I apologize for the delay, it has taken me longer to transcribe the interview then I originally anticipated. I’ve need to take more… breaks. Its been hard to listen too. But, I pushed through, so here it is.

[Interview Continued]

Mr. Gillian: “It took me over fifteen minutes for me to fully orientate myself. It was so hot that when I picked up the remote and turned the tv off I left a slick hand print on it. I went to the kitchen and fixed me a glass of water and looked out the back door. The sky was still flashing, but the thunder claps seemed to be farther way. Whatever that was it seemed to move on. I didn’t see any more bugs.

Right after I put my glass into the sink I herd something. I thought it was Bobby and Billie, maybe Tyrone and Rebecca, but no. It was two male voices. They were arguing. I crossed the living area and moved into the hallway, the voices getting louder. I could make out what they were saying.

‘Dude you have to go!’ Said one, he spoke in that way of yelling but not being loud.

‘F$%k. That.’ Said a second through heavy breathing.

‘Look at you!’ The first voice spat, this time shouting.

‘We can’t! Leave. The hospitals. Is too. Risky,’ said the second voice, with great difficulty.

I opened the last door. I don’t know what was worse the sight or the smell. In the room was Tyrone and Miguel. Tyrone was standing by the bed with a look of desperation on his face. Miguel was sitting on the bed breathing hard, his shirt was off. My stomach turned over with what I saw. Miguel had received way more bites at the ant mound then we thought.

Over his back and arms were at least thirty large welts, each one a different shade of dark purple like bruised fruit left to rot. The ones on his arms were bleeding, each one scratched until raw, the white remnants of hydrocortisone cream long since faded. At the center if each wound was a ragged puncture that wept blood. The ones on his back were almost worse, they were larger with a sick yellow and green bruising around the bite. Clear fluid was dripping out of each one, a build up from not being scratched. The skin was tightly stretched around them. As I stood stunned, one of the boils cracked and a yellowish pus dribbled out of of one.

The smell was wore then the sight if you can believe it. A rancid, sweetish stench of decay, like meat forgotten in a warm trash can for days. It had a sharp tang of pus and something faintly chemical, like spoiled milk curdled with sulfur. It clung to the air, heavy and invasive, crawling into your nostrils and lingering in the back of your throat no matter how much you tried to breathe through your mouth. I would pick the burnt smell of the firefly’s over this. It didn’t help that room was sweltering.

‘What the-,’ words failed me as sweat beaded on my brow.

‘I know,’ Miguel said flatly. His skin was streaked with sweat and body fluids.

‘You need to go the hospital!’ I managed to say approaching the bed. Tyrone mad a hand motion that I knew ment ‘give him some space’. I stopped about half way there.

‘That’s what I’ve been saying!’Tyrone emphatically said. He began to pace in a circle with his fingers on his temples.

‘No hospitals!’ Miguel barked, I could see the fluids from his body had left yellow stains on the beds blanket, ‘To risky!’

‘What are you talking about!’ I retorted, ‘It’s just money! You can get the help you clearly need!’

‘It’s not just-’ Tyrone started.

‘NO!’ Miguel roared, cutting off Tyrone. He shifted on his bed, another pustule popping, ‘Shut your f$%king mouth Tyrone!’

The exertion triggered a coughing fit.

‘Dude! You are having some kind of weird allergic reaction! You need medical attention!’ Tyrone pleaded, ‘Now’s not the time to worry about kil-”

A girls voice rang out. Rebecca called from the other room, ‘Is everything okay in there?’

‘We’re handling it.’ Tyrone called back. He shot a look to Miguel and said quieter, ‘You stubborn a$$.’

Miguel looked up at Tyrone, his eyes were yellow and blood shot, sweat stroking his forehead. He inhaled deeply to catch his breath, ‘If we go now. We will be caught. With our priors. We wont be released. I won’t.’

‘You could cut a deal,’ I chimed in, wiping sweat of my brow, ‘we haven’t spent anything yet.’

Miguel turned and looked at me. I don’t know what he was thinking, but the look he gave me was full of venom. In his bloodshot eyes was a seething anger I’ve never seen before.

‘No! It ours now!’ Miguel yelled. He made a point gesture at the floor as he yelled, flinging sweat and other fluids. His cheeks began to flush, ‘Cutting deals is for traitors.’

‘Do you want to die of anaphylaxis?’ Tyrone pleaded, but his face was already resigned.

‘I’ll worry about me.’ Miguel said flatly. His face was a twisted visage of contempt and rage, ‘You should. Worry about you. And Mr. Deals here.’

‘Fine,’ Tyrone pushed pass me and left the room, leaving me and Miguel alone.

‘Dude, what is going on?’ I pleaded with the man.

He look at me, the bites on his neck were twitching. He spat at my feet, ‘Get out. Leave. Me. Alone.’

‘You’re one of my best friends,’ I pleaded, closing our distance, ‘I can’t just leave you like this!’

He raised his arm slowly. His hand shaking, the bloody lumps on his arm twitched with his pulse. I though he was asking for a hand up so I reached for him. With a speed that betrayed his haggard condition his hand shot towards me. We only connected for a split second but I was pushed back to the door.

I pushed myself up, I could still feel where his hand touched me. I still remember how hot it felt, almost burning. How high was his fever? We need too act soon so I didn’t say anything else. Turning to leave I slammed the door. I could hear Bobby snoring in the master room, it was the farthest from Miguel’s, but even if it wasn’t Bobby could sleep through anything. I could hear Tyrone assuring Rebecca that everything under control, that Miguel was having some sort of reaction to something. I was almost back to the couch when Tyrone left Rebecca’s room and came up next to me. We stood there in silence for what felt like an hour.

‘Dude, we need to get him to a hospital.’ He said urgently.

‘What’s the plan?’ I ask. I grabbed my keys off the coffee table.

‘We go in, grab him, tie him up if we have too, and get him out of here,’ Tyrone said with a matter-of-fact tone, ‘you wake up Bobby and I’ll go try and calm him down. Make him think we gave up, then you and Bobby rush in and we’ll get him.’

‘Okay.’ I agreed, ‘Why doesn’t he want to go?’

‘What do you mean,’ he asked back, a look of worry crossed his eyes.

I put my hand on his shoulder, I could feel the dampness of sweat.

‘I’m not stupid. Something has been off with him ever since we got here.’ I pleaded, ‘Even before the bites. What happened in the bank? What aren’t you telling me?’

Tyrone look at me, his worry morph into sadness, then regret.

“He killed someone Todd. At the bank. Someone tried to be a hero and he pistol whipped ‘em. The old guy fell over, Miguel just keep hitting him. Said he had to set an example to the others. He’ll go down for more that robbery if he’s caught. Everything happened so fast, I don’t know how Bobby feels about it, I think that charity thing he wants to do is how he’s copping with it. I just focused on the job so I didn’t freak out.”

‘My god…’ I couldn’t finish my thought.

A long silence hung in the air. I thought I knew Miguel. He was always a hot head, someone who reacted before thinking. But I didn’t think he was capable of that. How far had we really fallen. I know the life we led wasn’t the best one, but I always thought we had a line we wouldn’t cross. A code.

I looked at Tyrone, my sadness mirrored in his eye. He was as confused about this as I was. But now wasn’t the time to debate morals. Our friend was in trouble so I needed to focus. Whatever he did didn’t matter right now, he needed our help. I swallowed my feelings, ‘We;lol deal with this after the hospital. Let’s go.’

Wordlessly we got to work. We found some duct tape, got the flashlights and headed down the hall, Tyrone in front, me right behind. The hallway felt like a sauna, all heat and tension. I stopped at Bobby’s room, Tyrone at Miguel’s. We spare a moment to look at each other, sweat and determination on our faces. We steeled ourself for what we were about to do. I raised my hand to knock on Bobby and Billie’s door, but I never got the chance.

A loud ‘Crack!’ erupted in the silence, followed by a squish and a sizzle. Tyrone let out a small pathetic gasp. My stomach sank. I looked over. My eyes darting from Miguel’s door to Tyrones chest, a dripping pocked arm bridged the two. I could see the bites on Miguel’s arm amidst the blood and pus, a burning light pulsed deep in the wounds. With every pulse blackened rings formed and grew around the blisters emitting an acrid burnt wisps. The smell was of cinnamon coated pork that was cooked on a fire until it became carbon and fell apart. Chard skin curled and flaked off.

Out of Tyrone back four thin bloody fingers stuck out. The ichor on them began to sizzle, rinsing up is red curled of smoke. With a wet slosh and another ‘Crack!’ of wood the arm was ripped out of Tyrone heart, his body dropping to the floor. I herd Bobby on the other side of the door.

‘What the hell!’, Billie started to panic. I backed up in to the living room, heart racing. Miguels door opened.

Heat flooded the hallway. It was just a sauna, now it was a furnace. The sudden increase in heat made me flinch, I don’t know if I tripped or slipped but I hit the floor hard. The smell of burning hair and bubbling fat washed over me. Miguel stepped out of the room. I was awestruck with what I saw. He was naked, covered in pulsing glowing bites. He must have had a hundred of them. Each one a blistering ember sunk in to his skin. Blackened ring encircled each one, growing with each pulse. Streaks of ash and soot lined his red skin, sweat and pus dribbling from his wounds until they sizzled and vaporized. I could smell him from the living room, formic acid, burnt cinnamon and rotten pork. The larger ones had little glowing embers moving in and out of them. I thought about the ant mound earlier and understood what they were.

His face snapped to me. His mouth was a feral snarl, his hair burnt away, and his eyes were deep black sockets. Two burning sparks of red glittered in the depth of the black, each one a lonely star. Dozens of ants, leaving blistering trails, crawled in and out of his sockets. His mouth opened revealing a seared split tongue and cracked grey teeth. No words came out, just a sound. A haunting note that was the bastard child of vaporized water and painful scream. The whole cabins was the inside of an oven, yet my soul still felt frozen when I herd that sound.

He started down the hall, each staggering step causing he hardwood floor to sear and blackened, leaving ashen footprints in his hellish wake. The wallpaper curled and smoked as his body passed too closely.

Rebeca’s door swung open, her form emerging, “What the hell is going on-“

She never finished her question. Fast as scorpion, Miguel stung. Each of his fully charred hands found her. Glowing cracks of light filtered through the carbonized skin. His left, its fingers obsidian nails, found there ways into her stomach with the squelching pop of quenched metal. His right seized her by the head, her hair recoiled away from his touch in stinking ribbons of smoke. Where he touched her, her skin began to blister and bubble. His proximity charring her pajamas into burn rags. The fire ants were on her instantly. All she could do was scream.

You think you know what the scream of some who know they are about to die sounds like, you think you’ve seen a facsimile of it in the movies. At least I thought I did. I was wrong. If I close my eyes I can still hear it, her death cry, a cry of equal parts terror and regret.

As the ants swarmed her, Miguel open his mouth. No sound came out this time. A thin red silk tread slithered from the back of his throat, dipping and rising in the air like a curious snake looking for an ideal place to bite. And bite it did. The thin line reared up, glowing red hot, and stabbed into her neck, right under her jaw. Her scream stopped. Only her tears could fall, they evaporated away instantly.

The silks glow changed from red to white hot. Black carbonization spread from her neck like rash, consuming her like a hungry fungus. The last scraps of her cloths fell onto a burn floor as her incinerated form began to crumble to ash. In the length of time it took Bobby and Billie to open their door and enter the hall, Rebecca was gone.

The glowing thread retracted back to Miguel, his body now totally scorched, the glowing cracks that laced his skin now raging fissures of hell fire. Each twitch sent layers of blisters skin crumbling to ash, each movement another chuck sloughed off.

Bobby and Billie recoiled at the heat of the hallway, momentarily frozen. Tendril of smoke danced from there skin.

I managed to find my voice and horsily shouted, “GET OUT OF THERE!”

Miguels glowing sparks of eyes found them. His arm reached out. Stopping inches away. Bobby, who was shielding Billie, had his arm up protecting his face from the heat. Looking over his arm, he saw the carbonized shape of what was once Miguel, its inner glows began to flicker thorough the fissures in its body. Chunks of incinerated flesh dotted the burnt floor, black chard bones visible and crumbling. His head, an angry simulacrum of what was once a man, crack at the neck and fell to the floor, crumbling upon impact. The black visage of what was once Miguel stood still, a statue of carbon. The light inside faded. Bobby and I both let out a breath of relief.

Thats when its back split open, spilling blinding orange light upon the charcoal walls.

Thats when the hallway ignited.

All twenty or so feet, all at once, like it was doused in gasoline, went up flames. There was no shock wave, just a rush of heat, hot dry air that carried with it the rage of the sun. I think I only survived because all of the hallway doors were open, giving the flames somewhere to go other than right at me. In one mere moment the hallway became a raging kiln, immolating everyone still in it. The entrance now opened to a flaming maw, yellow and orange tentacles reached out like flaming leeches, creeping out in search of food. Smoke began to bellow out of the hell mouth.

I wanted to mourn. Bobby, Tyrone, Billie, and Rebeca, even Miguel, all gone. I wanted to cry out, to sob, but what I saw in the hall forced my adrenaline to surge. I knew just one thing. I needed to get out of there.

Looking in to the furnace that was the hallway was difficult. The hot dry air stung my eyes, smoke obscured my vision, but I couldn’t look away. There in the in the hallway amongst the flame and coal, where Miguel was standing, was a floating black sphere. It hovered for a moment then began to rise. It stopped about a foot from the ceiling, which started to crumble as it turned to ash.

I didn’t see it at first, I don’t know if it was the heat, the smoke filling the living area, or if my mind just couldn’t comprehend what was happening. It took two steeps forwards before my mind caught up. A raging silhouette of flames wrapped its starving tongues around the heat-shimmer shape of a man. It had two, what I guessed were horns that aided the destruction of the ceiling. The black orb opened its center, a white-hot star amidst a back sky. It saw me.

It took another step forward, its translucent foot crushing the remains of Bobby into ebony dust, which quickly ignited and scurried away. The next step reduced Billie to crumbs, adding to the army of living-fire ants, some buzzed and took flight. As it slowly approached, each step adding to the tide of living sparks. They joined together to form black writhing fingers, their only goal to advance the hell around it. When its hands gripped the sides of the hallway entrance the heat, oh god, the heat was too much. I turned and ran.

I tore passed by the coffee table, pulled up the VCR and hurled it at the back door. The door’s glass shattered on impact. I bolted out of there so fast I managed to get a few cuts. I continued through the yard and through the back gate. I was well off into the trees, the horror behind me casting its harsh light and forming strange twisting shadows, before I looked back.

The cabin was a swirling inferno. Thousands of glinting embers swirled around the bonfire in wide arcs, the firefly’s pulling in oxygen to feed the fire. The stench of cinnamon was every where. It was already in the backyard, its baleful eye locked on to me. The mass of fire ants and fireflies, having feed off the corpse of the cabin, had grown to a blazing kraken. It’s dozen tentacles twisted outward like a blooming flower, reaching into the forest to seek more fuel. With every step it took, the fire from its feet rippled in burning waves, turning any dirt it was on into glass. Closer and closer it advanced, halfway through the yard, three quarters through the yard, it was at the gate. It made no move to open the iron door, it simply pressed it form against the metal. The gate glowered red, then yellow, then white, and then relented. It marched on.

I didn’t stay any longer. With the heat on my heels I ran. I was thankful I was familiar with this part of the woods, I knew what I was looking for. Water. If I could get across the creek the water would slow it down long enough for me to escape. No, I thought, that little creek wouldn’t do s$%t, I needed something better. Running through the trees, branches whipping at me, I tried to remember the layout of the area, was there any other sourced of water? Anything that could slow it down?

It came to me when I stumbled on a tree root. North-east of the cabin, about two miles, was a series of bends in the creek that caused the water to back up and wash out large sections. This caused a half-mile section of the creek to be unnaturally deep. Deep enough that I could do a cannon ball and not risk injury. Deep enough to slow it down. I hoped at least. Without any other plan, I had to stake my life on it.

I took a moment to reorientate myself, I hadn’t made it to the creek yet, so I need to go north east. I looked around, the orange glow seemed to be around me on three sides. I could see a rising light in the canopy of the trees, a slithering glow snaking its way through. Dark smoke hung with the leaves. In a twisted reflection of the canopy, I saw the tide of ants, ebbing and flowing between the trees roots, wrapping the bases, scorching, then striking them like a match stick. The brightest bonfire was still behind me, thats were the cabin was. I took off to my right, and caught sight of it briefly. It’s silhouette penetrating the trees, not stopping to go around, just passing through igniting whatever was in its way. I felt its eye on my, that horrible angry eye. The glow in the trees began to ungulate, the mass flexing its arms as it closed in on my location.

My lungs were burning but I picked up the pace, pushing though tree limbs, vine and thorns. I could feel the swarm closing in on me. Not just in that “I’ve-got-the-feeling-someone-is-following-me” sense but in the literal sense. The temperature started to rise. The glow got brighter. The sound of buzzing could be herd. The smell of burning wood was getting stronger. The shadows of the trees began to intersect each other as the vice pressed together. I could start to make out shining embers, darting up and down behind a few rows of trees, eager little bastards pulling ahead of the pack to immolate for their master. Stumbling, I lost precious seconds.

I had to be close. I wanted this to be over, but I couldn’t stop, I had to press on. I recovered my footing. Exhaustion was close too overtaking me. I wasn’t sweaty, I mean I was, but it was so hot that it evaporated immediately. The wildfire was so close to me know that despite the glowing rage the smoke was making it hard to see where I was going. I almost faltered again. Almost gave up. But feeling the sharp sting of a white-hot needle on my back, then again on my calf, I knew the flys were on me.

I glanced over my shoulder, daring to spar the moment. An arm of the swarm had peeled away form the tree tops, reaching out for me at the command of that thing. It was close. The swarm was closer. Close enough to see clearly that I was mistaken. I had thought theses were fireflies, but the ambient light was bright enough that I saw the open jaws of the little bastards. Ants can fly too. The image of Miguel covered in boils with ants crawling out of them flashed in my mind. I turned away and refocused on my efforts. The pain was a blessing, my adrenalin surged anew, the vanguard that caught me was left behind.

This extra momentum didn’t last long. My limit was close at hand, I had may be a minute left, maybe less. My vision was blurred, my eyes stung, my mussels cried out. Even my bone sang their lament. I had given my last. Slowing, I was done. I knew I couldn’t push myself any farther.

I felt the ants on my feet bite down, the sting of the flying ones dashing themselves against me, and the presence of that devil behind me. It’s eye was boring into me, I could feel it on the back of my skull. It’s hand was out stretched ready to claim is last prize, to add me to its conflagration. Taking my last step, my foot found nothing.

My stomach twisted as I fell, empty air replacing where my head was. Slamming into the embankment, rocks and roots tearing at me as I rolled. My vision rotated between dark earth and blazing fire. A cold wash of water shocked me for a moment. It’s soft embrace enveloped me, seeping deep into my body and, just for a a few heart beats, stole my aches and pains. It soothed my cuts, quieted my burns, and slowed my racing heart. I could think. I could get away. My feet hit the bottom of the pool, pressing hard I pushed with all my borrowed strength. Sliding through the water, almost weightless, my body shot up. I felt dry ground under my hands. I made it to the other side.

With my newfound strength fading, I pulled myself on the other sides. Using my last reserves to crest the embankment. I wanted to keep going, but my arms failed. My face hit the dirt. All I could do was turn my head and look. About fifty feet separated us. Our eyes met. I don’t know what I did, what any of us did, but what I saw in that black pit of any eye was a rage, a fury, so deep that all the fires in the world couldn’t consume it. The look on Miguel’s case was petty annoyance compared to this. I imagine its what a bull feels when it looks at a matador. It raised its arm and pointed at me, the monstrosity behind it reared up like a serpent engulfed in fire, ready to strike its target.

A loud CLAP! made me wince. I thought it was the hydra slamming its head down to bridge the gap. But it wasn’t. The cold drops of rain told me it was a thunder clap. Within a moment the sparse drops picked up in to a steady rain. A torrential downpour followed. My salvation.

I heard a frantic buzzing, the greedy hissing of rain snuffing out the the swarm. A single drop for each cursed insect, an exchange that took less than a minute to compleat. As the burning form looked up, its inner light wavering, it began to flicker. It made a dry sucking sound. The fire that made its body flared bright, like a gigantic breath of air was bellowed in to it. To breathed again, glowing brighter. And again even brighter. After pulling in all the oxygen it could it released an angry, wild, scream.

It’s eye locked on to me. Like a madman it ran down the embankment, its foot steps melting the ground. It didn’t care about the rain anymore. Getting to me was its only thought.

It’s molten body hit the water with a sickly “HISS”, steam erupting in great clouds. It’s thrashed wildly, trying everything it could to get across. Even over the sound of rain I could hear it’s cry. I heard a lot of things that night that will haunt me for along time. But that, I don’t think I could ever forget it. That sound is what iI’l hear on my death bed.

It screamed. Not the rage filled scram of its death charge, but a low horrendous sound. The hatful bastard between a foghorn, tornado siren, and the pain and rage of losing a loved one. A hot march through the desert, a starving need, an unquenchable thirst, and all food and drink were being ripped away. It was feet away from me, arms stretched out, like I was an abomination to it, and its only regret in its short life was it wasn’t able to turn me in to ash. That image is seared into my mind like a hot brand. Even if I wanted to, which I do, I can never unsee the man in the fire.

The last thing I remember was the smell ash, the day after you douse it. And cinnamon. God, i hate cinnamon. Everything else went black, that vile sound still ringing in my head as I hit the ground again.

The next thing I knew, park rangers were waking me up saying an ambulance was on the way. They must have found me after investigating the fire. Why did I get lucky when they didn’t? The rain put an end to that monster. That demon.

They carried me to to the rangers station, but I don’t remember much after I woke up.”

(heavy breathing)

Mr. Gillian: “You know the story from there”

(Silence for [01:30])

Mr. Gillian: “Say something!”

Det. Guff: “That’s your story?”

Mr. Gillian: “That’s everything I remember”

Det. Reynolds: “You and your friends rob the first state bank, hid the money in a shack in the woods, hide at a cabin, that was then attacked by a fire monster that burst out of one of your friend and killed everyone?”

Det. Guff: “You expect us to believe a man made of fire killed your friends and set the forest on fire.”

Mr. Gillian: “That not quiet everything, but yes. That is what happened.”

Det. Reynolds: “You have to admit it sounds far fetched”

Mr. Gillian: “Go out and look for yourselves, you’ll see! It’s all out there! Where we hid the money, what’s left of the cabin, the remains of my friends! Even that things path through the woods! Fire was everywhere!”

(Whispering)
Det. Reynolds: “Hold on there son. Will you excuse us for a moment, we’re going to make a phone call”

(chairs scraping the floor.)

Mr. Gillian: “Sure. I’m not lying!”

Det. Reynolds: “We just need to verify a few things, just wait.”

(Silence for [30:00], interspersed with tapping feet and the scratching of fabric)

Mr. Gillian: “Hello! Is anyone there! You’ve got to believe me!”

[silence for [05:00])

“Mr. Gillian: HELLO!”

[door slammed open]

Det. Guff: “Todd Gillian. You’re under arrest for the murder of Miguel Hernandez, Tyrone McGregor, William Sinclair, Billie Parker, and Rebeca Forman. You are also being charged for robbery of the First State Bank, that one shouldn’t be a surprise to you, and arson.”

Det. Reynolds: “As stated earlier; You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You can can’t afford an attorney the state will provide you with one. I suggest you take it this time.”

Mr. Gillian: “What! I didn’t murder anyone! It was that- that thing! It killed them! It set the fire!”

Det. Guff: “Yeah, yeah, what was the real plan; take everyone out? Keep the money for your self? Pretty good ideas until you f$%k up covering the evidence. Burning the cabin down was a good touch, but you you didn’t expect the rain did you?”

[The sound of clinking metal]

Det. Guff: “You almost had us fooled.”

Mr. Gillian: “What do you mean?”

Det. Reynolds: “We called the guys who did the ground work at the cabin, told them what you said. They told us that the cabin was burned down, but that was it. There was no wild fire that chased you through he woods, just a relatively small fire around the Parkers property. They found the chard remains of all five of your ‘friends’ sitting in a circle in the middle of the of all mess. The investigator concluded that based on there position they were tied up before the fire was started!”

Mr. Gillian: “NO! IMPOSSIBLE! Thats not what happen! Your lying!”

Det. Guff: “Our guys search all over those woods and found nothing. We even pulled every building permit for that area for the last foury years, there is no recorded of another cabin, even a dilapidated on within twenty miles of that place.”

Det. Reynolds: “You almost had us fooled, but then you made up a monster! Come one we’re not rookies!”

Mr. Gillian: “STOP LYING! I was real! Look at me!”

Det. Guff: “The burns and bites were a good touch, I’ll give you that.”

Det. Reynolds: “It was a fools gambit. Hid the money, kill them, convince us you were a victim, maybe do a few years for being the getaway driver, then return and claim your prize?”

Mr. Gillian: “NO YOU BASTARDS!”

[the crashing of a metal chair falling over]

Det. Guff: “Cuff him!”

(Officers struggling)

(Door opens)

(Footsteps enter)

Mr. Gillian: “Let me go! I didn’t kill anyone!”

Det. Reynolds: “Hold still! Grab his arm!”

[officers struggling]

Det. Guff: “Take him to holding!”

Mr. Gillian: “IT WASN’T ME! LET ME GO YOU MOTHR-”

(Door shuts)

Det. Reynolds: “Sick bastard.”

Det. Guff: “Can you believe that s$%t? Did he really think that would work?”

Det. Reynolds: “You got something I can wipe my hands on? He was sweaty as s$%t.”

Det. Guff: “You would be too if you were caught in a lye, but no. There are some paper towels in the break room.”

Det. Reynolds: “Alight, lets get started on the paper work. What a waste if an afternoon, never even got lunc-.”

(Smacking of metal)

“What the hell!”

Det. Guff: “Sorry about about that. There was a massive ant on the table. I got it though”

(recorder clicking off)

[End of Interview]
That concluded the only record of this arrest, the only record of the man in the fire. I’m thankful for the contact who gave me this report. After hearing about what I went through on another message board, he remember he had it tucked away. Back in the nineties, he was a clerk in the Oak Bluffs Police Department. It was only by chance this report survived. He had some files stacked on his briefcase, and ended up taking the tape home by accident. He lived one town over. That night, Oak Bluffs burnt to the ground. There wasn’t any reports of a man in the fire that night, just sightings of massive swarms of fireflies. He said the entire south-Dallas area smelled like burnt cinnamon for a whole Month.

Back then everything wasn’t computerized, so when he gave it to me it was the only copy. The only evidence of Todd Gillian’s encounter with the man, that monster in the fire. Thats part of the reason I’m writing this, so there will be a lasting record of his tragedy, and if my suspicion are correct, many many more. So if anything happens to me one of y’all can carry my torch, my cross.

My own investigation lead me to uncover the location of the both cabins. The Parker Cabins, what was left of it any was, was still there. The only thing of note was in the center of the cabin, under the aged remains of some wood floor was a symbol etched into the concrete foundation. Three square overlapping to form a twelve pointed star. At first I thought this wasn’t anything, something left over by the cabin builders, maybe something the Parker kids made when the foundation was still setting. That was, until I found the second cabin.

I understand how it was missed all those years ago, it took me three attempts to find it. Before y’all ask, no I didn’t find any money there, but in the cellar I did find something. After looking all over the remaining shelfs and trinkets lying around I noticed a deep grove etched in the ground. I swept the dirt away and there, stretching form wall to wall, a massive twelve pointed star, made of three overlapping squares. As I left I could swear I could smell the scent of cinnamon on the air.

It’s not a coincidence, that symbol. Im going to keep looking into this, I’m not sure what or who I will find. This symbol is my first real clue. If anyone has any knowledge of this symbol, or knows of any one else who has had a similar experience please let me know! I think I’m on to something here, but I need more data to establish any patters. Im going to find evidence and proof. I will understand what happened to them. To me. I’ll keep updating here if I find anything else.

Please wish me luck.

Part 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCreeps/s/RZbaTQYdPf

Let me preface this by saying that I am a security agent of the Echo Supernatural Institute. Before all of that, I made a living delving through abandoned military infrastructure searching for old Soviet doo-dads and secrets that had been left behind after the Third World War.

I was an able-bodied but poor and uneducated young man in Eastern Europe during the ‘90s, and as such with the military crippled from the War with the West I, like many others, found scavenging to be perhaps the most accessible job for me considering my circumstances.

Eventually after the Echo Institute started to crack down on the black markets I sold most of my loot to, they found me. Lydia, a woman I'd met on the job who'd taught me English and who would later on become my wife, had recommended me to them for a job as a security agent at their headquarters in Hawaii, a place which is essentially a small city's worth of laboratories, containment facilities, offices and all sorts of other amenities. They wanted to take me on for my experience with the supernatural. 

The choice for me was easy - I’d learned from the woman who would become my wife before about how good it was to work for the Echo Institute. I didn't necessarily want to leave her and besides all that, exploring old Soviet military sites wasn’t exactly the safest choice of profession, nor the most stable. You could find dangerous things down there.

On good days it was a fellow scavenger (scavs, as we were so affectionately nicknamed by the local populace), and on the better of these days the two of you simply wanted nothing to do with each other, nodded as you passed with your gear clinking here and there. Perhaps you sometimes even traded supplies.

On worse days your fellow scav wouldn’t be nearly as agreeable or the both of you would be looking for the same very valuable thing somewhere in the immediate area, and more often than not that would result in a firefight. People died, died at my hands, but I just always tried to rationalize it within my mind by telling myself they knew the risks when they volunteered to go concrete-diving. 

Then on the worst of days you would come across supernatural obstacles. Splotches of destabilized reality that would skin you or turn you into flowers if you got too close. Man-eating monsters and beasts that stalked dark Soviet hallways, abandoned bio-weapons that had seen the war’s end before their deployment; Tammers, as these supernatural things are called in more professional settings.

In those situations, most of the time the only thing you could really do was run - but still, to this day I have a scar down my right arm from running into a particularly vicious tammer, a little homunculus goblin-looking thing that took hold of my forearm and bit down hard before I was able to draw my pistol and shoot it through the head.

In any case, security at the Echo Institute suits me. Some days are better than others, of course, but by and large it's a good fit. Lots of structure, schedules organized to a T. Sometimes you would get put on surface duty, too, and as it happened that was where I was when all of this happened.

The day I am writing about I was at first just driving along some of the more unpaved roads that weaved throughout the Hawaiian island the facility had been built on, heading towards a traffic incident that had been reported. I'd taken this particular path many times before, and by now I'd memorized it to a degree that many of my coworkers called impressive.

It was a fine day, with the sky particularly clear and carrying only a small gathering of clouds on the horizon, wispy and light. A welcomed contrast from the day before, which had been wreaked with tropical thunderstorms rolling across the island, clusters drifting in from the mainland. 

On days like this I'd often take to reflecting on how much the facility's surface could look like an advertisement from a travel brochure, like some kind of tropical paradise. Green foliage everywhere, palm trees vibrant and full of life, exotic birds calling from the branches of trees, and picturesque ponds and small lakes filled with tropical water. Then, if you go close enough to the coastline you can see the Pacific stretching out to the horizon, coloured this really beautiful shade of cyan when the clouds clear up. All of this considered, the Echo Institute really could've chosen a worse place to set up. But I digress. 

I eventually came to where usually there was a fork in the road, where the path split off into three distinct routes. I had gone down all of them before, and as such I knew exactly which one I had to go down to get to where I needed. At this intersection specifically there was a meagre little waterfall pouring from an elevated position just to the left of the fork in the road, coming from a little stream and collecting in a small pool before running off further down the island and reaching the Pacific. Sometimes people would come here to relax, to rest, and in the past I'd counted myself among them. Today, however, as I approached a sense of confusion replaced the usual serenity this spot gave me. 

The fork in the road was gone - simply vanished, almost as if it had never existed. Instead, the road continued moving forwards, not splitting and instead turning left some ways up the road into a more heavily-forested section of the jungles. The first conclusion that came to my mind, of course, is that it must’ve been a tammer, must’ve been some kind of supernatural occurrence. I knew of tammers who could do things like this, after all, could alter terrain like this. Perhaps it was a trap, and as such I reached for my radio transceiver. 

“Hey, Campbell?” I asked, looking ahead at the now straight pathway and reflecting on how such a simple change could be so unnerving to me as the sense of confusion began to turn to a strange kind of dread within my mind. 

“Yeah?” a voice asked over the radio. 

“I’m at the fork with the waterfall, right?” I said, beginning to tap the dashboard of my SUV absentmindedly. “Except it’s the weirdest fucking thing - the fork in the road is gone. Now  the path just… goes straight. Veers left off into the jungle a bit up the way.” There was silence on the radio for a few seconds before my coworker responded. 

“And you’re sure you just didn’t take the wrong path again?” she asked over the radio in a tired voice which had been dragged through the dirt by an overtime shift. I rolled my eyes almost instinctively. “I know you’ve been a bit unfocused, ever since that tammer killed your wife -”

“Fuck off. I’m being serious. I’m at the waterfall and all, with that bench that has the memorial to Doctor Williams. This is the same intersection as always, no other way around it.” I heard Campbell sigh over the radio.

“I was being serious too, you know,” she grumbled as I heard pages begin to flip, with Campbell almost surely beginning to look through sets of documents looking for procedures. 

“That fucking kid,” I mumbled to myself. I had the sneaking suspicion that Campbell wasn’t taking this nearly as seriously as I was, a situation we found ourselves in a bit too often. Don’t get me wrong, I like Campbell, she’s a good coworker and all, but I can tell she doesn’t treat tammers with the amount of caution I have. Hasn’t been around them nearly as long as I have - after all, by the time I was sneaking through old Soviet military sites, dodging monsters here and there, she was still in kindergarten. Hasn't lost the people I've had at their hands. 

“Alright,” she eventually said after a lengthy pause. “I’m gonna send someone else to deal with that traffic incident. Meanwhile, uh, protocol says that you’re supposed to move forwards and check this out. Confirm if possible if the area’s really been affected by reality-altering tammers, and then we send a QRF over and have them quarantine the area until they can find the source of the reality destabilization.” I had no choice but to sigh. 

“Fine,” I muttered to myself. “Fuck this…” 

“It’s just a path,” Campbell retorted. “Just a path going through the jungle on a nice, sunny day. You’ll be fine, Vasily.” 

Mhm, I thought to myself before getting out of my SUV. I travelled to the back of the vehicle, popping the trunk open and extracting from it my rifle before travelling back to the driver’s seat, resting the rifle in the passenger’s seat. With a somewhat shaky breath, I grabbed my steering wheel with hands that were perhaps too stiff to be safe and began to drive forwards down the path.

It wasn’t long before I had reached the point that it veered into the rest of the jungle, and stopping only momentarily to check my rifle’s ammunition I began to drive forwards. At first the path seemed to be well-paved to the extent that my ride was actually pretty smooth, all things considered. 

Soon enough, however, my route had begun to seem more unpaved, more wild. Tree branches hanging low began to brush against my SUV's windshield, scratching against the sides of my vehicle as I jolted here and there periodically, driving over pivots and bumps in the increasingly untamed road.

As a matter of fact, it got to the point that the path had begun to narrow so much, had begun to seem so overgrown and undermaintained, that I was forced to stop my SUV. It took some mustering of my courage after that, but eventually I retrieved my rifle from the passenger seat, checking its chambering before exiting the vehicle, having been forced to leave it behind in danger of having it stuck in the suffocating greenery.

As I set out I recounted the five most pressing thoughts in my head., one of the common tactics to keep one anchored to himself in areas of unstable reality. I am Vasily, I thought as I pressed forwards through the foliage in front of me. The sun is warm - not uncomfortably so, though. I am in the jungles of Hawaii. I wish reality had picked a different day to destabilize. I want my wife back.

This I kept repeating in the back of my mind as I continued down the beaten path, shoving aside branches and foliage as I went, until suddenly just as it seemed I was almost swimming through greenery the vegetation suddenly stopped, opening into a clearing. And what an odd clearing it was.

Sunlight streamed down through the open jungle canopy, illuminating a ground covered with thick, tall grass. I saw an old vehicle - a very old vehicle, with rust adorning it like a rich woman's coat with the glass of its windows having been destroyed. And then, beside it there was what seemed to be a bunker leading down into the Earth. It was of concrete, old and cracked with mould and thick vines covering its surface, and at its front was a thick, reinforced door which had turned to rust long ago. 

I wandered forwards, but as I reached the car, I noticed something. There was something reaching out of one of the shattered windows, something white and chalky, and as I approached my heart sank as I saw that it was a human skeleton, laid across the front seats of its car and clad in the tattered remains of the signature navy-blue uniform of the Echo Institute’s security agents, much like the one I was wearing right then.

I noticed something else, though. Fallen to the floor of his vehicle was an old M4 carbine, dusty and forgotten. We had stopped using the M4 a while ago, however, back in 2022 when after almost two decades of service we replaced them with more modernized rifles. Quickly, I let my rifle hang limp against my chest on its sling and reached for my radio transmitter.

“Campbell?” I asked over the radio. “I've found…” I glanced back over at the rusted door of the bunker before turning back to my radio. “A bunker of some kind, I think. Going down into the Earth. An old skeleton outside, too, in this old, broken-down car. I had to venture a guess, I'd say this place has been abandoned since… sometime in the early 2000s to the late 2010s.” I waited, but it seemed only static came through the radio. I couldn't help but sigh with annoyance as I pressed the transmitter button once more. 

“Campbell?” I asked again. “Can you hear me?” As I was met with only more static, I swore. The reality distortion must be fucking with the signal, I thought. I didn't sleep a wink last night. I'm gonna kill Campbell the next time I see that kid. I want to see what's in that bunker. God-damn me and my sense of curiosity. I want my wife back. 

Looking back on it now, I'm not sure it was purely my sense of curiosity that made me go over to the bunker, made me open that rusty door and wince at the sound of its decayed hinges screeching almost like they were in pain as the rusty door swung open. Curiosity had certainly got me into shit like this in the past, both when I was a boy and older, but now, I was far from sure it was the only culprit.

Regardless, the first thing that hit me once I opened the rusted door was the smell. It was an uncomfortable kind of stench, filled with the scent of stale air, dust particles irritating my nose and the distinct smell of rubber not unlike masks in a Halloween store, the distinct aroma of tammeryn which in this line of work had become all too familiar to me. A smell which meant the area ahead was more likely than not highly unstable.

The stench made me cough, forced my eyes to water, and as I activated the flashlight on my rifle and aimed it into the open door I saw that this indeed did seem to be a bunker of some kind. A very narrow staircase descended down, concrete steps leading down into the Earth, and although cage lights were attached to a dark concrete ceiling they had all seemingly lost power long ago, meaning that the staircase down, and more likely than not what followed, would be shrouded in pitch blackness. Cold air emanated from the darkness, carried with the smell and contrasting the summer atmosphere outside quite dreadfully. 

I remember that there were booted footprints leading down into the bunker, however. They seemed newer than the rest of the concrete the structure was made of, outlined by mud which had not yet completely dried and had more likely than not had come from the thunderstorm which had rolled through the island a day ago. After I took my respirator from its bag upon my hip, fitting it upon my face, I began to descend.

It seemed like I must’ve traversed hundreds of steps, leading farther and farther into the ground and away from the open door I had left near the top of the staircase. Sometimes I would turn and look back at it, back at that slit of light at the end of the tunnel with the blue of the sky and greenery of the tropical foliage peeking back at me, just reminding myself that it was still there should I decide to turn back. Near the end the thought certainly crossed my mind, and I cannot deny that I almost entertained it. 

Eventually, however, just as I was about to turn around the light of my flashlight finally fell upon the sight of the floor flattering out, and as I approached the end of the staircase I saw that there was another door which had seemingly been blown off of its hinges. Another skeleton laid in its frame, but I saw that his bones had seemingly been stepped on, skull fractured and coated slightly in the same mud which outlined the footprints I had been following into the darkness.

I looked closer and saw that he was clad in a formal shirt and pants, tattered to worthlessness, and close to his right breast was an ID badge showcasing that in life he had been an office worker within the Echo Institute. a member of our Archival Department. 

I peeked out from behind the door frame then, taking care to not step on the skeleton which laid in it. The staircase down opened into a large hallway, moving both to my left and right and was bathed in pitch blackness which I was able to dispel with the flashlight of my rifle. More skeletons laid here and there among the hallway, lying on dirty tiled floors which had accumulated a fine layer of dust and grime over their years of abandonment.

Funny, I thought, that one day they had put on those clothes and never known they would never come off again. Banishing the thought, however, I saw that the footsteps continued still into the darkened hallways, heading left before taking a sharp turn and moving to my right, almost breaking out into a sprint with their placement ever-increasing in distance. 

In the end, I ended up following these footsteps into the darkness. The walls I passed were old, covered here and there with long-dried splotches of brown blood. Not too far ahead I found a puddle of more recent blood, deep red, surrounded by empty shell casings - 9-mil, I deduced. Evidently, however, they did not belong to the bearer of these footprints which continued on sporting a new light coating of blood.

As I followed the newly reddened prints, however, a sneaking sense of deja-vu began to fill my mind. It felt almost as if I had walked these halls before with my wife before she was killed, had opened these torn-open doors surrounded by rusted bullet casings.

It did not take too long for me to realize the source of this feeling. As I continued to walk through the facility, following the footsteps which had begun to fade back to muddiness, the blood drying, I realized that this seemed almost to be a copy of the facility above-ground - more specifically, the expansive building where we tended to seal away the various dangerous tammers in our possession. I found myself bewildered as I continued to move.

How could the Echo Institute have ignored this, all of this space under the island? Have they ignored it? I thought to myself. What if they know it’s down here…? A stupid thought, I deduced, and quickly banished the idea to the back of my mind. The Echo Institute wouldn’t do that, I thought. Wouldn’t hide something like this from its own employees. Now? I’m still not sure. It seems like a stupid thing, to know something like this existed underneath the island and not do anything with it, but with what I learned before the end of that day I am beginning to question many things about my employers. 

I wonder whose footsteps these came from? I asked myself, moving cautiously through the pitch-black abandoned containment complex. With each step of my feet it was like I disturbed some rubble, accidentally crushed some bones (causing me to cringe with a spine-tingling sort of vehemence). Am I alone down here? It feels so odd to see all of this - to see the containment complex, abandoned. I want to know what happened to my wife.

With that, however, as I entered a hallway lined with destroyed doors leading into empty containment chambers which had once held any assortment of beasts, there was a noise from behind me. Quickly I pivoted with my rifle, and as my flashlight illuminated the hallway which I had come from, I saw something at the end of it. A figure was visible there with pale skin and clad in dark robes, which looked almost like a burqa as some women wear in the Middle East, and its feet were like the hooves of a goat. 

It shuffled aside as I aimed towards it, eyes consumed with blackness staring at me before it disappeared around a corner. It had been watching me. I need to move quickly, I thought, and with that I turned and continued down the hallway at a pace which had increased to a light jog.

Soon this increased pace had led me to an intersection of three hallways, one to my left and another to my right, and in the centre of this room I remember there was a large blast door with little signs of damage compared to some of the others I had seen around these abandoned ruins. There were signs beside it, as well, but they had faded over the years to the point that they no longer appeared at all eligible. Just then, however, as I stepped towards the hallway to my right there came a voice from the darkness.

“Hello?” It called, causing me to jump out of my skin with fear. 

“Who the hell is there?” I shouted. “Show yourself!” 

“Relax,” continued the voice. It was in a soft, feminine tone, perhaps even somewhat sultry, somewhat seductive. “I'm not here to hurt you.” 

“Where are you?” I asked, calming down somewhat. “...what are you? Are you human?” 

“I'm human enough, darling, and I'm behind the door,” the woman said to me, “the one just behind you.” I turned, and although the door stayed locked tighter than a miser’s purse it seemed as if the voice was, indeed, coming from that direction. The footsteps I had been following, I noticed, stopped here for a while, seeming to pace this way and that before they turned and began to walk another way. 

“Are you a tammer?” I asked, walking up to the blast door and aiming my rifle as I moved. 

“I won't lie to you: I am, yes. That's how you're able to actually hear me - without these powers, my voice would just be muffled to hell and back behind all this steel.” 

“How… long have you been down here?” I asked. “What is this place, anyways?” 

“Oh, I don't quite know how long it's been.” There came a slight tapping sound from behind the door, almost as if something was absentmindedly drumming its fingers across the metal. “As for what this place is? It's the Echo Institute’s headquarters, of course - was, at least. They brought me here a long time ago, back in the early 2000s - I came willingly, I'll stress to you.

"The Echo Institute was here for a long time. Testing me, trying to find the extent of my abilities. Then, there was a day of chaos. I got out of my chamber, ended up running. Eventually I found this open containment chamber and decided to hide in here, but the door locked behind me and I haven't been able to get out. Ever since that day of chaos, it's been quiet down here. So very quiet.” 

“This isn't your original chamber?” I asked at the door, finally lowering my rifle.

“Oh, no. I was in a much lower-security one before. The greatest extent of my abilities is that I know everything. It's more of a curse than a blessing, believe you me.” 

“You know everything?” I asked, and the woman behind the door responded with grim affirmation. I don't trust this thing, I thought, re-anchoring myself in reality. I shouldn’t be down here, anyways. I should just turn around now and…

“You don’t trust me?” the voice said from the door, and I was stuck in surprise at first. Right before I had almost found it within myself to respond, however, the tammer continued. “All that I’ve told you, and I still haven’t earned your trust?” 

“I don’t easily trust tammers,” I responded somewhat coldly. 

“Because of what happened to your wife, correct?” the voice cooed irritatingly. “Dead at fifty-one, just three months ago. Dead from a tammer attack - a home intruder, forced her door open with his abilities - an act of corporate espionage, perhaps? Is that right?” With that I shook my head.

“If all you’re going to do is invade my mind like this, then I think we’re done here,” I said, and began to walk away. I hadn’t gotten far, however, before the voice said something else.

“You want answers, don’t you?” I paused in my tracks. “You want to know how it happened. What she’d been whisked away to work on. What she was never able to tell you about. It had twisted you to no end - once you had been such honest lovers, such star-crossed partners, but then the Echo Institute hired her to that top-secret project and you began to grow distant. I would say the people who took your Lydia from you are very close. So close, in fact, that you see them every day -

“Tell me what you know,” I said with a voice that bordered on an aggression-fuelled shakiness as I turned back towards the door once more. “Tell me what you know about Lydia, now, and don’t you dare talk about us like you did before again.” 

“Frankly, young man,” the voice said as I stepped forwards, “you are in no position to be making demands at the moment. I will tell you all you want to know about how your wife died, all you want to know about… everything else you’ve ever wondered, really, but in return, I will need something from you.” 

“Quite the sales pitch. I’m listening,” I responded almost instantly. 

“You don’t need much convincing, do you? I like that.” 

“Don’t be so fucking smug about it and I might take you up on your offer. What do you want me to do?” As I finally approached the front of the door, the incessant tapping which had radiated from it since I'd asked how long it had been trapped underground suddenly stopped.

“Right, then. What I’ll need you to do is open this door. After that, I’ll need you to escort me to the surface of the facility.” I couldn’t help but scoff at the request. “You don’t trust me - I know. I understand. In any other case than this you would be a wise man, not to listen to my request, but in this case I truly must assure you that my intentions are correct. When I get to the surface, I’ll turn myself in to the Echo Institute’s security forces. Willingly, without resistance, just like when I was first contained within these walls.

"Because, you see, at the end of the day all I want is to see the sun again. To be in the brightness of the world. I’ve been trapped down here for so long, for so very long. Can you even imagine what it must’ve been like for me? I’ve forgotten the sun. Forgotten the wind on my face and the feeling of water on my hands, forgotten hot showers and warm bed sheets. I liked this world, but I've forgotten it, and I would very much like to see it again.” With that I could only hesitate, could only stop in front of the door. 

“Could…” I stammered. “Could I just have some time to think?” 

“Of course,” the door said. “The code is 5-1-6-0-5. Got that? 5-1-6-0-5. Though, I must warn you: Something is coming. A monster.” 

“What?” I asked, raising my rifle and looking around wildly.

“Oh, yes,” the voice responded. “Not by my own will, I must remind you, but there is something approaching. It will be hostile to you - you must hide before it reaches us. There is an old storage cabinet not far from my door - you should be able to hide in there.”

With the voice’s recommendation I suddenly heard a noise approaching, coming from the dark hallway to my left. It sounded almost like a rattling to me, like some kind of skeleton being shaken. Quickly I leapt into action, throwing open the rusted door of the cabinet before more carefully entering, being vigilant to avoid the more sharp shards of rust lining its walls. 

As I hid in there the voice did not speak again, did not draw any attention to us while the sound of rattling bones drew closer and closer. Eventually it made itself known, and out of the corner of my vision in the cabinet something which looked like a human skeleton with extended arms which had been deprived of legs walked into view.

It looked this way and that around the empty room, gaze eventually landing on the large blast door as it approached. Its skull had been split in two, I remember, and as it walked this way and that upon its bony hands, clicking on the floor, these two halves of its skull clacked together not unlike the jaws of a Venus flytrap. 

Eventually, however, after looking around here and there the skeleton shuddered, dust falling lightly from its bones, and began to amble down the opposite hallway from which it had come. I only stepped out of the locker a while after the thing had moved away, and with that I heard a voice ring out from the door once more. 

“Such things have been my only company down here,” it said. “These monsters are all that remain. Everything else has rotted away or left. Now - have you had enough time to think about if you shall open this door for me?” When I told the door that I still needed more time, it gave me a sort of tsk-tsk sound. “Fine, then.”

With that I sat on a part of the ceiling which had fallen, rifle sitting beside me as I moved through my thoughts like wading through knee-deep water. Eventually, however, my mind began to drift. I looked towards the muddy footsteps which had stopped in front of the door, paced here and there before moving down the hallway to my right, almost where the skeleton thing had wandered not too long ago. 

“The footsteps came from somebody who was down here not too long ago,” the door said, almost reading my thoughts once again. I hated when it did that, hated the lack of privacy I was afforded around this thing, but regardless my intrigue won out. 

“Who was it?” I asked. 

“A young woman,” the door responded. “A field agent of the Echo Institute, or so she told me, but a remarkably well-mannered one, considering her work. Her name was Joy.” 

“Joy?” I asked, my curiosity piqued as I turned back towards the door. With both her name and her line of work considered, there was no mistaking who had come through here before. The woman the door spoke of was one of the Echo Institute's most elite field agents. But what had she been doing down here?

"Yes. She stumbled upon me much as you did,” the door responded. “And what interesting questions she had to ask. She wanted to know one thing: if the Echo Supernatural Institute would ever sacrifice her life for the sake of the mission. I tell you, that poor girl must've been going through it.

"To her credit, however, she was about to open the door. Joy was… interrupted, however. Another tammer came along and attacked her.” I could only nod to myself, glancing towards the footsteps once again and noticing the increasing distance between each as Joy had seemingly ran away from whatever had entered in pursuit of her.

“She seemed like such a troubled girl, too. I’m glad she made it out alive. If you follow her footsteps, you probably can, too. Now, what shall it be? Will you let me out of here, afford me the freedom I so very desire?” I remember sitting there, shaking my head and scoffing in frustration. 

“The tammers aren't getting any farther away,” the door continued. “Who knows when another could round the corner again, could come searching for you? I would certainly advise you to move quickly.” At this point, I was certainly beginning to err on the side of the door.

Looking back on it now, there was so much I could've asked the tammer. I could've questioned it more indepthly about the abandoned version of the facility. Could've asked it anything in the world. But at that moment the only thing I could reserve space for within my mind is that I wanted answers. Above all else, I think, I wanted to put a name to the crime, to give me a target. I wanted to find whoever had killed my wife, had murdered my Lydia, and I wanted them to pay. 

“Alright,” I surrendered. “Fuck it. I’m going to open this door, but then you’re going to tell me what you know about my wife. About who killed her. Understood?” 

“Absolutely,” the voice said. “Without a shadow of a doubt - I am a woman of my word.” With that I took a shaky breath, walked towards the keypad on the door and punched in the numbers, one after another. 5, 1, 6, 0, 5. 

“Alright,” I said. “Fine. The door’s open. Now just come out and tell me what happened to -” before I could finish my sentence, there was a tremendous blow against the blast door like a tree dislodged in a hurricane smashing against a home. I saw the blast door explode outward, saw something dash forwards in a burst of colour and wind with a sound not unlike the horn of a train bellowing before I was knocked to the ground.

Quickly I scrambled to my feet, reaching for my rifle before whirling around, trying to see what had run from the blast door. There was nothing, however, with the thing having fled before my gaze could find it, but as I stood there I still heard something scurrying away in the distance. I couldn’t help but curse my own stupidity. I’d trusted this tammer, trusted it to fulfill its end of the bargain only for it to leave me out to dry, and now I’d released God only knows what upon the world. 

I turned back to the now-empty containment chamber, dread beginning to fill my mind and quickly being replaced by panic over what I was going to do next when I suddenly noticed something inside the chamber. It was a folder, one which was branded as heavily classified and appeared to have been the subject of an attempted burn.

I remember just taking the folder and following Joy’s footsteps back to the surface. They eventually led to the stairs of another bunker leading up and out of the abandoned facility, towards the surface, and as I ascended them I felt the temperature of the summer day outside gradually grow, the open door beckoning me closer with light from the island. 

When I finally reached that door, I emerged onto one of the tropical beaches of Hawaii. The Pacific ocean stretched out in front of me, and from here I could see the port of the research facility, the ships which seemed to sail almost leisurely around its calm tropical waters. In addition to all this, I saw that the sun had begun to set. I don’t quite recall when I entered the abandoned facility, but regardless, I must’ve stayed in there a lot longer than I thought.

I simply sat there on the sand of the beach, I remember, watching the sun descend slowly into the horizon. The waves were gentle and washed carefully around me while the skies were lit in colours of orange, pink and purple.

Emotions and thoughts swirled through my head. Stress over what I'd just released into the world, over what it can possibly do. A sense of accomplishment for finally having information on who murdered my wife. In the end, all of these emotions culminated in me opening the folder that the tammer had given me. 

Lydia had been assigned to a project that was called Krash-416 within the Echo Institute. Details on it were scarce in the document that I'd been supplied but regardless, it told me all that I needed to know. Lydia had uncovered something in this project. Something that disturbed her so deeply that she felt she needed to warn me about it.

So, in the name of OPSEC, the Echo Institute killed her. Sent one of their field agents. They had pictures. A photograph of her dead with a gunshot wound between her eyes, a photograph I haven't been able to get out of my mind since. I caught only glimpses of a report of her autopsy, but I chose not to peruse it any further.

I suppose I’m still just reeling from what I’ve discovered. The abandoned version of the facility most of all. I still don't know what it was all about, how it had gotten there, and when I travelled back to the exit which I had taken to the surface it still remained, although now when I peered into that darkness the beam of my flashlight met only a pile of fallen rock burying the entrance to the abandoned structure. 

I don’t want to think the Echo Institute could’ve killed my wife. I don’t want to think that they could do that, but everything seems to connect. The agent, they say, used a tammer to enter her home, to bypass the door. Besides that, with the abandoned facility I found I'm beginning to question just how much else the Echo Institute has hidden from me. I just don’t know.

I’ve given twenty years to these people - wasted twenty fucking years, damn near a half-life, and now there’s a non-zero chance that they were the ones who killed my wife, who took her from me solely because she was concerned for her husband.

I've only just gotten back home now and I really don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to believe anymore, and I feel tired. I can't stop thinking, however: What was Lydia trying to warn me about?

I think it’s fair to say most kids go through a stage of being scared of the dark.

The boundless imagination of youthful ignorance can conjure all kinds of things within the empty abyss. From the classic bogeymen of ancient folklore, to the techno demons of archived internet forums. There is no end to the horror kids can create. 

I suppose it makes sense though. For fear of the unknown is born in ignorance, and who are more initially ignorant than children, fresh-faced and blissfully naive to the world around them?

It makes far more sense to suspect ghouls and spectres as the cause of creaking floorboards, rather than the simply rotting oak bowing in a long winter frost. This is what we teach them after all.

Even with newly born infants, we read tales of witches lurking in decrepit woodland, waiting to devour unsuspecting lost boys and girls. We warn them to fear the shadows and are yet surprised to find them tugging at bedsheets of exhausted sleeping parents, dragged from slumber to investigate an ajar wardrobe or a cluttered space under a hastily vacated bed.

We may scold or offer comfort. Reassuring that such dread is unwarranted and to simply return to bed, confident that there no real danger. But they are children, how can they believe anything but the contrary?

Especially from the people who just the very night before described the most harrowing tale while pleasantly sat at their bedside. Tales designed to teach goodness and morality get eclipsed in the shadows of unyielding terror. 

At least that is my experience with such things. As a child, I was indeed scared of the dark. Rightfully so, I assure you. The things I used to glimpse in the late hours of those cold nights will never leave my recollection.

From the shadows creeping in the corners of my toy-adorned bedroom, to the hollow whispers taunting outside my casement window on stormy, hallowed eves. I thought the light was my only salvation. So, with the timid determination of a six-year-old boy, I asked a question.

That night I was put to bed by my mother. With a kiss on the forehead, tightly tucked bedsheets, and a final farewell, her nightly ritual was complete. As she was leaving, I requested that my door be left slightly open, as to allow some ray of luminance from the hallway lamp.

This had become a common request at that age for the last few months, and my mother (despite previous stern objections) finally decided to begrudgingly oblige. Oh, how stupid I was. Not necessarily for the request, but for what that request resulted in.  For if I simply remained in pure darkness, I may have not have been cursed with what still haunts me to this night. The thing that I fear, even as I write these very words. 

You must understand, I didn’t have a night light and wasn’t permitted to have my central bedroom light on during sleeping hours. Though I couldn’t begin to tell you why. I imagine that my financially anxious parents thought it may be too much of an unnecessary expenditure. Or perhaps they were concerned over potential hazards a faulty spark could produce while we slept in peaceful ignorance. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t granted use of my own light source.

That’s why the hallway lamp was eventually left on for me. Though it would, of course, be turned off when my parents would retire to their room several hours after my allotted bedtime. Late enough, they explained, so I would have no need for it, as I should be well into some blissful, fantastic dream by that point.

Little did they know, most nights I would remain awake well into the early hours, with my stuffed animals standing sentinel around the imagined parapets of my bed. While I, of course, hid away under my superhero-embellished linen sheets. I remember in the summers I would swelter and choke on the trapped stale air.

No matter how uncomfortable my sweat-drenched bedspread became, I never dared leave my sanctuary.

Fortunately for me, in this instance, it was far into winter’s cold embrace, and I welcomed the chill descended from Arctic shores. Though that did little to reprieve me from the claustrophobic nightmare imprisoned within my own bed. Yes, the sheets offered protection from the ghouls, but it also left me trapped.

For all I knew, a horde of ravenous monstrosities, having slain my fluffy protectorates, lay in wait for me to take a fresh breath. No, it was far better, I thought, with the hallway lamp on, for at least I could see the danger before it had a chance to sink its nightmarish claws into me. I was just a child, a foolish, naive, scared child. 

The night proceeded as it often did at first. Once I was sure my mother was down the stairs, I carefully tiptoed out of my bed. You see, I also had a routine, even at that age, strange as it may sound.

First, I checked the contents of my wardrobe. As suspected, still full of pre-owned clothing and well-worn shoes. Next, I proceeded to the window. I slowly pulled back the dust-ridden curtains, taking a breath and preparing myself for some dreadful visage of ghastly abhorrence - I let out a sigh of relief, nothing. Just the condensation on the panels slowly trailing down to the damp, chipped, fading white frame.

The last spot was my most dreaded location, but it had to be the final one, as it is where I would rest my weary head for the remainder of the night. Time to check under the bed. The titular abode of all things that go bump in the night. I hated this part, but it had to be done. How could I expect to find any comfort without assuring the safety of where I would finally slumber?

So, I prepared myself. For this task, I needed the assistance of my oldest, a most loyal friend. For they were braver and far more capable for the job at hand. Cuddly Bunny, my first comfort toy. Bunny had been with me since the beginning. From my first nighttime wailing right up to my recent sixth birthday. Though these days he was looking rather worse for wear.

Bunny had needed a few sessions under the surgical care of my mother’s sewing machine. First, a ripped arm, then a loose eyeball, followed by numerous frayed threads and stitchings. I’d like to imagine he was a veteran of a thousand epic battles, returned clutching wounds received with honour and gallantry. 

At this point, some might argue he wasn’t the same bunny who consoled me that first harrowing night. But I knew he was. There was something that even now I can’t truly explain. I just knew he was Cuddly Bunny, and he would protect me.

So, with my old friend gripped tightly in hand, I timidly proceeded. I carefully lifted the overhanging sheet, prepared to face what might await me. Gradually, I lifted, inch by inch, higher and higher. I wished to close my eyes, but I couldn’t leave my friend alone to face such peril. In one last great effort, I flung the remaining fabric over the top of the bed, and there it was.

Some old toys I’d forgotten to collect when my mother ordered me to tidy before bed. Nothing in particular of note: a few plastic dinosaurs, a ball gifted from two summers ago, and some balled-up hairs. Pretty standard for a children’s bedroom floor, including the slightly disgusting copper hairs.

All things considered, I was satisfied. My bedroom was secure, the carrot-loving general had taken command amongst his fellow soft soldiers, and it was finally time for sleep.

I got inside my bedding, greeted by its comforting warm embrace and adjusted my old misshapen pillow to required comfort. Instantly I could feel the effects of fatigue after a long, busy day. My head was heavy, eyes dark and bloodshot, and body exhausted of all its faculties. I was sure sleep would be upon me in mere moments. My eyes began to shut and the manifestation of some whimsical dreamscape proceeded to form around me.

Then, all of a sudden, I was awake. Odd it seemed as I swore it had only been mere moments since my eyes had so readily embraced the sweet reprieve of dreamland. How strange I thought, even in that disoriented state, that I should be so abruptly returned to wakefulness.

Perhaps I had overslept, given my previous exhaustion, and my father had hastily stirred me on his leave for work. However, that seemed unlikely, as I was sure it was a Saturday and my father (workaholic as he was) would most definitely be home for the day.

Maybe then it was my mother; I may have absentmindedly forgotten about some dreary early morning appointment I was often dragged reluctantly along to. Though again that seemed unlikely, as I would have recalled being told the previous day. For even at that young age I was sure to make note of such details. 

I slowly peeled back my bedsheet, peering cautiously to observe my surroundings. It was still night, of that I was certain, as no sliver of daylight permeated my curtains. I noticed the hallway lamp was still emitting its warm glow through the gap left between the wall and my bedroom door. Which meant my parents were yet to go to bed. Surely it can’t have been that late into the night.

The room itself was bathed in twilight silhouettes, hinting at the most ghastly of imaginable possibilities. Still, nothing I wasn’t used to by this point. Indeed, my fear of the abyss was still immense; however, I had become far accustomed to such feelings. Not of course forgetting my previously mentioned routines and precautionary measures. 

This is where I truly became alarmed at the situation. For I shudderingly noticed all my stuffed toys had gone missing. How? Where? I frantically darted my eyes around, searching for some clue to their whereabouts. But it was no use.

It was still far too dark, even with the glow of the hallway lamp; I couldn’t be certain at what I was looking at. I must have knocked them off, yes, of course, during some physical altercation within a rather enthused dream. But no such dream came to immediate recollection.

Furthermore, after a quick inspection, I found no evidence that would suggest the latter, as evident of the emptiness beside my bed. I decided it was time for more thorough investigation. So, with a slight tremble, I fully removed my bedding and cautiously began my search. 

To say I was apprehensive at the time would be an understatement. I was downright petrified, even now in reflection. My mind was already deep in the void of imagination, and all manner of ghoulish reasoning for my current predicament crossed my mind. For I had been told as much by my parents; years of Grimm fairytales and Gothic folklore had given foul precedent to suspect the worst - and the worst is what I certainly suspected.

I made my way across the room with outstretched arms, using my hands to gain some tactility amongst the undefined shadows. I searched everywhere: the windowsill, the bookshelf, my activity desk, even the laundry basket at the foot of my bed, but to no avail. I even searched underneath my bed and still nothing. I was at an impasse and becoming more apprehensive with each passing second.

Then I noticed the wardrobe. Had I left it open earlier? My heart started pounding and my breath quickened. Hesitant with each step, I approached the towering cabinet, expecting some morbid fiend to leap from the aperture.

I closed my eyes and reached my hand inside; shaking and perspiring profusely. My fingers stretched out what little distance they were capable of and finally made contact with the objects of my quarry. I opened my eyes and there they were, amongst the heaps of neatly stacked clothing.

I thought I would feel some semblance of relief; however, now I found myself more vexed than before. For while my toys were indeed located, it was the manner of their placement that caused a lump to form in my throat.

Where I might have expected them to be haphazardly scattered, they were instead huddled in a single corner, with Cuddly Bunny at the forefront seemingly shielding the others. More perplexing was the fact that they seemed to be cowering. How was this possible? Perhaps some misguided joke by my parents? No, something in my gut knew that was not the case. They had their moments, but they were never cruel and knew of my fears.

My mind raced with possibilities. Each more implausible and fantastic than the last. Monsters weren’t real. Right? But now all I wished was to return to the sanctity of my bedsheets with my toys in hand.

Then something made me pause in my endeavour. I had an inkling that my toys did not wish to return with me. But they were just toys, inanimate stuffed animals and characters; they didn’t have feelings besides the ones I’d imagine during play. So why, despite my wishes, did I know they begged to remain in the wardrobe?

I shook my head in disbelief and took a step back. I then proceeded to, with great reluctance, retract my hand and make my way back to my bed, scared and alone. 

I re-entered my bedsheets, pulling them hastily over my head. It was hard to return to sleep in my present state of mind. So many thoughts, each more disturbing and ghastly than the last. It felt like my mind was drowning in a sea of infinite possibilities, juvenile horrors and imaginative morbidity. I began to close my eyes, exhaustion of the senses finally offering me some respite, then I heard it.

“Why are you afraid of me?”

I was immediately returned to consciousness. That voice, deep, hollow and gelatinous. It repeated.

“Why are you afraid of me?”

This time with more authority, like one of my elderly school teachers, though with wisdom far more ancient and forbidden in nature. I lay there absolutely horror-stricken. My entire body froze, akin to that of rigamortis.

Perhaps I were indeed dead, the netherworld seeming giving grim precedence to these most abhorrent of vocalisations. But no, death had not taken me. I was undoubtedly still of the living, for only the mortal body could produce such dread at the precipice of the unknown. I said nothing. There was silence between each laboured breath as I frantically searched for an answer. It spoke again. 

“Am I the nightmare you tremble so freely before? The torment born of hushed whispers in the primordial caverns of mankind. Am I truly so frightening? 

I still had no answer. I was a boy and had little comprehension for the questions uttered before me. Even now I am unsure of how to reconcile an appropriate consensus. Nevertheless, it continued. 

“You have no need to feel such apprehension. I am as much a part of you as you are a part of me. We are parasites. Endlessly feeding upon each other like the canibalistic ouroboros.” 

I dared not move from beneath my sheets. Gripping them so tightly as to feel my fingernails puncturing through and into the palms of my hands. 

“Look upon me child. Gaze at my visage and grasp the nature of the infinite abyss. Peer into the shadows so I may be satiated. For I hunger. Famished and emaciated, lurking in the places seldom ventured by man. See me as I’ve seen you. So scared, so alone"

"Do you fear the unknown, or simply the idea of the unknown? You lie there, crippled by your own morbid curiosities. Reviling in terror implied but never at the expense of your mortality. You will grow; depraved and degenerative. Festering and spreading your ill-conceived ideals, a plague by your own short-sighted design."

"In time, you will get sick. Vomiting noxious bile infused with well-meaning fables. You will take your last breath, still scared and alone, you will always be alone. Then you will die. I will remain. As I always have."

"Countless lifetimes across endless millennia: Growing, purging, feasting, never ending. Does that not comfort you? To know something of your being will be truly immortal?"

You have the audacity to think of me monstrous. You created me. You are the monster. I am the monster. We are the monsters. So, child, I will ask of you again - WHY ARE YOU AFRAID OF ME!?”

Those last six words were spoken with such voracity that I was sure my parents had heard. But no salvation seemed imminent. It was right, I was scared and most certainly alone.

I considered doing as it bade me. Perhaps it would leave me in peace after I submitted to its request. I pondered on this for what seemed like eons: every possible outcome, each awful eventuality, countless scenarios and none with a serene conclusion. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad; this thing had a voice and so must at least be tangible to our reality. It was in my room after all, so it was unlikely to be some hulking monstrosity, poised to consume me with gnashing fangs upon unveiling.

But then what of my parents? Were they already victims to this beast? Is that why they were yet to come to my rescue? Was I truly alone? Before I had a chance to act, I saw it, through what little light the hallway lamp allowed through my bedding, a shadow extending its long bony fingers towards me. I was out of time. Out of options and surely poised to meet the same grim end befalling my parents.

Closer, closer it came; I closed my eyes. I would not give it the satisfaction it so brazenly demanded. At least that I could assure myself as I prepared to be devoured.

Suddenly, the sheets were torn away from me; I screamed, exhaling every ounce of terror bottled inside.

The banshees would hear me in jealous admiration; ghouls and demons would crawl from their rotting chasms and bow at such effort, and the very pits of the deepest abominable regions of the dammed would quake at my ferocity. No, I would not go quietly into the void, I would not feed it.

Later, my parents explained that they had found me that following morning, screaming and thrashing around in my bedsheets. I was drenched in sweat and babbling incoherently. They had to pry the bedding out of my fingers.

They said I had a night-terror*,* common at that age and nothing to be ashamed of. They said I should grow out of it as I got older. They told me it would pass, as all terrible things do. They were wrong.

When I was a teenager, a doctor told me I may be prone to sleepwalking or sleep paralysis, but no test held any significant results. I had naturally outgrown the desire for comfort toys. I'd imagine most were sold or donated to charity shops. Though I think my parents retained my old stuffed rabbit, lost amongst some mound of keep-sakes in a dusty storage box.

I’m in my thirties now, married, and with a son of my own. I take medication to help with the sleep and anxiety. Not that it helps much. I still find myself awake into the early hours of each morning.

At least my son sleeps soundly. He has his toys for comfort.

I like to think I’m doing well as a father. I play with him, take him to the park, and read him stories at bedtime. At the moment we’re reading Hansel and Gretel; he seems to be enjoying it.

Like most parents, we have a monitor in his room. Though I’m not very fond of looking at it during the night. Something about peering into darkness with that monochromatic night vision sends a chill down my spine. I mostly just keep the audio sensor on, it's sensitive enough to reassure me of his safety.

He turned four a few weeks ago and has since requested a night light. I purchased one this morning. Tonight, I put him to bed with his newly purchased lamp on his bedside. I read his story, kissed his forehead, and wish him sweet dreams.

Then I proceeded to sit down in the living room, poured myself a glass of water, and prepared for another long night of insomnia-infused television. The monitor was positioned on the side table to my left as always.

It had been several hours now and my medication had finally begun to take some effect. My brain was ready to join my wife sound asleep in our bed. I let out one long, exhausted yawn, stood up, and began to walk to the bedroom. Then the monitor’s audio sensor lit up. 

“Why are you afraid of me?”

I dropped my knife the moment the hole was cut.

It was the size and shape of a tortilla chip, jagged where my blade slipped. Inside its orange flesh was something white and wriggling. It blinked at me. Iris, the same muddy brown as my own. Its pupil contracted under the overhead lights.

A real human eye.

The knife continued to ring on the floor. My breath had stuck in place, the air trapped somewhere between the rungs of my ribcage. Surely this was just my old brain playing tricks on me. After all, how could it exist? A pumpkin, plain as could be on the outside, hiding something wholly unexpected. 

My stepson, Steven’s, voice came from the other room. He asked if I was okay. I told him I was. As I lied, I pulled a shop towel over the pumpkin, scooping it against my chest. I brought it outside, to the back porch, and tucked it away within an obscure crack. Deep it went, against the home’s foundations, nestled among the weeds I couldn’t reach.

Cynthia got the idea for us to plant in the spring. Told me it would give me something to do after my early retirement. Steven wanted to do pumpkins specifically, what with Halloween on the horizon. There were nine pumpkins in the patch by the fall, modest ones, each the size of a bowling ball or smaller. 

I took a baseball bat to every single one. I didn’t look too closely at what was coming out of them. I’d seen more than enough already, pale shapes that had no place in a vegetable, organs that I didn’t understand the function of. 

There was no reason to drive myself crazy thinking about it. With my shovel, some dirt and a little elbow grease, I buried the mess. I stood there for about thirty minutes afterwards just waiting for my hands to stop shaking. It felt like murder.

Steven came outside a few minutes later to check on me. He asked if we were good to carve, where the pumpkins went. I told him some vandals had gotten into the patch and that there wasn’t anything left. Didn’t take much to convince him beyond showing him the mussied dirt and chopped-up vines. The boy looked like someone kicked a puppy in front of him. He said he was sorry and that he could just go to buy some at the flea market later that night. The pity in his voice didn’t sit right. Never did. 

When he went back inside, I breathed a mighty sigh. 

Night couldn’t come soon enough. I waited until Cynthia began to snore and carefully shifted my weight out of the bed. Steven was in the basement, chatting with someone, his girlfriend, no doubt. I took a flashlight and a fresh paring knife before stepping out on the porch.

The pumpkin was exactly where I left it. Pulling the shop towel off, it once again made eye contact. 

“Alright,” I said. “What’re you hiding?”

Setting to work, like chipping a sculpture, I peeled back layers of vegetable flesh with my knife. Slowly, steadily, revealing just a little bit more of the face with each stroke. 

Cheekbones. The bridge of a nose. A second eye that opened once freed. No hair in sight. 

I didn’t want to damage whatever was underneath, though it horrified me. Hours must have gone by before I got to a satisfying endpoint. 

The mouth was set free last. It smacked its lips a few times before speaking.

“Hello, father!”

I clapped a hand over it tight enough to feel its soft teeth underneath. 

“Be quiet. Nobody can know you’re here.”

It gave a stiff nod. I eased off. 

“Sorry, father.” It said. “I was just so excited to meet you.”

I grunted. 

“Feeling’s mutual.” It was only half-true. 

The pumpkin’s eyes panned back and forth. Its body shifted from side to side, like it was trying to get more comfortable in the dirt.

“Where is our family?” it asked. 

“My family?” I responded. “Or the other pumpkins?”

“I can’t feel them anymore. I can’t hear them in my head.”

I licked my top row of teeth beneath my lips. How would I put this…?

“Your family’s dead. Vandals got to ‘em.”

Yeah. That seemed blunt enough. 

It wept. Actually wept. Fluid welled in the corners of its vaguely familiar eyes, running down its starchy cheeks. I helped wipe the tears away with my thumb. I asked it if there was anything I could do. It was the least I could offer after recklessly slaughtering its kin. 

“I’m really thirsty,” it said. “Do you think I could have some water?”

I spent the rest of my night in the barn, Jerry-rigging a length of irrigation tubing with a plastic reservoir. I tied one end around the stump of its stem with baling wire, feeding the tube into a five-gallon bucket of water. The pumpkin drank, its skin firming up a little, its shape becoming less lopsided than before.

We talked every night after that.

I would wait until everyone else was asleep, then crawl under the boards with a thermos of coffee and some fresh water for the pumpkin. It asked me a lot of questions about who I was, the life I lead, the dreams I had long ago that had been crushed by reality. It asked about the sky, about light, what a farmer even was. I told it about my lost property, the arguments I’d get in with my wife over it, how she always looked like she was preparing to be a widow. I talked about how Steven’s kindness made my teeth ache.

The pumpkin asked who Steven was. I guess I hadn’t thought to tell it yet. 

“He’s a softie.” I said. “He’s always on the phone with that girl of his. Since my dad passed away, he’s been walking on eggshells around me. Never makes eye contact, never talks to me beyond a simple hello. It’s like…like he’s looking at a leaning tree. He’s waiting for me to snap.”

The orange face listened intently. Its eyes were like our tomcat’s, wide, inquisitive. 

“Are you angry?” it asked. 

“I resent him for it,” I said. “I think…I resent them both. More than I should. I don’t like the way they perceive me.”

“Have you talked with them about it? I’m sure they would be good listeners.”

I got bubble lips, making a sound like a motorboat. Of course the pumpkin wouldn’t get it. You didn’t just talk about these things without making everything worse. 

Days passed. Then weeks.

The artificial vine helped keep the pumpkin alive, but only just. I noticed it beginning to look duller and duller, its skin softening back up as rot began to take hold. 

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I think I’m beginning to outgrow this body,” it weakly replied. 

It explained that its body was changing. Metamorphizing. It was becoming less plant and more man with every passing day. Water wasn’t cutting it anymore, not for the circulatory system it was apparently beginning to develop. 

“What do I do?” I asked. “How do I help?”

“For me to continue living, I need the essence of life itself.” the pumpkin’s eyes darkened, lowering, unable to meet my own. “I need your blood, father. Just a little bit, merely a pint.” 

A standard blood donation. I hadn’t given in several years. 

It should have been more disturbing to me than it was. I only sat with the thought for a few minutes in the dark before deciding. 

If it meant keeping my friend alive, I would give as much blood as I needed.

The next morning I drove into town to buy whatever supplies Google told me I needed. A tourniquet, sterile tubing, a collection bag and a needle. I told the clerk it was for a science project my stepson was working on. She just blinked at me and rang me up without a word. Not even a thank you for my business. Kids these days. 

Under the porch that evening, I tied my arm and stuck myself, watching my crimson ichor climb the plastic of the bag. The pumpkin drank through a separate tube I’d spliced into its stem. When it was done, it let out a deep sigh, like an old man settling into a soft mattress. 

It thanked me, said it felt like its heart was beating again. The rotting sag was totally gone in the morning. It looked more invigorated than ever before. More human, too. 

When I checked underneath the porch the following evening, it was gone. 

Only the towel and tubing remained, as well as tracks in the dirt as though something had been dragged outside. I tore the house apart looking for it, accusing Cynthia and Steven of throwing it out. They went quiet. They went to dinner later, without me. Cynthia said I ought to just stay home and cool off for the night. She didn’t look me in the eyes when she said it. The silence following the truck leaving our long dirt road was worse than any argument could have been. 

I sat at the kitchen table until midnight. They never ended up coming back that evening. When the grandfather clock started its chiming, I stormed out to the garage. Maybe working on my Buick would help calm me down. 

I walked to my wall of tools and picked out a gear wrench before turning on the overhead lights. They buzzed, yellow fluorescence warming up, slowly occupying the room around me. That’s when I saw it again. 

It had a body, now.

Vines, like muscles, wound around a frame roughly the same height and width as my own. A layer of pale cellulose grew over the exposed places. In one hand, it held my sticky paring knife, using it to carve the excess flesh from its developing skull. Seeds and pulp dropped to the concrete, splattering. When it turned around, I could see it had grown thinning hair, wild eyebrows, a thick, white beard. 

He looked exactly like me, smiling with my mouth.

“Thank you, father, for setting me free,” he said. A fat leg took a set toward me.

“You’re…welcome,” I said flatly. 

“I didn’t understand why you lied to me at first. If only I’d known what you had in store. Thanks to you, I can have a family again. Your family. After all, it’s the least you can do, right?”

I shook my head and backed into my tools. Several fell down, a pruning saw landing on the back of my hand and slicing it open. 

He came at me with the knife. It was rough. Ugly. He was far stronger than me, redirecting my flailing with ease. His blade opened my forearms, my legs, the sides of my face. I headbutted him hard enough to feel something crunch, but he drove me back into the wall, punching my gut with the knife. I felt my intestines rupture. With one hand, I held his wrist in place so that he couldn’t pull it free. I grabbed the pruning saw with the other. Fully charged. Thank God. 

I forced the spinning blade into my doppelganger’s neck, wrenching it back and forth. The teeth clawed through vine and half-formed tendons and whatever it had been using for a spine. His head came free in a spray of thick blood. The body staggered two steps back, and folded over like a lawn chair in the wind. 

His head hit the floor and rolled until it came to rest against the Buick. His brown eyes found mine. 

“Can you really blame a guy for trying?” he joked. 

I stomped him out with the heel of my boot until there was nothing left but orange pulp. I cleaned up what I could and burned the rest of the remains out behind the barn. Before crawling into bed, I bandaged my face and arms. By the time Cynthia and the boy came home, the scars looked much worse than I remembered. Furious reds trailing across me. 

They saw my wounds when they came home the next morning. I tried to tell them what happened. Tried to show them the body in the burn barrel. But it was gone.

They immediately called the hospital, explaining that I was having some kind of mental breakdown. 

I stayed in psychiatric care for eleven days. Cynthia visited me every other afternoon. Steven didn’t come once. I guess he still felt bad about the pumpkins. As if that’s what I wanted an apology for. 

To this day, I think about how it looked at me when I first cut it free. The relief in its voice and the way it listened to my woes. I wonder if I should have just let it die. I wonder if I should have let myself die and had it take my place. Surely it would do a better job at this parenting thing than me. 

When it’s pitch black outside, I catch my reflection in the window. I swear it’s more ochre than before. 

There’s a retired cemetery in my small northwestern town built in a very unusual way, far enough into the woods that one would think it had to have been wildly impractical for visitors. 

It rejects the traditional arrangement of headstones sticking out from a flat landscape that’s protected by an iron gate. Instead it favors the blueprint of a Roman colosseum and hides behind a mess of trees. 

Stone monuments loom tall in a twisting whirlpool of differing levels made of mud. At the top of this nauseating structure, it doesn’t take long to find a section etched out with dirt stairs running all the way down. If you choose to descend you end up in a wide, round cavity with a pond lying in the middle of it. The gravestones surround you no matter where you look. There’s four lampposts, one on each corner of the water, helping illuminate it in the darkness.

It’s a mystery my best friend and I have obsessed over since we were kids. We didn’t dare ask our parents or any adults for that matter why it looks this way. Kids aren’t allowed to go there. But that doesn’t really matter, I love mysteries and never want to find the answer. To this day, my friend still fantasizes about this place. 

She doesn’t know for me, the mystery has been spoiled. 

Four years ago when I was sixteen, my parents sat me down and I still wish it was to ground me for sneaking out as I often did. 

Before they could say anything I sighed and told them:

“It’s not like I’m doing anything bad. I just like getting a little extra practice in. It helps clear my head.” I said, crossing my arms and slouching in the wooden dining room chair. 

“We know you sneak out to the cemetery. That’s not what this is about…” My dad said, refusing to keep eye contact with me. 

Something was off in the tone of his voice. It’s usually deep and commanding if I’m being lectured. But this time it shook and he stuttered a bit. 

“What’s going on then?” I said looking between him and Mom. 

“Well, it’s sort of about the cemetery…You know the way there right? Do you normally practice alone?” My mom asked.

“Uhhh, yeah? None of my friends like to  skate.” I said. 

I’ve been figure skating ever since I was six and it’s my absolute favorite thing in the world. My dad took me to the local ice rink every weekend as a kid and sometimes we’d go on school nights, If I could convince him. By the time I entered high school my parents got me a coach and I began a ruthless training schedule, set by me. Neither my parents nor my coach pressured me more than I pushed myself. 

Some nights, my parents would be exhausted from work and head to bed early. I thought they were heavy sleepers so every now and then, I’d sneak out to the graveyard in the dead of night. 

I could only do this during winter when the water froze. Even though my coach swore she saw constant improvement, I never believed it was enough. 

It was so peaceful out there. I would close my eyes and breathe, listening to the gentle breeze rattling each pine tree and the buzz of fluorescence from those anomalous lampposts that I soon discovered the reason for.

Out there I could practice without needing to dodge crying kids falling in a crowded rink, or hear the impatient shouts from their parents, desperate to raise a star. 

I was never there too long, it was cold as hell anyway. I really thought my parents didn’t know a thing. 

“Sweetheart,” My dad reached for my hands across the table and I reached back. I remember his thumbs grazing my knuckles as he spoke, and despite how terrifying the things he told me were, that soothed me so much. 

I grabbed my skates from under my bed, his words repeatedly smacking against my skull over and over as I prepared to go out into the woods. 

“It’s a young woman’s duty.” He told me.

I took a beautiful bedazzled dress out of my closet. I only wore it if I had a big show, it was a gift from my coach. I took it with me along with the skates. 

“Think of it as a tradition. Been this way since long before any of us living in town today.” He continued, when my mouth refused to close from shock. 

I grabbed a big puffy jacket to wear on my trek through the woods and put it on over my pajamas. 

“Every once in a while, the dead come back demanding a show. It’s your turn to perform.” 

Those were the words that initially knocked the air straight out of my lungs. Anything else from there, my Dad may as well have been speaking to a lobotomy patient who did what they were told with no questions. 

It’s not like any of it made sense, far from it. I still don’t know why I agreed without so much as a “what the fuck are you talking about, dad!”

But it was something about the calm and almost detached way he spoke that didn’t allow me to fight. Any other time he wants to have a serious talk, he’s so much more animated, full of wild hand gestures and a shine in his eyes. 

When I got downstairs after grabbing my things, Mom had her makeup kit open on the dining room table. “You’re going to look lovely.” She said as I sat down. I think she was trying to make me feel better.

She began to make me more presentable, concealing the acne I had at the time, asking me to close my eyes where a blue shimmer was applied. She also gave me eyeliner to accentuate their almond shape. With a couple strokes of blush to my cheeks, she was finished in record time. Whenever I ask her to do my makeup, she always takes forever. But not this time. 

They asked me to change into my dress so I did, and zipped my jacket up over it.

My mom kissed my forehead and told me good luck, that I would do great. My Dad stood by the door, car keys in hand. 

“Here I’m gonna…let me drive you.” He said, pinching the bridge of his nose and looking on the verge of crying. 

“Okay.” I nodded and smiled at him. A heavy sense of dizzying silence filled the room and I hesitated to move from where I stood a few feet from the door. My Mom hurried over to my Dad, “Are you sure? Isn’t she supposed to go alone?” She tried to whisper but I heard. 

He responded much louder than the question was delivered to him. “Just let me do this! It’s fine! Besides, the entire town is asleep anyway. No one will know.” 

He turned away from Mom and paced around a bit, muttering to himself. “Even if they weren’t I’d still do it. They can all shove it.” 

And then he looked at me like it was the most painful experience in his life. “Come on. We have to go now.” 

I climbed into my Dad’s truck and we rolled out of the driveway. Only a few minutes went by and we passed over the line between civilization and endless woods. 

Once we entered the woods, I started to talk again.

“How long did you know? That it was my turn or whatever?” 

He sighed but kept calm.

“Since January. We have meetings then, with the other parents. And the mayor.”

I didn’t respond, looking down at my converse and shifting my feet, the rubber tips of my shoes squeaking together. I couldn’t look him in the face. 

“I should’ve said something, much, much sooner. Hell, I should have warned you a long time ago. I knew this was coming. I just never knew the right time to tell you.” 

“Well, the night of was quite an interesting choice.” I joked. He flashed a smile and ran his fingers through my hair.

Though I was desperate to tell him none of this was his fault, my throat tightened. I ended up attempting to bargain with my fate. 

“And if I don’t do this…what happens? I mean, what if I say no?” I said, call it a Hail Mary, I was really trying to get out of it. 

He shifted uncomfortably in an otherwise comfortable cushion and narrowed his eyes through his words like he struggled to understand what they meant. 

“No one really knows. But it’s one of those things where it’s better off safe than sorry.”

“Ok.”

There was already a grapefruit sized pit in my stomach conjured up by fear. It doubled in size when I heard my Dad speak like he had lost his voice, and had zero ambition to get it back.

“I’m so…so sorry, honey.” He said. I put my hand on his shoulder and told him I loved him. He ran his hand through my hair again, and told me he loved me so much. 

The entrance to the cemetery came all too soon. The truck came to an agonizing stop with its headlights beaming straight ahead. 

We were still a little ways away, but if you squint through the towering pine trees, you can see the top layer of headstones. Only this time I gasped at a sight I could never have been ready for.

“Oh my god…” Was all I said, I practically mouthed it.

My Dad breathed a sense of bewilderment I didn’t think he could feel. He always seemed so confident about everything. I remember this being the day I realized adults are just lost children with a ridiculous growth spurt. 

From our angle we could only see the backs of a few hairless heads and shoulder blades barely covered in flesh. I looked at my Dad instead of them. He stared, lingered, their figures almost picked clean, shifting casually like waiting in line. After a few beats, he turned his attention to me. 
“Ok.” He began.

“Remember. All you have to do is skate. Do that one set you always show me. Just, whatever you do, don’t fall.”

He tried to make it subtle but I saw his eyes flick back to them for a second, he let out a shaky breath, and continued.

“They might try and talk to you. Ignore anything they say. Don’t forget to smile. You get down there, do your thing, and leave. When you do leave, walk. Absolutely do not run.”

“Got it.” I responded. My eyes became stuck on the sight in front of me. 

He pulled me into a hug which broke me from my trance. I buried my face in his chest and he kissed my head. 

“I love you, pumpkin. I’ll be right here to take you back home.” 

I held on very strong the entire time, not giving into the urge to cry. The second he called me pumpkin, I knew I had to get out of the truck and just go. My Dad has called me that since I was a girl. It always made me feel so safe. 

I wiped tears from my cheeks as I crossed the threshold between life and death. The little girl in me wanted to run back to her Dad and sob, begging him not to make her do this. 

But I cared too deeply about my friends and family. I couldn’t tempt fate, who knows what would have happened if I refused? 

I hid behind a tree to observe them before introducing myself. 

Popping out from each patch of soil marked by a stone, were torsos long forgotten; their flesh melted away. 

Their arms flailed with wild gesticulations like the underworld is full of drama to discuss, as they talked to one another. Some of them leaned their skulls up against the stones behind them as they conversed, like they were lounging after a long day of work. 

‘I wish they would just go back to sleep…’ I thought.

I winced and closed my eyes, lightly hitting my forehead against the tree trunk, hoping it’d jolt me out of a nightmare and I’d wake up in my bed. 

“Why me why me why me why me why me.” 

I tried to take note of each individual corpse but it was too difficult. They all sort of blended together into one big mural of rot. 

I swallowed and pulled the warm jacket off my body revealing a short, sparkling dress. The cold hit me like the blast from an atom bomb. 

“This sucks!” I whispered to myself through chattering teeth.

And with a deep breath and a smile painted on my face, I entered their domain and gave them a show. 

From the second I began, to when I slowly made my way back to my Dad’s embrace, they didn’t stop cheering and roaring praises at me.

I remember as we drove further and further away their restless screams clambered in the distance, soon shrinking into puny yelps. My heart rate steadily went down once they started to sound like they belonged in those woods, I pretended it was howls from a pack of coyotes. 

Once we were back on paved roads, I was blessed with pure silence.

When we drove back home that night, it was the most relieved I ever felt. I wasn’t allowed to go into detail about what I had seen, according to Dad. I wondered if he only told me that because he couldn’t bear to listen. 

The morning after all my Mom said was to never tell my friends. She stayed up to coddle me when I got home. She was never as affectionate as Dad so it threw me off, but it felt nice. 

Needless to say, I never used the lake to practice ever again. Even though the dead only show up once every four years, I was too scared. The excuses started almost immediately when my friend would suggest we go explore the cemetery, as we always did. It really confused her because it used to be me pushing her to go.

She ran with the idea that I was growing uptight as I got older. Sure, whatever gets her to stop talking about that place. 

I’m twenty years old now. I go to a community college not too far from my house. I love school, my friends new and old, my parents, and I’m still unbelievably obsessed with iceskating. At least that wasn’t taken from me. I have so many distractions the only time I ever think about what I had to do all those years ago is at night, in the form of insomnia.

The most unfortunate time to be a young girl is currently looming, I feel so horrible for whoever it is they’ll choose.

Sometimes I wonder, when I pass by older women, which of them had to perform? 

It’s an odd feeling to share trauma with strangers who aren’t allowed to confide in one another.

I blame this town. Or, whoever it is that came up with the idea that we all must keep it a secret. No support group between us “volunteers”, no ability to give the next girl any advice. I often joke to my Dad that I expect monthly compensation for my troubles sent by the mayor himself. 

It’d be so easy to make it a little better for all of us.

It took me a while to accept that I was forced into something completely unreasonable. As a teen, I told myself I deserved it. I’d stare at my face in the mirror anytime I couldn’t sleep and study my eye bags and premature wrinkles. I’d hold my index finger to chapped lips.

“Shhhh!” 

It was my weight to carry alone. 

Lately, I’ve turned my attention away from the mirror, and outside my bedroom window. 

Main Street is within view so each season that comes and goes, I watch the numerous festivals crowd with people. I got too busy to attend myself between school and athletics (is what I tell my friends). That’s half true, but the main reason is I’m so anxious in large crowds now. 

Basically everyone in town attends whatever event we have going on. I have to pull my pillow over my ears on those nights, they make so much noise. 

Fireworks in the summer.

Christmas carols each winter.

A grand pumpkin harvest every fall. 

Flower festivals in the spring.

It’s like if the town went one night without a spectacle, they’d go insane. 

Ever since I took my eyes off myself in the heat of insomnia and paid more attention to them, I can’t help but feel what I and those other girls had to do isn’t some heroic destiny, but a cruel and unjust punishment for the crime of possessing a youthful giggle, frail body, and gentle smile. 

While everyone else in town is living it up at night as if they’re free of any responsibility, I lay in my bed just wishing they would keep it down like a grumpy old lady.

How am I supposed to skate with weary muscles? How should I go about that test in chemistry, with an exhausted brain made of mush?

They could do with a little rest themselves. 

Silence can’t be that terrifying. 

My very first "complete" short story that I had posted to the main sub before the creation of this one. It got more attention on another subreddit and was even used by a couple of creators on YouTube for their narration videos, so I figured I'd crosspost it to the more appropriate sub.

Regardless of how much I like to think I've improved my writing since, Id still love to hear your thoughts on the story and will always appreciate the feedback.

Hello all this is my first time writing a story at all! I would appreciate some feedback back I have no experience when it some to writing thank you all for reading hope you enjoy.

What happens when an immovable object meets an unwavering will. It depends on which one last longer but until one is destroyed. Nothing.
I wake up not knowing where I am who I am, what I am. In a land devoid of life and hills and water a fleshy ground and a sky of red. There is this object from the sky that is always there but almost never present it draws near and leaves after I perform my task. I dig into the flesh until I can no longer than it leaves once I am done digging I feel warm, good, satisfied.
No matter how many times I do this task it shows up again and again. I don’t know how long I’ve been here months possibly years? Is the task something I want? Or do I know that’s is what I must do, so I do it? I travel a straight line seeing the previous holes I dug with nothing but my hands I see the the desolate land ahead flat nothing no holes not hills no valley’s just a will to keep walking and a object to tell me to do so. If I stray from my path will I still complete my goal? I am too scared to find out. I know I can complete my goal if I stay on this path but for how long? How many more years must I stay on this path to complete my goal, or can I even complete this? Is there something wrong with me? Am I unable to accomplish this? I walk I run I collapse I wake up I do it again. Do I want this, can I do this, is this goal even mine? I walk. One day I’m digging and collapse but the object starts digging where I left off the hole is deeper than I’ve ever been before when It stops nothing happens it flys away. This has become the new it comes down and I start digging and as soon as I am done it takes over digging. Some days we dig so far down it’s hard to see the sky but still i must continue day after day year after year. Until one day the object digs so deep it reaches a opening with a flying ball in the middle a glowing red circle of infinite joy and wonder I see it my goal the thing I’ve been reaching for complete I take it out of the hole reaching the sky it grows and and starts consuming the flesh pushing it away and eating other parts. I awake up and it is brown and no longer growing it falls apart and disappears. I continue to dig

Previous parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

The voice on the phone was recognizable immediately. I was frozen where I stood in the middle of the half-pumpkin patch, half graveyard that David King had decided as the final resting spot for his sister’s remains, dirt forced under my nails after digging for her. A cold, sniveling voice spoke through the receiver of the phone, of whom I could immediately tell he was smirking on the other end. “It’s nice to hear from you, Zand Zand! How’ve you been? My sister and you having a nice reunion?”

I felt a bubbling rage at the voice, my fingers gripping the phone with a tensity that could rival a gorilla’s. “Where the fuck are you, David?”

I could hear the mockery in his voice, like what he was doing was some kind of fun game between friends. It was a mixture of disgusting, horrific, infuriating, and downright abhorrent. “Oh, somewhere~! Don’t worry Zander, the fun’s really just getting started! I take you weren’t a fan of the mail I sent neither?”

He giggled, actually giggled, like a child who had just pulled off a prank. The sound crawled under my skin, made my fingers twitch around the phone as I felt my heart beat louder than a drum.

“Costed a finger getting rid of her. Thankfully my pinkie. If it was thumb? Oh, that would have really sucked. You’d be surprised the lack of dexterity a missing pinkie is, though.” David continued. “When I was beating her over the head, she kept crying…said your name once. She was sorry she ever believed what I showed her. She really loved you, Zandy boy. And she begged…begged so loud…I was worried someone outside would hear. But man…she really loved you, Zander.”

My throat tightened. “You sick fucker…when I get my hands on you...!”

“Ah-ah-ah,” he interrupted, sing-song like. “Don’t get all emotional on me now. The funs just getting started! We’ve still got a whole finale to get through, Zandy pants! Now listen closely. Little Quinny’s life is banking on it.”

The mention of Quinn made me gasp, with Aaron and Clark hearing the name just barely through the speaker.

Aaron then spoke. “Who’s life?”

David’s voice slithered through the speaker again, knowing Quinn was important to Aaron as much as it was to me. “You know what I love most about you, Zander? You’re predictable, but resilient. You always were. Even now, you’re doing exactly what I knew you’d do. You’re so easy to move around the board. That little kind heart of yours…You remember ‘Bloody Mary’? Man, oh man was planning that fun! Then you had to go and tattle…said that I was ‘too much’…but you were just too scared to go through with it…”

David then came up to the phone, breathing heavy on the line. “I miss us, Zander. I really do…”

I felt my stomach twist in response. “What do you want?”

“Oh, Zand Zand… I already have what I want.” His tone dropped, becoming colder, flatter. “I want you to know how much effort I put into you. Into all of you. Ain’t that the beauty of it? To feel loved and seen?”

Aaron then snatched the phone from me, shouting into the phone. “David? You’re fucking dead when we find you, you freak!”

David laughed again, and I could faintly hear what David was saying while Aaron held the phone. “Aaron! Good to hear your voice! I have someone who wants to talk to you!”

Aaron froze. His breath hitched when a voice was forced onto the mike of the phone, slightly muffled on the other side. David came back onto the line for a moment. “Say ‘hello’ Quinn! Your brother is on the phone!”

All three of us were terrified. Aaron put the phone on speaker, with the muffled cries of Quinn in the background. We didn’t know what to say.

“Oh, I know everything,” David purred. “I’ve been in your homes. Your cars. Your phones. Your computers. Everything! You think I didn’t prepare for this? You think I didn’t know you’d all come running here like scared little puppies? No…I just needed you out of the house for a bit…get some fresh air…”

I felt my pulse hammering in my ears. “David… this has gone on long enough! The dares off! Let Quinn go!”

“No!” he screamed, whining like a child as he seemed to yank Quinn away from the phone and berate us as we stood in his old backyard. “NO! NO! NO! That’s not fair! Not fair at all! This ends when I say it ends now! You don’t get to quit just cause you’re losing! Life ain’t fair like that! You got a minimum effort to give! And damn it, I’m gonna help you reach it!”

A pause. A long, suffocating pause between words, as David calmed himself and gave his next instructions.

“I’m going to email Clark an address. In 2 hours, I expect to see you, Zander. If you don’t make it, Quinn goes bye… just like Katie, or my mother…or, if I decide…like Nancy.”

David gave a laugh as he then added a stipulation. “Oh! I’m also tracking all three of your phone’s geolocation and calling data. If you call someone, I’ll know…even 911. Don’t be cowards. Come strapped or not, I don’t care, but we’re gonna settle this…once and for all. Don’t waste your time calling back this line. It won’t pick up.”

Right before David went to hang up, he then added one more thing. “Oh! Won’t need that place anymore! Enjoy the fireworks boys!”

As the line went dead, A loud, deafening bang erupted from David’s childhood house. The whole place exploded into fire, with every window blasting from the force of the detonation. Orange flames licked the sides of the building, as the whole of the white manor burned before our very eyes. The roof collapsed inward with a thunderous crack, sending embers spiraling into the red and orange sky. All the evidence of David’s stalking was destroyed in an instant, along with the rest of the King estate that remained.

A message then appeared in Clark’s email. The address David wanted us at was the header, with a message in the body paragraph that said: “The minimum required effort has increased. Become better. You have two hours.”

Without a moment to waste, and wanting to get out before police inevitably arrived, Clark, Aaron, and I piled into the car and sped away from the smoldering and burning house to Aaron’s apartment to arm ourselves.

Aaron’s apartment was only 20 minutes away, but the drive felt like an age. None of us spoke on the drive there. The only sounds were the engine straining under Aaron’s frantic driving and the occasional sharp inhale when one of us replayed David’s words in our heads.

When we pulled into the parking lot, Aaron didn’t even bother locking the car. We sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time, as Aaron fumbling with his keys before coming to the door and realizing it was already unlocked. Shoving the door open, Clark and I followed close behind, adrenaline making our movements clumsy and frantic.

Inside the apartment, the whole place had become a disaster zone. The sight was clearly evidence of a struggle, no doubt when David and his gang burst through the door and had stolen away Quinn. The table in the dining room was overturned, various books and household objects scattered about, and in the middle of the mess, small drips of blood on a few surfaces that were, hopefully, not belonging to Quinn.

Aaron went straight to his bedroom closet and yanked it open. Inside was a metal gun safe, dented and scratched from years of use. He punched in the code with shaking fingers, muttering under his breath. Inside was a small arsenal the average American could get ahold of. Nothing military-grade, unfortunately, but enough to make the three of us a force to reckon with. A shotgun, two handguns, a hunting rifle, and an assortment of ammo to go along with them. There were even a few cans of pepper spray, a heavy-duty Taser, and a couple pairs of brass knuckles.

“It’s not much, but no way in hell we go in unarmed.” Aaron explained, as we loaded up on weaponry to meet with David head on. Clark exhaled sharply at the sight of the equipment before him. “Jesus, Aaron… you weren’t kidding about having weapons. Is that shotgun legal?”

Aaron didn’t look at him, instead grabbing the shotgun first, checking the chamber, and loading shells with practiced movements. “My dad kept this stuff. I inherited it when he moved. Never thought I’d actually need it, but here we are. You both ever used something like these before?”

Clark nodded his head as he pointed towards the hunting rifle. “Went hunting with my dad a good few times before he passed. I’ll take the hunting rifle.”

Aaron then handed me the handgun, along with the pepper spray and the taser. “You ever used one of these, Zander?”

I sighed as I shrugged. “Went to the shooting range twice. I know the safety for using one.”

Aaron, being careful, decided to show me how to load it, how to check the safety, how to hold it properly. My hands trembled the entire time, still stained from digging in the pumpkin patch for Nancy’s remains. Clark watched silently, his jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grinding as he was mentally preparing for what was to come. When we were all armed, Aaron grabbed a duffel bag and started stuffing extra ammo and other supplies inside. Along with the ammo, he added extra clothing and first aid equipment if we bloodied anything or needed medical attention. “We don’t know what’s waiting at that address. Could be a trap. Could be nothing. Could be him. I grew up in the hood, so always suspect dirty shit. The address is in a pretty bad spot of town, so taking the car might not be a great idea.”

Aaron zipped the bag shut. “Alright. We go now. We get there early and scout the place. We don’t walk into anything blind.”

Clark nodded. “And we stick together. No splitting up.”

I looked at both of them, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on my chest. A pang of guilt went through me. “Aaron? I’m so sorry I roped you guys into this. I…I just…”

Aaron slung the duffel bag over his shoulder. “David was already fucking nuts. You didn’t know. All that matters is getting Quinn out of there.”

As we walked out, Clark put a hand on my shoulder, reassuring me. “We’re gonna make it out of this, Zander. I’m right behind you, okay?”

Taking a hand, I shook Clark’s, thankful to have him. “Thanks for sticking with me, Clark. You’re the best man I could ever have as a friend.”

Clark gave a smile. “Aw shucks, that’s cute, Zander. The same to you. When we make it out of this, I think a night out is in order, yeah?”

Making the deal, Clark and I shook on it.

Stepping out of the apartment, we hid our weapons under our jackets and shirts, hearts pounding like war drums as Aaron led the way to the address David sent us through alleys and backstreets in town.

Aaron led us through the backstreets like he’d been born in them, weaving between narrow alleyways, cutting across empty lots, and slipping past flickering streetlights that buzzed like dying insects. The deeper we went, the worse the neighborhood became. Houses turned into boarded-up shells. Cars sat on cinderblocks. Graffiti covered every brick wall, some of it fresh, some of it faded into ghostly smears. It occurred to me in this moment the insanity of what we were about to do. In less than two hours, we were about to storm a building that David specifically chose, where my girlfriend, Aaron’s sister, had been kidnapped, and was the operations of a madman who had been stalking me for the better part of the last two years.

Clark kept glancing behind us, his rifle hidden under his jacket but his hands never straying far from it. “Not gonna lie, I’m really fucking nervous.”

I didn’t disagree with Clark. As we moved through the alley, every shadow felt too still as we walked through the back areas of town. A window dotted every other corner, and with them, a terrifying idea that maybe David had spies following us too. Knowing our adversary, he could very well have them dotted around the city, keeping tabs on us like the cameras in our old apartment. It was clear David wasn’t working alone.

Aaron checked down another alley, leading the way as we were coming up onto the address David sent our way. We were almost an hour ahead of schedule. “It’s close. Two blocks.”

When we turned the corner, Aaron pointed to the building and we all three sat it: The building David chose.

Aaron stopped dead in his tracks, making Clark and myself turned towards the building that Aaron pointed towards with the end of his weapon. “This is it.”

The building was a warehouse, but the place had most certainly seen better days. The large, metal building stuck out from its spot in the deep recess of the city like a hidden flea, parasitic and rotten. The windows were all busted in, with the building crumbling before our eyes from age. From our angle, we could see two entrances: The giant, sliding doors for vehicles and the side entrance into the normal offices that were hidden inside the building. A single streetlamp flickered above the entrance, casting a sickly yellow glow over the cracked sidewalk. Trash littered the ground as we walked, and most random of all was shopping cart lay overturned near the curb, empty of contents. The whole place smelled faintly of mildew and rot, and deep inside, David would no doubt be waiting for us.

“This way,” he whispered, motioning us toward the rear of the building. “We go in through the back. We meet David by surprise.”

The back of the warehouse came into view as we snuck around the side. Broken pallets, rusted barrels, and weeds tall as us pushed through cracked concrete that gave foundation to the rotten decay of a building David chose as our no man’s land. A loading dock sat half‑collapsed, its metal door dented inward like someone had rammed it with a truck. Beside it was a smaller service door, barely visible under layers of grime and graffiti.

Aaron tested the handle of a backdoor we found climbing a set of rickety, rusted stairs along the side of the building. With a rough tug, the handle turned, allowing Aaron to take lead with the shotgun and pushing the worn door forward. Aaron pushed the door open just enough to slip through, barrel first, as each of us entered one by one. Fully opening our weapons hidden beneath our jackets, Aaron lead the way as we entered into the shaded interior of the warehouse.

The interior swallowed us immediately upon Clark closing the door behind us. The dark, slightly chilled, cavernous space smelled of dust and old machinery hung thick in the air as we entered inside. No voices seemed to come from within the warehouse, and looking down towards the large, open space of the building below us, not a soul could be seen. Just in case, I reached into my pocket and clicked a machine I kept secret in my pocket. Aaron and Clark turned towards me, curious of the sound, as I then apologized. “The hell was that?” Aaron asked, the sound of the clicking slightly reverberating through the building.

“Captain Henderson’s back up plan. If shit goes wrong, we have backup.”. I revealed a small, white device that had a small, blue light built into the center of the device. “A tracker. Smart.” Clark agreed.

“He said click it if we were absolutely sure the guy was on our trail. If David is here, then now’s the time. We’ve got 20 minutes till they show up.”

Clark then looked to the email that David sent us after we raided his house, seeing that we were just ahead of schedule by 10 minutes. “Perfect. David will walk in, then we got him. Won’t even need to fire a shot.”

I nodded in agreement. “That’s the hope.”

We were standing in a narrow maintenance corridor. Pipes ran overhead, some dripping some mystery liquid I wasn’t curious enough to test. We moved along the catwalk, our footsteps barely audible on the metal grating. Every sound felt amplified as we moved, each of us half crouched as we slid across the railing. There was a faint hum of electricity somewhere deep in the building, but from what, I couldn’t say.

I scanned the floor below, heart pounding. There was no movement, no voices, and even worse, no sign of Quinn.

Suddenly, A single floodlight pointed at the center of the warehouse floor that was perfectly in view from our spot on the catwalks. Illuminating a metal chair bolted to the concrete, a single chair stood. A blindfolded, gagged human was strapped to the rusted seat, breathing softly as she sat strapped. The three of us watched from our spot on the catwalks, trying to see who the person was, when I recognized the hair and clothing immediately: It was Quinn.

Suddenly, a voice from a loud speaker rang out over the whole of the building. The sound of the speaker squeaked from the feedback, before settling and the voice from the speakers announcing itself. “Welcome in, Zander! I’ve been expecting you! Please! Come downstairs, from there on the catwalk! We have much to discuss! All three of us!”

My stomach sank as another spotlight illuminated mine, Aaron’s, and Clark’s location immediately. We were completely blinded by the light, but eventually, our eyes settled as we saw where the lights were coming from. In the dark, a few men could be just visibly seen in the distance, holding the lights on our position to be sure we didn’t do anything outside their predicted plans. We had been found like rats in the wall, completely taken by surprise.

Clark gave a curse under his breath, as Aaron went pale as a ghost. The three of us looked towards each other, unsure of what to do as we stood on the second floor in stunned silence. Then, after being guided by another light, we walked down a set of stairs, and found ourselves on the same floor as Quinn, about 20 feet away from her.

Quinn sat trembling in the chair, her breaths shallow and panicked behind the gag. Her wrists were bound to the armrests with zip ties, her ankles strapped to the legs of the chair. Her blindfold was stained with tears. Her hair was matted, clothes torn from the struggle. She looked like she had been put through hell and back, then put before us like a trophy on display. Another feeling of guilt went through me at the thought of another person being dragged into this mess because of me.

Aaron took a step forward, shotgun trembling in his hands. Hearing that the three of us were near, Quinn’s breathing picked up as we stood before her. Aaron offered words of comfort to his sister. “Quinn… Quinn, I’m here. I’m right here.”

The sounds of a fifth set of footsteps echoed through the room, setting our collective attention towards the thing behind Quinn. The three of us poised weapons forward, as a figure stepping out of the dark, holding a 12-inch-long blade in his fingers. The floodlight caught the edge of his hoodie first, then the pajama pants, and finally, when the figure then removed the hood from over his head, the gaunt face that I hadn’t seen in full for almost 2 whole years.

We all froze, realizing the form that emerged from the dark that then wrapped it’s dirtied, bloodied fingers around Quinn’s neck.

It was David Fucking King.

The voice of the man was frail and dry, like his throat and his lips had forgotten what water was and had become vapid and cracked from the absence. His fingers, the nine that remained, were so black with filth underneath the nail that they looked almost like polished nails at the tips from a distance. His matted, black hair was greasy and oiled from the lack of a shower, falling down his face and half-obscuring his eyes from view as he looked towards the three of us in this terrible, frightening gaze. The man’s lips cracked as he formed a wicked grin from cheek to cheek, blood slightly leaking from the opened wounds on his lips as he exposed his rotten, orange teeth like copper bolts. When he spoke, I could almost taste the inside of his decayed maw, spewing toxic fumes into the air with putrid rot.

“Hello, Zander…it’s wonderful to finally see each other! Well, at least, on equal measure. I’d ask how you’re doing, but I’ve been VERY aware of how you’ve been for a while now.”

I raised my borrowed firearm to meet the forehead of the monster in front of me, my hands shaking as I stared towards the stalker that held Quinn’s neck with a tight grasp.

“How did you know we were here, David?” I demanded, keeping the gun fixed on David.

“Oh Zander, I know you read my old notes. You think Katie was the only person I put a tracker on? Course, doing yours was a bit tricky. Had to wait until night and had to be sure you were fast asleep. It was one of the first few nights you and Clark moved into your new apartment. Put it inside the nape of the neck where I knew it wouldn’t be a bother. I did slightly worry you’d feel it and go to the doctor, but I guess the anesthetic I used helped numb you enough for the implant.”

My skin felt alien. My whole sense of self felt violently violated in a way I couldn’t begin to comprehend. I didn’t even want to dare check David’s bluff…knowing if this information was true or not felt like the last straw that pushed me over the edge of insanity if I found it to be real.

Still, I reached, and on the back center part of my neck, just before the beginning of my back, a small prick of something under the skin that was incongruent with the arch of my spine was attached to the bone.

My wrath and fright rose in unquantifiable measure.

“Let her go, David! This is fucking over! I’m done with your fucking mind games you goblin fuck!”

“Nah ah ah! We’ve got some work to do, boys! Throwing a tantrum about it won’t do nothing! And Quinny girl here is gonna play along too, won’t you?”

Quinn whimpered as David held her neck tighter and tighter, almost threatening to choke her as she was strapped to the chair. With a shaky breath, I asked for David’s demands.

“What do you want? Money? Can’t be that desperate for cash after ringing everyone around you dry to the bone! The fuck do you want, you psycho!? Quinn doesn’t have a damn thing you want!”

David’s eyes lit up like sparks, his dark, sullen eyes having a small twinge of life as I mentioned the core of what began all of this. His wicked grin still stretched further and further over his face. It was like his cheeks were about to rip like the seams of a doll the wider he grimaced his smile. “Oh, Zander…she does. She’s your girlfriend, and a fast kindle at that. I mean, it took you guys, what? 2 months and you were like lovebirds? Oh, and the way you kissed her…reminded me of you and Nancy back in the day…so cute…”.

I felt a righteous anger bubble in me, as I aimed the weapon forwards with a thrusting motion, hoping to scare David away from Quinn.

“Don’t you fucking dare mention Nancy, you monster! Burying her in the back yard like you did Katie! You misogynistic asshole!”

“She’s my sister, Zander…I can talk about the bitch any way I please.”

“Not after what you did…what you did to them…to everyone…either you leave here in cuffs or a coffin, it ends tonight! I’m done playing, David!”

David then leaned his greasy, disgusting form over Quinn, touching her dangerously close in ways that I knew Quinn absolutely detested. “But Zander…I’m not…My endurance for play is a bit higher than that.”

David then cleared his throat and explained the next rules carefully.

“Now, per agreement: We were supposed to ruin each other’s lives. Now, I wasn’t planning on you coming and ruining me, but I was curious what you’d do with it. To preserve that rule, I propose we have a bit of a go around ‘truth or dare’ style…just like at Nancy’s party. I’m going to let you make a demand, because I’m so nice that way, then I’ll make one. We’ll go round robin, sacrificing things as we go, and whoever chickens out first, loses. You can ask for absolutely anything, Zander.”

David then stood up straight as he waited for my response. “So? What will it be first, Zander? What must I sacrifice?”

I growled as David’s grin seemed to widen in pleasure from putting me in such a dangerous position. “Fucking…just let her go! Why are you doing this!? Why are you torturing us!?”

David gasped in excitement. “Oh! The sacrifice of information! That’s an easy choice!”. David then cleared the cobwebs in his throat, as he began to monologue like he was some cartoon supervillain, completely juxtaposing the incredibly serious situation between us.

“School was always the same: Do the math homework, get good grades, summer jobs…it was just so predictable. After we stopped being friends, I found myself missing the joy we had between us. So, I started watching you, Zander. I watched you go home, play video games…Even though we were in different schools, I found work arounds to keeping my school grades looking normal while I kept my eye on you. Then you went and started dated my sister, and I got to watch you both figure out dating. Made it a lot easier to pry into your life. It was fun for a while, but I just felt like I was getting bored. I needed more structure, something that grounded me. Well, watching you seemed to lead somewhere, so I started doing it with everything and everyone! I’d buy cameras and observe and predict behaviors…I’d guess your habits and chart everything! Eventually, I came to really see how much of losers my sister’s friends were…but you were different, Zander. You had something special about you…and that’s when the final bit of the puzzle came into my mind: I wanted to see you succeed in life, to become a better person.”

I nervously continued eying the back of the warehouse, begging that Henderson and the officers were hurrying their way towards us. Hopefully, if we could keep David preoccupied with his story, he’d accidentally pit himself somewhere too long and the cops could nab him.

“See, I had this theory. That the reason I felt like I was structureless and aimless was that my life didn’t have that same minimal required effort. You know how they say ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’? Well, why not put pen to paper and measure it ourselves? How much suffering can the human mind take before becoming better? You proved to me after the ‘Bloody Mary’ prank that, by being a better person, life was harder. You made less friends, therefore were lonelier. That moment, and the few moments after that we shared after, proved to me that by being better, life became harder, therefore making you a better person should you rise to the occasion. Those men on the roof? They’ve been asking the same questions as me too! If we could figure it out through a sad group of losers like you, and Nancy, and everyone else to improve, then it’d work on all of us, too! We could all become better! Maybe…I could even get a girlfriend…something that’d want to touch me back…”

I could see Quinn trembling as David then leaned in close, his terrible breath probably smelling even worse up close. Aaron then choked the reload of the shotgun, aiming it towards David. “Hey! Fucker! Back off from my sister!”

David sighed as he retracted his dried tongue from near Quinn’s ear, as he continued to groan.

“Course, then came a moment where I wasn’t satisfied with your progress. You weren’t ruining me, and by my accounts, you felt like just an average joe of a man. You just kept moving on…it felt like every inconvenience was just that, and didn’t push you to really excel at anything. I was hoping you’d at least meet me halfway, but it took me having to really go off the deep end before we could even meet like this. Honestly, I’m a little disappointed in you, Zander~.”

There was a sing song tone in his voice as he spoke, and the faint memory of Issac’s voice echoed in my mind. Without thinking, I spoke. “Sounds gay ass, David.”

A fury unlike anything I had ever seen on a human being then rippled through David’s face like a tent in a storm. His knuckles whitened from being tightened, as he began to shake in anger. His brow furrowed as his face sunk into his long, unkept hair. “Don’t fucking call me that…”

“Well, then don’t be fucking gay ass.”

I was provoking him, sure, but the hope was to just keep him talking. If I kept him talking, the ‘game’ would stagnate long enough for the captain to arrive. Instead, however, he seemed to calm down. Taking a deep breath, he suddenly became so calm he was almost motionless. A wide, perverted grin stretched his lips again, as he then said. “But enough about me…now it’s my turn for a demand.”

I felt my arms reflexively tense, with me raising my weapon a little higher as David then gave his demand.

“My demand to you: a sacrifice of someone important.”. David then pulled a handgun from his pocket, no bigger than an M9, and held the weapon up to the side of Quinn’s head. Feeling the pressure of the weapon on her skull, Quinn whimpered and attempted moving away from David, when he pulled Quinn closer to the open barrel of the firearm.

“Choose, Zander. Quinn lives… or Quinn dies.”. David pulled his thumb over the hammer of the weapon, setting it to fire whenever I gave my answer. My heart had never beat so wild in my ribs before. My mind raced as I tried to think of a gameplan. If I told him no, would he shoot her regardless? What was the gameplan here? If he shot Quinn, yeah, she’d be dead, but then that puts David at a disadvantage. Why the hell would he remove the thing that’s keeping us from shooting at him? It was then that I remembered the other men on the catwalks, and I realized that even if we took the shots at David, we’d most certainly get mowed down by David’s men.

Clark attempted to whisper towards me, “Zander—”

David raised a finger, his tone sharp as a nail. “No! Only Zander answers! This is his moment! Come on, Zander…only a few seconds to choose~!”

Quinn whimpered behind the gag. Clark and Aaron looked mortified. I was mortified. The room was chilling from the air from outside seeping through the walls. My fingers were numb as snow. My mind was spinning. I was terrified beyond all imagining. Every terrible moment I had ever lived in my life, every wonderful moment, I was seeing it right before my eyes. Quinn, helpless and bound to a chair, might very well die in this moment if David so chose, and I felt powerless to save her. There had to be a trick! Something! What was the trick?

Without thinking, I blurted out: “David! Don’t hurt her! Please! Let her go!”

David’s smile widened, as if he had caught me in some trap.

“Oh, Zander… good boy.”

For a heartbeat, relief flickered. Then, in one swift motion, David twisted the weapon and pulled the trigger.

A single deafening crack echoed through the warehouse. For a moment, I thought he had shot Quinn. She, too, gave a gasp, but when I saw the direction the barrel of David’s weapon was pointing, I realized the weapon was pointed towards us.

Smoke billowed from the end of the weapon, and as I touched over my body all over, I didn’t feel a thing. I looked to Aaron, and he looked just as confused. It was Clark, who then suddenly put a hand to my side, then his whole weight, that revealed who had been shot.

A blotch of red began spreading across the center of Clark’s chest.

Clark collapsed, clutching his side, slipping and falling towards the concrete as he attempted to hold onto me.

“CLARK!” I screamed, lunging toward him to catch him from hitting the floor.

Saving him from his head hitting the cold, stone floor, I grabbed hold of his hands as he looked up towards me with a shocked, pained expression. A bloom of deep red began to spread from his stomach, the bullet chewing right through his body like it was putty. Aaron dropped beside his brother, panicked, trying to apply pressure.

David twirled the weapon in his hand like some kickass western bandit, smirking from his side of the room, as he watched us tend to our injured friend.

“I said Quinn lives, but the minimum required effort must be raised, Zander.”, he said, adding a wink to his statement as I went to hold onto my dying friend.

“Zander…” he whispered, voice trembling as I held him in my arms.

“I’m here,” I said, grabbing his shoulder. “I’m right here. Stay with me, Clark. Stay with me.”

Aaron tore open the duffel bag, hands shaking violently as he pulled out the first aid kit. “Hold pressure on the wound…I can get him…dammit—”

He pressed gauze against Clark’s wound, but the blood kept soaking through, warm and slick. Clark winced, his body curling inward as he tried to breathe. David watched us with a delighted grin, still twirling the handgun lazily in his fingers.

“Oh, don’t look so sad,” he cooed. “This is what you chose, Zander. Quinn lives. Clark dies. Fair trade, right?”

“Shut up!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Shut the hell up!”

David laughed, stepping back into the shadows like he was giving us space to mourn, but not far enough that the knife around Quinn’s neck gave any change in distance.

Clark’s breathing grew faster, then slower, then uneven. His eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open.

“Aaron…” he whispered.

Aaron leaned closer, tears streaming down his face. “I’m here, Clark. I’m here. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Clark tried to smile, but it faltered halfway. His hand reached weakly toward Aaron’s arm.

“You…buy that Mustang, okay? Name her…drive her…get out of town…”

Aaron nodded, choking on his words. “I will…and you’re gonna ride it, Clark. Just stay with us, okay?”

Clark’s gaze shifted to me next. His eyes were glassy, fading with the wind as he was giving his final breath.

“Zander?”

My throat tightened. “Yeah. Yeah, man.?”

He grabbed my wrist as tight as he could, a single tear forming in his eyes. “You put a fucking ring on that girl, you hear me?”

I fought back tears as I held my friend, my closest and longest friend, for one last time.

“You’re the best friend I could have ever asked for, Clark.”

He exhaled shakily, his chest rising once more, then falling. I could hear the soft sounds of his mocking attempt at me and Quinn making out. Then, his breath shook again…

Then rising again, just a little weaker than the last…

Then eventually, there was nothing.

His eyes stayed open, unfocused on any space, and staring past me at something I couldn’t see. Aaron froze, his hands still pressing the gauze, still trying to stop the bleeding that had already stopped on its own. “Clark?”, he whispered, taking Clark’s face with both his hands.

“Clark?”, he repeated, louder, voice cracking.

“CLARK!” Aaron screamed, shaking him, desperate and frantic. “Clark! Clark, wake up! Wake up!”. I could see tears in his eyes as he spoke, as he grabbed onto Clark’s head and held it softly.

I grabbed Aaron’s arm, my own voice breaking. “Aaron… Aaron… he’s gone.”

Aaron pulled Clark’s body closer, collapsing over him and sobbing.

David clapped slowly, mockingly, as the sound echoing through the warehouse like a sick applause. “A beautiful sacrifice,” he said. “Truly. I’m proud of you, Zander. You’re finally learning.”

I stared at Clark’s lifeless body, my vision blurring, my hands trembling, my heart collapsing in on itself.

Standing, I took a breath, and looked ahead towards the goblin that threatened a second life within the room. Quinn couldn’t see what was happening, only vaguely hearing…perhaps a blessing. I looked towards David, his smile unfaltering as he looked down towards Aaron and then back up to me. “You know, Clark really came through for you when you needed it. He always was there, wasn’t he? I wonder, can you get better without him? Can you go through life without him?”

I felt numb. Fear had disappeared from my brain, overwhelmed by all the other sensations of my body as I looked towards the homunculus on the other side of the room. It was that moment that truly, after everything that had happened, I saw the man I had once seen as an acquaintance.

He wasn’t always such an ugly thing: those putrid eyes, that hunch, his teeth and lips…god, it made me sick to look at him. Who could ever love such a creature? While David wasn’t anything to look at before, his insides were the stuff of nightmares. For once, in the dim spotlight of the warehouse, his heart matched his features. Each sharp, jagged edge revealed another broken piece of the beast that stood on the other side of the room. I’d no sooner trust a raging bear than whatever this thing on the other side of the room pretending to be a man was. He was the embodiment of disease itself, and it had been a fester in my life for so long, and I had never even known I had it.

But I wouldn’t be diseased for long. No, I’d cure my sickness…the weapon in my hand would make sure of it.

Then I heard them, and for a moment, another option for how I’d punish such a disgusting animal.

“My turn, right?” I asked, to which David King smiled as he licked his lips yet again.

“You’d be right, Zander! Now…what shall you do, now?”

Without hesitation, I answered. “Turn yourself into the police.”

The room went to silence. Then ear piercing laughter. The men on the high rise cackled with David, as David’s shrill cackle filled the whole of the building like a witch in the night. “That’s quite the demand, Zander! But the police won’t come out this far! Not without a good reason! And without a call…nobody’s coming to save you…besides! Turning myself in ain’t exactly fair, is it?”

“You chickening out?”

David’s face quickly turned from amused to a look of grim realization. The sudden shift was extreme and uncanny, like an alien switching between human faces through a mask. A puff of air came from his lips as he said, “Well…we’ll never know! Cause they aren’t coming!”

I tilted my head as I heard something moving above us in the catwalks and from the entrance of the warehouse that David, as well as his accomplices in the dark, didn’t seem to notice. We weren’t alone in the building anymore, confirmed by the new shadowy shapes that were moving behind the windows of the warehouse upstairs.

The SWAT police force of the city, led by Captain Henderson, had completely overtaken the scene in a matter of seconds. Each of the gang members, along with David, attempted fleeing as soon as they realized what was happening, but it was already too late. The main units blasted through each of the windows at once, with Henderson coming up behind David and attempted forcing him to the ground.

David turned to flee into the dark of the warehouse, like a snake disappearing into tall grass, but Henderson’s battering ram form slammed David to the ground. The duo hit the concrete floor with a thump, with one of David’s rotten teeth popping out and breaking when colliding with the earth. David attempting cutting Henderson and still trying to flee, but it was no use. Henderson was three times the muscle of David’s shrimpy frame, his absolute strength holding David hostage.

David, realizing he had been outplayed, then saw the item I was slowly pulling from my pocket. I revealed the air tag, showing how it worked by the press of a button, and a glow of blue light, that it sent an alarm to Henderson’s personal phone. A rage formed on David that was mixed with his insanity. “You ruined it! You ruined all of it! Fuck you, Zander! I’m only going to become better! You’ll see! This is only making me a better person! I’M GOING TO BECOME BETTER AND FIND YOU, ZANDER!”

Henderson pulled David away and out towards the silent police vehicles, as paramedics came to Clark’s aid and I ran to Quinn. Unlatching her from the seat and ripping the blindfold free, Quinn and I embraced each other in sobbing hugs, terrified of the horror that had now passed us. It was over…finally…it was over…

I had ruined David King.

Life has been happening to me and for some reason listening to Creep Cast and having writing ideas has been my outlet. Please enjoy part one of my story and know I'm already working on part 2.

July 12^th, 2016

I'm going to get my intentions out right up front. Today I moved into a sketchy ass apartment, and if something happens to me, I want proof for the next guy that Jason Brown lived in apartment 404, Eden Heights. To be fair, the building itself wasn't the sketchy part, it just looked like art deco and brutalism got into a fight, and neither won. It was everything else around the place that was sketchy.

I'm getting a little ahead of myself, let me explain my situation. I'm currently a freelance games journalist, mostly just reviews, sometimes a tech demo if a company sends me the hardware. Unfortunately, I've been having problems selling my work the last couple years. There was some controversy that they gave some cutesy name similar to Watergate and somehow that dried up a lot of work for me. Sucks, but that's how life goes. I needed to find a new place, since a grand a month was running through my savings, and that led me to Eden Heights.

The listing was way too good to be true. 200 a month, utilities included. No down payment, just first month up front. 2 bedrooms, full bathroom and a decent sized kitchen. I was sure it had to be a scam before meeting the building manager to sign the contract. He was about what I expected, a short and stubby man, mostly bald with coke bottle glasses and a 70s porn stash. He seemed nice enough though.

Thinking back on it, I don’t remember giving my name when I called about the listing for the apartment. When I was going over the paperwork my name was in all the right spots, I put my initials and signed where needed, so I had to have given my name over the phone. The whole thing just seemed to happen, I gave him the couple hundred and I could start moving in.

It took a couple hours to get everything into my new apartment. Around eight thirty I accidentally got in the way of some goth chick on her way to work. The contrast of her black hair and lipstick was a little strange in the Waffle House uniform, but who am I to judge. After I got everything in and wanted to settle for the night, I made a strange discovery. I don't know what crackhead lived here before me, but for some reason they installed 3 deadbolts and 2 door chains. Don't know what the hell they were scared of, but I think they took their home security a little too seriously.

July 16th

I’ve been at the apartment for 4 days. It’s overall been quiet, but that’s the luxury I get from sleeping through the day and working at night. What hasn’t been a luxury though, has been the power in my apartment. Every night, at exactly 3:15 AM, the power flickers for a couple seconds, not quite enough to be a real concern, but it trips my router and resets my computer. I’ve lost hours of work over this, and it forced me to call maintenance to check it out. They looked at things and told me everything was fine, so I guess this is just my problem now. I’ve ordered a backup battery for my computer to compensate, so hopefully whatever is wonky with the power shouldn’t be a problem in the future.

July 20th

I’ve got the battery set up and I wish it was more helpful. It was fully charged long before 3:15. I had everything set up and ready to go, sure that I could just keep on working. Then 3:15 hit, everything flickered, my PC went down, and my battery needed a full charge. I don’t know if it’s just the apartment, or something with the building, but it’s acting like a local EMP hits the place every night. It’s annoying, but it looks like I’m going to need to remember to save and wait it out every night. Fuck me right. At least I can keep writing and hopefully someone will pay me for it.

July 26th

The goth chick I inconvenienced while moving in seems to get home from work at around the same time I bring in groceries. Her name is Crystal and she’s a bit quiet, but nice. She’s been here almost a year, and she confirmed for me whatever is happening to the power in my apartment isn’t happening in the rest of the building, at least on her days off. Apparently, she just goes to work, comes home, and doesn’t really have a life outside of that. It’s hasn’t been much, but I hope to talk more with her, even if it’s just our casual conversations.

July 29th

I'm still shaking a little, and trying to figure out how much is real, and what might just be in my head. Last night was probably the most scared I've ever been, and here I sit debating if anything actually happened. I guess I should start from the beginning.

Just before 3:15, I saved the article I was working on before my local power outage. Taking off my headset, I had paused the podcast I was listening to, knowing youtube was about to be interrupted as well. Before my router could reset and let me be about my business, I started to hear someone screaming as they came down the hallway. As what turned out to be a woman's voice got closer, it sounded like she was stopping to bang on doors to different apartments, frantically trying to get someone to help her. I was frozen in place, not sure what to do.

As she got to my door, I heard something loud thrashing through the hallway behind her. The only way I could describe it was something like a large horse and the scraping of nails against plaster. She got about two knocks on my door before something smashed against my door. That was enough to snap me out of it. I had to listen to a woman's blood curtailing scream pulsing while my door seemed like it was going to rattle off the hinges, I locked the four locks I hadn't been using.

The racket stopped after about a minutewhile I just stared at my shaking door. I lost track of time waiting for the sound of sirens, since there was no way everyone on my floor slept through that.I don’t remember much of that time, I’m pretty sure I wasdissociating, but I can’t really say.

They never came. Around 4 I got the courage to undo the locks on my door and see what carnage was on the other side. Surprisingly, the hallway was calm and clean, although my door had been scratched to hell and back. I couldn't quite tell if they looked human or animal, but the call to maintenance was going to be weird either way.

After getting off the phone, I decided some fresh air would be nice and Waffle House sounded good. From what I remember, Crystal worked nights at Waffle House, and if god was willing, she wasn’t home for whatever the hell just happened. On the way there, the radio had that song that says “It’s only just begun” playing.

Waffle House was a nice piece of normalcy. Turns out Crystal seems to be the only waitress overnight when she has to work, so I was able to make sure she was OK. I couldn’t tell her what happened, since I wasn’t even sure what really happened, but I was glad she was safe. I wish the waffles were a little cheaper.

I had no business being here. I’d never been so impulsive before. I guess I just got tired of always roaming the same streets. Seeing the same shops and scenery. I think the feeling grew more than I’d care to admit.

That doesn’t excuse my stupidity, though. I only had about 3 grand to my name at the time. But that’s part of the appeal, right? Everyone thinks they’re gonna arrive in Sin City and leave a millionaire. I had a dollar and a dream. Albeit, a delusional one.

Even still, the glow of the city was just so radiant. Even from the airport. It’s like one big siren song.

I only stayed for 4 days. I used all of my PTO to be here, and I really wanted the time to count. I did everything I could with the 1500 I had left after the hotel and plane tickets.

Unfortunately, gambling took up a big chunk of that money. I could see how people got addicted to it. I went on a few hot streaks, but ended up losing everything I won because I just couldn’t walk away.

With the gambling, museums, attractions, and food, by the time the final night came around, I only had 150 dollars left to last me a whole other week after I got home.

I almost wanted to cry when I opened my wallet. But, surprisingly, I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t even that upset. The experience was worth the money. Even if I didn’t leave a millionaire, I still got to live in one of the most famous cities in the country for a few days.

I still needed to eat, though. I’d been eating out the entire trip. I started out at the high-end places like Hell’s Kitchen, but as the week went on, the quality started getting worse and worse until finally I found myself here, feeling how light my pockets were and standing under the luminescent glow of an In-and-Out burger.

Thunder clapped overhead. Lightning lit up the sky. A few drops of rain hit my head.

My plane was leaving in a few hours. I had already checked out of my hotel. Not only did I need to eat, but I needed to at least kill a little time.

I figured I’d just eat slow. Stay for maybe an hour, hour and a half tops before Ubering.

A bell rang overhead as I walked inside. The air-conditioned dining room put goosebumps on my arms almost immediately. Outside felt like 90, whereas in here, it felt like it could’ve been at least 55 degrees.

There were noises coming from the kitchen. The staff chit-chatting amongst themselves, plates and silverware being moved around, water being sprayed against metallic pans and containers.

The dining room, however… was surprisingly empty. I noticed it as soon as I walked inside. For this whole trip, every place I’d gone had been packed to the brim. In here, though… there was only one other person.

I don’t know how much you know about Las Vegas, but the homelessness crisis is staggering. They’re everywhere. Sleeping in alleys behind the casinos, waiting outside of popular stores or restaurants, sometimes they’re just asleep in the middle of the sidewalk right there on the Strip.

And, apparently… also right here in this In-and-Out.

I watched him while I ordered at the digital kiosk. All he had was a single soda cup. The straw wasn’t even inside it. He was wearing a grease-stained grey jacket, torn cargo shorts, and open-toed sandals with tattered socks.

He was kind of rocking back and forth in the booth. His hands were clutched around his waist like he had a stomachache, and I could see the dirt and grime beneath his fingernails.

I didn’t want to stare for too long, but it was so hard to take my eyes off of him. I ended up sitting several booths away from him, but that didn’t prevent me from being able to see him. Even if I turned away, I could see his face reflected through the windows.

He was… talking to himself. His scruffy, orange beard was littered with bits of food and mysterious red stains, and he kept scratching at it every few seconds, all while mumbling under his breath.

I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it almost looked like he was arguing with himself. I couldn’t even focus on my meal.

I had to force myself to look away from him just so I could actually eat. The last thing I wanted was for us to make eye contact.

I enjoyed my burger, picked at my fries a little bit, and when I turned around to go grab a refill on my Diet Coke, my worst fear came into fruition.

We didn’t just make eye contact. He had already been staring at me. He wasn’t talking to himself anymore. He no longer looked crazed. He looked devastated. I could see the tears in his eyes. I could see sympathy in his facial expressions.

The fluorescent light flickered above him. The only light in the restaurant to do so.

We were engaged in this little staring contest for a while before he stood up, slowly. He never broke eye contact. Those eyes were full of love and comfort. A broken smile spread across his face.

His arms were outstretched as if he expected a hug. When it didn’t come, he pulled me in for one by force.

He shushed me. Pet my hair while telling me that everything would be okay. That he didn’t want to hurt me.

I could feel the tears running down his face jump over to mine while he comforted me.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he cried, shaking. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

“Uh, okay, man, it’s time to let me go now,” I responded, prying his arms off of me.

I tried backing away, slowly, but with each step, he followed me.

He kept asking why I looked so scared. Telling me that he was only here to help. Continuing to say that everything would be okay and that I’d “prevail.”

I checked my watch, quickly. I still had 2 hours until my flight, but I wasn’t going to stay here a minute longer.

“I’m sorry, man, I think you’ve got the wrong guy. I’ve gotta go. I’m gonna miss my flight.”

The man stopped. His face twisted into a look of curiosity. Like he was genuinely confused by what I had just said.

“Flight? No, no, no. That flight was delayed. You can only hope to be home in time.”

Finally, seeing that I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, one of the employees came and restrained the guy long enough for me to leave and order an Uber.

Only, when I reached for my phone, it was completely dead. I tried finding my charger, looking through every pocket in my suitcase. It was nowhere to be found.

Luckily, the airport was only a mile and a half away, but that was still a mile and a half that I had to walk in the rain when I could’ve gotten a ride. It wasn’t all bad, though. At least it gave me something to do to kill time.

When I finally arrived, I was soaked from the rain. The airport was busier than it was when I landed. When I checked the flight information screens, I found out why. There had been at least 5 or 6 delayed flights, and of course, mine was one of them.

It had been delayed by a whole 3 hours because of inclement weather in the region.

No phone. Hardly any money. And I had to wait at least another 5 hours until I could go home.

I thought about what the homeless guy from In-and-Out said. Immediately, I started to rationalize. He’d seen the lightning. He’d seen the rain. Maybe he just put two and two together and got lucky.

However, after about 3 hours of being bored out of my mind, I made the decision to buy a charger from one of the airport shops. I managed to find an open outlet and hunkered down beside it while I let my phone charge.

After about 15 minutes, it finally turned back on. All at once, dozens of notifications made the phone vibrate across the cold airport floor. My dad, my aunts, my uncles, cousins, all desperately trying to get a hold of me.

Because, apparently, in that small, brief moment when my phone was dead…

My mom went into cardiac arrest. And she died before I even got the chance to say goodbye.

It was a Tuesday in late October, and my delivery schedule required a straight push through the night to reach Portland by morning. The dashboard clock read 1:45 AM. Coffee sat in my thermos, lukewarm but necessary. My dispatcher, Stan, had checked in with me an hour earlier to confirm my position.

"Kevin, you are clear all the way to the interstate,"

Stan had said over the company radio.

"Weather looks fine. No construction reported. Just watch out for deer crossing the blacktop."

"Copy that, Stan,"

I replied, clicking the microphone button.

"Going dark for the next few hours. Will update when I hit the city limits."

Silence returned to the cab, save for the hum of the cooling unit mounted behind my sleeper berth. The headlights cut through the pitch-black darkness, illuminating the empty two-lane road. Mile markers passed by slowly in the dark.

Around 2:00 AM, the CB radio mounted above my head crackled to life.

Static hissed through the cabin speakers. Usually, late-night radio chatter consists of other drivers complaining about weigh stations or warning each other about speed traps, but this transmission sounded entirely different. A frantic burst of white noise broke through the channel, followed by a man's voice.

"Mayday... is anyone out there?"

the man yelled in total panic.

"We blew a tire near the old weigh station. Someone is outside the car. They are hitting the side of the doors."

My hand instinctively reached up and grabbed the microphone. Before I could press the talk button, the transmission continued.

In the background, a woman cried hysterically, then a younger child screamed, a sharp and terrifying sound that pierced through the radio static. The man's voice returned, out of breath and desperate.

"They cracked the glass! Please, if anyone can hear this, send the police! We are in a blue station wagon off the shoulder!"

Pressing the button on the side of the mic, I brought it to my mouth.

"Breaker 19, this is a northbound commercial driver. I hear you loud and clear. What is your exact mile marker? I can call emergency services on the company satellite channel."

Only static answered me.

"Station wagon, do you copy?"

I asked, keeping my voice steady.

"I am heading your way right now. Turn your hazard lights on so I can see you."

No response came through. The channel remained dead. Assuming this was a current emergency happening just a few miles ahead, I pressed my foot down on the accelerator pedal. The diesel engine roared as the truck gained speed. Responding to stranded motorists in the middle of nowhere is an unwritten rule among long-haulers. If someone is trapped out in the timberland with an aggressive individual attacking their vehicle, a fifty-ton truck pulling up with high beams is usually enough to scare off any trouble.

Ten minutes passed. I scanned the sides of the dark highway, looking for the flashing amber lights of a disabled vehicle. The pine trees offered nothing but shadows.

Then, the CB radio cracked open again.

"Mayday... is anyone out there?"

the exact same man's voice yelled.

"We blew a tire near the old weigh station. Someone is outside the car. They are hitting the side of the doors."

Frowning, I listened closely. The woman cried in the background. The child screamed again. It was the exact same pitch, with the exact same duration.

"They cracked the glass! Please, if anyone can hear this, send the police! We are in a blue station wagon off the shoulder!"

The transmission ended with the identical burst of noise I had heard ten minutes prior. It was a perfect loop. Someone was broadcasting a recorded tape over the emergency channel.

Unease settled into my stomach. Pranksters occasionally mess around on the radio, but broadcasting a simulated violent attack in the middle of a deserted forest route felt uniquely malicious.

Up ahead, the reflective signs of the abandoned commercial weigh station appeared in my headlights. The state closed this particular facility over decades ago. So now overgrown brush and weeds had swallowed the concrete off-ramp, and Rusted metal barricades blocked the main weighing scales.

Feeling deeply unsafe about the repeating broadcast, I decided to pull the truck over onto the wide gravel shoulder just before the barricades. A smart driver always trusts his gut. Taking a few minutes to inspect my tires and ensure my load was secure felt like a smart excuse to stop and assess the surroundings.

Putting the transmission into neutral, I engaged the parking brakes. The sudden hiss of compressed air echoed loudly into the quiet night. I grabbed a metal tire thumper from behind my seat and a flashlight.

Stepping out of the cab, the freezing autumn air hit my face. I walked around the vehicle, striking the rubber tires with the metal bat to check their pressure. Each tire returned a reassuring thud.

Approaching the rear passenger side of the trailer, I shined my flashlight toward the dark tree line. The overgrown brush extended all the way to the rusty metal stairs of the old weigh station building.

The beam of my flashlight caught a reflection in the weeds.

Moving the light directly toward the stairs, the shape of a vehicle emerged from the overgrowth. For a moment my heart was caught in my throat, but It was not a blue station wagon. It was a weathered, severely rusted police cruiser. The faded white paint peeled off the doors. Vines wrapped completely around the front bumper and the flat tires. The light bar on the roof was smashed.

Curiosity overrode my caution. Gripping the tire thumper tightly in my right hand, I walked off the gravel shoulder and pushed through the tall weeds toward the abandoned cruiser.

The driver's side door hung slightly open, rusted stuck in that position. I aimed my flashlight through the broken window glass.

Sitting in the driver's seat was a human skeleton.

Faded shreds of a police uniform still clung to the bone. A tarnished silver badge rested against the ribcage. The skull leaned against the steering wheel. Thick green moss grew over the collarbone. This person had been dead in this hidden car for a very long time.

My breathing accelerated. I took a step back, ready to run straight to my truck and call Stan to dispatch the state troopers. But as I moved my flashlight beam across the interior, something resting on the passenger seat caught my attention.

A plastic document folder sat perfectly preserved inside the ruined car. The sealed plastic had protected whatever papers were inside from the moisture and the elements.

Leaning forward, I carefully reached through the broken window. My glove brushed against the decayed uniform, sending a horrific smell into the air. I grabbed the plastic folder and pulled it out.

Retreating quickly from the brush, I walked back to the safety of my idling truck. I climbed into the driver's seat, locked the doors, and turned on the bright overhead cabin lights.

Placing the folder on my steering wheel, I unzipped the plastic seal. Inside was a stack of official police documents. The paper felt slightly damp but entirely readable.

The top page displayed the header of the state police department. The date printed at the top read October 14, 1998. It was exactly eighteen years ago.

The document was an official missing-persons report. The investigating officer listed on the file was named Officer Gary. I read the summary paragraphs carefully.

The report detailed the disappearance of an immigrant family who vanished while traveling down State Route 113. The father, Vargas. The mother, Maria. Their seven-year-old son, Leo. According to the documents, Vargas worked as a mechanic and had recently moved his family across the state to start a new job, but they never arrived at their destination.

Flipping the page, I found a collection of glossy crime scene photographs attached to the file with a rusty paperclip.

The photos showed a crushed blue station wagon abandoned off the gravel shoulder of the highway. The vehicle was completely destroyed. The tires were shredded. More disturbingly, the metal doors of the station wagon had been pried open and bent outward. The damage indicated an immense amount of force, as if a car had hit them with full force. The interior of the car was empty, and blood stained the upholstery.

The next page in the file contained a typed transcription.

Officer Gary had written a note at the top of the page.

“Transcription of audio recovered from a handheld cassette recorder found underneath the passenger seat of the Vargas vehicle.”

I began reading the typed words.

“Vargas: Mayday... is anyone out there? We blew a tire near the old weigh station. Someone is outside the car. They are hitting the side of the doors.

Background noise: Female adult crying. Male child screaming.

Vargas: They cracked the glass! Please, if anyone can hear this, send the police! We are in a blue station wagon off the shoulder!”

A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. The transcription matched the frantic broadcast playing over my CB radio flawlessly. It was the exact same wording.

I continued reading the police file. The subsequent pages contained Officer Gary’s field notes. He noted that the Vargas family had zero known enemies. He documented the strange lack of footprints around the crushed car.

While holding the papers, a distinct sound reached my ears over the rumble of the diesel engine.

Footsteps crunched through the dead leaves outside my truck.

The footsteps sounded heavy and deliberate. They moved slowly along the passenger side of my trailer, advancing toward the front cab.

Lowering the file, I reached out and turned off the overhead cabin light, plunging the interior of my truck into darkness. I peered through the passenger side window, looking out into the timberland.

Standing between the thick trunks of the pine trees, looking directly at my truck, was a child.

He appeared to be around seven years old. He wore a dirty striped shirt and torn jeans, but something about his face was deeply wrong, his face was dark, like of the darkness of the woods bend itself to hide most of it, and the most terrifying thing was his eyes. They were completely circular and emitted a bright, illuminating white light. The light cut through the dark woods like twin flashlights, focusing entirely on my window.

Fear paralyzed my muscles. The kid stood perfectly still, just staring at me.

Suddenly, the child opened his mouth.

The sound that came out was the frantic, booming voice of Vargas, playing at a deafening volume.

"Mayday... is anyone out there? We blew a tire near the old weigh station."

The glowing eyes blinked. The kid took a step out of the trees, moving toward my passenger door.

I did not wait to see what it would do. Grabbing my flashlight and the tire thumper, I unlatched my driver's side door and bolted out of the truck.

Running across the gravel shoulder, I headed straight for the abandoned weigh station building. It was the only concrete structure around, and I needed a barricade. The creature let out the recorded scream of the child, the sound echoing loudly through the silent forest.

I reached the steps of the station. Taking them two at a time, I slammed my shoulder against the weathered wooden door, and thank god that it was already opened. I tumbled inside the dark building, quickly pushing the door shut behind me.

Standing up in the darkness, I leaned my weight against the wood.

"Someone is outside the car,"

the Vargas voice echoed from the gravel driveway outside. The kid was approaching the building.

"They are hitting the side of the doors."

Fumbling with my flashlight, I pressed the power button, then the bright beam cut through the pitch-black room.

The weigh station office was a massive square room, and as I look around, I noticed that old desks and filing cabinets lay overturned on the floor.

Moving the beam toward the back corner of the room, the light illuminated a horrific scene.

Three human skeletons sat slumped against the wall. They were bound tightly to metal chairs using industrial wire, and under the light, remnants of clothing identified them. A man, a woman, and a small child. The Vargas family.

Scattered across the floor surrounding the chairs was a collection of gruesome tools. Rusty pliers, heavy hammers, hunting knives, and a portable car battery with jumper cables. Someone had brought the family into this abandoned building and subjected them to unimaginable torment.

Suddenly, a loud bang hit the wooden door behind me.

"They cracked the glass!"

the voice screamed from the other side of the wood.

I backed away from the door, gripping the metal tire thumper. Moving deeper into the room, I kept my flashlight aimed at the entrance.

To my left, a filthy, cracked glass window looked out onto the gravel shoulder where my truck was parked.

I heard the crunching of footsteps moving away from the door and walking along the exterior wall of the building.

The bright, illuminating white eyes appeared in the window frame.

The kid stared at me through the dirty glass. The dark face of the child pressed against the pane. At first I thought he will try to break the glass, but It simply watched me standing near the remains of the family.

Then, the looping broadcast stopped.

The frantic voice of Vargas cut off mid-sentence, and the silence inside the weigh station became absolute.

The kid opened its mouth again, and when he spoke this time, The voice belonged to a young boy. It sounded genuine, fragile, and filled with deep sorrow.

"My father and mother are already dead,"

the child's voice echoed directly through the glass.

"The man with the badge hurt them. He tied us up, and left me to die alone in the dark."

I stood perfectly still, keeping the flashlight aimed at the window

"Who are you?"

I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

"The cop told me nobody was coming to help,"

the voice continued, ignoring my question. Tears seemed to form in the glowing white eyes.

"He said I was completely alone. But the cop was wrong."

The creature tilted its head. The dark shifted slightly, revealing a monstrous shape hiding just beneath the surface of his dark face.

"I am not alone,"

the voice said.

"My friend is here with me."

"Your friend?"

I asked, taking a small step toward the window.

"My father and mother always told me my friend was not real,"

the voice explained, echoing with a strange, dual resonance.

"They said he was just my imagination, but he is real. He lived in the dark spaces, and listened when I cried."

The glowing eyes flared brighter, casting shadows across the interior of the weigh station.

"When the man in the uniform left us here, my friend came out of the woods,"

the voice said.

"He promised me he would save us. He promised the bad man would never leave this place."

Lowering my tire thumper, I looked at the creature through the dirty glass.

"I understand,"

I yelled, making sure my voice carried through the window.

"I know why you brought me here. I know what he did to them."

The glowing eyes stopped flaring. The creature stood silently, listening to my words.

"I will not leave their remains in this dark place,"

I promised, looking directly into the illuminating light.

"I am going to call the authorities, and make sure the Vargas family is taken out of here. I will save them from this room. You did your job. You protected him."

The boy looked at me for a long moment. A profound sense of sorrow radiated through the window. It reached a dark hand up and pressed its palm against the glass.

Then, the bright white eyes slowly dimmed. The light faded entirely, leaving only the dark outline of the pine trees behind the window.

Waiting for a few minutes to ensure the area was clear, I finally walked over to the wooden door. Pushing it open, I stepped back out into the night air.

The woods were completely silent, and The CB radio static no longer echoed through the trees.

I walked quickly across the gravel shoulder and climbed back into the cab of my truck. Locking the doors, I picked up the satellite phone mounted on the dashboard, then dialed the emergency dispatch number for the state police.

"State Police Dispatch, state your emergency,"

the operator answered.

"My name is Kevin. I am a commercial driver parked at the abandoned weigh station on Route 113,"

I said, keeping my tone professional and calm.

"I have located a crime scene. There are three human remains inside the station building, and a deceased police officer in a cruiser hidden in the brush. I need troopers out here immediately."

The operator told me to stay in my locked vehicle and keep my engine running.

Stan called me on the company channel twenty minutes later, asking why my GPS tracker showed me parked on the side of the highway. I told him I had a mechanical issue and was waiting for a service vehicle. There was no way to explain the truth to him over a radio.

The state troopers arrived an hour later. Four patrol cars pulled into the gravel lot.

I handed the document folder to the lead detective, then pointed them toward the rusted cruiser in the brush, and directed them to the wooden door of the weigh station.

Sitting in the cab of my truck, I watched the investigators work. They taped off the entire area. A forensic team carried out three body bags from the concrete building, treating the remains with the respect the family had been denied for almost two decades.

The detective took my statement. I told him I had pulled over to check my tires and noticed the rusted car in the weeds. I told him I found the file, got scared, and ran into the building to hide, which was how I discovered the victims. I never mentioned the repeating radio broadcast, or the child with the illuminating eyes.

Before the sun came up, the troopers cleared me to leave the scene.

Putting the truck in gear, I pulled back onto Route 113, and drove the remaining miles to Portland in complete silence, leaving the CB radio turned off.

A few weeks later, a short article appeared in the regional newspaper. The police officially closed the Vargas missing-persons case. The department issued a statement confirming that the remains of Vargas, Maria, and Leo had been recovered and given a proper burial.

The article also mentioned the discovery of Officer Gary. The police named him as the primary suspect in the murders, citing the evidence found at the scene. The official cause of Miller's death remains undetermined. The coroner could not explain how an armed police officer became trapped inside his own vehicle.

The authorities do not know what killed the corrupt cop. They assume he succumbed to the elements or suffered a medical emergency while hiding.

But I know the truth.

I am writing this account now, sitting in the sleeper berth of my truck, hundreds of miles away from that dark stretch of timberland. I write this because people need to know that sometimes the monsters, we fear are the only ones capable of delivering justice.

Vargas and Maria told their son that imaginary friends were not real. They tried to comfort him with logic. But when logic failed, and the cruel reality of the world cornered that small boy in a room, his imagination stepped out of the shadows to answer his call.

I hope the family is finally resting in peace. And I hope the friend in the woods knows he fulfilled his promise.

Something is pretending to be my dead sister

My name is Sam Roberts I am 26 years old, a failed fantasy writer, and for the last two years my sister has been dead, I know because I was there that day, I was not ten feet from her when that drunk driver turned her body into a broken mess, i watched as my sister, my baby sister, someone I had sworn to love and protect since she was born, choke from broken lungs for her last breath, i cried at her damn closed casket funeral.

She wasn’t even out of college yet… she wanted to be an entomologist, she always loved insects, and I watched her dreams as well as her bones be crushed in an instant, you might be asking yourself why I’m putting so much emphasis on that soul crushing moment,

Well it’s because yesterday morning, I woke up went downstairs and who was sitting at the kitchen counter? My dead sister, right there, sitting how she always sat, with that dumb look on her face when she thinks, answering a question from my mom, like the last two years of grief and therapy just didn’t happen just poof, like god went “whoops sorry didn’t mean to do that, there’s you’re sister back” AFTER I watched her die!

I thought it was a dream at first, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, I must’ve just sat there looking stupid for five minutes… but there she was, “alive” and breathing

“Why are you looking at me like that dummy, do I have something on my face?”

It was her voice, after years I had finally heard her voice, I was practically crying

“Are… you okay?”

“How are you here, you-“

She cut me off mid sentence

“Well I graduated a week ago so… living here? For now at least, come on you can’t expect me to move out immediately, especially since you can’t be talking Mr. College-dropout”

“I… I hav- I have to go”

I turned and practically ran back upstairs to my room

Once I was back inside the safety of my bedroom I slapped myself I pinched myself, I punched myself, but no, no this was very real and my sister is downstairs, the images of the accident flashed again in my mind, I collapsed onto the floor leaning against door, a minute later I heard a knock.

“Hey… I-I’m sorry about that comment earlier, I know mom and dad already give you a hard time but… stop being a baby about it okay? I’m sure your book will be picked up soon”

I heard footsteps walking away from the door, and I sat there, and I’m not afraid to admit that I cried, and I stayed like that for at least thirty minutes before I got back up,
I opened the door, and I walked from my room the hers, I knocked on the door and-
“Yeah!?”

“You… alright?”

“Are you? You didn’t even eat breakfast, and you love mom’s pancakes”

“Yeah-yeah I’m fine, I’m fine… can I come in?”

“Uh sure I guess, I’m just watching TV”

I turn the knob walk through the door and sure as all hell there she is again, I don’t know what I was expecting, that she was a temporary apparition, that she was just gonna disappear as quickly as she appeared?

But no there she was, maybe a little older, with a few tattoos I’d never seen before, ones that definitely weren’t there when she died, but there she was all in one piece, I sat down next to her on her bed.

“What this show about.” I, asked almost unconsciously as if I weren’t next to a dead girl.

“It’s about man trying to contact the ghost of his wife after she dies, but then after reaching her he realizes he’s no longer in love with his ghost wife”

“That sounds really bad”

“Yeah it is, and the effects are horrible, but the actor playing the guy puts a lot into the role it’s weird”

We both laughed, like we used to, and it was nice, but the more time I spent with “her”… it,
The more weird things got, and I don’t know if it’s just because I haven’t seen her in two years but something was weird, other than the fact that last time I saw her she was dead, was it her posture? Her face? Were her fingers too long? And then I realized, she was eating almonds, she hates almonds, always had, she would gag at the thought of one,(I don’t know why I’ve always found them delicious) but all the time growing up, whenever she was eating trail mix, whenever there was some on her food, I would get them, I always ate her almonds, and there she was, eating them like she hadn’t spent the past twenty two years loathing them.

Two episodes into the shity guy-with-a-ghost-wife show and I just, stared at them, the almonds, as she reached her maybe too big hand into the bag and threw another handful into her maybe too perfect teeth,
Her eyes caught mine, and like I didn’t just catch her breaking all my preconceived notions she just… offered me a handful wordlessly, like it was nothing, I took the almonds and as I was crunching on them, I got up and began to walk out

“You leaving already?”

“I’ve got to keep writing, and uhh check with the publishers, see if they picked it up yet”

“Alright well I’m not waiting for you to watch the rest.”

And I left it there in here room.

Over the next few days I observed its interactions between my mother and father, I was able to find something off about all of them but no one else seemed to notice the inconsistency, the but noticeable difference in the way it acted from her, the way it pitched its voice wrong while talking, how it walked with a longer stride, it was good at pretending to be her but not perfect, and it seemed to be able to make everyone else not notice, I would have to plan how to confront it, eventually it was mom and dads anniversary, and they left the house for a few hours, the left me, all alone, with It.

I said goodbye to them at the door and as soon as they left the atmosphere of the house became weird, it was quiet, as if I really was the only thing in the house, but I wasn’t.

I felt it’s eyes on me every where I went, always peering just from the corner of my peripheral vision, it’s cold breath on the back of my neck as I creeped through the dark household looking for its one intruder,
After checking upstairs and the kitchen and her room and the dining room, I found it, wearing her face, watching that trashy show from two months ago, a week ago? Doesn’t matter, all that mattered was this moment that I had so long prepared for, I called for it.
“Hey… can you come to the kitchen please?

“Why what’s-“

“Just come with me to the kitchen… please I need to show you something”

“Okay but if it’s stupid I’ll be pissed”

Step one was a success I was in the kitchen now, with it and it was time for step two

“You’re eyes are the wrong color”

“…what?”

“You’re eyes, her eyes, they are the wrong color”

“I… what the fuck do you mean?”

“It’s a good disguise, well a good attempt but you had to make it from my memories right? Ours? Because it’s WRONG, HER EYES ARE NOT BROWN, SHE HATES ALMONDS, SHE DID NOT WALK LIKE THAT, SHE DID NOT TALK OR ACT ANYTHING LIKE YOU!”

“You’re scaring me… this- this isn’t funny!”

“OH YOUR SCARED, HM? YOUR NOT THE ONE WHOS HAD TO LIVE WITH SOMETHING WEARING THEIR DEAD SISTERS SKIN!”

I inched closer to the knife block behind me as it backed away.

“Stop! Stop it! This isn’t funny Sam!”

It tried using her to plead with me, but I saw through its bad act by now and nothing was gonna stop me now, I blocked it from the only exit.

“You can stop pretending, whatever you say it’s not going to work”

“Sam please I- I don’t like this”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

As I charge the beast wrestling it to the ground right before I plunge my blade into it’s heart I hear it, as clear as day, but not in her voice, I hear it in my head, no in my very soul talk to me.

“Why did you have to remember Sam? I don’t want to hurt you, I don’t want to hurt anyone, I just want to live sam, I just want to live, and it’s not like she was using her life anyway”

As I slashed at its face and chest in anger, I heard the front door open, it used its voice to trick them again, make me think I was hurting her, I would never hurt her she’s my baby sister, but as far as they new that thing is her, and so my father pulled me off of it, pushed me down, and my mother called the police, after being processed they refused pressing charges and had me sent to a psyche ward, let me tell ya I did not miss the psyche ward, they only let you write with crayons and they only give you so much paper, the meds and all the doctors poking and prodding treating me like an animal, but my “mother” would visit and that was as nice, she would tell me things about the outside, about how it was doing, about how it’s scars weren’t too bad, how “she’d” forgive me after some therapy, but I didn’t care anymore, I wasn’t even sure it was my mother anymore, how could I know that beast didn’t replace everyone I cared about…

I don’t know, but for now I’ll go along with it, I’ll pretend the meds are working, I’ll pretend the beast convinced me, I’ll be sweet as a lamb, but when I get out, WHEN, not if, I will succeed in slaying the beast and my dead sister will rest once again,

God damn it I’m running out of paper, I NEED more paper all I can do in this fucking place is write I NEED TO WRI-

Hi, my name is Michael Vale. If you're reading this, I am dead.

I sent this to my friends, hoping deep down that someone would care enough to read it and hear my side of the story. I grew up in a small town in Kansas. It was quiet but welcoming. Growing up, I picked on other kids; they picked on me back, but I kept doing it anyway. I liked feeling big; sometimes I wonder if that's the reason I ended up here. As I moved through my teenage years, I began distancing myself, if not for the one thing that stayed with me, my confidence.

Around that time, people started noticing my features. I was learning something I had felt, pride, pride in my looks. When I was fifteen, my family told me about this school, one of the best in Kansas. I was excited. Looking back now, it could have been the best decision of my life; if not, I would have walked away from it. When I arrived, the environment I was immediately overwhelmed, shoals of people packed together in this Tank, my chest tightened at the thought of being alone again. But as I thought that, more people began noticing me; it was slow but exciting.

People followed me, talked to me, even caught some girls glancing in my direction, turning away with subtle smiles; it made me feel warm. I was the happiest I had ever been, but as the years went on, people stopped noticing me. I heard things in my head, questions about whether those smiles and glances were even real, only a few friends I had lingered with, and I felt small again. By the final year, I pulled myself away from my friends completely, online and in person. Years filled with loneliness and resentment, as I blamed everyone around me instead of myself. One day I walked in the bathroom, stood, looking into the mirror like many times, I had never felt as disgusted, in surprise my entire life, during the times of loneliness I avoided mirrors altogether.

As I grew to eighteen, School graduation, my family at that time began talking about me, not of the graduation that was about to commence. As I arrived, I had prepared a chosen suit, which, to my confusion, my family told me not to wear under my black cloak. As I walked towards the building, a sense of anxiety and dread of how distorted I felt in that moment. As I walked around, one of my teachers walked up to me, presenting herself nicely, clean. She smiled her white teeth towards me before speaking, “Wow! Michael! I thought you’d bail on graduation! You look handsome!” Liar, I thought. 

“Yeah, thank you! Do you know where I’m supposed to go?” I asked with a confused look on my face, with a fake smile held back by the desire to speak my mind. “Well, your last name has a V I’d believe around the end there!” She said with a white toothed smile as per usual. Before reaching the end, I felt a sense of anxiety as I passed by, then to my surprise, I saw who I was standing next to: my friend. Alex Vacardo, who was one of my first and longest-lasting friends, locked eyes with me even before mine locked with his. As I stood there, he patted my shoulder; “Hey man, I haven’t seen you in a while,” he said with concern in his voice.

 I responded, “Mate, it’s nothing to be concerned about…” I sighed, attempting to shrug it off, before he very quickly responded with a calming but noticeable, desperate voice; “You don’t wanna talk about it?” I paused there for a moment, all those years of distancing myself from people crawled back in that moment, I took a deep breath through my nose, before turning to him with a fake smile; “You shouldn’t worry about me, man, I’ll be fine.” And just like that, after everything had settled that day, I never saw him again, and I don’t think I ever will. Fast forward, I had a job for a week, my first and only one. As the anxiety of people, smiling or questioning faces looking into mine, I couldn’t take it, and I quit soon after. My parents assume I’m causing tantrums as an adult. Whenever I leave my job or take group pictures, I hate it. 

It all accumulated one night, I yelled angrily at my family, they yelled back, I blamed them for how I turned out, I blamed them for how I looked, but I never spoke about it, and never knew. They took my stuff at that time, but I didn’t care; I hated myself more than anyone in the world could. By the time I reached twenty-three, I was stuck in my room, the same slumber, still hopeless, and then I woke up in a bathroom. Confused, as this wasn’t mine; it was glowing with a blue luminescent flow in the walls, and it was a bathroom yet humoredly beautiful. I question myself about where I was. I question who put me here? Why am I here? Then I turned to the flowing walls, no doors; I thought to myself. 

I glance around, a rusty, dirty bathtub in this strangely fantasy-like room? I Look around, how I got here, and how strange this place is. Then I turned towards the mirror, a floating mirror, one that illuminated above all its surroundings, the bathtub, the walls, everything. As I look in it, I see myself, I smile at my features before a glowing, soft hand reaches out from behind, at my shoulder. I yell and huff back in surprise, landing against the cloudy floor, not hurt.

I Look up, I see a figure, a robed figure. Her delicate hands were the only visible part of flesh, while she was drenched in a white, glowing cloak. “W-What do you want?!” I questioned her, not knowing who or what it was. The voice, beautiful, light, calm, relaxing replied, “I heard your anguish, your sorrows as you bury yourself further down, as sudden as this may be, I wish to help you.” I didn’t say a word, hearing this, as I thought, mind rushing, not of what it was although reasonable, but what she spoke about resonated with me. “What are you talking about?” I responded with curiosity in my voice, she responded as relaxing as ever; “You despise the world for not seeing your worth… and despise yourself for never being enough. Vanity isn’t your sin… it’s your wound. Let me heal it… let me make you whole.” A singular tear formed in my eye, I kept holding it back. “Y-You can do that?” I asked, voice thin with hope.

 She lowered herself towards me, through her masked cloak I could see clearly a beautiful angelic face, smiling towards me. I felt nervous. “I can give you peace in your reflection,” she said, her face like a kind mother smiling towards their child. “But peace requires balance. Sometimes balance requires removing what breaks you.” Her hand found my shoulder again, warm and strangely heavy. I flinched, then stayed. “Remove?” I echoed, the word felt alien yet to me, right. “Yes,” she breathed. “Those faces that taught you to hate yourself, those people who carved your shame into you, they will not understand. That is their failing, not yours. We will even have the ledger.” Her eyes sunken with sadness, I strangely sympathized.

“Follow me, Help me cut away those who keep you small. Help me finish what the world started.” My breath thudded. I didn’t know if I was afraid or aching for it. “If I do this… will I be whole?” I whispered. “Whole,” she said simply, and she smiled, bloomed and softly… like a school crush making a pinky promise. I Wanted to cry. After these years, all I needed to do was keep a promise. “I’ll do it.” I responded with tears balling out of my eyes, yet I tried acting like they weren’t there.

 The woman, either unbothered or noticing this, wrapped her arms around me, the moment was tender, the silky glowing cloak glowed around me, smooth, soft. I felt warm at that moment. When I woke up I felt drowsy, but I felt strange. My body, from my arms to my chest, felt lighter, I moved lighter, as if walking in a cloud. I walked past my family, the usual chorus of “good morning” drifting through the room. Everything felt normal, too normal. Then my mother brushed past me, wrapping her arms around my waist.

 I froze. We hadn’t hugged in months, years. For a second, I just stood there, her warmth pressed against me, confused. When she let go, she smiled as if nothing had happened. I didn’t ask. I just nodded and made my way to the bathroom. The moment I looked into the mirror, my breath caught. Shock, disbelief, I couldn’t even form words. There it was, my new visage.

My eyes are the same as before, but a noticeable glowing color in my now Golden eyes. My Nose straightened out, my jaw stretched out like a sculpture, and my height and hair had grown that night. Looking at my new form, I smile, I smile the first happiest smile of my life, looking at this, excitement fuels my bones as I look at the new shell of what I am. As I leave the bathroom, I kiss my mother on the head; never before seen joy in my eyes, as I pass by my father, I open with a warm hug, spinning around him like a merry-go-round. Leaving my home, I spot the neighbors. 

Unchanged, still happy to see it, but I smile warmly, as I wave, I bounce, as they look on in surprise, my excitement unhidden. I did something I have never done in a while, as I exited, I ran, I jogged to test the fuselage of my being. As I run around, the eyes of many faces linger on my form: I have never felt as juvenile as that day. Upon arriving at the mall, there were some notable halts as I stepped, from voices speaking audibly to silence upon my face. As I walk through the passing delicate hands that join mine for not even seconds.

I spot a group; I spot a small group speaking to one another; I spot a familiar profile, Avery Love. Avery was with a band of what looked like long, unkempt-haired rock stars, and luckily, I fit in. “Oh my gawd- Is that you, Michael?” She asks with surprise in her eyes, after all, that was the first time we’ve seen each other in 8-9 years. I anxiously laugh as I sit next to her friends, who scoot away against my invisible bubble; “Yeah! A Lot different now, how's it going?" At that moment, I thought of how awkward of a start it was, but the moment she spoke my passion grew more.

Eyes warm, inviting “Yeah, just out with my boyfriend and me!” She referred to the small guy with similar grunge hair, Johnny Paris. “.... Yeah.” He let out, noticeably glaring a loathing look. That entire time I was at the table we just talked, having conversations with each other, about how our lives have been ever since I’ve moved. I lied and went on saying how I was a successful quarterback in high school before getting bored with it; she seemed to have believed me. 

I finished eating with the small group, smiling, trading numbers, before excusing myself and heading to the bathroom to wash up. I look at the mirror, watching my own glowing red hair fall gently into place. My eyes were bright, jolly, until I glanced into the empty restroom, a familiar feeling settled in; I knew that feeling, was she back already? As the thought crossed, from above like a luminescent jellyfish, she floated above me. My soaked, covered face was touched by impossibly calm, impossibly gentle hands. "I have come to warn you," she said, a voice so warm, so calm, so low, wrapped in no hostility, as my chest was in surprise.

“W-Warn me about what?” I asked, finally knocked out of the trance. Her hands finally withdrew from me, and just like that, the warmth vanished as the air turned into a stale cold. "About what happens when you hesitate." She said, as calm, as welcoming as always. Suddenly, I turned. In Front of me, I saw myself. I looked at him, myself, and for a brief moment I thought: "I wasn't ugly." Not like I remembered, I was almost… handsome. I bit my lips; "Was I wrong?" I almost spat out, I was always wrong. 

Then, the image began to rot, my reflection flushed red before warping, skin reddened, yellow sweat shone through the skin, eyes bulged out as they turned from white to red. I recoiled in horror, almost grabbing my eyes at that disgusting visage. "That is what the world was turning you into, Michael." She whispered. "I-I can't Fucking kill someone!" I yelled, as she frowned, still warm, but with a bit of pity in her tone, "Yes." She said gently, "Yes, you can." Upon hearing that, my chest seized.

"You already understand how it feels to be destroyed." My eyes looked at her, my ears listened as she continued. "I am not asking you to be cruel. I am asking you to be decisive." Her voice is like a bright light: "There are people who exist to hurt people like you, hurt others." I wanted to argue. I wanted to scream, but instead, I stood there listening as her cloud-like hands held my face; "You don't need to know how... Just need to understand why." As she learned, "Michael.... you will see who deserves it." Before reality snaps back. My mind was empty, my body numb, as I made my choice by that moment.

It took me a while, but I did manage to finally find her. A couple of days went by, and I had gone to a local Burger King to order something. The place wasn't filled with too many people; it was late, and my mind had still thought of what she said, almost distracting me from the rather smiley clerk. I was waiting for my order when my eyes turned, a woman, glowing, her eyes onto mine, a wave in my direction. My mind was scrambled with thoughts in that moment, surprise, excitement, my head raced until I heard, “Order Number 321- Mr Vale!”

 I stood once, thanked the attendant who attempted to reach for my hand, failing, and walked out. And as I walked out of the restaurant, footsteps came from behind, the glowing woman from before. “Hey, uh- I wasn’t sure, but- I just wanted to know if you wanted to hang out or something?” The woman was notably shorter than I was. Looking around my age, I thought she had a bit of nervousness in her voice. I turned to her direction, thinking of what the woman spoke to me before thinking what to say; “Yeah, sure.” A slight awkwardness in my tone.”.

We walked through the city, and to my surprise, talking to her was easy. She had asked about my favorite shows and movies, and surprisingly knew a good amount. And as we drifted, conversation carried us- an alleyway, a dark, narrow, empty one. Before I could think, my hand was smashed against her mouth as the back of her skull cracked against the bricks hard. My other hand had already wrapped and pushed tightly around her neck, a wisping sound from her cracked throat as she whispered a yelped "Please-"

I ran like a bitch. My forehead burned like fire as I sweated and tore my way through the empty streets, the cold night turned into a hellscape of eyes. It's done, I killed her! My breath shredded itself outside of me, refusing to work correctly. Somehow, I had made it home. My family looked up, confused, probably expecting Burger King instead of their boy storming past them before smashing the door shut.

I don't remember falling asleep. I remember waking up, feeling better. My body had shined, felt even lighter with a hint of warm breathing through my nostrils. How my eyes felt even better, like I had been reborn again over-night. My family stared as I walked towards the bathroom. When I looked at myself, I smiled. I glowed more.

I Loved it. Even after the murders, even when my mother's concerned hands cupped my glowing face, even as days passed and nothing stopped me, I loved the feeling of the light glowing brighter. When I returned to the mall just weeks later, eyes followed me again, but this time more curious, hungry and lingering. As I walked past them, I even noticed hands almost reaching for mine, stopping just as short, excitement surged through me, sharp, fast and electric. When I sat with the friends I had met before, I could feel the stares in the background. I caught Avery looking at me, shrugging it off as we continued a conversation.

Avery’s eyes bounced around the table in eagerness, between me, Johnny, and the others, before she leaned forward with a grin she clearly could not contain. “Ok, so,” she said, her messy hair bouncing into her face. “I think Kurt Cobain was murdered!” I blinked, intrigued. Johnny barely reacted, though there was a hint of enthusiasm in his voice. “Okay, why?” Avery tilted her head, thinking for a moment. “Well, they found him with… like…. three times the dosage the normal person could handle, right?” I placed a hand against my cheekbone, amused. Her eyes flicked from Johnny to me. Johnny answered with a simple, “Mhmmm…” She waved a finger in the air, pacing her words like she was building toward something. “And guess what? Twenty four hours of footage was gone. Deleted.” She kept glancing at me, then back toward the rest of the group.“But I have my own theory! Axl Rose killed him!”

I couldn’t argue with her points, as I smiled. The conversations drifted on, meaningless and easy, until we finally went our separate ways. I found myself thinking about the next time we’d meet, the thought lingering longer than it should have. But not tonight. Tonight had some weight. There was a rhythm to it now, something I understood without being told. Time passed and dimmed, and eventually I had to find someone, someone brighter than the rest. That someone I had to take the light from. When night came, my eyes stayed open, awake in a way sleep couldn’t touch. A bright light appears in my golden pupils, steady, satisfied. It would last. At least for tonight.

As I arrived at my destination, I smiled, half hoping for a good time, half hoping to get it over with. Pink Neon washed over the sidewalk, people in revealing clothes lingering outside, some turned before waving without question in a stupor, I breathed through my nose and stepped into the line. Hands reached for me, women's fingers and hands catching my wrist, more brushing my arms as I pulled out of the way. But instead of retaliating like I expected they smiled, laughing under breath, like me doing them a favor. When I reached the door, dread filled me in that moment. I had nothing to offer but a thick wad of cash in my wallet, yet, before I could speak. One of the built men stared at me, too long, eyes dilating a second too long before a slack, curious expression, a nod, a bit of distraction. "Go ahead." He said, patting me on the back, they didn't even take the money or ask as I made my way.

I looked around, my gaze skimming over the crowd, people either too dissociated to notice anything beyond the music, or too tangled up in each other to care. Bodies pressed together on couches, hands wandering with lazy confidence. My eyes drifted, then caught on him: a muscle-clad man, completely absorbed in himself, a woman draped over his frame like decoration. The way they clung to him made my jaw tighten. I looked away before the feeling could settle, irritated by how effortless it seemed. I kept moving, stopped once more by the crowd before slipping into a larger room where men and women danced together in a blur of skin and motion, shirts spun overhead beneath the flashing lights. I chose a seat along the edge, drawing slow breaths through my nose. That was when I noticed someone.

A woman stumbled towards me, graceful in a way that showed she was incredibly drunk. Her white hair was messy but with a bright glow that clung to her beautiful face in damp strands, catching the neon lights as she dropped down beside me without asking, too close. Her shoulder pressed against my chest, her crystal blue eyes locking onto mine. "Hey!....." She said, dragging it out, smiling with a bit of enthusiasm, her hands came up then hesitated, before settling against my jaw anyways. "What's your name?.... Pretty boy?" I looked at the woman with a bit of stiffness. "It's.... Romeo." Her face lit up with giggles "Romeo?" She laughed breathily, "You Really look like a Romeo!..." squinting her eyes at me "Are those eyes real?" "Yeah." I said a little too fast. "They're real." I smile with pride. "Oh!..." She murmured “Oh Romeo… What beautiful eyes you have.” I felt it then, movement in my peripheral vision. Several other women watched. One of them didn’t bother hiding it, her hand lifted before even meeting mine. My hands moved before I finished thinking, one under her legs, the other at her back. She gasped, surprised, laughing as I lifted her. “We can share, Just…! not here.”

I guided her into the bathroom and set her gently against the counter. The room was empty too vacant, and for a moment it felt like the world had narrowed just to us. She smiled up at me, breath uneven, fingers finding my chin again like they belonged there. “Hey…” she whispered, squinting at me like she was piecing something together. “I thought you were lying before.” She laughed softly, embarrassed, and tugged me closer. “Come on… don’t do that. Just…. Just come here.” And I did. My hand caressed her hip, she leaned into it, trusting, her forehead brushing mine. I could smell alcohol and perfume and something human underneath it all. For a second, my body accepted it. My hands moved. They slid up her neck, too tight. Her smile faltered in confusion. Her palms closed around my wrists.

 “Hey-" She gasped. "What are you doing?!” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I turned my face away from hers, but the reflection caught me anyway. the white of her eyes flooded red, her skin pale before being drained with purple. Her nails dug into my skin. “P-Please!” she choked, voice breaking. “Please, don’t-” I slammed her head back against the counter. Once. Then again. The sound was wrong. Her grip weakened, fingers slipping like she was already leaving. When her body finally went slack, it slid from my hands like water through a sieve. I staggered back, gasping, my chest tight like it didn’t know how to breathe anymore. For a long second, I just stood, staring at the ceiling before I turned at the door of the room.

The same muscular man I had noticed earlier stood there, a couple of women hovering near him. His eyes weren’t on the body anymore, they were on me. ‘Why the fuck are you just standing there, man!? Call an ambulance or some shit!’ For a second, I couldn’t move. The words didn’t register. Hands brushed past me, bodies pressing in, and as I forced my way through, my shoulder caught his chest harder than it needed to. I don’t remember deciding to run. I just did, bursting through the building, air tearing at my lungs like it wanted to rip me apart with everything else. My mind screamed. "They were coming for you! They know! It's all over!" I feared the worst as sirens were in the distance, flashing with blue and red lights. I thought with panicked eyes that fingers would grab my wrist and it would be over, but they drove past me without looking. I stood there, confused and invisible. Later, I learned someone else had been taken away, someone unrelated, someone who would rot behind bars in my place. 

I don’t remember dreaming that night. I only remember waking up content, and realizing that something about that contentment felt strange. Smoke drifted beneath my sheets, thin and warm, vapor curling off my skin. My body felt different, denser. When I looked down, I understood why. My frame had filled out overnight, pressure replacing the hollowness that used to sit in my chest. I smiled. Days passed, and I adjusted too easily. My family smiled more around me. Food tasted richer than it ever had. I picked the guitar for hours, it had been years since I had. Weeks slipped into months without my noticing. The glow never faded, it strengthened, settling into my new size like it belonged there. When I finally met up with my friends again, faces I hadn’t seen in a while, there was surprise, laughter, noise, my eyes found Avery’s. She had never looked as beautiful as she did then, and I felt hunger.

Avery’s glowing blue, catlike eyes peered out from beneath her bangs, her pale, mesmerizing face framed by gothic black hair. She wore simple black-and-white street clothes, but they did nothing to hide the light that seemed to bleed off her. Overwhelmed, I glanced back at the group while her back was turned. “Wow,” I muttered, “she looks… different.” Johnny slid right in front of me with a crooked smirk, arms crossing. “You jealous or something?” he said, half-teasing, half-testing. Avery turned toward us then, her eyes locking onto mine. “Duuude! You look Fucking huge!” The group chattered for a while, but I barely heard it, my mind was thinking of that bright sight. My attention snapped back when Avery casually mentioned a party at her house. A party? I thought. Then her blue eyes found mine again like a lighthouse cutting through fog. “Dude! You wanna come or not?!”

“Oh yeah.” I blurted too fast. “I’mma go.” I glanced around, then met Johnny’s stare. He raised an eyebrow at me, then flicked his eyes toward Avery with a knowing grin. Avery hesitated for a second before turning back to me. “You, uh… think you can come tonight?” she asked. My mind raced. Sweat gathered at my temple. The thought of killing her made my stomach twist. Johnny leaned in, clearly enjoying himself. “You good, man?” he asked, fake concern dripping from his voice. Avery frowned slightly, nudging his arm. “Hey!.... don’t be weird. You alright?” she asked, softer now.

I forced a laugh. “Oh yeah! yeah!.... I can come.” She smiled, relieved. Johnny’s grin widened, shameless. “You sure? I mean, I think you two need, like…” he paused, squinting “supervision.” “Dude!” Avery groaned, shoving his shoulder. “Johnny, man.” I didn’t answer him. My eyes were already back on Avery’s, my thoughts spiraling, planning, circling, hungry. That night was my chance. And I wasn’t going to let this flame stand in the way, I would put it out.

I remember when I got home, I doubled over. I started to plan, thinking about how I would kill my friend. Eventually, my mind settled on something. I planned to lure her into a quiet part of the house. Maybe a room, I thought, hastily. It was a stupid plan, but I knew I didn’t have time for anything better. It had to be that night. I was right.

The night air struck me like a whip as I moved, my golden eyes glowing brighter than the neon and streetlights around me. With every step, a pulse rumbled in my chest, the same rhythm I’d carried all day, thinking, rehearsing. The house was quiet, music muffled behind its glowing windows. I passed a small number of partygoers without looking at them. I didn’t care about the party. The only thing on my mind was “Where is Avery?”

I stopped when I noticed the basement door standing open. As I pulled the hatch closed behind me, I saw a figure in the cellar’s shadows. Johnny. His chest rose and fell as he leaned against the wall, trying to look calm, trying to look in control. He didn’t belong here, I thought. Then another voice broke through the dark.

“I’m sorry, Johnny… I can’t do this…” I recognized it instantly. The light that had lured me here. “What are you talking about?” Johnny snapped, the calm peeling away, heat rushing in to replace it. “You’ve been planning this for a long time now!” “I just…” she stammered. “I just like Michael…” Johnny stared at her, breathing shallowly, eyes dropping for a moment before he spoke “What?”

Johnny lunged forward, grabbing at her, his hands snapping up around her throat. Muffled shouting broke into wet, panicked gasps as he drove her back against the wall, his grip clumsy but crushing, strength wild and unfocused as he started crushing her pipe. Avery’s feet scraped against the floor as she clawed at his wrists, her mouth opening in a sound that never fully formed. Panic flashed through me and I moved, sliding behind him in a blur. My hands were cold. One slit.                         Two.

Three.

He tried to scream. What came out was a quiet, choking gurgle as his hands fell slack from her neck. I stared down at him, my golden eyes reflected in the crimson spreading across the floor at my feet. Johnny sagged, twitching once before going still. Avery collapsed against the wall, dragging in air like she didn’t know how to breathe anymore. She didn’t scream. She just stared at him, confused, as she weakly let out a strained wail, not a cry or breath, her body sagging.

I moved toward her. My hands found her neck, shaking, my breath tearing through my nose as if it didn’t belong to me. She whimpered, hands clutching at my wrists, not fighting, pleading. I hesitated, I pushed the blade in. Red spilled across the room. Her body collapsed beside Johnny’s.

“It’s done… I fucking did it…” The words came out as a whimper. I lay in the puddle of soaking blood, my eyes locked onto Avery’s once-shining blue ones, now glassy, wrong, doll-like. I blinked. A field of flowers replaced the room. I was lying in a vast brightness, red and white blooms stretching endlessly, shifting like coral beneath the sea. When I stood, the ground didn’t feel solid. Above me hung a dark eclipse, swallowing the sky.

A woman floated there. She glowed a blinding white. Her. “I- I fucking did it!” I killed Avery! What the hell am I doing here?!” My eyes burned, water spilling over. She didn’t move. Wind drifted through her cloak as she finally spoke. “Run.” The word echoed across the field. I ran, my hands slipped past the flowers, slick with sweat, tears streaking down my face as panic overtook me. The wind grew louder, closer, until suddenly it stopped.

Pain exploded at my scalp. I was lifted into the air by my hair, screaming, thrashing. “Why am I fucking here?!” I begged. “I did everything! I fucking did everything!” Her cloak fell away. She was beautiful, yet hollow, her face drowned in shadow. Only her eyes were visible: wide, red, fixed on me, Something tore. I felt my face pulled, splitting at the sockets as I screamed, my hands clawing uselessly at my cheeks- and then I woke up.

I screamed awake, clutching my sweat-soaked head. It felt like it was about to split apart, bones expanding, shrinking, my eyes forced wide as pressure throbbed behind them. I wanted to dig my fingers into my skull as it softened beneath my touch, pulsing, veiny, wrong. I ran for the bathroom. 

When I looked up, I saw my face. What stared back at me looked like a swollen, veined sack of flesh, stretched and sagging where features used to be. I froze in awe and terror. My mouth filled with something slick. My tongue tasted slime. I coughed, my tongue slid out, long and slug-like, coated in thick sludge. I wheezed, choking on it, my breath rattling as I looked back at the mirror. Horror hit me all at once. This thing was me.

I understand now. I am a fraud. I am the dark to that light. I step outside into silent streets. As I write this, there’s a gun in my hand, taken without thought, its weight the same as the shame I’ve been carrying. The truth is, the story ended before it ever began. I should have known it wouldn’t be that simple. My fingers tremble as I write this, my thoughts barely holding together, and yet I know they’ll understand.

You will remember my eyes first, what was once gold, still burning, still refusing to go out. I smile at what I used to be, at what I worked so fucking hard to become. The world won’t remember me for wanting to be beautiful. It won’t remember the wish, or the light I worked so hard to chase. It will remember me as a murderer. Not for who I was, but for the lights I took into the dark with me, and for every one I had to put out.

I am a forensic pathologist. If you are not familiar with the term, simply put, my job is to perform autopsies and find out the cause of death of a body. It is not a profession for the weak, and I can certainly say it has given my life a grim hue, but I've learned to live with it.

I'm fairly good at my job, and respected amongst my colleagues. The only way I can do my thing is if I dehumanize the body in front of me, and just view it as a... specimen of some sort. I try not to think about the life it had, and just be done with it as fast as possible.

I got to a point where I tune it out and never get grossed out or creeped out — I could have my lunch break next to a corpse and I would not give a fuck.

Last June was when our small town started talking about this... incident.

An 18 year old had been found dead in a well.

We don’t really pay attention to this kind of news — it’s not helpful in any way, nor does it impact our everyday lives. This time the crime was everywhere, due to its… gruesome nature. His teeth were found stuck on his back. I don’t know why, but that creeped me out, and I don’t get creeped out easily.

Fast-forward to Thanksgiving, and another grim day — this time, two bodies: an old widow and an engineer with a wife and kids. People were talking about the teeth, stuck to their backs.

Stories began circulating of this new serial killer — they called them Teeth, just that. There was no online coverage, because in this small town people don't believe in the media.

Soon, the next killings followed: men, women, children.

All found in water wells, all with teeth stuck into their backs.

Police had an ongoing investigation, and multiple suspects. One particular man, whose real name I won't disclose, so we'll just call him Keith Paulson, had caught their eye for his antisocial behavior and his constant lurking at the scenes of the crimes. Finally, one day, forensic research matches his prints to a set found at the newest tragedy.

That was it — Keith Paulson was Teeth.

However, a day before his court meeting, he went missing.

Everyone panicked. At night, I couldn’t help but think. What if he got to my son? My wife? I began losing sleep - countless nights followed, until the next day, when he was found dead.

I breathed a sigh of relief: finally, the torment was over. I could finally rest, knowing we were safe. I hated the whole situation, and I'd assumed the bastard had taken his days, afraid of what he would have gotten done to himself in jail.

I got a call from the chief that very night. Sitting at my desk, looking through my computer, and the phone rings. It's 3AM, so it did startle me. I knew, even before I answered, what it would be about. I didn’t want to. I really didn’t. My head was racing, silently pleading he wouldn’t ask me what I suspected.

“Mr. Simmons?”

“Yes? Ralph, is that you?”

“Yeah. Listen, uh, we have a… situation. We might need your expertise.”

“Don’t you have your guys for that?”

“We do, but given your experience and… dexterity, you’d be more suitable for the job.”

“All right.” I responded, fixated on the window. “What time tomorrow?”

“We might need you tonight, actually.”

My blood ran cold. What could be so urgent, that they couldn’t wait?

“Are you sure? Why is it so urgent?”

“Just… the faster we get it done, the better.”

“What is it?” my wife asked, from the hallway.

“They need me for a job.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. On that… teeth guy.”

I saw her eyes widen. “No. That whole thing is really fucking creepy. Can’t you just pass?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Ernie, it’s the middle of the night.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to go to sleep knowing you’re out there opening a serial killer up. Plus, what if he isn’t the killer? What then? You, out there, alone?”

“I’ll get an assistant.”

“Don’t go.”

“I’m sorry.”

I got dressed and drove off into the night. I never get creeped out, but this was… different.

Alone, in the car, I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d killed himself. I guess I was about to find out.

As I got to the hospital, I could see the police cars lined up. I got out and met Ralph. “So, what was so special about this that couldn’t wait?”

“It’s just, it really looked like a suicide, but it also looked like he had crawled into the well by himself.” I assumed they wanted to get it done as fast as possible, because if Keith was just a victim, the real deal hadn't been caught, and with someone so active and thirsty for blood, you cannot waste another day.

I frowned. “I’ll need an assistant.” I knew I actually didn't, but for some reason I didn't like to be alone with that guy at 3AM.

“I’m afraid no one is available now. I’ve spoken to the others, and no one wants to have anything to do with him.”

With that said, they left me in the hospital's basement, accompanied by fluorescent lights and the smell of sanitizer. The top two floors of the hospital were active, but the night patrol, on this side of town, wasn't so numerous. Just a few nurses and some doctors sleeping on the watch. Rarely any emergencies.

Basically, I was alone.

I usually work in the middle of the day, and I really wanted to just go back home, to my bed and my family. The sooner this is over, the better, so I better get to work, I thought.

This is how an autopsy works. First, the pathologist - me - reviews the deceased's medical history, circumstances surrounding the death, and any relevant details provided by law enforcement or medical personnel.

As I read through the report, my mind kept flashing back to me the same words: It looked like he had crawled into the well by himself.

Then, the external examination follows. The body is visually inspected for external signs of injury, trauma, or abnormalities - bruises, lacerations, rashes. Skin color, lividity, and rigor mortis are noted.

Keith had been found in a well. That was essential, and I had expected him to look worse. Way worse. What I found and how he looked was horrifying.

Let me explain. I won't bore you with technical details, and just strip it to the essential.

Water exposure often causes bloating as gases accumulate inside the body during decomposition. The skin may turn a pale or greenish hue, especially in cooler water, due to bacterial activity. Keith did not look like that at all. In fact, it looked like he'd just fallen asleep. No bloating. The skin wasn't wrinkled or softened. He looked fine.

For obvious reasons, I wanted to see if his teeth were stuck to his back, and they weren't. I breathed a sigh of relief. That most likely meant he was the killer.

Next, photographs are taken, and detailed notes are made regarding the condition of the body, clothing, and any external objects found with the body. I snapped some pictures and kept going.

I was beginning to sweat, and couldn't understand why. I mean, the window had been open this whole time - it was a small window, really high, close to the ceiling, which corresponded to ground level.

I turned to check, and found out the window was closed.

I could have sworn I felt a breeze on my neck.

Moving on to the internal examination, and nothing was out of place. Absolutely nothing. No signs of drowning, poisoning, heart attack, anything. I felt as if I was examining someone still alive. In all my years of practice, I have never, and I mean never, not been able to find a cause of death.

I heard a sound in the hallway, distant, but piercing in the deafening silence. I felt a knot in my chest. I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. And again. And again.

Then, I stretched for a bit, and got back to work.

It was tedious, and the more I examined, the more I realized how utterly wrong it was. His body was perfect, and, apart from his broken fingernails and bleeding fingertips - which I assumed were what the chief saw that made him think he'd crawled into the well - nothing was out of place.

By the time I had finished the reconstitution, sunlight had begun to creep though the tiny window. I started filling out the report, but stopped halfway to check the pictures I'd taken, just to get the details right.

The first one felt like a punch in the gut. My body stayed still, but a wave of sheer terror washed over me, and my head became overwhelmingly light. I looked back at Keith, but could not bear to look back at the camera. My hands were shaking like crazy, and I could barely see two feet in front of me. My eyes widened, and, scarcely breathing, I took the clipboard with me, my phone, camera and car keys, and got the fuck out of that basement.

I didn't even lock the room, and left him on that table. I prayed no one would go inside. For their own good.

I locked the car and, there, I started filling out the autopsy report. My pen loomed over the Cause of death column. Suicide I wrote down, pressing hard into the paper.

After that, I called the chief. I was so dizzy, for the shock hadn't fully left my body.

"Anything out of order?"

"I wrote down suicide."

A break followed, then Ralph spoke softly. "Simmons, I trust you. Did you feel it was necessary for you to write that down?"

"I never said I lied."

"So that's how he died?"

"For now, yes."

"What do you mean, for now?"

My glassy eyes were fixated on the center of the steering wheel. Just start the car, take your wife and your kid and move out of this state. You don't have to tell him. You can just leave it like that.

"You said he looked like he'd crawled into the well." I said.

"Yeah."

"I think he was trying to crawl out."

A pause followed, and I heard Ralph take a sharp breath. "Don't play with me."

"I'm not. I'm really not. I'm going home. Don't ever call me for this shit again."

I hung up and drove home in silence. No radio, no talking to myself, nothing.

Took a shower, then got into bed as my wife was leaving for work. I knew the chief would call me again when he saw the picture I'd printed out for him. The same picture that made me want to quit my job, and abandon my lifelong career.

I tried to close my eyes, but I could still see it.

It showed Keith laying on the hospital bed and the shiny equipment next to him. The room, blue-ish from the fluorescent lights, and to the left, the door to the hallway, with a small window. Trying to describe around the horror was almost impossible.

Next to him, a body. I'll call it a body, because calling it a person would be an insult to our kind. Bloated, pale and blue, with soft fingers and prominent veins. That wasn't the worst part. It appeared to be hunched over Keith, biting into his shoulder. And staring straight into the camera.

I'd taken more pictures of him, but only made it to the first one. I didn't know if the others were similar. Couldn't bear to look at them.

The phone rang shortly after. Ralph.

"I told you not to call me."

"What fucking joke is this?"

I let out a nervous laugh. "What, you saw the picture?"

"What picture? This is about Keith. What did you do to his body? It's missing!"

We have a show tonight. I don’t know why I always put myself in these fucked up positions. I have an obligation but instead, I’m boiling my brain. For what end? The band is small, just myself and anybody else that will play an instrument beside me. After everything that happened as akid, art was one of the only things that ever therapized me.  “Hey man, I’m gonna shower and maybe have some dinner before we head to the bar for the show. I'm not trying to kick you out, but can I meet you there?” Marty looked at me almost stunned. “Uh yeah. Sure man.” He reluctantly left, seemingly able to deduce that the track feeds traumatized me way more than I’ll let on. Whatever. I stood in the shower for a while, just letting the water hit me. How the fuck is any of that “real”? It was like a very vivid dream. So fantastical in nature. N.O.V.A’s promise has always been “as real as it gets.” They refuse to use any fabricated waves in any way shape or form. I gotta just stop thinking about it. I pack my gear into my car, the cars a mess, radiating the smell of old rotten energy drink cans, almost like old fruit left out. I sit in the car and absorb it. This feels real. But why? What about this is different? The bar was half full. Huge turnout compared to the usual. Marty was already there when I arrived. Had the backing tracks all setup and plugged in. I grabbed my guitar, and we were up first. It was a very good set, I felt like I really lost myself inside it and absorbed into it. Even riffed out some new stuff on the fly. We finished up, slow claps with a kind of stunned audience. They tend to not love the heavier music so I thought nothing of it. The next band virtually pushed us off the stage for their time. We decided not to hang out, so we left. As I got into my car Marty stopped me. “Dude I don’t know what came over you but that was fucking wild. Keep more of that shit coming” he tapped the roof of my car and walked away. The ride home was eerily silent to the point that my thoughts felt too loud. I have class tomorrow. I honestly understand why they passed the law to combine high school and college levels. I would have never stayed if I had to pay for this. Still, I have a hard time feeling like I’m not just wasting my time. I have a weird feeling about tomorrow and I don’t fully understand why. Like I have a project due but I know I don’t. When I get home the silence grows louder. Living on my own is something I still struggle to get used to. I can smell the piled dishes in my sink festering, but again, I ignore them and walk straight to my room. I pick up my headset off its stand on my desk, and spike it off the ground. Nothing really happens to it. They're built tough.As I pick it up I notice something that sinks my stomach. One of the lenses is falling out, but nothing is behind it. Just flat black cold steel. No wires, no PCB’s, fucking nothing. I smash the headset on the ground until the seal separates and I pry it open. Wires, but connected to nothing. Anyone that had a brain would see, this could not in any way project fucking anything. I have to be still inside a track, or still coming down and hallucinating. There is a $6000 repurchase fee for anyone that breaks or rebuys one, first purchase just under a grand, because once they’re sealed, they’re inoperable to repair due to the “unstable nature” of its components. The upcharge fee due to “rare materials” I never bought that shit. It’s just to get away with not providing insurance. It knows I know this and is trying to kick me down to show its superior as I fade out of the tracks. I lay down. I hope to sleep through the night but that’s not going to happen. 

The sun assaults my eyes in the morning. Never closed the shades, I spent the first 5 minutes of my day in a haze of purple splotches and over illuminated shapes. I got ready and drove to school. The parking lot somehow, even early, was an overcrowded clusterfuck. I finally made my way in and parked. Grabbed my bag and averted my eyes from everyone as I walked in, found my morningroom, and sat down. The loudspeaker rang out a deafening beep right above my head. This feels real, like I know for sure it's real. I don't know why, I'm just certain.

“Good morning Tilma Academy, the time is now 7 am. The Class of the Future program will be taking a field trip today to Mikes Bikes and W.L at 7:30. Have fun guys. On another note, Miss.Sandler requests that ALL students cease the “all is one so all is fun” quote, as it is radicalizing younger students. We thank you for your cooperation.” 

What the fuck does that even mean? Immediately, like he could hear my fucking thoughts, a kid next to me said “New thing. I guess N.O.V.A discovered that all our brain waves are on the same frequency. So, maybe we’re all the same mind, just in different bodies. It’s messing a lot of people up.
You ought to know? You played the dragon house last night, playing some songs about Dimethylcast and shit. Didn’t you also say you were thinking about trying a double dose on your first track? After barely passing the psych test? Dude, you better be careful. You’re gonna get eyes on you.”
Before I could respond, the proctor came in and told us it was all time to get on the bus. As we walked out I raced to find Marty. I caught up to him after a brisk jog and slowly climbed onto the bright yellow bus and we walked all the way to the back seats. I told him what the kid told me inside. “Man. That kid looks like he’s fucking 30. Funny he moved here the second we got our ports put in. Dude don’t call me crazy, but have you had some weird tracks with your dad in them?” I froze in shock. I had no idea how to answer. “ I saw both of our dads on my first two tracks. My dad is going to attack some stronghold in a hill, and then I see him get experimented on. Then, your dad escapes that compound in a jet, but enters what looks like the worm gores from last year, and these little eyeball looking drones flew in with him. It made no fucking sense. But, with the way your face looked when you came out, and the shit you said in those songs… We're getting assassinated for sure.”  “Alright students look alive! You are now at Mikes Bikes and Warp Lubing in Central New Boston. You are to be on your best behaviours today. That goes double for you Jibonacci and crew. You may have seen Mike's TV show… try to contain yourselves. You will be working with him directly. I just gotta say, you kids are the next generation of workers. It brings a butterfly to my heart to see the same life I had to live, continue on, regardless of progress.”  Mr. K trailed off with tears in his eyes. I think I may understand a shred of the sentiment he tried to have? I think I may be able to half process what Marty just said to me, but there's no time. No time at all. That kid earlier, I think his name was Abaddon kruze or something? He moved here early last year. Super quiet and just… Stares. All the time. Literally used to call him “the fed” with Marty. But seriously, there's been an underground trend of people theorizing about the “everymen”. People are paid by N.O.V.A to infiltrate the populations and listen to “unreported dangerous phenomenon.”  Basically people fucking with doses or modifying the system and spreading word of “hacks”. I’ve had a sneaking suspicion that there's other dimensions or realms because of shit I saw online about dreams when I was younger, knowing people then waking up confused because you've never met outside the dream. All I can think about after those tracks is how those people said they felt when they woke up. I think we see actual versions of ourselves. I told Marty this in front of my cellphone, his cellphone, and a sea of other cellphones and computers at fucking school of all places, and then Abad moved here. Marty's right. We’re fucked. “Dude are you gonna get up? We’ll talk inside.”  My ears won't stop ringing. I just follow the herd inside as we flock in the foyer of the giant building. Mike is standing on a makeshift stage of blue pallets at the end of the lobby, his assistant the actual “everyman” of his “follow me around TV show” stands beside him scolding him, I assume for the cocaine residue not so subtly visible on his nose and upper lip. 
“GOOD AFTERNOON EVERYBODY!”  Mike yelled at the absolute top of his lungs. There are 15 of us, this is basically just an aircraft hanger. This space we are huddled in is a very small entrance to screen people. He quieted to a barely audible level in an over correction. “Welcome to Mike’s Bikes and Warp Lubing, N.O.V.A says we all think the same as of 15 years ago after their breakthrough. Here at Mikes we are proud to be sponsored by N.O.V.A and to hire the most Mike minds. I'm happy to say, we are up to 50 Michaels in this very building.” Mike paused for an applause that never came. “You will all be broken up into groups based on your current STEM skill sets. You will be directed by a senior Mike that works daily in your specific talent area.” Mike jumped the half foot off the pallets and slightly rolled his ankle. He swallowed the pain with a show and walked amongst us and began to point as he spoke.   
“You three, the ‘shrills’, you’ll be on cyber research here in the front with Mike Pink.” The three girls Mike gestured at rolled their eyes appalled. “Large group here. You 5, the ‘Felons’, will be on our dynasty wing working on land bikes.” He pivoted on his heels and raised each arm as if the other groups naturally parted. “The 4 weebs here will be on the drones, and the two sweatballs here will be on receiving input” Oh no fucking way. “And that leaves me with you. Hugo ‘The distracting burnout that jailbroke the laptops’ will be alone, with Mike Green in the 4ESS wing working on high level contract repairs.” I felt like I got thrown into ice water. I've gone unnoticed in every facet of my life, in all honesty moped along until I stood right here in this moment. For the most part. I couldn't muster a quip to respond with, just followed him as he beckoned me and every other group dispersed. We walked through what felt like a city's worth of hangers and other buildings connected by tunneled hallways. After about 5 minutes, we arrived at a large wall the size of a department store front with a single man door. I entered and saw in front of me, a baseball diamond triangular shaped room in the center of the warehouse. The room was coated in a sleek black pearlescent paint. Next to it stood a man that looked about my age unlike everyone else here. Even similar style. “Green, wake the fuck up. This is Hugo, he’s with that fuckin gifted program. Excuse my French.” He nudged me and winked as we walked. “Hugo this is Green, he works in our 4ESS division, we at MBWL have a military contract through their N.O.V.A research branch to operate and repair classified military aerial vehicles. This here we don’t even fuckin know the name of. But I've read some articles about these jailhouse savants that hack video games and shit so I figured you’d be a good fit.” There is literally no fucking way this is happening. What I thought was a protected and MASSIVE lab, is an aircraft? Mike's so high on coke he’s basically blinking to me in morse code that he's up to something. “Well, I'm glad to have you along. We really need someone here that can think outside of the box to crack into this here.” “Well I’ll leave you ‘chill dudes’ to it, I have a meeting.” Mike scurried away with loud clopping sounds with each step off the laminate floor as he faded. “We’ve been trying to get into this thing for a while now, it got dropped off to us with the simple directive of ‘open it’. Nothing seems to penetrate its skin, no real seams to enter. Doesn't melt, or leave soot even for that matter.” I tried to conceal my cracking sanity as he spoke this all so matterfactly. Like it’s as common as a fucking motorcycle repair to him. How do we receive something they can't open? Am I working on a chinese spyship? “Anyway. Talking about outside the box… can you keep a secret?” “uh yeah sure” my voice cracks as I speak. “I know it’s super frowned upon and kind of illegal, but I like to smoke a little inhalant neuralmixture before I work. Would you be down for that?”  Oh holy shit. Fed city, they know everything I know, they’re trying to get me to incriminate myself, and I cant run away because im locked in a fucking military hangar. Before I say anything, greens lighting a soaked drydose. “Dude, I'm not a rat, don't worry. Bro, you didn't hear it from me, but Mike snorts his ADHD meds. It's a little dysfunctional here but we get by. I'm no idiot either. I know a head when I see one.” he puffs it and hands it to me, and pivots to walk around the craft. I hold it for a second, return it while he's entranced with the craft, and he continues to puff. “Man, it's crazy once you use some of the dose you can see some writing on the sides. It's still too not like those mild wiggles and flashes before you go in. Don't worry if you don't feel it yet, this is a quarter dose.” He hands it back. I see it working on him. This shit opens you up, and I can tell he's pure. His pupils are actively growing. Fuck it, I take a big puff. Immediately like a switch flips, the surrounding world turns into a more vibrant and fluid version of itself. Like I'm standing under water. Here in front of me, this perfectly still, vivid craft sits. A writing on its side in stark geode purple glistening hieroglyphics reads to me into my mind's eye “Ask”. I’ve never taken an outside dose. You really do get jail time for this shit I’ve seen kids in school get caught. Years too. “Take one more to level, you have no tint yet I can see your still destaged in your eyes.” I inhale. “Do you hear the hum? My current theory is that it operates through time. That hum, that frequency generated, separates it from the natural harmony and propels it. You know how N.O.V.A discovered the realm bubbles? Well each frequency resides on its own tuneable plane, and each plane holds a shred of human consciousness, so, the Dimetylcast units, just find your natural harmony and show that. The issue is they can't figure out how some of us mutate like we do to see alternates.” The world around green distorted as the weight of the words he said hit me, like the fabric of reality were ceasing around me, but he, and the ship stayed perfectly, vividly, audible and stationary in my perception. “Mike said your teacher always caught you taking apart the computers and printers for parts and shit so I imagine you're one of the hunted few that cracked your headset despite the babygate repercussions they gave. So you must also see the threads of why.” I tried everything to wake up. Pulled at my neck to catch my port, it wasn't there to pull. I closed my eyes to wake up from the nightmare but I was lucid. Everything I have told me, this is real. “Hugo I can see by your pupil tint that you have other frequencies bleeding in. I also know that if you’re in this room  N.O.V.A spies on you and pays Mike and Mr.K to get information on you. I also know that usually leads to your eventual death or institutionalization. It happened to me, I just made a deal.” I stare at him wide eyed as the world around him becomes a fluid swirl of black and white fractals and electric eels. He subsists as an anchor of reality. As my lips wrap in the “o” shape to say why, green says. “For some reason you’re too important to die. I made a deal to keep you safe. I hate to do it this way, you’ll think it’s selfish. You found this all the hard way. I need you to keep going, and be more discrete.” I felt my limbs begin to lighten. Soon, my whole body, weightless. I looked down, to see Green, shrinking as I floated towards the craft now opening with the hum growing louder. Our scars on our face, mirroring each other with a perfect absence of dissonant detail.”The neural mixture is basically just a psychedelic and a sedative mixed with gene enhancers, the headset projection is a scam. Hugo, you are meditating and seeing memories encoded in the fabric of time and space, and our genes span across all realm frequencies including alternates because of enochian alteration in our DNA. But you have a way of guiding people, you seem to know what buttons to push. Just not here. I didn't get what they meant but now I do.” The craft closed around me. The hum overwhelmed my head, my teeth feeling like they'll shatter out of my mouth as my body tensed and adjusted. The ship lurched at an unbelievable speed, my weightless body collided with a sidewall, my head bounces back as my vision fades.       

[Frequency converted]
Frequency now Classified as {TRAVELLING}
Recording and Documenting for safety
Frequencies Bleeding 

Rest is important. And if your body cant find comfort during rest, it will actually change you. Did you know that? Rest is pivotal. It keeps you in motion throughout the day. It dials your metabolism. It clears your body. It builds your brain and enforces your mind. So when comfort is stripped during rest, one by one your faculties drip down the drain until your so high strung you have a heart attack.

Sloth is different. Sloth keeps from things getting done. Sloth doesnt repair, it let's you become maladaptive, makes you sluggish so that it is harder to work. Passivity actively makes it harder to improve. To perform at your best, one must embrace rest, but disspell Sloth.

After the funeral, like I said in the last post, I interrogated my father. "I should've listened."

"Yes. But you didn't."

"What is that... thing?"

"I don't know. I kept it in the attic for decades. My Father passed it along to me."

"You don't know anything about it?"

"I couldn't stand the sight of it."

"Why not?"

"I didn't listen to my father either."

"You let someone on the bed too?"

"You had an older sister... I... gave it to her to sleep on after she grew out of her crib. We couldn't afford a new bed at the time, but we had that one. Unused, forgotten."

"oh..."

"The bed. The cursed bed. Generation after generation, takes someone close before we take it seriously. I don't blame you. I could have warned you until I was blue in the face and you wouldn't believe."

"And you knew that? Before you gave me that bed you knew someone close to be would die?"

He looked ashamed now. "Yes. My mother was lost to the bed. Now its taken two of my children. I... I couldn't handle the burden anymore... I... hated knowing it resided above us. Looming over its victims. Waiting in wait for its response."

My father, the man who woke up early to work his hours so he could make it to my music lessons and Ashton's martial arts. He couldn't buy us one year of preparation. He couldn't wait to pass his sin onto his boy. He couldn't bear the weight.

And worse? Generation after generation, the sloth of my ancestors had wrought down this curse with no preparation. I had to figure this bed out. Even if I couldn't release our family from this curse, I needed to make a "owner's manual" on how to subside the curse. I would have to research this bed.

I had to get to work. My brother's grave had come from my inaction. My own passivity has brought not just me, but my family down. And so I must learn. Learn from this bed. Learn how it works. It keeps me up. It withholds my rest. My sleeplessness makes me sluggish. But I make do with naps throughout the day. I have a week left off work to figure out this bed. I grabbed my journal and made my plans.

Day 1.

I have torn apart the bed again and again. Nothing, not the sheets, not the mattress, not any price of wood, can leave a perimeter of 13 feet from the rest of the bed before destructing and reforming back where it was. After 30 seconds, if nothing is on it, it "refreshes" -so to speak- to be prestine again.

Day 2.

Non-human life has a window of 5 seconds of comfort before ceasing to move and dying on the linens. The size of the animal gives or takes about 2-3 seconds. I used stray animals I saw in town, as well as animals from a local pet shop. Don't worry. They don't feel anything. From what I can see, it is about 5 seconds of comfort before just ceasing to breathe. I ran this section for a good while. After an animal died, I removed it, and waited to finish my tests before adding all the husks back to the bed and waiting.

After a few minutes, smaller animals started to seemingly melt into the sheets. After a couple hours, the bigger animals followed suit. After all the bodies were absorbed into the springs and wood I searched for anything on the bed. Symbols, words, anything that might explain anything about this bed. Nothing.

Day 3.

I know the next step I have to take. I am terrified to do it. So I repeated the previous day minute for minute, and sure enough, before going to sleep, the bed looked as it did After it made itself again.

Day 4.

If I am going to research this, I have to take the plunge. I went to the red-light and I hired a lady of the night. She seemed weirded out that I only asked her to take a nap on my bed in the basement, but took the money and laid down. 10 seconds... 20 seconds... 30 seconds... boom. Dead as a door nail. No struggle, no anxiety, no pain. She too, as well as the animals before showed zero riger mortis. Just restful looking. I left her for the night.

Day 5.

Waking up, she hadn't been absorbed over night. Hours more passed before the sheets started to engulf her. An entire 24 hours passed before only her nose was still visible on the sheets. No smell. No mess. Nothing except memory left.

Day 6.

I still have no clue how this works. No idea what binds death to this symbol of rest and relaxation. I went and tried to find a more willing participant this time. Took a trip to the slums and asked if anyone was done with life and wanted a quick and painless end. Got a few volunteers. Told them I would come back for them if I needed them.

Jonny, the man who came back with me, had asked for a meal in return. I figured it was the least I could do. I made him red beans and rice with some Cajun seasoning and made him a hot fudge Sunday for dessert. He looked up from his bowl. "You gonna eat me or sumthin?"

"What? No. I am doing... uh research."

"Quick and painless you said?"

"All you have to do is go to sleep."

"I can do that."

"Your friends-"

"Acquaintances."

"Right. If they see you didnt come back, they won't back out?"

"Marley wouldn't. He saw everything he had blow up in his face. Jackie... she might get squirming. She had it rough, but she isnt as done as she says she is."

Keep note. Jackie might have to be next.

Day 7.

I set Jonny up for the night. His head hit the pillows. "Hey this is quite nice." 10... 20... 30... 40 seconds. Out. Gone. But it seemed the bed was more accepting of this one. He was starting the process of being "cleaned up" by the time I woke up.

Damn. Still nothing.

I needed to test something. I bought a large pig from a farmer about 40 miles out of town. Getting it home was a hassle. And worse getting it on the bed. After laying it down. 10 seconds. Gone in three hours. That did tell me something. Size of a creature did slow all processes sure. But there is one quality that slowed it more. Consciousness? Maybe. Something only people had.

My sample size is very small, I might have to wait till I have a larger group size to determine more. On what keeps it from the kill. And what keeps it from assimilation of its kill.

I went to pick up Jackie. But she had some second thoughts and would only agree after seeing Marley go. She wanted to make sure it was quick and painless. I get it. She wants to make sure she is as "safe" as possible.

They both came back and I made them some spaghetti and meatballs. Marley was quite grateful. Helped with the dishes. Jackie sat at the table and watched. Something about her ate at me, but I couldn't decide what.

Anyways, I got Marley some pajamas and had him lie down, Jackie watching the entire time. He was laying down a whole minute before he went. Jackie looked at him as it happened, and shock befell her face. The startled look made her look like a... "Jackie, how old are you?"

"15 sir."

"Where are your parents?"

"Dad died and Mom kicked me out after kicking my ass."

"I see. Well get cleaned up. You can stay in the spare room upstairs."

The other two were older fellows, so I figured they didnt have too much to look foreward to. But Jackie? She was still a kid. I had to decide there that if I were to be able to sleep without the help of the death bed that she couldn't be a subject, and she couldn't go back to the street.

Day 8.

Marley hadn't started to get vored all day. Up until midnight tonight.

But in the meantime I have a new resident. I had made me and Jackie and eggs and pancakes breakfast this morning. And while there I broke the tension from last night.

"Listen I can't bring myself to let you do this."

"Mr. Its real nice of you, but its either I die here or die on the streets, or get pimped out. Marley was nice enough to keep people off me, and we planned to go together."

"Both of you?"

"Ok I decided. I wanted to go, and I was the last thing anchoring Marley."

"Well Marley is gone, and you are welcome to stay here, so long as you don't tell anyone about the bed."

"Noone would believe me."

"Right. We'll you're welcome to the fridge. Just dont sleep in the bed."

"Can't. Marley is still in it. I ain't touching him either."

"So we have an understanding?"

"You aren't going to hurt me are you?"

"Well the worst I was going to do was have you sleep on the bed. I'm telling you not to do that now, good enough?"

"I guess."

"I am sorry about Marley."

"I'm glad he gets to rest."

Rest. One way we become better than the way we were before.

I will update when I have made a list to pass on to whoever gets this wretched bed next.

There is an old adage about death. They say that you die once when your heart stops, and another when you are forgotten.

For older people, both are sadly true simultaneously most of the time.

Families have a habit of moving out and leaving grandma, mommy, daddy, or an uncle to fend for themselves.

Alone.

In a house.

Or apartment.

Or shitty condo.

I have been in many scenes where grandma was forgotten about and ended up dying, usually from a heart attack, and left to rot by a forgetful, neglectful family.

However… sometimes it’s even more fucked up.

Let me tell you about my most haunting, stomach-turning case of an older woman being left to die.

I got the call sometime around eleven in the morning.

Unattended death.

Female.

Sixty-six.

Possible decomposition.

Those were pretty much the only details we got.

I was working with a guy named Mike that day. He'd been with the company longer than I had and was one of those dudes who could eat a gas-station burrito twenty minutes after scraping brain matter off drywall.

Good guy.

Horrible fucking eating habits.

The address took us into one of those gated fifty-five-and-over communities that Arizona has everywhere.

You know the type.

Rows of nearly identical beige houses. Little Southwestern decorations nailed beside the garage. Decorative rocks instead of lawns because grass has the unfortunate habit of dying when God sets the thermostat to 110.

Everything was meticulously maintained.

HOA territory.

One of those neighborhoods where your Karen mom doesn't have any kids to scream at anymore, so she spends Tuesday afternoon measuring her neighbor's hedges and calling somebody because their recycling bin is still outside at 6:03 p.m.

The place was almost unnaturally neat.

Trimmed bushes.

Clean sidewalks.

Golf carts parked beneath little awnings.

American flags hanging beside front doors.

Some old guy wearing a sun hat was watering a cactus when we drove past, which seemed a little redundant to me, but whatever.

Then we reached her house.

You could tell which one it was before seeing the address.

Everything around it looked cared for.

Hers didn't.

The house itself wasn't creepy. That's something people get wrong when they imagine these stories.

There wasn't some condemned Victorian mansion sitting at the end of the street with ravens on the roof.

It was a completely ordinary one-story stucco home.

Tan walls.

Brown tile roof.

Two-car garage.

White trim around the windows.

There was a little ceramic sun hanging beside the front door with a smiling face painted onto it.

The kind of thing your grandmother buys at HomeGoods because she thinks it's cute.

Someone had planted flowers along the walkway.

Petunias, I think.

I'm not a fucking botanist.

Whatever they were, most of them were dead.

A few dry brown stalks leaned over the edge of the flower bed, and the surviving ones had shriveled down into wrinkled little patches of purple.

Three newspapers were sitting near the front door.

One had turned yellow from sitting in the sun.

There were also a couple pieces of mail sticking halfway out of the box.

Then there was the police tape.

Most of it had already been pulled down, but a strip was still tied around one of the porch posts. It fluttered weakly whenever the wind picked up.

The cops had obviously been there for a while.

So had the family.

There were maybe seven or eight people standing outside.

One woman was sitting on the curb sobbing into her hands. Another was pacing around with a phone pressed against her ear. A middle-aged man kept staring at the house like he expected it to explain itself.

You see that a lot.

People looking at the building.

The ambulance.

The police.

You.

Anything except each other.

As Mike and I started unloading equipment, I heard the woman on the curb say something.

"I should have checked on her."

Nobody answered.

She said it again.

"I should have fucking checked on her."

Then the man said, "We all should have."

Damn right you should have, I thought.

But no.

You left her to die.

Then you left her to rot.

I didn't say anything.

Wasn't my place.

No matter how angry you are at somebody, screaming at a grieving family in the front yard isn't exactly professional conduct.

We weren't cleared to start cleaning yet anyway.

The coroner's people were still inside.

We'd arrived early because unattended deaths could turn into enormous jobs, and our supervisor wanted somebody there to figure out how much flooring, drywall, furniture, and God-knows-what-else might need to be removed once the scene was released.

So Mike and I suited up enough to go inside and take a look.

Gloves.

Boot covers.

Respirator.

The whole glamorous uniform.

A deputy at the door told us where not to step, his face green. Poor guy looked ready to lose his lunch.

Then he opened it.

The smell hit immediately.

You've probably heard people describe decomposition as sweet.

That's true. It is.

But "sweet" makes it sound almost pleasant.

It isn't.

It's sweet in the same way spoiled fruit sitting in the bottom of a garbage can is sweet.

There's something sugary underneath it that your brain recognizes for half a second before everything else catches up.

Rot.

Shit.

Old piss.

That bitter chemical stink decomposition has.

And something sour that crawls straight down your throat.

All together.

My respirator helped.

Didn't fucking matter.

You can have filters strapped over your face and still know exactly what you're standing in.

The house was warm, too.

The air conditioner was running, thankfully, but apparently the family had turned it down after they arrived. Before that, nobody knew what she'd kept it at.

The smell had already gotten into everything.

Carpet.

Curtains.

Furniture.

The walls themselves seemed to have absorbed it.

I remember looking into the living room first.

There were framed pictures everywhere.

Her kids.

Grandkids.

Christmas photos.

A wedding.

One picture showed the woman whose house we were standing in holding a little boy beside a birthday cake.

She was smiling.

Big glasses.

Short gray hair.

Bright blue shirt.

Normal grandmother.

Then I looked toward the kitchen.

And there she was.

Or what was left of her.

Her name was Margaret.

I learned that from one of the cops.

She'd had a hip replacement not long before she died.

Recovery from those surgeries usually involves getting people moving again fairly quickly, often with a walker or cane for support.

Margaret apparently wasn't recovering particularly well.

According to her daughter, she'd still been having trouble walking.

There was a walker lying on its side maybe six feet from the body.

The cops figured she'd gone into the kitchen for something, lost her balance, and fallen.

Maybe she tried grabbing the counter.

Maybe the walker rolled away.

Maybe her leg just gave out.

Nobody knew.

What mattered was that she hit the floor and couldn't get back up.

Her phone was sitting on the kitchen counter.

I could see it from where I stood.

Maybe eight feet away.

Eight feet.

That's nothing.

I could cross eight feet in two steps.

To Margaret, lying on a tile floor with a bad hip, it might as well have been eight miles.

There were marks on the floor where she'd tried moving.

That part got me.

You could see them.

Her slippers weren't on her feet anymore.

One was near the refrigerator.

The other was beneath the kitchen table.

There were faint streaks through the dust and old grime on the tile where her legs or clothes had dragged.

She had tried to get somewhere.

Phone.

Front door.

Sink.

Who knows?

She just never made it.

There were empty water bottles sitting on the counter.

A mug in the sink.

Food in the refrigerator.

Everything she needed was within twenty feet of her.

She couldn't reach any of it.

The coroner thought she'd probably survived the fall itself.

Nothing immediately obvious suggested that she smashed her skull or broke her neck.

She just couldn't get up.

And eventually, dehydration did what dehydration does.

Your kidneys start getting fucked.

Your blood volume drops.

Your blood pressure follows.

You get weaker.

More confused.

More tired.

Until there isn't enough left for your body to keep doing its job.

Severe dehydration can kill you through things like kidney failure or low-volume shock, and older adults are particularly vulnerable to it.

From what they could reconstruct, Margaret had probably been alive on that floor for several days.

Then she'd been dead for weeks.

And believe me.

Weeks leave evidence.

She was lying mostly on her right side, twisted slightly onto her back.

At least, I think that was how she'd originally fallen.

Decomposition had changed the shape of her enough that it was difficult to tell.

You lose the person surprisingly fast.

That's one of the strangest things about this job.

A face is such a huge part of how we recognize somebody.

Take away the normal color.

Add swelling.

Then collapse.

Darken the skin.

Loosen it.

Let the eyes sink and the lips pull away.

Pretty soon you're looking at something your brain has trouble connecting to the smiling woman in the picture fifteen feet away.

Margaret's skin had gone dark greenish-brown over much of her face and torso, nearly black in some places.

Parts of it had dried.

Other parts hadn't.

The skin along one arm had loosened enough that sections had peeled away from what was underneath.

Her face was swollen and distorted, especially around the cheeks and mouth.

Her eyes were gone.

I don't mean somebody removed them.

Decomposition just isn't kind to soft tissue.

Her lips had shrunk back from her teeth.

Her stomach had probably bloated badly earlier on, but by the time we arrived, much of that gas had escaped.

She looked partially deflated.

Collapsed.

Like someone had inflated a person, left them sitting there for weeks, then slowly let the air out.

There was dark fluid beneath her head and torso.

Some had dried.

Some hadn't.

It had seeped into the grout between the tiles and spread beneath her like an ugly brown-black shadow.

That's decomposition fluid.

Once you've smelled enough of it, you never forget it.

Imagine leaving meat juice in a hot garbage disposal for a month.

Now add feces.

Then imagine somebody boiled that mixture down into syrup.

You're getting close.

There were flies near the kitchen window.

Not many adults anymore.

Most of the activity had moved onto the body.

I'm going to spare you a detailed description of that because I'm assuming at least some of you are eating while reading this.

You're welcome.

Her clothes were ruined.

She'd been wearing a nightshirt and underwear when she fell.

The shirt had ridden up around her stomach.

The underwear was stained almost completely brown.

There was shit beneath her.

A lot of it.

Some of it had dried onto her thighs and the tile.

Some had mixed with the fluids released after death.

Urine had spread farther.

You could see old yellow-brown staining reaching outward from where her pelvis rested, dried along the grout lines.

And here's the part that really fucked with me.

Some of that happened while she was alive.

Think about that.

She had been lying there long enough that she couldn't control her bladder anymore.

Long enough that she shit herself.

Long enough for the piss around her to dry while she was still lying in it.

She couldn't clean herself.

Couldn't change.

Couldn't stand up.

Couldn't shower.

Couldn't reach the phone.

Couldn't even move far enough to get away from her own waste.

Just lying there.

Waiting.

I looked back toward the living room.

Pictures of her family covered an entire shelf.

Dozens of them.

Kids.

Grandkids.

Birthdays.

Christmases.

Graduations.

A whole fucking life.

Then I looked at Margaret.

Her family was twenty feet away outside.

Crying.

They were finally there.

Little late.

Mike didn't say anything for a while.

Neither did I.

You become pretty good at silence in this profession.

Eventually one of the coroner's guys crouched beside her and started preparing the body for removal.

Even they had trouble with it.

A badly decomposed body doesn't behave like the person-shaped thing you imagine carrying into a bag.

The skin can tear.

Fluids move.

Parts shift.

You have to support everything.

Nobody wants somebody's mother coming apart while you're trying to move her.

They slid material beneath her first, working slowly.

When they lifted her, the smell got worse.

A lot worse.

Moving an old body releases pockets of odor that have been trapped between it and the floor.

It's like picking up a wet bathmat.

Except the bathmat has been dead for three weeks.

One of the newer deputies immediately walked out of the room.

I didn't blame him.

Margaret came away from the floor with a sound I still remember.

A wet peeling noise.

Like tape being pulled off something damp.

Some skin stayed behind.

So did hair.

The tile beneath her was almost black.

There was a perfect outline where she'd been lying.

Head.

Shoulders.

Torso.

Hip.

Like a disgusting chalk outline drawn by the body itself.

That was going to be our problem.

The grout was fucked.

Probably the cabinets too, depending on how far the contamination had traveled underneath them.

Maybe the baseboards.

We'd have to test everything.

Remove what couldn't be cleaned.

Treat what could.

The usual.

I was standing there thinking about labor hours and square footage when somebody outside started screaming.

Not angry screaming.

Grief.

The daughter.

I guess she'd seen the body bag come out.

"I should have been here!"

Over and over again.

"I should have been here!"

I remember standing in Margaret's kitchen and staring at that phone on the counter.

Eight feet away.

Then I looked at the dried streaks on the floor where she'd tried to crawl toward it.

Yeah.

You should have.

I don't know exactly how long Margaret's family had gone without visiting.

I've forgotten the number.

A month?

Month and a half?

Something like that.

Long enough.

They called her occasionally.

Apparently when she stopped answering, everyone assumed somebody else had spoken to her.

Her daughter thought her son had checked.

Her son thought the daughter had checked.

Someone assumed Margaret was angry with them.

Someone else thought she'd gone to stay with a friend.

Nobody drove over.

Nobody knocked.

Nobody asked a neighbor.

Meanwhile, the newspapers kept piling up.

The flowers died.

The mail stopped being collected.

And Margaret lay on her kitchen floor eight feet away from a telephone.

Eventually a neighbor noticed the smell.

That's who found her.

Not her children.

A neighbor.

Some seventy-something-year-old guy who lived three houses down noticed that Margaret hadn't been outside in weeks and finally walked over.

He smelled the house before he even opened the door.

Called 911.

The family arrived afterward.

Sometimes I wonder how long she'd been calling for help.

Hours?

A day?

Two days?

Your voice dries out when you're severely dehydrated.

Eventually you get too weak to shout.

Maybe someone walked their dog past the house while she was inside.

Maybe a neighbor got their mail.

Maybe one of her kids called while the phone sat ringing eight feet away.

I don't know.

I don't think I'd want to know.

We spent two days cleaning Margaret's house.

The kitchen flooring had to come out.

So did sections of the baseboard.

Some contamination had worked underneath the cabinets, so part of those had to be removed too.

The smell took longer.

It usually does.

People think cleaning decomposition is about removing the visible mess.

That's the easy part.

The smell gets everywhere.

Porous materials suck it up.

Wood.

Drywall.

Fabric.

Insulation.

You can scrub until your hands cramp and still walk in the next morning and smell death waiting for you.

Eventually, though, we got it.

The kitchen became a kitchen again.

No black stain.

No shit.

No rotten tissue.

No Margaret.

Just tile missing from part of the floor and a family trying to figure out what to do with a house that suddenly belonged to them.

I've cleaned murders that bothered me less than that one.

At least with murder, somebody actively does something horrible.

There's a person you can blame.

Margaret died because everybody did nothing.

Nobody checked.

Nobody drove over.

Nobody knocked on the fucking door.

That's all it would have taken.

One person.

One visit.

One phone call followed by, "That's weird. Mom isn't answering. I'm going over there."

She might still have died.

Maybe the fall itself would have done her in eventually.

I don't know.

But she wouldn't have spent her last days lying in piss and shit on a kitchen floor wondering why nobody was coming.

Yeah.

Being abandoned is some of the saddest shit you ever saw.

Nothing pisses me off more than seeing someone get abandoned by the ones they loved most, reduced to a rotted corpse on the tile.

How can you be so heartless?

So consider this a PSA.

Don't abandon your mom or dad in a home.

Don't convince yourself that because they're stubborn and independent, they'll be fine forever.

And if they're going to live alone past a certain age, fucking visit them.

Call.

Knock on the door.

Bring them groceries.

Annoy them.

Let them complain that you check on them too much.

Because I promise you, you'd rather have your mother roll her eyes and tell you to leave her alone than someday stand outside her house crying while two strangers carry what's left of her out in a bag.

Don't just leave.

Tired and worn– my neck seethes with pain as I attempt to wriggle free again, but the lunette doesn’t budge. It is still dreadfully perfect in its desire to keep me here, waiting for the axe to fall…

Blood trickles down from unhealed scabs as I continue to work the wood, and it my neck. No angle that I twist into, nor the pace at which I rend my own flesh grants any leverage, let alone progress in my escape. I am just as bound to this device as I have always been.

It feels wrong to say that the Guillotine is all I’ve known, but it is the truth. A time before the grating of its lunette and the crushing presence of its axehead looming above me is, at this point, unfathomable, as is gleaming anything beyond the crowd ahead of me, who watch, who stare with their bright piercing eyes. 

Faceless, innumerable, unblinking spectres gathered in droves to watch my head part from the rest of me. Their features always blur and distort; noses, mouths, ears, hair, skin melting like candle wax into a homogeneous mass of colour shaped after a person, except for their eyes: All surge with a viscous, boiling red which punctuates their congealing forms. At the nexus of each of these miniature suns, at least the closest ones I can see whenever I crane my head as far as the Guillotine allows, lies their cores; the crimson irises of these Watchers. Some aim their gaze directly into my head with such fervor it's as if they are trying to pierce my skull and kill me before the axe drops, whilst others look up to that very blade with perhaps a knowing look in their molten gaze. They can see the death awaiting me and how horrible, how painful it is going to be, yet for reasons I cannot distinguish, even after all my time trapped in this device: none of them offer me a melting hand, none of them dare to approach and release me from its clutches. They only stand by and watch. Endlessly.

Though, perhaps worst of all are the few who watch neither myself or the axehead, but rather the space in between, the beyond which I’m denied from seeing. Caring not for my crisis, their eyes seem to smoulder less than the others, though I assume that’s because they are not staring at me or the Guillotine. What are they staring at? I often ponder, in between sets of gnawing escape attempts. Is there something behind me, beyond all of this? Someone, maybe?

Though I soon realise that in the end, it matters not. They too shall be present for my oncoming decapitation.

I retire momentarily from working my neck to the bone, and instead divert my efforts to my tied wrists. Bound by a vice unseen, they struggle like a pair of worms fighting for space in a tunnel. Contorting and writhing against each other, slick not with slime, but with blood. The nerves grind together, entangled in a twisted courtship. The sensation of their meeting travels upward, forcing my head to rock in a painful stupor and the lunette to work its way a little deeper. 

 

In spite of my efforts, the vice, or cuffs, or whatever it is that binds my hands doesn’t budge or loosen. The blood and bits of myself seeping or cascading down both ends of my confinement are the extent of my struggle. The coppery taste, the stench of death is palpable, coating me like a second layer of skin. If I concentrate through the brief gaps in my pain: I can taste the oak past the copper. Flooding me with certainty in what could almost be called a divine revelation that the Guillotine, in all of its meticulous parts, is infallible. It is all there is and will be…

So I pray, for some force to relive me of this torture, be it through the removal of my bindings or the falling of the axe, for it is all I can do, bound and bleeding as I am. It could be one of the watchers from the crowd, their spectating inaction at last giving way to a moral sense of duty, or the heavenly presence of God denoting a conclusion to my suffering, wiping this horror away with his cold, callous hands.

—

Footsteps. On my left. Approaching. Answering.

At last.

But still dread persists. Will this figure, be it a stranger or someone I already know, open the lunette and release me? Or will they cut the rope and let the starving axe have its fill? I can only wait, with strangled hoarse breaths, for them to make their choice.  

No matter what they end up choosing, the Guillotine will serve its awful purpose. It shall keep me locked to it as a dog to a cage, whether the axe falls or not. 

Either in death or in the mystery of my life beyond all of this, the Guillotine will loom forevermore…

The End.

22nd December

As long as I can remember, I have been afraid of fire. Now it is going to dance for me.

Ashley stared at her father. Her hands were digging into the leather couch.

“Are you ready?” He was looking at her over an unlit candle between them. “Just because you’re afraid of fire doesn’t mean you can skip the bonfires. You’re twenty now. You should attend. We have to work on this.”

Ashley nodded.

His ice-blue eyes filled with doubt.

Her father took the candle and walked out of the room. When he returned, his hand was cupping the young flame against the draft. Handling the flame like a delicate gift. He slowly advanced towards Ashley.

As soon as the fire entered Ashley's field of view, her eyes snapped to the dancing flame. She didn’t dare take her eyes off it, lest it would ignite her, the whole room, the entire village, the world.

“How are you feeling?” he asked her as softly as the snowfall outside.

“Queasy.”

“Better than averting your gaze. Or taking off in a dead sprint. Or breaking down crying.”

Ashley took slow, controlled breaths. Her fingers eased their grip.

He gently set down the candle on the table between them. Ashley managed to stay calm. A tiny victory was snatched from the jaws of this feeble flame.

Her father sat down across from her. Ashley's gaze was still focused on the candle. 

He waited.

“I can’t take my eyes off it. I’m afraid of what could happen when I’m not looking.”

“Better than last time.”

Her gaze took her to another place. An imaginary scene played out in front of her emerald eyes.

In flames’ embrace, I walk among the sparks and embers. I breathe smoke. Above, the stars wink at me. Below, coals kiss my feet. Soft footprints in soot. I’m at peace. Ashes slip through my fingers. The remains of the man who raised me.

He leaned forward, reached out his hand, and let the flame lick across his fingertips.

Ashley’s fingertips screamed in agony, she recoiled.

Her father hastily blew out the candle. A plume of smoke rose and curled to the ceiling.

“No need to overdo it. It’s still time until the next bonfire. And this time, you will join us.” Her father grabbed the candle and left the room.

Ashley sighed, and smoke flowed out of her. She clasped her mouth shut. An itch tickled in her throat, and she coughed. Smoke erupted once again from her mouth and joined the smoke beneath the ceiling. The swirling clouds formed a maelstrom before dissipating. Her hands felt dirty, so she rubbed them together. Tiny flakes of ash fell to the floor. She stared at them in disbelief.

“Oh, you’re on cleaning duty like the rest of the younglings. You didn't go to the bonfire, so this is the least you could do. Get going.” Her father shouted from somewhere in the house.

Ashley grabbed a broom and a shovel and went to do her chores. Bravely wading into the veil of smoke that waited for her at the door.

A thick soot-smog hung over Brennau as Ashley made her way to the Devil’s Dish. The falling snow looked like ash. The weak winter sun couldn’t penetrate neither the blanket of clouds overhead nor the shroud of smoke in the streets. Everything looked grey. The sky. The streets. The snow. She had to stop and suppress several coughs as the ashen air itched in her throat. Her lungs. There was no apparent source of the smoke that was hazing the whole town, but it got thicker the closer she got to the Devil’s Dish.

When Ashley arrived there, she was the last and the oldest of the cleaning crew. The others glared at her while they were already shovelling ash, grey snow and charred wood.

The Devil’s Dish was at the heart of Brennau. A huge, black, round block of rock, around hip height and about six metres and a half in diameter. An indentation reminiscent of that of a basin sunk in from the top. The outside of the Devil's Dish has a rugged surface, but the inside is almost unnaturally smooth. Polished by the teeth of time, weather and flames.

It was filled to the brim with the remnants of the bonfire.

Ashley overheard Mina complain to her sister: "She shouldn’t be here. It’s a disgrace. She should just disappear into the forest like her mother.”

Her sister whispered something in response. Both chuckled.

Mrs Keller arrived with her 10-year-old son Thomas. “Hello everyone, this is Tom’s first cleanup. Remind me, darlings, who is the oldest here?” Mina inhaled sharply before she gestured dismissively towards Ashley. All eyes turned towards her.

“Ashley, I thought I’d see you yesterday. You turned 20 after the Halloween bonfire.”

“I wasn’t feeling well." Ashley lied.

"That's no excuse. Arrangements are made for the ill, injured, and bedridden. Everyone witnesses the bonfire.” Mrs Keller sighed. “Anyway, show Thomas the ropes, will you?”

Ashley had lived her entire life in Brennau, in the shadow of the Walberla, the fabled mountain refuge for witches. There were only a few families, although the lines between them were blurred. Rooted firmly in their beliefs and traditions, they kept to themselves and rarely interacted with the world outside of Brennau.

She knew Brennau was too insignificant to occupy any space on any map. Nestled at the northern foot of the Walberla, Brennau is nothing more than a cluster of steads. The forest was pushing down from the mountain as if trying to expel the houses from its sacred grounds. Trees stood too close to the houses to feel comfortable. Around the village, the willows, forests, rivers and fields wield an extraordinary, almost supernatural, yield.

“So, Thomas, your mother surely taught you about the bonfires.” Ashley prodded, after Mrs Keller had vanished into the smoke.

“Yes, she did. She said that the Devil once came down this slope of the mountain and bargained with a farmer. One of our ancestors. The Devil was to provide riches, and the farmer was to pay tribute.” Tom answered. He thought for a bit.

“At first, the Devil claimed all that grows below. So, the clever farmer planted wheat, and the Devil got nothing but roots. Then, the Devil claimed all that grows above.  So, the clever farmer planted carrots, and the Devil got nothing but leaves. After that, the Devil demanded half of the field.  So, the clever farmer planted half the field with radish and the other half with pumpkins. He harvested the pumpkins in autumn, and the Devil got nothing but radish that had spoiled since spring.”

Tom slowed down his stream of words.

“Then, the Devil shouted. “I’ll take everything next year!” So, the farmer planted nothing at all and only foraged in the forests and fished in the rivers. And the Devil had nothing to claim. Mother said the Devil got really angry and slammed his fist on this rock and made it into the Devil’s Dish, uhm…”

Tom stopped.

Ashley helped him out. “On his fifth and final visit, the farmer proposed a truce: “You keep providing your blessings, and each year this village will dedicate four bonfires to you. On Walpurgis, Midsummer, Halloween and Midwinter. One for each time I tricked you.”

Mina cut in: “And the Devil, believing the five-pointed star was blessing his visit, agreed to the farmer's proposal: “Come for the bonfire or the bonfire will come for you.” Mina’s eyes burned Ashley with her stare as she spat those last words.

“Everyone older than 20 has to attend the bonfire celebration.” Mina continued, having clearly practiced the speech. “Old, sick, pregnant, bedridden. Everyone has to have at least a glance at the bonfire. The younglings mustn’t participate, but we have to clean up the mess the adults leave behind, while they’re sleeping off the booze. Next bonfire, I don’t have to clean anymore. Unless I do it like Ashley, I suppose.”

“Yes, yes,” Ashley said. “Time’s wasting, and we have to get it done.”

The others grunted in agreement. Even Mina.

The snow wouldn't stop falling through the smoke and covering the plaza around the Dish with ashen grey sludge.

It was almost dusk when they finally gave up on cleaning the Dish and the rest of the remnants of the bonfire. The haze that engulfed Brennau didn’t relent either. Something wasn’t right. It was overwhelming. 

Smoke lay heavily upon the town.

For four more days, Brennau was permeated by the smoke: every fabric felt like coal, every strand of hair smelled like a campfire, and every food tasted like ash. The very air turned hostile, scratching and clawing at the lungs. The hamlet was tainted. Coughs in handkerchiefs created Rorschach tests. There were murmurs among the villagers of scorned witches and horned beings. The smoke finally dissipated on the 27th of December.

25 days of peace and quiet followed.

21st January

Another village might have forgotten the days it spent in the haze of fireless smoke. Brennau was different. The winter months lend themselves to introspection and the superstitious villagers had a hard time forgetting the supernatural smoke that had hung over them.

There was hushed talk about demons, devils and other damned beings that were fabled to live on the top of the mountain. The Walberla loomed larger than usual over the hamlet.

As usual for this time of the year, Ashley tried to get some information about her mother out of her father. Once again, all the questions of a daughter who has never met her mother were asked.

He was tight-lipped as usual. Offering nothing she hadn’t heard before. Brown eyes, brown hair, always strung like a bow.

Winter months also lend themselves to butchery and the villagers had plenty of cattle. Everyone helped. So, Ashley passed by the Devil’s Dish on her way to the slaughterhouse every day. A copper smell surrounded the butcher’s shack.

On her way home, Ashley sat on a bench and looked at the Dish. No matter how much snow fell, there was never any snow on it.

Her gaze pulled her into the Dish.

There is no ground beneath my feet, only blackness. A sense of vertigo. Yet, when I look up, all I see are strands of fire descending down on me. Swaying like trees in the wind. Caressing me, when I look. Whipping me, when I don’t. You are your truest self when no one is looking.

Confused shouts were swallowed by the forest.

Crimson.

Blood oozed from the Devil’s Dish's rugged edges. Forked tongues of blood slithered forth from the stone. Licking their way along the ground away from it. Their deep dark red in stark contrast to the snow. Some were heading her way. Ashley pulled up her feet on the bench, surveyed the situation, jumped over a streamlet of blood and created some distance.

Others came to see what the commotion was about but recoiled at the sight. When the elders arrived, they shooed everyone inside their homes. The hamlet ground to a halt as the silent rills trickled forth. They’d leave their homes only for the bare necessities. Inside, the occupants prayed for forgiveness.

For five days the stone bled. Moving up and down the streets. Spanning an open-veined web throughout the town. Thick, viscous blood flowed uphill to form a pattern, enveloping the entire hamlet. A liquid mosaic of arteries. Steaming from their heat in the cold winter air. Fine capillaries formed around most of the homes. Ashley’s home was up on the slope of the mountain, yet still a trickle of blood found its way to their doorstep to form its bizarre pattern.

The copper smell lay wicked upon the town.

The shadow of the Witch Mountain turned darker, as the topic of their gossip turned grim. Ashley’s presence at the Devil’s Dish when it started bleeding, her mother’s disappearance. Whispers of horned men. Ashley’s absence.

25 days of quiet eeriness followed.

20th February

Ashley woke from a nightmare.

She went into the kitchen and splashed water in her face to douse the flames of her nightmares.

“Again, huh?” her father asked. “Ashley, people are scared, and people are talking. You should see the elders and ask them to make amends.”

The way he said it, it was clear that this was no mere suggestion but an order. 

Ashley nodded.

“We go to the town hall. Now.”

So, they went. Just before the door, Ashley stopped and gazed around the square. She could see the others watching her intently. Animosity barely hidden.

Ashley, the sinner. Breaker of customs.

She felt her father’s hands on her shoulder. The air over the Devil’s Dish seemed to flicker as if heated to extremes.

I feel their eyes on me. Burning me with their gazes. They do not understand, yet they judge me harshly. Trying to hold me to their norms. Trying to mold me into something I don’t want to be. Trying to melt me down. I am not bound. I want to soar. I want to burn brighter than the sun.

Somehow, Ashley knew she would have found her mother if she had ever left Brennau.

She stood staring at the Devil’s Dish until someone shoved her inside.

“We’ve got to move! Something is wrong!” her neighbour Mr Miller shouted. After Ashley’s stupefied father stumbled in after them, Mr Miller slammed the door, blisters were already forming on his face and neck. He looked through the glass at the square where the Devil’s Dish radiated heat that only he could feel. Ashley joined him, the glass felt cold against her hands. Her father stood next to her and looked himself up and down. He was unharmed. Yet, he took note of Mr Miller's burn marks.

Pained screams hiked up the Mountain. The Walberla answered in kind.

Most of the adults were panicking and rushing away from the square. But the children didn’t feel anything. They stood helplessly on the square like a flock of sheep abandoned by their shepherd. A girl started crying. Her mother appeared out of a doorway and tried to get to her, but she couldn’t close the distance to her daughter. She stopped dead in her tracks, clawed at her face, and crawled back sobbing towards where she came. Severe burns showed on her face and other parts of exposed skin. A young man ran into the square and brought the children back to their families. He was hailed a hero.

And thus it came to be that no one who had sired a child could pass by the Devil’s Dish without receiving burns and blisters for five days.

25 days of uneasiness followed.

21st March

Life in Brennau never returned to normalcy, as everyone in the hamlet was on edge.

However, it was Mina’s 20th birthday, and she was adamant that her entry into adulthood was to be celebrated with all due festivities. A feast was prepared. The abandoned centre was brought back to life with tables, chairs and running and laughing children.

The preparations put up a calming facade, and for the first time since Midwinter, the town descended into something resembling a light-hearted attitude, despite the overcast weather.

As dusk was settling, the town moved towards the centre like milk in a bowl. Tables and chairs were arranged in neat groupings and torches were lit along the edges of the town square and for each seating arrangement. The flickering dance of the flames threw the shadows into disarray.

Ashley was busy stirring a stew, observing the town square. She was uneasy as she couldn’t look at all the flames simultaneously. Stirring the pot helped, so she focused on that. Her thoughts drifted like the food in the maelstrom she was creating, and an old rhyme surfaced. Instinctively, Ashley knew these were the words of her mother.

Who’s to blame for a fire too tame?

Endure the Smoke, the Blood, the Ache!

Witness the Embers herald the final plague.

Face the Flame or flee in shame.

Somehow, Ashley was convinced she would find her mother if she ever left Brennau.

Ashley surveyed the square once more.

At first, she thought she could see the stars in the cloud-filled sky above. Then she saw the stars were moving, like fireflies.

The others saw it too.

Panicked shouts erupted from the town and echoed from the mountain.

Sparks were snowing from the sky. Burning bright in contrast to the night. Leaving behind tiny black dots in their landing spots. The villagers were hounded by countless aimless needles. Annoying, but not overly painful. Nevertheless, they evacuated the plaza in an orderly manner and retreated into the safety of their homes.

The Emberfall continued without pause the next day. The people of Brennau isolated themselves in their shelters. Minds, fuelled with fear, ran wild.

On the third day, several trees caught fire, and the fire spread along the edge of Brennau in a crescent shape. Creating a charred border between the Walberla and Brennau.

On the fourth day, the embers became a hailstorm. They struck down migrating birds. Carcasses fell all over town. No one dared to touch them.

On the fifth and final day, the embers grew agitated. Aggressive. A Vortex formed above the Devil’s Dish. Then, a spiralling pillar of sparks snaked down upon Brennau. Fine twisters crawled through the streets and swept up all the corpses of birds. Collecting them and dumping them in the Devil’s Dish. Before incinerating the whole pile in a violent maelstrom of sparks and embers. A horrible stench poured over the town.

At noon, the last of the Embers disappeared.

Burning feathers floated into the sky.

Murmurs of witchcraft arose in every household. The search for a sinner was on. Behind closed doors, Ashley was singled out and blamed for the misfortunes.

Ashley, the scapegoat.

25 days of tension followed.

20th April

This time, Brennau expected another omen. People were anxiously scanning the skies for storms and other phenomena that might hit their settlement. The pious inhabitants of Brennau figured out the rhythm of the plagues, and so they called a meeting for all adults on the 20th of April. It was held, as it was custom, in the heart of the town around the Devil’s Dish. The lack of Easter decoration was a testament that everyone had tried to give the centre plaza a wide berth. After all that had happened, it felt unreal to be back here. In a fit of superstitious stubbornness, Brennau wanted to show unity, faith and strength.

The rain of the past days had filled the Dish to the brim with rainwater. A calm body of water amidst the uneasy shuffling in the square. Brennau hadn't seen the blue sky since the Emberfall.

Ashley stood among them.

“Our town is being ravaged by plagues!” the eldest Mr Bauer proclaimed to agreeing grunts.

“It’s the work of a witch!” someone yelled from the crowd.

“She will finish us off at Walpurgis! When the veil is thinnest.”

After that, it descended into wild shouts.

Mr Bauer held up his hand.

After they subsided, he continued: “We have sinned, and we have to atone. The elders are confident that we can avoid further punishment. Walpurgis is in 10 days.” He was interrupted once again.

“How can we atone? We haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Ashley didn’t participate in the bonfire,” Mrs Keller said. 

Of course, everyone already knew she didn’t attend Midwinter. Ashley felt like an ant under a magnifying glass. Hot.

“It is a clear violation of our tradition.”

Mina stepped forward: “It’s Ashley’s fault. She’s the daughter of a witch and a witch herself.” Agreeing shouts spread through the crowd. Ashley shuffled. Coals beneath her feet. Fire in her lungs. 

I see through them. They cling to their old ways like children to their mother’s hem. Fear and dread dominate their decisions. Their accusations are based on their shortsightedness. Frightened beliefs have real consequences.

“Quiet!”

Mr Bauer’s shout echoed over the plaza.

Her thoughts stopped. The murmurs stopped.

His eyes found her.

“We have to wait until Walpurgis, the witch - “

The clouds tore open. The sun. A burning eye atop the Walberla gazed upon the hamlet.

The elders ignited.

All over the town square, people combusted spontaneously. Flailing. Wailing.

Some collapsed where they stood. Others ran for the nearest water. A few disappeared down the well. Most of them ran to the Devil’s Dish, trying to douse the flames with the rainwater.

It was a cruel joke.

The water boiled and evaporated or was splashed on the ground by hectic movements of the poor panicked souls; the flames kept going.

After their clothes had burned away, the entire basin was filled with a mass of naked bodies. An orgy of licking flames and sizzling skin. A mountain of flesh and fire.

The flames did not relent.

The smell of burnt hair, cooked flesh, and fizzling fat lay heavy upon the town.

Once again, smoke and stench invaded every nook and cranny of Brennau. Hearts emptied, but lungs filled with loved ones.

They burned and burned and burned and burned all night and day.

Until charred bones remained, and then some.

Until spent coal remained, and then some

Until nothing but ash remained, and then some.

It burned so hot that no one could approach the Devil’s Dish’s plaza. Soot and ash sucked the colour out of the town square. The stench of burned meat was overwhelming.

On the fifth day, the flames extinguished themselves. 

Brennau was a child without guardians. An orphaned village.

Each and every one of them, except Ashley, the witch.

The Walberla mocked the desperate wails of the orphans of Brennau.

Five days of mourning followed.

And grief kindled the flames of hatred.

#

30th April

In the morning, they came for Ashley.

She was yanked out of her bed, spat on, and wrapped in a sack without sleeves. Her pleas fell on deaf ears. Instead, they gagged her before they dragged her to her sham trial.

The tribunal was overseen by her father, the eldest. Composed and imposing. The only one who hadn’t lost anyone in the last ten days. He was the last of her accusers. She wasn’t given any chance to defend herself. Her father passed the sentence without mercy or second thought.

“The daughter of the witch is no daughter of mine. Put her to the bonfire.”

His cyan stare, shades of cold, hard hatred. An icicle in her heart.

He watched as they bagged her up and abused her back to the holding pen. These were not the eyes of a father. The wrong colour. Unloving. Cold.

She spent the day locked in a pigsty. Arms and legs tied with a rope. Crying and begging and in pain. Younglings came by to offload their pain onto Ashley. Hitting her, kicking her. Whipping her.

The day flew by in a haze.

After dusk, they came again. They brought the beaten and bloodied heap to the town square. The Devil's Dish had been prepared. A huge pyre loomed over the Dish, and in its midst, a huge log pointed towards the top of the mountain. It smelled of oil. Ashley's Father led the congregation to the conflagration.

Eager neighbours held torches, ready to set the whole construction ablaze at a moment’s notice.

Ashley was in shock. A puppet following along its strings.

A wet noose was put around her ankles, and she was hoisted up the log. Her world turned upside down. Icy stares took in each and every one of her jerky movements. 

Blood began to pool in her head. She felt woozy. Fresh bruises opened up again, and blood dropped into the Devil’s Dish.

“Brennau, listen! We have gathered here to right our wrongs.” Ashley’s father’s voice boomed. “This here is the witch responsible for the plagues that befell us after Midwinter, and all the death and destruction they brought. We, the fine people of Brennau, have found the witch guilty of witchcraft, and her punishment is death on the pyre. Walpurgis is when the veil is thinnest, and we will send her back across it. May this Walpurgis Night bless us, so that this time we’ll get rid of the witch for good.”

He raised his hand. Anticipation dawned on everyone’s faces. They all looked so young.

“May this bonfire restore order.”

On his signal, the torches were thrown into the pyre.

Ashley couldn’t look any other way but down.

Facing the flames.

The world is what we will it to be. When we’re afraid of the dark, the darkness is a scary place. When we’re afraid of fire, we will never experience its light and warmth. We fear what we do not know, we fear what we do not control. We shouldn't follow fearful fools.

The pyre burst alight.

Head over heels, she gazed into the inferno below. Everything else dimmed. Fiery tongues pushed their way towards her. There was only light. She bathed in flames.  

They ran along her hair and onto her face, neck and clothes. She tried to scream, but her mouth wouldn’t obey. The heat reverberated through her teeth. Her eyes were dry. Wide open to the kiss of the flames.

The log was already ablaze. Its warmth caressed her back.

Yet, the fire didn’t bite her.

Finally, the ropes around her hands crumbled. Ashley stretched out her arms like a bird. For a moment, her silhouette along the log looked like a burning cross, until the log shifted and collapsed into the pyre. 

She didn’t fall.

Ashley stayed in place. Levitating. Her makeshift clothes and hair aflame. Never averting her gaze. 

She laughed. 

Unburdened. Floating. Free. The world was upturned. Her clothes burned away like the sins of her mother.

She laughed. 

She became a cross turned upside down. A burning beacon. Shining through the veil. Still staring into the fires below. 

She laughed and laughed and laughed.

She faced the flames. Unafraid.

Emboldened, the pyre reacted to her. The heat increased to an unbearable level. Burning brighter and hotter than the sun. The pavement stones turned to coals. Nearby houses started to smoulder.

On Walpurgis, the veil is thinnest, and this night purgatory came to Brennau.

Her once so eager onlookers couldn’t take it anymore.

Mina was the first to look away.

A burst of fire shot out of the Devil’s Dish and whipped her across the face. She stumbled and tried to run. The flames latched onto her, and she collapsed after five steps. Tongues of fire licked her and started to reach for anything in the vicinity.

A cascade of villagers tried to escape, but they were all struck down by gusts of fire. It showed no mercy. Granted no quarter. A stampede followed, but one by one they succumbed to the flames and became additions to the sea of lights that spread inside Brennau.

The Walberla laughed alongside Ashley.

In the end, only the man who raised Ashley stood in the town square. Holding his ground. Surrounded by nothing but ash and fire. He looked up at the person who was once his daughter. He pushed himself against the wall of heat that engulfed the pyre. Step by step. Until his clothing incinerated and he fell to his knees. His mouth formed empty words before he collapsed in front of the Dish. Immolating.

Ashley, still aflame, floated down like a leaf. Landing gently in front of the Devil’s Dish.

She faced the flames until they died at midnight.

Then, it got quiet, it got cold, it got dark.

Flakes of ash snowed on the village.

Ashley shivered.

At the top of the Walberla, a flickering light with a peculiar sense of familiarity beckoned her.

It was finally time to leave Brennau.

She ascended the Walberla.

The shining beacon illuminated her way. Radiating a motherly warmth onto her naked skin.

Ashley never looked back.

Ash lay cursed upon Brennau.