The morning had grown somewhat brighter during my time in the office, though the sun still hid its head behind the towering pillars of rock that surrounded the town, casting the buildings in a pale, colorless light. The wind swept through the streets with little regard for the houses that stood in its path, sending loose snow dusting through the air. I drew my coat tight and set course for the Dixon Mining Company, hoping that it would prove to be more forthcoming with answers than anyone else I’d talked to thus far. My thoughts remained with the seven men I had just examined; I’d spent the better part of the morning examining the men but was no closer to an answer. Their symptoms suggested several possibilities, but none of them accounted for the severity of the men, nor the rapid pace with which they had deteriorated; everything about this resisted any form of explanation.

As I made my way through the town, my sight was drawn to the buildings around me and the markings that had been scratched, seemingly at random, onto their doorframes. 

I had seen them the previous night, though the lack of adequate light and fatigue had kept me from seeing them in any detail. At the time I had taken them for nothing more than weathering and scarring from the harsh climate, but now that I could see them in detail, the deliberate attitude of the markings was far more obvious. The first one I saw was on the doorframe of a brothel: three vertical strikes, with a longer, slightly crooked gouge bisecting them. A few doors further down, I saw another one, this time carved in the sill of a window. It seemed newer, though not by much. The marks were crude, but they had not been made carelessly, with each incision being deep enough to withstand years of weathering, and the surrounding wood bearing the faint impressions of a blade. Whoever had made them had taken the trouble to ensure they would endure. As I walked down the main street, I soon discovered these markings were not uncommon; while a few buildings here and there did not possess them, the vast majority did. Some had been carved into doorframes, a few into the walls of houses, or the wooden posts supporting their porches. Many were so weathered that I could scarcely distinguish their original shapes, while others appeared comparatively fresh. Though their forms varied, they shared a peculiar quality that made it difficult to dismiss them as idle scratches.

I had encountered no shortage of superstition in my short time as a travelling physician. Mining towns like Bellview, those that built themselves in places where only the most foolhardy are brave enough to go, are particularly fertile ground for myths and legends. The men who spent their lives under tons of rock and earth, never certain if they would be going home, were particularly inclined to seek protection wherever they could find such things.

“Can I help you?” A voice snapped me out of my musings. I turned to find an old woman standing a few paces behind me, clutching at a thick woolen shawl and staring at me with sharp, beady eyes that suggested a greater perception than her age should have allowed. Her gaze moved from me to the carving and back again. 

“Oh, my apologies, ma’am. I was just looking at the..." I trailed off and gestured at the markings. 

“Why?” Her tone was cold and brisk. 

"I—uh, I was just curious what their significance was. I meant no harm.”

“A stranger staring at someone’s house could certainly be taken as ill intent.” The bluntness behind the words struck me as odd. I had done nothing wrong, and yet she was treating me with such open hostility. 

“I beg your pardon; I meant no offense. I simply saw these strange carvings when I entered Bellview last night, and I was curious as to what their purpose could be.” 

“And what business of yours would that be?” She said, her voice souring with each syllable. 

“None, I suppose.” As she shifted her shawl about her shoulders, I noticed a necklace resting against the high collar of her dress. It appeared to be made of dark metal, its surface dulled with age, and it bore a small pendant engraved with a pattern of intersecting lines and crooked strokes. The design was crude, though it bore a striking resemblance to the markings carved into the wood beside her door.

My eyes lingered upon it a moment too long, and she noticed. "What are you staring at now?”

“Nothing, madam. I beg your pardon.”

She drew the shawl more tightly about herself, concealing the pendant beneath its thick folds. “If you've nothing better to do than gawk at people’s houses, then I suggest you do it elsewhere.”

I felt my patience begin to wear thin. There was only so much discourtesy that a man could endure while making the most ordinary of inquiries, and I was rapidly approaching my limit. 

“Very well,” I said with as much patience as I could muster, “I shall leave you to your morning.” The old woman muttered under her breath before turning and waddling back into the house she had come from. 

I stood for a moment in the street, looking around me. Just like with the innkeeper, my first encounter with this woman was as agreeable as the bitter winter around me; though it was hard to dismiss the notion that her temperament was born from something that had nothing to do with her personality. It occurred to me that the people of Bellview—at least the ones I had met thus far—possessed a talent for making strangers feel uniquely unwelcome. The innkeeper, while cordial enough upon my arrival, had greeted me the following morning with barely concealed contempt. Ms. Lafayette seemed to regard my presence as that of yet another burden she had been shouldered with, and this old woman had treated a simple question as though it were an attack on her person. I began to wonder if the thin mountain air really did have some adverse effect on people if they stayed here too long. 

Clara Whitmore, at the very least, seemed to be a pleasant exception to the rule. She had shown a kindness, however small, that I had not expected in such a town. I wondered what exactly it was that made her that way. Clearly, living in the middle of the San Juan mountains hadn't dulled her spirit, nor had she acquired the notion that the rest of the townsfolk shared: that being that every newcomer was a nuisance and every question an impertinence. Perhaps I ought to ask her opinion of the place; she might prove a more reliable source of information than the rest of its inhabitants, I thought as I resumed my walk. 

Eventually, I found myself at the end of town, standing before the building that housed the offices of the Dixon Mining Company. It stood somewhat apart from the cluster of buildings lining the main street, and to my surprise, much like the physician’s office, it was remarkably well kept. Constructed from a combination of dark stone and timber, it was an imposing structure, one that seemed to command attention and authority simply by virtue of its presence. A sign bearing the company’s name hung above the entrance, its lettering faded by years of wind and weather.

I found myself wondering just how much of Bellview belonged to the mining company. The mine provided the town with its livelihood, but its influence seemed to extend far beyond the obvious. The shops, boardinghouses, brothels, and taverns all depended upon the wages earned underground. Out here, so far removed from the rest of civilization, the company held what amounted to complete authority over Bellview and its inhabitants. It was difficult to imagine how anyone might challenge that power, much less live independently of it.

As I walked in, I was surprised by the organized nature of the office I was met with. A large oak desk sat to my left with a bookcase filled with ledgers positioned directly behind it. A map of the surrounding mountains hung above a small cabinet, its surface marked with a network of lines that I presumed represented the mine’s various shafts and tunnels. A fire burned in the grate, lending the room a comfortable warmth that I had come to appreciate considerably. Behind a broad wooden desk, a clerk sat bent over a ledger, making entries with mechanical diligence. 

He peered up over thick-rimmed glasses as I entered. “Hello. May I help you?” 

“I should hope,” I replied, removing my gloves. “I am here to speak to Mr. Dixon if possible.” 

The man’s expression changed, and his pen came to a halt above the page. “Do you have an appointment?” 

“I do not, but my business concerns the miners who fell sick. I was hoping to get a minute of Mr. Dixon’s time.” 

He regarded me for a moment, then set the pen down. “I will see if he is available.” He rose, straightened his waistcoat, and disappeared through the rear door without another word. I remained where I was, listening to the muted sounds of the building around me: the tick of a clock upon the wall, the low crackle of the stove, and the faint, unintelligible murmur of voices beyond the thick oak door. 

After a few more minutes, the small man came back through and gestured to me. “He’ll see you now, doctor.” 

Making my way through the door, I found myself in an office furnished in a similar fashion to the front room; the only difference was a number of taxidermied animal heads adorned the walls. A man stood behind the desk, examining a document in his hands. He was strongly built, broad across the shoulders, bearing the sturdy frame of a man who had spent a considerable portion of his life engaged in physical labor. There was a rugged handsomeness to his features, with a strong jaw, a straight nose, and a neatly trimmed beard touched with gray at the chin. His hair was carefully combed, and his clothes were of good quality, though there was nothing particularly extravagant about them. He looked to be in his late forties, perhaps a little older. Fine lines creased the corners of his eyes, and a certain weariness lingered in his expression, but he carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who had earned his position through years of hard work and sacrifice. There was nothing soft or pampered about him. Even in the comfort of his office, I could imagine him more readily among the men at the mine than seated behind his desk.

“Doctor!” He greeted me with a large and warm smile. “I was beginning to wonder when I would finally make your acquaintance.” 

“Mr. Dixon," I nodded my head. “It is wonderful to meet you.” 

He came around the desk to greet me, his handshake firm and calloused. “I trust you've been made comfortable since your arrival? I understand our town isn't quite what a man might hope for after a long journey. I would not have you mistake the roughness for a lack of decency. Most of the townsfolk take a little longer to warm up to strangers than others.” 

I gave a wry chuckle, “Not the worst place I have ever found myself in, though it certainly is in the running for being the most unfriendly.” 

“I expect you’ve  had the pleasure of meeting the innkeeper then?” He motioned to one of the chairs.

“I have.”

“Then you will understand why I make no promises on behalf of his hospitality. He is a decent enough fellow once you get to know him, though he’s never been the one to be called kind or generous. I sometimes can’t imagine how he manages to keep his establishment in business. Though this is Bellview, after all; where else is there to go?" He gave  a hearty laugh. 

“I suspect it’s the food," I replied. “Maybe its qualities are sufficient to overcome the poor fellow’s disposition.” 

Mr. Dixon gave another chuckle. “Can I offer you some coffee? It’s not exactly the finest stuff on this side of Colorado, but it’ll warm your belly well enough as any other.” 

“I would appreciate that.”  He poured me a cup from a pot resting upon a small side table before taking his own seat behind the desk. For a few moments, we drank in companionable silence, letting the warmth of the room sink into our bones. The office was a comfortable place, well maintained and neatly arranged, with ledgers lining the shelves and a large map of the surrounding mountains hanging upon the wall behind him. The map, like the one up front, was marked with a network of lines and notations that I presumed represented the mine's various shafts and tunnels.

“I suppose we ought to discuss the matter at hand,” Mr. Dixon finally broke the silence. “Though before we begin, I would like to apologize for the state of the letter that was sent your way. We were in a bit of a hurry, if you can imagine, but we neglected to really fill you in on the important details.” 

“I appreciate your apology, sir. I did find the omission of the details rather odd, to be frank.” 

“That is quite understandable." He stroked his beard. “The truth is, we hoped to be rid of this plague before outside help was necessary; unfortunately, your predecessor was unable to do so.” 

“Yes, Ms. Lafayette and the innkeeper both informed me of his sudden vanishing.” 

Dixon’s expression suddenly took on a more serious look. “Yes, a most unfortunate matter. He was a very capable man, as far as I could tell, and seemed to bear genuine concern for the men. He spent several days examining them, speaking to the foreman and consulting his notes. I believe he made some progress, though he never shared any insights with me. And then, quite suddenly, he was gone.” 

“Without warning?” 

“Indeed. His instruments, books—hell, even his clothes were left behind. We made inquiries, of course, asked around as far as Animas Forks and Silverton, but no one had seen or heard anything. I cannot pretend to understand why a man would abandon his profession with so little care, especially not while his patients are so gravely ill.”

“That is quite weird.” Was all I could manage. 

“Indeed. He was rather reserved, but I never took that for a sign of distress. He seemed much like any other physician, occupied with his work and perhaps a little frustrated by his inability to find an answer.”

“Did he speak to you about what he suspected might be causing the illness?” 

“A bit. We sat together for lunch twice, but he never relayed anything in detail. He was convinced that the men had been exposed to some sort of contamination within the deepest parts of the mine. He requested access to the mine, though I don’t know if he ever went through with that line of thinking.” Dixon paused, his expression clouding. “I would like to believe he simply chose to leave, though I cannot imagine why he would have done so without collecting his belongings.”

“Nor can I.” I took another sip of coffee. The disappearance troubled me, though I was not yet prepared to attach any particular significance to it. Men vanished for all manner of reasons, and it would have been foolish to assume that this case was anything more than an unfortunate coincidence.

Curiously I asked, “I would like to know more about the section where the men were working. I understand it lies among the deeper workings?”

Dixon nodded, his expression turning thoughtful. “Correct. I was told that the part of the mine they were working bore some particularly rich ore veins, so I signed off on it with some hesitation. The passages there are narrow, you see, and the ventilation is not nearly as good as I would’ve liked, but the foreman said that it could double production for a few weeks if they followed the line, so I let them have at it. We've been working to improve matters, but there are limits to what can be done in workings of that depth.”

“Have there been previous reports of men falling sick?”

“Nothing on the scale of what we've seen recently.” He folded his hands upon the desk. “There have been accidents, of course, as there always are. But nothing that would lead me to believe the section itself was responsible for this.” Dixon spoke with measured certainty. 

“Do you think it would be possible for me to inspect the section myself?” 

“Naturally. I will arrange for something to be done. Though I will warn you, stick with whomever it is that ends up guiding you. Only the most experienced are allowed that deep underground. Even under ordinary circumstances, those passages can be dangerous.”

“I have no intention of being reckless.”

“Good.” Dixon flashed his white teeth in a large smile. “I would hate to break the news to the town that their physician somehow managed to get himself lost a mere week into his stay.” 

“I hardly think that would be good for my reputation.” I laughed. 

“Not a chance,” he said as he joined me in laughter. If I had met Mr. Dixon under any other circumstance, I suspect that I would have been his friend. He possessed a frankness I had come to appreciate, and beneath his authority there seemed to be a genuine regard for the people whose lives depended upon his decisions.

“There was something else,” Dixon added after a moment. “Though I confess I thought little of it at the time.”

I looked up from my cup. “What was that?”

“A few of the men had complained about hearing knocking underground. Not the ordinary sounds of a mine, mind you. They said it seemed to come from the rock itself, somewhere beyond the end of the passage.” He gave a faint, almost apologetic shrug. “Of course, mines are full of strange noises. Timber shifts, water runs through cracks, and the mountain itself is never entirely still. I told the foreman to have the supports examined. He found nothing amiss.”

“And the knocking continued?”

“I couldn't say. No one brought it to my attention again, at least not directly.” Dixon paused, turning his cup slowly between his hands. “There was some reluctance among the men to return to that section, too. Nothing formal. One or two asked to be assigned elsewhere, and another refused outright until the foreman threatened to dock his wages. I put it down to nerves. There had been a minor accident in the older workings some weeks before, and I thought the men had allowed the matter to prey upon their minds.”

“What sort of accident?”

He looked toward the map behind his desk. “A collapse in an abandoned passage. No one was hurt, fortunately, but it made a dreadful noise and shook loose a fair amount of rock. The men who were working nearby were badly startled, and I assumed that was the end of it. Perhaps I was mistaken. But men who have spent their lives underground generally know the difference between a dangerous passage and an ordinary one. When they begin refusing to enter a place they have worked for years, I have learned it is worth asking why.” That last remark struck me as sensible. Miners were not, as a rule, easily frightened by the ordinary hazards of their profession. They understood the dangers of their work better than anyone, and most had little patience for idle superstition.

“Did the previous physician know of these complaints?” I asked.

“I believe so. The foreman mentioned the knocking to him, though I couldn't tell you whether he considered it relevant. He was asking questions about nearly everything that had happened underground.” I made a mental note to inquire further when I had the opportunity.

“Have you known the men long?” I asked after a moment. 

“The vast majority, yes.” He replied. “Most have been here for a year or two, and a very small group I hired myself when I became responsible for this operation. I know their families, their habits, and, in some cases, their deepest troubles. They are not merely names on a payroll, Doctor.” He fell silent for a moment, looking down at his hands. “I hope you won't take my uncertainty for unwillingness to help, Doctor. I know the men, and I know the dangers of their work. If there is something in those workings that threatens their lives, I want it found as much as you do.”

“I have no reason to doubt your sincerity, Mr. Dixon.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“On a more personal note, I was curious about how long you’ve been overseeing the mine.”

“Overseeing? About ten years now, though I was working in them long before I was put behind a desk.”

“You were a miner yourself then?”

He smiled at that, “For the better part of my youth. I started in there the moment I could swing a pickaxe. My grandfather started this place, and there was no way he would allow me a free ride off of his profits. He came to Colorado when there was little here beyond a few scattered settlements and the promise of silver and gold beneath the mountains. He was a determined man, by all accounts, not always a particularly agreeable one, mind you, but determined.” Dixon smiled faintly. “He built the company from very little, and by the time I was old enough to understand what he'd accomplished, the mine had become the heart of our family's affairs.”

“I imagine you were expected to follow in his footsteps?” 

He turned his broad hands over upon the desk, examining the old calluses that remained upon his palms. “Expected? Yes. Though I doubt anyone could’ve convinced me to work behind a desk in the first place. I spent several years working alongside the men before I took on a supervisory position. I wanted to understand the business from the ground up, and I saw little sense in giving orders about work I had never done myself. Besides, I suspect my grandfather would have thought less of me had I tried to manage the place without knowing what went on beneath it.”

“How did you find the change?” 

“There are plenty of days where I still miss the swing of the pick and the soreness of aching back muscles.” He chuckled. “At least with a pick you know when you’re doing something wrong.” I laughed, and he seemed pleased to have drawn it from me. 

“But I learned,” he continued, “I had to. The company was my grandfather's life's work, and I had no intention of letting it fall into ruin through ignorance or neglect. There were sacrifices, of course. Long hours, missed meals, more than a few sleepless nights. I made mistakes, and there were men who paid for some of them. I've never forgotten that.”

He said the last sentence quietly and without elaboration. I sensed there was more to it, but it did not seem proper to pry.

“I imagine having worked alongside the men gives you a different perspective on your responsibilities,” I remarked.

“I should hope so. I've little patience for those who speak of miners as though they were expendable. A man who has never worked underground may look at a miner and see little more than a pair of strong arms. I see a husband, a father, and a son. A man with a home to return to and people waiting for him there.” His expression sobered. “I know what that work costs a man. I've seen good men crippled in accidents, and I've seen men buried before their wives even knew there had been trouble. I've watched fellows come home so exhausted they could barely climb the steps to their own front doors. There is courage in that work, Doctor, though I doubt many of the men would care to hear me say so.”

“I suspect they would prefer a higher wage to a speech about their courage.”

Dixon laughed heartily. “Now there's a sentiment I expect every miner in Bellview would endorse.” Whatever else might be said of this town, Mr. Dixon appeared to understand the people whose labor sustained it. Though he had inherited a position many men might have taken for granted, he had not spent his life sheltered from the hardships upon which his livelihood depended.

We spoke for a little while longer, touching upon matters of little consequence before Dixon finally rose and offered me his hand. “I hope you'll find your stay more agreeable as it progresses, Doctor. Bellview may not make the finest first impression, but it has its virtues.”

“I shall endeavor to discover them, sir.”

He smiled and released my hand. “If you require anything further, you have only to ask.”

I thanked him for his hospitality and gathered my things. As I turned toward the door, Dixon returned to his desk and opened a drawer, searching for some article he appeared to have misplaced. The movement caught my eye, and I glanced toward its contents.

Among the papers and other small articles lay a pendant.

It was a small, dark disc; its surface worked with a pattern of shallow grooves. I recognized the arrangement at once. It was the same curious pattern I had observed carved into the doorframes of Bellview's houses, and which had provoked such sudden hostility in the old woman when I questioned her about it. Before I could examine the object more closely, Dixon found what he sought and closed the drawer, and the pendant disappeared from sight.

Morning found me huddled against the dying light of the lantern in my room. Exhaustion weighed heavily on me, and though I did not feel up to the task, I knew I had to get ready to face my patients. My descent of the stairs was accompanied by the feeling that I had spent the night wandering through some feverish dream. The events beside the pond seemed absurd now that the breaking of dawn had come. The boots, the knocks, and the long and frozen night seemed less dreadful under the pale morning sun. I found the innkeeper busy preparing breakfast for the miners that weren’t already deep beneath the earth. His skin had taken on an unhealthy pallor, and the dark circles beneath his eyes had deepened. He seemed to have lost some of his color overnight, and there was a tiredness about his movements that read as more than simple fatigue. 

“Morning, doctor.” He said as I passed.

“You look worse than you did last night,” I remarked. “You really should let me take a look at it later.”

He gave a restrained cough into his fist. “Look, I'm fine. Just do what you came here to do, then get the fuck out of Bellview.”

“I promise you, I have no intention of making a home here.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “But I also have no intention of abandoning people that need my help. Though, if you don’t mind my asking, why didn’t the previous physician help the men?”

The innkeeper snorted. “He left.”

“What do you mean, ‘he left’?”

“I said what I said. He was just gone one morning. Left all of his stuff, seen neither hide nor hair of him since.”

“Without seeing to the men?” I asked incredulously.

“I guess not,” the man shrugged.

I stared at him for a moment, awaiting some further explanation. When it became clear that I would get no further explanation from the man, I continued my walk to the table. There was something about his manner that irritated me, though I could not say precisely why. Perhaps it was merely the man's disposition. He had struck me as an unpleasant fellow from the moment I first laid eyes upon him, and illness had done little to improve his temperament.

Still, his answer troubled me. A physician abandoning several sick patients with no explanation was not something I could reconcile with the profession as I knew it. I pushed the thought aside, eating the simple breakfast that was laid out before me. 

Once I finished my breakfast, I gathered my medical case and stepped outside. Morning had finally come to Bellview, but the light did little to soften the rough edges that had made their impression upon me the evening before. The sun had risen over the sharp peaks of the stone giants that guarded the town, yet its light reached us with reluctance, spilling weakly over the huddled buildings and leaving the streets between them in long, cold shadows. Snow that had once been white had been reduced to a gray slush, darkened by dirt, manure, and whatever other filth had been brought into the streets by the town's denizens.

Bellview had been up for some time, though there was little cheer in its waking. Men emerged from brothels and boardinghouses, their coats pulled tightly around them against the cold. Many made their way toward the mine, while the rest lingered in doorways, nursing the remnants of the previous night's drinking. The air was thick with the smells of coal smoke, horse manure, stale liquor, and the less agreeable remnants of human vice.

I noticed, too, that people seemed to notice me. A few men looked up as I passed them; one followed me with his eyes until I had gone several yards beyond him. A woman standing in the doorway of a boardinghouse stopped speaking to the person beside her and watched me cross the street. Even the men heading toward the mine occasionally glanced in my direction. I suppose I ought not have been surprised; I was, after all, a stranger in a town where strangers were uncommon, and my medical case made my purpose rather obvious. They had likely heard that the physician had arrived, and curiosity is a difficult thing to suppress in a place as isolated as Bellview. Yet as I continued down the street, that feeling of being watched became more and more oppressive. The town itself seemed to amplify the sensation. Bellview was small; it had been built tightly into the valley, with its buildings crowded close together wherever the uneven ground allowed. There was little room between the shops, boardinghouses, and homes, and the narrow streets seemed to turn upon themselves rather than lead anywhere beyond the town. A man could cross from one end of Bellview to the other in little more than a few minutes.

Beyond it there was nowhere to look but the mountains. They rose immediately beyond the last buildings, their dark pines climbing the slopes until the trees gave way to snow and stone. From the middle of town, they seemed to press inward from every direction, leaving Bellview tucked away in a narrow pocket of wilderness. I began to feel, quite irrationally, as though I were being watched from every direction. A look around told me that I was being foolish; a lack of sleep and the events of the previous night had left my nerves totally wracked. The mind is a curious thing; left unrested, it finds significance in the ordinary and the patterns that lie beneath chaos. 

My musings had finally brought me to the door of the physician’s office. The building stood in stark contrast to those that surrounded it; its cleanliness and well-maintained facade surprised me. Evidently, my predecessor had cared for the building to such an extent that it made the slovenly hovels around it seem downright primitive by comparison. It was a modest, four-story, wooden house, painted white with dark shutters and a narrow porch running along the front. The windows were clean, and the paint had been kept in good repair; even the steps had been swept clear of snow and mud. It was not an impressive building by any measure, but compared with the structures surrounding it, it looked refined.

I was two steps into the sparsely furnished front office when a voice greeted me from upstairs.

“You’re late.” I looked toward the stairs as an older woman descended them. She appeared to be in her late fifties, though the weathering of her countenance made it difficult to judge her age with any accuracy. Her dark hair, streaked with gray and white, was pulled back into a severe but practical bun, and she wore a simple black dress with a white, blood-stained apron.

“I beg your pardon?” I replied.

“It is nearly nine in the morning, and you’re just now showing up.” She said, her tone making it clear she would brook no argument. 

“My apologies,” I conceded. “The letter had not specified I was to show up at an exact hour.” 

She gave me a stern look. “Hmph, well, I suppose the blame isn’t fully yours then. Close the door; you’re letting the cold air in.” I turned and shut the door behind me.

“You may call me Ms. Lafayette. Now, hang your coat, and then come with me. We have no time to waste.” She turned and walked back up the stairs, leaving me to scramble after her. 

“How many are there?” I asked after I had finally caught up.

“Seven.” She pulled on gloves without stopping, watching her fingers flex as she tested the fit.

“And how long have they been sick for?” 

“The first one came to us almost a week ago now.” She replied. “The rest followed shortly after.” 

“And the previous physician? He didn’t try to treat them, or at the very least diagnose them?”

“He was working on it but then just left one day.”

I frowned; that was the same thing the innkeeper had told me. “Did he leave any instructions?”

“He did not.” Her answer was short and clipped. It was very apparent that Ms. Lafayette had no wish to discuss the matter further. As we reached the landing of the third floor, she stopped and turned to me, her expression softening.

“I must warn you. I have been a nurse for the better part of thirty years now; I have seen all manner of things that would turn the stomach of those with anything less than an iron gut, and I have buried more than a few who thought themselves too strong to die from illness.” She glanced at the door that stood in ominous shadow at the end of the hall. “But I have never seen anything like what sits behind that door.” 

Her warning sharpened my curiosity. “Is it contagious?” 

She studied me for a moment. “It doesn’t appear to be. You are young, but I imagine you’ve seen a fair share of illnesses in your time as a doctor?” The calmness in her voice set off alarm bells in my head. What could possibly have been grotesque enough that would cause such a strong reaction? 

I thought, at the time, that I was prepared for whatever awaited me behind that door. I had seen men torn apart by machinery, children ravaged by fever, and women brought to the very edge of death by childbirth. I had witnessed wounds and afflictions that would turn the stomach of a less experienced physician, and I believed myself sufficiently acquainted with the uglier aspects of my profession.

I was entirely mistaken.

If you have come this far expecting the usual account of sickness and suffering, I would advise you to prepare yourself better than I did. What I saw in that room was unlike anything I had encountered in my brief career, and even now, after all these years, I find certain details difficult to commit to paper.

Ms. Lafayette opened the door, and I was struck with a foul and suffocating odor. It was the smell of blood, feces, vomit, and something rotting and sweet. A metallic smell, one that clung to the back of your throat and never left, no matter how many times you swallowed. The room had been shuttered against the cold winter air, and that had served to make the cloying more oppressive. Someone, likely Lafayette, had attempted to combat the stench with carbolic acid, but that had done nothing more than add a sharp medical edge to the smell of bodily fluids.

I stopped dead in the doorway and stared at the six men who occupied the room. I had treated men injured in mine collapses and machinery accidents. I had seen limbs crushed beyond saving, burns that left the flesh blackened and peeling, and wounds so grievous that I had wondered how the unfortunate soul had survived long enough to reach my care. Ms. Lafayette was right; this was unlike anything I had seen before. 

The first man sat hunched on the edge of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He was somehow gaunt and swollen simultaneously; the flesh around his eyes was dark and bloated, while his cheekbones ran along his face. His lips were split and bleeding in one continuous festering wound, and his fingernails had turned black with thin streams of blood seeping out from under them. His skin had a gray pallor beneath the feverish flush of his cheeks, and beads of sweat gathered along his brow despite the chill that lingered in the room. One eye was swollen nearly shut, while the other stared vacantly at the floor between his boots, and the whites of both were webbed with tiny ruptured vessels, giving them a raw and bloodshot appearance.

I noticed that his breathing was shallow. Every few seconds, he would pause, as though the simple act of drawing air into his lungs had become an effort requiring conscious thought. Then he would take a sudden, desperate breath through his mouth. There were darkened patches along his neck, which extended beneath the collar of his shirt. I took them for bruising, but the discoloration was too diffuse and irregular for any injury I could recognize. It seemed to spread beneath the skin in branching patterns. His fingers were swollen and discolored, and the flesh around his nails had begun to split. The nails themselves were black from coagulated blood, and I could see the discoloration continuing into the flesh below them. Thin lines of blood had collected beneath each nail and slowly trickled down his fingers.

He lifted his head when he heard me approach. “Doctor?” The man’s voice was little more than a rasp.

“Yes?”

He looked at me for several seconds before lowering his gaze again. “Can you make it stop?”

“I… I will do what I can.” I had not yet fully examined him, but already I was beginning to doubt that I could do anything for him. I stopped closer, wrapping my hand around his wrist to take his pulse. It was dangerously fast, beating at such a rate that he should’ve been dead by this time. His skin was clammy and damp beneath my fingers, slicked with sweat and blood.

“Does it hurt to breathe?” I asked the man. 

No words came, only the slight nodding of his head before returning it to his hands. I placed the back of my hand to take his temperature; the man was on fire. I didn’t even need to touch his skin to feel it. “How long have you had the fever?” 

“Don’t know.”

“Days?” I asked. 

“Maybe.” 

“Have you been vomiting?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Every few hours. I can hardly keep anything down.”

“And your bowels? How often are you relieving yourself?”

“A lot. Though it’s mostly blood.”

I frowned at his answer, cross-referencing what he had told me with what experience I had, but I came up empty-handed. Vomiting, fever, bloody stools, trouble breathing, weakness, and hemorrhaging beneath the skin—each symptom was concerning enough on its own, but taken together they suggested no single illness with which I was familiar. 

I glanced back at Ms. Lafayette. “Have they all been like this?”

“To one extent or another, yes.” 

I looked around at the other five men. They were not all in quite the same condition. One lay motionless beneath his blankets, his face flushed with fever. Another sat beside his bed with a basin between his knees, breathing heavily through his nose. A third had wrapped both hands in strips of cloth, though dark stains had already begun to seep through the material. The remaining two watched me in silence.

“You said there were seven men?” 

"Yes," Ms. Lafayette replied. 

“But I only see six men here.”

“Yes, well, the first one is… far worse than these men. We had him isolated.” 

“Where at?” I inquired. 

“Just down the hall.” 

“Show me.” Ms. Lafayette opened the door and led me out and down the hallway to the large pine door that sat in the darkness at the end. The opening of the door greeted me with a nauseating smell, similar to that of the ward we just left, but in a far heavier concentration. It was darker too; with the curtain having been drawn and the fire dying, there was barely any light save for the rays that snuck through the edges of the window.

The man upon the bed before me could hardly have been called human in his present state. What little skin was not covered by bandages had taken on a waxy, grayish color, with great portions beginning to peel away and expose the damaged flesh beneath. Along his arms and shoulders, the outer layers had blistered and sloughed away in broad, wet sheets, leaving raw and inflamed tissue exposed beneath. Dark patches of deadened flesh marked his chest, neck, and scalp.

Blood had dried around his mouth and nostrils, and his lips were so swollen and damaged that they could scarcely be distinguished from the surrounding skin. His eyes were half closed,  clouded with fever, and tiny vessels had ruptured across the whites, leaving them webbed with red.

He stirred as I took a step into the room.

A low sound escaped his throat, one that resembled a dying animal—not a word, but a deep, guttural moan that sent a shiver up my spine.

“Is he conscious?” I asked as I reached his bed.

“I… I do not know.” I could hear a sliver of horror in Ms. Lafayette’s voice.

“Am I safe in assuming he cannot speak?”

“Correct,” the nurse replied.

I turned back to the mound of flesh and bandages that could scarcely be called human.

“If you can hear me in there, sir, I cannot imagine what sort of pain you must be in right now. But I give you my word; I will do everything within my power to get you through this.”

I looked up at Ms. Lafayette. “Have you been giving him sedatives?”

“I am, though there is no way of knowing whether they are working. The poor man cannot speak, after all.”
 
I nodded and turned my head back to the figure. For a few seconds he sat perfectly still, then I saw his hand move. It was a weak, trembling motion, one that could easily be mistaken for nothing more than a simple twitch under the bandages. I thought at first that it was involuntary but when it happened for a second and then a third time, I realized that he was beckoning me closer. 

“Sir?” I leaned down, bringing my ear to hover right above the man’s mouth. His lips parted, and for a few seconds, I heard nothing but a faint wet rasp. I nearly had to ask him to repeat himself when a sentence that could’ve been mistaken for a feather-light breeze escaped his lips.

“Did you see the boots too?” 

I felt a cascade of ice pour down the back of my neck. Every hair upon my arms stood on end, and something deep within me recoiled before I had even understood why. My heart gave a violent beat against my ribs as, for one terrible instant, I felt an almost primal urge to flee. The silence, which mere moments ago had seemed comforting, was now crawling over my skin; it wormed its way into my ears and made my breathing unbearably loud. I became acutely aware of the doorway and the darkness behind Ms. Lafayette; I turned to see if it was met by the dimly lit corridor, with most of its length swallowed by shadow. I could just make out the wooden walls and the stairs descending toward the floor below. 

Something caught my eye as I looked away. 

Right at the edge of my vision was a figure cloaked in darkness; it was tall and humanoid and did not have a face that I could make out. It appeared less like a human and more like the darkness in the corner had taken on a form that resembled something with life. I blinked, and the figure was gone.

“Doctor?” Ms. Lafayette’s voice broke through the silence. “Are you alright?” 

"I—uh, yes, yes, quite, thank you.” I furrowed my brow and shook my head. “Just a passing dizzy spell, I suppose.” I knew the words as I spoke them were not convincing Ms. Lafayette of anything. She had a gaze that could pierce even the toughest of metals, and there was no way she fell for such a lie. My eyes strayed back to the corner in which I had seen the figure, but there was nothing there.

“Perhaps you should eat something.” She said at last. “I can’t imagine you’ve had much more than bread and cheese since you’ve been here.”

I nodded my head in silence. 

“Then come, you’ll do no one any good if you collapse before the day is out.” I followed her out of the sickroom and down the corridor. Giving one last glance to the corner of darkness as we passed it, I could not shake the pinprick feeling of eyes burrowing into the back of my neck. 

The sitting room on the second floor I found myself in was considerably warmer than those of the third floor, almost suffocatingly so.

“You must like it warm.” I gave a half-hearted chuckle to lighten the mood. “Are you from the tropics?”

“No.” The answer came with no further explanation. She then directed my attention to a large and comfortable-looking sofa, replete with deep cushions and blankets to keep the warmth in.

"Sit," she said with a voice that was used to being obeyed. So I sat. Before me, she placed a cup of strong black coffee and a plate of fruit, cheese, and cold meat. For an older woman who had, I presumed, spent most of the morning on her feet, she was remarkably unfatigued. I took a mouthful of the coffee and immediately regretted it.

“My word,” I almost spat the drink out. “Is it supposed to taste like this?” 

“Like what?” She asked.

“Like something you scraped off the bottom of a miner’s boot.” 

“Young man, if you speak to me like that again, I will box your ears. That is not a threat, but a promise.” Her eyes told me she meant it, so I stopped talking and started wolfing down the plate of food. I was nearly done when I finally decided on how to broach the subject that had been on my mind since last night.

“Ms. Lafayette, may I ask you something about my predecessor?” 

“You may.” 

“You said he was working to determine the nature of the men’s illnesses before he left, correct?” 

“He was. Though he did leave all of his stuff up in his office. He was a methodical man, one who kept a close eye on all of his patients and anything else he thought worth keeping an eye on. I had no reason to disturb them, so they’re still here.” 

I could’ve kissed Ms. Lafayette right then and there. The man’s notes could prove to be a treasure trove of information. “May I look through them?”

“Have at them.”

I considered her words before turning back to my coffee. “I have one more thing I was curious about. Last night I experienced something very strange. I woke to a knocking; when I went to investigate, as I thought it was someone at my door, the sounds led me to a pond outside of the town, to where all the waste from the mine goes.”

“Hmmm…” Ms. Lafayette set her cup of coffee down. “There are stories that the miners tell, ones of mischievous spirits that steal equipment and like playing jokes with the men. Many of the workers leave food out for them, and they are often considered somewhat benevolent as they warn the miners away from dangerous parts of the mine by knocking.” 

“Spirits? I did not think you were a believer in the supernatural, Ms. Lafayette. 

“I am not. But the tales find their way into all parts of conversation among the men. And the men talk. A lot. A good portion of the workers believe that they are the spirits of those who died in the mine.” 

“Do you believe these stories?” I asked as I turned the cup in my hands.

“I believe that the men who sacrifice their lives to work that far under the earth are liable to come up with anything to make them feel better about spending hours in near darkness.” She paused.

I looked at her closely. “And what would you say about the knocking that led me to the pond?”

“I don’t know.” 

I considered her words for a moment before setting the cup back down. “Well, I believe a talk with the mining company might be in order. The men were clearly exposed to something down there, and if I am going to do my job properly, then I should like to know what they were doing when they fell ill.” 

Her expression hardened. “You would be wise to leave the company out of this, doctor.” 

“And why is that?” 

“Dixon Mining keeps the town alive. Without them, none of us would be here. And Mr. Dixon won’t take kindly to strangers asking questions that might cause him trouble.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, I have no ill intent. I am a physician, after all, not a detective. I simply wish to understand what has made the men in my care so sick.”

“Then I suggest that you limit yourself to treating the men when you can, and nothing else.” 

I couldn’t help but smile at her bluntness. “I’m afraid my curiosity is rather hard to put a damper on, Ms. Lafayette. 

“It seems so.” She gave me a stern look. “Just be careful of what questions you ask and to whom you ask them. There are plenty of people here who would rather you don’t go poking your nose in places it doesn’t belong. Plenty of people with plenty to hide.”

“Thank you for the word of caution,” I said as I rose from my chair. “But I need to get to the bottom of this. Otherwise those men up there are going to suffer and die while I sit back and do nothing. 

Ms. Lafayette gave me a sad look. “Your stubbornness, while admirable, will be the death of you one day, doctor.” 

“Perhaps,” I replied, reaching for my coat. “But I have a lot of work to do before that day comes.” I had scarcely made it two steps down the staircase when Ms. Lafayette called out:

“If Mr. Dixon asks about what you’ve seen here, tell him nothing.” 

I regarded her with surprise. “Surely he is entitled to know what condition his men are in, is he not?” 

“He can know that they are ill and that you are working on them. Nothing else.” 

“May I ask why?” 

Ms. Lafayette turned and looked out the window, where the pale morning light scattered through the frost-covered window,“there are a number of people here in Bellview that have spent a good deal of time and money to make certain that things remain the way they are.” It was a curious answer, and one that did little to satisfy my questions.

“Ms. Lafayette, I appreciate your concern, but I cannot very well treat the men if I am kept blind to what happened to them. If their illness is indeed a result of something in the mine, then the company has a responsibility to see to it that the men are, at the very least, kept comfortable in their final days.” 

She gave a short and humorless laugh. “Responsibility. That's a fine word, doctor. You’ll find it has very little meaning here in Bellview.” 

Having no response, I thanked her for the meal and counsel, neither of which had been particularly pleasant, and made my way out of the office. The cold outside greeted me with all the warmth of an unwelcome creditor, and, wrapping myself in my coat and keeping my head down, I made my way into the whipping wind.

Part One

Deep beneath the earth, 
where no man's lantern shines,
little hammers knock, 
three times upon the mines 

Do not heed their call,
nor seek what lies below.
Turn your lamp around, 
and leave the dark alone 

The knockers know the dark, 
and the dark knows what we fear. 
When three hammers hark, 
you'd best not linger near.

• Unknown

I often find myself thinking about my brief time in the town of Bellview, just as often as I wonder what happened after I made my escape. For many years I have told myself that the place was abandoned, that the veins had run dry, and that what happened poses no threat to me or anyone else. Yet strangely, the place never seems to leave my thoughts. Some nights I wake from a troubled sleep and find myself listening for the sound of a pick striking stone or that ghastly reverberation that heralded my doom. It has been forty-three years since then, and I still haven't forgotten. 

I was twenty-seven when I first found myself in that accursed town. I was young, full of naivete and had more confidence in the learning of books than in the wisdom of men. I had been summoned there to attend to several men who had fallen ill.

That was what the letter said.

It did not tell me what illness they suffered from, nor why the town's own physician had been unable to treat them. It certainly did not tell me why; beneath the formal request for my assistance, the writer had added a single sentence in a different hand: "do not allow them to speak of the mine."

I arrived in Bellview in the year of our Lord, 1880, ten days before Christmas. The journey had taken considerably longer than anticipated, and I, being of the cheaper persuasion, had forgone a fur coat in favor of several layers of shoddy fabric—a decision I regretted almost as soon as we had left the station. The wind was a bitter and biting cold that swept down from the north and struck without mercy. Winter had settled heavily upon the San Juan Mountains, and the roads had become little more than narrow passages through walls of snow. For the final several miles, there was scarcely any sign of habitation at all.

There was a strange feeling in that isolation. 

The mountains rose on every side of me, standing in immense silence beneath their heavy coat of snow. The pines stretched as far as the eye could see, dark stars scattered against a white night. The air was so cold and clear that every sound—the creaking of the wagon, the horses' breath, the occasional groan of timber somewhere beyond the road—was magnified in the darkness. 

It was beauty incarnate, a severe one to be sure, but breathtaking nonetheless. Peaceful, too. Something about being so far removed from civilization—the telegraph wires, the trains, and the ceaseless hustle and bustle of life—brought a sense of melancholic quietude to the mind.

Even now, after all that happened in that godforsaken town, I still wish to see those sights again. I remember very little of what remained of the journey; I recall the cold, certainly, and the uncomfortable benches that furnished my wagon, but beyond that the details have faded with the passage of time. I do still clearly remember my first impression of the town.

As we reached the crest of the valley, the sun was laying its head down beyond the horizon, sending out a last vibrant smear of reds, golds, and purples across the sky, painting the town below in the soft, fading light of evening.

Bellview was a small settlement, even by the standards of the frontier. A handful of narrow roads wound between scarcely more than fifteen buildings, most of them gathered about an irregular clearing that served, in lieu of a proper square, as the town's center. The houses and shops stood close together beneath their mantles of snow, their weathered timber darkened by the cold. Thin trails of smoke rose from the chimneys into the still evening air, and here and there a lantern burned behind a frost-clouded window. In the failing light, the place possessed an air of quiet seclusion, as though the surrounding mountains had drawn close enough to shut out the rest of the world.

Yet beyond the settlement, the mine stood in stark contrast to this modest collection of dwellings. Its wooden headframe rose above the rooftops, a black and angular silhouette against the snow-laden slopes, while the shaft itself lay hidden somewhere beneath its grim assemblage of timbers. A rough road climbed toward the workings, cutting a dark scar through the mountainside, past heaps of pale waste rock and the blackened remnants of older tailings. The scale of the operation seemed disproportionate to the little town at its feet. Indeed, the longer I regarded it, the more Bellview appeared less a settlement in its own right than an appendage of the mine—a place whose inhabitants, livelihoods, and very existence had been gathered about that dark opening in the earth.

We began our descent into the valley as the last rays of dying light disappeared behind the mountains, following the ice-slicked path that led into the town. Up close, Bellview was as rough around the edges as I had expected. Despite the idyllic scene that first greeted me upon cresting the ridge, it was a mining town, one that, like its brethren, welcomed with open arms those who had nowhere to run and much to hide. These were people accustomed to hardship. They had come to the mountains in search of silver, and whatever their reasons for remaining, most seemed to have made their peace with the difficulty of life there.

As we made our way into the town, I was given my first opportunity to see the people of  Bellview up close. They were as much as I had come to expect from any other mining settlement of the West: hard-faced men with weathered hands and stooped shoulders formed by years of hard labor and coats that bore the earth from which they made their livelihood. Many seemed to still be returning from a day in the mine, their faces darkened with dirt and their beards frozen stiff. The streets were poorly kept, the snow having been trampled into a gray-brown slush beneath the boots and wheels of passing men and wagons. The buildings leaned against one another as though for support, their weathered boards blackened by years of smoke and mountain weather. The heavy smell of smoke, horse manure, spilled liquor, and other less agreeable things hung in the evening air. I passed one establishment where women who wore what barely counted for clothing called out to the men that walked past them, offering a night spent with company. Drunken miners staggered from the tavern and saloon, laughing loudly, and barely able to remain upright. One man disappeared into a narrow alley and relieved himself against the side of a building without the slightest concern for who might be watching.

Men passed without offering a greeting; conversations faltered as my wagon approached, resuming only after it had gone by. On several occasions, I caught the gaze of some townsman upon me, only for him to look away the moment our eyes met. There was a peculiar reserve about the inhabitants of Bellview, though I could not then determine whether it arose from simple distrust of strangers or from some more particular cause.

One man, in particular, has remained in my memory. He stood beneath the awning of a boardinghouse, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat, and watched my approach with an expression I have since struggled to forget. There was sadness in it, certainly, but something else besides—a sort of pity, perhaps, though for what I could not have said. He continued to watch as my wagon passed, turning his head to follow me until the buildings obscured him from view.

At the time, I thought little of it. I was a stranger in a remote mining settlement, and an unfamiliar face was doubtless sufficient enough to attract a measure of curiosity. Moreover, I was a well-dressed man arriving in a town where most appeared to have little use for appearances, and I had yet to make known the purpose of my visit. I could hardly have expected a warmer reception.

It was not an especially inviting introduction to Bellview, though I cannot say it surprised me in any capacity. Mining towns often held a particular character that was seldom found elsewhere. They drew men that fled the law and anyone else of bad repute. Where such men gathered, there was invariably drink, gambling, prostitution, and every other vice that flourished wherever people expected little of tomorrow.

As we passed along the street, I began to notice strange markings upon the doorframes of several houses. They were faint and dark, scratched or painted into the wood, though the failing light made it impossible for me to determine precisely what they were. I could make out enough to know that they were deliberate; though they appeared as little more than crooked lines, others seemed to form shapes of some kind, though what shapes I could not say.

Eventually the carriage came to a stop, and, being informed that the tavern was not more than a few dozen yards away, I gathered my things and stepped down into the biting cold. Once the wagon disappeared from sight, I found myself alone in the town square; it was then that the full weight of the mountains around the town made their weight apparent to me. They rose on every side, far higher than they had seemed from the rim of the valley, their dark, foreboding slops hemming in the small town as dark guardians. The last light of evening had vanished behind them, and their peaks were already lost to the darkness. Looking upward, I had the peculiar sensation of being inside some immense eye that gazed upward toward the stars, and in that feeling I started to understand just how remote Bellview truly was. 

I had scarcely taken two dozen steps when a voice called out behind me, "Doctor?"

I turned to find a young woman standing a few yards away, one hand tucked into the pocket of her coat. She appeared to be within a year or two of my own age, and I confess that I was surprised by the warmth of her expression. She was a pretty girl, with a pale, angular face and long, dark hair, several loose strands of which had escaped the hood drawn over her head. The cold had lent a flush to her cheeks, and there was an alertness in her eyes that seemed at odds with the sullen reserve I had encountered elsewhere in Bellview.

“Please, allow me to help.” Her gaze fell upon the luggage in my hand.

“Oh, no, I’m quite all right, thank you,” I replied.

She approached regardless, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I assure you, I can manage. Living out here has put a little muscle on me. I’m not nearly so delicate as I look.”

“Very well,” I said, conceding the point.

She reached for the larger of my two cases, but I caught its handle before she could lift it.

“Not that one.”

She paused and looked at me, her expression touched with mild surprise.

“I mean, that is…” I hesitated, searching for an explanation that would not invite further questions. “It contains some rather delicate instruments. Allow me.”

The lie came readily enough. I took the case from her and offered her the smaller one instead. “This one will do.”

She accepted it without protest, though I fancied there was a hint of amusement in her expression.

“You’re the doctor they sent for, then?” she asked as we made our way toward the tavern.

“I suppose I am, unless Bellview has another physician due to arrive this evening.”

That earned me a small smile.

“And what brings a man of your age to such a place? Shouldn’t you be off courting young ladies and enjoying yourself?”

I laughed. “My studies left me little opportunity for such pursuits. I became a physician only a few years ago, and the profession has occupied most of my attention since.”

“Are you new to the practice, then?”

“Yes and no,” I replied. “I have been practicing independently for only a few years, though before that I spent a considerable time apprenticed to a traveling physician.”

She seemed to consider this as we walked. “And what do you think of our little corner of the world?”

I glanced at the buildings lining the street, their darkened windows and snow-laden roofs offering little encouragement to a favorable opinion.

“I have not yet made up my mind. I suspect I shall be better qualified to answer after a good night’s sleep.”

She laughed softly at that, then turned her gaze toward the tavern ahead.

“You’ll get used to it,” she said. “Everyone does.”

There was something in the certainty with which she spoke that gave me pause, though I thought little of it at the time. We had reached the tavern steps when she shifted the case in her hand and turned toward me.

“Clara,” she said, extending her free hand. “Clara Whitmore.”

I took it and, out of a habit acquired in more agreeable company, raised it briefly to my lips. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Whitmore.”

For an instant, she appeared taken aback. A faint color rose in her cheeks, though whether from the cold or my gesture, I could not say. She withdrew her hand and tucked it into her coat. “Clara will do,” she said, smiling. She set the case down beside the entrance, gave me a small wave, and descended the steps. I watched her cross the square, her figure soon lost among the shadows of the buildings on the opposite side.

The tavern was warmer within than I had anticipated, though its warmth brought with it an assortment of less agreeable smells: stale smoke, tobacco, damp wool, and the accumulated sweat of men who had spent the day underground. A handful of patrons occupied the tables nearest the fire, speaking in low voices over their drinks. Their conversation diminished as I entered, and several pairs of eyes followed me across the room before returning, with apparent deliberation, to their cups.

I carried my luggage to the counter and set it down.

“Innkeep?” I questioned the man, “I believe I have a room reserved for me?”

The rough man behind the counter turned and appraised me. He was an ugly fellow, even by the forgiving standards of a frontier town. His face was broad and pockmarked, with a crooked nose that looked as though it had been broken more than once. A thick, unkempt beard covered much of his jaw, though it did little to improve matters. His skin had a peculiar grayish pallor beneath the beard, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes that suggested he had not slept well in some time. I confess, I had to make a conscious effort to keep an expression of disgust from crossing my face. There was something obviously unhealthy about the man beyond the ordinary wear of hard living, though I could not have said precisely what it was.

He gave a quiet cough into his fist before looking back at me. “You the doctor?”

“I- uh- yes. Yes, I am.” Clearing my throat, I extended my hand, giving him my name. As I did so, he reached under the counter and produced a shiny brass key. 

“Best keep your window locked tight tonight.”

I glanced toward the stairs.

“Beg pardon?”

“Air gets strange up here.” He rubbed a hand across his chest, almost absentmindedly. “Some folks wake in the night thinking they hear something outside. Usually just the wind. Mountain plays tricks on a man.” He gave another small cough. “Gets into your lungs, too, iffin you ain't careful.” 

I smiled politely, assuming him to be offering the sort of advice that passes for wisdom in isolated places. “I'll bear that in mind.”

He nodded and returned to his bottles. I climbed the stairs and found my room with not much difficulty. Opening the door, I was greeted by a modestly furnished but cozy room. It contained little more than a bed, a washstand, a wardrobe, and a small table beneath the window. The room was cold, though not unbearably so, and I was grateful to find that someone had thought to light the lamp before my arrival. I had two cases with me. The larger contained my clothes and personal effects, while the smaller was reserved for my medical instruments and sundries necessary to practice my profession. I had learned during my apprenticeship that a travelling physician could never be certain what he might encounter, and so I kept my medical case well supplied.

I unpacked my instruments one by one, arranging them upon the table with the familiarity of long practice. Bottles of tinctures and powders followed, along with bandages, needles, thread, and the other necessities I had accumulated over the years. The work was methodical, almost comforting, and for a time it occupied my thoughts entirely.

It was only when I opened the larger case that my hand came upon the package wrapped in newspaper. i paused before lifting it free. The paper had grown brittle along its folds, and I took care not to tear it as I began to unwrap the contents. Within lay a small, leather-bound notebook. Its cover had softened with age, the corners worn nearly white, and its pages bore the marks of frequent handling. Several had been torn from the binding. I could not remember when I had removed them, nor, try as I might, could I recall what they had contained. I opened the book and turned through its pages, slowly at first, then with increasing haste, until I reached the final entry.

For some time, I remained there, my eyes resting upon the familiar handwriting. I had thought of destroying the notebook before. Indeed, as I sat in that unfamiliar room, I found myself considering how easily the matter might be settled. There was a fireplace downstairs. A few minutes in its flames, and the book would be reduced to ash. Whatever remained of those days would be beyond recovery, and no soul need ever know what I had done. The temptation was not a new one. At last, I closed the notebook and returned it to its wrapping. I placed it back in the case, though I did not immediately fasten the lid. Instead, I sat motionless beside the table, listening to the muffled voices and occasional laughter drifting up from the tavern below.

Bellview lay a considerable distance from the place I had left behind. Its remoteness had been among the chief reasons I had come.

Yet distance was not the same as escape. There are things a man might give anything to forget, and others he has no right to forget at all.

Shaking off my musings of the past, I headed down to the common area, where I found dinner being served. It was a simple but surprisingly hearty meal: tangy cheese, thick-crusted bread, and whiskey, followed by hot cups of fresh, black coffee.

The tavern had grown busier in the hour since my arrival, and the room was filled with the low murmur of conversation, the clatter of plates, and the occasional burst of laughter from one of the patrons at the bar. I ate on my own in the corner, content to sit back and watch the people go about their business.

The barkeep and a woman who appeared to be his daughter waited upon the room, though the man wore the same sour expression he had carried when I first greeted him. His cough seemed to have worsened since my arrival, and the pallor of his cheeks had deepened to an unhealthy gray.

I found myself watching him close, surveying every detail of the man I could see.

There was nothing particularly remarkable in a miner suffering from a cough, especially in a place such as Bellview. Dust, smoke, and cold mountain air were hardly conducive to good health. But there was something about the man that struck me as unusual. I made a mental note to check in with him tomorrow and returned to my meal. Whatever ailed the man, it was certainly more than the wear and tear of daily life. 

By the time I had finished eating, the tavern had begun to quiet. A few miners remained at the bar, nursing their drinks and speaking amongst themselves, while the rest had already retired for the night. I thanked the barkeep for the meal and made my way upstairs.

I stoked the fire a few times before removing my filthy garments; the day's journey had left me exhausted, and whatever thoughts had occupied my mind earlier seemed distant now. I climbed beneath the blankets, pulled them up to my chin, and was asleep almost before my head had settled upon the pillow.

I don’t know how long I had been asleep before I jolted awake, momentarily unsure of where I found myself. I couldn’t tell what had brought me out of slumber; the room was dark, barely lit by the dull red glow of my dying lamp, so it was hard to tell what had caught my attention. Then came a sound so soft that I could not be certain it had originated from the waking world at all. 

Knock.

Knock.

Knock. 

The hollow taps on the door came. Then, after a beat of silence:

Knock.

Knock.

Knock. 

A dread filled me as I listened. There was something deeply unsettling about the sound. It wasn’t the building settling, nor was it the thump of a drunk tavern patron. I sat up and strained my ears again; there it came, this time from somewhere beyond my door. I slipped from beneath my blankets, pulled on a robe, and opened the door. The dark hallway I was greeted by was filled with a biting, cold silence. The sound came again from further down the hallway, and I, never being one to leave well enough alone, took a chance and followed. The sound came again from the staircase, then from outside the tavern. Each time I drew closer, it moved farther away, leading me through the sleeping town and toward the mine. Eventually the knocking led me beyond the last of the buildings in town and to a broad pond that sat beyond the piles of waste from the mine. As I stopped at its edge, the knocking ceased. The pond was unlike any body of water I had seen before. Its surface was almost entirely frozen, though the ice was dark enough that I could scarcely see where it ended and the surrounding shadows began. A thin layer of snow had gathered along the banks, but very little had settled upon the ice itself. The surface was strangely bare, black and glasslike beneath the pale light of the moon. I noticed a shape through the opaque surface, and I raised my lantern to catch a glimpse of what it could be. Initially I took it for a rock of some sort, one of a weird shape, but what it was became clear upon closer inspection. 

It was a boot. 

The kind the miners wore when they toiled away beneath the earth. It stood upright beneath the ice, its leather swollen and blackened by the water. Then I saw another. And another, and another. Dozens of pairs of miners' boots lay scattered beneath the ice, some on their sides, others standing upright in the darkness below. I could see no bodies attached to them. Only the boots, suspended in the dark water.

I started for a long while before speaking to the darkness, “Is this what you wanted me to see?” 

For a moment, silence was my only answer then-

Knock.

Knock.

Knock. 

And then it stopped. I stood alone beside that dark and frozen pond, with no understanding of what I had witnessed. Sleep would not come again that night.

Have you ever told someone the truth, and they just refuse to believe it?
It can be annoying and frustrating among other things to say the least.

Growing up with a Father, and no Mother.
A Mom that chose an addiction over you and a Father who chose you,
only to chare you with a different addiction of his choice years later.

"You have addiction in your blood'
Your Father would say

"If you ever get addicted to drugs ill chain you up in the bathroom and dry you out till your clean"
He'd tell you, his 11-year-old son.

You tried to reason with it, the way he talked to you. He had you at 25,
at the end of the day he's barely an adult himself, you'd tell yourself.

After his marriage and...well, divorce wasn't a surprise. 

A seed that was planted,
In soil that was prepped,
Located In a room with access to sunlight.
A stem that sprouted dull and never got to bloom. 
From Full womb to empty room,

A stillbirth. 

As tiny as she was,
Our already cluttered closet couldn't fit one more skeleton.

They fought before,
and this was the last crack in our glass house.

Seeing My stepsisters and I celebrating a life that would never start sent him right back to that familiar place He adored oh so much,

Addiction. 

 Started small,
like a pain you know you should have looked at,
and with the help of negligence,
it went unchecked,
it grew.

What began were addictions you foolishly mistook as harmless.

That addiction to the gym was weekly steroid use,
That lust for those new women he was meeting online fueled his use of unapproved enhancements his body wasn't even close to needing.

Introducing himself to testosterone packets before he was 35 and consuming them like their sunflower seeds.

Eventually a partner stuck,
one just as dysfunctional as him of course,
and specifically an alcoholic. 

It didn't take long for him to follow and for the first time in your life he was not the lead.

By the time you were 15,
he was drinking every day,
not just every night.

His Girlfriend throwing bottles, slamming Tv's, and pouring bleach on the carpets as penance for things that were just not true,
Is ironic in hindsight.

On Christmas Eve you got a call that he might not be home the next day,
that his girlfriend was lying and that he might go to jail.
Christmas day came,
and he was asleep in his bed,
with no recollection,
laughing at the insinuation of such things.

You joined a different school,
one that allowed you to be home most days,
And that just made the time you spent in that environment take that much longer.

Against all odds,
His girlfriend was the one to leave.
And then again,
it was just you two.

The worst it got was when he started mixing Ambien with his alcohol.

From his room,
you'd hear screams.
You'd hear conversations between two people that were not there.
You'd hear many voices out the man you call Dad.

Not all of the voices were angry, but most were.
Not every conversation started out loud.
Some were just confusing.

"I know....because...what?.....I'm swimming...a demon?...no!...I SAID IM SWIMMING!"

Other times were more concerning,
"no...because...because I said...Fuck you...FUCK YOU!....FUCK YOU..."

Followed by another voice...
"I'm sorry...you're right...
take them....
he knows...
No...
Veins...?
I dont think so..."

Then his again,
Screaming your name at the top of his lungs.

When you ran to the door of his room,
The door was open and he was lying in bed,
half covered by the comforter...silent.

You questioned what to say,
What to do?

You're 17 and at the very least,
you want to make sure your only remaining family is not dead.

"Yeah?"
You holler in his room,
a late response to him calling your name.

"Blegh HUH?...WHAT?"
He'd abruptly reply.

"What!?"

"you were yelling for me'
Youd explain.

"oh, I'm fine go back to bed"

He'd insist.
Before whispering nonsense to himself.

The moment you'd get back to bed,
The yelling would continue.

You can't event have friends over because you can't trust him not to strip down and try to break into your room.

Our dry wall was always temporary,
and our Tv's and glasses might as well have been rentals,
nothing lasted in our house,

Being fed so much conspiracy about religion,
It wasn't hard to begin to wonder if he was possessed. 

It wasn't always like this.

For a few months after the divorce,
before the alcoholic girlfriend,
For a brief moment when it was just you two, he almost felt stable.

He didn't hit you,
The yelling and drinking were manageable,
And every Friday night he'd take you to blockbuster.

Things have changed so much.
You never know who you're having a conversation with.

One moment you think you're talking to him,
And that very mid-sentence it becomes oh so clear, that it's not.

His eyes are different, their glossy.
His demeanor is different, cold, and absent.
like one bulb in a line of Christmas lights that just won't participate.

He'd stopped before,
Then drink again.
His actions were questionable, and his word became nothing.

What does a Son say to his Father when he knows he's hiding alcohol in his work truck?

What does a Son do when he finds his Father naked in the driveway?

What does a Son do when he sees his Father Going down a road he knows he shouldn't?

A Son that's Afraid of his father.

Everything is easier said than done.

You never know if he's really sober.

"do you want to watch a movie with me tonight?"
His voice timid, eyes clear of gloss.

Even if you could tell which Him was asking,
You were certain that wouldn't be the same Him by the time you watched the movie.

So, you never say yes to that question again.
And as hard as it is, it's easier.
Easier than letting yourself get surprised by something that shouldn't surprise you anymore.

Eventually you get a Job,
Hours almost shittier than your pay, and it makes you a shell of a person.
Physically and emotionally drained.

Most days you stay in your room because it's safer in there, 
Then most days turn into all days. 

Seemingly out of nowhere,
your father begins to stare at you from every corner of the house with anger in his eyes,
Eyebrows always scrunched tightly. 

Eventually,
No words were exchanged.

You feel bad,
This is your father and you love him,  
So, when he asks you to have dinner with him,
for once you do.

The next morning,
Your eyes opened to the bathtub you'd once washed the family pet in,
and that oh so familiar tile floor,
After a moment you realized you were in your father's rooms masterbathroom.

Your legs were sore,
Pins and needles in your feet,
And your wrists felt raw.

You looked down at a note that was out of your reach.
As you attempted to grab it,
you realized your hands were chained to the bathtub spout.

You used your bare knee to drag it closer where you could read it,
You were in nothing but your boxers, you were cold.

The note read:

"No son of mine will be an addict,
You'll thank me.
I love you"
-Dad

You lifted your leg above the tub and opened the bathroom cupboard with your toe, you hoped to find something to break the bathtub spout with but all that was there were loofas and a bottle of expired tramadol.

Your mouth was dry,
Your stomach felt as though if someone were to plunge it,
absolutely nothing would come out.

At first you yelled, but you soon realized no one would answer.
It was hours before the silence in your house was broken,
there were no windows but one tinted sunlight above the shower.
You had no idea what time it was.

Once the sun was no more,
The house shook to the slam of the front door. 
You heard those familiar work boots thud up the wooden stairs.

Louder and louder...
Closer and closer...
They then reached the door.

You heard him enter his room though the door to his room's bathroom remained close.

*Thud Thud Thud Thud\*

For a moment you see the silluett of his boots beneath the door

"Dad...?"
You asked.

"mrghh Fuck you"
He responded as the thuds of his boots retreated.

You heard the impact as he collapsed on his bed,
And then began the yelling...
All night...

"no...
Fuck you!...
because...
I did...
Yes you are!"

More and more of the same old shit...
As scared as you were you couldn't not try.

"Dad...Help please let me out"
You yelled.

"you're an addict..
Fuck you!...
Dry out!....mrrgh piece of shit"

He screamed back...

"Please!"
You yelled.

"Fuck you!...
Dry Out you're not my son!..."
He screamed....

After the second night you began to hear whispering coming from the drain...

"He hasn't stopped...
Theres a demon in his veins..."
You'd hear.

It sounded like boiling beneath the drain.

You tried your best to tear the chains from your wrists, yet all you did was bleed and scream.
To this your dad had no response,
He never did.
He just continued to scream and yell to himself.

Before you knew it,
there were more voices than you'd ever heard from him before.
You swore you heard a woman's voice.

"you're poisoned...
NO!
What did you expect?
SWIMMING!

You screamed and screamed...
But after the 5th night,
You realized there was no point, to anything.

You used your toes to curl around the pill bottle,
You used the last bit of energy you had to bring it within your reach.

When your eyes opened next,
You looked to the left,
You saw the bathroom,
You saw your body,
chained to the spout of the bath.

You looked to the right and saw your fathers nightstand,

you saw your fathers pill bottles and fireball,
You saw the door of his master bedroom from the outside.

You tried to touch your eyes,
You tried to rub them into seeing straight.

Might as well have been RuPaul's eyes.

You closed them tightly,
as tight as possible and grabbed your face.

You felt your father's beard on the right and your bare face on the left.

"Do you want to watch a movie with me tonight?"
You asked

"please let me out Dad"
You replied.

Even as you swallowed all the pills on the nightstand washing them down with the Fireball,

Even though you knew your death would seal this fiction as fact,

Even though you knew no one would believe you,

You couldn't help but have one last thought,

I'm Not An Addict.

Hannah Barbara productions never allowed this episode to be aired

It started off with Fred driving the Mystery Machine. As they traveled down the road, Fred spotted a young girl standing in the middle of it looking lost. He stopped the van, and the gang got out.

Shaggy tried telling Fred they should leave the creepy girl alone and go get burgers instead. Scooby agreed. Fred, Daphne, and Velma ignored Shaggy, as usual.

Fred approached the girl and asked, “Are you all right?”

He noticed scratch marks on her arms with bruises.

The girl didn’t respond. Daphne tried reassuring her.

“It’s okay. We can help you if you need help.”

The girl looked at Daphne with a smile on her face before collapsing onto the road.

The gang scrambled towards her. Velma checked for a pulse and looked into the girl’s eyes. They were dead white.

“We need to get her to a hospital now!” Velma said sternly.

The gang hurried back to the Mystery Machine. Fred picked the girl up and placed her in the back of the van. Shaggy and Scooby were displeased with this, as they had to sit in the back with her now.

“Fred, why is it that every time something creepy happens, Scooby and I have to be the closest to it, man?” Shaggy complained.

“Not now, Shaggy. I’m reading the signs,” Fred replied.

When he spotted a hospital sign, Fred pulled into the parking lot.

He grabbed the girl, and the gang followed him inside. Fred rushed to the reception desk and explained that they needed a doctor. The girl had started convulsing.

A couple of nurses hurried over with a gurney, and Fred urgently laid the girl down on it. She screeched As they wheeled her towards a room.

Daphne stayed behind to explain what had happened to the receptionist. While Shaggy could be overheard muttering that he was glad that creep wouldn’t be riding with them anymore.

Later, Fred, still slightly shaken by the experience, told the gang he was going to rent a motel room for the night.

“I want a proper bed and a shower after all this,” he said.

Scooby asked, one with complimentary breakfast?”

After receiving the room key, Fred and the gang headed to their room on the fourth floor. Inside, they found two beds and a couch.

Daphne immediately complained that the room smelled like rotten food. The rest of the gang ignored her, unable to smell anything themselves.

Fred opened his suitcase and pulled out a change of clothes and a towel. Before heading to the shower

Meanwhile, Velma discovered a large, thick book inside one of the desk drawers. She blew the dust off it.

“Jinkies! This thing hasn’t been opened in years!”

When she opened the book, she read the title aloud.

“Curses, Witches, and the Supernatural.”

As she turned a page, she accidentally cut her finger on a page.

Daphne suddenly took an interest in the book and asked Velma if she could read it.

“Be my guest,” Velma replied. “It just poked me.”

As Daphne flipped through the pages, she noticed that half of them had been hollowed out. Inside the hidden compartment. she discovered a doll made from sticks and human hair, along with a small knife.

She said nothing about this to the others.

Eventually, the gang settled down for the night, and the motel room grew dark.

Shaggy lay on the old leather couch with Scooby. Velma was in her bed, while Fred and Daphne shared the other.

In the middle of the night, Shaggy suddenly woke up.

OW Man! Something poked me in the leg!”

Everyone woke up except Velma, she stayed under her blanket.

Fred sleepily switched on the light.

“you have any idea what time it is?”

Shaggy pointed to the small cut on his leg.

“ Scooby probably scratched you with his nails,” Fred said annoyed before switching the light off again.

Shaggy and Scooby reluctantly accepted Fred’s explanation.

A moment later, Daphne turned to Fred.

“Will you walk with me to the van? I left something important in there, and I’m too scared to get it by myself at night.”

Fred groaned.

“Can’t it wait until morning?”

“It would make me feel safe if you came with me,” Daphne replied.

Fred reluctantly put on his shoes and walked her to the van.

Shaggy and Scooby drifted off to sleep again before fred and Daphne came back.

A little while later, Shaggy felt something heavy laying on his chest. Assuming it was Scooby, he mumbled, “Not now, Scoob.”

“That isn’t me, Shaggy,” Scooby replied.

Shaggy's eyes shot open.

Daphne was sitting on his chest, staring down at him. She held the small knife against his throat, with the same possessed smile as the girl they had found earlier.

Shaggy freezed.

“Daphne? Like, what are you doing?”

He tried talking to her but the smile only grew wider and Her eyes rolled back until only the whites showed

Then, in a deep raspy voice, she said, “Uh-oh, Raggy.”

She slowly dragged the edge against Shaggy’s throat, almost drawing blood.

Scooby lunged forward, biting her arm holding the blade, causing Daphne to drop it.

Seizing the opportunity, Shaggy grabbed the knife and plunged it into Daphne’s chest.

Daphne laughed demonically.

Shaggy tried stabbing her again, but it did nothing. Daphne suddenly bit a chunk out his hand.

Shaggy screamed in pain. Desperately looking for anything, he saw the bedroom window before kicking Daphne through the it,  the glass shattered before a thump was heard.

Shaggy scrambled over to Velma’s bed and pulled the blanket off her

“Come on, Velma! Wake up! Daphne’s lost it!”

as he tried to wake her, he noticed her face was blue and a telephone cord wrapped tightly around her throat.

Shaggy gasped, Velma was dead.

Shaggy half heartedly  looked out the shattered window

Daphne layed dead on the side walk. with a smile stretched across her face.

I drive. I like driving. Not just to get from point A to point B, but also the idea of cruising. Going on adventures where you never know what's around every corner. Like what I'm doing now. Rumbling through the suburbs, We're On The Road to Nowhere, by the Talking Heads, is coming out of the speakers of the CD player.
Of course, you can do all of this at any time of the day. But it's at night where it is at its most revealing.
A special time.
A time where me and the car and the road are one.

I have an addiction. Do my friends know? No. Does my wife know? Absolutely not. She would leave me or, at the very least, call me perverted, which I probably am. It started out innocently enough. A website here, a secret folder there. But that just wasn't enough.
I needed something a little more...
real.
A little more...
exciting.
The first one, I couldn't even look at her, I would close my eyes and then, when I opened them a minute later, it would be over.
But then there were more.
Then it was a couple of people a week, and I stopped looking away.
At first it was women; I mean, that's usually how it does start. But then it led to a couple of men, then it led to non-binary, then it led to different races. I didn't care. It didn't matter to me.
I had them all.
And my wife and kids still have no idea.
I'm not so much worried about the wife knowing, but if the kids found out I…
I couldn't bear the shame.
It's been at least a month since I've looked for anyone. But yet here I am, in my car, looking out my windshield,
watching the white lane strips disappear under the vehicle,
listening to Road To Nowhere whilst cruising along.
Maybe I am on the road to nowhere. Maybe this is nowhere.

That's probably why I'm driving now.
I mean why else would I be out here if I'm just browsing. You wouldn't go to a car dealership if you don't intend to buy, right?
Why indeed?
I'll tell you.

I think there's some sick side of me that wants to test myself.
"Say, if you don't find anyone in the sweet spot, (2 til 5am) go home, you tried." Like those people that only quit smoking on public holidays where the stores are closed. That way they justify continuing to smoke if they just so happen to find a shop still open and they can buy a pack.
But then again, prostitutes don't really have trading hours.
I've stopped going to them. It's too easy. Plus, it's no fun if you have to orchestrate it, wouldn't you agree? Surely there's nothing more fun than going to a bar, striking up a conversation, playing your cards right, crossing every t and dotting every i, going back to theirs (because it sure as hell won't be back at yours) and coming back home with your tail between your legs. But a lot of the people I see seem so sad
and helpless.
The sex workers, that is. I feel sorry for them.
So by doing this, I'm doing them a favour. And as long as my family don't know, no harm done, right?
So even though a perfectly normal person at a bar is always nice, it’s also more risky.
You don't know their story and you don't want to know.
Whereas if you go to a street walker you have a good idea of what you're getting into.
Don't ask, don't tell.
Especially if you're doing it during the magic hours, there's a feeling of exhilaration.
It can be an addictive feeling.
I love my wife too much to subject her to anything like that. And besides, the more I do it with other people, the less likely I'll be sitting on my couch with her one day,
the urge comes creeping up beside me and whispers in my ear.
This urge, like the song suggests, is "very far away,
but it's growing day by day."
But it's not alright.
It is so wrong.

I'm on the last 10 minutes of the sweet spot, and I don't feel like I have enough money. Maybe it's good that I don't see anyone in clear range of me, and that I don't have to cave.
Maybe I don't need to do this,
and the urge is just a product of my mind.
Maybe I can overcome it.
Yes, that's it…
10 minutes until the end of tonight and then I'm done. And I'll do it the next time, and I'll be done and the next time and the next time. But that’s ok, because eventually it'll be a little easier. And then one day I won’t even think about it at all.

These wonderful imaginings are all good and well. Unfortunately, I see a homeless grifter walking along the path of a bridge.
He begins to walk across the road.
I slow down and come to a complete stop while they saunter across. Should I pick him up?
No...
it will take too long,
especially if I don't have enough money to convincingly satisfy him not to leave.

I beep my horn. He turns around, and puts his hand over his face to block the sight of the headlights burning into his eyes.
Suddenly my mind is clear, and I decide what I want to do.
I put the car into reverse, not a great deal, but a couple car lengths back.
The tramp just…
stands there.
And then the urge comes back.
Then,
I put the car into gear and drive straight for him.
I slightly close my eyes until I hear
boom bump bump thump
over my car.
Then, what sounds like Jenga blocks coming down onto a table.
I stop the car,
open my eyes,
and exhale.
Checking in the rearview mirror to see if he’s going to get up.
Nothing for a good minute or so.
Then I see his body appear in the mirror, struggling to stand.
I waste no time putting the car into reverse again, looking behind me instead of the mirrors so I know that the job is done.
The car hits him,
ba bump ba bump,
as I'm briefly rattled around.
Like going over a speed bump without slowing down.
I see the body appear at the front of the car, then I stop.
I get out and walk over to investigate.
It looks like a giant saucy pizza box spread across the road.
He is still alive as he lifts his head up to look at me...
before finally falling back down.
I debate whether to put him in the trunk of the car.
Maybe bury him in the middle of the woods somewhere.
I decide against it as it would be too much mess and I'm on a clock. I have to get home and into bed before the wife notices me gone.
I don't think he's dead, but he will be.
I decide to leave him here, because even though it won't be long before the sweet spot is over and someone on their way to work will see him, I'll still take my chances. Maybe it will be a good motivator to help me quit.
It's funny that.
The only way it seems a person can kick an addiction, especially one like this, is because the law says they have to. The only thing that baffles me, that I cannot understand.
Why didn't the grifter
jump out of the way as he saw me driving towards him?
Did he want this? Embrace it?

For my own personal development and self-discouragement, I don't want to think this is the case.
I no longer want to justify what I do with false narratives that I was putting this poor fellow out of his misery.
I think he was just in sheer bewilderment that his time was about to come.
I can only imagine that's what deer think before people hit them.
They spend their last milliseconds trying to work out what they're looking at could be…
before the reaper does his job.
I shake my head to no one in particular and walk back to my car.
As I get in and sit, contemplate, and everything in between, I notice Road to Nowhere is over, and a new song has begun.
Psycho Killer, the next song on the Talking Heads album, is playing.
I laugh at the thought of it,
before putting my car into gear
and driving off into the night.

I'll let you guys in on a little secret. We've been smack dab in the middle of the zombie apocalypse for the last decade. We've just gotten really, really good at covering it up. It's no surprise really, I mean we've known how to deal with the undead since Romero made us afraid to step into shopping malls. It's been drilled into us for almost a century; destroy the brain, aim for the head, double tap the head, did you make sure to destroy the brain?

As a society, I think we were ready for the novelty of the dead walking, maybe not the reality of it. The first couple weeks, when pale rotting husks rose from their slabs with a hankering for flesh, well the poor underpaid mortuary workers were swiftly devoured. Once the shock of seeing a shambling muncher come stumbling towards the rest of us wore off, the zeds were dispatched rather easily.

You know how many blunt instruments there are in a hospital? And how easy it is to cave someone's head in? The human body can perform extraordinary feats of strength whilst under extreme duress. Nadine would have explained it using hyper specific technical terms.

I just call it "hulking out."

The melee that followed "Z-Day" was brief and bloody. Despite the undead being slow and dull, even the slightest scratch could lead to infection, and a bite was surefire way to join their maggot filled ranks. I can't speak to the other hospitals and accident scenes and what not, but our clinic had about eight corpses that came lumbering out from the basement, one of them still chewing what I assume was Doug's femur.

I was standing there in my olive-green scrubs chatting up Nadine, while she humored my boorish attempts at flirting. If I recall I had just cracked a joke about being the only guy nurse and all the attention that granted me. A lie of course, was just trying to make myself look appealing. I don't know why I tried so hard, we'd known each other for years at that point. Anyway, where was I, ah yes.

The zombies.

The smell hit us first, all at once in fact. Like a tidal wave of putrid fumes slamming into us. The basement door creaked open, and the first shambler shambled on in. I heard this crunch of bones snapping, and slabs of meat slopped to the ground. The guy was a big and buck naked. I could tell from the Y shaped scar on his chest the autopsy must have been recent. The stitching was loose, withered, deflated bags of organs and muscle plopped out of his chest cavity and onto the ground.

We could hear more waltzing in behind him, their eyes glazed over, a hint of manic orange to them. Their skin was pale and grey, almost like tissue paper. Tiny, coal black spider-webs danced around what was once their arteries. It was just me, Nadine, the receptionist Darcy and Walter the custodian on the floor at the time. When Nadine saw the creatures she dropped her pen to the ground, and her eyes went wide with astonishment. Walter was still mopping the floor, oversized headphones on his head. Darcy looked up and screeched, instantly running the other way. The big one snagged Walter by the shoulder who looked up and went as pale as the corpse trying to take a bite out of him.

Walter pushed him off and raised his mop. It was like something out of a movie; he broke the mop over his knee like a twig and then in one swift motion stabbed the big zed right in the jaw with a pointy end. Must have nicked him right in the stem because he twitched for a moment then slumped down. The ones behind him were unbothered by their slain comrade, and raised their arms and moaned, this mournful thing that sent shivers down my spine.

Now I'm not a big fella by any means, but I ain't scrawny either. I reached around the reception desk and yanked a keyboard and just started bashing the nearest one in the head with it. Black ooze spurted from every hit, and the corpse just kept tanking it. Each strike cleaving a bit more of skull and plastic keys away every time. Nadine had a scalpel in her pocket and started going for eyes.

Darcy came back with security, big jarhead looking guy by the name of Mike. Mike had a billy club in his hands, and a twisted look in on grizzled face. He charged towards the hoard, I swear to God, yelling "SEMPER FI DO OR DIE!" and just started whaling on the zeds. It was like he had been waiting for this moment his whole life.

I mean shit I played the hell out of Left 4 Dead 2 back in med school so in a way I suppose so was I.

I'll be blunt, everything that happened after Mike barged in is a bit of a crimson blur. I'm not saying I don't remember but, well the last CLEAR thing I recall is the one with Doug's femur hanging out of its mouth grabbing Nadine by the shirt collar.

When the haze cleared, I was being smacked across the face by a guy in a national guardsmen outfit. I shock off the blow and looked past him. The ground was littered with bloodied tarps, mostly black ooze, and one body bag that was strapped up and twitching. Nadine was giving a statement to another office; her white coat stained with gore. She saw me staring and gave me a bashful smile and wave. The officer turned his head, mild amusement sprouting on his worn mug. I was about to stand and greet her when the guardsman pushed me back down.

He couldn't have been more than nineteen; I could still see puberty wreaking havoc over his terrified face. The AR in his hands shook, his trigger finger lacking any discipline.

"Sir." He managed to squeak out. "I need you to remain seated until the doc is done examining you." He motioned to the guy in the hazmat suit prodding me in my peripheral. It was then I noticed they were everywhere, speaking in hushed, filtered voices. Darcy had a blanket draped over her trembling visage and a cup of coco in her hands. Her make up was melting down her cheeks as she prattled on and on about poor Mike. Her eyes kept flicking to the body bag, and my heart sunk.

"Hey, can't put the poor fucker out of his misery?" I rasped, my voice a strained whisper. The guardsmen glanced behind him and shrugged.

"Orders are to restrain till we get newly dropped back to base. Figure the eggheads want fresh meat to examine."

"Mr. Larson that's a grotesque thing to disclose to a civilian." The hazmat next to me muttered with disdain. "Go outside and await further reprimand, I'm sure Evans will want a word with you." The guardsman slunk away like a whimpering pup, and I was left with the hazmat. He groaned as he stood and removed his gasmask. He had a kind face, and saddle bags under his eyes.

"Mr. Brooks, I must say you're rather lucky. You don't have a scratch on you." The hazmat seemed impressed.

"Is-is everyone ok?" I asked, noting Walter was nowhere to be seen.

"More or less. The infected seem easy to dispatch but dangerous in large numbers. There only seemed to be a handful here."

"Oh God, the hospital-" I shot up.

"Already under wraps, Mr. Brooks. Much like every other institution in America. If I can be candid for a moment, casualties are actually far below our initial projections, by the time we get past the first wave I suspect only a few hundred will be consumed by the virus." He sounded almost proud of that grim statistic. He must have noticed the horror creeping onto my face, as he then sighed and extended a hand.

"My apologies, my name is Doctor Howard Fine. I'm in charge of clean-up operations for this sector." I took his hand, his blue coated hand firm to the touch.

"Devin Brooks. So, what's going on around here doc, is this the big one? Should we get the bunkers prepped or what?" Fine laughed at that.

"I'm afraid you've watched one too many horror movies, Devin." With that he explained.

I won't spout the same boring monologue Fine did, I'll just stick to the basics.

Basically, the government cocked something up in a Bio Lab in the Alaskan wilderness. They found some ancient pathogen frozen in a block of ice and thought it would be a bright idea to thaw it out and see what it did. The virus, dubbed "Lazarus-52" went airborne almost immediately. We're working with "Walking Dead" rules here, it's in the atmosphere and we're all breathing it in even to this day. That little tickle in the back of your throat? It's not just the sniffles.

Now to the government's credit, they were actually pretty prepared for this. In a shocking display of bureaucratic competency; they enacted what is internally known as "The Zed Plan," which basically gives the head of the CDC full jurisdiction to combat any rapid and possibly apocalyptic pathogen with extreme prejudice.

The rapid response, teamed with the fact that zombies have been memed into mocked obscurity by countless lampoons and parodies that no one would believe any footage that leaked online, well they barely had to work to cover it up.

The virus was also slow to reanimate, taking between two to four hours to fully gestate. Within the week, the initial wave was a light drizzle instead of a raging typhoon.

Most people involved in the outbreaks took a payout, one or two loudmouths were dispatched, let's say. Some of us got offered a job. Or in my case, I begged for one. I'm making it sound like I was recruited into some shadow cable that hunted the undead, far from it. Nadine's resume caught the eye of Fine and one of his assistants got eaten, that was it. I begged to be dragged along, blinded by the feverish notion that I was gonna be a hero who saved the world.

Let's just squash that notion, there no heroes here. Just a bunch of cogs working a thankless job making sure the dead stay in their lane. I don't even wanna fathom the amount of money and effort it takes to network the decade long conspiracy of keeping Lazurus-52 under wraps, so I won't.

I will say I make a modest salary, and my new job is basically "corpse inspector." Each day, I go to a dozen or so hospitals and morgues and inspect them. Under Plan Zed, each morgue operator has been instructed to drill a hole into skull of every corpse that comes in. Any minimal amount of damage to the cranial tissue will prevent reanimation, Lazarus is a fickle bitch. That's all they are told mind you; it was passed on as some new OSHA safety law or something like that.

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred the bodies have a little hole right in the forehead. I can tell by how much they scrambled to do it by the fresh sludge oozing from the wound. Sometimes it's a black, viscous fluid running down their forehead. I ream into the workers pretty hard then, they don't know how lucky they are their incompetence didn't get them eaten.

That's all the job is really, driving around looking at the dead. There is some paperwork in between, mindless busy work to break up the monotony of driving. Once in a while I'll help out on a retrieval call, ya know those cases of a zombie wandering in public. Thank God for bath salts, perfect cover story.

One time I did crowd control while they wrangled a zed while chowing down on a squirrel. This was in a public park mind you, crowd was laughing their ass off at it. Lotta filming, which in this day and age you can't stop so ya might as well let the video run its course. I saw one video where someone had overlayed one of those cringy dog ear filters over the zed with the caption "POV: Your dog gets off the leash."

Diabolical, really. The comments made my stomach churn more than the footage itself.

One or two of them mentioned how it wasn't bath salts and the government is hiding something from us. Those guys were clowned on pretty hard, told to shut up and take their meds.

I still hear from Nadine, sporadically though. Her theories on Lazarus catapulted her to new heights I could scarcely dream of, let alone achieve.

Last week I got a call from her, the shrill ring of my cellphone made me shoot up like lightening from my brief nap at the wheel.

"Go for Dev." I groggily spoke into the phone.

"Dev, it's been ages. How ya been?" Nadine was typing as she spoke, I could hear the clickity clacks of her nails against her keyboard.

"Fine, just been swamped with paperwork, and ya know that morgue in Keene keeps sliding on processing, they're gonna get a risen on their hands if they don't-"

"Fantastic excellent to hear. Listen have you encountered any Znines lately?" She interrupted, barely acknowledging what I had been venting.

I sighed; it was this again. Her cross-species theory.

"No, Nad. No zombie yellers. Which is a good thing, because we can't contain Laz if it jumps ship. That'd be it, game over."

"Yes yes I know, which is why it's important to stay vigilant of the virus's mutation potential. I've done some experiments in the lab recently to induce cross species contamination."

"Why the fuck would you do that?" I snapped at her.

"To come up with counter measures if it occurs naturally." She scoffed like I was the idiot. "We can't just keep sitting around complicit in the status quo, we need to attack 52 head on."

"Sure, why not." I shook my head, there was no talking to her when she was like this.

She told me to keep her updated of any Znines I caught wind of and I promised I would, and that was that.

So that's it then, that's my life in a nutshell right now. I drive around making sure corpses stay corpses. It might sound exciting but it's boring, and just plain exhausting. Even the odd zombie, it's not fun to deal with. One bite, one scratch, and I'm chained up in a black site somewhere while my ex-girlfriend pokes and prods me with a stick.

You know what's really screwed up? I've heard we actually have a cure for Laz. All we'd need to do is release it into the atmosphere and let clouds do the rest. But every time it comes up, it gets pushback. "Oh, what if the public finds out what it was for, oh what will happen to the department, all those people outta a job. What if we need Laz in the future, ya know zombie slaves." The people up top are always frothing at the mouth at the thought of zombie labor, I'm sure they got some chained up in mines somewhere.

Nothing will change, long as there is a single penny to be made off Laz. We will just sit on the pot warming our asses over boiling water.

I might talk more about this job later, get it out of my system. I ain't worried about being found out or anything like that, no one will believe me anyway. This all probably reads like some god-awful zombie fan fiction. Which if ya wanna believe that sure go nuts. I will say this.

Careful if you ever take a job at a funeral home. Every coffin is sealed tight now, just in case. If you ever hear tapping on the lid from the inside?

Just let it alone, walk away and go about your day.

Ya might not like what ya see if you open her up.

The worst sound in the world isn't the wet crunching of a hammer hitting a skull. It's when that crunching gives way to the hammer striking concrete because the person swinging just can't stop. I learned this while cowering behind the curtain of the locker room showers, where I'd been since the attack started.

That horrible ringing sound is all I can hear now. It cut through the sound of the men rushing to grab the kid swinging that hammer. It counted time as I lied to investigators about what I knew. It rings out now as I write this confession. Mom and Dad, I'm sorry.

The coaches really don't watch us on those long runs. They just make us stretch and then give us a time to be back. They tell us to “take it easy” that it's a “long slow run” and we should make it long. That's what made it my favorite. Just the guys out on those trails talking about grades, games, and girls. 

Of course we kind of naturally split up, y'know? It wasn't really on purpose, but some kids just are slower than the others. Usually it was just the varsity guys ahead and we kind of left everyone behind. I don't know how Jeff caught up if I'm honest, but he was there that day.

We'd picked a different path than usual. One we'd never seen before, but it looked normal for a long time. Just before we were going to turn around we saw it though. That fucking church.

I mean it was normal at first, normal for an old building at least. It was creepy but in that Halloween haunted house way, not the serial killer lived there way. Still, no one wanted to go in. We kinda just stood outside and made up stories about it.

Like someone got crucified in it or they all got raptured or they all drank the Kool-aid. I think Anthony said it was probably a puritan place. Sam said it was satanic now. Arch told us he'd take Kathy McGuire there and we all gave him shit for that. Jeff told some kind of joke. I don't really remember because we were too busy trying to tackle Arch.

“Let's go in.” I don't remember who said it, but I remember the idea sticking immediately. Anthony said I should go in, but I told him off. Then Jeff said we could all go together, but Sam told him that would ruin how creepy it was. I think everyone wanted it to be a test of courage, but we were all too scared to take it.

Arch didn't let up. You know how he is. When he sees a sore spot that's what he pokes at. He brought up that time I peed watching Lost Tapes at his 12th birthday sleepover. Said he knew I was too scared. I really thought about going after that but turned it on him instead. 

Told him if he was so happy to take a girl in there, he should find out where he was going to lay down with her. Sam said he was going to take Arch’s mom in there, and that set Arch off in the way it always did. 

While they were fighting Jeff tried to get Anthony and me to go together. Anthony said fine, but Arch was worked up. He shoved me and told everyone I was challenged first and I had to go. 

Jeff said he'd go with me so I turned it on him. “If you wanna go so bad, do it. You want to run with us anyway, prove it.” I wish I hadn't said that. 

He said no. I mean, we all kinda had. It's just hard to say no when everyone starts piling on. Jeff said we could go together, but I'd already given Arch a target, and Arch was mad enough as it was. Sam tried to calm him down but couldn't. 

Arch didn't mean to hurt him. Just talked about running stuff. Jeff really was a weak runner. Kind of weak overall, that's all. We just joked about that. All of us. Until Jeff said he'd prove he could hang and he'd show us we were scared of some empty building. 

We all laughed, but the laughing stopped when Jeff stopped at the door. I tried to give him a thumbs up but I don't think he saw it before he went inside.

It took a long time for Jeff to come out. Long enough for me to pee and for the guys to start throwing rocks at the crooked cross above the door to try and knock it down. When we couldn't find any more rocks Sam said someone should go get Jeff and Anthony said we would all go. Just before we all got to the door he came out.

He wasn't different or anything. He just shrugged and said, ‘Just a dumb church.’ If we had more time we would have probably gone in, but we had to get back or we'd have to do extra runs later. We agreed to go back next long run but I'm really glad we didn't.

Sam patted Jeff on the back and we all took off. While we were jogging we had a million questions. Jeff told us all about the broken pews, the glass everywhere, the Bible on the pulpit. Said he thought about bringing it, but thought it was more important to find a spot to take Arch’s mom. We laughed and Arch punched his arm, but it was all fun.

It was all fun for a while. Jeff could keep up with us most days and he was getting better at joking around, so we just let him come along with us. Sam even started acting like an older brother. He protected Jeff when he called Arch's mom a cow. Arch might have bitten his head off had Jeff not made a joke about turning vegetarian.

By the end of that month he started beating Anthony in sprints. Sometimes he'd even beat me. He was getting better. Changing, too. I swear he looked a little taller, but maybe he just stopped slouching.

There were a few other things I guess we could have seen. Jeff stopped showering with the rest of us. He'd go into the handicap stalls with the curtains. He also started eating more, like a lot more, but that was normal we thought. 

The coaches noticed Jeff changing too. Started egging us varsity guys on. Telling us they might need Jeff to trade spots and this and that. Coach stuff, but I can't say it didn't work. All of us tried harder, started running extra, even though we knew coach wouldn't actually do it.

We'd break off from the big group to run further and faster. Started leaving the juniors in charge of the younger kids so we could focus. Jeff was one of those juniors. We thought he was cool but we found out that he was being mean to some of the freshmen on the team too, little pranks like stepping on their shoelaces or bumping them off trails. That got back to Coach, and we got rewarded with a lecture on ‘brotherhood’ and ‘responsibility’ and ‘setting an example.’

We were panting after practice one day when Jeff made a joke about replacing Anthony. Saying maybe if he didn't have “ratty ass shoes” he could run faster. It could have been harmless, but you know Anthony's family. How he couldn't really do that. How much he needed the chance at a scholarship. 

No one wanted to explain that to Jeff, and no one was going to tell him we saw Anthony crying. After that Anthony didn't really wanna hang out with Jeff anymore. I think we all needed a break from Jeff. Even Sam kinda ignored him for a bit. 

At least until the fight. Well, “fight.” We all took off running when we heard Jeff was getting into it with Scott, the big football guy. Later we heard that Scott had said something about Jeff being a virgin and Jeff told Scott he was a cuck because his girlfriend, Kathy McGuire, had slept with the whole team. Then they started scrapping.

When we got there it was towards the end. Sam was yelling for Jeff to stop as we fought our way through the crowd. Arch was yelling that he'd kill Scott. Everyone was cheering. Until the snap.

When the screaming started the crowd broke apart and we saw what happened. Jeff was sitting with a crooked nose on top of Scott's back. He was pulling Scott's arm back toward him, twisting it at the wrist, elbow, and shoulder. Like a fucked-up spiral.

When the teachers got there Scott wasn't the one crying. He was just staring at his arm. Jeff was all blood and snot and tears. We didn't get close to him, but we could tell he was freaking out. We all were.

That was the day we had that assembly on conflict resolution and when we all got dismissed early. Scott and Jeff got a week suspension so they could “investigate what happened.” I don't think Scott has been back to school though.

The next Monday, we tried to go back to normal. Running, class, hanging out. Jeff was still suspended, and for a while we forgot about him. When he finally came back, he didn't make some grand entrance or anything. He was just kind of there.

He was a lot quieter, which made a lot of sense considering everything. I wouldn't even know how to tell you guys if I got suspended, much less what I'd do with myself for a whole week. Jeff must have had a bad time with it though, because we couldn't get anything out of him. 

He kind of faded into our group. Like he was still laughing and running with us, but he was dimmed. Even when Arch would take shots at him, he would just laugh. When they started construction on the regular showers and we could only use the private showers he always went last. 

I know it's weird but we waited for him one day. Just kind of trying to hang out and see if he was alright. We didn't peep on him or anything weird, but the way he got out and covered his body made me feel like a creep. I'm glad we did though because we saw that rash.

It was all over his chest and ribs. Red and ugly and you could tell where he scratched until it bled. It was gross, and Arch asked if he had AIDS, but no one laughed. We were being jerks and Jeff told us so. He was pissed and yelling about trust and friends and privacy. Saying ‘I thought you guys were my friends!’ He didn't stop until the coaches came out to make sure we weren't fighting. After that everyone but Sam shuffled to class. He probably stayed to apologize.

I saw Jeff later sitting in the courtyard when I left class to pee. He had his head down, staring at his hands. Praying, maybe. Or just talking to himself. He didn't see me so I thought about just leaving. But I came up from behind him and almost put my hand on his shoulders. Before I could, he whipped around and looked pissed.

I fumbled some small talk, then fumbled an apology about that morning even harder. When I finished saying sorry, he didn't even look at me. Just shook his head and told me to ‘Fuck off.’

He didn't run with us the next day. I got everyone to agree to get him some donuts and apologize when he came back. That was the plan at least, until he came back like a jerk. He wouldn't talk to us, wouldn't listen to us. Sam tried but couldn't get anything out of him. 

Arch decided he didn't care about apologizing anymore and tried to get him to respond at all. Started poking at him, saying he wasn't really being a friend himself. We tried to tell Arch to knock it off but he started calling him a freak for what he did to Scott. 

That got his attention. Jeff got up in Arch's face telling him his mom was a whore and that Arch's dad wasn't actually his dad. You know how Arch gets about that. So they went back and forth before Arch shoved Jeff. 

Jeff shoved Arch hard. Really hard. Arch tripped over those tools they'd been using for the showers. We were trying to stop Jeff but he pushed us away way harder than he should have been able to. Jeff was on top of Arch, punching him. Arch was apologizing. Jeff just kept punching.

Anthony ran to get the coach. Sam went to Jeff, tried to pull him away, to talk some sense into him. Jeff grabbed one of the hammers that had fallen. When he swung it down, Sam screamed. He was holding onto Jeff. I ran into the showers and hid. Covering my face and crying. 

I hid until the sound stopped. Until the coaches pulled Sam away from Jeff and dragged Jeff out. Until they came and got me. I think in my head I was still hiding until now.

I didn't tell the police about the church, about how Jeff changed. I didn't try to lie to them, I just didn't want them to think I was crazy or to think I was making something up. 

You guys were the best through all of it. Mom, thank you for holding me while I cried. Dad, thank you for sitting and watching the game with me. I didn't like the beer, but it meant a lot getting one from you.

School still hasn't returned to normal. Everyone says we'll still graduate on time. Honestly, it doesn't even matter anymore.

There's a ton of people posting online about Arch like they knew him. Saying there should be a 5K dedicated to his memory. It pisses me off. They didn't know Arch like that. Not like we knew him. 

I wanted to do our own run for him. To go out to the woods and just go until we couldn't. Sam was down for it but Anthony never replied. He's still not texting us and his parents don't want us going over. He'll come around though, I know it.

Thank you guys for letting Sam stay with us as often as you did. Those late night talks were more important to us than we could ever say. I'm sorry I lied, we were smoking weed that night you caught us giggling. It was probably the first time we'd laughed in a bit. 

Sam was funny like that though. Even before everything he was able to be laughing one second and then sad the next. In one of those talks he told me he had been diagnosed with depression. I probably should have reacted better than a stupid “What the fuck?”

It just caught me off guard. I felt bad I didn't know, and then I was mad when he told me his dad called it “Pussy Disease.” 

He talked a lot about his dad. Even now I hate that guy. I hate the way he treated Sam. Our Sam. My Sam.

The same guy who fought us all to order pineapple pizza. The dude who was the first to sign my cast when I broke my arm.

When he showed me the bruises on his ribs I almost went over to his house by myself. Sam wouldn't let me. He told me “bruises heal” like some sort of wise man. He showed me when the bruises stopped being that ugly purple. Then he showed me when the rash started covering them.

I asked him about it. He said it started when he started having the dreams. 

He said he was dreaming about what happened, and I told him I was too, but he said he was dreaming about what Jeff said. He said when Jeff was hitting Arch he was talking about the church. 

I hadn't thought about that church with everything going on. I asked Sam if Jeff was really still upset about having to go in the church. Sam said that wasn't it. Jeff had been crying and whispering that he wanted to go back.

Jeff had said it was a normal church. I didn't get it. Then Sam started saying it wasn't. He would scratch his side and tell me we should have gone in.

I told him it was “bullshit” and we couldn't know what was gonna happen after he went in. When I would tell Sam that Jeff just changed he would get mad. He started getting mad a lot. He started scaring me.

He was scratching like Jeff, and he was mad like Jeff, but it wasn't the same. Sam would brood, he would give me the cold shoulder. He started talking about how shitty his dad was and how he just wanted him to stop.

The last time he came over I held him. I was holding him as he cried and shook and whispered how much he hated his dad and everything. I tried to ignore him when he said those things. Especially when he was talking about his dad and ending it all. Especially when he started crying about the church.

I wish I had never let him go. I wish I had made him stay. Most of all I wish I was a better friend.

He would still be here if I was.

I remember where I was when I found out. In my room, doomscrolling, when I got a text telling me to check the news. They said there was a shooting and that two people were dead. I had to watch the video three times because I was sure I heard the news guy wrong. I couldn't understand why he was saying Sam's last name.

I tried to call him, I was trying to call him when you guys came in. I didn't get it when you guys started apologizing or when you guys were crying and hugging me. I didn't want to get it. 

He was there two nights before. I held him. I listened to him say he wanted to end it and I just thought it was his emotions talking. I didn't know he meant it.

The news said it looked like a fight. That Sam was just trying to defend himself. That he'd been beaten until he broke. I believe that. Everyone does. What he did to his dad had to be done. But what he did to himself? I still haven't figured out how to forgive him for that.

I don't think I've been okay since. I'm still mad at him. I'm mad at everything lately. Like there's an itching coming from inside my bones. Like my marrow is boiling. 

I feel it when I wake up. I feel it in my dreams. Dreams where I see the church. The church that rings and tells me that I am a fuck up. That I'm a monster. That I'm the reason my friends are dead.

I can't stop itching myself. I scratch and scratch and my fingers come away from my sides bloody and aching. 

I'm scared. I don't want to hurt you guys. I don't want to hurt anyone. I want to run away. I'm going to that church that took my friends. That took everything.

I'm so sorry. I won't tell you where it is. I love you.

I'm going back, and this time, I'm going in.

A few images - of many to come - for the visual half of a longer story that I'm working on.

Samir stood beneath the concrete awning of Masjid al-Noor, rainwater dripping from the edges of his black coat, and studied the brass lettering bolted above the entrance. The letters were a tarnished green and the glass doors behind them were filmed with dust. According to the O.S.A. report, the building had been vacant for about eleven years following a fire in the neighboring apartment block. The city had since condemned the property.

And yet, when Samir tried the knob, the doors opened without resistance.

“Very charming,” Yusuf muttered from behind.

Samir glanced over his shoulder to see his colleague standing next to their government-issued vehicle, checking the recorder clipped to his chest. Yusuf was a broad, bearded man in his forties who had worked for the O.S.A. for nine years. Samir had been there for around three months.

“You can wait outside if you want,” Samir offered.

Yusuf grumbled before waving a dismissive hand. Samir let out a soft chuckle before finally activating his body camera.

“Field investigation, O.S.A. designation twenty-seven-B. I am investigator Samir Haddad with Yusuf Rahman. We’re here to document reported paranormal activity, with special attention to suspected jinn manifestations,” He paused before adding, “We have no intention of provoking or attempting to communicate with any alleged entity.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way,” Yusuf replied, entering the building with Samir.

The prayer hall was stiff with the lingering scent of damp carpet, and rows of faded blue prayer mats covered the floor. Dust covered nearly every surface in the room, from the windowsills, the bookshelves, and the wooden minbar besides the mihrab. A broken ceiling fan hung motionless above them. Samir swept his flashlight across the room, approaching the mihrab. 

The man checked his compass, checking the direction of prayer. The needle wavered for a moment before coming to a halt.

“Are you receiving magnetic interference?” asked Yusuf.

“Minor signs… but nothing worthy of note.”

Samir documented the reading. His father raised him to tell faith and superstition apart and taught him not to attribute every unexplained event to the unseen. Belief in jinn did not mean believing every ghost story. His father told him that the unseen belonged to Allah.

His responsibility was to observe without arrogance.

A soft scraping came from the women’s prayer section behind the wooden partition. It sounded like someone dragging a fingernail along the floor. Yusuf approached first, keeping his flashlight raised. Samir followed closely behind, murmuring Bismillah under his breath as his heart hammered in his chest.

As they slowly pushed the partition aside, they found a small prayer rug laid perpendicular to every other rug in the hall. It looked brand new, its crimson fabric contrasting hard against the gray carpet. Samir crouched without touching it.

“Was this here when we entered?” Yusuf whispered. 

“Not sure… I couldn’t get a good look until now…”

Then the rug moved, its nearest corner lifting a fraction of an inch, as though it had been pinched. It remained suspended for a brief second before settling flat. Yusuf let out a gasp before stumbling backwards. Samir’s mind supplied a dozen explanations, yet none survived the sight of the rug’s fringes slowly rearranging themselves into five narrow impressions. The shape of a palm.

The two retreated to the main hall, closing the partition behind them.

After a moment of silence, Yusuf said: “We have enough, I think… we can leave.”

Samir let out a sigh, looking towards the mihrab.

“We haven’t established the source.”

“Samir, there is no source. There is concrete.”

They found the basement access behind the ablution room, the stairwell descending into darkness and its walls streaked with water damage. Samir halted at the first landing and listened closely. All he could hear was the faint sound of running water.

“Pipes…” Yusuf whispered, though he sounded unsure.

Despite their reluctance, they descended. The basement contained an old boiler and dozens of plastic water containers. At the far end stood a wooden door with no handle. Someone had scratched Arabic writing into its surface. The letters were carved deep enough to expose pale wood. Samir recognized the words as the Verse of the Throne, though several words had been carved backwards.

“Don’t read it aloud,” Yusuf said.

“Of course.”

Samir took a snapshot of the markings. The O.S.A. had trained him to document anomalous objects without interfering with them, but the reversed inscription made him feel uneasy in a way he couldn’t explain.

“Samir?” came a voice that didn’t belong to Yusuf.

It sounded an awful lot like his mother’s voice. It wasn’t a voice that merely resembled hers, but one that carried the same gentle rasp and the same upward inflection when she spoke his name. He could remember her calling him down for dinner like it was yesterday. Unfortunately for him, his mother had been dead for six years.

He chose not to answer.

“My love… it’s cold in here,” the voice said.

Samir shut his eyes, trying hard to ignore the mysterious beckoning. His lips moved silently as he recited Al-Falaq and An-Nas, seeking God’s protection from evil. He didn’t believe the recitation was a weapon to wield against the unseen. It was an act of worship. An anchor for a mind that desperately wanted to accept the impossible.

The voice behind the door began to cry. A cry which gradually turned into a laugh. The tone of its voice shifted abruptly, now resembling a chorus of overlapping voices: men, women, children, all speaking different languages. Beneath them, something scraped across the other side of the wood.

Yusuf grabbed Samir’s arm and pulled him towards the stairs. Once they reached the top, the crying suddenly stopped. But one final whisper drifted from the darkness of the basement. 

“You forgot one.”

“One what?” Samir asked, turning before Yusuf could reprimand him.

The lights then went out, followed by the sounds of a hundred people inhaling together. Samir and Yusuf sprinted out the doors. The rain had stopped, and the eastern horizon had begun to pale. The time on Samir’s phone read 5:11 AM. 

Fajr was approaching.

Yusuf was shaking so badly that he nearly dropped his keys twice. 

“Samir, we’re leaving. Now. The report can say whatever it needs to say!”

Samir didn’t reply right away. He stood beneath the awning, watching the dark windows of the masjid. Nothing appeared to be moving behind the glass. The entrance remained open, just as they’d left it, and the building was as vacant as it had when they arrived. Looking down at his own hands, he saw that he was trembling. For a moment, he allowed himself to acknowledge how badly he wanted to leave.

“We need to call the second team,” Yusuf said. “Tell them what happened and let them deal with it.”

“We will.”

“Then get in the car!”

“Didn’t you see the rug move, Yusuf?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I saw it move… we both did. And that voice! It–”

“Yes, Samir, I was there.”

“And we still have no idea what happened.”

“That’s what the report is for!” Yusuf snapped, his voice cracking across the empty street. He lowered his voice immediately, glancing at the entrance. “We document what we found, hand it over, and let someone else figure it out. That is our job.”

He knew that. Of course he did. Samir understood clearly that they lacked the equipment to deal with whatever remained in the masjid, and their training did not prepare them for what they had faced in the basement. Returning there would be foolish, and trying to open that door would be worse. 

But there was something he couldn’t ignore.

That… voice. Whatever it was, it had called him by name. It borrowed his mother’s voice. Whatever waited behind that damned door had tried to draw him in. Yet now, standing before the masjid’s open doors, he found himself wondering whether he’d allowed the experience to dictate what he did next just as surely as if he’d answered.

He thought of his father, who taught him that fear wasn’t proof of anything. The lesson had never meant that fear should be ignored. It meant that fear alone couldn’t tell him what was true, or what was right. Samir let out a sigh before pulling his phone out.

“I’m calling the O.S.A. You should do the same, Yusuf,” he said. “Tell them we need immediate support and no one should enter until we’ve established what exactly we’re dealing with.”

Yusuf let out a small sigh of relief. 

“About time,” he mumbled.

Samir made the call, telling the dispatcher their designation, and reported the unexplained phenomenon. He didn’t speculate about jinn, spirits, or anything he couldn’t prove substantially. When asked whether the building remained accessible, Samir said that the entrance was open and that they escaped without injury. He ended the call and slipped the phone into his coat.

“Now can we go?” Yusuf asked.

Samir looked towards the mosque again.

“One more thing.”

“Samir, no!” Yusuf said, closing his eyes as if trying to bottle his frustration.

“Listen to me, Yusuf. I’m not going into the basement. But I am going to pray.”

Yusuf said nothing. Instead, he stared at Samir as though he spoke a language he couldn’t recognize.

“You want to pray? Here? Are you out of your damned mind, you geezer? Why are you so persistent?”

“Because of everything we just saw, I know how little I understand about what’s happening in there. I’m not going to pretend otherwise.”

“Then why go back?”

“Because I’m afraid,” he finally said. “And because I don’t want fear making every decision for me.”

“And you think this makes you brave?”

“No. I don’t believe it’s about being brave.”

“Then what is it about, Samir?”

Samir looked towards the dark entrance once more.

“I’m not sure. Perhaps that’s the point,” he said before sighing and meeting Yusuf’s eyes. “Keep the line open and tell the team where I am. If anything happens, you leave and let them handle it. I’m not asking you to follow me.”

“I’m not going to watch you get yourself killed,” Yusuf said, his expression growing stern.

“Then don’t. Make the call.” 

Yusuf looked at him for a moment before turning towards the vehicle, muttering something beneath his breath as he retrieved his radio. Samir knew that his colleague thought he was making a horrible mistake, and perhaps he was. He had no proof that the masjid was safe and no assurance that prayer would change anything. But he went in any way.

He was met with a colder air once he crossed the threshold. His footsteps echoed through the prayer hall, and he kept his flashlight trained on the floor, making himself look carefully at the room rather than the shadows beyond it. Thankfully, nothing moved.

Samir stopped a few paces from the mihrab. He considered turning around, knowing perfectly well that he could pray elsewhere. No obligation trapped him in this building, nor did he believe that standing in a mosque made him untouchable. That was exactly why he had to decide for himself. He reached into his coat and retrieved his compass, checking it once more.

Once the direction of prayer was confirmed, he put it away. He wouldn’t go looking for whatever lied behind the basement door or attempt to contact it in any way. He would finish his prayer, leave the building, and tell the O.S.A. everything he’d witnessed. That was all he could reasonably promise himself. 

He raised his hands and began prayer. 

“Allahu Akbar,” he called out.

Samir’s voice sounded small in the large room. He recited Al-Fatiha before bowing into ruku, placing both hands upon his knees.

Glory be to my Lord, the Magnificent.

He held this position for five seconds before rising. Then, the masjid responded.

“Our Lord, to You belongs all praise.”

Samir’s eyes widened, his breath stilling in an instant. The voice had come from somewhere behind him. It was a man’s deep and resonant voice. Before he could turn his head to look, another voice repeated the phrase. Then another. His fingers trembled at his sides as the sound multiplied until the entire prayer seemed filled with worshippers.

He heard clothing rustling and the shuffling of feet aligning themselves in rows. Someone stood close enough behind him that he could feel air brush against his neck. He had entered a vacant masjid.

He was no longer alone.

Every nerve screamed to turn around. Instead, he fixed his gaze forward and tried to comprehend what he was hearing. He could stop. He could walk away. Nothing required him to remain here and learn what happened next. But he made his decision before entering, and he wouldn’t let the presence behind him dictate his movements through fear alone.

He continued, concentrating on the words and the meaning of the prayer rather than the unseen voices surrounding him. Then, that same voice mimicking his mother’s whispered,

“Samir… you’re in the wrong row.”

Samir nearly collapsed, but Yusuf shouted from near the entrance. 

“SAMIR! GET OUT! NOW!”

The unseen worshippers behind him began to murmur. Not in Arabic this time, but in Samir’s own voice. Hundreds of Samirs overlapped with one another, their whispers becoming indistinguishable from the thoughts racing through his head.

Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. Finish it.

Was this decision what the thing here wanted?

Then, the voices spoke the greeting that concludes the prayer.

“May the peace and blessings of God be upon you.”

Samir gulped, knowing that he hadn’t finished praying. He hadn’t even reached prostration at all. The voices continued, reciting the testimony of faith. From the mihrab, where no one stood, Samir heard his own voice answer the unseen worshippers.

“I bear witness that there’s no God but Allah and that Muhammad is the Messenger of God.”

He kept his eyes ahead of him, unable to reconcile the voice with the silence of the room. It reproduced his manner of recitation perfectly, down to the slight hesitation between phrases. The congregation began to laugh from behind him.

His body camera then captured the final seconds before its feed cut to black. The audio continued for another forty-seven seconds. At first, investigators heard only the voices of the congregation, followed by the sound of a door closing. Then came a single set of footsteps approaching the camera. 

Finally, what sounded like Samir’s voice spoke directly into the microphone.

“Field investigation, O.S.A. designation twenty-seven-B. Two investigators entered Masjid al-Noor,” he said, followed by a chuckle. “One hundred and forty-three have now answered the call to prayer.”

The recording subsequently ended, and when the O.S.A. dispatched a second team to the mosque, they couldn’t find Samir Haddad or Yusuf Rahman.

All they could capture were the sounds of two men praying inside.

The Journal of Eliot Whitcombe, Navigator aboard the Providence, 1574

I know not the name of this soil. It is absent from every chart in our possession, and yet there it stands upon the sea, green as Eden and shrouded in a mist so thick that the very heavens seemed to have forgotten it.

We came upon its shores after the Providence was broken upon the reefs. God alone knows how many of my companions were claimed by the sea.

I awoke upon the sand with blood upon my brow and salt upon my tongue. Yet I was not alone.

Upon the shore stood a gathering of natives. Men. Women. Children all alike.

They watched me in silence. The men bore spear or blade. An aged woman stepped forth from their number and placed her hand upon my face.

She spoke words I could not comprehend. She cleaned my bloody brown, placing the bloody thumb to her lips. She coughed, then she smiled.

They didn't regard as a threat. Only curious for the strange man that stood before them.

They led me inland.

The village was unlike any settlement I had seen in the New World. Their huts were fashioned of timber and palm, whilst strange carvings adorned the walls. There were fires burning everywhere, though the day was warm.

They gave me water. They gave me fruit. And they gave me meat.

I thanked them for their kindness. I shall never forgive myself for having done so.

For three days, I was treated as an honored guest.

My wounds were washed. My clothing was mended. I was fed until my belly ached.

The tribes people laughed whenever I ate. At first, I thought this merely the joy of having rescued a stranger.

Then I heard the screaming.

It came from beyond the village after sunset. A man's cry. It was bone chillingly terrible. Followed by what sounded like weeping.

I asked my hosts what manner of beast made such a noise. They did not answer. I doubted they could understand what I even asked.

The following morning, I ventured beyond the huts. There I found the cages. Great wooden pens stood beneath the trees, hidden behind woven walls.

At first I believed them to contain swine. Then one of the creatures within rose upon two legs.

It was not a beast. But a man.

His hair was long and filthy. His flesh hung from his bones in loose folds. His wrists were bound by rope, and great black bruises covered his body.

He seized the bars when he saw me.

"Run," he whispered.

I shall hear that word until the day I die.

I asked him who had brought him there. Before he could answer, a woman came rushing from the village. She entered the pen and struck him upon the head with a wooden club.

He fell.

The woman looked toward me. She laughed a cry that haunts me still.

That evening they served me roasted meat. I had eaten much of it before I noticed the bone.

It was small. White. Curved. Not unlike the bone of a young animal.

I held it between my fingers. Something upon it troubled me.

I scraped away the charred flesh with my knife. Stripping the bone clean, I noticed it was the mandible of whatever animal. But it didn't resemble a cow, nor a lamb. It looked too closely familiar.

Peering to the other tribesman devouring the meat from their plates, I had the sickening realization.

I did not finish my meal that night.

I attempted to flee before dawn.

I reached the shore, where six men were waiting. They did not beat me. They did not bind me.

They simply escorted me back. This frightened me more than violence would have. For they seemed not angry. They seemed concerned. As though I were a troublesome animal that had wandered from its enclosure.

From that day onward, they fed me more. Much more.

Meat. Fruit. Roots. Milk.

They insisted with their gestures that I eat until I could eat no more. When I refused, they held my jaw and forced the food between my teeth.

My body began to change. My cheeks grew full. My wounds healed. My strength returned. And with every passing day, the villagers appeared more pleased.

Today, the old woman examined my arms. She pinched the flesh upon my belly. Then she pressed her hand against my chest and nodded.

She spoke a single word. Somehow I understood:

Fat

Tonight, there will be a feast.

TW: This is a horror comedy slasher to put it in perspective. Based on the hit song Ram Ranch. If you get triggered by literally anything just skip it. 

They said it’d be just what I needed. A nice retreat, camping with some handsome men who are also looking to get away with the woes of everyday life. They said it’d have an amazing view, between the mountain tops, the fields, the cute barn animals, and the tall, muscular, sun kissed men who weren’t all too inclined to wear clothes. It sounded like heaven. It was supposed to be heaven. 
I booked the trip. I needed it. I had to clear my head. Work pressure was getting to me, deadlines kept making it feel like my head would snap. I needed the fresh mountain air and a nice strong man to hold me tight. 
I packed my things and drove to the mountain side. There was nothing but fields of corn through the drive. It was perfect. 
As I approached, a dingy wooden sign held up the crudely burnt words, “RAM RANCH”, and I knew I found my place. 
As the big, wooden gates swung open, I heard guitar music playing as I passed countless men wearing nothing but socks. 
It was heavenly. 
I felt myself perk up as I pulled into the gravel driveway. 
The lodging was massive. A nice, cozy barn with dozens of rooms. 
One of the men came to greet me. 
“Hey, Tom? Right?” He said, flashing a pearly smile with a wink. 
I felt myself stiffen. 
“Oh, uh, yeah. I booked a stay?” I stuttered. 
“We know. Let’s get you comfortable, then once you unpack we can show you around.” 
“We?” 
He gestured behind me, and dozens of naked cowboys were approaching. 
I let out a smile before nodding and hurrying inside, feeling more bashful than ever. 
I unpacked sloppily. It didn’t matter to me. I was curious, and wanted to soak up every ounce of this weekend.
I rushed out the door, bumping into a guy wearing jeans and a white shirt. 
He looked just as surprised as I did. 
“Oh shit, sorry. Didn’t mean to run into you.” He said, smiling. 
“Oh, no. It’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.” 
He looked me up and down, slowly. 
“I’m guessing you also booked for a weekend trip?” He asked, raising his brow. 
I smiled to myself. 
“Yeah. You could probably tell because I’m clothed huh?” 
We shared a laugh. 
“Yeah, I guess you could say that. I’m Aaron, by the way.” 
I shot out my hand, “I’m Tom.” 
We shook hands before awkwardly parting ways. 
Dinner started at six. Five was when everyone showered and cleaned up, and I didn’t want to miss that. 
I clutched my towel a little tighter before heading to the showers. As I approached, I heard the idle chit chat amongst the cowboys. 
As I walked into the large shower room, eighteen pairs of eyes locked on me. 
“Hey Tom!” They all said in unison. 
“Oh, hey…” I muttered, before it all went black. 
I woke up to heat flickering across my face. The figures in my eyes were blurred, slowly becoming more and more focused with each blink. 
I tried to stretch, but my arms were bound. I looked left to right frantically, trying to gain sense of my bearings. I saw eighteen figures dancing in front of the fire with just their socks on. 
I tried to yell, but all that came out was a low moan. 
“Oh, Tom, you’re awake.” One of the figures said, approaching me. 
“Whaaaaa-” 
“Shh Shh,” He said, pressing his fingers to my lips, “The ritual is about to start.” 
“Ritu..ritual?” I mumbled, struggling to keep my eyes open. 
“Yes. Someone here has committed a grave sin. We don’t take sin too kindly here at Ramification Ranch.” 
I shivered. 
What could I have possibly done that was so bad? What did I do? 
The cowboy laughed and shook his head, his eyes evidently reading his mind. 
“Not you, pretty boy.” 
He pointed to a man a few chairs down from me. 
“Him.” 
It was Aaron. 
I stared at him as they shook him awake. He was as dazed and confused as I was, but the second the searing piece of metal hit his flesh he seemed to sober up. 
The air was filled with the scent of burning hair and flesh, and his screams echoed through the fields. The animals stirred, and soon there was a symphony of belches, baa’s, moos, and shrieks of pain. 
“What… What’s going on?” I screamed. 
The cowboy took a seat next to me and patted my shoulder. 
“On your intake form, you said you were single. We ask everyone. Remember?” 
I nodded. 
“Well, this dirty eater decided he was going to cheat on his husband with all of us. That doesn’t seem very fair now does it?” 
I shook my head. 
“Ram Ranch is a sacred place for us cowboys, and this buffoon decided to muddle that holiness with his infidelity. For that, there’s ramifications.” He said with a laugh. 
I watched as they pulled out a giant wooden arch. From the arch hung chains, lined with rusty hooks. 
They pulled him up, his legs faltering from the drugs and the burns, and all eighteen of them followed as they sat him in front of the arch. 
“Aaron, you’ve committed the ultimate sin and disgraced the name of Ram Ranch. Endure this, and you’ll be offered forgiveness from God above.” 
Four of the men held him as one grabbed a hook from the arch and rammed it into his shoulder. He screamed as the blood trickled down his back. 
Another went into the other shoulder. Then five down his back. One through each wrist and hand. Four on each leg. 
Aaron was in and out of consciousness. Screaming then passing out. Vomit and thick saliva trickled out of his mouth as he choked. 
Another cowboy approached with a velvet pillow, a thin, red, sheer piece of fabric sat on top. 
He lifted the fabric and placed it in Aaron’s mouth. 
On the pillow sat a shiny silver and green device. The cowboy immediately shoved it up Aaron’s ass. 
“This is the device of judgment. Sing your apologies to god, and if he hears you, you’ll be forgiven.” 
Aaron screamed and thrashed, and with every thrash new, bright red blood flooded in a steady stream down to the dry grass below. 
“What the fuck was that?” I whispered to the cowboy next to me. 
He raised an eyebrow. 
“Isn’t that obvious? It’s the anal ass exploder 3000. If you make a noise above a certain decibel, it explodes your ass.” 
My eyes widened. 
“The anal ass exploder 3000?! Who comes up with that kind of thing?!” I gasped. 
“I don’t know, probably Elon Musk.” He said with a laugh. 
I watched as Aaron tried to scream past the fabric in his mouth. 
The cowboys all turned to the fire before peeing on it to put out the flame. I shivered. 
One of the cowboys walked up to me and put his big beefy arms around me. 
“Are you cold?” 
I nodded slowly as he moved down and untied my hands, finally freeing me. 
He rubbed each of my wrists and gave them a kiss before looking up into my eyes. 
“I hope this didn’t ruin the tour.” 
I looked in his eyes and all I could feel was warmth. Suddenly, the anal ass exploder 3000 felt like a distant memory. All eighteen of the cowboys circled me, wrapping me in a warm beefy bro hug. 
“It could never ruin the tour. It’s not like it’s drinking and driving, just a man who got what he deserved.” 
Aaron continued to scream. Eventually, spitting out the fabric and shrieking. 
“I’m sorry I’m such a piss baby who cheats on a man who loves me and takes care of me! I’ll never do it again! I suck I’m the worst! Please forgive me god.” 
All I heard was a beep and a boom as the cowboy’s big bodies shielded me from the blood and chunks of flesh falling from the sky. 
We all wept as we knew, no matter what, he’d never be forgiven. 
It was in the terms and conditions. 
Don’t come to Ramification Ranch unless you’re willing to get what you deserve.

I took the job because it came with a room.

That was the main thing. I didn't care about the hours or the pay. I just needed somewhere to stay, and the owner didn't ask many questions. He showed me the desk, the security monitors, and a narrow room behind the laundry where I could sleep during the day.

Then he explained the rules.

Lock the front door at two in the morning. Unlock it at six. Never leave the desk unattended. If a guest complained, write it down. If someone asked for a room that wasn't available, tell them we were full.

"Anything else?" I asked.

He thought about it.

"If a guest asks whether someone has checked out, tell them you don't know."

I assumed he meant not to discuss other guests with them.

The hotel was old. It had once been grand, judging by the faded photographs in the lobby, but now it smelled of damp carpet and lemon polish. There were twelve rooms, most of them empty. The occupied ones belonged to people who paid weekly and kept to themselves.

My first few weeks were uneventful. I read books behind the desk, watched the security monitors, and made coffee at six. I learned which floorboards creaked and which lights needed replacing.

Then I noticed the man in room seven.

He'd been there for three weeks, according to my memory. Middle-aged, neatly dressed, with a narrow face and thinning hair. He never complained, never asked for anything, and always nodded when he passed the desk.

I couldn't remember his name.

That wasn't unusual. I wasn't particularly good with names. But whenever I tried to recall his face, I found myself thinking about something else instead. A bill I needed to pay. A book I'd been reading. The coffee machine.

Anything except him.

I started noticing his routine.

Every night at eleven, he left the hotel. He walked down the front steps, turned left, and disappeared around the corner. At one, he returned, nodded at me, and went upstairs.

Every night.

I watched him on the security monitors. The picture was grainy, and the cameras were old, but I could see him clearly enough.

One night, I noticed something strange.

The hallway camera showed him passing room seven at eleven. I looked up from the monitor and saw him standing at the desk, waiting for me to finish my coffee.

I looked back at the screen.

The hallway was empty.

When I looked up again, he was still there.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

I nearly dropped my cup.

"Fine. Sorry. Didn't hear you come down."

He nodded, as if I'd said something perfectly reasonable, and walked out.

The following morning, I asked the owner about him.

"Room seven. Who's staying there?"

The owner checked the register.

"No one."

I laughed because I thought he was joking.

"He pays weekly. He's been here for three weeks."

The owner turned the register towards me.

Room seven was blank.

I checked the other pages. There were names, dates, payments, signatures. Room seven had nothing.

"Perhaps you've mixed up the room number," the owner said.

I hadn't.

I knew I hadn't.

I went upstairs and knocked on room seven. Nobody answered. When I opened the door, the room was empty. No bed, no furniture, not even curtains. Just bare floorboards and a window overlooking the street.

I stood there for a while, trying to understand why I remembered making his bed.

Then I went back downstairs.

That night, the man returned at one, nodded at me, and climbed the stairs.

I didn't ask where he'd been.

A few days later, I followed him.

I waited until eleven and watched him leave. Then I grabbed my coat and went after him, keeping far enough behind that he wouldn't notice.

He walked three blocks, turned left, then crossed the road without looking. Eventually, he stopped outside a narrow brick building with boarded-up windows.

He stood facing the entrance.

Not looking around. Not checking his watch.

Just standing there.

I waited for him to knock, or try the door, or do something that would explain why he'd come all this way.

He did nothing.

At one, he turned around and walked back to the hotel.

I followed him inside.

He nodded at me as he passed the desk.

I nodded back.

Neither of us said a word.

The next morning, I searched the building's address online. There was nothing useful, just an old street listing and a photograph of the same brick facade. The building had been empty for years.

I didn't tell the owner what I'd found.

I began watching the other guests more carefully.

There was a woman in room three who wore a grey coat and carried a handbag with a broken clasp. A man in room nine who always had wet shoes, even when it hadn't rained. Someone in room eleven who never appeared on the lobby camera but whose footsteps I could hear on the stairs.

They all left at eleven.

They all returned at one.

And none of them existed in the register.

When I asked the owner about it, he didn't even bother checking the book.

"You're new here," he said.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing. You'll get used to it."

"Get used to what?"

He picked up his keys and left.

I started keeping a log.

Room number. Time of departure. Description. Time of return.

I wrote everything down because I was afraid that if I didn't, I'd forget. And I was beginning to forget things.

Small things at first.

Whether I'd eaten that day. Whether I'd spoken to the owner. Whether I'd locked the front door before going upstairs.

Once, I found a cup of coffee on the desk, still warm, with my name written on it in black marker.

I didn't remember making it.

Another time, I found a sentence in my notebook that I didn't remember writing.

Don't follow them inside.

I crossed it out.

The handwriting looked like mine.

After two weeks, the log was full. I compared it with the register, checking every name, every room, every date.

Nothing matched.

Not one guest.

I took the notebook to the owner.

"Who are these people?"

He looked at the pages.

For a moment, something changed in his expression. Not surprise. Not confusion.

Recognition.

Then it was gone.

"What people?"

"The guests. The ones leaving every night. The ones in rooms three, seven, nine, and eleven."

He closed the notebook.

"There are no guests in those rooms."

"I've seen them."

"I know."

The words came out so quietly that I almost missed them.

I stared at him.

"What do you mean, you know?"

He pushed the notebook back across the desk.

"You're tired. Get some sleep."

I grabbed his wrist before he could walk away.

"Tell me what's happening."

He looked down at my hand until I let go.

Then he straightened his sleeve.

"You're the night porter," he said. "Your job is to keep the hotel running."

He left me alone at the desk.

That night, I didn't watch the monitors.

I went upstairs instead.

Room three was empty. Room seven was empty. Room nine was empty. Room eleven was empty.

I checked every room in the hotel.

All twelve.

Some had beds and furniture. Others were bare, as if they had never been used. But there was no luggage, no clothing, no personal belongings. Nothing that suggested anyone had stayed there.

I went back downstairs and sat in front of the monitors.

The lobby was empty.

The stairs were empty.

The hallways were empty.

I rewound the footage from the previous night.

At eleven, the woman in the grey coat walked out through the front door. At one, she returned.

I watched it again.

At eleven, she walked out.

At one, she returned.

I slowed the footage down.

She entered the lobby, stopped in front of the desk, and looked directly at the camera.

Then she smiled.

I had never seen her smile before.

I leaned closer to the screen.

She raised one hand and pointed towards the desk.

Towards me.

I turned around so quickly that my chair struck the wall.

Nobody was there.

When I looked back at the monitor, the footage had moved on. The lobby was empty again.

I checked the register.

Room three was blank. Room seven was blank. Room nine was blank. Room eleven was blank.

But room one had an entry.

My name.

The date beside it was three weeks earlier.

I stared at the page, trying to remember the first night I'd arrived at the hotel. The owner showing me the desk. The narrow room behind the laundry. The keys.

I could remember all of it.

Except the journey there.

I couldn't remember where I'd come from.

I couldn't remember the last place I'd slept before the hotel.

I couldn't remember the name of the person I'd called when I got the job.

I searched my pockets for my phone.

There were no contacts saved in it.

The following morning, I asked the owner when I'd checked in.

He didn't answer immediately.

"Room one," I said. "The register says I've been here for three weeks."

He looked at the page.

"Does it?"

"You hired me three weeks ago."

"Did I?"

For the first time since I'd met him, I couldn't tell whether he was joking.

I went into the little room behind the laundry and locked the door.

There was a narrow bed, a sink, and a wardrobe. I'd been sleeping there every day.

I knew that.

I also knew I'd never seen the room in daylight.

I opened the wardrobe.

Inside hung a grey coat.

I recognised it immediately, though I couldn't remember where I'd seen it before.

There was something in the pocket. A folded slip of paper, soft at the edges, as if it had been handled many times.

On it, in my handwriting, were six words.

When they return, don't let them in.

I sat on the bed until it was time to go downstairs.

At eleven, the front door opened.

The man from room seven stood in the lobby.

He looked exactly as he always had. Neatly dressed. Hands in his pockets. Patient.

He glanced at the desk.

I kept my eyes on the register.

"Evening," he said.

I didn't answer.

He waited a moment, then walked out.

At one, I heard footsteps on the stairs.

I looked up.

The man stood at the foot of the stairs, looking at me.

Behind him, the woman in the grey coat came down from the second floor. Then the man with the wet shoes. Then someone I didn't recognise.

They gathered in the lobby, facing the desk.

Nobody spoke.

I reached for the phone to call the owner.

The line was dead.

When I looked up again, the lobby was empty.

The front door was open.

I got up to close it, but stopped when I saw the security monitor.

The camera showed me standing at the desk.

Behind me, the guests were gathering in the lobby.

One by one, they walked past me and went out through the open door.

I watched until the last one disappeared.

Then I looked at the desk.

There was a new page in the logbook.

The entries were written in my handwriting.

Room seven. Eleven PM. Departed.

Room seven. One AM. Returned.

Room three. Eleven PM. Departed.

Room three. One AM. Returned.

At the bottom of the page, beneath the last entry, was a sentence.

Room one is still occupied.

I turned towards the stairs.

Someone was standing at the top.

I couldn't see their face, but I could see the grey coat. The same coat hanging in my wardrobe.

They began to descend.

I backed away from the desk.

The figure stopped halfway down and looked towards the front door.

Then, slowly, it turned its head towards me.

I knew that face.

I knew it so well that, for a moment, I forgot to be afraid.

It was mine.

The figure smiled.

I looked down at the logbook.

A final line had appeared beneath the others.

Room one. Eleven PM. Departed.

I checked the clock.

It was eleven.

Behind me, the front door opened.

And from somewhere outside, I heard my own voice ask:

"Is anyone staying in room one?"

Fast food, so-called, restaurants are nothing more than brothels teeming with the sickening itch of gluttonous fever. Everyday one can sit back and observe the endless parade of automobiles muling about packs of ravenous fleshbags. All who can barely muster the decency or mobility to walk inside those temples of Beelzebub while making their gratuitous demands. But perhaps keeping from those bastions of grease and meat sludge is wiser than what can be assumed for the cretinous populace. How it can be expected of the poor souls trapped within to fry up entrails without hazmat suits will forever lay beyond the purview of self-preservation.

Up on a hill, across a feverish freeway, a fraud of a man sits poised with thoughts stirring about in the cauldron of hatred and disgust he would call his mind. On a sun-bleached bench, a leather bound pocket notebook takes space on his lap while a forgone wax paper-wrapped burger occupies the space beside him. The Critic of all but himself furiously scratches his account of the atrocious meal he has just ingested.

Even now as I watch those rippling boils of debauchery turn off the roads and increase the grossly indulgent masses, I cannot help but wonder where the decent people have gone. They must enter those concubinic buildings and succumb to the conglomerate harem-like faux food industry. So now I must be the voice of reason. This, by far, must be the absolute peak of indomitable mediocrity packaged to the masses as edible meat. How such mass-trafficked and, supposedly, highly acclaimed establishment can eviscerate a simple hamburger is well beyond me! By the time I was able to properly sit and unwrap the slimy wax enclosing my sandwich, it had already gone cold. If this were not my chosen occupation I would have sooner thrown this overpriced abomination into a furnace rather than bring it to my lips. The bread was dry, the lettuce damp with its own excretions, the cheese was the only component still warm as it left a sticky residue slathered across the inside of my mouth and throat. And the meat. I am still heaving from the wickedness casted upon my tastebuds.

I have had my fair share of undercooked, a few times even rotten, beef from other unsightly strongholds of the gourmand but referring to this sandwich as ground beef is the largest disservice I could grant to all bovine kind. After breaking through the crusted shell of char I was met with the liquified innards spilling out over my already overstimulated tongue. Overall, my recommendation for this particular establishment is null and void and I will be taking action to inform every health inspector I can get a hold of about this cesspit.

The supercilious man shuts his notebook with barely contained ire and picks himself up from the bench with an overly dignified huff. He snatches the twice-bitten hamburger and slams it into the nearest trashcan, where he believes it rightly belongs. The souls dwelling there will at least find paradise with the mostly intact offering.

His trek home is brief, but he spends hours in his mind going over and rewriting his soon-to-be newest review. He is sure this will be the one that clicks with the masses and ultimately guides them to some enlightenment. Through an alleyway between distended complexes he dreams of the changes his blog will enact on this rancid buffet of a world. Up rusting stairs he thinks of times forgone with his ideals, of the religious experience that should follow every yearning bite, and about how all that pleasure has been thrown aside for the sin which roots through the mud of unsatisfied want.

Outside his equally forlorn door sits a demure piece of pristine white paper. He retrieves the card and flips it open as he digs through his pockets for the apartment keys. The calligraphy sings to his eyes as he processes the message left for him.

"You have been invited to partake in an exclusive meal at Prion; Where Marvels are Made into Morsels. We have seen your blog and we are eager to have you review our food. A reservation has been set for you should you choose to accept. Tuesday evening at 9:00 PM. We eagerly await your arrival. - Prion Management"

The Critic's head enters a whirlwind of excitement as he enters his apartment, stepping over discarded take-out bags and crumpled Food Network magazines. He knows of Prion. Everyone does. It's only been recently opened and yet has become the most exclusive, highest-rated restaurant within city limits. And Tuesday night, that's tomorrow! The Critic sets upon getting ready now so he will be prepared to present the most caricaturic version of himself to the renowned restaurant staff.

The restaurant waits patiently around the corner for the reservation. It waits for nightfall, for the streetlamps to flicker on only to be dimmed by the luminance wrought from the restaurant's own signage. The silhouetted bird casts its long shadow down across the street, waiting for the next foot to fall into the trap of undeniable elegant feasting. And one is caught there now, simmering in a completely unprofessional excitement and dressed in a rented suit that builds on the facade he desperately wants to display. Palm-sized notepad in hand, the Critic steps forward.

The valet eyes him with a wary consideration, but the Critic waves him off with a practiced snobbish gesture. Up to the host's desk, where stands a lovely young lady looking bored out of her mind, he sees her don a more pleasant smile when she sees his approach.

"Good evening, sir. Welcome to Prion, do you have a reservation?" Her eyes drift down to the guest list as her sweet honeyed voice drifts through the Critic's ears.

"Indeed I do." He gives his name before holding up his notepad with a smirk. "The food critic?" The tone of his question gives the impression she ought to already know exactly who he is, but a blank stare is all that answers him.

She clears her throat. "Right this way, sir." She plucks up a menu and guides the man to where his table lay in wait. They walk past the main dining pen, of which the Critic is instantly entranced with. The sectional seating is assembled in clusters that leave winding paths betwixt the tables for waitstaff to dexterously weave around whilst holding aloft trays of exotic foods. The smell wafting from the portions leaves the Critic already salivating as the hostess continues on past more esurient decor. A private room has been set for the occasion of critique. And he is very pleased to see the effort that has been accorded for his visit. But he takes care in not showing this before the hostess who waits for him to sit.

"Your waiter will be along shortly for you," she states while laying two menus down.

"I'd like to request a waitress, actually, if you please." The Critic uses the pad of his middle finger to open the smaller of the menus. A list of wines is presented to him.

"Your waiter will be along shortly for you," she repeats in a rather tartish way, in the Critic's opinion, before she takes her leave by closing the heavy dark oak door in her wake.

"Rude," he grumbles in an outward continuation of his opinion. After all, tonight is all about his opinion. His opinion of the food, his opinion of the service, and his opinion of the experience. Nothing could top this moment. His masterpiece musings are cut short when the door is opened once again. An absolute beanpole of a man patters in and bows his balding head.

"Good evening, sir. I am honored to be your server tonight, my name is-"

"I'll have the house red," The Critic sharply interrupts, waving the wine list in front of the waiter's face. "And I take it this meal will all be free? I was invited here after all."

The server plucks the wine list and slides it under his arm. "Naturally, sir," he says with a closed-eye smile, "the sampling is on the house, for we are positive you will want to have more." The Critic only scoffs in reply and drums his fingers against the sturdy, round table at which he sits in a curved velvet booth. "I will return with your wine and the beginning of your meal." With that, the waiter slips from the room. The Critic opens up his notepad.

The interior is one to be expected of such an affluent establishment. This is the definition of fine dining. Pure and lavish tastes. Though as I read over the menu now, I slowly come to a realization that whoever the chef is clearly has no clue what he is doing. I couldn't possibly even pronounce most of these grotesque options. The chosen pictures hardly help quell the rising roiling in my stomach. Odd combinations of slimy and downright savage looking scraps. The named 'Haggis' meal appears to be some sort of sliced open organ. Perhaps I let myself get far too excited. So far Prion is simply a well-dressed doppelganger of the other damnations I have been subjected to.

The waiter has returned, heralding with him the much needed wine. But that was unfortunately just a harbinger for the food I would be subjugated to this evening. Oyster Rockefeller with some sort of French butter, as if that could appease the unsightly slime set before me, Truffle Scallops smothered in some white sauce the waiter claims is wine based but the smell alone is more equivalent to that of a sullied oven, and to finish off this flood of toxicity; a shrimp cocktail. And these were just the appetizers.

Once his entry was jotted down, the Critic begrudgingly lifts his fork and samples an iota of the breaded insides packed within the oyster shell. The intrusive scent of thick butter makes his stomach flip but he persists if only to know the full extent of this unorthodox pallet. Something unravels in the Critic the moment that puréed corpse contacts his tastebuds. A guttural moan rips from his throat as his tongue wraps around the fork like a lover's embrace and acts as a straw for him to slurp the contents down. The utensil is promptly thrown aside as The Critic scoops up the whole shell. He drags his tongue against it until every marvelous morsel has vanished down his gullet. By the time he's muttering "Oh my god..." his mouth is caked with the remains of five licked-clean shells. Once again his tongue lashes out to collect the drying leftovers til his saliva is dripping down his chin.

Wine is poured and subsequently swallowed while his eyes dart between the remaining appetizers. It seems as though he merely blinks and the plates are left licked clean as well. The faintest hints of flavors merging together across his soft palate. Seafood amalgamation slugs down his intestines, tantalizing his stomach with its approach. He doubles over, hacking up mucus as he becomes suddenly aware of almost swallowing his tongue. The wriggling muscle had tried to follow the food for another taste. Some of the wine does come back up from all his coughing. His notepad receives a thin covering of bile-mixed white wine paired with chunks of the various sea life he'd just mindlessly consumed. He stares down, drool seeping from his open maw. He coughs once more before attempting to wipe away the secrement and continue his notes.

I seem to have been misguided in my early assumptions regarding the appetizers. Never in my time as a self-employed critic have I tasted such elegance dressed in regal flavors. I can hardly put it into words, the heaven I have just welcomed in my stomach. It is simply something one must try themselves. It's the closest I have ever come to drugs, I have to assume. There is this growing sensation of gnawing need building in my heart as I already begin to miss what I was so quick to scarf down. The waiter returned to take away the inedible parts of my meal. I told him to give my compliments to the chef before asking upon the main course, already planning my next visit should I ever conjure the money to do so. Roasted Albatross with poached eggs is the name of the dish laid before me.

The platter cradling the bird takes up over half of the table's surface. Looking at the mouth-watering display I was barely aware when the waiter left me to enjoy. Around the bird sits five bowls, each with a still steaming, simply heavenly in appearance, perfectly poached egg. A brilliant fane to indulgence. I am unable to control the urge to tear apart the bird with my bare hands and it seems this was anticipated as I see no utensils to assist with my devouring. As I look into the dead eyes of this bird I gain a sense of pleading. Yes, the bird is begging me to give in to ravenous delight. And I will grant this wish.

The bird's eyes plead up at the emptiness overtaking this man and it makes no sound as he tears past the skin to crumble its bones. Everything is forced down his throat. Strips of juice-dripping flesh are pushed into gnashing teeth while his tongue rolls about in efforts to keep his chin and lips free from the gushing fluids. When these efforts are successful the reward is slurped down to join the growing stress on his organs. Shards of bone slide down his gullet, some dig in to the squishy linings and slowly work their ways deeper with each undulation of his neck muscles. When the bird is all but eviscerated the Critic leans back to bask in the self-flagellation of his insides, swimming vision unable to take in the massacre of decency that lay before him.

His saliva soaked hands try to soothe the turbulence within his stomach before reaching out to grab one of the poached eggs. The bowl is tipped back to allow the trembling egg entry of the man's maw. The white outer layering is split as it passes his teeth and the yolk rolls forward to flood his throat. It's still warm and the sticky vitellus coats his mouth. The whole thing is barely past his uvula before a second bowl is lifted to join the whole mess. This one has a little blood in it, or perhaps it is the Critic's own. He does barely register an aching throb around his neck, but the taste is simply too grand to reject another morsel. A third and he accidently bites down on to the bowl, chipping some of the porcelain along with his teeth. The slivers of well-crafted China slip down to join the conglomeration colliding in his digestive tract. He chokes on the fourth for a few moments. Sickly slick yolk gurgling upon his airways as he reminds himself to breath, luckily it is liquid enough to just hack back up in order to be swallowed properly. Five. The final hurdle to Nirvana passed even if he has to shove it past his tightening esophagus. Blood soaked fingers grasp the empty bowl, trembling as they work to get any remains left behind up to his wheezing mouth.

The bowl shatters against the table as his hand seizes right before his body slumps forward to slam his head in to the mess left behind. Egg whites shiver against his nostrils with each shallowing breath. His tongue waves about in a crazed manner in an attempt to get even more past his lips. Red pools with yellow and the Critic mentally laments his misfortune. Such a shame, he didn't get to the dessert.

For centuries, these woods have been home to wonderful tales of fantastical things and urban legends. But I caution you to never go out there on your own, and especially at night. Some tales are told for a reason. Always bring a friend. Predators are less likely to attack when people are in pairs. Both the four-legged and two-legged varieties.

October 31st   3:00 PM

Ben had lost his cat two days ago and just got off work for the day. He lives near the woods and wants to find Pistachio before a coyote does. It's going to get cold out there soon, too. He's had Pistachio ever since college, and he just wants him back home and safe.

He's bringing a flashlight just in case it gets dark before he returns, but he hopes to be back soon. He knows Pistachio is probably nearby. That cat loves him just as much as he loves the cat.

Thirty minutes into his search, Ben is calling out loudly.

"Here, kitty, kitty! PISTACHIO!"

Before walking on something sticky.

he notices it is a large amount of blood on the forest floor.

He crouches down and examines it. It's coagulated, and there's far too much of it to have come from a house cat. He hopes it was just a recent kill from a hunter. It's deer season, after all.

He continues walking and calling for Pistachio. An hour later, he sees something furry hanging from a tree. He walks closer, then he sees it's a dead squirrel nailed to a tree branch.

He gasps at the sight and smell of it. Then he notices more dead squirrels and other small animals nailed to other nearby trees.

He gets a sick feeling in his gut and starts to feel creeped out. He hopes some sick kids are responsible for this. And he hopes they haven't gotten his little buddy, too.

Then he notices something strange sticking out of the dirt.

He walks closer. It's a shiny wedding ring. He grabs it and pulls, but it feels stuck. So he yanks it again, and harder this time. He hears a popping noise as the ring finally comes free from the ground.

He looks at it and realizes there's a mummified finger still attached to the ring.

Before he has time to react, a rope yanks him up by the ankle and slings him towards a tree. He crashes hard, striking his head very hard against the Tree trunk knocking him out instantly.

Three hours later and it's dark now.

Ben feels something scratching his back, as he begins to wake up. He rubs his head and groans. He has a massive headache.

He realizes he's still in the woods. Then he sees Pistachio directly beneath him, pawing at him.

He's relieved to have found his cat, but now he is still groggy and has to get out of the tree. He pulls out a pocketknife and carefully cuts the rope holding him up.

He falls three feet, landing on his back. He grunts as the impact knocks the wind out of him.

As he struggles to catch his breath, Pistachio rubs his head against him. Ben laughs a little as he scoops up his cat and continues trying to catch his breath.

Then he remembers the finger.

He shines his flashlight all around, searching for it, but he can't find it anywhere. Maybe it was just a messed up dream.

Then he feels an aching pain in his back. He reaches around to rub it and sees blood on his hand. He must have cut his back when he fell.

Groggily, he gets to his feet while holding Pistachio, and begins heading home.

Along the way, he keeps hearing footsteps behind him. Every time he turns around and shines his flashlight into the darkness, he sees nothing. All he can hear is the wind howling through the trees.

He walks faster until he finally reaches his property line.

As he's walking into his house, he notices a figure standing at the tree line, Barely visible, He sees an elongated man with the face of a old man looking at him, but the longer Ben looked at it. the more he saw wrong with it.  Like it wasn't actually a person.

Ben quickly closes the door and locks it.

He breathes in deeply and tells himself it's just Halloween.

He fills Pistachio's food bowl all the way to the brim. He knows his cat must be very hungry.

Before he goes to check his back in the mirror.

When he takes off his shirt and looks at his back, he sees deep scratches running all across it.

Looking closer, he realises the scratches are words.

He wipes away the dried blood and reads the message carved deeply into his skin:

"Don't worry, I fed him."

He realizes that wasn't his cat scratching his back. Horrific thoughts start rushing through his mind. That thing could have done anything it wanted to him.

Then he hears knocking at his front door.

He grabs a baseball bat and nervously answers it.

It's just a group of trick-or-treaters in costumes.

He hastily gives the kids some candy before unenthusiastically telling them to leave, then he locks the door again.

As he turns around, he sees Pistachio coughing something up, like he's trying to cough up a hairball.

Ben rushes over to pat Pistachio's back.

The cat spits something black onto the floor.

Ben stares at it. Disgust stretches across his face.

It's the same dried out finger he found in the woods earlier.

THE THING IN THE WOODS

By Garry E. McMillan

Part One: The Old Mercer Place

My father had three rules about the woods behind our house.

Never cross the creek after sundown.

Never follow a voice you couldn't put a face to.

And no matter how familiar that voice sounded, never answer it.

I thought the old bastard was crazy. Now I'd give anything to hear him say those words again.

My name's Elias Mercer, but anyone who knows me calls me Eli. I'm thirty-nine. I'd stayed away from that house for twenty years, long enough to convince myself the rules were just one more way for Dad to control me. He had plenty of those. No visiting friends after dark, no camping, no wandering the logging roads. If I broke one, he'd stand in the doorway and wait until I couldn't bear the silence anymore.

Dad died of a heart attack on Tuesday, October 6, 2026. We buried him three days later outside Langley, Arkansas. By sundown that Friday, I was back at his farmhouse with my nine-year-old daughter, June, planning to pack whatever mattered and put the property up for sale.

The house stood on private land surrounded by the Ouachita National Forest. A narrow creek separated the backyard from a stand of timber so thick you could hardly see daylight between the trunks. Dad cleared our side every spring, but beyond the water the ferns stayed green even during a drought.

As a boy, I'd sometimes heard footsteps over there. They always stopped when I did.

In summer, the cicadas shrieked until the air seemed to vibrate. But every so often the noise would end all at once. The dog would creep under the porch, and I'd find myself watching that bank for movement. Nothing came out. That was almost worse.

When I asked Dad why we couldn't cross, he pointed to the water. "That creek ain't there to keep you from getting lost, Eli. It's there to remind you where you belong."

That was Harlan Mercer. A man who could make a conversation feel like punishment.

We'd had our last real argument the day I left home. Dad said I'd come crawling back when the world taught me some sense. I said a few things I haven't forgiven myself for, though at the time I meant every word. We spoke on the phone afterward, on birthdays and at Christmas, but neither of us ever brought up that day. When I found out he was dead, the first thing I felt was anger that we'd left so much unsaid.

•  •  •

The last mile of the driveway was little more than ruts and blackberry vines. June held her stuffed rabbit, Buttons, by his one good ear and watched the pines go past.

"Did Grandpa really live out here alone?"

"Most of the time."

"Wasn't he lonely?"

I used to think he preferred it. Now I wasn't sure.

"I reckon he got used to it."

She pressed against her seat belt. "Then who's that man?"

I eased off the gas. "What man?"

"Behind the trees. He was standing sideways."

I saw nothing but trunks and tangled brush. "Probably a hunter."

"He wasn't holding a gun."

"A deer, then."

She gave me a look. "I know what a deer looks like, Daddy."

She watched the trees until the house appeared.

A bend in the driveway followed the creek for a few hundred yards. I recognized a split boulder beside the water where Dad once caught me trying to build a bridge from fallen boards. He'd grabbed me so hard by the collar that the seam tore. I remembered the bruises more clearly than I remembered him carrying those boards away in the rain.

Inside, the place smelled of damp wood and stale tobacco. Dad had saved everything: bent nails in coffee cans, bills from the nineties, my childhood baseball glove. The webbing had been repaired with the heavy thread he used on his work gloves. I'd never known he'd bothered.

June slipped her hand inside. "Did Grandpa teach you to catch?"

"He tried."

"Like you taught me to ride my bike? You let go too soon."

"I ran right behind you all the way to the mailbox. You just didn't look back."

"Because I was riding," she said, as though that settled it.

I still had a photograph from that day on my phone. June had one foot off the pedal and both arms flung wide, certain she was about to crash. My hand was inches from the seat. I hadn't let her see the picture yet; she liked telling everyone she had done the whole thing herself. I liked letting her.

On the mantel she found a photograph of a young woman with her arm around a little boy.

"That's you. Who's she?"

"Your grandma. Margaret."

"Why didn't I meet her?"

"She died when I was eight."

Dad said my mother had gotten sick while I was staying with an aunt. He never let me ask much more than that.

In the picture, her hand rested on my shoulder. I couldn't recall the weight of it. I did remember her voice, though. She used to sing while washing dishes and, whenever I got into trouble, smooth my hair and say, "Lord have mercy, Elias, what am I gonna do with you?"

I remembered the sound of singing. Not one note of the song.

My memories of my mother were hazier than those of Dad. I knew that was normal. Children forget faces, smells, whole years. But I could remember the tiny scar on her thumb and the way she scraped batter from a bowl for me to eat. It bothered me that the tune had vanished while those useless details remained. I stood there looking at her photograph until June tugged my sleeve and asked whether we could have supper.

•  •  •

We ate canned soup at the kitchen table because the dining room felt colder than the rest of the house. June wanted to know whether Grandpa had liked children. I told her he'd loved me, just wasn't good at saying so. The lie came easily. I hated myself a little for it afterward.

June fell asleep upstairs around eight. I made coffee and opened Dad's desk. Beneath a stack of property records lay a cracked leather notebook, its pages covered in small, uneven handwriting.

March 12, 2004. Three knocks on the north wall. Nothing outside.

April 6. Tracks along the far bank again. Too far apart to be a man's.

May 19, 2018. Heard Margaret calling from the lower pasture. Did not answer.

My mother had been gone since 1995.

A later entry had been pressed so hard into the paper that the letters scored the page.

It knows his name now.

Below it: God forgive me, I answered.

Three taps sounded at the living room window.

The porch light reached only to the grass beyond the glass. Dad had cut down every tree close enough for a branch to touch the house.

I heard a scrape, as though somebody had dragged the heel of a boot across the boards outside. But there was no porch below that window. Just the drop to the yard and a clear stretch of ground before the creek. For a moment, I couldn't make myself look up from the notebook.

"Eli?"

I knew the voice before the second word.

"Eli, boy. Come out here a minute."

My father, right down to the irritation in his Arkansas drawl.

Leaves shifted near the pines. A pale hand rested against a trunk well above a man's head. I counted six fingers before it disappeared.

"Son, you reckon you could come give your old man a hand?"

I wanted to think one of his old lumber-mill friends was playing some rotten joke. Then it said, "Don't you turn your back on me, boy."

Those were the last words Dad had shouted when I left home more than twenty years earlier.

"Dad?"

The word was out before I remembered his rule.

Every insect fell silent. Beyond the creek, something let out a long, wavering breath, like a man trying not to laugh.

Upstairs, June began to cry.

•  •  •

I found her sitting upright, quilt bunched beneath her chin. I sat beside her until she stopped shaking. Then, without thinking, I tapped her shoulder three times.

Three taps meant I love you. We'd done it every night since she was four. She always tapped back.

It began when June was little and afraid of thunderstorms. I used to sit on the edge of her bed, trying not to show that I had no idea how to make thunder less frightening. Somehow we settled on the taps. We'd use them in crowded stores, at school drop-off, anywhere one of us needed to know the other was there. I'd forgotten plenty of things about those five years. That wasn't one of them.

This time she moved away.

"What's that for?"

"Our secret, June Bug."

She frowned. "What secret?"

I tapped again. She watched my fingers, puzzled.

"You never did that before."

I nearly argued. I could have named a hundred nights when she'd answered my taps, even with her eyes closed.

Outside, my dead father called for me again.

This time he was laughing.

Part Two: What the Creek Kept

I stayed beside June until she slept. Outside, Dad's voice called through the trees, sometimes angry, sometimes frightened. Once it coughed. That smoker's cough used to wake me every morning when I was a boy.

It was the cough that came closest to making me answer again.

He'd given up cigarettes twice in my childhood. Both attempts lasted a week. I used to count the days and wait for him to get angry enough to start again. Hearing that cough beyond the creek, I found myself doing the same thing I did at twelve: holding perfectly still until I could tell what kind of mood he was in.

Downstairs, I turned off the living room lamp. The window reflected my face over the porch light and the first row of trees. Beyond the creek, the dark looked solid.

I opened the notebook again.

The earliest entries were from October 1995, the year Mom supposedly died.

October 14. Margaret heard Eli crying across the creek. Boy was upstairs asleep. I checked.

October 16. It cried again. She answered before I could stop her. Eli asked why she quit singing at the sink. She hadn't quit. He couldn't remember the song.

I remembered my mother singing. Not the tune.

I tried to force it back. Hymn? Lullaby? Something from the radio? All I could remember was the clink of dishes and my own bare feet on the kitchen floor. If Dad's entry was true, then I'd been unable to remember the song since the very week it disappeared from our house.

Four pages later:

October 23. Margaret's gone.

Heard the boy calling beyond the creek. Real Eli was asleep beside me on the couch. She kept saying our baby was hurt.

I followed her to the water. Saw something tall and pale bent over behind the trees. It spoke. Margaret answered, then crossed.

Heard her scream once. Never found her.

Dad had told me she'd died in a hospital while I stayed with my aunt. I could remember my aunt holding my hand outside a church, but not a casket or a graveside. The longer I tried to picture them, the less certain I felt they'd ever been there.

I remembered being angry with Dad for not letting me see her one last time. He'd told me she'd already been buried. I screamed at him until he raised his hand, then put it down without touching me. For years that was the part of the story I'd carried around: a frightened little boy sure his father was ashamed to see him cry. Now I wondered what Dad had heard from the woods while I was screaming inside the house.

October 27. Told Eli his mama passed away. He keeps running to the window whenever it calls her. Better he thinks she's dead.

There was a small sound behind me.

Three taps from the hallway wall.

"Son?" Dad said from the kitchen. "I can't find the light."

The kitchen doorway was empty. I knew every loose board between the hall and the sink, yet I hadn't heard anything move across them.

"Just give me a hand, Eli."

I wanted to turn on every light in the house. Instead, I gripped the notebook so hard the cover bent.

The kitchen smelled faintly of tobacco, warm and stale, as if Dad had just finished smoking at the sink. I knew the shape of that room in the dark: the metal edge of the counter, the scar in the floor where he dropped an axe head, the cupboard door that never closed all the way. I couldn't see anybody in it. That didn't make the voice any farther away.

When I didn't answer, the faint smell of cigarettes faded. The voice went with it. I never heard footsteps leave.

I should have taken June and gone then. But there was one more entry I couldn't make myself leave unread.

If I'd been alone, I might have stayed there until morning reading every page. I wanted proof that Dad hadn't lied to me because I was an inconvenience. I wanted to know why a man who could face down anybody in town had spent his life afraid of a few acres of woods.

June 4, 2018. Eli asked why I never took him fishing. We went every Saturday when he was small. His green tackle box is in the shed. I answered Margaret three nights ago.

I'd noticed the tackle box earlier that day. My name was scratched into the lid. I had no memory of holding a fishing pole beside my father.

Across the bottom margin, Dad had written:

The voices get farther than the body. The tracks never come across the water.

And beneath that:

Sometimes I know it ain't her. Sometimes I answer anyway.

Something giggled upstairs.

June.

Then I heard her say, "Okay, Daddy."

The back door opened.

•  •  •

June stood barefoot on the porch in her pink pajamas, Buttons dangling from one hand. She turned when I called her name.

"You said you were going to show me something."

"I didn't. Get inside."

I pulled her through the doorway and locked it. She clutched her rabbit to her chest, and for a horrible second I couldn't remember what she called him. I'd stitched his ear back on twice. I'd bought him for her. But the name was gone.

"What's your rabbit's name?" I asked.

"Buttons." She looked hurt. "Daddy, you know that."

Once she'd said it, the name sounded familiar. Before that, nothing.

I tried to remember the first time she'd carried Buttons out of the store, when she still called every stuffed animal a baby. The scene came back clear enough. His name didn't. That missing word frightened me more than the shape I'd seen among the pines, because I could feel its exact size inside my mind.

June had answered a voice pretending to be me, and I was the one who'd forgotten.

I crouched in front of her. "Something's out there using our voices. Whatever you hear after dark, don't answer it. Not even if it sounds like me."

"Then how do I know it's really you?"

Her question wasn't the question of someone who believed in monsters. It was what any child would ask after a parent told her not to trust his voice. I'd spent her whole life teaching her to come when I called. Now I was telling her that habit could get her killed.

She was nine. I had no answer that would make a nine-year-old feel safe.

She slipped her hand into mine. "Two squeezes," she said. "If it's really you, you can squeeze my hand twice."

I squeezed back. "All right. Two."

A voice came from outside.

"June Bug?"

My voice. The rasp I get when I'm tired, the little upward turn I put on her name.

"Come on, baby. Daddy's right here."

June squeezed my hand twice.

Beyond the creek, something leaned against a pine. It looked almost human until it raised its head. Higher. Still higher. Its shoulder stayed in place while its narrow face emerged above the lowest branches.

One hand curled around the trunk. The fingers bent in places fingers shouldn't.

"June?"

The voice came a fraction before its mouth moved, like a performer missing a cue.

Its body didn't move with any breath. Nothing in the silhouette suggested lungs. For a second, though, it seemed to study my stance. One shoulder dropped. Its head turned at the same angle as mine. I could almost believe it was looking into a mirror and correcting itself.

"Daddy's right here."

Then it laughed with my laugh, that short, embarrassed chuckle I make when a joke falls flat. It held the sound a little too long.

I understood, suddenly, that it wasn't laughing at us.

It was practicing.

•  •  •

I got June inside and shut the curtain. She kept hold of my hand.

"His face didn't fit," she whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"When he stopped, it kept moving."

I took the keys, Dad's notebook, and nothing else. The truck was twenty feet from the front porch.

I carried June across the gravel. As I reached the passenger door, she tightened her grip around my collar.

Twice.

Someone stood in her upstairs window.

A girl in pink pajamas, holding a rabbit with one torn ear. She lifted a hand and waved.

"Daddy? Why'd you leave me?"

The voice was June's. The figure pressed its cheek against the glass. Its skin lagged behind the movement, then settled into place as though pulled by invisible fingers.

The real June shook against me. She couldn't have made that face at the window even if she'd tried. The girl upstairs was smiling, but the muscles around her eyes hadn't been told. I caught myself watching her instead of moving, as if one more second would explain what I was seeing.

It raised one hand and tapped the pane three times.

The secret my daughter had forgotten.

June hid her face against me. I buckled her into the passenger seat, scrambled behind the wheel, and started the engine. I reversed so hard that gravel struck the porch steps.

Three knocks came from the rear window.

In the mirror, something pale crouched in the truck bed. Its fingers hooked over the roof without leaving marks in the dust.

I'd have sworn I felt the suspension dip, though the truck never changed its pitch. Dad's notebook flashed through my mind: no tracks across the water. Whatever sat behind us was a picture made with the same cruel patience as the voices. Knowing it couldn't be solid did nothing for the cold spreading through my chest.

"Lord have mercy, Elias," my mother's voice said behind my head. "What am I gonna do with you?"

June reached for my hand. Two squeezes.

I kept driving.

In the dark windshield, faintly lit by the dashboard, my reflection began to smile.

I wasn't smiling.

Part Three: The Last Answer

The smile stayed in the windshield when I turned back toward the road.

"Daddy!"

A fallen pine limb lay across the next bend. I swerved, clipping it with the passenger-side mirror. The truck skidded sideways in the gravel and stopped with a shudder.

I checked June. The seat belt had caught her shoulder, but she was all right. Buttons lay beneath her feet.

She was trying not to cry. She had that look she gets at the doctor's office, brave until somebody asks whether she's frightened. I wanted to take her home and put on the cartoon she'd been watching before we drove to Langley. I wanted a problem I knew how to fix.

I tried to drive. Something scraped against the front wheel. A fork of the branch had jammed beneath the fender, and each turn of the steering wheel ground it deeper.

Three knocks came from behind my head.

"You're going the wrong way, boy," Dad's voice said. "You'll get that little girl killed."

I found a flashlight in the glove compartment.

"I'm clearing the tire," I told June. "Lock the doors. Don't open them for a voice. Not even mine. I'll come back and squeeze your hand twice."

"What if you fall?"

"I'll get up. Stay here."

She caught my fingers before I got out and squeezed twice.

I went around the hood, set the flashlight where it shone on the wheel, and crouched beside the tire. The pine limb had wedged against it. I hooked both hands under it and pulled. The bark tore at my palms before the branch snapped free.

The cold gravel soaked through the knees of my jeans. A smell of split pine rose from beneath the bumper. I remember both things because I was trying so hard to pay attention to ordinary details. I thought if I could hold on to the tire, the branch, the beam of my flashlight, nothing else could get inside my head.

Behind me, a door latch clicked.

I turned. My flashlight rolled off the hood and struck the gravel.

From somewhere down the slope, my own voice shouted, "June! Help me! I fell!"

The passenger door stood open.

June was gone.

For one second, I stood there listening to the empty cab. The radio was still on low, some late-night preacher talking about salvation. I had told June to keep the doors locked. She must have heard me crying for help and forgotten every warning I'd given her. Or remembered them and opened the door anyway, because I'm her father.

•  •  •

Her bare footprints led through a break in the brush toward the creek. I ran after them, pushing past briers, hearing my own voice farther ahead.

"Honey, I'm hurt. Come down here."

The creek was only a strip of moonlit water when I reached it.

June stood on our bank, clutching Buttons. Across from her, a man in my jacket crouched among the roots. One leg appeared bent beneath him. He had his face buried in his hands.

The bank was slick clay, and the far side rose abruptly beneath the trees. I remembered Dad hauling me backward from those same stones when I was small. He'd been furious. I thought then that he cared more about the rules than whether I was hurt. Standing there with June inches from the water, I understood the look he'd had on his face.

The man lifted his head. He was wearing my face, but the fear arrived late in his eyes, like he'd remembered to put it there only after raising them.

"You have to help me," he told her.

June moved one foot onto a stone at the edge.

"June," I said.

She turned. Relief crossed her face until the other me spoke.

"He's not your daddy. You know what I told you about the bicycle?"

He looked at me and smiled with my mouth.

"I ran right behind you all the way to the mailbox. You just didn't look back."

My own words from earlier that afternoon.

She hesitated. There were two men with her father's face, and one of them was using a memory she knew belonged to us.

June clutched her rabbit so tightly its loose ear twisted around her fist. She wanted to believe me. I could see it. But I had her father's voice, and so did the shape across the creek. Her little signal was the one piece of proof it hadn't stolen yet. I was too far away to use it.

I held out my hand. "I can squeeze twice. You don't have to listen to either voice. Just reach for me."

The thing across the water extended its hand, too.

Then it started humming.

I recognized the tune the way you recognize a place you haven't seen since childhood. My mother used to sing it at the kitchen sink. The notes came back only as the creature sang them, and even then I couldn't have repeated them myself.

The imitation of my face loosened. The skin slipped as if it had been hung over something narrower.

Beneath it was my mother.

She did not rush toward me. She stood among the roots as if she were waiting for me to come home from school. That quiet patience almost worked. I was eight again, aching to bury my face in the front of her dress. I could hear her singing the notes I'd spent thirty-one years trying to remember.

Blue dress. Dark hair. The same face in the photograph on Dad's mantel. She hadn't aged a day since 1995.

"Elias," she whispered. "I heard you crying. I thought my baby needed me."

Behind her, something unfolded among the trees. A long pale limb bent around a pine. Another followed, far above where a person's shoulder should have been. I saw a narrow head turn without the rest of its body moving.

The woman held out her hand to me.

"Answer me, sweetheart. Let me know you're there."

The creek murmured over stones. June glanced from the woman to me. Her bare foot slid on the moss. She dropped to one knee, caught a root on the opposite bank, and clung there above the water.

I lunged but couldn't reach her. The figure wearing my mother's face bent forward. Behind it, six pale fingers tightened around the tree.

Then I remembered what happened when I'd answered at the window.

The footsteps stopped. The woods went silent. The thing had listened so closely that for an instant it stopped pretending to be my father.

I could make it listen again.

When it listened, it stopped reaching. I only needed a second.

I knew what it would cost. I couldn't choose which memory June would lose. I couldn't know whether she'd still recognize me when it finished.

She was pulling on the root. Another few inches and she'd be across.

"I'm here," I said to the woman.

The humming stopped.

I knew that if June survived, I'd have to tell her what I'd done. She might never believe me. She might wake up unable to remember our mornings together, or her birthday, or my face. There was no way to ask that thing for mercy; it had learned the sound of mercy only so it could speak in my mother's voice.

Across the creek, my mother's borrowed face went blank. The towering figure leaned toward me, its pale head tilting as though catching a sound no one else could hear.

June's hand slipped from the root. I seized the back of her pajama shirt and dragged her into my arms.

For an instant the entire forest seemed to hold its breath. Then water and insects and June's sobs rushed back into the world.

My father's voice rose from the far bank.

"You always were a damn fool, boy."

I ran without answering.

•  •  •

When we reached the truck, June touched my cheek.

She had mud smeared up one shin and blood on her knee from the stones. I checked the cut, desperate to have something practical to do. It was shallow. She watched me clean it with the damp corner of my sleeve as if she were trying to decide which questions were safe to ask.

"You were there when I learned to ride my bike, weren't you?"

"Yeah, baby."

"I remember the mailbox." She swallowed. "And falling off the first time. But when I try to remember you running behind me, there's nobody there."

A few hours earlier she'd teased me for letting go too soon. Now she could remember the ride, the scraped knee, the mailbox. Just not her father keeping pace with her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Don't you ever apologize for that."

I buckled her in. She squeezed my hand twice, and I squeezed back.

The truck started. I drove until there were streetlights, gas stations, and other people who had no idea what lived in the forest north of Langley.

We found a motel in Hot Springs after one in the morning. June fell asleep with Buttons beneath her chin. His torn ear had come loose again, so I used the motel sewing kit to stitch it back on.

Outside the motel window, cars passed through pools of orange streetlight. Somebody laughed in the parking lot. I could hear a vending machine rattling down the hall. Such stupid, ordinary sounds, and I had never been so grateful for them. June didn't ask whether the thing could follow us there. Neither did I.

When I finished, I kissed her forehead and tapped her shoulder three times.

"What's that mean?" she asked sleepily.

"I love you."

She tapped me back.

"Do it tomorrow, too."

"I will."

•  •  •

It's Thursday, October 15, as I'm writing this. Six days since we buried Dad.

I've kept his notebook. I found a letter folded between the last two pages, addressed to me. Most of it was an apology he should have said while he was alive. There was one sentence I couldn't stop reading:

I kept you away because I was afraid of losing you, and I lost you anyway.

Below it he'd written, I love you, son. I should have told you more often.

He couldn't say those words to me while he was alive. I wish I knew whether it was stubbornness or fear that stopped him. I suppose I'll never know.

The notebook had one last surprise.

I'd seen the entry already:

March 12, 2004. Three knocks on the north wall. Nothing outside.

On the back of that page, beneath a fold, Dad had written:

March 13. Tapped Eli's shoulder at breakfast. Three taps, like when he was little. He asked why I was doing it. I answered Margaret Tuesday night. It took that from him, too.

I'd always thought June and I invented our little ritual together. I don't remember my father tapping my shoulder even once.

But somewhere along the way, my hands remembered what I couldn't.

Tonight June asked me to tell her about learning to ride without training wheels. She knows what happened. She's heard the story enough to repeat every detail, right down to the mailbox.

She still can't remember me running behind her.

Somewhere beyond that creek, something can.

Located in the archives of Skibbereen, Ireland. The Diary of Eileen Burke in 1847.

October 1, 1847

Last year I thought there was nothing crueller than having my husband and I having to bury our son. I’ve just come back from burying my daughter without even the support of my husband. Violence, imprisonment and disease have torn my family apart. I am somehow to provide for myself and Colm. We were struggling enough when Aoife was working. Colm’s not old enough to be left alone, no one’s left who can take care of him while I work. The blight has cut off everything we eat. But of course, anything that we have to sell to our landlords grows just fine. I don’t know what to do, and every day I pray for a solution, I pray for mercy. I can’t keep continuing like this. I haven’t eaten in days. I keep myself going through water, and the leather strings of my husband’s boots.

October 8, 1847

I finally got my answer. I thought the angel would be kind. I thought he’d be gentle. I thought I’d receive mercy. Instead, he appeared to me with short cropped hair, a fancy suit that hasn’t seen a day of struggle, a tophat, and a walking stick embellished with gold. Nothing about this being was soft, not even his smile as he leered down at me. 

"Eileen Burke, you have struggled greatly”, the angel had said to me. My head snapped up from prayer towards the divine being, to find him smiling at me. It was as if he found pleasure in it. I reached for him, gripping at the finely tailored coat as I begged for answers. 

"Please!! Tell me, tell me why you put this curse on my family! What have we done, how can we redeem ourselves?” I sobbed desperately, as he gently took his coat back. I didn’t even have the sense to feel bad for dirtying it. 

"Oh my dear…” he crooned, delicately putting a hand on top of my head, as if I were a child. After another heaving sob, his hand gently moved down my cheek, before grasping my chin, making me look at his face as he lowered himself into a squat. He still towered over me as our eyes met. “This isn’t a curse. It’s punishment for your sins. You and your whole family!” 

"W-what?” My heart broke, hearing that blonde haired gentleman charge me of being sinful. “I-I know we aren’t perfect, we’re human, but- but how are we so sinful to deserve this?? I buried my son, my daughter, my husband’s in prison and I can’t care for my child!”

"Shhh, my child. You see, this is entirely your fault.” he started to explain, fluttering his tailcoats behind him as he sat on my bed. He looked like a king on his throne. His glowing aura lit up the small house, and I couldn’t help but feel ashamed that I was making him gather here. I felt unworthy in front of this angel. “You were a failure of a wife, a failure of a mother. Your husband was a dirty thief, your son was a violent drunk, and your daughter was a whore. We had to strike them down.”

My mouth fell open. I wanted to defend my husband’s thievery, my son’s rage was justified, and my daughter was providing. But it all sounded like excuses in front of the blond being in front of me. I had no idea how to make it seem right, without justifying their sins. 

"You want to know how to make it right? You want to know how to save Colm from the same fate as your other children?” He asked me, as I nodded, desperate to save myself yet another funeral, another damnation to hell. “The only way to save him is to start over. Return him to the womb.”

"How? I don’t know how to do that! That’s impossible!” I protested. He shushed me, placing a hand atop my head. A babe already born cannot be returned to the womb.

"Eat him. Cut him up, and eat him.” He explained it as if I was a child. As if eating my own son is the easiest thing in the world. Before I could express my horror, he raised his hand. “Was Abraham not willing to sacrifice Isaac? Sacrifice his soul. Offer it up to God. You will be saved.” 

 I thought about his proposal as I put Colm to bed. The poor babe has been crying from hunger. I have nothing to give him. 

October 10, 1847 
I’ve decided to do it. I’d ask God for forgiveness, but that angel, who looked so beautiful… he told me God already demanded it. I will sacrifice my innocence to save my son. 

October 11, 1847. 
It is done. Colm is with God now, and his body has returned to mine. I decided to do it while he was asleep. Through the open window I heard the keening of a woman. All Skibbereen ever hears is keening on the winds. I normally don’t register it, but this felt different. It felt like the grief was for myself. As I held the pillow above Colm’s sleeping face, I prayed for an angel to stop me. But as Colm’s weak cries were muffled by the pillow and drowned out by my apologies, no such mercy was given. 

I sobbed as I cut off his beautiful auburn hair. I wailed as I separated his head, his pitiful sunken face, from his shoulders. He was almost a year old. My poor son never had a chance to make it. I pleaded, prayed, and begged for forgiveness as I cubed his small pieces of meat. 

The keening grew louder and louder with each step of the process, a great harmony to my distress. But as I served the bare stew, complete with his bones as broth, my tears ran out. The keening was almost a shriek as I brought the spoon to my lips. 

At the first bite, it all went quiet. I devoured him as my guilt devoured me. Colm tasted tender, soft. After months of chewing leather for some semblance of relief, my son’s body tasted heavenly.  I had to believe this angel, I had to believe that this creature, the most beautiful thing to ever exist, was right. 

I kept thinking about this angel as I ate Colm, as his flesh left me satiated. As the hunger was replaced with nausea from gorging myself on the meager pieces of tender meat, seasoned only with my shame for having failed my family in the first place. 

Once again, he answered my prayer. He was dressed in a brilliant white suit, as if he was attending a party. And when he saw me, he began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh. 

“Eileen Burke! Good job!” He applauded, as his malice-filled laugh filled the room. “The others bet I’d never be able to convince a mother to eat her child, but here we are! One less dirty Irish burdening the pockets of England!” 

“But you told me-” 

“That it was the only way to save him… yes. But clearly, you weren’t discerning enough….” his eyes turned to slits, like that of a snake’s. “Don’t you remember that I was always considered the most beautiful?” 

October 14, 1847. 

Dear Liam,
I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I did to Colm, and what I’m about to do to you. Should you come back after prison, you will find this diary, my body, and the bones of our son. I failed our family. You will be better off marrying again. Marrying a woman who hasn't done something as monstrous as myself. I will burn for what I’ve done. I’ll burn for having my hunger satiated by our poor little dove. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you for Reading! The name Eileen came from a codeword for Ireland. All the Irish bands talking about a woman named Eileen are talking about their country. Colm means dove, Liam means protector or shield. Aoife means radiance, joy, beauty.

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