📅 Published on June 6, 2023


Written by Paris Clark
Edited by N.M. Brown
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available


Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.
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The sun makes an unwelcoming appearance as Patrick Fitz wakes to a frozen morning. His head throbs as the first rays of sunlight slice through the parted curtains and reach his retinas, which causes him to growl and turn away. His newly found drinking habit is taking a toll on him, but he doesn’t care. He welcomes every headache, every bout of compulsive vomiting, and all the random cuts and bruises that he acquires during his blackouts. He forces himself off the hotel bed, and sways as the blood rushes from his head. The feeling is gone almost as fast as it came. He begins looking around the disheveled room for the bottle he had last night, hoping he hasn’t finished it. The one-liter bottle of Royal Club whiskey lays in the bed next to where he had been sleeping. The top is off, resulting in the darkening of the beige bed sheets. He frowns, picks it up, and sees it contains roughly four mouthfuls.

“Gotta catch the hair of that dog.” He takes a drink—it tastes stale.

His short oily brown hair stands matted and alert in all directions. He still wears the button-up red plaid shirt he had dug out of the dirty clothes trashbag yesterday. It had been, and still is, covered in wrinkles. Luckily, his coat and a few squirts of Axe Body Spray will mask the musty smell radiating off him. His jeans are dusty, but clean enough for him to wear for a few more days unless he falls in a mud puddle. He remembers Jannice Storm, the sexy blonde weather lady, who he thinks made up her last name to fit with her occupation, saying it wasn’t supposed to rain or snow for a few more days. Luck is in his favor for once.

He finds the top to the bottle, twists it on, and goes about his morning duties: shit, no shower, no shave (though he is looking a bit rugged), no dental cleansing, and spitty quicky with himself involving the shower he has turned on to wash away his never future children. He cleans off his hands and manhood with a damp rag, and then finishes up with a few squirts of body spray to his armpits and the front of his shirt. He leaves the cramped bathroom, snatches his brown Carhartt coat off the single chair next to the window, tugs it on. Then slips into his Wolverine steel-toed work boots, and takes one more drink from the bottle before hiding it under his coat as he departs.

* * * * * *

He stands in an aisle at his local hardware store looking at fumigation chemicals, insecticides and rodent poisons. One would do the trick, he thinks, as he picks up a yellow box of rat poison pellets. The front shows a picture of a dead rat laying on its back, along with a red TOXIC warning label. The back gives safety directions for someone who has ingested it, along with the number for the Center for Disease control. It also claims that in California it had been proven to cause cancer. According to California everything causes fucking cancer. I wish that was the only thing I had to think about. So how should I do this? Crush them up, mix them in with some food? That’s what they do on TV, and it always seems to do the trick. He sighs, and places the box back on the shelf. Sleeping pills. . . Sleeping pills are the best way to go, take a full bottle—lights out for eternity. Painkillers? CO poisoning? A hose from the tailpipe through the window into the cab. Hear that’s like falling asleep.

He wipes a tear racing down his right cheek then looks around to see no one. He pulls the bottle of whiskey from his coat, and takes a mouthful. He wipes away another tear as he returns the bottle and heads to the exit.

God, why did you do this to me?

The cashier, a blond teen, looks to be just a year or two older than his son, glares at him as he shoves out the front door. He isn’t sure if the stare was derived from sympathy or disgust, but does it really matter?

Go ahead and stare, take a good look at what a man wishing to die, but is too cowardly to try, looks like. Take it in boy, study it, hate it, and hope and pray it never finds you.

The whole town knows of his pain. How could they not? Crest Hill has a population of 1,768 and when something bad or distasteful happens the people dive headfirst into the gossip orgy. The same day of a person’s misfortune the town knows all the secrets, storylines and details, some of which are new news to the very person they are orgasming over.

He sways down the sidewalk of Main Street—the only commercial street in town—where his hotel room and the liquor store are just a short distance away from one another. Dollar General is the only corporate store in town; all the others are family owned. The only mechanic shop/gas station/fast food place is the Conoco a mile outside city limits on Highway 1. That strip of asphalt lets travelers bypass this rinky-dink town without ever knowing of its existence, and most do.

He passes by a few other stores—flea market, barber shop, and laundromat. “I need to go there this afternoon,” he says to himself, his breath visible in the frigid morning air.

Frost is still visible on the light poles where the sun’s radiation has yet to touch. The liquor that’s still in his blood from last night coupled with the fresh dose in his stomach keeps him warm. Keeps him from sinking to his knees to confront reality. It numbs him, lets his mind wander, and at times go blank. When he passes out for hours on end, or is regurgitating it back out, his thoughts are empty, and that’s the way he wants them. If he can stay empty, and numb, there will be no more pain, no more sadness, no more regret, or self-hatred.

He stops and looks through the plate glass windows that make the front wall of Jimmy’s Pharmaceuticals. Where do you keep your sleeping pills? The morbidly obese brunette pharmacist, Susan Jenkins, sits behind the counter reading a romance novel. She had gotten knocked up by their fellow classmate, Thomas Mathews, during their senior year of high school—when she was 200 pounds lighter. They got married a week after graduation and had three more wonderful children over the past fifteen years. She goes to take a sip of her coffee on the counter beside her when she notices him staring. She gives him a faint smile then takes a sip of her coffee, sits it back down, and gives him a slight wave.

He can see it in her eyes.

You think you understand the pain, the sorrow, the guilt. I should have gone with her. I should be with them now—dead. She swerved too hard. I would have done differently. I would have kept control of the car. Maybe they wouldn’t be gone if I would have gone. Maybe we would have left at a different time. Maybe we would have left earlier, maybe later. I should have been more authoritative. I told Becky I wanted the night to ourselves. We wanted another child. We…

He sees her eyes turn, brow pinch, and face turn to sadness before he realizes tears are cascading down his face. He turns, wipes them away and hurries down the sidewalk a few more paces before cutting across the empty street.

Walking up the concrete steps of the liquor store, he guzzles the last two mouthfuls of whiskey, and then tosses the glass bottle into the trash bin next to the entrance door. The built-in sand trap atop is filled with cigarette butts. He pushes the glass door open—a bell chimes alerting the inhabitants of his entering.

“We’re not open for another ten minutes,” Travis, the burly, gray-haired man tells him, not bothering to turn around to formally address him. He is arranging the bottles that line the shelf behind the counter. The orange vest and camouflage jacket he wears tells Patrick he was supposed to be hunting right now, and not taking the shift of an employee who has apparently called in.

“Can you make an exception, please?”

Travis turns, his face slowly turning into a frown. “What you want?”

A bottle of the strongest sleeping pills you got. “A pint of Royal Club.”

“You sure you don’t want a fifth,” he questions as he turns and plucks a plastic bottle from the bottom shelf. “You know you will just be back for more and end up getting picked up by the police again.” He scans its barcode before placing it on the counter. “If you stay this course, they’re going to end up keeping you in there and force you into a treatment program.”

Patrick wipes his cheeks making sure his eyes aren’t still leaking. “It is what it is,” he replies, as he places a crinkled ten-dollar bill on the counter.

The old man takes the crunched-up bill. He taps a few keys on the register, releasing the cash drawer. He retrieves his change and hands it to him. “Get out of here,” he tells him before he begins straightening the bottles again.

He leaves, and retraces his steps as he heads to the clearly visible bright yellow Dollar General logo at the opposite end of the street. He has to restock his non-perishable microwavable food items. He twists the top off of the bottle—the crunch of the seal breaking gives him a shiver of excitement. He coughs as the liquor reaches his chest, but rejoices when its warmth finds his stomach. This is much better than the stale stuff left over from last night. Slowing his walk, he takes a deep breath, letting the cold air ease the burning of his throat. Letting the air out, he raises the bottle back to his lips. Euphoria.

The sound of a vehicle creeping up behind him makes him take the bottle prematurely from his mouth. He checks over his shoulder, and sure enough, it’s a patrol car. He swiftly spins the top on and tucks it into the inside pocket of his coat. Over the past few weeks he has been taken to the station and put in the drunk tank three times. They never bother citing him for public intoxication; they all pity him. He knows he will be picked up again if they get their hands on him, so he opens the next door he comes to and slips inside.

The hinges of the dark old oak door creak as he enters. From its small circular window he watches the patrol car slowly creep closer. The patrol car comes to a stop in front of him; the driver’s window rolls down. Patrick’s breath is fogging the glass as he looks into the eyes of a stranger. He knows all four of the cops in town, and this man is not one of them.

He is ghostly pale, has bright green eyes, bleach blond hair, and is smiling ear to ear. He sticks half of his body out the window and gives Patrick an overzealous wave. He wears a green suit with orange pinstripes, an orange dress shirt underneath, and a green bow tie around his neck.

“I hope you have a fine and dandy time,” the stranger gleefully yells at him, “you probably won’t but that’s just life aint it? All shits and giggles without any of the giggles, eh! Welp, I better be on my way, and remember, make good life choices, and always choose your words wisely, toodeloo!” He gives another enthusiastic wave before slipping back into the car. The lights begin to flash as the siren begins to blare. The tires spin and squall as he speeds off.

“Welcome.” An old crackly woman’s voice greets him from behind.

He sighs, and tries to open the door to leave, but the knob won’t turn. He tries again with both hands, but it doesn’t budge.

“Sorry Sugar, but that handle only works when it wants to.”

“Ever thought about changing the damn thing,” he replies as he strains to turn the knob.

“It ain’t going to work.” The old woman tells him.

“Then how do I get out?” he asks, as he turns to face the voice behind him.

The room is dim. A single light bulb hangs over a heavy mahogany door that stands in the middle of the floor. In the far corner, a dark-skinned elderly woman sits rocking back and forth in a wooden chair. A black and red checkered quilt lies over her legs. The black pipe she is puffing on creates a gray cloud that obscures her face leaving only her straight white hair visible. A cast iron wood-burning stove stands a few feet from her.

“You’re fine in here,” she says, “I tend to have a couple drinks myself when I’m feeling the need too, so by all means.”

He pulls the bottle from his coat and takes in his elixir. “So how do I get out of here?”

She points toward the door in the middle of the room. “Through there.”

“You’re going senile.”

The woman shakes her head. “No, no, I don’t think so, at least not yet.”

He walks to the door, turns the bronze knob and pulls it open revealing the opposite wall that is made of the same old oak as the other three walls and the doors. “Lady, I’m not in the mood for jokes.”

“And I am not a jester,” she replies, “your only chance of escape is through that door.”

He points at the door knife-handedly and with an aggravated voice states, “There is nothing through that fucking door!”

“How would you know? You haven’t tried it,” she tells him.

He rolls his eyes before taking a mouthful from his bottle, and then returns it to his coat. “Okay, Okay, Okay, I’ll play your stupid game.” He swiftly swings the door open and steps forward.

His boots crunch on gravel. Ahead is a moonlit highway and beyond it a forest. He looks back to see a forest has taken the place of the room he has left.

A brisk fog comes from his mouth as he curses, “What the fuck is this shit?”

Headlights appear on the highway to the right of him; they are too far away for him to hear the vehicle. Off in the distance to his left, but close enough to discern the difference between firecrackers and gunshots, somebody is letting out a rapid burst of lead. A single headlight rounds the curve, speeding away from that direction—it is swaying back and forth on the highway. The vehicle to the right is getting closer. He has to try and stop one of them before the worst happens.

Stepping onto the edge of the asphalt just before the white line he begins waving his arms to get the attention of the vehicle with the two headlights. He’s confident the driver will see him—the full moon is bright. He can hear the vehicle now, but it shows no signs of slowing. The headlights are actually getting closer to his side of the road. He begins yelling at them to stop moments before he has to dive away onto the gravel shoulder. The driver of the dark SUV slightly weaves, but overcorrects too hard, sending it swerving uncontrollably. Moments later the one headlight crashes into the side of the SUV near its rear tires, sending the vehicle tumbling; a body is flung high into the air before the vehicle crashes into the trees. The descending body sploshes onto the asphalt. The sudden calamity deafens all his senses. He has only felt this way once before, and that had been the worst day of his life. His hands are shaking as reaches for his bottle. The large mouthful makes him cough. The scene, lit by the full moon, seems all too familiar to him.

This isn’t possible.

He runs to the wreckage. He slows at the first vehicle to see the one headlight that once guided it is now just another piece of the crushed carnage that’s the front of the silver Chevrolet S10 truck. The front is hissing and steaming as the busted radiator pours out its contents. The driver-side window is shattered. Mark’s lifeless head is leaning slightly out of the window, his dead eyes looking up to the full moon. His nose is gone; in its place is a fleshy void where chips of bone and flesh cling to what skin is left. Blood coats the bottom of his face. Patrick can’t comprehend how someone with this type of injury could survive long enough to drive anywhere.

A slight moan from the body on the asphalt regains his full attention. He sprints to the woman’s side and is horrified by what he sees. Her body is twisted like a pretzel. Her jeans have been pulled from her. Her right leg is covered in deep bleeding gashes; her left is dislocated at the hip causing her foot to be laying next to head. He can barely make out his wife’s face, most of the flesh has been ripped away, along with part of her scalp; the rest is somewhere among the wreckage. The only obvious detail telling him that it is his wife is the sweater she is wearing, though now it’s nothing more than a tether of white cotton—it barely covers her breast. It is her favorite one, and was the one she was wearing the night she left.

Her one eye that has not been torn away opens and looks up at him and whispers, “Patrick?”

He kneels beside her, taking her bloodied hand. Tears are cascading down his face. “I’m here baby, don’t try to talk. You’re going to be okay. Help is on its way.”

“Bobby,” she whispers.

“He’s okay,” he lies. He knows his son died from a broken neck during the crash.

She gives a slight smile, as she takes her last breath.

Headlights appear from the direction his wife had come; that would be Crystal. A dark oak door with a bronze handle appears behind him. It opens, letting out a shadowy human-like creature that swiftly wraps its arms around him and pulls him through the door before he can let out a scream. It slams shut, and disappears.

The door before the old woman opens. Patrick comes tumbling back through the darkness beyond the door, thudding his back against the wall six feet away from her. “What the fuck was that,” he yells as he hurries up off the floor. He wipes his face to remove the tears before reaching for his bottle.

The woman is still clouded in a haze of smoke. “It was your way of escape.”

“Escape my ass! I just watched my wife and son die!” He takes a drink.

“Isn’t that why you are here in this room? Isn’t that why you took to the drink? Isn’t that why you are trapped not only here, but in your own mind?” She removes the pipe from her mouth and taps it on the arm of the chair, causing a fine dust of ash to fall to the floor. “I’m giving you the chance to change the worst day of your life so you can escape this hell.” She pulls a pinch of something out from beneath the checkered quilt and stuffs it into the pipe. The smoke thins slightly, revealing her old dark smooth leathery face. “You have five chances left, so choose what you tend to do wisely.” She reaches back under the quilt, retrieves a lighter and lights up before returning it back to its hiding spot.

“So you’re telling me I have to relive that night five more times,” he grumbles.

“Yes,” she replies as she gives her pipe a puff—her face is once again hidden—“or you can sit here, drink your bottle and die of malnourishment. It’s up to you. To me it makes no difference.”

“So how exactly does this work,” he asks as he takes a step towards the door.

“Just think of what you need to do and the door will guide the way, but know this: you cannot appear in the same place or time twice, or too far from the actions that brought you here.”

“I have to stop that truck,” he says as he opens the door and walks back through.

Once again his boots crunch on gravel, but this time he stands under a street light. A half mile to his right a gas station is lit up like a beacon for weary travelers. Its red and white CONOCO sign stands glowing high above the highway. To his left he can see two headlights speeding towards him. The vehicle flashes under a street light revealing the silver Chevrolet truck. He steps out onto the highway to stop him, but the truck never slows or veers. He tries to move, but isn’t quick enough, and the truck’s passenger side slams into him, sending him spinning and slamming onto the gravel shoulder. He screams in agony. He looks down at his legs to see his jeans begin to darken with blood, and the tip of a bone sticking through his jeans on his right leg. He averts his eyes from them to see the truck pull into the gas station as the door appears in front of him and opens. The dark shadowy creature quickly snags a hold of one of his broken legs and yanks him through the door.

He rolls back into the room—the door slams shut behind him. He expects to be in agony, but is relieved to find his legs are in full working order. He stands, takes a quick step, reaches for the doorknob, but then halts. He pulls his bottle and takes a drink as he begins to think of his next move. He tries to remember every detail of the newspaper article he read two months ago.

The truck stopped at the gas station like last time. I heard the shots. Mark robbed the place and got a little more than he bargained for. So, what the fuck should I do? Try to stop Mark from robbing the place, or try and stop the clerk from shooting him? If I stop Mark then I will save the clerk’s life and my family’s.

He turns the knob and walks through the door.

He steps for the third time onto gravel, but this time it’s the parking lot beside the gas station. Usually, there would be a couple of eighteen-wheelers staying the night out here, but not tonight. He watches Mark get out of his truck wearing a black hoodie, what looks like a black beanie, and a pair of black gloves. He walks to the front of his truck to inspect the damage he had just taken. Patrick hears Mark curse when he sees his busted grill, and headlight. Patrick makes it to the lights illuminating the fuel pumps just as Mark is pulling the black ski mask (that Patrick thought was a beanie) over his face.

“Hey man you don’t want to do that,” Patrick says as he walks up to him with his hands

raised to show that he is no threat to him.

Mark pulls a silver revolver from his hoodie pocket and points it at his chest. “Go fuck yourself,” he tells him and fires a round into his chest.

Patrick collapses onto the concrete. Suddenly it’s hard for him to breathe. He watches Mark go into the store as he gasps for air. The door appears in front of him, the creature leans out from the darkness beyond its threshold, grabs his arm and quickly pulls him in.

He slides across the floor as the door slams behind him. He gasps for air.

“Three down, three to go,” the woman says as she rocks back and forth—the chair squeaking.

He lies still for a few minutes taking deep breaths. He’s pissed off. “First he hits me with his truck and now he shoots me in the chest,” he snaps. He rises and walks through the door only to still be in the room.

The woman softly laughs, and reminds him, “Not at the same place or the same time.”

He slams the door, takes another drink from his bottle—he has a good buzz. He thinks for a brief moment before opening it again.

This time he steps onto the linoleum floor of the gas station. He’s at the back wall in front of the coolers that refrigerate the drinks. In front and one aisle over from him, Mark is at the register making his demands. Patrick quickly walks up the aisle towards him.

“Hurry the fuck up,” Mark shouts, as the middle-aged Hispanic man shoves what he has into a large round plastic jar on the counter.

Patrick rounds the end of the aisle and steps on the strips of plastic-wrapped beef jerky that were once in the jar that’s now being filled with what change the clerk has. A few coins drop to the counter, dinging as they bounce from it onto the floor. “Go fuck yourself,” he mocks as he punches Mark in the side of the face. The gun goes off. Mark and the clerk fall. Patrick goes to kick him, but Mark quickly raises the gun and sends a round through his neck and out the back of his skull.


He’s lying face up on the floor next to the old woman when he wakes. He lays there realizing that his anger is not going to help his situation. It’s best to stay still until he can calm down and start thinking straight again. He pulls out his bottle, which is half full, and takes a sip. He would stop drinking, but knows that will give him a headache and cause his hunger to grow more than it already is. It’s best to stay at the level he is now, no more no less. He lays back, going over his next plan of attack.

Not at the same place and not at the same time. What other options do I have? If I appear at the pumps as he comes out he’ll just shoot me again. I gotta be across the highway. I have to stop the clerk. There’s no other option now. He makes that shot before he dies. Mark didn’t realize he wasn’t dead before he ditched the gun. The police found it across the highway from the station. If I can get that gun then I can kill the clerk before he kills Mark. Then Mark can swerve out of the way. She might still crash into the woods, but it might give them a chance to live. I have to kill the clerk.

He takes twenty minutes to regain his composure, and rises focused. He looks at the door with determination, and then walks through.

His boots crunch on leaves as he steps to the edge of the treeline opposite the station. He’s expecting to see Mark speeding away and the clerk standing in the doorway emptying the 17 round magazine of his Glock 45. Instead, he sees Mark run out of the gas station carrying the jar full of money. He makes it to his truck and throws the revolver over the roof. It skids across the highway and rolls into the graveled shoulder. Patrick takes a few steps forward and picks up the gun. It’s heavy in his hand. He hasn’t shot a pistol since he was a teenager. Mark slams his truck door closed and cranks the engine. Patrick instinctively ducks as a shot rings out.

The silver S10 juts forward. Another shot rings out. Hitting the side of the truck.

He has a clear sight of the clerk, who is slumped in the doorway—the front of his light yellow Polo shirt is covered in blood.

Another shot rings out, but misses entirely.

Patrick grips the pistol tightly with both hands, raises, and fires. He misses.

Another shot rings out. Then another. The clerk’s bullet hits the tailgate.

Patrick fires again, shattering the glass window next to the clerk. He can tell he doesn’t know where the gunshots are coming from because he’s still shooting at Mark.

Another shot rings out from the clerk’s pistol, the passenger side mirror explodes.

This time he cocks the hammer back himself and concentrates.

Another shot. Another. Another. They all miss.

He fires again. The clerk drops to his knees.

Mark is just about to round the corner when the clerk releases another shot. The back windshield of the S10 shatters a moment before it disappears around the corner. Behind him the door appears again and he is yanked through. The revolver drops to the ground as it reaches the darkness at the door’s threshold. A few moments later a BOOM erupts as the vehicles crash into each other.

The door opens. Patrick is shoved out of the darkness and into the room. The door slams shut behind him. His chin is nestled to his chest—he feels beaten.

“Sugar, don’t feel so down,” the woman tells him, “you still have another chance to make things right.”

“No I don’t,” he replies as pulls the bottle from his coat, and sits down against the wall facing the door. He slowly twists the top off and throws it at the door. He watches it bounce off and land in front of him; it spins before it topples to a stop. He takes in a mouthful, and then begins sobbing. He sits, drinks, and cries, until the bottle is empty, then he just cries.

10 minutes later the cadence of his crying is broken.

“You still have one more chance left, Sugar,” the woman assures him as she empties her pipe and goes through her routine of loading it and firing it back up.

He’s rightfully drunk now. “What should I do? At what time have I not been there?” He stands, and walks through the door. Nothing happens. He walks through again. Nothing happens. Again. Again. “What the fuck do I do!” He screams as he continues to pace back and forth through the door. “What do I do! What do I do! What do I do! What do I do! What do I do!”

“It’s all up to you Sugar. Only you know the worst day of your life.”

“That is the worst day of my life! And I fucking caused it! It all adds up, everything that happened was because of me! Because I’m a drunk! Because I came into this fucking building! Because I walked through that fucking door!”

The door slams shut behind him. He stops, wipes the tears from his face, turns, and opens it. “I wish I never walked through this door,” he whispers, then disappears through it.

The bright light causes him to squint as his boots step onto the front porch of his country house. As his eyes adjust he sees his wife’s pristine raven black 92’ Ford Bronco next to his dusty red 86’ Dodge Ram. Beyond them, and across the highway, stands the remains of tan corn stalks that had been cut a few weeks prior. He realizes he’s sober, and that he’s home. He had left this place the day after the deaths of his wife and son.. He couldn’t stay here, too many good memories and thoughts of what could have been just made him more depressed and suicidal than he already was.

The smell of his wife’s Calvin Klein perfume makes his knees weak. A hand grabs his ass as lips press against his cheek. She trots past him and down the steps gracefully in her white cotton sweater. Her straight brown hair floats in the wind behind her.

“We will probably be back around 11 tonight, so don’t wait up, unless you wanna try for another one.” She winks and blows him a kiss before she opens the door of the Bronco.

“Wait, I’m going with you,” he blurts out, almost screaming the words.

She smiles. “That’s fine, but you better hurry and get changed…and call the mill and tell them you won’t be coming in tonight.”

“Right,” he says, and then aggressively tells her, “I’m driving.”

She mouths a silent “okay,” reply and waves her hands, gesturing to him to go get ready.

Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.
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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

Written by Paris Clark
Edited by N.M. Brown
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by

🔔 More stories from author: Paris Clark

Publisher's Notes: N/A

Author's Notes: N/A

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