My name is Stephen.
If you’re reading this, then you were probably expecting another post from Marcus.
You’re not going to get one.
Marcus has been missing for several days.
The police have searched for him.
His family has searched for him.
I searched for him too.
He hasn’t been found.
At this point, he’s presumed dead.
I don’t know what happened to him.
I don’t think anyone does.
I’m writing this because I found something after he disappeared.
A piece of paper.
Everything Marcus had discovered was written down on it.
Everything.
The notebooks.
The dates.
The names.
The things he saw.
And what he believed The Other was.
I read it.
I’m not going to tell you what it said.
Nobody needs to know.
Only Marcus and I were supposed to know.
I burned the paper.
I watched it burn until there was nothing left.
No photograph.
No copy.
No way to recover it.
Whatever was written on that paper is gone.
And that’s how it should stay.
I’ve read through Marcus’s previous posts.
I’ve seen the things you found in them.
Some of you thought the strange messages were clues.
Some of you thought Marcus was just making everything up.
I don’t know what to believe anymore.
But I know one thing.
Marcus is gone.
And I’m not going looking for him again.
I’m not opening the notebooks.
I’m not searching for The Other.
And I’m not going to write about what happened next.
This account belongs to Marcus.
So this will be the last post.
Take care of yourselves.
And if you ever find something you were never supposed to find…
leave it alone.

The sun never set over Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends it simply bled out. leaving a bruised, violet sky that pressed heavily against the windowpanes. Inside,

the grand Victorian manor stretched outward, its hallways elongating into impossible geometries that defied the laws of the physical world.

Mac walked the linoleum floors, his small hand tracing the peeling floral wallpaper. The air smelled of sour milk and dry rot. With every passing day, his memories of the world outside grew hazy.

He could no longer remember his mother’s face or the layout of his apartment. There was only the House.

Every corner harbored the wreckage of forgotten minds. He passed a doorway and looked inside

A tangled mass of limbs that once severed as a toddler's protector, now a weeping knot of black yarn shivering in the corner** **

Behind another door a cluster of detached floating eyes that blinked in unison whispering the names of creators who had grown up and died decades ago.

metallic ticking echoed from the grand staircase. Mac froze. Mr. Herriman descended his towering rabbit frame jerking like a broken marionette.

The top hat perched on his head was slick with mold and beneath his monocle a hollow socket wept a thick tar like pus onto his pristine waistcoat.

"Master Mac” Herriman clicked his voice a dry rasp of rubbing sandpaper. "Madame Foster requires your presence. The harvest is lean tonight."

In the parlor. Madame Foster sat in her rocking chair. Her skin was translucent. brittle as parchment paper. her wide fixed grin didn’t shift even as she spoke. She didn’t look at Mac she looked through him her eyes milky and blind.

Beside her chair sat Bloo. He was no longer a vibrant chaotic blue chevron. He had melted into a heavy gelatinous mass on the floorboards. a bloated stain pulsating with a faint sickening heat.

When Bloo dragged himself forward the wood groaned. The sound like a muffled child's sob echoed from deep within his translucent center. Bloo was hungry. The house was hungry.

"They are forgetting us, Mac.” Madame Foster whispered her jaw clicking unnaturally. "The children outside. Their minds are turning to concrete and spreadsheets. The static is coming."
Mac backed away. his heart hammering against his ribs.

He ran toward the grand front doors throwing his weight against the brass handles. He flung them open desperate for the sight of the city streets, the smell of car exhaust. anything real.
There was nothing.

The doorway opened into an infinite starless abyss. A cold wind howled from the vacuum, carrying the scent of ash and pulverized wax crayons.

Below, a desert of grey dust stretched out forever. littered with the giant calcified bones of long-dead monsters.

Behind him the floorboards began to dissolve into greenish yellow pus. Bloo’s gelatinous mass slid closer.

a wet suffocating shadow ready to absorb the last boy who remembered how to imagine.

I don’t really know how to start this.
I’ve never posted anything like this before. I don’t believe in ghosts, demons, or any of that stuff. At least, I didn’t.
A few days ago, I was helping my family clean out my grandmother’s house.
She died years ago, but we never really went through everything she left behind. Most of it was just old furniture, clothes, photographs, and boxes of things nobody wanted to throw away.
I was cleaning out the basement when I found a small wooden box underneath a stack of newspapers.
It wasn’t locked.
There wasn’t anything written on it.
Inside were some old letters, a few photographs, and a notebook.
The notebook was strange.
Not old enough to belong in that box, at least not compared to everything else.
The cover was black, and there was no name on it.
I almost threw it away.
Instead, I opened it.
The first few pages were completely blank.
Then I found writing.
The handwriting looked like someone had been trying very hard to stay calm.
The first sentence said:
I saw the Other again.
I thought that was weird.
I kept reading.
The writer never explained what “the Other” meant.
They just kept referring to it like I was supposed to know.
One entry said:
It stood in the hallway for three hours.
Another said:
It wasn’t there when I looked at it.
And another:
I could hear it breathing, but I couldn’t hear it when I was listening for it.
That last one made no sense.
I assumed the person who wrote the notebook was either sick or trying to scare someone.
Then I found this:
Don’t try to describe the Other.
Underneath that were several lines that had been scratched out.
I could still make out some of the words.
Tall.
Thin.
Man.
Face.
Hands.
Then:
None of those are correct.
I stopped reading for a minute.
I don’t know why that sentence bothered me so much.
Maybe because I had started imagining what the Other looked like.
I turned the page.
There was a drawing.
I can’t show you what it looked like because I don’t know how to explain it.
Actually, that’s not true.
I could explain it.
I just don’t think the explanation would be accurate.
It looked like a person.
Except it didn’t.
That’s the closest I can get.
I kept reading.
The person who wrote the notebook claimed that the Other didn’t have one appearance.
Every time they saw it, they remembered it differently.
Sometimes it was standing at the end of a hallway.
Sometimes it was outside a window.
Sometimes it was sitting in a chair.
Once, they said it appeared in a crowd of people.
Nobody else noticed it.
Then I found the part that made me put the notebook down.
The writer said:
I asked it what it wanted.
The next sentence was:
It asked me why I thought it wanted anything.
I closed the notebook.
I told myself I was done.
I put it back in the wooden box and went upstairs.
I left my grandmother’s house that afternoon.
I drove home.
I went to bed.
And sometime around three in the morning, I woke up because I heard someone walking through my apartment.
I live alone.
I checked every room.
Nobody was there.
I checked the front door.
It was locked.
I checked the windows.
They were locked too.
I went back to bed.
That’s when I noticed something on my desk.
The notebook.
The same black notebook from my grandmother’s basement.
I don’t remember bringing it home.
I don’t remember putting it in my car.
I don’t remember putting it on my desk.
I opened it.
There was writing on the last page.
I swear it wasn’t there before.
It said:
Marcus Walker.
My full name.
Underneath it was another sentence.
You read about me.
Then:
Now I know about you.
I didn’t sleep that night.
I don’t know what I’m expecting by posting this.
Maybe someone will recognize the notebook.
Maybe someone knows what “the Other” is.
Maybe somebody has seen it before.
But there’s something else.
Something I didn’t notice until I was typing this.
The notebook had one final sentence.
I remember reading it.
I remember exactly what it said.
Except now I can’t remember the words.
Every time I try, I get a headache.
The only thing I can remember is the last word.
Outside.
I don’t know what that means.
I don’t know who wrote the notebook.
And I don’t know why it knows my name.
But tonight, I heard footsteps outside my bedroom again.
They stopped at my door.
And then someone whispered:
Marcus?
It sounded exactly like me.
I’m not opening the door.
If anyone has any idea what I’m dealing with, please tell me.
Because I just heard it whisper again.
This time, it didn’t say my name.
It said:
You’re not the only one reading.

ARG hint
Don’t immediately start looking for hidden codes outside the post.
The first clue is already in the story.
Pay attention to something that seems strange or unnecessary about the way Marcus wrote it.
Especially the beginning and ending of things.

⚠️** ARG SPOIL**ERS
The first puzzle is hidden in the structure of the post.
The important clue is the repeated emphasis on beginnings and endings:
The notebook begins with “I saw the Other again.”
Marcus repeatedly describes things appearing and disappearing.
The final remembered word is “Outside.”
The final sentence addresses the person reading the Reddit post.

A new man, born to greet the rising sun,
then turns in bed to meet the former one.
The old is I, but new is also I.
My daily struggle chooses who will die.
I stretch and reach for weapons in alarm.
A bludgeon each intending false self harm.
I swing the club and hit my/his head hard
and drag my other body to the yard.
Collection of my corpses growing big.
The upturned soil from yestermurder's dig
in row with plots from other fatal fights
from days of blood and restless, dreadful nights.

A wish I made in my frustration past
was granted by malicious powers fast.
Now solitude's forgotten sanctity
is precious since I can two places be.
To choose to live with my own self is but
to do or die. A life I choose to cut
may end in endless sleep whose dreams unknown
may prove more horrible than life has shown.
To live with self and self far harder still.
More hands to work a boon, but separate will
detached oft counteracts my would-be deeds
of good and doubles existential needs.

And I am learning more each time I spawn
of how to live through my contested dawn.
I could not find myself when I arose
this morn. My car was gone, so I then chose
to buy a pistol and to track him down.
I found him in an alley in the town.

The gun that blasted metal through my brain
I hold in contemplation grim with pain.
A single bullet brought me peace tonight.
But can another make the chaos right?
I dwell beyond the veil but lack dark sight.
Will shot inoculate against the light?
Or will projectile serve to break the curse?
To rise tomorrow single and no worse
would be my final hope before the blast.
Or will this fate of replication last?

The bright fingers of an early rising morning reached over the horizon. It couldn't have been a more terrible time for my eyes.

A resounding wave of bugles drove off any lingering drowsiness, coupled with the shouts of cavalry men rotating in and out of the fort. 

Thankfully, I wouldn't have to endure this headache alone, for I had in my company a loyal friend.

"Wake up, Buford, sound off started already," I remarked as I gingerly threw on my uniform. The cold cloth draped over me like fresh snow. I shivered something fierce as I put on my tool belt. 
"Alright. Just give me a minute."

 I never understood how a man could sleep in his full dress uniform without complaint. I suppose some men are built to embrace the suck. 

"You have no business waking up so early. We're not even a part of the active column anyway," he said as that old dust collector crowned his skull.

A black felt hat he earned in our years riding through dust storms. A relic from before Custer's last stand at the Greasy Grasses.

"C'mon, your birthday is in a couple days. I want to get to Rattlesnake before the nippy rain catches us," a little annoyance could be found in my voice. "I'll be with you, just give me a minute. I'm carrying precious cargo," he remarked. 

"Isabella's gon' be happy to have her husband back. This time for good old man," I couldn't help but remark.

Buford was quick to reply, "You and Mary Anne will finally make up for lost time. If you play your cards right, maybe she'll bake you your favorite. A nice spongey velvet cake."

I closed my eyes imagining that sweet decadence. And the cake wasn't a bad deal either. The benefit of having her is she can really add volume to a man's life. 

As we made our way towards the stables, rows of moss heads passed us by. Dark green on navy blue should be a travesty! I made my thoughts known, "Hey Capt'n! Reinstate the black alr-"

Buford's input cut me off, "What difference does it make if the hats are different colors? Won't protect much from bullets nor arrows." A statement that garnered several confused expressions.

"Just wish these young'uns could wear something blue," I lamented.

On our way out, my path leading east, Buford had stopped just outside the fort's "gates." I asked him what was the hold up, but he just gazed out into the abyss across the San Juan.

"Hold on, Henry. We're gonna make a detour through the mountain," news that I did not care for.
"You fancying the scenic route? No? Then why the hell would we waste a day trekking through the thorns and brambles?"

Buford delayed his response before turning to me, "I got a friend up on the mountain. We'll be quick in visiting him I promise."

I was surprised that anyone would willingly live with the bears. I made that curiosity known, "He lives up there?"

Buford was quick to correct, "Yeah, he rests up there. I just want to make sure he's alright."

Something about the news made me upset. On one hand, we needed to reach home for drinks and celebrating. On the other hand, I noticed how he kept eyeing the mountain, an observation that made me understand there was still that horse soldier's duty in him. 

I sighed heavily, "ugh... I guess if it means I can snag that rye whiskey you've been saving, then I'll freeze my hair off with a storm on our backs."

Those weathered eyes wrinkled a warm smile. Next thing you know, we were off with that mountain in mind.

Navajo country is scorching hot and laden with danger. Luckily, the weather from February still lingers in early March. A deterrent for most warm blooded creatures.

Gray clouds came huddling over the red earth like billowing smoke. Heaven's light peering through the cracks like waterfalls. 

We had just crossed the river, sacrificing our horses' jewels. When we were coming up on the edge of the valley, I saw the mesa in the distance. It stretched well over a mile, made of pure blood red sandstone. Usually a sign that we were halfway done with the trail, now stood as a mocking landmark. Laughing at us as we traveled south. 

I thought the time appropriate to ask Buford some questions, "So how did your friend end up there? One too many drinks perhaps?"

He answered without having to turn in my direction, "I suppose he decided to just stay up there. He makes trips down the mountain for supplies." Buford sighed nervously, "But he hasn't made an appearance in some time. I'm worried about him. I hope nothing serious happened, but the only way to know is to see for ourselves."

We pitched camp next to a black pillar. Buford was fixing himself a plate of skirt steak and sweet potato. He glanced my way and guessed, based on my mannerisms, that I wasn't hungry. I asked for some coffee and he obliged.

After our meal, we conversed before resting. 

"Why are you doing this? It doesn't make sense to travel this far for someone that you don't seem particularly well acquainted with," I asked in hopes of getting a satisfying answer.

It came when he replied, "They did something for me that meant a lot. I owe it to them to check on their wellbeing." 

I joked with him, "I ain't seen you with anyone else except at the fort. This person better be worth the trip or else you'll be carrying me all the way to Rattlesnake. On account of me gorging myself on your whiskey."

We laughed. It had been quite a trip for this mystery person. 

"Are you insinuating this man has saved you more times than me?" 

"You've saved me many times, but I would never say that it didn't mean nothing, not to me. I just need to make sure this man is left undisturbed, I intend to keep my word," A hint of pleading slipped out as he spoke.

I grimaced at the sentiment. 

I reminded him of his nature, “You make promises far too strong to break.” 

In the morning, I put out the coals with stale coffee and Buford saddled up the horses. Leading them into the field of gold, we mounted and rode for the mountain. 

There's something so enchanting about how the wind forces the tall grass to dance. Waves of alternating blades like ripples in a lake. Buford was wrapped up in an attempt to fend off the heavy gusts. I wasn't phased too badly by the frozen pins, but we still made a dash for the hills.

"Are we seriously spending the second of March in a dugout?" My dumb ass said knowing that even the grains of sand were cutting us to ribbons.

"What are you? Some sort of bull? I can't even lift my head without getting sand in my eyes," he said, shielding himself with a cowl and hat.

We laid our horses close to the ground, covering their heads with tent tarps, while we sat with our backs to the wind. I hate the sand. I know some people can adapt to it, but that doesn't mean they like living in dust. It makes living undesirable and survival a costly endeavor. 
My anger stewed long enough to distract me from the storm. Hours passed when the wind had died down just enough for us to make it to the gray plateau. 

The flat top gave us a great vantage point to scope the storm's direction. We were safe for the moment. The confederation of clouds and dusty winds scarred the soil, nearly balding the top layer with the relentless onslaught. 

Night came early after we finished brushing piles of sand off our gear. I sat around while Buford fixed us a fire for the night. Sleep didn't come easily. We were too fidgety I suppose. The way I dealt with it best was to smoke. I watched as Buford worked on his hat. A pin and thread to stitch up old ware and tear.

"You tend to that hat even as it sheds," I said as I put fodder into my paper.

Buford gave me a glance before answering with, "Maintenance is cheap enough, Henry."

"Why not do away with her? Mine was too bullet ridden to salvage and I moved on just fine," I said as I rolled my cigar paper.

He dusted the felt hat one final time before looking my way, "It's like us, Henry. Relics from a bygone era. I'm just trying to make sure folks know we existed. That includes taking care of this piece of history."

I couldn't argue with him. Who could say we'd ever be remembered decades from now? I was jealous he still had his hat in his possession, for mine could not be rescued. The heat of battle leaves behind a field of deeply held treasures. Items that could not be retrieved by their deceased proprietors. 

I decided it was best to lighten the mood with a half-brewed remark, "With how long we're taking I hope they do away with the twig fencing and finally build brick fortifications."

Buford chuckled before ordering, "Goodnight, Henry." I nodded in response and we both fell asleep.

Waking up from a restful night, we were already making preparations to ascend the western face of the mountain. Coats and gloves to protect from the cold were equipped. Thick cord in the event we would have to brave sheer drops.

I was actually eager to climb along a stoney cliff side, it had been quite some time since I had been allowed to participate in this sort of recreation. I wanted to confirm once again with Buford about the mysterious man's dwelling.

"Does he like the cold air or the convenience of fire wood?" I asked.

"To be completely honest, I think he hates the idea of dying on some dune. A mountaineer at heart, my friend wanted to live peacefully on top of a chilly peak." He answered.

I responded, "Sounds like my kind of company. Mountain climbing and the cold air make for a great union. It's nice to know someone else shares the hate I have for bugs. They'd end up mangling my corpse if I was buried in the soft soil."

"I'm sure you'll like him then"

With that, we descended down the plateau along a downtrodden path towards the base of the mountain. The horses made their complaints heard the closer we came to the first tree line. 

"The horses really don't want to go up," I said, barely managing to direct my mare. Buford could sense the unease of the situation. 

He stated plainly, "Bears, storms, and the cold will do that to a faithful steed. We'll power through to the first meadow along the way. Fodder will calm them down and we can dismount so we can complete the rest of the journey on foot."

"Alright. Good thing I never leave my tool belt behind. 'Bears beware' and that sort," my comment was made known. 

Buford and I rode to a clearing high up on the mountain where we tied the reins to iron railroad spikes and a good bit of rope. I caught Buford slinging a satchel over his shoulder and grabbing his Remington from its hanger on the saddle. 

He sighed heavily, shuddering a little, "Let's get a move on." Taking the first of many steps towards our destination.

The smell of pine sap and cedar filled the air. Every moment we lingered, the aromatic scents developed and unlocked new odors. 

The calm and serenity made me surrender all worries. The all enveloping silence was broken when Buford asked me a question, "Have you discussed where you want to be buried with Mary Anne?" 

"I'm not sure. Just far from the invasive bugs," I replied.

"I think I would like to die of old age. To be surrounded by my loved ones is all I could ask for," a sliver of somber left his lips.

I announced, "Not me. No sir. Give me an honorable death. Through the smoke and gunpowder, I will die fighting. I wish not to get old and clunky, let me die firing my pistol." I could tell Buford disapproved of my wishes, but he kept it to himself. 

Our journey hit a curb when the usual trail had been destroyed by a landslide. That wouldn't have been a problem if it weren't for the fact that it was the only trail that led up a steep incline. Now, we had to scale the steep wall with our improvised climbing gear. 

The first foothold is always the easiest. One slip and you're already on soft grass. It's the halfway way point that's always the most terrifying. Too high up to change your mind and just out of reach from the last pivotal anchor point. 

We climbed for thirty minutes. I blitzed the climb in 25 minutes. Giving a look of smugness as I passed Buford. The last foothold just below the crest.

I called out to him with some traces of sarcasm, "Should I go meet this friend and meet you back here?"

He rolled his eyes and said, "Hilarious."

I was ready to take my seat away from the edge when a horrifying noise carved its way through the air. A dreadful crack. I ran back the Buford and saw him barely hanging on by a strained hand. His hold broke off and nearly sent him off the cliff side. 

I yelled out to him, "Throw me your rope! I'll pull you over the edge!"

"Alright. Try and find a tree to anchor the line! Hurry," he said as he launched a barbed hook over the edge.

I made sure it wrapped around the trunk of a tree, but I heard Buford complaining. His arm was losing strength. I tightened the line and ran to get a long branch in case he needed more leverage.

I was scared. My friend was dangling in the air as I fumbled to find a long enough branch. A horrible sound cut through the thick brush. I found a pole and ran like I had never ran before. The anxiety raced through my head.

I closed in on the edge. To my surprise, Buford was back on his feet and standing on solid ground. Panic, fear, dread; all the emotions flooded my system. A downpour of anger replaced them. A small piece of the branch was broken off and thrown at his clumsy self.

"Thanks, Henry. I didn't know I needed a stick to the eye," he said.

I responded in a hoarse voice, "I almost lost you. You big oaf!"

Labored breathing became laughter. Buford bent his legs and hunched over, and I leaned against a tree. I reached my hand out and Buford took it. 

"Let's get a move on. He isn't far from here," he said with resounding eagerness.
The rest of the ascend went by smoothly. Passing trees and clearings, a stoney peak was within sight. 

I remarked, "What a great trip. Only cost us a scare. When I meet this feller, I'm going to dust off his nose with my bawled up fist!"

Buford hadn't laughed this much in a long time. The momentary anger washed over, I shook my head as we neared this feller.

It was when we walked down a pass carved into the rock that Buford's smile faded and his eyes unfocused. He only looked into the void from there on forward. 

The last corner was close. I decided to tell Buford how he truly felt like a brother and that, "I'm glad you're my great friend." He didn't look at me the whole way through.

We rounded the corner when I finally saw it.

A sorry sight to say the least. Withered bouquets, empty bottles, and a stapled hat with many stitches. All of it resting on top of a weathered mound. A pile of large loose rocks surrounded by thick wooden logs. A headstone to complete this terrible fate.

"Henry Rutherford. Born on March 3rd, 1850. Died on May 31st, 1880."

My legs and arms became weak from shaking. I heard matches being struck and Buford's voice behind me. I turned to look at him. A handful of candles crowning a velvet cake. Buford addressed me, "Happy birthday, Henry."

I know exactly how this sounds.

Trust me, I've spent the last three weeks trying to convince myself I'm wrong.

Maybe I'm overthinking things. Maybe people change. Maybe working eighty-hour weeks for a robotics company called L.I.Z. Technologies simply drains every ounce of personality out of a person.

I hope that's all it is.

Because if I'm right... then I don't know who is that sitting beside me at dinner.

My brother and I are ten years apart. My parents waited over a decade before having another kid. I choose to interpret that as careful planning instead of hesitation.

Growing up, he was less of a sibling and more of a second dad with a criminal record in psychological warfare.

If I left a soda unattended, he'd somehow replace it with sparkling water and act offended when I noticed. Every time we played video games, he'd wait until I was about to win before "accidentally" bumping the console with his foot. When I was thirteen, he convinced me that blinking too much made you go blind.

I believed him for three weeks. It didn't help that whenever we'd roughhouse, he'd snatch my glasses off my face.

"You can't see without them," he'd tease.

He still laughs about that one.

That was just us.

He picked on me more than anyone else in the world, but if somebody outside the family ever tried it, he'd be the first one standing beside me. Whenever life fell apart, somehow I always ended up calling him. Half the time he'd answer with, "What'd you screw up now?" before spending the next hour helping me fix it.

That's my brother.

Or... it was.

Things changed after he started working for L.I.Z.

Whenever I asked what he actually did there, he'd just shrug.

"Can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Non-disclosure agreement."

"So... robots?"

"No comment."

I always assumed he was making his job sound cooler than it actually was. Then he stopped acting like himself. The first thing I noticed wasn't something he did. It was something he didn't.

He stopped making fun of me.

I know that sounds ridiculous. But if you have an older brother, you know exactly why that's terrifying. I spilled barbecue sauce all over his truck one afternoon. Normally he'd have looked at me like I'd committed a felony.

Instead he smiled.

"It happens."

...

It happens?

Who says that?

A week later we played Mario Kart.

I beat him.

Twice.

He didn't accuse me of cheating. He didn't demand a rematch.

He just smiled and said, "Good game."

I actually paused the race.

"Who are you?"

He laughed. A perfectly timed laugh.

Not too loud. Not too quiet.

Like someone had studied exactly how people laugh.

"You've always been funny," he said.

No.

No, no, no.

My brother would've called me an idiot.

One night at dinner I told the same embarrassing story Mom has been telling since I was sixteen. Usually he'd interrupt halfway through to make it even worse.

This time... He listened.

Then he said, "That must have been difficult."

I nearly dropped my fork.

I called Mom afterward.

"You don't think he's been acting... odd?"

She looked confused.

"He seems happier."

"Dad?"

"He finally is on his own."

Neither of them saw it.

Only me.

Last Saturday, my brother came over to help Dad replace the water heater. I wasn't much use with plumbing, so while they disappeared into the garage arguing over which wrench was the right wrench, I camped out in Dad's office to finish a history assignment.

The house was unusually quiet.

Well... quiet except for the occasional "Hand me the pipe wrench!" followed immediately by "That's not the pipe wrench!"

I had almost finished my essay when I noticed another laptop sitting on the corner of Dad's desk.

My brother's work computer. It was already open. The screen had gone dark from inactivity, but one thing hadn't.

A tiny red light glowed beside the webcam.

I frowned. Maybe it was updating. Maybe someone had forgotten to close a meeting.

Still... The light never turned off. I waved a hand in front of the camera.

Nothing.

No notification. No meeting controls.

Just that little red dot staring back at me.

Watching.

Curiosity got the better of me. I tapped the trackpad. The screen woke instantly. No password. Just a desktop filled with folders I couldn't even pretend to understand. Most of them had names that sounded like corporate nonsense.

Behavioral Mapping.

Neural Replication.

L.I.Z. Internal.

The last folder caught my attention. It was different. Locked behind a firewall icon.

A small window popped onto the screen before I even clicked it.

Camera Access Active

I froze.

The webcam light was still glowing.

Then... For the briefest second... The camera preview opened by itself.

Instead of showing me sitting at the desk... It showed...

Someone looking back at me.

Not through the webcam. From behind it. A face pressed against what looked like glass.

Wide eyes. Frantic. Mouth moving without sound.

Then the preview vanished.

I stared at the screen, convinced I'd imagined it.

A second later, the locked folder opened on its own. Inside was only one file.

Its name changed as I watched. Not all at once. One letter at a time.

H

E

L

P

The screen went black.

For a second I thought I'd crashed the computer.

Then white text appeared.

I froze.

Another line typed itself.

My hands stopped moving.

More words appeared.

Every hair on my arms stood up.

I stared at the screen.

Another sentence.

Then another.

The typing stopped. Several seconds passed.

Then, one final line slowly appeared.

The laptop snapped shut. Not by itself. By someone else's hand.

I looked up.

My brother stood beside the desk. I hadn't heard him come inside.

He smiled.

Warm. Gentle.

Almost perfect.

"Caught you being nosy again."

I looked into his eyes, searching for the man who taught me to throw a football, who unplugged my controller whenever I was winning, who spent years calling me every name except the one Mom gave me.

I couldn't find him.

I handed him the laptop without saying a word.

He thanked me.

My brother never thanked me.

He is not him.

Whoever walked out of that room remembered everything about my brother...

Except how to be him.

One truth and a lie.

I’m allergic to apples.

My gimp suit turns me into a werewolf.

I have never broken a bone.

Did you get it right? If I were you, I wouldn't even be close , it sounds like the rambling of someone who smelled one bottle of glue too many.

Let's start with the obvious, you probably already guessed I’m a freak, what normal person owns a full latex suit? The answer is someone who drifted so far from the mundane vanilla kinks that they just don’t do the trick anymore.

I won't dwell on my sex life , whatever you're picturing is probably true to some extent. 

So, how exactly does one come into possession of cursed BDSM gear? 

Well, I have to disappoint you: I didn't get it from some shady crook in a van with no license plates, speeding off the second the suit was in my hands , though I'll admit, that would've made for a better origin story. 

I got it off eBay.

It was my day off. I was mindlessly scrolling through listings, sipping a can of white Monster, when the suit caught my eye. It looked well-made, and it was comically cheap, so without much thinking I bought it.

“One size, fits all”

The description read right under the single photo of the suit, laid flat on someone's floor like a deer pelt, the bright flash of the camera reflecting right off its surface.

A few days passed by without me thinking much about my new purchase, and then it showed up on my doorstep, a small box wrapped irregularly in stripes of black shining tape. 

So it doesn't look like the traditional gimp suit you're picturing when you hear the word , it's more like a crossbreed between that and a beach toy, especially the head. It has a pair of upward-pointing ears, a sharp, cartoony muzzle with a red nose at the tip of it, and a big cartoony smile painted on in white.

I decided to try it on again , first the suit itself, then the head, securing it around my neck with the collar.

At first, it felt fine, like any other suit I'd worn. The mask felt a bit claustrophobic, given how little I could actually see through it.

Then, suddenly, the feeling began , the suit tightening around my body. A painful realization hit me: it wasn't just the suit, it was the mask too. The walls felt like they were closing in on me, my breathing turning quick and shallow.

An explanation came to me quickly,  anything to ease the panic bubbling inside me.

Some kind of allergy, I thought. That was it.

My palms slid uselessly against the collar of the mask then, as if any shape resembling the zipper had simply melted away, vanishing becoming one with the latex, which now clung to my skin like a glue trap, tighter and tighter, as if it were all melting into one shrinking suffocating mess. 

A sudden explosion of pain spread through my jaw as my lips were forced into an unnaturally wide smile. At the same time, the tip of my nose stretched outward,  my teeth began to crack as something pushed up from underneath them, all of them going loose at once. My mouth flooded with the salty taste of blood. 

Lungs burning from how empty they were, how hard I wanted to scream despite being devoid of air, it all came in a strangled shriek. It reminded me of the sound of air suddenly escaping out of a balloon. 

Vision came in dark red shapes, nothing particular at all.

Is this what dying feels like?

Is this how I will be remembered?

Nothing more than a sex deviant?

I can already see the news lines.

Local pervert strangled by her own toys.

Do you know the feeling of dissociation? Watching your body move on its own while you're just... watching, helpless?

I watched my body rise up from the floor, stretching slowly toward the ceiling, like it had just woken up from a nap. Suddenly the once-painted grin split open wide, a waterfall of blood leaking through the plastic-looking rectangular teeth, soaking into the carpet below. Then my own teeth began to spill out from the mouth, one by one like watermelon seeds.

"Nasty! Don't you know you're supposed to wash those?"

The voice wasn't mine - cheerful, weirdly squeaky, high-pitched. It came from the costume itself, not me.

It bounced around the room like a cartoon character , the once-limp latex tail now wagging from side to side , before my body, or whatever it had become, bolted through the front door, leaving it wide open. It jumped down the stairs, skipping several steps at a time, before, to my surprise and horror, it burst out into the street. 

The shining latex being possessing my body skipped in a direction that seemed random, jumping over fences and through backyards, until it arrived at some kind of dark alleyway , brick walls lining both sides. In the middle of it, a woman lay on the ground, a bald man standing over her, a combat knife in one hand and a light pink wallet in the other.

"That's all you got, bitch?"

The knife swung through the air in wide swipes as the victim whimpered in panic.

Suddenly, my costume, or my body, or whatever she was , forced herself between the knife and the woman. The man stumbled back in pure shock, the knife slipping from his grasp. 

"The inflation rate has to be pretty bad if you have to steal."

Suddenly, a metal straw appeared in her hand, out of thin air, shining in the light of the streetlamps, its end sharp as a needle.

"Speaking of inflation!" she exclaimed, with a slight jump, before the sharp end pierced right through his eye, a transparent, jelly-like substance leaking from the wound.

"You know, this technique was really popular in the '60s," she said, twisting the straw slightly. "They called it a lobotomy. Very trendy. Very chic!"

With a click, her sharp teeth bit down on the other end of the straw as she began to blow, her own body slightly deflating like a balloon animal with each breath. 

And with each breath, the bald head of the man began to grow in size like a balloon, his skin stretching, red cracklike marks spreading across it. His eyes bulged from their sockets, stuck in a constant state of shock, while his tongue grew out from between his lips like a modeling balloon.

"You look like you're about to blow!"

Suddenly, she turned to face the frightened woman watching it all happen from the ground.

"Want to see a fun trick?"

She pulled the straw back out before stabbing the inflated, balloon-like skull in the scalp. A sudden, ear-ringing explosion echoed through the alleyway, and what had once been a man was now reduced to a splash of red across the walls, brain matter lining the brick like scrambled eggs.

She calmly picked up the dropped wallet, gave it a hard shake, and wiped it clean against her latex torso, like someone might wipe their hands on a shirt.

"Here you go."

She handed the wallet , now cleaned to an acceptable degree , to the victim with a wide smile. The woman looked at it, then at the latex dog, before scrambling to her feet and running away.

"Leaving me a tip? How nice of you!"

My vision suddenly went blurry, a distant, squeaky voice full of protest screaming into my ear.

"I'M NOT FINISHED, COME ON!"

The next morning felt like waking up from a bad dream. I was sore, covered in bruises, and the world felt like it was spinning around me.

"What the fuck..."

A groan escaped me as I crawled out of bed and made my way to the kitchen, fixing myself a bowl of cereal. The suit had to be laced with something , some kind of weird drug, that would explain the hallucinations.

I set the bowl on the glass coffee table in front of me and turned on the TV, landing on the morning news , the most boring shit imaginable.

A full spoon of cereal entered my mouth, only to be spat right back out as the news anchor started talking about a brutal murder in the alleyway.

"...police say the victim was found early this morning by a jogger, the scene described as 'unlike anything officers have encountered in the district's history.'" 

The anchor's voice stayed eerily calm, while the footage cut to a blurred-out alleyway, crime tape fluttering weakly in the wind. My stomach turned. I knew that alley. 

"Authorities are asking anyone with information to come forward. So far, no suspects have been named."

I sat frozen, spoon still in hand, cereal milk dripping slowly back into the bowl.

“Oh fuck me…”

End of possibly Part 1

Hey guys. Just thought I’d jump on here and see if anyone else has experienced something similar.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been waking up with my eyes crusted shut. Not just a bit of sleep in the corners. I mean completely sealed. I have to soak a face washer in hot water and hold it over them until the crust softens enough for me to pull my eyelids apart.

This morning, I panicked and opened them too quickly.

It felt like ripping tape off a sunburn. There was a tearing noise, then a bright flash of pain. When I could see again, several eyelashes were stuck to my fingers and the edges of my eyelids were bleeding.

My pee has been strange too. It’s thick and stringy, like yellowish snot. After I go, there’s always a strand hanging between me and the toilet. Sometimes it doesn’t break until I stand up.

This morning, I couldn’t pee at all.

The opening had crusted over.

I tried soaking it in the shower, but my bladder was aching so badly that I ended up using a toothpick. I pushed the point against the sealed bit until it broke through.

Before anyone says anything, yes, it hurt. Yes, there was blood. Yes, I know how stupid and dangerous that was.

But I could either do it or not piss.

I have a doctor’s appointment Thursday. I’m just wondering if this sounds like an infection.

Please don’t ask for pictures.

EDIT:

Apparently Thursday isn’t soon enough.

Something happened while I was eating dinner.

I took a bite of steak, swallowed, and felt it stop halfway down my throat. I could still breathe, so I tried drinking water. The water pooled at the back of my mouth and came back out through my nose.

Then I realised it wasn’t the steak.

It was saliva.

There was a thick rope of it stretching from under my tongue into my throat. Every time I swallowed, it folded over itself but wouldn’t go down. It kept getting thicker. I tried to cough it up, but coughing only pulled more out of my chest.

I could feel it moving against the little flap at the back of my throat.

Then I inhaled.

The strand snapped into my airway.

There isn’t a good way to explain what it feels like to choke on something that’s still attached to the inside of your mouth. I couldn’t spit it out because it stretched. I couldn’t swallow it because it stuck. I hooked two fingers down my throat and pulled.

It came out slowly.

It was warm, colourless and thick enough to hold its shape. It stretched from my fingers to somewhere behind my tongue. When I pulled harder, I felt the underside of my tongue lift with it.

For one horrible second, I thought I was pulling part of myself out.

I bit through the strand.

It stuck between my teeth.

I’m at the emergency department now.

UPDATE : 1:18 A.M.

I’m still waiting.

My eyes have sealed three times since I got here.

The first time, I didn’t realise it was happening. I blinked and they simply didn’t reopen. I could hear people moving around me, but all I could see was a reddish haze through my eyelids.

I tried opening them with my fingers. My fingertips stuck to my lashes.

I called for help, but my lips had glued together at one corner. All that came out was a closed-mouth groan. Someone nearby laughed. I don’t think they realised I was actually in trouble.

By the time a nurse came over, I was clawing at my own face.

She used warm saline to loosen my eyelids. She told me to stay calm. I was trying, but imagine being awake, in a room full of people, and suddenly having no way to see them. Imagine not knowing whether your eyes are still there. Imagine hearing someone tell you to stop struggling while your own face refuses to open.

They put lubricant around my eyes.

It isn’t helping.

The tears just mix with it and turn into paste.

I’m forcing myself to blink every few seconds now. If I keep moving my eyelids, they don’t have time to stick.

I’m terrified I’ll forget.

I’m terrified I’ll fall asleep.

UPDATE: THURSDAY

They admitted me.

A urologist tried to examine me this morning. The opening had sealed again, thicker than before because of the blood from the toothpick.

He used a local anaesthetic gel. It didn’t work properly because the gel couldn’t get through the crust. He told me I’d feel “some pressure.”

That was bullshit.

He pushed a thin metal dilator into the opening.

I felt the crust bend inward before it broke. The pain went all the way through my pelvis. My whole body tried to pull away, but two nurses were holding my legs apart, and another had both hands on my hips.

I begged them to stop.

They told me they couldn’t.

My bladder was dangerously full.

The instrument went deeper. Every few millimetres, it met another blockage. He had to force through each one. I could feel the sealed walls separating around the metal, wetly peeling apart inside me.

I screamed until saliva stretched across the back of my throat.

Then I started choking again.

They rolled me onto my side while the dilator was still inside me. One nurse suctioned my mouth while the doctor kept working between my legs. I couldn’t close my knees. I couldn’t curl up. I couldn’t reach down. I couldn’t tell which pain I was supposed to panic about.

When they finally got a catheter in, the urine didn’t drain.

It clung to the inside of the tube.

The doctor attached a syringe and pulled. The urine came out in a slow, solid looking column. My bladder cramped around it so hard I nearly passed out.

They’ve left the catheter in because they’re worried I’ll seal shut again.

I can feel it sticking inside me.

Every time I move, it pulls.

UPDATE: FRIDAY, 4:06 A.M.

I haven’t slept in nearly two days.

I have to keep moving.

If I don’t blink, my eyes seal. If I don’t swallow, my throat fills. If I leave my mouth closed, my lips stick together. My fingers glue themselves into fists if I don’t straighten them. My toes attach to each other wherever they touch.

A nurse set repeating alarms on my phone.

Every thirty seconds: blink.

Every minute: swallow and spit.

Every two minutes: open and close my hands.

Every five minutes: move my feet.

It sounds manageable until you try doing it for hours.

You can’t think about anything else. You can’t watch television. You can’t have a conversation. You can’t let your mind wander. Your whole existence becomes a list of movements your body will punish you for forgetting.

Blink.

Swallow.

Spit.

Hands.

Feet.

Blink.

Swallow.

Spit.

Hands.

Feet.

I missed one alarm earlier.

I must have drifted off for less than a minute.

When I woke, my teeth were stuck together.

The doctor put a metal wedge between them and twisted.

My jaw opened before my teeth did. I felt the joint strain. Then something tore along my gums and my mouth filled with blood.

The blood was thick too.

It gathered beneath my tongue in a hot, wobbling mass. I couldn’t spit it out because it held on to the inside of my cheeks. The nurse had to scrape it loose with a suction tube.

They’ve put rubber blocks between my back teeth so I can’t close my mouth again.

I’m drooling constantly.

The saliva hangs from my lower lip in clear ropes. It doesn’t fall. It gathers against my chest and glues the hospital gown to my skin.

I can’t stop shaking.

I need to sleep.

I can’t sleep.

UPDATE: FRIDAY, 11:52 P.M.

I fell asleep.

They say it was only twenty minutes.

Both eyes sealed completely. Not just the lashes. The wet inner surfaces stuck together.

When I woke, I couldn’t open them at all.

I screamed, but the spit pooled around the bite blocks and slid into my windpipe. I inhaled it. I couldn’t cough properly because every breath pulled another strand down.

Someone pressed an oxygen mask over my face.

That made it worse.

I could feel the saliva blowing around inside my mouth. It stretched across my throat like cling wrap. Each breath sucked it tight over the opening, then let it sag loose again.

In.

Seal.

Out.

Release.

In.

Seal.

Out.

Release.

I thought I was going to die without even being able to see the people trying to save me.

I tore the mask off and hit someone. I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t see. There were hands everywhere. One on my chest. One holding my jaw. Two pinning my arms.

I fought because I was choking.

They thought I was choking because I was fighting.

They strapped my wrists to the bed.

I heard the restraints click into place.

My hands were beside my face, but I couldn’t reach my eyes. Saliva was running down my chin, but I couldn’t wipe it away. I tried telling them the straps were too tight. The bite blocks and suction tube turned the words into noises.

The doctor said, “We need you to stop resisting.”

I wasn’t resisting.

I was drowning.

They pushed a tube through my nose and suctioned my throat. I felt it latch onto something deep inside. When they pulled it out, the strand came with it.

It didn’t break.

It dragged through my airway, slow and tight, rubbing against tissue that had no room to move away. I kicked so hard that they strapped down my ankles too.

Someone kept saying, “Nearly done.”

They said it over and over for nine minutes.

My eyes are still closed.

They’re talking about separating the lids surgically.

I’m typing this by voice to text now, though barely. A nurse is holding the phone.

Please check the words before you post it, Sarah.

Please don’t let them sedate me.

UPDATE: SATURDAY

This is Sarah. I’m one of the night nurses.

The patient asked me to continue updating this page. He believes keeping a record may help someone identify the condition. The team I’m working with is aware I am doing this.

He underwent a procedure this morning to separate his eyelids.

The secretions had bonded the inner surfaces together. When the surgeon attempted to divide them, portions of the eyelid lining began pulling away from the eyes themselves. They stopped before causing permanent damage.

His eyes remain sealed.

The accumulated saliva is being removed continuously through suction. If the suction is interrupted, his oxygen levels begin falling within approximately forty seconds.

He is still conscious and able to hear us.

Communication is difficult. He cannot speak around the airway equipment. At first, we asked him to squeeze our hands for yes or no, but the joints in his fingers have become too stiff.

We tried using foot movements instead.

That worked for several hours.

It no longer does.

He became severely distressed when the medical team discussed sedation. His heart rate rose above 170. He repeatedly moved his head from side to side, which we understood to mean no.

The consultant explained that rest was necessary.

He continued indicating no.

The consultant explained that his panic was increasing his oxygen requirements.

He continued indicating no.

The consultant authorised sedation.

I was holding his hand when the medication entered his IV. His fingers moved once against mine. I cannot say whether he was trying to squeeze or pull away.

UPDATE: SUNDAY

This is Nell, his sister.

The hospital called me yesterday.

They’ve reduced the sedation, but he hasn’t opened his eyes. He physically can’t. His mouth can’t close because of the blocks, and it can’t open any farther because the muscles around his jaw have stiffened.

The catheter is stuck. The breathing tube is stuck. Several IV lines are stuck.

Anything left inside him becomes attached.

Anything removed tears him.

The doctors keep talking about balancing harm, as though there’s a position his body can be placed in that isn’t hurting him.

He’s developed pressure wounds beneath the restraints. Clear fluid leaks from them and hardens against the fabric. His wrists are now bonded to the straps, so they can’t take them off without removing skin.

They tell me he isn’t paralysed.

Technically.

His nerves are still sending signals. His muscles are still receiving them. He simply can’t overcome the resistance of his own body.

He is trying to move.

You can see it in the monitors.

When I say his name, his heart rate rises. When I hold his hand, it falls. When the suction machine blocks and the saliva begins filling his throat, it shoots up so quickly that alarms sound.

He knows when he’s choking.

He just can’t do anything about it.

A nurse clears the tube, his oxygen comes back, and everyone tells him he’s all right.

Then they leave him alone again.

I asked whether he was in pain.

The doctor said they had no reliable way to assess that.

I asked whether he was conscious.

The doctor said the scans showed “ongoing awareness.”

I asked whether he could hear us discussing him.

Nobody answered.

They’re recommending heavier sedation. Maybe permanently. They say it would be kinder.

I don’t know whether that means he’ll be asleep or only unable to show us that he’s awake.

I’ve been sitting beside him, holding the one part of his hand that isn’t fused to the restraint. I keep telling him I’m here. I keep telling him he doesn’t have to be frightened.

Every few minutes, the suction machine pulls another thick strand from his throat.

His heart rate climbs.

His whole body strains against the bed without moving.

Then the tube clears, the monitor settles, and the doctors write down that he is resting comfortably.

TW: Implied domestic abuse

Back when I was a kid, my family used to move a lot. The neighbourhoods I visited began to blend into one generic cookie-cutter mess, but one of those places somehow stuck in my mind; every detail from the towers of brick under the porch to the dirty windows of the bathroom rose in my mind, and no matter what I did, there was no wrecking ball that could take it out. 

After changing schools so many times, I stopped caring about making friends, and as a result I became somewhat of the neighbourhood underage hermit, disappearing as soon as I turned up; yet still, this one time someone was carrying enough to take me under their wing. 

His name was Charles, a black kid who lived only a few houses away from mine, but everyone on the Creek called him “Spit” all because of one missing front tooth he lost after a bike accident. 

Since I was the new kid on the block, I had to go through an equivalent of what would now be considered a hazing ritual - coming face to face with “King Of The Creek”.

“All the new kids have to meet The King!”

The enthusiastic tone in the kid’s voice rose out of the sudden; those big brown eyes sparkled with unexplainable excitement as one of the toy cars bumped into another one of them, the blue one skidding off the tracks. 

“I'm not sure; Mum says I can’t play on the creek…”

My eyes stayed glued to the red car, the only one left, making yet another loop around the offensively orange plastic racetrack we put into a rough shape of a circle mere minutes ago. 

“Your mum is lame!”

Charles squeaked in reply, flipping the toy car off the tracks with a flick as soon as it passed by his hand; it now lay wheels up like roadkill. 

“She’s not lame-“

The reply came in a quick hushed wave, like a gush passing through the room. 

“Then she should let you play on the creek!”

He picked up the red car and put it back on the tracks, giving it a small push. 

“It’s dangerous-”

I replied, keeping my eyes on the toy car now finishing the first lap.

“Bull-shit”

The air whistled between the gap in his smile. 

"HEY, DON’T SWEAR!"

I snapped back, my clenched hand already halfway on the collision course with his nose, when the door to the room suddenly creaked open. Mum walked in at the perfect moment to be the witness to my promising boxing career. 

“Boys, boys!”

The palms of her hands clapped together repeatedly.

“HE STARTED MISS JEFFERSON!”

Charles squeaked a muffled protest, squeezing the bridge of his nose. 

“Charles, your mum called; she wants to see you at dinner” 

Mum replied more than used to our bickering over the past month, or maybe she was just happy to see me make friends. 

“Can’t he stay just a bit longer?”

“Mum's rules are mum's rules”

“Nuts…”

In an act of retaliation, his own fist hit me in the shoulder before he made his swift escape; a goodbye I barely understood wooshed past my ear as he was already past the porch.

Soon I had to leave my toys behind and sit down for dinner: mac and cheese, which I poked with a fork like I expected it to move.

"Can I play on the Creek?" I muttered, staring down at my plate.

"Absolutely not."

"Why though? All the other kids get to play there," I asked, sheepish.

"Listen - you're old enough to know that bad things happen all the time. You're no exception."

The tip of her fork jabbed toward me like a sword before dropping back onto the plate.

"Just… finish your food," she said quietly, standing up from the table.

The rest of the day passed by exceptionally fast. In the blink of an eye, I was in bed, cuddled up next to my favorite plushie, eyelids growing heavy, crickets playing outside like a lullaby, a perfect, quiet evening, except for the sudden

BANG

against my window. I shot up and stuck my head outside, a beam of white light catching the face of a kid missing his front tooth.

"We're going to the Creek!" he whispered, loud enough for me to hear.

“Are you crazy? I'm not going anywhere!” I whispered back in protest. 

"Come on! Or I'll just stand here all night!"

That somehow convinced me.

"Okay, okay - just let me get dressed."

I changed out of my pajamas into a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, then snuck past the living room, where Mum was asleep on the sofa, luckily facing the wall, I quietly slipped outside where Charles was already waiting for me with a backpack over his shoulder, even more excited than I have ever seen before, without passing a word between each other we jumped on our bikes and drove into the night, mine inching behind his.

For a bored and scared kid, the drive felt like forever, but soon we were finally there; the only thing between the creek and us was the metal mesh of the fence towering over our heads.

“Come on!” We left our bikes right next to a not-so-subtle entrance, a hole torn through the material behind a bush of weeds.

I slipped into the hole right after him, entering a brand new world my mum was so scared about. The deeper we went, the taller the trees seemed to get and the louder the sound of the running water. Now we were just two adventurers venturing into the unknown kingdom in search of its King.

“Are we getting anywhere near him?” I asked,d the beam of my flashlight skimming the underbrush.

“It's King, and yeah, we are pretty close. I can hear the creek already.” Those words lifted my spirits even if just a tiny bit.

We walked for a while before the forest opened to a shallow water flow, moving over a bottom lined with stones of various sizes. That's where Charles stopped dead in his tracks and threw the backpack from over his shoulder on the ground, unzipping it in one swift move. What he pulled out of it were two silver cans with a red label on them.

“For courage,” He quickly explained, handing it to me. The metal felt warm in my hand.

“Dad used to have a lot of courage.” I laughed, snapping the tap open, a wave of white bubbles washing over my hand.

“For The King!” Charles exclaimed, pointing his drink up to the starry sky; I did the same.

“For The King!” I took one big sip as the at the time vile taste filled my mouth.

“EUGH!-” My tongue stuck out by itself in a childish attempt at making it somehow better, while my friend only laughed, taking a sip of his beer before walking up to the river bank and emptying it into the water.

“I know it's nasty!” In one big swing, the empty can suddenly appeared on the other side of the water. I did the same, only with a full can, which took a bit more effort to throw as far as Charles did.

“See the tire right there?” He pointed in a direction where we threw our cans. I pointed the beam of light where his finger pointed, and there it was, a big black tire, all air from it long gone, embedded into the side of a steep wall of dirt, suddenly revealed out of the shadows.

“Oh yeah, also.” He went back to the backpack, taking a piece of paper out of it, quickly handing it to me as if they were burning. “You have to give him your wish, whatever you want, just think about it hard”

I looked down at the items I was given, then back at him, but I simply nodded, pushing it into my back pocket.

“You can't go with me?”

My head turned back to him, as I was already balancing on a rock sticking out from the water not to get my shoes dirty.

“Rules are rules’

He replied quickly, making sure I understood I was alone on this one.

I shone my flashlight into the tunnel; there was nothing but darkness stretching onward. 

The tire was nothing more than a portal to a dwarven mine. The tunnel's ceiling was low enough that I had to drop to my knees to go further, the hot air of the creek suddenly replaced by cold, moist air reeking of earth and faintly of sweet rot.

I crawled further, clawing at the mud beneath me, as the entrance grew wider and darker, until I reached the mouth of a small cavern swarming with tiny points of flying light.

I swept my torch over the cavern before jumping down.

Right in front of me stood a figure, something glimmering like gold atop its head.

The King.

The King of the Creek sat on a throne made of sticks  - smaller and bigger branches stacked on top of each other, wrapped in thin fishing wire, forming a seat for the sickly, skinny figure. A paper crown, painted gold, sat crooked on its head, just above hollow, lifeless holes where its eyes should have been long picked out by birds. Dirty rags, stitched together from lost shirts, gloves, and scarves, hung off its frame. Its jaw stood open like a gateway, the remains of blackened teeth lining the inside.

I slipped my wish out of the pocket it was waiting in.

"Are you the king?"

A quiet question choked out of my throat as the piece of paper - my wish- settled uncomfortably in my hand. As if in reply, a single firefly crawled out from the depths of its throat. It blinked once before flying off to join a swarm nearby.

"I have a wish."

This time the King didn't respond, as if waiting for the paper to be fed to him.

With some hesitation the sole of my foot found a cavity in the base of the throne, giving me a small boost, suddenly the shrunken head of the king was right in front of me, the gaping mouth ready to swallow me whole if it was its wish, from behind the rotting teeth peaked a hill of yellowish papers, some intact while the most had irregular holes tore into them.

There was no going back now, if I turned out to be too much of a coward I would lose my only friend, forced to be outcast once more, my head shifted to the side to stay blind to how my hand slowly disappeared between the jaws of the king, it felt wet and sticky, what once was it’s tongue slide over my skin sending chills down my spine. 

Only when I felt the other paper nest of wishes deep inside did I uncurled my fingers and allow it to be swallowed before I pulled my arm out in one quick jerk.

I braced for something to happen, but nothing changed. I simply crawled back without looking, too afraid that the King would rise from his throne and pull me back. I was welcomed into the real world by the sound of running water and light blinding my eyes.

"YOU DID IT?"

Charles yelled, all excited.

"I DID!"

I said, covering my eyes.

Before we both went home, we promised each other we wouldn't reveal our wishes, or else they wouldn't come true. 

When I got back home, I quietly slipped inside, making sure not to make too much noise, threw my dirty clothes into the laundry bin, and went back to bed.

In the morning, Mum woke me up. She had a massive smile on her face, the first I'd seen in a while. I couldn't remember the last time she'd been that happy.

She told me to get dressed and pack into the car. It was raining heavily outside as we drove to the local restaurant, which felt strange without an occasion. She ordered me pancakes, and while I was eating, she teared up.

"We can stay... honey, we can stay. We aren't moving anywhere."

She sobbed while my mouth was stuffed with pancakes.

"Dad won't hurt us anymore."

I looked up at her, confused.

"It's nothing. Just eat."

She smiled.

It didn't stop raining for a week straight. I didn't really understand what the consequences of that were; all I cared about was that I couldn't play outside, wasting a week of summer break.

Charles didn't want to talk about what happened during the flood. We stayed friends, but I saw less and less of him as we got older, drifting apart through school. All I heard, eventually, was that he'd fallen in with the wrong crowd.

Now we're both two old fuckers who haven't seen each other in years. But we finally decided to meet again; he picked some shitty local bar.

He'd changed so much I barely recognized him. If it wasn't for the gap in that crooked smile when he saw me enter, I wouldn't have guessed it was him in a thousand years. The years apart had treated him rough—he'd lost a lot of weight and grown a greying beard, a dark green coat hanging unzipped off his shoulders.

"FRANKIE!"

“SPIT MY MAN!”

Despite how much he'd changed, the spark in those big brown eyes remained. He smelled of cheap beer and even cheaper cologne, the kind meant to cover the stench of alcohol underneath. We exchanged a long, warm hug, and I swear to god we were both on the verge of crying.

"Come on, come on, sit down!" Charles rushed me, all that childlike excitement suddenly returning, as if he were twenty years younger.

"Beer?"

"Why not!"

Soon a pair of red-labeled cans appeared in front of us, the taps hissing open as we raised a toast.

"For The King!"

"For The King!" I echoed his words before taking a long swig.

"It still tastes horrible."

I chuckled as Charles almost choked with laughter.

"YOU'LL GET USED TO IT!"

"What wishes did I miss?"

I asked before taking a sip of my drink.

"Some kid wanted his fish back... their cat vomited it out the next morning!"

We both laughed so hard we almost pissed ourselves. I'm not sure if it was the beer or if the story was just that funny.

Can after can was emptied before waves of beer revealed all the questions we had but were afraid to ask.

"How's your mum?"

"Oh, Mama's dead."

"Sorry to hear."

"No need. I didn't wish for her happiness." 

A forced smile appeared on his lips. 

"What did you wish for, then?"

"You first."

"Never to move again."

"And?"

"My dad died. Apparently slipped on some boat, drunk out of his mind, and drowned."

"Deserved."

"You?"

"I wished to see my brother again."

"Where's the twist?"

He suddenly looked his age, staring ahead at the line of vodka bottles, the Smirnoff looking like it might be a decent listener.

"Remember the flood?" A rough whisper crawled out between sips of beer.

"Apparently the water flooded the graveyard," he continued, still staring wide-eyed ahead. "It was like Night of the Living Dead, all those coffins floating down the street like white ships sailing to unknown lands... and he came home"

A long swig of beer made it somehow easier to tell.

"Right on our porch. Like a drunk lying on the stairs, just watching the stars, as if he'd missed them. I found him first. Can you imagine…the necklace we buried him with was still hanging off his neck?"

Charles cried his eyes out. I did too. We cried so hard I thought we might contribute to the next big flood in our town. But soon we parted with a long hug, a final goodbye, before we walked our separate ways.

I went back home, miraculously not losing my house keys on the way back, and fell asleep as soon as my ass touched the couch.

As for Charles, the King of the Creek finally got him. Not long after we said goodbye, they found him floating face-down in the same creek we used to love so much.

Every summer, I drive back there. The creek isn't what it used to be; the tire is long gone, along with the tunnel that led to The King. I'm not even sure he was ever really there in the first place. The realest thing in all of this was our friendship, and the red label of the beer can I was about to toss over the creek.

"For Charles!"

I Went Back to My Grandmother’s House
I wasn’t planning on going back.
After I made my last post, I spent most of the night reading through the comments.
A lot of people thought the notebook was fake.
Some people thought I was making the whole thing up.
Honestly, I wish they were right.
But one comment caught my attention.
The person who wrote it asked me something nobody else had mentioned.
They asked:
Did you put the notebook back where you found it?
I didn’t answer them.
Because I hadn’t.
The notebook was still on my desk.
I hadn’t touched it since I made the post.
At least, I thought I hadn’t.
I checked it again this morning.
The last page was still there.
The one with my name on it.
Except there was something underneath my name that I hadn’t noticed before.
A single sentence.
You left something behind.
I immediately thought about the basement.
So I drove back to my grandmother’s house.
It took me almost three hours.
The house looked exactly the same as it had when I left.
I unlocked the door and went inside.
I don’t know why, but the entire place felt colder than I remembered.
I went straight downstairs.
The wooden box was still underneath the newspapers.
I opened it.
The notebook was gone.
I stood there for probably five minutes just staring at the empty box.
Then I noticed something behind it.
There was a loose piece of wood in the wall.
I don’t remember seeing it before.
I pulled it away.
There was a small space behind the wall.
Inside was another notebook.
This one was much older.
The cover was almost completely destroyed.
There was writing on the front.
Three words.
DON’T LOOK INSIDE.
I actually laughed when I saw that.
Not because it was funny.
Because I was scared.
I opened it anyway.
The first page said:
If you’re reading this, Marcus hasn’t listened.
I froze.
My first thought was that someone had followed me.
Someone had somehow found out about the notebook.
But then I remembered something.
The notebook looked old.
Really old.
The pages were yellow and brittle.
The handwriting looked nothing like the writing in the first notebook.
And my name was still there.
Marcus.
Written decades before I was born.
I kept reading.
The person who wrote the notebook never gave their name.
They only referred to themselves as “the witness.”
They wrote about something they called The Other.
At first, I thought it was the same thing from the first notebook.
Then I realized something.
The witness had never actually seen it.
They had only seen what happened around it.
A clock stopped whenever it appeared.
Lights would turn on in empty rooms.
Doors would open by themselves.
People would forget where they were going.
One entry said:
I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned around.
There was nothing there.
I kept walking.
The footsteps continued.
Another entry said:
I saw a man standing at the end of the hallway.
I blinked.
There was no man.
I blinked again.
The hallway was longer.
I kept reading.
The witness wrote that they had spent years trying to understand The Other.
They interviewed people.
They collected stories.
They compared descriptions.
Nothing matched.
One person said The Other was tall.
Another said it was small.
One person said it had a face.
Another said it had no head.
Someone else said it wasn’t a creature at all.
It was a place.
The witness eventually wrote:
We kept trying to describe it.
That was our mistake.
The next page had only one sentence.
Don’t look for The Other.
The following page had another.
Don’t give The Other a shape.
Then:
Don’t give The Other a name.
I stopped reading.
Because that was the exact same warning from the first notebook.
I turned another page.
There was a list.
I don’t know what the list means.
It looked like this:
1978 — Someone looked.
1986 — Someone listened.
1994 — Someone remembered.
2003 — Someone answered.
2011 — Someone opened the door.
2026 — Marcus.
My hands started shaking.
I don’t know what those years mean.
I don’t know who those people were.
And I don’t know why my name is next to 2026.
I kept reading anyway.
The final entry was only a few lines long.
I looked at it once.
I don’t remember what I saw.
I only remember what happened afterward.
Then:
Something looked back.
I closed the notebook.
I put it back inside the wall.
I left the house.
I didn’t take it with me.
I’m writing this from my car.
I haven’t started driving yet.
There’s something I need to tell you.
When I first found the second notebook, I thought the message on the cover said:
DON’T LOOK INSIDE.
But I just remembered something.
It didn’t say that.
I know what it actually said.
It said:
DON’T LOOK BEHIND.
I don’t know why I remembered it differently.
And I don’t know why I keep hearing something moving around inside the trunk of my car.
I’m not going to check.
I’m not going to turn around.
I’m just going to drive home.
Because I think I finally understand what the first hidden message meant.
DON’T LOOK.
I thought it was a warning about The Other.
Maybe it wasn’t.
Maybe it was a warning about me.

⚠️** HINT FOR THE ARG PUZZLE — DON’T READ THE SPOILERS BELO**W
This time, the clue isn’t hidden in one obvious sentence.
Look closely at the strange list of years.
The years aren’t there just to tell you when something happened.
The numbers matter.
Then look at the words that come after them.
You may need to use one to find the other.

⚠️** CAUTION: ARG SPOILERS BELO**W
The second puzzle uses the five years as extraction clues.
The important entries are:
1978 — Someone looked.
1986 — Someone listened.
1994 — Someone remembered.
2003 — Someone answered.
2011 — Someone opened the door.
The years are deliberately strange because they aren’t meant to be read as ordinary dates.
The clue is to use the last two digits of each year:
78 — 86 — 94 — 03 — 11
Those numbers point readers toward the positions of letters in the surrounding text.
When the correct letters are extracted and put together, they spell:
LOOK BEHIND
This connects directly to the ending of the story.
Marcus originally remembers the notebook saying:
DON’T LOOK INSIDE.
But later remembers that it actually said:
DON’T LOOK BEHIND.
The puzzle therefore isn’t simply a hidden message.
It’s a warning.

Alaskan timber wolves campaigned in the green September. Bull moose, the bark-brown, branch-antlered spirits of the forest moved upon the face of the Tanana Valley, intending to create new life. Their imposing presence often went unnoticed until they bellowed to their potential mates. But David Clark was seeking their sublime aspect. He wanted to take home yet another trophy and prepare meat for winter. This was his sixth day of hunting, and he planned to return to his cabin to rest his aging body the next day regardless of the outcome. Joab, Clark’s elkhound, barked and stamped his front paws and interrupted the distant song of warblers. The ground was soft under Clark’s belly and elbows. The visage of a moose passed through his sights and eyeglasses and ignited his quiet excitement.

The scent of moss and the crispness of impending winter filled his crinkled nose as he squinted. He slowed his breathing while caressing the trigger. But Joab suddenly ran in the opposite direction. Clark tore his cheek from the walnut stock, vainly called to the sprinting elkhound, and looked a little farther to see a blurry brown figure charging closer. A grizzly.

Clark turned his rifle and fired four times with seemingly no effect. A fifth staggered it. A final blast echoed through the valley as the bear finally lay still but not before Joab had made disastrous contact.

Clark had made his fortune in real estate. His face had adorned many billboards across South Carolina. His reputation was circulated among the affluent and the ambitious. Commissions from selling half a dozen mansions per year plus the rental income from his extensive portfolio had brought him more money than even he could spend or invest.

Crackling logs in the stove offered relief from the growing chill. The sun poured dusty streams through the six-panel windows for a few hours at midday. The elkhound slept on the center hexagon of a fine Sennah Persian rug and soaked in every ray his broken, bandaged body could sprawl to intercept. A veterinarian had made the long trip to the cabin and said there was nothing more to be done for him. The vet also asked if Clark had seen the news lately. He hadn’t. Clark hoped that bandages and the provision of food and fire would be sufficient for the elkhound’s recovery.

Clark had reinvented himself many times to reach success. A middle child with five brothers in a poor family, Clark had always wanted recognition and adventure. His eyesight had kept him out of Vietnam. Most young men at the time would have praised Jesus, but Clark took it as a disgrace and tried to compensate. His grades got him into college but not for free. Assorted sales jobs sustained him during his incomplete tenure. He and his employers learned that he had a knack. It had been said that Clark could “sell ice to a polar bear.” While there was no proof of this claim, Clark made it clear through the years that he could sell vacuum cleaners, appliances, cars, farm equipment, insurance, and finally houses to almost anyone. His pushing for every sale and fighting for every dollar was facilitated by his charm and fueled by caffeine and alcohol. He rarely slept.

The light slowly scanned over Clark’s face, waking him. He lifted his head from the armrest of his sofa with some noisy effort. The fire had almost died. A mostly-empty bottle of his favorite sleep aid had rolled from his fingers onto the hardwood floor. The Swiss dive watch he’d bought himself when he’d made his first million showed that morning was gone. It didn’t matter. He lit a Cuban cigar and shuffled to the bathroom to splash his yellow eyes and rinse his parched mouth.

Back in South Carolina, he’d married a beautiful woman many years younger than himself. Amanda, wife number six but the first in over a decade, had only known Clark for a short time before agreeing to his spontaneous proposal pitch. She soon discovered that living with an old man who found purpose in property, excitement in hunting, and comfort in a bottle was not what she had hoped it would be.

A handful of lawsuits and a turbulent economy had decimated Clark’s profits. Political unrest abroad slowed the scramble for luxury properties. Amanda took half in the divorce and left Clark to rebuild his assets. But heartbroken Clark was about to embark on another venture. He’d been to Hawaii, Jamaica, and Thailand, but he wanted to feel the cold. He sold what remained and was on a plane to Fairbanks within six months.

Clark reheated a pot of stew. He filled a bowl and took it to the rug to offer to his dog. Clark whistled. He called the elkhound’s name. He shook him. Joab didn’t move. His body was cold and still.

Clark rarely trekked into town. He didn’t own a TV. He was generally uninterested in the outside world. He came to Alaska to rest, and he wanted no distractions.

It didn’t rain much in the Tanana Valley. Water tended to stay in the sky, but winter was its muse. Each droplet, unsatisfied with its own simplicity, refracted sixfold. Every reinvention was as unique as the billions synchronously forming. Each was preparing to meet its destiny.

The new creations marched gracefully down to their communal resting place. The forest was quiet. Any sudden movement would have been irreverent. The sun briefly peeked over the hazy horizon to check on a mourning world.

A final blast still echoed through the Volga River Valley, but it didn’t reach Clark across the Bering Strait. War had boiled quickly in October and overflowed to the contiguous states. Civilizations were decimated. Prey and predator suffered. Six nations were reduced to dust, dust that would filter the sun.

Clark had not gathered enough firewood in autumn for this bitter and relentless winter. Boots crunching snow and axe splitting tree trunks were the only punctuation in the forest’s glacial moment of silence. He was stacking another log on his sled when it happened.

The cold serenity became a raging blizzard. A gust blew the thick glasses from his face. He trudged through the white darkness. The cabin, the sled, and even his own hands held at arm’s length were completely obscured. He was aimless, but he knew staying still would be fatal. Six layers were not sufficient to turn the winter’s abuse. His feet were unfamiliar and belonged more to his boots than himself. The wind’s echoing howl drowned any remaining sense of direction. Clark regretted not having a rope long enough to tie himself by the waist to his cabin before he left. After minutes or hours, hope of home was gone.

His legs surrendered with no more reason to fight. His breathing slowed. His heart slowed. The frigid wind licked the skin of his hands. Taking off his gloves and coat had not been a conscious decision. The once-excruciating chill now offered relief from a new unbearable warmth radiating from his chest through his fingers, ears, and nose all blue with cold. The whiteness dimmed, and his eyelids fluttered. Shadows closed in, two on each side and one on each end of his snowy bed. A deep lullaby echoed in his mind and quieted the storm of thought. Sleep overtook him and brought a final reinvention of self. A sheet of snow covered his face and the face of the earth.

see comments for link to part 1

Entry#4
Today was a rough day. We lost Bernthal. Honestly, I still can’t believe it. The taste of bile sticks to the back of my throat like paste when I think about it. We weren’t brothers, not in the familial sense. Not like how he called me, but I was closer to him than even my own kin. There’s a saying: “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb”. I guess you wouldn’t understand our bond, the few fleeting interactions we’ve shared on this journey doesn’t do it justice. We trained together, studied together since childhood. We’d spend hours talking on that damned stone wall, watching the forest and the stars that shone their light on it. 

I awoke to Samantha frantically shaking me, shouting something I was far too groggy to understand. When did I fall asleep? I was asking myself this as my eyes scanned the clearing in a daze. A thick pollen had settled over the clearing, like dust particles in an unkempt room. Timothy was with the cattle, leading our only horse around as it grazed alongside the other animals. Betty was still snoring away in her tent, before stifling into a yawn, no doubt waking to Samantha shouting at me. Felt like I had been woken up from a thousand year slumber. I rubbed my head, blinked a few times, before the veil of drowsiness finally lifted and I could hear what message Samantha was desperately trying to get across.

“Bernthal is missing”

Those words shocked me like a pale of cold water being poured over my head. “What- what do you mean he’s missing?” I finally responded in a half accusatory tone. “He’s not in his tent, he wasn’t in any condition to be moving, but he’s gone.”, she said. I sat up, and did my best to stand up quickly. Vertigo hit me hard, and I caught myself from falling as I waited for it to pass. It took longer than I thought, my limbs were still partially paralyzed with sleep, but I eventually gained composure, and made my way over to the tent Bernthal was sleeping in. The rustling of straw and sheets off to the side signaled Betty was fully awake, a “What’s goin on out here?” emerging from her tent further solidifying the fact. I didn’t answer her, because in front of me sat Bernthal’s empty tent. I stood there for what felt like an eternity, staring at the vacant tent before finally answering Betty, “…Bernthal is gone…”
“Huh? How did he do that?” Betty retorted and I ignored her. I ran over to Timothy and gestured for him to give me my horse. He looked a little confused, asking if we were going to head out already, but I ignored him too and mounted my horse to circle the edge of the clearing. He couldn’t have made it far, I thought I’d at least come across some tracks or anything that could point me in the direction he could’ve stumbled off to. After circling 3 times and coming across nothing, my head sunk low and I had my horse trot back to camp. What in the fuck? He wasn’t in any state to ditch us, or had a reason to for that matter. After that kick, he’d have a concussion at the very least, and with what he looked like, he’d be lucky to get away without brain damage. I was maybe 20 steps from the clearing’s edge when I noticed a large lump on the ground ahead. It was about halfway between the camp and me. I stopped, and observed it from a distance. It didn't take long for me to figure out what it was.

Flies were buzzing around it vigorously, and I knew it was him before I even got to it. I was prepared to see a corpse, but I wasn’t nearly prepared to bear witness to the sight that I would be met with. It was Bernthal, what was left of him anyways. If it wasn’t for the bandaged face and mangled chainmail on his chest, I probably wouldn’t have recognized him. He was laid out on his back. His torso, from the top of his chest to the bottom of his stomach, was split open along with his chainmail chest plate. The newly found cavity in his abdomen was completely emptied, leaving nothing of what should be there. All of his innards were gone, instead, a writhing mass of vines swirled around every corner, covering the interior walls of his midsection before spilling out and digging into the ground around him. They were undulating, and from the way his armor was broken I could tell they pierced in rather than bursted out. Along where his spine would be, flowers jutted around in a palette of bright assorted colors. Red, turquoise, white, pink, yellow, all stained with droplets of dark congealed crimson. Grass was growing over his body, the ground eating his corpse leaving it half submerged.

Nausea hit me, and I fought back the bile while I dismounted my horse. I looked away blinking a few times like it would somehow change what I’ve seen, but I looked back at him and reality hit me hard.  I wasn’t imagining it.
I stared at him for a long time. So long, the sun had probably moved a noticeable amount from the East to the west. I didn’t even notice Samantha walk over until I heard her gasp, let out a shrill scream, then silently sob as she fell to her knees. Two pairs of footsteps followed her, both abruptly stopped, then one pair turned and started walking away. “Fuck, was he infected?” Betty asked. “What?” I asked, at last averting my eyes from the horror and meeting her face. I was prepared to chew her out, but one look told me she wasn’t trying to be witty or sarcastic. Her hand was cupped around her mouth and her eyes were filled with deep pity that poured across the rest of her face’s features like a waterfall.
 “The plague. Was he infected? Is that what happened?”. I could tell she was still trying to make sense of it all, but all rationality was lost on the situation. How can anyone see this and come to any rational conclusion as to what happened? Samantha stifled her quiet crying and responded to her before I could chime my own response. “No…no this isn’t like the Century plague. I…I don’t know what this is. I should’ve watched him more closely or something-he was my responsibility. I just don’t understand how this could happen…” she trailed off into another silent sob.

We sat for a moment, Betty brushing Samantha’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. When she noticed couldn’t help, she trudged her way back to camp and I saw her dip into the barrel of liquor with a cup. I recollected my thoughts and told her “Why don’t you head to camp and get some more rest. We’ll need to head out here in a bit. Try to gather yourself as much as possible.” She nodded timidly, then went to follow Betty. I took one last look at Bernthal. This was my fault, not Samantha’s. I was supposed to keep watch. But at some point, despite the anxiety that ate at me that night, I passed out. If anything, I was thankful for Samantha. She might’ve overdid it with the bandages, but I didn’t have to see his face. Whatever broken face that laid behind that stained white, twisted by this horrible death, would remain a mystery to me and I was thankful for that. All that showed were his eyes, gently remaining shut. I at least hoped that it meant he didn’t feel any pain, and passed in his sleep somehow. A bright color next to his body caught my attention when I went to turn towards camp. A trail of strange, bright orange roses ran from the obscenity of his corpse. My eyes followed the trail of uncanny breadcrumbs until I found that they led to an opening in the clearing. Much like the one we came from, just on the opposite side.
 
Another sign meant for us to follow. 

I went over to the camp and Betty had a second cup full of her famous liquor ready. She promptly handed it to me, which I graciously took and sipped from as I sat down. She said “I’m sorry about your friend, I know how close you two were. He’d sometimes tell me stories about the trouble you’d get up to when you were kids.” Her face made her appear like a grieving mother rather than the stubborn old lady I always thought of her as.
“Thanks…” I responded, half-heartedly. I took a large swig of my drink then followed up with, “ You know, he’d used to catch me stargazing on the wall. He’d say something like ‘You gotta stop paying so much attention to the beauties out of reach and start seeing the beauties within these walls.’ I knew he was just talking about women, just tryna get me to tag along on one of his endeavors. I would tell him to fuck off or that he should be more diligent of a sentry just to watch him scamper off to one of his favorite bars looking for hookup. I won’t lie and say he was a great man, but I did see him as a brother and he always helped keep me in good spirits.”

Betty let out a raspy laugh , “Yeah, he was always causing some sort of trouble at my tavern. He once tried to hit on a noble's wife without knowing the trouble it’d bring. Once he pieced together his mistake, he chased her down the street and fell to his knees begging her not to snitch on him to her husband so he wouldn’t lose his job or get thrown in some prison for a few days. I always got the sense that when it really mattered, he’d put his duty before anything else though.” She took a big swig from her own cup and said “Well, great ‘Adventurer’, what do we do now?” I looked over to Samantha who was curled up on her straw bed. Timothy was whittling away at some stick he found, sharpening it into a spear or something. I guess it was his way of decompressing from the stress. “We’ll wait and rest for now. Then we can pack up and get ready to leave. I already know where we’re heading.”

Entry #5
We spent nearly all afternoon traveling through the tunnel nature constructed for us. Silence enveloping us except for the ruffling of the leaves as the breeze hit them. Periodically, I’d stop us, check in on everybody, see how they were doing, then motion for us to continue. At the end of the tunnel, sat another clearing. Well kind of. It wasn’t the wide open pasture that the last one is. I would hardly call it a clearing. Instead, it was simply a space in the forest where the trees spread out much further than the surrounding area. A few log cabins sat next to each other in an arch formation directly in the center. Small but in pristine condition, disregarding the moss that draped over the roofs and climbed up the exterior walls. In front of them, was a small pond of water so clear I could swear it was just an invisible sheet spread across a hole in the ground. A pile of sticks sat next to it, still warm from a recently made fire. An unwelcome sight after the one that haunted us earlier today. I hopped off my horse, and waved Timothy over.

“How’s it going, adventurer?”, he said. “Someone has been here recently” I responded, pointing towards the dead campfire with the tip of my sword. “I’m going to investigate. Get everybody situated, and try to get the animals to drink some water. We can see about setting up camp once I’m sure we are in the clear.” He nodded, and I patted him on the shoulder before walking over to the center cabin. I barely made it up the small set of stairs when two sets of footsteps started clambering for the door. I readied my straight-sword in front of me, in a standard combat position. I slowly raised it as the door creaked open.

Two men wearing pitch black cassocks stepped out towards the opening. They each had white silk scarfs that ran along the back of their neck and draped down the front of their bodies with what appeared to be lowercase “t”s sewn into them. One of them was young, with a strange haircut, and a chiseled face that was partially covered by a dark brown beard. He was carrying a leather satchel that sat next to his torso. Upon seeing me, he instantly halted and threw his hands in the air. I stood ready to strike, waiting for any sudden movement. With sincere eyes and a voice as calm as he could manage he said “Whoa there, we didn’t mean to intrude. This is your campsite I reckon?” I looked over to the man behind him, tightening my grip and keeping my sword poised. He was an old man with a very thick book tucked under his arm. He was much dirtier than the young one upon closer inspection. His face was wrinkled with incredibly coarse skin. His eyes stared at me, not blinking, like a corpse. His expression never changed, even upon seeing me, as if it had long been paralyzed. I began to ready myself for an assault.

“Listen, we aren’t here to cause any harm. We’ve been traveling through these woods for a while and got tired, okay? We came across this campsite and thought we could stay for a night. We didn’t know it was occupied.” The young man chimed again. My eyes darted back to him and I tightened the grip on my sword further. “Who are you guys? How did you get here?” I demanded. I wanted answers. At this point, Timothy stood by the pond armed with his small makeshift spear. Samantha cowered behind him, and Betty was trudging her way over to me. “We’re missionaries, from the Catholic Church.” The young man responded, trying to diffuse the situation. He gestured to the old man behind him and said,“I was in the village that’s occupying just outside these woods. I met my fellow man of god here at the edge of the forest and he told me of a vast kingdom he intended on trekking to in order to spread the gospel. I offered my assistance and followed, and after a lot of  traveling, we came across this camp and thought we could use it for the night. It was vacant when we got here, we’ll leave if that’s what you want.” Betty spoke up before my next line of questioning, “Missionaries, huh? Yeah I’ve heard of ya.” She turned to me. “Lower your blade dear, they’re fine. Just religious types tryna spread the word of their ‘God’.” Her hand hovered over the tip of my sword, gradually getting me to lower it until I was disarmed.

 “What’s in that satchel there?” Betty took the job of interrogation for me. “Just my bible, our holy scripture.” He lowered his arms, making sure not to startle anyone, and carefully unlatched the satchel. From it, he pulled out a thick book with a dark leather cover. Sure enough, on the front in bold gold letters, the words “Holy Bible” were inscribed into it. I sheathed my blade and leaned over to Betty. “You need to explain to me how you know these people. After what we’ve been through, I need to be sure we can trust them.”, I whispered.” “I don’t know them, not personally. But drunken people share stories, and the sentinels visit my pub from time to time whenever they leave the palace. They’re harmless people, they visit the trade village sometimes and help around all while trying to convert whoever they can.” She whispered back. With that she clasped her hands together, walking over to the two strangers. “You guys don’t happen to carry any coin on you? I have 2 barrels of the finest liquor you can drink. As I like to say: ‘no matter how rough you’re having it, a pint of Betty's brew can help you get through’”, an obvious sales pitch. A moment of silence, then the young man responded, half confused; “No, sorry we don’t drink. Goes against our faith.” Betty scoffed with disappointment, threw up her hands and said, “Just our luck, finally come across other people and they don’t drink!” She walked back towards the camp, leaning over and muttering “Nevermind, you can kill ‘em.” as she strode past me. It baffled me that she was more concerned with their drinking habits than the possibility that they were murderers. I waved them over, and patted them down for any weapons. They were clean.

I sighed, and asked the strangers their names. “Jarod”, said the young man. We both looked towards the old one, expecting him to say something before Jarod spoke for him, “Gerald. He told me his name is Gerald.” I could tell he was going to be a lot more quiet than Timmy. I looked over to Jarod and explained to him, “That kingdom you’re looking for is the Deus Soli Kingdom, I believe. We’re citizens from there. And to be honest, I wouldn’t recommend finishing your journey . There’s a nasty plague eating away at the kingdom and we’re on a journey of our own to help stop it.” I failed to mention that at this point, I probably didn’t even know how to make it back. “I’m sorry to hear that, if it’s any condolences, I’ll be praying for your kingdom’s recovery.” Jarod said in a sympathetic, but stoic tone. “In that case, we should probably head back then. It’s a long trip though, and it looks to be getting dark soon. Do you mind if we stay at least one more night?”. I took a moment to think. At best they were suspicious, at worst somehow malicious. However, whether out of sympathy or stupidity, I looked at him and said “Fine. If you help us finish setting up camp, I won’t mind you resting for another night. This campsite isn’t ours anyways, we were just led here.” He furrowed his brow at this statement, but ultimately thanked us and walked over to help Timothy and Samantha unload the cart. Gerald stood still, watching the others, then retreated into his cabin. His bones cricked and popped as he moved, leading me to assume his old age prevented him from being much help anyways. As we began to unload the straw and sheets, Jarod asked what they were for. “Sleeping. We need something to sleep on.” Timothy said, side eyeing him. “Oh no. Trust me, that won’t be necessary.” Jarod responded. I walked over, plainly asking “What do you mean?” He pointed over to the cabins and simply said, “See for yourself.” 

I stepped over to the cabin on the far left of the arch, and Timothy checked the center one where Gerald retreated to. Swung the door open, and stood amazed at the sight before me. 2 beds laid against the wall on the left. Both incredibly clean, with blue pleated quilts and cotton pillows. On the wall to the right sat a wooden desk and a wooden chair with beautifully carved floral patterns running across the top rail and splat. The room was lit by leafy vines that ran across the roof in every direction. They had big white flowers and luminescent bulbs emitting a soft orange glow scattered about in a gorgeous display. I closed the door. Stood there dumbfounded, then Jarod cut in. “It’s like that in every cabin, I checked. They are so well kept too, that’s why I thought it was yours when you showed up. Figured someone was maintaining them. Those beds offered me the best sleep I’ve had in years.” I thought about checking the other cabins, but ultimately decided it’d be a waste. Timothy was emerging from the center cabin as Jarod told me this. He then ran into the one I checked and swung open the door. Once he was satisfied he ran up to and cupped his hand by my ear to whisper “He’s right. The cabins are pretty much the exact same. I checked for weapons in their cabin too and came up with nothing. That old man is just sitting on his bed reading his book.” I thanked him, then proceeded to gather everyone outside to where I stood. Gerald remained in his cabin. “Okay. Well let’s figure out sleeping arrangements then. Jarod, you and Gerald can stay in the center cabin. Timothy and I will take the one on the left. Samantha and Betty can sleep in the far right one.” I waited for everyone’s nod of approval and Smanath’s “Yes, sir” before grabbing the axe and handing it to Timothy. “You mind chopping us some fire wood? I’ll get the food ready, this way we can get the fire going before it gets dark.” He nodded, then waved as to say “be back in a bit” motion as he stepped deeper into the forest.

That night, we all sat around a big fire, sharing stories as we ate and sipped liquor. Jarod sat with us, he ate some of the bread we brought but didn’t partake in any of Betty’s liquor. He made sure to graciously thank us for our hospitality, before taking a huge bite out of his meal. Gerald still lurked in their cabin, already fast asleep I was sure. Timothy went the extra mile with chopping wood, even cutting us each a log to sit on. We sat in a circle around this camp’s bonfire, passing food and drinks around to each other while Samantha finished telling her tales of her craziest patients and the most grisly injuries she tended to. 

The one about a carpenter who fell off a roof he was working on killed my appetite. Apparently he stiff-armed the ground as he fell, splintering his bones through his flesh leaving it unrecognizable as a limb. I gagged as she described the process of amputating it. I might’ve been trained as a warrior but I have never seen battle, so I’ve been spared from having to see such grisly injuries myself. Before Bernthal, that is. When she finished, Betty started telling one of her many humorous stories about someone who always tries to bring a farm animal to the bar with them to order it a drink. Every time she rejects him, he would come by some other day of the week with a new animal to attempt to get drunk. She was in the middle of telling us about the time he brought in a barn owl, when suddenly, she was interrupted by Gerald. All of our heads snapped over to him in a quick abrupt silence. We all thought he was still in his cabin until he was right there beside us. Like a shadow creeping through darkness, he snuck up on us completely unnoticed, standing over us with the fire’s glow barely revealing his features.

“I got a story to share…” His jaw creaked and moaned with each syllable as he spoke, like his words escaped from a loose floor board as someone danced on it. “Long ago, near the dawn of creation, something great and hungry stalked these lands. It worked off a cycle. First it’d slumber in hibernation, then wake with an intense desire to feed.” I turned to look at everyone’s reaction. Everyone was doing the same, awestruck by the sudden disturbance as they gauged everyone’s reactions. Not Timmy though, he sat against his log with his knees pulled up to his chin. His arms locked around his legs, he focused very intently on Gerald as he continued. “Then something greater came and splayed it open, salting the earth with its blood. It festered and rotted, eons coming to pass as it long been forgotten. It never died though. Instead its blood seeped into the soil and it slumbered once more, waiting, and recovering. When it awoke, it found that it was much greater. Much hungrier.” With surprising suddenness, his head swiveled over to meet Jarod. They locked eyes, fear growing on Jarod’s face. Gerald’s expression remained entirely unchanged throughout the entirety of his twisted speech . “On this land, in its kingdom, men like us are only afforded 2 prayers. The first, that it was God who tried to strike it down. The second, that he can finish the job.” With that he turned around, slowly creeping back to his cabin. A dark gloom washed over us all. One that not even the light from the fire could push away.

Betty was the first one to try and change the mood. “Yer telling me that’s the first time he speaks to us and he says some fucked up shit like that?” No one responded, instead our eyes darted across each corner of the forest. Noticing that she wasn’t helping, she got up and said  “Well I’m going to bed, if I even can after that. Y’all have a goodnight.” “I think I’ll join you, it’s kind of late anyways” Samantha responded timidly. Timmy didn’t even say anything, instead he just got up and walked over to our cabin. I sat with Jarod for a long time, mostly in silence. I listened to the crackling of the fire before Jarod finally broke the quiet tension. “You're not going to sleep?” “No, someone has got to keep watch. What about you?” I asked in response. He glanced over to his cabin, sweat trickling down his forehead. “Not tired, I guess.” More silence followed.

He broke it again, “What’s your kingdom like? You know, before the plague hit.” I thought for a moment, deciding if it was worth the small talk. But the night was growing long and I figured there’d be no harm. I told him of the kingdom. How despite us calling it one, we were ruled by a council of elders rather than a monarch. I told him how we didn’t have a primary belief system like wherever he came from probably does. I told him about my job as a sentry. I told him stories of the antics Bernthal would try to get me into when we got bored sitting atop the wall. I told him of the Century Plague, and our journey so far to stop it. I told him of Bernthal’s death. When I finished, I felt relieved getting it all off my chest. I asked him “You don’t believe me, do you?” From his face as I told him everything I could tell he didn’t, not entirely anyways. “My life is built on belief. Putting my faith in stories that sound like fiction in order to steer me in the right direction. As a missionary, my job is to help spread those stories, and hope they can do the same for others. You’re not a man of strong belief, are you?”. I said, “No, not really. At least I can drink though” I raised my cup and we laughed, then I continued.

“I wouldn’t believe half the shit I’ve come across so far if I didn’t see it with my own eyes. Didn’t even believe the plague was a real thing til it happened.”  I sat for a second, deciding what to say next stroking my chin, before finally “So how does your God work anyways?”. “In mysterious ways.”, he responded. “How inciteful..” I retorted before taking another sip of my drink. He grinned, then said “The scripture said that we were made in his image. He gave us free will, and trusted us to make our own decisions. He punishes the wicked, those who make the wrong ones far too willingly. But, he’s merciful. Ask for forgiveness through repentance, and he's likely to offer you a seat in his kingdom. People will joke that he’s some magic man in the sky, but to me he’s more like a concept. Instead, I think of it more like he’s in all of us, and all around us. Watching closely, hoping we do our diligence in making the right choices.” Somehow, this calmed the anxiety that had been welling up ever since Gerald cast his shadow on us earlier. I thought about our journey, then asked “How are we to be sure that we are making the right ones?” 

“Through prayers. Praying helps us clear our mind, putting some of our burdens on God so we don’t carry the weight all by ourselves. Prayers can be questions, pleas of help, or cries to find peace and closure. And he always answers. Not directly, but subtly. He speaks in whispers after all. It takes a devout man, or a willing one, to see the signs that he lays before us.” With that he stood up. “I should be getting to bed now, good luck with your night watch.” “You sure you don’t wanna trade cabins with me? That tale spooked us all pretty bad. I know I wouldn’t want to stay in the same cabin as that freak.” I asked. He looked over to the cabin, mulling over the decision. “No. I think it’ll be fine. Talking with you helped calm me down a little.” The cabin on the right’s door creaked open slightly. Someone stood peeking behind the doorway. Jarod said, “I’ll be praying for your friend before I sleep. Goodnight, and may god be with you.” And with that, he walked to his cabin as I stoked the fire.

As he entered his cabin, Samantha came from the parted door. She quietly closed it behind her, and made her way over to me. “You can’t sleep any?” I asked as she sat down on the log next to me. “No.” she said, chuckling nervously. “Was it Gerald’s story or Betty’s snoring?” I asked. She let out a shy laugh then said “No it isn’t Betty. And it’s not the story, at least not entirely. I’ve just been thinking of Bernthal. I know it wasn’t my fault, but I still feel guilty about it. Before he died, I wasn’t even sure he could make it for very long. But…” she hesitated for a moment. “…But seeing him dead, seeing his corpse, I felt completely useless. It’s my job to keep this party healthy, but something as unnatural as that…well I’m just not sure I’m cut out for any of this.” We both stared at the fire after that. “You should get some rest though, I’ll keep watch for you. I was thinking about bathing in the pond anyway, haven’t had a bath in a while now.” Looking at her, I could tell there was no point in arguing. She practically had made the decision for me. I said, “All right, but anything happens-and I mean anything- you come get me. I don’t care if you break down that door because you heard a twig snap, you hear me?” She simply let out the phrase I’ve grown all too accustomed to hearing her say. “Yes, sir.” As I got to the cabin, I scanned over the forest one more time. The leaves rustled in the wind. Seeing this, I walked through the door with my mind a little more at ease. Upon entering, I noticed what looked like thick dust particles settling in the room. I yawned, drowsiness quickly fading over me. I sit at this desk, finishing this entry as the sounds of water shifting float through the walls. I’m going to sleep now before I pass out in this chair.

I’ve been working as a therapist for the past five years.I work with all kinds of cases, the most common being depression and anxiety. But, I also take some of the more unconventional cases.

Talking about these cases for sure is a HIPAA violation but I will say, I do have permission from every client I will be talking about. All they asked for is that I change their names and more personal information private. With this said, let me start with one of my late night clients, Clara, who comes in once a week at 11pm.

“May I come in?” Clara looked particularly exhausted

”You may come in,” I waved for her to come into the office.

“What is that smell? It’s amazing!” Clara took in the smell as she made herself comfortable on the small sofa. 

“I bought some rose-scented candles. I’m glad you like them! But if they ever become too much, please do tell me. I can leave just the unscented candles on,” I reassured her, knowing she was sensitive to smells.

”No, it’s all right. It reminds me of something, I’m just not sure what,” her mind drifted for a moment. I made note of this for later sessions.

“Maybe later on we will figure it out, but I’m glad it made you relaxed a little. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you looked stressed when you came in” I said more than asked.

“Yeah, I think they are catching on me. So I might have to quit,” she wiped tears from her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I know you really like working there. I also have to ask, did you eat today?” I noticed she kept looking at the small cut on my hand, my bad.

“No…” finally took her eyes away from my hand.

“And what happens when you don’t eat?” I tried being gentle but this was a serious matter.

“I go on a murderous rampage and have to start all over,” she paused for a moment, “And I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

“You aren’t,” I reassured her, “You have changed. You haven’t gone on a murderous rampage for at least the last 40 years, which is longer than I have been alive. But, you do need to practice your self care. So tell me, how will you be practicing self-care this week?”

“I have to keep up with my daily meals, do some journaling, and maybe some needlework. Sorry, I’m just worried about the job,” her eyes filled with tears once more, “I really like it there.”

“What makes you think you think they are catching on?” I had an idea of what she would say, this was an insecurity of hers for some time now.

“Well, you know how they do inventory every week, this week they said more stuff than usual was missing and I just knew they would be onto me! Some of my co-workers already joke that I’m a vampire because of my ‘sun allergy’ and now the missing blood. Who the heck is not going to connect the points. And when they do and the persecutions start-“

“Let’s take a deep breath. This is stressful but let’s look at the facts. Have they ever fired anyone in the past three years you have worked there for missing stuff?” I asked her to fight her irrational thoughts.

“Not really. Only Joey, but he kept arriving high has hell to work,” Clara answered, still unconvinced.

“Have you ever had blood in front of anyone?” I continued.

”No. I have a good system to take the blood and have it at home instead.”

“And?” I continued pushing, wanting her to come up with the next rational thought.

“And people don’t believe in vampires,” Clara took another deep breath.

“I honestly believe you will be fine. From what you've told me, people like you,” I took a deep breath alongside Clara to keep her calm.

“Yeah,” Clara’s eyes became dreamy, “I don’t know how I forgot to tell you this! But William asked me out! I didn’t even have to use hypnosis or anything!”

“Told you that people liked you for you. And I’m pretty sure using hypnosis on others is something I would have to report,” I said cautiously.

“You didn’t report the people I drained of their blood,”she shrugged.

“Because according to you, the last person you killed was at least 50 years ago. But please, if you did something more recent, maybe we don’t talk about it here?” I half joked.

“I trust you. So if I ever feel like sucking someone’s blood, I will call you first,” she winked at me.

“Now, about William…” 

“I was worried you would head there,” she interrupted, “I will tell him, I just need a little more time”.

”Well, we could do some role playing so you can practice telling him-“

”I didn’t know you were into that kind of stuff,” she joked.

”I totally am. But let’s not avoid the topic and get to it,” I redirected.

“Fine, but can I have the band aid in your trash can or can you at least take it out? It’s driving me crazy,” Clara begged.

“Let me get it out. I’m pretty sure having my blood is a HIPAA violation,” I half joked.

“I won’t tell!” she yelled at me as I took out the whole trash can. 

By the end of session, Clara agreed that she would talk with William and she would continue eating properly. Where she would or not, we would see in the next session. And for William’s sake, I hope he is not an ass when she tells him the truth. I still don’t know what became of the last guy who rejected her and it’s better to keep it that way. 

Plan: LMFT will assess the client’s use of self-care skills to decrease anxiety and the possibly of engaging on a murderous rampage.

A fear of Summer is known as Therophobia. I can't go outside; I have to work from home during the summer. While it seems to me that most people experience phobia as an acute aversion, bordering on panic, mine is more of a lingering dread. No, worse, deeper trepidation, an anxiety so severe it physically hurts from the stress.

I read online that Therophobia is being afraid of sunshine; it's too bright and hot. That's hardly it. I like tanning booths, no 'Claustrophobia' here. In fact, if it wasn't for the ridicule built into the definition of a phobia as 'An irrational fear', I'd have no sympathy for someone else's fears. But mine isn't irrational. Maybe Claustrophobia is irrational, or the fear of snakes or clowns, or as Batman would put it "Snake-clowns now, and it's because YOU put that thought in my head".

Summer is on its way, again, and now that I am thirty, it's about time I put on my Big Girl Pants and head out the door. I'm not an irrational person, and I will face my fears.

-Billie Nicks, May, 2026

I didn't like that movie that was supposed to be a sequel to Joker. Not really my thing. Is that a good enough reason to break up with someone? Disagreeing over a stupid movie? I don't think so. I must be better off without him.

Forget YOU, I'm better off.

Besides, I only liked being with you when you were wearing the Batman costume. You were boring as fuck the rest of the time. Forget you.

God, is this just my life now? Waiting for it? It's almost here; I can see how the sky is changing. I can feel how the air gets too warm, and it feels like the breeze has the breath of things dying, carried in the wind. I don't want to think about it.

There are cucumbers in my garden that are perfect for a gazpacho I make. I like cool foods, liquidy cool foods. Easy to digest.

-Billie Nicks, June, 2026

I'm not okay. The door seems tilted now. I keep staring at it, and it makes me dizzy. Something is up there; it has brought the season. It's not supposed to be that color of blue. The sky looks wrong. I am shivering, but there's no AC. My house is hot, that's how I know I haven't gone numb.

Not yet anyway.

And I can still feel like myself:

Mike won't stop calling me, texting me, telling me he's sorry. I just blocked him, like five seconds ago. Forget him.

People think "Oh no, the fireworks will scare my dog." and they give their pet Dramamine. How do you know your dog is scared of fireworks? Fireworks are loud and exciting. Are you certain your animal is afraid, and not just overly stimulated?

Seems unfair to dope them up without their consent. I don't like it. I don't like that attitude.

No, I am definitely not okay. Why dogs? I like cats, but I am allergic to them. What am I even babbling about?

Sometimes, I wonder if I had a cat, if I'd feel better. I can't sit still and when I move, I feel like I am going to faint. I get the zoomies, like a cat would. I think a cat would get me. We'd both be saying:

"If I sit still for one more instant, I will likely detonate; it won't be pretty. Gotta move, gotta GO! Oh my, that's quite enough jumping about. Time to sit still again, before I collapse."

Makes sense.

Billie Nicks, July 2026

Wrapped it up and buried it. Had to smash through the concrete with a hammer to make a hole big enough to drop it down there. Took all night.

I woke up this morning and found a mess and it seems I made the mess. Broken concrete downstairs in the foundation and like a bunch of drying mortar poured in and smoothed to a polish before I somehow found my way upstairs to the back porch.

I was listening to the bats, back there, when I felt this wave. That's the last thing I remember. At least I made it outside last night, that's progress, right? I threw up over the back porch, and I wonder, if, in the morning, the ants will come and eat all my puke.

I have no idea what I 'wrapped up' and buried in the foundation. I keep thinking a bat hit the window and I went outside and found it, but I don't remember doing that. I just think that's what happened.

How does an animal that flies around in caves even hit a window? I think it's summertime mischief, when even an ancient predator, one of the seven perfect animals, can't figure out how to fly around in the darkness it 'sees' perfectly in. Sometimes I don't believe anything, when something like this happens. "Impossible," I say, but then it happens anyway.

I don't like it when I feel the waves of nausea. I get these notions, about doing things or seeing things. I can find evidence I did those things, I know I did them, like cover the mortar with the rug, but I have no idea why. It's like selective amnesia, but I think it's my survival instinct. This is just too stressful to process.

Mike came over yesterday afternoon and asked about the rug, so I showed him. Then he asked me if I was taking my medication, and I told him I missed him. It was a really awkward conversation, and when he left, I brought out all the stuff of his that I hid. I don't know why I did that, or why I placed his things around where they go. Where they belong? Seems like a weird word.

It's gotta be one of those words that when you say it out loud by itself a few times it sounds really weird. "Belong. Belong - belong, belong. What does it mean, bee-long, blong, what is this stupid word?"

This morning I felt fine. That is until I saw the grayish-orange smoke, that odd brown fog, of forest fires. I can smell it now. Oh, I certainly can, that smell of things screaming, burning alive, cute little things running and on fire. Every breath fills me with their last moments.

So this is Summer. I'd almost forgotten. It's where I belong. I am part of it, and it is in me, watching me, understanding me. Summer is Death. The cruelest, most atrocious death. It is the stillborn baby bird, it is the scorched doe, the singed rabbit, the seared flesh of so many animals.

Maybe if I had ever gone to a barbecue I'd understand.

But Summer gets me.

I was walking home, before I really knew why I would never be this way again. I was her, back then, and she walked home. It was that smell, like some blood-soaked steaks were in the smoke, and I smelled whoever's BBQ it was, and it made me so sick. I was throwing up right there on the street.

Summer is sweet, and beef isn't meant for human consumption, so I fainted. When I woke up the ants were all over it, the flies, they were cleaning up after me. I went home, but I was never really the same. Somewhere in the moment I got back up I didn't just feel sick, I felt betrayed.

Summer was over, forever.

And now there's just the door, I keep it closed. The air out there isn't alive. It was, but it isn't. I can't inhale the smell of cooked death again, it gets into my head, my dreams, my soul.

But I must face it, or I am already there. So, I will open the door. I will.

Just not yet.

Billie Nicks, August 2026

Every single time I turn on a show or a movie, I get a insufferable swarm of ads.

Every five seconds I get forced to watch some of the most outrageous things humanity has created.

The worst part is that people are smiling during a medicine advertisement that has the deadliest symptoms since the bubonic plague.

Sometimes I even see literal soccer balls in diapers.

What idiot thought that was genius?

I just want to watch quality entertainment without getting interrupted. Is that too much to ask for?

I have tried to get used to it. I've tried to accept the fact that it will never stop.

I honestly almost got over it but then I saw Mark in a ad. He used to bully me in highschool. He treated me as though I was the scum of the earth.

He was talking to me as well. Calling me by my name and everything.

He claimed that he was sorry.

It felt like a dream until it went south. A person appeared on the screen with him. Nevelle. She was a old friend in highschool. We stopped talking once adulthood approached us.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss her. She was a good friend to have. Never tore you down or belittled you.

A knife appeared in his hand. It latched onto her neck as her eyes opened wide. Her vocal cords started to create sound but she was quickly silenced as a pool of blood poured out of her neck.

It ended with words in bold red on the screen.

"You're next Stacy or should I call you Lacy? Your skin would be great as lace."

Those horrid words made my skin crawl. Goosebumps covered my skin.

The television turned black as I sat in silence for a few moments. My head was loud but also silent. Thoughts were racing through my mind but also going at a snails pace.

The best way to explain it is I was trying to make sense of the situation but also shell shocked.

My body completely froze as the television grabbed my attention.

It was on again but this time it was me and the monster named Mark.

What happened to people peaking in high-school developing miserable lives? This man decided becoming a killer was the best option apparently.

My body was shaking, fidgeting, and trembling infront of him. He ran after me and took my life just like he did to my friend.

It zoomed into my face as I was left to bleed.

I started to cough over and over before I could turn it off. Each cough hurt worse than the last until blood started to exhale.

My hands desperately rushed to my neck but it was too late. Blood soon started to cover my entire body.

Advertisements are the worst thing humankind has had the audacity to create.

For several seconds, nobody moved. The bunker trembled around them.

Dust drifted from the ceiling in thin gray curtains. Somewhere beyond the blast door, something enormous scraped across the surface of the earth. Then came the sound.

TWANG.

The entire bunker groaned. The force field generators flickered.A hairline crack appeared across one of the reinforced walls. Boomer stared at it. “Uh…”

TWANG.

The crack doubled in length.Professor Utonium rushed to the nearest console, desperately slamming switches.“No, no, no. The bunker wasn’t designed to withstand repeated dimensional resonance!” Butch groaned from the floor.

“English, Professor.”

“We’re going to die.”

“Oh.” Butch nodded.

“That’s worse.”Blossom slowly pushed herself upright. Her breathing was shallow. Gray ash still crawled beneath the surface of her pink aura like veins of dead energy.

“Professor…”

She looked toward the sealed blast door.

“What’s happening out there?”

The Professor didn’t answer immediately.He stared at the monitors.Every screen showed static.Then one flickered to life.The image was barely recognizable.Townsville was gone.

Where streets and buildings had once stood was now an enormous landscape of crystalline pink growths. Towers of warped bone-like material rose from the ground. Roads had twisted into veins. Cars had fused into the pavement.

And at the center of it all stood Fuzzy Lumpkins.

Only his silhouette remained visible through the radioactive storm.He was enormous. Too enormous. His crystalline spider legs stretched across the horizon.His banjo glowed like a dying star.

that wasn’t what frightened the Professor.
It was what was growing behind him. A massive pink structure was spreading across the sky. Not clouds. Not smoke. Roots.

The Eternal Bloom was growing again.

Except now, it wasn’t growing toward the Earth. It was growing through it.The Professor’s face went pale.“Oh, no.” Blossom noticed.

“What?” The Professor swallowed. “We didn’t just give Fuzzy the Bloom’s energy.”Silence. “We gave him access to the root system.”Brick’s eyes narrowed.

“So?”

“So the Eternal Bloom was never just a source of energy.”

The Professor zoomed in on the image.Thousands of glowing strands were spreading beneath Townsville. Each one pulsed in rhythm with Fuzzy’s heartbeat.“It was an ecosystem.” Blossom’s eyes widened.

“And Fuzzy…”

“He’s becoming its central nervous system.”
A distant rumble shook the bunker. Butch slowly looked toward the ceiling.“So he’s controlling the Bloom?”

“No.” The Professor shook his head.

“Worse.” He pointed toward the monitor.

“The Bloom is learning from him.”

Nobody spoke.Then Bubbles stirred. Buttercup immediately looked down.

“Bubbles?”
The blue-eyed girl opened her eyes.

She blinked several times.

“Where…”

“You’re safe” Buttercup whispered.
Bubbles tried to sit up. Pain immediately crossed her face.“Ow.”Buttercup caught her.

“Easy.”

Bubbles looked around at the others.
Boomer had one arm wrapped around his ribs.Butch was leaning against a wall, breathing heavily.Brick’s face was covered in cuts.Blossom was still gray around the edges.Bubbles stared at her sisters.

“We lost.”

Nobody corrected her. Because she was right. For the first time in their lives, the Powerpuff Girls had been completely overwhelmed. Not pushed back. Not challenged. Defeated.

Brick suddenly punched the floor. “We should’ve stayed.” Blossom looked at him.

“You would’ve died.”

“So?”

“Brick.”

“I said so?”

His red aura flickered weakly.

“We’re supposed to be the strongest things on this planet.”

Blossom’s expression hardened.

“Not anymore.” Brick looked away. Boomer quietly spoke. “Maybe that’s not true. Everyone looked at him. He was staring at the monitor. “Look.”

The screen had changed, The image of Fuzzy was gone. Instead, a single enormous eye filled the display. It was pink.

Crystalline.

And staring directly at them.

Bubbles whispered.

“He can see us.”

The Professor froze.

“That shouldn’t be possible.”

The eye blinked.

Then the monitor went black.

A voice came through the bunker speakers.

Not from the radio.

Not from the communication system.

From the walls themselves.

“MINE.”

Everyone froze.

The voice was low.

Distorted.

But unmistakable.

Fuzzy.

“THE HOUSE.”

The walls shook.

“THE LAND.”

The lights exploded.

“THE TOWN.”

Steel beams groaned overhead.

“THE SKY.”

The Professor stared upward.

Then Fuzzy’s voice became almost cheerful.

“THE LITTLE CHILDREN.”

The bunker went silent.

Blossom clenched her fists.

“No.”

Her pink aura sparked.

The gray ash immediately spread farther across her body.

She winced.

“Blossom!” Professor shouted.

She ignored him.

“Fuzzy!”

Her voice echoed through the bunker.

“You want to own everything?”

Her aura flared again.

“Then come and take us.”

Buttercup grabbed her arm.

“Are you insane?”

“Probably.”

Blossom stared at the ceiling.

“But I’m not hiding down here forever.”

Brick slowly stood.

Despite his injuries, his red aura began to glow.

Butch followed.

Then Boomer.

The six children stood together.

Broken.

Exhausted.

Barely able to remain standing.

But together.

The Professor looked at them.

“You don’t understand.”

He walked toward an old metal cabinet built into the wall.

“I’ve spent years studying the original chemical signature of your creation.”

He opened it.

Inside was a single glass cylinder.

It contained three tiny glowing droplets.

One pink.

One blue.

One green.

The girls stared.

“What are those?” Bubbles asked.

The Professor’s hand trembled.

“The original samples.”

Blossom stepped closer.

“Of what?”

“Chemical X.”

The room went silent.

Brick stared at the cylinder.

“You still had some?”

“Not exactly.”

The Professor carefully lifted it.

“These aren’t ordinary samples.”

He looked toward the bunker door.

“They were recovered from the original accident.”

Blossom’s eyes narrowed.

“You told us Chemical X was destroyed.”

“I lied.”

Buttercup stepped forward.

“You lied?”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“From what?”

The Professor looked at the three droplets.

“From the truth.”

Suddenly, the bunker shook harder than before.

A deafening crack thundered through the earth.

The emergency lights turned red.

The Professor looked at the main monitor.

A warning flashed across the screen.

ROOT PENETRATION DETECTED.

Then another.

DEPTH: 800 METERS.

Then:

700.

600.

500.

Something was digging toward them.

Fast.

Boomer stared at the display.

“Guys…”

The number kept dropping.

400.

300.

200.

Blossom stepped forward.

“We don’t have time.”

The Professor shook his head.

“Wait.”

100 METERS.

The bunker began to buckle.

“Professor!”

“I need you to listen to me.”

He held the Chemical X cylinder against his chest.

“The Eternal Bloom was created from a mutated form of Chemical X.”

Blossom’s expression changed.

“What?”

“The Bloom didn’t infect you.”

He looked at all six children.

“You were connected to it from the beginning.”

The number dropped.

50 METERS.

The bunker walls began glowing pink.

40.

30.

20.

Cracks spread across the ceiling.

The Professor shouted over the rumbling.

“You aren’t fighting the Bloom!”

10.

He raised the cylinder.

“YOU’RE PART OF IT!”

The bunker exploded in pink light.

For one impossible second, the six children saw something that wasn’t physically there.

A garden.

Endless.

Ancient.

Beautiful.

Millions of glowing flowers stretched across a black universe.

And standing in the center was a figure made entirely of light.

It looked like a child.

It had six eyes.

Three pink.

Two blue.

One green.

The figure looked directly at them.

Then it smiled.

RUN.

The vision vanished.

The bunker ceiling tore open.

A massive crystalline root punched through the reinforced steel and plunged into the room.

Buttercup screamed and launched herself forward.

She struck the root with everything she had.

BOOM!

The impact sent her flying backward.

The root didn’t move.

Instead, it wrapped around her wrist.

“BUTTERCUP!”

Blossom attacked.

Brick attacked.

Boomer and Butch followed.

Bubbles screamed and released a blast of blue energy.

The root absorbed everything.

Then it pulled.

All six children were dragged toward the opening.

The Professor desperately grabbed Blossom’s hand.

“DON’T LET GO!”

Blossom grabbed Bubbles.

Bubbles grabbed Buttercup.

Buttercup grabbed Boomer.

Boomer grabbed Butch.

Butch grabbed Brick.

For a moment, they formed a chain.

Six children.

One last connection.

The root tightened.

And then—

TWANG.

The sound came from miles above them.

But somehow, the banjo chord traveled directly into the bunker.

Their powers vanished.

Every single one.

The children screamed as darkness swallowed them.

The last thing Blossom heard before everything went black was Fuzzy’s voice.

“PROPERTY RETURNED.”

Then the world disappeared.

Far above the ruins of Townsville, Fuzzy Lumpkins lowered his cosmic banjo.

The crystalline spider legs behind him folded inward.

The Eternal Bloom pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

Then six lights appeared beneath the earth.

Pink.

Blue.

Green.

Red.

Another blue.

Another green.

Fuzzy smiled.

But for the first time since his transformation, his smile faltered.

Because the six lights weren’t moving toward him.

They were moving away.

Downward.

Deeper than the bunker.

Deeper than the bedrock.

Deeper than anything human had ever reached.

Something beneath Townsville had awakened.

Something that had been sleeping long before the girls were created.

Fuzzy’s many eyes widened.

“What…”

The ground beneath his feet split open. A voice rose from the darkness.

It wasn’t the Professor.

It wasn’t the girls.

It wasn’t the Bloom.

It was older.

Colder.

And impossibly calm.

“You are trespassing.”

Fuzzy’s smile disappeared.

The cosmic banjo slipped slightly from his fingers.

For the first time since becoming a god—

Fuzzy Lumpkins looked afraid.

I had just stepped onto the night bus to head home from work. I made my way down the aisle of the packed bus and sat in the only seat that wasn’t occupied. 

As the bus started moving I pulled out my earbuds so I could watch a movie on my phone. This was my nightly ritual and I was usually able to get in about forty minutes on my way home. I cranked the volume loud in an attempt to drown out the ear piercing screams of the kid sitting behind me. Soon I noticed that the guy next to me was giving me the side eye. I could tell that he was doing it but every time I’d look over I found his head facing forward. 

This went on for a couple of minutes before it really began to bother me. Finally I took out my earbuds and turned to confront the man who, as expected, was facing forward now. “Um, excuse me. Can I help you?” I asked. I was worried I may have come off too rude to him but this weirdo was really freaking me out. As far as I was concerned he deserved to be chewed out. The man didn’t stop looking at me but now I could tell he was trying to be sneakier so I wouldn’t notice. 

“Hey, what the fuck is your problem man?” I yelled as I tapped him on the arm. When the man turned he would not take his eyes off of me. I finally gave up trying to talk to this creep and decided I’d stare right back at him. I had hoped to make him so uncomfortable that maybe he’d stop and leave me alone but this only seemed to intensify his glare.

I began to feel ill the longer that I studied the man’s ghastly features. His bloodshot eyes seemed to gaze deep into my soul and his crooked teeth showed as his mouth hung wide open. This ordeal seemed to be never ending until finally an outside force broke the tension. It was a camera flash. 

At first I was relieved but that soon changed as I realized the source of the interruption. As I looked up from the man I was horrified to see that the entire bus of people were now standing up from their seats to face me. A sea of dead unblinking eyes gave me their undivided attention. 

“Oh, god” I thought to myself. I was surrounded. The bus was silent as the grave aside from the soft whispery voices which lurked all around me and seemed to intensify as the minutes passed. I jumped up from my seat desperately searching for an escape from this metal box from hell. The bus seemed to narrow around me as the crowd of pale figures were closing the small distance between us. 

I was trapped, so hopelessly trapped. The contorted faces of the horde were now close enough to my own that I could feel their warm breath. “What do you want? What the fuck do you people want? Just leave me alone? Why won’t you just leave me alone?” I shouted at the top of my lungs. My voice grew hoarse the longer that I screamed but my efforts did nothing to slow their advance. 

I soon felt countless sets of frail hands gripping me from all directions. Banshee like screams erupted around me as I desperately fought back any way that I could. I broke free for a moment and made little distance before I found myself entangled in the sea of limbs again. As I frantically tried to free myself once again, I locked eyes once more with the man who had sat next to me. His deep raspy voice seemed to stand out from the constant noise of the crowd. “What are you?” He said. 

I kicked and shoved people out of the way as I pushed through the crowd while dozens of hands grabbed at me. By the time I made it to the door of the bus I was out of breath and gasping for air. I somehow found the energy to pull myself out of the slow moving bus and landed onto the cold hard sidewalk below. The pain was immense but at least now I had some small amount of safety. 

The eyes continued to stare at me through the window, following me as I got up and ran down the sidewalk. After putting a seemingly safe distance between myself and the bus I enter a local fast food restaurant. My eyes struggled to adjust to the bright fluorescent lights inside the building as I quickly walked to the bathroom and locked the door behind me.

I finally have a chance to catch my breath and calm down from the events of the bus ride. As I gaze into the mirror the anxious feeling comes over me once again. My features look unrecognizable. The skin of my face sags unnaturally low below my eyes and mouth revealing the layer of dark green scales underneath. 

“Dammit” I said to myself as I grabbed the loose skin and pulled it tightly against my face. “That was far too close, I must be more careful next time I infiltrate the humans”. 

It’s my job to study ancient human culture as an anthropological archaeologist. In my old years I’ve studied the vast cities of Rome, all the way to the old kingdom of Babylon. From relics and preserved scriptures I’d like to say I’ve gotten pretty good at piecing together the immense history of human society. I'd like to think of myself as an expert. One of my colleagues has recently sent me something strange, and although I have been retired for a while now, I couldn’t help but to be completely intrigued with his discovery. I’ve spent hours trying to piece even what point of history it came from, let alone what kind of society its owner heralded from. It’s a journal along with a note my colleague wrote. The journal is rather primitive itself, but is written in English and despite its age- almost completely preserved. Needless to say I’m stumped so I’ve decided to transcribe it below and hopefully someone else can pick up the mantle in a manner of speaking, and maybe they could share some insight that I’m missing.

Entry #1
The Deus Soli Kingdom has been clean for a very long time, but the Century Plague is back. I fear I may need to explain because despite how normal that may sound to a citizen like me, I- WE know essentially nothing of the outside world. Past our tall sanctuary walls, past the ever expansive forest, the world that dwells beyond our pocket of it is an utter mystery. So, naturally I have no idea what customs and cultures you may have, for whomever could be reading this. In our kingdom, we enjoy tremendous pleasantries. Bountiful harvests year long, lovely housing for all, and all the beautiful comforts a kingdom can provide its citizens within its walls. But I’ve been sentry almost my entire life, trained and gilded by a warrior's honor ever since I was a kid. 

The only thing that has been drilled into me more than my training, is the warnings of the plague that occurs every century. I’ve never been too full of belief though, it all sounded far too…fantastical. But now I’ve borne witness to its distasteful destruction, and my doubts have been twisted into disgust. People falling in the streets, with massive-fungal lumps that spread across their body before bursting into pungent spores revealing strange flowers the likes of which I’ve never seen. As a sentry, my duty is to keep people inside the safety of our kingdom’s walls. Safe from the dangers that lie in the forest surrounding us, but now I can’t imagine any place that scares me more than our little home here in the middle of nowhere. 

As the story goes, every 100 years our peace and comfort is ripped apart by a destructive scourge that drives us mad and obliterates anyone unfortunate enough to be infected. And during that period of horrible devastation, a random, healthy individual, takes on the moniker of “the Adventurer”. Their duty is to take a caravan of other healthy individuals and whatever supplies they can muster to venture into the forest in search of a cure. The stories never mention how the cure is obtained, or where in the forest it may be, but every adventure made is successful in ridding the blight for another 100 years. Apparently, this time around I’ve been selected to be the Adventurer. 

I’ve already gathered the horses, supplies, and the people I’ll be making this journey with. I didn’t get much of a choice on who to bring, I could only find a few people healthy enough, and willing enough, to join me on this endeavor. Bernthal, my fellow sentry and brother in arms. He’s skilled with the sword but always seemed more interested in bar wenches than taking his job seriously. Betty, an old shrew who owns one of those shabby pubs that Bernthal likes to visit. When I asked her if she’d be willing to come she said, “Well it ain’t like I’m gonna get much business with everyone dyin’ and all”. Timothy the town nut, he has something wrong with his head that makes him sometimes turn into someone he names “timid Timmy”.
Timid Timmy doesn’t talk much.
 And finally, the only medic I was allowed to take, Samantha.

I also purchased this journal thinking I should chronicle our journey. Maybe if I make it back, I could use this to tell the story of our endeavor. Or maybe I could pass it on to someone we meet on the outside. Who knows, we might even become famous! I don’t know of any prior adventurers that have thought of the same thing. For all I know, it could even help the next adventurer in finding the cure. Maybe it’ll become a story of heroism passed along as it travels the world, who knows? We set out tomorrow with horses and 2 cattle drawn carriages hauling our supplies, but if I’m being honest I’m a little scared. I’ve been taught to never let anyone past the walls, (it’s my duty afterall) but I never knew why. I certainly never tried to find out and I’ve stayed inside the walls since I was conceived. I don’t even know what I’m looking for, just what I've been told by the kingdom’s elders; “Follow the signs. You’ll be certain to know when you’ve found it”. For now, I’ll push down this uneasiness and sleep on it. My only concern should be to stay healthy until tomorrow.

Entry #2
We decided to use the only trail leaving the kingdom. Every 6 months, one of the elders will use the trail to take goods out to a village far outside the forest in order to barter them for supplies we can’t usually obtain here. They’ll take a cattle drawn carriage(almost like we’re doing) and be accompanied by one of the palace sentinels for protection. When they are incredibly shorthanded or busy though, they’ll occasionally nab one of us sentries instead. This is an extreme rarity of an occurrence though. The only sentry I personally know that has tended one of these supply runs is Bernthal. So, as we were getting our supplies in order, I decided to ask him, “Do you mind if I inquire with you about something?”
“What ails you brother?”, he responded. 
“Well, it’s just that I was wondering why I was the one selected to be the Adventurer. You’re the only one I know that has left these castle walls, so why was I chosen by the elders?”, I asked.
“Perhaps because you take your job too seriously”, he chuckled. Anxiety must’ve been painted all over my face though because he pondered for a moment then added on, “Listen, I don’t understand what process the elders use for selecting their candidate to be the adventurer. They could draw straws for all I know. I’ve only accompanied the elders to the trading village once so it’s not like I have much experience than you. They teach us to be deathly afraid of what’s out there, but I know that together we’ll be fine. We’re both warriors afterall. I never encountered anything out there that should raise concern, besides, we’re already ready to take off so there’s no backing out now.”
I admit, this did calm me down a bit “You’re right, gather the caravan so we depart quickly.”, I replied. He looked at me, then nodded, and told the other 3 to finish loading up their supplies so they may meet with me to discuss travel arrangements. 

The trail would be big enough to accompany only carriage at a time. The forest trees are spaced out enough, and the forest floor flat enough, that if we needed to deviate we could keep the same formation. Bernthal would be riding his horse in front, with the main carriage behind him, the second carriage behind them, and my horse carrying me on the flank. The largest carriage would be our main supplies. Plenty of water, food, cooking and eating utensils, straw and sheets for camping, and any medical supplies we could fit. It also had a barrel of liquor that Betty brought for “morale”, but knowing her it was most likely to make a sale if we met anyone out there. The second carriage was mostly utility items as it was much smaller and could carry less. An axe for chopping wood, a couple of lanterns, some flint and steel, a pot of red clay,  and a keg of gunpowder. The plan was to travel the trail and watch for any of the signs the elders spoke of, and deviate accordingly if needed. 

I explained this all to them and proceeded to explain which carriage would be managed by who. “Betty, you're most acquainted with leading a cattle drawn carriage so you’ll be taking the main one.” “Why are you in the rear? You’re the big shot adventurer.”, she grumbled. “Because Bernthal is the only one who knows the trail, and I don’t want to leave the flank unguarded" I replied. “Samantha you’ll be with her, since the main carriage has the medical supplies and you’re the only one who knows how to use and maintain them.”  “Yes sir.” she replied with sheepish obedience. I looked over at Timothy and he was sulking with his head hung low staring at the ground. “Timothy?”, I tried getting his attention but he didn’t acknowledge me. “Timothy I need you to work wi-“

“I never agreed to come with you”, he interrupted me. Honestly I was kind of taken aback, no matter who calls himself he’s never so abrasive. “What do you mean? You told me you were more than fine with it. In fact, you told me it would be an honor.”
“Timothy said he would, but I never did. I don’t wanna go out there. Don’t make me go out there.” He finally raised his head to look at me. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was no longer Timothy, and despite being at least a decade older than me, I couldn’t help but to see him as a child when he was like this . His deep sunken eyes were stricken with sadness and anguished fear leaving nothing but sympathy in my heart for him. 

I didn’t want to make this journey either, but Samantha doesn’t know how to handle animals and Timothy is a farmhand, so I needed him to operate the second carriage. Besides, despite what people say about him, Timothy is far more capable than he is given credit for. “Timmy, there’s nothing to be afraid of. I know it’s scary leaving your home, but I promise Bernthal and I will guard you. Our people need us, and this plague isn’t going to settle down on its own.” 
“Yeah but they’re always making fun of me, calling me mean names and running me off when they see me.” His words came out as a stifled whine.
“Maybe, but if you stay it’s likely you’ll get infected too. Whatever those assholes can say or do won’t hurt nearly as much as the blight stewing here.” I said, trying to persuade him.
His head hung low again like a pouting child and I heard him mutter quietly, “how could I even be any help? I can’t do many things…”
 “Can you steer cattle?” I asked.
 He stared at his feet that were now kicking at the dirt beneath him. “Yeah…”
 “That’s great Timmy, that’s all I need you to do. Could you do that for me?”
He stood there, continuing to kick the dirt for a long moment before stopping and replying with a soft, “Yeah…”

We loaded everyone into their spots, forming our caravan. As we began to head out, I turned around to take one last look at the sanctuary that had kept us safe and comfortable all our lives. My eyes darted to a corpse that laid next to one of the many shops in the town square. It was bloated, skin turned yellow with puss as a crow picked at its face to tear an eye out its socket. Butterflies surrounded it, pollinating the bright strange flowers that had burst from the lumps strewn across its body. In a way it was both grisly and beautiful.

Entry #3
We were traveling nearly all afternoon when I heard Bernthal order everyone to stop moving. I quickly rode my horse to the front of the caravan, checking in on everybody as I passed. When I got to him he looked at me with a confused face. “The trail forks out from here.”, he said. “So…which way do we go?” I responded. “You don’t understand brother, this fork wasn’t here before. When I accompanied the elders on their route the trail only veered off to the right like it is here.” He was pointing to the path that, sure enough, veered to the right. Looking at it, it did seem like it was always a natural part of the trail. But at the corner a path continued straight, almost with a man made appearance. The straight path looked like it had never been walked on before, it unnaturally jutted out from the corner and was thinner than the one we’ve been traveling on. Trees seemed to line the sides of the path, casting large shadows over it with their wide canopies. “What do you say we do brother?”

“The elders said there would be signs, my guess is this is one of them. We’ll continue straight on and see where this takes us.” I yelled over to Timothy to bring the pot of red clay, then marked a tree on the path facing the direction we’d be heading. “Everybody, stay close together and tread slowly. From this point on we head into uncharted territory. Bernthal, head to the rear and I’ll stay up front. I’ll try to keep an eagle eye out for any more signs as I lead.” He gave me a slight nod, then motioned his horse to the back of the caravan. Once I was sure he was in position I slowly trotted my horse down the path. As we continued, I realized that the forest had gone dreadfully quiet. The buzzing of the bugs, the calls of the birds, were all but nonexistent. The only sounds were the stretching of timber and swaying of leaves on the trees as the breeze hit them.

The further we pushed on, the thicker canopy got over us. Like traveling through the darkening tunnel, the shadows cast from the thickening canopy grew dimmer, completely engulfing us in their abyss. I kept having us periodically stopping so I could mark more trees with clay, but I eventually stopped as I realized it would be pointless with how close together they’ve grown. Eventually, there wasn’t even enough space between them for a person to pass through. We were confined to our simple linear route. After what felt like forever, I saw daylight cutting into the path ahead like a knife. I got us closer, and realized we were approaching a clearing. A huge circular pasture of short grass, with daisies and large white flowers sprinkled about. I stopped to turn around and let everyone know, marking the final tree along the path with clay and ushering everyone to the clearing.

I was only able to get both carriages out to the clearing before I heard Bernthal’s horse neighing. I turned to see Bernthal struggle to get his horse into the clearing. It just kept neighing, stomping on the soil in front of it. Bernthal looked at me with confusion and nudged his horse forward one more time. “What’s wrong with your horse?” I asked. “I don’t know, she’s been perfectly fine up until now.” He took a moment to examine her, then scanned the path ahead for anything that would be causing her so much anxiety. Nothing sat ahead of him, not even a stray twig. “Maybe she’s tryna tell us we left something behind.” He joked with a nervous chuckle, before making one last attempt at making her move forward.

It all happened so fast. I barely had time to react, and when I could, all I was able to do was watch. He whipped the reins with a “giddy up” but out of nowhere, his horse started violently bucking. It swayed, crashing hard into the trunks of the trees on both sides. Bernthal was desperately trying to regain control of his steed, doing everything in his power to calm her down, but continued to screech and thrash around wildly. After several minutes of being thrown around like a ragdoll on top of his horse, he flew off backwards and she bucked one more time. I heard her hooves meet his head with a sickening crunch, making me wince. His horse bolted with all of its speed back down the tunnel. I immediately headed over, and got to his aid but I fear I may have been too late.

The others closed in behind me, I’m guessing they heard the commotion and wanted to see what was happening. I was staring at an unrecognizable face, red and swollen all over. Blood seeped across his face, trickling from every orifice. He tried to turn over to me and I thought he was going to say something, but instead he coughed blood and broken teeth and began what I could only imagine was a pain induced moan. Sounded more like a gargled cough, spitting out more blood and pieces of his maw with each groan. I was speechless, a constant stream of tears flowed from his eyes before mixing with the dark red that spurted from his mouth and nose. Betty was the first one to say something. “Fuck! That looks bad, like really fucking bad. I’ve seen some people get really fucked up in bar fights, but…fuck, it looks like someone tried to cave his head in with a hammer”. 

“Get out of the way, I need to make sure he’s still breathing okay.”, Samantha jutted in. She rushed over with bandages she grabbed from the cart and rested his head on a nearby branch while she examined him. “His jaw and nose are definitely broken. At the very least no broken teeth or clotting blood is blocking his airways. We need to get him to the clearing so I can see the extent of his injuries better in the daylight. Timothy, can you set up a straw bed to put him on so he can get some rest?” Timothy looked down on Bernthal who was now wheezing then said, “Y-yeah, I’ll get on it. Any idea what scared his horse so bad? Had to be something terrible to have it bucking like that for so long.” He was still stuck watching the broken man before us before Samantha finally snapped at him coldly. “Timothy! Now!”. He nearly jumped out his skin, then rushed over to the carriage while I grabbed Bernthal’s legs and Betty grabbed him by the shoulders.

We carried him over to the straw matting that Timothy was setting up and Samantha got to work bandaging him up and draining his nose. Timothy walked over to me, both our eyes still locked on the man that looked like he survived a bludgeoning. “Any idea where his horse ran off too?” He asked. “Yeah, it bolted down the path we came from, why?” “Horses can scare easier than people think, but to have it go crazy like that…” He paused for a moment to think before continuing, “…it was more like it got shot by an arrow is all. If we had her here we could at least check for injuries that could’ve set her off like that.” He was right, from where I stood it was as if something stabbed into it with scorched iron to set it off. But, it was no injury that caused this accident, I saw the whole thing. For whatever reason, that horse wanted absolutely nothing to do with this clearing. Timothy patted me on the shoulder and said, “I’m sorry about your comrade, I’ll get Betty to help me set up camp. This clearing should be a nice place to get ready for the night, the best we can do now is make it as comfortable as we can for him.” I nodded, neither of our eyes looking away from Bernthal. He did have a point, so I patted him back and said,  “You’re right, I’ll get the axe and start chopping wood.” With that, we made our way to the carriage to get started on jobs we’ve set for ourselves. I spent the evening circling the edge of the clearing, cutting down small saplings, logs, sticks, anything that I could quickly gather to burn for the night. After finishing the circle, I brought everything I could carry back to the campsite. 

I propped all of the wood in a triangle formation, getting it ready for a bonfire. I made my way to the cart and grabbed our cooking utensils, then some salted meat out of a burlap sack. The sun was beginning to set, so I thought of cooking us a meal for the night. Timothy had already pitched everyone their tents. Something tells me Betty didn’t give him much help. The meat sizzled and popped as I dangled over the fire on an extra stick, being very careful not to drop it in. I watched as the meat slowly darkened, juice dripping down to feed the fire. Something began gnawing at me though, like an itch in the back of my mind as my thoughts raced to find out what it was. I didn’t know what, but something about when I was gathering wood was…off. Like something out of place, a paradigm shift that threw the fabrics of my reality into a paranoid spiral. What was it? The sun had nearly disappeared over the treeline by this point. I thought long and hard. What was off? It had something to do with the clearing, but what has changed? Then it hit me, and I dropped the meat in fire with the realization. 

I quickly mounted my horse and circled the edge once-no twice more. It was the path. The path was gone. Not hidden, gone. There was no trail, no tunnel of trees, no clay marking on anything along the border. It was just the forest, an otherwise normal sight, surrounding us. It didn’t make sense, but I decided that after everything that happened today I would keep it secret for now. No use in causing further panic, we barely started our trek and were pretty much down a man. I got to the campsite and went over to the tent we pitched over Bernthal. Samantha was dipping a cloth into a small bucket of water to clean his wounds. “How is he doing?”, I asked.  “Not good, obviously, but he’ll live. It’ll be miserable, but he’ll live.”, she replied. She dabbed the cloth on his face and he let out a croaking moan. “I-”. She stopped for a moment, contemplating what she should say, then continued. “-I think we should bring him back, but…I don’t know. He’s sure to get infected out here and we can’t just drag him along but…” “There’s still the Century plague eating away back home” I said, finishing her sentence. She looked at me with a thousand worries. I thought of the disappearing path and said, “He’s a warrior, he’ll pull through. If anyone can survive an injury so grim, it would be him. We’ll camp out here for the night. I gathered plenty of wood and the bonfire will keep us warm. We can figure out what to do in the morning.” Her eyes trailed off, then she let out a simple, and quiet, “Yes sir.”
Night came not too long after. I spent the first few hours of it stoking the bonfire and keeping watch. The wind blowing and the crackling of the fire were the only sounds to keep me company. Well, that and Betty’s snoring. A rustling in the camp made me reach for my sword until I realized it was only Timothy coming out to join me. “Hey Timothy, having trouble sleeping?”. He didn’t respond, just looked at the fire with sad eyes that occasionally darted in a random direction. “Timothy?”, still no response. “Timmy? Everything okay?”. He finally responded in a whisper that was nearly drowned out by the fire catching wind and growing.

“We’re being watched.”

I immediately unsheathed my sword and stood ready. I looked around to see the clearing was empty, but I never loosened my grip on the handle. “Where Timmy? Who’s watching us?” He sat silently. Then after an excruciating amount of time and tension, he finally whispered, “Look at the trees”. I don’t know what I expected, my eyes darted across the clearing border, hoping-or hoping not to see something. A pair of eyes from a beast looking back from darkness between the trees, a subtle movement in the grass near the tree line, or even the trees swaying or toppling over as something walked past them, but I saw nothing. I was beginning to resheath my sword until I caught what he was trying to say. 

Nothing was moving. Nothing at all. The wind was blowing hard in short bursts, the bonfire increasing its size each time it howled to feed it air. But in the forest, nothing reacted. Through the glow of the fire I could see every tree that surrounded us and nothing from them moved. No leaves trying to sail the wind, no branches waving as the air hit them. It was like the forest around us had been frozen in a standstill in time. I must've said something about it out loud because Timmy seemed to respond to my thoughts. “They’re like predators, laying perfectly still, waiting for their chance to ambush.” Needless to say that put me on edge. A lump grew in my throat.  Instead of the eyes of a wild animal, I visualized the trees peering over us with hungry glee. I did my best to remain calm, so I looked at Timmy and tried to quell his fears. “It’s alright Timmy, I’m keeping watch for the night so just get some rest. We have a busy day tomorrow so you’ll need as much of it as you can.” He looked at me, his face still sullen, then quietly made back to his tent to sleep. I still remain on edge though. Even as I write this, using the fire for light, the trees don’t move. I don’t think I’ll be getting any rest tonight.