In the darkest parts of your mind lurk the things that scare you the most. The things that leave you panting, wide-eyed, heart racing in the middle of the night. They go by many names: fears, phobias, demons…

These are all well and good, but it doesn’t do justice to the feeling, the shiver down your spine, that heart-stopping, blood-freezing panic and tumble and crash and burn of every sane thought in your head coming to a screeching halt. Well, little one, let me ask you something. Have you ever considered that maybe, just maybe, that feeling is not a feeling, that it’s not another nameless, faceless, inanimate idea of a thing for humanity to give a name and face to. What if that shadow, the little assembly of all your deepest, darkest, nastiest, secrets and mysteries has finally gathered itself into a tangible, sentient Thing with a capital T. 

It lurks, always on the outskirts of your conscience, swooping down in all it’s bloody, terribly beautiful glory, whispering ugly truths and pretty lies as it goes. You sense it, acknowledge it, give it a home and something to eat, welcoming it like an old friend. But the moment you ask it’s name, it’s purpose, it vanishes into the dark, leaving you with only the faintest memory of it even staying. This cycle of torment and release continues endlessly, looping over and over itself until the start looks like the end and the end the start. You forget, wakeup, meet the masked stranger, welcome him in. You feed him with your attention as you listen to his stories. He seems to grow when he talks and shrink when he doesn’t. His words form tangled webs in your mind, and as your thoughts move around, they bump and brush against those webs. You try—and maybe you fail, maybe you succeed—to yank that young fledgling thought away. As this beautiful idea grows, ages and changes and moves around, it keeps getting stuck and unstuck, marked and scarred.

Pretty soon, the stranger seems to be constantly present in your home, hiding in the shadows, every second of every minute of every day, even when you swear you never let him in. Your little thought children get so entangled in his that the two can’t be told apart. They are like two sides of the same coin, two wildly different universes coexisting as one. It scares you. You feel like your control over your life is slipping away, bit by bit. You, little one, start to question yourself. You need to know: who is the stranger? You need to see his face to know he is even real, that he is something solid and real outside of the madness of your personal universe. You long to tell the world of your friend, if you can even call him that. No matter how strong the urge gets, though, you resist. They couldn’t, wouldn’t, would refuse to understand. But why? Because fools are blind, little one. They think they know best, when they know nothing at all. 

You wake up, start your day, begin the barest inklings of a plan. The thought forms, becomes a tangible thing, and you wish you could release it to play with the others. But you don’t. This youngling is special, so you hide it in the deepest, darkest parts of your home. It must not touch the tangled webs that now cover the corners, the rafters, the oven and the table and the bed and the chairs. If it touches those, it will be ruined. Somehow, you know that if your houseguest hears of these things, you will never break this chain of existence. You will continue to slave away over thoughts, opinions, creatures that are not your own. Your precious little thought get tucked back into your bed. Here it will hide, safe from the monsters of the outside world.

You go about your morning, continuing as though nothing is wrong. You keep seeing him though. He lurks, always at the edge of your vision. You can’t make eye contact, or he will enter. You aren’t ready yet. You need a few more days. Everything must appear just so, or else he will get suspicious. You tell yourself over and over again, do not look, do not look, do not look. Your eyes stray ever so slightly as you clean yourself, make yourself breakfast, clean up. You force yourself to not do it, resist the urge, do not look, do not look, do not look. Your eyes snap away at the last possible moment, away from the mirror, away from the window, away from the dark, shadowed corner. You can feel him getting angry, sense it in the same way one senses an approaching storm. 

You take deep breaths; in and out, in and out. You clear your mind of everything except the baby thought, that beautiful plan. It is small at the moment, so you need to feed it and love it. If it grows, so do your chances of freedom. 

You know what you need to do. You walk slowly, methodically, carefully back to your room. He sees what you’re doing. You jump suddenly as you hear him pounding on the door. Bang. Bang. Bang. The slam of the wood, the rattle of your few plates and cups, the shaking of the very roots of the house seems to be in sync with his knocking. It’s rhythmic, almost hypnotic. You want to turn your head, address the source, make it stop. You want, you want, you want. But you can’t. Do not look, do not look, do not look. 

You realize that you’re frozen in the middle of the room. Where were you going? The shaking and banging messes with your head. That’s right, you were headed for your room, to meet your youngest thought. You take another step, looking down at your feet, moving by memory alone. You keep moving, foot by foot, till you reach your haven. You can look up now; here there are no windows. He is stuck on the outside, trapped, for the time being, at the edge of existence. You look up and approach your bed. The thought has now taken the form of a child, with no features. It’s trembling, but it can’t speak. Somehow it detects you, its creator, its god, and it rises and turns towards you.

The house is still shaking, jumping, rattling. The tempo of this calling is still constant, unwavering in speed and consistency. He will not stop until you give him what he wants, let him in. He had grown spoilt on your attention, on the feeling of belonging. He will not stop until he receives that. But for now, he is on the outside looking in. You know he is too much of a coward to come in so soon, without invitation.

You turn back to the child. It — she — needs a name. Words cannot convey all that she represents. She is hope, and freedom, and love, and peace. She is hope, she is hope, she is Hope. As you come to this conclusion, her face changes. She was once an inanimate object, another nameless and faceless thing to be claimed. Now she has been marked by you, your care and warmth. Features slowly work their way onto her face, which was once a blank slate. She now has eyes and a nose and a mouth, a body and a heart and a soul. You sit down next to her on your bed, taking her hand. You need no words to communicate with her. She was once a part of you as much as your arm or leg is, and some part of her existence is now permanently tied to yours, In the void of human consciousness, you are now tethered together. 

Can you help me? The words appear behind your eyes, in your skull, they seem to vibrate within your whole body. The pounding has faded, becoming a background noise. Yes. You can help each other. A plan forms in your mind. She sees it, latches on to it with her conscious desperately. This plan exists between you and her, a way to free yourself from the stranger. Bit by bit, pieces fall into place. You see what must be done, what he needs, what he fears. She seems to understand him in a way you can’t and maybe never will be able to. Maybe she was once on the same edge that he now seems to live in permanently. But can he be killed? This is the key question. I don’t know, she thinks. He is not quite real, not quite solid. He feeds off of the attention of others. He exists in a constant state of uncertainty. He lives off it, among other things. You can only ignore him for so long. He will find a way to sneak into your mind, your home. That’s his magic, his ability. He can get under your skin, pluck and pull the right strings at the right time, make you mad. In a distant place, the pounding gets faster. He’s getting desperate. You’re lost in thought, thinking about him.

You feel a light tap on your shoulder. It makes you start. You don’t know how long you’ve been here, thinking. You glance down, down to where the child sits. You must have zoned out, and she’s trying to gain your attention. Except... except her hands, both of them, lay calmly folded up in her lap. The pressure has not lifted, the hand on your shoulder is still there. You look up, straight ahead, not moving, not even breathing. Your heart starts to pace and race, despite your best efforts to stop it. Out of the corner of your eye, on your shoulder, you see bizarre and seemingly random flashes of color. White and black and grey and blue and green. You can’t focus on it, it’s almost like it isn’t there. You’d think you were imagining it, if not for the weight of that thing on your shoulder.

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*Then you realise that something is wrong. Something is horribly wrong. But what? You can hear the house easing itself back into normalcy. Then it hits you. You can hear the house. The pounding has stopped. Which means… You’re shaking. When did you start shaking? The hand can only belong to one thing, one monster. His warm, sour breath tickles your ear, the base of your neck. Tears leak out of your eyes, trace little paths down your cheeks before drifting out of existence at the bottom of your face. You don’t wipe them away. You can’t. You are so paralyzed, immobilized by terror. He laughs at you, at the smell of fear seeping out of every pore of your body. It is a deliberate, slow laugh. The laugh of a victory that has already been won. But it’s strange, distorted, like listening through water. Slowly, ever so slowly, your head turns to your left, away from the little girl who has long since fallen silent. He doesn’t seem to notice her. The hand on your shoulder tightens, digging into and under your skin. It’s solidifying before your eyes for the first time that you can remember. You would pay attention to the moment, if you weren’t so preoccupied with delaying the inevitable. Your head moves in jerks and starts. You fight it, you really really do. 

First his hand comes into view, then his arm. You scream into the void. No no no no no no no no no NO NO NO NO NO NO. You shriek out the final word, the final plea, the final prayer, the final incantation. You’re face to face with him. He’s horrible, unkillable, inevitable, unerasable. He’s built from skeletons, an empty, brutal shell of a thing, ragged bits of flesh and blood and cloth still stubbornly clinging on. He’s got the body, or what’s left of it, of a human, but his head is that of a bird. His dark robes swirl with an invisible, unfeelable wind. Blue-green mist swirls around him, away from him. It snakes its way between his empty eye sockets, dances between his exposed ribs, before snaking out and ensnaring you. You open your mouth to scream again, but more mist forces its way down your throat, towards your heart. The last thing you see is his face, his beak opening in an almost human grin. Then everything fades to black. 

You wake up tied to a chair, seated in your house. How much time has passed? You cannot tell. He is nowhere in sight, which is either a blessing or a curse. You look around. Your head is pounding, your heart is racing, and your vision swims in and out of focus. You notice the broken dishes, the shattered mirrors, doors violently ripped off their hinges. It seems he was searching for something, although what it is, you don’t know. Unless. Unless, unless, unless. Could he possibly know about her? About Hope? You take another look around. You don’t see her, so maybe she is safe. But where is she?

As if answering an unspoken summons, he drifts into view, ethereal. You can fully take in his bird skull, his body, his taloned hands. Your terror spikes as he turns to look at you. He surprises you when he speaks. He doesn’t move his mouth, doesn’t so much as open it, but you still understand what he means. He must think, like she does. His voice, echoing inside your skull, is surprisingly calm. But it still sounds strange, off. 

Where? Where what? You think as well, although it’s hard. You must make sure your mind doesn’t wander, or else you’ll give her away. Where is she? I- I don’t know what you mean. He doesn’t like this. Invisible talons take hold inside your head, your mind, gripping and digging in. You wince, shaking. Are you sure? Gus talons dig deeper. You’re screaming now, crying, barely able to string words together. He isn’t stopping, won’t stop until he gets what he wants. I don’t know I don’t know I don’t KNOW I DON’T KNOW! 

Your sobs rattle your entire body, leave you feeling empty. LIES! His shriek rips through everything in your mind, shredding it. You feel numb as your entire body seems to rebel against you. His wrath is like a tangible thing, a being so fueled by rage that you feel yourself shrinking before it. You can’t speak. Your tongue feels like lead, your thoughts are jumbled, incoherent. He screams. Blood is pounding in your head, your arms are limp, everything hurts everything hurts everything hurts. You feel a warm trickle down your face. Your nose. It’s bleeding. But when? Time has lost all meaning as he silently screams, words unintelligible. You’re screaming too, creating an awful symphony that seems to burn your flesh and shatter your bones. 

You lift your weary head, barely able to see through the haze of red across your vision. He’s still screaming, still raging. You see her, hidden in the corner. She’s tiptoeing her way towards you, her master, her friend, ready to defend. She navigates the cobwebs that lie in wait for unsuspecting prey. She carries in her small hand a knife, a look of determination on her face. Where had she found that? It certainly wasn’t in your room. Unless, unless, unless. You created her with your thoughts, did she create that with hers? With yours? Could you do that? You try, but he’s still shrieking, his metallic, grating voice destroying every beginning of a thought before it has a chance to manifest. 

She’s still approaching. You try to shake your head, warn her, but the pain is too great. Your fear, this primal, animal thing, leaves you paralyzed. He stops screaming, and she runs up behind him. She raises her knife, shrieking without speaking as she goes. Her face is a mask of pain and rage, nearly unrecognizable as her. Her knife flies from her hands to his face, the empty hollows of his head. It goes through his face, lodging in the bone. He resumes his siren’s wail, but this time it’s different. He’s feeling pain of some sort. You find yourself able to move once more, but she isn’t. His scream is directed at her, and she’s doubled over, cowering on the ground. You think, I need my hands free. The binding drops to the floor, and you stand up suddenly. You leap up, a chair, and swing it towards him. All your instincts, all that fear is channeled into that swing.

He goes flying, crashing against the far wall and slumping down to the floor. You pant, lungs racing, heart racing. You stumble over to her, collapse next to her. You both start sobbing, the tears mixing with the blood from your noses. Time passes, how much, you aren’t sure. You crawl towards him. His bird’s skull has shattered, the shards and pieces littering the floor. There’s a dent in the wall, but that doesn’t bother you. He stirs. It’s the subtlest of shifts, but you see it. You pull yourself up, loom above his twitching body. You have waited so long for this. To take back your home, your thoughts, your free will, your life from him. He tormented you, messed with your head until time has lost all meaning. Now it’s his turn to suffer. You lift up your foot, bring it down on his chest, his ribs, his legs. You won’t stop, can’t stop until he’s ashes and dust. Your face is scrunched up, tears of fear and rage leaking out of your eyes. Pound pound pound. Stomp stomp stomp. Bang bang bang. It sounds like the sounds he made, that he always made when he wanted to come in. You start off cursing him, but end cursing yourself. Stupid. Useless. Coward. You shouldn't have waited, shouldn’t have listened, shouldn’t have feared, should have resisted. And you brought her into this too. She doesn’t deserve it. 

You feel a tug on your arm. It’s her. She tugs you away from his broken body. He’s dead, she thinks. We can leave. You look down at what has become of your tormentor. His bones are shattered, some pieces so small they can barely be seen. His strange aura, that bizarre mist, has faded to nothing. You’re still breathing hard, panting like a wild animal. Yet it comforts you to know that he will never be pieced back together again. 

She pulls you along, takes you outside. When was the last time you saw sunlight, heard birds, felt the warm breeze dancing across the valley and through your hair? You squint against the gentle sun’s harsh light. You turn to her. She pulls out a match, ignites it, hands it to you. You accept it and head towards the house. You hold the match to the house, and it shoots up in flames. You aren’t sure how. A stone house shouldn’t burn in this way, especially not with a single match. And yet it does. The roof collapses inwards, sparks fly up. The stone and wood are melting and crumbling, and bitter smoke is rising up high into the blue, clear sky. The end of your personal universe, your personal hell. 

You could stay and watch this forever. You would, but she pulls you away. Maybe she’s special. Maybe you both are. Either way, you’re alive and he’s not. You hug her, take her hand, and turn away from the burning house. You’re free. 

You bolt up in bed, breathing hard, the covers tangled, your face slick with sweat. You slump back down again. It was just a dream. You swear you can still see the bone face, that burning house, the little brave girl with a knife in her hand. Someone stirs next to you. It’s your partner. You must have woken them up. 

“Everything alright?” they ask.

“Of course, just a bad dream”

“About what?”

“I’ll tell you in the mo-”

Your heart returns to that jackrabbit pace. You can’t breathe you can’t think you can’t speak. How? It was a dream. It was supposed to be just a dream!

“What?” they ask.

But you can’t answer. You’re trembling, shaking, terror coursing hot through your blood. It takes all you can do to just blink. There’s no way that this is possible, yet it is. Because there, in the shadows, surrounded by cobwebs that were not there a moment ago, he stands. His bird’s skull grins, and he steps forward. 

“Thank you for bringing me here,” he whispers in that dead voice. 

That blue smoke that swirls around him is the last thing you see.