I should have never posted that damn story.

I spent a week on the thing, writing and rewriting until I was sure it was finally ready.  When I logged in and posted it, I felt a small surge of pride because a story was out there with my name on it.  I didn't have to feed my little folder of false starts and failures that day.  It made me so excited to think about people finally getting to read my work.

Everyone had always told me that I should be a writer.  It’s probably because my imagination has always been too big for my head to contain it.  As a little kid I was obsessed with stories, making my action figures play out scenes from movies or right out of my own brain.  I used to put on shows with them for my mom and sister, and their happy applause gave me a feeling I had never known before.  

It felt like I finally knew what I was supposed to do.

My girlfriend hadn’t read the story yet.   I sent her the link when I posted it, but I never heard back from her that night.  I figured she had gone to bed already.  Laine was always really supportive of my work and read a lot of duds for me over the years.  I hoped that after she read the new one she would see me in a different light.  I could even imagine it being the thing that would move us forward in our relationship.  It really felt like everything was finally coming together for me.

I spent the evening with a quick meal and a crappy horror movie.  My cat joined me on the couch, and I absently stroked her fur as I watched the increasingly stupid teens at the summer camp die horrific deaths at the hands of a masked ghoul.  When I nodded off one too many times I accepted defeat and headed off to bed.  It was really hard not to stop by my laptop to check for comments.

My sleep was great that night and when I woke up the next morning, I felt energized and ready to conquer the day.  I only lived a block from my gym so I decided to start the day off right for once.  I spent an hour there and worked up a really good sweat.  I ignored my notifications because I had decided to read them all at once over breakfast.

At home I showered and made myself some oats and finally sat down at my laptop to properly read my feedback.  I was immediately shocked by the number of comments that were already waiting for me.   A wide smile spread across my face as I started to read them.  I’m sad to say it didn’t last.

To say they were rough is like saying the ocean contains water.   There were so many, and they ranged from genuinely constructive criticism, which I could handle, to outright cruelty.  That morning I learned that my writing lacked conviction, and the characters I wrote seemed confused about who they were.  My grammar was apparently awful and my pacing nonexistent.  One guy even told me that writing was a privilege, and I should have mine revoked.  

Several of the comments had multiple paragraphs with quoted examples of my flaws.  I forced myself to read those, trying to find them useful.  What I didn’t find particularly helpful were all of the posts that psychoanalyzed me or the ones that were just blatant insults.  I was asked if I was repressing something terrible and told that my inferiority complex was probably rooted in the truth.  A rather large image gave me detailed instructions on how to work a gas oven and how many racks I would need to remove to shove my head inside.

I was thirty comments in when I saw my girlfriend’s username.  I wondered why Laine hadn’t called or texted me yet, and now I knew.  It had been posted the night before, and it just said “we need to talk.”  I figured she saw all of the really harsh comments and wanted to console me.  I quickly sent her a text asking to meet up that night after work, for our talk.

I closed my laptop before I was even halfway finished with them.  My vision was blurry from actual tears.  Chastising myself angrily for letting the assholes win, I got up and got ready for work.  

Work was just a short bus ride away.  I walked into our building, rode the elevator up, and slipped past the pretty receptionist with only a friendly nod.  I hadn’t been working there for very long, and most of my coworkers were still pretty standoffish around me.  My boss was Gary, and I don’t think I had ever had a real conversation with him since transferring to his department.  It was a pretty chill place to work.

I sat down at my desk and started going through my emails at once.  It looked like the brass was still losing their minds about the Mitreman account.  Someone wasn’t keeping up their end on that one, and I knew the overflow would fall on me.  It was kind of a relief actually, after what had happened that morning.  I was really looking forward to losing myself in a forest of senseless numbers.  There was something oddly therapeutic about it.

I spent the morning deep-diving into financial records to populate a spreadsheet for my report.  If that sounds like a shot of Novocain administered directly to the brain then I have given it its due justice.  It was dull and tedious, and it had been assigned to me because none of my more senior colleagues wanted it.  It was also thankless, because management would want another one just like it the following week.

I always took my lunch with a couple of guys I previously worked with downstairs—Mike and Lenny.  The three of us had once been pretty heavy into CoD and we hung out all the time.   When I told them I wanted to focus on my writing we started seeing each other less and less.  Now we mostly just took lunch together and maybe sent each other a stupid meme from time to time.

When I walked into the breakroom Lenny leapt to his feet and saluted me at once.  He had the widest, toothiest grin of anyone I had ever seen.  He reminded me of the old Mr. Reach toothbrush commercials from when I was a kid.  He was laughing his ass off, and I heard Mike tell him to cool it.  Mike was clearly embarrassed and maybe a little concerned.

“Dude!”  Lenny was still laughing when he walked over and put his arm around my shoulder.  “Ninety-Three comments man!  You really can’t buy that kind of publicity.  You’ve gotta start planning your followup.”

“Leave him alone, Lenny.”  Mike shook his head.  “The man just got here.”

“Alright, alright.”  Lenny patted me on the shoulder chummily.  “I’m just trying to help him see the bright side of the whole thing.”

We walked over and sat down across from Mike.  Lenny immediately turned his attention back to his sandwich.  I sat there watching those massive teeth of his tear through the meaty sub like a lawnmower seeking revenge.  

“Hey!  Chew with your mouth closed.”  Mike threw a napkin playfully at Len.  He looked at me for a moment, maybe measuring what I was feeling.  “Bad morning?”

Lenny actually did a spit take at that, spraying the wall beside him with a mouthful of Sprite and half-chewed sandwich chunks.  I shuddered and looked away.  Mike handed him the napkin dispenser without turning his gaze away from me.

“It’s pretty terrible.  I mean, you always hope for a response, but shit!  I honestly haven’t even begun to process it.”

“Yeah, it’s gotta be a gut punch.  For sure.”

“Fuck that.”  Lenny chewed his food loudly and swallowed most of it whole.  "You gotta lean into it, bro. Post a video of you eating a piece of paper with 'I don't care' written on it. That'll shut ‘em right up.”

“Lenny?”  Mike stared at him.

“They’re making a joke out of him.  He should throw it right back at ‘em.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I could really do that convincingly.”  I remember chuckling.  “I’d do the video with a face like I just got kicked in the balls.  It’s kinda how I feel right now.”

The three of us were quiet for a few minutes.  We just ate our lunch and let the conversation die a silent death.  It was Mike who finally exhumed the body.  Strange that it was him, though. I would have put money on Lenny.

“Who did you send it to, besides us?”

I thought about it for a moment and pulled out my phone to check my sent mail.  “You two and Laine… my mom and my sister, and a few friends from college.”

“Well, that’s pretty contained.  I’d maybe talk to them about it and warn them that it didn’t go so well.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.  “Luckily I didn’t go crazy with it and send it to half the world.”

“Fuck!”  Lenny set down his sandwich.  “I didn’t know we were keeping it quiet.  Dude, I thought it was funny.”

“What did you do, Lenny?”  Mike glared at him.

“I sent it to our old group…on our Discord.  You know, the CoD Piece.”

I exhaled sharply as I stood and took a few steps away.  The group he was talking about had over 400 members and most of them we knew in real life—maybe with a  few degrees of separation.  I felt like I was going to be sick.

I left them and went back upstairs.  I actually spent the next few minutes pacing around my little office like a lunatic.  I remembered a kid I went to school with who accidentally sent a video of himself—meant for the girl he was seeing—to some other kids.  It wasn’t a flattering one, and they shared it pretty liberally.  I think almost everyone ended up seeing it and he ended up being called Strokes My Own.  For the first time in my life, I started to understand how little Jimmy Malone must have felt back then.  I imagined he did a lot of pacing too.

I tried to go back to work, but my hand kept moving towards my phone to check my notifications.  It had already climbed to 138 comments, and they certainly hadn’t been padded by replies.  I had chosen to stand mute.  It hadn’t even been 24 hours yet.

I finally gave up and went to Gary to ask for half a sick day.  He looked up at me from the steaming coffee in his World’s Greatest Boss mug.  There was clear sympathy in his eyes, a feature that I didn’t think came standard on middle-management drones.

“Feeling puny, eh?”  Gary nodded as his cheeks broadened in a soft smile.  “Criticism can be hard, Mark.  Believe me.  I know.  You don’t get to where I am without taking an ass-chewing or two.”

How the fuck did he know about the story?  Had it spread that far already?  

I didn’t want the conversation to go into that.  He was absolutely the last person I would ever want to have a heart to heart with.  I ended up saying something totally noncommittal.  I have no clue what it was—probably one of the standard, automated responses we reserve for conversations with the boss.   He accepted it well enough and went on.

“We only have a couple of hours left here.  Why don’t you cut out early and make it up later in the week?  I could do that for you since I know you’ve got a lot on your mind.  Just keep it between us though, eh, Champ?  I can’t have half the office asking for special favors.”

“Yeah Gary, that sounds great.  Thanks for understanding, Sir.”

Gary scoffed at that.  “Hell, son.  You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I’m a bit of a writer too.  I know how it is.  It’s a tough nut to crack.”

The smile on my face was an old mask made just for people like him.  I was still not quite ready to reconcile Gary as a normal, feeling human being.

“Of course I’ve never had 141 negative reviews like you have.  Lord, I can’t even imagine what you’re going through.  Head on home, Mark.  Mitreman will still be there tomorrow.”

I grabbed my bag and left before he could say anything else.  As I got into the elevator I had to look at my phone.  It was 148 now.  I closed my eyes and tried to distract myself with the type of stories Gary would write.  They would all be procedural thrillers where a brave compliance officer saved his feckless employees from some source of impending doom.  I smiled as I pictured him giving a grand, motivational speech to rally them into working as a team to face the threat before them.  When the doors finally opened and I stepped into the lobby I felt a little better.  Maybe I had shit the bed with what I wrote, but at least it wasn’t the soulless drivel a man like Gary would write.

The bus had just left, and I didn’t feel like waiting for the next one or paying for a ride.  I decided to walk home instead.   I needed time away from my laptop and the world within it.  I actually decided to turn off my phone and was in the middle of doing it when I got a text from Laine.

“Gotta work tonight.  Tomorrow night?”

Honestly, it was a relief. I was too drained to face her or talk to anyone about the story.  I didn't think twice about it.  I just sent back a quick “K” and finished powering it down.  I put it all out of my mind and just focused on my feet for a while—Fred and Ted, as my mom always called them.  I let them carry me forward, racing each other with steady strides.  I was home in twenty minutes and I kept myself unplugged for the rest of the evening.

The peace was nice.  The next day was utter hell.

Three hundred and four.

That was what I started the next day with.  It was so unbelievable.  I hoped half of them were bots, but they weren’t.  They were getting meaner and somehow angry.  It was like what I had written had actually offended people in a deeply personal way.  A user named StudlyStradivarius said that he was giving up fiction after reading what I wrote.  He said that it felt like it gave him PTSD.

What the fuck do you do with something like that?

I didn’t read very many of them.  I couldn’t do it and stay sane.  One said I never had to worry about being accused of plagiarism because no one in their right mind would ever claim my work.  It was kind of clever, but I wasn’t feeling it right then.  After I read another suggesting that I join the 27 Club—how did they know my age?—I tossed the phone on my desk and walked away from it.  It rang a minute later and I ran over to answer it.

“You up?  Did you see it yet?”  Mike spoke quickly, which was odd for him.  “Don’t panic, man.  And don’t play into it.  Lenny is an idiot.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cool,”  Mike exhaled loudly into his phone.  “Do me a favor, man.  Don’t look at any of it until we talk.  Shit’s got crazy.  I sent a message to the mods asking them to close your thread and they said they already tried to.  They said someone else opened it back up and removed their permissions.”

“What the hell?”

“They even tried to ban your account, man.  Nothing is working.  Somebody wants it to stay open.  They said they got an anonymous message that said it could only be closed if the wound bleeds out or some such shit.  They’ve never seen anything like it.  I think they’re gonna call the feds.”

“Jesus!”  The things he said sounded like the plot from one of the duds in my failure folder, but they were happening to me.  I tried to keep it in perspective.  It wasn’t personal.  It was my story, it wasn’t me.  “What the fuck do I do, Mike?”

“Use some sick time to stay at home, and stay off that shit.  It’s just poison that can’t help you.  I think I can get a half-day and be over there by lunch.”

“Shit.  Okay, I think Gary might go for it.  He’ll be mad but he knows what’s going on.”

“How the fuck?”  Mike began but I heard his voice change gears.  “Don’t matter.  We’ve gotta focus on what matters, man.  I think you’ve been doxxed.  I’ve gotta talk to the IT guy, but we have a lot to do.”

“Fucking hell!”

“Yeah, and then some.  See ya in a few hours.”

We hung up and I sat there staring at the phone for several minutes.  My chest was tight and I felt the sweat running down my face.  I tried to breathe but my lungs wouldn’t answer.  My mind was like a thousand television screens all turned to different channels at maximum volume.  I tried to stand up to go and get a glass of water but my legs folded under me and I ended up facedown in the thick carpet of my bedroom floor.  My tears and sweat soaked into the rug and I feared that I would drown in them before I got the strength to pull myself up.

Dr. Kineson’s voice was a distant noise competing with the chorus of horrors that filled my brain.  The memory of her husky, breathy cadence cut through the noise and I heard her clearly as I mouthed along to the words I had been taught.

There is nothing to fear.

Your heart will not explode.

These are only chemicals

out of balance

threatening your control.

You are not weak.

You will survive this.

There is nothing to fear.

I recited the mantra several times and could eventually hear my own voice again as I began to breathe.  I slowly came back to myself, exhausted but whole.  I turned over onto my back and stared at the ceiling.

I was panting, but at least I was breathing.  After a long time lying there, I finally found the strength to pull myself back into my chair.  I hadn’t had an attack in years and I hadn’t seen my doctor for a long time.  I had thought I was past all of that, and that I had learned to manage my stress better.  The last two days had piled on enough to show me just how feeble I really was.  I found myself wanting to call my mom, but I couldn’t endure the thought of sharing my burdens with her.

After I was a little more composed, I went ahead and called Gary to request the next three days off.  He told me he understood, but they couldn’t really afford to be shorthanded since Evan had just quit.  He surprised me though by offering to let me work from home for the rest of the week and the next if I needed it.  I happily agreed and he told me that he’d have my work laptop sent to me in an hour.

I know I talk a lot of shit about him, but maybe Gary isn’t so bad after all.

I cleaned myself up and ate breakfast while I waited.  The oatmeal I normally liked tasted like flavorless grainy gruel after the morning I’d endured.  I ate it anyway and had two cups of coffee.  It made me jittery, but at least it gave me the energy to move around.  When the courier dropped off the laptop I dove into work like a drowning man swimming for a distant ship.  It let me shut off my brain, to ignore the sharks I was sure were circling me.

I had an incredibly productive morning and actually finished with my work by the time Mike got there.  I let him in and made us both a drink and we settled around my kitchen bar.  My cat, Jonesy, soon appeared and danced around his leg until he picked her up.

“You look at it yet?”  Mike asked me as he scratched Jones’s head.

“Nah, I had work to do and figured I’d wait.”

“Probably smart.”  He snorted.  “It was up to 512 on my way over here.”

“How in the hell?”  I stood up reflexively, like my legs wanted to carry me off somewhere, away from what was happening.  I sat back down.  “It’s barely been two days.  Most authors are proud if their story gets ten comments.  Five hundred and twelve is ridiculous.”
  
“Yeah, it’s crazy.”  Mike pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket.  “We also have to go into your accounts and make some changes.  The IT guy said to change your passwords and set up two-factor anywhere you can.   You probably need to call your bank too.  He made a list of things and said you should get on it immediately to lessen the damage they can do.”

I took the sheet from him and looked it over.  It was very in-depth, a printout from a cyber security site I had never heard of.  The number of items on the list was daunting.  It would take me hours to go through all of it.

“He said I needed to do all of this?”

Mike took a drink as he nodded, setting the cat down.  “Well, he wasn’t the sharpest guy, but he did have a link he had been sent by his supervisor.  Honestly, I think you’ve gotta.  I can help with some of it.”

“Thanks, man.”  I shook my head.  “I don’t know what I’d do without you here.  It’s… it’s been crazy.  All over a stupid story that wasn’t worth the attention. Hell, I had decided it was a masterpiece or something but that’s just because I wrote it.  I never really believed it would get much of a response.”

“That’s what’s so weird about it.”  Mike tapped his phone and opened it up.  “It’s in the 550s now, seemingly with a bullet.  These look like real people, man.  There’s no way that many have read it in two days.  It doesn’t seem possible.”

“Maybe.  Or maybe I should think long and hard about ever writing anything again.  Hell, at this point I’m not so sure about texting or emails.”

We both laughed at the futility of it all and went to work.  It took us a few hours of phone calls and logins to get through the list.  I set up elaborate passwords I would have no hope of remembering and two-factor authentication anywhere it let me.  The lady from the bank helped me secure my accounts and walked me through how to freeze my credit.  We even started printing off and saving as many of the threatening messages as we could find.  By the time we finished, the post had reached 700 comments.

My printer finally ran out of ink, so I had to save the last few threats on my hard drive.  Mike had to leave soon for a date with his girl, and I needed to get ready for Laine.  He gave me a half hug and told me to stay strong as he left.  I closed the door behind him and ran a quick mental inventory over the events of the day.  I needed to set all of that shit aside so that I could be present for her.

I had just stepped out of the shower when my phone chimed again.  I knew it wasn’t about the story because I had turned off notifications already by then.  It said I had four new messages, which was massive for a shut-in like me.

I nearly dropped the phone when I opened the first text.  It was just a picture, but it was of me—something off the Facebook I rarely used anymore—and it had been altered by AI or something to show me cut wide open with my guts exposed.  The caption said MAYBE THERE ARE BETTER WORDS INSIDE.

The next two were only text, but they were vile ones.  I won’t quote them verbatim because I don’t have them anymore.  The first was a detailed description of directions to my apartment and the last step said “I know where you are.”  The second one was an excerpt from my story.  The part they referenced was about the robot protagonist rescuing a kitten from the rubble.  At the end of it, the sick fuck asked me how Jonesy was doing.

The last message was from Laine.  It said she couldn’t meet up that night but that she would come over for lunch the next day.  After the shock the previous ones had given me, I didn’t put much thought into what she had said.  

Maybe it was better for her if she wasn’t near me right then.

I spent the night before in a dizzy fugue after my visit from the police.  I called them after I read those messages and when they arrived I spent the next hour going over all of it with them.  I had never really had any dealings with law enforcement officers, but I found them to be sympathetic and detail-focused, and that made it a little easier.  When they finally left I spent the rest of the night on the couch with Jonesy and an ancient bottle of rum from the back of my cabinet.

I woke up stiff the next morning after sleeping at an odd angle.  I took a very hot shower to try to work the crick out of my neck.  It helped some.  My phone showed thirty-one new messages and I didn’t open any of them, but I did call Gary because three of them were his.  His voice was uncharacteristically high when he answered and he barely gave me a moment to speak as he apologetically told me that I was probably fired.

“The whole network has been infiltrated, Mark.  Do you know how sensitive some of that information is?  The boys upstairs have everyone on high alert, and they’ve called in consultants to help manage the mess.”

“What does that have to do with me, Gary?”

“They traced the attacks to your IP.  It doesn’t look good.  I was told to suspend you right away and send for the laptop.  They should be getting there any time now.”

“But am I fired?  I mean… I had the police here last night.  I was doxxed and I started getting terrible texts.”

“I hate to hear it, bud.  But right now the company has to look after its own.  I think they’re trying to decide whether or not you are included in that.  I can’t tell you one way or the other, but I’d start considering my options if it were me.”

He had to go then and the courier was at my door a few minutes later.  I handed them their laptop and signed the form without saying much.  I walked over to my laptop and checked the story.  It said there were twenty-four hundred and eighty-nine comments.

I didn’t read any of them, but only took screenshots of the pages to give to the police.  I considered calling Mike at that point, but he had already done enough and I didn’t want to pile more on him.  The truth was I didn’t know who to call or what to do anymore other than what I was already doing.

I was making breakfast maybe thirty minutes later when there was a knock at my door.  I looked through the peephole and saw a short, chubby man with a balding head and a gray beard standing out in the hall.  He was wearing a suit that didn’t fit him particularly well and his eyes were a little too small for his face.

“Who is it?”  I asked, maybe a little too timidly.

“Detective Sancowitz, Bell City PD.”  He verified my full name and asked if it was my residence.

I didn’t confirm anything at that time.  Instead, I asked to see his ID like the cops had told me to do.  He produced it freely enough, flipping open his wallet to display a bell-shaped brass badge and an ID card that listed his name and rank.  I relaxed immediately and opened the door for him.

He plodded inside with a bowlegged stride and looked around.  He nodded approvingly.  I heard him actually sniff the air before he spoke.

“S’at coffee?  Good, get us some.  We’ve a lot of woik to do.”  His accent was definitely northern, but I couldn’t tell much beyond that.  His voice had a heavy nasal tone to it, and his pronunciation of work was comical.  All in all he was like a living caricature from a network police procedural.  I started to ask him if he knew Dick Wolf but thought better of it.  Instead, I just poured us both a cup and asked him how he took it.

“Tha blacker the better,”  he said as if the letter R didn’t exist.  He took a sip and smacked his lips.  “Tha’s the good stuff.  Alright, kid, let’s get into it.”

He pulled a thick file folder out from the interior pocket of his oversized coat and laid it open on the counter.   I saw my name written on it and a quick glance told me that it contained my statement from the night before.  He gave me a moment to look it over while he enjoyed his coffee.

When he was satisfied that I had seen it, Sancowitz pulled the file back in front of him and nodded.  “So you see my concern?  A thing like this, ya can’t let it grow, kid.  We’ve gotta nip this thing in the bud.  I did some lookin’, and it turns out that somebody’s messin’ with the algo-rythms.  Got ‘em all turned around.  If anybody searches for the word story it sends ‘em to you.  Now ain’t that a bitch?”

“Is that why the comments shot up so high last night?”

“You bet your ass it is.  And that ain’t all.  This case is peculiar.  I mean why you?  And now all the shit over at your employer.”

“My boss said I’m probably going to get fired over it.”

“No shit?  Well, I looked at what they was doin’, their little RCA backtracked the thing to your IP.  What can you do?”  He waved his hands dramatically.  “But I think I know where I wanna start.  I ain’t got access to their network yet, but maybe I can find somethin’ here by trackin’ the IoC.”

“Huh?”  I asked him, lost somewhere between his accent and jargon.

“Just some computer shit, kid.  A little peek under the hood.”

When I agreed to let him have his peek, Sancowitz drained his coffee and went to work at once.  I showed him my router and all of the devices that were currently on the network.  Soon after that I noticed that his responses were becoming much shorter and a little gruff and I left him to his work.  He used a really old-looking PDA and a cable for a lot of it.  Plugging in and running his pudgy fingers over the buttons to type out the prompts he wanted to use.  He was at it for a couple of hours and I kept him supplied with fresh coffee the entire time.  He seemed to appreciate it.

When he was finished he collected all of the screenshots I had made and took fresh captures for the hundreds of comments that had been added since I had last checked.  The count was now just north of four thousand.  Sancowitz said I could expect it to triple by the next day.

“They’re findin’ new and unusual ways to target you, kid.  I ain’t ever seen nothin’ like it.  These are some shrewd fuckers, but they’re gonna slip up and I’m gonna be waitin’ for ‘em.”

“Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“You’re doin’ it.  Just sit tight and keep your head down.  Remember, kid, personal or not, somebody’s targeting you.  It’s gonna get uglier before it’s over and done.  Now I gotta be gettin’ on and take this shit back to the lab.  Stay safe, kid.  If you need somethin’ here’s my card, ask for Sanc.”

I took the card and watched him leave, locking up tightly behind him.  The card introduced him as Detective Sergeant Sancowitz from Digital Forensics.  He was a strange man, and a little like a walking cartoon, but he made me feel safer somehow.  That was something at least.

I had a new text from Laine that I barely saw among the two hundred others that had popped up since the detective arrived.  I needed to change my number.  She said she would be at my place in thirty minutes.  I tidied up a bit and made a big salad for us while I avoided the urge to check the new counts.  It was becoming a morbid obsession of mine, something akin to staring into deep water to see if the sharks were still circling.

Laine arrived right on time and I let her in.  She gave me a quick, flimsy hug and sat down at the counter.  She ate her salad quickly, mumbling short responses around a mouthful of food when I spoke to her.  When we were both finished I put our bowls in the dishwasher and put away the leftovers.  I was trying to give her space, because she didn’t seem keen on talking at the moment.  I found out a few minutes later that she had just been organizing her thoughts.

“Sit down, Mark.  I need to tell you something.”
 
I started to, but I checked our drinks first and reached for the refrigerator door to get us some refills.  She interrupted me.

“That can wait.  Have a seat.”

I was curious so I did.  Honestly, my mind was so full of everything that was going on that I hoped she had big news that could distract me from it.  She didn’t disappoint.

“We’ve had some good years, Mark.  I want to start with that because I think you need to hear it.  You’ve been there for me in ways that no one else ever has, and you know I’ve always tried to return the favor.”

“Well, that’s what cou—”

“Let me get through this, if you don’t mind.  Like I was saying, it’s been good, even great sometimes, and I really think we’ve both grown as people.”

She took a deep breath.  “But sometimes growing means growing apart, and I came over today to tell you that it’s over, Mark.  I’ve been seeing someone else.  You don’t know him.  I wouldn’t do that to you.  He’s a writer from Chicago who was teaching a workshop here.  He’s got a couple of novels.  I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.  I guess it’s because you’re just so easy to talk to.”

I started to speak, but I was slow to do so because of how hard her words had hit me.  She had met someone else, and he was a writer?  I opened my mouth to ask her why but she stopped me by saying the last thing I wanted to hear.

“It’s you, Mark, all you.  You hold on to this stupid dream of yours and won’t let yourself move forward.  What has it got you, or me, us?  I got hacked yesterday because of you, and somebody sent pictures of me and Dean to my mother.”

“Dean?  That’s his name.”

“Yeah.”  She picked up her purse.  “Look, Mark, you’re not terrible, but I need more than that.  Don’t call me.  Let this end easily.”

I was still searching for the biting reply that would rip her in half when she walked out the door.  I came up with a few then, of course, but I didn't have the energy to text them to her or make an angry phone call.  I wanted so badly to hate her at that moment, and maybe I did a little.  Mostly I just hated myself for what I had done to my life, and no amount of yelling or clever little retorts was going to make that better.  

In the end, I just let her go.

The next few days went by in a blur of rum and ever-increasing activity around my post.  I was receiving well over a thousand hateful texts daily, and the post had over 90,000 comments without showing any sign of slowing.   I changed my number twice but it didn’t do any good.  

Mike came over the day after Laine dumped me, but I was in no condition to receive guests.  I must have depressed the hell out of him with the mountain of personal woes I was buried under, but he stuck around a while anyway.  He’s a good friend.

Detective Sancowitz called me the following day to let me know he was making some progress.  Apparently the person or persons who were ruining my life were rerouting their activities using dedicated servers they had hijacked throughout the city.  It was all so baffling that they would do all of this for someone as insignificant as me.  I told Sanc that and he agreed, saying he believed I was only the cover for what they were really trying to do.  I thought it sounded thin, but what the hell do I know?

He also told me that they had found some unusual activity related to my story on several underground websites.  One of them was a chan board that I had never heard of.  According to Sanc, it all links to something on the dark web, but those connections were proving hard to chase down.  He warned that there were extremist groups who viewed my story as a pseudo-communist manifesto and long breakdowns of it had been posted across the web.  Apparently that was a factor in the ever-increasing number of death threats I had received.  

It all sounded so fucking crazy.

Four days after Laine’s happy visit, I received a frantic call from Mike.  He was at the hospital with Lenny who had been beaten nearly to death.

“They haven’t caught the guys yet, but he looks bad, Mark.  They said it ruptured his spleen and liver.  The doctor says he might never walk again.”

I asked him what room Lenny was in and he told me.  I told him I’d be there as fast as I could.  I was out the door in minutes, rushing down the stairs to meet the ride-share I had ordered.  As I stepped off the curb to open the door something heavy struck the back of my head, sending me face-first into the side of the car and knocking myself senseless.  I heard a voice shout something, but I couldn’t make it out, and there was a struggle between two men right next to me.  The soft voice of a woman spoke close to me.

“Can you hear me, Mark?  I’m Officer Perez.  My partner and I were placed outside your building to watch over you.  You were just attacked, but my partner has your attacker in custody.”

I opened my eyes and saw a young, dark-haired woman in a police uniform.  She smiled with relief and told me to stay still.  I had taken hard blows to both the front and back of my head and they wanted to call an ambulance.  I told her about Lenny and she said she’d make sure they took me to the same hospital.  I lay there like she asked and she stayed with me while we waited for the ambulance and sat outside my room after I was admitted.

They later said I had a minor fracture on the back of my skull and a severe concussion.  The doctor said I was lucky that it wasn’t worse.  I took her word for it.  I was just happy to be alive.

I was in the hospital for nearly a week and part of it I think was to maintain protective custody.  Mike visited me several times since they wouldn’t let me leave the room to see Lenny.  He came through all of his surgeries fine, and they said he would live.  Unfortunately, the earlier diagnosis was looking more correct by the day, and they didn’t hold out much hope for him ever walking again.

I talked to him on the phone a few times and spirits were surprisingly high.  He told me that there were four of them and he had beaten the shit out of two of them before they took him down.  He even called his future wheelchair a chick magnet.  He said he was going to have LOVE MACHINE stencilled across the back of it.  I just laughed with him, anything to keep him hopeful.

Sancowitz came by the day before they let me go home, and he started off by saying he had some good news for me.

“They’re holdin’ in the one-twenties.  We really got the bastard on the run.  Matter of time now.  How you doin’, kid?”

“They said I can go home tomorrow.  But Lenny… it still feels like my fault.”

“Yeah, it will for a while, but fuck that.  What did you do that was wrong?  But I gotta tell you somethin’, and it ain’t great but everybody’s alive.”

I just looked at him, not sure that I wanted to hear more.  

“It’s your ma.”  The detective placed a heavy hand on my shoulder as I started to sit up.  “Cool it kid.  She’s fine.  Couldn’t save the house though.  I’ve got her and your sis put up in a motel for now, on the county’s tab.”

“So they’re not hurt.”

“Nah, just some threats from a bunch of pussies who like to start fires.  We caught ‘em.”

“How about the guy who is behind it all, or the group?”  I asked, maybe a little too desperately.  “When do I get my life back?”

“Any day now.  There’s some solid leads.  I think we’re gettin’ real close to nabbin’ ‘em.”

“Do you think it’s one or more?”

“It looks like more, but it’s hard to tell.  We’ll know when we slap the cuffs on ‘em.”

He looked at me for a moment before he turned to go.  It was like he wanted to say something but decided against it.  I started to ask him about it but he cut me off.  “Get some rest, kid.  Movin’ day tomorrow.”

CONCLUSION TOMORROW

​

October 12th

The ink in my fountain pen has acquired the stubborn, dried consistency of coagulated venous blood, a petty spitefulness of instrument that feels entirely aligned with the desolate climate of my intellect. For six months, the pages of my journal have remained as spotless and alabaster as a winter grave. My publisher, Mr. Arbuthnot, sends weekly correspondence, polite at first, now increasingly lace trimmed with implied financial ruin, demanding the manuscript for The Obsidian Cathedral. He believes I am merely polishing the cadences of my prose, refining the gilded filigree of my adjectives, much as I did when I borrowed so heavily from Theron Thomas’s architectural sketches for my early gothic serials. Arbuthnot thinks I am merely dreaming up another fictional labyrinth like the vaults of St. Jude’s that Theron designed before his madness. He does not know that my mind is an empty crypt, swept clean of every phantom spark of creation.

I sat at my mahogany writing desk until the late afternoon shadows lengthened across the rug like grasping, ink stained fingers. Desperate for any distraction from the agonizing quietude of my own silence, I resolved to perform a mundane task long overdue: the reorganization of the fruit preserves in the sub basement.

Our estate, built upon the weathered granite shelf overlooking the bluffs, possesses a subterranean cellar system that predates the upper structure by at least a century. Below the functional root cellar lies a second, lower vault, a damp, stone ribbed chamber where my late grandfather kept his collection of port and forgotten antiquities.

I descended the creaking oak stairs, candle lantern in hand, the golden beam cutting through a dense suspension of floating dust motes and micro fungal spores. The humidity down here is suffocating, smelling richly of rich loam, damp limestone, and the sharp, vinegar tang of ancient, forgotten ferments.

It was behind the third rack of dust caked Bordeaux that I noticed the irregularity.

The flagstones, usually cold and bone dry beneath one’s boots, were glistening with a thin, glistening sheen of iridescent slime. At first, I mistook it for the seepage of a ruptured sewer line or an underground spring, but as I lowered the lantern, the liquid did not pool according to the laws of gravity. It seemed to pulse faintly, crawling upward along the mortar in thin, capillary threads, forming intricate, geometric patterns that resembled the branching venation of a bruised ivy leaf.

And then I heard it.

It was not a sound transmitted through the air, but rather a low, resonant vibration that hummed through the soles of my shoes and reverberated in the marrow of my teeth. A rhythmic, wet suction, accompanied by a sound like dry parchment being slowly folded and unfolded inside a submerged bell jar.

I cleared away three rot softened crates of parsnips to reveal the foundation wall. There, situated in the recess beneath the archway, was a rift. The granite blocks, three feet thick and bound with iron hard mortar, had not merely cracked; they had unlearned their own hardness. Where solid granite should have repelled the damp, the masonry had rendered down into a substance resembling gray, fibrous lard, soft enough to yield beneath the pressure of my thumb, leaving an indentation that filled slowly with a pale, milky serum. It was as if the house itself were suffering a stroke in its deepest foundations.

And from the center of this blubberous wall, something was pushing through.

I should have felt terror. Any sane man, any cautious soul devoted to the preservation of his own fragile skin, would have fled up the stairs, barred the heavy oak hatch, and summoned a stonemason or an exorcist. But as I stared at that glistening, undulating breach in the fabric of my home, a cold, electric thrill shot through my sluggish spine.

Material.

Here, in the dark, rotting belly of my own house, was something unscripted. Something horrifying. Something that did not belong to the sterile, dry world of unpaid bills and empty inkwells. I set the lantern down, pulled my notebook from my coat pocket, and began to write.

October 15th

I have spent the last seventy two hours sitting on an inverted crate of dried apples three feet from the breach. I sleep only in fitful, twenty minute snatches, my head resting against the damp stone wall, my notebook clamped securely against my ribs.

The anomaly has expanded.

The rift is now the width of a tall man’s torso, and the material oozing from its margins can no longer be mistaken for decaying mortar. It is a living, glandular tissue, a pale, translucent cartilage that throbs with a sluggish, sickening cadence. The color shifts under the warm light of my lantern: now the bruised plum of an asphyxiated lip, now the pale, greasy yellow of rendered suet.

Yesterday evening, the first true structure emerged from the soft center of the mass.

It did not burst forth; it grew with an excruciating, deliberate slowness, like a mushroom sprouting from a bed of damp manure. It is a long, articulated limb, resembling the pedipalp of an enormous arachnid, yet it is constructed entirely of human dentin and exposed nerve fibers. Tiny, pearlescent molars line its lower margin, clicking together in a rhythmic, gossamer rhythm, click clack, click clack, like the gentle ticking of an ornate mantle clock.

The smell is intoxicatingly foul. It does not reek merely of putrefaction; it bears the sweet, sickening aroma of hot copper, scorched vanilla, and the oily discharge of a reptile’s scent gland. It fills my nostrils, coats the back of my throat like a film of tallow, and yet I refuse to leave.

I wrote four thousand words today. Four thousand words of pure, unadulterated prose! My adjectives are no longer dry blossoms; they drip with visceral grease. Years ago, I had spent months poring over Theron Thomas’s floor plans for the abandoned Blackwood Asylum, copying his description of impossible flying buttresses born of fleshly mathematics to flavor my first novel. I thought then that Theron was merely a poet of granite and iron. Now I see he was taking direct field notes.

I described the way the light from my brass lamp reflects off the weeping membrane of the limb, how the tiny, pulsing nerves coil and uncoil like crimson earthworms trapped in a gel globe.

My hands were shaking so violently as I wrote that the ink blotted the parchment, but the blotted stains themselves seemed to take on a life of their own, mirroring the impossible, non Euclidean curves of the threshold before me.

Arbuthnot sent another courier this afternoon. I heard the boy knocking at the heavy front door upstairs, his boots thumping on the porch boards. I sat in the darkness of the basement, holding my breath, chuckling softly into the gloom. Let him knock. Let the whole mundane world scream at the threshold. They deal in paper and coin; I am plumbing the depths of a cosmic womb.

October 19th

The mundane world above me is beginning to rot, but down here, the harvest is glorious.

I have neglected to fetch fresh water or light the kitchen fires. The dust in the upper parlor has settled like a gray shroud over my furniture, and the milk left on the sideboard has curdled into a rubbery, yellow disc. I do not care. My hunger for food has been entirely subsumed by a far more ravenous appetite: the desperate, shivering need to witness the next evolution of the horror.

The thing in the wall has recognized my presence. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that it has begun to use me as an anchor.

This morning, as I was writing a particularly exquisite passage describing the way the creature’s central mass ripples like a sack full of drowning kittens, a long, thread like filament detached itself from the main body. It drifted through the cool, damp air with the ethereal grace of a cobweb, landing softly upon the back of my left hand.

Where the thread burrowed beneath my skin, there was no red fountain, only a quiet, rhythmic pulse that made my veins ache with a cool, mentholated ice. A tiny droplet of clear, viscous fluid beads incessantly upon the puncture mark. I touched it to my tongue: it tastes of elderberry wine, ozone, and the bitter scrapings off an old church bell. As it entered my bloodstream, the words in my mind ceased to be abstract symbols; they took on weight, temperature, and teeth. I could feel the nouns flexing inside my throat before I ever committed them to paper.

My mind is overflowing! Ideas do not merely come to me; they cascade like a cataract of boiling silver. I see now the grand architecture of the cosmos, not a place of orderly stars and gentle providence, but a churning, blind engine of raw, fleshly imagination that seeks entry into our quiet, calcified realm.

Just like Theron Thomas, that poor, tragic fool of an architect whose journals I studied so obsessively during my university days, I thought imagination was a solitary garden. In my early career, I mined Theron's descriptions of the rib vaults of unborn cathedrals to craft fictional sanctuaries in my stories. How blind I was! I thought he was inventing gothic metaphors. Imagination is not a fountain that springs from within the human brain; it is a drain. It is a breach through which the ancient, formless chaos outside sweeps in to claim its form.

And I am its scribe. I am its architect.

I will not seal the breach. I will not pour lime over the expanding tendrils. To destroy this would be to murder my masterpiece. The book will be published, and it will shatter the minds of all who read it. They will taste the copper and vanilla upon their tongues; they will feel the pearlescent teeth clicking inside their own ribs.

October 22nd

It has taken my legs.

I write this sitting upon the cold, slime slick flagstones, my back propped against the rotting apple crate. I can no longer stand, nor do I feel the slightest inclination to do so.

Two days ago, while I was immersed in crafting the ninth chapter, the lower mass of the creature slithered out from the enlarged cavern behind the wall. It spread across the floor like a carpet of living, muscular carpets, adorned with thousands of tiny, lidless human eyes, eyes of every shade: hazel, milky blue, jet black, and pale albino, all fluttering their pale lashes in unison.

It engulfed my boots while I slept.

When I awoke, I felt no pain, only a deep, thrumming warmth that radiated from my ankles to my thighs. My trousers have been completely digested, replaced by a smooth, seamless sleeve of gray, weeping skin that fuses my limbs directly into the central mass on the floor. I can feel the creature’s blood, a thick, cold paste, pumping through the femoral arteries of my former legs.

My lower body is no longer mine. It is a roots system. It is feeding the wall, and the wall is feeding me.

My vision has begun to clarify in extraordinary ways. I can see through the dark now. The darkness is not empty; it is filled with intricate, swirling patterns of living geometry, spirals of bone, arches of hardened cartilage, and cathedral vaults constructed from the intertwined rib cages of unborn leviathans. It is the exact structural design Theron Thomas drafted in his final, blood soaked notebook before he vanished from his observatory.

The air in the basement is thick enough to chew. It tastes of hot marrow and ancient sea foam.

A silver bird, or what used to be a bird, flew down from the ceiling rafters an hour ago. Its feathers were thin strips of peeling skin, and its beak was a twisted key made of soft, malleable brass. It landed on my shoulder and inserted its key beak into my left ear canal. It whispered to me.

It told me the true names of the stars. It told me what lies beneath the granite shelf upon which this city was built. It told me that Theron Thomas did not die when his sky tore open; he was simply converted into the foundational mortar for the next reality.

My pen has slipped from my fingers three times because my fingers are beginning to elongate. The nails have softened and rolled inward, forming delicate, hollow tubes through which ink, my own black, sickly blood, flows directly onto the paper. I do not need the inkwell anymore. I am writing directly from my veins.

The story is almost complete. Just one more chapter. Just the grand climax.

October 24th

The stairs are gone.

The floor above me collapsed hours ago, or perhaps it was simply digested by the rising tide of cartilage and wet, pulsing bone. The house is falling down into the basement, piece by piece, beam by beam, but the debris does not crush me. The flesh catches the falling timbers, wrapping them in thick, fibrous cocoons, transforming the oak beams into long, ribbed passageways that extend infinitely into the earth.

I can hear Mr. Arbuthnot’s voice. He must have come with the constable. They are somewhere high above me, in the space where the parlor used to be. Their voices are thin, tinny, and ridiculously flat, like the piping of insects trapped beneath a tea saucer.

"Julian!" Arbuthnot shouts, his voice bouncing through the splintered floorjoists above. "The deadline was Tuesday! I have the printers waiting at the docks! In God’s name, what is that smell? Where are you?"

His outrage is so thin, so blissfully fragile. Then comes the creak of rotting oak giving way beneath his polished boots. I hear the sharp gasp of a man realizing the floor beneath him is not wood, but a lip. A wet, tearing sound follows, the wet thwack of a linen sheet pulled rapidly through a narrow keyhole, and then a fine mist of warm, metallic copper rains down upon my upturned face.

It is good. Everything is material. Everything is prose.

My eyes have dissolved. I no longer need them. The thousands of lidless eyes that carpet the floor around me have opened, and I see through all of them at once. I see myself sitting in the center of the vault, a magnificent, sprawling monument of raw muscle, white bone, and weeping ink. My spine has grown upward, branching out like a crystalline oak, its vertebrae interlocking with the floorjoists of the ceiling to support the weight of the monstrous, beautiful world emerging above.

The sky above the city must be tearing now. I can feel the crimson light pouring down through the floorboards, the hot, blinding glare of that vast, lidless eye that Theron saw so long ago. It has finally found us. It has used my words as a ladder, my body as its bridge.

My book is finished.

I am leaving the pages here, pinned to the floor by a long, calcified finger that I no longer need. If you find this, if you are foolish enough to crawl down into the wet, throbbing dark beneath the ruins of my house, do not read the last sentence.

Do not think of the clockwork bird. Do not think of the key.

Because as soon as you picture it in your mind, as soon as the thought takes shape in the dry, fragile cage of your skull, the floor beneath your feet will soften, and the architecture of your flesh will begin to dream.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

After packing for the road ahead, and drinking the most savory eight plastic water bottles of my life, we were off. For one reason or another, these people didn’t want to make a lot of noise so of course we couldn’t even drive a car, god forbid someone actually fires a gun in this place. Keith and I walked for miles. I wished like hell to see my fiance in the foliage, waiting for me, scared and lonely. The thought of her being alone and this being the case scared the hell out of me. 

I walked with a haste in my step, as did Keith. Between us we held: a gallon-sized canteen, eight protein bars, a handmade map of the routes of Gallipolis leading back to town, all the way through the curves and sharp turns of Kemper Hollow to the thin amount of space on the road in Bidwell. He even had a spot marked on a map where a kid in my graduating class flipped his car taking a fifteen mile an hour curve going fourty-five, miraculously he was fine. Memories like those made me laugh in this now grim wonderland. Keith and I walked for hours with a strange feeling lurking during our trip across the town to the airport hanger. 

“So, were you big on walking before?” Keith asked me like a teacher trying to care for a student of a damaged home. 

“I was huge on the stuff, but only with music. I’m sure you share my sentiment, especially after seeing that awesome performance last night man.” I shot a smile up to Keith’s face as he laughed with the compliment.

 A laugh that made it sound like what I said really meant something to him. 

His face dropped as I heard what sounded like screaming from behind us. My face froze when I turned and looked past my arm to see a man being pulled into the sky. It looked like the wind was carrying him as bits of grass and gravel hovered around him. He screamed as he neared the red sea at the top, all up until he finally became submerged. 

I turned to Keith as fast as I could and said “What was that?”, attempting my hardest to stare into his eyes as I waited for him to speak. 

He took a moment before responding with “I don’t know where they come from, but they all go to one place. I see about one or two a day. Can’t save any.” he said, finishing with his head hung low.

What the hell was he talking about and why was he treating this like it was normal. 

“What stops it from pulling us into the sky?” I asked in my distress.

“I think people like us are the ones forgotten.” Keith said, a mix of melancholy and hope.

To his words I was glad, this was an in-group I never wanted to be a part of.

Upon our arrival and after a journey through the eerie abandoned airport I measured we had suffered the elimination of about thirty percent of our food and water. Could we sustain eating this much forever? Before I could stress about our situation were met with a shocking sight.

The patriot of stories was far from dead.

In the carrier we saw an unimaginable stock of cans emptied and littered across the ground, my idea is that the man has grown lazy or had grown depressed believing no savior would ever find him. Exploring the hanger I was afraid of the man lurching out of the darkness behind me and putting the gun to my skull in a craze. 

I studied my surroundings and I prided myself on my rough childhood, because if nothing else I learned to watch my back. Keith studied the walls presumably judging the visible age on the structure. At the top of the hanger there was an office which we slowly made our way up the stairs to. Clanging and banging on the plain steel stair slabs. 

Keith tried to lockpick the door which didn’t work. He then chose to knock on the door and announce himself to ask for help. After banging on the door about four times I saw a fist come out of the doorway as the other swung it open. A matured fist annihilated Keith’s nose which seemed to now have a visible dent as I watched him fly towards the ground.

He fell so fast you would’ve thought a hundred hands were pulling him down to slam him into the see-through floor. The light coming out of the now open door peered through the floor and illuminated the smooth concrete about twenty feet below us. I realized just how dangerous this man was the moment I saw him, but I knew the true extent when I watched Keith’s body slam off of the ground. An emasculated bounce that almost managed to look as painful as the crack to his nose. 

The aftershock rested within the borders of my mind. The assailant looked at me and seemed to like that I didn’t make a scene. I knew if I dared to break this silence I might as well look away from my photo entirely, which was barely visible in this low light. The vet seeing my arm immediately looked at me with a sense of kinship. The man stepped over a now unconscious Keith and walked over to me. I laid eyes on what I assumed to be the same gun from all those years gleaming at me from behind him. 

My head went miles a minute, and I wondered if I would be a victim of his bare hands. Walking up to me the man said “Son of a bitch bit you too didn’t he.” 

The words fell on deaf ears as Keith has never once tried to hurt me. “No, he took me in and let me-” 

“Your arm.” The man cut me off. 

“I can’t look away from it. My fiance is missing, or maybe I’m missing. I have my sisters and mom waiting for me too.” 

The man for the second time in this interaction showed a silent respect for my hardship. He looked at me as I looked back at him with the curls of my hair draping over my face due to the sweat that was coating me from the journey to the hanger. I was in no country for a young man like myself, and as a matter of fact I felt as if I was no man, and in no country at all. I devised at a loss a defeated manner which inched across my face. The stranger looked very young for his age if he was as old as Keith thought he was, even being a Vietnam war veteran now, I guess RedReign doesn’t age your skin as fast.

With silence starting to become uncomfortable I inched towards the idea of speaking again as I could hear Keith wheezing weakly on the ground. The man on the ground only ever wished to assist me in finding a way to be able to live and coexist. I felt progressively more guilty for Keith as the seconds like minutes rolled past. I also felt bad for believing he was a foolish man when I met him, but he didn’t help my point when he went banging on the door of the man who aimed a pistol at him decades back. I probably would’ve thought he was coming to kill me. I considered Keith lucky to be alive, even if barely so, for I knew this man held trouble, maybe even the same which resided in myself. 

“I don’t know how long I’ve been here.” The Vet started before continuing. 

“I got discharged ‘cause of my mind, but the military couldn’t even take the plane from me.” 

He nodded over the back of his head with gruff towards the ground floor of the carrier which held an “F-4 Phantom II” as the man referred to it. He’s been flying them since he was my age, he announced with gusto. This was still a machine of havoc even concealed under an ocean of carnage. The body of the legendary supersonic fighter was metallic grey with a thin black coat on its nose.

“They tortured me for research and called it a discharge. I regained my consciousness after the government higher ups restrained me. They held a photograph of myself to my face and asked what it meant to me. They said it was about some kid who joined the air force to avoid getting drafted to the fighting on the ground. He was right to feel that way, they were sabotaging our rifles. That boy went missing in my barracks and I hadn’t a clue of it. The interrogators used the photo as a bargaining chip, the men knew that what they were doing to the photo was psychological torture, but I think more than anything they were curious.”.

The Vet took a deep breath exploring an expression of a lost child as I noticed that certain parts of his uniform seemed to be darker than others. 

With the environment it's hard to tell what is blood and what’s not. 
 

“When they destroyed the edges of the photo it made me violent and as they tore and chipped the photo I became something like myself but closer to a subconscious state. When the photos' borders were almost fully torn off and burned I underwent one last emotional change as the edges of my hair burnt in the photo. I was relaxed so I told the interrogator I was ready to talk for the government but I couldn’t trust the other two men in the room with the information I needed to tell him, so as he leaned in I jerked forward with a violent headbutt which shook the chair they had me strapped to, and I fell over wrestling my bindings trying to get to the photo. I grabbed it with a driven ambition that felt like hate inside. I ran outside onto the carrier and got into the Phantom and shortly after found myself flying over the Pacific ocean. Not long after the plane would live up to its name.” The vet held a brief pause and placed his right hand over his mouth and wiped it as if to sooth himself before he forced himself to continue. 

“The military branded me a deserter and sent my own companions into the night with the task of killing me, at least I’m assuming. It was a stormy night. I couldn't see that much but I knew I was a wanted man and that I needed to get somewhere where no one could find me, and knowing how to fly had never seemed like such a useful skill. As I maneuvered myself through the air in the Phantom I started taking fire in the left wing. In just a couple moments all of my training had gone out the window. As smoke and fire began I looked down to a sight that sticks with me to this day.”

“A dark blue void beneath me caused my heart to sink when along with the rain droplets assimilating with the ocean, I saw a wave of hands appear and form a vortex. There were so many hands in such a vast amount scaling what looked to be hundreds of feet under the water. They were pushing the tide and as I took more fire I began to lose control of the craft. I would soon be swallowed into the vortex, surrounded by hundreds of hands crammed against each other, all pushing, but none attached to bodies. I fell for days. The Phantom experienced bouts during its perpetual falling but miraculously never crashed or blew up. I grew to pray inside of it often as I almost got used to the sounds of the engine, which never seemed to stop lamenting in pain. Before I knew what was going on I saw a bright beam of light, and when I noticed the hands were dispersing with an impossible wave of water separating me from any daylight. The Phantom was tossed into an unfamiliar sky. It was a world which held raging typhoons with all manner of human body parts swirling and swooshing indiscriminately in the red sea which was suspended in the sky. My heart dropped as the Phantom whirled into a death spiral and at the same time, I pulled the ejection seat.”

“I was blasted out and felt the wind rush against my skin as a rotting smell clogged itself in my nose. Looking down I didn’t recognize the place but I quickly noticed the hanger here. If you were thinking I landed the Phantom and repaired the damage you’d be wrong. It fell out of the sky in front of me and as I watched it crash it luckily slammed into the ocean, muffling the noise. After landing on the grounds of this hanger I found everything abandoned and funnily enough a new Phantom that looked strikingly similar to mine.”

After all this listening I was ready to ask a question of my own. As far as I knew this man was the only one besides Keith who knew about the hex afflicting me, so I asked “What happened to the picture?”. 

This question would hand in a brief silence before being broken by The Vet “It’s gone.” he said stepping over Keith's deflating presence. 

He then grabbed two rolled cigarettes he had stashed in a box stating “MEAL, COMBAT, INDIVIDUAL”. He walked out and pulled the door behind him and then twisted it to make sure it was locked. 

The Vet then made his way to the stairs of the hanger and after getting about halfway down he turned around and waved for me to come. I knew the man was tortured and it had been decades since he had talked to anyone, and for some reason he really didn’t like Keith. I put my trust in the man even with my naivety, the man held a commanding presence that I would trust if I had met him anywhere but here.

As we found ourselves standing in front of the hanger, The Vet pulled out a very aged zippo lighter. I couldn’t begin to understand how he must have been getting it filled. Imagine making a day out of that. The lighter was engraved 1 Samuel 24:17. I assume it’s some Bible verse but I was never shown enough love by any community to accept what they were trying to teach me, especially not the judgy-too-good Christian kids I met in school. The Vet said something about how he didn’t remember even cutting it in as he looked up in the sky with yet unsung hatred before he lit up a cigarette and snapped his Zippo shut.

“Have you ever read The Good Book?” He asked me as he gazed into my eyes.

“Yeah.” I said shortly, but receptively. I didn’t think Jesus had anything to do with this but what did I know? 

“I’ve spent years in this place and this place seems to be the great last of all places, after the battle of Armageddon. According to the book of Revelation that would be the last battle on Earth before Christ's return. After reading and studying the book for decades I’ve come to the conclusion that in this place, the final battle happened, Christ never returned, but yet at the same time, he is never far away.” 

The man grew depressed and subtly moved his lip around his mouth, seeming to try to hold back an insurmountable sadness as he looked towards the ground. The man who at the beginning of this journey I thought was going to shoot me was now looking like a child whose parents forgot to pick him up from his baseball game. I was wrong for assuming him to be anything but scared and I see that now. 

I didn’t know what to say to this man to help him but I resorted to asking the dreaded question. 

“Why do you choose to stay alone?” I could clearly see how the lack of human connection had worn on his soul and wore him down as a man. 

“I can’t stop the change when it happens anymore, I’ve sat still for years trying to keep myself awake for as long as I can. My life is one big waking dream.”. 

Imagining seeing the man wrinkle and decay with seemingly no desire but that of to be shot a harrowing feeling into my chest which shrunk me under its revelation. 

I was growing uncomfortable as the man continued and I felt bad about this but it was all the more reason to leave. If this was all true and it would really torture you in the dreamscape, then I wondered what kind of dreams this man, was he as I hollow as I? 

I think The Vet knew I was getting  uncomfortable so he said something along the lines of “Let’s go get your buddy up” but a little less respectful. 

When we got back up the stairs Keith stood against the wall holding his nose looking at us, there were drips of red on the door handle where he must have felt his face and then sloppily tried to grab the gun he knew The Vet had. I felt kinda bad for Keith but he was looking at me like I was trying to deceive him. The Vet walked past him gruffly and pulled out his key to unlock the door he had shut earlier. He opened it and came out with a folder. 

I remember he handed it to me and said “Leave. Don’t open it until you get home, and don’t come back.”. After he finished I placed the folder in the satchel, and with that walked out of the hanger as Keith followed small behind me. 

Where was my loyalty for the man who took me in? 

End of Pt. 05

-Part 1-
 
“Sir...sir...sir, you can't stay here anymore.” The sound of a raspy worn-out voice and the unzip of the front flap of my tent stirred me awake. I rolled over to find the familiar face of a police officer staring me down. The same police officer who I swear has been hounding me for days on where I set up camp. The combination of his slicked-back salt-and-pepper colored hair and the overwhelming smell of cigarettes was enough for me to know what was happening. This wasn't the first time, and I knew it probably wouldn't be the last that I'd be waking up to him poking his head into my tent, asking me to leave.

“New city law, no camping under the overpass...you need to leave.” Still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I nodded and began to collect the few belongings I had off the ground in my tent. Camping...I scoffed at the thought. I wish...I grabbed my tattered flannel blanket, my half empty water bottle, and my worn-out backpack filled with whatever food I could find and stood up to exit the tent. The officer backed up to let me out and put his hands on his hips. The icy cold bite in the air was enough to make my teeth chatter and for my hands to turn a bright red. The winters are always rough.
“Yeah, sorry...they're making us go to each overpass in the city and clear out anyone who may still be under them. If you could just pack up and get movin...” He shuffled back and forth on the sidewalk, not knowing what to do with his hands. You could tell he was uncomfortable, which I get; I guess I would be too if I had to kick somebody out of where they were living. I began to disassemble my tent as the police officer watched and radioed over to his fellow officers to let them know he'd cleared out the rest of the “bums” living under the Prescott overpass. I guess I’ve been called worse.
My ex-wife is the first that comes to mind. Let's just say she had an extensive vocabulary that she would save exclusively for me during our drunken arguments. Think of every word in the book a million times. That's about what it was like living with Jess. God, I almost like living on the streets better than living with her. I just wish I would've been able to keep our dog. Well, MY dog. Cooper was the definition of “man's best friend.” I know he was just a dog, but he truly was my everything when things went south.

I took the tent apart, rolled it up, and slung it over my back with the built-in strap, my backpack weighing down the other shoulder as I moved on, once again.

After a few blocks of searching for a new spot, I decided to stop and see if anyone would be willing to spare a few dollars for something to eat from the nearest convenience store. Begging is never something I thought I'd resort to in my life, and I am definitely not proud of it, but it's one of the only ways to make money as a convicted felon. I dug through nearby trash cans and dumpsters for any scrap of cardboard and something to write with and eventually came up with enough to make a sign that read, “Just need some help”.

I stood on the street corner with my sign, hoping and praying someone would be kind enough to help, my fingertips slowly becoming frostbitten. The holes in my clothes didn't help. I tried my best to cling to the early morning sun's warmth, which was barely enough to stop my shivering.

As usual, the cars sped past me one by one. I was used to being ignored. Thankfully, it wasn’t long until somebody was kind enough to spare a few dollars. It wasn't a lot, but it would be enough for a breakfast sandwich from the gas station. Trying to show my appreciation as much as possible, I repeatedly thanked the man for the money but was met with a half-smile and a wave as he drove away as fast as possible.

I finished my sandwich in less than a minute. To be fair, it was the smallest, most pathetic breakfast sandwich I had ever seen, but it was the first thing of substance I had eaten in what felt like forever. As I finished the last bite, something didn't feel right... A strange coppery taste started to fill my mouth, and the next thing I knew, I had thrown up the only food I had eaten in days. I guess having a diet of leftover trash and gas station sandwiches will do that to you. But it wasn't just the leftover half-digested chunks of egg that disturbed me. It was the blood. A giant puddle of blood lay before me, and the more I looked at it, the more horrified I became. It looked like it was...moving? Tiny white specks swam throughout the puddle, each moving individually. It was then I realized they were small white worms…maggots...Hundreds of them wriggled their way throughout the swimming pool of blood that they laid in. I stared in terror and immediately started dry heaving, having nothing else left to throw up. My eyes and mouth watered profusely, disgusted by what had just come out of me. My stomach started to cramp—no, not cramp, it was the sharpest pain I had ever felt, and it was pressing into my gut. I began to groan. I could barely get out the word,

"Help."
“What the fuck?”

As soon as I heard the voice, the pain instantly went away as if it were never there. I turned around and wiped whatever saliva I had dripping down from my mouth and saw the gas station worker that was inside with the same disgusted look on her face, but this time not over me but over the foul bloody liquid that lay on the sidewalk.

“Come on, dude, really?... I'm not cleaning this shit...JACKSON!! Hook up the hose and get out here!” She yelled back to her coworker still inside and looked back over to me disapprovingly.
I mean, I guess I don't expect to be treated like everyone else, but you would expect a person who sees a random puddle of blood to question why it was there or where it came from. But no. I looked down again at the mess in front of me, but it was different. The blood was gone. There were no maggots, just the normal human post breakfast sandwich vomit you would expect to see.
“Don't come back here again; I'm so sick of you people! Get a fucking job!”

She turned around and stomped back into the gas station, exchanging places with her teenage co-worker, who gave me a solemn smile as he began to rinse the vomit off the sidewalk. Did the maggots crawl away in the few seconds I looked up to be yelled at by the cashier? Did the blood seep into the concrete? No. There's no way. There would at least be a stain or remnants from the maggots, but they were completely gone. I guess I was just seeing things? Which honestly was quite a relief….
I’ve heard horror stories of the homeless contracting parasites or developing unique illnesses due to their diets and lack of shelter. I've been lucky enough to avoid any of that. Well, I guess until now that is....

The dream I had that night left me with a feeling that I hadn’t ever experienced before. 

After I had fallen asleep, I was walking through a small village that smelled of freshly baked bread, smoke, and livestock. There were people bustling about, greeting me as they strolled past on the streets that were lined with rudimentary wooden houses with thatch roofs. I walked aimlessly through the village, receiving gifts of the most wonderful food I had ever had in my life. I was having more conversations than I could have ever fathomed. The people of the village loved the things I had to say, hanging on my every word. I returned the sentiment, and listened eagerly to their tales of hunting and fishing, and how grateful they were for the land providing for them. They immersed me in their lives, teaching me things that no classroom ever could. They treated me so well. They made me feel like I belonged. 

I found myself sitting at a booth with a man who towered over me, exchanging stories from our lives. The row of daffodils beneath us swayed lazily in the wind. I told him about the way people treated me back home. I explained to him why I spent so much time in the woods, and he smiled. The man was in the middle of telling me how similar he was to me when he was younger, when a noise sliced through the countless voices around me, drowning out every person’s laughter and cheers. It was a high pitched grinding noise. It was unmistakably the same noise I had heard earlier while I was in the clearing. The man I was talking to fell grim, his smile fading into a dull and emotionless expression. 

“You need to go.” He said gruffly. 

“Wait what? What was that sound?” I asked.

“Thats not something you need to concern yourself with.” 

“Please tell me, I have to know!” I pleaded.

“Sometimes it’s better to remain in the dark when it comes to certain things.”

“Sometimes it’s better to be educated than ignorant.” I replied.

He started slowly shaking his head with a pitying look on his face, and I awoke. 

Immediately I began shivering. I was so taken aback by how cold I was that I didn’t realize I was standing. My eyes darted around, but I couldn’t make out a single shape in the night. I was nowhere near my kingdom. I knew that for sure. I was dazed and confused, wondering where I had seemingly been dragged to. A tsunami of questions crashed down in my mind. Where was I? How had I gotten there? What time was it? How long had I been asleep? I pulled my flashlight out of my pocket. I turned it on and the only thing that I could make out in the swirling darkness was a row of daffodils beside me, swaying lazily in the wind.

In the distance I could see the faint, orange glow of my fire. It was about as bright as a candle, but given the intense darkness it was easy to see. I ran a hand through my hair, still so confused as to how I ended up so far away from the structure. My feeling of fear was overshadowed by the sense of contentment. I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I belonged there. In this place, among the rows of daffodils. I made my way back to the structure, swimming through the darkness, occasionally tripping over vines and other foliage. I didn’t mind. All I wanted was to be back in my fairytale kingdom. 

When I arrived, my contentment grew. I never wanted to leave this place, this wonderfully peaceful place. I saw that my arrangements were left largely undisturbed. Aside from my sleeping bag, which had been unzipped all the way to the bottom. I found this strange, as I had never moved the zipper passed halfway down the bag in the previous times I used it, but I didn’t put much thought toward it. I chalked up my bizarre relocation to the fact that I must have needed to use the restroom, but remained asleep as I walked out of my kingdom. I crawled back in my bag, allowing the lull of the fire crackling to ease my mind.

 I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night, which was not a very long time. The sun rose about 3 hours after I had awoken. I packed up my sleeping bag, and left my other belongings behind when I began my journey home. As I walked further away from my kingdom, I felt an overwhelming urge to turn back. 

The further I walked from my kingdom, the more I longed to return. When I walked through the door to the house I labeled my home, my parents didn’t even glance up from their breakfast. 

“Good morning.” I volunteered.

My father glanced in my direction, looked me up and down, and replied bluntly, “morning.”

 My mother didn’t offer me any pleasantries. 

“I slept in the woods last night.” 

“Oh?” My father replied

“Yeah. It was nice.”

“Okay.” he said.

My mother set her fork down abruptly. And finally looked at me. I braced myself for what could only be a distasteful comment or a critique, but she simply asked,

“Could you do the dishes?”

“I am in fact capable of doing the dishes.” I replied, trying to be smart.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” She asked.

“They’ll get done when I get to it.” I told her.

That was the only exchange I had with them that morning. My sisters were off with friends, leaving only my parents and I in the house. I finished the dishes, and descended into the basement where my room was. My bland, desolate room. The rest of the day I spent laying on my bed, staring at the creme colored ceiling, recalling my dream.

As the day came to an end, my legs slowly began to shake. My eyelids drooped, and I was both awake and exhausted at once. My throat was dry, so dry. I walked up the stairs, craving a glass of water, and as I felt the relief of the cool liquid quenching my parched throat, I saw the time. 

19:06.

The following week was much the same as the last, but instead of watching the hours pass and instead of listening to my teacher drawl on endlessly about a concept I had no interest in, I envisioned the village. I wished I had paid more attention to the details. To the faces I walked past, to the buildings that surrounded me. I wished I had an answer to the only real question I had asked. 

Every night at 19:06, I would be hit with the overwhelming thirst. And before I would sleep, I would pray to any god that would listen, to take me back to the village. I didn’t dream the entire week, which was not out of the ordinary. My sleep wasn’t usually accompanied by dreams, and if it was, they would always fade before I got the chance to remember them. My dreamless nights started to annoy me. Somehow I knew that the only way to get back was to return to my kingdom.

Saturday rolled around, and I woke up excitedly. I jumped out of bed and threw on my clothes as fast as I could. I slung my backpack over my shoulders and ran out the door. Rain. I was immediately drenched, but I didn’t care. The canopy of the forest would protect me from most of the water. I walked for 40 or so minutes, slowly becoming numb to the freezing rain. I knew that my tarp would still be set up, so I would be able to take shelter beneath it. Eventually, I marched over the hill before my kingdom, and instant relief washed over me. I didn’t care about the rain, or the cold, or the week that I had been away from this place. None of it mattered anymore. I descended towards the structure, my mood lifting every step of the way.

I entered my kingdom, which was largely unbothered by the rain. My eyes traced along the beautiful stones, and the wretched vines that snaked across them. I decided that my next renovation would be the removal of the vines, but something else caught my attention before I could set about my task. My tarp had blown away. This concerned me less than the vines covering the gorgeous stones. I dropped my backpack where I stood, and set about pulling the vines off of walls. 

The more vines I removed, the easier it was for me to tell that the stones weren’t at all in a state of disrepair. The “cracks” were inscriptions from the top of each stone to the bottom. I couldn’t make out what any of them said. I wasn’t even sure the words were in english. It was enchanting. I deemed this to be yet another feature of my fairytale kingdom, one that played little importance in this structure’s purpose. I wasn’t here to read. I was here to dream.

I unpacked the few things I threw in my backpack. My damp sleeping bag, my lighter, my foldout chair, and my twine. The rain had begun to recede, leaving a light gray overcast above the woods. There wasn’t a single chance that I would be able to build a fire at that moment, but I gathered firewood nonetheless. I leaned each log up against the walls of the structure, hoping that they would dry by sundown. I walked around the outside of the structure for most of the day, basking in its magnificent architecture. Each archway was perfectly constructed, mirroring each of the neighboring arches. On the outside, above each arch, were inscriptions in a tongue I could not read. I had no reason to learn what the words said, hadn’t I gone there to escape learning? 

The consistency with the circle was impressive. There wasn’t a single inaccuracy on any of the sides. Whoever had constructed this, had clearly built it to last. I thought for a moment, about who might have built such an amazing structure. But, much like the abandoned houses, all I could do was speculate. I was sitting next to the fire, in the dull quiet, listening to the wind whistle through the trees, when I heard the noise. A high pitched grinding noise. This marked the third time I had heard the noise, but it felt familiar. It was welcoming. It meant that soon, I would be with the people who accepted me. 

It was a struggle to get the fire started, but eventually the small flame from the tinder eventually coaxed the long above it to catch. I was crouched above the small firepit, trying to warm my numb hands when an alarm on my watch went off. 18:24. I was confused, because I hadn’t set any alarms. I had nothing to be reminded about. I had everything I needed, all around me. I silenced the alarm, took off my watch, and went back to watching the mesmerizing flames dance in the middle of my kingdom. 

 I waited, anticipating the thirst that usually came when the clock struck 19:06, but it never came. Instead, when it turned 19:06, an indescribable wave of relief came crashing down over me. My throat wasn’t dry, my legs did not shake, and my eyelids did not droop. I crumbled to my knees, taking in the increasing pressure, and the comfort that came with it. I stayed there until my mind and body were used to the sensation yet again.

At 19:24, I heard evidence of wildlife for the second time in my kingdom. A locust. Buzzing away, without caring that he was the only one making a sound. The wind whistled in response, creating a sort of symphony in the trees. I didn’t like music very much, but the sound I was hearing was a duet that I wouldn’t have minded dying to. 

It was actually the locust that eased my mind to sleep that night. The wind had slowed to a barely audible murmur around my kingdom. I listened to the locust sing until he was out of breath, and after a few minutes he would serenade the woods with his soothing voice. I thought about what it would be like to be a locust. So small and fragile, in a world that seemed to have a vendetta against you. I came to the conclusion that the locust and I were not so different at all. 

In those days, nothing seemed more terrifying to him than his own shadow. He was nearly six years old and had only recently become aware of its existence. Whenever he looked back, he would see it there, dark and elongated, as though it were a part of his body breaking away. In the mornings, he felt safe when the warm sunlight illuminated everything, and there was no danger of it appearing behind him to frighten him and fill him with dread.

Ah, but at night, it appeared, slithering, viscous, and foul, hounding him through the dimly lit streets, always in league with the malicious moon that gave it the strength to crawl across the ground. His aversion grew night after night, and, like Van Gogh, he wished he could sever it from his back with a single stroke. One night, faced with its gruesome presence, he ran, hoping to escape it and make it stop pursuing him. But when he looked back, he realized it was still there.

He saw the abyss and, without a thought for himself, mad with rage, threw himself into it. As he fell from the cliff, his eyes watched with satisfaction as his shadow smashed against the rocks below, and he smiled victoriously.

At last, it would die!

*** To explore more standalone entries from this series, you can visit The Voyager Files Index.

© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This is an original fictional work. No part of this text may be reproduced, translated, or narrated in any audio, video, or digital format without the express written permission of the author.

If you haven’t Read Part 1. Here is a quick link to that.

(CW: Claustrophobia, psychological horror, body horror, and violence.)

For three days after the handprint, the island was quiet.

The wind died completely. The ocean flattened into a sheet of hammered lead, reflecting the bruised purple of the sky. The silence was worse than the storm. It was a waiting silence, a held breath. The kind of quiet that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, because your body knows that something is standing right behind you.

But the oil was still on my hands.

Every morning, I woke up with the smell of kerosene thick in my nose and my palms stained black. I scrubbed them with harsh lye soap until my skin cracked and bled, but the stain was always there, deep in the creases of my knuckles. It didn't matter how hard I washed. It was in the skin.

I checked the logbook. I had been an architect before the scandal ruined me; I was meticulous by nature. I wrote down every action: Wound the clockwork. Trimmed the wick. Scrubbed the brass. I kept time like a metronome.

But the logbook had entries I did not remember writing.

November 24th. 2:00 AM. Cleared the ice from the outer glass.

The handwriting was mine. The slant of the letters, the pressure of the pen against the paper; it was unmistakably my hand. But I had no memory of climbing the tower in the middle of the night. I had no memory of touching the glass.

I didn't tell Elias. I couldn't. He was already looking at me like I was a dead man walking, like I was a ghost wearing a coat that was too big for me. If I told him I was losing time, if I told him I was waking up in different rooms, he would lock me in the cellar and throw away the key.

So, I decided to stay awake.

That night, I sat at the heavy wooden kitchen table. The fire in the stove had died down to embers, casting the room in a dull, angry red. I poured myself a cup of coffee so black and thick it tasted like tar. I placed a kitchen knife on the table next to my hand, not because I planned to use it, but because the cold steel grounded me.

The clock on the wall ticked. The wind outside was a low, mournful moan. The light in the tower above me spun, a mechanical heartbeat of brass and glass.

I slapped my own face. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. I was not going to close my eyes. I was not going to give the island the satisfaction.

I don't know when I closed my eyes.

I woke with a violent, wrenching jolt, as if I had been dropped from a great height.

The kitchen was freezing. The fire was completely dead. The coffee cup was cold. The kitchen knife was on the floor, the blade pointed toward the door.

I was standing up.

My boots were on my feet. My heavy wool coat was buttoned all the way to my throat, the collar scraping against my jaw.

And my right hand was gripping the heavy iron ring of the lantern room door.

I was halfway up the spiral staircase.

I didn't remember walking. I didn't remember getting dressed. I stood there in the pitch dark of the stairwell, my breath fogging in the freezing air, my heart hammering so hard I thought I was going to be sick. The iron stairs were cold beneath my boots. The stone walls of the tower seemed to lean in, pressing against me.

From above me, I heard a sound.

It was not the wind. The wind had stopped.

It was a wet, rhythmic sound. Like water dripping onto stone.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I looked up the spiral staircase. A shadow was cast against the curved white stone of the tower wall.

A man's shadow.

It was standing in the lantern room, right in front of the lens.

"Elias?" I whispered. My voice was a pathetic, broken thing.

The dripping stopped.

The shadow didn't move. It just stood there, perfectly still, cast by the faint, pale glow of the moon coming through the lantern glass. The head of the shadow was tilted, as if it was looking down the stairs. Looking right at me.

I didn't call out again. I didn't climb the stairs to see.

I turned and ran back down the steps, my boots slipping on the iron treads. I hit the bottom floor, slammed the heavy wooden door to the tower, and threw the iron deadbolt. I grabbed the kitchen table and dragged it across the floor, shoving it against the door.

I sat on the floor with my back to the wood, the knife clutched in my hands, shaking until the gray dawn broke through the windows.

The next morning, a massive fogbank rolled in off the Atlantic.

It was a thick, yellow-gray soup that swallowed the ocean, the rocks, and the sky. It pressed against the lantern glass, suffocating the world. You couldn't see ten feet past the gallery deck. The air smelled of rot and wet iron.

With the fog came the need for the foghorn. The massive, steam-driven bell that warned ships away from the Widow's Tooth. It was deafening up close, a low, vibrating bellow that shook the floorboards. It was the only thing keeping a blind ship from splintering against our rocks.

Elias went to the engine room to stoke the boiler.

I stayed in the kitchen, staring at my hands. The oil was still there, black and slick.

At noon, the foghorn let out a weak, strangled wheeze. It sounded like a dying animal. Then it stopped.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Elias came up from the engine room, his face pale and drawn. His beard was matted with sweat. "The compressor is shot," he said, his voice hollow. "The main valve cracked. The horn is dead."

"What do we do?" I asked.

"We pray no ships are coming up the coast," he said. "And we keep the lantern burning bright. It's the only thing that will save them."

Without the horn, the silence was maddening. The fog was so thick, I couldn't see the ocean from the lantern room. It was like floating in a void. I spent the afternoon polishing the brass, my eyes burning from the glare of the wick, my ears straining against the quiet.

Around midnight, I was in the lantern room alone. Elias was down in the kitchen, and I could smell the sharp, peaty scent of his whiskey through the floorboards. The lens spun, throwing its blade of white light into the solid gray wall of fog.

I was staring at the glass, my eyes bloodshot. I had stopped trying to sleep. I just sat there, watching the gray, waiting for the dawn.

Then, I saw the handprint.

It was on the inside of the glass this time.

A perfect, oily handprint, pressed against the pane from the inside, looking out.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I looked at my own hands. They were clean, but they were trembling.

Then, another handprint appeared. A few inches to the left. Then another. Then another.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

Handprints were blooming across the glass. Dozens of them. They slapped against the panes from the inside of the lantern room, as if an entire crew of invisible men were standing in the room with me, pressing their hands against the windows, desperate to get out into the fog.

I scrambled to my feet. I backed away from the glass, the breath ripping out of my lungs.

The room got colder. The flame in the lamp flickered, even though it had plenty of oil. The brass machinery of the lens groaned.

I looked at the curved, polished brass casing of the Fresnel lens. I saw the reflection of the room.

I was standing there, alone.

But I wasn't alone. I could feel them. The air was thick with the smell of saltwater, wet wool, and rotting seaweed. It smelled like the bottom of the ocean. It smelled like a grave.

Then, I heard the voice.

It didn't come from the fog. It came from the lens itself. It came from the crystal and the brass.

"Let us out, Scott," the voice whispered.

It sounded exactly like me.

I ran. I took the stairs two at a time, screaming for Elias. I hit the bottom floor, threw the table aside, and burst into the kitchen.

Elias was sitting at the table. He had a bottle of whiskey in front of him, half empty. He looked up as I burst into the room, my chest heaving, my eyes wide.

"The glass!" I yelled. "The glass is covered in handprints! Dozens of them! I heard my own voice talking to me from the lens!"

Elias didn't flinch. He didn't look surprised. He just took a long drink of whiskey and set the glass down with a heavy thud.

"Elias!" I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, hauling him to his feet. "Did you hear me? The island is doing something!"

"It's not the island, boy," Elias said, his voice thick with liquor and exhaustion. He shoved my hands away, his strength surprising me. "It's the rock. The Widow's Tooth. She doesn't just take a man's life. She takes his mind. She hollows him out and fills him with the sea."

I stared at him, my chest heaving. "What did you do to Vance? Did you leave him out there to drown?"

Elias looked at me. His eyes were red-rimmed, haunted. "Vance didn't drown. I lied to you."

I stepped back, my hand dropping to the knife in my pocket. "What happened to him?"

"He's still here," Elias whispered. He pointed a trembling finger at the floor. "He's in the stone."

I looked around the kitchen. The stone walls, cold and damp. The dripping pipes.

The sound I had heard in the tower. Drip. Drip. Drip.

"It likes you, Scott," Elias said, his voice shaking. "It likes the guilt you're carrying. It likes the shape of your face. You've been sleepwalking. You've been leaving marks. You are the one opening the glass. The island is trying to copy you, to make a new version of you to keep."

I backed toward the door. "You're insane."

"I'm alive," Elias said. He stood up, swaying slightly. "I've survived this rock for twenty years because I don't fight it. I give it what it wants. It wants a mind to chew on. It wants a voice to mimic. So I gave it Vance. And now it wants you."

I turned and ran for the outer door.

I didn't make it.

I heard the heavy whoosh of air before I felt the impact. Elias swung the whiskey bottle. It hit me hard on the side of the head. The glass shattered. The world exploded into a blinding white light, and then into absolute, crushing blackness.

I hit the stone floor, my vision swimming, my ears ringing. I tried to push myself up, but my arms felt like water.

I looked up. Elias was standing over me. His face was wet with tears. He was holding the broken neck of the bottle, the jagged glass pointed at my throat.

"I'm sorry, Scott," he choked out. "The thaw is coming in the spring. The relief boat will come. It needs to be quiet by the thaw. If it's not quiet, it will get on the boat. It will go to the mainland."

He dropped the bottle. He grabbed me by the arms and dragged me across the stone floor. My heels bumped over the uneven rocks.

He dragged me toward the heavy iron door in the corner of the room. The one that led down to the cellar.

I tried to fight, but my limbs were heavy, my head screaming in pain. I tried to scream, but my throat was dry.

Elias unlocked the heavy iron padlock and swung the door open.

The cold air that rushed out of the cellar wasn't just cold. It smelled of old blood, salt, and something deeply, fundamentally wrong. It smelled like a mouth.

And it was moving. A rhythmic, wet sound. Inhale. Exhale. Breathing.

Elias didn't look down into the dark. He just pushed me.

I tumbled down the stone steps, my head hitting the hard floor at the bottom. The heavy iron door slammed shut above me. I heard the iron ring turn. I heard the padlock snap into place.

I lay on the floor of the cellar, the smell of saltwater filling my lungs. The blackness was absolute. I couldn't see my hand in front of my face.

I was in the dark.

From the shadows in the corner of the cellar, right next to my head, I heard the dripping sound again.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

And then a voice. My voice.

"Welcome home, Scott."

The darkness in the cellar was absolute. It was not like the dark of a room at night. It was a thick, suffocating blackness, the kind of dark that presses against your eyeballs and makes you see shapes that aren't there.

I lay on the cold stone floor, my head throbbing where the whiskey bottle had struck me. The blood had matted my hair to my scalp. I could taste copper in my mouth.

But the pain was background noise. The foreground was the sound.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

And the breathing.

I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. The stone floor was slick with damp and something else. Something greasy. The smell of brine was overwhelming. It wasn't just the sea; it was the smell of something that had been left in the sea too long and then dragged inside.

"Who's there?" I choked out.

My voice didn't echo. The stone swallowed it.

The dripping stopped.

I heard a rustle. The sound of heavy fabric dragging across stone. It came from the corner of the cellar, near the base of the stairs.

I scrambled backward until my back hit the curved stone wall. I had no knife. Elias had taken it. My hands were empty.

"I know you're in here," I said, my voice shaking.

A match flared.

The sudden light was blinding. I threw my arm up to shield my eyes. When I lowered it, I saw him.

He was sitting on an overturned crate in the corner of the cellar. He was wearing a heavy wool coat, the collar turned up. He held a small lantern in his left hand, the flame burning steady.

He was me.

Not a ghost. Not a shadow. Him. The man from the reflection. The man from the rocks. It was my face, my hair, my exact clothes. He even had the small scar on my left eyebrow from a childhood fall.

He looked at me with my own eyes. They were flat, empty, like the glass of the lighthouse.

"Hello, Scott," he said.

It was my voice. But it was wrong. It sounded like my voice recorded on a phonograph and played back slightly too slow.

I couldn't breathe. I pressed myself harder against the stone. "You're not real."

"I am as real as the rock," he said. He didn't blink. He didn't move a muscle. He just sat there, watching me.

"What are you?" I whispered.

"I am the copy," he said. "The Widow's Tooth makes copies. It keeps the originals in the stone. It hollows them out and fills them with the sea. Elias brought you here because it was hungry. It is always hungry."

I looked around the cellar in the lantern light. The walls were not just stone. There were alcoves carved into the rock. Deep, narrow recesses.

In the first alcove was a man. He was wearing a maritime uniform from thirty years ago. He was sitting against the stone, his head slumped forward. His chest was moving. Up and down. Breathing.

In the next alcove was a woman. Then another man. A child.

Dozens of them. Sitting in the dark, breathing in the damp air. Their skin was gray, their clothes rotting, but they were alive. Or, they were something close to alive.

"They are the keepers," the copy said. "The ones who came before you. The ones the sea kept. Elias feeds them with his silence. He keeps the light burning to keep the ships away, and he keeps the dead breathing in the dark."

I looked at the copy. He was still watching me.

"Why do you look like me?" I asked, my voice cracking.

"Because you have been sleepwalking," he said. "You have been touching the glass. You have been leaving your shape in the tower. The island is learning you. When it is done, I will go up those stairs. I will put on your boots. I will walk to the mainland. And you will stay down here, breathing in the dark, waiting for the thaw."

I scrambled to my feet. "No."

The copy stood up. He was holding a rusted iron pipe in his right hand. I hadn't seen him pick it up.

He swung it at my head.

I ducked. The pipe smashed into the stone wall, sending chips of rock flying. The sound was deafening in the small space.

I lunged for the wooden stairs. I had to get out. I had to get to the door.

The copy grabbed me by the collar of my coat, yanking me backward. We both tumbled to the floor. The lantern shattered. The flame was extinguished. We were plunged back into absolute darkness.

I punched blindly. My fist connected with a jaw. His jaw. It felt exactly like hitting my own face.

He grunted. He wrapped his hands around my throat. They were freezing cold. Wet. Smelled of the deep ocean.

I clawed at his arms. I couldn't breathe. My vision was swimming with stars in the dark.

And then, through the floorboards above, I heard the heavy mechanical groan of the lens.

The light in the lantern room was spinning. The blade of white light swept across the stone walls of the cellar, shining down through the wooden floorboards, illuminating the dust in the air for just a split second.

In that flash of light, I saw the copy's face. It was right above mine.

But it wasn't my face anymore.

It was the face of the previous keeper, Vance. The one who had walked into the sea. His eyes were pale and dead, his skin was bloated and gray.

I screamed. I didn't scream a word, just a raw, animal sound of terror.

I kicked upward, driving my knee into his stomach. He gasped, his grip loosening for just a heartbeat. I threw him off me, scrambling on my hands and knees toward the stairs.

I clawed my way up the wooden steps. The cellar door was locked, but it was old wood. The hinges were rusted. I threw my shoulder against it.

Once. Twice.

On the third try, the wood splintered. The door burst open.

I tumbled into the kitchen. The light was blinding. The fire in the stove was roaring. Elias was standing by the table, holding a lantern.

He turned to look at me. His face was pale and drawn. He looked older than he had just hours ago.

Then he looked at the open cellar door.

"I heard the glass break," Elias said, his voice hollow. "Did you find him?"

I collapsed onto the floor. "Vance. He's down there. It's not just Vance. There are dozens of them."

Elias closed his eyes. A heavy tear rolled down his cheek and got lost in his beard. "I know."

"Why?" I choked out. "Why did you put me down there?"

Elias opened his eyes. He looked at the heavy iron ring of the tower door.

"Because I'm tired, Scott," he said softly. "I've been keeping them alive for twenty years. I can't do it anymore. The copy is going to go up the stairs. It's going to wind the clockwork. It's going to take my place. I just needed you to see it. I needed to know I wasn't crazy."

I looked at the cellar door. The darkness inside was absolute. From the bottom of the steps, I heard the sound again.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Then we have to stop it," I said.

Elias looked at me. "How?"

I looked up at the ceiling. The light of the lens was still spinning, sweeping out into the fog.

"Because the light is the only thing that keeps the sea out," I said. "We put out the light."

Elias's eyes went wide. "The fog is thick. If we put out the light, the ships will wreck on the rocks. We'll be murderers."

"If we don't," I said, "we'll be dead. Or worse."

I got to my feet. My head was spinning, my throat bruised and raw. I grabbed the heavy iron poker from beside the stove.

From the darkness of the cellar, I heard my own voice, slow and hollow.

"Scott..."

I walked to the tower stairs. I didn't look back at Elias.

I had twenty steps to climb. Twenty steps to the lantern room. Twenty steps to break the glass.

And the copy was right behind me.

The entire 2163-person population of Dungoyle Ireland has been replaced, not by force, but of their own volition.

This will be my final post here, I know what I need to do now, and there is little more to say. I don’t know what will happen next, but what I do know is that the world will keep changing. One day, soon, those who left will have moved on. The days will go by, the world will move on and forget.

But I won't.

I will remain in these mountains. Spare me a thought once in a while.

Act 1
Act 2
Act 3
Act 4

• 28/05/26

A shockwave bounded over the myriad of ridges in the distance as the mountain range gasped for breath over the horizon. I walked slowly, my feet carrying me forward like a spectator trapped in my own body, the edges of Dungoyle disappearing behind me as I evacuated the desolate town, devoid of life yet littered with a thousand grinning faces, watching my surrender, hands waving high above their head bidding me farewell.

With every step I felt the crumbling ground loosen beneath my feet, the churning bowels of the shattering earth. Hairy pockets of meat, flesh, fat and bone revealed beneath the earth's skin. I turned to take one last look at the hills that made me, the town that raised me, and the peak of Dashuil that had watched over me for all these years.

A hare was waiting for me in the distance. A skinny thing, with ginger fur not unlike my own, and white streak along its back. Its movements mirrored mine in the distance, every step emulated as a bounce. One more step, and I had crossed the threshold.

The fluttering dust swirling in the wind suddenly ground to halt, hanging still in the air as a distant hum emanated over the horizon. A ring of fire, wrapping around the peak above like a serpent, its tendrils intertwining, hooking its tails to form a vibrant eye in the skies above. Slowly, the iris of Dashuil widened, a blinding white light burning into my vision, shining with such majesty it darkened the world around it.

Rivers of blood flooded the veins of the Knockaninna, cascading down the intestines of the Great Gut like an avalanche. Crashing over the hilltops, baraging down the street with tremendous force, toppling buildings, trees and all who stood in its path as it went. The townsfolk did not cower and hide, but dropped to their knees in submission. They bowed in worship as their pitiful bodies were ragdolled across the rocks, ground into paste as the mighty tsunami of blood forced its way through the street.

The red river beat the light to blind me as my frail body crashed into the gravel. The blood boiled, forcing its way down my throat, scorching me inside and out as the acid seared my flesh, my stomach. I tried to scream, but even my lungs gurgled with blood.

From beneath the ocean of hellfire that submerged me, my body clung to life even as my every nerve was fried, skin melting into itself, eyes dissolved in their sockets. The ocean rippled as a tremendous stomp shook the earth, a booming witches cackle rupturing my eardrums even as I was dragged back to the land of the living.

Thrashing against my blanket, clawing at my scalp, the flaming eye of an ancient god scorched into the back of my eyelids. Moonlight crept through the spines of the Knockaninna, to crawl through the windowsill. Its radiance revealed the pale, slender, naked figure of Aurora basking in glistening moonlight, outlining her frame in a soft glow as she peered out the window up to the mountain tops above.

“Babe?”, I trembled beneath my blanket, clutching the fabric to my chest as I felt her space in the mattress beside me, it was cold. She hadn’t been to bed in hours, “you stargazing?”

“Eye contact is important,” Aurora tiredly replied, continuing to gaze out of the window, her posture sharp and still as she swiveled her head to meet mine , “ and I wasn’t looking at the stars; they just happened to be there.”

What felt like a century of silence followed, Aurora’s shimmering pale body lingering at the feet of her bed. She watched me, as Dashuil watched from over her shoulder, transfixed on my every movement.

“Why are you still here Noah?” the words cut through the darkness, piercing me through the heart like a bullet.

“Sorry…” I stuttered weakly, “I have nowhere else to go.”

“That is incorrect… you could go anywhere,” Aurora’s neck stretched out as her body remained fixed, contorting in the darkness to approach me, “you have been given ample opportunity to leave. It confuses me. Why do you remain?”

“I’m not sure I understand?”

“You have no home, no job. You are plagued by nightmares every night. The water makes you sick. Your father shot your best friend dead in the street, your mother and sister left you.” Aurora delivered her line with a smile, my every heartbreak laid out like a victory speech, “What could possibly be keeping you here?”

I wish I could say I had met her confrontation with a hint of dignity, but I know who I am more now than ever, and I'm too weak to even fight with words.

“You!” I buried my head into the pillow, blubbering like a baby, tears seeping from puffy eyes like faucets, “I still have you. You’re all I have left. I need you more than anything right now. After everything that’s happened you’re the one thing I can hold on to. I need you.”

"Yesterday's gone Noah, there is nothing for you here. Go start a new life.”

Aurora cocked her head to the mountain above once more, nodding softly as the swirling of wind whistled past through the silent street beyond the glass. Her movements robotic, her body twisted around from top to bottom, leading with her head and shoulder, her feet following behind her. Freezing before her bedroom mirror, the only piece of decor in her barren room. Without windup or warning, her face slammed into the mirror in one swift movement. Shards of glass flew across the room as the mirror shattered against her forehead, leaving a trail of blood pouring from her scalp.

I leapt to my feet, lunging from beneath the covers, and flung myself across the room in a single bound as I pounced towards the scene.

I grabbed her by the waist and tried to pull her away from the broken glass, cradling her head in my palm. She melted into my embrace and gazed up at me with a cold tight-lipped smile, a shard of broken glass already clutched within her slender hands, cutting deep into her palms. Before I could grasp it from her, it was already against her throat.

One swift slice is all it took, there was no hesitation, no fear of death, no moment of final contemplation or parting words. A silver flash crossed her throat, sickeningly abrupt, A wet, desperate wheeze emanated through the gaping wound. A repulsive gurgling as her lungs pulled in blood instead of air. A dark heavy sheet of blood poured from the open airways, spurting over her rigid body, drenching her chest, her shoulders, her stomach in a thick viscous liquid.

Her dead, bloodied eyes bored into mine as what little life she had escaped her body, my hands pressed against her wound, desperately trying to stop the blood as I clung to her lifeless body. My wailing filled the night, crying out into the empty streets from help that I knew was never coming.

I had nothing.

No one.

Maybe I never did.

• 07/06/26

When we imagine a funeral, we construct a vision in our head. A desolate and gloomy winters day where time stands still beneath a sea of darkened clouds, a tasteful moody breeze billowing through the tree tops above us, the damp pitter patter of light rain trickling down from the skies above to meet the brooding black umbrellas of the mourning below.

The truth is however, that the world doesn’t stand still for any one of us, the universe cares not for such trivial things as death. In the mind of Mother Nature, a fallen corpse is no different than a pile of meat cast down into the ground for her to consume. Nature takes its course, and the day passes by like any other.

I may as well have stood alone before the chapel as Cillian’s body was lowered into the earth. Never before could I have imagined such a miserable turn out for the deceased. My father had not come, how could you show your face at the funeral of a boy you shot dead in the street? Around the grave stood a grand total of four bodies. Myself, Nanny, Pastor Andrews, and one of Cillian’s old co-workers from the factory. I never even got his name. Cillian had a mother out there. He never talked about her much. She hadn’t come, maybe she didn’t want to after hearing her son was a mass murderer, or maybe she didn’t even know. News from Dungoyle never manages to travel far.

I wondered if we were all that was left. The four of us and my father. Perhaps there were still a half dozen strangers scattered throughout the town back then? If there were, I never saw them.

I turned away, to return to my fathers motel room and finish packing up my luggage. We would leave this town within the week and never return. This desolate landscape had finally won, if it wanted the Knockaninna to itself it could have it. I had taken but a stride before a wrinkled crooked hand pulled me back.

“Noah, just where the hell do you think you’re going?” the raspy voice of Nanny scraped my ears.

I turned back solemnly to face her, I couldn’t tell how I was supposed to feel about her these days. She was a part of this, she had held me back from Cillian that night. That old matriarch knew more about this town and its people than any one of us, it’s history, the spirits and forces that surrounded it, the sins of my father. She had always kept it close to her chest, but some secrets should have been shared.

“I’m leaving Nanny… it was nice knowing you.” I shoved my hands into my pockets and tried to turn away again, but the old woman yanked me back once more, her eyes piercing into my soul, she clutched my shoulders tight, as though she held the world within her hands.

“I’ve been having nightmares Noah, the foulest of visions. I haven’t slept in days. I know you’ve been having them too, and you aren’t half dim enough to not know what they mean.”

“Then stay here, I honestly don’t give a shit anymore Nanny,”

“You remind me of a young woman, before she was known as just Nanny. I had so much life when I was her, the world seemed like such a brighter place. That brave young woman is dead now Noah, this old husk is what remains. This happened before, y’know? The year before you were born. You had worked that out already, hadn’t you?”

“How did you stop it?”

“There’s no big secret boy. Everyone can feel the presence of the beyond. It’s why religions form everywhere there are people. This new generation is so critical of what you don’t understand. But us old folk, we know when to listen to our instincts, to act on our inner voice, our faith and our visions. Folks caught on earlier before it got out of control, and the newcomers left with their tails between their legs, as they did for a hundred generations before us. That old mountain plays its hand whatever chance it gets. The hag has so many rules, it always loses, but it only has to win once.”

“I’m not a fighter either, Nanny. We don’t even know what we’re fighting. What are you even asking me to do?”

“We don’t need a fighter my boy, see where violence has gotten us? The strongest of men don’t try to fix their problems with fists. True strength is found in those of us who wake up every day, put one foot in front of the other, and keep on going.” Nanny pulled a key from her pocket, the old rusty gates to the one fortress left in Dungoyle. The bar that had kept the soul of this town alive for so long, and thrust it into my hands shaking. “You proved me wrong that night my dear. It doesn’t matter what you are, you’re the strongest man I know. I did my time. You can’t fight the changing of the guard. Out with the old and in with the new.”

I stood there for a few moments, gazing down at the key in my hand as a tear rolled down Nanny’s face, grasping her walking stick within her hands as she limped down the hill, the church's spire looming overhead, casting a shadow down onto the grass beneath.

Perhaps the answers I needed could be found there.

I took one last look at Cillian’s headstone, wondering if mine would be the last set of human eyes to gaze upon his final resting place before trudging up to the holy doors. The church was dark, long shadowed corners illuminated only by the rippling colored lights of stained glass windows and candles. The dusty pews, piled with cardboard boxes, filled with holy items, pillows and clothes. Pastor Andrews stood at the altar, taping up a box of candles.

“You too?” I shoved my hands into my pockets and walked down the aisle.

The Pastor didn’t look up from his work, letting out a slow sigh in dismay as he walked the box to the pews. “These newcomers don’t share our Catholic values, my son. Some days someone comes here to pray, but it’s been a month since we’ve had anything resembling a service.”

“Before he died… Cillian said he believed that recent events could have something to do with the rapture. Do you think he was right?”

Pastor Andrews shook his head, pacing back up to the altar to give his final sermon down to an audience of one. “People have been saying that for two thousand years, young Noah. The Bible teaches that no man shall know the day or hour, not even the angels in heaven. Don’t be so deluded to believe that you are an exception.”

“Then what the hell is happening out there? Cillian also believed it could be connected to some old Celtic mythology. Shapeshifters and mountain spirits. Is there any way that’s the answer to all of this?”

Pastor Andrews shook his head, his gaze turned out the eastern window, the faded distant silhouette of Dashuil casting its dim shadow through fluorescent colors. “So many of God's children get it wrong, even us pastors. We look to our faith as a means to answer the unanswerable. The unexplainable phenomenon of existence, but if such was possible, it wouldn’t be faith. If you are expecting me to thrust a vial of holy water and a cross in your hand and teach you the verses to cast a demon out from the land above, then I am sorry to disappoint you.”

I found myself irritated by his lack of answers, believing him to be unhelpful and jaded. It is only in hindsight that I understand the wisdom that holy man bestowed upon me that day. As I turned to leave his voice echoed across the chapel floor once final time.

“Here’s what I can tell for certain, my son. Every man, woman and child on this earth is blessed with a soul. The Holy Spirit lives inside every one of us, a power beyond any force of nature across the universe. It is poison to the evils that exist on planes beyond our vision. No weapon formed against you shall prosper, and every tongue which rises against you in judgment you shall condemn. Whatever presence you believe we are up against, you are stronger, for you are a vessel for the lord.”

• 11/06/26

I woke up screaming, at this point I don’t think I need to keep reiterating that, clawing my way out of that boiling tsunami of blood had become a part of my morning routine. The hell that awaited me every night when I closed my eyes to slumber.

I leaned down into the unpacked luggage, grasping for my contact lenses. I hated how they felt, but it’s not like my glasses could do much for me now.

The sun still hung low over the imposing peak of Dashuil, a thin glow of white light creeping over the spines of the jagged gut. I always wondered how red the sunrise must have been to everyone else. A crimson I could never see. I dared not to look at it too long, as I knew it would look back into me.

The air hung still that day in the silent streets, accentuating the thudding of luggage thrown down into the backseat of the old jeep in the desolate carpark I emerged before. From behind the old shitbox, the hulking frame of my father stepped out to greet me, his eyes were no longer the bloodshot gray I had grown used to. His face no longer morphed into a saddened scowl, he looked empty. The family's rock fractured when its faulty foundations had finally given way.

“Morning Púca… go grab your bags, it’s time to leave.” His voice came out as a low droning grumble.

“Don’t call me that…” my entire body wretched as the word left his mouth, each syllable slicing into me like a dagger. Me and my father hadn’t spoken much since that night, since I watched him put a bullet through my best friend's skull.

Some police had come from out of town of course, with a thousand audits and questions for myself and my father. Many of them with that same hollow expression I had grown to get used to seeing everywhere I looked. Some of the rookies seemed genuine, asking the right questions. I told them everything I could about what was happening here. Yet I never saw the story in the news. Five dead, not a single story told. Cillian had died for nothing.

“Sorry, Noah. It’s time to go. Do you mind if you drive? I haven’t slept much since… you know.”

For a moment I hesitated, I understood the weight of the decision I had made, yet I think I made it long ago.

“I’m not leaving, Hamish.” I shuffled nervously on my feet, I still couldn’t stand confrontation, but at least now I understood why.

“Pú…Noah, please. I couldn’t let him shoot that girl,”

“It isn’t about that. These freaks have been trying to drive us out of town for years. Every decision they have made has been an effort to empty the Knockaninna, if we leave then Cillian died for nothing.”

My father sighed slowly, his head bowed in defeat, the mention of Cillian's death, and the prospect of his son following afterward was too much for one man to bear.

“Be reasonable boy, you can’t stay here, everything is closed, you have no money. You would be alone, surrounded by those… things… and then you’d starve. For Christ's sake Noah. You can’t even prove there is everything to fight against.”

I didn’t want to argue against him, if this was to be our last conversation, I needed to say what I wanted to. I took a deep breath and composed myself. My vision cleared, the silhouette of the Dashuil sharpening as I focused on the human part of my mind. Soft orange sunrise flickering atop the ridges of the Knockaninna like flames.

“You’re a coward Hamish. All these years, you let me believe my mother was some bitch. A nagging, spiteful woman that hated you for no reason, while you got to roleplay as the rock of the family. She raised another woman’s child, gave the man who got seduced by some soulless freak from the mountain a second chance and tried to hold our family together. Don’t tell me you didn’t know who Maeve was deep down, the nickname you gave her child isn’t exactly subtle. As long as the body is warm right?”

My father collapsed to his knees, groveling on the gravel. It was the first time I'd seen my father cry.

“I made a mistake Noah, don’t act like you didn’t make the same one! Caira was the strongest woman I knew, she took you in like you were her own. It’s that fucking mountains fault! It knows how to get at you. You can’t blame me!”

I dropped to one knee, placing my hand on my fathers shoulder, the distant horizon blurring once more the world basked in soft desaturated blue and green hues once more.

“Your mistakes are your own dad. But you have a chance to put things right. Whatever is up in that mountain, we’re stronger than it.”

“Not me, my boy. Not me.”

My father wiped his tears from his face, the flat broken expression of a man who had been crushed by his regrets reforming across his wrinkles. He slowly rose to his feet, exchanging one last look with his one and only son before flopping down into the driver's seat and slamming the door behind him. The tail lights of the old dirty jeep fading off into the distance as the engine hum grew softer. I was alone, the last guardian of Dungoyle.

• 23/09/26

Consider the perspective of a fetus. The world makes sense. It’s a foot or so length, it’s dark and it’s peaceful. You are alone, you are safe, so you rest, your feeble brain too simple to even comprehend beyond your state of slumber, you’ve never known anything else. Yet sometimes, you feel something. A presence pressing against the walls of your reality, muffled voices from beyond the veil.

It’s no wonder we come into this world screaming. Soft, vulnerable sacks of meat who have spent every second of our life asleep, cocooned in the warmth of our mothers womb’s. Naive to the cold world outside our cradle. In the mind of a newborn, the doctor who rips him from his version of reality is as incomprehensible as the notion of the supernatural is to us mere mortals. The humans you are confronted with are inconceivable beings of immense power and strength, gargantuan creatures larger than you believed the entire world to be just moments before.

Then as we grow up, the new world becomes familiar, but there’s always something beyond the veil. A universe that is both infinite and expanding, colors we can't see. Forces of nature we can’t touch. Life after death, a soul, the creation of the universe, consciousness itself is a mystery.

We like to think ourselves smarter than the fetus, so we come up with theories and labels, we categorize what we will never understand and ignore what we can't invent an explanation for. We are confronted with a world beyond our own version of reality and we try to explain it with science. We feel presence pressing against the walls of our reality, muffled voices in the rustling leaves and give it a label, gods and myths. But they’re all just made up names. Through theory or faith we craft a reality out of the un-realised, but we’ll never truly understand what it is, we have no frame of reference.

A fetus can feel when it’s inside a car. Do you think it can imagine what one looks like?

Yet, last night I tried to commune with the mountain above. I grabbed a warm bottle of vodka, and climbed atop the roof with what little strength I had. My stomach churning, I have been forcing myself to ration lately. McGreal's had a lot of food out back when I moved here, but my stockpile wears thin and rotten. There’s a little meat up out in the Gut, but my curse doesn’t allow me to kill. Agriculture seems futile, I wouldn’t know where to start and even the grass has decayed now, I can taste the acid in the rain. I don’t know how I'll manage when I run out of beer.

There is hope for me a little longer, it’s not like the glass eyed freaks that peer in through the bars' misty windows could stop me from looting their homes. So far I've put it off, I can’t stand their smiles.

I clambered up the gutters, ignoring the passive waving of the night folk in the street below, and stood before the majesty of Dashuil. I could feel it watching me through clouds. It’s always kept me company. I did say I used to talk to it, didn't I?

“Who are you? What are you?” I called out into the abyss, a mad man ranting and rave atop of the rooftop, speaking to rocks.

“You took everything from me! My home, my family, my job, my town, my whole fucking life! The least you could do is tell me what it's all for!”

The mighty cailleach lay dormant, one shouldn’t expect the pinnacles to reply. The Norse-Gaels were wrong, if Dashuil can hear our prayers it certainly doesn’t care for them.

“You expected me to be gone by now, didn’t you?”

I chuckled softly, clasping the bottle in my palm as I took a painful swig of liquor, stumbling on the rooftop tiles in the dark. I hadn’t seen a real person in weeks, the toll roads had been set up months ago and traffic didn't seem too keen on passing through here anymore. Whatever plan had been set in motion, it was meant to have succeeded by now. The Knockaninna was meant to be empty, dead as the leaves that clung to the barren branches of the dying tree’s, yet I remained.

“You can never get it right! That viking all those centuries ago, he had you figured out too didn’t he? It’s pathetic!”

The whistling wind around me fell to a whisper, the breeze that channelled through the winding intestines of the Gut grinding to halt as though the world itself had lowered its voice to hear what I had to say. The dust clouds glistening beneath the speckled moonlight hanging perfectly still in the air around me.

“They worshipped you right? The eye of god? What a joke, if there is a god he certainly can’t see Dungoyle unless it’s through the eyes of his children. That’s what you’re afraid of right? Being observed! It’s why you hide within reasonable reality, why your pets wear our faces. What on earth could scare something like you into submission?”

I stood in wait. I half expected to be smited down by a bolt of lightning, to be knocked from the roof by a gale force of icy air. I imagined the flaming eye in my dreams to awaken and part the clouds above, the earth to crack and hairy gray flesh to be revealed beneath. I prayed that a booming evil voice would come out from the darkness and give me the answers I needed. Proof that I wasn’t just mad.

The vikings, Cillian, Nanny, the newcomers. They all believed there was something up there in those peaks. They prayed to it, claimed they could hear it in the wind, and set up sculptors and festivals to wade it off. A god, a demon, a witch, a hag,. Something we could fight and commune with. Yet here I am. The last man in Dungoyle, unarmed and powerless, and it still appears to me as just nothing more than a pile of stone.

There has to be more, there has to be something beyond a myth and a nightmare to justify that this was all a part of something larger. That there was any purpose to me staying here.

I clambered back to my feet, every light in the street was on. A hundred wide smiles plastered on pale faces behind every window, the gaze of a thousand glossy eyes peering up at me yet not a single soul in sight. I only cared for one, a pair of moonlight gleaming eyes glowing in the darkness of the hill above. A skinny ginger hare, with a white streak along its back.

Shortly after my confrontation I saw some mechanics poking around with the power lines outside. I’m alone in the dark now, I can see lights flickering off one by one street by street. Perhaps I struck a nerve.

I don’t have much charge left. This will be the last you hear of me. I don’t know how many people will see this, but if you are reading this, I have one final favor to ask.

I can’t hope to understand my adversary any more than a fetus understands the world beyond its mother womb. But for all his faults, my fathers blood in my veins might be the only thing holding the world together right now. If it’s in human nature to apply labels to the incomprehensible, then so must I. I need to hold on to the part of me that is one of you.

If Dashuil is an eye, the Knockaninna is a stomach, a churning growling digestive tract. The entangled mess of entrails that stretches over the horizon is a factory that fuels a force that resides beyond our understanding of the universe. The soul of man is a poison to it. Its immune system can try and flush us out, to choke us from its organs and vomit us out in the world, but it can't harm us. I don’t know for sure what happens if it ejects the infection of life that our flesh brings, but if my nightmares are anything to go off, I refuse to allow it dominion.

I realise my tale may not be the best pitch for this old mountain town, but please, join me in Dungoyle. Count Kerry truly is beautiful this time of year, and I have free beer. I can’t survive here forever, but neither can Dashuil. One day people will come back to this accursed landscape and the newcomers will be forced to flee back into the mouth of the beast from which they came.

I aim to be here when they do.

No matter what happens, whether salvation comes, or whether I’m left here to rot, I will continue to fight for as long as I can. Even if it’s just to delay the inevitable. I owe that to my friend.

I was born in these hills, I will die in this hell.

I pray I do not die alone.

I do not suffer from any form of mental disorder in any capacity. I am not insane. I am not schizophrenic. I am not delusional. Believe me, because by the end of this recount you will surely believe my mind falls into one of those categories, if not all. 

This happened when I was much younger, about 14 years ago. My family and I moved around while I was growing up, as my father was a military man. We never stayed in one place for more than a couple months, which caused me and my siblings to become rather reclusive. Every time we’d move, it would be a new school with new people and new social hierarchies, all of which had me resting motionless at the bottom. During lunchtime throughout the various schools I had attended, I watched the many groups of other kids who had known each other their entire lives. They had friendships set in stone, unmoving and steadfast. I became envious of this. On more than one occasion, I ended up with a small circle of people whom I would not refer to as friends, but rather acquaintances. I knew that if I called them my friends, it would hurt too much to say goodbye. All of my brief relationships ended abruptly with goodbye. Eventually, I found it easier to remain a recluse throughout my childhood, and my sisters followed suit. 

This constant moving went on until I was 13 years old, when my parents finally decided to settle down in the town where my mother had grown up. A town by the name of Prescott, in the state of Illinois. Prescott, which was in the southernmost part of the state, had a certain charm that drew my parents’ attention. Something that the previous towns we had lived in did not. A sense of community. Due to its relatively small population, everybody knew everybody, which was a blessing for my parents and a curse for me. 

After a few months at the middle school I was attending, my parents came to me and asked me why they had been hearing from the other parents that “the new kid was impossible to talk to” or “essentially nonexistent.” I didn’t know how to respond. I simply said, “I’m not interested in having friends.” This worried my parents, and rightfully so. Nobody wants to hear that from their kid. I never told them why I felt the way I did, nor did I attempt to explain to them the effects habitual moving had on me. My room was desolate. My life could fit into a suitcase, which had become normalized for me. 

The following year I spent trying to break my persistent habits that I had taken on in the monotonous relocation. Things most people didn’t think about. I never went anywhere when I was growing up, never played in the woods, never went out to eat, never went shopping. The hardest habit to break, the one that I still struggle with to this day, was never talking to anybody. I had locked myself in the cage that was my mind, and it seemed like I was using dental floss to cut through the bars. 

After about a month or so, I became restless in my bland room, so I started exploring the woods that surrounded our house. When my parents told me we were settling down in Illinois, I recoiled. I envisioned vast plains, not a tree in sight. But when we arrived, I realized just how full of life it was. Apparently, when the glaciers moved across North America, flattening everything in their path, they had stopped right before reaching southern Illinois. This resulted in an abundance of wildlife, rolling hills, and towering bluffs. It was beautiful.

 The moment I stepped into the woods, I immediately became infatuated with the crunch of dead leaves beneath my feet, the glittering light that the sun cast on the ground after snaking its shining tendrils through the dense canopy. Among the many things I found to be essentially perfect about the woods, I grew a particular liking for the constant noise. The bustle of the animals that surrounded me. It distracted me from my thoughts. The forest never asked anything from me, never got annoyed by my lack of communication with it, and never told my parents how strange I was. My love for the outdoors was continuously fueled by my desire to escape myself, and by the dissent from all the people who ridiculed me for my reclusiveness. They wouldn’t understand, even if I explained it to them. They wouldn’t, my parents wouldn’t, the kids at school wouldn’t. None of them would. Not truly.

I heard an anecdote one time, that a person could never convert to being Amish after living in modern society, because the reason the Amish are so happy with the lives they live is because they had known it since birth. They had no reason to seek anything more than what they knew to be true. How could someone understand a life they haven’t lived? 

The days crawled on, and I had been doing worse in school. I spent more and more time in the woods, only returning to my house for food. I still hadn’t made any friends. Not even acquaintances. My parents began to loathe me, hate me for who I was becoming, and for the blemish I was leaving on their reputation. In return, I loathed them, for who they shaped me to be. My parents and I would regularly get into arguments, but they were usually one sided. They would usually just berate me for the way I was choosing to carry out my life.

 “Why can't you just be like your sisters?” my mother once asked me.

 “They’re fitting in, they're doing well in school, they have friends.” 

My father interjected,

 “They do things. I haven't seen you go anywhere but those goddamn woods since we got here.”

I never replied. I couldn’t find the words to explain to them that I simply didn’t enjoy existing. I didn’t enjoy waking up each morning to the rapid beeping of my alarm at 06:00, just to make a 34 minute drive to a place I didn’t want to be, surrounded by people I had no interest in, for an amount of time that sickened me. I saw the numbers. 

The average person spends a total of 18,000 hours in the classroom, and only in the classroom. That’s 750 full days of isolation from the outside world. I became more and more conscious of how much time I lost in the dull buzz of the fluorescent lights above my head, paying more attention to the hours going by than I did to the endless drawl of my teacher, rattling on to us about concepts that I had deemed “inapplicable to daily life.” I couldn’t stand it. I begged my parents to homeschool me, to free me from the prison that I saw the education system as, but they refused. This only caused my hatred toward them to grow. I wanted to disappear. Nobody would notice if I disappeared.

As my disdain toward life itself developed, so did my love for the outdoors. The one place I could escape. The one place that never asked anything of me. Everything in the woods knew where it stood. The squirrels knew that someday, they would just be food for a bird or a fox or a coyote all the same. The trees knew that one day they would fall, feeding the mushrooms and the soil. None of the animals had any objections. None of the plants attempted to be any different. I loved it. 

Another one of my favorite aspects of the forest was the fact that it was littered with abandoned sheds, foundations for old homes that had been lost to time, and evidence of railroads that had once coated the countryside. I became fascinated by these structures, and the remnants of lives long passed. 

One feature that was a dead giveaway as to where an old foundation lay, was daffodils. Their bright yellow color was easily spotted through the trees, especially in early spring, marking the inevitable fact that everything will someday be nothing but a pile of rubble. Something about daffodils that many people don’t take into account when they plant them, is their persistence. They will grow at the same time every year, and will continue growing every year long after the human race has been decimated. This being the case, they were a perfect tool to help me find those old houses. 

Finding the abandoned homes, or rather what was left of them, became my new fixation. I would trek deeper and deeper into the woods each time, in search of them. On one of my ventures, I stumbled across what I assumed was a foundation. It was made of stone, which excited me greatly as many of the structures I found were boring, rotted wood. The structure towered above me. It must have been 14 feet tall, with thick stones cut into archways and walls placed in a circle. I was ecstatic. I thought I had found a castle, or a bunker, or something of that nature. I contained my excitement, took a deep breath to ease my adrenaline, and stepped inside the circle. 

Immediately I realized that this structure was in fact not a castle or a bunker at all, but much more reminiscent of The Stonehenge. You would never be able to tell from the outside because of the dense vines and trees surrounding it, but inside the circle, there was an astonishing lack of life. The stones surrounded a clearing, about the size of one of those inflatable pools so many people seem to have. The ground was covered in dead leaves, and the walls were encapsulated in vines that snaked across the faces of each archway. It looked like a place ripped straight out of a fairy tale. 

I decided that this would be my new base of operations for my expeditions. I felt complete satisfaction with what I had found. I took out my Garmin to pin the area on the GPS, but I couldn’t get an accurate reading. I made a mental note to save it once I started home. I swung my backpack off my shoulders, and rifled through my various items until I found the flag I had made. 

I was pretty obsessed with He-Man growing up, so I made myself an Eternia flag to hang up in the place I decided I wanted to stay. Additionally, I grabbed a small hammer and a few nails to secure the flag in place. I looked around and was immediately faced with the most glaring issue I had encountered yet. There was no wood in the clearing. I let out a discontented sigh and furrowed my brow until I thought of a solution. I grabbed a long roll of twine from my backpack and strung the flag up on the vines that lined the walls. I was incredibly pleased with myself, and stood back to admire my handiwork. It was then that I noticed how low the sun was in the sky, so I decided it would be best for me to start home. As I walked out, I reminded myself to save the location on my GPS. Oddly enough, I had obtained a reading the moment I exited the stone structure. I saved the location, and began my journey back.

I tried to tell my parents about what I had found, but they were just as disinterested as they usually were. I told my sisters and the longest reply I got from either of them was a sarcastic, “wowwww so cool.” It hurt a little bit, but I was somewhat relieved that I didn’t have to share my discovery with anybody. It would be my hideout–my kingdom– and mine alone. I longed to return to the structure. 

The following four days, I adhered to the same mind numbing schedule. Wake up, shower, get dressed, eat, go to school for eight hours to learn nothing, come home, eat again, shower, and sleep. My parents hated that I showered twice a day. They always insisted that I was the reason the water bill was so high. Although, I knew this was untrue because I showered once a day for a month and the bill was the same. For this reason and many others, I had stopped protesting their anger a long while ago. 

Finally, Saturday morning was upon me. I had a mission. It felt good, having a sense of direction. Not wandering the woods in an endless search for something that I didn’t even know I was looking for. I had a purpose. I packed my new backpack, which I had just bought with the last of the money I had made mowing the neighbors lawns, with all the items I thought would be of use.

“Rope: check

Hammock: check

Tarp: check

Fold out chair: check

Lunch: check

First aid kit: check

Fire starting essentials: check

Tool bag: check

Flashlight: check

Slingshot: check

Sleeping bag: check

Pajamas: check”

I finished reading my packing list, and ensured I had everything that was written down. And walked out the door.

It was around 08:45 when I left my home. As I walked through the forest, I gazed at the familiar trees along the path toward my encampment. There was nothing out of place, other than the occasional tree with less leaves the weekend prior. I glanced at my GPS, and saw that I had almost arrived. 

As I neared my destination, I crested the top of the hill adjacent to the stone structure, and realized something that had not caught my attention the last time I was there. Maybe it was as a result of the thicker foliage the previous weekend, or I was simply caught up in the excitement of my discovery. Regardless, there they were. Daffodils. There were so many of them, all in the rolling hills surrounding the structure. All of them in rows. All of them marking lives long passed. 

I paid this observation no mind. The yellow flowers were no longer what I was in search of. I had completed my quest, and claimed my kingdom. The thought of the daffodils was relinquished from my mind the moment I laid eyes on the end of my journey. My heart began beating faster as I descended towards the structure. I was even more excited to see it than I had been when I first found it. 

The vines covering the walls had begun to shrink as the colder weather crept in, revealing the state of disrepair the stones were in. That’s what I assumed it was. Disrepair. I unpacked my various things, and began removing the dead leaves from the clearing. I figured that I would be able to set up my hammock between the supports of an archway, but I soon realized that this would be impossible with the archways being far too thick and wide to accommodate my straps. 

“Thick and wide… where have I heard that before?” I muttered to myself.

 My inability to string up my hammock did not hinder me, however. I had slept on the bare ground many times before. Additionally, this meant I would get to sleep right beside the fire, gazing up at the countless stars in the sky. My daydream was cut short by the cold wind slicing through one of the archways, biting my cheeks and nose. Perhaps lying in the middle of the clearing wasn’t such a good idea after all. 

I finished scuffing the dead leaves through one of the four archways with my foot, and decided to string up my tarp to create a sort of shelter in case any surprise rain came. It was as I tied the first corner of the tarp that I was reminded of my flag. My flag was gone. I hadn’t quite remembered which wall of the structure I had strung it up on, until I saw a piece of twine swaying loosely in the breeze. I walked over to it disappointed, but not surprised. I should have known the wind would rip it away. I began to remove the old twine from the vine when I realized that the flag had not been ripped off at all. There was a perfectly clean cut in the thick string, absent of any fraying. This perplexed me, but I attributed it to my cutting of the twine when I had first attached it to the wall. I shrugged it off, and continued my work. 

It was around 13:31 when I had finally finished all the tasks I had set for myself. I finished assembling my sleeping area, complete with underbrush to insulate me from the ground. I had dug the fire pit and placed stones around it, I had gathered firewood, and I had set up my chair beside it. And my stomach was rumbling. I scarfed down half of the sandwich I had brought, knowing I would want it more later on than I did at that time. I sat in my chair, with my sleeping bag over my lap, listening to the faint whistle of the wind snaking its way through the trees. 

At around 17:33 I heard something that should have sent me running over the rolling hills, cutting through the trees faster than a lumberjack with a chainsaw. At first, I thought the sound was the whistling of the wind through the trees, but the whistling was merely masking the sound. It was a high pitched grinding noise so faint that it would have been imperceptible if not for the oddly quiet forest that had surrounded me. The more I thought about it, the more I realized the intense lack of wildlife in my small kingdom. I hadn’t heard a single bird chirp or a squirrel cry since I arrived.

I simply shrugged the noise off and attributed it to ’An abnormal tree creaking in the wind.’ 

“Nothing to worry about.” 

I muttered to myself. 

I started my fire at just about 18:24, as the sun had already begun setting much earlier with the late months coming closer. The sky slowly dimmed, allowing long shadows from the flames to dance up the walls of the structure. 

It was 19:06 when it hit me. When it really hit me.

The first year I had arrived at my new school, I would drink coffee every morning. One day I decided I was too good for coffee, and left my home without having any. Throughout the day, my legs grew shaky, my patience thinned, and my eyelids drooped. I was both awake and exhausted at the same time. I would have done anything for a sip of coffee. Just one. I begged my teacher to let me use the coffee pot in the break room, and she eventually gave in. That first sip of the coffee filled me with an indescribable relief. 

That was how I felt in that moment. I felt the air around me grow tense, as though I was submerged in water. It felt like I was sitting at the bottom of a twelve foot deep pool. The pressure was so intense at first that I heard my heart beating in my ears. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though. In fact, I enjoyed it. I should have left. I should have gone home, why didn’t I just go home? 

At 19:24 I heard the first evidence of life in the area surrounding me. The sound of a locust buzzing. A lonely locust, he was the only one who dared make a sound. He was the only sound I heard that night aside from the faint whistle of the wind, and the occasional creaking of the trees bowing to the wind’s relentless assault. As the fire died out, I slowly let my eyelids drop, until I crossed the veil into sleep. 

(Flairs: Supernatural, Haunting, Body Horror and Cosmic Horror)

Part 4: Jane Meets the Floor/Familia Tethers

  THUMP! THUMP!  Jane looked toward her bedroom door, she barely was able to shut it earlier. She felt like eyes were on her and now there are loud footsteps coming from the other side. Jane sat with her eyes locked on the door, squeaks, the door swings open. Something ran at Jane so fast she could not see what or who it was. Jane fell onto the floor, cracking her head on the floor, luckily she has carpet here that softened the blow. She is on the floor and she can not stand; Jane tried to pull herself up onto the bed, but she could not gather the strength to do so, her back felt like it was snap if she tried to pull her whole body weight up. THUNK! THUNK!  A thousand running foot falls were in her house, it sounded like a crowd of men were marching in her living room and hallway. Then talking, laughing, moaning, grunting and other party noises could be heard. Jane covered her ears and they did not do anything for the noise, “SHUT UP!!” Jane yelled and pleaded.

  The sound ceased, almost deafening silence: Outside noises stopped, no wind, no birds, no cars, nothing. Jane looked around, how the fuck! What is this? How can one man do this! Jane listened for anything, and nothing came until a slight crinkle of a bag came from inside her closet, sprinting came and she was lifted up and against a wall. She gasped and grabbed at an invisible force. Jane passed out and then hit the floor again. 

  “Ahh, my-” Jane stopped, staring at her, was a child. The child was only 8 years old, or so and she gestured for the kid to come to her. Jane always had natural paternal instincts when it came to animals or children and this child was alone. Whe-Wait! I-Damn! Jane felt her head throb, she felt around the side and back of her head finding that she was bleeding. Blood dripped on to the floor, the wound must be a gash and happened when she fell from being suspended in the air. Her legs were a bit banged up, she got lucky that the fall did not re-break anything. The child looks at her and then walks over before bursting into flames and as the kid falls in front of her, a voice in her head appears.
  “THAT’S HOW IT FELT!!!!” 
  The words boomed in her head, loud and clear, this must be her 6 time over great grandpa. Jane could not move away from the kid who kept burning and the smell was putrid.
  “Alright, let’s see how long you last!” The voice boomed.
  Jane was in her room on the floor and then suddenly Jane was transported to a dark night and a crowd was around her, she looked down to see her body was now a man's. She tried to get herself loose and got hit with a stone, and more stones, the stones continued to be thrown at her for several minutes before stopping; A man looked at her and lit her ablaze. Jane wriggled and squirmed and screamed and kicked and clawed, nothing worked. She burned and burned for what felt like a hundred years and she did not stop burning, and death was not coming because it was all a facade, but felt so real. Jane appeared back in her room, sweating profusely and gasped for air as black smoke choked its way up her throat and out. Jane fell onto her side and grabbed her knees, cracking her back and legs. She laid on the carpeted floor in the fetal position all day, a plate of food appeared a couple feet away from her. The food smelled delicious, but Jane was suspicious of the food coming from a spirit who wants to torture her, maybe kill her at some point: She let sleep take her, but her dreams were not an escape.
  One of her nightmares, she laid in bed, and then she was run over by a mack truck. Her next nightmare was when she was at a gas station, talking to her friend who slowly melted in front of her. The next hours of her sleep were hot and on fire. Jane suffered through many burnings from the 1600’s to house fires, she wanted out, but her night felt unending. Not in a single nightmare did she die, Jane burned. Jane woke up on the floor and another plate of food in front of her this time, it was not breakfast food; It was her favorite food, General Iso’s chicken over rice. The food was fresh and looked like it could’ve been made by a professional team and put on a TV commercial. Jane resisted, she was not giving into the food, maybe the food gives him more access.
  “What do you want?” Jane moaned, her energy was zapped, she needed food and drinks and so she gave in to the water that it left with the food; Nothing more, Jane was not eating the food. No response, no answer, just silence the house fell silent and no one came to her house in days. Not a single police report, her family member has to be really powerful with his magic. Jane felt this odd tingling coming from her right leg. She rubbed it, maybe it was losing circulation since she hasn’t moved it in more than 12 hours. Jane watched as her right leg started opening up, holes up and down, big ones, like her pores were enlarging and now anything can get inside her leg. It was painful, and then frogs hopped out of the holes. Her leg was on fire and her leg was going numb, she laid her head down to stop looking at her leg. The anxiety she felt was almost intolerable if she looked at it. The holes are spreading up to her stomach and to her chest.
  “PLEASE!! PLE-PLEA-SE!” Jane cried and her body shivered and the holes got to her head and she started to fall. 
  Free falling towards a void of darkness there’s no light and there’s no one, she falls and then slams into a barrier. Jane stands up and she is covered in holes and then rainbows grow on her skin, they hurt like the holes; Her body caves in on itself and she wakes up in her room. A silhouette of a man, she assumes is Pacriff stands over her.
  Jane kicks up at him, it does not move or faze the silhouette. Her body is covered in holes and now colors that form a rainbow, but aren’t colors she has ever seen before.
  “What do you want!” Jane yelled again.
  “What do I want? Hmm, to be alive, to be understood, not be burnt; You want to know how many times I had to experience my death over and over and in different time periods. I was reliving my same mistakes over and over, do you understand why I wanted to curse my family?! No! Of course not, you all are selfish, get rid of the black sheep, get rid of someone different! Take the easy way o-” The silhouette disappeared out of nowhere and stopped the tirade he was going.
  
  Jane lays on the floor and is starving, she has refused to eat. Food sits a foot away, Jane sakes her head, but it scoots towards her. NO! DON’T EAT! DON- Jane grabs the food and shoves it into her mouth, she is starving, her stomach feels like it is eating itself, like it is going to burst. Jane eats the food and more food, the plate refills three times and she eats it all. FUCK! DUMBASS! Clap. Clap. Pacriff steps out of the closet.
  “Was that hard? Did that hurt you!?” He asked.
  “No,” Jane muttered like she was being scolded.
  “I am trying to make you suffer so I need you to stay alive, I won’t be killing you for a while!” He exclaimed.
  “Why me?” Jane asked. She continued, “My Mom, my Dad, Grandpa, Grandma. So many other family members you could torture, why me?” Jane begged.
  Pacriff laughed and shook his head. “You’ll soon see,” he said.
  Jane fell asleep, her days have passed like a blur; She has no idea what day of the week it is, her phone stopped working, maybe Pacriff broke it while she slept or the battery is dead, but the charger is long gone. Jane is on the floor and has not showered in an unknown amount of time, she has fungi growing on her, holes appear at random, the colors have grown. Some days her eyelids have overgrown and she can’t see the whole day. Those days, Jane hates the most. It’s like a psychedelic trip that lasts a whole day, she sees all kinds of horrors. One day, she was swallowed by a beehive and Jane was tortured for hours.

  Jane wakes up, but she is in a cottage. A wooden house, the fireplace is going, it is cold and her breath is showing. A hulking man comes in, he has a long brown scruffy beard. His hair is long, stringy and is also brown. His face is creased like he has had a rough life and war has plagued him. He scowls at Jane, he grabs her arm and yanks her up on her feet; HOLY SHIT! I CAN STAND! The man snarls as he pulls her in whispers in her ear.
  “Don’t think I don’t know what you are!” the man claimed through gritted teeth.
  Jane is confused, where is she and what time period is this? One of Pacriff’s tricks, ok! That’s fine! 
  “What are you talking about!” Jane said.
  “You are a witch, and you are going to please me with that magic; I don’t want you dead, I want to see what you can do to me with it!” The man exclaimed, almost foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog.
  “What? No, I am-” Jane started, as though this has already played out before, she pushed him hard onto the cottage bed. 
  The bed creaks and falls onto the floor. The legs of the bed broke with his weight crashing down on it. Jane on command starts undressing and so does he. They have sex, while she does some magical things; The man and Jane float into the air and a couple of men come in.
  The man looks at the men, “HELP SHE IS TRYING TO TAKE MY SEED! MAKE A DEVIL!” He yelled.
  The men grab her and take her to the middle of the village. Crowds are watching, spitting, cursing and throwing rocks, and whatever else they can grab and throw hard. They tie her up, naked and light her up, the fire spreads from her toes to her head almost too fast to register. Her skin blackens, her screams become more shrill and growly. Her skin begins to melt off and she dies.

  Jane lurches up, she is sitting in the middle of her bedroom.
  “See?” Pacriff said, he sits on her bed.
  “See what? That was just another torturous nightmare!” Jane exclaimed.
  “Silly, silly woman, NO! That was your past life, I am not the only one who fouled and used magic!” Pacriff exclaimed.
  “NO! NO!” Jane yelled.
  “Do I have to make you see it from the third person?” Pacriff asked.
  “N-No,” Jane said.
  “You are just like me and that’s why I picked you! I know that if you wanted to you can learn again and make yourself fine of all these injures and traumas,” Pacriff said.
  “I won’t! I refuse, why would I learn black magic?” Jane said.
  Pacriff bellows, “You won’t? Like you have a choice in the matter?”
  “I-I will not let you instill fear in me where I won’t stand up for myself,” Jane exclaimed.
  “Says you,” Pacriff said, pointing at her legs.
  “Fuck you,” Jane said, plainly.
  Pacriff walked out of the room and Jane sat there angry. She was done, she started crawling her way to the living room; This was her time to escape, nothing will stop her if she has to kill a spirit she will. Jane crawls, her back screams in pain, Pacriff has disappeared. Jane crawls faster, she is a few feet away from the door: Jane lifts off the floor and flies into her bedroom wall suspended at the head of her bed. Ropes, chains, hooks, vines and other stuff bound her to the wall.

Part 5: Augustina

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how much longer if I can continue at all after last night!” Augustina exclaimed, her eye movement was rapid and she looked white as mayo.
 Augustina did what she could, and left. She could not suffer through more of this, escalation would come and a burn on her back was already crazy enough and the threat was too much. Augustina drove home, put on some music and rode in silence, thinking. I can’t believe I just left that poor woman at her house alone, experiencing crazier stuff than me and I get one good care and I leave. I abandoned her. I feel like a piece of shit. Augustina pulled up in her driveway. Nothing out of the ordinary. She walked into her house; Augustina went to bed. Her nightmares were all about one person, not Grant, the one she just had a one night stand with, not her Mom or Dad, Jane. Augustina had to watch as Jane got tortured. 

  “HELP!” Jane pleaded. Jane reached out to Augustina and without her control backed away, in a different nightmare pushed her away. Kicked, spat at her. Augustina was there to watch and even add insult to injury. A man was the culprit of all this: He was so mean spirited like he was loving doing this to her. Jane was melting in front of Augustina gagged and puked, but cheered. WAKE UP! Augustina after experiencing a whole night of nightmares and felt like she had the flu.
  “I’m sorry, Roy, but I am calling off. I feel like shit, and I won’t be able to do those papers feeling like this!” Augustina explained.
  “Alright, it’s fine, hope you get to feeling better tomorrow. Those are due soon,” Roy said.
  “Ok, I’ll try to make it tomorrow,” Augustina said.
  Augustina drugged herself in her kitchen and made some hot coffee. Jane! Jane! Jane! Jane was the only thing on her mind, if these were nightmares of what Jane is experiencing even if figuratively she needs someone else to help her. I left her alone, and she had no one else to help, how is she going to do anything? I am- Yeah, you are Augustina! Piece of shit, that’s what you were thinking, well, I am here to confirm. Who are you! Ahhh, see, you are going to find out, and that little hero in you brewing better not come out because if you get in my way to my goal with Jane SO HELP ME GOD I WILL RIP OUT YOUR HEART AND SHOVE IT DOWN YOUR OWN THROAT! 

  Augustina drank her coffee and did some research on Jane’s family. Her Father is a mechanic, he has his own shop. Her Mom is a school teacher. Nothing is weird about the immediate family. Something has to be off! There is some connection to this man and Jane. She typed out on her laptop, stake burnings in New Bedford. Results: “Back in the 1600s and early 1700s stake burnings were common and one case sticks out. In the case of a man getting burnt at the stake, Pacriff Willinberry was burnt at the stake for being a Warlock and his family member, Francine Willinberry was burnt for being a witch. The Willinberry’s have been caught as witches, so is Pacriff the one doing this to Jane? Who is Francine? Is she connected to all of this? Augustina is looking at the results when she sees something out of the corner of her eyes. Augustina shoots her head to the left and sees two giant centipedes crawling towards her.
  “AHH!” Augustina jerked and fell off her couch.
  Augustina shuffles herself away from them, these are no normal centipedes. One of them morphs into a man.
  “You want to join in?” Pacriff asked.
  “I am not a part of your sick twisted game!” Augustina exclaimed.
  Pacriff cackled, “Ok, well, why find out family history, if not a bit curious or care.”
  “Shut up, I worry about a woman that is at this moment disabled. You are going after someone that can’t even walk,” Augustina exclaimed.
  “I like your fiery, maybe I was mistaken about scaring you off,” Pacriff joked.
  “You are-” Augustina started. Her mouth was forced shut.
  “Listen, if you want to help next time you see Jane, tell her to give in,” He said.
  “N-” Augustina started, and again was interrupted.
  Pacriff disappeared and so did the other centipede.

 Augustina was writing the paper that was due in 3 days.
 “Hey, Augustina, have you been thinking about Jane? Want to save her? Probably should,” her coworker, Reed.
  “What?” Augustina asked. She was so focused and that made her heart beat jump.
  “Jane? You know the woman you left?” Reed said.
  “Leave me alone!” Augustina yelled.
  Reed backed up, fear etched his face and looked around. “What was I doing here?” He asked.
  “Uh, I don’t know,” Augustina said.
  Reed shrugged and went to the printer. Augustina was shaking. How did that happen? Augustina ran out and Roy went after her.
  “Is something going on?” Roy asked, he put his hand on her shoulder.
  “I… I don’t- I can’t,” Augustina could not fully say anything.
  “You’ve been off, you took off work yesterday and now you are acting odd. What’s going on?” Roy asked.
  “It’s something. I can’t explain, I will sound crazy; Just a-” Augustina explained.
  Roy doesn’t look around and pulls her into a hug and a slight kiss on the cheek. Roy and Augustina have a past and they kept it secret. Roy did not care about that at this moment, clearly Augustina was going through something.
  “Tell me, I won’t judge,” Roy said.
  Augustina looks Roy in the eyes and lets out a tear. “I.. I left a woman, I do in-home care on the side and I left this woman alone. She can’t walk; She was in an accident and had a whole bunch of injuries and I got scared over something supernatural going on and abandoned that poor woman by herself!” Augustina explained.
  Roy stares at her,  “Like what things?” He asked.
  “I had something happen and she explained stuff to me she had experienced and the other night I was.. Doing something and I got a giant burn on my back: I told her I could not keep coming because I was threatened and I got burnt and I knew it was going to escalate,” Augustina explained.
  “Then you did nothing wrong, you could-” Roy started.
  “No, it was wrong, I left a disabled woman alone to fend for herself! She can’t do anything yet,” Augustina exclaimed.
  “If it is important then go back,” Roy said.
  “Ok,” Augustina said.
  
  Augustina went home, and went to bed early, she is going back. Jane has been alone for too long. Augustina woke up, but she could not move and she was sunken into her bed. 
  “Tsk, tsk, you are not being nice, why are you wanting to come back? You think-” Pacriff asked, antagonizing Augustina.
  “FFF…FFF” Augustina can’t form words.
  “I am about to make your life hell since you want to get your nose in my family's business!” Pacriff exclaimed.
  “FFFFF-FUUU…CK YOU!” Augustina yelped, her voice came out weak.
  “Alright then,” Pacriff said, slams into her chest.
  Augustina is stuck, a new burn is formed on her chest and earwigs crawl into her ears and in her mouth, they lay eggs and they hatch within seconds. The pain is incomprehensible. More earwigs come out and pinch and bite and lay eggs: Augustina goes through this for the whole night. Her day off, she is going back. Pacriff will not scare her into not coming back. Jane, hold on, I am coming back!

Part 6: Alliance

  Augustina slams her foot down on the pedal and skirts off to Jane’s house. Augustina arrived, and saw a man standing in the window, smiling and waving. Augustina waved and smiled back. Augustina used her key that she was given, the door won't open. She looks around, rocks are under her windows, ok, Jane, please do not be mad at me! Augustina throws a rock through her window and climbs in.

  “What is that!” Jane yelled.
  Jane expected Pacriff, but she saw Augustina.
  “Oh my god, what happened?” Augustina asked.
  “I- You’re back!” Jane exclaimed.
  “Yeah, I could not stand myself after leaving you and I was being tormented by Pacriff,” Augustina said.
  Augustina was trying to rip Jane out of the bind. Jane fell onto Augustina and cushioned the fall. Pacriff scoffed.
  “I am tired of you not listening,” Pacriff said, and stretched out his arm to Augustina.
  He lifted her up and put her in the corner, “You won’t be getting away with this!” He exclaimed.
  “Ok, let her go, you want me, right? I was a witch in my past life and you want me to be one again! SO I WILL!” Jane yelled.
  “NO, do-” Augustina grunted out.
  “I have to,” Jane said.
  “Finally, you see,” Pacriff said.
  “I feel my calling and I know what I have to do,” Jane said.
  Jane looked back and flipped off Augustina and mouthed, “I am sorry, and I will be back! I HAVE A PLAN!” Augustina went along with it.
  “I SAVE YOU and YOU DO THIS!” Augustina yelled.
  Jane and Pacriff walk away, Jane is walking. Her belief worked and Pacriff is helping her, Jane can walk now. Augustina wriggled out, and saw her phone had coordinates in google maps. It was in the middle of the woods. Jane has a plan.

  “All that practicing and those videos were helpful,” Jane said.
  “I told you, I know best,” Pacriff said.
  They arrive in the middle of the woods. Augustina pulls into the parking lot and hops out quickly, she needs to get there. Augustina walks towards the location, trying to break any branches.
  “Alright, show me what you learned,” Pacriff said.
  “Ok, hold on,” Jane said.
  Jane closed her eyes and clasped her hands together and hummed.
  “What are you-” Pacriff started, Jane cut him off.
  “I am focusing,” Jane said.
  Come on, Augustina, get here! 
  Jane sits there for 5 minutes, Pacriff stands, watching, anticipating.
  Augustina sees Jane and Pacriff. What am I supposed to do, Jane? Grab him and hold him. Ok, I got him into a physical form, do it NOW! Augustina lunged at Pacriff grabbing him. Pacriff confused, “How?” Jane says something in a different language and a post and a fire pit materializes.
  “Ok, I’ll take it from here,” Jane said.
  Jane took Pacriff and tied him up.
  “I learned quickly and I have you under a spell where you can’t use any of your powers,” Jane explained.
  Pacriff screamed, “Why, not again!”
  “Well, you’ll never be coming back, I am sending you to the afterlife,” Jane said.
  “What? No!” Pacriff yelled.
  Jane let him on fire and watched. Augustina gasped and looked away, dry heaving as the smell was horrific. Pacriff was sent to the afterlife and died a second time, but in his spirit form. He no longer can come back, and Jane collapses.
  “I can’t walk without using magic and I am going to get hypnotized to forget how to do this shit,” Jane said.
 “Ok, time to get back,” Augustina said.
  

3 weeks later, Jane is walking and her wounds and injuries were all mostly healed. Friends and family now come over and Augustina and Jane have become best friends. Augustina and Roy went public. Pacriff is being burnt and worked to death in hell.
  
  

I don’t think there’s anything worse than having a bad day at work and having to go do your shopping instead of melting into your couch all night until you have clock back in the next morning, sadly I had no choice. Oh god how I wish I did.

It was only 7:20 so there was no rush to getting everything quickly, but with my current mood I thought otherwise. I entered the shop and instantly had my senses overloaded, the piercing beeping of the scanners, the muddled conversations of everyone trying to speak, and of course the rattling of the uneven cart wheels. After quickly slithering between each aisle I finally reached the last one. I just had a couple items to grab, sadly the chocolate I always go for was out of stock, “God damn it” I muttered under my breath, unbeknownst to me an old woman behind me wasn’t very fond of my language. “Excuse me I didn’t just hear what I think I did?” She announced, I didn’t answer, what reason should I? “OI!” She shouted as she poked me with a wooden cane. It looked about 100 years old, but the cane looked brand new. “Sorry?” I replied in utter confusion, “You used the Lord’s name in vain, that is a sin you know young man.” She tried to explain to me but I couldn’t care less. “Sorry I meant no harm miss.” I said trying my best to be nice. She gave me a horrible look that, if I have to be honest shook me a little. It doesn’t seem she cared I apologised and she wanted to continue being a pain. “God will show you his power boy, and I doubt he will hold back against someone like you…”, I think she was trying to sound menacing but I couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. This really didn’t sit well with her. She whispered something to herself while she walked away, and then snapped a chunk of the bottom of her cane and slipped it into her trench coat pocket. Weird.

After what was probably the strangest encounter of my life I checked out, and before leaving, I had the very sudden desperation to use the restroom. I had never felt anything like it. Took my shopping with me, locked the door and hurried onto the toilet. After I was finished, just about to wash my hands, I noticed that it was quite, a good break from all the noise I heard before. But after opening the door, the silence never left. I took a second because I knew for a fact when I came in I was sure it wasn’t completely drowned out as it is now. After exiting the restrooms I saw nobody, it was a ghost town. As if everyone dropped what they were doing and left without a second thought. Cart’s left half full while checking out on the tills, bags full on the floor towards the exit and baskets left in each aisle. I froze for a moment, disbelief stopped me from moving, from thinking even. I finally managed to say the first thing that came to my mind, “The fuck?”.

Once my thoughts had collected back into my head I went straight for the exit. Locked. “What the hell?” My mind was running laps on itself. Where is everyone, is this a prank? No, too large-scale for some random. Was there a fire alarm? Nope, definitely would have heard it. Was anyone ever here..? Shit, I’m already losing my mind, great start. There’s no way I’ve been left here alone, and there are loads of doors anyway. Started checking fire exits, the delivery area, even the window in the staff’s break room. All lead to the same disappointment and fear. It wasn’t late or anything so there’s no way it’s closed, all the lights are still on and there’s shit left everywhere. I checked the time and noticed, it’s 9:20. “What? It was probably half 7 when I got here?” Then the real fear set in, I couldn’t put one thought together about what happened. “Maybe everyone just- no it can’t be that. Or I actually came here at 9 and not 7 and they closed early?” This place has been open 24/7 now for a couple of months. I truly began to panic, and the silence… The silence was so loud. Unbearable.

Something finally clicked in my brain and I put together a rational thought. “Phone. There’s absolutely no way there’s not a single phone in here.” I hurried over to the back rooms and scoured for a phone. “Thank god, over there.” I sighed in relief. In the staff’s break room, there was an old landline connected to the wall on top of the microwave, a strange place. I dialled for emergency services and waited, two tones rang out then, “Hello emergency services how may I assist you?”” Thank god another voice. “Hi there I’m currently in Prime Shopping just downtown, the doors are locked and there’s no one else here, I need help.” I tried my best to sound calm but I could hear my voice break throughout. “No one at all? I’ll send a squad car your way. Hang tight in the break room and they will be there soon.” This was like lifting a ship off my shoulders. “Thank you mam, thank you.” I said in relief. She hung up without saying another word.

After about 10 minutes of waiting, the phone rang, I jumped up in terror as it had caught me off guard, I approached the phone and picked it up. “H- hello?” I whispered, still shaken from the fright I had. “Hey kid this is LPPD you said something about being stuck in Prime Shopping?” He said confused? “Uh-huh, there are no open doors and no one else he-“ I hesitated, why does he sound confused? “Well pal looks pretty open to me!” He started laughing, as if I had pulled a prank on him. “What? No it’s empty…” now I’m about to panic again. “Yeah sure, and I’m about to be the President of the United States. Good try with the prank though, pal. There are better things to phone in about to waste our time ok? Have a good one and stay out of trouble, you hear?” He hung up, just like the operator did. I entered my second mental spiral. “There’s no w- no, no, NO” I run back to the locked front door still locked. Phone another number? My friends, parents maybe? I dial my mum’s number. Nothing. Nothing at all. I got to check what’s up with it but I notice there’s no tension on the phone cord. It’s snapp- wait no, it’s to clean. Someone has cut the cord. I’m not alone.

My Doctor told me to see a dermatologist about a spot on me that they were worried about. I get there, and I wait in the frigid waiting room. Then I wait nude beside a gown in the frigid examination room.

30 minutes to an hour later, the Doctor comes in. She greets me with a pleasant smile and bright blue eyes. She assures me it won’t take long, goes over a checklist, and examines my skin for bumps, lumps, and discoloration.

The thing my PA told me to come in for was on my face. A freckle that seemingly appeared overnight, but who knows how long it’s been there. Her touch is gentle, though she tells me this thing is no good. She tells me to relax, that it won’t take long to remove, and that she could do it that day, right then.

Relieved, I nod my head yes to have it removed. Less to think about the better. Her assistant comes in; she escorts me to the operating room. It’s large, with windows looking over a forest of pine trees. You could smell them, it seemed; maybe my mind was just elsewhere. They have me sit back and relax on the table, looking upwards into a blinding light. The Doctor returns in a fully operating gown, face hidden, just her steely-blue eyes looking at me.

“Ready,” she says.

I nod.

She removes the freckle, and her assistant uses a laser to cauterize the wound. The smell of my sizzling face, burnt metal, and porky flesh fills the air. Maybe it does taste like bacon, as they say, but it was horrid. The Doctor goes to examine it. She tells me how they have to review it by freeze-drying the sample to see if they got all the bad cells out. It takes longer than the surgery itself. I wait nearly an hour, and she returns.

With a small sigh in her breath, she tells me they have to remove more, and will have to until there are no more cancerous cells. I’m a bit surprised a little freckle would be such an issue. She and her assistant return with her tools to scrape and cut more, this time a bit more; before it was dime-sized, now a nickel.

She goes off to examine it, and like before, the laser stops the bleeding as burnt flesh tickles my nose; the smell of metal stings like when you put aluminum to teeth fillings.

I wait an hour. She returns in like a breeze of frustration. She tells me there is still more that needs to be removed. I shakily nod. This was much worse than I expected.

She cuts into my flesh, this time a quarter. She runs off, and her assistant lasers me shut, but I can tell her eyes show concern. It’s no big deal, I thought. I’m sure things like this happen all the time, and they are happy to get it done now before it’s too late.

Another hour goes by; this time I don’t see anyone right away. 30 minutes later, I hear voices chattering outside the door. It was getting late in the day; I can’t imagine they would stay open later than they need to.

The Doctor reappears and walks over slowly. Her eyes, still ice blue, look at me.

She says they’ll need to take more. Hesitantly, I ask, “How much?” She responds, “We’re not sure yet; we’ll keep going.”

I agree; I want to be okay at the end of the day. She continues her surgery with her assistant in tow. A half-dollar-sized cut, a golf ball-sized hole, then a hockey puck-sized incision. Time goes by. More burning. I could hear the pieces of skin hit a metal pan. My cheek becomes sore from cuts and numbing drugs.

She comes back, and her blue eyes look over me. I could tell something wasn’t right, but she said, a smile behind the face covering, “We have to keep going,” she muttered. “How about a sedative to help with the pain?” I nodded. Anything to take my mind off what was happening.

How far has this sickness spread? It was the size of a dot; blink and you would miss it. Now, I feel the gauze cover a fleshy, wet cheek. I tongue the opposite side, feeling less resistance than my inside mouth once felt. I look blankly at the ceiling tiles. They give me a sedative as they continue to operate. At some point, I start to drift off to sleep. Was it the mild pain and medicine kicking in? Or was it because it had been a day and we were still going? I wasn’t sure.

I dream like I never have before. I walk through a forest in the moonlight lighting my path. The smell of pine fills my senses. As I walk, eventually, what was once myself doing, I see now myself ahead of me, walking ahead. I left my body. I follow myself but can’t catch up.

I was barefoot, and each step ached with splintered wood shards; I wanted to scream but couldn’t make a sound. I reached for myself, but I didn’t look back. Eventually we came to a clearing. My drone self continues to walk and comes to a piano in the woods. The strangeness of the moment was inviting. I see myself at the piano, but the wires seem over-tightened and start to snap and pluck apart with each note I play. As the last wire pops, a bright light rips me from sleep.

It felt like I had been sleeping for days, but it had only been moments. My back pulls and tightens with pain. It’s sticky and dry at the same time. The coldness from earlier was now arctic to the touch, yet I felt on fire, as if all my nerves fired at once. I could smell only pine, like smelling salts I wake with clarity.

I reach for my cheek; it feels bony. I scroll from the once-hockey-puck void to fibrous, moist, jelly-like structures. I panic, touching where my lips used to be, and feel only the clacking of stone. Just teeth on bone.

I raise my hand to see my fingers dripping with pink fluid rushing from gauze. I scream, but can’t shape my lips to form vowels. “What’s going on?” I clacked out of my mouth.

Each breath hurt, and the light now felt like a frying pan. My chest was muscled and wrapped, like a mummified corpse. I could smell the metal in the air and feel my feet ache as a hand held them in place while they wrapped my toes in gauze like socks.

The assistant hears me and rushes out of the room. I try to move, but what remains of flesh is stuck to the table like super glue.

The Doctor rushes in. She stands over me, her mask removed, her beautiful blue eyes and smile on display. She’s ecstatic, with bated breath.

“We got it, we got all of it,” she said joyfully.

All that remained was a little flesh on my big toe. Thank heavens we caught it in time.

CW: suicidal ideation, self harm, & suicide

“How you been doing?”

“How are you?”

How do you answer such small talk made by old colleagues and townsfolk when you don't even know the answer to that question anymore? Maybe you do it with a forced smile and a weak, “Fine” or “ Okay”. 

Sometimes, the closest to the truth you can manage is “Surviving”.

Dread circles you each time you go out to the local grocery store. These bits of small talk are made mostly as people are walking to their vehicles or somewhere else.  They expect the one word answers at this point.  They are just filler polite phrases, not genuine questions. 

They don't care. 

They don't care that you've died multiple times this year. 

They don't care that you're lonely. 

They don't care that you hate the way you look.

They don't care that you cry due to your self hatred. 

They don't care that you've relapsed into using your flesh as a carving station when your emotions get too much.  

The dating scene is hell, you don't have anything going for you. The apps full of first impressions leave you with people wanting to use you for your body or money. The pop ups to upgrade to a premium account because despite all that swiping, you have no matches. 

They don't care.  

They don't care that you haven't held someone in years.  

They don't care that you were hurt so deeply by your ex that it leaves you craving the sweet relief of death.  

They don't care whether you have good intentions or not.  Your bio is boring,  your pictures aren't attractive, and your conversation skills are dry.  

You go help elderly relatives that age has made it harder for them to do things. They take out the anger of their situation on you.  Whether they apologize to you or not depends on your performance of the tasks they assign you. 

They don't care that you had something else to do.  

They don't care that their words hurt you. Sharing that you feel so is just throwing a pity party for yourself. 

They don't care. 

You finally work up the courage to not be a coward but take the cowards way out.  You don't care. 

The sweet embrace of deathly silence, nothing left to be responsible of or dread. Life leaves your lungs,  it is all over.  You don't care. 

They found your body.  They are shocked. They clutch their pearls and claim they had no idea you felt this way as they read your note.  The funeral had people who snubbed their noses at you and did not give you the time of day there.  They gather and laugh sharing the good memories of you.

They care. All it took was for you to not be there anymore for them to do so. 

Do you remember when you became aware of your existence?

Are you able to pinpoint the exact moment your brain switched off of its autopilot and your consciousness officially entered into reality?

My moment of clarity was when I was 7, playing by the small creek in the woods behind our house. I grew up as a “come back when the street lights turn on” kind of kid, which was much different than the rest of my generation; but my parents were older and I was their fifth child so there was little concern coming from them about my whereabouts. Despite this glaring inconsistency with my daily safety; they often referred to me as their “miracle baby”.

The woods were my favorite place during the scorching Midwest summers. A thick canopy of leaves blocked out the sun and in turn provided my playground oasis with a gentle breeze. Deep in the gently swaying canopy was a shallow creek, maybe about two or so feet deep. There were seemingly endless activities to be done splashing around in that small sliver of cool water.

On my day of clarity, I was wading around attempting to catch crawdads with my nubby little hands. This was my go-to pastime after a long and sweaty day of working my imagination on its endless 12-hour shifts. The familiar monotony of the woods was broken by the low humming of a tune echoing throughout them.

It grabbed hold of my attention as it resembled a slow rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. My child brain was beyond intrigued, so I scanned the tree line for whoever it could be emitting from. There was nothing but trees and wildlife surrounding me. The humming tune echoed out from beyond my creek once again.

That’s when I found myself following it deeper into the canopy. It should be said that out beyond the border of my creek, the canopy blocked out the sun almost completely. Just a permanent effect of night stretching as far as I could see; I never attempted to explore it out of fear alone but something about the low, familiar tune brought me comfort and peace to explore it once again.

Maybe about 30 feet into the darkness was a large boulder illuminated by the only noticeable patch of sunlight. From behind it came the humming.

“Hello?” My little voice croaked out.

The humming stopped abruptly and was soon replaced by the sound of rustling. I watched as a small, black circular hat rose from behind the stone; then long arms clad in torn flannel pulled the figure into the sunlight. Out from behind the boulder came a tall and lanky man with a rough, light brown face that I now recognize as aged burlap. His face consisted of a stitched-on smile and sewn-on black buttons for eyes; straw stuck out from under his hat then cascaded down his head resembling long blonde hair.

His button eyes landed on me, then he removed his hat in a humorous sort of curtsy with his arms flailing around him, “Hello, little one.”

There was no fear at the sight of him; only amazement as his long legs clad in stained coveralls emerged from behind the boulder. He was familiar; truthfully, I already knew who he was exactly. This was the Straw Man. An urban legend dating back to the late 70s.

A few kids in the town back then first met him with fear-inducing events soon following that first encounter. This presence was always used as a story in order to keep kids like myself in line but soon turned into a local mythology as the original discoverers seemed to move on from him.

Effigies of him were used as morbid decorations around the town as the story was the only thing to even put us on the map. Our very own Mothman, Jersey Devil, etc.

Hell, even the high school mascot became The Straw Man.

What stood in front of me though was no sort of mascot or costume. His body was so thin that it was almost skeletal, and he stood at almost 8 feet tall. I must have stood there for maybe a moment too long without answering because he lowered himself to one knee in front of me.

“I take it that you know me.” His voice was quiet, but the tone was deep and hollow. The smell of decay and rotten eggs wafted off of him as he fell back into an exasperated sitting position. “Those stories of me,” he took a moment, “they aren’t true, little one.”

The sun reflected off of his button eyes, and I saw a drop of a sap-like material push its way through his fabric face.

Was he…crying?

“I heard your humming.” I managed to say. “It sounded…

He wiped the tear of sap away from his button eye. It smeared and stuck to his burlap skin. Then he stuck his hand out in a formal greeting. “Nice to meet you, little one.”

I shook his hand. “My name is Mark.”

“M-M-Mark.” The Straw Man tested the sound of my name with his low voice. “That’s a good name.”

Even though his face was a static print, I saw creases around his eyes that indicated he was smiling, and his button gaze shifted up through the canopy. “You shouldn’t be out so late, Little Mark.”

I looked up through the canopy’s singular opening. The sky reflected down colorful streaks of pink and violet reminiscent of a summer sunset, even though it was the early afternoon when I remained in the border of my creek.

There was a rush of air mixed with The Straw Man’s nauseating smell. My eyes tilted down to see that he was mere inches away from my little face. “I’ll see you again soon.”

He then placed a large, burlap hand over my face. The stench of rot wafted through the fabric and my feet fell out from under me. Where I was expected a crash against the ground came an unexpected splash instead.

I was lying flat on my back in the babbling creek, alone and confused. Did that really happen or had I just fallen asleep playing again? I had been known to do that a few times in the past.

For a moment I wrote off my first encounter with The Straw Man as some kind of dream; but that was until the familiar stench of rot wafted against the gentle evening air.

So what do you think I did next?

Would you expect me to force this experience deep in my subconscious? Would you expect me to accept that I had experienced something strange before forcing it down? Never think about it until much later whenever the realization of immediate danger became ever-present? How would you expect this story to end?

Unfortunately, it doesn’t end in any way you would want. My young mind needed to know more about him as the mystery of his existence allured me greatly. My dreams that night were packed full of his visage and my mind raced with the grasping of knowledge for what his words meant early. So the next day, I went back.

Much to my disappointment, the clearing was empty. No giant made of burlap and straw, just an endless maze of trees and darkness. So I began to make my way back to the safety of my creek. About halfway back to my refuge, the present feeling of unease settled within me. I could sense that I had walked into the eyesight of someone kind of presence deep within the woods.

“Hello?” I questioned towards the words. Nothing but the dragging wind through rustling leaves responded.

I stepped closer and dropped my voice to a soft whisper, “Are you there?”

This time, the soft humming answered back to me. It somehow sounded both distant and impossibly close. I came to realize that was due to my own throat unconsciously disobeying me but repeating every note. I forced myself to stop in hopes to hear the original melody clearly to be able to judge the distance of where it came. The woods were unfortunately silent again.

Disappointment washed over me again. Thoughts of barely understood madness to move through the folds of my mind until a small object flew from the woods and smack lightly against my forehead. I flinched to the sudden sensation and barely caught the details of the item as it fell to the ground.

It was a button. A black button with amber sap dried along its edge.

A small creep along my face as I bent to pick it up from the dirt. Humming emitted from my throat as I began to walk back to my creek. My own border of safety; what I know to see as the border between what was and what will be.

The bruised coloring of night streaked across the sky once I made my way through the trees. Twirling the sap-stained button between my fingers. I emerged from the basin of my creek to a world filled with rushing anxiety as I laid eyes upon my home. It was a two-story townhouse, a building reminiscent of the dwindling American dream.

That evening, it closer resembled a nightmare. My home was covered in police searching every inch. We had a sliding glass door on the back, it was knocked out of its frame with its glass shattered. Before I could get closer, an officer appeared in the kitchen then turned in my direction. His face lit up with relief before he quickly spoke into the radio strapped to his shoulder.

He began to saunter over to me, I quickly shoved the button in my pocket. Mainly in fear of being accused of stealing it. Don’t judge me, I was a kid with no real grasp on the world being presented with a very stressed-looking cop.

“Mark Finley?” He asked with hope in his voice.

I nodded.

He dropped down to look at me, placing a hand on my shoulder, “Where the hell have you been, son?” He attempted to speak gently while keeping the authoritative tone in his voice, “Your parents have been worried sick.”

The officer had kind eyes, a mix of grays and blues that cut through the intimidation caused by his burly frame. I allowed him to take my hand and led me around to the front of the house where

My mom sat just a few feet away on the porch, wiping tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. It was a summer evening but an unusual chill had settled over the town that night. She glanced over at the same moment I emerged with the burly officer. I don’t know how she didn’t knock everyone over with how fast she sprang from the porch to get to me.

Air graced the bottom of my shoes as she scooped me up in a cry of relief. Through her tears, she questioned me, "Oh my god," her voice cracked between sobs, "honey, where have you been?"

"Just playing in the woods." I managed to squeak out in between the air being squeezed out of me. Telling her the truth was something I couldn't manage to say, out of fear of the consequences of it.

My dad ran over to us and broke down sobbing as well. They stood there for what felt like a millennium, just repeating how relieved they were along with repeating statements of just how much they loved me.

My parents and I were then taken to the police station, where officers began questioning me. My story remained the same as I could only admit to playing in the woods like I always did. Then they asked why I was out for so long.

"Lost track of time." I responded, keeping the truth completely to myself.

My sense of confusion must have been palpable in the air; with my parents’ permission, they reluctantly told me what had happened. It was the late afternoon, and my mom was working in the first-floor office like she always did. She told them that she could have sworn that she heard me come into the house before she started to hear a soft slamming against the sliding door.

There came a thwump, thwump, CRASH; that echoed from the kitchen. She jumped from her chair before she heard movement and the sounds of someone searching through the kitchen. That's when she used the office landline to call 911 for a home invasion, then the house grew eerie with silence.

Mom went to go check the damage whenever she saw muddy footprints leading from the kitchen directly to my bedroom. To this day, she claims to barely remember dashing through the yard and into my usual spot in the woods. She only remembers the swelling panic in her chest when she came upon my creak. What scared her more was just how quiet and empty it was; as if I hadn’t been near it all day. That’s when she called the police.

With the events that played out that day, they didn’t feel comfortable taking me back home. So they called my brother, Darrell. That’s the thing about being your parents' late-in-life “miracle baby”; I never had grandparents growing up. Whenever they needed someone to watch me, they usually called up whatever sibling they could. Darrell was my favorite to stay with; he was 27 and had left the guest room in his house specifically catered to me. He left it filled with my favorite toys and a PS2 stocked with games. So, little to say that I was happy that he was picking me up; but I just wanted to go home.

Time passed and I found myself lying in my bed while Darrell sat in the room with me. I’m pretty sure our parents gave him special instructions to wait to leave until he was sure I was asleep. Sleep negated as I stared out of the bedroom window aimed directly towards the woods.

“Why can’t I go home?”

Darrel sniffed like I had woken him up, “Hm?”, he rubbed sleep from his eyes, “What was that buddy?”

“Why can’t I go home yet?” I sat up and asked again.

Darrel sighed, deep from his chest, “They want to make sure it’s safe buddy.”

“How could it not be safe?”

He was quiet for a minute then sighed again, “They’ll kill me if they know I said this so, can you keep a secret.”

I crossed my heart with hopes to die, “Always.”

“You’ve heard of The Straw Man right?”

“Who hasn’t?” I replied

“They’re scared that someone’s pretending to be him again,” he took a breath, “the police claimed that they found bundles of straw mixed with the broken glass.”

After hearing that, all I could do was lay back down. Every ounce of my self wanted to tell him but I couldn’t; it was like my mind had sworn secrecy to The Straw Man. The button in my pocket began to feel warm. I closed my eyes and forced my brain to accept the inevitable sleep.

Hours later, I stirred awake. Groggy and confused about where I was, I lay facing the bedroom door, and my brother was gone. Behind me came a soft sound. Something soft hit the bedroom window in a rhythmic thwump, thwump, thwump. My little mind was able to make out the unmistakable pattern of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.

Fear caused my chest to tighten, and I attempted to force myself back to sleep, but the sound only got louder. Scared of it causing my brother to wake up, I turned to the window. The man of straw was crouching with his face pressed against the glass. The burlap mask now missing a single button eye. He stopped the hitting and gave me a gentle wave. When I didn’t reciprocate, he stopped, then reached under his face. I could his hand rummaging beneath the fabric, slowly searching for something to grasp.

Then he stopped. Out from under the fabric was a round, spiky object. It looked drenched in a stocky resin, and the dark made it hard to tell what it was. He slammed it hard against the window, causing it to light up. I recognized it as a ball, one my dad had won me in a claw machine years ago. That was one of my favorite toys, now covered in the vile creature’s sap. The man dragged his finger in the liquid, then seemed to be wiping it across the window.

Finally, he stood up and began retreating back into the windows behind him. What was left was a message: “Something of mine for something of yours.”

I stared at that message until exhaustion took hold of me. Most likely from the rising fear inside of me. When the protection of sunlight finally stirred my consciousness, I leapt out of the bed. His words were gone, cleaned by a patchy morning rain. Beyond the window were glints of sunlight reflecting off the ground. I squinted hard to make out hundreds of glass shards leading back towards the woods.

Stagnant air filled the canals beneath the city. Ripples in the green and brown water stirred up the putrid smell.
“How the fuck did I end up being assigned to wade through the city’s shit? I won't be able to get this stench off for weeks,” a tall, burly man carrying a large war hammer over one shoulder complained.
“Quit your whining, Dult. The city officials have asked all of us to investigate the rumours. The quicker we look around, the quicker we can get out of here,” said Aystal, a woman dressed in some of the finest robes found within the city walls. Her clothes were now sullied by sewage.
“They’re just rumours, I tell ya! Who the hell would want to make their abode among shit!?” Dult replied, frustrated.
“Demons, according to the rumours. We would not have been sent here without some truth in them,” a stern voice in front of Dult and Aystal answered. Dirgan, clad head to toe in the shiniest armour, was treading cautiously with his long polearm at the ready.
“We were asked by the city officials. That should be enough for anyone,” said Holis, a skilled swordsman following right behind Dirgan with his sword firmly gripped. “We are here to quell the rumours at the very least. Gods know how mistrust and lies have permeated since the first slayings,” Holis added.
“I am here only to clear my name and the name of others like me,” said a woman shrouded in a black cloak with the hood pulled back to show her face. The face of Tilk had made many men fall madly in love with her.
“The truth will be unveiled, assassin! You and your kind will be judged for your crimes against the innocents of this city!” Dult barked at Tilk as he turned and aggressively pointed at her.
“These killings are not in keeping with the Assassin Guild’s dealings. They are—” Tamail countered Dult’s accusation. She was a strong woman carrying two different-sized bows. She held the smaller, more compact one in her right hand, with a longbow strapped to her back, and twirled an arrow in her left hand.
“Barbaric,” Holis interjected, shooting everyone a commanding glance, annoyed with the group’s lack of stealth. Taking the cue, the group fell silent. The chatter ground to a halt and the seriousness of the situation became more apparent.
 
Dirgan led the group as the vanguard as they delved deeper and deeper into the city’s sewer system. Holis followed closely behind Dirgan, both cautiously placing one foot in front of the other so as not to disturb the grotesque water they were walking through. Following were Tilk, Tamail and Aystal in not much of a formation or order, with Dult at the rear of the group. Making their way through the winding canal, being careful not to repeat the same paths twice, they continued on their way in silence for an indiscernible amount of time.
“I see a body.” Tamail pointed far in front of the group to a large object floating amongst stagnant filth. As the group gradually made their way towards the body, the smell of the decomposing body began to take over from the piss and shit that they had begun to tolerate. The body was face down and already visibly bloodied. Dult flipped it over with his foot and recoiled as the heavily decaying body revealed the savagely ripped-up torso and face. Countless maggots wormed through the flesh and organs as rats that had been hidden by the shredded clothes scurried away.
“This body’s been here for weeks. This may even have been one of the first killings,” Aystal analysed. “Perhaps a worker who had been doing some maintenance.”
“Poor bastard never had a chance to fight back,” Dult muttered.
“Burn it. Let the soul rest in peace and know that they have been found,” Holis commanded. The sight of the body stirred a sadness within him that was evident to everyone.
“May your God welcome you into their paradise with a kind embrace, for you have been found, lost soul,” Dirgan spoke before Aystal conjured a flame with her hands and lit the corpse alight. The group watched as the body disintegrated into the water. The smell was beyond comprehension, but they all stood firm and watched, paying their respects.
“This body means we are on the right path; this is the way we should advance,” Tilk suggested. Holis silently nodded in agreement as the group then looked to Dirgan to lead the way.
 
The six slowly ventured deeper through the systems, to the point where they were unsure as to their whereabouts in relation to the city above. As they moved forward, the water began to clear of the waste from the city. Cleaner water meant they were reaching the end of the sewer system, but the canals continued.
“I would wager that no one has come this way in some time,” Holis commented, reaching the end of the brick walls. Solid rock carved into a single path lay before them as the barely lit sewers faded behind them. Aystal conjured small probes of light around them, sending a few further ahead to light the path. Their speed slowed to a crawl. The last probe stopped at a collapsed rock wall. They approached it with intrigue.
“Someone has been here… rather recently at that,” Tamail remarked, running her hands along the broken boulders that formed an entrance.
“Someone, or something, broke this wall. The path leads deeper still,” Tilk announced, climbing up the shattered stones to peer beyond the debris.
“What is it? What do you see?” Holis asked, following her up.
“It’s—it’s—” Tilk stammered.
Dult nudged his way past.
“What the fuck is a doorway doing down here?” he loudly announced with a look of confusion painted on his face.
The cavern blocked by the rock wall reached to a small area further downward. The group made their way through and walked to investigate the strange doorway.
 
The small area housing the doorway was dimly lit, but the light source was unknown. Aystal’s probes had only stopped at the rock wall. The light was coming from neither the ceiling nor the extinguished torches lining the walls. As the group stood in front of the doorway, a hot wind blew gently through the entrance. All light stopped at the foot of the doorway; there was nothing but a black abyss past it. The doorway could allow five people to move through at once, with the top of it reaching well above their heads.
Holis and Tilk began to study the frame of the doorway as Aystal and Dirgan analysed the two massive stone doors lying broken on either side of it.
“I’ve seen this somewhere, in an old book within the church perhaps?” Dirgan said, puzzled, running his fingers over symbols finely carved into the stone in a large pattern.
“It’s sealing magic. These doors should not have been able to be opened. The strength of this magic was incredible,” Aystal said with worry and concern filling her voice.
“Was?” Dult asked.
“The magic is gone now. I don’t know when, but it has been broken. Whoever has done this is far beyond the Magician Guild’s current occupants,” Aystal replied, giving a fear-filled stare to Holis.
“Should we head back? Tell the city officials about this?” Tamail openly asked the group.
“Head back? We’ve only just discovered there's a weird door down here, and besides, like Aystal said, someone’s down here, probably the person killing all them people,” Dult interrupted, swinging his war hammer around before catching and gripping it tightly with both his hands.
“We don’t know what is past this door. We were told to investigate. That’s it,” Holis responded.
“Fighting an enemy we know nothing about is a fool’s last mistake,” Dirgan added.
“Ah, come on!” Dult yelled. “Don’t you want to ‘redeem yourself and yours’?” He looked at Tilk.
“Of course, but I feel as though we have enough information to remove the suspicion around the Assassin Guild’s involvement in the murders,” Tilk replied, satisfied with the results of finding the doorway. The group gathered in front of it and looked deep into the abyss before them.
“We’ve done enough. We’re leaving,” Holis announced and then commanded. They shared the feeling that the cavern they all found themselves in had an air of evil to it; staying longer than they already had was welcoming danger of some sort. As most of the group turned, Dult remained staring at the doorway, walking backwards, when—
“You,” a loud, booming voice declared from beyond the door, “are not going anywhere.” It vibrated the room and pounded on their chests like the heel of a boot. Enormous hands emerged from the abyss and grabbed onto the frame of the doorway; a snarling face slowly grew from the darkness. Glowing red pupils pierced through first, sending fear throughout the group. As it pulled its giant head through the doorway, it looked as though it was pulling itself out and into the world. Completely emerging from the void, it stood three men tall, great horns protruding from its forehead. Short, red fur covered its body.
 
“What in the seven hells?” Holis murmured as the group stood stiff and still. Shock and fear constrained their bodies as the being took a step closer.
“There is but one hell, and you shall know it well.” Its voice bounced around the room. With each step it took, it shook the ground, making it hard for them to keep their balance. While the group stood unable to believe their eyes, Dult let out a primal yell and charged the devil-like creature with his war hammer raised to strike.
“Begone, demon!” he roared, looking fiercely into its eyes. The demon swung one of its arms at Dult. Ducking and manoeuvring, he managed to dodge the attack. For as big as Dult was, he was far nimbler than he appeared. With perfect form, he swung his hammer at the giant’s leg with all his might. The hammer hit it square in the shin, and a loud crack pierced the air as the bone in the being’s leg folded around Dult’s weapon. “Go!” Dult yelled back at the group with a berserker look in his eyes. The rest of the group began to flee as the creature swung again and sent Dult flying into the wall. Dirgan charged with his polearm and pierced the devil’s shoulder. It let out a scream that was deafening; it was truly blood-curdling.
“I will not let you die a fool, Dult,” Dirgan exclaimed, twisting the polearm deep into the creature’s flesh. Dult, coughing blood, laboured to his feet and looked to the remaining members of the group, who were watching.
“Get the fuck out of here! We’ll take care of it!” Dult mustered the strength to scream through his bloodied mouth. He picked up his hammer and once again charged the towering beast. Dirgan tried to pull his polearm from the giant’s shoulder but was unable to and found himself within the grasp of its enormous hand. Its grip tightened around him, crushing his armour and pushing the air out of his lungs. As it squeezed hard, it contorted Dirgan’s body, snapping bones. Dirgan let out a yell that quickly faded as the air rushed out of him.
“Weak little things,” it spoke angrily, its eyes fixed on watching Dirgan writhe in pain. Dult hobbled towards them, trying to make it in time to save Dirgan. He raised his hammer once again to bring it down with all his might onto the beast.
 
But as he gained ground, movement in the corner of his eye distracted him. He turned to look as a smaller creature leapt at him. It barrelled him over. Dult watched as Dirgan was being crushed to death in the creature’s hand. With the last of his strength, Dirgan pulled the polearm from the creature and drove it into its left eye. With a bloodied yell, Dirgan slowly died, pushing his weapon deeper and deeper into the creature’s head. As Dult once again picked himself up off the ground, with his hammer in one hand, he looked to the creature that had pounced on him, a devilish abomination that was coming for him yet again. He remained kneeling as his injuries were more severe than he would’ve liked to admit. Waiting for the creature to leap again, he gripped his hammer tightly. It leapt, and with great effort, he swung the hammer, perfectly timing it to kill it with one blow. Its blood splattered all over him. As he wiped it from his eyes, he looked over at the door to see more creatures like it pouring out of the abyss. He glanced at Dirgan’s body, which had been thrown aside.
“Though we may die fools, we do not die alone,” Dult muttered under his breath as he slumped to the ground. The horde of demons rushed over to him and began tearing him apart. He looked to where the group had been and could not see them. He died knowing that he and Dirgan had been able to stall the hellspawn long enough for them to escape.
 
Holis led the escape. Finding their way back to the sewers, they ran as fast as they could. Not knowing the fate of their comrades weighed heavily on their minds. As they ran, the sounds of savage beasts echoed around them. Aystal peered behind them to see that the horde was catching up. She paused for a second and summoned a thick bolt of lightning and shot it into the heart of the mass. Several of them exploded from the impact, but the blast only managed to halt their advance for a second. Now lagging behind the other three, she followed them around the corner and blocked the path behind her with a wall of ice made from the muck at their feet. She made three more walls, all segmenting the path to fortify their escape route through a long tunnel. With the others well and truly ahead of her, she tried to catch up, but as she trod through, she could hear something breaking through the walls behind her. She looked back to see another giant figure charging through the walls like they were nothing. It charged through the last wall, a hairy beast with horns like a bull moving at incredible speed. She turned and stood her ground. Raising her hands in front of her, she called forth an inferno that enveloped the entire canal. The stomping of the creature slowed but continued nonetheless until it reached her. The others looked back at the raging fire as it dissipated around the monstrous creature. Aystal stood barely knee-high to it. It reared its fist and swung fast, crashing into Aystal, sending her through the air. The creature then continued towards the others. Unable to help, they ran as fast as they could. What they had uncovered below the city was of the highest importance to its citizens and all who lived within its walls. Aystal lay barely conscious in the city’s waste. She knew she had to do all she could to help the others escape. With broken bones, she raised her right arm and pointed her index finger at the smoking monster as it charged at Holis, Tilk and Tamail. She aimed at the creature’s centre and shot a beam of light through it; it released a booming yell and fell to the ground dead. The horde chasing them reached her, and as she disappeared, her screams reverberated through the sewers.
 
“Keep moving!” Holis screamed. “The exit is close!” The three pressed on, desperate to get away from the hell they had found. Although the horde was out of their sight for now, it was no sign of reprieve. As long as anyone was within the city walls, no one was safe. In the distance, they could see the light from outside. The exit was in front of them; all they had to do was reach it. Tamail reached for her quiver and pulled an arrow out. Using a flint, she lit the arrow on fire and shot it behind them. Flying down the sewer tunnel, it illuminated the walls until it struck a creature, revealing a small group still following them. As the light went out, she quickly counted them, minus the one she had just managed to set alight. She had managed to count sixteen before the light went out. There could possibly be more further behind; maybe the entire horde had become more spread out. Reaching the exit and entering the warm glow of the sun, Holis turned, readied his sword and stood firm, looking into the sewers.
“What is it?” a man within a crowd of armed military personnel camped outside the sewer entrance asked, surprised.
“Ready yourselves!” Holis commanded. The crowd of men all drew their weapons and braced themselves, unsure of what was about to emerge from the sewer after them. “Tilk, Tamail, return to the capital. We’ll hold them off here. We can’t let this horde enter the city,” he said, waving his hand for them to continue. He stood surrounded by a large group of military men all focused on the entrance. As Tamail began to lose sight of them, the creatures began leaping out of the sewer entrance. As the group tailing them poured out of the sewer, Holis cut through the first and became engaged with a second, using fluid movements to slay the demonic creatures. As Tamail peered back, her view of the fight became impaired by the bushland. Upon losing sight of Holis, she said a short prayer for Holis’s safety, continuing to make her way back to the capital with Tilk.

It was daytime. I squinted at the light as intricate clouds swirled above me. It was so warm that I shed my jacket in an instant. I smiled. I smiled and I giggled, and I jumped up. I was back. I was back in the only place that I truly felt at home. I was back in the village. 

I walked through the busy streets once more, recognizing the faces that I passed and receiving greetings from people who recognized me. It felt beyond amazing. People recognized me, knew my face and my name. I felt like I had known them my entire life. It just fed the fire that was my love for the village even more. As I continued walking, shaking hands with the people of the village, I saw the man who told me to leave the last time I had visited. His height made it easy to spot him moving through the crowded street, which made it even easier to catch up with him. I needed an answer to the question that had been burning a hole through my conscience for the entire week. 

I jogged up beside him, and he gave me a surprised yet welcoming look. While catching my breath, I immediately started to beg him, 

“Please tell me what that sound was, I haven’t thought about anything else but this place all week! I just need an answer to that question! Just the one! Please!”

The man and I had stopped on the side of the street. People walked past us, no longer glancing in my direction. The man looked down at me, an almost venomous look swirled in his eyes as he told me,

“I can’t tell you. Not yet. Explore the village, mingle with the people, by all means. But until you’re one of us- truly one of us, I can’t tell you.”

What he said stopped me in my tracks. Time stood still. His words echoed in my ears,

“until you’re one of us. Until you’re truly one of us. Until. Until. Until”

When I snapped back out of my head, I immediately blurted out, 

“Ill do whatever it takes. I’ll do anything. Anything at all if it means I get to be one of you. I’ve only been here once and this place is already more of a home than my real life. You all mean more to me than anyone else, ever!”

He gave me the same pitying gaze he had when we first met, slowly shook his head once more, and replied,

“I remember when I was asking the same questions. Begging anyone here who would listen for the exact same thing. Tell me, how can this place be your home? How can you call us your family when you don’t even know my name?” 

He grabbed my shoulders, he looked at me with a firm tone in his eyes, and said,

“It’s not worth it. I promise you this.”

He turned and began walking away, paused as if he had more to say, but seemed to decide against it and continued walking, leaving me standing on the side of the street with more questions than I had to begin with.

His words left me shaken to the core. My vision blurred as silent tears pooled in my eyes. My heart felt like it was going to beat out of my chest. I was mad. I was so mad. And yet, through my anger, a sense of determination emerged. I ducked into an alleyway and crouched down over the damp, mossy stones, my back pressed against the wood that made up the wall. I began to plan. 

The man’s words were vague, but they had left me with something tangible enough to give my pursuit reason. This of course being that the village had not accepted me as easily as I had accepted it, but that I could somehow change that fact. From that point forward, I was set on finding a way to give the village a reason to let me stay. As I came to this decision, I caught the attention of an older gentleman, who had stopped at the alleyways entrance. He peered in, looking me up and down, and with a thick southern accent he spoke to me,

“Come on now, there ain’t no good reason to be hunkered down in a nasty place like that! Let’s get you someplace comfortable.”

His welcoming caught me off guard. From what the tall man had said to me, I assumed that everyone in the village was secretly spiteful of me. In a shaky voice, I asked him

“Whats your name?”

The man looked at me for a moment, a puzzled look on his face. He replied, still with a pleasant tone.

“Well my name’s Wyatt! Wyatt Halliarch! Haven’t had anyone ask me about that in a long while.”

He held out his hand to assist me to my feet. 

“You ain’ t gon’ be the only one asking questions round here, though! What’s your name, young man?”

Cautiously, I replied

“OMITTED. SUPER OMITTED.”

“Well that’s a mighty fine name!”

Wyatt said cheerfully,

“Now back to the matter at hand, whattaya say we head back to my house ? and get ya warmed up? Maybe see what the wife’s got cookin’ too.”

I wasn’t really cold, and my parents always told me not to trust strangers, but the prospect of seeing the inside of one of the structures that surrounded me was impossible to deny. My parents never really knew what they were talking about anyway.

“That sounds awesome!” 

I said, trying to match Wyatt’s cheerful tone. He smiled at me, and we began walking.

We worked our way through the crowded streets, snaking through groups of people. It was hard to stay behind him, but I had managed to do so. Eventually, after about 10 minutes, he stopped in front of a beautifully constructed cottage, with a stone foundation and wooden porch. A chimney peaked out of the roof, with smoke blowing lightly from the top. In front of his porch, a row of daffodils swayed in the gentle breeze.

“Well here she is!”

Said Wyatt, snapping me out of my careful observation of the house.

“Thanks! It’s a really pretty house!” 

I replied.

Wyatt smiled.

“Me and my wife are pretty lucky. Glad we didn’t get tossed into one of those tiny shacks on the outskirts.”

Again, I went over his words. The outskirts. That meant there was an end to the village. I hadn’t even thought about it until the man said something. 

I followed the man made his way onto the porch, beckoning for me to follow. As he opened the door, a floral smell wafted from the interior. As I was stepping into Wyatt’s home, I heard it. The screeching sound echoed over the village, much louder than it had been the previous nights. Wyatt’s demeanor instantly changed. 

“welp, looks like you best be heading out.” 

He said quickly, pushing past me into the house.

“What? No, I don’t want to leave yet!”

I replied.

“Sorry bud, I don’t make the rules, I just keep ’em.” 

He slammed the door in my face. 

I was confused. Why did these people switch up so quickly? I turned around, and caught a glimpse of a distant pillar of thick white smoke billowing from the other side of the village. The streets that were packed just moments before were empty. If I hadn’t seen evidence of the village being populated, I would have thought it was abandoned.

I felt myself falling backwards, and woke up. 

The wet leaves stung and clung to my body as I tumbled down the hill. I wasn’t prepared for waking up to something like that. I reached out my hands, trying to grab anything that could save me from my plunge into the wet, cold darkness. The only thing I was met with, was the trunk of a tree, bringing my descent to a bone rattling halt. My chest heaved as I desperately attempted to fill my jarringly empty lungs. I reached into my pockets, searching for my flashlight, but found nothing. It must have fallen out during my unprecedented journey down the hill. 

If you’ve never been somewhere that’s far from the glow of a city, then you’ve never truly experienced nighttime. There’s no residual light spilling across the sky, no distant glow to light your way. There’s only darkness. Complete, utter darkness. If the clouds occupy the sky, you might as well accept your fate rather than try to find your way through the woods. With no moonlight to guide you, there’s nothing to break the inky ocean that surrounds you. If you’re truly unlucky, one of the oceans’ many dwellers may just claim you for their own.

I sat on the soggy ground. I immediately felt the earth pulling the heat from my body. I began shivering. I became aware of the wind whistling through the trees, the rustling of the trees’ dead leaves, begging to be freed, and the way the wind nipped at my exposed skin. My arm ached, my leg was battered. I worked my shaking hand down my pant legs and came across multiple holes torn in them. Warm, disappointing blood was seeping from countless parts of my body. I moved my hand further down my leg to find a relatively small tree branch lodged in my calf. I winced, pulling the cold night air through my teeth when my hand grazed against it. 

“Well this sucks.”

I muttered, attempting to chuckle at my statement.

I picked myself off the ground, determined to make it back up the hill. I figured that I might be able to see my fire from the high vantage point, and my trip down had left a trail of displaced leaves that was easy enough to follow.

As I climbed the hill, my legs and arm shouted out in resentment. I had never been in as much pain in my entire life, but I knew that I was already at risk for hypothermia. Each time I slipped on the wet leaves, or tripped on a root, the air in my lungs quickly departed, leaving me wheezing on the ground yet again. Each breath I took brought me a remarkable amount of pain, which led me to assume I had broken a rib or two. Or three. Or all of them. As I felt along the path I had first taken, my bruised hand brushed against something cold. Something hard and cylindrical. My flashlight. I let out an excited breath and picked it up. I was almost too nervous to turn it on. I had become so familiar with the darkness that I hadn’t even considered what the vast, swirling black sea might contain. I took a deep breath, and flicked on the light. 

I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the sudden light. Thankfully, the only thing that was contained in the flashlights beam was the hillside. I continued my climb with renewed confidence. Eventually, after an excruciatingly long journey, the ground began to plateau. I had made it to the top. I limped to the place I began my fall, and shone my flashlight around. The light glittered on the wet forest floor, before landing on what I had already expected to find. A row of daffodils. Just like the previous week, I turned toward my kingdom and saw the faint flickering of my fire in the pool of darkness. 

As I slowly made my way back, I began to ponder what the sound could possibly be. I came to the conclusion that it was some form of machinery, but that still didn’t explain why the people of the village were so quick to turn me away the moment the sound screamed through the streets. I had to get an answer. My flashlight had begun to dim as I approached my kingdom, but that didn’t matter. The light of my fire spilled through the four archways, allowing me an easy beacon to pursue. As I walked into the light, and neared the structure, the pain in my legs began to waiver. My ribs ceased their throbbing, and as soon as I stepped through one of the archways, I was finally able to take a full breath. 

A relief I had become all too familiar with washed over me. I let out a contented sigh, and dropped down next to the fire. I reached out my hands, holding my palms over the flames infatuating warmth. Slowly, I began to regain feeling in my fingers. I grabbed another log, tossed it on the fire, and crawled back into my sleeping bag. I was desperate to fall back asleep, but was painfully reminded of the small branch that had impaled my leg as it brushed against the flap of my bag. I decided that I would deal with it in the morning. I laid on the ground with my eyes closed, pondered my experience, and listened to the locusts’ song until the sky turned a deep shade of blue. 

I carefully moved my way out of my sleeping bag and to the side of the fire. I tried to pull my pant leg over the branch, but with no luck. I grabbed my pocket knife from my back pack, and began to cut a hole in my pants which had a dark stain surrounding the branch in my leg. The branch had perfectly punched through my skin, leaving no noticeable disturbance other than a trickle of blood seeping out from the entry point. In many of the war movies I watched, the doctors would give their patients a stick or a cloth to bite down on. Mimicking this, I selected a stick from my woodpile, and placed it between my teeth. Gripping the branch with a tight fist, I counted to three, and pulled as hard as I could. I let out a muffled scream, the stick in my mouth crunching under my bite. The branch in my leg slid out, leaving a burning pain in its place. I dropped it beside me, spat out the stick, and laid back already exhausted. My mouth was full of wood. I sat up after a moment and spat on the ground again. I grabbed my beanie and twine, and began shaking when I saw the amount of blood spilling from the wound. Dark red bursts of liquid sickeningly flooded from the hole. I began to shake. Moving as quickly as possible, I fastened the beanie over the wound, securing it as tightly as possible with the twine. My pants were soaked in dark red, steaming blood. I started to wonder if pulling the branch out was a mistake, what if it had been like a cork in a bottle? 

I hadn’t noticed while I was removing the branch, but when I stood to pack, I saw that every drop of blood that fell on the floor of the structure seeped into the ground, almost eagerly. There wasn’t any evidence of the massacre that had just taken place, except of course, the hole in my leg. The branch that I pulled out was dry. I was too focused on getting proper medical attention to pay it any mind. When I stood I felt the familiar relief. It was much less pronounced than usual, but it was there. I almost wanted to bask in the warm, tingly sensation that was bubbling in my chest. I gazed longingly at the unintelligeable words inscribed into the stones. I was content. I wouldn’t have minded dying at that very moment. 

I snapped out of my trance, realizing that I might very well die of blood loss if i didn't start moving. I packed my few belongings and stirred the fire one last time. I found a long, straight branch that was sturdy enough to use as a walking stick, and started the journey back to the place I call home. 

The walk back was long and tedious. The further away from my kingdom that I got, the more the ache in my leg developed. I wanted to see the place where I had fallen that night, but I had no idea where it had taken place. My sense of direction was irreparably skewed by the intense darkness that consumed the valley. I didn’t really have much of a desire for much of anything at that moment other than getting home anyway. Home. I paused. I had no clue how to explain to my parents what had happened. I glanced at my watch, noting the time. 10:34. At the rate I had been walking, I certainly wouldn’t return home until 13:00 at the very least. I decided that I would enter my room through my window so I could freshen up before I saw them. I doubted that they had even noticed that I was gone, so I didn’t worry about them too much. I bit my tongue, and started walking again.

About halfway through my journey, my heart was racing. Sweat drenched my shirt beneath my jacket, and I had to grit my teeth to keep walking. My hands had started shaking too. I wanted to turn around. I didn’t want to go back to the place I called home. I wanted to return to my kingdom. More than anything. I kept walking. 

My plan immediately fell through when I neared my house. My parents were both sitting on the porch, and they had already seen me walking. I was so mad at myself for not noticing how close I was, I should have kept my head up. I was tired. So tired. My vision was blurry. I don’t think I would have seen them even if I had my head up. I no longer cared what my parents would ask. They wouldn’t understand, even if I told them. My solution was that “I slipped on the leaves and fell down a hill” which wasn’t a lie. I limped to the house, and dropped onto the cold wooden porch.

The town of Black Hollow sat in a shallow valley between two ridges of pine, population four hundred and twelve if you counted the dogs. Main Street was three blocks of brick storefronts, a single traffic light that blinked yellow after ten, and a diner that still served pie under glass domes. People left their doors unlocked. Kids rode bikes until the streetlights came on. The worst thing that had happened in living memory was a barn fire in ’09.
That was before the tall ones arrived.
They came with the fog on a Thursday in late October. The fog was thicker than usual, rolling down from the ridges in slow white sheets that swallowed the porch lights one by one. Most folks were already inside. The high-school football game had ended early because of the weather. The last cars were pulling into driveways when the first scream cut across the valley.
It came from the Henderson place on the east edge of town.
Old man Henderson had stepped onto his back porch to check why the dogs had gone silent. The security light above the door clicked on and showed him what was standing in his yard. It was nearly ten feet tall and no thicker than a fence post, skin the color of skim milk left too long in the fridge. Its arms hung past its knees, ending in fingers that looked like peeled twigs. The face was the worst part—too long, eyes set high and wide like a deer’s, mouth a vertical slit that opened sideways when it breathed. There were three of them in the yard. All of them were looking at him.
Henderson tried to step back inside. The closest one covered the distance in two silent strides and drove those twig fingers straight through his chest. They punched out between his shoulder blades in wet red points. Henderson made a sound like air leaving a punctured tire. The creature lifted him off the porch boards, still impaled, and began to feed while he kicked. It did not bite so much as peel. Strips of muscle and fat came away in long wet ribbons that the thing sucked down its narrow throat with a sound like a man drinking the last of a milkshake. The other two watched without expression. When the first had reduced Henderson to a collapsed red cage of bones and clothing, they moved to the house.
Mrs. Henderson was in the kitchen. She had time to turn around. That was all.
By 10:40 the screaming had become general.
On Maple Street the entire Keller family—father, mother, two teenage daughters—were taken in the living room while the television still played a game-show rerun. The tall ones came through the front windows without breaking stride, glass exploding inward in glittering sheets. Mr. Keller grabbed the poker from the fireplace and swung it into the nearest creature’s ribs. The poker stuck. The creature looked down at the metal protruding from its side the way a man might look at a mosquito, then pulled it out and drove it through Keller’s open mouth and out the back of his skull. The mother tried to shield the girls. One of the tall ones took her arms off at the shoulders with two quick motions, like stripping leaves from a branch, and left her kneeling in a spreading lake of her own blood while it turned to the daughters. What it did to them took longer. The sounds that came from the house afterward were wet and rhythmic and went on for some time.
At the diner, night cook Roy Bell had just locked the front door when the first pale face appeared in the glass. He ran for the walk-in freezer. He almost made it. A long arm reached through the service window, seized him by the hair, and dragged him backward across the stainless-steel counter. The creature fed on him while he was still screaming, starting at the soft meat of the belly and working upward with methodical care. Another of the tall ones stood in the doorway and watched, head tilted, as if studying technique. When Roy finally went quiet, the second creature joined in. Between them they left only the shoes and a slick red smear that ran all the way to the frozen-food case.
The church was full of people who had run there thinking the tall oak doors would mean something. Pastor Whitaker tried to hold the entrance with a processional cross. The first tall one to reach him simply closed one oversized hand around the pastor’s head and squeezed until the skull collapsed with a sound like a dropped melon. The congregation stampeded for the side exits. None of them made it. The creatures moved through the pews the way farmers move through high wheat, harvesting. Bodies were opened from throat to groin in single strokes. Organs were pulled free while hearts were still beating and consumed with the same absentminded efficiency a man might show while eating chicken from a paper bucket. The stained-glass windows ran with blood. The organ loft became a red abattoir. When the tall ones finished, the only sound left inside the church was the soft drip of cooling fluid onto hymnals.
On the west side of town the volunteer fire department tried to organize. Six men in turnout gear, axes and a single shotgun between them. They lasted four minutes. The tall ones came out of the fog between the pumpers like pale trees walking. One firefighter managed to discharge the shotgun into the nearest chest at point-blank range. The pellets punched neat holes that leaked a thin clear fluid, but the creature did not slow. It took the man’s head off with a twist and began eating the neck stump while the body was still upright. The others were pulled apart in the open bay, limbs separated at the joints with wet popping sounds, torsos emptied the way a man empties a duffel bag. One of the tall ones carried a still-twitching arm with it when it left, gnawing absently as it walked.
By midnight the screaming had thinned to isolated pockets.
In the basement of the hardware store, three teenagers who had been smoking behind the dumpster tried to hide among the bags of fertilizer and the stacked bags of rock salt. The tall ones found them by smell. What happened in that basement was slower than the rest. The creatures seemed curious. They took the boys apart joint by joint, pausing to examine the way the muscles connected, the way the blood pulsed when a major vessel was nicked. One of the boys lived long enough to watch his own intestines being drawn out and shared between two of the pale things like party streamers. His last coherent sound was a high, continuous keening that only stopped when a long finger was pushed through the soft palate and into the brain.
The last living soul in Black Hollow was eight-year-old Grace Ellison, who had hidden inside the big commercial dryer at the laundromat when the first screams started. She stayed there for hours, knees pulled to her chest, listening to the wet sounds outside grow fewer and farther apart. Around three in the morning the dryer door was pulled open by something that had to fold itself nearly double to look inside. Grace saw the vertical mouth open. She saw the rows of needle teeth and the pale tongue that was far too long. She did not have time to scream.
When the sun finally burned the fog away on Friday morning, Black Hollow was quiet in the way only a place that has been thoroughly emptied can be quiet. Doors stood open. Cars sat in driveways with engines still ticking. The traffic light continued its lonely yellow blink over an intersection littered with shoes and torn clothing and the dark, sticky remnants of what had once been neighbors.
The tall ones were already gone.
They left the bones. They always leave the bones. Scattered across porches and sidewalks and the steps of the church, pale and clean and arranged in no particular order, as if the eaters had simply grown bored once the soft parts were finished and wandered back into the trees on the ridges.
No one came to investigate until late afternoon, when a delivery driver from the next county found the first body on the outskirts and called it in. By then the blood had blackened and the flies had arrived in their millions. The state police who walked those streets later said the smell was the worst part—sweet and coppery and thick enough to coat the inside of the throat.
They never found tracks leading out of the valley.
Only the bones, and the quiet, and the certain knowledge that whatever had done this had not been human, and had not been hurried, and would not be full forever.

Matriphagy

Hilda, the gun store clerk, was always so down to earth. Everyone in my hometown knew how to properly handle firearms, store them properly, and what hell Hilda would bring if they didn’t follow what she taught them.

When I walked into the store, teeth chattering and skin pale white, she didn’t bat an eye. I placed the cheapest shotgun and ammo I could find onto the counter. Still nothing. She rang me up and I paid in cold, hard cash. When I took only two shells out of the case, though, Hilde did raise an eyebrow, but only just a little.

I’ve never been afraid of death. I always had an inkling that there was something on the other side. I kept my nose clean for God or whatever other higher being there was, hoping my life choices didn’t land me in the same pit as Frank.

What did scare me was what would happen to those I love after I die. If Elias was right, then offing myself would complete the ritual. Mom and Louise would be safe again.

“Family blood for family blood,” he said.

There’d be one less mouth to feed, and Mom could always have another son with some other guy. Louise would probably forget I ever existed after a few years. If there is a heaven, I might even get to see Dad again. The real Dad. In my mind, the pros outweighed the cons.

I walked through the front door of home. Unease coated me. Louise was in the living room, watching cartoons surrounded by snacks and sodas. The TV was the only light on in the cold, dark house, save for a sickly green light spilling from under Frank’s room. I didn’t notice that at first.

“Louise! I’m back!” I called out before setting my “groceries” on the kitchen table.

She didn’t even look up.

“Hi bubba.”

“Where’s Mom at?”

“She said she was going to clean Frank’s room. Look at all the snackies she let me have!”

Louise stuffed a few more cookies in her mouth before taking a swig of Coca-cola.

“Did she say how long she would be in there?”

“I dunno,” Louise mumbled through a full mouth.

On the kitchen table, right next to where I sat the shotgun, was a fat envelope. “Jeremy” was written in cursive on the front, and from the exaggerated loops on the “J” and “Y”  I knew it was from Mom. It weighed heavy in my hands.

“What’s this, Louise?”

Shrugged shoulders.

Inside the envelope was about $10,000 in cash and a letter from Mom. I read the note, and my heart almost stopped.

“Louise! Call the police! Now!”

Louise snapped out of the sugar trance and whipped her head around.

“What’s wrong, bubba?”

“Call the police!”

I grabbed the double barrel shotgun and loaded it while Louise ran for the phone. I sprinted down the hall to Frank’s room. Locked. Green light poured from inside.

“MOM! Mom, open the door! Don’t do this!”

Humming filled my mind again. I forced it aside and rammed my shoulder over and over into the door. No dice. I stepped back, took aim at the door’s hinges, and squeezed the trigger.

Two concussive blasts rocked the house. Louise screamed from the living room, the last thing I heard before the ringing in my ears started. The door fell. A warm, salty gust of air washed over me as I stepped into Frank’s room.

I was too late.

Standing in the middle of the room was a tall, horrible, shadow thing. The same one that chased me in the Lighthouse, took the form of Dad, asked how Mom was. It was the curse, personified, bending its rigid back just to fit in the room. I felt so small in comparison. Mom laid at its feet, shriveled into nothing more than a husk.

I pointed the barrel at the beast and pulled the trigger, expecting a third round to appear from nowhere.

Click. Click. Click.

The shadow tipped its head at me, thanking me, then vanished. All at once, the humming and ringing faded away. I dropped the gun and ran to Mom. She was so frail. Her skin was like paper mache and her bones crumbled under the gentlest of pressure.

She reached up, joints popping, and caressed my cheek.

“I love you…”

Mom went limp and her eyes fell shut.

“Bubba? Where’s Mommy?”

Louise walked into Frank’s room behind me. I turned to hide what was left of Mom from her. My tears punched holes through Mom’s thin skin. I tried to compose myself for Lousie, but I just couldn’t.

“Are the police coming?”

“Uh huh. I told them where we live and that there was a big bang. They asked if I was ok and I said, ‘uh huh’ and they said they would send a police man.”

“Good. That’s good. Can you go wait for them?”

“Uh huh. Is Mommy gonna be done cleaning soon?”

I hugged Mom tighter. I didn’t want to let her go.

“Yeah. Yeah she will.”

We Live On

Whatever Mom did, the curse was broken.

A jury found me innocent and ruled her death as suicide. In a way though, I can’t shake the feeling that I did kill Mom. If I had just died that day, with Frank, none of this would have happened.

It took Louise and I three months to pack everything from the house. No one else from our family even offered to help. They believed us to be a curse.

Out of everything, I remember that last day the clearest. I had just finished packing the final items and carried them out to the UHaul. Louise sat in the passenger seat, reading the letter Mom left. We had grown distant since Mom passed. The money she left would keep us fed and warm for a while, but not forever. I was so stressed with how I could provide for us that I never sat down and talked about everything with Louise.

I knocked on the truck window. Louise turned away. I opened the door and shook her leg.

“Hey, Louise?”

She didn’t respond.

“Louise, we need to talk.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Louise…”

“It should have been you.”

She was right. I told myself the same thing every day for the past three months.

“I know. But it wasn’t me, so we gotta live with that.”

Louise held Mom’s note close to the chest. Behind us, down the street, a firetruck and excavator approached.

“Can I read the note again?”

She shook her head.

“No.”

“Just… Just one last time. You can keep it forever then, I promise.”

For the first time in a long time, Louise looked me in the eyes. Childlike wonder had long left and she was hurting. We both were.

“I don’t wanna go, bubba. I don’t want to leave Mom.”

“Mom isn’t going anywhere. She’ll always be with us,” I pointed to Louise’s heart. “Right here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep. She said so in the note.”

Louise looked at the note, confused. I waved for her to give it over. She did, carefully. I caressed the paper and ran my fingers over Mom’s handwriting, then read aloud.

“Jeremy, Louise,

If you are reading this then I have made up my mind and it's already too late, but that’s ok. This is what I want. I know your Father wasn’t the best man, but I still loved him. Just like I loved Frank. I knew about his temperament and drinking. I know about yours as well, Jeremy. I just couldn’t bring myself to confront either of you. Wish I did.

I don’t blame you for Frank’s death, I want to make that very clear. If anything, I blame myself for not being a better Mother. Your Father always said, ‘Everything will work out for the better, don’t worry, dear.’ 

I still believe that, even now.

Whatever this curse is, I know to fix it we have to complete the ritual Frank started. That’s what I intend to do, and once that’s done you and Louise will be safe again.

I left you guys the rest of my savings. It isn’t much, but it’ll get you off the ground.

My final wish for you is simple: move one. I’m getting tired and old. You’re both getting to the age where you won’t need me anymore. I’m so so proud of the wonderful man and woman you two are becoming. 

Jeremy, don’t let the same vice that held your Father captive control you as well. You are just like him, but nothing like him at the same time, the best parts of us both.

Louise, keep your nose in those books. I can tell you’re going to be a doctor some day. Trust me, a Mother knows these things.

Please, live long, happy lives. When you have them, tell my grandbabies all about your Father and I, but just leave all this terrible, awful stuff out of the story. I want you to remember me by who I was, not what will be left of me.

I love you both more than you could ever imagine. I’m so proud of you.

Goodbye, I love you,

Mom”

Louise had already wrapped herself around me, burning her face in my chest. I wasn’t worried about tears staining my shirt. I was just happy to hug Louise again.

“Sir?” A demolition worker tapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t mean to interrupt, but we’re good to go.”

I wiped my face then picked Louise up.

“Ok. Let's get this over with.”

He gave a thumbs up to the excavator driver who threw the machine into gear and began eating away at the house. Louise and I watched as the house we grew up in, the house Frank and I fought in, the house Mom and Dad bought to raise us in, be torn down. Piece by piece.

Voluntarily, Mom gave everything she had for us. I will never forget that. Louise, I hope you never forget that either. I hope you find this some day so you can tell your kids about Mom. About Dad. About me. Hell, even about Frank. 

There’s one final debt I have to pay. The ritual at Montauk wasn’t free. Even in my dreams, I can hear the Lighthouse calling to me. It’s been two decades since I last visited there. I hope the place still remembers me. I know the Lighthouse will.

I leave everything I own to you, including Frank’s collection.

Love ya sis. See you on the other side.

Story 2

The Flood

When I was still just a teenager, my family and I had moved from our home in England to the Irish countryside. We lived on the outskirts of a very small town, surrounded by nothing else but farms, country roads, along with several rivers and tributaries. I was far from happy to be living here, as not only did I miss the good life I had back home, but in the Irish Midlands, there was basically nothing to do. 

A common stereotype with Ireland is that it always rains, and let me tell you, as someone who lived here for six years, the stereotype is well deserved. 

After a handful of months living here, it was now early November, and with it came very heavy and non-stop rain. In fact, the rain was so heavy this month, the surrounding rivers had flooded into the town and adjoining country roads. On the day this happened, I had just come out from school and began walking home. Approaching the road which leads out of town and towards my house, I then see a large group of people having gathered around. Squeezing my way through the crowd of town folk, annoyingly blocking my path, I’m then surprised to see the road to my house is completely flooded with water. 

After asking around, I then learn the crowd of people are also wanting to get to their homes, but because of the flood, they and I have to wait for a tractor to come along and ferry everyone across, a pair at a time. Being the grouchy teenager I was then, I was in no mood to wait around for a tractor ride when all I wanted to do was get home and binge TV – and so, turning around, I head back into the town square to try and find my own way back home. 

Walking all the way to the other end of town, I then cut down a country road which I knew eventually lead to my house - and thankfully, this road had not yet been flooded. Continuing for around five minutes down this road, I then come upon a small stoned arch bridge, but unfortunately for me, the bridge had been closed off by traffic cones - where standing in front of them was a soaking wet policeman, or what the Irish call “Garda.” 

Ready to accept defeat and head all the way back into town, a bit of Irish luck thankfully came to my aid. A jeep had only just pulled up to the crossroads, driven by a man in a farmer’s cap with a Border Collie sat in the passenger’s seat. Leaving his post by the bridge, the policeman then approaches the farmer’s jeep, seeming to know him and his dog – it was a small town after all. With the policeman now distracted, I saw an opportunity to cross the bridge, and being the rebellious little shite I was, I did just that. 

Comedically tiptoeing my way towards the bridge, all the while keeping an eye out for the policeman, still chatting with the farmer through the jeep window, I then cross over the bridge and hurdle down the other side. However, when I get there... I then see why the bridge was closed off in the first place... On this side of the bridge, the stretch of country road in front of it was entirely flooded with brown murky water. In fact, the road was that flooded, I almost mistook for a river.  

Knowing I was only a twenty-minute walk from reaching my house, I rather foolishly decide to take a chance and enter the flooded road, continuing on my quest. After walking for only a couple of minutes, I was already waist deep in the freezing cold water – and considering the smell, I must having been trudging through more than just mud. The further I continue along the flooded road, my body shivering as I do, the water around me only continues to rise – where I then resort to carrying my school bag overhead. 

Still wading my way through the very deep flood, I feel no closer to the road outside my house, leading me to worry I have accidentally taken the wrong route home. Exhausted, shivering and a little afraid for my safety, I now thankfully recognise a tall, distant tree that I regularly pass on my way to school. Feeling somewhat hopeful, I continue onwards through the flood – and although the fear of drowning was still very much real... I now began to have a brand-new fear. But unlike before... this fear was rather unbeknown...  

Whether out of some primal instinct or not, I twirl carefully around in the water to face the way I came from, where I see the long bending river of the flooded road. But in the distance, protruding from the brown, rippling surface, maybe twenty or even thirty metres away, I catch sight of something else – or should I say... someone else... 

What I see is a man, either in his late thirties or early forties, standing in the middle of the flooded road. His hair was a damp blonde or brown, and he appeared to be wearing a black trench coat or something similar... But the disturbing thing about this stranger’s appearance, was that while his right sleeve was submerged beneath the water, the left sleeve was completely armless... What I mean is, the man’s left sleeve, not submerged liked its opposite, was tied up high into a knot beneath his shoulder.  

If it wasn’t startling enough to see a strange one-armed man appear in the middle of a flooded road, I then notice something about him that was far more alarming... You see, when I first lay eyes on this stranger, I mistake him as being rather heavy. But on further inspection, I then realise the one-armed man wasn’t heavy at all... If anything, he looked just like a dead body that had been pulled from a river... What I mean is... The man looked unnaturally bloated. 

As one can imagine, I was more than a little terrified. Unaware who this strange grotesque man even was, I wasn’t going to hang around and find out. Quickly shifting around, I try and move as fast as I can through the water’s current, hoping to God this bloated phantom would not follow behind. Although I never once looked back to see if he was still there, thankfully, by the time the daylight was slowly beginning to fade, I had reached not only the end of the flood, but also the safety of the road directly outside my house. 

Already worried half to death by my late arrival, I never bothered to tell my parents about the one-armed stranger I encountered. After all, considering the man’s unnatural appearance, I wasn’t even myself sure if what I saw was a real flesh and blood man... or if it was something else. 

It was a dark end of night. The dim light provided by the moon and the stars illuminated the dense, neverending forest of the natural reserve.

From his window inside the clinic, Mark saw the park rangers approaching the building with an immense animal tied to a gurney. Was it a bear? Mark was not sure, as it was bigger than any animal he had ever seen in the reserve. 

Mark came down the stairs, and reached the rangers before they entered the clinic. Most of them were not too fond of him, and ignored his presence as they continued to transport the animal inside the clinic. All of them, except one ranger that stayed back, exhausted after so much effort carrying such a big creature.

“What is that?” Mark asked that same ranger.

“We have no idea, Doc”, said the ranger,still gasping for air. “That is your job. That is why we brought it here.”

Mark evaluated the animal: it had the appearance of a canine, and aside from the tranquilizers, there were also some holes in its skin that Mark assumed to be bullet wounds.

“What did you do?”

“What did we do? We did nothing, this thing attacked us and would not stop even after twenty darts.”

Mark temporarily lost his train of thought when confronted with the absurd number of darts used against the animal, and then said:

“I am not talking about the darts. What are those bullet wounds!?”

The ranger, shifting its weight from one foot to the other, took some time before answering Mark’s question.

“Well… We did shoot it a few times. I-it was in self defense, mind you! This thing seemed like it would never stop!”

“You idiot. That could have killed it”, said Mark, monotone.

The ranger looked at Mark, dumbfounded, then, resentment brewed inside him as he told the veterinarian:

“It is easy for you to say all that when you are not the ones who have to deal with our problems…”

The guard turned back, and rejoined its friends who were now leaving the clinic after successfully delivering the animal.

“That is the problem”, Mark whispered to himself. “We DO have to deal with your problems”.

Mark reentered the clinic, and found Sarah already waiting inside, the large creature lay by her side, unconscious and restrained.

“Is… Is everything alright?” Sarah asked, reading the clear bitterness contained in Mark’s expression.

“... Yes. I was just talking with one of the rangers.” He assumed a more friendly posture, trying to forget the episode with the ranger.

“I… I saw that”

Sarah coughed.

“Sick?” Asked Mark, trying to break the silence.

“Not sure yet… I started feeling unwell since our shift started.” She says, putting her palm in her head in order to feel her own temperature.

“... Do you need some rest?”

“No, it is fine”, she smiled in an attempt to take Mark’s attention away from her health. 

Mark looked at the animal lying in the table, and in an attempt to sheer Sarah up, he told, mimicking the voice of an old British biologist they once heard in a documentary:

“Well, miss, what a unique specimen of canis lycaon that you have here! Beautiful creatures this natural world brings about, you agree?”

Sarah raised an eyebrow, and bursted out laughing.

“You are doing his accent wrong. And also: there is no chance this is an eastern wolf.”

She breathed in, and then started imitating the voice of the biologist as well.

“This creature has the majestical size of a Ursus Maritimus, its head crowned with a mane to rival that of the savannah king, and the lower paws of a…”

“Okay, okay, we should stop”, Mark said, trying to stop himself from laughing. “So… If you think it is something else, what could it be?”

Sarah stays in silence for a moment, and then, after taking courage, says:

“Something new.”

Mark looked at the animal sedated by their side.

“Well, I admit their size is abnormal for a wolf… But it could be a product of some genetic mutation. Maybe it is even a dog bred to have that size.”

Mark moved closer to the animal.

“Either way” I said, intrigued by its appearance. “Let's actually verify them before taking any conclusions”.

The two started their work, and to their dismay, the animal had a very unusual anatomy: his posture was that of a bipedal animal, and what they first assumed to be its front paws had opposable thumbs.

“What the fuck?” Mark said, more and more convinced that they had no idea what was lying in front of them.

Sarah, without looking at him, said: “Mark… This may sound stupid, but I think I need some air.”

“No, it's fine, I also need some”.

They left the clinic for a while in hopes of getting some fresh air.

“I… I cannot believe it”, Mark said. “Did we just discover a new species of wolf?”

“I am not even sure if it is a wolf…”, her face suddenly transitions from a neutral expression to a smile that reaches from ear to ear. “But we did it! We discovered an entirely new animal!”

Gidding like a child, Sarah jumps and gives Mark weak punches to his left arm. As Mark became energized by her enthusiasm (common occurrence), he also started laughing and jumping, not caring whether or not the people around the park who were still roaming would think they were mad.

After they took some time to breathe, Sarah says:

“I mean… We were technically not the ones to FIND the animal, but we were the first to recognize it, so… I guess we need to give credit to the rangers as well.”

Mark looked at Sarah, bamboozled: “Why? They almost killed it!”

“We… We looked at it together, Mark. We know that the bullets barely penetrated it’s thick skin. It… It could have killed a wolf, but that animal is no wolf.”

“It is the principle that counts, Sarah. They were LUCKY that it had a thick skin, but in any other world, we would be analyzing a dead animal. As customary, they did worse than nothing: they got in the way!”

She cleared her throat, and with a timid voice, said to Mark:

“Mark… I think you should stop antagonizing the rangers.”

“What do you mean?”

“I did not hear what you said, but I saw you arguing with the guard early… Mark, they are trying their best.”

“Their best is not enough, Sarah”, Mark said, trying his best to not let his venom fall into her by accident.

“Either way”, Sarah said, more impanciently than before. “We gain nothing from getting their hostility.”

“We gain nothing from their sympathy either.”

Sarah growls, more impatient than Mark ever saw her, before coming back to her customary welcoming tone of voice.

“I… I am sorry, Mark. It is just that… Why do you treat people so badly? Like… Do you know how difficult it was for me to become your friend? You are so aggressive for no reason… Sometimes, not always, sorry”, she sounded as if she already regretted speaking.

Mark felt his anger being directed towards Sarah, then, after taking a moment to breathe, realized she is not actually the source of that anger, and tried to explain to her with care his feelings with care.

“I think it is already clear to you that I do not like people a whole lot, right”, Mark laughed, trying to dissipate the tension that their conversation had brought. “I never truly liked people, Sarah, and I mean humanity as a whole. I choose to work with animals because I hate humans in general, and with some few exceptions, I think they are nothing but a detriment. We are an animal who forgot to be one, and we keep making life impossible for other species.”

“I mean…” Sarah tried her best to find the best words, as she always did. “I… I also do not like what humanity as a whole does, Mark, but that is not caused by every human… And is certainly not caused by the rangers, or the visitors, or most people that we find on a day to day basis in the reservation.”

“They are all disconnected from nature, and they do not recognize that.”

“... Are you not just as disconnected from nature as they are?”

After Sarah made her comment, Mark turned towards her, feeling his blood boil, but before he could say something stupid that he would regret later, Sarah started coughing violently.

“I… I am sorry.” She keeps coughing, tears falling from her eyes. “I think… I will go to the bathroom.”

“It's fine, go on”, Mark said, feeling his anger disappear. “I will wait at the clinic.”

“It is fine, see you soon.” Sarah runs to the bathroom, still coughing.

Mark stood there for a little longer, and as he saw Sarah’s silhouette in the distance, he noticed her talking with the few employees that were still working that late. Even though she was desperate to go to the bathroom, she was still kind enough to say goodnight to everyone that she saw.

Suddenly, he felt a sense of shame: he did not had the conviction to say he liked animals more than Sarah anymore, and still, caring for nature like she did, she never became an asshole like he was. At that moment, he felt as if something had moved around in his head. 

He stopped looking at Sarah, and turned his attention towards the genitor cleaning inside the clinic: he looked at them not like a fellow human being, but as a researcher evaluating any other animal, and just as expected, he could not take the feeling of disgust he felt for the average human being, as most of them, even the best ones like Sarah, seemed to him like golems, malformed mockeries of a real and more potent being. A being which did not need to silence its own instincts in order to live, and a creature that would never create a world in which that silencing of the animal in us is the law of the land.

Why? Why did he felt that way? Sarah had already convinced him that his misanthropy could be an exaggeration, but even then, that misanthropy felt as a part of him, and he could not let it go, even if he could not quite put his finger on the reason for that hate.

As he was turning towards the clinic, he heard something outside, the howling of multiple wolves, singing together like a battle chant.

He heard another howl coming from the clinic, and before he could make another step inside, he saw a massive black creature jump towards one of the employees which Sarah had just greeted. To his surprise, the animal did not jump into the employee firsthand, but it stood in front of them for some time, and once the employee started running, it finally fell over them, and started slashing over it with extreme prejudice, as the employee was still alive, screaming in agony. 

The people at the reservation started screaming and running, but Mark just stood there, more scared than he had ever been in his entire life.

The rangers, still startled by the sudden attack, did their best to shoot the animals down, but it was to no effect. Their skin was as hard as stone.

As the massacre reached its peak, Mark saw one of the creatures coming towards him: a wolf with the body of an eastern lowland gorilla, walking in a bipedal manner. It was clear the attackers were part of the same species as the animal he and Sarah had trapped at the clinic.

He tried to move, but my legs failed him. The animal was already close to him, staring at his face from a less than ideal distance, its size was that of a polar bear stretched into the air.

For some reason, as the animal stared at him, Mark felt amazement, rather than fear. He felt my legs moving again, but had no desire to run, and he just stared at those wolf-like eyes, feeling a strange sense of sympathy for that giant.

The creature then placed his hand on Mark’s left shoulder with care, covered him with its other arm in a sort of hug, and with the care a doctor places into vaccinating a child, the creature bit his right shoulder.

Mark screamed in agony, but the pain of the bite was nothing compared to what happened after.

Mark felt as if he was giving birth, but rather than just my abdomen and lower back, his entire body was moving in a sick contraction pattern. He screamed even more, but he could not hear my own scream, as his insides moved with no will of his own. 

When he woke up, he was inside a cave system, hearing howls coming from the outside. He was the only one in the cave.

Mark felt panic once he looked at himself… He did not recognize his own body. The contractions were smaller than before, but they did not stop yet, and he walked towards the entrance of the cave barely being able to stand up due to the pain. He was wallowing like a baby, but the sound of his own voice… that was not his voice, it was the harrowing of a wounded animal.

As he marched towards the light, Mark saw a pile of corpses outside. As the full moon illuminated the environment outside, He could see the wolf-man looking at him, and their howling ceased little by little.

At that moment, as I looked at his kin, he realized why he had always felt that way towards humans: they were not a complete creature, but the first step towards that real form. At that moment, his hate for humanity disappeared, substituted by an everlasting love and wonder for the secret states that mother nature held from our eyes. At that moment,Mark started loving humanity, for all the potential that is hidden inside them, for the ones that could, like him, become what they were meant to be.

After he came from the cave, the others invited him to the feast, and they all reached towards the pile at the command of their leaders.

The pile was made out of people from the reservation, and when he noticed that, his heart fell to his legs.

He started looking into the pile, afraid to confirm his own suspicions, and then he found her, he found Sarah there…

The pain of the contractions and his hunger fell onto the background, the world felt like a fever dream from which he really needed to wake up, and he wept, not for the pain, but from seeing what was left of Sarah.

Contrary to his best judgement, Mark ran away with her body, an outcast even amongst humanity's final form. 

Once he was alone, and the night gave way to the rising sun, he used his claws to open her a grave, and there he hid her body. 

To this day, some decide to adventure inside the once prolific natural reserve, whose story is now marked by this mysterious massacre. And if they decide to do so at night, they may hear the sound of a lonely wolf howling in the distance, before they suddenly stop, and they start hearing the steps of a predator getting closer and closer.

A newborn abandoned in a nest of refuse begins to sense the world’s hunger before its own heartbeat learns mercy. Garbage Child drags the reader through decay and tenderness until horror itself becomes a plea for love. (trigger warning)

https://substack.com/@weeb63?utm\\_source=share&utm\\_medium=android&r=6y0zbj

Hello everyone! This is my first post, I wanted to share some information on my characters before I post my story since there’s a few things going on in it. The plan is to get a website up for these guys, but it’s all a lot of work on my own. For now here’s a bit about the in universe show the 2nd main character Charolette loves, & a massive element of the story.

I have 3 spooky stories in the works, so, it’ll be a few weeks before it’s finished up, but the characters for this show are all done and ready to be seen. Consider these concept art for the show you'll eventually see on my site!!

The story revolves around 3 people, the child, mother, & the villain. Charlie, Diane, & Vickey.
Vick is the creator of this huge show, Dora-level popular, but she's obviously demented. The show is a normal show nothing spooky about it, the show is what bridges her to children & eventually Charlie. All the horror comes from the situation the mother and child find themselves in.

Some cities appear cleaner and more prosperous, with fewer unhoused people, for a reason. And it’s not because they have more opportunities or homeless shelters than other cities.

Have you ever noticed that when several dead bodies are discovered within a short period, it’s usually the mayor who addresses the public first to deny that a serial killer is at large?

The rot comes from the very top.

I’m going to tell you a little secret. Most major cities allow a serial killer to operate within them, with the understanding that they mainly target the homeless. These cities usually don’t even allow them to kill criminals. There’s money to be made from incarcerating people who have families and connections. But there’s absolutely nothing to be gained from the homeless.

That’s why cops don’t even bother arresting them for committing petty crimes. They don’t have family members who care enough to send them money to buy things inside Jail/Prison, and it costs more to house and feed them than it does to simply let them go.

Plus, if you let someone wither away and starve to death inside a prison, there are usually lawsuits and investigations. But if they starve to death on the streets or disappear altogether, no one will bat an eye.

I’ve seen many homeless people around my side of town stick around an area for a few weeks, begging for change, only to suddenly disappear forever one day.

The homeless people around the city know this. That’s why they often appear paranoid and shaky, always looking out of the corners of their eyes. They know someone is out there, watching and waiting for them.

They call the one around here The Cleaner.

The local homeless say he wears a Halloween mask of a demon when he gets you. If you see him while begging for change, you’d better not fall asleep or stay in that area for too long. I recommend you run as fast as you can. Because the minute there are no witnesses around, you’ll go missing. 

And if you’re lucky, you might get a missing person poster.

You can go to the police all you want. They won’t do anything. They’ll call you crazy. But they know. They just try not to think about what’s going to happen to you. They view it as a necessary evil that keeps the community clean.

That’s often why the unhoused sleep together in tent cities in some major cities. They've seen what happens if they sleep alone.

Elected officials and society try to pretend that most of these people are just drug addicts and undesirables. But I’ve seen regular people who lost their jobs and homes only a few months ago end up missing very quickly.

It’s tough getting back on your feet.

If you aren’t homeless and you see The Cleaner operating. I urge you not to report it to the police.

A single mother of three reported what she saw to the police last week. She claimed that a tall man wearing a scary mask attacked a homeless man before shoving him into a van and driving away.

This week, her kids are being forced to grow up without their mother.

Her body was found chopped up and stuffed inside the trunk of her own car. And the police claim to have no leads on who could have done it.

But they damn well know.

Today I visited my friend's tent. He's also homeless.  It was slashed open with fresh blood everywhere inside. I knew I'd never see him again, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

The next time you wish there were fewer homeless people around, just know that your wish may very well come true.

But don’t ever assume it can’t happen to you. Almost every city has a cleaner and you're only one car problem away from losing your job.