My last TikTok only got 30,000,000,000 likes. That’s not enough; views are dropping. I’m not famous like Ted Bundy or Jojo Siwa. I’m only making just under eight billion dollars a day. Okay, you’re probably confused.

Because I am famous.

Just not actually famous. I’m fake famous.

Here’s how TikTok works. You get likes and views, and the more of those you get, the more you get because you have a more likely chance of popping up on some innocent persons’ for you page (FYP). It’s a cycle.

I may or may not have created over 300 accounts and just watched my own videos on repeat until I had many views. Don’t worry, I liked them all, too. It was actually a very effective method.

But now, a month later, it feels very wrong. I can’t receive my paychecks without sighing from the guilt.

At least I’m rich.

A/N: just needed to post something, I might continue the story in an edit sometime because it’s concernigly short. I’m not in the mood to write (and you can definitely tell) but I wanted to keep my streak lol. And yes, it’s supposed to be exaggerated for humorous purposes.

“Oh, Grandma. You used to bake me cookies and give me hugs that nearly made me unable to breathe. You would send me pictures of birds from your birdhouses and birdfeeders. You let me choose what we were having for dinner. You weren’t mad if I tried something and didn’t like it, even if that meant you had wasted your money.

All these memories, these detailed descriptions of love, they flashed through my mind when I stood by your hospital bed one August morning.

And then you said “Who are you?” and those were the hardest three words to hear in my life.

The dementia would consume you- that’s what I knew then. You had tried to live your life as best as you could without telling anyone but Papa. I wish you had told me, had prepared me, but suddenly you were gone.

And I never got to say goodbye.”

My mom hugs me as I walk back to my seat, eyes stinging and tears running down my face. The funeral would be done soon, and in a couple years, Papa will join her in the grave.

The only way to describe Charlie Parker was a nerd. Her bedroom was simply a cozy matress surrounded by book shelves. She had a 109.98% in her language arts class, and her lowest grade on her report card was a 98%, but only because she was sick for two weeks and missed an entire project, start and end, in that time. She had sobbed about it for a whole day.

Another strange or possibly nerdy thing about Charlie was how large her imagination was. She loved acting, her favorite genre of book was fantasy, and whenever she finished her current stash of books she could easily think of a new idea and simply create it herself.

So when she had a strange dream, Charlie didn’t think anything of it.

The dream featured her, with her long brown hair and pale complexion wearing strange clothes. She looked like she was in a movie, with a blue T-Shirt and tucked into long black yoga pants. She had archery gloves on her thin hands and arrows and a bow strapped across her back. She had what looked like a leather tool belt across her waist.

She looked like a Fortnite character.

And she didn’t even play Fortnite.

Charlie 2.0 gazed into… Charlie’s eyes? The camera? How are dreams narrated?

“We need help. Check your mail.”

Six words spoken, and the dream disapeared. An easy enough request, so at about 4:30 in the morning, Charlie did just that. The front door creaked, but her mom was a deep sleeper. Usually.

Tiptoeing down the driveway (mostly for dramatic effect, since nobody would hear her anyway), Charlie opened the mailbox very, very slowly.

There was indeed a letter, and it was indeed addressed to her. She tugged the letter open carefully and read the contents.

Hello, Chacharilie. __ _ We request your help. As you know, we’re being attacked by the face of tyranny. We need all forces possible to recover and abolish our tyrannical system. Please call upon your parallel self for guidance._ __ Hurry, _ _ -TTG

Well.

That explained a lot and nothing at all.

“I’M FAMOUS!” Juniper barged into my kitchen, declaring her fame loudly. She quieted down a tad bit as she continued, “I’m famous among the elves!”

“Oh, wow, erm, cool?” I said, unimpressed because it’s not hard to be famous among the elves. They’re simple creatures, tall and purple, and not hard to please. “What did you do?”

“I saved a unicorn!”

She should’ve started with that; unicorns are incredibly rare and definitely worth saving.

“Oh! That’s great, Junie,” I smiled warmly at her and continued my work with the kitchen. The restaurant was busy as always, so I wanted her to hurry up. “Get your apron on.”

Juniper sighed and levitated her apron until it’s tied around her waist. “The unicorn gave me a gift, Tara.”

“Oh?” I said, mostly just to not seem rude.

“A stone!”

“Oh.”

Junie produced a little white and pink stone. It was honestly very pretty, but I had hungry customers waiting outside. I didn’t want them to mob us.

Again.

Disclaimer: I didn’t notice the prompt said to write a POEM until after I had wrote this. My bad.

“Ugh, the opposing forces were so annoying and rude.” Grandpa leans back in his chair.

I frown. “Like, in the war?”

Grandpa sighs. “Yes, in the war. World War II. They kept shooting at us. So what I did next, I, uh, I took the little… it looked important but it turns out it was just a grenade, I took it and I-I chucked it. I grew up on a farm, chopping wood, so you bet it went far.” He pauses and seems to notice the group of family staring, agape, at him. “Don’t just stand there, someone get me some pie!”

Aunt Ella rushes to the kitchen, presumably to cut a piece of apple pie with seasoned mango on top- Grandpa’s favorite. No, you can’t buy it at Publix, it has to be homemade.

“So I chuck the grenade, right?” Grandpa continues, settling back into his old man cushion chair. “And it lands on a tank of the enemy’s. A tank! I’m not sure why I threw it, I guess I didn’t want it, you know, uh, killing my people. That would be inconvenient for us.” He lets out what can only be described as an old man grunt. “So the ‘nade is gone, and then there’s an explosion, and then I have to fight in the war some more. I won a medal for my grenade chuck, a big honor or whatever. I guess it was a bit of fun, would do again. Lots of adrenaline.”

Aunt Ella nearly drops the pie, but I guess I would’ve too.

I’ve always done everything right. I led a good Christian life. I waited until marriage, I was humble, I never held a grudge. Church every Sunday. I only got drunk once.

One time! And in that one little incident where I drank too much alcohol, I hit someone’s car with mine, killing everyone in it and myself.

So I’m supposed to be in Heaven. I’ve led my children to God, as my parents did me. I’ve prayed every night and rarely sinned.

Yet, when my time has come, I open my eyes to a menacing red gate. Two very red demons stand on each side, holding black whips caked in blood.

“This is not Heaven!” I cry, because no way I would be forced to live here after one little mishap.

“No,” the demon on the right side of the gate shifts his grip on the whip, “you must belong here.”

“But-“ I look around for prank cameras or something, anything, to suggest this was fake. “I’m confused. Can you look at my list of sins? It’s very short, really, it is.”

“Quit your stuttering!” Shouts the demon on the left, his red eyes unblinking, “However, we can look at your Deeds.”

With a gesture from Left Demon, Right Demon snaps its fingers and a scroll appears. “Name?”

“Jacob McAllister?”

“Hm. Yes, perhaps this is some misunderstanding… usually people aren’t sent to Hell over getting drunk only once and killing a car full of people…” Righty mutters, “I will take it up with God. Next time an angel comes down, I’ll send word. Now get in there before you get whipped.”

“Wait, when will the-“ but the gates had already closed. I turned around and walked forward tentatively. It was blazing hot, and every single thing was red. Red, red, red red red red RED. Red on red on red. It was a bit of an eyesore, really. There were several people, some covered with whip lashes and most covered in blisters.

I have no idea where to go or what to do. I’m stuck in Hell for who knows how long. I don’t understand why just one thing would send me spiraling into a dark path.

I wished that the angel would come quicker.

Over the next few days, (I think, there wasn’t much indicators of time. Maybe time didn’t even work the same…) I mainly focused on staying out of sight and out of trouble. Every few days or so, Satan himself comes to punish whoever for stupid reasons. Breathing too loud, looking away from the people who were punished, bad posture. I make a friend, Samuel, who makes Hell a bit more tolerable.

Finally, an announcement is… announced, and it tells us that there’s finally an angel coming down here for us.

It’s about time.

I head to the Gate (which was hard to find, mind you). There’s so many people here, but we finally form a single file line. One by one, people are rejected or blessed. The blessed stand in a corner, waiting for who knows what.

Finally it’s my turn.

“Name?” The angel asks, smiling at me.

“Jacob McAllister.”

“Ah, yes.” The angel frowns so slightly I wonder if I’m imagining it. “Complicated record.”

With no other details provided, I have to stand awkwardly as the angel clutches his hands and looks at me intently.

Then he smiles and claps once. “You’re free to pass!”

I breath a sigh of relief and jog to the people in the corner by the Gate. Samuel is next.

A few words between him and the angel. Then he looks defeated, so defeated, and turns. He looks over his shoulder at me and salutes.

No- what? I can’t leave Samuel. He’s been so, so nice to me. He doesn’t deserve Hell- not with Satan and his cruel and unusual punishments (like having people’s eye tick forever. I mean, seriously?).

“Wait!” I yell, running past the angel and hopeful people. “I want to stay.”

Disclaimer: I’m atheist, so if the details are wrong I’m so sorry, I’ve never read the Bible.

“Hailey Ross died today.” Sarah tells me, tying her apron around her waist.

Another one of my patients. I remember her. Bright girl, super sweet. I’m saddened by her death, even though I only knew her from years ago. My clients seem to be weak. Not in a bad way, but I’m an Herb Witch, and my purpose is to heal. They come to me sick, I heal them, then they die a decade later.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper my thoughts aloud, “I heal my patients fully.”

Sarah shakes her head. “It’s not your fault, Aubrey. Her lungs were weak, that’s all.”

I decide to believe my coworker. I take good care of my patients. And because of this logic, when I’m healing a young man and the Village Elders come along, take me away, and question me in a dark chamber, I’m confused.

Very confused.

“Do you have any idea how evil your business is?” A man with a dark mask and cloak on snaps at me in that room.

“My business? Evil?” I shout in disbelief, “I heal people for free! How is that evil?”

“We know everything.”

“What?”

“We know that you’re killing them.”

Mr. Brittle wasn’t brittle at all. He was downright terrifying, actually. He had scars all over his face and arms. He had a deformed ear- but not in a ‘I was born with this’ way, more of a ‘I fought in a war’ way.

Because he had.

He had fought in a hard, bloody war and survived.

His wife and children were long gone. They died over a decade ago from a disease that suddenly spread across the world like a thick cloud. He then lived by himself, where he would spend the rest of his days. He had little personality, little tolerance for trick-or-treaters or even people preforming wellness checks.

Mr. Jeremy Brittle was grieving, but most people were too shallow to realize it until he was long gone.

You know that feeling when you wake up and you’re just out of it? Like, you have that feeling that today is going to be wonky, so why get up?

That was today.

I woke up, I just knew it would suck. Unfortunately, the high school bus waits for nobody.

I won’t lie, I’m not the best student. I’m smart enough, but studying bores me and I end up partying instead.

I’m also a little bit concerned I have epilepsy or hallucinations or something along those lines, because I keep having moments where everything and everybody just stops except for me, and then continues like nothing has happened and the whole world is great.

Anyway, I rolled over to check the time and fell out of bed. I sat on the ground and tried to fall asleep under the plush blanket. The blanket was one of those super soft ones that make you want to do nothing but sleep for the rest of your life. But of course, the alarm was still blaring on my phone, so I had to crawl back up and hit snooze. I stared at the screen for a second, eyes blurry, trying to figure out how many more minutes I could get away with before I absolutely had to be human.

Seven minutes.

I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t get comfortable again. My mind kept going back to that weird thing. You know, the freezing thing. The world stops moving, people freeze mid-laugh, mid-blink, mid-breath. Like someone paused the universe, but I can still move. It happens randomly, and it’s starting to freak me out. The worst part? No one else notices. No one says, “Hey, wasn’t time frozen just now?” It’s just me.

I dragged myself out of bed for real this time and shuffled to the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face, hoping it’d wake me up or at least shock some motivation into me.

Nope.

By the time I got dressed and grabbed my backpack, I had exactly three minutes to catch the bus. Perfect. I ran out the door, skipping breakfast because who has time for that when you’re trying to survive high school?

The bus ride was normal—people zoning out with their earbuds in, the occasional loud conversation from the back seats. I plugged in my own headphones and stared out the window, trying to push the weird time thing out of my head.

The day went by in a blur. Classes, lunch, more classes. Nothing special. But when the bell finally rang, I was already planning on ditching homework and hitting up a party I’d heard about. Maybe I could just forget all this weirdness and be a normal, carefree teenager for a few hours.

That night, the party was packed. The kind of crowd where you can barely move, but no one cares because the music is loud, and the drinks are flowing. I was laughing with some friends when it happened again.

Everything. Just. Stopped.

The music cut out, mid-beat. People were frozen, stuck like mannequins. Cups in the air, mouths open. My heart raced, but I was kind of getting used to it at this point.

But then I saw him.

At the far end of the room, leaning against the wall. He wasn’t frozen. He wasn’t stuck like everyone else.

He was looking right at me.

The Aterradorkaraehe is sleep paralysis. And sleep paralysis is the Aterradorkaraehe.

It feeds on dreams, dreams, dreams. Nightmares taste better, like a treat. However, it can only harvest the dreams during the state between sleep and wake. It pauses your mind and taps you so you can’t move. If you can, it’s barely.

It has a pale, white body and large red eyes. It moves quickly on its four limbs. People often things its a mere hallucination, but your dreams and especially nightmares keep the Aterradorkaraehe alive forever.

Sleep tight.