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When strict and disciplined Officer Carson Quinn confiscates a strange collar during a robbery arrest, he unknowingly triggers a supernatural curse.


The Collar: A Life Of Separation

Chapter One: The Robbery

It was nearly 2 a.m. when Officer Carson Quinn’s patrol car rolled down the dimly lit stretch of the main High Street. The silence was familiar this time of night - no pedestrians, no cars, just the occasional rustle of wind through leaves. Nevertheless, Carson kept his sharp eyes scanning the shadows. Being a deer meant Carson had excellent eyesight, which made him an ideal candidate for night patrols, not that he enjoyed it, but his perception of justice was absolute. Commit the crime, pay the time.

The town had recently seen a spike in petty crimes: broken windows, stolen electronics, even a few odd reports of strange behavior at night. Carson had a reputation for being a no-nonsense enforcer and was determined to shut it all down. It helped that he was large in mass. The deer spent hours each and every day keeping himself strong, both physically and mentally, and this meant his reputation was well earned.

It was coming to the end of his patrol shift, when something flickered in the corner of his vision. A movement behind the shattered front window of a small, independently-owned shop.

"Great. Another idiot thinking he can loot the place and get away with it." Carson mumbled to himself.

The deer narrowed his eyes and pulled the car to a slow stop with the lights turned off. He knew that even the slightest disturbance would cause the criminal to run.

He stepped out of the car and his boots crunched lightly on the pavement. He unhooked his torch and assessed the situation. No alarm was sounding, which seemed strange. Carson figured that this was, perhaps, not just a petty criminal.

He approached with caution, scanning the interior from outside. Glass littered the pavement like sharp confetti and through the busted window, he saw movement. Something quick and low to the ground, ducking behind the counter.

"Not tonight. Not on my watch." Carson thought.

Without hesitation, Carson crouched and lunged through the window, landing on the shop floor in one fluid motion, his boots skidding slightly against the tiles.

“Freeze!” he barked.

A startled yelp echoed from behind the kiosk. A skinny raccoon in a black hoodie and worn jeans spun around, eyes wide. He looked like a teenager, or maybe early twenties. The raccoon was wearing a scuffed backpack, no doubt filled with loot, and poorly tied trainers. Panic set in instantly and he bolted for the exit at the back of the store.

Carson didn’t waste time shouting warnings or giving chase through the middle. He knew the layout of the shop and he sprinted down a side aisle, his long legs easily covering the distance. Carson lunged at the corner and crashed into the raccoon with enough force to drive both of them to the floor.

The raccoon hit the ground with a pained gasp and before he could scramble away, Carson pressed a knee between his shoulders and yanked his arms behind his back.

“Ahh! Let go! Get off me!” the raccoon squirmed.

“Squirm all you want, kid,” Carson said, his voice low with disgust, “You’re not going anywhere.”

The cuffs clicked tight around the raccoon’s wrists and Carson locked them tight enough to make him wince.

“You’ve got about three seconds to explain what the hell you thought you were doing.” Carson growled.

“What do you think I was doing?” the raccoon spat bitterly, coughing a little. “Applying for a bank loan?”

Carson didn’t laugh. He hauled the smaller thief to his feet with one powerful arm and dusted off his uniform with the other. As he did, something slipped from the raccoon’s hoodie pocket and clattered to the floor between them.

A small, black leather collar.

Unmarked and plain with a simple silver buckle. The kind you’d find at a pet store, except it held an odd weight to it. The size was odd as well. Too large for a dog or cat.

Carson bent down and picked it up, inspecting it with a raised brow.

“What’s this? A collar?”

The raccoon froze. His ears twitched and his confident tone from moments ago evaporated.

“It’s mine!” he blurted. “I...I use it sometimes when I’m...y’know, doing stuff. It’s...uh...it’s nothing, really. Just a collar. Just leather. For a pet...no big deal.”

Carson arched an eyebrow and tilted the collar back and forth, watching how the faint moonlight reflected off the silver buckle. The raccoon’s odd behaviour made Carson think that maybe there was more to this collar.

“Stuff? You mean kinky stuff?” he said with a slight tone of disgust. “Figures.”

The raccoon still had a look of worry in his face and stared at the collar still in Carson’s hand.

“It’s not like that,” he mumbled, looking anywhere but Carson’s face. “It helps... with certain jobs. I mean...uh...well...it just helps me get what I want..."

“Oh, so it’s a good luck charm now?” Carson scoffed, shoving the collar into his jacket pocket without another glance. “You raccoons are all the same. Always some excuse. Always hiding something. Always stealing. Your kind disgust me.”

“We're not all thieves if that's what you mean! Maybe if cops like you stopped treating everyone like low-lifes...” The raccoon hissed through gritted teeth.

Carson grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him forward before he could finish.

“You’re lucky I don’t charge you for being ugly and stupid, as well as robbery!” Carson snapped, “Now shut up and move.”

He didn’t give the raccoon a chance to speak again. With practiced ease, he marched the thief out of the store and toward his patrol car. The night had gone from quiet to irritating in seconds and Carson had no patience left.

What he didn’t realize, as he pushed the raccoon into the back seat and slammed the door, was that the collar now nestled inside his jacket pocket hummed to life with an electric, supernatural pulse.



Chapter Two: The Collar

It was past 4 a.m. when he stepped into his apartment, kicking the door shut behind him. He kicked off his boots and tossed his keys into the bowl by the door. The city was still asleep, but his thoughts weren’t.

As he peeled off his uniform jacket and slung it over the back of the sofa, something small clattered onto the hardwood.

The collar.

“Dammit,” he muttered, bending down to pick it up. “Forgot I even had this thing.”

He held it up to the light and gave it a once-over. Just leather and metal. No stitching, no carvings, nothing strange or unusual. Carson scowled, turning it over in his hands.

“How the hell do you use a collar for robbery?” he said aloud, voice thick with confusion and sarcasm, “Disguise? Distraction? What were you trying to pull, raccoon?”

He should’ve just tossed it aside and put it in the evidence box at the start of his next shift, but instead something made him hesitate. Curiosity pulsed through his brain and he put the collar on his coffee table before giving a drained sigh.

"Deal with it later." he mumbled to himself.

Carson stepped out of his uniform and headed to the bathroom to have a shower. Nearby he had his jeans and a plain white button shirt ready and waiting. Carson didn't sleep much and even after a long night shift, he was very much awake and planned to sleep later on in the day. Right now all he wanted was a hot shower and a coffee.

After his shower, he changed into his laid out clothes and continued into the kitchen. As he passed the coffee table, his eyes were drawn back to the collar. Something kept pulling him towards it. He couldn't figure it out but he knew he had to try.

“This is stupid,” he told himself, as he finally gave into his thoughts, "what's so special about it?"

He picked it up again and examined it, but nothing had changed in the last 30 minutes.

"He said it was a good luck charm..." Carson mumbled.

Carson’s mind told him it belonged at the station as evidence, but his fingers were already lifting the collar to his neck. He fastened it at the base of his throat, snug between jaw and shoulder.

Then everything went wrong.

His arms dropped. His legs locked. A surreal numbness washed over him. Not pain, but emptiness. He gasped at the sensation and his voice was strained with surprise.

“W...what?”

His voice still worked, but he couldn’t move. His mind raced and he tried to move his arms, but then his body woke up.

That’s what it felt like, at least. As though it had been asleep all his life and was suddenly aware.

Aware of itself.

Aware of him.

His feet turned and walked. He had no control. Carson’s breath caught in his throat as his body marched him to the hallway mirror. The full-length one he always used to check his clothes before heading to work. He watched in horror as his reflection moved without his input.

"Wh..what is this?! Oh God!"

His arm rose in a smooth, fluid motion. It undid the buttons of his shirt slowly and deliberately. Carson watched his body betray him and tried hard to regain control, but it was hopeless.

“Wh...what the hell...” he whimpered, his voice dry and cracking.

His body shifted slightly and flexed. Its shoulders arched, muscles tensed and chest puffed out forward in a cocky stance, forcing his shirt to fall open. Carson gasped when he realised his body was admiring itself.

His arms raised and flexed again and this time his muscles grew in size. Carson could only watch. He could feel nothing below his neck, yet Carson couldn’t help but admit it. He looked good. Strong, defined and manly. All that gym time had paid off.

But he knew this wasn’t right. It made sense now why the raccoon was so possessive of this collar. All he had to do was clip it onto a victim, who would lose control of their body, and he was free to commit crimes.

“Stop,” he whispered. “Stop it. This isn’t funny...”

Before he could say anything else, his hands rose and his fingers gripped either side of his head.

"No! Stop it! Oh God! What's happening?!"

Then, without pain and without even effort, his hands pulled upwards.

There was a satisfying pop followed by a moment of weightlessness, then he felt the cold air on his neck.

He wasn’t looking in the mirror anymore. He was staring down at it. His perception had been raised and before he could process it, his hands lowered and held Carson’s detached head in front of the mirror.

His eyes widened. He could still see, talk and breathe but his head had been fully removed. Severed painlessly from his body. The collar remained on his neck, but where his head should be was empty air.

Carson screamed hysterically and tears pricked his eyes.

“Wh...what did you do?! Oh God! What's happening to me?!"

His voice was surprisingly clear despite the fact his throat was no longer connected to his lungs.

Then, slowly, his body stepped back and placed his head under its arm like he was a ball. Carson kept screaming in hysteria until his body placed its hand over Carson’s mouth.

"MMPPFF!"

Carson couldn't control his panic at the sight facing him in the mirror. At his own body, now independent and alive.

And for some reason, although Carson couldn't figure out how, it looked proud.



Chapter Three: Head Games

Carson’s muffled screams echoed uselessly against his own hand - or rather, the hand of the body that had once obeyed him without question. He struggled against its strength, or at least tried to, but there was nothing to assist him. No limbs, no spine. Just his head, cradled under one massive, muscular arm like a football, and the slow dawning horror that nothing made sense anymore.

“What...the hell just happened...” Carson thought, “OK. Breathing. Talking. Thinking. That’s...good...?”

His body strode confidently away from the mirror, his feet echoed against the hardwood floor. His chest still puffed out in that arrogant posture that Carson had practised for years. It moved with the aura and confident rhythm of something that had no doubt it was now in control.

Carson’s eyes darted left and right in panic scanning for help, for something to make this madness stop. But there was only silence.

Then, it began to play.

His body reached up and spun Carson’s head into the air with a flick of the wrist. The world rotated wildly around him, his vision reduced to a dizzy blur of ceiling, walls, and motion. Just before he hit the floor, a hand caught him again with practiced ease.

“Oh God, no, no no!” Carson cried, breathless and dizzy.

Again, his body spun him but this time slower, one finger under his chin, twirling him like a basketball. Carson’s eyes rolled with the rotation and despite having no guts left, Carson felt nauseous.

“Stop it! Stop it! This isn’t funny!” he yelled.

But the body just caught him again, then placed him on the coffee table, facing forward. It stood over him, arms crossed, as if assessing him. If Carson didn't know any better, he could have sworn his body was laughing at him.

“No. No! You’re me. You can’t do this!” Carson gasped.

His body leaned in close and tilted his head back slightly with one finger, studying him like a museum exhibit. Only for a moment. Then, slowly and deliberately, it stood back and began to flex again. Its biceps pumped up and its pecs tensed right in front of Carson’s helpless gaze. It was showing off.

“You...you think this is funny?” Carson spat.

The body shrugged its shoulders, mockingly.

“I’m going to find a way to stop this. I swear I will!” Carson seethed. “I don’t care what kind of magic this is.”

The body waved a hand at Carson’s head in dismissal and turned away.

But Carson knew. Although he couldn't explain it, he could feel it. The body was still him. It had all his confidence, all his pride and his power. But something had changed. It wasn’t just operating without him. It was enjoying itself. Free, unburdened and playful.

Carson was no longer along for the ride.

It stood with hands on hips, contemplating what to do next with its new freedom. Then, with a casual motion, it scooped his head back up and sauntered out of the room. Carson watched as his worldly possessions passed him by. The trinkets he had collected over the years seemed miles away, now that he couldn't touch them. His head was tucked under a thickly muscled arm and his shirt still half-open. The collar seemed to give off a faint glow at the neck like a cursed halo.

He didn’t even know where they were going.

But his body did.



Chapter Four: The Bedroom

Being carried like a basketball by his own torso was disorienting. Carson’s field of vision bounced slightly with every step. He caught a glimpse of the hallway mirror as they passed, and his reflection nearly made him scream. His own face was wide-eyed in terror at the image of being held under one arm like a loaf of bread.

Then they entered the bedroom.

The lights were low and the room was quiet. The bed was neatly made with the corners tucked in with military precision. Just how Carson liked it. His body approached, paused, and gently lowered his head onto the far end of the bed. It adjusted him once, then again, making sure he was angled just right, resting with his face turned toward the headboard.

His vision jolted as his body strolled confidently out of the room. His strong, broad-shouldered body gave off an aura of cockiness as it left. He could only look around at the bedroom and his eyes were drawn to the ceiling fan above. The blades whirred slowly and Carson could only wait and see what would happen next.

Then came the sound of familiar footsteps. Heavy and even. Carson’s body returned, bare chest still exposed, jeans low on the hips and swaying with each confident stride. It paused at the edge of the bed.

“W...what are you doing?" Carson muttered nervously, staring up at his once loyal body.

His body climbed onto the bed and leaned against the headboard, its long legs stretching out comfortably. It rested its arms on the pillows that were on either side and Carson could see its chest rise and fall, as if taking a deep sigh. Even though it had no voice, the way it moved said everything: it was in charge now.

Then one of its bare feet lifted.

“No. Don’t you dare...” Carson gasped with wide eyes.

The foot hovered for a second, then gently came to rest on the top of Carson's head.

The other foot quickly joined in, but instead the toes splayed slightly across his nose and mouth. His body stretched with exaggerated gestures and the arms rested behind what should have been his head.

Carson was officially a footrest. A plaything.

“This is degrading,” he mumbled. “I was arresting criminals two hours ago. Now I’m being - Mmmppf!"

A toe forcibly entered Carson's mouth and he quickly choked at the sensation, but he could not fight back. His body just lay there, its massive bulk sprawled comfortably across the bed, its feet resting on Carson's face. The toes wiggled slightly, teasing Carson's tongue and lips and his body let out a satisfied sigh, like it had been waiting to relax for days.

"Mmmmph!" Carson protested, trying to spit out the toes.

His body gave no response, save a gentle flex of its foot. Carson tried his best to struggle but it was no use. His body used its toes to gently squeeze Carson's tongue and pulled it out his mouth slightly. Carson's protests became a low whimper as his tongue was forced to hang out his own mouth, his face turning red with humiliation.

"Nnggh....stop..." Carson managed to whimper.

His body pulled his foot away and Carson sighed slightly at the relief, but it was short-lived before both his meaty soles were pressed onto his face. His nose was crushed between his feet, the arches covered his mouth. The scent of his own sweat and the taste of his own feet filled his senses and Carson's brain felt like it was melting.

"Nnggghh!"

A single finger raised and wagged, almost mockingly. It was telling him to behave - to be a good boy. Carson realised he had no choice, so reluctantly began licking.
The toes were soft and supple. He knew how hard he worked to keep his body strong and healthy, from head to toe. It had never let him down. It had always served him well.

Until now.

It pressed his feet harder against his face and Carson could only grunt helplessly.

"Mmmmff!"

He could feel the tension in his soles. His own muscles and tendons that he had taken such care to stay healthy. His tongue ran over the soles, with no preference. He could feel the heartbeat through his soles and tears formed in his eyes.

"Ohhh...God." Carson muttered to himself, the taste of his feet filling his senses.

Then, the feet pulled back and his body slid its feet lower.

"Ahh...what are you doing...please"

His body once again forced its toes into Carson's mouth. Both feet. Carson strained at the sensation of all his toes being shoved into his mouth. His own toes wriggled and pressed against his tongue and the roof of his mouth. It felt surreal, the way they flexed and curled. Carson knew his body intimately and his whole world was now a mess.

"Mmmfff!" Carson protested.

His body gave no reply, just a few more stretches and sighs. Carson knew his body would carry on like this for hours if it had the chance, but as luck would have it his phone pinged with a notification.
His body seemed to look down at him, the weight still pressing against his face.

"Mmmph!"

There was no way Carson could move his head. But his body was already thinking ahead. It reached over and picked up the phone from the nightstand. Carson could see there was a message but couldn't read it with his own toes in his mouth. How his body could read it without any eyes baffled him, but he figured the collar gave his body some kind of sight.

His body pulled its toes out of Carson's mouth, who coughed violently. The feet flexed playfully against his face and Carson could see his body's shoulders lifting in laughter.

"OK...you've h...had your fun...now put me back!"

The toes shifted again, tapping his snout like a metronome. The feet adjusted slightly, finding the most comfortable position atop his face, and then relaxed.

"I'm not a footrest!" Carson sighed.

His body responded by flexing - just slightly. The calves tensed, the thighs shifted and Carson watched, trapped beneath his own feet, as his headless frame stretched its arms behind itself like it was sunbathing in victory.

“Oh, you are loving this, aren't you?” he grumbled.

His body responded by flexing its calves, toes curling ever so slightly in smug satisfaction. Then it pointed lazily toward the dresser - toward his badge, his sidearm, the tools of a job he could no longer do.

“Trying to say you’re the boss now?” Carson scoffed.

Another shrug.

“You still need me to think, you smug bastard. I’m the one with the brain.” Carson growled.

The body held up one finger and wagged it slowly, as if to say, 'One? You sure about that?'

“Oh great. Now you’re a comedian as well,” Carson muttered.

The body shrugged its headless shoulders and the shoulder shook again in laughter. Then, slowly it traced a finger along its exposed chest, in a cocky and theatrical style, before giving its abs a single tap.

“God, I never realised I was such a show-off..." Carson sighed again and muttered.

It was clear that his body didn’t need to speak to assert its authority. It had his strength, his swagger, his training. On top of all that, it had Carson's attitude. His cockiness and arrogance. All Carson had now was his mouth and even that could be silenced.

Carson stared up at the feet that were resting on his head and wondered how many people he had done the exact same thing to.

Everything had changed. He wasn’t sure how long it would last, or how far it would go. But he had the unsettling feeling that this was only the beginning.

And worst of all?

He wasn’t sure who he hated more: the raccoon for stealing it or himself for putting it on.



Chapter Five: The Departure

Carson had never known what it meant to feel powerless until tonight.

Lying on his own bed, reduced to just a head, he could only watch in silent frustration as his body continued its maddening games.

The muscular legs shifted again. His feet were wide and bare and flexed idly. His toes twitched in slow movements and swiftly returned to his face, pressing his nose gently but deliberately.

“Really?” Carson growled as his nose twitched, “Still with this?”

The foot rubbed downward slightly, as if trying to scratch an itch on Carson’s cheek. Then the other joined in. They framed his face, which caused Carson to grit his teeth in frustration.

“You know this is some kind of harassment, right? I am a cop.”

His body leaned forward and casually flicked his nose with a toe.

“That’s it. I’m writing you up,” he grumbled. “Two counts of misconduct and a third for personal violation of a superior officer.”

But the joke fell on deaf ears, because it wasn’t a joke anymore. This wasn’t temporary, or just some glitch or prank. His body didn’t just have freedom, it was learning to enjoy it.

After a long moment of lounging, his body finally stood. It picked up Carson’s head with a casualness that made Carson feel uneasy. His body cradled him like a basketball again and walked calmly from the bedroom into the living room.

“Okay,” Carson said. “We’re done now, right? Joke’s over. Let’s get back to normal. Put me back. Take the collar off and you go back to being my body - sound good?”

No answer. Just the steady rhythm of footsteps.

Then Carson’s body stopped in front of the tall bookshelf by the front door. One of the upper shelves had a few framed pictures and a decorative clock. His body reached up and gently cleared the space, carefully pushing the items aside.

“No. No-no-no-no—don't you dare!”

Carson was then lifted carefully and placed between two photo frames. The vantage point gave him a wide view of the room, especially the front door.

“Hey! No! This isn’t funny anymore!”

His body stepped back and looked at him for a long moment, torso straight, arms at its sides, his own expressionless chest rising and falling with silent breath. It regarded Carson like some kind of museum piece, that made him feel awkward and scared.

“Don’t leave me here... please,” Carson said, his voice cracking.

The body turned, walked over to the coat rack, pulled on his favorite dark jacket and trusty pair of Converse shoes. It adjusted the coat, making sure the fit was just right and then reached for the keys.

“Stop!” Carson pleaded. “You can’t go out there! You can’t just leave me like this!”

One hand hovered over the doorknob, while the other reached up and gave a soft, patronising wave.

“Wait! Don’t do this! I’m still me! Please! Come back!”

The door creaked open and daylight shone in, blinding Carson for a moment. It then closed again with a quiet click and, to his horror, he was alone.

Perched on the shelf, unable to move, unable to fight.

Carson stared helplessly at the door, and his desperate sobbing echoed through his empty house. Outside, his body was walking the street, using his badge, his muscles, his life, pretending to be him.

And inside, Carson could only scream.

Alone.

On a shelf.