All Posts — Colin Reardon

Essay Aug 20, 2026

What happens when we die—and is there life after death?

It’s a question most people avoid—until it stops being theoretical. Scientifically, the answer is clean and clinical. The brain shuts down. Electrical signals fade. Consciousness, as far as we understand it, ends. The body becomes still, and over time, it returns to the earth. That should be the end of it. But it never quite feels like the end. Because people who come close to dying rarely describe nothing. They talk about light—soft, distant, waiting. They describe voices they shouldn’t be able to hear. Some say they were aware… even after their body had already begun to fail. And then there are the ones who don’t describe peace at all. They speak of a presence. Of being watched. Of not being alone in that space between breaths. Science explains this away—oxygen deprivation, the brain misfiring under extreme stress, the final surge of chemicals before everything goes dark. Maybe that’s all it is. But here’s the part no one can answer: No one has ever died, stayed dead, and come back to tell us what’s really there. Every religion, every belief system, is an attempt to fill that silence. Heaven. Hell. Reincarnation. Spirits that linger just out of sight. Different names for the same unknown. So is there life after death? There’s no proof that there is. There’s no proof that there isn’t. Just a gap. A question mark hanging at the edge of every life. And sooner or later, everyone steps into it. And if you want the truth… What scares people isn’t the idea that there might be nothing. It’s the possibility that there’s something— and that once you cross over, you don’t get to come back… …but something else might be able to follow. At first, no one believed him. Colin Carmichale had been pronounced dead for three minutes and forty-one seconds. Long enough for the monitors to flatten. Long enough for the room to change—to go from urgent to quiet, the way it does when everyone starts to accept the outcome. And then he came back. Gasping. Violent. Like something had forced its way back into his lungs. The doctors called it a success. Colin didn’t. He tried to explain it at first. Said he hadn’t been dreaming. Said there was no light, no warmth—nothing like the stories people like to tell. Just a place that felt… wrong. Not dark. Not cold. Just empty in a way that made his thoughts feel loud, like they didn’t belong there. And then he realised something worse. He wasn’t alone. “They knew I wasn’t supposed to be there,” he said, over and over again. “I could feel them. Not seeing me… feeling me.” The nurses wrote it off as confusion. Trauma. The brain trying to make sense of something it couldn’t process. But Colin wouldn’t let it go. “They didn’t want me,” he whispered one night, gripping the wrist of a junior doctor so tightly it left bruises. “But something came with me anyway.” That was when things started to change. At first, it was small. Monitors flickering when he was calm. Footsteps heard in empty corridors. Patients in nearby rooms complaining they couldn’t sleep—because someone kept standing at the foot of their beds. Watching. Colin stopped sleeping entirely. Every time he closed his eyes, his heart rate would spike like he was falling again—back into that place. Back into that awareness of something vast and silent pressing in from all sides. Waiting. And then, three nights after he woke up… the cameras in his room cut out for exactly seven minutes. No signal. No recording. Just static. When they came back online, Colin was sitting upright in bed. Completely still. Eyes open. Smiling at something in the corner of the room.

Essay Aug 20, 2026

The Paper Bag Factory

The rain bit into Elias’s cheeks like tiny shards of glass. His coat was thin, threadbare at the elbows; his boots leaked so badly he could feel cold water squelching between his toes with every step. He’d walked four miles—every bus fare gone to buy his little girl’s antibiotics, every coin counted twice. It had been eight months since he’d lost his job. Eight months of empty cupboards, of his wife forcing a smile while she made one loaf of bread last three days, of waking in the small hours wondering how they’d keep the roof over their heads. The next day when he pushed open the factory’s rusted metal door, the smell hit him first: wet paper, chemical bleach, and something sweet, sickly, that seemed to hit the back of his throat. A man stood hunched by the reception counter, shoulders bowed, knuckles white around a crumpled CV. He looked just as worn down: sunken eyes, unshaven, a shirt patched at the cuffs, hands that trembled like he was freezing even though the air was thick and stifling. Their eyes met. No smile. No small talk. Just the quiet, heavy recognition of two people drowning in the same sea. “Jonas,” he said, his voice rough as sandpaper. “Elias.” The receptionist never looked up. She just slid two name tags across the desk and pointed down a corridor where the lights flickered and buzzed like angry trapped insects. They were shown into a windowless office where the air tasted of stale smoke and old dust. Behind a desk stacked high with empty brown paper bags sat a man in a dark suit—his face shadowed, his voice flat and cold as wet stone. “Only one position,” he said, without preamble. “General operatives. Shift is twelve hours, seven days a week until further notice. Pay is enough to keep your families fed and housed. That’s all you need to know.” He didn’t ask for qualifications. He didn’t ask about past work. He just nodded toward the double doors at the back. “Production floor. Whoever fills and seals more bags by dawn… stays.” The room beyond was vast, cavernous, lined with roaring machines that shook the floor under their feet. The noise was deafening—a constant grinding, churning thrum that vibrated in their teeth and chests. At each station sat piles of coarse brown paper, stacks of pre-cut bag forms, and a heavy iron press. Elias set to work instantly. He folded, filled, pressed, sealed. Faster. Harder. Every bag was a meal. Every crimped edge was a night his son wouldn’t go to bed hungry. Dust coated his throat, stung his eyes, turned his sweat grey. His fingers bled where the rough paper sawed into them; he didn’t stop, just wiped the blood on his trousers and kept going. Across the floor, Jonas moved with the same frantic, terrified energy. He thought of his wife, who’d stopped eating so their boys could have more. He thought of the eviction notice pinned to their door. He crushed the paper down so hard his knuckles cracked, breath coming in ragged gasps, tears mixing with the dust on his face. Hour after hour passed. The machines never slowed. The air grew hotter, thicker, heavy with the stench of wet pulp and something else—something metallic and sharp that clung to the back of their throats. When the manager returned just before dawn, the floor was knee-deep in finished sacks. He walked between them, counting slowly, his boots squelching in slurry that looked too dark, too thick to be just pulp. “Identical,” he said, finally. “Same count. We cannot afford two. There is one final trial.” He stepped aside. Two large, heavy-duty bags stood propped against the wall—thick, stitched tight, stained faintly at the seams. “Climb inside,” he ordered. “Pull the drawstring tight around your own neck. Whoever weighs less… gets the job.” Desperation drowned out every warning bell. Elias scrambled in. The material was rough, stiff, smelling of old starch and iron. He curled himself into the smallest possible shape, squeezing his ribs in, holding his breath until his lungs burned. Somewhere in the gloom, he heard Jonas do the same—a ragged sob, a quiet prayer, the rustle of paper. The manager hauled them both onto the industrial scales. The needle swung, hesitated, then locked perfectly level. “Excellent,” he murmured. “They always think it’s about being light enough to survive. They never ask what we make the pulp from.” He signalled to the shadows at the far end of the room. Two figures stepped forward—faces hidden behind masks, hands gloved. “Feed them into the grinder,” the manager said softly. “Process them slow. We need good, strong stock for the next batch. By the time the sun comes up… there’ll be nothing left but bags. And when the next desperate pair arrives tomorrow… they’ll never know what they’re handling.” Outside, the factory sign creaked in the wind. Inside, the roar of the machines rose to a scream—and then, silence.

Essay Aug 20, 2026

The Hike Along the Border.

The afternoon sun hung low, casting long, golden shadows across the rolling hills that mark the divide between Wales and England. For Tom, Dave, and Elias, the hike had been perfect so far—crisp air, sweeping views, and easy conversation as they followed the ancient footpath. They had covered nearly six miles, their legs steady, their spirits high, when the landscape shifted. The open moorland gave way to overgrown hedgerows and rough pasture, and there, tucked into a hollow between two slopes, stood the ruins. It was the skeleton of an old farmhouse, stone walls half-collapsed, roof long gone, timber beams rotting and blackened by weather. Around it lay the remains of outbuildings and what must have once been a yard, now choked with brambles and tall, yellowed grass. It looked as though it had been abandoned for decades, maybe even a century or more—silent, still, and reclaimed by the land. And yet, as they drew closer, Elias stopped short, lifting his head like a blood hound catching a scent. "Do you smell that?" he asked, his voice dropping. Tom and Dave paused. At first, there was only the sharp tang of damp earth and wild gorse. Then, drifting on the faint breeze, came something else: warm, yeasty, sweet and rich. Fresh bread, baking in an oven, thick and comforting and unmistakable. It was so vivid Tom could almost picture the crust turning golden, steam curling from a hot loaf. "That’s… impossible," Dave said, stepping forward, eyes scanning the hillside. "There’s no house for miles. Nothing but us and the moor." Then they heard it. A man’s voice, deep and rough, calling out from somewhere beyond the ruins. “Gethin! Gethin, where’ve you got to? The beasts are loose again!” The words carried clearly, bouncing off the stone walls, followed by the low murmur of a second voice, too quiet to make out, like a reply muttered from further away. The three men froze. The sound was so real, so present, that they immediately turned to search the fields, scanning every ridge, every stand of trees, every dip in the land. There was no smoke rising from any chimney, no track leading to or from the place, no sign of a living soul anywhere. Just empty fields, stretching away to the hazy horizon. "Must be an echo," Tom said, though he didn’t believe it. "Wind carrying sound from somewhere else." "From where?" Elias snapped, already edging toward the broken doorway of the farmhouse. "There is nowhere else." Curiosity warring with unease, they moved toward the ruins. The smell of bread grew stronger, thick enough to taste, sweet and heavy, cloying at the back of the throat. The voices came again—shouts, laughter, the clatter of pails, the low moo of a cow—but still, there was nothing to see. The farm lay dead and desolate, crumbling stone and weeds, silence pressing in hard as soon as the sounds faded. "Let’s just look inside," Dave said, pulling his hiking knife from his belt, more out of habit than intent. "Five minutes, then we move on. Something’s not right here." They stepped over the threshold, boots crunching on shattered slate and rotting wood. The main room was gutted, walls stained dark by rain and time, floorboards long since rotted away to reveal the earth beneath. In the center, where a hearth must have been, lay a pile of blackened stones and ash. That was when the air changed. The warmth that had carried the smell of bread vanished instantly, replaced by a cold so deep it felt like it was seeping into their bones. The light dimmed, as if a cloud had swallowed the sun, though when Tom glanced out the empty window frame, the sky was still bright and clear. And then the voices returned—but different now. No longer calls or laughter. Screams. Raw, guttural, tearing sounds that seemed to come from all around them and from nowhere at once. The smell of bread curdled, turning sharp and metallic, thick with copper and sweat. "Back out! Now!" Tom yelled, grabbing Elias by the shoulder. Elias didn’t move. He was staring at the hearth, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. From the dark space beneath the stone lintel, something was rising—not smoke, not shadow, but a thick, viscous red mist that pooled on the ground and began to spread outward. Within it, shapes were forming: twisted, elongated figures, their outlines blurred, limbs too long, faces featureless save for wide, gaping mouths. Before anyone could move, a hand shot out from the mist—pale, skin flayed raw, nails black and cracked—and wrapped around Elias’s ankle. He screamed as he was dragged forward, his legs sliding uselessly over the mud and debris. Dave lunged to grab him, but as he reached down, another hand burst from the earth, then another, then dozens—torn flesh, splintered bone, sinew glistening—clawing upward, pulling themselves free from the soil as if they had been buried just inches below the surface all this time. One seized Dave’s wrist, and he cried out as teeth—rows of jagged, yellowed teeth—sank into his forearm, tearing through fabric and skin, ripping away chunks of meat. The smell of fresh bread was gone completely now, replaced by the stench of blood, offal, and burnt grain. The air filled with wet, tearing sounds, the crunch of bone, the sickening squelch of flesh giving way. Tom stumbled backward, tripping over a fallen beam, scrambling to his feet as he watched his friends being pulled down. Elias was still screaming, though his voice was already thinning, his legs disappearing into the red mist as more things swarmed over him, tearing and rending, their movements frantic, hungry, relentless. Dave swung his knife wildly, slashing at pale, flayed faces, but it made no difference—there were too many, and they were rising from every crack in the floor, every gap in the walls, surging from the fields outside, from the trees, from the very air itself. He didn’t wait to see more. Tom turned and ran, bursting out through the empty doorway, sprinting across the overgrown yard, boots slipping in mud and blood that he hadn’t noticed was there before. Behind him, the sounds were terrible—wet, heavy, rhythmic, like butchery in full swing. The voices were back too, loud and triumphant: “Gethin! Gethin, bring the next one in! There’s plenty more to feed the hunger!” He didn’t look back. He ran until his lungs burned, until his legs gave out, until he was miles away from the ruins, back on the open moor where the air was clean and cold and empty. When he finally stopped, gasping for breath, shaking so hard he could barely stand, he looked back toward the border hills. Far off, faint but unmistakable, he caught it again—the sweet, warm scent of fresh bread, drifting on the wind. And carried with it, the distant call of a farmer, waiting for his hand to come and help with the harvest. Somewhere along that old border path, the farm was still working. And it was hungry.

All Dispatchesfrom the Dark

What happens when we die—and is there life after death?

The Paper Bag Factory

The Hike Along the Border.

All Dispatches
from the Dark