Don't Scream 2 Read online

  "I... I was scrolling through Facebook. Looking at some dumb Halloween photos, something you posted, and—"

  "Something I posted?"

  "Yeah. You posted this weird thing with symbols and stuff."

  I let go. Raced over to my laptop, pulled up Facebook. Sure enough—there was status update "I" had posted yesterday. That I had no memory of posting. Strange symbols, ellipses, dashes.

  Identical to the post Natalia's friend had made.

  I glanced down, and my heart plummeted.

  The post already had 157 likes.

  ***

  It’s been a week. Maddie is fine, now, and I’ve been checking in with every person who saw my post. Thankfully, most of them don’t live alone. Their spouses have strict instructions to watch for symptoms, and destroy phones if necessary.

  But more cases like Natalia’s have popped up all over the country. People dying of dehydration, alone, leaving nothing but a trail of social media posts behind. For some, it’s selfies; for others, it’s sharing memes, writing every passing thought in a status update, or posting endless “throwback” photos. The trigger of symbols continues to circulate around, spreading from friend to friend like some sort of digital virus.

  Our police force hasn’t determined much, yet. But they have determined one thing.

  All the posts the “infected” create are transmitted to a server in an undisclosed location, before the accounts self-destruct and erase everything. Someone—or something—collects all that information. To study it. To analyze it. To digest it.

  And so, consider yourself warned. Next time you scroll through your feed…

  It might be feeding on you.

  THE CHURCH

  We found the cathedral on the west side of the city.

  It looked out of place. Gothic arches clashed against rectangular high-rises. Gray stone against polished metal. Mullioned windows against mirrored glass. A relic from a different time, standing still as the town around it transformed to a bustling metropolis.

  Which cathedral is it?

  I looked down at my tourist map. It wasn't marked as an attraction. Even though it looked nicer than half the cathedrals we'd seen so far.

  "Want to check it out?" I asked Rose.

  "Another church? Haven't we seen like five, already?"

  "But this one looks so pretty."

  She sighed, exasperated. "Fine, fine. As long as we're out by 5:30."

  We started across the street. I walked in front of her and pulled open the heavy oak door.

  "Woah."

  The ceiling stretched far above us, held up by stone columns. The altar was breathtaking, painted in white and gold, flanked by two statues—the Virgin Mary and St. Joseph. Stained glass windows on either side glowed in brilliant blue and gold from the afternoon sun.

  I pulled out my phone and took a photo.

  "This one's nicer than the other ones we've seen," I said, as we passed the rows of carved pews. "I mean, look at the—"

  "Ssssssh."

  Rose gestured to the front of the church, and that's when I saw him. A man, kneeling in the rightmost front pew. Head deeply bowed, hands tightly pressed together.

  "Oh, I didn't even see him," I whispered. "Sorry."

  We walked forward. When we got within a few pews of the man, we made a left, veering away from him. The stone arched elegantly above us, and I lifted my phone to take a few photos.

  "Corinne?"

  Something about the way she whispered my name made me freeze. She sounded... afraid, all of a sudden.

  I walked over to her. She stood in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary, a puzzled look on her face.

  "I’m not Catholic, but... that doesn't look like Mary."

  I looked up at the statue.

  And froze.

  The blue-and-white robes looked like Our Lady. As did the flowing brown hair and tan skin. But a strange, white scar ran from her forehead to her chin.

  And her face was contorted in anger.

  "She's not supposed to look like that. Right?"

  "No. That's... really strange."

  We walked back towards the center of the church. The front pew was empty, now—the praying man was gone.

  I bowed my head as we passed the altar. Then I continued to the other side of the church.

  This one had an alcove for candles. To light for prayer intentions. Most churches back in the US have transitioned to electronic candles, but these were real. The statue of St. Joseph stood next to them, carved robes dancing in the flickering light.

  I took a step closer—and realized it wasn't St. Joseph at all.

  The statue had the same face as the "Mary" one. A scar running from forehead to chin. The same angry expression: eyebrows furled, lip curled, teeth bared.

  I stepped back, my heart pounding in my chest, as it glared back at me.

  “Let’s go,” Rose said, tugging at my arm. “This place is kind of giving me the creeps.”

  I nodded. As we walked back across the altar, though, my gaze caught on a silver bowl. Holy water. “Wait, Rose. Let me get some holy water.”

  “Really?” she said, with an exasperated sigh.

  “I’ll just be a second.”

  “You know, I don’t get the whole holy water thing,” Rose said as I walked towards the bowl. “Like, what is it supposed to do? I get that the wine and the wafers are supposed to be Jesus’ blood and body, but the holy water is just… kind of weird.”

  “Holy water is water blessed by a priest. We use it to—”

  My breath caught in my throat.

  The bowl wasn’t filled with water.

  It was filled with blood.

  No. It can’t be blood. It must just be something… that looks like blood. Rose joined my side, and cupped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, man, what is that?”

  “I don’t know. Wine?”

  She looked at me, and I stared back. Both of us unwilling to say out loud what we were thinking. “Let’s go,” she said, nudging my elbow.

  “Yeah.”

  We walked back up the aisle. As we did, I looked up—and my eyes fell on the stained glass windows. No. They didn't depict the seven sacraments, or the saints, or any other Christian scene.

  They were covered in strange symbols. Overlapping gold ovals, that reminded me of Celtic knots and pentagrams all at once. And there, in the middle pane, was that same face. The angry expression. The scar that ran across his face, depicted in white, pearlescent glass.

  As I stared up at them, someone tugged on my arm. Hard.

  I wheeled around. Rose stood behind me, her face white with fear.

  "What's wrong?"

  She pointed behind us.

  A man stood there. Glaring at us.

  Judging by the clothes and the haircut, it was the same man we'd seen praying earlier. But now that I saw his face—I recognized him.

  It was the scarred, angry face.

  The same face on every statue, every window of this church.

  I grabbed Rose's hand and we ran. The dark wooden pews, the blue windows, the gray stone—it all whipped by us in a blur of color. The central aisle seemed so much longer, now that fear propelled us instead of awe.

  I glanced back.

  The man stood in front of the altar, watching us.

  We broke out onto the sidewalk. But we didn't stop running until we'd made it several blocks away. Then we called a cab back to our hotel room and spent the rest of the evening there. Too scared to venture back out into the city.

  Afraid of what—and who—we might find.

  I wish I could tell you that the church didn’t exist. That I looked for it later, and couldn't find it. That it had mysteriously blinked off the face of the Earth.

  But no—the last day of our trip, I scraped up the courage to walk by it one more time. And it was still there.

  Right down to the stone pillars out front, carved with the face of the scarred man.

  ICE ROAD TRUCKER

  I'm
an ice road trucker.

  Every winter, I drive my semi up the Dalton Highway in Alaska to deliver supplies. Other drivers complain about how isolated the road is, but I love it. Driving through expanses of snow-covered wilderness, surrounded by nothing by the stars... it's the dream.

  Well... it was the dream. Until the night of January 17th, 2017.

  I was driving the stretch between Coldfoot and the Prudhoe Bay oilfield, around midnight. It's the loneliest part of the highway – 200+ miles with no gas stations, restaurants, no cell phone reception. No traces of civilization at all.

  Then my headlights rolled over a truck.

  It had skidded off the road and flipped on its side. From the distance, I couldn't tell if it was fresh – or a week-old wreck the recovery crews hadn't picked up yet.

  "Hey! Jim!" I yelled.

  He was back in the sleeper. We drove together and took turns, so we didn't have to stop for the night. Besides, it was always safer to have a second person if we ran into an emergency.

  He poked his blond head out. "What?"

  "Look."

  The wreck rapidly approached. It was dark – no headlights, no fire, no lights on in the cabin. Just a metal husk breaking the otherwise monotonous Alaskan landscape.

  "Poor fella," he said, reaching for the cup in the holster. A long slurrrp echoed from behind me. "This road gets mighty nasty sometimes."

  "Maybe we should stop. See if they need help."

  "Nah. It's an old wreck. Look how dark it is."

  Uneasiness settled in my stomach. I'd always felt safe driving up the Dalton highway—because fellow truckers were so helpful. Once, when I'd gotten a flat, no less than three stopped in to make sure I was all right.

  It was like we were all part of an unspoken brotherhood, looking out for each other.

  I stomped on the brakes. The truck screeched to a halt.

  "Hey!" Jim protested. "We're stopping?!"

  "Sorry. I need to make sure no one's in there." Leaving the headlights on, I swung the door open, and pulled myself down.

  "Wait, wait! I'm comin'!" Jim called after me, pulling on a coat.

  I didn't wait for him. Instead, I walked ahead, ice crunching noisily under my boots. The cold wind bit into my exposed face, and I grimaced.

  "Hello?" I called out, into the darkness.

  No answer.

  "Anyone there?" I called again.

  "See? No one there," Jim said, coming up behind me. "Stopped for nothin'."

  I ignored him and walked towards the cabin. It was facing away from us, pointed towards the forest in the distance.

  The trailer was nondescript—no logos or color—but the back hatch was open. Rolled up just a few inches.

  Jim called out behind me: "See! They removed all the supplies already, left the hatch open. This thing's probably been here for weeks."

  "Okay, I get it," I called back, annoyed. "I just want to check out the cabin, alright? Humor me."

  "Humor you! Peh! We're wasting precious time, Danny."

  I ignored him and walked across the frozen plain, my boots crunching loudly through the snow. I rounded the corner and came upon the cabin.

  I stopped dead in my tracks.

  It was a mangled mess of metal. The hood was crunched like a tin can. The sideview mirror dangled limply. There was no windshield—just a misshapen hole, where it used to be.

  Through it, I could make out the driver's seat. It was horribly buckled and bent, conjuring awful images of what the driver must have looked like.

  "Hello?" I called through the window. It looked empty, but just in case.

  All was silent.

  "It's empty, huh?" Jim asked, a wild smile on his face.

  "Yeah. And I don't think the driver made it," I replied, my mouth suddenly dry.

  "The highway, she takes 'em good, sometimes. Nothin' we can do. Just the circle of life and all that."

  Great. Jim was waxing poetic, now. "Okay, Jim," I said, cutting him off. "Let's get back on the road."

  That's when I noticed it.

  The snow around the truck was undisturbed. No swirl of frantic footprints from the rescue team. No tire tracks from police cars racing to the scene. No grooves from the body being dragged away.

  The cabin was empty... the driver had most likely perished... and no rescue team had come out?

  "Why aren't there any prints around here?" I asked Jim. "If the rescue team came out..."

  "Must be weeks old, as I said. Pro'lly snowed ten times since they got him and the supplies out. Covered the prints right up."

  "I guess you're right." That did make sense. Now that I took a closer look, there weren't any skid marks in the snow from the truck, either. Defeated, I turned and walked back towards our truck.

  "Wait — what's this?"

  I turned around. Jim was crouched in the snow, trailing a finger across the ground.

  "What's what?"

  "These prints!"

  I walked back over and crouched beside him.

  There were several overlapping trails of footprints. They began at the back door of the trailer, weaved through the snow, and ended somewhere in the darkness of the plains. And they looked fresh. The edges were sharp and clean, not softened by the wind or snowfall.

  "That doesn't make any sense. We're in the middle of nowhere. Not a single soul for miles around."

  "Then who made these prints?"

  "I don't know..."

  "Let's find out." Jim walked over to the back door, and with a grunt, pulled it open.

  Schhliiiip.

  The metallic sound reverberated through the trailer, echoing against the snow. I pulled a flashlight from my pocket and flicked it on.

  "What the hell?"

  The trailer looked... lived in.

  Empty glass bottles glinted in the light, stacked up in a line against the wall. Clothing was strewn everywhere. In the right corner, they were piled up with a blanket to form a rough bed.

  "There's nobody for two-hundred miles, at least," he said with fascination, pulling himself up into the trailer. "What the heck is going on here?"

  "Hey, wait," I called after him. "We shouldn't—"

  "Tools back here, Danny," he called out, his voice echoing in the metal box. "All kinds of knives and spears and stuff. I s'pose that's how he gets his food. Hunts it down."

  I stepped onto the lip of the trailer and hoisted myself inside. The air was musty, damp, and cold—though warmer than the outside. The floor, which was really the side of the trailer, was tilted at a slight angle.

  I glanced around. While there were many household items I recognized—knives, shears, clothes—there were some I didn't. A black medallion, emblazoned with a strange symbol next to the 'bed' area. A stone bowl and stick that resembled a mortar-and-pestle.

  "Danny, take a look at this."

  I turned the flashlight towards him—and jumped back.

  White bone. Twisted mouths. Sunken eye sockets.

  More than a dozen animal skulls, all lined up in a neat row at the back wall. The first was tiny—the size of a mouse head. They grew progressively larger, the last ones looking like they belonged to deer, caribou, moose.

  And painted on the ground, under our feet... was some sort of symbol. A circle with strange characters all around it. Like letters from an unknown language.

  "This is freakin' creepy," Jim said. "Wish I brought my camera."

  Despite my thick jacket, a chill went up my spine. "Come on, Jim. Let's go. Like you said, we're wasting time. We'll get to Prudhoe late, and—"

  "Oh, now you care about wasting time?" His blue eyes met mine. "You're just a scaredy-cat, that's what you—"

  Thunk.

  We both froze.

  The sound had been faint. But in the absolute silence of this Alaskan wasteland, it was more than just a random sound. More than the wind, the forest, the Earth could produce.

  "You hear that?" Jim whispered.

  We listened, but there was only silence.<
br />
  "Okay. Let's get outta here." Jim said, taking a step forward.

  We walked to the front of the trailer, our footsteps shaking the metal. Then we jumped down, into the snow.

  My blood ran cold.

  A man stood in the darkness.

  Dressed head-to-toe in black, tattered clothing. A hood veiled his face in shadow. And a knife glinted in his right hand, catching the light of our headlights.

  We broke into a run.

  He bolted forward. Crunching footsteps rang out behind us. Growing louder by the second. My lungs burned in the cold air, but I forced myself forward.

  My hand fell on the metal handle of the truck.

  I dove in. Jim followed me a second later. Click, click, click—he madly pressed the lock button. I turned the key, and the engine rumbled underneath us.

  "Drive!" Jim yelled, panting.

  My headlights flashed over the man. He stood still in the snow, staring at us with wild, blue eyes. Gripping the knife tightly.

  And behind him... more figures materialized around the fallen trailer. All wearing black, hooded clothing. They remained still, their heads turning to stare as we pulled onto the highway.

  Then they were left in the dust, as we sped forward into the Alaskan wilderness.

  ***

  We called the police—but by the time they made it out there, the truck had been cleaned up. It was just an empty old wreck. No animal skulls, no strange symbols, no sign that anyone ever lived there.

  I haven't driven a truck up the Dalton highway since that night. I still deliver supplies, but to other parts of Alaska. Never again will I voluntarily drive up that cursed road.

  But, sometimes, I hear about disappearances along that highway. A lonely trucker, here or there, vanishing into thin air. His vehicle left behind, parked on the side of the road.

  And I know he didn't just get lost on that lonely stretch of highway.

  He was taken.

  EXCELLENT CUSTOMER SERVICE

  The following correspondence was found on a defunct computer sold during the bankruptcy of the children's toy manufacturer ToysEverydayTM.