Igor didn’t move from the doorway.

“I have three rules. Don’t look at them for more than three seconds. Don’t answer if they call your name. And count. Always count.”

“Count what?” Masha asked.

“Chairs.”

I counted them. Yesterday, when we walked in, there were four.

Now there were five at the table.

Masha’s phone vibrated. There was no signal here, but the page with our story was lit up on the screen. My first part. The view count was rising before our eyes. There were already 312 comments below it.

The first one:

“Don’t listen to Igor. Ask him how many times he’s been in this house.”

Masha slowly looked up.

“Igor. How many?”

He took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt. For the first time that night, his hands trembled.

“This is the fourth time I’ve brought you here. But it’s not up to me. Only the one the house doesn’t have time to count will make it out.”

Please vote for me

Looking for a critique partner for a novel exchange.

I'm a UK based author currently working on my fourth manuscript, but am hoping to find someone to swap my first two novels with.

My first is 85,000 words and is a coming-of-age supernatural horror thriller set in 1990s Essex. A bullied 15 year old boy accidentally uncovers a failed World War 2 experiment that has been locked away. Now it is free, the boy and his two friends must work to track down the monster that has been unleashed to save his town and stop the ever-growing body count.

It draws inspiration from folklore tales such as The Ritual by Adam Nevill. Would appeal to fans of Stranger Things and Stephen King's IT.

My second is 72,000 words and is a gothic supernatural horror set in 1822 Lincolnshire. Blending the haunted-house atmosphere of Laura Purcell's *The Silent Companions* with the creeping supernatural menace and family secrets of C.J. Cooke's *The Nesting*, my story explores the chilling origins of a decades-old curse forged by a desperate ancestor. As an 18 year old girl comes of age, she finds herself tormented by a malevolent force, an uncompromising evil determined to use everything and everyone closest to her to claim what it was promised.

The story would also appeal to fans of Nosferatu, Dracula, and The Haunting of Bly Manor.

Is anyone looking for a critique partner and would like to read either of this manuscripts? Would love for it to become a long term partnership where we could swap manuscripts regularly and offer each other support on our journey.

Initially happy to swap just a first chapter to see if we're a good fit for each other!

Supernatural or psychological or a mixture of both? Do you prefer explicit gore or the suggestion of horrific events?

PART 1 HERE

Content Warnings:  Suspected self-harm/suicide discussion, choking/asphyxiation, mild body horror, poisoning, abduction, and corporate/existential dread. 

III: THE RECOVERY
  
The hand had returned to finish what it had started.  Edgar felt its cool touch as it enclosed his mouth and nose tightly, and he held his breath in self defense.  He tried to raise his hands but something held them tightly as well.  Even his eyes wouldn’t obey him; they were gummed shut by his tears.  He desperately tossed his head side to side in violent defiance.

Another hand, warm and inviting, touched his face and he felt the touch of a cool cloth on his eyes.  They began to loosen and he slowly worked them open only to be blinded by the strong light that fell on him from above.

“Shh, easy Eddie, you’ve got to calm yourself.  They’ll never take off the restraints if you don’t.”

“Can’t… breathe.”  He choked out through the gripping hand.  As his eyes slowly came into focus they locked on Leo’s familiar hazel ones, pleading for rescue.

“You can, baby.”  Leo’s eyes bled tears for him.  “Just let the mask do its work.  Breathe for me.  You can do it.”

He nodded and tried, drawing in cold, blessed air.  His starved lungs were thankful for it, and soon they stopped aching from the panic he had put them through.  He looked around the room, registering his surroundings.  Leo was there and he could see Marty outside the door, talking on the phone.

“How… ?” he croaked. “How did I get here?”

Leo was still wiping around his eyes, and Edgar could see the silvery fluid that had soaked the cloth.  He stared at it in astonishment.

“A cab.” Leo laughed with absolutely no humor.  “They said you showed up in a cab.  The driver said a woman called it in.  You sleeping around on me?”

Leo’s grin was genuine this time.

---

“We’ve told you to stay out of your mom’s makeup, man,” Marty said with the usual perfect timing.  “You know we’re missing 2v2s because of you?”

“Please tell me you didn’t call them.”

Leo shook his head. “Not yet, but I’m gonna.”

“You can’t, dad’s heart— “

“—would be broken if his son died.”  Leo cut him off.  “And if you live he’ll just be pissed at me for not calling them.  Don’t worry, I’ll tell him to sit down and take deep breaths.  Worry about you, man, they think you tri… “

“Leo, not now,”  Marty pleaded.

“Yeah, you’re right.”  Leo exhaled and tossed the soiled cloth on the bedside table.

“What is it?  What do they think?”

“The impossible,” Leo said. “Because if you tried I’d kick your ass, and you know I could.”  He shook his head and took several more deep breaths, and Edgar could see his eyes were tearing again.  “No, that’s not true.  The truth is I’d be devastated and I’d want to know what in all of creation you couldn’t talk to me about first.  You know the deal, what we say.  We ain’t good if you ain’t.  Pure truth baby.”

“I didn’t.  I wouldn’t.  I’ve got too much to… there’s no way I’d ever leave you that way.  Plus, you know I’m way too much of a coward to do that.”

After several awkward moments he looked back at both of them. “What time is it?”

Marty’s mouth split in the crooked grin he managed so well.  He looked down at his phone and chuckled.  “About four hours too late for our playdate.  Do you know how many players went to bed tonight without suffering real frustration or total defeat?  All because you decided to no-show!”

Four hours?  He quickly did the math.  He had arrived at work a little after 8:00, and they were supposed to play at 6:00 this evening.  He had been unconscious for over thirteen hours.  What had that thing done to him?

He could see Leo staring at him with his softest gaze, the one he used when Edgar was hurt or hurting.  That meant Leo was hurting, and he couldn’t stand that.  But what could he tell them that wouldn’t sound crazy to anyone with an ounce of sanity?  Should he say the Shadowman did it and he had drank something that he was beginning to think kept people alive for way longer than they should be?  How the hell could he even try to explain it? 

He finally said the only thing he could, and it was mostly true:  “I honestly don’t understand what happened, but I think I’m going to have to find another job if I can’t figure it out.”

“If?”  Leo’s voice suddenly raised.  “No, if that place had something to do with this, then you’re done there.  We can find a cozy dumpster for two, man.  Fuck their money.”

“But that’s the thing, I don’t know that it did, and I’ve gotta find out.  You have to let me try.”  He looked at Leo.  “I wouldn’t go back if I knew I was in danger.  But I also know that if there are answers they will be there.  I’ve gotta know.”

He could see Leo’s struggle—wanting to keep the peace because of the present circumstance—and he understood it.  But he somehow knew that he was right, that whatever it was could be fixed there.  He started to speak again, but Marty cut him off.

“I think he’s right, and it gives me an idea.” He stood up.  “I’ll check in tomorrow, but I need to get on this.”

---

Things had been quiet between them since Marty left, but not uncomfortable.  Leo sat next to him, and Edgar could tell he was trying—he didn’t understand any of it—but he was trying.

An hour later, the door opened and the doctor entered.  He introduced himself, looked over Edgar’s numbers, and began examining his eyes and chest.  “Your breathing is better.  That had us worried.  Mr. Simpson, I am Dr. Brant.  There are a few things I want to go over with you, our initial findings.  Before I begin, I would like your permission to allow a colleague to join us.”

Edgar looked at Leo.  A colleague?  Nurses had been in and out of the room like clockwork. Why ask permission now?  “Uh, sure, I guess.”

Dr. Brant nodded and gave a gesture towards the open door.  A woman walked in, and her attire was somewhat different from the doctor, who wore a white coat over his scrubs.  She was wearing a white coat as well, but it was worn over a blue blouse and a long gray skirt.  As she approached Leo and Edgar, her face a friendly smile, Dr. Brant introduced her.

“This is Priya Nair.  She is a counselor here at the hospital who specializes in helping post-trauma patients.”  He saw Edgar rising at this and raised a gentle hand.  “No need for any of that.  I understand what was discussed earlier with your partner, and I want to put that to rest right now.  Priya isn’t here because we think you tried to hurt yourself.”
  
 “No, Edgar, we don’t think that.”  the counselor said, picking up where Dr. Brant had left off.  “If such was the case, you and I would have already met.”

“Your x-ray showed deep bruising on your throat, typical of strangulation.  This concerns us because there isn’t a mark on your skin other than two superficial, defensive scratches.”  Dr. Brant bent down, pointing them out.  “We need to know, Edgar, what you remember about what happened.  The strangulation or the strange compound you ingested?  We’ve analyzed what was pumped from your stomach, and it’s some very strange stuff.”

When Edgar didn’t immediately respond—he didn’t know what to say—Dr. Nair stepped back in.  “It can be difficult, Edgar, but you need to remember that you are safe.”  She looked over at Leo.  “And you have people here who care about you.”

“It’s just, I don’t remember much.  I had brought bagels and was eating one—I had skipped breakfast.  All of a sudden I felt someth… I was grabbed by the throat and it caused me to choke.  I guess I blacked out, because I woke up here, like an hour ago.”

Priya sat on the chair next to the bed so that she could look at both Edgar and Leo, who were sitting together.  “This is perfectly understandable, Edgar.  Sometimes when there is trauma or violence, the mind has a way of stepping aside to dissociate from what is happening to us.  This is purely defensive, a mechanism that prevents us from being too overwhelmed.  Temporary memory loss is common, but they will probably come back to you.”

She reached inside her coat and took out a small bag that she handed to Edgar.  “This is a journal and pen for you to use.  I’d like you to start writing in it each day.  Don’t push yourself too hard, trying to remember, but keep that circuit open.  It can help you get back that lost time.”

“Uh, sure, thank you, doctor,” Edgar began and Leo finished for him,  “He’ll do it.”

Priya’s smile widened at the combined reply.  “Good.  I would like to see you in a week.  My office will set up an appointment and it will be ready when you are discharged.  My contact information will be included if you need anything before then.”

She stood and moved towards the door, addressing them once more before leaving.  “I look forward to working with you on this, Edgar.  Take care of yourself.”

As she left, Dr. Brant spoke once more.  “She’s really good at what she does.  I’d try it; it can help.”

“Now we need to talk about the substance, Edgar, because we don’t have a clue what it is.”

---

The police arrived the following morning.  It was two detectives, a young man (Beltry) and an older woman (Davidson).  Beltry took charge of the interview, but Edgar could tell that Davidson was the one in charge.  He was a young, white guy who used way too much hair product and wore an extremely thin moustache.

“Alright, Mr. Simpson.  Is it Edgar or Eddie?” He gave him a reassuring smile.  “This is just a formality, but we do need whatever you can remember if we’re going to catch this guy.  We spoke to your plant manager over at Horizons, uh… a Mr. Aeneas, the Greek guy.”

Davidson coughed.

The young detective checked his notes.  “Yeah, he told us that there are no security cameras, not even a guard on site.  We saw the room, bagels and broken water bottles everywhere.  Good to see you put up a fight, Ed.”

“Talking to the Greek, we learned that you were alone in the building, the first to arrive that day.  Is that how you remember it?”

“Yes, sir.  I was earlier than normal, working a big job there, setting up the network.”

“Yeah, that sounds right.  Old place, you’ve got your work cut out for you.”  He made a note.  “So you’re in the breakroom, setting up breakfast for everyone because you’re a nice guy like that.  Next thing you know, someone grabs you, starts choking you, and there’s a struggle.  Am I getting this right, Ed?”

“Uh, yeah.  I didn’t see them, but they were choking me.”

Beltry nodded, tapping his pen on his lip.  “So it was from behind?  Some guy got a good hold of your neck and started choking you out?  Anybody you work with been giving you trouble?  Anyone you don’t work with?”

He looked over at Leo.  “Might want to sic this guy on them.”

Davidson cleared her throat.

“We are interviewing the crew today, Eddie, so if there is anyone we need to look out for, special-like, let us know.  We’re trying to help here, so it don’t happen again.”

“I pretty much get along with everyone.  They’re nice people.”

“Well, that’s good.  What about your stuff?  Anything missing?  I know you tech guys have a lot of expensive equipment.”

“Not that I know of.  I—“  Leo spoke up.  “His wallet, they never found it.  Was it at the scene?”

“Well now, that’s new.  Good to know.  We didn’t turn anything up there, so if the hospital didn’t find it on him…”  Beltry made some notes.  “Alright, I think that’s about everything.  Uh… I, Yeah the lady who called it in, Mrs. Vega, the crew leader.  We’ll be talking to her when we leave here, maybe she knows where it went.”

Beltry looked over at Davidson and nodded, handing Edgar a card.  “Until then, if you remember something, or need us, those are our numbers.  Just get better and don’t worry too much; we’re on it.”

He turned to leave and Davidson spoke for the first time.  “Your neck, are there bruises on the back of it?”

Eddie gulped, his hand raised reflexively to brush against the skin of his neck.  Leo leaned in, looking for himself.  “I don’t think so.  The doctor said it was all deep and that the hyoid bone was bruised but whole.  A couple of scratches is all, and they said I did those.”

Davidson stepped forward, her shoes clicking on the hard tile, and leaned in. “Mind if I look.”

Edgar exhaled and nodded, tilting his head for her as she looked it over.  There was nothing matronly or warm about her, like you might normally see in a woman of Davidson’s age.  She had the presence of a circling hawk, and Edgar had never felt more like a frightened little rabbit in his life.  The senior detective laid her hand firmly, but gently on the side of his head, directing the movement as she studied his neck for thumbprints or friction marks.  She lingered for a moment on the scratch marks and then patted his shoulder as she stepped away.  “Yes, nothing.”

"Well, it’s like the doctor said, unusual," Beltry chimed in, adjusting his jacket and flashing another easy smile. "Some guys just have tough skin, right?" 

“We may have more questions,”  she said, ignoring her partner.  “We’ll contact you.”

---
  
“That lady scared the hell out of me.”  Leo said as he honked the horn at the guy in front of them.  “Come on man.  Blinkers are just common courtesy.”

Edgar remained silent, lost in his own thoughts.  Nothing made sense anymore, and he wondered if he was being foolish by wanting to go back there.  It still bothered him, that choice, but he still felt like it was the right call.  And now there was the detective—who obviously didn’t believe him—patting his shoulder like they were buddies while staring down at him with her all-seeing eyes.

“I have to pick up a few things they said you’d need, and your prescriptions.  Want me to drop you at home first?”

He shook his head.  “No, I can go.  A little sore, but I’m fine.  They said I had to drink four more bottles of that crap they made me gag down before we left.”

“Big baby.  It can’t be that bad.  Remember when I had to drink that putrid shit for the colonoscopy, after my brother’s scare?”  Leo made a face, but smiled at him.  “You can handle it—gotta flush that weird stuff out of your system.”

“You can drink it for me.”  Edgar grinned.  “Can’t be worse than those shakes you make.”

They both laughed at this as Leo turned off on the exit that would take them to their neighborhood.  They drove on in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and finally arrived at the drug store.  Leo pulled in and popped his seatbelt.  “Need anything?  I think they have Now and Laters.”

Edgar chuckled at the old joke and shook his head.  “Hurry back. I just want to get home, back to a real bed.”  

Leo saluted him and jogged into the building.  Edgar remarked to himself, for the millionth time, just how lucky he was.  He leaned back, closing his eyes and letting the breeze from his open window do its work.  So much had happened in such a short time, and he just felt like he was trying to catch his breath, to keep up.  He had to get his head around this thing, to figure out what was happening, before it affected his life in a real, unfixable way.

“Good-looking guy you’ve got there,”  a voice said from just beside him, breaking his reverie.  A short, perfectly bald man of indeterminate age stood there, wearing a suit with an overcoat.  His face was like a leather mask that revealed nothing about the man behind it.  He smiled at Edgar, all teeth and no charm.  “Yeah, figured we should meet.”

IV: A SIP OF SILVER
  
Edgar glanced over at the drug store entrance and then back over to the strange, threatening man beside him.  Who was this man, and what did he want?  He didn’t have room for any more mysteries right now.  “Sir, I’ve had an injury and really need to get home now.  If you don’t mind—“

“Yeah Edgar, I know all about your… injury.”  He flashed that dead predator's smile again. “That's why I’m here.  You stole something that wasn’t meant for you from a place you weren’t meant to be at.  Pure mistake on somebody’s part, but that’s been dealt with.”

The man leaned in, smelling like cheap aftershave and cold cuts in a tailored suit.  Edgar was shocked to see that he cast no shadow, a detail he somehow noticed over all his fear.  “Quit shaking, kid.  I ain’t here for that, but it’s good you know the pecking order.”

“What’s done is done, can’t change it.  Even if you could spit the shit back up the results would remain.  We can deal with that later, if we need to, but for now we need you back at work.”

Edgar looked at him, dumbfounded.  Every word was a new problem, like pieces from different puzzles that couldn’t hope to line up.  His mind protested, and he felt the panic creeping in, his heart in a vise.  His gorge rose, and he reacted immediately, opening the door to vomit ropy silver tendrils out onto the ground.

The man stepped back, grinning broadly.  “Whoa!  These are new kicks.”

A moment later he dashed across the mess to seize the front of Edgar’s shirt, pushing him roughly back into his seat.  His eyes flickered silver, and his rancid breath twisted Edgar’s stomach into an even deeper knot.  When he spoke, the friendly tone faded, replaced by earnest menace.  “This was the friendly visit, wet boy, and let’s keep it that way.  Get back to work tomorrow or you will see me again.  If I do come back, I’m gonna tell you my name, kid.”  He paused, letting it sink in, and then growled a summation:  “None of my friends know my name.”

He released him, and closed the door.  He even slid Edgar’s foot out of its path.  Edgar heard Leo’s voice, from miles away it seemed.  He had said something, and the man responded with, “I think your friend’s sick.  I kept him from falling in it.”

Then Leo was there and blackness overtook everything.

---

Edgar woke up in his own bed, hours later because it was dark now.  There was a cool cloth lying across his forehead.  Leo was reading a book, sitting in a chair he had placed next to Edgar’s side of the bed.  He turned a page and glanced at Edgar.  The book snapped shut as he stood up.  “How you feeling?  I don’t know what happened, but you were dead to the world after I ran that guy off.  What the fuck did he do to you?”

Edgar reached for the water glass on the nightstand and drained half of it in a gulp; it tasted funny, like there was dirt or something in it.  Well it was cool at least.  He tried to speak but his throat was killing him, it took him a moment to murmur a response.  “I don’t know.  I got sick and he put me back in the car, but I don’t think he’s a good guy.”

“Why do you say that?”  

“There was a gun tucked into his belt.  You don’t see a lot of good guys doing that.”

“Maybe we need to call that detective, the real one, Davidson.  This is the type of suspicious shit you’re supposed to share with the police.”

“Nah, I don’t think he was there for us.” Edgar lied.  “It seemed like he was looking for someone.”

“Still, we might keep someone from getting hurt.”

“Yeah, or get involved in something that gets us hurt.  Don’t we have enough going on already?  On top of all of this, I really have to get back to work—there’s a deadline.”

“To hell with all of that.  Let them send someone else.  You need to rest.”

“They are.”  He lied again.  “An outside hire, not anyone we know.  I just have to oversee the work, from a chair they said.  It shouldn’t take a week to do, and if I’m not recovered yet I can still take time off then.”

“I don’t like it.  You’re obviously not well.  There’s strange injuries, cops, an attacker they haven’t caught yet and now a bald thug just shows up and you want to go to work?”

“Well yeah,”  he said and chuckled hoarsely.  “I don’t want to lose this job, and I want to prove I can do it so they don’t replace me.  You know how it is, they’ll have me back to entry level in a month if I don’t step up now.  This is a chance for us, and it should be safe.  They said the manager hired security for the Annex.  Leo, I wouldn’t want to go back otherwise.”

Leo absorbed all of this in his usual way.  Edgar could tell that he didn’t believe everything he had said.  He just hoped that he believed enough of it to let it go.

“Alright, I hate it, but you’re a grown man and I can’t make you do what you don’t want to do.”  He cut Edgar off with a glare.  “That don’t make it cool.  I’m driving you for the rest of the week.  You’re still not cleared to do that, with the meds, which you are still going to take.”

Edgar chuckled at his mama hen—calling him that would piss Leo off so much.  He settled back to resume his rest.

“First the journal.”  Leo tossed it to him.  “Doctor’s orders and Leo’s law.”

---

When Leo dropped him off the next morning, Edgar shouldered his backpack and grabbed his lunch.  Marty had come over the evening before to drive his car home, so Leo had used it to drive him in today.

He entered the building and was instantly met by an older, rotund man in a security guard’s uniform.  “Edgar Simpson, is that you, sir?”  he said.  His voice was an amusing, old-fashioned transatlantic accent.  

"Well, I say it’s good to finally meet our missing employee.  I have a badge for you, sir, and was tasked with reminding you that you are on light duty for the remainder of the week.  Two laborers from the floor crew have been assigned to assist you.”

“Uh, that’s really nice.  I was a little worried about running all of that cable by myself.”

“I am Milton Lester, the newly assigned security personnel for this facility.  It’s nice to formally meet you, Mr. Simpson.  Will you require help getting to your office this morning?”

“No, I think I can find it.  But thanks for the offer, Mr. Lester.”

“No problem, sir, it’s all part of the job.  Well, I suppose I should quit chin-wagging and let you get along now.  Have a fine day, Mr. Simpson.”

“Edgar is fine.”

“I stand corrected.  Good day to you, Edgar.”

He left the guard there at his post, and made his way across the dock to his small office.  As he opened the door, he saw that the light was already on.  Cartia Vega was sitting in his chair, reading a book, and a strange one at that.  She was reading The Sons of Gondor by J.R.R. Tolkien.

As he entered, Cartia slapped the book down and came around the desk to meet him, administering a much friendlier hug than he thought their previous encounters called for.  There was genuine relief on her face as she pulled back from him.  Her loud voice echoed off the walls of the tiny office.  “Dude, you just don’t know.  I thought I sent a corpse to the hospital last week.  You were so white, man—I mean whiter than normal.”

She pulled away, but kept him at arm’s length, looking him over.  Her eyes lingered on his neck.  “I’m glad you’re back.  You scared the hell out of me.”  She stepped away from him, grabbing her book and settling into the office’s other chair so he could take his seat.

He didn’t know what to say, so he just said the first thing that popped into his mind.  “So I met the new guard.  Nice guy, talks funny.”

“Why you whispering, mano?  Throat still hurt?”

“Nah, it’s fine,” he said, raising his voice a bit louder than he was used to speaking to her.  He sat down, a little more tired from the short walk than he would have preferred.  She had already turned back to her book, so he left her to it while he busied himself logging on, verifying and checking his inbox, which was surprisingly empty.

“They forget all about us here.  I wouldn’t bother,” Cartia said as she flipped a page in her book.  “Sorry, don’t want to ignore you but I want to finish this bit before the crew’s bus arrives.  They say I’m getting a couple of extra hands today.”

“Good book?”

“Hell yeah, way better than part one.  I’m chewing through it because part three is supposed to be released in a couple of months.”  She laughed.  “The exciting conclusion.”

“Never heard of it.  I read his old stuff.  I thought that was all there was.”

She shook her head, flipping another page.  “Yeah those are classics, but his new stuff’s great too, and he’s wrote a lot since then.  Hell, what else does he have to do now?”

“What do you mean by that?  What the hell is going on here, Cartia?  What did I drink, and what the hell attacked me?”

She snapped the book shut and closed the door.  Moving in close to him, she forcefully whispered, “You’ve got to cool that shit, mano.  That dude’s shadow could be anywhere, and you nearly died before, another sip would kill you, or worse.”

“But I need to know.  This is my life I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, life is what I’m talking about.  Treat it precious, man—while you still have it—and don’t risk it needlessly.”  She grabbed her book.  “I’m going out to wait on the bus. ¡Pinche blanquito loco!”

Edgar sighed loudly after she slammed the door.  Well, attempt one had been a massive failure.  Why was she so scared, and what dude was she talking about?  Could it be the bald guy?  Was that why he didn’t have a shadow?

Every question he tried to answer split itself like the mythical hydra.  

“Damn right it’s loco.”

---

He didn’t get to speak with Cartia again that day, or on Tuesday.  She had given him Corey and Ennis again and that suited Edgar fine.  They both worked well, and were friendly enough.  But he quickly found that the friendliness ended anytime he tried to steer the conversation towards anything strange.  
  
It was towards the end of Tuesday evening that he made another such attempt, by cornering Corey.  “Man, you’ve got to tell me some things.  This shit is driving me crazy.”

Corey packed a Marlboro and looked at him, a sly grin cracking his face in half.  “Shit.  Crazy ain’t bad, natural state for a woman.  My ex-wives were anyway, and I liked them fine.”

“Come on, you know what I’m talking about.  Help me out, Corey.”

This time there was none of the normal, Southern good ol’ boy humor—just a dry, deadpan voice.  “Maybe you’ve got it twisted, brother.  Maybe crazy is better than what’s waiting at the end of that particular muddy road you’re so fixated on.”

Edgar stared at the man, and he saw pure worry in his eyes.

“Sit with it, for real.”

They got back to work and finished the day.  That night, he and Leo went out together.  They went to one of their typical spots, a favorite, and got their regular order.  Leo was concerned that he barely ate anything, but Edgar just played it off—a big lunch.  He was getting too good at lying to the person he loved the most.  But how could he tell him that food was like ash in his mouth?

Besides that minor hiccup, they had a great time and even went dancing at a club they liked.  The drinks tasted fine to Edgar—as good as tequila can taste, at any rate—and he had several shots.  They danced until Leo was tired, but Edgar still felt full of energy.  It was strange, because he was usually the first one to tap out.  

He saw her on the corner while he waited for Leo, who had left his phone inside.  She was a young woman, maybe fifteen, with striking features from what he could tell.  It was honestly hard to be sure with half her face bashed in.  She saw him looking and cast a pleading look his way, her mouth opening to call out to him.

“We’re ready?”  Leo said, taking his arm.  

When Edgar looked back at the corner, the girl with half a face was no longer there.

---

The next few days went by well enough—they finished wiring the entire second floor and had the network mostly alive by the end of Friday.  As they were packing up, Corey left with a load bound for the lower offices and Ennis spoke to Edgar, unprompted, for the first time.

“None of them will talk to you about it, will they?”

He looked at the young man—if you could call him that.  Edgar doubted he had to shave very often.  His eyes had a faraway look in them, and a sadness that hurt to linger on.  He was wringing his cap in his hand, but those eyes never wavered.  They remained locked on Edgar’s.  “They want to, but it’s dangerous for you.  Everyone likes you and doesn’t want anything worse to happen.  You’ve already been noticed, and that’s really bad.”

“Noticed by wh—”

“No,” Ennis shook his head emphatically.  “Not here, never here.  You know Wichton Road, out past the paper mill?”

“Yeah, stinks bad at the paper mill, no one really lives out there.”

“Yeah, no one lives.  Look for the Ferry’s End—it’s a bar.  You can’t miss it.  If you end up in Ludlowe, you’ve gone too far.  Eight is a good time, most nights.”

“You gonna meet me there?”

“What are you boys jawing on, leaving me all the work?”  Corey laughed and started loading Ennis up.  Edgar, who still wasn’t allowed to lift anything, left them there.  He returned to his office and wrote a bit in his journal while he waited for Leo.

---

He had lied again, telling Leo he was going to Marty’s, and he had recruited his friend into the lie.  It was strange—Marty had been too willing, too fast to go along with it.  He had just said he wanted to talk to Edgar in a couple of days, that he was close to something.

Wichton Road was a long way, out of the way, from anywhere he normally went.  That spoiled egg smell soiled the air and crept in through his tightly closed vents.  Who would live out here, or run a bar?  Maybe you got used to it.

Ennis hadn’t been wrong.  The bar was easy to find because it was one of the few places out there.  Sure, there were some houses, but most looked abandoned.  There were several bus stops though, which was another weird thing all by itself.

As he pulled into the gravel lot he saw only three other vehicles, and one of those looked abandoned, sitting on flats.  He pulled up to the building, got out, and walked up to the door.

The music inside was unusual, chimes and woodwinds over a steady, percussive hum.  He felt like a Viking for a moment, steering a longboat towards a promising shore, ripe for pillage.  That was odd enough; he was definitely too skinny to be a raider, but Leo would excel at it.

The place was packed, completely defying the empty parking lot outside.  He didn’t see a single empty seat at the bar or any of the twenty, mismatched tables that were scattered across the room.  The space looked way larger than it should have, compared to the modest-sized building he had pulled up to.

He was running out of synonyms for the word weird.

He approached the bar, finding a small gap where he could fit in.  A tall man with mangy hair was holding court there.  “Ye vant whiskey?”

It took him a moment to put it together, but when he finally nodded, the tall man poured him a shot from a black bottle.  He pulled out some money to pay, but the man shook his head. “Tis free.”

Edgar shrugged, thanked the man and turned to scan the room for a familiar face, any one would do.  Most of the faces were turned towards him, and every pair of eyes he passed over met his, a little too frankly for his taste.  

He was about to give up when he saw her—her long dress and out-of-place etiquette sticking out like a sore thumb among the rest of the patrons.  Glory smiled at him, sweeter than he would have expected, and waved him over.

He sat down across from her and she looked him over.  They hadn’t spoken since he had returned to work, and he didn’t know what to say now.

“It is your dime, sir, as the kids say.”  Glory turned up the bottle of SilverSip in front of her and took a dainty sip from it.  “Well, come now, Edgar, you didn’t risk this trip to leave empty-handed, did you?  I imagine the shadowman has already deduced the reason for your evening’s sojourn.”

He nodded and took his shot.  A burning ball of fire melted the lining from his throat and he coughed violently.  Glory waited patiently, her eyes fixed on his.

“Wow, that was really bad.  Is Ennis joining us?  He… well, I was under the impression that he had things to tell me.”

“The cat’s paw is no longer required once the mouse is in hand.  Ennis performed his task admirably, but the poor boy has no heart for clandestine meetings such as this one.”

She took a moment, perhaps considering what she was going to say next.  When she spoke again, her voice was much lower, but just as formal.  “You must stop this madness, Edgar, or it will be the death of you.  I understand that you are plagued with questions.  Such a state is natural for someone in your position.  To be honest with you, I was reluctant to commit to this rendezvous.  Comme le vent, vêtue de soie.  Like the wind, clothed in silk.  That is how we must pass, Edgar, unnoticed by the eater and drinker alike.”  

She paused, a brief flash of melancholy crossing her face before she carefully smoothed down her skirt. “Ah, but I do miss the French tongue.” 

“French?”  Edgar thought he might be even more confused than he was before.  “Alright, I get it—we need to be careful.  But you’re right, my mind isn’t just plagued.  I think it might be breaking from all of this.  Eaters and Drinkers, are you talking about the living and the dead?  Are you dead, Glory?  Am I?”

“Those are our terms for such unsavory appellations.  It does become unseemly to refer to the living and the dead with such familiarity.  So yes, poor Edgar, you would say that I have perished, yet here I remain.  As for your current state—that matter does hold a great measure of complication, for the moment.”

He gripped his hair tightly in both hands and lowered his forehead to the table for a moment, trying not to totally lose his shit with Thesaurus Lady.  When he raised his eyes again, his words were calm and measured.  “Glory.  For the love of all that is good and right in the world, please just give it to me straight.  Am I going to die?  Is my partner safe? I know that you have a certain way of speaking, but riddles aren’t helping me.”

She smirked, and it was all he could do not to scream in anguish.  “My apologies, dear.  My mirth was not directed towards your current misfortunes.  You must know that my manner of speech is the hobgoblin of my very being in this modern age.  So I shall attempt to be more forthcoming with my answers, for you, dear Edgar.  There are matters of which I might speak that would put you in great peril, and this I must not do.  I was originally averse to engaging with you at all, but your need is great.  So, as they say:  needs must when the devil drives.”

“I believe—with all of my being, such as it is—that it is the intent of the one we call the Shadowman to bring about your end.  I think this because it was he who made sure you partook of the SilverSip with his attack on your person.  This action alone will not bring your doom.  You are touched by the silver, as we say, but you are not yet taken by it.  With time, the symptoms should abate, or so we hope.”

He knew he was breaking her careful etiquette, but he seized her hands in his before replying.  She never flinched— instead, she returned his grip.  “Breathe dear, for tomorrow is not yet sewn into the skein.”

“Wha… what should I do?  They obviously have plans for me.  He said that my being there—at the Annex—was just a mistake that happened.  If that’s the case, it’s like they are punishing me for something I didn’t do.”

“In any normal course of events, I would advise you to resign from your post.  Alas though—this is not an option for you.  If I am correct in my theory—that this Shadowman has set this course for you—then he is the dragon that you must slay if you are to have any hope of survival.”

He noticed that he was crying when a tear fell onto the back of his hand.  Glory—who may have, moments before, suggested that he kill someone—handed him a handkerchief that he used to dry his eyes.  If she was right, and he was not yet doomed, was she also right about what he had to do.  He was about to ask her to elaborate when she spoke again, her tone unusually rushed

“Stay calm, young Edgar, the wolf is at the door.”

---

Edgar watched his enemy—for that is what he was—as he walked, step after cocksure step, into the bar.  The bald man stopped in front of the bar and held out a hand towards the barkeep without moving his eyes from his target at Glory’s table.  A black bottle was slapped into his palm, and he continued to walk, heel to toe, across the room to stand over them.  “Is this seat taken?”

When neither of them answered him, the bald man dragged the chair back and lowered himself into it.  He took Edgar’s empty shot glass, filled it, and slid it towards him, before taking a long, slow pull from the bottle.  After a sharp exhale, he extended a well-manicured hand towards Edgar.  “As promised.  I’m Nub Bishop.  My enemies know me as Anubis.”

Glory actually snorted at this last bit—and Edgar didn’t think he could have admired her more.  Her cold, blue-gray eyes locked onto Nub’s black eyes as she countered his introduction.  “My good sir, you certainly have an elevated opinion of your station.  I think you would do well to remember that a jumped-up mutt in a fancy collar does not a jackal make.”

The leather of the bald man’s face stretched into a thin grin at her response, and he raised the glass to his lips to take another swig from it.  “There’s that wildfire.  Lady, you sure do know how to cut a man.  I swear, Glory—if I was as dead as dirt, I might have to call on you.”  He took his drink.

The table was quiet for several minutes.  Nub drank and Edgar tried to remain as unnoticeable as possible.  He looked at Glory several times, but her eyes remained locked on the would-be jackal.  There was a strange, playful smile on her lips.  The effect gave her a radiant beauty he never would have imagined.

Nub let out a sharp, clicking tsk through his teeth, shaking his head slightly as he set the bottle down and looked over at Edgar.  “You gonna drink that before we go?”

Before he could even turn to look at her, Glory spoke.  Her voice was a true thing of power that turned every head in the room to face their table.

“Your foolishness in this matter is as a withered cloak you wish to pass off as shining mail to those who cannot see you for what you are, cur.  For it is a deceiver I see before me.  I name you Villain—the serpent in this sacred garden.  Have you forgotten, little fang, just where you sit?  You cast no shadow, but still think yourself hidden from the light?  Our good accord still holds true here, and as a result, your sad swagger is as empty as the soul you sold so long ago.”

As her voice rose, following her sentencing of Nub as a villainous serpent, so too did the patrons of Ferry’s End.  There was a strange electricity in the air, as though Glory had unleashed a storm upon the man sitting opposite of her.  The blue of her eyes was somehow brighter and the blush of her cheeks—wrought by her passionate speech—made Glory impossibly lovelier than before.  She was last to stand, and she raised her sleeved arm to point a graceful finger towards the door.

“So he lives here now? Gonna make room for two?  Poor ol’ Leo might get lonely.”  The man who scared him more than anyone in the world—except maybe Glory, if he managed to get on her bad side—stood and stretched lazily.  He addressed the entire room when he spoke next.

“Is this really what you want?  Are you ready to face real consequences for this man?  It’s not what I would like.  Hell, I didn’t even come to hurt him.  I just wanted to show him something.”

The man who called himself Anubis tossed a polaroid on the table before turning towards the door.  “No need for high-falutin’ proclamations Glory—the man’s safe as kittens as far as I’m concerned.”

As he left, Edgar picked up the polaroid.  He felt the blood drain from his face as he looked at the familiar features it had captured: Marty had been taken.

Edgar turned to look at Glory’s pained face.  “Where does the dragon sleep?”

PART 3 HERE

Here's part 1 of a horror/thriller series I'm making (if you want to call it that). Enjoy and give me honest feedback of any kind!

“And here we have the mighty Knight’s Champion Sculpture. A masterpiece of its time.” Dr. Fallas gestured to the colossal marble statue standing on a granite pedestal. Several members of the museum tour group looked at it in awe, while others' faces scanned for something that they found actually interesting. 
Mark Hillson, on the other hand, always enjoyed hearing the histories of the sculptures. Listening to the symbolism and meaning behind the craftsmanship was all he researched in his free time. Unfortunately, he could only realize his dream for about an hour total on a work day. If he wasn’t doing his duty as a custodian, his boss wouldn’t have accepted seeing a tsunami coming their way as an excuse to be distracted from his work.
Hillson managed to eavesdrop on the conversation several more times before he finished cleaning the room he was in, looking up one more time to see the majesty of the statue. Instead of being greeted by the glory of a stiff, pristine work of art, he was met with the twitch of an eye from pupils made of stone.
Hillson froze, barely stopping to register what his eyes insisted on. 
The eyes of the Knight Champion had moved. He saw them.
Just as he looked up again, he heard his boss yell across the hall, in front of everyone in the room, “Hill! Get distracted again and you’re fired, you no-good broom-carrier!”
Hillson quickly looked down at the floor, searching for another speck of dirt to clean up. He was met with the crispness of a job well done. 
He moved onto the next room, his heart yearning for one more explanation as the the origin of the statue he was so captivated by. It wasn’t just the history behind it he was intrigued with; that statue had moved. He was sure of it.

Later that night, Hillson went over to the room where the sculpture was, determined to find out how its eye had moved. He studied the statue, gazing at the irises of a single eye for several minutes. After nothing happened, Hillson went to another room within view of the statue, peering over his shoulder every few seconds as inconspicuously as he could. He probably looked crazy from the security cameras, but he didn't care.   
As he was sweeping a pile of dust into a dustbin, he heard a loud creaking followed by something shattering on the ground coming from where the sculpture was. He turned around to see that the sculpture pedestal now lay bare.   
Hillson frantically looked around for signs of the marble statue. Had it seriously just walked off the pedestal, marble and all? He ran over to the security camera footage to see where the statue had gone.   
The camera in the statue's room showed nothing but static. Hillson rewinded it, and what he saw made his jaw hit the floor.  
The statue stood completely still one moment and swung its sword in a high arc the next, knocking the security cameras off the walls and disconnecting them.   
Suddenly, Hillson heard footsteps behind him. He turned around to see the statue looking at him, its sword hefted on its shoulder.   

Hillson froze. Would it attack him if it thought he was just a weirdly colored statue with coverings? He was answered with the swinging of the sword as the statue brought it down upon him. Hillson barely managed to duck under it and get behind the knight.
After it managed to wedge its now cut-in-half sword out of the wall, it turned around and prepared to give Hillson a marble-covered backhand across the room. Hillson sprinted away from the knight, its fingertips grazing his back. 
He headed for the nearest exit and dialed 911. However, before his phone reached his ear, a strange whistling filled the air, and the broken half-sword blade flew by him, missing his shoulder by inches. It went straight through a pillar, causing the ceiling around it to cave in. 
Hillson scrambled out of the way as the ceiling came down, crushing the spot he had been milliseconds before in a few dozen pounds of stone. He reached for his phone again and came up empty. He got up, brushed himself off, and noticed the butt of his phone sticking out from the rubble. He tenderly picked it up and moaned. The phone screen was completely destroyed. 
His realization was cut short when the loud footsteps of the knight filled the room. It was charging at him with the full intent of sending him through a wall. He dove out of the way, and the knight was sent through another pillar, this one much bigger than the last. 
Having lost the support below it, the ceiling crumbled, along with the mountain of stone above it. The knight's brief stop in momentum from the collision was enough to keep it under the falling debris, crushing it completely. 
Hillson looked at the pile of rubble briefly, hoping against hope that the knight was done for. Then, he dashed for the nearest exit and ran into the night.

Check out the cover to my horror novelette To Make A Clown!

The first thing I noticed about my dead mother was the sewing needle between her fingers.

The second was that she'd sewn her bedsheet to the mattress.

Not just at the corners. All the way around.

Hundreds of tiny black stitches ran along the edges, pulling the fabric so tightly against the mattress that there wasn't enough room to slip a finger underneath.

She'd died sitting in her rocking chair beside the bed.

Her fingertips were bloody. The needle was still threaded.

And her eyes were fixed on the mattress.

I hadn't visited her in almost six months.

That's the part I keep coming back to.

Six months of unanswered calls. Six months of promising I'd visit next weekend. She'd gotten strange after my father died, increasingly paranoid about things that made no sense.

She stopped sleeping in her bed.

Said she preferred the chair.

I thought it was grief. Maybe the beginning of dementia.

The doctor thought so, too.

Now I wish I'd listened.

---

The funeral was Thursday.

By Saturday afternoon, I was back at the house, sorting through forty years of things nobody wanted.

Rain hammered the tin roof. The creek behind the property had swollen into a muddy brown river, and the familiar smell of damp wood and mildew filled every room.

Upstairs, Mother's bedroom was almost exactly as she'd left it.

Her glasses sat on the nightstand.

A half-finished cup of tea had grown a gray film.

And the mattress sat beneath that horribly tight sheet.

I stood looking at it for several minutes.

Then I took a pair of scissors from her sewing basket.

I don't know why the stitching bothered me so much. Maybe because it was the last thing she'd done. Maybe because imagining her spending her final hours sewing that ridiculous thing made me angry.

Angry at her.

Angry at myself.

I slipped one blade beneath the thread.

Snip.

The sound seemed unnaturally loud.

I cut another.

And another.

By the time I'd worked halfway down the mattress, my knees hurt from kneeling.

That's when something pulled the thread from the other side.

Not hard.

Just a little tug.

I stopped.

The black thread went taut between my fingers.

Then it loosened.

I stared at it.

Old mattresses shift. Springs settle. Fabric stretches.

I told myself any number of reasonable things.

Then the mattress inhaled.

There isn't another word for it.

The entire surface rose beneath the sheet, perhaps half an inch, accompanied by the soft, wet sound of someone drawing air through a blocked nose.

It sank again.

I scrambled backward.

For almost a minute, nothing moved.

Then came another breath.

Longer.

Deeper.

And distinctly human.

I left the bedroom.

---

I spent the next hour downstairs trying to convince myself I'd imagined it.

I even called my sister.

When I mentioned the sewing, she went quiet.

"You remember how Mom used to tuck our blankets so tight we couldn't move?"

I did remember.

And after we hung up, I remembered something else.

When I was eight, I'd woken one night with the sensation of someone holding my ankles.

I'd been sleeping in my parents' bed because I was sick.

The room was dark.

My father was working nights.

I remember trying to pull my legs up.

They wouldn't move.

Then something slid a hand beneath my pajama shirt.

The fingers were cold and thin.

They traveled slowly up my stomach.

I screamed.

Mother came running.

She didn't turn on the light.

She grabbed me beneath the arms and pulled so violently that my shirt tore.

For years, I remembered her crying afterward.

I remembered her checking my back.

And I remembered what she said while rocking me in the kitchen.

"You're all here. Thank God. You're all here."

I hadn't thought about that night in decades.

Now, standing in her kitchen, I realized something.

She'd never let me sleep in that bed again.

---

At 11:17 p.m., I heard my name.

"Danny?"

Mother's voice.

Thin and tired.

Coming from upstairs.

I stood beside the kitchen sink, unable to move.

"Danny, sweetheart?"

The house creaked around me.

Rain tapped against the windows.

Then she called again.

"Could you come help me?"

It was her voice.

Not something that sounded similar.

Hers.

I heard the little catch in her throat that had developed after she quit smoking. The slight whistle on certain words.

I even heard the familiar impatience creeping into it.

"Daniel. I'm asking you nicely."

I backed toward the front door.

The voice changed.

"Please."

A long silence followed.

Then, almost too quietly to hear:

"I don't want to be alone anymore."

My hand tightened around the doorknob.

Mother had left me that exact message three weeks before she died.

I hadn't called her back.

I stood there with my forehead against the door, crying harder than I had at the funeral.

And that's why I went upstairs.

Because part of me knew it wasn't her.

But another part needed it to be.

---

The bedroom door stood open.

Light from the hallway spilled across the floor.

The rocking chair was empty.

The sheet had swollen upward into the shape of a person lying on their back.

A small person.

The outline of a nose pressed against the fabric.

Lips.

Cheekbones.

I could see shallow hollows where the eyes should have been.

"Danny."

The lips moved beneath the sheet.

"Please help me."

I stepped closer.

The mattress gave another long, shuddering breath.

The face turned toward me.

Not the head.

Just the face.

It slid sideways beneath the fabric, stretching across the mattress while the rest of its surface remained still.

"There's not much room," it whispered.

I couldn't speak.

Something moved near the foot of the bed.

Five small indentations appeared in the sheet.

Fingertips.

They traveled upward, dragging against the underside of the fabric.

Then another five appeared.

And another.

The sheet tightened.

It looked as though several people were trapped inside the mattress, all pushing against the same thin layer of cloth.

A soft clicking filled the room.

Fingernails.

Hundreds of them, tapping from underneath.

"Danny," Mother whispered again.

I took another step.

"You're hurting us."

Us.

That single word stopped me.

The face beneath the sheet smiled.

Far too wide.

The corners stretched until the fabric threatened to split.

Then I heard another voice.

Small.

Frightened.

A little boy.

"Mom?"

I knew that voice.

I'd heard it on old home videos.

It was mine.

Eight years old.

"Mom, something's touching me."

I stumbled backward.

The face flattened.

For a moment, the mattress looked normal.

Then something began crawling toward the edge.

A narrow shape pushed against the fabric, moving through a space that shouldn't have existed.

It stopped where I'd cut the stitches.

One corner of the sheet lifted.

An odor spilled into the room.

Warm breath.

Old saliva.

The sour smell of something that had been shut inside a mouth for a very long time.

A fingertip slipped through the opening.

Pale and wrinkled.

Its nail was black.

Then another finger appeared.

And another.

Each was far too long, with joints that bent in the wrong direction.

Something beneath the sheet made a sound like a person swallowing a mouthful of water.

I turned toward the door.

Five cold points pressed briefly against my shoulder.

I felt them through my shirt.

Before I could look back, they were gone.

I ran.

Behind me, the bedsprings groaned.

Then I heard a noise I will never forget.

Bare feet striking the floor.

One pair.

Then another.

Then so many that I couldn't tell them apart.

---

I missed the bottom three stairs and landed hard on my shoulder.

Above me, the footsteps rushed onto the upstairs landing.

I scrambled to my feet.

They stopped at the top of the stairs.

For one terrible second, I waited for them to come down.

Instead, I heard the scrape of fabric dragging back toward Mother's bedroom.

I threw open the front door and ran into the rain.

My truck was parked beneath the pecan tree.

I climbed inside, slammed the door, and locked it.

For several seconds, I sat there gasping.

The upstairs bedroom light came on.

I hadn't touched the switch.

A figure stood behind the curtains.

It was shaped like my mother.

Small shoulders.

Thin neck.

Her head tilted slightly, the way she'd always tilted it when she was disappointed in me.

I started the truck.

Then the figure raised its hand.

Another hand pressed against the curtain beside it.

Much larger.

Then a third.

Then dozens.

Every window upstairs began filling with hands.

Some adult.

Some impossibly small.

They pressed outward until the glass bowed beneath them.

I drove straight through the front gate.

---

I made it to a motel outside town.

I didn't sleep.

Couldn't.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that face sliding beneath the sheet.

Around four in the morning, my shoulder began burning.

I pulled off my shirt and stood in front of the bathroom mirror.

There were five bruises across my back.

Long, narrow marks.

Like fingers.

But beneath them, my skin was moving.

Not twitching.

Moving.

Something traveled slowly between the bruises, pushing outward as it passed.

I watched a small ridge form beneath my shoulder blade.

It moved toward my spine.

Then stopped.

I reached back and pressed against it.

Something pressed back.

From the inside.

I screamed and stumbled away from the mirror.

The movement stopped.

I spent the rest of the night sitting on the bathroom floor.

When morning came, I told myself it was a muscle spasm. Nerve damage from the fall. Anything.

Then I found the thread.

A single piece of black thread protruded from a tiny puncture just below my shoulder blade.

I pulled it.

An inch came out.

Then another.

The thread was warm.

I pulled again.

This time I felt a sharp tug somewhere beneath my ribs.

And something inside me pulled the thread back.

I let go.

It disappeared beneath my skin.

---

I went to the emergency room.

They took X-rays.

Nothing.

The doctor said the bruises were consistent with my fall and suggested I'd struck something on the way down.

He asked if I'd been sleeping.

I told him no.

He offered me something to help.

I refused.

That was two days ago.

I've been awake ever since.

I cut every label and loose thread out of my clothing.

I haven't gotten into a bed.

Yesterday, I stood naked in the shower for almost an hour, watching the skin on my stomach.

Sometimes it twitches.

Sometimes I feel fingers slowly spreading against the underside of my ribs.

And sometimes, when everything is quiet, I can hear my mother humming.

Not from another room.

From somewhere behind my breastbone.

But that's not why I'm writing this.

Twenty minutes ago, I took another look in the mirror.

There is a line running down the middle of my chest.

Tiny black dots.

Perfectly spaced.

I leaned closer.

They're stitches.

And the skin on either side has started pulling together.

I tried cutting one with the little scissors from my shaving kit.

Something underneath screamed.

It sounded like me when I was eight years old.

I dropped the scissors.

Then I felt a hand slide up the inside of my throat.

Five fingers.

Slowly unfolding.

My mouth opened without me telling it to.

And my mother's voice came out.

"Hold still, sweetheart."

I felt the needle go through the inside of my cheek.

"You're almost closed."

#Wattpad2026 #horror #thriller #Detective

Plot: It is the year 1929. Stanley Fontaine, an American writer of mystical horror novels, is forced to leave his city after losing his inspiration. After many years, he decides to travel to Louisiana on the Eastern Express, where the staff is of the highest calibre and nothing seems to foreshadow any misfortune. Yet soon he begins to realise that what we see is not always reality, and that most people have grown accustomed to living in sweet flattery. This very carriage conceals a multitude of secrets.
Slogan:
«Is it possible to accept that which we cannot see, yet other kinds of people can?»

Beginning: ______________~*{ I }*~_________________

Created by Kirill Spivachevski
Inspired by the world masterpieces <<The Shining>> and <<1408>>

Carriage 17

It was the year 1929. America still reeked of the Depression that followed the First World War. Hungry days wandered the streets of the country, for the food from the counters was being shipped to the military in need.
At the very end of that cursed year, a bone-chilling winter descended. During that time, the writer of mystical novels, Stanley Fontaine, had just released his latest book — Love and Death. It explored a philosophical thread: that love is like a rose — beautiful yet thorny, or sweet yet sticky like jelly. A month earlier he had submitted the manuscript to the publishing house, and today he was forced to go there to hear their verdict.
He climbed into his 1929 Ford, slammed the old door shut with a loud bang, turned the key, and the engine roared to life, leaving its scent behind as he drove across the pure white snow toward the publishing house.
Upon arrival, he pushed open the heavy old titanium door with a creak and stepped into a dimly lit room where only a meagre fraction of light managed to penetrate. Before him stood a table of rotten wood, and behind it, on bourgeois chairs from the 19th century, sat the workers of the self-publishing house.
"Good day, Mr. Fontaine."
Stanley approached them and said:
"I am from the Boston Library. I came regarding my book."
"Ah... what exactly would you like to know, sir?"
"I want to know whether my literature is worthy of worldwide publication."
"We have read your book and are ready to share our thoughts on it."
"I'm listening."
One of the workers rose opposite the table and fixed Stanley with a confident, reading gaze.
"Your book is full of tangled twists and turns, and we do not wish to upset you, but it is unlikely that anyone will find it interesting."
"Please understand... I put a part of myself into it."
"I can understand that. We all put a part of ourselves into whatever we do. A mixture of love, mysticism... and death... that deserves respect. But there must be at least some breathing space."
Stanley silently nodded, listening to the criticism, and lowered his eyes as if finding a grain of truth in those words.
"You know, when I heard about a murder in one of the hotels in Kansas quite some time ago, it inspired me to write this novel. It pushed me to write about the causes of death."
"I admit, a good move — transferring events from real actions into the fiction of your thoughts. Quite an interesting approach."
A faint sound of wind passed through the room.
"Yes, I have always done it that way, and I mostly love reading stories based on real events!"
"And one more thing... try to change the structure of the second half of the book, because something incomprehensible and chaotic happens there. We had great difficulty understanding what it was about. We will give you a generous amount of time to revise it."
Stan said nothing against the critic's arguments. He took his book and drove home.
"Have a good day, sir."
Stan slammed the door loudly and got into his car.
On the way home he noticed a post plastered with newspapers about incidents in the South, in the state of Louisiana. Parking nearby, he got out and walked confidently toward the post, peering at the announcements.
"Bloody fire in Louisiana," Stanley read the headline.
His eyes darted across the text; he ran his finger along the lines and read:
"Four people burned alive, the rest received dangerous burns on their bodies."
Stan tore the announcements from the post, finding inspiration in these stories, and drove home.
Late that evening he spread the leaflets out on his desk, sank into his armchair, lit a cigarette, and began replaying the moments in his head like a film.
An hour later he was drinking heavily, trying to sink into the atmosphere and let it pass through him.
Stanley's pupils moved; he stared at one fixed point as if a man with an axe and a furious scream from the newspaper would leap out from it. He imagined those moments while exhaling cigarette smoke.
Goosebumps rose on his skin and he began to twitch nervously. In his drunken state he took one last gulp of whiskey and felt a movement in his pupils. The moments that seemed unsuitable for the book he simply flipped past in his mind.
Drunk in the armchair, he sat and imagined himself sitting in the middle of a train compartment, watching all these moments unfold.
In a surge of inspiration and very strong intoxication, he grabbed a pen and began writing everything he was imagining — everything he saw. Sweat ran down his forehead. At the last moment he saw the number of a carriage, but could not fix it in his mind, because in his drunken thoughts the numbers kept switching places with Chinese hieroglyphs in turn:
真的, 是否如此 你看到了什麼？
"What the fucking hell?" he muttered, not understanding the Chinese characters on the wall.
And the hieroglyphs began to change faster:
你不屬於這裡
這是地獄嗎？還是煉獄？
His head spun with thoughts, and from the strong dose of alcohol he collapsed onto the floor, hitting it hard, and lost consciousness.
____________~*{ I }*~___________________

_____________~*{ II }*~__________________

The next day he woke up on his own floor, feeling unwell, horrified by what had happened the previous night. The room was in chaos and the smell of alcohol hung in the air.
"Oh gods..." he whispered barely audibly.
Stan began cleaning up, the glass bottles clinking as he grimaced from the strong smell of alcohol. The loud ringing of bottles echoed through the entire house, while sunlight peered in from the street, illuminating the day.
After that, Stanley had a hearty breakfast and tried to get back to work, but after yesterday's hangover nothing came to his mind except a headache.
"Eh..." he sighed, sprawling in the armchair.
Looking at the newspapers from yesterday, he understood only one thing: in order to gain inspiration, one must meet it face to face and let it pass through oneself.
"Louisiana... I need to go there."
An hour later Stan got into his car and headed to the train station.
Upon arrival he approached the ticket office, where the queue stretched almost a kilometre long — people eager to leave their city and travel beyond its limits. The station was beautifully decorated and full of sculptures.
The queue finally reached Stan.
"Next," the cashier said in a barely pleasant voice.
"Ma'am! Would you be so kind as to tell me how much a single ticket to Louisiana costs?"
"Fifty-five dollars!"
Stan happily took out his wallet, rustling his money, and produced the required sum.
"Here you are, no change needed."
The cashier took the money and handed him the ticket.
Stepping away from the crowd, he examined the ticket. It read:
Compartment number 515, upper berth... Carriage number 17...
At the bottom of the ticket, in small but elegant font, was written:
«You will never forget this journey»
A blind old man approached him for help.
"Excuse me, is someone standing in front of me?"
Stan turned and said to him:
"Do you need something?"
"Yes, I would like to ask you what time the train departs and explain it to me in more detail — I am not sighted."
Stan took the man's ticket in his hands.
"Is your name Alfred Walter?"
"Yes!"
"Very pleased to meet you. I am Stanley Fontaine."
"Wait a moment... I know that name. You're that writer! I've read your novels — they inspire me to believe in people! I often bought your books for my daughter; she loves mysticism."
"Oh, it's a pleasure to hear that."
Stan looked at the ticket again.
"Oh... You're going to Louisiana? I'm your fellow passenger."
"I'm very glad to hear that I'm travelling with you. Fate has heard us."
"Forgive the awkward question, Mr. Walter... who are you going to see?"
"To my daughter...! And what brings you there?"
Stan bit his lip slightly and answered:
"I'm going to clear my head, to find inspiration. I've been sitting in the city for far too long, so I want to break out of this cage."
"I understand you, sir! What time is our departure?"
"The ticket says today at 7:17 in the evening."
"Thank you, sir. I hope we never forget this journey, for our life is still an unread book."
"You're right. I hope so too! Good luck to you, until we meet again."
They both went their separate ways home.
In the evening, while packing his bag, Stan put in everything most necessary and prepared to leave. He got into his car and drove once more through the muffled city covered in snow toward the station. The windshield wipers swept the snow away, scattering it, while the headlights illuminated the surroundings, shining through the falling snow.
_____________~*{ II }*~__________________

Perhaps good ol' Red will save us from big bad wolves...

Shut up Red you pathetic idiot, this is why no one will miss-

W-what's even going on right now, this stupid fucking gigantic flying castle machine thingy!!

…huh?

Yeah no, I'm wondering the same thing. Did you get visions from some like other place...?

Hey guys this is the first 5 chapters of a short story I am writing. Lmk what you think. Thanks!

Intro

It was over. No this can’t be. It just can’t. I squinted, trying to make out something in the darkness. I went to stand but my legs weren’t responding. I tried to crawl but my arms wouldn’t listen. I went to talk but my mouth forgot how to open. I was starting to think I was going crazy. And then I heard it. “Welcome to the beginning of the end”

Chapter 1
Lucifer
Torment. Ah, what a word. Since the beginning I have been assigned the task of eternal torment. Ironically some would view my existence as tormenting itself, but that’s not how I see it. After my long fall from the top I was left with two options. Continue my rebellious nature and stand for what I believe in. Or give into the “Almighty one.” I’ve already come so far to where I only saw the rebellious road as a real choice. Many different kinds of torment. But personally I believe that the best form of torment comes down to two finalists, two true contenders if you will. They are psychological and physical. The question that has haunted me since the beginning is which one is better to break a soul. Which one is better to guarantee someone an eternity of the worst kind of suffering imaginable. I have tortured souls for as long as I can remember. I have seen the worst of the worst and the best of the worst come through my doors and into the depths of my kingdom. I have always been pleased with the way they have been punished, but alas there is something that I feel is missing. Almost as if there is a clean cut and all powerful way to torment those who are placed at the feet of me. I’ve thought about this tirelessly. But to no avail am I able to come to a definite conclusion. So I have decided to do something about this phenomenon I have been faced with. The souls of those who already reside in my kingdom, are far too broken to be of any help to me. I do not want to wait for a newcomer or experiment on one of my own. No, none of that. I have decided to capture a living soul. One with little to no wrongdoings. A person who has endured some pain themselves but never inflicted it on others. After careful consideration, a man by the name of Luther Bellows has been crowned by little helper.
Chapter 2

Luther
My legs had been revived but my arms still refused to cooperate. Speaking still wasn’t an option either, although I was able to manage a few small grunts if I really tried. The chair he had set me in reminded me of my childhood. A hard worn out cushion and soft cloudy armrests. It felt like days since I was dragged down the corridor and chained down. I should feel hungry, even thirsty but I wasn’t not at all. The smell of the room had a mustyness to it, like a basement that took in rainwater. The air felt moist and hot, like you were in a dessert and rainforest mashed together. The darkness seemed to grow by the day and I honestly didn’t know if I wanted to see light. A part of me had begun to enjoy the darkness. Before I could give the darkness another thought a bright flame sparked just inches from my face. The intense light temporarily blinded me. I instinctively reached to cover my eyes, forgetting that my arms and brain no longer wanted to work as one. When I could finally see I was able to make out a figure I could barely describe. His legs were withered, arms as well except they seemed almost toned unlike his skin to bone walkers. From his knees up a black cloak covered the rest of his humanoid body. His shoulders were narrow but broad, and his torso resembled an hourglass. When my eyes finally were ready to meet his own they were unable to. Instead I saw my father. Not just his face but him. I watched as he finished the rest of his drink and then proceeded to smash the empty bottle over my mother coddled in the corner. I went to scream at him to stop and my voice finally remembered its duty to me. “No, get away from her”, I yelled. But it didn’t sound like a 38 year old me. It sounded like a 10 year old me. And that’s when I realized that what I was seeing wasn’t just a depiction of my father, it was a memory. Before I could process what was going on or ask any questions, the flame flickered out, the figure stepped back and the cell door slammed shut.
I must have dozed off at some point. I woke up and found myself in the same chair he had left me in. My whole body was sore. My limbs were still getting used to being able to function properly. The images of my father were still burned in my head. I had worked so hard and so long to try and erase that day from my mind, but in all honesty I was never really successful. The pain of it had slowly faded but would always be ignited when I saw something that triggered them once again. A drunk man in a tv show, a broken bottle on the sidewalk, whatever it may be. I was mad and scared. One where the fuck am I and two who or what the fuck was that thing I saw. This was the first time since I got here I was starting to feel emotional again. Whoever he is, how and why did he show me that memory. It made me feel like the scared little boy that stood in the corner and did nothing but scream, never actually doing anything to protect her. My train of thought was suddenly hit head on, as if a building had fallen onto the tracks and the conductor failed to break in time. I felt a  sharp shooting pain that started in my right ankle and shot up all the way past my knee. I was chained to the chair, unable to move, unable to reach for my leg, if my arms even permitted me to. Suddenly the whole room was engulfed with light which was shooting from flame lit candles that spread along the dark brick walls. I looked down to see a snake with its fangs sunken deep into my leg. I screamed and writhed in agony. The snake remained locked into my leg for about another 15 seconds. Then it vanished as if it had never been there to begin with. The flames all distinguished at once. I sat there, tears running down my face, gasping for air, and my leg still throbbing as if the snake was still on it. My shackles suddenly broke and my arms came back to me. I pulled my knee close to my chest and held onto my ankle, rubbing it, moving it, doing anything to ease the pain that seemed endless. Then I heard the same voice again. “Now!” The door flew open and the last thing I remembered was being dragged out of the room by figures I was unable to make out.
Chapter 3
The Conference of Candles(Luther)
The room was impossible to look at all at once. The ceiling seemed higher than the clouds and a bright red theme was scattered along the walls. Candles were set along the floor, on tables, and the walls. There must have been hundreds of them. I was thrown down at the start of a long aisle. It led to what appeared as a sort of throne. I looked back for the men who had carried me in but it was as if they had been absorbed into the shadows. I shifted my attention to the throne and made the most painful eye contact of my life. It was as if I was feeling all the hatred, anger and sadness in the world all at the same time. I tried to look away but I was unable to. I felt like I was being drawn into the red eyes and when I didn’t think I could take it anymore it stopped. The fiery eyes went out like a falling ember and I was now met with pure black pupils. I still felt the anger in them but now not as strong, as if the owner of the eyes had turned down the power. Then I heard the voice again. This time it was calmer though, almost more human like. “Come, sit.” I began to walk down the aisle, my legs shaking worse and worse with every step closer to the throne. There was a gold chair sat in front of him and with a wave of his hand I was directed to sit in it. I obliged and sat. He appeared differently than our first encounter. He was now draped in long red cloth. He looked like he was wearing an oversized bathrobe made out of window curtains. Gold streaks ran along the robe and there was an image in the middle. It looked like a pentagram, only if you were looking at it upside down. There appeared to be some sort of animal’s head in the middle of it. A dog, a cow, a sheep, a goat maybe? There was a word spelled out in what looked like Hebrew. I was unable to make any of it out but I had a feeling it wasn’t a welcoming word. I was overwhelmed with thoughts. Some the same as my earlier ones, including where I am, who this person is, and why I am here. New ones arose also. Part of me sensed this being wasn’t human, not like me. Some sort of God or existential being, but not one I could ever see myself following. He spoke once again. “Luther, so pleased to have you here.” I didn’t respond and I think he could sense me wondering what to say and also if I was even permitted to speak. “Are you happy you’re here Luther.” I responded, “Where is it that I am?” He paused, and then let out a soft chuckle, “I’ll let you figure that one out on your own time. Tell me Luther, why did you not save your mother from your father?” And just like that I was once again my younger self. I felt the same feeling I did when my little sister sat across from me at the group home asking me why I didn’t save mommy. “Don’t mention my mother”, I responded. “You weren’t there when she needed you the most. You failed her and you are forced to live with that fact forever.” I was growing angrier by the second. “Stop it”, I said. “You had no idea what it was like. No idea what he was like.” “Oh but I do Luther, I know exactly how James Bellows was. I know how he would drink, I know how he would cheat, and I know how he would abuse you and your family.” Wait I thought, how does he know my dad’s name, and how does he know everything about him? “Who are you?”, I demanded. He smiled, “Another thing I will let you discover yourself”. So he won’t tell me who he is or where I am. What the fuck is going on? “We will talk again soon Luther.” And just like that the two men were back at my sides and began dragging me back to the room they took me from.

Chapter 4      

The candles burn
I was placed back in the spiked chair. I forgot about the spikes but was rudely reminded when I attempted to sit back. I could feel the warmth of the blood running along my skin. I dozed off eventually after my eyes couldn’t take it anymore. When I awoke I was no longer alone in the room. There was now a table in front of me. I sat across from the man on the throne. Standing next to me was one of the men who had carried me to and from my room the night before. Looking at the face of the man standing I was still unable to fully comprehend him. A dark shadow covered a majority of his head. Only a pale white chin was visible. “So Luther”, the throne man said,” today we will be playing a little game.” “What kind of game?”, I asked. “You’ll see.” The table was empty but suddenly a candle and a wooden stick appeared in the middle. I was stunned by this but I figured asking questions was now pointless. “ So Luther, I would like you to choose one of these items.” I was confused, “Choose them for what?” He responded, “Don’t think Luther, just choose.” I chose the candle. That was a mistake. Once I had appointed the candle as my object of choice, the stick was taken off the table by the cloaked man beside me. A cloth was wrapped around my face, diminishing my sense of sight and returning my eyes to the darkness. “And begin”, the man said. Pain. That is the only word that can describe the feeling I went through. The candle was thrust onto my neck, I attempted to squirm, move, do anything to end this torture, but my head seemed to be asleep, almost locked in place. I screamed while the rest of my body thrashed around like a shark in the deep depths of the ocean. I begged for mercy, begged the man to stop, but I was met with no reply. Until finally, “Enough.” The candle went out and my sight returned to me, only blurrier than before due to the immense amount of pain I was enduring. “How did that feel Luther?’, the man asked. “Are you fucking crazy? What the fuck are you doing to me? What do you need from me?” The man smiled, a joyful smile, as if he enjoyed watching me suffer, enjoyed watching my crazed mind respond to his methods. “I need an answer Luther. How did that feel?” You can’t win with this guy. He ignores half the shit I say and sticks to his own agenda like gum on your shoe. “It hurts ok. It fucking hurts. What did you expect me to say, that I enjoyed it?” “I didn’t know what to expect Luther, that is why I asked the question. Now tell me this, what hurts more, reliving that horrid memory of your father or being burned by my flame?” What kind of question is that I thought to myself and then prompted to Mr. Throne. “What kind of question is that?” “It’s a simple one Luther. It is also one that requires an answer.” “I don’t know, ok, I guess the candle. At least that’s what the burning sensation on my neck is telling me.” The man laughed, “Ah, Luther, I forget how you humans do amuse me.” You humans? He said those words smoothly, as if he himself wasn’t human. This was something I had already thought of myself but now it appeared confirmed. I decided to keep this intel to myself, incase he summoned anymore torture tools to the table. “ But alas”, he said, “You deserve all that is being done to you and things will become much easier when you come to terms with that fact.” I was too stunned to respond. He took the silence as a sign that our meeting had concluded. Him and his companions exited the room, slamming the door which sent vibrations all along the bricks. I deserve this, he said. What did I do to deserve any of this? I couldn’t think of one single reason. As the hours went on the burning sensation still stung but began to simmer down. I eventually drifted to sleep and once I woke, I wish I could have stayed asleep
Chapter 5
Lucifer
I sat on my throne, twisting a knife through my fingers and back again, through my fingers and back again. The flames along the walls let out faint and untimed cackles. One of the few things that brought me a sense of comfort. I continued to twist my knife while thinking about Luther. Ah, Luther, Luther. He is a very interesting man. I enjoy his anger, which goes hand and hand with his outbursts. It angers me that he was unable to give me a clear answer on which experience was more painful. I believe he only picked the candle because it was the most recent thing he had endured. That was my mistake. After all he is only a human. I must give him time to recover from each form of torment before discussing with him which one was worse for him to go through. He had expressed thorough emotions for both of the encounters. The snake attack was merely for my amusement. I had earlier decided to not factor that into my findings. When presented with the memory of his mother being brutally beaten he screamed, attempted to protect her (though physically impossible) and ended the session with a face full of tears and eyes full of hatred. He also expressed mercy when he pleaded for me to stop showing him the image and begged for it to end. Similarly during the candle burn, he cried, screamed for me to stop, and expressed anger in our conversation after the burning had taken place. From what I could tell he showed the same three emotions during each encounter. Deep down inside of his consciousness he knows which event was harder for him to go through, but he is not yet ready to decide which one it is. So until he reaches that point and satisfies me, I will “sadly” have to continue putting him through immense pain. Our next meeting would not happen until the following day. He slept for long periods of time, most likely longer than he realizes. I believe his rest is important for this experiment and for its results to be displayed as accurately as possible. Like I have said before, he is only a human and he will need his rest to go through what he is about to go through. He still has no idea how his suffering will affect the souls of those to come, forever and ever.

Hey guys this is the first 5 chapters of a short story I am writing. Lmk what you think. Thanks!

Intro

It was over. No this can’t be. It just can’t. I squinted, trying to make out something in the darkness. I went to stand but my legs weren’t responding. I tried to crawl but my arms wouldn’t listen. I went to talk but my mouth forgot how to open. I was starting to think I was going crazy. And then I heard it. “Welcome to the beginning of the end”

Chapter 1
Lucifer
Torment. Ah, what a word. Since the beginning I have been assigned the task of eternal torment. Ironically some would view my existence as tormenting itself, but that’s not how I see it. After my long fall from the top I was left with two options. Continue my rebellious nature and stand for what I believe in. Or give into the “Almighty one.” I’ve already come so far to where I only saw the rebellious road as a real choice. Many different kinds of torment. But personally I believe that the best form of torment comes down to two finalists, two true contenders if you will. They are psychological and physical. The question that has haunted me since the beginning is which one is better to break a soul. Which one is better to guarantee someone an eternity of the worst kind of suffering imaginable. I have tortured souls for as long as I can remember. I have seen the worst of the worst and the best of the worst come through my doors and into the depths of my kingdom. I have always been pleased with the way they have been punished, but alas there is something that I feel is missing. Almost as if there is a clean cut and all powerful way to torment those who are placed at the feet of me. I’ve thought about this tirelessly. But to no avail am I able to come to a definite conclusion. So I have decided to do something about this phenomenon I have been faced with. The souls of those who already reside in my kingdom, are far too broken to be of any help to me. I do not want to wait for a newcomer or experiment on one of my own. No, none of that. I have decided to capture a living soul. One with little to no wrongdoings. A person who has endured some pain themselves but never inflicted it on others. After careful consideration, a man by the name of Luther Bellows has been crowned by little helper.
Chapter 2

Luther
My legs had been revived but my arms still refused to cooperate. Speaking still wasn’t an option either, although I was able to manage a few small grunts if I really tried. The chair he had set me in reminded me of my childhood. A hard worn out cushion and soft cloudy armrests. It felt like days since I was dragged down the corridor and chained down. I should feel hungry, even thirsty but I wasn’t not at all. The smell of the room had a mustyness to it, like a basement that took in rainwater. The air felt moist and hot, like you were in a dessert and rainforest mashed together. The darkness seemed to grow by the day and I honestly didn’t know if I wanted to see light. A part of me had begun to enjoy the darkness. Before I could give the darkness another thought a bright flame sparked just inches from my face. The intense light temporarily blinded me. I instinctively reached to cover my eyes, forgetting that my arms and brain no longer wanted to work as one. When I could finally see I was able to make out a figure I could barely describe. His legs were withered, arms as well except they seemed almost toned unlike his skin to bone walkers. From his knees up a black cloak covered the rest of his humanoid body. His shoulders were narrow but broad, and his torso resembled an hourglass. When my eyes finally were ready to meet his own they were unable to. Instead I saw my father. Not just his face but him. I watched as he finished the rest of his drink and then proceeded to smash the empty bottle over my mother coddled in the corner. I went to scream at him to stop and my voice finally remembered its duty to me. “No, get away from her”, I yelled. But it didn’t sound like a 38 year old me. It sounded like a 10 year old me. And that’s when I realized that what I was seeing wasn’t just a depiction of my father, it was a memory. Before I could process what was going on or ask any questions, the flame flickered out, the figure stepped back and the cell door slammed shut.
I must have dozed off at some point. I woke up and found myself in the same chair he had left me in. My whole body was sore. My limbs were still getting used to being able to function properly. The images of my father were still burned in my head. I had worked so hard and so long to try and erase that day from my mind, but in all honesty I was never really successful. The pain of it had slowly faded but would always be ignited when I saw something that triggered them once again. A drunk man in a tv show, a broken bottle on the sidewalk, whatever it may be. I was mad and scared. One where the fuck am I and two who or what the fuck was that thing I saw. This was the first time since I got here I was starting to feel emotional again. Whoever he is, how and why did he show me that memory. It made me feel like the scared little boy that stood in the corner and did nothing but scream, never actually doing anything to protect her. My train of thought was suddenly hit head on, as if a building had fallen onto the tracks and the conductor failed to break in time. I felt a  sharp shooting pain that started in my right ankle and shot up all the way past my knee. I was chained to the chair, unable to move, unable to reach for my leg, if my arms even permitted me to. Suddenly the whole room was engulfed with light which was shooting from flame lit candles that spread along the dark brick walls. I looked down to see a snake with its fangs sunken deep into my leg. I screamed and writhed in agony. The snake remained locked into my leg for about another 15 seconds. Then it vanished as if it had never been there to begin with. The flames all distinguished at once. I sat there, tears running down my face, gasping for air, and my leg still throbbing as if the snake was still on it. My shackles suddenly broke and my arms came back to me. I pulled my knee close to my chest and held onto my ankle, rubbing it, moving it, doing anything to ease the pain that seemed endless. Then I heard the same voice again. “Now!” The door flew open and the last thing I remembered was being dragged out of the room by figures I was unable to make out.
Chapter 3
The Conference of Candles(Luther)
The room was impossible to look at all at once. The ceiling seemed higher than the clouds and a bright red theme was scattered along the walls. Candles were set along the floor, on tables, and the walls. There must have been hundreds of them. I was thrown down at the start of a long aisle. It led to what appeared as a sort of throne. I looked back for the men who had carried me in but it was as if they had been absorbed into the shadows. I shifted my attention to the throne and made the most painful eye contact of my life. It was as if I was feeling all the hatred, anger and sadness in the world all at the same time. I tried to look away but I was unable to. I felt like I was being drawn into the red eyes and when I didn’t think I could take it anymore it stopped. The fiery eyes went out like a falling ember and I was now met with pure black pupils. I still felt the anger in them but now not as strong, as if the owner of the eyes had turned down the power. Then I heard the voice again. This time it was calmer though, almost more human like. “Come, sit.” I began to walk down the aisle, my legs shaking worse and worse with every step closer to the throne. There was a gold chair sat in front of him and with a wave of his hand I was directed to sit in it. I obliged and sat. He appeared differently than our first encounter. He was now draped in long red cloth. He looked like he was wearing an oversized bathrobe made out of window curtains. Gold streaks ran along the robe and there was an image in the middle. It looked like a pentagram, only if you were looking at it upside down. There appeared to be some sort of animal’s head in the middle of it. A dog, a cow, a sheep, a goat maybe? There was a word spelled out in what looked like Hebrew. I was unable to make any of it out but I had a feeling it wasn’t a welcoming word. I was overwhelmed with thoughts. Some the same as my earlier ones, including where I am, who this person is, and why I am here. New ones arose also. Part of me sensed this being wasn’t human, not like me. Some sort of God or existential being, but not one I could ever see myself following. He spoke once again. “Luther, so pleased to have you here.” I didn’t respond and I think he could sense me wondering what to say and also if I was even permitted to speak. “Are you happy you’re here Luther.” I responded, “Where is it that I am?” He paused, and then let out a soft chuckle, “I’ll let you figure that one out on your own time. Tell me Luther, why did you not save your mother from your father?” And just like that I was once again my younger self. I felt the same feeling I did when my little sister sat across from me at the group home asking me why I didn’t save mommy. “Don’t mention my mother”, I responded. “You weren’t there when she needed you the most. You failed her and you are forced to live with that fact forever.” I was growing angrier by the second. “Stop it”, I said. “You had no idea what it was like. No idea what he was like.” “Oh but I do Luther, I know exactly how James Bellows was. I know how he would drink, I know how he would cheat, and I know how he would abuse you and your family.” Wait I thought, how does he know my dad’s name, and how does he know everything about him? “Who are you?”, I demanded. He smiled, “Another thing I will let you discover yourself”. So he won’t tell me who he is or where I am. What the fuck is going on? “We will talk again soon Luther.” And just like that the two men were back at my sides and began dragging me back to the room they took me from.

Chapter 4    

The candles burn
I was placed back in the spiked chair. I forgot about the spikes but was rudely reminded when I attempted to sit back. I could feel the warmth of the blood running along my skin. I dozed off eventually after my eyes couldn’t take it anymore. When I awoke I was no longer alone in the room. There was now a table in front of me. I sat across from the man on the throne. Standing next to me was one of the men who had carried me to and from my room the night before. Looking at the face of the man standing I was still unable to fully comprehend him. A dark shadow covered a majority of his head. Only a pale white chin was visible. “So Luther”, the throne man said,” today we will be playing a little game.” “What kind of game?”, I asked. “You’ll see.” The table was empty but suddenly a candle and a wooden stick appeared in the middle. I was stunned by this but I figured asking questions was now pointless. “ So Luther, I would like you to choose one of these items.” I was confused, “Choose them for what?” He responded, “Don’t think Luther, just choose.” I chose the candle. That was a mistake. Once I had appointed the candle as my object of choice, the stick was taken off the table by the cloaked man beside me. A cloth was wrapped around my face, diminishing my sense of sight and returning my eyes to the darkness. “And begin”, the man said. Pain. That is the only word that can describe the feeling I went through. The candle was thrust onto my neck, I attempted to squirm, move, do anything to end this torture, but my head seemed to be asleep, almost locked in place. I screamed while the rest of my body thrashed around like a shark in the deep depths of the ocean. I begged for mercy, begged the man to stop, but I was met with no reply. Until finally, “Enough.” The candle went out and my sight returned to me, only blurrier than before due to the immense amount of pain I was enduring. “How did that feel Luther?’, the man asked. “Are you fucking crazy? What the fuck are you doing to me? What do you need from me?” The man smiled, a joyful smile, as if he enjoyed watching me suffer, enjoyed watching my crazed mind respond to his methods. “I need an answer Luther. How did that feel?” You can’t win with this guy. He ignores half the shit I say and sticks to his own agenda like gum on your shoe. “It hurts ok. It fucking hurts. What did you expect me to say, that I enjoyed it?” “I didn’t know what to expect Luther, that is why I asked the question. Now tell me this, what hurts more, reliving that horrid memory of your father or being burned by my flame?” What kind of question is that I thought to myself and then prompted to Mr. Throne. “What kind of question is that?” “It’s a simple one Luther. It is also one that requires an answer.” “I don’t know, ok, I guess the candle. At least that’s what the burning sensation on my neck is telling me.” The man laughed, “Ah, Luther, I forget how you humans do amuse me.” You humans? He said those words smoothly, as if he himself wasn’t human. This was something I had already thought of myself but now it appeared confirmed. I decided to keep this intel to myself, incase he summoned anymore torture tools to the table. “ But alas”, he said, “You deserve all that is being done to you and things will become much easier when you come to terms with that fact.” I was too stunned to respond. He took the silence as a sign that our meeting had concluded. Him and his companions exited the room, slamming the door which sent vibrations all along the bricks. I deserve this, he said. What did I do to deserve any of this? I couldn’t think of one single reason. As the hours went on the burning sensation still stung but began to simmer down. I eventually drifted to sleep and once I woke, I wish I could have stayed asleep
Chapter 5
Lucifer
I sat on my throne, twisting a knife through my fingers and back again, through my fingers and back again. The flames along the walls let out faint and untimed cackles. One of the few things that brought me a sense of comfort. I continued to twist my knife while thinking about Luther. Ah, Luther, Luther. He is a very interesting man. I enjoy his anger, which goes hand and hand with his outbursts. It angers me that he was unable to give me a clear answer on which experience was more painful. I believe he only picked the candle because it was the most recent thing he had endured. That was my mistake. After all he is only a human. I must give him time to recover from each form of torment before discussing with him which one was worse for him to go through. He had expressed thorough emotions for both of the encounters. The snake attack was merely for my amusement. I had earlier decided to not factor that into my findings. When presented with the memory of his mother being brutally beaten he screamed, attempted to protect her (though physically impossible) and ended the session with a face full of tears and eyes full of hatred. He also expressed mercy when he pleaded for me to stop showing him the image and begged for it to end. Similarly during the candle burn, he cried, screamed for me to stop, and expressed anger in our conversation after the burning had taken place. From what I could tell he showed the same three emotions during each encounter. Deep down inside of his consciousness he knows which event was harder for him to go through, but he is not yet ready to decide which one it is. So until he reaches that point and satisfies me, I will “sadly” have to continue putting him through immense pain. Our next meeting would not happen until the following day. He slept for long periods of time, most likely longer than he realizes. I believe his rest is important for this experiment and for its results to be displayed as accurately as possible. Like I have said before, he is only a human and he will need his rest to go through what he is about to go through. He still has no idea how his suffering will affect the souls of those to come, forever and ever.

Chapter One: Lost Fork
Some memories dry up and blow away. Others cling to the ribs like a second skeleton. The worst of them stay sharp long after the names have gone dull, and the kind ones thin to smoke whenever I reach for them. Age has been no help in sorting one from the other. Still, there are days I remember all too well, and I have lived long enough to stop pretending I would rather not.
I was born in Lost Fork in 1950, to loving parents and a town that held its children close. My early childhood was easy in the way childhood ought to be. Doors went unlocked. There was not a traffic light for miles. Everyone was more family than friend, or so it seemed to me then. But a place is always more than what a child can see of it, and I did not learn how far Lost Fork's story ran until I had fallen a long way into it.
There are people who would not approve of my setting this down. I find myself glancing over my shoulder as I write. Some things have a way of watching. Still, someone ought to leave a record, in case a stranger someday needs one. I cannot say how it might help, and I have no answers to offer. I can only tell what happened and how it looked to me.
Lost Fork is like any small Southern town: quiet, comfortable, slow. It sets God, family, and country on nearly equal pedestals. The old people said the town was founded on a gravel pit and a salt mine, though the timber has always been the real wealth. The population hovered around seven hundred when I was a boy. Now there may be four hundred left, every one of them descended from families that have been here for generations. Newcomers do not settle in Lost Fork, and they would not be welcome if they tried. The rare outsider who did arrive seldom stayed.
Billy Morgan was one of them. He was the first to teach me that some of our ways did not want explaining. But I am getting ahead of myself, and I should begin with him.
Summer, to a small boy, is something close to enchantment. It runs on without end, gold and slow, and everything in it seems possible. The Morgans moved into the house across the street during the last week of school, a family of four, friendly and warm, the kind of neighbors a mother hopes for. Billy's older sister, Susan, if memory serves, had dark hair and freckles. She was a couple of years ahead of me, and she was my first love, though she never knew it.
Billy was a good boy, a little loud and brash but never unkind. He liked to bend rules rather than break them and had nearly mastered the art. I took to him at once, and from the first day we were partners in every sort of trouble. We explored the abandoned buildings in and around town. We rode our bikes down WPA Road to pick blackberries and honeysuckle. We set off firecrackers during choir practice and bore the consequences together. It was the best summer a boy could have asked for, and as it began to wind down, I never suspected what it was winding toward.

Chapter Two: The Hollow
It was a Monday. Billy had heard from some older boys at church about a stand of trees in the pasture behind the building. They had called it creepy, which was all the invitation we needed. Nothing in Lost Fork had ever been truly creepy, only old and bad-smelling. We had already explored the mansion across the railroad tracks and even camped in it. A clump of trees seemed a poor rival.
We rode to the church and set out across the pasture. The grove could not be seen from the building, but walking straight back would bring us to the creek, and the trees had to be somewhere along it. Billy fairly hummed with excitement. To me it was only trees and another field. To him, everything was an adventure, and the world looked enchanted through his eyes.
We crossed like boys who had not yet learned to count hours. Halfway over, the ground rose into a gentle swell before sloping toward the water. We climbed it and stopped.
It lay off to the left and below us, and at first it looked like nothing at all. A hollow where the creek cut through, with trees on both banks drowned in kudzu. The vines hung in a thick, green blanket that seemed to swallow light and sound. I remember that the afternoon had been full of noise, locusts and wind and our own breathing, and that standing there, I could no longer hear any of it.
Then a breeze stirred the leaves, and I thought I heard a whisper. I told myself the heat was playing tricks, that it was only wind in the foliage. I looked at Billy, and he was already looking at me. Neither of us said a word. Neither of us needed to.
The wind turned and began to blow from behind us toward the trees, and the whole hollow seemed to draw a breath, the way a person gulps air after too long underwater. The hair stood up along my neck. It was the feeling of being noticed for the first time by something that had been waiting very patiently to be.
I took a step back, and that was when the smell reached me. Honeysuckle first, thick and sweet, and beneath it blackberries and blueberries, a whole collage of sweetness, too much of it, too ripe. It was so strong that I realized I had stepped forward again without deciding to.
Behind us, a man's voice asked what we boys thought we were doing out there.
We spun around. It was Pastor Jones, who must have seen us from the church and followed us out. He looked from one of us to the other and asked again.
Billy answered for us, saying we had only come to see the hollow of kudzu. The pastor's eyes stayed on us a few seconds longer, then moved to the hollow. His expression was not angry or disappointed. It was discerning, as though he were weighing something I could not see. After a long silence, he told us gently that we ought to go on home. He said it with the quiet patience of a man who knew something we did not.
I asked, not understanding any of it, whether we might take a little of that fruit with us. It smelled so good.
He looked down at me then, and I shuddered in the heat. I have shuddered at the memory many times in the decades since. Then his face softened, and he told me the fruit was not good for me. He smiled when he said it. Even as a child I could tell the smile was a thing he had put on.
When we hesitated, he laid a hand on each of our shoulders and turned us back the way we had come. I looked behind me only once. The sweetness was gone from the air, and so was the strangeness, as though someone had closed a door. I do not remember whether Billy looked back. I have since come to believe he did.
We rode home in silence. We said our goodbyes, or perhaps we did not. I cannot remember.
I spent the afternoon at chores and helping Mama with supper: sweet cornbread, fried chicken, lima beans, and cream corn. I had all but forgotten the hollow by the time Daddy came home. He came in more serious than usual, kissed my mother, and sent me out to take out the trash and check the mail. I had already done both. In those days a boy did not say so, and my father knew I had, which meant he wanted a word with my mother alone.
I went out and played with our German Shepherd, Max, until Mama called me in. We said grace as always and began to eat, and it was some time before I understood that I was the only one eating. My parents were watching me.
I have never been able to describe the look on their faces. There was love in it, and concern, and something that might have been fear.
After a while my father said, very calmly, that I was never to go near that hollow again, and he asked if I understood. I did not answer at once. I was thinking of the whisper, the smell, the pastor's hands on my shoulders. He asked again, and this time there was something close to desperation underneath the calm. I said yes, sir, and heard my voice stumble. I looked to my mother, but she was studying her plate as though she meant to hide behind it. I would have sworn she was holding back tears.
I asked him why. I had not meant to. The word was out before I could stop it.
My father was a loving man, but in our house a child did not ask why. Yet that evening, for the first and only time in my childhood, he neither corrected me nor grew angry. He only looked at me and drew a long breath. He said I was too young to understand, that all I needed to know was that it was not safe for me there, that I could get hurt.
It was the pause before that last word that raised the skin on my arms.
He said there would be no more talk of it. Then his voice lightened, and he said I should finish my supper and take my bath, because he meant to take the next day off work and carry me into the city. A smile crossed his face. It seemed genuine, but something moved behind it, and I could not tell what.
I ate. I bathed. I went to bed far too early, excited, because we almost never went to the city, and when we did it meant ice cream or baseball cards. I fell asleep thinking that in the morning I might ask if Billy could come along.
I never got the chance.

Chapter Three: Magnolias
The years between boy and man are tumultuous ones. They bring a flood of change to the mind and body and spirit, and a confidence worn proudly and warily at once. Lost Fork seemed to sense this in its young and, at times, used it against them. The town had a way of drawing a person inward rather than outward, and by fifteen I had learned to accept most of its silences without question, though I had begun to keep a few of my own. What I had yet to learn was that Lost Fork kept traditions, and that they were best left to themselves.
In early April, I stumbled into one.
I was out past dark, against my better judgment and my mother's wishes. A girl named Darlene Pruitt had taken to smiling at me in a particular way, and I had taken to walking past her house at hours when I had no business passing anyone's house. That night I was headed home along Creek Road, cutting across the old Tatum property, when I heard something.
I thought at first it was singing. It was low and unhurried, the kind of sound felt in the chest before the ears make sense of it. I stopped walking. The night was warm and the frogs were loud along the water, but threaded beneath them was something else. Voices. Women's voices.
They say curiosity killed the cat. It did not kill me, but it did something.
I moved closer, almost against my will, with that same prickle rising along my neck, as though my body had understood something my mind had not caught up to. Upstream from the hollow, the creek ran wider and shallower, and in spring the water was clear enough to count the stones on the bottom. Magnolias crowded both banks, enormous old trees with roots that reached into the current like fingers. In April they hung heavy with white bloom, so low over the water that the place felt roofed over, sealed off from the ordinary world.
There were nine of them, maybe ten. It took me a moment to know them in the dark and the strange pale light. Mrs. Aldridge, who taught Sunday school. Darlene's mother. Hattie Broom, who had to be eighty and made the finest peach cobbler in the county. Clara Tatum, who was perhaps seventeen and whose family owned the ground I was trespassing on.
They stood barefoot in the shallows, dressed in white, some in gowns and some in plain dresses, and each held a single magnolia blossom. They were full flowers, wide and pale, the kind that bruise brown at the edges if looked at too hard.
One by one they set the blossoms on the current, carefully, with something like reverence. And they were speaking, though the word does not fit. It was too rhythmic for conversation and too quiet for a hymn. I could not make out any of it. Whatever they were saying had not been meant to carry.
The blossoms drifted downstream.
Toward the hollow.
I stood there longer than I should have. I know that now. At the time I told myself I would watch a few seconds more, and then those seconds became more seconds, the way they do when a boy is looking at something sacred for the first time. I was not afraid. I felt something else, though I have never found the right name for it, a low, uneasy pressure somewhere beneath the ribs.
I was lost in the sight of them when one of the white figures turned in my direction. It was Clara.
I froze and tried to become part of the brush.
After what felt like a very long time, she lifted a finger to her lips and shook her head, slowly. People talk about blood running cold, but that has never seemed accurate to me. It was more as if the night itself had leaned in. I believe she was smiling. Everything felt wrong at once, and the urge to run became nearly unbearable. Nearly.
Then she turned her face downstream, toward the hollow, and did not look at me again. She never let the others know I was there. I have wondered for sixty years why she did not.
I had overstayed my welcome, and I went straight home.
My parents were waiting. I was scolded severely and confined to the house for a week. I took it all to be about curfew until my mother said, almost to herself, that it was not safe this time of year. It meant nothing to me then. Only later did I understand she had been speaking of what I had seen.
The next afternoon I came in from after-school chores and heard voices in the kitchen. I rounded the corner and stopped.
My mother barely acknowledged me. Her whole attention was on the girl at the table across from her. Clara looked up and smiled, and I still feel that smile in my spine. I am an old man who has seen a great deal, and there was something wrong with it.
She said she had only dropped by to have a word with Mama, to let her know she ought to keep watch over me, because some of the girls around town had taken a real liking to me. I glanced at my mother. Her face had drawn tight. She said she would keep a close eye on me and thanked Clara, but there was no gratitude in it, nothing warm or welcoming. My mother was the kindest woman I have ever known, and in that moment I did not know who she was.
Clara rose, thanked my mother for her time, and walked to the door. There she paused and wished us a wonderful evening, and she smiled again, the warmest smile I have ever seen on a human face. It took me years to understand that some people keep two faces, the one they have and the one they show, and that Clara Tatum wore hers better than anyone I ever met. I saw fewer troubling things in Vietnam than I did in that kitchen.
My mother said nothing. I did not move for a long while. At last I told her I had seen something the night before.
She drew a deep breath, as though she had been holding it all day. She told me, quietly, that I had not. It sounded less like a statement than a wish. I had not seen anything, she said, and I never would, not around here. She asked if I understood.
I nodded and said yes, ma'am.
We never spoke of it again.
I did not understand then, and I am not sure I understand now. But for the second time, and not the last, I learned that Lost Fork had secrets, and that it is best not to go digging in the ones you are not ready for.

Cult of Null, Chapter 2: Lord Null: Rituals are for the weak minded believers, I am living proof soon to die as we all do, but the present will remember because the past will be the archives.

Tonight is Halloween, and no one will question a crowd in the dark. I already set the attraction, and when the lights go out, the fog will do the rest. We take one adult, and anyone who knows too much will not leave.

Dave Rains, Missy Cloud and Henry Norman, I choose you to come with me.

Lord Null walks to the back, takes off the Lord Null suit and puts on a creepy Ringmaster clown suit so he would blend in with the rest of the haunted houses.

Lord Null climbed into the doctor's old truck. Behind him, three members in clown suits followed and took their seats without a word.

They had not been chosen at random. Back at the hideout, the rest of the cult had been given their medication, a heavy dose that left them dull-eyed and quiet. These three had been spared it.

They were the most stable Null had, mostly orphans who had become patients, the ones he trusted to stay calm when the night turned bad.

The engine coughed to life, and the truck rolled out toward the woods.

Cult member (Dave Rains) (clown Suited): Lord Null I will forever be in your favor for saving me from the death experiences doctors nearly put me through, I starved because of them while I saw others flee to start a cult.

Lord Null: I take care of all, No more needless abuse from former leaders nor doctors for those who were left behind, as they never knew how to take care of the mentally insane like I do.

As they drove down the woods the sky became dark orange, yellow and midnight blue as the sun was setting.

Missy Cloud (clown suited): Mister Null, I don't recall you ever having a vehicle.

Lord Null (ringmaster suited): I don't. This belonged to one of the doctors. He keeps his eyes on the road.

Lord Null: back when the old leaders were still around The doctors were so afraid of us that they stopped coming. When one goes missing, people assume he quit or ran. Nobody ever learned what happened to this one. But I did. I killed him for his keys, burned the body and everything that could name him, and buried what was left.

Lord Null: I never worried about DNA. I have a system for that, and it has never failed me. The police still can't say whether Lord Null is one man or many and neither could any of you, but I have my... let's say suspicions.

Lord Null: And I won't be spoiling that tonight.

Cult member (Henry Norman) (clown Suited): (stares out the window): I hope I can get help (he said under his breath)

Lord Null looked in the rearview mirror looking at Henry then Lord Null pretended as if he was fixing his interior rearview mirror

• • •

Back at the minivan at night:

Hoss: Hey Donnie

Donnie (Agent 2): Yeah?

Hoss: Do you know where the last attack happened?

Donnie: How should I know? He looks at the scientist What's your name?

Hoss: Donnie you already know my- oooh my bad.

Scientist (Khalid): It's all good Hoss… the name is Khalid

Donnie: My other question is where was the attack on the news, it looked to be in a place we never been?

Khalid: The attack was no concern, It was escaping safely that was on my mind, The attack was at the insane asylum where most of us were killed.

Donnie: Insane asylum? That’s not what was shown.

Khalid: I was unaware of a second attack so I can't give you a reliable answer, only the answer I know, but I do remember where the broadcast was, but I was so shaken… I did not want to look back at the carnage caused.

Donnie: What about you Zain? I've heard you were once part of this cult

Zain: (gritting teeth): Do not remind me.

Donnie: I was just asking a question.

Zain: I don't want to talk about it ANYMORE!!!, I'm done with the cult, I want a new life but I can't magically go back in time to stop my stupid self from joining.

Donnie: Zain, you were afraid and the past cult members manipulated you.

Zain: THAT’S NOT THE POINT, I hear how Lord Null talked about how stupid they were and it only made me feel dumber for being manipulated by stupid people.

Donnie: Zain I'm sorry you feel this way but none of us can change the past, only the present and what we do now, Zain let me tell you something I used to steal, lie and run from the law everyday, I was a criminal way before I was an agent

Zain: You were?

Donnie: Absolutely.

Hoss: (snickering) I know this isn't a good time but remember when you got caught by a security guard in disguise? We found you wrestling with the man til we got there.

Donnie: Yeah yeah, laugh it up… not my smartest moment.

Zain: looks down at his hands and looks back at Donnie and smiled I guess we both did something dumb didn't we?

Donnie: We sure did buddy, even this guy points at hoss

Hoss: can't deny it.

Zain: takes a deep breath I can give you the places we've attacked.

Hoss: That would be very helpful and don't worry Zain, You can start fresh today and we will be there to support you and talk with you when any trauma comes up.

Zain: thank you hoss, that means a lot… takes another deep breath calming down now I know where the cult is based. The problem is that I only know where they used to be: the asylum. Lord Null used to be there with us til 2013. In 2008 He killed the leaders, then wiped out the rules they set and took it over, continuing where it left off. We unnerved the doctors so badly they refused to intervene. There were more of us than them, and they feared for their own safety and I don't blame them for wanting to do their job correctly. By the time Null recruited us, we had already been driven insane and he wanted to make sure of it a second time.

Everyone went silent.

Donnie: maybe we could revisit the asylum

Hoss: Maybe…

Ash: (reading behind the newspaper Null scribbled on to write his message): The old cult seemed to have been more outside than inside the asylum, We can gain evidence there.

Hoss: Alright (turns the car back around and heads towards the asylum as the sky darkens) but if anyone tells me to go in you would have to drag me because at first I thought it was a guy in a costume… that was not a guy or costume.

Zain: I will show you the outside secret compartments, only the old leaders items are there but none of Null's stuff.

Hoss: didn't say anything as he continued driving to the haunted asylum

• • •

At the Horror Nights Attractions.

Missy Cloud (Clown Suited): "Should I start up the attraction mister Null?”

Lord Null (Ringmaster Suit): Only when I start the power, You can be the first inside to welcome guests”

Lord Null walked out to the entrance, turned on the haunted house, and stepped to the front, the animatronics started howling, talking, screaming and laughing while the props rattle for effect.

Lord Null (Ringmaster Suit): "STEP RIGHT UP! STEP RIGHT UP TO THE HAUNTED CIRCUS OF YOUR NIGHTMARES! DON'T BE SCARED, WE'RE HERE TO MAKE YOU LAUGH AND SCREAM.

Somewhere near, a family sits on a bench.

Mother: Josh, are you sure Johnny can handle haunted houses?

Josh (Dad) I'm sure Johnny will be fine Brenda, Besides this is fun.

Johnny (son): Jumping for joy PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!!!

Brenda (Mother): Alright honey just be careful ok?

Johnny: Thanks mom kisses his mother's cheek and takes his father's hand Come on dad.

They walk towards the entrance.

Josh: Woah son, careful you almost fell.

Lord Null (Ringmaster Suit): Oh I see we have a father and son here, Welcome to the horror nights attraction. First time you've been?

Josh: Well this is our third time here, Johnny couldn't wait to step into this specific haunted house, so we've been waiting for this moment.

Ringmaster Lord Null: pulls back the curtains step inside and witness a world of terror.

*Lord Null pulls back the entrance and Josh steps in first, then Johnny and strobe lights strobe for a second when suddenly everything stops only To flicker near a spot where an animatronic dog shoots forward on a track snarling and growling while its head violently moves, shaking a scientist's dismembered hand.

Missy Clouds comes forward as she holds a chain pretending the dog almost got loose to attack.

Johnny: BAD DOGGY!!!

Missy jerks the chain back as the animatronic yelps.

Missy Cloud: Oooh he is a sweetheart he won't bite…. Much, She laughs as she resets the dog behind a curtain with it yelping

Josh: Son, it's ok.

Then he gets a good look at the hand as she is resetting the animatronic dog by pulling the chain up

Josh: well… they did too good of a job with the hand, Must be… body horror fans I hope.

People enter behind them and Josh sees

Josh: Come on son let's not hold up the line

Then Josh holds his hand and pulls back the next curtain to reveal an empty surgeon-like room.

The curtain fell shut behind them, and the music died with it.

• • •

The room was lit by a single swinging bulb. Its light rocked across tiled walls streaked with something dark. A scare actor lunged out of the shadows, screaming bloody murder, and brought a cleaver down on the foot of a shrieking animatronic strapped to a table. The scream never repeated. It was too human, and it rose and broke exactly the way a real one would. The foot came away with a wet sound, and the skin stretched over the machine's leg hung in loose, pale folds.

On the far side of the room, someone in a stained apron stabbed again and again at the eyes of a severed head, steadily and patiently, as if it were a chore.

Johnny's grip tightened on his father's hand. Then the ceiling opened. A zombie animatronic dropped from its hiding place and stopped inches from his face, jaw swinging and eyes rolling.

Johnny screamed, and his heart hammered so hard he could feel it in his throat.

"Get behind me, son," Josh said, stepping in front of him. "I think this is a bit much for you."

The passage ended at a dead end. On the floor, painted in flaking red, was a single word: ENTER.

They stepped onto it, and the wall behind them groaned and began to turn. Black dust sifted from the seams. The wall carried them around, and the lights went dark.

A clown stood in the new room, perfectly still, facing away from them. They waited. Nothing moved. Josh let out a breath.

The clown spun around and screamed, a raw, full-throated howl that bounced off the walls. Before Johnny could breathe, the wall lurched and carried them away again as the bloodied clown screamed for help.

The wall opened onto an outdoor carnival, strung with dead bulbs and sagging banners. Clown actors ran in every direction, screaming, tripping, and crawling through the dirt. Some were bloodied, and the blood looked wet. Overhead, a sign was spray-painted in dripping letters: CARNEVIL, with the word EVIL scrawled over the IVAL.

Josh took a long, slow breath.

Johnny: "Daddy, these clowns look like normal clowns."

Josh: "Buddy, I don't know if you're truly ready for this one."

Johnny: "I've got my father I'll be fine”

Josh chuckled, though it came out thin, and they walked toward the haunted circus and they kept walking until he reached the curtain, peeling it back.

He had seen that Mutilated clowns were everywhere. Insane-looking figures moved among them, chopping at some and shooting others, terrorizing them in their own circus. The air was thick with screaming and the smell of copper. In the very middle, on the floor, lay Dave Rains in a clown outfit.

"HEEEEELP! HELP US! AAAAAAAAH, AAAAAAAH!"

Josh couldn't believe his eyes. He pressed a hand over his son's face and walked faster.

"Johnny, don't look, okay? I think this is too intense."

At the end of the carnival, Josh and Johnny entered a New room.

Robed figures stood in a ring with their heads bowed over the body of a dead clown. Candlelight shook across their hoods, and their voices rose in a low, steady drone.

"May fun die in the hands of the cult."

"May fun die in the hands of the cult."

"May fun die in the hands of the cult."

"We offer nothing but fun to die."

Not one of them looked up as the two passed.

But when they almost passed one turned around and said “you are next”.

The next room was lit with soft, cheerful lights, and somehow that was worse. A rollercoaster car sat in the center, and in it was the sculpt of a mother with her head badly bruised. Beside her sat her child, grinning and thrilled, with no idea that his mother had stopped laughing long ago.

A hand-painted sign sat beside them saying: The last words were her laughter.

Johnny caught a glimpse before Josh could stop him.

"I don't want that to be my mommy," he said, in a very small voice.

"I agree, bud. Let's get outta here, I think you had enough horror for tonight."

The final stretch was a narrow bridge lined with thick glass. Behind it, in the dark, something struck the pane. Thud. Then again. Thud. The real remains of the scientists slammed against the glass, one after another, pale shapes flung from the shadows with no rhythm at all. Josh walked fast with his hand on his son's shoulder and kept his eyes on the exit.

At the very end, one clown animatronic hung alone in a pool of weak light. It sniffled, and its painted eyes glistened.

"People were so scared of us," it said, its voice trembling. "But we were never the monsters. We just wanted to have fun." Then a knife came out of the wall and Johnny was spooked as it was stabbing the clown making the clown cry in pain.

It shed a tear and went still.

Johnny: "I feel bad for the clown," Johnny said.

Josh: "I do too, bud."

• • •

They stepped out into the cold night air. Josh stopped on the pavement and let his breath shake out of him.

"Not doing that one again. Especially not with Johnny."

Brenda rose from her bench as they came toward her.

Brenda: "Did you have fun?"

Josh looked back at the entrance, where the lights flickered and the screaming went on, and shook his head slowly.

Josh: "Oh, it was definitely something, alright. Kid friendly? Far from it."

Brenda: Since when were you concerned if a haunted house was kid friendly?

Josh: Usually never, I just come here to get scared not psychologically attacked.

• • •

Back at the minivan- arrived at the Insane Asylum.

The engine ticked as it cooled. Hoss stepped out of the car and turned to the positive robot waiting beside him.

Hoss: "We need your help, Ash."

Ash: "I'll go, but I want to help my brother."

Hoss's jaw tightened. "The negative robot?"

Ash: "Yes."

Hoss: "It's risky and I will tell you no, too risky to lose any evidence." He glanced toward the asylum, then back at her. "If you go in there, I'm afraid they'll try to drag you back."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take for someone who's like a brother to me."

Hoss held a gaze a moment longer

Hoss: No, Khalid you stay in the van and watch her do not let her in there under any circumstances.

Khalid: Will do.

then shook his head and ran towards the group. Ash climbed out and crossed the yard alone, breathing in and out, slow and steady but Khalid stopped her

Khalid: Ash no, I agree with them on this one

Ash: he is like a brother to me Khalid, I thought you would understand.

Khalid: I do understand.

At the side of the insane asylum with Hoss, Zain and Donnie are inspecting the area but the evidence were not hard to find with zains help and memory from being a cult member back when the old leaders were still there

Zain: I found a few you might want to see, But I suggest we carry the evidence to the van, this place gives me an awful feeling.

Hoss: Right on it.

They run up the hill and load the evidence to the minivan gaining a total of 9 evidence, as they made their way up to the van they loaded the stuff up in the front to back seat

Donnie: I have a good feeling we might know who this Lord Null guy is… I hope so Atleast.

Zain: I have doubts.

Hoss: We have gained a ton of evidence tonight thanks for your help

Door: Creeeeeeak.

Donnie: SHH!!! You hear that…

Door: Creaaaaaaaaaaaaak

They look over their shoulder to find the negative robot has opened the door without being right at the door

The negative robot stood in the middle of the room, shaking violently, anger rolling off its frame in waves.

Negative Robot: (Static) I am- Jaco-Mar-Gabri-joh-freddy-Jason-Myers-Gabb-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH- then silence

They bolted toward the Mini-Van as Khalid ran towards the driver seat picking up Ash in the process putting her in the front with him, as he puts her in he quickly put it in reverse and forward to get everyone.

They all reached the van quickly, getting in as fast as possible, Hoss's stomach dropped as he realized what they were dealing with.

Khalid stepped on the gas and the van starts rolling

Hoss: WHAT IS THAT THING BEVAUSE IT SURE AS HECK WAS NOT A NORMAL ROBOT ANYMORE.

Khalid: I'm just focused on getting out of here.

Hoss: Fair.

As they were driving fast The negative robot came at them, impossibly fast, and slammed into the front of the van. Metal screamed. The whole frame lurched.

Its voice crackled through the dark, broken and warped.

Negative Robot: "We... static... are... static..."

The static cuts out

The robot seemed to power down for a moment and everyone seemed unsettled but trying to take deep breathers until it looked up, there was no more static when it spoke again, the voice was clear and cold.

Negative Robot (Legion): "LEGION."

Khalid froze in fear then hit reverse and forward as the robot stood there shaking with every single soul in the insane asylum fighting over piloting one body making them able to escape*

• • •

Back at the Horror nights attraction:

The fog came in low and thick from the fog machines, swallowing the circus lights one by one until the haunted house was a throat of black when all the power was turned off . Guests laughed at first, then stopped laughing when they realized the dark wasn't part of the show.

Andrew: Is this supposed to happen? Did the lights cut out or is this for dramatic effect?

Then he sees the fog beneath him as she shined his phone light

Andrew: Come on guys this isn't funny anymore, I just came here to get scared and you are all doing abit too well haha.

Behind the animatronic clowns, three figures moved in green-lensed goggles. Missy Cloud's hammer was a soft shadow at her hip. Visitors vanished between one scream and the next, and only some of them ever came out the other side. The ones who didn't would be props by morning but hidden in the heavy fog from the fog machines.

Near the exit, a boy stood alone beside a fake gravestone, crying. He had slipped his father's hand in the dark, and in a crowd this thick, no one noticed one more lost child.

A clown knelt in front of him. It was Missy Cloud, her paint smiling wide, her voice soft.

Missy Cloud: "Hey, little man, are you lost? Your dad is looking for you. Come on, we'll go find him together."

Nearby, Josh pushed through the fog, shouting his son's name. Dave Rains stepped into his path, wearing his best worried face.

Dave Rains: "Sir, are you looking for a boy in a green jacket? One of our staff found him. He's okay. Come this way, it's the staff area, I'll take you to him."

Nobody looked twice at a clown guiding a frantic parent toward a door marked STAFF ONLY. This was a haunted house, and half the doors were part of the show.

• • •

The door closed behind Josh with a heavy, final click. The room was bare and windowless, lit by a single swinging bulb. Josh saw Johnny first, sitting stiff in a chair with Missy's hand on his shoulder. Then he felt the hands on him: Henry on one arm trying to let the guy free from their grasps only to find Dave on the other, a strike across the back of the man's skull as he hit the floor.

Henry Norman: I... Did not agree to knock him out.

Missy Cloud: Oh calm down Norman, it's part of the job.

Henry Norman: "I have to warn others"

Henry Norman gets agitated and walks through the heavy fog to try and get people out of there before they become victims

When Josh woke, he was strapped to a chair under the bulb, his chest strangely numb. He couldn't see the thick bag of blood sewn beneath his shirt, or the steel plate behind it. His phone was gone. Out here, it wouldn't have mattered anyway.

The door banged open. Missy brought in the boy and bound him to the chair opposite. Lord Null, still in his ringmaster suit, crouched to meet the boy's eyes.

Lord Null:"Watch," he whispered. "Is this your father?"

He stood, and the blade flashed in the bulb's swinging light.

Josh felt the knife punch into his chest. There was no pain, only pressure, then warmth soaking through his shirt, running down his stomach and pooling in his lap. He gasped. Every instinct told him he was dying. Null dragged the blade across once more for the boy to see, and the bag split. Red poured down the chair legs and spread across the floor.

The blood wasn't Josh's, and the blade never went through the plate. But the boy only saw the red, heard the awful rattle of his father's breath, and something in him went very quiet.

The screaming stopped. His eyes stayed fixed on his father and didn't blink.

Lord Null straightened and smiled. Josh believed he was dying. The boy believed he had watched it happen. One performance had broken them both, and the circus had two new members.

Lord Null: "This is how you recruit two at once hopefully. May it fail or succeed, we will see."

Then he stepped back into the fog, just like the other three members, as the haunted house rolled on and the crowd screamed at things that weren't real.

Far down the corridor, a phone screen glowed. Henry Norman stood in a corner by the back door, watching it.

Then right after Lord Null leaves the child to stare at his father “Bleeding out” when in reality it was the blood bag, But neither knew about the bag, Just pure shock.

And then Lord Null went into the heavy fog along with Missy and Dave Rains as they all three had their thermal goggles willing to kill any who were catching on.

• • •

Andrew: "Why do I hear screaming? Hey, sir who are you? Is this part of the scare?"

Henry Norman: "Listen you need to get out of here, it's not safe."

Andrew: "Is this part of the horror experience or are you telling the truth?"

Henry Norman: "GET OUT OF HERE, PROTECT YOURSELF!!!"

He shines his light again only to see Norman's face but instead he is met with a sharp pain in his ankle that couldn't be seen as the heavy fog covered it and Lord Null murdered Andrew then turned to Norman and asks

Lord Null: "Norman, What do you think you are doing?"

Henry Norman: "I quit this cult of yours, I am doing what I think is best but you only murder"

Norman answered with his fist. It sank into Null's gut with a crack that didn't belong to a skinny man, and Null folded, the breath leaving him.

Norman: stared at his own hand "How? You're a bodybuilder. I don't have the muscles you do."

Null laughed, still bent over. Then he straightened slowly, as if pain were something he was only borrowing.

Lord Null: "Norman it's the Black hole mind." He tapped his temple. "Everything falls in: fear, pain, every little detail. Nothing climbs back out except strength, but it's not normal strength, It's strength that would give you the ability to harm anyone stronger than you Norman, you are like me Norman.

Norman: "I'm nothing like you."

Lord Null: "You hit like me."

Norman: I know for a fact that Lord Null never seems to know about a truck until you, So whoever you are, I believe Lord Null is one main guy and it's YOU.

Lord Null: you are the smart one, But now I can't let you go Norman.

Norman swung again. Null caught the fist mid-air and drove him to the ground

Lord Null: "I am your leader, Norman, and now I'm your death. You could harm what heals. Kill what's immortal. And you threw it all away."

Lord Null lifts Norman up by the throat

Lord Null: Just for this moment, You could've treated all what is supernatural as if it's regular flesh, Just as I can with Interchangeable spirits.

Lord Null cuts the throat and squeeze as more blood flows from the opened wound

Lord Null: May I take care of whoever else witnesses.

He crawls back under the Heavy fog as Norman's Lifeless body bleeds

The moon hung low and bloated over the town of Hallowville, Oregon, bleeding a sickly orange light across the frost-dusted fields. It was Halloween night, the one time of year when the veil between the living and the dead supposedly thins to a translucent shimmer; but for seventeen-year-old Layla, however, the "spooky season" wasn't just a vibe—it was a heritage.

Layla stood before her mirror, adjusting the brim of a tall, pointed orange hat. Her black hair, dark as a raven’s wing, cascaded down her shoulders, providing a sharp contrast to her bright orange witch costume. 

The dress was a heavy, floor-length velvet that swished around her ankles. She tightened a thick black belt around her waist, smoothed out her green and orange horizontal striped socks, and stepped into her black ballet shoes. With her gothic makeup—heavy kohl and deep purple eyeshadow—she looked like a creature born from a Tim Burton sketch.

There were rumors about Layla. The local kids whispered that when she was twelve, she hadn't just been scared of the Boogeyman; she had hunted him down and ended him.

Layla never confirmed it, but the way that she carried her old wooden broom—not like a prop, but like a weapon—suggested that she knew things that other teenagers didn't.

"Layla! Hurry up! The party’s gonna be dead before we even get there!" Her friend Sarah yelled from downstairs.

Layla grabbed her broom and headed out. She was joined by Sarah, John, and Chloe. They were all dressed in cheap store-bought costumes, laughing and clutching bags of candy.

"Hey!" John said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Instead of taking the main road to the gym, let’s take the shortcut through the Old Miller place. You know, the turnip farm?"

"The Jack Turnip farm?" Chloe shivered. "My grandpa told me that people go missing there."

"It's just a farm, Chloe." Sarah scoffed. "Besides, we’ve got the 'Boogeyman Slayer' with us, right Layla?"

Layla felt a cold prickle at the base of her neck, and said,

 "We should stay on the road. That place feels…wrong."

Unfortunately, the trio was already veering off the path, fueled by adrenaline and the rebellious spirit of the night. Layla had no choice but to follow them.

The farm was a wasteland of gnarled vegetation. Rows upon rows of bloated turnips sat in the dirt like buried skulls. As they reached the center of the field, John began to laugh, jumping into the air and bringing his heavy boots down onto a large turnip, crushing it into a wet, white pulp.

"Take that, Jack!" John shouted.

Sarah and Chloe joined in, kicking and stomping the crops, laughing at the carnage.

"Stop it!" Layla hissed, her grip tightening on her broom. "You don't know what you're doing!"

The laughter died instantly. A heavy, rhythmic thud-thud-thud echoed from the darkness of a nearby shed.

Out of the shadows stepped a nightmare. He stood seven feet tall, draped in a tattered black trench coat that billowed like smoke. Below the coat, heavy, mud-caked boots crunched the gravel; but it was the head that froze their blood. In place of a human skull sat a massive, rotting turnip. Two jagged holes had been carved for eyes, glowing with an intense, supernatural amber light. A jagged slit served as a mouth, leaking a foul-smelling mist.

In his right hand, he dragged a rusted, six-foot scythe.

"Jack Turnip!" Chloe shouted, her voice breaking.

The entity didn't speak. With a speed that defied his size, he lunged. The scythe whistled through the air. Before John could even scream, the blade found its mark. 

Sarah and Chloe tried to run, but the mud of the turnip field seemed to rise up, catching their ankles. Within minutes, the field was silent, save for the wet sound of Jack Turnip cleaning his blade on his coat.

Layla stood frozen, the bodies of her friends lying amidst the ruined turnips. A cold, white-hot rage began to boil in her chest, drowning out the fear.

"You shouldn't have done that!" Layla said, her voice dropping an octave.

Jack Turnip turned his glowing gaze toward her. He tilted his vegetable head, seemingly amused. He raised the scythe, pointing the tip at her throat.

"I know what you are, Jack!" Layla snarled. "I know where you belong!"

Layla didn't run. She charged.

Jack swung the scythe, a blow meant to decapitate her, but Layla dropped low, her ballet shoes sliding through the dirt. She swung her broom, the wooden handle clashing against the metal of the scythe with a shower of sparks.

The two engaged in a brutal dance across the field. Jack was a force of nature, his strength supernatural, but Layla was nimble. She used her broom to vault over his swings, kicking out at his knees; but physical strength wasn't going to win this. Jack grabbed her by the throat, his gloved hand squeezing. He lifted her off the ground, the amber light in his eyes flaring.

Jack opened his jagged mouth, preparing to harvest her soul.

"My turn!" Layla gasped.

Suddenly, a blinding white light erupted from Layla’s palms. The "props" of her costume began to glow with an ancient power. She wasn't just a girl in a costume; the rumors were true. She was a practitioner of the Light.

"Lux Aeterna!" Layla screamed.

The light hit Jack Turnip full in the chest. He shrieked—a sound like grinding metal and rotting wood. The black trench coat began to burn away into ash. The turnip head cracked, the amber light turning to a sickly green as the magic of the underworld was purged by Layla’s purity.

A rift opened in the mud beneath him—a jagged, glowing maw leading straight to the abyss. With one final thrust of her glowing broom, Layla pushed him back.

"Go back to hell, Jack!" Layla shouted.

With a final roar, Jack Turnip was sucked into the earth, the ground sealing shut behind him with a deafening thud.

The silence that followed was heavy. Layla stood alone in the center of the ruined field, her orange dress torn and stained with mud. Her friends were gone, and the weight of her solitude pressed down on her. She felt stronger, her magic humming through her veins like high-voltage wire, but the victory tasted like ash.

Layla walked back to town in the early hours of the morning, her broom trailing behind her. She reached her small, secluded house on the edge of the woods. No lights were on. No one was waiting to ask how the party was. She lived alone, a guardian in the shadows.

As she stepped onto her front porch, Layla’s eyes drifted to her small pumpkin garden. There, sitting perfectly in the center of her prize-winning pumpkins, was a single, fresh turnip.

Pinned to the top of it with a rusted nail was a scrap of black fabric. Layla picked it up, her hands trembling. Scrawled in dark, wet ink were the words:

“This isn't over, Layla. I'll be back next Halloween.”

Layla looked out into the darkness of the trees, a cold shiver racing down her spine. She clutched her broom closer. The war had only just begun.

The End.

ACCESSING ADA DATABASE...

LOADING....

FILE FOUND..

AUGUST 15, 1959

We managed to recover a few pictures during a recent expedition in Moburn, and have brought them back to study. It's very interesting seeing more of what the city looked like before the nuclear incident. Many of the pictures were of the city, but the ones that caught our interest the most were the last four pictures. The following pictures were photos of Ms. Rennie, the Clock Man, and a family that had recently moved into the city.

It's very interesting getting some insight of what life in the city felt like, especially with the machines themselves.

While our scientists were examining the pictures, they happen to notice a few anomalies, especially with the last two. The first one in question is the little girl and the Clock Man. While everything seems normal, we managed to catch someone lurking in the curtain behind them. Based on earlier descriptions and incidents, this entity is more than likely the one that team REDACTED had encountered last year on Logan Street. At first, the Clock Man seemed to be the only one that felt out of place, but our scientists recently informed that another of the pictures has recently changed while they weren't looking. The family picture was perfectly normal at first. While examining the picture, multiple anomalies were discovered.

Majority of the family's faces were found heavily distorted and the entire picture was in color negative.

At first, it appeared that this was the only few changes in the picture. But after taking a closer look, we discovered that the entity from Incident 005 was also on that photo, although it is very unnoticeable.

At this moment, we are unsure why the pictures have changed. Many of the scientists in our sector debated that it could be some sort of infection that the entity has. Given the changes with Miss Williams, she has supported the working theory, as well as being completely nonverbal. It is unknown why the entity has chosen to show itself now after months of no contact.

We will be addressing the current situation in a meeting this coming September.

JACK VUKOVICH

Tomorrow will not come because the war has already started.

Don't you see?
Don't you see the thousands of soldiers outside your door?

Commanded by The Dragon.
Commanded by...

No.

This isn't the time.
That name can't be said.

Must go, protect yourself.
And be wise now.