All these years ago, he said it, predicted it — the end of the world. Or more so, the death of the entire universe. Scientists call it the eternal darkness, the wipe. When the black matter pulls the Earth back into its void.

He called it, “what once started with darkness, will end with one as well”. And I didn’t want to believe it. Called him fatalistic, while he deemed me optimistic. And perhaps that is why we always fit together so perfectly. University years, blowing smoke and exchanging subject notes. It was nice. Having his hand to hold while mine faltered.

At least until the Briar star fell and we were the ones to capture the new fractures.

The biggest one being us. This friendship that we both thought would last until the death of all good things. And perhaps Briar was it. The beginning of an end.

But now it matters very little. Dread bells were strung and ringing across every continent. Preparing. And I do so as well.

Kids kissed goodnight before my six-hour drive. No last glances to my lover, for their eyes would make me stumble and stay.

So I go. The old grey coat brushing against my feet, I blow out smoke and find a place to park the car somewhere close to his family home.

Breath comes in short. My vision clouded by memories of us in the derelict fields, running and falling. He never did, though, fall. Not like me. At any time finding a reason to catch a glimpse of constellations in his dark blue eyes. To brush my fingers across his penmanship.

“Evening, Adam,” I say through that warm smile that used to dilute his worries. And once more, he doesn’t say much. But tonight, his hand pulls me in. Ushering me onto the following step so he could embrace me as if it didn’t matter that we hadn’t seen each other for thirty years.

“You haven’t changed one bit ever since I saw you last.” His tone isn’t as calm as it used to be; it holds the grit of years. Perhaps just as much as mine does. Or maybe it is only the knot in my throat, being so close to someone dear when the end is at your gate.

And only a few hours are truly there. I check my watch, pressing these dear seconds in my chest. Adam catches on and opens the doors to his home. A place that birthed his heirs and all of those inventions that brought stability to his home. He takes my hand, and we walk the same old carpet to what was once his father’s study.

Now just cramped with old newspapers, chalk and calculations.

And that recently emptied tumbler. For his lips still glisten with whiskey. His lungs hum with that scent he never used to carry. So just how much did we change?

“I brought my own telescope, although we might just be fine with binoculars.” My hand brushes against the old picture frames. Especially the broken ones. Ones that I threw off the end table in the corridor. And to be fair, I still feel his father’s beating on my behind. “Do you need anything else?”

Perhaps he does. For those, my favourite letters of his are no longer as coiled. They are rushed as he writes down strange specifics for his wife.

Minutes before we climb the closest hilltop. The blue abyss below fussing in white venom. Furious perhaps for all that they have done.

I stage my place while he does his. And here I go, glancing back. Watching him get comfortable before the end.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Adam cuts off my mental strings. “The letter was for Allegra. I needed to inform her before she comes home with Eden. The boy has a great mind, a pity he’ll perish along with the rest.” Cold, nonchalant. He speaks as if they only have minutes left.

“What are you talking about?” I rise after dropping my notebook on the blanket. “I told you, we still have years; the world isn’t going to evaporate in the flicker of a night.” I can only stare at him, my palms kissed with frost, the weight of his cold fatality sits wrong on my tongue.

He shrugs. Barely even.

Then continues with noting down the dimming lights in the sky.

“Adam,” I come closer. “The missive wasn’t to instil fear in you.”

He smiles, this half-apologetic thing. “I know my friend. You’re still optimistic, bleeding yourself with hope.”

And perhaps I am.

But why would you flee from an opportunity to make something count? Why count your last breaths before the reaper comes?

So my hand takes his this time.

Heart catching a tick.

“What is stopping you?”

I lead, pulling him away from the stars.

Towards the heights that end with lows. Towards the edge of the cliff. Where the universe eats our shivers of late June.

“We are the last architects. Why do you want to flee from everything again?” I whisper, for he is the one to truly listen. My thumbs running over his knuckles. Over these possibilities.

He leans forward. That smile still quite pressing, pulling nausea in me.

“Because their hope will kill me. These last stars they will use to wish upon miracles made by men, and only to serve men. And I can’t let them use my love against me.” Adam’s voice resolute. While my own wavers.

I know the end this time. Before it comes.

All these years ago, he said it, predicted it — the end of the world.

And tonight, “You were the one always pushing me towards greatness,” Adam resigns from the starry night.

Does he expect me to push him once more? To allow him this easy way out? I want to call him cowardly. To erase and mess with his plans. For he has made them far before I came back here.

But—

Our hands detach. His lips pressed on my forehead.

“We still haven’t finished...” I fail in an attempt to hold him back. Selfish efforts.

“Briar is ours. And the rest belongs to you.”

I cannot gasp.

I cannot scream.

I just fall to my knees where his feet used to be.

And I watch the great abyss. As it vaguely reflects the dying night.

Seconds, or perhaps minutes. I no longer hear the silence. Nor do I see the dark.

My breath fogging, gazing upon the falling star.

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About me,

I am an author of psychological gothic fiction and feminine horror. I write stories of obsession, flawed people, and the unsettling corners of human nature. Welcome to White Raven.

Support can look like many things — a comment, a share, or simply sticking around. But if you'd like to go a step further, every story takes time to find its shape, and a coffee helps fund the next one. Thank you for your support!

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Coming soon…

Hargraves University is home to the most untouchable students in New York — and they all answered to one name.

But the girl who wakes up in a hospital bed after the explosion doesn’t recognise that name, that face, or the people smiling at her bedside.

Set in 1972 Hudson Valley, Second Nature follows a girl who wakes up in a hospital bed and is handed someone else’s identity — and the quiet, stubborn hunt to prove that the person they keep calling Bonnie Hargraves is not her.

Her friends are golden, flawless, and keeping very close. The old Bonnie knew exactly why. The new one is about to find out.

If you enjoyed my words of fiction, my journal will give you more insight into my mind. Uncensored, messy, and all the sides of me that speak in rants, essays, gratitudes, and opinions. All the things that hide under plain sight.

All of my unfiltered thoughts 🠚

© 2026 Juste Mil. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the permission of the author.

The glorious days, when I paint my face, and they clap happily to their new mime. While you paint it, and it is only I and a few of those dirty servers that snicker behind our breaths. The day is long, and the fence is high. And surprisingly, I am questioning my own escape.

We are the mimes.

The animals that look the part in this worldwide circus.

Writers. Actors. People of art.

Jesters.

Entertainers.

We were born to entertain you, oh sweet reader. My lovely reader. Wasting your precious seconds, putting two and two together until it forms a letter.

Don’t we all?

Well, not me. No, not me. I have no education. We don’t need an education.

You call me gifted; you called her gifted last week as well.

But poor piggy Juliet was stuffed and silenced with an apple, prepared for our righteous king Romeo. And today is my day to walk the gilded cage.

Shiny. Groomed and smooth. Makeup showing off my smile and heavy balls to juggle with doubt and courage.

Alas, Mama said it must be done. So I follow. Herd or no. Bounds or boundaries.

They all said I should love it. The opportunity.

To even be here.

To see the curtains open, to see their open eyes ready to devour me as if I were one of their breed. But oh, by far, they would not breed. No no. Such an absurd thought. Royal bedding is a fine-tuned sheep. Only for a chance of a new experience, not for a lifestyle.

Not for desire.

Only a fool would follow.

But before I try to fix my bow or bell, their hands shove me in. Onto a carpet that is worth twice my life. And well, perhaps it is best to say that the carpet was worth that price until my shit-covered soles graced it.

No worries. He smiles. Romeo, oh Romeo, you smile at me.

Desire, amusement.

And I juggle for you.

All that I can. All that I am.

Mama calls me April, the late bloom.

Papa never calls me. No. He writes scribbles.

And precisely that makes me wonder about my true calling. An act.

But oh, they clap. I smile and shed them pink. Showing off all my colors. Just so the innocent humanity can drool a little more. Just so I can catch a glint of elite wrinkles upon their eyes.

Outrageous, such wishes for little me.

Outrageous me, to drool from an open wound.

They beckon my spine to shape and frame the left.

They devour at my right.

Oh, I have no right, don’t you remember?

We are only Artisans. The pigs for slaughter, the chicks for devour, the sheep for comfort. And it brings you comfort. To see April The Fool.

Make it a day. Make it my day.

I wish, I only wish.

No. They will entrap it into servitude.

We will follow.

We will whine for more. We’ll cry for recognition.

The bee, until the bye.

Oh, but what does it matter when Romeo sits so stiff right in front of me?

I step forward, and he leans.

What if I galloped?

So the thought arises.

But not quick enough to save my cloth from tearing.

Drool is what they are.

Babbling big-eyed freaks.

For the freak show.

For the circus.

And I shake to entertain just for their grace and a penny.

They serve them soup and plates with forks.

I sit at the table.

Their hands pet me and honor the groomed blooms.

In such awe for a sheep of low class.

Shocking, is it not?

To encounter mud trapped creature and then put jewels on it, as if it will taste better for the fucking.

Oh, but again, I lose my patience. My juggle no longer as entertaining.

Nor are you, to be fair.

Who am I to entertain? You or Romeo? Pick and choose.

I say I juggle, but I cannot.

It is an act, have you forgotten?

They bring a knife. Shiny jewel to press against my neck.

I look at my destined Romeo, shy prayers for His Grace to spare me a dime or a glance.

We were destined. For it all. For the palace and the Fools day. Either you make them laugh, or they shall bloat with this anticipation for release. Such a reverse for what you believe.

What do I believe?

Oh well. Thank you for asking.

And truth is, I have words in my mouth and parrots as thoughts. A bubble that bursts, and the one that they chuckle for.

They call me bad-mouthed and yet laugh with bellies jiggling.

I’m on my hands and knees, lapping at their choice for soup as someone stabs me in the side.

Slice of fur and a muffed retaliation.

Laughing at the nature of their own.

“Entertain me, you fool!”

And we bow, I bow too.

I am but a sheep.

Falling deep for Romeo and his position.

“Dance for me, you silly sheep!”

I shake all that jingles, all that has been shaped for eyes.

“Plate her.”

And the rooms change.

Chains that bite into the wrists.

Sheers that will make me scream.

Bare before His Grace. Watching him wear me.

Juggle.

Heavens forbid your craft gets recognized and desired too much.

Just stay with the rules.

Or don’t.

Break the fence.

No, you wouldn’t.

We are just sheep.

Just you and me.

Only the surface can I see that sweaty soul that crouches before the machine.

“Humour me.”

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About me,

I am an author of psychological gothic fiction and feminine horror. I write stories of obsession, flawed people, and the unsettling corners of human nature. Welcome to White Raven.

Support can look like many things — a comment, a share, or simply sticking around. But if you'd like to go a step further, every story takes time to find its shape, and a coffee helps fund the next one. Thank you for your support!

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© 2026 Juste Mil. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the permission of the author.

CASE #0127 — “THE FLY INCIDENT”

Excerpt from the interview conducted on March 2nd, 1958, Cambridge Mental Institution.

Subject: Rowena Fletcher, female, 26.

It began with darkness — endless nothingness. Until light came, and the most horrifying things crawled out to feed on it. Perhaps to worship it, like moths to flame. Call it myth or legend, but the fact remains buried, buzzing, still alive

The following interview is taken from Rowena Fletcher, a 26-year-old patient currently residing in Fulbourn Hospital, just outside Cambridge. The woman claimed she was attacked in the middle of the night by a mysterious being that emerged from her kitchen sink. Police investigated the apartment for any signs of forced entry but found none. Only a clogged sewer pipe filled with chunks of skin, hair, and larvae.

Interviewer: Mrs. Fletcher, please, tell us what happened.

Rowena Fletcher: It was the middle of the night. Yes, yes. Perhaps half an hour past two... The tap in my kitchen kept dripping. Creating louder and more frequent ripples. Drip. Drip. It kept dripping. It nearly felt like it was going to overfill my sink. And I knew it was impossible, after all, it wasn’t clogged. I always kept my sink spotless. Never a fruit fly in sight. No, no... [static] So I tried falling back asleep. I tried. But sounds.. I kept getting chills. It felt like the temperature dropped. I could not focus on anything else. Just my fingers... freezing. Only to hear the pipes rustling. The ripple sounds have increased. Now slowly pouring over the counter... Enough to make me sit up in my bed. It is very dark mind you, so the only light is from outside. The window is set right in the doorway. So as I sit, I notice the puddle that has started to form. It kept coming. Dripping. And pouring. My wooden cabinet is sucking the gut-curling moisture... And I couldn’t... It is like fear has paralyzed me. And perhaps it did. Since the more I watched, the more I realized that I shouldn’t. That all of it is forbidden. [pause] It is not natural... Because there is no way that a sewer rat could climb up my pipes.

Interviewer: You have mentioned before a mysterious being. Could you tell us more about it?

Rowena Fletcher: My grandmother told me a legend a long time ago. About an ancient entity. A body of a man, but the mouth of a fruit fly. The entity would show once a month to a person randomly chosen. [static] It could be anyone... If you remember it, that means it has infected you with his [pause] maggots... That is how he reproduces.

Interviewer: So you got infected, is that right?

Rowena Fletcher: No... There is another thing the entity looks for as well... Food.

Interviewer: Apologies... Could you explain, please? What do you mean by food?

Rowena Fletcher: I looked at it too long, at the figure morphing out of my kitchen sink. The smell of sewer and rot... [pause] It began shuffling straight. The shadow - growing. Feet directed at me. I think it smelled so bad that I could no longer smell anything else. So it made slowing my heart a little easier... [pause] It kept walking. The wet, moldy feet stepping onto the carpet. It brought even more chills down my back. But... then I saw it. [static] The mouth. Like a flimsy tube. It writhed like a bag of worms trying to breathe. Huge. Near the size of my entire face. And those eyes... sunken and yet bright enough when watching me. Catching anyone, like a deer in the headlights. And I was already uncomfortable, dressed in my sleeping gown and waiting for my husband to come home... Just for a man to invade my home? Well, not a man... But- [static] ugh... Well, so I tried to lie down, to hide... Maybe it didn’t see me. Maybe it did. It..- Maybe I just imagined it. Like we all do when we are young. Imagination wild... Hallucinations. Or perhaps it could have been just a nightmare.

Interviewer: Is this the reason you decided to remain here for the rest of the year? It has been eight months, yes? I believe it must be your fifth anniversary today. Such a loss must be traumatizing.

Rowena Fletcher: Yes... Eight months, and I still can feel that mouth attach onto my face. Still feel the bruises of that inhuman weight sinking me down into the mattress. Still smell the bile... I- I tried.. I felt it.. Tasted.. M-my arms held [crying] and squeezed close to my body. It’s face hovering above mine... Slowly sucking the life out of me. I felt my lungs constrict. I tried to kick. Tried to move. But I can only remember jerking my body. Crying... only to see the light flicker. The eyes... headlights. I.. [pause] I think his whole body pulsated as he...

Interviewer: Ma'am, are you alright?

Rowena Fletcher: N-no.. [static] No. It... I don’t remember.. He.. He was there. He was. My husband. No. I screamed, they didn’t hear. Why? Why didn’t they hear? The bruises? Have they not looked for bruises? He hurt me! He hurt me! The— [static]the, that.... No.. That tongue. The thing.. He he.. There was my husband. Where is my husband?

Interviewer: Rowena, please, it is—

Rowena Fletcher: No! Where is he?! [crying] I know he is still there!

Interviewer: Who is?

Rowena Fletcher: I feel him... Oooh, I still do. Mhmm, it is like he is in me. Still in me. The spine. Buzzing. He kept buzzing. Laying. Wet.. The floors, the carpet, the bed... The smell, God, [crying] that smell... He is in me. The devil. Clawing out... They didn’t even look. Those bastards..—

Interviewer: Look where?

Rowena Fletcher: Inside, where else... I pulled maggots, inside me. My head... Sticky... He made me eat it — he made me eat him. I still have flesh between my teeth. Victor’s eyes turning white... Sticky.. It all tasted metal. Rotten. Like acid. The flesh.

The recorder was shut off shortly afterward.

The further we dug into Rowena Fletcher’s memories, the more lost she became — her sanity fractured after consuming her husband, Victor. Not long after, we received a call from the Fulbourn Hospital: Rowena was dead. Her body had succumbed to internal toxins. Her stomach and womb, slowly dissolving, had been consumed from within by larvae.

Case closed: March 11th, 1958.

File sealed under Order 73A - “Unexplained Fatalities: Biohazard Containment.”

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About me,

I am an author of psychological gothic fiction and feminine horror. I write stories of obsession, flawed people, and the unsettling corners of human nature. Welcome to White Raven.

Support can look like many things — a comment, a share, or simply sticking around. But if you'd like to go a step further, every story takes time to find its shape, and a coffee helps fund the next one. Thank you for your support!

Tipping Jar

Notes

The story was born from a simple word while I was thinking of what word to use for Halloween themed writing with my friends. The word was fly. Fly as in flying and as that annoying little thing with wings. It truly is a mash-up of various things. Books, movies.

Each gossip between girls feels confidential. It is a top secret. And what, or rather who, tends to be more annoying than flies? Men. So I had to make it play the part.

While the initial theme for this story is cannibalism, I think it could be slowly touching on a few more topics.

Discussion

• How would the story change if it were set in a modern psychiatric institution rather than 1958?

• Does the fly-man follow a mythological pattern? What stories or monsters does it remind you of?

• Can horror stories like this help us process real trauma — or do they risk exploiting it?

• If remembering the entity is what spreads it… are we now infected, too?

  ---

  © 2025 Juste Mil. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the permission of the author.