Pepper was stretched out inside the bay window upon her favorite cushion. She watched a little white butterfly on the other side of the glass flit from tiny pink flower to tiny pink flower, and she yipped at the creature once, rather unenthusiastically, before she climbed to her feet and paraded around in a little tight circle. The window looked out to the west, and on this evening there was an especially gorgeous sunset. The sky was painted with magnificent, bold strokes of purple and burning orange. But Pepper was unimpressed. She bit down on the little rubber bone by her cushion and wagged her tail excitedly when it squeaked at her.

Lola Compton was a proud woman. She was proud that she had lived sixty-seven years through good times and bad. She was proud that she was a devoted wife to a loving husband, and together the two of them raised three beautiful children, who grew to be outstanding adults with successful careers and wonderful little children of their own. She was proud that when her husband died five years ago, she didn't collapse in on herself and allow the grief she felt so overwhelmingly to crush her. Despite her children's protest, she didn't sell the old farmhouse and move into some community. She soldiered on. She was proud to be independent. And, of course, she was proud of Pepper. Pepper, who kept her company on all of those lonely nights since Harold's passing. Pepper, whom she always called Mommy's little girl.

Pepper hopped down from the bay window, rubber bone still in her mouth. She pranced into the kitchen without a care. The phone on top of the kitchen table began making noise. The sound was an annoyance to Pepper, who dropped her toy, barked, and growled at the insufferable racket furiously from below the table until, at last, it stopped. She wagged her tail, delighted in her triumph.

The ringtone was Für Elise, Lola's favorite composition. She taught her daughter and many other children throughout the years how to play it, and she told them all, "Few other compositions are as beautiful as Für Elise." All of these years later, Lola still played almost every night, just before dinner, most often with Pepper in her lap.

The piano sat untouched in the dining room. Its keys had begun to develop a thin layer of dust.

Pepper sauntered to her food dish and found it empty. Undaunted, she made her way to the overturned garbage can and started to sniff around it. She whined and whimpered as she licked the inside of a yogurt cup. Unsatisfied with this, she moved on to the open door that led down to the basement. This part of the house was new to her, having been opened up to her only a few days earlier, but she knew that food could be found downstairs. She jumped down one step at a time, the little round bell on her collar jingled with each hop.

Lola always stayed busy. A drive into town, a walk in the park, chores around the house, and every bit of it was done with Pepper. Regardless of where Lola was, there was Pepper. Should the little Yorkshire stray too far away, Lola was quick to summon her. "Come to Mommy," she would say with a saccharine cadence. Then the Yorkie would bolt over to her, and after being swept up off of her four little paws, she would greet Lola with a quick kiss on the nose. "Mommy loves you. Do you love Mommy? Yes, you do."

Pepper nibbled away at her food. If she were upstairs, she would have barked at the trespassers on Lola's front porch. She would have charged the door, yapping and growling with unparalleled bravery, that, if she were instead a Rottweiler or German Shepherd, would have instilled the fear of God into whoever was on the other side of the door. But it was time for Pepper to eat, and making her way back up all of those stairs was a much greater task than it was to come down them.

It was Friday, and tomorrow morning, little Brandon Hawthorn would be around to mow Mrs. Compton's lawn. Every Saturday, she would make him lemonade and a turkey sandwich that he would enjoy after a job well done. And though he never asked to be paid, Lola would always find a way to sneak a twenty-dollar bill into the boy's backpack while he mowed the grass or played with Pepper. But tomorrow, there would be no lemonade, nor sandwiches made.

Pepper wasn't hungry any longer, but she continued to eat, as dogs oftentimes do. The food was plentiful and tasted good. When at last she had her fill, she found herself distracted by the scattered clothes at the foot of the stairs. She busied herself with a sock; she shook it in her mouth to ensure the kill, then let it drop lifelessly at her front paws. That's when she heard a voice cry out from upstairs. A male voice. A stranger's voice. She barked furiously at the intruder but stayed where she was.

Lola was a woman of routine. She would go grocery shopping every Thursday, mop the kitchen on Friday morning, and after lunch, she would call her daughter on the phone. Saturdays were spent at the park, and Sundays were spent in church, with friends and talking on the phone with her sons. Monday would see Lola dusting all of the furniture, knickknacks, and ornaments around the house. Tuesdays were always laundry day.

The voice cried out at the top of the stairs in a loud, commanding way that made Pepper's long hair bristle. She couldn't recognize the words being said or the sound of the voice behind it. A stranger was in her house. The encroacher brazenly descended the stairs. Pepper barked louder and growled longer, but her efforts were moot as the stranger drew closer.

The officer hated making wellness checks. Most of the time, it was somebody's elderly parent who fell asleep or otherwise didn't hear their phone when their child tried calling. But sometimes—

Tuesday had been just another day for Lola. That evening, she carried a basket of freshly dried and folded laundry upstairs from the basement as she always did. But when she reached the top of the stairs, she lost her balance. Lola Compton somersaulted backward, and when she reached the hard concrete below, she could feel a tightness in her neck accompanied by the feeling of pins and needles. But she felt little else. She tried to scream; she wanted so badly to scream, but she could only produce a choked whimper. She was still clinging on to life the next day, when Pepper found her.

At first, the little yorkie only laid down beside Lola. She whined and whimpered. She lapped up some of the tears that ran down Lola's face and the trickle of dried blood from her nose. The nice lady who looked after her didn't fill her food dish or even pet her that day. When Pepper started to nibble her toes, Lola couldn't flinch or kick her away. She watched helplessly as her little girl bit strips of flesh away from her toes.

Pepper, having realized she was fighting a losing battle with the stranger, scurried away behind the dryer. The officer looked down at Lola's broken body. Her nose was missing, and her fingers and toes were all bloody, with only scraps of meat left on the exposed bone. He radioed it in to headquarters.

Lola was sixty-seven years old. She loved watching the sunset and meditating on its beauty and splendor. She loved music and the arts. She was twenty-three when she got married to Harold and maintained that marriage for thirty-nine years before she lost him in death. When he passed away, she was holding his hand. She loved her children and grandchildren, and they loved her, too. And she loved Pepper, her little Yorkshire Terrier, whom she called Mommy's little girl.

Pepper was almost four years old and came from a litter of three. She prefers the taste of canned dog food over that of dry kibble, and she likes to be scratched behind the ear.

Ban is an employee at Metro Courier in Ikeshima, tasked with investigating a growing urban legend. Ban was initially reluctant, considering that the subject topic differed from what he wrote about.

After interviewing a few people, Ban reviewed the information. Unfortunately, there was no consistent story, which may mean they made up their versions of Booth 21. Ban decided to do further research at the library.

At the library, he walked to the front to talk to an attendant named Kouta.

"Excuse me?" Ban spoke softly so he would not disturb the people around them.

"How may I help you?" Kouta smiled and turned to face Ban.

"Do you know anything about Booth 21?" Ban asked, taking out a notepad and pencil from their pocket.

"Ah, that urban legend." Kouta's smile faded, and he looked around to see if anyone was listening before adding, "You should stay away from there."

Is Booth 21 cursed?

"Then do you know the true story," Ban asked.

Kouta was silent for a moment and beckoned Ban to come closer, telling him about the urban legend of Booth 21.

In 1999, three friends named Toki, Jun, and Ousei, who were high school students, would always hang around the Kino residential area after school. They often dared each other to hide in Booth 21 and jump out, scaring random people who would walk by. One would hide inside, while the other would stay out of sight and record a video of the person being scared with their cell phone.

Jun and Ousei watched as Toki waited inside Booth 21, a man who was a local thug who often caused trouble.

When he threw open the door, he let out a noise of disgust. "What kind of prank is this?" Looking around, he spotted Jun and Ousei. "Hey! Did you two do this?" pointing at the inside of the booth. What he had seen was a puddle of blood and a bloodied handprint on the glass.

Both boys froze and looked at each other before running away, scared that the thug would beat them up. They left without checking to see if Toki was okay.

"If what you're saying is true, then the booth itself is an entity," said Ban, jotting down notes in a notepad.

"If I had to agree with any of the stories that have been told, it would have to be this one," replied Kouta.

"Did they ever find Toki?" asked Ban, watching Kouta's face become grim.

Kouta shook his head. "No, they never found him, but the blood was his."

Ban shivered at the thought of Toki being spirited away without a trace. Thanking him for his time, Ban turned to leave. "Stay away from Booth 21," he warned. Ban nodded, but it would not mean he would stay away.

The next stop would be to the Kino district, where the fabled phone booth is located. The sun had just begun to set, casting dark shadows over the tall buildings of Ikeshima. This would set the perfect mood for his investigation.

The outside of the phone booth appeared normal, with its chipped paint and old police caution tape wrapped around it. The only thing that looked to be intact was the privacy film on the inside. Ban slowly reached out and opened the door to look inside. The old overhead light flickered to life, and the smell of old blood invaded Ban's nostrils, causing them to step back to cover his mouth and nose.

Stepping inside, he closed the doors behind him as he looked around in the cramped space that the phone booth offered. Ban looked up and noticed many talismans taped to the ceiling. Except for one that was torn off. Did Toki peel it off back then, or was it someone else? A shaman must have placed these here to keep the entity sealed.

Taking out his cell phone, Ban began taking pictures of the inside. The call box phone rang, startling him from his task. Looking at it, he wondered if he should answer it since something was telling him not to. Ban picked it up, reached out, and put the receiver in his ear.

"Hello?" Ban answered, his voice wavering.

“Help…Me…Help…Me," the voice was raspy and spoke in a whisper.

"Who is this? How can I help you?" Ban pressed, trying to get an answer.

The call ended with a click, and the dial tone beeped as if the line was busy. Ban tried pressing the buttons and listening to the receiver again, but it still sounded busy, so he hung up. A soft creak rocked the phone box, causing Ban to stumble in place, and when he looked up again, he saw it.

The very thing that had been spiriting away all those who stepped into Booth 21. The pale face of a young man a little younger than Ban reached out with his long-clawed fingers.

“Help…Me…Help...Me," the young man whispered, gripping Ban by the shoulder before yanking him up into the ceiling of the call box, leaving behind a splash of blood with his cellphone camera still on, showing a pulsating ceiling above dripping droplets of red.

When Metro Courier noticed Ban had not been to work in a few days, they called his family to find out what was wrong. They were told that Ban had gone missing. When searching, the police only found Ban's blood cell phone inside Booth 21 in the Kino district.

The urban legend was true, and it cost them a life.

A particular newscast is on the TV. A young woman looks at the teleprompter. "A local citizen, Ban Ikumi, an employee at Metro Courier, was reported missing. They were last seen investigating Booth 21 in the Kino district of Ikeshima." she pauses to inhale, then exhales before continuing, "There are rumors currently circulating that the infamous urban legend of Booth 21 spirited away Ban".

"Many people have stepped into this booth but have never stepped out. Did someone kidnap these individuals, or is the urban legend a cover-up for murder?"

"Police have advised everyone to stay away from Booth 21 in the Kino district as it is considered a crime scene."

"If anyone has any information on Ban Ikumi or their whereabouts, please call the station (03) 4233-8899 or the emergency number 119."

The couple turned off the TV, staring at the pitch-black screen. The woman sighed, her face sad, as she looked over at her husband, who looked exhausted.

"Do you think they will find Ban?" she asks him.

Her husband sits up straight and rubs a hand over his face. "I don't know," he honestly admits.

Her face is sullen, and she stands up from her seat. "I'm going for a walk," she tells him.

He nods, understanding that she needs some time alone. "Be careful out there," he tells her.

This woman is Ban's mother, and she knows that her child will never disappear for no reason. She had to check out Booth 21 for herself.

She walked to the Kino District and found Booth 21 blocked off with police caution tape.

Standing before Booth 21, her heart thundering in her chest so hard she could feel her eardrums thrum; something about it was wrong. "I wouldn't open that if I were you," a voice behind her made the woman jump and turn around, placing her hand over her chest.

"Oh, you are Kouta, the young man they interviewed, having last seen my son. Please tell me you know how to get them back," she pleaded.

Kouta shook his head. "Sorry, I do not. I warned him about the curse, but Ban did not listen. No one ever does."

Ban's mother felt uneasy about this young man. Something was off about his behavior. Behind her, the phone inside Booth 21 began to ring, and Kouta, with a strange smile on his face, pointed at the phone booth.

"Don't you want to answer that, Mrs.? It might be Ban," Kouta told her.

Ban's mother turned, curiously facing the booth. She opened the door and stepped inside, now facing the ringing phone. As with Ban, her hand slowly reached out and put the receiver to her ear.

"H-hello? Ban, is that you?" she whispered, her voice quivering.

"Help...Me... Help...Me," a voice whispered to her. Ban's mother paled, visibly shaking, as her trembling hand hung up on the phone.

Something dripped onto her shoulder. Slowly, she raised her hand to it and placing her hand there; she felt a damp warmth. When looking down at her palm, she saw blood.

At home, Ban's father was concerned that his wife had not come home yet, so he called the emergency line, telling them that he believed she had gone to the Kino District to check out Booth 21.

The police assured him they would contact him once they had gotten to the location and searched for his spouse. Ban's father hoped for good news since he could not bear losing two people in the same week.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Maybe that's her, and she forgot her key," he said to himself. He stood up from his seat and began his walk to the front door. Huh? No, the figure at the door did not belong to her.

"Hello? How can I help you?" Ban's father asked, talking to the person behind the door.

"This is Kouta, sir. I am the one who talked to Ban about Booth 21. I'd like to talk to you about some information that might be useful to you. Can you let me in?"

He shouldn't have let him in, but if he could help him know what happened to his wife and son, he took the chance and opened the door, standing in front of Kouta, who smiled. "Do you happen to know about Booth 21?".

I was having a dream much like any other I’d had before. There was some loosely strung-together plot, apparent only in retrospect—somewhere I had to be, an object of my pursuit that seemed to elude and taunt me. I moved forward without understanding why. There were people around me, and who those people were changed without warning, and sometimes I was no longer acting but instead watching myself act as if viewing some abstract and esoteric film. That all changed when I found his wallet.

It was brown leather. Worn and scuffed from many years of going into back pockets, then back out, from being tossed on the counter when he got home, from being sat on. It was sitting in a puddle under a bridge I did not recognize and could not find again if I needed to. I picked it up and turned my head, looking for whomever it could belong to; noticing, only then, that I was alone. The faceless and shifting and impermanent throng of dream travelers was no longer with me. It was gray January and gentle rain fell everywhere except under the cover of the bridge and the wallet was damp with cold and I was alone holding it.

There was money inside the wallet—red and blue bills with faces on them that I did not recognize. Strange, nonsense denominations: a six note, a thirty, one thousand units of whatever currency this was. My instincts told me to take some. Just one of those dream thoughts you have no control over. I stuffed a few bills in my side pocket. I remember a moment of pause as I realized I was wearing an old pair of cargo pants that, in reality, are sitting in the back corner of my closet, unthought of for some time. His ID was in the front flap behind a thin plastic film. His name was Harold Heaying-Harris and he was smiling like he knew something. Something about me. I decided I didn’t want the wallet and dropped it in the puddle where I’d found it.

Strange dreams often stay with you for a few moments upon waking. At least that’s how it is for me. Usually I come back with only a few pieces. I lay in bed, hesitant to move or change anything, scared that motion will draw me further into the waking world. All I ever want is to go back to sleep. I live my days in anticipation of that moment. Climbing into bed, pulling the covers up until they cover my mouth and my nose, breathing my own exhales. The way your body eventually starts to dissolve. You feel heavy, half-paralyzed; there’s a comforting warmth as your stomach goes up and down with each breath, drawn autonomically. 

Laying there, trying to preserve my comfort. That’s usually when other pieces of the dream return. That night—it was still dark, somewhere in the quiet moments preceding twilight—I lay thinking about where I’d just been. Somewhere familiar in many ways, the dark evergreens, the gunmetal sky, but not anywhere I’d ever actually been. Likely not a place that truly exists, I thought, just a creation of my mind. I remembered the rain. How cold it had been. I thought about the puddle, and suddenly I remembered the wallet. The strange bills. Harold’s picture. I could see it so vividly. Could see his name. I rolled over in my bed to face the window. It’s always been my theory that if you want to fall back into the dream you’ve just woken from, your best bet is to stay in the same position. Don’t move a muscle. Close your eyes and let yourself drift back to the place you just left. I imagine it has something to do with blood pooling in certain areas of the brain. Our thoughts occupy physical space inside our head. The things our imaginations conjure are not entirely intangible. A lot of people don’t get that.

I had no desire to go back into that dream. I feared it. So I turned over, hoping that would help. Icy rain pelted my window in wind-driven bursts. Every time I closed my eyes my thoughts returned to the dream—walking in a crowd, pursuing some undefined thing that was just beyond my ability to recall. Finding the wallet. Harold Heaying-Harris. 

I sat up in bed. I have enough experience falling in and out of the same nightmare to know how this was going to go unless I did something to stop it. What you need in those moments is an interruption. Get out of bed. Go to the bathroom, get some water, walk around for a minute. Anything that functions as a reset. After making the circuit—bathroom, kitchen, back to bed—I decided to check my phone. I don’t remember seeing what time it was. I don’t even remember opening Google and typing in his name. I suppose I thought it might help to quickly confirm what I already knew, that Harold was not a real person, that he was simply a thought inside my head. 

What I found was his blog. It was a Wordpress site. They’re easy to identify—the one I built to post my writing years ago had a similar layout. Nearly one hundred entries, each with his name at the top. There was a small picture next to his name in the byline. The same picture from his wallet. The same smile. I turned on my bedroom light and waited for sunrise.

Harold appeared to be some sort of lifestyle blogger. That’s as close as I can get to describing what I found. He lived in a city called Khadash and wrote about his days there. I skimmed the entries. Most were boring. “Today I went for a lovely walk down 21st street. The leaves are beginning to turn. If you’re looking for a delicious cup of coffee in the area, consider…” Stuff like that. A few, though, were strange. I began to wonder if there might be something wrong with Harold, some sort of condition, and if this blog might best be viewed as almost voyeuristic insight into the mental degradation of a sick man. “Earlier today, in the gray hours of the morning, all the birds fell out of the sky in unison. Did anyone else see this?” I was ready to stop reading until I stumbled upon that line. I kept scrolling to see if it was an outlier. I found others. This one, buried at the end of a long entry about the best thrift stores located on the sleepy main strip: “I noticed the cashier from Second Chances following me to each subsequent store I visited. He was hiding behind a clothing rack in Exchange. I found him sitting alone in a locked dressing room in Moonlight Jewels. I’m worried he may have followed me home. I took a much longer and less straightforward path back to my place, but couldn’t shake the feeling someone was behind me, lagging just far enough back to stay out of sight. He made me very uncomfortable and I don’t think I will be returning to the store, despite their excellent selection of second-hand cutlery and china.”

Each post contained a link to a map which traced his path. Places where he stopped, like restaurants and bakeries and shops, were noted. I zoomed out from one of these maps, curious to see where in the world Khadash was located, and was disturbed to note it was in my state, not far from my home. I’d nearly driven past it many times. It was north and west of me, close to the Pacific Ocean. Strange that I’d never heard the name before. I checked the map on my phone, comparing it to Harold’s. I zoomed closer and closer, but where Khadash was on his map was nothing but empty green space on mine. A featureless spot in the woods with no roads and no shops and nothing else of note except for a small lake. The lake was on both maps. I found an entry of Harold’s which involved it.

“Walked to Kressman Lake today. There’s a bench at the edge of the water where I like to sit. You’ll find a lot of flat stones at the base of this bench, perfect for skipping across the glass-like surface of the water. It’s a good place to spend an afternoon when you need to clear your mind. I worry that he will return soon. I see him in my dreams.”

The lake—Kressman, to him, unnamed, to me—was a 90-minute drive from my house. I had no plans for the day, nothing to stop me from filling it with three hours of driving, round trip, plus however much time I would spend at the lake. Doing what? Looking for him? I didn’t stop to think. I opened my closet and packed a few changes of clothes, quickly, feeling an urgent need to get on my way. Logic would necessitate that all I needed were the clothes on my back for such a trip. That makes me wonder if I knew even then what I was going to find. If I knew, somewhere in that part of my brain which can’t speak—not out loud, at least—where I was going.

The first hour of the drive was navigating from my residential street to the highway and then heading due north. It was the same boring, uneventful drive I’d done hundreds, if not thousands, of times. I chased bright blue skies up the round of the Earth. It was an unseasonably beautiful day; blue and gold with viciously cold wind. The weather lifted my spirits. It was easy to forget what I was doing. The mountain was on my right, slowly falling behind me with each mile I drove. I watched its white, snowy bulk travel from my passenger window to the rear window to the rear windshield, before vanishing altogether. It was time to head west.

Two miles further along the road I’d exited to, a nondescript state road with numbers for a name, my GPS commanded me to turn right onto an unnamed, unmarked dirt road that carved a path through gray, barren trees. I could see that it went straight for a few hundred feet before curving, out of sight, to the left. The road was wide enough for one car, and full of dips that shook me from side to side as I passed over them, going no more than ten miles per hour. Somewhere along this road—which connected with so many others just like it that I lost count, lost sense of which direction I’d been turned in, then turned out of, then turned back around into—clouds filled the sky, blocking out the sun, making it feel much more like the January afternoon it was.

And then I saw it, just ahead. The lake. I parked my car in a dirt turnaround and walked to the water. No wind blew, and likewise, the lake sat still and silent, patient, the color of the sky, a perfect imitation of what sat above me, equally as still, as if buried in the dirt was some grotesquely massive looking glass. I began to walk its circumference clockwise. 

The day was quiet. Nothing moved. I heard birdsong off in the distance but saw no birds. The only other sound was the destruction of whatever crunched beneath my feet with each step. Every time I rounded another turn I would tell myself that it was time to turn back; my feet would continue forward and I would convince myself that one more corner was what I needed. I knew that just around the next tree there would be something for me, something that was waiting just for me. I continued this way until I found myself on the opposite side of the wide lake, miles from where I’d parked. There was no way to mark the descent of the sun, save the gradual dulling of the light, the curtaining of the hidden day. I turned back, bitterly disappointed.

I’ve no idea how long I walked, because, despite certainly retracing my steps—the lake and its shore providing the surest guide any wanderer could hope for—I failed to reach my car. Where it should have been—and of this I am also sure: the empty dirt patch of my arrival was unmistakable, as were my own so recently treaded tire tracks—stood now only a forlorn bench, and at its four iron feet, a pile of disk-shaped rocks. I sat and attempted to slow my racing mind. I felt, after a few moments of slow, steady breathing, the strangest sense of comfort and normality. 

Darkness overtook the sky. I had no car, no sense of where I was. Even my phone was gone, sitting, still, presumably, in the cup holder where I had left it. And yet I did not panic. I felt certain there was nothing to fear. I should have known better.

There was light in the distance, glowing beyond the far side of the lake. City lights polluting the dark sky. I saw them on the clouds and reflected on the black surface of the water, which had become otherwise indistinguishable from the solid ground on which I sat. I stood and began my dark journey, back again around the lake, hoping that some unknown grace would prevent me from wading into a cold lonely death. 

The city looked as I imagined it. A delicate mist hung around the streetlights. People walked past each other on the sidewalk with their heads down, mostly in pairs or alone. I stumbled into a greenway, entering from the treeline where the city ended. There was a gazebo with string lights wrapped around the wood lattice; a couple embraced in that spotlighted podium. Storefronts lined the main strip, all with their orange lights projecting warmth upon the shivering sidewalk. Somewhere, someone roasted peanuts. I felt welcome despite no one noticing me.

There are said to be events so shocking that one could not face them and remain unchanged. Events which, due to their nature, their magnitude, their substance, taint the immortal spirit of man and make him forever after something different. Unsurvivable moments. I’m not speaking of occurrences which stay the beating heart or disconnect the corporeal from the inanimate; I say unsurvivable to say that there is a dividing line, a place in the gray where one can clearly separate white from black and say, without question, The person I once was no longer exists. I found myself facing such a moment not longer after entering this lost city beyond the trees.

I walked along the town’s central road, slowly, stopping to gaze at the items displayed in shop windows or to watch the people tromping, aimlessly, up and down the sidewalk. The first store I entered was a sweets shop; the purveyor was a kindly older woman, and the walls were lined with clear buckets of candy with turnstile bottoms. What I noticed first was the lack of recognizable brands. Even the packaged candy sitting on shelves was bland and generic. There were no names on any of the labels, no familiar logos. I stretched my hand beneath one of the buckets and twisted the knob one time, loosening some multi-colored hard candy from its cage, which I placed immediately into my mouth. It had no taste. The woman behind the register, her face ruddy and beaming, stared straight forward and seemed not to notice me. 

Back on the sidewalk, a familiar pair passed me. Familiar because they’d walked past me once before, heading the opposite direction. They were a couple of indeterminate sex, arm in arm, their heads bent forward as if against an agitating wind. The air was still and the evening quiet. I crossed the street and entered what appeared to be a record store. It was dark inside. Dim, yellow globe lamps hung from the ceiling, casting meager spotlights onto each aisle. From the back of the store, a familiar, vocal-less melody played softly. I wandered slowly up the first aisle, trying to determine the genre of the section. It was labeled alphabetically. I stopped where appropriate, looking for names I would recognize, finding none. Upon finally making it to the back wall, I searched for the owner, or at least whomever was tending the store. There was a long counter which ran the length of the wall. Behind the counter was an open door. This backroom was the source of that familiar melody. Someone was moving around in there—I could see his shadow. I opened my mouth to call out for assistance, but an alarming sense of foreboding stole over me, silencing me at once. I left quickly.

On the sidewalk again, the same couple walked past, bent forward determinedly. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. In this veritable ghost town I myself was the spectral figure, and worst yet, I was stuck here, unable to leave, with no one knowing where to look for me or even that I was gone. With the reality of my situation settling in, I began to walk quickly back the way I’d come. I cannot speak with certainty about my intentions because I did not make it far—although it seems to me now, in retrospect, that I was heading for the woods again, the lake, which, while dark and cold and ominous in its own right, was at least a lonely place, and anywhere felt safer in that moment than this strangely populated strip, and total solitude seemed better company than these reactionless, empty people who seemed to contain no purpose, no vivacity, no animation whatsoever. 

Something compelled me to turn to my left and gaze in the lit window of the final store before rounding the corner which would have taken me back to the town green, the gazebo, and the treeline. It was a secondhand store named Second Chances. I recognized the name at once from Harold’s writing. A strange man stood behind the register, smiling, his eyes locked on mine. He saw me. For the first time since entering Kadash, I was certain that someone was aware of me. How I wished in that moment for the complete anonymity I so fully dreaded just minutes before. I wanted nothing more than for this man not to see me, for him to have never seen me. I turned, prepared to run for the trees, hoping with every ounce of my being that he would not jump over the counter and give chase. What greeted me upon turning back drove that thought entirely from my mind. The townspeople had stopped pacing, they’d ceased wandering aimlessly. All stood completely still. In unison, their heads turned to me, slowly. Like a hivemind that had become aware of the interloper.

I darted around the corner, horribly aware as I turned my head that they intended to follow. I ran without looking back, ran in fear that one might catch me before I reach the treeline, in fear that this treeline might lack the talismanic quality which I was placing upon it: a safe haven, somewhere I would be untouchable. 

A man leapt from an alleyway, intercepting me. Before I had a chance to defend myself, I was being dragged into the darkness, a hand placed over my mouth to stifle my screams. He whispered into my ear, trying to calm me. And then we were backing into a door, which he slammed shut and locked behind us. We were in a storage room with boxes stacked high along one wall, and a bare metal shelf containing all sorts of tools.

“You’ll be safe in here,” he said. 

It was Harold. The man I’d dreamed about. I struggled to speak, backing away toward the locked door.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Let me out of this room,” I said.

“You’re safer here.”

“Why should I believe you care about my safety? Who are you?”

“I thought you would know,” he said, speaking more to himself than me.

Something pounded viciously on the door behind me, making me jump. It was the townspeople—still set, apparently, on hunting me. 

“Come on. Upstairs,” said Harold.

I paused, but only for a moment. I did not trust Harold, not entirely, but there was something kind and friendly about his face. The dream tried to return to me, or perhaps a different dream; everything was mixed up inside my mind, trying to congeal and present a formed picture. The savage beating at the door is what decided for me. I didn’t trust it would hold. I followed Harold up a wooden staircase, emerging in the lobby of a small inn. He grabbed a key from a post where it hung among many others and then rushed me up another set of stairs, and then another. We stopped at room 306. He unlocked it, handed me the key, and shoved me inside.

“Don’t come out until morning. Draw your blinds. If anyone knocks at the door, be silent. And keep it locked.”

He shut the door on my face.

The room was small, one twin bed and an old dresser of stained wood. A desk underneath the curtained window held a reading lamp, sheets of paper, and a pen. I stood over it a moment; tried the pen in my hand. It was warm, as if only recently leaving a strong hand set to accomplish something significant. I wrote my name on the paper. I wrote Harold’s name on the paper. I wrote his full name. I wrote it again. 

On the bed I found the bag that I’d packed that morning. Last I’d seen it, it had been in the back of my now-missing car. My keys sat on the dresser. I passed the night sitting at the desk, holding the pen.

The sun rose behind the heavy curtains. I had no way of knowing. At some point I must have dozed, because I awoke with a start to someone knocking on my door. It was Harold. I wondered if his directive the night before applied to him. Without unlocking the door I asked him what he wanted.

“It’s safe now,” he said. “You can come out.”

I changed, thankful for the extra clothes I’d packed—curious, too, to see the familiar old cargo pants I’d been wearing in my dream—and followed him downstairs. He left me alone in the lobby as he went into a backroom; I glanced furtively over my shoulder, afraid that one of my pursuers might appear. Harold returned carrying a plate.

“Free breakfast for all guests,” he said, setting the plate on a table. On the plate was a fluffy belgian waffle with a large slice of butter melting in the center, two eggs, fried, and two pieces of bacon that looked like they’d seen the hot side of a skillet for no more than ten seconds. 

“I know you want it,” he said with a smile as I stood, hesitating. That he was correct is what made me most uncomfortable: I tried to understand how this strange man knew what my mother used to make me for breakfast every year on my birthday.

The first bite caused tears to swell in my eyes. That’s not an exaggeration. I wanted to cry because I had not tasted this waffle, prepared with her own homemade batter—I tasted the vanilla, the cinnamon—in nearly ten years. Not since the cancer had ripped her away from me, from the world, before we were ready to lose her. Without pause I dropped my fork and stood, looking over his shoulder—Harold had been standing over me, watching me eat, smiling—to the room from which he’d emerged. 

“Is she here?” I asked him. The absurdity was not lost on me, but certain sensations can drive rational thought from the brain. “Am I dreaming? Is this real?”

“Is who here?” There was genuine puzzlement on his face.

“My mother. This is hers,” I said, pointing at the food.

Something clicked. I could see it on his face.

“Interesting,” he said. “I had no idea. It is a terrific waffle. I have one every morning.”

A patron barged through the wide front doors. Instantly I was on guard. I backed away from the table and stood next to Harold.

“He doesn’t see you,” he said. “Most days he doesn’t even see me.”

The man—not one of the townspeople I’d seen last night, but similar in some way I struggled to identify—walked through the lobby, head down, and rounded the corner. He disappeared up the stairs. I could trace his path through the sound of his steps.

“He’s going to his room. He’ll stay up there for—” Harold checked his watch “—ninety minutes or so. Then he’ll come down, back out that same door, and he’ll walk to the hardware store on 6th. He won’t buy anything. Not anymore. He will walk to aisle 17, inspect a ball-peen hammer, put it back on the shelf, confused, and leave. Then kill a few hours pacing Main and be back here before nightfall.” He said this as if it bored him. 

“Where’s my car? I’m leaving.”

“It’s around the block where I parked it. Can I walk with you? There’s something I’d like to show you. Before you go.”

I followed Harold outside, not without trepidation. I was still fearful of the angry mob which had seemed hellbent on spilling my blood not twelve hours earlier. Harold, in direct contrast, carried himself with a nonchalant inattention; one that I envied. It was as if nothing in this entire world could surprise him. No contingency could strike which he was not totally prepared to encounter.

“Car’s this way,” he said, starting up the sidewalk. A few people lingered in the town square or in the gazebo. In the distance, I saw the familiar drones trekking the central strip. They looked just as they had the night before. Mindless, purposeless.

“They’ve already forgotten,” he said, as if my thoughts were being broadcasted at full volume. “So long as he doesn’t see us, they won’t.” Harold grabbed my arm and stopped me from rounding the corner. It would have taken us past the wide windows of Second Chances, the thrift store with the menacing cashier. We ducked into the alleyway from last night—it took me a moment to recognize it in the daylight—and cut back out to the main strip a few buildings later.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“What a good question,” he said with a humorless laugh. “I was hoping you might know.”

Two blocks away we reached my car.

“If this is it, I’m glad we met,” he said, extending his hand. I took it out of reflex. His was warm, his grip strong. “I truly never thought we would.”

The words bubbled up to my mouth before I had a chance to consider them. “Come with me,” I said. “You don’t belong here.”

Harold laughed—it was the same laugh I was coming to expect from him. He looked at his feet, arms crossed over his chest, and said one of the saddest things I’d ever heard. “If I belonged elsewhere, I’d be there.”

“You’re not like them,” I said, gesturing to the faceless many, the wanderers, the empty-souled horde that crawled the street without purpose. 

“I used to think that. But I’m more like them than I am like you. I know that now. I could get in that car, just to prove a point. But as soon as you left these dirt roads—and I could get you there, I know the way—as soon as you got close to your roads, the ones you know…I would melt away. I’d be back here. In my inn. With my counterparts.”

“Says who?” I asked. The answer was forming in my mind, but I needed Harold to say it. The rest came as soon as he did.

“It’s you,” he said. “Always you.”

I convinced Harold to get in the car and test his theory. Frankly, it didn’t require much effort on my part. He was desperate to leave; his conviction that our attempt would be fruitless was not something to stand in his way.

“I want you to leave,” I told him, accelerating towards the town square. He put his hand on my arm and directed me to turn right at the next intersection.

“Yes,” he said, once again sensing my thoughts. “Even in the car, he’ll know it’s us. And it will be last night all over again. Except this time we’ll have to wait them out much longer.”

We took the long way, circumventing Second Chances and Dennis. I remembered his name now. Remembered the people he’d hurt and how he’d hurt them. How I’d made him hurt them.

“That is, unfortunately, not how it works,” Harold said, returning to my original statement. 

“How do you know that?”

“Call it a hunch, I guess. Intuition. You probably know a better word for it than I do.”

Emerging safely beyond the thrift store, we had just a short way to go before entering the woods. In the road ahead of us stood a young woman. She stared vacantly up at the sky, the sun, her mouth ajar, with drool running from one corner of her mouth. Tears streamed down from her eyes, painting her emotionless face with a glossy shimmer.

“I’ve never seen one do that,” Harold said. “They get worse every day.” We drove for a while, leaving paved roads for the rutted, bouncy dirt path—I know longer needed his guidance, these trails being the architecture of my own design—before I heard him mutter, ostensibly to himself, “As do I.”

“I want you to leave,” I repeated. I said it over and over, hoping it would be enough. We were getting close to the edge, rounding the lake now.

“What’s his deal, anyway?” Harold asked. “Dennis.”

“I never figured that out. He’s sadistic. Causing pain gives him pleasure. I was never sure why. I thought I was close at one point—something to do with his relationship with his father. Some comingling of abuse and comfort, that ugly cycle, but then that felt trite, so I gave up. I always give up when it gets hard. I’m sorry for that.”

Harold said nothing to this. 

“I understand if you’re angry. The strange part is, I know you’re not. You don’t have that in you.”

I looked to my right. The seat was empty. I rolled down my window and stuck my head out. The air was fresher; the sky above me more vibrant. I was out. All I had to do was drive forward, leave the woods, get back to the highway. Do my best to forget about them. I’d done it before. I knew it was possible. What stopped me was Harold’s sad words bouncing around my mind: If I belonged elsewhere, I’d be there. 

I left my car where Harold had parked it and retraced my route—careful to avoid Dennis’s watchful eyes, and the alerting effect they had on the townspeople—to the inn. He was sitting at the table where he’d served me breakfast, staring at his hands.

“I’ll do it,” I said. “I don’t know how. But I’m going to make it happen.”

We went upstairs to the room I’d spent the night in. This time Harold came in with me and shut the door behind us. He sat on the edge of the bed and I took my seat at the desk. I took the pen in my hand, put it back, looked down upon the blank page. It was as I always knew it to be: inviting, appealing in its own unique, indescribable way, but intimidating, enticing me and making a mockery of me all at once. It knew my deficiencies but didn’t even have the decency to state them outright. It made me do that. Forced me to bring them to prominence with each stroke of the pen.

“I tried. More than once,” Harold said. “I thought maybe you’d put enough of yourself in me that I might be able. I’m not exactly well read—you know that—but I know things. I know a lot. That’s one of the biggest tropes, isn’t it? The main character being a stand-in for the author? I know I’m not you, not exactly, but there are certain undeniable similarities. It’s only natural.”

I pretended to be deep in thought, staring down at the ream of paper he’d left for me, only because I could think of no reply. It was an upsetting thought: that piece of me—and how big a piece?—had been left behind in this place, to rot, to fester, to fade into obscure, half-remembered recollections that only appeared in the occasional dream, forgotten before even having the chance to settle into their rightful place in my mind. 

“It’s hard,” Harold said. “It’s really hard. I can’t say I liked it. The frustration. I’m just never able to say it right. The things I see up here. I see them so vividly. And, always, I come up here and sit at that desk, so excited, so ready to put it down on paper, but as soon as the pen is in my hand and it’s time to do the damn thing, it’s like…I don’t know. Like it all goes somewhere else. Somewhere I can’t see it.”

“The more you chase it, the more it runs,” I told him. “It’s like when you’re trying to think of a specific word, and it’s right at the tip of your tongue. You have to stop trying for a moment, do something else, let your brain run in the background.

“At least that’s how it is for me. But look at all I’ve accomplished. Maybe I’m not the one to take advice from.”

He pulled the curtains and raised the blinds. The sudden brightness was dizzying.

“Yes, look at all you’ve accomplished.” He was suddenly emotional. “It’s beautiful. This was once a real town, where real people lived their lives. There was happiness, and beauty, and mundanity, yes, the simple, everyday moments that define a life. And there was evil, and hurt, and suffering, and all of those, yes, they’re necessary too. But you forgot us. You stopped thinking of us. And, gradually, we’ve waned, we’ve dwindled, and the weakest of us, those of us who were hardly here to begin with—the background characters, the extras—are nearly gone. Look at them. They’re senseless. They’ve forgotten who they were because who they were hardly mattered to begin with. We’re only here,” he said, pointing down at Second Chances, “because there was more for us to lose. We remain because it takes longer for a dark stain to fade, but fade it does, eventually. I find myself waking up in the morning confused, unsure of who I am, or when it is, or where this place is. I don’t want to be like them,” he said, choking up. “If that’s what you’ve decided for me, then kill me now.” Harold grabbed the pen and put it in my hand. “Write it on that fucking paper. ‘Harold died in his sleep peacefully.’ Give me the dignity of a graceful exit. I can’t remain here alone in this empty world. Soon they’ll all be gone, and the trees, and the lake, and the birds—the birds have already vanished—and I’ll be all that remains, because you started with me, I have the most of you in me. I can’t do that. I can’t be alone here.”

“I’m not killing you.”

“Do you know how time moves for us? Did you check the time when you got out, when I evaporated and reanimated back in this fucking inn? The date? I bet an hour hasn’t even passed out there. Minutes, at most. How long has it been since you’ve written of us? Do you even know?”

“Nearly ten years,” I said, shrinking away from him.

“Try thousands,” he said. “For us.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to be sorry,” he said, closing my hand around the pen. “Write us. Bring us to life.”

We sat in silence for minutes. Those minutes rolled together with the same impassive, inevitable force they always do, becoming an hour, and then another. The quality of the light was changing in the room as the sun climbed over our heads and began its descent on the other side of the building. I couldn’t write with him watching me, but something in his posture, and the incontrovertible stare with which he fixed me, told me that asking him to leave was no longer an option. He intended to see my end of the promise delivered.

I wrote a sentence of no significance. Just something to get my hand moving. I paused again, thinking of how to turn this first sentence into a paragraph, and that paragraph into a page. Harold leaned forward, curious to see my words. I crowded the page with my shoulder.

The delay between the first and second sentences was shorter than the length of time I’d needed when first pulling up to the desk and putting the first word down, but extensive still. I could feel his impatience. The gap between sentences two and three was shorter still, and my efforts progressed at this same exponential pace until I was struggling to keep my wrist from cramping and my handwriting from abandoning the limited structural integrity it began with. I lost track of where I was. It was a familiar feeling, one I’d grown out of love with—falling into the page—and coming home to it was like embracing an early lover, one who’d taught me to move in the right way, to breathe at the right pace, and held my hand through the multitude of mistakes natural to a beginner. It’s only now, in reflection, that the irony strikes me so clearly: Of all the times I floated away, left my room and my desk and my paper, and fell into the world of my creation, this was the one time where there was literal truth to the sentiment.

I slapped the pen on the desk as if it were a hot stone and one more second of holding it would sear my flesh, and pushed the paper away.

“Done?” Harold asked. The sun had gone down entirely. At some point he’d stood and turned on the lamp above the desk; it cast me in a small puddle of light, the only source in the room. His face was an ominous shadow where he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Let’s go,” I said, taking my keys. He followed me through the door. I didn’t stop to wonder then, as I should have, if he already knew the ending despite my futile efforts to keep my words concealed as I wrote them. Were my words immediately sent to his mind? It was his story I was writing. His fate I was deciding. So I thought.

We traced the same path, al growing beyond familiarity and becoming monotony, back to the car, and drove the same way, avoiding Dennis, to the woods which would set us free. I parked at the treeline. He looked confused, causing me to think that simply putting it on paper did not make the next move apparent to Harold. He still needed to live it to find out. I got out of the car.

“You’re driving,” I said. “Agency. It’s important. You need to make it happen. It can’t happen to you.” He nodded and hopped behind the wheel.

We drove into the dark forest, our headlights eliminating the night as we bounded through each curve and bounced along the pockmarked path. I could see the end up ahead, the place where we left Kadash and returned to reality, and this time it felt different. I smiled, happy that I had—for once—figured it out, and written to the ending, and not given up. I could feel the boundary pressing down into us as we crossed it, the threshold fighting to stop us from leaving.

“You feel that?” I asked him, a triumphant shout in my voice.

“No,” he said, grinning. “I don’t feel anything.”

The last I saw of Harold was that knowing grin as I faded from the car.

When I realized I was in Harold’s inn—when the reality of my mistake came crashing down upon me—I immediately rushed upstairs to the room with the desk and the paper and the pen. My draft was gone. All that remained were blank pages. Simple enough, I told myself. Change it. Sit down and change it. 

I sat in that room all night, starting and stopping, balling up the first page and throwing it across the room, then starting over, trying again, scrapping attempt after attempt. It was futile. I could write one paragraph, maybe two at best, before the words would start to trade places. They would switch and rearrange themselves as soon as I’d look away. It was impossible to complete even one page. It’s against the rules here, that must be it. We can’t write ourselves out.

I have been in Kadash for four years, give or take a week or two. It took a while before I decided to start keeping track of time. If what Harold told me is true, he’s only been out there, in my world, the real one, for days. Not long enough to have forgotten us, which comes first, it must, before I can try to make him remember. Before I can draw him back and trick him into releasing me, the way he pulled me back. 

I feel fortunate that my writing, before he left me here, has revived the town. People are alive, once again. They go to work every day, and to shops, and kids go to school. How long before they start to wane again? How long until the birds fall out of the sky? I spend my time maintaining the inn, and watching for Dennis. Like the townspeople, he is much sharper too, now. How long until it is just us two?

At night, when I lay down to sleep, I think of Harold. I think of him driving my car out of the woods, smiling. I wonder if he moved into my home, or if he found one of his own. I wonder how he spends his time. The things our imaginations conjure are not entirely intangible. What upsets me most is that I can no longer remember if I wrote Harold, or if he wrote me. I fear we’ve been doing this dance, trading places, one of us, always, in Kadash, while the other sits in the real world, setting traps—writing blog posts, for instance—for decades, centuries, perhaps. I shudder to think of the breadcrumbs he’s dropping at this very moment. It’s imperative you do it immediately, while you still remember. Because he will forget. I know he will. We always do.

I do my best to dream of Harold, because dreams are the only place where he and I can cross paths for now. One day, many years from now, for him, centuries, perhaps, for me, he will forget me, he will forget all of us, and he will dream a familiar face, that of someone he could swear he once knew, or at least imagined, and he will come looking for me. I have to believe he will look for me. That he will find me. And when he does, I’ll know him. He will not know me. Not until it’s too late.

Charles stepped into Fun Land Amusements and ground his teeth at the sight of children playing skeeball and air hockey and the waka waka waka of Pacman that filled the air.

The Great Gizmo reduced to playing chess in a place such as this.

The owner started to say something to the well-dressed gentleman, but Charles waved him off. 

He didn't need directions, he and Gizmo were old friends and he could practically smell the old gypsy from here. That was one of those words his great-great-grandchildren would have told him was a "cancelable offense" but Charles didn't care. Much like The Great Gizmo, Charles was from a different age.

Charles had first met Gizmo in Nineteen Nineteen when the world was still new and things made sense.

It had been at an expo in Connie Island, and his father had been rabid to see it.

"They say it's from Europe, and it has been touring since the eighteen hundred. It's supposed to play chess like a gran master, Charlie Boy, and they claim it's never been beaten. I want you to be the first one to do it, kiddo."

Charlie's Father had been a trainman, an engineer, and a grease monkey who had never gotten farther than the fifth grade. He had learned everything he knew at the side of better men, but he knew Charles was special. Charles was nine and already doing High school math, not just reading Shakespeare but understanding what he meant, and doing numbers good enough to get a job at the Brokers House if he wanted it. His father wouldn't hear of it, though. No genius son of his was going to run numbers for Bingo Boys, not when he could get an education and get away from this cesspool.  

"Education, Charlie, that's what's gonna lift you above the rest of us. Higher learning is what's going to get you a better life than your old man."

One thing his Dad did love though was chess. Most of the train guys knew the typical games, cards, dice, checkers, chess, but Charle's Dad had loved the game best of all. He was no grand master, barely above a novice, but he had taught Charles everything he knew about it from a very young age, and Charles had absorbed it like a sponge. He was one of the best in the burrows, maybe one of the best in the city, and he had taken third in the Central Park Chess Finals last year. "And that was against guys three times your age, kid." his Dad had crowed.

Now, he wanted his son to take on The Great Gizmo.

The exhibition was taking place in a big tent not far from the show hall, and it was standing room only. Lots of people wanted to see this machine that could beat a man at chess, and they all wanted a turn to try it out. Most of them wouldn't, Charles knew, but they wanted the chance to watch it beat better men than them so they could feel superior for a little while.

Charles didn't intend to give them the satisfaction.

The man who'd introduced the thing had been dressed in a crisp red and white striped suit, his flat-topped hat making him look like a carnival barker. He had thumped his cane and called the crowd to order, his eyes roving the assembled men and woman as if just searching for the right victim.

"Ladies and Gentleman, what I have here is the most amazing technical marvel of the last century. He has bested Kings, Geniuses, and Politicians in the art of Chess and is looking for his next challenge. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, The Great GIZMO!"

Charles hadn't been terribly impressed when the man tore back the tarp and revealed the thing. It looked like a fortune teller, dressed in a long robe with a turban on its head boasting a tall feather and a large gem with many facets. It had a beard, a long mustachio that drooped with rings and bells, and a pair of far too expressive marble eyes. It moved jerkily, like something made of wires, and the people oooed and awwed over it, impressed.

"Now then, who will be the first to test its staggering strategy? Only five dollars for the chance to best The Great Gizmo."

Charle's father had started to step forward, but Charles put a hand on his arm.

"Let's watch for a moment, Dad. I want to see how he plays."

"You sure?" his Dad had asked, "I figured you'd stump it first and then we'd walk off with the glory."

"I'm sure," Charles said, standing back to watch as the first fellow approached, paying his money and taking a seat.

This was how Charles liked to play. First came the observation period, where he watched and made plans. He liked to stand back, blending in with the crowd so he could take the measure of his opponent. People rarely realized that you were studying their moves, planning counter moves, and when you stepped up and trounced them, they never saw it coming. That was always his favorite part, watching their time-tested strategies fall apart as they played on and destroyed themselves by second-guessing their abilities.

That hadn't happened that day in the tent at Connie Island.

As much as he watched and as much as he learned, Charles never quite understood the strategy at play with The Great Gizmo. He stuck to no gambit, he initiated no set strategy, and he was neither aggressive nor careful. He answered their moves with the best counter move available, every time, and he never failed to thwart them.

After five others had been embarrassed, to the general amusement of the crowd, Charles decided it was his turn.

"A kid?" the barker asked, "Mr, I'll take your money, but I hate to steal from a man."

His Father had puffed up at that, "Charlie is a chess protege. He'll whip your metal man."

And so Charles took his seat, sitting eye to glass eye with the thing, and the game began.

Charles would play a lot of chess in his long life, but he would never play a game quite that one-sided again.

The Great Gizmo thwarted him at every move, countered his counters, ran circles around him, and by the end Charles wasn't sure he had put up any sort of fight at all. He had a middling collection of pieces, barely anything, and Gizmo had everything.

"Check Mate," the thing rasped, its voice full of secret humor, and Charles had nodded before walking away in defeat.

"No sweat, Charlie boy." His father had assured him, "Damn creepy things a cheat anyway. That's what it is, just a cheating bit of nothing."

Charles hadn't said anything, but he had made a vow to beat that pile of wires next time the chance arose.

Charles saw The Great Gizmo sitting in the back of the arcade, forgotten and unused. He didn't know how much the owner had paid for it, but he doubted it was making it back. The Great Gizmo was a relic. No one came to the arcade to play chess anymore. There was a little placard in front of him telling his history and a sign that asked patrons not to damage the object. The camera over him probably helped with that, but it was likely more than that.

The Great Gizmo looked like something that shouldn't exist, something that flew in the face of this "uncanny valley" that his great-grandson talked about sometimes, and people found it offputting.

Charles, however, was used to it.

"Do you remember me?" he asked, putting in a quarter as the thing shuddered and seemed to look up at him.

Its robes were faded, its feather ragged, but its eyes were still intelligent.

"Charles," it croaked, just as it had on that long ago day.

Charles had been in his second year of high school when he met The Great Gizmo for the second time. School was more a formality than anything, he could pass any test a college entrance board could throw at him, but they wouldn't give him the chance until he had a diploma. He was sixteen, a true protege now, and his chess skills had only increased over the years. He had taken Ruby Fawn to the fair that year and that was where he saw the sign proclaiming The Great Gizmo would be in attendance. He had drug her over to the tent, the girl saying she didn't want to see that creepy old thing, but he wanted a second chance at it.

His father was still working in the grease pits of the train yard, but he knew his face would light up when he heard how his son had bested his old chess rival.

The stakes had increased in seven years, it seemed. It was now eight dollars to play the champ, but the winner got a fifty-dollar cash prize. Fifty dollars was a lot of money in nineteen twenty-six, but Charles wanted the satisfaction of besting this thing more than anything. Despite what his father wanted, he had been running numbers for John McLure and his gang for over a year, and some well-placed bets had left him flush with cash.

“Good luck, young man,” said the Barker, and Charles was surprised to find that it was the same barker as before. Time had not been kind to him. His suit was now faded, his hat fraid around the rim, and he had put on weight which bulged around the middle and made the suit roll, spoiling the uniform direction of the stripes. Despite that, it was still him, and he grinned at Charles as he took the familiar seat.

This time, the match was a little different. Charles had increased in skill, and he saw through many of the traps Gizmo set for him. The audience whispered quietly behind him, believing that The Great Gizmo had met his match, but the real show was just beginning. Charles had taken several key pieces, and as he took a second rook, the thing's eyes sparkled and it bent down as if to whisper something to him. The crowd would not have heard it, its voice was too low, but The Great Gizmo whispered a secret to Charles that would stick with him forever.

“Charles, this will not be our last game, we will play eight more times before the end.”

It was given in a tone of absolute certainty, not an offhand statement made to get more of Charles hard-earned money. Charles looked mystified, not sure if he had actually heard what the thing had said, and it caused him to flub his next move and lose a piece he had not wanted to.

Charles persevered, however, pressing on and taking more pieces, and just as he believed victory was within his grasp, the thing spoke again.

“Charles, you will live far longer than you may wish to.”

Again, it was spoken in that tone of absolute assuredness, and it caused Charles to miss what should’ve been obvious.

The Great Gizmo won after two more moves and Charles was, again, defeated.

“Better luck next time,” said the Barker, and even as Charles's date told him he had done really well, but Charles knew he would never be great until he beat this machine.

The pieces appeared, Charles set his up, and they began what would be their fourth game. Charles, strategically meeting the machine's offensive plays with his own practice gambits, would gladly admit that the three games he had played against The Great Gizmo had improved his chess game more than any other match he had ever played. Charles had faced old timers in the park, grandmasters at chess tournaments, and everything in between. Despite it all, The Great Gizmo never ceased to amaze and test his skill.

Charles tried not to think about their last match.

It was a match where Charles had done the one thing he promised he would never do.

He had cheated.

The Great Gizmo had become something of a mania in him after he had lost to it a second time. He had gone to college, married his sweetheart, and begun a job that paid well and was not terribly difficult. With his business acumen, Charles had been placed as the manager of a textile mill. Soon he had bought it and was running the mill himself. Charles had turned the profits completely around after he had purchased the mill, seeing what the owners were doing wrong and fixing it when the mill belonged to him. He’d come a long way from the little kid who sat in the tent at Coney Island, but that tent was never far from his mind.

Charles had one obsession, and it was chess.

Even his father had told him that he took the game far too seriously. He and his father still played at least twice a week, and it was mostly a chance for the two to talk. His father was not able to work the train yard anymore, he’d lost a leg to one of the locomotives when it had fallen out of the hoist on him, but that hardly mattered. His father lived at the home that Charles shared with his wife, a huge house on the main street of town, and his days were spent at leisure now.

“You are the best chess player I have ever seen, Charlie, but you take it too seriously. It’s just a game, an entertainment, but you treat every chess match like it’s war.”

Charles would laugh when he said these things, but his father was right.

Every chess match was war, and the General behind all those lesser generals was The Great Gizmo. He had seen the old golem in various fairs and sideshows, but he had resisted the urge to go and play again. He couldn’t beat him, not yet, and when he did play him, he wanted to be ready. He had studied chess the way some people study law or religion. He knew everything, at least everything that he could learn from books and experience, but it appeared he had one more teacher to take instruction from.

Charles liked to go to the park and play against the old-timers that stayed there. Some of them had been playing chess longer and he had been alive, and they had found ways to bend or even break the established rules of strategy. On the day in question, he was playing against a young black man, he called himself Kenny, and when he had taken Charleses rook, something strange happened. The rook was gone, but so had his knight and had been beside it. Charles knew the knight had been there, but when he looked across the board, he saw that it was sitting beside the rook on Kenny's side. He had still won the match, Charles was at a point where he could win with nearly any four pieces on the board, but when they played again, he reached out and caught Kenny by the wrist as he went to take his castle off the board.

In his hand was a pawn as well, and Kenny grinned like it was all a big joke.

Charles wasn’t mad, though, on the contrary. The move had been so quick and so smooth that he hadn’t even seen it the first time. He wondered if it would work for a creature that did not possess sight? It might be just the edge he was looking for.

“Hey, man, we ain’t playing for money or nothing. There’s no need to get upset over it.”

“Show me,” Charles asked, and Kenny was more than happy to oblige.

Kenny showed him the move, telling him that the piece palmed always had to be on the right of the piece you would take it.

“If it’s on the left, they focus on that piece. If it’s on the right though, then the piece is practically hidden by the one you just put down. You can’t hesitate, it has to be a smooth move, but if you’re quick enough, and you’re sure enough, it’s damn near undetected.”

Charles practiced the move for hours, even using it against his own father, something he felt guilty about. He could do it without hesitation, without being noticed, and he was proud of his progress, despite the trickery. He was practicing it for about two years before he got his chance like The Great Gizmo.

By then, Charles was a master of not just chess but of that little sleight of hand. He hadn't dared use it at any chess tournaments, the refs were just too vigilant, as were the players, but in casual games, as well as at the park, he had become undetectable by any but the most observant. He was good enough to do it without hesitation, and when he opened his paper and saw a squib that The Great Gizmo would be at Coney Island that weekend, right before going overseas for a ten-year tour, he knew this would be his chance.

There was no fee to play against the thing this time. The Barker was still there, but he looked a little less jolly these days. He was an old, fat man who had grown sour and less jovial. He looked interested in being gone from here, in getting to where he would be paid more for the show. He told Charles to take a spot in line, and as the players took their turn, many of them people 

Charles had bested already, they were quickly turned away with a defeat at the hand of the golem.

The Great Gizmo looked downright dapper as he sat down, seeing that the man had gotten him a new robe and feather for his journey. The eyes still sparkled knowingly, however, and Charles settled himself so as not to be thrown by any declarations of future knowledge this time. The pieces came out, and the game began.

Charles did well, at first. He was cutting a path through The Great Gizmo's defenses, and the thing again told him they would play eight more times before the end. That was constant, it seemed, but after that, the match turned ugly. The Great Gizmo recaptured some of his pieces and set them to burning. Charles was hurting, but still doing well. He took a few more, received his next expected bit of prophecy, and then the play became barbaric. The Great Gizmo was playing very aggressively, and Charles had to maneuver himself to stay one step ahead of the thing. He became desperate, trying to get the old golem into position, and when he saw the move, he took it.

He had palmed a knight and a pawn when something unexpected happened.

The Great Gizmo grabbed his hand, just as he had grabbed Kenny's, and it leaned down until its eyes were inches from his.

It breathed out, its breath full of terrible smoke and awful prophecy, and Charles began to choke. The smoke filled his mouth, taking his breath, and he blacked out as he fell sideways. The thing let him go as he fell, but his last image of The Great Gizmo was of his too-expressive eyes watching him with disappointment.

He had been found wanting again, and Charles wondered before passing out if there would be a fourth time.   

Charles woke up three days later in the hospital, his wife rejoicing that God had brought him back to them.

By then, The Great Gizmo was on a boat to England, out of his reach.

The year after that, World War two would erupt and Charles had feared he would never get another match with the creature.

The match had begun as it always did. Charles put aside The Great Gizmo's gambits one at a time. He played brilliantly, thwarting the Golem's best offenses, and then it came time to attack. He cut The Great Gizmo to shred, his line all a tatter, and when he told him they would play eight games before the end, Charles knew he was advancing well. He had lost barely any pieces of his own, and as the thing began to set its later plans in order, he almost laughed. This was proving to be too easy.

The Great Gizmo and the Barker had been in Poland when it fell to the Blitzkrieg, and the Great Gizmo had dropped off the face of the earth for a while. Charles had actually enlisted after Pearl Harbor, but not for any sense of patriotism. He had a mania growing in him, and it had been growing over the years. He knew where the thing had last been, and he meant he would find the Barker and his mysterious machine. The Army was glad to have him, and his time in college made it easy to become an officer after basic training. They offered him a desk job, something in shipping, but he turned them down.

If he wanted to find The Great Gizmo, then he would have to go to war.

He had fought at Normandy, in Paris, in a hundred other skirmishes, and that was where he discovered something astounding.

Despite the danger Charles put himself in, he didn't die. Charles was never more than slightly wounded, a scratch or a bruise, but sustained no lasting damage. He wondered how this could be, but then he remembered the words of The Great Gizmo.

“You will live far longer than you may wish to.”

He returned home after the war, but the old construct returned to America. It took a while for his contacts to get back on their feet, but eventually what he got were rumors and hearsay. He heard that Hitler had taken the thing, adding it to his collection of objects he believed to be supernatural. He heard it had been destroyed in a bombing run over Paris. He heard one of McArthur's Generals had taken it as a spoil of war, and many other unbelievable things.

After the war, it was supposed to have been taken to Jordan, and then to Egypt, then to Russia, then to South Africa, and, finally, back to Europe, but he never could substantiate these things.

And all the while, Charles grew older, less sturdy, but never died.

He was over one hundred years old, one hundred and six to be precise, but he could pass for a robust fifty most of the time. He had buried his wife, all three of his children, and two of his grandchildren. He had lost his youngest son to Vietnam and his oldest grandson to the Iraq war, and he was trying to keep his great-grandson from enlisting now. They all seemed to want to follow in his footsteps, but they couldn't grasp that he had done none of this for his country.

"Checkmate," he spat viciously as he conquered his oldest rival.

He had gone to war not for his wife, or the baby in her arms, or even the one holding her hand.

He had gone to war for this metal monstrosity and the evil prophecy it held.

"Well played," it intoned, and he hated the sense of pride that filled him at those words, "You may now ask me one question, any question, and I will answer it for you. You have defeated The Great Gizmo, and now the secrets of the universe are open to you."

Some men would have taken this chance to learn the nature of time, the identity of God, maybe even that night's lotto numbers, but there was only one question that interested Charles.

"How much longer will I live?"

The Great Gizmo sat back a little, seeming to contemplate the question.

"You will live for as long as there is a Great Gizmo. Our lives are connected by fate, and we shall exist together until we do not."

Charles thought about that for a long time, though he supposed he had known all along what the answer would be.

The man behind the counter looked startled when the old guy approached him and asked to buy The Great Gizmo.

"That old thing?" He asked, not quite believing it, "It's an antique, buddy. I picked it up in Maine hoping it would draw in some extra customers, but it never did. Thing creeps people out, it creeps me out too, if I'm being honest. I'll sell it to ya for fifteen hundred, that's what I paid for it and I'd like to get at least my money back on the damn thing."

Charles brought out a money clip and peeled twenty hundred dollar bills. He handed them to the man, saying he would have men here to collect it in an hour.

"Hey, pal, you paid me too much. I only wanted,"

"The rest is a bonus for finding something I have searched for my whole life."

He called the men he had hired to move the things and stayed there until they had it secured on the truck.

Charles had a spot for it at the house, a room of other treasures he had found while looking for the old golem. The walls were fire resistant, the floor was concrete, and the ceiling was perfectly set to never fall or shift. Charles had been keeping a spot for The Great Gizmo for years, and now he would keep him, and himself, for as long as forever would last.

Or at least, he reflected, for four more chess matches.

Wasn't that what The Great Gizmo had promised him, after all?  

The Great Gizmo

Cathrine was interested in magic—not the tricks and illusions used by magicians but real, genuine magic. She had studied it her whole life, wanting to find its existence.

Cathrine wanted to do magic like the Genie from her favorite cartoon, without the bound shackles and tiny living space. So, she made it her mission to discover it all.

However, each she learned gave her one more step towards what she wanted. Cathrine had become greedy. On a whim, she started looking at antique stores in her area. Maybe she would discover enchanted bracelets, rings, tiaras, and earrings.

Cathrine was in Old World Wonders, a shop in the backstreets.

Where only shady people of the town hung around, her honey-brown eyes looked over an assortment of knickknacks when an oil lamp caught her attention. Even among all the old and worn items on the shelf, it still glittered like gold. Picking it up, Cathrine turned it around in her hands, examining it.

Even if she left this shop with some memorabilia from a kid's cartoon, it would make her inner child happy and make up for today's loss. Going over to the counter, she placed it down. A short, round, older gentleman with a curly beard looked up from his newspaper. His glasses were on the tip of his nose, looking at her over the square dark rims.

"Five bucks," he muttered, clearing his throat.

"Are you sure? It looks quite expensive," Cathrine tried to reason.

"That thing has been in here a long time. No one ever wanted that piece of junk," he assured Cathrine, getting irritated.

"Now, are you buying or —"

"I'll take it," she smiled brightly, placing the money down and leaving with her prize out the door.

The man clicked his tongue and soon returned to reading his newspaper, shaking his head. Cathrine was beyond enthusiastic about her rare find, holding the oil lamp close.

When she got home, Cathrine cleaned it and proudly displayed her discovery.

The oil lamp rattled, and a swirl of white and yellow smoke bellowed out from the slight opening from the neck. Cathrine stepped back as the swirling smoke began to form, and soon, someone stood before her.

The imposing man before her had glowing golden eyes and caramel-wavy hair framing his face. His chestnut skin stood out as if it shimmered. When he smiled, she could see needle-sharp teeth.

"Greetings, master," he spoke without moving his lips. "What is your desire?"

'Was this a real genie?' Cathrine thought to herself, her exuberance bubbling up inside her chest. She thought for a moment. What did she desire most: money, popularity, or effects? Cathrine opened her mouth to speak, and the man held up a hand to stop her.

"I know all about you, Cathrine." He looks around at all the memorabilia and chuckles. I can see what you desire. All you need to do is say the words."

Her eyes went to where the Genie was looking. Next to the memorabilia was her collection of tarot cards, grimoires, and books on different types of magic. Cathrine knew what she wanted.

"I want to do magic," Cathrine said aloud, arms at her sides.

"Is that so?" the Genie grinned.

She nodded, sure of her choice.

His grin got wider. "Your wish is my command."

A swirl of yellow and white smoke wrapped around Cathrine, who felt like a snake was coiling around her. She could not move.

The next time she opened her eyes, she lay down on cold metal surrounded by darkness. Where was she? This most definitely wasn't her apartment anymore.

"I hope your new living conditions are to your liking," a booming voice echoed around her.

"Where am I?!" she demanded, shaking from her place on the floor.

The owner of the voice laughed. "Why your lamp, of course."

Her lamp? So this wasn't some fever dream.

She had gotten what she wished for. So until someone else came along to find her lamp, she would have all the time in the world to perfect her magic.

Gunpowder was all I could smell, with smoke drifting across the battlefield creating a solid haze that was impenetrable by human eyes. I could only pray that no bullets or cannonballs would hit me, much less the bayonet of another soldier. Everything was chaos, dead soldiers of both blue and grey littering the vast fields of Gettysburg. I believe that’s what brought on the end.

My regiment had been called up to Gettysburg a week ago, told of an impending battle with the Confederates that could be the last. We had to make this count, and stop this bloody war once and for all with a final sacrifice. Freedom is what we were there to fight for. Freedom for every man from being a slave to another man. We won that, but found ourselves free in a world where every moment is survival.

I don’t know how long it’s been since that initial cannon fire. A trumpet that broke the most deafening silence I’ve ever heard, signaling the start of this massacre. That single trumpet call seems now like the trumpet of heaven, sounding out to all that Revelations has begun. I pray that the lord raptures us soon if that is the case. All hell broke loose as we charged in, firing guns and stabbing with bayonets at our enemies. The Confederate soldiers we once called brothers now fighting viciously against us. A soldier beside me let out a war cry as we charged in, though he was cut off quickly by a cannonball. His voice trailed off as the top half of his head was sheared off, scattering brain matter over the rest of us. Only his lower jaw and beard remained, still open in a primal, silent war cry.

I can only assume some god was watching over me, as I was one of the few to survive the initial volley. My brothers fell around me, struck by cannons and rifle fire. Bodies were already thick on the front lines, starting to form a natural barricade as more fell on those already there.

While my rifle ran out of ammunition before long, there was plenty to pick up from the dead. Many of us began to throw our guns aside once they were out of bullets, instead looting our fallen for their lead.

Darkness fell suddenly, surrounding all of us in the pitch black. No moon above, no sun, no stars. Just an empty, dark void open above us. The only light came from still sporadic fire, quick flashes before the darkness smothered us once more. Unable to see, most stopped, unsure of what to do in the situation. I believed it to be an eclipse at first, but what came after was much worse.

Fiery blue lit up the sky, accelerating from every direction. As they began falling to earth, the horrors began. Lit by the blue flames above, all of us could see as both armies were swarmed. Men became beasts before my eyes, contorting as they were set upon by other horrors. They appeared from nowhere, as if summoned from the depths of hell. Towering, human-like figures with leathery skin, sheets of flayed flesh hanging from them in cloaks roamed the battlefield, picking up soldiers and ripping their skin off, leaving them flayed, lying in the blood of their brethren.

Falling blue flames were still pounding the earth around us, more terrors emerging from the cocoons of flame as they settled. Creatures slithered along the ground, bodies like water rolling over the battlefield. As they rolled, more bodies were picked up, increasing their size as they captured more. The bodies inside melted as they rolled, fading into a deep red that glowed in the flames. Hell was here, and we brought it.

I can only assume this was our punishment for spilling so much blood. God finally decided to let the heavens fall and the earth open, granting us judgment for our sins. By now fires were raging throughout the field, scared soldiers screaming as the terrors took them down. The blood was running thick, with puddles under my feet as I desperately tried to escape.

A cavalry soldier rode by, convulsing atop his horse as his face contorted, blood spraying as his eyes burst open. He bent down, biting into the horse’s neck with sharpened teeth, causing the poor creature to shriek in agony. The soldier ripped another huge chunk from the horse’s neck, causing it to fall over on him. As he was crushed under the dying creature he writhed and screamed, inhuman notes coming from his vocal cords. A cavalry saber fell a few feet from them, sticking upright in the mud. My gun empty once more, I picked it up by the handle as I ran by, just in time to quickly slash away the soldier’s head as it lunged at me, stretching grotesquely from the crushed body to reach me. As the saber slashed a gash in its long neck, the creature screamed at me again, almost knocking me back to the ground. I felt dizzy, confused even.

No, I had to keep running. There was no other choice than to run or die, possibly becoming one of these terrors. Some soldiers were still alive, trying to fight back against these punishments sent by god. Though it was only getting them killed. A great beast, like a fierce wolf-ish creature larger than even the elephants I had seen in drawings from across the seas, jumped through the air, landing on a group of soldiers. Fire radiated from the burning fur on it, making it appear like a terrifying hellhound. As the soldiers were devoured, their screams only added to the chaos, inciting more terror to the discordant battle.

I pulled out the pistol from my waistband, wielding both it and the cavalry saber while trying to get my bearings. I couldn’t see where the battlelines were, but there was a faint tree line not too far away. There was where I would make my escape to, hopefully finding safety in the forest. A small, pale white figure ran at me, making a leap with sharp teeth as it screamed. It looked like a small child, but with pale, damp skin that was almost waterlogged. I discharged my revolver, the bullet going straight through its middle, bursting gore from the other side. It fell to the ground, twitching as I continued to run.

When I broke the tree line I thought about hiding, but my legs had other ideas. Run, run, run was all I could do, taking myself as far as possible from this hell. Before long the flickering light of flames faded behind me, leaving me in complete darkness once more. The forest was still, not a soul stirring through the leaves. My feet finally collapsed beneath me as I tripped over a root, twisting my ankle on the way down. Now that my own footsteps weren’t crashing down around me, I could hear something crunching over leaves and branches behind me. Closing in fast.

A faint light began to flicker through the dense branches, casting eerie shadows on the pitch black. It appeared to be a torch, surprisingly not setting the entire forest on fire during the dry season. At this point, perishing in a fire would almost be a mercy. As the flame grew closer, I still. couldn’t see who or what might have been behind it, but I gripped my pistol and aimed it at right at the base of the torch, hoping I could hit whatever it was in the center.

”I’m friendly. Please don’t shoot.” A gruff voice sounded through the trees. “Sorry, wasn’t trying to scare you.”

A young man stepped through the trees, the distinctive dark blue of his uniform contrasting with the shadows. I put my gun down, seeing that he was another Union soldier, and pushed myself up on my hands, wincing while my ankle throbbed. As he came closer, I was finally able to get a good look at the soldier approaching.

Sweat was shining off his dark skin, a look of wild fear in his eyes that were still twitching to look around.

“Any of those things follow you?” I asked

”Don’t believe so. Think they don’t like the fire much.” He replied.

I started gathering sticks and brush from around the ground, piling them in the center of the small clearing we were in. If fire kept them away, we would go ahead and make sure it was available. He moved over closer, helping to gather fallen branches along his way to strengthen the pile. When there was finally a decent amount, he set the torch to it, bringing a small campfire to life.

As the flames grew more of the forest around us came into sight. This man sat across from me at the fire, a small pile of wood and sticks beside him to throw on the flames when needed. Now that there was light I could pull my boot off, getting a good look at my ankle. Swollen, and it was definitely going to hurt for a couple of days, but I could still move.

“What’s your name?” I asked, watching the young soldier pull a rifle from over his shoulder and start cleaning it.

”Vincent Strand.” He replied, “Yours?”

“Robert,” I grunted. Exhaustion was starting to set in since I was finally in a place of relative safety. The day’s battle was only the start of weariness, with survival now the only thing on my mind.

“General Lee?” He asked, squinting through the darkness at me, hand on his gun. Don’t know why, but it was the first time I’ve laughed in weeks probably.

“If any bastard deserved what happened out there, he would be the one.” I chuckled, pulling the canteen from my bag. “Where you from?”

”Philadelphia.” He said, unpacking his own canteen now. An inhuman screech ripped through the air, making both of us jump while reaching for weapons. It faded away as quickly as it came, as if flying overhead. As we sat back down, keeping a firm grip on our guns and blades, he asked the mutual question “What happened there?”

“Hell finally got tired of waiting.” I retorted, watching as his eyes grew wide. The darkness wasn’t letting up, with not a star in sight in the sky. No moon, and judging by what time things started this morning, it should still be around noon. Not that the sun was anywhere to show it. Just a dark, abyssal void above us, making it even more evident how along we really are. “Can only assume this is what we get for so much blood spilled.”

His only response was to stare off into the sky. Another scream ripped the air, this time a human one, recognizably. It sounded like a woman. Whatever caused her to scream quickly ensured she stopped, as it was cut off after just seconds. Vincent started praying, muttering under his breath pleas to God to protect his family back in Pittsburgh. At least the kid still had something to hold onto, considering everything else looked like the worst case possible.

My body ached, the toll of today’s battle finally settling in. My ankle was probably the worst injury, but there was a saber cut on my shoulder that I didn’t notice until now. Must have been the rush of survival numbing it.

”Get some sleep, kid.” I told Vincent, throwing more wood on the fire before settling back against a tree. “I’ll keep watching for a while. We’ll trade off at sun up then figure out where to go.”

”Do you think the sun will come up?” He asked, still fervently bowed with his hands up in prayer. All I could do was shake my head and shrug.

“Don’t rightly know. Whatever happens, we’ll figure out a plan to get you back to Philadelphia.”

His eyes had a look of hope for the first time since I met him. Though he wasn’t quite in the belief that I was going to help just yet.

”Thank you, sir.” He said, bowing his head in a rush.

”Call me Robert.” I said again, motioning for him to knock it off. He eventually settled in against the tree, dozing off into a restless sleep.

My efforts to stay awake and keep an eye out were in vain as the day caught up to my body. Before I realized it, I was dozing off myself.

———————

I was snapped awake by the sound of trees falling nearby, something heavy scraping itself closer along the ground.

”Vincent, wake up.” I said, loud enough to rouse him from his sleep. “Something’s coming, we have to go.”

He stirred quickly, jumping up and grabbing his bag. I quickly grabbed a long branch from the ground, hoping it would be enough to support my injury. Vincent quickly found another stick, still covered in tree sap, and lit it from the still-smoldering fire.

It was almost useless. Darkness was still dominating the sky, making sure we were practically running blind through the forest. My ankle hurt like hell, making me slower, but the fear in my veins overpowered it. Whatever was moving towards us, it was massive, and likely wasn’t friendly.

Vincent helped me through the last bit of the trees, seeing that my leg was definitely not going to hold up. We came out near a dirt road, worn from years of foot and wagon traffic, and ran into a rain-filled ditch beside it, jumping in the water and extinguishing the makeshift torch to hide.

It crashed out, taking trees with it. In the darkness, I could see just the faint outline of a massive creature, one long body with pasty white flesh covering it. If I didn’t know any better, it looked bloated from drowning, all color drained from the entire thing. It opened a huge mouth, many tongues emerging to lick the air, trying to find what it was chasing. We both submerged ourselves as far as we could in the water, desperately trying to hide.

A torch appeared from down the worn road, illuminating the pathway ahead. The creature sensed it, tasting the scent of the flame as it drew closer. Whoever was holding it didn’t realize what they were walking into. Vincent began to rise up, ready to shout at them. I had to put a hand on his shoulder, gripping hard and giving him a quiet signal. We couldn’t give ourselves away.

”Hello?” A voice called from under the flame moving closer. “Please, do you know what happened?”

The creature moved exceptionally fast for its size, at least twelve feet in height with a long stocky build. Before we could process, it had slithered to the torch bearer, giving them barely time to scream before swallowing them whole. Vincent let go a short gasp into the water beside me, immediately closing his mouth to save air. Satisfied, the monster walked back into the tree line with a grumble, knocking over more trees as it went.

Vincent and I waited until the thuds of the forest fainted before emerging from the water.

”That… that was a demon.” He said, looking at me in fear.

All I could do was nod, the wind chilling me in my soaked clothes.

“We gotta move forward though. Follow the road until we find out where we are.” I was already moving forward, desperately trying to keep my composure as the crushing weight of reality was starting to set in. As we walked along the road, not a word was spoken, only silence as we both stayed on high alert.

No sign of light peeked over the horizon. I don’t know where we were, or even what time it could be without the sun to guide me. My eyes were much more adjusted now to the darkness, at least, allowing me to get a slightly better view of the world around me. Once I really was able to pay attention, I could notice stars shining faintly in the sky again. They weren’t constellations I recognized though, not even the North Star could be found despite my desperate searching. I couldn’t notice at first, but the stars were pulsating, light growing and fading as if the cosmos were breathing.

“Sir, look,” Vincent said, putting a hand on my shoulder and shaking me from thought. “There’s a light ahead.”

He was right, through the distance there was the faint flicker of fire, with smoke rising up toward the stars from a chimney. There wouldn’t be a fire going after this long if the place was abandoned, but there was no guarantee those inside were going to take kindly to two Union soldiers coming to their door. Damned if they would even recognize us in this ragged state, but we held hope while approaching that they wouldn’t turn us away. A discordant screech rang out from in the distance, something making known that it was on the hunt. Despite the pain in my ankle, I sped up, desperately seeking shelter in the light.

We approached the door cautiously, with a hand on our weapons just in case. Vincent kept a revolver drawn, hand steadier for aiming than mine were, though my saber was ready to cut anyone or anything that threatened us. I don’t know why I had a sense of responsibility for this kid, but I knew he still had life burning in him that I couldn’t let go out.

Two raps of my knuckles on the door and a voice came from inside, “Get away.”

”We just want to know where we are, please. We were chased and got lost.” Vincent said, trying to keep his voice low enough to not attract attention but loud enough for the man inside to hear. The gruff voice came back again, inquisitive.

”Where are you going?” It asked, with the sound of a bolt being drawn from behind the door. ”You’re outside Lancaster.”

”Dammit.” I swore under my breath. We were closer than I expected, and surprisingly went the wrong way, but the idea of going through the city in this mess had me cautious. I replied to the man as the door opened a crack, the muzzle of a rifle poking out at us. Both Vincent and I raised our weapons as well, concerned for our own lives. I tried talking to him before things went even more downhill, “We were at Gettysburg. Had to run when everything went to hell.”

”Hmph. You traitors?” He asked now, opening the door a little more to look at us. His eye caught Vincent, sizing him up. “This one yours?”

”No sir, we’re both Union.” I offered, “I’d show you my papers but I don’t think they’re in good shape for reading. And no, I ain’t nobody’s owner.”

”Good. Come on in.” The man said, opening the door a bit more so we could walk in. “Christ, what happened to you boys?”

Vincent and I looked at each other, the light of the roaring fireplace letting us see each other clearly for the first time. He was covered head to toe in mud and blood, dirt all over his face.

“It’s been quite the day. I think it’s been a day at least, not really sure without the sun to say.” Vincent replied, walking in toward the fire to warm his chilled bones. The man walked back to a chair, a small wooden table with a knife out, whetstone nearby. He must have been preparing for whatever horrors he had heard outside.

”We were at the battle. Don’t know how long it went but then… well, you see what happened. It’s everywhere.” I said, moving toward the fire as well. The cold fabric on my skin started taking in warmth like a greedy child hogging candies, slowly bringing my body back from the edge of freezing cold.

“Guessing we didn’t win.” He asked, looking at me with worry. I could only shake my head and shrug in reply. He sighed, sitting back in his chair. “I knew we were insulting god with all this killing.”

”What have you seen?” Vincent asked him, peeling off his coat and laying it over the hearth to dry. “I mean, the creatures.”

The old man looked surprised then, looking at both of us in turn. “Y’all saw them? I’ve only heard the cries, but I didn’t know what it was. Demons, I assumed.”

”Not far off.” I snorted, looking into the embers in the hearth. Everything I had heard of hell was fire and brimstone. If this was hell, it was a cold, dark one. I think I may prefer the fires at this point. “They came out of nowhere. Everything went dark then the chaos started, it didn’t matter which side you were on. Those things have a war on humanity. They’re probably going to win, too.”

Vincent and the old man just looked at me, concern on their faces.

”Well, guess all we can do is fight.” The old man said, “Name’s Peter, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

”Robert.” I said, nodding toward him. Vincent gave his name, doing the same, “Thank you for letting us in.”

”Shit, the least I can do after y’all put your lives on the line for us. Can’t say I don’t blame those Confederate sons of bitches for bringing this on us, though.”

Vincent and I could only stare in silence at the flames, lost in our own heads. I’m sure he was worried about his family in Philadelphia, but all I could think was how we were supposed to survive this new world of horrors.

“We can’t stay long, Vincent,” I said, bringing myself back. If his family was alone in the city, time was of the essence. “Peter, have you heard anything from the city?”

”If you’re heading to Philadelphia, no, nothing from there so far. Though it’s a bit soon for anyone to be passing through from there. You’re about two miles out from Lancaster heading East. Pass through the city and stay on the main road, suppose you’ll hit Philadelphia in… maybe a day if you go fast?”

”Alright. Appreciate it.” I said, standing up and beckoning for Vincent to follow. “We don’t want to make your family wait.”

”Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” He said, taking his coat back from the hearth. “Thank you very much, Peter.”

”Y’all don’t have to go back out there. You can rest if you need to.” He said, looking at us with concern. I know we were ragged, but from his look, you would think we were walking corpses.

“I’m trying to find my family.” Vincent replied, “My mom and little sister are in Philadelphia so we’re trying to get there fast.”

Peter’s eyes softened, holding a hand out to both of us to shake, “Good luck then, and godspeed. I’ll pray for your safety, if there’s anyone listening to prayers still.”

”We’re grateful, thank you.” I said, hefting my saber and stepping back out. On the way, Peter passed me a tinder box, a block of flint and a rod of steel to create sparks.

“Keep some light on you, just in case.” He mentioned.

We said our goodbyes quickly, getting back on the road and continuing on our path toward Lancaster. The sky was glowing orange around it, but whether it was due to gaslight or flames I couldn’t tell. Vincent still had the look of worry on his face, unsure of what we would find in Philadelphia if we even managed to make it to Lancaster.

As I sat with my grandmother during a summer night in Dudley, she told me a story she hadn't even told her mother or children. She was around eight then, and they traveled by train to visit some family nearby. She was sitting by herself, looking around at the other guests, when she spotted a girl close to her age motion to her from a nearby corner.

Confused, she pointed to herself and looked around, and the other girl nodded. Slipping off her seat, she walked over and knelt with the girl who had a few toys in front of her. "My name is Anna, what's yours?" the girl had asked my grandmother, who told her, "Mary-Ann."

"Would you like to play with me? I don't see many other children my age on the train." Anna rubbed her hands together nervously, looking at my grandmother, who frowned and said, "It's okay because I'm here now, and I'll play with you." She assured her, and Anna's eyes lit up. She handed her a small handmade rag doll with a missing button eye.

"Her name is Susie." Anna gleamed, "I want you to have her."

My grandmother tried to refuse because she didn't want to take something meaningful away from this girl, but Anna insisted. They played, and my grandmother asked where she was heading, but Anna shrugged.

"I don't think I'll ever get there. I tried once when my parents were here with me, but... " Anna replied, looking towards the door of the next train car. A frown on her face, she looked to be a mile away, thinking about something.

My grandmother felt sorry for the girl, thinking that she had lost her parents, and was going to offer her condolences. Still, an announcement over the intercom came on about the next stop and for everyone to remain seated. Her father called her, getting her attention, "Mary-Ann, what are you doing on the floor? Come over here."

Confused, she got up and dusted off her dress, the rag doll still in her hand. "I was talking to Anna," my grandmother told her father, who was walking over and motioning behind her.

He sighed and shook his head. "Mary-Ann, no one is there." He touched her head, and she looked back over her shoulder. When she did, no one was there.

My grandmother was in disbelief, and she knew that Anna had been there. She talked to her, and they played games. Anna even gave her a gift. "Look at this," my grandmother said, holding up the rag doll Susie with a missing button eye. "Anna gave this to me."

Her father looked at the doll and furrowed his brow. "Where in the world did you find that?" My grandmother was frustrated and adamant about getting her father to believe her, but he never did. When they got off at their stop, she pouted and crossed her arms, holding the rag doll tightly.

As they passed a memorial at the station littered with candles, gifts, flowers, and photos, my grandmother noticed one of the photos and pointed it out. "Look! That's her, it's Anna." she tugged on her father's shirt and pointed it out to him.

She said the look on her father's face went from agitation to sadness, and he gently touched her shoulder. "Oh Mary-ann..." he spoke softly, looking down at her with a small smile. Anna isn't with us anymore. What you must have seen was a ghost. I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

A ghost? My grandmother was in disbelief. How could she have seen a ghost when her interaction felt so real? She said that there had been an accident on the train and a man had shot a lot of people when he was trying to rob them and it didn't go the way he wanted. Poor Anna had been one of those victims.

My grandmother said she stood before the memorial and folded her hands in prayer, wishing Anna to move on and join her parents. She then felt a warmth come over her as if something heavy had been lifted from her shoulders. A small voice spoke in her ear, saying, "Thank you."

After telling this story, my grandmother pulled out a small bundle wrapped in a cloth handkerchief, showing me a rag doll with a missing button eye. It was Susie! I looked at my grandmother, surprised, and she smiled.

"Do you think Anna was able to pass over?" I asked.

My grandmother stroked Susie's one-button eye and nodded.

"I would like to think so," she replied, wrapping the doll back up.

I, too, wished for the same thing.

That Anna was able to join her family and was at peace—the lonely little girl on the train who just wanted to go home.

My Love Is Vengeance by Al Bruno III

The old saying is, "Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves," but in the end, I only needed one. I have no regrets for my years spent planning and executing my vengeance upon Creighton Tillingshaft Jr.

It should never have come to this, and I like to think that if he had just paid for his crimes, I would have tried to move on, but that man did not take responsibility. There was no denying that my thirteen-year-old son was dragged beneath Creighton Tillingshaft Jr's car for 180 yards; there was no denying that Creighton Tillingshaft Jr had fled the scene of the accident, leaving my boy to die by the side of the road like an animal. The authorities thought he was driving under the influence, but by the time they caught up to him, there was no way to prove it.

The trial was a sham; the Tillingshaft fortune saw to it that his team of doctors and psychiatrists spoke of 'dissociative episodes' and addictions. His lawyers questioned my parenting, scolding me for allowing my boy to be out delivering papers at five in the morning. In the end, all my son's killer received was a hefty fine, community service, and twelve years probation.

Was that all my boy was worth to them?

It is a painful thing to outlive your offspring; my wife had died in childbirth, and the thought that my son would not attend my grave as I attended his mother's left me not entirely sane. I bought a gun and tried to decide if I wanted him dead or if I wanted to die myself. Eventually my perspective changed, I became colder. I let my love for my son twist into a dream of vengeance. I vowed to never rest until I saw my boy's killer on his knees.

Years were spent watching and planning; I came to know his life better than I had known my own. Finally, shortly after his fortieth birthday, I began to move against Creighton Tillingshaft Jr. At first all I did was let him know he was being watched by using the skills I'd spent years honing. His family heard footsteps echo through the house at night. They would investigate to find a door or window open. They started finding newspapers delivered to their front step, though they never subscribed, and their mansion was behind walls and a gate. Those papers were not new; they were from the year my son died. He began to panic; he hired security guards that never found anything amiss and bought guard dogs that disappeared to be found dead weeks later.

Once the Tillingshafts were good and rattled, I backed off; I waited a year; I could afford to. Then they found Creighton Tillingshaft Sr. dead; everyone said it was a simple heart attack, but I was responsible. The old man wasn't even a week in the ground when I struck again. Seventeen-year-old Creighton Tillingshaft III took a tumble down one of the crowded stairways of his college. His injuries left him a paraplegic; months later, an opportunistic infection took care of the rest. That blow made my son's killer turn his back on the sobriety he had embraced twenty-five years ago. That drove his wife away, leaving him alone in that big mansion with just his servants, but I soon took care of them. For all their professed loyalty to the Tillingshaft family, a few well-planned accidents and some threats from the shadows were all it took to send them running.

After that, I waited again, knowing that eventually, despite his near-constant drunken stupor, my son's killer would realize what I had done. It was a cold February morning when he came to me. He screamed and cursed until he collapsed into a sobbing heap.

Does Hell await me as punishment for what I've done? I don't know, and I don't care.

It was worth it to have the once great Creighton Tillingshaft Jr fall to his knees on my long untended grave.

Blake Bowman just purchased his first home. An old gothic Victorian with the original interior still intact. While cleaning out the attic, he came across a few boxes of items left behind by the previous owners. While moving them out, a box he was carrying dropped something from the bottom, fluttering to the floor. Almost slipping on the item, Blake put aside what he held to bend down and pick it up.

Examining the photo in his hand, he furrowed his brow, trying to understand what he saw. It was a photo of a man and a woman. Both sat beside each other, upright in their chairs, posing for the camera. The snapshot was old and a bit faded, but what stuck out the most was the man's blurred face.

Something going wrong during development could explain this, but it wasn't true—at least, that's what he thought. Shrugging, he tossed it back inside and continued. When he was done, he secured the door and settled for the night.

Blake closed his eyes, trying to let himself drift off to sleep, when all he could see was the faceless man. Why did it bother him so much? Yet, there was something unnatural about it.

Sitting up, he took a folder off his bedside table containing papers about the house. Cutting on the table lamp, he flipped through the pages, looking for anything about the couple.

There was no information about them or a single name. Deciding it was not worth the trouble of losing beauty rest, he cut off the light and cast it onto the table, settling back into bed.

Tomorrow, he will go to the reference center and see if there is any documentation about them.

The following morning, Blake dug through each box he had brought to place it in the storage shed outside the house. For his life, he couldn't find the photo he knew that he had seen and held in his hand. Did he imagine it?

The stress from the move made him believe he came across this.

In the morning, he arrived at the archives looking for the address of his home. Blake searched through generations of families who had lived in the house before him until he found what he had been searching for.

This time, their names were attached. Ophelia and Vesper Craven.

According to the article below, they said the married couple had disappeared one night along with a few guests. The lovely couple was throwing a party to celebrate a new addition to their now-growing family. One of their visitors had invited someone the Cravens didn't know, which may have had something to do with the disappearances.

This individual belonged to a cult bringing in their fellow members to perform some ritual. While no bodies were found, there were copious amounts of blood that had splattered across the walls and the floor.

While unsuccessful in recovering the missing people, they did find that the basement door was sealed shut and its handle had been removed. No matter what they did, the door could not be opened.

What was inside?

Blake felt he knew that the guests and Ophelia were beyond the door but not her husband. So, what did the so-called religious sect do with him? Did they use him in their rite? He began to think that had to be the answer. Vesper had been an offering to whatever god they worshipped.

It would explain why his face was obscured in the picture he found. Logging off the computer, he stood up to leave when he accidentally bumped into someone. He apologized but had to do a double-take as to who he had almost run into. There, walking past him, looking as if he had yet to age a day, was Vesper Craven.

Vesper caught Blake's gaze and tipped his hat to him. "I hope that Craven Manor is treating you well." he smiled and continued.

Ophelia's husband had traded her and their guests for immortality. The media would be fed lies, saying that Vesper and she didn't know who those extra people were. He did know them and had been a part of them for many years.

After the sect had finished the sacrifice, whatever they summoned made its gate there. It is sealed off, and there is no way to open it. In a way, I suppose Blake was lucky that the creature or the undead couldn't make their way out of that sealed door.

Though lately, as the anniversary approached, he could hear faint screams from the basement followed by a warped chuckle.

Caleb loved urban legends. He knew every single one in town and meticulously documented them on his blog. He wasn’t an influencer—he didn’t livestream or use TikTok—but he had a small, loyal fan base that devoured every word he wrote.

There was the lizard man, the haunted frog pond, and the wailing widow in the woods. There was also the abandoned sanatorium, where a cult supposedly performed black magic and human sacrifices, and Bunny Bridge, rumored to be a portal to hell.

These were all easily debunked.

The lizard man? Just a local reptile enthusiast who got carried away, breeding and releasing his ‘pets’ into the wild until animal control caught up with him. The haunted frog pond? Not haunted—just a stagnant cesspool filled with algae, condoms, and cigarette butts. 

The wailing widow in the woods? No ghost, just an old wind chime left behind by a hiker. When the wind passed through the rusted pipes, it created a mournful sound that echoed through the trees—more the work of nature than the cries of a tormented spirit.

The sanatorium, while eerie, wasn’t home to dark rituals. Just a bunch of goth kids tripping on acid, their ‘black magic’ nothing more than poorly drawn runes and half-hearted chants. They were more than happy to share their drugs with us. 

And Bunny Bridge? Not a gateway to hell, just the nesting grounds of a particularly aggressive colony of wasps. They’d chase off anyone who dared to cross, explaining the screams people claimed to hear.

I couldn’t sit comfortably for weeks after that one…My poor ass.

With each unveiling, Caleb’s posts grew longer and more detailed, as if he were trying to convince his readers—and himself—that something more profound lurked beneath the surface. He pored over old maps, consulted dusty tomes, and interviewed the oldest residents in town, all in search of proof. But every time we unraveled a mystery, his frustration grew.

Then there was The Witch’s Grave.

This legend was different. The town spoke of a powerful witch buried in a hidden grave in the woods, cursed land, eerie whispers, and shadowy figures. Unlike the others, this one eluded us, kept just out of reach, fueling Caleb’s obsession. He spent hours researching, his blog posts growing darker and more frantic as he delved deeper into the myth. 

He was convinced that legends existed and that The Witch’s Grave would be the one to prove it.

“I’m going to find it,” he said one night as we ate pizza and watched movies; his eyes gleamed. I’d known Caleb since elementary school, and I’d never seen him like this before.

“Sure,” Beck said, rolling her eyes, her mouth full of sauce and cheese. “You do that, Caleb.”

“I am,” he insisted, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “I’ll find it, and I’ll show everyone. What I discover will make history. It’ll be known forever as truth.”

Beck and I shared a look, a flicker of unease passing between us. She shrugged, truly mystified.

“Okay,” she said. “We believe you.”

🌺🍃🌺🍃🌺🍃🌺🍃

As the year wore on, Caleb drifted into the background of my life, his obsession fading from my mind as I focused on the demands of senior year—AP classes, college applications, scholarships, midterms, finals, prom. The urban legends that once captivated us were forgotten, relegated to fantasy.

Beck and I spent as much time with one another as we could. We had been dating for five years, and our relationship was a constant amidst the chaos. 

I spent more time at her and Caleb’s house than my own, where my four younger brothers kept things perpetually chaotic. As the eldest, I was the designated babysitter, and the weight of that responsibility often felt overwhelming. 

Every day was a blur of messes to clean, arguments to mediate, and chores. It was exhausting, leaving me counting down the days to freedom.

I couldn’t say I wasn’t excited about attending college in a few months. Yet, my heart ached at the thought of being separated from Beck. 

The anticipation of college was tinged with a deep-seated anxiety about our future together. Statistically, our chances of staying together weren’t great, and I saw the skeptical looks from my parents and Beck’s dad when we shared our plans.

 We tried to brush it off, but Beck and I harbored the same fears deep down. We knew that our time together now was precious, a fleeting opportunity to savor before the inevitable distance pulled us apart.

Then came the night that changed everything.

It was a typical Friday night. Beck and I ate pizza and “studied”—aka watched the worst movies we could find.

I asked her how Caleb was doing, noticing his absence more acutely tonight. He loved these crappy movies, though his constant talking drove Beck insane.

“Is he okay? I haven’t seen him around lately.”

“You wouldn’t,” Beck said, her voice tight. “He’s basically on house arrest. Dad found out he’s failing three classes and might not graduate. He’s allowed to go to school and the bathroom, and that’s it.”

She tried to sound casual, but the worry in her eyes betrayed her, and I was beyond shocked. 

Caleb had always been among the smartest people I knew, at the top of the class every year. To hear that he was failing not just one but three courses was almost inconceivable.

I knew things had been weird with him lately, but I hadn’t realized the extent of it.

“What’s going on with him, Beck?” I asked, but she wouldn’t meet my gaze. 

She watched the rest of the movie silently, her lips set in a straight line. I pretended not to notice the tears slowly filling her eyes.

🌺🍃🌺🍃🌺🍃🌺🍃

It was nearly midnight when Caleb burst into Beck’s room. We were cuddling while binge-watching episodes of some crappy ghost-hunting show. 

He flicked on the lights and bounded in, the brightness blinding us. 

He was wide-eyed and manic, darting around with frantic energy. His hair was a tangled mess, sticking out in wild tufts, and his beard was unkempt, tangled with bits of food and dirt as if he hadn’t groomed it in days. 

His clothes were stained and wrinkled, his shirt hanging out at odd angles, and his overall appearance was so disorderly that I didn’t even recognize him. His wide and glassy eyes gave him an almost feral appearance.

“Lourdes! Beck! You guys, I did it! I did it! I finally found it!” His voice quivered with excitement. He was sweating and shaking, and I grabbed Beck’s hand tightly, her knuckles going white under my grip.

Was he on something?

“Stop it, Caleb,” Beck said sharply, her voice trembling. She rose to her feet, clearly pissed. “Get out, or I’ll call Dad. You’re not supposed to be out of the fucking house! Where even were you?”

Caleb ignored her, his attention fixed on me. His hands trembled uncontrollably, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead, making his frantic energy almost palpable. “I found it, Lourdes. I found the church! The Witch’s Grave!”

I blinked, confusion giving way to a dawning sense of wonder and dread.

“You found it?” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “How?”

Caleb launched into a breathless, disjointed explanation that made no sense.

“The trees! I figured out you have to trust the trees. And the crows—follow them, but not the bats; the bats are liars. And the grave! The baby’s grave. It’s there; it’s all there!”

His words tumbled out in a frantic stream, his pacing erratic. He looks crazy, I thought. He looked possessed, and I took a step back; I was scared, I realized. Was this what he had been doing all year? Talking to trees and following crows?

His obsession had driven him over the edge.

“Will you come, you guys? Please, you said you would come. Pleaaaaase,” he wheedled.

“No,” Beck said at the same time I said:

“Sure.”

Our eyes met, a silent conversation passing between us.

Why not? Mine said.

Why not? Do you see him? Look at him, Lourdes! See that in his beard? She jerked her head toward him and mouthed bread crumbs. C R U M B S.

He was a mess, true, but I had to admit, I was curious. Nobody had ever found the church; this might be our last chance before leaving for college. And by the look on Beck’s face, I knew she was curious, too.

Beck looked exhausted, her face pale in the dim light. She gnawed on her bottom lip, a nervous habit I knew well.

I squeezed her hand gently. “Come on,” I whispered. “We said we would, after all.”

She rolled her eyes and ran a hand through her choppy turquoise-blue hair.

“Fine,” she snapped. “If we do this and he sees it’s all in his head, maybe he’ll wake the fuck up.” She glared at him. “Will you drop all this? Go back to school, fix your grades, and please take a shower. God! You smell like shit! Your loofah’s been dry for weeks.”

Caleb smiled—a real, genuine Caleb smile—and for a moment, he looked like the person  I had befriended all those years and loved like one of my brothers.

 He grabbed us both, wrapping his long arms around us tightly. I gagged, trying not to breathe too deeply.

 Beck had not been exaggerating about the shower. As we pulled away, I felt something in my hair. Gross. I picked at it, expecting crumbs, but no—seeds. Birdseed.

I looked at Beck, wondering what the fuck was going on, but her eyes were still on her brother as he animatedly talked. Her eyes were flat and gray, but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

🌺🍃🌺🍃🌺🍃🌺🍃

Beck drove, and Caleb talked nonstop the entire ride to the woods, his words a tangled mess of twisted trees, talking animals, faces in the fog, and a cemetery with sunken headstones.

I watched him in the rearview mirror, his reflection distorted. His eyes were wild, sweat glistening on his upper lip. His hands gesticulated wildly as he talked, his excitement verging on hysteria.

Before we left, Beck had pulled me aside while Caleb gathered the supplies—whatever that meant.

“Are you sure you want to do this? He’s been freaking me out, Lourdes. It’s beyond obsession now.”

“Let’s do it,” I urged. “We both know we won’t be doing this after we graduate. I know you’re curious because I am.”

Beck said nothing; she gnawed on her bottom lip.

“I am,” she admitted finally. “But I’m also scared. What if this is a trap? Like, the real Caleb is gone, and this Caleb is leading us there to feed us to the witch.”

“Beck,” I laughed, but the sound was hollow, forced. “That’s just the plot of the shitty movie we watched earlier.”

“I know, but Lourdes, he’s been so weird this year. I mean, weirder than usual.” Her voice wavered, fear creeping into her words. 

“He keeps talking about how bats are liars and how this baby’s grave is the key to everything. He shows up at strange hours, mumbling about shadowy figures and cryptic signs. It’s like he’s lost touch with reality.

 He’s obsessed with the idea that something profound and sinister is hidden in the woods, dragging us into his delusions. And you know how my dad is. You’ve been around for their arguments; the last few have been really bad. I’ve been trying to keep the peace between them, but Dad’s right. He keeps saying Caleb needs to face reality and stop chasing these myths. They’re not real, Lourdes. They’re just stories.”

Beck looked at me, her eyes pleading.

 “They’re just stories. They’re not real, right?”

I didn’t answer. What could I say? The other stories were just that—stories. But The Witch’s Grave? It was different. It had never felt like ‘just a story.’

It wasn’t just a tale; it was the town’s most infamous legend. We’d grown up hearing about it at sleepovers, used as a warning to keep us out of the deepest woods. Every Halloween, it took center stage at the town’s spooky festival. This one felt real.

“It’ll be fine,” I finally said in what I hoped was a light, reassuring tone. “We’ll just humor him, okay? Maybe if we do this, it’ll snap him out of this, whatever this is. He’ll have proven it to himself, and things will return to normal. Maybe.” I tried not to sound as unsure as I felt.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Fine. But if you die and haunt me, I’m exorcising you.”

But now, sitting in the car with Caleb, heading toward the dark woods, doubt gnawed at me. Something about him felt… off. Dangerous.

Caleb stopped talking mid-sentence, as if he had read my thoughts, and met my eyes through the mirror. His gaze locked onto mine with an intensity that made my blood run cold.

He smiled at me, baring his teeth. A trickle of dark blood ran down one nostril, and his eyes rolled back into his head with a loud sucking pop, exposing wet, empty sockets.

I gasped, heart pounding. But when I blinked, the blood was gone. Caleb stared back at me, confused, his eyes normal. I forced a shaky smile and turned back to the road.

“Are you okay?” Beck asked, glancing at me with concern.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just excited,” I said, my voice shaky.

It had to be a trick of the light, I told myself. Nothing more.

Yet, despite my reassurances, I felt Caleb’s gaze on me for the rest of the ride, and I knew he was smiling.

My name is James Connor , I'm a commander at UDA (Unnatural Detainment Association) in the CED (Cultist Eradication Department) so you can just call me commander Connor.

I was just chilling at the UDA office , We at the CED do not have much to do unless something about the cult is reported.

We suddenly got a notification about the sighting of someone suspicious at an old cult base. I took 4 of my men and went there. We were equipped with some basic armour and an assault rifle.

As soon as we reached there, Everything seemed just the same as it was last time. The building seemed abandoned , As if nobody had entered it in months.

I quietly sneaked in and made sure nobody was in the corridors , I signalled the others to come in after me. I could hear some sort of voice , So we went in the direction it was coming from.

We reached the room the voice was coming from , The voice was now clearer and I could make out what it was saying. It seems a man was talking to someone....or something.

"Look at you! Without offerings from the cultists , You've been reduced to a dead branch!" the man said.

A heavy growl followed afterwards.

I took a quick peek , The man was indeed talking to what seemed to be a dead branch. But branches don't growl.

"Isn't that Jason? One of the guys we're looking for?" One of the men whispered from behind.

I didn't realise it before since I could only see the man from behind , But his profile did match.

"Either way , We have to take this guy out. He doesn't seem to be up to anything good ,  Stand back and let me take the shot." I whispered back

I got my assault rifle ready , I spotted a hole in the wall and started aiming for the man's head.

"I have a simple deal for you. Become a part of me , I'll let you feed off others I kill. Do you accept?" the man asked to the branch.

It was followed by another growl , But this one was lighter than the one before. I was about to take the shot when one of my men stopped me.

"And lose the chance at promotion? Hell no. Let's go in boys." He whispered and went in.

The 4 went in through the door and pointed their guns at them while yelling "HANDS UP"

The man turned around and put his hands up , His face was clearly visible now and it was clear that he was Jason.

"Wanna know something? The cultist book was wrong. You don't need meat to form a pact , You just need the Unnatural to agree." Jason said while smiling.

"Well , Too bad dead people can't form pacts!" one of them yelled.

Jason started laughing before yelling "Custodi me et esto mihi custos. Hic contractus manebit donec unus ex nobis pereat"

The branch behind Jason suddenly went flying into his back....and so did the rest of the branch's body from the ground.

The men finally shot at him , But it was too late. 2 tentacles emerged from his back blocking all the bullets , 2 more energed from the back and grabbed 2 of the men. Then smashed them together , Leaving only a bloody mess.

The other 2 men kept shooting , But it was no use. Jason impaled them with his tentacles as well.

"That's what you get for interrupting me." he said to the bodies.

I took the shot , But I missed and hit his shoulder instead. Jason screamed in agony before sending one of his tentacles towards my direction.

It broke through the wall , I barely made it out of the way. He wasn't attacking me anymore, Seems like the shoulder getting hit had some significant damage on him.

I thought of finishing him off. But.....my legs.....they froze in place. Had I taken damage? No.... Reality finally set in. That man just killed 4 of my men like bugs, I'll die if I go back. My legs weren't frozen because I was injured , They were frozen because I was terrified.

I ran back to the car and drove away , Jason doesn't seem to be following me. Reporting the incident to prepare is all I can do.

Footsteps in the hallway pt. 1

I’m reaching out because my mind is stuck on a case that’s took over my life in ways I didn’t anticipate. What started as a seemingly ordinary investigation turned into something far more complex and unsettling. I set everything else aside to focus on it, and originally I was looking for advice or insights from anyone who might have experience with cases like this but now I feel like this is just a major trauma dump.

I've never been great with grammar, so bear with me as I try to deliver this experience as best as I can.

I used to run a little true crime podcast, but I left that behind because of this one case. It’s consumed me entirely. It’s all I think about, all I can focus on. It haunts my every waking moment, and I just can’t shake it.

The more I looked into this case, the more I realized the police didn’t dig deep enough—whether by oversight or something else, I wasn’t sure. But I couldn’t just sit back and wait for answers that might never come. That’s why I went full on vigilante investigator. If they won’t do what needs to be done, then I will.

Consider this my written podcast, a journal, or maybe just a way to keep myself from feeling so isolated. I don’t have anyone to talk to about this (other than my therapist), and maybe one of you will find this as compelling as I do—or maybe even help me find some solidarity.

So, here we go. Let me tell you about the case that’s taken over my life, and why I can’t let it go. Even after everything I went through.

It all started late one night when I was up too late, researching cases for my podcast. That’s when I came across an article titled “The Disappearance of the Hargrove Couple.” I’d never heard of it before, which immediately caught my attention. As I read, I was drawn in, but it didn’t take long to realize that something was off. The police involvement seemed questionable, the evidence was minimal, and the case had almost no public awareness. It felt like it had been deliberately pushed aside, and that made me want to dig even deeper.

I decided to make my own case file. I do this anyway with all the cases I cover but I really wanted to break this one down as much as I could in my own way. This is the first case file I wrote up.

Case Report: The Disappearance of the Hargrove Couple

Date: September 12, 2017 Location: Gypsy Pines Airbnb, Stowe, Vermont Missing Persons: Jordan Hargrove (32), Emily Hargrove (30)

Background:

Jordan and Emily Hargrove, a married couple from Boston, Massachusetts, rented an Airbnb in Stowe, Vermont, for a weekend getaway. The property, known as Gypsy Pines, is a secluded, century-old Victorian house located deep in the woods, known for its rustic charm and peaceful surroundings.

Timeline of Events:

Day 1: September 8, 2017 The Hargroves arrived at Gypsy Pines at 4:00 PM. They settled in, took photos, and shared them with friends and family, excited about their stay. The first night passed without incident.

Day 2: September 9, 2017

8:15 PM: The Hargroves called 911, reporting strange, intermittent thumping sounds coming from the hallway upstairs. Emily described the noises as “heavy footsteps,” but Jordan dismissed them as possibly just the old house creaking. The dispatcher reassured them it was likely nothing serious.

Day 3: September 10, 2017

7:45 PM: Emily Hargrove called 911 again. This time, she reported hearing scratching noises on the walls. She was more anxious, saying the sounds were now constant and seemed to be moving around. The dispatcher suggested it could be animals, but Emily insisted it wasn’t. The couple was advised to contact local pest control, but no immediate action was taken by authorities.

Day 4: September 11, 2017

10:05 PM: Jordan Hargrove made another 911 call. His voice was shaky as he explained that they had heard whispering sounds, even though they were alone in the house. He mentioned seeing fleeting shadows in their peripheral vision and that the scratching noises had intensified, almost as if something was trying to get in. The dispatcher offered to send a patrol car, but the Hargroves declined, saying they’d wait it out.

Day 5: September 12, 2017

9:30 PM: The final 911 call came from both Jordan and Emily, who were frantic. They claimed that doors they had locked earlier were found wide open, and a figure was seen standing at the end of the upstairs hallway at the top of the stairs. The call ended abruptly, with the couple screaming. All attempts to call them back went unanswered.

Discovery:

The local police were dispatched to the property at 10:15 PM, approximately 45 minutes after the last 911 call. Upon arrival, they found the house completely dark. The front door was ajar, and there were no signs of the couple inside.

The officers noted the following:

1. The house was in perfect condition.
2. The couple’s belongings, including their phones and wallets, were still in the house, but there was no sign of Jordan or Emily.
3. There were muddy footprints leading from the hallway to the backdoor, which was also found open, leading into the dense woods behind the property.

Investigation:

There pretty much wasn’t one.

A search of the surrounding area was conducted by local law enforcement, but search and rescue teams were NOT dispatched and no effort to gather volunteers were made. I have called the department many times to ask why this was the case but no one wanted to comment.

Security footage from nearby properties revealed nothing unusual, and there were no witnesses who reported seeing the couple leave the house. The only peculiar detail was that neighbors reported hearing what they described as “odd, low-frequency sounds” coming from the direction of Gypsy Pines that night.

Weird right? I like to imagine the sound was like the videos you put on when you get water in your phone…but I don’t know.

Theories and Speculation:

Supernatural: Some local teens (and twitter detective’s) believe it was either aliens, big foot, or even a “witch from the woods” wooooooo~~~

Criminal Activity: Investigators have not ruled out foul play, but the lack of evidence or motive has stymied this line of inquiry.

Wildlife: Some speculate that wild animals could be responsible for the sounds and the couple’s disappearance, but if it were animals wouldnt the scene have been more gruesome and messy?

Status:

The case remains open, with no new leads. The Gypsy Pines property has NOT been removed from Airbnb listings, and the house is currently still up to book. The disappearance of Jordan and Emily Hargrove went in and out of the media very fast and it seems the whole town doesn’t think about it much if at all.

Public Appeal:

Authorities don’t have much to say about the case these days but still have flyers up around the city urging people to speak up if they have any information.

Again, this was the FIRST case file I made…until I found a separate article titled, “The Disappearance of the Collin’s couple.”

And what do you know…they went missing from none other than Gypsy Pines.

I heard 2 words on the radio this morning advertising the store's new flavors. The Craze had begun!

I instantly initiated Alpha 1 protocol protection for my family. My daughter especially needed protection. All groceries had to be scanned and approved, all media silenced until commercials could be edited out. Nothing could contain that two word flavoring.

I don't know what it is about those two words, but once they're said, it does something to send society plummeting into collapse. You become a druggie to the stuff, doing and saying anything for that next hit. It tends to hit women harder than men, though men are not immune.

I rushed home to further the protocol at home before it could get worse.

"Honey?" I called into the house. There was no response.

"Becky?! Where are you?!" I searched frantically for my wife. There was no trace of her there.

"No, no no no not already!" I thought I had more time! I thought she'd be stronger than this!

I rushed to get my twins, Lexi and Colton, from school. They had just started, but I'm afraid I'll have to homeschool them for the next couple of months, especially Lexi. This wasn't a problem when they were younger, but now that their palettes have matured, it was best to keep them inside until I could be sure they wouldn't give in.

When we got home, the fear really set in.

Colton was frantic. "Dad, where's Mom?! She...didn't stop anywhere during errands, did she?!"

It was Lexi who was calm. "She likes her shopping trips, Colt. We need summer clothes for next year, and they go on sale so Target can get rid of inventory. You know how mom gets around post-season deals."

Too calm. Too logical. She's grown into the target audience.

I steeled myself and instructed my kids to stay in the house, never to unlock it unless they heard me.

I'd find their mother.

I pulled into the main complex where my wife shopped. Hundreds of mindless shambling shells spattered around the parking lot, awaiting somebody-anybody!-to put them out of their misery.

My wife is found inside the building, shambling with her half full cart. I didn’t know whether it was to late to save her or not, but by God, I had to try!

"Heyyyyy Traaaavissss~!" She slurs in a high pitched tone, some of her hair unkempt over her face, the rest in a clump over her shoulder that once resembled a bun.

She'd been gone before I even initiated the protocol.

"We shooouuullld go pumpkin carviiiinggg after thiiiiisss! Wonnnn't that be fuuuuunnn?! I saaaawww it on Piiiintreeesssst!"

I gazed into her vapid eyes and showed her my phone. She took one look, gasped, and fainted in my arms.

I only thank God I arrived before....well, that doesn't matter now. I had my children to protect.

I rushed back to the fortified house with Becky still breathing. I'd lock her in the basement to ride the seasoning out before she wakes up. Colton met me in the driveway, barely holding it together. I knew it was because of worry for his mother, though there was a slight unease.

"It's just sticker shock, Colton. Mom will be fine--"

"Daditwasn'tthefirsttime-"

"What? Colton, breathe. What wasn't the first time?"

Colt took a deep breath, steeling himself despite the tears running down his face

"Mom forgot something at Target, so she went back. She bought the coffee creamer earlier, Lexi found it--"

Oh no.

I rushed into the house, but that sickly sweet and spice scent filled the house.

Lexi was holding a thermos, metal straw sticking out, a messy bun on her head. She was taking selfies when she saw me through her camera.

"Heeeeeyyyyy daaaaaadddd!" she droned, my little girl now becoming a mindless drone to the taste. I fell to my knees. I failed to protect my little girl.

"Can we go to Staaarrrbucks and get pumpkin spice laaaaaatteeeesss?"

In the belly of that forsaken alley, there I lay—a fragile heap of fur and bone, discarded like yesterday’s trash. The stench of decay clung to the air, a vile perfume of rot and neglect, where the living mingled with the dead. Some of my kin were already stiff with the chill of death, their tiny bodies rigid in their final repose. Others, less fortunate still, writhed under the assault of worms and maggots, their misery prolonged by the cruel hand of fate. And there, among them, I—a pitiful creature, trembling on the very precipice of oblivion.

A hand reached down, gentle was its touch and plucked me from the muck as if I were some treasure buried in the mire. I was bathed in warm waters that washed away the filth of the world and the vermin that sought to devour me. Once I was cleaned, dried, and brushed, my carers would remark in awe that each strand of my fur resembled a golden thread, banded and interwoven in shades of the earth—cinnamon, tawny, and fawn—blending together, much like the undulating dunes beneath a blazing sun.

They cradled me tenderly, either holding me close in their arms or settling me in a cozy box lined with soft blankets. My belly, once a hollow void, was filled with the warmth of sweet milk, and with each drop, the life that had nearly escaped me was coaxed back, breath by breath.

Aboard the NOAH 1 ship, my place was not among the ranks of those who command or navigate the vast seas. No, my duty was of a gentler sort, though no less important. I was to bring solace to the weary, to comfort the broken-hearted, to be a balm for the soul in a world where such comforts were as scarce as a sailor's star in a storm.

And so, from the filth, I was reborn—not merely to live, but to serve, to be a small, warm light in the cold darkness that so often surrounds us. They christened me Page, a name fit for a service animal. In my simple existence, I found a purpose far greater than myself, for in the quiet company of those who suffered, I became their lifeline, their hope in a world that had forgotten the meaning of the word.

Despite my best efforts, however, not all could be saved from the depths of their own despair. And when such tragedies unfolded, they didn't pass me by like the fleeting shadows of clouds; they lodged deep within me, cutting me through like a sword. Failure was no small burden—it clung to me, thick and oppressive, a leaden anchor dragging me into dark waters that threatened to engulf me for weeks on end.

Sarah from Cabin 4, a mother of three children and wife of a lost sea scavenger, approached me with a bowl of mashed tuna in her hands. Her steps were slow and heavy, as if she carried more than just the dish. I sensed her sorrow, though it was not something that could be measured by touch, smell, or sight. It was an ethereal thing. I felt it more keenly than I could describe—an ache, a tightening of the chest that made each breath a struggle against the invisible chains of melancholy.

The tuna, once a delight to my senses, now seemed an impossible task. Its scent reached my nostrils, familiar and tempting, yet I found no joy in it. My appetite had shrunk in the face of the sorrow that permeated the cabin. As I nibbled at the offering, each bite a struggle, a somber realization settled over me: there was nothing more I could do to ease her pain.

No matter how often I nuzzled my head against her hand, wove between her legs, or licked her cheek with gentle affection, even the soft rumble of my purr in her ears—once a balm for troubled hearts—seemed powerless against the depth of her grief.

The only solace I could offer her was to follow her, silently, to the promenade deck. A handful of figures roamed the deck, savoring the cool serenity of the night, their footsteps barely more than whispers. Meanwhile, within the warm confines of the ship, others were enjoying themselves, their laughter rising in boisterous bursts, acheer of camaraderie mingling with the resonant clatter of pint glasses colliding in shared toasts.

As she approached the ship's rail, I backed away, feeling the chill of inevitability in the air. She gripped the rail, her knuckles white against the iron, and with a final, haunting smile cast in my direction, she vaulted over the edge. In an instant, she vanished into the abyss, leaving me alone in the stillness of the night, where the whisper of the waves echoed in my ears, marking her passage into the depths below.

Screams mingled with the roar of the waves as a small crowd surged toward the rail where Sarah had stood moments before.

XXXXX

Sarah's three children—Sam, aged eight, Joe, twelve, and Anne, ten—lay in their beds as if cradled by peaceful dreams, their cheeks still flushed with the warmth of life. At a glance, they seemed to be just simply asleep, the soft rise and fall of breath only just missing from their small, still forms. But as I drew closer, the awful truth revealed itself: they were gone.

Only hours earlier, I had played with them in the bright confines of the playroom reserved for the children of NOAH 1. Sam had darted about, giggling as he made me chase after a stick with a fake mouse tethered to it by a string. Joe, full of boyish energy, had engaged in a spirited game of pickleball with another boy his age, while Anne, ever the quiet observer, sat on the sidelines with a book in hand, occasionally turning a page. That was today—now, as I stared at their lifeless forms, it felt like a memory from a lifetime ago.

The captain, flanked by a petty officer and a steward, gently lifted me from where I lay on Joe’s chest and passed me to Alan, a dark-haired young woman who often fed me and allowed me to call her suite my own and sleep beside her on her bed. With a nod, the captain ordered the steward to fetch the surgeon and the body bags, for the children's bodies would soon need to be removed, and the cabin sealed off.

"Why rob the children of life?" the captain spat out, his voice edged with a searing anger. "Sarah committed a damnable act. Such selfishness—it’s unthinkable."

"She left a note," Alan replied quietly, lifting a folded letter from the desk, her other arm cradling me.

“Read it.”

Alan settled into a chair, placing me gently on her lap. I peered at the letter, curious to know of Sarah’s final thoughts. It was not fashioned from the bark of trees, as in the days of old—trees had long since vanished from our desolate world. Instead, the note was crafted from the stretched and dried skin of fish, and the words upon it had been inscribed in the deep black of squid ink, applied with the sharpened tip of a fishbone.

Alan began to read the letter, her voice steady and devoid of emotion:

To whoever finds this letter,

Seven hundred days have passed since the day Louis and his scavenger crew were due to return home. I know the rule of thumb states that after ten years, a scavenger crew or anyone else lost at sea can be safely presumed dead.

They may very well return at any moment between now and then, for it’s possible for scavengers to lose their way in this vast, volatile sea world—so unforgiving, so hostile to us all! But that knowledge offers little comfort to a wife and her children. I had hoped the pain would ease with time, that each day might bring a sliver of peace. But I was wrong. It grows more unbearable, the weight of it sinking my soul deeper and deeper into nothingness. I often wonder if there’s a bottom to this despair, or if I’ll continue to fall forever.

Please extend my gratitude to Officer Alan, who offered us a small measure of comfort by sharing an epic poem she had learned as a child. It was the tale of a man who, after ten years of battle as a soldier, became lost at sea and found himself swept into strange and wondrous adventures as he sought his way home. Meanwhile, his wife and son waited faithfully for his return, the wife fending off suitors as she remained true to her one and only.

After twenty long years, the family was finally reunited. This story captivated the children, lifting their spirits, and, for a brief time, it eased my own worries, allowing me to imagine that my Louis, too, was out there, battling through his own adventures and finding his way back to us.

But that is just a stupid fantasy, not reality. I can’t go on like this—I can’t wait ten years for Captain Francis to officially declare my husband and his crew dead. The awful truth I can no longer deny is that my Louis is gone. Pretending otherwise, feeding my children the false hope that their father might someday return—I can’t do it anymore. Each time I lie to them, it breaks my heart a little more, until there’s almost nothing left of it. And so I’ve made my decision: if Louis cannot come home to us, then we will go to him. We’ll be reunited, one way or another.

Yours truly,

Sarah Kelping

XXXXX

Alan placed the letter back on the desk, her face etched with the seriousness of what she had just read. Captain Francis stood facing the window, his back turned to us, yet I could see the subtle tremor in his shoulders, his head hung low under the crushing grief, rooting him to the spot.

“Search the room,” he commanded, his voice tight, as if the words themselves were strangling him.

“What am I looking for, sir?”

“Whatever she used to—to put the children to sleep,” he replied, his voice faltering. “It doesn’t look like she suffocated them with a pillow or strangled them. They appear to have gone quietly, as if they simply went to sleep, tucking themselves in for the night. At least, that’s what I like to believe.”

“It's a comforting thought, sir. I also think that's what happened to them.”

I knew at once what he meant. The moment we entered the cabin, I caught an unfamiliar scent—a sweet foreign aroma, lingering in the air like a wispy cloud. Leaping from Alan’s lap, I circled the room, my tail swaying from side to side as I let the scent guide me, the gears in my mind turning with grim purpose.

I hopped onto a chair by the desk, where three plates, dotted with crumbs from slices of bread the kids had enjoyed for dessert, lay abandoned. Beside them were three empty glasses, their rims still clinging to the sweet-smelling residue of a drink.

Yet, the tantalizing aroma that had caught my attention wasn’t coming from there. It was wafting from somewhere else in the room. I inhaled deeply, trying to trace its source. It drew me to the trash bin nestled in the shadowy corner of the room. I rose up on my hind legs and braced my front paws against the bin, pressing it until it toppled over spilling its contents onto the floor.

It’s in here! I called to Alan, though I knew my words fell silent between us, lost in the chasm of our differing species and the languages that danced just beyond our reach. But, in that moment, she grasped what my actions conveyed.

She knelt beside the overturned bin, her hands sifting through the jumble of broken fishbone quills and crumpled dried fish-skin papers. Amidst the debris, she discovered it—a small brown bottle, no larger than a thumb, along with its cork.

She brought the vial to her nose and took a tentative sniff, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion as she struggled to decipher the unfamiliar scent. I had reacted similarly when we first entered the room. I had caught a whiff of it from the children’s partially opened mouths, but I had been too much in shock and grief over their passing to truly comprehend its significance.

“Captain, I think this is it,” she said, handing the vial to him. He took it, bringing it to his nose for a brief, cautious sniff.

“Have the surgeon examine it,” he ordered. “And find out where Sarah might have acquired it.”

“What should I do once I discover who sold her the poison?”

“Bring them in for questioning. There's a strong chance they could be charged as an accomplice to murder.”

“I'll get on it, sir.”

Alan bent down, her fingers gently scratching behind my ears, sending a delightful shiver through my body.

“Good boy, Page,” she murmured. “I suppose I’ll take you along. You’re proving to be quite the partner in this investigation.”

Her touch, warm and reassuring, set my nerves tingling, while her words swelled my heart with pride. I was more than ready to follow her, eager to assist in any way I could, and to help bring closure for Sarah and her family. It was, I knew, the very least I could do.

When the ship's surgeon Dr. Willis arrived, his eyes were wide with disbelief, as if the very marrow of his bones had turned to ice. With a visible effort, he shook himself free from the grip of that initial shock, his face hardening as he moved toward the small, lifeless forms to confirm that there was no life in them.

The room was suffused with the unbearable stillness of death, broken only by the soft rustling of the dark green kelp sheets as the petty officer began to unfurl them, preparing to shroud the bodies. But then, something flickered in the corner of my vision. Across the room, Joe and Anne stood in their long pajamas, pale figures bathed in an ethereal light. Of course, no human could see them—only I possessed that sight. It must be some innate ability of my kind, a gift that allowed me to peer beyond the veil of the material world into realms unseen by human eyes.

Joe and Anne's faces were tinged with sorrow, as if they mourned the brevity of their lives. There was a serene peace about them, however; a quiet acceptance of their fate. But Sam was not among them. His absence sent a jolt through me, a sudden, undeniable realization. My heart quickened, and with a sudden burst of urgency, I leaped onto the foot of little Sam’s bed, crying out, desperate to make the officer stop before it was too late.

The steward attempted to swat me off the bed, but I stood my ground, resolute. I leapt onto Sam’s chest, hissing fiercely, my back arched in defiance. My paw shot out, claws unsheathed and poised to strike, a clear warning to the officer that I wouldn’t be moved so easily.

"Out of my way, Page," the officer barked, his words edged with the sharpness of steel, cutting through the tension like a blade.

But Alan, ever vigilant, stepped forward, her voice calm yet commanding, like a captain steadying the helm in a storm. "Wait!" she interjected, her face flashing with conviction. "He’s trying to tell us something." Her gaze shifted to the surgeon. “Check his vitals once more, if you please.”

Dr. Willis, though skeptical, moved with the seriousness of a man who had witnessed too much to dismiss even the faintest hope. His brow furrowed, deep lines carving his face like furrows in the earth. He approached the boy's bedside. Leaning in, he placed his ear near Sam’s mouth, listening intently for the faintest breath, that fragile thread binding life to flesh. Next, he reached for his stethoscope and placed it over the boy’s heart.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing—only the heavy silence of a room holding its breath. Then, Dr. Willis sprang upright, a tremor in his voice as he announced, “The boy—he’s still alive!”

Captain Francis gathered Sam into his arms, cradling the boy with a tenderness that belied his usual stern demeanor, and rushed from the cabin with Dr. Willis running at his side. Alan and the steward remained behind, silently wrapping the other bodies in the dark kelp sheets.

I bolted after the captain and the surgeon, my paws barely touching the cold metal floors as I raced down the winding corridors, darting left and right, then down the steps, my heart pounding in time with the heavy footfalls behind me. Captain Francis was breathing hard, clutching Sam tightly, as though by sheer force of will he could keep the boy tethered to life.

At last, we reached the infirmary. Captain Francis gently laid Sam down on a narrow bed, his hands lingering for a moment before Dr. Willis stepped in, barking orders to the nurse. She set up the oxygen tank and prepared the intravenous line. This might be their last chance to pull the boy back from the abyss.

After a few agonizing minutes, I leaped onto the foot of the bed, waiting for any sign of life. Then, at last, he began to stir, and his eyelids fluttered open, a faint spark of life rekindling in his gaze.

Marshal worked for Tidy House cleaning service. His boss, Tony Miller, got a call from the Edler Estate owner proclaiming they needed a deep cleaning. Something was dripping down their walls. Reluctant Marshal gathered his supplies and loaded them into the boot of his car. Just what in the world could cause something like that?

As he started up his car, Marshal's mind began to wander. He thought that the Edler Estate was abandoned after the disappearance of the family and a recent real estate agent. No one else would go into that place, much less buy it. Yet here he was, being sent to clean the damn place. Pulling up to the front of the estate, he contemplated about just leaving.

Unfortunately, he was I here to do a job even though he knew it had no inhabitants. Marshal exited the car, got his supplies together, walked up to the door, and knocked. He waited, and the door slowly opened, letting him inside; swallowing the lump in his throat, he sat inside even though it was against his better judgment. The door slowly swung closed behind, which he knew would happen, but he set aside his supplies.

"Tidy House cleaning service! If it isn't, Tidy House it ain't clean. We got a call about a booking." Marshal called out. Gods, he hated that damned slogan, but it was mandatory for them to announce themselves that way.

He waited and listened, hearing the creak of the spiral staircase before him. Marshal watched a figure dressed in old-timey funeral attire with an exotic mask covering his face descend the stairs.

"My apologies for not greeting you sooner," he said with a bow and motioned towards a hallway. "If you follow me, I will show you where to start."

Marshal nodded, letting the man lead the way. Something was off about this individual, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Putting that feeling aside, he followed them until they stopped before a room, unlocking it with a key.

"This will be the room you will start with. I had an unruly guest recently, and they didn't clean up after themselves," they explained. Marshal guessed that the person who stayed with them must have been desperate, especially considering the state of the place.

He nodded and entered the room, setting the supplies down and examining where to start. It was strange. Although they said there had been a guest, the room looked more like a prison.

"Is there something wrong?" the man asked, peering into the room.

"No, it's nothing. I'll have it done soon." Marshal shook his head and gave a fake smile, his go-to customer service tactic, a bubbly version of himself that was all a facade. With a nod, they left him alone to do his work, and he sighed, scratching his head, as he looked around.

Pulling on some gloves, he started with the walls stained in a glossy reddish-brown. When he sprayed them with cleaner, he could smell a sickeningly sweet metallic smell, making him pause. This was most definitely blood.

So it would be that either the person had a terrible injury or they used their blood to paint the walls. Marshal highly doubted the latter being the answer, as if they would have left a dead body behind. He doubted his host would tell him anything more about their previous guest.

As he swept his broom, he hit something, causing it to roll and hit the wall with a dull thud. It was as if his broom had hit something and rolled against the wall. Getting onto his hands and knees, he squinted, looking into the darkness underneath.

Unable to see anything, he took out his phone and shone it around, finding the source. To say he was surprised would be an understatement, as one would be if they were face to face with another set of eyes. Those eyes belonged to a decapitated head with a look of fear frozen on its features.

Marshal stood up slowly, clearing his throat and brushing the dirt and dust off his pants. Nope. He didn't just see it. There was not a head under the bed.

Turning toward his supplies, he started packing them together and finished up his sweeping, avoiding the head under the bed. Marshal needed to get out of here. Whatever happened, he didn't want to end up like the man under the bed.

Picking up his things, he returned the way he came towards the main door. Just get out of here and quit this damn job, Marshal thought to himself, reaching for the handle and giving it a turn when a bony hand placed itself on his shoulder.

"Leaving so soon?" the voice belonging to the man asked.

He tensed slowly, turning his head to peer over his shoulder; what he saw chilled him to the bone. It was a man's face with skin stretched over prominent cheekbones as if the skin on his face didn't belong to him in the first place. Had he taken off the mask?

Shaking, Marshal cleared his throat. "I got a message from the company. Something came up, and we have an emergency cleaning I need to go to."

His host frowned, catching onto his lie. "It isn't nice to lie, Marshal." They put on the mask that hid his face, and the lights that lit up the entrance went out, leaving him in complete darkness. Shuffling and the loud noise of an open door slamming against the wall made him jump and drop his supplies.

Across from him, he saw an open door and light coming from the room.

Should he approach it and find out where the man had gone, or should he try opening the door again? Swallowing his dread and nervousness, Marshal stepped forward, walking to the open door. Once inside the room, the door shut behind him. An open armoire stood to the side, with another door leading to a room lit with lantern light.

Curious, he stepped inside, seeing a long dining table in the middle of the room with a glass coffin on top of it. Closer, Marshal looked down and peered inside, seeing a headless body with its arms crossed inside.

"Christ.." he cursed, backing away slowly.

Marshal bumped into something solid. Small puffs of air brushed against his neck, making him tense up. No, it wasn't something. It was someone.

Two hands placed themselves onto his shoulders, gripping them with inhuman strength. He was going to die here, wasn't he? Just like the man in the glass coffin.

"It seems you found my unruly guest," a voice said next to his ear. "It's such a pity that he lost his head, but it's okay. I've found a much better one."

"W-what?!" Marshal trembled as the lantern lights went out individually, as if a cold breeze had passed through the room. A blood-curdling scream reverberates off the walls of the Edler Estate, and the lights in the entryway flickered back to life.

A limp body crumples to the ground, oozing red from the stump of a neck where a head used to be. The host holds up the head as if it's a trophy, blood running down his hands and arms in smell rivets, placing it onto the headless body in the coffin.

Under the mask, the host's face lips wore an upturned grin.

"Oh dear, it seems like I'll have to call the cleaning service again, but maybe I will invite someone from Call Aftermath this time. After all, we have a more delicate situation this time." his gaze fell onto the body on the floor as he closed Marshal's eyes with a brush of his hand.

If my visions are true, the five here transformed, and matured into something else Evelyn said whispering to Noah. "So do you want to keep going, or turn back here before we see something worse" Noah whispered back "I would like to but we need to know exactly what were dealing with, if we want stop it" Evelyn whispered. They continued past the statues more quickly but quietly, as she looked up, she saw the tress bent, and curved like they were corrupt from what was happening on this side of the forest. Both of them stopped as they heard multiple pairs of legs heading in their direction, they ran,ducked and hid behind the closet tree, the pairs of legs ran past them, as Evelyn peeked out she saw three of the four legged monsters, checking the barrier in which they came in through.

"Their checking the point in the barrier, which I disrupted when we broke in" Evelyn said to Noah whispering in his ear. She than saw two of them ran past the barrier, while the last one stayed to repair it, she noticed a form of dark energy surrounded one of the legs, as it tapped the barrier it started repairing itself. The insect-like creature began to screech loudly, as the two covered their ears because it was so loud, they saw it run in a different direction but waited till they couldn't hear it's legs, both of them slowly got up and looked around but saw the coast clear, as they continued forward Noah quietly asked a question If those were the insect creatures we saw froze, what does the transformed stage look like? I don't know and personally want to find out Evelyn answered. How come your Sixth Sense didn't warn us before we heard the creatures running in our direction? Noah asked confused "I'm guessing being in here has stopped it from working Evelyn answered. While walking forward they both reached a mini clearing and stopped once more for they a MASSIVE cocoon, filled with insect creatures, as dark energy gathered around the inside, they noticed it was moving up and down like they were breathing inside.

" I think they might be sleeping or haven't matured enough to break the cocoon" Noah said hopefully "I would agree, but there's something we haven't accounted, what if they're REPRODUCING" Evelyn whispered worried. "The mountain of corpses, now the cocoon it doesn't add up" Noah said thinking aloud " I believe it they ate the animals, now are mating to make more of them, then are transforming into their final stage" Evelyn responded to Noah. "But we still don't know why Gigist is creating them, or how many did that ritual to transform, not to mention that limping man you saw" Noah said "Well we made it this far, so why stop now" Evelyn said, continuing further past the cocoon, they reached some big ritual site, with strange symbols like the monsters within stone and the man's cane, and a weird dark substance in the center. The two friends hear voices so they did the same tactic, they saw a MAN limping with a cane, with three new creatures behind him, the far left one look like some seven and a half foot twisted humanoid-pterodactyl with one yellow eye and muscular, the middle one was eight foot, had brown fur, sharp shark teeth, red stripes, and four arms, and orange eyes, and the right one looked like a eight and a half foot humanoid-butterfly without ANY color. "Those must be the evolved ones, they look like it" Noah whispered But Evelyn noticed more features as they drew closer, the pterodactyl's head and eye was inside where the mouth should be,giving off some form of deceit, the middle one's head was brown,bald, almost no fur.

"NOW YOU THREE BROTHERS WILL GATHER AROUND, AND LET THE CEREMONY BEGIN" the man shouted at them. As they gathered on either side of him, the two watched wanting to do something "Perhaps we can cause a diversion, and stop the ceremony, it looks like it needs four to do it" Noah said, while the man started speaking a language unfamiliar, red symbols started showing on his cane, glowing brighter by the second. There's nothing we can do, were here on a scouting mission remember, it's too risky to give away our position, let's just see how it plays out Evelyn said cautiously, the man's voice got louder, and the substance started to bubble like water in a pot, the creatures hands were warped in dark energy which they all directed to the substance. YES, IT'S WORKING the brown,red striped creature said in a high-pitched voice, that made the two friends pause, Evelyn wondered could this diversion be pulled off in which they wouldn't be spotted, she looked back to what was happening and was SHOCKED to see something from within the substance. Noah noticed and his mouth fell open, for what came out of that substance WAS the insect creatures.

Three of them came out of the substance and gathered around the man, while he patted them on the head like pets. "WHEN THE REST OF OUR KIND EVOLVES INTO OUR STAGE, NONE WILL STOP OUR MIGHT, the colorless butterfly creature said in a strange soft voice, that made her want to go towards it. Evelyn pushed that thought away quickly, "At least now we know how the creatures are made, and I think if we destroy this substance we stop the army from getting any bigger" Noah whispered to Evelyn. "I would love to but we came here scouting remember, we didn't bring any weapons to help us" Evelyn whispered back, She wondered if they should start heading back since they clearly seen enough, but before she was going to ask Noah, they saw the pterodactyl creature start sniffing the air than spoke "IS IT JUST ME, OR YOU BOTH BEEN SMELLING RIPE HUMAN FLESH AS WELL" it said in a deep voice "JUDGING BY THE SCENT MORE THAN ONE." As the other two creatures nodded their heads in agreement, FIND THEM AND BRING THEM BEFORE ME, I WILL DEAL WITH THEM, the man said annoyed, as the three creatures started heading in different directions, the two of them ducked their heads to avoid being seen, "I think it's time to leave, before we get caught" Noah said while Evelyn nodded.

The two looked back to see the man leaving the way he came, with the three insect creatures following behind him like dogs. They looked around to see nothing, but got up and started walking quietly back the way they came while looking around to make sure they didn't encounter unwanted company. As they were coming up on the cocoon, Evelyn looked at it and saw it was the same as before, but it made her sick they couldn't do anything about it right now, while the two passed it she looked back and saw one STARING at them. "Noah, look up" Evelyn said in shock, as he did his mouth fell open "Come on, we got to move" Noah said which made Evelyn snap back, when they got further away from it both of them heard a loud screech like the one from earlier, the two kept moving without looking back. They knew their entrance point was close, the rotten corpse smell gave it away but just like last time both heard many legs within their location, they found a rather large tree to hide behind and got down, when she peered out a much smaller insect creature was in front of two bigger ones, she figured that must be the one who saw them and screamed, I wonder if we can wait them out than go for the barrier thought Evelyn, but she saw the creatures leave and figured it was safe to go through the barrier.

They looked around one last time to meet nothing, so the two silently as could made their to the barrier as Evelyn once more put her hand on it. Just like before she was pulled through with Noah, as they made their way back to the boat Evelyn was processing everything she saw and heard, only for Noah to stop them in their tracks. As she turned to him, he signaled for her to listen when she did, in the distance they once more recognized multiple pair of legs. Evelyn remembered the two that left the barrier, they must of never want back in now this is going to be harder she thought, when she closed her eyes a dark energy came from that direction, my ability must of come back Evelyn thought. "What are we going to do now, we don't know how many of them are there" Noah whispered "I only sense two strange energy flows in that direction, plus we saw two creatures earlier go outside, so I think it's only two, but we still have to be careful" Evelyn whispered back to Noah, they both listened out more then sneaked past them hoping to be silent as possible.

As they did so what they feared happen, as one of them STEPPED on a stick and made a loud snap with an echo.The two listened but couldn't hear the legs anymore, when Evelyn used her power she sensed they were coming to their position fast, "Run" Evelyn said, as they sprinted forward.They heard the pairs of legs not far behind but quickly gaining, hope filled her very soul as she saw the lake in the distance, and knew the boat wasn't far now, they turned left and saw the boat laying still in the water. They run even faster now, that their hope to survive was right there, as they closing in on the boat Evelyn felt white,hot pain in her leg, when she looked down she saw a creature had nicked her, but as they dove through the tree-line they saw a Handsome Stranger with blue eyes and white spiky hair. "May you please stand to the side, I must dispose of them" he said in a kind voice, which they did without question. The creatures reached the line and he held out his right hand, they were suddenly lifted on the ground and crushed in seconds when the bodies dropped to the ground it was nothing but meat, the two friends looked in shock,and wonder.

"I understand you'll have a lot of questions, but let's get to the safety first, they might send more when these two don't come back." the Handsome Man said seriously as they got on the boat and rowed back to other side of the cabin, they saw their friends rushing out of the cabin towards them and grouped hug together. The pain in Evelyn's leg was stronger as she gasped, the others looked at her than the man interjected "You were cut, everyone inside" with that kind voice, as her friends laid her on the couch the man bit his thumb, instead of blood coming out, a light energy came out. He went up to her and put his thumb to the wound, it started closing right away as everyone looked at him in confusion, "You're not human are you" Evelyn said, as he nodded truthfully, "It will heal but I fear that was no ordinary cut, those beasts were not mindless" the man said. "So they must've cut her for a reason" Blyke said, as the man nodded in agreement, "I think earlier today in the vision, when I was seen spying, they must've figured that i'm special" Evelyn said worried.

Alright everyone take a seat, I will tell you a story it's long and not a happy one either, the man said in a firm voice this time, after giving them "The Story" the friends sat in silence for a few minutes taking it all in. "So there are other worlds, Dimensions, and Realms of Creation besides Earth, and supernatural beings exist" Noah said surprised, "The enemy of Creation, The Void King was sealed by a human" Cleo said, "The Void King has seven offspring that want to revive him, and make the darkness win and corrupt the Tree of Life" Blyke said. Yes, the man said to all questions that the five young adults asked him, "Anything you would like to know Evelyn" the man said, she nodded and said "who is Gigist" the Handsome Man looked sad before speaking up He's my younger brother, the entire room fell silent afterwards. "The Fallen Five are all my siblings, for they are fallen angels who now serve The Void, their jealously,hated, and lust for power turned them against the creators and tried rule heaven and earth, in the end they were banished and lost their Angel forms. The five were cast into the abyss but the creators didn't know of The Void King yet, so they just thought it would be their punishment not their salvation" the man said still with a sad tone "I'm sorry that your siblings put you through that pain, I can't even imagine how one would deal with this" Evelyn said sincerely."

"Don't worry for it's in the past now,we must focus on the future and stop my brother's new army for being complete" The Man said. "Luckily our scouting mission proved to have results, we saw and made guesses how the creatures are made, eat, mate, and mature into more powerful abominations" Noah said confidently, As he told the others what the two has experienced, The Handsome man spoke up "How did you know where to look for this hideout, normal humans on this side of The Veil shouldn't know about any of this" the Man said curiously. "I had visions, and sixth sense to guide me to their lair and stop the army form getting larger" Evelyn said honestly, "That's way that thing cut you, it could tell you were unique but fortunately I stopped the strange poison from spreading, I don't want to think what would happen if I didn't arrive" The Man said, I hate to say this but if your visions allow you to see possible futures and clues to stop them becoming real, we might have to use them again" The Man said anxiously. "No way, we just escaped that freaky lair, now we got to break back into it" Noah said angrily, "If we don't, in a matter of hours, maybe days, the world will be no more, i'm sure Gigist wants Evelyn to help in the The Void's conquest somehow." Evelyn listened in on the conversation, and wondered if she could intentionally spy this time in her visions, "Use my power, I want to help save our world from evil" Evelyn said, Are you sure you want to do this, Blyke said worried, she nodded her head to him, the man stepped forward and said a silent prayer, than his hand started to glow brightly.

He put two fingers on her forehead "You won't be going in alone, you'll have some angel help this time" The Man said kindly, As tiredness overtook her, she closed her eyes and when they reopened she was somewhere new. While she looked at her surroundings, she saw the seven color cloaked figures once more with MASSIVE armies below them, she closed her eyes to get away and was in another clearing, looking ahead saw a familiar creature who turned to look DIRECTLY at her. As it took a few steps forward to come closer, she realized how small she was compared to it's size Gigist,she said with an anger filled tone, as he grinned at her with knowing intent, SO YOU KNOW OF ME, YET I KNOW NOTHING OF YOU, He said calmly, my name is Evelyn she told him. He seemed to take in the name, than looked beside her and his eyes showed surprised, Hello Brother, the man said appearing and walking in front of her, "STILL TRYING HELPING TO HELP THE MORTALS I SEE, SUCH A WEAKNESS BIG BROTHER" Gigist said mockingly, "All of creation, which you betrayed when you tried to rule over Heaven and Earth with the other four" The Man said with rage, Evelyn sensed that a fight was most likely coming on, a part of her wanted to watch, but she had to get out. She saw the man lift up his left hand and a six foot sword with light swirling energy around it appeared, he jumped in the air and plunged the blade into the ground, large cracks formed at either side separating them, "I swear on the creators I will you to justice for your monumental betrayal" The man shouted with conviction.

Gigist began chuckling "I WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOU TRY, BUT FOR KNOW I MUST FINISH MY WORK FOR THE YOUNG MASTERS AND ANCIENTS SO UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN" he said, than turned back to her and bowed, she opened her eyes and jumped up once more, "Your alright Evelyn" Cleo said thankfully. She looked at her confused and said what do you mean, "You were out for an hour and we didn't know when you would wake" Cleo told her, she looked to the right to see the man standing there seeming to wake up as well, You Alright? Noah asked the Man, he nodded in response, So what exactly did you see in there? Blyke asked Evelyn, something terrible a huge gateway,massive armies, and seven cloaked figures above it, she responded. The Ancients, of course they have to be connected to this, the Man said, "Aren't they the ones who have great influence over The Void and who only answer to The Void King and his offspring" Cleo said nervously, "I JUST remembered Gigist did say something about a sealing stamp and how he was creating this new legion to retrieve it" Evelyn said loudly, she looked at the Man expecting he knew what she was saying, "If that's true, this is worst than I imagined, if must be why this army goes through maturing, Gigist is making them more powerful to the point where if will be difficult to stop them, we have to HALT anymore from evolving" The Man said firmly. Can normal weaponry even hurt those creatures? Cleo asked the Man, It might be possible since MOST of them are still young,weak and haven't grown accustom to their powers, their still on the level of ordinary, mortal threats, so I think we still have a good chance The Man answered. One thing you all forgot Evelyn interjected, last time we had the Element of Surprise, this time they'll be expecting for us to try something else, everyone became silent for a few seconds before the Man spoke up once more, Perhaps if I become a big enough distraction, and draw their attention to me that should give you enough time to get to the substance and destroy it, he said hopefully.

"Alright then what are we waiting for, the sooner we stop this the better right" Noah said confidently, As the others agreed with him, Do you all know how to use weapons, The Man said. Blyke and Noah shook their heads, while Cleo said I've never been a fan of weapons but today i'm ready to learn, As Evelyn agreed with her, The Man's hand started to glow again while he placed it in front of of him, a small opening appeared like he poked a hole in reality itself and from that he pulled out multiple weapons. When he finished that, he closed the opening and sat the weapons on the table, there are seven guns, two rifles, three shotguns, one assault rifle,and one forty-four colt python, daggers, and staffs, "Please take what you feel suits you the best" The Man said kindly. Noah and Blyke went for the assault rifle while Cleo went for the staff with symbols on it, The Man noticed Evelyn staring and said "The symbols are Runes" After everything I've seen Runes are the least surprising Evelyn thought, she noticed it was her turn so she went for the daggers with the same symbols as the staff, she figured it should be very useful to her. "Alright we begin training tomorrow, for now you all get some rest" The Man said, all five friends looked at him in shock, "Shouldn't we attack now while we still have the advantage" Noah said, "Yes we will but your bodies health comes first, I can't have you going into this upcoming battle tried can I" He said reassuringly.

After having a good meal and some thought about tomorrow, they all went to their rooms while, The Man wanted to stay downstairs just in case anything were to happen tonight. Just like before, Evelyn got on her bed and closed her eyes expecting to be in some nightmare like vision but was happy to be in a dreamless sleep. She was awoken by the birds chirping outside and smell of breakfast, as she got up and went downstairs to the kitchen everyone was already there, but she had to wash up first, after she finished and put new clothes on she joined them in eating. "Alright everyone when your finish eating, training will start at once we need to get you prepared for the coming battle and quickly" The Man said honestly, Evelyn did you have any visions again last night? Cleo asked, Evelyn shook her head, "I'm surprised no nightmares or visions came to me but i'm grateful". Once everyone was finished, The Man opened a gateway only this time it was large to fit a person through, when the friends stepped in they found themselves in a large training room, "In this space I can control what happens including time, I can pause time for seven hours but once I use this the recharge will take a week" The Man said closing the doorway behind them.

The friends looked at a table with something on it, What are those things? Noah asked the Man,"They are chest adapters of Mech-Suits for our Human allies on the side of light" The Man said softly. Before you all ask you will be getting them, can't have you going back in with no protection,why don't you all try them on,The Man said sincerely, The friends wasted no time rushing and taking the four, Evelyn tried out hers when she put it to her chest and pressed it her body became submerged in armor which was surprisingly light. The others did the same, "Alright there's a defensive and offensive armor, it appears Noah,Evelyn you took offensive, Cleo,Blyke you defensive, Their are two modes where you could grow anywhere from eight to twelve feet or human size, but it's left up to the user" The Man swiftly. As they all started to train with their Mechs and weapons, Evelyn wondered if this would be enough to defeat Gigist or his new army, while preventing those horrible futures she saw, but she wanted to protect her friends, family, and the innocents of Earth from the horrors of The Void. "You need more POWER in your strikes, if you want to survive what's coming, The Man yelled suddenly like a marine, Evelyn didn't know what this future held but she was eager to see this new journey.

In 2015 I had a strange dream. Or at least it seemed like a dream.

I woke up in the middle of the night absolutely parched. Everyone knows water never tastes as good as it does when you're guzzling it in the middle of the night. Problem is, my bedroom is upstairs, my kitchen is downstairs, and I'm sleepy. Next to my bed is a closet, and on the sliding doors of that closet are two closet-door sized mirrors, and when you slide open either side of the closet, the mirror on the left door is concealed behind the right door. When I look at my closet, I see a tall glass of ice water reflected back at me in the left mirror.

The glass is frosty, like a glass you'd be served a draft beer in. It is sitting in what would appear to be an endless void of white, and it's enormous. It's closet-door sized. I push off my blankets and step out of bed and despite the chill of the air conditioning, this ice-cold glass of water is absolutely tantalizing. But it's weird, because as far as I can tell there isn't a closet-door sized glass of ice-water sitting in front of the mirror in my bedroom.

I open the left side of the closet, and by doing so I block my view of the odd water. When the closet is fully opened, I hear the clink of ice in the glass, like you would if you were to slide a glass of ice-water on a table and suddenly stop it. I also hear a giggle. Impish. Antagonistic. The contents of my closet are the contents of my closet. I slide the door closed.

Something has changed. The ice-water remains, but the configuration of the ice has shifted, not so much as to be unrecognizable but enough to be noticeable, and too much for it to have been caused by the change in velocity. I repeat my experiment.

The same thing happens, another giggle, clearly coming from the plane reflected back at me. The ice-water dimension, I guess. Deliriously I repeat this experiment far too many times for anything novel to happen, and the giggles have stopped. The joke got old. On maybe my ninth or tenth repetition of this cycle, I notice that the ice is melting and the glass is less frosty than it was when it initially appeared in my mirror. And I'm still absurdly thirsty, and the most convenient source of water is getting warmer by the second.

Something in my head is screaming to not drink this water. This is bad water. But I'm so thirsty. I tentatively reach towards the water and am met with the familiar resistance of a glass mirror. Obviously. But it's cold. And when I push, there's more give than a mirror should have. More elasticity. I push with roughly the force required to puncture saran wrap and now I've breached the sacred boundary between reality and reflection. I feel doomed.

I should not drink this water. But my lust overpowers my restraint and my head is pushing through the veil and I'm submerging it in the water and guzzling as much as I can handle and it isn't as cold as it was when it was gifted to me but instead the perfect temperature and there is just enough for me to quench myself and when I'm sated nothing remains but a pile of ice and the shame that I've broken a rule I will never and could never understand.

That's the dream. Every day since has been routine.

Yesterday on my lunch break I went to a nearby coffee shop and sat down to eat my meal. I'm replying to some emails, halfheartedly paying attention to the radio being played through the establishment's speakers.

"In other news, [redacted] Health Department has issued a release regarding an odd phenomenon. Over 500 residents have related stories of an unusually similar, possibly hallucinatory experience in which they find themselves gazing upon the reflection of an alluring glass of deliciously cold water. These mirages seem to appear in the middle of the night, which we all know is the best time to drink some cold water, hahaha. Oh man. Anyways, officials say that these experiences are nothing to be concerned about, so long as you do not drink the water."

I'm pouring sweat and guzzling my coffee and it's too hot and it's burning my mouth and my throat but I feel like I need to sanitize myself from the inside. That really happened? That's all the info they're giving me? Why isn't anyone acknowledging the absurdity of this situation? No one else drank the water? I drank ALL of the fucking water.

I go back to the office and I'm soaking through my cornflower blue button-down and I'm breathing wrong and my brain won't focus on a task long enough to even consider starting it. I need to know what happens if you drink the water, what is going to happen to me.

I call the health department. I argue with a call-screening bot and its fake typing sounds make me want to drown myself in the bathroom. After 15 minutes I reach an operator. I tell her my story as clearly and calmly as possible.

"Hi, I'm calling because I just heard the release about the mirror water and the radio guy said that I should be totally fine as long as I don't drink the water but it'd be nice if I could get a little bit more information about this because that seems like a bizarrely tiny amount of info to give about weird giant glasses of water showing up in my bedroom mirror, and also-"

She cuts me off, "Hahaha, sir, calm down, it's really nothing to worry about. As of right now we're considering it some kind of shared delusion. Social media has our brains all scrambled ya know? There's just too much going on. Anyways, luckily no one has actually drank the water, so there's no cause for alarm yet."

"No, that's what I'm saying, I drank the water. What happens if you drink the water?"

A few seconds of silence. I hear a sniffle, she's crying. Now she's sobbing. She's saying "Oh god, I'm so sorry. Why would you do that? I'm so, so sorry sir."

Dial tone. I call back and I don't even get the bot. I get a busy signal. I call again, I get a "the number you are trying to call is unavailable." I call again, the call doesn't even go through, it just hangs up.

Someone else must've drank the water right? Anyone? Does anyone know what's happening? Did any of you drink the water? What's going to happen to me?

Mike Lawson's leg shook his foot, tapping the floor as he rubbed his hands together at the small table with three chairs. The dim light overhead flickers and Mike rises from his seat to greet the detectives, Pierce and Morrison.

"Good evening, detectives."

He holds out his shaking hand, and Pierce takes it, giving it a firm shake.

Morrison nods and sits, flipping open the file in his hands. Mike sits down with Pierce.

"Mr. Mike Lawson, please tell your story from the beginning."

The man nods, licking his lips as he begins his tale.

"My name is Mike Lawson, and I'm a waste collector. One day on the job, we took the route to Ravenwood Manor. You know, it's the one that people have gone missing nearby. I rolled the can over to the truck, and moving it was heavier than usual, so I flipped open the lid."

"What exactly did you see?" Morrison asked.

"T-there was…" Mike paused, rubbing one of his palms on the table before continuing.

"Body parts…lots of them."

Pierce nodded. "Was this the first time you saw this?"

The waste collector shook his head. "No... At first, I thought they were Halloween decorations, but then the smell. Oh my god, the smell and the head," he closed his eyes, trembling and recalling it like a recurring nightmare.

"In a statement, you said you told an officer you had seen someone." Morrison furrowed his brow, having a hard time believing that a condemned manor would have someone living in it, especially locked behind a metal gate and razor wire.

Mike looked up. "Yes, I honestly thought that I was seeing things at first. I thought the stress of my job was getting to me until my co-worker saw it, too."

Mike's co-worker Frank Turner, the route driver, had spotted a tall, gaunt figure with pale, translucent skin covered in dark bruise-like patches in the window of Ravenwood Manor.

Its face was distorted, almost skeletal, with sunken, hollow eyes; its mouth was agape and full of razor-sharp teeth—a thin mane of silvery, wispy hair shadowed around its head in small patches.

Frank went on to add that the movements of the creatures were unnatural and jerky.

"He told me it watched us like it was hunting."

"You said he called it something. Do you recall what that name was?" Pierce questioned.

Mike hesitated at first, looking around the room cautiously.

He then slowly leaned over the table and spoke in a low whisper.

"Frank called him Rendark."

Rendark.

Pierce thought it was just a rumor, but it was luring people into the manor and ripping them apart piece by piece. Missing from the bodies were only the blood and organs; everything else had been tossed away.

Morrison looked at Pierce. "I know that look. You know about this thing, don't you?"

Pierce nodded to Morrison. "Mr. Lawson, thank you for your cooperation. We will ensure you get home safely and don't worry about the creature. We will deal with it."

"T-thank you," Mike said relievedly. The two detectives followed their client out the door. They would be making their way to Ravenwood Manor to end Rendark.

In the manor's darkness, a figure's limbs are bent at odd angles as it rips its long claws through flesh. It holds a dismembered limb over his open mouth and smacks its lips together happily.

The head of Frank Turner sits nearby with his eyes wide in horror and a silent scream still etched on his face. After squeezing out all the blood, it tosses the shriveled flesh over its shoulder into a garbage bin close to the door.

Pierce packed equipment into the boot of his car, and Morrison carried a duffle bag. "Can you tell me anything about the Rendark?" Pierce questioned his partner, who took the bag from Morrison.

"Ah, the Ravenwood Manor and the Rendark," Pierce thought, furrowing his brow and chewing on the inside of his cheek. He should start from the beginning when the manor was first built. Placing the bag into the boot, he closed it and motioned for Morrison to get inside the car.

Pierce started the car, and they began their drive to Ravenwood Manor.

In the 1940s, Christian Ravenwood poured his money into building a home for himself and his bride-to-be. She was the love of Christian's life, and they seemed inseparable on the outside, but when they were out of the public eye, they constantly fought.

Christian had found out that his bride was a gypsy. That her family had lied about who they were. When he laid a hand upon her, she cursed him and stormed out of the house, leaving him there. He thought it was a hoax and that her words meant nothing until the changes had begun.

His tan skin became pale and translucent. Any bump or touch caused dark bruise patches, causing immense pain. Whenever he looked at his reflection, his face was always distorted, and his eyes and cheeks were sunken in. His teeth fell out, replaced with thin, razor-sharp teeth.

Christian's hair turned silver and fell out, leaving bald patches on his scalp. He became a monster and was becoming very hungry.

"The first killings started in the late 40s. At first, the missing people were the homeless who wandered in seeking shelter. Then there were joggers, people waiting at the bus stop nearby, and people curious about abandoned places, all of whom became Rendark's victims." Pierce explained as the sight of Ravenwood came into view.

"How do we capture him exactly?" asked Morrison, biting at the skin around his thumbnail and rubbing it on his pants leg.

"With bait, of course. A few special-made tranquilizers and a corpse bag," his superior motioned over his shoulder to the back seat.

"Is it specially made?" asked his partner.

Pierce shrugged. "Maybe it's what the company provided me. At best, it has protection symbols on the inside and outside."

"Who is the bait exactly?" Morrison asked, glancing at his partner. "I should have known." He huffed and crossed his arms over his chest.

With the car parked, they headed into the manor, ready to capture Christian Ravenwood, the Rendark. Morrison called out, trying to get the monster out of hiding, when he came upon what was left of Frank Turner.

"By the gods," he grumbled, covering his mouth with a hand. Then he flicked on his flashlight, shining it into the corner where a figure was standing, mumbling to itself. The Rendark stood at its full height, turning its head towards Morrison, roaring, and beginning to sprint at him.

He turned and ran back towards the entrance, yelling for Pierce, who was in place taking a shot at Christian Ravenwood, who fell to the ground, his clawed hand reaching out to Morrison just inches away.

Pierce left his hiding place, setting the rile against the wall. He removed the body bag, and his partner helped him move the monster into it.

"Do these tranquilizers last long?" Morrison asked.

"Don't worry; the company will be here soon to pick him up," his superior told him, zipping up the body bag. The protection symbols on it began to glow, sealing the Rendark inside. He sighed in relief, leaning against the door, wondering when he would meet this mysterious company and what other cases would appear on their doorstep.

Trigger Warning: Suicidal Ideation

When my face started peeling, I blamed the new face wash my cousin had recommended. Despite its high ratings on best-of lists and glowing reviews from TikTok influencers, it was clear that my skin was reacting badly to it. I liked the results from the few times I used it, but I couldn’t risk further damage, so I threw the cleanser in the trash.

However, a week later, my face became much worse instead of getting better. The texture of my skin was scaly and rough, like a snake’s. I racked my mind for a possible cause but came up blank.

It looked revolting, and the itching was unbearable. My constant scratching drew blood, and the underside of my nails was clogged with dead skin.

Everything came to a head the day I got my braids done.

I spent hours at the stylist’s. Finally, she dipped my braids into boiling water and wrapped them in a towel to prevent burning me.

She gasped when she uncovered my head, and I felt lightheaded as my scalp throbbed, my heart pounding painfully.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, but she didn’t respond. “What’s wrong?” I demanded as my vision began to burn and blur.

I snatched her mirror and saw my reflection. The sight was so horrifying I thought my head would implode.

Nearly every braid had fallen out, though a few clung to my scalp by bloody, viscous threads. My fingers trembled as they dug into my skull, feeling like they were sinking into decaying fruit.

The skin at my hairline had started to erode, flaking like brittle parchment. My skin wasn’t just peeling; it was dissolving. Raw, crimson flesh exposed veins and tendons that struggled to keep up with the rapid decay.

Dark blood dripped from my rotting forehead, pooling at the tip of my nose before dripping onto the mirror. More blood followed, splattering thickly, a torrent of red.

I slammed the mirror down and fled to my car, shaking so badly I could barely grip the steering wheel. I ignored the stylist’s texts and calls demanding payment. Was she out of her fucking mind?

When I got home, I locked myself in the bathroom. My scalp was a roadmap of raw flesh and patches of skin. Every small bit of movement hurt, and I couldn’t stop myself from rocking on the cool tile and crying. I wailed, screamed, and cursed even though the pain felt like it might kill me.

As time went by, I deteriorated further. Painful boils bubbled across my cheeks and forehead, pulsating in rhythm with my racing heartbeat. Upon bursting, they released thick, yellow pus that oozed down my face like molten wax. The surrounding skin was blackened and peeled, exposing raw, bleeding tissue that wept a mixture of blood and infection.

Confusion and fear gripped me. All I had done was buy a cleanser—now I was a monster. Was desiring beauty a crime?

My face was a battlefield of decay. I was the embodiment of grotesque. My eyes, swollen and red, were now tinged with a sickly yellow hue—reptilian. Thick mucus gathered at the corners, dripping in long, stringy threads, clinging to my ragged eyelids.

Staring into the mirror was triggering and from it came a sudden, sharp memory from a week ago at my cousin’s birthday party.

✨🌺✨🌺✨🌺✨🌺✨🌺✨🌺✨🌺

There had been a woman at the party , a so-called spiritualist, who was undeniably a witch. My cousin had always been eccentric, even more so since her boyfriend vanished under mysterious circumstances. She had delved into mystical practices—spells, curses, rituals—so it wasn’t surprising that this year, she hosted a séance led by a spiritualist, a witch.

“Séances are more than just a gateway to the dead. They peel back the layers of the world, revealing the truths we hide from—even the ones inside us,” she intoned in a strange monotone.

I had been skeptical, I admit.

Bitch, crazy, I thought, lifting my wine glass to avoid her intense stare. She had cornered me for conversation in the easiest way possible.

“You’re beautiful,” she had said.

“Thank you, I’m aware,” I replied.

Then she had sat across from me during the séance, her eyes unblinking and black as voids, reflecting the flickering candlelight. I had been drunk and unsettled. Unnerved at her constant staring, I stuck out my tongue, and when that didn’t yield the desired reaction, I flipped her off.

That made her smile, and when she did, her lips stretched unnaturally wide to reveal jagged, blackened teeth.

Her grin stretched wider and wider until a figure slowly emerged from the back of her gaping throat. The witch gagged and convulsed violently, and after vomiting, the pale, long-limbed figure collapsed into itself and became ash, which scattered across the table, twinkling like starlight.

The figure rose with a twitch, its long black hair cascading down its back. When it turned to face me, I screamed, but no sound came out.

It was a woman—a very dead woman. Her rotting skin hung loosely from her bones; putrid green slime oozed through her pores. Her hollow eyes leaked a dark liquid, and her mouth was a cavernous abyss filled with jagged teeth.

She lurched toward me, her movements jerky. I wanted to run, but I was rooted to the ground. She tapped my forehead, sending a searing pain through my skull. Her touch burned trails into my flesh as she traced my eyes, outlined my lips, and then, with brutal strength, tore my face off.

The world blurred into a blazing inferno as I screamed The witch held my face, inspecting it with hollow eyes before pressing it against her skull.

The skin fused to her bones, reshaping to fit her features. She turned to me, my face now hers, and smiled—a cruel, mocking grin.

The pain was unbearable, a searing agony consuming every nerve as if my soul was being scorched. I screamed and tried , to claw my way out of the inferno, but I was trapped.

I died.

✨🌺✨🌺✨🌺✨🌺✨🌺✨🌺✨🌺

Except no, I hadn’t.

I awoke lying on the floor, wet and cold. My face throbbed as though on fire. The room was too bright, the lights glaring down, revealing a distorted blur of faces hovering above.

My cousin knelt beside me, her eyes wide with fear. The others stood around us, their expressions puzzled and concerned.

“Esme, are you okay?” my cousin’s trembling voice cut through the haze. She was terrified.

I struggled to focus. “What happened?” I rasped, snatching the towel she held out to me. I swiped at my face, and the towel tinged dark pink. Wine. These bitches had thrown wine at me to wake me up.

I would deal with that later because right now, a witch was on the loose, and she was on the hunt for bad bitches like myself.

Panic surged as I scanned the room again. “Where is she?” I muttered, anger tightening my throat. “Where the fuck is she?”

“Where is who?” my cousin asked, brow furrowing.

I turned to her, desperation creeping into my voice. “The woman you hired to lead the séance? The spiritualist—the witch who handed me the wine—she told me I was beautiful! She wouldn’t stop staring at me. Where is she?”

My cousin exchanged uneasy glances with her friends, then looked back at me. “Esme, there was no witch—no spiritualist—here. It was just us. Are you sure you’re okay?”

I shook my head; confusion and fear tangled my thoughts. I reached into my pocket, pulling out my compact mirror. Flipping it open, I stared at my reflection, half-expecting a monstrous distortion. But no—the face in the mirror was flawless, unmarked, beautiful—me.

Had I imagined it? The memory of the witch felt so real, but doubt crept in. My cousin’s words echoed—“There was no one else”—and for a terrifying moment, I wondered if she was right.

“Esme,” my cousin’s voice was gentle, coaxing me back to reality. “There was no one else. Maybe you just…imagined it. Perhaps you had too much to drink?”

“No,” I interrupted, hollow as I pushed past her to grab more wine. I poured and watched the crimson liquid swirling like blood. I downed it, the alcohol burning but failing to quell the fear gnawing at me.

“The problem is I haven’t drunk enough,” I muttered. God, remembrance is a bitch.

✨🌺✨🌺✨🌺✨🌺✨🌺✨🌺✨🌺

My bathroom resembles a slaughterhouse.

The sink overflows with a brackish mix of water and something darker. Clumps of hair cling to the porcelain, tangled in the drain.

Mirror shards litter the floor, and everything is stained with my blood. My handprints are smeared across the walls, like desperate warnings from something wild, cornered, and feral.

It stinks in here.

The air is thick with the stench of rot, a suffocating cloud of decay. My skin—what’s left of it—feels like it’s wilting under the oppressive smell.

Once upon a time, I was indescribably beautiful. Now, I’m a monster because a jealous witch stole my face.

I’m tired of crying. I’m so fucking tired of crying. Haven’t I said how much it hurts? My tears burn like acid, carving channels into my skin.

Why bother? What’s the point? My mind spirals. How am I even still alive?

Be done with it, a voice hissed, cold and convincing. What else do you have to live for? Slit your throat, tear out your veins. Chew through your fucking wrists if you have to. Anything to be done; just be done.

Doesn’t bleeding out in a hot bath sound like paradise? The warmth, the release, knowing it’s all over. No more mirrors, no more ugliness, just silence. Sweet, oblivious silence.

But wait—what was it that witch had said? What had she told me?

“You’re beautiful.”

“Thanks, I’m aware.”

No, not that as important as it is. Something else. Something about a veil?

“Séances are more than just a gateway to the dead. They peel back the layers of the world, revealing the truths we hide from—even the ones inside us,” she’d said, her voice a monotone hum.

Truths inside us. What did she mean by that?

A realization bursts through the darkness, as ripe and putrid as a boil. Inner beauty? If my insides matched my outsides, I’d be a horror worse than this.

Suddenly, it all makes sense. I’ve been clinging to something that was never really mine. I was a hollow shell, pretty on the outside, rotten to the core.

Why not own it? If the world’s going to see me as a monster, then I’ll be the most beautiful monster they’ve ever seen.

I’ll find that witch and demon and take back what’s mine. No one fucks with me and walks away. But why stop there? I’ll steal beauty from anyone who dares to cross my path. Their hair, their skin, their smiles—whatever I want. I’ll carve it out and stitch it together like a patchwork quilt of stolen beauty.

Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that beauty is power. And power is the only thing that matters.

I close my eyes, savoring the plan forming in my mind. A smile spreads across my face, sharp enough to tear your throat out.

I laugh. It starts as a chuckle, a ridiculous little hiccup of sound I can’t quite suppress. But it quickly spirals into something wilder, something uncontrollable. The laughter comes in waves, harsh and guttural, until it claws its way out of my throat in a series of ragged, choking sobs.

I’m on all fours as my body convulses. My stomach heaves violently, and I vomit, the acidic taste mixing with the coppery tang of blood. It’s the greatest damn release in the world.

The floor is slick beneath me, and thousands of my eyes stare back at me. I see my distorted face in each mirror shard, like some fucked-up kaleidoscope. I am everywhere, yet I am nothing—just a broken thing in a room full of broken glass.

I roll onto my back, feeling the sharp sting of glass pressing into my skin, and giggle helplessly as I stare up at the ceiling with a smile that feels too wide, too sharp—sharp enough to rip someone’s throat out.

It’s decided. If I can’t be beautiful, then nobody else can.

I’ll take it from everyone. I’ll carve it out, peel it off, gouge out what is mine. I’ll chew on it piece by piece until there’s nothing left. I’ll rip it from their souls and stitch it into my skin.

And when all is said and done, I’ll make sure the last face they see is mine.

Consider it a kindness—a favor, really. If pride goeth before a fall, they should be grateful because I’ll be their willing savior.

I’ll cure you of what ails you, my dear.

Detective Pierce and his colleague Morrison walked down the dark hall to the interrogation room where Seminarian Crawford Rossi awaited them.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Crawford Rossi." Pierce greeted him as he walked inside and took a seat.

Rossi cradled a foam coffee cup in his hands, looking up at them with dark circles under his eyes. "Good evening," he mumbled.

"I want to talk to you about what happened to Father Pesci." Pierce began opening a case file he had brought with him.

"Father Pesci..." Rossi spoke softly, keeping his head down before looking at both detectives. "He wasn't a bad man."

Morrison nods in understanding. "We just need to hear your side of the story."

Rossi's shoulders went lax, and he leaned back, looking up at the dim light above them.

"It was the day before Easter Sunday. We were setting things up, and this weird box was among the decorations." He rubbed his hands together and looked back at the detectives.

"A weird box?" Pierce questioned.

Rossi nods., "I know it seems strange, but…" he pauses, biting his bottom lip. "This box didn't belong to the church. When I took it to Father Pesci, he said someone probably donated it."

Morrison nodded and jotted down notes in his notepad. "What did this box look like?"

The Seminarian began describing to them the box he had found. It was a medium ornate box, and the baby blue and white polka dot wrapping paper was weathered as if it had been left in the sun all day. The white ribbon was frayed and flecked with specks of red. The box felt so heavy in his hands.

"Did you ever open this box?" Pierce asked.

Rossi shook his head. "N-no, it felt wrong."

"So, an old gift felt wrong to you?" Morrison scoffed, shaking his head.

"Since it was unopened," Rossi wrung his hands together, "I put it in Father Pesci's office that morning, and by the evening, it was open." The Seminarian paused, looking up at the detectives.

"What of Father Pesci?" Pierce questioned, "What did he find inside that box?"

Rossi sat back in his chair, rubbing his hands onto his pants. "He was in the corner of his office mumbling to himself and the box…" he inhaled deeply. "Oozed a brownish red onto his desk."

During the service that evening, Father Pesci will have murdered an entire congregation. Their heads were placed onto their laps, and their hands wired together in prayer. Pesci himself disappeared after leaving symbols written in blood all over the walls behind the podium. The gift box and one of the hearses were missing and nowhere to be found.

"I'm sure the entire event has been quite traumatic for you. Since you were the one to find the service in such a grim state," Pierce said, giving Rossi a knowing smile, trying to comfort the man.

"Detectives", the Seminarian began licking his lips. "Will you be able to find the father before he hurts more people?" He leaned forward, looking them both in the eyes.

"Of course we'll find him." Morrison was confident.

Pierce wanted to relay the same energy, but according to the reports they had gotten back, the hearse that Father Pesci had taken was found abandoned in the next town. This means the possessed Pesci walked the rest of the way to his destination.

He did, however, have an idea where the Father was heading. There was an older case where a clown was attending a child's birthday party—or what was supposed to be. When the professional entertainer got to the house, he was greeted by a cult. This cult did unspeakable things to this man, using him in a ritual for whatever god they worshipped. Then, the cult placed his head into the box that the birthday cake was in.

It's a medium box with baby blue wrapping paper, white polka dots, and a white ribbon.

A possessed Father Pesci was heading to the place where it all started—the place where that thing that now wore him like a suit was brought into this world. Pierce looked over at Morrison, who furrowed his brow.

"Thank you, Mr. Crawford Rossi. We will contact you when we find Father Pesci," Pierce assured him. He nodded anxiously, looking around before getting up to leave the room.

Rossi solemnly nodded, getting up from his chair. As he walked to the door to exit the interrogation room, he looked back at Morrison and Pierce. "There was something else I needed to mention," Rossi spoke low, making the detectives strain their ears to listen. "Before I found Father Pesci, he was talking to someone. It was a voice I had never heard but filled me with dread."

"Why are you telling us this now?" inquired Morrison.

Rossi held his hands in front of him in a silent prayer. "I don't think I should have heard what they discussed."

Pierce scratched his chin. "Can you tell us what was said?"

Rossi shook his head. "No…no, if I do. IT will come for me next."

The 'it' he was referring to must have been whatever had possessed Father Pesci. He left the room, leaving both detectives to review their gathered information. Morrison flipped through his notes and clicked his tongue.

"What are we even supposed to do with any of this?" he scoffed, motioning to the notepad.

"Don't worry,. We have plenty of information to go on. Besides, I know where we will find Father Pesci, and hopefully, we will arrive in time," said Pierce, who stood up first and headed to the door.

Morrison scratched his head, following behind his coworker. "I sure hope you're right."

Even Pierce hoped he was right because they had a long car ride ahead and had to ensure they brought the proper equipment. After all, they had a Priest to exercise.

That trip to Father Pesci's location was overgrown, and the building had seen better days. Pierce was the first to get out of the car and go around it to the boot, opening it to get out a few items.

"So how are we going to do this? You didn't bring along a barrel this time," said Morrison as he walked up to stand beside his partner.

"Since we're dealing with a possession, we must draw it out and into this." Pierce held out a clown totem.

Morrison scoffed and shook his head. "You're kidding me, right?"

His superior shrugged. "Hey, you gotta admit it's kind of ironic." He chuckled and shut the boot, handing Morrison a jar of salt.

Both walked forward, heading to the old house and went inside. Pierce turned on his flashlight, shining it around. "Father Pesci, we've come to take you home. Care to come out and see us?"

The possessed Father Pesci stepped out from the shadows and screamed, the sound vibrating the walls and floor as his mouth opened unnaturally. When he began speaking, it was in a language the two detectives didn't understand.

Pierce pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket and began reading. The words leaving his lips sounded like a chant you would use in a ritual. Father Pesci's body began to twist from side to side and lift into the air. The superior placed down the totem, and Morrison made a ring of salt around it. He stepped back as a dark, smoky mass exited from the priest's mouth and entered the totem, which rattled.

Father Pesci's body hit the floor with a thud, and Pierce knelt to check his pulse. He sighed in relief when he felt a faint but steady heartbeat and nodded to Morrison, who gazed down at the glowing totem in the middle of the ring of salt. The air was no longer cold, and it felt like a heavy weight had been lifted.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Dave looked at Britney's severed arm and started walking towards it. He got closer and closer....then walked right past it. He was now walking towards Britney.

"W-wait why didn't it work? I did exactly what that damn book said." Britney said , You could hear the fear in her voice. Her legs were trembling , It was clear that she was realising the situation she was in after her plan failed.

Dave now got closer to her , He was right in front of her. He raised 2 of its arms up , Britney just stood there frozen from fear. Dave brought down his 2 arms in full force to crush her.

I barely made it in time to tackle her out of Dave's way , But the shockwave from his smash still created a blast which made us hit a tree.

I looked at Britney , She finally had control over her body again possibly due to the pain from hitting the tree. She suddenly looked at me and asked.

"How did the fucking ritual work for you but not for me?"

I just stared at her with disbelief, She almost just died and all she cares about is the ritual?

"Are you gonna say something or what?" She yelled at me.

"I don't know. Maybe cause the ritual works on unnaturals and Dave is not a fucking unnatural?" I snapped back at her.

She flinched a bit , She wasn't expecting me to yell back. Dave suddenly growled , Looking at us but not making a move.

"You're a UNF member right? Do you have something to fight it? Maybe like a weapon or a pet unnatural?" I said to Britney.

"Uh no. I came here to make Dave into my pet unnatural. I have no other way to fight it" She replied.

Seriously these kids are so fucking dumb. She seriously came here without any way to fight him?

"Well just stay back and don't get in my way then." I said to her.

I looked towards Dave. He was just standing there, Waiting for me to make a move. Honestly I have no idea how to win this one , That guy already overpowered me when he had 4 arms but now he had 6.

Not to mention I have to protect this kid behind me. I was sweating , I knew that this fight might be my last one. Honestly I wanted to run away , But there's no way I can leave Britney behind and let Dave be on the loose.

I charged towards Dave , I made my left arm into a long rapier and went straight for the eye in its chest. I was about to hit it when Dave covered the eye with 4 of his arms , My rapier was not able to go through.

I jumped back , Suddenly 4 of Dave's arms detached from the side of its body. The 4 arms merged into his chest creating a meat shield around the eye. Dave knew that I knew his weak spot and covered it , The good news is that now I only have to deal with 2 of his arms.

So I went for his 2nd weak spot , the head. I turned my arm into a scythe and jumped up into the air to slash his head off. I suddenly got a quick flashback and just like last time , Dave grabbed my leg and threw me into a tree.

I have to stop making such simple moves , Especially when they've been countered before. I tried getting up but the damage was quite a bit , It would take me a few minutes before I could get up again.

Dave ignored me and went towards Britney. She again froze in fear , Dave grabbed her and pulled her close to his head. He opened her mouth forcefully and then opened his mouth , He put his open mouth on her open mouth and you could barely see some kind of red goo flowing from his mouth into her. He was trying to turn her into one of his eggs.

I watched , I couldn't get up yet. My arm was bleeding due to the impact , All I could do was watch.

What is it that you wish to do?

"I.....wish to protect her" I said.

LIES , WHAT IS IT THAT YOU TRULY WISH TO DO?

"I.... want to fucking kill Dave" I said.

Raise your arm

I held up my left arm.

Direct it towards your target

I pointed it towards Dave.

Imagine raw power in your palm

I imagined what I felt was raw power in my palm. Suddenly the symbols on my arm started glowing red. The blood from my bleeding arm started flowing into my palm.

Compress it into a projectile

I imagined it to become a small ball. The blood compressed into a small ball , Very dense.

Shoot

"What?" I said.

SHOOT

I imagined it to shoot. The symbol on the back side of my palm that wasn't glowing before started glowing. The ball shot out of my hand like a bullet , Piercing right through Dave's back into the eye.

Dave let out a final scream before falling down , Losing his grip on Britney. Dave's flesh started melting away , Only leave a deformed human dead body behind.

I went over to check on Britney , She was unconscious but.....her arm had mysteriously grown back. I carried her body to the car that I had seen before.

I started turning on the car , It took a few attempts but it started. Now I'm driving back to Daniela , Hopefully she has found something useful. Even if She hasn't, We'll get the information out of Britney.

There’s a chilling finality in the way the basement door creaks open, a grim proclamation of the horrific scene that surrounds me. I’m tethered to the bed, my wrists bound tightly with coarse rope that cuts into my skin. The pillow beneath my head feels as grotesque as the armchair. As I sit up, the weight of my soul slips away, leaving my body a shell, eyes wide open and mouth agape. I’m frozen. My brother’s face—his hair—I could recognize it even in a million years, no matter the shape or condition. This pillow tests my limits: his skin and curls have been twisted into something almost unrecognizable. A nauseating dread flows inside me like sharp, aggressive waves. The pillowcase is him. He has become it, sewn into a morbid tribute to my lost sibling, fashioned from his skin.

The basement smells of decay and a faint metallic tang. The dim light from a single, flickering bulb illuminates the gritty walls. This is where I die, I think.

Rupert appears at the top of the stairs, his eyes glinting with a self-satisfied smirk. “Kendall,” he says, his voice a smooth, mocking caress, “you didn’t have to do this. Being such a thorn in my side.”

I keep staring at the repulsive pillowcase I had passed out on, breathless. Gavin is dead. I suddenly realize it, like a pressure that’s been pressing on my skull for an eternity and now has been released. After all these years. He really did die. Our childhood friend—Rupert, the one who shared laughter and snowball fights—is hurting me. Did he hurt my brother? The betrayal cuts deeper than any knife. He steps down into the basement with a casual, almost practiced ease, as if he’s descending into his own private theater of horror.

“Do you know,” Rupert says, his voice laced with cruel satisfaction, “how close you were to getting me arrested, and you—” He pauses, his eyes darkening. “You don’t even know half of the story.”

“I don’t know any of it,” I assure him, my voice trembling. “What happened to Gavin? How could someone do this?” I point at the pillowcase with my chin, nausea rising in my throat.

He paces slowly around the room, his expression calm yet content. “My mom says I have dark urges. I don’t think they’re dark at all—perfectly natural. Sometimes the best thing in the world is getting in touch with our animalistic instincts. Then I express it afterwards in an art form, to relive it. I’ve done it since that night—my first time.”

So, it is him? He killed Gavin? It isn’t… “So, it isn’t the man? He’s not involved in any of this?”

“Oh, he kind of is. He saw me that night. In the middle of it, too.”

“Just say what happened to my little brother, you freak!” I spit out, my blood boiling from fury and fear.

He nods, sitting at the edge of the squeaky bed. “I had long thought about killing. That was one of my first thoughts, I think—I want to take a life and play with the remains. We killed an animal, y’know? Do you remember? That winter, I shot a rabbit, dissected it, and it felt… truth be told, it didn’t feel like much. But I was used to feeling numb, and the killing gave purpose to that feeling. Like, it made sense that it should feel nothing, too. And—back to that night—I saw my opportunity, chasing a thrill, losing myself to my natural instincts for once. I swear, your brother’s fate was sealed the moment he followed that path alone with me. It was so easy, Kendall. So easy.”

The memory of that night rushes back, a relentless wave of regret. Rupert’s confession is like acid, burning through the thin veneer of my mind. I can almost see it—the way I pressured Gavin into following Rupert, the way I chose that for him and sealed his fate. A moment I can never take back, knowing who hurt him.

“Did you do it alone?” I ask through gritted teeth, biting hard to keep myself from letting out an agonizing scream—the pain of losing a brother, of coming to understand the suffering he endured.

“I just picked up a large rock behind him and smashed it into his skull without him even looking. It was a dull thud; he didn’t die. I thought he would from the force of it. So, I strangled him with my bare hands, even got his skin deep under my fingernails. It wasn’t a hard job, but he tried to fight back—his eyes kept flicking and rolling to the back of his head, probably losing consciousness from the skull fracture.”

I notice Rupert’s mother standing in the doorway with hollow eyes—a ghostly figure. Her demeanor is calm, a resigned acceptance. It’s clear she has been complicit in his crimes, whether out of love or fear. But I can’t picture it. I can’t imagine they could really do this. Her hands tremble slightly as she clutches the bottle of chloroform she’d used on me.

“Did he say anything?” I manage to ask despite my shaky voice, my pulse racing again as I realize what they’re going to do to me, too. “Did he ask for my mom or dad, or did you just choke out any cry for help that he had, while he tried to gain control? Did he stare at you, scared and helpless, confused at what was happening, betrayed by his best friend?”

This is the first time I see any sense of regret in Rupert—a fragment of dissatisfaction and, I suppose, disbelief. He is so far gone that he doesn’t even know what it means—that he was Gavin’s best friend among a selected few. I can’t believe I haven’t noticed it until now—the lack of depth in his emotions, the extent of his mischievous nature. It feels like I have eels churning in my stomach.

“He screamed your name once. Before I had a strong grip on him. I guess the storm swallowed it, or you had walked far enough away since you didn’t hear him.”

A sudden burst of rage pulses through my veins. I lunge at him, unable to harm him with my hands tied to the bedside. I keep trying, lunging, expecting the rope to snap from the pure hunger inside me, determined to destroy his conniving face.

“It’s funny that if you hadn’t entertained that man in the car, he would’ve caught me red-handed and saved your brother.” His eyes are cold, and I imagine ploughing my fingers into them, ripping them out.

“My boy,” Martha says from the doorway in a fragile whimper, “please. Don’t hurt him. Don’t torture him. Just… please.” She turns around, looking in distress, hands covering her mouth as she exits.

“I told the man, when he stopped by,” Rupert continues, “that Gavin slipped on the ice and hurt himself. That it was really bad, he was dead already, and I needed him to drive me to my mom immediately down the road. So he did. Then I told my mom what I had done, and we made a plan to cover it up quickly. Scoop him up from the ground, bring him back into the basement. My mom told the stranger that she had called for emergency services and got his contacts. Later that night, she drove up to his cabin and told him to shut up. That looney didn’t need much convincing, just being told that if he ever stepped forward, charges would be pressed against him for hurting Gavin. Then, of course, he kept himself isolated for quite a while, hiding from the authorities because of your drawings of him, and I had to fit my narrative within that story.”

“And you still do this?” I ask, my muscles aching and tiring.

“Sometimes I get by on digging up fresh graves, stealing the bodies. It’s been discovered a few times, as you saw in the newspapers. But I like my artwork with the skins. Keeps my hands busy.” He strokes my face, my sweat dripping on his fingers. “I’ve always wanted to see what it’s like to be with someone alive.”

“Nuh-uh,” I let out. My heart races as I feign compliance, my mind racing for any possible escape. “You have to let me live then,” I say, my voice low and pleading, “or I’ll make it a miserable experience for you. If you hurt me, I’ll bite, and if you don’t, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

“That’s how I want it: all bite,” he whispers in a raw and raunchy tone, pressing his thumbs against my throat. I gulp, my skin tingling like needlesticks. “All fight, all night long.”

“Fuck it then, I’ll give you a fight. If you let me live.” I stare straight into his eyes, pleading. “Or I’ll make sure to give you no reaction at all. More than half my life without my brother—you think I can’t be stoic? I can be as good as dead, and that’s not how you want me.” The sound of myself begging for my life is sickening. But I have to make it long enough to find a way out.

In a twisted mockery of intimacy, his lips reach out for mine, cold and unfeeling. Amidst his tongue stroking my lips, I act. My teeth sink into his chin, tearing flesh and sinew with a savage bite. His surprised gasp is drowned out by my sudden burst of strength as I bite down again, ripping his chin off and spitting it out. No longer concerned with my well-being but focused purely on survival, I slam my hand against the firm bedside with a sickening crack, snapping my wrist and fingers to free myself from the rope. I fumble for the pocket knife hidden in my sock.

With a desperate, frenzied motion, I yank the knife out and thrust it into Rupert’s throat, his face colorless from shock. Blood sprays, warm and wet, as I stab him repeatedly. His screams are choked and guttural, an erratic symphony of agony. The knife becomes an extension of my will to live and avenge my brother, each stab releasing years of suffering in vivid shades of red.

I cut through the ropes binding my other hand, my skin slick with Rupert’s blood. My escape is urgent, the walls of the basement closing in on me as the final threads of my freedom are within reach. I’m halfway free when the door swings open with a terrifying screech.

Martha stands there, her face a mask of utter shock and terror as she clutches a longer kitchen knife. Her scream echoes through the basement, a primal cry of panic. Her eyes dart around the room, filled with a wild, unhinged desperation.

I attempt to push past her, but she lunges forward and swings the knife, slicing my shoulder. A wet, open sensation spreads. I scramble, my movements agitated as I evade another attack. She stabs me straight in the abdomen; the kitchen knife is stuck. I fall, my head slamming against the concrete floor, my vision darkening. You don’t mess with a mother. You don’t mess with a mother’s son. I’m going to die now.

A noise erupts from the front door, just loud enough for me to hear. It buys me precious last seconds. I can feel life seeping out of me. The doorbell rings, a sharp, insistent sound that breaks the momentary chaos. I try to focus on it, imagining myself being saved by some godsent person. Gavin. It’s Gavin.

Martha runs down to me frantically, forcing the fabric of the pillowcase, now stained with Rupert’s blood, into my mouth, muffling my cries. I feel the rope tighten around my broken wrist once more as she restrains me. She leaves the basement, hurrying to answer the door, leaving me to fend for myself.

But through the suffocating haze, I recognize a muffled, familiar voice. The lead investigator. Hope surges through me, but a part of me feels this must be a hallucination. A dying wish.

I fight against the restraints, using every ounce of strength to dislodge the pillowcase from my mouth. With a final, desperate scream, I manage to call out, “Help! Help, I’m here!”

The investigator’s voice stops abruptly. I sense a commotion happening upstairs. Before I know it, he bursts into the basement, his eyes scanning the scene with grim determination. The confrontation is swift—Rupert’s mother is restrained, and he holds his shirt around the knife wound to stop my bleeding. Rupert’s lifeless body lies sprawled on the floor.

As the police and ambulance arrive and the scene is secured, I am freed and taken care of. The adrenaline that fueled my fight-or-flight response begins to ebb, leaving me weak and disoriented. But something else keeps me going. I am clinging to my will to live, to tell the story of what happened in my own words. The thought of seeing my mom and dad again—making sure they don’t lose another son—making sure they know what happened to their lost one—keeps me alive.

In the end, I wake up in the hospital dressed in white, with my parents by my side. I feel groggy and weak, but I can recover. The lead investigator explains that his decision to go to Rupert’s house was guided by a mix of intuition and a lingering suspicion. I hadn’t been present at my vacation home after our cryptic, promising arrangement, so he drove by the large, old-fashioned residence. Seeing my car parked outside and piecing together the evidence led him to check in on the situation. My luck hasn’t run deep throughout the course of my life, but that day, it saved me.

Several cases have finally been closed, and Martha is facing life in prison—what’s left of it, anyway. I’m not sure how that makes me feel, other than realizing that Rupert was not the childhood friend I thought he was, and she is not the mom I remembered. My parents find a semblance of peace as they can properly mourn the loss of Gavin. For me, the battle is far from over. The others don’t have to live in that basement, witness the atrocities committed, but I do. It’s imprinted on my soul—a tattoo behind my eyes. Nightmares persist, and the guilt remains a constant companion.

“He screamed your name once. It’s funny that if you hadn’t entertained that man in the car, he would’ve caught me red-handed and saved your brother.”

I’ve learned that the most important thing in life is keeping your composure. Breathe through your teeth when you’re in agony. Stay around your friends and family even when you are reminded of humanity’s worst, because with them, you are safe. And pursue serenity in whatever form it presents itself to you. For me, it’s a mundane but peaceful life with a wife and a son.

As I watch my son play in the snow, his resemblance to Gavin strikes me every time. The small curls on his head, the bright smile that reaches all the way up to his kind eyes. Sometimes, he asks me why I hesitate to let him go out and play with his friends, especially after dark and during harsher weather conditions. I tell him that it’s a story that, like the brave scars on my shoulder and belly, can wait for another day. Because one day, he will be old enough to discover the stories about his uncle, and I don’t know that I can face it just yet—face that talk, which will end his age of innocence. So, for now, I put his red coat on him and button it up, letting him wander off into the shiny snow with his friends.

The darkness of the past may have carved out a significant part of my heart. It may ache, knowing that some faces go missing—and even if they’re found, they’re still lost. But if anything keeps me composed, it is the small figure that resembles my little brother. The love for my son warms me in this eternal snowstorm, a delicate blanket in the winter’s grip.

The rain came down and the skies were gray. Just another day in Misthaven. People scuttled about - dwarves and elves and merfolk and humans and trolls and half-breeds and so many more that no one could really keep count.

Yes, the world is vast with its mysteries and tragedies and waves that go up and up and down and down. Tides that defy odds in how high they can go and how low things can be.

I welcome you to this world that is grim perhaps on the outside but has a warmth, a beauty that may be hard to get to, but once you give it a bit of time, it is there. And it is as soft and warm and fuzzy as anything.

Yes, yes, I know I am reaching. Perhaps part of me doesn't want you to be scared... just yet. This world has its tragedies, but it also has its more positive tales, dear reader.

It is easy to be a skeptic, I say. So easy to dismiss. To be negative, to just dismiss the world as run by an evil cabal and to be resigned to the fate of sociopaths reigning over good albeit dumb sheeple. Yes, it is so easy to see things that way. But I beg you to look deeper. For even in this grim reality, there are tricks that will make you remember why we do this thing called life.

Misthaven has its beauty. It is a land surrounded by a large ocean on one side and a sliver of a lake on the other side that cuts it from New Calibron, the capital of our esteemed state which I will not speak of further.

Misthaven is a beautiful city in its own way. Because of its unique geography, it has everything from an underground city to a very fishy fish market to mysterious woods whose end no one knows and many have never come back from, to even mountains that reach and cross the heavenly skies.

And then you have the merfolk... well, they like to be ocean folk and lake folk... as you can guess, one feels superior to the other because they come from "deeper waters". I personally can't tell them much apart except I suppose the ocean folk do seem to be bigger and taller than their lake brethren since they live in deeper waters and have to travel further distances.

Anyway, what I am trying to get at, dear reader, is that Misthaven is, despite its grim appearance, a very complicated and beautiful place. You just have to give it time. And hear its stories.

And perhaps the best place to hear its stories is the Drunken Sanctuary. Yes, a tawdry name, I know. It is a place that attracts a lot of philistines, no doubt. A tawdry bunch who can't hold their liquor and bust out and try to maul and get mauled after one too many drinks. Such is the state of the street folk, but I digress.

I... and this took me a long time to come to terms with... have gathered that even these low-bred souls have their story.

Everyone has a story. That is the lesson you ultimately learn at the Sanctuary.

The Sanctuary, as its name implies, is a place where any man or woman, regardless of their class, race, or political view can come and share their story. It is truly one of the last places left where one can be them. Truly just them in all their authenticity.

And that, dear reader, is so important. Especially in this day and age where we get more polarized every day. Where either you're here or there. And there is no nuance. And it bedevils me how we who have been able to build spires a thousand feet long, we who have been able to go thousands of feet and build villages on the ocean floor, we who have been able to forge metals and potions that do God knows whatever you want... we still suffer the same tragic fate our simple ancestors did. We just can't seem to get along!

Yes, yes, I know I'm being negative again. Such is the fashion, you see, the gray does that to you. You try living in this city where it's dark for 16-18 hours a day for most of the year! God, it does something to your soul! It blackens you from the inside as it is on the outside. Your environment you live in seeps in. I tell you it is a thing even though there is no science behind it!

Anyway, well, let me get to the point... so my dear reader, if you've stuck with me so far, I would like to reward you. By bringing you to the Sanctuary.

Aye, the Sanctuary... a place where every day new people come in, bringing their stories and permanently embedding them in that place. It has been that way for hundreds if not thousands of years. No one knows how old that inn is except that it is old.

And like his forefathers, the inn is in good hands with the innkeeper of today. Mans Rhyder. Mans is a big hefty man likely in his fifties. Bald with a red beard and a hard expression that tells you not to mess with him but often that breaks into a smile for the right person.

He, like his family, has been taught the art of tending a tavern from an early age. Mans knows who is thirsty, who to get a drink to, who to compliment, how to keep the conversation going, the energy up in his tavern. Every day he does this with his wife Nora. Nora is a stout short lady with a fiery temper who is the only person Mans quivers under. What she lacks in size she makes up for by her fiery temperament. Everyone respects her and if there is a fight it only happens when Nora is not around. And as soon as she walks in everyone stops because they know she will throw them out and they won't be allowed in for months.

OK, enough backstory. I have bored you enough. Let us dive into this gray murky deep deep world. Let us immerse ourselves into the culture, the drama, the heart of Misthaven by meeting some of its inhabitants on a dark and murky night at the Drunken Sanctuary...

There were seven that night. A dwarf, an assassin, twins, a retired alchemist, a (human) thief, and a mysterious hooded figure. Like every night, Mans had done his work swiftly, passing around ale to the ones most in need, swiftly breaking up fights, and when the night was late and the hobbyists and the curious had left (with their curiosity hopefully broken) and only the regulars and the ones who truly had nowhere else to go were left, Mans made his way to the floor.

As the night wore on, the tavern buzzed with the usual mix of laughter, heated discussions, and the clinking of tankards. "Aye, Mans! Bring me some ale!" bellowed Griffith, a burly regular with a voice that could shake the rafters.

Mans nodded, deftly maneuvering between groups, placing drinks on tables with practiced ease. "Coming right up, Griffith," he called back, his eyes never leaving the tray balanced on his arm.

From behind the bar, Nora's sharp voice cut through the din. "You'll get your drink soon enough, Griffith Calibron! Now shut your trap!"

Griffith's face reddened as he looked down, mumbling, "Yes, Nora." The group around him snickered, but quickly stifled their laughter when Nora's gaze swept their way.

It was a jovial night at the inn, with everyone in high spirits. Most were the regular folk, though you always had a few newcomers wandering in. The regulars eyed the newcomers with interest - new people meant new stories, as they say.

As the night progressed, things began to calm. Even Griffith, usually the last to leave, stood up and swayed slightly. "Alright, guess I'm gonna head home," he announced, to the surprise of his companions.

With their de facto leader gone, Griffith's group felt awkward staying and soon dispersed as well. Gradually, the chatter and noise fell away until only about twenty folk remained as the clock ticked towards midnight.

Gong... Gong... A few of the newcomers looked up, startled by the unfamiliar sound of the Sanctuary's ancient clock marking the hour.

Mans began clearing tables, his experienced eye taking in who remained. Seven figures caught his attention - a diverse group that hadn't been there before. As the last of the regulars shuffled out, he knew it was time for the true purpose of the Sanctuary to begin.

Setting down his tray, Mans made his way to the center of the room, his presence commanding attention without a word. Everyone turned to face him, sensing the shift in the air. Mans cleared his throat.

"I, Mans Rhyder, the 447th innkeeper of the Drunken Sanctuary, thank ye for coming and visiting me family's little hut!" he announced. "As is custom here, it is time I welcome ye to the circle. Share your stories, many friends. Know that you are here among friends. Whatever tale you tell stays here."

The newcomers shuffled at this confident remark. "I know," he continued, "some of you might be hesitant, but the Sanctuary has a long-standing tradition of discretion. Any tale you tell here is treated with the utmost respect and confidentiality. It hath been true for centuries."

"Why tell a tale in a place like this?" asked one of the few still there. Mans glanced up. It was the assassin. Or at least he was pretty sure she was one. The way she held herself, the hood, the angle... it was just so... assassin. Mans had been in this line of work long enough to smell them out a mile away, which was ironic because their whole profession relied upon stealth.

"You tell the tale... for yourself, and for others," he said, looking at her. "Here at the Sanctuary, you all can share freely your tales, your failures, your successes, without fear of judgment or consequences beyond these walls. We pride ourselves on maintaining a safe space for all."

"So you just hear stories every night and keep them secret?" a figure in another corner said. Mans looked up; it was one of the twins. They were both huge (almost 7 feet tall), blond with broad chins and cold blue eyes. They looked like they could fit straight into the king's guard with their stature and presence.

"Aye," Mans replied, "We believe in sharing to unburden the soul and to enlighten others. For generations, the Sanctuary has been a place where people can come and share the most intimate details of their lives without fear. The listeners might gain wisdom, and the tellers find relief, all protected by our code of honor and discretion."

"And the storyteller... what do they gain?" It was the hooded figure. Mans looked at her. He had measured everyone here up, but she was the only one he was not sure of, and that troubled him. After almost half a century of being in this business actively, he felt he should be able to know anyone within ten seconds.

"The storyteller leaves unburdened," Mans said. "They gain the freedom to speak their truth without fear, to share burdens that might be too heavy to carry alone. Many find a sense of peace or clarity after sharing their tales here. And they do so knowing that while their words are remembered, they are held in confidence by all who hear them."

The hooded figure remained silent.

"Well - so let us begin, folks!" he said with a clap. This was usually the most awkward part, he knew. There was almost always an awkward silence. And then someone had to make the first move. No one ever wanted to make the first move. There had been nights when no one made the first move. Those were very awkward indeed. As a young man, he had hated it and had almost run away, but his mother had caught him. "I can't stand it!" he would say, and his mother would say sternly, "Tis your job to absorb the awkwardness, Mans. If you feel awkward, how do you think the visitors feel!"

Now Mans, though still sensitive to the feeling of awkwardness, had learned to be able to work through it. He was prepared and, in fact, expected nothing to happen for at least 3 hours. But to his surprise, someone from the corner of his eye stood up. "Well, if it's all the same to you, I guess I'll start."

Mans looked around. It was the dwarf.

The dwarf smiled. "I know, I know... you expect my kind to be proud and reticent and hard. But unfortunately, I am none of those."

"What is your name?" Mans asked.

"Aye - my name is Stonefist."

Mans nodded. He knew that dwarves were named based on their abilities and not graduated from the name they were given.

"Well, Stonefist. The floor is yours. Tell us your tale."

Author Note

I am including some Early Artwork. Subject to change. I just wanted to put this out there to get feedback from y'all!

I am shortly going to have a website up to show case each story with detailed wikis of the works/place/characters. but would love for you to chime in now so if I feel like there is a twist I NEED to include I can get it in now before its too late. :)

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Fiona Santos is strong, protective, and selfless—all essential qualities in a parent—and strives to uphold them.

She has two children to look after; they need her just as much as she needs them. The room is dimly lit, with a harsh fluorescent light flickering above, casting long, ominous shadows across the walls.

A sturdy metal table is bolted to the floor, with three chairs around it, Fiona sitting in one. Two men walk in, causing the atmosphere in the room to become tense.

"Mrs. Fiona Santos?" one of the detectives questioned, looking inside the folder he was holding.

Straightening her dress, Fiona sat upright in her chair, looking forward and holding herself in a sophisticated manner. "Ms. Santos," she corrected, "My husband passed away eight years ago."

"Our apologies," Detective Pierce nodded to his colleague as they sat across from her. As they sat, Detective Pierce folded his hands in front of himself atop the table and rolled his shoulders.

"Can you tell us again what happened to your children?" he asked, forcing a smile.

"Like I told the police and your associate here...my children and I were on our way to the park when 'it' appeared out of nowhere," Fiona paused and exhaled slowly. 'IT TOOK.THEM.FROM.ME!' she enunciated each word by smacking her palm onto the table.

Fiona fixed her frizzy hair, then wiped her sweaty palms on her dress.

"We understand your frustration. Can you recall again what 'they' looked like?" Detective Pierce asked.

How could she forget what they looked like? Closing her eyes, Fiona could still see them even now. They were six feet tall, their limbs unnaturally long. Their fingers were black with pointed tips. A faded, torn green dress adorned their slim frame.

"Do you remember any facial features?" the detective next to Pierce asked, tapping his pen on the notepad he was writing on.

"It was always changing as if it was contorting together," Fiona replied, furrowing her brow.

Detective Pierce knew what they were dealing with and stood up. "That will be all, Ms. Santos."

His associate looked at him bewildered as she left the room.

"Are you sure about this, Pierce? What if Ms. Santos had something to do with her children's disappearances?"

"Morrison, have you ever heard of the entity called 'The Mother'?"

An entity called Mother takes the children away, and they never come back. She first appeared in the 1800s when the children from a local orphanage went missing. Since then, eyewitnesses have given the same description to adults.

"So what happens to the children?" Morrison paled, dreading to even ask at this point.

"Her den isn't too far from here. There, I am sure we will find what remains of them," replied Pierce, exiting the room with his associate close behind him.

In the middle of the forest, a six-foot-tall figure dug into the earthen soil where white and yellow bones mixed in. Mother added more to the pile, proudly gleaming at their children.

A rustle nearby startled the entity, and she emitted a horrible scream, scrambling on all fours toward the sound. Pierce stepped out, holding a specially made shotgun in his hand. As they got closer, he fired the shot, hitting 'Mother' in the chest with a spray of buckshot. They writhed and screamed, contorting on the ground.

Morrison stepped out from behind a tree. "What the hell was in that shot?" he asked, pushing over a container on a dolly with symbols on the outside of it. Pierce kept his gun trained on 'Mother.'

"Celtic salt, Sage, and Florida water," the seasoned detective replied.

Morrison blinked in surprise and began questioning how they would get the entity into the barrel when it glowed—a low chanting emitted from inside, drawing 'Mother' inside and causing her to shriek. The lid was sealed tightly, and Pierce placed a talisman on top of it.

"This will hold her right?"

"We haven't had one break out yet. Of course, that doesn't mean it won't happen."

Morrison tensed, keeping his eyes trained on the container, causing Pierce to laugh.

"Let's get 'Mother' back to base," said the seasoned detective. The detective in training gladly followed behind the other as they loaded her into the van. They got inside the truck, shutting their doors on the driver and passenger sides.

"What kind of detective are you?" Morrison asked, fastening his seatbelt.

"Supernatural Detective, and welcome to the Mystic Eldritch Agency or the MEA." Pierce smiled, put the car in drive, and drove down the dirt road.

"The MEA huh?" Morrison leans back in the car seat. "I guess it can't be so bad."

After 'Mother' had been removed by Pierce and Morrison, the recovery team went in to see if they could retrieve Ms. Santos's missing children. Both siblings were found huddled together in a small shack in the woods near Mother's nesting ground. If they had waited any longer, then the children would have been the entity's next victims.

Mother has been captured and contained. The clean-up of her burial grounds has begun. The bones will be returned to their families. The case of 'The Mother' is closed.

The diner’s neon sign flickers outside, casting a red glow on the snow-covered street. My heart is in my throat. Collecting my thoughts feels like grasping for something solid in a frost smoke. The warmth in the booth is a deceptive comfort, wrapping me in its embrace as I sit across from the man—the dark figure from my nightmares. The stranger from the snowstorm is here, in the flesh, but he has not aged a day. His wide eyes are like dark pits, filled with a void; his slim nose looks unnatural, almost surgical. His long, pale hair hangs around his shoulders, and even from a distance, seeing his full face for the first time sends a shiver down my spine. He has an underbite, and his thin lips curl downward in a disturbed expression I’ve never seen before.

I watch him eat moist bacon with his fingers, my pulse a chaotic drumbeat. His presence is both familiar and foreign, bringing me right back to the snowstorm, to the last time I saw Gavin. The diner is nearly empty, save for a few scattered patrons and the hum of the old jukebox in the corner. I lean in closer, trying to glean some hint of recognition from his expression, but his gaze remains inscrutable.

The man is lost in his coffee, stirring it absently, as if he has all the time in the world. It feels like I’m dreaming. This can’t be real, not after all this time. But it has to be him.

I fumble with my phone, texting the lead investigator from back then, an old man I’ve seen around often but who dismissed my theory about the stranger from the get-go. I wait for his reply to my cryptic message, stating that I have breaking news about the case that I need to discuss in person, before arranging a time to meet up today. It feels final, like the end is just around the corner, and I need to be certain I have all the details right. We pick a time: 5 p.m. sharp at my vacation home.

The stranger gets up from his booth, ready to leave. I can’t let him go, so I decide to do the same, my mind racing with the implications of what might happen next. Is his identity really enough to warrant an arrest? Should I try to catch him in the act of something suspicious? I follow his vintage car from the diner to the outskirts of town. There is a secluded mountain cabin, hidden away by dense woods and dirt roads, and it seems to be where he retreats when not in the public eye. My breath fogs up the windows as I drive with a careful gap between us, the road winding and bumpy.

The cabin appears as a dark silhouette against the snow-covered moss and tall pine trees. It is a simple structure, weather-beaten and isolated, the trees seeming to close in. I park at a distance, careful to stay out of sight, and approach the cabin with the stealth of a hunter. The secrets are tangible in the air, clammy and musty; this man holds answers to what happened with my brother.

As I hide outside the secluded mountain cabin, the snowflakes dance around me like ghosts eager to consume everything they touch. My heart pounds with both fear and excitement. This is it.

The cold air bites into my skin as I crouch behind a dense cluster of bushes, my breath forming clouds that dissolve into the early afternoon. I’ve hidden a small pocket knife in my sock for safety. I can see the man’s long silhouette moving behind the curtains.

My hands tremble as I pull out my phone and scroll to Rupert’s number. It has been years since we last spoke, our friendship fractured from the moment Gavin disappeared and never fully recovered. But I need him now. I need him to verify what I have seen, to confirm that this man—the one I have found after all these years—is the same man with the same car we both saw on that terrible night.

The phone rings twice before Rupert answers, his voice groggy and confused. “Kendall? That’s a surprise... what’s going on?”

“Rupert,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “I found him. I found the stranger from that night. The one with the car—the one we both saw near the carnival.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. I can almost hear the gears turning in Rupert’s mind, the memories we have both tried to bury surfacing with a jolt. “That’s… not possible. Are you sure?” he finally asks, his voice tense. “It’s been so long...”

“I’m sure,” I insist, snapping a picture of the car with my phone and sending it to him. “I’m outside his cabin right now. Look at the photo—tell me if you recognize it.”

There’s a brief silence as Rupert receives the image, followed by a sharp intake of breath. “Oh my God, Kendall. That’s... that’s the same car,” he says, his voice low. “Kendall, you need to get out of there. This guy is a potential—”

“I need to know,” I interrupt, desperation creeping into my voice. “I need to make sure it’s really him. He can’t keep hiding or getting away anymore.”

Rupert hesitates for a moment. “You’re not going to do something stupid, are you?”

“Catch him doing something shady. Find some evidence.”

“Oh my God. I can’t believe this,” he whispers as if in disbelief. I don’t blame him. “Send me your location and wait for me; we’ll do this together. I’m not letting another brother wander off alone.”

I stare down at the snow crawling up my ankles. “Yeah, alright. Me neither.”

I send him the location, and as I wait, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m on the brink of something monumental, something that could finally bring closure or shatter the fragile normalcy I have managed to build over the years.

When Rupert arrives, the air between us is heavy and dreadful. He parks his car next to mine, hidden away, and approaches cautiously, his face colorless under the bleached sunlight. “Man, this is crazy,” he whispers as he crouches down beside me. “What’s the plan? Explosives? Beat him up until he confesses?”

I side-eye him. “No. We’re breaking in whenever he leaves or falls to rest.” The cabin remains silent, the man inside unaware of the two intruders lurking just beyond his walls. We watch for what feels like an eternity until he finally emerges, his face hidden beneath the brim of a worn hat. He walks with a slow, deliberate pace, almost as if he’s savoring the stillness of nature. As he climbs into his car and drives away, a weight is lifted off my shoulders, and a new kind of tension kicks in. The time has come to face whatever horrors lie inside that cabin.

Rupert and I exchange a look, a wordless agreement passing between us. We move quickly and quietly, making our way to the front door. My hands fumble with the lock, and in my haste, I kick the door open with more force than I intend. The door swings inward with a loud creak, revealing the dimly lit interior.

Inside, the air is thick with a mildewed odor, a mix of aged wood and thick smoke. My heart pounds in sync with the creaking floorboards. The interior is sparse but unsettling—rusty tools hang on the walls, and the furniture is a haphazard collection of old, worn pieces.

An old-fashioned radio crackles softly in the background. I can almost hear the sobbing ghosts of the past blending with the static.

A large, dust-covered desk dominates the room, its surface littered with documents and photographs detailing the search for missing children and body snatching from local graveyards. The sketches of the man are unmistakable—the same disturbing features I had seen years ago. I snap photos of everything, documenting the evidence with a feverish urgency. Lost faces stare up at me, begging to be seen, found. I feel a chill crawl up my spine as I recognize one of the faces staring back at me from the yellowed paper: Still Missing. It’s my brother.

Rupert sifts through the evidence with shaking hands, his face growing whiter with each revelation. “It’s really him,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. “This freak... he’s been following the cases, collecting information. Maybe we should leave now?”

“I just need to gather everything, show it to the detectives.”

“This is... unsettling,” he admits, flipping through a stack of prints. “We need to watch out for ourselves. If we report this, we could get into trouble for breaking and entering, not to mention how this evidence was obtained.”

I nod, my mind spinning. The evidence is damning, but Rupert is right—breaking into the cabin and stealing these documents could land us in serious trouble. We need to approach this carefully, or risk losing everything we’ve uncovered.

“Come to my place,” Rupert urges. “We’ll sort through what we found and figure out the best way to present it to the detectives. You don’t want legal trouble because of this, man. Let’s take the evidence to my place, review it more thoroughly, and figure it out.”

I have no answer, only a knot in my stomach growing tighter as I scan the evidence. Old photographs, some dating back decades, show children—smiling, unsuspecting—moments before they disappeared forever. Handwritten notes detail their last known locations, their families’ desperate pleas for help, and the dead ends that led to cold cases.

“Okay,” I acknowledge. No legal troubles. “We go to your place.”

An engine rumbles, approaching in the distance. I freeze, the blood draining from my face. He is returning. This place is a mess.

“Hurry,” I hiss, grabbing as many papers as I can and stuffing them into my coat. Rupert nods, his eyes wide with fear, and we bolt for the door.

We barely make it outside when the man’s car pulls up. We duck behind the trees, our breaths ragged, as we watch him step out of the car, unsuspecting. He moves with an eerie calm, singing a lullaby in high-pitched, staccato shrieks. He stops, tilting his head as if listening for something. Then, suddenly, he lets out a scream—a primal, piercing wail that echoes through the forest like the cry of a tortured child. The sound is unnatural, demonic, and it sends a wave of terror through my entire being.

The man’s scream continues frantically, an outburst that shatters the silence of the woods. He is pacing at the broken entrance, waving his long hands in front of his face for air, and Rupert and I watch from the shadows, paralyzed but desperate to get away from this scene.

“Oh,” Rupert sighs, his voice trembling. “Race you to the cars.”

Reluctantly, I agree. We storm back to our cars without looking back, the man’s screams still echoing in my ears. “Hey, you! Red coat, red coat,” I hear the voice screaming operatically, “red coat, red coat, red coat!” We jump into the cars—speeding away from the cabin—kicking dirt up from the ground—eyes fixed on the road.

Arriving at Rupert’s mom’s house, a large, old-fashioned residence that seems both grand and oppressive, I feel a knot of anxiety twist in my stomach. The house is warm and inviting, but I can’t shake the adrenaline from our escape. It’s like warm blood is stuck at the back of my throat. Rupert’s mother greets us with a strained smile, her eyes flicking nervously between us.

“Kendall, nice to finally see you again,” her voice creaks. “What’s going on? You both look like you’ve seen the dead rise.”

“Why don’t we go over the evidence in the study?” Rupert ignores her, leading me into a room lined with shelves of old books and dusty artifacts. The room is an oasis of warmth and old-world charm, but it does little to calm my unease.

“Sorry, I’m just shaken, Martha,” I call out to Rupert’s mom, who stays out of the room. “It’s good to see you, too! Things will be good now.”

As I settle into an armchair, Rupert and I pull out the pictures and documents, studying them. The upholstery of the chair feels strangely textured beneath me. The fabric seems unnervingly lifelike, its pattern disturbingly familiar. I try to focus on the task at hand, but the sensation is unsettling.

Martha brings us tea, her movements hurried and tense. As we sift through the evidence, trying to piece together the puzzle, I notice her eyes darting toward us with an anxious look. There is something unsettling about her demeanor.

I try to shake off the feeling, focusing on the papers and notes spread out before me. But the room’s oppressive atmosphere seems to close in, making it hard to concentrate. Rupert stares straight at me with his mischievous grin. “We did it,” he says nonchalantly. “The case is closed.”

“Maybe I could send it in anonymously,” I suggest, trying to steady my nerves. “If he gets convicted, no one would believe that he actually saw us breaking into his cabin.”

But before I can delve deeper, I feel a sudden rush of dizziness. The room swirls around me, and I look up to see Martha approaching with a chloroform-soaked rag. Panic surges through me as I realize what is happening. No. Her reptilian green eyes, like Rupert’s, pierce through me with intense distress as she presses the rag against my face. Rupert’s icy, rough hands hold me down steadily and violently as I fight back. This is wrong. This can’t be true. I got it all wrong. My vision fades into a swirling void, and the encroaching darkness presses in, suffocating me.

You and I are the same. We're both so bloodthirsty.

In fact, if you asked my departed mother, you are so much worse. You, human, do not like blood as we do. Vampires sip the blood of man and beast for sustenance. My mother said you draw the blood of every creature because it excites you.

My mother said, that even those who faint at the sight of blood are hard-wired to love it, your desire just overcomes you. My mother said, you all will be the last species left on this planet because you are the cruelest. My mother said, across the millennia, it has not been good enough for us to bow to you, but we must be buried beneath you. 

I cannot even find peace in this cave.

My mother said, you have slain the Neanderthal, the Jinn, the Denisovans, the Paranthropus, Homo erectus, and even the vampire. 

That is what I was told for the first one hundred years of my life and I still don't know what to believe.

To be honest, I didn't care about any of that at the time. My mother lost my focus as she spoke as soon as she said both she and I would be dead soon. I had lived as a home-schooled child in in a small cave not knowing anything about the world for 100 years. She said she was on her last leg of life and I only had 40 or so years left despite my teenage look. She died that month.

Soon ( in vampire terms) I was going to be dead but before that, I wanted to live. I wanted to party. I've never tasted human blood and I would never be interested in it. 

There were songs to dance to and women to love. Why were we sitting in caves whining? I flew to the closest city and started my adventure. Then after failing in that city because I did not understand it (I was homeschooled remember) I went to a different city where things were much better.

I learned to trust humans along the way, all thanks to my best friends Kathleen and Barri. I want to tell you I became their friends over mutual interest, or something noble but that's a lie and I will not lie on my deathbed.

I met the girls when I was on a tear, going to a club or bar every night and waking up beside something pretty every morning. The hookups weren't important, just bodies for lust, adoration, romance, and memories for a couple of hours and then a bill for Uber in the morning. The night I ran into the girls something was different.

Kathleen sipped a blue drink and saw me coming. She tapped Barri, a girl who never understood subtlety, and Barri stared at my approach like a child does a new adult. Drunk and horny I sat beside Kath. Embarrassed easily, her face went red almost the same color as her pink dress.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey," Kathleen said.

And then I vomited everything I had drunk in the last hour. The rainbow mix exhausted me and I almost fell out of my chair. Kathleen grabbed me before I could and Barri helped steady me.

Everything went blurry. I was blackout by this point so this is just what I was told.

"Oh, no," Barri said. "Are you okay?"

"Ah, man," a bouncer came by and grabbed me by the shoulder. "I'll get this guy out of here. Sorry, he's bothering you."

"No, actually he's our friend!" Kathleen interjected.

Now, why would this girl lie to protect a stranger? She said she felt bad for me but after getting to know her better I know that isn't the whole truth.

Kathleen was a girl desperate to find Mr. Right. This was her greatest ambition. Now when I vomited on her shoes she knew I was not Mr. Right but the thing is Kathleen had vomited on a shoe or two herself, she didn't even drink, she was that nervous.

Growing up fat, with a stutter, and bad skin, guys weren't the nicest to Kathleen. 

Extreme diet and exercise, speech therapy, and puberty changed who she was on the outside but the years of rejection and bullying did a number on her. She was a nervous wreck around men she liked. Her constant failures only made her want true love more. Like Harvard graduates lusted for political power, Kathleen lusted for love. 

Her lust for love caused her to be a nervous wreck when the opportunity approached. Her stutter returned, and she would tell jokes that weren't funny and she brought an air of anxiety to the interaction. So, when she saw a boy stumble over trying to introduce himself she saw a little of me in her.

Kathleen and Barri brought me over to a couch. They sat me down and Kathleen went to get me some water. So, it was just Barri and I. Now, this is the part where I start remembering again because I thought Barri's question was so strange it almost sobered me.

"Did you mean to do that?" Barri asked with genuine sincerity.

"What... no?"

Now, one thing you should know about Barri is that she might not have any idea about what's going on at any given time. It's interesting because she wasn't dumb either. She was accepted to an Ivy League school but turned it down to go to a school closer to her family. 

Barri just had gaps in her wide array of knowledge. I was homeschooled in a cave, I could relate.

"Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said. “I just know guys have like um, pick-up lines and stuff. You guys can be real tricky." She said tricky in what I'm sure she felt was a funny accent. It was cringy.

I didn't say anything. My head was spinning.

"Oh, no, sorry I didn't mean to imply that you were tricky." She patted my back twice. "I'm sure you're a nice guy."

I looked at her and was greeted by the most unorthodox, unpracticed, and genuine smile I had ever seen in a club or anywhere in my life.

Now one thing you should know about Barri is that because she had trouble not offending people and understanding people what she really wanted was to be understood and to be good. She was a part of about five different volunteer teams, a consistent church attendee, and was a big sister in one of those at-risk youth programs. As for being understood, she was a constant over-explainer.

They were flawed, silly people and I loved them for it.

For the first time since I walked into the human world, I realized I had found some humans I wanted to be friends with. And that's how our yearlong friendship began—a rainbow of impulse and chasing after what we want. 

I traded sex for friendship that night and never regretted it. It was easy. The girls were a lot like me all they wanted was to have a good time before their first year of college. So, there was no sex but secrets shared, the only thing naked between us was the truth, and we were bound by trust, not fuzzy handcuffs. And I wouldn't take back that experience for the world.

There was another who did not like it though.

Perhaps, we all are slaves to our genetics... Do you know elephants hate lions and will chase a lion down to ruin its day? The same goes for whales and orcas.

There was something from the ancient world that was a proud slave to its genes.

We clubbed every weekend night and songs steered our summer.

In July we were singing our hearts out to Chapel Ronan's best song, not Pink Pony Club, not Good Luck Babe but Feminomen

Hit-like-rom-

Pom-Pom-Pom

Get it hot like

Papa John

As soon as we entered a club we went straight to the dance floor and earned our drinks through sweat and laughs. After that, we headed to the bar to grab drinks and then decided who would wing for who in the search for love. That night Barri and I left Kathleen at the bar so Barri could wingwoman for me.

While we were away an old man came up to Kathleen. Much to her chagrin, she always attracted men outside her age range. 

I don't remember what the girl I liked was wearing but Barri wore a bright yellow dress and had just re-dyed her hair to be blonde.

"Oh, you like movies," Barri said to my target for the night after awkward introduction and conversations. "Vlad really really likes movies," Barri said again without a hint of subtlety. In truth, she wasn't a good wingwoman at all but that was the fun of it. That's what made all of us laugh.

"Oh," the woman said, probably surprised by Barri's abrasive approach.

"Do you have a favorite director?" I asked.

"I don't know. I like horror," she was nervous. Her drink swayed ever-so-slightly in her hand. "Oh, I saw Get Out recently it's my favorite movie so I guess Peele."

"You like Get Out better than Peele's other one... US?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Pretty eyes and that little smile you do and blessed with good movie taste. I didn't know God played favorites," I mocked and flashed my smile and thanks to thousands of years of vampire genetics I'm told it is quite good.

She rolled her eyes but she did do that little smile I liked. My heart raced because I knew what this could lead to.

Behind us, the old man still chatted with Kathleen. He was out of place for the EDM club we were in. He wore a plaid suit and loafers. The room glowed under the lights of the dance floor. 

Neon, orange, yellow, and pink painted the club. Dresses, tank tops, and white sneakers flowed throughout the room. This was a place for drugs, dancing, and laughter. What did this old man want?

I am protective of my friends but Kathleen knew how to get rid of him. She was just taking longer than normal.

"Whatever," the nameless girl in front of me said. "What about you? Who do you like?"

"The only one better than Peele right now: Robert Eggers."

"Oooh he is good," Barri chimed in.

"Better than Peele? Lie again." She mocked.

"You think I'm wrong?" I pretended to be aghast and put my hand to my chest in protest.

"I know you're wrong."

"Jordan Peele didn't make The Witch," I countered.

"Well, he didn't," she said and fingered my chest. "You're right about God playing favorites because he definitely made you cute but gave you bad taste." Her touch and her teasing sent me into boyish ecstasy and she knew it. My toes curled and I fought back a larger smile that wanted to greet her.

"Oh," she said. "It looks like you have a cute little smile too."

That would have sent me over the moon until Barri chimed in.

"I liked The Witch," Barri added not understanding at all that I was doing quite fine without her there.

We both stared at her. She took two big sips of her fruity drink without a care in the world.

"Shall we dance," I asked the trio.

"Eeek, let's go!" Barri squealed

My film buff flirt shrugged and motioned for me to lead her. I did and looked back one more time at Kathleen and considered breaking it up.

The last time I did she got mad at me because she said he was offering to be her sugar daddy and she was toying with the idea if she should get one. Maybe, she finally decided on it.

Regardless, we got to the dance floor. I am not a good dancer but more importantly, I am a free man. I'm not afraid to be off-beat or a fool. I will do what my body tells me to do or jump and sing the lyrics. On the third song since we were on the dance floor that's what I was doing. I jumped, screamed, and sang in front of my girl's face and she did it right back.

Gimme Gimme Gimme

A man after midnight

Won't somebody come chase the shadow away

Yes, it was effeminate. Yes, it was corny but like I said I was free. I was having a great time.

The girl I flirted with wiggled her finger at me to come closer.

I pulled my new friend close to me for her to whisper something in my ear, purely for intimacy.

"That's not your girlfriend right?" She asked.

"Why? Jealous." I asked. It was my turn to mock.

"Maybe, I just wanted to give you a little film education at my place y'know because I have such good taste."

"Why, yes I would like a taste."

She gave me a playful smack on the cheek and pushed me off.

"That is not what I said."

"Sorry, the music is just so loud. It's difficult to hear can you say it again?" I said and stared at her lips, unashamed and making it clear what I wanted to do.

She bit her lip and glanced at me.

"Come here again and I'll show you."

She puckered up. I touched the small of her back and pulled her in. She put her two fingers on each side of my belt buckle and returned my embrace.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the old man in plaid grab Kathleen's wrist and pull her out of the chair. Kathleen and I made eye contact across the bar. Her eyes bulged and puffed with fear and tears.

That I would not stand for. I brushed my date aside and moved with the speed and strength that vampiric blood allowed me. Men dropped as I went through them. The floor of flashing lights and colorful shirts parted like the Red Sea and soon I placed my hand on the back of the man in plaid.

A mighty push would be enough. He would fly across the room, crash against the wall, and receive a broken body as punishment.

That's what should have happened.

Instead, he received the brunt of my power and only stumbled a few feet. He turned to me, his little head full of joy.

"Oh, you are from the old world too! I smell the old blood on you," his voice was curling, it was like every word was yanked uphill going higher in pitch at the end.

I was stunned into silence. I helped Kathleen up but didn't take my eye off the plaid man. He frightened me. No one should be this strong.

"Oh, she belongs to you! If I had known oh, if I had known. I have much gold and a few souls. I will buy her. Name your price."

"Not for sale," I said. I had never met another nonhuman who wasn't a vampire before and I was not enjoying the experience.

"Oh, everything is."

"Not her."

Barri came behind me and added "Yeah, not her," then gave Kathleen a long list of eternal sorrows for leaving her.

"Yes, her.” the strange man said. “Yes her indeed and the pitiful one as well."

"I said, no."

"My dear son of the Count, do you know I am dying? Do you know what you do to me? You saying no... your resistance... your protection. It only makes me want them more. Are you aware because I have lived 1,000 years I have had everything I want? All that is left is what you want. Now name your price because everything has one."

A bouncer came from around the corner and tapped the odd man on the shoulder.

"Sir, you need to leave."

He eyed the bouncer, all four foot of him eyed the six-foot-plus giant.

“No,” he said. “I’m negotiating. Don’t interrupt an elf as he negotiates.”

“Okay, let me walk you out,” the bouncer said.

With speed, much faster than me, the elf grasped the leg of the bouncer buried his hand in there, and yanked out dripping red bone.

The bouncer screamed and collapsed to the floor.

“How will you do that with no legs?” the elf asked and the turned to me. He wiggled the bone in his hand and said. “Now, we were negotiating…”

He had to see it in my face. He had to see the fear. That was a lot of strength. To much strength. I tried to reply back but my throat went dry. He could talk though he was unmoved as everyone in the club ran out screaming upon seeing the bouncer’s crawling body trying to make it to an exit.

I somehow found words and mumbled my reply.

“Is that a number? Go on speak up.”

“They aren’t mine to sell.”

“What do you mean, Son of the Count? Have you not made them your slaves?”

“No… they’re my friends.”

“Then I will take them.”

His eyes gleamed with a sickening delight as he tossed the bloody bone aside. I never heard it clatter to the floor. Screams, the bouncer’s gurgling, and the bass of the speakers drowned it out. The elf’s eyes gleamed with a primal hunger, and his body shook with wanting. He stopped looking at me and eyed Barri and Kathleen.

Kathleen trembled behind me, her fingers clutched my arm,  her nails dug into my skin. Barri stood frozen, her eyes wide with shock. For once she had nothing to say.

I leaped to him with a punch that could shatter bones, but the elf merely staggered, a twisted smile still plastered on his face. He moved with a fluidity that was both mesmerizing and terrifying, his every step calculated, predatory.

Without warning, he lunged at me, faster than I could react. I barely had time to raise my arms in defense before he was upon me, his strength overwhelmed me. We crashed into the dance floor, the impact shattered it. My back burned.  My head bounced against the floor. Neon lights flickered and flashed above us to match the quick, violent tempo of the song.

His hands wrapped around my throat, squeezing with the force of a vice. I thrashed beneath him, clawing at his arms, but it was like trying to move a mountain. 

“Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.” he said. “I am your brother here. You cannot befriend them you must rule them or they will betray you. I beg you. Yield.” 

“No,” I spat back.

“Then you will be made to yield,” he said and grabbed my thigh with one hand and pulled out a bone.

I howled. I cried. I was confused. And I was so angry.

“It’s for your own good, Son of the Count. These girls…” he stopped his speech as both Barri and Kathleen crashed bottles against his head. They did not affect him. He swatted them away.

I managed to free one hand. I unsheathed my nails and slashed them across his face. It loosened his grip. I broke free.

“I guess I deserve that.” the elf said unamused. “We can be done with this boy. Again, I just ask you for your women?.” he rose and extended his arm to me.

Something snapped inside me. With a primal scream, I launched myself at the elf, sinking my fangs into his face. He howled in pain and I chewed. I chewed like a mad dog and ripped out every piece of humanity from his flesh. The taste of his blood was foul, like poison, but I didn’t care. I bit down harder, my anger gave me strength. The elf tried to shake me off, but I held on and tore at his flesh with all the fury I could muster.

Eventually, I got off of him and stood above him on my one working leg. He crawled away on his back, like a worm. His nose was gone, I had swallowed an eye and his face was more bone than meat. I felt a gross satisfaction with myself.

“You… you..” he stuttered and sputtered his words, he only had one lip to speak with now and part of his tongue was torn. “ You would do this to another elder species for them? You have stolen an elf’s face for what? Do you know what they are?”

“They are friends,” I said. Both Kathleen and Barri helped me up.

“Oh, this... this… you betray your blood for humanity. They will betray you y’know? You see me as an enemy but one day you will look at me as a friend. Wait until you meet my friends.”

And with that, he ran away.

Max Burns is an amateur photographer. Though his profession is not photography, he does take photos as a hobby. On one of his days off, he received a call to take some photos of an abandoned house.

The person who requested this of him was a friend named Violet Moss.

She is a realtor who flips houses and resells them to make a profit. Max agreed and went to the address Violet had given him. Upon arrival, the house came into view. He had never seen something so unique.

It was a cliff-anchored house; this type of home is only seen sometimes due to the frequent landslides in the area. Pulling into a makeshift parking space, he parked his car, grabbed his gear, and walked up to the door.

A note was left on the door telling Max where the key was. At the bottom of the note, Violet apologized for not being there since she had to draw up the final paperwork. Retrieving the key from under a flower pot, he went inside.

Shutting the door behind him, he flipped the light switch for the lights that slowly blinked to life. Setting up his gear, he began to go through each room, taking photos. It was relatively empty and seemed odd to Max since Violet always decorated, especially if she would make a sale.

With the bottom floor done, he headed upstairs, cutting the lights on.

Stepping into the doorway of one of the bedrooms, he snapped a photo, and his camera began beeping at him. Confused, he looked at the screen flashing with the low battery symbol.

He sighed, took out another battery pack, and replaced it. The camera was fully charged, so why did it suddenly become drained? Shaking his head, Max continued finishing up the upstairs, then made his way back down.

Walking to the kitchen counter, he opened his laptop and inserted the memory card from his camera to review and edit the photos he had taken. Looking through the images, he came across the one he had taken of the first upstairs bedroom.

Inside the room, there was a figure. Static and grey, the person was about average height and thin, with their head hanging down. There was no way this was a ghost. Max didn't believe in the supernatural and blamed the camera for malfunctioning due to the drained battery. So he would retake the photo.

Max sent Violet an email with the photos he approved, and she quickly replied, asking him if he was still inside the house. He replied, telling her he was still inside the house finishing up. Violet, in a panic, told him to get out of there.

A creak from the stairs made him turn as he took out his phone and snapped a picture with its camera. Max cursed, forgetting his flash was on, and tried to take another when footsteps thumped across the floor towards him.

He dropped his phone and backed away from the island counter. What had made its way down to him? Max's phone began to ring, startling him. From where he stood, he could see Violet trying to call him.

Max cursed under his breath. "Okay, Max, don't be such a baby. Ghosts are not real. Just grab your phone and answer it." he said aloud to himself, taking a deep breath before grabbing his phone and quickly answering it.

"V-violet"

"Maxie, is everything okay? I'm on my way to your location. I need you to grab your stuff and go wait in your car." she tells him, trying not to express the rising panic in her voice.

"Is something wrong with the house?" Max asked, looking around and listening to his surroundings as he packed his stuff.

"Just trust me and get out." She ended the call, and Max did as he was told. He put his bag over his shoulder, and his cell phone was the last thing he reached for. The lights in the room flickered before going out, ultimately leaving him in nothing but the darkness of the kitchen.

When Max let out an exhale of air, he could see his breath, making him visibly shiver. Keeping his eyes on the middle of the room, he walked backward, reaching his hand behind him to open the door. Once the door was open, he stepped out, almost tripping in the process, and shut the door.

Moving quickly, he went to his car, opened the door, and sat inside.

Max tossed his bag into the passenger seat and took out his phone to look at his photo of the stairs. What he looked at differed from the one he had taken from the bedroom. There was a man with no head, and his body was covered with something black. It dripped onto the floor, and the ax he carried was covered in dried blood.

Looking up from his phone, Max heard the house's front door open. He watched as it stayed open for a while until it slammed shut. Could the ghost not leave the house? If that was the case, Max was grateful. Violet parked next to him.

They sat in her car and talked briefly about what had just happened, and Max showed her the photos. "This is just crazy," Violet paused and looked at Max. I'm so sorry this happened to you. I knew strange things were happening, but you got them on camera."

"Didn't anyone else try taking photos or recordings??" he questioned.

Violet shook her head. "No, my crew was scared, so I looked into its history. Once I found out what happened, I looked for a buyer immediately. The person that I found deals with this sort of thing."

Is there a person who deals with those things in there? Did Violet find an exorcist or a medium? Hopefully, that person is both.

"What exactly did you find out about this place?" Max asked, putting his phone and laptop away. Violet gripped the steering wheel, looking over at him with a frown.

"That man in the photo killed his family in that house. His wife had been cheating on him, and he found out." she began to explain.

Violet slowly took her hands off the wheel and placed them in her lap.

"He then hung himself above the stairs. When a family friend found them, he'd been hanging there so long that his head detached. His wife was practically decapitated upstairs. Thankfully, they didn't have children." she added.

Max shuddered, thankful he had taken the pictures and got out of there when he did. He'd hate to think about what would have happened if he had stayed inside a little longer.

"You don't have any more houses like this, do you?" Max asked nervously.

Violet shook her head. "No, but if I do, I'll warn you first."

"I'd appreciate that." he sighs, leaning his head back against the seat and closing his eyes. This was enough excitement for one day. Hopefully, the person who bought this house knows what they're doing.

A week later, Violet contacted him.

"Hey Violet, did the new owners have any luck?" Max asked as he headed inside from his regular nine-to-five job for the day.

"Yes, but I have another favor to ask," she replied, hearing two other people in the background.

"Oh...uh, sure. What do you need exactly?" Max nervously swallowed, tossing his keys onto the dish on his coffee table.

"How do you feel about doing Spirit Photography?"

"As a profession?"

"The owner says they would pay you a lot."

Max pondered this for a moment. If it paid enough, he could quit his office job, especially if this person bought homes like this often.

"Max Burns?" a deep, gruff voice said on the phone now, making him sit upright. "My name is Andy Graves, and I need your assistance with my business ventures. You'll be paid for your time and will constantly be on the move. Are you okay with these terms?"

Surprised, he visibly nodded, even if Andy couldn't see him. "Yes."

"Good. See you at the airport a few days from now. Monday six in the morning, don't be late." Andy ended the call, and Max sat on his couch in shock. 'It this is a full-time profession now,' he thought.

Monday came sooner than expected, and he was rushing out the door. He looked at his apartment from over his shoulder before shutting the door one last time. He had already said his goodbyes to Violet the day before, so there would be no tears. When he arrived at the airport, he didn't know what to expect when looking for Andy Graves, but for some reason, he knew it was him when they met.

"Andy Graves?"

"You must be Max Burns."

"It will be a pleasure working with you, Spirit Photographer."

Max nodded, feeling a shiver go down his spine as they shook hands.

Just what had he gotten himself into?

If you’re reading this, do yourself a favor- fucking die. Now.

Yeah, I know. Asking everyone to kill themselves is pretty harsh. I don’t say that lightly in any way though, I promise. It’s for good reason, because if you don’t do it now you may never have the chance later.

I went into bio-engineering for the sole purpose of helping to better the world. If there was some way that we could create sustainable agriculture in any weather, more bountiful crops, or hell, even a substitute for meat farming, I would be happy with my accomplishments. Unfortunately, I was young and naive when I thought all that, before I was hired for the job that probably damned us all.

It was honestly too good to pass up thanks to all the loans I had from grad school. Military contractors in the biomedicine field, said when they hired me on that they would cover my full tuition loan paid back after one year on the job. If you’ve paid for graduate school, you know that’s one hell of a deal, especially if the company is also paying a six-figure salary on the higher end, with major clearance requirements. I’m not a dumbass, I know it was either that or back behind the goddamn gas station counter scanning cat food and condoms for idiots that shouldn’t reproduce in the first place. Oh Jesus Christ, every realization I have just makes everything worse.

So, government contractor, right? We worked in a surprisingly normal spot in the American Midwest, a pretty big skyscraper that housed the rest of the firm’s businesses. Ours was deep underground though, highly secure thanks to the nature of our work. I won’t lie, when I stepped in I was super worried I had signed up to work for the fucking Umbrella Corporation. Honestly, it would probably be better to have a zombie apocalypse than this unending nightmare we’re about to experience.

Short rundown- I was an associate researcher on this project, as well as the lead on lab tests. They were looking for the miracle drug, something that had a one hundred percent cure rate for anything from cancer to dementia to the common cold. I was in, absolutely behind the goal of the project from the start. Meanwhile, our head scientist, an older woman named Deb, was incredibly stony about everything. Nothing seemed good enough for her, there was no excitement when we hit breakthroughs, just a constant “we need more progress” type attitude. We couldn’t please her, even with cutting-edge science.

Meanwhile, Sam was another associate, her specialty being in genetic engineering. Colton rounded out the team, presiding over specimens, records, and administering samples. It was a small team to try and minimize leaks, because we were going to change the world.

It’s been five years since then, and we’ve gone through a hell of a lot of attempts. Splicing together DNA to try to create a cure-all isn’t easy, and I’m not about to get into the specifics of it because it’s not fucking important right now.

As with any drug trials, we had to start testing on animals. Look, my ethics weren’t for it either, but we started with the standard lab rats before moving on to primates. The lab rats had shown good promise finally, with most diseases infected cured within a few weeks with a round of the drugs. Even the cancer started going away, cells repairing themselves from the decay. Primate trials went much the same, with the apes even having a more energizing effect that made them recover even faster. It was all going so, so right for everything we were working towards. We should have seen the signs once we started human trials.

We didn’t take volunteers, but instead were given “executed” death row prisoners. Some we were kind of lucky about, thanks to either the time it takes the American justice system to do a damn thing or just due to their own genetic predispositions, some subjects already had sicknesses to test on. Cancer, one with Alzheimer’s, and even a poor soul with unchecked syphilis that was running wild. We had our work cut out for us.

It was like a damned miracle when we started the treatments, giving them a fourteen-day course of injections meant to heal them on a genetic level. It was administered straight to the spinal column, spreading through the nervous system. What we saw as the results were amazing. The cancer patient was better by the fifth day, the tumor-shrinking down to nonexistence in his brain. Unfortunately, when it finally shrunk he seemed to have an utter breakdown of what he had done, murdering his family and neighbors to land on death row. I felt bad for him, in a way, because the guy was just screaming pure rage and grief over the death of his kids and wife. That’s when he tried killing himself in his cell, running his head into the wall constantly.

Guards were able to intervene, getting to him before he could do any lasting harm to himself. Recovery for him was normal, though he did have a slight concussion. The treatment continued, with the concussion fading in a few days. The subject was kept on a full psych lockdown for the remainder of the test while he received psychological counseling. Eventually, though they took his request with a very reluctant and honestly uncaring attitude, it was approved. He would continue helping us with the test until the trial was completed, and then he would be allowed to choose execution if he wanted. The guy was distraught, obviously haunted by what he had done.

Other test subjects were proceeding a lot the same, though one began to completely break down after a short time. According to him we were injecting him with babies’ blood, unlocking his satanic powers. Didn’t feel bad for him considering he was “executed” for the massive amount of things found on hard drives in his house.

While administering tests and treatments we worked in pairs. If there was a subject in the room, there was always one of us paired with one of the two guards who worked down here with us. It was me on duty for treatments that day, and the subject was being relatively quiet for the most part. We went in with no issue, the subject was cuffed by the guard and I set up to administer the drug. Before I knew what was going on he started ranting again, saying he was going to take down the cabal and help Christ reign, the typical terrorist bullshit these days. Except this time he didn’t keep to ranting, instead leaning over and sinking his teeth into my arm.

He wouldn’t let go either, no matter how much the guard tried pulling his jaw open or I knocked him in the head. Eventually, he started drawing blood through my scrubs and coat, so the guard took his last resort. Drawing his pistol, he leveled it at the subject’s forehead, moving me aside and pulling the trigger. I felt his grip on my arm loosen almost instantly as the gunshot ran through, spattering gray matter on the wall behind us. The others came running within moments, seeing the steady pooling of blood on the floor. The subject was terminated, a complete fucking waste of a trial. Can’t say he didn’t deserve it, but he could have followed through on the one good thing he did in his life and finished the tests.

Imagine our surprise when we went to pick him up and take him to the incinerator and he still had a pulse. Even with all the blood and guts scattered in the room, he was fucking breathing. That changed everything, because we realized we might be able to finish the trial after all. We threw him on a stretcher and brought him to the lab, using whatever we had to staunch the bleeding and set up a vitals monitor. Looking back it’s obvious why he survived, but we still didn’t know at the time.

He stayed alive, though in a vegetative state. X-rays showed that most of his brain was scrambled by the bullet, with the guy only able to drool and moan if he really put his remaining mind to it. Meanwhile, the syphilis that had been running rampant in him was gone, complete recovery other than what was included in his lost brain matter.

Then came the final sign thanks to one of the primate subjects. We were still watching them for long-term effects, making sure that it wouldn’t trigger a Planet of the Apes scenario or anything. One day the two got into a fight over food, though it happened overnight so none of us saw it until the next day on camera footage. Instead, what met us when we entered the lab was the ape enclosure soaked in blood, one of the subjects lying in the dirt totally disemboweled, yet still trying to crawl toward the glass.

It shocked us. This thing had guts hanging from where its stomach was, just dropping out like a fucking pinata. We took him to the lab, and did what amounted to a full workup to see what the hell was going on. Half of its organs were eaten by the other ape in an act of dominance. Even still, this thing continued to live, still exhibiting brain waves and a pulse. It was fully aware of what was happening around it, though the pain caused it to scream when we weren’t pumping it with morphine.

We realized after a few days that something bad was happening. The ape still wasn’t dead, but the wounds it had were just scabbing over, still brutally deadly but only causing immense pain instead of expiration. After taking samples, we realized the DNA of the creature was structured differently than before. The treatment seemed to have turned off the ability to die.

Of course, once we saw this in the ape subjects we confirmed it on the human subjects as well. The gunshot wound subject was still going, with pulse and limited brain waves active. He’s sentient, and able to understand basic commands, as well as make sounds with great effort. We decided to give him a test under the guise of mercy.

He was given a rudimentary order- blink twice if you want to die, once for no. As soon as he blinked twice, Deb injected him with a nerve agent that would cause total death within five minutes. After a about two minutes he began to seize, body erratically jerking around the bed he was on. His mouth began foaming, loud moans of despair coming out as his eyes rolled back in his head. His pulse dropped but never flatlined, with brain activity still going the entire way through. Even after a second dose of the nerve agent, he only suffered immense pain, but was unable to die in a conventional form.

I took it upon myself, to be honest with the other subject, the one who promised an execution for his sins and service. He was distraught, of course, but went quiet after a few moments. We left him be, or at least attempted to, but before the guard in the room could react, the subject stole the gun straight from his holster.

Holding the gun to his temple, the subject flipped the safety off and pulled the trigger, splattering more gore on the freshly painted wall. A look of horror filled his eyes before he started screaming, the pain of what he had done settling in. The gun never left his temple, and he pulled the trigger three more times before falling to the ground. He just lay there twitching, blood pouring from every hole on his face as his brains swirled inside with the lead.

We set him up in the lab, pulse still faintly going and brain waves still giving off from what was left of his skull. In the process of checking him out, we went ahead and did scans on the other subject. Another shock ran through all of us- his brain was reforming, matter forming and splitting off from his other cells like a reverse cancer. Things became bleak after a few days, with the realization that it would only restore the parts involving life functions. They would have a pulse consciousness, full awareness of everything at every second, confirmed by asking the subject questions and receiving answers, but they could not die.

It became too much. We almost felt like we owed it to these people to kill them after trying so hard to make a cure. There was one option we had left though, and it was worth a shot. The incinerator.

I can still smell his flesh and hear his screams. We put the conspiracy subject in first, thinking it would probably be a little easier on us considering his past. When we set it off, the screams started immediately, the sounds of his limbs thrashing as nerves were burned off at the ends. We were waiting for the screaming to stop. Waiting for him to finally fucking die. The screaming kept going. None of us knew what to do. At some point, he must have finally lost consciousness or just become numb to the pain, but it took hours. When he finally stopped, we gave it a few minutes before shutting the flames off, pulling the cremation tray out with our fingers crossed that it worked.

His charred, blackened body was lying on the tray, twitching every so often. He let out a rasping breath, crispy vocal cords sounding like sandpaper. His pulse still beating, brain activity was still at full capacity, and even with his brain almost melting to the point of soup in his brain, he was still conscious.

I think we found a way to actually bond the human soul to a genetic code, leaving us trapped in these meat bags through the treatment. We tried other ways, even decapitation as a full-on last resort. A severed, burned head was still giving off brain waves, even after all of that. Any amount of pain could happen to the body, any amount of restriction and injury inflicted, but the soul of the person would stay, brain activity never ceasing. They were trapped in their own head, quite literally, even if the rest of them were destroyed.

I couldn’t deal with what we had wrought. The realization that saving lives had gone into unethical territory like this, with us damning a human to eternal life? Our only hope to die now was old age, and it didn’t look like that was going to happen at this rate either. I finally broke down last week in the lab, seeing the near vegetative body of the cancer patient and the still severed, gawking head of the other. A scalpel was on the table next to me, and I decided it was enough. When I went home that night, I made up my mind.

I knew my anatomy, but went into the bathroom to use the mirror just to make sure I was accurate. The scalpel stung as it first cut into my neck, making my hand recoil, but I had to follow through. I swiped it across quickly, slitting my jugular vein and pouring blood into the sink. I didn’t realize how much blood I had in me until I saw it on the counter, almost overflowing the sink before the drain could take it all. I choked, unable to breathe as my throat was more concerned with the vein that was slit. My breath caught, bleeding everywhere, the last thing I remembered was falling back into unconsciousness, though it wasn’t a complete blackout. I kept having waking nightmares, on the floor in a sea of my own blood, unable to move as I lay facedown, iron taste on my tongue. By the time I was able to get up, the cut had closed up, healing like a normal wound would. It was three days from when I tried, and all I got was waking up in a pool of my own coagulating blood.

I don’t know if we flew too close to the sun or maybe we were part of the experiment. At this time I believe the strain that caused the loss of death may have gone airborne in the lab, bypassing the injectible treatment method.

I’m giving you this warning so you can do what I can’t. It’s only a matter of time until this is everywhere, considering we’ve been free to go in and out of the lab as we please. Find a way to die now, before you lose your chance forever.

I had always thought that memories should be fragile, like the brittle leaves that crumbled beneath our boots every autumn. But some memories are sharp, edged like a blade—impossible to dull with time. The image of that red coat, brighter than blood against a backdrop of clear snow, is one of those memories. It was the last thing I saw before I lost everything.

My brother’s laugh echoed through the empty woods, a high-pitched peal of joy that bounced off the snow-laden trees. Then there was Rupert—the friend who was as much a part of our winter holiday tradition as the icy breath that stung our cheeks—who chased after him, grabbing onto my brother’s red coat, which was almost identical to mine, like two flames in the frosted landscape. I trailed behind them, half-amused, half-bored, the elder brother tasked with supervision. I was starting to long for the warmth of our vacation home more than their childish games.

The sky was bruised with twilight, a deep and ugly purple that whispered of the coming storm. I’d noticed it first, the wind picking up, the sharp bite in the air. “Come on, guys,” I called, trying to keep my tone light. “We should head back. Mom’ll have dinner ready.”

Rupert slowed his pace, his reptilian green eyes—always mischievous, always serious—turning back toward me. “A little longer,” he pleaded, his breath puffing out in visible clouds. “The carnival’s just ahead.”

The abandoned carnival had been our playground for as long as I could remember, a special place we had claimed as our own for winter breaks. It stood at the edge of the forest, its once-vibrant tents now sagging under the weight of neglect, rusted rides creaking in the wind. We’d spent hours there, pretending the fair was still alive with lights and cheerful laughter, inventing ghost stories about the place that we half-believed were true. They did, of course, not me. But today, the encroaching storm seemed to wrap the woods in a sinister shroud, as though the carnival ahead of us was less a playground and more a trap.

I shook my head. “It’s getting late. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

My brother, always the daring one, always the one to push the limits I tried to set, didn’t hear me or didn’t want to. “Race you there!” he shouted to Rupert, his bright red coat a streak of color as he tore down the path. Rupert hesitated for a moment, glancing back at me, then grinned and followed.

I stood there for a beat, watching the two of them fade into the shadows of the trees, a strange unease settling in my stomach. I didn’t want to go back. I wanted the cozy embrace of home, the smell of the wood fire and the safety of walls around me. But that red coat... it was like a tether, pulling me forward even as the dread in my gut told me to turn back.

“Fine,” I muttered to myself, tracing them. “But just for a minute.”

When I reached the edge of the carnival, the storm was already announcing itself. The wind howled through the skeletal remains of the Ferris wheel, its rusted metal shrieking in protest as the snow began to fall in earnest. I found them near the funhouse, its broken mirrors still catching the last glints of dying daylight. My brother was leaning against the entrance, breathless but sticking his tongue out mockingly, while Rupert tried to pry open the swollen door.

“We really need to go,” I urged, my voice sharper than I intended. “Now.”

My brother’s face fell, his defiance melting into disappointment. “Just a little longer,” he begged, his eyes wide and imploring. He was always good at that—making me feel guilty, making me question if I was just being too cautious. And I usually gave in, but tonight, something felt off, a feeling I couldn’t shake.

“No,” I said, more firmly. “We need to go home, Gavin. The storm’s coming.”

Rupert, sensing the shift in my tone, stepped back from the door. “He’s right,” he said, though he didn’t sound fully convinced himself. His mischievous grin had faded; he was usually the one luring my little brother into risky adventures. My brother looked like he might argue, but something in my expression must have told him it wasn’t up for debate this time.

“Fiiine. Allllright,” he muttered, kicking at the snow. “But you so owe me tomorrow, Kendall.”

“Deal,” I said, relieved. “Come on.”

We began the trek back, the three of us walking side by side through the deepening snow. My brother’s hand found mine, his small fingers cold but reassuring in my grip. Rupert walked on the other side of him, his face turned down, lost in thought, probably hesitant to follow because he hadn’t told his mom yet that he’d be having dinner with us.

The storm picked up pace, the snow falling in thick, heavy flakes that obscured our vision and muffled the world around us. We walked in silence, the only sound the crunch of our boots on the frozen ground. I kept a tight hold on my brother’s hand, the red of our coats almost glowing in the twilight.

Then, we reached the crossroads—the spot where the path split, one way leading back to our vacation home, the other winding deeper into the forest and to Rupert’s house. I stopped, feeling that strange unease curl in my gut again.

“This is where we split up,” Rupert said, his voice flat. “I’ll go back to mine. Mom gets lonely on nights like these; she misses me too much.” He nodded toward the darker path.

“Are you sure?” I asked, hesitating. “Your mom would probably not let you walk back on your own if she knew. Just come back with us. Stay over tonight.”

He shook his head. “No, I’ll be fine. I know this path like the back of my hand. It’s not like you vacationers.”

I turned to my brother. “You go with Rupert, spend the night there,” I said, squeezing his hand. “Stick together. Don’t let go of each other, okay? I’ll tell Mom and Dad to call Martha to make sure you both get there safely, and I’ll see you both at our place tomorrow.”

My brother looked up at me, his eyes wide and uncertain. “But... you’ll be alone.”

I forced a smile, ruffling his curly hair. “I’m older, little rascal. Like Dad says, I’m already a boss. Promise me you’ll get home safe.”

He nodded slowly, reluctantly letting go of my hand to take Rupert’s. “I promise.”

I watched them walk away, the red coat gradually disappearing into the swirling snow. I stood there until I could no longer see them, the cold seeping through my coat, the storm pressing in on all sides. I wanted to follow them, to keep them in sight, but something held me back. Some part of me was still that child who believed that fairytales were spun out of light; not all fairytales had a darker, grittier story behind them, waiting to be told.

I turned and started the walk home, alone.

The wind was a living thing, pushing against me, trying to drive me back to where I’d come from. But I pushed on, my breath coming in short, visible bursts. I could barely see more than a few feet ahead, the snow blinding, the world around me muted. And that’s when I heard it—the crunch of tires on snow, the low hum of an engine.

A car appeared out of the whiteout, its headlights cutting through the storm like a large machete. It pulled up beside me, a sleek, black vintage thing that didn’t belong on these roads, not in this weather. The tinted window rolled down just enough for me to see the top half of the driver’s face—deep-set eyes under a pale brow, a thin nose bridge cut off by the window.

“You are in danger out there, red coat,” the man said, his voice a quirky pattern that sent a shiver down my spine. “So fragile, like a dragonfly. Such delicate wings, so easy to bruise. Get in, I’ll drive you home.”

My instincts screamed at me to run, but my feet were rooted to the ground. It was like he was telling me a story. I didn’t answer, just shook my head, taking a step back.

“Come on, little dragonfly,” he coaxed, his voice softer now, gentle and low. “It’s not safe out there to fly around.”

I took another step back, my breath hitching in my throat. “No, thank you,” I managed to stammer. “I live right around the corner… parents are waiting for me.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I noticed a flicker of something disturbed, a gleeful darkness. But then he nodded slowly, the half of his face still hidden. “Fly safely, red-coated dragonfly,” he said in a squeaking pitch, the window rolling back up.

I stood there, watching as the car pulled away, its taillights swallowed by the storm. My heart was pounding in my chest, my skin prickling with unease. Something about the man had felt wicked, deeply, viscerally wrong. But maybe that was my mind playing tricks on me, and he was not a pervert but simply a harmless local freak I hadn’t encountered on a better day. I turned and ran the rest of the way home, the snow tearing at my clothes, the wind howling in my ears.

When I reached the front door, breathless and shaking, I paused, glancing back the way I’d come. The forest was a wall of white, impenetrable and silent. My parents asked about Gavin and Rupert, and they called Martha to check up on them. Their walk hadn’t been long—shorter than mine, in fact. I waited, listening for the sound of laughter from their end of the line, for the sight of my parents’ subtle concern to fade away.

But it didn’t happen. Because only Rupert had made it to his mom. His account: Gavin had left him to follow me back, regretting his decision—my decision—for him to stay at Rupert’s overnight—and Rupert just wanted to go home.

That night, the storm raged, tearing through the trees with a fury I’d never seen before. My parents called the police when hours passed without my brother being found, their faces pale with fear as we searched outside, and none of us could find him. I told the police about the man in the car, about the way he’d looked at me, but the main officer seemed to dismiss it as a boy’s overactive imagination, while the others wrote it down. A sense of panic and dread loomed over their hollow expressions, their necks drenched in sweat. They searched the forest and the carnival as much as possible given the conditions, but there was no sign of him. No footprints, no abandoned red coat—nothing.

As the night turned into a new day, every inch of the town was being combed. I had to give information to a woman who sketched the half I had seen of the stranger’s face and his car; the same for Rupert, who claimed to have seen an old vintage car out in the distance on his way back too.

The guilt consumed me, an unrelenting beast that gnawed at my insides. It should have been me, I told myself over and over again. I should have stayed with them, should have protected them, should have been the one to disappear. But the truth was bleaker, something I couldn’t even admit to myself at the time. I had been afraid. Afraid of the storm, of the man in the car, of something I couldn’t name but felt deep in my bones. And because of that fear, I had miscalculated what was safe and left them to wander on their own.

My brother was never found again.

The years passed, but that night didn’t. It burrowed deep, festering, growing with each passing winter, like I could wake up from any dream or nap and be right in that moment I last saw my brother’s face, his small body walking away from me. For the first few years, my parents insisted that we keep returning to that town—for the memories and the grief, for the resistance to let the officers do their job and for us to let go of our control. But through my late teenage years and early adulthood, the obsession with uncovering what happened to Gavin clawed at me, hunting me down in nightmares like a pack of hyenas with their high-pitched, maniacal cackling echoing through every corner of my mind. I grew up, managed to pull it together for my degrees, tried to move on, but that red coat—his red coat—was always there; I was still tethered.

And now, as I sit in this chilling diner alone on another winter break, staring at the man who has haunted my nightmares for so long, I know that I can never escape it. Because some memories aren’t fragile. Some memories are sharp, edged like a blade.

And today, I will finally face the man who holds the other end of that blade.

Three years after my sister disappeared, my parents and I moved to an old farmhouse built on slanted land and surrounded by towering trees.

Our closest neighbors were deer and far too many bugs. The move was long overdue, and we hoped it might help us heal. It felt like a betrayal to Mom, and it was, but it was also about self-preservation. We had to let Marie go if we were going to continue living. We couldn’t keep clinging to the hope that one day she’d show up at our doorstep, in tears and apologizing.

“I’m sorry for making you all worry!”

Mom didn’t speak to Dad or me for months after we moved. She locked herself in her room, no longer seeing me but looking right through me as if I were a ghost. It made my body burn, and my heart ache.

Dad sympathized and told me to give her space, but I noticed he wouldn’t look at me anymore. I missed my sister and knew my parents blamed me for what happened. They were right—Marie's disappearance was my fault alone.

It should have been you; unspoken words hung in the air.

Yes, it should be me instead of Marie rotting under a pile of dirt, waiting to be unearthed and held.

❧

Marie often came to me at night—I’d hear her singing from the woods. Her voice had always been beautiful, and it still was. She pressed her palms against my window, leaving imprints surrounded by frost. When she smiled, her lips quivered, and her eyes shone like starlight. She whispered my name throughout the night, taught me curses, and hissed enchantments; she sang low and sweet—songs only the dead know.

“It’s not real,” I told myself. “You’re being stupid. It’s just the wind and your imagination.” But the wind doesn’t know my name, and my imagination can’t leave scratches on the window. I tried to forget, convincing myself it had been a dream. But then I found Marie’s locket, coated in thick black mud, on my windowsill. She would never have taken it off willingly. My hands trembled as I wiped away the grime, revealing the inscription:

“A 2 M 4EVR 2 U w <3”

The sight of it shattered the fragile peace I had built. I had told myself for years that she was gone, that I had repressed hope, but I hadn’t truly abandoned it. Now, there was no hope left.

❧

I lost my mind that day.

I ran to the fields and screamed until my throat was raw. I lay on the itchy grass and stared at the sky, watching it darken as the moon bloomed like an iridescent flower. The fields glittered with lightning bugs. I chased and captured them, cupping them in my hand, ripping their wings off, and watching their glow dim. It made me wonder how long it had taken Marie to die. Had she just lain there, accepting her fate and feeling life drain out of her? I crushed the bugs, stared at the luminescent smear on my palms, and stuck my fingers into my mouth, the bitterness mingling with my thoughts.

❧

The guilt gnawed at me relentlessly. It was my fault Marie was dead. I had pressured her into going to the party. I knew she didn’t want to go—it wasn’t her thing—but I needed a designated driver. The more she refused, the more I cajoled, begged, and taunted her.

“It’ll be fun! Come on! Are you going to waste the rest of your life watching TV with Mom and Dad?” “God, Marie, don’t you get tired of being the good daughter?” “How do you think it makes me feel? Oh, Asha, why can’t you be like Marie? Why are you so irresponsible? So dumb?” “Have a drink, just one. You’ll be fine.” “Aren’t you tired of living such a boring life?” “I love you, you know. Come on, Marie! You only live once.”

So Marie had come, and I ignored her existence. Instead, I smoked and drank, and smoked and drank. I passed out, and when I woke up, I had 20 missed calls from Marie and twice as many from my parents. My heart dropped into my stomach, and I tried my hardest not to throw up. I immediately knew something was wrong. I knew something terrible had happened to my sweet sister.

❧

In the aftermath, I tried to connect with Dad in the only way he seemed to notice me—helping around the house. The ladder we had was old and terrifying, but he insisted on using it, so I held it steady as he cleaned the gutters. I stood in his shadow, feeling sick. I imagined him falling and cracking his head open at my feet, his brain spilling out, his eyes weeping blood. I was relieved when he finally descended, but the image of his mangled body never left me.

That night, I dreamt of Marie. She stood in the corner of my room, looking at me. Her hair was tangled, full of bugs and earth, and her lips had rotted away, revealing her gums and teeth. I asked what she wanted and begged her to go away.

She smiled and stared at me, and then her eyes rolled back, revealing empty sockets wriggling with maggots.

Sometimes, I smelled blood in the air, and that’s when I knew Marie was nearby. I know Mom sensed her, too. On the rare occasions we encountered each other, she would look at me, terrified. I imagined Marie clinging to my back, caressing and tracing my face with blood-stained fingertips.

I lost Dad during the height of summer. I found him sitting in the kitchen, staring at a corner, his eyes unfocused and full of tears.

“She’s here,” he told me. “Asha, your sister is here. I can see her. We shouldn’t have left her. We shouldn’t have left her. We need to find her.”

Then he got up and left, the door banging shut behind him. He would be gone for days and come home with dirt in his pockets and eyes red like blood. He would sit at the table and cry, talking to Marie. He apologized to her. She wanted us to find her, and she was upset that we had given up on her.

❧

The days grew longer, summer felt endless, and Marie’s anger grew with the season. A storm blew in, rain lashed the windows, and the wind shook the house. We went outside after it was over to check for damage. The house gazed back at us with hundreds of pairs of eyes. It had been papered with Marie’s missing posters. Her gaze was accusing. “Have You Seen Me?” the posters read.

Yes, Marie, we have. You’ve made sure of it.

The ground was soft and sprinkled with teeth. I picked them up while Dad collected the posters. His mouth twitched, and his eyes were cold. I knew he was gone.

As I’m writing this, his body lies crumpled under my window. I heard the crack as his neck broke on impact, and I know I’ll never forget the sound. Mom has barricaded herself in her room. Occasionally, I hear laughter followed by wailing.

Nothing matters anymore. Marie is here, and she’s waiting for me. The window is open, and I hear her. She’s singing and laughing, her voice warped by time, dirt, and larvae. She emerges from the woods, beautiful and dark. She gazes up at me and smiles.

Tonight, the moon is bright, and the sky is full of stars. I run outside and try to touch her face, but she pulls away and runs back into the woods. I chase her, and around me, the trees vibrate, and the air shimmers.

I’m going to find her. It has all led to this. I know what to do and where to go. I will sift through the dirt, unearth her bones, and shroud myself in her hair. Together, we will wait for the sun to rise and say goodbye to this world.

There’s no one left to haunt and nothing left to mourn—only the parting of the veil.