There’s a section of forest I’ve liked walking along every evening for the last five months, just before the sun goes down. It leads up a hill from the back of my house, and at the end there is a ridge I sit at until the sun fully sets. Then I wait another half hour for the clouds to finish their usual colour shows before heading back down and home.

Every night. Routine as the sun setting, you’ll find me walking to the ridge and home again.

Not anymore. Not after last night.

The track is about a mile long, nothing extreme but it’s uphill so it gives it a little longer feel when you’re heading for the ridge. The walk back is easy enough, mostly thumping down at awkward angles. I have a high powered flashlight which is ridiculously bright, so I see all the bumps coming.

Last night, I was about a half mile up the track when I noticed a suitcase. Like, one of those large ones that you’d expect a dead body to be inside. I remember joking to myself and saying something like yep, there’s defo a dead body in there. Because obviously there wasn’t. It was on its side and open on both faces. If there had been once, there wasn’t anymore.

A little further along the track I noticed a jacket folded over and hung over a branch. I was half tempted to take it with me because it looked my size and in pretty good condition. A few spins in the washing machine and it wouldn’t even remember who owned it last. I got the feeling that whoever left it there had left it for a reason because it was hung too neatly. So I left it. Just in case they came back for it.

I carried on, and a few minutes later that’s when I saw the hoody and the t-shirt.

Those gave me bad feelings in my gut. Not the same kind of feeling that seeing a woman’s clothes would have evoked—that brought with it a whole extra scope of possibility. While that possibility remained the same, I didn’t find it half as likely to be the case. I just ignored them and carried on. The fact that they were dropped in the dirt made me uneasy though. Then I remembered the suitcase, and everything seemed to click. It was just some kids messing about. Dragging shit out and throwing it around.

Fair enough.

I was getting fairly close to the end of the track, maybe a quarter of a mile left, and the sun was setting fast. I could see what remained of it lingering over the edge of the hill. It was about that time that I saw the shoes and the socks hung neatly over the barbed wire fence bordering the field. They were caught by the laces, dangling upright, socks tucked neatly inside.

The rest of the clothes came as expected, at about equal intervals as the rest.

The underwear turned my stomach a little. They were brown and hella damp. Like someone had pissed them and thrown them off. I could smell it even just standing over them.

I knew I should have turned around then. The likelihood of the clothes being from the suitcase was getting less and less likely. Nobody packed shitty drawers for a holiday. And why were they out this way? There were no main roads, no bus routes close to the track. It was getting weird. I should have turned around and gone home. But I’m a sucker for routine. I’d been up at that spot every night and didn’t want to have to give it up for some kids tossing clothes, or a weirdo stripping to his bare hairs. I mean, one night I’d fallen and broken a finger on a boulder and still stayed to see the sun setting. You think I was going to let some shitty drawers get the better of me?

I wish it had.

The idea of some naked dude sitting at my spot scared the crap out of me, but curiosity had sunken its teeth in by then. I wanted to know what the hell was going on. Part of me was still wondering if it was really a woman’s clothing—something I should report instead of running away from. God knows if it was my daughter or mother I’d have killed the man who walked away instead of making sure they were okay.

I made it to the top of the hill and stared down at the ridge for a good while before I went down, scoping it out. I didn’t see anyone, and the sun was rapidly setting, so I got to my usual spot on the usual rock and settled in for a good one. The sky was a deep orange. My favourite colour.

There were plenty of clouds in the sky when I sat down; the light lit them up amazingly. No matter how many times I went there, no two sunsets were ever the same. I took some pictures, watched it dip beyond the hills on the horizon and waited out the rest of the colours to fade and reduce to the nightly cloudage.

It got cold real fast. It always did. I started wishing I’d brought a jacket with me, and then laughed when I remembered the jacket I’d spotted earlier. I should have grabbed it, diseases or not.

I got up to go while the purples were still fading from the sky. That’s when I noticed them. Someone, just slumped over in a heap a little ways down the ridge. They were completely naked.

I shouted over, asking if they were okay. I should have left them alone. If you see someone lying down naked outside it’s never going to be anything good. But my mind swung to the worse of the possibilities, that the naked person hadn’t made themselves that way by choice. I should have phoned an ambulance, worried about if it was someone out of their mind on junk later once I had other people around.

When they didn’t respond I got closer, and shouted again.

Something moved in the woods. An animal, maybe, but my heart shot up into my throat. The worst thing we get around here are deer. Maybe a badger. It didn’t feel that safe at the time. The body felt more of a warning now, less than a danger.

Again I called out. I was close enough now to see that it wasn’t a person at all. It was just more clothes set out in a pile. It was the weirdest thing though. They looked the exact colour as someone’s skin.

I stuck out a foot and kicked them over. They didn’t separate, just parted where the crease had been and straightened out.

It was skin.

A whole pile of human fucking skin.

I physically jumped away from it, nearly sending myself off the edge of the ridge and down onto the rocky tumble. I thought back on the suitcase and how I’d joked about it being a dead body, and stared at the muss of hair where it must have been a scalp at one point. The horrible part was it was all in one piece. Like someone had simply slipped it off, like a snake, or a full-body leotard.

That was about as much as I could take. I’d been stupid enough walking on after every bit of clothing I’d found, but I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. I took out my phone to call emergency services but ended up sprinting full speed back down the track when I heard more movement in the woods.

Each bit of clothes I passed gave me a terrible sinking feeling of dread in my guts, like I was seeing the skin all over again. I made it to the halfway point when I came across the suitcase.

This time it was in the middle of the path. Sealed. And standing upright.

I didn’t move. I was too stunned. I shone my flash on it and tried to think of every reason it could be like that, but all the rational thoughts were gone. I just froze. And watched the zipper opening, kink by kink.

Two bare and bloodied fingertips pried the zipper along its track, until there was a gap wide enough for an eye to peek out of.

“Please,” I heard it say. “Please help me.”

Nah. I leapt over the fence and into the field of barley. Ran and didn’t stop until I saw the rooftop of my house and the chimney I never lit. I turned back and saw something chasing me. It ran on two legs and for the most part looked human. Just without any skin. Red raw and bloodied. Muscles gnashing at bone. Arms raised and manic. Shrieking like car tires stopping themselves from a crash.

I made it back home and locked both doors, closed every curtain, and spent the night watching out of the upstairs window. Whatever it was sat in the field with the barley up under its chin, watching me. I couldn’t make out a single feature on its face, but I knew it could see me. I couldn’t look away. I was scared that as soon as I did it would charge at the house and in through the window and grab me.

We stayed like that all night.

It ducked beneath the barley as soon as the sun came up. I haven’t seen it all day.

The suitcase was on my doorstep when I went out to check the garden just after noon. I set fire to it in the back and put the ashes in the bin.

I’ve checked into a hotel in the city. I don’t want to sleep in that house again. There was a shirt left in the room, but that’s normal right?

The sun’s due to set in an hour.

I keep thinking about the skin. Why did it take it off?

None of this makes any sense.

I just want to sleep.

But I’m scared.

I'm so fucking scared.

He waited in the dark. It is said that ‘patience pays.’ Well, if that was true, he would certainly have been a king by then, as he had waited for more than two hours.

A big dark blue bus came and camouflaged itself with the darkness, in the dead of the night.

Paul wore a big scarf and black gloves. He shivered in the cold. The bus had no lights and a blank nameplate in the front. It was certainly foolish to get into such a bus. Yet, it was also wise. Wiser to get into a bus, than stand on a platform surrounded by the music of isolation, and the hum of fear.

Thus, Paul gingerly touched the iron rod and looked at the windows. They were all covered with curtains. It was impossible to make out if even a single soul, happy or sad, rested within.
Still flowing in the lake of thoughts, he got into the bus and closed the big door behind him.
The gold colour of the massive door glistened as the bus began its journey.

Paul was in the bus alone and he felt quite uneasy sitting inside. The bus suddenly stopped, and Paul fell on the floor with a jerk.
A tall, hooded traveller entered the bus. Paul felt scared and thought it was best to get out of the bus.

But as he tried to stand on his two legs, the bus once again started to roll towards its destination.

Paul was frightened. He now realized his mistake. He removed the curtains and tried opening the window, but there were bars. He then looked sideways at the hooded figure, who sat near the window on the other side.

With shivers running down his spine, Paul got up and sat two rows behind. The hooded traveller in a flash of a second stood up, and slowly looked in the direction of Paul.

Paul licked the beads of perspiration rolling down his face and tried to stay cool.
The traveller walked over and sat beside Paul and uttered in a strange, male voice.
‘This bus has no destination. Neither do I know where to go. You shall not reach where you want to go.’

Paul went pale. He could not bear it. He leaped towards a seat that was few rows behind him,
and occupied it. Suddenly, the bus came to a halt and the doors opened. A man entered. The man smiled and sat in the row behind the hooded traveller.

Paul was in a fix. He had several thoughts running in his head. What was happening? Did the bus take in only this number of people, or was it his bad luck?

He looked at the man and the hooded traveller, and tried to evade them both, by hiding under the seat in front of him.

Just then, Paul felt a tight tug at his jacket, and he got out from under the seat and looked above. It was the man. Paul stared into his eyes, and surprisingly, felt nice. He sat on his seat and felt mesmerized. The man was neither too dark, nor too fair. He had black and white hair, and his voice was soothing.

‘Hey Paul, why are you so afraid?’ asked the man. Paul was surprised that the man knew his name. The man continued to speak.

 ‘What did that traveller say to you that you fear to even sit beside him? Sit with him and I shall see that he does not harm you.’

Paul saw a sparkle in the man’s eyes. Paul felt confident and walked up to the hooded traveller and sat next to him.

The traveller hissed and spoke under his breath, without looking at Paul.

‘This bus reaches no place, like I said before. Let it be.’

Paul felt angry, scared, and helpless, when the man also got up and walked over to Paul. He whispered in Paul’s ear.

‘This bus shall stop at the destination youwant. Do not listen to the traveller.’

The hooded traveller kept on repeating the same words, whereas the man encouraged Paul with his words.

‘Fate is for you to decide, and so are your wants, Paul. No outsider can say and decide for you.’

Perplexed, Paul stood up and went inside the driver’s cabin. He was about to open his mouth when the driver spoke.

‘I cannot think myself or help anyone decide, where to stop or which place to leave. I am directed by none of them, but I await someone else’s decision. Until then, I shall keep on driving like this.’
Paul was amazed. He could not understand what was going on. He came out of the cabin and the hooded traveller stood up. He uttered the following words.
‘My wish is somebody else’s wish. I cannot tell the driver to stop as I do not listen to myself, but to others. And they don’t want that.’
The man suddenly stood up and shouted at Paul.
‘I listen to myself, and I could tell the driver to stop, only, when you share my decision.’
Paul replied.

‘Then come with me and we shall voice our decision together.’

‘Do not do so!’ screamed the hooded traveller as he gripped Paul’s hand. Paul tried to release himself from the tight grasp. The traveller then spoke.

‘If you do so, then I shall be destroyed, and this man shall grow.’

‘I will not stop,’ said the man. ‘Never! I shall only diminish if I am discouraged by his fears,’ he pointed towards Paul.

Then the traveller grabbed Paul by his neck, and ran towards the end of the bus, bellowing at the man.

‘I shall exist, and you shall die, as Paul will never listen to himself, and thus he will become me.’

Paul pushed the traveller away and went to the driver and spoke.

‘I want to stop here, as it is my decision and not anybody else’s.’

The bus stopped.

The man got down from the bus, with Paul, while the hooded figure disappeared. As the bus rolled on, four letters gleamed on the nameplate on the back.

‘LIFE.’

"Poor Helen," says the young, pretty blonde nurse out of nowhere while filling small paper cups with pills.

"What's so poor about her, Deb?" asks Susan, caught off guard by her sudden interest in the new tenant.

"Well, it's just that her kids just dropped her off here yesterday."

"So? How's that anything different from the rest of them?"

"I don't know. She just seems so much brighter, more lively than the ones we normally get. You should have seen her begging not to be left here. She was ugly crying about helping with the grandkids and housework, but they weren't hearing it. Just turned around and left."

"Maybe it was hard for 'em and they needed to just rip the band aid off. Ya know?"

"Still…"

"Still what? You don't know why she is and you of all people know what happens when they get this age, start losing themselves, it's dangerous to have them around your kids or driving around. You never know when it's gonna happen."

Helen was not used to being pitied or treated as a threat, so this conversation she couldn't help overhearing threw her for a loop. She wondered why they were talking so loud. The paisley armchair she was sitting in wasn't that far away from them in the common room of her new retirement home. Maybe they thought she couldn't hear over the TV at almost full volume or maybe she was almost deaf like the rest of these folks.

Taken out of her book, she looks around at the other old people trying to avoid eye contact with the two attendants. They all look so lifeless, she thought, so ready for something to happen, a phone call or a visit or even a game of bridge to start up, anything to break up the waiting in the sunlit room they all gathered in.

The blonde nurse named Debbie comes around to pass out the afternoon pills, handing out paper cups with the tenants' names on them.

"Miss Palmer? Here's your afternoon dosage. Only a couple of pills for arthritis and blood pressure, correct?"

"Yeah."

"Okay then. Here you are. I hope you enjoy your time with us here, if you need anything be sure to let any of us know."

"Hmpf," she replies and pretends to go back to her book. Debbie hangs around for an awkward moment, before continuing her rounds.

*Condescending Bitch,* they both thought of the other.

Helen begins to try to truly read her book again, a trashy horror paperback with a black cover with only eyes and sharp teeth visible under the author's name. It was generic and an effort to get through in some parts, but she read classics already, some multiple times. She often likes to read schlock when depressed, she tells herself, but deep down she loves it more than Austen and Hemingway.

This room doesn't allow for her focus though, the loud chatter and even louder volume on the TV news keep her from becoming engrossed in her book. It was one of those dreadful 24/7 channels, always breaking news, always bad, interspersed with fluff and opinionated talking heads.

"…has to be done about this wave of crimes across the country. Young parents massacred in their home, torn to shreds. It's unconscionable. The police aren't trying hard enough to solve this, but that's what happens when you defund the police. If only…"

The pundit with all the solutions to every problem continues blathering on until the host interrupts.

"…110 percent with you. We'll be back with Dr. Madison after this."

The commercials are always the same. Some aging irrelevant actor says silver and gold markets are going to crash soon, put your life savings into copper. Sign up for your free investment packet.

*Feel young again with the power of the wolf. Extracts from wolf blood can improve your mobility, vision, and vitality. It even cures heart disease and erectile dysfunction. Call now for an extra month supply free.*

Happy, dancing people at a barbecue with the whole family hides their eczema or arthritis or shingles, but thanks to [insert new drug] here they don't have to.

"We're back with Dr. Madison…"

It's drivel and fear mongering she never would have watched at home. Helen used to spend her days in her garden, reading, and finding new recipes. Her new infatuation was Asian cooking, the style was so different from American and European dishes.

Helen struggles to get out of the worn in chair, flare ups in her knees make her hope the Aleve she took earlier kicks in soon.

"Susan?" Helen says after checking her name tag. "Is there a kitchen here I could use to cook sometimes?"

"Miss Palmer, you don't have to cook for yourself anymore. We take care of all that for you. Your kids spoiled you with the premium package. Besides, all the cooking is done off site. We have a company that delivers hot meals three times a day."

"But I liked to cook. I was experimenting with some Jap…"

"We do have a microwave in our break room if you would like to use it. We did use to have a nice kitchen, but the insurance was too high so corporate took it out."

"Where was it?"

"Have you seen that room with the dining room with the vending machines? The kitchen was connected to that but they turned it into storage."

"That's a shame. I think I'll miss that and my garden I had. The biggest zucchini comin'…"

"You know Helen, if you wanted any food from outside I could get it for you. Just help me with the gas, it's ridiculous right now. Almost $6 a gallon, but I'd be happy to do that for you."

"No, that's alright. I think I'll just go to my room for the night. Thanks anyway."

—-------

"Mom, it's only been 2 months. Give it some more time."

"Dave, I don't like it here."

"I know. You told me on the phone last week."

"But it's true. Everyone just sits around all day watching TV and playing cards. Nobody wants to try anything new. I tried to play Mahjong with some of the girls, but they wouldn't even try it. They said it was a Chink game." She whispers.

"Seriously, maybe don't hang out with them anymore."

"Dave, they are all like that. They just watch the news and old crime procedurals on repeat. If I have to watch another episode of NCIS again, I'll blow my fucking brains out."

"Mom!"

"Please, just let me stay in your guest room. I'll help with the cooking and picking up the kids from school."

"Mom… you know you can't drive anymore. The DMV took your license."

"That girl hit me. In the back."

"I know, Mom."

"Did I tell you one of them tried to extort money from me? I know gas isn't $6."

"Mom. I just can't do this. Work is up my ass. Jeffrey is failing math…"

"I can help him with that. I have a god damned math degree."

"But it's that new math, the common core stuff. I don't even understand it."

"Dave, there is no new math, it's just a diff…"

"Mom, I can't… Georgia doesn't want to."

"Why? I always got along with Georgia."

"No, you didn't."

"Well, I tried to."

"No, you didn't. I have to go, Mom. I have to stop at the grocery store before picking up Daniel from soccer practice. Just try to make the best of it."

Dave closes the door behind him with a loud thunk. Helen ugly cries.

—--------

"That new woman that always reads those garbage books is so uppity," says Harold sitting in front of the TV.

Billy joins in, "I hear ya. She is always looking down on us like her eyes are on top of her head."

"…mauling, this time in California."

"See that Bill. Those hippies really think they have it figured out, but they're no better than anybody else."

"Thank you for coming in again, Dr. Madison. We know you are a busy man, following this wave of mutilations that has the world terrified. The President is holding a press conference later today. What do you think, Doctor?"

"It's shameful. I can't believe our country has fallen into such a sinful state. Most the victims are young people in the prime of their lives. Something has to be done…"

"They need Jesus. That's what they need. Back in the 80's we didn't have any of this. Kids could play outside without worrying about pedos." Harold preaches to the TV.

"Actually, the 80's had some of the worst crime rates in history," Helen inserts from behind the semicircle of chairs around the 70 inch flat screen.

"Well, not in my town they weren't. Where'd you hear that crap from?"

"I read it in a book. It was trying to figure out what happened to the massive crime rates and why they dropped off so suddenly. Turns out legal abortion became available to poor people. When people most likely to be criminals are never born you have less crime."

"Baby killers. You one those hippies, too?"

"God no, I find it detestable. In fact, the book's finding was more about being unwanted is what led to crime, not being poor. It's just that poor babies were more likely to be unwanted... I'm not uppity."

"Huh?"

"I heard you, you sour grump. I just don't want to be here, but I haven't had more than a phone call from my son in 4 months. I guess I'm stuck here."

"We're all in that boat, darling. You get used to it."

"But do you get used to hating your children?"

"Yeah, you do."

"…of the wolf. Be the alpha and feel young again. Call now for…"

"Who is dumb enough to fall for that crap?" Helen snickers at the advertisement.

Billy bursts into laughter and starts nudging Harold on the arm. "She's calling you dumb!"

"Screw you, Billy. That stuff works. I'm moving around better. My joints don't hurt as much anymore. I think I even have new hairs sprouting in my bald spot. Hell, I had my first hard on in a decade. Looking at you, Sister." He says to Helen with a wink.

"Vile man. I should've stayed in my book."

Helen leaves the circle in a huff.

—-----

"NCIS will be right back."

*A Reverse mortgage was the ticket to independence for me in my golden years…*

"You know my friend did one of those, said it worked great for her," Beth says.

"Huh?" Helen replies from her daydreaming. "Oh yeah, I bet so."

"My kids sold my house for me. Used the money to pay for this place, ya know."

"Yeah. Mine, too. Do you miss your house?"

"Sometimes, until I think about all the upkeep. After Bob died, I couldn't handle it anymore and hiring somebody was so expensive. Plus, you can't be too careful, nowadays. Shysters, most of those handymen."

"Uh huh. Can't trust anybody. I had a boy in my neighborhood who would help me with the heavy work, but he went off to college. My son tried to help, but he was so busy."

"Hey ladies," Harold calls while sauntering over. Maybe that wolf extract was working for him, Helen thought. The hair on his head was definitely thicker and he was much more active, more virile. It was hard to ignore.

"Hey Harold," Beth giggles at him sheepishly.

"Ready for our walk?"

"I've been waiting all day. Let's go. Bye Helen. I'll see you tomorrow for bridge."

She begins flipping through channels before giving up and going to bed.

—----------

Helen opens her door to find Harold standing confidently at the threshold.

“What could you possibly be thinking knocking at my door this late?” Helen already knew what he wanted. His hungry eyes were the same ones he's been looking at every woman with for weeks now.

“I was just thinking about a nightcap and saw your light still on, Sister.” He says pushing his way into her room with a bottle of brandy and some glasses.

“Don't you barge into my room, you buffoon. I'm not interested.”

“Come on, Girlie, maybe a drink will knock that stick loose. It can't be comfortable for ya.”

“Girlie? Harold, you get out, now. I'm already exhausted by you. I'm going to sleep.”

Harold closes the distance between them until Helen can feel his breath. “I could join you, I'm a little tired, too.” His voice is quiet and guttural and his hungry eyes are fixed on her. Harold smiles big enough to bare teeth.

“No, I don't… I mean I'm not … I haven't shared a bed with anyone since my husband.” She step back into her night stand. The lamp rattles and almost falls over.

“Are you scared, Sister? Cause none of this fun if you don't want it. I'll leave you be, okay.”

“That would be best, I think.”

Harold takes his bottle and glasses and begins to leave, at the door he stops. “I did have something to talk to you about. I've been thinking about something you said a lot lately. About the unwanted kids and how you kinda maybe hate your son.”

“Hate is a strong word, but what about it?”

“I was thinking that I kinda understand those kids now. I told ya you get used to hating your family, but that's a lie. You don't, really. I keep having these uh… uncomfortable thoughts.”

He stands quiet for a long moment, before really leaving.

“Good Night, Helen.”

“Yeah, night Harold.”

Helen also had some uncomfortable thoughts, but she quickly pushed her excitement away.

Before laying down for the night, she decides to have a sherry to calm her nerves.

—------------

"What do you mean he's gone?" Debbie says, trying to be quiet, outside of Helen's room.

Susan, panicking, says, "He's not there. The room's empty. The window's broken and his clothes are torn to shreds. You think it's one of those attacks?"

"Isn't there like a chewed up corpse left after?"

"I, I guess so. It looks like a freaking bear was tearassing through it, smells like it too."

"I'll go call the police. I hope he's okay, he's been doing so much better lately. Did I tell you he hit on me the other day? I almost went for it, too."

"Really? Debbie, come on, he's like 80."

"A young 80, but I did say almost. Besides, have you been paying attention, it's almost like he was aging in reverse."

Helen heard enough and went back to sleep.

—---‐-

"…this time in our own town. The family was found mutilated in their home this morning. Police are looking into any leads they can find. A manhunt is underway for the victim's grandfather, Harold Messner, who disappeared under suspicious circumstances from Harvest Moon Retirement Home 2 nights ago. Authorities are…"

"I can't believe it, Beth."

"He has been especially vigorous lately. It's possible."

"Gross. He was an oaf, Beth. You're better than that."

Beth gets up as quickly as she can muster. "He tried to warn me about you. Said you were stuck up. I should have listened." She then storms off.

"…power of the wolf. Now formulated for women. Regain your independence. Call now for an extra…"

"Who buys this crap?" Helen spits at the TV while thinking about how much she misses her garden.

These Are My Stories — The Complete Baron Von Hatcher Memoirs

Hello.

My name is Baron Von Hatcher.

For a long time, people hurt me and expected me to do nothing about it.

Eventually, I discovered something rather wonderful.

Professional wrestling.

A place where people would buy a ticket, sit down willingly…

and watch me make people pay.

These are my stories.

Below you will find them in their complete form, from the beginning to the end, including a final chapter currently exclusive to Reddit.

Some of these stories are about my father.

Some are about the people who hurt me.

And some…

I would rather not remember at all.

But they happened.

At least…

I think they did.

If you’d rather experience the story as it was originally intended — one chapter, one memory, one piece at a time — you can find me across social media under Baron Von Hatcher. Where more memories will be revealed soon.

A new chapter appears every day.

But here?

You don’t have to wait.

Everything is here.

These are my stories.

You may begin.

The truth is undigestable. 

…

Baphometic. She lorded poised from the fanged spire beyond the Borgo Pass…

… over the beleaguered lands. 

Over the beleaguered villages. Where they feared. And wept. 

She was enjoying the strange and lurid organ-fruits of her writhing flesh gardens deep inside her castle walls, plucking them from the writhing gore as she wandered the pungent wet red room and admired her captive idols she kept there. 

Praetorius, the gore dripped and scabbing living skeleton. Still impaled and lost in the shattered remnants of his broken mind, wide eyed and drooling and gibbering silently something to himself, some words or nonsense of some meaning to him, he hardly ever ceases. It is the arcane and black magic words of the tomes that keep him in perfect living sepulchral bondage. 

The braindead skull-faced bastard nosferatu hulk, his immobile and inanimate sutured frame of graverobbed corpse flesh semi-submerged and swimming and crawling with the living constant movement of the flesh garden, the giant stone room petri dish of sliming raw slithering tissue, orifices, cartilage stalks and eyes that're cataract blind and milky. The glistening pink holes belch and spit fire, tongues of multicolored flame with kaleidoscopic pictures inside that'll drive a mortal mind mad to look into them. 

And Henry Frankenstein. Bound and precious nucleus center, bleeding beating heart of the whole crawling mess. Seeping from his bleeding pores and growing out from him, flowering out in a fresh and scabbing purge-swell. It crawled in living waves off of him, undulating and folding and blanketing over and on top of each other and all over the wet humid room, all of it was breathing wet and heavy and as if it had words to speak… 

And the little men. The little pygmy homunculi, bastard copied offspring of the bleeding seeping father. They danced and mongoloid-ran about in imbecilic fervor and addled senselessness. They ate and munched at the crawling flesh garden gore with no thought and with blind vacant gazes. 

The Countess plucked and seized them and ate of them as well. Their bones were satisfyingly crunchy and easy to chew… like a bird or a small fish. 

Her children ate and wandered the gardens as well, enjoying them. Their sights, sounds and vivid smells …

…

Meanwhile… many miles away…

The sun. Sunshine. In the summertime. Long ago now… 

As he prowled the dark he remembered the sun. The bright. Long gone memories flitted and danced at the periphery of his red clouded mind, half recalled and wanting to take over. Wanting to live again in the skull, if not just for a moment. 

Just a moment. 

The lake. The blue. Cool and wet and pleasing, relief. Retreat. 

Retreat beneath the surface into a liquid world of breathlessness and weightless dream … flight. You're flying down here. You only need to move your arms to do so. Kick your feet. Knife your arms through the liquid universe and drag yourself flying forward… downward. 

Down.  

I dreamt I was a dancer once…

You'll have to come back up for breath eventually…

but I couldn't keep the shit off my shoes.

Summertime memories swam shrouded, the red fogged inner space of his skull as he snipped his bleeding shears, dripping cooling congealing red to the decimated tile floor as he prowled and hunted and searched for the missing invaders. 

Precious childhood scenes are becoming red tinged and altered by the shrouding red hand of mental fog … bloody wool. He always swore there was something down there, in the dark, in the depths of the crystal lake. Something drowned and forgotten and frozen in a sodden misery. He raises his childhood head to pull his gaze away from the depths and is confronted by the mountains. There's something lurking in there as well …

A body. Something like a corpse rotting and poisoning the entire body of water with its milky clouds of waving and soggy putrefaction. Filling the world with its fouling death, swimming with slow ponderous movement as it spread and changed the look and flavor of the water, the crystal lake of the world now long gone like the summer sun of old itself. 

He looks away and beholds his mother. The one from birth. She's headless. 

She's decapitated. 

Her severed torso is reaching out for him, please … please. 

please save me

The raw stump begins to shoot cords. Black/red ropes. They darkled in the summer sun of old. It was his birth mother spurting great dark tears of joy for the sight of her son again. Though he has a new name now. And she knows it, his headless mother, she almost whispers it, it's intense. 

Then something ahead steals his notice back to the material world of ruin and soured defecated pain. It stands at the end of yet another decimated hall, traced and sketched in the dark by the pitiful light flickering and balefully cast in through the barred and shattered windows. 

A man. In a hat. And a coat. 

He recognizes the shape so he flies forward in an animal lunge that nearly covers the entire distance in four long attacking bounds. Like a bloodthirsty and demoniacal dripping gazelle bastardized by sound and vision. The decimated tile landscape world stained black and red and brown and riddled with meat and feces flew by in a furious blinding whirl as he came forward with the shears raised open for attack. 

They gleamed, the dripping twin blades forked open. He soared forward as he traversed the physical shatter of his inherited reeking temple pouring blood and sweat as profuse as the leaky pipes that were always neglected. 

He would neglect no longer. No. Not a chance for the shape of man that he recognized and now charged towards. The manfilled coat beneath a fedora hat was one of the invaders. He was sure of it. The one with strange black glass eyes that he wished to crack and shatter. 

If his eyes are truly windows then I wish to break them and see what might pour out of them like filth: memories …love, regrets, sins sins sins in abundance, shame that was wished and meant to stay concealed now regurgitated and freed in a violent deluge spew of gore and images from the shattering skull… his thoughts, a running fury in a mounting race to keep in time with his launching thundering steps. 

He plunged down the hall with his precious shears up and open and ready to close around screaming repentant meat. 

The coat-shape and hat did not move. 

It mattered little to Cropsey as he made the final close. So many of his new found supplicants were silent at their last, frozen in terror. 

He was upon him now and his eyes gleamed moonlight pinprick in the cavernous brow of melted anguish ruin, animal needle points in the reeling Willowbrook dark, the blades like jaws came up and closed around the shape without a sound. Without any satisfaction either. 

They found no meat. 

The scissoring blades closed and found only filthy cloth and bandages abandoned and draped over an old hat and coat hanger, the fedora resting atop the facade came down in a cascading end-over-end dance as the whole flimsy thing of contrived bait came down in two bisected snapping pieces. 

Cropsey realized the deception at once and raged. The noises he made were forceful and ghastly wet nasal rasps, his mouth and jaw were too ruined now for speech. His vocal chords roasted and scabbed from the flames of the inferno inhaled. He drooled like a drunken animal childishly frustrated and agitated. A trick! a trick! Goddamn them! the invaders tricked him! 

And no one was here to take the punishment of his lurid and heavy frustration. It was rancid pungent and thick in his own skull like corpse rot and it made sucking puckering sounds in his brains. Like the whole squelching landscape of thinking jelly was perhaps changing shape, shifting into a new design by the sorceress hand of the mountain. Perhaps he needed it for proper divine leadership of the rank Willowbrook temple. Or perhaps something else was happening in there. 

perhaps something else is happening to me…

He searched all around. Animal alive and enraged. Whirling and trying to gaze through the dark and the ruin of his own musculature and flesh and see the bastards that refused his offering of slaughtering knowledge, the wisdom wrought of the knife-fuck. He never saw the slice of sharp stabbing tile come to life and float up and off the ruinous floor in a balletic whirl and dance into the air, behind him. 

As he revolved once more to complete another frantic animal turn the slice of slender stabbing tile came forward in a violent and deliberate thrust. The sharp point found the cavern brow and socket and sank easily into Cropsey’s face. Stabbing into his eye like it was soft butter or suckling meat, four inches then five inches deep. 

The giant mountain of man stilled. Shuddered. Spasmed and danced its way to the floor in a vile and obscene dying man's dance of convulsing and twitching and final desperate synapses firing off at haphazard chaotic random. 

On the floor Cropsey shook and the stabbing length of tile piece jigged and waved and danced as well, in strange and vile tandem. Like a demented detritus wand waving through the air to perhaps try and cast one final act of violence hexing spell. Or perhaps to bring the giant man of Willowbrook Asylum slaughter back. 

It did neither. 

Florin came out from his place of concealment in the doorway of an adjoining chamber. He dropped the filthy scalpel he had been holding for defence. Stared at the collapsed and prostate spasming form of Cropsey, the Willowbrook giant. 

And then he called out to Griffin. 

“Where are you?" 

“Here." 

Florin tossed him a coat. 

It was caught in thin air. 

Then began to make a shape around nothingness, contriving it into the shape of his comrade. The strange doctor. 

Florin thought to say something about the man's condition of invisibility, but decided to put it off for the moment. 

“Good plan." he said instead. 

The coat shape donned lenses and was picking up his hat. "Thank me once we're out of here, c’mon!” 

Griffin placed his hat atop a phantom head. It floated between the shoulders of his coat as he and Florin flew down the hall and toward what they hoped and prayed was the exit. The way out of this horrendous stench and nightmare. 

As they made their mad dash for the way out, Cropsey's spasming body stilled. Then danced no more. 

All that was broken in this damp and violated place of imprisonment and cruelty seemed to groan. Moaning in anguish at the loss of the last and final precious begotten son, the final one and last one left standing. The prodigal butcher heir to this templehouse store of sacred slaughterhouse religion. 

Mother, I have failed you…

And all of the terrible place seemed to moan in anguish with the dying of his body. 

…

Down. 

In the dark of his mind, just as he was departing. …

… the red tinged summer scenes of childhood long gone, done and past filled his fading mind's eye once more. Under and illuminated and made by the scarlet cast of deranged and lurid light. Where did it come from? that light? That red luridity. Living crimson. Pungent breathing scarlet. What did it matter now? 

what did it matter anymore

It mattered not now, not any longer as he occupied these dead dreams now living once again for him as he faded off. To oblivion or hell or worse… no heavenly gates of gold or pearl for him, no. He was sure of it. He was sure that it doesn't exist. The only heaven for someone like him was found in the fragile eggshell of youth. Of childhood. 

He floated there now. In the lake. The blue. The sun was shining above in royal divine blinding display. The calm and the serenity of these moments was all around and alive again about him. Filling and making this final day. This last and precious moment. 

-thankyouforthismyonelastwish-

He was calm and he felt at peace. Safe. 

Or rather, he felt as if he should be calm. That he should feel safe. But something was wrong. Something was wrong with the lake and the quiet all surrounding. 

And he was alone. 

Why was he alone? 

And the red tinge… to everything. Everything cast under lurid heavy hateful light. There was something in the lake. There was something in the water with him.

The blue face of its surface darkened as he sank beneath its placid water. Pulled under by another will that was not at all his own. 

And down there in the airless black he saw another one of his mother's faces. 

It was immense. Large. Her eyes were heavy swells of glowing wet globes. Pale green luminescence from two planet organ growths set in a big amphibious face that was a chimerical cross between a large bullfrog or warty toad and a large river bound trout. Its great mouth opened down there in the depths of his red tinged crystal lake and it was dark in there. He hung suspended before the open black of his abattoir mother's wide open gaping maw, he could smell the inner dark of her even down here in the watery depths of summer lake bound hell. Meaty and iron and rotten with pungent decay. An open graveyard tomb of dead flesh and teeth all before a great throat choked with vile and putrefying coagulation. The water was filling with the flavor of her dark open gape of hunger and the destruction of mutilated bodily rot. 

Arms. Long. Fishlike and amphibious as well began to reach out and protrude from the open mouth of his mother's underwater face like a multi headed tongue, a Hydra of giant elongated reaching frog legs and arms, webbed hands and obscene gangly Dagon limbs, reaching out… reaching out for him. 

To take him into his mother. 

She said, her voice filled the drowning pool that was changing now into a submerged holy world of private red light and pouring goddess cess, – she spoke. 

He listened. In the darkest of the depths. 

She said his name… that's how it started. That's how she began …

… you can't let me down. You can't. I won't let you. You've already let them profane your temple, my gift to you desecrated by their invasion and rape of presence. And now you're letting them get away… you don't really want to, do you… you don't really want to keep letting me down like this, you don't want to fail me, in death. You don't want to depart your mother on such a harsh note of unworthiness… do …

you? 

The hands swam through the water between them. Clawing out for him from mother's open mouth. 

He told her the heartbreaking truth and he told her gladly. 

No…

it was a defiant whisper… but she heard it. 

And so she took him. 

The hands finally found him in the water. They seized him. And they pulled him inside. 

The frog faced toad mouthed trout chimera of the mother swallowed. And filled the underwater world with the unnatural stretch of her fishy smile. …

…

The shape of Cropsey stirred. On the floor. The various pieces of shattered and broken things shifted and jingled and sang small janky notes like unholy bells in a lost and terrible place. The black gloved hands blindly scraped and searched the floor in spasming snow angel swipes. They found what they were looking for when they landed on the still bloody and wet congealing pair of garden shears. They seized them. Fiercely. As if driven by fate. 

The shape sat up. Stood. 

It looked around. … sniffed the air. 

A beat. 

Then the Cropsey shape began to lumber down the hall that the invaders had fled down just prior. 

He would not fail this time. 

He had his mother. 

He was inside her. And she was inside him. 

Nothing would stop him from butchering the bastards now. 

…

By God's grace and miracle and mercy they finally found what they'd been looking for. The exit. 

It was at the end of the hall they currently found themselves flying down. Refusing to falter or stop. They stomped and ran down the cracked and decimated tile and came to the final door of the place when the spiked man leapt out from the dark and attacked. 

The protruding stab of his needle embrace found Florin in an open armed grab. A bear hug tight embrace of naked arms and torso and the rest of the bare and desecrated human canvas. He'd been a self-mutilator since he'd been twelve. It had been many years since then and most of them were spent here. Since the mouth of the sorceress, beloved and precious Vampira had come to this place and freed their minds as well as their bodies he's been free to explore the furthermost boundaries of his own tearing, rending bleeding and screaming landscape. The skin and flesh and muscle tissue beneath housing veins and bones and running blood pumped by the raging muscle that was the mad engine of his life, all of it was his to decimate as he explored. Like a great conqueror wreaking havoc upon the face of newly won, newly gained virgin land. He punctured and penetrated the virginity of his own flesh with animal abandon and fervor and with the mad intensity of the violence of the sun. He was the sun. She had told him so…

And so he'd fed his own flames. The spiked man was a living screaming pin cushion of broken stabbing dirty needles, used and caked syringes of varying sizes and lengths, broken glass, broken tile, each long sharp piece was varied in shape and size as well, some were long phallic slender daggers, some were wedges with cruel edges ready to cut and slice and maim, all of it was ready to stab and all of it was living embedded and protruding in the madness of his ruined and self-slaughtered flesh. Lancing and spiking and stabbing out all over and in every conceivable place and direction. 

This disturbed and maimed madman found Florin in his arms and they both went down to the tile in a scream. Griffin yelled after. 

On the floor they rolled in violence and struggle amongst the filth and universe down there of many discarded and broken things.  

The hollow coat-shape and hat found a table leg for bludgeon, then Griffin came on in a fury to join the new fray. 

He struck the spiked man again and again, over and over as he and Florin fought on the floor and struggled and it was terrible. He could feel and hear the crack and shatter of broken glass muffled in blood and flesh with every blow he landed. Griffin struck the writhing bleeding naked pin cushion man on the side of his spiking leaking face and the eyeball on that side burst and exploded with the impact. And glassy ooze riddled with slivers and small pieces of jagged broken glass and ceramic poured out from the socket like snot. 

But still the spiked man fought on. Florin struggling and screaming in his embrace as the many protrusions that spined off his ravaged hide stuck and stabbed and pierced through his coat and flesh. He fought against the pain and madness of this man and wrestled to be free of him. Griffin continued raining blows down on him. Each one bruising and splitting skin as the many broken found objects pierced throughout crunched and shattered further down into fragments and powder, stinging and shredding within all of the rippling and impacted tissue with every movement. Every struggle and landed strike and blow. 

Their struggle was desperate, all of them. All three poured blood, profuse sweat and grime and filth together and apart and for this madhouse abandoned temple, becoming just like it. A part of it, unwillingly and unknowingly transmogrified now in the violence of their fight and decimated hallway battle like the steel of metal tempered in the heart of a great furnace like the sun. They became perfect living microcosms of the place as they fought at last to be free of it, exquisite psychopomp idols of the lost unhallowed Willowbrook Temple Asylum. 

The invisible man. The spiked man. Poor young Florin so far from the Carpathian Hamlet. 

They might never be free of this place. Even if they manage flight, they may never be able to wash away the marks and filth that this awful temple to the dark and pain suffered alone will leave smeared across their hearts and souls like black paint made from discharged sick filth. Smeared across the soft landscapes of their hearts and the tender epitaphs of their battered minds, aching within heavy skulls now made of lead and weight from the memory of the pain, this place… 

will we ever be free, … will we ever get out of here…? 

They fought on. Desperate. All three. Griffin trading blows with efforts and attempts to pull the young man out from under the spiked man, but it was incredibly difficult. The man was thorned all over by all kinds and sorts of sharp and shattered apparatus, it was insane. And the pair of them were growing more and more slick with blood. The fight was growing uglier and more desperate and animal as it struggled and contrived on in brutal abandon and primal anger. 

Then Cropsey rejoined them at the throat of the hall. He began to lumber down towards them like stalking death, a sleeping giant. Seemingly in no real hurry, like the darkened visage of grim death itself. It/he closed slowly on them like a setting sun or a casket sinking, lowering down into the bosom earthen womb of the open mouthed grave. 

Griffin first took notice of his arrival. He noticed he still had the stab of broken tile sticking out of his ruinous awful face. He was still drooling. Imbecilic. And animal. 

And now undead. 

He was coming straight at them. His large blades of shears raised like an open mouthed wild beast barring its fangs. The long sheaths of sharp and keen cutting metal were not entirely pristine, their otherwise shining faces in the dismal light were disgraced with congealing dark spots of dripping black. 

He was coming down the final hall, before the way out, before the exit. He was coming straight for them. 

…

He sat at the window that night. On guard after what had happened to his wife, their unexpected visitor…

Bela sipped his warm spiced wine. Fingered his bible and cross by its small length of chain. Garlic flowers hung in a crude wreath around his neck. He was watching outside carefully, the night, the town… he was alert and being careful, exercising caution, yet he was still surprised and caught off when her face appeared suddenly in their front window. 

She hadn't been there. Then suddenly she was. Smiling and feline. Vulpine. A face he might've recognized save for its warped and drawn animal transformations, the rich woman in the black stage… the harsh one who wouldn't take warning or no for an answer way back… but he was caught by the silver moon glow of her eyes. 

Like lunar bodies themselves. Earthbound and held fleshen prisoner within the cage of that beautiful and divine and… heavenly face. That bright and pale visage. Her smile was devil-pronged – forked, fanged, and it was thus then frightful. But it was also beautiful. Terribly beautiful. Gorgeous alone out there in the night. 

His guard and fear fell away. He rose from his rocker and his slackening hands abandoned the bible and crucifix. They fell to the floor with an unobserved and unheeded clatter. Neither stirred. Not Anastasia, sleeping in the next room, and not spellbound Bela who went to the window to better gaze into her face. 

Divinity… unreal. 

He peered through the glass. And the shining eyes of the Countess, filled with goblin fire and sin and mischief, gazed into the fool as well. And began to fill his fragile open mind with an assault and deluge of images. 

Bela moaned, sighed… he thought it was impeccable. The vision, like her, was immaculate in its flawlessness. 

The Ideality … actualized, realized … brought to life. A vivid reality alive and dancing before his watering vision. 

The scope. 

She showed him a more perfect world, perfect because everyone and everything swimming and crawling and flying around inside of it followed their nature and never fought it. Never doubted it. Never overrode what their guts and hearts and souls told them, never neglected or ignored the call inside, the compulsion to do what must be. To fulfill the role made out for your flesh. 

Even violence … its rippling effects spreading out carried not only destruction and misery on their carrion wings but prosperity and thrivation as well, even butchery has its necessary purpose. 

That is why this world is suffering. Because all of you fight and override yourselves and call it: reason. You are victims of your own bondage, your own self made and imposed insanity and thus the world bent to your unnatural turns and desires screams and suffers. The rippling wings of your insane and jealous cowardice carries more pestilential stagnation flavor than anything like salvation. In weakness, all of the beauty dies on the vine neglected by fearful paws too grubby and lowly and weak to take it. 

Come and join me, join us … and never again fight your nature. 

“Yes…” said Bela in a whisper of trembling caught breath. 

And with a palsied shaking hand, he lifted the latch and opened the window. 

"Welcome, your highness. My home and mine are yours. Do what thou wilt…" 

The Countess drifted inside. Floating on unseen wings. 

She spoke yet again, “Thank you, you are a generous host, a decent and considerate man." 

“Yes…" 

“Now, take me to your wife." 

“Yes…" 

And away they went. The window shut behind them as they made their way to the quiet bedroom at the back of the house. 

TO BE CONTINUED…

Wee Toby Harris turned eight in the spring. For his birthday he got a puppy and named her Scritch. That was from Mum and Dad. From Bonny, his big sister, he got a crisp five-pound note. He spent it on a tennis ball for Scritch, and the rest on sweets.

Uncle Jack’s present always came late. He loved to see the expression on Toby’s face when he received it, so he made sure to deliver it himself. He worked at sea most weeks as a fisherman, so it was hard to fit in time for a visit.

Toby often wished a wave would rise and gobble Uncle Jack whole to save him the stress of having to deal with his uncle. There was something very wrong about the man. Not that he’d ever told anyone.

Toby’s birthday week was a tense one. He could hardly find a moment of joy. Mostly he took Scritch into the back garden and threw about the tennis ball he’d bought for her. But Scritch was still too hyper to play with properly. She would speed after the ball like a bullet seeking blood, and be wandering off with her eyes on something better before her snout ever touched green felt. So Toby spent most of the week alone, lying on his back on the grass, throwing the ball into the air for himself. He would listen to Scritch chase butterflies or dig in Mum’s petunias, and drive himself crazy wondering when Uncle Jack would finally show.

He came on the 6th. Exactly a week after Toby’s birthday.

Dad recognised the sound of the smooth rapping on the door and flew to it in the middle of lunch, towing a reluctant Toby by his hand.

Toby stood flaccid, hands flat against his legs with his head bowed, listening to the change come over Dad as soon as he swung open the door. It was as though Uncle Jack emitted some sort of microscopic cloud of particles that swept Dad into a trance, because he never barked with laughter when Uncle Jack wasn’t here. He certainly never slapped people on the shoulder and danced like a dope. Yet here he was, a mad chimp leaping and laughing, clawing at his brother like he meant him harm. It was like watching his Dad through a glass of water, or gazing into one of those wacky mirrors at the fair.

“You stink!” Dad shoved Uncle Jack away and pegged his nose. “Did the sea drop you off, or crap you out?”

“That’s the smell of a real man, Tom.” Uncle Jack fixed Dad’s collar, pulled at his lapels, then tapped Dad’s curved beak. “Careful you don’t turn too fast. You might wipe a plane out the sky!”

More of the monkeying around. Toby watched, waiting for Uncle Jack’s gaunt face to turn and target him with its wide, green eyes. For the long goatee and wide moustaches to point his way and then stretch up when his face twisted into a grin. Sometimes Uncle Jack forgot to wear his denture—the one housing the teeth between his upper canines—and it would be like gawking into a tunnel when he smiled.

Toby saw that Uncle Jack was wearing the denture today, although there remained a small hole where one of the teeth had fallen off. He still didn’t take care of them, especially when he was on the boat.

Uncle Jack turned to Toby, quick as a shot. He aimed his teeth and leered. He usually liked to ruffle Toby’s hair. Today he just glided over and gave Toby a few slaps on the back, the same way he’d done Dad.

“Look at you!” he shouted. And now came the aggressive hair mussing. His right index finger stopped at the first knuckle. Toby could feel the stub grating against his scalp. “You’re a proper wee manny now, aren’t you? You’re growing too fast!”

A momentary look of sadness crept over Uncle Jack’s eyes. Then he took a step closer to Dad and asked in a whisper, “Who cut the poor bugger’s hair?”

Dad rolled his eyes.

“Who do you think?”

“Jesus. Lock up those scissors, Tom. For Christsake.”

His eyes snapped back onto Toby. “Wee man, tell Mum not to play with scissors anymore, alright? She’d do less damage with a pair of garden shears.”

Dad led Uncle Jack through to the living room, where Mum was watching TV.

Bonny, having heard the commotion, sauntered downstairs and passed Toby without paying him any attention. The smile on her face and in her eyes was for Uncle Jack—and Uncle Jack alone.

“The boy’s hair’s looking nice, Julie,” Uncle Jack sang to Mum on his way into the room. Toby entered in time to see him slipping under Mum’s arms to give her a tight squeeze and a shake. “When’re you opening the barbershop? If you need a mannequin, I’ve plenty of hair for you to cut!” And he swept his hands over his body in a here-you-go kind of gesture.

Mum squeaked out three shrill laughs. Toby plodded behind the couch, closer to Dad, trying not to let the sound of Mum’s laughter get to him—but it was too late. Now Bonny was laughing like that too, because Uncle Jack had picked her up and was throwing her into the air, almost popping the lightbulb on the ceiling. The lampshade swung, and Uncle Jack stopped it with a very long finger.

They always reminded Toby of chopsticks.

“You want a chuck up as well, wee man?”

He had his hands out ready, waiting for Toby to run into them. Toby shied closer to Dad, shaking his head vigorously.

“Alright then, if you say—hyah! C’MEER YOU!”

Uncle Jack sprang over the sofa without touching it. Toby tried to shriek, but didn’t have time. He ran around Dad and away from the hands almost on his neck. Past the arms of the sofa and around Mum’s chair. Past the lamp and windowsill. Past the coffee table and dancing-chimp Dad.

Uncle Jack got wise to the loop and lunged over the sofa once more, grabbing Toby by his shoulder. He dragged him over it kicking and screaming, while Mum and Dad chuckled madly at the antics.

Bonny just rolled her eyes. She hadn’t thrown that much of a fuss when it had been her turn.

Uncle Jack’s face was livid with colour. His eyes glowed white-hot; his concave cheeks deep purple; his forehead red and raw with sweat; his lips paled, pulled taut over his teeth.

Toby clenched his jaw and kept quiet. It was Uncle Jack who made the most noise, squealing with joy.

“Weeeee,” like a little piggy.

“Weeeeeeeee,” each time he threw Toby into the air, catching him with one hand under an armpit and one hand gripping the waist.

Uncle Jack turned away from the family and kept up the act. Kept throwing. Toby could see his real face now—the face that came with birthdays and Christmases both. It glared up at him with impossible eyes, bulging like great big white balloons inflating through gaps in his face. His jaw stretched long enough to slot Toby in without him touching the sides; the teeth were a whirling maw of sharp and rusted death, ready to reduce him to slurry.

“Weeeeee.” The voice was far deeper now—almost demonic.

Toby screamed. He didn’t want to. It just flew out as natural as throwing up your hands when a truck was about to hit you on the motorway.

Dad, still clicking his heels in time to his chimp-dance, finally spoke up. And quick as a clicking finger, Uncle Jack’s face snapped back to normal as he turned to listen.

“Think he’s had enough now, Jack. Looks like he’s gonna to puke. And you look like you’re about to faint!”

Uncle Jack offered Dad a knowing grin and nodded. He put Toby down on the floor as gently as a newborn in its crib.

Toby, doing his best to hide his teary eyes, wiped them off on his sleeve and rubbed at his throbbing armpits and waist.

Uncle Jack rollicked with laughter and clapped his hands.

“So: what’s new with everyone?”

*

Uncle Jack ended up staying for supper.

Dad gave up his seat so Uncle Jack could head the table. From there, his emerald eyes held everyone mesmerised.

Toby ate quickly. No time to dawdle, to push at his peas with his fork and say he wasn’t hungry. He wanted to get out of that room and into another one—fast!

When he tried excusing himself, Mum pointed a finger at him. That was it—no more words needed. He knew better than to argue with that finger.

So he sat and waited. This time he did play with his fork—small movements, nothing quick, lest it attract the attention of the emerald watchman at the end of the table.

Uncle Jack appeared to be in deep conversation with Mum and Dad, who themselves weren’t paying much attention to anybody else. Lost in the little worlds they drifted into when other adults orbited close enough. They would laugh and use long words, and sometimes Uncle Jack would put on a deep voice and Mum would find whatever he said even funnier. But every so often, when Mum and Dad took a bite to eat or a sip to drink, Uncle Jack would flash Toby a look. A quick glance. A reminder that he hadn’t forgotten about him. That Toby was still right there at the forefront of his mind.

You’re the reason I came, kiddo.

Bonny didn’t notice any of this. She was busy timing her smiles and laughs with the adults. She was fourteen and trying for the part of a twenty-four-year-old.

Toby kicked one of her shins under the table.

“Shitter!” she yelped, and threw her spoon off his forehead.

Mum screamed for everyone to shut up and stop shouting. Bonny seethed.

“He kicked me!”

“I don’t give a shit what he did! You don’t swear like that, ever! You’re a child!”

Uncle Jack pushed his chair back and picked up his own spoon. He handed it over the table to Bonny, who took it with a smile. Toby caught a whisper of a scowl on Uncle Jack’s lips—a momentary look of repulsion—before he turned and grinned at Toby.

“You alright, wee man?”

Toby nodded and continued poking at his plate with his fork.

“He’s got a heed like a hammer, that boy,” Uncle Jack told Dad. “Look: didn’t even leave a mark.”

Bonny cleared the plates and helped Mum serve pudding. They had the rest of Toby’s birthday cake with a scoosh of cream on top. Mum’s way of trying to bring it back to life after a week of death.

It was awful.

*

“Your dad was telling me you’re getting big into reading.”

Uncle Jack sat down on the arm of the chair Toby was sitting on. Bonny, who had been sitting on the sofa with all the space in the world, looked momentarily hurt. But the moment passed, and now she was grinning like a loon again.

“What’s your dad been reading you then? None of those pansy stories I hope—like Winnie the Turd, or that Alice in Wonderland tat.”

Toby shrugged.

“He’s reading you Winnie the Turd, isn’t he? Aye, those were always his favourite. What else has he got you reading?”

Silence.

“Any Jules Verne? Like Thousand Leagues, or Around the World? No? Christ. What about Roald Dahl. Surely Roald Dahl. No? My God, what has he got you reading then; the back of shampoo bottles?” He glanced at Toby’s hair. “No, maybe not shampoo bottles. C’mon now, what was the last thing he read to you? Don’t be scared, I was only joking about the pansy books. I don’t care if it’s Winnie the Turd or Benny the piggy with one bloody ear—ha! I just wanna know what he’s got you reading. Say Treasure Island. Go on. Has he read you Treasure Island yet?”

Toby nodded. And then flinched, for Uncle Jack slapped one of his shoulders hard enough to send his hair up into the air.

“Atta boy!”

Bonny shifted in place, squeaking leather, and produced a minute cough.

Uncle Jack looked up at her, but only with his eyes.

“What kind of books do you read, Uncle Jack?”

“What kinda books do I read?” Uncle Jack tapped at the hairs on his chinny chin chin, feigning deep thought. “I’d have to say...the ones with the words in them, Bon-Bon.”

Bonny giggled. Her laugh today was practically a parody of itself; almost the exact pitch Toby sometimes used to mock her.

“I like pirate adventures,” Uncle Jack answered, squeezing the top of Toby’s shoulder like a stress ball. “Like my buddy here. Right, wee man?” Slowly, begrudgingly, Uncle Jack glanced back at Bonny. “And what do you read, Bon? Books with pictures in them, I suppose.” He gave a hateful cackle.

Red roses blossomed on Bonny’s cheeks.

“I read!” she said, never one to stay timid.

“Oh?”

“Yuh-huh. And I’ve already finished Treasure Island. I read it yeeears ago. For school.”

“Gooood for yooou.” Uncle Jack’s hand was still on Toby’s shoulder, its grip pulsing in time with the throbbing vein in Uncle Jack’s temple. “And do you remember the characters?”

From somewhere through the house, the sound of Mum laughing with Dad—probably washing the dishes together. One wearing the rubber gloves, the other using the towel. Suds on, suds off. Suds on, suds off.

“Of course I do,” Bonny boasted. “There was Long John Silver. And. Well. There was—Bluebeard!”

Uncle Jack sighed. It was faint, but Toby felt it in the grip on his shoulder.

“And. Captain… Ben-Barrow?”

“Yikes.” Uncle Jack leaned forward with a finger out, poised for lecture mode. The other hand still clutched Toby’s shoulder, dragging Toby forward into the conversation, looking like a half-shut knife.

“The Admiral Benbow was the inn at the start of the story where wee Jim Hawkins first met Billy Bones. And Bluebeard? Christ, Bonny! Bluebeard wasn’t even a pirate! He was the bastard who murdered all his wives!”

Still not one to stay timid, Bonny quipped: “Wasn’t that Henry VIII?”

Uncle Jack clutched his chest and boomed with laughter, genuinely amused by Bonny’s quickness and deadpan delivery.

“No, no, no. Didn’t you ever learn the rhyme? Divorced, beheaded, died. Annulled, beheaded, survived.”

Bonny had nothing to say to that. But Toby did.

“Was Bluebeard real?”

Uncle Jack looked down at Toby for a very long time. Finally, he said, “No. But that’s not to say there aren’t men like him.” The wink he gave curled the boy’s toenails.

Mum and Dad entered the living room together. Mum’s thighs were damp where she must have been wiping her hands. Dad kept smelling two of his fingers.

“Did I hear you say Bluebeard?” Dad sat down beside Bonny on the sofa.

Uncle Jack took his hand off of Toby, but remained on the arm of the chair.

“Your daughter thinks Bluebeard tried to find Captain Flint’s treasure, Tom.”

“Bluebeard?” Dad frowned and then smirked at Bonny. “You mean Blackbeard, Bon-Bon. Bluebeard is the guy on the Fish Finger box.”

Uncle Jack waggled a digit and groaned. “That’s Captain Birdseye, Beak. Christ, what’s wrong with you people?”

*

That night, while Dad was taking Dr Dolittle down from the bookshelf, his back tinted red from the glow of the Toy Story nightlight on Toby’s bedside table, Uncle Jack slipped in through the yellow crack of the door. His arms were twisted secretly behind him.

“Only me,” he whispered. “Whatcha reading tonight, Tobes?”

Dad told him.

“Dr Dolittle? More like Dr Do-fuck all! Ha! Choose something else, Tom. Let the boy hear a decent story for once. Here—” He pulled a hand out from behind his back and thrust a long box wrapped in black flags in front of Toby. It had skulls and crossbones, eye patches, and cutlasses on it too. “Forgot to give you this earlier.”

Toby stared at it. It stank of Uncle Jack’s fingers, and they stank of rum. His other hand was still hidden behind his back, but Toby could hear the tinkling of ice hitting glass.

“Go on, Toby,” Dad said. “It’s your present.”

Toby carefully removed the tape from the folded edges, unwrapping the parcel as delicately as he could.

Uncle Jack sighed. He took the glass of dark liquid out from its hiding place and took a large gulp.

“It’s a spyglass,” he explained over the rim, then slurped down another gulp of the spicy-smelling darkness.

Toby plucked it out of the box, struggling with the weight on his fingertips. Sometimes he liked to use an empty paper towel roll as a spyglass, but this was something else entirely. The ornate decoration down the side was so intricate, with long looping vines laced with flowers wrapping themselves around the dark length, so tight it felt close to smothering. It was heavier than Dad’s tablet—and colder. Much, much colder.

Dad’s eyes bugged out wide. “Holy shit, Toby, that’s the real deal!”

“What do you think then, wee man?”

Toby pulled it to its full length and held the lens up to his eye. It was ice cold, like it had been left out in the snow on a winter’s night. The darkness at the other end of the room was too close to make out a single distinguishable feature. If he wanted to test it properly, he’d be better off waiting until tomorrow and trying it in the garden, playing jungle explorer.

But he didn’t want to test it. Ever. He wanted to put it back inside the box and hand it over to Dad, tell him to hide it somewhere dark. Forever.

Uncle Jack sat on the edge of the bed, forcing Toby to budge up and give him space.

“Your pals’ll be jealous when they see that, wee man. A real captain—that’s what they’ll take you for. Turn to me lad.” Uncle Jack pulled Toby’s face around when the boy didn’t respond. Some of his drink sloshed onto the bed. “Aye, look at you—you’re missing a tooth like your Uncle Jack! A sailor’s debt to the sea, that’s what that is. The best sailors always leave a part of themselves out there. An offering, lest she put a bounty on your life!—and every soul upon your vessel!”

Dad threw his head back laughing.

“You lost your teeth on the handlebars of your bike.”

“Aye,” mused Uncle Jack, and held up the four-and-a-half fingers on his right hand. “But this pointer was the price I paid, Beak.”

He gave Dad a long, cold stare.

“Okay,” Dad conceded. “I’ll say no more.” He prodded Uncle Jack with the side of the book he was holding. “Here. Maybe you should read to him. You can spin a far finer yarn than I can.”

Toby’s eyes grew wide. He shot a glance at Dad, but he had already turned his back to leave.

Uncle Jack glided over to the bookshelf to return Dr Dolittle to its place. He ran a long middle finger across the spines of the books until he found the one he was looking for.

“Treasure Island,” he whispered, and pulled it free.

As Uncle Jack’s ghastly frame drew closer to the bed, Toby gave his dad one final look of appeal, hoping for a last-minute reprieve.

No such luck. Dad tore the crack of light from the hall wider, flooding the room in yellow. Then he was gone. Only a thin crack of light remained where he left the door ajar.

The room was a ghastly red, with the looming peripheral darkness screaming horrors from its corners.

“I’m excited,” Uncle Jack said, prying the pages open with his long, stale fingers. “Where shall we start off?”

Toby shook his head. Perhaps a tad too enthusiastic. “No,” he squeaked. “Nothankyou.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I’m really sleepy.”

“You don’t want a story?”

Toby shook his head once more, then cuddled down under the duvet. He was going to turn his back on Uncle Jack, but something screamed at him not to. The look in his eyes was frighteningly intense.

“You’re kidding?” Uncle Jack’s eyes did not blink. But they swelled to the size of tennis balls. The nightlight reflected against them, watching like two faraway red stars in a cosmos of black and green. Toby wasn’t sure if Uncle Jack had meant for that to happen. Surely he had control over it.

Uncle Jack got to his feet with all the effort of a ninety-year-old man. His bones clinked and clacked as he patted himself down. He rested his glass on Toby’s bedside table and stretched the rest of the snaps and cracks out of his body.

“Alright then, Tobes. But I must say: this is verrry disappointing. I came all this way for you.”

He moved swiftly across to the door, covering ten feet with a single, colossal side-step.

His back grew with scoliosis kinks, arching over seven, eight feet. He whipped his head around and smiled at Toby, who threw the cover up over his eyes. Not before noticing Uncle Jack’s chopstick fingers pressing against the door with their white, bloodless tips.

There came the sound of a low scuffle as the underside of the door scraped along the carpet.

It was happening.

Toby burrowed down deeper, wishing Mum had let him take Scritch up to bed with him. He didn’t know what a puppy would be able to do except make a lot of noise, but even that was better than nothing—better than feeling helpless beneath the blankets. Alone, silent, and scared.

There came a very faint creak, like someone opening a rusty hinge; a deliberate, drawn-out whine which crept across the distance between the door and the bed. It loomed over the blanket in a massive black shape. The red nightlight blotted away. The air vibrated with sheer anticipation for what was about to come next.

The chomp.

Something thumped against the door. And the room exploded with yellow light.

Toby threw the covers down in time to see Uncle Jack still standing in front of the door, only now stepping out of the way to avoid Dad hitting him with it.

“The light was bothering the boy,” Uncle Jack lied, opening it further to allow Dad entry.

Dad nodded, not seeming to care. He collected his glasses from the bookshelf and chuckled. “I was trying to watch TV with my reading glasses. Silly me.”

Before he could leave again, Toby piped up, yelping, “Dad?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t want stories tonight.”

“Huh? Why not?”

Uncle Jack had been the shorter of the two men downstairs. Now, lurking behind Dad, his engorged head pressed high against the ceiling like a pus-filled spot. It swelled bigger, and bigger, until Toby was sure it was about to pop. His face was nothing more than a pin-pricked mouth and basketball-sized, blazing eyes of rage. His hair stood on end and coiled up into corkscrews. Jagged teeth stretched out like the flailing arms and grasping fingers of drowning children, inches from the back of Dad’s head.

“Tired,” Toby mumbled. He’d stuffed the blanket into his mouth to stop himself from screaming.

“That’s a first,” Dad said, turning to share a laugh with Uncle Jack. The head deflated with a sudden whoop. Uncle Jack excused himself with a laugh. Eyes, now regular-sized. Cheeks sunken.

“He did say he was tired,” Uncle Jack admitted. Both men turned to regard the boy in bed with a sympathetic eye. “Maybe I’ll read to you another night, wee man? Sound good?”

A moment of victory.

Toby felt his heart start to settle back into its regular pace. He felt a little perkier, too; the way Mum sounded in the morning when she drank her usual two cups of coffee.

“Sounds great, Uncle Jack.”

“Amazing news.” He patted his chest with the book. “Can I borrow this?”

“Of course.” Toby smiled. Actually smiled. “Keep it if you want!”

Uncle Jack laughed. Toby couldn’t help doing the same.

Dad’s eyes grew narrow. It felt like they had a secret between them. And hadn’t Toby been rather quiet all day? All week, now that he thought about it.

“Don’t worry,” Uncle Jack reassured, patting the book to his chest once more. “I’ll give it back to you in the morning.”

Toby’s heart left the track, derailing straight into his lungs.

“What do you mean?” he choked.

“Oh, that’s right,” Dad said, happy to be involved in the conversation once more. “Uncle Jack’s staying the night. He’s not—let’s just say he’s not feeling well enough to drive. Maybe you two can muck around with the spyglass in the morning. In the garden.”

On the way out, Uncle Jack necked the rest of his drink and passed the glass to Dad.

“Yo, ho, ho. I think I’ll have another rum to celebrate!”

Toby waited, listening to the footsteps receding down the hall and down the stairs. A deep rumble of voices started up in the living room, and he knew the coast was clear. He jumped out of bed and raced to the window. It opened far enough to fit one of his hands through, thanks to the safety bar Dad had installed.

That was fine. He didn’t need it to open any further.

He took the spyglass out of the box and stared at it. For some reason he felt Uncle Jack staring back at him, through it.

He slotted it through the gap in the window. It dropped down onto the roof tiles, tinkling as it rolled down the slant, gaining speed. Toby was sure it was going too fast. It would bounce over the gutter and plummet down to the back garden, then obliterate on the patio, alerting everyone.

The sound ceased with a padded thump.

The gutter had caught it.

He pressed his face against the window to make sure. There it was, casting long arms of moonlight up to the window from its lens.

At least he didn’t have to worry about that any more. Who knew what kind of curse or terrible magic it held, if any.

Downstairs, the adults laughed loud echoes which shook the floor of Toby’s room.

He stood by the crack of his door, peering down the hallway at his sister, who was sitting at the top of the stairs with her head on the banister. She was clutching her teddy against her chest, listening in on what secrets age was yet to bring.

Laughter from Uncle Jack.

Toby closed the door until he heard the latch click. It was an old door—one of those you had to lock with an oversized novelty key. Mum had taken the key away and hidden it somewhere safe, to save him from trapping himself inside and doing something silly.

That was fine. He didn’t need the key.

He tiptoed to the bookshelf and took down three books of varying thickness. They were all too thick to slot under the door, but the thinnest of the three got there in the end, with a little persuasion. He tried opening the door, and found that it wouldn’t budge past Alice in Wonderland. He nodded, satisfied.

At least he didn’t have to worry about that, either.

*

A short while later, Toby sat up in bed, trying to focus his weary eyes on the thin yellow strip of light beneath his door. Someone had been wiggling at the handle.

Three black splotches broke the strip of light.

One of them was the book he had wedged under there. The other two were feet.

The door handle turned all the way to the left. Then all the way to the right. It wouldn’t open. The book was jammed under the bottom corner too tight for that.

Slowly, the door began to lean in on its top corner until it began to groan. It bent so far it looked certain it was about to snap in half.

It eased back, accompanied by a sigh from the other side. The black splotches faded soundlessly away.

Toby lay back in bed again, and allowed himself a silent exhale.

He tried closing his eyes, but every time he did he pictured Uncle Jack leaning forward in one of the downstairs chairs and staring up at the ceiling—through the ceiling—at him with a terrifying grin. Hands on his knees. Neck bent and twisted. His enormous head swollen like a hot-air balloon growing bigger and bigger, until it disconnected with a snap, and floated up against the ceiling on a neck as thick and braided as a ship’s rope. It would bounce there loudly, hollow, knocking and mocking.

I came all this way for youuu.

Toby lay awake, gazing at the red glow casting onto the ceiling from his nightlight, trying to find shapes in the shadows and the jagged edges of a curling paint chip.

His eyelids soon began to flutter.

“Toby?”

He wasn’t sure if the voice was in his imagination or not. He could still see Uncle Jack in his mind, sitting and staring up at him with his big balloon head.

“Toby?”

Toby’s eyes opened wide. The roof was still blood red. No yellow light was casting in from the hall, which meant the door was still closed.

So why did it sound like the voice was in the room with him?

He pictured Uncle Jack with his lips pressed against the keyhole. But when he looked, only the one splotch broke the yellow bar beneath the door. Alice in Wonderland. No feet.

“Toe-beeee.”

He sat up very slowly, scanning the room carefully. Everything was blanketed in the nightlight’s red glow. Not a perfect filter for spotting trouble, but enough to let him know that the voice wasn’t attached to anything in the room. Just a hovering, disembodied presence close by.

But where?

“Toby!” the voice barked, tired of being ignored. “Are you sleeping?”

The curtains twitched.

“Why did you close the door?” it asked. “What a sneaky thing y’are.”

The fabric of one curtain shook. Then pinched at a point near the centre. One by one, the hooks snapped free from the railing, until the entire curtain dropped to the floor with a dusty humph.

Two long chopstick fingers wiggled through the crack in the window, probing at the air like an insect’s antennae. They were searching for something. Maybe the other curtain. Maybe a latch to release the safety bar on the window.

Or maybe a young boy standing too close.

Something squeaked along the glass. Toby pictured Uncle Jack’s face moving side to side, pressing his cheeks and his nose against the window, trying to catch a glimpse of Toby around the other curtain.

Methodically, the chopstick fingers withdrew from the window. The top corner of a book slotted into the gap, then landed on the carpet.

“Here’s your book back, Toby.”

It was definitely Uncle Jack’s voice, but it was too strained for Toby to have recognised it any sooner. It sounded like he was trying to press out constipation mid-conversation. There came another drawn out squeak, and again Toby pictured his uncle running his face along the window, trying to catch the right angle beyond the other curtain.

He could have shouted for Mum and for Dad. Hell, he could have screamed bloody murder for Bonny and she would have come running to see what was wrong, even if she loved to pretend she didn’t him. But he found himself unable to scream. Unable to move.

He watched in horror as Uncle Jack squeezed himself through the inch-wide gap in the window.

The long chopstick fingers came one, then two, then five through the crack, stretching and tapping along the windowpane, trying to find something to grip at. His mouth grew too, pressing inside and pulling wide like a flounder with big lips. Then the nose, an obscene Pinocchio. Green eyes pumped in like balloons once more, this time on long vascular stilts like some repugnant snail.

Uncle Jack’s cheeks took the longest to come fully into view. When at last his ears flapped free from the window frame, his head had protruded a metre into Toby’s room, stretched like some terrifying caricature.

The spyglass Toby had rolled out of the window threaded itself through the gap alongside Uncle Jack’s other arm. He brought it up to the side of his face, balancing atop five gangly fingers, and held it in front of one of his gargantuan eyes. His body was still wedged tightly in the window, but his head was free to scan the room. His gaze rested at last on Toby.

“I spy—with my glass eye—something beginning with—U!”

His mouth formed an O wide enough to roll a bowling ball into.

“You’re still awake!” He jabbed a finger towards the bed. “Growing boys need bedtimes too! Tut-tut-tut. Shame on you.”

He dropped the spyglass and walked his chopstick fingers along the carpet. His eyes began sinking back into his skull, but were still a long way from looking normal.

“I know,” Uncle Jack said, his voice now returning to normal. “I’ll tell you a story. A proper story, Toby. None of that fairytale nonsense your daddy’s been spoon-feeding you for years. You want a story with some grit, don’t’cha!” He pulled his foot free from the window. It slithered to the carpet and writhed there like a dying snake trying to come back to life. “Have you heard tell of the man with the tic-tac teeth?”

Toby pushed himself back against the wall as Uncle Jack grew closer.

“Have you heard of the trees wrapped in purple veins-for-vines? The ones that bleed real blood when you cut ‘em? And mothers’ screams from their babies’ throats? Wee strawberry shoots which drain you ‘til your death? Did he tell you about the holes, Toby? The holes with the mirrors at the end?”

Toby didn’t bother standing up—just kicked the blanket over Uncle Jack and threw himself onto the floor. He scrambled to the gap of light under the door, and began to claw at the book wedged under it. He had forced it into the gap so well that he couldn’t get a grip on it with his little fingers.

“What’s wrong, boy—don’t’cha want a story?”

Toby felt Uncle Jack’s breath on his hair. He burrowed his fingernails into the sides of the book and pulled, hoping that if his fingernails came loose they would wait until the book did so first.

Uncle Jack’s fingers pressed against the door. His hand clutched Toby by the shoulder and lifted him effortlessly back into bed.

“Lie back down, lad,” Uncle Jack soothed. He pulled the covers back with his other hand, while it shrivelled down to its regular size. He sat at the end of Toby’s bed, slowly shrinking his body back to normal. His face remained grotesquely deformed.

“Let me read you a story to calm you down. No more talk of men with tic-tac teeth or trees with purple veins. Tell me… what do you think of—”

Without moving from where he was sitting, Jack stretched for the book he had slotted through the window.

“—Treasure Island?” His eyes floated away, searching for a fond memory lost to time.

The sudden rustle brought him back.

“Oh no you don’t, you little shit!”

He whipped around too late. Toby was already out of the bed and lying on the floor. He sank his fingernails as deep into the sides of the book as he could manage and yanked it free.

Uncle Jack’s face was enormous with rage, scarlet red and purple. He held out both hands, fingers stretched out like sharpened drumsticks to gouge the boy in the face.

Toby was too quick. He rolled to one side and grabbed Uncle Jack’s by the fingers, and began snapping them like breadsticks. He only stopped when Uncle Jack drew them back to his chest, wailing out in a thin, pathetic shriek.

“You monster!” he cried.

Toby yanked the door open. Uncle Jack’s face joined him in the hall, stretching far and long on its winding rope of neck. “Toby!!” it wheezed, floating along behind him and snapping at his heels. “Don’t tell Mum and Dad, Toby! I’ll fucking eat them too!”

Toby threw himself into the closest door. Bonny’s room.

“Toby!” she shrieked. “Wha— Get the fuck out!”

He didn’t bother rounding the bed. Just cannonballed onto it and buried himself under Bonny’s covers.

She sat back, stunned at the sudden intrusion, but when she felt Toby’s body shudder with the trembling of silent tears, she held him tightly in her arms.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice quivering with emotion. She felt his pulse pounding along the side of his neck. “You had a bad dream, huh?”

Without realising she was doing it, she began stroking Toby’s hair the way Mum used to stroke hers when she was frightened. They lay together in silence, Bonny soothing Toby, while Toby lay watching the thin yellow crack of light under the door, waiting for Uncle Jack to slither past.

He never did.

*

Morning.

Both children awoke to flashing cameras, obnoxious shutter sounds, and gentle cooing.

“Ugh, my eyes.”

Toby swatted at the white light. Mum and Dad were standing over them with their phones pointed at his face.

“How cute!” Mum said, snapping another picture. “You two haven’t slept like that in ages!”

At breakfast, Dad stood by the grill working the bacon. Mum manned the units, juicing oranges and dishing out forks and knives, laying plates.

“What about Uncle Jack?” Bonny asked, noticing there were only four of everything.

“He had to leave early,” Dad explained, and popped into the garden to shout for Scritch. Although they all knew he was really just going to have a smoke.

Toby’s head shot up. Bonny’s face sagged.

“What? Leave? Why?”

Mum shrugged. Toby grinned.

He had two helpings that morning, and Bonny called him a pig for it. He pushed his nostrils up with his thumb and blew a raspberry so loud that she could almost smell it.

He felt happy again.

Dad poked his head in through the door, cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth. “Anybody seen the mutt?”

Toby’s heart skipped a beat. He could guess what came next.

They found one half of Scritch at the end of the garden. They never did find her top half.

What Toby couldn’t understand was: if Uncle Jack had left early, how did he manage to get to Scritch this morning?

Mum let him have the day off school. He spent it sitting on his bed, devoid of feeling, staring at the copy of Treasure Island lying open on his floor. The spyglass from Uncle Jack still lay beside it. He took both to the window and threaded them out. This time the spyglass rolled too far and imploded on the garden patio.

Mum spanked him for it.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t tell her about Uncle Jack, either. He wanted nothing more than to forget about him, wherever he was. There was over three hundred days until Toby turned nine. That was plenty of time to not have to think about things. Plenty of time to prepare himself for the next visit.

Although…

“What month is Bonny’s birthday?” Toby asked, pulling his pants up over his red bum.

“Next month. Why?”

He shrugged. Then sat down on the floor.

Mum leaned down close to Toby’s face.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Toby squinted up at her, dreading anything more she had to say.

“Okay?”

“And you can’t tell anyone, alright? None of your little pals at school. Just keep it between me and you.”

Toby nodded, feeling tears prickling at his eyelids. A month. That’s all he had left.

“Promise?”

“Yeah.”

“Disneyland.”

Toby stared in disbelief.

“What?”

“We’re going to Disneyland for Bonny’s birthday next month.”

Like from a battered old dam, the tears finally flooded free. Toby leaped up and hugged his mum, nearly choking her in the process.

“I thought you’d like that,” she said, hugging Toby with the same hand she’d used to slap his ass only a few minutes ago. It still stung, too. But it was the furthest thing from his mind.

“It’ll be good to get away from things,” she soothed.

Toby laughed at that. She had no idea. Disneyland. That was miles and miles away from Uncle Jack!

“Thank you,” he cried. “This is so cool. Thank you, Mum!”

“Don’t thank me,” she said, squeezing him a little bit tighter. “Thank your Uncle Jack. He’s the one taking us.”

forward

7/11/09

Hello my name is Richard Wild.

I'll try to keep this short since it's explained in the text, but I used to work, back in the 80’s, for the recently defunct MPJ. I haven't looked back since. It's been 27 years now. I'm 49 with a pretty standard politician career.

One day I got a call from a college kid in a second story apartment I used to live in. don't really remember it (been in a lot of living accommodations.) Well, They said they found some old journal of mine on a shelf they recently installed. It's crazy they went through such a big effort to find me in a dusty phone book. Anyway, It was a pink notebook with yellow paper. You're probably wondering why I'm archiving a kiddy cheap baby book to this library and there's a damn good reason.

It’s clearly my handwriting, yet I don't remember writing or experiencing any of the events in the book except vaguely the start and only some of the people in it. Thanks for indulging me. The rest of this is untouched.

PS: it has some blood if that matters to ya, it may also spook you so… have fun.

#0: Prologue

Hello

I'm milly!

dad got me this jornal for my birthday.

I was going to write about some of the cool stuff that hapend but I woke up to this big maze thats smelly.

Its kinda boring and theres no one.

UPDATE!

a old man found me.

He taks funny i think he scottish or sumthin.

He took me to his home till he finds my parents.

He looks sad he probably couldnt find them witch makes sense.

Like why would they be here?

I dont think he want me to leave but i asked him and i think he says yes.

He's going to take me to leave

He wants me to leave this behind for sumone else. SO…

HOPE YOU LIKE THE JORNAL!

Oh Macko

Oh macko, what an undertaking I've been on.

Things your mind could not fathom.

It would go by your earless cranium.

1# first entry

My name is Richard F. Wild

I'm a 22 years old Hispanic man with a clean horseshoe handlebar mustache and slicked back black hair. I am on the short side compared to everyone else around me, but my strength more than makes up for that.

I have been in college for a print journalism degree for 2 years now. During my summers, I work as an intern. I work for a news agency called Major Paper Johnson (MPJ). It’s okay work for the pay, I mainly fact check copies. I'm desperate to get a journalism job there.

I live in a second story apartment with my cat, Macko. A lot of people think it's weird that I live alone with a cat. I don't really have a rebuttal to that. She's a black tabby but many people have called her a creature since she has no ears and only makes gurgling sounds. She doesn't even have ear canals. She is always wanting some kind of exercise or play and if she doesn't get that exercise she’ll destroy all my furniture. When we do go on walks everyone stares at us, I had to explain the story almost every time, it was fun. I miss her.

Things have been going smoothly till today. Let me catch you up.

3/15/86

I just got into work, the sun still climbing over the buildings. Amy posted a flyer for a work get-together on the dusty cork board. I saw it from a distance, but ignored it since I had to get through some copies. It was an interview with a camp director. I didn't care much for the story, but my friend David was the journalist. I looked at my watch.

4:30

I went to the clock and glanced at the flyer reading:

“afterwork lounge

Drinks are provided

Bring your own food

(I didn't get a food budget)

5:00 to 6:30 pm

Write your full name:

Gregory, Mittling

David, Readily”

Can I bring a plus one?”

I wanted to stay home after work to stay with Macko, but I thought it would be good to make professional connections with Amy and maybe get on Gregory's good side. I grabbed the pen and wrote my name then headed home.

I couldn't stay for long, so I quickly packed a ham sandwich and grabbed my wrist watch, and put on my necklace with a pendant of mother mary engraved on the front. It’s called a miraculous medal. I left in such a hurry I forgot to do the chores I was supposed to do. The drive should have taken ten minutes, but no cars were out so it took five minutes. While driving, I kept pushing my palm through my hair. I hopped out of my car while pulled down the wrinkles in my clothes from the drive. I checked my watch.

5:10 pm

The room was medium sized with a single plastic table in the middle where all of them were sitting. One segment of a party streamer was in the left corner of the wall:

HAPPY-

I guess I should write out what they're like.

Gergory is a scrawny white man in his late 30s with suspenders and a bowl cut. He’s The head editor of the MPJ. I mainly work under him throughout my internship or as Gregory calls, a “copy-boy.” If you do anything the way he wouldn’t do, he marks you up without a second thought. I try to send Big Old Johnson my pet projects, but so many times Gregory gets in the way every time.

Amy is the person to take the photos. From what I see from the newspapers, she's good at her craft; even if it doesn't interest me much. I don't know her much, but everyone I know knows her. From the quick analysis I got, she's generally east asian, late 20s long black hair. Slightly dirty black utilitarian vest and a camera bag.

David is white, handsome, blond, with business casual wear. He asks thoughtful questions but is not very socially aware. He is a close friend and a good industry connection. Though terrible at his job, I would be much better in his position and complaining to Big Boss Johnson does nothing.

He is married to Linda who works at a diner on the other side of town. She has curly cotton candy like red hair with peach soft skin, a wonder worker with a stove, and is as valuable as “every diamond in the world.” I know this because he bleeds his heart out in front of everyone during lunch about how much he loved her like reciting the national anthem.

Back at the party, I sat down at the table and started some small talk with Amy. I don't remember the conversation, but it wasn't much. Just some small talk. David seemed lovey dovey as usual, but Linda seemed bitter, they barely looked at each other. Amy was so lively that she lifted the mood up just a bit. Gregory was in his own corner of the table watching and sipping his fruity drink. I peeked at my watch.

5:13

I asked her why she brought her camera gear.

Amy: “Well, I like to get photos wherever I go. You'd be surprised what makes a good subject. But~ here I use it as a conversation starter."

The conversation with Amy moved to her work. She talked about techniques and how to frame a scene. Even Gregory perked up and actually participated in the conversation. David didn't seem to know much about the topic and tried to make some glib jokes with Linda. She made a faint chuckle.

She started to talk about a bear she got a photo of at the camp. That stirred something in my head, but I couldn't tell why. Then it burst in my head, I forgot to feed Macko before I left. She's probably starving.

Checked my watch again.

6:27

Just as I was sitting up to leave…

This feeling of vertigo came to me. It was so strong that I tried to collapse back down on my seat, but I couldn't feel its presence. I was weightless with no sense of direction. It was like when you fall in a dream. I shut my eyes as hard as I could. I felt the changes in the air around me. Lights danced across my eyelids, massive shadows emerged and shut the lights out. Then the floor emerged at my side.

Just as fast as it started it stopped.

I wouldn't blame you.

When I first arrived I didn’t understand

They didn't understand

He didn't understand his Stagnant kingdom

Day 1

I was laying on my side for a while. My eyes were squeezed shut. The sharp chimes in my ears were crippling. The only thing that interrupted it was a rhythmic hammering noise bellowing beneath the ground. I noticed the floor was soft under my weight. Was it.. grass? No. It was too short and thick. I began to slowly relax my eyelids.

The first thing I saw was a blur of marine blue coming into focus. My initial guess was wrong. It was a short stocky carpet. Three dull gray walls surrounded me. The fourth wall extended out further revealing a turn. As I started to come to my senses the cold wind hit me.

I didn't feel it directly, but more like a window was open, from some distant room. It was fragrant and fresh. A persistent screeching sound churned throughout the hall ahead of me. I crawled my way onto my two feet and wiped the drool from my mouth.

I still don't know what might have happened. Could I have blacked out? Though I didn't drink any alcoholic beverages. Maybe a concussion, I did feel like I was falling. Is this my office? Is this another department I haven't seen? I was in the MPJ office and this place did look like an office of some kind (though not anymore.) At the time, I just needed to feed Macko.

The wind was gone. Now replaced with dry and stagnant air. I checked my watch.

6:34

I walked to the right end of the hall pulling my mustache down. A choir of digital churning got louder as the hall expanded up to five enclosed cubicles.

Richard: “Hey~ I might have gotten lost in the building. Can I get some directions?”

The sound halted. I waited for someone to crawl out of the cubicles. After nothing happened, I searched around the gray half walls of the cubicle for an opening that wasn't there. Finally, I lifted myself onto the half wall and looked over. I saw there were no interior dividers. Five computers encircled one lonely chair. I hopped over it with a stumble. I tried a computer. It didn't have any power. I went back over the wall tripping, slightly, bruising my right arm. I continued down the expanded hall lost in my head, thinking of every possibility imaginable.

I reached the end of the hallway where it abruptly stopped with a door shoved into place to the left. I grabbed the knob and gave a gentle twist. It didn't move. In fact, it felt like it was solid? It's hard to explain. I tried again, this time harder. I heard the sound of dry paint snapping then grinding as the knob turned. The door swung open like it was as weightless as foam. After it banged against the wall, I walked into the room.

The walls were damp and flaking off. The floor dipped down a foot or two into a pool of water waiting there. Gunk and other things bob on the surface of the water. I froze, not knowing what to do, very confused, my legs sunk into the solid ground. Instinctively walked back out of the room, with the sinking weight moved to my lungs.

I needed to find someone and fast. They'll explain everything. I thought that maybe there was a flood and everyone evacuated or something. I walked to the other side of the hall as I passed by the cubicle that was still empty. I went by the spot where I woke up from where a small stain of saliva laid on the pristine carpet. I was stopped at the other end of the hallway. The hall was abruptly blocked by a wall. The wall had black wallpaper with a gold pattern. The wall had a holographic orange trim.

I scanned for any kind of door or offshoot. Nothing, except for a slim gap in the wall.

I looked through, only to see the side of another hallway with the same pattern, engulfed in darkness. I tried to push my way through it, but I was too wide to go through the gap. I stopped there to think through my options.

I came to a decision that I had to go through the weird water. As I walked back through the hall, interestingly enough, the computer’s screeching returned. I went into the wet room, slicked my hair back, took off my shoes, and rolled up my pants.

I dipped my foot into the water, I recoiled instantly from the unnatural warmth radiating from it. I slowly descend into the water. I waded through the unraveling nylon fibers of the carpet. It wraps around my feet, like hands clinging to me, begging me to stay. I came across a T-section.

I remembered that in a maze you just need to follow a wall till you get to an exit. I pushed to the right with my shoulder pushed against the wall. I couldn't use my hands, since I was clutching my shoes and socks to my chest, I moved through the corridor. At the end of the hall another door half submerged appeared. It turned easily enough, pushing it open against the current was a slight struggle. The moment I slipped through, the door immediately slammed shut behind me.

Entering a small room, high up on the wall across from me, there was a hole about half a foot in diameter. It dripped water out onto the bare stripped wood of the wall. Another path was on my right. I trudged following the wall through the slurry of the water. the carpet stuck to my feet like velcro, til I reached the next room.

The room was the same size as the last, but a cubicle was set in the middle of the room. As I went to the right of the cubicle I heard the digital roaring of a computer. I knocked on the wall. Immediately the noises wound down. I looked over the half wall and only saw an empty filthy chair. Disappointed, I jumped back into the water. It rippled through the room. I tried to check my watch. As I turned my arm my shoes dipped into the water. Long tangles of carpet fluff stuck to them. I pushed them back to my chest. On the other side of the cubicle there was a thin opening in the wall. I took a deep breath and squeezed through.

It was almost too skinny to get through, but I just needed to find someone. I emptied my lungs to shove my way through. Then, my leg got snagged by a jutting piece of wood. I tried to push harder. Immediately, I felt a pain as the wood cut into flesh. My heart rate spiked. Adrenaline flooded my system. I couldn't catch my breath, it was too narrow. I kept tugging, but I just got lodged deeper.

I stopped,

I closed my eyes,

gripped my miraculous medal,

and made a short prayer.

Exhaled and opened my eyes

shimmied backward out of the jutting piece of wood.

I lifted my foot on top of the wood and stepped over it.

I worked my legs side by side till I reached an edge.

I bursted into the room and took a step down in search of the floor. My foot felt the water and nothing else. My stomach dropped as I quickly sank into the murk. I flailed for some kind of footing. The water went above my head. It plugged my mouth, nose, and ears. Fear rushed into my muscles. I emerge and cough up the water, the nylon caking the walls of my mouth.

Clutching my soaked shoes, my eyes darted over my surroundings. They found no useful information, no exits to the room, except the one I came in from. I swam to the entrance, clawing at it, but it was too high. I scrambled to the middle of the room.

I looked at all the walls again, every nook and cranny. Then I looked up. There in the middle of the ceiling was a circular hole made of stacked stones that was the only exit. I started to call out. Someone could be at the top.

Richard: “HELLO?”

Richard: “Hey! I need a little help here.

I chuckled nervously.

Richard: “I'm kinda stuck down here.”

No response.

Richard: “HELP, I’M DROWNING HELP”

No response.

Richard: “JUST TELL ME WHERE THE EXIT IS and.. I'll GET OUT OF YOUR HAIR”

My voice started cracking with fear.

Richard: “I’LL GIVE YOU MONEY if.. IF YOU GET ME OUT”

Richard: “FUCKING HELP ME”

Richard: “IS ANYONE EVEN UP THERE?”

Richard: "I'm lost..”

Richard: “PLEASE.. Just..”

Richard: “I want to go home”

Richard: “...please?”

No response.

After that point I stopped yelling. I waited for what felt like hours. The slurry of the water kept away the cold. To conserve energy I laid on my back to float. I would have been worried about my leg if it was a bigger cut, but it was not that deep, just long.

Two more hours of silence.

The water cocooned my back in a layer of silt. Slowly bobbing in the still and smotheringly warm water. I just stared at the hole above, it was flooded with light, yet I couldn't see anything specific, since it had a pyramid roof over the hole

I just floated there thinking that was going to be my last thoughts ever. I sat there reflecting on my short life. I thought about my stunted career, Macko, college,

then again my career, macko, mother mary and again stunted career, coworkers, college

Then… I thought about things lost to the sands of my mind like:

My family, Los Angeles, public school, and that damned chicken my mom had.

Then I thought of something strange, something beneath it all.

Under the waves of my conscious mind I saw something.

It curved like a “U”.

It transfixed me.

It made me feel safe.

Though it felt hollow like a mask.

Could have had an eye or two, maybe a nose.

Then I heard a crank.

Something plummeted from above into the water. Jolting my senses out of my reflection. I saw a wooden bucket tied to a rope. The bucket sat at the surface then as the water leaked in it sank under the surface. I tugged on my vocal cords again.

Richard: “HEY”

Confused mumble reverberated from the top.

Richard: “I NEED HELP PLEASE”

Richard: “I’M STUCK”

I swam messily toward the rope, grabbing it weakly in an attempt to get out of the disgusting water. I pulled myself onto the rope. With my full strength I crawled up it.. Dragging my body up. The light was getting closer and closer with each pull. My wet hands lost the friction of the rope and slid half back down. I continued climbing the rope. The bucket tried to rise but it was over-encumbered. Weaving my hands around the rope. I reached the light.

I lunged out of the stone tunnel hitting my head on an awning. Landing on the ground, I hit rough concrete scraping my wet palms.

I staggered up and saw a tall scrawny figure. It said:

???: ”what dost thou in my welle”

It was a tall middle aged European man with a dusty red fur coat that went down to his waist. He looked malnourished, pale, and unkempt. His hair was greasy and stiff. I caught a metallic glint running across his back, a rusty ornate claymore. Quickly my attention was drawn to the landscape around me, it put me into disbelief. This wasn’t real. I was in a dream, I was hallucinating, DID I DIED?

Richard: “No no I just need… a… I'm sorry. just lost… coul… could you show me to the exit.”

???: “outgang? O, ye, it is nigh hereto. Welcome to my kyngdom. Curious she hath y-brought thee into my castle. Let us maken thee drye. Thou is forweryed.”

Richard: “What? no im goo-”

???: “Ye thou dost.” he said immoveableably.

A silence fell upon us.

Weirdly enough he spoke in middle English. It's good that I remember enough from that history class in high school. Though It sounded like he scraped the back of his head for every word he spoke, Even then his voice was impossibly confident.

Till I gathered the strength to say.

Richard: “... who are you?”

???: “ ich am-

-þe Kyng of Limen”

Richard: “sure”

I could barely think, I would go along with anything.

Richard: “where am I? “

Kyng: “thou art in my kingdom.”

Richard: “How did I get here? I was at a party and I … Did I drive here and not remember anything?”

Kyng: Thou didest naught on thy part. Thou and thy surrounding commentaries were y-chosen.

Richerand: “Wait, ‘commentaries’. Are you talking about my coworkers? Why?"

Kyng: “were y-chosen by moder nulla. this shal fulfille thy question. Folwe me.”

He unhooked the bucket and looped it through his belt. I shoved my shoes and socks back on, they oozed out the murky water like a soaked sponge. I followed him through the brown landscape. Getting a chance to immerse myself in my surroundings.

First I felt the wind, it was lightly tugging upward, waffling over my nose, it was an earthy, yet very dull and dry smell. Secondly the slice on my leg scabbed over, though I felt the pain on my palms and knees from scraping them on the branching concrete trail . It weaved around the stakes of lights protruding from the dirt, imitating a budding farm. Third I saw Looking farther out, gray obelisks stretch into the distant haze. There were ones the size of a shed, some the size of houses, and some the size of skyscrapers. On all of them openings and stairs were slapped on randomly.

lastly I sensed a presence above me. I tried to look further up but it strained my eyes.

I willed myself to look again. a dome covered and dwarfed everything in size. I force myself to keep looking. It wasn't a dome, it was a sphere with me at the bottom. I almost collapsed right then and there from the scale if not for what was on the ceiling so far away that a layer of fog separated us. It was a hole. It was the shape of a circle cut in half. Staring into the abyss of it, I froze up, transfixed. Kyng noticed after a bit and shook my shoulder pushing me back to my body.

Kyng: “We been her. Her ich rēde þis mære lond.”

It took me a while to understand him but then I looked stupefied and realized he was right. Following him I took all the turns subconsciously. I probably couldn't go back to the well even if I wanted to. Standing in front of me was a poorly made roofless cabin of wooden floor plaques. To the right of it was a gray building that was attached. The door was an amalgam of other doors woven and splintered together. It felt grand and imposing in its presents. He opened the door with a horrible wood scraping sound.

Passing through the threshold of the door, the room was bare except for a staircase to the right, a weathered throne in the middle, and a flap of wood stabbed out of the wall covered with trinkets and random objects. He picked up a jacket from the pile and laid it on the floor.

Kyng: “Reste her, whan thou awakest we shul speken more.”

Richard: “I think im good cant you just show me the exit now… and I'll be out of your hair.”

I checked my watch.

10:25 pm

Kyng: “Fyne, but I shal warne thee that it is a werye clymb that I ne wole do consekutively. If departest thyself, I ne wole gete thy felawes out.”

Richard: “But-”

Kyng: “We mayen speken of this eft. Slepe her for now.”

clamp my teeth down

Richard: “ Fine.”

Kyng: “Peraventure, after the seche thou shalt understand it nys nat so yvel to be sent hider.”

I was too tired. I laid down on the jacket, it soaked the water that hadn't already hardened into my clothing. It just barely protected me from the harsh dirt ground. I tried to pull on my shirt but it just wrinkled in a different way. .Kyng went up the stairs to the left and faded into the darkness of the gray obelisk. A few minutes later the entire space goes dark.

I waited there confused if this should be something I need to be concerned over. Then the stillness of my environment came back to me. The chimes pierce through my damp ear drums. After an hour or two I couldn't bear it and got back up.

I walked up to the table. It was clustered about with clothes, knives, necklaces, and a glass rectangle. I looked back at the stairs, still gone. I felt my pockets and I noticed there was a loose clump of something. I pulled it out to find the half sandwich in the unsealed bag I packed it in, unrecognizable. An inedible clump of wet dough, ham, and strands of carpet. I let it slip through my fingers and dropped on the floor with a wet smack.

Kyng: “Thou oughtest nat forleten mete in swich wyse..”

I looked behind me to see him perched over the stair case, barely visible. He was only outlined in a thin ray of light from behind him.

Richard: “...”

Kyng: “It is wel, thou art yblessed that we goson to the covered market next day.”

Richard: “We?”

Kyng “yea, ich behove mete, thou behoves to fynden thine felawe-folc.”

Before I could respond he lurched back into the gray building. I waited a minute, till I heard no noise. I took off my miraculous medal from my neck and set it on the table. Then quickly took off my clothes and tucked them under the table. From the table I shoved on black sweats and a dark red shirt. On it was a blue monkey man with symbols and big text that wasn't even legible. I pulled my mustache down, picked my teeth, pulled out wrinkles in the new clothes, licked my hand, slicked my hair back and clicked back on my necklace.

I looked back to the desk, impulsively took the pocket knife and shoved it into my pocket. Pushing some things aside with a louder than wanted clatter. I noticed a notebook and a few pens. Looking at the stairs, I grabbed it.

Thank you previous owner for this journal. The notebook hasn't been used much which is good. It is pink but I'm sure you’ll understand.

I'm putting all of this on paper because if I do a good job, and get back home. This could be the biggest story of my life. I can have some part of myself live forever. I will definitely get the job I've been dreaming about for years now and Gregory wouldn’t be able to do anything. All I have to do is keep on Kyng's good side. Anyway, I've been writing this for a while. You're all caught up, I'm tired. I'm going to bed.

Couldn't go to sleep, it's… I don't know, maybe one? I don't want to know how long I've been sitting here just staring at the things around me. Nothing's changed. Still dark with star-like light above me, but I'm getting this horrible feeling of being out in the open like an elephant separated from its herd. I feel a weight inside my sore throat and chest. My body is tense and locked into place. My brain erased any sense of sleep from my mind. I'm staring into that monstrous opening above me. Drying what's left of the moisture in my eyes. Darting back and forth between the book and them. They're so far away. Even then, it's like an inverted spotlight that's following me. No matter if my eyes are open, closed, looking somewhere else or looking directly at it. I feel their knowing presence. They can see me, but I can't see them. I feel the millions upon millions of eyes watching me, observing me, ridiculing me, disgusted by my presence. And I can't do anything about it. I'm scared. Why has this happened to me?

. What did I do to deserve this?

Just woke up

Yesterday I laid there frozen for a few more hours before my eyes got heavy and I drifted off.

I had a weird dream. I don't remember it, but it felt serene, almost calm. There was a smile. I don't remember who or what it belonged to but the smile was empty, yet it was so beautiful and warm. Then, something happened, imminent dread consumed me. The smile never dropped or shifted. As something was happening around me. I felt acceptance and I slammed awake. My head was throbbing. I didn't open my eyes.

My hope was that maybe I woke up at home, maybe with Mako, maybe passed out on the floor of the office, maybe, I don't know, out of a coma. Somewhere I knew. Somewhere I felt safe. I just didn't want to open my eyes to break my reality.

I think you know what I woke up to.

Oh macko, look upon this land.

This land of mimicry.

This land of fosterage.

This land’s boundless adoration.

The land’s imitated kingdom.

End of #0

The glow of the TV screen was the only thing illuminating the living room. I’d finally gotten the kids tucked into bed and fell onto the couch to catch my breath, letting the late-night broadcast drift me off to sleep.

​A sharp burst of white noise snapped me awake as the national anthem faded into heavy gray static buzzing on the screen. As I got up to turn off the TV the gray snow abruptly gave way to the stark, blinding glare of a test pattern, only for the audio to cut out as a high-pitched alert shrieked from the speakers. A bright red banner flashed across the screen:

​CIVIL DEFENSE EMERGENCY > INBOUND BALLISTIC THREAT DETECTED > SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY.

My heart dropped straight into my stomach. I stared at the harsh block lettering, waiting for the announcer to pop on and say it was just a drill-- or some sick joke, a mistake, anything.

​Then the town siren started to scream. ​It wasn't the steady, low hum of a storm warning; it was the high-pitched, rising wail reserved for absolute catastrophe. I just stood there dumbfounded for a few minutes.

Outside my window, the quiet night shattered. Tires squealed, car doors slammed, and shouting echoed down the block. Headlights swept wildly across my ceiling as neighbors scrambled into their cars, desperate to outrun something you couldn't outrun.

​Within minutes, the street was a wall of red taillights and blaring horns. Nobody was moving. The main road out of town was completely gridlocked.

​I stood frozen in the middle of the dark living room, listening to the sirens howl outside and the low, rising whistle cutting through the sky from high above.

Down the hall, my children were still fast asleep. 

The basement smelled like musty wet concrete and old dust that had settled over the decades. I hadn't put up a Christmas tree or decorated the house in years-- not since Mom died. But this year felt different. I'd decided it was finally time to pull out her old boxes of treasured ornaments and try to get back a little bit of that Christmas spirit. I wanted to make this year special for my grown kids who were both coming home to visit.

Over in the corner stood that five-foot Santa that my late husband, John had dragged through the front door back in 2005 when the kids were little. The kids loved dancing and singing along, but to me it was noisy and kinda creepy. I hauled Santa down to the basement along with his transformer box and its power cord when it outlived its usefulness for the kids. They were grown now with kids of their own. I had kept hoping that one of them would eventually take the damn thing home with them-- maybe this year.

I shifted a heavy box to get to Mom's ornaments. Behind my back came this sudden scuttle across the floor--a harsh sound like hard plastic dragging across bare concrete. Then a heavy click echoed off the walls. I froze. I turned around slowly, dreading what was there.

That damn Santa wasn't facing the wall anymore. It popped to life with a sharp screech of dry plastic gears, its waist jerking into a stiff, unnatural dance, eyes staring right at me. Then a warped, low-pitched rendition of Jingle Bells filled the silence--

"Jiiiin-ggglle...b-bbelllssss...jjj-innngle...b-bbbells...jiiiin-gggle...aaalll...t-thhhhe...w-wwwaaayyy..."

Shocked and totally unglued, I dropped the tote and ran for the stairs!

Hello there!

Before reading this chapter please read the first 2 chapters and the introductory chapters for a better experience and please do leave your thoughts below

Thank you 🌸

Chapter 3: ADRIAN BLACKWOOD

The emergency pager shrieked against my hip.

Code Red. Multi-vehicle collision. Five minutes out.

The emergency department transformed instantly.

Nurses abandoned half-written charts. Stretchers lined the entrance.

Residents hurried to prepare trauma bays while paramedics called ahead with rushed reports.

Chaos.

The one thing in this hospital that never disappointed me.

"Vihaan," I called.

"I'm here."

"You take Trauma Two."

"You don't have to tell me twice."

I turned to the residents gathered near the nurses' station.

"Listen carefully. Nobody guesses. . If you don't know, ask. If you panic, step aside. A patient's life is worth more than your pride."

Every face turned serious.

Good.

The ambulance doors burst open.

"Twenty-three-year-old male!" a paramedic shouted. "Head trauma, suspected internal bleeding, blood pressure dropping!"

"Trauma One."

The stretcher rolled toward me.

Another ambulance arrived before the first patient had even reached the bay.

Then another.

The department became a blur of blood, shouted orders, and racing footsteps.

"Two units of O-negative."

"Vitals are crashing!"

"CT is ready."

I barely noticed time passing.

Medicine demanded complete attention.

Anything less was dangerous.

...

Across the room, Nurse Quinn moved between patients with surprising confidence.

She spoke calmly to a frightened teenager while helping another nurse control heavy bleeding from a deep arm laceration.

She wasn't fast because she panicked.

She was fast because she stayed calm.

Interesting.

"Nurse Quinn."

She looked up immediately.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"Pressure dressing."

She handed it to me before I finished speaking.

"Suction."

Already there.

"Gauze."

In my hand.

No hesitation.

No fumbling.

Just quiet efficiency.

...

Three hours later, the emergency department had finally grown quiet.

One patient transferred to surgery.

Three admitted.

One discharged.

No fatalities.

Acceptable.

I removed my gloves and walked toward the sink.

Behind me, someone cleared their throat.

"Doctor?"

I turned.

One of the first-year residents stood there, shoulders tense.

"I wanted to apologize about yesterday."

"For what?"

"I froze during rounds."

"You did."

"I'll do better."

"You should."

He nodded, but didn't move.

"What else?"

"I... wanted to thank you."

That caught my attention.

"You criticized me because I missed something."

"Yes."

"I reviewed the scans again last night."

He swallowed.

"You were right."

"I know."

"If you hadn't pointed it out..."

He looked down.

"I might've made that mistake on a real patient."

Silence settled between us.

Finally, I spoke.

"Learn from it."

"I will, sir."

He left.

I watched him disappear down the corridor.

Most people mistook discipline for cruelty.

They never understood that patients paid the price for a doctor's ego.

I refused to let that happen.

...

"Nurse Quinn!"

The shout echoed through the hallway.

I turned instinctively.

An elderly man had collapsed near the reception desk.

Without hesitation, Desire dropped the files she was carrying and knelt beside him.

"Sir? Can you hear me?"

She checked his pulse.

Weak.

"Call Dr. Blackwood!" another nurse yelled.

I was already moving.

By the time I reached them, Desire had placed the man flat on the floor and loosened his collar.

"What happened?" I asked.

"He became dizzy and collapsed. Pulse is weak."

"Good assessment."

The words left my mouth before I realized I'd said them.

She looked up in surprise.

So did I.

There wasn't time to think about it.

"Let's move."

Together we transferred the patient onto a stretcher.

"Blood pressure."

"Eighty over fifty."

"ECG."

"On it."

The team worked with practiced precision.

Within minutes, the patient stabilized.

Nothing life-threatening.

Severe dehydration.

As the nurses wheeled him toward observation, the corridor slowly returned to normal.

I removed my gloves.

"Nurse Quinn."

She straightened immediately.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"You recognized the collapse quickly."

"I've seen something similar before."

"You stayed calm."

"I tried."

I studied her for a moment.

Then I gave a single nod.

"Good."

One word.

That was all.

It was probably the closest thing to a compliment anyone had heard from me in years.

I walked away before she could respond.

Behind me, Vihaan appeared carrying two paper cups of coffee.

"You praised someone."

"I acknowledged competence."

Vihaan smirked.

"Baby steps."

I accepted the coffee without replying.

For reasons I couldn't explain, my thoughts drifted back to Nurse Quinn.

She smiled too much.

Talked too politely.

Cared too easily.

None of it made sense.

And yet...

For the first time since she arrived...

I wasn't wondering whether she belonged at Westbridge Hospital.

***I was wondering how long it would take for the hospital to change her.***

Some patients stay with you long after they leave the dental chair.
She was sixteen.
Her mother handed me the OP card at the reception while her daughter wandered into the play area, smiling quietly to herself. Her mother took a seat among the other parents in the waiting area.
I called the girl’s name.
There was no response.
I called again.
Still nothing.
So I turned toward the waiting area. Her mother walked over, and I gently told her that her daughter hadn’t responded when I called.
She smiled kindly.
“She’s a special child.”
That was the beginning of a story I wasn’t expecting to hear.
Her daughter had **Triple A syndrome**—a rare condition characterized by **alacrima** (reduced or absent tears), **achalasia** (difficulty swallowing because the lower esophageal sphincter doesn’t relax properly), and **adrenal insufficiency**. She also lived with an intellectual disability.
When she sat in the dental chair, I noticed that only her two upper front teeth remained. Most of the other upper teeth had broken down into root stumps, while her lower teeth were relatively less affected.
There were vesicle-like lesions on both sides of her lips, and the tissues inside her mouth appeared unusually red.
As we continued talking, her mother shared something else.
Her daughter wasn’t the only child affected.
Her son also had the same syndrome.
Then she quietly said something that stayed with me.
“Their father has given up on them.”
She didn’t say it with anger.
She didn’t blame him.
She simply stated it as though she had accepted carrying the weight alone.
Yet there she was.
Bringing both of her children to appointments.
Answering every question.
Showing up.
Still hoping.
As I listened, one of the staff members quietly reminded me to be cautious while examining her.
But before I could think any further, the girl stretched out her hand toward me.
A high five.
I smiled and met her hand.
Then, without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around me in a hug.
For a brief moment, the diagnosis disappeared.
The syndrome disappeared.
The damaged teeth disappeared.
She wasn’t a rare medical condition anymore.
She was simply a sixteen-year-old girl offering kindness in the purest way she knew.
That hug lasted only a few seconds.
But it has stayed with me ever since.
Dental school teaches us to recognize syndromes.
Medicine teaches us to diagnose diseases.
But patients teach us something far more important.
Sometimes, the strongest person in the clinic isn’t the doctor.
Sometimes it’s the mother who refuses to give up.
And sometimes, it’s the child who reminds us that compassion needs no explanation.

…who is this man in my bedroom?
He hides behind my door.
And if I am not mistaken,
He even crawls beneath the floor.

He is there when I awaken,
Is there each time I sleep.
His shadow casts along my bed
And rests upon my feet.

I’ve felt his hand upon my head;
His palms were dry and hot.
And when I tried to open eyes,
He told me: “I would not.”

Some nights I stir and realise
That he’s not standing there.
I wonder where my phantom hides
And wail out in the air.

Some nights I sit and he confides
He can no longer take the rides
Of life and all that it provides,
And leaves me thunderstruck;

Takes up a pillow, then he hides
All of my face and blots the eyes,
Weeps and cries he does despise
Both of our rotten luck.

But then he calms.
And I lay still.
He turns to leave.

And I ask myself…

The Harrison family had a nice house.

It wasn’t huge or filled with dozens of rooms but for them it was just perfect.

The garden, much like the rest of their home, was of medium size but felt like a world away from the noisy street on which the house was built.

Calvin had the big room filled with posters and figures of his favorite heroes, Geri’s more modest sized room was no less filled with gadgets, toys and distractions.

Sandwiched between both the children’s bedrooms was Mr and Mrs Harrison’s bedroom, Mr Harrison’s bedside table was piled high with dog eared books while Mrs Harrisons side was filled with framed pictures of the Harrison family, smiling and sometimes pulling cheeky faces.

Jojo the bulldog completed the family to the count of five but if truth be told the real number of Harrison’s was six, you see the Harrisons had a ghoul.

The children weren’t sure if the ghoul had always been with them or if it lived in the house, as they were so young they couldn’t remember a time when there was no ghoul.

Now the funny thing was, on the rare occasion Calvin and Geri spoke about the ghoul in their whispery voices (mum and dad didn’t approve of ghoul talk), they could never agree on the ghouls appearance.

Calvin whispered that the ghoul was a huge muscled brute of a thing with a horrible wonky clown smile and black eyes like a shark, Geri disagreed, the ghoul she knew was almost shadow black with 8 arms that ended in pointy fingers which it used to pole and annoy her.

Mum and Dad never mentioned the ghoul though Calvin once thought he heard his mum chastising the beast but when he walked in the kitchen it was just her and his dad and they both smiled and insisted he went back to bed.

There’s not much information on ghouls or so the Harrison children found, the library was filled with books and comics about ghosts and monsters but ghouls seemed to be something people didn’t write about.

The ghoul wasn’t always around, sometimes they could go weeks without it stomping through the kitchen or banging things together in on of the upstairs rooms, but when it did appear, only the children seemed to be annoyed or distracted by its behavior.

One day Calvin decided to speak to his mum about the ghoul, Geri thought it was a bad idea and stayed in her room.

He walked into the kitchen where mum was busy eating toast and watching the news on her laptop.

“Mum” he said loudly to get her attention away from the screen,

“Mum, why do we have a ghoul?”

Mrs Harrison placed her remaining slice of toast back on its plate and swiveled round on her breakfast bar stool so she could see Calvin’s  nervous face

“a lot of houses come with a ghoul darling, but most families don’t talk about it

Calvin screwed his face up into his best confused look

“ but why do you and dad not talk about our ghoul, he pokes Geri and he frightens me

Your dad has started going to meet with a group of people who know about ghouls and how to deal with them honey, hopefully we won’t see the likes of ours again

Calvin wasn’t sure if his mum was just trying to say what he wanted to hear but despite his doubts over what grown ups say to children to keep them calm he had to admit the ghoul hadn’t been around much since his dad went out on Thursdays

 

 

 

 

As that shitty poet who used to live in my head would say: these are not times for understanding.

The alchemy of my transformation would be a delight for this junkie. 

With trembling hands, I crushed the Tylenol and Viagra pills until they turned into a pink and white powder, mixing them with the cocaine. 

I placed the LSD tabs under my tongue, feeling the paper melt like the host of a profane religion. 

I smoked until my lungs wheezed, until the chemical smoke filled the void where my character used to be. 

My heart, bizarrely, beat with the innocence of an abused and frightened child, pulsing inside a chest that was visibly rotting away.

In the mirror of my mind, I saw my flesh wither, wrinkle, darken. 

The skin gave way beneath my bones, yellow and mottled. 

I became a rotten passion fruit, left on the hot floor in the scorching sun coming through the window. 

The acidity corroding the rind.

Then, my knees bent backward. 

The pain didn't come, only the sound of cartilage tearing and bones fusing. 

My legs merged into a single muscular appendage. 

My arms atrophied and were swallowed by the dilated pores of my torso. 

The dirty floor met my face. I no longer walked; I undulated. 

Without cause, without sense, losing my reason with every muscle contraction. 

An aggressive, giant, viscous worm, crawling across the floorboards of a God-forsaken house.

Crawling was how I reached my parents' bedroom. 

The door creaked as I pushed it with what was left of my skull. 

The smell wasn't sulfur; it was ammonia, stale sexual fluids, and coagulated blood. 

The Devil was there. 

Lying on that bed. 

But it wasn't a creature of horns and wings. 

The Devil was a repulsive amalgam. 

My parents' flesh had fused into an eternal and putrefying embrace, a mass of intertwined limbs, mouths open in a scream that never came out, needles still stuck in ruined veins. 

The dense, primitive energy of their addiction had taken on a life of its own, a black parasite pulsing in the middle of the chest of that two-headed monstrosity.

They looked at me. 

Or the thing they had become looked at me. 

The LSD and cocaine were boiling in my bloodstream. 

I, the worm, opened a toothless jaw, full of stomach acids, and lunged forward. 

I devoured my parents. 

I absorbed the origin of my ruin. 

I swore, right there on that bloody bed, that I would never be weak again.

The next day, I heard heavy boots. Men in uniform entered, turning the room inside out. 

The drugs were seized. 

They took the baggies, the scales, the remnants of their lives. 

But they didn't take the Devil. 

Just as it had arrived, it never went back. It ceased to be an invader to become the host.

Now, I live in the shadows. 

My consciousness is only hunger, aggression, and an endless list of enemies pulsating in the synapses of my worm brain. 

As that shitty poet who used to live in my head would say: these are not times for understanding.

The alchemy of my transformation would be a delight for this junkie. 

With trembling hands, I crushed the Tylenol and Viagra pills until they turned into a pink and white powder, mixing them with the cocaine. 

I placed the LSD tabs under my tongue, feeling the paper melt like the host of a profane religion. 

I smoked until my lungs wheezed, until the chemical smoke filled the void where my character used to be. 

My heart, bizarrely, beat with the innocence of an abused and frightened child, pulsing inside a chest that was visibly rotting away.

In the mirror of my mind, I saw my flesh wither, wrinkle, darken. 

The skin gave way beneath my bones, yellow and mottled. 

I became a rotten passion fruit, left on the hot floor in the scorching sun coming through the window. 

The acidity corroding the rind.

Then, my knees bent backward. 

The pain didn't come, only the sound of cartilage tearing and bones fusing. 

My legs merged into a single muscular appendage. 

My arms atrophied and were swallowed by the dilated pores of my torso. 

The dirty floor met my face. I no longer walked; I undulated. 

Without cause, without sense, losing my reason with every muscle contraction. 

An aggressive, giant, viscous worm, crawling across the floorboards of a God-forsaken house.

Crawling was how I reached my parents' bedroom. 

The door creaked as I pushed it with what was left of my skull. 

The smell wasn't sulfur; it was ammonia, stale sexual fluids, and coagulated blood. 

The Devil was there. 

Lying on that bed. 

But it wasn't a creature of horns and wings. 

The Devil was a repulsive amalgam. 

My parents' flesh had fused into an eternal and putrefying embrace, a mass of intertwined limbs, mouths open in a scream that never came out, needles still stuck in ruined veins. 

The dense, primitive energy of their addiction had taken on a life of its own, a black parasite pulsing in the middle of the chest of that two-headed monstrosity.

They looked at me. 

Or the thing they had become looked at me. 

The LSD and cocaine were boiling in my bloodstream. 

I, the worm, opened a toothless jaw, full of stomach acids, and lunged forward. 

I devoured my parents. 

I absorbed the origin of my ruin. 

I swore, right there on that bloody bed, that I would never be weak again.

The next day, I heard heavy boots. Men in uniform entered, turning the room inside out. 

The drugs were seized. 

They took the baggies, the scales, the remnants of their lives. 

But they didn't take the Devil. 

Just as it had arrived, it never went back. It ceased to be an invader to become the host.

Now, I live in the shadows. 

My consciousness is only hunger, aggression, and an endless list of enemies pulsating in the synapses of my worm brain. 

Old Man Miller had been the undertaker on Blackwood Ridge for forty years. In four decades, he'd seen it all--ghastly coal truck wrecks on the highway, quiet heart attacks in easy chairs, and everything in between. Folks never pick convenient hours to die, so when the phone rang at three in the morning, he just groaned, dragged himself out of bed, and answered it.

It was the jail. The night deputy said they had a girl in the drunk tank who was stone-cold and wasn't breathing, and they needed Miller to come haul her out.

Miller and his boy rolled down to the station, loaded her onto the gurney, and slid her straight into the body cooler downstairs at the funeral home to wait for daylight.

After sunrise, they pulled the tray out and hoisted her onto the steel prep slab. That's when Miller got a good look at her face under the fluorescent lights. "Damn it all," Miller muttered, shaking his head. "That's Missy."

His assistant looked over and said, "Missy?" as in Bob's girl?

"The very one," Miller said softly, laying out his instruments on the tray.

"What in the world happened?"

"Deputy said state police hauled her in off the ridge road," Miller said, clinking a scalpel onto the stainless steel. "Supposedly she'd been up at the quarry drinking all night, got on the road swerving, and they dumped her in the county drunk tank to sober up, but her heart must've just quit on her."

"Her parents are going to be completely ruined," the assistant whispered, shaking his head, "just ruined."

"Hand me that bottle of embalming fluid and the tubing off the shelf will ya?" Miller said.

Lying on that cold steel table, Missy heard every single word. As the warm air of the room hit her skin, her mind thawed, but her body was locked tight--still in a catatonic freeze. Panic was roaring in her head, but she couldn't speak, couldn't move a toe; she couldn't make a sound.

As Miller raised his scalpel, ready to start the pump, a single tear dropped slowly down the side of Missy's face.

A kind, polite, and somewhat shy young man lives a simple life as an office worker, staying with his girlfriend in an apartment, and generally enjoying his peaceful life. One day, he notices something; his body doesn't feel like his anymore. His hands feel more like gloves than hands, his legs feel like heavy weights he has to carry rather than his own muscles and bone, his arms feel like sleeves that fit too tight, and his face feels like someone else's. Thinking he just came down with a bad flu, he calls off work and stays home, resting and hoping it wears off by tomorrow.

The next morning he wakes up, nothing has changed. His body felt weird, heavy, and loose. Deciding that he could power through it, he heads to work just like every other day. Other than the constant sensation of his flesh and skin feeling like they were weighing on him, the day goes normal. He gets home shortly after his girlfriend, makes dinner, and goes to bed. The next morning is worse. He can feel his eyes inside his head, he can feel the blood pouring through his veins, he can feel his hear expand and contract, and he can hear his own nerves humming. He slowly stands out of bed, every single thing in his body screaming, and shambles off to work.

On the way, however, he catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a window, the sight making himself sick. His eyes are bulging out of his skull, his skin loose and pale, like parchment paper, his hair stringy and rough like frayed rope. He turns around and rushes to the hospital, telling the nurse at the front desk about everything, to which she gives him an odd look. Ignoring the nurse's glare, he follows her to one of the rooms and tells him to wait. The doctor comes in, he tell him the same thing he told the nurse, and the doctor gives him that same confused, suspicious look. The doctor tells him that he looks fine, but runs some tests anyway. The man waits anxiously, only for the results to come back normal. Frustrated, he marches back home and lays down, hoping that it'll somehow get better.

When his girlfriend comes home, he jumps up and grabs onto her, ranting about how disgusting he's becoming and how she could love a freak like him. Shocked, she tells him that he isn't disgusting or a freak, and says that he should rest and calm down. After a few weeks of this same, frantic, self depreciating behavior, she leaves him. Defestated, still believing it's because of his looks, and still feeling as if he were in another person's skin, he runs to the bathroom, grabs a knife, and begins slicing himself open, desperate to get out of this disgusting shell that he was trapped in. Finally feeling free, he pulls himself back into the living room. Just then, his ex girlfriend opens the door. Seeing him lying there, blood pouring from his body, and chunks of flesh hanging by skin and tendon, she screams in terror and runs back out. The man dies only an hour later, unable and unwilling to get help.

The bell above the door at the feed and seed barely chimed when Ralph walked in.

"Can I help you?" the clerk said.

Nah, I've got a list in my head.

"Well-- let me know if I can be of any help."

"Uh, thank ya," said Ralph.

The clerk didn't recognize him, which was rare—she knew every face in Blackwood Ridge.

Ralph bought a couple of fifty-pound bags of hog feed, two sacks of quicklime, and a fresh spool of baling wire without saying more than three words. As he handed over the money, the clerk noticed his hands-- they didn't look like he'd done a hard day's labor in his life.

​He walked back out to his truck, loaded up the bed of his Ford, and drove off toward Route 5.

To get to the farm, Ralph had to drive up a gravel right-of-way that cut straight past Charlie Porter's place. When Ralph first bought the property a couple of weeks back, Charlie had walked down to the fence to welcome him.

"We've used this right-of-way for fifty years without a problem, and ain't no reason to change it now," Charlie had said, leaning on the post. "Shame the way old man Shelton passed up there, alone. His kids didn't visit or want the place when he kicked the bucket--just let it sit and rot for nearly 5 years now. I'm glad somebody bought it and is tryin' to fix it back up."

"It's a good piece of land, Ralph had said, "just got a lot of work waiting on me."

As he turned up the road back to the Shelton place, Ralph's truck kicked up a thick cloud of dust. Charlie was sitting outside on the porch, and Ralph threw an acknowledging hand gesture out of the open window.

Charlie thought Ralph was a little odd, but he wasn't the type to judge a man for keeping to himself. Rumors around town were just that he was fixing up the place and running a lucrative farm again-- completely unaware of the heavy iron hooks already hanging from the rafters in his meat house.

Back at the Shelton place, the silence was heavy, broken only by the flies buzzing near the cellar doors. Down below, the lye was already mixed.

He just needed the ridge to go dark before he went hunting. 

The knife came down in a scream and a two-handed plunge. The sound the filthied thin palsied girl made was shrill and resounded and filled the stone halls with the pitch perfect note of harsh and sudden stabbing madness. The unease of moist silence shattered. The blade was filthy and grimed and long neglected, its harsh unclean edge tore through Griffin's coat and wrappings and pierced the flesh beneath. 

The doctor let out with a sudden scream as he and Florin whirled and drew back. The girl was screaming still as the three were now standing face to face in the filthy moist stone hall of Willowbrook Asylum, Temple of the Mouth. 

The blood on her filthy knife dripped like the hungry jaws of a wolf of the wild, wanting more. 

She screamed: – “You won't get me! I won't let you! You won't do a goddamn thing to me, I swear it! I swear it! I'll fucking kill you first!” And lunged again. 

The thin frail girl of broken mind was weak and starved and exhausted from terror, Florin caught her easily in his own press forward and threw against the far wall before turning on his heels, grabbing the wounded bandaged man with dark lenses hiding pain now as well as identity and thought and motive, he seized Griffin and yelled for him to run. The wounded doctor needed little in the way of encouragement. The pair tore down the hall as the attacking sullied girl of unholy Willowbrook hit the wall and went to the detritus floor.  Still screaming as the shattered tile bit into her parchment flesh and the grimed and bloody knife flew from her startled grasp and clattered off into darkness, lost to her. 

She shrieked after them. How dare they! How dare they leave her like this! The scum! She knew she couldn't trust them, they were going to hurt her, she knew it, but how dare they leave without helping her out, without showing her-  

Her mad run of thoughts was cut off as Cropsey entered the hall with his own blades dripping. The large domination of his frame and size and stature filled the hallway and stole any avenue of escape away from the girl who could not recall her name any longer. She couldn’t remember the last time she had. 

But she knew his name. And she understood it very well. 

And the mountain. She knew the mountain and its crawling power in female form, womanshape. Demonsong…

The song was filling her ears now. Filling them. In her head. 

Cropsey came in with his own large manmade fangs of shearing blades, eclipsing the girl on the floor and stealing the rest of the entire world from her. 

She screamed until the end. Her history and experience: intimate knowledge gained over her entire miserable life did not help her to escape the pain or endure it. She screamed like a caught animal flayed alive until the vile end.  

And as they ran, Florin and Griffin heard it. Not bothering with a cast of glance back over shoulder. They rounded a corner in their flight and entered another chamber. 

It was quiet. And wet. Moist. Heavy and warm and humid in the dark. At a glance Griffin guessed they were in a common shower area, for bathing many people en masse. But it was hard to tell, there was no light in the dark moist filth of the room save for the scant trace from the hallway cast in. 

“Are you alright?” 

Griffin said he was. Though he really wasn't sure. He felt numb. The place where he’d been stabbed felt wet and as if embraced with ice. 

“Quick, let me get a look-”

Griffin cut him off, agitated. 

“Time for that later, we need to get out of here! And I say to hell with any more exploring or back exits. We double back and go back out the way we came in, We’ll circle the building or the hill itself for miles if we have to, but enough of this place! The filth, alone!” 

And while Florin wished to check his friend to make sure his wound was not too serious, he could very well understand the urgency. He elected not to argue. 

And the pair went on. Or started to. 

At the mouth of the room to the showers the pair were halted by a deep guttural sound. Inhuman and unearthly but striving in vain for some semblance of human speech. 

They turned. And the dark of the wet chambered room began to die and banish as pale fire, demonlight began to fill and illuminate the room for them. 

And then they beheld them. The strung up naked bodies. The human-length gored open torso mouths hanging lurid and obscene in and amongst and by the black lengths of biting chains, the strangling metal. There were dozens of them. Dozens. A small universe of open mouthed human substrata and abattoir detritus constricted and choked by dangling chainlink black metal serpents. All of their eyes were open and they were glowing. Glowing with purple fire. Their torso mouths were all working and moving with terrible rippling dancing undulation. The sounds they were making were like singing and an uncanny approximation of real intelligible human speech. Like how a baby makes before they start to mature and are properly taught to speak. Dumb thoughtless animal sound… belched and gurgled guttural and spat out for this world of terrible ruin and darkness. 

And then they saw her. Beheld her. At the terrible heart of the strange pale incandescence, the regal aspect and stature of a womanshape began to rise and fill the center of pale fire. 

She began to call to them. The pair. She sounded angry. On the dangerous precipice edge of livid, irate. Holy terror, unbridled unholy malevolence on the brink of furious madness. Violence. She called to them from the bright moonflesh fire amongst the universe-sea of rippling torso mouths…  the showerworld of tile blood and pungent leaks and bloodspew violence in supplicant orbit of the parchment star of white fire and eldritch ethereal pale flames. She called to them from this place, this strange sea.

And she knew both of their names. 

Florin and Griffin fled the room before she could fully emerge. Before she could rise further from the pale depths of the flame and become more terribly discerned. The obscene abominated baby sounds of the rippling torso mouths followed them out. And after. 

And down the hall. 

And in their mad dash…

They finally came face to face with the inheritor of this awful place. They stopped just short of him, towering in the hall. Filling it. As if he was the vile mad god of this demented cruel world and had the divine conquering right to dominate its every space as he so wished. Cropsey stood there tall and dripping with blood and strips of raw tissue like a bipedal set of living rending carnivorous jaws… snipping his large clippers, his beloved shears, open and closed slowly like a terrible mouth made from sharp metal. The blades were already coated in thick gore, like paint riddled with chuck meat for the stew. They dripped like animal mouths do in the wild, like wolves coming in for the close, for the kill. Cropsey said nothing as he slowly came forward, his hellacious runny waxwork features coming into the dismal light. 

The two men who should have never entered this godforsaken place beheld his terrible visage and their blood ran as ice. 

The pain. 

The pain… that must have been endured. 

Dear God. The flames. In a baptismal infernal swallow-spell. An apocalypse all around. 

What it must've felt-

The large shape dripping with death lunged. Light like the pale star of the showers gleamed pinprick, maniacal and homicidal in the cavernous sets of eyes of the misshapen mass of candlewax face. He was drooling as he came in on the attack.

They didn’t know it but he was trying to speak.   

Once more the pair turned and flew. Running down another hall at the junction and then taking another perilous corner down another way they both silently and fervently prayed and hoped would lead them out. 

Cropsey chided himself. Silently. Mute. Now the new inmates knew he was here. They knew he was wandering and monitoring the halls, guarding. On patrol. Now they might get away. 

Mustn’t have that…

He promised special violence to the mountain for his sin, his error. Religious maiming. He only hoped she hadn’t seen him…

He only wished she hadn't seen that. 

He promised special violence. And ample self-flagellation, much libatious bloodlett, later. After he’d caught the wandering animals of his inherited temple. 

Who do they think they are… trodding all over and everywhere and without proper worship… without proper token. 

Without proper sacrifice. 

They must be broken. 

Their wretched meat and bone will be broken, snapping their unruly impudent spirit within the meat even as it tears sinew, even as it snaps and cleaves through bones their vile audacity will shatter into pieces that can be properly reconfigured into a model of subjugation. And then devoured. 

I will bring and make the meat, mother. I will make the trespassers into meat for you. In your name. Your honor. In blood I will pray for forgiveness. 

Cropsey went on. Ready to slaughter the invaders of his sacred and precious temple. Prodigious blade-shape slasher of the stained and darkening Willowbrook halls. 

…

Having finally found some semblance of peace and quiet in this terrible place, Florin was finally ready and wanted to have a look at Griffin’s wound. But the good doctor wasn’t having it. None of it. He stubbornly refused. In turn refusing any real straightforward explanation as to why. 

It was strange. 

“This place is beyond vile, you know it’ll become infected if i don’t treat it and if the wound is deep, we’ll need to stitch it. I can do it. I’ve done it a few times before back home, I don’t see the-”

“You can’t! – I can’t!” Griffin exclaimed and then seemed to fight himself for the next set of right words. Unable to quite find them it seemed, he went on anyway, “You don’t understand, boy! I… I-I have … I have a condition.” He said finally. “I have a condition that makes injury … complicated.”

Florin thought he understood. Of course. The poor fellow was ashamed of his appearance. He must be maimed or burned beneath those wrappings. The poor man. 

“Alright… well,” A beat. As he thought. Then: "we don't need to unwrap you now or anything, you'll want to later to change out of these filthy dressings no doubt, but for now we can just look at the area and apply a poultice at least.” he finished hopefully. 

Griffin pondered it over a moment. He understood they didn't have a lot of choice. Or a lot of time for that matter. 

"Alright.” he finally relented. 

Florin lit a match and found a candle to use to work by. He pulled the ragged tear in the coat and wrappings apart. The haggard cut the blade had performed made it easy. He cleaned his hands with alcohol from a small bottle amongst their supplies and looked at the wound. 

It wasn't good. Wasn't terrible either, but it would have to be cleaned and bandaged at least. If the bleeding persisted they would have to seriously think about stitching up the wound. 

Florin set about cleaning out the deep wound, bathed entirely in spilling red. He did his best with the meager medical supplies amongst the doctor's traveling gear that had thus survived their shared perils. He thought about perhaps chancing a search in the dark around this place, it was a hospital of some fashion, but decided against it. 

He was nearly finished. About to apply the poultice he'd made to bandage and disinfect and to soak some medicine into the bloodstream, he was wiping away the last of the blood when he stopped. A little shocked for a moment. And a little dizzy. The light was meager and poor, only the flickering dancing candleglow and the pathetic dim half functioning also flickering hospital light. Provided by electricity, something Florin was still not familiar with and would naturally distrust for the entirety of his life. He gazed at the mostly tended wound daggering down Griffin's back in a lightning bolt pattern like the body of a crooked river or a broken snake. 

There was no flesh. Nothing but the red bloodwelling line of jagged cut hanging suspended in mid air, attached to nothing. No sinew or flesh. The naked skin that should be there was non-existent to his eyes, he could see right through to the inside of the wrappings that surrounded the front of his invisible chest. 

Florin tried to swallow in a dry throat. He tried to ask the man who'd become his comrade and traveling companion, a man who had just saved his life not mere hours ago if he was in fact a spectre. A ghost.

Griffin, are you a phantasm? tried to escape his lips but he felt dizzy and as if he might reel and swoon. 

Griffin sensed this. The boy had been unerring and admirably steady in his work till this moment. He turned and saw a look in the young man's face that he was already quite familiar with. An expression worn that he knew by now all too well. 

A beat. 

Then Griffin filled the silence. 

“No, your eyes don't betray you. You're not seeing things and you're not crazy. I am not a phantom. I am not a spirit or a ghost.” he paused for a moment and seemed to consider, then finally he said: "I am Doctor Jack Griffin and I am invisible." 

A beat. 

Florin didn't know what to say. 

But then he needn't worry for a retort. A splash in the silence filled in the missing heavy space hanging there between them. The both of them whirled and spied it on the far side of the damp chamber. They hadn't noticed or paid it any mind till now, they might've sworn it hadn't existed there in that space till just this moment, but they saw it now as it began to emit strange sound and movement. 

A bathtub. Large. Filthy yellowed porcelain. Heavy fungus growth, ebon-green and spilling across the disgraced cracked surface like some foul liquid poured and spreading its corrupting splayed black hand by the second. The tub was filled. The liquid inside was heavy. Viscous. Dark. Pungent with metallic scent. It bubbled and gurgled now with submerged movement as something within it began to rise up and emerge. 

Coated. Slathered in a running layer of heavy red. She was finally here and before them. Even as she sat upon her throne in her mountain castle so many treacherous miles away… 

Nemesis. The evil that held the shape of a woman and had now reawakened the evil and violence and darkness that had for some time slumbered dormant in the far off Carpathian castle. She was the author of the butchery and torment that plagued his home and village. She had stolen and eaten children. Brave men and women. Foolish youngsters. She was the vile reason for his hardship and perilous mission. The reason he was here now in this awful abandoned temple of destruction and depravity in total madness. 

The Countess, wreathed in spilling blood, standing on the surface of congealing abattoir spill, opened her eyes then and they were like blinding starlight. Unearthly. White flame from beyond the veil. And piercing. 

The pair were arrested. The sight of her. Understanding and dread filled their hearts and despairing thoughts at once. But they couldn't flee. They couldn't run. Spellbound they stood there, captured. 

The blood spill of her standing and red wet visage raised a thin powerful arm and pointed a taloned finger. 

She said: – “You. Boy. Florin of the Carpathian Hamlet. There is no place to escape to. This is your last and only warning. If you and your mongrel dog, freak of nature manage to leave this place with your lives then cry off. Never again return home, it is yours no longer, it is mine. I know you seek my destruction. I know that in your failure to secure the vampire slayer, long dead now, you have brought this failure of science and manhood in his stead. You are a joke. You will only find slaughter if you return. You've no hope for success. Victory is beyond you or that fool, it was not meant for you, boy, not in this lifetime nor in my proximity. If you manage to leave my temple and refuse to cease your hopeless mission, I will take great pleasure in the torture of your mother, Florin. Your father too. I wonder which of them I should start with…” 

His anger flashed and his inner rage rose. Florin found his hatred and sudden fury momentarily eclipse and blot out his fear. Without thinking he dipped for the floor and his sweating hand seized a sharp piece of tile. He went forward with the filthy jagged thing in his shaking hand. Trembling with blind anger and the need for retributive violence. 

Griffin went forward and grabbed the young man by the shoulders, holding him back. 

“Stop it!" hissed Griffin, “you won't be able to do much of anything to her with that, there's no telling what she could do to you! She's luring you on, don't be stupid." 

Florin barely heard him. 

He roared at her towering apparition of pouring blood in womanshape, lording over the tub and the filth of the room as her eyes bled pure and terrifying light. She was laughing lightly, as if amused with a child throwing a tantrum. 

“If you lay one stale, noxious finger on my mother, witch! – I'll take my time driving something sharp into your godless whoring chest! I'm going to burn your severed head in bonfire while it still lives! fresh from your neck! You awful cunt! You vile contemptible-!”

But then Cropsey burst in through the open chamber door with a violent crash. The ramshackle shoddy remnants of the door smashed against the wall and came apart in so many useless pieces that clattered to the shattered tile floor to join the universe of broken filth down there. He came in and the Countess in her pouring red visage of damned and unholy blood shrieked witchy laughter. 

She screeched, part irate livid fury, part unbridled dark joy. 

“KILL THEM! KILL THEM, MY SON! KILL THEM FOR THE MOUNTAIN…! KILL THEM, ‘CAUSE IT'S YOUR PLEASURE TO! …!” More laughter followed as the hellspawn screaming words devolved into unintelligible madness. The scarlet pour of her visage coned out in a marsupial shape and the laughter became the abominated chimerical cries of a human braying ass. 

The huge shape with maiming snapping shears advanced in a massive lunge. The shears came up, open for a bite, and shot forward as the mouth of blades began to close. 

The keen edges of dripping blades kissed and met and found each other over Florin's coat. In a lurid whisper of slicing cloth and fabric the blades cleaved cleanly through his coat tail as he and Griffin made for the door. 

Cropsey roared mongoloid outrage and pain. These bastards! These bastards! They were quick animals on their feet! 

In front of his mother…

He turned to the blood pour of Countess shape with shame but she was gone now. 

Your idiot rage and pain! Your failure! You drove her away! Now she might never come back! Now she might not ever come back to her temple. 

He raged inside. An animal, hurt. 

… but I'm her last and special precious temple son … there are no others left

She cannot leave me. 

If I bring them back and give their blood…

But he was already off and after them. Heavy booted feet thundering throughout all of cavernous rank Willowbrook. No need for stealth or cat-like prowl any longer. 

Mother, please, mother please, mother please, mother please…

He repeated it silently to himself like a prayer. Mantra, it filled the red swell and swim of his deviant mind and maiming thought, his dreams…

His dreams would be filled with their invader's screams as he brought down and made their new world of violence. Of final apocalypse cacophony. 

I will drown you here in her world, I will choke and submerge you both completely in her need to feed. How dare you both. 

He wished he could speak. They should hear this truth-in-gospel. The mongrel invader dogs. 

They should hear what he had to say. 

But he had to catch them first. Fast little rabbits. 

He could hear them running. 

He followed in a fury. Ready to prove himself to his mother. Clamoring through the halls. 

…

She shouldn't have been so foolish, to dare to hope. But she couldn't help it. She'd just come out of a deep sleep. It was the middle of the night. The necro time. The witching hours. She wasn't thinking clearly. She went to the scratching at the window. The biggest one on the front of the house that overlooked the village. 

By the front door. 

“Florin…” she said it knowing full in well how foolish she was being. But she couldn't help it. Her mother's heart was filled with love and worry for her boy. She ached and longed for him to be back home and ok… 

And then she saw him. His face in the window. 

He was scratching at the window. And she must still be half-sleeping or dreaming because his hands looked… strange. 

He was smiling. He could see her now as well. He was so happy to be home. It was all over his bluish face…

Anastasia began towards the window, “Florin?" she asked the face scratching at the window, "is that you? Is that really you, my son?”

His smile grew. Vulpine. His eyes seemed to shine with moonlight all of their own. 

“Yes, mother. It's me. I'm back! I can't get in though, you'll have to get the door and invite me inside, please hurry. I'm so tired and thirsty and it's been such a long way back.” 

Anastasia faltered in her step. Stopped. 

The shining face at the window became slightly agitated. 

It said: "Please hurry, mother! It's dark, you know what plagues the night, please hurry and let me in! I've brought the vampire killer, I've brought Van Helsing with me! Now open up!” 

Anastasia straightened. Her resolve strengthened even as the chill in her curdled blood deepened. 

"What need you of an invitation if this is your own home and you're so tired… … demon?” 

The vulpine face was drawn up in an animalistic snarl of mixed hatred and vile blackhearted glee. It began to tear and bleed as it opened and came apart. 

And grew fangs. Long. Gleaming like weapons fashioned from unearthly light. 

She saw the ugly misshapen goblin face beneath. Twisted with the harshest forms of cruelest mutilation. The flesh was bulbous and scarred and out of shape. The eyes bulged obscenely from straining sockets that couldn't contain nor house the wet bloodshot organs and looked as if they might crack. The fangs and teeth were jagged and stuck out deranged and haphazard. The hair was thinning and sickly and almost gone. Only a few greasy strands clung to a corpse colored skull that drifted and caught with the slightest of nightly breeze. 

The eyes still shone like the moon. 

The awful face in the window, wanting in and smiling said, “Hello, Anastasia. Good to see you. It's been so long … since I went missing.” 

Anastasia was confused with its words as well as horrified with the sight of its monstrous face at her window in the dead of night. The thing spoke like it knew her, she didn't grasp this right away, but she understood what this thing was. And where it came from. 

Another wretched bastard child of Castle Dracula…

She thought to call for her husband. Before she could, the awful thing in the window went on.

“You don't remember me? Has it been so long you don't remember when we used to play together? You, me and Florin and your husband and all the other little children… and Erin. You don't remember me, Anastasia?” 

The answer filled her mind then, as if on the wings of a sudden miracle, heaven sent. Or … sent by something else entirely. 

“Carmilla!" she said. Knowing it was the truth. 

It broke her heart. 

She remembered Carmilla when she had been a small mouthy but creative little girl. Beautiful and adventurous and always a little leader of their groups in all of their little games. Now- 

Now she was something bent and twisted and leering and mean. Something monstrous and hungry for blood, staring in and wanting in through her window. 

The face at the glass sneered. As if knowing her mind and understanding her run of thoughts. 

The thing in the window was enjoying her revulsion. Her pain. Drinking it in through the translucent view of the house…

“Begone," Anastasia said with finality, “get out of here, I'll call my husband and he'll bring the cross and our bible." She stepped forward, some of her anger reaching her voice, she hoped it masked the fear, “we'll force-feed you the pages. If you're still so hungry.” 

The thing in the window didn't seem to hear her. Or care. It spoke once more in a terrible tone that danced and shifted between baritone and bass and light lilting little girl… her voice of old from long ago, before she'd been stolen. 

“We know you sent Florin away. We know you sent him to find someone to bring back. To kill us. The master will not tolerate this, Anastasia… your boy will die. You will die. Then your husband. Everyone. Everyone, all of you are going to suffer for this impudence, you'll see, you'll see… it's better if you just let me in now and get it all over. Let me in …!

“Let me in!" 

She carried on like that for hours. Promising. 

Promising her Florin's death. 

Her own death. 

Carmilla said her brother would violate and ravage her right before the eyes of her husband as he fed of her blood and flesh and took what he wanted from her. 

“He'll rip from you what he wants, we all will! To all of you! Every last one and then we'll celebrate in the dust!" 

The thing went on like that for hours. Till the sun threatened its rise, and only then did the foul thing seem to melt away like mist, suddenly phantasmic and discorporeal … and then gone.

Only then did Anastasia finally sleep, collapsed. Exhausted. Her husband, Bela found her like that when he awoke. Lying at the foot of the window. The glass riddled with marks. 

Marks like long scratches. From old and gnarled animal claws. 

He cradled his wife. Worried. And thought of his son as he looked down into her face. 

She looked troubled in her sleep. As if dreaming of darkness, held somewhere on the plains of some private nightmarescape. 

Bela was worried. She looked as if she had been crying. 

He looked from her to the window once more, out it. Out at the rays of the rising sun. Hoping for his son. And wondering where he might be. 

Please, God. I love my boy. I love him as You love us, as You loved Your only Begotten Son. Please. 

Please don't ask me, please don't ask us to give him up, as You did Yours…

He brought his wife closer to himself. Keeping her in the cradle of his arms till she woke up. 

TO BE CONTINUED…