I haven’t slept in weeks. It’s not that I can’t; I simply refuse to. Because every time I doze off, I’ll see their faces again.

I don’t know what they want or even what they are. I just know that they appear if I close my eyes for too long.

You probably think I’m crazy, but I’m writing this to warn everyone. To keep them from sharing my fate.

Like any high school girl, I wanted to be popular. While I wasn’t the most popular girl at the school, I was up there in terms of popularity. Everyone knew my name, and I had lots of friends.

But the quiet competition was accumulating followers on social media. Sites like Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, you name it and there was always a comparison of who had more “friends.”

So each evening I would spend time before bed finding pages and accounts that would follow back, constantly trying to increase my number of followers. I knew I couldn’t beat Brittany, the head cheerleader, in terms of in-person popularity, but I could create a following on social media.

So I scrolled. And scrolled.

I followed celebrities, pages dedicated to pets, accounts about my favorite books and characters, but not all of them followed back. Which was kind of the point.

So I started following those silly pages, you know, the ones “Like for a like” or “Like for more followers!” It slowly but surely started to work. Sure, it meant that I had more nonsense on my social media feeds, but I was almost passing Brittany in terms of followers.

Then I found an Instagram account called “Follow Me!” The account really had nothing – the picture was all black, and the few posts that it actually made were shades of black and gray. It was weird, but I stopped questioning it when I saw how many other accounts it followed.

16,158. Yes, it had followed thousands of accounts. It also had 16,158 followers. Interesting.

I clicked “Follow” and within seconds I received a notification: Follow Me! has requested to follow you. Yes, even though I was trying to rack up followers, I had my settings on private so that people had to request access to follow me.

Pleased that I had achieved a follow for a follow, I clicked the “Accept” button and continued my scrolling. By the time I went to bed, I forgot all about the account.

The next morning things were a little weird.

I had multiple notifications – “Follow Me!” was requesting to follow me on ALL my social media accounts. I had only followed it on Instagram, so this was definitely weird.

I made sure to check out each of its other pages, and they were all the same. The same number of follows and people following it. The same posts too. Huh.

I shrugged it off and accepted all requests, and then I continued with my morning.

Over the next two weeks nothing remarkable happened – the usual routine of school, homework, and seeing my friends. I posted updates and pictures to my accounts like everyone did, garnering dozens of likes. Of which, Follow Me! was one. In fact, the account always liked a picture that had my face in it. Interesting but not worrisome since the account never left comments. I just chalked it up to it being an active account.

That night I was awakened by a strange sound. It sounded like lots of rustling, and it was coming from outside.

I had never heard a sound like that before, so I got up to investigate. Keeping the lights off, I crept to my window and peered through the slimmest crack in my blinds.

My stomach rose into my throat, cutting off any scream I wanted to make, and I sprinted away from the window.

Tears rolled down my face as I mentally absorbed the scariest thing I had ever seen. Outside on my lawn were hundreds of… things. Stretching as far as I could see in the darkness. Each one was exactly the same. A pale, too-thin face – really it looked like a skull – without a mouth or hair and the most horrifying red-tinted holes where their eyes should have been. They were packed too close together for me to get a good look at their clothes, if they were even wearing any.

The shuffling must have been them assembling on my lawn.

I stood quietly with my back against my bedroom door. There was no sound from outside, so I figured they were all still there. But I wouldn’t go look again. I had no idea if they saw me, but I wasn’t about to look through the window a second time.

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to make a sound in the off chance they were waiting for a sign of life before storming the house, but I also didn’t want to tell my parents who would probably say I had a nightmare.

So I resorted to my only option: I silently slid across my wall and curled up in the corner of my closet. From here I couldn’t see the window, but I would be able to hear any sounds the creatures made.

And so I sat until the sun came up.

No sounds came from the yard for the rest of the night, so I was extremely hesitant as I left my spot in the corner. My limbs ached from being so tense, and I awkwardly shuffled to my window. Surely they wouldn’t still be there with the sun up?

I was only partially relieved. The things on my lawn were gone without leaving a sign they had been there, but they had somehow left a note on my window. It was two words written in a childlike scribble, “follow us.”

Throwing open the window, I ripped the note from where it was taped and held it for a moment. This proved that what I saw wasn’t a dream or trick of my eyes. Something had been there and had left me a note.

I shuddered and tore it up as small as I could manage. And then I went to check my phone.

Dozens, literally dozens, of notifications. All over every post I had ever made. All the same. “Follow us.”

I stared openmouthed. What the hell was this?

Unfortunately it was Saturday, so I couldn’t bury my horror talking to friends or sitting in classes. As a result I spent the whole day tense and on edge; my parents commented on it several times, but I murmured something about a bad dream and not sleeping.

That night I lay curled up under my covers. I had turned my phone off because I didn’t want to know if I got more notifications during the night. Somehow I managed to drift off into a fitful sleep filled with gaping red eyes.

More rustling woke me hours later, and I bolted for the closet without looking out the window. A sinking feeling in my gut just knew it was them, and I didn’t need to see those faces again. And so I spent my second night without sleep curled up in the closet.

The next morning the note was in the same place. Turning on my phone revealed that I had received even more “follow me” comments on my pictures and statuses. I doubted there was a post that didn’t now have the comment. I’d never been more terrified in my life.

I had followed them on all their social media accounts, so what did they mean by “follow me”?

Skipping ahead to the third night, I didn’t even try to sleep. I sat in the corner of the closet, wide awake, and listened. There was no rustling, and in the morning there was no note. No notifications either.

Part of me hoped that the nightmare had passed, but there was the lingering lack of ease. Like this wasn’t yet over. I haven’t slept since that night.

I don’t know if they’ve become invisible or moved on or if my sleepless brain has stopped noticing them if they shuffle in the middle of the night. Honestly I’m not sure what is going on any more – too many sleepless nights. I also disabled all my social media accounts. Perhaps that’s how they found my house – seeing and liking all the pictures I posted and finally figuring out where I lived.

I could probably relax now since it’s been weeks since hearing them on the lawn or finding their notes. But the memory of those human-yet-not faces still haunts me. Perhaps everything is ok. Perhaps I will try to sleep tonight. I’m still not sure.

But WHATEVER YOU DO – do NOT like any page called “Follow Me!” Since I haven’t been harmed in any way, I don’t know what they want, but I still doubt their presence meant well.

I want to sleep but I don’t want to see them again but I’m so tired… Oh god. Oh god no.

A text just came in from an unknown number.

But it’s not just two words. It’s four.

“You will follow us.”

I need to leave. Need to run away, change my name, my appearance

s h e f o l l o w e d u s

w i l l y o u

followmefollowmefollowmefollowmefollowmefollowme

Pining away

all night and day

for something I can't have.

Winding through my dreams,

heart bursting at the seams -

it's not possible.

My heart - it wants you;

if only you knew,

but I can't say the words.

Emotionally lost,

heart broken is the cost

and still I can't change.

I wish I could share

just how much I care,

but for now I'll keep it to myself.

White. That’s all I register as my eyelids sluggishly open. So much white.

Where am I?

I struggle to dredge up a memory of any kind and panic when nothing readily springs to mind. What happened to me?

That’s when it hits me – the accident. I remember the screeching of tires, the white cab of the truck, shattered glass cutting into my face… I was hit by a truck on the highway. So where exactly am I now?

It’s quiet here. The only sound is my panicked breathing. That realization – that I’m hearing myself breathe – brings a slight relief; after all if I’m breathing, I can’t be dead. Right?

So what happened to me? If I wasn’t dead, I should have been seriously hurt in that accident. My body feels heavy, probably from sedation or something like that, but I don’t feel any pain from injuries.

I want to sit up, to see something other than the white expanse in front of my eyes which might answer my questions. Another realization: I’m lying down.

My arms are heavy and almost entirely unresponsive as I try to shift them into any sort of position that would allow me to sit upright. I struggle for a while until my hands are finally positioned under my shoulders to lift myself upright. I push – Wow this bed is really soft – with all my available strength and gain a few inches of elevation. My head, heavy on my shoulders, lolls back slightly, but I’m finally able to see more of what’s around me.

I’m in a small room with a bed and a long, tan desk which sits opposite the door. There’s no chair visible around the desk, but there could be a stool, something lower than the desk’s height. I don’t see anything on the desk, and that confuses me again. This is the cleanest room I have ever been in – no pictures on the walls, and the white sheets of my single bed are completely spotless.

In fact, this place would remind me of a hospital if only there were medical equipment scattered around my small room. But there’s nothing to suggest that I would be in a hospital. No machines to monitor my heartbeat, no IVs, no apparatuses of any kind. Maybe I’ve been healing and unconscious for so long that they’re not needed?

I stare straight ahead at the white wall as panicked thoughts creep into my mind. Everything is so pristine and perfect… maybe I am dead, and this is how you’re introduced to the afterlife. I worry about my family, friends, and colleagues. How will my death impact them? What will they do –?

That’s when the door – the same shade of tan as the desk – opens. A tall, model-thin woman with ivory skin walks through the door with a pleasant smile on her face. Her movements are very smooth and even, as if she is skating across the floor. She wears a knee-length, nondescript, light blue dress, and she isn’t carrying anything. Her hair, black and long, is straight with a white shock of hair framing the left side of her face. And her eyes! They were the most vivid shade of green I had ever seen. I couldn’t help but stare as she stopped at the foot of my bed.

“How are you feeling?” she asks in a clear and pleasant voice. It’s the voice of someone who’s repeated this dialogue many times before. I’m still taking in her looks, so it takes me a moment to register that she asked me a question.

“I feel fine, thank you.”

“Wonderful.” Genuine cheerfulness oozes from that one word, but it only makes me wary.

She crosses the room and takes a seat behind the desk. In a smooth, quick gesture she passes her right hand across the surface of the desk, and the tan wood changes into what I can only describe as a computer screen.

My mouth falls open. What is this place?

The strange woman taps away for a few moments, moving charts and text on the screen. Then her eyes snap back up to mine.

“Well, Aliya, it looks like you had quite the accident.” Not a flicker of concern or sorrow crosses her face. It seems like she’s just saying what she has to, the way I would imagine a robot conversing. But something else catches my attention.

She actually pronounced my name correctly. Anyone who ever read my name on a piece of paper would pronounce it Ally-ya, and I’d have to correct them – it’s Ally-yuh. Teachers, interviewers, doctors, they’d all say it the same way. Except for this woman.

“How did you know how to pronounce my name?” The combination of nerves and a dry mouth had me choking out the question.

Her eyes widen a tiny bit, perhaps taking in my nervous state, before her benign smile returns as she answers, “That’s how it’s listed in your chart.”

“Oh.” I’m not really sure how to respond to that. This is all becoming too weird for me, and I need to start getting answers.

“Where am I?”

She opens her mouth to answer but freezes. Her eyes dart over to the door and then back to mine. In a sudden transformation her expression breaks into a huge smile, which I assume is supposed to calm me.

“You’re recovering.” She thinks that is supposed to placate me?

“Recovering where?” I press, and her face goes blank yet again, as if she glitched.

“You’re in a healing facility on Callais, though I’m sure that only makes you more confused,” a deeper male voice cuts in from the doorway.

I whip my head to face the door, and in walks what clearly appears to be a doctor. He wears the typical white doctor’s coat, and dark blue scrubs and shoes. His hands are pushed deep into his pockets, his expression a mixture of wariness and exhaustion. He couldn’t be more than forty with a face as clear and perfect as he had, yet his hair was thoroughly salt-and-pepper colored. His light blue eyes were focused on me, but as he entered, they switched to stare at the woman.

“Who are you?” None of what he said made any sense, but he’d given me more of an answer than she did. If there was anyone I should direct my questions to, it was him.

“Jira, you may leave us now,” he brusquely addressed her while ignoring my question.

Jira, still wearing her beatific smile, immediately stands and nods before exiting the room. The man continues over to the desk and sits in the chair. He taps the screen for a few moments, and then looks my way. There’s a new level of focus apparent in his eyes.

“How do you feel?” It was more of a command than a question.

“I’ve already been asked that, and I’m fine. Now who are you?” I couldn’t hide my annoyance from him ignoring my earlier question.

“I’m Doctor Givray,” he replied in a bored tone. “Do you feel any pain? Any unpleasant sensations?”

I’m so done. Sitting upright, I slam my palms into the bed and snap, “That’s not enough! What happened to me? Why was she so weird? Where is Callais, and since when are hospitals called healing facilities?”

None of my shouted questions seem to faze him until the last one. At my mention of hospitals, his eyebrows shot up, and then he dropped his focus to the desk-screen thing and began typing.

“Quite observant,” he mumbled, more to himself than to me.

“Please,” I begged, “I’m scared and confused, and all I want are answers. Real answers.”

Paused, Doctor Givray remained staring at the screen. He sighed and closed his eyes, and then his right hand swept across the desk in the opposite direction that Jira’s had. The screen faded away, and the desk returned to normal.

Placing both palms on the desk, Doctor Givray stood and reopened his eyes to look at me.

“I’ll start with your question about Jira; it’s the easiest to answer,” he began. “She’s a robot, specifically designed to monitor those who are recovering and tend to their needs.”

“A robot?” She looked so normal aside from how smoothly she moved, how unemotional her tone was, and her hesitation in actually answering my questions. “That was the most realistic robot I’ve ever seen…”

Feeling completely normal after the accident, human-like robots, weird desk-computer things… None of it made sense, and I was starting to think that this was a hallucination from pain medication. Thankfully, a hallucination couldn’t hurt me, so I decided to play along.

“Okay, so then what happened to me?”

He sighed as his expression crumbled. There was a sadness in his look that made my stomach sink.

“You would have died had I not acted the way that I did, so please do not begrudge me for my actions.” His words came slowly and full of caution.

“I would have died?” The question came out as a squeak because there suddenly wasn’t enough air in the room. Perhaps this wasn’t a delusion after all.

“Yes,” he sighed, “the trauma from your injuries had all of your organs shutting down, and the other doctors didn’t know what to do.”

He stared me down, daring me to object, but in my gut I felt that it was the truth. The brief memory from the accident was filled with so much pain…

I remained silent out of shock. I would have – should have – died. My face was a frozen mask of horror, and I couldn’t make myself look Doctor Givray in the eye as he made his way to the foot of my bed. He stopped and clasped his hands like he was waiting for me to respond. I still couldn’t remember how to properly breathe, so I remained fixated on the white sheets.

“Are you alright?” He sounded so anxious that I had to force myself to remember how to breathe.

No, I wasn’t alright. First I thought I died, then I thought I was having drug-induced visions. But now… My crash should have killed me. I was dying in a hospital when he found me. Ignoring my mind’s question about how he found me I contemplated my new situation.

Evidently I was somewhere unknown to me where I was “recovering,” as Jira had said. My tensed muscles told me that I felt no pain and everything worked just as I remembered, so clearly I was fully healed. So then am I free to go?

Doctor Givray waited patiently at the foot of my bed while I took it all in.

“So what now?” I hesitantly asked.

“That’s entirely up to you,” he said.

“Up to me? If I’m healed, shouldn’t I be able to go home?” That’s usually the choice in any hospital – oh wait, I reminded myself, it’s called a healing facility.

He paused, and that silence – where there should have been a “yes” – had my eyes zeroing in on his face.

Doctor Givray looked confused, like he was deciding between two choices of equal difficulty. When he finally answered, it was in a whisper, but it registered in my mind like a scream.

“No.”

I felt my control shatter as the full weight of that word hit. My breathing came in gasps and my hands shook in fear.

“Am I being held captive?” I gasped at him.

His face lit up in shock as he put the pieces together.

“No! Absolutely not! You’re not a prisoner here.” He rushed through his words attempting to soothe my panic.

Because I believed the surprise on his face at my question, I accepted his answer as truth. I wasn’t being held against my will. I calmed down slightly, my breathing settling into a near-normal rhythm. But he had more to say.

“You’re just… different now.”

Five: keys tapping, heart pounding.

Four: screaming in the hall.

Three: "Agent! Bomb status? Over."

Two: she had one shot.

One: *password incorrect* "Oh, no..."

I forget

the sound of your voice -

your booming laugh

and loving words.

I forget

the feel of your hand in mine -

always warm and reassuring,

my rock in life's storms.

I forget

how happy we were -

when we were together

and our love knew no bounds.

But I didn't forget

the words you said -

so much anger and hate;

it broke me.

And I didn't forget

your hand on my face -

the slap that rattled my world;

it hurt me.

That happy image of us

forever shattered, never to return.

Perhaps that's why

I don't want to remember.

#poem #forget #remember

My body burns

from his betrayal,

severed limbs,

and being aflame.

I ignore him

calling me "brother."

Dragging along the ground - 

thankfully rocky.

I've always hated sand.

#starwars #maythefourth

breathe in

and hold it.

that pain inside your chest -

expanded, waiting to be let out - 

that's how i feel

each and every day

when i'm too scared

to voice words i want to say.

but i can't.

i hold it in

“Who put salt in the sugar jar?!” the voice boomed through the orphanage.

It was late evening, and the boys were all huddled in their beds. Normally they would be drifting off to sleep, but now they cowered at the rage which was sure to follow the angry voice. Only a small giggle, coming from the very last bed in the room, broke the boys’ silence.

Heads whipped in his direction.

“Why’d you have to go and do that?” “She’s still mad from the last joke you pulled on her!” “Now we’ll all get in trouble!” The voices whined in whispers.

“Oh come now lads, I’m the only one who jokes with her. She’ll know it was me and won’t blame you lot,” he hissed back at them.

At least, he hoped so. The matron always thought he elicited help from others since some of his pranks were quite elaborate, but he was just craftier than she would ever admit.

He always got caught, but her punishments were a small price to pay for the reactions she and the other women working at the orphanage had when they discovered the prank – like when he put rats in the soup pot and the cook thought someone had bewitched the vegetables. His antics made him laugh just as it made the other boys laugh once he was found the culprit.

Here we go again.

“PETER!” she screeched and her footsteps thundered up the stairs toward the bedroom.

“Peter!” James, his best mate, whispered to him, “Go! Don’t let her catch you!”

With a nod Peter tossed back the covers and dashed to the window. Swinging the panes out wide, he took hold of the rope he had previously tied to the drain pipe. Without looking back he started to climb the rope to the roof.

It was a short distance, and his fingers were already grabbing hold of the edge of the roof by the time she stuck her head out the window.

“You get back in here now, or no supper for three days!”

He dangled from the roof by his fingertips but still had the courage to look down and stick his tongue out at her. With an angry hiss she retracted her head and slammed the window shut. He knew he had to move quickly because her next move was to intercept him on the roof.

Peter hoisted himself up, scratching his knees on the tiles that covered the roof. At least it was flat enough for him to run across. And that was critical for his next step in escaping.

He took off across the roof as the roof door opened. Peter knew that she was too slow to catch him, and her screeching proved him right.

“Get back here! Where –,” she gasped as she realized his intent. “PETER NO!”

He ran across the rooftop, marveling at all the stars he could see on this cold night. He knew that it would be dark enough that he had previously memorized the exact two stars he needed to head toward in order to make his escape – onto the roof across the alley.

Second star on the left. Second star on the left. He chanted in his mind as he raced toward the void between the buildings.

With a mighty crow he launched himself into the air. His arms spread wide and he thought to himself, I can fly!

What he had failed to realize was that the night air was so clear that more stars than usual were out. His directional star wasn’t the one he originally planned.

The cold air whipped past him as he plummeted to the ground.

“Is there anything that can be done?” the matron whispered once the doctor emerged from the bedroom.

She had rushed out into the alley as fast as her legs could carry, scooped up Peter, and screamed for a doctor. Now, many hours later, the doctor was giving his diagnosis.

“Sadly, no. The boy is lucky enough to still be breathing after a fall like that…”

“He was always playing games,” she whispered to herself. The guilt had set in immediately although she tried to explain away his actions – it was her fault Peter had tried to jump, and now his broken, unconscious body lay on a bed in a room far away from the other boys. She’d kept them away since bringing Peter inside.

“I don’t know if he will wake. Maybe ever.” His sadness made her guilt worse.

She quietly thanked him and sighed. She had to face the boys, to let them know what happened. She must be as kind as possible – most of them already hated her. Eleven teary, anxious faces waited as she opened the door to their room.

Peter had jumped off the roof. His mind had been broken, so he could be anywhere and nowhere. He was no longer on the roof, but neither was he still on the ground. Oh, Peter. The boy who thought he could fly, and hoped that he would never land.

#peterpan #neverland #twistedtales