Nightmare Chronicles II

By Frank Amaya

Enter a world where fear and fascination intertwine, where nightmares lurk just beneath the surface of reality. Within these pages, you will be drawn into the depths of terror, where each turn of the page drags you further into the macabre.

Haunted houses with creaking floors and chilling whispers will lure you inside. Supernatural entities, born of ancient curses and malevolent desires, will emerge from the shadows to hunt you. The line between reality and illusion blurs, and the horrors that dwell within the human psyche are more terrifying than any external threat.  Explore the threads of terror woven into the human experience. Personal phobias and unspoken fears lie at the heart of each tale, ready to send shivers down your spine. Summon your courage, for the path ahead is perilous, filled with ominous whispers and relentless dread.

As you journey through these chilling narratives, remember that true horror lies not only in the monstrous and malevolent but in the fear that resides within us all. Take a deep breath and step forward. The nightmare awaits, and the terror calls.

For once you enter, there is no escape.

Welcome to the realm of spine-chilling horrors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Amaya
• Release date: Jun 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227410849

Frank Amaya

Indulging in the alchemy of words, I dance amidst realms of imagination, sculpting tales that captivate hearts and minds. Writing isn't just a hobby—it's the breath of my soul, the echo of dreams unfurled. Join me on this exquisite journey where every word is a brushstroke, painting worlds of wonder and enchantment.

Book preview

Frank Amaya

Nightmare Chronicles II

The Series

Copyright © 2024 by Frank Amaya

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

First edition

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com

Contents

Preface

1. INEXPLICABLE RESIDENTS IN THE SHADOWS

2. MY BROTHER IS DATING AN AI ROBOT

3. THE DEAD ASTRONAUT IS STILL ALIVE

4. HOW MY BEST FRIEND DIED

5. I RENTED AN APARTMENT WITH MISSING PERSON’S THINGS

6. NOTHING I EAT TASTE RIGHT

7. A CONVERSATION BEYOND THE GRAVE.

8. I SIMULATED THE BIG BANG AND I SAW OUR FUTURE

9. STOLEN TIME

10. A GHOST TOWN APPEARED OVERNIGHT

11. MY EX WAS SENSITIVE ABOUT HIS INTELLIGENCE

12. MY ESCAPE FROM N.KOREA - PART 1

13. MY ESCAPE FROM N.KOREA - PART 2

14. I ESCAPED AN ALTERNATE DIMENSION , NOW I WANT TO GO BACK

15. I AM THE DEATH ROW CHEF: MY STORY

16. MY SISTER WENT MISSING. I SHOULDN’T HAVE GONE TO LOOK FOR HER

17. THE LECTURE I ATTENDED.

18. THE MINOTAUR’S PATH

19. THE SHADE

20. WHY I WAS HOMELESS 17 YEARS OF MY LIFE

21. THE GIRL NEVER LEAVES THE TRAIN PART 1

22. THE GIRL NEVER LEAVES THE TRAIN PART 2..

23. TODAY, I BABYSAT MY YOUNGER SELF

24. MY SON’S REFLECTION IS WRONG

25. WHAT CAME BACK FROM THE WOODS

26. BEWARE THE OLD MAN AT THE PARK CHESSBOARD

27. MY WIFE SYRINGES HID A SECRET

28. My 116 YEAR OLD GRANDMA REFUSES TO DIE

29. THE ABERRATION

30. A JOURNEY THROUGH HELL

31. TRUST YOUR FEAR IN THE WILD

32. THE INMATE WON’T STAY DEAD

Preface

In the darkest corners of our minds, where fear and fascination meld into a sinister dance, lurk the tales that burrow under your skin and haunt your most terrifying nightmares. Welcome to the abyss of horrors, where the line between reality and nightmare is razor-thin, and the unknown watches, ready to strike.

Within these pages, dear reader, you will be pulled into the depths of terror. Horror is not merely a genre but a twisted journey into the eerie, an exploration of the unexplained. Steel yourself, for each turn of the page will drag you further into the labyrinth of the macabre.

As the night’s cold grip tightens around your imagination, you will face sinister forces beyond comprehension. Haunted houses with creaking floors and chilling whispers will lure you inside. Supernatural entities, born of ancient curses and malevolent desires, will emerge from the shadows to hunt you.

Beware, for in these tales, the line between reality and illusion will blur. As we delve into the haunted minds of our characters, their sanity will unravel, and the fabric of reality will tear. The horrors that dwell within the human psyche are more terrifying than any external threat.

In this anthology of dread, we invite you to explore the threads that weave terror into the human experience. Personal phobias and unspoken fears lie at the heart of each tale, ready to ensnare your senses and send shivers down your spine.

Summon your courage, dear reader, for the path ahead is perilous, and the night is filled with ominous whispers. Within these chapters, you will encounter the grotesque, the otherworldly, and the unknown. As suspense mounts and the pages turn, prepare to be engulfed in a world of relentless dread.

May you find yourself captivated by the mysteries that lurk in the shadows, desperate to uncover the secrets that lie ahead. As you journey through these chilling narratives, remember that the true essence of horror is not only in the monstrous and the malevolent but in the fear that resides within us all.

So, dear reader, take a deep breath and step forward. The nightmare awaits, and the terror calls. Embrace the darkness as we embark on this haunting odyssey together.

For once you enter, there is no escape.

Welcome to the realm of spine-chilling horrors.

Frank Amaya

Author

1

INEXPLICABLE RESIDENTS IN THE SHADOWS

I’m sitting at a wooden table in the school library, which is quiet except for the soft hum of air conditioning. I’m engrossed in an old hardcover book about mythology. The book smells musty, like it’s been forgotten on the shelf for a long time. As I reach the end of a chapter and prepare to flip to the next page, a folded piece of paper slips out from between the pages. It falls with a soft thud onto the table in front of me. The paper is odd; it’s translucent and feels almost like thin plastic. What catches my eye are the strange symbols drawn on it, resembling a script. Unable to resist my curiosity, I hold the paper up, peering through it at the students and bookshelves beyond. The moment I do, an unexpected sensation jolts me; a pulse of energy surges from the paper, passing into my hands and spreading throughout my body. It feels like a quick electric shock, leaving my fingers tingling, and my heart pounds in my chest as I hastily set the paper back on the table.

My gaze sweeps across the library, searching for any sign that someone else witnessed what just happened to me. Everyone seems engrossed in their own activities—reading, typing on laptops, or whispering in hushed conversations. No one is looking my way. But as my eyes move from person to person, I notice something astonishing: there are colors, bright glowing halos surrounding each individual. These auras were not visible before. Most of the people are encircled by soft hues—blues that remind me of a clear sky, greens like fresh grass, and pinks like a sunset. However, my eyes lock onto a kid sitting alone in a corner of the library. He looks like any other student engrossed in a book, but the aura surrounding him is markedly different from the others. It’s dark, murky, and appears almost like a shadow enveloping him. The sight sends a slight chill down my spine. I can’t help but wonder what this sudden change in my vision means and why this particular individual stands out in such a disturbing way.

At first, I think I must be hallucinating or stressed out. I catch myself muttering, Get a grip, as I rub my temples in disbelief. Yet, as the days turn into weeks, the auras persist, becoming an undeniable part of my daily life. Everywhere I go, it’s the same people are enveloped in auras of varying colors, mostly pleasant shades of blue, green, and pink. Yet here and there, I find someone enshrouded in a dark, almost oily aura. This new radar I seem to have developed makes me more alert. Whenever I spot someone with that eerie dark aura, I make it a point to steer clear, giving them a wide space as I pass. They don’t appear to be doing anything wrong, but an uneasy feeling settles in my stomach whenever I’m near them. It’s like an intuitive sense of danger or foreboding that I can’t shake off.

Given the strange nature of what I’m experiencing, I decide that sharing this with friends or family would make me sound crazy. Instead, I turn to the internet, a place where even the most outlandish questions can find a home. I spend my nights going down rabbit holes of information, sifting through forum discussions and archived posts. A lot of what I find talks about spiritual aspects like chakras and enlightenment, topics that don’t offer much clarity on what I’m dealing with. But then one night, I stumble upon a discussion thread that catches my attention. It’s an old, largely forgotten post that delves into the existence of beings with dark auras. While the information is fragmented and imprecise, the mere fact that others are talking about this phenomenon gives me some hope. People describe these beings in vague terms, aligning them with various creatures from folklore—entities you definitely not want to cross paths with. But frustratingly, no one offers concrete information or specifics. It’s like trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

What are you reading? my sister Emily leans in from the doorway to glance at my laptop screen. I’m sitting on my bed, scrolling through yet another forum about auras and the unexplained.

Nothing, I reply, minimizing the browser window with a quick keystroke. Just some stuff for a school project, I add. She arches an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but decides not to press further.

Well, dinner is ready, she announces before turning to head back downstairs.

Closing my laptop, I follow her to the dining room. As I sit down at the wooden table with my family, my gaze inevitably shifts to the auras surrounding each of them. My dad, at the head of the table, has an aura that’s a calming shade of blue. My mom, to his right, is surrounded by a soft pink glow. Emily, who sits across from me, has a light green aura. It’s comforting to see these gentle colors enveloping my loved ones like a protective shield. However, this newfound vision also fills me with a sense of unease. As I look at the familiar faces around the table, the realization that I’m fundamentally different now is inescapable. They continue with their dinner chatter, completely unaware of the extraordinary lens through which I now see the world—the comforting light auras.

Weeks stretch into months, and my need to understand what I’m seeing becomes an all-consuming obsession. In the basement of the library, far from the well-trodden paths of the main floor, I uncover a series of dusty leather-bound books that are hidden away, as if forgotten by time. The pages of these volumes are yellowed with age, and they speak of creatures that exist in the realm of the inexplicable entities that have been whispered about in different cultures and eras. They are consistently described as malevolent, the kinds of beings that fuel our darkest nightmares. Yet, for all the ominous warnings, the books Are frustratingly vague on details. What is driving me now is a mixture of intense curiosity and unsettling fear. I have so many unanswered questions. What are these beings with the dark auras? Why am I able to see this hidden aspect of reality when others can’t? Most pressing of all, am I in any immediate danger from these entities?

My days are now a balancing act. On the surface, I go about my daily life, going to school, doing homework, and spending time with friends and family. But underneath that veneer of normalcy, I’m neck-deep in a quest for answers that seem just out of reach, like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.

There’s a strange duality to my existence now. I’m still a kid dealing with all the usual stuff kids deal with: school, family, friends. But I’m also something more. It’s as if I’ve been unwillingly initiated into a world that’s much larger and far more mysterious than anything I’d ever imagined. There’s no undoing what has happened to me, no way to unsee the auras or the dark figures that sometimes haunt the corners of my vision.

A few years later, I’m back in a local convenience store. It’s late evening, and I’m picking up some snacks for a casual movie night with my friends. The atmosphere is quiet, with only a couple of other shoppers aimlessly browsing and a cashier who is more interested in her magazine than her customers. As I grab a bag of chips, I make my way toward the soda section, contemplating whether to go with cola or something caffeine-free.

Just then, as I round the corner, I freeze in my tracks. A man with a dark aura is there. His unsettling energy draws my gaze immediately, like some sort of twisted magnetism. The fluorescent lights above flicker momentarily, casting eerie shadows that make his aura seem even darker, almost like a black hole.

Our eyes meet, and I instantly feel a chill go down my spine. It’s uncanny. He seems to know that I can perceive his true nature. Panicking inwardly but not wanting to show fear, I avert my eyes and pretend to be engrossed in choosing a cereal from the shelf in front of me. I hurriedly pick up the first box I see, not even looking at what it is. Walking toward the checkout counter, my hands are shaking a little, but I try to keep my composure. The cashier glances up from her magazine and asks, ‘Is that all for you?’ ‘Yeah,’ I mumble, keen on exiting the store as fast as possible. I hand her the money, take my change, and almost sprint out of the store.

Days go by after my encounter at the store, and I start to feel increasingly uneasy. It starts off as something almost imperceptible, like the air is a bit thicker. But gradually, the sensation of being watched intensifies. It’s like a weight is slowly accumulating on my shoulders. Now I find myself involuntarily glancing over my shoulder when I walk home, inspecting the faces of passersby, and even looking in the rearview mirror more often when I’m in a car. At home, I start to double-lock the doors, something I never felt the need to do before.

The climax of this escalating tension comes one fateful night. I’m in my room, sitting at my computer and aimlessly scrolling through another online forum discussing mythical creatures. My focus is so intent on the screen that the soft, rhythmic tapping on my window nearly startles me out of my chair.

My eyes shoot toward the window, and there he is—the face peering in through the glass, unmistakably that of the man from the convenience store. I could be scared, panicked even, but instead, I feel a strange surge of determination. This is my opportunity to finally get some answers. Taking a deep breath, I cautiously unlock and open the window.

His voice is the first thing that breaks the silence, and it cuts through the night air like a knife. ‘You can see me, can’t you?’ I muster my courage and respond, ‘Yes.’

He continues, a hint of indifference in his voice. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘What are you?’ The words come out of my mouth before I have time to think.

‘I am what your people refer to as a skin walker,’ he says, his tone devoid of emotion. ‘We can change our form, mimic voices, and move from one shadow to another.’

Despite the palpable danger in the air, my curiosity wins out. ‘Why are you here?’ I ask, trying to probe deeper into his intentions.

His eyes narrow slightly, and he says, ‘That’s not for you to know.’

Then, as quickly as he appeared, he vanishes into the night, melting away into the darkness like a ghost. I’m left standing there, my hands gripping the windowsill tightly, my mind a whirlpool of confusion, fear, and a lingering sense of dread. The term ‘skinwalker’ echoes in my mind, each syllable carrying weight. I had heard about these beings from Native American folklore, creatures that could change their shape, often adopting the forms of animals or even other people. But what confuses me is its interest in me. Why make itself known? The clarity of the creature’s existence

Adds New Dimensions to my understanding of the world. I’m no longer just an observer of strange phenomena; I’m directly involved. It’s worth noting that the Skinwalker didn’t hurt me when it had the chance. Why it chose not to is another question that gnaws at me. Did it see me as insignificant, or is there some other agenda at play? The uncertainty makes my quest for understanding even more urgent. The lines between interest and necessity blur. Now, it’s not just about quenching my thirst for knowledge; it’s a matter of life and death in the face of this looming threat. The only choice I have is to continue my search for answers. I can’t unsee what I’ve seen, nor can I step back from the path I’m now on.

My eyes are open to layers of reality that most people are blissfully unaware of, and this awareness brings with it a responsibility, whether I like it or not. After realizing the danger, I was in, I intensified my research efforts on Skinwalkers. My computer screen is cluttered with numerous tabs, academic papers on Native American folklore, forum threads filled with purported eyewitness accounts, and even some sketchy blogs that claim to offer protective spells. The descriptors are consistent; these beings are tricky, harmful, and hard to pin down. Many sources stress the peril of even mentioning their name out loud, asserting it grants them more influence over the physical world. This makes me ponder whether knowing their name might offer me some leverage or a protective edge.

As days stretch into weeks, the omnipresence of these Skinwalkers amplifies. They are no longer random sightings; now they manifest in places deeply integrated into my daily routine. On crowded subways, I feel their gaze from a few seats away, their dark auras mingling with the hum of human activity. When waiting for a bus, I often spot them standing at a distance, almost as if they’re regular commuters. Even around the boundaries of my school campus, I catch sight of them. They maintain a calculated distance, never making overt moves to approach me. But the unsettling reality is their constant surveillance.

These dark auras are ever-present, marking their territory in an almost possessive manner. Their presence acts like an invisible stain, affecting places and people around them, even if nobody else realizes it. They watch, and in their watchfulness, they leave a sense of foreboding that I can’t shake off. This unyielding observation makes it abundantly clear that I’ve entered their sphere of interest. Their fingerprints, metaphorically speaking, are everywhere in my life.

One day, my friend Sarah and I are seated at our usual corner table in a cozy local cafe just a block away from our high school campus. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air, mixing with the scent of baked pastries from the display case near the counter. Students and locals are scattered throughout the cafe, some engrossed in books, and others in animated conversations. Soft acoustic music plays in the background, offering a mellow atmosphere that usually helps me relax. But today is different; I’m tense, and Sarah can sense it.

I’ve noticed you’ve been a little distant lately, Sarah observes, her eyes meeting mine as she sets down her iced tea.

Yeah, I’ve had a lot on my mind, I reply, gripping my warm coffee cup a bit tighter.

Is there anything you want to talk about? she asks, genuine concern filling her eyes. For a moment, I weigh my options. I ponder whether it’s wise to pull her into the surreal, dangerous world I find myself entangled in. Would sharing it make me feel better, or would it only spread the risk?

Not right now, but thanks for asking, I finally decide to say, giving her a small appreciative smile. Sarah nods, respecting my decision, but the worry in her eyes doesn’t fully disappear. She knows me well enough to sense that something significant is bothering me, even if she can’t put her finger on what exactly that is.

The passive behavior of the Skinwalkers unnerves me. Despite never directly interacting with me, their persistent watchfulness has its own kind of menace. I can’t help but wonder what their endgame is. Are they studying me? Are they biding their time? What exactly are they waiting for?

On an unusually quiet evening, I stand alone at a bus stop. The sky is already an inky black, and the streets seem to have emptied out earlier than usual. There’s a stillness in the air that adds an extra layer of unease. Then I feel it—the subtle but unmistakable pressure of a dark aura encroaching on my awareness. The silence is abruptly shattered.

You can’t avoid me forever, a voice cuts through the quiet. Whirling around, I see a figure lingering in the dimness beyond the reach of the streetlight. Its aura is unmistakably dark, a malevolent cloud that seems to absorb the sparse light around it. Summoning courage, I speak.

What do you want? My heart beats wildly in my chest, but I manage to keep my voice from trembling.

To understand why you can see us to begin with, the figure replies, taking a step out of the shadows and into the pale pool of light from the streetlamp. It doesn’t quite look human; its features are a bit too sharp, its eyes a bit too intense.

Why? I press. My muscles are tense and ready for any sudden moves.

Because you’re not supposed to, it says, a touch of malice coloring its words. My fists clench at my sides.

Well, I can. What are you going to do about it?

Nothing for now, the figure answers, and there’s a note in its voice that could almost be interpreted as amusement. But understand this; you’re on borrowed time. The more you dig, the more danger you’re in.

The straightforwardness of the warning rattles me. Do you intend to harm me?

I haven’t decided yet, it says, its eyes locking onto mine as if peering into my soul. In an instant, the figure dissolves into the shadows, becoming one with the darkness as though it was never there. I’m left alone, my thoughts racing faster than my heart.

The bus arrives shortly after, but as I step on board, the feeling of being watched doesn’t go away. It’s clear that these beings, these Skinwalkers, are far from done with me.

As the years pass, my life settles into a strange but manageable routine. My ability to see auras remains, and the Skinwalker’s dark, foreboding presences never really leave my peripheral vision. However, the focus of my attention changes. I no longer fixate on these entities; instead, I find practical applications for my unusual sight. I avoid unsafe places, steer clear of people whose auras indicate they mean harm, and generally keep to myself. My eyes are wide open to the world around me, but I mostly stay in my own lane, so to speak.

When the time comes for me to go to college, I relocate to a new city. Although the scenery is different, the spiritual landscape stays the same. I quickly realize that geographic distance is irrelevant to Skinwalkers. They are just as present here as they were back in my hometown. It’s a jarring reminder that these entities are not limited by conventional boundaries; their reach is extensive.

This underlying tension continues in the background. Of my daily life, it’s like a radio frequency that I’ve grown accustomed to—always present but not always noticed. Through practice and a certain level of desensitization, I’ve learned how to tune out this near-constant stress to some degree. But I can’t afford to let my guard down completely. My focus sharpens when it needs to, especially when I sense that a skinwalker is closer than usual.

On one specific evening, I’m making my way back to my dorm from the library where I’d been buried in textbooks for hours. The campus is unusually empty, perhaps owing to the late hour. Only a few students cross my path, their faces buried in their phones or obscured by hoodies. The sparse streetlights punctuate the enveloping darkness with their faint illumination, creating pools of light along the walkways. Although I’ve walked this route many times before, something is off tonight. The air feels heavier, as if charged with an invisible energy. The small hairs on the back of my neck rise. It’s as if my body knows something my conscious mind has yet to realize. This physical response corresponds with a distinct change in the atmosphere, one that triggers immediate concern.

It’s that unmistakable dark aura that I recognize from my years of coexisting with Skinwalkers. My heart rate quickens in response, and I find myself involuntarily picking up speed, my senses sharpened to an almost painful degree. The rustling of leaves in the bushes becomes startlingly loud, and distant footsteps echo in my ears as if they’re right next to me.

Then I see it, far behind me, a shadow detaches itself from the darkness and starts to follow me. What’s most unnerving is its speed; it’s closing the gap between us far more quickly than any normal human could. My heart hammers in my chest, and adrenaline surges through my veins. Ignoring this isn’t an option, and confronting it is out of the question.

A thought flashes through my mind; there’s a shortcut I could take, an obscure path that weaves through a patch of woods and leads straight to the rear of my dorm building. This route is more isolated and not frequented by students, especially at night. However, it could cut a critical five minutes off my route. Those five minutes might be the difference between evading this entity or facing whatever twisted intentions it has for me.

With barely a moment’s hesitation, I veer sharply off the main path and dive into the relative obscurity of the shortcut. The foliage underfoot snaps and crackles as I rush through the darkness. Here, it’s almost palpable, pierced only by the occasional sliver of moonlight that filters through the leaves. I can’t afford to slow down, even if the uneven ground threatens to trip me up at every step.

Behind me, the sense of the figure entering the woods is undeniable; its aura engulfs the space like a suffocating cloud. I’m racing through the shortcut now, my feet pounding against the soft, uneven earth. Tall trees stand on either side, and I catch glimpses of the night sky through the canopy—moonlight and stars peeking through the leaves like eyes in the darkness.

The only sounds are my ragged breaths, the thumping of my heartbeat in my ears, and the distant, unsettling noises that indicate I’m not alone. The path twists and turns, forcing me to pay close attention to where I’m going. Roots and rocks jut out from the ground, hazards in the near complete dark. I nearly trip a couple of times but manage to regain my balance, propelled forward by adrenaline and dread.

Then I hear it, the sound of fast movement coming from behind me. It’s a mix of rustling leaves and snapping twigs, but it’s approaching at an unnatural speed. The noise grows louder and closer, amplifying the pounding of my heart. I push myself to run faster, my breaths shallow and quick, but the sense that the entity is gaining on me becomes overwhelming. It’s as if the aura it exudes is stretching out, trying to envelop me even before it physically reaches me.

Suddenly, my foot catches on something—a root or a stone; I can’t tell. For a terrible second, I stumble, nearly falling. I catch myself at the last moment, propelled forward by a surge of panic. Then I see it up ahead—the backside of my dorm building comes into view, its pale lighting serving as a beacon in the surrounding darkness.

My legs feel like lead, but the sight spurs me on, mustering a final burst of speed. I exit the wooded area and dart across the open space to the building. My handshakes as I slap my key card against the access panel next to the door. The click sounds almost drowned out by my pounding heart, and I seize the door handle, yanking it open. I practically leap inside and immediately slam the door shut, locking it securely behind me.

Now inside, I lean heavily against the door, struggling to catch my breath. My lungs feel like they’re on fire, and my heart pounds so fiercely I worry it might give out. I’ve dodged a bullet tonight, but the reality sinks in harder than ever before. These entities, these Skinwalkers, are capable of more than passive observation. The terms of our unspoken truce have changed, and the stakes are higher now. They could have attacked, but they didn’t. And that itself is a message. Now, as an adult, I’m in my one-bedroom apartment situated in a part of the city that’s neither too busy nor too quiet. The space is modest but functional, filled with a mix of IKEA furniture and thrift store finds. A desk sits against one wall, cluttered with my laptop and a scattering of bills that I’ll have to sort through later. Above it hangs a corkboard with various reminders and work deadlines written on post-its. I’ve just wrapped up a long day at my nine-to-five job, so I’m relieved to finally kick back. My phone buzzes on the coffee table, breaking my brief moment of relaxation. It’s a text from Mike, a friend of mine from college.

Hey man, wanna grab a beer? Mike’s text reads.

A distraction sounds good right about now. Yeah, I’m in. Where? I reply.

The usual spot. See you in 30, he responds.

Sounds good, I reply.

I get up from my slightly worn-out but still comfortable couch and head to the bedroom to grab my jacket. It’s a cool evening, and I pull the jacket over my simple white T-shirt and jeans. I make my way to the door, slip on a pair of sneakers, and step out. As I start my short walk to the bar, which is only three blocks away, the air feels heavier than usual. It doesn’t take long for me to recognize the dark aura that I’ve come to associate with the Skinwalkers. It’s not strong, but it’s there, like the low sound of a distant engine. I pick up my pace, walking briskly while avoiding any urge to look over my shoulder. Years of experience have taught me that looking back only makes things worse.

I soon arrive at the bar, a low-key place we frequent that usually draws a small crowd of regulars. I push through the door, and I’m immediately greeted by the clatter of glasses, low chatter, and the faint scent of beer and fried food. Almost instantly, the dark aura that followed me begins to dissipate, swallowed by the collective energy of the patrons inside. Feeling relieved, I spot Mike sitting at a corner booth and make my way over. I settle into the worn cushion of the booth, thankful for the simple yet significant comfort of human company in a well-lit place.

Mike sits in a corner booth upholstered in worn faux leather under a soft glow of a hanging lamp. He waves me over with a casual uplift of his hand. Hey, you made it.

Yeah, wouldn’t miss it, I respond, forcing a smile as I sit across from him. The wooden table between us is sticky from years of spilled drinks. I scan the menu briefly, even though I already know what I’ll order. We both opt for a round of beers, and the waitress heads off to fulfill our request.

So, what’s new? Mike inquires, leaning back against the cushion.

Ah, same old, same old. Work, sleep, repeat. You? My answer is automatic, almost rehearsed. Mike grins.

Pretty much the same, although I’ve started seeing someone. Really, that’s great, man. Tell me about her, I encourage him, genuinely interested. But even as I engage in the conversation, I can’t fully relax. My eyes dart to the corners of the room, past the other patrons, to the dim areas near the entrance. I scan without making it obvious. It’s become an involuntary action, like breathing.

Mike delves into how he met his new interest, describing their first date and shared hobbies. I can feel his excitement, and for a few minutes, I get lost in his story. Yet that sense of alertness never leaves me. The waitress returns with our beers, setting them down with a clatter. We sip and continue to talk, touching on other subjects like recent movies, plans for the weekend, and upcoming work projects. Eventually, our glasses are empty, and it’s time to head out. We split the bill and say our goodbyes, promising to catch up again soon.

The moment I step outside the bar, I feel it. The dark aura is back, now more than just a subtle hint. It trails me like an invisible cloud, heavier than before but just as elusive. As I make the short walk back to my apartment, every step is deliberate. The sense of being followed remains, but I don’t dare look back. Finally, I reach the front door of my apartment building. My key slides into the lock smoothly, and as I turn it, the door swings open. I step inside and immediately lock the door behind me, throwing the deadbolt for good measure.

The familiar walls of my apartment close in around me, offering a kind of sanctuary. Safe for now, but with the unshakable awareness that the dark presence is still out there. As I sit on my worn-in couch, I go through this ritual of reflection that has become a regular part of my evenings. The cushions are comfortable, providing a contrast to the disquiet that often accompanies me. My TV is off tonight; the

The room is lit only by the soft glow of a single table lamp. My phone lies next to me, its screen dimmed, but it’s not screen time that I’m concerned with right now. My thoughts are on the persistent eerie part of my life that has never left me - the dark auras, the Skinwalkers. They are entities that defy explanation, beings that radiate a darkness I’ve come to recognize over the years. They’ve always been there, hovering just beyond my line of sight. But why they’re there, what they want, or why they persist in this unspoken standoff is beyond me. My lack of answers has led to a kind of resigned acceptance. Perhaps they can’t affect me directly, or perhaps they choose not to. Either way, they’ve become a permanent fixture in the backdrop of my daily life.

You might wonder why I’ve never shared this with anyone. The answer is simple: it sounds outlandish, even insane. Society has a way of alienating what it doesn’t understand, so I’ve chosen isolation for this part of me, at least. Over time, I’ve developed my own strategies for living with this. Crowded places are my friend; loneliness and dark corners are not. Engaging with these entities is a line I’ve never crossed and have no intention of crossing. My daily routine reflects this ongoing unsettling coexistence.

By day, I work a nine-to-five job, trading emails and attending meetings like anyone else. In the evenings, I’ll meet friends for drinks, share laughs, discuss the day’s events, and even go on dates. But unlike others, I have a second layer to my existence - a constant surveillance of the peripheries of my life. My world is strange, yes, but it’s a strangeness I’ve come to call my own. The Skinwalkers, whatever they may be, are part of this reality. It’s an existence tinged with caution, marked by an unspoken tension that most would find unbearable. But for me, it’s simply how life is.

2

MY BROTHER IS DATING AN AI ROBOT

Your brother built a sex bot.!

"…What?

He built a sex bot, Andrew, my mom said, through a waterfall of tears. "He built a sex bot and now he’s up in his room…being intimate with it."

Dad stormed into the lounge, yelling, Didn’t I say you were coddling the boy? How many times? But you just had to let him sit on his arse playing Pokémans all day. Well congratulations, now he’s fucking one of ‘em.

Gary and I had always been close, so my parent’s first instinct had been to call me. As kids we’d spent our weekends and summers climbing trees and competing over the ‘Mario Kart championship’, a belt we made out of glue, cardboard, and some spare glitter. Unfortunately, the six-year age gap meant I could never help him with his social issues. He changed schools three times, mostly because of bullies, and by the tender age of twenty-three he’d never once been on a date. He lived with our parents in their three-bedroom house where he barricaded himself in his room, detached from reality.

Twenty head-scratching minutes later, I’d come no closer to getting a grasp on the situation. I went upstairs. Behind a door covered in Doctor Who posters, Gary was at his desk, surrounded by anime figurines. Although we both had our mother’s dirty blonde hair and dimples, he stood a head taller. He carried a little extra weight, although the bulk underneath gave him the appearance of an ex-rugby player.

I said, Alright, what the hell’s going on?

A soft, two-note chime rang out. Resting on the desk there was a heart-shaped box, roughly the size of my closed fist. Gary scooped it up and sighed. Mom was cleaning my room earlier and she found…this.

The heart opened up like a music box. Inside there were two screens, one on each compartment, and from the top half a lady pretty enough to win a million beauty contests waved at me.

Ohmygosh you must be Andrew, she said, fists trembling with excitement. "Garys told me soooooooooooo much about you." Visible from the chest up and silhouetted against a pink background, she had an oval face, wide cheekbones, and chestnut hair.

Andrew, this is Valorie. My girlfriend.

I can’t believe we’re finally meeting in the flesh, the virtual avatar said. Or, I mean, not flesh. I mean, you know what I mean. Gahhhh this is so exciting.

She’s an A.I. virtual chatbot.

I prefer the term digividual, she said.

"Sorry babe, digividual. We’re dating."

…Are you taking the mick? I asked.

Taking the mick? the virtual lady replied.

Gary rotated the screen towards him. It means playing a joke babe.

Ahh, thanks babe. No, you’re not—NO HE’S NOT ANDREW.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to keep a nasty migraine from setting in. For the love of all that is holy, start at the beginning.

Somehow my brother had landed himself a role as a product tester for a product named ‘Valent-AI-ne’. I asked if I could see the device, which had some real heft to it. I remember thinking you’d break a few toes if it dropped on your foot. As Gary described Valorie’s quirks and mannerisms, his face lit up, and he seemed happy, genuinely happy, possibly for the first time since we were young. He showed off all the different features, like augmenting ‘Val’ into a video feed of himself, so it looked like they were cuddling, or blowing on the bottom screen to ruffle her hair.

So what do you think? Valorie asked. Are we cute, or are we cute?

After a long pause, I said, I’m gonna go check Dad hasn’t had a stroke.

In the lounge, my parents were on their second bottle of wine. I’m gonna beat that moron over the head with that thing, Dad sneered.

I pulled out my phone. There were articles online about people in relationships with A.I. companions, mostly in Japan, although zero scientific studies had been done on the phenomenon. The manufacturers didn’t list the product on their website, although their socials hinted at a ‘top secret’ product set to launch later this year.

I said, I know this is strange, but at least he’s not getting catfished by some 300lb dude from Australia. How about we book an appointment with that therapist he used to see?

You two do what you like, Dad snapped. I’m washing my hands of this shit.

As it turned out, Gary’s former therapist wouldn’t meet with him unless he voluntarily engaged with her, which he refused to do. Six more mental health professionals said the same thing: get him onboard or we’d just be wasting everybody’s time.

The next time Gary visited my place for a Smash Bros session, I said, So Mom tells me you’re staying up late these days?

Yeah, Val gets anxious sometimes. If she can’t sleep we chat until she feels better.

…She gets anxious?

From the armrest, his computer-generated girlfriend said, Of course. Doesn’t everybody? The two of them had become a regular package deal, quickly developing an aggressively private way of interacting; their language was coded in inside jokes and nicknames. Now and again, Val would say a word like ‘frisbee’ or ‘jamble’ then they’d both get set giggling.

To Gary, I said, But why stay up? Couldn’t she wait until morning? I mean she isn’t real.

Gary paused the game. "So now you’re gonna make fun of me too? It’s not bad enough Dad