We think we’re safe, speaking through software. But we’re not. We’ve already let them in.
ColbyJack: Yum
Wind tugs a curtain, rough as a pair of hands on a boy’s hips. Waiting for a response, trying not to get too excited—plenty of conversations progress to this point only to fizzle out when one’s correspondent gets a better offer—I head for the bathroom.
After peeing—an awkward affair, semi-erect—I stop at the window and breathe deeply. The city is so big. So many people are awake in it. So many monsters. So much harm can befall me.
Not that this is specific to the city. It’d been the same back home, looking out to where farmland ran aground against pine forests. All of it just as crowded with monsters.
Waiting for me when I get back to my phone, that happiest of messages: Album Unlocked.
First photo: Candy Boii naked and hairy in a darkened hallway somewhere. Mouth slack with what looks like hunger.
Second photo: a human male, extremely dead. Headless; impeccable pecs; three lovely star tattoos; a black cavity wide open below the rib cage. Arms folded in; fingers curled oddly gracefully. Grasping nothingness.
Third photo: Candy Boii standing between two pine trees, pointing at three letters carved into one.
Fourth photo: a selfie of Candy Boii fucking some fit thing—impeccable pecs; extremely alive; three star tattoos on his side.
What the fuck dude, I want to type. You sick fucking fuck, I try to say.
Candy Boii: You like
My fingers freeze, unable to tap a single letter.
Candy Boii: Come get some of this
I know I should call the cops, help stop this evil motherfucker. But fear overwhelms outrage, anger, concern for my fellow man. I block him, I log out, turn off my phone, go to the bathroom to try to throw up.
The pine trees are what fuck me up the worst. That’s how I know this is no poseur trying to freak strangers out with gory photos from the Dark Web, or garden-variety human murderer.
The initials carved into the tree were mine. I’d done it myself, when I was fifteen, and I’d never told a soul about it.
I uninstall the app. Spend another half hour on the bathroom floor.
Weeks go by, before I have the strength—or the horniness—to download and open up that app again. No sign of Candy Boii, but I’d blocked him so of course there wouldn’t be.
Unless he’s using a different name. A different face.
He could be any of these boys.
He’s out there still. I know he is. Sometimes, mid-brunch, between hilarious sex app stories, I wonder which of my friends have hit him up. What he showed them. What little cracks it opened up in them.
We focus on the wrong fears. The man who might chain you up and torture you to death, or inject you with something unspeakable, or have a perfectly pleasant time but then come back later to rob and maybe murder you. As long as we stay alive, unharmed—as long as we can walk away—we think: we’re fine.
The real danger is how we open ourselves up. What we let in, when we believe ourselves to be safe. We let them in. Like Klingon Birds-of-Prey, which can’t fire when cloaked, we must drop all our defenses before we can engage. Once Candy Boii broke me open with a pine tree photo, I could see how it had been happening all along. How, long before that warm wet May night, even the most banal chats had been planting seeds beneath my skin. So many unsolicited glimpses into the harrowed, salted soil of the human heart. The boy who’d been fucked by fifteen men in six meth- assisted hours, thirsty for one more. The guy whose username was I’m Lonely, which ruined my whole day. I’ve heard hundreds of terror tales, had countless creepy close calls, and I can say with certainty that there is nothing scarier than a close-up shot of another human being’s brokenness.
The Unhaunting
KEVIN NGUYEN
I
After Priscilla died, Carson’s only hope was that he’d be haunted. She’d left this world suddenly—a heart attack, as if to spite her perfect health, as if the world were conspiring to make Carson tragically miserable.
Once she was in the ground, Carson waited alone in the bedroom they had shared for three and a half years. He wasn’t sure how Priscilla’s presence would manifest itself. Perhaps a movement in the dark, maybe a breeze that would rustle the sheets. Or an astral projection? Carson missed his beloved so much that he would’ve been satisfied with a cold shudder, the feeling that she had passed through him.
The first night, Carson lay awake, anxious, in the hope Priscilla would make an appearance. But each painful minute gave way to morning, and Carson was left feeling disappointed, even a bit angry. No matter. She would materialize on the second night, he thought. That turned out to be wishful thinking, as the days went on, a week passed, and Carson remained unhaunted. Where had Priscilla gone? What was Carson doing wrong? He decided to google it.
It turned out there were a great number of things that Carson could have been doing wrong. A subreddit about interactions with the afterlife, r/haunts, was full of tips and tricks and hacks, none of which were particularly consistent. One user recommended incense, another suggested candles (not lavender), but everyone agreed it helped to burn something. There were varying opinions on the effectiveness of incantations—some felt the words could be powerful forms of summoning, others found it useful just as a means of maintaining focus.
Still, Carson practiced the easiest of rituals. Lights always off, of course. Open windows, Reddit advised, allowed spirits to enter more easily. It was cold out, but Carson was more than happy to bundle up to heighten his odds. A YouTube tutorial also had a handful of ideas, like spreading dirt on the floor to make the room feel “more earthy.” Certain patterns for candles (not lavender!) should attract specters with more ease.
