CW: Some drug related humor, sprinkled swearing and brief disturbing imagery.

Between an old, tattered hardcover of Dostoevsky‘s Crime and Punishment, and a paperback of Captain Underpants. That's where Steven said he had  stashed the shroom chocolate bar. When Jeremiah had asked Steven earlier that day why he hid it in the university library of all possible places, he responded that it just made sense at the time.

Jeremiah was forced to go retrieve the goods himself, Steven currently under house arrest after he came home a few nights ago and didn't recognize his parents, accusing them of being intruders and calling the police, Steven himself high off acid from the party he had just left.

Nevertheless, Jeremiah braved the mission by his lonesome, sneaking in and out shadows like a thief, the thick of the night providing cover. The campus was mostly empty, save for a few remnants here and there, some burning the midnight oil, studying, and others burning the midnight oil in a different fashion. As Jeremiah walked hunched and speedily across the front lawn, his tall and lanky figure giving him the appearance of some undead horror or necromancer, a piercing shatter rang out it the silence of the night, cackling akin to a hyena quickly following.

Jeremiah stopped his stride, quickly moving behind a tree, peaking his face out an inch. A gathering of frat bros, four in total, had thrown something through the window, a couple of them hopping through the hole with spray cans in hand. Jeremiah used this as his opportunity to hurry on relatively unnoticed, slinking in and out of shadows until he made his way into the building, quickly arriving at the campus library.

The usual suspects were there. Lisa, hunched over a tome like an ancient wizard, her pencil in between her fingers tapping rhythmically against the table, the only noise in the room. Jeremiah walked hunched, almost crawling, weaving his way through the enemy territory of tables and shelves. He arrived at the aisle Steven had said he placed it, quickly eying the books until he saw them. Jeremiah gently removed the books so as to not make as much as a peep, the treasure sitting in a Ziplock bag behind them.

As Jeremiah grabbed the goods, he heard a strange, industrial sound in the air. Like the turning of old and ungreased gears. Accompanying it was a foul, smoke like odor, a strange and nauseating mix of brunt meat and garbage.

A gust of heat crawled up Jeremiah’s neck, though it was warm, the feeling causing him to shiver. Jeremiah turned around, not seeing anything. He walked further down the aisle towards the source of the heat, which grew in intensity, almost starting to burn the further he progressed.

Jeremiah neared a shelf which he believed to be the source of the heat and foul odor, the heat and smell at its strongest. He pushed against it, why, he knows not. An internal prodding. The shelf squeaked , as if old and unused, long forgotten, then opened, a wind of heat washing over him, the very fabric of which almost seemed intertwined with strange malice. Though the malice was evil, and strange , it seemed familiar, almost welcoming, a beckoning in.

Opposite of the shelf was a damp, dark stone corridor, which seemed to stretch on forever. On each side of the corridor sat doors, on which seemed also infinite. A strange woosh echoed continuously, as if surrounded by the void of space. In between the wooshes emitted the toiling of gears, the source of which Jeremiah knew not. A cry echoed out, piercing, and in pain, reverberating down the whole of the corridor. Jemimah looked back, the shelf still there behind him. He turned back forward-

A figure, tall and draped in a cloak stood a inch away from him, the smell of which was death. It breathed, the breath raspy, as if the things lungs themselves struggled to move. Jeremiah took a step back, inhaling a sharp breath as his eyes widened in terror, letting out a shriek.

"Well, did you?"

Jerimiah blinked his eyes, standing in the living room of his small suburban house, his mother opposite of him, her trademark

disapproving look in her eyes.

"I-what?", Jerimiah replied.

"The bottle of the cabernet. It's almost gone. There's only about a glass left, if we're being generous."

"I...I don't know what you're talking about."

"The bottle is almost gone, and I know I didn't drink that much", Sarah replied.

"I...you had four glasses. You provably just don't remember."

"I would know if I had four glasses so far, since I know what being drunk feels like. More than you and your friends , though I know you consider yourselves quite the party animals."

Jeremiah opened his mouth, then closed it just as fast, sighing.

"Mom, I didn't drink that whole bottle if that's what you're asking."

"I'm not saying that, I'm just asking where the bottle went."

"...that's just an indirect way of saying the same thing."

Sarah sighed, turning away with the near empty bottle in hand.

"Whatever. I'm putting us back on that alcohol cleanse that Doctor Lieberman talked about, lord know we can all use it. And can you pick up Mia from soccer, she texted me she was done a little while ago. Make sure you get something for you, David and her to eat tonight, me and Harold will probably be burning the midnight oil."

Jeremiah watched as Sarah walked up the staircase, a moment later the sound of her door opening and shutting. He didn't know from what, but the back of his neck tingled as if being brushed with heat.

The rain had started to fall with increased severity, battering down against the earth. Girls stood under bleachers, waiting for their car to arrive. The car that belonged to them. Jeremiah remembered a sermon as he pulled up along the muddy road, from back when he was a child and church and conviction were mandatory. The pastor, whom Jeremiah no longer membered the name of, had shuffled up the pulpit like a penguin, his oversized pants dragging on the ground. He talked about how parents could look into a crowd of kids, and immediately, as if by strange instinct, only spot their own. The dearly beloved that belonged solely to them. He said that's how God viewed his children, as he looked down from the heavens upon the earth.

Jeremiah didn't believe that, and hadn't for a long time, but he thought it was an apt description, as that's how he looked at Mia in the crowd. Amongst the gathering of young girls, hair and uniforms wetted down by the rain, faces contorted in distress, he spotted her, almost immediately.

As Mia ran from under the bleachers to Jeremiah's old, blue sedan, he quickly opened his door, tossing an empty bottle of whisky out the door. He popped a few sticks of mint gum in his mouth, just as Mia reached the car and opened the door, getting in.

"Can't believe this rain", Mia said shutting the door. "It was so nice just an hour ago."

"Yeah, um, it really came out of nowhere. Sucks. Was practice at least fun? When the weather was still good?"

"Practice was fun, yeah. I think we're going to win this season. Also, Lisa's mom brought donuts from her shop at the beginning of the game."

"Nice", Jemimah replied, his enthusiasm genuine. "Speaking of, I think we're on our own for dinner. You have anything in particular in mind? I'm buying."

"Ooh la-la", Mia replied with a grin, looking at Jerimiah. "On the house?"

Jeremiah grinned, letting out a small chuckle.

"On the house. Anything. Also, I was thinking we would eat out if you wanted. Do some people watching. Plus, the food will be hot and fresh."

Mia looked at Jeremiah, a pained half smile on her face. The kind of smile that hid words best left unsaid.

"Okay, that sounds good", Mia replied with an approving nod.

Jeremiah returned to the road, the rainfall coming down even fiercer. Jeremiah's vision had become somewhat blurry, a bad combination with the weather, and a throbbing sensation overtook his head.

"J-jerry, I think you can slow down a little", Mia said, a nervous chuckle underpinning her comment.

"Yeah, yeah, you're right. I probably should."

Jeremiah slowed down, but the throbbing in his head worsened, his vision becoming even more clouded. As he began to spin out of control, he briefly wondered if perhaps drinking that bottle of whisky may have been a mistake.

"Jerry, watch out", a panicked Mia screamed, her eyes wide in terror as a vehicle emerged from the haze of rain, bulldozing towards them with terrible speed.

Like a therapist's office. That's how Jeremiah would describe the room he woke up in.

He sat on a brown, leather couch, a couple other couches in the room, along with a chair which sat behind a oak desk. On the desk sat large books, some opened, some closed. Papers scattered the desk, on them strange illustrations of symbols and even stranger machines. A clock ticked on the wall, though it made no apparent sense, the clock ticking seemingly backwards. Next to the clock hung a large painting of Saturn. The faint playing of soul music weaved through the air, Jeremiah not sure where it came from. Jerimiah looked at the maroon carpet, tears falling from his eyes.

The loud crank of a gear boomed, followed by a strange, thundering woosh of air. A moment later the door opened, the cloaked figure outside. As Jeremiah's body tensed with fear, his breath stopping, a calm voice spoke.

"Don't mind him, I know his presence may be a bit alarming, but he's relatively harmless, honest", said a voice, soothing, but a certain rigidness in it that gave hints of undisclosed harshness.

The cloaked figure walked in, a moment later an older man following. He had grey hair, like slightly muddied snow, and wrinkles weaving through his face like lines on a map. He had a nice smile, like a teacher, whom he coincidentally also dressed like. He shut the door behind him, the monstrous turning of gears and gushing winds fading.

The man walked to the desk, touching a gold incantation bowl that sat on it.

"Pazuzu, return to your prison at once. Return to Tohu wa-bohu, and let thy chains bind you there", he said, the engravings on the bowl glowing and a faint hum emitting. A thunderous gush of air ran through, strangely enough not brushing the lightest paper or wisp of hair, and Pazuzu fell apart into black smoke, flooding into the bowl.

The man walked to Jeremiah, stopping a foot away and observing him. He smiled, reaching out his hand for Jeremiah's cheek.

"My, how excellent you are. Like a mirror. Truly, is this how God felt?"

Jeremiah jerked back, his breath heavy.

"Of course, I didn't even introduce myself. All relationships are built on mutual understanding and trust, and how can one trust a nameless man?"

The man took a step back, reaching out his hand.

"Scott Porter."

Jeremiah looked at Porter's hand for a moment, looking up at his smiling, wrinkled face. He hesitantly reached his hand out and shook it.

"J-Jeremiah Miller."

"Mm. Nice name. Reminds me of someone I was close too when I was younger."

"I-my sister and I. We were driving...and I think...God, I hope not, but I think-"

"You assume correctly", Porter said, cutting him off. "Mia and yourself died in a car crash, due to you being severely inebriated."

Jeremiah let out a forceful breath, as if someone had socked him in the stomach with a brick in hand. A million thoughts ran through his head, until finally he kneeled over, weeping like a mother in mourning.

"O-oh my God", Jeremiah wailed. "I-I didn't mean to."

"Most people never do. Chance is a ruthless and uncaring poker dealer", Porter said, kneeling down in front of Jeremiah.

"Your tears", Porter said, brushing Jeremiah's wet cheek with his hand. "They're so...real. You really cared for this girl, didn't you?"

"Of-of course I did. W-what type of fucking question is that? A-and how do you know my sisters name? Where the fuck even am I?"

Porter stood, walking over to the painting of Saturn.

"...I know your sisters name...because I am heavily, heavily invested in you, Jeremiah. So much so that I crafted you a sister to love."

"...you're fucking crazy man. Please, just let me go. M-my family has money, I'll make sure you get a nice sum or something. I swear on it, and I don't break my word."

"But you do, Jeremiah. You broke it in fifth grade, when Timothy invited you to go bird watching with him and his farther, and even though you promised, you went to play games at Richard's house. In eleventh grade, when you drove Alex and yourself home from Ted's party, even though you were both drunk, and crashed his car into a street pole. Come the next morning, you told him it was him, and he believed it. In Twelfth grade, when you promised Lisa you'd remain loyal despite the increasingly divergent paths you were on, only to desperately fuck Amy as soon as you went to university."

Jeremiah's face contorted.

"H-how do you know the-"

"Because I made you fifteen minutes ago", Porter said, walking back to Jeremiah. "At least this new, hopefully final version."

"I-"

"You're my Tulpa, Jeremiah. I conjured...willed you into being. Through my might, you exist."

Jeremiah looked at Porter, then broke out into laughter.

"Okay, okay. Psychic, maybe I can believe. Probably are, actually. But conjuring me into existence? Now you're just making yourself look stupid."

"Be quit and listen, child."

And just like that, Jeremiah's mouth stitched itself shut, as if he never had a mouth, as his his skin didn't even know what it was. He screamed, the sound muffled. He jolted up from the couch-

"Sit", Porter said, and Jeremiah sat.

"Your will is bound to mine, what I want, so do you. As if the desire was birthed from your very being."

Porter walked closer to Jeremiah, stopping only but a few inches away from him. He raised his finger, placing it against Jeremiah's forehead lightly, Jeremiah wincing in terror.

"You...are my Tulpa. Before the night is over, I intend to place my consciousness into your empty husk and depart for another plane."

Porter sighed, taking a few steps back , his shoulders slumping, abject misery on his face.

"...Mia was real, but her name was Rachel. And she did die. But a long, long time ago. Sarah was real, and even though we hated her, we also loved her. And...Jeremiah was real. A friend. I've lived a... rather unfortunate life, though I'm not one to complain. Reality is malleable though, and with you, I can redo the cycle. Better this time perhaps."

Porter ran his finger across his lips, Jeremiah's mouth returning. He breathed with ragged breaths, tears streaming down his cheeks as he looked at Porter.

"I knew", Porter said. "As soon as Sarah said that to you, and I felt that twinge of anger mixed with such shame, that you were the one. To feel such conflicting emotions, so strongly...it was as if watching a memory on film."

Jeremiah breathed heavily, looking at Porter with terror in his eyes.

"You're crazy...and evil."

Porter dryly chuckled, shrugging.

"I probably am. Though, maybe now I won't have to be."

Porter walked to the desk, bending down and coming up with a large, silver box, symbols engraved all throughout it.

"I found this room when I student here decades ago. So many rooms in the hall...but this...it called to me."

Porter unlocked the box, taking out a large, black tome. On its cover was a snake with Saturn above its head.

"I believe it belonged to an ancient alchemist, and I mean truly ancient. They say one of the Outer Lords bestowed it to him, perhaps the Prince of Saturn. That's all hearsay, however. And nevertheless, though his voice may claw at me through these pages, he is long dead, and I am here."

Porter sat the tome on the desk, even though it was gently the mere act causing a weighty thud. He opened it, flipping through the pages.

"I've conjured a whole world, you know. In one of those rooms. Set it at a point where I believe I can reverse all my troubles. And like God, I made the whole thing self running. At the mercy of chaos."

Porter began to read the words, his voice becoming guttural, and strange, the words themselves almost contorting his vocals cords to shapes and patterns alien to humanity.

"W-wait", Jeremiah shouted, Porter going quit.

"Yes?", Porter responded, calmly.

"What if...what if it doesn't work. What if you screw things up again?"

Porter sighed, nodding his head.

"It's an unfortunate possibility. I suppose...I'll just have to do it again. Make a new world, and a new Tulpa."

Jeremiah looked on, petrified and in pure terror as the room shook violently. The room darkened, Porter's eyes going bloodshot as his skin loosened like a serpent, falling off. Underneath lay a sickly pale man with blood red eyes, bottomless malice and disdain in them, overflowing. His body was hairless. He leapt for Jeremiah as a hole opened in the wall, into a raging, black vortex. Porter stretched open Jeremiah's mouth, and went into him.

Scott Porter, age twenty-two, lied on his bed, the curtain open and slightly blowing. He turned, looking at his bedside desk, a half-drunken bottle of whisky on it. Porter got out of bed and stood, grabbing the bottle. He looked at it a moment, before throwing it in the trash.