Estimated reading time — 41 minutes

Recently my family was contacted by a storage unit company. They said my dad was listed as the secondary contact for a unit under my uncle’s name. Which was strange, as my uncle had been a missing person for nearly 14 years now. Which apparently the company didn’t know, explaining that they hadn’t needed to contact anyone because of an auto-pay system. Meaning they’d been charging a missing persons account for nearly 13 years give or take. However the most recent charge declined earlier this month, and they’d been trying to reach him ever since.

My father relayed to me with increasing annoyance that apparently if we didn’t come and get his personal junk, we would have to pay a removal fee for the company to do it themselves. With the added note we only had 5 days to figure it out before the lease expired. In even worse news my father couldn’t do it himself, as he needed to leave for a work trip the next morning and wouldn’t be back in time. Meaning I would have to borrow his truck and go empty out the whole unit myself.
If I was lucky I could get it done in one trip, but I had no idea how large the unit was nor how packed full it would be. Begrudgingly I agreed to help, and knowing I was sacrificing my weekend he sweetened the deal with 100 bucks. 50 of which I blew on a bag of weed, but it was mostly in the effort to recruit a friend or two to help me move my uncle’s shit.

My buddy John was the only one available, but not only was he willing to help for free, he even offered to bring some beer. So maybe moving my uncle’s stuff wouldn’t be so bad, so long as I could get it done in time. John showed up to my place around noon, a whole hour later than we planned but he was willing to basically help for free so I tried not to complain.

John making us late wasn’t so bad until we hit weekend traffic, the freeway was so clogged we ended up taking side streets for the latter half. It took us an hour and some change to get there. I was admittedly a bit annoyed, but I left it at just commenting “we need to leave earlier tomorrow to beat this traffic” to which he agreed apologetically.

On the way I better explained the situation to John between showing off new music we’d found to each other. He asked how much my uncle had paid for a 13 year storage unit, which I admitted I didn’t know. I decided to tell him what I did know about my uncle, which was all second hand information anyways.
My dads brother was always the weird eccentric uncle who never really came around. He was a surgeon of some kind, dad said he made a lot of money and traveled often. He rarely if ever showed up to family events and when he did, it was always sort of weird. He was always very serious and kind of awkward, I remember being a little scared of him when I was younger. The last time I had seen my uncle was almost two years before he went missing, which was nearly 15 years ago now.

It took a whole week before he was reported missing, and even then it was only because someone reported his abandoned car near a trailhead parking area. They combed the woods around the trails for a while, but after the second week of searching it became clear he wasn’t going to be found. The more I described it to John the more it sounded like an urban legend, so I chuckled as I continued, dropping the seriousness from my voice.

“Dogs just never caught a scent, they never found a trace of him or any of his stuff, cops thought a bear got him.” I assured John it wasn’t a touchy subject or anything, we had a funeral service for him years back as a symbolic thing, and no one really showed up besides family. In a weird way, sorting through all his old shit would be the closest look into his life I’d ever gotten. John joked we’d probably find a bunch of crazy vintage porn, I doubled down saying “yeah I only asked for your help because moving his auto-milker pro is a two man job”. John starts grinning as he responds “Just don’t spill anything on me, that thing just baking away in a hot storage unit, probably looks like some dried up elephant toothpas-” “okay please spare me” I chuckled while conceding, John had won this round.

By the time we pulled up to the storage lot the day’s heat was at its peak, making me glad I had brought an ice chest. I fished out the envelope with the key and unit number before tossing the bag of weed into John’s lap. He inspected it intently, commenting on its quality and smell, as had become our smoking ritual. I parked my father’s truck in front of the unit and turned to John, “you wanna smoke first and then take a look?”

Some minutes later we emerged from our shaded spot pleasantly stoned and ready to get started. I fumbled with the key against the rusted lock for a moment before it clicked with a hard turn. I gave the shutter door a hard upward tug but it stuck a half foot above the ground with a loud metal scrape. John and I struggled for a minute against the might of the door, but only managed to get it up another half foot.
“It sounds like something’s stuck” John said between breaths, he kneeled down to look under the door. “Hold on” I grabbed one of the flashlights from my truck and handed it to him. “Uhh huh, looks like something’s wedged in the like-“ he motioned with his hands as he spoke “where the metal door slides on the frame, there’s a pipe or something”. Kneeling next to him I say “Okay move, I’m gonna try and squeeze underneath and get it open”

Grabbing the bottom of the door, I dragged myself inside the dark unit, accidentally whacking my head against something in the dark. “Ow fuck” I winced as I sat upright, my legs still mostly sticking outside. “There’s hardly any room to stand in here hold on” I began shifting myself around to make room for my legs, I took the flashlight and found what I’d hit my head on. A wide wooden shelf covered in boxes and dust which was now at my side, carefully I stood, using it as support.

I didn’t have time to fully take in the sights, instead letting out a small “whoa” as I swept the beam over the room. I refocused on the task as I turned around to face the stuck door, I could see the metal pipe, bent shut at the wedged end. It had a taught rope holding it in place, as if to bar the shutter door from the inside. With a few tugs I was able to free the pipe from the doorframe and John slid it open easily.
The room was a sight to behold, and to my great dismay, was stacked nearly wall to wall with random shit. The small saving grace was that despite how much there was, it seemed semi organized kind of like an overstuffed garage. I noticed everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, so much for my uncle secretly being alive and living in a storage unit. Not that I expected as much, but I had been entertaining the idea ever since the storage company had called us. Chalk it up to an active imagination I guess, but that would’ve been a lot more interesting.

The air smelled stale and thick with dust and everything we moved seemed to stir more. I could’ve sworn I heard dust was like 80% old skin or something, but I decided not to bring it up to John in case I was right. Instead I dug two old carpenters masks out of the truck and popped open the bed. “Damn there’s a lot of shit in here” John said while opening a box and peering inside. “Oh my god it’s actually porn” he said, turning to me. “What really?” I twisted my head trying to see inside “no not really, but that’s what I would sound like if I did find porn in here”

Even with the wall of items across the unit, I was able to make out some interesting things closer to the back. Including some old ass looking locked chest, like something straight out of a pirate movie. Some sort of medical equipment including a table sat near the back, along with a huge collection of jars against the far wall, some on shelves others in boxes. But we had a ways to go before we could dig out any of the interesting stuff. My dad also said to keep an eye out for anything I wanted to keep, or if I found anything worth selling.

After a few hours and some cold beer we found some sort of old surgery books, stuff that dated back all the way to the 1800’s. It had some gruesome photos and sketches of dissected bodies. John and I skimmed over it and found some original images of those old operating theatres where students would watch live procedures. It was a little creepy at best but nothing worse than something you’d see in a classroom I figured, still it was worth keeping for resale.

Then we found another medical book, or at least I thought it was. It was really old and written in latin, which I was able to cleverly devise with the power of my smartphone. Though from the cover I doubted this was the original copy, and the paper was old but not ‘written in latin’ old. The only thing that made the book eye-catching was the annotations, highlighted sections, written notes, and sticky notes pasted between pages. It was practically bursting with annotation and added paper, so much so I almost thought it was a scrapbook before I opened it.

Again I wish we had more time to get through the book, but I was able to glean that it mentioned some sort of procedure over and over again. Though I’m not sure if it was referring to the same procedure each time, or if the book is just notes on a series of procedures. Either way I guess my uncle was into the history of medicine or something, like how things were done throughout the ages maybe. But I didn’t get to investigate it long before I heard a loud crash near John.

Before I could even turn around, a pungent odor flooded the unventilated room, causing my eyes to water as I covered my mouth. A strong chemical smell like plastic and freshly lit matches was coming from a large plastic bucket that John had accidentally knocked over. We both backed out of the room coughing with our eyes blurry with stinging tears, I pulled my carpenter’s mask off and sucked in the afternoon air. “Shit man I hope that’s not some deadly chemical vapor we just inhaled or something” I managed before coughing again.

“I’m sorry dude, a box fell over and pushed it off the cabinet” John said finishing off his beer. “It’s alright it practically fell on its own, did you get a look at what was in there though?” I asked, “label’ said Form- something I don’t know, it was a clear liquid.” John responded, sitting to catch his breath as he had been closer to the spill than I was. Determined to keep moving, I inhaled deeply and held it, shimmying between a bookshelf and table to get to the spill. I turned the bucket over and through my stinging eyes I read ‘Formalin’, I grabbed the handle and hoisted the now partially full bucket upright. Quickly popping the lid back on before stepping out for more air, and to look up the contents on my phone.

Liquid formaldehyde, which firstly wow I didn’t realize it was spelt like that, and secondly I didn’t realize how toxic the stuff was. So the internet says it can put me in a coma or kill me, but that only happens with high level exposure. But I’m also not entirely clear on how much exposure constitutes high level exposure, so I’m a little worried. It seems ‘about a bucket’s worth’ was definitely enough to throw a wrench in my plans. But with the sun nearly set and a good 5 hours of dumping trash at a landfill and filling up the truck bed with shit to sort through later, it was time to call it a night. On the way back we used youtube to educate ourselves on how to clean up formaldehyde without dying, which I’m sure would come in handy tomorrow.

To make up for the traffic on the first day, John showed up early with breakfast; nothing like starting your day with a whole taco bell meal box and a crisp soda at nine in the morning. John was determined to get more done today, but we had to clean up our accidental chemical hazard first. We had barely made it through a quarter of the stuff in the storage unit, but John said he bet we could get through half of what’s left.

We avoided traffic by stopping for cleaning supplies and some fresh carpenters masks for the dust, this time nothing would slow us down. We stepped out into the lot with nothing but a full ice chest, a bluetooth speaker, and a goal. It took some time and moving furniture around, but we managed to clean up all of the formaldehyde. As I was cleaning up the spill, I spotted a low dresser drawer jammed by a thick notebook. It was thoroughly bent up, but inside I found hand drawn sketches and blocks of writing.

I wasn’t exactly sure who had drawn them, as nothing was signed, but I wondered if it had been my uncle. The further I looked inside the notebook the more I found myself unable to stop flipping, at first I intended to just set it right down. But something caught my eye, an anatomical sketch of a rabbit with a large gaping hole pierced through its torso. I started reading the notes around it, each line stranger than the last.

-the rabbit remained dead, but I felt I was much closer this time. Though it’s much more challenging to translate the procedure to such a small mammal in comparison. Rabbits may be the cheaper option, but their viability is yet to be seen. If testing continues to stagnate it may be time to reconsider looking for a serious seller. Test 13 remains unconscious but stable, it is theoretically possible, but working on a smaller scale is causing unforeseen issues.

Working on a smaller scale, that part stood out to me. Maybe it really was my uncle’s journal, but what the hell was he working on with rabbits? I continued deeper, and found extensive notes about the viability of birds. Labeled and hand drawn depictions of similar operations filled the spaces between notes. Each having some sort of large hole put straight through them, as if having been hole-punched. Smoothed edges, a perfect circle shot through them, organs moved aside, bones broken and graphed into different places. It was like the goal was to rearrange the body around a cylindrical hole, and every step seemed as terrible and invasive as one would imagine.

Even with my very basic knowledge of anatomy, the depicted steps in the process required internal and external mutilation, amputation, and surgery that looked nonsensical. What was the purpose of surgically putting a hole through an animal, just to see if they can? The notes had a clinical detachment to them, each step described plainly, but among the details I spotted something that stood out.

-and it’s quite possible that the failure of these operations lies within the subjects instead of with the architect. The answer was right there, the subject needs to be able to survive the ordeal through mental fortitude. The shock is what’s killing them, the rabbits, the dogs, the birds, they all lack the ability to forgo such a grievous change and still remain mentally intact. The subject pool needs to change, higher cognitive function is likely the missing element, the creature must want to endure.

The notebook ended there, filled to the very last space available, but something told me that wasn’t the last one I was going to find. I wanted to read through it more intently, but John asked me what I had found and for some reason I lied. “Just some old college notebooks, nothing too fancy” and I tossed it into a take home box before he questioned further. I felt a little guilty, but honestly there was no point airing out my uncle’s dirty laundry for John. But I was sure as hell going to show my dad when he got back, I’m sure he’d be just as disturbed as I was.

I had to put it out of my mind for now as John and I dug in our heels to get through the mountain of belongings. We found old clothes, shoes, old coins, and a collection of hats, of which we piled to go through later. As we got closer to the back we dug out the old locked chest, and John asked if I wanted him to crack it open. Honestly I was afraid it was going to be more creepy dissection journal shit, so I lied again needlessly. “I think my dad wanted that chest, I’d rather give it to him still locked” I said without thinking, “yeah that makes sense” John replied, his attention turning to a basketball sized jar in a deep drawer.

“Dude, give me the light” John grunted while setting the heavy liquid-filled jar on his knee, a thick layer of dust obscuring the contents. He sat facing me with the jar between us and raised the flashlight up to the side of the jar flicking it on. The light silhouetted the outline of some small preserved animal, but as John moved the flashlight I felt my breath catch in my throat. The light was shining straight through a large hole in its midsection, the ridges smooth with medical precision. John spoke first as we both stared on “Dude your uncle has some weird shit” “Tell me about it”.

Unfortunately our luck didn’t end there, we found nearly ten more jars of various sizes, all filled with liquid and something dead. Each one with the same hole, their bodies misshapen and covered in scars. I tried to find comfort in the fact that he was a medical professional, and that somehow this was related to some medical study. But I couldn’t see how this was benefiting anyone, unless he got some sort of sick pleasure from it. I tried to put those thoughts out of my mind and push on, John seemed like he could care less and I let him lead by example. More music, more beer, more lifting shit into a truck. And things seemed to be going well, until I left John to take a load of junk to the landfill. I was gone only about 20 minutes, but when I turned back into the lot and backed the truck into its spot. I realized I hadn’t spotted John yet, but the storage unit was still wide open. I figured he had wandered to a corner somewhere to piss, and hopped out of the car.

I called out his name as I stepped out in case he was in ear shot, I gave it a beat before I yelled out again but got nothing. Giving up for now I started toward the open unit to see what John had gotten done while I was gone. But as I stepped around a heavy bookshelf, I spotted John’s shoe sticking out from behind a low table. My heart picking up speed, I quickly stepped around the table and saw John sprawled out on the floor, facedown and lying on top of something. “John” I half shouted as I knelt down, grunting as I shifted him on his side. For a terrifying second I thought he was dead, but I could feel he was breathing through his nose.

I managed to shake him awake, and he looked just as confused as I was. “Do you remember what happened?” I asked as he looked around collecting himself. “Why are we on the ground?” he ignored my question. I helped John to his feet and told him how I’d found him, “I grabbed a book and- then I’m not sure” John stammered as he tried to recall what happened. I looked down and sure enough, I spotted a hardcover book lying on the ground where he had fallen. Scooping it up I flipped it open, to find the center of the book hollowed out, as if someone had cut a perfect hole through each page. The pages were smeared with ink, whatever the book was about before it was impossible to tell now.

I felt strange looking at it, like how your head feels when you wake up hungover. I stared into its smooth edges, the dark ink made the hole in the book appear to extend endlessly like peering into a pitch black room. My uneasiness grew until I felt a rising nausea in my throat, and I looked away from the book. The feeling persisted for a moment longer, and then I felt I could breathe again. As I snapped out of it I turned to John with concern. “Are you alright now?” , “I’m not sure, I still feel sick but I think I’m okay”. We stepped out of the storage unit together and agreed we could use a water break, and he seemed to feel a bit better after that.

I’ve never heard of a book making someone pass out before, something about the hole through the pages and the ink. Maybe it was some sort of optical illusion that made you feel sick, but that explanation sounded a lot better in my head. I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around it, the only thing I was sure of, was that I wanted to be done for the day. We had been at it for six hours, and looking at the storage unit I figured I could finish what was left by myself in the next couple of days. I asked John if he was ready to call it quits and go get a bite to eat, but he asked if I could just take him home for the night.

The ride back was noticeably quieter than usual, John and I made light small talk and periodically I’d check on how he was feeling again. Before I dropped him off I reminded him to let someone know he passed out today, I was mostly just worried he’d hit his head on the way down. And even though he seemed fine, I wasn’t sure how to tell if he had a concussion or not so better safe than sorry.

I was so absorbed in thought on the way home that I missed my exit without even noticing. I kept thinking about my uncle, the garage, and the large locked chest wedged in the truck behind me. I considered calling my dad and telling him about what I’d found so far, before remembering he was in a different time zone at the moment. And I couldn’t imagine he would appreciate a paranoid two in the morning call from his adult son while he was trying to sleep.

Coming home to an empty house fueled the eerie feeling that had followed me back, the silence felt fragile with anticipation. I put a movie on in an effort to distract myself, and scarfed down some cold pizza and beer to ease my anxiety. Slowly my nerves unraveled as I became immersed in the film, until my eyes drooped with exhaustion and I passed out on the couch.

I woke up sometime later in a short panic, initially confused as to why I wasn’t in bed. I sat up in the living room, my eyes adjusting to the lamp I had accidentally left on. I groped around for my phone to check the time, “oh great” I groaned seeing it was nearly four in the morning. Sitting up and feeling wide awake, I decided to shower while I debated if I felt like booting up my gaming console.

But as I stood under the water my mind began to wander back to the events of the last two days. I found myself staring down the drain, watching loose strands of hair being swallowed into the dark pipes. It felt like I could see the book still, the inky darkness of the drain transfixing me. For a moment I felt almost out of body, the water against my skin felt distant and its sounds dulled like I had put on headphones.

Stepping out of the shower I decided I had to get into that old chest, I needed to know what was in there. Though I prepared for the chance that there wouldn’t be anything weird inside, that maybe the jars and notebooks were the end of my uncle’s strange obsession. Hell it was probably just some old valuables, honestly I was hoping it might be full of money. That’s what I was telling myself anyways, I didn’t want to acknowledge that his creepy old shit was actually giving me a thrill.

It felt like I was the first one to discover something, like some explorer uncovering a tomb. Or maybe I just didn’t want to admit this was probably the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to me by chance. Admittedly it was creepy, really fucking creepy, but at the same time, I wasn’t some superstitious kid who believed in ghosts and curses. I know that at the end of the day, the only thing that’s actually scary to find in the dark, is another person.

Don’t get me wrong I actually really enjoy horror media and stuff about the supernatural. And I like to play along with the idea of cryptids and hauntings, but when it comes to real life, I’m not going to let myself be afraid that the boogy man might jump out at me. I guess people would call me a skeptic, but I call it being a realist. Sure sometimes my imagination gets the better of me, but everything has an explanation and I was determined to find out what had been my uncles.

My tangent of thought about how ‘not afraid’ I was ran through my head as I wailed on the chest’s lock in my garage with a hammer. I figured if I could damage the lock enough I could just force the chest open with a crowbar. The lone bulb above me was castong a sort of spotlight down on the chest causing my shadow to obscure my view. After every few swings, I had to step back to check my progress in the light.

By the time I snapped the lock enough to wedge the crowbar in, I had worked up a sufficient sweat. And despite how cold the garage was, I had to shed my sweater sometime during the struggle. I jammed the crowbar in the seam of the lid and began to pull it towards myself. To my surprise the old chest was putting up a fight, but determined to get it open I tried again. This time I firmly planted my feet before the large chest and gripped the crowbar tightly. Using my legs and body weight, I leaned back with the crowbar and heard a creak. I pulled backward inch by inch until I was leaning so far back I was practically limboing in front of the box.

Suddenly the wood gave all at once, and the crowbar that was holding up my entire body was instantly freed. I fell backward hard, my head and back slamming on the concrete floor causing me to see spots. Before I could even react to the pain, a thundering bang echoed through the garage. I felt a gust of air above me and even through the spots in my vision I saw a brief flash of light.

I propped myself on my elbows, my ears ringing from the bang and my head throbbing from my fall. The first thing I noticed was the smokey odor in the room, causing me to quickly sit up expecting to see a fire. And though I could barely make out some smoke in the air, I couldn’t see anything besides the now open chest. The light from above was swaying on its chord out of my reach, so I took out my phone to use as a flashlight.

My attention was immediately drawn to a small metal mechanism mounted to the inside of the box. Sitting inside it was a spent shotgun shell facing directly toward the opening at an upward angle. The chest was fucking booby trapped, and judging from the angle it would have hit me right in the stomach had I been standing.

I stared at the contraption for a moment dumbfounded, before I came to my senses and quickly turned around sweeping my phone light toward the wall behind me. The garage door now had a mangled hole in it a little larger than my fist surrounded by a series of smaller punctures. So much for it being bird shot, no this was clearly a trap meant to maim or kill anyone trying to get inside.

I stood up despite my aching head and hurried towards the tear in the garage door. I peered through the hole, trying to spot if the pellets had hit anything on the other side. I felt a wave of panic at the thought of someone being hit, but I began to calm down as I realized nothing besides some bushes and a brick wall were on the other side.

Slowly I turned back toward the chest, and wondered if any more traps laid inside. After the initial shock wore off and I was pretty sure no cops were going to arrive to investigate the shot, I took a moment to weigh my choices. Something inside that chest was worth killing someone over, that’s what kept running through my mind. The only reason I wasn’t lying dead on my garage floor right now was pure luck, and to think John and I were going to open it together.

Part of me wondered if I should be calling some sort of bomb squad, calling my dad, or anyone really. But first I needed to patch the hole in the garage door, the rest I would have to figure out afterward. Unfortunately I was not near as handy as my father, so I settled for thoroughly duck-taping both sides. A temporary fix was better than nothing, so long as it kept the draft out.

With the garage door dealt with, I turned my attention to the chest once more. It was safer to assume that the rest of the box was trapped as well, I was going to have to be more careful. Truthfully I don’t know if I had some sort of death wish, or maybe the danger made the whole thing feel closer to my fantasy of adventure. Like having nearly died with little to no consequences made the mystery all the more real, I couldn’t walk away now.

I dawned some thick gloves, a fire poker, and a welders mask with a headlamp stuck over it. I then crouched low next to the side of the box, and began prodding around with the metal poker. I held my breath every time I lifted an item or rolled something over, I sat and poked around the box for almost 20 agonizing minutes.

Finally satisfied that I had seen between and under every item, I began carefully removing items from the chest and arranging them on the floor. The chest contained a small DVD holder, an old broken video camera, a key ring with three keys, and three large envelopes.

I decided to open the envelopes first, picking the lightest of the three. I tore it open and poured out its contents, my eyes widened at what I’d found. Two passports rubber-banded together smacked the ground, with what looked like ID cards sticking out of them. Flipping them open I initially thought they were just my uncle’s outdated travel things, but then I read the names.

The names were wrong, so were the addresses and the rest of their information as well. And the photos themselves were ambiguous, both of them strongly resembled my uncle. But neither were quite a perfect match either, I could easily mix these up for my father, or even a younger version of my grandfather. What the hell was my uncle doing with two different fake identities, what were these even for?

I took some pictures with my phone, intending to look up the addresses after I was done here. I moved on to the second envelope and found two stacks of developed photos neatly bound by bands. Both were labeled, Disk 1 and Disk 2. Next I opened the DVD case and sure enough inside I found two labeled disks. Carefully I removed the bands from the first stack of photos, and found each had writing on the back.

The first image was of a series of small cages covered in sheets, the surrounding area was all concrete and metal shelves. The back read
“Storing subjects requires constant care, I recommend refreshing subjects every month as longer term captivity begins to have undesired side effects towards mental condition.”

The second image was a sterile metal surface covered in medical equipment. Syringes, small bottles, and rows of surgical tools. A rubber gloved hand is pointing to the items from the edge of the frame. The back read
“Tools should be maintained and cleaned between every step and operation, every work surface should be sterilized between subjects. Preventing infection should be top priority, furthermore the moment a subject shows signs of rejection or infection they should be terminated.”

The third image depicted some sort of small monkey strapped down to an operating table. The picture was taken from above like an autopsy photo and it was shaved in large square patches. On its exposed skin was a series of lines and marks like a guide was being mapped out on its body. The back read
“Having survived the initial testing, the subject is now ready to begin with the first procedures. Ensure your markings match the guide and example given, zero deviation can be made.”

The fourth image was a gruesome display of the same monkey, its chest cavity now wide open. A gloved hand pointed at its now partially exposed ribs, several metal braces and clamps lined its small body to hold its parts in place and out of the way. The back read
“Internal close up of step five of where the ribs should be cut, in no way is opening the entire cavity necessary and has been done strictly for demonstration and documentation only.”

I scooped up the items into my arms and headed straight for the dvd player in the living room. Quickly I popped in the first disk and sat down, sprawling the first stack of images out over the coffee table. I looked around as if I wasn’t home alone already before hitting play, but I didn’t want anyone walking in on this. The quality and overlay made me think that these must have originally been on vhs tape, meaning someone took the time to burn these onto disks.

A shaky handed image began, sweeping the camera over the cages from the first photo. The man began talking and I felt a shiver crawl down my spine. It was my uncle’s voice, there was no doubt now that this was all his work. It was a fucking instructional video, the first tape was over an hour of footage. He tortures them first and only uses the animals that survive it.

His theory was that if they could survive the initial trials that the subjects were more likely to survive the procedures. The first 40 minutes was spent demonstrating different methods to ‘test’ them, he would dunk their cages in plastic barrels of water. Over and over bringing them to the brink of drowning, intermittently shocking them with electric prods, before locking them in a cold metal box. He spoke about repeating this process over the course of several hours to produce the best results.

I felt sick listening to the sounds of the tortured monkeys, their screams and screeches desperate and their yelps full of pain. He discarded the ones that died with unceremonious disappointment, dumping their cold tortured bodies into trash bags. The ones that survived, he sedated and prepared for surgery, shaving large portions of their bodies and scrubbing them down.

The surgery itself was as morbid as I imagined, the rest of the video was mainly focused on removing a large portion of the ribs. This I figured was in preparation for the hole he would be cutting through them, I shuddered at the thought of what the other disks would hold. As the video neared its end, it abruptly changed while my uncle was mid sentence.

The screen was incredibly dark now, it was nothing but a static of black and gray pixels that danced across the display. But faintly I could hear the sounds of slow raspy breathing, I turned up the volume trying to get a better listen. It sounded labored but rhythmic, like they were deep asleep. The silence was interrupted by a shifting sound, like the camera was being moved. Followed by the crunch of something hard grinding against the floor underfoot.

The breathing changed, a deeper sudden inhale, followed by a faint rattling of chains. A strained voice cut through the silence in a slow whisper “Isaaaaac”, my heart started pounding in response. That’s my name, that’s my fucking name.

“My eyes” the voice hissed as the chains rattled again. “Removed so I could better see” the whisper sounded inches away from the camera. The illumination from the black screen was the only light I had, and I felt a fear grip me. A paranoia so intense I swiveled my head around the dark room, and quickly reached for my phone.

I hated how irrational I was being, I felt like I was scaring myself over nothing. I turned back to the dark screen, the breathing having stopped entirely, I reached for the remote thinking it was over. Until I heard one last rasp, a harsh half whisper cracked the silence. So close and clear that it sounded like it came from somewhere in the house, “Isaac”.

The video then instantly restarted from the beginning with the volume still on max, the sound of the monkeys screeching and whooping caused me to jump nearly out of my skin and scramble for the remote. Quickly I turned the lights on in the living room, while fast forwarding the video to the end. I swear to god they said my name, I had to hear it again.

“What the fuck” I whispered to myself, did I skip past it somehow? I rewound the recording again, there was no darkness, no chains, no breathing. Just my uncle’s voice instructing to swap to disk 2, four more times I rewound the video, letting the end play out and restart again. No cut off, no darkness, nothing. I know what I saw, I’m not fucking crazy. I wracked my brain for some sort of explanation, was there a hidden message on the dvd? How did I get it to work the first time, and why the fuck where they saying my name.

The shotgun trap from earlier made it clear this wasn’t some elaborate prank, but I had to keep my head straight. I decided to weigh the facts, this unidentified voice said my name, which is not an uncommon name. Judging by the quality of this video, it was likely made when I was very young or possibly before I was born. And I failed to find my significant connection to any of this so far, besides the blood relation to my uncle of course.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched, like somewhere beyond the screen laid prying eyes. Feeling uncertain, I ejected the disk and popped in the second one. Before hitting play I hurried to my dads room and went straight to his gun safe. I struggled for a moment to remember the code; inside I found a shortened revolver and quickly loaded it.

I swept the house slowly, every room, every entryway, every window. Finally my nerves calmed, ‘I’m the most dangerous thing in this house’ I thought to myself as I carefully holstered the gun. Nothing was amiss, and to my greater relief I could see the sun rising in the distance. I sat back down in the living room, and with a renewed confidence from the equalizer on my hip, I hit play.

The first 20 minutes was spent demonstrating care for the subject post the first surgeries, and during this time my eyes fell on the third envelope. I thumbed open the flap, and a grin crawled across my face. I swiftly split the seal and poured out its contents, and stacks of rubber-banded money poured out. “Holy shit” I whispered as they landed with a smack, wads of hundreds and fifties neatly banded and labeled.

In total I counted just short of $30,000, I couldn’t believe I’d actually found money. It was so much money I didn’t know what to do with it, but before I could ogle it longer my attention was drawn back to the video. Like the first recording, my uncle’s face never showed in the frame, but his voice was distinct. I could hear crashing and screeching from off screen, my uncle was shouting and cursing at what I assumed was an escaped monkey.

Just as I was about to lose interest again it jump cut back to him within frame, where he began explaining that he wasn’t yielding any significant results. “-I’m not a behavioral psychologist, it’s not as if I can ask the damn things questions. Making distinctions on psychological damage between subjects is a meaningless exercise. This whole project was already designed to fail due to my limitations. Men of old were unburdened by modern law, science unbound by the constraints of society.”

I noticed his rant sounded less scientific than usual, his calm demeanor discarded as he raved on about his lack of progress. I began to wonder if he was taking anything, I could imagine how easy it must have been for someone in the medical field to access drugs. His demeanor reminded me of someone experiencing psychosis, he made little sense the further he went on.

“I was so confident I could replicate their work without taking those final steps. I haven’t even come close, not a single subject has produced any desired results. I just wanted to do it the right way, my way! I’m beginning to doubt I can recreate the ritual even if I did take the leap. But if this actually works, if I can create just one conduit, I could change the world.”

The video abruptly cuts to the view from the dashboard of a moving car driving down a bumpy path. Tall trees line either side of the dirt road, heavy forestry stretching out in all directions. After a few minutes of driving, the car veers to the right to reveal a semi-modern looking two story red cabin tucked away in the woods. “Here it is.” my uncle says before he begins fumbling with the camera and the feed stops.

Just like the first video, the recording ends abruptly and begins to loop. This time without any dark screen or whispering. I glanced at the morning sunlight cresting the window and began to feel my confidence return. Checking the time on my phone I cursed under my breath, with everything going on I nearly forgot I had to work today.

Or at least I was scheduled to work today, but with very little self convincing I decided to call out sick. And one short phone call later, I was booting up my laptop to check out the addresses on my uncle’s fake documents. The further address was not only for sale, but basically across the entire country. So that ruled out giving it a visit, at least for now.

But then I turned my attention to the other address, and I felt a knot forming in my stomach. It was the red cabin, I was certain. Using a real estate website I was able to pull up several images of the place, as the google street view only showed the entrance to the wooded property. Three acres of woods with a redone rustic cabin, the property had to be pretty expensive.

I figured there was a good chance I’d find new owners living at the property, especially considering my uncle wasn’t around to pay for the place. The website didn’t give me much information about the owners besides a phone number I didn’t recognize. That when called, went straight to an automated message informing me the line was unavailable at this time.

Seeing that the cabin was within a three hour drive away I had to stop and ask myself how much I was really willing to risk to find out what my uncle had done. What was really going on, and if this had anything to do with his disappearance. I scooped up everything into a backpack, and promised myself if I didn’t find anything else, I would give up looking before I got myself killed. One last impulsive indulgence into the mystery, and I could at least say I tried.

I think that might have been the longest I’d ever been in a car without putting on any music, instead I kept thinking about what my uncle had said in the video. He started referring to a ritual, he said it was something that could change the world but I couldn’t imagine what he meant. After a long drive, I had planned to get something to eat but I felt so nervous that I couldn’t stomach anything. Instead I drank most of a soda in a fast food parking lot before making the final stretch, and before long I found myself parking in front of the red cabin.

From the car I could tell the windows were all boarded, and from what I could see it wasn’t a hasty job either. I spotted the old well and knew I had the right place, I felt a sense of deja vu as I parked nearly in the same spot my uncle had. I pulled the backpack on and approached the place, noticing that the front door had some sort of electronic keypad lock. Before trying to enter I walked around the cabin, checking for any easier way in but the place didn’t even have a back door.

Though I spotted an external fuse box and decided to check if the place even had power, and found the house was turned off. I hesitated for a second, wondering if turning the power on would set off any alarms. Ultimately I decided I had to do it, I couldn’t just come this far and turn away empty handed. I quickly flipped the switches into place and the box lit up and began humming in response.

Returning to the front door I could see the keypad was now glowing, the rubber numbers giving off a faint green. I walked up and instinctually twisted the knob to be sure it was locked, and to my surprise the handle turned. I wondered if the lock had reset because I turned the power on, not wanting to consider why else it might unlock on its own.

As I pushed inside I debated calling out to check if anyone was here, but I decided I was better off keeping quiet. I stepped lightly through the cabin, my head on a swivel. The floor was covered in translucent plastic sheets that flowed between the rooms causing each of my steps to give off a faint crinkle. Not a single light switch worked despite the power being on, like someone had never bothered to install bulbs or they had been removed on purpose.

Pulling a flashlight from my bag as I ventured deeper, I noticed none of the rooms had a door in their frame. From somewhere upstairs I could hear what sounded like a radio or a tv, some sort of electronic white noise. First I entered the kitchen, which was empty besides several refrigerators lined up against the wall. As I pulled one open a foul smell permeated the air causing me to gag and wretch as I backed away from the stench.

Blood bags and Iv bags sat lined on hooks, several of them long since popped from the heat and rot. The smell of rancid blood filled the air and the stench of death stuck to everything. I stumbled out of the room and back into the hall, taking a minute to steel myself before I ventured deeper. Next I found my way into the family room, happening upon a disturbing display. Eight large metal hooks were secured to the ceiling, and from them dangled manakins arranged in a line. Their bodies were chained together, their feet hanging just above the ground. The floor had several drains, and stacked in the corner was a strange assortment of supplies. Drum barrels of hydrofluoric acid, bottles of bleach, assorted cleaning supplies, and a coiled hose connected to a spout on the wall.

“Holy shit” I whispered as I swept my light over the room, what the hell was he preparing to do here. My pace even slower and less confident than before, I began creeping up the stairs. One foot over the other I climbed, holding my breath as I approached the top. I could see a white glow pouring out from the adjacent room, so I turned my flashlight off in anticipation. In the hopes that if I did end up running into someone I could catch them off guard.

The room was empty beside a single glowing tv against the opposite wall, letting off a faint static. As I approached I peaked my head inside making sure no one was waiting around the corners. Satisfied I stepped forward, only to feel my shoe catch on a wire with an audible twang. The tv sprang to life, showing the same operating room from the previous videos only this time without audio. For a moment my uncle worked in silence, the frame only showing his stomach and bellow as it was aimed at what he was working on. However this time, another gloved hand enters the frame to assist in the procedure happening on screen. My uncle had found some other lunatic to help him.

The video then cuts to my uncle sitting in the storage unit, only it was empty when he taped this. He sat facing the camera on a lone chair, a bright cone illuminated him like he set up a floodlight. He looked like he was crying, his eyes were puffy and red and his inhales sounded congested. He lets out a single sob before laughing, he laughs for several seconds before suddenly biting down on his own fist. “It works” he managed before choking back another sob. “It actually works” he started chuckling again, continuing until he was wheezing. He seemed manic, his clinical demeanor completely discarded. “Oh god, oh god it works.” he was practically whispering to himself now, and even on the old camera I could make out he was trembling.

Once again the feed cuts to another location, only this time it showed the old well outside the cabin sometime in the afternoon. A man was using a large pulley to lower a box into the well with his back toward the camera. I was almost certain it was my uncle despite the low quality camera, but I wondered if it was his mystery assistant from the first video. For ten minutes the man went between a pile of large objects and carried them over to the well, before securing them with rope and lowering them down. And after lowering the final item into the ground, the figure headed straight toward the camera.

And though the recording only caught a second of their face as they grabbed the camera, I was certain who I saw. A shiver rolled down my back so strongly that I felt as though I couldn’t breathe, tears welled in the corners of my eyes as I stared in disbelief. It was my own father.

The tape suddenly ended, static once again bathing the room in a white glow. I felt the wall against my back, not realizing I had backed away from the tv. I let myself slump against its cool surface, as I grappled with the confusion and fear rising in my chest. My father couldn’t, he wouldn’t be a part of this I couldn’t believe it. But why would my father let me clean out the storage unit, he had to have known all of that stuff was inside. And if he did, god why did he show me this.

Suddenly I felt unable to catch my breath, I felt feverish, my thoughts running faster than I could rationalize. A wave of dizziness swept over me as I stumbled down the stairs as fast as I could, feeling as though I had been underwater too long and was desperately swimming up for air. I burst out the front door, and collapsed onto a patch of grass next to the truck. I was heaving for air like I ran a marathon, I felt as though I were dying and my world was ending all at once.

And so I sat there, struggling to catch my breath and choking back intermittent sobs as the panic attack crashed at me like waves. Like a child I curled up against the tire and focused on my breathing until I felt I was no longer dying. Finally I stood, uncertain how much time had passed. More than anything I wanted to be somewhere familiar and safe, but as thoughts of my home flashed through my head, so too did the memory of my fathers face on the screen.

I didn’t have a choice now, my only familiarity was thrown out the window the moment I realized my father was involved. My thoughts drifted to my mother, and what she might have thought about all of this had she been alive to see it. Then another thought crossed my mind, a venomous terrible thought that spread throughout my body until I felt that I could shake with rage. My mother died when I was very young, did my father have something to do with it? Did she really get sick?

Pushing the thought from my mind, my eyes stopped on the old stone well that my father had been lowering equipment into in the video. I approached it with caution, the top was covered with a large piece of plywood that had begun to rot. Carefully I pulled the old wood away and peered inside with my flashlight, and to my surprise I spotted a dingy rope ladder that descended into the dark. My view of the bottom was obscured by a tangle of roots and dead branches that intermingled in the cracks between the stones a few feet from the top.

With a newfound and uncharacteristic disregard for my life, I threw my legs over the edge and began descending towards the bottom. I pushed past the wooden tangle, catching my skin and clothes on its brittle ends leaving stinging scrapes across my body. My flashlight was on, and haphazardly jammed under my belt to illuminate the dingy well beneath me. I must have been 20 feet down when the rope ladder ripped under my weight, the wear and exposure mixed with 190 pounds of young man descending on it caused it to snap somewhere above me. For a second I fell before I caught myself on the edges of the narrow well, which was more of a “jamming my legs at an angle and scraping my back against the wall.” The sudden motion of which caused my flashlight to dislodge and tumble to the bottom beneath me, to which I heard a splat, and due to wherever it landed the light was no longer visible.

The bottom was only another 10 or so feet below me, allowing me to quickly descend the rest using the natural handholds between the rocks. I felt the squish of deep mud swallow my shoes as I planted my feet at the bottom and fished out my phone. Using its light feature, I scanned the ground for the flashlight to no avail. Before me in this cramped well, was an even smaller passage with small wooden beams for support. I had to hunch my shoulders together and duck down to fit inside, a strange smell tinged the air that was still too faint to identify.

My temporarily forgotten fears came rushing back as I shuffled through the cramped space with nothing but my cellphone and my bloodied hands. I cursed at myself for leaving the gun at home, but it wasn’t mine nor could I legally carry one. And considering the plan started with traveling to a potential stranger’s cabin to snoop around, I decided to leave the gun at home. It was almost funny now that my larger concern was getting arrested or caught breaking and entering while armed, and now I was defenseless.

A sudden noise from ahead broke my train of thought causing me to freeze and quickly cover my light. I held my breath as I listened, staring wide eyed into the dark ahead. A strained wheeze echoed from the dark, followed by a rasped whine. The brief rattle of heavy rusted chains caused my blood to run cold, a second wheeze broke the silence. It whispered something at me inaudibly, and despite my fear I inched forward straining to hear. “You should be dead” it exhaled its words at me, the smell from before had turned into a stench. Spoiled meat, unwashed sweat, and death was the only description I could place. “Who’s there?” I finally said, my voice cracking with fear. I dared not raise my light, instead hoping that it couldn’t see me either in the darkness. “The chest- I was sparring you” its voice sounded hollow, like wind passing through a pipe organ. “What are you talking about?” I managed.

“It’s already inside you” it rasped again after finishing. “What? What’s inside me you aren’t making any sense!” from my fear came a desperation in my questions. “It’s a sickness- your mind- its too late” Its words came between wheezes as it continued.
“The holes- its symbols- you’ve seen them. I knew this- was coming. I tried- to keep you out of it.” It spoke like it knew me. As it continued, a sensation began growing in my head that was identical to the feeling in my chest right before a sneeze. Like a sudden hollow swelling of anticipation was building just behind my eyes, and in my mind all I could picture was the space I was in. The dark oval tunnel slick with moisture and lined with jagged stones, I imagined it stretching endlessly into the dark before me.

I felt compelled to reach out toward the depths, to take a handful of the crushing darkness and feel it between my fingers. A nausea began to rise and fall as the image in my mind became so vivid I could feel soundless wind lapping at my fingers as I reached out into the dark before me. My eyes still shut tightly; I began to see the book, the opening to the well, the holes cut through animals, the diagrams, the videos, the shower drain, they overlapped in my mind until I was staring into one great collective abyss just beyond the rim. My nausea crescendoed into a terrible writhing pain that shot through my stomach, as I saw a hand reach out from within the hole and my eyes snapped open.

“Isaac” the voice repeated in the dark. And for a moment I felt confused as if I just woken from a dream. “Focus- Isaac” its voice louder and more strained than before. The way he said my name, I recognized it, I knew I did. “Uncle Mason?” “Not- anymore” it rasped back. “What happened to you?” disbelief rang in my words. “I completed my work” “What the fuck are you talking about?” I stepped back as my words echoed in the stone chamber. Finally I raised the light of my phone in front of me, illuminating the tunnel for the first time.

Before me was what once was my uncle, chained atop a wooden throne. His body was shriveled, pale, and covered in dirt and grime. He was propped up on the throne, the chains holding him in a loose sitting position, his body beyond atrophied, likely paralyzed. There was a series of bags and tubes attached to him, keeping him alive and collecting his waste, and he was mutilated in several places. His nose and ears had been cut off entirely, and in place of his eyes sat empty sockets of dry flesh. Through his chest was a large hole long since healed and warped with time. And atop his head sat a crown of twisted oak with the word Conduit crudely carved into its surface.

A second passed as I stared, and then as though commanded to do so, my phone completely shut off. The image still burned in my mind, I scrambled away on all fours through the tunnel light a scared dog. Bursting out of the tunnel and into the muck, I throw myself against the wall of the well hard and begin climbing for dear life. Behind me the sounds of a coughing laughter that escalates into shrill yells “Isaac- come back- kill me!”. Hand over hand I struggle up the grimey walls, my mud caked shoes causing me to lose my footing again and again.

By the time I reached the top, I was a mess of cuts, bruises, filth and sweat. I didn’t even look back at the well until I was inside the truck and starting the engine, I sped away as fast as the gravel road would allow. I didn’t stop until I was halfway back home, not sure if I could even consider it such anymore. I turned my attention to my phone, unsure what else I could do, I plugged it in and parked on the side of a residential street I didn’t recognize. My phone began chiming with notifications as it came back to life, John sent several messages.

3pm Hey man heard u called off sick from Deb u gonna be here tomorrow?
4pm I accidentally took ur vape home with me btw, dw ill drop it off on my way home do u want me to pick you up anything?

Followed by three missed calls at six pm, which was less than 20 minutes ago. “Oh shit” I feel a pang of guilt and fear shoot through me as I call him back. It rings so long I think he’s not going to pick up, until I hear a click and the line is filled with mechanical silence.

“John, hey are you alright?” A long silence follows my question, but just as I was about to repeat myself an answer comes. “Son” my fathers voice comes over the line. “What- what did you do to John? Where is he!” I shouted into my phone “John is unharmed.” His voice was emotionless, barely recognizable. “Why are you doing this?” I pleaded fruitlessly. “The ritual is nearly ready, we only need one more link and the gate can be opened” his words were methodical and his voice unflinching “Why are you telling me this? Just let John go please he doesnt know anything!” as I spoke I started the car and peeled back onto the road towards home.

“You have to finish my work, before the madness takes you too, you have to cut through me” he spoke with an absolution unlike anything he had ever commanded. “You’re insane! I’m not going to help you- you’re sick!” “I understand, we don’t have the time to sway you, goodbye son.” he spoke and the line disconnected. “No shit wait!” I shouted to an empty car, I had to get back, I had to stop him. I flew down the road the rest of the way home, jaggedly parking the truck on the lawn as I threw my door open and ran for the house. My adrenaline surged as I reached the door, my hands were shaking uncontrollably. I burst in and ran room to room desperately searching for any sign of them, John’s car was still out front but he was nowhere to be seen.

Realizing I was too late and they already left I began to panic as I reached for my phone to call John again. This time no one answered, tightening the knot of fear in my stomach. Suddenly I remembered that John had his snapchat location turned on, a feature I told him was going to get him into a lot of trouble one day just might have saved his life. I laugh, a barking fleeting laugh as I check his location hoping that they still had the phone. No wait this can’t be right, it says he’s at the storage facility.

The drive there is a blur, all I knew was I had to save John. I made the hour drive in thirty minutes, running red lights and nearly dying twice in traffic, but I made it. This time I parked outside the property and decided to run in on foot so he couldn’t hear the truck. Entering the lot I could see the storage unit was ajar, the shutter a few feet off the ground casting a shadow into the unit.

Slowly I ducked inside, letting my eyes adjust to the dim unit, amongst the clutter I noticed a glow coming from the far back wall. A large wooden shelf was pulled aside, and from behind it a white light was barely visible. Cautiously I crept toward the back, until I could just barely see what the source was. A huge hole was cut into the wall, connecting this room to another unit on the opposite side. From which a thick flap of partially translucent plastic sheet hung like a tent door over the hole, fluorescent lights pouring from inside.

I squeezed between the shelf and the wall, pushing the plastic aside, I had to find him. I pushed myself through the man sized hole, sliding out to the other side like a child pushing its way out of the womb. And before I could look up, I could already hear John calling out to me weakly. “Isaac please, help me”, his voice full of tears. I was too late.

Before me was a squirming, iv fed, dangling line of people. Braces on their bodies held them in place, each person’s chest against the back of the person in front of them. Restrained in such a way that the holes cut through each of them line up perfectly to form one long tunnel of living flesh. And at the front of the line was John, his stitches still fresh and bleeding. “Please Isaac” he whimpered. Ten people in total were lined up, alive, chained together like some long human tube. The light didn’t penetrate past the third person, leaving a dark pit in the fleshy hole.

Tears filled my eyes as some of the people began to stir, they called out, some more coherent than others. They begged to be killed, but I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe. I reached out to John, unable to speak, I reached for his neck but I couldn’t bring myself to choke him. “Im sorry I- I cant do it I” I started backing away, a familiar nausea rising in my stomach, I had to look away from the hole, away from John, away from everything. But before I could take another step, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder.

“You cant destroy it can you” my fathers voice was unrecognizable now, his speech sounded thick and labored. The feeling in my head returned, but the anticipation was different now. It’s like I could feel someone or something, reaching out to me worming into my mind. It was speaking to me, but I couldn’t hear what it was saying. I looked back to my father, and he looked just as scared as I did. “You feel it now don’t you. We thought we could overcome the madness that comes with its gift, its instincts, imposing over your own. The conduit is the gift, I could speak to your mom through Uncle Mason” his eyes began filling with tears as he spoke. “She said to keep this all away from you and I promised I would” his words broke into sobs. “I don’t think I’m still in here anymore” he clutched at his head. “Mason could ask to see the future, he could see everything, all he had to do was ask.” His face quivered as he continued “I did what it asked of us, I had to, you can’t- you can’t say no to god.”

I turned away from my father, this was the gate, these people were the links, my uncle was the conduit. “Whats on the other side?” I whispered like the hole was listening, watching tears roll down John’s face. “Go and see” my father mouthed back as I began to approach the gate. John writhed against the head restraints, as it was the only part he could still move. I closed my eyes, but I could still see the hole before me in the dark of my lids. My head felt as though a thousand worms writhed inside its dark confines, and I distantly felt myself kneel before John as if I was going numb. With my hands before me, I began to push my way through John’s chest into the tunnel of flesh. I could feel his stitches and fresh wounds tear and reopen as I pushed my shoulders through, the tunnel constricting around me like an intestinal wall. I could hear the muffled wails and whines of the links, thrashing their heads as I began to pull myself through them. I felt the walls widening around my hips and shoulders, tearing, stretching, breaking. I could feel the crunch of weak ribs and the give of tortured flesh as I used my feet to propel deeper.

I pulled myself deeper feverishly, like salvation lay on the other side. I continued to crawl and push until the air grew thin and the light was gone. I was slick with blood and sweat, but the tunnel grew wetter still, like I had climbed into the organ of a great beast. The feeling in my head grew, I had to be close. I was almost there. I just had to crawl a little deeper, and I’d be home, I’d be whole.

Credit: MrSloogy

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