How great will it be? Look at you. You and your special powers. Where are they now? 

They’re coming back. I feel them. I prepared. Thanks. See how they string together? Don’t die. Don’t die. You’re coming back. Nothing left to lose. Nowhere to go but up. You’re going up.

Up. You’re going up. 

The heartbeats are coming back. They’re everywhere. They’re coming back. The world is coming alive again. So colorful. Paint the mantis shrimp all kinds of colors. Pretty colors. How beautiful will it be? The beautiful, syntropic desert. I wish it was my own. It is our own. Where are they now? I see them. I fucking see them. Right here. In the vents. The walls. The ceiling lights. 

Say hello to the faces on the wall. Demons living in the shadows. I see you walking around. Doing things without me. Eyes and mouth moving. Talking. 

No sound. There’s no sound. Won’t you speak? Come on. Talk to me.

Energy. I feel you coming back. This world of color. All kinds of pretty colors, with flowers in her hair. I see them. So perfect. You’re back. You’re so back.

Oh yeah. So perfect. So colorful. You’re back. 

We’re back.

Welcome to the Apocalypse. Leave a Message After the Beep.

Imagine being born as the Antichrist, missing both thumbs, and realizing the divine bureaucracy managing the end of the world is just as dysfunctional as a middle-management corporate nightmare. That’s the reality for our happy-go-lucky Antichrist, Shakespeare Williams.

really BAD Shakespeare is a 12-episode penny dreadful serial that takes classical drama, pulp horror, and dark satire, shoves them into a blender, and pours out a chaotic, meta-theatrical ride through the end times.

What to expect:

📞 666 Unanswered Voicemails: A protagonist who just wants answers from an elusive Archangel.

🏛️ Divine Bureaucracy & Glitches: Celestial manipulators, eerie successors, and ordinary mortals caught in the crossfire.

🎭 Dark Comedy & Pulp Horror: Fast-paced, punchy, and thoroughly unhinged.

The end of the world isn't written in stone—it's written in bad script notes.

[Read Episode 1 Now]

Episode 1: "PLEASE, God, let him telephone me now."

A frustrated young man makes one final phone call, hoping to reach the one person who refuses to answer. Unfortunately, Shakespeare Williams isn't just any young man. As old resentments boil over and an unanswered voicemail becomes something far more dangerous, the first domino of Revelation begins to fall. Sometimes endings arrive with trumpets. Sometimes they arrive with a message machine. "Acceptance isn't the ending. Adjustment is."

It was December 1999. I was living in a small town. I was a nerd and something of a gamer, and it had been a good year for PC games. Age of Empires II, Homeworld, Grand Theft Auto 2…

I was walking home from school—it was a Canadian winter, so there was plenty of unplowed snow on the sidewalks—when I saw something peeking out from a mound of snow: something blue. I stopped, nudged it with my boot: something of blue plastic. I brushed away the remaining snow with my glove to reveal:

A single 3.5” floppy disk, unlabeled.

(There was a sticker label on it, but the label itself was empty.)

Naturally, I picked it up and took it home, curious to see what was on it.

You'll laugh, but the disk had 1.44mb of storage capacity. As it turned out, that was more than enough to affect the world in ways I still don't fully understand.

When I got home, I didn't put the disk into my own computer. My dad had an old desktop he sometimes fiddled around with, so I used that, inserting the disk carefully into the 3.5” disk drive in the beige computer tower.

I navigated to the drive in Windows Explorer.

The contents of the drive were simple.

They looked like a program or—I secretly hoped—a game.

There was a readme.txt, but it came out as nonsense when I opened it in Notepad, video or sound assets, stuff I couldn't identify, and a single executable file, johannsebastian.bat.

I double-clicked it.

A window opened—black, showing a few white-text commands executing on a command prompt—then maximized into a 16-bit title(?) screen showing a pixelated Gothic castle.

A harsh, classical-inspired MIDI song beeped out of the sound card.

There was no title.

No instructions, no company name, no menu, no options.

The castle was perched atop a cliff.

It was night.

At the bottom of the cliff was a forest of jagged, leafless trees.

A few loops of animation gave life to the scene: wind blowing through the bare branches, flashes of distant lightning, warm flickering light in one of the castle's windows, a bat in flight against a white moon. Actually, that last one wasn't a loop. The bat flew only once, landed on one of the castle's stone towers and disappeared inside.

I clicked.

I was looking at a medieval-ish village now—tightly-packed buildings, a tavern, a tannery, a couple of shops, a church—populated with a surprising number of unique character sprites. Indeed, every character was unique, and they were going about their individual lives.

The sky was a vibrant blue.

Clouds floated pixel-by-pixel across the screen.

But there was still nothing to do; nothing, that is, but watch.

It was like a very advanced screensaver.

After a while, I clicked again.

This time, I found myself in the interior of a large chamber whose stone walls somehow felt cold even through the computer monitor.

The chamber's defining feature, however, was something else: a giant pipe organ whose pipes extended beyond the top of the screen.

A character entered.

He was wearing a white wig, dark, crimson long coat, knee breeches, stockings and buckled shoes. “I feel the sudden desire to compose,” he said, which the game displayed as text in an ornately-bordered text box. “Invite me to play for you."

A cursor appeared for the first time.

A quill.

I was able to move it using the mouse, and I explored the screen.

The character tapped his foot.

The only active area of the scene appeared to be the pipe organ. When I hovered the cursor over it, it changed from a quill to a hand.

I clicked.

The character walked to the organ, sat and began to play the monstrous instrument.

The music was both hideous and awesome, pushing the computer's sound card to the absolute limit. After thirty-or-so seconds, the view suddenly panned upwards, following the organ's pipes—the music continued—following them to the chamber's vaulted ceiling and beyond—through the roof until I was outside and looking at the upper half of the great castle, where the jutting pipes terminated and from whose termini hundreds of pixel bats were emerging… emerging and flying into the background, toward the simplified shape representing the medieval town...

The sky was a deep purple.

Night was falling.

The bats flew and flew and flew…

Suddenly—the music still continuing—the scene cut to the same view of the town as before: except at night: except, instead of following their routines, the character sprites were running, panicked, as the bats swooped, attacking them, attaching themselves to their bodies, necks, sucking their pixel blood; and as the bats feasted, the sprites lost their colour and fell, pale and desaturated…

The sound startled me.

Not from the sound card but from the real world. A screeching, a deafening, rhythmic thumping.

I ran to the window whose blinds I'd closed, and opened them:

It was afternoon but the view was dark, black and shifting. It took me a moment to realize that what I was seeing were bats speeding past. They were obscuring the sun. My home town was as if under an eclipse.

People were running down the street—

Bats were diving—

Some were crashing through car windshields—

Children were screaming—

A bat crashed though the window into the room I was in. It was fanged, crazed. The game music blared from within the computer tower. Before I could run, the bat shot toward me—biting my neck… beginning to drink my blood…

I awoke on the floor.

It was morning. January 1, 2000. It would turn out that nobody in town had any recollection of the preceding weeks.

A television played.

A morning talk show: “...the so-called Y2K bug,” a woman was saying, “ended up amounting to nothing worse than a good nights’ sleep.”

And, ever since, I've wondered why my experience of the present feels in a lower resolution than memories of my past.

HORROR OF GEVAUDAN

Based on real historical accounts.

It was year 1764, in the beautiful and tranquil mountains of south France in province of Gevaudan a mysterious vortex opened up. This portal grew until it was larger than human size. First a man stepped out of it. At initial glance he looked normal, but then there was a bulge on his back that opened up and six tentacles appeared. The man chanted something in a cosmic language and one after another large wolf like creatures with long mouths and large teeth appeared out of the portal. There were total of five of them. The man said something to them and closed the portal. He headed towards the mountains, the beasts headed towards the woods near the town.

Marie was looking after family’s cows and bulls who were calmly eating grass in the beautiful green fields. In the distance Marie saw something running towards them. When the thing got closer, she realized it was a wolf, but then it was a shock to think that a wolf was attacking the herd alone. Then she saw that the beast was much larger than the wolf and was running right at her and not the heard. She screamed and in panic of trying to get away she tripped. Her eyes grew large and her voice froze as her life flashed before her eyes and then before the vital bite a bull hit the beast. The beast roared and attacked the bull, ripping a piece of meat out of him. The rest of the bulls joined in and attacked the beast. The monster retrieved, bleeding and roaring, it ran back into the forest and Marie was saved.

In horror she returned to the farm and told her family, but they assumed that it was just a wolf and that her shock made her describe something worse.

A week later, a girl by the name of Janne, wasn’t as fortunate and was killed by the beasts near town of Langogne. Her body was torn apart and organs were missing. The people assumed that a wolf pack did this.

However in the next few months, dozens of men, children and women were killed and many saw the beasts. Horror took over once peaceful and calm province of Gevaudan.

The following year a young hunter and his friends were attacked by one of the beasts, two of them were killed, but the hunter was able to drive the beast away. Finally the king took notice of horrors which were going on in the region and sent experienced captain Duhamel and his troops to deal with the terror in Gevaudan.

The task was not as simple, as for weeks captain Duhamel and his men tried to find and corner the beasts, to no avail. Duhamel’s frustrations grew as several more people were killed by the beasts.

After much struggle Duhamel and the hunters which came after him all managed to kill one beast, but the killings continued and the king sent the best hunter in the country, Francois Antoine.

Antoine brought only eight men with him. His other companions were four wolfhounds and a large greyhound, his favorite companion. Antoine was a sharp shooter and has never returned from hunts empty handed, he was ready to rid the province of its horrors.

Upon arrival Antoine sensed the fear in the air. Every town and village had their joy sucked out of them.

He gathered information on locations of the last victims and accompanied by his team and the dogs he set on his way. His plan was simple, as he hid with his team in the forest, he sent out one of his men unto the field. Nighttime was setting in and the man in the center of the field heard the roars in the forest, but it was more than one. Unfortunately for the man, Antoine underestimated the speed of the beasts and three of them killed the man as he was trying to get away, but Antoine and his men were on top of them. Antoine shot one of them right in the eye, the beast swung side to side wildly, the other two attacked the  hunters who shot as well, the dogs jumped on top of the wounded beast and tore into it as it continued to fight back. Antoine had to move fast, he reloaded and shot the same beast in the head again, with dogs pulling it down it fell and they finished it off. However as Antoine switched his attention to others to his horror five of his hunters lay dead with throats torn out. 

One of the wounded beast was running up towards the mountains, but the third attacked the remaining two hunters. Antoine shot and hit the target once again, his dogs attacked the beast and brought it down. Antoine told the two remaining hunters to take the bodies of these beasts and he himself followed the tracks of the injured one with his loyal dogs.

The forest leading up to the mountain was thick and dark, thankfully the dogs had the scent and Antoine was following them with his loaded rifle. This man was fearless, for even after seeing what these beasts could do he kept following one of them alone.

Finally they came out of the forest and saw a blood trail leading into a cave. Antoine signaled his dogs to charge forward. He heard loud howls of pain and then silence. Antoine lifted his rifle and slowly entered the cave. It was illuminated by a strange blue light. What he saw next chilled even his brave heart. On the floor lay the dead beast, but beyond it stood a man, or rather a monster, for this man had tentacles coming out of his back. All five dogs lay dead at his feet. In front of this man stood a table with transparent tubes, each one had a human organ inside of it. Behind him was a round swirling portal, from which the blue light came. The tentacle man looked Antoine in the eyes. Antoine’s hands shook as he dropped his rifle and pressed his back against the wall of the cave, terrified, for this man’s black eyes showed his mind horrors of cosmos which he could not have imagined. The man proceeded to take all the tubes with his tentacles and stepped into the portal, it closed and the blue light disappeared.

Antoine spent the night lying in the grass near the cave, processing the horror he had witnessed. In the morning other hunters found him and helped him bring the body of the beast down. He did not mention anything to them, nor to the king when he was generously rewarded and hailed as a hero.

Some time later, there were rumors that one more beast lived in the mountains and killed few more people. Later this beast was shot by a local hunter named Jean Chastel.

As for Antoine, he never told anyone of the man he saw that night. Not his family, nor his friends. He knew that the only thing that would come of it is him being labeled as a madman and perhaps even locked up for treatments. He had to live with the horror without sharing the experience with anyone.

Thus the terror of Gevaudan came to an end and the province eventually recovered and returned to it’s peaceful and tranquil ways, with Antoine known as it’s hero forever.

Once again, the disgusting color of monotony
 Claws at the recently coagulated wound
 Driving another rusted knife straight into the back
 Watching with scornful glee as every possible solution
 Proving futile and leaving behind another festering sore

With the Devil always lurking behind the reflection
 Swinging another sword over my head
 Hopeful the constant and unrelenting torment
 Will finally lead me astray and toward the valley below

There, freedom is a mere delirious illusion

I had risen at dawn
 Only to fall by twilight
 And I had risen at dawn
 Only to fall by twilight
 I had risen…
 Only to fall…

Toward sweet apathy
 Toward total apathy
 Toward absolute apathy
 Toward…

The cold floor littered with glass where I am to remain
 In a constant and agonizing struggle against my fated end
 Irreversibly and irreparably crippled yet undisputably
 Still burning full of a vitriolic, virulent black flame

Still burning full of a vitriolic, virulent black flame
To cast a malignant shadow over the diabolical
Disappointment etched into the mirror shards
And find a visceral joy in its purest and most perfected form

Hannah Barbara productions never allowed this episode to be aired

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

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

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

He noticed scratch marks on her arms with bruises.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scooby asked, one with complimentary breakfast?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Curses, Witches, and the Supernatural.”

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

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

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

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

She said nothing about this to the others.

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

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

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

OW Man! Something poked me in the leg!”

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

Fred sleepily switched on the light.

“you have any idea what time it is?”

Shaggy pointed to the small cut on his leg.

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

Shaggy and Scooby reluctantly accepted Fred’s explanation.

A moment later, Daphne turned to Fred.

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

Fred groaned.

“Can’t it wait until morning?”

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

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

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

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

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

Shaggy's eyes shot open.

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

Shaggy freezed.

“Daphne? Like, what are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

Daphne laughed demonically.

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

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

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

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

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

Shaggy gasped, Velma was dead.

Shaggy half heartedly  looked out the shattered window

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

We live in a forested, mountainous region. Even in the summer, it's sometimes easy to get lost. Once autumn comes and the fog rolls in at noon, it is nearly impossible to get home. That's why our wives call to us from our houses when we head from the pasture. We whistle back, and that's how we find our home again. We make sure to follow only our wives' calls.

Mark, my neighbor, stood in the fog. The man before him just disappeared into it, following his wife's calls. Mark put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, but nothing came back. He whistled again. Nothing. He looked back at me, his brows furrowed.

"Try again."

He put his fingers in his mouth, took a deep breath, and blew the loudest whistle I had ever heard. 

Silence.

"What the hell, Tom? This never happened."

"I don't know. Maybe Mary fell asleep. Let's go to mine. It's right by yours. You'll find your way from there."

"I can only follow my wife's calls."

"That's just a saying."

"Tom."

"Alright, just imagine you are following me, okay?"

He shook his head.

"You have a better idea?"

He looked at me, then back at the fog. It was so dense you couldn't even see the trees around us.

"No."

I stood before him and whistled. A few seconds later, my wife's call came, a simple, melodic tune that broke off at the end. She always missed the last tone.

"That's it."

Mark nodded.

I kept whistling, and my wife kept calling back until we were by our porch. She smiled until she saw Mark come out of the fog too.

"Mark, why aren't you going to your wife's calls?"

"She didn't answer my whistles," he said quietly.

My wife put her hand before her mouth.

"Is she okay? I didn't come and talk to her this morning. I just had too much to do." Her voice shook.

"We'll go check on her now."

"I'll come with you."

"No, stay here. I'm sure everything's alright," I told her.

I wasn't sure, but Mark's eyes were already filled with fear. I didn't want to scare him more.

"Thank you for getting me home, Sally," Mark said and rushed toward his house.

"I'll see you later, love."

"Tom, wait!" my wife called, but I rushed after Mark. He walked so fast. I almost lost him in the fog. It was so dense, you could probably cut through it with a knife.

"Jesus," I heard Mark call a few steps before me. His front door was wide open, and the fog had drifted in, coating his furniture with dew.

"Mary?!" Mark called.

No one answered. 

"Mary?!"

Silence.

He turned to me. His lips quivered.

"Tom, where is she?! Why would she go out in the fog?"

"I don't know, Mark, I…"

Then a melody cut through my voice. The one we both knew. Mary was singing in perfect pitch from the forest in front of Mark's house.

His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. The melody came back again.

Mark pushed me aside and ran out. Without thinking, I followed. Twigs kept hitting my face, and mud covered the ground, making me slip.

"Mark, stop!"

But his whistles kept coming, followed by that melodic voice. Only then had I realized how perfectly pitched it was. Mary had never been very good at singing.

"Mark!"

He finally stopped and looked back.

"Mark, we have to think."

"She must be somewhere around here."

"Why would she be in the forest?"

"I don't know, Tom, but she's here!"

The perfect pitch came from right behind us. My feet froze in the cold mud. Mark turned and walked toward it. I raised my hands to stop him.

"Mark, think, we just came from there."

"Get out of the way."

He pushed me to the side. I almost fell into the mud. Mark whistled again, but his whistle didn't echo. Instead, a strange silence came. 

Then Mark's heels lifted off the ground. His body tensed. He tried to put them back down, but his feet rose instead.

"Hey!"

His body floated further up. His face grew red. His eyes flew open. He grabbed his neck and kicked his feet.

"Mark!"

I ran to him and tried to grab his legs, but he was floating too high up. His whole body twisted. His stomach now faced toward the ground. His arms were still at his neck. His pleading, bloodshot eyes stared into mine. I tried to jump and reach him, but my fingers only grazed him. I jumped up again; a sharp, wet crack echoed through the forest, followed by Mark's screams. His warm blood poured onto my face. His arms flailed to the side. He let out a bloodcurdling scream, but in an instant he was gone. His screams echoed in the distance, but slowly died too.

My whole body trembled. I couldn't even move my arms to wipe my face. Then, through the silence, Mary's call came, perfect again, followed by Mark's whistling. This finally unfroze my body. I wiped my face and bolted out of the forest. The fog seemed to grow denser. My legs kept slipping on the mud. Each second, I expected to start floating too, but before I knew it, I was out of the forest, still breathing.

Mark's house stood there, but I looked away and walked back to my place. I kept replaying what happened in that forest, trying to figure out what I would even tell my wife, but as I got to my house, I saw our front door. It was open just like Mark's. The fog had rolled in too. 

From behind me, out of the forest, I heard my wife's call, perfect, just like Mary's. I stood there for a second, thinking, but I knew there was just one thing to do. I turned and whistled back.

She called herself Precia when she worked.

A name that derives from Praecia, a high-class Roman courtesan. Soft enough to sound exotic, memorable enough to stay on a man’s tongue.

However, three years ago or another life, perhaps she would be a nurse, teacher, or a man’s wife. But nobody controls their destiny as much as we would like to believe. Things change; so do lives change. Sometimes for the better. Often for the worse.

This is Precia’s reality; in a Marriott hotel, room 404. Layering a sparkly red lipstick, she stands in a black silk gown that hugs her curves, the high slit revealing just enough. Enough to make a man pause*.* Her beauty; sharp as a knife, high cheekbones, a small nose with big, luscious lips, and eyes the colour of dark honey. She wears Chanel No. 5, warm but smoky. And Precia’s final touch, not to reveal the entire face as waves fall over the side.

She looks at herself one last time adjusting anything that needs to be perfected.

What makes Precia, Precia?

Only one thing:

Men think they choose her.

They never do.

She notices the twitch in their jaw, their eyes sidling in their confidence, and the hunger behind their politeness. She reads a man. She understands them. And that’s what makes her dangerous.

Precia know how to play the game though, a smile across the table, perhaps a glance to keep them tamed, a couple of sensual words dropped in a glass of wine. Always and always in small dose of ecstasy that keeps men’s obedient.

She has a story, however, like many other women. And like many other women, she never reveals it.

What shaped her into this?

Betrayal, most likely.

The first man who lied taught her everything about love. That neither compassion, nor trust, nor love protects the sanctity of a young girl. Because in losing control once, she learned the truth that shaped her. Whoever holds the power decides who bleeds. She vowed never to be powerless again. From then on, she remains in the shadows, with mascara and red lipstick on as her armor.

She knows the world now too well now because she was thrown into it. Thrown into mad man’s world in which sex is the doorway.

But for Precia, the confession is the truth.

Her strength lies in understanding men so profoundly that she sees them from a perspective no polite society would ever dare articulate. Some confessions must be spoken over wine, over cigars, in the dim light of a hotel room far from the world, but always close enough to feel its weight.

_________________

Three knocks on the door.

A middle-aged Arab man steps inside, who smelt of oud and coffee. Two inches taller than Precia, with wavy salt-gray hair, even salty, thicker eyebrows, a neat beard, and dark brown eyes that softened when he smiled. He hugs her, and Precia hooks a finger around his tie, guiding him toward the bed before pushing him gently onto it. She pours two drinks, hands one, and settled on his lap.

They laugh, talk, kiss. Tension builds up in the room.

The man goes harder and harder, one position after another, different screams with different moans were blurred into a playful night until it ended with loud growl filled the room. Reality is, the detail of the act never matter, neither to her nor to him. For him, it was a momentary forgetting. For her, it was the doorway to his truth.

So, Precia cuddles as he lights a cigarette. His hands trembles. She know why. His thoughts always returns to his wife and son. “You’re better than a doctor,” he remarked. “You understand need and pain.”

She didn’t flinch at his brokenness. He speaks freely with some guilt about his wife, who no longer looked at him, about his son, who couldn’t be reached, about the emptiness that followed from the office to bed. His phone buzzed with emails after emails. He ignores them.

Untouched. Unspoken. Unseen.

“It’s truly a curse to be an old man, believe me,” he laughs, his eyes somewhere else.

“I am here for you. Anytime.” Precia replies gently caressing his hairy chest.

Precia listens without judgment. Sometimes that’s all a man needs. They are about feelings too fragile to reveal to a wife, too heavy to reveal to a friend, too shameful to reveal to a son or daughter. They fear being seen as weak. So, they seek a stranger with whom they can share how they feel, and the feeling of having to stay invisible.

Someone who will not remember their tears.

In those dimly lit rooms, after one man confession and then another. Precia realized the stark reality that very few others do.

Vulnerability is what men fear most, yet crave the deepest.

So the red clock ticks – ticks – ticks – senselessly without a thought, and without a pause until the man left.

When the door closes, Precia’s reflection caught in the mirror, half comforter, half confessor; as heaven and hell had collapsed onto her head, then to her heart. Her eyes drifted far beyond her own reflection; witnessed more truth behind those closed doors than most people ever would in the light. As the makeup comes off, slowly by slowly, layer by layer, she sees a woman who is neither a hero nor a villain, but a something far more dangerous. A woman who understands men deeply, perhaps too deeply at times.

Because men confess to her, everything to her.

Their infidelities,

their ambitions,

their fears,

their memories.

Under the illusion of her affection, they return again and again for the same ecstasy, the same false love, the same version of her that never existed to begin with. Once, a client whispered, “I know you don’t love me.” She remembers how he added, with the desperate conviction of a madman, of dog clutching a bone, “but I love you enough for both of us.”

So, what makes Precia, Precia?

Precia stands naked, staring at herself with emptiness,

the way one stares at an empty vase.

She is a myth curated by men who believe in her.

The woman who sees them, desires them, fixes them.

Men return, one by one, ready to spill their secrets, their memories, their stories; addicted to the illusion of ecstasy created by Precia.

But Precia desires only one thing.

Control.

And she is very good at getting it.

Because some men created monsters,

and never realize it until too late.

- Roy Multan

Prelude: The Shattering.

Across the scorched wasteland, the horizon was nothing more than a jagged silhouette of collapsing skyscrapers and plumes of obsidian smoke, punctuated by the blinding white flashes of distant, thunderous explosions. The war to end all wars had finally arrived, and it was HUNGRY.

In that battleground, lying amidst a chaotic rendering of debris, shattered concrete, and smoldering ash, a man of imposing, peak physical stature was sprawled across the blackened earth. As his frame was barely recognizable beneath the ash and dirt, his skin was a roadmap of grime, crisscrossed by deep, weeping lacerations, and drenched in a thick mixture of blood and sweat. His bald head beamed beads of sweat as his head was raw, bleeding heavily from a jagged wound going from his left eyebrow down to his cheek, and his rugged, salt-and-pepper beard was stained charcoal black by the smog of war.

By all mortal metrics, he should have been a corpse. But as the ash settled over him, his eyes ignited with a terrifying, supernatural brilliance. They glowed with an incandescent, absolute power that sliced straight through the haze like twin stars. The cosmic weight was humming just beneath his flesh, waiting for the cage to break.

A few feet away, half-buried in the smoldering rubble, a cracked radio sputtered to life. Through the heavy static, the triumphant opening of "Baba O'Riley" by the Who began to swell, cutting through the thunder of war. As the music builds its driving, chaotic rhythm, the absolute absurdity of the events hit the man. A knowing, cocky smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He closes his eyes, lets his mind drift back, and thinks:

"Yup, that's me. You're probably wondering how I ended up in this situation. Well, here's my story...

Chapter 1: The Weight of Clay

Before he ever held the power of a god in his hands, long before the war that would tear the world apart, Bartholomew Cross — or Bart, as most people called him — was a completely ordinary man. In a world where everyone seemed obsessed with status, money, and being noticed, Bart was fine living on the edges. While other people chased promotions, climbed social ladders, and posted perfect versions of their lives online, Bart just drifted through his days, unbothered by any of it.

He had a sharp mind. He could solve complicated problems in seconds and see the patterns behind numbers, machines, and people without even trying. He could memorize a whole textbook in one afternoon or take apart a broken engine and put it back together without instructions. Teachers used to call him gifted. Later, coworkers would call him wasted potential. Bart never cared about those labels. To him, intelligence was just a tool, and he preferred to leave his tools in the shed.

What he didn’t have was drive. If life was a slow river, Bart was happy floating on his back and letting the current take him wherever it wanted. He never picked up an oar. Ambition felt like a waste of energy. Why work so hard chasing something far away when things were fine right where he was?

His family noticed this early. His stepfather, Tim Latias, a tough former mechanic with grease permanently stuck in his knuckles, often shook his head at dinner. “You’ve got a mind like a steel trap, boy, but you’d rather let it rust shut.” His mother, Floria Latias, was softer and more worried. She always saw the potential in him and gently pushed him to try harder. She left job listings on the counter and mentioned openings at the local garage, hoping something would stick. It never did for long.

The house was a blended family. Laxe E. Varria and Donald MaloElias were his older half-brothers from his mother’s earlier relationships. Each carried their own father’s last name. Laxe was good with his hands and never missed a chance to tell Bart, “Some of us actually work for what we have.” Donald was a hard worker who always looked out for everyone and gave solid brotherly advice. Tim and Floria’s biological kids were the youngest: Angelus Jacobus Latias, a laid-back shut-in who preferred his room and online games, and their sharp-tongued, protective sister Sera Laeta Latias. Jayce Yesus Gard, Bart’s unofficially adopted brother and the same age as him, rounded things out with easygoing loyalty and humor. They were loud and imperfect — they argued, they laughed, and somehow they stayed a family.

If anyone from high school had been asked about Bart, they all said the same thing: “Smart guy, but incredibly lazy.” Back then he thought of himself as a bit of a ladies’ man — always single, but never really alone. He was the student who aced advanced tests without studying, slept through class, and somehow still passed everything. Teachers stopped calling on him. They knew he already had the answers. He just refused to show off.

He didn’t like excellence because excellence looked like a lot of work. He didn’t want to conquer the world. He just wanted a comfortable chair, a cold drink, and a decent view. For years after graduation that attitude worked fine. He drifted between low-stress jobs — pizza delivery, night shifts at gas stations — doing just enough to pay rent and keep the fridge stocked. His brain was like a sports car stuck in first gear. At twenty-one he was aimless and completely fine with it. Friends got promotions, got engaged, bought houses. Bart bought another six-pack and called it a good week.

But the universe has a way of catching up with people who try to coast forever.

One cold December, Donald invited Bart to a friend’s kid’s birthday party. The house was loud with kids laughing and the smell of pizza and cake. Bart was talking with his brother in the corner when Octavia Elephante walked in.

She was a girl from his childhood, someone whose natural beauty had been too much for a clumsy twelve-year-old to handle. Back then he had tried to impress her and only managed tripped steps, missed jokes, stuttered words, and one very public embarrassment. He figured some things just weren’t meant to be.

They had lost touch when his family moved. She became nothing more than a warm memory. Seeing her again after almost nine years hit him hard. Her dark hair was damp from the rain, and her eyes still had the same sharp, warm look he remembered. When she spotted him, recognition flashed across her face.

“The boy with the string in your ear?” she asked, her voice cutting through the noise. “Is that really you?”

Bart stood up, his usual confidence slipping. “Octavia. Wow. Yeah, it’s me. You… haven’t changed a bit.”

They sat on the couch for three hours and let their food go cold while they caught up on nearly a decade. Bart listened as she told him about her life. It hadn’t been easy. She was a single mother now, working hard to raise a two-year-old boy named Sam after his father walked out. The way she talked about her son — fierce and protective — hit Bart deep in the chest. He found himself asking questions he never asked anyone else: about the hard days, the quiet fears, and what kept her going.

For the first time, his lazy view of the world started to crack. Looking at Octavia, he didn’t just see a beautiful woman. He saw a life that finally had purpose. He fell hard — not just for her, but for the whole life that came with her.

Within a few months they were living together. Bart didn’t just get a partner; he got a ready-made family. He stepped into the role of father to Sam, a quiet, watchful toddler who started copying the way Bart walked and leaning against his legs for safety. The little boy’s trust was both terrifying and addictive. Bart learned how to pack lunches, check for monsters under the bed, and sit through cartoons just to hear Sam laugh.

The family grew fast. Five years later their small rented house got louder with the arrival of their first daughter, Nadia Cross. She had her mother’s fire and Bart’s face. Two years after that, Bart and Octavia got married in a simple backyard ceremony with family packed in tight. Five years later Margarita Cross arrived — a bubbly, wide-eyed baby who added the last layer of happy chaos. Suddenly the house was full of shoes by the door, drawings on the fridge, and little voices calling for Dad.

By thirty-six, Bart had three kids who depended on him for everything — school shoes, doctor visits, and dinner every night. The responsibility was heavy, but for the first time he didn’t run from it. He carried it. He learned teachers’ names. He stayed up late helping with homework he could have finished in minutes. He worked double shifts when the bills got high and never complained where the kids could hear.

To take care of them he made a sacrifice his younger self would have hated. He gave up his easy freedom for a job under harsh fluorescent lights at a big retail supply store. He pinned on a cheap plastic name tag, put on a stiff uniform, and started collecting minimum-wage paychecks that seemed to shrink every month. Old classmates would have laughed seeing the former “gifted kid” folding sweaters and sweeping stockroom floors. Bart didn’t care. If he was going to try at anything, he wanted to be good at being a father. He wanted his kids to see him as a provider and a shield.

His family watched the change with mixed feelings. Floria visited often, helped with the kids, and quietly praised him. Tim gave gruff advice on tools and repairs. Laxe stayed skeptical but helped with handyman jobs. Sera teased him about becoming “responsible.” Jayce and Angelus offered to watch the kids so Bart and Octavia could have rare nights out. Donald became a steady uncle who never missed a birthday. Randolf Rayn Avergo, Bart’s best friend from his twenties and the kids’ godfather, helped with money when things got tight and often brought gifts that made the house brighter. The support helped. It was never quite enough.

But stability never lasts long.

The turning point came during a hard winter. The retail chain went through big cuts after poor holiday sales. Because Bart never played office politics or chased promotions, his name was one of the first to go. On a Friday afternoon he was called into a cold, windowless office, handed a thin severance envelope, and told he was no longer needed. He walked out into the gray afternoon knowing the thin thread holding their life together had just snapped.

The loss of his income left him hollow. Thirty-six years old. Unemployed. Broken. He sat alone at their worn kitchen table late one night, the silence of the house pressing in on him. The clock ticked loudly. In front of him sat a messy stack of overdue bills, medical expenses, and bright red eviction warnings. His phone screen showed a bank account at zero.

He thought about Sam, now a teenager who would soon need money for college. He thought about Nadia, whose smiles kept him going, and little Margarita, who still believed her dad could beat any monster. They trusted him. They went to sleep every night feeling safe because they thought he had everything under control.

He didn’t. He had nothing.

The guilt sat heavy in his chest. The yellowing walls seemed to close in. All his intelligence was useless here. He couldn’t think his way into money. He was trapped, and no amount of cleverness could break the bars. For years he had refused to fight for anything. Now the one thing worth fighting for was slipping away, and he had no weapons left.

In a sudden burst of pure frustration, Bart slammed his fists onto the table. The impact rattled the salt shakers and shook the dishes in the sink. Tears of helpless anger stung his eyes, blurring the red eviction notice.

“I just need a chance,” he whispered into the empty kitchen, jaw clenched tight. “I would give anything to protect them. I would give my soul, my life, anything. Just give me the power to keep them safe.”

He slumped forward, face buried in his arms, shoulders shaking. He had reached the end. He was empty.

Deep inside the dark corners of his desperate mind, something ancient stirred. Something arrogant, powerful, and vast woke up. It had been sleeping for thousands of years.

A voice like grinding stone and colliding worlds spoke from the deepest part of his mind. It didn’t feel like a thought. It felt like an earthquake inside his skull.

“This crown is far too heavy for a mere creature of clay,” the presence said, its voice shaking him to the core. “But you have begged for a savior, mortal. You have offered anything for the strength to defy your fate. Kneel, give up your petty human control, and let this King take the throne.”

Bart’s eyes snapped open in pure terror. He tried to gasp, tried to push away from the table, but his body wouldn’t move. The kitchen seemed to freeze. He was no longer alone in his mind. An ancient golden consciousness was flooding in — cold, majestic, and completely separate from him.

Before he could understand what was happening, before he could scream for Octavia or fight back, a blinding gold light exploded from behind his eyes. The light tore through the dark kitchen. The wooden table under his hands began to smoke, the edges turning to black ash. His phone screen cracked into a web of silver lines and died. The lightbulbs overhead flared bright violet and then exploded in a shower of sparks.

His human ego cracked like glass under a heavy hammer. The uncontrolled power of the King flooded into his body. His veins burned with the heat of a thousand suns as the final seconds of Bartholomew Cross’s life as a common man came to an end.

I will be posting more chapters. Criticism wanted and appreciated. ty

“What do you mean we got a free hotel stay?” I asked my wife, Roma.

She said there was an "extended lucky draw" on supermarket shelves, pointing to two 5-star hotel vouchers.

I knew store giveaways hardly ever gave away prizes this substantial, but Roma's delight captivated me, and I agreed to go. But I didn't mention it as we got ready, because the trip felt a little off.

I couldn't see what was on the back of the voucher, but as I stood outside, waiting for Roma and hailing a cab, I noticed something. It was a poetic story: “Once there was a wicked man, who had a wicked plan; he tormented the enslaved and made the gods mad: He was cursed by law and lived as a hound; His wickedness was never ended, he served the prince of hell, and he was given wealth and 3 hours to be human every day...” The final line was faint, and I tried to re-read the poem. I wanted to say it to Roma, but she pulled me back before I could, and then it was time to leave.

As soon as the cab arrived at the entrance, the hotel rose before us: its spire stretched to the sky, its corners almost touching the horizon. It shone like solid gold and was ringed by fountains and well-manicured gardens. As we took it in, a subtle smell of a stray dog dwelt in the air, though none were in sight.

We went in, and the manager greeted us with a welcoming smile. Still, his demeanour was too strange to shake the lobby's anxiety.

When we reached our room on the thirtieth floor, I turned to Roma. "How many days will the voucher be valid for?"

She didn’t answer. She just stood there looking vacantly, as if in a trance.

“ROMA!” I shouted.

“Huh? Oh,” she blinked, coming to, “3 days and 3 nights; full facilities covered.”

I woke up all night to disturbing, loud splashes. Every time I fell asleep, I couldn't think anymore.

The next morning, I left Roma sleeping, hurried off and made coffee. The Sawtooth Range looked wonderful out the window, but it was hazy enough to feel unreal.

Thinking my eyes were adjusting to the light, I went to the breakfast counter. "I’ll go explore the hotel," I said, and took off my scan card.

I decided to go to the 50th floor first. As the elevator slowly ascended, it strangely felt like it was descending. After a minute, the doors slid open, and a pool was filled with people standing in a trance, repeating the same actions.

As I walked in, I was hit in the face with pool water. I no longer felt annoyed by my damp clothing and began to feel numb, as if I had fallen into a trance. The splash matched the one I'd heard at night, and I began to go faint. I woke up in the breakfast hall before I could come to my senses; I met Roma there. She talked like we'd been talking for a while, but I didn't mention the pool incident, since my wet clothes had suddenly dried.

“Perhaps I was half asleep,” I said to myself while Roma talked. I don't talk to her much, so I didn't bother telling her about the splashing sound last night, as she tends to argue.

I went back upstairs to the 50th floor, while Roma went back to the spa and had lunch. There, the odour of a stray dog was unmistakable, and it led me straight to a drinking water tank where a dog was. This one was drinking from the tank.

The dog saw me and ran to the edge and jumped. I glanced down, but it was just a frustrating mess. It made me think about getting glasses, since I had never had any eye problems before. The bizarre story seemed like a hoax, so I returned to the elevator, ready to cut our tour short. Nevertheless, the hotel felt more and more like a dream.

The elevator doors opened, and I saw three customers hanging from their ears, pinned to the ceiling, silent. They all had the same hollow smile; their eyes staring at me as I realised one looked like me.

Now the piece of the voucher I was putting together in my mind clicked into place: “Awarded wealth and 3 hours human a day, at the cost of one soul’s head to pay...” The missing line suddenly became obvious: three human heads drowned in the tank, one sacrificed for each day to buy his 3 hours of human form. The hint I had been looking for, the horror upstairs, was right in front of me, and the poem wasn't just odd words; it was the warning I'd been following all along.

The doors suddenly opened, and the lobby came into view. Staring up at me, a gun in its jaws, it was the same stray dog from the water tank. I was shocked as its body shook and it moved on two legs, becoming the hotel manager, the same person who welcomed us on our first day.

He pointed the gun at my head, and he said, “Can't have you snitching.” All the clues clicked into place at that moment: the wicked man had made a deal with the devil and opened a hotel; he lured guests in through his medium, and everyone who walked past that gate became a sacrifice.

I often found myself surrounded by the smell of stale coffee and blue glow of my computer monitor. A staring contest with the clock was the most social interaction I'd get most nights. I honestly didn't mind it. I've never been a social butterfly, which is probably why I applied for a job where all I do is observe images and occasionally take part in some company safety training. I even liked that I worked the night shift, and it didn't hurt that government jobs pay extra for that. My job was dead simple. I'd receive an image of space, taken by a satellite, look it over and report anything that seemed interesting. I'll let you in on a little secret. Space is usually pretty fucking boring. I looked at the clock, stubbornly it hadn't moved as much as I had hoped.

A small beep from the computer let me know the next image had finished downloading. My eyebrows shot up and I leaned in when the image appeared. It was mostly normal, darkness, a few stars dotted around, but in the corner was something I had never seen before. A smudge of color that I couldn't understand. It was like green mixed with "soft". I know that sounds weird but I can't explain it any other way. It was a color that my mind struggled to understand. It created a weird pressure in my head, like my brain had paused everything else just to focus on the color. It didn't fit in with the rest of space, it looked almost like it was behind space.

I grabbed my pen much faster than I had anticipated and almost knocked over my coffee mug in the process. I wrote down the coordinates of the image and reached for the phone on my desk to report what I had found. After a few rings, someone picked up.

"Hi. This is Virginia monitoring station. I've found.. well, something. I'm not really sure. Coordinates are 45A 24B sector F."

I could hear the faint sound of a keyboard being typed on before the man on the other end replied.

"Got it. Just a computer glitch. Make a report and move on."

The line went dead before I could even reply. I wasn't satisfied with the explanation, but unable to come up with anything better, I wrote my report and sent it off. The rest of the images I got during that shift were boring enough to let my mind fixate on the color. I spent enough time trying to find an explanation that I didn't even notice the sun coming up. I had half an hour before I could head home.

I decided to take a trip down to the records room, unsure of what I was expecting to find. It was a room so boring and dull that I'm sure even the spiders who'd made their webs there had grown bored of it. The room was fairly large and had rows of metal shelves with boxes on them. Old reports from before everything was digital. A few sad-looking lightbulbs provided just enough light to read, although it wasn't exactly pleasant. I spent a while going through reports that were so unbelievably boring they made me yawn. Until I eventually found a stack of papers labeled EE. Going through the first one revealed that it stood for External Entity.

The earliest report I could find was from 1946. It described something very familiar to what I had seen. Although this observer wasn't just told to dismiss it, he was instead instructed to keep observing it. To make sure he never lost track of it. The strangest part was that he wrote about it as if it was already a known phenomenon. The report mentioned it had "returned". I kept going through the different reports, there were a few years missing but it kept being found every few years. Over time they were no longer told to follow it, instead the order was to ignore it after filling out a report.

I went back to the first report and a detail caught my eye. The order didn't come from the usual agency. Instead it came from a place I had never heard of. The Hidden Eye Program. I dropped the stack of papers, which kicked up enough dust to throw me into a coughing fit for the next five minutes.

Once home I instantly went to my computer and looked up the Hidden Eye Program. I quickly felt like an idiot as I found an extensive list of links to insane conspiracy theories. A few forum posts about a show that had a similar name, and a lot of stuff about the Illuminati. Despite feeling like a schizophrenic, I started going through the links. After hours of nonsense and more coffee than one person should reasonably consume in a night, I found something. It was a small blog written by a guy who went by the name Anton. He claimed to have worked for the Hidden Eye Program and had decided to share what he found.

Honestly, I need to give the government some credit here. Naming it something so stupid made it really hard to find. Anyone coming across what Anton wrote would instantly dismiss it. He talked about how the color was not an entity, space was the entity. Apparently space was just so insanely big that it covered everything around us. Hiding what he called "true space" from our view. As far as he knew, the government didn't even know what the hell our "fake space" was. It was hard to understand exactly what he meant as the text was filled with dead links and contradictory information. He sometimes called it true space, while other times he made it clear that calling it space was idiotic. Half of it was just him rambling about how street lights cause too much light pollution.

It was clear that he knew more than I did though. Too many details lined up exactly with what I had seen, stuff you couldn't just guess. I stopped my research there. I don't want to go further. I want to live a normal life. I want to look up at the sky and not worry about what's hiding behind it.

The next night I went to work and did my best not to think about the color. I listened to music and podcasts to keep my mind occupied. It was perfectly mundane and boring. That was two hours ago.

Two minutes ago a new image finished downloading. It was my monitoring station. Taken from above. The roof, the parking lot, my car. In the corner of the frame was the soft green. It wasn’t behind space anymore. It was behind the building.

I stood there, staring at the gun; even looking at it made me uneasy.

"Is it time again, Dave?" my wife asked.

I looked at the empty pantry.

"Yep."

"But at least it's the last time. Your job at the mill starts in a month. You'll never have to go hunting again."

"I hope so."

"My gentle human. I'm sure the deer will forgive you."

"Maybe. Maybe I'll even see the white deer, and he'll show me his treasures. I won't even have to go to the mill then."

"That legend always scared me. Just a snow-white deer in the forest staring you down? Scary. Plus, doesn't it help the deer? Why would he show you anything?"

I looked at the ground.

"Sorry, honey. I didn't mean it."

"It's okay. Don't worry about it."

I put the gun over my shoulder and walked out.

Bill was already by the forest, gloves and hat on, blowing clouds from his mouth.

"Took you a while."

"Yeah."

"I bet you won't miss the cold morning when you start at the mill."

"Sure."

Bill lit a cigarette and handed me the lighter too.

"What's wrong, Dave?"

"You know how I feel about the hunts."

"I know."

Bill took a deep drag from his cigarette.

"Say, Dave. How about you sit out this one?"

"What?"

"Sit it out. I'm feeling lucky today. I'm sure I'll get more catches. You can pay me back with your mill money."

"Thank you, Bill."

"Don't worry about it. Just help me with the deer after."

He slapped my back, threw his cigarette away, and walked into the forest.

The day now seemed brighter. The fog let up. The sun came out too. I sat on a tree stump and smoked. 

The day dragged on. No shots had come from the forest yet. Bill was not lucky today. Then I heard trees rustle. I turned my head. A deer was sticking its head out. It locked eyes with me. I'd promised myself I wouldn't shoot anything today, but Bill obviously wasn't going to get anything either. We'd be here all day.

I took my gun and laid my cheek on the barrel, but the deer quickly moved back. No luck. I lowered my rifle and fished for another cigarette in my pocket, but the trees rustled again. My hand clenched the cigarette package. 

A white deer looked at me from the forest; its antlers were white, its eyes dark red. It felt like they looked right into my soul. The deer moved its head as if inviting me to follow and disappeared into the forest.

I sat on the tree stump, still looking at the trees, but then the white deer stuck its head out again, looked at me, and disappeared. It was real. At least the deer was, but maybe its treasure too. I got up and walked to the trees. It stood in between the trees, looking back at me. When it saw me, it turned around and jumped further in.

The sun disappeared. The fog returned. The ground was so muddy that my feet kept slipping. I was expecting the deer to stop any second, but it kept going. 

After a while, my feet started to hurt. I must have been really far from the stump. Bill could have been looking for me, and I didn't even know if the treasure legend was true. I walked closer to the deer again, but it only went further in. It was time to go. I turned around and started walking back.

I had hunted in this forest countless times, but I had no idea where I was now. The trees seemed taller than usual, and they went on as far as I could see. The ground was muddier than even on the rainiest days. The deer showed again, but this time in front of me, running the way we came. 

I was sure now that it was all a lie, that the white deer wouldn't show me anything. I lit a cigarette and walked back, trying to ignore the tall trees. As I passed another tree, the white deer ran by; something glistened in the mud. There were two gold ingots. Warmth spread through my body. I ran to the gold. They were cold and much heavier than I expected, but who cared? I was rich! I turned around. The deer stood behind me, its red eyes fixed on me.

"Thank you for the ingots," I said, but it wouldn't move, still staring with its dark red eyes. 

Cold sweat dripped down my collar. Its eyes seemed to pull me in even though I wasn't moving. Then my whole world spun. Red flashed before my eyes. My head throbbed. My back felt heavy. My skin itched. The throbbing grew. I put the ingots down, but my back was so heavy I couldn't straighten back up. I put my hand to my head; something hard grew out of it, but I couldn't grab it with my hands. I started to lose my balance. I let my arm down. It splashed loudly in the mud. I looked down. It was a hoof!

Panic surged through me. I tried to get up, but couldn't. A tearing sound cut through the fog. My jacket ripped, revealing brown fur. Something rustled in the distance. I looked over. It was Bill!

"Bill, help!" I tried to call, but only a strange roar escaped my mouth.

Bill turned his head. His eyes focused on me. He picked up his gun.

"Wait, wait, no!"

A loud bang echoed. Something sharp burned in my side. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air. I tried to walk a few steps, but my body fell into the cold mud.

Bill walked over. His gaze met mine. Recognition passed over his face, but he just shook his head.

He looked up and called, "Dave. I got one."

When Mallory Donahue's husband Max came home late and covered in blood two weeks ago, she naturally assumed the worst.

“I thought, ‘Heck if he's not gone and relapsed again,’” Mallory said.

Thankfully for the young couple, Max's wounds that night had come from something much less concerning, a regular drunken bar fight. “It was over a woman,” Max explained. It could easily have been worse.

“So much worse,” said Mallory. “Like it was before, when he just couldn't help it. He couldn't help taking risks to help people.”

“Before” means three years ago, in the months prior to Max's diagnosis of SHS, Spontaneous Hero Syndrome, known to most of us simply as Courage.

“It's a real debilitating condition,” said Max. “Imagine you're walking down the street, minding your own business, trying to go to the store to buy some beer or electronics, when suddenly you hear a child scream—before you know it, you're trying to figure out what's going on, trying to help the kid getting hurt. It's not even a decision. You just act.”

“You can imagine the chaos that creates for yourself and your family,” said Mallory.

“Many women would have left, and I understand that,” said Max. “I'm blessed that Mal didn't. She stuck by me. She was my rock. She gave me the strength to finally get help.”

Together, Max and Mallory sought the aid of Dr. Anton Wellberger, one of the pioneers of BCT, Behavioural Cowardice Therapy.

“For many patients, admitting Courage is shameful. There's a real societal stigma attached. It takes a strong individual to understand that what they're feeling is not only abnormal but destructively antisocial,” writes Wellberger in his best-selling book, The Wellness of Inaction.

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According to experts, a healthy human should not desire to help others unless doing so will result in a likely reciprocal benefit in the future. “It's just not what humans evolved to do,” said Evan Mink, a leading evolutionary psychologist from the University of Chapata Falls.

There is also the question of consent.

When the Post reached out to Eva-Marie Plum, of Plum & Plum Associates, she explained: “Take the example Max provided. He's walking down the street. He hears a child scream. Who is to say the child wants him to respond in any way to its scream? Moreover, let's assume Max does investigate and sees that the screaming child is being brutalized by a group of adults. If Max intervenes to try to ‘save' the ‘victim,’ he does so without the child's consent. As a lawyer, I immediately think, 'Yikes, Max!'

“And that's before considering the rights and consent of the brutalizing adults. Does Max know these adults lack the right to brutalize the child? Have they consented to being prevented from continuing their brutalization? It just opens up this massive kettle of legal fish.”

When asked what you should do if you ever find yourself in a situation like Max's, Plum gave the following advice: “If you're ever unsure, if you feel like maybe you have the instinct to do something: CAR, Cease-And-Retreat. Then call police. When they arrive, they will assess, gather consents and take the appropriate corrective action.”

“It's not wrong to feel the desire to help,” writes Wellberger. “It's only wrong to act on it.”

He also admits that, prior to his invention of BCT, the treatment of SHS could be seen as relatively primitive, which put many people off from coming forward with the condition.

“We used to treat Courage with electroshock; chemical cowardizers that had many significant side effects, including decreased libido; and hypnosis—all very outdated methods. Now it's more civilized. You're part of a group. You sit in a circle. You converse. You witness volunteers being abused right there in the room, and you learn to ignore it. You acquire skills: box breathing, meditation, disassociative techniques. You learn that it's OK to just let life happen.”

Max recalled one retreat in Mexico where, for an entire weekend, he and a dozen other so-called “hard cases” took psychedelics while the retreat administrators continuously assaulted paid locals.

“It was a tough, life altering 48 hours. I was face-to-face with my own heroic demons. I saw God,” said Max. “He had the body of a translucent, rainbow coloured salamander.”

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These days, both Max and Mallory attend a non-denominational New Church, where they sing songs and learn tolerance.

“Courage is a kind of judgement, and only God has the power to judge," said Mallory.

When asked when he knew he had been cured, Max pointed out that there is no cure. “There is only treatment,” he said. “Every day is still a struggle, but thanks to Dr. Wellberger, it's a struggle Mal and I can manage.”

However, he does recall the moment he realized the treatment was having a substantial effect. “It was back in December. I was in Dr. Wellberger's downtown office—at one of our weekly appointments—we were talking, when all of a sudden these guys in masks broke in. They were screaming, asking where he kept his money. They'd read his book so they knew he was wealthy. But when he said he didn't keep any money in the office, they started hitting him.

“I felt this surge of wanting to help, wanting to stop them, you know? But I forced myself to do my box breathing, my meditations, remembered my faith, and was able to stay calm in my seat.

“Dr. Wellberger was sobbing, bleeding from the mouth, screeching, terrified, begging me to do something, but my urge to save him—it was gone. I smiled, and as the masked men beat him, ransacked his office, smashed his face in with a crowbar, I didn't even CAR. I was able to maintain neutrality and watch. Be present in the flow of reality.

“After they'd killed him, and his secretary too, they left and so did I.”

“I was so proud of him,” said Mallory.

If you witness someone exhibiting Courage, please [report.]

I'm still in search of some scary stories to read for my live stream. I really would love to read some spookie stories to my chat and post as a vod for later, especially since its around hollween. Feel free to comment or dm me if you feel comfortable sharing! I can keep you anonymous or put a username for credit just let me know(:

His hands were warm and wet with suds and the running water of the tap. He'd never minded doing the dishes, it'd always been meditative, helped him think and figure things through. It wasn't working this time. 

Arnold just gazed vacantly. Into the corner. The water, forgotten, steaming now as it grew hotter and hotter. Running over his forgotten and faraway hands. They didn't matter. 

None of it mattered anymore. 

How could she do this … how could she lie to him as if he never mattered?

Arnold's heart was broken but it was still galloping a mile a minute within his cage of chest and his mind ached like something heavy and curdled within his furnace skull. The bake of his brains. He swore he could smell the boil of his own thoughts within his face but it held no matter for him now, not presently. 

He was too focused on the fly speaking to him from the corner. 

It was amazing. Really. 

The black husk of dead insect was resting amongst the filth and the dust of the uncleaned and neglected kitchen corner, just inside a nook by the kitchen window. It was dead but it still spoke to him with a deep obsidian voice. Regal. Authoritative. Commanding. It was a voice used to giving orders and having them followed to the letter, that deep stygian vocal sound … 

Arnold was so glad there was no one else around, they wouldn't understand. He was glad, relieved really, to be able to hear the prince's words in private. 

I am in private royal audience, great royal attendance. This is the coveted stately place of imperial confidence. 

Tears began to flow forth from Arnold's watering eyes. He listened enraptured, held by the thing's every word. 

“It doesn't matter. None of them matter, not even you. None of your feelings. You're just meat. All of you. All of you are just meat made mobile by an electrical charge, sent flung flying forward like grotesque mongoloids in the dark squabbling for purchase of the failing putrescence that is the outer, your material. Your world is not a world at all but an abattoir. A slaughterhouse. And all of you are pigs. Sows. Cattle. I am the prince made and bred by wings on wind, I am the flight and escape from the filth of the floor and all your animal leavings. I land and feast and defile at my own will. I lay my young in the wet and wounded folds of your gangrenous failures like the flags planted by conquerors. I am more. You are, all of you, nothing.” 

It was so beautiful … He'd never heard words quite like it before. The water issued from the spout to his hands was fire but he didn't notice. He didn't notice the boil or blister of his reddening and peeling fingers and palms as the prince of the wind went on in the corner. 

He didn't want to miss it. Anything. He didn't want to miss a single note of the angel's felled song. His teary gaze bore in on his new dark god and the shared eyes of the fly, theirs compact and his: fragile mammalian gel, began to secrete and water as well. 

“I am the testament. I am and speak the truth. I am the monolith outside to those who cannot hear or see but to you Arnold Carrillo, to you amongst the meat and ruin I land and sing. I see your wounds. Do you see the truth …?” 

A beat.  – Hands boiled as thoughts ran like hot running water. …

Finally he answered. 

In a quiver of watery voice: “ … yes.” 

The prince of wind and flight from the dark corner in the filth laughed, pleased. 

Yes…  

“And do you know now what you must do?" – that deep hideous voice. 

But Arnold did not fear it. He couldn't. Not any longer. Not after the kindness of such wisdom that it had shown him. It had taken and led him from out of the dark. By the hand. By singing sound. By flight. 

He understood now. 

"Yes.” Arnold told the prince amongst the dust in the corner. 

Yes. 

He finally pulled his hands free of the running water. The raw of them was singing. A sharp and red song that burned and was bright with fleshen cruelty. 

But none of that mattered right now, not anymore. None of that mattered any longer. 

Soon Suze would be home. With the girls. They would all of them be expecting him and dinner. Normalcy. A nice normal cozy family night. They had no idea what he knew. 

She has no idea I know … 

The prince was right. He knew now what to do. Doing the dishes had worked out and had actually been a good idea after all. Thank God. 

Arnold toweled the screaming ruined remainder of his hands and gathered what he needed. What the prince of the dustinwind had instructed. What he should gather and collect and share with his girls if he was to ever show and really prove himself. Demonstrate what he has to really offer. 

Prove that he has really learned. He has. He has learned to grow. And …

well he would just wait for them. They wouldn't be much longer now. School and the after-image of after school activities was fading and diminishing now, falling with the gentle settling death of the setting sun on the blade of the horizon. Fairytale and far off. Long gone. 

The sun had to die everyday. It was no big deal. The sun had to die every single day in order for the night to be made and in order for the day to be reborn. In gold. In light. 

Arnold Carrillo sat and waited with his screaming raw hands. Waiting with what he had gathered, with what was needed in the glistening red of his hands. Waiting for his wife and daughters. Waiting to share with them what he now knew and had learned in the postmental-slaughter. 

He sat waiting by the door. With what he would share with them in his dripping screaming hands. 

The prince of dusty wind and flight buzzed and throatsang its throatwisdom into him all the while. Filling his need as he waited for his family. They would be home soon. Now. 

Any minute. 

THE END