I just received a disturbing piece of mail, and I don’t know how to grasp its contents. It is something I understand, but don’t at the same time. But before I tell you what’s in the mail, it’s best that I start with what happened to me ten years ago, when I was still in high school. It will help shed some light… hopefully.

It was a weekend, and my best friend, Brad, and I were having a sleepover. We were staying up late playing video games as we usually would, until Brad got visibly bored. It was past 2 A.M., and this was usually the point in the night we would call it quits, turn off the console, and put a movie on to fall asleep to. But this particular night, we were wide awake with multiple energy drinks pumping through our veins. I wanted to continue playing, but Brad had another idea; he wanted to explore outside.

This was a strange moment in my teenage years because Brad and I were good kids; top students, and our teachers and parents trusted us. We rarely got into trouble or broke the rules. So, Brad’s suggestion took me aback. But for some reason that night, after a brief moment of hesitation, I felt the urge to do something risky and out of my comfort zone. I agreed to it, and we slowly snuck our way to the main floor, put our shoes on, and carefully slid through the back door without making a noise.

We hurried to a trail that led into the woods. With my adrenaline pumping, I felt a sharp contraction in my gut; I was nervous but excited, with butterflies in my stomach as well. I’d never been out this late, especially without permission. As we walked — making jokes, laughing, trying to stay quiet — we heard something coming from the forest. Brad heard it first and told me to stop and listen. As I did, we both heard it — the sound of a bell reverberating in the depths of the forest.

I reached for my phone to illuminate the darkness in the forest but, obviously, it didn’t light much. I pointed the light at my friend’s face, and I saw a smile stretched across it — he had an idea, an idea I didn’t like. He wanted to follow and investigate the noise. I was already far beyond my comfort zone, and going through the forest in the middle of the night was crossing a line. But, without my consent, Brad leapt off the trail, towards the noise. I panicked — faced with a split-second decision to either be left alone on the trail or join my friend, I followed Brad.

The bell chimed every so often, so it was clear which direction it was coming from. As we approached it, it was getting louder and louder. I was following Brad. While he focused on the direction of the noise, I focused on our surroundings — continuously looking side to side and behind us, a nervous tension in my chest. Then suddenly, Brad grabbed the collar of my shirt, yanked me to my knees, and hushed me. Stupefied, I must have worn a blank stare, because my friend saw the confusion on my face. He pointed in the direction of the ringing, and I could see a faint orange glow emanating from it.

Brad made a sign to walk slowly, carefully, and hunched. Before I could object, Brad turned around and stalked his way to the light. I was shocked by my friend’s behavior because all my instincts were telling me to run and go back home. My hands were shaking, sweat was dripping from my forehead, my breaths were irregular and constricted, and my stomach churned violently. Yet, Brad was making his way with so much more ease and confidence.

As I got reluctantly closer, I started to see the clearing better. It seemed like a makeshift campsite with a dim fire in the middle, surrounded by tables and equipment. However, I knew it wasn’t a campsite due to a lack of a tent. Once we were several yards away, Brad signaled to stop and wait. We knelt in silence in the darkness — the constant ringing of the bell, the rustling of the leaves, the crackling of the fire. We waited to see movement, eyes darting left and right, but none came. We stood still for what felt like an eternity, until Brad whispered that the coast was clear.

My heart dropped as I watched Brad get up casually and walk into the light of the fire. Again, I was met with an agonizing situation — either stay in the darkness alone, or join my friend. I chose the latter. As I reached the illuminated area, I gazed around. There were log stumps set up for a group of people to sit in a circle. Wooden tables encircled the perimeter, with what seemed to be pots, pans, and a variety of tools on them. I approached one of the tables with curiosity.

As I got closer I noticed the tools on it were kitchen knives, including a butcher knife. Unsettled, I could make out other things on it, but it was too dark to tell what they were. I took my phone and shone it across the surface. What I witnessed in that moment was despicable. On the table lay mutilated parts of animals. I noticed black birds, parts of a black cat, and parts of a black dog. In that instant, I felt my stomach lurch. As I was paralyzed by the horror, staring at the red-stained wood, I noticed a symbol drawn in blood — a circle within a circle, with criss-crossing lines etched in the space between them. Then the odor of rotten flesh and metallic blood reached my nostrils; I turned around, fell to my knees, and let out a wretched heave.

As I was on my hands and knees, feeling like the world around me was spinning, and on the brink of a blackout, I looked up to see Brad. My vision was blurry, but he was standing near the fire. I let out one more heave, wiped my mouth, and slowly got to my feet. I approached Brad, while I was swaying a little, still trying to find my balance, telling him we had to leave. But he didn’t reply. I made it beside him as he stared into a large pot that was on the fire, a bell hanging from a wooden frame above it — the bell we’d followed. I repeated myself, trying to get him to leave, but he was transfixed by the contents of the pot. I took a better look, and as I thought the night couldn’t get worse, it did.

The pot was full of a red-tinged liquid. A chain dangled from the bell down into it, threaded through the eye sockets of a human skull that floated on the surface. The skull was bobbing and shifting around from the simmering liquid, and would occasionally tug the bell, making the familiar sound — a ring. Stunned, I didn’t understand what I was looking at, as Brad leaned over and grabbed the skull. I let out an enormous gasp, unable to find words to say, still feeling dizzy, as Brad seized the chain with his other hand and pulled it forcefully, breaking the chain from the skull. A big gust of wind immediately followed, extinguishing the fire. I stumbled backward and fell, landing hard on the ground.

With our source of light extinguished, all I could see was Brad’s faint silhouette, illuminated by the pale moonlight permeating through the treetops. My phone still in hand, I turned on the light once more and flashed it at Brad; he was staring at me with a blank expression. No words came out — the whole thing was too preposterous to make sense of. We faced each other in silence — his expression empty, mine most likely filled with terror. Then, I noticed something move behind him. I instinctively shone my light towards it, and there were dozens of hooded people encircling us. I waved my phone around us, and we were surrounded by people dressed in black cloaks. They weren’t moving. They weren’t talking.

I whispered to Brad that we should go, but he stood as motionless as the others. I remember feeling an explosion of frustration inside me, from my friend’s behavior, to the silent cloaked figures, to my desperate need to feel safe again. I yelled at my friend once more to leave with me, but he didn’t say a word or react in any way. I got up and ran as fast as I could. As I tore through the trees, a chilling sensation came over me — I had just abandoned my friend. At that moment, I fell into a ditch, a good distance away, and lay in the darkness, curled tight, arms wrapped around myself. While I attempted to collect myself, tears rushing down my face, I heard a horrendous sound — my friend was yelling in agony. The screams got louder and louder, until his last yell abruptly stopped, ending mid-breath. I got up and continued running towards my house.

In a state of panic, my memories of what occurred afterward are blurry. I remember getting home, waking my parents, telling them what happened, then blacking out. The following days, I remember being in bed, unable to move or wake, being stuck in what felt like a fever dream. I recall unknown people with blurry faces coming and going from my room. Some I assumed were cops, others I assumed were detectives. My parents also visited me often, especially my mother. I became more coherent for a little while — long enough for my mother to explain what had happened. She told me I had been in bed for four days. They’d been looking for my friend Brad, but he had been missing since that night I came back. I felt terrified in that moment. But my mother eased my fear as she said they had just found him that morning, unconscious at the side of the road. He was unresponsive, but in stable condition. With that good news, my body relaxed, and I lost consciousness once again.

For some reason, it took me a while to recover. I spent a couple of weeks at home, mostly in bed, resting. I hadn’t seen Brad since the incident, and when I asked my parents about him, they didn’t give me much information other than that he was alright. In fact, he was already back to school. My parents took my phone, as they said it would be healthier if I stayed away from screens and rested. I wasn’t able to talk to or see anyone. Those weeks felt odd to me, because my parents were anxious, hovering, coddling me like never before. It was mildly unsettling.

I eventually convinced my parents I was ready to go back to school, eager to see my friend again. When we finally met at school, Brad and I greeted each other with a big smile. I noticed the other kids staring at us much more than ever before. They must have known what had happened to Brad. Every time we noticed a crowd of students whispering while watching us, I would look at Brad with concern, feeling sorry for him. However, when he caught my expression, he’d return a smile, projecting positive energy to show everything was fine.

At first, I admired Brad’s positivity and strength in those moments. But after a few days, it began to bother me. When we talked about what had happened, he only mentioned the police, the investigators, the search parties, and the like. He never spoke about what had happened to him. At first, I gave him some time, as it was a sensitive topic. But after a while, I felt that he had the responsibility to tell me what had happened since he was the one to put us in that predicament in the first place. His silence infuriated me. He was the one who suggested going outside, the one who led us deep into the forest, the one who pulled the skull out, and the one who didn’t run back with me. I wanted some answers.

At the end of the first week back, I finally confronted him. I tried to be patient while asking, but unfortunately, my anger leaked into the conversation. I started accusing him, blaming everything on him. I told him how much I hated him for what he’d done — which I didn’t know I felt until that very moment. After my rant, Brad looked stunned and in disbelief. He was struggling to find words. When he finally spoke, what he said has haunted me for ten years. He told me that he wasn’t the one who touched the skull, or stayed behind, or yelled out in pain, or turned up missing for days — that was me.

Brad told me that after I broke the chain, people appeared from the woods. He grabbed me to run, but I took the skull and tried to smash it over his head. He luckily dodged it and fell to the ground, as the hooded figures started creeping closer and closer. Brad tried to grab me again, but I was being violent and resistant. When the hooded people got too close, Brad snuck through them and watched as they surrounded me. He told me I had spread my arms wide, welcoming them. Brad was yelling as much as he could to get me to run, but I ignored him. Then one of the figures took out a knife and did something to me — I screamed out in agony. That was when Brad fled to get help. He returned to my house, alerted my parents, and guided the police to the site. But once they got there, everything was gone, except for the residue of the fire.

Search teams — which Brad joined — were sent out to scout the entire area, but I was nowhere to be found. Then four days later, an anonymous caller informed the police I was unconscious on the side of the road. Brad told me that when they found me, I was delirious and wasn’t doing well psychologically. I was hard to talk to and every time anyone mentioned what happened, I would have a violent breakdown. Brad and everyone else at school were informed not to bring it up, unless I brought it up myself. That was why Brad was acting normal, to comfort me and give me space, not the other way around.

I felt like I was in a living nightmare. I thought there was no way it could be true. I remembered it all vividly: that night, and the days after, when I’d been in my bedroom, sick and recovering. Then a hint of doubt seeped in — what if he was right? — and I panicked. I attacked Brad.

Luckily, Brad was so much bigger and stronger than I was that he was able to restrain me. Teachers got involved, broke us up, and that was when I told Brad that I hated him and never wanted to see him again. That was the day I stopped speaking to Brad — and stubbornly, I never did again. I never mentioned the events of those days either. I decided that it was Brad who went missing, and everything that had happened was his fault. Any time someone mentioned otherwise, I would shut down and block them out. That was ten years ago. I’ve gone to college, I work full-time, and live in an apartment in the city. I would argue I’ve had a normal life since. I haven’t thought of the cloaked figures and Brad for a very long time. But recently, I received that mail — a returned letter, undeliverable, sent back to my address. I checked who it was addressed to: Brad. And the sender was me. I have no memory of writing it.

Confused, I opened the letter, and I could see that the words written on the page were in my handwriting. It read: “We are ready for you now,” with those circles and criss-crosses drawn. The address also looked like mine too. But I have no idea where Brad lives, and I don’t remember writing this at all. Why would I? All I can ask myself is: Why would someone send this to me? How did someone mimic my writing? And why send it to my address just so it comes back? What does Brad want with me?