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I don’t believe in ghosts, and I certainly don’t believe in robot uprisings or any of that sci-fi crap, but something weird has been going on.

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Weeds were growing through cracks in the cement where cars used to park. The screen had small rips and tears. The poles, which used to hold speakers, were bent and smeared with mud.

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I do remember the day I brought the lightbulb over to my new neighbors though. Given the stepford appearance of Hollow Oak, I assumed their porch lamp was similar to my own. I was very wrong.

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I popped a few allergy pills throughout the week, which helped my running nose, but it didn’t do much for my unsettled stomach. Maybe I was going to get my period early, but it didn’t feel like the same sensation. This felt heavy, like something was weighing down my insides. 

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My best friend believes in spiritual mumbo jumbo like tarot cards and psychic readings and cleansing the house with sage.

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My intense fear of strangers is the reason why I splurged on one of those fancy, fifty dollar doorbell cameras. That way, when someone stood on my porch, I could see whether they were a threat to me.

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Slackbot might feel advanced sometimes, but I have to remind myself he’s like any other chatbot.

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It was the first time I’ve ever seen a Facebook ad for a missing person

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When I was about to die, my life didn’t flash before my eyes.

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The paper — the bottle — even the smooth archaic penmanship, all seeming ancient and untampered with. So what were the chances that it would be addressed to someone else with my name?