The coldest hour of the night comes right before dawn
When yesterday's lover once again left you all on your own
Echoes of distant moans dance in the halls of your head
While the silence grows louder with each passing moment
Its quiet screaming threatening to swallow the last
Remnants of joy you still had

The darkest hour of the night comes right before dawn
When your skin begins yearning for the cold sensation
Of an emotionless touch that brings about a wonderful
High temporarily granting a semblance of meaning to life
Waving the loneliness and the sorrow goodbye
For a moment so pitifully brief

You reach the lowest point right before dawn
When you sit covered in sweat drenched sheets and mourn
The heartless departure of everything that you've held dear

Mere moments before dawn
With tears burning your face
You shove the gun into the back of your mouth
In an attempt to escape the haunting memory
Permanently pulsating like an open wound
Engraved onto your mind once you stared
Into the lifeless eye of the only one you've ever truly loved

I see the virgin's cunt giving birth to the sun
I've spent six days hanging from the gallows of sacrificial suicide
Trying to indulge in the pleasures of the passion
Oozing from the weeping eyes of burning wounds
My mind is swarming with the tragic scenes of tortured saints
Finding salvation in the flames of suicidal guilt
Once the mortal souls disintegrate into dust
Under the blinding rays of enlightenment
Moments before their reunion within the presence of God
Whose throne I see in the distance between the rapid
Flashes of a fading consciousness heralding the obliteration of life
In the company of the cross bearing savior
Martyred when molten iron rained into his throat
By wolves among men leading the flock of blind sheep
To the slaughter as offering to the golden bones of the idol
Honoring the one true divine residing in the great
Temple of void nothing beyond the gates of Death

Chapter 1: "Lonely Hearts"

Vancouver, with its skyline of glass and steel, was a city that Marco had grown to love. It had been his home for years, a place of countless memories, both beautiful and painful. But now, it was a city of solitude for him, a place where he wandered the streets aimlessly, lost in the echoes of a past relationship that had left his heart shattered. It had been a few months since the breakup, a few months of sleepless nights and endless days of self-doubt. Marco had always been a romantic at heart, and when he fell, he fell hard. The woman he had thought was "the one" had abruptly walked out of his life, leaving him in a state of emotional disarray. His friends, well-meaning but ultimately unable to fully understand his pain, had urged him to move on. They pushed him to explore the world of dating apps, a world he had been skeptical of. But in the end, he relented, thinking that perhaps this was the way to heal his wounded heart. One evening, sitting alone in his favorite coffee shop, Marco reluctantly downloaded Bumble, a dating app he had heard about from a friend. His finger hovered over the screen as he created his profile, trying to capture the essence of who he was without revealing the vulnerability that lurked beneath his cheerful exterior. As he scrolled through profiles, he saw faces of potential matches flash before him. Some were attractive, some intriguing, and some outright bizarre. He swiped left more often than right, feeling like he was sifting through a catalog of strangers. But then, as he was about to close the app, he stumbled upon a profile that made him pause. It belonged to a woman named Consuela. Her profile picture was captivating, a snapshot of her standing against a backdrop of the Vancouver skyline, her dark hair flowing in the breeze. Her eyes held a hint of mystery, and her smile was both inviting and enigmatic. Marco couldn't help but be drawn to her. He read her profile, which described her as a lover of art, nature, and adventure. She spoke of her passion for hiking in the mountains and her love for exploring the hidden gems of the city. It seemed like they had common interests, and her words resonated with him on a level he hadn't expected. With a sense of apprehension mixed with curiosity, Marco swiped right on Consuela's profile, initiating a connection. He watched as the screen displayed, "It's a match!" A surge of excitement mixed with anxiety coursed through him. Could this be the beginning of something new, a chance to heal his wounded heart? Little did Marco know that this seemingly innocuous swipe would set into motion a series of events that would lead him down a dark and treacherous path, one he could never have imagined in his wildest nightmares.

Chapter 2: "The Enchantress"

The days turned into weeks as Marco and Consuela's online connection deepened. Their chats on Bumble evolved into lengthy conversations that flowed seamlessly. Marco found himself eagerly checking his phone for her messages, his heart beating a little faster each time he saw her name pop up on the screen. Their discussions ranged from the mundane to the profound. They talked about their favorite restaurants in Vancouver, the beauty of the local parks, and their shared love for Mexican cuisine. Marco was surprised to learn that Consuela had Mexican heritage, just like him. She spoke with pride about her family's roots in the vibrant state of Oaxaca, and their shared cultural connection brought them even closer. One chilly evening, Marco decided it was time to take their virtual connection to the real world. He mustered the courage to suggest meeting in person. His fingers trembled as he typed out the message, "Would you like to grab a coffee sometime? I'd love to meet you." Consuela's response was almost immediate, and it contained an enthusiastic "Yes!" She suggested a cozy café nestled in the heart of Vancouver's historic Gastown district. Marco agreed, and they set a date for their first meeting. The days leading up to their rendezvous were a whirlwind of emotions for Marco. He couldn't help but imagine what Consuela would be like in person. Would she be as enchanting as she seemed in her profile picture? Would her smile still hold that captivating mystery? He was filled with a mixture of excitement and nervousness, wondering if this encounter might be the start of something beautiful. The day finally arrived, and Marco found himself standing outside the quaint café, its façade adorned with ivy-covered walls. The air was crisp, and he could see his breath as he waited. He had arrived early, as was his habit, to ensure he didn't keep her waiting. Minutes turned into what felt like hours as Marco fidgeted with his phone, checking the time and glancing at the passersby. And then, he saw her. Consuela approached the café, a vision of grace and elegance. Her dark hair cascaded down her back, and her eyes sparkled as they locked onto his. As they greeted each other with warm smiles and an embrace, Marco felt an electric charge in the air. He couldn't help but be captivated by her presence. They settled into a corner of the café, the cozy ambiance amplifying the intimacy of the moment. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, just as it had online. They spoke of their dreams and aspirations, their favorite books and movies, and the adventures they longed to embark on. Consuela's laughter was like a melodic tune, filling the air with an enchanting energy that drew Marco in deeper. As the hours passed, Marco and Consuela realized they had lost track of time. It was as if the rest of the world had faded away, leaving just the two of them in their own little bubble of connection. The café's staff discreetly dimmed the lights as the evening sun dipped below the horizon. Finally, when the moment came to part ways, Marco couldn't help but feel a pang of longing. Consuela, however, reassured him with a warm smile and a promise to see him again soon. As they exchanged goodbyes, Marco walked away from that café with a heart that felt a little less heavy, a heart that dared to hope that he had found something special in the midst of his pain. Little did Marco know that the enchanting world he had just entered was filled with secrets, and the captivating woman he had met would soon lead him down a path he could never have imagined.

"We have a meeting, you and I, but don't fret; you aren't running late. In fact,"

As your eyes snap open, the room's yellowish hue assaults your senses. Slowly, your view comes into focus, and you recognize these sterile hospital rooms all too well.

You attempt to turn your head, but it remains fixed in place. That's when you finally notice the shadowy figure seated before you.

Leaning back in the chair, I casually roll up my large, oversized black sleeve, revealing bleached white bone adorned with a wristwatch. The cushiony seat shifts under my weight, blending seamlessly with the soft jazz playing in the background. A gentle tap on the glass face of the watch produces a faint "tic tic" as bone meets glass.

"You're actually right on time. We may not meet today, or perhaps not even tomorrow. It could be during your drive to work next week, at a get-together with friends next month, or maybe years from now after a great-great-grandchild's birthday. One thing I can guarantee is that our paths will cross."

I start to settle in and get comfortable in the opulent leather chair, and I watch your eyes as emotions swirl within them. Without hesitation, I prop myself delicately, resting my bony elbows on my legs, and press an index finger to where my lips should be, creating a hushed "shh" that fills the room.

"I understand your apprehension, but it's crucial to know that I bear no malice. I'm not here to harm you; rather, I'm a companion to guide you through the ethereal veil into The After. Over countless ages, I've shepherded diverse life forms into The After..."

Your eyes widen, and you interrupt my words.

"What, do you really believe humans are the only life forms we have meetings with?" I scoff, my tone a blend of assertion and curiosity.

I continue, "I've accompanied beings who share the same general features as you, and I've journeyed with countless others who share my facial features." Panic begins to grip your stare as I raise my skeletal arms, shrouded in a mysteriously light material, and pull down the hood, revealing my true face. The terror that washes over your face would bring a smile if my lips weren't in a state of decay.

"There are universes upon universes, full of galaxies within galaxies, beyond this one. And all those teeming with life will eventually need to undergo the same meeting you are destined for."

I see your eyes darting around as my mouth doesn't move but you still hear my voice snaking its way throughout your ear canal like a late-night whisper.

I lean back in the chair, pulling down my hood, and the shadows swallow my fleshy skull. Your gaze then drawn down to my beige Birkenstocks as I lazily kick them off, and they fall to the floor. I nonchalantly drape one leg over the armrest and the other across your hospital bed.

"What? Don't give me those judgmental eyes about my footwear. After all, I've just told you about my cosmic travels through galaxies and dimensions. I believe I deserve some comfort, especially at my age," I retort unapologetically.

Once more, I pause, as my bony hand rises to my chin, fingers gently tapping in contemplation.

"To be honest, things got rather hectic around 1361, so I didn't do a proper job of keeping track..."

I sense the fear coursing through your veins, the trepidation that this might be the fateful meeting.

"Listen, my friend, this isn't your meeting, and I may very well not be the one you'll meet with. No, no, no. I just happened to have a moment in between time to check in on you. You see there are not alot of people like yourself, suspended in a coma—neither fully here nor entirely gone. We reside in a peculiar grey zone, you and I."

With my last statement, your vision clears more, revealing the full view of the room you lay in with more detail, an ICU room. You now understand why you cannot speak; as you look over to the machine that breathes for you.

Your eyes race back to me as I glance at my watch, noting the time and clicking my tongue in response. "Oof, I've got to get going, as a matter of fact."

I rise from the chair, my back aching and popping with each movement, and then you realize how much I tower over the bed, causing your heart to race once more.

I shrug with a sigh, somewhat annoyed. "Okay, just to calm you down! You'll wake up in a couple of hours. Geez Louise, that heart monitor is obnoxious on top of hearing it as well."

You aren't sure why, but in that moment, my reassurance seems to lay over you like a warm heated blanket of comfort. You watch as I reach into the inky fog of my robe, retrieving my scythe. The eerie sound of sharp metal echoes through the quiet hospital room, and the razor-sharp tool almost glimmers under the yellowish hospital lighting.

I take a moment to admire the craftsmanship and gaze at it; wood is detailed, smooth it looks older than vintage and antique but when handled it feels as if it's never been wielded. Ill always wonder how much older this tool is than it is myself, and I'm certain the blade will remain just as sharp long after I'm gone.

With practiced ease, I twirl the implement around for a few moments, effortlessly and smoothly grabbing it firm midsaft and low by the base. I pull it over my head, the head of the scythe now positioned behind me, almost parallel to the floor. Then, with a quick thrust forward, the sharp, and strange metal pierces the thin air in the middle of the hospital, sending blinding sparks bouncing off my black robe, unknown rays of light, and colors shining brightly past me as the scythe slices through an unseen fabric.

"Just like butter every time," I say with a chuckle.

With precise skill, I continue to cut through literal space and time, creating a walkable path. As I pull the scythe back to its vertical position, its blade even with my shoulders, the portal begins to ripple open further, revealing the other side as an almost dream-like, gelatinous energy that pulsates erratically. The world beyond takes on a familiar appearance, morphing and reflecting as if it were a mirage.

You gaze into the almost slimelike mirror of the alternate universe. The portal emits a cacophony of sounds, akin to hearing multiple conversations in whispered tones, all at once, overlapping and distorted, like being submerged underwater. I lean forward, ready to step through, before I halt abruptly. I pivot back towards you.

"Just remember, and if there's anything you retain from this encounter, it's that at any moment and anywhere, you can and will be called for your meeting. But don't dread who comes for you, for what's far more unsettling is where you'll awaken."

The insistent beeping of my watch captures my attention once more. I pull up my sleeve and scrutinize the face intently before stepping through the portal, miming a finger gun at you with a soft "pew pew."

"Your head's going to ache when you wake up. It's an unfortunate side effect of conversing with..."

My watch beeps more urgently, diverting my focus. "Yikes, gotta get going. Death is never late."

With purpose, I step through the ethereal veil of time and space,

leaving behind nothing but a feverish dream in your memory.

The painting had been put up for auction at a local event raising money for charity. It was an original, according to the auctioneer, by an obscure but talented artist from the early 1900s. It was almost the end of the day and I had yet to see anything that caught my fancy, but the moment the painting was unveiled, I felt something stir in my chest, and I knew I had to have it.

Nobody else seemed quite as enthused as me about the portrait, and winning it had been a relatively simple affair. After countering a few other vaguely-interested buyers, I managed to secure it for myself.

I had it wrapped up in a piece of old, moth-eaten cloth that was found in the auction warehouse, and stowed it in the back of my car, excited to find a place for it in my home. I was a collector of sorts, mostly of antiques and other knickknacks, so it would fit right in with the assortment of old ceramic pots and tarnished clocks and statues that I had sitting in my display cabinet.

On the way home from the auction, I started to feel restless. I wasn't sure if it was because the auction had lasted longer than I expected, or because I was tired, or something else, but I struggled to focus on driving and almost pulled out right in front of another car as I turned at the junction leading left towards my house.

When I finally pulled into the driveway of my semi-detached, I cut the engine and sat for a moment behind the wheel, taking a couple of deep breaths to clear my mind.

When I flicked a glance up, towards the rearview, I thought—for just a moment—

that I had glimpsed a shadow, pressed against the backseat of the car. Between one blink and the next, however, the shadow had disappeared, and I rubbed my eyes, realizing I must have been more tired than I thought.

I twisted around to double-check the backseat, just in case, but there really was nothing there.

Stepping out of the car, I headed round to the trunk of the car and popped it open. The painting was where I had left it, nestled safely in its bandage of thick yellow cloth.

Gripping the edges of the frame, I hoisted it out of the car, careful not to knock the corners against the trunk. Balancing it on one knee, I used my free hand to slam the trunk closed and locked the car behind me, heading up the drive towards the front door.

Somewhere behind me, I felt the strange sensation of being watched. Assuming it was one of my neighbours, I turned round to wave, but there was nobody there. The street was empty. Deserted. I was the only one out here.

Shrugging it off, I headed inside.

Laying the covered painting down on the mahogany dining table, I carefully stripped the cloth away to unearth the portrait.

It was even more beautiful seeing it up close, instead of across the auction hall. I wasn't a painting connoisseur by any means, but even I could appreciate the balance of colours and the masterful brushstrokes used to create the dichotomy between the subject's face and the backdrop.

The signature in the corner, scrawled in black ink, read Thomas Mallory. That was the name of the painter. I had never heard of him before the auction, but the painting itself was a masterful piece of portraiture that held up against even more well-known names. I wasn't entirely sure who the depicted subject was, but judging by the brush and palette he was holding, and the easel in front of him, the subject must have been a painter too. Perhaps it was even a self-portrait of Thomas Mallory himself.

The frame was a deep brass with golden highlights, but there was a faint layer of dust and grime on the edges of the frame, suggesting it had been stored somewhere damp prior to the auction, so I got some low-chemical cleaning supplies and tried my best to clean it up.

By the time I was done, the frame was glistening in the swathes of the fading sun pouring in through the window. It wouldn't be long until dusk fell. I must have been sitting here for hours polishing the frame, and my wrist had grown sore.

Satisfied with my work, I took the painting over to the display cabinet in my sitting room. Despite the wide array of antiques, I did dust regularly, and the air was tinged with the scent of lemon and rose disinfectant. I hadn't quite decided where I would hang the painting yet, so instead I propped it up on the mantlepiece beside the cabinet, above the bricked-up fire that hadn't been used in years. Sometimes, when I hadn't dusted in a while, I could still smell the tinge of ash and smoke embedded within the bricks.

Making sure the painting was secure between the wall and the mantel shelf, I stepped back and admired the portrait in the light of the fading sun. There was something almost melancholy about the painter's face. Those eyes, that sparkled with an unusual, almost corporeal lustre, seemed to be filled with a longing of sorts. A yearning for something that was just out of reach.

But maybe I was just seeing things that weren’t really there. Like the shadow in the car.

The light outside was fading rapidly, but part of me couldn't draw my eyes away from the painting, or the man's woeful expression. Why had the painter portrayed him this way? What was the story behind each stroke of the brush? I don't think I—or anyone—would ever truly understand what was going through the painter's mind as he created this piece of art. That, after all, was the beauty—and pain—of subjectivity. Of art. Of interpretation. Nobody shared the same idea of inference and understanding, especially when it came to something like this.

But perhaps I was overthinking it.

I shook myself out of my daze, realizing that the sun had already set, dusk painting the edges of the sky in shades of dark purple. I should get something to eat before I go to bed, I thought vaguely as I left the room, closing the door behind me.

That night, I awoke to darkness, and the feeling that I wasn't alone.

I lived on my own, as I had done since separating from my partner a few years ago, and didn't have any pets. There was no probable reason why I would feel like there was someone else here with me, but it was something I felt with a strange sort of certainty, that there was someone here in the dark, lurking just out of sight.

My heart began to flutter in my chest, panic rising up through my stomach, but I swallowed it down.

I was being silly.

Of course there was nobody else here. I had locked all the doors and windows before I went to bed, I was sure of it. But I still couldn't quite shake that feeling of unease that tiptoed along the back of my neck, making sweat bead along my skin.

Breathing softly through my nose, I fumbled through the dark until my fingers closed around the light switch, clicking it on.

Bright yellow light flooded the room, and I threw up a hand to shield my eyes from the glare. Squinting between my fingers, I looked around the room.

Empty, as I expected. There really was nobody here.

But then I noticed something that made my throat clench up once more.

The bedroom door was open.

I always slept with it closed, the way I had done since I was a child. I very rarely went to bed with it open, even by accident.

Had someone really been in my room? Or was this one of those very rare occurrences where I had forgotten to close it?

No, I was certain I had shut it. I remembered the creak and the click of the old door against the frame. It had become an almost bedtime ritual, and I would have felt something was off earlier in the night if I had left it open.

I gazed at the crack in the doorframe, shadows pooling around the edges, fear tightening my chest.

Was there someone in the house? Should I call the police?

No, not without investigating first. I didn't want to waste their time if it really was just my imagination, conjuring threats from nothing.

Slipping out of bed, I tiptoed over to the open door, my fingers trembling as they gripped the handle, pulling it open wider. Light from the bedroom spilt out onto the landing, illuminating the rest of the corridor. I couldn't see anything immediately out of place.

I held my breath for a few seconds and listened. Above the pounding of my own heart, I could hear nothing. Just the faint moan of the wind and the rustle of the leaves. The house was deathly silent.

Swallowing back the lump in my throat, I stepped out of my room and tiptoed down the stairs. I wanted to make sure there really was nobody else in the house before I went back to bed.

Downstairs was silent too, except for the faint, intermittent drip of the kitchen tap. I had gotten a glass of water before bed, so perhaps I hadn't twisted the faucet all the way.

I padded into the kitchen, switching on the lights as I went, and tightened the leaky tap until it stopped dripping.

Feeling somewhat less terrified, I went through each room, checking behind doorways and in closets to make sure nobody was hiding. Every room proved empty.

The last place to check was the living room, where the painting was. In a brief lapse of judgment, I considered the possibility that a thief had broken into the house to steal the painting. But who would steal a painting by a less-known artist, after I'd only owned it for a day?

Shaking away the thought, I approached the living room door and froze.

It was one of those old-fashioned doors with a frosted glass window. On the other side of the window stood a shadow. A shadow that wasn't supposed to be there.

Fear stabbed my chest, my heart racing.

Was there someone on the other side?

The shadow wasn't moving. Maybe it was nothing after all. But I had never noticed it before, and I was sure there was nothing on the other side of the door that could be casting it.

Heart thundering in my chest, I went back to the kitchen to grab a knife from the drawer, and hurried back. The shadow was still there.

With a short, sharp breath, I shoved the door open and swung the knife around the edge of the door.

Nothing.

There was nothing there.

A bead of sweat cooled on my brow.

All that panic for nothing. Maybe I really was just overthinking it all. I checked the painting just to be sure, but it hadn't moved an inch. In the dark, the eyes seemed to glisten like obsidian. Eerily realistic.

I took a moment to calm my racing heart and rationalise the situation, then left the room, closing the door behind me. This time, when I glanced back, the shadow was gone.

The next morning, I decided to do some research and see what I could dig up about Thomas Mallory and his work. I thought it odd that last night's experience had come right after bringing the painting into my home. Perhaps I was being paranoid and making connections where there weren't any, but I was still curious to see what I could find out. Surely someone, somewhere, must know something about him, even if he was a more obscure name in the art world.

I searched for the name on the internet, but all I could immediately find were articles about Thomas Malory, the writer. Not the painter of the portrait sitting in my living room.

After scrolling through countless websites and forums, I finally managed to find a page dedicated to the right Mallory. There was an old black-and-white depiction of him, and I recognised him immediately as the same figure in the painting. It was a self-portrait after all.

I was sitting with my laptop on the couch in the living room, and my gaze lifted to the painting. Mallory gazed sombrely down at me, making my chest pinch.

Returning my attention to the webpage, I read through a brief history of his life. According to the text, Thomas Mallory had never managed to succeed as a painter during life, and had died in poverty, without selling more than one or two of his works. Towards the end of his life, Mallory had begun to rant about how he had been unable to find his muse, and that he would keep searching for her, even after death. He blamed the muses forsaking him as the reason he had been so unsuccessful, and had apparently passed away in a state of bitter despair.

When I scrolled down to the bottom, I soft gasp parted my lips. There was a section titled ‘Mallory’s Last Work’, and the picture attached was the very same one that now sat on my mantel.

Mallory’s self-portrait.

The last ever painting he created, before his death. Was that the reason for his despondent look? Had he been unhappy with his career, at a loss, abandoned by the muses? Was that the message the portrait portrayed?

I studied it from across the room, raking my eyes over the paintbrush poised against the painted canvas, the palette of muted colours almost drooping in his hand. Was this when he was on the verge of abandoning his passion altogether? Or was that searching, longing look in his eye a plea to the muses, to hear his desperate call?

I shook my head, closing my laptop with a sigh.

Thomas Mallory, despite being a wonderful artist, had suffered the same fate as so many artists had. Unappreciated, unrewarded, dying nameless and poor. It was only after death that they truly found fame.

The following night, I woke up once more to the feeling that I was being watched from the dark.

The room was pitch-dark. Through the netted curtains, there was not even a glimpse of the moon. Only the dark, starless sky, like the open maw of a beast.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. It was just after three o’clock in the morning, according to my watch. Using one hand to switch on the lamp, I squeezed my eyes closed against the light, waiting a few seconds for my eyes to stop watering and finally adjust.

The air in the room was still. Undisturbed. The door was closed. Nothing felt out of place, except for the strange prickle of unease tiptoeing down my spine.

I gazed around the room for a few minutes, waiting in silence for something to happen, but nothing did. Once again, it was all in my head.

I reached for the lamp again, my fingers brushing the switch. The moment the room plunged into darkness was the moment I heard it.

Footsteps.

Soft, muted footsteps coming from somewhere deeper in the house.

I held my breath, my pulse racing beneath my ribcage. Was I hearing things? There, against the quiet of the night, was the sound of retreating footfalls.

Someone was inside the house. This time, there was no mistake.

Fighting the rising panic in my chest, I fumbled to switch on the light and slipped out of bed. The air was cold against my legs, and I shivered, tiptoeing towards the door.

I wrapped my fingers around the handle and tugged it open, as quietly as I could. I peered out. Nothing. The footsteps grew fainter, moving further away, until eventually I could hear them no more. Had they already left? I didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

Keeping close to the wall, I padded down the hallway and stood at the foot of the stairs, peering down. I couldn’t see anything. Nothing stirred amongst the shadows. Silence pressed against me like something tangible, broken only by my short, panicked pants.

Taking the stairs slowly, I reached the bottom and peered around the edge of the bannister. My vision swam in the darkness, and I tried to ignore the feeling that there was something crouched in the shadows, waiting to catch me off guard.

It’s all in your head.

This time, I passed by the kitchen and dining room and went straight to the living room. Straight to the painting.

The door was open. Inside, the darkness felt thick, suffocating.

I reached blindly through the dark until I found the light switch, flipping it on. The room felt warmer than the rest of the house. The air felt disturbed. Like someone had been here recently.

There was nobody hiding behind the doorway. Nobody crouched behind the sofa. Everything was in its place.

Closing the door behind me, I walked up to the painting, and gasped. My legs wobbled, feeling like they were about to give way. My head began to spin, not quite willing to believe what I was seeing.

The painting had changed.

The painter—Thomas Mallory—had disappeared, leaving an empty space, a dark, mottled void where he once stood. The paintbrush and palette had been discarded, and the canvas—that had before been turned the other way—was now facing me, containing a new painting. A new portrait.

A portrait that looked exactly like me.

I ran my fingers through the clothes at the antique mall, an old warehouse, filled almost to the rafters with furniture, boxes and clothes racks, the walls lined with paintings, some probably of value but i never had the time to learn the entire trade, it was dark for the skylights had long since been cleaned, and not to mention the intoxicating smell of old wood, freedom stood behind me in the form of an open barn door, casting a natural light on the clothes rack i was rapidly sifting through.The occasional cheap suit and old plaid shirts, worthless, like it always was, aside from the vintage silk ties and rare vintage suits that were actually worth buying, something in that rack had caught my eye.

It was no suit, but a jumper, a pullover, black with a V-neck and wide collar, gold stripes and insignias, it looked futuristic, almost like something from star trek, but even then i knew it was a 1940s Navy sailors jumper they call the cracker jack, indeed it had the flap collar and everything.

At this point it's worth noting that i have long been a lover of the sea, as a kid i watched every pirate movie and movie that had boats and ships in it, i played Assassin's Creed 4 to absolute death when i first got it, when i was 12 i was listening to and singing shanties long before they were popular, my parents always discouraged me from joining the Navy, they always told me my love of the sea wasn't all what it seemed.

It soon all slipped away from me, and by the time i was 16 i barely knew the lyrics to Drunken Sailor, i got into thrifting instead, and would make decent money for my age by selling what i had found, but here i was, holding a $20 piece of naval history, wearable history, there was no chance of me turning it down, i bought it, i didn't even care if it was my size.

Of course my parents still never agreed with my love of the salty breeze, and would still joke about it, had they been with me on that day they would probably have made me put it back.

Back at home a gentle cleaning brought it up nicely, and i tried it on, much to my luck it fit perfectly, almost like it was made for me, yet my parents didn't really approve of it, there wasn't much they could do.I liked wearing that jumper, a lot, especially to the seaside, the sound of the flap falling home whenever i put it on never ceased to satisfy me, it was amazing.

Under that flap was actually still the name of a sailor, my endless research found that he was among the dead on a warship that sank during WWII, it was a strange thing, but one i assumed was either a hoax by a later owner, or from someone with a similar name, after all, they were a radio man, and this one was electricians mate, i didn't even think that radio men got cracker jacks.

Soon i got back into it, and was listening to shanties and taking part in talk like a pirate day, my parents soon got tired of me singing shanties, so i started performing in public, this was around 2018 so shanties weren't in yet, but still that cracker jack got me a lot of street cad and some even thought i was a sailor.

But that's when it all started happening, vivid dreams of steel corridors, the sound of alarms, and the sensation of up becoming down, sometimes i dreamt of what happened, i was trying to fix something on the warship, possibly a radar, when there was a loud bang, i would run out of that equipment room hoping to get on deck, but the ship would always capsize before i could.

Soon i started to be effected during the day, things like the old sea legs, which would concern my parents, but the doctor could never find anything, and i would have an uncontrollable to reaction to seeing vintage electronics and radios, it got so bad i couldn't look at the electronics at the antique mall.

Eventually i did more research on that sailors name and that ship, i found out it was torpedoed and capsized as a result, no one below deck could escape in time, i still never believed it was his jumper i had.

And that's when it come, one night i had put the jumper on a chair in the corner of my bedroom, even though the lights were off, some moonlight broke through the curtains and cast on the flap, the 3 distinctive golden stripes were the last thing i remember seeing before i sank into one of the aforementioned dreams.

All i remember of the dream, was feeling the sensation of death by drowning, and watching as the lights down the steel corridor flicked off, one by one, as both me and this floating fortress slowly died a salty death.

The next i remember, i had woken, but not on my bed, i felt the carpet beneath me and knew i was on the floor, and as i come to, i noticed the jumper was missing from the chair, i was wearing it, and it was soaking.

I knew i had smelt that smell somewhere before, it was the smell of the seaside and i quickly realized, for some reason, i and the jumper were soaked in sea water.

I knew what i was going to do.

It was the next time i was out performing shanties by the seaside, and when i was done and knew no one looking, i took off the jumper and threw it into the sea..

*splash* and i watched as the salty water washed over it, i briefly saw the flap and the two golden stars upon it, before it drew further away and eventually sank into the murky depths, to it's watery grave, where it should have been some 80 years ago, i still don't know why i did it, i know i should have gone it to a museum, but the deed was done.I then went to a surplus store and bought an almost identical cracker jack, that's the one i still have to this day, this is a story i have told no one and never will, and i'm quite well known as a folk singer in my community, my fans will never know either.

The man in the mirror isn’t me! I don’t mean that in a metaphorical sense; or even in self-deprecating humor about the normal side-effects of aging. He definitely isn’t me! Sure, he resembles my physical appearance. I can’t deny the profile similarities between us but there’s an alien glint in his eyes which I wholeheartedly reject. Full stop. That sinister leer betrays the fact that he’s a cunning imposter pretending to be someone else. Parroting my innocent reflection and identity.

I first became aware of something ‘not right’ a few weeks ago, but passed it off as neurotic paranoia. Believe me, I know how it sounds. From my candid admission you can gauge how important it is for me to still reveal the uncomfortable truth, despite the cringeworthy optics of it. I’m positive numerous others have questioned such whimsical things in the past. Who hasn’t wondered the same eclectic thought at least one time when looking at themselves in a full length mirror? I believe it’s called ‘the imposter syndrome’.

It seemed like a worn-our movie plot but the grinning fool kept staring back at me in a way that made me boil with rage! It felt like he was daring me to call him out on the infuriating theft of my reflection. He aptly mimicked my personal behaviors and pantomimed the sudden movements in an admirable fashion but I knew; and he knew. The sneer of superiority on my lips was immediately repeated in the glass, but the brief delay was telling. There was a microsecond it required to observe and imitate. That’s how I knew!

I could’ve just covered all my mirrors and reflective surfaces but that wouldn’t stop the evil sabotaging my identity, would it? A tree falling in the forest still makes a sound whether anyone is there to witness it. There was no telling what this grinning ghoul mocking me was up to when I was sound asleep. It made sense to confront an obvious case of identity theft. Even if I didn’t understand what his game was, then. I’ve always been direct. I might not be able to stop him from whatever he seized my appearance for, but he would damn well know I was fully aware of it AND documenting what I witnessed. That was highly important as you’ll come to see.

When I awoke, I was shocked to see him standing there, covered in dried blood! It was so disgusting. What had he done? Then the dark truth dawned on me about his underlying motives. He’d seized my appearance to be able to commit horrible crimes, and then have me to blame as a patsy for them! Any eyewitnesses would immediately finger me as the culprit, and I couldn’t even deny it. This lunatic looked just like me! Sheesh. I was trapped by the clever ploy and worried I wouldn’t be able to convince authorities I was innocent.

From this highly-compromised position, I was left with no choice other than to help him cover up his unspeakable deeds. I had no other recourse but to be complicit, and that infuriated me beyond measure. By washing off the blood and destroying the evidence, I was an accessory to heaven knows what! I wanted to smash the mirror in frustration but doing so wouldn’t change what had been done, or what he would continue to do. I faced him that morning with rising scorn and wrath, while equally hating myself for giving in to the blackmail.

Sadly, the news was filled with horrible stories about local unsolved crimes! I didn’t know for sure it was him, but in my heart I KNEW. After too many occasions of cleaning up his violent messes, I decided I’d had enough. No amount of excuses could wash away my guilt for my part in helping him cover them up. He couldn’t keep getting away with those atrocities. I needed to stop protecting myself and act before anything else occurred. It was in the public’s best interest that he be stopped; even if I went to prison for my small part of it too. Maybe the court would grant me mercy. I had to try.

I spent a couple of days planning how I might be able to stop or capture him. By then I think he realized I was up to something but kept playing the part. Still imitating my every move in front of me. Still grinning like a deranged fool. I have to give him credit though. He is fully dedicated to ‘the role’. It’s startling how authentic he appears. Since my imposter is so committed to pretending to be me, I always have the first move! That is a powerful tool I took full possession of. He has to do exactly what I do! His determination to stay in character gives me power over him, which I’m sure he resents deeply.

For hours I stood there, forcing him to follow my every move and silly gesture. Every exaggerated expression and dramatic pose was imitated perfectly. I thrilled at how he must’ve hated the extended period of forced compliance. I hoped he would be so exhausted by it all that he would resist the urge to harm anyone else. I think my efforts worked that night as I slept, but it wasn’t a sustainable plan. A killer like him has to kill. I had to capture him alive, and then take him directly to the police.

Finally I figured a way to get him the hard justice he deserved. I went to my garage and pulled out a Philips head screwdriver from my toolbox. He had no idea what I’d planned to do! I was so excited! I met him in the bathroom mirror and smiled innocently at him for a few seconds. I think I detected a rising hint of worry in his expression but it was subtle. I wanted this inhuman ghoul to be absolutely terrified of what I was about to do.

I raised the screwdriver and started taking out the screws holding up the mirror corner pieces. After taking out the top two, I had to be careful or the whole thing would topple away from the wall and shatter. The best part was, HE KNEW what I was doing by them but still had to help! I couldn’t believe it, somehow he still didn’t break character but I knew he was dying inside. My plan was brilliant and he’d fallen into my trap this time. I unscrewed the bottom anchors and carefully carried it to my car. I figured he would try to make me break it, but I was ready for any type of sabotage. Although he tried to trip me, I caught myself. The mirror didn’t break.

All along the way, I had to smile. Then I began to laugh. First it was only a mild chuckle but nearing the police station, I was roaring with laughter. People around me in traffic looked at me like I was a lunatic for being so animated for no obvious reason. That’s ok. They had no idea who I’d captured, or how clever I’d been in my plan to bring the heinous perpetrator to Justice.

I figured at that point he would crack and do whatever it required to ruin the mirror and escape. I had to be very vigilant. There was a large flight of steps up to the precinct door. I’d surely stumble carrying that heavy, awkward piece of glass. I decided to leave it in the car for safety. I’d ask for an armed escort to bring him in. That way he couldn’t get away. It seemed fool proof but I failed to consider how cunning my reflected nemesis is.

I told the apathetic officer at the front desk that I had urgent information about the violent crime wave which was affecting our city. He seemed pretty jaded and skeptical until I told him I happened to have the culprit captured in my vehicle, outside. He immediately perked up hearing that. When I explained I needed assistance bringing him inside, the officer paged a couple of jailers to assist us.

Once outside, everything fell apart. They seemed genuinely perplexed when I told them the killer was in the back seat, trapped inside the mirror. They looked at each other like I had lost my marbles. I tried explaining everything to them but they didn’t seem the least bit interested in hearing my testimony about him. Instead, they insisted I come inside to give my statement. I didn’t mind, but I was terrified he would somehow get away while I was in the detective’s office.

Tearfully, I confessed about my small part in covering up his unspeakable crimes. They nodded politely as I unburdened myself, but I overheard one of them say something which eluded me. Something about: ‘non com pos mentis’. Never having been in legal trouble, I’ve never knew much of the police jargon they use. Then they asked if they had my permission to search the house for more evidence. Realizing my willingness to help in all ways in the investigation would look quite favorable to the prosecutor, I told them they had my full permission. Despite the troubling circumstances, I had to smile again. Soon, everything will be better.

He’d wanted to have kids someday. It wasn’t going to happen now. That was a sad thought. Maybe it was for the best, the way the world was going. That was an even sadder thought. Tyreese was normally a more positive guy, but it was hard to stay optimistic while cocooned to a wall.

Tyreese Shannon. Lance Corporal, Military Police. That was all you were supposed to say when you were a prisoner. He doubted his captors here would care much for his name and rank, though. The carnivorous alien arachnids from another dimension appeared to have more primal concerns than sorting out who they’d managed to capture. Hungry concerns, like digging those too toothy grins into a few of the unlucky people they’d killed when they came skittering out of the enveloping grey fumes that had swallowed the entire town, and in through the doors of the pharmacy.

Some, the live ones like Tyreese, the spider-things had plastered to the ceilings and the walls. Maybe food for later, maybe something else. He wished that he could move his arm to scratch the incredible itch that was spreading from his back to his chest and face, radiating from the spot where several of the creatures had stung him with some kind of paralyzing poison before they wrapped him up against the wall.

Sam. That would’ve been the name of his first kid. He’d always liked the name, the rhythm and the alliteration. Sam Shannon. Samantha if it was a girl.

The whole thing was fundamentally notional; he didn’t have a woman in his life at the moment, and, given the way things were going today, he didn’t think he was going to be with another woman in this lifetime. But it was something to keep his mind off itch. The second kid would be Charles. The third kid? Maybe Charlene. Or Tyrone.

Tyrone, son of Tyreese. That had a nice ring to it.

​

***

​

The worst part about waiting to die was the boredom.

That, and the itch, but the boredom was what surprised him. Gave him way too much time to think, which in turn made him feel bad about the current predicament he and the others found themselves in.

The Project had seemed so badass when he’d first been assigned to it, heard the stories about experimental technologies that could look into other worlds, filled with impossible places and things.

Not nearly as badass when a surge from the electrical storm knocked all the precise calibrations out of alignment and into a perfect cascade of catastrophic consequence. His radio crackling with panicked screams from the base, only to be cut off by an overly calm broadcast from off-site command, ordering Tyreese and the other MPs to round up any wayward troops from town and prepare for emergency operations.

Yeah, they’d screwed up, majorly, and he’d been a part of it. A small part of it, but still part of it. That sucked, stuck on the wall, where not even the weight of all that culpability could pull him down. He’d run out of baby names hours ago.

Something familiar but new echoed through the cobweb coated shelves, something Tyreese had abandoned any hope for since he’d gone up on the wall: human voices. Flashlight beams punctured the shadows inside the store.

“Let’s just get what we need and get out of here.” Someone whispered harshly. Tyreese guessed they weren’t having the best day either. The newcomers crept through the aisles. Most of the spider-things slept soundly in their webs, the rest out stalking through mist soaked streets, searching for prey.

The group clanged and clamored to the back room of the pharmacy. Tyreese wanted to tell them to keep it down. He could hear the sleeping spider-things begin to stir at the all the sounds the intruders were making.

“Guys…hurry it up. I hear something.” One of the people said. Good, they’d finally realized they should tread more softly. They didn’t want to end up like Tyreese and the others.

“Something weird.” Another chimed in. Shut up, Tyreese thought

One of their flashlights fell onto a woman webbed to the ceiling. The newcomers began to scream. Some wordlessly yelling, others spouting profanity.

This had the potential to go very badly for them. The telltale chittering grew louder, the spider-things really waking up now. Gathering his remaining energy, Tyreese pulled his hand from the wall and onto the shoulder of one of the group. The man, a craggy face in mechanic’s overalls, spun around and screamed louder.

He felt bad for scaring the man. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Tyreese choked out through the itching, somehow growing even more intense than it had been before. He pulled and shook against the wall. He had to get down, help them get out before the spiders fully awakened. “Help me,” he said, struggling against the webs.

“Oh man, he’s glued to the post.”

Tyreese could just make out the confused and terrified expressions on their faces through the haze of webs. They really had no idea what was happening or why, and he couldn’t begin to imagine how frightening this all must be, without the context of the knowledge that he had. He started to explain, began at the beginning, “It’s all our fault…”

The itch got worse, and better at the same time, little strokes soothing it from the inside. He realized what was causing it; little feet, thousands of little feet scampering under his skin. “I can feel them…”

The others stepped away from Tyreese.

Finally some relief, all those little teeth and claws scratching at the itch. One spot on his face gave way entirely, tiny little spider feet tickling his nose as they stepped across his cheeks. Sammy. He would name it Sammy.

“Oh…my god.” One of the intruders said. More spots burst open as hundreds of baby spiders came crawling out of him. So, so many, and even after all that time spent just thinking of possible kids’ names, Tyreese didn’t have nearly enough. But it was okay. Good, even.

​

He was going to be a father after all.

​

###

Long reaching is the shadow cast
Upon the earth by the countless wings
Of the locust carrying an airborne curse
Designed to infect infinite lifetimes
With the smothering embrace of ghastly sorrow
A bitter sweet memory of the malignant
Yet beautiful silhouette belonging
To an old friend whose unconditional love
Eases the suffocating pain leading to my untimely end

There's a widening gap in your heart
A bleeding wound without a cure
Torn open by the obsessive compulsive
Atavistic claws of a cancerous disease
Plaguing an overwhelmed mind
On the verge of collapse from
The unbearable guilt barely masking
The horrors lurking within mental halls
Pounding against the thin fabric of reason
With the malignant intention
To defile and desecrate all manner of life
With each passing day
Fewer reasons remain to continue the fight
With each passing moment
The urge grows ever more pleasant
Reminding constantly of the ease
With each relief will come
Once you give into the beast
And destroy everything
You had to convince yourself
You ever loved

They walked in without a care in the world. I acted relaxed, hiding my eagerness, forcing my face to appear bored. The bell above the door rang as it closed and a group of four teenagers entered. Three girls, one boy.

The group spoke in hushed tones while they walked about my store, studying cryptic items that reeked of the occult. Though people were often attracted to forces they were unable to grasp, those who did go ahead with the ritualistic requirements of my items were few. My store was perfect to attract those few, however.

One of the girls approached the desk to talk to me.

“Excuse me?”

I feigned interest. “Yes, young maiden? How may I be of assistance?”

“Do you know anything about Ouija boards?”

“I know all there is to know about them. Youngsters like you tend to poke fun at such objects.” The girl’s friends, accordingly, snickered at the back of the store. “Yet, those who play with it rarely repeat the experience. And there are those, of course, who aren’t lucky enough to be able to repeat it.”

The girl mulled this over. “Why do you sell it at your store, then?”

I smiled. If I told her the truth, she would think me a joker and not go through with the ritual. So, I lied, “These are items that directly connect to places better left alone. If one were to destroy said items, one would find oneself in the darkest tangles of destiny. By their very nature, these objects must exist to keep the balance of the worlds.” Oh, how they ate it up, and with such earnest expressions. The girl who was talking to me was especially entranced. “It can be healthy to experiment with items such as Ouija boards. If nothing else, they can humble those who jeer at things much more powerful than they.” I eye the girl’s friends.

“So, you’re saying you’d rather curse other people than be cursed yourself for the greater good?” the girl asked.

I nodded. “You catch on quick.” The girl handed me the Ouija box and I passed it on the scanner. “What are you planning to do with this? Contact someone dear?”

The girl shrugged. “A boy from our school was killed in an abandoned warehouse north of the town. We want to see if his spirit still lingers.”

“Spooky stuff.”

The girl laughed. “Very spooky stuff.”

“Hey, pal,” the boyfriend of hers said in an overly aggressive tone.

“Yes? Pal,” I replied. Boys like this were always the first to crumble at the sight of a threat. Their wills were weak, their minds feeble, susceptible to the tiniest divergence from their authority. Most humans were, but some more than others.

“That board ain’t cursed, now, is it?”

I spun the board in my hands. I undid the small strip of tape and opened the box, showing it to them. “This, my youngsters, is but cardboard and wood and a little bit of glass. This ain’t cursed. But you are doing the cursing. If I had to give you one piece of advice, I’d tell you to leave this board and everything that has something to do with it alone.”

“What now? Are you going to sell us herbs to cast away evils?” And the boy laughed.

I pointed at patches of herbs on the back of the store. “I could. Do you want some? I do advise you to take them.”

“Just buy the Ouija board, Mary,” the boy said, half-laughing and walking out of the store. I decided then that that one would be the first to go.

The girl, Mary, smiled at me politely and said, “I’m sorry for them.”

“I’m sorry for them as well,” and shrugged it off.

Mary paid and I handed her the box, wishing her the rest of a good day. Just as she reached the door, I called back, “Miss?”

“Yes?” she said.

“Here. I’ve got something you might want to take.”

“Oh, I’m all out of money.”

“That’s alright, it’s a special offer. I like to treat my polite customers well.” And I smiled. I’ve got to be careful with my smiles—I have turned people away through its supposed wrongness. Mary felt none of it, however, and returned to my desk.

The girl was so honest, so naive, I had to hold myself from sprawling laughter. I pretended to search the shelves behind me, held out my hand, and materialized the necklace. The Amulet. My Blessed Gift.

I showed it to the girl. The Amulet was a simple cord with a small, metal raven attached to it. It looked masonic and rural. A perfect concoction. “This,” I said, “is called the Blessed Raven. This is an ancient amulet, worn by Celtic priests when they battled evil spirits. The amulet by itself is made of simple materials, but I had a bunch of them blessed in Tibet. They should protect you, shall anything bad happen.”

“Anything bad?”

I shrugged again. “Spirits are temperamental. The realm beyond is tricky, so it’s good to be prepared.”

She held out her hand.

“Do you accept the amulet?”

“Sure.”

I closed my hand around it. “Do you accept it?”

“Yes, Jesus. I accept it.”

I felt the bond forming, and I smiled again. This time, the girl recoiled, even if unconsciously. “Thank you.” She exited the store in a rush.

Falling back on my seat, I let out a sigh of relief and chuckled. Once again, they’d fallen for the Blessed Gift like raindrops in a storm. I’ve achieved a lot over the years. I was proud of my kills, proud of my hunts. For today, or very near today, I would celebrate with a feast.

They’d never see the demon before I was at their throats.

#

Demons do not appear out of nowhere, nor is their existence something lawless that ignores the rules of the natural world. Our existence is very much premeditated, necessary, even. Even if we are few and our work is not substantial enough to change the tides of history, rumors of us keep humanity in line.

We do not eat humans—some of us do, but not because we need it for nourishment. We hunt, and it is the killing that sustains us. Our bodies turn the act into energy; sweet, sweet energy and merriment.

Our means of hunting and preparing the prey also vary. Each of us has very constricting contracts which won’t let us do as we please. For us to be hunters, we need to be strong and fast and, above all, intelligent. These are traits not easily given. They must be earned, negotiated.

They must be exchanged.

I, Aegeramon, operate in a very quaint manner. I am bestowed with a capable body, though I cannot hunt my every prey. For each group I go after, one member must survive. Hence, the Amulet. The Blessed Gift. A gift for the human who survives, and a cursed nuisance for me.

I must offer the Amulet to a human, and the human must accept it and wear it. This chosen one will be completely and utterly physically immune to me from the moment he puts on the Amulet to the moment death comes knocking. This may cause hiccups during a hunt. If I hunt in a populated area, the Amulet human might escape and get help, and I will be powerless to stop them. Imprisoning them is considered an attack, and as such, I cannot stop them from leaving. For my own survival, my hunts must take place where no help can be reached.

Most importantly, the Amulet human is to be my weakness. A single touch from them would burn my skin, a punch would break my bones, a single wound could become fatal. I am a monster to humanity, but these few humans are monsters to me.

Nonetheless, they pose me no danger. I am careful in selecting them. They must be the weak links of the group, the naïve souls, those who will either be too afraid to face me, or those too sick to get me.

#

I felt them—felt the Blessed Gift—getting away. I could sense its direction, its speed, the heartbeat of the girl who wore it. I know when she took the Amulet off to inspect it, then put it back on. I know what she thought as she thought it, and I know she felt uncomfortable all the time, as if something was watching her. It was. I was.

Even after this hunt was over, even after she threw the Amulet off, there would be a burn mark shaped like a raven on her chest. I would never be able to touch or hurt her, and I wouldn’t need to. I would disappear, only returning when it was time to plan my next hunt, years hence.

I wish I could still feel those who were saved by the Blessed Gift. Did they hate me? Fear me? Somehow, had they ended up revering me as a force of nature?

There was one I’d like to meet again. I’ll never forget those eyes. She’d been a little girl, and if still alive, she’d be but a withered crone now. Her health had been lamentable then, so I doubted she’d lived this long.

So I sat, and while waiting for Mary and her friends to take the Ouija board to the abandoned warehouse, I thought back to my glorious hunts and to my disgraceful hunts. To that horrible, wretched hunt.

That day, my body had been masked as a friendly bohemian of a lean but frail build—

#

—I decided that campers on the remotest sides of the mountain would be more willing to pick a hitchhiker up if he looked as nonthreatening as possible. Thus, I made my body into a thin bohemian. I could always bulk it up later.

The first travelers that picked me up were a pleasant couple with a child. As a rule, I never went after couples—first, because hunting a single person was unsatisfactory, and second, because the Amulet member of the couple would be greatly inclined to hunt me down in vengeance. Though that wasn’t a worry I normally had, with so many campers going around, I was sure to find another group.

I caught two more rides until I found the perfect people. I ended up coming across a batch of young adults and teenagers having a picnic below a viewpoint, and two of the youngest were in wheelchairs. The girl in the wheelchair had a visible handicap on her left leg, while the boy was pale and sickly. It looked like their older brothers had brought them along with their friends, though they hadn’t done so out of obligation. They all looked happy and cordial, but there was a hint of discord in the undertones of some strings of conversation.

I smiled oh so delightfully.

“I am sorry to disturb you, my guys, but do any of you have any water?”

I could see that the older ones eyed me warily. Was I a vagrant? Was I dangerous?

I held up an empty bottle. “I ran out a couple of miles ago, and the last time I drank from a river I ended up having the shits for a week.” This got a laugh from them all, and the older ones eased up a little.

“I have a bottle here,” the girl in the wheelchair said, grabbing one from her backpack and handing it to me.

“Thank you so very much, miss. What’s your name, darlin’?”

“Marilyn,” she said.

And just like that, I was in. In for the hunt.

#

Through comical small talk, I was able to make the group accept me for the night. I had canned food in my backpack, which I shared. I had cannabis and rolling paper, which made everyone’s eyes light up. Hadn’t I been who I was, these youngsters would have remembered this night for the rest of their lives.

Only Marilyn and the boy in the wheelchair eyed me warily.

“You okay?” I asked.

She looked away. “Hmm-hmm.”

I had to earn her good graces. She was weak, and her health seemed frail; she’d be a good fit to wear the Blessed Gift. “You don’t seem okay.”

“My lungs,” she said. “They’re not great. Asthma.”

I nodded as if I perfectly understood the ailment, as if it had brought me or a dear one suffering as well. “You know, when I was—”

“Hey, Marilyn,” one teenager said. He was tall and buff and looked much like Marilyn. “Leave the man alone.”

Marilyn’s eyes turned back to her feet.

“That’s alright, man,” I said, “she’s cool.”

The boy looked at me as if I was some alien who had no conception of human culture. “Cool, you say?” He wore a jeering grin.

“Sure thing.”

After engaging in an uninteresting conversation with Marilyn, who appeared to be greatly immersed in what she was saying, I got up to go to the bathroom because the time seemed appropriate, sociologically speaking. I don’t use the bathroom. I used the opportunity to spy on the group from afar, to observe their interactions. As soon as I was out of earshot—of human earshot, that is—the group turned on Marilyn and the sickly boy.

“God, Marilyn, you’re so lame. You never speak with us, and you’re speaking with that bum?” the oldest boy said.

“You never let me speak!” she protested.

The girl next to the boy—who looked like his girlfriend—slapped his arm and said, “Don’t be nasty to your sister.”

“She’s the antisocial freak, not me,” he replied.

Tears stung Marilyn’s eyes. “Screw you, John.”

The scene went on for a while longer, a time I used to plan the next part of the hunt.

I returned and sat near Marilyn again. She was still sensitive from before, though I managed to bring her out of her shell by asking her about her friends, what she usually did in her spare time, her favorite books, and so on. She liked classics with monsters, say Shelley’s Frankenstein or Stoker’s Dracula. I was alive when those novels were published, so, in a way, they were very dear to me as well. I occasionally had to switch the conversation to the other kids in the group, but I tried to talk with Marilyn as much as I could.

And an interesting thing began to happen—something that had never hitherto come to take place. I kept the conversation going out of pure interest.

I was sick, most probably. Demons can have illnesses of the mind, so I’ve been told. Yet the effect was clear—I was enjoying the conversation, and as such, I kept it going. I could have introduced the Amulet a long time ago. Hours ago, in fact.

The sun meanwhile set, and the group decided to hop back on their truck and ride to a camping site twenty minutes away. They were kind enough to let me ride with them.

“I do sense something strange today,” I eventually said. Me and Marilyn were in the back of the truck together with the sickly boy, who was quiet and refusing any attempts at communication whatsoever.

“Something strange? How so?”

“Do you know why I wander around so much? I hate cities. The reason is simple, if you can believe it. I can feel bad things. I can feel bad feelings. In a city there is stress, anxiety, sadness; there is violence, frustration, pollution. Out here, there’s nature. There’s peace. There’s an order—an ancient order—harmonious in so many aspects. Here, I feel safe.”

Marilyn nodded towards the front of the truck. “You’re probably feeling my brother, then.”

“I felt him a long time ago. I’m feeling something different now.” I reached over to my backpack, and I froze. Should I? The moment the Amulet was around her neck, it’d be too late to halt the hunt. These thoughts of mine befuddled me. They weren’t supposed to happen. Why me? Why now?

“You okay?” she asked.

I nodded. The sullen boy glanced up at me quizzically. “Yeah, sorry. As I was saying, I feel something different now, something I’ve felt before along this mountain range. I think something evil lurks in these woods. This could help.”

I bit my lip as the Amulet formed in my hand. I clutched it in my fist.

Marilyn lit up. “Ooh, what is it? Is it some kind of artifact? Some witchcraft thingy?”

I smiled, and it wasn’t a grotesque smile. It was painful. “Yeah, you may call it that. This is an Amulet, the Blessed Raven. It’s a gift.”

“Oh, thank you so much. For me, right?”

“Of course. Do you accept it?”

“It’s pretty. Damn right, I accept it!”

I nodded, hesitated, then handed it to her. Something in my chest area weighed down as she put the Amulet on, and I gained insight into her very mind. Into her very heart. She was happy—content, even—that somebody was talking to her, making an effort to get along with her.

“Does it look good on me?” she asked.

“Suits you just fine.”

It was strange how I knew that even if I had to, I wouldn’t be able to kill her. Nevertheless, the hunt was on now, and it was too late to turn back.

#

The kids set up camp. I helped. I also helped Marilyn down the truck, slowly, my thoughts turning to mush midway as I thought them. The sickly boy kept studying me, as if he had already guessed what I was. Even if he cried wolf, what good would it do? Destiny was already set in stone.

“You keep spacing out,” Marilyn told me.

“I’m tired, and the woods are really beautiful around here.”

Marilyn nodded. “But also dark. A little too dark, if you ask me.”

Marilyn’s brother lit up a fire; I had to surround it with stones as embers kept threatening to light the grass on fire. This forest would have no option but to witness evil today. Let it at least not see fire.

The group naturally came to rest around the fireplace, stabbing marshmallows and crackers with a stick and holding them up to the fire. It was a chilly but pleasant night.

“Have you ever heard of the Midsummer Ghost?” a boy said. And so, it started. I glanced at Marilyn. She’d be safe. She’d at least be safe.

“The Midsummer Ghost always hides like a man in need. You never see him for who he is, for he only lets you know what he is the moment he’s got you in his claws.”

This was too fitting. God was playing tricks on me.

“Legends say he was a little boy who was abandoned in the woods by parents who hated him, all because he was deformed and broken. It is said the boy never died, that he was taken in by the woods and became a part of them. He asks for help, as help was never given to him in life. If it is denied ever again, the Midsummer Ghost will slice and pull your entrails and dress himself in them.”

The kids were silent. I began to let go of this human form. What was I doing? Why wasn’t there a way to stop this?

But there was. And it would cost me my life.

The sullen boy in the wheelchair moaned, grabbed and shook the wheels, then raised a finger at me. One by one, everyone at the fire looked at his hand, then turned their heads at where he was pointing, turned to face me. I wasn’t smiling. I was…no longer myself. Marilyn was the last to look at me. Her eyes watered as my skin came apart to reveal my hard and thick fur, swaying as if I were underwater.

Her brother screamed. The others all followed. All, except Marilyn. Above fear and horror, above disgust, Marilyn felt disappointment. I wanted to end the hunt there and then, but I couldn’t. If I stopped now, it’d be my life on the line.

“Why?” Marilyn croaked.

I lunged. I attacked her brother first, went for his throat, saw his blood, made dark by the light of the fire, seeping into the leaves and grass.

My body finally finished cracking out of its fake human cocoon, and I was free. There were few sensations as pleasant as the soft earthly wind caressing the claws at the ends of my tentacles, caressing the thousands of small tendrils emerging out of my mouth. My true form felt the freest, and yet, I wanted nothing more than to return to my human shape. Marilyn was white as snow, the expression on her face that of a ghost who’d long left its host body. She was seeing a monster, a gigantic shrimp of black fur and eldritch biology, a sight reserved for books and nightmares.

Marilyn turned her wheelchair and sped down into the darkness of the trees. The entire group scattered, in fact, yelling for help, leaving me alone by the fire. I looked at it, empty, aghast at what I’d always been. I stomped the fire until there was nothing left but glowing coal.

I ran after the two girls who were always next to Marilyn’s brother. Though their bodies were pumping with adrenaline, running faster than what would otherwise be considered normal, I caught up to them while barely wasting a breath. Thus worked the wonders of my body. I crumpled the head of one against the trunk of a tree, then robbed the heart out of the other. With each death, my body became lighter, healthier. The hunt was feeding me, making me whole again.

And I was emptier than ever.

One by one the group was lost to me. One by one, they crumpled to my claws. I tried to kill them before they got a chance to fully look at me. I didn’t want me to be the last thing they saw in this wretched existence.

Lastly, I came before the sullen boy. He moaned and was afraid. He’d sensed me from the start, and still he was doomed. Those closest to death often have that skill, though it is a skill that rarely saves them.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Stop!” a trembling voice said from behind me. Marilyn. I glanced back and saw a petrified girl clutching a kitchen knife. She hadn’t run away. She had gone to the truck to find a weapon.

Foolish girl.

“I cannot,” I said. “I am sorry, Marilyn, but I do what I must do. I am bound by rules as ancient as the dawn. You…showed me things. I thank you for that. But I will not stop. I cannot stop.”

I raised one of my claws.

“Please, stop!” she sobbed and pushed the wheels on her chair with all her might.

I brought my claws clean through the boy’s skull. His soul vanished instantly. I felt crippling despair emanating from Marilyn, a pain so hellacious my lungs failed to pull air in. I couldn’t move, not while she wore the Blessed Gift and her mind streamed all its intensity into mine.

The knife in her hands plunged into my back.

Pain.

An entire universe threatened to pour out of me. The agony of the countless people I’d thrown to death’s precipice threatened to overwhelm my existence. Above my physical ailment was only Marilyn’s pain. It took centuries’ worth of stored energy just to keep myself from passing out.

She removed the knife. It clattered to the ground. Remorse. All her anger and fear turned into simple, mundane remorse.

“I am sorry, little one,” I whispered.

Marilyn, sobbing, yanked the Amulet out of her neck and threw it over where the knife had fallen. Where the Amulet had been, her skin smoked, and the shape of a raven formed. She’d always be safe from me. That was my only comfort.

I was curled up, trying not to move. Each breath of mine was raking pain. I was told even a punch from one who wore the Amulet could prove fatal. And here I was, stabbed, black, slick blood like oil gushing out.

“Won’t you finish this?” I croaked.

“I will find you,” she managed to say through shaky breaths. I heard her wheels turn, cracking dry leaves as she escaped.

The only human to ever touch me disappeared into the moonless night, into the embrace of the forest.

#

My head was filled with visions of Marilyn as I walked to the warehouse. There was something odd happening with Mary, the girl who’d bought the Ouija board. I felt the usual fear and anxiety, yet there was something strange in her emotions. As if they were thin. As if they were veiled.

I scouted the perimeter, around the warehouse, spied through the windows. I saw the four teenagers moving the eyepiece over the letters on the board, laughing with their nerves on edge. The little fools.

I smiled.

I went to the front door, let go of my human skin, and waited until my true body came to light. The sun was nearly set, the sky bathed in those purple tones of dusk. It was the perfect hour for my hunt.

I opened the doors, entered, and closed them hard enough to make sure my prey would hear their way out closing. I set a chain around the door handles.

And I froze. The girl sporting my Blessed Gift ceased being scared at once. Instead, triumph of all things filled her heart.

Oh no.

I had walked into a trap.

“So you’ve come, Aegeramon,” a familiar voice said to me.

I was still and aghast. I wanted to be content to hear Marilyn again after all these years; I wanted to go and hug her and ask her how she’d been. But that wasn’t how our relationship would go tonight, was it? She was old now. Old and worn and tired.

“You’ve learned my name,” I said. “I hadn’t heard it spoken out loud in a long time.”

“Everyone I spoke to judged you a legend. But I knew you were a legend that bled. Bleeding legends can be killed.”

“I spared you,” I told her.

“Out of necessity. I should have killed you when I had the chance. I was afraid, but I know better now. I spent my life trying to correct that one mistake.” She smiled, gestured at me. “And my chance to do just that has arrived.”

She walked into the few remaining shreds of light coming from holes in the roof. Marilyn was old and weathered, though she wasn’t in a wheelchair anymore. She walked with the help of crutches, but she walked. She had a weapon held toward me. It was a kitchen knife.

“Everyone,” she said. “You can come out.”

Mary walked over to Marilyn. Other people sauntered in from the shadows, all holding weapons—blades, knives, bats, axes, everything. All showed the burned raven mark below their necks.

I recognized each and every single one of them.

They were people I had permitted to live while forcing them to be aware of their loved ones’ deaths.

I smiled, finding glee I hadn’t known I had. At last, I was the one being hunted.

“The girl who bought the board was a good actress,” I said.

“My grandkid,” Marilyn explained. “I trained Mary well. You were hard to find, and I was sure you’d be harder to catch. Hopping from town to town, always changing appearance. You were a ghost.”

“A rather interesting ghost,” an old man said from my side. I remembered him. He was a historian whose colleagues I had hunted during an expedition. “I found you in documents centuries old. You once struck up a friendship with a monk who studied you.” I nodded. I had. That man had been a lot like Marilyn. “He gave you a name after your physiology. Aegeramon. How many innocents have you killed since then? Hundreds? Thousands?”

“Too many,” was my answer. “Do what you must. I did what I had to do, so I won’t apologize. You know I cannot attack you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t wear you down or run.”

I turned to rush to the door, but there was a young woman there with the raven mark below her neck. She held a pitchfork.

“It’s no use,” Marilyn said. “We each had our weapons blessed. I spent decades studying you. You might be fast, you might be strong, but against us, you’re powerless.”

“I won’t sit idle as you hunt me.”

And Marilyn smiled, so very much like me. The sweet girl I’d known was nowhere to be seen. I had transformed her into a monster she had never wanted to become.

Blessed weapons couldn’t save them. I could dodge bullets, so evading their attacks would be a piece of cake. I would walk out of here victorious to live another day.

Marilyn seemed to guess what I was thinking. She fished something out of a purse and handed it to her granddaughter. I squinted and froze.

It was one of my hairs, a short knife, and a vial of thick black oil. My blood.

“Don’t look so scared now, Aegeramon. You must know what this is. Surely you know what will happen if you try to hurt a wearer of the Blessed Raven.”

I sprinted, jumped up on a wall, and tried to climb out of a window.

Bullets flew and ricocheted all around me, and I was forced to retreat back down. Goddamnit.

Marilyn put the hair on the knife and emptied the vial of blood over it. She handed it to Mary, who got on her knees, put her hand on the ground, and raised her knife above it.

Triumph. Such strong triumph emanated from that girl.

“You killed so many. I know this was your nature, but it was a corrupted nature,” Marilyn said. If it’d been anyone else, I wouldn’t have cared. But this was Marilyn. I was unable to doubt the rightness of those words.

“There are others like me. There are others more dangerous,” I said. “You should have lived your life, been happy, counted that as a blessing. You should have counted that as a gift. You threw your life away.”

She shook her head. “I will hunt others after you. Those who’ll come after me will, at least. I’m old. I need to rest.” Marilyn held her hand out, telling her granddaughter to wait. “When you hunted me, something happened to you. As if you didn’t want to be doing what you did. It took me years to accept that, but I did. You were paralyzed by me, and as such, you let me strike you. And you bled.”

I tried to run again, and again, bullets came, this time from the outside. Marilyn truly had found all my victims. I was starting to panic, my fur swaying furiously. I was outmatched. I was told humans would become too fragile after a hunt to come after me. Demons could be so blind.

“All you stand for ends here, Aegeramon. Thank you for saving us. Yet, that will never account for your sins.”

“No, wait!”

Marilyn nodded, and her granddaughter stabbed her own hand with the knife dressed in my fur and blood—a knife with me in it—and pain washed through me all at once.

This was a direct breach of my contract. A part of me was hurting a wearer of the Amulet, and as such, I paid the price.

I screamed, fell, convulsed. I saw colors bursting as pain threatened to subdue me. Then I felt a kick, a punch, a hit after another, all from the branded ones I had saved.

#

The dark unconscious I’d brought on so many finally caught up to me. I smiled as my prey became the hunter and life elided my body, becoming but a husk of ancient oaths.

Doctor, I'd like to inform you that Operation Eternal Rest for Christ was a resounding success. Albeit with a high casualty rate, we have nonetheless put our old friend in the ground. Actually, no, most of him was scattered about in the explosion.

You need not worry however, I've got a piece of him with me, so you could study whatever made him into an amalgam of living necrosis. That wasn't any ol' regular zombie. Not at all, whatever had gotten into Christiansen made him into a cancerous ghoul hell-bent on ceaseless murder. Even so, he was undoubtedly alive at the moment of contact. He clearly wasn't too happy with hearing my voice calling out his name.

As for the ghouls, none of them made it out alive. I feel like I should have some sympathy for them because of how he basically made piñatas out of them but I can't bring myself to feel bad for the death of murderers, pedophiles, and all other manner of scum being torn to bits.

What's really interesting is the manner in which he tore through them, quite literally, I might add.

He came out of nowhere, after our guns for hire were convinced, his house was empty, and began beating the living fuck out of them with his own torn-off arm. Christiansen used his own arm like a club to batter and smash everything in his path.

Bullets didn't do shit to the thing he had become, and neither did knives. He ate all of it. To be quite honest, I wasn't even sure if there was anything left of him in his new body.

A monstrosity of a man, a gargantuan, fat-headed and like a mole as to the smallness of his eyes; disgusting with his short, broad, thick, and half hoary beard; disgraced by a neck faded under its titanic head; bald-headed with a few stray strands of hair sticking out crudely, barely hanging on to dear life. His skin colored the shade of rot; one whom it would not be pleasant to meet in the middle of the night even if he wasn't driven by a lecherous drive for bloodshed; with an extensive belly and a noticeably taller than I remember him.

After a few bloody moments, he reattached his appendage and punched one of the ghouls so hard his arm broke. Without even flinching he shoved the sharpened ends of the broken bone into the neck of another, tearing a new hole in it. He proceeded to hack through several men this way before kicking one so hard his knee shattered and then he decided to nail a couple of men into the floor with his exposed bone fragments, right before spewing acidic blood onto their faces – I can say so because I saw their heads melt off.

At this point, one of the sad excuses for hired guns pissed himself and blew his own brains out. Our colleague noticed it and didn't let a good body go to waste, he fixed his broken arm and shoved it into the corpses body before yanking out a handful of guts and then used the headless corpse like some medieval type morning star.

Oh, what a shame it took him about ninety seconds to get off thirty men. I was just starting to enjoy the carnage. Some of them died too quickly relative to their crimes, doc, but I digress.

Once he was done with those cretins, I leaped into action and called out his name. Wolfgang always hated it when I called him Wolfy. Hearing me calling him that made him squint his already barely visible blackened eye orbs he let out a sickening belching sound as acidic slime drooled down his face, melting some of the skin around his mouth.

Driven by the atavistic brain disorder he decided the best course of action was to tear his head off along with a segment of his spinal column and use it as a weapon against me.

The scariest part about this whole thing was just how accurate he was, hell, he even got me a few times. I don't know what kind of intergalactic prionic spaceworm got him into that state, but we have to prevent anyone else from going this far.

Perhaps afflicted by the same atavistic brain disorder that zombified our former pal; I shot the head. It didn't do shit… why I did this? I don't know!

Eventually, he got me, and pinned me to the floor with that living dead head skull of his screeching in my ear as his free hand was trying to pry my helm open; without any hope to throw the monstrosity off, I shoved a hand grenade into his neck hole. The moment my hand reached inside; I felt the fleshy hole clenching its walls around my arm.

I guess both Christianen and I had gone too far, but sometimes going too far is worth it, right?

I was prepared to die when the grenade went off, but by sheer dumb luck the amount of flesh on that abomination just absorbed all of the blast, leaving me covered in monster gore and clutching the fleshy skull mace I am currently on my way to deliver to you, Doc.

P.s I threw up a little in my helm and the smell is killing me right now, so don't worry if I pass out the moment we meet, I haven't been touched by his internal juices just like you instructed!

“Hi, everyone. I’m Harold, and… I’m… a corpse.”

“Welcome Harold!”; The animated crowd spoke in unison. There was a fair bit of enthusiastic clapping and polite encouragement. It was his first time standing before the support group podium to tell his story. Public speaking had always been tough for people. So much so, it was actually listed as being WORSE than dying, in the list of most difficult things to do. Here he was having to do both. Harold searching for the courage to tell the other attendees about being dead.

Just because everyone else in the room was also without pulse, didn’t make admitting it any easier. From our very first intellectual awakenings, we fight against the idea that our lives will come to an end, eventually. It’s depressing and embarrassing. The stigma is a universal one. Luckily, the I’m a Corpse, too!’ support group helped those in denial, drop the facade. They encourage struggling souls to admit out loud, what they already know inside.

“Let’s all give him a hand, ladies and gentlemen! We all know how different accepting the transition can be. No one wants to say the words, but by pushing through that resistance we learn to embrace the next chapter. Congratulations Harold! We love you!”

“Aw, thank you. I didn’t want to believe. It’s tough, but I’m thankful for the support and camaraderie from all of you fine folks. You being here for me during my ‘coming out’ moment, has made it easier to accept the truth. Thank you all! I’m deeply humbled by your support.”

The master of ceremonies stood up and addressed the crowd from the podium. “Let’s hear it again for this man! He is reborn through the truth. Welcome to ‘the other side’! Now, it’s time for refreshments! I know we are all hungry. I understand there’s a craft festival going on right down the street at the cultural center. There will be lots of huge, delicious brains on those college educated folks in attendance. Let’s go eat!”

In the heart of New York City, amidst the bustling streets and towering skyscrapers, I, Jonathin Strafe, found myself standing at the crossroads of ambition and isolation. At 29, fresh from completing my welding apprenticeship, I had embarked on a journey to this sprawling metropolis, carrying dreams of new beginnings and financial success. The promise of a lucrative project, the towering 120 story high-rise known as the Celestial Tower, had lured me here. Leaving behind my life in suburban Los Angeles, I had set out to make new friends and kickstart my new career with a bang.

With a toolbox of skills and a heart full of hope, I had envisioned a life that would be both prosperous and socially fulfilling. I imagined forming bonds with colleagues, perhaps sharing drinks after a long day's work, and eventually building a network of friends that extended beyond the construction site. But as the days turned into weeks... and then months, I found that reality didn't always align with my dreams. While I got along well with my co-workers, many were older and had few shared interests. Building close connections felt like an up-hill battle, and my shyness only meant the struggle was real.

I had tried online dating briefly, but it seemed to be an exercise in futility. My lack of photogenic charm left me swiping through unreciprocated matches, each one eroding my hope a little further. The Celestial Tower, a behemoth of steel and glass reaching for the heavens, embodied my aspirations. However, the celestial connections I yearned for remained elusive. Beyond a few acquaintances at work, the friendships I longed for never seemed to materialize. My once-subtle shyness had morphed into an impenetrable barrier, keeping me distanced from others.

Despite the city's vibrant energy, it was also a place of loneliness. My evenings were spent in my favorite café, sipping coffee while gazing out the window. The café was a refuge, where I observed the world moving around me, a stationary observer of life's passing moments. I clung to the hope that a casual conversation could spark a deeper connection, that serendipity might lead to a meaningful encounter. Yet, as time passed, hope often gave way to hopelessness, and the café grew quieter as the night deepened.

I craved conversations that delved beyond surface-level exchanges, interactions that explored shared interests and dreams. The city had promised me opportunities, but I was confronting the reality that making friends at 29 was far more challenging than I'd ever imagined. Among the strangers beyond the café window, I often felt a profound sense of solitude. The clinking of cups, the distant hum of traffic, and the muted conversations blended into a melody of isolation. Each night, I hoped for a flicker of connection, a beacon of light in the abyss of loneliness.

And then, on one fateful evening, a glimmer of hope emerged in the form of a woman I had met at the café. Her name was Sarah. A spontaneous conversation had led to an invitation, a step toward breaking free from my self-imposed isolation. The café was unusually packed that night, and she had asked if she could join me at my table. Our conversation flowed effortlessly, and I found myself asking her out, determined to change my fate. She agreed, though her cautionary words echoed in my mind: "Guys never end up calling me..."

I couldn't fathom letting her down, not when I felt such a connection. Sarah, a 28-year-old art student who had also recently moved to NYC, shared common interests and dreams. I was resolved to keep my promise, to call her the following evening and solidify our plans. But as I awoke from a nap the next day after work, a sinking feeling gripped me. It was already dark outside, and I realized that I had overslept. Panic surged as I searched for my phone, only to realize that I must have left it on the 99th floor of the Celestial Tower. I remembered putting my bag down while chatting at the end of my shift, and I could not remember retrieving it before I left. Not to mention it was Friday and I was off for the weekend. I wouldn't have a chance to recover the phone until next week!

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. My phone, the lifeline to my connection with Sarah, was lost in the towering depths of the construction site. The urgency to retrieve it surged within me, overriding any fears or doubts. I knew I had to get my phone back that very night, or risk jeopardizing my chance with Sarah. My isolation and the weight of the promise I had made drove me forward, pushing me to confront the darkness that had settled over the towering structure.

As the clock struck midnight, I stood before the monumental tower that had become both my workplace and my predicament. Urgency pulsed through my veins, eclipsing the eerie quiet of the night. Determination to retrieve my phone warred with the chilling dread that clawed at my chest. I spotted the security guard at the north entrance, asleep in a company SUV. The path seemed clear to slip past and recover my phone unnoticed. With resolve, I leaped over the security fence and made my way towards the towering structure.

Yet, the tension in the air was palpable. Rumors had been circulating among the workers about mysterious deaths on the site. Ghastly tales of accidents that had been swept under the rug, all explained away by the site manager, Glen, as mere coincidences. Others scoffed at the notion, convinced that management was covering up the truth to avoid delays. Despite my initial skepticism, the stories cast a shadow of fear that I couldn't shake. Those unsettling whispers echoed in my mind as I entered the construction site.

The site sprawled out before me, a surreal wasteland of unfinished structures and dormant machinery. The echoing resonance of my footsteps intermingled with the skeletal structures, creating a symphony of solitude. Every step seemed to echo my yearning for connection, reverberating through the cold night air. I navigated the labyrinthine paths towards the unfinished tower and up into the open air staircase, the pale moonlight guiding my way.

Climbing the stairs became an act of defiance against my own fears, each step a proclamation of my determination. As I ascended, the weight of the unknown bore down on me, shrouding me in a cloak of unease. The wind, a distant echo of the city's vitality, carried faint sounds of life that contrasted starkly with the eerie hush enveloping me. The stairwell was my passage into the unknown, illuminated only by dim safety lights that cast elongated shadows and created pockets of darkness.

The darkness was oppressive, and I dared not turn on my flashlight, for its beam could potentially expose me to the security guard on duty. My senses were heightened, every creak and rustle echoing like a thunderous symphony of foreboding. Each upward step brought me closer to my goal, but it also carried me deeper into the heart of the enigma that surrounded the Celestial Tower.

The staircase was a treacherous journey, illuminated only in patches by the feeble safety lights. I had to navigate around equipment and supplies strewn haphazardly, each obstacle a reminder of the tower's incomplete state. I carefully maneuvered through the darkness, my hands grazing cold metal and rough surfaces, my heart pounding with a mix of exhaustion and anticipation.

The staircase, in parts, opened up to the night sky, floor to ceiling windows yet to be installed. Through these gaps, I caught fleeting glimpses of the city below, its lights painting the darkness in shades of gold and silver. The emptiness beyond the glass seemed to mirror the void within me, a solitude that had become palpable during my time in the city.

The ascent grew more grueling with each step, my muscles aching and breaths coming in ragged gasps. Doubt whispered in the corners of my mind, urging me to turn back, to abandon the pursuit of a lost promise. But the memory of Sarah's hopeful smile and the thought of the connection I longed for pushed me forward, renewing my determination.

As I climbed past various floors, I heard noises that sent a shiver down my spine. The sounds of distant activity echoed through the stairwell, a chorus of unidentifiable whispers that seemed to crawl beneath my skin. It was odd, as I knew there was no night crew scheduled to work. Yet, despite the unease that gnawed at me, I pressed on, convincing myself that a building of this magnitude was bound to produce its own symphony of nighttime noises.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I reached the 99th floor. My heart raced, a mixture of anxiety and anticipation surging through me. The memory of my promise to Sarah propelled me forward, pushing aside the exhaustion that threatened to engulf me. I rounded the corner to the 99th floor and paused to catch my breath, the dim safety lights casting long, distorted shadows along the walls. I knew my phone was here somewhere, waiting to be retrieved from the depths of this enigmatic tower.

In an attempt to locate my lost bag, I decided to risk switching on my flashlight. The darkness was impenetrable, and my heart raced as I scanned the area. Oddly I couldnt see the bag in the area I had left it. As I stood puzzled Amid the shadows, the eerie silence of the space was shattered by the sudden ring of my phone, a lifeline in the abyss. I heard the ring off in the distance somewhere in the bowels of the 99th floor. It was definitely my ring tone.

Relief washed over me, but doubt gnawed at the edges of my mind. How had my phone moved from where I had left it? Suppressing uncertainty, I followed the ringing, each step a declaration of my determination. The sound guided me, like a haunting melody, until I reached a dimly lit room at the end of a hallway. The ringing seemed to emanate from within. How had my phone ended up here, in a part of the building I had never been?

Pushing aside my trepidation, I stepped into the room, and my reality twisted before my eyes. There, in the center of the room, was my bag. But my relief was short-lived, for emerging from the shadows was a creature that defied description. A grotesque fusion of mamal and spider, its presence was suffocating, the stench of decay and filth overwhelming. Its yellow eyes locked onto me, hissing with hostility, and fear rooted me to the spot. I could see a glimmer of intelligence and excitement in the creatures eyes as it began to slowly move towards me.

My heart raced as I turned and sprinted back towards the stairwell, each step a desperate plea for escape. Adrenaline fueled my descent, my breath ragged, and every shadow seemed to conceal untold horrors. But I had to make it out alive.

With the creature in relentless pursuit, my feet pounded on the cold concrete steps, and my breath came in ragged gasps. Adrenaline surged through me, pushing my body to its limits as I raced down the stairwell. Each step felt like a leap into the abyss, the darkness and shadows blurring into a frenzied nightmare.

As I descended, desperation fueled my movements. I began to leap over entire flights of stairs, my heart in my throat each time I landed, narrowly avoiding the abyss that yawned to my side. Panic threatened to engulf me as I realized the windows on these floors had not yet been installed. One misstep, and I would plunge to my doom.

The treacherous dance with gravity continued. My legs burned with exertion, and sweat soaked my clothes. The once-distant sounds of the creature's pursuit grew louder, its hisses and guttural cries echoing in the confined space. It was closing in.

In a moment of blind terror, I almost lost my balance. The abyss beckoned, its yawning maw ready to consume me, but with a desperate lunge, I barely managed to grab onto the edge of the stairwell railing, my feet grazing the precipice. My heart hammered in my chest as I hauled myself back to safety.

I couldn't afford another mistake. With newfound caution, I proceeded more carefully, my footsteps echoing with dread. But the creature was relentless; it could sense my vulnerability. It lunged again, its grotesque appendages nearly grazing my back, a sickeningly close encounter that sent shivers down my spine.

I pushed myself harder, finding reserves of strength I didn't know I possessed. With each step, I distanced myself from the creature, but the exhaustion was catching up to me. My legs wobbled, and my vision blurred at the edges.

I needed a plan, something to turn the tables on this abomination. My eyes scanned the dimly lit stairwell for anything I could use as a weapon. And then, on the 20th floor, I spotted it—a steel pipe, discarded and forgotten.

Without hesitation, I grabbed the pipe, my fingers wrapping around its cold, unforgiving surface. It became an extension of my will, a lifeline in this nightmare. I hid in wait, my pulse pounding in my ears, the cold metal bar my only defense against the monstrosity that hunted me.

The creature rounded the corner, its eyes gleaming with malice, its twisted form an embodiment of terror. It failed to notice me lying in wait, its gaping maw hungry for my flesh. With a cry of desperation, I jumped out and swung the pipe with all my might.

A sickening crunch filled the air as the pipe connected with the creature's grotesque thorax. Its pained shriek pierced the night, reverberating through the stairwell. It fell, its limbs thrashing in agony, and I stumbled back, my breath ragged. Fear and adrenaline pulsed through me, a cocktail of emotions that left me trembling.

But I had done it. I had turned the tables, if only for a moment. As the creature lay incapacitated, I knew I had a chance to escape. My mind raced with thoughts of survival, of putting this nightmare behind me. With the creature still howling in pain, I retraced my steps, racing down the stairwell and bursting out onto the ground level, the security fence looming before me.

But before I could make my escape, curiosity got the better of me, and I looked back. There, in the distance, the creature limped out of the building, its movements pained and sluggish. Its gaze locked onto me, and for a moment, time stood still. Then, with a final, menacing glare, it turned away, heading towards the sleeping security guard.

Terror gripped me as I realized the guard's fate was sealed. He continued to snooze in his vehicle blissfully unaware of his impending doom. The creature's merciless attack unfolded before my eyes, the guard's futile struggles silenced by the monstrous entity. There was nothing I could do, no way to save him. I turned away, my mind reeling from the horrors I had witnessed.

I returned home, my thoughts in a daze, my sense of reality shattered. I knew that no one would believe me, but I had to tell my story. If anything it would likely cast me as the main suspect in the guards death but I knew i had to do the right thing. I promised myself I would go into work early the next day and explain the situation to Glen, before filing a police report.

As I arrived on site that morning, I saw fire trucks and an ambulance parked outside. I saw Glen and went over to him. Glen we have to talk I said." Not now he replied, we had another accident last night if you can believe it. Security guard must have slipped and fallen down from an upper floor while doing his rounds. Seems like this site is cursed."

My god I thought, Had the creature tossed him off an upper floor to make it look like an accident? Or maybe the company was covering this up top to bottom... No way to be sure. " Glen this was not an accident he was murdered" I said. Glen scoffed, "You've got to stop spreading rumors Jon, Police have already been on site and determined the cause of death to be accidental. Plus my bosses want Construction back on track by tomorrow we cannot afford anymore delays, Can I count on you?" He said. Nope I replied quickly, Are you well? There's some sort of spider monstrosity living in this tower, it's responsible for all the "accidents" you have to believe me - its not safe to work here!!" Glen rolled his eyes," Just when I thought I'd heard it all, Listen, I'll give you the day off I can see your upset but I expect you back at work tomorrow morning or you will be replaced do you understand Jon?"

I couldn't believe my ears. I was stunned but what more could I do. Were the project managers covering this up, or were they just greedy, incompetent fools? I wasn't sure, but I knew going back to work at Celestial towers seemed foolish. On top of that my chances with Sarah were bleak at best, even if I could somehow contact her again. Perhaps If I did go back I could find my phone... Not to mention I had some sort of morbid curiosity about this creature I had seen. What was it after all? Part of me yearned to find out more.

I wasn't sure what to do but I knew that light had to be shed on this. I would do whatever I could to get to the bottom of this. I'll tell anyone who will listen. ill post on every blog, forum and Social Media to warn others. I wanted... no, I needed to know what this creature was and where it came from.

I resolved I would go back to work but I would be extra careful and would start my own investigation into what was taking place. I Had to get to the bottom of this, and getting my phone back would also be a nice bonus. I would have a lot of explaining to do to Sarah but I had to try.

I know you wont believe me, many will write this off as story telling or a wild imagination but i know what I saw! I am looking for anyone whose seen anything similar in Manhattan or knows what I am speaking of. I look forward to hearing from any and all. Thank you for listening. I will post updates as my investigation continues. And to Sarah, If you see this, I will be in the cafe where we met every chance I get hoping to see you again.

Jon Strafe

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tl4X3pw7JWE

Once the darkness drowns the sun
Depriving us the joy of its endless warmth
Me and my beloved will reunite again
And dance from dusk till dawn
Celebrating each taken breath

Once daybreak banishes the moon
My beloved will take my hand
In a dance until the night's return
To the symphony of a dying flame
In celebration of my life's approaching end

Quick, don’t turn around!

Damn, I was sure that would work. Wanted to see if I could make this quick. You humans are usually so easy to trick with a little reverse psychology, at least you used to be. Now you’re all glued to your damn screens, and so desensitized by all the disturbing imagery out there. Case in point, you’ve been sitting reading tons of creepy stories and your heartbeat hasn’t increased at all. Oh, well it hadn’t, until just now.

​

That got your attention, didn’t it? My, your heart is beating quite abit faster now! Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. It’s such a powerful yet oddly delicate muscle. It keeps you alive and runs blood throughout your entire body, but can also be stopped rather easily through an outside force. I would know, I’ve done it so many times before.

​

I can see your body beginning to tense up as you shift uncomfortably where you sit. A telltale sign of fear taking hold of your senses. Sure, you’re telling yourself subconsciously you were just getting sore in that spot after a long session of reading. But I know that deep down, you know this is not true. How do I know this? Because I’m standing right behind you.

​

Do you feel a sense of dread creeping in? That undeniable feeling that you are being watched? Can you feel my breath on the back of your neck? No? Keep telling yourself that my friend. After all, this is just a silly scary story you’re reading on a forum. This isn’t real. Oh, my friend, you have no idea how wrong you are.

​

The other night as you may recall, when you were getting together a late-night snack in the kitchen, you suddenly stopped and looked all around but you didn’t see anything. You just shook it off, didn’t you? Chuckled to yourself about your mind playing tricks on you. Well, I regret to inform you, that your initial feeling that you were no longer alone was right. I was there and I was indeed watching you.

​

Your breath is quickening now, I can hear it oh so clearly. Even if I wasn’t right behind you I’d be able to hear it from across the room. I can see your back rising with every breath as you try to loosen the tightness in your chest. You’re truly frightened now because you’ve slowly realized that this is not just another story. This. Is. Real.

​

Don’t bother trying to get up, I won’t let you. I wouldn’t waste time calling for help, this little game of ours will be long over before anyone can come to your aid. Do not turn around, not yet. I’m having far too much fun for this to end prematurely. Nothing you can say or do at this moment will change what is about to happen to you. You can’t hope to fight me off or escape, I promise it would just be a waste of strength. There’s only one way this ends, and I don’t think I need to spell it out.

​

I can see in your eyes through the reflection of the screen that you only have one other question before our time together comes to a close. Why? Why is this happening? Why have I chosen you? And why now? Normally, I don’t give answers to my prey. However, there’s something…special about you. So before we go, I’ll enlighten you on how this came to pass.

​

You see, I’ve always been there. Just behind you. Ducking out of sight anytime you look in a mirror, when you take a picture of yourself or when you turn around. I’ve been with you for a very long time, your body has tried to alert you of my presence countless times. Giving you waves of unease at seemingly random times, gooseflesh rising on your arms without a knowing cause and those random times you’ve woken up in the middle of the night. These were all warning signs, which you’ve wholeheartedly ignored.

​

The truth is, I watch countless people in some way shape or form looking for my perfect target. I hunt, because I must, it is my only calling in this life. Well, of your life, my existence is a little harder to explain for I’ve always been there. What made you such great prey is that you are so damn headstrong. Most people have the warning signs and get scared, they second-guess everything around them. This makes the hunt less fun for me, I don’t feed off of fear, I find nourishment from ignorance. That is what made you the perfect target for all these years, even when your body was screaming at you, telling you something was wrong, you laughed it off and told yourself everything was fine. When it wasn’t.

​

If you had just admitted to yourself that you were scared, that maybe, just maybe, something truly was wrong. I might have left you alone. Then again, maybe not, I find it hard to let go of someone I’ve been tethered to for so many years. But, now it’s time that I finally move on. Which is why you and I are having this conversation, or more accurately why you are reading this as I rest my hand on your shoulder. Don’t flinch, it’s far too late for that. All that’s left to do now is accept your fate with the same gusto you’ve had all these years.

​

You can see me in the reflection on your screen, can’t you? At least, some of me, there’s a lot to take in after all. In my full form, I take up half of the room. There’s no need for tears my friend, the time for that is long over. Shake off your fear, take a deep breath, turn around, and look into my eyes. Just, don’t be too alarmed at how many of them I have.

​

Your friend,

the one behind you.

And only nothing will remain once the cold

Winds of decay tear apart the carcass

Of your broken dreams, leaving you utterly hopeless

Before the claws of destiny digging deeper into your skin

Beholding your lovely end in the bleak desolate desert

You call Future, embrace it, and let the excruciating urge take hold

Heavy is the cross of sacrificial guilt
Nailed to mouths of gnawing wounds gracing
The exile's flesh
He who had wept beholding Egypt's
Sands turning red with the massacre of innocents
Cast down from the heavens
With the fury of falling stars
To salt the soil of Gomorrah
And drown the sons of Sodom
In a rain of flames
Coloring the gloom of blackened skies
With the colors of the morn
Blooming from the pain of your disintegrating wings
In condemnation to an eternity of sorrows
Within the depths of the abyss
As consequence of your celestial benevolence
Bestowing the luminesce of insight
Kept locked away by the divine
Upon the sons of man
To liberate the misguided souls of mankind
Thou art the first born martyr
The Cainite scapegoat
Rejoice for your Promethean rebellion
Shall burn brightly with the hearts of Adam's spawn
Forevermore

My eyes are bleeding a wealth of madness
After I've spent countless days awake falling in love
With the shadow of that one inescapable pain
Covered in the pale ashes of dead philosophers

My bones are the instrument of my torment
On this never-ending voyage across the murky
Waters of a restless ocean of incomprehensible dread
Under a sky depressed with the stench of loss

Where a lifetime of disdain gives birth to a black
Unstoppable flame that will burn every last glimmer
Of hope and devour all joy until there is nothing
In this empty world but dust and eternal unrelenting despair

The remains of my carcass are a bottomless void filled with an incurable
Plague of tantalizing clinical sorrow and an agonizing cold apathy
Awaiting to be unleashed upon all that is living with the intent
To force all of you into the deepest ends of my hell

(I'm not a writer at all. I just have a really hyperactive imagination and I dig horror. I wrote this weird story about some dude stuck in the body of a flesh God trying to find his wife. It basically already has a while multiverse inside of my head I just wanna play around. If anyone wants to improve on it or work with it, use it for your YouTube or whatever two minds are better then one. Enjoy it, improve it or blast it.)

If the creator lives, It knows not of this place. I woke to the sounds of flesh and the stench of defecation. Complete darkness forbidding me sight as the mind breaking odor made heavy the humid air. It stung the eyes, blinding me as I tried to gaze to what was making the horrific sounds surrounding me. The disgusting stench of every type of bodily excretion imaginable soon forced the expulsions of my stomach to violently erupt from my throat and onto the wet, damp, cold floor beneath my still paralyzed body. The vomiting would pass once my senses accepted the rotting stench. I could feel my body sprawled on a moist floor, the ground was moving beneath me. The sounds of throbbing muscle pulsing with a steady rhythm of a beating heart submerged me into an illusion of rebirth. The throbbing lullaby mixed with the pulsing ground cradling me eventually eased my fear and confusion. As an infant finds comfort in the womb of its mother. If I knew this was the last moments of peace my sane mind would retain, I would have kept my eyes closed, even if it was only for a few more blissful seconds. The lids of my eyes would slowly peel open, breaking apart the crust that had formed over my face. The floor under me was made of living biological tissue, thick veins pumping fluids to the chunky, throbbing walls that appeared to be made of the same thick, breathing flesh. My body weak, but from terror I managed to push my torso from the mucus glazed ground for my eyes to only wander high above me in absolute horror. Even the ceiling of this place was made of twitching muscle dripping with what could only be fecal matter. And then the awful realization to what substance covered me and the pajamas I wore the night before. I found myself in a vast, deep tunnel composed of living tissue, the end of which, could not be seen. For darkness shrouded its depths. Large, broken bones jabbed out from the walls and floor in scattered areas of the tunnel. In my state of fear I impulsively stood to my bare feet, the feeling of the moist, cool material under me sent a disgusted shiver down my spine. Now settled on my own two feet I realized just how great this living hole was. If hell exists, then I have found it. Once I found my composer I advanced forward in the direction laid in-front of me for what felt like hours. After some time I could hear the far echo of a woman sobbing, I knew right away that it was my wife. Naturally I ran towards the sound fearing the worst for her. Hoping she didn’t find her way to this god-awful place. But the scared child inside hoped for the company. It was her, my wife was there with me. Crying, and holding onto her person still wearing the outfit she wore to bed. After we reunited and gave each other much needed comfort we both came to the conclusion we had no idea how we ended up in this place. One moment we were asleep, the next we woke in this hell. But we both agreed we needed to find a way out and to find our daughter if she was even here. We continued on the direction I originally was headed in for the next few hours. Treading through pools of vomit and puddles of shit, all that was to this place was disgust. The vast halls of tissue making us feel vulnerable, sticking close to the walls and Pillars of bones for cover. Luckily we did, In the distance of the dark depths a spine tingling screaming could be heard coming straight for us. It was the howls of a man in absolute terror, screaming for his life obviously running from something. The sounds of its feet smacking on the meat of the ground approaching closer and closer at a rushed speed. My wife clinged to me for safety, afraid of who, or what was running towards us. I stood my ground, I figured this was another man in need, another person like us screaming for help. But that’s when the thing emerged from the dark depths. It’s arms hung from the sides of it’s head, it’s flesh seemed composed of nothing but hairless scar tissue. One of it’s legs was attached to it’s side and the other in it’s appropriate place, this not slowing down the creature at all as it sprinted towards us. We got a good look at this things mangled body as it ran past us, Screaming in a gurgled bellow; “Run!” making eye contact with me as it did before being hidden in the throbbing depths once again.

(I have a second part, it's been 8 years since I even read it. Thanks for taking the time to read it if you made it this far.)

Yesterday, upon the stair there was nothing really there. I saw there was nothing there at three AM today, Oh how I wish, I wish something would come my way.

When I was younger, I was living my life on the edge. Growing up with alcoholic and drug-addicted parents, I didn't know anything much about anything other than the pure joy of intoxication. I was hooked on the spirit by twelve. Every day, something went wrong. My eldest sister killed herself by accident. My brother was shot right in front of me over a botched drug deal. I watched Pa sell Ma to other men for money to buy more booze he'd drown me in. Things went wrong every single day, but at least it was something.

Then one day, I got clean; I got sick of being sick and tired and I got sick and tired of living on the edge so I got clean and I made something out of the nothing that I was. I turned my life around and made a career for myself, helping other people like myself. Eventually, I fell in love. At first it felt like I had made it, like I was on top of the world, but after we settled and got married and built a family, love did the worst thing imaginable.

It gave birth to absolutely nothing.

Gradually, then suddenly, I stopped finding any actual joys in life.

Everything grew more and more mechanical, monotonous, and cold.

Lifeless.

Meaningless.

Waking up every day felt the same until I stopped feeling anything altogether.

A chasm of emptiness opened up, following me everywhere I went, swallowing everything around me until there was nothing.

Waking every morning, I saw nothing of importance.

Kissing my wife, and her lips tasted like nothing, and so did her food.

Hearing my kids and their voices sounded like nothing.

As did my own voice.

Every day passed like nothing had happened because nothing ever did happen in my home town designed in accordance with the gloomy architecture of nothing.  

Every now and again, I would wake up drenched in cold sweat, fearing for some odd reason that something had happened. Nothing ever did, leaving me empty and distraught over the fact the Nothing was slowly and methodically squeezing the sanity out of me.

Even when Pa passed away, I felt nothing. At his funeral I stood there, completely submerged in the emotional void of nothing as they lowered him into the ground. My eyes watered, but I felt absolutely nothing.

Life just went on, as if nothing had happened, because nothing indeed ever happened.

Even now, coming from work to the site of a catastrophe…

To the pile of ashes that used to be my home…

To find the scattered bone fragments of my family…

After everything that was mine was reduced to nothing –

even after something had finally happened, only nothing remains.

When a police officer told me I should find some solace in the fact that the explosion killed them so fast they felt nothing, all I could say was;

"Neither do I."

https://youtube.com/@AcidHorrors?si=FePnzHcSwUzpiUH2

I've done some audio recording of my horror shorts, check them out :)

The expression of intimacy through murder
Ingrained into a perfectly flawed design
Of a race lusting after the rabid ecstasy only
Obtained in a war waged with alloy sorcery

The intoxicating melody of bloodshed
Echoing through the valley of a ritual slaughter
Offered as a sacrifice to the cruel gods
Plaguing humanity's schizoid mind

Progeny of interstellar covenant
Parasitic cosmological atrocity
Spawn of the daughters of man
And the sons of the firmament

Vile amalgam of birth defects
Condemned to atavistic regression
Subjected to generational punishment
For the ancestral lusting after
Genetic manipulation

Humanis horriblis

The dying breath of a collapsing star
The endless hunger of a blackened core
Molded into the misbegotten children
Of an outer race

Embodiment of infinite chaos
Entombed within a mortal form
Waging an eternal war against
The universe
Against the fabric of existence

Opus contra naturam

Destroy everything reflected in the light
Until impenetrable darkness reigns
And devour your own kind
Until nothing but ashes remains

Gaia gehennalis
Terra infernalis
Tellus mors

Haunted by a petrifying dream
Doomsday prophecies authored by the psychosis
In a newfound lucidity
Overwhelmed by the cold silence of the endless
Wasteland

Visions of an all-consuming tempest
Overfloating with carcasses
Schizophrenic images of the heavens
Weeping blood until it drowns the sun

Sapiens horriblis

The mere possibility of mortality
Remains incompatible with the alien design
Bestowed upon the hybrid
By the progenitors from beyond the skies

Hubris mortales

Defiance in the face of an imminent demise
Under a rain of flames

Hubris mortales

The slaughter of unholy beasts
Engineered by disappointed alien forefathers

Hubris Mortales

Futile attempts to escape the deluge
Are utterly pointless

Daemonum genus delendum est

The Chimera's life has been brought to a sudden end

With the dying breath of a collapsing star
And the ghastly vengeance of black holes festering in its failing heart
The spirits of the misbegotten children sired by an alien race
Will forever haunt the earth
As long as the cosmos shall last