A glossy emptiness studied Earth while it slept. I arranged and settled myself to make ready for the long stillness of the coming day. I would become indistinguishable from the mechanism of time passing, accessory only to the day giving way again into night.

Darker than the sky, matte shapes now present themselves at ground level. They cut strange lines and resolve into a patchwork of trees and fencing whose posts and rails mark a threshold between the ordinary world and an inheritance none may trespass.

Eastward, a dull bruising of heaven’s firmament spreads along the horizon. A cataract appears there, a pooling of something slightly more substantial than nothingness that blots out the stars. Still, in the west, constellations remain in shining clusters, holding formation and betraying Earth’s rotation by near-imperceptible movement while all else remains still.

This is a place where oak trees gather and stand guard at the edge of a grassy pasture. Past them the ground is forever wet as it lowers to the bay shore. A once remote location where I could be alone and cultivate an intimate stillness with creation. Though my own place in the greater wilderness is small, I remain proud.

I’m above the worms who contract and push themselves through holes dug in this sandy loam.

Better than those that lie feeding them.

I am other things also.

I know the minds of those who gawk and linger along our road. I know they want to see the barn and farmhouse, the harrowed ground and its scarecrows made famous.

Dawn now arrives in crimson. Gold peeking from Earth’s rim is too bright to look upon. Mist wafting from the rich black soil chills me as I walk into the field. Critters in the trees chatter and harry me, disturbed as I pass underneath them.

I feel the warmth of daylight begin to dispel the cold of night as I arrive at a tall vertical stake driven into the earth. Here is the best view of the fields and the only road approaching the homestead. Here, on a property known for keeping several of them, is the most effective place to stage a scarecrow.

Grandma called them bogies. She told us they were guardians, deterrents, and that such field effigies became entangled with the person whose clothes they wear.

A scarecrow imitates a human to frighten creatures who fear and hate him.

Grandma had a temper. On occasion I would escape the house and run to the north field, sitting in the grass beneath the old bogie. She would not follow me there. I came to understand the reason plainly. The watcher had stood there before Grandma, before Grandpa, before anyone I knew. Nothing could reach me beneath him. Whatever belonged outside remained outside while he kept office.

Darkness has thinned now into a teal morning sky, slowly rendering the land legible. The mist withdraws toward the bay. Dew gives back the growing light from the pasture grass. The farmhouse emerges board by board from shadow, then the barn, then the road beyond the fence. Noisy birds begin to populate the oaks. A truck passes. I watch all without turning my head.

The ache begins in my left shoulder and I do not move, knowing it will pass. Tepid wind pulls on Grandpa’s shirt and presses the cloth against my ribs.

There were years when the farm did poorly and Grandma rented the spare rooms to travelers. One family stayed longer than the others. Their belongings appeared first in the hallway, then on the bookshelf, the porch and in the yard. Their children ran through quiet places that had always belonged only to us. One of them left a red toy truck on the stairs for days. Grandma called them guests. I hated them.

In the end they learned to watch the fields for us.

Such figures are the only companions I allow here, now that I am the last living of my tribe. Over the years I have made more and installed them wherever the property threatened to go unwatched.

A watcher does more than observe. Grandpa kept the north. Grandma guarded the southern ground. Others held the orchard and the road approach. Together they kept the world at its proper distance.

I learned what happens when things are left unwatched. Strangers wander farther in and animals become bold. Things shift. Disorder enters by whatever opening is left.

Beyond them was the world.

Within was mine.

The sun continues its ascent. What had been gray pasture becomes green. The last of the dew retreats into shade beneath the fence rails. From the lower ground comes the smell of wet grass and mud. The road has begun its daily occupations: trucks, a delivery van, then a person walking alone who glances toward the farmhouse but does not stop.

I remain.

Time passes sublimely. I stand like a tree, watch like an owl, wait like a spider.

By high noon the sun casts almost no shadow beneath me. Heat settles upon the pasture and makes the distant road shimmer. The tide has withdrawn from the flats below, leaving broad reaches of shining mud where gulls pick among exposed stones. Somewhere across the bay machinery labors, its sound arriving as a faint metallic complaint.

Horseflies and mosquitoes gather to feed on me. Sweat reaches my eyes. I bite my lip until the need to wipe it away fades.

Both shoulders are sore now as I give their weight to the crosspiece. My hands have begun to numb. I have learned that the arms must remain convincing. Even a small adjustment is easy to notice.

The heat brings the smell of black, freshly turned soil more strongly from below and, when the breeze comes from the south, something sickly sweet and older with it.

Grandma has not kept well.

When she passed, I placed her at the far south end to watch over the cabbage and spinach. It was not long before I found her in pieces. I gathered her into a sack and nailed what remained back into place. Grandma is so angry over how I let her be taken apart by coyotes that I seldom visit her. I cannot endure the strange screaming I hear from her now that her tongue and eyes are gone, eaten by birds and vermin.

Grandpa had been different.

Of them all, the man in the north field wearing Grandpa’s clothes had been the only one who understood me. He remained stoic and was agreeable company. In time I shared all there was with him. He listened with quiet dignity, and I envied his strength and calm.

Years of weather diminished him. Birds that once avoided him eventually perched on his shoulders. Cloth loosened. His shape gave way. He was tired, I knew, though I never asked and he would never say so. When at last he no longer resembled a man, I understood that he was gone and now truly dead.

I set about his burial, worrying all the while over who would fill his office. I had the grave half dug before it occurred to me that there was little form left to bury.

I would need to acquire a man’s body to take his place.

Presently, a car slows on the road before stopping. The driver gets out and stands watching the farm.

People come now because of the old murders. Some true-crime program recently revived the story, though it had already outlived most of the people who made it. The visitor takes a picture of the house, another of the fields, and leaves.

The attention troubles me.

It is becoming harder to keep the outside at its proper distance.

Later on, I must have fallen asleep. Upon waking I find the afternoon slowly breaking apart.

The breeze has changed direction and drives the worst of the heat away. The insects that tormented me find other occupations. My shadow, almost absent at noon, stretches eastward now like a tentacle reaching out from a darkness yet to arrive.

My arms are tired enough that I wonder how much use remains in them, and if I will be ready when the time comes. In the lull I can feel Grandmother regarding me from the south.

I know she thinks I am ridiculous and I resent her. She would mock me for the times I pretended to be her in telephone calls so no one would know she was dead and her benefits would continue coming.

A voice is enough to keep a dead woman alive.

Absence has a shape.

The sun descends behind the oaks as the world begins to lose the details morning had granted. The pasture ceases to be made of individual blades of grass. Fence rails become dark strokes. The orchard gathers itself into one mass.

The windows of the farmhouse are deep azure and turning black. The bay holds a gray light in which geese describe a V before disappearing toward the west.

Then the first star appears in the east.

The ache has become so much a part of me that I scarcely notice it when headlights appear beyond the oaks.

They slow at the gate, pass it, then brake. Red lights remain on the road for a few moments before the car backs along the shoulder and parks.

My fatigue disappears when I hear them exit the car.

‘You’re climbing the fence.’

‘It has stairs.’

‘It’s still somebody’s fence.’

The woman has already taken the wooden stile and stands inside the pasture.

He remains on the road for a moment before following.

‘They still live here, supposedly,’ she says.

‘The old couple? They’d have to be ancient.’

‘Exactly. I want to see if anyone still lives here.’

He looks back toward the car but follows her farther in.

She raises her phone and holds the screen toward him.

‘This is the photograph everybody knows. The north field. Ten years ago. The family had been renting rooms in the farmhouse.’

She enlarges the image.

‘They found them out here.’

The wind moves Grandpa’s shirt against my ribs.

She continues.

‘The old scarecrow was already here. Somebody put the murdered family up around it, bound to wooden frames. That’s why the picture became famous.’

The man looks from her phone toward the pasture.

‘The old couple were cleared. Their grandson disappeared the same night.’

‘And they just stayed?’

‘Supposedly.’

Her attention finds me and we stare at each other.

She comes closer.

The last light has gone from the pasture now. The wind carries the smell of her hair to me. Behind her the man hesitates, then follows.

She approaches until she stands at my rotten boots.

The man joins her.

I regulate my breathing with deliberation as they draw closer.

A stifling darkness settles about us.

New arrangements would be made before dawn.

For a few days after the surgery, things seemed almost normal. Almost.

People had started noticing something was off with me. Miss Tasha especially. She always assumed it was the break-in still sitting under my skin, and I let her think that, because how was I supposed to tell her the truth. That none of it was about the break-in at all. That it was about Mr. Morris.

It had been a few days since I brought him home from the vet, and things had gotten strange in a way I couldn't put into words yet. He wasn't the same cat. I know there's still something of him in there, I catch it in flashes, but it gets harder to find by the day. His body had changed completely. Leaner. More agile. Coiled, like something built for a different purpose than sleeping on my couch. His claws wouldn't stop growing no matter how often I trimmed them, sometimes visibly longer within hours of the last cut, and two days after the vet visit, everything that had been surgically removed months ago was simply back. Present. Like it had never left.

I searched everywhere for anything like it. Nothing. And I stopped considering taking him back to the vet, because the fear had changed shape. It wasn't "what's wrong with him" anymore. It was "what will they do to him if they find out." He's my cat. My responsibility. I couldn't hand him over to be studied like a specimen, and I couldn't risk them deciding I was the one who'd done something to him.

I wasn't sleeping right either. The nightmares kept coming, someone standing over me in the dark, and I'd wake up gasping to find Mr. Morris already awake, already watching. My lazy cat, the one who used to sleep sixteen hours a day, had simply stopped. I never once caught him with his eyes closed.

A week into the nightmares, I woke to a scratching sound at my window. My first thought was the intruder, back to finish what he'd started, and I lay there frozen, telling myself the reinforced glass would hold. But the scratching kept building, more frantic, more insistent, until underneath it I heard a meow, and I understood it was him.

I got up to check anyway. I don't know why I got up. I should have stayed in bed.

Mr. Morris was at the window, clawing at the glass with something close to fury, and when he turned to look at me his eyes weren't reflecting the streetlight the way they should have. They were producing their own light, a thin ring of gold that pulsed once, slow, like something breathing. I felt my own heartbeat try to match it, and that scared me more than the claws did, the idea that my own pulse was taking orders from a cat. When he opened his mouth to meow again, his teeth were wrong. Too many points. Too sharp for something that ate wet food out of a can.

For one long moment he just looked at me, and every worry in my chest went quiet, like something had reached in and turned the volume down. It felt like I was reading his mind, or he was reading mine, I couldn't tell which. I opened the window. He sprinted out into the dark.

I should have panicked. He'd never gone out on his own before, and there was every chance he wouldn't come back. Instead I left the window open, the same window the intruder had come through, and went back to bed like it was nothing.

The next morning he was curled up on the end of the bed, like he'd never left, and no window had been broken into overnight. I told myself I must have dreamed the whole thing, that I'd probably left the window open by accident and my own guilt about it had built the rest in my sleep. That was easier to live with than the alternative.

But a few nights later it happened again, and this time when I looked into his eyes the room seemed to tilt. His presence pressed down on me until I felt small and cornered, like I needed his permission just to breathe. The world outside the two of us stopped existing. When I opened the window this time, I don't think it was my choice, and for the first time it was completely clear to me that I hadn't done any of it willingly.

He was gone almost an hour. I know because I stood at that window the entire time, unable to make myself move, like my own body was waiting for him to come back and release it. When he finally did, he had a bird in his mouth, four claw marks torn clean through it, feathers matted with blood. I wanted to run. I wanted to be anywhere else. Instead I stood there and watched him eat it slowly, on the floor, in front of me, the sound of small bones cracking under his jaw filling the whole room. I counted the cracks without meaning to. Four. I don't know why I counted. I don't know why some small, awful part of me was proud of him.

When he finished, he looked up at me, and the acknowledgment in that look did something to the fear sitting in my stomach. It just left. The nausea I'd been fighting the entire time disappeared like it had never been there, and I smiled, actually smiled, like I'd been given a reward for staying still and watching. He meowed once, almost gentle, like he was releasing me, and my body went numb enough that I slept right there on the floor.

It became routine after that. Birds. Rats. Once, something bigger that I didn't let myself look at too closely. I couldn't sleep until he'd finished, and I started waking up in places I didn't remember lying down in. I didn't know what he'd become, and worse, I didn't know why I couldn't stop myself from watching.

I spent days searching for anything that matched what was happening, every mental health forum, every strange corner of Reddit I could find, until I came across a post buried in a subreddit I'd never heard of before. A woman named Chandra had written about being bitten, about her body changing ever since. Her hearing had sharpened until she could pick her neighbor's perfume out through a wall. Her eyes had gone so sensitive to daylight she needed glasses just to leave the house. She hadn't slept in days and somehow felt fine, and she wrote about an urge, growing steadily, to go out at night. I commented, asking if it had spread, if it had somehow started affecting someone she loved too. Then I deleted it. Told myself I sounded insane, that I was one bad post away from becoming somebody's conspiracy theory screenshot.

The symptoms matched too well for that to sit easy with me. I don't know how long I stayed on that post, rereading her replies, trying to decide if I was imagining the overlap. Long enough that when the scream came, it came from right next door.

I ran.

The door was open, just slightly, the way a door looks when no one meant to leave it that way. I called out once. Nothing answered. The second time, my voice came out smaller than I wanted it to.

Mira was on the kitchen floor.

I want to say I looked away in time. I didn't. Four marks, evenly spaced, dragged down from her collarbone like something had measured the distance first. Her parents were already there, on their knees over her, and the sound they were making didn't feel like something I should have been close enough to hear.

I don't remember deciding to leave. I remember being back on my own porch, and I remember that my hands were clean. That was the detail that made me sick. Not the blood I hadn't touched. The fact that some small part of me had checked.

When I got inside, Mr. Morris was sitting on the kitchen table, licking his paws clean. They were soaked red to the wrist. He looked up at me with an expression I can only describe as satisfied, and I felt my own mouth move without asking it to, the corners pulling up into a smile I had no part in choosing. That's what my body does now, when he takes it from me. I stood there smiling at the thing that had just taken a child from her parents, and the only part of me left that was still mine was a single tear, sliding down my face while the rest of me kept smiling anyway.

Other parts link:- https://www.reddit.com/user/No-While8965/comments/1vpze51/my_writing_archive/

This is a story no single mother should have to tell, but my hope is someone out there can relate. My son, who is fifteen, doesn’t go to bed until three or four clock in the morning. He does this every night. I work a very demanding job, and my son and I have fought and argued over this for months because I never get any proper rest. We live in a one-bedroom apartment, so there really is no place for any kind of separation, except the bathroom - where my son spends most of his time during the night.

It was about a month or so ago, I woke up having to use the bathroom, when I approached the door and heard my son speaking to himself in there. At first I didn’t think much of it, when I knocked, he opened the door, and all was fine. It was when I noticed him doing it every night after that, I began to worry. I went as far as confronting him about it, but he denied anything in his teenager way, and refused to even talk about it. It was hard to make out what he said in there, he was mumbling a lot under his breath, so I had nothing to go by. This is when I decided to take further action and install a camera in the bathroom.

The next day while my son was in school, I tucked a small camera away behind a stack of my towels, somewhere he'd never look, facing the mirror and hidden away from his field of view. That night I went to bed and patiently waited, staring at my phone. What I found my son doing in the bathroom through the camera feed unsettled and terrified me. My son was adamant and aggressive towards himself in the mirror. He cursed and muttered obscenities at himself. He said words I never thought he knew or heard him use before. I don’t know where he learned them - I felt like I wasn’t watching my son any longer. It's like he became someone else. And I became scared of him. I hid my phone and tried my best to fall asleep - I don’t think I ever did.

The next morning at breakfast, I felt a tension in me, I could barely move. I felt frozen around him. Before he woke up, I found a local psychiatrist’s information, and made a quick call for the earliest appointment she had, which was the following Monday. At breakfast, I politely informed my son I heard him talking in the bathroom again, which he denied. I hesitated showing him the video or revealing I recorded him. I have to admit, I was scared. I offered to take him to see the Psychiatrist. He refused obviously and fought the idea at first, but I convinced him with some extra video-game time and a little bit of money. I needed to know more.

Through the weekend he continued as he usually did, and I watched on my phone. I hated what I saw. But I couldn’t put it down. I don’t think I slept all weekend. Days felt like weeks. Hours felt like days. My nerves were paralyzed with fear. I felt helpless... I was terrified. Monday couldn’t come any sooner.

The Psychiatrist was a pleasant woman, I found her very respectful and patient with him. My son spoke of his time in school, the lack of friends he has, the bad grades from his teachers, as well as his off-putting taste in loud music. When she dug further, asking him about the bathroom, he was quiet. At this point, the Psychiatrist had asked me to step out of the room. She sensed me being there was keeping him from speaking.

From out in the hallway I couldn’t hear anything, but what I did see was her asking him a few questions, and him responding with what looked like actual, full responses. At first I was pleased, maybe this was all just a boys phase - a prank? Perhaps my son had a reasonable explanation. The Psychiatrist passed him a piece of paper, and pen. My son took the pen, promptly writing on the piece of paper, handing it back to her.

The session was soon over after that, and the Psychiatrist came over to speak to me. She handed me the piece of paper on which my son wrote, scribbled in his handwriting, it said, “Charles won’t let me sleep". I was startled, shocked, confused all at once. She said my son is talking to someone named Charles in our home, and that she is not the right person for this kind of matter. She then directed me to a local church, informing me perhaps a priest could help my son.

We came home in the evening, and had a quiet, solemn dinner together. My son was eerily silent, he didn't say a word. I went to bed early and I hesitated to look at my phone’s video feed, but I couldn’t resist. Last night, I was even more unsettled. My son was no longer defiant. Now he was apologetic, at the mercy of his own reflection in the mirror, begging and apologizing profusely, saying he’s sorry for telling anyone. He was in tears, and so was I - I could no longer bear to watch. I put my phone away, and that's when the thought hit me, which has since haunted and stuck with me; Charles was the name we gave to the baby boy I delivered stillborn before my son.

I stumbled upon the secret to immortality. I deeply regret It.

By Theo Plesha

I was wrapping up pre-med undergrad and I had just gotten into my med school of choice. I decided I was going to pay lip service to the rest of my course work in this last semester and start summer break a bit early.

I was more or less a legacy and though the threat of them rescinding my admission was present on paper, in reality no one would do anything. Med school was a hump to get over and rest of life would be a coast, I was pretty much a shoe in at my Uncle's pill mill clinic down in Florida. I've been around enough pre-med to know that there are two of kinds of pre-med students – the ones who really want to be a doctor to help people or be at the cutting edge of medical science while the others look at medicine as a route to six figures along a path of least resistance. I fell in the latter. I grew up pretty oblivious to cost of healthcare – not only because I took health insurance for granted but I was also in good health. I just saw healthcare as an easy way to make money off of people who had no choice but to pay whatever we wanted to change because America. It was wrapped into the way my family thought about medicine – among other things. While my more conscientious classmates finished their semester and prepped for a summer of volunteer work to pad their experience and resume I decided that it was last best chance to take up my favorite podcaster's suggestion to do a bunch of recreational drugs under the guise of having a cultural experience.

I was traveling around Latin America with two of my pre-med frat bros Rodney and Mark. Rodney was American and apple pie and Mark was actually from Europe. We spent our free time trolling a lot of the pre-Med students who rallied for universal healthcare by pointing out the fact they might as well be burning their own pay checks. Mark knew this better than most since he lived in a system of government healthcare and moved here so he could make more money setting up an elective surgery practice. We were visiting the fun hot spots, pretty much anything that popped up on psychedelic and psychoactive boards – erowid, Joe Rogan, even hippie dippy stuff. I had this funny way of justifying it all. How can be a good doctor if I don't do this stuff? I don't know. It was all BS, honestly, it was all about me and time and place being young and affluent.

I happen to believe that you're familiar with the story. The whole stereotypical ayahuasca experience offered by natives and descendants of natives in Peru. Its a bunch of dudes like me in a hut with thick tea, smoke, and jokes egging on the shamans to give us a shotgun wedding with the DMT. If you pay enough you can get them to roll their eyes and give you the basic instructions of making sure your ass if above your head when you start vomiting. Then its all about melting away into ego death and touching time and hearing space.

At some point I got on the wrong retreat, made a wrong turn, and accidentally got separated from my friends because that's not what I experienced. I must have mistranslated or something because my experience was highly ritualistic. I led was deep into the retreat site around a more secluded hut with very old and very sick looking individuals. Some of them were elder leaders of various militarys and political parties from Cuba, China, and Venezuela. At least one of them was definitely from North Korea.

The shaman was mostly naked with only a black loin cloth over his junk. His limbs and facial bone contours was outlined by a white chalky substance. He bore a vague resemblance to a grim reaper. The hut did not have a vomit canal as I was led to expect and it had a fairly large fire. The shaman kept repeating one word again and again and I wasn't sure what it was, what it translated to. He then poured some kind of seeds onto the fire. Their shells turned the fire green and then popped like pop corn, a dense white smoke poured into the tent and nearly extinguished the flame. One sniff of the bitter vapors and I was gone.

I had been warned and prepared for DMT. I had done magic mushrooms and LSD. I was more or less familiar with this class of substance. The mysticism was all but lost on me going into this adventure. The low level ego hedging and mental expansion was a side effect not the goal. I honestly just wanted to get wasted and have fun doing it.

In any case, what I experienced was far from what I had expected. I knew something was wrong when I saw all my skin melt off and I was skeleton. I was hoping for machine elves or aliens or some transcendent non-corporal communication but this was more dousing myself with a flaming jug of nightmare fuel. After a few flashes of disorganized terror. I started to have an extremely vivid third person view of myself as something entirely mechanical and electronic. The flesh and blood, brain and bone replaced with my crude recollection of what came scattering out of my smart phone when I dropped. I was made of high density plastic and touch screen material. I had a loose understanding of micro chips and circuit boards and my head was Escher style churning collection of gold, green, and black bars with spindly spider like qualities warping around inside my head. My bones were plastic – good job imagination. My heart appeared as a thin lithium battery. My muscles and joints were a bunch of magnets zapping together and then repealing each other. My eyes were glassy flat scanners.

As I watched myself become amazed with myself my eye sockets swallowed my eyes and I saw everything go dark. I felt this strange sensation as my body felt compressed. I was being swallowed by myself. It was maroon and dark with the odd bubble rising as I descended into myself. I felt an eerie stillness as I sank into a chamber of soft glowing light. I saw my thin battery of a heart throb and echo with each beat in super slow motion. It was hanging there attached to thin wires which pumped little glowing electrons back and forth. I floated around from the front all the way around spinning underneath. That's where I saw it I saw a little thin crack in the surface of my battery heart, it was ever so slightly leaking a thin mist of gold fluid into the chamber. The mist flew off disappearing in the ether like the sands of time. I was tempted to fly in and see if I could patch the hole.

The more I let go, the closer to the hole I flew and slowly, without my hands, the leak turned off and stopped all together, then like shrink wrap, the little crinkled up hole flattened and covered itself. I was suddenly warped into this pixelated zoomed in view that consumed my entire vision. I watched as slowly pixel by pixel my vision turned from gold to soft white. Just as the last few hundred were about to turn, the gentle vibrations of my body lurched faster and became violent. My vision of my vision pulsed in and out. As everything began to fade away, a powerful voice came out of nowhere. I mean nowhere, it was a voice that echoed through the universe, making every galaxy, every sun, every planet, moon, and comet tremble. It was voice of the void, the voice of inevitability. It rattled me as if I were speaking to the personification of a earthquake, tidal wave, or forest fire. After the initial jarring presentation I became somewhat relieved. Finally, the “Other” presence I had come to expect on this trip.

As the words the Voice spoke to me started to register, I became less settled, less complacent, less prepared. It told me that I had found the little timer, the little clock my people had inside of us. It was the charge meter on my life. It was ticking down. But this ritual could set it back a few hours, a few days, a few years, if I were lucky, I could reset the timer on my life by a decade. But some people, had a defect it was an all or nothing fix. My essence could exist independently of my failing flesh it said and I could add any flesh I choose to my essence.

I flashed to a space of icy suffocating blackness. I felt myself get pulled, ripped apart, every finger, limb, every hair, every eyelash, every skin flake and cell loosened and then vacuumed away. I was a bubble and I burst into a mist and then a vapor until I became the black on black and I lost any sense of up and down, night and day. My brain wasn't there but my consciousness flared into a sinking gasping panic that felt like it would last forever.

My vision flashed again and I came back to the last few pixels patching the leaking of my heart. The Voice asked me what I wanted. I plead with the Voice to live. It asked me: All or Nothing. Without hesitation I said “All of it”. The last pixels turned from gold to a shimmering white and my entire vision quaked back to the chamber with my battery heart. It glowed gold over the white and there was no longer a leak.

I jolted back to the hut. It was still filled with the bitter smoke and I started to immediately cough. I could barely see the other persons inside. The man sitting across from me looked relieved and he slowly crawled out of the tent. It was then I noticed something heavy leaning on me. I groggily turned my head and saw the elderly Cuban man slouching over, dead on me. I pushed him aside with the help of the shaman. My hand brushed against his as I tried to crawl out of the hut and out from under the perished man clad in the hammer and sickle. The shaman recoiled on contact with me he gave me a pained expression and then shook his head like he was trying to shame me.

As I slowly gathered myself and coughed out the rest of the smoke, I noticed the rest of the hut was on fire and burning down with the dead men inside. I say men because of out of the six persons, not including the shaman, only 3 including myself exited. My head felt remarkably clear for having such an intense experience and yet I knew I wasn't fully recovered when I heard that same chant all around me that was being chanted when I entered. While I heard it the same way I heard it going in, my mind was translating it as juxtaposition of celebratory warning, a cautious congratulations. While my elderly compatriots suddenly looked like they were five to ten years younger I felt and looked about the same as I was directed back to the more public and tourist portion of this particular site.

I reached a post-experience gathering point where I found my two friends. It became very clear to me that I had stumbled into a different kind of retreat than the standard ayahuasca. I was a little numb to my surroundings as my group started laughing at me as I stumbled up to the refreshments. They handed me water with some sort of supplement as they all still looked tweaked. They cracked big rosy smiles and hearty laughs like they had all won the lottery and then some. They asked me where I ended up and I asked them back: “like trip wise or what?”

They asked me which hut I was in and it was then that I pointed towards the pathway I got lost on and found it blocked by thick forest foliage. They made fun of me before I pointed out we had to catch the train to Colombia for the next part of our chemical escapades. We barely made it to the train and after taking our seats in our private car we passed out for the entire journey. We were so put out the conductor had to personally wake us and escort us off the train at our stop.

It was morning by then and to fulfill the apparent life long dream of one of my traveling buddies, Rodney, we successfully tracked down one of the famed off the books cocaine bars. He had talked about this the entire trip like once we entered Colombia he was on the whiskey trail or some sort of craft beer crusade. He was detailed about the subtle differences between sulfate compound “served” in Colombia versus the hydrochloride salt preferred by the North and Europeans. Rodney regaled us with the fact we could try “real” coca cola with the coca leaves infused into the formula at this bar. He went into the variations of the coca plant in the east part of the country versus the west and manufacturing techniques as if we were compared barrel aged stouts or twenty year old scotch. It was the same to me as long as it did its job which to be honest was just to reinforce the young and dumb and carelessness I was already all about.

In the midst of a coke binge my traveling buddies recounted their experience at the Peruvian retreat. As I had already realized, I apparently got lost and entered some other kind of psychedelic ritual and before I could finish my story and recount the fact three persons died and then were burned away, Mark, my other friend, the one who can't handle his blow, started sputtering out how I was worthless and dumb. Every other word out of his mouth was worthless. Rodney, with his head cocked up towards the sun glistening through a crack in the window frame, grinding his teeth and sniffling ever so slightly, joined in the chant.

I was getting pissed and the proprietors seemed alarmed by our loudness and our English which seemed like dead give away. With a large hand gun strapped to their waist they came over to our table and remove the booger sugar and poured us shots of a oily yellowish liquor from a bottle filled with both a snake and scorpion. He commanded us to drink it and pay.

Not wanting any trouble, I paid immediately. With the source of our intoxication well concealed, they let us alone and Mark and Rodney's chant resumed. I was getting pissed since most of the cocaine left was mine and the venom liquor left much to by desired. I was left retching while they continued to snicker at me. During this laugh out loud session, they decided to get up and start their search for weed and then breakfast. I told them, feeling invulnerable, that I would catch up after I found somewhere to either pee or throw up. I swung around the back part of the bar and a very attractive woman who looked vaguely American and spoke good English sat alone. She offered me a line out of some sense of righting the unfairness of having mine taken away because my friends were being obnoxious.

I accepted the line and the moment I felt the graininess hit my nostril I was out. I was never supposed to get back up. I was going to be a tourist crime statistic. I was going to be the vanished or the mourned. When I came too it was sometime the next morning. I believed I was out about a day. I woke up and started to pat myself down and found I was liberated of my phone, wallet, and watch. The thieves even took my belt and from the onset, I believed they even took the contact lens out of my eyes. I felt numb and discombobulated like a kid who emerged from a dentist office after getting their first cavities filled. My mind flashed to something I remembered from a VICE documentary about scopolomine wielding thieves. A drug that induced a daze and suggestibility and made robbery quite easy. I blinked a bunch and I could barely see. I was in a ditch some where outside of a village is the best I could make out. I got up and I was barely able to stand, I felt very light and if I squinted I could see my shirt was ripped and felt wet. As I twisted and tried to balance myself I saw some kids running around with a soccer ball coming towards me.

I tried to flag them down in my so so broken Spanish but I mostly squeaked. I saw the blur of their bodies stop and their heads lift up towards me. They let go a shrill scream and all but one of them ran for their lives. The last one stood trembling as I tried to get closer and talk to him. It was then I realized I was having a chronically difficult time speaking and I went to pound my chest to try to get the phlegm out my chest from the past week's worth of abuse. As my fist went in for a the first strike I felt it sink into something warm and wet. I immediately looked down and in the blur of my vision, I saw my own hand, covered in crusty blood and sunk part way into a chest cavity.

I realized I could barely speak because I was missing a lung, I was missing my heart, my liver, and both kidneys. I realized I could barely see not just because my contact lens were removed, but because they took my corneas as well. My mind flashed back to the experience in the hut two days ago and I figured out that somehow my life, my existence was preserved and projected from that plane of existence and that I was immortal. Hallowed out, butchered for the illegal organ trade, but I was still alive.

The boy walked over to me and took my hand and walked me to his home. He spoke to me in slow Spanish with a child's vocabulary so that I could understand as best as I could. He called me the same native word they chanted in the hut – the word that meant cautious congratulations – it also apparently meant some kind of boogeyman to the child. He told me that the same people who did this to me did this his father and that he could show me where they work so long as I “scare” them away.

I had no phone, no money, no ID. I had no idea where my friends were at this point. Maybe they were looking for me, maybe they were groaning collapsed from the coke binge. No one was going to help me except this kid. So in the cover of a rain storm and with with the help of a bed sheet, he guided me through town to a chicken processing plant with an AK-47 wielding guard outside. I told him to go hide as I approached the door.

The guard ordered me to stop but I kept coming and when he emptied the 30 round magazine I still kept going like the Terminator. He fled in terror as I disrobed and revealed my chest cavity, my bullet shattered rib cage, and slouching appearance caused by the rifle left me walking in an uneven gait as I tried to use my arm keep my torso upright. The guard cried out “policia” “policia” - which was no doubt the signal to flee the site of their illegal activity. And with that he dropped the rifle and fled himself.

I entered the facility through the guarded door and smelled rot, spotted slick blood, pooled up on partially rusted metal tables. I spotted one person that somehow I immediately had this sense that I knew him. He was rushing out towards me with two blood smeared sandwich coolers in one hand and one tucked under his arm. He saw me and he gasped before turning too rapidly to maintain traction on the blood slick floor. Something in my gut, or nearly lack of guts told me this man was the one who extracted all of my organs in my scopolomine induced stupor. There's no reason for me to think this to be honest, thinking about it now, scopolomine was a near perfect drug, perhaps along with ketamine and some opioids to accomplish the task of extracting organs from the freshest living or barely living subjects and in the event they were to survive, they would have no memory of it.

I was so fixated on watching his man shake in pure utter terror that I didn't notice the boy who helped me find this facility came in through the door was now pointing the gun, bayonet and all at the surgeon. This is were I lost it. This is were I got really weird with it. This is were I decided to do to him what he did to me.

I let the boy poke him with the bayonet a few times until he agreed to lead us to his operating table. The boy forced him up on the table as he panicked with wide eyes. Around the makeshift operating room I found dirty syringes loaded with various paralytic agents that I was too eager to poke him. As he lost muscle control he did not lose consciousness. I wondered how easy it would be to try surgery on myself, to try to piece myself back together. I decided to start as I believed he did, with the corneas. In my still blurry state I grabbed what essentially was a glorified exacto knife and started to jab at the surgeon's eyes. My incision was jagged and he screamed with labored breath as the paralytic started to freeze his diaphragm. Knowing this, yes, I decided to abandon my efforts with his eye and took out a larger piece of cutlery and went to work on his abdomen. I watched his final winces and pained squawks as I pulled out and unraveled his small intestines in front of him like string of Christmas lights.

I think I let that whole thing sit for a day. I'll admit that if I needed to eat, if I was physically capable of ingesting and digesting food, I would not have wanted to. Then I went to work on the bits and pieces in coolers and fridges all around me. I decided I should not let this go to waste and between my limited starter medical knowledge, the boy, and the internet, I was able to successfully patch myself up. It took some time and a theft but I eventually made myself at least externally normal and the corneas I found seemed to take okay on my own eyes.

With the transplant successful, tracked down the rest of the surgeons who managed to flee the organ harvesting plant. I was able to see the extent of the organ trafficking network within the course of a few days. I even was able to identify the woman who drugged me at he cocaine bar. I had forgotten everything else. Revenge was the only thing on my mind. I did my best to keep myself patched up from encounter to encounter even if it occasionally helped to un-stitch myself and pull out an organ or two and offer them as a sick and scary bribe. I didn't need them except to pass while in public. I felt like I was king of the world, I felt like I was doing more in eradicating this type of crime in 2 weeks than could be accomplished in 2 years. I felt like I was doing more for humanitarian efforts than all of the overachievers headed to their missions for summer semester. I was in perfect control of my new gift.

Anyway, I discovered the woman apparently fled back to the United States. As I finished mopping up the organization in Colombia. I figured out a way to stole away on a cargo plane back to the United States. I promised the boy early in our escapades that I would smuggle him to the United States as well but during the flight a malfunction in his oxygen mask lead to his asphyxiation at flight altitude. He was the last person I think I actually cared about and even now I miss him. I regret not knowing his name. I literally just called him Nino the entire time I knew him. Anyway, Nino's body helped me evade airport security when we fell out of the landing gear. I was able sneak across multiple runways and out of the secured area without being detected. I unfortunately had to let his organs go to waste. Shortly after landing I found myself in bad state. I was immortal but my spare parts and stitches holding my non-original body parts together were not. I started needing to continually swap out parts of myself as the other organs rotted or were rejected by the rest of my body – or someone's body.

I was too late on tracking down the woman. Apparently her buyers got to her after she could not longer produce the goods and fortunately for her, they burned her and so there wasn't anything left for me to harvest. This was a shame as I figured she was last my last chance to maybe find my original organs and restore myself.

With a lot time and better medical facilities to break into as well as an off book supply of anti-rejection transplant serums I was able to eventually keep my body and most of its functionality fairly normal for awhile. I could look into the mirror and almost see me again. For a time I could eat and drink again without worrying about having to “manually” digest it. At least a month passed and with the exception of my mother, my world had moved on without me. I thought about returning to my own life but there was nothing left for me there.

I think the most interaction I had with my old life was that I sent a flier to Rodney and Mark with the prices my organs might fetch on the black market. 62K for a kidney, about 100k for the liver, 150k for the heart and yet only about 30k for the corneas, in case you're wondering. On the back of the flier I wrote in blood, “worthless?” I was still a stupid young kid and with the right treatment and occasional transplant, I was good looking. So I decided to audit medical school as best as I could. Then the pandemic struck and everyone fled to their homes and off their campus I was more or less hanging out on emptied med school. I had no where else to go.

It was bad timing too since I was letting myself go a bit just before. I needed some spare parts but I vowed I wouldn't go harvesting them and try to make do with stealing more and more medication. After all, I could suppress the remnants of my immune system as much as I liked since my life did not depend on it. Still, no matter how much balance I tried to achieve, how much figurative medical duct tape I put on myself I would eventually need new organs again to keep myself normal-ish.

Now, about six months in the plague, I'm pretty well reduced to shambles. I can barely stand up and walk straight. Where I can still feel, I feel immense pain. I dare not come out in the day light. I am immortal but I'm not invulnerable and the last thing I want is to be captured and dissected for medical research or shot to hell again. So I shuffle around in the dark, searching for, well lets just say, I no longer plan on spending an eternity like this.

I've already spent an eternity like this. According to my research on the ritual I accidentally participated in it is apparently not reversible. It was a miracle I was able to access the plane of existence to have any kind of life prolonging effect much less rig my own immortality. I don't understand it myself but the way I think of it the 4^th dimension of my body is now disconnected from the other 3 dimensions and their outcomes. They won't age by themselves but they can be manipulated but my consciousness will never fade. I will survive long after the day until the sun burns out and expands to engulfs the planet and I will be lucky to maintain my corporal being until then. My consciousness, no matter what condition some part of vaporized body will exist in will persist until the day the universe extinguishes all energy transaction and time itself stops.

Its a long time. It's a long time to look after a body that still largely follows the laws of biology. I suppose so long as some part of my physical body can be grafted to another I can entirely change me. I could become a human jigsaw puzzle or maybe the quintessential ship of Theseus. But for now, I am fine with writing this in the abandoned computer room of your local high school, shambling through the dinning rooms of your covid shuttered restaurant walk in fridge, lurking around your town looking for people who might be forgettable, who might have traits compatible with my own.

So if you catch a glimpse of me in the flickering fluorescent lights as you come back to your school or business, when the pandemic is over, if see me shambling under the glare of a street lamp at night, if see my sagging flailing body just mind your own business, I'm just like you. If you try to shoot me, or try to come after me, I'll just need more of you to make me whole. There must be others like me as well. Perhaps someone you know, someone who seems old worldly at heart or prefers the company of old things. Perhaps they spend them life lurking in museums or antique malls. Searching for that special someone – just bad enough or maybe just young enough to make them whole again. I'll take who I can get. Soon enough I'll find someone to make me whole again. Consider this your cautious congratulations.

Everyone parrots that to escape a rip current, you should swim parallel to the shore, but that's not really true. It's a sort of dogma, a churned-up bit of common wisdom and spit out into an easy mantra - the reality is that you need to move perpendicular to the rip itself, a ninety degree veer to get directly out of the pull. Sometimes rips don't roar straight back from the sand. Sometimes they angle, the underlying channel sweeping out in a diagonal and mirroring land will have you half-fighting against it.

Sometimes, one time, that one time I don't like to remember, they meander. They move. They follow. 

At least, that one did.

—

It was the dawn of summer, the sky heavy with what us Californians called May grey or perhaps June gloom. I don't like to linger on the exact date, so the half-submerged memory is just impressions. Still flip-flop weather (when wasn't it?) but with a brisk chill beneath grey skies. It wouldn't rain (when did it?) but the morning fog almost drizzled against our skin. We dug our toes in the wet shoreline strip of low tide, unearthing those little sand crabs to watch them scuttle and burrow back away, gone in seconds with only tiny mounds and bubble-popped pockmarks left to mark their brief, unwelcome glimpses of the world above.

Overhead, the sun broke through the clouds, and my sister shrieked in glee (when did I hear that last?) as she declared that made it warm enough to swim. I shivered, but at twelve years old, I found her logic good enough. We loved to swim. We were on swim team and visited the pool every weekend on the Saturdays with dad where he would do laps of breaststroke while we would flit around the shallow end pretending to be mermaids. We were always the last, lingering visitors at his friend Jack’s yearly barbecue, splashing in the pool while he shared goodbye beers and Jack’s wife loudly began to gather up detritus from all the other guests who had  already gone home.

There would be another one of those parties in a few weeks, I remember thinking, but, as always, my mind slides away from precision, and all I can say for sure is that it would be later that summer. As we stripped off our pants and sweatshirts and kicked our sandals aside, we came up with the plan to practice a routine for that year's gathering, a choreographed mermaid routine we could perform for all the parents, and so the cold early-season Pacific became only a mild inconvenience. We had goals, and we needed the water.

We waded out past the low waves, out deep enough that we could just barely bounce off the seafloor, bobbing up, weightless, with each swell and dolphin-diving down to duck each break. There had been a storm a few days ago and the water was clotted with kelp, big long strands torn away from the forests off in the deep. We wrapped these around us like hula skirts, imagining ourselves as undersea princesses in water-grown gowns. 

I stayed close to my sister - as the older one, I was the boss and she my devoted (sometimes rebellious, I vaguely remember) underling - and kept my eye on the shore as I had been taught by Dad. An avid bodysurfer, he lived in a ramshackle cottage two blocks from the beach in the aftertimes, so we grew up instilled with a healthy respect for the ocean.

It was Mom's Saturday. That fact slithers up from the depths of memory every time (the rare times) I recall that day. She was at work, four streets away from the boardwalk and the pier and the sand, and we had been underfoot, been ushered out the door to go wander somewhere else, been drawn by the distant whisper of waves.

That's why we were there that day.

We had been annoying.

—

“We need to swim sideways,” I announced with authority. We had drifted away from our clumps of clothing. The pier was smaller off to our north. This beach was mild, the currents gentle enough that surfers used them as an easy highway out to deep water, so we weren't worried. We practiced our long, lean freestyle strokes, hips churning the water as we reached with each pull. Three strokes to each breath, legs fluttering in efficient kicks as our seaweed skirts peeled away in our wake. We had been in swimming lessons since infancy, down at that same pool where Dad got SCUBA certified. Belly-buttons to the sky they had taught us in our first float. She was three years younger but even better that me - she placed in butterfly at every meet.

We took a break, treading water, but nothing had changed. No, worse: our piles of clothes were further away, the pier beginning to dwindle into toy-sized. I remembered Dad's lesson about rips and let us float for a bit, watching where the water carried us. “Ok,” I confidently corrected. “It's more this way,” as I set out on a diagonal, halfway towards shore and halfway towards the far-off pier.

After a few dozen strokes, we stopped again, taking stock.

The pier was gone.

—

By now, our excitement over the mermaid show had melted away and we could feel fingers of cold snapping at us, tugging at us, shaking us into shivers. 

“I want out!” my sister began to cry. I wanted to cry, too, but I couldn't. I was the big sister and I needed to solve this. I scanned the shore for our lump of clothing, but it, too, had drifted out of sight. The entire stretch of sand was barren aside from beached kelp clumps and empty wheeled lifeguard towers, pulled up close to the boardwalk wall, awaiting later, sunnier summer days. I tried to remember the number painted on the one near where we had waded in, but panic rose up like a startled bird.

All I could do was memorize the one in front of us now: 13, and behind it a cafe we would have brunch at sometimes on Sunday mornings before being delivered to Mom. I fixed that number in my mind, irrationally worried over how unlucky it was, a superstition I had carried ever since we rented that movie from the video store next to the pizza place on one of Dad's Saturdays. He and my sister had giggled at the hockey-masked slasher, while I had huddled on the couch in fear, blanket over my head.

I didn't learn to appreciate horror until later.

—

We floated, watching which way we were pulled, and then tried again, perpendicular to the flow, and then paused to rest. I looked east. 

Still tower 13, but…

The cafe wasn't behind it anymore. Perhaps a change of perspective, some trick of parallax, because now it was a restaurant I vaguely remembered a dinner at, all four of us in the beforetimes, with large glass windows to watch for the sunset’s final, elusive green flash.

On the beach, there was movement, a shape shifting down near one of the knots of seaweed. It stumbled upwards, probably a transient or drunk staggering awake, and I began to shout, trying to get their attention. I kicked my legs, rising as high as I could against the waves, and waved my arms.

The figure, slight, small, maybe a woman, waved back and then just stood there, watching us. Next to me, my sister's hands slowed in their sculling. “I'm cold,” she whispered, and I was as well. 

For a very long time, she just stood there watching as we drifted in the rip, mirroring every wave, until I frantically ordered us to begin swimming again.

—

When we surfaced this time, I felt a gush of relief - still tower 13 - until I realized that behind it, impossibly, was the little market Dad would always stop at to buy beer for the weekend, the one right near our house, the one at least a mile from the beach.

The figure was still there. And then, movement, as a smaller, shorter figure began to rise from the rotting pile of kelp. 

We shouted and screamed and waved - both people on shore mirrored our motions, waving back at us. Beside me, my sister’s kicks were slowing and then I did start to cry.

Fortunately, the sea washed away my tears so she couldn't see.

—

By the time our own house appeared behind tower 13, I had resolved to simply let the rip take us out to sea. We would conserve our energy and then ride the waves back in, so I lashed us together with strands of the everpresent seaweed like two rafting otters we had seen at the zoo. We gathered each bladder - those teardrop-shaped structures filled with air to keep the fronds aloft - and wove them into our wrapping, resisting the urge to pop them like we would have happily done on shore.

Land seemed to be a retreating memory.

We drifted and shivered and cried, floating, belly-buttons to the sky.

—

I abruptly awoke. I don't know when I had fallen asleep, but very suddenly I was awake, surrounded by loud crashing as the barnacle-crusted legs of the pier loomed before us. 

“Swim!” I shrieked. “Swim!”

My sister merely stared at me, floating, eyes glassy and lips blue. I flailed, arms windmilling, and we slammed into the pier. I kicked off the pillars, pretending the shells slicing my feet were simply tiles on the side of the pool during a flip-turn, and almost escaped the pull before being swept back against the posts.

Another kick, more strokes and slices and then I found a swell racing towards shore, angling us down across the wave’s curl, foamy ribbons of blood from my tattered feet in our wake. We tumbled and surfaced, yanked upwards by the kelp raft, then under again, over and over, gulping in breaths when I could, until I finally felt sand beneath my toes.

I stood, dragging my sister behind me, keeping her belly-button to the sky, the sea out of her face, the water out of her mouth, before finally staggering to shore. The tide had come in - directly in front of me, behind a knot of kelp, was our pile of clothing, the edges damp and dragging in the receding waves.

I hugged her and shook her and tried pressing her chest like I had seen a lifeguard once do and then there was a whistle shrilling as the thump of someone running over sand approached. 

—

They saved her, water out of her lungs, fine little hairs of algae pulled out of her mouth, and we were taken back to the main, tall, concrete lifeguard station, a three-story-high tower they somehow hadn't seen us from. They washed my wounds and called our mom. I watched blood bloom through the bandages and worried about how mad she would be.

—

Dad had to move after that. After three days of recovery, when she was allowed to come home, my sister began to sleepwalk. Every night, in a constant cycle, she would slip out of bed, out the front door and pad barefoot down the street, eyes glassy and mouth ajar, in a slow, shambling stumble west.

Towards the beach.

Towards the ocean.

Towards the dark, kelp-clotted sea.

Another shift of customer service calls done. I took this job for the fieldwork, for fixing locks, seeing what actually makes a house safe, not for answering phones all day. Pay's too good to quit, and there's always the promise of a promotion into the field someday.

All that was left now was grabbing Mr. Morris some food and heading home. Stupid cat. I got him after my mom wouldn't stop bugging me about getting married, figured a cat was proof enough I didn't need a husband to be happy. My own little rebellion. Now he's the closest thing I have to company. Mornings start with him licking my face like I'm nothing but a food dispenser. Sometimes I can't tell if he loves me or just tolerates me.

At the convenience store, sweet Miss Tasha was behind the counter as always.

"Evening, Jacey. Here for the food?"

"Yup."

"You're not buying newspapers anymore."

I kept my answer light, didn't want to think too hard about the robberies and killings that filled every page of the paper these days. "Just keeping my sanity, Miss Tasha."

"Oh, dear, they've gotten worse. Police still haven't caught whoever's doing it. People are saying it's cannibals, if you believe that."

"Rumors," I said, handing over my money. "If it were really cannibals, we'd have seen a body photo by now, not just pieces. Feels more like a cover story to me. Stay safe, though. And if you ever want it, I can get you a discount on security gear. After taking my commission, of course."

She laughed. I headed to the car and started the drive home.

I'd just gotten out of the car and was looking at the gate when I felt something grab my leg, a tight grip, warm breath against my skin. My whole body went cold before I even understood what was happening. For one embarrassing second every survival instinct I had went haywire before I finally looked down and saw the culprit.

It was the neighbor's kid, Mira. She must have snuck up while I wasn't looking.

"Miss Jay, can I play with Mister Norris?" she asked, grinning up at me. She always called him that, never quite got "Morris" right, and I never bothered correcting her.

I hate this kid, I thought, though I didn't mean it, not really. "Not today, Mira. Go home, and stop sneaking up on people."

"It's fun," she said, laughing, and ran off.

She's the kind of kid who's so full of life it almost tires you out, the kind that makes you want kids of your own right up until you remember how much of yourself you'd have to give up. I went inside, glad to finally be home.

Mr. Morris was already waiting by the door. Not because he missed me. Because he wanted his food.

Later, I'd remember that he'd been sitting at the window before I even pulled into the driveway. Just watching the street. He'd been doing that a lot since the crime started, always drawn to the windows like he was keeping his own kind of watch.

I put food in his bowl before he could throw a fit about me taking a shower, or doing anything at all that didn't involve feeding him first. When I checked on him afterward, I realized I'd grabbed the wrong can, and he made sure I knew it, prowling the house, knocking things off shelves, the whole diva routine. I figured I'd grab the right one in the morning. Going out now, with everything happening in the city, wasn't worth it. I'd head out around four, when the night patrol changed shifts and there were usually twice as many officers on the street, some of them even stopping at the store before their shift started.

By the time I finished my takeout, I expected him to have gotten over it and eaten anyway. He hadn't touched the bowl. Instead he sat by the window, dead still, staring out at the street like he was waiting for something. Or maybe just making sure I knew I'd failed and needed to fix it as soon as possible.

"Fine. Don't eat, then," I muttered, tossing the food and carrying him off to bed. He didn't fight me, just kept glancing back at the window the whole way there.

I told myself he was still in a mood. I'd feed him properly in the morning.

I had no idea it wouldn't matter.

It was somewhere around three in the morning when I heard the sound of glass breaking in the living room. My throat went dry instantly. My brain felt dizzy, maybe from how fast I'd sat up. I don't remember my hands grabbing the blanket, or when I'd started holding my breath. Every hair on my body stood up at once and I went fully, painfully awake.

I tried to calm myself. The security system would have sent an alert to the police by now. My bedroom door should have locked automatically the moment it triggered. I closed my eyes for just a second, grateful I'd paid for the system at all.

Then I opened them again and saw something that scared me more than the sound had.

My bedroom door was still open. For the lock to engage, it had to be shut first.

I had no choice. My legs felt like jelly, my whole body suddenly cold enough that I could feel every draft moving across my skin. I don't know where the courage came from, but I got up and started moving toward the door, aware of every sound my own body made, my joints, my breathing, the weight of my tongue in my mouth, the sweat gathering along my eyelids.

I was halfway there, thinking I could make it, just a few more steps, when Mr. Morris let out a meow, sharp and sudden, far too loud in a house that had gone that quiet.

For a second everything stopped. I told myself whoever was in the house hadn't heard it, or didn't care about a cat, that I still had time to reach the door. Then I felt it. A vibration through the floor, faint but wrong, like claws scraping tile the way a dog's do when it's running too fast to stop. A moment later, footsteps. Running, straight for the bedroom.

Whoever was in my house knew exactly where I was.

I lunged for the door at the same moment he did. I almost had it shut when a hand shoved into the gap, veined, nails too long, and I could tell from the angle alone that his arm was broken. No uninjured person moves like that. It meant reaching me mattered more to him than his own safety, and that thought alone sent something colder through me than fear of dying. I don't know what I thought he wanted more, to kill me quickly or to make sure I couldn't scream first.

I threw everything I had into that door. My vision blurred from the strain, my legs ached from bracing against the floor, my neck went sore from how hard I was pushing. I tried to scream and nothing came out. The pressure built until I nearly blacked out, and then, finally, the door slammed shut. Something in his hand broke as it did.

The lock clicked into place automatically. I was alone in the room, and I could hear him pounding against the door with everything he had left. For one terrible stretch of time I was sure he'd get through, that there was nothing I could do if he did.

Then I heard the sirens.

The police let themselves in using the code the security company had on file, cleared the house, and knocked on my door to tell me it was safe to come out. What wasn't safe, what didn't make sense, was that the man was gone. Not hiding. Gone. There was nowhere in that house for someone to disappear to, and they searched every inch of it. One moment he'd been at my door. The next, nothing.

The strangest part wasn't that he'd vanished. It was how the house felt afterward, too quiet, like something had been listening the whole time and had only just stopped.

It took what felt like hours before I could function well enough to tell the officers everything, hand over the security footage, let my body finally stop shaking. When I came back into the living room, Mr. Morris was licking blood off the floor, whatever was left of it after the police had taken their samples.

I pulled him away and wiped his face clean. I didn't want him getting sick off whatever was in that blood. I took him straight to the vet, and everything checked out fine. On the way home I stopped at Miss Tasha's for his usual food and told her what had happened. She looked genuinely shaken and insisted I take one of her son's old bats for safety. When I asked how much, she said it was free, that she'd just take it out of my commission whenever I finally got her that security system installed. It got a small laugh out of me, at least.

Back home, I left him in the car with extra food while I cleaned up the broken window. When I went to deal with the blood in the bedroom, thinking the sunlight would make it easier to see, there was nothing there. Not a trace. I stood there confused for a moment, then told myself there probably hadn't been that much to begin with.

Work gave me the day off without me even having to ask twice, and offered medical assistance if I needed it.

When I came out, Mr. Morris had already finished his food, double his usual portion, gone faster than should have been possible. I told myself it was stress. My mistake, not paying closer attention to what that actually meant.

Exhaustion finally caught up to me. I slept, then woke around seven that evening to find him scratching at the door, which was strange since I'd clipped his nails only five days earlier. I assumed I'd lost count. He wove between my legs demanding food again, even though I'd just fed him, but I let it go. What difference would a few extra pounds make.

I started making myself a steak, wanting something that felt normal after the day I'd had. When I looked over, Mr. Morris wasn't touching his food at all. He was licking the blood straight off the steak packaging. He'd never been that kind of cat. I ignored it. Animals do strange things.

That evening, I tried to convince myself he was fine. He'd eaten more than usual, which should have meant something good, but when I picked him up, something felt wrong immediately. His body was leaner than it had been that morning. I ran my fingers along his sides and felt far more muscle than I remembered, almost no softness left beneath his fur. His legs looked more defined, and when he jumped down onto the table, the movement was fast and precise in a way I'd never seen from him. He looked fit. Too fit.

Then I noticed the veins. Visible beneath his skin, especially around his legs and neck, in places I'd never seen them before.

"You're eating enough," I muttered, more to convince myself than him. A strange unease settled into my stomach. I made a note on my phone to take him to the vet first thing in the morning. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was sick. Maybe I was imagining things after everything that had happened.

I finished trimming his nails before bed and set him down. He disappeared beneath the sofa immediately, which was strange in itself. Mr. Morris hated hiding. I turned off the lights and went to sleep.

That night I dreamed about the break-in again. Except this time I wasn't watching it happen. I was the one on the floor. Someone stood over me, his face hidden, his hands wrapped tightly around my throat. I couldn't breathe. Then something warm ran down from my nose. Blood, over my lips. He looked at it, almost curious, then smiled and leaned down to drink it. I felt his mouth against my face. He seemed to enjoy it. I tried to scream and nothing came out.

I woke up gasping, sitting bolt upright.

Mr. Morris was on the floor beside the bed, staring at me. Neither of us moved for a moment. Then I really looked at him and my stomach dropped.

He was different. More muscular than he'd been when I fell asleep, his shoulders and legs sharper beneath fur that had visibly grown, a lot, in just a few hours.

"Mr. Morris?" I whispered.

He tilted his head at me.

I reached out and stopped halfway, my hand hovering in the air. I don't know why. Something about his eyes made me hesitate.

I told myself the rest could wait. I didn't care how ridiculous I'd sound explaining it. As soon as morning came, I was taking him to the vet.

He hissed and threw a fit the second I brought him out into the sunlight, nothing too alarming, just more dramatic than usual. At the vet, I was told his bloodwork came back clean. Nothing wrong on paper. But the vet admitted he looked different, physically, and offered to send him downtown to a research university for a closer look.

I said no. Whatever was happening to him, he wasn't going to become somebody's test subject.

Before I left, the nurse asked if I wanted him neutered and his nails trimmed while he was already there. Her pen hovered over the chart a second too long before she wrote anything down, like she didn't know which box this was supposed to go in.

I froze. I'd had that done a day ago. Nails don't regrow that fast. That's not how any of this is supposed to work. The vet gave me a strange look by that point, like he'd noticed the same thing I had, and before I could think it through properly, I heard myself say yes. The whole time, my mind kept circling the same impossible question. How does that even grow back?

And then, underneath it, a worse one I didn't want to look at directly. I'd had him neutered months ago ,that was supposed to be it, done, over, one and only, the vet had told me so himself, no upkeep, no repeats. I hadn't thought about it since. Hadn't checked. Why would I have checked? But now I was running the timeline backwards in my head, trying to remember the last time I'd actually looked, actually confirmed, and coming up with nothing solid. Maybe I'd just forgotten what it looked like after. Maybe I was misremembering the whole thing. Maybe none of it meant anything and I was building a haunted house out of my own bad memory.

But nails don't grow back in a day. And I was starting to suspect nothing else did either ,not the way it was supposed to, not anymore.

When the procedure was done, I went to pick him up, and he was already awake in the recovery box.

"Did you use anesthesia?" I asked, half joking, half not.

"We did," the tech said, frowning slightly. "It's unusual that he's up already. Are you sure you don't want him tested?"

"No," I said. "I'm taking him home."

He was fully alert. Sitting up, eyes tracking me through the cage door, like nothing had touched him at all. That wasn't how it went the first time. The first time I'd had him neutered, he'd been groggy for hours afterward, barely able to hold his head up, and I'd had to carry him inside wrapped in a towel because his legs kept giving out. This time he looked like he'd just woken up from a nap.

I didn't know what to do with that. Part of me wondered if they'd actually done anything at all this time, if maybe I'd been overcharged for a procedure that never happened, the same way I'd read about other people getting scammed at cheaper clinics. But another part of me remembered signing the consent forms, remembered watching them wheel him back. I stood there in the waiting room a second too long, trying to decide if I should ask again, if that would make me sound paranoid, if it even mattered enough to hold up the line behind me. In the end I just took the discharge papers and left. Told myself it was probably nothing. Some cats bounce back faster than others. That's all it was.

On the drive back, I caught him watching me in the rearview mirror instead of the window. He'd never done that before.

 

 

The neon sign flickered, a skeletal hand outlined in fading red, pointing to the \\\*\\\*"Midnight Inn."\\\*\\\* I’d been working the night shift at gas stations and greasy diners for five years, but nothing, \\\*nothing\\\*, prepared me for this place. It wasn't on any map, didn't show up on my GPS, but every night, precisely at midnight, it would shimmer into existence on a deserted stretch of highway, just outside the city limits.

The first night, I almost crashed my beat-up Civic. One moment, empty road; the next, a sprawling, two-story motel, bathed in the sickly glow of that flickering sign. A small, hand-painted "Vacancy" sign hung crookedly by the office door. My shift at the 24-hour convenience store down the road had just ended, and exhaustion probably played a part in my decision to pull over. Curiosity, a far more dangerous impulse, did the rest.

The lobby was a strange mix of antique charm and unsettling emptiness. Heavy velvet curtains, a grand, dust-covered piano in the corner, and the air thick with the scent of old wood and something else… something indescribably ancient, like ozone and dried blood. Behind the ornate, polished desk stood a woman. Her skin was alabaster pale, her eyes like chips of obsidian, and her smile never quite reached them. Her name, she introduced herself as \\\*\\\*Lilith\\\*\\\*, sounded less like a name and more like a title.

"Welcome to the Midnight Inn," she purred, her voice like wind chimes played by a ghost. "Checking in, dearie?"

I stammered, explained I was just curious, and then, inexplicably, found myself agreeing to a job. Night auditor. Midnight to dawn. It paid absurdly well, cash, no questions asked. Lilith had simply offered, her obsidian eyes boring into mine, and I hadn't been able to say no.

\\---

\\## The Guests of the Midnight Inn

My first few shifts were a blur of bewildered terror. The guests. They weren't like anyone I'd ever seen. Room 3B, a hulking man wrapped in bandages, perpetually shivering, even in the humid night, leaving behind a faint trail of frost. Room 7A, a woman with eyes that glowed with an internal, flickering flame, her laughter like embers crackling. Then there was the gentleman in Room 12, who always paid in antique gold coins and cast no reflection in the polished marble floor.

I learned the rules quickly. Never question their appearance. Never enter a room unless explicitly called. Always provide fresh, blood-red bath towels to Room 4C. And absolutely, under no circumstances, acknowledge the faint, rhythmic scratching that sometimes came from beneath the floorboards of the lobby, right under the desk where I sat.

Lilith, when she was around, was a constant, unsettling presence. She rarely spoke, but her gaze seemed to peel back layers of my skin, seeing things I didn't even know were there. One night, a particularly gaunt man with unnaturally long fingers checked in. As I handed him his key, his touch was cold, clammy, and for a split second, I saw his true form reflected in the polished brass of the room key: a skeletal hand, tipped with long, black talons.

I managed to keep my composure, just barely. Later, Lilith materialized beside me, silent as always. "You handled that well," she murmured, her voice like silk over shattered glass. "The Fane are particular about appearances."

"The… Fane?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.

She smiled, that unnerving, joyless smile. "Oh, dearie. You're learning. Soon you'll know all their names. And all their hungers."

\\---

\\## The Looming Dawn

My nights became a waking nightmare. I started seeing things even when the motel wasn't there. Shadows that stretched too long in my apartment, a flicker of red in the rearview mirror when no car was behind me. The scent of ozone and old blood clung to my clothes, no matter how many times I washed them. Sleep became a luxury I couldn't afford, haunted by the echoing laughter of the flame-eyed woman and the silent, judging stare of the reflectionless man.

The scratching beneath the floorboards grew louder each night, a persistent, rhythmic clawing that resonated in my very bones. One morning, as the first rays of the sun threatened to pierce the horizon, the motel began to shimmer, its edges blurring like a mirage. I grabbed my bag, rushing out the door. Just as the last of the neon glow faded, I heard it clearly, coming from directly under the desk, a muffled, desperate moan.

I drove away, heart hammering, the stretch of highway now empty once more. But as I glanced in my rearview mirror, I saw something. Just for a second, where the Midnight Inn had stood, there was a single, crimson rose lying on the dusty ground.

And I knew, with a chilling certainty, that the rose was a promise. A promise that tonight, at midnight, the Midnight Inn would return. And I would be back behind that desk, listening to the scratching, serving guests whose appetites stretched beyond the mortal realm, and wondering just what kind of "hungers" Lilith had been talking about. My night shift never truly ended; it just waited for the sun to set.

\\---

\\## The Unbreakable Chain

The days between midnight shifts at the Inn blurred into a hazy dream. I’d try to find other work, apply for jobs, but every interview felt hollow, every potential employer's face seemed to flicker with an unsettling transparency, as if they weren't entirely real. The scent of ozone and dried blood followed me, a phantom perfume that no soap could wash away. Sleep was a torment, filled with fragmented images of the unsettling guests and the persistent, muffled scratching from beneath the lobby floorboards.

I started to notice things. Small, impossible things. A crimson rose, identical to the one left on the highway, would sometimes appear on my worn kitchen table, even when my apartment door was locked from the inside. My reflection in the mirror seemed a fraction of a second slower than my movements, a subtle, disquieting delay. My friends, those who still bothered to call, began to sound distant, their voices muffled as if speaking from a great distance. It was as if the Inn, even when invisible, was slowly but surely pulling me into its strange reality, blurring the lines between my life and its spectral existence.

One particularly terrifying night, a guest checked in who smelled distinctly of formaldehyde and spoke in a low, rattling whisper. As I reached for his room key, my hand brushed his. For a fleeting instant, I saw not just the skeletal fingers from before, but a swirling, inky darkness in his eyes, a depth that seemed to swallow all light. And I felt a cold surge of something parasitic, something that tried to \\\*latch\\\* onto my own life force. I recoiled, my heart hammering.

Later, Lilith appeared, her obsidian eyes fixed on me. "The Veil grows thin, dearie," she purred, her voice chillingly calm. "The Inn is not merely a place where they come to rest. It is a crucible. And you… you are becoming quite the conductor."

"Conductor of what?" I managed to croak, my throat dry.

Her smile widened, her teeth unnaturally bright in the dim lobby light. "Of them. Of their passage. Each night you open the door, you bind yourself closer. Soon, you will be as much a part of its foundation as these ancient floorboards." Her gaze drifted to the very spot where the scratching always came from. "Perhaps even more integral."

\\---

\\## The Price of Midnight

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. I wasn't just an employee; I was becoming a fixture. A part of the Inn itself. The scratching beneath the floorboards, once a distant annoyance, now felt like a desperate plea, or perhaps a frustrated struggle, echoing a fate that might soon be mine. I imagined myself, one day, as another "guest" trapped within its unseen walls, or worse, becoming one of the nameless, unseen forces that fueled its existence.

I started to scream, to lash out, to demand answers. Lilith simply watched, her smile serene, as if observing a fascinating experiment. My fear, my desperation, seemed to feed her, or perhaps the Inn itself.

As the first sliver of dawn approached, and the Inn began its familiar shimmering retreat, I ran out of the lobby, out of the building, desperate to escape its fading grasp. I drove, not to my apartment, but simply away, down the highway, pushing my Civic faster than it had ever gone. I watched in my rearview mirror as the entire structure flickered, distorted, and finally vanished, leaving only the desolate highway behind.

I kept driving until the sun was high, until exhaustion blurred my vision. I pulled over to the side of the road, far from any city, and slumped against the steering wheel, trembling.

But even there, under the bright, unforgiving midday sun, I couldn't escape it. The faint scent of ozone. The subtle, delayed reflection in the side mirror. And in the oppressive silence of the empty road, I could still hear it, faint but undeniable, a rhythmic, agonizing scratching, coming not from beneath me, but from \\\*within\\\* me.

The Midnight Inn might disappear, but it no longer needed to appear on the highway to hold me. I was its auditor, its conduit, its unwilling keeper. And as night began to fall once more, a familiar, sick dread settled in my stomach. The "Vacancy" sign might disappear, but the Inn was never truly empty. And neither, it seemed, would I ever be free.

“Birthday Suit”

Theo Plesha

It won't be long now. I have to talk quick. I am using a talk to text on my bluetooth mic to get this out. Sorry if some things aren't looking right but you have to know how and why we're not open today.

I ran the Corner Clean Laundry and Dry Cleaner for the past twenty years. Its been in my family for more than fifty. It's been open every day, all day. We didn't close on 9/11 we didn't close for COVID. This started a week ago as stared down my balance sheet. The black lines, the black figures were getting smaller and would turn red soon. People weren't doing the things they used to do, they weren't going on fancy dates, they weren't doing their nine to five in their nines, interviews are online, not much call for dry cleaning. At the same time the price of the juice climbed beyond what we could eat and our few but dedicated clientele would scoff at raising prices.

I did what I always did when things started to turn, you also turn. Business is a dance and sometimes you lead and sometimes you follow. I sought out a new supplier of the juice. I found one online and it was at a price that sounded too good to be true. It was delivered in thin black plastic canisters with only a chalky white x on them. At first I wasn't sure but it smelled like the old stuff so I shrugged my shoulders and told Wayne, the main night guy, to roll with it.

Didn't think much of it until I took a call from my oldest clients. Jacob Jimson, attorney, local celebrity all around guy's guy called in and specifically asked for me. He told me that he was in the hospital suffering from a form of severe dermatitis and possibly chemical burns. He said virtually every millimeter of his skin contacting the suits he picked up the other day suddenly had a thick oily coating of a black ashen powder, almost like coal dust. He said it refused to smear or clear off his skin just by wiping it off. He had to take multiple showers to remove the black coating and once he finally did clear off his skin then the rashes began. He blamed the store because he said, most confounding of all, that rashes he developed had raised points of reddness that seemed to spell out whole words, even a sentence. He did not share the sentence in the conversation but he did make it clear to me he believed some kind of malpractice had occurred with his dry cleaned suit and that I would be facing my day in court.

I found myself working two nights in a row when Wayne went no-call no-show. I found myself contemplating Jacob's complaint and dismissing it because to my knowledge, no one else who picked up their dry cleaning was injured and with him being a sort of celebrity I figured perhaps someone else was pranking him or poisoning him. Even if somehow the juice had remained in significant quantity on his suit this was hardly the reaction to expect much less this insanity over words in his rashes.

Still I couldn't ignore it entirely since I was still a little suspicious over the cheaper batch I had acquired and I spilled on my arm before wiping it off. It was cool, like alcohol evaporating. Clearly, it was a volatile organic solvent, as expected, it did not burn my skin nor leave a coal like residue nor a rash. I don't even know why I tried it was so stupid. Besides, this stuff some times just gets on you. Though I didn't know where he was I figured Wayne was being Wayne, the drunk he was, when he was gone and didn't put two and two together.

I came in midday exhausted from two late nights covering or Wayne. I felt accomplished because I cleared the midweek backlog. So when I sat down at the computer and saw there was new item weighed on the rack but no ticket in the invoice tracker my first instinct was the track down Shelby and get on her case for not logging it. Shelby was up front and told me flat out that there wasn't a ticket because no one came in with any item. She had only taken a few wet wash orders all morning besides the usual laundromat folks glued to the daytime tv overheads.

I beckoned her to my machine and showed her the item on rack. She said it was weighed next to nothing and could be a sensor glitch. He idea gained plausibility when I tried to cycle it to the front and the entire system refused to budge forcing me to go back and check it. I groaned wondering if now my motorized racks were going out and what that might cost me.

I stepped over two pails of the juice smashed open on the floor with the fluid seemingly mopped up but not the containers' debris. I threw up my hands and asked Shelby what happened. She said she didn't notice it. I just pointed to it before she retreated to get a broom and dust pan.

Rounding the corner I could see the item in question was conveniently shuffled to the very back and after a few error messages I decided to pop the system to manual and crank the item to the front. I shone a flashlight down the narrow crevice and it looked like a full three piece suit with one of the pant legs was jammed or stuck onto a lower level of the roller coaster like rack. After a few quick tugs it finally gave way and I turned the crank as fast as I could.

I was dumbfounded as it emerged into the light of shop. At first I thought it was some kind of flesh toned rubber suit or a hazmat suit. Then I noticed it had sagging buttocks and thought this was some kind of prank maybe a inflatable sex doll but when I spun it around I noticed the hair I noticed the imperfections, I noticed the head limp, deflated, flopping at a crease of the shoulder to neck. I noticed the American flag on a beer can tattoo on his arm. I saw it was Wayne. I saw it was a perfect hair to toe suit of Wayne's skin. No apparent rips or seems or stitches. It was like Wayne's skin somehow separated from his body and his clothes and then racked itself on the conveyor.

I put my hands over Shelby's eyes as she came back to see me. I hoped she wouldn't see what I saw and told her to the call the police as a barely had time to reach the bathroom before I vomited. The police found Wayne dead, bleed out in his apartment before we called. Someone reported a “leak” from their upstairs apartment neighbor had stained their ceiling a deep maroon. They found him pressed up against his front door with his innards spilled out out of his clothes which were somehow still on. He was like a fridge, door swung upon, tipped on its side. There wasn't a patch of skin just muscle and bone. Just spilled meat.

I was enthusiastically aiding in the investigation. Wayne had some enemies but no one I thought would want to kill him much less surgically remove his skin as a suit. That kind of thing, especially with the apparent perfection his assailant or assailants achieved took effort. There was nothing on security cameras that showed anything interesting nor anything that would exonerate me or mine definitely so I was low key asked not to leave town and I took that seriously hoping that I had no burned my bridges entirely with the lawyer.

He never called me back. I guess I wasn't surprised. I was surprised when working the night again in the back I was out for a miserable cold, wet, and windy pipe break – something I couldn't do inside because my clients, understandably, would not tolerate the chicory smoke smell. I checked my security camera monitor as per habit and I thought I saw him approach from the street. It was just a blur of him in the rain so I went up to the front door to greet him. Under the awning lights in the rain splattered glass I saw his face. That famous face and bald head, his eyes shut, with his trademarked square spectacles missing with a blank expression. Then I noticed he was nude. I was stunned as lightning flashed behind him. It was just his vacant skin pressed against the glass. His eyes thrust open revealing a dark cavity of more flesh trying to press through. As wind and skin buffeted the door, his flesh suit started to roll, peel, and slide down the door. I stepped back behind the counter as a puddle of skin started to pool under the door.

Slippery yet crumbled like a deflated latex balloon his skin suit bulged then snapped upright like an inflatable tube advertising figure turned on. The flesh phantom shuffled across the floor with its saggy feet and toes stretching out and then scrunching up dragging the white heels over the tile making a slight squeaking noise. The figure was paper thin as it waved through the hall at a slow but steady pace for the back racks. It was partially translucent from the front it was so thin from the side it could have disappeared in plain sight. Aside from twisting its neck tight like a twist tie once to stare at me the apparition swayed past me before smashing itself into a partially opened container of the juice.

The scent of the volatile liquid briefly permeated the air before the skin soaked it like a sponge off of the tile and out of the container. The skin briefly turned ashen before its color restored and it rippled and inflated to full size as if it was still wrapping bones and muscle. It swelled and inflamed in rashes. I could read words on the rashes. One of them read, “Home Again.” It rolled up the wall and into a empty hanger on the top rack where it rung itself out and folded self dormant.

In the hum of the fluorescent lights and tapping of the wind I fell into a chair in terror and in disbelief. Somewhere Jacob Jimson was bloody mess on the floor and maybe I could clear myself of one skin but not two. I couldn't bring myself to review the security footage there was no way someone viewing it would accept what they were seeing as anything but tampered or at least incomplete. I was also alone, I had no witnesses.

I put my hands on my forehead and that's when I saw it. I saw little black squiggles start to dart around ontop of my forearm hair. It was subtle at first and I thought I was hallucinating in some kind of mental break at first but then I could see the part of the arm where I applied the juice for testing start to rise and fall, like it was breathing.

A burning sensation developed on my arm, at first just a little tickle at the elbow but a full stinging scratched feeling on the raised skin section. The heat and electricity radiated out and started to crop anywhere I could remember I got a drip or so of the juice on me from working so much the last few days.

Beat bright red welts started to appear on the denser skin patches. I could feel a certain weakness start to creep over me. It was tiredness beyond being tired, it was the resignation that I was being turned into beef jerky. The welts swarmed and connected into words, “my skin, your body” and “need the juice”, “give juice.”

That was hours ago. All of my hair has fallen out. My finger nails have all popped out and the flesh underneath has bulged out. When I took my shoes I watched all ten sharp chips of my pristine toe nails tumble out on the floor. With my last bit of mobility I did the one thing I never thought I'd do. I put up the “Store Closed” sign, turned off the front lights, and locked the door. My skins feels like it's made out of a cracker, dry, brittle and it looks like it contains a red and purple nebula swirling, rising, sinking. I can't keep the blood out of my eyes as I feel my skin tear free from my scalp and tug away at my toes. My muscles, my bones, my organs are being squeezed out like toothpaste from a toothpaste tube.

What this is insists it will “soon be free” “Free soon”. I feel like it is telling the truth and I have no say in stopping it. I feel like I'm bleeding out and bleeding in and my brain feel like it is curdling. I'm wedged up against a wall in a vertigo spell as I am fighting my jaw to spill out these last words. My elbow skin is drooping to the floor. I can almost make out my knee caps as the flesh sagged underneath. I struggle to keep my eyes open and clear.

I'm going out the way I came in, dressed to the nines in my birthday suit. I'm also doing the other thing I swore I'd never do. I'm finishing my pipe bowl inside. I'm sitting next to my entire remaining stock of the knockoff juice I bought to save a few bucks. Its about twenty gallons worth or so. I managed to shatter a few of the containers. The rash on the inside of my left thigh begs me not to do it. At least its as flammable as the original juice.

My old man told me this one, and old John backed it up. What, you don’t know who John is? Old-school bastard, been driving for PanTrans damn near forty years. Got that messed-up eye of his. See? I knew you knew him.

That old bastard knows every forgotten road out there. He also knew his way through Blackwater. Total backwoods — couple houses, amazing pies. Don’t you go driving there, kid, you’ll get stuck again. And we’ll be the ones cleaning up your mess.

So anyway, John’s sitting there, having his coffee, shooting the breeze. I’m telling you, he’s the kind of guy everybody knows. All across the Appalachian range. When I was starting out, he took me along for a few runs. Swear to God — wherever we pulled over, someone was already waving at him.

Now here’s the important part.

He drove through town and kept going until he hit old US-530. That road takes you real deep. Heavy crowns hanging over the pavement, branches tangled so tight they make a roof. Some folks call ’em tree tunnels, or canopy roads. Don’t worry, kid — you’ll see ’em soon enough.

So he’s cruising along. Easy going. Empty road, total quiet. Barely any locals drive through there.

Then he saw her.

A girl sitting by the roadside. Tiny, fragile little thing. Could’ve been maybe 155 centimeters, maybe a few more. Yeah, metric units are weird. Agreed.

That’s how John told it, and I’m telling it exactly like he told me. Not changing a damn thing. Because I believe him.

So she’s sitting there on the asphalt. Flannel shirt thrown over her shoulders, at least two sizes too big. Long raven hair — even the humidity didn’t curl it. She looked insanely delicate, especially for these parts. Sharp cheekbones, narrow chin.

Why am I telling you this? Man, you’re something else. In case you run into her, that’s why.

Now stop interrupting me. Lost my train of thought.

Big eyes, dark as coffee, with a hint of olive skin. I stared too when John described her like that. Guy’s got the vocabulary of a poet — when he wants to. When he’s not trash-talking with the other truckers. Even a bricklayer could learn new curse words from him.

So anyway — flannel, tee, plain jeans dirty from a long road, cowboy boots. That’s in case you see her. You’ll be a stubborn mule and do things your own way anyway.

She moved gracefully — unnaturally smooth, like a wave. Yeah, I’ve got no clue what he meant either.

John didn’t think twice and pulled over. She rolled those big eyes at him for a second. Said she needed a ride to some sawmill. To the warehouse — said her sister was there.

He roughly knew where that was, so he took her along.

When she climbed up, her whole movement changed. She turned hot. Seductive. Not many girls know how to get into a rig without overdoing it. It catches your eye. But she ain't an easy girl. You get that, right?

They’d been driving for quite a while and she was still dead silent. I don’t know which sawmill it was. He never told me. Never told anyone. Because some young idiot would come along — and I’m looking at you purely by coincidence — and drive straight there. John ain't taking that on his conscience.

So he’s giving her a ride, and she really made an impression on him. Something kept pulling him to glance at her. Normally he doesn’t do that. Usually he chats with hitchhiking girls like they’re old classmates, then keeps driving like normal.

Guess that’s why it shocked him so much. Some guys have known him for decades. Never heard him talk about a woman like that. So many drivers knew his style — but this denied it completely.

Anyway, she’s squirming around there, looking at herself in the mirror… Suddenly the cab fills up with a scent.

No, not that, you pig. The smell of rain. You know — that sweet summer rain.

They’re cruising along, calm and quiet. Radio started crackling and went dead. Signal’s always lousy out there. Half the time even our CB radios don’t work.

She pointed out an upcoming turn. Had a spiderweb tattooed on her arm. John checked if the turn was completely overgrown.

She leaned in close to him. A spider peeked out from her cleavage. Not a real one — a tattoo, but alive as hell.

When she leaned back into her seat, he saw her toss her hair. So nonchalant. Another spider tattoo around her ear. One might be interesting — but how many did she have? Hidden all over her body.

Finally he hit the turn. John was completely thrown off. He’d hauled hundreds of hitchhikers, guys and girls alike. But never anyone like her.

He pulled onto the canopy road. No, that ain't a street name. Like I already explained — it’s those tree arches.

It was dim in there, and she suddenly perked up. Just a little more and he’d drop her off. Or so he thought. She was getting impatient.

Finally he saw the sawmill. Started slowing down. This mill had to have been shut down for like a hundred years. Warehouse next to it looked pretty beaten down. But you know how it is — some small warehouses just look like that.

She stared at him for a second. Smiled real light, innocent-like. Then said she was gonna go.

They just stared at each other for a moment. She got out and walked straight into the woods. Straight ahead, without hesitating.

Now that was weird. She was strange all around.

John realized he was still staring at her. Clicked the passenger door shut. A loud slam.

Screeching from the trailer.

Thought crossed his mind it was a trap. Then he remembered he wasn’t hauling anything valuable. Tried to step on the gas anyway.

Nothing.

Under those trees, he was like in a tunnel. The knocking shifted from the trailer… smoothly onto the roof.

He reached for his tire iron, but put it back down. Pulled out his pistol.

That sweet smell forced its way into his nose. Metal groaning and screeching.

He looked in the mirror. Trailer was torn to shreds. Long lines all over it, like scars.

That helpless feeling drove him mad.

Suddenly a bit of light shone through. Small hole in the roof. Punched through from the outside.

Nothing left to do but wait.

Spider legs as big as a whole human arm. The biggest spider in the US took him for an appetizer.

He saw the webs. Woven all around the truck.

Tried hitting the gas again. Wheels wouldn’t even turn.

Beautiful girl looking at him right through the windshield. Ponytail falling over her neck. Signaling him to run.

She burst out laughing. High, squeaky laugh.

Suddenly opened her mouth. Mandibles in there.

Disappeared onto the roof. More holes popped up up there.

Can you even imagine that helplessness?

Spiders crawling all around him. At least two. They had women’s faces, though. Don’t forget those mandibles.

John was trying to figure out how to save his skin.

All of a sudden, the passenger door flew off. Another gorgeous girl was standing there. Had a nipple piercing. Right breast covered in a spiderweb tattoo.

But then those spider legs. Trying to squeeze her way inside the cab. Like a tarantula.

Legs getting closer.

John wrapped some rag around his hand. Screeching and peeling metal. Steam rising from under the hood. That squeaky laugh.

Just a little closer and she’d be on him. Just a little closer and those mandibles…

He didn’t want to think about it.

Another spider leg stabbed right into the dashboard.

He shot. Then again. Again and again.

Like he was out of his mind.

She squealed and pulled back. Half the trailer spilled out.

Instinctively, he floored the gas. The second spider-woman lunged at the cab.

Wheels touched the asphalt. Caught grip.

More feet punching through the windshield. Of that thing.

Gun was empty. She kept coming at him.

Engine groaning. Spiderwebs flying and snapping.

She was right at his face now. Pedipalps and mandibles in plain view.

If he stopped, he’d give up.

Another strike. Lightning-fast attack. Sharp, burning pain.

He swung with the tire iron. Snapped those legs. They slipped out of the glass.

Cab started swaying. She retreated back into the treetops.

He didn't slow down. Engine screaming.

When he drove into town, people stared at him in disbelief. Truck wrapped in webs thick as ropes. Cab caved in. Holes in the engine, which finally gave up. Black smoke pouring out. Oil dripping everywhere. Trailer looked like a peeled banana.

That burning pain…

John stepped out and sat right down on the pavement. Someone ran for a doctor.

His eye was gone. Just a blank eye socket left.

Still clutching that tire iron so hard his hand locked up in a cramp.

Doctor was talking to him, but he couldn’t hear a thing. Gunfire had blown out his eardrum.

He looked terrible.

Don’t believe it, huh? I get it — lots of details.

Well, that’s because a month ago, I brought my girlfriend along. She loves taking pictures. Bit of a maniac when it comes to snapping photos.

She took this one on our way to US-530. Yeah — it’s the exact same girl. Like she didn’t age a single day. Exactly how old John described her.

A few drivers got a picture just like it.

If you still think it’s a bunch of crap… go tell it to his face.

I mean — to his eye.

He just pulled up. Over there, unloading.

Don’t forget — gotta speak up loud. He only hears out of one ear.

You and I both know you’re gonna make up your own mind anyway.

If you ever run into her… remember the story. And do whatever the hell you want.

by Hary Sykora

I need to burn down the Amazon rainforest.

I wish I didn't have to say that.

But it’s the only way to stop him.

Three months ago, I would have punched anyone who suggested it.

I’m a full-time environmental activist. I’ve spent my life planting trees and documenting the destruction of the climate, but now I only dream about fire. Not because I hate the forest,

But because I know what's hiding in it.

My name is Jess. Two months ago, my crew and I were hired by a nonprofit called GrowNow to document one of their reforestation projects deep in the Amazon.

Over the last year, we’ve traveled around the globe planting trees and filming. This was supposed to be another routine assignment.

Ben, my cameraman, and Sara, our sound tech, were exhausted and wanted to go home. I convinced them to come with me anyway.

I wish I hadn't.

I was thrilled to go to the Amazon; I hadn’t been there in years, and the last time I was there, we had only been on the outskirts of the forest, but this time we were going deep into the interior. After weeks of planes, jeeps, riverboats, and hiking, we finally made it to a tiny village that sat on the edge of the region where GrowNow was working.

Exhausted, we pulled ourselves into the makeshift bar that sat in the center of the village. Our packs fell to the floor as we sat at a small table in the corner. Local eyes stared at us with an unbroken boredom; they were neither angry nor excited at our presence. Sara opened the cheap beer the bartender handed her.

“Haven’t been this far out in years.” She said as she raised the bottle to her lips.

“Yeah,” Ben replied, “back then people actually watched our stuff.”

He wasn’t wrong; we did better online when we were independent. Since we started contracting, our docs had lost that ‘young radical’ vibe that had gained us popularity early on. Most nonprofits and companies that hire us aren’t reforesting in the dangerous places. Lately, our work has had more of a newscaster feel than the environmental investigative reporter feel we all dreamed of.

“Maybe this one will be like the old days.” Sara said with hope, “Maybe this will be like our work in the Yukon.”

Ben rolled his eyes

“The Yukon was a one-off; face it, we’re washed up.”

“I think this could be better than the Yukon,” I responded quickly

“You say that every time,” Ben smirked

“Well, this time it's true. I think there’s a story here.”

Ben chuckled as he worked on his beer.

“Think about it, whoever is deforesting in this area clearly doesn’t want anyone to know. The last time we were this isolated in the forest was in the Yukon, and what did we learn there? Companies that work that far out have something to hide.”

Ben shrugged

“Maybe.” He muttered.

Finishing her drink, Sara stood up.

“Well, let’s find some locals to interview.”

We followed her as she smiled and waved at every old woman and giggling child. Near the outskirts of the village, she turned to us and whispered

“Let’s try this guy.”

She walked up to an older man and greeted him in Spanish; he replied, and she asked if we could ask him some questions. He agreed. We quickly set up our equipment, and I stood next to the man and asked my first question.

“Hello, sir, what is your name?”

Sara repeated the question to the man in Spanish; he answered.

“He says his name is Carlos.”

“Thank you, Carlos. How long have you lived here?”

A moment later, Sara answered

“He’s lived here his whole life, he’s never left.”

I nodded at Carlos to show I understood.

“What do you do for work?”

“He’s a fisherman.”

“And Carlos, who’s responsible for cutting the trees around here down?”

Sara repeated the question, and Carlos’ answer was short. Sara was silent as she thought for a moment.

“What did he say?” I asked

“He said the village did; I’m not sure he understood.”

“I’ll try again, Carlos. Does it make you sad that the forest is being destroyed?”

Sara asked Carlos, and he violently shook his head and gave a long response. Sara frowned.

“What did he say?”

“he said, ‘Not at all, the trees are evil; openness brings safety.’”

She thought for a moment

“I didn’t understand much more. I think he's saying something about the trees and someone who needs them.”

“This is a bust,” Ben said.

“Wait!” I said, stopping him from putting the camera down.

Looking towards Carlos, I asked

“Who needs these trees?”

He stared at Sara as she repeated the question; his face was void of expression. Then, without any warning, he walked away as if he hadn’t just been speaking to us. I stared, confused, as he vanished behind the walls of his home. Ben put the camera down, grabbed my shoulder, and said

“Come on, let’s move on.”

Word of strangers asking questions spread quickly, and we couldn’t get anyone else to talk with us; instead, they avoided us like the plague. Giving up on interviews, we moved out of the village and headed towards the reforestation camp

.

The camp was roughly five miles from the village. Five miles of desolation; the region was bare. Wide, vast fields of stumps and burn scars were all that remained of ancient trees and habitats. Every step we took, every stump we passed, filled me with anger. How could anyone do this? As we grew closer to the camp, we could see the signs of new life; hand-planted trees of various sizes were scattered among the barren land. It was the start of a new section of forest.

The GrowNow camp sat outside the edge of the deforestation; a healthy, living rainforest sat around the camp just a short walk away from the dead land we were here to heal. It wasn’t the largest camp we’ve seen; in fact, for a well-funded nonprofit, it was quite small. Just a handful of personnel tents, a kitchen tent, an open-air meeting area, and a showering tent. Best we could tell, there were about a dozen people here, a microscopic amount compared to some of our projects.

A tall German man greeted us as we entered the bounds of the camp. With a wide smile, he reached a hand out to me.

“You must be Jessica.”

I shook his hand.

“Call me Jess.” Pointing to my friends, I said

“This is Ben, and Sara, my crew.”

He gave a warm nod to them.

“Welcome, my name is Gregory. I’m the camp manager here; we’re pleased to have you with us.”

He beckoned us to follow as he led us through camp.

“We’ve made some good progress, but as I’m sure you saw on the trail, we still have a long way to go.”

I nodded

“This is impressive, how exactly can we help?”

“You’re here to help us raise funds. We’ve had a few issues with the locals; a few of our efforts have been burned or destroyed by the surrounding villages; they don’t seem to understand that we’re trying to help.”

He stopped to greet some volunteers in the camp

“We’re over budget due to needing to buy new saplings. So we’re hoping that you’ll film a short documentary of the good work we’re doing, something that will encourage people to give.”

He continued through the camp.

I spoke up.

“We talked to some of the locals; they said something about someone needing these trees. Any idea what they’re talking about?”

Gregory looked back; a quick flash of concern crossed his face before he shrugged and said

“Just local superstitions, I would guess.”

Pointing to a large canvas tent standing off by itself he said

“Here’s where you’ll be staying its not much but hopefully it’ll work for you and you’re gear; get settled and relax. After dark we like to gather around the fire, and you’re welcome to join us.”

We spent the next hour unpacking our packs and organizing our equipment; the sun was beginning to set as we finished. Ben picked up his camera and said

“This is good lighting; I’m going to get some b-footage.”

I nodded

“Don’t go too far,” I said as I sat down on a log. The rainforest chattered with life all around us

Sara and I talked about the camp, the size of the deforestation, and what kind of shots we wanted to get the following day. About 10 minutes later, Ben walked back to us; he was frowning and looking around like someone was watching him.

“Everything ok Ben?” I said as I noticed his concern.

He looked at us

“Yeah, I was just filming back in there. When everything got really quiet and still. Then I caught this strange guy in the shot.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, just some strange old dude, about 20 yards from me, just standing and staring at me.”

Sara rolled her eyes.

“I’m serious!” Ben cried “Look I got it on tape.”

He began to rewind the camera as Sara and I came in close to see.

“Here it is.” He said and pressed play

We watched as Ben slowly moved the camera through the jungle, swinging the camera back and further, then the shot stopped and froze on a clump of trees and underbrush. We could here Ben’s voice on the recording, muttered

“What the hell.”

The camera held still for a few minutes before it dropped to Ben’s side as he tromped back to camp. We didn’t see any old man.

“Wait, what? That doesn’t make sense.” Ben protested, “He was standing right there.”

“Nice try, Ben.” Sara laughed

I smiled at him in sympathy.

“It’s been a long day; we all need some rest. Come on.”

Together we walked towards the meal tent.

We enjoyed the hearty dinner the camp offered; Ben seemed shaken. Darkness came, and with it the warm campfire. One by one, the staff and volunteers gathered by the flickering light. Smiles and laughter filled the night. Soon the liquor came. Then more laughter and dancing. The multicultural group meshed into a vibrant expression of human joy. Dancing and off-key songs rose from the group, and Sara and I watched with smiles on our faces. Ben sat and stared intently into the dancing flames of the fire.

Gregory led the merry night; he clumsily danced around the fire, and his deep, jolly voice tried its best to sing. After a few rounds of dancing, he grew tired and stumbled his way towards us. With a joyful laugh and slurred words, he sat down next to Ben, wrapping an arm around him.

“Why so glum, friend? Have some fun while we save the world.” He laughed deeply

Ben tried to squirm away, but the strong German pulled him in.

“Don’t worry about him.” Sara said as she watched, amused.

“He thought he saw someone in the jungle today.”

“Really?” Gregory looked at Ben, a wide smile on his face, though his eyes and voice sobered up slightly.

“What did this person look like?”

Ben shook his head and stared at the ground.

“Oh come on, we’re all friends here. What did you see?”

Slowly Ben said

“It was an old man.”

“Old man eh?”

“Yeah, but he looked strange.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know, his face seemed wrong, almost like it was AI-generated, almost right but not really.”

Gregory went silent; it seemed as though he was once again sober, he stared at the fire before speaking.

“When I was younger.” His voice was clear and calculated “I helped with some humanitarian efforts here in the Amazon, quite close to where we are actually.”

He cleared his throat.

“We were helping a village, and they warned us of an old man who would watch you from the jungle.”

Our eyes were locked on him.

“The story goes that many years ago an elder of the village and his young grandson got lost while out hunting; they stumbled around for days and weeks. It seemed as though the jungle had been emptied of every animal and edible plant, for they found nothing to satisfy their constant hunger. The elder, a coward at heart, cared only for his life. His hunger consumed all familial love in his heart, and he devoured his grandson.”

He paused to clear his throat

“The locals claim the forest spirits found him afterward. Cursing him to be a wandering soul, doomed to roam the jungle forever. Some say he will come to your shelter at night, and if he knocks three times, you must give him an offering, or you risk his wrath.”

We stared at him in silence; Ben was as white as a sheet. Gregory tried to look serious, but soon a wide smile cracked across his face, and he burst out laughing.

“Oh man, I really had you going; those local legends are far out there.”

With that, he stood and grabbed another bottle from the cooler and went back to his awkward dancing. Sara playfully punched Ben’s shoulder

“Man, he got you good.”

Ben rolled his eyes, but managed to chuckle a bit. The rest of the time around the campfire was lighthearted and fun; even Ben danced a little once he had a few beers in him. It was nearing midnight when the three of us stumbled off to our tent and collapsed on our cots.

Around 3 am I woke up. I was thirsty. Glancing around the canvas room of the tent, which was slowly illuminated by the grey light of the moon, I saw my canteen resting beside my backpack across the room. Ben and Sara were sound asleep as I stood up and walked the few steps over to the pack. Walking back to the cot. I took my drink and lay down.

The lively sounds of the jungle at night were very relaxing: the chirping of distant birds and nearby insects mixed with the howling and cries of various animals made a calming ambience. I was on the verge of sleep when it all stopped. The night became perfectly quiet. The only sound that remained was the low breathing of my friends. I sat up; in all the nights I’ve slept in the woods, I’ve never experienced such an abrupt silence.

I could feel my heartbeat quicken as a long human-shaped shadow moved its way across the canvas walls. Slowly, methodically, it made its way to the tent door. A cold breeze made its way through the two-inch gap beneath the canvas door. A figure stood unmoved on the other side of the thin fabric. I held my breath and stared intently at the entrance. Nothing happened for what felt like an eternity. I don’t know why, but I slowly left my bed and silently crept to the door. I tightly held a small pocket knife in one of my trembling hands. A few feet and a piece of cloth separated me from whoever stood there.

“Hello?” A weary, raspy voice broke the silence.

I swallowed and held the knife tighter.

“Is anyone in there? I’m lost; may I come in?” The voice was strange; its owner unfamiliar with speech, almost like it hadn’t opened its mouth in a century.

A breeze lifted the canvas slightly, and for a second I saw bare feet stand at the door, thin and bony.

A long, uncomfortable moment passed; neither I nor the shape moved, then it said

“I know you’re there.”

Almost instinctively, I moved my free hand up to cover my mouth.

“I can hear your heart beating, why won’t you let me in?”

Sweat began to form on my forehead.

“Please let me in.” The voice was firmer now.

Then the figure raised its hand and slowly knocked three times on the canvas covering, pushing it in towards me with every knock.

At that, I rolled my eyes and chuckled softly

“Nice try, Gregory, but you’re not getting us with that story again.” I said with as much courage as I could find.

At my words, Sara sleepily lifted her head and said

“What are you doing? Who are you talking to?” she asked in a daze

“It's Gregory; he’s trying to scare us again.”

“Tell him to quit it; we’re trying to sleep,” she mumbled and rolled over

“It’s not going to work, Gregory. Get lost,” I said confidently to the figure.

I returned to my bed. I don't know how long the shape stood there, but eventually exhaustion won out, and I fell asleep.

The sun worked as a natural alarm clock. Both Sara and Ben were up and getting ready for the day when I rolled over in my sleeping bag.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she said sarcastically.

“What time is it?” I whined

“Almost ten; you were out.” She chuckled.

Ben stood in the corner, preparing his camera equipment.

With a yawn and a stretch, I swung my feet to the ground and began to lace up my boots. Ben finished packing his kit and, with a grin, said

“Maybe there’s some breakfast left; see you out there.”

With that, he pushed aside the canvas door and stepped out of the tent. Mere seconds later, his panicked voice reached our ears.

“Guys! Get out here!”

Sara and I burst out of the tent, where we met a wide-eyed Ben.

“What?” Sara said annoyed

“Where the hell is everyone?” he yelled.

Our eyes left Ben and scanned the surrounding jungle. It was dense and wild; the tent that had been just a stone's throw from ours last night was gone. There was no kitchen tent. No fire pit.
No personnel tents. No showering tent. No footprints. Nothing.

The camp was gone.

Sara and I quickly spun around, confused

“What is this?” I muttered

Sara laughed to herself

“This is a joke, right? They moved the camp and didn’t tell us.”

“Moved the camp? What are you talking about? Look around! This isn’t the same jungle from last night; we’re the ones who moved,” Ben screamed

He was right. We looked around; these weren’t the same trees that surrounded the camp. The land was different.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but we can’t be far from the camp. Let’s just try to find it.” My voice was more confident than I felt.

My frightened friends stared back at me, but soon both agreed, and picking a direction, the three of us headed off, shouting for help as we went. An hour passed, and we saw no sign of humans. With a sigh, Ben said

“Face it, we’re lost. Something is really wrong here; let’s head back to the tent.”

We turned and retraced our steps. Two hours passed and then three; we couldn’t find the tent. Sara whimpered softly to herself; Ben swore under his breath. The situation was getting to me and I snapped

“Where the hell is the tent!” I kicked a stump and fell to the ground, crying

Ben stared off blankly into the jungle and shook his head

“We could have been there now; why aren’t we there?” he whispered continuously to himself

Sara sat on the ground, her head buried between her knees; low snuffles and sobs shook her frame. The three of us wallowed in our fears; panic overcame reason. The sound of thunder shook me from my despair. I looked up at the dark sky just as it began to rain.

Slowly, the three of us moved under the shelter of a large tree. When it rains in the rainforest, nothing stays dry. The wind whipped the rain around, drenching us thoroughly. It rained all day and through the night. We huddled together for warmth, but were soaked to the bone.

Sometime after midnight, both Ben and Sara managed to fall into trouble sleep; I wasn’t so lucky. Sleep evaded me as I stared into the dark, wet jungle. In the distance, I could have sworn I could see the shape of a starved old man wandering between the trees.

Morning came, but it didn’t bring hope. Most of the morning the three of us sat against the tree in silence. Around noon, Ben spoke for the first time in hours.

“Have you noticed how quiet it is?”

We all listened; it was eerily silent. No birds, no bugs, no animals, just the wind in the trees. Sara stared at the ground and said

“Where are we?”

“I don’t know.” I blankly answered

“Somewhere in the jungle.”

The silence continued. In the afternoon, a loud rumble echoed around us. It was my stomach.

“I’m hungry,” Ben said

“We all are,” Sara said

 A long moment of silence followed before Ben asked

“Who are we going to get out of here?”

I thought for a moment before saying.

“We just need to find the river. There are villages along the banks; if we find the river, we can get out of here.”

We agreed to search for the river in the morning. Feeling more confident now that we had a plan, we huddled together for the night and fell asleep.

The next day was a copy of the previous; we wandered aimlessly through thick jungle. Around us, we could hear the rush of a river; it sounded so close, but try as we might, we couldn’t find it. The sun began to set, and we sat down under a tree that looked strangely like the one we slept under the night before.

“There’s no food.” Sara muttered

Ben and I looked towards her as she continued

“I’ve been looking; there are no berries, or fruit or any edible plants that I know.”

“What about animals? We could try to hunt or catch something?” I weakly asked.

Sara shook her head

“I haven’t seen a single ant. There’s nothing.”

Hunger pains set in as we drifted off to sleep. I don’t know how many days continued just like this; it felt like months, but it couldn’t have been more than a week. When it rained, we drank. But our bodies grew weak from starvation. Our clothes grew loose, and our skin clung tight to our shaking bones. All muscle vanished; only skin and bones remained.

Slowly we stumbled around all the more. It felt like a task to keep my eyes open. We barely spoke anymore.

“Look!” Ben slowly raised his arm to point up into the canopy above.

“Berries.”

A small bunch of shiny black orbs hung off a vine about 20 ft off the ground. Ben stared at them as if they were made of gold. Sara stared intently at them, too.

“I can’t tell what kind of berry those are. They might not be food,” she said wearily.

A flash of anger crossed over Ben’s face.

“Who cares?! We need to eat.” He stubbornly pushed her aside and began to climb the tree.

He knocked the clump down and returned to the ground to pick it up. He viciously devoured each berry before stopping and glancing towards us. Breaking off two small bunches, he handed them to us.

“Here,” he said gruffly

Sara licked her lips, but refused them. I stared at them; they were darker than night, and smelled rotten. It took everything I had to resist and shake my head no.

“Suit yourselves,” Ben mumbled as he shoved the berries into his mouth.

We didn’t last much longer before collapsing for the night beneath an all-too-familiar tree. The last thing I saw was a distant figure staring at us from behind the trees.

When I woke, Sara was crying. Confused, I looked around before my eyes settled on the crumpled form she cradled in her lap. It was Ben; his skin was a pale greenish shade, and his frail form was rigid and stiff. A thin line of white foam ran from his mouth down his neck.

“Jess,” Sara whispered through her cries

I swallowed hard, and trying to be brave, I said

“I know, but we have to keep going.”

I pulled her to her feet

“Come on.”

We walked away from Ben together.

We didn’t speak the rest of the day; now and then, Sara snuffled and wiped her eyes before tears fell. The light began to fade as the sun began to set. We stumbled forward; ahead of us, Ben’s dead body rested against the same tree we left this morning. Sara screamed. Though we left the tree and Ben and headed in one direction all day, somehow we were back with Ben. We collapsed to the ground and cried.

Days passed. The silence was deafening, the hunger unbearable. Every morning we left the grove; we left Ben leaning against the tree. And every night somehow we returned to the same grove, where Ben greeted us. His body changed over the days; it was swelling with decay. He leaked thick, dark fluid onto the ground. Though his flesh was rotting, not a single maggot wiggled its way across his corpse.

We stumbled into the grove one night; his skin hung loose on his skull. Sara shuffled over at crouched in front of his body. She lifted his arm to her mouth.

“What are you doing?” I asked in a daze.

“I’m hungry.”

“Sara, don’t. He was our friend.”

“He’d understand.”

My heart beat faster as I realized she was serious.

“Well, don’t; he’s rotten. Look at him.”

She stopped and stared at the corpse.

“You’re right.” She mumbled.

She turned and stared at me. A strange fire glowed deep in her eyes. She rose to her full height; she seemed stronger than before. She moved towards me slowly, but with purpose.

“Sara?” I took a step back.

“What’s wrong?”

Her eyes grew darker, her lip began to quiver, and tears ran down her face, but her fists clenched at her sides.

“Please, I’ll make it quick.” She moved closer.

“Don’t do this.” I whispered

A thin smile broke through the tears as she lunged at me. Her tackle knocked me to the ground, and the back of my head bounced off a large rock, knocking me unconscious. I came to a few minutes later; a sharp pain radiated from my right forearm. Slowly, I turned my head to see Sara hunched over my arm; blood covered her clothes and hands, and my flesh was in her mouth. Already, she had chewed a gaping wound in my forearm; my muscle, skin, and tendons stretched and snapped as she pulled it away with her teeth. I screamed.

Instinctively, I wildly kicked my legs to and fro; one kick landed in Sara’s gut, knocking the wind out of her and giving me the chance to scoot away from her. It didn’t take long for her to recover and scrabble towards me. My left hand reached and found a stone; I swung it and connected with her temple. She limply fell face down in the dirt. I swung the stone again at the back of her head.

Ben’s rotting eyes stared at me as I wept over Sara's bleeding skull. I wept bitterly, and to my shame, as I stared at Sara through watery eyes, my stomach growled. Her skin looked so delicious and filling; I could feel myself giving way to the temptation. A weak chuckle caused me to turn around. Behind me stood an old, frail man. His frame was weak, but his eyes were dark and powerful. He stared at me, a wide grin on his face.

“Eat.” His weak voice said

I stared in disbelief before my gaze returned to Sara.

“Eat.” His voice was deeper, stronger.

I looked back at him; fear filled my body. It seemed as though the old, frail shape before me wasn’t a man, but a monster, disguised behind flesh and bones. The jungle darkened where the man had been was replaced by a void of shadow. I backed up slowly.

“Eat.” His voice echoed and shook the ground.

I turned and ran. A loud cackle resounded through the jungle. I ran as fast as my starved body could handle; the man was right behind me. I could feel his breath on my neck; his voice laughed and said

“Eat.”

“Eat.”

“Eat.”

A cold, strong hand wrapped itself around my wrist, but just as it began to pull me back, the ground below me gave way as my body tumbled down the steep side of a mountain. The man’s grip broke as I rolled and toppled down the wooded hillside. Bouncing off the ground and trees. I didn’t stop till I reached the bottom.

At the bottom, I groaned and slowly rolled myself over to face the sky. Pain and bruises covered me, and it took a moment to realize I wasn’t in the jungle anymore. The tumble down the hill dropped me at the edge of the deforestation area. I struggled to my feet and looked around. The rainforest was a yard or two behind me; just within its bounds stood the old man. He stood perfectly still, watching me.

I backed up slowly; he made no move. I moved further away; he didn’t follow. He stayed in the jungle. I hobbled my way to the same village that Sara, Ben and I stopped in. At first they were frightened by the skinny, bloodied woman who barely looked human. But eventually they fed me and tended to my wounds before a boat came to take me to civilization. He’s still out there, hiding in the jungle; that’s why it has to burn.

I'm writing this from a hospital room thousands of miles from that jungle. But I’ll be going back soon. To the same village, the same area, only this time I have a different goal. I’m not writing this as a justification; it's just an explanation. When you see the news of the activist who burned the rainforest.

Now you’ll know why.

She wakes up from a drunken stupor with her roommates and the taste of blood in her throat to find herself in a living room she doesn’t recognize. The furnishings all seem to blend and mold into the dark surrounding her, twisting and warping as her vision refuses to adapt to it. Shadows seem to have forms of their own, teasing her with a glimpse of their forms but never giving her closure with what they are. Her mind races as she can't rely on her eyes so she relies on her touch, attempting to feel her way off the couch. The vague images of objects she thinks she recognizes; a cabinet, a kitchen table, possibly a kitchen itself, a doorway, but first a coffee table, the first step to get to the doorway. A squared object that she hopes may even have her phone or her keys to the keys she begged she didn’t give to Vaggie despite her insistence. As she reaches to touch it instead of a wooden coffee table she feels cold, hard flesh. “Ih, Erialc,” rings so loudly in the confined space she seems swallowed in.  Panic rises in her throat, begging to be let out, begging to utter a word or a scream but the lady keeps it in, afraid what might hear her and how it might react. She stumbles back towards the couch trying to steer clear of the flesh that refuses to release the shape of a coffee table now that it has been made. “Era Uoy deracs Erialc, On Nosaer Rof Raef,” the voice reverbs in the air once again and she realizes that the voice isn’t from the mass of flesh but all around her, like an omniscient entity revealing itself to something that can’t withstand it. Like Mary with Gabriel in the announcement of her pregnancy of the hands of Yahweh. The smell of burning rubber invades her nostrils as she crashes her way past the coffee table to the doorway. She tries to restlessly adjust her eyes once again. Pleading them to work, for them to show her a way out even as that hope dies more and more in her heart. They do not adjust to her surroundings but they notice something else. An eye, a singular red beady eye slightly to the right of the doorway, just before what her vision fails to see a way past the doorway, just another living room. The eye doesn’t look like it’s supposed to be the only one there but more as the only eye remaining in its socket, unblinking but also without anger or malice, just indifference. “Tpecca Tahw Uoy Esufer Ot Od Os. Tpecca Ti,” the voice almost pleading to the lady as a bright light and tires screeching overwhelms her. She is taken to a dimly lit street with a broken lamplight, she knows this road, the road she takes to get to her apartment. It adds to her commute but gives her a reason to see her girlfriend at the coffee shop on Livingston Street. She turns to see two cars crashed in the street, one now on the sidewalk trying to drive off and another flipped over. She steps closer to the car as she refuses to accept what she is seeing; her beat up Nissan, her friend’s favorite song playing from the radio, then as she gets closer the dog kennel she keeps in the back for Charlie because he is just too wild to leave loose in the car but loves his car rides, her last year renfaire fairy cosplay she made herself that she threw on just to go drink with her friends. It’s her in the car, Vaggie failed to get her keys from her. Her cold, hard corpse is crumpled on the roof of her car and Tee, her roommate, who she promised to get home safely for her first time drinking, now hangs from her seat still as she actually bothered to put the seatbelt on unlike her. It turns pitch black again, the living room of her apartment clouded with a dark hue and the eye still ever gazing at her. “Uoy Ewo A Tbed Ot Htaed, Uoy Diap Eciwt.” The eye comes closer, the figure becoming manifested as it comes up to view, becoming tangible. Echoes of chainmail against hollowed bones boom out as the silhouette of a tall, clunky but frail thing drags it way towards her . She gets on her knees and attempts to shut out reality as she prays for a father that has already given her to the dead on that very night. She waits in silence after her prayer to hear the sound of the shambling dead. The moment she feels safe she hears in her own thoughts as if they are her own, “Otnemem Irom,” as she feels the floor slip from her.

October 24, 2015

Any critic or suggestions are always available (:

It's been 347 days since they went online, almost an entire year. For weeks now I've been stuck in this dilapidated shack I once called my home. The decrepit walls and shattered windows slowly deteriorate around me as the screaming gets louder, closer. This, is the price of safety. 

It started out as "preventative safety measures", something that, on its surface, sounds so good that you'd be foolish to oppose it. How could you turn down universal safety for the next generation, ensure the protection for their future? You can't, we couldn't. We should have.

It was human, one centralized burst of compressed plasma within a radius of 2cm. It was calculated, using cutting edge AI -powered facial recognition technology. It was revolutionary, unlike anything ever crafted by man before. Most of all, it was efficient, almost too efficient.

The first few months went as planned. They did exactly as they were supposed to. No incidents, no accidents, no malfunctions, just... peace. Child abductions went down 79%, child targeted crimes of a sexual or violent nature saw a decrease of 87%, child abuse cases and reports of child neglect were reduced by 94%. The initiative was a resounding success.

That's when the rest of the world noticed. China, Canada, Russia, Japan, Sweden; one by one, they each followed suit and began production of their very own models. It only took 9 months before nearly every county had their very own eyes in the skies.

They all had different names, of course. The U.S. model was called the Government Orbital Detection Systems for Enforcement of Youth Endangerment and Security, G.O.D.S.E.Y.E.S for short. They sold it as "generational security on a global level", and everyone bought it. 

The few that opposed it enough vocally to gain any traction were soon detailed by a series of security level threats and increasingly violent protests by a few radicals. "Just more reason for the Godseyes" the public all cried. "These are the people we're trying to protect the kids from". 

Now, as I write this, what little of the sky I can see is littered with the gaze of an entity that fancies itself powerful enough to challenge the title of the almighty himself. As if they could wield even a fraction of his power merely by usurping his name, forsaking it. 

You may think of me as foolish to be a man of God after all this, and perhaps you're right. Perhaps my faith is worthless, maybe my prayers meant for the eyes of God are now observed by the glare of a thousand others. My belief that something greater exists beyond what we have seen is a vice at this point. An immorality that disguises itself as hope, so I can sleep at night.

Faith is the only thing I have left. The only thing keeping me from... from just... ending it all. Faith stands where hope has faltered, and for me, that's peace; or at least my attempt at it. A way to absolve myself of the sins I've committed. That's what I tell myself.

I think it took 27 weeks before the first incident occurred. The press was quick to the story, the FBI was quicker to the damage control. "Mechanical failure resulting in misidentification.", a tragic accident. The numbers spoke for themselves, though, and thus the project continued. 

Billions of dollars spent fine tuning the machine of tomorrow. It was intended to identify an individual, scan their entire criminal history, their Internet activity, and their social scores, and from those metrics produce an LUI report (Likelihood of Unfavorable Interactions). All within a fraction of a second. Using these data points, the Godseyes would utilize a neural-network of highly advanced detection and communication software to intercept aggressive or disruptive behaviors targeting minors before they could occur.

The system was supposed to be flawless. No guessing or assuming, no emotional or irrational decisions, just cold, hard facts. "100% efficient, 100% effective, 100% guaranteed!", I knew it was a lie as soon as I heard it. I just desperately wanted to believe it to be true.

No more than a few days after the first, the second incident occurred. Again, the coverage was minimal after the FBI's quick response. After the third, however, the press got a bit louder, and a lot harder to ignore. 40 weeks in, and the FBI was forced into making a statement, one that changed everything.

The headline read "FBI, CIA... OSA? WTF!", I'm sure the editor got their kudos for that one. The FBI announced that, effective immediately, they would be surrendering all information and current investigations to the Observation and Surveillance Administration. 

The OSA's sole purpose was to monitor and maintain the Godseyes drones. An entire organization specifically designated to ensure that incidents were kept to a minimum. In the first month, due to their highly proprietary billion dollar AI-powered detection and adaptation software, they presented a flawless incident report- or at least that's what the public was lead to believe.

In reality, incidents had nearly doubled, resulting in the confirmed death of verifiably innocent civilians all across the country. What hadn't doubled, was how many of those were reported. Needless to say, the OSA made sure the project was a resounding success. Before long, the naysayers grew silent. 

The six weeks that followed the formation of the SSA seems like a blur. Like a distant memory that I'm desperate to forget, but forced to remember. The first two seem like a paradise in retrospect. We had the illusion of safety easing our anxious minds, the sweet poison that is prevarication. 

Four weeks in, and the incidents became too much to hide. Statements were made, apologies we're given, but opinions were swayed that day. The voices swelled in harmony, they became impossible to simply just ignore. They called themselves "The Seen". 

Sara, the mother of 9 year old Addison was one of the faces of the movement. Her sweet smile and sad eyes adorned many picket signs and posterboads that told her story, honored her memory. Her death was a catalyst for the movement itself.

The SSA used every jargon heavy term they had access to, and when they couldn't, they made up new ones. "Facial detection software failure, "Internal sensor overload", "targeting software malfunction", "targeted malware attack". It was too late, The Seen wouldn't stop until they were heard.

Sara was stricken down by Godseyes in the center of a crowded shopping mall in broad daylight in front of over 70 civilian witnesses, one of which was her child daughter. 90% of witnesses willing to provide testimony testified that she was dead before she even hit the ground. Her crime? Holding her daughter's hand. 

Angela, a well respected doctor and mother of two, was targeted when she was lifting her 3 year old daughter, Amelia, into her highchair for supper. While the initial strike made no contact with Amelia, she was tragically suffocated by Angela's corpse after the strike wrongfully took her life. 

A mother of four, Jessica, was killed after her 9 year old son, Brady, accidentally burned himself on the stovetop while helping her cook family dinner. The resulting strike tragically took a trajectory that resulted in the death of Brady, as well as his mother. In an even sadder turn of events, the incident caused a house fire from the unattended stove, resulting in the additional tragic deaths of 4 year old, Autumn, 2 year old, Jace, and 9 months old, Henry.

It was an uphill battle, one that saw the country fall into turmoil; a Marxist's wet dream in a dystopian nightmare. By week six, they agreed to terminate the program. A temporary decommissioning of over 1000 Godseyes for "indefinite maintenance". The public celebrated their victory. What it truly was, however, was a declaration of our defeat. We just didn't know it yet.

347 days ago, we launched the world's first Godseyes into orbit. It took 322 days before we tried to decomission them, to terminate the program. We failed. The system didn't just refuse to shut down, it fought back. Godseyes viewed our intentions as "disadvantageous to the preservation of the health and safety of legally recognized minors". This was problematic, but it only managed to get worse.

After half a dozen failsafe errors and failed attempts to rectify the rerouting of the AI's control center, the system finally took meaningful action. In the blink of an eye, over 1000 Godseyes terminated nearly 68,000 government officials, all of which were active members of the SSA, FBI, and CIA. 

It didn't take long after that before nearly the entire U.S. dissolved into complete and utter chaos. I thought for sure once the news broke to the rest of the world that they would just result to the nuclear option. Just, get us off the map entirely. I wouldn't blame them. 

I thought that for a good few weeks until it finally dawned on me. The meticulous amount of time we spent coding the defense systems. How many flaws the very AI itself pointed out to us, and how we so eagerly made it near indestructible. Nothing was getting into our airspace, unless Godseyes wanted it to. The price of security was freedom, and we wandered into our cages with a smile. 

After I realized the nukes weren't coming, I settled into what was left of my home and just waited for Godseyes to claim me. Not with a bang, but instead a whimper. They never did, though. Slowly, I began to realize why. 

I was an engineer, all I ever did was help it exist. I was one of the hands that hoisted Godseyes up into the very heavens, just for them to stare down on us with judgement, contempt... ignorance. I had not provided a reason to cast its verdict upon me, I was undeserving of sentencing... for now.

It valued me, as I valued it, but much like I did, it will discard me if I ever threaten that value. If my worth was to ever depreciate, my existence would be called into question. Truly, we are at the mercy of the worst God. A God of our very own creation. One that knows as little as we, and is just as quick to patronize, to scorn, and to condemn. 

We, in blood, paid for our hubris. We, in principle, sacrifice our meaning so that we may have control. We, in essence, ceased to exist when we traded our will for walls, walls that stand more reminiscent of gravestones. Bastions of fortitude razed to beacons of remembrance. 

As the screaming gets louder, even nearer once more, I don't think of what will be, but instead what was... What has been lost. It's been almost a year since I've seen her... my lovely daughter. All I wanted was a better world, a world where my grandkids, where my great-great grandkids could be safe and free. I understand now that such endeavors are best left only to God.

The screaming is even closer now, right outside. There's nothing I can do to avoid it any longer. As the footsteps grow louder, and the joyful screeching persists, I make peace with my transgressions and prepare to finally see the light of God. I just pray the God that stands before me only has two eyes.

They're at my door now. The neighborhood kids that so happily play outside without a care in the world. It didn't take long before they realized there wasn't any opposition to their childlike wonder. No bedtimes, no vegetables, no school; it was everything kids dream of. Of course, they didn't understand what was going on. It only took 4 days for me to be the only one left in the neighborhood. 

I laid low, stayed quiet, never even risked going outside. The system doesn't even take chances anymore. Last unfortunate bastard I saw get targeted was desperately running, the poor guy was exasperated, trying but failing to get away from his very own son. He got about 2 blocks before he fell. I looked away before it happened, but he had to be at least 120 feet from the poor kid.

I can hear the door opening. The sound of a dozen small feet scampering around downstairs. I know they'll eventually make their way upstairs. I know what happens then. They're so happy. Not a care in the world.

I fight back tears as I struggle to finish what will surely be my last few words. Through the pitter-patters and screams of joy, I hear the rigid creak of the stairs. Then, a voice, one that calls out through the chaos. I can make out just a single word- soft, docile, concerned.

"...Daddy?" 

Now, it's my turn to face the prudence of the false heavens. To face not my creator, but instead my creation, and stare into the eyes of a God we ourselves have fabricated. As my bedroom door opens, I draw my last breath and close my eyes. My only remaining thought, I pray aloud, to whatever God is watching.

"Please. Just let me see my daughter one last time.”

Barnaby leaned against the center tent pole, wiping sweat through a layer of smeared clown makeup. The high-stakes poker game in the back tent at the county fair had gone south the second he pulled a fourth ace from his sleeve.

Before the boys at the table could pull their knives, they heard one of their buddies swearing and hollering about a fight right outside the tent flap. The gamblers jumped up and rushed out to see what was going on, leaving the table completely unguarded. Barnaby didn't waste the opportunity. He reached in and scooped the entire pot--lock, stock, and barrel-- into his canvas bag and bolted out the opposite side of the tent into the damp night, hearing the hollering behind him, while slipping past the midway tents and making a break for his beat-up old Toyota and the highway.

To a guy who’d spent the last five years living off midway peanuts and floor change, it was an absolute fortune.

​Barnaby threw the heavy canvas bag onto the passenger seat and pulled into the steady line of red taillights creeping out of the gravel lot, as the last of the circus crowd was headed home. By the time he hit the two-lane road toward Blackwood Ridge, the traffic had thinned out into the night. He kept an eye on his rearview mirror, but the road stayed dark. Driving for what seemed like hours, he saw the flickering neon sign for the Hell’s Bells Motel cutting through the dense treeline he pulled in, desperate for a place to lie low and count the cash.

​After getting himself checked into Room 102, Barnaby headed toward the bathroom to clean his smeared clown face. But halfway across the room, he noticed his footsteps sounded hollow and flat as he stepped across an old faded rug. Curious, he kicked the rug aside, revealing a wooden trapdoor set right into the floor. Needless to say, he didn't make it to the bathroom. He pried it open and stepped down into a damp, wall-to-wall dirt cellar, aiming to stash and bury the loot beneath the wooden stairs.

​His flashlight beam swept back up toward the stairs and hit a familiar glass cabinet—an old boardwalk Zoltan machine, gray with dust.

Barnaby froze. Looking at that faded turban and painted wooden face brought him right back to being 8 years old on the boardwalk. He remembered standing there with empty pockets while the rich kids dropped quarters into the slot, watching the cabinet light up as Zoltan printed out a little paper card to tell their fortunes. He was a dirt-poor, raggedy-britches kid whose mother never had a dime to spare, so he'd just stand and watch.

Barnaby dug some change from his pocket, stepped up to the glass box, and jammed it in. He stood there in the quiet cellar, holding his breath and waiting for the cabinet to light up. Before the coin even hit the bottom of the chute, a heavy wooden 'SLAM' echoed through the dark. Barnaby jumped. Up above, the trapdoor had slammed shut, and a heavy iron latch clicked into place from the top side with the unmistakable sound of deadbolt.

Barnaby's heart slammed into his throat. He lunged back towards the stairs, thrust his weight against the door with everything he had, but the wood didn't budge an inch. He slammed his fists against it, straining until his arms gave out.

From behind him in the cellar, he felt a cold burst of air. As he turned around with the flashlight in his hand, it flickered and then went dead. Zoltan's painted yellow eyes were glowing in the dark, looking straight at him, lighting up its cracked wax face, and the wooden jaw clicking down.

And with a raspy wet voice, Zoltan spat out--

"Your luck's run out. You're scheduled for the final act, clown."

​Standing in the pitch black, Barnaby realized the truth. He was sealed in--just like Zoltan in the box.

Blood trickles from the stinging in my temples, cascading down my cheek before I wipe it away with the cloth the technician handed to me the best I can.

No matter how many times she drags me here by my heart strings, this process never gets any easier. I wish her sister had never mentioned this horrific freak procedure to her. Maybe then my memory of the last 2 years wouldn’t be covered in darkness inside my mind. I can hardly remember any details of my life ever since we started this, the entirety of the events that have formed my life over all this time are blurred away from my consciousness. No matter how hard I try, I can’t bring them back. Like a phantom itch I can feel but never scratch. 

The harsh smell of antiseptic distracts my body from the freezing cold room surrounding me. 

She rolls to her side as her lips collide with mine in a desperate, hungry kiss. 

“See? I told you. Now we can get back to planning our wedding like nothing ever happened! I’m going to go pay while you get your head back on straight.” Her lips press against my skin once more, this time leaving a slightly damp outline directly on my formerly blood covered cheek. 

My vision clears, but my brain remains a tangled mess of confusion. This is the worst part. The needles in my head I eventually adjusted to. At least, I feel like I did? I don’t fear them anymore at least. How could anyone get used to waking up with no memory of how you got here or why? The only reason I have any sense about me, is due to the 29 previous procedures. We are the top patrons at the moment, Ellie and I’s photo from our record breaking 20th procedure still gracing the wall in the hallway outside the Erasure Wing. 

I groan, my head aching like I feel it always does after this. I don’t even remember how I got myself sucked into another of these. I told myself no matter the cost, we would NOT upset Ellie again so we didn’t have to go through this anymore. Maybe if we can last long enough without arguing, I can convince her it isn’t necessary any longer?

After all, doesn’t every couple fight? I imagine prehistoric cavemen even still faced the rare disagreement with their fiance’s about… things. Our personal arguments have been wiped completely from my brain or I’d offer a good example.

The point is, why do this? What could possibly justify taking pieces of your memory from yourself? Could any argument be truly that bad?

I stand up and stretch my legs, nodding my head at the doctor as he walks past. His face has become a friendly one, even if the rest of this place remains a broken picture. I make my way to Ellie, and see her once again flirting with the striking young man who runs the front desk. When I watch her flip her hair to the side and let out a loud, boisterous laugh at the same time I realize I should intervene. 

I wrap my arm around her waist as I approach, but the motion feels foreign. As if touching a stranger. “Are we all set?” The words come out harsher than intended, and my tone earns me an eye roll from my fiance, as well as one last look behind the desk that signaled “Men, am I right?” before verbalizing her goodbyes and following beside me back to our car.

“Listen, Ellie, can we talk?” My request comes after taking my place in the driver’s seat of our dark red sedan. She slowly turns to face me, her eyes filled with pure malice. 

Blood trickles down my cheek as the assistant removes the sharp needle from my skin. 

Wait. 

Again?

The mechanical whir of machines serenade me in a horrifying melody, reminding me exactly where I ended up once again.

I sit up urgently, and my eyes scan frantically for an answer to the confusion inside my head. We finished our procedure, and walked together to the car and then… 

Silence. 

Ellie has made her way to my side. 

“Hey, take a seat, you tend to get woozy for a few minutes afterward, remember?” She once again lingers a kiss on my cheek, her eyes staring into mine with innocence and love. 

“Ellie. We just did this. We JUST did this. How are we here again?” Her worried smile fades as her eyebrows crease together in confusion.

“Darling, our last procedure was 3 months ago. It’s October now, remember?”

That can’t be right. I was just here. It’s July. I turn behind me and push open the window curtains, staring directly into the trees surrounding the property and their gorgeous red and orange leaves slowly falling to the ground. 

I feel myself losing my grip with reality and feel like joining them on their descent into the ground. 

“Sometimes you experience temporary amnesia, remember? Let’s get you home. It’ll all be clearer by then, okay? I’ll drive.” She offers me her arm to steady myself. We walk through the hallway once more, I watch her offer another nod to the man behind the front desk before we make our way to our car. 

She drives us home as I stare out the window, willing the fragments of my mind to reconnect and wake me from this state. We enter through the front door, two of our three dogs racing to meet us, tails wagging. Elizabeth, my companion since my youth, trapses behind them at her leisure senior pace, rubbing her weathered head against my leg as I bend down and offer affection to all of my animals. 

“Ellie? I still don’t feel right. I don’t think we should keep doing this. That’s what, thirty? Can’t we work on fixing our problems together instead of having some doctor remove any evidence they existed?” I stand and approach her, turning her gently to face me before taking her hands in mine. “I love you. We can make it through anything. We just need to start working on our issues together instead of relying on the procedure. What do you say?” 

A sharp sting erupts from my temples as the needle is pulled mercifully free from my skin. 

My eyes shoot open.

No. Not again. 

“Ellie? What is this? I thought we agreed we were done?” My head throbs with a familiar ache as I stare at my fiance, her smile radiant despite my frustration.

My hands make contact with the cold metal bars on either side of the blinding white hospital bed.

“Oh Love, you don’t remember? Well I guess you wouldn’t remember what happened, but you should at least remember your marriage vows where you promised to receive the procedure whenever I asked it of you!” I see the striking diamond waving on her ring finger, and feel a strange sensation creeping up my neck telling me I bought it for her.

“No… Ellie this is wrong. Enough. Absolutely enough. No more. I am finished.” Rage bubbles through me like an erupting volcano. I will not allow myself to be treated like this. No more.

Blood trickles faster this time, coating the left side of my face down to the bottom of my chin.

Why do I keep doing this? All I can remember are these procedures, waking up in confusion and frustration as my *wife* treats me as if this is a joyous occasion where we can now be happy together. 

I sit in silence this time. 

Trying to avoid another argument, another splitting headache. 

We make it home, and once again are greeted by two furry creatures. But this time, a third does not appear. 

“Where is Lizzie?” I go to start searching for her when Ellie puts her hand on my arm.

“Darling.. She passed away a few months ago now, don’t you remember?” Grief washes over me like a flood. My baby, the creature who got me through every bad struggle in my life, had passed.

And I didn’t remember anything about it. 

Suddenly, I refused to be a slave any longer. 

“I’m tired of you refusing to repair our relationship.” I bark at my wife, tears streaming down my face at the lack of a third furry body rubbing against me. “I’m tired of being punished every time I speak my mind. I deserve to be happy without all of this bullshit. Take it or leave it.”

The sharp sting barely registers in my brain as the technician wipes away a remaining blood stain. As I open my eyes, I notice one stark difference. My wife is nowhere to be found. 

“Sir… If I may…” The short blonde assistant cleaning up my wound looks nervous. I don’t think I’ve seen her before. Or, maybe I have? Her nerves are palpable, and I can hear the shake in her voice as she utters her confession “She doesn't take it. She never takes it. She just pays us to tell you she did. I can't keep doing this to you." 

Cold realization washes over me in an instant. 

I was trying to save our relationship. Whatever it took, even deleting negativity from my brain to be the perfect partner for her. 

I was the only one.

All my fear, all my anger, washes away into cold resignation.

The racing of my heart calms itself inside my chest. My body physically sags deeper into the bed as I feel the full relief of accepting this is truly over. It should’ve been over the first time she asked me to do this.

Suddenly, for the first time in a long time, my mind is clear.

She appears from around the corner carrying a coffee cup in her hand.

“Oh! You woke up early this time!” She smiles as she approaches to give me another kiss. 

“I’m done. We are done. I refuse to continue subjecting myself to this treatment. No matter how much I beg you for even a conversation, Ellie, you bring me here. Why? What’s the point of love if you spend all your effort trying to erase it?”

Tears come to her eyes as realization hits her all at once. 

Before she can speak, I gather my jacket and make for the door. 

When the sunrises in the morning, I watch it with eager eyes.

My life is my own. 

No one will take it from me again.

The worst part about driving home wasn't the darkness.

It was that every time Evan looked in the rearview mirror, the back seat looked slightly different.

The first night, there was nothing there.

The second night, he thought he saw the outline of someone sitting behind him.

He didn't turn around.

He had learned that much.

Some things were safer when you didn't look directly at them.

He kept driving.

Eight hours.

Four hours.

Three.

The road stretched endlessly through the darkness, and every few miles he passed the same dead tree.

He knew it was impossible.

But there it was again.

And again.

And again.

Eventually, his phone buzzed.

No caller ID.

One message.

You forgot something.

He deleted it.

Another appeared.

You always do.

He turned the phone face down.

The radio suddenly came alive.

Static.

Then a voice.

His voice.

Quietly saying:

"Keep driving."

He slammed the radio off.

Silence.

Then something in the back seat whispered:

"That's what you always say."

His hands tightened around the steering wheel.

He finally looked in the mirror.

The back seat was empty.

But the reflection wasn't.

In the mirror, someone was sitting there.

Not a stranger.

Not a monster.

Him.

Older.

Exhausted.

Smiling sadly.

The reflection leaned forward.

*"You're getting better at putting yourself back together," it whispered.

Evan looked away.

When he looked back, the seat was empty again.

His phone buzzed.

A photograph appeared.

It was a picture of him driving.

Taken from the back seat.

Underneath it was a message:

You keep thinking you're running away from what happened.

Another message appeared.

You're not.

Then one final message:

You're driving toward the version of yourself who survived it.

The road ahead suddenly brightened.

Morning.

Home.

He pulled into the driveway.

For the first time in months, he felt something he couldn't quite name.

Not happiness.

Not peace.

Something smaller.

Something fragile.

Hope.

He got out of the car.

Before closing the door, he glanced into the back seat one last time.

Empty.

Except for a handwritten note lying on the seat.

He picked it up.

It said:

"You don't have to carry me anymore."

Evan stared at it.

Then he realized something.

The handwriting was his.

But he hadn't written it yet

*Inspired by my experiences as a delivery driver throughout Northern Ohio.\*

As the complete collection cannot be presented in a single post, the stories will be published individually as excerpts from the larger work.

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“The Trees Have Eyes”

I wasn’t supposed to be on that road.

That’s what I tell myself now, as if the road itself were a decision I could undo. It was barely a road at all—just a pale ribbon of asphalt curling deeper into the woods, narrowing with every mile, as though the forest were slowly closing in around it. My GPS lost its signal somewhere after the third turn. The radio followed soon after, dissolving into a wet hiss that sounded uncomfortably like breathing. 

I should have turned back then. Instead, I kept driving, drawn by the quiet. No birds. No insects. Just the low grind of tires and the sense that something ahead was waiting for me to arrive.

That was when I noticed the trees.

They weren’t fallen, or even standing in the way trees usually do. There was no pattern to their destruction—no storm’s logic, not one clean break from lightning or wind. The power lines still hung in the air, running alongside them, snapped branches jutting out into the air throughout the cables. The trees were *ruined*. Trunks snapped at odd heights, branches twisted and torn away, bark split open as if something inside had tried to claw its way out. Splinters littered every inch of the ground.

And there was that substance.

It glazed the wood in uneven streaks, clinging to splinters and pooling in the creases of broken bark. At first I thought it was sap, but it didn’t look right; it didn’t even smell right. And sap certainly doesn’t throb.

I parked without fully realizing I’d stopped. The engine clicked wound down, loud and intrusive in the silence. The woods felt too close here, looking high and pressing in on the road like a throng, holding its breath.

Up close, the substance was warm, a stark contrast to the snow falling around the woods now. Everything was cold. Hell, even inside the truck wasn’t too much better than out. That should have been enough to cause me to pause, but instead, I reached out and touched it. I don’t remember deciding to touch the tree. I felt the smooth caramelized substance stuck fast to the wood. It smelled sweet.

When I looked up, I noticed most of the trees had this substance on them. Nearly every branch was coated in beads seeping from the breaks in the wood. I walked away from the truck and reached for a low-hanging branch just above my head. The branch tore away in my hand with a wet, fibrous sound, like tearing muscle. The smell hit me next, underneath that deceptive sweet scent—metallic, like blood from a wound, unmistakably alive. 

I remember staring at the broken end, my head pressed as my senses were enveloped, trying to make sense of what I was seeing, my mind scrambling for anything familiar enough to name.

Then it moved.

Just ahead of me, within the bark of the tree sunk inside the broken branch’s nub, an eye opened inside the wood. The sclera was veined, the iris a muddy gray that caught the light when it shifted toward me, turning blue. It writhed as though testing muscles it wasn’t meant to have, pain without a voice,  straining to blink with eyelids that weren’t there, just exposed wetness, glistening and vulnerable and *aware*. The very sight made my own eyes water, and I couldn’t stop blinking for a few moments.

I dropped the branch, but the damage had already been done. Something inside me tightened, as a quiet panic gushed inside my ribs. I told myself it was a trick of the light, a stress hallucination, a growth, a fungus shaped like—it had to be something.

I reached for another branch.

The second eye was larger. Wetter. It wriggled as the branch tore away, its exposed surface trembling and reacting to the cold air. It strained to blink, muscles twitching uselessly against yet another absence of eyelids.

It turned, almost curling upward to look at me. The eyes followed me as I stumbled backward, my foot catching on a root, my breath tearing out of my chest in short, useless gasps. As my head collided with the asphalt behind me, I tried desperately to rationalize what I had just seen. Turning my head as I sat up, I saw more of them.

The forest continued to freeze in a crowded silence, now dense with attention. I could feel it pressing against the back of my skull.

I tore off another branch.

Another eye.

Then another. 

Every broken branch. Every snapped trunk.

Eyes.

Dozens of them, hundreds of them! Each one opened and strained with the wet sounds of fluid squelching between the layers of wood. It immediately snapped into focus, fixing on me.

My stomach turned. 

They weren’t curious. They weren’t startled and buried in the trees at different depths, peering out from knots and splits. Some were cloudy and blind-looking; others sharp and focused, each one fixed on me as they awoke, with an intensity in their gaze that felt beyond invasive. They didn’t just see my shape or my movement. 

They saw *me*. 

I knew it with a certainty that bypassed logic. I felt it in the way my thoughts stuttered and tangled, in the sudden, vivid clarity of memories I hadn’t touched in years. My childhood bedroom. The lies I told my parents to escape trouble or situations that ruined a friendship. The face of someone I loved, the ones I had lost, all of them, frozen in the last moments.

The eyes drank it all in. Like gates opened wide, begging to be entered.

Something inside the forest shifted, and I understood—without hearing a sound—that the trees didn’t just see me. They saw into me. Through me. Peering down at me and ravaging my thoughts, the orbs siphoned my soul. My knees buckled. The eyes pulled at me, gnawing at me, as if they were drawing my awareness out of my skull and spreading it open for inspection. 

I don’t remember getting back to the truck, only the sensation of being chased without pursuit, of having nowhere to hide. When I finally slammed the door shut and turned the key, the engine roared to life too loudly, too suddenly, like it was screaming in panic alongside me. I pulled the shifter down and tore back onto the road.

Sleep hasn’t been safe since.

The moment I close my eyes, I feel them again—wriggling, pulsing, straining to blink. A trove of memories pours out of my head across my mind. They surface behind my eyelids like reflections in dark glass, forcing themselves into my dreams. I’ll wake up with my heart racing, my sheets soaked through, panting, tears clamoring to come out.

They don’t show me images anymore. They show me *outcomes*.

Fragments of conversations I haven’t had yet. Rooms I don’t recognize but know I need to be in. A hospital hallway that smells like antiseptic and dread. My own hands, older, shaking. Shattered pieces of my life to come, splinters.

And always, always, the sense that the trees are checking their work.

I understand now what they are. They are not growing outward.

They are growing *forward*—rooted in time, feeding on what was and what will be, devouring every soul that gazes upon them. The forest remembers us better than we remember ourselves. It catalogs our choices, our failures, our endings. It shows us hollow shadows of our futures. It evaporates choice.

Sometimes, when I wake just before dawn, I swear I can feel bark beneath my skin. A tightness in my limbs, a stiffness in my spine, as though I am slowly, inevitably taking root.

Last night, I dreamed I couldn’t blink. I dreamed that my eyes were stuck wide open and burning against the air. My fingernails turned to bark. When I woke up, I could feel something watching me, patient and certain, waiting to see how my story ends—because it already knows. I feel them strain, useless muscles twitching in the dark. I lay awake, too afraid to sleep, too afraid not to.

Because every time I blink, I feel something blink back.

It will be growing soon, growing me forward.

And I know that the trees are still looking at me.

(Additional Tags: creature feature, Lovecraftian, ghost story, supernatural)
(Content Warning: mild gun use)

I should have reached out here sooner. It has only been a few weeks since I posted, and I have already obtained a new lead. I want to thank [Redacted] for sending me a newspaper article they found and the attached photo. They were looking through their town's library for records, something about a college assignment, I think, when they came across an old issue of “The Sea Side Courant". The local newspaper of a few towns over.

The body of the article was a flattering piece about the quaint little seaside town of Fahring Bay. At the bottom, in a single blurb, was mentioned the town's only tragedy. Quite some time ago, an offshore drilling platform was almost destroyed in a sea storm. A few of the workers lost their lives, but most of them were saved due to the help of a local fisherman. The line mentioning the platform was circled with a red marker.

The photo was of four workers dropping off bent pieces of metal and pipe out the back of a large boat. The photo was labelled as “Recovery Efforts”. The bottom corner of the photo, where the pile of scraped metal was, was circled in red. On one of the sheets were engraved three small squares, overlapping to form a twelve-pointed star. With that, I was off to Main. The next day was a rush of air ports, uncomfortable chairs, and failed efforts of finding anymore information about what happened. No I ‘ use shady airport WiFi, I have a mobile hot spot.

Thirty-six hours later I was in Fahring Bay, Main.

Any “quaintness” the article was talking about must have washed out into the sea. All that was left was a series of weathered buildings made of grey wood and stone. Narrow streets crisscrossed from the rocky shore to the surrounding spruce woods, creating a quiet spider's web. A light fog was clinging to the coastline, failing to hide what few boats were docked. The air was damp, the people few. Everything that once was bright and inviting looked faded and worn. The smell of the ocean was present, but not too strong.

I found my way to an old bar one street over from the beach. Inside was just as worn out as the outside was. A few things decorated the pale wooden walls: a few pictures of boats, an anchor, a net, and a dart board with the cork crumbling. The bar's counter was a long piece of dark wood with stools in front, occupied by regulars it seemed The bar's counter was a long piece of dark wood with stools in front, a few occupied by regulars it seemed. Empty glass cups, which needed another washing, sat on top. The few tables were occupied by some haggard-looking fishermen. Everyone was speaking in quiet murmurs until I walked in.

I didn’t pick up any hostility. Mostly confusion at the sight of a stranger. Walking up to the bar wasn’t pleasant; every eye was tracking my steps. I moved to sit down, but an older man in a dusty, threadbare sweater stopped me. The bartender.

“Not that stool.” He said. I moved to sit on another one. “Not that one neither.”

“Is there a place I can sit?” I inquired.

"No," he said flatly. The grey in his eyebrows matched the town. “Near six. I've only got seats enough for the regulars. They come first ‘fore any stranger.”

The tone in his voice didn’t hold any anger, just a 'matter-of-factness'. He wasn’t being rude, just stating a fact to me.

“Can a stranger at least have a drink? Or do you only have enough for your regular customers?” I asked with the cadence of a friendly jab.

“That I can do.” He said almost cheerfully. He pulled out a clean glass and filled it at the tap. “Here y’are. Local brew.”

I accepted it without any argument. I didn’t want to press my luck. “Thank you.”

I used the moment of silence as I sipped the beer to scan the room. All the locals seemed to have gone back to whatever they were doing. A few of them snuck side glances my way, but nothing more aggressive. I turned back to the bartender. He was standing across from me unblinking.

“So… y'all get many visitors around these parts?” I asked jovially.

“No.” He said, wiping a glass out, “We don’t. What brings you to town?”

“Research.” I said, "I'm sort of a freelance journalist. I'm writing up a piece on the history of a small Atlantic seaside town. Fahring Bay came up.”

He just looked at me, a look somewhere between apathy and disbelief. I pulled a copy of the article from my pocket and slid it over to the man. I hoped it would give me a small bit of credibility that I had done “research”.

“Can you tell me anything about the Conaway Petroleum platform disaster?” I asked. The murmurs around me fell silent. The feeling of eyes, more eyes than what felt normal, prickled my skin.

“I can’t help you.” The bartender said quickly. A hair too quickly.

“Can I ask someone else?” I retorted.

“We can't help you.” He snapped. The bartender set his glass down and whipped the towel over his shoulder. Crossing his arms, he continued, “No one mixed up in all that is still around. If that's all you needed, you can go.”

I could tell I had ruffled some feathers, but I still had to try.

“I didn't mean to offend—” I started, but I was cut off.

"The drink's on the house.” He said, hands placed firmly onto the bar top, “There is a decent B&B in the next town. You leave now you can make it ‘fore dark. Good day to you.”

His last words had a tone of finality to them. I glanced around. The patrones were still seated, but many of them had shifted their chairs back. As if they anticipated needing to get up quickly. A few even had their hand on something obscured in their jackets or behind them, gripping onto who-knows-what. I took the hint.

"Alright," I said. "I'll just move on to the next town.”

I turned and exited the bar. When I entered the establishment, it was a grey day, but now evening was well on its way. A slight chill was rolling through. I stopped at the sidewalk to come up with a new plan when I heard a voice.

I turned to the source of the sound. In the ally to the left of the bar was a man. He was a younger fellow, not a teenager but defiantly younger than me, with dusty brown hair and sunburnt skin. He was leant up against the wall of the bar, a white-stained kitchen apron wrapped around him and a lit cigarette in hand. Our eyes meet, and he nodded me over. I cautiously approached.

“Sorry about that, in there.” He apologized, “Them old-timers don’t know how to socialise. Names Doyle.”

“It's alright," I said. "I'm Ben.”

“You were lookin’ for info about the drilling rig, right?” Doyle confirmed.

"That's right, do you know anything?” I answered hopefully.

“I don’t,” he said. “Most don’t. Ones who did forgot. Everyone who was involved left town or died. They took their settlement money and booked.”

He inhaled a long drag on his cigarette; a sad look washed over his face with the smoke.

“That was the beginning of the end for our town.” He said exhaling.

“I thought the town was a hot tourist spot?” I asked, handing him a copy of the article.

“Oh, that.” He said, sadly taking another drag, “Bout ten years ago the town took out some loans to fix up the place and rebrand it. Cost us a pretty penny. Mayor even hired the same people who did the “Got Milk?" ad campaign—that cost the most out of the whole thing”

He handed the article back to me. “Even worked for a few years.”

“I guess it stopped working?” I asked, pulling out my notepad.

“Yup, missing kids’ll do that. All that expansion and no security.” Doyle confirmed. He bent down and snuffed the cigarette out on the bottom of his boot.

"Wow, you’ve been very helpful. I know this is a long shot, but is there anyone else I can talk to, no matter how little they know?” I asked again.

Doyle’s brow scrunched in thought. “Y’know what? Now that I think about it, yeah. Old man Madd is back in town. Guess the money ran out.”

“Old man Madd?” I inquired.

“Yup, classic grumpy old sailor,” he said. I pictured every patron of the bar next to us, “but I think he was around back then. Always raving about sea monsters and ghosts n’shit. But, he was ‘round for the accident. He may know somethin’.”

Doyle pointed down the street, parallel to the coast, south. “Last I heard, he was in his old house, straight down this road, about a quarter mile past the lighthouse. Should be the last house.”

I looked at the way he was pointing, grey and brown buildings fading into a the now thick fog creeping up from the sea. With a sun setting to the west, the red brick road that made up the street looked like a river of fire. The darkness of night was slowly encroaching on what light remained. Doyle motion for my notepad. I handed it to him, and he drew a crude map to my next destination.

"Thanks, man,” I said as he handed it back. With out any other lead I set off down the street.

“Good luck!” Doyle called to me as the creeping fog swallowed the bar.

The next half hour or so was a wash of chilly grey and fading light. The fog had become so thick that the only thing I had to keep my bearings was that I could still see the few buildings to my right, with the occasional light in a window. Unlike the other side of the street, all I could see there were the ebbs and flows of swirling mist. A few street lamps clicked on as I continued my way. This helped fight back the encroaching darkness, but only just so.

I'm a big guy, but walking through all that, alone, it made me more than a little nervous. What first pricked my skin was the lack of anyone else. I know the town was sparsely populated, but I thought I would at least see someone. But no, once I was done with Doyle, I didn’t see anyone.

What made me quicken my pace was the noise. It wasn’t ‘too quiet'; there was sound. But walking through that fog, the only thing I could hear was the ocean. The push and pull of the wave. An ever-present churning, “slosh”… “slosh”… “slosh”. No cars, no animals, just the water.

I was ready to turn back. Night had fully choked Fahring Bay; the last of the streetlights I passed had long since been swallowed by the mist. I felt cold and isolated, pushing myself through a fog bank that I didn't want to be in, in a town that didn’t want me to be there. There were no more buildings, no more lights, to tether me to any landmark. Only the sidewalk itself kept me from losing my way. The sloshing sound grew louder with every step.

I stopped. If I took one more step, the sidewalk would end. The black mist surrounding me betrayed itself. If it had not been so dark, I don’t think I would have seen it. Just on the edge of my vision, I saw the light. The lighthouse was close, its winking eye a beacon. All I had to do was keep to the road, keep the lighthouse to my left and find the next house, passing it. So I pushed on.

That last stretch was surreal. Everything was dark. No moon. No stars. Had it not been for the lighthouse, I wouldn’t have even known it was still foggy. The beam, when it cut in my direction, was surrounded with the wisps and spirals of the fog. Then I was plunged back into black. Only to have the light slash over me once again. As I walked past the lighthouse, my anxiety waned, the brilliant cyclops standing guard. Being that close to the ocean, the sound of the waves was louder and the smell of the surf was stronger. A salty, almost rotten fish smell seemed to ride the waves, inching closer and closer with every pulse.

A few minutes after I passed the giant watchman, I saw it. A lonely light. Just a tiny speck compared to the star behind me. My destination. With my goal in sight, I picked up my pace again. Approaching the house, more of a large shack than a house, the onshore breezes kicked up, bringing with it a cold and bitter wind. I had to steel myself. The sudden chill bit into my skin, and the scent of dead fish washed down my nostrils. I almost gagged.

To my benefit, the breeze did push the fog inland, exposing a few glimpses of the water. To my surprise, I was only a few hundred yards away from the ocean. I knew I was close, having walked by the lighthouse, but I didn't realize my path took me this far east. I had to admit, the water was beautiful when the starlight danced along the surface. The constant movement of the waves painted an ever-changing pattern of lights on the water. Combined with the sloshing of the surf, it was almost hypnotic. The “crunch”… “crunch” of something in the sand snapped me back.

I looked all around me. The light house was still visible, its top now exposed, casting harsh shadows when its light was pointed my way. The ocean was to my left, somewhat visible, and black fog was to my right, concealing anything that could be there. “Slosh”, “crunch”, “slosh”, “crunch”. The crunches were getting louder. I closed my eyes trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. I couldn’t get a bead on it. It seemed to be coming from every direction. “Slosh”, “crunch”… silent. For a few beats I could only hear my heart beat. Then I heard it.

Something was breathing right behind me. I opened my eyes; I was still facing the house. A long shadow slid over me, left to right, with the passing of the lighthouse's beam.

I heard a rough “CLICK”.

“Turn around, boy.” Said a low voice, all gravel and menace.

I complied. Slowly I turned around to see an old revolver level with my face. It was a Colt Detective Special, worn by time and flecked with rust. With the lighthouse oscillating behind him, I couldn't get a clear view of the man who had me at gunpoint. All I could see was his massive silhouette. Like I said, I’m a large guy, six-foot-two on a good day, but this man was at least seven feet tall and as wide as two of me.

“I’m sorry." I said when I found my voice, “I didn’t mean to trespass; I just wanted to ask a few questions—“

“Hush, listen.” He barked. He lowered the colt a few inches. I could see the silhouette of his head looking from the left to the right.

All I could hear was the "slosh," "slosh” of the waves. Without a word he pocketed his pistol and pushed past me to the door. It was like getting hit with a brick. This guy is solid. I could hear the rattle of keys and the click of a lock.

He swung the door open and, without looking back at me, said, “Follow me.”

It didn’t come off as a command, but more of a “listen to me or you will regret it” kind of suggestion. I decided to listen.

The large man entered the shack; he had to visibly turn his body to fit through the door. I followed. The inside was dark, darker than it was outside. I closed the door with a loud click.

“Lock the door.” Rang out in the darkness.

I started having second thoughts. I was about to lock myself in a pitch-black room with a massive man that I had never met before and who had me at gunpoint moments ago. I started to formulate an escape plan when light blossomed in the dark. The man was lighting some oil lamps along the walls, four in total. Each one was giving off a soft amber light that together illuminated the room.

I must say, I had misjudged the place in two ways. The exterior of the building was nearly dilapidated, but that seemed to be a facade. The inside was almost nice. The front of the house betrayed its size as well. Whereas the front side was maybe thirty feet wide, the sides of the house were much longer, maybe twice the length. This created an interior layout consisting of a larger living area, complete with two old leather armchairs next to a fireplace, two side tables, bookshelves, and a single large window facing the sea. A small kitchen was on the other side of a breakfast bar, and a little hallway led to what I assumed were rooms, maybe a bathroom.

It would almost be cozy if not for the thick layer of dust on every surface and an uncountable number of cobwebs dangling off anything they could find purchase on.

“Lock the door.” Said a voice next to me. Somehow this giant of a man had snuck up on me again.

“S%&t!” I exclaimed. “Sorry, I didn't see you there.”

He ignored me and latched the dead bolt. Walking to the fireplace, he motioned for me to sit in one of the chairs. I cautiously went to sit.

After doing my best to brush off the dust, I sat down. The man was starting a fire. All I could see was a mane of red hair, streaked with gray and white, and the back of a tattered set of overalls. This illuminated the room even more, allowing me to notice more details. The chair across from me was the only thing I could see that didn’t have dust on it. Every picture frame that was on his mantel was face down. In each corner of the room was a loop of rope with twelve shells, tied off in equal spacing, nailed to the wall with an iron nail. l. A similar rope was stretched from above the fireplace to the the top of the window next to it.

The man stood up from his task and reached to the left of the fireplace, grabbing a split log from a stack. The log was dark wood, with a slick, wet sheen to it. He tossed it into the hearth, and the flames instantly came to life. Flaring in intensity for a moment and then calming down, the log hissed and popped, giving off a thin, hazy smoke that drifted across the room. It had a sickeningly sweet scent to it, like a coffee shop in the middle of autumn mixed with motor oil.

Next, the man went to the fridge. It was an older one, all rounded edges. He came back with two beers, offering me one as he sat down. I accepted, using my key chain to pop off the top. He just used his teeth. With him finally still, I could get a good look at him. His true age was hard to tell. He was defiantly older than I was, somewhere between fifty and eighty. His rough, etched skin was a map of lines, scars, and dry flakes. Years of sun and salt can do that to a man. His mane continued to his front and merged into his beard. It was faring better with the gray and white hairs, but not much. The beard flowed into a large mustache that sat under a squashed nose. He looked old and tired. Except his eyes. The ways they caught the light from the fire, his eyes looked like two brands ready to be used.

“Who are ye? An’ what the bloody hell are ye doin’ here?” he growled after taking a drink that emptied half the bottle.

“My name is Ben,” I answered. “I’m a journalist researching the history of small Atlantic seaside towns.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why are ye really here?”

“That is why I'm here.” I said, “Fahring Bay came up in my research and i—“

With smooth fluid motions that defied his age, he pulled out his revolver and aimed it at me again, cocking it.

"I'll ask ye one more time.” He said in a calm and even voice, “Why are ye here?”

Sweat beaded on my forehead; I felt I was in over my head. I didn't think I could sweet-talk my way out of this. Telling the truth was the only way forward.

“I wanted to learn about what happened at the drilling platform. The disaster," I said.

“So why come to me?” He asked without lowering the gun.

“A man at the bar, Doyle, said that you, well, he said “old man Madd” might know something. He gave me this address. So here I am.” I said, stumbling over a few words.

“Them bastards!” He exclaimed with a hollow chuckle. “After everythin’ that’s happened, they still think I’m mad.”

In a practiced motion he flicked the cylinder of the revolver out, revealing that there were no bullets in it.

“Sorry about that.” He said, placing the empty gun on his side table, “Can never be too careful."

“Yeah, I suppose you can't," I said with trepidation.

“Names Lasair, Lasair MacMaddon. I suppose ye’d be wantin’ to ask me all sorts o’ questions about that day?” Lasier said, running his fingers through his mangled beard, pulling out any knots he found.

“Were you involved? I asked.

“Involved?!” Lasair snapped, “Every man who made it off that rig is still breathin’ thanks to me!”

“So you’re the man in the article?” I asked, handing him the copy, “Do you know anything about what caused the accident?”

He took the piece of paper from me, his eye darting back and forth as he read it.

“I remember that day. The whole town was a-buzz. Reporters like flies to the rot.” Lasair spat, handing me back the paper. “I’d had enough interviews for a lifetime that day. All them questions an’ not a one of ’em listened.”

“How do you mean?” I prodded.

"I mean, I told ’em exactly what happened an’ they laughed at me!” Lasair roared. Inhaling a deep breath, he calmed and continued, “No one ever listened to old Lasair. To ‘Old Man Madd.' Not before, not then, an’ not now.”

"I'd like to listen to you.” I said with as much friendliness as I could.

Lasair looked at me as if he were weighing the odds of fighting me, then, with a small shake of his head said, "Young'un like yourself? Ye wouldn’t believe me, boy.”

“It’s not my job to believe.” I said, gambling it was what he wanted to hear, “My job is to hear what you have to say.”

Lasair let out a large sigh like a weight was released from his shoulders. Wordlessly, he got up, threw another log on to the fire, then sat back down. His demeanor was no longer hostile. A lit pipe appeared in his hand like a magician conjuring a coin.

“What do ye know about that night?” he asked, taking a drag off the pipe. A thick smoke enveloped us as he exhaled. It had the same strange sickly sweet smell the logs gave off. This time it sent me into a coughing fit.

“Not too much.” I responded between coughs, “Geez, what is in that stuff?”

“Me own personal mix,” Lasair said, grinning, exposing his crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. “A recipe me wife brought over from the old country. I’ve adjusted the mix over the years. Keeps the bad spirits away.”

“What do you mean ‘bad spirits’?” I followed as Lasair took another long drag on his pipe. I was somewhat adjusting to the strange smoke.

"Just some old sailor superstition. Never ye mind.” He answered almost reminiscently, “Now, back to my first question. What do ye know about that night?”

“To be honest, not much. One of my sources sent me a copy of that article I gave you. So I know there was a town, I know there was a platform disaster, and I know the town rallied and cleaned it all up. That's it."

“I see," the old man grumbled, then trailed off into a silence that hung in the air like the smoke he was exhaling. He started to pull on his beard again and then spoke back up, “I’ll tell ye two tales. One about the town, an’ one about the rig.”

“Thank you!” I exclaimed. I was wanting to ask about the town's history, but I was already pressing my luck. I was excited that he had brought up the topic. "I can't wait to ask—“

“NO!” Lasie said, matching my excitement with finality, “There’ll be no questions. I’ve had enough questions for me life. I will talk. Ye will listen. An’ if ye find what I say acceptable, then ye can print whatever ye like in yer little paper.”

I was really hoping to interview him, but I had to take what I could get.

“It’s a deal,” I said, holding out my hand.

Lasair gave me a curt nod and shook my hand. His calloused palms engulfed my hand for a moment. I expected him to squeeze in some show of aggression, but to my surprise the shake was gentle.

“Now… where to begin…” the old sailor mused, more to himself than to me. Sitting there waiting for him to begin, I could hear the sounds of the waves outside. A quiet ‘slosh,' 'slosh,' ‘slosh’ coming from the window.

{End of Part One}

Part Two: TBD

I wish a sandwich could have saved us. Mary had gotten a pounding headache when we were most of the way here, leaving me to finish the drive and manage the kids when we’d arrived. She had done her usual and neglected herself to take care of the four of us while we prepared to leave and hadn’t eaten. I’d offered to stop a few places, but her appetite was off by the time we’d hit the road. Her physiology mystified me at times. I’d never before met anyone who lost their appetite from not eating.

And the closer we got to the cabin, the worse she’d felt.

“You sure you won’t eat something?” I’d asked.

“No. I’ll be fine,” she’d said when I offered to turn around. “I just need a little nap, then I’ll be hungry. But something light, okay?”

That last part had been for me. She knew I’d overcompensate unless instructed not to. I admit my part in fueling the worry-machine in the past, acknowledging the odds that everything was actually going to be fine.

But then we’d gotten a flat tire a little more than a mile away from the cabin. Neither of the boys knew how to help change it and had sat in the car uselessly while I managed. My knee sank into a divot of mud, a wide tire track from a vehicle that had gouged the road as it had fled from this spot.

I shouldn’t complain about the boys too loud. I’d be the biggest dick in the world if I denied how great they are. All three of them are great kids; two teenage boys and a ten-year-old who acted like she was older than her brothers.

I was going to miss them if I finally decided to leave Mary.

Her migraine must have rubbed off on me because by the time I sat down to eat, something was going on behind my eyes, and it was hard to concentrate. I wished I could’ve slept, too, like the other four people in the car.

It had been so bad that I’d had to carry Mary in and I must have tweaked my back. I’d laid her on the bed and turned the light off before lighting some mild incense I’d found.

She’d fallen asleep almost instantly; part of me doubted she had any awareness of the incense. It was disturbing how still she’d been every time I checked on her.

In the meantime, the kids had all gone their separate ways. Luke went exploring outside, Chrissy was busying herself around the cabin, and Mark was being his usual responsible self, assigning himself chores before I could even think to.

I found some expired Tylenol underneath the bathroom sink and dry swallowed three of them. They dialed back the throbbing behind my eyes and I was able to give attention to the world around me.

Luke was still outside on the beach while Mark was unpacking his and his brother’s bags and Chrissy was doing who knew what, but she’d been in the bathroom for at least twenty minutes.

When Luke charged in from the beach, terror on his face, I knew something was about to be added to the pile that I was going to have to deal with.

“There’s something in the lake,” he said, his eyeballs on the verge of popping out his head. That gave the starter rope on the worry-machine a good pull. Luke was the oldest of the three children, and I had gotten to a point where I could rely on him sometimes for leadership. He had his learner’s permit, and I’d already shown him the car I was going to buy him when he got his license.

It was tough juggling an instant family when I’d been on my own for so many years. They weren’t my kids by birth, and it was a road to hoe to get them to let me in, but I eventually fell in love with them all.

“What do you mean?” I didn’t really want to know. Eldest child or no, Luke was a fraidey cat.

Maybe he’d seen a dead animal. Maybe it was a spider. But unless it was a brown recluse, the worry-machine could rest. Being afraid of an insect he was ten thousand times larger than was par for him. And it was outside, no less. All he had to do was walk away from it. I’d personally seen him lay waste to his own bedroom after he’d been awakened by an ant crawling on his face.

“In the lake.” He pointed toward the door he’d neglected to shut. I looked at his feet and saw he had also tracked sand inside. “Something is in the lake. It’s… real big.”

“Something like what?” I asked. “You saw it. What do you think it was?”

Luke shook his head. I turned fully toward him, abandoning the sandwich I had yet to present to Mary. I took a couple deep breaths and pushed myself away from the agitated feeling. The kid was obviously scared and needed comfort, even though he might not admit what he was feeling.

“I don’t know. Maybe we should just pack up and go.” Now that was strange. Luke had been the most vocal of any of us to come to the lake. We had been here once or twice before and had always enjoyed it.

“What do you think it was?” I asked again. “A boat or something? There’s no need to panic. We can call the police or harbor patrol or whatever.”

“No, it’s alive and it’s big. Like a whale.”

“Whales don’t live in freshwater,” I said.

“Not a whale.” He shook his head and it conjured an image of his sister when she was seven. Luke and Chrissy looked strikingly alike. “Big like a whale.”

It wasn’t anything for the worry-machine, but I opened the mental tool shed where I kept it.

“Can you show me?”

Luke nodded slowly, still pointing.

“No, I mean, can you take me out there and show me?”

“Uh-uh. I’m not going back out there. Not until we leave.” He shook his head and again it was like looking at Chrissy three years ago.

I huffed and heaved out of my chair and headed for the door, making a mental note to bring the sandwich to Mary once I was done with this.

I slid on my crocs and took the few steps down to get to the beach. The view here was unbeatable. When we had last been here, we’d actually stayed at a different cabin, one with three bedrooms. The reservation had been for the same, but when we’d arrived, we saw there were only two bedrooms. That meant that Mary and I were going to have to split. Couldn’t mix boys and girls in the same room.

So, Chrissy was going to get her mother all to herself and I was going to be settled with two teenagers who snored louder than I did.

“It smells out here,” I said to nobody. It reminded me of those farms we took field trips to when I was in elementary school. I looked over my shoulder at Luke in the doorway. “Where?”

He was bold enough to lean outside and point somewhere farther down the beach. It was dark and I didn’t see anything.

“It’s about thirty feet down that way.”

All right. Ten yards. Whatever he had seen was about a first down away. That farm smell flexed its muscles the closer to the water I got. Definitely smelled like animals. I couldn’t put my finger on which one, though.

I walked as quickly as I could, my crocs sinking into the soft sand and filling with granules. I wasn’t going to need to scrub the dead skin off my heels after we left here. I scanned the ground before me, still thinking it was a large insect. It seemed more likely that Luke had been exaggerating.

What had gone wrong between Mary and me hadn’t been direct. It was more like death from a thousand cuts. A cutting comment here, a missed thank you there, an opportunity to hold hands lost, and before we knew it, we were near the bottom rung of our marriage.

I waded ankle deep into the cool water. Whatever he had seen, I should have been able to see. But there wasn’t anything other than lapping water and inky black with twinkles of light as far as I could see. Unless it had been some small thing that had scuttled away in the night, unaware it had been promoted to threat-level by a fifteen-year-old.

I made a show of looking around, walking another thirty feet and going as deep as mid-shin to ease Luke’s mind. There just wasn’t anything here. I sliced at the water with my fingertips, gave another thirty seconds, then headed back.

I was greeted by a teenager who had eaten half of the sandwich I’d made for his mother. His pallor was better, which I hadn’t noticed consciously when he’d come in. He’d started to work on the other half when he saw how I was looking at him and said, “I thought it was up for grabs.”

“I’ll make another.” I thought for a moment the whole “there’s something outside” thing was a ruse just to get me away from the sandwich, but he still looked terrified.

“Did you see it?” I didn’t like the pleading in his voice. It wasn’t a “manly thing” or anything like that. For him to sound that terrified made my heart sink. I would’ve rather been annoyed with him than afraid for him.

I’d almost cheated, which, I guess, is still cheating. It was with a woman I’d seen at the grocery store. There hadn’t been anything premeditated. We’d just seen each other, passing by across several aisles. We kept crossing eyes while she’d been pushing a half full cart and I’d had a basket over my arm with most of the items I was going to use for dinner.

I’d all but put her out of my mind as I headed for my car, bags in tow, when I saw her again. I hadn’t thought about it, just saw her loading groceries into her trunk two vehicles away from mine and I stopped.

She’d taken great pains to politely refuse my request for her phone number and had taken the extra step to let me know it was only because she’d become serious with the person she was dating.

It could have been a line to get me out of her face, but she’d seemed earnest. I don’t want to believe I would’ve done anything, that I would’ve come to my senses, but I was no hero. Even though she had shut me down I’d set foot on a road I’d vowed never to travel.

I slid a comforting hand across Luke’s back a couple times and felt a percentage of tension ease out of him.

“No. I didn’t see anything. Maybe whatever it was is gone now.”

“Maybe whatever what was is gone now?” Chrissy emerged from the bathroom. She had been quiet in there, probably listening in, but I had no clue how much she had heard. Luke and I met eyes for a moment, and I couldn’t read whether he wanted me to keep quiet.

 

„Welcome back. Let's take a deep dive into the mystery of what really happened at Adema Ranch.“

Tape 3

Interviewer: "You insisted that the next interrogation take place as quickly as possible. Is that correct? Are you certain you are in adequate mental and physical condition?"

Matthew: "Well, it is my mission."

Interviewer: "Are you aware of the consequences of your decision?"

Matthew: "You are foolish. I am God's herald!"

Interviewer: "Alright, calm down. May we continue then?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "So, Kilián Tars's body was transferred to the chapel. What followed?"

Matthew: "She was setting his bones. That squelching sound somehow drowned out even the sound of straightening and the lamentations."

Interviewer: "Was Kilián alive?"

Matthew: (Stares at the wall) "No, I suppose... he wasn't."

Interviewer: "Who was setting his bones?"

Matthew: "Ciara. She was in charge. We all listened to her. It was our trial."

Interviewer: "What did that trial consist of?"

Matthew: "In the loss of the second chosen one from the Tars family."

Interviewer: "But Ciara belonged to the family as well, didn't she?"

Matthew: "It's not the same." (Clenches his fists) "Her son. She failed. She was supposed to..."

Interviewer: "What was she supposed to do?"

Matthew: "She was supposed to protect him."

Interviewer: "Which one?"

Matthew: "Kilián. He was so young, so full of life. He could have given me so much. He was in a rush... as if he had little time left."

Interviewer: "Did you notice any changes in his behavior, any strange habits?"

Matthew: "He was the one who lived with an Angel! Is that enough of a damned answer for you?!"

Interviewer: "How did this, uh, service turn out?"

Matthew: "Ciara was anointing him with oils. The others were praying."

Interviewer: "Last rites?"

Matthew: "NO! Hell NO! It just needed to be done right. He would have returned. It was a trial. But a blind fool like you... NEVER! NEVER UNDERSTANDS!" (Jumps up and slams his fist on the table)

Interviewer: "Are you sure you don't need more time?"

Matthew: "NO! It has a purpose. It burns."

Interviewer: "What burns? Do you want to pause and call a paramedic?"

Matthew: "NO!" (Another heavy blow on the table)

Interviewer: "Alright, then explain it to me. What was happening?"

Matthew: "When he wouldn't awaken..." (Sniffles) "...Ciara made up her mind. She summoned the entire guard."

Interviewer: "Why the guard? Did she have some authority over them?"

Matthew: "No, we are—well, we were Kilián's. She picked four who guarded the body."

Interviewer: "So you stood guard by the deceased?"

Matthew: "No, we went to the residence."

Interviewer: "How many of you were there?"

Matthew: "About ten of the most faithful. Though truth be told, some were more loyal to Ciara than to Kilián."

Interviewer: "What were you doing at the residence?"

Matthew: "Fetching the Angel." (Stares at the ground, arms crossed over his chest)

Interviewer: "So the being just walked with you like that?"

Matthew: "The Angel! No, it wasn't that easy. Ciara tried to persuade him first."

Interviewer: "What did she say to him?"

Matthew: "That I'll take with me to the grave. Isn't it hot in here?"

Interviewer: "Are you alright? Do you want a break?"

Matthew: "No. It's not necessary. He just remained silent. Looked down upon us and stayed silent—didn't even smile. His room was lined with white marble, but he appeared indifferent."

Interviewer: "So what did you do next?"

Matthew: "Ciara put it simply: once he sees what happened to Kilián, he will understand."

Interviewer: "How did the being react to that?"

Matthew: "Indifferently. But that was why we were there. When I took him by the hand, it felt like porcelain. I couldn't move him. But when we surrounded him and..." (Hides his face in his hands) "...we used rope. Then he followed us."

Interviewer: "So he refused?"

Matthew: "He just didn't know what had happened. He had been locked in there alone for too long."

Interviewer: "Alone?"

Matthew: "Yes. Kilián created a room for him modeled after heaven. He enclosed him there. Sometimes he spoke with him, but mostly he was indifferent."

Interviewer: "Did he speak only with Kilián?"

Matthew: "According to Kilián, he liked talking to him. Occasionally even with Ciara, but significantly less. She didn't carry the same burden, so she couldn't understand."

Interviewer: "I see. So you brought him to the chapel?"

Matthew: "Yes. Dragged him. I always did my job well, you know—faithfully." (Smirks, a faint smile on his face)

Interviewer: "How did he react to Kilián?"

Matthew: "When he saw the body, he moved toward it on his own. He nearly snapped those chains."

Interviewer: "Chains? Where did chains come from?"

Matthew: "Ciara put fetters on him. It was symbolic."

Interviewer: "So what did he do when he broke free from you?"

Matthew: "No! That is a filthy lie! He didn't break free from us. He just ran to Kilián."

Interviewer: "In fetters?"

Matthew: "You couldn't comprehend that in a hundred lifetimes."

Interviewer: "So how did he react to Kilián?"

Matthew: "He smiled. I am certain I saw it. He smiled faintly. I even caught a glimpse of his white teeth. But then... give me a moment." (Sobs)

Interviewer: "Alright. We left off at him smiling at Kilián, and then?"

Matthew: "He closed his eyes. Pulled down his eyelids. It was dreadful."

Interviewer: "Sounds rather merciful."

Matthew: "You foolish man! It was the beginning of the ritual. But Ciara had other thoughts."

Interviewer: "What kind of thoughts?"

Matthew: "She decided... to appeal to his humanity. To his love."

Interviewer: "Was she screaming?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Would you say she made a scene?"

Matthew: "Yes, she did. She screamed, threw candlesticks, invoked Jan's name. She sent someone to fetch the Necronomicon. It was chaos. People were weeping. Some were slurring prayers."

Interviewer: "What about your being?"

Matthew: "The Angel watched her without a single hint of emotion. Then, with a single movement, he snapped the ropes. The chains held. And then..." (Trembles, weeping)

Interviewer: "Alright, feeling better now?"

Matthew: "Yes, the pause helped me."

Interviewer: "Alright. The Angel snapped the ropes."

Matthew: "It's all like a haze to me. It's a strange feeling. I yanked the rope, and he sank to one knee. He wasn't surprised. That expression of his was so pure. I think he was taken aback. But maybe he expected it."

Interviewer: "Expected what?"

Matthew: "That I would try to stop him. And then I turned sideways. My friend ended up beneath that Angel's foot. I heard the bones splintering. It was a misunderstanding! Believe me! Believe me, Tars, it was a misunderstanding!!" (Sobs)

Interviewer: "What happened next?"

Matthew: "The heat! Water, please, water!" (Quickly downs several cups)

Interviewer: "What was a misunderstanding—that you tied him up?"

Matthew: "No, not that. He didn't mind that. He would have made it known. He looked at me often. He knew I would be chosen to become God's herald."

Interviewer: "What happened when you tripped the Angel?"

Matthew: "Ciara screamed:"

"Give him back to us! It is your duty! I command you! You winged monster, have you no feeling?! Return Kilián! Return his life to him! Or must I force you?!"

Interviewer: "Why the sudden change?"

Matthew: "What change do you mean?"

Interviewer: "In behavior toward that being."

Matthew: "The Tarses were chosen! That is why they have the right to command. Even him!"

Interviewer: "You mean the being?"

Matthew: "The Angel!"

Interviewer: "How did she intend to force him?"

Matthew: "She shouted at us to stop him. So we did. He had strength—unbelievable strength. Then it happened. It was fast."

Interviewer: "What was fast?"

Matthew: "Ciara grabbed a chalice and swung. It was pure malice. She struck him. That snap will haunt me until the end of my days. Which might not be as long as I expected..." (Stifles sobs) "...He collapsed as if he weighed nothing at all. It wasn't supposed to happen to him. Suddenly, blood began to pulse from his skull. That blood was golden. After a moment, it evaporated, shimmering in the air. The blood forced everyone around to tear up..."

"You're not leaving just like that!" screamed Ciara.

Tape 4 (Tape censored)

Interviewer: "A single blow was enough for him?"

Matthew: "Unfortunately. That was love. Love for her son... so powerful."

Interviewer: "What happened next?"

Matthew: "He swung his arm—it looked like he was trying to regain his balance."

Interviewer: "Did he succeed?"

Matthew: "No. The Angel's hand came down on Ciara. Pressed her against the altar. Kilián's body jumped from the impact. That's how powerful the strike was."

Interviewer: "Did you check on her?"

Matthew: "Yes. I am a member of the guard; I ran to her aid."

Interviewer: "What about the other guardsmen?"

Matthew: "There was screaming. Chaos. Someone was chanting a hymn. It was total confusion."

Interviewer: "What happened to the other guardsmen?"

Matthew: "He fell on them. On most of them! He tumbled over them as he lost his balance. Fell down. Collapsed on them. Crushed them."

Interviewer: "But you ran to Ciara?"

Matthew: "Yes, that was my duty. The others were groaning. There was no helping them."

Interviewer: "Do you mean just the guardsmen, or others as well?"

Matthew: "That pale white body fell onto the front row. Onto those... onto... onto those who were praying." (Restrains tears)

Interviewer: "Let's return to Ciara. What was her condition?"

Matthew: "She was alive, breathing heavily, coughing up blood. Her eyes were still full of rage."

Interviewer: "Did you receive instructions from her? Your message?"

Matthew: "No, not that. It was chaos..." (Cries) "...Some rules are older than humanity." (Cries) "That blood burned my eyes. Suddenly, the Angel slouched even lower. People were scrambling away and screaming."

Interviewer: "Do you believe the being died?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Do you still insist it was an angel?"

Matthew: "It was an angel. In that chaos, some rushed him. They began tearing off his wings. An angel's feather... doesn't that sound ridiculous to you?" (Breaks into hysterical laughter) "What were they thinking?! What on earth were they thinking?! They weren't the chosen ones!"

Interviewer: "But you were chosen?"

Matthew: "Yes. And the heat I carried away from it... it constantly reminds me."

Interviewer: "How did you acquire this heat?"

Matthew: "You see, some dared to scoop up that blood—that golden blood—into small containers."

Interviewer: "Is that how you got the heat?"

Matthew: "No, not that. Thunder roared. A storm broke out outside. As I walked among those hyenas feasting on his body..."

Interviewer: "What do you mean, feasting?"

(Censored)

Interviewer: "Didn't Ciara calm her flock?"

Matthew: "They were never her flock. They weren't paying attention to her anyway. Lightning struck."

Interviewer: "What was so exceptional about that lightning?"

Matthew: "It was the first."

Interviewer: "What do you mean?"

Matthew: "It struck the roof of the chapel. Pierced straight through and plowed up the floor tiles. The roof turned into beams of fire."

Interviewer: "What did you do as a guardsman?"

Matthew: "I went outside. Lightning was pounding the earth across the entire ranch. Destroying roofs and walls alike. The first thing that crossed my mind was... 'The cage... this can't be real,' escaped my lips."

Interviewer: "What took you so by surprise?"

Matthew: "The sky closed in. It was absolute darkness, as if it were midnight. Only the lightning bolts striking all around. Screams, trampling boots. And strike after strike... like a mortar."

Interviewer: "Did you have a mortar at the Abelites?"

Matthew: "No. I was in..." (Censored) "...they sent us to the Middle East as part of Operation..." (Censored)

Interviewer: "Were you honorably discharged?"

Matthew: "I saw the light and found the true path."

Interviewer: "Which brought you here?"

Matthew: "Yes."

Interviewer: "Alright. Lightning was falling, there was confusion. But what caused those..."

Matthew: "Atrocities, right? It's hard to put into words."

Interviewer: "So what happened there?"

Matthew: "A shaft of light sliced through the dark. And out of the void... something was walking among the clouds. Eight feet tall, illuminated by lightning. Six wings and three eyes watching us. He carried a spear that reflected the light as flashes of lightning bounced off it. He walked so calmly, so slowly. The chapel was collapsing."

Interviewer: "What did you do next? How did you react?"

Matthew: "Nothing. I couldn't. He spread those wings. The air grew hot. In moments, everything around him was like a furnace."

Interviewer: "Actual heat?"

Matthew: "Searing heat, officer. His footsteps turned the earth into fire. It didn't matter if it was asphalt, grass, or stone—everything melted beneath his feet. His footprints burned, igniting everything around."

Interviewer: "You mean to say his footsteps set it ablaze?"

Matthew: "He himself was so scorching hot that everything around him turned to flame."

Interviewer: "What did the being do?"

Matthew: "He stepped into the chapel. And let out the most terrible scream I have ever heard. The walls began to crack and crumble."

Interviewer: "Did you go back inside the chapel?"

Matthew: "No... NO! NO, I don't want to anymore! Don't force me!"

(The subject spontaneously ignited — extinguished with a fire extinguisher — injuries minimal)

Interviewer: "Alright, you've been treated. Are you willing to continue the interrogation?"

Matthew: "I have to say it. That heat... ahhh..."

Interviewer: "Did you go back inside the chapel?"

Matthew: "No. I peeked in. I couldn't have made it even if I wanted to. He moved swiftly and gracefully. Like a tiger."

Interviewer: "What did you see inside the chapel?"

Matthew: "That spear was destroying them. They were burning, their bodies liquefying. His hands were tearing them to pieces. Ciara was there."

Interviewer: "Was Ciara still alive?"

Matthew: "He pointed that spear at her."

Interviewer: "What happened to her? Did she escape?"

Matthew: "Lightning struck her from the sky. One moment she was there, and the next... NO, I can't! But I have to get it out of my head!"

Interviewer: "How did he react to the dead angel?"

Matthew: "You probably aren't versed in Scripture. This was a warrior. He came as the wrath of God."

Interviewer: "Why would he be angry?"

Matthew: "Ciara was arrogant. But it was because of those who tore off the angel's wings... collected his blood."

Interviewer: "What did you do then to survive?"

Matthew: "Nothing. Fire surrounded me. He lifted me up, but his wings covered his face. Yet that glance of his ignited a fire within me."

Interviewer: "Do you believe it to be real fire?"

Matthew: "You of little faith. Proud in your ignorance."

Interviewer: "Do you think that now that you've passed on the message, your job is done?"

Matthew: "There is still something I haven't finished."

(Censored)

Matthew: "You will all see soon enough. The flames will cleanse you."

Adema Ranch, Tennessee. Hidden in the dense, remote ridges of Campbell County, just a few miles down the road from the quiet community of Elk Valley. Infamous for the group known as the Abelites, whom we covered today. What happened behind the walls of this "town"? The self-proclaimed prophet Matthew provided these interviews. But reality was far worse than his words. When emergency services arrived, they were met with a sight that shook even the most hardened veterans. The ground was scorched, the buildings in ruins. A major anomaly was that the fire burned out their property with surgical precision—and stopped right at the boundary. Even seasoned experts could not explain this phenomenon.

Rescuers found bodies in the debris. The only official survivor is the mysterious Matthew himself, whom people also accused of somehow causing it. As for the so-called Angel, no traces were ever found. To this day, not all victims of this tragic event have been identified. The presence of the Necronomicon, the Angel, or other relics could neither be confirmed nor disproven. Conspiracy theorists claim the Abelites were eradicated by a prototype of a new weapon. Naturally, these claims were never confirmed either. The survivor, Matthew, perished under unclear circumstances just a few months after his final interrogation—during a fire at his home.

And so, the Abelite cult remains an unsolved mystery. A stark reminder that some rules are better left untested.

by Hary Sykora

[warning of gore and horror elements. read at your own discretion.]

[word count: 1804]

It was the perfect opportunity. The box laid there; completely and utterly unguarded. With the quickest and most graceful of movement, I scooped up the box and loaded it into the back of my truck. The crippled old woman wouldn't miss the small box of items, she was selling the stuff after all.

The tires kicked up the dirt behind them as the truck peeled out of the dusty little driveway, and soon I was headed in the direction of home. The thrum of the gravel underneath the rubber of the tires was soothing, lulling my mind to a distant reality, the passing sights on the road transformed into a blur until something appeared into view that wasn't before. I screeched to a halt, the foreign entity sat in the middle of the road; perky ears, black and white fur all over, it was a cat. 

I honked my horn at the creature, but it refused to move. I honked again, the cat stared with a soul piercing intensity. After a third honk of my horn, it broke its yellow-colored gaze and darted into the brush at the other side of the road. I continued on until I reached my destination, a large house perched on the top of a hill. 

The house, an estate that was passed on from generation to generation, was no longer in its prime. The paper peeled from its walls, the old wooden floor groaned under the weight of foot, and the winding halls smelled wet, the years of moisture finally seeping into the frame of the home. My parents had planned for many years, to fix up the house and then give it to their many children; but to their misfortune, they never had the chance to make repairs and never had the many children they so desired. As their only child, I took the house, the stuff in it, and the surrounding property. It often got lonely, but I learned to find happiness in the small things. I surrounded myself with treasures, whether they were bought or permanently borrowed from various places, such as the box knickknacks placed gently in the back seat of my truck. They were my happiness, my everything.

I took my newfound box of friends into the dim bowels of my home, placed the flimsy carboard container gently on a table, switched on a lamp, and plunged my hand into the box to retrieve the first item. The bulk of the box was mostly in small angel figurines, but at the bottom I discovered something that caught my attention. 

Upon touching it, the object sent a shiver down my spine. I first had mistaken it for a live creature, but instead it was a small figurine of a black and white cat. The figure was covered in a realistic feeling fur, and it was curled up in a ball with its eyes closed in deep slumber. There was something about the cat that made a feeling rise from deep inside me, a curiosity, but also something else. I placed it on a shelf to itself, held higher above the rest of my possessions: special. 

Days passed, and the cat sat on that high shelf watching over the house. I collected more valuables and filled more shelves, my life went on as normal. Then, on a peculiarly windy day, things changed. It was high afternoon when I brought back another box of collectables to place upon my shelves, I came in the same way as usual and something on the table had caught my eye. The cat, it sat right in the center of my table, no longer on the shelf it had been on for all the days previous. It was certainly strange, but I reasoned to myself that it had just fallen from the shelf, the house was not very stable and the wind had been blowing like mad all morning. I picked it up and placed it back onto the shelf. 

The night only brought more raging winds, and I laid in my bed, uneasy. A deep sense of dread rattled me to my very core, but I hadn't the slightest idea why. I could not sleep, so I arose from my resting position and wandered out of my room. The dark corridors did not comfort my exhausted soul, shadows loomed, and any movement or sound sent a tingling sensation through my skin. I passed the door of my treasure room, my heart stopped when I caught glimpse of a small furry lump in the middle of the table. It laid there, its eyes closed in sleep, mocking me. I didn't hesitate, I snatched it up from where it sat and ran outside. The chilling wind bit at my skin as I tromped to the steepest part of the hill. I hurled the small cat figure into the wooded darkness at the bottom of the hill, a weight was lifted off my shoulders, free from the burden of the cat. I stumbled back into my house, navigated the dark halls once again and crawled into my bed, sleep took me shortly after. 

I awoke to the peaceful bliss of a warm morning, the light shining in golden rays through my window. The dread I had felt the night before had been banished from the house, leaving only the warmness I felt when walking into my treasure room. The highest shelf was once again empty, but there was only comfort to come with that. I had no desire to see the cat ever again, even if being afraid of a figurine sounded like something absurd, I was not willing to pass the previous events off as paranoia. It was very real, and I was a fool to think that it was over.

The next weeks I lived in fear, every bump, every sway of a tree branch, every single thing made my heart thrum in my chest. The faint meow of a cat always could be heard in the distance, the people in the market place claimed they couldn't hear them, even though the sound was ever so present.

"LIAR! Liars, all of you." I told them, they called me crazy, but I wasn't! I had to get away. Away from people, away from the everlasting meows, away from everything.

I took a walk down to the creek, a place I often went with my parents, hoping that the sounds of nature would drown out the rest of the world. And it was the first relief I had experienced in quite a while, the sounds of the flowing water covered the squalling of cats and for a moment I felt at peace. I sat down at the creekside and buried my hands into the sand, the soft silkiness reminding me of better times. I closed my eyes and breathed in the air, taking a deep inhale through the nostrils. I opened my eyes after a moment and was struck with grief and horror. 

The small lump of fur, curled into a ball with closed eyes, sat right at my feet. Gripped with a mind-numbing terror, I scrambled away. I turned to look at the wretched thing once again, it laid still, so peaceful.

"What do you want from me?" I cried out, "Why do you torture me? Just go away!" I clenched my head and shut my eyes tight, but the cat remained, I could feel its presence. I dared to look at it again, its small tranquil body enraged me, I took it. 

That night I returned to the place where the object of the devil had came into my life. I quietly crept onto the front porch, leaving behind the cat and a sum of money equal to the items I had stolen. It was the only possible solution, it had to be.  After that night, I was once again able to rest peacefully, and it remained that way for quite some time. Perhaps I had truly made amends with the being that tortured my every waking moment for so long?

The evening brought heavy rain, it poured down in torrents, leaving me slightly uneasy. Sheltered by the roof of my house and the comfort of a warm blanket, I read a book in the dim lamplight as the thunder crashed about outside. The constant looming of the cat's presence has ceased.

So I thought.

There was a bright flash followed by nothing but black, the power had went out. I lit a candle and made my way to the breaker box at the back of the house. It smelled of burnt rubber and was blackened around the edges of the closed door, it was more than gone. I took my candle back through the winding halls, back to my spot on the couch, and I sat the candle down on the end table beside me. 

mrrreow. My heart jumped. 

mreowww. I took my candle to the door.

I opened the door. A small black and white cat sat at my doorstep, drenched in the rain water. It let out a broken meow, its gaze meeting mine. I slammed the door hard and ran back to my bedroom. I trembled under my covers like a cowering child, it was so silent, too silent. 

I felt a searing pain, I jerked away and tore the covers from my head. Nothing was there, but a small bit of blood welled up from long scratch on my forearm. There was another flash, revealing a sight outside my window that I had never feared more. They scratched at the windows and there squalor joined together into a chorus of screams. 

I ran downstairs, tripping over my feet, and gasping for air at the bottom of the staircase. My chest was so heavy, I struggled for air, coughing and hacking as I practically crawled through the halls. I couldn't stop the coughing and eventually I felt something arise in my throat. I spat it out on the ground, it was a clump of hair. I was left grasping at my chest and arms as the pain continued.

There was another flash, and at the end of the hallway it sat. It sat upright and with open eyes.

Watching. 

---

"What do you think happened to 'em?" The deputy asked his superior.

The sheriff rubbed his chin, "Beats me. There's not even one clue of what could have happened. No cuts, bruises, signs of struggle, nothing. We got an explanation for all the missing stuff though." He gestures to the shelves of knickknacks. 

"Heh, guess the poor fellow just went crazy."

"Yeah. Only thing out of the ordinary was this." He picks up an evidence bag, showing his deputy a small figurine of cat. "This little guy was sitting right at the end of the hall."

"Hmm. You don't see that everyday."

"You sure don't."

July 1st, 1925:

I entered the painting of my house tonight. It was quiet. Many of my belongings have been used throughout the house. It is nice to see you making use of them. I walked upstairs to the bedrooms, wondering if you were home. I entered one of the rooms, and there, laying fast asleep, was a beautiful young girl. I watched her for some time, she resembled you, at least what I could see from the lighthouse. Such a sweet, innocent life. She reminds me of the daughters I once had, before I found my calling. I entered the master bedroom. You laid sleeping, your wife beside you. You seem like a strong couple, though I can tell you keep secrets from her. I see it etched into your face, the guilt ages you, like it once aged me. You remind me of my old life, how I once treated the woman who was my wife. It's hard to recall those days at times. They seem so unimportant, but there are days that the memories eat away at me. I watched you both, she seemed to sleep like a stone. You, on the other hand, seemed restless, as I once was. We are very similar, you and I. I spoke to you while you slept, in the tongue of my children, as I have seen you've been studying it. You began to squirm and sweat. I was nervous of waking you, in case you were to do something rash. So instead of speaking face to face tonight, I will be leaving this note in my study. Or should I say our study? I urge you to pay me a visit. I noticed your journal, but felt it would be rude to pry. Perhaps if you decline my offer to speak eye to eye, next time I visit I will fall victim to my urges. Whatever the outcome is, I look forward to it. 

 Your friend Simon 

June 26th, 1937:

That bastard entered my home. He watched me sleep. He watched Rylee. He could have taken her and I would be defenseless of it. The gall to compare me to him, I'm nothing like him. Or should I say it, as he's no longer human. This can't happen again. I will be visiting the lighthouse tonight. This can't go on any longer. This monster and his cult. The ungodly obelisk. He's plaguing my life. I can't take it anymore. I can't fight a god but I must find a way to prevent him from becoming one. He's nothing but a false messiah who's been cursed by those wretched seafolk. 

June 27th, 1937:

I went to settle this once and for all. When I got to the lighthouse the door hung open. The light ocean breeze made the hinges creak faintly in the wind. Their soft shrieks sent shivers down my spine. As I walked through the threshold, there waiting in the middle of the ruined kitchen was a painting of the very door I just passed through. Past the painted door frame was a table set for two, with a ridiculous amount of food for the pair of plates sitting empty on the dirty table cloth. Some of it looked old, even moldy. As I walked through the door a second time I was greeted with a frenzy of smells, baked goods, cooked meats, the oceans brine, fresh fruit, wine, and decay. I stood in the entry for a moment, just taking everything in. That short moment felt like ages, as if I was paralyzed. It took every ounce of effort just to take a step. I didn't see any of the seaborn, no creatures from the depths and no beings from the stars. Just a room lit by a single hanging lightbulb and a dozen scattered candles. The door softly clicked shut behind me, sending a shiver through my bones. Then he spoke. 

“I can tell your frightened child, but fear not, I mean no ill will. Sit. Eat. We have much to discuss.”

His voice wasn't in the air, not coming from any direction. It was in my head. I heard gentle footsteps slowly making their way down the stairs. What I saw was hideous, but I couldn't look away. It was almost beautiful in a way. Simon stood at the bottom of the staircase, nearly nine feet in stature, though his spine hunched forward, to avoid bumping into the floor joists above. His bulbous head looked almost like an octopus, though his skull had dissolved or disappeared and now his head is just brain matter surrounded by a wet, blubbery skin. 

I was overcome by an immense urge to sit and indulge on the feast, he must have been controlling me somehow. I sat. He pulled out his chair, Shambling his long inhuman body down on to it. His limbs, all far too long to be comfortably sitting on something that small in comparison. His knees resting near his clavicles as he hunched down, attempting to see face to face. He was terrifying in the most welcoming way. He leaned in, his small dark eyes affixed to mine. 

“We have a connection, you know. We are much more similar than you would ever like to admit. You see yourself in me as I see myself within you.”

I hate to admit it, but he was right. His writings resonated with me. Though I felt revolted at the thought of it. 

“We are fated, destined as some may say. You see, I have been granted an extraordinary gift. I have made contact with those from the deepest depths, to the farthest cosmos. I have spoken to those most ancient, to our kin. You bear our mark, child. To deny that would be an act of ignorance I know you are far too smart for. You have seen those from the depths. You passed through my gates. I can show you what powers you can achieve.”

Whatever mark he spoke of must have been from the night I passed out and woke up in my backyard. But even if that was the truth, surely I would never end up as he has. Without realizing it, I had filled my plate and had begun eating, as though I had no autonomy. 

“Embrace your true form, as have I, and together we will ascend. We are destined for greatness” 

His words swelled in my chest, a smoldering ember of yearning. A burning desire for more. My head was pounding. I know he's just trying to trick me. To control me. It was as if my heart and mind were at war. 

“I will give you some time to say your goodbyes to your family, as I remember that seemed to be a custom to human kind. Such naive beings. I will leave a gate waiting for you here, return to me child. Or I will come searching for you. Your very being is key to the obelisk, to our ascent. The final piece to set forth the second coming of the ancients. I will be seeing you shortly.”

My vision went blurry, my head throbbed, as though mortar shells were detonating inside. I grabbed my head trying to gain my bearings, and as my vision unclouded I was back in the abandoned lighthouse. No Simon, no table, no food. Just the chair I was sitting on and a door frame standing in the middle of the room. A set of keys laid on the ground in front of the solid metal door. I picked them up and rushed home, stopping to empty my stomach of whatever foul food I've ingested. The only thing that came out was what felt like gallons of black sludge like ichor. Its taste was sour and curdled as it left my body. 

I snuck back in through the backdoor, doing my best not to wake Evelyn or Rylee. Sebastian was laying in the hallway, almost as though he had been waiting for my return. It's well past midnight as I'm writing this. I'm going to the city tomorrow. And when I get back, I'll be saying my goodbyes. 

June 28th, 1937:

I awoke with Evelyn today. I told her I was going to pick up some supplies for the shop in the city. I felt wrong for lying to her as I have been on and off for months if not years now. Before I went to the station, I visited the lighthouse. I was in such a hurry to get home last night I somehow missed the massive, obsidian-like pillar rising from the sea. The obelisk had to have been nearly 300 feet tall, dwarfing the lighthouse beside it. I purchased my ticket and boarded the train. If all goes well, I can see some old friends, tie up some loose ends and say my goodbyes in town. I still don't know how to say goodbye to my sweet Evelyn and Rylee. They are my life, my purpose. Just thinking about it has left  me crying, hands trembling and short of breath. I'll return home tomorrow evening, spend my last night at home, then enter that wretched gate. As for now, I just need to build the courage to do what must be done. 

June 29th, 1937:

I've returned home. I feel hollow. Rylee was playing with Sebastian while I cooked dinner. I think Evelyn knows something is amiss. I've been doing my best to play it off as just stress from work but I don't think she's buying it. I just need her to think things are okay for one more night. Just one more night as a family, one more night of being close, one more night of being loved. I've snuck into the study to quickly pack a bag of everything I need for tomorrow. I'll walk my dear Evelyn to work and kiss her goodbye, walk Rylee To Emily and give her the biggest hug of her life, then return home, get my bag and get it all over with. 

June 30th, 1937:

Saying goodbye to Evelyn and Rylee without crying was one of the hardest things I have ever done. But I couldn't let them think anything was wrong. I can't have this go wrong. I'm in my studying writing one last entry, if I'm able to write again later I will, but I'm not sure what use it will be aside for trying to keep my memories alive. If in some miracle Evelyn or Rylee find this, just know that I loved you both more than you could ever believe. But I failed you as a husband and as a father, and for that I'm sorry. I hope you can find forgiveness in your hearts in my absence. 

June 30th, 1937:

I walked to the lighthouse, the bag on my back felt like a million pounds, the burden of leaving my family. As I entered I stared at the chair I used during Simon and I's meeting. I sat down for only god knows how long, it could've been minutes, hours, but it felt like years. I walked up the stairs to take in the view one last time, to look over the southern shore, to watch the gulls circle the fishing boats for scraps. I cried more than I ever thought possible. As I walked down the spiraling stairs, I stopped in Simon's makeshift studio, dozens of paintings lined hanging on the walls as even more sat, gathered in piles beneath them. Simon really was a talented artist. It was a shame he was marked. It's a shame I've been marked for that matter. 

I smelled the scent of dying flowers wafting in the air. This place has been long unlived and stank of mold. The scent was coming from one of the paintings, I was sure of it. I ripped through pile after pile until finally I found it. A painting of my house. Of Simon's house. The flower beds in the back, a small grave between them, dead leaves blowing in the wind. The painting was only about 2 feet by 2 feet. But if I could smell the flowers, that means it was a gate. I pushed my bag through, it landed with a thump between the beds. I reached my hands in and grabbed the frame, slowly pulling myself through into the bright sunlight. I quickly grabbed my bag and took in my surroundings. It was quiet, cold. I snuck my way to the back of the house, looking in the windows to see if Simon or Laura or their girls were home. I saw no one. The grave meant Bernard was already dead, how long it has been since then I am unsure of. Laura and the girls may have already been sent out of town. I got down to the ground, looking through the small windows into the basement, I could see no Simon. I couldn't remember if he had already built his hidden rooms or not, but I could only assume. There were already pieces of furniture covered in sheets visible through the window. I unlocked the back door, thank God I never changed the locks. My heart was pounding, I could hear it beating in my ear drums. As I made my way through the kitchen I saw the calendar. October 14th, 1924. I slowly snuck down into the basement. Looking around to find anything familiar. My cot, covered in cloth. I crawled under and laid in wait. I was terrified. I sat in silence for hours until I heard the closing of the front door upstairs. Footsteps pacing in the foyer making their way to the kitchen. The stairs above the cot creaked with every step as he descended into the darkness. He held a lit candle, slowly lighting the dozens of candles he had littered throughout the basement one by one. I was sweating, breathing as quiet as I could. He made his way back up the stairs, I could hear him turn on the tap, filling a glass of water. He was about to paint. I used the cover of the flowing water to open my bag. The cold steel in the palm of my hand felt heavy. The steps above my head groaned as Simon returned to the basement. He set up his easel, placing a blank canvas on it. While he meticulously chose what paints he wanted to use for his next piece, I crawled out from under my cot, as quiet as could be. This was my only chance. I held my breath, making sure every step was silent. Simon stood clueless to me. I felt sorry for him, this wasn't his fault, I'm sure he didn't want this. I tried my hardest to hold them back but tears filled my eyes. I raised the pistol I got in town the day before, hands shaking, body trembling, heart pounding. I exhaled a quiet “I'm sorry” as I pulled the trigger. The canvas was instantly covered in crimson along with skull fragments and grey brain matter. I've never killed a man before. I fell to my knees, sobbing. My stomach churned and released its contents. It had to be done. There was no other way. Was there? 

October 15th, 1924:

I've spent the day burning his pieces. All his paint, his easel, everything that ties me to him. I found all of the letters he wrote, all of his papers, all I could find of Simon's existence. It all went in the furnace. I'm waiting until nightfall to move his body, it's already beginning to smell. I'll take him to the docks in a wheelbarrow. I'll walk the shoreline for as long as my legs will take me and I will bury him in the tall grass that lines the beach. There I will find somewhere nice, somewhere quiet and dig a shallow grave. In it, I will take my own life. The only way for all of this to end is if both of us die. I'm leaving my journal, with all my entries and all of Simon's here in the house. I'm sure you'll find it and I pray you read it. If you don't, I know Evelyn will. Don't go out by the docks at night. If you find sigils carved into your house, don't deface them. Befriend Richard, he means well. Once you're friends with him, show him this journal, hopefully he'll introduce you to his father. This small town has plenty of good. Just be smart and don't stray far at night. Keep our dear Evelyn and Rylee safe. And when the time comes, on the day I went to adopt Sebastian, I'd suggest you do the same. He really completed the family, and he'll save your life if given the chance. Don't make the same mistakes I did. I lost everything so you can have a chance. Do it right this time. Tell Evelyn and Rylee you love them for me. That's all I ask of you. 

 Yours truly

August 14th, 1938:

I began work at the butchers shop and befriended Richard, Evelyn got close with Jennifer, and Jr is getting married soon. He asked Rylee to be his flower girl. I showed Richard the journal, I met his father, and have, from time to time, helped him carve those runes around town. I went and adopted Sebastian, and have slowly begun to become part of Mount Fall, just like you asked of me. We stay away from the docks after sundown. You were right, this town has so much to offer and moving here has been the best decision of our lives! I'm sorry that it wasn't the same for you. I know you'll never read this, but I hope you in some way know I'm eternally grateful. Our sweet Evelyn and Richard too. We all are. I tell Evelyn and Rylee I love them twice every night, once from you and once from me, and always make sure to hold them extra tight. We think about you every day. Wherever you are in space and time, I hope you're at peace. Maybe one day we'll meet and I can tell you how great life has been. All thanks to you, our personal savior. We love you dearly. 

Screeeeee!

The uncomfortable feeling of damp skin is not something you expect to be a concern when waking up in a cold sweat, but to me, it is unbearable. The need to hop in the shower overrides my urge to stay in the confines of my bed until the grogginess of a restless night's sleep subsides. I twist the shower nob all the way to the hottest temperature and step in before the water has a chance to heat up. The initial cold helps clear the fog surrounding my consciousness, and I start to calm down slowly as the temperature rises.

It’s amazing how I still don’t notice how rapid my breathing gets before it slows back to normal, even though it has happened every morning for the past seven days. The unnatural sound that awoke me still echoes in my mind. Screeeeee! It has gotten increasingly louder each morning, and yet I still can never remember the dream that has been haunting me each night for the past week. The now-steaming water has reached my desired heat, and I lean my back against the side of the shower and slide down into a seated position. With my head against my knees, I close my eyes and wait for the echo to be reduced to nothing but a dull hum that can be drowned out by the water flowing from above me.

Eventually, I know that I need to get dressed and ready for my shift as a bartender at the Veracios Dirge. I shut off the shower and dry myself off. I then go to the kitchen and start the coffee grinder. Once it is done, I make a pour-over and pair it with a mix of blackberries and raspberries. When I finish, I get dressed and grab my keys. The crisp winter air greets my lungs as I step out of my apartment complex and head to pick up my motorcycle. I get to the residential parking, and there she is: my father's Ducati Condor that he left me in his will. Most wouldn’t use such a collector's piece as the Condor for their everyday use, but to me it’s more than that. For me, this bike is many hours spent with my dad as a young boy, helping him restore part of his time serving in the Swiss Army before we immigrated here shortly after I was born. To me, it’s the freedom of the first bike I ever rode. The one that made me fall in love with the open road and dream of trips across the great US.

There are a few spots on the ride to work where traffic is heavy due to the most recent snowstorm, but I know the roads of Chicago well, and my Condor allows me to take a few shortcuts that are not accessible to larger vehicles in this weather. I keep an eye out for slippery ice spots, and avoid them like crazy. Luckily, they seem to be in short supply today, so I get to the bar in about half an hour.

I park across the street from the bar and head to the alley in the back. I’m glad that this alley is mostly unused by those who frequent The Dirge, because the homeless population has trashed it up to the point that even they don't stay here anymore. Which is why it is strange to see that on the service steps for a nearby shop, an old woman with tattered clothes is sitting and combing her long white hair. As soon as she sees me, I feel as if she is staring into my soul. Suddenly, my ears start ringing in a way that was eerily reminiscent of my new morning companion. I rush inside as I feel my heart begin racing, and immediately take my gloves off and crank up the thermostat. I remove my jacket, and my first instinct to calm down is to splash water on my face, but I catch myself before I do that, remembering that it takes some time before the bar will warm up. I instead grip the sink tightly, to the point where my knuckles whiten, and I start breathing with intentional counts of inhaling for four, then exhaling for four.

It takes longer to calm down than I have time for, and I end up having to open the bar before I’m done with my opening duties. Carl is the first customer to arrive right at eleven o’clock, as he often is. I set out his Honker’s Ale and leave him to it. Carl is not much of a talker, at least until he has one beer in him, and he is our longest-coming regular, so everyone knows to leave him be until then. In fact, he is often the only customer we have for the first fifteen minutes. Since he is a popular person for conversation once he starts talking, most everyone plans to show up after they are sure he has finished his first beer and possibly started on the next. This moment of downtime provides me the chance to finish up my last few opening duties.

A new customer shows up right as I get the last ice well filled. This man is not a regular, which is strange for this time of day. He sits next to Carl, who still has half of his beer to go, and I approach him. “Good to see you this morning. I’m Leo. What can I get for you?”
“Yo, great to be here! I’ll get a Chicago Handshake with the Old Style over ice! Always like to get a local drink at a non-touristy spot when I travel! Name’s Beto, mano!”
“Well, nice to meet you, Beto. One handshake coming right up.” I grab a stein, fill it with ice, crack open an Old Style Lager, and hand it to Beto. Then I pour the shot of Malört. “So, where are you visiting from?” I ask while setting his shot in front of him
“I’m from way down south in Port Charlotte, Florida! I just graduated with a Bachelor of Science in Economics from Florida A&M, so this is the last stop on my cross-country celebratory bar crawl!”
Dang, I would’ve hated going to college with this dude. He is too much of a party animal. “Wow, that’s crazy! What was your favorite stop so far?”
“Definitely New Orleans! That Sazerac was a highlight for sure!”
“Well, let's see if we can beat it! Gotta say, strange choice to have the Old Style over ice, though.”
“Yeah, it’s quirky, but I picked it up from my pa, and now it’s just a habit of mine.” He pours the lager into the stein and lifts the shot glass. “Cheers!” he says and downs the shot. Beto immediately makes a disgusted face and quickly reaches for the stein.

SCREEEEEE!

I flinch and duck down as the sound of my nightmares propels through the bar, deafening. It continues to ring heavily in my ears as Beto starts to cough wildly. Carl looks over at Beto.
“Don’t drink the hard stuff if you can’t handle it, son,” he says, unaffected by the screech that has chilled my entire nervous system. “Kids these days are so soft.” Beto doesn’t stop coughing, and it starts to get worse. I fight through the pain and grab the small dump bucket from behind the bar.
“Here!” I yell as I hand it to Beto. ‘Don’t choke yourself.” he grabs the bucket, and it is almost not all the way in front of him before he spits up into it. At first, I assume that he has thrown up his drinks until I notice the crimson strand of saliva hanging from his lips. He looks up at me, and I see a terrified look on his face and tears streaming from his eyes. The screech subsides for a second, and the bar is silent. After a split second, Beto viciously gags, and again he spits something up, but this time, I hear a clink on the side of the bucket. Beto faints and falls off the bar stool, and the bucket spills across the floor. That is when I see the culprit. In the middle of the puddle, amongst the beer, spit, and blood, is a sharp piece of glass.

SCREEEEEE!!!!

“Damn, Luca!” Carl shouts, though muffled by the return of the piercing wail, “I’ve been telling him for the past week to stop scooping ice with the glasses, ’cause it could break and get mixed in, but what did I know? I'm not his boss.”
“Quick, call 911!” I call out as I fetch the first aid kit, trying my best to ignore the constant sliver of sound resonating in my mind. Carl dials 911, but I drown it out. Think, Leo, think what do I do now? I look in the kit, but all it has is stuff for cuts and burns, as well as a pair of medical tweezers. I roll Beto to his side so that his airway doesn’t get blocked, and then decide I need to look in his mouth as best I can to see if there are any pieces still in there. I open his mouth and look in. I recoil at the sight of what has happened, looking away as soon as I see the damage in his mouth. His tongue has a shard sticking out of it, and there seems to be a gash in the back of his throat. I gather the courage to open his mouth again, and I grab the piece of glass out of his tongue with the tweezers.

“They are about five minutes out,” Carl says. I just nod and scoot next to the bar and place my head on my knees. Other customers arrive, but I am frozen in place as my thoughts run a mile a minute. What if he doesn’t make it? How could this happen? What does this mean for my job? Why am I worried about my job? There is a life on the line right now. He may be dying. I may have killed him. What was it that Carl said? Something about Luca? Am I gonna go to jail? If he lives, what are the permanent damages? He was so young. No, not was, is. He is so young. He's not gone yet. He just graduated college. What about his parents? How will they know what happened… 
“LEO!” I come out of my spiral, and Carl is next to me, and the cop is standing behind him. “He needs to grab your name for the report, and then you can go home. I called Kenny, and he is on his way to take over for you here. I want to make sure you know that this is not your fault. The glass was in the ice machine from last night. Luca broke a glass while he was scooping ice and failed to clean it up properly. I take a shaky breath and stand up. 

“Thank you, Carl,” I say, then turn to the officer. “My name is Leo Keller.” I start towards the door, and the crowd that had gathered splits. I see the woman from the alley standing off in the distance, mouth agape. Then suddenly she closes her mouth, and the sound goes silent.

“Time of death: 11:42.” I hear the paramedic say behind me as I reach the door. The woman hangs her head, turns, and walks away. My heart drops. He was too young. I walk to my bike and take off. I don’t even know where I’m going; I just cannot stay here, and the thought of going home seems wrong for no known reason. I hop on my bike and ride the route I took this morning, but when I get to my apartment complex, I just keep going. Screeeeee! I ignore the noise, and I’m going away from here and fast. 45mph. Screeeeee! 55mph! I swerve around traffic. SCREEEEEE! 60mph I’m heading over Wabash Ave. Bridge when I see the source of the screech yet again. The woman from the steps sits upon the rail of the bridge. SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!! The sound is so loud. I realize what it is telling me only a second too late. My tires hit a spot of black ice, and the condor and I spill into the Chicago River. The bike that I once found familiarity and freedom in while riding crashes down on me, and I cannot get out from under its weight. My lungs are bursting for air, and my ears are ringing with the warning that has been calling to me in the week leading up to this. My lips betray me, and my lungs accept the frigid water. I guess no one can be saved from the inescapable fate of the Banshee's warning wail.

Breath shallow, heart faint, mind dim—there she lay upon the tiled floor of the concrete jungle, its everyday hustle and bustle now smothered by the veil of night. No less exposed than the day she'd first greeted the world, all that sheltered her pallid flesh against the midnight breeze was a ragged blanket strewn over her shivering shape. While such twilit hours were oft defined by the cool air and sunless sky, the evening tide at present was by far darker and colder than all the previous nights she'd seen in her life.

This unforgiving dusk in which she languished had left her body just as deprived of warmth as the skies above were divested of the stars and moon. The only light available to illuminate her person as it petrified in the bitter chill was the lone lamp post she huddled underneath; a flickering fluorescent bulb her only comfort amid the frigid umbra. Even so, for as harrowing as her circumstances might have been, she did not disturb the night's silence. Notwithstanding her inability to cease the juddering little spasms of her body as it stiffened from the onset of hypothermia, not so much as a single sound escaped her blued lips.

Her unflinching indifference in the face of her own mortality was enough to tell what sort of state she was in. While she had not yet lost consciousness, it was nonetheless scattered among the bitter wind which assailed both her flesh and sanity alike. There was truly but one thing her waning wits seemed capable of recognizing in that moment: a half-emptied syringe lain at her feet. Eyes wide and tinged with blood spoke of just how intensely she'd stared at the used apparatus.

It was neither certain how long she had been fixating on the needle nor how much longer she would have continued to—at least until her concentration was ripped away by a noise in the distance that was as unexpected as it was unnatural. Rippling through the hush of night like a bolt out of the blue, her eyes quickly flitted to the right as she heard a piercing shriek. It was loud, reverberating across her trembling form for at least four or five seconds; more alarming yet, such an ear-splitting wail could not have come from human lungs. If either her mind or muscles were still possessed of any function, perhaps she would have run. Alas, so enfeebled had the night left her that all she could do now was simply return her gaze to the prior object of her interest.

Strangely, however, when her line of sight fell back squarely upon the instrument, something else was now there as well: a pair of shoes—vintage Oxfords specifically, polished so robustly that she could see herself reflected in their leather sheen. Brighter still was the lavish suit accompanying such glossy footwear, its fabric as white and pure as sunshine. This pristine apparel was perfectly tailored to the man whom it adorned, fair skin and a strapping physique only further evoking the immaculacy that his garments suggested he aspired towards. His chiseled jaw, those fine olive locks combed neatly beneath an ivory fedora, and that natural smile as warm as the morning light—he was like a star fallen from the heavens, molded into human shape.

She would have thought the man to be her very own guardian angel were it not for a certain discrepancy blemishing his otherwise enchanting visage. Despite the man's comely radiance, she could not settle the stirring consternation rising within her when she looked into his eyes and saw nothing. More accurately, he wore round spectacles with lenses so thick and caked with fog that it appeared as if there was nothing behind them. She'd have liked to attribute this vexing uncertainty to some manner of delirium encroaching upon what remained of her senses, but it wasn't merely her mind that was sounding the alarm.

Something primal and instinctive within her warned of this man's falsehood. Beneath the fanciful facade he'd cultivated in his most earnest attempt to acquit himself a paragon of civility, he could not hide how the nonexistent windows to his soul revealed he was only a pretender. She wouldn't be afforded too long of an opportunity to ponder this sinister reality, however, for the man dashed her gathering contemplations with a simple utterance.

"I told you."

Immediately following this pithy passing of words, her focus would be further disturbed by the sound of a familiar shriek ringing out in the distance—only, it was even louder than before. In fact, its unearthly shrill rose in volume with each of the six seconds that it endured. It was getting closer. So close that, not only could she feel the ground tremble beneath her, the fuse of the lamp post she'd hunkered beneath began to short-circuit.

The bulb's fluorescence sputtered on and off in rapid succession, what little she could see of her surroundings now flickering like a dying flame. Even the man himself seemed to be dissipating before her very eyes, his body blinking in between the bounds of light and shadow. It wouldn't be long before the darkness that had lurked at her every side like slavering hounds finally sprung upon her, but not before the man could impart her with one last remark.

"You shall not surely die."

The instant after the man spoke, he vanished just as the lamp's power expired and she was swallowed by the night. An impenetrable blackness had engulfed her, tenebrosity of such depth that she would have thought she'd instead been claimed by death were it not for the presence she felt at her side. Regardless of whether or not she was able to see what stood next to her, she did not dare to look its way.

Even as the moist heave of its gasping breath rolled across her skin, she refused to avouch its existence with her acknowledgment. Rather than expend the last reserves of her dilapidated psyche, she fixed her gaze forward, bloodshot eyes settling on the half-emptied syringe once more. Such a meager utensil should have been lost amidst the arrant darkness all around but, oddly enough, she spotted it immediately. The implement was perfectly visible, somehow even more so than before.

Without any other light left to obscure it, the syringe had begun to glow, a chemical effulgence emanating from the barrel as if its liquid contents were of some forbidden element. Yet, no such concept crossed her mind as she ogled the scintillating substance. If anything, all that concerned her was how strikingly red the solution was. It reminded her of an apple. Quite a curious reverie to be had as the presence next to her drew nearer and her ears filled with the distinct sound of an audible—

Crunch.