Chương 3: Chapter 3

1. On the farthest point of Long Island , the last scrap of land that still counts as New York , there sits a tremendous , abandoned building Protected by its own isolated location , there is also at any given time two to three Security Guards there . However , if one approaches the cast iron gates on the night of December 4th . you I will see that on this night , even those few security guards refuse to work The gates are left unlocked , and the wind will be utterly still , a nearly opaque fog filling the peninsula .

Go directly to the main doors and step within , there will be a single long hallway , the end occluded by that fog .

If you look to either side upon entering , you will see a modern operating room through a glass door . The further in that you walk , the older the equipment will get and the more old fashioned the doctors will be dressed .

When you can finally come upon the end of the hallway , the screams of the patients will be nearly deafening . The hall will terminate in an open door leading to a single wooden table where a man in woolen medical clothing , stained brown from blood , will be bent over a corpse .

The body's face will be covered , and the man will turn silently , screwing the top onto a cloudy jar of liquid , filled to the brim . He will hand this abnormally heavy object to you , before turning back to his work . Instantly , you will be outside of those cast iron gates . From that point on , disease and injury will never affect you , but if you ever open that cloudy jar and pull out the contents ... you will find a heart , pulsing and beating loudly in your palm .

A sudden feeling of horror and revulsion will pass through you as realization strikes , that you have just pulled your own living heart from your chest .

2. Ever since I can remember, I've had an aversion to pickles. When I was little, my grandmother would send me down cellar to bring up a jar, for sandwiches for lunch, or maybe a jar of marmalade for breakfast-- I would start to tremble just at the thought of going down to those long, cool rows of jars, all filled with things that had once been alive and vibrant, and were now shriveled, shrunken, discolored versions of themselves, floating helplessly in sinister-looking brines, or jelled into sticky, pulpy masses. Gran would stand at the top of the stairs, her long shadow falling down them, and scold: "Hurry, boy! I'll pickle you if you're not back up by the time I count to ten!" I wasn't the only kid around scared of Gran-the neighborhood kids all avoided her-- but I never knew anybody else scared of pickles and jars. Anyway, the aversion grew worse as I got older, becoming pretty much a phobia by the time I was in my twenties. It caused some awkward social situations, but mostly I could live with it. My wife thought it was kind of cute. Or she did. Now, we're down in Gran's cellar, cleaning. Gran passed away last week. We've got to clean the place before we can sell it. All these jars, more preserves than any one person could ever use--and I'm finally figuring out my fear of pickles, and jars, and why the neighborhood kids were all as scared of Gran as I was..my wife is starting to get a little hysterical.. "Just throw them in the trash, don't look," I advise, remembering from my youth how some of the jars seemed to have things in them that looked almost like body parts, or eyes, or ears. "Just tell yourself it's only pickles..."

3. Have you ever been taking a shower while alone in the house and felt like something was moving around behind the curtain? Or watching you? Did you look up? Did you catch the very vaguest hint of eyebrows or a tuft of matted, greasy hair above the curtain rod? That's not a good idea. It doesn't really like it if you see it. It likes it the most when you've got shampoo on your hair, and your eyes are shut tight so your eyes don't sting. Or even better, when there's soap and bubbles all over your soft, pink face. It likes that the best, because your eyes are clenched so tight, and even if you did want to open them, like, if you heard a soft scratching against the plastic shower curtain, or a rasping of claws on bathroom tile, or the gentle splatter of drool or... god knows what... well, you wouldn't open your eyes because it'd burn. Right? Right. Don't open your eyes. Because if you ever see its face, catch its eyes. Well. It'll notice.