>47< A horror and/or apocalyptic story about someone without their glasses or contacts. They use binoculars or their phone camera to navigate.

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I manage to escape the house, barely keeping my feet under my body as I scurry down the blurry wooden stairs. I nearly tumble forward but catch myself instinctually by grabbing the handrail with my right hand. I notice right away it’s a bit warmer and wetter than I expect. I land at the bottom of the step and proceed forward, nearly tripping. I see the outline of the edges of the concrete serpentine sidewalk that begin at the porch and terminate at the asphalt driveway. I know the general path of it even after only living here a number of days. It’s hard to see in the moonlight, but I make do. I stride as quickly as I feel comfortable. I cannot see clearly any objects or debris in my path. 

Seconds later, I reach the passenger side of my car. I try the handle but naturally, it’s locked. My right hand starts to tingle and shake slightly. I remember the rail and think maybe I have a splinter. I give up on the door and proceed to jog down the rest of the driveway. I reach the road and stop. I turn and face the house while I decide to pull my phone from my pocket. Realizing my hand is still wet and unusually warm, I use my left hand to pull the phone from my right pocket. After unlocking the screen habitually, I reach with my right hand to begin tapping on the screen. Before I reach the screen, in the glow, I see there’s a blue stain on my right index finger. I realize it’s all over my hand. 

Using the screen’s light, I turn my palm over and bring my hand closer to my face. I squint at the grooves in my hand. I’m familiar with them. My hand, despite my nerve signals telling me otherwise, isn’t wet at all. I stare longer. The grooves start to dance and flow like waves in a stream. I squat down to the ground and reach out to begin wiping my hand on the corner of the grassy lawn by the end of my driveway. The blades are sparse and weak, still taking root in the fresh topsoil. I’m unsure of the nature of this blue substance. I think it’s probably dried ink from a pen, or maybe fabric dye that seeped from the jeans I wore earlier. I rub my hand back and forth, left and right, on the juvenile lawn anyway. I return my hand to view and see no change. I have no time to continue this. The tingling sensation evolves to an uncomfortable level of heat. I feel like I’ve been squeezing a hand warmer pouch for several minutes. The muscles in my hand feel tense.

I squint at my phone screen as I hold it only a few inches from my face. I open the camera and frantically begin pinching to zoom in and out as I spin around slowly. I try to survey my surroundings the best I can. I fixate on the front door which I left open in my rush to get outside. I left my glasses on my nightstand during my panic. I have terrible near-sighted vision and now is about the worst time as any to be living alone in a brand new subdivision. My parents warned me it’s never good to be the first one anywhere. 

My phone camera isn’t great at night I quickly remember. I see nothing. The porch light is off, I have no driveway lamps, and the nearest street light is several houses down. The shells of several incomplete houses lurk in the shadows. I stand alone in the cloak of darkness. My adrenaline is still pumping through my veins but I feel weak in the knees as I decide what to do next. My hand begins to throb as it grows its own heartbeat. I bring it up to my face once again and point the screen at it. 

The lines are no longer dancing. The lines are gone altogether. My fingers are puffy and the knuckle lines have all but disappeared. My fingers are straight and stiff. I begin to video the odd transformation. The skin on my hand slowly changes from a navy blue to deep purple. The back of my hands are absorbing the color from my palm. The lurching purple veins emanating from my palm deposit pigment like syringes. I stop the video out of terror. My hand instantly feels cold now. The hand warmer pouch has been replaced by dry ice. The tips of my fingers grow dark, now black. The veins pulse and increase in diameter. My hand begins to twitch and writhe on its own. I have no control now. Screaming into the empty night, I know I have no audience. The unrecognizable end of my right arm twitches, back and forth. Now rotating at the wrist in quick circles. I no longer wish to look at the wretched thing. I pull my hand away from my clear view.  

I reach out to the distant street light, blocking it with the creature attached to me. The shape it casts on my body is like a demented shadow puppet. I hold my phone camera at the door again. The zoom number has been reset to one. I readjust my grip on the phone and try to pinch with my thumb and index finger. I see a dark figure duck through the open door. As I try to zoom in, I drop the phone. I panic and start to hyperventilate. It’s found me. 

My right hand feels weightless now, but somehow it’s locked in its position in the air. I bend down to grab the phone. The hand doesn’t budge. It’s frozen in place, no longer twitching, but no longer under my control. I pull and deadweight the thing but with no luck. I extend my left foot out to slide the phone closer to me. It slides across the asphalt, but in a few scrapes, I have it within reach. I squat and bend as much as I can given my aerial anchor. I pick up the phone and see the screen is cracked. In the shattered black reflection, I see a figure rise behind me over my shoulder. The amorphous shape grows and rises like a cursed beanstalk. I’m still – frozen with fear. I don’t move. I dare not move a muscle. My right hand comes alive. It jerks backwards rapidly and unnaturally. I hear it snap off at the wrist. My arm is now free to drop to my side. I don’t scream. I dare not make a sound. The dark purple creature, now completely disconnected from me, twists like a falling cat and grabs my forearm. The fingers that once belonged to my body begin to walk up my arm to my shoulder. I feel nothing. I want to feel nothing. The pain I expected to feel from the detachment ceased to exist. The sensation of fingers crawling up my arm remains absent. A low squelching sound originating from behind my head fills the quiet street. I hear a guttural rumbling sound, almost one of satisfaction.

The shadow behind me looms still. I dare not turn around by my own volition. My skull is overtaken by a squeezing sensation from all directions. The sense of pain washes over my head like a hat on fire. I’m aware that I’m being lifted from the ground. My feet point downwards as I try to somehow grip the road with my sock-covered toes. I drop the phone on the ground and close my eyes. I’m tense and stiff. My neck strains as the weight of my limp body tugs on it. Through my clenched eyelids, I see the faint point of light slide across my vision. I now face darkness. I open my eyes ever so slightly. I fear what I won’t be able to see. The figure before me has the build of a goliath. Easily ten feet tall and with an arm outstretched probably half that. I float before it, mere inches from the ground. Its chest is at my eye level. I can’t bring myself to explore its face. In what little clarity I have, I see another arm lift up and come into slight focus. It’s a rounded stub. The figure’s lower jaw opens. From its mouth, a wet, gravely voice utters the words, “Now the other one.”