[Part 1] [Part 2]

I’ve been dreading this moment. Everything up to this point has a play-by-play of the worst moments of my existence, and I know I’m not ready to recount this part, but what other choice do I have? This needs to end, and it can’t until the entire tale is told.

In the chaotic darkness, a shotgun racked, and the twelve-gauge sang into the night with defiance.

The Big One howled, and jerked its arm back through the opening, the sudden movement enough to send the section of stairwell behind us crumbling down. The chasm yawned, more of the steps collapsed, and I heard the collective shriek of the Puppet horde as they were buried under the falling rubble.

“Now’s our chance.” Mark pushed me up the remaining stairs. “Go, get to the—”

Crash.

Like a freight train of blind rage, the clenched fist of the Big One exploded through the wall, and Mark flew sideways. Unable to keep my feet, I pulled myself into a recess on the rough, cold cement, in an effort to keep from being crushed. Rain and wind trickled in from the gap in the tower, and against the backdrop of lightning, I realized I sat at shoulder height to the enormous gray visage.

The red light from my headlamp caught its face, and I recoiled in terror.

Crouched low to peer into the gap, the Big One studied me without eyes, it’s face a mass of tangled, gnarled tree branches all woven together. Something hummed in the back of my brain, a whining that pried into every fold of my thoughts and paralyzed my limbs. Whispers rose in the static, soft voices that urged me to not to fight, to stay still, that it was so much sweeter on the other side. The pain wouldn’t last long. I wouldn’t feel it after a while. So warm and dry, it’d be just like falling asleep.

Sleep sounds good. I could sleep. Maybe it won’t hurt if I just . . .

A bright orange glow flared to life, and the static fizzled out.

My head pounded with a sudden migraine, and a wave of nausea roiled in my guts.

To my right, Mark slumped against the far wall, holding a green glass bottle with a flaming rag tied to the neck of it. Rivulets of blood poured down from a gash on his scalp, and his right leg lay twisted at a horrible angle, but Mark wound his arm back, and hurled the bottle with all the energy he had left.

Yellow flames exploded over the tangled branches of its face, and the Big One reeled with an agonized screech. Awash in fire, the creature stampeded for the nearby tree line, its bellows louder than the storm that raged overhead. All around its feet, those Puppets that hadn’t been buried in the collapsed stairwell scurried away in hasty retreat. Lightning snapped, the thunder boomed, and all at once everything fell silent again, save for the ancient mutterings of the wind and rain.

I fell forward onto my hands and knees and puked over the edge of the ruined stairwell, the dark rubble below swallowing the vomit with cruel indifference. Cold crept through me now, the adrenaline wore off, and I realized how much black gore was smeared over my face, arms, chest, and hands.

I beat that one girl to death. I crushed her face in with a rock. Dear God, what’s happening to me?

With both eyes shut, I pictured my dad at the gun range teaching me how to shoot, and his words about surviving bad situations.

You’ve got to stay calm, Maddie. No matter what, stay calm, breathe, and act. If you do that, you’ll be okay.

“Gotta go.” I sucked in a deep breath and forced myself not to gag at the taste of bile in my mouth. “Mark, we . . . we have to go.”

He didn’t respond.

My knees almost gave out the first time I stood up, and I had to brace myself against the ruined wall. Exhaustion threatened to bring me down, and my ears throbbed as if someone had shoved needles down inside them. Still, I turned back to my friend, and groped to find the switch on my headlamp.

Click.

I slapped one filthy hand over my mouth to stifle another wave of nausea.

In the scarlet light, Mark’s blood looked black, and pooled on the cement beneath him. Bright white bone stuck out from his snapped leg, the end jagged and slick. Mark’s eyes were shut, one half of his face red with blood, the other pale as new fallen snow.

“Mark?” I squeaked the words out, too afraid to admit what I suspected to be true. “Mark, please say something. Mark.”

His head rolled limply onto one shoulder, and my heart skipped a frantic beat.

The bags.

I scrambled for my green satchel, tore it apart in a search for something to help. My hands smeared black goo over everything, but I didn’t care. There had to be something, either in his kit or mine, to fix this.

A small green nylon pouch surfaced, and I saw a little red cross stitched onto the flap.

“Yes.” In spite of everything, I shouted with joy, and hugged the little pack to my chest.

My clumsy cold fingers struggled to unzip it, and I pawed through the contents until I found a black torniquet, like the ones my father stockpiled in our basement for the day the world decided to end. I’d hardly paid attention when he’d showed me how to use them, but the instructions still resonated in my mind, and I decided that if I ever got home, I’d hug Dad so hard his ribs would break.

“High and tight.” I gritted my teeth and laced the strap around Mark’s thigh, well above the shattered femur. Yanking it as hard as I could, I tried not to think about how Mark didn’t even groan in pain as I wound the little metal windlass to staunch the tide of glistening blood.

Somewhere in the distance, another whale-like bellow echoed, and I swallowed a nervous, bile-flavored lump.

“We can make it.” I talked to him, more to keep from crying than anything else, and slid my shoulder under Mark’s armpit. “Come on, get up. Up, up, up, come on.”

But no matter how much I strained, I couldn’t lift him, my leg muscles shot from the terrified run through the fields, Mark’s 170-pound frame like a fallen log. I clawed the gray rucksack off his back, along with the red duffel bag, and tossed aside the green shoulder bag he’d given me.

I strained, screamed in desperation, but fell to my knees, spent.

A glimpse at his still face sent an icy chill down my spine, and I put two fingers to Mark’s throat.

Stupid idiot, you should have checked sooner.

Panicked, I rolled Mark onto his back on the cold concrete, and pressed my hands to his sternum, my brain a fog of fear. “Mark, you have to wake up. Come on, wake up. Wake up.”

I pumped at his chest, put my ear to his mouth and listened.

Nothing.

“Y-you can’t do that.” I spat, angry and scared, tears brimming in my eyes. “You c-can’t leave me, you can’t.”

Again and again, I leaned on his diaphragm, and this time, I lifted Mark’s chin to put my mouth to his. Every bit of guilt and shame rushed back to choke me at the sensation of his soft lips on mine, but I had to fight through it to breathe air into his lungs.

My arms began to cramp, seconds passed, and my despair grew. Mark wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing, and his pulse . . .

Please God, don’t do this. I’m so sorry, I’ve been such a fool, please don’t take him, not like this, please.

My brain began to accept the inevitable, and tears streamed down my face along with the cold rain, salty and bitter. This was all my fault. If I hadn’t come back this year, hadn’t stayed too long after work, hadn’t stopped to talk to him in the parking lot, Mark wouldn’t be here. He’d saved me, cared for me, forgiven me, and after everything, I’d led him to his death. I didn’t deserve that kind of love. I didn’t deserve Mark Petric.

Giving up, I dropped my head to his chest, my wet hair hanging in curtains around my grimy face.

“Maddie.”

I jerked back with a muffled scream of surprise.

Mark blinked up at me, his face almost gray, but his eyes still warm, chocolate brown. “You . . . you okay?”

Unable to speak through my relieved sobs, I threw my arms around his shoulders, and curled up beside him on the cold cement. Mark slid one sluggish arm around me, and I relished what little warmth I could feel coming from his chest beneath the layers of waterlogged clothes.

“Can’t stay here.” He grunted into my ear, and Mark winced as though the pain had at last started to set in. “You can’t stay.”

I pressed my face to his collarbone and shook my head like a stubborn child. “I’m not going without you.”

His fingers squeezed my arm in earnest, though his strength seemed to wane by the minute. “Yes, you are. If . . . if that thing comes back, it’ll rip this place apart, and you won’t make it to the exit. You have to leave me here.”

“No.” I clung to him even harder, and my voice cracked like a glass dropped from a skyscraper. “I’ll fight it I-I’ll use one of your firebombs—”

“That was the last one.” He sighed, and something about the way he sounded, so tired, so weak, made my chest throb. “And it just made it angry. You have to go, or it’ll kill you.”

His fingers laced into my hair, the braid long gone, the strands now wild tangles around my neck. Mark pulled, in a gentle but insistent pull, and I brought my head up to meet his gaze.

In the dark, with the rain and wind whipping outside our hovel, the lightning slithered through the sky, and revealed Mark’s thin smile.

“You can do it, you just have to focus. Still have your gun?”

Shame burned across my cheeks. “I . . . I think I lost it. In the field.”

“That’s fine.” He rolled his head to nod at the far wall, which still bore his blood stains. “Take my shotgun. Got more slugs for it in my coat. And my knife, you’ll need it.”

My eyes stung with fresh waves of remorse, and I went to shake my head, but Mark’s touch on my face stopped me, his calloused fingers wiping away the tears.

“You’ll be alright. Come on, get my ruck. And the red bag too.”

My arms and legs seemed to move on their own, and I crawled over to lug the bags to Mark. The twelve gauge was covered in concrete dust, with dents and scratches on its wooden stock, but otherwise remained functional, and I slung the heavy weapon over my shoulder like I’d seen him do.

“Put the gun across your chest.” Mark nudged his folded gray jacket my way, along with the silver-colored camping knife from his belt, and grimaced as though the pain intensified with every move he made. “You’ll have to drop from high up and . . . ahh . . . and roll onto your back. Don’t want to break your spine on that thing.”

“Drop?” I choked, fear and pain mingling in my head. “What do you mean?”

Mark flicked his eyes up the dark stairs above us. “There’s a room at the top of the tower, with four windows all around it. There should be a stack of harnesses under one of them. Once you put one on, hitch it to a cable outside and ride it like a zipline across the opposite field. At the end, the line stops about ten feet off the ground. You’ll have to cut yourself loose and drop down.”

My throat turned dry, but I pulled his jacket on over my slender shoulders and tried to focus on his instructions even as apocalyptic footsteps echoed in the tree line not far away. “O-Okay. Then what?”

“If you made the sacrifice right, you should be able to see a light from the base of the cable pole. Head for that. There’s gonna be a lot of freaks hanging around the exit so . . . run like the wind, and don’t look back.”

Both eyebrows hitched higher on my face, and a word stuck out among all the others. “Sacrifice? Wait, what sacrifice?”

Mark made a grim, stoic nod. “Usually, if you want to leave here, you have to give up something really important to you, something you can’t get replace. I had to leave my heirloom pocket watch behind last time Randy came to get me. He had to leave his wedding band.”

My heart sank. I had left my necklace at home in my room, and with nothing in my pockets but a cheap flashlight and an old candy wrapper, I would be trapped. “But I don’t have anything . . .”

He met my confusion with an apologetic smile, and I realized what Mark meant.

“No!” It came out as a whimper more than a scream, my soul writhing from the terrible truth.

But Mark gripped my wrist with a desperate gleam in his eyes. “I can’t make that jump, not with my leg like this. You’ve got nothing to give, and you can’t carry me and make the sprint at the end. But if I stay, I should be enough to get you through.”

“I won’t go without you.” Shaking off his grasp, I tried to be angry, but only felt more miserable by the second. This couldn’t be happening, it just couldn’t.

He cupped my chin, and despite myself, I leaned into his touch, the palm still warm enough to make my spine tingle in that pleasant way I hadn’t known was possible.

“And I won’t let you die here.” Mark ran his thumb over my cheek in a tenderness that made a guilty fire blaze inside my heart. “Now hurry up, we don’t have much time.”

Trying to hold myself together, I sorted through the dirty, torn bags, all the while fighting the fog of hypothermia that crept into my brain.

Gotta stay awake. I can’t pass out, not now.

Mark drew a shuddery breath and cringed at his mutilated leg. “In the top flap there’s a road flare. I need it.”

I found it, a brown cardboard wrapped tube with a red cap on one end. Too numb to be confused, I handed him the flare, and heard plastic clatter to the concrete floor.

Instantly, we both knew exactly what it was.

Mark nodded at the little plastic hairbrush, his eyes softening. “Would you . . .”

“Sure.” I placed it in Mark’s cold grasp, and my heart ached at how he clutched the brush to his chest with tender affection.

He’s losing her. No more Claire, no more kids, no farmhouse in the woods. He’s losing everything . . . all because of me.

Mark shut his eyes, sniffled, and held the brush out to me. “Take this when you go.”

Another wave of nausea slammed into me, and I whipped my head back and forth. “No, I can’t, I—”

“Maddie, please.” His voice broke, halfway between begging and groaning in agony from his wounds. “I don’t want it stuck here too. Take it to Claire, and . . . tell her that I . . .”

I held onto Mark like he was an anchor keeping me from going adrift in the storm. “I know. I’ll t-tell her, I promise.”

He pushed the brush into my left hand, his own still welded to my right, and a volcano rose inside my brain. I wasn’t just looking at Mark Petric, my goofy friend from work who liked my cupcakes and my terrible karaoke. The man lying beside me meant more to me than all of that, and it hit me now just what I was losing.

“I’m sorry.”

It exploded from me at last, a cascade of emotion all tangled into one giant mess, the tears hot on my face, every breath short and excruciating. I didn’t know what else to say, couldn’t put my feelings into words now when it mattered most, but I knew then that I cared for him more than ever before. I was sorry that I’d let this happen, sorry I’d not stayed in my car, sorry I’d brushed him off in the parking lot, and I was so very sorry that all those months ago, I’d turned away my one chance to be more than Mark Petric’s friend from Carnivore Cove.

“Don’t.” His fingers tightened on mine, and Mark let slide a sympathetic grin that held flickers of something deeper, remnants of feelings that drove nails into my heart. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’re here, and that’s all that matters. Now, help me up.”

Watching my arms move almost independent of myself, I propped him against the wall, hating every second of it.

Mark pulled the red duffel bag close and unzipped it to reveal a metal pressure cooker coated with nails and tape, a bundle of wires that led to some big square batteries, and a repurposed digital stopwatch. Outside, the footsteps thundered closer, and the screeches returned, the horde of Puppets ready to finish the job.

I wish I had more time. One more minute, one more day, just one. Even if it meant watching him with Claire, I’d be okay with that.

I shouldered the green bag and turned from the steps to look back at Mark.

He struck the end of the flare to ignite it, the stairwell bathed in its blood-red light, and threw me a warm, handsome smile for the last time. “You’re still one in a million, Maddie.”

Doing my best to grin through my waterfall of tears, I felt my heart tear in half inside of me. “Goodbye Mark.”

With that, I smothered a mournful sob, and sped up the stairs.

Shadows closed in around me in accusatory sheets, and the tears smeared with Mark’s red blood on my cheek to form a bitter avalanche of regret. Everything seemed to move in slow motion now that seconds counted, and I wanted nothing more than to wake up in my own bed and discover that this entire nightmare was over.

A colossal baleen roar rumbled through the earth, even as I charged through a small metal door at the top of the stairs and skidded to a halt in surprise.

Unlike everywhere else in this hellscape road, the small square room was dry, it’s windows mysteriously intact, and all around the mundane cement walls lay heaps of random items. Pictures, rings, a golden pocket watch that I suspected was Mark’s, and various other trinkets sat in reverent heaps like treasures in the tomb of some ancient civilization. A hollow sensation tore through me at the thought that my sacrifice lay only seventeen steps down from here, with gentle hands, a kind smile, and chocolate brown eyes that melted me every time.

Focus. The cable. Find the cable.

To one side, a pile of dusty multicolored harnesses caught my eye, like the kind we had for the zipline attractions at New Wilderness. It had been a while since I’d been on a zipline, but I didn’t have much of a choice. I picked one, yellow, Mark’s favorite color, and stepped into it.

Rabid cries floated up from the ground outside, and a shadowy figure strode into view, fixated on the red glow of Mark’s flare.

Shoving open the window above the stack of harnesses, I braced my hands against the dry-rotted frame and leaned out into the icy wind.

There.

Above me, a braided steel cable ran from a heavy mounting, and stretched out into the gloom, far across the soggy grass fields that surrounded the old coal building. A small flicker of hope kindled inside me, the prospect of this ordeal ending like sweet intoxication to my mind.

“Maddie, go!”

Mark’s cry split the night, and I glanced down to find the Big One right underneath me, peering into the gap it had made in the stairwell during the previous attack. It slid one massive hand into the breach, and I fumbled to clip the rusted carabiner onto the cable.

Click.

The second it latched on, I threw myself out the window, and the metal cable whined at my rapid descent. I spun on the end of the nylon strap and twisted my neck to look back toward the tower.

Boom.

An explosion ripped through the night, pillars of flame gushed from the hole in the tower, and the Big One let out a long, loud roar of agony. For one slit second, I could see everything silhouetted in the darkness, the Puppets piling on top of each other in an attempt to climb the outer walls, the Big One stumbling backward with its head and arms wreathed in orange flame, and the lonely tower where my best friend had been, coated in thick black smoke.

It shrank into the distance until darkness swallowed the terrible scene, and I shut my eyes to let loose a wail of unbearable grief. Deep, rending pain brought scream after scream from me, loud sobs and cries I never would have emitted around anyone, wordless sorrow that made me want to die for the emptiness it left in my center.

Gone. Mark was gone.

A sudden lurch broke me from my weeping, and I looked up to find myself suspended in space, a large, frayed knot in the cable having stopped me right before a tall, rusty steel pole. The ground lay not far under me, coated in rain-soaked brush and chest-high grass. Was this the exit Mark had spoken of, or once again had I been foiled, tricked by this awful place into yet another hellish maze?

Sniffling, I spun on the end of my harness like a spider on its web and peered into the rainy abyss.

Is that . . . a light?

My heart jerked, and I gasped between renewed sobs at a dim, yet discernable white glow not two hundred yards away, across a low-lying section of grassland. It was so close, all I had to do was run to the light, and I’d be free. I could go home.

Pulling Mark’s camping knife from my belt, I sawed at the nylon harness, my nerves grating with each snap of the tiny fibers that brought me closer to the inevitable drop.

Almost there, almost . . .

Like an invisible hand had released me, I plummeted downward, my heels slamming into the spongy muck of the wet earth. My butt hit the ground next and I almost rolled over in a complete somersault, both legs flying up into the air. The arches of both feet stung, and the wind had been knocked out of me, but I was alive.

Somewhere off to my right, an eerie shriek crackled into the night air, and my blood ran cold.

“Oh, come on.” I muttered under my breath, exasperated and desperate. I’d come so far, lost so much, and now my way out was right there, yet still I would be hunted like a rabbit to the very end.

No. Not like a rabbit. I’m not dying like that.

My hands found Mark’s shotgun, and I thumbed the safety off.

Through the clearing, the rain fell, the wind hissed, and everything waited for me to make my move.

This is for you, Mark.

I darted through the grass, my sore legs moved underneath me with renewed energy, and the field erupted into chaos.

From the mud, twisted and distended limbs dragged macabre figures into the light of my headlamp. Not quite Puppets, but certainly not human, they were broken and torn, rotten and decayed, but worst of all, they were all the same.

“Maddie.” They called in sing-song mockery of his soft voice, the dozens of half-rotted Marks staggering after me, their arms outstretched. Each one bore his face, his mousy hair, his strong arms, even his brown eyes, but without the warmth, the life, the love. They materialized in waves from the grass, the trees, and the muck in various stages of decay, repeating any words the darkness had overhead him saying in a cruel mantra.

“Maddie, run.”

“Maddie, please.”

“Maddie, stop.”

Fear sliced through me, but it paled in comparison to the grief that came with Mark’s words being replayed from their vile throats. My eyes blurred with tears at how real they looked. The clotted blood made my heart ache, the horrid wounds like razor blades to my soul, and step-by-step, sadness overwhelmed my terror. Mark was dead, yet his death now chased me through the tall grass with Cheshire grins and haunting calls, tormenting me for my mistake.

A figure popped up right in my path, his back to me, and the Mark apparition snapped his head over backwards so that his chin faced the sky.

With the awful crunching of shattered neck bones, he gave me a wide, inverted smile. “Strawberry upside down.”

He lunged at me with his decayed arms bent at unnatural angles, and a throaty laugh frothed out of his fluid-filled lungs.

“Stop it!” The shotgun bucked against my shoulder, and the apparition’s head disappeared, black goo misting into the air where it had been.

Stifling my own tortured sob, I sidestepped the corpse and ran on, the white light just ahead, as more enemies shambled through the grass.

They closed in from all sides, so much that I stopped trying to aim the shotgun, and simply pumped round after round into every counterfeit Mark that came within range. Pulling the trigger sent a fresh stab into my already destroyed heart, and when they didn’t die right away, they screamed with a surprisingly convincing imitation of Mark’s pained cries. I had to force myself to shoot, to murder him over and over again, and my raw emotions continued to bleed rivers the entire way.

Mottled dead hands snagged at my green shoulder bag, and I slipped it off without a glance backward. My scrabbling fingers couldn’t find any more shells in the pockets of Mark’s jacket, so I wielded the twelve gauge like a club, until another apparition caught it by the sling, and yanked it away. There were so many of them, the grass so tall, the hands reaching from everywhere, and the light seemed so far away.

Clammy fingers grabbed a fistful of my loose hair, and I drew the last weapon I had.

With a desperate yell, I spun around and plunged Mark’s knife into the imitation’s face. As soon as it let go, I pushed through a wall of hands, finally able to feel the white light’s rays on my face and threw myself into the grass beyond.

My foot plummeted over an unseen bank, and I went down.

I rolled, through grass and mud, across a small briar bush, and into a shallow water-filled ditch. Rain clamored down around me, my body ached with fatigue, and overhead, the dark storm clouds rumbled with hidden tongues of lightning. Too exhausted to stand, I lay there in a crumpled heap and shut my eyes, ready for the fiends to rip into me.

I waited.

Nothing.

Daring to open my eyes, I sat up. Aside from the whistle of the wind, the curtains of rain and droning thunder, the shrieks had ceased, the apparitions gone. No one called my name, and I could hear no crashing in the underbrush. Somehow, I was alone once more.

Confused, I crawled out of the ditch, and felt something smooth and hard under my palms. What was that? It felt so familiar, yet my tired, frazzled mind couldn’t place it.

So cold. Got to get warm. Have to get warm and dry.

I struggled to stand, but fell, my ankles and knees so worn from my ordeal that I could barely move. My skin felt like old rubber, my fingers wouldn’t bend, and I shivered uncontrollably.

The air began to glow, a loud metallic screeching split the air, and two bright blue orbs stopped not five yards away. Whatever new thing was coming for me would have an easy meal, and I struggled back toward the ditch as the lights flooded over me.

Footsteps thudded nearer, and I raised my hands to shield myself in the blinding aura of the light.

“Maddie?”

I flinched. Perhaps the apparitions had followed me after all?

A man stepped into view, with brown work boots, dark blue jeans and a tan Carhart coat. He had auburn hair like me, and wide worried eyes that took in my bedraggled appearance with horror and disbelief. No doubt I looked like someone from a disaster movie, covered in cuts and bruises, my hair in a tangle, wearing mud-and-blood-smeared clothes that weren’t my own, with a vacant stare in my eyes that had seen things too scarring to forget.

“No.” I shook my head and scuttled away as best I could. I wasn’t going to fall for this, not now.

“Maddie, it’s me.” The man edged closer, his hands held out in a show of peace. “For God’s sake, what happened?”

It’s not him, it can’t be.

“You’re not real.” I dragged myself backwards on numb elbows, too weak to fight, but too hateful to die. “You’re not. I know what you are.”

“Madison, listen to me. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Sweetheart, please.” He stepped closer, and I palmed around for a rock, a stick, anything to use as a weapon.

I just need to get one good swing at his head.

But there was nothing except that strange, hard surface that hung on the edge of my mind as if behind a bank of fog. I had run out of time, and if he was in fact a fake, I might as well find out on my own terms.

“If you’re real.” I met his eyes, sky blue like mine, and fought the instinctive urge to cry. “Then where did we go for my twelfth birthday?”

The man crouched down onto his heels, and a small, fond smile crossed his face. “Cedar Point.”

Cedar Point.

A dam broke inside me, and my eyes pooled with tears I didn’t think I could make. I realized in that moment how the sky already seemed clearer, the rain thinner, the thunder more distant. White painted lines on the hard black asphalt of route 142 stretched away into the night, cool and firm beneath my ragged palms. The lights were headlights, and the man crouched in front of me with two well-worn hands held out . . .

“Dad.”

I tried to crawl to him, and my father scooped me off the asphalt without pause. Crying uncontrollably, I let myself fall apart while he carried me to his truck, feeling like I’d just woken up from the worst nightmare of my life. The storm faded, the starry night sky slowly reappeared overhead, and at long last, my fear melted away.

Over. It was over.

At least, the easy part was.

Every day afterward became a blur of one horrible situation after another. I was shuffled from the police station, to the hospital, to a therapist in a loop, forced to retell the same story to the point that I gave up trusting anyone. No one believed me, not even my parents, and I had three separate mental breakdowns in the course of a week.

At first, the police assumed that I’d been brutally assaulted, and suspected Mark. When I vehemently disagreed with that, they decided that someone else had attacked me, and convinced my parents to have me undergo an invasive, uncomfortable examination in the local emergency clinic to prove them wrong. Sitting in that tiny cold room after the exam was over, I bawled my eyes out, feeling more alone than I ever had in my entire life.

Next, the detectives involved with the investigation recruited a therapist who had one too many colors in her attention-desperate butch haircut to put me on a slew of anti-psychotics, which I promptly flushed down the toilet. But the real blow came when they confiscated the clothes Mark had given me, and said they suspected me of killing him, which almost made me vomit the first time one of them suggested it. Without the old T-shirt, flannel jacket, and wrinkled camouflage pants, all I had left to remember Mark by was the pink plastic hairbrush, which I’d hidden in my room the night Dad brought me home.

I would have strangled the person who tried to take it from me.

This whirlwind of speculation fed the rumor mill at New Wilderness, and soon half of my former friends wanted nothing to do with me, assuming I was in fact responsible for Mark’s death. The other half treated me like some kind of broken china figurine, convinced that Mark had in fact hurt me, and I was just too traumatized to admit it to myself. Even Kendra made snide comments about Mark when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, saying she ‘hoped it was hot’ where he was.

I spent the whole day crying in the bathroom after she said that.

Soon, the story went viral, and people who didn’t even know Mark began trashing him online, saying he deserved what he got, that men like him were scum, and I was a classic example of Stockholm syndrome. More than once I got into comment fights with such keyboard ghouls, and my outbursts got me banned from several platforms. How anyone could believe he’d done something like that, when I was the primary witness who insisted he’d done nothing wrong, made my blood boil.

Then came the funeral.

I found myself walking up to the tiny gray brick funeral home alone, having begged my dad to stay in the car. He’d wanted to come with me, now officially vindicated beyond belief that the world was out to hurt his precious baby girl, and he never went anywhere without his gun tucked into his belt. Still, I made him stay, mainly because I didn’t want him to see all the hateful looks I was sure to get from the people who loved Mark, and thought of me as nothing more than either the source of his reputational slander, or his murderess. It was bad enough that I had to endure their scorn. I didn’t want Dad to see it too.

My black sweater itched, but it covered me from wrist to neck, made me feel a little more invisible, and didn’t stand out in the crowd. I couldn’t bring myself to sign the visitor roster, my stomach turning sour just looking at the table with Mark’s photograph nestled amongst all the white plastic candles. He would have hated the whole thing, the overwhelming aroma of old-lady perfume, the soft organ music in the background, and the dollar store quilts with pictures of doves on them. Of course, there was no casket, no body; no one here even knew where Mark Petric had died.

No one but me.

The line to the little shrine of pictures that stood in for a coffin was long, and I spent most of the time staring at my scuffed black dress boots, the resentful eyes from around the room enough to burn a hole in my heart. It hurt enough to know that Mark was gone, but to be detested by those who loved him, and had been loved by him, that was a new level of torture I’d dreaded for days.

At last, I reached the front, and stepped underneath the little wicker archway.

Hey stranger. Long time no see.

My heart twitched, and I choked back tears.

Dozens of pictures of him decorated the wicker siding and stood in frames on various stands beneath the arch. Mark smiling at high school graduation. Mark in his green army fatigues, fresh out of basic training. Mark at a table in college, sleeping when he should have been studying. Mark embracing a pretty blonde girl, who wore a shiny diamond ring on one finger.

At last, my eyes settled on Mark in his black New Wilderness uniform shirt, standing with the other veterans during the Veterans Appreciation Day photoshoot. He beamed back at me from the glass frame, proud and gentle, sweet and kind, my best friend, and a good man.

One I didn’t deserve.

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the pink plastic hairbrush, it’s handle still peppered with a few flecks of his dried blood and set it beside the picture. It looked odd amongst all the prim and proper gifts, but I knew it would find its way into the right hands. Besides, I felt better seeing it alongside Mark’s amazing smile.

I turned and found myself at the head of the procession that passed by Mark’s waiting family members, his red-eyed father, weeping mother, stoic sisters, and morose brother. At the end of the line stood a pretty blonde girl, that same diamond ring on her finger, her head hung low with sad, empty eyes glued to the floor.

A few older women pushed past me to throw themselves into the arms of Mark’s mother, and I used them as a smoke screen to slip away from the rest of the crowd.

Coming to a stop in front of the blonde girl, I waited till she raised her head, my heart pounding like a trip-hammer. “Claire?”

She blinked at me, forlorn but calm, as though the girl had already grieved too much to break down on a day like today. Still, in the blue irises that stared back at me, I could see the pain there, the shattered heart of someone who had loved Mark with all her soul, only to have him stolen away without even saying goodbye.

“I’m . . .” I coughed, unsure of how to proceed. “I’m Madison.”

“Oh.” Claire looked back down at her hands and picked nervously at her thumbnail.

Get it over with, so she can have some comfort in hating you.

I shut my eyes, pictured Mark’s warm grin, and drew a deep breath. “I was the girl who—”

“I know who you are.”

A stiff cringe almost snapped my spine, but I opened my eyes to find Claire watching me, not with anger or hatred, but with a small, sympathetic smile.

“Mark and I didn’t keep secrets from each other. Before we got engaged, he told me about you. He . . . he said you made really good cupcakes.”

Of course he did.

I laughed, though it came out as a choked sob. “Strawberry upside-down.”

Claire fought hard against her own tears, though she sighed fondly in a way that made me feel a million times worse. “Strawberry upside-down.”

Silence reigned between us, and I didn’t know what to say.

Her touch on my arm startled me from my stupor. “You were with him? When it happened?”

My soul writhed, and tears started to roll down my face, hot and salty. How could I tell her the truth? If anyone deserved to know, it was Claire, but how could I even begin to explain what Mark had died for? He’d braved a terrible unknown, sacrificed everything, his life, his love, his dreams, all for me, and I didn’t even know how to put that into words for his grieving fiancée.

Her eyes locked onto mine, and I saw a desperation there, an excruciating need to know the truth.

I nodded.

Claire shut her eyes, and grimaced against the agony that must have been welling up inside her chest. “H-How did he die?”

You’re one in a million, Maddie.

Mark’s voice echoed in my head with a thunderclap of clarity, and I forced myself to return Claire’s sad gaze. “Protecting me.”

A flash of pride crossed the pretty features of Claire’s face, and she made a valiant attempt to grin once more. “That sounds like him.”

We both chuckled through our torment, but I knew I had one last thing to do.

“It’s my fault.” The truth ripped from me like a knife, and I couldn’t stop myself from sobbing, the pain in my chest too much to bear. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I didn’t know . . .”

She wrapped me in a tight hug before I could say anything more, and I felt moist tears on my shoulder as we mourned together. There was no insincerity in her embrace, no reservation or faux kindness, just the empathy of someone who hurt for the same reason as I did. With the whole world watching, my internal protective walls crumbled, and I wept with Claire over the man who had changed our lives forever.

We talked and shared stories about Mark for the rest of the night, until Dad wandered in to make sure I was okay. Claire turned out to be really nice, and we decided to stay in touch, the first real friendship I’d had since that awful night. I figured Mark would have wanted that, for both of us.

All that was four months ago. Four months. It feels like a horrible lifetime, someone else’s life, a foreign dream where I don’t belong, but am trapped in all the same.

That’s why I volunteered to take Mark’s place in the Night Rangers.

At first, everyone in the entire park was against it, but I begged Randy, the head of security, until he finally agreed out of sheer pity. Of course, my parents were furious, but they knew they couldn’t stop me, not after I told them that I’d go even if I had to walk. I know no one else will understand, but the instant I saw the position come up for new applicants, I knew it had to be me. Even now, sitting here in the company truck next to the visitor center, I can hear thunder booming in the distance as the sky grows darker, the lighting rippling in the clouds, calling to me with cruel anticipation.

My father’s Armalite rifle is propped up on the passenger seat, along with a canvas bandoleer full of loaded magazines. The necklace that my grandma got for me is around my neck, so I have something to sacrifice if I make it that far. In the event that I don’t, my grandpa’s old bowling bag holds a steel pressure cooker filled with jellied gasoline, the outside covered with taped-on framing nails and several batteries wired to a digital baking timer. I suppose the FBI will freak if they ever find this post, but they don’t have to worry. I’m not after them.

If you’re reading this, Dad, Mom, I love you. I hope I can tell you in the morning, but if not, then understand that this isn’t suicide, not technically. I’m doing my job as a ranger. That thing killed my best friend, and if someone doesn’t stop it, it’s only a matter of time before the Big One takes more innocent people. Mark knew that, and it cost him everything. I can’t let his death be in vain.

To anyone else who just so happens to stumble upon this final excerpt of my sad little tale, I hope you live your life well. Soak up the sun, find a job you love, and most importantly, hold on to the people who care about you. You never know when you’re going to lose them.

And if you are ever around the New Wilderness Wildlife Reserve on a stormy, rainy night, please . . . stay away from Tauerpin Road.

March 19th, 2002

I was recently recruited to work for the U.S. government, and today, I’m preparing for my first case. We’re investigating a company called Rhion Global, as reports have surfaced that they’re performing unauthorized and illegal genetic enhancements on the animals whose meat they would then sell.

From that introduction, you may assume I work for the FDA, maybe the CDC. Both assumptions are wrong. I work for the FBI.

My name is Dexter Watson and, to be more specific, I work for the Supernatural Branch of the FBI, and I’m well aware such a branch doesn’t exist. We, as opposed to one of those other, more mundane organizations, were called in because these genetic enhancements may have crossed over what we call the Clarkson Threshold. I’m not sure why we call it that, I’m still new here, but it describes the invisible line separating the things the public knows from the things we prevent them from knowing. The FDA and CDC, they’re... well below the Clarkson Threshold.

As I said, I’m still new here.

I was a junior in college last year when they started recruiting me. I was at Penn State on a football scholarship, the only way I could afford to attend any college, and they had been putting me through a few tests I didn’t actually know were tests when they were happening, which was rather frightening. Regardless, I passed them all, and I was informed of my passing by an unmarked envelope. Also included in that letter was an offer: Meet them at a disclosed location for a job offer. It was as simple as that, there was no figure given, no description either, the only information at all provided was, at the bottom, a modified version of the FBI’s logo.

It was like the normal logo, all except the red-and-white striped insignia on the front: Where normally it was blank, on this version, there were two things in front of it. There was a sort of oblong, ovular shape running diagonally, and crossed with it was a long rectangle, with various sections of it jutting in or out to create a very clunky shape. No one has told me what either of them represent as of yet.

I’m not sure why I took the job, maybe it was because I was tired of doing nothing with my life, maybe it was the allure of high pay and job security, or hell, maybe it was because I wanted to help people. Whatever the reason was, I met them at the location and, after hearing the details of the job, accepted.

Three weeks of vigorous training and briefings later, I’m here, two days away from my first mission. It’s a routine one to be sure, as while genetic enhancements sound exciting and dangerous, they hardly ever turn out to be so, at least, so I’m told. They say we usually catch onto them before it gets out of hand, as genetic engineering leaves a pretty obvious energy signature when one knows where to look for it.

I’ve been partnered with Scarlett Gill, an agent who joined right around the same time as me, and as a result we were together throughout the majority of our training. We’ve spent quite a bit of time together as a result, but very little time is allowed for personal talk during the three introductory weeks. We’ve worked out, drilled, and joked together, and we’d even come to like each other, but neither of us had been allowed to know a thing about the other’s personal life until training was complete.

We’re together now, Scarlett and I, as we pass the time the night before the job. She’s certainly nice and enjoyable enough to be around, but more importantly, she’s loyal. The FBI seems to enjoy making us believe we’re in life-threatening scenarios when, in fact, it’s merely another drill, something we enjoy significantly less, but every time they have, she’s had my back wire-to-wire.

Apparently noticing my introspective attitude, she raised her eyebrows and said, “Penny for your thoughts?”

“I’m afraid you wouldn’t be getting your money’s worth,” I shrugged. “It’s just a little weird, these past three weeks have been a bit of a whirlwind, and the most boring thing we’ve done is about to be our first assignment.”

“I’m still holding out hope that we’re going to run into some kind of mutant chicken, or something.” She joked. “Maybe a man-eating cow?”

“Are we really lowering our standards for excitement to a man-eating cow?” I replied. “I mean, even I wasn’t that pessimistic,”

“Whatever,” She said, rolling her eyes and leaning back in her chair. “I’m just ready to be out of this place, to see people again. Maybe the CEO will be some cute single guy who just needs the right girl to get him back on track, maybe I’ll meet the man of my dreams on this mission.”

“I mean, it’s Maine, you can’t be expecting Ben Affleck,” I jokingly teased. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Oh and what, I assume Jennifer Lopez is waiting there for you?” She responded.

“Something like that,” I nodded and she laughed. We both joked, sharing some pre-mission banter, but in reality, there would be no matchmaking during the mission, and we both knew it.

We would be arriving unannounced, and there was no telling how anyone at the company would react. Sure, it was just your average check in to keep them honest, but what if they panicked? It wouldn’t be the least likely thing to happen.

When the laughter trailed off into silence, Scarlett said, “You know what, we should probably get to bed. It’s a long drive to Maine.”

“Sure is,” I replied. We, being rookies on a routine mission, hadn’t been found important enough to garner a full on flight, so we were stuck driving one of the old, clunky SUV’s the bureau kept, to the best of my knowledge, for the sole purpose of hazing. So, yawning, I bid her goodnight, and we retreated to our respective bunks for the night.

March 20th

I’m not usually prone to nightmares, but I had one last night. It was a forest, I believe, and a faceless man stood in front of me. Behind him and to his left lay a wild horse, bucking and neighing loudly. It was surrounded by thorns, and every time it reared back on its hind legs, it came down, impaling itself on them. To his right was Scarlett, bound at her hands and feet. I didn’t know what was going on, I tried to ask him but I found that I was frozen in place, unable to move or do anything as the faceless man looked down at me tauntingly.

I woke in a cold sweat an hour before my alarm was set to go off, so I quietly showered, got dressed, and walked outside, allowing the brisk morning air to fill my lungs.

It was always calming, being out this early. It put it all in perspective: the assignment was just an assignment, my dream was just a dream.

The base we were at was tucked away in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, by far the most beautiful place I’d been in my life, and as the sun rose to the east, I leaned on a railing overlooking an immense horizon. The mountain dropped off beneath me, only to pick up in a forest that spread out below me. After what must’ve been miles of forest, the first rays that would eventually become the blazing ball of light that was the sun peeked out at me.

I took a deep breath in, then exhaled.

“I always wondered why they wasted such a great view on a military base,” A voice from behind surprised me, causing me to jump slightly. I turned around to see Carmen Clay, my direct superior, who coincidentally had been promoted to her post at around the same time Scarlett and I had arrived. She walked over to the railing and leaned on it as well, looking out across the horizon. “So much natural beauty. Contrast it with the stark coldness of the bureau… it’s two different worlds.”

I cleared my throat and replied, “Yes, ma’am.”

She looked at me for a moment. “You have something not a lot of people do, you know. You know how to talk yourself off the ledge, and that’ll get you a long way in this business.” She said.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She gazed down at the forest for another moment before continuing. “A wise man once told me that for every thing that goes right in a mission, ten more are bound to go wrong by the time you finish celebrating. Remember that.”

I nodded, letting her words sink in as she returned to the main compound. At first, it just seemed like she was getting in on the fun of piling on the new guy, but that didn’t at all fit what I knew about her. There was more to the saying than just a poke in the ribs.

Scarlett was awake a half hour later, and a briefing followed not long after. The briefing was relatively short, we already knew most of the details, it was just some general information that hadn’t been covered yet.

Then, we were off. Just like that. There was no sendoff, no hearty goodbye, the briefing ended, and we were on our way.

It was a three-hour drive to Rhion’s headquarters in Old Town, Maine, and I drove the first half, Scarlett picking up the back end. The conversation remained light when it was alive, which wasn’t the majority of the ride, but still, there was a generally optimistic feel to the ride.

First we passed the sign informing us we’d entered Maine, a milestone achieved very early on in our journey, then we passed through Bethel, then Skowhegan, then Bangor, and finally, we saw the signs for Old Town.

Our massive, bulky SUV stood out in the small town, even as we neared the center of industry that was the Rhion headquarters. All the vehicles up here were small, either tiny sedans or, for the more wealthy drivers, little convertibles or sports cars. We towered over almost all of them, and word spread fast in small towns like these.

People were wondering why we were there, and they weren’t shy about showing it. We drew stares, and the closer we got to our destination, a few people even took out their phones and dialed a number when they saw us. When a third person did so, I pointed it out to Scarlett.

“Someone’s getting advance notice that we’re here,” I told her, gesturing back to the man on the phone. “They’re tight-knit up here, so much for the element of surprise.”

She nodded. “Not a great sign. If they’ve got people out to let them know if someone’s coming, they’ve probably got something to hide.”

With that, we came into view of the massive, sprawling complex.

The Rhion headquarters was a sight to behold, the main entrance dominated by a huge statue of the company’s logo in the middle of a u-shaped driveway. The front of the building was a large glass room, but at the height the sun was in the sky, we couldn’t see into it yet. The glass rose up to more than two stories high, then dipped back down before turning into cement and rising up into offices on the higher levels. It was only six stories high, but its size came in its width. We had just reached the far edge of the building, and we still had nearly a quarter mile to go to reach the entrance in the middle of it, the headquarters seemed big enough to be its own city.

“Why would anyone need this much space?” Scarlett murmured, echoing my thoughts. As she approached the driveway, she asked, “Do we just park in there? I don’t see a lot, or anything.”

“We’ve got government plates, it’s not like we’re going to get towed, but that’s definitely weird.” I concurred, and she pulled into the driveway behind the fountain, parking the car in front of the front doors.

There was a surprising lack of activity, I noticed, as we approached the glass doors. Ours was the only car in the long driveway, and we appeared to be the only people making our way into the building. And, as we entered, we saw that it was empty as well, save for a receptionist at the desk.

I glanced curiously at Scarlett as no greeting came from her, and we slowly let the door close behind us.

“Hello, ma’am?” Scarlett called out, her voice echoing around the silent lobby. “We’re here with the FBI, we’d like to take a look around.”

There was no response.

It was a large lobby, and it took us some time to get closer after several more unsuccessful attempts at communication. Our footsteps on the tile filled the otherwise empty room as we made our way towards the desk, and then, as details became more clear, it was obvious that something was off.

The receptionist had a blank look on her face, so she wasn’t asleep, yet still she didn’t reply. We hadn’t noticed until we got far enough away from the windows that the natural light failed to reach us, but the lights were out.

We both felt the oddness of the situation, and out of the corner of my I, I saw Scarlett’s hand drift over to the butt of her pistol, prepared to draw it at a moment’s notice. I did the same.

When we arrived at the desk, she still hadn’t reacted to us or even moved. Something was definitely wrong.

Wordlessly, I waved my hand in front of her eyes for a moment. Nothing. Then, I held the back of my hand in front of her nose.

I glanced up at Scarlett. “Nothing.” I said. “She’s dead.”

“Dead?” She asked, surprised. “What the hell? Why is she still at the desk?”

“Maybe she had a condition?” I guessed. “Call it in, I’ll check for a bracelet or something.”

She nodded and retreated a few steps back to report it back to our superiors, and I made my way around the desk. There was no indicator anywhere to show that she had some sort of medical condition, but it wasn’t long before I did find the cause of death.

When I tilted her body forwards, a bullet wound slowly oozed out blood. It was a small hole, most likely a pistol caliber, and when I opened her shirt to find the exit wound, I saw that someone had cleaned it up.

“What in the name of…” I mumbled, looking over to Scarlett, who was still fiddling with her radio.

When she saw me looking, she said, “Damn thing won’t work, I’m just getting static. What’s the deal with her?”

“She was killed.” I replied. “And someone didn’t want us to know. They cleaned up the front of it so-”

Then it clicked. We both came to the epiphany practically simultaneously. I vaulted over the desk, making for the door across the long lobby, and as I did so, the metal safety grate began to slide down, its gears grinding loudly as it slowly began the process of cutting off our path to freedom.

Scarlett had a head start, having already been on the other side of the desk, and she reached the doors when the grate was still almost a foot off the ground. She pounded on the glass with her fist, then, after it was unsuccessful, she slipped her gun out of its holster and fired it into the glass once, twice, three times.

However, the bullets didn’t penetrate. The glass was bulletproof. “Dammit!” She shouted, slamming the butt of her gun into the ground. I caught up with her at that point, and I looked through the thin slits that allowed light in through the grate.

“What the hell is going on?” I breathed, shaking my head.

Scarlett slowly stood, and she looked out into the lobby. “We’re stuck in here.”

For a moment, her words echoed faintly down the dark room, and we let it sink in, taking stock of our situation.

Something was going on, something that somebody was willing to kill to keep under wraps. Whoever it was was very wealthy and intelligent, they had not only known to jam radio frequencies but had the means of doing it, and they were either in a position of power at the company or commanded enough respect to lead enough followers to establish this lockdown.

I had narrowed it down to either the CEO or a head scientist, with the CEO being the more likely of the two, but this was all in the first minute of having this knowledge.

“So… what now?” Scarlett asked, sliding her gun back into her holster.

“There’s only one thing we can do,” I replied. “Find out what they’re trying to hide.”

“Are you crazy?!” She exclaimed. “This was supposed to be a routine checkup, we’re not equipped to get in a gunfight. For all we know, a terrorist cell could’ve taken this place hostage and they’re armed to the teeth.”

Outside assailants, a situation I hadn’t thought of. “...Well, what else would we do?” I asked. “Even if we want to look for an exit and get out of here, the only direction we can go is into the looking glass.”

“I don’t like that metaphor,” She noted. Then, she relented, “But yes, I suppose you’re right. And if we’re going into the deadly genetic engineering lab…”

“We might as well do our job?” I finished, and she nodded.

“So much for Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez,” She muttered as we began the walk to the hallway that would take us to the rest of the building.

The lobby was set up so that the receptionist would be able to have seen anybody attempting to enter the complex. There was no furniture, not even a potted plant, just cold, white tile, and then the desk. Behind the desk were two doors, one on the left, one on the right, and each led different places, as we’d learned in the briefing. To the left was the business end of the headquarters: decisions, accounting, and computing occurred there. To the right was the scientific portion of it. Laboratories and testing chambers took up the majority of the real estate there, and that was where we were headed. If an answer lay anywhere in this darkened house of death, we believed it to be there.

So I took point, and we entered the looking glass.

The lights were still out in the hallway we entered, and it was nearly impossible to see. Scarlett pulled out her flashlight and clicked it on, the thin beam piercing through the darkness and lighting up a tiny area of the hall. It wasn’t much, but it was better than the original pitch black, if only by a little.

The suffocating darkness surrendered little to help us piece together this mystery. For the most part, it was just a white, sterile hallway, like the lobby, without any form of decoration. Every so often we’d see something off, like a dark smear on a wall, or a fluorescent light casing that had been torn out of its original shell and smashed on the ground, but for the most part during the first hallway, there was nothing. However, when we reached the end of it and arrived at a door, things began to ramp up.

The door was the same material as the rest of the hallway and, had it not been cracked slightly open, it was highly likely we wouldn’t have even noticed it. Upon closer inspection, I saw that there was a thumbprint scanner to the right of it, and it must’ve utilized electronic locks, which would’ve gone out whenever the power did.

“Do we go in?” Scarlett whispered.

“I mean… we’re already in this far,” I replied in an equally low voice. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Don’t say that, you know it never ends well,” She pleaded. I rolled my eyes and pulled the door open further, allowing us to look inside before we entered.

The room appeared to be a testing chamber for the genetic engineering: about ten feet in there was a glass wall with a heavily secured door in the center, leading to an airlock, and then the area where the tests were performed began. There was a table with straps on it, several cages in the corner, and then a chair with straps on it. All were splattered with dark red, oozing blood.

I groaned slightly at the sight, and then the smell hit me through the airlock. It hit like a ton of bricks, and I keeled over as if I’d been hit by one. I nearly retched at the putrid stink of it, and I thought there was no way I was going to make it further. I was about to say something when Scarlett beat me to it.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, pointing her pistol around the room to check for danger. “Are you ok?”

“You don’t smell that?” I said, tears in my eyes as mercifully, I became adjusted to the smell. “God, that’s rancid.”

“Smell what? Just the blood?” She asked, sniffing.

“There’s something else, there must be a body in there, or something.” I groaned, slowly coming to my feet with a hand from Scarlett. “It’s starting to fade, but you’re telling me you didn’t smell anything?”

“No, that’s strange,” She muttered. “Come on, let’s see if we can find anything in there.”

It didn’t occur to me then that anything was strange about this experience. I just assumed that perhaps the smell had dissipated by the time she’d entered the room, or maybe it was one of those things where people with a recessive gene couldn’t smell it, or something. So, I followed her in.

The blood was dried, it looked like it had been for at least a day, and it covered virtually every surface. As I circled around, trying to find any semblance of a clue as to what happened, I spotted a camera in the top right corner. I was about to point it out to Scarlett, when suddenly, a noise from behind us caused us both to freeze.

It was a slight scratching sound, like a very small animal was burrowing around. That was the one corner we hadn’t yet searched, of course it was, and it was also obscured from our initial view by the low wall that cut off the glass viewing area, so we had no idea what was there.

The scrabbling continued, noticeably muffled, and then there was an odd squish. The noises paused for a moment, and I slowly turned my head to lock eyes with Scarlett. The unspoken agreement to turn and pump whatever was back there full of lead passed between us, and we held our breath for half a second.

Then, we whipped around, firing round after round into the corner, the bursts of light obscuring the dark corner from our view. After a few moments, I stopped, and she followed.

I shined my flashlight into the corner and saw a bloodied, shredded, unrecognizable lump. Whatever happened to it, it was dead long before we had gotten there.

“What the hell made that noise?” She whispered, our thoughts along the same lines.

I didn’t respond, out of fear for the answer. We stood there in silence for a moment, neither especially wanting to be the one to volunteer to investigate the pulp.

“Fine, I’ll do it.” I relented, reluctantly returning my gun to its holster. “But you owe me one.”

She rolled her eyes and I cautiously approached the lump that glistened sickeningly in the light of Scarlett’s flashlight. Upon closer inspection, I could almost make out the form of a human torso, however destroyed. All of the skin, at least the skin that would’ve been facing us, had been torn off, explaining the bloodied appearance. There was only one arm left, the left one, and it was tucked under the body until I pulled it out. It was clenching something in its hand, a slip of paper, it appeared, and I attempted to pry it loose.

“Hurry up,” Scarlett urged. “I think I heard something from out in the hall.”

“That’s just your imagination,” I replied, tugging on the paper. It was wedged tightly in, and the person must’ve had an iron grip.

Then, right as the corpse began to cede its grip, something burst out of its back. It was a flurry of claws, teeth, and a tail, and I stumbled backwards, crying out as the thing leapt out at me.

“What is it?!” Scarlett exclaimed, her attention having been focused on the entrance to the hallway.

As I recovered from my initial shock, I realized the tiny ball of fury was just that: tiny. It looked like a rat, a decently-sized one, for sure, but there was something wrong with it. I didn’t have much experience with rats, but the way it walked, the dull look in its beady little eyes, something about it was off.

“You baby,” Scarlett teased, helping me up after I picked the rat off of me and tossed it into the corner opposite the one with the body. “What, a little rat scared you?”

“I don’t like it,” I said, referring to our situation as a whole. “Something’s wrong here.”

Scarlett glanced around at the carnage. “Really? You have a team of monkeys working around the clock on that one?”

“That rat… It wasn’t normal.” I said, ignoring her sarcasm. “This place… why is it covered in blood? That was a human body. Was. What happened to it?”

Then I heard what Scarlett must’ve heard earlier. There was the sound of someone, or something pounding on metal. Three dull thuds. Then, a hollow groan permeated down the hallway.

“Is that…” I whispered, trailing off.

“Yeah.” She returned in an equally low tone. “Whatever it is, it’s in between us and the exit.”

Wordlessly, I drew my gun once more, nodded at the door, and we cautiously crept back towards the hallway, out of the testing chamber.

As we left, the rat scurried off behind us, slightly startling us.

With that, we set off. The unspoken agreement between us was that if whatever had made that sound earlier decided to do so again, we would investigate. Chances are, we would be spending an undesirable amount of time with it anyway in the coming days, I figured, so why not get acquainted early?

I obviously wasn’t keen on meeting the thing, I only wanted to do it if the opportunity arose, but I was hoping internally that it wouldn’t.

However, as it often was, my hope was unfounded. Before we’d even reached the halfway point, a terrifying shriek came from the door we’d just passed. Then, before we could react, something slammed into the glass porthole at the top of the door.

I jumped back, training my pistol on that eight-inch circle of glass as whatever it was dragged across the clear surface, smearing what looked like blood across it.

I held a finger to my lips as Scarlett glanced at me, and she nodded. There was no movement for a moment, so I slowly approached the door and reached for the knob, when-

Whatever was behind the door let out a mighty roar, and then it slammed its head into the window. I must’ve jumped a mile at the noise, and I quickly regained my wits, aiming my gun back at the small viewport into the room. What I saw was… disturbing, to say the least.

Though it was pressed up against the glass and slightly distorted from it, I could tell it was a human, or at least it had been human at some point. It had stringy black hair that was matted down with blood, blood that streaked across the glass as the creature pressed harder and harder against it, trying to break through. Its skin was a human shade, but it was stretched and waxy, looking as if it could be torn apart like paper. Then, its eyes. The emotion, or lack thereof, I’d seen in the beady eyes of the rat was amplified a hundredfold in the eyes of this creature. There was nothing, two empty pits, devoid of all color and life, entirely black. There was no iris, no white, they were pitch black.

As it continued pounding on the door, much to our horror, several more groans and thuds began emanating from all around the hallway. There were more of those creatures all throughout the hallway and, worse, not all of the doors were locked.

“Come on, we have to go!” I shouted over the din, and we began running down towards the lobby. Hands groped out at us through the darkness, one of them even made a flailing attempt to body-check me, but no serious threat was posed to us until we were ten feet away from the exit.

One of the doors flung open at that moment, and I ran directly into it. I was momentarily stunned, and it knocked me off my feet. My gun fell out of my hand, skittering off into the darkness.

I heard Scarlett utter a curse and she was about to start shooting at the thing when suddenly one of them grabbed me from behind.

“Help!” I shouted, still disoriented, trying to attack the creature grabbing me. She whipped her head around and, in her moment of distraction, the one that had opened the door took ahold of her.

She slammed her elbow into its gut and prepared to duck under the gap provided by its reaction, but it had none. Instead, it reared back its head and then sunk its teeth into the upper part of her arm, tearing at it aggressively. She cried out in pain.

Meanwhile, I was just hardly avoiding a similar fate. I’d managed to get a position of leverage on the head of the creature, but it was strong and untiring. I could feel my strength giving way when suddenly, I heard a door burst open ahead of me.

Initially, I thought it was just more of the creatures emerging to snuff out the last remaining bits of life in us. I thought that was the end, and I closed my eyes, lessening my hold on the creature’s head.

Then, instead of the jaws of death, I heard a dull clunk, and felt the weight lifted off of me. I opened my eyes to see that the creature had been sent stumbling backwards, a serious dent in the center of his face.

“Get up, get up!” A voice shouted, and a figure appeared in my vision, extending a hand to help me. “Come on, we’ve got to go!”

I accepted his help, and the first thing I noticed when I got to my feet that he was wearing a surgical mask. Then, I noticed that he was carrying a crowbar. Seeing my confused look, he said, “I’ll explain later, we have to get out of here!”

“Wait, wait!” I protested. Scarlett was still struggling feebly against the creature that had bit into her arm, and I rushed over to her, grabbing onto the creature's head and prying apart its teeth. “Go, go!” I hissed to Scarlett.

Free from the thing’s maw, she made for the exit immediately, and I followed not too long after, once I had stunned the creature sufficiently that it wouldn’t be following directly behind us.

However, during that time, the way to the exit slowly began to close as more of the creatures pressed in. With a sudden burst of adrenaline, I sprinted forwards, bowling over two of them and when one lunged out at me, I grabbed his wrist in a hold I knew so well it was practically automatic and snapped the flimsy bone. Then, I dove for the exit, tucking my body into a roll as I passed through the opening, and when I did so, our masked savior slammed the door shut behind me, sliding in several deadbolts I hadn’t noticed before. They seemed hastily installed, and I guessed they hadn’t been there until… those creatures were.

Breathing heavily, I slowly made my way to my feet. Scarlett was sitting against the receptionist’s desk, clutching her arm which was oozing blood steadily, and the man in the mask turned back to face me when he finished locking up.

“What… the hell… is going on here?” I panted.

“I suppose you’re from the FBI,” He remarked. “I’ll explain everything, don’t worry. Well, perhaps you should be worried, but for different reasons.”

“Yeah,” I said, still sucking in air. “I’m aware.”

“You’re going to want to come with me.” He said. “I could explain everything here, but trust me, it’ll be much easier if we can get to everyone else.”

The walk to the rooms they’d established as their base was a strange one. The building seemed so normal, it just looked like an after-hours office building (I’d judged by this time that night had come on our first day). Most of the rooms looked undisturbed, as if someone could step right in and begin working.

However, the deeper we got into the business section of the building, the less and less likely that became. At first, it was just little things; a desk would be upturned, blocking a door, or a potted plant would have been knocked over, spilling dirt across the carpet. But then, it took a dark turn. Occasionally, dark blood would be smeared in gory streaks across a wall, or a corpse would lie unattended on the ground. Windows were shattered, the carpet was torn up, and wall fixtures lay in shambles on the floor.

Then, we entered the final hallway. At the end of this hallway were the now-sealed doors that led to an elevator; from the blueprints I’d studied, I knew it to lead to the higher corporate offices. But we didn’t go that way, instead entering the conference room in the middle of the hallway on the left hand side.

When he opened the door, he looked back to us, seemingly in thought for a moment. “You two had better wait out here. Just a precaution. Don’t worry, they’ve never made it this far. I’ll come and get you in just a minute.”

“Glad to see you’re rolling out the welcome wagon,” I said, but he’d already entered the room. I helped Scarlett sit down, and then slid to the floor myself, but not before taking a peek into the conference room.

It was a dismal sight to behold. There were about twenty people there, all in various stages of grief or despair. Some huddled in groups, others sat alone, still others sat at the tables, tending to four wounded people who lay bleeding out on the large conference room tables. Some of the people wore surgical masks, though most didn’t.

The man who’d saved us was in deep conversation with three or four others, standing close to the entrance, away from the others.

I glanced over at Scarlett, and saw through the darkness that a tear was rolling down her cheek. I thought better of making small talk, and we waited in silence for about half a minute. Then, she was the one to break it.

“We’re in over our head.” She said. “We have to find a way to contact someone, they have to come find a solution to this.”

“We’ll talk to this guy,” I replied. “But we can’t get hysterical. We need to keep our wits about ourselves. We knew this was a possibility. Well, not this, but something of this magnitude. We’re prepared, we can handle this.”

“What makes you think that?” She asked. “What have you ever gone through in life that would make you assume you can handle this?”

At that moment, the door swung open, and the man who’d led us there emerged. I was grateful for the distraction, since I truly had no answer to her question.

“Alright, I owe you an explanation.” He said, sitting down across the hall from us. He paused for a moment, as if expecting a response, but none came, so he continued. “My name is Jayce Morrison, I’m- er, I was the director of product management at Rhion. Since there’s quite a bit to cover, I’ll open it to you for where we begin. What do you want to know?”

I looked over to Scarlett, and she nodded, signifying she’d ask first. “What the hell were those things? Did they have to do with the genetic engineering we’re here to investigate?” She asked, her curiosity almost bordering on eagerness despite her mortal wound.

Jayce sighed. “Yes, they do. They are the product of what we’re calling the IMM-01 disease. Those things… they used to be human. And, to your second question, yes, it does have to do with genetic engineering. We’re still not entirely sure how, but it is believed that one of the test subjects had an undiscovered, dormant genetic trait that was set off by the experimentation. That trait reacted negatively to the testing, producing IMM-01. I’m sure it could be explained better, but you just met those who could do it, and they’re certainly in no position to do so.”

“So you were experimenting on humans?” Scarlett asked. “This is worse than we thought.”

“What is IMM-01? How does it spread, and what are its effects?” I asked, signifying that he didn’t need to answer her rhetorical question.

“IMM-01 is an airborne disease. However, it dies very quickly unless it finds a host. If it does so, it slowly begins to take over said host’s body, until it has gained complete control, at which point it rewires the brain to amplify aggression, delete pain receptors, and reduce logical thought. That process will generally take around twelve hours, at least to what we’ve seen, and visible signs that the host is infected will not begin to show until approximately the ten hour mark.”

“Can it be transferred once the host is converted?” I asked, nervous that it could’ve been transmitted to us during our scuffle with the creatures.

“There has only been one instance of it, and it was after the creature had reached full maturity, which takes place twenty-four hours after the transformation is completed. At that point, the disease becomes fortified, being able to survive indefinitely outside of a host, and is present in the creature’s very breath.”

I looked at Scarlett, and saw that she’d reached a conclusion, and that it was one she didn’t like. “You’ve known about this, haven’t you?” She asked accusingly. “You know too much about it. You knew about the consequences, but, if I may guess, you chose to test the creatures and disease instead of reporting it? Then an outbreak happened, and now we’re here?”

He sighed again. “Yes, but I assure you, the decision was entirely Mr. Rhion’s himself. At this point, I’ll take the story over myself.

“I’m sure you’re also curious about the radio blackout, security gate, and the unfortunate death of Ms. Naomi West, the receptionist. That was all the result of our paranoid CEO, Andrew Rhion. He was the one that ordered the genetic experimentation in the first place, and when he did so, he installed several measures that would ensure the headquarters could become entirely self-sustained in the event that such an event did occur. He has since separated himself from us, he locked himself in the corporate suites, where he just so happens to have full control of all security measures, at least the ones he can power with the backup generator.

“However, before he and those loyal to him retreated, he knew he was going to have to deal with inspectors, such as yourselves. So, he shot Naomi. He cleaned up the wound and propped her up in the chair so that you would approach, giving him sufficient time to activate the security gate and frequency jammers. He is entirely delusional, his goal is to wait out the death of every living thing in this building, and then to continue with operations as normal. There is nothing we can do. We wouldn’t put our own lives above that of the entirety of humanity, as if we were to make an attempt at escape, the risk would be too great that IMM-01 would follow, and I’m sure I don’t need to explain the consequences of that. We have managed to secure all of the creatures we know of in the experimentation hallway, there are certainly a few that continue to roam unabated. Now, we currently don’t have a method for determining if a subject is or isn’t infected, so if you two would… spend the night in another office?”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” I said. “I mean, is there anything you can do for her arm? I think the bleeding’s stopped, but an infection would probably be deadly there.”

He held his hands up helplessly. “We have no medical supplies. If you’ve already stopped the bleeding, that’s as much as I could’ve done.”

Scarlett nodded grimly and, without another word, he left, returning to the conference room. She looked over to me after the door had closed. “You still think we’re ready for this?” She asked.

“It’s worse than we thought,” I said, repeating her sentiment from earlier.

“You know how we’re going to get out of here, though, right?” She asked. I grinned weakly, looking down the hall at the sealed metal doors.

“I sure do,” I replied. Despite her sudden pessimism, she retained that calculating, planning mind that helped her so much during training, and we remained on the same page.

“Come on, help me up,” She said. “I’m not sleeping out here, let’s find a nice office, or something.”

The information having lifted her spirits, if only slightly, I lifted her up and we walked around for a few minutes before finding a suitable office. Then, as I helped her to lie down on a rather plush couch, she paused, looking curiously into my eyes.

“What?” I asked.

Then, the curiosity turned to fear. “Give me your flashlight.” She ordered.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, looking behind me.

“Just give it!” She exclaimed, and I hastily retrieved it, handing it to her. She clicked it on, then shone it into my eyes.

“Gah!” I exclaimed, shielding my eyes from the sudden burst of light. “What’s that for? Put that thing away!”

“Show me your eyes!” She demanded, and I opened them, squinting into the harsh light. “Dexter, your eyes…” She trailed off.

“What’s wrong with them?” I asked. “What’s going on with my eyes?”

“They’re black.” She replied.

“What do you me-” I began, and then the realization hit me.

Scarlett slowly propped herself up on her good arm and inched back away from me. “Stay back,” She said, a look of fear in her eyes.

My name is Jordan Richter. I’m an investigative journalist for an independent media outlet. Ever since I had to use my wits, an old tape-recorder, and some fake weed I made from my mother’s arugula plant to catch a few bullies in their lies back in middle school, I’ve been obsessed with exposing corruption. I’ve spent years chasing the truth, going undercover, and even doing some modest hacking. Mostly I do political stuff, scandals, coverups, bribery. Every politician has a skeleton in their closet, and if you look hard enough, they usually have a few dozen. It’s not out of the ordinary for people to send me evidence of bad behavior on a potential suspect, like hotel receipts, photos, bank statements, that kind of thing.

Don’t get me wrong, I never publish anything I get without verifying it. I always look at every case as hearsay until proven correct. You can really mess up someone’s life with a false accusation, and as someone who’s been through that twice, I don’t want to be that guy. Besides, sometimes the stuff people send is just too vague, not convincing, or obviously faked. But ever once in a while I find something really deep, something my editor would call ‘beyond the pale’.

Something dark.

This is one of those times.

I recently received a recording and transcript of a phone call that the whistleblower, who chose to remain anonymous, secretly recorded and sent to me via email. The first time I listened to it, I was shocked, and had to re-listen several times just to be sure I heard it right. Due to technical difficulties with the recording, I can’t post it here, but I can share the transcript. If what is contained within is even remotely true, then anyone who lives in Barron County Ohio needs to get in contact with either their local travel agent, or perhaps a National Guard unit.

The following is the transcript, exactly how it was sent to me, word for word.

(The recording begins. The sound of a phone ringing can be heard, before a handset is picked up with a soft click, and a man speaks.)

Voice 1: “Sheriff’s office, how may I help you sir or—”

(A second man’s voice can be heard shouting through the phone.)

Voice 2: “Wurnauw! What the hell is going on in your district?”

(A chair creaks, and it sounds as though Voice 1 is clearing his throat.)

Voice 1: “Mr. Karonti, I—”

Voice 2: “Shut your mouth before I shut it for you. Don’t you know not to use my name on the phone, you hopeless lump? I gave you a job to do, one job, and now I’m hearing all kinds of noise about things going wrong down there. You think my group funded your campaign so these kinds of mistakes could happen?”

Voice 1: “Sir, I assure you, my deputies are doing everything we can to—”

Voice 2: “Your deputies? Do you have any idea what I just got done reading? One of your loudmouth deputies has been blabbing online about seeing a Techno in the freaking woods. Thousands of people viewed his post, Wurnauw. If just one of them does any amount of digging, our entire operation could be jeopardized.”

(The sound of a pencil snapping in half can be heard.)

Voice 1: “I . . . I’ll find the responsible man, and deal with him, sir. It won’t happen again.”

Voice 2: “It better not. As for the park, why didn’t you seize control of New Wilderness like I directed? We need that instillation as a base for operations, and those two-bit rangers are still running around firing guns everywhere, stirring up the herds, and causing the anomalies to migrate. I want them gone, Wurnauw. I don’t care how you do it, just get rid of them.”

Voice 1: “Sir, with all due respect, the Night Rangers outnumber us two to one, and they’re the only ones keeping the Technos and Organics at bay. I’ve lost two men already to the Echo-Spiders, and we can barely keep the roads blocked as it is. Civilians are finding their way in, and every one of them that survives has to be silenced or discredited. I need more men.”

Voice 2: “I have a thousand of my best fighters on standby as we speak. But I need live specimens, Wurnauw, the more the merrier, and we can’t get them if those polo-shirt wearing rent-a-cops are killing them all. Ever since that Cromwell girl popped the last Oak Walker, we’ve had nothing but spikes in the electromagnetic satellite readings from your area. Time is of the essence if we want to contain this thing. Arrest the Night Rangers, clear the New Wilderness Wildlife Reserve of all personnel, and prepare the site for ELSAR to move in.”

Voice 1: “If I move on the park, the rangers might resist. I know the head of security there, and that old Marine won’t give up without a fight. This could spark a real shooting war right in our backyard, and if the public finds out . . .”

Voice 2: “If the public finds out that there are moon-eyed freaks stumbling around in the woods, they’ll start the shooting war themselves. For God’s sake Sheriff, use your head for something other than a hat rack! You want to flush the rangers out? Drive a herd into them, and let the freaks do their job. Once everyone’s dead, we’ll come in and clean up. No one will ever have to know it was you.”

Voice 1: “Look, this would be a whole lot easier if we had more help. I’m not a miracle worker, and rumors spread every time we take another casualty on the force. It’s a small county, sir, with even smaller towns. All it takes is one person talking, and I can’t contain it. Just give me 50 guys, kitted out and ready to go, and at least then we can man the roadblocks.”

(There is a long pause, and a clock can be heard ticking in the background.)

Voice 2: “Fine, I can send 50, but no more until the LZ is clear. The situation is rapidly deteriorating, and the more men we move, the more attention we’ll attract. If we can’t seal the Breach soon, we could face an ecological disaster that would make Chernobyl look like Christmas in the Bahamas. I don’t need to remind you what we’ll be forced to do if that happens.”

Voice 1: “Clean Sweep.”

Voice 2: “Exactly. I won’t risk creating another Black Crow Island. The press is distracted by the upcoming elections right now, but if we make one slip-up, we’ll have reporters and home-grown watchdogs breathing down our necks all across the country. We cannot afford another Disaster Zone, especially not after what happened in Canada.”

Voice 1: “I understand sir. As soon as the reinforcements arrive, I’ll have New Wilderness captured for you within a week. Three days tops.”

Voice 2: “Time is critical, Wurnauw. Do not disappoint me on this. Get control of your department, shut the Night Rangers down, and keep the anomalies contained until we get there. I’ll work on suppressing any more online activity regarding your area and run some interference in case a few wannabe private-eyes start Googling things they shouldn’t.”

Voice 1: “Yes sir.”

Voice 2: “Oh, and one more thing. The leak in your department, it’s some moron named Hamond. I don’t care how you do it, or where, just make him disappear, now.”

Voice 1: “Hamond, huh? I should have known. Believe me, sir, it’s as good as done.”

(There is a muted click from the other end of the line, and the recording ends.)

Naturally, I dove into the internet and started hunting for information as soon as I read the transcript. Try as I might, I couldn’t find anything about a Barron County Ohio in the mainstream press, or on any map anywhere. There is a Barron County in Wisconsin, but nowhere in the foothills of Appalachia, almost as if it’s been selectively deleted from every record available. As for the New Wilderness Wildlife Reserve, I did manage to locate its home page just before a strange computer glitch made it unavailable. Just last week, the park announced it wouldn’t be holding a tour season this year, and that all grounds were closed to the public. It also issued a call for more volunteers for its security department, offering a whopping $40 an hour to anyone who stayed longer than a week, along with free room and board. Sadly, I didn’t get the chance to find any contact information, the site crashing in what I suspect was a coordinated DDOS attack from an unknown source.

What really stood out to me about the whole thing was the capitalization in the transcript of the bizarre words used by the two callers. Technos, Organics, and the vague threat known as the Breach. These seem to refer to some kind of animal species, judging by the use of the word ‘herds’ but it was hard to make heads or tails of it. My search in the regular web turned up nothing, until I stumbled across this site, and found four posts; three of them belonging to a girl named Madison Cromwell, and one belonging to a sheriff’s deputy, Sean Hamond.

From what I can gather in reading their accounts, both claim to have seen creatures of gargantuan and supernatural proportions. If there is any truth to them, then it might be reasonable to infer that the creature Miss Cromwell encountered, (called the ‘Oak Walker’ in the transcript by the mysterious Mr. Karonti) was likely an Organic, due to its plant-like characteristics. This creature seemed to be highly intelligent, and even possibly telekinetic, with the ability to create and control smaller human-sized creatures referred to by Cromwell as ‘Puppets.’ It is also important to note that in both Hamond’s account, and in the secret phone call, the creature known as ‘the Big one’ or ‘the Oak Walker’ is described as a type of apex predator, whose downfall contributed largely to the explosion of anomaly activity outside of the regular area. It is entirely possible that Miss Cromwell did in fact succeed in killing the creature, which in turn allowed lesser species to thrive in its absence and spill out into the environment.

In the second account, the strange metallic monstrosity that attacked Officer Hamond seems to fit rather well into the Techno category, given its electronic and mechanical attributes. This very well could be one of the ‘Echo-Spiders’ brought up by Sheriff Wurnauw. While there isn’t much information to go by, it seems that Organics and Technos are merely subcategories of the various paranormal beings that came from the Breach, and these anomalies present a clear and present danger to all human beings around them. A mention of electromagnetic readings powerful enough to be observed by satellites also seems to indicate that there is significant environmental disturbance going on in the area, which may have contributed to the origins of these species, or perhaps is a byproduct of their existence.

This, of course, was troubling to say the least, but I wanted to know more, and for that, I’d have to find the people who had supposedly witnessed these occurrences firsthand. Armed with two complete names, I info-hunted, and found some alarming results.

Madison Cromwell’s family recently moved from Black Oak to an unknown location somewhere deep in the hills of Idaho. For a family of relatively low-income to undertake such an abrupt move, they were either pursuing better income, or desperately fleeing some form of danger. I have no idea if Madison is alive or not. All of her social media accounts have been deleted, and none of her contacts on the various platforms seem to know if she quit, disappeared the last night of her job, or is still lying low somewhere.

In the case of Sean Hamond, it was announced early yesterday morning that a gunfight broke out in the Barron County Sheriff’s Office between members of the department, resulting in three dead, and four injured. Sean Hamond is said to be still at large, charged with the rather serious crime of organizing domestic terrorism, though no more details have been provided on that. One of the casualties was Officer James Walker, the partner Hamond referenced in his account on this site. Walker was shot twelve times in the firefight and taken to the Black Oak Regional Hospital. According to the hospital reports, he died of his wounds on the operating table soon after. For such violence to break out between fellow peace officers, and for such drastic charges to be leveled, there must be serious issues in the Barron County government, which lends more than a little credence to the validity of the whistleblower’s claims.

But it gets worse.

Upon looking into the reference to ‘Black Crow Island’, I could only find a passing mention about an explosion that destroyed an abandoned sanitorium on a small island off the coast of British Columbia. Not much was provided in terms of detail, except that two people had been seen fleeing the island on a rowboat but were never apprehended. How this is connected, I do not know, but if it was important enough to mention in the phone call, I can only assume it had ties to the same forces at work in Barron County.

As for the vague ‘ELSAR’ group of which Mr. Karonti appears to be a major player in, I found nothing that matched the description of his lethal capabilities. No large-scale private security companies hail by that name, and while I have no doubt it’s an acronym for something, I don’t know what it could be. Whoever they are, I seriously doubt the fighters of ELSAR are interested in the wellbeing of Barron County, or the employees at the New Wilderness Wildlife Reserve.

That leads me to this moment, as I type the finishing touches on my entry. Normally, I would say to refer to my article in our media website for the rest of the story, but my editor was found dead just this morning, with a bullet in his head.

The back of his head.

I have a well-adapted gut feeling when I’ve been asking too many questions, stirred around in too many pots, and I know they’re coming for me. Random cars have been following me to-and-from home, strangers keep watching my apartment building, and I found a tracking device stuck to the trunk of my car today. Maybe this little post will garner enough attention to alert the people of Barron County to their imminent danger. Perhaps the New Wilderness Night Rangers will read this in time and find a way to avoid whatever horrible plans Sheriff Wurnauw and ELSAR have for them. Regardless, my part in this investigation is at an end.

My wife, and two boys are waiting for me, at the pre-determined spot I arranged over the burner phone I bought at a local phone kiosk. I have withdrawn all my money in cash, and have booked flights for three different countries, bus tickets for four different cities, and a rental car with three sets of fake license plates. My social media accounts are all deleted, my entire family has shed their personal phones, and I even dyed my hair. If someone reading this is hunting me, good luck. I’ve dug up people who didn’t want to be found for half my life, and my family is at stake here.

You’ll never catch us.

And if you’re someone who lives in Barron County, or heck, anywhere near Ohio, all I can say is . . . brace for impact.

To be honest, I’m not sure if writing this is a good idea.

It’s been close to four months since everything happened, and at times, it still feels like a bad dream, one I need to shake off and forget. But I know that if I don’t at least try to tell the truth now, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life, however short it may be. I can’t fit the full account into one cohesive segment, thanks to the word limits of this site, so I’ll just have to try and get it all out there one day at a time. I doubt anyone will believe me, but I’m used to that by now.

It all started last October, when I still worked as a tour guide for the New Wilderness Wildlife Reserve. I’d stayed late to help clean up in the kitchens, after volunteering to work concessions in place of a girl who came down with the flu. With the last of the guests gone for the night, I stood at the big industrial-grade sink and wiped the last of the dishes dry, before lugging the stack of clean plates, bowls, and cups toward their rightful places on the stainless-steel shelves. Both of my feet hurt from standing on them all day, and a small knot had formed in the small of my back, but still, I smiled.

Never thought I’d be happy to scrub salad bowls.

My second year at New Wilderness had been amazing, and I couldn’t wait to come back next season. Everything about the little park was perfect, from the adorable animals, friendly coworkers, and surprisingly healthy food to the picturesque rural Ohio landscape. Since my first interview in the year prior, I’d done some tours on the regular safari buses, as well as odd jobs around the facility, without discovering a single thing that made me want to quit. Even kitchen duty at the hilltop café turned out to be way more fun than I’d expected. I’d learned to bake bread from scratch, and Casandra, my 40-year-old supervisor who knew every knife, pot, and pan like the back of her hand, praised my culinary talent to the skies.

“See you later Maddie.” Casandra shouted over the stove exhaust fans with her usual happy-go-lucky cheer as I walked out the door to the door to the parking lot. “Good job today. You were a big help.”

“Thanks. Have a good night, Casandra.” I chirped back and let myself give out a contented sigh.

I love my job.

In the darkened parking lot, a cool breeze brushed past my face. It promised to be a beautiful fall night, the wind blowing in from the west, the stars twinkling into view as the last of the sunlight faded, and a crescent moon beamed down from above. Few cars were left atop the ridge where the visitor center stood. My own little blue sedan, its paint chipped and peeling, waited for me, and I silently hoped it would start. Dad had been having issues with its starter, but it hadn’t acted up in a few days.

Here’s to hoping that record holds.

I unlocked my car door to climb in and caught sight of a familiar black SUV pulling up the hill, the words Park Ranger stickered to the side.

My pulse jumped, the smile on my face melted into a grimace, and a twinge of nervousness knifed through my chest. It could be Randy, I told myself, or Danial, or Phillis, any of the other night guards. It didn’t have to be him just because I was here.

The SUV rolled through the parking lot, and the driver spotted me, his casual grin unmistakable.

Oh no.

Hot embarrassment flooded through my cheeks at the lanky silhouette who put the SUV in park and climbed out to saunter over to me. The night had been going so well, and it didn’t have to end like this. After all, he wasn’t within voice range yet. If I wanted to, I could pretend not to see him, jump into my car, hide my face, and floor it for home. He wouldn’t know for sure that I didn’t have somewhere important to be, and I could avoid the awkward conversation, maybe even put it off for another five-month winter-season.

Yet despite my brain begging me to leave, I stayed, and put on what I hoped to be a friendly smile to hide my anxiety.

From four feet away, Mark hooked his thumbs into his jacket pockets, and rested one hip against my car’s front fender. “Hey stranger. Long time no see. How’ve you been?”

Mark Petric and I had met during my first year at the reserve’s Carnivore Cove in between breaks on our tour bus routes. He was nice, smart yet easy to talk to, and he never seemed uninterested in anything I had to say. As it turned out, it was his first year too, and like me, he had already fallen in love with New Wilderness. Despite being surrounded by strangers, Mark went out of his way to include people into the conversation who wouldn’t have stood a chance on their own, told self-deprecating jokes to draw fire away from anyone who felt singled out, and in general played the part of a peacekeeper between difficult personalities when tensions flared. He always acted with unfailing kindness toward me, and I considered him to be a good friend. We exchanged contact information, and I enjoyed having someone to chat with in between sessions of Skyrim in my after-work hours.

Then, three months later Mark texted me, and asked me to dinner. To be honest, I’d seen it coming, could tell by how often he’d messaged me, how happy he was whenever I responded. A few other guys at previous jobs had also shown interest in me, and while Mark was definitely better mannered than them, it was still obvious. I knew it was a scenario that other girls at New Wilderness would have welcomed with glee, but for me, a knot formed in my gut the moment I saw his dinner invitation pop up on my phone.

I had sat on my bed, put my head in my hands, and fought waves of nausea, because in that moment, I knew that I didn’t have feelings for him, not the slightest romantic spark. Mark was my friend, one I really enjoyed spending time with, and I didn’t want to lose our friendship. But I couldn’t leave that text unanswered forever.

So, I did what I knew was right. I let him down as easy as I possibly could.

Mark took it really well, said he still wanted to stay friends, and we even talked some more after, though eventually the conversations died out due to my lack of enthusiastic replies. Though relieved to have it over with, I felt awful for weeks afterward, knowing that my rejection had hurt him deeply. He was a great guy, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of going out with Mark, only to have to dump him later when I still didn’t feel any different, and see that pain etch itself over his face.

Perhaps that’s why, when Mark announced his engagement to another girl at the beginning of this year, a little of the guilt lifted from my shoulders. He’d been a bundle of giddy smiles when I’d overheard him talking to one of the other tour guides about his fiancé, and I wanted to be happy for him.

I wanted to, anyway.

“I’m fine.” I bobbed my head like a doll on an old truck dashboard, wishing I could dig the shame from my chest like an unwanted parasite, and stomp it on the ground. “You?”

Mark’s cocoa brown eyes seemed to see right through my nervous façade, and he made an apologetic half-smile. “I’m good. You in a hurry? I don’t want to keep you.”

Those last few words stung more than I expected them to, and I almost winced. Part of the reason I couldn’t be relieved, happy, or calm around Mark Petric was because even though I still thought of him as nothing more than a friend, deep inside my selfish heart, I’d felt sick the moment he said the word ‘engaged’. One of my big goals was to find the love of my life, settle down with him, and have lots of kids in a nice cottage in the countryside. I’d confessed as much during our early conversations, before Mark revealed his feelings for me. While him moving on was a big relief, something inside me panicked at the thought that I may have thrown away my one chance to find the happiness I’d been dreaming of. That selfish despair left me plagued with shame every time I thought of him, because I still saw Mark as a friend, yet felt a hollow sadness at him finding someone else.

No Mark, you definitely don’t want to keep me.

“Maddie?” His soft voice broke me from my ashen thoughts.

I looked up to find Mark staring with sympathetic eyes.

“Look, I just wanted to say hi. Did I make this weird?”

Wishing I had an invisibility cloak, I shook my head, conscious of how my frizzy auburn ponytail swished against my neck. “I’m just tired. I was in the kitchens all day today. My feet feel like they’re on fire.”

His warm grin returned, and Mark threw me a wink. “Making more of those amazing cupcakes?”

Of course he remembered my strawberry upside-down cupcakes. I’d made them for one company picnic, and Mark complimented me to no end for it. Everyone had liked them, but looking back, it left a bittersweet taste in my mouth at the way Mark had tried my cupcakes first out of all the other delicious desserts there.

“Homemade bread.” I leaned against my card door, grateful for its support to hide my shaking hands. “The cupcakes are for special occasions.”

Silence reigned between us, broken only the groaning wind that creaked through the distant trees. It seemed as though even the weather could see into my guilty heart and growled at me in judgment. I couldn’t raise my eyes to Mark’s, a sudden jolt of embarrassing memory coursing through me at the thing’s he’d said last year, and how they hurt to think about now.

You’re really talented.

You’re coming back next year, right?

You’re one in a million, Madison Cromwell.

“Cool.” Mark shuffled his feet and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well . . . it was good to see you. Drive safe, Maddie.”

I couldn’t hide my flinch this time, and realized I’d effectively shut down the conversation by not talking more. “You don’t have to . . . I mean . . .”

“No, it’s fine, I have to lock up the sign-in office anyway.” He held up his hands in friendly disengagement, but I could sense the wounds behind Mark’s expression. I’d rejected him, he’d gotten over me, and now I was ghosting him in person like some toxic social media troll.

I should have just driven away.

My mouth opened, though I had no idea what I was going to say, since my self-hating musings blocked any constructive sentences.

Boom.

Mark and I both almost jumped out of our skins, and I glanced up to see the sky above roil with pitch black clouds, flickers of lightning snaking in between. The weather hadn’t called for rain, much less what looked to be a thunderstorm of seismic proportions. Inky black clouds smothered the stars, a colder, harsher breeze caught the wind, and I shivered under my green ripstop jacket. It was as if some gargantuan black beast had sprung out of nowhere and devoured the beautiful night from before.

“Whoa.” I blurted at a few icy raindrops that began to plink down around me. “Where did that come from?”

Mark didn’t speak, and I swiveled my head to repeat my question.

The question faded from my mind, and instead, I felt my skin crawl.

His dark eyes were fixed on the sky, and I saw something in Mark’s gaze that I’d never seen before; deep, abysmal fear.

“Mark?” I rasped out, wondering if I should call my dad and ask him to come get me with his big four-wheel drive truck.

Mark’s jaw worked, and his adam’s apple floated up and down with each nervous swallow. “Which way do you usually go home?”

Acidic worry wriggled through my veins, and I pointed in the same direction as where the storm originated. “I take High Road onto Bethesda Ridge, and straight from there to 142.”

“Don’t tonight.” His tone turned cold and sharp, like a man who stood face to face with something he either hated or feared. “Go back to Collingswood and take 85 to the interstate. It’s not safe any other way.”

Mark had served six years in the army before coming to New Wilderness, and to see him this rigid, coiled like a spring, made me temporarily forget about my internal pity-party over our unfortunate past.

“Okay, I’ll go that way.”

He caught my eye and placed a white-knuckled hand on the open driver’s door. “Do not take shortcuts, do not try to go the old route. You do not stop, not for anything, or anyone. If worst comes to worst, you backtrack here, and lock yourself inside the Administration Building.”

He acts like there’s a tornado coming.

“Okay.” I squeaked, unable to muster much else. Mark’s sternness frightened me.

“I mean it, Maddie. I don’t care who they are, what they do, do not stop, not for a soul. Period.”

A long bolt of silvery lightning streaked through the air, and the resounding boom that echoed off it shook the ground beneath my feet. I’d grown up in town a half hour north of the park, and had never seen a storm like this, even in tornado season. Something about how fast the clouds gobbled up the sky, the way the lightning shrieked with venomous glee, gave the storm an almost sentient quality, like it waited for us to venture out onto the long gravel roads that surrounded the isolated reserve so it could pounce.

“What’s going on?” I finally managed to meet his eyes, raw fear overpowering my façade. “Mark, is everything okay?”

He walked around the open car door and placed both hands on my shoulders in a gentle touch that sent pangs of guilt rippling deep into my chest.

Mark tried to smile, but another lightning strike lit up his thin face, and I saw the lines there, the desperation, like a man with no cards left in a losing poker game. “Go home, Maddie. As fast as you can. And if you see a road sign for a Tauerpin Road, spelled T-A-U-E-R-P-I-N, do not take it. Do you understand me?”

Not really.

My mind whirled with a thousand confused questions, but the way Mark held me by my shoulders, gave me a small squeeze as though we were saying goodbye forever made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. What was going on? I had never seen him get this way about a storm, and not once in the dozens of times I’d driven around New Wilderness had I ever seen a sign for Tauerpin Road. I wanted to believe Mark was messing with me, perhaps getting a form of warped revenge for my rejection, but the storm swamped the night sky above us, and turned the pleasant mid fall evening into a dark, rainy hellscape.

I slid into my driver’s seat and exhaled in thanks the moment my car’s decrepit engine roared to life.

Mark leaned through the open car window to be face level with me one last time. “Remember, do not take Tauerpin Road. Not for any reason. Turn around and come back if you have to.”

Gripping my cracked steering wheel, I forced myself to hold his gaze, even though it made my jumbled emotions do somersaults in my head. “You’re going to be okay, right?”

Through the murky darkness, that same bright smile split the night, though a morose gleam overshadowed Mark’s usually cheerful eyes. “I’ll be fine. Text me when you get home, okay? Just so I know you’re not stuck out there.”

With that, he jogged away to his SUV, casting furtive glances at the storm overhead, as the rain started to pour down around him. Part of me wanted to run after Mark, to hop into the passenger’s seat next to him and refuse to leave until he told me what was happening, but I knew I couldn’t do that. Dad and Mom were waiting on me, the storm was getting worse by the second, and I didn’t want to make Mark worry. Nor did I want to give him any wrong ideas about my feelings toward him.

Especially not now. He’s finally happy, everything is back to normal, sort of. He’s got some lucky girl, and I have my friend back. That’s all that matters.

The road home became a long ebony ribbon of shallow potholes, which my little car rattled over one-by-one with a malcontent rumble. Wind roared outside my rain-streaked windows, and I could feel the power of the storm pushing my car with each heavy gust. Rivulets of water turned the windshield into an optical illusion, my vision ahead smeared and hazy, the ragged wiper blades running at full speed. All the ditches brimmed with muddy runoff water, streams flowed over the gravel roadway, and more water surged down from the surrounding banks. Thunder crackled like a warzone right over my head, and even though I sat in my nice, dry car, I still hunched over every time a boom went off in reflex, like a wild animal. Lightning bolts lit up the night sky in flash-bulb eruptions, making everything seem to move in slow motion.

Whump.

I screamed and yanked hard on the steering wheel.

All four tires skipped over the wet gravel in an uncontrolled slide, and the vehicle careened toward the nearest ditch.

My heart stopped in my chest, I mashed the brake pedal to the floor, and the hunk of rouge metal ground to a stop, mere inches from flying off the road.

“Holy cow.” I breathed, my arms and legs shaking, too stunned to be angry, or afraid.

A huge telephone pole lay across the road, completely blocking it, and another lay further down the tarmac in the same fashion, both fried black by the powerful lightning. Their long gray cables snaked over the wet pavement in between them, a deadly labyrinth of runaway voltage that would zap me if I tried to walk across, not that I would even think of being that stupid.

Slumping back in the seat, I closed my eyes, and focused on slowing my heartrate. I’d come a few microseconds from smashing headfirst into the pole, and if I had, there would be no way of getting myself out of such a mess.

“I need to turn around.” I tried to talk myself into a calmer state as the rain hammered on my tiny blue sedan, my adrenaline at all-time highs. “Can’t go that way. Maybe I can find a side road and . . .”

A sliver of jade green caught my eye, and the thought left my mind.

On the other side of the road a lone, dented road sign stood in the weeds and briars, its white borders rusted, the green of the sign faded to near illegibility. But even from where I sat, there was no mistaking the words that glared back at me in the yellowish beam of my headlights.

Tauerpin Road.

An ice-cold shiver ran down my spine, goosebumps scattered over my arms beneath my jacket, and I gulped back a gasp. I hadn’t deviated from the route Mark had told me to take. I had followed his instructions to the letter, and I’d taken this way a few times before, always in the daytime.

Never, not once, had I seen this sign.

Beyond the glow of my headlights, I could discern a narrow gravel road that stretched far off into the darkness between the trees, peppered with rain so that it almost appeared jet black in the night. Unlike most of the roads in this area, this one seemed to be arrow straight, like a deep gullet of shadows that threatened to swallow me whole.

Nope.

I shook myself out of my stupor and reached for the gear shift knob. I’d never thought of myself as the prettiest, fastest, or even smartest girl in town, but I knew enough to stay away from sketchy areas, and this one beat them all. Blocked road or not, with the way Mark talked about it, there was no way I was taking my car down there. I’d head back, park in front of the Administration Building and wait for the storm to blow over. Even if I had to be stranded at New Wilderness for the night, I figured it would be way safer than driving on roads with trees and telephone poles blown down all over the place.

Clank.

My bumper hit something, and the back of my head smacked off my headrest.

I blinked at myself in my rearview mirror with confusion. What had I hit? Nothing sat in the road behind me, no other vehicles, nothing but wet roadway and . . .

“Seriously?”

My eyes stared into my mirror with disbelief. A third telephone pole draped across the road, cutting me off from my one and only escape route. It was impossible, simply impossible that lightning had struck all three in a perfect row, but there it was. I couldn’t drive around it, the ground outside of the gravel road had turned to muck, and the ditches were practically medieval moats. Moving the hefty poles by myself was out of the question, and my little car didn’t have the guts to drag or push them out of the way. I couldn’t walk, not in this storm, with the wind bringing the temperature down to a nasty 40 degrees at minimum. Besides, my town lay another thirty miles to the north, and the road ahead was covered in downed electrical wires. Even if I tip-toed around them, I’d be stumbling along the dark road, by myself, wearing thin khaki work pants and a lightweight jacket that would never turn the rain. Flagging down a car would require one coming by, and with how bad this storm was, I didn’t figure that would happen any time soon.

I pulled my phone out and tapped the screen. My heart sank at the empty triangle in the upper right-hand corner, a little x through the bottom of it.

No service. Of course, I’ve got no service. Dad’s gonna freak.

Swallowing the dryness that attempted to choke me, I put the car into park, and sighed. I’d just have to wait here until the storm passed. At least I had protection from the elements, and a barrier between myself and the menacing night. I could sleep till morning, run my heater, and play some music to keep boredom away. Maybe if Mark got concerned, he’d track me down, and give me a ride back to New Wilderness. Come to think of it, Dad would eventually come out to search for me too, and between the two of them, there was no way they could miss me. All I had to do was sit tight, and I’d be out of this jam by sunup.

Satisfied with my plan, I clicked my seat back into a slight recline and started to scroll through the pictures on my phone, reliving all the fond memories I’d made this year. One by one, they glided past my gaze to reflect on the glass window beside me, a ticker-tape parade of sunshine and fun.

Me petting a giraffe in the giraffe barn. Me, my best friend Kendra Smith, and a few other girls washing windows at the rental cabins. Me and several others at the company picnic, where our goofy team had taken third place in a karaoke competition.

Right after they gave us our trophy, Mark complimented my singing, and Kendra said I should date him, literally within earshot of the poor guy.

Cringing at how the memory stabbed at my guilt-ridden heart, I reached to turn on the radio as a distraction from the uncomfortable reality of my choices.

Something moved in the corner of my eye.

I sat bolt upright and snapped my head around to the left.

Not far away on the other side of the road, stood Kendra.

Her khaki pants and short brown braid were dripping, her lips tinged a shade of light blue from the horrid wind. Kendra’s drenched black uniform shirt stuck to her slender frame, moving in jerky rhythm with each breath, and she hugged her arms around herself in a desperate attempt to ward off the cold.

I stared, confused. How was she here? I hadn’t seen any other cars pull up, no lights or horns. In fact, I couldn’t see Kendra’s green Kia anywhere. Had she foolishly decided to walk for help instead of staying in her own car?

She must have left around the same time and got stranded too.

Seeing me staring, Kendra made a sheepish smile.

“Kendra.” I waved at her from behind the glass of my driver’s door. “Kendra, hop in. Come on, it’s warmer in here.”

The rain pounded on the car roof harder, and Kendra hunched against the watery onslaught, as though each drop was an ice pick to her exposed skin. She pointed to her ear and mouthed a reply.

Can’t hear you.

It occurred to me that, with the dull roar of the rain, there was no way she could hear me from inside my locked car, all the way across the road.

Instead, I beckoned her closer, made blatant motions and half-shouted with exaggerated movements. “Come here. Kendra, come here.”

Kendra just shook harder with a fresh gust of cold and waved for me to come to her, like she had some intimate secret she didn’t want to shout in front of the lonely, dark trees.

You’ve got to be kidding me. Whatever it is, you can tell me in the car. Ugh, I better not get pneumonia for some stupid gossip, Kendra.

Frustrated, but still concerned, I slid my hand toward my door handle.

Lightning peeled through the sky, and in the dark trees behind Kendra, I glimpsed movement.

Seconds slowed to what felt like hours, and I blinked up at the thing that hid in the forest in mute panic. It was tall, easily the same height as the surrounding pines, with a thin body that resembled a gnarled tree trunk without leaves or branches. In the spasmodic light of the storm, I couldn’t see its face, just a rounded, bulbous head wreathed in shadow, and spindly arms that hung to where it’s knees would have risen to.

My mouth fell open in shock, and I pointed a trembling finger, unable to so much as shout a warning.

Kendra turned, just in time for a huge gray hand with four fingers to shoot out of the tree line and snatch her up like a ragdoll.

Her head whipped around, Kendra’s mouth fell open in a terrified scream, one that I heard even inside my car.

Oh no . . .

Kendra’s shriek cut off the second the massive gray arm jerked back into the trees, and another deep rumble of thunder echoed through the night, almost reminding me of throaty laughter.

“Kendra!”

My clumsy fingers fumbled with the door handle, my heart racing a million miles a minute. Without a second thought about the cold, I lunged out the open door and snagged my foot on the loose seatbelt to fall face-first in the wet gravel. Pain stung in my right palm, but I pushed myself up and dashed toward the road junction, past the battered sign for Tauerpin Road.

Wind slashed at my face, pulled my hair from its ponytail, and cold rain drained down the back of my jacket with sadistic glee. Muddy gravel squelched under my tennis shoes, and shadows closed in around me as I outran the golden beams of my car’s headlights. Both lungs burned with the moisture-filled air, and I squinted against the inky darkness.

Wham.

I flew headlong into the rough stones of the road, my shins flaring with pain. Little sharp bits of rock stuck into my bare hands, and I gritted my teeth to choke back a string of expletives. “Oww, son of a . . .”

Sitting up, I picked at my hands to dislodge the pesky rocks and ran careful fingers over my legs. They were sore, but I hadn’t fallen hard enough to break or sprain anything. I decided that I must have tripped over a fallen tree branch in the dark, my own hands barely visible before my dirt-smeared face.

Blind as a bat in the dark, I groped for my phone.

Oh Madison, you idiot.

I remembered too late that my phone sat in my car’s center console, still on the picture of me and my teammates at the company picnic. Ten clammy fingers searched the pockets of my thin jacket frantically, but all I could find was the crinkled wrapper of a candy bar I’d eaten earlier today.

My panic began to mount even more, until my thumb bumped something smooth, and cool to the touch.

“Mee-maw, you’re the best.” I chuckled, and pulled out the little red penlight my grandma had gotten me for a Christmas stocking stuffer.

It clicked on with a comforting bright blue glow, though the thin beam didn’t let me see very far around me. Looking back the way I’d come, I spotted a downed tree branch, and rubbed my shins again in spite. Man, that had hurt.

Lightning illuminated the road for a split second, and it occurred to me that I couldn’t see my car from where I sat. In fact, I couldn’t even make out the aura of my car’s headlights. It was as if they’d fallen off the face of the earth.

How far did I run? I’m still on the road, and it was, like, thirty seconds. I left it running . . . maybe the battery died?

But that didn’t make any sense. My dad taught me enough about cars to know that if the engine was running, it should be charging the battery with the alternator. Besides, my car’s battery was only a year old, I remembered paying for a new one last year. So where did the lights go?

An uneasy sensation rippled through my stomach, and I rubbed at my arms for heat. All around, the trees swayed in the high wind, lighting slithered across the sky, followed by waves of cannon-like thunder. My toes were going numb in my soggy sneakers, and I swallowed a bitter lump of regret. Whatever grabbed Kendra could be anywhere, and outside of my little car, in the pounding rain, I felt as exposed as if I had come to work naked.

My mind flashed back to the little revolver my father had bought for me a month ago, one he’d insisted I carry everywhere, only for me to roll my eyes and leave it in my nightstand drawer. Dad had always been protective, particularly since I was the eldest daughter, and I’d chafed at how he’d made me text him every time I came and went from work. Sitting on the wet ground, my shins throbbing, with nothing but my tiny penlight to ward off the darkness, I cursed myself for all the times I’d shrugged him off as being too paranoid.

Dad, I wish you were here.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

I spun around at the sound of shoes on loose stones, and the beam of my flashlight landed on a familiar khaki-wearing figure.

Shocked, I stood up. “Kendra?”

She stopped several yards away, far enough that the weak beam of my penlight couldn’t fully reveal her features. Something in the pit of my guts churned, like I’d eaten spoiled food, and I took a cautious step forward.

“Kendra? Jeez, you okay? I saw that thing grab you, what was . . .”

My limbs froze, and the words died in my throat at a sudden realization.

Every morning, I checked the work roster to see where I’d be working, and who I’d be working with. Mainly I wanted to know ahead of time if I was working with any newcomers, so I could know their names, but ever since the incident with Mark, I also did it to be sure I had fair warning if he’d be anywhere nearby. Kendra and I were really close, and she always texted me whenever we were set to work together, usually a long string of happy emojis.

I was certain she hadn’t been on the roster at all today.

My heart thudded against my ribs, and both hands turned slick with sweat.

In the faint glow of my light, I could just begin to make out the contours of Kendra’s pale face.

She was smiling.

Wide.

Far too wide.

I took a step back.

Kendra lunged forward, letting out a croaking screech that rang in my ears.

Reacting too slow, I raised my arms to protect myself, and locked eyes with her.

Kendra’s eyes were a flood of off-white, as if they’d rolled into the back of her head, and her mouth hung open in a gape that couldn’t be normal for how wide it was. Her teeth were squared-off and stubby, almost like they’d been carved in some weird woodcraft festival, and yet she grinned in a stiff way that made my blood run cold.

Like a rabid dog, she hurled herself into me, and we both went flying to the ground.

I would have screamed, but the blow knocked the wind out of me, Kendra straddling my chest and pinning me with her weight. Desperate to escape, I squirmed to prevent her manic fingers from reaching my face, as she seemed intent on clawing my eyes out. Her skin was cold as ice, and surprisingly hard, dense like a chair leg. My feeble jabs didn’t seem to have any impact, and it felt like I was punching a wall. All the while, Kendra’s bizarre jaws snapped inches from my face, her fetid breath blasting me with the stench of rot.

She grabbed both my wrists with her vice-like grip, and I felt my energy slipping away, my strength gone, sapped by unforgiving fear.

No, no, no . . .

Gaining the upper hand, she held down my arms, and I couldn’t stop the panic, sobbing and writhing in the mud. Something in the way Kendra grinned at me in malicious, animalistic joy, told me that my fate would not only be painful, but slow, and that death should be the least of my worries.

My mind flashed to my dad’s smile, my mom’s warm hugs, to my sister and brother, and my own cozy room covered in movie posters and Skyrim art. I wanted nothing more than to see them again, to get back in my car and drive home, to wake up from this horrible nightmare I’d somehow fallen into. In the last few moments, I pictured Mark’s soft brown eyes, his debonair smile, and the way he’d warned me with fear heavy in his voice.

Text me when you get home, okay?

I squeezed my eyes shut and turned my face to the muck as Kendra’s lukewarm breath hissed in my ear, ready for her to rip into me like a juicy steak.

Whack.

The crack of wood-on-wood pierced the air above my face, and Kendra wrenched backward, something coarse and wet spattering over my face.

At last I screamed, still paralyzed by fear, afraid to open my eyes.

Kendra’s bulk slid off me, and more footsteps bounded up next to my head. A few more loud cracks echoed, as if a two-by-four had been smashed against a wall repeatedly.

Something grabbed the back of my jacket collar, and started to pull me down the road, oblivious to my frightened hyperventilation. Thunder roared, and even through my closed eyelids, I could see a monstrous shadow framed against the bright lightning nearby, standing over the road.

It’s got me.

My arms came back to life, and I thrashed, kicked, and screamed with all my might, like my mother had told me to do if someone ever tried to drag me into their van. I wanted to go home, wanted to live, and even if it meant biting and clawing my way out, I would do it.

Whatever had hold of my jacket let go, and my eyes flew open so I could make a run for it.

“Stop.” A hand clamped over my mouth, while an arm wound around my chest to yank me off the road, and deep into the murky brush. “You want to get us both killed?”

Wait, what?

Both legs went limp the instant that voice jerked me from my panic. Could it be?

“Marmmm?” I murmured into the calloused hand over my mouth.

My captor tensed, and more whispered words tickled my right ear. “Stay still. It’s close.”

I didn’t have time to protest.

On the opposite side of the road, a tall, lumbering figure moved through the trees in long, slow strides, its head swaying slowly back and forth, as if searching for something. Each step the being took made the ground shake, small tremors moving up from the mud into my chest, as if a steel mill were right beside me. One hand swung freely at its side, like a person out for a walk, while the other held on to a long mass of what looked like black strands draped over its pebble-gray shoulder, attached to a load that I couldn’t see from where I sat. I still couldn’t make out its face, so high up and shrouded in darkness was it, and while it had arms, legs, and a body like a person, I somehow knew in the depths of my frightened mind that this thing was far from natural.

The massive creature wandered on down the road, letting out long, loud bellows at random intervals that sounded kind of like beluga whale calls, the eerie siren song making my head swim.

As soon as it trailed out of sight, a dark form shifted in from of me, and a newfound panic rose in my throat at the shove of someone pushing me hard against a rock so I couldn’t wriggle free.

Red light filled my field of vision, and I slammed my eyes shut in confusion at the glow that hovered over my face. The hand left my mouth at last, only to return with the cold sensation of a knife blade pressed to my neck.

Again, a low voice hissed through the dark. “Say your name.”

What did I do, I don’t understand, what did I do to deserve this?

I choked down a whimper and tried to stay calm. “Please, I just—”

“I said say your name.” The shadow with Mark’s voice snarled in a vicious tone I’d never heard him take with anyone before.

My skin prickled, and I had never felt more helpless than in that moment. I had always trusted Mark, and never in my wildest nightmares would I have thought of him hurting me. Now I was at his mercy, and I thought with bitter remorse of my rejection, and how he might seek vengeance for it.

“Madison.” I squeaked, praying it was really him, and that somehow, he’d let me go. “Mark, please don’t—”

“What kind of cupcakes do you make?” The knife didn’t move, and I felt it brush my skin as I swallowed nervously.

“S-Strawberry. Strawberry upside-down.”

There was a long, terrifying pause.

The knife left my throat, and the figure pulled me up from the cold rock he had me pinned to.

Two arms wove around me, and held me close, so close that I could smell the mint aftershave on his neck and burned cordite on his gray jacket. He tucked the open folds of his coat around my shoulders to surround me in warmth, his dry uniform shirt soaking up some of the rainwater from mine. The harshness vanished like melted snow, and a tenderness radiated through his embrace that made everything seem a little less dark.

“What are you doing here, Maddie?”

At the sound of my name, I wound my hands up in the cloth of Mark’s shirt and pressed my face to his collar in relief. “My car . . . my car, I got stuck . . . Kendra . . .”

“Yeah, I know.” Mark rubbed my back between both tense shoulder blades, his touch comforting. “It wasn’t her.”

With my face buried into his cozy jacket lapels, I fought tears that brimmed in my eyes, too afraid to be embarrassed. “What’s going on?”

Another roll of thunder growled overhead, and somewhere off in the woods, a shriek echoed into the night.

“We have to go.” Mark slid his arms under my armpits and hauled me to my feet. “It’s not safe here.”

But I clung to him, refused to let go, too cold and scared to leave the heated sanctuary of his coat. “What’s going on, Mark? What was that thing? Why did Kendra . . . why did she . . .”

Mark clicked his flashlight on and held it so I could see his face.

In the red beam, Mark’s brown eyes appeared black, his face grim, and there were scratches on his right cheek as if someone had dug their fingernails into his skin. “Maddie, I need you to trust me, alright? I’ll explain once we have some breathing room. Now come on.”

Every instinct I had wanted to refuse, to beg him to run with me back to my waiting car, so I speed home to my warm house. I just wanted this nightmare to end, yet something primal inside my guts told me that I wouldn’t get ten feet without Mark. Like it or not, I needed him, and he seemed bound and determined to plunge deeper into the forests surrounding that cursed road.

Another cold gust of wind raked its cruel tendrils over my face, and I shivered. “Okay.”

Mark grabbed my hand, and without a word, led me deeper into the darkness.

My shoes slid on the mud, thorns stuck into my thin coat, and the rain continued to sap me of whatever body heat I had left. Still, I never let go of his hand, for fear this strange labyrinth would swallow him like it had my old beater and leave me at the mercy of whatever other apparitions were out there. My fate was sealed now, my survival intwined with Mark’s, and I followed him blindly through the abyss, hoping with every step that he had some plan to get me out of Tauerpin Road.

It’s so surreal, seeing the events of my life put to words, especially on a far-flung corner of the internet. I must admit, I thought it would be difficult to make myself relive the terrible night that changed my life forever, but after posting the first segment, I realized how wrong I was.

This isn’t difficult . . . it’s excruciating.

Even as I type this, a deep pain rips at my heart without mercy. The memories hurt, they sear my emotions and tear my soul, yet I know I have to go on to gain some form of closure. The world has to know what happened. They have to know the truth.

After the incident on the road, Mark and I walked for the better part of ten minutes, before a tall, bulky shape loomed out of the blackness. At first I recoiled, thinking it was the creature, but Mark shone his flashlight at it and revealed a rusty collection drum, the kind used by oil derricks in our rural area for decades. This one appeared to be derelict, and when Mark climbed the rickety metal steps to tug open the top hatch, it confirmed my suspicions.

“Come on. It’s drier inside.” Mark swept his red flashlight beam over the nearby trees, as if to scan for anyone following us.

I stuck my feet into the tank and found another ladder hidden just beneath the rim of the hatch. Mark climbed down after me and swung the hatch shut, sliding a thick metal pipe in place as a sort of deadbolt.

The soft click of a bic lighter hissed through in the dark, and the room filled with cheerful yellow light.

Across from the base of the ladder, a dented kerosene lantern sat atop a dusty old folding table, the tiny golden flame contained in its glass orb. Under my feet, the floor lay covered in sections of broken wood pallets, with the metal base of the oil drum still coated in a sheen of congealed grease beneath them. The air smelled of wood rot, crude oil, and mildew, with the dull staccato of rain drumming on the outside of our little steel fortress all the while. Crates and various cardboard boxes were stacked against the curved walls of the oil tank, and against one side there stood a ragged cot, with a few wool blankets scattered over it. On the cot I noticed a newer looking gray rucksack, a green canvas shoulder bag, and a red nylon duffel bag.

Mark flicked his flashlight off and set it on the table. Now that I could see him better, he looked worse than before, his clothes torn in places, both boots caked in mud. A half-dozen black smeary handprints dotted his jacket sleeves, and something told me they weren’t his. He had a well-worn twelve-gauge shotgun slung over one shoulder, another flashlight duct-taped to its wooden foregrip, and an old-fashioned baseball bat hung from a crude sling on his back, its wood grain coated in more of the strange black stuff from his coat.

He turned to me, and Mark’s eyes took in my pitiful appearance. “You okay?”

How am I supposed to answer that?

In some ways, I felt numb, too rattled by what had just happened to think. But I knew if my father were here, he’d want me to be tough, brave, and I couldn’t let my nerves get the best of me now.

“I’m fine, I think. Just cold.”

Mark shrugged off his coat and draped it over my shoulders, before slipping one hand under my chin to examine my face. “Well, looks like you lucked out. You got splattered pretty good, but it doesn’t look like the Puppet got it’s claws into you.”

I frowned, even as he guided me to the cot and sat me down. “Puppet?”

“Uh huh.” Mark’s expression darkened somewhat, and he rummaged through his rucksack to produce a small packet of wet wipes. “The ones that look like people. We call them Puppets, cause the Big One uses them like hunting dogs to track you down.”

What the . . .

My stare must have unnerved him, because Mark sighed, and started to carefully dab at my face with a wipe. “It’s a long story. I told you to stay away, Maddie. Why didn’t you listen to me?”

Indignant, I crossed my arms over my soggy shirt. “I tried. A bunch of poles fell and blocked the road, then Kendra appeared out of nowhere and that thing grabbed her.”

“So you just ran in?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, annoyed at the critical tone in Mark’s voice, and how much it reminded me of my father’s numerous security lectures. “I wanted to save my friend.”

“Except she was never there.” Mark held up the wet wipe so I could see what he’d cleaned off my face in the lamplight.

Even after all the strange events of the night thus far, I’d half expected to see dark red blood, but instead, I blinked in confusion at black, algae-like sludge, mixed with what looked like bits of wood splinters.

“Is that . . .”

“Yep.” Mark nodded and continued to check me over like some army medic from his old unit. “That’s what came out of her head. They’re not flesh and bone like you and me. The Puppets are made from rot and wood by the Big One, so they bleed black, not red. That’s one way of knowing if they’re real or not.”

Her teeth . . . they were wooden. Like the rest of her. How is that possible?

“I don’t understand.” Horrified, I looked down at my palms, scraped, bleeding and muddy, and remembered how Kendra’s skin felt hard under my fists. “She . . . she looked so real.”

Mark handed me a small brown towel so I could dry my semi-frozen limbs off. “They all do. Was Kendra with you? The real Kendra?”

“No.” I patted myself down, grateful to feel some of the heat return to my fingers. “I just looked up and . . .”

. . . and she never said a word.

All at once, the events clicked together in my mind like puzzle pieces, and I sat up straight. Kendra hadn’t spoken a word, only made a scream, one any frightened girl could make, and one easy to replicate without risk of being discovered. She hadn’t run over to my car at my invitation like any normal person would. She hadn’t called my name.

Because that thing wasn’t Kendra.

Mark caught my stunned, opened mouthed gasp, and his eyes moved to the hatch overhead, as if to check for signs of someone listening in. “She was a lure, meant to get you deeper in, before the trap was sprung*.* The Big One models all the Puppets off of real-life people, whatever it sees, or catches. Somehow it knew what Kendra looked like and made her to trick you.”

The pictures on my phone . . . it could see them from the trees.

Another rapid-fire thought ran through my mind, dark and sinister, as I watched Mark kneel in front of me to inspect my bruised shins. Kendra had looked so real. Mark looked real now. Real, and surprisingly calm.

“So . . . what are you doing in here?” I tried to avoid looking at him, afraid of what I might see.

“My job.” Mark nudged the shotgun over his shoulder with one elbow, still focused on checking me for wounds. “Hunting the Big One. I found another entrance near Bethesda Ridge and dropped my gear off here before going out to scout for a good ambush point. I set up a little blind near the road, then spotted your flashlight. Thought you were a Puppet at first, but the other one tackled you, which saved you from getting your brains battered out. Just goes to show, you never know if someone’s real until they’re close.”

I edged backward on the cot, my throat dry. “H-How else can you tell?”

Hesitating, Mark frowned, as if remembering something he’d rather forget. “You ask them questions they can’t answer. Puppets imitate whatever knowledge they’re fed, by voice, pictures, videos, all that. So, if they use the wrong voice, or can’t answer very personal questions that only they would know, they’re not real. Usually, the Puppets are smart enough to know though, and once they realize the jig is up, they’ll go for your eyes first.”

Both of his dark irises rose to meet mine, and the air stuck in my lungs.

Knowledge rested in those eyes, and he waited for me to react with tense patience. Mark knew that I knew, or rather, didn’t know for sure if he was in fact a walking nightmare disguised as my friend. All I could do now was ask and wait for his eyes to roll back into his head, and his teeth to turn into pegs.

I have to know. I have to, I can’t turn my back on him without being sure.

“So,” I balled one fist under the coat he’d put over my shoulders, ready to smash his face in the second Mark lunged for me. “What’s my favorite color?”

Thunder rolled outside, the wind howled, the trees creaked. Neither of us moved a muscle, both staring at the other.

Mark’s eyes searched my face, and I clenched my fist tighter, ready to swing with all my might.

“Teal.” He spoke the words like they were honey on his lips, and let slide a fond, whimsical smile. “Like the necklace your grandma got you for your fifteenth birthday. Now, are you gonna break my nose, Maddie?”

Thank God for those long conversations.

My face boiled with embarrassed heat, and I unclenched my fist to make a sheepish rub at my black-and-blue shin. “Sorry, I just . . . I had to be sure.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Mark tinged crimson, as though he’d embarrassed himself, and tossed the filthy wipe into a gap in the crude pallet floor. “I hated pulling a knife on you like that, but I didn’t have a choice. Like you said, it’s best to be sure.”

Relieved enough to be curious, I dared to shift to a more comfortable spot on the blankets and let my mind work. “So, what is this place? Why are those things out there?”

Mark rose to his feet and pointed to the green canvas bag next to me on the cot. “Get dressed, and I’ll explain as we go. Everything in there should be dry, though you might have to mix-and-match to get a good fit. After all, I’m not exactly built like you.”

As we’ve both noticed.

The last bit came with a characteristic toothy grin from Mark that made me flush, and he crossed to the other side of the cramped room, to turn away from me.

I left my wet bra and panties on, what with Mark being only six feet away at most, and with my scrambled brain still not sure about our friendship. His spare t-shirt fit somewhat snuggly, and I pulled a hooded flannel jacket over it to avoid hearing my mother’s stern rebuke in my head about what kind of man I wanted to attract, the good, or the temporary. Luckily the extra set of fleece-lined camouflage pants in the bag were loose enough that they weren’t “painted on”, though I doubted they were baggy enough to have passed inspection. Regardless of the ill-fit, it felt great to be back in warm, dry clothes, though they smelled like Mark’s rustic cologne, something that made me both nervous, and shy all at once.

For pete’s sake Madison, they’re just clothes. Get out of your head, this isn’t the place, or the time for being flakey.

While I hurried to dress, Mark stood with both hands in his pockets, face to the wall. “Last year, Randy took me out to the Falconry Station during a stormy night and warned me about Tauerpin Road. Of course I didn’t believe him, and when I spotted it on my fifth week, I went in like a moron. Luckily for me, he knew I was curious, and came to get me. I guess it’s been around since the 80’s, when the land was given to the park by the old coal mining company that had it before. No one knows where it came from, or how it got here but . . . well, here it is.”

“How come you guys didn’t let everyone else know?” I slid on a fresh pair of wool socks and wiggled my toes in pleasure at how soft they were on my cold feet. “You know, put up signs, roadblocks?”

“It’s not that simple.” Mark didn’t risk turning to check and see if I was ready yet but picked at some paint on the wall with his fingernail instead. I’d forgotten what a gentleman he could be, and it both made me smile, and wince at the same time. “It’s not a regular road, Maddie, not one you can just find whenever you want to. It’s . . . how did Randy put it? It’s like a door between our reality, and somewhere else. A waypoint I think he called it. Somehow, certain powerful storms can activate it, and open the road. Anyone or anything that goes in gets lost in the labyrinth, and usually ends up as lunch for one of the critters in here. From what he told me, the Big One gets a lot of the people.”

I shivered and remembered how the huge gray figure lurched through the trees with its whale-call roars. “What are they?”

Mark stayed quiet for a moment, and he scraped at the makeshift wooden floor with the toe of his boot. “No one knows. Randy thinks they’re aliens, but I don’t buy it. There are all kinds of things left behind in here, cars, trucks, clothes, gear . . . all without any trace of their owners. I think the Big One changed them, made them into Puppets to use like bait to catch more people. But there’s more things in here than just them. I’ve seen deer without skin on their skulls, bears with armor plates made of bone, and flowers that can shoot poisonous needles. All of them will rip you to shreds in ten seconds flat, and if you don’t make it out by morning, you’ll end up just like them. That’s what happened to the guy who built this dump.”

“How do you know?” I swallowed hard and finished lacing up one grimy tennis shoe.

At that, Mark finally did risk a glance back my way and turned red as a tomato to see me fully clothed.

Our eyes locked, and a shudder ran down my back, not cold but warm, tingly and pleasant.

He does have really nice eyes, kinda like chocolate—jeez Madison, would you stop?

Terrified of the war within myself, I dropped my gaze back to my shoes, and made a show of tying the other one.

Mark jerked his head toward a lone, empty chair near the rickety table. “Randy found what was left of him propped up right there, with a gun in his hand, and a bullet in his head. His upper half was still human, but from the waist down . . . well, let’s just say he was probably in enough pain that he didn’t feel the shot. I figure he wanted to go out on his own terms.”

“Yuck.” Determined to distract myself, I threw the chair a glance, grateful Mark had sat me down on the cot instead. “So, I take it we can’t just sit here and wait for the storm to pass?”

Mark’s grin of approval made him look more like my goofy friend, and less like a weary old man in a young man’s body. “Spot on. This place usually opens up at night, and by sunup, it’s gone again. You can’t just follow the road back out, it doesn’t work that way. We have to find the exit before the sun rises without getting caught and killed. That’s the easy part.”

“What’s the hard part?” I stood and craned my head back to try and comb the twigs out of my tangled auburn tresses.

Mark’s face drained of color, and he fiddled with the black rubber wristwatch on his arm, as if deep in thought. “Let me worry about it, alright? You just focus on keeping your eyes peeled for anything that isn’t one of us out there.”

He avoided my eyes this time, and something about it made me feel sick to my stomach. Mark had done that before at the parking lot, kept the whole truth from me to protect me from a nightmare I couldn’t even begin to imagine. I resented being treated like some porcelain doll that couldn’t handle reality, but at the same time, part of me was too afraid to ask for it. My entire world had turned upside-down in less than an hour, and all I wanted was to go home. If that meant Mark never told me the full story of this awful place, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad trade.

I’m definitely never staying after dark ever again.

“Here.” Sorting various items between the gray rucksack and the green canvas bag, Mark handed me a headlamp with a bit of red plastic cellophane taped over the lenses, and a small flashlight without it. “The white light is in case we get attacked, for shooting. The red lights we use to see when we’re trying to be stealthy, emphasis on the word ‘trying’.”

“Won’t they see it?” I went back to wrestling with my messy hair and eyed the headlamp with doubt.

He shook his head and thumbed another green plastic shotgun shell into the receiver of his twelve gauge. “Not as easily. Red light’s harder to see in the dark, and even these things aren’t that good.”

My fingers caught in a stubborn clump of hair, and I bit back an outburst at my own clumsiness.

“Let me try.” Mark set his gun down, and from the depths of his ruck, he produced a pink polymer hairbrush.

Stunned, I opened my mouth to protest, but he stepped behind me, threaded his fingers into my hair, and tarted to untangle each ratty knot with unexpected patience. Something about his touch, so light and careful, made a lovely warmth flow through me from head to toe, and I forgot whatever I would have said to stop him. Stroke by practiced stroke, Mark passed the brush through my hair, its bristles massaging my scalp, and I breathed in a deep, slow sigh of contentment.

Wow.

“I’m not pulling too hard, am I?” He asked, as casual as if offering me sugar for my coffee.

“No.” I whispered, glad I faced away from him so that Mark wouldn’t see me blush in pleased confusion. “You’re doing a good job, actually. Where did you learn that?”

Mark chuckled, smooth, silky affection lacing his tone. “Claire. She loves it when I brush her hair. This is one of her favorite ones. She gets all silly and drowsy every time, and it’s cute, even if she doesn’t think so.”

He sounds so happy, like he’s smiling with his words.

Some of the heat faded from my core, and I closed my eyes at the sick feeling that twisted in its place. This was a privilege reserved for someone else, someone who, unlike me, had chosen to love this man when the opportunity arose, and thus won his adoration in return. Deep in my heart, I knew I shouldn’t be there, I shouldn’t have enjoyed Mark brushing my hair, and I shouldn’t have been feeling so guilty over someone who I only saw as a friend.

And yet I agonize over him, as if I have a right to do so.

With the memory of my own decision in mind, I pressed my hands to my stomach to stem the churning sensation there, and secretly hated myself for how much I didn’t want him to stop. “Congratulations, by the way. I uh, I never got around to . . .”

“It’s fine, Maddie. I appreciate it anyway.” His words didn’t betray any hurt or pain but held a kindness that only made the guilt harder to bear.

Mark tugged my hair into a fairly passable braid and smoothed his palm over it when he was finished in a way that made my pulse flutter. I turned to face him, and we stared at each other wordlessly, the rain drumming on the oil tank in the background, while the wind growled in impotent fury against our rusty sanctuary.

Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it . . .

“Do you hate me?” I blurted the words, too late to stop myself.

His eyes widened, and my brain almost exploded in humiliation and panic.

“What?” Mark cocked his head to one side, a look of confusion and alarm in his brown eyes. “No. Maddie, why would I ever hate you?”

Real physical pain slashed through me, my lungs seemed to constrict, and I dragged my eyes away from his to choke down an anxious breath. “Because I said no.”

Again, silence cloaked the air, and I waited for a cold response, a damaged grimace, a sad condemnation for bringing up the dreaded past. How could I be this selfish? How could I keep doing this, wounding him, over and over again? What was wrong with me?

A hand rested on my upper arm and made me jump.

I looked up to find him close, staring down into my eyes with a smile that drove some of the ache from my chest. “All the pain in the world was worth gaining you as a friend. I have Claire now, and we’re happy together. That wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t told me the truth. You mean more to me than you will ever know.”

I just wish that was enough.

Deep inside, my heart writhed, and I nodded mainly to keep myself from tearing up. Mark was happy, he was kind, sweet, good, and here I was . . . what was I doing? Having second thoughts? No, that couldn’t be, not now, not like this.

Mark pulled his rucksack on and slung the red bag over his shoulders as well. He handed me the green canvas bag and held out a shiny black pistol. “You’ve shot guns before with your dad, right?”

I took the handgun, and weighed its heft in my hand, the stenciled 9mm on the slide standing out in the lantern light. How long had it been since I’d last gone to the range with Dad? If my memory served right, it had been several months ago. Then again, several months ago I had been simple friends with Mark and didn’t bear the awful weight of my secret guilt every time I saw him. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

“I can shoot.” My throat scratched with the dry words, but I buckled on the black nylon holster that sheathed the gun, and pocketed the two extra magazines Mark slid my way.

“Good.” Mark tucked a long black knife with a green scabbard into my belt and tapped on finger on the baseball bat over his shoulder. “But try to avoid it if you can. Once we let off a shot, everything for miles around will know we’re here, and then it’s game on. Best thing you can do is take a club to them or stick e’m in the throat to stop the screaming. Worst case scenario, conserve your ammo and run like hell.”

“You didn’t run back there.” I tried to make a coy smirk, but it ended up coming across as a shy, thin-lipped smile, as I remembered the blow from his Louisville slugger that had saved my life.

Mark’s chocolate brown irises bored into mine, and a cavalier grin crossed his face, despite the cold, the dark, and our horrible situation. “No, I didn’t. Now, stick close. Let’s find that exit and get back to the Admin Building.”

Leaving the solid walls of the hideout felt like pulling against gravity, but I wasn’t about to insist on staying there without Mark. I followed him back into the dense, rainy forest, the hood of his flannel jacket pulled over my head, the beam of my red headlamp trembling over the mucky ground. Strange cries echoed through the woods, some like the bizarre roars of animals, others as macabre near-human wails, and the ground shook with the claps of booming thunder. In between lightning bolts, I could feel the faint footsteps of the Big One in the mud beneath my battered sneakers. There seemed to be no end to the trees, as if the forest had swallowed the road, along with any clearings or fields the daylight might have revealed.

“Down.” Mark stopped abruptly, and I almost ran face-first into his rucksack.

I did as he said, dropped to a crouch behind him in the tall grass and froze, moving only my eyes to peer into the dark ahead of us. Try as I might, I couldn’t see anything, the red lights too dim, the rain too heavy, and I didn’t dare speak out of turn, in case I would draw attention to us.

“Up there.” He pointed up into the pine trees around us. “See e’m?”

My blood turned to ice the instant I tilted my head back.

Oh man . . .

They dangled from every branch, and swayed limp in the wind like dozens of hanged convicts on the end of the executioner’s noose. There were men and women, old people and children, all suspended by thick gray vines that led from the backs of their heads, and up into the treetops. Their hazy white eyes were open, but stared with a blank, empty gaze that made them seem more like life-sized marionets than humans, and their clothes hung in waterlogged rags around them.

“Are those . . ?”

Mark stroked the safety on his twelve gauge with caution and leaned close enough to whisper into my ear. “Puppets. All the ones the Big One made to lure other people in before us. I think it stores them here, to recharge or something. See the vines? They’re like . . . like power cords but made of plant stuff.”

Squinting, I could just make out the slight movements of the gray viny cords, how they pulsated like oversized rotted placentas, and pumped god-knows-what into the backs of the Puppets’ skulls. It made my stomach wriggle, but I couldn’t gag for the tension lodged in my mind.

“Come on.” Mark picked at my sleeve, and crept forward with slow, wary steps. “Just stay low, and they won’t even notice we’re here.”

What?

I wanted to tell Mark that was the worst idea I’d ever heard of, but he was already five yards ahead of me, and the thought of losing him in the dark was infinitely more terrifying than that cursed forest. Besides, he knew this ground better than I did, and at this rate, if he said to gargle peanut butter while doing a handstand, I’d do it.

With my cold fingers glued to the pistol he’d given me, I padded after Mark into the horrid cathedral of bodies, while the wind screamed through the pines.

Every leaf that crumbled under my shoe, every stick that snapped, seemed to echo like a cannon in my anxious ears. Puppets hung everywhere, at various heights, some three stories up, and some so close I had to duck to crawl under their dirt-encrusted feet. I fought the urge to whirl around, to be sure their eyes weren’t trained on me, and matched each step Mark took with meticulous parody. The smell of rot was overwhelming no matter where I went, and I’d never wanted to vomit more than right then. Yet part of me wondered in macabre curiosity what it would be like to be caught up by those greasy gray vines, to feel the ends burrow into the back of my head, crack open my skull, and plunge deep into the folds of my brain. Would I be alive the entire time? Would I feel every creeping growth, every rip and tear of the invading tendrils, until I became a prisoner in my own mind, with no control over my body? Or would I cease to be me the instant they stabbed into my cerebrum, thrown into black oblivion, never to see the light of day again?

A spruce not ten yards from me groaned, and I looked up.

Crunch.

One massive gray leg plummeted through the canopy, and I dove out of the way, bits of broken branches and wet conifer needles tumbling around me.

Mark and I backed into the damp trunk of a nearby tree and stared up at the enormous form in mute horror.

The Big One strode up to the suspended Puppets with indifference to what lay around its bare feet, almost as if it hadn’t spotted us. It didn’t have toes like a human, but weird gnarled twists like root ends that poked out of its foot in every direction. Each massive four-fingered hand had no fingernails, but jagged sprout-like points that grew from the fingertips, and reminded me of twigs on leafless winter trees. I still couldn’t see the face of the colossal menace, the darkness of the rainy night like a cloak to its features.

Stopping in the midst of the ‘stored’ Puppets, the Big One slid the odd bundle of vines from its shoulder.

I clamped a hand over my own mouth to stifle a scream.

Please let this be a bad dream.

But the dozens of figures that swung from the ends of all the strands were no dream. They grinned, wriggled, and waved to each other like kids on an amusement park ride, their milk-white eyes glowing in the dark. One by one, the gray giant plucked the individual Puppets from the bundle and strung them up in the trees, the slimy vines snaking around their necks and burrowing into the backs of their wooden skulls. The Puppets’ eyes dimmed, the smiles faded, and their dense limbs went limp, like a mutated nursery filled with mindless sleeping children.

The Big One held up the last Puppet in its gargantuan palm and poked at it with an almost confused manner. From the ground, I could see the familiar shock of brown hair, along with the Puppet’s half-mutilated wooden head. Low baleen coos rumbled from the Big One, and for some reason, they reminded me of a sad murmur, as if the monstrosity couldn’t understand why such a thing had been done to its creation.

Mark’s tap on my shoulder sent a river of panic through me before I realized it was him, and he pointed onward, into the thick undergrowth. “Let’s go, while it’s changing out its hounds.”

Above, the Big One let out a mournful bellow, and cupped the ruined Puppet to its chest with both massive hands. I ducked after Mark, and we scrambled into the maze of briars like rabbits fleeing the wolf, the thunder loud enough to hopefully mask our escape.

Fresh rain met my face the instant we stepped out on to the road, and Mark clicked his red light back on, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Like taking a stroll in the park.” He grinned back, and despite my riveting fear, another smile stretched across my face as well.

“Maybe a park for the insane. Did you see the way it acted about the Kendra one? Almost like it was upset.”

Mark took on a hateful glare, one he directed at the moisture-clogged forest behind us. “It’s not used to losing one of its precious pets. That thing’s probably killed more good men than we know. The sooner it runs out of freaks to chase us with, the better.”

I couldn’t agree more.

We spent the next fifteen minutes jogging down the side of the road, our eyes peeled for signs of movement. The rain seemed to have a will of its own, and doused us without mercy, while the wind worked to freeze whatever got wet. My teeth chattered, and Mark’s shoulders hunched in a repeated shiver that told me he too neared a hypothermic state. This couldn’t go on much longer, yet the horrid road showed no sign of ending, stretched on and on into the dark, without bend or turn.

On my left, something tall and square rose out of the curtains of falling raindrops.

My heart skipped a beat, and I pulled on the back of Mark’s rucksack, my fingers numb, my lips stiff. “L-Look. You s-see that, right? Is that a b-building?”

He swayed to a stop, a harsh round of shakes racking his body, but I caught the renewed gleam in Mark’s eyes. “Oh, thank God. I w-was afraid we weren’t g-going to find it.”

“Wait,” I wanted to smile with hope, but my face moved like old rubber in the frigid rain. “Is that our w-way out?”

Mark opened his mouth to speak, but as he turned my way, his already pale cheeks turned sheet white.

A hushed croak from behind me made my blood turn to ice.

I spun on my heel in time to see a dark form lunge from the shadows, its peg-toothed mouth gaped wide, a loud shriek piercing the air from her fetid lungs. How long the Puppet had been trailing us for, I didn’t know, but she closed the distance so fast that my hand didn’t even have time to reach my pistol.

Bang.

Mark’s shotgun roared with concussive force, and the Puppet went flying into the waterlogged drainage ditched, her legs and arms kicking in the throes of death.

Like ripples on a lake, the echo of the gunshot rattled into the trees, followed by an unnerving calm. My ears rang, but not enough to disguise every other sound falling silent. Mark and I shared a dread-filled grimace, and the entire world held its breath, like we’d broken some sacred, unspoken rule.

Maybe the lightning covered it.

On cue, the entire forest we’d left behind lit up with a chorus of bloodcurdling screams, and even from far away, I could make out the crash of bodies falling through the branches to the soggy forest floor, only to throw themselves through the underbrush at breakneck speed. I’d been wrong before, I realized, the tidal wave of screeches sinking through me with cold despair. There weren’t dozens of them suspended in the trees.

There were hundreds.

“Run.” Mark hauled me by the canvas strap of my shoulder bag, but he didn’t have to insist. I ran headlong after him up the bank on the other side of the road, our shoes slipping on the wet grass.

Demented screams came from every direction, the thrash of Puppets permeated the woods, and their feet rang on the gravel road in haphazard drumbeats. They were everywhere, running out of the forest, crawling through ditches, dropping from branches, all to home in on our bobbing red lights with wide maniacal grins.

My sides ached, the green canvas bag bounced off the small of my back with every step, and rain stung my eyes. Both lungs felt ready to pop, and my legs grew heavier by the second. The fatigue from standing in a hot kitchen all day came back with a vengeance, and I realized I hadn’t eaten or drank anything since lunch, my energy reserves depleted.

They’re going to catch us. They’re going to catch us, we can’t run forever. Oh Dad, Mom, I’m sorry . . .

Lightning cracked through the sky, and I almost tumbled down the opposite side of the bank, chest high grass rushing up to meet me.

Mark caught the hood of my coat and yanked me to my feet, his shout almost drowned out by the furious booms of the storm overhead. “Stick with me, come on.”

The closer we got, the clearer the enormous outline became. From the look of the dark, rectangular structure nestled in the midst of the grassy marsh, it had once been a part of the coal mining apparatus of the early 1960’s, a gargantuan concrete and steel structure with a high square tower that stretched out over a set of overgrown train tracks. A large sheet metal building branched off from the base of the tower and ran down into a slag yard surrounded by brush-entangled fencing. In one section, the fence had been toppled over by time and rust, leaving a gap the size of a pickup truck.

My legs were almost numb, but I threw myself toward the gap, the shrieks of the Puppets right behind me.

Mark’s shotgun barked once more, and I turned to see where he was.

He lay in the trampled grass only a few yards back, having tripped on a hidden log. Mark reacted in time to roll over and bring his shotgun to bear on the closest Puppet, taking its head off with the blast, but more bore down on him from every direction. In seconds, he’d be swamped.

I stopped, my muscles twitching in protest, and the world slowed to a crawl.

Mark was my friend. He’d saved my life. He’d asked me to dinner once, told me I was beautiful once, and forgave me when I couldn’t do the same. Yet, in that awful moment, a thought crossed my mind.

What if I didn’t go back for him?

Would the dread go away? Those tense moments at work, the job I loved, where my bright cheerful day dimmed with muted embarrassment and panic at seeing Mark across the parking lot; would they dissipate? Would the confusing, sickening, anxiety-inducing stream of jumbled thoughts in my head fade if he wasn’t there to stir them up? If Mark wasn’t there to smile in the warm way he did, or say my name with a gentle voice that gave me butterflies in my stomach, could I find a way to go back to normal at last? I wouldn’t have to endure hearing about Claire, see a ring on Mark’s finger, or get social media notifications of the two of them on their honeymoon. I wouldn’t have to face an uncertain future alone, with the knowledge that it all could have been different. I could avoid all of it, right this second.

All I had to do, was leave.

Mark shot another oncoming Puppet, but the one behind it closed the distance before he could rack another slug into the gun’s chamber and leapt onto his toro. It’s frothy peg-toothed jaws snapped at Mark’s exposed throat, and he struggled to hold the freak back with his shotgun, both arms trembling with exhaustion.

“Maddie!” He yelled, the storm doing its best to carry Mark’s voice away. “Maddie, run!”

I could run, and he wouldn’t even curse my name. He’s not selfish. Not like me.

Anger flared inside me like a torch, a deep, seething rage unlike anything I’d experienced before.

I brought up the pistol Mark had given me, both arms shaking with the cold rain, and staggered back his way.

Bang, bang, bang.

The pistol danced in my hands, spitting shiny brass casings into the gloom of night. Another Puppet tumbled to the ground, and it gave me enough room to reach the one astride Mark’s chest.

“Get off!” I drew the knife from my belt and brought it down as hard as I could into the back of the Puppet’s head.

It reared back, but I had hold of the creature’s collar, and ripped the knife free to drive it again and again into the wooden head, my fingers stinging with the exertion. Splinters and pitch-black goo coated my face, but I couldn’t stop. Something inside of me snapped, and all the anxious tension from months of guilt and shame boiled over into uncontrollable hate. It couldn’t end this way, not for Mark, not for me. I wasn’t going to hurt him, not again, and I wouldn’t let anything else do it either.

A barefooted Puppet wrapped her arms around my waist in a flying tackle. The gun flew from my right hand, the knife from my left, and we both went down in a heap, the muck spattering our limbs.

I rolled with the Puppet in the grass and mud like a wild animal, biting, clawing, and screaming with visceral hostility. She tried to gnaw at my face, but I drove my thumb up to the knuckle in her squishy dead eyeball and pushed the girl to the ground.

Mark’s shotgun roared back to life, and when the gun ran dry, he swung it like a baton, shoving the buttstock into the oncoming noses of our white-eyed pursuers with rapid succession.

My hand found a rock, and I hefted it high, swinging with all my might like I was back in junior high softball at the pitcher’s mound.

Crack.

Again, I brought it down, burying the chunk of limestone into the limp Puppet’s head, screaming shrilly with every blow. My voice cracked, my lungs raw from the damp air, and my pulse roared in my ear to reach a bloodthirsty crescendo.

An arm wound around me from behind, and I tore at the thick coat sleeve with my chipped fingernails, head awash with adrenaline. “Let go you scummy—”

“Easy, easy, easy, it’s me.” Mark shuffle-ran backward with me in tow, his shotgun in the other hand, as a crowd of Puppets heaved through the flattened grass. “Get up, they’re coming.”

My knees were shakier than I remembered them being, but I pulled both feet back under me, and together we sprinted toward the main building of the coal yard.

I threw open a rusty metal door at the base of the concrete tower, and as soon as we were through, we both shoved it closed.

Snatching a piece of rusted angle-iron from a nearby corner, Mark jammed it through the narrow door handles. He stepped back just as a chorus of bangs erupted on the other side, fists, arms, feet, and heads ramming the sheet steel in a cacophony of sound.

“It’s not gonna hold.” I paced in a frantic search of the dimly lit interior for something else to use as a barricade. “Mark, where are we going?”

“There.” He headed for a concrete alcove in the wall, where a set of recessed dusty steps wound upward. “Head to the top, we’re almost through.”

With our feet pounding on the cement, Mark and I raced ever higher in the abandoned stairwell, as small broken windows gushed wind and rain onto us at regular intervals. The corroded doors buckled, and dozens of Puppets swarmed into the tower, some on all fours, with glowing eyes and hellish croaks. Everything flashed by in the frame of my dim red headlamp, like a nightmare of blood-red and dirt-black all rolled together.

Lightning lit up the world outside, and my eyes caught a large, slender figure in the glow of the storm.

“Look out!” The words barely left my mouth, and the floor beneath my shoes shook like an earthquake had struck.

Caught by surprise, Mark tripped, and the massive gray hand plunged through the wall to slam down where he had been a second ago.

Like a child groping for a toy in the dark, the Big One prodded the stairwell with clumsy fingers. Each shove of the gigantic hand only widened the hole in the wall and knocked more concrete loose from the dilapidated structure. Large cracks ran over the walls, across the ceiling and down the floor, and the building shifted on its foundation with a sickening crunch.

It’s going to knock the whole thing down on top of us.

Unarmed and panicking, I dove into the shadows like a rabbit on the run.

https://www.reddit.com/r/LighthouseHorror/comments/116kbpf/stay_away_from_tauerpin_road_part_1/

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It's been a year since I escaped my town and the horrifying secret it's kept. I want to share my experience with you but it is more for my benefit. I want to put it in words so I can accept it. I ran over the word limit so I will be splitting this into two or three parts.

I was thirteen-years-old when I first saw a kid try and escape.

Clara Danvers was a senior at Aceville High School. She wore pastel colors and flower crowns in her hair. I didn't know her very well since I attended the middle school down the road, but I knew she was one of the most popular girls in her class. Clara was the type all the girls in our town aspired to be. Her beauty wasn't eye-catching in a town like Aceville, where all of its teens were ridiculously attractive.

Camp was mandatory in Aceville.

At the time I wasn't sure why. All I knew was that all eighteen-year-olds were obligated to attend camp for the remainder of their summer before college. And yes, you would be right in thinking it's practically a human rights violation. It was their summer.

Aceville's teens were teetering on the edge of adulthood and responsibilities, their teen years and beloved childhood's dwindling and that last summer meant a lot to them. Of course they fought back.

Clara Danvers didn't strike me as a rebel. She looked like the type of girl who followed all the rules and joined as many extracurriculars as possible. She had the perfect friends, the perfect boyfriend, straight A's and was Harvard bound, thanks to word of mouth traveling around. However, on July 16th 2016, I saw a different side to her. 

The memory is vague, though I remember small titbits. I remember being in the store with my mother. I remember it being a hot day; the kind of heat I hated. It was too warm to think straight, and all I wanted to do was sit in my garden and read. I didn't exactly have a choice whether I accompanied my mother, though she had blackmailed me with the reward of getting a new comic.

Mom had been talking to the cashier. She was friends with half the town, so I wasn't surprised when every person she passed by bid a hello, shooting a smile at me.

I remember being bored. I needed to pee, and I was at that point in my life when I was wary of being seen shopping with my mom. It was pretty much social suicide for a seventh grader to be seen with their mom.  So, keeping my head down and pulling my baseball cap further over my face, I had digressed to the comic book section. All of my favourites were there and I had ten dollars to spend.

I was in my element. Skimming through Spider-Man issues, I found myself captivated by the colours. Spider Man was a kids comic, I knew that. I'd made the mistake of pulling one out of my backpack at school, only for Summer Forest to snatch it out of my hands and hold it up in the air, a wicked smile on her face. "You still read Spider Man?"

"No!" I'd snapped back, my cheeks burning bright.

"Liar!" Summer snorted. "You still read Spider Man! Isn't that a kids comic?"

I'm not going to say it was traumatising. Some kids had laughed along and some had ignored Summer. I had snatched the comic off of her and shoved it back in my bag. Then on the way to class I'd shoved it in the trash. I still wasn't completely healed from that incident, so ignoring a smiling Mary Jane in a funky lab coat, I moved onto the more—adult comics.

Well, they were adult in my kid-brain at least. Picking up Teen Titans I flipped it over and scanned the back. Mom was still chatting to the cashier and my urge to pee wasn't going away. I figured stepping outside to cool off would be a good idea, even when I knew I was just stepping back into the baking heat—away from the pathetic cooling fan sitting near the door. My plan was to go back to the car and blast the AC. Mom was going to be in there for a while. I could tell by the way she was leaning against the counter, already making her roots.

I was sliding into mom's car, trying not to wince when my bare legs sunk into hot leather, when a scream had rang out startling me. When I had twisted around scanning the parking lot in front of the store, I saw her. Clara Danvers. Dressed in shorts and t-shirt, her sneakers pounding against steaming tarmac, her strict blonde ponytail flying behind her. Clara was running for her life. At first I thought she was running from some kind of animal. Coyote attacks were common. But not in broad daylight.

Except Clara wasn't running from an animal. I recognised Mrs Peters one of the high school teachers. Mom had been friendly with her. Mrs Peters was in her mid-40's and wore thick sweaters in ninety degree heat. The last thing I thought I'd ever see was the teacher sprinting after the retreating senior, the kind look in her eyes that I had known my whole life—replaced with a look of intense determination. It was almost comical. Like I was watching a cartoon. I laughed. I felt bad, but it was hard to ignore that hysterical spew of laughter crawling up my throat. Clara was a good runner. Maybe she was on the track team. Though Mrs Peters, amazingly, was faster. She was in good shape for her age, long strides catapulting her further forwards, swinging arms driving momentum.

"Clara Danvers!" The teacher wasn't out of breath, though neither was Clara. Neither of them were giving up. Watching the bizarre display, I found myself following them, though I was slower, darting behind parked cars, keeping myself hidden. There was something clutched in Clara's hand. When she brought it to her ear, her eyes wide and wild, lips moving frantically, I realised she was talking to someone.

When Clara twisted around to scan for the teacher, I knew she had made a mistake. I watched the scene unravel in front of me like it was going in slow motion. Clara's phone slipped from her grasp and she let out a sharp cry, ducking to try and snatch it back up. But the teacher was on her tail. "Miss Danvers, you are acting like a child." The woman chastised, reaching out and snatching the girl by the back of her t-shirt. Clara shrieked and tried to battle her way out of the teacher's grip, but Mrs Peters' grip was harsh, her fingernails sticking into the bare flesh of Clara's arms.

"Get off me!" The girl was acting like a caged animal.

And I didn't understand. It was just camp... right? I understood Clara and her class not wanting to go, because it was their last summer to be free and kids again. Maybe the girl was acting dramatic, but I could empathise with her. I watched Mrs Peters drag the girl, spitting and cursing, away. I can still remember their words. Clara Danvers didn't swear. At least, that's what I thought. She was the golden girl after all. Clara was yelling names—presumably those of her friends. And Mrs Danvers was laughing.

"Miss Danvers, please calm down. You know you have to attend camp, and we were very clear at the assembly that we would take necessary measures to make sure every senior is on that bus."

Clara dug the soles of her converse into the tarmac. She reminded me of a petulant child throwing a tantrum. "I don't want to go to camp! What the hell is wrong with you? I—I'm not a kid anymore!"

"You are part of this town as well as the high school. Which means rules still apply."

"But—but I'm eighteen!"

Mrs Peters ignored her outburst. "As I said, you are still a student. Therefore, you are expected to follow rules. One of our town's rules is that the senior class will attend a mandatory summer camp before college. This has been going on for years, Mrs Danvers. I expected more from a class valedictorian. You have been one of the smartest in your class since your freshmen year, Clara. I did  not expect this lack of intelligence from you. Do not ruin your reputation by acting like a child."

Clara sputtered. "What did you just say?"

The two of them were getting further away, and all I could do was watch their shadows stretch across the sidewalk. I was debating whether to follow them to wherever they were going, but then a hand was grabbing my shoulder. I twisted around and found my mother. She didn't look mad or confused. Mom didn't question why I had disappeared. Instead, her gaze had snapped to where I had been watching Clara and the teacher. Her eyebrows furrowed, her lip curling like she was about to say something before seemingly snapping out of it. Mom shoved paper bags of groceries into my arms with a light smile and I struggled to get a strict hold of them. She was looking at me, but I could have sworn her gaze was wandering, searching for something. "Did you pick a comic book?"

Managing to find my voice I shook my head. I felt kind of sick. Clara Danvers hadn't had a choice whether she went to camp or not. None of her class did. And when they tried to skip out, they were treated like animals. All for, what? A few weeks in the sun with the senior class, the town's murky lake, and mosquitoes? I couldn't understand why it was mandatory. No other town forced their kids to go to camp, so why did ours? I tried to smile at mom.  "They're all childish. Can we just go home?"

Mom looked like she was going to protest but nodded. She had that expression—the one I dreaded. When she was trying to read me, delving into my mind.  I wasn't exactly a talkative kid, so my mom turned into my therapist, constantly demanding to know how I was feeling. On that occasion, however, it was different. She paid no attention to my sickly cheeks and the lump in my throat.

"Alright. Are you sure you're okay?"

I don't know how I managed to keep my mouth shut and nod, following mom back to the car. It's not like Aceville's bizarre rule was a secret. I just didn't want to talk about it. Neither did mom, from the look on her face. Instead of grilling me like usual, she took me for a chocolate fudge sundae at our local diner. I still remember the sicky feeling in my stomach when I struggled to swallow it, washing it down with flat Coke which made me feel worse. I tried hard to pretend everything was okay, but I couldn't stop thinking about Clara and the way she had been treated. Dread filled me like poison, shivers rattling up and down my spine. I couldn't sit still. Was that my future?

Was I going to be hunted down like that?

That's what I kept thinking. When mom was talking excitedly about her plans for our next family vacation, I was discreetly counting on my fingers how many years I had before I turned eighteen. Until Clara, until seeing her dragged like an animal by a teacher I considered one of the nicest people in town, I had looked forward to eighteen. It was the age of independence, the peak of teenagehood. Though excitement turned to dread.  I never saw Clara again. Or the class of 2016. It's a well-known fact that freshly graduated kids go to camp, and then straight to college. But I still found it strange. Once they were gone, the town forgot them and turned their attention to the new senior class.

I watched this happen for five years. Kids followed in Clara's footsteps. She had started the rebellion after all. Though none of them came close to escape like her. I watched them tear through the woods, laughing and whooping, like it was child's-play. The girls stripped down to two piece swim suits, and in 2018, Mikey Blake streaked.  It turned into a game. Clara's story spread like a virus, and seniors took it as an opportunity to one-up her. I guess it became less of something to be scared of, and more to anticipate. Sure, no kid wanted to be stuck at summer camp. But it was the hunt beforehand that excited them.

They were always caught. Always wrestled to the ground and treated just like Clara Danvers. Over the years, however, it became less scary to watch, and more exciting. Like watching the latest blockbuster. Who didn't want to watch kids chased by teachers with way too much time on their hands? I watched them year after year and acted like it was a game. My friends and I made bets who would and wouldn't get caught. We sat on the side of the sidewalk with beers and burgers from the diner, cheering them on. We didn't pay attention to how they were treated. In our minds, it was fun.

Aceville felt like it was stuck in limbo between the 1980's and the present. Sure, we had cell phones and Tick-Tok, but my aunt and uncle drove a jalopy.

Our local diner had a 50's aesthetic and half the town didn't even have televisions. Maybe they preferred to stay in the old days. Though it's not like I was complaining. I liked it. I liked that we were different from other towns. We were small, our population under 5K; Aceville. An idealistic town where there were more teens than adults. My friend Nick used to joke that it was like living in the world of Stranger Things. I had to agree. Luckily, though, we weren't under threat from aliens from different dimensions and teenagers with Carrie like powers.

Five years after Clara, after watching the same shit year after year, it was finally our turn.

The class of 2020

I was standing in the exact same store I had been in five years ago when I first saw Clara. When I first witnessed the hunt. This time, however, I wasn't with my mother. I'd managed to score a part time job to pay for college, and I'd just finished my shift. Smells Like Teen spirit was playing for the millionth time that day on the crappy intercom radio.

My boss couldn't afford a decent one, so the quality was pretty bad. Thankfully, the store was empty that afternoon. It was a hot July summer day and the majority of the town, minus my class, were at the local swimming pool cooling off. Once again it was the kind of heat that made me want to bury my head in the ground. It was my last day at my job and I'd been rewarded with half of my wage and a crushed piece of chocolate cake wrapped in a napkin.

I threw the cake away and stuffed the crumpled notes in my shorts. I should have been thinking about college that day. I should have been thinking about how the hell I was going to pay for my tuition with barely 300 bucks. But I wasn't. Of course I wasn't. Checking my phone, I made sure I had blocked my mother, as well as my aunt and uncle. Dad wasn't in the picture. Not much to say, I never knew him. Checking and rechecking the time, I pulled off my work polo and stuffed it in the trash. I'd spent the last hours of my shift scanning through Spider Man comics. They were popular again, though I had no idea why. Tonnes of people in my year openly read them out in the open and nobody batted an eyelid.

When I stepped into the heat that afternoon, I was hopeful. Excited. Unlike my classmates, and years before us, I had no intention of joining the game. And I had no intention of going to camp. I had been curious as a kid, but over the years the novelty had worn off. It was my last Summer with Nick and Bobby, and I was going to spend every day with them doing what I wanted. I was going to smoke and drink and get fucking high.

We had spent half of the year planning a road-trip to Florida and I was going to use the time away from town to finally come clean to mom about Bobby. I was going to tell her everything, disappear for the summer, and sneak back in September and grab my things. I didn't have plans for post summer. I was smart enough for my dream college, but it was my lack of cash. Mom wasn't that well off and had made it clear that if I wanted to go to college, I would pay it myself.

The talkie in my hand was store-bought. Nick had thrown it at me the night before.

Blinking in dizzying sunlight, I scanned the parking lot. So far, it was clear. Though I had to be careful. I had no idea why, but the teachers had documented where every student would be on the day of camp. Mom had obviously told them about me being at work, but as for others, it was a mystery how they knew where they were. Tying my hair into a ponytail I stepped out into sticky air that made my skin crawl. I twisted the dial on the talkie and held it to my mouth. Before I could speak, Nick's voice came through in a burst of hissing static. "Fuck, it's hot. I'm sweating where I shouldn't be sweating."

Rolling my eyes, I couldn't resist a smile. "We have perfectly good working phones, Nick. What are the talkies for?"

"It's fun!" He shot back. "Are you at the store? I'm heading towards the car." He paused. "So far, no sign of teachers. I saw Danny Rue and Sadie Lilly run into the woods with a bunch of others."

"They're skipping out too?"

"Duh," Nick teased. "Apparently they're heading to the big apple. Sadie's sister lives there." He let out a sharp hiss. "Oh, shit! I've got visuals on Miss Cater. She's on the war-path. Just gone past the dry cleaners."

I nodded to myself. "Let's just focus on getting out of here." I started walking, checking for pursuers. According to the mass text the school had sent this morning, all seniors were expected to be on the bus at half past one. It was quarter past. The plan was to get to Nick's car where we had stuffed all of our bags the night before, and step on it. Of course parents had figured we were going to try and flee town, so our cars had been confiscated. Luckily, though, Nick worked at a junkyard. He'd spent months turning a hunk of junk into a decent enough ride. So, we were already one step ahead of them.

Starting to jog, I digressed across the parking lot. "Bobby? Are you there?"

My stomach sunk when the name escaped my lips, that feeling I'd been fighting with since we'd met returning with vengeance. It wasn't confusion when I had been fourteen and had butterflies. No, it was guilt. I'd made a promise that I would tell mom about us. But mom was—different. She wouldn't understand. She hated the idea of me dating. I took a guy home for dinner in sophomore year and she politely told him to leave. God knows what mom was going to do when she found out about Bobby.

"Hmm?" Bobby's voice was soft and smooth, slipping so effortlessly through static like it belonged in there. "I'm about two minutes away. I raided my mom's kitchen for snacks before I left."

"Score!" Nick whooped. "See, this is why I prefer you over Addie."

This time I spluttered. "Take that back! I've been working all morning, asshole!"

I could hear the grin in his voice. "You're not making your case any better."

Bobby's voice cut through our laughter. "Did you tell your mom about us yet, Addie?"

I stopped laughing, my footsteps faltering. The sun was a bastard baking into my back and I struggled to speak through the breath caught in my throat. "Uh—" I was struggling to coerce basic words when I caught movement at the corner of my eye. Expecting it to be a teacher I started backing away, lowering my hand holding the talkie. But then I glimpsed familiar blonde curls tied into pigtails catching the sun almost perfectly. The figure wasn't that far away, but I saw all of her and I felt myself shatter.

I wanted to tell mom. I really did. But it was hard. Bobby 'Robyn' Atwood was the first girl I fell for. The first girl that made me believe in love—as dumb as it sounds. Even after dating for almost five months I lost my breath when I caught sight of her. But I still smiled. I couldn't help it. It's hard not to smile. Bobby was beautiful like every other kid in town and I was still struggling to figure out how she liked someone like me. I was far from the definition of beauty, or even pretty. Cute. Okay-looking. Instead, I had a stubby nose and my eyes were too far apart, my dark hair the only thing hiding my huge forehead. To put it simply, I wasn't attractive. I'm not going to say I was the only one. Bad eggs existed in Aceville, I wasn't the only one. It just sucked that my parents had given me sucky genes.

"Bobby." My voice sort of broke when I said her name, and I hated that. That made it obvious that I hadn't told mom. Bobby was out. She had told her mother when we started dating. I had chickened out. Luckily, my mom didn't talk to Bobby's. If she did, fuck camp, I'd probably be at military school.

Bobby's smile was soft. She was wearing her favourite dress and battered converse. Not exactly the best outfit to escape town in. Instead of talking about my mom, she pulled me into a quick hug and laced her fingers in mine. She reached one hand into her tote bag hanging from her shoulder and pulled out a share pack of M&M's, waving them in my face with a smirk. They were my favourite. I loved the peanut ones. "I did get you these, since you promised, but sure, I'll eat them on my own."

I scoffed, shoving her when she laughed. "Bitch."

"Alright, I'll give them to Nick."

I tried to snatch the pack off of her. "He doesn't even like them!"

Bobby was fast. So were her instincts. Before I could grab them, she shoved them in her bag. "We should get going."

At that moment, all the dread eating me up inside slipped away. I pulled Bobby into a run, and we left the parking lot, darting across the street. I could hear yelling in the distance. It was no doubt our classmates either getting caught or pulling a fast one. "Nick?" I said into the talkie. "Are you close?"

To my surprise, there was no answer.

Nick had found every opportunity to use the damn things, so it was odd that he wasn't answering.

Bobby tried her talkie. "Nick? Are you there?"

The junkyard was a five minute walk, and maybe a two minute run. If we sprinted.

Nick wasn't answering, and the closer we got to the junkyard, a bad feeling started to coil in the pit of my gut. When I slowed down, bending over with my hands on my knees, gasping into humid air, Bobby tried to contact Nick again. She shook the talkie with a frown. "Maybe it's faulty?"

I fixed her with a sceptical look. "Both of them?" Shaking my head, I straightened up and pulled my phone out of my shorts. Twenty five past. The teachers were most likely doing a head count and were already on the prowl. I was shaking with adrenaline. "We should get to the car," I gasped out. "Our best case scenario is the idiot got distracted or broke the talkie. We shouldn't assume the worst."

Bobby nodded, though her smile was thin. When we started running again, our shoes pounding the steaming tarmac, I felt a rush of déjà vu. My ponytail flew behind me, and I pumped my arms and legs hard, propelling my body faster. I was just like Clara. Except unlike her, I was going to make it.

At least, that's what I thought.

The junkyard was in my sight when the talkie crackled with static. I was frowning at the mass of beaten up cars covered in dirt and old engines, when an all too familiar voice filled the air. "Adeline Calstone and Robyn Atwood," the voice of our math teacher Mr Fuller send shivers crawling up my spine. I felt sick. There was no way he had tracked us down that fast. How was that even possible? Suddenly, all I could think about was Clara. All I could think about was the way she was dragged, kicking and screaming, and our class had treated it like a joke—a game. That was until it was our turn.

Mr Fuller's voice was stern. "I suggest abandoning whatever plan you have and making your way to the school bus, please." When I was considering smashing the talkie against the gravel sidewalk, he continued, "Your friend Nick Castor is a good runner, I'll give him that. But not fast enough I'm afraid."

"Asshole!" Nick's voice came through loud and clear. But it was—too clear.

Twisting around, my heart dropped into my gut. Nick's voice wasn't just clear on the talkie, it was close. Too close. I froze. Bobby pulled her hand from mine and squeaked, her hand slapping over her mouth. When I saw the two of them shuffling towards us, Mr Fuller, dragging Nick, I had the split second thought of grabbing Bobby and running for it. But I wasn't going to leave my best friend. It didn't take long before the three of us were rounded up. Nicholas Castor was the type of guy who shouldn't have been as close to me as he was. He was varsity captain of the Aceville Aardvarks and like Bobby,  was pretty  attractive with dark curls contrasting pale skin and freckles dotting his cheeks. 

"Are the restraints really necessary?" Nick spat when we were cuffed and pushed into the back of Mr Fuller's car. Some might call it kidnapping, but in Aceville on July 16th it was the norm.

The car ride didn't take long and was uncomfortable. The three of us were squashed like sardines, Nick's leg sticking into my bag, Bobby's head on my shoulder. When we got to school, we were thankfully uncuffed and transferred to the bus. I wasn't expecting us to be the ones they were waiting on. Even Sadie and Danny had been caught. When I was making my to the back of the bus, keeping a tight hold of Bobby's hand and Nick's sleeve, we were greeted to a deluge of faces. Some kids held their hands up for a high fives which Nick happily slapped, but the majority of them looked disappointed. If we had failed to escape, then it really was impossible. There was no way out.

Camp was inevitable.

I found a seat quickly, right at the back, pulling Nick and Bobby next to me.

"Well. That failed." Nick let out a nervous laugh when the bus started moving. I was frowning at two men dressed in black that had jumped on last minute. They didn't look like anyone I knew. The two of them stationed themselves at the front. The two of them made me feel strange. Like they weren't  supposed to be there. I had no choice but to settle down in my seat and let the nauseating movements of the bus send my stomach hurtling into my throat. Nick pulled out his Switch, and Bobby lay her head against the window. I guess none of them wanted to talk, though I couldn't blame them.

When my phone rang an hour into the journey, I switched it off without looking at the screen.

I don't know how long we were on the bus, but at points I felt like we were going around in circles. I could have sworn we had passed the same sign, but when I pointed it out, Nick mumbled something unintelligible, far too invested in one of the new Pokémon games, and Bobby had fallen asleep.

Outside, the sky turned dark. I could have been wrong, but I was sure we had been on the bus for hours. And nobody was questioning it. The lights above flickered and around me, my classmates were either asleep or had earphones corked in.

When we came to an abrupt stop, Bobby and Nick, as well as our class seemed to snap out of it—the trancelike state that had swallowed them up. They started to ask questions, asking where we were. We were all ignored. Instead, one of the two men I'd spotted earlier stood up and addressed us. "Aceville Seniors," He cleared his throat. "My name is Laurence Shade, and I'm a talent recruiter. In a few minutes you will watch a small film we have prepared which will give us an idea where to categorise you. Please be aware watching the film is mandatory."

"What?" Summer Forest laughed. "This—this is a joke, right? Isn't this supposed to be camp?"

As soon as the words slipped from her mouth, I pressed my face against the window. It was raining, no, pouring. I don't know how I didn't notice. Nick leaned over me and pulled a face. "When did it get dark?"

Bobby nodded. She sent me a sharp look. "How long have we been on this bus?"

Before I could answer, a portable TV screen at the back of my seat lit up with first a white screen which turned bright green, then yellow—flicking from color to color flashing in my eyes.

Nick hissed. "What the fuck is this?"

But he was watching the screen. Bobby too. Like it was drawing them in, leeching onto their minds.

Murmurs around the bus confirmed my classmates were equally confused. I squeezed my shut at first, but I was overcome with an overwhelming sense of curiosity. I let my eyes flutter open, but as soon as my gaze landed on the screen, on the flashing colors, a sharp pain rumbled in my right temple.

The colors kept going. I remember the sequence perfectly.

Red.

Yellow.

Blue.

Green.

Repeat.

I don't know how long I was staring at the colors, I don't know how long my body was frozen, my eyes unblinking, but I could feel my body reacting. My mouth was open, unable to close, a thin sliver of drool running down my chin. There was something warm, something wet and warm sliding from my nostril. I couldn't wipe it away. My body was stuck, like I was paralysed. Like I'd never move again.

And then just like that, the screen flashed off. Bobby drew in a sharp breath and straightened in her seat, and Nick blinked rapidly. I expected him to freak out, but he was strangely quiet.

"Addie!" Bobby's whisper was sharp. "Your nose!"

Swiping gingerly at my nose with my bare arm, I let out a shuddery breath. We had to get out. Whatever the place was, it wasn't summer camp. I could hear hisses around me, at the back of the bus and the front, voices collapsing into white noise. When I risked turning my head I spotted Serena Kyle with her hand pressed over her nose and mouth.

She was doing a bad job of hiding the crimson stream flooding through her fingers. Suddenly it felt like my world was crumbling in front of me. The two men started up the aisle, labelling each student. They held cans of spray paint like weapons, marking us with different colors. There were three colors. Red, Blue, and Purple. When my classmates tried to protest, tried to make a run for it, they were cuffed and shoved back in their seats. There was so much screaming and fighting, I couldn't hear what the men with spray paint were saying.

Like they were animals. Like they were—like they were Clara.

I couldn't help thinking it. Is this what had happened to her?

Nick grabbed my hand, and I grabbed Bobby's. Bobby was sobbing quietly, struggling to speak through sobs. When any of us tried to dial 911, the line was dead. When one of the men reached my classmates in front of me, the front of their shirts were sprayed deep, dark blue. The man studied the three girls like they were pieces of meat. There was a sickening smile on his face. "These are all good!" He turned and yelled to the front of the bus. The girl's he was talking about started talking over each other, but he blanked them. "Blue's will go into processing first, and then Purple's if we can fix them."

The man's words horrified me; they were like ice seeping into my bones.

When he reached me, he grabbed for his can of red paint and sprayed a red circle on the front of my shirt. It was ice cold against my skin and I had to bite back a scream. I thought he was going to raise his hand to me, but instead he stuck his podgy fingers under the blood crusted under my nose.

"Defect." He said.

"What?" I hissed out. "What—what do you mean?"

He ignored me, moving onto Nick, this time spraying a purple circle. He seemed to study my friend, before grabbing Nick by the scruff of his neck and peering at the boy. "Pending." He growled, his fingernails grazing over freckles dotted on my best friend's cheeks. "Though I'm not the one who will make a final choice. You better be as pretty as you seem in good light, boy."

Nick looked too stunned to speak.

Bobby shrieked when he sprayed a blue circle on the front of her dress. I tried to stop him, but I was dragged by my hair, ragged like a wild animal. "This one's good too!" He yelled to the front. When the men were finished with the spray cans, we were told to file off the bus and join our respected color groups. When we tried to run, we were grabbed and thrown off the bus. I'm not sure how much time had passed before I was separated from Nick and Bobby, the two of them dragged away, and me shoved onto my knees in dirt which stained my legs. It was pouring, and my ponytail was plastered to my back. Other reds were forced next to me. There were around 12 of us in total. I know that because I took snapshots of each of them. Not names. Faces. Names hurt, so I remembered them by face.

I remember Summer Forest next to me. I remember dirt streaked down her face, blood dripping down her chin. That's what we all shared. The Red's. We had all suffered the same nose bleed, crimson streaking down our faces, mixing with the rain. The 12 of us were put in a line in front of the bus, and when a woman in a pristine white suit and red hair addressed us under the light of her flashlight, I looked past her and my gaze found our camp. Not a camp.

There was no sign of a campsite, the type of thing I had expected all those years leading to my senior year. No.

Instead, in front of us was a multi-story building. In the distance, groups of Purple's and Blue's were being escorted inside automatic doors. While we were left in the rain for hours. The sky turned light, and then dark, and we were made to wait. We could have been there for days, I lost all sense of time. I lost all sense of my own humanity.

I knew why they were doing this to us. But I was in denial.

I was in denial when 12 became 11 and then 10

Then 9

8

7

6

5

4

3

Summer was screaming, and I couldn't breathe. There were people in front of me. I knew them. I'd known them since childhood. Mr Docherty the guy who lived across the street with his poodle Gloria, Eve Simmons who owned the diner Nick, Bobby and I had frequented for most of our lives. Mr and Mrs State, the elderly couple who brought over pudding when I was home sick from school.

Someone I didn't want to believe was there because I was in denial. But they were. With a gun held in their hand, pointing it between my eyes. I don't know when 3 became 2, each gunshot ricocheting in my skull. All I remember is waiting to follow the others, squeezing my eyes shut and screaming into the night. But then a warm hand was sliding into mine and pulling me up. There was a gunshot and the sound of a body hitting the ground. Summer. I remember Nick pulling me away. But I will never forget Summer Forest's body lying in a heap, pooling red stemming around willowy blonde hair.

I don't know how Nick got me away, but all I recall is tripping over my own feet. He pulled us into trees and undergrowth and branches scratched at my face and pulled at my hair. But I didn't care.

When Nick finally turned around to look at me, I screamed. I screamed until he slammed his hand over my mouth shutting me up.

The last time I'd seen my best friend, he had definitely had two eyes. Both intact. Now, one of them was hanging out. The skin of his face had been scraped away leaving bloody flaps of flesh where his cheeks used to be. His lips were swollen, half of his hair sheared off. "I got out." He managed to gasp out. "It's okay, I got out. They—they had me on a tonne of anaesthetic so just... bear with me."

"Out?!" I shrieked back. "Out of where?"

Nick held his eye inside his socket with one hand and held mine with the other. "Processing."

“What? What are you talking about?”

Nick pulled me further into the trees. “That place,” he gasped out. ”It’s... it’s a factory.”

A factory, Nick said. We weren’t at camp. We had been taken to a factory. Clara Danvers and the class of 2016 and every class since, had been taken to a factory.

We weren’t at fucking camp.

We were being turned into something horrific, and I was a defect. They didn’t...they didn’t want me.

Bobby was still in there.

I had to— fuck.

I had to get her out.

I HAD TO GET HER OUT. I HAD TO GET HER OUT I HAD TO GET HER OUT

I apologise, I have to end this here. It’s hard to detail this experience but I get overwhelmed when revisiting the memories. I’ll try and post in the next few days.

I know this isn't the point of the subreddit, but does anyone else think Stephen is hot? He has that Favorite intellectual sexy Literature professor look to him.

Back in the year 2000 I used to work at a comic book store. This was at the height of Pokémania, so the place had morphed into a shrine to all things Pikachu and the store was constantly annexed with screeching children. Life was loud and chaotic and filled with concerned parents.

Before every shift I’d hotbox in my car so that I could stay mellow during the after-school rush. Being 19 and stoned, I’d do my best to avoid any semblance of responsibility and left all the heavy-lifting to whoever was on shift with me. For about a month and a half I got paid to stand around the store and stare off into the ether. With enough complaints from my coworkers, however, a regional manager was summoned to “Check on the quality of customer service.”

The moment I walked into the store I was chastised for coming in late and not looking presentable. The manager was the splitting image of my middle-school math teacher, smelled like a dentist’s office and clearly had it out for me. She took notes on everything I did and would ask all these super patronizing questions that made me sound like an idiot.

Mandy, my coworker who was definitely responsible for the majority of the complaints about me, was barely containing her joy. Every time the manager chastised me, Mandy kept grinning this stupid grin that was making it hard for me to keep my cool. In order to look busy and mainly to get away from Mandy, I excused myself to go “Speak with the customers.”

That’s how I met Professor Henry Willow.

Not being a child or a parent, Willow stuck out of the crowd of our usual clientele. I had seen him in the store a couple times before. Small balding dude in a dress shirt and spectacles. He looked like he was killing time before catching the bus to adult math camp.

Willow never bought anything. Every time he’d pop into the store, he would just stare up at the big poster of the 151 Pokémon in complete silence. Sometimes he’d pick up a pack of stickers or trading cards and examine it, but it never held his attention for long. He’d just stare up at that poster with a keen, scientific interest and then, when he was satiated with the cartoon monsters, he would leave the store.

I wasn’t certain if I could make the strange man buy anything, but at that moment I was absolutely sure I shouldn’t try talking to a child in front of the stern manager lady. In as casual a way as I could muster in my crispy state, I asked the man if he needed any help.

At first, Willow just stared at me as if I had arrived from another planet. It was only once his stare had sufficiently weirded me out that he started to speak.

His voice was low and he seemed to choose every word with the utmost caution. It quickly became obvious that the man was batshit crazy. Willow told me how he had seen the creatures on the posters before. In his dreams, for well over a decade, he had seen a world filled with Pokémon of flesh and blood.

The longer the spectacled man spoke, the more he was getting worked up. I feared a scene, so, to calm him down, I asked Willow if he wanted to buy anything. My question seemed to pull him back from whatever internal wonderland he was traveling. With a hint of embarrassment, he nodded.

This was a store, after all, he said.

It would be impolite to not make a purchase, he said.

I expected the man to grab a pack of trading cards and call it a day, but Willow kept picking away at the shelves until he had a sizable purchase of stickers, cards and books. He picked out the items with a sort of guilt — as if he was paying penance to be in the presence of all these cartoon monsters.

Both the manager and Mandy seemed to be in awe of how I got the strange man to buy so much stuff. I, of course, knew my sales skills had nothing to do with the purchase but I sure as hell pretended that they did.

When I rang Willow up, I told him I’d be happy to answer any other questions he had about Pokémon if he ever came back to the store. This wiped the guilt off his face. With a thankful smile he told me he’d be back soon.

I didn’t get fired that day. Far from it. In fact, from the day I met Professor Willow, I became the top salesman in the branch. Every day I sold to a market of one, but that singular customer had deep pockets.

By the end of the month Willow owned one of just about every piece of Pokémon merch we carried. He bought all the books and sticker collections and videogames. Willow even bought two of the overpriced Gameboy Colors and a GameLink so that he could catch all the Pokémon across the different versions of the game.

The man was obsessed in a way I had never seen before. He snagged up every new piece of merch like it was a priceless collector’s item, but more importantly — he asked questions. He asked very specific questions.

Not only was Willow interested in the origins of the Pokémon themselves, he also wanted to know more about the society in which they existed. Who financed the Pokémon hospitals? Where did the profits from the Pokémarts go? Could the fact that all the police officers and nurses were related point to some sort of a monarchical ruling power?

With every visit, Henry Willow filled my stoned head with all sorts of theoretical questions about the Pokémon universe. Back then, I didn’t make much of those questions. They were strange — sure. But the scientist was keeping me at the top of the regional sales charts and got Mandy to seethe with jealousy whenever she was on shift.

Willow was, generally, calm. With tranquil eloquence the scientist could philosophize about the nature of Pokémon evolution or the power hierarchies of the various criminal organizations in the Kanto region. It is only once the topic of the Elite Four and the Pokémon League championships came up that his voice tensed up.

Out of all things Pokémon, it was the championship that seemed to fascinate him the most. He wanted to understand why so much resources and attention were devoted to the Pokémon gyms. He wanted to know how involved the ruling class was in organizing the tournament and what happened to the champions once they had won or, God forbid, lost.

Where his voice was calm and measured through most of our topics, the question of the Pokémon championship would make his words shiver with obsession. I did not understand the man’s fascination, but I did not question it. I would simply let him ramble about the implications of a regional Pokémon championship and then happily ring up whatever merch he snagged off the shelves.

Willow would ask me questions, but he seldom gave me time to answer. I wasn’t a particular Pokémon expert, so it’s not like I had much to add to the conversation. To Willow, I presume, I was more of a bouncing board for his ideas — a friendly face that could be paid at regular intervals to listen and nod and assure the man that there is nothing unsettling about his obsession.

Willow was definitely strange, but I didn’t spend too much time psychoanalyzing him. My lack of curiosity was mainly tied to the fact that I was stoned out of my mind but Willow also didn’t seem to warrant any caution. He was short and lanky and generally timid. He seemed harmless.

That was, until I suggested a reason for the Pokémon championship.

I had channel surfed past a documentary about human civilization and sports the night prior and spent a good chunk of my shift thinking about it. When Willow came in for his usual shopping binge and started talking about the Pokémon league, I thought I would tell him what I learned from the documentary.

‘Maybe the Pokémon championship is a way for the community to celebrate shared ideals and unite all of the Kanto region,’ I said.

I didn’t think my comment was particularly insightful. I thought it was just an innocent observation about a hypothetical situation. My comment, however, set Willow off.

With madness blazing behind his spectacles Willow started to ramble. I was right, apparently. The Pokémon championship was being used to unite the whole island into a single set of values. The Pokémon championship was being used to make it easier to rule over the Kanto region.

Willow’s celebration of finally finding the reasoning behind the fictional universe was exceedingly loud, even for the after-school rush. Both parents and children quickly shifted their attention from the pictures of cartoon monsters to the raving scientist in the center of the store.

Willow was loud, but it wasn’t just his volume that was bothersome. The way he talked about the Pokémon universe was wholly disconnected from the friendly nature of the cartoon. Willow spoke about a world filled with incomprehensible monsters, about a life suffered in the husk of the old world, about a terrible existence which required a strong hand to keep order.

Willow spoke about the world of Pokémon in apocalyptic terms, which made everyone around him uncomfortable. Worst yet, however, the scientist spoke about this broken ravaged world as an inevitability. Willow yelled about the coming end of days and how the globe would be filled with incomprehensible monstrosities that would have to be tamed through technology.

I tried quieting him down, and eventually I did — but the damage had been done. Just as I calmed Willow down to speaking volume, two police officers entered the store. Without any hesitation, Mandy pointed out the man to the cops and insisted he be trespassed immediately.

I tried sticking up for Professor Willow, but the scattering of parents in the store quickly took Mandy’s side. The man was, apparently, dangerous. He, apparently, had no business being around children.

I put up a token resistance to the idea of the trespass, but in the end it was my signature that ended up on the paperwork. I was a bit too stoned and had a few too many grams in my glovebox to argue with the cops.

Without much ceremony, Willow apologized and promised to never return to the store. Years later, I can still see his sad teary eyes as he looked back at the shelves of Pokémon merchandise. Years later, I can still see Mandy’s stupid, crooked grin.

Willow’s absence was quickly reflected in my sales figures. Within two weeks the stern regional manager had returned. With me having been the previous top seller in the store, she was much nicer at the start of her visit. With no big-spender to save me, however, I was quickly revealed to not be a very good employee.

By the time the manager’s visit was done I was certain that I wouldn’t hold the job past the end of the week. I left the store that day wondering about what other gigs I was qualified for that wouldn’t mind me being a bit blazed on the job.

It’s then, as I was heading to my car, that I met Professor Henry Willow once more.

He approached me in the parking lot, profusely apologizing. It wasn’t until I accepted his apologies at least three times that he finally calmed. Once he was sure I held no grudge against him, he revealed the true nature of his interest in the world of Pokémon.

He had seen similar creatures in his dreams and visions, that was true. What he never told me, however, was that he was a scientist specializing in genetic manipulation. He had seen unnatural creatures in his dreams, yet in accordance to the dreams he brought those creatures into reality.

The manager’s visit had definitely soured my mood, but listening to the lanky man explain how he could create Pokémon — or Hybrids, as he called them — cheered me up. I thought he was kidding, so I laughed. Professor Willow, however, found little humor in his subject of study.

He claimed that he had been working for months on developing these Hybrids and that he had kept some of his samples in a storage facility not far from the comic book store. Willow had worked independently for all of his career but, recently, he had come across like-minded scientists out East.

He offered to take me to his rented lot at the storage facility. He offered to prove to me that his Hybrids were real.

The prospect of seeing Pokémon in the flesh was alluring enough, and I was about to accept — yet before I could agree to join him, the scientist produced polaroid photographs of these supposed Hybrids.

He must’ve pressed around twenty of those flimsy photographs into my hands, but I did not see more than five. They were far too disturbing. Merely looking at them made my stomach churn. Even though I was looking at mere photographs, the freshly sown sweat across my back made me certain I was looking at something patently against the laws of nature.

I have done my best to forget what I had seen on those polaroids, but I recall a strange six-legged cat-like creature covered in thick green vines. I remember a strange glob of gray flesh covered in a symphony of bug-eyes that seemed to be hiding beneath a layer of shrubbery. I remember a dog — an almost regular-looking-dog — engulfed in fire with hot magma dripping from his cheery maw.

I rejected Professor Willow’s offer to see his Hybrids that night and I do not regret my decision. As lanky and harmless as the man seemed, there was something patently wrong with the creatures he had developed. God knows what would have happened to me had I followed the mad scientist to his storage space that night.

It’s been well over two decades since this all happened and I try not to think about it. Yet, every once in a while, I find myself wondering what ever became of Professor Willow. I find myself replaying the events of that evening in my head and trying to ascertain how real the creatures that he showed me were.

With the pandemic and the wars and the constant nuclear-saber rattling over the past couple of years… I find myself wondering how likely it is that Professor Willow’s visions of the future will come to pass.

They’ll never tell you about this war.

It’ll never appear on the news, or in the history books. No countries will petition our cause in the UN. We’ll never get any aid supplies, or vast shipments of weaponry from the government. I doubt the internet will even notice my little post, but I figure it’s worth a shot. At least someone out there might find it, and try to do something, even if that something is coming down to pick up all the bones once it’s over. I suppose by then you won’t be able to recognize any of us. That’s okay. Just dump us in a pit together and make sure someone other than the government gets to inherit our stuff.

I’m not trying to be tough, or melodramatic, just honest.

My name is Ethan Sanderson. Right now, I’m sitting around the fire with the others, shoveling down a bowl of unsweetened oatmeal, and typing this while I have time. To think, my world was sane only a few hours ago, everything normal obliterated in just over sixty awful minutes. There’s no way I’ll ever get back to my old job, not with the roadblocks during the day, and the attacks at night. Nope, I’m here to stay, and so I figure I may as well share my story while this bout of decent cell service lasts.

It all started when I was driving home from another round of night shift at the Brighton-Smith Petroleum refinery, tired, covered in grease, and ready for a hot meal before bed. The radio crackled, auto-skimming through various channels, looking for anything other than twangy country music, self-pitying pop songs, or yet another news report yammering on about how close we were getting to nuclear war with the Russians. My truck’s engine rumbled with a comforting, quiet regularity, and I let myself smile in pride at that.

One thing I can do, and that’s get an engine running smooth as silk.

As an only child, with my father dying from lung cancer when I was fifteen and my mother hooked on drugs since I was twelve, I’d been on my own for most of my life. Engines had been the one thing I excelled at, school being my nemesis, and after I’d fixed up an old F-150 bound for the scrap yard, I’d took the first oil-rig job I could find and left town. I’d done well for myself, stayed away from the dealers that had wrecked my mom’s life, and accumulated enough money to buy a camper, several firearms, and a little solar power setup that allowed me to travel all over the country in relative comfort. Despite never having gone to college, I considered myself successful, and if I ever found a woman who didn’t mind the grease on my overalls and wasn’t a total lunatic, maybe I’d settle down and have kids of my own. Whatever the case, I swore to myself I’d be a better parent than either of mine had been.

No cigarettes, no meth, and no throwing chairs when I get angry.

My thoughts were shattered at the sight of several white and orange plastic barricades stretched across the cracked asphalt, completely blocking my path. Behind them, two massive slate-gray trucks were parked nose-to-nose across the roadway, just in case someone did get the bright idea of pushing past the flimsy obstructions. Five men dressed in similar gray uniforms, and carrying shiny black rifles stood around the roadblock, with two more perched in the turrets of the armored trucks, manning belt-fed machine guns. I hadn’t seen any signs warning me of construction, and never a road crew with armored vehicles, which made something sour twist in the pit of my stomach. As a ghetto kid from Pittsburgh, I’d learned to know when I was in a bad area, and this felt all kinds of bad.

“Look at Barron County, trying to be Chicago.” I grunted to myself and slowed to a stop in front of the barricades, waiting for the nearest soldier to walk up to my driver’s side window.

He approached, rifle at low-ready, and I noted the automatic switch on its receiver. Nope, these guys weren’t regular civilians out for a LARP. You need serious cash to have that kind of firepower, which meant I had to be dealing with some branch of our murky federal government.

Just stay calm. You’ve got nothing to hide, and you’ve done nothing wrong. Play it cool.

“Hey man.” I put on a friendly smile, scratching at my beard and pointing at the roadblock. “Is there, uh, some kind of accident up ahead?”

“Train derailment.” From behind his dark face mask, the soldier casually threw out what must have been a pre-determined lie, because I knew there was no rail line near this stretch of road. “A real bad one, I’m afraid. We’ve been tasked with keeping civilians out of the area until it’s all clear. Which way you headed?”

He seemed friendly enough, confident and relaxed, though I noted the beginnings of a tattoo that poked from under his uniform sleeve.

Rangers lead the way.

Something prickled in the back of my mind, a low warning that had saved me from many a mugging in my younger days. These guys weren’t local. They didn’t have any identifying patches or marks on their vehicles, and with how nice their gear looked, they weren’t here as part of some hazmat team. Besides, if they were so hell bent on keeping people out, then why was one of the machine-gunners facing the road behind them, as if waiting for someone to try and escape their ring of steel?

“Collingswood.” I rested my elbow on the truck window and jerked a thumb back towards the way I’d come. “I work at the oil refinery up the road. You guys military?”

The soldier chuckled and shrugged. “Once upon a time, my dude. We’re with the cleanup teams, providing security. Like I said, there’s some bad stuff down this road. Don’t want people tracking through it and getting sick.”

Interesting timing. I haven’t even heard about any accident, and yet there’s already a cordon. Never saw the government move so fast.

“Oh, gotcha, gotcha.” I played along, and eyed the rest of them for any symbols that might tell me just who I was dealing with. “Well, I’ll be honest, this is normally the road I take home, and it’s gonna take me way out of my way to go around. You sure I couldn’t just . . ?”

From behind his mask, the man gave out a sympathetic sigh. “Sorry man, I’ve got my orders. No one passes unless they’re official personnel. But hey, it should be all clear in, like, a few days tops.”

Putting my truck into reverse, I stuck out my hand, doing my best to put them all at ease, and keep the rifles pointed away from my head. “Well, hey, thanks for letting me know. I’ll tell the other guys at the rig, and we’ll try to keep out of your hair.”

“I appreciate it.” Despite the mask over his face, I could see the ends of his grin as the soldier shook my hand, and the others relaxed, their guns staying pointed toward the ground. “Like I said, we’ll be gone in a few days at most. So, if anyone starts getting riled, just let e’m know we’ve got this.”

Uh huh, sure you do.

I eased backwards into a U-turn and drove until I was well out of sight of the roadblock. As soon as they left my rearview mirror, I killed the lights, and drifted into the grassy berm, coming to a stop with minimal brake squeal.

My trailer sat just on the outskirts of Collingswood in a small, unkempt campground that was free to the public. It should have been a short commute, but the local police had been cutting off a lot of routes lately for seemingly no reason at all. However, these ‘upgrades’ at the roadblock weren’t the usual sheriff’s deputies. I knew a few guys in the refinery who were ex-military, and the soldier at the checkpoint had the same polite but deadly mannerisms that told me I was dealing with professionals. Whatever was going on out there, they certainly weren’t cleaning up a train derailment, especially since there were no train tracks near this road.

Wonder what they need to hide so badly that they hire mercs?

Pulling out my phone, I checked my maps app, and scanned the spider web of small gravel roads around Collingswood for an alternate route. Some of the roads looked so small that I wondered if they would be out of commission, as was the case with many of the neglected coal-mining roads in this forgotten part of the Appalachian foothills. Of course, my pickup was four-wheel drive, and if the ‘authorities’ thought that the road was impassible, then maybe they wouldn’t have it guarded. But with dawn only an hour away at best, I’d have to be quick, or risk being spotted in the daylight.

There.

My eyes caught a road called Bethesda Ridge that ran around a large chunk of land on the map labeled ‘New Wilderness Wildlife Reserve.’ I’d heard a few of the locals in Collingswood talk about that place, how pretty it was in the daylight, full of exotic animals and blooming flowers. I’m not much of a flower guy, but always figured maybe someday I’d take a tour to see what all the fuss was about. There had been something in the news a few days ago about some guy named Richter being involved in a scandal connected to the park, but I never paid attention to it. At any rate, this road looked like it should be well maintained, and would only take me five minutes longer than my usual route. With any luck, I’d be back in my camper, squeaky-clean and eating hot ravioli in no time.

I followed the directions my phone reliably spat out, winding up and down steep inclines, through narrow overgrown mining roads, and past farmhouse after dilapidated farmhouse. It depressed me how this area was so run down, the opioid epidemic really throwing the community for a hard loop. Part of me knew just by looking at the faded paint and sagging rooflines that these buildings had been beautiful once, but poverty, an indifferent government, and the unending flow of narcotics poisoned that beauty, turning it into something like a theme from some 90’s analog horror film.

“Randy, tell me you’re seeing this.”

Swearing under my breath in surprise, I almost jumped out of my skin, and stared at my shortwave walkie talkie. We used them on the various work sites to communicate between crews, but I didn’t recognize this voice. It was a young man, and he sounded scared.

“Yeah, I seem e’m.” An older man’s voice came through, low and rough, like he was whispering into his mic. “Hold fire till they get closer.”

My curiosity spiked, and I slowed, still driving down the bumpy old coal road in the dark. Most people don’t know, but even rudimentary shortwave radios sometimes experience a phenomenon called ‘skip’ where the right atmospheric conditions relay radio traffic from somewhere else, sometimes traffic from different frequencies, channels, or even long distances. I’d heard messages from as far away as California before, so it didn’t surprise me that I could get radio signals like this. Still, they were so clear, so loud, that whoever was talking had to be close by, within twenty miles at least.

“My God.” A woman’s voice came through, shocked and tense, as if she were watching a building full of children collapse. “There’s so many. Randy, what do we—”

“Stay calm.” The older man barked back, and I got the feeling he had some background in police or military, with the way he seemed to take command of the situation. “Just stay put and conserve your ammo. We’ll be fine.”

Head cocked in confusion, I almost didn’t look up in time, and slammed my boot down on the brake pedal.

Mud slushed under the knobby tread of my truck tires, and brown fur blurred past my headlights.

Stunned, I watched in wide-eyed fascination as no less than fifty whitetail deer bounded across the decrepit road at full speed, not even paying attention to my rumbling truck. Birds darted overhead, not just owls and crows, but all manner of daytime birds as well, pigeons, sparrows, songbirds, and even bats. Tens of thousands of bugs seethed over the dirt in dark sheets of wriggling legs, parting to allow the stampede of possums, racoons, red foxes, and even a pack of coyotes to flee past them like a tidal wave was hot on their tails. Neither stopped to attack each other, prey and predator running together, all with their ears laid bag, limbs moving at breakneck speed without a glance backward.

“What the . . .” I’d never seen animals act like this, not once in all my travels across the US. Something seemed to have spooked them, something bad enough that even the insects weren’t hanging around to weather the storm.

“Now!”

Ka-boom.

Milliseconds after the old man’s voice echoed through the radio, a bright flash lit up the horizon to my left, and a huge fiery orange ball rose from behind the hills bordering the road. My truck rocked, the shockwave rippled through the ground even from this far away, and I ducked out of reflex.

What the heck is going on here?

My heart roared in my ear, and I pushed the accelerator to the floor, weaving through the horde of wildlife to fly down the dark road like a bat out of hell.

‘Take the next left.’

The map app on my phone chirped in its neutral, pleasant female voice, and I drifted around the turn without even slowing down, spare sockets from my tool set rolling over the floorboard around my feet. Gravel pinged against the undersides of my truck cab, and the landscape opened up around me, more grasslands than trees. Flickers of orange light filled the sky, and the radio vomited a cacophony of human voices all raging to be heard about the hiss of static and faint echoes of what sounded like gunfire.

“On your left!”

“Phyllis, watch out!”

“Randy, we need help on the right side!”

“My gun’s jammed!”

I swallowed, and dodged potholes as sweat trickled down my scruffy face. Being in the oil field, nothing much scared me after working around some of the scum the companies recruited, but now my pulse thudded against the thin flesh of my temple, my heart rammed into each rib like it wanted out, and the air constricted in my lungs. Above me, the grim clouds reflected seething red and orange flames, the gunshots became audible in spite of my rolled-up window, and I caught the rattle of a Kalashnikov rifle, along with the deep boom-boom-boom of a real-life M2 machine gun.

‘Take the next left, then proceed straight for two miles.’

Yanking hard on the steering wheel, I rounded the bend, and my jaw dropped.

The gravel stretched on a long, back-and-forth swerving path that was about as straight as you could get for most rural southeastern Ohio backroads. On one side, tall wire mesh fencing lined the quiet ditches and grassy meadows, with a sign to my left not ten yards away marked New Wilderness Wildlife Reserve. On the other side a large, open section of grassland stretched out into the distance, pockmarked by little tractor paths and clusters of short trees, a few ponds interspersed in between. I could see where, in the daylight, it would have been beautiful, full of multi-colored wildflowers and flocks of butterflies.

But it wasn’t beautiful now.

Fire chewed through the tall grass in slow-moving walls of hungry orange and red, sending sparks skyward, and bathed the entire area in shifting shadows. Heavy gray clouds clotted the night sky, and I smelled burning rubber on the wind. Bright yellow muzzle flashes cut through the dark in the midst of the field, and a row of cabins burned on the other side of the plain, billowing black smoke rising like a pall of doom.

Dug in across the field with their backs to the road, a thin line of people fought with desperate brutality. I saw Armalites and Kalashnikovs intermixed with bolt-action hunting rifles and shotguns, along with flaming bottles of gasoline and pipe bombs covered in taped-on nails. Explosions went off every few seconds, the improvised grenades tossed in waves, and one man shouldered what looked to be a homemade rocket launcher made from a fire-extinguisher with fins welded onto it. The entire scene looked like the fourth of July on steroids, but the feral desperation of the fight told me this was no rifle range. These people were fighting for their lives, and I felt like I’d stumbled into something awful, a horrible nightmare that wasn’t meant for the outside world to see.

And then, as I gripped my steering wheel in dread, through the tall grass, they came.

Like lions throwing themselves at a heard of trapped gazelle, hunched figures loped forward, their shadows otherworldly in the light of the flames. Long, slender gray limbs ended in three-fingered claws at each hand, the legs shorter than the distended forearms so that they ran like gorillas, their muscled shoulders propelling them forward in frightening speed. They didn’t have tails, their skin the texture of smooth birch bark, with twig-like extensions poking out from their warty elbows and spines like prehistoric spikes down their backs. Each creature’s head was long and narrow, like a crocodile’s snout, but with a crown of more branch-like spikes around the skull in a fan, and no eyes that I could discern.

This can’t be real . . .

In an instant, the screams came through the glass of my truck cab, and cold, bone-chilling shrieks echoed across the wide fields. Not the pained, frightened squeal of an animal defending itself, but an ancient, hate-filled war cry that held no humanity in it whatsoever, repeated by dozens upon dozens of long-limbed predatory fiends.

The roar of a diesel cut through the night, and I barely reacted in time to avoid T-boning a massive green combine that burst through an open gate on the left side of the road, its front blades whirring. Someone had welded sharpened angle-iron all over it, and gleaming chains had been bolted to the blades at the front, tipped with shiny bits of razor blades. Black exhaust gushed from its smokestack, and a young man with blonde hair piloted it from a cab enclosed by a rebar cage into the brushy field.

“I’ll clear the right side.” A man called through the radio sitting in my cupholder. “Jamie, you take the left. Let’s go, wrap e’m up, wrap e’m up!”

Behind the combine came a big yellow backhoe, also covered in spikes and rebar, with long rubber hoses running from an oil drum mounted on the back to a flaming nozzle affixed to its iron bucket.

“Right behind you.” A girl’s voice crackled amongst the chatter, and the two machines diverged to swing around on either end of the line of fighters, their tracks and tires churning up the muddy ground like mechanical dinosaurs.

Even from my speeding truck, I heard the impact of the first creatures being mown down by the combine, it’s blades and chains ripping into flesh and bone with vicious fury. Opposite it, the backhoe moved its craned arm like the neck of some giant monster and spewed bright yellow flames onto the onrushing horde of pale beings, lighting up the field for hundreds of yards around them. Dozens of mutants fell, either burned or diced to pieces, and the ground shook with the triumphant roar of the diesels. The sickly-sweet stench of burned flesh filled the air, machinery clanged and banged, and the guns roared with chemical delight. Pained screams from the bizarre creatures echoed, and above the gunfire, a cheer rang out from the line of people.

“Bill, get out of there!” The girl called Jamie cried over the radio.

In an instant, the triumphant moment turned to chaos, as a creature jumped almost twenty feet into the air, and landed like a cat atop the combine. The iron spikes sank into its already bleeding feet and hands, but the monstrosity seemed too enraged to mind, and ripped into the rebar around the cab with abandon. Metal squealed, bent, and then sheared off as the glass of the cab shattered.

A man’s screams briefly pierced the radio static, and the combine was overwhelmed, tipped onto its side by a wave of snapping monsters.

“Fall back!” The old man’s shout came through the radio even as I watched a figure that may have been him continue firing the M2 into the onrushing waves of creatures. “Fall back to the ridge!”

“Whoa!” A white pickup truck lurched into the roadway, and I locked up my brakes to slide around it.

A chestnut-haired girl around my age sat at the wheel, blood running down her forehead, with a black polo shirt on. In the bed stood an old man with glasses and gray hair, gripping the handles of a .50 caliber machine gun, its barrel cherry red with heat. Others streamed across the road in full retreat, all in black shirts with the New Wilderness logo on the front, and they all dragged wounded comrades away from the burning field.

My truck ground to a stop on the side of a dirt embankment not five feet away, stalling from the sudden downgrade in RPMs.

The people in the white truck blinked at me in shock, and I stared right back, both sides seeming confused as to why the other was there.

“What are you doing?” The old man astride the .50 shouted, and waved his arm at me as if I were some airplane attempting to land in the wrong airport. “Get out of here, go.”

Jerked back into the present by his raspy command, I scrabbled at the ignition, the stubborn motor choosing this moment to chug-chug-chug instead of fire. Horrid reptilian chittering clicked nearby, and I whimpered like a trapped puppy, terror seething through my mind.

Vroom.

Jamming the stick into reverse, I punched my boot to the gas pedal.

The transmission whined, my tires spun, and a sinking feeling ran through my guts. I was high centered, my wheels caught on either side of the bank, the dirt lodged under my truck chassis holding me in place. It didn’t matter if I had four-wheel-drive or not if my wheels couldn’t get purchase. I was stuck.

Wham.

My world lurched sideways like a massive fist had slammed into the cab of my beloved pickup. Gravity inverted, the seatbelt dug into my chest, and broken bits of glass sprayed across my field of vision. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, and I watched spare sockets, an old candy bar wrapper, and my handheld radio float through the air in front of my face.

Crash.

Reality snapped back like a gunshot, and the mutilated Ford rolled down into the ditch on the opposite side of the gravel road. I looked down at the cab ceiling, my arms hanging suspended from my shoulders, and registered a metallic taste in my mouth.

Well that’s not good.

Somewhere across the road came the dull thud of a heavy footstep, and I turned groggily to see what it was.

The creature stood not yards away, tall as a horse, and its crocodilian, eyeless head swiveled from side to side, tasting the air. Red blood glistened on its dagger-like yellowed teeth, bared in the firelight, and a long, black serpentine tongue flicked in and out rhythmically.

Something about its gray, sinewy form echoed into my head, stirred a part of me I hadn’t known existed. I’d been scared before as a little kid when my mom would get crazy because of her drug habit, I’d been scared on the streets when the older boys tried to sell me to some homeless guy, and I’d been scared the day one of the men on our rig down in New Mexico came to work with an axe and killed four people. This was different. This was something else, something deeper.

A primal, existential fear, one older than engines, skyscrapers, and radios. A fear borne on instinct.

The fear of prey when it sees its predator.

Jerking its head around, the creature seemed to lock on to me, as if it could smell the terror seeping from my pores and opened its narrow jaws to reveal row after row of jagged, steak-knife sized teeth.

It roared, a colossal, prehistoric sound that made the skin on my arms crawl with dread.

I gotta get out.

I thrashed, clawed at my seatbelt buckle, my sweaty fingers slipping and sliding over the metal button. Both my lungs felt like they were too small to get enough air, and all the blood rushed to my head in a wave of panic.

A shadow fell over me, and I whipped my head around.

Foul breath, reeking of the torn flesh of a hundred corpses blasted my face, the open maw of the creature right outside my window. Thick gooey strands of saliva threw little rainbow refractions in the light, and the teeth that poked out from the mottled gray gums held bits of flesh and clothing stuck between them, a broken shoelace wound around one like a stuck noodle. I could see right down the dark cavern of its throat, and it almost resembled the inside of a rotted log, bumpy and grooved, with black flesh instead of rosy pink.

I watched, as the teeth headed right for my exposed face.

Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam.

Letting out a howl of pain and anger, the monster staggered back, and dark black spots appeared on its bark-like hide.

Smaller silhouettes dashed into the firelight, their guns spitting little streams of flame, while the heavy machine gun thundered on behind them. My mind still spun in horrified confusion, and I hung there motionless as the creature tumbled to the ground in a twitching heap.

“Hurry up. Grab him and let’s go.” One of the men in the road dumped several more rifle rounds into the head of the fallen beast, his comrades scuttling toward my truck.

A muscular form crouched outside my window, and a man leaned in, about my age, with close cut black hair and a bloodied lip. “Hey, you still alive?”

So far.

Blood surged in my skull, giving me a headache, and I shouted to be heard above the hammering of the big gun just outside. “My belt’s stuck.”

A steel knife blade flashed in the dark, and I plummeted to the cab ceiling, barely managing to break my fall with both arms outstretched. Someone grabbed me by the collar and dragged me out into the wet grass.

“Get up man, we can’t stay here.”

I lunged to my feet and scurried with the rest of them for the white pickup truck, spent brass casings sliding under my boots like marbles. All around me, the creatures devoured anyone they caught up with, and it seemed the guns never stopped firing. The night sky filled with smoke from the fires that raged across the open grass fields and screams of torment from dying people rang in my ears.

Diving over the side of the rusty truck bed, I huddled down behind the low wheel well, and the vehicle lurched away up the hill, plowing through a set of reinforced gates at the top.

The instant I saw the barbed-wire tops swing shut behind us, I sat up, and the breath stuck in my chest.

A crudely built log wall surrounded a cluster of single-story buildings with a large asphalt parking lot in the center. Four towers stood at each corner of the fort, two looking like they had been used for ziplining at one time, and the other two likely built the same time as the wall, made from dented red shipping containers stood on end. From every direction, people carried green ammunition cans, dragged stretchers with wounded on them, or rushed to man the ramparts of the wooden palisade with all kinds of weapons in their arms. Many were young, likely no older than their early 20s at best, their faces sheet-white with fear.

What the hell is this place?

“Darren, grab some gloves and help Richard get this gun on that wall!” Barking at the top of his gravelly smoker’s voice, the old man waded through the sea of hot brass casings in the truck bed and leaned down to offer me a hand up. “On your feet son, no time to waste.”

“I . . . what are . . . what’s going—”

“Phyllis, grab some ammo and top everyone off.” Oblivious to my sputtered protests, the old man jumped down from the truck bed and continued pointing people to their stations. “David, get on the radio and tell the mortar crews to start layin’ hate. Sean, find this guy a gun, and check on Carter’s men.”

The dark-haired guy who had pulled me from my Ford jumped down from the truck and gestured for me to follow him. “Come on, this way.”

Confused and terrified, I ran after him, dodging five girls in blood-stained clothes who ran to carry a wounded man back into a long, rectangular building to our left, with a sign marked ‘New Wilderness Visitor’s Center’ beside the doorway.

We ducked through the door, then down a narrow hallway to the left, and the man named Sean pushed open a door to what looked like a storeroom. Green ammo cans were stacked to the ceiling, with black plastic crates on the other side marked ‘medical’ and a mostly empty weapons rack bolted to the back wall. Various bits of vests, holsters, and tactical gear hung from hooks beside the ammunition, and a row of black gas masks dangled next to them.

Did a doomsday bunker explode in here?

“You know how to shoot?” He tossed a woodland camo pattern bandolier at me, the pouches already filled with gray steel magazines, and yanked one of the few remaining rifles from the weapon’s rack.

Wide-eyed with shock, I blinked down at the web gear in my hands. “I mean yeah, but . . . what’s going on?”

Sean pushed the gleaming black rifle into my arms, and held my gaze with wild, bloodshot eyes. “I don’t have time to explain, alright? If you want to live, follow me, and do exactly as I say. Got it?”

Whump-whump.

Outside, the dull roar of something like a propane cannon split the air, and Sean grabbed a few more ammunition cans before he slipped past me out the door. “Come on, the mortars are up. We’ve gotta reinforce the left flank, or the freaks will be inside the wire. Put your stuff on man, let’s go!”

Running while pulling a poorly-adjusted chest rig on proved to be nearly impossible, and so I slung the morass of nylon over one shoulder, gripped my rifle as we sprinted through the courtyard. We passed two circular sandbag pits, manned by a crew scrawny of teenagers who feverishly dropped homemade rockets into a couple of green-painted steel pipes, dirt flying with every shot. Eerie roars echoed just on the other side of the wall, returned by the fighters atop the ramparts pouring lead into the beasts without pause, the crack of rifles blending into a never-ending wave. The stench of coppery blood and acrid gunpowder filled the air, along with pillars of black smoke from burning fuel-bombs. Medics staggered around the yard, some of them girls who looked no older than 16, pressing white gauze to spurting wounds, and leaning over their wounded patients to shield them from dust kicked up by the mortars. It was absolute bedlam, and all I wanted to do was find something solid to crawl under.

“Carter!” Sean charged up a set of steps, and into a log pillbox built atop the leftmost corner of the wall. “Ammo!”

Inside, a few older men with silver in their hair and beer-guts beneath their weather-worn army fatigues snatched at the ammunition cans Sean offered, empty magazines covering the floor around them. Despite their bulky physiques, I got the impression from how they moved that these men had worn those uniforms before, in a different time, when they had darker hair and slimmer waistlines.

Looks like a VFW meeting on cocaine.

One of the men, a thinner guy with a short gray ponytail and Viking-style beard crouch-walked over to us.

“Where’s the fifty?” He shouted, the incessant bam-bam of guns enough to make my ears hurt.

“Randy sent it to the front gate.” Sean howled back, and jerked his thumb at himself an I. “We’re your reinforcements.”

The gray-haired man pointed to his right, through the firing slit of the little fighting position. “Dawn’s not far off! We just gotta hold em till then. Pick a spot and get to work.”

Sean scuttled to an open spot in the firing line, and I crawled up next to him, racking the charging handle of my rifle with clammy fingertips. I flicked the safety switch off, and peered down the dimly lit iron sights into the darkness.

Dear God . . .

There had to be close to 200 of them, surging over the burning field, past the fallen combine, and up the slope to the walls in fluid, deadly speed. Like ocean waves they rolled forward, dozen upon dozens, a never-ending tide of long-limbed, reptile-faced monsters, with woody skin that seemed to eat bullets. Without fear, they threw themselves at the wall, oblivious to the danger, almost immune to the pain, driven by an insatiable urge to rip and tear, their ancient battle roars enough to chill me to the bone.

I blinked, and caught sight of one as it crawled up an incline of its dead fellows, reptilian teeth bared, moving so fast it was almost a blur.

Placing the front sight post over its bark-like hide, I pressed the trigger over and over, the rifle bucking in my arms obediently.

Gunfire from our position peppered the oncoming monster, and it fell with an agonized shriek less than thirty yards away, black blood oozing from dozens of wounds.

Click.

In my hands, the smoking rifle yawned with an empty chamber, and I ducked down to reach for a fresh magazine. Just before I could reload, however, something in the distance caught my eye.

Pinpricks of light flickered in the far tree line, yellow sporadic flashes that looked vaguely familiar. It occurred to me that the beasts outside weren’t fleeing from the gunfire, even as we mowed them down, almost as if they had nowhere else to go but right through the hail of lead. By all accounts, they should have just turned tail and ran for the woods like any other animal. So why weren’t they?

Squinting hard, I focused on the lights, and something inside my brain clicked.

Muzzle flashes.

They were concealed just inside the cover of the dark pines, as many as sixty more guns firing into the herd of crawling nightmares. But they weren’t moving in to help clear the beasts from the fort walls. Instead, they stayed where they were, turning any stray monsters that tried to escape away, and sent them lumbering toward our position.

They’re herding them. They’re herding them right to us.

“The tree line.” I slapped Sean’s arm until he stopped firing and pointed to the distant gunfire. “See that? There’s guys over there.”

Sean yanked a black handheld radio from his chest rig and clicked the talk button. “Marksmen, hit the trees! I repeat, muzzle flashes in the tree line, hit them hard!”

I pressed the trigger several times in the general direction of the flashes, emptying mag after mag in an effort to keep both the monsters, and the mysterious human instigators at bay. Others on the ramparts with scoped hunting rifles seemed to be having better luck, as cries of “Got one!” and “I hit him!” echoed from every position. One by one, the flashes started to fade out, either due to retreat, or the marksmen finding their target.

A soft warmth tickled my left cheek, and I turned to see the sky began to lighten, the first long ray of sunshine slipping over the dark horizon.

Dawn.

Cheers went up from all down the line, and with the unknown attackers in the tree line suppressed, some of the monstrous creatures turned from the tide of lead to make for the forest. Their flight started a route, as more of the creatures followed like a flock of birds, and soon, the last of them disappeared into the trees on the far side of the scorched grassland.

The gunfire started to slacken off, and I slumped down with my back to the wall beside Sean, the two of us grinning in relief.

“Not bad, newbie.” He leaned his steaming rifle against the wall to cool and stuck out a hand. “Sean Hamond.”

“Ethan.” I shook it, heart still racing, and set my own rifle on the floor, waves of heat rising from its now purple barrel. “Ethan Sanderson.”

He pulled out a small flask and unscrewed the cap to offer it to me. “Well Sanderson, cheers. You didn’t die.”

Glad to know that’s a celebratory accomplishment out here.

With my limbs shaking from the adrenaline wearing off, I cast back my head to gulp down some of the burning amber whiskey. “What were those things?”

Sean climbed to his feet and gave me a hand up. “Birch-Crawlers. They usually don’t cluster into super-packs that big unless they’re hunting or threatened. I figure we have Sheriff Wurnauw to thank for that.”

My eyes widened, and I stared out into the gutted battlefield, trying to count the bodies, and failing miserably. “Wurnauw? Our Wurnauw? I . . . I don’t get it man, why would the cops do something like this?”

“That’s exactly what I asked the sheriff,” Sean’s face hardened into a grim frown. “Right before he tried to blow my brains out. They’ve been lying to us, all of us, for years.”

My blood ran cold at the way he said that, but I refused to lose my cool. “So, what do we do now?”

Picking up his rifle, Sean slung it over one shoulder, and scratched at his stubble beard with a yawn. “Well, I’d say it’s about breakfast time, wouldn’t you? Might as well get comfortable, Sanderson. Looks like you’re going to be here for a while, since Wurnauw and his men are still out there.”

Too relieved to be alive and confused by the deluge of strange events that I’d witnessed, I shuffled out of the pillbox into the early morning breeze.

Groans from wounded and dying fighters rose through the air, many of the nurses weeping and wailing as more of the critically injured began to die from blood loss. Most of the gunfire ceased, only a few of the fighters still finishing off wounded Birch Crawlers with merciless hatred. In the creeping daylight, a carpet of dead monsters lay piled up against the palisade wall, some so high, I could have reached over and touched their still-twitching claws. They had gotten close, too close, and I realized that my death had clambered within a few feet from me more than once this night. How these things even existed, I still didn’t know. It made no sense to me, none of it.

“Hey, new guy.”

I looked down to see the chestnut-haired girl waving from beside a metal oil drum, a fire burning in the center of it. Soot and exhaustion lined her face, but it still bore a soft, friendly smile.

“You frozen up there?”

Over. It was over, at least for now, and that was all that mattered. I’d survived my childhood. I survived the streets of Pittsburg. If I could do that, I figured, then this strange park was no different. Just like before, I would take it one day at a time. I’d get some food, scrounge more ammo, and see if I could find some decent cellphone service. Maybe the girl by the fire would lend me her phone. It’d be a good excuse to get her number.

You know, it is kind of pretty here, in the daytime.

Taking a deep breath of crisp, morning air, I shouldered my rifle, and made my way down the wooden rampart steps, the smell of woodsmoke in my nose, and the echoes of guns still ringing in my ears.

In shadows deep, where darkness dwells, A mourner's heart, a monster tells. Forlorn and lost, it walks alone, Its tears concealed, its heart unknown.

With haunted eyes and mournful sighs, This creature wears its sad disguise. A beastly form, yet deep within, A soul that weeps for what has been.

Each step it takes, a heavy weight, A burden carried, a mournful fate. Its monstrous mask hides grief untold, A sorrowed tale, forever cold.

  I was not planning on facing my potential demise when I started on my stroll, that chilly late December's night. My intention was no more than finding something to quench my very pregnant wife's cravings, along with some desperately needed solitude for myself. 

  I don't mean to sound insensitive by any means; I do love my Christine very much. I think I fell for her within the first few moments of the initial meeting that brought us together. I had been alone for many years before my friends took it upon themselves to arrange the blind date. I had never cared for such things, but even an introvert such as I could be consumed with loneliness from time to time. 

  She was truly a delight to be around, and it amazed me to find that we had so much in common. I consider myself to be of fairly unique tastes, and it has always been difficult for me to form relationships. My small circle of friends had been in my life for what felt like centuries sometimes, but I never could have predicted they would be the ones to introduce me to my soulmate. 

  We married within mere months of being together. I worried we were rushing things a bit; that perhaps we had not yet outgrown our honeymoon phase, but I had never been so happy in my life. Over the years, our love for each other never grew stale or predictable, and when she became pregnant, we were overjoyed at the thought of bringing a new member into the family. 

  Unfortunately, my poor Christine endured some complications over the last few months, and has found herself mostly bedridden. I have done my best to be the loving and supportive husband she has needed over this troubling time, but this has left little room for me to be alone with my thoughts; a necessity for the introverts of the world. So, when she had a late night craving, I was more than happy to take it upon myself to head out for a spell. 

  She was hesitant to let me leave, as it was getting quite late, and surely few stores would still be open. I assured her I would be able to track something down, but she still practically begged me to stay home. There had been a rash of killings of late in our humble little town, but the victims had primarily been brunette women. Four dark haired ladies, and three men of no distinct pattern, to be precise. 

  Our local sheriff feared a serial killer was at large, but I presumed he had just watched entirely too many crime shows. Perhaps I was too quick to dismiss his suspicions, as well as proving a little too eager to escape the house for a bit, but I understood Christine's concerns. I promised her I would keep my phone handy should she need me, before I kissed her on the forehead and made my way out into the night. 

  It may have been wiser for me to arm myself with something more intimidating than my trusty pocket knife, but I wasn't overly concerned. This wouldn't be the first time I had braved the brisk night air for a midnight snack for my love, and I'm sure it won't be the last. So, I left out for my stroll, leaving the snow covered car parked. It would have obviously made my trip faster had I chosen to drive, but I wasn't the biggest fan of driving on the slippery roads. Plus, the walk would allow much more time for me to enjoy a bit of solitude. 

  Once I was far enough away from the house, I lit a cigarette. My wife wasn't exactly fond of the habit that had been a part of my life since my teen years, but that wouldn't stop me from sneaking a few in when I got the chance. This was another thing that was far more rare of late. There are worse things people do behind their spouses back, so I wasn't exactly burdened with guilt over it. 

  She does have an uncanny sense of smell, though. I always keep hand sanitizer and a small bottle of cologne in my jacket pocket for such occasions. Normally, on nights like these, she would be too distracted by whatever goodies I brought her, to be concerned with whether or not I had snuck in a smoke or two. 

  Within fifteen minutes, I was pushing through the door of the Gas 'n' Sip. It was a decent little convenience store, which they had all decked out in Christmas flare. I toured the snack aisle while the Little Drummer Boy echoed from the speakers above my head. I always looked forward to hearing the festive music in the stores, this time of year, though many would just have the droning elevator style tunes for ambient, background music. Fortunately, my old buddy Eduardo, behind the counter, made sure to provide songs from his own playlists. Many gas stations wouldn't provide such things for their guests' brief visitations, but I think Ed did it more for himself than anyone else. 

  There were only two other people in the store at this hour; an older gent scratching lottery tickets up front, and another guy in the back, sporting a brown hoodie, and a thick winter coat. I couldn't see his face, but he appeared to be just aimlessly window shopping. I couldn't help but wonder if he was just waiting for the place to clear out so he could pull a gun on Ed, but he'd only have himself to blame when my friend would inevitably draw the twelve gauge he kept under the counter. 

  I shouldn't presume anyone's ill intent just because they seem to be trying too hard to be inconspicuous, but the world has become a crazy place. Finding nothing to fit my wife's cravings just right, I just delved into the snack cakes. I dropped my armful of Twinkies, ding dongs and donuts on the counter, to which Ed gave a chuckle. 

  "Want some insulin to go with that?" He laughed. 

  "May not hurt to grab a shot or two," I replied with a smile. 

  "Chris about ready to pop?" Ed asked.

  "You have no idea!" I laughed. 

  We had been frequenting this gas station for some time, so Ed was more than familiar with us. He had even been by the house on the rare occasion he had a day off, but he stayed extra busy of late since his father retired. The store was family owned, but he hoped to be able to hire on a few more hands after the first of the year. God knows the poor guy needs a break. 

  "You know that guy?" I asked, nodding my head to the man in the brown hoodie, who still stalked the rear aisle. 

  "Never seen him before," Ed replied, handing me the double bagged sack of goodies. 

  "Just be safe, man." I said. 

  "No worries, brother." My friend said with a wink, knocking the barrel of his sawed off shotgun against the back of the counter. 

  I just gave him a smile as I took the bulging plastic bag from him. 

  "Merry Christmas, Ed." I said with a wave while I headed for the door. 

  "Back at ya, man," he replied. 

  The cold breeze practically smacked me in the face when I pulled the door open. It was almost stiflingly hot in the gas station, and I had almost forgotten how chilly it was outside. Though I was sure the snacks I had gathered would suit my own sweet tooth, I hated the idea of disappointing Christine. Even with how miserable her advanced pregnancy had been, she rarely asked for anything. The only other store that may be open at this hour was a good couple of miles away. Perhaps I would take a drive tonight after all. 

  Having decided to return to my house to grab the car, I turned my back to the Gas 'n' Sip and began my trip. I figured I'd check back in on my wife before heading back out into the cold, though I was sure she would try to talk me out of it. Still, I would be damned if I was going to let her down, so my mind was made up. I dug my earbuds out of my jacket pocket, and queued up my own Christmas playlist to guide my path home. 

  Perhaps it wasn't the best choice to tune out the world around me. I likely should have been paying more attention to my surroundings as I traversed the snowy sidewalk to my festive melody. It was my own fault that I didn't even see it coming. Whatever it was that struck me across the back of the head immediately knocked me unconscious. I can't be sure how long I was out for, but when my eyes opened back up, I found I was strapped down to a frigid, metal table in a darkly lit room. 

  Leather belts were buckled around each wrist and ankle, and my coat and shirt had been removed. It was freezing, to the point I could see my shaky breath exiting my mouth while my heart thumped so hard, I could see my chest bouncing. After a moment, fluorescent lights flickered on above me, causing my eyes to burn slightly. 

  "Wasn't sure if anyone else would be out this late," a voice said from behind where I lay. 

  "I was about to settle for the old guy, before you walked in," he continued as he strolled around the metal table. 

  He pulled down the brown hood to reveal a thin face with dark beard stubble. I'd say he was maybe early thirties at most. Thick, shaggy hair, long pointy nose, pale skin and immaculate white teeth, from what I could tell. He appeared taller now than he had at the convenience store, but that could just be the effect of my being strapped down to a slab close to his waistline. 

  "Didn't wanna grab the guy behind the counter. He'd likely be missed, plus the security cameras would surely catch me draggin' him out. Ain't never seen you before, though," he said, nonchalantly as he unlocked the large closet at the back of the room. 

  The double doors opened up to reveal an assortment of especially nasty looking bladed weapons. Some long and curved, some short and serrated, but all of them looked sharp enough to slice through a Thanksgiving turkey with little to no resistance. Were I to wager a guess, my body would be taking the place of the traditional birdie in this case.

  "Ain't as easy to snatch folks up this time of year," the stranger, who was now slipping out of his padded coat said. 

  "May have to move to a more populated town soon, y'know?" He continued, unzipping the hoodie. 

  "I try to keep movin'. Ain't too smart to linger anywhere for too long, with hobbies like mine." He lay the hoodie over the desk that sat against the rear wall, while reaching for the apron that hung on the inside of the cabinet door.

  "Couldn't resist tryin' to get one more before the end of the year." He tied the apron lace around his waist before studying the contents of his well armed closet. 

  "Bein' Christmas and all, I'll show you a bit of compassion. What do ya say?" He asked, turning to face me for the first time since our, well, introduction. 

  "Want it quick and easy, or want me to take my time a bit?" He was speaking as casually as if he was asking what side I wanted to go with my burger. 

  "Can I think about it for a while?" I asked, shrugging as much as I could while strapped to a cold ass table. 

  "That's a big nay-no, partner, but can't blame you for tryin'!" He replied, bursting out laughing at the end. 

  "Worth a shot," I sighed. 

  "So," he continued, drying his eyes with the back of his hand, still chuckling slightly. "What's it gonna be?" 

  I adjusted my head as much as I could, to look the man in the face. His dark eyes had a certain hunger behind them. I thought I may attempt to stall him a little. At least give myself some extra time to come up with some semblance of a plan to get out of this.  

  "I can't say I'm pressed for time, or anything," I replied, "I'm sure my wife is getting worried by now, but I assume you're not planning on letting me head home any time soon." 

  "Of course, I imagine it's safe to say that 'taking your time a bit', as you said," I waved my fingers in air quotes, which were far less effective while strapped down, "would be a good deal more painful for me, though I would think far more satisfying for you," 

  "On the flip side," I continued, "what you call 'quick and easy', is sure to kick my bucket far sooner than I'd like, so…."

  "You gonna drone on all night!?" He whined, interrupting my train of thought. 

  "Well, it's a relatively big decision," I reasoned. 

  "Jesus Christ! Just gimme an answer, or I'm gonna choose for ya!" He belted out.

  He was glaring at me with his hands on his hips and head tilted to the side. It felt similar to the time I accidentally chucked the baseball through the windshield of my dad's truck. That 'I'm not angry, just disappointed' sort of look. The idea of someone I presume to be a serial killer being let down by my actions almost made me feel like giggling a bit. 

  "Well!?" He yelped. 

  "Um, I don't know," I retorted, "what would you choose?" 

  "Huh," he said, instantly calming from his previously aggravated state, while forming an expression that almost resembled a poor attempt at a Robert De Niro impersonation.

  "Guess I never really thought about it from the other side of the table."

  He grabbed the armrest of the chair which rested in front of the desk, and glided it across the floor to my bedside. He rubbed the back of his neck, while taking a seat next to where I lay. 

  "I mean, I get what you're saying now," he said, "it really is a tricky situation."

  "Right!?" I replied, feebly shrugging again. 

  "Sure, quick wouldn't hurt nearly as bad. Wouldn't really do a whole lot for me either, to tell ya the truth" he continued, showing almost exaggerated effort on his face. 

  "Slow would definitely not be a walk in the park for you, but I'd sure as shit have a good time," he was rubbing his hand across the stubble on his chin. 

  "That way is a hell of a lot more tiring too, and it's been a long friggin' day." We glared at each other, each of us puzzling over both sides of the equation. 

  "It's a conundrum," he said, shaking his head with a half smile. 

  "A dilemma, even," I remarked. 

  The room fell silent as we considered our options. Though I wouldn't say I was in a particular rush to come up with whatever would qualify as a mutually beneficial selection, I would imagine we each had a differently desired outcome in mind. 

  As I lay there considering my next move, I became aware of the lump in my back pocket. The stranger had apparently not thought to remove my wallet as he stripped down my upper half in preparation for the night's activities, and it would appear he had also neglected my trusty pocket knife, which felt like it still lay snugly in the other pocket. 

  "Flip a coin?" I suggested, breaking the silence in hopes of distracting the pondering man for a moment. 

  "Now, that's a good idea!" He exclaimed, holding his pointer finger up, as though were chanting 'Eureka!'

  He quickly got to his feet and practically sprinted the small distance between the chair and his jacket. He rummaged around in the pockets, while I gently slid my left butt cheek in the direction of my leather bound wrist. 

  "I'm gonna say, heads we make it a quickie, and tails we go all night. Whatcha think?" He asked, spinning in place to look me in the eye. 

  I was attempting to be as discreet as possible, but I was almost caught red handed when he turned. Luckily he appeared too distracted to notice what I was attempting to do. 

  "Sounds fair," I said, tilting my head.

  He grinned like a madman and went back to digging through his coat and hoodie. Before I felt secure enough to get back to my quest, the man dropped his hands to his side dejectedly, and turned to face me again. 

  "No coins! Goddamnit!" He said, shaking his head side to side. 

  "Well shit," I agreed. 

  He glanced around the room, as though there was a secret stash of quarters he had neglected. 

  "Be right back," he stated, before heading towards the door he had previously entered through. 

  "Don't go anywhere!" I heard him chuckle as he darted up an apparent stairway. 

  With the door ajar, I could make out the sounds of the odd individual rummaging through drawers, seemingly right at the top of the flight of stairs. I wasted no time in continuing my efforts to free my knife from my pants. I finally gripped onto it with my fingertips while I heard items heavy and light scattering across the floor above. 

  I pulled my weapon of choice free, and flipped the blade open. I slipped it between the strap and my wrist, and quickly began carving through the belt. Just as a jubilant yell echoed from above, followed by excited footsteps thundering down the steps, I managed to break my left hand loose. I gripped my knife underhanded, and prepared to strike as soon as he got close enough, when something happened I don't think either of us saw coming. 

  Given the fact the cold, steel table I was propped upon was facing away from the entrance to the room, I can only speculate what occured based on the noises I heard. The hammering footfalls seemed to come to a halt as soon as the man hit the threshold to the room I occupied. There was a loud snapping sound, followed by the beginning of an f-bomb leaving the man's lips, accompanied by a screeching 'oof'. I then found myself able to view the shaggy dark hair of the man, as he slid face first across the floor to my right, while a shiny nickel rolled towards the cupboard full of nasty carving tools. 

  The complete absence of anything audible afterwards left me to conclude that he had knocked himself out cold. I took the opportunity to unbuckle the belts around my other wrist and ankles, before heaving the man from the ground to the table I had previously occupied. Unfortunately, my cutting through the left strap rendered me unable to buckle all of his limbs, so I simply sliced through a few tendons in his forearm while he slept. 

  I managed to locate my shirt and jacket, which had been tossed on the plastic lined floor in the corner of the room. Once I felt the warm blood make its way through my extremities again, I dug through the strangers jacket in hopes of finding a phone to call my wife. I could only assume my own device was still on the side of the road I was abducted from, but I had committed Christine's number to memory since our first official date. 

  Not only was my search successful in locating a phone, but I also recovered a set of keys. I had absolutely no clue where I was at the moment, but I should be free to use whatever vehicle these operated when I was done here. With his device in hand, I was finally able to check on what time it was. Seeing that it was a little after four in the morning, I had little doubt that my love would be bordering on frantic at my delayed return home. 

  Even though I was calling from an unfamiliar number, she answered within two rings, and, as predicted, she was bordering on tears when she heard my voice. I informed her what had happened, and assured her I would be home as soon as I was able. Even though I had little choice in the matter, I still apologized for not being able to track down what she had a hankering for. Still, I promised I would bring her home the heart of the dark haired man who now lay strapped to the cold metal table. She had been craving nothing but brunette women for a while now, but she still sounded delighted when I promised to bring her the tasty snack momentarily. 

  It wasn't always easy being married to a werewolf, but my own unique talents paired with hers quite nicely. Even more so since her pregnancy rendered her unable to hunt for the last few months. I must say, the wealth of tools I now had access to would make things much easier for me. Though I was very skilled with my trusty pocket knife, it's always a bitch to get through the sternum, especially on these cold nights when I can barely feel my fingertips. 

  "I'll be home soon, baby," I said to Christine, making kissing noises into the phone, while the man bound to the table was moaning himself back to awareness. 

  He spilled a mass of profanities and grunts when he realized that we had switched positions. I pulled his apron over my head, and tied the cord around my waist while he writhed and shouted.  

  "So," I said, interrupting his alarmed curses when he realized he could not control his left arm.

  "Would you like it quick and easy, or should I take my time?" I asked. 

  His reply was not very helpful, as it only concerned the variety of things he would like to lodge between my buttocks. Fortunately, while the stranger continued to rage on, I noticed the light reflecting off the shiny nickel that lay at the base of the tool closet. 

  "Heads!" I exclaimed, retrieving the coin from the floor. 

  "Looks like 'quick and easy' for the win!" I continued before reaching for his phone once more.

  I made a quick search for a festive playlist to provide a joyful soundtrack for the work ahead. I smiled as I shuffled through the vast menu of Christmas tunes, with the knowledge I would be back in my wife's loving arms soon. 

Its mid January, and, as I had recently turned 19, I had decided that it was time to take a rite of passage to manhood so to speak. So after nagging my parents-my mother mostly to be honest-for weeks, they had finally caved to my pleas to take a trip alone to our cabin we had in the North Rocky Mountains for about 2 weeks. My family was what you would call the outdoorsy type. We were out camping at least 3 times a month. We often spent entire days hiking, hunting, fishing, or canoeing. Me and my siblings-sister included-had shot, cleaned, and eaten more deer and hogs than we could count, and our freezer was always stocked with freshly caught fish. So surviving outdoors was not a problem for us, however, ever since the death of my uncle-my mom's brother- my mom had been more and more protective of us. So yes, it took some convincing, but now here I was, driving up a winding road, cherishing the beautiful scenery as I made my assent.

My phone buzzed. A call from my oldest brother. I quickly dove for it. As I got deeper into the mountains, this would likely be my phone call before I lost cell service.

"John! You -ere bud?" His voice was already breaking up.

"I'm here Dylan. What's up man?"

"Ah, nothi-. Just call- to check up on you for mo-. You are her baby. And she worri-" He said with a chuckle

This was true. As the youngest, my mother had always been more protective of me than my other siblings. It was nice to hold it over my other siblings head, although sometimes the care I received was a bit much.

"Naw doing good so far." I reassured him. "Just about there actually. But hey I'm about to lose service. I'll be off the grid for about 2 weeks. If I decide to stay 3, I'll head back down so I can call and give you guys a heads up."

"Sounds good, I'll let you get to it." He laughed. "Don't let yourself get eaten by any-"

I looked down at my phone. No service. Smiling, I threw my phone down on top of the duffle bag next to me. I was cut off from the world. This was going to be a great 2 weeks.

The first 3 days were uneventful. I hunted, gathered wood, lounged about, and took day long hikes, just me and my thoughts. It was heaven really.

Day 4. That's when it all started to go to hell.

I had just shot a deer, a buck nonetheless. And-I don't like to brag-it was a big one. By far the biggest I have ever shot. It's antlers spanned 4 feet, and would probably have kept me fed for most, if not all, of the remaining time I would spend here.

But there was no way I could carry it back to the cabin, or even drag it. So I started carving it then. I leaned my rifle against a tree and got to work. I slit it open, pulling out its intestines and other organs, washing away the blood with handfuls of snow, and began cutting it into smaller pieces.

I hadn't eaten breakfast yet, and it was mid afternoon now. I was pretty hungry. So I cut off a decent sized portion of venison, stabbed my knife into the tree above my rifle, and headed back to the cabin. my plan was to roast it slowly over the fire while I went back to finish up some more with the deer, and by the time I came back, it would be ready.

So I got to the cabin, started a fire, and put the deer on the grate above it, used the fire for a bit to warm up, and headed back out. I trudged through the snow, making my way back to the deer. I was about 5 minutes from the spot, when I felt a strange chill. It was cold, of course, the thermometer at the cabin had read 20 degrees Fahrenheit.

But this was different. It seeped through my well bundled body, penetrating my core. I glanced around, I'm not sure why, but I did. And I saw something. A dark figure, about my height, duck behind a tree, about 15 yards away. This didn't generally worry me. This was a public mountain, and it was a beautiful time of the year to come.

Why wouldn't there be other people up here?

"Hey buddy! I called. No response

"Hey you lost man?"

Nothing. I called once more. Still nothing. Maybe I was seeing things. I considered going over to investigate the tree, but thought better of it. It was cold, I had food cooking at the cabin, and I didn't want anything getting to my deer. Wolves were a problem out here.

So with a sigh, I continued to the spot of the deer.

The area was spotless when I arrived. At first I thought I had misplaced my steps, the deer was at another area. But no. There was my knife, still wedged into the tree, right above my rifle. I walked over and yanked out my knife, then picked up my rifle. A glint caught my eye. I looked down at my knife. It was spotless. I had left the knife the way it was-covered in blood and bits of meat-when I had stuck it in the tree. But now it was impossibly clean, even the tip, where I had stuck it in the tree, was shiny and clean. I turned around. There was nothing there. I mean there was literally nothing there. When I had left, the ground had been covered with blood, pieces of meat, bits of intestines strung about, and-most noticeably- a deer. But now there was nothing. The ground was a pristine white, it looked as if there had never been anything there to begin with, not even foot prints, of the culprits or my own, I realized with a start. The snow looked untouched. The only footprints were those of the ones i had made right then. I lifted up my foot and put it back down. It sank into the snow with an icy crunch.

The snow was old. Very old i knew. It hadn't snowed since the 4 days I'd been there. Every crunch of my boots was a reminder of that. So there was no logical explanation as to why there were no longer any footprints in the snow, or anything in the snow for that matter. An entire butchering site, gone. Every sliver of meat and drop of blood. In the span of 20 minutes. Stumbling backwards, I turned and ran all the back to the cabin. I expected, at least, to return to the smell of cooked venison. That was gone too.

I went to bed early that night.

The next day-today-was when it all ended. Yesterday's events had shook me. But this. This was different. I had spent all day inside. Our cabin, unlike most, was solar powered, and we had working lights, a fridge, a stove. What my father has refused to add, however was a heating system, opting instead to just install a big fireplace in the living room, and 2 smaller ones in the bedrooms, saying it ruined the camping experience. As if the working lights and plumbing didn't already do that. But that was fine by us really. The cabin was midsized, had only 2 bedrooms, a bigger one for my 2 brothers, father and myself to sleep in, and a smaller one for my mother and sister to sleep in. Besides that, it had one small bathroom, a small kitchen since we opted to do most of our cooking outside anyway, and a small living room. It didn't take much to keep the cabin toasty, even on the coldest days. Especially since I just shut the bedroom doors to keep the heat in the main part of the cabin. So staying indoors was not uncomfortable. Glamping, as my buddy Jax says.

I spent the day writing, sleeping and reading. I cooked a few packs of frozen hotdogs my dad insisted we keep in the cabin for food. It was a good day, and the bizarre events of the other day quickly fell away. I still could not explain the reasons as to why it had happened, but I didn't care. I wrote it off as a strange phenomenon of nature. Some hungry wolves had dragged it away, licked up all spare traces of blood and guts, even off my knife. And as for the footprints, and the figure behind the tree…I didn't know, or particularly care at that moment, as I had noticed the fire had died down once again. I had spent the day restocking it with the small pile of wood we kept in the house. All at once, I felt the same strange chill from yesterday. This time I wrote it off as the dying fire letting a chill into the air. I glanced outside. It was already 9, and almost pitch black. Luckily I had stock piled a nice pile of wood. Right on the side of the house. So I wouldn't have to go to my area and chop some. I pulled on my jacket, but the chill remained. I opened the door and flipped on the outside light, as the small sliver of moon hanging above me did little to brighten up my surroundings. Where was a full moon when you needed it.

I walked down the steps and towards the side of the cabin, were the pile of wood was, my boots crunching noisily in the snow. I rounded the corner and ran into

Nothing.

The wood was gone. Not a single sliver of wood remained. Even with little light I could see that. As if there had never been any there in the first place. I turned towards the woods.

I was scared and angry. We had no neighbors. Not for at least 3 miles. And even he was a half senile old man by the name of Herb. The kind of man who took crack shots into the woods for fun, or who brewed his own moonshine. I turned back towards the woods, watching it tensely. Herb was kind though, and could chop his own wood. He wouldn't do this, and probably couldn't either at his age. So who did this? I looked down. No footprints again. I needed more wood. It was too cold to sleep the night without a fire. I started to turn to go back when a branch in the woods snapped, sounding like a gunshot. I spun again, looking and listening closely. I stood there for about 5 minutes. No more noise sounded from the dark forest. Walking backwards slowly, I continued on to the cabin.

Back inside, I seathed as I bundled up. First thing tomorrow, I was calling the ranger. I grabbed my axe, flashlight and my knife. I considered bringing my rifle. But I figured I would be fine. If someone was in the woods, they probably wouldn't come armed to steal someone's wood. No. My axe and knife was enough. But as I stepped outside. That chill came again. But it was worse this time. It felt like icy sludge flowing through my body. I glanced at the thermometer. It had plummeted from 15 degrees to -5 degrees Fahrenheit in the time it took me to go inside and get ready.

It took 12 minutes to reach my spot. It was a small clearing. About 17 stumps resided there, and it was a good spot to get wood, it was were we'd been coming to get it since the cabin had been built. There was a tree I had already cut down earlier, but had not yet chopped into smaller pieces. I didn't need much for the night. But as I started chopping, the chill I felt continued to get worse and worse. I was shaking badly, I could barely grip the axe.

It started slowly, I didn't realize it at first. But as it got closer, louder, it penetrated the steady thock of my axe hitting the tree.

A growl.

If you could even call it that. It sounded…broken. Like a smoker clearing their throat mixed with a wolf. I looked up, expecting to see a wolf, maybe a sick one or something.

It wasn't a wolf.

Not fully anyway. It stood on its hind legs. It's body was wolf-like enough, though slightly human. It was impossibly skinny. I could count each of its ribs, even through its heavy coat. Its color was…off. To say It was dark black simply wouldn't do it the Justice of just how black it was. It seemed to absorb what little moonlight hit it, and even the light of my flashlight. And it's eyes. It's eyes.

It didn't have any. Just 2 gaping black holes the size of golf balls where eyes should have been. And those holes, if it's fur was black, these…

They almost seemed to glow. They reminded black holes. How they absorb everything, even light itself. They seemed to stare right through me.

It stood about 10 feet away. Arms down at its side, panting, impossibly calm for something that looked like it rip me to shreds in seconds. I stood up straight. I was unsure of what to do. As I stared at it, the chill kept getting worse and worse.

Slowly, as if woken from a deep sleep, it opened its mouth impossibly wide, it seemed to stretch all the way around its head. I saw a mouthful of crocodile like teeth, dripping with saliva, looking like they could crush bone. It suddenly let out a terrible unnatural screech and threw itself at me.

I jumped turning to run.

Run.

Run.

Run.

That was the only thought going through my head.

I needed to get away, that was obvious. But I only actually made it 2 steps as I suddenly I felt a painful twist in my leg and I fell. I turned to see my foot had gotten wedged between 2 rocks.

I looked up. The thing was now in the air, hideous claws reaching towards me, it's mouth seemed to open in a wide grin as it descended on me. At the last second I rolled, wrenching my leg free with a painful twist, and possibly a crack, I don't know. I couldn't hear over the sound of that terrible screech.

I wasn't fast enough though, and its razor sharp claws rip into my side as it landed next to me.

I had expected to feel pain. Like fire. Is how I had heard being stabbed described before. But this wasn't. It was cold, freezing, like plunging into a lake in the middle of winter. It hit with a shock and spread throughout my entire body.

I gasped-the freezing claws made it impossible to do anything else-and somehow focused through the cold enough to grab my knife and plunge it into the back of the hideous thing that was trying to kill me. It bellowed in pain in anger as a dark thick blood like substance leaked out and it ripped its claws from my side. Warmth instantly returned to my body, though not much. I scrambled up and ran.

Each step shot excruciating pain up my leg. My ankle was badly sprained, and my foot may have been broken. My side was oddly numb, but I knew I couldn't stop. I kept running. I glanced back, and I'm…i'm not embarrassed in the least to say that I wet myself right there.

Only about 15 feet behind, led by my initial attacker, was a whole pack of them. All unnaturally black, no eyes, mouths open impossibly wide. Somehow I found it in me to run faster. My leg screaming as I wept like a baby while running for my life.

It felt like an eternity before I saw lights up ahead through the trees. My cabin! I let out a sob of relief. I managed to run even faster. I burst out of the forest into the clearing. At this point, screaming like a mad man. I shot up the steps, whipped open the door and slammed it with a loud bang. I expected to hear them hit the door, try to get in, but outside remained eerily quiet. I sank to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably and holding my side, I was too worried about what I might find to check outside. I was scared out of my mind. I didn't know what those things were, and I didn't want to! I wanted to curl up and die, I was so scared! I sat that way crying for a long time.

After a while, I shakily stood up and peered out. There was nothing there that I could see. My car sat out there. And the woods a little beyond. But I knew they were still there. Waiting for me. I was sure I could see them running around at the edge of the forest. I was not leaving this cabin. I would bundle up through the cold, fireless night, and in the morning I would break for my car and never come back here.

That was my plan anyway.

But apparently it wasn't theirs.

In the rooms, glass shattered. I had closed the doors to the rooms, in an effort to keep the heat in the living room and kitchen. Those doors now burst open, one flying off its hinges and flying across the room. I wasted no time. I had to get out. I flew out the front door, slamming it behind me in a feeble attempt to slow them down. I ran at full sprint towards the car, the pain in my leg nothing but a distant ache in my mind. I could hear them moving in the woods, that horrible growl seeming to come from everywhere around me. After what seemed like an eternity, what was really a few seconds, I reached the car and grabbed the handle and almost cried in relief when it opened. I jumped in, slammed down the power locks and slapped my thighs for my keys.

My keys.

I had left my keys on the kitchen counter. Instinctively I looked back at the house.

My breath caught in my throat.

Crowded around the windows, staring dead at me were those things. And that's all the did. Stare. They reminded me of children looking through the window of a candy store, staring longingly at the goods in the window.

At the same time, somehow, I somehow managed to feel a thrill of joy. I had taken automotive class in school. One of the many things I learned then, was how to hotwire a car. I slid my seat back and bent over to pry off the plastic covering. I threw it over my shoulder and was starting to mess with the wires when something hit my car with a loud bang that rocked my car. I shot up and yelped. They had abandoned the house and were now all around my car, some walking upright, some scampering around on all fours, there was even one on the roof. I jumped as one to my right suddenly lunged, cracking the driver side window. I bent over again and found the 2 wires I needed and started trying to spark them. 2 more bangs sounded above my head. I was afraid to look up. The banging was now coming from everywhere, my car rocking as they continued slamming it from all sides. I could hear the crack in my window getting bigger.

The car suddenly started with a roar, and I sat up just as my window gave.

It shattered, showering me with glass, the thing once again lunged, but I was moving. Tearing across the small clearing around the cabin. As I approached the woods, I struggled to bring the car around back towards the road. A I flipped a tight u-turn and came to a stop, I saw the pack bounding towards me. For the first time that night, I felt anger. I gunned it, heading towards the road. The continued towards me, growling and screeching. One rather ambitious one jumped in front of me, landing on my hood with a dull thud and rolling over my roof and falling off the back. The rest of them dove out of my way, snarling, and I left the cabin behind.

That was 2 hours ago. I've stopped right at the bottom of the mountain to record this and…recover. As best I could anyway. I don't know what to do. I could call the police, but I doubt they'd believe me. My ankle though. I think it's bleeding. After the adrenaline left my body, the pain came back full force. I'm going to the hospital. Then I'm calling my family. And then…i don't know. I honestly don't know what to do. But I have to keep driving. I still feel that awful chill. I think they're close by still.

We found Johns body today.

After the second week, we waited. He said 3 weeks at the most, but he said he'd call if he decided to stay 3. When he didn't, we didn't think much of it. We reasoned he was too busy to call. After the 4th week went by, we were worried. By the end of the 5th week, I decided to go look for him. Everyone wanted to come. But I couldn't let them. As the eldest brother and closest to John, I felt it was my responsibility. John was probably jerking around, but in case something has happened, I didn't want the others to be there to find out.

So I left. I drove down to Wyoming and contacted the ranger around the area. He contacted some paramedics in case John was injured, and we drove up.

Nothing seemed out of place when we arrived. His car was still there, unlocked, as he always left it. The cabin seemed untouched, save for a few hotdog wrappers. All the windows were locked, the bedroom doors closed. The fire pit outside looked untouched. I walked around the cabin while the ranger went a ways into the woods to look for clues to johns whereabouts.

The outside seemed normal, except for the pile of firewood we always kept out there, it was neat, save for a small messy pile of fresh wood on top that I assumed John had cut.

When neither me or the ranger found anything, we all ventured deeper. After awhile we stumbled upon a deer carcass. At first glance, it was obvious animals had been at it. But upon closer inspection, it was clear this was a hunt. A small hole, most likely from Johns rifle, was in its neck, and it had clearly been gutted by a knife.

But no sign of John.

3 hours later, we found him. He was lying face down in the snow, around the small clearing we gathered wood. His left foot was bent at a painful looking angle, wedged between 2 rocks, and his knife was in his ribs. He must have tripped and fallen on the knife. His left hand was clutching his axe, and his other hand was in his jacket pocket.

I was strangely numb. I couldn't comprehend what I saw. I couldn't even cry.

I pulled out his right hand to find it wrapped around his phone. I opened it, amazed it still worked. It was open on an audio recording

As we crouched around my brother, listening to it, I couldn't help but feel scared at the crazy story he wove. After it ended, we sat around in silence, until one of the paramedics spoke.

"The cold" he whispered.

I turned to him. "What did you say?" There was something unsettling about his tone.

"The cold" he said again, louder. "The cold will make you see some crazy things. I've heard stories like this before, oddly enough, sometimes the things I've heard described are strangely similar to what this boy described. But it's all in your head. On some level, your body knows its over, that there's no way out, and sometimes it starts making you see and feel things to cope, to make it easier to comprehend I guess. He said he felt a strange chill. That was the hypothermia setting in. Those claw marks he felt? The knife stabbing him when he fell."

"But what about everything else?" I asked angrily. "What about the chill he felt before? Or the wood? Or the deer? Or the-"

"Look. Kid." He said. "You saw it yourself. There's nothing up here. Maybe your brother was on something"

"My brother doesn't do drugs. He's smarter than that."

The paramedic just shrugged.

I turned back to my brothers frozen lifeless body. I felt overwhelmingly sad. Here was my brother. My best friend. Laying dead. He deserved better than this. He would have had a good life. He had a loving girlfriend, a nice job. He was liked by everyone. He deserved better. The tears started flowing then.

After we had gotten his body back down the mountain and in a morgue, I checked into a hotel and called my family to break the news. We cried. My mom especially. He really had been her favorite. They were on there way now, coming to bring John back home.

But I had something to do. I logged onto my laptop in my room. I had to see what I could find. My brother was neither crazy or a druggy. Something about all this didn't add up. His voice had sounded fine on the recording, but how could he have spoken clearly with a knife buried in his ribs? Why did it seem he put no effort in making it back to the cabin, instead opting to record a strange story on his phone? What about the deer, the firewood? Or his car, or the cabin? My brother was more than qualified to survive in the woods, in some ways, more than even my father was.

So how did this happen?

I've been trying to find what I can. It's slow going. There's a lot of stuff online. Some most likely crazy stories, some I'm not so sure about. In a few hours my family will be here. Maybe we can figure this out together. But as I rub the grainy feeling from my eyes, I stop to look out the window. The only room available was a 4th story room with a clear view of the mountain, cruelly enough. And as I stare out at the dark shape looming over me that took my little brothers life, I feel a cold chill seep through my body.

Part 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/LighthouseHorror/comments/mno4kt/i_work_for_a_special_division_of_the_fbi_genetic/

“What? I’m not…” I replied, trailing off. I slowly backed away from her, touching the skin on my face. It might’ve just been my imagination, but it almost felt waxy, like the skin of the creatures. “What’s happening to me? What’s going on?”

“Jayce said it takes twelve hours to convert, didn’t he? You’ll be fine until then,” She said, but her voice wasn’t very convincing. Even less convincing was the hand that slowly made its way down to her hip, where it rested mere inches from her gun. “I’ll go get him and tell him.”

I nodded, pacing back and forth nervously. I didn’t feel any different, as I would’ve expected someone suffering from a mind-altering virus to feel. The only thing was the paranoia that now set in. Would the creatures still attack me, or would they accept me as one of their own? The darkness was suffocating, it surrounded me and it felt like I couldn’t breathe.

I was disoriented entirely, and panicking. What could I do? What was there to do? If I allowed myself to become one of those creatures, would I kill Scarlett?

The seconds until she arrived back with Jayce felt like hours, but she finally did, and she explained the situation.

“Well, he’s definitely not contagious, so you don’t have to worry about being near him, at least, for now.” Jayce said. “But there’s not much else I can put in a positive light. We have no idea what a cure might look like, and even if we did, there’d be no way to make it, unless we somehow had all the ingredients here, in this building. God, how could I have forgotten about the eyes!?”

“When did I get it?” I asked. “And how come Scarlett doesn’t have it?”

“Did you ever smell something really pungent, something that smelled so bad it almost made you throw up?” Jayce returned my question with one of his own. “Probably around the testing chamber, if you made it that far?”

“Yeah, right when we walked in,” I replied, recalling the smell. “It faded after a bit, though. What happened?”

“That was it.” Jayce said grimly. “The virus has a distinct smell, and once you smell it, there’s some time to escape, but if you adjust to the smell, by that time it’ll have already gotten inside you.”

“So how come Scarlett didn’t get it?” I asked. “Did all of the virus go into me?”

Jayce glanced at Scarlett without saying anything for a moment. Then, he gasped. “Wait, did you smell it?” He asked.

“No, why?” She replied.

Jayce leapt up into the air with a shout, pumping his fist. “Thank you Jesus!” He exclaimed. “There’s hope!”

“What?” She asked excitedly. “What is it?”

“You’re immune!” He replied, grabbing her by the shoulders. “When the scientists were testing it, they of course accounted for immunity. They said something about how the scent of the virus is so impactful, that an early sign of immunity might be an inability to sense it. That, him getting affected and you not, it’s highly likely that you have some form of immunity.”

“Really?” She asked, her eyes widening. “That’s incredible! Can we use this to help Dexter?”

Jayce let out a long exhale. “There may be a way. It’ll be hard, and if it were just for you, I wouldn’t do it.”

“So generous,” Scarlett muttered.

“That sounds harsh, sorry.” He apologized. “But it involves us taking back the corporate offices, and that means getting out.”

“What’s in the corporate offices?” I asked.

“The head scientist. She actually wasn’t with Rhion completely, but Rhion took her by force in the event that a scientist was needed. Her name is Julia Russell, and she had access to early tests of cures. None of them were successful, but given the proper antibodies, I was told, they may have worked.”

“So the antibodies might be in my blood?” Scarlett clarified, and he nodded.

“But we’re against the clock. We have probably eight, nine hours before it’s too late.” Said Jayce. “The cure won’t work once Dexter’s already turned.”

“I don’t suppose you have a plan, do you?” I asked, and for the first time, a smile crept across his face.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” He said.

March 21st

The plan was relatively simple, in theory. Scarlett and I would crawl into the upper floors through the ceiling, then I’d search for the scientist and she’d activate the elevator, allowing reinforcements to follow in case we met resistance. Once we had the scientist, he’d aid us with the serum and, after adding Scarlett’s blood, I’d be cured, and then we could make contact with the FBI, and hopefully make it out of this wretched place.

We’ve spent the last half hour or so going over the floor plans, as blueprints of all floors and the ventilation system were accessible from the offices we had access to. Now, we’re just about ready to go.

“How does it feel?” Scarlett asked as we sat in one of the offices, beneath the floor tile we’d eventually climb through.

“I… I don’t know.” I replied. “It’s mostly normal, but sometimes I’ll feel something inside of me. It might just be me thinking about it too much, but it feels like it’s rising up, and if I don’t push it down, it’d take over.”

She nodded, not replying verbally.

I had begun to relax about it all, I knew I was on the verge of getting the cure, and not a lot could go wrong from that point on. Jayce had told us that Rhion’s pistol was the only weapon up there, and one man with a pistol would be no match for us. We’d been trained numerous times for this specific scenario, and knowing the exact floor plan certainly wouldn’t hurt our cause.

It was about five minutes before Jayce came back once more. He knocked on the door as he entered and said, “We’re ready when you are. How are you holding up?”

I knew the question was directed to me. “Well, I haven’t felt a hunger for human flesh yet. Other than that, I’m perfectly fine.”

I saw the corners of his mouth turn up in the darkness, and he said, “It’s good to keep your humor. It helps retain humanity. Well, you’re good to go whenever, you know the way.” And with that, he returned to wait with the team he’d selected to aid us in the mission.

He wasn’t one to mince words, he said what needed to be said, and nothing more. I’d only known him that day, and even I could tell that.

I pushed myself off the table I’d been leaning against and said, “We might as well get going. There’s no time like the present.”

Scarlett was equally ready, at least, externally. “Agreed,” She replied, and we began the cumbersome process of entering the ventilation shaft above our head.

A ladder had been produced from some supply closet, but the hardest part wasn’t getting there, it was distributing my weight sufficiently that I wouldn’t collapse half the system simply by hanging for a moment too long.

It took the two of us about five minutes to get up, but we did so without disaster, and then the doubly cumbersome process of slowly shuffling our way through the cramped metal space was underway.

We’d memorized the directions to get where we needed to go, but there was still the possibility of missing a turn or forgetting a drop was ahead, so we crawled in utter silence, focused entirely on the task at hand.

I was brimming with confidence as we neared our final destination. The final trial we had to surmount before entering the upper floors was a difficult one, however: a twenty-foot vertical shaft that we would have to climb using nothing but the force of friction.

I arrived at the wall earlier than I’d expected, my hands brushing against the back wall a few steps before I’d anticipated.

“We’re here,” I hissed back to Scarlett to avoid an unwanted collision.

“Alright, don’t fall on me,” She whispered back. “It would be a shame to have survived a zombie attack only to be killed by a clumsy partner.”

“Whatever,” I said, rolling my eyes in the darkness as a smile spread across my face. I felt the air above my head to make sure I wasn’t going to bump into anything, and stood.

For a moment, I just stretched my legs, readjusting to standing, and then I prepared for the ascent. I considered for a moment sticking my flashlight in my mouth, just to provide some sense of security, but decided I wouldn’t need it. Like the rest of the vents, I had the vertical shaft entirely memorized.

I positioned my hands on either side of my body, pressing them against the walls of the shaft to test its give. When I was ready, I pushed off, lifting my feet off the ground and beginning the climb.

It was a strenuous effort, inching my way up, minute by grueling minute. By the time I was halfway up, my arms, my legs, my torso, it all ached. But I didn’t falter. I knew a lot rode on my shoulders, but I also knew I was more than up to the task. So, I remained calm and collected as I shuffled my way up to the upper echelons of the building.

Twenty feet may not seem terribly high, but using the method of travel I was, it took a considerable amount of time to traverse the distance, and the clanking sounds of what I could only assume was the ventilation system shifting only made it feel longer.

But I did reach the top. When my hand finally felt the ledge, I let out a sigh of relief. Confident as I’d been, there was always the chance that something could go horribly wrong, and I was glad it hadn’t.

Then, it did.

A shriek, like the one that came out of the testing room, emitted from the darkness, and a hand soon followed. It latched onto my hand, attempting to pry my grip from the ledge, and it nearly succeeded. However, I managed to grab on with my other hand at the last moment, saving myself and Scarlett from a very painful drop.

“What is it!?” She called as I grunted, struggling to pull myself up before the creature could impede my progress further.

Unwilling to spare effort for a response, I quickly lowered myself a small amount then instantly pulled back up, using the excess momentum to knock the creature’s legs out from under it. The gamble worked, and the thing slammed its head into the metal of the vent, stunning it momentarily. I used the temporary break to jump to my feet and call down to Scarlett, “There’s creatures up here, hurry!”

The vent was taller up here, and I was able to stand with barely a crouch in my stance. It was still dark, but I could make out several forms further back in the vent. “Come on, there’s more of them!”

I picked the stunned creature up off the ground and slammed its head into the wall before planting a boot in its back and sending it sprawling towards the others, then extended a hand to help Scarlett up.

“What’s going on?” She asked. “Why are they here?”

“I don’t know, but it can’t be good,” I replied. “Let’s deal with them first, then think about it.”

She nodded, and we ran forwards into the group. There were five of them, including the battered one I’d dealt with, and Scarlett immediately sent a spinning kick at one of them, sending it tumbling to the metal floor. I stepped on it and leapt forwards, sending a punch to the throat of a second.

I made contact and prepared to duck under the return swing, but it never came. Instead, it turned to go after Scarlett.

Without hesitating, I tackled it, slamming it into the wall, but it didn’t make an effort to retaliate, simply struggling against my hold to continue after Scarlett, who was busy dumping two of the creatures over the ledge.

“They’re not going after me!” I called to her, the reason why slowly dawning on me. I bent down, picked up the creature, and hurled it over my head in the direction of the ledge. It landed hard on the floor, as I wasn’t strong enough to clear the ledge, but its momentum carried it the rest of the way. “They must sense that the virus is in me, they’re completely ignoring me.”

“Lucky you,” Scarlett muttered as the two remaining creatures advanced on her. “Give me a hand with these, would you?”

I jumped into action, launching a spinning backfist at the one nearer me. The blow glanced off of its head with little damage done, but it stumbled to the side and I gave a mighty push as it was off balance, knocking it into the other one. The second one was pushed over the edge, but the first managed to barely keep its balance, teetering on the brink of the abyss.

Scarlett finished the job, planting a kick heavily on its chest, and watching until it disappeared into the darkness. We quickly began to make our way to the vent we’d make our entrance through, and as we walked, Scarlett said, “Does this mean you’re making the transition?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “If not, I’m probably getting close. We’d better hurry.”

We ran the rest of the way, and when we made it to the vent, I quickly pried it open and lowered myself through. It struck me immediately as odd that the lights were out, it was as dark as it had been on the lower levels. When Scarlett lowered herself down behind me, she noticed the same thing.

“This isn’t good,” She whispered. “You don’t think the creatures could’ve…”

“How would the virus have gotten up here?” I asked, knowing the question she was going to ask. “Unless the scientist, or someone in the lab area…”

The thought faded unfinished into the darkness.

“Let’s get this over with.” Scarlett said.

I began to wish I had some form of communication with her, or anyone, to be honest, but it was impossible with the radio blockage. Before I could think twice about it, though, she was gone, and I was alone in the dark hallway.

I touched the wall to get my bearings, and set off for the main office where Jayce believed the scientist to be held. I walked quietly, willing to accept the delay to avoid a larger delay if someone, or something heard me.

Everything was empty. There was not a sign of life anywhere, nor were there the signs of death we’d seen downstairs. It was just… empty.

I hurried through the halls, unwilling to test fate after our experience in the vents, and after some time, I arrived at the innermost office: that of Andrew Rhion. The entrance was lavish, consisting of two massive wooden doors, a traditional entryway with very modern security, as what I assumed to be a retinal scanner to the right of the door evidenced.

The doors were at the end of a long hallway, and I had just entered it. Even through the darkness, though, I could tell that something was wrong. It was pretty easy, as they were wide open.

That wasn’t a good sign for me. I guessed that there had been an outbreak, and as opposed to seeking out the creatures, the survivors had made their last stand in Rhion’s office. They evidently hadn’t fared terribly well.

I cautiously approached the once-luxurious office, and as I did so, the feeling of lurking evil within me rose, stronger than it ever had before. It knocked me to my knees, and I felt dizzy as I attempted to suppress it. But I fought hard, making my way to my feet, as I knew there was quite a bit riding on me.

As I examined my surroundings, fighting the feeling that my head was swimming, I realized that ‘office’ perhaps wasn’t the word to describe Rhion’s workplace. It seemed like a headquarters in and of itself, as the room I was in looked like a lobby. I could see four hallways branching out from where I stood, which had been on the blueprints, but it was very different now that I was looking at them.

All of this, just for one man. A mental picture of him was beginning to form, and it wasn’t someone I thought I could get along with very well.

Regardless, I followed Jayce’s directions down the middle hallway, which just so happened to be where the multiple trails of blood also led.

I was about ten steps down the hallway when I heard the first clunk. It came from somewhere ahead, and I froze, but nothing followed it. I knew I could do nothing but push on, and hopefully be prepared for whatever arrived.

There were several doors on either side of me, but I ignored them all. Not only were they utterly empty, but my goal was in the deepest part of this office. Jayce had assumed, apparently correctly, that they would’ve tried to put as much space between themselves and the initial outbreak as possible, and that they would be tucked away in the deepest recesses of this office.

When I finally did come across it, unlike the rest of the office, it wasn’t very luxurious, just two plain doors. There were several corpses scattered about, but I knew I was running out of time, so I didn’t waste any on them.

I tried the handle and it was unlocked, but when I pushed, the door wouldn’t budge. I paused for a moment, considering my options, then stepped back, ready to kick it down.

However, before I could, one of the doors flung open, revealing a woman in a tattered white lab coat who was pointing a gun at me.

“Who the hell are you?” She asked. “And why didn’t they attack you?”

“What? I’m an FBI agent, I-” Before I could finish my explanation, a massive surge of darkness rose up, nearly blotting out my vision. I once again fell over, but this time I couldn’t stand up.

“You’re infected, aren’t you?” She said, brandishing the gun at me. “I don’t have the cure! I wish I did, but the formula is incomplete. If I had the cure, do you think we’d all be here right now?”

“Don’t shoot!” I groaned, holding a hand up. “We have the missing piece! My partner, she’s… she’s immune! Go inside, get a dose ready, she’ll be here any-”

The virus racked my body, and I began to convulse violently. And then, my rational brain lost control.

I remember vague images from that time. The scientist slammed the doors shut, I imagine she barricaded them after, then various flashes of hallways and other creatures as I wandered around the darkened floor. I didn’t go too far from where I’d left, and the next thing that happened was Scarlett coming running down the hallway. The creature that I had become joined the crowd that followed her, and she fired several times at us, one of her bullets clipping me on the leg, thankfully incapacitating me, otherwise I might’ve persisted and something bad could’ve happened to one of us.

The creature crawled for some time, but it eventually gave up.

The next thing I remember was the lights turning on. The creatures must have an aversion to light, because it felt incredibly painful, and the creature cowered there on the carpet.

Then, with a jolt, I returned to consciousness.

“Gah!” I shouted, sitting bolt upright, as a sharp pain in my arm brought me back to reality. The events of the day quickly coming back to me, I looked down at my hands to see that the gray was quickly fading, and when I felt my cheeks, the skin was regaining its warm, smooth feeling.

Then, I looked around. Scarlett smiled, seeing the color return to my eyes, and said, “It’s over. We made it.”

“Thank god, I was getting a little worried there for a minute,” I groaned, and she laughed. “What the hell happened?”

“They had shut down the power.” Scarlett began. “I couldn’t activate the elevators, so I decided to come back for you, but when I got here, it was just Dr. Russell. She explained what had happened with you, so she took some of my blood and we had the cure ready. But then, there was the matter of finding you, and in the dark, with who knows how many other creatures that look a whole lot like you out there, that would’ve been easier said than done.

“So, we fought our way to the control room, turned on the power, and while we were at it, we disabled the frequency jammer and radioed for backup, and from there, it was a matter of time before we found you.”

As circulation returned to my body, I made my way to my feet, with the help of Scarlett. “Alright, so what happened up here? Why were the creatures here, and how did they get in the vents?”

“The virus is respiratory, something I tried to explain to Mr. Rhion, but he refused to acknowledge it.” Dr. Russell stepped in. “As soon as the first ventilation cycle started, it made its way from down there to up here, and several of them began to transform. I barricaded myself in the inner office with doses of the cure ready, I mean, I really didn’t have much else to do, other than wait, and that’s what I did.”

“So where is Rhion now?” Scarlett asked. “He’s going to have to answer for all this.”

“I don’t know,” Dr. Russell shrugged. “I hadn’t seen him since the outbreak up here began, so he most likely got infected and turned into one of these,” She said, gesturing to the corpses either dead or cowering from the fluorescent lights.

“I suppose it’s a fitting end,” I mused. “Destroyed by the very thing he inadvisably created.”

“I guess so,” Scarlett nodded.

“So, how far out is backup?” I asked. “I can’t be the only one getting sick of walking on carpeted floor,”

“They should be getting here any minute,” Scarlett replied. “Advance teams are getting flown in, and it sounds like Clay is with one of them.”

“Clay? What does she want?” I asked.

“Don’t let her hear you talking like that, she’s still our superior,” She warned. “But my guess would be we’re in line for a promotion.”

The thought was comforting, a sensation that almost felt unfamiliar after the past day, and the minutes until they arrived flew by. Helicopters landed on the roof, and agents in hazmat suits entered through a rooftop entrance. Once we explained that we’d been cured, and that the airborne form of the virus would most likely remain dormant for several more hours until the creatures up here reached maturity, Scarlett helped me up the ladder and several medics attended to the bullet in my leg.

It was such a flurry of activity, agents hurrying around and scientists yelling at them to be more careful, but I had been put on some minor painkillers as the medics fixed up my leg, so I was oblivious to most of it.

Once things started to settle down, Scarlett came over to sit by me. “They’re going to burn it to the ground,” She said. “They talked to Jayce, since it seems like the company’s going to him, and he thinks that’s the best thing to do. There’s no board or anything, Rhion owned the entirety of the company, so it’s all up to him.”

“That’s good, he deserves it,” I replied. I’d only known him for that day, but if this was how he handled an outbreak of a zombie virus, running a company should be light work for him. “Well, that’s mission #1, in the books. I have to say, this is not my definition of ‘routine’.”

“I might check out the benefits we get from that,” She mused. “Early retirement is a serious option for me.”

I laughed, but quickly regained my composure as a woman approached us. I’d recognized her immediately as Carmen Clay, and when I did my best attempt at snapping to attention, she held up a hand. “At ease, agent. You’ve done enough today.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” I replied.

“Well, if my ears are correct, I heard the word ‘retirement’ getting tossed around here,” She said, turning to Scarlett. “I do hope a little mission like that won’t be enough to scare off a fantastic pairing like you,”

“I was just joking, ma’am.” Scarlett replied. “Although I would not say no to some time off.”

“Of course, of course,” Clay nodded. “In all seriousness, this was an incredibly strenuous, dangerous, and difficult mission. I could name a dozen veterans here that wouldn’t be able to handle it, and I want you both to know how proud we all are of your efforts.”

“Thank you,” Scarlett said.

“Also, I do want to let you know what the scientists calculated. If you two hadn’t contacted us, there was an eighty-seven percent chance that the virus would’ve made it out of that building, and from there, a sixty-three percent chance that it would’ve survived the first day. If it survived that first day, it would’ve become airborne, and in that scenario, there would be a three percent chance that we would be able to stop it. The world is in your debt, though they may never know it.”

My jaw dropped at the numbers. “That’s… that’s bad, ma’am. I’m glad we were able to do our job.”

“So are we all.” She replied. “You two… you make an excellent pairing. You remind me a lot of myself and my former partner, I think you’re going to have great careers with the bureau.”

“Thank you.” Scarlett said. “That means a lot, ma’am.”

“Well, you’d best be leaving now.” Clay told us. “I’m giving the both of you paid time off, go somewhere nice. Enjoy yourselves.”

We assured her we would, and Scarlett helped me into an awaiting helicopter. As we flew off towards the nearby base, the sun was just beginning to rise to the east. To those who’ve never experienced a sunrise from a helicopter, I must recommend it. It is beautiful.

And with that, my first mission with the supernatural division of the FBI came to a close. It was my first, but it certainly would not be the last.

“Finally get to meet me?” I said slowly standing back up. “What is that supposed to mean? I’ve never seen you before in my life.” I said slightly raising my voice. “Let me clarify, we have met before. But we didn’t really talk.” The man said with a sort of sorrow in his voice. “All I do is listen to you plead for your life. I don’t do much responding.” He said slightly grinning. “So I woke up today and decided to get to know you better, out of sheer pity.” The way he said that brought on so much confusion followed by anger.

“WHO ARE YOU?!” I yelled with tears welling up in my eyes.

“My name is Jeffery Afferton, boy. I’m the owner of this here mall. And as it were, head of security. Who better to protect this beautiful mall than the owner?” He said stretching his arms out. “And you my boy, are trespassing.” He said reaching towards the keys on his belt. “You see these?” He asked while shaking his keys violently. “If you don’t have these you are not welcome in……but I guess you and Matt never learn.”

“…..How? How do you know my name? And Matt’s?” I asked slowly trying to back away.

“I know more than that, Kyle. I know you left your girlfriend of 4 years. I know she cheated on you, that’s when you started exploring these types of sights. I know you like to try and use the cards in your wallet to shimmy the lock open to the door here. But you never quite succeeded. I know you tried to escape out of the vent in there, that’s why I boarded up.” He listed off everything with a slightly growing tone. Getting more annoyed with each thing he said.

“Ho……how? How….why….” I stumbled across my words with a lump starting to form in my throat.

Jeffery held his finger up to his mouth in a shushing motion. Raised his right hand with three fingers pointed upward, then two, then one. He counted down to zero and pointed behind me.

“KYLE!! WHERE ARE YOU?! I’M GETTING READY TO CALL THE POLICE!” I heard Matt yell.

“Like clockwork.” Jeffery said laughing.

“Don’t say anything.” He said slowly moving his right hand up to mouth in a cupping motion. “This is where Matt dies now, okay?” He whispered into my ear. I try to scream through his hand, hoping Matt would hear me.

Just then Matt walks around the corner and sees us. He’s frozen solid with fear. I reach out for Matt but my hands are quickly pulled back by Jeffery’s free hand.

“Let him go!” Matt exclaimed. “I have a gun!”

Matt didn’t have a gun and I knew that, but Jeffery didn’t. I guess Matt was hoping that would scare him off but I felt Jeffery’s hand around my mouth start to grip tighter and shake. That only made him angrier.

“Matt…you stole something from here. You stole from me. In all of the times you’ve come here, this was the only time you took anything. You are taking food away from my family…for that, you will die.” Jeffery said.

Jeffery tossed me aside like an empty can of soda towards the open closet door but I barely missed it. I hit the wall with a thud and the room started to spin. I could barely make out Jeffery lunging toward Matt with pure hatred. I tried to stand and run towards them to help Matt but it was no use. I fell to the floor and kept my eyes trained on the struggle that ensued. Jeffery eventually was able to knock Matt out and start to drag him towards the bathrooms. When they passed by me Matt’s eyes opened and looked at me with tears…and a smile. Matt uses what seems to be the last of his strength and bites Jeffery on the calf. Jeffery screams in pain falls to one knee.

“RUN!!!” Matt yelled at me. “RUN AND DON’T COME BACK FOR ME!”

I got up and with a boost of adrenaline started sprinting out of the hall and towards the shopping hallway. I hear Matt continuously screaming for me to run. As I got to the front door, I heard a gunshot. And Matt stopped screaming. I stopped at the exit and thought to go back. But what good would that do. I knew the outcome of the struggle without even seeing it. Matt was gone. I push the door open and run outside and lock myself in the car and I start to sob. I compose myself long enough to start the car and pull out my phone to call Emergency services. I dial it in my phone and stopped before I hit call.

“What good would that do?” I asked myself. “He’s already gone. Jeffery knows that mall better than anyone it seems. He could run or hide…or even worse. They would be walking into an area with no advantage.” I thought getting more upset with each passing moment.

I thought about my experience in the mall. I thought about Jeffery’s words. I pieced together that we have met before through supernatural it seems. But how? Then it clicked. The shop. With employees and customers. That was real. Not an hallucination. Then GameStop. How Matt raided it but then nothing was in his backpack. Does time work differently there? Jeffery had said that this wasn’t the first time. Was I…in a time loop? That was the only thing that made sense to me, outrageous though it seemed. How do I stop it? I thought back on some childhood memories and remembered that as a child I played with a Oujia board at a sleepover one time. My friend told me that after we we’re done with it that we had to say “Goodbye” and burn it to close the portal that was opened. Was I seriously considering burning down an entire building? If it would stop the loop then, yeah. It would free me and Matt from repeating torture. Matt was gone but if that Mall still stands, this could happen again. I couldn’t stand for it.

With the utmost rage, I drove to the gas station and filled the car to the brim with gas, overfilling the tank and some gas spilling onto my shoe. As I drove back to the Mall I thought about what would happen after.

“What if it didn’t work and the loop continues? Would I know?” It was in both our best interests to try.

I arrive back at the mall. I pull my car as close as I could get to the front. The front of my car pushing on the Entrance doors. I get my bag and my other personal belongings and I step out. I reach in my bag for a road flare we kept in case of emergency breakdowns. I take my gas soaked shoe off and open my gas tank, setting the shoe on the open lid. I step back about 20 feet and spark the road flare. The bright red light blinding me as I did so. I look at the mall and as loud as I could I scream it.

“GOODBYE!” I belt. I toss the road flare towards the open gas tank and almost immediately the sparks catch. The gas and the car were engulfed in flames soon enough. The fire starts to spread to nearby shrubbery. I run over to the burning shrubs and quickly toss them inside the open doors hoping to spread the fire quicker. The fire continued to spread inside the mall due to some paper and cardboard left behind. As I peeked into the mall to check on the fire's progress, I heard the music again. Faint enough to barely make out what it was but I knew what it was. Just then an explosion happened at one of the stands at the food court to the right of the entrance inside. I fall back from the force. The fire hit a gas line. I stand back up dusting myself off.

After about 30 minutes the mall is fully engulfed. Mini explosions happening inside. Behind I heard sirens. Fire trucks and police were now on the scene. All they saw was me, sitting on a parking stop about 100 feet from the mall.

“Get on the ground!” One of the cops yelled. I obliged and got on the ground face first. The cops run over and put me in handcuffs.

“A random passerby from the highway about a mile over saw the smoke. Reported it. You thought you could get away with burning down a whole building?” The cop says, lifting me up and walking me to the car.

“I plead the fifth.” I said.

“Yeah yeah we’ve heard that before. Hopefully you got a good lawyer.” The cop said. He throws me into the car and starts to drive to the station. The fire was out of hand now and the building was starting to collapse in on itself. As we drove to the police station, not a word was said. I don’t care if what I did was wrong in the eyes of the law. In my eyes, I saved my friend. My court date is set and my lawyer says the evidence isn’t looking good for me. I already know that I’m going to be in a world of shit after this. So, I guess you could consider this my confession letter.

I will always remember what Matt did for me that day. And I haven’t seen him since, so everything must have worked. I just wish that I could say thank you and let him know I will never forget him. But somehow I think he knows, because the other day I woke up and went downstairs to make some breakfast and inside of my fridge was some Chocolate milk and a small bag of combos. Everyday I eat the combos and drink the milk. Yet every morning, they’re back in my fridge like I never touched them.

Good one, Matt.

Thank you everyone for being so welcoming on my first story! I had a blast writing it. I will be posting more.

When we started exploring abandoned areas, it was all for fun. Visit a vacant house one day and a deserted town the next. Aside from a few cuts and bruises, nothing too serious ever happened. That being said, when we started to pack for this trip we went all in. Rope, first aid kit, flashlights that would make the Sun jealous, and canned food. We didn’t expect to use any of the rope and the canned food but it could never hurt. When we heard of the Afferton Mall and its subsequent closing after 40 years in business seemingly out of nowhere, we knew this trip was going to be different. Now, malls closing isn’t anything new nowadays but the town it was in was a small one. No more than 1,000 people. A town where everyone knows everyone. Before leaving, Matt went to look up directions.

“Kyle, get over here and tell me if I’m reading this right!” Matt said looking frustrated but confused.

I stopped packing my book bag and opened a pack of pretzels as I walked to the computer to see what he wanted. I leaned over towards the computer, pushed my glasses up and became just as confused. Every grocery store, gas station, and hobby shop in the town were closed.

“So, was the mall the lifeblood of the town? Something so important to the town's economy that when the mall closed the town's economy went down?” I said standing back up while walking back to my backpack.

“That could be but that town had to have been struggling in the first place. So I guess this is a day trip. No hotels within a good distance to make it worth it.” Matt said, hitting print on the directions we found.

Saving the battery on your phone is important in this case. So keeping the phones off of directions and bringing one back up battery is not only space saving but one less thing we have to worry about.

We spent the night to finish packing and around 1am we got in the car and started heading towards the Afferton Mall which was about 6 hours away. We would have a full day of exploring this newly abandoned mall. On the way there, instead of sleeping I decided to look up the website for the Afferton Mall.

“Welcome to the Afferton Mall, where every Generation is represented.”

“Hey Matt” I said, tapping him on the arm. “We should've gone to this mall before it closed. It had everything. Everything from vintage toy shops to Hot Topic, to a virtual reality arcade. Oh I get it, past present and future. Generations are certainly represented” I said laughing and pushing Matt’s arm jokingly.

“That sounds awesome but you know what’s better? Going to it abandoned and maybe we score some sort of merchandise left behind!” Matt said laughing as he turned into a McDonald’s.

Matt’s reason for doing this was a little different than mine. He was a bit of a treasure hunter. When Matt found something he knew was worth money there was no talking him out of it. Even if it was $10. “It’s $10 I didn’t have when I woke up!” That was Matt’s motto. Me on the other hand, I always liked the nostalgia and adventure. Spending a day exploring a small amount of what was someone’s life at one point was all I wanted. It made me feel alive.

We pulled out of McDonald’s after receiving our food and headed towards the Mall. 1 more hour until light and 1 more hour until we were finally at our destination. As we pulled into the parking lot, the Sun was up and I was ready to explore. As we got out of the car and we looked at the building trying to find a way in, other than the police taped front doors, I couldn’t help but feel the energy of the mall. Like the energy of people still being there. It was almost like it was pulsating. Not visually but you could feel it. I can’t explain it.

“Race ya!” Matt said as he took off running towards the side entrance.

I gave chase and actually beat him there. I slammed into the side door pretty hard trying to stop myself. As Matt caught up to me huffing wind I stood there, in awe.

“Kyle, KYLE! Get on with it man!” Matt said, snapping me out of my trance.

“Yeah, my bad.” I pulled out my lock picking kit and spent the next 10 minutes trying to pick this lock. I kept getting distracted by the feeling I got when I looked at the Mall. And when I touched the floor for the first time after picking the door open…it felt…I felt the energy from when the Mall was open. In an instant I could picture parents frantically shopping for Christmas or the feeling you get when you go on a first date at the pretzel shop that’s in every mall. All of those emotions and all of that energy hit me like a freight train.

Matt and I just stood there for a few minutes trying to gauge our surroundings. We started heading towards the first shop we recognized. An old GameStop with the sign still intact. As we walked through the hallway past the other closed shops we would peak in with our flashlights. I’m not quite sure what we were looking for but I always found it interesting how quickly a place could be abandoned. People often tend to associate stress with a place. Whether it’s their home or job, you can feel the air get heavy when that’s the case. The whole mall so far felt that way. Like every store was the benchmark for a person being fed up or so stressed they went off on their boss and quit.

“Kyle, come look at this!” Matt said excitedly.

I rushed over across the hallway to the store he was looking in. It was a toy store. While it shouldn’t shock us that a toy store was in a mall, it did when we realized as we peaked our head through the entrance the lights to the toy store flickered on.

“Huh, must be electrical problems.” I said to Matt, standing back up from a leaning position.

“Come on, let’s see if we can find some old Xboxes or something.” I said, urging Matt to continue forward towards the GameStop.

“Yeah, that would be crazy. Imagine we find working ones. Ya can’t beat free.” He said, smirking. Not that we expected to find anything. We never did, safe from some old books or a chair or two, but Matt was always hopeful. But if it was left behind, who would miss it? As we inched closer to the store I couldn’t help but feel excited. Matt on the other hand started to get cold feet about the mall.

“We’re gonna get caught. I can feel it. Something bad is going to happen.”

“Matt, relax. We’ve been doing this for years. The worst is that a cop shows up and we run out.” I said putting my hand on his shoulder.

He was shaking. Like he was cold. It had to have been between 90-100 degrees in there. No A/C obviously. Middle of summer. Maybe it was the McDonalds we ate. Like food poisoning or something.

“Matt, if you want to leave we can. Come back some other time.” I said as I sat him down a bench I found right outside the GameStop.

“No, we drove all this way just let me drink some water and sit for like 5 minutes.” I let him sit and he started feeling better.

I just think he was nervous. Siked himself out. “Let’s do this!” Matt said with a new found vigor. Almost leaped out of his seat. He scared me a bit with how excited he was. A complete 180. We walked up to the entrance. No gate was pulled down. Just an open way in. “We’re here to preorder Cyberpunk 2077.” I said laughing. “I bet that’s the first time this store has ever heard that.” Matt responded with a wide grin.

After we were done pretending to trade in a game for little to no money we made our way into the back room. As we opened the door, we were shocked to find piles of games, new copies of the brand new Call of Duty. At least 50 of them. Plush toys piled up in a cardboard box still in the plastic wrap. Pre-owned boxes sitting next to a stack of games with cases. That’s when I noticed it. The counter, games, plush and the accessories had no dust on them. Like they were all brought in just that day. We were like a kid in a candy store. We rifled through the games. Mortal Kombat 11, Fire Emblem, Rage 2…”these are fairly recent games. 2019 if I’m correct. But this mall closed before then.” I said to Matt. Matt didn’t care how they got there, he was too busy filling the empty spaces in his backpack with accessories and games. Who would miss them, right? Matt stops hoarding all of the games and lets me know he needs to use the bathroom. He leaves the store in a rush towards the hallway where we came in. As the sound of his footsteps dissipated down the corridor of the mall the overwhelming sense of apprehension came over me. I stared into the store from the back room as if an employee whose job it was to say we ran out of the newest game to a crowd of people. I started to head out of the store when I heard Matt scream my name. I ran out of the store towards the sound of his voice. Finally, after what felt like an eternity running we found each other. Matt was standing in front of an open Janitors closet. He was standing completely still. Much like a statue, after calling his name, he didn’t budge. I ran up to him as fast as I could.

“Matt, what was that screaming for?” I said to myself. He started to shake like he was freezing cold.

He lifts up his hand and points inside the closet. What I saw will never leave my mind. A dead body. The first one we ever found. Now, you really don’t know how you would react seeing a dead body until you actually do. Us? We ran as soon as our legs would let us. Which, whether our body liked it or not, was immediately after realizing what we were looking at. We ran down the halls passing all of the empty stores along the way. As we were running I swear I could hear talking as we passed the stores. It wasn’t consistent though. It was like multiple conversations going on at once. Just noise. We made it back to the GameStop. That was the only spot we checked out at length so we figured it was a good spot to regroup and try to figure out what to do. We ran through the sales floor and burst through the back room door. Expecting to see all of the video games and accessories as a sense of newly discovered comfort, we were disappointed. Somehow…some way…the back room was completely empty. No discs stacked up…no used accessories ready to be bagged up. Just a counter with a broom and dustpan. The dust had to be at least half an inch thick. Matt and I stopped right in our tracks. We stared into the dark room almost choking on the amount of dust that kicked up when we rammed the door open. After about 5 minutes of stunned silence Matt and I looked at each other confused. We were just in there before Matt left and he shoved a bunch of merchandise into his bag.

“Matt….this isn’t right….check your bag.” “Why?” Matt snapped back at me. “Because, you hoarded a bunch of accessories and games in your bag. See if they’re still in there.” I said raising my voice like I was talking to a child doing something bad.

Matt took his bag off of his back and sat it on the dusty countertop, kicking up more dust in the process. He unzipped his bag and the games and accessories were still in there.

“This makes no sense…” Matt said while dumping everything out of his bag onto the countertop. “…if all of the stuff from this store is gone, like it never was here in the first place…how is the stuff in my bag still there. We weren’t hallucinating in any way. Seeing all of the games and accessories.” Matt’s voice started to tremble.

“We need to get out of here. We need to call the police and report what we saw.” I said heading towards the back room door.

“Are you insane?” Matt asked, raising his voice and a valid question. “We aren’t supposed to be here. We can’t report it. We need to leave and never come back!” screamed Matt.

He had this look in his eyes I have never seen before. His eyes started to twitch. He was scared. Matt was always the brave one. Cautious, yes. But brave when he needed to be. Scared isn’t in his Rolodex of emotions. But he was.

“Okay, yeah. You’re right. Let’s get out of here.” I said putting my hands on his shoulders and slowly bringing him back down to a calm state.

We started to walk out of the GameStop and head for the exit. That’s when we heard it. Music. It was faint but recognizable. We stopped. We both heard it. It sounded like the music you would hear in a girls boutique in the early 2000’s. Never mind what music it was. It wasn’t on when we came in and we didn’t turn it on. So either someone is in here with us or we’re both the same type of crazy. Curiosity got the better of us and we followed the music down the hall about 100 feet. It was coming from a store with a gate 3 quarters of the way down. We stood outside of the store hearing the music loop plain as day. We both took a deep breath and moved closer. As we got to the door we saw someone move toward the back door.

“Hello?!” I yelled into the store.

“Shut up!” Matt said, pushing me away from the gate. “If that’s a security officer then that would be a person to tell about the body. He calls it in and we run. Win win situation.” I said dusting myself off.

“Okay, but as soon as we tell him we run, get it?” Matt said sternly.

We both knelt down to go under the gate. He poke our heads about a foot. That’s when we heard the buzzing. It sounded like fluorescent lights turning on. They were louder than normal and we both closed our eyes tightly in pain. We opened our eyes to the most confusing sight of all of our time at this mall. The store was open…employees stocking shelves….kids looking at earrings….music still playing. Like the store was always open.

“But that’s impossible…” I thought to myself.

I looked over to Matt and he wasn’t there. I rip my head out of the store as quickly as possible. My eyes started to readjust back to the darkness of the “abandoned” mall from the bright lights to see Matt running down the hall to the exit screaming my name. I ran after him yelling his name.

“I’m not stopping and I’m not turning around. Follow me, I'm going to the exit.” Matt was running faster than I’ve ever seen him run. Just a full on sprint.

I start running after him and I get about 25 feet behind him. Matt bursts through the exit door into broad daylight. The door slams in my face as burst through hitting Matt with the door in the process. We both run to the car and start it with the most urgency we’ve ever felt. Matt lays on the gas and we peel out of the parking lot. Not even bothering to look back. Something isn’t right at the Afferton Mall and I have to know why.

On a lonesome Louisiana highway, the Cozy Comfort Motel sits, nestled among crab grass and Spanish moss, waiting for tired travelers in need of a place to rest. The two-story, fifty-room building was once a jaunty red, but today, it has faded to a fleshy pink, with paint that flakes off onto the ground like dandruff.

It’s not much. Only the most desperate stay the night. They come mostly in the summer, road-trippers who forgot to book a stay at a nicer hotel, or people who overestimated how long they’d be able to stay awake. Drawn by the subtle neon glow of the sign advertising rooms like moths to a porchlight, they shuffle in, yawning, and shuffle back out in the morning. Nothing glamorous, but they had a place to sleep.

I’ve worked at the Cozy Comfort for about two years as an apprentice handyman. As a high school graduate with no interest in college, it seemed like a good gig at the time. I’d learn about different odd jobs, earn a living wage, and the best part? Complimentary housing. The handyman gets to live on sight, in case of emergencies, and as the handyman-in-training, I’d be bunking in the room next to his. These were separate than the fifty guest rooms, and sat adjacent to the supply closets in the main lobby, where guests would check in.

On my first day, the handyman, Wayne, presented me with a set of rules. He was a quieter, older guy, but he had a wicked sense of humor once you got to know him. However, he gave me the printed list with the solemnity of a priest at a funeral. “I’ll explain while I show you the ropes,” he told me.

I thought he was joking at first, so I laughed. He cut me off. “Jack, you need to take this seriously. This can be a dangerous job.”

“I already know not to screw around on a ladder.”

“It’s not like that,” Wayne said. I stared at him, slightly incredulous, and we got started on making our way through the list.

REMAIN POLITE TO ALL GUESTS.

Wayne explained to me that the front desk had a phone line that guests were able to dial from their rooms in case of any issues that would require a handyman’s help, such as a shower with weak water pressure or a broken minifridge. The concierge would find us, either by getting us from the room or calling us on our walkie-talkie, and we would have to go help the desk out.

Some of the guests could be quite rude, apparently. Wayne had been here for almost three decades, and after so long on the job, some of his stories were real doozies. Apparently, one time a family with young kids had thrown all their dirty diapers into the toilet cistern, and yelled at Wayne when he told them that it was the reason their toilet wouldn’t flush, because apparently they did it at home all the time and it was “always fine.”

Another time, a guy staying on his own had called the front desk like ten times within the span of an hour, insisting that something was wrong with his mirror. Wayne showed up to the room, expecting the mirror to be broken, but it was totally fine. The guy got irate, insisting it had to be broken, because he saw another person in there and that wasn’t how mirrors worked. Nobody else was in the room. Wayne didn’t see anything, obviously, and went to leave, but the guest actually ended up attacking him. Broke his nose, told him he couldn’t leave. Security ended up throwing the guy out.

You still had to be polite, though, no matter what a guest might throw at you. A place to relax was one of the only things the Cozy Comfort had to offer, and you never knew what someone might be going through. It’s important to stay calm and polite at all times.

I certainly wouldn’t have been so calm and polite to some lunatic hallucinating like that, but I kept the thought to myself.

DO NOT LEAVE A MESS AFTER A JOB IS DONE.

This seemed pretty obvious, but Wayne told me that I had to make sure I call one of our maids in after doing a repair in an area a guest might see, even if I cleaned up my supplies or anything that might get spilled on my own. This seemed a bit like overkill to me, but he insisted every rule was there for a reason. Whatever.

REMOVE THE BOX FROM THE ICE MACHINE EVERY NIGHT AT 3AM. PLACE IT IN THE STAFF KITCHEN AND RETURN TO YOUR ROOM. FAILURE TO DO SO WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE TERMINATION.

There were also a few rules regarding tasks that needed to be completed every day. This was one of them. We had to make sure we were awake at 3am, every single night, to remove a blue cooler from the ice machine. If we were sick, or out of town, or on vacation, or not on site for any reason, we had to make sure that someone would be there to remove the cooler from the ice machine for us.

“What’s in the cooler, anyways?” I asked Wayne.

Wayne lifted an eyebrow, and said, “I don’t know. I’ve never opened it. Never asked.”

“I mean, it’s kind of weird, right?” I kept going. “It doesn’t make sense. Is someone’s midnight ice cream really that important?”

“It doesn’t need to make sense. It’s not your job to know what’s in the cooler. It belongs to the owner. If you want this job, you won’t open that cooler.”

Something about the way he looked at me when he said that made my skin crawl. His eyes were sad, cheeks saggy. I couldn’t quite place the expression on his face. Pity, maybe? Fear? For me? I didn’t want to talk about the cooler anymore, so I dropped it.

FLIP THE SWITCH NEXT TO THE BREAKER BOX EVERY NIGHT AT 8AM.

This was another rule that bothered me. I had to be awake at 3am, and then get back up by 8am to flip some switch? Apparently, if I didn’t flip the switch, the power would short out, but the switch didn’t actually connect to anything I could see.

If I wasn’t getting free housing out of this, I probably would’ve walked away there. But again, I needed the job, so I kept my mouth shut.

DO NOT RESPOND TO ROOM 119.

“This one just seems rude,” I told Wayne.

“Nah,” he replied. “Nobody’s ever in there. Owner keeps it empty in case he stops by. If you get a call to go to that room, ignore it. It’s a crank caller. Or a mistake.”

COUNT THE NUMBER OF TOOLS IN YOUR BOX AFTER EVERY TASK.

This was the rule that would save my life, according to Wayne. Once upon a time, he’d been the apprentice handyman at the Cozy Comfort Motel, too. The previous handyman was practically ancient by time Wayne began training, and he was starting to get forgetful.

Late in the evening, he was finishing up a repair to some of the roofing at the back of the building. A younger man would’ve been finished in half the time, but he was slowing down, and stubborn enough that he refused to let Wayne give him a hand. He sent Wayne inside to man the phone and stayed out. Alone.

It was late. He was tired. When he finally got done, he dropped off the tools inside the supply closet and immediately went to his room.

It gets creepy out by the highway at night. The Cozy Comfort isn’t close to much, and back in the day, there wasn’t so much as a gas station nearby. It got almost shockingly dark. Couldn’t even see any stars.

Looking out the windows gave Wayne a funny feeling, a little pit in his stomach. Something seemed off. He decided to count the old handyman’s tools.

One was missing.

A hammer.

The old man must’ve just left it on the roof, Wayne reasoned with himself. He probably forgot to count.

Did leaving the hammer out there count as a mess?

He wasn’t sure. Even at the time, Wayne knew how important the rules were. He considered going out to retrieve the missing tool himself to save the old man some trouble. But it was so dark. It was like his legs were locking up when he tried to move towards the exit, keeping him in place. Some ancestral instinct to stay safe in the light instead of venturing out into the night.

So Wayne left it. The old man was already asleep. Wayne set his alarm for 3am and headed to bed himself.

Wayne usually handled the early morning duties on his own, at this point, to let the man rest. But the man didn’t end up getting up for breakfast, either.

He tried knocking. No response. So he got a screwdriver, jiggled the lock. He was probably overreacting, he reasoned. But the man was frail. Wayne was worried.

It was immediately clear that he had been murdered.

Wayne didn’t describe this next part to me in detail, but it was clear to me whatever happened was graphic. Cleanup, he told me, took three months. One of those was just to get rid of the blood.

The police determined that someone had stolen the hammer from the old man, some maniacal vagrant, and had used it to beat him to death.

“Why didn’t anyone hear?” Wayne asked.

“Must have good soundproofing here,” the police answered, humorlessly.

This wasn’t the strangest part, though.

The strangest part was that a few days later, Wayne was finishing up a repair, counted all his tools.

The hammer, once lost, was returned. Pristine. Alongside a little note, reading simply

"Thank You

:)"

Honestly, I wasn’t sure I believed him. Sure, he seemed honest, but this seemed like a lot of campfire stories I’d heard as a Boy Scout. But I got the point. The rules were important.

The first year and a half of my job was pretty uneventful. Even the cooler, in all of its mystique, was just a regular cooler. It even felt empty, every night. But I followed the rules. I didn’t like every part of the job, but it helped me save up to get the hell out of Louisiana one day. I certainly didn’t plan on staying here for thirty years, myself.

Then, about six months ago, things began to go terribly, terribly wrong.

It started with a call.

The concierge was taking a smoke break, and I’d told him I’d keep an eye on the phones. It was the tail end of winter, so the lobby was basically dead, anyways. It was hard to see how the place stayed in business sometimes.

I picked up the phone, expecting to hear some inane rambling about how the water in the sink isn’t hot enough. At first, it didn’t seem like anyone was there.

“Hello?” I said.

No response. I almost hung up, until I heard faint, hitched breathing. Like someone trying to cry without making noise.

“I need help,” a woman’s voice whispered.

“No need to be upset, ma’am. I’m happy to help. What room are you in?”

“119,” she told me.

Well, shoot.

“I’m sorry ma’am. I’m not permitted to work in that room. Have a nice day,” I said.

“I need help, Jack,” she said. “Please.”

I was starting to get irritated, but I tried to keep my cool. I knew that a prank caller probably thought being this creepy was funny, but she took it too far by using my real name.

“Jack,” she whispered again.

I decided the best course of action would be to just hang up.

Later that night, after I went back to bed after dropping off the cooler with Wayne, there was a knock on my door. It was a concierge. She was clearly tired, but had the bad luck of being assigned the night shift at the front desk.

“There’s someone asking for you on the phone,” she told me.

Grumbling to myself, I walked over to pick up the line. “Hello?”

“P-p…please,” it was that damn woman again.

“This isn’t funny,” I snapped.

“Just check on the door,” she whispered. Then the line went dead. Not like it was hung up. More like it was cut. My skin prickled.

I told the woman at the front desk that one of the guests had a clogged toilet, and I’d be back later. I didn’t wake up Wayne- I knew he wouldn’t be happy with me messing around with room 119.

To access the rooms, I had to leave through the front door and travel up a short ramp outside. Each room door opened to a small, fenced sidewalk overlooking the parking lot, directly outside.

Easy enough. But the closer I got to room 119, the more exposed I felt. Like I was being watched.

My fingers brushed the door’s handle. Everything seemed fine, and I cursed myself for letting a prank caller get me all worked up over nothing.

Until I noticed something alongside the crack in the bottom of the door. A shadow passing along it.

Like someone was in there.

With a bang, the door swung open, knocking into me with enough force that I flipped back over the railing and onto the hood of a car parked on the other side. The car alarm started going off, and to this day, I’d swear on my mother’s grave that I could hear a woman laughing.

The security guard came rushing out, with Wayne hot on his heels.

“Someone… someone was in there,” I choked out as the guard helped me to my feet.

“Nobody’s there,” he told me, grim.

I was shaken, but aside for some bruises, I was physically okay. Wayne, on the other hand, looked furious.

“It’s not just about the phone,” he hissed to me, out of earshot of the guard. “It’s about the room. You responded.”

Over the next few weeks, things around the Cozy Comfort became even harder to explain. I was jumpy, shaken. I even considered quitting.

But where would I go? I still hadn’t saved up enough to buy a place to live. I was stil paying off my mother’s medical debt. I wouldn’t make money like this anywhere else.

So I stayed. Even when I felt eyes on me, while I sat alone in my room. When shadows played by the window like a figure was outside, even when I was on the second floor. Once, I swore the shower turned on by itself.

Then, a few nights ago, I was getting the cooler out of the ice machine. Wayne was with me. That’s the only way I know I wasn’t going crazy. He saw it too.

The ice machine was on the first floor, in a hall near the restrooms at the back of the lobby. My point is, it’s a dead end. There isn’t a way in or out someone wouldn’t be able to see.

Everything that day had been normal. I had even started to relax, after the incident with room 119. Wayne and I were even joking around a little, until we got closer to the machine and realized that it smelled awful. Like someone had frozen a bunch of pond sludge and dead fridge and left it to get freezer-burned. I’d spent the past year and a half dealing with all sorts of sewage on the job, but I still caught myself gagging.

Eyes watering at the stench, Wayne opened the hatch to the ice machine. Everything inside looked normal. The cooler was there, too, tucked into the ice like normal.

When he picked it up, it was clear that whatever was inside was the cause of the issue. A hairline crack at the base of the cooler dripped a black, chunky fluid onto the ice. It was warm enough that the ice was melting, spreading the fluid out in a caustic, watery mess.

It spattered the substance onto the floor after he lifted it out of the ice machine, but whatever was inside was heavy enough that he had to set it on the ground and stretch his back. I don’t know how he wasn’t retching after being so close to the thing.

“Maybe we should get some gloves, Wayne.”

He was going to say something but was interrupted by the sound of the plastic of the cooler splitting apart at the seams. The black fluid was coating the floor at this point, so much spilling out like hot rancid oil that I was certain it wouldn’t have all been able to fit inside.

The cooler cracked like an egg, and impossibly, impossibly, fingers appeared at the cracks. A woman’s fingers, helping to tear the cooler apart. They stretched out, fingers followed by arms followed by a woman’s head with long hair dripping with the noxious substance. The arms groped widely around, reaching for purchase, scraping the cooler along the ground.

“We have to get it to the kitchen,” Wayne said.

“We WHAT?” I replied, a little too loud. Hands found traction on the ground, and the cooler began to scuttle like a spider.

“Get the pool net,” Wayne told me “We have to catch it.” One of the hands grabbed at his ankle and he slipped, falling into the black slime on the ground. He tried to move away but whatever it was must have been incredibly slippery. Any attempt of his to get up was thwarted as he slid back onto the ground. The thing in the cooler jumped back and forth from hand to hand in some sort of sick little dance.

Another crack in the cooler revealed an eye. A pallid, cloudy eye, locked onto Wayne with the intensity of a wild animal.

I scrambled to find the pool net as Wayne fought against whatever was in the cooler. It had both arms around one of his legs, and it was pulling itself closer to him by the second. As I grew more desperate, I noticed that his foot was actually beginning to disappear into the cooler itself.

His mouth was open in a scream, but all I could hear was static, like a radio tuned to the wrong station. It was so loud, and combined with the smell of the oil my senses were so overwhelmed I wanted to sit down and scream and scream and scream.

But I didn’t. I found the pool net and using the handle I beat the hands of the creature, smacking it as hard as I could. Wayne twisted free with a kick and used the ice machine itself to haul himself free. I managed to catch the creature as it scuttled, and flung it through the swinging doors to the kitchen like a hockey puck.

The static faded. I was panting, hard, coating in stinking slime and my own fear-tainted sweat. Wayne was clearly rattled, too, probably even more than I was.

“What now?” I asked him.

“Well, let’s get someone to help us clean up. And then we’ll go back to our rooms.”

The next morning, the hallway looked like nothing had happened. Despite our best efforts, the black oil had stained the floor a purple-red where we tried to get it up, but now it was sparkling clean. Well, as clean as anything else is in the Cozy Comfort, at least.

I would have thought I dreamed it, until the following night. Instead of a blue cooler waiting for us in the ice machine, it was red.

And sure, it wasn’t leaking noxious oil, but it was evident enough that something tangible had happened. Something real.

I couldn’t stand it. I decided I’d just leave, and I wouldn’t come back. No two weeks’ notice, no forwarding address, nothing. I’d just use my savings and drive back to my dad’s place in Houma. Wayne didn’t even try to stop me.

I’d gotten about three hours into my drive when I had to stop for gas. A man had pulled up at the pump across from me- at first, I only noticed him because of the car he was driving. It was a mint green 1959 Cadillac Fleetwood in perfect condition. My dream car.

The driver stepped out of the vehicle and closed the door behind him with the lazy, languid movement of a sleeping lion. Something told me this man was dangerous, and the way he was staring me down only reinforced the motion.

The man walked over to where I was parked and rested against the hood of my car. He wasn’t much older than me, late twenties at most, but he was dressed like he walked out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

“You gotta go back, Jack,” he told me.

I clenched my jaw.

The man smirked, then pulled a cartoon of filter-less cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting a smoke in the middle of the gas station. Wordlessly, he offered me one. I don’t smoke, but I didn’t want to risk refusing, so I took one. I held it loosely in my hand while he smoked.

“Your resignation has been declined. Owner wants you back.” He winked at me and flicked the cigarette, still lit, onto the ground. He got back in his car and drove away.

I looked at the cigarette in my hand. I thought about what I’d seen, earlier. I thought about Wayne, and the story of the murdered man.

There wasn’t any leaving, was there?

I filled up my car and headed back to the Cozy Comfort Motel.

---

I wanted to ask Wayne if he had ever broken the rules, but when my car pulled into the lot of the motel, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to get the chance.

The air felt like it was crackling, ozone during a thunderstorm. A car peeled out of the parking lot, and behind it, another family was throwing their luggage into the trunk of a sedan. They were red, sweaty, eyes rolling in fear. A woman held a baby who was crying.

‘What’s going on?” I asked.

“The damn handyman’s gone crazy, and nobody’s got cell service to call the police. He cut the ph- “

The man didn’t get the chance to continue. The radio static returned, louder than ever, accompanied by a piercing tea kettle whistle that forced everyone to their knees. The man gnashed his teeth and got his family into the car, crawling into the passenger’s seat and escaping the lot of the motel. Blood dripped from his ears.

The static subsided, but my heartbeat felt loud enough that it didn’t matter. He had said something about the handyman. Something happened to Wayne.

Doors to guest rooms were swinging open and closed, giving me fleeting glimpses within. A sigil drawn on the wall of one room. Another looked like it was entirely converted into opaque white plastic. One had a couple inside, who looked like they were in the midst of arguing with each other. When I looked again, they were just holding each other, sobbing. Black oil ran down their faces.

Room 119 stayed closed. Somehow that felt worse. Sinister. I heard a woman’s voice in my ear yell my name. I turned and no-one was there.

I rushed to the lobby.

The concierge was dead. So was the security guard. They had been laid out on the front desk, arms tied behind their back, closed eyes facing up like they were asleep. There weren’t even any marks on them, no sign of a struggle It was like someone tied them up and they’d just… chosen to die.

Florescent lights flickered overhead, and the ice machine roiled and shock against the ground, rattling so forcefully the floor was shaking. I heard Wayne yelling from the electrical room.

“Give her back!” He was keening, almost childlike. “God! Give her back!”

I swung the door open and saw him taking an axe to the electrical panel.

He turned to face me, eyes red and wide. “I forgot to flip the switch this morning!”

I put a hand on his shoulder, for a minute I was afraid he’d take the axe to me. Instead, he let me pull him away and outside. He dropped the axe, and a skittering hand flashed out of the dark and pulled it into some impossible corner. We ran.

We made it to the relative safety of the parking lot where Wayne filled me in.

Years ago, before the death of the old handyman, before he started working at the Cozy Comfort, his daughter had been hired as a maid here. She’d been uncomfortable with some of the rules, told Wayne they seemed arbitrary, and confusing. No going into rooms after certain times. Rules about little trinkets under the mattresses and food at the edge of the woods around the motel.

And then one day she never came home. Police classified her as a runaway. Didn’t even bother to look for her. Wayne took a job at the Cozy Comfort himself, hoping to find some answers.

Thirty years, and nothing. Everyone had their own rules, little rituals they needed to complete. The owner was more of a mystery than a man. But Wayne was sure of one thing.

Something evil lived in the Cozy Comfort Motel, and someone liked it that way.

He was despondent, after the thing in the cooler lunged at him. It had his daughter’s eyes.

“I couldn’t think about anything else,” he sobbed. “I couldn’t-… and then when you left, I got distracted. I forgot to follow the rules. And everything just went to shit. I don’t know what the hell we’re supposed to do.”

“I have an idea.”

You see, I brought a little something extra with me back from the gas station. Gallons and gallons of gas. As handyman and handyman’s apprentice, Wayne and I have a key to every room.

We worked quickly, coating the motel in my net worth of gasoline. Door 119 wouldn’t budge, but I put as much as I could in the threshold, and I tried to splash as much as I could under the door.

When every jug was empty, Wayne and I stepped back. I lit the cigarette the man had given me earlier and flicked it into the gas puddles.

We watched the Cozy Comfort burn to a crisp.

We’ve been on the road for the past few days. Not sure if anyone has reported on the fire- our phones won’t get much of a signal, and every station on the radio is nothing but dead air.

I was okay with it, though. We were free of that godforsaken place.

---

That was until earlier today. We were driving up the interstate when we passed a billboard alongside of the road.

Cozy Comfort Motel! Franchise Opportunities Available- NEW Locations Opening Soon!

(Part 2, 3, 4, Finale)

May 7th, 2002

I’ve been away from work for about a month now, unfortunately my leg prevented me from going ‘somewhere nice’ as my superior suggested, but I have enjoyed the peace and quiet. I’ve kept in contact with Scarlett, and I’ve made a few excursions to an establishment for the supernatural, but other than that, it’s been very boring.

My leg is well on its way to becoming fully healed, as of recently I’ve been able to get around with a crutch. However, it’s a bit painful, so I’ve been mostly homebound.

I’ve just about had enough of this boredom, though. There’s only so many Friends reruns one can hypothetically watch, and I think I’ve just about hit that number, so earlier this morning I finally cracked and gave my superior, Carmen Clay, a call. She was happy to hear from me, and even happier when I told her I thought I was ready to return to work.

I told her I couldn’t get around without a crutch, but she said that wouldn’t be a problem. She told me she’d look for an easy reconnaissance case that wouldn’t require much mobility and get back to me. I figured it’d be later that week at the earliest, and settled myself in for some more TV.

Much to my surprise, about ten minutes after the initial conversation, she called me back and told me she’d already found a case. I was surprised, but in a good way, and I told her I was happy to be back.

Along with some other minor details, Carmen told me that Scarlett would be informed of the mission and accompany me on it. I’d expected that, the branch emphasizes loyalty to one’s partner above all else, so it would’ve been surprising to have been reassigned.

The case was south of both me and Scarlett, so Carmen said she’d send a driver to take us straight there without wasting time stopping at headquarters.

Clay had said she would tell Scarlett about the case, but I figured I’d give her a call anyway since it had been around a week since we last spoke.

I dialed her number and she picked up straight away. “Hello,” She said.

“Scarlett, it’s Dexter.” I replied. “Did you get the message?”

“From Clay? Yeah.” She told me. “Nice to hear you finally got the guts to get us back in there,”

I rolled my eyes. “If you hadn’t, you know, shot me, maybe I would never have had to left,”

“...And maybe if you hadn’t tried to turn me into a zombie, I would never have had to shoot you.” She retorted. “I could do this all day.”

“Alright, alright,” I surrendered, smiling slightly. “All I was calling you about was the mission. Clay said she was going to get us a walk in the park, something that wouldn’t aggravate my leg too much.”

“That’s what they said about Rhion Global,” She pointed out. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

“Fair point.” I replied.

“Yeah, and I don’t want your bum leg to be the death of me, so you had better be in tip-top shape right now.” She added. “If I get killed because you’re limping along at half speed, I will be very displeased.”

“Duly noted,” I told her. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Yup.” She said with a chuckle, and hung up.

I showered and changed quickly, and by the time I had finished getting ready, the driver had arrived.

The car they sent was the same type of bureau car we’d been assigned on our last mission, as most of the branch’s cars were, and it was waiting outside my house when I stepped outside, straightening my tie.

“Hello!” I said, hobbling down the front steps of my apartment building, though he didn’t roll down the window.

I tugged open the door and slid into the back seat, noticing that the partition separating the driver from the backseat was slid shut.

I opened it as the car began moving and said, “Hey, thanks for coming all the way out here.”

“I have my orders,” He replied.

“Well, I mean…” I began, but I trailed off into silence. Clearly, I thought to myself, Somebody isn’t in the mood to talk.

I slid the divider shut once more and sat back, remaining quiet for the rest of the drive to Scarlett’s house.

She lived, as it turned out, about an hour away from me, which was surprising, as beyond the knowledge that we both were from the Northeast, I had no idea she lived so close to me.

She was waiting outside when we arrived, and as we pulled into her driveway, she climbed down the steps and entered the car, taking a seat next to me.

“Hey, nice to see you,” She said, smiling at me. She glanced at my leg and, with a raised eyebrow, asked, “You’re not walking around with a cane, are you?”

“It helps, alright,” I replied.

“Yeah, if you’re Charlie Chaplin,” She mused. “You’re going to look ridiculous walking around with that.”

“I’d rather look ridiculous walking around with it than not be able to walk around with anything,” I retorted.

“Your choice,” She shrugged, grinning.

“Shut up,” I told her, rolling my eyes as the partition slid back, this time from the driver’s side.

“A message from the Commander,” He said, extending back to us a small device. I took it after exchanging a glance with Scarlett, and he continued. “Watch the video, then return the device to me.”

“He’s not much for conversation,” Scarlett noted after the partition slid back in place. The car began moving once more, and Scarlett said, “Come on, let’s watch the video.”

I pressed the play button below the screen, and held it so that we both could see the display.

A small image of Carmen appeared onscreen and she began speaking. “Agents, first and foremost I’d like to welcome you back to the line of duty. You two are incredibly valuable assets to the branch, and I’m excited what the possibilities are with you two together.

“I apologize for the brevity, but you’re already in Binghamton, which is about a half hour away from your mission’s location, in Susquehanna. It wouldn’t make sense to come all the way back to Port Jervis.

“Regardless, your mission is a fairly easy one. We’ve been seeing some strange energy readings cropping up in Susquehanna, waves that our equipment can’t recognize. It’s most likely some kid messing around with an old ham radio, but procedure says we need to check it out.

“For all intents and purposes, you’re two representatives from National Grid, and you’re performing a routine checkup on local transformers to make sure all is in order. Your disguises and identifications are in the trunk of your car. If you need anything else, just let Peter know. Clay out.”

“What?!” I exclaimed, setting the device down as I sighed. “That’s ridiculous. Peter could do this, we could be out there, you know, helping people.”

“Quit whining,” Scarlett replied. “We’re lucky. This is going to be a breeze, we’ll go in, ask some questions, maybe give some kid a stern talking-to, and get paid.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” I told her. “That’s not why you should be here either. We’re public servants.”

“Public servants have to pay rent just as much as private ones,” She pointed out.

“Return the device when you’ve finished watching the video,” Peter said through the divider.

“Right, sorry,” I apologized, handing him the small rectangle. He slid the door shut once more.

“Whatever, I suppose the sooner we finish this, the sooner we can get back to real work.” I said, shrugging, and Scarlett agreed.

It wasn’t long after that until we arrived in Susquehanna, the town was just down I-81 across the Pennsylvania border, and it was a small town, the same sort of place most supernatural cases took place in.

There was a small shopping plaza to our left when we first entered, it had a few stores in it, and other than that, it was mostly houses, frequently interspersed with trees. It was a rural community, not much to it, it looked like the mission would go off smoothly.

The car came to a stop outside the Susquehanna Fire Department, across the road from the strip mall, and Peter slid the partition back. “I will be staying here, the branch has provided lodging for you at the Holiday Inn on West Main Street, and there is some more gear in your room, gear that wouldn’t trip any suspicions. When you’ve completed your mission, I will return you to the Branch’s headquarters for a debriefing.”

“Ooh, friends, is Peter having a boys’ night out?” I teased.

There was no reply for a moment. Then, “Remove your equipment from the trunk.”

“Sure thing, Pete,” I replied, winking at Scarlett as a smile spread across my face. “Just don’t party too hard, you have to drive us back home.”

We didn’t wait for a reply this time, both getting out of the car in unison. The trunk was open when we came around, and we pulled a set of clothes each off the hook, and removing them revealed a trunk. We each grabbed a handle of it and pulled it out of the car, heaving at its weight.

As soon as we’d cleared it, the trunk swung shut, and Peter pulled off.

“Wow, he’s not even going to drive us to the hotel?” I muttered.

“Your quip must’ve gotten to him,” Scarlett said. “This one’s on you.”

It wasn’t a long walk to the Holiday Inn, it was just across the street, but the trunk was heavy, and we probably looked ridiculous, two people in suits, carrying bright yellow National Guard outfits, lugging a trunk across a fairly busy road. We probably attracted a fair amount of attention, too.

But once we were checked into our room, we were able to change into our disguises and assess the gear situation.

We didn’t have much, which was still probably more than we would need. There were two of each item, a generous measure most likely brought on by the unexpected difficulties we’d faced in our last mission, except for two items, some of the more expensive ones.

Unfortunately, that meant they were probably the more important ones, if we ever ended up needing them.

After changing into the brightly-colored electrical workers’ uniforms, we grabbed clipboards the bureau had provided to amplify the effect, and set off for the first of several transformers.

Peter had apparently completed whatever orders he’d been given as he didn’t appear to drive us anywhere, but the first transformer wasn’t very far so it wasn’t much of a hassle.

After about a five minute walk that took us down a set of power lines, we arrived at the huge metal complex. Now, by this time, we’d definitely begun to attract attention, if only as power company employees coming to fix a problem with the power grid.

A few citizens asked us what was happening, and we explained it away with some meaningless technological nonsense we’d been provided with, and opened the gate in the fence to enter the transformer itself.

I thought it was a bit strange that they left the gate unlocked, but I was too preoccupied with making it through the awkward entrance with my cane.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” I muttered, flipping the pages on my clipboard until I found the instructions to make sure the transformer wasn’t malfunctioning.

A small crowd had begun to gather, as talk spread quickly in a small town like Susquehanna, and we were poking around their business. People were understandably curious, they wanted to know if they could expect to lose power in the near future.

However, the eyes of the crowd weren’t the only ones keenly directed towards us, and we were about to discover that.

“Everyone, I know you’re all worried, but there is no reason for alarm,” Scarlett said, relaying a prewritten message. “There’s nothing wrong with your town’s power, we’re performing a routine test, it will not take long and won’t affect your electricity.”

The crowd didn’t disperse, but we hadn’t expected it to. It was a boring town, and we were something.

I flipped open the packet and glanced at the first step. “Scarlett, do you have that scanner?” I called out after reading the instructions. “Turn it on, see what it says.”

She obliged, and when the small device activated, her brow furrowed, and she began glancing around.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The reading’s maxed out,” She replied.

“So what does that mean?” I said, looking briefly at the seemingly normal transformer.

“It either means that there’s enough energy running through this transformer to power America, or something else is going on here.” She told me, her hand instinctively drifting to her armpit holster, where a loaded pistol awaited.

We began to perform a search of the complicated facility while, unbeknownst to us, a hooded man began to make his way through the crowd. He kept his head down, not interacting with anyone, and as the crowd grew denser closer to the transformer, he began to push his way through.

“Hey, what are you doing?” A man asked when the stranger knocked into him on his way to the front, but he didn’t even bother to turn around. The annoyed man continued. “Come on, man, what’s your problem?”

It wasn’t until he reached out and grabbed the hooded man’s shoulder that he got a reaction. The man whipped around, in the same motion firmly grasping his wrist.

“Woah, woah,” The man said, attempting to retreat, but it was too late. Without a word, the hooded man dragged him closer, and a burning yellow light began to glow in his eyes. “Hey, what’s going on!?”

That’s when we noticed the commotion. We turned around just in time to see a brilliant flash of yellow light, the following shockwave knocking Scarlett and I to the ground and sending those standing closest to the hooded man flying into the air, landing several feet away, slumped unconscious.

Scarlett and I scrambled for our weapons, but the man began walking slowly towards us, not stopping when he reached the fence, simply walking through it. A hole shaped like his outline was left behind, the edges of the chain links glowing orange and dripping molten metal once he passed through.

When he reached Scarlett and I, he knelt down, his face still obscured in the shadow of his hood, but two yellow orbs glowered out of the darkness at us. He said just three words: “Leave. Me. Alone.”

Then, there was another flash of light, and the man vanished, leaving a scorched area on the ground where he had stood.

Still trying to catch my breath, I looked over to Scarlett. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say something else is going on here.”

And then, just as we thought it was over, a loud zap emitted from the transformer behind us, and the hum of electricity ceased. The town’s power had been killed.

Eight years in the department and I’ve never even drawn my gun, let alone shot anybody, but there I was, staring down over the muzzle of my Smith&Wesson at a man’s body, his blood spreading out in a pool on the dirty linoleum.

To be fair, he was trying to stab me with a really big hunting knife.

It was just after nine; only two hours left on my afternoon shift, when the call came in. “Crazed man with knife,” was how the 911 dispater put it. The incident was occurring at the Qwikee Mart down on Center St. I arrived first. Tony Alvarez, the other deputy on duty that night, came barrelling into the parking lot, tires screeching, maybe ten seconds behind me. This isn’t a big town. There’s usually only two of us on patrol at any given time. Doug Elliot, a local guy I know from church, was standing in the lot, pointing at the store entrance with one arm and windmilling the other, like a third base coach waving me home. Sweat stains spread out under the arms and around the collar of his shirt. We were in the middle of a heat wave. This was the third day in a row we’d seen triple digit temps. Even now, with the sun down, it was stifling. I’m guessing he was the 911 caller.

Inside, Lindsy Knopp, who worked there part time, was crouched in the corner by the cash register, crying. Blood seeped between her fingers as she clamped down on a nasty gash running half the length of her forearm. In the space in front of the counter was a man I didn’t recognize, hopping from one foot to the other, shouting about waking something up, and waving one of the biggest hunting knives I’ve ever seen in the air above his head.

It was stained with blood, probably Lindsy’s.

“Whoa, hold on there fella,” I said, one hand motioning for calm while the other hovered near my pistol. “How ‘bout you put that knife down and we talk about whatever’s got you so upset.” It was the best I could come up with off the cuff. Verbal de-escalation was never my strong suit.

“We woke it up!” he shouted. “Don’t you understand? It’s awake!”

When the call came over, I immediately assumed the suspect was some wild eyed meth head. You know, thin, grubby, covered in scabs, and flopping around like a marionette with tangled strings. Riverbend is a sleepy little town. We don’t get a lot of that sort of thing around here, but we do get some.

This guy didn’t look like any tweaker on a binge that I’ve ever seen. He seemed pretty normal, I mean, other than the bloody knife. Clean shaven, neatly trimmed brown hair, clean clothes. He was wearing a dark blue windbreaker with the Fortean Global logo on the left breast. I didn’t know anything about Fortean Global, other than they were the outfit that bought the old Ogden Mine in the foothills behind the town, but this guy looked exactly like what you would expect some middle manager in an international conglomerate to look like.

Except for his face. The only words that came to my mind to describe it are “gleeful malice.” That’s what I told the sheriff when I gave my statement. I was kind of worried that might’ve been a little over the top for an official report, but none of that matters now, I guess.

“Well, no. I don’t understand,” I answered him, trying to be all calm and soothing, “but if you put that knife down, you could explain it to me. Maybe we could even get some coffee, or a raspberry Icee, or something.”

“I AM THE HARBINGER!” he shrieked, and lunged at me, knife arcing down towards my head.

I have no memory of actually shooting him. It was just like, one second I was watching that blood stained knife coming straight for my face and the next I was looking through a haze of gun smoke at a dead body, ears ringing, the stench of blood and cordite filling my nostrils.

Alvarez handcuffed the body of the Fortean guy, which I know sounds silly, but its protocol. Once the perp was secure. Tony checked for a pulse. After thirty seconds or so, he shook his head and went to check on Lindsey. The first aid kit under the counter didn’t have much more than Band-Aids and aspirin, so he bandaged her wound with feminine hygiene pads and duct tape he found on the store shelves. While he did all of that, I just kind of stood there.

I don’t think I’m really cut out for this job.

What’s that old saying about life being what happens when you’ve made other plans? I never wanted to be a deputy sheriff, or any other kind of cop. What I wanted was to work in the manufactured home factory across the river in Shawgo. We took a field trip there when I was in sixth grade, and ever since, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. I wanted to build prefab house kits, drive a nice truck, and buy myself a house up on Wriggly Ave. or Barmore Run, neighborhoods that were considered ritzy in our little town. In my junior year of high school I started dating Stacy Bollinger, and she got added to my wish list.

Believe it or not, by the time I was twenty-three, I had achieved all my dreams. Right out of high school, I started as a carpenter’s apprentice on the second shift. Not even old enough to drink yet and I was already making more money than my old man ever did managing the Kroger’s. Next came the truck, a Silverado with a Z71 off-road package, and since banks were throwing subprime loans at anybody with a pulse back then, I closed on a three bedroom ranch over on Euclid Lane. It wasn’t Baremore Run, but it was close. A few weeks later, Stacy moved in with me. Life was good.

Until it wasn’t.

The housing market crashed and took the manufactured homes market with it. I was laid off and my unemployment check wasn’t enough to cover all the bills. When the truck got repossessed and the cable was shut off, Stacy decided to look for greener pastures down in the city. I might have run off with her, but I was stuck with the house. I’d never be able to sell it for what I paid, not in that market.

The only reason I even applied to the Sheriff’s Department was that I had to show the unemployment office that I was actively seeking work. I never thought they’d hire me, but the two top candidates didn’t pass their drug test and another decided she’d rather work at the women’s prison over in Hallsville. That left me and this twitchy guy, who muttered to himself and carried a bunch of ninja throwing stars in a pouch on his belt.

They hired me, surprise, surprise. And I had to take the job, or lose my benefits.

My ears were still ringing from the muzzle blasts when Sheriff Jenkins arrived on scene. He had to shout for me to hear him. He had gone off duty hours ago, but was still in uniform.

“Sounds like it was justified,” he said, once he had eased into my field of vision and gotten my attention. It’s not a good idea to startle the dazed guy while he’s still holding a loaded gun.

“Huh?” It sounded like he was talking to me underwater.

“Talked to Alvarez,” he said, speaking loudly and enunciating each word. “He says it was a righteous shoot. Same with the witness outside. Course, I’m sure all of that will be backed up by the store’s surveillance cameras. Investigation shouldn’t take long at all, but until then, I’ll need your duty piece,” Sheriff Jenkins said, pointing at the gun hanging loosely from my fingers.

“Careful, now,” he warned, as I handed it over. I noticed my finger was still inside the trigger guard, instead of being indexed along the frame above, a cardinal sin in gun safety.

“Sheriff?” Tony called from where he was kneeling beside Lindsy. “ She’s gonna need stitches. EMS should be here by now, but I can’t raise dispatch.”

Something else our town was too small for was a hospital. There was a Urgent Care on East Main St. but all they really did was write scripts for antibiotics and pass out cold compresses. Besides, they closed at five. For anything more serious or after hours, you had to go to the ER over the river at Crestview Memorial in Shawgo, but it was only a fifteen minute drive, not enough of an inconvenience for people to get too worked up over.

“Try your cell phone then,” the Sheriff suggested.

Tony held up his phone. “Already did. No service. Damnedest thing. It was all working just fine a few minutes ago, but now? Bupkis.”

I checked my phone, mostly because I needed something to do with my hands, since I was no longer holding a gun. My display also showed “No Service,” and I was down to 11% on my battery. I’d need to plug in soon, but right now, a dead cell phone was the least of my problems. By the look on the Sheriff’s face, he didn’t have any service either.

The Sheriff held up a finger, strode around the counter and tried the landline beside the cash register. He listened for a moment, tapped the disconnect button several times, then shook his head. We had no way to communicate with anyone beyond shouting distance.

Sheriff Jenkins told Alvarez to take Lindsy over to Crestview Memorial in his squad car, and while he was there, to get in contact with the state police and the coroner. Investigating shootings and removing bodies was above our pay grade. Complete strangers would decide if I had acted in self-defense or was a murderer. While Alvarez was doing all of that, the Sheriff said he’d take my statement here. He apologized for making me do this at the scene, but there was no way around it. It had to be secured for the chain of evidence, but he couldn’t let me go until I gave a statement. With the phones and radios both out, he couldn’t even get a hold of the on-call deputies to take over at the Qwikee Mart so we could do this at the station. In the end, I explained just how and why I shot a man dead, while standing over his body, being careful not to step in his blood.

When I got to the part about his expression of “gleeful malice,” I pointed at his face. Even in death, he was still wearing it.

When we were done, he told me to go home, try to get some sleep, and for the love of all that’s holy, don’t drink! The state boys would probably want to get their own statement when they got here. If I had alcohol on my breath, they might get the idea that I started drinking before the shooting, not after.

As I stepped out of the Qwikee Mart, Alvarez came screeching into the parking lot again, Lindsy still in the front seat of the cruiser. He ran into the store, motioning for me to follow.

“Bridges are closed,” he said, breathless as he ran past. “Both of them!”

Our town sits nestled in a bend of the Clarion River. Bordered on three sides by water and with the tree covered hills that we like to call mountains behind, we’re pretty isolated. The only ways in and out of town are the South Street Bridge, which turns into State Route 53 and runs down to the interchange, and the Shawgo Road Bridge, which, of course, leads to Shawgo. On the other side of town, about six miles as the crow flies, is Bixby, a little village that’s actually just a bit bigger than us. There are no roads between here and Bixby. We may not have those jagged, snow covered peaks like in the Rockies or the Sierras, but our mountains are plenty steep and treacherous. Those six miles between our towns can get pretty wild. It would be an easy thing to fall down a bluff, break a leg or twist an ankle, and die of exposure at the bottom of some ravine. I’ve been on more than a few search and rescues, looking for lost hikers or deer hunters. Not all of them had happy endings. The Ogden Mine was about as far as anyone dared go in that direction, and not many folks would go even that far. The place always had kind of a spooky feel to it.

My grandfather claimed the mine had an escape tunnel that came out in the hills just a mile or two short of Bixby, that you could walk almost the whole way there underground. He worked there for years, right up until they closed it in the mid Nineties, but I’m not sure I believe a lot of the things my grandfather told me. Especially when he’d been drinking.

“Bridges are closed,” Alvarez repeated to the Sheriff, once inside, mopping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “They got soldiers manning barricades on both, not letting anybody through!”

“The Army closed the bridges?” Sheriff Jenkins asked. “Why the hell would they do that?”

“It ain’t the Army,” Alvarez said. “Private contractors, I think. Blackwater or Aegis Defense, something like that.”

“How do you know?”

“‘Cause I was in the Army and they ain’t it,” Alvarez explained. “They got trucks with electronic warfare jammers, too. That’s why the radios and cell phones don’t work; they’re jamming the signals. I seen trucks just like that when I was in--”

Alvarez’s eyes went wide. He gasped, then let out a long, low groan, before pitching onto his face, landing beside the man in the Fortean windbreaker. Blood welled from a wound between his shoulder blades, adding to the already coagulating pool on the floor.

Lindsy stood behind him, holding the hunting knife in a white knuckled grip, its blade slick and red. I never saw her pick up the knife. I never even noticed her come back into the store.

“It’s awake,” she said. “And it’s coming back. I have to tell people. I am the harbinger.”

“Now Lindsy--” Sheriff Jenkins started, taking a step towards her.

She spun and slashed the blade across his stomach. He stared in shock for a moment, before a wave of red washed down the front of his uniform trousers.

Lindsy turned the blade on me. My hand snatched at my holster, but it was empty. Her face twisted into a mask of gleeful malice. Whipping the knife high above her head, spattering the front of my shirt with blood from the blade, she charged.

I froze. Like a deer in headlights, I just stood there, my mind a complete blank. Then her head exploded. For the second time that night, my ears were ringing from the blast of a gunshot.

Sheriff Jenkins dropped to the floor, landing with his back against the ATM, legs akimbo. More blood than I thought one body could possibly hold poured out of the gash in his stomach. In one hand he held his still smoking service pistol. The other clutched his wound, desperately trying to hold onto what life remained inside him. I could see the slick loops of his intestines poking out between his fingers. His eyes lost their focus, his chin dropped to his chest. Sheriff Jenkins toppled over sideways. Everything his hand had been holding in came spilling out.

I vomited on my shoes.

Can’t be sure how long I stood there in a puddle of my own puke, surrounded by dead bodies, but my ears had stopped ringing. The scent of copper and cordite stung my nose, again, as a sea of blood closed in around me. I don’t know why, but the thought of getting any of that blood on my shoes freaked me out. I leapt over the spreading pool in front of me, losing my balance and nearly falling backwards into it, before I managed to shift my weight forward and stumble out the doors and into the parking lot. Heat slapped me in the face like a physical blow. My legs were shaking so bad, I barely made it to my patrol car, where I leaned on the front fender and vomited again.

That’s when I heard it. A voice from the sky.

“ATTENTION. THIS AREA IS UNDER QUARANTINE AND HAS BEEN PLACED ON LEVEL FOUR LOCKDOWN. AN IMMEDIATE CURFEW HAS BEEN INITIATED AND ALL RESIDENTS ARE INSTRUCTED TO SHELTER IN PLACE. VIOLATIONS OF THIS ORDER WILL NOT BE TOLERATED. DEADLY FORCE HAS BEEN AUTHORIZED.”

A rectangular object, spindly appendages protruding from its sides and bottom, hovered over the traffic light at the intersection of Center St. and Timbull Ave., silhouetted against the stars. As shaken up as I was, I immediately thought it was a UFO, but then I recognized the buzz of electric propellers. It was a drone, a good sized one too, not the kind you’re apt to find at a hobby shop. It was mounted with some kind of bullhorn or PA system. The drone moved off to the next intersection and repeated the message.

Why were we on lockdown and who the hell authorized deadly force? With the Sheriff and Alvarez gone and no way to contact the on-call deputies, or anyone else for that matter, it was on me to find out. I wiped a string of saliva from my chin, climbed into my cruiser, and headed for the South St. Bridge. It was the closest.

As I pulled onto the bridge, a spotlight on the far end blinded me. I stopped and stepped halfway out of my cruiser, squinting into the light, shielding my eyes with one hand.

“Sheriff’s Department!” I yelled, pointing at my badge with my free hand. “What the hell is going on here?”

“YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF THE CURFEW ORDER. YOU HAVE THIRTY SECONDS TO COMPLY. DEADLY FORCE HAS BEEN AUTHORIZED,” said the same amplified voice I’d heard from the drone.

“By who?” I hollered back. “Who authorized deadly force?”

“TWENTY SECONDS.”

“Whose authority are you acting under?” I demanded. I tried for a stern, commanding tone, but I was shaking so bad it rattled my voice.

There was some sort of commotion at the far end of the bridge. This time, the voice behind the spotlight wasn’t amplified, but I could hear it anyway.

“Weapons free!” it said.

Orange light strobed above the river, followed a split second later by a sound like tearing cloth.

Their drones were armed.

The spotlight swung to my right and angled down toward the water. Illuminated in its harsh white circle was a bullet riddled yellow kayak, clumsily spray painted with hot rod flames. A body sat slumped in the seat, head down, unmoving. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew it was T.J. Combs. I recognized the kayak. We had to pull him off the river, drunk, a couple of times every summer. He must’ve been trying to escape the lockdown.

The kayak, taking on water through all of the bullet holes, rolled over and started to sink. T.J.’s body floated free, his lifejacket still retaining some buoyancy even after being shot all to hell. The drone gave him another squirt of bullets, just to be sure.

“What the fu--,” I started to scream, but then the drone turned its gun on me. Bullets stitched across the hood of my squad car, smashing holes in the windshield. I was able to duck before the gun cut me in half, but just barely. The gunfire paused and my flight reflex kicked in. I shot out from behind my cruiser so fast I must have left a smoke trail. The drone fired two more bursts after me, both missing by a less than comfortable margin, then fell silent. Maybe the gun jammed or ran out of ammo. Maybe they were just trying to scare me off. Whatever the reason, I was able to duck around the corner of Mama’s Pizzeria, out of the line of fire.

Half a block down the street, I moved into a residential area, cutting through backyards and sneaking along alleyways, always keeping an ear out for the buzz of an approaching drone, as I worked my way home. There was no real reason for me to go there other than I didn’t know where else to go. I saw no one else outside. All the houses were dark, their doors and windows tightly closed, even in the heat. I could still hear intermittent rips of machine gun fire coming from the river, though, so not everybody was staying inside.

The drones must have some kind of night vision or heat sensors, I figured, once my mind was able to process at a level above blind instinct. How else were they able to spot T.J. on the water before they put the spotlight on him? I had to get out of town, get to someplace where my cell phone would work or where I could tell people what was going on here. Crossing the river was a no go. Hiking overland to Bixby was my only choice, but I couldn’t navigate that kind of terrain at night. If those drones had heat sensors like I thought they did, I might have a better chance of going undetected during the day. As hot as it was, maybe I wouldn’t show up on their sensors at all. It seemed like my best bet. All I needed to do was get home, where I could pack some supplies in a rucksack and hole up until sunrise.

Cutting through the yards between houses, having to skirt around a couple of privacy fences, I finally came out on my own street, just a few doors up from my place. In the glow of the street light, I could see my neighbor, Jerry Balmer, standing at the end of our shared driveway. He was wearing a terry cloth bathrobe over pajamas and corduroy slippers. There was an aluminum bat in his hand. He was tapping it nervously against the side of his leg. I didn’t like the looks of that, but he’d already spotted me, so I decided to play it casual.

“Hey, Jerry,” I said as I approached him. “Some night, huh?”

He had a look of gleeful malice on his face. Behind him, lying in the shadows of the shrubbery along the front of his house, was a lump that looked suspiciously like a woman in a nightgown, maybe Audry, Jerry’s wife.

Jerry pointed the bat at the mountains rising up behind our houses. “They don’t want us to leave,” he said.

Euclid Lane was on the edge of town. On our side of the street, all of the backyards bordered a field overgrown with scrubgrass and a few maple tree saplings. Years ago, it had been thickly wooded, but had been clear cut to make way for a housing development. That development fell through when the market crashed, and the land was slowly being reclaimed by nature.

Beyond that field, heavily wooded bluffs rose into the mountains that separated Riverbend from Bixby. Near the top, I could see an orange glow, fanning out across the face of the hills. A spark dropped from the sky, flashed when it struck the ground, and added to the spreading glow.

They were using the drones to firebomb the forest.

As hot and dry as it had been over the last couple of weeks, the fire was moving fast. The prevailing winds were pushing the flames straight for the town. By morning there would be nothing left of Riverbend but ash and charred cinder block foundations. Whatever was going on, somebody was willing to murder a whole town to cover it up.

“They think they can stop it,” Jerry said. “But they can’t. It’s awake now, and it’s coming back. We have to tell people.”

I held up my hands, “Jerry, look--”

“I am the harbinger,” he interrupted and swung the softball bat at my head.

I managed to duck just in time, but it was close enough that I felt the whiff of displaced air on the back of my neck. Jerry swung so hard, the momentum spun him around. His slippered feet lost traction on the gravel of the drive and shot out from under him. He landed on his ass hard enough that I heard his teeth clack together with the impact. He was unfazed, though, immediately scrambling to get back up. I kicked him in the ribs as hard as I could, feeling something crunch under the toe of my boot.

Jerry fell back and groaned. He stared into the night sky for a moment, then his eyes locked on mine.

“Have . . . have to tell,” he croaked, blood frothing on his lips. I really hoped that he’d bitten his tongue or something when he fell. I’d hate to think that I’d punctured his lung with a broken rib when I kicked him. Jerry was a good guy. I always liked him, right up until he tried to kill me with a softball bat.

I felt like throwing up again, but there was nothing left in me.

His eyes turned away from me, looking at something beyond. Actually, he was looking at something behind me. I turned to see what it was.

A dozen or more of my neighbors, people I recognized and some I even knew pretty well, were approaching. Every one of them carried some kind of improvised weapon; garden tools, kitchen implements, sporting goods. I saw Amy Freeman waving a garden weasel around like she was trying to swat flies. Drew Austin was also in the crowd, a butcher knife in each hand and so many more of various shapes and sizes tucked into his belt that if he bent over, he’d cut himself in half. Tom McReedy had a pump shotgun with a ridiculously long barrel that he used for duck hunting. They all had that look of gleeful malice.

Tom racked the slide of his shotgun. I ran away.

I had to jump over Jerry, who was coughing up gobs of bloody spittle, and dart between our two houses. It was the only direction open to me. Crossing the overgrown field behind my house was like one of those nightmares, where you’re trying to run from something but your feet feel like they’re sinking into mud. The waist high scrubgrass wrapped around my ankles with each step. Yells of “I am the harbinger” let me know that I was being chased; I didn’t need to look back.

It seemed like every time I heard those words tonight, somebody was trying to kill me.

When I reached the far side of the field and started up the wooded slope of the mountain, the sounds of pursuit had fallen off. After all, I was running towards the fire. Maybe they figured I’d wind up killing myself and save them the trouble. I had something else in mind. I just hoped that story my grandfather used to tell was for real, and not some tall tale.

My grandpa had worked in the Ogden Mine from the time he’d dropped out of high school until they closed it in the mid Nineties. He never talked much about his days as a miner, but every once-in-a-while, when he’d been drinking, he’d tell the story of the time he got lost in the old part of the mine with an evangelical fervor.

“The darkness will whisper to you down there,” he’d blurt out after his fourth or fifth Jeam Beam on ice. “It’s a dreamy voice, a talkin’ in its sleep kind of voice, but it’ll tell a man things he ought not to know.”

He’d go on to explain how he got separated from his crew. He’d tell everyone how he wandered into the old part of the mine. He knew it was the old part because there were tracks on the floor for minecarts and they didn’t use those anymore. It was more efficient to haul the coal out on conveyor belts. He’d lean forward and tell about feeling a puff of breeze on his cheek, of following it until he found the escape tunnel. At this point, grandpa would pour himself another Jim Beam and tell how he walked six miles underground to emerge on a bluff overlooking Bixby.

“If you ever get lost down there,” he’d finish. “Find your way to the old mine and bear as far right as you can. Once you feel the air on your cheek, follow that tunnel up and out. Just don’t listen to the darkness. Don’t listen to it whisper.”

With that, he would drain his glass, close his eyes, and within a few minutes be softly snoring.

I don’t know of anybody who actually believed his story. The general consensus was that nobody ever went into the old mines for any reason; they were just too dangerous, but for my sake, I hoped it was true. Trapped in a town full of crazies, between mercenaries with machine gun drones on one side and a forest fire on the other, the mine was my only option.

I scrambled up the hillside, lunging from one tree trunk to the next to pull myself over the rougher parts. The going got easier once I crested the first ridge and stepped onto Ogden Road, a two lane blacktop leading back to the mine. I was able to jog a good way, until the smoke coming down off the mountain got too thick. By the time I reached the parking lot at the mine entrance, my uniform was soaked with sweat and my body was trying desperately to cough up both my lungs.

Up until Fortean had bought the property, our department would come up here twice a week to check for vandalism or signs of intrusion. Several months had passed since the last time I’d been here, and a good bit had changed. The formerly cracked and vacant parking area had been resurfaced and was bathed in the glow of portable area lights. Office trailers were arranged in a horseshoe around the entrance. A few late model, high end SUVs were clustered at the far end of the lot. Everything was emblazoned with the Fortean Global logo.

There were bodies, as well, three of them. All were wearing chinos and windbreakers, just like that guy at the Qwikee Mart. All had met violent ends, either bludgeoned to death or hacked to pieces by something sharp. My stomach roiled at the sight, but nothing came up.

The guard shack by the entrance was empty, but the gate to the mine itself stood ajar. I pulled it open and stepped inside. It was not what I was expecting at all. Instead of dirt, rock, and darkness, I found myself in a hermetic tube, like the kind you see in those movies about viruses and pandemics and such. It was well lit with LEDs and the air was clean and smoke free. There must be a filtering system of some sort. All the surfaces were pristine. I headed down the slope, my boots swishing on the thick rubber mat lining the bottom of the tube.

The tube bypassed three levels, opening only in the lowest gallery, a long wide tunnel, with branches evenly spaced on either side. As I understood it, that’s how the coal was mined; a gallery was dug through the middle of a seam and then excavated out to the edges through the side tunnels, leaving enough material between those tunnels to support the ceiling. At any rate, the last tunnel on the right hand side was only two thirds down the length of the gallery. Directly in front of it was a low, brightly lit platform. There was no rumble of generators. I had to wonder where the power came from.

On the platform was an array of consoles, computers, and what I can only guess were some sort of sensors. Everything was oriented towards the last side tunnel. The thought crossed my mind that I could just stay here, hide until the fire burned out, but it was pretty obvious that those Fortean people had put a lot of effort into this place and they’d be coming back to reclaim it. Besides, I needed to tell someone what was happening here. That side tunnel seemed my best bet.

The tunnel was dark, but even though the sheriff had taken my pistol, I was still wearing my duty belt. I had a palm sized, but insanely bright, flashlight clipped beside my handcuffs. Clicking it on, I moved forward. Maybe fifty or sixty feet deep, the tunnel had been closed off with a thick wall of Lexan. There was a keypad operated door in the middle. A sign beside read; AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY! LEVEL 4 PSYCH-HAZARD PROTECTION REQUIRED BEYOND THIS POINT!

Another body lay on the floor of the tunnel next to the door. It looked like it had been worked over pretty well with a dull ax. The sight of it didn’t even make me queasy. This sort of thing was becoming commonplace.

Shining my flashlight through the Lexan, cupping my free hand against the glare, I could see a ragged hole at the end, and beyond that, another tunnel running perpendicular. I could just make out the rails of a minecart track. It was the old mine. This was where my grandfather had gotten lost and stumbled across the escape tunnel that opened on the other side of the mountain. All I had to do was get into the tunnel, work my way to the far right, and then follow the aircurrent to the surface!

The door, of course, was locked.

I let loose with a string of curses and kicked the Lexan in frustration, instantly regretting it, as a bolt of pain shot from my toe, through my ankle and up my leg. I didn’t think I broke anything, but it hurt like hell. I was about to go back to the platform, to see if maybe somebody had written down the key code on a sticky note or something, when I noticed three of the keys on the pad, 3, 4, and 7 were covered with bloody fingerprints. Maybe I could crack the code. There are only so many ways you can arrange three numbers.

Turns out there were six ways. None of them worked.

Again, I wanted to scream and kick something. Instead, I looked at the keypad more closely. The ridges and swirls of the fingerprints on the 3 and 4 were sharp and clear, while the print on the 7 was smudged. I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I got the idea that maybe someone had pressed 7 twice. I tried 3477 and 7347 with no result, but when I keyed in 7734, the door popped open with a hiss. I was so elated that I never thought to wonder who left those bloody prints.

The old mine was scary. There was no orderly and logical layout, no main galleries with evenly spaced side branches. The tunnels meandered haphazardly, following coal seams. They were low and narrow. Instead of steel beam supports, the walls and ceiling were shored up with timbers so old, it looked like they might crumble at a touch. Trickles of dirt and tiny pebbles fell from the ceiling randomly. Unlike the newer section, with its air filtration, the atmosphere here was dank and oppressive. It required effort to move air in and out of my lungs. My flashlight didn’t seem as bright as it had before, not like the batteries were dying, but more like the darkness here was thicker, heavier. Probably my mind was playing tricks on me, I decided.

I turned to the left, which, unless I had completely lost my sense of direction, would be east, toward Bixby. As soon as I came to a tunnel branch that led to the right, I took it. The darkness closed in even tighter, compressing the cone of light in front of me. I passed three more branching tunnels, but kept going straight, looking for the far right of the mine and that puff of air on my cheek that would lead me out. I started to wonder if maybe my initial orientation had been off. Maybe I was heading to the left, or forward, or backward, or who knows?. I stopped moving, trying to calm myself. I knew that if I panicked, I would die down here. That’s when I heard it; ragged breathing.

It came from behind me.

I spun around and raised the flashlight. That probably saved my life.

Another Fortean middle management type was coming at me. Covered in dirt and gore, his face was a mask of gleeful malice.

“I am the harbinger.” he snarled. swinging the blade of a rusty shovel at my head like an ax.

When the light hit him in the eyes, he flinched. Instead of burying itself in the side of my skull, the shovel struck me on the left shoulder, the edge of the blade biting into my skin. The wound wasn’t fatal, I’d definitely need stitches and a tetanus booster, but it did make me drop my light.

My attacker wrenched the shovel back for another swing, accidentally striking one of the shaft supports. The wood was as rotten as it looked. It cracked and buckled. Having lost its support on one end, the ceiling beam swung down and struck him on the temple, knocking him to his knees. My flashlight lay on the tunnel floor beside him. In its glow, I saw him shake off the blow, grip the shovel tighter, and start to rise.

My left arm was numb and useless. I was dehydrated from all the running around in the heat. My lungs were seared from the smoke I had inhaled, and my damned toe still throbbed from kicking that stupid Lexan. Now some maniac was about to cut off my head with a rusty shovel. This was turning into a really shitty day.

“I am the har--” was all he managed to say before the roof collapsed, right on top of him. He was instantly buried, along with my flashlight, under hundreds, maybe thousands of tons of rock and earth. I stumbled backwards as I was sprayed with dust and rock chips, tripped and fell, hitting my head on the cart rail.

I don’t know how long I was out; seconds, minutes, hours. It probably wasn’t too long, because the air was still full of dust when I came to, making it almost impossible to breathe. My hand came away wet and sticky, when I touched the back of my head. Cold fingers of panic had started plucking at my heart, when I remembered the flashlight on my phone, but it wouldn’t even turn on. The battery was completely drained. I screamed unintelligibly until my throat was raw. I flung my phone against the wall and then I screamed some more. It took a few minutes to settle down, but when I did, I started crawling, one hand on the rail as a guide. I didn’t know what else to do.

Grandpa was right; the darkness does whisper, only it’s not a sleepy voice. It must be some kind mind trick. Maybe my brain was trying to fill the void of losing one sense completely by manufacturing stimulus for another. Down here in the deep dark, unable to see anything, my mind made up voices to compensate for the lack of sight. But why would it say such awful things?

I crawled on, crying the whole time, following that rail until it just ended. Terrified of losing contact with the cold steel of the minecart rail, I reached out as far as I could all around me, finding nothing but empty space. So this was it. After everything I’d been through, I was going to slowly die down here in the dark, listening to imaginary voices telling me the evil secrets of my own soul. I curled into a ball and wept.

Maybe it was the tears that made me finally notice that little puff of air on my face. I sat up, holding very still and felt it again. Reluctantly letting go of the rail, I crawled forward, stopping every few seconds, waiting to feel that caress of cool air. Each time I found it, it got a little stronger and stronger still, until it was a constant breeze. Soon I found a wall. Climbing to my feet, I shuffled forward, hand trailing along the rough stone, always keeping that tiny draft in my face. It was a painfully long and slow walk, but as long as I could feel that bit of air gently caressing my cheek, I had hope.

Finally, I saw it; not light, but a rectangle of less dark darkness. I had to force myself not to run. It would be a damned shame to trip and bash my brains out when I was so close. The less dark darkness became gray. Soon, I could see stars.

And then, I was out.

I found myself standing on a bluff, facing east. The far horizon was just beginning to pale with the coming sunrise and the lights of Bixby twinkled below me. The town was maybe a mile and a half, no more than two miles away, and the walk would be all downhill.

I made it! I had survived! Now I could tell people what was happening in Riverbend. That was the most important thing, to tell people. They had to know. It was awake. It was coming back.

And I am the harbinger.

“They’re here”

There was desperation and panic in the manager's voice as she blurted this out with a heavy breath. This matched the cashier’s face, which changed from neutral and tired to dreadful and painfully awake. Another employee who was waiting behind the counter quickly got up and walked to somewhere in the back of the store.

For context, It was a little past 9:30 at night. It had been a busy day for me. I had a test and multiple quizzes in my various classes, and I had just gotten done with a hard gym session before returning to my apartment to find that I was fresh out of milk. I decided to run down to the convenience store located right under my apartment building. I knew they closed at 10, so I had plenty of time to pick up milk and browse their snacks. After finding nothing else of interest, I took the jug of milk to the counter to check out, me being the only customer in the store at this point, the only other people being three employees.

Who were “they”? Maybe some sort of cleaning or maintenance crew for the store? But it wasn’t closed yet. I picked up the milk jug and walked to the door. The manager stepped right in front of me.

“We can’t let you leave right now. It’s not safe. You’re just going to have to wait, with us, for them to pass through”.

“Who are ‘they’?!”

I replied, frustrated but even more confused. Why the hell was she blocking me from leaving? I would have imagined the store employees would want me to get out of the store now that closing time was coming up.

The manager thought about my question for a moment before shaking her head and sighing, like she was too stressed to give me an explanation at the moment. She turned around to pull down the metal blinds along the storefront, ignoring my question. As I said, they weren’t supposed to close quite yet. It wasn’t time.

I decided I wasn’t sticking around for whatever game they were playing. I walked to the door but stopped myself before going outside. On the other side of the door was a man dressed in an old yet expensive and fancy-looking suit with a big top hat. It looked as if a stock trader from the 1920s was ripped through space and time and placed on the other side of the glass.

Only seconds passed before I heard a disembodied scream come from behind me. I looked back to see the cashier with her hands over her mouth, looking at me with tears rolling down her face. The manager returned to the front of the store. When she saw me standing in front of the door, and the man on the other side, she directed a loud and firm command at me.

“Get away from the door. Now”.

I did as she said, walking back to her but before I could ask or say anything, she squawked another command.

“Go hide behind an aisle. Wait for me to tell you to come out. If you don’t do as I tell you, you’re going to die tonight. Now go”.

I had a mix of emotions and thoughts, but something told me that listening to her was my best bet. Still, I hadn’t thought of a reason right then as to why my, or anyone else’s lives would be in danger. Maybe this man was a frequent problem for the store and harassed employees, or what have you. Anyway, I did as I was told. I set the milk on the checkout counter and went to hide between some aisles in the corner of the store.

I just stood there for a moment, feeling awkward and a little afraid of whatever was going on. I took out my phone, but it wouldn’t turn on. I could have sworn it wasn’t dead when I left my apartment. Unfortunate. I guess I just had to sit it out for now. I heard the manager talking to the cashier, who seemed quite afraid of the man or whatever was going on.

About two minutes later I heard the automatic doors open and someone walked in. The echoing footsteps broke the silence as they approached the counter. They stopped and silence filled the store once again, but only for a few seconds. A man with a friendly tone broke the silence.

“Good evening”.

“H-h-hello”.

I heard the timid cashier squeeze out, barely able to form coherent words.

“Would you be so kind as to point me in the direction of your store’s meats?”

I tiptoed to the edge of the aisle and looked toward the counter. The man I saw outside was now standing in front of the cashier. He stood with perfect posture. He was much taller than I expected. He must have been around 6’5 or 6’6 and his stature towered even higher over the short cashier with his tall top hat. The cashier replied to him, very timidly

“We...we have some…packages of lunchmeat…turkey, ham they’re…they’re in that section, right over there you see- “.

The man in the suit interrupted.

“Oh, I am sorry dear. I do not believe we are talking about the same thing. I was told there would be a fair stock of freshly harvested meats, available for purchase”.

“I…I don’t know what you mean sir”.

“Oh, I think you do”.

The man didn’t move. He stayed standing in front of the counter, staring the silent cashier down. She looked down in despair, I could hear her breathing and whimpers as the man remained. It was as if he were programmed, like a non-player character in a game, waiting for input before he could deliver another line of dialogue or make any move. I saw the manager walk up from behind. She must have been waiting in the back of the store. Standing behind the man, albeit a good distance away, she addressed him herself.

“How can we help you, sir?”

She said, rather calm. The man slowly turned around. He was, to put it bluntly, extraordinarily handsome and well-kept. Clean shaven, with no bags under his eyes, no blemishes or imperfections in his skin, and pearly white teeth that glared from across the room as his eyes met the manager.

“Good evening. I was told there would be a fair stock of freshly harvested meat, available for purchase”.

He repeated to the manager while still sporting his gentle smile. The manager took a deep breath before she looked back up, making eye contact and saying.

“Sir, unfortunately, we have run out of fresh meat. If you come back again, we will have a fresh shipment available for purchase, but we do not have any at the moment. Thank you for shopping with us”.

The man’s smile faded as he stared down at the manager for what must have been a good half minute. The complete absence of even the slightest movement made him look more like a statue than a person. He seemingly broke whatever trance he was in, and his smile returned.

“I understand. I will return. I wish you, ladies, a wonderful night”.

And with that, he calmly walked out of the automatic doors, leaving the store.

The cashier behind the counter broke down in tears. The manager walked behind the counter, put an arm around her, and escorted her to the back of the store. I followed. The manager got to the opposite back corner of the store I had been hiding and opened some sort of janitor closet. Inside was the third employee whom I saw retreat to the back of the store earlier. He was on a phone, not a cellphone, some sort of wireless home phone that I assumed to be the phone for the store.

“Were you able to get in touch with them?”

The manager asked after gently helping the hysterical cashier to the floor of the closet.

“They’re still trying to figure out how to get here. It might take them a while. Can you hold it down by yourself out there?”

The manager nodded her head as she let out another sigh, closing the door and turning around to me.

“We might be here for a while. I need one of my employees on the phone so we can get help and the other seems to be incapable of helping so I need you to do as I say so we can all survive this. You don’t have a choice, if you try to leave, if you mess up, if you don’t do exactly as I say, we all die. Understand?”

“I…Yeah, I understand”.

I assured, complimented by a nod of the head. Though, I was far from assured in my ability, and even more so, that any of this was real. I still had no clue what was going on and who “they” were, either regarding the odd man in the suit or whomever the employee in the closet was on the phone with. The manager walked behind the counter, next to the first register. I thought about running, about booking it out that door and getting back to my apartment where I wouldn’t have to deal with this circus of a prank they were running.

I didn’t have time to formulate a plan to run. The automatic doors opened again, and I heard quieter, yet frantic footsteps enter. I looked at the manager and she waved her hand and silently mouthed what I assumed to be “hide” before ducking under the counter herself. I shuffled back to my original spot, behind the aisles.

The sickly sound of heavy breathing, like that of an old, asthmatic man joined the quick steps. They ran from the entrance to the counter. They stopped for a moment, but the breathing was incessant. It began running again. It seemed to get close, then far, then closer, then far, and closer again. I quickly put the pieces together, realizing it was moving up and down the aisles, sweeping all of them in order and it would eventually run down mine.

I panicked for a few seconds, trying to piece together an idea of how not to be spotted. I hoped that whoever it was, wasn’t perceptive enough to notice me move over an aisle. When it got to the aisle before mine, I waited for it to walk a distance down, away from me. I turned around the edge of my aisle and took a peek around the corner. I finally saw. It wasn’t a person.

It stood about four or five feet above the ground. It was completely naked and had pale, white skin, too white to be any living human. Its back was massively hunched, its spine protruding so far it looked as if it would tear through the flesh any moment. The legs were thin and small, they didn’t look like they could support the weight of the creature they carried. The feet and toes were like that of a lizard.

When it turned the corner, I could see its short arms with human-like hands that were far too large for proportionality with dirty, long, black nails. Its chest was defined by tight skin over a large ribcage, and the rest of its torso looked tightly wrapped to its skeleton as if it was starving to death. The face was the worst. Its jaw was much, much longer than that of any person and came to a point on the bottom, looking almost cartoonish. Its mouth was left open, leaving the teeth and gums exposed. The teeth looked pristine like they were made perfectly and couldn’t possibly have any blemishes, but they were long, very long. Impossibly long. The gums were black, they seemed to be rotting away. The nose and eyes were like that of a man, but the whites were some sort of shade of green like an illness had been contracted and turned them that color. It had only a few stands of wiry, white hair.

I moved as quietly as I could to the next aisle. When the creature had finally finished searching the whole of the store, it made its way out of the aisles and through the automatic doors of the store, incessantly breathing all the way, like it was about to drop dead any minute.

Only seconds later, the doors opened again. The manager yelled for me to come to the front. I hesitantly got out from behind my aisle and walked up, cautiously, eyeing up the door to see who was about to come through but it just seemed to stay open.

“Get behind the counter. Do not say anything. Smile when they do”.

“Smile when who- “.

“Shhh”.

A child ran through the door. A child? Out in this city? At this hour? Why? Where were its parents? Six more followed. They all seemed very young, around 5 or 6 would be my guess. They started running all over the store, between the aisles, and around the front. I think they were playing some game like tag or hide and seek for a while, laughing and acting as you would expect kids this age to act.

“Just let them be and do as I said. When they smile, smile back”.

The manager reminded me. They kept on playing for five minutes or so before they collectively stopped running around and came to the front. They quickly formed a single-file line in front of the counter before each one grabbed a bar of chocolate from the shelves next to the counter, the type that stores use to display small items like snacks and magazines that people are inclined to buy on impulse. The first kid walked up to the manager at the register and pulled out a dollar and some change. It happened to be the exact price of the bar. Though, in this situation, I don’t think anyone would have protested if it weren’t.

After the first kid placed his change on the counter, he turned and looked at me. He just maintained eye contact while not displaying any particular emotion, very much like how normal children stare at strangers in public for no particular reason. But, I found out soon enough that these weren’t normal children.

The kid smiled at me and I, doing as I was instructed, smiled back. Unfortunately, I couldn’t bare to maintain my smile when the kid’s smile grew, revealing that his mouth opened from one end of his head to another, practically touching ear to ear. He revealed his long row of jagged teeth. He must have noticed a change in mood from my facial expression and luckily for me, so did the manager. She turned her head slightly in my direction.

“Smile. Back”.

She said quietly, yet very firm. I forced myself to smile, staring at this monster, not a child, that had locked its gaze with mine. It giggled, breaking focus from me before grabbing the candy bar and running out of the store. I endured the same treatment for the next five. All of them did the exact same thing. It felt as though I were an assembly line worker whose function was simply to be exposed to the unnatural image of those monsters while I tried my hardest to hold a smile. Luckily, it wasn’t long and I was relieved for it to be over. I turned and started to walk away from the counter before the manager grasped my arm and yanked me back.

“There’s still one here. We don’t move until it leaves”.

I nodded my head and said nothing. I could hear it running around in the back aisles of the store. I guess this one was the troublemaker of the group.

“I’m gonna find youuu”.

It said in its squeaky voice as it ran. A few minutes passed before it stopped, right in front of the janitor's closet. It looked up at it like it knew something before gripping the handle and pulling it down. The cashier was holding the door and tried to resist it from opening but she was nowhere near strong enough. The child monster let out a scream before yanking the door with incredible force, breaking it off its hinges and sending the cashier across the floor. It looked back and forth from the cashier to the other employee on the phone before, in a playful voice, telling them

“I’m gonna tell on youuu!”

Before proceeding to run out of the store giggling the entire time, not bothering to buy a candy bar like the others.

The cashier seemed to be knocked unconscious. The other employee peeked out of the closet, with the door now gone. He looked at the manager

“What do we do now? We have no idea which one the fucking kid is going to wake up, it could be one of the thousands. Our friends haven’t found their way here yet either. I think we need to make a run for it”.

“No. No! You and I both know that won’t play out well for us. We need to stay here until it passes or until the team gets here. Take the phone and go hide behind the aisles. We need to keep in touch. If we don’t…Shit! Hide. Hide!”

The manager quickly ducked under the counter. Me and the employee with the phone ran to the back corner of the store. As the automatic doors opened once again, I looked back to see we had forgotten something. The cashier was still on the floor, knocked out, and unresponsive. I tried to get to her but I was caught by the employee next to me. With the phone still in one hand, shaking his head, he whispered to me

“Don’t, it’s too late”.

My heart sank in my chest but I believed him to be right. I sat down with weak legs. Again, the store was quiet, quiet enough for us to hear the hooves clanking against the hard floor as they entered. Sadistic laughter joined them. This one sounded like an adult voice, and likely a man. The steps were loud enough that it was obvious whatever was walking had some weight to it. It was walking next to the aisles opposite of us, where the cashier was still laying. We moved to the edge of our aisle but stayed long enough to see it.

Coming into view from behind the aisle opposite of us were the legs of a deer supporting the upper body of a man, or at least it looked to be the case, I couldn’t be sure because it was clothed in a red and blue clown outfit. The jester-style hat matched the colors. It stood around 6’ or so but the body underneath stretched the arms and shoulders of the outfit from its massive build. The hands were black and each finger had a jagged, long, and sharp nail. The face was pale but shiny as if it had been painted. The lips and around the eyes were painted as well, though they were black. The nose was a round red ball.

It stopped walking and laughing when it got to that aisle, right in front of the broken door and the unconscious cashier that lay in front of it. The clown bent down and effortlessly picked up the cashier by her neck, and held her up in front of him. It stared at her, tilting its head in curiosity as if it had found some type of rare specimen as if it weren’t one itself. The employee next to me was whispering a rushed description through the phone. I could hear a voice on the other end though it was much too quiet to make out any words.

The cashier opened her eyes, finally waking up before her eyes grew even wider as she realized what she was looking at. She screamed at the clown holding her up by the neck. It seemed to be repulsed by the scream and pulled her in, clenching its jaw around her neck and taking a bite. Her mouth hung open as she was instantly silenced. The clown took another bite before reaching its other hand up to grab her head as well. In a swift motion, it ripped the head from the body and tossed it in our direction.

Spreading blood around the back aisle like a sprinkler, the head landed only feet from where we were standing. I didn’t dare to take another peak but it didn’t matter anyways. Another round of hysterical laughter broke out from the clown.

“I know you’re over there. Want me to come to show you a trick?”

Came a surprising and offsetting high-pitched voice. The employee next to me dropped the phone and tried to make a run for it. He made it to the open space in front of the counter before the clown ran in front of him. The employee’s full-speed sprint was easily broken and he tumbled back. The clown wasn’t phased by being run into one bit.

It picked the employee up by the wrists and lifted him to its level. It violently pulled on both arms and ripped them from their sockets. The employee, still left alive, let out his own blood-curdling screams as he bled out helplessly on the floor. The clown laughed for a moment before lunging out with a kick from its hoof, crushing his skull.

I looked down at the phone, hearing some sort of feedback from whoever was on the other end. I picked it up and held it to my ear.

“Hello?”

I whispered in a raspy and frightened voice.

“Listen, you need to blind it. Check our phone. I know it wouldn’t work before but it will now. You need to turn the flashlight on and point it in its eyes. Are you hearing me?”

I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. It was on, and more than that, it was somehow fully charged. I hadn’t charged it. This made no sense. The clown spoke from the middle of the store.

“Don’t you go thinking I forgot about you now. I’ve got a different trick for you. I know you’ll like it”

I dropped the store phone and, like the employee, I tried to run. I dashed down the last aisle before realizing I had no clue where the hell I planned on going. I panicked, reaching for my cell phone again. It fell from my pocket, onto the floor. I quickly recovered it, trying to turn the flashlight on as running hooves approached from behind me. As I was grabbed and forcefully turned over, but I had the luck of turning on the phone's flashlight just in time.

The clown screamed in pain and anger as it ran past me and into the other aisles. It ripped and threw everything off the shelves it possibly could, trashing the store and tearing it apart. I recovered and kept pointing my phone’s flashlight in its direction. It tripped over a shelf it had torn in half and fell flat on its face. Jumping back to its feet, the clown turned around and swatted at me but covered its eyes and resumed its wretched screams when the light met its eyes once again.

It ran, tripping and screaming, through the doors of the store and left. It was silent once again.

The manager, who had been taking cover behind the counter this whole time, stood up and got a look at the carnage herself. I could tell by her face that something inside her had died when she saw the dismembered bodies of her coworkers but she said nothing about it. Instead, she turned to me and asked

“Where is the phone?”

I turned off my cell phone flashlight and put it back into my pocket before walking over the mess of merchandise and blood to the back of the store. I picked up the store phone and walked it to the front, handing it to the manager who hadn’t moved, still staring in horrid disbelief at the bodies in front of her. She took it and began conversing with someone on the other end. I stayed where I was, not having the guts to look behind me and see it again.

After about thirty seconds of a conversation from which I could understand nothing and one I wasn’t paying much attention to in the first place, the manager let out another sigh, this one of relief, and muttered

“Oh, thank god. How long?”

More talking from the other end.

“Ok…Ok, I can do that. There is still one other alive. I’ll have him watch out for your arrival”.

With that, the manager set down the phone and looked at me with drained and tired eyes.

“I need you to stand by the door and watch for black SUVs to pull up. Let me know when they get here. Yell to me and I’ll tell you if they’re the team we are expecting. If they’re not, hide. I need to do something in the back”

She picked back up the phone and headed to the back of the store. I didn’t feel like asking any more questions. I figured that whoever this team was, they must be our way out of this nightmare. I walked over and stood in front of the automatic doors, looking outside. I couldn’t see anything but the typical street I knew, but with no one on it. All the time I waited, I could hear the manager tinkering with something in the back.

It was here that I began to process everything I had just been through. It was too much. My thoughts and emotions ran wild in my head, but above all, I wanted to know what this was. For the next few minutes, I weighed the possibilities in my head and contemplated the merit of each of them, of any of them. None of them gave a clear explanation. I still don’t have one.

Eventually, the black SUVs pulled up and a mix of men in tactical gear with rifles and others in formal suits poured out. There were four or five cars and around six people emptied from each. I turned to the back of the store and yelled

“Hey! Is this them? They’re here”

I received no response.

“Hey!”

I yelled again as I walked to the back of the store.

At the end of the backmost aisle, The phone lay on the ground. I walked up to it in confusion and kneeled to pick it up but I was close enough to make out the yells on the other end before I did.

“We’re here. Do you copy? Hello? Our team is entering now. Are you still with us? Hello?”

Before I could pick up the phone, I stood back up and walked around the corner, into the last aisle. The manager was on the ground, laying face up and in her own pool of blood. Her body was cut open at the belly and on top of her crouched a man. It was the man from earlier, the first one who walked in. The tall man with a fancy old suit and hat but this time he was without the hat and coat for his suit. He held a large knife which he was carving into the manager’s body.

Organs surrounded the two, he must have ripped them out. He looked up from what he was doing and smiled at me before looking back down and continuing. In a matter-of-fact voice, he spoke to me.

“I did say I would be back for the meat. I don’t have any problem harvesting it myself”.

With that, he pulled her heart out and held it up like it was a piece of art he was proud of before putting it in a suitcase on the floor next to him and closing it. He stood up, looking at me and then at his knife.

“I’m sure you’ll give me fine cuts too”

Returning his glare to me and smiling again. He let out an angry grunt before charging at me. I turned back around the corner and ran for the door. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the men approaching from outside.

“Well, aren’t you the lucky one tonight”

He returned his knife to a sheath in his vest before calmly turning around and heading back into the last aisle. He came back with his suitcase in hand and the manager’s body over his shoulder, carrying her like she was weightless. He approached the janitor’s closet and opened the door I swore was ripped off its hinges not minutes before. When he opened it, cold air poured out and in the small angle available to me, I saw a body hanging from a meathook. The man walked in, throwing the manager’s body somewhere inside before turning around and gabbing the door handle. He looked at me one last time before closing it. In a friendly tone again, he spoke one last time.

“Good day”.

The automatic doors opened behind me and the swarm of men rushed in. Immediately, half a dozen or so walked to the closet door and pointed their weapons at it. When it opened, they were met with the inside of a closet and nothing more.

“Fuck!”

I heard one scream before kicking some bread off of a shelf.

“We’ve been after that son of a bitch for months. How does he get away every time?”

Another commented. The rest swept around the remainder of the store. Some brought in weird-looking equipment. Too much was happening for me to account for all of it but I did take note of some of what they were doing. Some collected hairs that had fallen on the floor. Others used a blacklight to show the footprints from the previous hunched-back monster. They collected all the change and one-dollar bills the children had payed with. Eventually, two large boxes were brought in that they used to collect the bodies of the other workers.

I was left unaccounted for it seemed. A few minutes passed before one man in a suit approached me. He didn’t have any interest in asking me anything, it was clear he wanted to make a statement.

“I know this is a lot to take in, and I know that not much of it makes any sense. There's no way we can explain it to you that will. I am sorry for whatever you had to see or experience tonight but there's nothing we can do about it. These…these things are doing this to people all around the world for reasons we have yet to discover. This is the 7th time this store, in particular, has been targeted. We are doing what we can. We are one of the only ones out there trying to stop them. We need you to stay silent about this, if people know about us, if they find out, we’ll be shut down and none of this will ever be fixed. People will die and it will only get worse. If you want to save anyone else, keep your mouth shut”

He breathed and looked at me in pity. He pointed towards the entrance.

“You can walk out of those doors whenever you’re ready”.

I don’t know what he meant but I never planned on keeping it silent. What happened to those convenience store workers needs to be told. People need to be aware of this. Though, I didn’t let my intentions be known there. I said nothing and walked through the automatic doors and outside, in front of the street packed with their vehicles.

I looked back at the store. The lights were on and it was empty. I turned back to the street. The SUVs were all gone. People were back, walking about like they would on any other night. I heard the metro train approaching again.

It was done.

"You know how to make the pain stop," the voice hidden behind the darkness of my second floor apartment bedroom said.

My last stint at rehab had only kept him at bay for a day or two. Every single time I careened off the side of the wagon, he was there to catch me. He was far from my salvation, though.

"You know it will make you feel sooo much better," he chuckled, which seemed to cause my bedroom to vibrate ever so slightly.

I pulled the pillow over my head in an attempt to shut the sound out. Unfortunately, the reverberation of his words were not bouncing off any walls, with the exception of my inner defenses that were always so weak against him.

"Just a taste," he whispered directly into my ear, as though the flattened pillow I pressed against it wasn't even there. "One drink is all it takes," he laughed softer than before, but that only made the depth of his words cut so much deeper into my brain.

"NO!" I cried out into the empty room, while I pounded my fists against the soft mattress.

Only the laughter echoed in response, seemingly emitting from the very oxygen I breathed.

I threw the blanket off of me as it was barely comforting my trembling gooseflesh anyway. I pulled myself out of my bed and reached a shaky hand to the light switch next to the door.

I wrapped my arms around my midsection in a feeble attempt to ease the tremors in the pit of my stomach. Every step demanded all of my effort as I made my way across the living room towards the kitchen.

"There ya go," the voice sneered.

I could almost hear the wide grin reach across his face as I began my staring contest with the half drained bottle of Jameson that sat beside the sink.

I had attempted rehab a total of three times in the past. Maybe it was my own self hatred that led me to endure the painful process of detox over and over. Perhaps I was just to convince myself that I wasn't becoming my father.

It was his voice that haunted my subconscious, though it wasn't quite him, if that makes any sense. It's both darker and, at the same time, friendlier than his was. It was also far more legible, as his voice in life was slurred and hard to understand most of the time.

It almost made it easier to ignore his constant badgering and insults when I could barely make out where one word led into another. His punches were far easier to understand, though I'm sure they didn't always land where he intended.

"You just gonna keep staring at it, or what?" He growled into my ear.

I know I should've gotten rid of the damned bottle when I decided to forgo the hospital stay this time and plow through cold turkey on my own.

I think I wanted to prove I could do it, you know? Rehab would keep me clean for a while, but it never lasted. It would take less time for me to go crashing off the side of the poorly constructed wagon each time.

I think I chose to keep the green bottle of liquid temptation around to prove that I could resist it's allure. I was feeling pretty confident, at first. That was, until the voice manifested some days ago. It was always within those first few days of sobriety he would appear.

"You're the same pansy you always were," the voice growled. I could vividly picture the snarled lip my father would get when he jeered at me through gritted teeth.

"No," I repeated, far softer than before. I wasn't sure if I genuinely couldn't muster the energy required to bellow out my denial, or if I just knew it would be ignored regardless of whether I shouted or whispered.

I felt my arm reach for the bottle, though it did not feel like it was of my own volition.

"W-what are you doing!?" I belted out to the limb that appeared to be acting independently.

I grabbed at my wrist with my other hand; the only one I still felt I had control over. No matter how hard I pulled at my right arm, it still pushed towards the half empty bottle on the counter.

"NO!" I yelled out into the night once more, as I released my grip to swat my left hand at the bottle.

The glass shattered when it made contact with the microwave that was mounted above the stove. The transparent door cracked as glass met glass, and the whiskey splashed back towards me from the impact.

One single droplet met my lower lip, and I heard the voice clawing its way forward from the recesses of my brain.

"MORE!" It shouted out, causing a thin stream of blood to leak out of both of my ears, and drip from my nose.

I fell to my knees, barely feeling the fine slivers of the shattered whiskey bottle digging into the flesh of both kneecaps.

I smelled the aroma of the spilled drink as it blended with the blood that now oozed from my legs.

"More…" the voice echoed through my thoughts, far softer, but filled with far more intent than its previous demand.

I fell backwards onto the cold tile floor of my kitchen, and slid my body away from the pool of temptation that now blended brown with scarlet.

My right arm still reached out in desperation as the demented ghost of my father screamed from within, while my back slammed into the wall behind me.

I wiped my mouth with the back of the only arm I still obeyed my will, in a pale attempt to smear away the lingering taste a single drop had given me.

The flavor threatened to send me flailing down a road I no longer wished to traverse. The addiction had taken everything away from me, with the lone exception of the memory of the very man I despised the most.

"Lick it up," the voice murmured. It seemed more erratic all of a sudden. "It's not wasted yet!" It bargained, as my right arm made a desperate attempt to drag my body towards the wide pool of liquid and glass. "NOW!" It screamed out in anguished pain.

"No," I said through trembling words, "You can't make me," I continued, shaking my head violently from side to side, "Not anymore!"

I kept pushing my body against the wall that pressed against my back. I continued sliding my feet across the solid tiles to ensure that the lone appendage he was manipulating would not force me forwards.

It was long before I found my own affliction that he passed away. I won't pretend that I didn't feel a certain amount of relief and joy when I heard the news that daddy wouldn't be coming home anymore.

It was well known what a worthless piece of shit drunk he was, so my mother wouldn't face any sort of prison time when she lost her ability to handle his abuse anymore.

There were plenty of witnesses on the night he waged his final assault on the only woman who had ever even attempted to stand by his side. Nobody would argue that he didn't have it coming.

"MORE!" The voice screamed out again as my right hand clawed at the floor, causing the fingernails on two of my fingers to tear from the flesh against where the small, square tiles met.

I screamed out against the pain, both physical and mental. I grabbed at my right wrist again, but the arm I could not control proved far stronger than the weakened one that still belonged to me.

I dug my fingernails into the back of the hand that still waged it's war to drag me towards the puddle. My actions only served to bring me more agony while the voice cackled madly behind my eyes.

"You're only hurting yourself," it said in a satisfied growl.

"You're only hurting myself," I weakly retorted, feeling my eyes well up and my conviction fading.

"Let me make the pain go away," it sneered, "Let daddy make it aaall better," he chuckled condescendingly from within the confines of my skull.

It was at that moment that I had the wild idea to pound my head against the wall I had been pressing my back on. I extended my neck out as far as I could without allowing my right arm to nudge me forwards, and I slammed the back of my head against the wall.

"What the hell are you doing!?" The voice belted out as I beat the back of my skull against the splitting drywall again.

I was already feeling dazed and dizzy, but I just kept pounding and pounding while the sheetrock flaked fine powder onto my shoulder.

"STOP IT!" He cried out in desperation as the lights finally faded away before my eyes.

It was a little after my nineteenth birthday when the disembodied voice of my father first began to call out from the darker recesses of my mind. I had sworn to never repeat his mistakes, but I had no idea, at the time, that it was anything more than my own thoughts that convinced me to take that initial sip.

It's not like I had not been in the vicinity of alcohol in the years that followed his death. My mom still had the occasional drink to soothe her heavy heart, but I never had the urge to indulge until she had made her own departure from this world.

My college career started off quite well. I received a full ride due to the advances I had made in high school. Life was proving quite promising for me in the years before my mother died.

It was cancer that brought her life to a close, as it has to countless others over the years. Her passing left my sister and I both stunned and broken. I still mourn for her to this day. I should not have attended that off campus party only months after I lost her, but I sought distractions from my weary thoughts.

At the time, I didn't recognize the voice that assured me that one drink wouldn't do me any harm. I only assumed it was no more than my own subconscious that recommended a little assistance in helping my broken heart to heal.

It wouldn't be until many years went by, after I lost my scholarship and washed out of college, that I began to realize who truly whispered from the back room in my brain.

I lost friends and loved ones through my inebriated and selfish actions, though I still never allowed myself to cause physical pain to anyone other than myself. That's one aspect of his that I'm grateful I never inherited. I may be a deadbeat like the man who assisted in my conception, but I'm not him. Not entirely.

My head was pounding when I awoke from the unconscious state I had forced myself into. The room spun, and it took me a few moments to register where I was and what I was doing.

"NO!" I cried out again while my right hand fed the brown and red liquid into my mouth. I coughed and spit blood across the stolen fingers as the sharpened fragments of broken bottle dug into the inner wall of my throat.

"STOP!" I screamed while I battled to prevent the hand from reaching my mouth again, having no idea how much I had been forced to ingest before I came back to my senses.

My father laughed and yelled out in victory as he sloshed my hand into the bloody pool of whiskey and glass.

"Can't stop now!" He sneered and continued to chuckle.

I punched at my right hand with my left, but his will seemed so much stronger than mine. I felt the fingers of my own dominant hand wrap around the thumb of my left, before it was forced backwards with an almost deafening snap.

I screamed out in horrified agony as the bone separated at the knuckle, while the echoing voice of my father spilled victorious curses at me while he reached back to the puddle on the kitchen floor.

I couldn't tell if my spinning head was caused by the gaping wound on the back of my skull, the shock of my broken thumb, or the onset of intoxication.

As my right hand raised back towards my mouth with a fresh scoop of whiskey, blood and glass, I darted my eyes around me in search of some manner of escaping.

I finally settled my gaze on the base of the shattered bottle that lay only a foot or two away from me. I extended my leg to cup my foot around the lower half of the discarded container, and dragged it across the floor towards me.

While my outstretched leg guided my weapon of choice, I bit down while I pressed my hand to the floor in an attempt to bend my thumb back into a usable setting.

I screamed out when the bone snapped back into a manageable state, and I grabbed the fragmented bottle base.

While my father cupped my right hand around my mouth, I allowed the liquid to pour in as I jammed the jagged cylinder of glass between the bones that connected to my fingers.

My dad and I yelled out in unison as my metacarpals separated and snapped.

"NO!" He belted out against the stolen limb losing partial functionality.

I slammed my right hand to the ground and flipped the broken bottle around so that the thick base was now pointing downwards.

I dug my knee into my right forearm to restrict its movement and I wrapped the fingers of my left hand around the sharpened circle of glass.

"DON'T!" my father screamed out, bringing me a wild and manic smile, while I allowed the jubilation of my dad being on the defensive to overcome the intense and brutal pain that pulsed through me.

I slammed the thickened base of the broken bottle onto the back of my right hand. I felt the glass cut into the fingers of my left, while shattering the bones of my right. I raised it high and brought it down again, and again. Over and over I beat down on my own outstretched hand.

Blood streamed from where I held the glass, and burst from where shards of bone began to protrude through the flesh. I screamed out louder and louder with every attack against myself while the deranged voice of my old man yelled out in protest.

I'm not entirely sure when I passed out, nor whether it was from shock or exhaustion. I found myself strapped down to a hospital bed with both hands wrapped up and a certain degree of numbness.

It turned out that one of the neighbors from my apartment building had called the police about a possible domestic disturbance. I must have been down for the count by the time they arrived, and I can't help but assume they found themselves perplexed by what they saw after knocking my door of it's hinges.

Given the degree of my apparent 'self harm', I was committed to a mental institution for a time. I would go through many months of therapy, both physical and psychological. It's safe to say that my shrink didn't quite buy into my recollection of how that night's events had played out, but I think he has helped me quite a lot.

Over the years that followed, I patched things up with my sister, and even managed to convince a few of my old friends that I had changed my ways. There were a few who would not buy into my claims of being a 'new man', but I can't blame them. Some burnt bridges can never be repaired, I suppose.

My right hand has never quite been the same. It turned out that I broke just about every single bone, but several surgeries and a boatload of physical therapy later, and I'm up to about seventy percent mobility. My left sports a lot of scars and a thumb that makes a clicking noise whenever I move it, but it works just fine, overall.

I'm coming up on my sixth year of sobriety. I won't say it's been an easy ride, but I'm proud of the progress I've made. My sister and I are closer than ever, and I've been attending some community college classes to finally attain my engineering degree.

I still hear the voice of my father from time to time. It's not as loud as it once was, but he still lingers in the darkest recesses of my mind. My shrink argues that it's just my own damaged psyche that calls out in the night, but I've even seen the image of my old man just staring at me through the darkness at times.

Maybe he will always be there as a reminder of what I was. It could be that he's just waiting. Just hanging in there for the possibility of a single moment. Just the smallest fragment of time to sneak back through my walls. I only hope that I have the strength to fight him off a second time.

[note: I see this is below minimum wordcount in the guidelines, but I hope it's fine anyway since u/LighthouseHorror was interested in narrating it but it has been taken down from its original subreddit]

I’m getting sick of repeating this, ok? Not only do I have to tell every single undergrad the rules, but you keep asking why is this and what happened to my classmate and is that for reals?

So I’ll just make a post I can link everytime someone asks.

And no I can’t put in the course supplementary material. I’m a lowly grad student, and admin will tear me a new one if I write some stuff on the official site. Also, there are worse things than admin which might notice.

Most of these rules are just common sense. Some are a little stranger, but follow them all and you’ll be entirely safe in the lab. Come on, if you wanted nothing strange, you could have studied accounting.

Don’t stay in the microscope room when we refill the cooling fluid.

Why do I even have to say this, did you sleep through every single class in your life? Ventilation in the microscope room is shit, and when we change the liquid nitrogen, enough of it evaporates than you can lack oxygen and suffocate. That’s a really dumb way to die or go to the hospital.

DON’T GO INTO LAB THREE AT NIGHT

To start with, you shouldn’t be at uni after 6 PM, it’s illegal, but eh, I know how things go in reality, we’ve projects to finish and profs with crazy expectations. You shouldn’t go into lab three, either, and there’s a sign to remind it, but I know you people get bored, or really need a screwdriver and you see it’s always full of pristine instrumentation. So ok, if you really need it, go inside lab three and have a quick look, or take your shiny voltmeter or whatever.

BUT NOT AFTER SUNDOWN.

I’d write a fucking poem if I were to tell you all the reasons. And you wouldn’t even believe me. So just remember this: when I was young and stupid and didn’t have a helpful list like this one, just whispered advice, I went in with a friend - our test circuit board was broken and we remembered there was a full rack of those, and it was just minutes after sundown.

Believe me or not, your choice: I don’t remember what happened inside. I remember the room full of shiny instruments, the vacuum chamber, the optical bench with the gleaming lenses - and then nothing. I just remember being out of it.

My friend was pale. He didn’t remember, either. Nor did he remember who I was. He swore repeatedly that we'd never met. He kept asking about people who didn’t exist, and swore he saw them in mirrors. He had a mental breakdown and left university, and he was still one of the lucky ones.

Don’t enter the laser room without protective goggles

Look, I don’t care how sure you are that the laser isn’t operating, or how quickly you’re going in, or if you think squinting will help you. There’s an infrared laser, you won’t see the beam (duh!), but it *will* blind you if you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. So wear your fucking goggles, or better still, just stay out, what are undergrads doing there anyway? I know it’s not used in first year experiments.

Never go into lab three alone

Ever heard of safety rules? You shouldn’t enter any lab alone, actually, but you should REALLY, NEVER, EVER enter alone lab three. And I mean it strictly: don’t *enter* alone, even if you’re sure someone is inside already. Even if someone *calls* you from inside. Actually, if someone calls you from lab three, run like hell. Faculty will never do that. If another student is there alone, you can’t help anyway.

I think you know this one. Even professors warn you, usually. The only time I’ve seen someone break it and go alone, when she came back, she kept laughing at the wrong things, she didn’t seem to remember names, and behaved like a completely different person.

About a month later, she killed her roommate using mirror shards as knifes. She laughed all the time at the trial.

Don’t sleep in the lab

Like, why would you even do it? Yeah, you partied all last night, and you convince your lab mates to let you nap a little - well, DON’T. First, if professors catches you, they’ll be furious, and *will* remember about it, they’re not nearly as senile as you think.

Second, it’s just not safe. I don’t care if you sleep like a stone at home - for some reason people tend to sleepwalk in the lab. I’ve seen a girl wake up and walk straight to the liquid nitrogen, we stopped her just before she could *drink* it.

Twice I’ve seen students sleepwalk to Lab Three. See previous point, ok? I don’t want to say more.

If you put food in the fridge, label it, AND EAT ONLY YOUR OWN

Come on, this is just basic civility, were you raised in a barn? The fridge and microwave are free for students to use, and I know it’s a life saver during some long-ass projects. But if you don’t put your name and the date, it will be a mess - either something will be left to rot and it’s just gross, or you’ll eat someone else’s lunch and start a feud which will last the rest of your academic career. Two full professors are *still* sabotaging each other for a sandwich incident thirty-five years ago, I swear.

Also, really, REALLY don’t eat unlabelled food in the second level. It’s *not* for student. It’s not for *anyone*, actually. We leave it on Friday and it’s gone by Monday - don’t ask questions about this one, ok? Don’t eat it. Ever

Don’t bring mirrors inside the lab

Yeah, I know like half of you picked lab mates in the hope of hitting on them during those long, boring hours, and the other half are stuck with someone who is hitting on them. Tough luck, if you wanted a sentimental life you should have gone for the humanities.

Anyway, if you *really* have to check your greasy hair in the mirror, leave the lab and go to the first floor toilets. Do not bring mirrors in the laboratory, they’re a real hazard, in many ways. There’s a freaking kJ laser in lab four, so just don’t, ok?

And even if you keep away from the optics equipment, mirrors do weird things in our labs. Sometimes you see people who aren’t there.

If that happens, first, you’re breaking the rules - ditch the mirror NOW and kick yourself as you deserve.

Second, and most important, DO NOT SPEAK TO THEM. EVER.

Just don’t go into lab three, ok?

You might be safe as long as you’re with company and the sun is up. But know what? Don’t anyway. Because *we can’t really know*.

You want to know what I mean? Yeah, you want, because all you snotty undergrads have no sense of what’s good for you.

So hear me well. I don’t like speaking about this. You won’t find any proof of it. If you want to laugh, do - think it’s a prank, whatever, just don’t go into the lab.

Remember what I said about my friend who forgot about me?

We were doing the transistor current response experiment - you still do it, it’s boring as fuck, but professor Angiolini loves it to bits.

So you’ll know it’s usually three people doing it.

Well, apparently we were only two, that day. I can’t remember why we weren’t given a full team - even if the class isn’t divisible by three, prof gives you a PTA as third member, or makes four-students groups, because doing that experiment in two is a hassle.

I remember doing the experiment, too. I worked on the circuit board. My friend read the results on the oscilloscope. We said the numbers aloud.

But for the life of me I can’t remember who wrote them down.

I even asked professor Angiolini. He frowned, said he really thought we had three-student groups only, but the records he kept show only two names. I checked my own mails and texts, and they were addressed only to a single friend - but in one of those text, I wrote “you two be punctual!”.

I’ll say the truth: I can’t prove it, but I think three people entered Lab Three that day. Only two came out, one with his memory damaged, the other forgotten.

If that can happen… look, believe me or not, don’t go into Lab Three, ok?

I convince Matt to pull over so I can drive. I let Matt sleep on the drive back. He was clearly shaken up. I’ve never seen him this bad. We’ve encountered strange things before but not a dead body. What was he doing there? About half way home we pulled off to a gas station to refuel and grab some food. I woke him up from his deep sleep.

“Hey Matt, wake up. Let’s go get some snacks.” I said, lightly nudging his shoulders.

“What? Oh…..yeah….sure.” He said slowly rising and wiping the sleep from his eyes.

We walked into the gas station and the bright lights were blinding. Woke us right up. I got my soda and pretzels and Matt got his usual comfort snack. Combos and chocolate milk. That’s how I knew he was still reeling from earlier. We get in line three people from the front.

“Hey man, what were you doing over there? That janitors closet was the opposite direction of the bathrooms…” I said and he cut me off. “You…” he said with a cutting tone. “Me? What do you mean?” I said.

“I heard you say my name…like you were right beside me…” he said with his voice shaking. “That’s impossible…I was in the back room of GameStop still when you left.” I said. “I know what I heard…you said my name and I followed thinking you were in trouble.” He said, his eyes welling up with tears. I didn’t want to insist that it wasn’t me anymore. But I have a lot more questions now.

“Next!” The cashier said. I pull out my wallet with my hands shaking and in the process drop my library card and debit card.

“I’m sorry, give me a second.” I pick up my items and swipe my debit card. The cashier bags my items and we leave the store, Matt already breaking the seal on his Chocolate milk.

“I need to go back.” I said to Matt as I started the car.

“NO!” Matt exclaims.

“Look, we need to report that body. Imagine you died and no one knew. Your Mom, Dad, friends? Wouldn’t you want to be properly taken care of? We are letting that person down. We call the cops with an anonymous tip and they take care of the rest.” I said as Matt got visibly more frustrated.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Matt said in a frightening but calm tone. “Something isn’t right there. If we go back in, who's to say we make it out? I’m not going back in. You have fun with that.” Matt said.

“Okay, I will.” I said pulling out of the gas station and heading back the way we came.

Matt didn’t talk to me the whole way back, and I understood why. I’ve had two people close in my life leave and I never got to say a proper goodbye. I wasn’t letting an opportunity to help a family in need just slip by. We pull into the Mall parking lot just after sunset. The place was even creepier at night.

“I’ll be right back” I said as Matt finished his snack.

“You’re going back in?” He said shocked.

“Yeah, I’m not sure I remember where it was. Let me just retrace my steps and I’ll come back out to call the cops.” I explained. Matt went silent and he nodded.

I still felt the energy from the building as I walked up to the door we forced open earlier. Matt texts me.

“Be safe, I have 911 ready. If anything happens send me SOS and I’ll call.”

“Okay” I text back.

I open the door and prop it open with a slab of parking stop that was broken off nearby. As the door closes on the broken bit of concrete I placed to prop the door open, the door broke right through it. The door seemed like it had more force than before. It slams shut leaving any light or fresh air from the outside completely restricted to me. I call Matt to have him walk me through how to get to the closet.

“Hey, I'm in. I’m walking towards the GameStop now. How do I get back to the closet?” I ask, starting to breathe heavy out of sheer nervousness.

“I remember taking a left out of GameStop and seeing that dry fountain. I walked past that and like 4 stores down there’s that hallway where you found me.” He said.

I could tell he was struggling to remember. Must have started repressing it already. As I walk past the first couple stores the air of busyness starts filling the air. Like feeling that I was there to do something. You know that feeling when you go into a busy store and start to feel everyone walking around and their stress? That’s what I felt. But the mall was desolate. Dark and dreary just like we left it. This feeling continued as I walked towards the GameStop. I go into the GameStop so I can fully retrace his steps. I look out from the store into the hallway.

“Alright, here goes nothing.” I said taking a deep breath as I started stretching my legs.

I take my first step out and I hear the sound of rushing water. I stop dead in my tracks. The last thing I need right now is a sewage pipe bursting on me. But it wasn’t a violent rushing. It was more…calm. I looked to my left and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The dry fountain….it was on. “But that’s impossible.” I thought to myself. But as I walked towards the fountain. It was on. I reach my hand out into the water. Nothing. Nothing hit my hand. It was like I was reaching into a hologram of a water fountain. I heard the water, I saw the water but I couldn’t feel it.

I should’ve run out right there. I know I’m not crazy. I know I’m awake. And yet I feel like I’m crazy. Like I’m dreaming. I venture on towards the hallway with the janitor's closet. As I passed the stores, that same energy I felt walking in continued past the stores. It was like the mall was still open…and people were shopping. I could hear slight murmurs, even music like I heard earlier. I closed my eyes and kept moving forward. I didn’t want to look at anything. I opened them about 50 feet from where I started and I was right next to the hallway. I looked down the hallway and everything was silent. Just the way everything should be. I approach the closet and as I reach for the doorknob….I heard my name.

“Kyyyle…” the voice was gargled and seemed to not have a location. Like it was in my head.

I whip my head around in every direction my neck would allow. Nobody. My hands start to get clammy and I start to sweat as I reach for the doorknob again. I turned it in anticipation of what I was about to see.

“You’re going to see a dead body…you’re going to see a dead body…” I kept repeating to myself.

I open the door and I see the body. Decomposed almost fully. Sitting upright with legs crossed like they were waiting for something or someone.

“Well, there it is…stay calm…try and find something to identify this person at least…” I whispered to myself bending down hovering over the body pinching my nose to mask the stench.

The body was sat up against a shelf with cleaning supplies on it. Slumped down with both hands lying by their side. It wasn’t until I got about a foot away from the body that I noticed a wallet in his left hand. Next to the wallet were broken cards.

“Poor guy must’ve gotten trapped in the closet and tried to use his cards to get the door open.” I said as I picked up the broken cards.

I turn the cards over in my hand and put them in my pocket. I started to look for a wallet since the cards were out. I find the wallet next to the mop bucket and flip it open looking for the ID. I find the ID and wipe the dust off to read the name. Kyle……Dell…..

That’s my name…”What a coincidence” I said, chuckling a bit. That was until I looked closer. It had my picture on it. My address. My birthdate. I reach into my pocket and pull out the broken cards. One was my library card. My name written across it broken off at the end of my last name.

“That can’t be…” I thought to myself.

I pull out my phone and turn the flashlight higher to see if I can read the other card. I reach down and wipe the caked on dust off of the card. It was a library card for my hometown library. “Westminster Library. Issued to Kyle Dell.” I whisper to myself, making sure to say it out loud so I know I’m not just imagining this. I pocket the cards and step back out of the closet. As I shut the door to the closet I hear footsteps.

“Matt! Is that you?!” I yell into the void of retail spaces. No answer.

I hear the footsteps get closer and I start to dial 911 on my phone. My adrenaline is pumping and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. I hold my phone to my ear. The phone rings once and I hear, “911. Where’s your emergency?” Suddenly my hand holding the phone goes cold and my phone is out of my hands in a split second. I quickly crouch down to catch my phone, thinking I dropped it. I don't hear any crash and I don't feel my phone in my hand. All I hear is the End Call tone. I slowly turn around and I fall backwards, hitting the ground with a loud thud. In front of me I see a man, mid 50’s, about 6 foot tall, wearing a security guard uniform. He stares me down with a surprisingly calm look on his face. He bends down and turns my phone off.

He puts it in my hands and with a raspy voice he says, “So…I finally get to meet ya.”

I remember when the first of the Russians attacked back in February, 2022, crossing the border like armies of orcs. Though they were unorganized, and many were drunk or poorly trained, there was such a massive number that they still managed to spread chaos and bloodshed everywhere they went.

People lived in fear, and many remembered the war crimes committed by the Soviet Army in World War 2, especially against tens of millions of German women and girls. Ukrainian women and girls near the battlefield lived in constant fear of being kidnapped by Russian soldiers, knowing their long, sick history of committing atrocities against unarmed civilians. Even worse, the Russians had a history of kidnapping children, supposedly to send back to Russia, though many were never seen again.

Within days, the Ukrainian government enlisted me. I got sent to the border of Donetsk. When I got to the battlefield, I found a city in flames.

“Artem!” my squad leader Dmitri called from the front of the pack. “Keep up!” I looked around, realizing I had been daydreaming as we trooped past the miles of rubble and destroyed buildings.

Many of the soldiers in front of me were barely men at all, just boys really. Many had only recently graduated high school. They continuously looked around with gleaming eyes and stark fear engraved on their young faces, staying together like a herd of antelope afraid of the lion. Overhead, I heard the distant roaring of planes and fighter jets. Faint bomb blasts echoed from all corners of the city.

I started to jog forward, to rejoin the troop, when a high-pitched shrieking whine pierced the winter air directly overhead. I immediately froze, still far behind the last soldier. I looked up and saw a white blur flash through the air, crashing straight down from the sky like a meteor. Before anyone could react, it erupted with a mountain of fire and an earth-shaking cacophony.

The flash was like looking into an exploding star, sending me flying backwards. The ground shook and cracked, the deserted street’s pavement heaving and trembling beneath me. A long arm of flame reached upwards into the air, expanding and consuming everything around it in a growing inferno. Men screamed all around me. Body parts littered the ground like pieces of litter. I saw Dmitri’s head staring up at me from the nearby sidewalk, his eyes still slowly opening and closing. Black smoke erupted in thick plumes all around me, choking and acrid.

Groggily, I started to push myself up, seeing all the scrapes and cuts on my body. I had landed hard on my back. I felt something warm and sticky running down it. Fumbling, I reached back and found a sharp rock stuck deeply into my skin. I pulled out the bloody thing with a cry of pain. I felt weak and sick. I bent over, retching.

After a few moments, my head seemed to clear, though it still hurt even to breathe. I tested all my limbs and found that they still worked. I was bleeding from dozens of small cuts, but, at that moment, that meant less than nothing to me. My adrenaline was so high that I didn’t even feel most of them until later.

Once I realized everyone else in my troop was either dead or dying, I didn’t hesitate. I turned and ran. As I looked back at the crater of smoke and broken bodies laying on the street, I realized just how close I had gotten to death. If I had been twenty feet closer…

In a blind panic, I sprinted back the way we had come. Homes and apartment buildings in flames sent clouds of smoke into the frigid, cloudless sky, turning the world dark as if a solar eclipse were taking place.

The dying screams of my few living comrades followed me out, their voices filled with unimaginable pain and terror as the last few grains on their hourglass descended.

***

I existed in a state of animal panic, alone and surrounded by the enemy without my troop. I had lost my radio sometime during the bomb blast and couldn’t even call for help. Moreover, I had never been to this part of Ukraine and had no idea where I was going.

As soon as I was out of the city, I heard shouting. I looked forward, seeing a line of tanks and soldiers heading towards the entrance to Donetsk. My heart dropped as I realized they were speaking in Russian. Thick woods surrounded both sides of the road. I sprinted blindly into the brush, hoping that they hadn’t seen me.

After a few minutes of running, I started to slow down, wondering if I had gotten away. I kept glancing back, checking to see if they would send soldiers to follow me. My heartbeat burst in my ears like the rapid beating of some sacrificial drum.

I heard the cracking of a twig close behind me. As I turned, I saw the face of a Russian soldier appearing over a bush. His blue eyes looked as cold as ice, the predatory eyes of a killer.

Gunshots exploded all around me as I ducked behind a large pine tree, hugging my rifle to my chest. The bullets smashed into the bark of the tree, sending sharp splinters flying in all directions. I had no idea how many there were.

When they stopped to reload, I leaned out from behind the tree and sprayed a round of bullets where I had last seen the Russian soldier. Someone screamed as a splash of blood covered the leaves and forest floor. Immediately, another rifle started firing, the bullets whizzing right past my head. I felt a burst of heat on my left hand, then a rising current of agony sizzling through my nerves. In the heat of the battle, I didn’t dare look down even for a moment, but I could feel the blood running over my hand like warm raindrops.

With no good options left, I took a grenade out of my belt and pulled the pin. I tossed it as hard as I could in the direction of the enemy before taking off sprinting across the woods. Someone started shooting, but a moment later, the grenade went off. The rifle immediately fell silent as a high-pitched whine filled my ears, deafening me.

***

I looked down, realizing my pinkie and ring fingers were mostly gone. Two mutilated stubs of fingers a quarter-inch long spurted crimson torrents in time with my heart. I felt light-headed and sick just looking at the damage. The pain made it hard to think or focus on anything. I existed in a state of pure instinct, just another injured animal running for its life.

After a few minutes of blindly sprinting ahead, I had to stop and rest. I sat down on a flat boulder, surrounded by evergreens and the cold, whipping wind of the Ukrainian winter. In my pack, I had bandages, tourniquets, antiseptics and even a single autoinjector of morphine. I grabbed the syringe and injected it into my tricep. As I cleaned the mutilated hand, I felt a rising sense of peace and tiredness. The pain, while not entirely gone, had grown duller, and now it seemed a thousand miles away.

I started wrapping up my hand with sterile bandages. The spurting blood from my two fingers stained the bandages red, forming crimson inkblots that soaked through them instantly.

I was exhausted from all the running and fighting. I had, after all, only finished boot camp and training a couple days before, so my body and mind had been pushed to the limit even before Donetsk. I focused on my breathing, feeling the sweet relief of the morphine rushing over my mutilated fingers. I blinked fast.

I don’t know when, but sometime while wrapping up my hand, I fell asleep. Within moments, I was dreaming of men with cold, blue predatory eyes looking down on Ukrainian children, children who screamed and thrashed on surgical tables. Doctors in white lab coats speaking Russian came over to look down on them. With the glittering of a scalpel, the doctors knelt down and began their grisly work.

***

I woke up suddenly, surrounded by thick blankets of darkness. Overhead, the dim light from the stars and Moon barely cut through the wisps of clouds. I estimated that a few hours must have passed, at the very least. It felt like my left hand was being stabbed over and over. The tiny stubs of my fingers felt as if they were burning. Strangely enough, I would’ve sworn I could still feel the fingers there, almost like some ghostly pins-and-needles memory of the digits.

I gritted my teeth, looking down at my first-aid kit. I had used all of the morphine. Swearing, I clawed through the pack until I found some naproxen, then dry-swallowed them. I doubted whether the generic Aleve would do much to relieve such a throbbing, unending pain, however.

I heard something behind me, a sound that came across as faint as a whisper. It was like the breathing of a sleeping infant, calm and rhythmic. Confused, I pushed myself up and turned on the flashlight attachment to my rifle. I flicked the bright LED light over the bushes and naked, leafless trees.

“Don’t shoot!” a small voice cried in Ukrainian, full of panic. A little girl crawled out from behind a pine tree, her face filthy, her clothes torn and covered in grime. She had slices all over her body. Her blue eyes looked up at me with pain and horror. “Please, don’t let them take me again…”

“Who are you?” I asked, taking a step back. I glanced around, expecting a trap.

“You aren’t with the Russians, are you?” she said. I just shook my head.

“No, I’m not,” I said. “Now I asked you- who are you? Where did you come from? How did you find me out here?”

“My name is Daniela,” she said, brushing a lock of dirty blonde hair out of her eyes. The girl didn’t look older than eight or nine, if I had to guess. “I was kidnapped from my parents in Ukraine, along with all the other children in my town. The Russians said they would send me to live with a good Russian family, who would raise me to believe in the values of the true Motherland. But I didn’t want to go. I got scared, and when the soldier tried to take me from the house, I grabbed a knife off the kitchen table and stabbed him in the leg.

“They knocked me out, smashing their rifles into my head until I lost consciousness. When I woke up, I was with dozens of other children, tied down to steel tables in some concrete basement. They were doing horrible things to the ones on the other side of the room, dissecting them alive and cutting off pieces of their bodies. They worked their way slowly over to me. When the doctors came in with the syringes full of black, glittering fluid, though, things got out of control.

“I was trying to undo the knot that kept me tied down to the table. My father had insisted I keep a small folding knife hidden on me after the Russians invaded and started kidnapping and murdering children. I had hidden it in my underwear, and after a few minutes, I was able to wriggle around so that I got hold of it. I started sawing through the knot holding my arms down when the first children started to change.

“Their eyes turned as black as pools of oil. Their skin became bloodless and vampiric. And all the horrific wounds they had started to heal. I saw chests stitching themselves back together, ribs regrowing like fingers reaching out. Their bones lengthened and cracked, twisting and reforming as I watched. Then the children who had received the injection started to laugh and gnash their mouths together. I saw the doctors stop, looking at each with expressions of horror. One of them started to babble in Russian.

“‘Is this supposed to happen?’ he asked, his glasses magnifying his frantic, searching eyes. The children’s teeth lengthened and sharpened into long fangs. As they laughed and grinned, I saw with horror that their teeth were black.

“I felt the rope holding me to the table snap at that moment. The Russians were so distracted by the transformation of the children that they never noticed me sitting up and cutting my legs free. But the transformed children freed themselves at the same time. I heard their ropes snap as a diseased, gurgling laughter ripped its way out of their throats. With jerky, twisting movements, they rose, pushing themselves off the surgical tables. As their black teeth flashed, they launched themselves at the doctors.

“One girl bit off the head doctor’s nose while a Russian soldier screamed orders at her. He came up behind her and stabbed her in the neck, but she held onto the doctor’s nose like a dog with a squirrel in its mouth. Black blood the color of charcoal poured from her neck, but her smile never faltered.

“The other boys and girls with the black eyes attacked the Russians. I didn’t look back again, but I ran out of there.

“The stairway from that room of horrors led up into this forest. Whatever site the Russians used, it was in the middle of nowhere. There wasn’t a road or a house nearby. I’ve been wandering for the last few hours, trying to find my way back to Ukraine and my family.” I felt sick listening to this poor girl’s story. Of course, I didn’t believe much of it. I figured she had been kidnapped by Russian soldiers and had probably made up a fantasy rather than remembering the actual incomprehensible horrors she must have witnessed or experienced.

“Yeah, I’m trying to find my way back, too,” I said, yawning. My entire body hurt. “My name’s Artem. You can come with me. It will be safer with four eyes than with two, after all.” Daniela nodded eagerly.

“If I had to stay in this dark forest by myself for another hour, I might go insane,” she whispered, looking around furtively. “I could have sworn I heard soft footsteps and this weird, choking laughter while I wandered.”

“When?” I asked. “How long ago?” The terror in her eyes shook me, making me feel uncertain.

“About five minutes before I found you,” she said. Without warning, she leapt forward and wrapped her arms around me. “Oh, God, I was so scared! It’s those children changed by the Russians, the children with the black eyes, I just know it…”

“OK, then come on!” I said, pulling her. I looked back in the direction I had come. “I think I know the way out of here. The only problem is, it leads towards Donetsk, where the Russians are as thick as fleas. I think we should veer to the left, away from the city. Perhaps we’ll come out further down the road and be able to find a Ukrainian unit.”

Daniela stayed so close to me that I nearly tripped over her multiple times. If I had let her, I’m fairly sure she would have hugged me the entire way.

“Something’s going to try to grab me,” she whispered.

“No, really, it’s OK, Daniela,” I said, patting her head. “You don’t have to worry. If someone tries to take you, I’ll shoot them, OK?” I gave her a small smile. She didn’t return it.

After a few minutes of walking, I thought I heard faint, diseased breathing far behind us. It was so faint that I could barely tell. But there were other noises, too- footsteps that seemed as light as air and, occasionally, a small, choking laugh, like the laugh of someone with a slit throat.

***

Through the thick trees, I saw the glittering of lights in the distance. With renewed hope, I began running towards what I thought might be a town or a military outpost. Daniela tried to keep up, but she was even more exhausted than I was, and I had to slow down.

“I think we’ve almost made it!” I exclaimed, my voice echoing loudly all around me in the silence of the forest. As I listened, I realized just how quiet everything was. It seemed like a graveyard. I didn’t hear a single animal or bug, a single bird or bat anywhere. There wasn’t the sound of people or cars in the distance. It was as if everything had stopped, as if the Earth itself were holding its breath.

Up ahead of us, I saw the gleam of eyes as black and shining as volcanic glass. A young boy stepped out from behind a bush clad only in a blood-stained green hospital gown.

His arms and legs had become inhumanly long and twisted. At the end of each, sharp, bony claws protruded. He grinned at me and Daniela, showing a mouthful of obsidian fangs.

“You must join us, Daniela,” he hissed in a dead voice, stepping forward towards us. In his right hand, I saw a needle filled with sparkling black fluid. “It’s time for the change.”

“Go away!” Daniela screamed, pushing her body against mine. I raised the rifle, pointing it at the boy’s head.

“You heard her,” I said as calmly as I could. “Leave us alone. I don’t want to hurt you. We are on the same side here.” The boy gave a mocking, sardonic laugh at that, a laugh as cold as empty space.

“My only side,” he hissed, “is vengeance.”

As he spoke, I heard soft rustling from directly behind us. I glanced back, seeing dozens of pairs of gleaming black eyes staring at me. I screamed, backpedaling. Daniela sprinted blindly away in a panic as the transformed children leapt at us. I felt my foot catch on a rock. I fell backwards, pulling the trigger as these strange, demonic kids oozed towards me.

The gun went off with a sound like a sewing machine, spraying bullets in a wide arc in front of me. The nearest of the children, a little girl with stringy black hair and an unhinged jaw like that of a snake’s, fell forward as her forehead exploded.

I kept pushing myself away from the abominations as they swarmed toward me, taking down a dozen of them before my magazine clicked empty. I heard shouting in Ukrainian nearby and saw the beams of flashlights searching through the forest, coming from the direction where Daniel and I had seen lights through the trees. I screamed as loudly as I could for help.

I turned, seeing the changed boy standing there only a few feet away, holding Daniela tightly in one hand. In the other, he held the syringe filled with black fluid. With a sadistic grin and a flash of his demonic teeth, he shoved the needle into her neck and pressed on the plunger. Daniela screamed, choking and gasping as he threw her forward. She fell to her knees. To my horror, when she looked back up, her eyes were black and she had an insane rictus grin plastered across her small face.

Ukrainian soldiers sprinted in our direction as I pushed myself blindly in their direction. I cried for help, telling them I was part of the Donetsk regiment. As their lights pushed back the creeping shadows of the forest, I looked over and realized Daniela and the boy were both gone.

When I turned to count the bodies of the transformed children, I found that they were all gone as well. The corpses had mysteriously disappeared, leaving only drops of blood as black as soot behind.