking around.

You love it, ooh how you love it. The cameras, the lights, the plush sofas and relentless chitchat with people you barely know. You love that strangers see you in the street and stare, nudge each-other and murmur. Lurch and trip as you catch them off-guard. You can imagine what they must be saying. "Is that him? Is that really him?" It always is, and occasionally you risk a glance. A quick, knowing look over the top of your trademark sunglasses. Watching their eyes widen and their hearts beat faster. Once a month, you permit yourself a wink.

Today is a recording day, as all the best days are. You walk through the open doorway of the studio, basking in the awed silence that fills the room. Past the front desk (with a slight smile to the girl on reception), through the double glass doors at the back that lead to the rest of the building, stop to pick up your coffee from the lounge where it's waiting just as it always is. You nod respectfully to the interns, slumped over their monitors in endless research and fact-checking, beam a wide grin to the guest as you shake their hand warmly. "Oh yes, so good to have you here, can't wait to talk to you, can't wait at all, no sense in dallying of course, schedules and all that, can't wait, simply can't wait." They mutter something indistinct in response, and your smile, already bordering on rictus, widens further. "Great honour to have you hear, such a great honour. Can't wait, really."

You stride onto the set as the lights flare on and the click-click-click of the cameras starts filling the room. You take a deep breath, inhaling the scent that permeates the area — a potent mix of dust and mud, as home to you as anywhere else on earth. A coy nod to the lead technician, and you're away, the sheer power of the moment filling your veins. You slide into your seat, fix the camera with a stony, serious look, and begin as you always do.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, remain in your homes. Do not go outside, I repeat, do not go outside. It is no longer safe." You pause for dramatic effect. Just in front of you, the cameraman falls limply from his equipment. A voice at the back of your head reminds you that you'll have to get some more twine on the way home. Stupid stuff rots through in no time. Still, nothing to be done for the moment. "This is an emergency broadcast."

The studio lights begin to fizzle out around the second half of the segment, but it doesn't worry you. Your guest is as charming as ever, swaying slightly as their eyes stare at something nobody else can see.

All around the country, as your voice crackles across the speakers, television screens flicker to life. Just as they always do. And in front of you, the camera keeps rolling, rolling, rolling along in the dark. Just as it always does.

Cheese, by DrCaroll

Happy birthday!

The embodiment of total darkness filled the room following a loud crash created by lightning, rain, and God's fury.

My first reaction, of course, was to go to my brother's room. We were the only people in the house who would gladly stay up until the ungodly hours of the night, and therefore, we just about only had each other.

Just more than a week ago, we heard a strange knocking on our window. Not to say that the knocking in particular was in a strange manner, but its source was clearly unknown. At first, my brother and I just thought it to be a branch of some sort. That's when we realized that we don't have bushes near our window, and that the knocking came in a chronological order rather than at the same time.

Unfortunately, our scared little minds got the best of us as we jumped to conclusions and assumed that there was an intruder in the backyard. Even though that was the scariest thought, it was definitely the most likely, as we didn't have any bushes or plants or anything like that that could've caused a noise naturally. And what do scared teens do when they think there's someone in the backyard? They got their father. At least that's what we did.

I wasn't too scared at this point, but seeing my dad open up his fingerprint safe to retrieve his Glock wasn't the most bit comforting. But, at the same time, it kind of was. My thoughts went something like this: the fact that he has to get his gun scared me, but the fact that he did get his gun provides me with a sense of security.

Needless to say, when he went out there, there was nothing there. And so he unloaded his firearm and we all went to bed.

The next night, the same thing happened, but Dad didn't bother to grab his gun. He just went out there with a flashlight.

(Again,) needless to say, when he went out there, there was nothing there.

And so we didn't hear the knocking again until last night, at which point the raging storm outside struck its wrath into the Earth in the form of completely stripping the town of its power. This was the middle of the night, and so being in pitch darkness after hearing the knock again really unsettled my brother and I. I used my laptop and he used his phone to shed some light into the abyss that was now our house, but we eventually just crashed in his room for the time being with a plan to wait until the power came back on.

Having the door open the whole time was a mistake.

My brother's door leads directly into our hallway with a slight curve right near the door so it almost acts as a J with a rougher turn.

Standing in the doorway, I saw a very tall and slender figure. It was most definitely humanoid, buy it was so tall that its head was being blocked by the door frame. It was unrealistically tall, because for it to stand straight like it was, our roof must've been at least another foot and a half. But it wasn't.

It's almost like it was staring at me, but, again, I couldn't tell because of its head not being able to be seen. But the way its torso was pointing and how its neck remained seemingly straight (and how the way the sight of it sent chivers down my spine), it felt like it was staring me dead on. I wanted to tell my brother, but I just couldn't, almost as if I was physically restricted. As soon as I regain the power to speak again, the figure steps out of the doorway and back into my hall.

For some reason, I still couldn't tell my brother. I felt physically unable to warn him of what may or may not be there.

We went out into the living room because, at this point, my entire family was up. The living room is at the end of our hallway, and I had no sight of whoever (or whatever) was originally there. I managed to calm myself down and take a seat, laptop in hand, with my parents talking as I saw him again. He was standing in the hall, just like he had did with the doorframe. But this time, his head wasn't obscured, and I could faintly make out huge, black eyes matching a sly, toothless grin.

I felt this force grab my face and force it into a similar grin as I practically entered shock, unable to believe that something like this was happening. My face muscles eventually came to a forced rest in the position of a smile like his, and we continued to lock eyes, unblinking.

During this entire time, my family looked at the exact same spot I looked at and saw nothing. It was like I was the only one who could see him.

He held up his hands in a manner similar to that of holding a camera or some other photography tech as his smile grew wider. Mine, of course, only managed to follow his in width until the point where I could feel the skin on the edge of my lips begin to tear. I heard a whisper in my ear as his grip tightened on Satan's camera.

"Cheese."

As I heard the voice which I could only presume is his, he pressed the capture button and a blinding flash of lightning filled the room. At the same time, an unbearable pain went through both of my cheeks as my smile grew to an inhuman width.

When I could see again, I was in the bathroom, staring at the mirror. I saw a smile as wide as a watermelon stretched across my face created purely of dark, maroon-hued blood and torn flesh. He was standing right behind me as I attempted to scream, but all I could do was laugh.

In the mirror, I saw him click his camera once more but no flash came out. Following this, a child-like laugh came from the hall.

The man knocked twice on the wall exactly how the thing outside did it and promptly faded away as I was left to stare at my bloody, stretched smile.