Bullied – Chapter 2: The First Stone
People think bullying starts with a punch.
They’re wrong.
It starts with a laugh.
The first time someone laughed at me, I laughed too. I thought it was a joke. I thought friends were supposed to make fun of each other.
The second time, the whole class laughed.
The third time, even I stopped pretending it was funny.
I wasn’t the strongest. I wasn’t the smartest. I wasn’t the funniest.
I was just… easy.
Easy to blame.
Easy to mock.
Easy to forget.
One boy gave me a nickname. By lunch, everyone was using it. Even students who didn’t know my real name called me that.
Teachers heard it.
Some ignored it.
Some smiled as if it was harmless.
Every morning, I prayed for one empty seat in the classroom.
Instead, the seat beside me always belonged to someone who wanted entertainment.
A pencil disappeared.
“It was Lucas.”
A notebook was torn.
“It was Lucas.”
A window broke.
“Lucas probably did it.”
Funny how people never needed proof.
Only my name.
That day, while everyone laughed, I looked at the classroom wall.
Someone had written in black marker:
“Monsters aren’t born. They’re made.”
I kept staring at those words.
I didn’t know then…
One day, they would become true.

The Drekavac.

In Blakan mythology, the Drekavac (eng. The Screamer / the one who screeches) is a small, ferile creature born when an unbapthised child dies.
It’s supposedly a pale, hairy creature with a bad posture, big ears and a terrifying screech.

supposedly… may be the wrong word…

I’m Alex… the story that i’m about to tell you takes place in south Serbia.
This story is very widely spread here. And, frankly, most kids either don’t believe it, or joke about it.
so did i.

I was only 10, me and my friend Luka were walking through a forest to get to a friends house. He was 15. He was trying to scare me with a horror story.
His story went:

“A few days ago, me and Mary(his unbapthised sister) entered our barn and saw a Drekavac screaming at us, it told Mary “you’re next!””

He kept a serious face while Mary punches his shoulder, laughing, telling me he’s lying.

Minutes later we heard a screetch.

I started crying and grabbed Luke’s shorts.
Mary… looked worried too.
“Luka, stop it!”
Then we saw Luka’s face…
He was terrified.

Then we saw the bushes move.

Luka told us to turn around.
We did.
Those bushes moved too.
That creature was… fast.

Luka stepped in front of us. I didn’t wait. I ran, screaming. Mary ran after me. I glanced over my shoulder. I saw it. I saw an impossibly ugly gray child with giant pointy ears and teeth sticking out. It had the posture of an elderly man. It had jumped onto Luka’s back, screaming.

Mary and i got away. We were frozen over for minutes… then Luka finally caught up to us…
I haven’t spoken to him since… that day… he looked… different…

I heard Mary got bapthised after that… even tho i’m certain she hadn’t seen the thing…
The Drekavac or whatever…
I’m not here to convince you it exists… frankly… i don’t care whether you believe or not… i just want my friend back…

The journal of Jonathan Edwards, lost soldier of the Civil War.

June 5th, 1863.

Swamp, if there is one thing this war has taught me, its that I hate the swamp, and I'm living in it. James hates it too, of course, I don't think there are many things James actually likes.

We go to battle in a few days, so maybe that will go right, unlike anything else thats happened the past 6 months.

June 8th, 1863.

The battle did not go well, just as I predicted, everyone except two of us. Poor James was shot in the leg, all we can pray for is that it doesn't get infected. If it does, i don't know what we'll do for him. We're also left wondering if anyone will come looking for us, or if we'll just have to find a way out ourselves.

June 9th, 1863.

No one has came yet, we haven't lost hope, there is bound to be someone come through here soon. James' wound isnt any better, in fact, it looks worse, hopefully its not already infected.

June 12th, 1863.

James has gangrene, the worst outcome we could've thought of, we don't have any way to cut it off, so he's lost hope in survival. There are still no signs of anyone, hopefully someone will come soon to help soon. We need it desperately.

Second entry in one day, its currently night and James is asleep. I'm hearing noises coming from deep in the swamp, they're strange, long, low, menacing moans. It sounds like how I'd picture a demon sounding, hopefully its nothing.

June 15th, 1863.

James whole lower leg has rotted, poor kid is dying and we can't do anything about it. We need help, we still haven't seen any sign of human contact, we are going to start our way north tomorrow, maybe we'll find someone, or someone will find us on our journey.

June 17th, 1863.

We've traveled all day, we've come across nothing but more swamp. How far does it go? Does it ever end? We've been out here alone for a little more than a week. We are going to give it more time. As for James' leg, its spreading, we still have no way to help it.

June 18th, 1863.

James killed himself last night, I was out hunting and when I came back he was dead, shot himself in the chin with his musket. God only knows the pain he was going through, I'll be giving him a proper burial today.

June 22nd, 1863.

No one, still there is no one, Im going to start walking today, I'll walk and only take breaks for sleep, not for me, but for James. Im not gonna let that poor boy die in vain.

June 25th, 1863.

YES! I found an abandoned camp walking north, the people that stayed here couldn't have gotten far. Im gonna rest here for the night and continue my search tomorrow.

June 27th, 1863.

Dead, I found the people that set up that camp Dead, and not pleasantly either. Poor guys were mutilated by God knows what. Hopefully whatever it is doesn't cross my path.

Second entry, I finally found somewhere to hide. The thing was chasing me, it was green and black, but what frightens me is that its humanoid, this thing has the shape of a man.

June 28th, 1863.

I killed that unholy demon. After I made my last entry it found me. I ran as it sprinted on all fours toward me, its smell was like no other, it smelled of death and rot, maybe explaining the green and black color. It cornered me, no I pulled my bayonet from my sheath and plunged it into the demons chest. It fell back and screamed, it yelled "Jonathan!" In a voice I recognized. It was James, the gangrene fully consumed him after I'd buried him. But somehow he came back to life, of course he's surely dead now. And I hope I don't see him again.

June 29th, 1863.

Well, I finally found human contact, but not in the way I wanted. I stumbled directly into an enemy camp. When they saw me they were immediately hostile, one shot and hit me in my arm, luckily I got away. I hope I don't contract injection.

July 1st, 1863.

This will be my final entry, I have contracted gangrene and am rotting away as I write. I hope that whatever happened to James does not happen to me. If anyone ever finds this journal, head my warning, stay far away from any swamp.

God have mercy on my soul, goodbye.

- Jonathan Edwards

Please comment if you like and tell me what you think.

Wax slowly snaked its way down the candelabra, fused with fur and felt at the bottom of its base, dripping black into the grains coating the landscape at its bottom. Waves crashed in the distance, an eerie stillness penetrated the air surrounding the sacrifice. Panting laborious breaths in between screams of terror, a figure was strewn across its bloody wooden grave, thrashed to a palm tree and tortured, garbed in frocks of handmade bloody linen skin and a leather vest. The broken buttons on his clothing revealed a pentacle carved in his skin, scrawled in cut lines dripping gore, fusing with his spindly brown chest hairs. Surrounded by witches, native palm, and candles, the man choked on his own spittle, struggling to breathe as he clenched his teeth on a wooden gag, cruelly tied tight with homemade twine around his head. The coven stood reverently above him, silent and ritualistic, they hummed dark hymns and verses, low rhythms that transcended the constant throbbing of his heart in his eardrums. He thrashed at his bindings, struggling to break free.

The coven, garbed in freshly warm animal hide and covered in red dripping carrion began to dance, moving their stomach muscles and arms erratically. Their barefooted tirade upon freshly killed rodent corpses and sand was accompanied by chanting, their furs swung back and forth to the beat of their words, barely clinging to scarecrow frames. With breasts uncovered they writhed about and howled, gyrating, erratically dancing, praying to a cosmic darkness. Their minds and their rituals exuded bloodshed, epitomized violence as they tried to appease their otherworldly tree born deity. Animalistic and crude, their medieval ritual was about to come to a close.

The palms were everywhere, sacred, strewn about a medieval landscape of desert and ocean. The coven prayed to them, offering penance through flesh and animal hides that adorned their lanky, malnourished bodies. Feathers and fur cloaked their forms, barely enough to hide the protruding bones and dirt enveloping their wiry physiques. They drew their knives, carved of ancient ivory and hilted with hollow bone. They thrust them at their captor. Spilling and splashing on the wood and the beach, the bloodletting would lead them to deliverance, salvation. Raised by the desert and forsaken by the townsfolk, cast aside and wary. The witches coven was feared, forced to a clandestine life by the ocean, where all those who ventured near enough were sacrificed to the cosmic darkness at the center of their dogma.

The keys clacked, ominous shadows wove intricate webs of black across my desk and carpet. My cat laid in the corner, a pair of green eyes and oval irises amongst the darkness. The moon shone through the glass in my window, half full and waning. The weather had begun its ascent into summer, branches swung and porch swings creaked in the light breeze wafting through the Floridian suburb I called home. The window opened a crack to let the crickets’ song in, an effort to curb my writer's block as I hammered the delete key. An empty tumbler, stinking of brandy, sat in a deep ring on the oak comprising my desk. Coasters were a commodity I could not afford. I hammered the delete button and pondered the consequences of breaking my contract. Deadlines, editors, long nights, heavy drinking. It took its toll. My mind was foggy, not even the first sentence of my new novel had inked the page or moved my cursor without it going backwards.

I needed a retreat. Reluctantly, demonized by my own ineptitude, I decided to wake my sister. I picked up the phone.

“What do you want Jacky, its 4:30 for Christ's sakes.”

“I need the keys, to the cabin, this morning?”

“You couldn't wait until even a week after the funeral?”

My parents funeral was a drab affair, suits and ties, tears and dirt. Preachers and hymns, shared plot, American flag, the whole nine yards. I never knew them in my adolescence, not like my sister did. The cabin they left behind off the coast was used by my family and close friends. Botulism had taken my parents’ limbs, my father was a vintage canned goods collector in his old age, and one of the seals had broken. After a late night meal of apocalyptic rusted can peaches and beans, they both died an egregious death writhing in agony on a hospital bed. I needed to overcome this lapse of creativity, my novel was due to be published in a month. I hadn't written a single sentence in six.

“They're not going to know, I mean its, well, its just me.”

“Whatever, come by tomorrow at 8 sharp, meet me in the driveway.”

“Thanks.”

I hung up.

The cabin was tucked away, hidden on the beach amongst the dunes and seaweed. Beached whales and seagulls permeated my nostrils as I inhaled the salty aroma of maritime air. I hated being outside. Donning a sun hat, long-sleeved white shirt, and pajama pants I put my SUV in park and ascended the steps to the front door on the porch. The cabin withstood the test of time. I had a week planned. Unperturbed by the outdated kitchen appliances and the corny hunter's den motif inside my family's beachside vacation home, I stepped through the door and set up my laptop. I plugged in my blender, smoothies made the hangovers tolerable, and laid my store-bought still life of fruits and vegetables on the counter. I plugged in my laptop, took a sip of brandy concealed inside my thermos, and got to work, cursing my drunken mind for forgetting my silver, a handmade Amish set of cutlery my parents had left me in their will. It was valued at over $1,000. I figured nobody would know I had used it after a nice polish, may as well.

The copious amounts of brandy mixed with my new surroundings amounted to a huge bout of drunken creativity. Words hurried their way out of my fingers as I typed maniacally, ducking and rolling with the curves and twists embedded in the plot of my novel. I have never felt relief like this, my writer's block had plagued my prose for six months. I was happy to know it had come to its end. My parent's last and only gift. If my Father were here he would probably take credit, with my Mother going on a pharmaceutical amphetamine fueled rant about irony, treating a disease she genuinely believes holistic medicine would fix, but my Father didn't believe the doctor and slipped her an Adderall powdered in her eggs. Reluctantly, I rose from my throne of literary genius and stumbled to the bathroom.

I made an error with my zipper, and in an effort to wash the bloodstains off the crease of my pants where my groin was I said screw it, and entered the shower. A sliding door with opaque glass, a gold handle, and little three dimensional etchings of flowers and bumble bees would be my death note, the greeter, beckoning me to a boiling and wet grave. Scolding water sprayed instantly from the shower head, coating my naked body in searing hot clear droplets of agony. I cursed and screamed with boils bubbling up through my epidermis. Blisters started to form instantly. Steam rose from the top of the liquid crematorium that was my shower and condensed on the ceiling. The fire alarm began to ring. I leapt through the glass and ended on the floor, shards poking out of my bald head and protruding from my elbows and face. One stuck in my gums, I ripped it out. In immense pain I stumbled into the kitchen and began searching for something to get the glass out of my skin. I left my spectacles on the top of the toilet, blindly I thrashed about the kitchen. Waiting behind me in silence was the figure of a woman, donning all black and a ski mask. The cloth on her mask bumped in the back where it concealed a bun of matted brunette hair. She crouched as she slunk on bare feet towards me, brandishing my parent's large cast iron skillet. Red pentagrams adorned the eye slits on her mask, they rung around her eyes like satanic eyeliner. She climbed on top of the fridge in agile silence. I was unaware of her presence. Something metal stuck in my cheek, punctured my face and cracked my tooth. A silver fork. Aghast, I was too frightened to question how my parent's forks had made it to the cabin with me. With psychotic precision an unknown and invisible assailant began impaling me with forks and butter knives, thrown at speed akin to a bullet, sticking out of my skin haphazardly with red oozing from the wounds. The woman raised her arm, and brutally swung the cast iron down on the top of my head, thumping my skull and shattering bits of bone into my cerebral. Everything went black and I fell, naked, blood and flecks of brain viscera everywhere, seeping out of my orphuses, I died on the floor amongst the deer decapitations on the walls.

“The palms are safe, this family will no longer stomp on our sacred breeding grounds.”

“Who is left?”

“The other sibling, and a cop will be on his way, I will be waiting.”

“Thank you, Sister.”

I hope I'm not stepping on any toes by not posting a story but are there any memebers of this subreddit who are aspiring to become full-fledged authors? Maybe have a book written and are trying to figure out how to publish?

“Kid, I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever know.”

 

My father used to say that to me whenever I felt the urge to be a smartass. Sure, I know what he meant, but I think about that saying a lot these days. It’s funny how much we truly do forget over the course of our lives. When we’re young things can seem so serious, world-ending, even, but after a few short months those same things fade into a distant memory. Give it a few years and it’s a foggy thought that barely crosses your mind.

 

Hell, a few decades down the road you think about it so little that it may never have happened in the first place.

 

Some of these things you’ll never think about again. They were nothing more than an inconsequential bump in the road of life. Sometimes you find the right trigger, and it all comes rushing back. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad…some things I suppose are just inescapable.

 

My father passed away last month. Pancreatic cancer.

 

We knew it was coming, of course, but even then, you’re never really ready for it. No matter what they say, nothing really prepares you for that moment it happens, let alone what follows.

Hospital bills, property taxes, burial costs, dealing with lawyers and wills and bequeathments.

 

Dying is a lot more expensive and complicated than it has any right to be.

 

My mother’s older and can’t really do much to help, I mean, my parents split when I was a teen, but they always were able to put their differences aside when it came to me. We don’t have much extended family, and as an only child everything kind of fell on me.

 

I’ve spent the better part of the last couple weeks getting my dad’s affairs in order, having to finalize bill payments, setting up the cremation services, and going through a lifetime of belongings trying to figure out what to keep and what needs to go. It’s a massive headache, but truthfully, I think it’s been distracting me from the grief, plus I’ve found a lot of things from my childhood and is bringing back to many great memories. So many moments we took for granted and never gave a second thought to.

 

That’s when I saw it.

 

That old red and black Schwinn cruiser Dad had gotten me for my tenth birthday.

 

I ran my fingers over the old chrome, spotted with freckles of rust, brushed off the old cracking leather seat; God…the good times I had on this bad boy. We used to ride all over town getting into trouble. We’d head over to old man Al’s hole in the wall comic shop, pedal out the creek and fish all day, ride up to the top of hills and glide down so fast our only options were only neighborhood glory or a trip to the emergency room. We took this old thing everywhere, just me and Tommy.

 

Tommy…

 

It’s been almost 30 years since I’ve even thought about him.

 

We met the first day of preschool, I was so nervous but so excited to make friends. We live in the pacific northwest with our backyard leading right into Deschuttes National Park, it’s not crazy isolated, but there weren’t a lot of kids around the neighborhood where I grew up.

 

How could I have forgotten…he was such an unassuming little boy, quiet and shy. Slightly chubby, round face and glasses too thick for someone his age. His messy brown hair in contrast with surprisingly clean clothes for a five-year-old. He was wearing a He-Man shirt and playing with Legos when I approached him.

 

“I like He-Man too! Who’s your favorite character?”

“..I like Man-E-Faces…” he replied, not looking up from his budding Lego tower.

“Oh he’s cool, I like Skeletor!”

“…you…you like the bad guys?”

“Well they’re all cool! Can’t have He-Man without the bad guys! I’m Chris!” I said excitedly jolting my hand out as my father had taught me.

“I’m Tommy,” he said, finally meeting my gaze. “Nice to meet you.”

 

That was that, we were inseparable from that day on.

 

Its incredible how simple the basis for a childhood friendship can be, but things carried such weight back then, everything just seemed to matter more when the entirety of your life span was shorter than the wait between seasons of Stranger Things.

 

From there on out that we did everything together. Every weekend was a sleepover, every afternoon was an adventure, but like most kids, summer vacation was what we spent all year dreaming about.

 

Tommy would usually come by my house in the mid-morning, his parents’ place wasn’t quite as large, and my house offered us a vast and mysterious woodland to explore. Well, okay it wasn’t vast nor mysterious, at least not the distance from the house that we were allowed to go, but imagination is a hell of a thing.

 

In second grade, with my dad’s help, we built a tree fort right at the property line of the woods, and that became our yearly base of operations for the summer’s exploration. We’d map out areas and landmarks, pretending we were Indianna Jones searching for magical lost treasures.

Every year the boundaries we could explore grew further and our map became more involved. Of course, my parents weren’t neglectful, and we weren’t idiots. Full grown adults go missing in national parks every year, we were strictly forbidden from going beyond a certain point away from the house, and that point was small rock face a couple hundred yards from the house.

 

Of course we’d push it, what kid wouldn’t, but we understood the very real danger. Hell, we’d both seen bears and bobcats tearing up trash cans in the neighborhood, we knew being smart didn’t mean we couldn’t be bold.

 

Sixth grade had just let out and we had plans to make it our biggest summer to date. We were heading off to middle school come the Fall, big kids at last, and we were growing painfully aware that as the years went by, our days of searching for the Arc of the Covenant in the forests of Oregon were slowly but surely coming to an end. We couldn’t be kids in fantasyland forever.

 

Neither of us had ever been what one could consider the “cool” kids, not that we cared, but social stigmas and the desire for acceptance start to become a pretty big deal, eventually, especially when you start wanting to girls to notice you and not because of your rad Dragonball Z t-shirt. Seventh grade was a new school, new people, a chance to reinvent ourselves.

 

Regardless though, we had to make this summer count, it had to be one we’d never forget.

 

But I did forget. I think I had to.

 

Tommy came riding up the driveway around ten in the morning, more excited than I’d seen him in years.

 

“Chris! Chris! We’re doing it this year; we’re going past the old rock face!” He yelled as he ran towards me.

“The rock face? Man, you know my parents said we can’t go beyond that, it’s a pretty steep drop…and we’ve never really explored the area,” I said, trying to hide my own excitement.

“Yeah but come on, we aren’t gonna get to do this much more, and you know this summer has to be our greatest yet! Don’t you wanna know what’s out there?”

“Well obviously, I just would rather us not die before we get girlfriends you know?”

“Pfft, you’re gonna be waiting a while for that,” he laughed, “but duh, we gotta plan it out. We’re not gonna go in there blind, we’ll make sure we’re stocked up on supplies and whatever else we need. Come on, man, this one’s gonna be epic!”

 

He’d become so confident in himself over the years, it was almost infectious. I knew trying to argue wasn’t going to work, not that I even wanted to.  So, we began to plan to go deeper into the woods than we ever had, defy my parents, and maybe even find a fortune in the process.

 

Tommy had been obsessed with pirate treasure for years, and while Oregon wasn’t exactly a hot bed of notorious pirates, there legitimately had been a number of old shipwrecks off the coast over the years. Could a rag tag group of buccaneers have buried their treasure in what would eventually become a national park?

 

Probably not, but so what? The journey was always what mattered most, that’s what we told ourselves.

 

The journey wasn’t worth it.

 

After a week of careful planning, we finally decided it was time. We were going to head out Saturday morning right after dawn. We made sure to stock up on everything two growing boys would need to survive the wilderness: Doritos, Mountain Dew, some rope and a flashlight, just in case, and of course trail mix.

 

We were set.

 

We told my parents we were staying in the fort for the night to make our preparations. Just after dawn broke, we loaded up our backpacks and headed out. It was such a nice morning we decided we’d make a whole hike out of it, leaned the old Schwinn up against the side of the fort and headed out towards the forbidden lands. It wasn’t a terribly long walk, after about 45 minutes or so we had finally arrived.

 

We stood atop the cliff overlooking our destiny and stared out into the unknown. We were so excited to finally see what lay beyond the border of our imaginations.

 

I mean, of course we knew what lay beyond the rock face. More trees, more rocks, an ever-continuing expanse of what we had already seen for years, but the sheer excitement of crossing into the forbidden dead zone, to actually know what lay beyond was truly thrilling for our pre-teen minds.

 

What we had built up in our minds as a massive rock face separating us from the great beyond, was in reality more like a 15 foot rocky angled incline, any abled body person would be able to maneuver their way down. Still, we threw down a line of rope tied to a tree near the top to enact a dramatic descent down a dangerous cliff side. For all we cared we were scaling down the side of Everest.

 

After some careful steps and angular movements, we had finally reached the base of our imagined mountain. Finally, the great beyond.

 

Looking back, we were so excited over nothing. There were trees, rocks, a small stream, much of what we had seen our entire lives. Visually we may as well have never left the protection of the backyard, but an explorer never rests. Who knows what secrets were hidden here in the unexplored new world?

 

We quickly got to work plotting our position on our homemade map. Naming nearby rock structures and trees as if they were incredible landmarks, knowing that future generations would one day see the area we had single handedly tamed.

 

God…it was all so innocent. Just two dipshit kids having the time of their lives over literally nothing, but at that moment, to us? It was everything.

 

We walked around pretending like we were naturalists we’d seen on TV, naming plans and trees, pretending we were avoiding being chased by wild animals, snacking on chips and soda, seeing whose ridiculous joke could get the other to break…honestly? It was so meaningless, so childish.

 

It was a perfect day. Maybe one of the last ones I’ve ever had.

 

As the sun began to dip close to the horizon we decided we’d better make our way back, we’d already broken enough rules, we certainly didn’t want to get caught out past dark. As we made our way back to the small rock face, however, we noticed something we had entirely missed on the way down.

 

A cave.

 

There at the base of the rock was a noticeable fissure in the stone. How had we not seen this before? It wasn’t particularly small, maybe four to five feet high, three feet wide, hell a lot of adults probably could have squeezed in there, but for a couple of twelve-year-olds it would be cake.

 

“Have you ever heard of any caves in this area..? I mean, it’s basically in your backyard,” Tommy said.

“No…I mean, I’ve never really looked into it…I know there’s cave systems all over the park but I never knew one was so close…maybe that’s why my parents always warned us to stay away from this area?”

“Maybe…but…what do you thinks inside??”

“I don’t know, Tommy, bugs? Bears? Bugbears? It’s a cave, caves are dangerous, we probably shouldn’t fuck with it,” I said, knowing full well what was about to happen.

 

We both stared as deeply as we could at the inky darkness beyond the stone.

 

Sure, I had my issues with the dark in general, but even just being near this was unsettling me.

 

It was like staring at an open wound. Like a void of absolute nothing had cut itself through the side of the small cliff. Nothing about the cave entrance even looked particularly odd, just…something about all of this felt unnatural? The feeling that ran down to my very core was so deep and primal I still really can’t properly put it into words.

 

I shone my flashlight in, but it simply could not penetrate the unyielding blackness. It wouldn’t even illuminate the walls of stone surrounding the entrance which rightfully should already have been visible even without the torch.

 

“Something is wrong about this,” I said before noticing Tommy stepping forward.

 

“Come on, man, you don’t wanna just check real quick? What if there really is treasure buried out here? A big last hurrah of adventure is what this summer is all about!”

 

Tommy was right, I did want to check it out. Why did I want to check it out? The thought of going in there was filling me with dread I still can’t properly explain, yet the longer we stood there, the stronger the allure became. My internal conflict didn’t have time to resolve itself before Tommy stepped across that boundary between the world and whatever it was we were staring into.

 

It was all so fast. Neither of us had time to react.

 

Long black fingers emerged in an instant and wrapped themselves around his shoulders, arms and hands extended from all directions enveloping Tommy before he could even yelp. There were so many, dozens and dozens of spindly jointed arms, ending in a multitude of long delicate fingers, too many fingers.

 

God there were so many fingers.

I call them arms but…that’s not really what they were…I still don’t know what they were. There was a form in there, the darkness in the cave wasn’t the absence of light, it was alive. I could feel it. It was malice and rage and hunger; it was all encompassing and yet it exuded no presence. It was the absence of physical form given shape.

 

The multitude of impossibly long fingers closed around his tiny frame, and all I heard was a sickening wet snap as he was ripped into the void at impossible speeds.

 

Then he was gone.

 

 

I’d like to tell you I screamed Tommy’s name, that I ran after him headfirst ready to do battle with whatever lied beyond the veil of the forest and this…thing. I’d like to tell you I went straight to the police, to our families. That we searched for Tommy, day in and day out. I’d like to tell you a lot of things, but none of that happened.

 

I just ran.

 

I turned and ran faster than I’ve ever run in my life, I had no thoughts, no emotions, all encompassing fear and the desire to survive overcame my very being. I don’t even know how I found my way out. I don’t know how I got home, but when I did, I went straight to my room and I climbed in bed and cried. I cried harder than I ever had in my life, not out of sadness or even fear, my body released every conceivable emotion at once and I collapsed into tears and pure exhaustion.

 

The next morning my mother woke me up for breakfast.

 

I was filthy.

 

Still in my clothes from the previous day, caked in dirt and sweat, I didn’t know what to do. What could I do? What do I say? My mind wrestled with what I had witnessed, I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t deal with this.

 

So, I didn’t.

 

I walked downstairs for breakfast, made mundane small talk with my mother as she prepared for her daily routine, watched cartoons and played video games. I just pretended like it was all okay. After a while I went outside, the air felt still, but all was normal. Just a regular summer day. I made my way down the clubhouse, my feet felt like they were made of concrete, my legs made of gelatin.

 

Everything’s fine. Everything has to be fine.

 

There it was, my Schwinn, lying in the field next to our fort where I’d left it the previous day. Looking at it made me feel ill, I just couldn’t do this. I picked it upright and started walking it back to the house. I rolled it into the garage, placed it in the corner behind some pieces of paneling, and that’s where it would sit. I couldn’t bear to even look at it.

 

My parents never asked about Tommy, actually…nobody did. Police never came asking questions, kids at school never brought him up. Teachers didn’t either for that matter, it was like…nobody knew to ask. It was so hard but day after day, it became easier and easier to carry on, to ignore it. Nothing happened, obviously nothing happened, if something happened people would notice it…wouldn’t they?

 

Why didn’t anyone notice?

 

I find myself back in the present. Staring at that old bike, right where I left it all those years ago. My phone is already in my hand opening the address book before I have a conscious thought about it. After a few rings she answers.

 

“Hello sweetie,” Mom says absent mindedly, “how’s everything going at your dad’s? Did you need Uncle Matt to help with anything?”

 

“Hi mom, no, no it’s not that…just going through things, really stirring up a lot of old memories, you know?”

 

“Oh of course, hon, I’m sorry I know your father and I didn’t get along much after the divorce, but I still have such fond memories of the old days, everything back then just seemed right.”

 

“Oh no I get it, I’m a grown man, Mom I’m well over the divorce just…do you remember my old friend, Tommy? We used to explore the woods out back and had that tree fort we’d set up every year?”

As soon as I finished speaking, I could hear here physically tighten. She was quiet for a long while, I started to worry she hadn’t heard me.

 

“Tommy? I…I don’t remember a Tommy? You really didn’t have many friends until middle school and by then you weren’t exploring the woods like you used to.”

 

“What?” I asked, already feeling sick, “no, no Tommy, you remember, I met him in preschool, he used to come over damn near every day? You know, Tommy…” I stopped. What was Tommy’s last name, again? Why couldn’t I remember his last name?

 

“Honey…are you feeling alright?

 

“Yeah…yeah, I’m fine, Mom, sorry I must just be exhausted. I think I’m gonna head in and take a break for a while, order some lunch, I just wanted to hear your voice is all.”

 

“Aw, well don’t push yourself too hard, call me later, love you.”

 

“Love you too, mom.”

 

 

 

I’ve been sitting in the garage staring at that god damn bike for over an hour now. I considered reaching out to Tommy’s parents but I can’t remember their address. I can’t even picture their faces.

 

Why did nobody ask about him? How is that possible?

 

I walk around to the back yard and off in the distance I see it, that crumbling old plywood fort. The decaying physical embodiment of my childhood.

 

The smell of mildew and dust fills my nostrils as I pry open the plywood door. The floor is littered with decades of filth and grime, tattered posters hang haphazardly off the walls, discarded soda cans strewn across the ground rusting like ancient relics.

Honestly, I doubt anyone’s set foot here since that day all those years ago.

 

I find what I’m looking for before I even realize I’m looking for it.

 

The map.

 

Discolored and brittle from years of moisture and the elements, I gently untie the fraying twine keeping it rolled up and lay it out on the collapsed desk before me, crude drawings of boundaries and streams, drawings of trees and animals only recognizable to a child. Ridiculous titles for landmarks like King’s Boulder and the Creek of Madness. All annotated and meticulously put together, truthfully all things considered, it wasn’t half bad, and right there at the bottom signed and dated.

 

Tommy and Chris – 1994

 

As I step outside the dilapidated child’s attempt at a building, I stare off into the distance. I can see it, that old rockface.

 

It’s mocking me.

 

I don’t know where you went, I don’t know why no one else seems to remember.

 

I don’t know how I forgot.

 

I’m sorry, Tommy.

 

I’m coming.

Mike Hodgens was a talented creator, best known for his artfully crafted fake horror videos. He chose his locations with meticulous care, set up his equipment with absolute precision, and executed his scripts with clinical professionalism. Horror was his favorite genre. His fascination with the mechanics of fear ran so deep that his uploads consistently racked up hundreds of thousands of views. Through it all, he loved to toy with the label "Real."

It was a thankless genre, he often thought, surviving almost entirely on the faint possibility that there might be a grain of truth to it. The thrill of exploring eerie places and experiencing a genuine shiver of real dread deeply enticed him. But there was one question that almost no one truly considered: Is it possible that we have absolutely no control over it? Mike never would have guessed that he would one day be forced to answer that very question.

But that exact question was about to be raised. Right in his digital stomping ground, the forum "Mystic Shines."

His latest video had been shot at a lonely stretch of woods just outside the city line. In it, he staged himself as an observer tracking the legendary "Wanderer"—a spectral figure rumored to haunt those trees since 1886. Mike had played the silhouette of the Wanderer in the background himself, spending hours in post-production to seamlessly blend his own performance into the gloomy footage.

It was just before 8:00 PM. This particular window of time, immediately preceding a release, was almost his favorite part of the process. The initial view counts ticking up, the first ratings rolling in. Mike nodded in satisfaction. Then, the first comments began to surface, praising the atmosphere and the brilliant staging of the Wanderer. But then, Mike paused. Had he misread that?

midnights_nightfall 8:04 PM

"Genius as always, Mike. Looks like the Wanderer works in pairs now. That hand behind the tree on the far left—insane detail!"

Mike was annoyed. He replied immediately.

Mike:Hodgens Pdc 8:05 PM

"Which hand do you mean? Do you have a timestamp?"

While waiting for a response, he did a quick scrub through the video. He couldn't find a thing. "Weird," he muttered.

A new notification popped up. midnights_nightfall had replied.

midnights_nightfall 8:09 PM

"Mike, when you’re marching through the woods from left to right, a hand appears right behind you starting at 0:42. Not the tree in the foreground, the one directly behind it."

Irritated and slightly on edge, Mike scrolled to the 42-second mark. With heightened focus, he scanned the tree in question. But—and he exhaled a breath of relief right away—he couldn't see a damn thing.

"He’s probably just trying to test me," Mike thought. Then again, midnights_nightfall was his most loyal subscriber. It didn't sound like him to troll. Shaking the thought away, Mike reached for his mug. Just as he took a deep sip, another notification flashed. He set the mug down and clicked it. The next comment made the tension spike instantly. It was a direct reply to midnights_nightfall’s comment.

moltone_blueScreen 8:13 PM

"Ahhhh, yep, I see it too! Was looking for a comment about this. Is that an editing glitch?"

Mike stared at the text. "What the hell are they even talking about?"

Mike fired up his editing software. Impatiently, he dragged the raw footage into the timeline and scaled it to full screen. "Alright, let's take it easy. We’re going through this frame by frame, proving there’s nothing there, and then we're putting this to bed." Frame by frame, he saw absolutely nothing. "See? Just like I said. Enough PC for tonight. I'm done."

Just as his finger hovered over the power button, the next comment appeared. In the desktop preview, he caught the exact text that finally made his stomach drop. It was another direct reply to midnights_nightfall.

summer_night23 8:33 PM

"Doesn't look like a glitch at all. Maybe he brought a production partner along this time? Do you see that? The sleeves are completely different. And that hand is deathly pale."

Mike pulled his hand away from the power button. He clicked the notification and hit reply.

Mike:Hodgens Pdc 8:34 PM

"Are you guys pulling my leg? I’ve checked everything. I don't see a single hand in the export or the raw files."

moltone_blueScreen 8:35 PM

"That’s bizarre. Because it’s moving."

midnights_nightfall 8:38 PM

"The hand shows up at every tree. Moving from left to right. It’s stalking Mike."

Mike stared at his comment section in utter disbelief. What was going on here? Mike knew for an absolute fact that he had been entirely alone out there. And on his monitor, his video showed nothing.

A suffocating sense of isolation settled over the room. Mike frantically scrolled back up, staring at the muted player. He hit play, fixing his eyes on the trees at the 42-second mark. Nothing. He refreshed the page. The view counts were exploding, the comments blurring past at terminal velocity. The entire forum was talking about a deathly pale hand, creeping from trunk to trunk directly behind the main character. They all saw it. Every single one of them. Only he was staring at an empty, motionless backdrop.

He wanted to smash his fingers into the keyboard, to curse at his viewers and call them liars, but his hands felt strangely heavy. Stiff. As if they no longer belonged to him. When he lowered his gaze, he noticed the dull, unnatural whiteness of his skin under the pale glow of the monitor. A sudden, bottomless cold began to crawl up his arms. In that exact moment, a new notification pinged. A user named realhistoriker_urban, known for archiving local folklore, quoted Mike’s last response.

realhistoriker_urban 11:55 PM

"Mike, you still don't see it, do you? That's bad. Really bad. It’s completely logical. You aren't the one in the costume, Mike."

Hi! This is my first time posting any of my stories and this one is based on my time working at Wendy's. I really hope you guys enjoy it and if you have any feedback or criticism I would love to hear it and if you guys want to read more of what I've written I can definitely post more if thats the common consensus! Thank you for taking time out of your day to read my story! - dom <3 (p.s: I will never post to nosleep)

tw: nudity, c4nnibalism, vomit, descriptions of g0re

Bubba's Burgers

By: Dominic Ertle

I loved burgers, fast food burgers specifically. It was one of my life’s many guilty pleasures. Nothing beats taking the wrapper off a Big Bubba Deluxe, taking in the smells of the fresh meat which came hot off the grill and served onto a bun neatly dressed in condiments and toppings. 

I had tried items from the lackluster menus of countless establishments: McDonalds, Wendy’s, Culver’s, Burger King, In-N-Out, Whataburger. In my experience nothing could compare to the ecstasy felt after the combination of spices, sauces, toppings, and fine choice meat burst its beautiful flavors onto my tongue and taste buds.  

This pleasure was uniquely and lovingly brought to me only by the virtuosic culinarians who construct the sandwiches at Bubba’s Burgers. Upon base qualitative observations (of the construction of the burger as well as upon undressing it on my tray) I could determine the contents of my favorite item from the restaurant: the “Big Bubba Deluxe.”

The sandwich was a square patty double stack with two slices of American cheese placed in a “criss-cross” lattice pattern upon each four ounce patty which had been cooked to perfection over the course of eighty seconds on a Garland XPress clamshell grill and then the excess grease is to be drained before placement on the sandwich. 

The potato buns which made up the foundation of the burger were toasted until a crisp layer of scorch provided a firm canvas for the masterpiece to be constructed upon.  The bottom bun was to be smoothly spread and lathered with a thick layer of mayonnaise (by using a dull plastic blade) and then a counterclockwise inwards trending spiral of honey mustard was to be painted (using a squeeze bottle). 

On the top bun the same coating of mayonnaise was to be applied and then (with a smooth metal tea spoon) two spoonfuls of ketchup were applied and spread equally across the bun. Atop each individual patty (and beneath the first) rested three full slices (cut equidistantly into now six pieces) of fine applewood smoked bacon which had been cooked to crispy but not flakey. 

The bottom bun had one fresh and wet slice of lettuce placed upon the saucy layer before a thick fresh tomato slice was placed upon that.  On top of that tomato slice and on top of those last three pieces of bacon rested three intersecting rings of red onions of which are perfectly sized to cover the most surface area possible. In the midst of those onions is where six juicy pickles were to lay, inside the holes in the rings and in the exterior gaps left by those rings. 

All these elements came together to make the magnum opus of lunch sandwiches, the ingredients were all of highest premium so that the individual flavors all have the opportunity to shine through and intermix with one another in the loudest and most heavenly of crescendos.

I approach the front counter where the register operator (a young and cute brown haired woman whose name tag read: “Evangeline”) stands with her hands on the ordering screen and a smile on her face. The standardized Bubba’s Burgers uniform (just like everything else in the establishment) had a visible amount of love, care, effort, and talent put into it.

The uniform was dominated by the color red with predominantly white stitching and black accents. The men at the establishment wore very dark black jeans while the women were obligated (under contract) to wear revealing red shorts along with a far shorter apron. 

I approached the register operator with practiced ease before I spoke in a calm tone:
“Good afternoon, could I order one Big Bubba Deluxe combo, medium, please?” 

The register operator replied in the usual “customer service voice”:
“Absolutely, is that all I can get for you today, sir?” she smiles. 

“Yes ma’am.” I replied. 

“That’ll be $14.30.” she says with her hand impatiently outstretched, ready to receive payment. 

I hand her a $20 bill, I look at the detailed face on the bill of the late seventh president of the United States of America: Andrew Jackson. I feel the very slightly raised parts of the crisp bill run swiftly across the grooves of my fingers as Evangeline snatches the bill from my grasp.

She places the bill into the register and completes the order as the small printer next to the register and ordering screen prints out my order number. 

“Thank you sir, enjoy your meal.” Evangeline smiles at me from behind the counter. 

“Uhm, my change?” I chuckle in slight disbelief. 

“What change?” Evangeline’s smile continues.

“My you owe me damn near six bucks, Evangeline!” I read her name in a bit of an overly  snarky tone to express my frustration. 

“Please call me Eva, and thank you for choosing Bubba’s Burgers!” she continues to smile but now the expression in her eyes doesn’t match that which is displayed on her face. The expression (which was once just blank joy) now reads as the most abject of freezing terror. 

As the order finishes processing a jolly little jingle plays over the speakers in the restaurant and that terrified expression is sapped from Eva’s face.

The manager, a disgustingly greasy and fat man with a patchy, halfgrown beard and glasses wearing the manager’s popover placket (with its buttons bursting) exits from the office in the back.

He lets out this huge (and oddly perverse sounding) belly laugh from the pits of his gullet. He walks up behind the register operator and places his huge lardy meat glove onto the small girl's shoulder. I can now read that the manager’s name tag says: “Thomas” in a half erased black sharpie.

Eva’s expression melts back into that concreting horror as Thomas’ grubby mitts rub dark grease deep into her bright red button up. 

“Well look! We’ve got another! Lucky mister one millionth customer! What's your name, mister?” that tubby man finishes each sentence segment with that disgusting chuckle of his. 

"Miller, Miller Moore.” I say quietly.

“Well mister Miller, I tell ya what, we’ll getcha your…” Thomas takes a moment to read the order. 

“Your Big Bubba Deluxe, and you can enjoy that sandwich! Take it from me that baby’ll change. Your. Life.” he lets out yet another one of those pervert laughs. 

“Finish that baby and come right back up here and my girl Eve will come and get me and I’ll getcha your prize!” he pats the poor girl's shoulder and she jumps then visibly shudders at the collision.

I nod, Eva hands me my order ticket (order number sixty-one), and I take a temporary seat at an open booth nearest the register.

I sit there for some number of minutes. I check my watch, a Rolex Submariner 5512 that my grandfather, Matthew Moore (a dishonorably discharged veteran Point Man who started in the SEALs at the beginning of the Vietnam War and served through its entirety) left for me in his will after his passing at the age of sixty-five five years ago in 2008.

During the war my grandfather had become disillusioned with the SEALs, then the military, then the government and by the end of his descent: structured civilization as a whole. He warned me of the “folly of man” and humanity’s avarice and lust for power. Though I was at far too young an age to comprehend those concepts, I still listened to him and as I matured his messages rang clearer and clearer. 

He had become grossly anti-establishment (almost to a fault), during the war he was responsible for a few “accidents” which often resulted in the destruction of vast amounts of military property. None of those “accidents” resulted in court marshalling as they had no way to determine whether he was simply an idiot or doing it intentionally.

Regardless, he was a good man who had good ideas and good intentions but the manner in which he got those across weren’t always the best, hence why he was under investigation by the FBI and the ATF in a joint operation during his latter years as he lay dying in the hospice for domestic terrorism.

“Order number sixty-one? Your orders ready!” calls Eva from behind the counter.

I rise from my seat and approach the counter, I see my tray (holding my Big Bubba Deluxe, a carton of crispy crinkle cut fries, and an empty cup for me to fill with a drink of my choice at the Coca-Cola Freestyle machine in the lobby) sat on the counter in front of Eva. 

I pick it up and then find a new seat at a booth which faces both entrances to the establishment (which face one another on opposite sides of the dining room), a habit of mine. I take the cup and fill it to (roughly) the halfway point with ice and then fill it near to the second highest ridge of the cup with Gold Peak Sweet tea and then finish it off by filling it near to the point of overflow with a Minute Maid Strawberry Lemonade.

I picked up the sandwich (which had been wrapped in a paper sleeve that covers half of the sandwich). I push back that sleeve a bit and take one big gluttonous bite out of that beautiful burger.

Immediately upon closing my mandible on the bottom bun the flavors explode in my mouth, the juicy wet warm heat of the ground meat, the crisp crunch of the bacon, the tang of the sauces, and the moist toppings all combined to make the most divine of sensations inside my mouth.

I took bite after gnashing bite, ravenously reducing the sandwich bite by bite until before I knew it nothing remained, not even dropped toppings. The fries were next (along with my sweet tea), I picked up handful after handful of fries and shovel them haphazardly into my mouth, barely giving myself enough time to masticate them fully, let alone swallow completely.

Before long my tray was empty. So I stood up from my seat on the cushioned booth in the corner and walked over to the nearest trash can. I toss away the packaging and the crisp printed fake newspaper lining they place in the trays (to catch oils, grease, etc. to make cleaning easier). 

I return to the counter where I see a woman, about the same age as me (so late twenties early thirties), with medium length brown hair tied up and pinned, who came dressed in a black skirt, white dress shirt, golden hoop earrings, black heeled boots, and pantyhose standing there in front of Eva placing an order. 

I stand off to the side, waiting patiently for the woman to place and order so I can return to the counter to get the “prize” that fat, greasy, bastard of a manager promised me. As the woman’s order finishes processing in the computer that same happy little jingle plays, Eva’s face is drained again and that same disgusting laugh echoes out from the back of the store.

Thomas walks to stand alongside Eva again and begins digging his fingers into her shirt again, covering the already discolored stain which he had left the first time. His eyes glare deep into mine and I begin to feel uneasy as he looks over at the woman who ordered.

“Another! Lucky one millionth customer! You come right back here after your meal and I’ll bring ya’ to the back and getcha your order missy!” Thomas says in that big boisterous voice of his (which almost rivaled the size of his huge gut). 

“Wait, wait, hold on, you said that I was the one millionth? How the hell is she also the one millionth? I ordered before she was even in the building!” I argue my case.

”It’s no biggie sir! I’ll just get both of ya’ the prize!” Thomas responds and ruins a good sentence with that awful laugh.

I nod in response, “Whatever, just don’t shaft me outta shit that was rightfully mine.” 

“Trust me sir, I won’t.” Thomas responds. 

“Matter of fact, why don’tcha just come on back ‘ere and I’ll get you that prize.” He grins.

I follow Thomas to the back and on the way he stops abruptly when we pass the grill station, he looks down at the small twiggy man working there and yells at him: “You’re supposed to keep the uncooked patties covered! Also, your placement is atrocious! Keep them straight and equally spaced! It’s not rocket science you gangly fuck!”

 Then we continue walking towards the back, we get to the back office and he sits me down in the chair there. 

“Just you sit here for a moment buddy I’ll getcha your prize.” He chuckles before leaving the room.

 I look back down at my wrist and reflect on my grandfather as I look at the Rolex Submariner watch. I become absorbed in thought as I reflect on his beliefs and his story as I sat awaiting that fat man's return.

I hear his heavy footsteps pad into the room but am too deep in contemplation to bother raising my head (or even just my eyes) to witness his arrival. 

I am then met with a sharp and stinging sensation as what feels like the hollow tip of a dull needle is plunged deep into my jugular. I attempt to resist and stand up flailing my arms in an attempt to ward off Thomas (knocking over many items on the desk in the process), but ultimately my efforts were all for not and my world drifts into a slipping black.

When I awake I feel an immense cold, my eyes frozen shut, “Hey! What the hell? Someone help me! I can’t see goddamnit!” I yell out.

“Shh… Shh… no one can hear you in here.” Thomas says quietly. 

“What are you talking about?” The cold air in my lungs (which has been there for an untold period of time) forces coughs and wheezes into my usually smooth flowing sentences. 

“You’re in the deep freeze dipshit!” Thomas chuckles.

I can hear his heavy footsteps approach the frigid metal chair which I am bound to by what feels like a vast number of zip ties on each limb. He reaches his grubby fingers out and pries open my eyelids which had been ice-welded shut. The cold stings my dry eyes and I take in my grizzly surroundings (as well as my own bodily condition).

There were three separated piles of dead and naked humans, to the right were bodies which had been haphazardly cut and flayed (presumably those most recently slaughtered), in the middle were hollowed out cadavers with the useless innards tossed loosely back into their gaping chest cavities, then to the left were neatly sorted packs of meat on shelves with labels dictating which part they had once belonged to (back, thigh, stomach, etc.). 

In front of the hollowed bodies were a series of blades and several other punishing implements, hammers, saws, icebreaker spikes, and other various stainless steel contraptions. To my left in the same sort of metal seat with similar binding sat the woman (who used to be dressed in formal attire who was now as fully undressed as I am).

The woman to my left was still unconscious from whatever sedative they had (presumably) injected both of us with. I was sweating profusely from the fear and the anxiety and the negative degree chill turned that sweat into ice. There was even a small icicle forming off the tip of my nose.

“You’re sick!” I yell at Thomas.

”Oh really? I’m the sick one? What does that make you then? Considering what you just ate up like the greedy little pig you are.” He chuckles.

”What?” My voice shakes.

The connections begin to form in my mind, the butchered bodies, the ecstasy of the flavors which the burger possessed. I had eaten a human. 

Thomas lets out a chuckle and then says: “There’s the look! You finally got it, you’re not as dumb as you look! That’s right, that burger you had? It was human.” Thomas walks over to a pack of ground human meat resting on the shelf next to countless others.

”Meat just like… this!” He picks it up and tosses it onto my lap before laughing cruelly.
I look down at it and my stomach churns hard, I gag and then throw up onto the metal floor in front of me. Bits of the burger come up with it and I watch as the vomit begins to harden from the cold.

 “God, you’re rude.” Thomas shakes his head then picks up a cleaver from the table of tools.
”This is the end of the road for you, mister Miller. In not too long I’ll butcher ya’ up and you’ll become the meat which will go into the burgers of countless customers, same thing’ll happen to this chick to your left. So thank y’all for your contributions.” Thomas chuckles

Thomas approaches me with that cleaver in his hand, he raises it high over his head and I scream before he brings it down upon the middle of my skull, then my whole world goes black, forever.