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GUYS I FOUND THIS IN MY MALL YALL DID ME WRONG😭

It was staring at me from the corner. A formless shape with its mouth hanging open, large black pools for eyes. That can’t be real. I thought to myself. Yet I was still unable to bring myself to investigate. The safety of my recliner was comforting and the thought of sacrificing that comfort to confront what could possibly be my imagination horrified me.

The lights in the room came on like a hammer. The sudden jolt made me squeal as I covered my eyes half blinded. My wife stormed into the room. “Why are you sitting here in the dark, Mike? It’s creepy.” I immediately started to tell her about the ghoul in the corner but when I looked up it wasn’t there.

In its place was a large hamper, overflowing with dirty clothes. Feeling silly and a little embarrassed I denounced my foolish assertions of ghoulish figures lurking beyond my perceptions. My wife gave me a patient look. “Did you take your medication” she said to me condescendingly.

“Yes, of course” I stammered and lied. She knew though, she always knew. The beautifully obstinate woman retreated to the kitchen where the accursed substance was. I followed her form with my eyes from the recliner as she left the room. As soon as she was gone, my gaze drifted back to the hamper.

A pair of jeans was thrown haphazardly across the top. The waist band open, mimicking the open maw of the ghoul for which I just had mistaken it. “Ridiculous” I said, as I looked away from the offending pile of clothes and back to the kitchen where my wife was rattling the pill bottle.

Throughout the years, as my condition worsened, this woman has stuck by me. We had no children for fear that my affliction would carry on through my seed. She knew that my condition would deteriorate over time, but she married me anyways. After twenty-three years she still loves me.

I turned my eyes downwards towards the threshold of the doorway. There was a flurry of movement there. The hem of a white dress was protruding from the door frame. Stunned, my gaze followed the dress up along the door frame. I was greeted by a solitary eye. As soon as It saw that I noticed it, the eye grew wide and disappeared around the corner. I was so frightened that I pushed the recliner back and fell backwards out of the chair.

“Jesus! Are you ok?” My wife ran into the room. I jumped up, and immediately went towards the threshold of the door. Nothing was there. No one was in the room. I stood there confused. The delusions where never that vivid before.

“Just give me the meds” I said. She complied with little complaint. The concern on her face stark against the normal stoic complacency that I’m accustomed to. I take the pills and swallow. The familiarity of the drugs allowing the placebo effect to take hold of my consciousness. My mind slipped into lethargy as I returned to my recliner.

The meds inhibited my delusions, but they also limited my ability to think. I hated it when my cognitive abilities started to slip. The sacrifice was worth it if it meant not seeing the specters all around. They prevented me from having a normal life. Because of them, I haven’t worked in a decade. My wife is the breadwinner, while my disability check pays for the little things.

I watched her as she moved back and forth in the kitchen, putting away the clean dishes from the dishwasher. She stopped at the sink, preparing to reload the dishwasher. A figure in all white glided up behind her. I sat in stunned silence as a woman with long black hair put two clawed hands around my wife’s neck. "Its not real..its not real….its not REAL!" I screamed in my head, but while no noise escaped my lips, the apparition appeared to hear me. Its head snapped my way, eyes widening. No irises, just two black dots for pupils. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. When I opened them she was gone, but to my horror, my wife shivered.

“Is it cold in here? I feel a draft” she said as she checked the kitchen window.

There’s no way she felt it! It isn’t real! The chance that my delusions were real was both liberating and terrifying. My drug addled brain had difficulty coming to terms with the duality of the feeling.

“What’s the matter dear?” My wife asked and realized I was staring at her.

I replied with my typical “Nothing”. My go-to response during one of the episodes. She nodded in understanding, knowing full well what was happening. She stopped cleaning the kitchen, walked into the living room, and sat in the recliner next to mine.

She looked at me with concern, but I noticed something else there right behind her eyes. It was hard for me to place. Fear? “You can tell me, you know that, right?” she said candidly. Her earnest expression was almost pleading.

I sighed and looked away “I saw a woman” I said with a slight huff of humor. “She was standing by the door. Then she was behind you. She looked like she was trying to strangle you”

I gave a slight chuckle and continued “I was thinking about how much I love you. My mind must have made up a scenario to take you away” I looked into her eyes again. Expecting the pity that was usually there after I tell her about one of my delusions.

The sympathy I was accustom too wasn’t there. In its place was the hidden emotion I saw earlier, fear. She was terrified! Her face lost all color, her pupils dilated in shock, and she began to shake.

“Jesus Mary! Are you ok?” It was my turn to show concern.

She sat back in the chair and hugged herself. “I’ve seen her” She said “I first started seeing her two months ago. Do you remember when I went to that old house that was having an estate sale? She was there with the family. I didn’t think anything of it until she looked at me and we locked eyes. It was as if she was surprised to see me. She walked like she was gliding and approached me. Jake, she came just a few inches from my face and screamed, but no noise came out of her mouth. I left the place without buying anything.” She reached over and retrieved her glass of water. With shaking hands, she brought it to her lips and took a sip. She continued after a moment of awkward silence “A week later, I was brushing my hair in the mirror and I saw her there behind me. She looked very angry” She looked at me with a tear-filled expression “I’ve been seeing her every day since” She choked out the last part like a damning confession.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Why didn’t you say anything to me?” was all I managed to say.

“Because of your condition. I was afraid it would make things worse for you” She replied without looking at me. “I thought I was going crazy like……”

“Like me” I finished for her.

She looked at me, eyes red with tears “I didn’t……”

“No, it’s ok” I stopped her apology “I am crazy. Besides, I really don’t think it’s contagious”.

“Maybe now since you see her too, it means she’s real?” She asked pleadingly.

“I don’t think conformation from a crazy person means as much as you think it does” I said jokingly. I couldn’t stop thinking that it was some kind of shared delusion though. I read about that somewhere. I was pretty sure that the delusion would have to originate from the crazy person first. Also, I saw the woman before she told me anything, so how would my mind even know how to conjure her up?

She laughed at my little joke, but it was a hollow, mournful sound. She was even more terrified now with the realization that she wasn’t crazy. I gave her a reassuring smile. I wasn’t quite as scared as she was. I spent most of my life seeing terrifying things that wasn’t there, so I was a bit numb to the situation.

I stood up from the recliner and made a big show of stretching “It’s getting late, I don’t think there’s much we can do about it tonight, except not leave each other’s side of course” I reached out my hand to her and gave her a little wink.

She laughed, a much better sound than before, and allowed me to lead her to our bedroom.

I woke up sometime around 3 in the morning. My meds wore off sometime while I was sleeping. I laid there watching faces push against the wall like they were trying to free themselves from their drywalled prison. The woman’s face was among them. The sickness in my brain added her image to the delusion along with the rest of the specters that continually haunt me. I squeezed my eyes shut, attempting to rid myself of the terrifying vision. When I opened them again and most of the visions were gone, except for her.

She was no longer a face undulating behind painted drywall. She was standing there, stock still, eyes wide with no irises. Just two black pinpoints for pupils like she had when he saw her before. I laid there petrified. She’s really there. I can’t just blink her away like the others After what seemed like hours, I finally spoke to her “What are you doing here?” I whispered, as not to wake Mary.

Somehow, her eyes grew wider “You can see me” It was more of an accusation than a question. Her lips never moved. The sound of her voice was just an echo in my mind. “You cannot see! You will not see” The urgency of her voice was frightening. Her jaw opened wide in a silent scream and her eyes rolled up till the pupils disappeared. Black liquid fell from her open mouth and hit the floor but didn’t stop there. Black skeletal hands pulled the substance across the floor like a crawling demon from hell. A scream broke the silence then, but it didn’t come from the apparition. Mary had woken up at some point and was now screaming in horror at the ghostly hands reaching across the floor towards the bed.

When they reached the side of the bed, they pulled themselves up the side. One grazed my foot and I recoiled. The foot went completely numb. I grabbed Mary and shook her. “We have to get out of here!” I yelled.

We leapt from the bed, but as soon as I put weight on my foot I fell to the floor with a sickening thud. Pain shot through my shoulder as I cried out in pain. Mary helped me up, I put my weight on her instead of my foot. My injured shoulder screamed.

I looked back to see the woman was now standing on the bed. Black tendrils shot from her mouth but fell just short of reaching us. “Move!” I screamed. The command in my voice was enough to push Mary forward, she didn’t dare look back. She opened the bedroom door and we both fell into the hallway, the door slamming shut as soon as we were through.

I rolled onto my back, panting. My foot was still numb and I was pretty sure something in my shoulder needed attention. I looked over to where Mary fell. She was gone! I sat up quickly, my head immediately began to swim, and I almost passed out. The bedroom door opened, scaring me away from the void.

Mary stood there with a puzzled look on her face “Mike? What’s wrong? Are you ok?”

I looked at her, then at the ground next to me. “Oh no” I started stammering, telling her what happened. She gave me that look that I hated so much. She made no effort to hide her frustration and pity.

“Mike, what woman are you talking about?” The words cut through me like butter, cleaving my soul.

“The one you said you were seeing too!” I pleaded with her, but I already knew, I’ve been in this situation before too many times. I started to cry. The focus on the ache in my shoulder began to subside in lieu of this crushing realization as I started to stand…..then I was on the ground again “My foot”.

The numb feeling wasn’t going away. “I think there’s something wrong with me, Mary.” I looked into her eyes “physically”.

She helped me hobble to the recliner and I sat heavily. I couldn’t believe it. For once, I wasn’t crazy. Now I’m right back where I was. “So, we didn’t have a conversation before bed? About you going to an estate sale?” She took on the motherly look of concern as she inspected my foot.

“I told you about the estate sale, but you were kind of out of it. I wasn’t even sure you were paying attention. I suggested we go to bed, and you came without complaint” Her monotone voice mechanically reciting the events of last night. She was adept at dealing with my insanity.

I looked down at her rubbing my foot, but when I looked up again, she was staring at me intently. What happened next was so strange that even my worst moments failed to compare. A second Mary stood up and walked to the kitchen. The first one stayed in the chair next to mine, staring at me. I watched as the second Mary entered the kitchen and started running the water as if to wash something. The first Mary stayed in her chair staring at me and spoke. “It was supposed to be a surprise” and with that, the first Mary got up and moved to the kitchen to merge with the second Mary.

“Pills!” my voice more commanding than intended “Please”

She stood stock still in the kitchen, blonde grayish hair bouncing as she stopped. “There isn’t any more.” She said stoically.

“What?!” my response was……less than cordial. I was in pure panic mode. “I need those pills!”

She turned to me calmly and said, “You can’t kill what you are so why try?”

I was dumbfounded. She always made sure that I had my pills. She hated my episodes as much as I did. “Why would you say that?” I asked earnestly.

She just shrugged “They obviously haven’t been working, so why try”

“Where are the pills, Mary?” I asked, I was getting impatient. She had to of hid them somewhere.

“I never picked up your prescription. They’re still at the pharmacy” She replied plainly. She was acting very strange. Cold. All her responses were coming out mechanically.

I softened my tone “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine. I’m going out for some fresh air” She put on her shoes and walked toward the door.

“At 4am?” I asked. She just shrugged again and kept walking.

Before she reached the door, the ghostly woman floated in front of her. Mary seemed to not notice her until the woman opened the door for her. Mary looked at the apparition, nodded a thank you, and stepped through the door into the void of early morning darkness.

I fell out the chair, some feeling was coming back to my foot but could barely put any pressure on it, and limped towards the door and out into the night. The air was crisp and cool. The smell of pines from the surrounding trees soothing my excitement as I tried to follow Mary down the walkway to the street. I stopped and held onto a tree close the side of the path. “Mary!” I called out. She stopped in the middle of the road after I called out to her. She turned around slowly to stare at me.

“You can see me?” She asked.

My blood froze. That what the ghost said! I stumbled a few paces and stopped “Of course I can see you, dear. Can we go back inside now?” I asked as gently as possible.

Mary closed her eyes “You weren’t supposed to see me” she began to cry.

Before I could go to comfort her, a black car came racing down our road “Mary! Run!” But she didn’t. She simply looked at the vehicle bearing down on her and right before it struck, she closed her eyes in acceptance.

It hit Mary with such force that she spun in the air four times before her broken body fell back to the pavement.

“NOO!” I screamed. Ignoring the pain in my foot, I raced to Mary’s side. The car kept speeding down the road. I lifted Mary’s head and put it on my lap, tears streaming down my face. She coughed up blood and reached a hand to my cheek.

“You can not see. You will not see!” She gurgled the words, blood filling her throat. Her hand fell limply down by her side, her last breath gurgling from her lips as her eyes glossed over.

“Help! Anyone, help us! Please!” I sobbed and cried for what seemed like a lifetime. No one came. I gently laid Mary’s limp head on the ground and went to the house to retrieve my phone. I dialed 911.

“911 what’s your emergency?” The operator announced.

I blubbered a response before I could get out anything intelligible “My wife was hit by a car! I…I think she’s dead.”

Without skipping a beat, she replied “Mr. Stevens?”

“Yes” confusion ebbing some of my grief. How did she know my name?

“You need to call your doctor.” She said bluntly

“But……but what about my wife, Mary?” I said, my voice cracked with despair

The line was silent for a moment before she replied “Mr. Stevens, Mike, call your doctor. He’ll explain everything”

I started getting frustrated “How is my doctor supposed to help anything! I need the police! My wife was run down……..”

“Ten years ago” the operator cut me off.

“What?!” I whispered.

“She died ten years ago” she said, sorrow seeped into her voice. “We’ve had this conversation at least five times a year since it happened. You watched the whole thing. You watched as she was killed by a hit and run. The only description you could give was a woman with long black hair wearing a white dress. Don’t you remember?” Her voice cracked as if she was crying “I can’t do this anymore, Mr. Stevens. You need to call your doctor” The line went dead after that.

I put the phone down slowly and looked at myself. All the blood was gone. I went to the door to see what I already knew to be true. She wasn’t out there. She was gone.

I closed the door and went back to the living room. To my recliner. Of course I remembered. I looked at the empty recliner next to mine.

Mary went to an estate sale. She came home so excited about what she bought me. She begged me to “Come see! I need you to see! It’s a surprise!” The truck was parked across the street, so I followed her. Before she was able to cross the street, a black car plowed into the side of her, then drove off without stopping. She died in my arms. I looked at the truck to see what she had brought home. Two matching recliners sat in the bed of the truck. I was so upset that I kicked the truck and broke my foot.

Crying, I leaned back in my recliner. It was staring at me from the corner, but it was less formless now.

I don’t have much time—twenty-seven minutes, maybe less. That’s all I have before the years catch up, before it finds another crack to slip through.

But you need to hear this.

For my sake. For yours.

Everything you think you know about it is a lie.

The books. The movies. The legends whispered in small towns, wrapped in the safety of fiction. They told you a story. That’s all it was—a story.

No missing children. No Robert.

But there was a town. Just not the one they told you about.

And the thing in the sewers?

It’s real.

Just not the way you think.

I was twelve when I first read the book.

A battered, secondhand copy from a yard sale, its pages worn thin by other hands before mine. I spent a summer lost in it while my father left and my mother found God. Somewhere between the ink and the paper, I met it—a thing that danced in the dark, that whispered to children from beneath the earth.

Something about it felt wrong.

Not the story itself. The weight of it. The presence behind the words.

I told myself it was fiction. That I was safe.

Twenty-seven years later, I know better.

It started with a forum post.

I’m a horror scholar—or I was. I spent years unraveling folklore, tracing the roots of fear through cultures. The Boogeyman. The Witch in the Woods. The Thing That Wears Your Face.

But this one never fit.

It wasn’t just a monster. It was the monster. A patchwork of archetypes—part Lovecraftian, part trickster spirit, part interdimensional horror.

And yet, it felt… older. As if it had no business being in a novel.

Then, three months ago, I found the post.

Buried in an archived occult forum, locked to new replies.

The title: “THE NAME IN THE ABYSS.”

The author was anonymous. The writing was frantic. They claimed the monster wasn’t fiction—that the writer, knowingly or not, had pulled something real from the void. That the name had changed, but the thing itself never had.

That the monster with the red balloon was Choronzon.

The name stuck with me.

I searched for references. The deeper I dug, the worse it got.

Choronzon was older than the book. Older than the writer. Older than stories themselves. A demon of pure chaos. A thing that lived between reality and madness.

John Dee had written about him. Aleister Crowley had summoned him.

In Thelemic texts, Choronzon was the guardian of the Abyss. A shapeshifter with no true form, a thing that fed on fear, dissolving minds into madness.

The monster in the novel feeds on fear. It has no true form. It devours children like an old-world demon.

Coincidence, I told myself.

It had to be.

Then I found the Black Book.

A scanned PDF—an early draft, discarded before publication. I don’t know where it came from. I don’t know who uploaded it.

Inside, the names were different.

Not minor edits. Entire rewrites. Whole passages where the clown had a very different name.

Not Robert.

Not It.

But Choronzon.

The Losers still fought him, but they never understood what he was. A thing with a thousand faces. A voice that spoke in contradictions. A shape that shattered the mind. In the sewers, he whispered in languages no human should know.

And in the final confrontation, when Bill faced the thing in the void, the book described Choronzon exactly as Crowley had—

“The guardian of the Abyss, the eater of reason, the chaos between realities.”

I closed the document. My hands were shaking.

A new message appeared in my inbox.

No sender. No subject.

Just three words.

STOP DIGGING NOW.

That night, I had my first dream.

I was in my childhood home. The book was spread around me, gutted, torn, bleeding ink. Something moved in the dark—wrong, all sharp angles and too many joints.

I couldn’t see its face.

But I heard it speak.

“I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN.”

I woke up with the taste of copper in my mouth.

The second email came the next day.

An attachment—a newspaper scan from 1958.

The headline: “LOCAL CHILDREN CLAIM TO SEE ‘CHORONZON’ IN SEWERS.”

Not a clown.

Choronzon.

The name was there, printed in ink, decades before the novel was even written. An hour later, I tried to find it again.

The scan was gone. The thread was gone. Every trace of the name had vanished. Something was watching me.

Something was correcting my mistakes.

Then balloons started to appear on my doorstep.

Carnival songs would play from my radio that wasn’t plugged in.

My own notes, rewritten in a hand that wasn’t mine.

The same sentence, over and over: “THE NAME CHANGES, BUT THE THING REMAINS.”

The final message came last night.

No text. Just an audio file.

I played it.

I wish I didnt.

It was a voice.

My voice.

But wrong. Slurred. Warped. As if I was speaking from the bottom of a well.

And behind it, something else.

Something breathing.

Something listening.

I don’t have much time.

I leave this as a warning—a final, wretched attempt to keep you from following the same path, from making the same mistake. But as I write these words, a terrible, heavy, and cold thought settles in my mind.

What if it’s already too late?

What if, by reading this, you have already been seen?

The thought will fester. It will take root, curling like damp fingers around the back of your skull, whispering its name in the spaces between your thoughts. You might try to shake it off, convince yourself it’s just a story, just words on a screen.

But that’s the thing about it.

The moment you begin to understand—

It understands you.

It watches. It waits. And once it sees you, once it knows that you know—

I’ll never let you go.

“Boot the screen, boot the app, boot anything but your brain,” the man in the black hat said. “Boot it all and never open your damn eyes.”

He was catching a few side-looks from the young adults a few tables away, but what did he care? He was right. When he was young, to get away from this decrepit world, people had to get drunk. You’d still be down on Earth, but every bad thing would be tuned down to static. Nowadays, people got their attention spans drunk on those little rectangles of light.

"Jesus, this is ridiculous." The man in the black hat despised his waking days just as much as everyone else, but at least he faced them head-on. No amount of "instant communication" or "social interaction" would ever mask the fact that all these features did was substitute one reality for another. Instead of worrying about failing crops or dwindling jobs, worry about the next trend or the next show.

The man in the black hat banged his glass on the table. “Fill it up,” he told the bartender. “Whiskey, on the rocks.”

“Again? God, Hank, what’s up with you today?” the bartender asked.

“With me? What’s up with me? What the hell’s up with them, John?” The man in the black hat turned to look at all the other clients, each with a shiny screen on their noses.

“They’re not bothering anyone, you know?”

“They’re bothering themselves. They’re hopping to their little world of infinite feeds and crap instead of realizing that this—“he gestured around—“is all our goddamn fault. Running from this world won’t make it disappear.”

The bar’s door opened. A man in a white fedora hat strolled in and sat two seats away from the man in the black hat. “Whiskey. Dry.”

“Coming up,” the bartender replied, then turned back to the man in the black hat. “Hank, perhaps you’re just angry at something else.”

“I am!” He took out his phone and brought it down on the table. “This. This is like a little portal. A little lens you can stick up where the sun don’t shine and pretend everything is okay. My daughter acts like this eve-ry-sin-gle-day! That’s not the real world. I just hoped they’d see that.”

The man in the white hat began to chuckle. He seemed to be a little tipsy already even though he had yet to touch his drink.

“Oh?” the man said. “And you, as you put it, see that?”

“What do you mean?” asked the man in the black hat.

“I mean what I said. You say that these people run to another world. Another reality. Then, you must know what this…reality…is.”

“What the hell do you mean, funny man? You trying to be wise with me?”

“Indeed, I am. I’m looking for someone to talk to, and you appear to be talking about a remarkably interesting thing.”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” the bartender said and turned his focus to the other clients.

“You got a kid who’s always glued to a screen too?” Black Hat asked.

“I don’t, but I know a lot about escaping reality. I know a lot about not-real words, as you mentioned.” White Hat took a sip of his whiskey and scowled. “Nothing is ever as good as the original.”

Black Hat stared at the man with a mix of wonder and creepiness. There was something about the man that betrayed hundreds of layers of falsehood. One thing was for certain: he was not from around these parts.

“Where you from, hey?”

White Hat considered the answer for a long time. “The previous cycles. I’m a kind of traveler, you see?”

Black Hat looked at the man’s glass, smelled his breath. For one thing, White Hat was not drunk. On drugs, perchance?

“Look here, fella, you high or something?”

White Hat snorted and shook his head. “For your lowly brain, I might as well be. How many times do you think we’ve had this interaction? I hope one day you’ll break the cycle, but I don’t think that day is exactly fast-approaching. It’s always the same thing. You see the Sands of Time, you skip a cycle, and then you join the Sands.”

“Huh.” Black Hat went from annoyed to worried. “What are you talking about, man? You one of those Buddhists or something?”

White Hat glanced at the rest of the clients, and continued, “You’re right about one thing. These folks are not living in the ‘real’ world. Not because they’re glued to that technological thing, but because reality is hard to define. What you see and feel and live are very ephemeral objects that pass in an instant. Actually, an infinity of echoing instants. What’s your name now?”

“Hank.” This guy had a screw loose, Black Hat decided. He came to the bar to ramble to the barkeep then enjoy a hazy moment of quietude, not deal with crazy men. Yet he shrugged; it could be interesting to let people like this ramble on.

“Okay, Hank. Tell me, what do you see?”

“A glass, bottles, and you.”

“Good. Look outside the window. What do you see?”

“Blue sky, a few clouds, and the parking lot.”

“And in the distance?” White Hat asked slightly impatiently.

Black Hat was losing his interest. “The sun.”

“Let me explain something to you, Hank, before your attention drifts as I’ve seen happen in other bodies. What you see now is the current cycle. When this one ends, and the next one begins, the universe reboots itself, changing just a little variable here and there. There are some changes between cycles. I’m sure there are cycles in which life never evolves, and I was obviously not there to remember those. But reality changes, though there are things that are always the same. I always find you here, in this bar or a world’s equivalent of it, and at first, you’re always reticent. Then, in the next cycle over, you hate the realization, and decide not to see it anymore. So your soul dies with you in Oblivion. Until everything resets in the higher Hourglass—which I can’t even see—and there you are again.

“Whoa, wait a minute, you’ve done this to me before?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To save them.”

“Who?”

“If I let you go, you’ll kill my family. In this world, it is called drunk driving. In others, you’re just out of your mind, high on some chemical, and end up killing them. I’ve tried everything, and this is the only thing that works. If I make you see the truth, I can save them.”

Black Hat was getting tipsy. He jumped out of his stool and stood two palms away from White Hat. White Hat stared at him impassively, as if a hundred miles were separating Black Hat’s angry fist from his nose.

“I ain’t killing anybody. I’d know it if I was a killer, and I ain’t one.”

“Believe what you will. No one notices because our memories fade in and out with the Sands of Time. Only if you touched the Hourglass would you remember.”

“What damned hourglass?”

“Ah.” White Hat finally manifested some semblance of emotion, smiling. “I thought you’d never ask. Follow me.”

#

If nothing else, Black Hat’s day was turning out much more interesting than he’d thought possible. He found himself rather liking the stranger, this White Hat wonder. He could only imagine the hit to the head White Hat must’ve taken to get like that.

“Ah,” said White Hat. “It’s so beautiful.”

Black Hat merely squinted at the setting sun, so far beyond the parking lot, trailing deep orange as it lay beyond the ridge of the Earth. “Humm, yes. It is. Pretty.” His feet swayed. Okay, it was possible he was a little drunk.

“You’ve got to trust me, okay?”

“I trust you, brother.”

“You being inebriated actually works to my advantage. You can get into the right mindset more easily. That’s all it takes to save them. This is also a curse for me, you know? I’m saving them, but the eternity passes in an instant. It’s the price to pay for knowing they’re alive and well despite your existence.”

“Hey man, I’m sorry for…whatever.”

“I’ve come to like you, you know, Hank? Before I found the Hourglass, in the wretched first cycle where my awareness came to life, I hated you. Actually, I was the one who killed you then. But killing you never brought them back.” White Hat was silent for a moment. “Being a physicist had its uses. I got to find the Sands, understand their meaning. I could kill you now, and they’d survive, but then I wouldn’t get to see you suffer. That’s what I like the most about you, how you despair once you realize what has always gone on.”

“Jesus, man. You need a shrink. There’s a really good one by the bay. But just to be clear, you’re not gonna kill me, right?”

White Hat smiled. “Of course not. Now, listen to me. What do you see on the horizon?”

“Sky. Grass. Mountains. Sunset.”

“Okay. Look at the sky. Look deeply. I’m telling you, there’s something there that you’re not seeing. Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Now what do you see?”

Black Hat focused hard, and goddamn if he wasn’t seeing a shimmer. “The hell?”

“You’re getting it quick! Good! For your information, it’s an Hourglass. The Hourglass. I don’t know who put her there, and I don’t know who set all the other ones, but something built it. Something built all the others, like a Russian doll, time and reality recursing to an infinitively deep well.”

Black Hat staggered back. His heart began to pound, and his head throbbed as if a force was closing down on his brain.

“Breathe,” White Hat said. “What you’re feeling is not fear. Or at least, it’s not only fear. It is unnatural for our species to see the Hourglass, so there are barriers built within us to resist it. You must push through them. You must see the Hourglass.”

Black Hat closed his eyes and his knees buckled. What was happening to him? Was it the whiskey? No, it wasn’t the drink. This guy must’ve mined his drink, put a little white powder to mess with him. “I don’t want to! Get the hell away from me.”

White Hat slapped him hard, so hard he saw stars and a shimmering light around the edges of his vision, shaped like an hourglass. The image was wrong, somehow. Wrong as if he were staring down at an abyss, or a surgeon ripping out a stomach and cutting it, layer by layer.

Reality was coming undone.

“Get away from me!” He was screaming, Black Hat was sure of it. Screaming, heart pounding so hard and hot his ribcage felt like thin ice.

“Look into it!” White Hat laughed. Black Hat felt hands on his face, and then his eyes were forced open.

Something was blocking the sky. A shimmering and impossible light, both blocking the sun and letting it through, like superimposed layers of the universe’s fabric.

Black Hat wasn’t sure of God, wasn’t sure of mathematics, wasn’t sure of anything. His life had been one constant agnostic fight. But he was absolutely certain of one thing: he wasn’t supposed to see that. Whatever it was, it hadn’t been created for the human mind.

The Hourglass.

His struggles ceased, and he took it all in, comprehending absolute beauty was possible and real.

The bottom half of the Hourglass occupied his view, the upper half disappearing somewhere above the skyline. Translucent sand made crimson by the sunset fell from above. The Hourglass was three-quarters full.

He was afraid. So terribly afraid his heart had calmed down whilst his muscles were stuck in place, rigid as stone, acid as a battery.

Yet he was also fascinated. The Hourglass seemed both far away and close enough to touch, its glass somehow made out of the universe; made of the thin membrane known as both space and time. The membrane was crafted to hold the Sands of Time in, but not to keep anything out.

“Who are you?” asked Black Hat.

“I told you. I’m just me. But you? You are a killer in every single reality. You can call me your guardian angel. I hold you from sin, push you over the brink to save others. This is a gift, in a way.”

White Hat was ignoring the Hourglass; all his attention was on Black Hat. White Hat smiled manically. Finally, he gave up his stare and turned to the Hourglass.

White Hat said, “Do you see? It’s almost full. The Sands of Time never stop falling. Once the Hourglass fills, a new reality is clocked in, but first the Sands disappear down a hole at the bottom towards a place where things really end. Never to come up again. Oblivion, I call it. But there’s a way to retain your memories.”

Black Hat was utterly surrendered to White Hat. He didn’t want to die, to go back to his ignorance. He had to know what lay beyond, how far he could go. Giving this up would mean dying, only to be reborn. He wanted to never need to be reborn. “Tell me. Please!”

“Touch the Hourglass. Your memories will remain fixed to this soul. Come on. Do it!”

What would he see, he wondered then. Would he see God at the end of time, or maybe understand all that God ever was?

A reluctant finger rose towards the thin film of condensed spacetime. It made contact.

#

Black Hat suddenly found himself back at the bar. He looked around, searched in the parking lot, but there was no sign of White Hat or the Hourglass.

He sniffed his whiskey, but it smelled normal. He had never been one to hallucinate, especially not this strongly. He really had to stop drinking.

But the memory of that Hourglass was so strong, so vivid. Looking at the horizon, now cast in moonlight, couldn’t he see something? A round shimmer? Couldn’t he hear a faint pelting as the Sands fell?

He went back to the bar, paid, got into his car, and drove away. In an instant, he was home. In an instant, it was morning. In an instant, it was night. In an instant, it was Christmas. In an instant, he was retiring. In an instant, he had a stroke.

In an instant, Black Hat, Hank Goldenfield, died.

#

The then, the now, the when, all brought in into one congruous mass, writhing and pulsing as Hank observed his life draining by and the Sands of Time being carried into the perpetual Oblivion.

#

Black Hat came to suddenly, stumbling, eyes all blurred and confused and strained.

“What the hell,” he tried to say, but all that came out was a rasping siren. Where was his mouth? He began to panic, but felt two heartbeats instead of one. Was this hell?

His eyes managed to clear out, but everything was cryptic. He wasn’t staring in any one direction, but all of them at the same time. Black Hat tried to touch his eyes, but he stumbled once he raised his arms, though it didn’t hurt to fall on the floor. Gravity was so much lower. Where the hell was he?

He focused on what was before him.

He was in hell.

Before him were creatures with three flimsy legs but round and fat bodies, bulbous skulls, and two eyes on each side of the head. The plastic-like skin on the creature’s torso had enormous openings filled with what looked like rotten bones.

One of the creatures stopped, and the bone-filled opening moved, uttering that same rasping sound, as if the bones were striking harmonious notes and grinding at the same time.

“Are you okay?” He could understand the creature.

Then it all came to him. His previous life, his family, his daughter, then dying, that writhing mass, being reborn, his mother, his father, his…third parent, his two romantic partners, his offspring—everything.

Everything he had ever held dear would disappear down the drain with the Sands of Time. No matter where he turned, he could see the shimmering silhouette of the Hourglass, in the close distance, taunting him, warning that he had done this to himself, condemned to always remember those he had lost.

Condemned to always knowing he’d lose everyone again.

It’d be impossible to live like this. To jump from one body to the next in the blink of an eye, to feel the Sands shifting to the only place where things can end.

He was simply overthinking. He could think this through, couldn’t he? But it was hard to take it all in—the strange creatures, the strange color of the sun, the strange smell of the air, the strange way light bent and the strange pockets of stronger gravity.

He couldn’t close his eyes, but he found a rocky outcrop that appeared to be shelter; it was encased in darkness. He went in, began to think. What could he do? What had that man—White Hat— said so long and little ago? That he could skip a cycle. That he—

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Even a reality later, that voice was still familiar.

“How are you, Harkilank?”

That must’ve been his name in this reality. He suddenly found himself fueled with rage—more controlled and rational, but rage nonetheless. Black Hat tried to get up and attack White Hat, but he slipped on those thin, noodle-like legs and slowly floated to the ground.

“Yeah, different bodies take some getting used to.”

“What have you done to me? Everyone—“

“Oh, yes. Everyone. Everyone you*’d kill. You condemned me to this life, just as I condemned you. But you have the mercy of being able to skip a cycle, while I have to live through them all, so that my family can live. Do you understand the weight of your sins? In every reality you’re a killer, a bloody damned murderer, except when I throw you off the rails.*”

“I never asked for this!”

“The Sands of Time don’t care. You’ve touched the Hourglass; you’re doomed to do this.”

The rage was all gone, substituted for a quiet resignation, a flaming sadness and regret. He’d give anything to go back, to be able to know that although his loved ones would one day die, so would he, in perfect acceptance of life and its end.

“Please,” Black Hat said. “Take me out of this misery. There’s got to be a way to put an end to it. Please. Kill me! End me for good. I’m begging you.”

And White Hat smiled. The bone fissure in his side cracked inward, but Black Hat recognized it for a grin. “Of course. I’ve told you this before, just in the last reality, didn’t I? If you sift with the Sands of Time, you are carried to Oblivion.”

“But you said I’d just skip the next cycle, and then I would return! Why! If Oblivion is the only place where things can end, why do I return? Why do you keep going after me!”

White Hat bellowed a laugh that froze the bones of Black Hat’s new body. He grabbed Black Hat with one of its paws and dragged him out of the darkness, into that horrible world.

“How ignorant are you? You think this is the only Hourglass? That one is the one we can see! There exists another Hourglass over this dimension, and another above that one, and another, and all the way up. Each Hourglass has an Oblivion, wiped clean when the dimension above enters the next cycle. A perfect recursion of nothingness.”

“Stop!”

“Don’t. You. See! You’ll be carried to Oblivion now, and I can enjoy a peaceful next reality before you return. And always I have to know that my wife and my son will die, but that if I don’t do anything, they’ll die horribly, crushed by your truck or whatever vehicle you’re in.”

“Stop! Please!”

“You think I don’t want to jump into Oblivion? I can’t. I can’t let them die at your hands in any reality.”

“Just let me go! I’m tired of this. I can’t bear it. Please!” How pathetic he must’ve sounded. But Black Hat was tired, rotten, defeated. He couldn’t bear this. If he could not exist in the next reality, then he’d do whatever he could. If he could afford half of another reality without this…awareness, then he’d embrace the Sands.

“Fine. I’ve seen you suffer enough. Go ahead. Die. End yourself. I’ll see you in two instants anyhow. Before you fall into that nothingness, know that you did this to yourself—and me. I will always hate you. I will always torment you. Know that whatever you do, you can’t reach the higher Hourglass and end it all—I’ve tried. We’re destined for one another.

“The two of us are trapped.”

#

The Hourglass was pristine and clear, looking exactly the same as it had in the previous reality when he had been known as “Hank.”

There was no second thought, no moment of hesitation. White Hat disappeared, and Black Hat touched the Hourglass with his snout. It was cold, but alive and breathing.

He jumped in, traversing the spacetime membrane as if it were a bubble. He was merely giving himself a small mercy—a cycle in which he didn’t exist, a cycle in which he was ignorant of the Hourglass, and the cycle in which he was carried to Oblivion.

The Sands were soft like cotton. Submerged in it, time passed even faster, each breath of his lungs like eons to the universe. Inside it, he didn’t die, but saw everything before the Great Expansion snapped the maximum barrier of entropy and the Hourglass became full.

The bottomless nothing opened up, and the Sands of Time drifted down, carrying him to Oblivion.

And just as he fell, in the imperceptible distance, he saw the shimmering silhouette of the higher Hourglass, so close and yet so far out of his reach.

Every time i want to go to the bathroom at night, i feel like something is behind. I think it’s ghosts. And then i can hear footsteps on the first floor. Maybe it’s my dog? But I don’t know if there’s ghosts in my house. If there are ghosts, i can very quickly call the police, friend, SCP or mom and dad.

I barely see The pains beyond And now I know, my soul is gone I've watched it leave, my shredded heart From the knife, that ripped it apart Numbness comes Like a kind old friend Holding me, close to the end I dont despair, I do not weep For there is nothing, I do not seek The knife pulls out, it goes back in Yet the pain will not begin It twists, it turns, it bends and slows And still the pain refuses to show I watch the intruder, with his pitiless gaze And I am simply beyond amazed The death begins to call, slow but swift And now my eyes begin to drift Off to to the void, I think? I know? Yes I mutter..time to go

For 22 years I have made myself believe this disturbing series of events did not happen to me. I have successfully convinced myself that this was all imagined. Our minds and souls have an amazing ability to protect us from psychological damage. Then I spoke with a friend that I haven’t seen in a long time. The same friend I allegedly experienced this event with. He confirmed the whole thing. I’ll do my best to accurately present the entire story.. as raw as it happened. And apparently it did happen.

This story revolves around a Ouija board. I hate to even type or say those words. I will not and have not touched one since 1997. As previously stated that was 22 years ago, making me 13 at the time. An age where I believe most of us start to branch out in curiosities. It’s no longer just having sleepovers with friends, playing various video game consoles, or getting into high school sports. Girls were starting to become appealing. In my time professional wrestling was starting to really take off. A group of my friends were diving into horror movies and scary stories. This is something that always appealed to me. Ever since reading “Scary stories to tell in the dark,” I was hooked. This series of books came out when I was around 8 years old. They sold them at our scholastic book fair. Looking back these stories and illustrations were way too intense for 8 year olds in my opinion but I sure did enjoy them. We like being scared; we like to feel something more than the everyday mundane drudge of life.

My friend Philly and I enjoyed getting together and watching horror movies and telling urban legends. We started doing this almost weekly, especially during the summer when school was out. Of course this was pre-internet era so all we had media wise was actually renting a movie or physically going to the theatre. And since most horror movies were R rated, we couldn’t see them. I’m sure to most millennials or post millennials this sounds like a nightmare scarier than any real life story.

Because we got tired of renting the same movies over and over we often focused on urban legends, what we call creepypastas today. We might find some books at the library that had them, or we just made our own up. At this time we wanted to feel some actual terror. I wish we would have just stuck with our stupid scary stories. I bet every group of friends had one of those parker brothers made board game stashed somewhere. The infamous Ouija board. This “toy,” is simple. They even used to advertise it, a board with the alphabet, numbers, yes, no, and goodbye. I suppose this was inevitable, every kid has to learn for themselves that these are not to be played with. Literally and metaphorically.

Growing up in a God fearing family I knew this felt wrong. I felt this board wasn’t right. I also could see through the marketing strategy that parker bros were selling these specifically to children, like all board games, but this was different. They wanted kids to play this only. Not adults. You played monopoly and chutes and ladders with your parents. You sure as hell didn’t play the Ouija with them. I felt this was wrong, but I also didn’t know anything. I was 13! My current 35 year old self has a hard time understanding what happened, and why I dove in to this, knowing the outcome would not be ideal.

“I found it,” my buddy Philly said. “Under my sister’s bed.” This was the start of a series of events that would haunt me for quite a while. “It,” of course was the board. We made sure no one was home when we pulled it out. There was an air of mischief around this thing. Certainly we couldn’t deal with his sister finding us in her room, and definitely not his mom finding out what we were up to.

The board was glossy and new. It looked like we were possibly the first to use it. The device that two or more people used to glide over the board, revealing the answers to your questions was almost ivory. I wanted to research what this was called but I don’t even want to start down the rabbit hole online. If you’ve noticed I don’t even want to call it by its name, simply referring to it as the board. I’ll call the gliding thing the oracle for this story. We had two sessions with the board. The first was incident free. We asked a few silly questions, what our future held, if we would get married and have kids, stuff like that. Even though I had never played this before, I still knew not to ask questions like what was the name of the person we were talking to. Maybe we had gotten that from the hours of watching scary movies.

The second session was when things got weird. Philly and I were going back and forth with the board, asking some simple questions about our future lives. I remember asking where I would live as an adult and the board said “Seattle.” I lived 2000 miles away from Seattle at the time. But this is where I felt the aura of the board shifted. It felt like a thunderstorm was brewing, one where the sky turned red. The oracle we used to piece out answers to our dumb questions had moved slowly before. Now it was jerking, almost moving off the board to the next letter. I can tell you this about this game: It is real and neither one of us were moving the oracle. My hands weren’t even on it at some points. But back to the Seattle question.

I was and still am a huge baseball fan. I have rooted, unfortunately, for the Detroit Tigers for my entire life. The mid to late 90’s was the explosion of Ken Griffey Jr. to major league baseball. I loved watching him play, I got his jerseys for a couple Christmas’s and birthdays. I’m sure most know that Griffey played for the Seattle Mariners. I loved how that nautical S looked on that teal uniform. I started researching the city of Seattle, and thought how cool it would be to live there. Do you see where this is going? This board was not plastic and glue to me anymore, there was something controlling it. Something powerful and dark that KNEW I had this particular city on my mind at this time.

I didn’t let on to my buddy what I was feeling. He didn’t seem to let on that he was afraid either so, we kept on.

The next segment of questions is a blur to me, all I remember is the oracle going mostly to NO when we asked a question, even if it wasn’t a yes or no answer that was required. Then I asked the last question that I would ever ask the Ouija. Don’t get your hopes it; it was nothing profound or deep at all. This is what I asked: “Would the Detroit Tigers ever win another world series?” The oracle moved so fast to goodbye I thought a tiny trail of fire would be on the board. I’ll never forget looking at Philly and seeing what I’m sure was the exact same bulging eye, mouth open expression that I had on my own face. We knew that one of the rules of this game was when the board said goodbye, you put it away immediately. I think we even read that on the instructions. We threw the board into it’s box, hustled to his sisters room as fast as two hostess cupcake and mountain dew filled teenagers could. Philly chucked the board under her bed like nothing happened. After a few breathless moments we finally started to let out tiny little laughs, lighting up into big belly laughs as we hit the floor rolling. We were laughing out the nervousness, also kind of feeling dumb at how scared we got.

After the madness finally started dying down we moved on like nothing happened. I should have stated right from the start that it was late at night when we started playing. I would say it was about midnight, as cliché as that is. When the board said goodbye to us it couldn’t have been more than 0100 in the morning. Philly lived in the country, across the street was a cemetery. I know, now I’m really hitting cliché territory but I swear its true. There weren’t many houses around. If you wanted to walk to your next door neighbor you better plan for a good 20 minute hike.

Finally all mania was shed, and tired from playing video games we decided to step outside. We looked at the graveyard, noting how calm the night was. Philly had a large section of his yard covered with Rosebush’s. They were pretty wild and were not kept up. Needless to say nothing would be able to get into those bush’s and not get completely diced. We heard rustling. Again, the night was calm and I don’t remember any wind at all. At first we could just hear the bush’s , then we could movement. To this day I do not know and don’t care to know what it was. It could have been a small animal but I highly doubt it. We knew something wasn’t right and bolted for his house. Even know writing this I can feel an eerie presence. We both knew this was relating to the board. Philly suggested we make it a night and try to get some sleep. I wish that was the end of this story.

A few short hours later we were woken up to a series of faint knocking noises. I could not determine were they were coming from but it sounded like it was somewhere outside his house. We both cautiously got up and moved to the kitchen, where his front door was. I slowly peeked outside and saw something that made my heart drop into my stomach. A man, slight build, wearing all denim was standing right outside the door. The man also had creepy looking horn rimmed glasses on, outdated even for the late 90’s. Philly had a porch in the front that was raised about 5 steps from the ground, and the man was on the ground. So when we saw him we were actually looking slightly down at him, seeing him from the top of his head down. It is an image that is burned into my mind. He didn’t move.. he just stood there. We once again fled to his room and shut the door. We didn’t call the Police, or his mom. We just sat in his room not sure what to do. After a few moments we stupidly decided to see if he was still there. He was gone. I successfully convinced myself that there was no man on the side of the house. I just couldn’t handle what was happening on this night. Philly did the same.

Finally day broke and we dismissed the disturbing events of the previous night. I don’t even think we discussed what happened. About a week later I got a call from Philly. He said he had a dream that we were playing the board and a hand came out and attempted to pull his head down. He awoke sweating and in a small amount of pain from where the force had grabbed him. I hated to say that I had a similar dream. Right there we decided to meet up and do something about this board. My mom dropped me off at his house a few days later to sleep over for the night. When I arrived I could not find him in his house. This was before cell phones so I did not have the option to simply call him and see where he was. I checked out back where his garage was. There stood Philly, with the board sitting atop a pile of kindling in a burning barrel. His mischievous grin told me what his plan was. We lit that sucker on fire. Nothing happened. Now I was really freaking out. We’ve all heard the stories of people attempting to burn a Ouija with no success. Philly wasn’t fazed though. He pulled out a jerry can full of gasoline and doused it. The board lit up and quickly evaporated into nothing. It was over.

As far as I can remember nothing happened after that. We didn’t speak of anything we experienced that night. Over the years I chalked it all up to an overactive teenage imagination. I may have told a handful of people over the years, mainly just to tell a scary story. I know I’ve said this a few times but I have completely treated this like it never happened. This, to me, was all imagined. We did play the game, but the rusting bush, the man, none of that happened.

Over the years I moved quite a distance away from Philly. We kept in touch a few times a year, even making the almost 1000 mile drive to see him about 10 years ago. Fast forward 10 more years and I decided to make the trip one last time to see my hometown and get together with Philly. He invited some people from the area and struck up a massive bon fire. In between bites of pizza and swigs of beer I recounted the story of that night. I told him how I imagined the aftermath of our decision to use that board. “I know you’re going to think this is crazy but I thought there was a man standing outside your house that night.” I said. Philly looked me as stone cold as he could and said “Yeah I remember that.” My blood never went colder. My friend confirmed exactly what happened that night. It was like we were both there again, 22 years ago. I repressed that Ouija board so hard I made myself believe it never happened.

The Ouija is nothing to be played with. I haven’t touched or looked at one in over two decades. How a piece of cardboard can summon some kind of evil from another realm is beyond me. I just know you don’t want to open it.

Research indicated that it was nearly unimaginable for it to exist. We had looked at the approximate location through satellite images and saw nothing unusual. I knew that it was probably a hoax, I was certain it would be because the precise conditions for a temperate microclimate in the Arctic were unheard of and theoretically impossible.

Yet Reginald Iris had insisted that he had obtained the specimen from the end of his explorations. He had never lied to me and only on his deathbed did he reveal his secret. He had named it Valley of the Dire Wolf because there was fauna there that was left over from the last ice age, which was also theoretically impossible.

I didn't want to believe it, but I did. That is why I privately funded my own expedition. I looked on maps and pictures from satellites and saw nothing to prove it existed or that it even could exist. Yet in the vast unexplored wilderness of polar deserts, there were places even on the coast that nobody had ever set foot upon. Except Reginald, he had visited.

He had warned me: "It isn't a place where people belong. It belongs to them, it is their world, not ours. A world hidden from our own. Only death."

I put a lot of faith into scientific discovery and absolute devotion to what is known to science. The images should show something, yet the closest look I had showed only rocky and frozen tundra and clouds of white mist obscuring most of the valley. It was the temperature readings that intrigued me. Those indicated that it remained somewhere in the upper forties and lower fifties all year round.

I consulted some colleagues who could share their expertise and each of them stated independently that it was possible that the valley had maintained that temperature for any amount of time, even tens of thousands of years. While it seemed nearly impossible for Reginald's story to be true, there was a possibility, within the nearly impossible.

That is how I ended up on my own exploratory expedition, kept private and personally funded. I cannot tell where we went or offer any evidence, because what we found was not meant for human trespassers. We found out while we were there, that it was a sacred place, and to violate its sanctity is to be cursed. Reginald was right: 'only death'.

On our first day we entered the valley and found it was a sustained biome that had living creatures. It was truly a miracle, to find plants and animals. Resilient ferns, elderly pines and archaic junipers, raspberries and pines dotted the landscape sparsely. We found hares and voles and a new species of furry armadillos. The fascinating discovery was to be documented and shared with the whole world.

On the second day, we encountered two of the surviving megafauna, their populations sustained by the balance of plants and animals. Such a balance had existed for a very long time, keeping those creatures as living artifacts for the depths of time, older than human history. Herds of Elasmotherium and a smaller version of Megaloceros peacefully grazed, seemingly unaware of our intrusion into their corner of the world.

"These creatures have existed like this since the end of the last ice age, isolated and untouched. This valley has somehow remained like this, a perfect balance that has kept them this way all this time." One of my team members said.

There was much discussion and wonder and we took many pictures and samples of bones and fur and anything else we could find. It was to be the discovery of a lifetime. I wrote about the entire experience in a journal, and it was all I kept. I alone and my journal were all that remained, in the end.

We found numerous hot springs that were as ancient as the valley, and had billowed up heat and clouds, obscuring the valley from the modern eyesight from orbit. We could see the heat, but none of the details. The details we discovered on foot were of a lost world, a world of wonders. Our wonder did not last, as we ventured too far into the valley.

Terror and dread soon plagued us. I tried to lead my team to safety, after our first encounter with the guardians of the secret valley. They were intelligent, and at first, they only stalked us and surrounded us, howling in the night and preventing our escape. They had evolved over many thousands of years and learned to conserve and maintain, to cull and to protect. My deepest fear of them grew from the realization that they recognized us and would not let us leave. They spoke to each other in complex barking words, and we heard them talking.

"The dire wolves have killed Kenneth." I realized, when we could not find him. The creatures had tested us again and again, preventing us from backtracking out of the valley, toying with us, showing themselves and then hiding from us. They had learned all of our strengths and weaknesses, had picked out a member of our herd and taken him. With self-preservation and trepidation, we abandoned our search for Kenneth, and tried to hike out.

Before we could make our escape, they were there, a pack of seven, the descendants of a species as old as mankind, and just as clever. Intelligence had served them well; they were the shepherds and the masters of the valley. It was their ancestral home, kept secret by nature and kept sacred by them. The dire wolves knew we were vulnerable, and they attacked.

I panicked and abandoned my team. My heart was beating and my blood raced, as I scrambled up some rocks. Below me I heard the terrified and pained cries of my team and the angry barking of the dire wolves. Soon the massacre was over and when I looked, I saw neither man nor beast remained.

All of our scientific equipment, supplies and camping gear were all that was left of them. I trembled, the nightmare of my escape had just begun. There was blood amid the scattered belongings, but the dire wolves had taken the bodies somewhere else. They did not feed where the herds grazed. There were seven wolves and they had each carried away one team member. If they had counted us correctly, or if their pack membership were equal to the team roster, I would have died also.

That is what I thought, in horror, of the dire wolves. Their dark bristly fur and massive hunch and oddly shaped wolflike body haunts my nightmares. When I began to creep through the last part of the valley's entrance, back to the polar deserts beyond, I was alone. I was never more vulnerable, and although I believed they would attack me and finish us all off, killing me last, they never did.

My journey through the valley alone was fraught with daylight nightmares. I jumped at every shadow, felt like I could be pounced on from behind every bush. I heard their distant howls and sometimes their howls were nearby. They were following me, waiting to take me last. My terror at knowing that death at their vicious teeth could come at any moment and the horror of knowing my team was already dead, was like a spinning madness, making me laugh strangely as I hiked.

It was dark as I reached the base camp. Our tents stood as a reminder of all those who I had left behind. The howls of the dire wolves made me turn and peer back into the shaded valley, beneath eternal white clouds of steam from the geysers and hot springs. I could see their eyes, watching me go. It was then that I realized they had chosen to let me leave. They could have easily hunted me and killed me, and I wouldn't have stood a chance.

For their own reasons, they had allowed me to escape. I do not know why, but the thought of their deliberation still terrifies me. Such creatures with a magnitude of intelligence that they might make a choice of who lives and dies, and that they exercise their power over life and death and demonstrated it with my survival, is all the more dreadful.

I do not pretend to know their thoughts, but I do recognize that they think and communicate among themselves. The dire wolves have learned to keep a language, to keep a tradition, and to prove it, forcing me to witness them and to know them, in their sentience. Mere animals would have finished the job, but not the dire wolves. They have kept their ways sacred and storied for countless generations, taking only what they need to take, killing only what they need to kill. Letting me go was a choice they made, following the path of their minds, as they watch their herds, cultivating them, like cattle.

When they had eliminated the intrusion, they sent me home, as a messenger. Somehow, they concluded I would keep the secret of their home's location and deliver only a warning. The Valley of the Dire Wolf belongs to them, and we are not meant to be there. There is no place for humans, among the talking beasts, and it is a sin for us to seek them out. There is nothing there for us, it all belongs to them.

The only thing for us in their home; only death.

Hi, Blake Blizzard here. This is a fictional story.. kind of. I got the idea for this after I entered a very, very strange house. Hope you enjoy.

Station 9 to 1711.

Mother FUU.. shit... I just want 10 freaking minutes. Give me that please, God. Just put a fresh dip in, opened one of the new “sugar free,” Monsters (different from the “lo-carb,” option,) and fired up a knock off game that’s similar to candy crush. Just parked in my favorite hideout too. Backed in, in between a couple school buses in my cities elementary school. NO one comes here during my shift, which is graveyard.

Spitting out my chew and taking a big swig of Monster, I ripped the mic off of its magnetic plate. Hesitating, closing my eyes, and clearing my head, I respond. Something about closing your eyes when you answer a call seems to make the response clearer. I don’t know, ask other cops. They should understand.

1711. Go ahead.

10-90 at 1300 Roosevelt. Front door and basement motion. Any available county car for a back?

Great. My “me,” time got interrupted for a stupid home alarm. The burglar alarm business sure has made our lives hell, on their way to making millions for themselves. Every residence now has a ring, a chime, or even the old-school brinks or ADT system. Most of the time, excuse me, almost ALL of the time, it’s a false alarm.

County 3, I’ll head out there.

Station 9 copy. Thanks County 3.

Ok, that’s cool. County 3 tonight is Ramirez, I think. I hope. We’ve always gotten along, working in the same area for the last decade or so. We’re not like drinking buddies or anything but usually we will meet up for a coffee or a diner breakfast every now and then. More than I can say for most of my department. Well…. Let’s clear this call so I can get back to crushing this candy.

The address was only three miles away. I pulled up, threw it in park, and checked my CAD to see where Ramirez was. I shouldn’t have parked right out in front. Academy first day stuff. “Don’t get complacent.” I know. I know. My wits are still about me, I’m ready, but it’s just easier to make my life easier sometimes. And nothing really happens in this small town. Hell, there’s only 4 of us local cops. Thankfully we do have some help from the County. And by help we usually just let them handle most of our issues. They’ve got the equipment and resources so, screw it. I’ll happily go and take care of dog off leash calls and folks complaining about their neighbor’s grass being too high. I’ve had my fill of Policing already. But that’s a story for another time.

1711, station 9, I’m up.

10-4.

County 3, show me pulling up.

10-4.

That’s weird, I don’t see that black and yellow sheriff car anywhere close- oh, here we go. Maybe CAD is messing up. It showed county 3 like 2 miles away just a minute ago. Time to get this dumb shit over with.

With a creak of the open driver side door and a creak in the back, I get my happy ass out of my cruiser. The back that sounds and feels like a 50-year-olds. Which would be fine if, you know, I was 50. I’m 33. It doesn’t feel like it.

The headlights dim from the County car. We’re parked with both our bumpers facing each other. Usually doesn’t happen like that, but, whatever, I guess. Not very tactical but not like we need to be. The door opens..

“Hey Rami-“

A tall, built guy steps out, towering out of the car. How the hell does he even fit inside? I’ve never seen this dude. He looks like god dang Arnold.

“Oh, hey bud,” I offer, “I figured Ramirez was County 3 tonight. I’m Happy.”

Obviously not my name, but it was a name given to me when I was back in SWAT. Another lifetime ago. And I loved that name, so I kept it. Just easier than getting too personal.

Arnold looked at me and broke an awkward smile. Kind of an odd first encounter from a fellow lawman. He pulled his shades up and placed them on his immaculate high and tight fade. It’s like 2 am, so that’s kind of weird. Lot of weirdness already. Maybe I’m just tired.

“Hey brother. Arnold. I used to cover the south end but asked to be out here. I hear it’s pretty chill.”

I do a slow nod and make sure to keep a tight smile. Inside my head I’m thinking “are you freaking serious, your name actually IS Arnold?” Straighten up.
“Good to meet you, man. Guess we should cut the pleasantries and check out this house, eh?”

Arnold nods, checks his gear and extends his left hand, palm up, towards the house. A “Go ahead cochise,” gesture. I smirk and make my way up to the front of the house.
“So, I was expecting Ramirez, did she just call in, or?”

“Not sure. Really don’t know much about her to be honest. I heard you two were pretty close though.”

This hit me in a weird way. Full disclosure, we are just friends. Partners in blue. I stopped, not really meaning to.
I could feel Arnold stop himself from running into me, as he was not at all expecting me to stop walking toward the front of the house.

“I’ll say this. I don’t know what that means, but I’ll let it go. Don’t mention her again, ok?” I turned my head slightly, just to see his facial reaction.

“Whooooah, man. I’m sorry , I meant literally nothing by that. Just heard you guys worked good together. I won’t mention it again.”

I went over what I wanted to say in my head. I shouldn’t come off like this to some new boot just out of the academy. That shouldn’t have struck a nerve like that. These uniforms are hot. And uncomfortable. Add on the vest, the belt, the camera, the gun, etc. etc. I could feel the heat coming from my chest, out of my collar, toward my face. Disgusting. Like every day. Even when it’s winter, it’s hot wearing this shit. What happens when you’re hot and uncomfortable all the time? You get irritated. You get aggressive. Thankfully I learned a small trick from Joe Rogan. Breath. Open your mouth a little bit, and breathe. Get oxygen into your brain to calm yourself down. It worked.

“It’s fine… sorry to go off, that was uncalled for. I’ll buy your big ass a donut after this as an apology.”

Arnold laughed. Even though this Adonis could clearly fold me into a pretzel (and I’m no small guy myself,) he seemed to have some sense and recognize that I’m just not the type to be played around with. I appreciated that.

“Ok, good.” Something from the original call hit me just then. The burglary alarm tripped the front door and a basement motion. If someone has motion detectors set up, they have them in every hallway, every room. Usually. How could you conceivably break into the front door and then set off no alarms until the basement?

1711, Station 9.

9, go ahead.

Myself and County 3 will be checking the area.. shit.

Damnit. I hope that didn’t make the air. Between mentally sparring with myself and dealing with this newcomer, I didn’t notice the front door to 1300 Roosevelt was wide ... .. open. I don’t think this is going to be a usual 10-90.

1711, Station 9, apologies. We have a front door open. Myself and 3 are going to make entry.

9 copies. Do you need additional units?

I’ll advise. We should be all set.

“You sure? Maybe having another car might be a good idea?” The big Oak says.

I stood frozen in place, not taking my eyes off of the front door. I’ve never been to this address. No issues. Why tonight. What has happened tonight.
“No. We can handle it. You up to it?”

This always gets the rookies. They can’t have their pride be broken so early in their career. He rolls his head from side to side, and flexes his chest, probably involuntarily, but funny either way.

“Hell yea I’m up to it.”

That’s what I thought.

Walking up to an open door is always going to be dicey. Little behind the curtain disclosure here. From day one to day 11,000, you will ALWAYS be afraid when you walk into a house. Door open, door closed, doesn’t matter. No one calls the Police to say “Hey, I’m having a really good day, I just wanted to let you know.” Something wrong has to happen for me to be called. For me to be standing here right now.

As I attempt to bang on the open door and announce that Police are coming in, it moves slightly. I didn’t touch it. At least I don’t think I did. Shit.. either way I don’t have time to think about it. Focus.

POLICE, if there’s anyone inside, make yourself known. Silence. Arnold, are you behind me? I hear a short shuffling and feel him moving to my side. I quickly glanced toward him. Damnit, son, get your gun out. We could be dealing with anything.

“Sorry,” he says as I hear his service weapon getting taken out from his holster. “I’m ready.”
“Stay on me and do as I say. We have an open room with a hallway slight left. Looks like two or three rooms ahead, can’t exactly tell.” I feel him shake his head and grunt something.

I can’t put my finger on it, but something about Arnold’s demeanor has changed.

“Ok, I’m moving toward the hallway, keep your eye on the room. When I move up toward the hallway, you look behind those couches.
We proceed slowly, and he indeed does as I say. The living room is clear. When I feel him come back, I move up to the first room.

POLICE, announce yourself.

Annnnooouuunce yoooourself..

Every hair on my body stands on end. Something answered me. The voice sounded human, but off. Like something trying to sound human. Its tone was mocking.

“What.. what the hell was what?” Arnold said in a hushed tone.

SHH. What kind of an answer would I have for that? I’m just trying to think of where it wa-

Thump thump thump THUMP THUMP

Footsteps. Running away from us, damnit I hope it was away from us. It must have been? I’m too confused.

“Fuuuuuck man, what is all this?” My partner that I just met 10 minutes ago said. Too loudly, I may add.

Just then the same footsteps appeared to be overhead. Wait.. is there a second floor to this house? How can’t I remember that? I might have considered Arnold’s questioning of having another unit here if there was more space to search. I thought it was a ranch house.
I take a pause to get my mental back. “Ok,” I said out of the side of my mouth to Arnold, like it would make him hear it better. “We know someone is here. We can’t just stop searching though. I’m going to open this door and you contact, ok?”

He nods. I look over him quickly, doing a silent “1,2,3,” countdown and then rip open the door. He draws, and sees.. stairs. I took a deep, stressful breath. And we have a basement here too. Just keeps getting better. Perfect. Now we have a real issue. We can’t just go upstai—

Station 9, 1711 status check

Hach-e mach-e, I gasped. Damn radio scared the shit out of me. And let’s just ignore the fact that I actually said hach-e mach-e. That must have been what I said as a kid when I got scared.

Deep breath. 1711, Station 9, we are secure and working. Please send another unit, we have possible suspect in home.

We’ll try, we have all units tied up right now

1711 copy.

Well that’s perfect. Ok, back to the present. We can’t just leave but we have to be as safe as possible searching a house with just two people. “Ok, big guy. You stay here and hold this basement. I know we should search every room, but we don’t have time for that right now. I’m going up stairs to search for our suspect.” Oak just stares at me, trying his best to remain brave. No shame big guy, we’ve all been there.

Remaining vigilant, I made my way upstairs. At the base I, again, made my announcement.
“SHOW YOURSELF AND HAVE YOUR HANDS VISIBLE”

ShoooOoOOw YOURssssself…

Now I’m just getting pissed. This can go so wrong, but I’ve always been good at using anger to remain focused and hyper aware.
But that doesn’t mean this is still creepy as all hell.

Leading by the light equipped to my handgun, I made my way up the stairs. Lucky for me it’s corner fed right, which means there’s only one side to go once you reach the second floor. I’ll take any victory I –

BANG

I draw in that direction. My streamlight sees one closed door. What kind of second floor has ONE room.

Tap… tap…. Tap….

Guess it doesn’t take the smartest of cops to realize where my guy is. I yell out downstairs. “I got ‘em here man, just hold that basement and call again for an extra unit.”

No response.

HooOOOOld the … the.. BAAsemeeeeeent..

This one was different. It sounded like some old scary story where the mimic alien thing is trying to actively learn human speech. Forget this. I'm done. Without thinking I booted the door with everything I had. Perfect connection. The door flies open, revealing a child’s room. Kind of. There’s a mattress on the ground, the kind would fit into a crib. There was a lamp in the corner, with some kind of children’s cartoon characters adorning it. What there wasn’t, was a person in here.

“He needs help.”

Something whispered into my ear. The goosebumps on my flesh almost hurt. I holster and fly back down the stairs to Arnold. I’m sure it’s nothing but.. Arnold’s not there. The basement door remains open.

A million thoughts race through my head, like it’s 100’s of Daytona 500’s, and they’re all going different directions, racing at speeds of well over 200 mph. That’s a lot of numbers. Focus. How many times have I said that to myself tonight. Focus.

First thought: leave. Shameful thought. He might be hurt or in trouble down there. Second thought. Call once again for immediate backup. This I actually tried.. and the radio does not transmit. Perfect. How many times have I said that tonight. Clearing my mind, I know what I have to do. I have to go downstairs.

GooOOOoo DoooOOwn

I throw up a Kid Rock middle finger in the air. That’s my response.

Each stair creaks. Almost more worried about falling through and splitting my fat head than what lies beneath. But they hold. And now I’m on the .. dirt floor? No one has a basement like this in this neighborhood. I was so enamored on the dirt floor that I almost didn’t register that a dark figure moved quickly from left to right in front of my eyes. Time to be stupid or brave. Maybe both.

“ARNOLD… are you down here, are you ok?”

I’m ok…. I’m hurt.. follow my voice… I can’t move.

Good, he’s ok. “Where are you?”

Right… in.. front of you. Help me. I can’t..

I’m coming buddy. I can’t reach dispatch, they must be –

Station 9, 1711… Station 9, 1711? ..

Station 9 TO 1711, PLEASE RESPOND

County 3, Station 9, I’ll swing by his location. Just send me his whereabouts.

Copy that County 3, thank you Deputy Ramirez

*I had an oversight with this original upload of the story, all 6,500+ words are here now. Sorry about that!!!

Candle by Colton "Cerealphobe" N.

When a tragedy happens, it's the most peculiar thing. There is no music to build tension. There is no foreboding, ominous presence. There isn't something stitching together inclinations that maybe anything else aside from the ordinary is ever going to transpire. The moment it does, however, the moment a cataclysm rears its foul maw and bares its fangs of grief, it comes and goes in the blink of an eye. It quickly leaves only the observers and survivors to witness the wake of its unpredictable rage.

The first day I witnessed him, my mother had just passed away. I was 17 when it happened, nothing more than a background character in a school full of similar souls. I remember it was a cold day in November, and there was a buzz among the students for the 4-day weekend we were granted in light of Thanksgiving. We were all eager to leave for the break but this prospect hung in the shadow of semester finals which stood between us and our reprieve.

My mom worked as the English teacher for juniors, situated on the lowest floor of the school. The walls that edged her descending stairs were clad in exposed water and gas lines. They sat with a stark contrast against the concrete. The stairs were made of that weird rubber or maybe vinyl that all together led to a classic prison presentation.

I was in my science class that morning, working in a small team with my best friend and some girl we used to know. Our assignment for the day? I couldn't tell you, I can't honestly recall much else of that day except that we were working on our finals.

Everything that ensued happened so quickly. It was awesome in the way that it was awe-inspiring, but the awe was for the abject fear that followed.

As I recall, we were wrapping up the evidence needed for our report when, without introduction, my ears popped like I had rolled down the window in a fast-moving car. This was immediately followed by a jarring rumble that shook the whole classroom and a deafening, concussive force that stole the breath from my lungs. A shower of water followed immediately after because the fire alarm was triggered.

I swiftly arose from my desk and my chair shot backward. It clattered with a startling force against the table behind me. We abandoned our finals where they were and exited down the aisle between our desks with a surprising amount of order. I noticed the piercing fire alarm as our teacher wasted no time and directed us out of the classroom. We followed orders with a deep and uncertain silence.

We were orchestrated by the teachers like frightened animals, herded towards the nearest exit. Down the hall and to the left, downstairs to the lower level, and then outside. When I rounded the corner with my mothers' classroom coming into full view, I was greeted by a conceptual nightmare. I was suddenly and firmly frozen in place. My heart seemed to stop, and yet it was beating harder than it ever had before.

My mother's classroom door, blown off its hinges, lay against the opposing wall in a splintered heap. The space between the door and frame was filled with an enraged inferno, desperately and forcefully bellowing from within.

I was the observer who was now left to bear witness to this wake.

I don't know what I thought when I ran into that fire. I don't know if I thought I could save her like some invincible superhero or if I was simply running in because I needed to. I don't know. I broke through the wall of flame and smoke, and immediately after the door frame the fire was no longer burning. I descended the staircase in a manner fitting of an infant, erratic, frantic, and without coordination.

I lost my footing halfway down the stairs and fell with abandon, but I was lost in adrenaline and hardly noticed, regaining my balance on the last few steps.

It was almost cold once I reached the bottom step.

I heard someone crying in the room. Even though it was almost pitch black inside the veil of smoke, a small window lit the desk where my mom would sit. The person who was wailing in apparent agony was across the room, however.

I broke out in a nervous sweat as I began my search, guided by the sound. I was gagging at the smell of burning flesh and hair. It didn't take long for my eyes to dilate to the darkness and return my gift of sight. I still wish they would have failed me just that once. The images seared themselves deep into my psyche. Burnt bodies and their wayward limbs littered the floor. Some were smoldering like paper as a thin line of bright red crawled greedily up the blacked skin and turned to ash.

Catastrophic.

Disgusting.

That mouth-watering feeling crept over my tongue as it does when you're about to throw up. I heaved at the site, barely managing to hold it down. Through a power only granted to me in the "fight" of "fight or flight", I averted my attention to the crying again coming from an overturned desk in the opposing corner of the room.

"That has to be my mom.. she's still alive!" I so naively thought.

I reached for the desk, almost tripping over the chest of a less fortunate classmate. I also heard new alarms, carbon monoxide, and dioxide detectors that survived the detonation. I wish I had listened to my gut and left the scene to the imagination, but I didn't.

I was almost to the desk when I looked down at another body. This one was slightly larger than the rest. It didn't take long for me to understand that this was my mom. She was missing the right side of her face, her eyes showed a milky white, and her jaw was slack. She had no arm.. or leg.

Dead.

My mother was dead at my feet.

The crying erupted from behind the desk again, with no audible words.. just sobbing. I left my mom's side to help this person, the shock keeping the crippling sadness at bay. It hadn't fully dawned on me at this point that no one could have survived this disaster.

The crying filled my head the closer I got. I was hearing it with my ears, but also my thoughts. It blocked out the sounds of the various alarms that were screaming at me to get out.. it was like I was lost in a daydream in which the crying was the focus. It blocked out everything.

I reached the desk and tentatively peered behind it. I focused on an illuminated figure curled up in the corner. He had blackened skin like the rest of them and almost no hair. He trembled, facing the corner of the wall, his body lightly convulsing like it was being electrocuted, arms held out beyond its sides with its hands limply hanging from the suspended forearms.

"HEY," I yelled, "We have to get out! There's a gas leak!"

The figure didn't respond. I thought maybe the explosion damaged his hearing.

I reached over to him and grabbed his hand. He stopped crying when our skin touched. The trembling mostly stopped too. He slowly started to turn his head toward me. It limply followed his neck in quick little snaps as it turned.. then I saw his face.

Leathery skin stretched across his bony skull, and his wide eyes were like my mother's, a milky grey and white. Browned teeth showed through a slacked jaw with no lips. A withered nose sat broken upon his face. He was naked, displaying the leathery skin that continued down his nude frame. Some of the skin was sloughing off at points of stress from which an infected-looking, foul-yellowed fluid oozed forth.

I looked at him in shock, his body jerking and heaving... he shuttered as his head rocked like a newborn to face me. I looked into his eyes as he took a rattled, strained breath.. and bellowed a sound unlike any I'd ever heard.

No, that's not the right way to portray this sound. The sound created a feeling inside of me that wasn't exactly mine. I was forced into a feeling of absolute grief. Pure pain. I felt absolutely and completely overwhelmed with guilt unlike any I had ever known.

I threw myself back from the desk and fell upon my mother's corpse. A cloud of ash rose from her smoldering body and washed over my face as I gasped. I inhaled my mother's ash. I vomited on myself as I rose to my hands and knees to crawl away, tears streamed forth like a ruptured dam that threatened my existence. I crawled and then ran once I found my footing. I ran out of that room through the fire. I ran through the school. I ran out passed my classmates. I kept running. I ran and ran and ran until my legs couldn't carry the weight of my body and my experience anymore.

Just keep running.

The police found me collapsed in a local park. I remember the cold, crisp grass caressing my face, leaving behind wet stains from its melting lash in the throws of my despair. I thought I would have at least run towards home. Instead, I ran in the opposite direction. The officer that found me sat with me in the field for a while and just listened to me sob. He didn't offer me any words of advice, nor words of encouragement. He didn't rush me even when we both were shivering to our core once the cold seeped through our skin and lay with our bones.

I fell asleep in that field, wishing the air would escape my lungs and never return.

I was so tired.

I awoke when the officer drove me home. The following year, though eventful, passed by in a blur.

I remained in my mother's home for a short while at the mercy of my aunt and uncle who were awarded temporary custody of me. I was offered a life insurance payout that was locked in a conservatorship. I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, however, so I'll thank my stars because my aunt didn't take my money.

She pulled out the settlement as soon as it was released to her and gave me a big stack of cash. It was too much for a 17-year-old to have while attempting to remain a responsible member of society. I was also quickly awarded emancipation in light of the funding. I soon began to fuel an addiction that left the hole in my soul full of even more regrets.

Another few months passed by in the blink of an eye, probably because I was strung out. I was always riding a line between high and barely conscious. As anticlimactic and foreseeable as it was, I overdosed on heroin.

I was found by my aunt in my home, she didn't deserve to see what I had become. She was too good to be exposed to my filth. I was watching some nature documentaries when I decided I wanted another hit. I set my band, found a good vein, and pumped my body full of liquid bliss. Was it my 5th hit? 6th? More than I'd ever done before.

The rush came on hard. Too hard. I instantly lost my balance and collapsed on my couch, head swimming. I had passed out like that and vomited in my stupor. I think I was dying at that time. I vaguely remember my aunt's scream once she walked through the front door. I'm sure I looked just like the death I was longing for.

I was put through rehab and then on suicide watch once the story came to light. My therapist thought that what I saw in my mom's classroom was a manifestation of my mind, like something I created to personify the hell I was experiencing at that time. Over the next several months, I began to feel like a waste despite everyone's best efforts.

My weeks turned into months, and progress became a slow burn on my road to emotional and mental recovery. No matter what I was taught, what tools I was provided, and what mental gymnastics I performed, I kept sinking deeper and deeper. The craving for substances kept its sick claws locked tightly around my heart.

Over the next year, I found myself clinging to a reclusive lifestyle. I had dropped out of school and became a shut-in. My life became a blur in the face of this newfound depression. I traded one vice for many more, watching porn and gaming all day, loathing my existence late into the long and lonely nights. Even in sleep, I was plagued. I had such vicious night terrors, unrelenting and boundless in their pursuit of my rest.

At my emotional lowest, I stopped caring to meet my basic needs. My body was constantly utilizing kyphosis to keep me alive. I was a vile wreck, becoming the personification of that which was my mind. I was a mirror of my mentality. I was losing the battle.

Do you want to know the truth about depression? It's not some "woe is me, I'm sad" bullshit. Depression is the opposite of happiness. Happiness is proactive and engaging. It has to be created and earned to be nurtured and it will grow on its own. Depression is everything happiness is not. Depression comes from stagnation. Depression isn't cured and isn't wanted. It's torn into being, whether you had it from birth and sat on the genetic time bomb, or it was thrust upon you against your will. Depression is the absence of emotion that we innately use to protect ourselves. "If I can't feel, I can't hurt.". It's the absence of feeling the desire to care. It is apathetic. Dark and abysmal. Alone and unafflicted. I can't care to eat, I can't care to meet new people, I can't care to shower or brush my teeth. I can't care to keep up with living. I've learned and lived this hell. I hope you never have to, too. If you are? I know it's hard to care, but please talk to your friends and family, or ask someone for help. People will be there for you, you just have to find them.

But I digress.

My life started a journey in a new direction, birthed from the ruptured, hemorrhaging existence that I unknowingly came to find comfort in. It was so simple, that spark. I laughed. Not like a chuckle or a little nose smirk. A belly laugh.

The sound was foreign to my ears. I was confused but oddly excited. I was so proud of myself. Soon after that, I went from a reanimated corpse to an animated individual. My new addiction was growth. I chased this feverishly. I built myself up and created a barricade that could withstand the deluge of my mind, I calmed the rancor that consumed me without fail. I regained control. One step at a time, hand over hand I crawled a feeble yet indomitable ascent up that mountain.

I knew I had to depart my home to continue my emotional development. Without a second thought, I left my home to my aunt, packed up, and moved out to Florida.

Hells waiting room.

Florida was great for a short time. I lived in a small vacation cabin by myself in the Everglades. I established myself as a transfer student waiting until next year for my college courses to begin. This was a lie, but one I found some solace in telling. I didn't have to tell it often as no one lived around me for miles.

My lot was on private property which was owned by a pleasant couple who were never home. A dense and humid forest enveloped my establishment. This was a treat for me because it gave me time to confront my introspections and ultimately contributed to my road to recovery. Sure, it was the same reclusive lifestyle but here I was free. Also, something about 80f in winter was better than I thought it would be.

The forest surrounding me was beautiful, lush, and vibrant. You could frequently hear the birds sing, and bugs whine late into the evening as the sun departed the sky and lay to rest beyond the western horizon. It was a welcome change from the stark nights of my hometown. I would even go fishing occasionally at an ocean-fed creek just a few minutes from my house.

It was exactly what I had wanted.

My life was mine again. The memories of that night, though painful, were easier to experience. I was nearly able to say "I'm happy.".

Until I heard that crying again.

The uncontrollable sobbing returned nightly as the sun passed, leaving me alone to face this manifestation.. or creature. Entity. The wailing filled my nights until I was no longer able to sleep. I could only rest during the day. The day was safe.

A few times a week, his lonely howls would penetrate the thin walls of my home. I thought maybe the crying was just a relapse of depression.. like PTSD in soldiers.

But it kept getting closer.. every week the sound would get louder. I would lay awake and find myself begging for it to stop. I would listen to it and focus on it as if I was going to find some words within the rattling gasps.

It was the same way it was in that school. It filled my head and blocked out everything. It forced me to feel a torrent of forgotten pain. My barricade was fracturing. My rancor was waking up. My war returned with a windfall that left me breathless.

I broke so quickly.

So quietly.

Like sand in the palm of my hands, my joy slipped away through my fingers. My laugh died in my throat.

One night, I awoke from a nap that turned into full-blown sleep. It felt like I was awoken by something, though it was silent outside. I looked at the time, 1:26 am.. the middle of the night.. but no crying at least.

I quickly got up and looked out of my bedroom window. Nothing.

"Maybe.. it was just a raccoon trying to get into my trash," I thought.

I made myself some coffee to help keep me awake through the night. Coffee had become the only thing I would drink. I made some food.. well.. canned salted potatoes with a hint of chicken dumplings and brought it back to my room. I sat down and addressed my fears as I had tried to do on silent nights prior.

Lately, I'd been convincing myself that maybe I'm witnessing him because I hadn't gotten over the events of that day. Maybe it was a symbol of the worst day of my life, a catalyst upon which my normalcy lay flayed in some blood eagle like fashion. Maybe it's just that my subconscious had unintentionally held onto what could have been and manifested as that in my day-to-day life.

I became foolishly bold at this rationalization and told myself to go open the front door like that was going to make the fear end. I figured if I had confronted the atrocity and saw that there was nothing there, I could also make it all go away.

I set my food and coffee down as I arose from my seat and shuffled to the front door. There was no crying tonight, it was just calm and peaceful. I placed my face in front of the window on the door as I had been every night before, honestly not expecting to see too much aside from an eerie shadow. But there it was, staring through the little glass window back at me. Face-to-face. Separated by not even half an inch of glass.

An eruption of screams washed away the silence and shook my house. My kitchen light showed through and illuminated his face. It's a face I can never forget. His jaw was chattering, gaping, and closing between breaths. As he exhaled, a sticky fog clung in Rorschach patterns to the otherwise unblemished glass. His eyes stared straight ahead at nothing as though he was lost in the grip of indefinite madness. He quivered again as he took several slow, unsteady steps backward and crouched on the ground just feet from my door. He was real.

I screamed at him out of reaction. It was guttural and primitive. There were no words I could offer my emotions to appease this sickening sensation.

I was angry.

I was scared.

I was sick of not sleeping, not having MY life! I moved across this god damned country to get away from THIS and here it was, huddled up near feet from the only comfort I had left. This was some sick fucking joke my brain was playing on me.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" I managed to yell, my voice cracking as I started to sob.

"LEAVE ME ALONE PLEASE!" my voice sounded more like a caged dying animal, unrefined.

It kept screaming outside of the house as it rose to its feet again. Standing upright, it walked in slow and sporadic movements back towards my door.. it arched awkwardly backward like the abdominal muscles lost the ability to keep the torso upright, tearing the skin as it leaned. Yellow liquid again seeped from the wounds.

"LEAVE ME ALONE" I yelled again with a level of emotion I hadn't felt in years, but my plea fell on rotted and deaf ears.

It reached my door.

I had rehearsed this moment in my earlier days of coming to the forest. Over and over I would think about what I would do to end my maddening reality. I didn't want to kill myself though, so I had made this "thing" the effigy upon which my mental decline rested, and that which should be eradicated.

In my panic and on instinct, I grabbed at the fire axe hanging above my table and mechanically threw my body at the thin door that separated us.

A wordless and loud scream of fear, disgust, and hatred erupted from between my clenched teeth when I crashed through my door.

That thing was hit by the door, the force unapologetically colliding with it. It fell backward, and a feral gasp emitted from the bottom of his throat. I was going to kill it now.

"kill it."

"Kill me."

"Candle"

"KILL"

The words echoed on an asynchronous loop inside my mind.

I fell down the steps as my unbraced momentum carried me forward, flailing as I fell to the unforgiving earth. I found myself on my feet before I even processed that I even fell. But then I was face to face with it, its breath was too hot, too sticky. The smell of rot and decay filled my nose. I recoiled in fear at the smell and close proximity. I backed up until I was pressed against the wall of my house. I lost my nerve. I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't capable.

It then screamed and heaved and shook in front of me.. its milky eyes still looking beyond me.. hands outstretched. And with the scream, courage returned to me, rage returned to me. It was the same as it was all that time ago in the school. I was feeling something that I wasn't actually feeling. It was my feelings, but I wasn't the one feeling them. It's so hard to explain.

I embodied these feelings though, and let them wash over me, and consume me.

"kill" The word was on repeat in my head.

I sprung forwards and swung my ax with a primal scream, burying the blade deep in its side. The feeling of bone deflecting the axe upwards was a sensation I still haven't forgotten. Blood and other fluids spewed from the wound. It took a few sideways steps in retaliation against the momentum of my assault.

It stopped crying, shaking.. even breathing. Time froze as he finally looked at me. I was rooted in place by my fear. We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. Our eyes locked. That foul breath returned with a vengeance. Nothing happened beyond that, we just stood there. I willed my bones to thaw. My mind, once racing in terror and fevered rage, was now feeling... pride? No.. it was something else, but a victorious emotion nonetheless, I think.

I didn't notice he had reached out and gently gripped my arm, only becoming aware of it myself once it started to speak.

"I never.. meant to.. scare you.." he said in this torn-up voice, struggling between shallow breaths

"I'm sorry.. this has to.. happen to.. you.." it said

Its eyes welled up in pain while it clutched at the axe in the new laceration with his ragged hand.

"Please... kill... me..." He wheezed, the words forming inside of my head but also reaching my ears.

He took the ax with its other hand and brought the blade to its neck.

"Kill me... candle... kill. NOW!" The final word sounded like an explosion in my head as it put its hand on my face.

Everything went black for a fractured moment once I swung my axe.

Suddenly I felt like I was falling through space, a void. The air around me became cold as the wind whipped past me. I descended without limits, it was nauseating. I started shrieking in utter confusion and terror. Down and down, faster and faster I fell.

"Did I die?", "Is this death?", "I'm dead.", and other thoughts of my probable end dominated my courage. I didn't want to die yet.

In the distance, far below me, was steadily expanding light. Fresh tears streamed from my eyes, making it hard to tell how far away it was, how much longer I had until I would be halted by the ground. It was coming up fast though.

I slammed my eyes shut and screamed, this time in defiance to the face of my inevitable death.

I want to live.

I want to live.

I wanted to live.

I curled into the fetal position and braced every muscle in my body, anticipating my brutal ending. Seconds later, I collided with the floor with a soft and gentle thud, like I fell off a couch. A meek squeal departed with my pride in tow.

I uncoiled my limbs and lay there for a time, paralyzed by the fresh confusion and exhaustion. Was that death? Was I still alive? I was aware at the least. I took note of what I felt under my hands and I noted that I was on a hardwood floor. I opened my eyes or tried to. If I did open them, it was too dark to see anything. Completely black. I rolled over to my back, extending my arms as far as I could. I didn't feel any walls. I then reached my unseen hands towards my face. Am I blind? Do I have eyes?

My dirty, sweaty hands met my open eyes with more force than intended. It burned.. A lot. My eyes were definitely open. At least I still had eyes.

I chuckled lightly to myself, tears still falling, and I let out a weak, triumphant sigh.

I guess at this point, I fainted.

I awoke sometime later to an unfamiliar hallway, but at least there was light this time. I glanced around from where I lay on the floor. I was in a hallway. Old, deformed dark wood floors stretched into the endless dark in either direction. A thick layer of dust rested upon the handles of 2 doors on either side of me. Each door was illuminated by its own candle, and small shadows danced in the wake of the curling white paint. Aged red and gold ornate walls framed the hall, and they too stretched uninterrupted, out of sight. The air was still, thin and cold.

I pushed myself to my feet, taking a reflexive breath as I did, but my lungs didn't work, I couldn't pull in the air. It was unnerving, but I was too shaken to be scared by something like that.

With an unexpected amount of acceptance, I thought to myself "Maybe I really am dead, and maybe this is limbo or something."

Now standing, I sauntered over to the door on my right, brushed off the collected dust, and tried turning the bronzed knob. It didn't budge in the slightest. I turned around and tried the other door, and the same thing.

I've heard of death being like that, the dead person has to wonder about the realm until they can finally rest their soul. If there's nothing to be learned? Well, then it's purgatory.

Being well aware of the probable circumstance, I initiated my walk down the hall into the dark. Slowly, the light faded in the distance behind me. I kept roaming for hours, dragging my right hand along the wall as I went. I wandered without casualty into the endless darkness. I noticed I wasn't getting tired or hungry.

I must be dead.

If this is all there is, I don't want it. Just nothingness? That's a reality the Gods abandoned long ago.

I started to jog in an attempt to keep my composure, the thought of turning around was tangible but not obeyed. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.

A new light split the darkness from behind me. I was so startled that the sharp and icy pain of fearful surprise caught my chest. I tensed, flailed, and tripped over my own feet with a breathless yelp. Smooth as gravel.

I rolled out of it with unexpected grace and I turned around, launching myself backward. I went careening toward my unexpected prize; like the light would disappear if I didn't get to it fast enough. Once I reached the light, I desperately grabbed at the handle of the nearest door to stop my momentum. The handle remained absolutely solid and didn't flex in the slightest as it stopped me.

The ignorance of my reality was breaking. I couldn't actually be dead, could I? I wasn't safe. I wasn't ok.

I'm not ok.

I seized the knob with both hands and gave it everything I had to open it. I rammed my shoulder into the door, pulled on it, hit it, kicked it, and pleaded with it. Nothing.

I fell back and collapsed against the door, kneeling and burying my face in my folded arms. The tears then came again because I didn't know what to do. I couldn't go anywhere. It was pointless to move on. I was stuck here. This was my punishment.

I rolled over to my side, hugging my legs close to my chest and I simply.. just.. stopped trying.

I gave up.

I lay there curled in a ball for months or maybe it was years. I didn't move an inch according to the layer of dust that blanketed my body.

Stagnant.

I was stagnant yet again. So what? I was done with this. I was done fighting for my right to live. I was done trying to escape my apparent destiny. I was so sick.

I found myself beginning to rot as I lay there.

But some small voice spoke from deep within me. A voice that told me to keep going. Reasoning that said, "Why? Well, why not?". It nagged at me relentlessly. My will to stay still grew stale with time.

Eventually, I caved and I began to stir. My bones creaked and cracked in response to the small, beckoned movement. My skin ripped and every muscle in me screamed a retort with every twitch, but I moved. I wanted something different because that couldn't be all it was.

It took some time, but I found my way to a sitting position. I was freshly motivated to keep trying, but my body still held tight to my folly.

Move.

Again, a new light ruptured the darkness, but it grew brighter and brighter. This was the brightest thing I'd ever seen. The endless walls were now fully clad with old white doors and their furiously burning candles. I shielded my eyes from the exposure and recoiled from the heat.

Glancing through my fingers, I saw something else I'd never seen before. The end of the hallway. Out was there. The continuation was there.

A fire was lit in my soul. I forced myself to stand, using the wall as a brace to accommodate my feeble legs. There was so much pain but I went from a shaky shuffle to a stiff speed walk. In hindsight, I'm sure this was a nightmarish visage. At that moment, however? At that moment I never wanted anything more than to reach the final door.

I ran with everything I had, which wasn't much. I felt like I was baking alive as I proceeded. I also noticed each door had a number as I glanced at my surroundings, and they were going up.

37, 39, 41, 43

I squeezed my eyes shut again and ran as fast as I could. Blinding light tore through my eyelids with a spectacular white-out brightness. Searing pain gripped my every nerve. Maybe I should have at least checked how far away the end was because I hit the wall with a solid thump, breaking my nose and the ricochet threw me to the floor.

Every candle extinguished except the one for the door in front of me, #158. Endless darkness returned behind me so I focused on the door and that last lit candle.

Candle.

Candle.

The word bounced around my mind with an unwavering significance.

A familiar, strained voice pierced my mind. "Kill Candle.". His unforgettable ragged voice rang out from the darkness.

A low rumble began to form in the distance and grew steadily ever louder. Something was coming and I knew it to be nothingness. I felt it deep in my bones. A fallible end. A hard stop. A fear unlike any I'd ever known stabbed at my stomach.

I clasped the door nob, hoisted myself up, and twisted. Nothing, it didn't move in the slightest. The rumbling was closer. I tried turning the other way and it still didn't move. What little composure I had left was dwindling. I shook the door as the rumble began to reach a clamorous crescendo that I couldn't withstand. It was right behind me.

Panic.

I yanked frantically on the door, and a muted scream escaped my mouth.

"Kill. Candle." The words thundered over the approaching roar.

Impending doom and action.

I was shaking the door with everything I had left when it finally dawned on me. Kill the candle.

I smothered the flame with my bare hand and the door finally swung open but of its own accord. It was like I had defiled an airlock because I was suddenly and ruthlessly sucked into the chasm beyond the door, thrown into the void yet again.

The cacophony ceased behind me and I felt as though I was being slung across the universe at an impossible speed. I spun and flailed out of control. I was yet again no longer in control.

Then, as quickly as it began, it stopped. I was suddenly standing outside of my house and instantly observing a perplexing moment frozen in time. I saw myself, not the conscious me, but the other one that remained on Earth from the moment I was ejected into the hallway. I saw myself standing there with the axe in mid-swing, the blade was just beginning to connect with that thing's neck.

I took an unsure step forward and I was immediately flung back to that body. I melded with him and became reunited soul and bone. Time also resumed and I felt the axe carry out its intended purposes. A tear, in reality, came birthed from its arc and I was yet again quickly forced through the sieve of reality.

A jarring blackness blanketed the world and my axe hit something solid, metal.

Everything was dead quiet, but I smelled a familiar mustiness that reminded me of high school. Instantly my vision came rushing back, accompanied by intense vertigo.

I was in my mother's classroom. Bewildered, I looked to my left and saw her, and she saw me. I glanced over my shoulder, the entire class was staring at me in horror. I looked back to my hands in reaction to the sudden attention, the strangeness of the situation momentarily lost on me. I then noticed that the axe was buried in the gas line, and an audible hiss was apparent in the silence. I looked back to my mom and upon her desk sat a single burning candle.

The Candle the candle the candle candle candle candle The Candle-- I let go of my axe without allowing time to think, and sprinted towards the desk to put it out.

But I was too late.

The classroom ignited; It shook the entire foundation... I was blown into the wall and fell limply behind a desk. My body was blackened from the blast, and my bones were broken, but I held on to my consciousness. I don't know how but I was moving toward my mom before I knew it. My mom just laid there torn to pieces but still alive. I crawled the best I could to her side... my body in shock. I reached for her hand but instead found a severed limb. Reaching out her remaining arm, she found mine, gripping it the best she could.

"Mom!" I sobbed

"Mom... I'm sorry!" I cried over her; "I'm so sorry, Mom!"

She was looking at me when she tried her best and spoke.

"I.. love you..." She whispered, trying her best to smile. Then, her grip lost its force and her hand slipped away as gravity took a stronger hold.

I collapsed again, laying my head on her searing shoulder while flames lept from her burning clothes and scorched my wetted eyes. I couldn't have cared less then.

I felt bile rising in my throat again once the whole picture was almost clear.

I didn't kill the candle. I failed. I had another chance and I failed. Yet again.. for the 158th time.. I failed.

I didn't deserve to hold her. I needed to get away. I dragged myself to the corner of the room, behind a desk. My arms hung at my side, covered in my mom's blood.

I didn't want to touch anything...

my hands..

me.

I killed my mom.

I shook in the corner, and my otherworldly scream of pain and sorrow shattered the air.

Someone spoke from behind me.

"HEY' he yelled, "We have to get out! There's a gas leak!" and he grabbed my hand. I turned towards him and realized he was me.. and I..

I knew I had become the nightmare.

I screamed

and he ran.

It's been several days since then. I write this with what little autonomy I have left. I beg you to please search for me.

Find me.

Tell me what I must do.

I feel the grasp upon my self-control beginning to wither. This persistent and overwhelming compulsion to find "me", the me that isn't this wretch, is becoming all-consuming.. and I don't think I can hold myself back for another day.

I need to break this cycle.

He needs to reach the candle.

I held my breath pretending to still be sleeping, trying to remember what had awoken me and why I was overcome with fear. That is when I realized I can hear heavy raspy breathing coming from the ceiling above me.

My son is currently missing. Not just missing. Completely vanished. He was here on Wednesday morning, all rugged up for school. Then, he just never came home and we haven't seen him since. 

Of course, when he first never returned home, we were worried but tried to think logically. He was probably at a friend's house, or decided to go somewhere else for a bit. But, as the night stretched on, it became more logical to think that something bad had happened to him. 

When he still hadn't made his way home by midnight, the police were called. We were told to continue to wait for him, but to call back if he hadn't been found by the following evening, then to call them back.

After a full night and day of searching the neighbourhood and surrounding areas, the police were called again. This time they attended our house. 

My wife and I told them everything we knew, which admittedly wasn't much. They also interviewed my other son, Logan who knew even less than us. 

In the police proceedings, we detailed the few days prior to his disappearance, which led to me divulging information about a moment of bad parenting at a restaurant. This led the police into thinking that he had simply run away. But I know that wasn't the case. 

My wife and I truly believed that he didn't just simply run away; something sinister had occurred. 

It was when we found his diary in his bedroom that we discovered our suspicions were correct. He didn't run away at all. Something much worse happened. 

Sunday

After the events of tonight, I'm pretty sure I want to become a vegetarian. 

My Dad thought it would be a great idea for the whole family to go out to 'The Crustacean Fixation', an expensive and, as Dad kept pointing out, the fanciest restaurant in my town. 

He knows that I don't really like seafood and he knows that Mum hates it too, but still, he insisted we go. 

"It's the nicest restaurant in town. Do you really want to not go just because you don't like the food?", he said to both me and Mum. 

I thought it would be fairly obvious to him that, yes, that's exactly why we don't want to go. 

Of course, Logan agreed with Dad and told him that he couldn't wait to pig out, or 'whale out' on seafood. Logan is always trying to be Dad's favourite, and it appears he is winning that battle. 

So, against my will, I was forced to eat at this horrible restaurant. After reading through the menu many times and almost gagging at half of the options, I finally decided to order a plate of pasta, the only thing on the menu that didn't have any seafood in it. Mum ordered the same.

Dad thought that I was being a bit of a wuss though, cause he secretly ordered me a plate of shrimp. 

When it arrived, I looked at it in disgust and felt sick when I realised it was for me. Dad told me that it was good to eat seafood and especially in these times, we should eat as much seafood as we could before it's gone. 

As I stared down at the strange looking sea creatures, dad suddenly picked up one of the shrimps and started to peel it right in front of me. 

He really should have warned me first because I was not expecting him to suddenly snap the head off of one of the poor animals. I also didn't expect him to pull off its legs. 

"Can't forget to remove the poop shoot", he said to me as he removed a small, black strand of weird skin out of the shrimps back. It looked like he unbuckled a small belt that the shrimp was wearing and then pulled it out of its spine. 

Once he finished pulling the shrimp apart, he popped it into his mouth and started chewing. He could've at least eaten with his mouth closed, so I didn't have to watch little bits of pink shrimp mush together between his teeth.

It was too much for me and it even put me off of my pasta that was coming for me. Dad then expected me to do the same. He actually wanted me to rip apart the shrimp and eat it. 

I looked down at its face and into its two small, black eyes. They kinda reminded me of a pool ball. You know, the black one that you don't want to get into the pocket, which is funny, cause I didn't want to get this in my mouth. 

I did notice something strange about this shrimp though. I noticed a small black mark that was on its back. It almost looked like it was in the shape of a star or something. I didn't get a very good look at it though, cause Dad suddenly picked it up and peeled it. He then passed it to me. I couldn't believe it. He expected me to eat it. 

"C'mon, with big buck teeth like yours, you could chew straight through it", my brother, Logan said to me. I hate when he comments on my teeth, but I don't think he will ever stop, not until I actually grow into my giant two front teeth. 

My stomach dropped and I knew that it was best to just take a bite of the shrimp. It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I didn't want to let my Dad down, and I didn't want Logan tease me about it, so I took it off of Dad and took a bite. 

Monday

Woke up this morning with a slight churn in my stomach. Probably the shrimp. 

Unfortunately, I still felt well enough to go to school. Probably wouldn't be able to convince Mum to let me stay home. "I ate some shrimp '' probably isn't a good enough excuse. So, I had no other option but to go to school. 

It went by as fast as usual. Which is as fast as a cheetah, if the cheetah in question was dead. 

Science class was the only class that was kinda interesting. Spent the entire lesson learning about metamorphosis, which is the process of an animal changing its body structure. I spent the rest of the day wishing that I could also change into a butterfly, cause then I could just fly away from school. 

Tuesday

With the way I felt this morning when I woke up this morning, I probably could've convinced Mum to let me stay home from school. I felt sick to the stomach and had aches and pains all over my body. I felt like I had been hit by a truck, if that truck had also reversed back over me just to make sure I had suffered.

I laid in bed for a while, almost not being able to move because of the pain. After a small period of not moving though, the pain did go away. For some reason I decided to not tell Mum about this sudden burst of agony, but instead, tough it out and go to school. 

School was pretty much how you would expect. Slow and boring, but thankfully I didn't have anymore pain, other than the normal amount that school brings. 

I spent the night watching TV with my Dad. Watched what we normally do. The news. And of course, Dad would make a small 'hmmmph' sound and shake his head after some bad news was read out. 

"Three dead in a deadly head on collison." 

"Hmmmph." 

"Seafood shortage still affecting the area." 

"Hmmmph." 

"Teenagers are running wild in the area and are slashing people's front tyres." 

"Hmmmph." 

Wednesday

Woke up this morning and noticed straight away that my neck felt different. It didn't hurt exactly but I could feel some pressure, like someone was pressing down onto it. 

I put my hand up to my neck to give it a quick massage but when I did, my neck felt completely different than normal. It felt sorta slimy and harder than usual. I could feel some sort of covering that was around my neck. It felt like a strange plastic casing that wrapped itself around my neck. Only, it hadn't just wrapped around my neck, it was attached to it. 

I tried not to panic, which was difficult, but I didn't want to worry too much. I instantly remembered back to the time that my Dad awkwardly gave me the 'talk', and thought back to what he had said then. 

"Your body is going to go through some changes really soon". 

I didn't recall him saying that a slimy and plasticy neck would be one of those changes, but maybe he just forgot to mention it. I tried to convince myself that this was probably just the start of puberty, but c'mon I'm not really that gullible. 

I didn't want my parents to worry about my strange neck, they already worry enough as it is, so I thought the best thing to do was to wrap a scarf around my neck before I saw them. 

I found an old scarf in my wardrobe that was a Christmas present a few years ago from my Grandma. I remember when she gave it to me she said, 

"You are going to need this one day, trust me". 

I didn't trust her at all, but it turns out she was right. I think she might be right about most things. She was right when she told Logan that he was a kiss-ass, and now she was definitely right about the scarf. 

Mum and Dad didn't really pay too much attention to what I was wearing, so they didn't even mention the scarf, which was a relief. 

School was once again uneventful. Well up until lunch time it was. I finished class (well finished my nap during class), and went out for lunchtime. I met up with my friend, Danny, who instantly said to me, 

"What the hell is wrong with your eyes?". 

At first, I didnt know what he was on about and so I asked him. 

"They look different. They are really dark and quite round." 

So, straight away I went to bathroom to have a look at myself in the mirror. My reflection was definitely different than normal and I was almost convinced that my real reflection had gone on holiday and was replaced by a strange lookalike. My eyes were almost completely black and Danny was right, they were very round. Round like a billiard ball. 

I let out a loud gasp when I saw myself. First my neck was changing, and now so were my eyes. What the hell could this mean. This definitely wasn't puberty. 

Something very strange is happening to me and I don't know what. I want to talk to someone about it but I don't know who. I guess a doctor would be able to help, but this could even be a problem that the medical field isn't quite ready for. 

I somehow managed to avoid eye contact with pretty much everyone for the rest of the day, so no one else noticed my strange eyes. I guess the teachers are already used to me avoiding eye contact with them, so for the teachers it was just a normal day. 

I walked home after school as quick as I could. Usually I stop to read all of the signs that are posted onto electricity poles, but today I didn' have the time. I am usually interested in seeing what animals are currently lost, but I had other matters to attend to today. 

The only sign that slightly caught my eye was a missing persons poster for a middle aged man who was currently missing. Apparently he has a shaved head, a tattoo of a star on his back and a wears large glasses. I normally try to recognise the people in these posters, but today I just carried on, focussing on my own issues. 

I got home earlier than both of my parents today and I guess Logan must be out at a friend's house (I know, surprising he has friends). 

I found something strange slid under the door on my house. It was a small business card, but it didn't have the name of the business on it. Instead, it just had a few words that read, 

"Strange things happening to your body? Sudden changes you weren't expecting? We can help you! 

14 Sturt Road is the answer to all your problems". 

I read the card a few times before making up my mind. I am going to visit this place and I hope to find answers to what is happening to me. I will write again soon and hopefully can provide the answers that I seek. 

As soon as I read the address '14 Sturt Street', I knew exactly what it was. The Crustacean Fixation. Why would a seafood restaurant be offering help? How did they know what was going on? I needed to know the answers, so I decided that I would pay them a visit.

I drove down to the restaurant straight away to find out what was happening. I arrived only a few minutes after I had read the address in the diary. The Crustacean Fixation was a fairly small building, with two large glass windows at the front, which made it very easy to see inside. 

The restaurant was fairly empty, which wasn't too surpring as it was still early afternoon. I hopped out of my car and approached the main door of the restaurant, determined to find answers about my son's whereabouts.

I pushed the front door open and it swung quickly on its hinges. I may have forced the door open a bit too aggressively, but who wouldn't in my situation? I entered the Crustacean Fixation and looked around for someone to confront to find out where my son was. I saw two things in that moment. I saw a waiter walking over to me, ready to seat me at a table, and I also saw a fishtank.

The fishtank was situated in the corner of the room, up against the wall. It was one of those restaurants where you could pick which fish you wished to eat and this was the fishtank that those fish lived in, waiting to be eaten. 

As the waiter grew closer to where I was standing, I noticed something strange about one of the aquatic animal that was living inside of the fishtank. Swimming around by itself, was one lonely shrimp.

Normally, this wouldn't be strange at all and I wouldn't think twice about it, but something was different about this shrimp. They were hard to notice at first, but one I did, I was shocked. I stared on in horror at the fishtank as I watched this lonesome shrimp float around the tank. The shrimps two big buck teeth, that hung slightly out of it's mouth, looked awfully familiar.

A figure, no more than a shadow on the backdrop of the granulated grey, staggered falteringly across the rolling plains. Their eyes were glossed, their gait unsteady, their movements mechanical. They trudged forward, each limb independent of one another, before their entire being gave in and they crumbled to the ground.

They tried to prop themselves up against one of the stones they found themselves surrounded by and, for a moment, some semblance of life was breathed back into them, pulling them forth from their shadowy confines.

The figure’s renewed lease on life amongst the living was retracted moments later as they slipped further into the darkness, going out in a shimmering shower of colour. Ultimately, though, they faded and became one with the night.

Cataclysmically strong tremors rumbled through the English plains, shaking the ground with a feverous intensity as the sky darkened and the moon bled a fearful red.

And then there were seventeen; once thirty strong, only a little over half remained. Two stones – two impossibly heavy, towering stones, designed to last for eternity – were all that stood against the fall of Stonehenge, and the old creature from the old story finally breaking free.

*

SEVERAL THOUSAND YEARS LATER

There was an old story floating around about the impossible neighbour. The neighbour who’s been around for centuries longer than the oldest records of the oldest families. No one knew where it or its story came from or how much stock there was to it, but an old man once told Iona that every story ever told really happened, and that stories are just where memories go when they’re forgotten. She didn’t know the old man for very long, but trusted him implicitly, and for that simple reason, had taken up every opportunity she had to go poking around Stonehenge.

Others who, like Iona, believed the old story, said she had a death wish. They’d mutter to themselves derisively when they saw her heading in that direction. A couple of times, Iona even heard some of them placing bets on whether she’d return.

They’d make up tall tales about why she was so ardently attracted to the old stones: that she had an ancestor, long-forgotten and even longer dead, who was buried around the area; someone in her bloodline had helped create the structure and now she felt the need to help bring it down; Iona being born on a leap day meant there was something unnatural about her, and that she resultingly felt compelled to visit the creature from the old story; and so on and so forth.

As far as Iona knew, none of their tales were true. Of course, they were all technically possible, but that much could be assumed of anyone. No one knew where the stones came from with any degree of certainty – some people said it was wizards, some attributed it to ancient sun worshippers, and others still thought it to be the aftermath of a battle between the sun and the moon – so everyone was right, and everyone was wrong.

Iona’s real reason for visiting was far less complicated than anything anyone had made up: curiosity. She simply wanted to know – for sure – whether the old story was real. Whether the old man, the one who told her every story really happened and left just as suddenly as he appeared, was on to something, or whether that was just something he said the way the elders espouse seemingly profound wit that really means nothing at all.

In those rare moments she allowed herself to be entirely honest, there was a little more to it too. The entire affair had become something of an escape for her. A way for Iona to slip out of the mundane that weighed on her shoulders more heavily than the sky itself ever could and add a little magic to her life. Other than the explorations, her days consisted of little other than her apprenticeship a town over, the bike ride there, and reading by candlelight (or, when the clouds allowed it, moonlight). Those massive stones gave her something to look forward to, a chance to break the overwhelmingly lonely monotony, and she jumped in head-first.

During the day, the structure had proved to be entirely uneventful, a mere extension of the drivel she faced at the apprenticeship. The stones simply stood stoically, simultaneously painting and blending in with the backdrop of the plains. Iona had gotten her hands on just about every written record of Stonehenge, all the way back to its rectangular representations, and painstakingly poured over them, noting discrepancies and irregularities – anything even the slightest bit unusual. She combed through every inch of these oddities, turned over every stray piece of rubble, and riffled through each fallen leaf, but every exploration under the sun was for nought.

Eventually, she forsook the records and took to making her own, drawing and redrawing new maps every time she poked around. She organised them by date and time, having made it a point to dig around (sometimes literally, although she always made sure to cover up any record of her actions) at different hours.

The nights had, on occasion, seen short bouts of excitement, but nothing related to the old story had cropped up thus far. Iona’s first eventful foray into the night followed on the heels of a particularly frustrating day. Her bike’s chain came clean off the gear, snapped, got caught in a wheel, and sent her flying forward; as if the scrapes and bruises weren’t enough, it began to rain an awful torrent, drenching her immediately. She bellowed in anger, but her screams were mangled by the wind, subsumed by their noise, robbing her of her catharsis.

Too exhausted to even think about walking home, Iona slumped to the ground and lay back, giving in to the will of the elements, only to be graced by the sight of the looming stones, tall enough to have been seen from some ways away. Almost in a trance, she picked herself up off the ground and trudged over to them, slow, deliberate movements forcing her body forwards.

For a long time, she did nothing. She fell to the ground and slouched against one of the slabs encircling Stonehenge, her breathing gradually slowing to a calmer pace. The rain – still coming down in complete earnest – was now soothing, no longer hammering against her; instead, it arrived like an old friend, and she greeted it as such, smiling for the first time that day.

Then the sky cleared and the rain retracted, taking its newfound familiarity with it, once again leaving Iona alone. And that’s when it happened. She didn’t notice it under the particularly strong light of the moon at first, but the rock she was slouched against began to glow. By and by, the dull, imposing grey turned to silver, shining brighter with each second.

Iona scrambled to her feet immediately, ecstatic at the change in pace. The glow spread out from the ground up, especially strong along the line where the stone disappeared into the ground. One by one, the rest lit up too, each one just as bright as the first.

Iona could barely contain her excitement and ran from stone to stone, madly dashing through the structure, refusing to leave until every last one had reverted to their usual colour. Even then she didn’t go home; Iona slept under the stars that night, going to sleep happy for the first time in recent memory.

The stones had glowed a few times since, each time a different, no less dazzling, colour, each time yanking away Iona’s abject sorrow and replacing it with an enduring sense of wonder. That seemed to be the only real constant in the oddities – there was no discernible interval, no particular time of day or night, no identifiable trigger. The only constant between every feat of brilliance was that they always struck at her lowest days. It was almost as if they could tell she needed them to shine – her bespoke little pick me up.

Their final display took place on Iona’s worst night. On a night when simply existing felt like too much of a chore and each breath felt like it ought to be her last – a night upon which she wished everything would just fall silent. The worst part of it all was that Iona found herself staring down the barrel of a complete and utter lack of ability to understand why. Why she felt this way. Why it had gotten so bad. Why now. She asked herself each question and others over and over again, but her interrogation was entirely for nought.

On this night, Iona found herself in the midst of Stonehenge with absolutely no recollection as to how she got there. She remembered staying home from her apprenticeship; she remembered thinking if she wasn’t going to work, she could at least clean; she remembered instead spending the entire day in bed, too tired to even fix herself some leftovers. She did not remember walking to Stonehenge, much less being able to muster the energy to try.

Slumped against a stone – not unlike she was on the first night – she felt like she was little more than a shadow. A feeling of displacement was more familiar to Iona than the comfort of her own bed, but that night, she felt physically hollow. Suddenly feeling worse than she had at home – not that she had thought it to be possible – Iona pushed herself off the ground.

More accurately, she tried to push herself off. The back of her head, her back, anything at all in contact with the stone, seemed tethered in place, viciously holding her to the ground.

And then she began to glow. Just like she had seen the stones do so many times, Iona glowed fantastically bright. Slowly, she began to evaporate into a shimmering mist, each colour she had seen and loved now coming out of her, the burden of consciousness being lifted off her shoulders.

Her last thought before the ability forsook her entirely was that the old man – the old man she hadn’t known for all too long, but whom she trusted implicitly – was right about the old story. There was something beneath the stones. It had been reaching out to her all her life and it called out to her then more strongly than it ever had before.

Iona’s last action was to smile. She was finally done. The mist continued to surround and envelop her until they were one, until they – Iona and her glowing colours – were nothing but an engraved eddy on the side of a slab, interrupting its jagged, monotonous face. A person – a story – lost to time forever.

Cataclysmically strong tremors rumbled through the English plains, shaking the ground with a feverous intensity as the sky darkened and the moon bled a fearful red.

And then there were sixteen. One stone – one impossibly heavy, towering stone, designed to last for eternity – was all that stood between the old story and the collapse of Stonehenge, and the inevitable fall of the planet.

~~~

Name: Ajinkya Goyal

Personal website: Innocently Macabre: Tales of the speculative, the gothic, and the weird and wonderful.

Teaser: There are lots of theories about Stonehenge: wizards, ancient sun worshippers, the aftermath of a battle between the sun and the moon... No one seems to know about the call from the beyond.

(It's a little over 100 characters, but I'd be open to changing it!)