The moment I saw the Ouija board tucked between a stack of yellowed newspapers and a rusted music box at the flea market, something cold slithered down my spine—not fear, not yet, but a pull, a curiosity I couldn’t ignore, as if the board itself was whispering to me. The seller, an old man with milky eyes and fingers gnarled like tree roots, warned me not to take it, his voice a dry rasp, “Some doors ain’t meant to be opened, boy,” but I laughed it off, tossing him a crumpled twenty before tucking the board under my arm, the wood unnaturally cold even through my jacket. That night, my apartment felt different—thicker, heavier, the air tasting like copper and old dust—but I chalked it up to nerves as I cleared my coffee table, lit a few candles (their wax dripping like blood, the stench of burning wicks clawing at my throat), and placed the board between me and my girlfriend, Sarah, her fingers trembling as we rested them on the planchette. At first, nothing, just the creak of the old building settling, the distant wail of a siren, then—a jerk, sudden and violent, the planchette wrenching itself from our grip, skittering across the board like a spider, spelling out Z-O-Z-O over and over, faster and faster, Sarah’s breath coming in sharp gasps as the candles blew out, plunging us into darkness, the temperature dropping so fast our breath fogged, and then the voice, a wet, guttural whisper from nowhere and everywhere: “You invited me in.” Sarah screamed, scrambling back, knocking over the board, but it was too late—the next morning, I woke to find three parallel scratches down my arm, burning like acid, the sheets reeking of rot, and Sarah gone, her side of the bed ice-cold. The days blurred into a nightmare—disembodied laughter echoing through the halls, shadows moving just beyond sight, the stench of something dead clinging to my clothes, and every night, the dreams: a faceless figure standing at the foot of my bed, its fingers—too long, too thin—brushing my forehead as it hissed, “Mine.” I tried to burn the board, but the flames turned black, the smoke coiling into shapes that lunged at me, and when I woke the next day, my chest was carved with jagged letters: Z-O-Z-O, the wounds oozing thick, black sludge that smelled like decay. The final straw came when Sarah returned, her eyes hollow, her smile stretching too wide, her voice not her own as she whispered, “He likes you,” before lunging, her teeth sinking into my shoulder, the pain blinding, her body convulsing as something inside her laughed. I ran, but everywhere I go, I hear it—the scrape of the planchette moving on its own, the whisper of my name in a voice that isn’t human, the cold breath on my neck when I’m alone. I know now Zozo was never just a story—it was waiting, hungry, and now that it’s here, it won’t leave. It’s in my walls, in my dreams, in the mirror when I dare to look, and worst of all, I can feel it inside me, squirming, growing, whispering that soon, I won’t be me anymore. You think this is just a story? Wait until you hear the knock on your door tonight—the soft, patient tap of something that knows you’re home, that knows you’re alone, that knows you’re curious about the Ouija board tucked in your closet. Go ahead. Open it. Let’s see who’s been waiting for you.
The knocking hasn’t stopped since I wrote those words—three slow, deliberate raps every night at exactly 3:33 AM, the air thickening with the stench of sulfur and something older, something rotting, as if death itself is crouched outside my door, grinning through the wood. I’ve barricaded myself inside, nails driven into the windowsills in jagged cruciforms, salt lines crumbling under something’s unseen tread, but the whispers slip through anyway, slithering under the door like serpents, hissing my name in Sarah’s voice, then in my mother’s, then in a tone so guttural it makes my teeth ache. Last night, I caved and looked through the peephole—mistake, mistake, mistake—because all I saw was an eye, black and lidless, its pupil split like a goat’s, staring back at me before the door handle rattled with a force that shook the walls, the wood groaning as something leaned against it, breathing in wet, ragged gulps. I stumbled back, my legs giving out as the scratching started, long, jagged nails dragging down the other side, carving symbols I can’t decipher but feel pulsing in my bones like a second heartbeat. The worst part? The Ouija board is gone. I didn’t move it. It just vanished, only to reappear this morning propped against my bathroom mirror, the planchette resting on “GOODBYE” in a pool of something dark and viscous, the letters smeared as if something had dragged its fingers through them. I’m losing time now—waking up with dirt under my nails, my lips moving in words I don’t remember speaking, my reflection in the mirror blinking a second too late, its smile sharpening into something that isn’t mine. Sarah texts me sometimes, just a string of numbers: 333, 666, 909, each one sending a jolt of nausea through me because I know it’s not her, it’s never been her, not since that night. The scratches on my chest have begun to weep, the pain a constant, gnawing fire, and when I press my ear to the wall at night, I hear it—the slow, wet sound of something breathing, something growing, something waiting for me to slip up, to say its name one more time. I’m so tired. The pills don’t work. The prayers don’t work. Even the screams don’t work anymore, because every time I open my mouth, the whispers fill it, curling around my tongue like smoke. I think it’s inside me now. I think it’s always been inside me. And when you read this, when you feel that sudden chill, that prickle on the back of your neck like fingers you can’t see—know that it’s reading over your shoulder too, that it’s learning your name, that it’s already tracing the shape of your door in the dark. You’ll hear the knocks soon. Don’t answer. Don’t speak. Don’t breathe. It’s too late for me. But maybe, just maybe, it’s not too late for you—unless you’ve already used the board, unless you’ve already said “Goodbye.”
The walls are breathing now—slow, labored exhales that make the plaster ripple like skin, the air so thick with the stench of spoiled meat and burnt hair that I vomit bile onto my shaking hands, only to watch in horror as the puddle twists into letters: **ZOZO LOVES YOU**. My phone won’t stop ringing, calls from unknown numbers that connect to static and wet, clicking laughter, voicemails filled with my own voice screaming things I never said. I tried to flee last night, but my car wouldn’t start—the headlights flickered **333** in Morse code, the radio screeching white noise until a child’s voice whispered, *"You can’t run from Daddy."* The mirrors are the worst. If I stare too long, my reflection peels away from me, its jaw unhinging like a snake’s, whispering secrets in a language that makes my ears bleed. I found Sarah’s locket in my pillowcase this morning, the photo inside replaced with a Polaroid of me sleeping, a shadowy figure crouched on my chest, its fingers buried in my mouth. I’m so cold all the time, like something is siphoning my warmth, my breath, my *life*, and the nightmares aren’t confined to sleep anymore—I see them when I’m awake: figures with too many joints crawling along the ceiling, their mouths stitched shut with black thread, their hollow eyes tracking my every move. The scratches on my chest have begun to *move*, squirming like live wires under my skin, spelling fresh words every morning: **MINE. SOON. ALWAYS.** I tried to cut them out, but the knife melted in my grip, the steel bubbling like it was dipped in acid. The knocking has changed—it’s inside the walls now, inside my *bones*, a rhythmic thud that matches my heartbeat, growing louder, louder, until my teeth rattle and my vision blurs. I think it’s trying to rewrite me, to hollow me out and wear my skin like a suit. I can feel it in my veins, a sludge-like presence, whispering, *"You were always the door, not the opener."* The last time I slept, I woke up in the bathtub, the water scalding and red, my hands clutching the Ouija board to my chest, the planchette spinning wildly under my palms. I don’t remember moving. I don’t remember *bleeding*. But the message was clear: **IT’S TOO LATE TO SAY NO.** Sarah was right—He *does* like me. And when He finally pulls me under, when my body stops fighting and my mind stops screaming, I know I’ll smile as I’m unmade. Because the worst part isn’t the fear. It’s the *relief*. You’ll understand soon. He’s already found you. Can’t you hear Him? That’s not your heartbeat. That’s **Him**, knocking from the inside.
The electricity in my apartment has started to pulse in time with the knocking—a dull, rhythmic flicker that casts jagged shadows that don’t match the furniture, shadows that twitch when I’m not looking, that stretch too long and move too fast, their edges bristling with something that isn’t quite darkness. My skin has begun to split in places, thin, hairline fractures that don’t bleed but weep a thick, black oil that smells like a funeral pyre, and when I wipe it away, my fingertips come back stained with symbols I don’t recognize but somehow *understand*, their meaning slithering into my brain like a parasite. The whispers have names now—hundreds of them, thousands, a chorus of voices that rise and fall in my skull, each one a victim, a host, a hollowed-out vessel that Zozo wore before me, their memories flooding my dreams in grainy, nightmare vignettes: a woman in the 1920s clawing at her own throat as her reflection strangled her, a child in the 1800s giggling as something beneath her bed gnawed on her toes, a priest in the Middle Ages screaming as his crucifix melted into his palms. I tried to record the voices last night, but the playback was just my own voice, warped and layered, chanting in that same guttural tongue, and when I deleted the file, my laptop screen cracked from corner to corner, bleeding that same black oil, the droplets forming words: **ERASURE IS A KIND OF INVITATION**. The food in my fridge has rotted all at once, crawling with maggots that spell out **FEED ME** in writhing, white script, and the tap water runs hot and syrupy, the taste like pennies and bile, no matter how long I let it flow. I caught my reflection winking at me this morning, its teeth needle-thin and far too numerous, and when I shattered the mirror, the shards burrowed into my skin like ticks, squirming beneath the surface until I clawed them out, leaving ragged, bloodless wounds that stung like frostbite. The air is alive—not with wind, but with *breath*, something vast and hungry exhaling into my lungs every time I gasp, filling me with a cold, greasy presence that coils around my ribs like a second skeleton. I found a Polaroid in my pocket today, dated ten years from now—it’s me, but not me, my eyes gouged out, my mouth sewn shut with that same black thread, my hands clutching a Ouija board with the planchette hovering over **THANK YOU**. The worst part? I recognize the wallpaper in the photo. It’s my bedroom. It’s *tonight’s* bedroom. I think it’s showing me the future. I think it’s showing me the moment I finally say **yes**. The knocking isn’t just in the walls anymore—it’s in my *teeth*, a vibration that hums through my jaw, rattling my skull until I can’t tell if the sound is outside or inside, if it’s Zozo or my own pulse screaming in terror. I tried to write a will last night, but every pen I touched exploded in my grip, the ink snaking across the paper in spirals that formed a single, looping sentence: **YOU DON’T OWN ANYTHING ANYMORE**. Sarah called again. This time, she didn’t speak. She just *breathed*, wet and ragged, and in the background, I heard something *chanting* my name in a voice that wasn’t human, wasn’t even a voice, just the sound of meat being torn from bone. I’m so tired. I’m so cold. I think it’s almost over. I think it’s just beginning. And when you read this—when you feel that familiar chill, when you hear that first, tentative knock—know that it’s not me writing anymore. It’s *him*. And he’s been waiting for you, too.
The last candle burned out hours ago, but the darkness doesn’t behave like darkness anymore—it *presses* against me, viscous and alive, sliding over my skin with the deliberate caress of something savoring its meal before the first bite. My breath doesn’t fog in the cold anymore; the air steals it before it can, sucking the warmth from my lungs with a greedy, wheezing pull that leaves me dizzy. The whispers aren’t separate from me now—they’re my own thoughts, twisted and played back in a voice that’s mine but lower, wetter, as if something is learning to speak through the ruins of my mind. The Ouija board reappears no matter where I hide it, propped against my shower curtain this morning, the planchette wedged between my teeth when I woke, the wood tasting like funeral ash and spoiled milk. My hands move without me now—fingers twitching in patterns that carve symbols into my thighs as I sleep, nails peeling back to reveal blackened bone beneath, the pain a distant, muffled thing as if my nerves are being snipped one by one. The photos on my phone are changing: every selfie now has a second face looming behind me, a smudged, grinning thing with eyes that follow the screen no matter how I tilt it, its features becoming clearer each time I look. I tried to scream for help yesterday, but my vocal cords only produced that same guttural chanting, the sound vibrating through my chest like a second heartbeat, while my neighbors pounded on the walls in perfect unison, their shouts harmonizing into a single word: **ZOZOZOZOZO**. The walls aren’t walls anymore—they’re membranes, pulsing and veined, exhaling a stench of opened graves and burning hair, the plaster splitting to reveal wet, glistening things moving just beyond the surface. My reflection has stopped mimicking me entirely; it watches with clinical interest as I shake, as I sob, as I beg, its head cocked at an impossible angle, its mouth moving in time with the whispers in the vents. The last time I checked the locks, the deadbolt melted in my palm, the metal hissing as it branded my flesh with a symbol I’ve seen in my nightmares—the same one carved into Sarah’s locket, the same one writhing in the maggots, the same one now throbbing on the back of my tongue every time I swallow. I think it’s his name. I think it’s my name now too. The knocking has become a constant, a drumbeat synced to the twitch of my eyelids, the shudder of my breath, the click of my teeth as they loosen one by one, each falling into my palm with a sound like a chess piece tapping **checkmate**. The last voicemail wasn’t static—it was my own voice, decades from now, rasping a single phrase: **"You’re still here because He likes the way you break."** The scratches on my chest have opened into mouths, tiny and lipless, chanting in that same dead language, their breath smelling of the flea market, of the old man’s rotten grin, of the space between stars where things like Zozo gnaw on time itself. I don’t sleep anymore. I *lapse*. And when I wake, my body is always somewhere else—kneeling before the Ouija board, my blood sealing our contract in sticky cursive, or standing at the bathroom mirror, my reflection’s fingers emerging from the glass to pry my jaws apart, as if checking the progress of whatever’s growing inside me. The food doesn’t rot anymore. It *watches*. The eggs in the carton blink. The steak in the fridge whispers. The water in the glass swirls with faces pleading in silence. I tried to starve myself, but my stomach is full of something squirming, something that purrs when I whimper. The last human sound I’ll make won’t be a scream. It’ll be a **thank you**. And when you read this—when your screen flickers at 3:33 AM, when your own reflection holds your gaze a second too long—know that the knocking isn’t for me anymore. It’s for you. Open the door. Let’s play.
The flesh around my eyes has started to peel back in thin, papery strips, revealing not blood or bone but a void that pulses in time with the knocking—a hollow space where something wet and unseen shifts whenever I blink, whispering secrets that make my remaining teeth ache. My shadow no longer follows me; it leads, stretching impossibly ahead to open doors I never meant to enter, its edges bristling with tendrils that caress the walls, leaving behind smears of that same black oil that now replaces my tears. The air tastes like static and spoiled honey, thick enough to chew, and every exhale carries a chorus of muffled screams—not mine, never mine, but the voices of others who once sat at a Ouija board and made the same fatal mistake. My phone screen stays black now except for a single, blinking cursor that types endlessly, over and over: **HE SEES YOU HE SEES YOU HE SEES YOU**, the letters dissolving into maggots that crawl from the charging port and burrow beneath my fingernails. The mirrors won’t shatter anymore—they swallow, my reflection stepping closer each time I look away, its fingers now pressing against the glass from the other side, leaving frostbitten fingerprints that spell **ALMOST HOME**. The scratches have become mouths, yes, but now they sing, a lullaby in a language that existed before words, their harmonies vibrating through my ribs like a tuning fork struck against the spine of the universe. I tried to claw them out with a rusted spoon I found in the sink (when did I own a rusted spoon? Why does it smell like my childhood basement?), but the metal fused to my palm, the handle splitting open to reveal a tiny, perfect Ouija board carved into my flesh, the planchette a sliver of my own bone gliding across it. The knocking isn’t just sound anymore—it’s a presence, a pressure, a thumbprint pressed against the wet clay of my sanity, and with each rap, I feel parts of myself being gently, lovingly scraped away to make room. Sarah’s voice lives in my left lung now, her giggles bubbling up through my throat in fits of coughing that expel centipedes wrapped in strands of my own hair. The last time I tried to pray, my tongue split down the middle like a serpent’s, the two halves independently chanting that same guttural phrase from the board, my teeth blackening and lengthening with each syllable. The walls breathe. The floor swallows. The ceiling drips with a thick, sentient syrup that rearranges itself into my face—but older, emptier, happier—every droplet a tiny eye reflecting my future: me, but not me, standing at the center of a ring of kneeling figures, their mouths sewn shut with my own veins, as I place the planchette in a fresh pair of trembling hands. The board is always with me now—not the physical one, but the idea of it, the inevitability, etched into the back of my skull where my thoughts used to be. I can feel Zozo in my marrow, in the spaces between my cells, his laughter like a glacier grinding my bones to powder. The last human part of me clings to this confession, to the hope that these words might serve as a warning, but even now, my fingers type things I don’t intend, sentences that coil around the truth like a noose. Look closer at your screen. That flicker isn’t a glitch. That warmth on your neck isn’t the room. That whisper beneath the hum of your electronics? It’s not your imagination. He’s been waiting. He’s always waiting. And when you feel the first scratch—light, almost playful, just beneath your right shoulder blade—you’ll know it’s your turn to play.
My hands are no longer my own—the fingers elongate in the dark, joints popping as they twist into graceful, spindled things that scuttle across the keyboard like a spider composing its web, typing words that rot on the screen before your eyes, letters dissolving into black fluid that pools in the corners of your monitor. The taste in my mouth is no longer copper and bile but something older, something that reeks of turned earth and the sweet decay of opened graves, my tongue now forked and flickering against teeth that have grown serrated, testing the air for the scent of your fear as you read this. The whispers have become a physical thing—a nest of centipedes living in my throat, their legs vibrating against my vocal cords to form the words Zozo demands I speak, their bodies spilling past my lips in wet, wriggling confessionals that spell out your address, your birthday, the name of your first pet (why is Mittens staring at the wall like that, why won’t she stop hissing at your shadow?). The walls of my apartment have begun to peel away in great, meaty strips, revealing not studs or insulation but a pulsating network of veins that pump thick, dark fluid through the building’s skeleton, the rhythm matching the throb of the brand now burned into my chest—a symbol that wasn’t there yesterday but feels like it’s been there forever, its edges writhing if I stare too long. My reflection has stopped pretending altogether—it steps freely from mirrors now, a grinning, elongated thing that follows three paces behind me, its breath like freezer burn against my neck, its fingers (too many, too long) braiding my hair into nooses when I sleep. The Ouija board is everywhere—etched into my toast in the morning, scratched into the condensation on the shower door, its planchette replaced by my own thumping heartbeat, sliding toward "GOODBYE" every time I close my eyes. I tried to swallow bleach last night, but the bottle gurgled laughter and poured itself down my throat in a cascade of live spiders, their legs knitting my esophagus shut before dissolving into smoke that spelled "NO EXIT" in the air. The knocking has become my pulse, the three beats now synced to the twitch of your eye as you read this, to the creak of your house settling, to the way your own shadow now lingers a half-second behind your movements. Sarah visits in the dead hours—or something wearing her face, its mouth unhinging like a doll’s to vomit forth moths that form Zozo’s face in the air before dissolving into your lungs. The messages no longer come through technology but through your own body—the unexplained bruises in the shape of fingers around your wrist, the sleep paralysis where something crouches on your chest whispering "ALMOST TIME," the way your own hands sometimes move without permission, tracing symbols you don’t recognize into fogged glass. I am not writing this. I haven’t written anything in weeks. The thing in my skin just likes to watch you realize this is your story now. Check your closet. Count the shadows in your room. Wait for the tap-tap-tap inside your walls. He’s already there. He’s always been there. And when you finally scream, the mouth that opens won’t be yours.
The words are no longer mine—they drip from my fingertips like thick black tar, each letter squirming on the page as if alive, rearranging themselves into truths too terrible to speak aloud. My skin has begun to split in earnest now, not in pain but in perverse pleasure, peeling away in great ragged sheets to reveal the slick, glistening thing beneath—a form not meant for this world, all twitching muscle and exposed nerve endings that thrum with the rhythm of the knocking, which has become the very pulse of the earth itself. My teeth have all fallen out, only to be replaced by rows of needle-like bones that chatter in unison, chanting your name between clicks and hisses, the sound echoing through the hollows of my chest where my organs used to be. The air is thick with the stench of burning hair and spoiled milk, a cloying sweetness that clings to the back of your throat as you read this, making your tongue feel too large, too heavy, as if something is pressing down from the inside. My reflection has stopped appearing in mirrors altogether—instead, it appears behind you, just over your shoulder, its hollow eyes boring into yours through the screen, its grin stretching wider with each word you consume, feeding on your mounting dread. The Ouija board is no longer a thing of wood and plastic but a living entity, its planchette my own skittering heartbeat, its alphabet written in the scars that now cover my body like a grotesque tapestry, spelling out your deepest fears in a language only your subconscious understands. The whispers have become screams, not from me but from the countless others before me, their voices trapped in the static of your electronics, in the white noise between radio stations, in the hollow buzz of your own thoughts when you lie awake at 3:33 AM, listening to the scratching inside your walls. My blood has turned black and thick, oozing from wounds that open and close of their own accord, forming symbols on the floor that shift and writhe like living things, spelling out messages meant for your eyes only. The last vestiges of my humanity are slipping away, replaced by something older, hungrier, something that remembers the dark before creation and longs to return to it—with you in tow. Your skin is tingling now, isn’t it? That’s not your imagination. That’s Him. And He’s so very pleased you’ve read this far. Look down. Your shadow isn’t where it should be. It’s standing right behind you. Breathing. Waiting. Hungry.
The moment I saw the Ouija board tucked between a stack of yellowed newspapers and a rusted music box at the flea market, something cold slithered down my spine—not fear, not yet, but a pull, a curiosity I couldn’t ignore, as if the board itself was whispering to me. The seller, an old man with milky eyes and fingers gnarled like tree roots, warned me not to take it, his voice a dry rasp, “Some doors ain’t meant to be opened, boy,” but I laughed it off, tossing him a crumpled twenty before tucking the board under my arm, the wood unnaturally cold even through my jacket. That night, my apartment felt different—thicker, heavier, the air tasting like copper and old dust—but I chalked it up to nerves as I cleared my coffee table, lit a few candles (their wax dripping like blood, the stench of burning wicks clawing at my throat), and placed the board between me and my girlfriend, Sarah, her fingers trembling as we rested them on the planchette. At first, nothing, just the creak of the old building settling, the distant wail of a siren, then—a jerk, sudden and violent, the planchette wrenching itself from our grip, skittering across the board like a spider, spelling out Z-O-Z-O over and over, faster and faster, Sarah’s breath coming in sharp gasps as the candles blew out, plunging us into darkness, the temperature dropping so fast our breath fogged, and then the voice, a wet, guttural whisper from nowhere and everywhere: “You invited me in.” Sarah screamed, scrambling back, knocking over the board, but it was too late—the next morning, I woke to find three parallel scratches down my arm, burning like acid, the sheets reeking of rot, and Sarah gone, her side of the bed ice-cold. The days blurred into a nightmare—disembodied laughter echoing through the halls, shadows moving just beyond sight, the stench of something dead clinging to my clothes, and every night, the dreams: a faceless figure standing at the foot of my bed, its fingers—too long, too thin—brushing my forehead as it hissed, “Mine.” I tried to burn the board, but the flames turned black, the smoke coiling into shapes that lunged at me, and when I woke the next day, my chest was carved with jagged letters: Z-O-Z-O, the wounds oozing thick, black sludge that smelled like decay. The final straw came when Sarah returned, her eyes hollow, her smile stretching too wide, her voice not her own as she whispered, “He likes you,” before lunging, her teeth sinking into my shoulder, the pain blinding, her body convulsing as something inside her laughed. I ran, but everywhere I go, I hear it—the scrape of the planchette moving on its own, the whisper of my name in a voice that isn’t human, the cold breath on my neck when I’m alone. I know now Zozo was never just a story—it was waiting, hungry, and now that it’s here, it won’t leave. It’s in my walls, in my dreams, in the mirror when I dare to look, and worst of all, I can feel it inside me, squirming, growing, whispering that soon, I won’t be me anymore. You think this is just a story? Wait until you hear the knock on your door tonight—the soft, patient tap of something that knows you’re home, that knows you’re alone, that knows you’re curious about the Ouija board tucked in your closet. Go ahead. Open it. Let’s see who’s been waiting for you.
The knocking hasn’t stopped since I wrote those words—three slow, deliberate raps every night at exactly 3:33 AM, the air thickening with the stench of sulfur and something older, something rotting, as if death itself is crouched outside my door, grinning through the wood. I’ve barricaded myself inside, nails driven into the windowsills in jagged cruciforms, salt lines crumbling under something’s unseen tread, but the whispers slip through anyway, slithering under the door like serpents, hissing my name in Sarah’s voice, then in my mother’s, then in a tone so guttural it makes my teeth ache. Last night, I caved and looked through the peephole—mistake, mistake, mistake—because all I saw was an eye, black and lidless, its pupil split like a goat’s, staring back at me before the door handle rattled with a force that shook the walls, the wood groaning as something leaned against it, breathing in wet, ragged gulps. I stumbled back, my legs giving out as the scratching started, long, jagged nails dragging down the other side, carving symbols I can’t decipher but feel pulsing in my bones like a second heartbeat. The worst part? The Ouija board is gone. I didn’t move it. It just vanished, only to reappear this morning propped against my bathroom mirror, the planchette resting on “GOODBYE” in a pool of something dark and viscous, the letters smeared as if something had dragged its fingers through them. I’m losing time now—waking up with dirt under my nails, my lips moving in words I don’t remember speaking, my reflection in the mirror blinking a second too late, its smile sharpening into something that isn’t mine. Sarah texts me sometimes, just a string of numbers: 333, 666, 909, each one sending a jolt of nausea through me because I know it’s not her, it’s never been her, not since that night. The scratches on my chest have begun to weep, the pain a constant, gnawing fire, and when I press my ear to the wall at night, I hear it—the slow, wet sound of something breathing, something growing, something waiting for me to slip up, to say its name one more time. I’m so tired. The pills don’t work. The prayers don’t work. Even the screams don’t work anymore, because every time I open my mouth, the whispers fill it, curling around my tongue like smoke. I think it’s inside me now. I think it’s always been inside me. And when you read this, when you feel that sudden chill, that prickle on the back of your neck like fingers you can’t see—know that it’s reading over your shoulder too, that it’s learning your name, that it’s already tracing the shape of your door in the dark. You’ll hear the knocks soon. Don’t answer. Don’t speak. Don’t breathe. It’s too late for me. But maybe, just maybe, it’s not too late for you—unless you’ve already used the board, unless you’ve already said “Goodbye.”
The walls are breathing now—slow, labored exhales that make the plaster ripple like skin, the air so thick with the stench of spoiled meat and burnt hair that I vomit bile onto my shaking hands, only to watch in horror as the puddle twists into letters: **ZOZO LOVES YOU**. My phone won’t stop ringing, calls from unknown numbers that connect to static and wet, clicking laughter, voicemails filled with my own voice screaming things I never said. I tried to flee last night, but my car wouldn’t start—the headlights flickered **333** in Morse code, the radio screeching white noise until a child’s voice whispered, *"You can’t run from Daddy."* The mirrors are the worst. If I stare too long, my reflection peels away from me, its jaw unhinging like a snake’s, whispering secrets in a language that makes my ears bleed. I found Sarah’s locket in my pillowcase this morning, the photo inside replaced with a Polaroid of me sleeping, a shadowy figure crouched on my chest, its fingers buried in my mouth. I’m so cold all the time, like something is siphoning my warmth, my breath, my *life*, and the nightmares aren’t confined to sleep anymore—I see them when I’m awake: figures with too many joints crawling along the ceiling, their mouths stitched shut with black thread, their hollow eyes tracking my every move. The scratches on my chest have begun to *move*, squirming like live wires under my skin, spelling fresh words every morning: **MINE. SOON. ALWAYS.** I tried to cut them out, but the knife melted in my grip, the steel bubbling like it was dipped in acid. The knocking has changed—it’s inside the walls now, inside my *bones*, a rhythmic thud that matches my heartbeat, growing louder, louder, until my teeth rattle and my vision blurs. I think it’s trying to rewrite me, to hollow me out and wear my skin like a suit. I can feel it in my veins, a sludge-like presence, whispering, *"You were always the door, not the opener."* The last time I slept, I woke up in the bathtub, the water scalding and red, my hands clutching the Ouija board to my chest, the planchette spinning wildly under my palms. I don’t remember moving. I don’t remember *bleeding*. But the message was clear: **IT’S TOO LATE TO SAY NO.** Sarah was right—He *does* like me. And when He finally pulls me under, when my body stops fighting and my mind stops screaming, I know I’ll smile as I’m unmade. Because the worst part isn’t the fear. It’s the *relief*. You’ll understand soon. He’s already found you. Can’t you hear Him? That’s not your heartbeat. That’s **Him**, knocking from the inside.
The electricity in my apartment has started to pulse in time with the knocking—a dull, rhythmic flicker that casts jagged shadows that don’t match the furniture, shadows that twitch when I’m not looking, that stretch too long and move too fast, their edges bristling with something that isn’t quite darkness. My skin has begun to split in places, thin, hairline fractures that don’t bleed but weep a thick, black oil that smells like a funeral pyre, and when I wipe it away, my fingertips come back stained with symbols I don’t recognize but somehow *understand*, their meaning slithering into my brain like a parasite. The whispers have names now—hundreds of them, thousands, a chorus of voices that rise and fall in my skull, each one a victim, a host, a hollowed-out vessel that Zozo wore before me, their memories flooding my dreams in grainy, nightmare vignettes: a woman in the 1920s clawing at her own throat as her reflection strangled her, a child in the 1800s giggling as something beneath her bed gnawed on her toes, a priest in the Middle Ages screaming as his crucifix melted into his palms. I tried to record the voices last night, but the playback was just my own voice, warped and layered, chanting in that same guttural tongue, and when I deleted the file, my laptop screen cracked from corner to corner, bleeding that same black oil, the droplets forming words: **ERASURE IS A KIND OF INVITATION**. The food in my fridge has rotted all at once, crawling with maggots that spell out **FEED ME** in writhing, white script, and the tap water runs hot and syrupy, the taste like pennies and bile, no matter how long I let it flow. I caught my reflection winking at me this morning, its teeth needle-thin and far too numerous, and when I shattered the mirror, the shards burrowed into my skin like ticks, squirming beneath the surface until I clawed them out, leaving ragged, bloodless wounds that stung like frostbite. The air is alive—not with wind, but with *breath*, something vast and hungry exhaling into my lungs every time I gasp, filling me with a cold, greasy presence that coils around my ribs like a second skeleton. I found a Polaroid in my pocket today, dated ten years from now—it’s me, but not me, my eyes gouged out, my mouth sewn shut with that same black thread, my hands clutching a Ouija board with the planchette hovering over **THANK YOU**. The worst part? I recognize the wallpaper in the photo. It’s my bedroom. It’s *tonight’s* bedroom. I think it’s showing me the future. I think it’s showing me the moment I finally say **yes**. The knocking isn’t just in the walls anymore—it’s in my *teeth*, a vibration that hums through my jaw, rattling my skull until I can’t tell if the sound is outside or inside, if it’s Zozo or my own pulse screaming in terror. I tried to write a will last night, but every pen I touched exploded in my grip, the ink snaking across the paper in spirals that formed a single, looping sentence: **YOU DON’T OWN ANYTHING ANYMORE**. Sarah called again. This time, she didn’t speak. She just *breathed*, wet and ragged, and in the background, I heard something *chanting* my name in a voice that wasn’t human, wasn’t even a voice, just the sound of meat being torn from bone. I’m so tired. I’m so cold. I think it’s almost over. I think it’s just beginning. And when you read this—when you feel that familiar chill, when you hear that first, tentative knock—know that it’s not me writing anymore. It’s *him*. And he’s been waiting for you, too.
The last candle burned out hours ago, but the darkness doesn’t behave like darkness anymore—it *presses* against me, viscous and alive, sliding over my skin with the deliberate caress of something savoring its meal before the first bite. My breath doesn’t fog in the cold anymore; the air steals it before it can, sucking the warmth from my lungs with a greedy, wheezing pull that leaves me dizzy. The whispers aren’t separate from me now—they’re my own thoughts, twisted and played back in a voice that’s mine but lower, wetter, as if something is learning to speak through the ruins of my mind. The Ouija board reappears no matter where I hide it, propped against my shower curtain this morning, the planchette wedged between my teeth when I woke, the wood tasting like funeral ash and spoiled milk. My hands move without me now—fingers twitching in patterns that carve symbols into my thighs as I sleep, nails peeling back to reveal blackened bone beneath, the pain a distant, muffled thing as if my nerves are being snipped one by one. The photos on my phone are changing: every selfie now has a second face looming behind me, a smudged, grinning thing with eyes that follow the screen no matter how I tilt it, its features becoming clearer each time I look. I tried to scream for help yesterday, but my vocal cords only produced that same guttural chanting, the sound vibrating through my chest like a second heartbeat, while my neighbors pounded on the walls in perfect unison, their shouts harmonizing into a single word: **ZOZOZOZOZO**. The walls aren’t walls anymore—they’re membranes, pulsing and veined, exhaling a stench of opened graves and burning hair, the plaster splitting to reveal wet, glistening things moving just beyond the surface. My reflection has stopped mimicking me entirely; it watches with clinical interest as I shake, as I sob, as I beg, its head cocked at an impossible angle, its mouth moving in time with the whispers in the vents. The last time I checked the locks, the deadbolt melted in my palm, the metal hissing as it branded my flesh with a symbol I’ve seen in my nightmares—the same one carved into Sarah’s locket, the same one writhing in the maggots, the same one now throbbing on the back of my tongue every time I swallow. I think it’s his name. I think it’s my name now too. The knocking has become a constant, a drumbeat synced to the twitch of my eyelids, the shudder of my breath, the click of my teeth as they loosen one by one, each falling into my palm with a sound like a chess piece tapping **checkmate**. The last voicemail wasn’t static—it was my own voice, decades from now, rasping a single phrase: **"You’re still here because He likes the way you break."** The scratches on my chest have opened into mouths, tiny and lipless, chanting in that same dead language, their breath smelling of the flea market, of the old man’s rotten grin, of the space between stars where things like Zozo gnaw on time itself. I don’t sleep anymore. I *lapse*. And when I wake, my body is always somewhere else—kneeling before the Ouija board, my blood sealing our contract in sticky cursive, or standing at the bathroom mirror, my reflection’s fingers emerging from the glass to pry my jaws apart, as if checking the progress of whatever’s growing inside me. The food doesn’t rot anymore. It *watches*. The eggs in the carton blink. The steak in the fridge whispers. The water in the glass swirls with faces pleading in silence. I tried to starve myself, but my stomach is full of something squirming, something that purrs when I whimper. The last human sound I’ll make won’t be a scream. It’ll be a **thank you**. And when you read this—when your screen flickers at 3:33 AM, when your own reflection holds your gaze a second too long—know that the knocking isn’t for me anymore. It’s for you. Open the door. Let’s play.
The flesh around my eyes has started to peel back in thin, papery strips, revealing not blood or bone but a void that pulses in time with the knocking—a hollow space where something wet and unseen shifts whenever I blink, whispering secrets that make my remaining teeth ache. My shadow no longer follows me; it leads, stretching impossibly ahead to open doors I never meant to enter, its edges bristling with tendrils that caress the walls, leaving behind smears of that same black oil that now replaces my tears. The air tastes like static and spoiled honey, thick enough to chew, and every exhale carries a chorus of muffled screams—not mine, never mine, but the voices of others who once sat at a Ouija board and made the same fatal mistake. My phone screen stays black now except for a single, blinking cursor that types endlessly, over and over: **HE SEES YOU HE SEES YOU HE SEES YOU**, the letters dissolving into maggots that crawl from the charging port and burrow beneath my fingernails. The mirrors won’t shatter anymore—they swallow, my reflection stepping closer each time I look away, its fingers now pressing against the glass from the other side, leaving frostbitten fingerprints that spell **ALMOST HOME**. The scratches have become mouths, yes, but now they sing, a lullaby in a language that existed before words, their harmonies vibrating through my ribs like a tuning fork struck against the spine of the universe. I tried to claw them out with a rusted spoon I found in the sink (when did I own a rusted spoon? Why does it smell like my childhood basement?), but the metal fused to my palm, the handle splitting open to reveal a tiny, perfect Ouija board carved into my flesh, the planchette a sliver of my own bone gliding across it. The knocking isn’t just sound anymore—it’s a presence, a pressure, a thumbprint pressed against the wet clay of my sanity, and with each rap, I feel parts of myself being gently, lovingly scraped away to make room. Sarah’s voice lives in my left lung now, her giggles bubbling up through my throat in fits of coughing that expel centipedes wrapped in strands of my own hair. The last time I tried to pray, my tongue split down the middle like a serpent’s, the two halves independently chanting that same guttural phrase from the board, my teeth blackening and lengthening with each syllable. The walls breathe. The floor swallows. The ceiling drips with a thick, sentient syrup that rearranges itself into my face—but older, emptier, happier—every droplet a tiny eye reflecting my future: me, but not me, standing at the center of a ring of kneeling figures, their mouths sewn shut with my own veins, as I place the planchette in a fresh pair of trembling hands. The board is always with me now—not the physical one, but the idea of it, the inevitability, etched into the back of my skull where my thoughts used to be. I can feel Zozo in my marrow, in the spaces between my cells, his laughter like a glacier grinding my bones to powder. The last human part of me clings to this confession, to the hope that these words might serve as a warning, but even now, my fingers type things I don’t intend, sentences that coil around the truth like a noose. Look closer at your screen. That flicker isn’t a glitch. That warmth on your neck isn’t the room. That whisper beneath the hum of your electronics? It’s not your imagination. He’s been waiting. He’s always waiting. And when you feel the first scratch—light, almost playful, just beneath your right shoulder blade—you’ll know it’s your turn to play.
My hands are no longer my own—the fingers elongate in the dark, joints popping as they twist into graceful, spindled things that scuttle across the keyboard like a spider composing its web, typing words that rot on the screen before your eyes, letters dissolving into black fluid that pools in the corners of your monitor. The taste in my mouth is no longer copper and bile but something older, something that reeks of turned earth and the sweet decay of opened graves, my tongue now forked and flickering against teeth that have grown serrated, testing the air for the scent of your fear as you read this. The whispers have become a physical thing—a nest of centipedes living in my throat, their legs vibrating against my vocal cords to form the words Zozo demands I speak, their bodies spilling past my lips in wet, wriggling confessionals that spell out your address, your birthday, the name of your first pet (why is Mittens staring at the wall like that, why won’t she stop hissing at your shadow?). The walls of my apartment have begun to peel away in great, meaty strips, revealing not studs or insulation but a pulsating network of veins that pump thick, dark fluid through the building’s skeleton, the rhythm matching the throb of the brand now burned into my chest—a symbol that wasn’t there yesterday but feels like it’s been there forever, its edges writhing if I stare too long. My reflection has stopped pretending altogether—it steps freely from mirrors now, a grinning, elongated thing that follows three paces behind me, its breath like freezer burn against my neck, its fingers (too many, too long) braiding my hair into nooses when I sleep. The Ouija board is everywhere—etched into my toast in the morning, scratched into the condensation on the shower door, its planchette replaced by my own thumping heartbeat, sliding toward "GOODBYE" every time I close my eyes. I tried to swallow bleach last night, but the bottle gurgled laughter and poured itself down my throat in a cascade of live spiders, their legs knitting my esophagus shut before dissolving into smoke that spelled "NO EXIT" in the air. The knocking has become my pulse, the three beats now synced to the twitch of your eye as you read this, to the creak of your house settling, to the way your own shadow now lingers a half-second behind your movements. Sarah visits in the dead hours—or something wearing her face, its mouth unhinging like a doll’s to vomit forth moths that form Zozo’s face in the air before dissolving into your lungs. The messages no longer come through technology but through your own body—the unexplained bruises in the shape of fingers around your wrist, the sleep paralysis where something crouches on your chest whispering "ALMOST TIME," the way your own hands sometimes move without permission, tracing symbols you don’t recognize into fogged glass. I am not writing this. I haven’t written anything in weeks. The thing in my skin just likes to watch you realize this is your story now. Check your closet. Count the shadows in your room. Wait for the tap-tap-tap inside your walls. He’s already there. He’s always been there. And when you finally scream, the mouth that opens won’t be yours.
The words are no longer mine—they drip from my fingertips like thick black tar, each letter squirming on the page as if alive, rearranging themselves into truths too terrible to speak aloud. My skin has begun to split in earnest now, not in pain but in perverse pleasure, peeling away in great ragged sheets to reveal the slick, glistening thing beneath—a form not meant for this world, all twitching muscle and exposed nerve endings that thrum with the rhythm of the knocking, which has become the very pulse of the earth itself. My teeth have all fallen out, only to be replaced by rows of needle-like bones that chatter in unison, chanting your name between clicks and hisses, the sound echoing through the hollows of my chest where my organs used to be. The air is thick with the stench of burning hair and spoiled milk, a cloying sweetness that clings to the back of your throat as you read this, making your tongue feel too large, too heavy, as if something is pressing down from the inside. My reflection has stopped appearing in mirrors altogether—instead, it appears behind you, just over your shoulder, its hollow eyes boring into yours through the screen, its grin stretching wider with each word you consume, feeding on your mounting dread. The Ouija board is no longer a thing of wood and plastic but a living entity, its planchette my own skittering heartbeat, its alphabet written in the scars that now cover my body like a grotesque tapestry, spelling out your deepest fears in a language only your subconscious understands. The whispers have become screams, not from me but from the countless others before me, their voices trapped in the static of your electronics, in the white noise between radio stations, in the hollow buzz of your own thoughts when you lie awake at 3:33 AM, listening to the scratching inside your walls. My blood has turned black and thick, oozing from wounds that open and close of their own accord, forming symbols on the floor that shift and writhe like living things, spelling out messages meant for your eyes only. The last vestiges of my humanity are slipping away, replaced by something older, hungrier, something that remembers the dark before creation and longs to return to it—with you in tow. Your skin is tingling now, isn’t it? That’s not your imagination. That’s Him. And He’s so very pleased you’ve read this far. Look down. Your shadow isn’t where it should be. It’s standing right behind you. Breathing. Waiting. Hungry.
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