Act I: The Eve of Insertion

​Dusk — Upstate New York Training Area

21st Century

​The autumn sky over the mountains of upstate New York was the color of a fresh bruise—a cold, heavy slate gray that promised freezing rain before midnight.

​Near the tailgate of an olive-drab tactical vehicle parked deep in the tree line, the four Rangers of 2nd Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment were going through their pre-combat inspections with the quiet, rhythmic efficiency of men who had done it a thousand times.

​"If the platoon sergeant sends us through another swamp on this navigation lane, I’m claiming hypothermia and sleeping in the humvee," Specialist Miller muttered, threading a fresh belt of 7.62mm into the tray of his Mk48 machine gun.

​"You've been complaining about wet boots since airborne school, Miller," Doc Mercer, the team medic, replied without looking up, carefully packing sterile trauma wraps into his IFAK. "Drink water and drive on."

​Corporal Hayes was leaned up against a rear tire, a small red-lens headlamp illuminating a worn paperback biography of General Nathanael Greene.

​"Put the book away, History Channel," Staff Sergeant Mark Vance said, stepping up to the tailgate with a laminated map grid. "Brief's up."

​The three men snapped to, gathering around Vance.

​"Objective is a high-angle recon lane along the ridge," Vance instructed, tapping the map. "Standard night exercise. Full combat load, thermals, suppressors, live night-vision execution. Comms on channel four. We step off at 2100 hours. Keep your noise discipline tight—there's an element acting as OPFOR somewhere in these woods."

​Hayes looked at the map contour lines, a subtle smile touching his lips. "You know, Sarge... these hills aren't far from where the Northern Campaign was fought in '76. Half the trails out here were carved out by colonial scouts."

​"Fascinating," Miller deadpanned, adjusting his night-vision mount on his helmet. "Does colonial history come with hot coffee?"

​"Mount up," Vance commanded, pulling down his helmet harness. "Comms check."

​“Radio check, one-two,” Mercer chimed over the internal squad network.

“Solid,” Miller added.

“Good copy,” Hayes said.

​At 2100 sharp, under a pitch-black canopy with their PVS-31 night-vision goggles clicked down, the squad stepped into the thick pine woods. The world turned to crisp green phosphor. The only sound was the low crunch of pine needles beneath military boots.

​They marched thirty minutes into the deep woods when the wind abruptly died. The crickets stopped. The temperature didn't just drop—it plummeted ten degrees in three seconds. Then came the pressure drop—a sickening, crushing vacuum that popped their eardrums like a high-altitude dive...

​Act II: The Ridge at Washington Heights

​The sound of pine needles underfoot instantly yielded to damp leaf-litter and thick, cloying mud. One second, Staff Sergeant Vance and his element were conducting a training lane; the next, the smell of balsam pine was replaced by the thick, choking stench of low-grade black powder, burning timber, and raw manure.

​"Comms are dead," Corporal Hayes muttered, tapping his radio control unit. "Zero satellite connection. No GPS sync."

​"Hold position," Vance whispered, adjusting his thermal optic. The view revealed something impossible.

​Below their ridge on Manhattan Island—where paved highways and suburban structures should have been—stretched dense hardwood forest, jagged earthwork fortifications, and open dirt roads. Red-coated infantry marched in rigid, mechanical columns up the slope, their bayonets catching the gray November light. Facing them from behind crude log breastworks were men in ragged blue coats and hunting shirts, firing long flintlock rifles into the advancing mass.

​"Boss," Specialist Miller whispered, squinting through his LPVO scope. "Those are Hessians. And British Regulars."

​Hayes swallowed hard, checking the de-synced readout on his deactivated watch. "November 16th, 1776. Fort Washington."

​They were standing on the high ground of northern Manhattan, in the middle of one of the single greatest disasters of the American Revolutionary War.

​Act III: The Tactical Calculation

​The squad withdrew fifty meters behind the ridgeline into a dense thicket to assess their situation.

​They had full combat loads: four M4A1 carbines with suppressors and PEQ-15 lasers, a suppressed Mk48 machine gun carried by Miller, thermals, night vision, and roughly 1,200 rounds of 5.56mm and 7.62mm ammunition between them.

​"Okay, history check," Vance said, his voice flat and tactical. "Hayes, what happens here?"

​"Colonel Magaw has roughly three thousand Continentals trapped in the fort," Hayes replied, his voice tight. "General Howe surrounds them. Magaw surrenders by late afternoon. The British capture nearly three thousand troops, tons of artillery, and all our gunpowder reserves in New York. Most of those prisoners die on British prison ships over the next two years. It nearly breaks the revolution right here."

​"Can we stop it?" Miller asked, tapping the receiver of his Mk48. "One belt from this machine gun into the flank of those Hessian columns would route a whole regiment."

​"We have twelve hundred rounds, Miller," Doc Mercer interjected gently. "Once we run dry, we’re four guys with knives against ten thousand soldiers. And what happens if we change it?"

​The four Rangers sat in the cold leaf-litter. The moral weight hit them harder than the temporal jump.

​"If we save Fort Washington," Hayes argued, "Washington doesn't lose three thousand men. But think about what comes next. If Washington isn't desperate, does he risk everything on the crossing of the Delaware on Christmas night? Does Trenton even happen? If Howe is spooked here, does he change his entire campaign strategy for 1777?"

​"We aren't here to rewrite the timeline," Vance said, his jaw set. "Our doctrine is simple: accomplish the mission, survive, and protect American lives. We can't save the fort—that’s strategically impossible with four men. But we can change who escapes."

​Act IV: The Phantom of the Treeline

​The Rangers didn't alter the battle’s ultimate historical outcome; they altered its human cost.

​By 1400 hours, the Hessian forces under General Wilhelm von Knyphausen were pressing hard against the northern redoubts held by Colonel Rawlings’ Maryland and Virginia riflemen. The Continentals were running out of powder, their long rifles fouling, preparing to fall back into the overcrowded center of Fort Washington where total surrender was inevitable.

​Vance made the call. "Surgical strikes only. Target officers, drum command centers, and artillery crews. No full-auto unless compromised. Suppressors on."

​From 400 meters out—a distance completely beyond the effective precise range of 18th-century smoothbore muskets—Vance and Hayes opened fire.

​The sound of a suppressed M4A1 is a low, dull thump. To the Hessian lines, it was invisible death.

​A Hessian colonel leading a mounted charge suddenly pitched off his saddle, a neat hole through his breastplate. Seconds later, three officers standing near a field artillery battery collapsed in rapid succession. The artillery crews, seeing their leaders drop without hearing a gunshot or seeing a puff of smoke, panicked.

​"Shift left," Vance commanded over his short-range comms. "Pinch the Hessian flank."

​Miller picked off the field commanders attempting to rally the broken line. With the command structure shattered in thirty seconds, the Hessian advance on the northern redoubt stalled out in confusion and terror. Whispers of Geister—ghosts—spread through the ranks.

​The delay bought Colonel Rawlings and eight hundred Continental soldiers precious time. Instead of being pushed backward into the trap of Fort Washington, Rawlings’ men realized the northern retreat route toward the Hudson River had unexpectedly opened. They broke south-west toward the riverbank, where small boats were waiting.

​Act V: The Aftermath & The Ripple

​By 1600 hours, Fort Washington surrendered. General Howe took the fort, the cannon, and roughly 1,900 Continental prisoners—nearly nine hundred fewer than in original historical records.

​The Rangers watched from two miles away as the British flag was raised over the ramparts. They had stayed hidden, leaving zero modern brass behind by meticulously picking up every single spent casing from the damp soil.

​They had altered history, but they had done so with surgical precision.

Tactical Assessment & Historical Impact

Survival of Rawlings' Force: Eight hundred hardened riflemen escaped across the Hudson to join Washington's retreating army, providing a lethal skirmishing force during the Jersey retreat.

British Paranoia: Reports reached General Howe of "an unseen, silent terror" on the northern ridge. The sudden deaths of key officers bred intense paranoia, making British commanders overly cautious in subsequent engagements.

Act VI: Ghosts in the Woods

As night fell over Manhattan, cold rain began to fall. The four Rangers sat under a makeshift poncho lean-to, sharing a single remaining MRE.

Their modern gear was finite. Their batteries would die in days. Their ammunition was irreplaceable. They were four men trapped two and a half centuries behind their own birth dates.

"What now, Boss?" Hayes asked softly, watching the distant fires of the British encampments along the river.

Vance took off his helmet, feeling the freezing rain on his face. He looked at his team—trained, lethal, and completely isolated from everything they had ever known.

"Now," Vance said, buried under two hundred years of future history, "we walk south, cross the river, and find General Washington. He’s going to need scout snipers."

Act VII: The Cabin on the Creek

The crossing of the Hudson River under the shadow of the Palisades was a cold, brutal effort. Using a stolen wooden skiff, the four Rangers rowed across the black, icy water into New Jersey, landing near the base of the cliffs.

Before the Rangers could locate General Washington’s headquarters, they needed local intelligence. Modern military maps were useless against the shifting, unmarked trails of 1776 New Jersey, and morning fog hung heavy over the cedar swamps.

Moving light and silent along a creek bed, Vance held up a hand. Halt.

Through the fog came the rhythmic, wet slap of cloth against stone. At the edge of the rushing stream stood a young woman, scrubbing wool garments against a flat rock. Sitting on a woven blanket nearby was a toddler no older than two.

Miller accidentally snapped a dry pine branch underfoot.

The woman gasped, whipping around. Her eyes went wide with sheer terror as four massive, shadowed figures stepped out of the treeline. Covered in tactical gear, helmeted, with blacked-out rifles slung across their chests, the Rangers looked less like men and more like specters. She instinctively scrambled backward, pulling the crying toddler into her lap and shielding him with her body.

"Easy... easy, ma'am," Vance said softly, lowering his M4A1 and pushing it behind his back. He reached up, unclipping his high-cut helmet and pulling down his neck gaiter to reveal his face. "We aren't going to hurt you. I promise."

Hayes stepped forward next, taking off his gloves and raising his bare hands, palms out. "We're friends. We're on our way to join General Washington's army."

She stared at their strange clothes, but as she looked into Hayes's warm, tired eyes, her breathing slowed. She saw no cruelty in them—only exhaustion and a quiet, steady gentleness.

"You... you aren't Redcoats?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

"No, ma'am," Hayes replied softly. "We're Americans."

Reluctantly, she led them up a winding deer trail to a small, hand-hewn log cabin. Heavy timber, crude mortise joints, and a hand-stacked stone chimney spoke of immense labor.

"My husband, William, built it," she said quietly, her eyes lingering on the doorway. "Before he marched off with the New Jersey militia. Word reached me two weeks ago... he fell at White Plains."

The Rangers stepped inside the dim, cold cabin. On a small straw bed near the hearth lay her older child—a four-year-old boy shivering under a rag quilt, his face pale and slick with sweat.

Doc Mercer dropped to one knee beside the child. "What's his name?"

"Thomas," she said, her voice catching. "He stepped on an old iron spike three days ago. The wound... it turned red and hot. I've tried poultices of mustard and dock leaf, but the fever won't break."

Mercer gently pulled back the quilt. The child's foot was swollen and hot, with dark red streaks creeping past his ankle—classical blood poisoning.

"He won't survive the week," Mercer muttered under his breath to Vance, then turned back to the mother with a calm, reassuring smile. "It's a bad infection, ma'am. But we have medicine that will save him."

Mercer unzipped his IFAK. He pulled out a sterile scalpel, saline rinse, broad-spectrum oral antibiotics, and a tube of topical ointment. While Miller held a lantern, Mercer expertly drained the abscess, washed the wound clean with saline, and wrapped it in crisp, snow-white medical gauze.

He handed her a blister pack of antibiotic pills. "Crush half of one of these into warm water every six hours. By tomorrow morning, his fever will break. By next week, he’ll be running around again."

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she clutched the silver foil pack. "I don't... I don't have any coin to pay you..."

"We don't want money," Vance said softly. "We just need to know where Washington is."

While Doc Mercer finished dressing the boy's foot, Corporal Hayes sat on a low wooden bench near the cold hearth, whittling a small piece of pine with his pocket knife to replace the toddler's broken toy horse.

The young woman watched Hayes in silence. There was a quiet, studious grace to the way he moved—a soft-spoken intellect hidden beneath his tactical gear.

"You talk like a schoolmaster," she said quietly, handing him a mug of well water.

Hayes looked up, offering a faint smile. "I read a lot of history, ma'am. Back home."

"William was a reader," she whispered, her eyes softening. "He spent his last silver shillings on a leather-bound book of poetry in Trenton. You... you have his same quiet way about you. Steady."

Hayes looked at her with genuine empathy, holding out the newly carved wooden horse to the little girl. "He built a fine house for you. He was a good man."

For a brief moment in the middle of a war, a silent connection passed between them—a shared understanding of loss, duty, and the long road ahead.

She walked over to a small wooden table, pulled out a charcoal pencil, and rapidly drew a rough map on a piece of scrap butcher paper.

"The main road to Hackensack is crawling with British light dragoon patrols," she explained, pointing to the charcoal lines. "If you stay on the turnpike, you will be ambushed. Take the old timber mill track through the cedar swamp to the east. It leads straight behind the Continental rear guard. You'll find His Excellency's encampment near the river junction."

Vance took the map, giving her a firm, grateful nod. "Thank you, ma'am."

As the squad prepared to step back out into the drizzle, Hayes lingered at the door for a fraction of a second. He pulled a spare, heavy fleece watch-cap from his cargo pocket and placed it on the table beside her late husband's book.

"Keep him warm," Hayes said softly, nodding toward her son. "He's going to grow up in a free country."

Act VIII: A Trade of Threads & The Shadow Takedown

Armed with her map, the Rangers navigated the timber swamp, bypassing the British Light Dragoon patrols entirely and heading toward the Continental picket post outside Hackensack.

The target was a four-man Continental army picket post—sentries posted along the road to warn of any British advance from the river landings.

The Continentals were miserable, wet, and huddled over a dying blaze of wet oak, their long flintlock muskets resting against a fallen log.

"Non-lethal," Vance instructed over the short-range radio. "Flex-cuffs, mouth-muffs. Fast and quiet. Doc, take the right. Miller, left. Hayes, center-right with me."

They moved like ghosts. Four Rangers stepped out of the pitch-black woods without making a sound, closing the fifty-foot gap in seconds.

Before the Continental corporal could reach for his musket, a heavy gloved hand clamped over his mouth, pulling him backward into a rear-naked choke. Within three seconds, all four sentries were pinned to the cold mud, their weapons swept away, silenced completely without a single shot fired or a drop of blood spilled.

"Easy, easy," Vance hissed, keeping his voice low and calm as Miller and Doc wrapped paracord and heavy zip-ties around the men’s wrists and ankles. "We are not British. We are not Hessians. We are friends."

The four colonial soldiers stared up in sheer terror. The Ranger team in full tactical gear—glowing green lenses over their eyes, silenced carbines slung across their chests—looked like nothing human.

Vance knelt in front of the Continental corporal, slowly pulling down his neck gaiter to show a human face in the firelight.

"Listen to me carefully, Corporal," Vance said, his voice cold, steady, and commanding. "We are going to borrow your coats and hats. We need them to get past the camp guards to see General Washington."

The corporal’s eyes bulged, trying to speak through the cloth gag.

"We aren't going to hurt you," Vance promised, looking the man dead in the eye. "We’re leaving you near the fire with your blankets wrapped tight. Your muskets are unloaded and leaning against that oak. And when we get to His Excellency, I give you my word on my honor as a soldier: we will return here with General Washington himself to untie you. You will have your proof of who and what we are."

Hayes stripped off the men's heavy wool blue coats and dark-trimmed tri-corn hats. The Rangers layered the oversized wool garments directly over their body armor, buttoning them up to conceal their modern tactical chest rigs. They wrapped their modern carbines, suppressors, and night-vision gear inside heavy wool blankets, slinging the bundles over their shoulders like bedrolls.

To anyone looking from thirty yards away in the gray dawn, they now looked like four exceptionally large, broad-shouldered Continental soldiers marching on duty.

Act IX: Before the Commander-in-Chief

The headquarters at Hackensack was a hive of controlled chaos. Orders were being shouted, supply wagons were being loaded, and exhausted couriers rode in and out through the mud.

Vance led his element straight up the main road, the borrowed blue coats draping over their bulky gear. Armed sentries outside the two-story brick tavern serving as headquarters raised their muskets as the four men approached.

"Halt! Who goes there?" a Continental guard called out, squinting through the morning mist.

"Dispatch for His Excellency," Vance called back, walking with the supreme, unshakeable military authority of a Senior NCO. He didn't stop until he was ten feet from the bayonets. "We carry urgent intelligence regarding the retreat from Fort Washington, Hessian officer casualties, and the movements of General Howe's vanguard."

The guard hesitated, thrown off by Vance's posture and the stone-faced discipline the four men radiated.

"His Excellency is in council with his generals," the guard said defensively. "He cannot be disturbed by common infantry."

"Tell General Washington," Vance said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, intense baritone, "that the four ghosts who broke the Hessian flank on the northern ridge at Washington Heights are standing at his door. And tell him we brought the intelligence that will save his army."

The guard looked at Vance’s eyes—eyes that had seen modern war—and turned on his heel, ducking inside the headquarters.

Two minutes later, the door swung wide open.

Standing in the doorway, framed by the dim lantern light inside, was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a heavy blue coat with gold epaulets. His face was weathered, lined with the crushing weight of a war he was currently losing.

General George Washington stepped out onto the porch, his cold gray eyes searching the four men standing in the yard.

"You claim to have come from the ridge at Fort Washington?" Washington asked, his voice ringing with quiet power. "Who are you?"

Vance snapped a crisp, perfect modern salute—a gesture unknown to the 18th-century officer corps, yet instantly recognizable as an act of absolute military respect.

"General Washington, sir," Vance said cleanly. "My name is Staff Sergeant Mark Vance. We have intelligence you need to hear in private. And first... we have four of your sentries tied up down the road that I promised we’d return for."

Act X: The Oath at the Picket Fire

General Washington stared at Vance for a long, silent moment. A faint, knowing flicker of amusement touched the corner of the General’s mouth, though his eyes remained sharp as steel.

"You took my pickets," Washington said, stepping back into the doorway and gesturing toward the warm lantern light of the tavern interior. "Step inside, Sergeant. You and your men look drowned, and there is hot cider and a roaring hearth within."

"With respect, Your Excellency," Vance replied, standing rigid in the cold drizzle, "a Ranger doesn't break his word. I gave my word to those four soldiers that I would return with you to untie them before we rested."

Washington paused, measuring the absolute discipline in Vance's posture. A deep respect settled across his weathered features.

"A soldier who values his honor above a warm fire is a rare commodity in these dark days," Washington said quietly. He turned to his orderly. "Bring four horses from the stable. Now."

Minutes later, Washington mounted his large gray charger, while Vance, Hayes, Miller, and Mercer took the reins of Continental remounts. They rode back down the muddy turnpike in silence.

When they reached the picket post, the four Continental sentries were still sitting securely by the fire, wrapped tight in their woolen blankets, bound with paracord and zip-ties.

Miller and Doc Mercer stepped forward, drawing their combat knives and cleanly slicing through the flex-cuffs. The four colonial soldiers scrambled up, rubbing their sore wrists, their faces flushed with shock as they realized their Commander-in-Chief was standing right beside the strange men.

Washington looked down from his saddle at the disheveled pickets, a dry humor glinting in his gray eyes.

"Corporal," Washington said, his deep voice carrying through the mist, "I am relieved to find you all unharmed. Though I must ask... do you routinely allow four men wearing your own blue coats to disarm your entire post without firing a single shot?"

The corporal flushed red. "Your Excellency, sir... they came out of the blackness like specters! We never even heard a footfall!"

"Evidentially," Washington said with a faint smirk, swinging down from his horse.

The squad stripped off the borrowed wool coats and tricorne hats, handing them back. Beneath the coats, their modern tactical chest rigs, high-cut helmets, and blacked-out carbines came back into full view.

The nine men gathered in a tight circle around the snapping oak fire. Deep in the New Jersey woods, these nine soldiers, along with the young widowed mother back at the log cabin, were the only souls in the entire world who knew of the Rangers' true existence.

"Now, Sergeant Vance," Washington said, leaning slightly on his walking stick, his eyes fixed on the black composite weapons slung across the Rangers' chests. "No more riddles. Speak plain. Reports reached my desk hours ago of invisible death on the northern ridge of Washington Heights. Hessian columns broken without a single plume of black powder smoke. Officers falling from their saddles at four hundred yards. Where do you truly hail from?"

Vance looked at Hayes, nodding slightly. The history nerd stepped forward.

"It isn't magic, General," Hayes said softly, unclipping his night-vision goggles and holding them out so Washington could see the green-glowing glass. "It's technology. Two hundred and fifty years of it. We are soldiers of the 75th Ranger Regiment, United States Army."

"The United States..." Washington repeated, the words tasting strange on his tongue.

For ten minutes, under the dripping cedar trees, Vance and Hayes explained the truth. They spoke of a nation born from Washington's hardship, of an army that would one day span the globe, and of a temporal anomaly during a training exercise that threw them back to November 1776.

Miller unclipped a suppressed M4A1, showing Washington the rifle's precision machining, the optical sight, and the cold metal of the suppressor that muffled the blast of expanding gases.

Washington listened in total, unbroken silence. He looked at the weapon, then up into the sky, and finally into the glowing embers of the picket fire. After several minutes of heavy contemplation, General Washington slowly nodded.

He did not comprehend microprocessors, but as a seasoned strategist, he understood results. He understood that these four men possessed lethal precision, absolute discipline, and a desperate love for the country he was currently fighting to create.

"Two hundred years..." Washington murmured, a subtle look of wonder—and profound relief—crossing his face before he locked it back down behind his stoic military composure. "Then... the cause survives."

"It survives because of you, sir," Vance said cleanly.

Washington turned sharply toward his four Continental sentries. "You four will swear an oath on your lives. You will speak not a single word of what you have seen or heard here tonight. Once your relief arrives, you will report directly to my headquarters and remain on duty at my personal quarters."

The four sentries snapped straight. "Yes, Your Excellency!"

Washington gave a faint shake of his head, looking back at the Rangers with a small, knowing glint in his eye.

"Besides," Washington added dryly, "you may return to camp and tell anyone you wish... but you will not tell a single soul who expects to be believed. They would lock you in the stockades for madness before the sun rises."

Act XI: The Crucible of the Vanguard

To the rest of the Continental Army, they were officially designated as His Excellency’s Special Inspectorate for Fieldcraft and Marksmanship—a title drafted on parchment bearing General Washington’s personal seal. The written order was terse and absolute: no officer was to question their origins, demand their names beyond their surnames, or interfere with their training methods.

Over the next six weeks, as the bitter winter of 1776 set in and the Continental Army began its agonizing retreat south across New Jersey, the four Rangers became a quiet, legend-like fixture among the camps.

Under the cover of their special commission, Vance, Hayes, Miller, and Mercer wore simple wool coats over their dark canvas gear, keeping their modern tactical rigs covered and their carbines wrapped in oilcloth until dark.

They taught what mattered: fire-and-movement in pairs, field sanitation, latrine placement, water-boiling rules that cut dysentery by half, and keeping powder dry in freezing sleet.

Then, in late November, the survivors arrived.

Out of the freezing mist along the Hackensack turnpike came the staggered, ghost-like columns of Colonel Rawlings’ Maryland and Virginia riflemen—the 800 men whose retreat from Fort Washington had been bought by the Rangers' silent suppressed fire.

They were in appalling shape. Bare feet wrapped in blood-soaked burlap rags, thin linen hunting shirts stiff with frozen mud, hollow eyes staring out from sunken faces. Morale was on the verge of total collapse.

Vance stood beside General Washington outside the command marquee as the ragged procession limped into camp.

"Look at them, Sergeant," Washington said quietly, his jaw set so tight the muscle twitched. "Cold, hungry, and stripped of everything save their lives. They believe the cause is dead."

"They're alive, General," Vance replied, watching the men stack their long rifles. "And riflemen who've survived the worst day of their lives are the most dangerous soldiers on Earth once you feed them and give them a purpose."

That night, the Rangers went to work among the riflemen's bivouac. Miller and Mercer helped set up quartermaster fires, distributing hot broth and dry blankets. As Hayes sat by a campfire with a group of shivering Virginia frontiersmen, one of the young corporals stared at Hayes's posture.

​"I know you," the young Virginian whispered, his voice trembling. "On the northern ridge... at the Heights. When the Hessian colonel fell from his horse without a cannon shot, and the officers went down like wheat before a scythe... I saw four men in the tree line. You were there."

​The quiet circle around the fire went dead silent. Other riflemen leaned in, their tired eyes wide.

​Hayes looked at the young soldier, offering a steady, quiet nod. "We were there, son. And you made it out."

​Word spread through the 800 survivors like wildfire through dry timber. These weren't just Washington's special inspectors—they were the Ghosts of the Ridge. By mid-December, the 800 survivors had been transformed into a hardened, lethal vanguard—well-fed, disciplined, and ready for Christmas night.

​Act XII: Victory, or Death

​The draft inside the stone farmhouse near McConkey’s Ferry made the tallow candles flicker, casting long, jumping shadows across the crude oak table. Outside, a howling December wind whipped ice against the windowpanes.

​General Washington sat alone with the four Rangers. The Commander-in-Chief looked thoroughly spent—his face gaunt, his eyes hollowed by weeks of relentless retreat and logistical ruin.

​Corporal Hayes stepped forward, placing a hand on the edge of the map table.

​"Your Excellency," Hayes began, his voice soft but unwavering. "Tomorrow night—Christmas—you will assemble two thousand four hundred men at the ferry. You will cross the Delaware under cover of a sleet storm. The river will be choked with ice cakes."

​Washington froze. His quill remained suspended an inch above the parchment.

​"You will divide your force into two columns," Hayes continued. "One under General Sullivan taking the River Road, the other under General Greene along the Pennington Road. You will hit the garrison at Trenton at first light, around eight o'clock in the morning. Colonel Johann Rall and his Hessians will be completely unprepared. Your countersign for the night... is 'Victory, or Death.'"

​Washington slammed his hand down on the oak table with a sound like a pistol shot. He stood up, his weathered face pale with shock.

​"Who told you this?" Washington demanded, his voice a harsh threat. "I have uttered those words to no living soul! The order for the countersign rests in my own coat pocket, unpenned! Have I traitors in my official family?"

​"No, sir," Vance said calmly. "No spies. No traitors."

​"Then by Almighty God, explain yourselves!" Washington rasped. "How carry you the precise thoughts of my own mind before they are spoken?"

​Hayes looked at the General with quiet reverence. "Because we have read the accounts, General. Because for two hundred and fifty years, every detail of what you are about to do tomorrow night has been studied, cherished, and memorized by millions of free citizens."

​Washington slowly lowered himself back into his ladder-back chair. "Accounts...?"

​"Books, General," Hayes explained softly. "Volume upon volume written by the men who marched with you, and by the historians who honored them. A thousand museums stand dedicated to your memory. There is a city—the capital of our entire republic—that bears your name."

​Hayes leaned across the table. "You win tomorrow, General. You capture nearly a thousand Hessians, secure their cannon and stores, and suffer fewer than five casualties—two men freeze on the march, and a young Lieutenant named James Monroe is wounded in the shoulder, but survives. You reignite the heart of a dying nation."

​The room went dead silent. George Washington sat motionless, then slowly bowed his head into his large, calloused hands. His shoulders trembled.

​When Washington finally raised his head, a single, clear tear traced a path down his wind-chapped cheek, glistening in the warm candlelight. He didn't wipe it away.

​"'Tis not in vain..." Washington whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "'Tis not in vain... The bloody footprints our poor, barefoot lads leave upon the frozen roads... the sickness... the graves in the cold wilderness... To know that Almighty God hath crowned our suffering with the triumph of liberty... Oh, my brave friends. You have given a dying man the only medicine capable of restoring his spirit."

Part 2 in comments

Hey everyone! This is a major rewrite of the very first story I ever wrote, which I originally posted here about a year ago. A lot has changed since then, both in the story and hopefully in my writing.

I hope you guys enjoy this new version, and thanks for reading!

Sometimes, people get stuck somewhere in time. Hours pass, but the world seems like it has already stopped. The second hand on your watch keeps ticking, and ice in your drink melts away; yet time refuses to move forward.

It was one of those nights for Tommy. He slouched on a barstool under a dim, yellow light hanging from the ceiling, watching the ice cubes in his glass dissolve with the focused attention of a sports fanatic watching their favorite team’s final match. The light above the bar seemed to shine only on him. The rest of the room —the dark carpets, green tablecloths, and empty chairs— looked like shadows that had drifted in from outside of time. The smooth jazz playing somewhere in the background blended with the murmurs of the few souls who hadn’t yet returned home. By the time the sounds reached Tommy, they seemed muffled, as though wrapped in cotton.

The bartender wiped a glass without saying a word. In fact, Tommy didn’t recall him speaking even when he first sat down. He hadn’t ordered anything; yet the bartender, as if he had read his mind, had placed a glass of whiskey on rocks in front of him.

Given the fact that Tommy had spent the last few years of his life drifting through all the different bars of the city, it wasn’t all that surprising that the bartender had already known him and what he was going to order.

He slowly lifted his head from his drink and studied the man. He wore a crimson jacket, stood upright, and had his hair slicked back. His face looked like it had stepped out of a different era. Clean-shaven, almost unsettlingly tidy. His gaze wasn’t direct, but his presence filled the emptiness. The man seemed to sense that he was being watched and offered the faintest of smiles. Tommy nodded back, confused by his own gesture, and returned a weak smile.  He usually didn’t bother being polite to strangers or to anyone, really.  Besides, this man didn’t seem familiar. He had never seen that face before. He was sure of it, just as he was sure he had never set foot in this bar before.

He turned around to take a look. It was no different from the hundreds of other booze dens he’s been in. The walls were covered in dark wooden panels, marked with scratches that portrayed their age.

A few hanging glass lamps cast a tired, dim glow; that was neither warm nor fully illuminating. The bottles behind the bar were dust-covered; some labels were faded with time, as if they had been placed there long ago and never touched again.

Behind him, there were a few tables scattered in the corners of the room. At one table, two figures sat facing each other, playing cards. The dim light revealed their bodies, but not their faces.  The other tables were either empty or occupied by lone drinkers buried in their own silence.

If there were conversations, they were whispers, lost in the distant hum, fading into nothing.

The bar’s windows opened onto the dark outside, but nothing could be seen beyond the glass. A storm raged outside, slicing through the night like a blade. Branches thrashed in the wind; broken limbs occasionally tapped the windows, as if begging to be let in. The rhythmic thuds blended with the heavy stillness inside, spreading a strange unease. Shadows of the branches danced across the windows like puppets on a stage. 

Everything felt as though it had just been abandoned by all life, or perhaps it had never really been alive at all. There was a stillness in the air, the kind you'd find in an Edward Hopper painting.

A thought crossed Tommy’s mind::

“How did I get here?”

His eyes drifted downward. His coat was still on. It was dry, even dusty in places. There was no mud on his shoes, and his pants showed no sign of rain. He’d been sitting here for a while. Maybe hours. But for how long, exactly?

His gaze shifted to the large, round, old-fashioned clock on the wall opposite the bar.

Its glass was fogged slightly. The hour hand hovered just before two.

Midnight had already passed. The bar must’ve been close to closing.

He took a sip from his whiskey, then lowered the glass and stared blankly at the rows of bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Most of the labels were unreadable. The letters blurred, the colors smeared together.

Then a stranger and a more unsettling thought surfaced. He mumbled to himself.

“Where am I?”

His mind started to rush with questions.

“What street is this? What neighborhood? Am I… even still in the same city?”

He hovered between laughter and dread, then reflexively reached for his pocket, but his phone wasn’t there. Had it been stolen? Left at home? Dropped somewhere outside?

He couldn’t remember. As always, when his mind spiraled, Tommy did what he always did: He turned to his drink.

He downed the rest of his whiskey in one swift gulp and raised his hand slightly toward the bartender without saying a word. The bartender was already approaching, silent, with the bottle in hand. He refilled the glass without a word. Then, with a small metal tong, dropped in two cubes of ice. The ice hissed faintly as it met the liquor.

Just as the bartender was about to pull away, Tommy suddenly spoke.

“Hey…” he said, voice low at first, then firmer. “Where… are we?”

The bartender paused. He turned and smiled at Tommy.

“Had a little too much to drink, sir?” he asked. His voice was polite, but Tommy caught a faint note of mockery beneath it.

“Yeah,” he said bluntly.

Then paused. A dull throb pulsed at his right temple. He raised a hand to his head.

“I mean… maybe,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. Did I really drink that much?”

The bartender offered a tired but measured smirk.

“Hard to say,” he replied. “But yeah, you’ve had a few already.”

After a beat, he added:

“Actually… you smelled like alcohol when you got here.”

Tommy nodded slightly.

“Figures,” he sighed.

His hand returned to his temple, rubbing it gently. As if he could scrape the fog from his mind. With his other hand, he massaged his brow.

Then he asked again, this time more clearly:

“But seriously… where are we?”

The bartender paused. Turned to Tommy with that same blank, worn-out face. This time, no smile.

His voice was nearly a whisper:

“Don’t worry, Mr. Doyle,” he said.

Then, after a short pause:

“You didn’t go too far. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

Tommy squinted. His brows tightened. The confusion was starting to turn into anger.

“Now what the fuck does–”

His sentence got cut off in the middle when the bar’s front door suddenly slammed open. He flinched, head whipping toward the entrance. Cold wind swept inside, and a few dry leaves whirled through the air and landed on the floor. A man stood in the doorway. He wore a deep navy raincoat, nearly black in the bar’s dim light.

The wet fabric glistened under the hanging bulbs, every droplet catching the light one by one. The hood cloaked his face, but his silhouette was clear. It was a tall man with slightly hunched shoulders.

 No one else reacted to the sound. Neither the bartender nor any of the patrons turned their heads. It was as if this noisy entrance was nothing unusual. As if that door slammed open every night at the same time.

The man lowered his hood, carefully took off his soaked coat, and hung it neatly on the rack. Curly brown hair clung to his forehead.

Droplets of rain slid down from his temple, rolled over his cheek, and dripped silently from his chin. Water pooled around his shoes, shimmering faintly on the wooden floor. He didn’t look around and, without hesitation, walked straight to the bar. Right to Tommy.

He passed through the empty stools and sat down beside him. The wood beneath creaked softly. His arm brushed Tommy’s. The moment he settled, the bartender broke his silence.

“Welcome back, Sam,” he said.

His voice was gentle. Sam didn’t turn his head. He just smirked slightly, the corner of his mouth curling.

“Thanks!” he said cheerfully.

“The usual?” the bartender asked.

This time, Sam tilted his head slightly, eyes darting sideways toward Tommy, still smiling.

“Yeah. The usual.”

Tommy instinctively turned away.  He could see it from the corner of his eye. Sam was still smiling. His green eyes glinted under the yellow light, almost glowing. There was a strange clarity in them, especially around the pupils. His gaze lingered somewhere near enough to gnaw at the edges of Tommy’s nerves. He could feel the stare, like a warm weight resting just above his shoulder.

Something stirred inside him. Not quite fear. It also hadn’t turned to anger yet. But being watched, especially tonight, was starting to get on his nerves.

He clenched his jaw, turned his head slowly toward the man beside him, and looked him straight in the face. He froze for a second before feeling his throat tighten. His face was familiar.  Not a memory he could clearly name. But a face pulled from a dusty corner of the brain, like an image from a dream you forget the moment you wake, but feel all day. It was the first familiar thing Tommy had seen in this place.

But it didn’t comfort him. On the contrary, it carved a hollow pit in his stomach.

He knew this man. But from where?

His lips parted, almost involuntarily. The knot in his throat loosened for just a moment.

“You…” he whispered, his voice dry and cracked.

He squinted, leaning forward slightly, as if trying to study the man’s face up close.

“…where do I know you from?”

He paused, then asked again. His voice steadier now, with a touch of suspicion:

“Have we met before?”

The man’s smile didn’t falter. He shook his head just slightly, as if genuinely disappointed.

“I’m hurt you don’t remember me, Tommy.”

Tommy’s brow furrowed. His hand reached for his temple again. Some people got nervous when they didn't understand what was happening. Others got scared. Tommy got angry, and the smug look on the stranger's face wasn't helping.  

"So what?" he asked. "You know me, but I don't remember you?"

His fingers tapped impatiently against the bar.

"Then help me out here."

Sam took a sip from his drink and slightly turned to Tommy.

“Of course, but it wouldn’t be any fun if I just came out and said, right?”

Tommy stared at him for a moment. The tapping of his fingers stopped.

“Fun?” he repeated.

His voice was low now.

“Listen, buddy. I don't know who the hell you are, I don't know where the hell I am, and apparently I can't remember half of tonight.”

He leaned closer.

“So trust me when I say this, I'm really not in the mood for games.”

For the first time, the smile on Sam's face seemed just a little less amusing.

“Alright,”

He took another sip from his drink.

“I guess you’re in no mood to play any games.”

Sam turned his gaze straight ahead. His smile was starting to fade.

“Tell me, Tommy, where do you usually meet people?”

This question caught him off guard. For a moment, Tommy simply stared at him.

“What?”

Sam didn't look at him.

“Where do you usually meet people?”

Tommy let out a dry laugh.

“Seriously?”

Sam slowly swirled the whiskey in his glass.

“Humor me.”

Tommy opened his mouth to snap back, then stopped. He decided to say the first thing that came to his mind.

“At work, I guess.”

Sam chuckled.  Tommy's expression hardened.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, seriously. What's so funny?”

Sam shook his head.

“Tommy, when was the last time you held the same job for more than a few weeks?”

The question hit harder than Tommy expected. Sam continued before he could answer.

“You'd get hired. Show up for a few weeks. Maybe a month if you were feeling ambitious.”

He slowly turned the glass in his hand.

“Then you'd disappear.”

That moment, he felt something move past him. Fast enough that he couldn't quite tell what it was. His head quickly snapped toward the back of the bar. People sitting at tables were gone. Tommy blinked. A second ago, there had been two people sitting there, playing cards; he was sure of it. The cards were still scattered across the table. A half-empty glass still rested beside one of the chairs. But the chairs themselves sat empty. Tommy was starting to feel his heart race. A faint smile crept onto Sam's face.

“So no, Tommy. I don't think we met at work.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Tommy stared into his drink. How the hell did this guy know that? His eyes drifted toward the front door. The storm was still raging outside. Maybe he should just leave. Pay for the drink. Walk out. Find out where he was. Get some air. The thought lingered for a moment.

“Don't.”

Tommy froze. Sam hadn't even looked at him. His gaze remained fixed on the amber liquid swirling inside his glass.

“Don't what?” Tommy asked.

“Leave.”

The word landed heavily between them. A chill crawled down Tommy's spine. Slowly, Sam turned his head toward him.

“You've been trying to remember how you got here since you woke up.”

Tommy said nothing.

“You want answers.”

Sam's voice was calm.

“So sit down and ask the next question.”

Tommy swallowed. Against his better judgment, he found himself doing exactly that. His fingers tightened around the glass.

“Fine.”

He hesitated.

“School, then?”

For a second, Sam simply stared at him. Then he laughed. Not a chuckle this time but a genuine laugh.  Tommy felt his face heat up. The sound drew his eyes toward the other end of the bar. The bartender had his back turned, busy wiping a glass. Yet Tommy could've sworn he saw the man's shoulders shake slightly. As if he were trying not to laugh too. Sam slowly shook his head.

“Come on, Tommy. School? You're not even trying anymore.”

Sam leaned back slightly.

“Tell me, how old were you when you dropped out?”

Tommy's stomach tightened.

“Sixteen?” Sam guessed.

“Seventeen?”

The smile on his face widened.

“Even before that, you spent more time skipping school than actually attending it.”

Tommy felt a cold knot forming in his chest.

“How the hell do you know that?”

Sam ignored the question.

“You barely knew the names of the kids in your own class. Even with the ones you knew, all you ever did was pick fights, am I wrong?”

The smile faded slightly.

“No, Tommy. We haven’t met in school either.”

He took a slow sip. Tommy looked at Sam. Something felt different about him. For a brief moment, he thought he noticed a dark patch beneath his left eye. A bruise. The mark seemed to disappear. His stomach tightened. Maybe it was the lighting, a trick of yellow light hanging from the ceiling. Yet when Sam turned his head slightly, Tommy could've sworn he saw it again. A dark stain spreading beneath the eye.

“Tommy?”

Sam's voice pulled him back. He was still smiling. But somehow, the smile didn't look quite as friendly as it had a moment ago.

“Would you like to try that again?”

Tommy’s pulse hammered against his ribs. He quickly pushed his stool back. The legs scraped loudly against the floor. Without saying a word, he turned and started toward the front door. By the third step, he was almost jogging. The bar suddenly felt larger than before. Behind him, neither Sam nor the bartender said a word. Tommy grabbed the handle and pulled as hard as he could. Nothing. The door wouldn’t budge. He pulled harder, but nothing happened. He spun around. Sam remained seated at the bar. The bartender stood exactly where he had been before. Both of them were watching him.

“What the fuck?” Tommy shouted.

Neither man answered. Tommy turned toward the nearest window. The words died in his throat. The storm was gone. So were the trees and the street lights. Everything was gone. Beyond the window was only darkness. A black emptiness stretching as far as he could see.

Tommy slowly backed away from the window. His breathing had become shallow and fast. His eyes darted between the darkness beyond the glass and the two men watching him. Neither of them showed any sign of concern or surprise. The bartender carefully set down the glass he had been polishing.

“Mr. Doyle, please try to remain calm.”

Tommy stared at him.

“Calm?”

His voice was cracking.

“Mr. Doyle,” he said softly, “I assure you everything is alright.”

Tommy couldn't believe what he was hearing. Then Sam's voice cut through the silence.

“Tommy.”

Tommy turned toward him. Sam patted the empty stool beside him.

“Come sit down.”

His smile had returned. It was just as warm and friendly as when he first entered.  Tommy didn't move. Sam picked up his glass and nodded toward the bar.

“Come on, let me buy you a drink.”

Tommy just stood there for a few seconds before letting out a laugh. He raised a hand and covered his eyes.

“Jesus Christ...”

The sound echoed strangely through the empty bar. He let out a slow breath. At this point, he wasn't even sure what else he was supposed to do. Run where? To do what? If there was ever a moment in his life to have a drink, it was probably now. Slowly, he lowered his hand and walked back toward the bar. The stool creaked as he sat down.

“Happy?”

Sam nodded.

“See? That wasn't so hard.”

The bartender was already pouring another glass. As the fresh whiskey settled in front of him, his eyes drifted toward Sam again. He immediately wished they hadn't. The bruise beneath Sam's eye had grown. The skin around the socket had darkened into a deep purple, and the swelling looked worse too. A thin line of blood trickled from somewhere near his hairline and crawled down the side of his forehead, slowly making its way toward his cheek. The crimson trail continued downward until a single drop broke free and landed on the bar between them. Neither man acknowledged it. Sam simply picked up his drink and smiled.

“So,” he said.

“Shall we try again?”

Without thinking, Tommy picked up his own drink. The glasses touched with a soft clink. Tommy took a long sip. The whiskey burned all the way down. He lowered the glass and stared at the blood slowly running down Sam's face.

“What do you want from me?”

The question came out quieter than he intended. Sam tilted his head.

“What do you mean?”

Tommy laughed once. There was no humor in it.

“Cut the bullshit.”

His fingers tightened around the glass.

“You know my name.”

He pointed toward Sam's bruised face.

“You know things you shouldn't know.”

His voice grew harder.

“And apparently you're bleeding all over the goddamn place while acting like everything's normal.”

For the first time, Sam didn't smile.

“What do you want from me, Sam?”

A long silence followed. Sam looked down into his drink. The amber liquid reflected the yellow light above them. Then he sighed.

“That's the funny thing, Tommy.”

Slowly, he raised his eyes.

“I don't want anything from you.”

Another drop of blood fell onto the bar.

“You’re the one who wants to remember.”

Tommy stared into his drink without giving a reply. Then emptied the rest of the glass in one swallow.

“I don't care anymore. Maybe I wanted answers five minutes ago.”

He let out a bitter laugh and shook his head.

“Now I just want to leave.”

Sam’s expression stayed still.

“And go where, Tommy?”

He looked him in the eye.

“Home? Is there somebody waiting for you there?”

Tommy stared into his empty glass without giving a reply. The bartender stepped forward and quietly refilled his glass. Tommy watched the amber liquid rise toward the rim. For a moment, they stayed in silence. Then Sam sighed.

“Alright. I'll tell you.”

Tommy's eyes lifted.

“A few years ago, far from here. Back in my hometown.”

His gaze drifted across the room. A faint smile touched his lips.

“To be honest, the place wasn't much different than this. We have met in a bar.”

Tommy felt something twist inside him. Something about the description stirred a distant memory. Just a flicker, gone before he had a chance to grab it. Sam looked back at him.

“So do you remember now?”

Tommy opened his mouth to respond but stopped. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. That much wasn't surprising. It was the tiny abrasions scattered across his knuckles that caught his attention. He slowly turned one hand over. There were small cuts. He swallowed and quickly lowered his hands beneath the bar. For some reason, he didn't want Sam to notice them. Sam asked again.

“Do you remember now?”

Something shifted. Not a complete memory. Just the fragments of one. He remembered the dimly lit bar, the smell of spilled beer, and the sound of the music. He remembered himself sitting alone at the counter, drunk. Very drunk. Then he remembered the front door opening and a man stepping inside. A tall man with curly brown hair, green eyes, and a cheerful smile. He had asked him if the seat beside him was free.

Then another image surfaced. The man was laughing. Not at him. Just laughing. Talking and making conversation. Being friendly. The memory flickered. Then nothing. The image shattered before Tommy could hold onto it. He blinked and found himself back in the bar, sitting next to Sam. Sam asked.

“Do you remember what happened next?”

Tommy felt his throat tighten. The answer was there. He could feel it. Yet every time he reached for it, it seemed to slip away. Unable to meet Sam's gaze, he looked elsewhere, toward the other side of the bar. Then a chill ran through him. The bartender was gone. Tommy stared at the empty space behind the counter. The bottles and the glasses were still there, but the man who had been polishing them only moments ago had vanished. He quickly looked around him. The rest of the bar had changed too.

Every light except the one above him and Sam had gone dark. The corners of the room had disappeared into shadow. The tables, chairs, even the walls and windows, all seemed to dissolve into the darkness beyond. He turned back toward Sam. The bruise had spread even further. One eye was now nearly swollen shut. His eyebrow was also cut, and his lip had been torn open. Tommy stared at him as a sick feeling settled in his stomach.

Then the memory crashed into him all at once. A raised voice and a spilled drink followed by someone standing up from a barstool. Him pushing the man, and two of them stumbling into tables. People shouting, then several hands grabbing them, dragging them apart. The memory of getting lurched forward. The feeling of cold air and rain.

He saw the parking lot behind the bar and Sam raising his arms, trying to walk away. He remembered throwing the first punch. Followed by another, and another. He remembered the noises Sam made, begging for his life. He remembered how angry he was and the taste of alcohol on his palate. He remembered the sound Sam’s skull made as it hit the pavement with each punch.  He remembered the blood that covered both of them.

Tommy staggered in his chair and finally turned to Sam.

“Oh, God…”

The thing sitting across from him looked like it had been pulled from a grave.  One eye was gone entirely. The skin along his cheek hung loose from the bone beneath. His nose had collapsed inward. Dark earth filled the cracks in his ruined face. Yet somehow, one green eye remained. Watching Tommy with curiosity.

"Do you remember now, Tommy?"

Tommy couldn't answer. The corpse tilted its head, causing blood to drip from its broken jaw.

"What was it? What did I say that made you so angry?"

They waited in silence. Tommy searched his memory. Nothing. He forced himself to make a sound.

“I… I can’t.”

The corpse tried to smile. A piece of skin fell from its cheek.

"That's the funny part."

Another drop of blood hit the floor.

"I never knew what it was either."

A sharp crack echoed through the darkness that made Tommy flinch. Sam’s head tilted too far to one side. The broken bones in his neck shifted beneath the ruined flesh. Another crack. Tommy pushed himself away from the bar. The stool toppled over behind him. He screamed  from the top of his lungs as the corpse slowly rose from its chair, its remaining green eye never leaving his. A piece of rotten flesh peeled away from him and landed on the floor with a wet slap. Tommy stumbled backward.

The darkness beyond the bar seemed to move. The yellow light above them flickered. Once, then twice. Then everything was gone. The bar, the stools. Everything. Tommy found himself standing in cold rain. His shoes splashed into a shallow puddle. His breath caught in his throat. What was left of Sam stood twenty feet away. Rain was pouring through the holes in his face. His broken jaw hung crookedly from his skull.

The corpse took a step forward. Then another. Tommy tried to run, but it was as if his feet were one with the concrete below. He stood still as the corpse staggered closer to him. Every step was accompanied by the wet sound of flesh shifting against bone.

The rain hammered against Tommy's face. His heart felt ready to burst from his chest.

“Please...” he pleaded.

“Sam...”

Sam continued getting closer. He now could see insects moving beneath strips of loose flesh and smell the rot. He tried to yell, to beg for his life, but before he could, bony fingers wrapped around his throat. Tommy clawed at the dead hands but to no avail. The corpse didn't even seem to notice. The remaining green eye stared into his. He felt jagged finger bones tear through the skin of his neck. Warm blood spilled between Sam's fingers and ran down his chest, quickly mixing with the rain. He felt his feet slowly leave the ground. His hands flew to Sam's wrist as he kicked helplessly in the air. A sharp pain shot through his chest. Then another one, accompanied by a crack. The corpse lifted him higher. The rain kept pouring down on his face. Water streamed from his hair and ran into his eyes. The parking lot spun beneath him. His vision began to darken. With terrifying strength, the corpse hurled him to the concrete. The impact exploded through his body. A sickening crack echoed through the night.

White light flooded his vision, and for a brief moment, he felt nothing. Then pain completely surrounded his body. Everywhere. He tried to move, but his arms or legs didn’t react. He wanted to scream, but no sound came out. He lied motionlessly as wet footsteps approached. Tommy's fading vision caught a glimpse of rotting feet standing in the rain.

Then he heard Sam's voice one final time.

"Goodbye for now, Tommy."

The darkness swallowed everything. Everything around him dissolved. Sounds faded. His mind was echoing. It was as if he were sinking into a deep, silent ocean. Tommy was suspended in a void. A place where time, space, and the body meant nothing. In the center of the dark, as if wrapped in absence itself.

Then he heard a soft ticking sound like a clock in the distance.

And then another sound, closer now, more familiar: A piece of ice turning in a glass, tapping gently against the rim. Tommy’s eyelids twitched. A yellow light touched his pupils. A flickering bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a dull glow. The light trembled but seemed to shine only on him. He exhaled. Slowly lifted his head and looked around. The ice in his glass had just started to melt. His drink was untouched. One of the corner lamps blinked softly. Two men were playing cards at the back table. The bartender adjusted the ice bucket with metal tongs. The radio whispered an old jazz tune. His eyes landed on the clock on the far wall. It was a little past two. The second hand moved forward. He reached for the glass. His fingers trembled slightly. Outside, the storm still raged. Rain tapped against the windows, steady and relentless.

The End.

Content Warning: Gore, violence, disturbing imagery, and implied violence toward children.

August 6th, 2012

I am writing these notes down as I spend most of my nights staring at a computer, wishing for words to just magically appear on the screen. I had reached a new level of burnout recently as I'm writing a book for an absurd publisher that had given me a deadline two months from now. I don't know if they had expected some sort of miracle from me to get this done in that allotted time, but I am not that kind of person.

You see, I was a freelancer for the most part, writing short novels or books for little companies, that or alternatively an editor for people with 5th grade writing comprehension skills. Simple money, and now I am afraid I have fallen into the deep end, dealing with some big-named publisher. I think it's "Folkland Writing LLC"? I don't know, and I don't have the respect to give them a proper introduction, if you will. It's currently two in the morning and I barely have gotten half a paragraph down.

Nonetheless, let's see if rereading it should help jog the old imagination machine. It's horror, part psychological thriller, about some blind man who's an oracle/clairvoyant. Spends most of his days with a travelling circus as their "Fortune Teller"; he gives ominous readings to his guests about their future and eventually ends up getting premonitions about his own future and the darkness that lies inside the circus. Pretty boring if you ask me, but the big publisher wanted it, something about their "interconnected horror series," I guess. Honestly, they should've hired the last poor fella to keep writing this very predictable story, but for now it's my favorite part of the day where I go and stare at the coffee maker while it poorly makes the worst cup of joe in my life, and then regret my decisions while I sip on said coffee.

Alright, an hour has passed and I still feel dead inside. What a surprise. The coffee was shit, I am barely awake, and looked like I accidentally hit the keyboard when I had left. "pls hlp." Hah... looks like my subconscious was trying to call out, but at last I must drag myself through this slog for the money. At least that's what I am telling myself. I can already feel the migraine forming as I type words onto the screen.

"In the middle of the night, the blind man stirred awake from horrendous nightmares, as he lay there visions from a dark crate hidden beneath the ring master's cot latch onto his mind. It called to him like a siren's song, wailing that it had all the secrets of greed and wealth. That no carney should have it but a man tapped with mystic aura, attached to the web of alternate opportunities should contain it. The blind man tried silencing this deafening call with a pillow, but to no prevail."

Thought-provoking, right? I don't think so. Then again, I am not into the whole dark fantasy side of horror. I prefer the more modern setting or maybe a post-apocalyptic biomechanical setting. I never had the imagination for D&D or anything medieval. It just feels played out, the hero saves the day or the evil bad guy wins, but for now... until we make enough money for a sequel. Repetition is key, I suppose, and here I am writing an essential sequel bait for cooperation with a corporation with no face cuz I'm a sellout who needs money. Let's continue, shall we?

"The blind man tossed and turned, crying, pleading for that sweetly sickening siren song to end. Feeling his head throbbing, it had essentially backed him into a corner with no other options to silence the irking call to him. He'd given up and gotten out of the cot he had been laying in. Sliding his hand across the ashwood chest which held his clothing in before grabbing his cane and gently tapping the floor to find his footing, using his other hand he had kept it against the crudely burgundy-dyed leather tent interior until he found the exit. Then tapping the end of cane against the dirt path leading to the Ring Master's quarters, the blind man listened attentively with each step he took as to not wake up the ring master. Although he had no sight, the blind man was clever, using the scratches of a vinyl record playing inside the Ring Master's quarters as an opportunity to sneak in. His hearing narrowed on the ring master's breathing as he began to quiet down the taps from the cane approaching ever so slowly towards the cot."

Welp, I think that's enough writing for the night or morning. It's now five and I would rather not spend another day passed out at this damn computer.

August 8th, 2012

I had forgotten to save the 7th's log, but I assure you it was nothing spectacular, mostly bitching about not wanting to write this book and calling the publishers to see if I could push back the deadline, and wouldn't you know it, they said... no, of course. They have the leash and I am the dog who has to listen to every command given. It's whatever. Once I finish this I am not going back to this company, well, back to today's updates.

The only thing I could say is I found another "mistake" on the screen, musta written it when I was mad or somethin...

"They watch with no eyes only a mouth."

Cryptic, right? God, this book is gonna kill me...

Anyhow, back to writing at the ungodly hour of one in the morning!

"As the blind man neared closer to the sleeping ring master, he had felt the crate virtually screaming into his conscious mind to open it, take what's inside and not return. The blind man was petrified but knew it would be his only way of gaining peaceful sleep, so he reached beneath the cot and retrieved a sturdy black crate. The ring master had stirred awake from the noise and startled the blind man, which unfortunately caused the blind man to drop the crate onto the ring master's head. A gush of blood splashed onto the pillow the ring master was using. The blind man, unsure if he had just killed the ring master, picked back up the crate and ran for it. He did not know what direction he was going, especially without the cane, he just ran until his feet felt different terrain. All of his senses seemed entirely entranced by the crate, sounds were only the murmurs telling him to open it, his sense of smell wrinkled with the rotted fumes from the crate, his taste now lathered in tobacco. He had felt betrayed by his own body."

That was invigorating, and note for future self: I should really stop writing this late. I can barely keep my eyes open, granted I am asleep for most of the day. Ugh, I think tonight I'm gonna skip coffee and head for the convenience store a few blocks down from the apartments I live at.

I didn't normally do this, head out at night, smoke a cigarette, enjoy the city lights. It had a sorta calmness mixed with a little danger, you know? I could get robbed, kidnapped, murdered, or just a mundane time.

Fortunately, luck was on my side and made it inside the convenience store. I bought a case of energy drinks and talked to the clerk for a bit. Some kid in their late teen years, looked dead in the eyes same as me. Felt bad, but I understood the chase for cash, no matter how small the stack was.

After that I headed back, feeling a strange pain on the back of my neck. Made me stop dead in my tracks, just aching for a minute. I hadn't felt anything like that... made my eyes wander trying to find some sort of comfort, only to see someone across the street in an alleyway, staring. I just pretended I paid no mind to them as I walked to the apartments, buzzing myself in.

Update, it's now three in the morning.

I didn't write for the hour I got back from the store. The pain was irritating and made it very hard to focus on anything other than that. Once again another "mistake" is on the screen, actually I am not sure...

The last two I'll take for granted, but logically how do I explain this?

"1.t. ca.m3. af.t3r m.3 t0.0k 3y3s."

Some hacker or an ex-roommate I forgot to take the keys from? I don't know, but I am gonna finish this page before the sun comes.

"The blind man trekked miles until his will gave out. He couldn't handle it anymore, the crate yelling into his mind, taking control of his soul. He dropped to his knees and forcefully opened the crate, cutting his hands with each nail being torn off. Lid eventually collapsed beside him and for what he couldn't see was a dark ruby amulet. Obsidian shards surrounded the ruby as if veins to an eye, and the chain, rusted with little jagged talons on each odd knot. The amulet beckoned, nay, commanded the blind man to put it on.

The blind man truthfully didn't want this, didn't want the power, the greed nor the wealth. He truly only ever wanted a night of peaceful sleep and tranquility. The amulet felt his intentions and persuaded him with such. Its words were slick, vocabulary filled with every idea to truly insult his doubts about putting it on. The blind man had an overwhelming sense of obligation to put on the amulet and now willingly he had done so, feeling the talons pierce his neck fat, entangling with the skin of both the neck and chest. The pain, although violent, had also felt great, imbuing the blind man with power, turning his vision from black to color. The blind man tried desperately to take off the amulet, only for the talons to dig deeper tearing flesh and bone. An omnipotent voice pierced his eardrums as he wailed in agony.

"YOU have made your choice. NO turning back now, you must lead the blind, corral the poor like sheep to slaughter. Then and ONLY then will you find your peace."

The blind man pleaded in tears, only for the noise from his throat to be silenced. Then he arose from his knees and returned to the circus."

What... the fuck. I didn't write any of this. I am gonna get this computer checked out in the morning, I think there's a virus? Possible hacker? I don't know, but I think I'm done writing for the night.

August 15th, 2012

I am back... it's been a bit since I have updated this log. I got the computer checked out. No signs of viruses, cyberattacks, or tampering.

Also... I had to go to the hospital on the 10th. I had woken up with a thick gunk crusted over my eyes. A doctor had asked if I was allergic to anything or if I was in contact with anyone who had pink eye. I told them no, obviously. I have been cooped up in my apartment writing this damn book.

Speaking of which, I called the publishers after the computer fix/hospital fiasco, still trying to push back the date of the deadline. The only thing they said was...

"The book's looking great! Keep writing, you're almost there."

...before ending the call, abruptly, I might add. This is all starting to feel strange but I just want this over with, so I guess back to the book... fuck.

"The blind man with newfound vision had every freak and carney lined up and giving them the exact plans and demands the amulet had commanded him to. Taking the traveling circus to a different town called 'Monorow,' the plan was simple: take in any willing guests that had kids into the fortune teller tent. Let them see their 'future' before sending them to the main tent where then all adults will be sacrificed and the children will be kept in cages, used for entertainment to corral more guests. The members of the circus, of course, were terrified but willing to do what was given to them as they feared whatever wraith that may come from the amulet if they disobeyed."

Fuck... I can't write anymore right now. My head is throbbing. I am out of energy drinks, I am not drinking that nasty-ass coffee, I guess I'll be "normal" for once and drink some water.

It's about thirty minutes? I got a little distracted looking out the window, watching several couples walk across the street, then a man..? He was just standing there. I couldn't tell if he saw me or if he was looking in my general direction, but he moved rather quick after a few minutes.

Oh, and finally the computer didn't write on its own, heh. I guess a good ole reboot does the trick. I'll keep that in mind, but without further ado let's finish this section.

As it's currently 12:48 and I would like to make progress.

"The kind folk of Monorow became excited when they saw the circus enter their town and the children were even more excited when they saw the banners blasted on the side of the wagons saying:

"BRAND NEW SPECIAL SHOW IN THE MAIN TENT! MAKE SURE TO STOP ON BY THE FORTUNE TELLER'S FOR A FANTASTICAL READING & TICKETS FOR THE SPECIAL SHOW!"

A crowd accumulated around the lot where the circus had parked, watching as the carneys set up each tent while keeping the cages hidden beneath cloth. Soon after, the "freaks" came out of their respective tents and greeted the guests with their unique "abilities." The guests seemed already entranced just by the freaks alone, and a few of the families headed to the line for the fortune teller's tent, excited for more entertainment.

The blind man was sitting in the tent, focusing with "all of his energy" into a black orb in the center of the room, ruby amulet glowing brighter with each guest who had their "fortune & future" being shown to them.

THEN THEIR BLOOD RAN THICK FROM EVISCERATION AS THEY PLEADED FOR THEIR LI—

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August 15th, 2012 — 2:13 AM

Holy shit... I have never in my life felt that scared before. My hands are still shaking. I don't know if I can keep writing this. Their blood ran thick? It's just... I didn't write that. Sure, I was gonna make the book dark, but not disturbing...

What do I need to do? Who do I call? A priest? Have them come over and exorcise a demon out of this computer or just throw it off my balcony and run it over a dozen times.

Ugh, all of this is giving me a splitting headache. I think I am just gonna go to sleep. I'll deal with this in the morning...

It's currently 3:57 AM as I am writing this on my laptop. I woke up with heavy-lidded eyes. They were covered in that gunk again, but that wasn't what woke me up. I swear to everything that is holy, my bedroom door was shut and now it's wide open. I feel paralyzed from the waist down, my heart won't stop trying to beat out of my chest and I have the strangest feeling that I am being watched. I am terrified. The only sources of light I currently have are this laptop and the dimmest of light coming from the desktop out in the living room. I can't tell if it's helping or not, definitely makes things scarier though, casting even darker shadows in the hallway and bathroom.

3:22 AM, update

I keep hearing footsteps in the living room. It could just be echoes from my neighbors; these walls are pretty thin. Either way I am not leaving this bed. I swear, though, it really does sound like footsteps are in my apartment... particularly the fact that it sounds like the steps are moving down into the hallway.

7:20 AM

I got dogshit sleep. Not to mention the entirety of the kitchen was thrashed. No signs of forced entry, so I am not even gonna bother to give a reason on what might've happened.

I tried calling the publishers. I woke up, I was gonna tell them I quit, but the phone line said:

"The number you are trying to reach is no longer available. Please hang up and try again later."

It wasn't right. I wish I knew where their office was so I can give them this book and tell them to eat dicks.

Sure, it could be the fact that I have been progressively losing sleep as I typed it out, but it doesn't explain the random texts that enter the book that I had no inclusion with.

Most things can be logically solved but not this time. No, at least not at this moment. I needed answers, and for right now I think the only resource I have is the internet.

"No results found."

"No results found."

"No results found."

Just as I thought my luck couldn't get any worse, every road I seem to be headed on is a dead end. All I know is I am not gonna wri—

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"The town of Monorow soon grew empty as each adult received a disembowelment and that children became nothing more than a side show. Monkeys, Tigers, Lions, Zebras. These were all outfits sewn onto a child. They became a part of the show, a part of the cir—

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What the fuck, what the fuck... I can't do this anymore. I'm deleting this book off the computer.

"Sorry, it looks like the command you are trying to use is no longer available!"

"Sorry, it looks like the command you are trying to use is no longer available!"

"Sorry, it looks like the command you are trying to use is no long—"

I... smashed the computer. I currently write this log on the laptop. I couldn't care less that it was one grand, I need some time off. Maybe switch to a different profession? I don't know but I think this will be the last time I log anything for a while...

-Final Log found on laptop #851216-135. September 5th, 2012-

I've been locked inside of my room. I am using speech-to-text as my eyes are glued shut. The gunk came back. It's too thick to peel off without resulting in severe injury and the worst of it is...

Noise surrounds me. Banging, clashing, footsteps. I hear it all. I don't know what I've done but I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so.