Annabeth was sitting on her couch, deep in thought. She had watched her favourite TV show, baked herself some muffins and ate them up, and now she felt rather bored. Suddenly, as her eyes were sweeping the room, she noticed something unusual. Something that wasn’t there before.

A note, laying beside her on the couch. It contained only four words:

Let’s play a game!

Annabeth glanced around the room, suddenly feeling afraid. She lived alone. So where did the note come from? And then she understood. Her longtime boyfriend, Luke, had a duplicate of her apartment keys. He must have snuck in somehow without her noticing.

A smile of relief broke across her face. She got to her knees and peeked under the couch, hoping to catch Luke off guard, but he wasn’t there. Annabeth straightened up and once again examined the room thoroughly. She was absolutely sure Luke was hiding somewhere. When her eyes went to the couch again, she saw another note beside the first one.

Oh cool, you want to play hide and seek! Do you want to be the seeker?

—Ha-ha, very funny, Luke. Somewhat creepy even. That’s enough, you can come out now!—Annsbeth called out.

No response.

—Just come out, I’m going to find you anyway! — she said.

And then she noticed a third note. She picked it up and read it.

I guess that’s settled then. I’m going to hide, and you’re going to try and find me. Good luck!

Annabeth rolled her eyes.

— Fine. If you insist.

She began the search. She checked under her bed, inside her wardrobe, took another look under the couch, checked behind the shower curtain, even took a look inside the washing machine and the dishwasher. No sign of Luke. She was completely baffled. And then, when she was about to give up, she remembered that there was one place she forgot to check. It was the closet in her bedroom. It was small, and Annabeth doubted that Luke would fit there, but it seemed to be the last hiding place in the house left unchecked. She approached the closet and opened it.

She gasped and took a step backwards. There definitely was someone inside the closet. But it wasn’t Luke. It was a girl, no older than ten, her back turned to Annabeth.

—You found me, —she said, addressing Annabeth, who was too shacked to respond, — and now, —she continued, her voice turning into a menacing, almost hungry whisper, — it’s your turn to hide. And then she turned around. Annabeth screamed. The girl’s eyes were two black voids with tiny red dots for pupils. Her grin was unnaturally wide, and her right hand, the one that wasn’t clutching the teddy bear, was holding a big, long, sharp knife.

Suddenly the lights in Annabeth’s entire apartment went out. She reached for the light switch, but no matter how much she clicked it, the room remained dark. Meanwhile, the thing in the closet began counting.

—One… Two… Three…

Annabeth sprinted down the hallway to the apartment door and tried to unlock it, but to no avail. The door remained locked and shut no matter what she did.

— Six… Seven… Eight…

Annabeth jumped into the wardrobe, closed the door and concealed herself behind the clothes. She dared not even breathe. She had a feeling that of the monstrous girl will find her, something very bad will happen. She heard light footsteps treading down the hallway. She closed her eyes.

Something yanked the door of the wardrobe open and began throwing out the clothes.

— Found you… — the girl’s voice cooed.

Annabeth’s final scream was drowned out by the girl’s laughter.

"Alice has never been the type who's passionate about hanging out in crowded places, has she?" Leyla sipped her iced coffee as she asked the question.

"Nope. Not in five years of friendship," I replied. I didn’t drink coffee—my stomach had an issue with it. So, I bit into my chocolate bar instead.

"What do you think changed, Elena?"

"Her apartment?" I laughed. "I mean, if you're asking what's recently changed in her life, she just moved. Not far from here."

"Maybe that’s why she asked to meet up here?"

"Still extremely unusual. I mean, it’s Alice we’re talking about. There are plenty of not-so-crowded places around here."

Leyla lifted her head, her expression shifting like she had just spotted something—or someone—she’d been waiting for.

"Speak of the devil. There she is."

"The devil?" I laughed again.

"No, Shithead! Alice!" Leyla had always been an unpleasant woman.

I turned around to see Alice just a few steps behind me, walking with her long black hair swaying elegantly.

"It’s unusual for you to ask to meet up in a crowded place like this," I said as she sat down in the last chair at our table.

"Really? Oh. I guess I didn’t think it through," Alice replied casually.

Her answer made me uneasy. Something felt off about her that night, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I watched as Alice and Leyla talked.

It was Alice. She looked like Alice. She wore Alice’s favorite outfit. But something about her didn’t feel right. Leyla didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she didn’t care.

"How about," Alice said to both of us, "I invite you guys to my new apartment? It’s close by."

We all agreed, and soon, the three of us were walking toward her new place.

We passed through the apartment gate, and I trailed behind Leyla and Alice, who were chatting as if they had the world to themselves. I paid close attention to Alice. The more I observed her, the more I felt like something was wrong.

"Alice," I called out her name.

"Yeah, El?" she responded.

"What are the last four digits of my phone number?"

Alice laughed. "How should I know? It’s your number, El. I have it saved, but I don’t remember it off the top of my head."

Weird. The last four digits of my number were her birth date and month—a long-standing inside joke between us. She used to remember it effortlessly.

"Here we are," Alice said proudly.

Alice showed us her living room. It was stylish and cozy, with a single bedroom.

"What does the bedroom look like?" Leyla asked, moving toward it.

"The electrical system is broken," Alice explained, opening the bedroom door and flipping the light switch. "I’ll get it fixed first thing tomorrow."

The light didn’t turn on—just as she said.

When they returned to the living room, my eyes caught something on the ceiling. It was dark inside, but with the help of the light from outside, I could see that the bulb in her bedroom wasn't installed.

So, it wasn’t the electrical system.

When I turned to close the door, I noticed something hanging at the bottom of the closet door. It looked like long, dark fabric.

My gut told me to check it out.

When Leyla and Alice weren’t paying attention, I slipped back into the bedroom. Kneeling down, I touched the fabric.

It wasn’t fabric.

It was hair. Long, black hair.

A chill ran down my spine.

Was it a wig? Or...was it someone?

Again, my gut urged me to open the closet door. Just a little—just enough to see inside.

The moment I realized what it was, I bolted upright, ran to Leyla, grabbed her hand, and dragged her out of the room.

"El? Hey! What the hell? Where are you taking me? What about Alice?" Leyla muttered, confused.

I didn’t answer.

"El?!"

"Quiet. I’ll tell you later."

Once we were outside the apartment building, I explained.

"So, what was it? A wig?" Leyla asked, baffled.

"No," I replied, trembling. "It was a person. A dead person."

"What?! Who?!"

"Alice."

"What the fuck, El? That’s absurd!" Leyla shouted hysterically. "Alice was just with me in the living room!"

"It was dark, but I was close enough to see it was Alice. Dead. In the closet. Which means there were two Alices. I don’t know which one’s real. But if the one in the closet is the real Alice, then we’re in grave danger."

"Then who was the Alice who met us at the café?" Leyla’s voice trembled.

"I don’t know!"

"What do we do now?"

"We tell the building guard and ask for help."

Reluctantly, Leyla agreed.

Drew, the building guard, accompanied us to Alice’s apartment. We knocked. No answer. Drew unlocked the door with his spare key, and we stepped inside.

We found Alice in the closet.

Dead.

Leyla and I screamed in horror. After discussing with Drew, we decided to call the police and wait outside the apartment.

While we waited, I noticed someone leaving the apartment across from Alice’s. A beautiful woman with long black hair.

The moment I saw her, I felt uneasy—the same uneasiness I’d felt when Alice approached us at the café earlier that night.

I brushed it off and returned to my conversation with Leyla and Drew. But then, I felt someone watching me. I turned my head to see the woman who had come out of the apartment across from Alice's. She stood there, a few meters away from me, staring at me with a strange and eerie expression.

And then, for a fleeting moment, her face shifted.

It became Alice’s face.

Seconds later, it shifted back.

My blood ran cold.

Zion also noticed that if it wasn't floating it would be ten feet tall, had a long cloth covering it's lower half, leaves, and a few plants covering it's arms, and antlers, with hooves, not feet like he thought. With a wave of it's hand, green energy started to creep in like vines until they heard a booming voice old but had a strange warmth to it, The Void plague will continue to destroy ALL creation if nothing is done, I've chosen to help you fight this repulsive monster, it said with power. It's speaking to us with telepathy, Wesley thought, the green vines ripped from the ground and collected both Sage and Oakley, then gently wrapped around their full form in seconds, and moved the bodies out of harm's reach like sharks with their fins causing ripples. What are you doing with them? Wesley asked, My power will be enough to heal them but it will take some time, it said calmly, but it never looked away from the general the entire time, Why have you come here, Aspect, this does not concern you! The general yelled to the moose. I've made a choice to help these noble souls if I do not stand up all forest life will be destroyed, and the Aspects along with it, The Aspects stand with the light! The moose yelled.

I, The Aspect of Nature will help them destroy your evil! It yelled at the general, the voice getting surprisingly deeper the more it yelled, even without it physically talking they could still hear the emotion behind the words. With an ungodly roar of rage, the battle began in its second phase, The Aspect and he furiously charged at one another, the blow from their punches was so hard, that it sent shockwaves throughout the entire area. Green sparks appeared on the antlers showing it was serious, as if uppercut the armored beast further into the air, while coming back down he outstretched his hand, and a crystal formed into a seven foot crystal, and swung down at the moose. Which it blocked with its own arms, the general kicked forward sending the moose back towards the planet, it merely slid on the ground for a few feet, before the vines shot up and wrapped around the arm creating a beautiful shield with spikes for an offensive. The being took flight towards the beast once more, he swung his sword sideways but the Aspect brought the shield up quickly, it was able to stop the attack but the shockwave from it created new life, everyone was in awe at how new plants and flowers were growing right in front of their eyes.

As everyone stared in shock at the fight that looked like it belonged in a movie, Zion looked over at the vines that helped their comrades and saw that it was still glowing, I hope they wake soon. His attention was drawn back to the fight, the moose called upon vines, and shot up and attacked the general, the general quickly got rid of his sword, waved his hand before him, and a giant crystal appeared. It blocked the vines but one happened to get through and hit him in the shoulder, he cut off the vine that got through and looked down at the spot to see a small crack, He hit him, Aster said hopefully, That means he's not indestructible as he first thought, FangShadow added, he let out a low growl at the Aspect. You managed to damage me in my new form, he chuckled, this will be very interesting, but the Aspect was in no mood for talking, as the moose swiped at the beast with his spike shields, However, he leaned in just enough to wear the spikes didn't touch his armor, but to everyone's shock it threw the shield. The general saw this and moved to the side quickly, but he was GRABBED from below by the vines, with a closed fist he was PULLED down back to the ground as the moose grabbed his weapon that came back to it.

I never imagined that It would have damaged him, Zion said, I heard the Aspects were on or near the same level with the Angels but seeing one up close like this really does show it, Amarrick said in wonder. The general started to slowly stand once more, but the moose waved it's hand once more a second later many vines had the beast pinned down on it's knees, tying his hands together so he couldn't move. I wonder if this will work, Wesley thought, he let out another roar and three pointy long crystals appeared on both sides, and above him shot towards the moose, which he blocked by putting his weapon up just in time, the left one hit the shoulder, dodged the right one, but the center one, although blocked, sent it flying. The moose hit the trees hard even breaking one, he broke out of the binding and stood one more, I think we should get in there, Liam said urgently, The Lycans nodded, and Oakley's two friends now joined them, Zion put a thumbs up and all charged going in both directions while Wesley was providing cover fire. He let off four shots in under ten seconds but the general simply laughed and sent sharp red crystals at both groups, Zion was too late to move away and got hit by it, crashing into Aster and sending them both to the ground, as the crystal barely missed the right group but they kept their advance not slowing for a second.

The general let out a chuckle at this, as he created a crystal whip, swung it at them, and caught FangShadow by the arm throwing him into Zion with ease stopping them from getting closer. As Amarrick threw one of his Chakrams towards him one of the two tree humanoids jumped high and came down on him hard stabbing his shoulder with his weapon but jumped off seconds before the wolf's weapon hit him. It sent him back near the treeline but didn't knock him down, everyone else got up focusing on their foe, he slowly walked towards them dark energy was pouring of the armor rotting the grass, and trees, he stomped one foot on the ground, red crystals began to extended from the ground rushing towards them. They were upon them but vines stopped them from finishing the process, the Aspect walked towards them holding it's arm as green flora leaked onto the ground, You're hurt, Zion told it, This is a small price paid to defeat him, it told the teen, as Liam ran up to Zion and told him he had a plan. Remember, we have the Nano-Dislodge sequence if we time it right, We could do damage to the armor, Zion interjected, The moose overheard the plan and said, If you have a plan id like to help with it, they nodded at the being, It let the others know through it's powers that the teens had a plan and everyone was on aboard.

I will keep his attention on me so you two can damage his armor, as it ran forward vines started to shoot out in every direction at the general, he put his hands together and a giant crystal shield covered him. The vines hit the crystal instead some cracking it but it still stood, With this new armor of mine I'm invincible! There's nothing any of you can do that I can't defend against, Germalyn boasted. The moose sent a vine larger than any previously at where his face was when it hit the crystal it cracked and BROKE in seconds, hitting his mask, and pushing him back eight to ten feet, a large crack now lay on his mask, How dare you, Aspect, he yelled. I was going to deliver you as a trophy to the primes but if you want death then so be it, his red crystal hair started to sharpen and move like snakes towards everyone, but the moose was quick to react as it sprouted vines to protect all the warriors from the coming onslaught, but the general was prepared sending a hoard at the moose. It quickly put up a tall vine barrier to stop the multiple spikes of hair coming for him, but that didn't work as some got through two plunged into the arm, one in the knee, and the last one in the chest, as bright green blood began to pour out of the being the teens ran over to help.

Wesley moved forward and let off some more shots towards him as everyone attacked him all at once, the teens leaned down to help the moose back on it's feet with blood leaking out to finish this battle. Worry not, this isn't my true form, it reassured them, they both calmed down hearing this but the fear was still present, Do you still have enough strength to fight with? Zion asked, Oh, don't worry young one I and the other Aspects have faced worst. They looked back to see everyone getting blasted back to the ground, The moose put both hands in the air while it's eyes became bright green in the process, the trees themselves began to move, break, and bend as if they were alive, the two boys were in wonder at this. Once they finished the process, the trees looked like they had faces all staring at the armored beast swinging down at him, they struck their extended limbs downwards but Germalyn dodged the first few strikes, Is that the best the aspects have to offer, he mocked. Before being grabbed by one of the branches and swung from the ground multiple times shaking the ground with huge vibrations each time, the other branches instead of trying to grab became sharp, with super speed they hit the back of the general's armor and successfully cracked it with little struggle.

Black blood began to surface through the armor that was unbreakable until now, as everyone rejoined near the moose for better ground in case that didn't work, but another roar escaped the general. Everyone was on edge looking around for a crystal attack, Look out, Aster screamed, Jumping up high, and over the moose, to block the incoming crystal, it hit the silver wolf in the armor knocking him back down to the ground, Don't worry the runes will erase any damage caused by a Voidspawn, Wesley told them. As they looked at the armor it was already starting to repair itself, Liam realized that this was going to be the only time to set their plan into motion, Can you hold him a bit longer? He asked, The moose nodded in response. The teens each ran to the opposite side of where the general was pinned down and started up the Nano-Dislodge process, The Lycans and Oakley's friends got closer, The Aspect kept him pinned down unable to get up, while Wesley had his gun trained right on the huge crack on his mask, the light from their chest adapters got stronger as the general struggled. The two pressed down on their chest, and pointed down towards Germalyn, sending a huge amount of blue energy and metal directly into the General ferociously! As mountains of black blood poured from the many cracks now in his armor, along with huge burns from the nano shields.

However, even with all the damage that just happened, the general began to slowly rise once more laughing, while the black blood was killing all grass in the immediate area. Wesley aimed, pointed, and shot directly at the general's mask when it hit a part of the mask broke off revealing his face to his enemies, Rage was all that was plastered all over his face compared to his personality. The moose waved his hand once more and the branches grabbed the armored crystal hair so no surprise attack could happen again, a growl escaped the beast's mouth knowing it was trapped and too weak to call upon the great power he had at the beginning of the battle, Is it really over, Wesley thought. NO! I refuse to lose to a bunch of nobodies and one Aspect I'm Number Ten of the generals, the moose took a few steps forward, raised his hand, and multiple vines with green runes rose up to merge with each other go at Germalyn and STAB through his armor into his chest. After a few seconds passed The Aspect removed the vine, and black blood poured out in large gallons, killing all the grass in front of him just like before, he fell on his back with his stomach upward breathing heavily, Wesley didn't know if it was due to the wounds, the fighting itself with the new form, or both those options.

Germalyn tried to stand once more but his body was tired from all the power he used from the armor, I must not lose here after all the battles I've been in this is how I lose, he seemed to chuckle at this. Is it really over? Zion asked, Yes, for he is too weak to move and the attacks from your suits have left him powerless, Amarrick told them, The moose quietly stepped forward and began to float once more. The beast began to chuckle at this as the armor completely broke and chipped away leaving him as he was before, You know killing me solves nothing I'm only one of thirteen besides the Grand General is not a forgiving creature he will hunt all of you done, Germalyn said weakly, He is nothing, the moose told him. Is this really better than capturing him? Liam asked, We we're already fooled by him once I don't want to take that chance again, FangShadow said, Since you all put up such a good fight I'll give you a warning of what's in store, everyone looked confused at this seemingly friendly gesture right before his demise. Why would you a General do this? Aster asked, Because you all beat me fairly, Say your final words and make them quick, The Aspect told him, The Primes, or Ancients as you call them have a huge plan involving something to walk creation, destroy, corrupt, and retrieve the sealing stamp, he warned them.

The moose brought his hand up, a vine shot up from behind his neck, and he was decapitated from the sheer force and speed which it happened , some of the green blood that was still leaking flowed from the Aspect's chest, and poured onto the general's corpse. After that happened a beautiful tree more than anything the teens ever saw, sprouted forth from the remains and made every flower and, remarkable color that existed. When the moose came back down and faced them, Wesley looked down to see that the wounds he had wouldn't heal or stop bleeding he became worried, Why are you not healing yourself? He said, The damage I have was due to a powered-up Voidspawn due to this reason, Your form can't heal, Amarrick interjected. No matter I protected nature, forest life, and all of you, it said in that warm, old, but booming voice, I hate to bring the mood down but the other two generals went to search for the Time Pyramid, they already gained the Spellbind Stone, Wesley said aloud, snapping everyone back to reality. How will we get back to town? One of Oakley's friends asked I can transport you all back to the reality artifact being kept in the town so you may protect it, The moose said with urgency, Now you all must gather around at once, But what about Sage and Oakley? The second friend asked, Don't worry for as long as there are within the vines they'll be safe, it told them, as everyone gathered near the moose and vanished in seconds.

The two made it through the forest and were running back to town to warn everyone of the danger that was coming their way to get the second artifact, they prayed to the creators that they would make it. We should be in range now see if you can contact the chief, Do you think I"II work, Birch, I must have fate that it will, Forrest, as he held his hand up and closed his eyes, twenty seconds later he opened it with relief, I got through to him but nothing's happen yet still I told them to prepare and have the innocents get to safety, Birch said. They looked and saw the town up ahead but Forrest stopped to look around at their surroundings, there was a huge rock nearby so he ushered him back it as to not give away their spot, Why are we doing this instead of heading into town? Birch asked, I may be a bit paranoid but it seems too easy, Forrest told him. Not even thirty seconds after he said these words a huge dark cyclone appeared bringing forth two generals and their twenty servants, How did you know? I felt it at first I thought it was nothing but we are taught not to ignore any feeling you get or our power so I pushed a bit further and felt them hiding in wait, Forrest said. Birch gasped as he saw something he wasn't expecting, He pointed and saw what had his friend in shock, the body of a young girl being carried by one of the armored shadows, Rosie, Forrest said fearful, Why do they still have her surely she's no longer useful for them anyone, Birch said, I don't know but we must free her sooner than later.

Before they could think of a plan to rescue her, they saw them advance ahead towards the gate protecting the town, We have to do something before it's too late, Birch told Forrest. I would love to but the two of us are unmatched against twenty of them not to mention the generals leading them, Forrest said, Speaking off the other general with the red eyes is missing, Birch said, as Forrest turned around to look he saw there were less. Please, everyone, come back safely for all our sake, Forrest thought worried, they looked closer at the legions and saw the Spellbind Stone that's when Birch got an idea, What if we retrieve the artifact from them while at the same time stopping them from invading town, Birch said. He thought it was too risky but after giving it some thought he figured it was better than them getting the artifact in town, they heard the alarm sounding from the town and knew they had to do something, All right let's do it, Forrest said. HEY! Void Scum, Birch screamed, as all of them turned to face the two, You want that artifact you'll have to defeat us, Inva laughed, The children think they're warriors, while Shadon simply looked at them, summoned his scythe, and slashed it towards the gate destroying it in seconds.

The two young tree humanoids were in shock at what they just witnessed, How? The runes, barrier, and gate were gone in seconds, Forrest said with fear, but he quickly gained his bearings and remained calm. Both taking out their weapons and getting ready for a battle, Shadon snapped his fingers and two armored shadows and the robed ghosts stepped up while the rest gathered around the general and disappeared. They almost certainly went into town, So we just have to defeat these four and chase after them, as the four charged at them, Forrest took out a long sword with green runes and a wooden handle, and Birch took a spear and got ready. Forrest ran forward, jumped up high, and came down onto the armored shadow but he was hit from behind by the robe ghost, as the shadow jumped back on its feet he noticed the mask was more physical than the rest, he gripped his sword tightly and charged once more, saw the legs of the shadow wide open and got an idea. He slid under the legs, turning around to slice the heel and brought it to one knee, jumping up to come down on it's head he glanced over to see the robed ghost was wide open, throwing his sword at the mask hitting and going through it as it turned to ash, still standing on the ground he rushed to get his sword and continue the fight.

Birch spinning his spear with one hand, ran forward and threw it hitting the armored shadow's face but to his surprise, the head exploded a few seconds ago, it must've from been from the runes on the spear, he thought. Then he was hit from behind by the robed ghost sending him flying backward, forgot about that one, he said softly, The masks are their weak point, Forrest yelled, as he got back up on his feet ready to strike. He ran and jumped up high, but this time he pointed his arm towards it and opened his hand, his power glowed bright to where it was blinded floating back a bit, he through the spear and it went right threw the mask turning to ash, he landed to pick up his spear and turned to face his comrade. Forrest was grabbed by the armored shadow since it was a few feet bigger than him then turned to face Birch but something happened that they didn't expect, it spoke to them, Put down your weapon or he dies, it shocked the young warriors.They weren't expecting the voice to sound so ghostly compared to what voice they heard earlier come out it's general, I'll put it down, he dropped it but quickly put his arm up, opened his hand, blinded by the light it loosened the grip and Forrest got to his weapon threw it and went into the head.

The body hit the ground and a few seconds later it turned into ash, Forrest got his sword and looked at Birch, Come on hopefully we're not too late and we can still save some people, he said. As the two generals looked down at the chaos from the roof of a tall building a small dark orb appeared once more, I sense the second artifact is beneath the town, Maria told them, Excellent work, Maria, Inva told her. Aspen ran to see the gate destroyed and the guards lying dead on the ground, They will pay for this, he said clenching his fists, Sir, they're all throughout the town it looks like eight armored shadow creatures and robes ghosts with masks, Has the evacuation his completed yet? Over fifty percent, his warrior said. Alright, keep them away from the civilians at all costs! The warrior nodded and relayed the message through his power, I need to find whoever's leading them for I know why their here, As Aspen closed his eyes, opened his hand, and called upon an old weapon to wake and protect the artifact. I'm putting you in charge of stopping those creatures from reaching the innocents escaping understand, Abel, Yes Sir, as they both departed, If they are already here does that mean the other failed and they retrieved the stone, he thought as he was running back to his office, got in there, and pulled back a book for a hidden stairway going down.

You stay here and protect the Spellbind Stone and the girl, Shadon said, glancing down at Rosie's sleeping body, I must find that second artifact whatever it is, He told her, and she nodded in response. The two young warriors rushed past the destroyed the gate to find multiple guards that they knew lying dead on the ground, their green blood spilling out of them and onto the once clean streets of their safe town. I can't believe this, Birch said, trying to hide the fear in his voice, Unfortunately, we have to pay our respects later for now we need to help, Forrest said, keeping his emotions in check, Forest sent another message to Aspen, Forrest, Birch there is a passageway that leads to the second artifact but it's in my office i'm already here make sure you're not followed, he told them. Without a second to spear, they began to bolt towards his office and meet him but were interrupted by an armored shadow attacking innocents, HELP! One screamed, I got this you go on, Are you sure about this? Birch nodded smiling. Forrest continued to run forward for Aspen's office while Birch ran forward and kicked the creature in the back sending it flying forward he turned around, Are you Alright? Can you stand? Yes, I can Thank you so much, Birch, You're welcome now go I got this, only when she was out of his sight did Birch turn back and see it staring with rage filled eyes.

Aspen went through the passageway and came upon a large underground opening in the center was The time pyramid on the side was the weapons, two towering knights from, wood, grass, and trees. Right below where the time pyramid was sitting was a golden trident covered in whiteish-green runs, with flowers hanging on it, and was six and a half feet tall, even when sitting down, I hoped to never put up this weapon again, he thought somberly. Birch and the armored shadow stared at one another for a few seconds then charged, the monster threw a punch but he sidestepped it, as a counter he thrust his spear forward hitting the creature's eye, he pulled it out but the creature stepped back a few feet holding it. The shadow roared at the young warrior and charged, Birch jumped up high, but the monster grinned at him quickly catching his leg and throwing him into the side of a building, with some pain he stood again, spun his spear in front of him, and rushed in once more, sliding down and cut the thing's heel, I hope that works. Birch jumped up but was elbowed by the creature and he took a step back, it slowly stood on that damaged heel seemingly not caring, Alright, this is going to be a little tougher, he started to run around it in circles to confuse it, jumping up and jamming his spear through the thing's neck.

He went deeper and began to drag his weapon along the neck before jumping off, but to his surprise, the monster began to rise and turned to look at him as black blood began to pool out but collapsed on the ground. To make sure it was dead he went up to it and chopped the head off from the body, Alright, time to go and help Forrest defend the Second artifact and keep it from being found, before running off. Forrest reached his office but looked around for anything or anyone suspicious but saw nothing, going inside he used his power but felt nothing out of the ordinary, so he went to the office but remembered Aspen never told them which book led to open the passage to the artifact so he contacted him again. Aspen, what book did you use to open the passageway? Silence for a few seconds before, The red book will be able to open it so you can join me, he responded, Forrest went inside looked at the bookshelf, and after a few seconds saw it and pulled it back to reveal a hidden set of stairs going downwards. Without a moment to spare he went down when he reached the bottom step the door closed behind him leaving him in darkness, he used his power in order to light the way forward for him, and after walking for a minute at most he saw a light at the end for the passage, went within and saw Aspen there holding his trident, Ah, you came, he said proudly.

After a burst of green energy the group landed a few feet away from the destroyed gate when they all looked shocked and horror were on their faces at what happened to the gate and the town itself. It can't be, how could they know where the the Time Pyramid was hidden? Zion said loudly, No, I don't think they know where it is just that it's in the town, Aster told him, Alright, so we still have some time before they get it, Everyone nodded and rushed in to help the innocents and stop them from claiming the second artifact. As the teens looked back they saw the moose looking weaker than before, they went back to help, it looked up and spoke to them in their minds and said, Don't worry about me you must finish your mission I just need a bit of rest than I'll join you, it said in it's old, calming voice. The teens reluctantly agreed as they pushed forward into the town past the dead corpses of the guards towards Aspen's office, As Forrest looked around the cave in wonder his eyes landed upon the second artifact, to think it was right under our feet the whole time, he said, I took careful steps to have it hidden in case a day like this ever came to pass. Should we leave it or take it with us? I think leaving it here would be better in case something happens, Aspen answered, he picked up his golden trident and began spinning it but suddenly stopped as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, Get ready, he warned, as Forrest looked the tunnel and saw a figure moving closer, they came into the light and stopped, it looked at them and grinned, pointing his scythe at them, I believe you're protecting something I need please hand it over, Shadon told them.

"Are you ready, Ash?" Esther appeared at my door, wearing her favorite nightgown. She was grinning from ear to ear, clearly excited. Tonight, we were headed to an event she had described as "The Weirdest You'll Ever Attend."

About a week ago, Esther, my roommate, asked if I’d like to join her at something called "The Ghost Auction." The name immediately hooked me the second it left her lips.

"I’m sorry. The what auction??" I asked, frowning.

"Ghost," she replied.

I lived in a shared apartment with two other women. Esther and I enjoyed binge-watching horror movies so much, while Elly, the third one, avoided anything remotely spooky. Despite our differences, Esther and I bonded over our love of horror. It started with movies, but soon escalated—we visited haunted houses, wrote a script for an indie horror film, and even tried an Ouija board once.

Our horror-related experiences got weirder, darker, and creepier each time.

So you can imagine my excitement when she asked me to join her in attending The Ghost Auction. It sounded more bizarre, unsettling and, as expected, had to be creepier than all of our previous experiences combined.

"It's an event where ghosts—or spiritual entities—are placed inside glass tanks and auctioned off to the highest bidder," Esther explained.

"Define ‘best ghosts,’” I said skeptically. I mean, they were 'ghosts.'

"I have no idea," she replied. "That's exactly why I was curious to attend. What I just explained to you was the only information available on the event's website description on the dark web."

Our journey there wasn’t easy. We had to follow a strict set of rules. We switched cars several times, each driven by someone from the event’s crew. All the windows were painted black, so we couldn’t see where we were headed. By the time we arrived, I was thoroughly disoriented.

The building was like something out of a movie. Everyone was dressed in tuxedos and gowns, like they were attending a high-end gala. It was surreal.

"Miss Esther, invitee number 201?" asked the man guarding the gate, scanning a list of names.

"The one and only," Esther replied confidently.

We walked in after the man pinned a red, strangely-shaped ribbon on her dress.

"Why didn’t he pin one on my dress too?" I whispered.

"Because the invitation is under my name, and I’m allowed to bring a plus one, a companion" she said with a shrug. "In fact," she added, "I have to bring a companion. It's mandatory for the first-timer's invitation to be accepted. "

The main hall was breathtakingly grand, like an auction house for priceless art. I couldn’t believe so much effort was put into bidding on ghosts.

The ghosts themselves were displayed along the walls in cylindrical glass tanks about the size of a one-liter soda bottle. Each tank had a mechanical lid on the top and bottom, as if designed to keep something dangerous from escaping. Inside, each ghost floated like a misty, translucent figure.

Each tank contained only one ghost. I examined them one by one, dead curious about how they were different—what made people willing to auction for them.

"How are they special?" I asked Esther. "They just look like regular human ghosts to me. Sure, they seem to be of different ages, races, appearances, and attires, but that’s about it, from what I can tell."

"What's special about them," Esther replied, seeming excited, "is simply the fact that they are ghosts."

Esther grinned. "Ashley, imagine having one of these in your house—on a desk next to your TV. When guests visit, they won’t see a goldfish in a bowl or a cat in a cage. They’ll see this. How many people do you know with a ghost as a conversation piece?"

I had to admit, it was a strange and intriguing idea.

We took our seats in the front row, right near the stage where the auctioneer would soon present the ghosts. As I settled in, I realized I needed a quick restroom break.

"Before it starts, I think I need to get to the restroom first," I told Esther, as I stood back up.

"Take care of yourself, Ash," she said, her tone oddly serious.

In our three years of friendship, I’d never heard her sound so attentive.

In the restroom, I was inside one of the stalls when two women entered. Their voices echoed as they chatted right outside of my door.

"It's really crowded tonight," one of them said.

"There are a lot of new invitees today," the other responded.

"Aren't there just about twelve or so?"

"The new invitees, yeah. But they have to come in pairs to be accepted for their first event, remember? That’s how it was for us back in the day. So that makes twenty-four in total."

"Oh, yeah, I remember now. It was so long ago for us—I almost forgot."

I could see their heels through the gap under the door as they washed their hands and adjusted their makeup.

"It’s mandatory to bring a plus-one for you to be accepted to attend your first event," one of them continued.

"Secrecy is everything," her friend added. "We all have to hold the same secret to make sure nothing gets leaked."

My chest tightened. Something about their conversation made me uneasy.

"Yeah. Understandably," her friend replied. "For our first invitation to be accepted, we first-timers are required to bring our very first future ghosts with us to this event."

"Our companion's soul would be extracted at the event, turning them into ghosts and placing them inside a small glass tank."

"We first-timers are only allowed to watch, not to participate in the auction."

My blood ran cold.

"But we are allowed to bring home a souvenir, though. The companion we brought to the event—we are allowed to take them home as a ghost, inside a small glass tank."

I shivered. Horror consumed me almost instantly.

One of the women continued speaking as they turned off the faucet.

"I still have mine at home."

I should start by telling you I'm a vampire. Not one of those beautiful, glittering creatures. No, I'm an ugly, snarling, Nosferatu. My existence is a carefully guarded secret, for I cannot move freely among the living. My dark crypt is my home, my sanctuary, my prison.

Time passes, and I do not notice. The world has completely changed all around me, yet all I can do is eat and slumber in my coffin, unaware of the world above. The ancient castle that houses my resting place stands silent under the harsh light of day.

Hunting grows ever more challenging as the world changes, and my grotesque visage—more corpse than human—makes subtlety a necessity. Unlike my alluring vampire kin, who can glide through high society with ease, I cannot rely on charm. My survival depends on ingenuity, a skill honed long before death when I was a robber baron, fattening myself on the labor of those beneath me. Now, as then, I thrive by exploiting the weak, the desperate, and the invisible.

The villagers, wary of my predations, have fortified their homes with crosses and lines of salt. Yet hunger is a powerful motivator, and I have devised a variety of methods to secure sustenance. My network of grave diggers and mortuary workers ensures a steady, if unremarkable, supply of "misplaced" bodies before burial. These same accomplices alert me to travelers passing through, their greed as reliable as the peasant bribes I once distributed to silence discontent.

During stormy nights, I sabotage the monastery’s bell tower, leaving travelers without its guiding chime. Lost in the fog, they stumble into the woods and, eventually, into my waiting embrace. For those who evade the forest, my human servants play their role. Disguised as highway robbers, they drive victims to my castle under the guise of offering sanctuary. It is an ironic tragedy—fleeing thieves only to face a true monster. Occasionally, I let my servants keep the spoils as a reminder that loyalty, even to a predator, has its rewards.

The postal service, too, has become a boon. By diverting mail coaches onto treacherous mountain passes, I ensure a steady supply of stranded travelers. My servants, appearing as benevolent rescuers, bring these waylaid souls to me.

In times of plague, I masquerade as a foreign doctor, my disfigurement explained away as scars from some distant battle. The sick and dying welcome me, blind to the danger in their desperation. They barely notice when another weak member of their household succumbs, and I leave them with promises of false hope.

The orphanage has proven a particularly fruitful partnership. Its headmaster, drowning in gambling debts, sends me sickly children deemed too frail to survive the winter. The church accepts his explanations without question, never asking why so many of the bodies are unfit for viewing. It is a macabre echo of my mortal days, when a well-placed bribe could erase any inconvenient peasant or problem.

Each method requires patience, calculation, and a mastery of deception. Unlike my handsome kin, who dance effortlessly through glittering ballrooms, I rely on schemes born of necessity. Yet, there is a satisfaction in this careful manipulation—a predator’s pride in its perfected hunt. Eternity grants me the luxury of time to adapt and refine my methods, even as superstition and science shape the world above.

Perhaps my hideousness is a blessing in disguise. Who would suspect the ghoulish outcast, too monstrous for polite society, of orchestrating such misfortunes? In a world obsessed with appearances, invisibility can be a most useful tool.

Suddenly, the peace is shattered by the arrival of three vampire hunters. First through the door is a weathered mountain of a man whose monastery-trained muscles strain against his black cassock. A leather bandolier crosses his chest, laden with wooden stakes and glass vials of holy water. Behind him slinks a ghoulishly thin scholar whose wire-rimmed spectacles catch the lamplight as he consults a tomb of vampire lore clutched in his ink-stained hands. Bringing up the rear is a woman, her silver-streaked black hair pulled tight beneath a man's hunting cap, she holds a crossbow loaded with blessed bolts held ready in calloused hands.

Their footsteps echo through the halls as they make their way deeper into the castle's bowels, closer to my sanctuary. The crypt door creaks open, and I hear their hushed voices as they approach my coffin. With a grunt of effort, they pry open the lid, exposing my corpse-like form to the dim light of their lanterns. My gray, mottled skin stretches tight across my skull, lipless mouth revealing yellowed fangs even in repose. What follows is a debate that would chill the blood of any living being - a discussion on how best to destroy me.

"We need to behead it first," one hunter whispers urgently, gripping a silver-hilted blade. "Then stake it to the coffin so it can't rise."

"You're a fool," snarls another, his weathered face twisted with scorn. "The head must remain attached - how else will the holy wafers work? We need to fill its mouth while it's still whole."

"Both of you know nothing," cuts in a third, her scarred hands tightening around a crossbow. "In my village, we learned the hard way. The only sure method is burial at a crossroads. The constant traffic keeps the ground compacted, traps them forever."

"Your village?" scoffs a younger hunter, striking flint against steel. "The same one that lost three families last winter to a fledgling vampire? No, fire is the only way. We burn it to ashes and scatter them in the river's current."

"The river?" A sharp voice rises from the back of the group. "So it can seep into the water table? Poison the wells? Have you learned nothing from the Budapest Incident?"

The oldest among them pushes through the arguing group, his beard streaked with gray. "In sixty years of hunting, I've seen them rise from fire, water, and consecrated ground alike. There's only one sure way - bury them face down."

"Face down?" Several voices clash in disbelief.

"Aye," the elder nods grimly. "When they wake, driven by unholy hunger, they'll dig downward instead of up. By the time they realize their mistake, the sun will have long since found them."

As they argue, their voices grow louder, echoing through the crypt. Unbeknownst to them, their noise has attracted attention - my brethren, other vampires hidden in the shadows, silently creeping up behind the oblivious hunters.

Just as the debate reaches its peak, I sit up in my coffin, fully awake and very much undead. The hunters freeze, terror etched on their faces as they realize their fatal mistake. From the shadows emerge my brethren: Alexandru, once a Wallachian prince, his aristocratic bearing unmarred by the centuries of decay that have left his flesh a tapestry of desiccated patches and exposed sinew. Behind him glides Sister Marie, a former nun whose transformation twisted her features into something vulpine and cruel, her habit now a rotting shroud that trails black ichor. Finally, there's The Collector, as we call him – none know his true name or age, but his patchwork body bears the stitched-together features of his favorite victims, a grotesque collage of stolen beauty.

The third hunter turns to me and brandishes a crucifix, but it's too late. With one swipe of my elongated, razor-sharp claws, I completely remove the woman’s head. A fountain of blood springs forth from her torso as her holy water spills uselessly across the ground. Alexandru descends upon the cleric with precision, his movements as elegant as any court dance as he brutally tears out the priest's throat. Sister Marie takes special delight in the academic, perhaps remembering her own days of scholarly pursuit – she lets him almost reach the door before pouncing, her unnaturally wide jaws unhinging to deliver the fatal bite.

As the last echoes of combat fade away, we gather in the great hall, our figures casting no reflections in the tarnished mirrors. The remnants of our unwelcome visitors cool on the flagstones below as we debate how to prevent future intrusions.

"We should dig a moat," hisses Alexandru, his noble bearing unchanged despite the fresh blood staining his elaborate waistcoat. "Fill it with things that hunger as we do. I know of a merchant in Constantinople who trades in crocodiles. The beasts could feast on trespassers during daylight hours."

Sister Marie's laugh echoes through the chamber, a sound like breaking glass. "Such exotic measures are unnecessary, my prince." Her twisted fingers gesture at the bloody mess below. "We need more living servants. Proper ones, bound by blood and gold. Guards during daylight, eyes in the village, tongues in the taverns to warn us of approaching threats."

"Both fine suggestions," The Collector interrupts, adjusting the stitching at his neck where his latest acquired feature is still settling into place, "but I favor more... artistic measures." He extends a mismatched arm toward the ceiling. "Let us create a labyrinth. I've seen such works in Italy – false passages, trap doors, rooms that flood with the pull of a lever. We could make the very architecture our weapon."

From my position by the hearth, I watch as centuries of personality clash and combine. "The castle itself already holds many secrets," I remind them, running a claw along the ancient stones. "Perhaps we should simply learn to use what we have. The dungeons connect to natural caves that run for miles. We could seed them with coffins, create multiple lairs."

Sister Marie's vulpine features twist in contemplation. "We could cultivate the grounds as well. I remember from my mortal days how certain plants can be quite deadly. Nightshade, wolfsbane, thorny brambles to snag and tear. Nature itself could be our guardian."

"What we need," Alexandru declares with aristocratic certainty, "is to spread confusion among our enemies." He paces the chamber, his decaying fingers tracing patterns in the air. "Let us plant false weaknesses. If they believe silver is our bane instead of wood, let them waste time gathering amulets and bullets that will do nothing. If they think running water bars our path, let them exhaust themselves hauling holy water when simple stakes would serve."

The Collector nods, his patchwork face shifting in the candlelight. "And we should vary our resting places. Never sleep in the same coffin twice in a fortnight. They cannot drive a stake through our hearts if they cannot find them."

As we debate, the first hints of dawn begin to creep across the sky. I raise my hand for silence, and my brethren still themselves. I turn to face them fully, my lipless mouth stretching in what passes for a smile. "We have survived centuries of persecution. We shall adapt, as we always have."

We retreat to our coffins as the sun threatens the horizon, leaving behind the cooling corpses of our would-be executioners. Tomorrow night, we begin our work. The hunters will come again – they always do. But next time, we will be ready. After all, what is time to the undead? We have eternity to perfect our defenses, and unlike our prey, we need only succeed every time. They need only fail once.

She was round, heavy, soft, naked, and lay in a single size bed; the glow of the monitor was the only thing that lit the dark room—there were no windows and a single overhead vent circulated fresh air through the little bedroom. The young woman lifted her arms, so they stood out from her shoulders like two sticks directly towards the ceiling vent; she squinched her face as she extended her arms out and a singular loud pop resonated from her left elbow. Though she lingered in bed and yawned and tossed the yellowy sheets around, so they twisted around her legs ropelike, she’d not just awoken; Pixie remained conscious the entire night. Her stringy unwashed hair—shoulder length—clumped around her head in tangles. Pixie reached out for the metallic nightstand and in reaching blindly while she yawned again, her fingers traced the flat surface of the wall. She angled up and the sheets fell from around her bare midsection.

Hairs knottily protested, snagging as the brush passed over her head. Pixie returned to her back with a flop, continued to hold the brush handle in her left fist, stared absently at the ceiling vent; a light breeze passed through the room, a draft created by the vent and the miniscule space at the base of the door on the wall by the foot of the bed. Her eyes traced the outline of the closed door; the whole place was ghostly with only the light of the monitor as it flickered muted cartoons—the screen was mounted to the high corner adjacent the door and its colored lights occasionally illuminated far peripheries of the space.

Poor paper was tacked around open spaces of the walls with poorer imitations of manga stylings. Bulbously oblong-eyed characters stared down at her from all angles. Spaces not filled by those doodles were pictures, paintings, still images of Japanese iconography: bonsai, samurai, Shinto temples, yokai, so on, so on.

Pixie chewed her bottom lip, nibbled the skin she’d torn from there. The monitor’s screen displayed deep, colorful anime.

“Kohai, Noise on,” she said.

The monitor beeped once in response then its small speaker filled the room with jazz-funk-blues.

“Three, two, one,” Pixie whispered in unison with the words which spilled from the speaker.

Being twenty years old, she was limber enough to contort her upper half from the bed, hang from its edge so the edge held at her lower back; she wobbled up and down until she heard a series of cracks resonate. Pixie groaned in satisfaction and returned properly onto the bed.

The monitor, in its low left corner showed: 6:47. Pixie sighed.

As if by sudden possession, she launched from the mattress onto the little space afforded to the open floor and stood there and untangled herself from where the sheets had coiled around her legs. She then squatted by the bed, rear pressed against the nightstand, and withdrew a drawer from under her bed. Stowed there were a series of clothing items and she dressed herself in eccentric blue, flowy pants with an inner cord belt. For her top, she donned a worn and thinly translucent stained white t-shirt. By the door, beneath the monitor on the floor were a pair of slide-on leather shoes and she stepped into them.

Pixie whipped open the door and slammed her cheek to the threshold’s frame to speak to the monitor. “Kohai, off.”

The room went totally dark as she gently shut and locked the door.

She stood in a narrow, white-painted brick hallway with electric sconces lining the walls, each of those urine-yellow lights coated the white walls in their glow; Pixie’s own personal pallor took on the lights’ hue.

With her thumbs hooked onto the pockets of her pants, she moseyed without hurry down the hall towards a zippering staircase; there were floors above and floors below and she took the series leading down until she met the place where there were no more stairs to take.

The lobby of the structure was not so much that, but more of a thoroughfare with an entryway both to the left and the right; green leaves overhung terracotta dirt beds pressed along the walls. Pixie’s feet carried her faster while she angled her right shoulder out.

Natural warmth splintered into the lobby’s scene as she slammed into the rightward exit and began onto the lightly metropolitan street, bricked, worn, crumbling. Wet hot air sent the looser hairs spidering outward from her crown while lorries thrummed by on the parallel roadway; the sidewalk Pixie stomped along carried few other passersby and when she passed a well-postured man going the opposite way on her side of the street, he stopped, twisted, and called after, “Nice wagon.”

There was no response at all from Pixie, not a single eye blink that might have determined whether she heard what he’d said at all. The man let go of a quick, “Pfft,” before pivoting to go in the direction he’d initially set out for.

Tall Tucson congestion was all around her, Valencia Street’s food vendors resurrected for the day and butters or lards struck grill flats or pans and were shortly followed by batters and eggs and pig cuts—chorizo spice filled the air. Aromatics filled the southernmost line of the street where there were long open plots of earth—this was where a series of stalls gathered haphazardly. The box roofs of the stalls stood in the foreground of the entryway signs which directed towards the municipal superstructure. The noise swelled too—there were shouts, homeless dogs that cruised between the ramshackle stalls; a tabby languished in the sun atop a griddle hut and the dogs barked after it and the tabby paid no mind as it stretched its belly out for the sky. Morning commuters, walkers, gathered to their places and stood in queues or sat among the red earth or took to stools if they were offered by the vendors. Those that took food dispersed with haste, checking tablets or watches or they simply glanced at the sky for answers.

Sun shafts played between the heavy morning clouds that passed over, gray and drab, and there were moments of great heat then great relief then mugginess; it signaled likely rain.

At an intersection where old corroded chain-link fencing ran the length of the southern route with signs warning of trespass, she took Plumer Avenue north and kept her eyes averted to the hewn brick ground beneath her feet. Pixie lifted her nose, sniffed, stuffed her fists into her pockets then continued looking at her own moving feet.

Among the rows of crowded apartments which lined either side of Plumer, there were alleyway vendors—brisk rude people which called out to those that passed in hopes of trade; many of the goods offered were needless hand-made ornaments and the like. Strand bead bracelets dangled from fingers in display and were insistently shown off while artisans cried out prices while children’s tops spun in shoebox sized arenas while corn-husk cigarettes were sold by the pack. It was all noise everywhere.

A few vendors yelled after Pixie, but she ignored them and kept going; the salespeople then shifted their attention to whoever their eyes fell on next—someone with a better response. Plumer Avenue was packed tighter as more commuters gathered to the avenues and ran across the center road at seemingly random intervals—those that drove lorries and battery wagons protested those street crossers with wild abandon; the traffic that existed crept through the narrow route. People ran like water around the tall black light box posts or the narrow and government tended mesquite trunks.

It sprinkled rain; Pixie crossed her arms across her chest and continued walking. The rain caused a mild haze across the scene—Pixie scrunched her nose and quickened her pace.

She came to where she intended, and the crowd continued with its rush, but she froze there in front of a grimy windowed storefront—the welded sign overhead read: Odds N’ Ends. Standing beside the storefront’s door was a towering fellow. The pink and dew-eyed man danced and smiled and there was no music; his shoeless calloused heels ground and twisted into the bricks like he intended to create depressions in the ground there. Rainwater beaded and was cradled in his mess of hair. He offered a flash of jazz hands then continued his twisty groove. Though the man hushed words to himself, they were swallowed by the ruckus of the commuters around him.

Pixie pressed into the door, caught the man’s eyes, and he grinned broader, Hello! he called.

She responded with an apologetic nod and stretched a flat smile without teeth.

Standing on the interior mat, the door slammed behind her, and she traced the large, high-ceiling interior.

To the right, towering shelves of outdated preserves and books and smokes and incenses and dead crystals created thin pathways; to the left was a counter, a register, and an old, wrinkled woman with a fat gray bun coiled atop her head—she kept a thin yarn shawl over her shoulders. The old woman sat in a high-backed stool behind the register, examined a hardback paper book splayed adjacent the register; she traced her fingers along the sentences while she whispered to herself. Upon finally noticing Pixie standing by the door, the woman came hurriedly from around the backside of the counter, arms up in a fury, “You’re late, Joan,” said the old woman; her eyes darted to the analog dial which hung by the storefront, “Not by much, but still.” Standing alongside one another, the old woman seemed rather short. “You’re soaked—look at you, dripping all over the floor.”

Pixie nodded but refrained from looking the woman in the eye.

“Oh,” the old woman flapped her flattened hand across her own face while coughing, “When did you last wash?” She grabbed onto Pixie’s shoulders, angled the younger woman back so that she could stare into her face. “Look at your eyes—you haven’t been sleeping at all, Joan. What will we do with you? What am I going to do with you?” Then the old woman froze. “Pixie,” she nodded, clawed a single index finger, and tapped the crooked appendage to her temple, “I forget.”

“It’s alright,” whispered Pixie.

The old woman’s nature softened for a moment, her shoulders slanted away from her throat, and she shuffled to return to her post behind the counter. “Anyway, the deliveryman from the res came by and dropped off that shipment, just like I told you he would. They’re in the back. Could you bring them out and help me put them up? I tried a few of them, but the boxes are quite heavy, and it’s worn my back out already.” The old woman offered a meager grin, exposing her missing front teeth. She turned her attention to the book on the counter, lifted it up so it was more like a miniscule cubicle screen—the title read: Your Psychic Powers and How to Develop Them.

Pixie set to the task; the stockroom was overflowing even more so with trinkets—a barrel of mannequin arms overhung from a shelf by the ceiling, covered in dust—dull hanging solitary light bulbs dotted the stockroom’s ceiling and kept the place dark and moldy, save those spotlights. The fresh boxes sat along the rear of the building, where little light was. Twelve in total, the boxes sat and said nothing, and Pixie said nothing to the boxes. The woman took a pocketknife to the metal stitches which kept them closed. Though the proprietor of Odds N’ Ends said she’d tried her hand at the boxes already, there was no sign of her interference.

The first box contained dead multi-colored hair and the stuff stood plumelike from the mouth of the container; Pixie gave it a shake and watched the strands shift around. This unsettled but was not entirely unpleasant; the unpleasantness followed when she grabbed a fistful of hair only to realize she’d brought up a series of dried scalps which clicked together—hard leather on hard leather. Pixie gagged, dropped the scalps where they’d come from, shook her hands wildly, then placed that box to the ground and shifted it away with her foot.

The next contained a full layer of straw and she hesitantly brushed her hand across the top to uncover glass jars—dark browned liquids. Falsely claimed tinctures.

Curiously, she tilted her head at the next box, it was of a different color and shape than the rest. Green and Rectangular. And further aged too. Pixie sucked in a gulp of air, picked at the stitching of the box with her knife then peered inside. Like the previous box, it was full of straw and with more confidence, she pawed it away. She stumbled backwards from the box, hissing, and brought her finger up to her face. A thin trail of blood trickled by the index fingernail of her right hand; she jammed the finger in her mouth and moved to the box again. Carefully, she removed the object by one end. In the dim light, she held a long-handled, well curved tachi sword; the shine of the blade remained pristine. It was ancient and deceiving.

“Oh,” said Pixie around the index finger in her mouth, “It’s a katana.”

She moved underneath one of the spotlights of the stockroom, held it vertically over herself in the glare, traced her eyes along the beautifully corded black handle. As she twisted the blade in the air, it caught the light and she seemed stricken dumb. She withdrew her finger from her mouth, held the thing out in front of her chest with both hands, put her eyes along the water-wave edge. Her tongue tip squeezed from the corner of her mouth while she was frozen with the sword.

In a dash, she held the thing casually and returned to the box. She rummaged within and came up with the scabbard. The weapon easily clicked safely inside. “Pretty cool,” she said.

The other boxes held nothing quite so inspiring as a sword nor anything as morbid as dead scalps. There were decapitated shaved baby-doll heads lining the interior slots of plastic egg cartons, and more fake tonics, and tarot cards, and cigarettes, and a few unmarked media cartridges—both assortments of videos and music were represented in their designs. Pixie spent no time whatsoever ogling any of the other objects; her attention remained with the sword which she kept in her hand as she sallied through the boxes. Between opening every new box, she took a long break to unsheathe the sword and play-fight the air without poise—even so the tachi was alive spoke windily.

“Quit lollygagging,” said the old woman; she stood in the doorway to the stockroom, shook her head, “Is this what you’ve been doing all morning? How are we supposed to get the new merchandise on the shelves—including that sword—if you won’t stop playing around?”

Pixie’s voice cracked, “How much is it?”

The old woman balked, “The sword?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a display piece. We put it in the window to draw in potential customers, of course. It’s too expensive to keep them in stock. I don’t even know where a person could find a continuous stock of them, but if we can put it in the window, perhaps clientele will come in, ask about it, then shop a bit—it’s not something you can sell; it’s an investment.” The old woman, slow as she was, steadied across the stockroom and met Pixie there by the boxes, placed her hand on the open containers, briefly glanced into the nearest one, and smiled. “It’d take you a lifetime to pay back if you wanted a sword like that anyway. Now,” The old woman placed a hand on Pixie’s shoulder, “Put it away. There’s a strange man outside and I need your help shooing him away. He’s likely scared away potential customers already.”

The two of them, tachi returned to its place, went to the front of the store; it was ghostly quiet save their footfalls—the customers that did stop into the store hardly ever stopped in more than the once; it was a place of oddities, strangeness, novelty. The things they sold most of were the packaged cigarettes from the res. No one cared enough for magic or fortune telling. Still, the old woman carried on, like she did often, about the principals for running a business. Pixie carried no principals—none could be found—so the young woman nodded along with anything the old woman said while staring off.

On the approach to the storefront, the man from before could be seen and his dance had not slowed—if anything his movements had only become further enamored with dance. His elbows swung wildly, he spun like a ballerina, he kicked his feet against the brick sideway and did not flinch at the pain of it.

“There he is,” said the old woman, “He’s acting crazy as hell. Look at him go.” He went. “If I wasn’t certain he was as crazy as a deck with five suits, I’d ask if he wanted to bark for me—you know, draw in a crowd.” She shook her head. “Don’t know why people like him can’t just go to the airport. There are handouts there. Anyway, I need to get back to it myself. As do you,” she directed this at Pixie; although Pixie towered over the woman in terms of physicality, the older woman rose on her tiptoes, pinched the younger woman’s soft bicep hard, whispered, “Get that bastard off my stoop, understand?”

Again, the old woman’s face softened, and she left Pixie standing there on the front door’s interior mat. The crone returned to her place behind the counter, nestled onto the stool like a bird finding comfort, then craned her neck far down so her nose nearly touched the book page; her eyes followed her finger across the lines.

Pixie’s chest swelled and then went small as the sigh escaped her; her shoulders hung in front of her, and she briskly pushed outside.

The rain had gone, but the smell remained; across the street, where the morning’s foot congestion decreased, a series of blue-coated builders could be spied hoisting materials—metal framing and brick—via scaffolding with a series of pulleys. For a moment, Pixie stared across the street and watched the men work and shout at one another; a lorry passed by, broke her eyeline and she was suddenly confronted by the dancing man who pivoted several times in a semicircle around where she stood. Far, far off, birds called. Fuel fog stunk the air.

Move, said the dancing man. Initially it seemed a rude command, but upon catching his rain-wetted face, it was obvious that his will was not one of malice, but of love and peace and cosmic splendor. It does not matter how you move, but you must move! It was an offer. Not a command. Or so it seemed.

The man rolled his neck and flicked his head around and the jewels which beaded there glowed around him for a blink as they were cast off.

You’ve been sent to send me away, yeah? asked the man.

“That’s right,” said Pixie.

But it’s not because you wish it?

“I couldn’t care if you stood out here all day.” Pixie bit her lip, chewed enough that a trickle of blood touched her tongue; her eyes swept across the street again and focused on the builders. “The fewer customers we have, the less I need to speak.”

The man froze in his dance then suddenly his stature slumped. He nodded. I’ll go. As you must. You must too, yeah?

“Go? Go where?”

You know.

She did.

The man left and Pixie remained on the street by herself; the rabble which passed her by were few and she stared at her own two feet, at the space between them, at the cracks, and she sighed. She jerked her head back, saw the sky was still deep ocean blue—more rain but nothing so sinister as a storm.

“Go?” she asked the sky.

She reentered the store.

After stocking the newest shipment, the rest of the day was as mundane as the others which Pixie spent within Odds N’ Ends; few patrons stopped in—mostly to ogle—it was a place of spectacle more than a place of business. Whenever folks came, the old woman would call for Pixie without looking up from her book; normally the younger woman dusted or rearranged the things on the shelves as the old woman liked them and was often away from the counter. Pixie tried to answer questions about the shaved doll heads, the crystals arranged upon velvet mats, the tinctures, the stuffed bear head high on the wall. After some terrible conversation, they went to the counter and bought cigarettes or nothing at all and the old woman would complain at Pixie about her poor salesmanship after the patrons were gone.

The tachi was put there on a broad table, directly in front of the storefront window and Pixie froze often in her work, longingly examined the thing from afar, and snapped from her maladaptation; frequently she chastised herself in barely audible mutters. The old woman had Pixie scrub the pane of the window in front of where the sword sat, and the young woman traced her hand across the handle and delicately thumbed the length of the plain scabbard.

It was a job; this was a thing which people did so they may go on living. Come the middle of the shift—Pixie yawned, it was not due to overexertion, it was more due to her poor sleeping habits. This day was no different in this regard.

“I wish you’d keep it to yourself,” the old woman said, and then she cupped a hand over her own mouth and her eyes went teary, “God, now look at me and see what you’ve done!” The old woman shook the tiredness away. “Bah! There’s still some daylight left!”

“We haven’t had anyone in for the past hour,” said Pixie, staring up at the analog dial on the wall.

The old woman’s scowl was fierce. “Mhm, I’m sure you’re waiting for the death call.” She too looked at the clock on the wall and sighed loudly. “Alright. Pack it up! Better the death call of the store than my own.” She fanned her face with a flat palm and yawned again.

Pixie left the place; the old woman locked the storefront from within. It began to rain again; it seemed the weather understood it was quitting time.

The young woman cupped her elbows and walked home in the rain. Other commuters passed with umbrellas and others, like Pixie, ran through the puddles gathered on the ground. Rain was infrequent but this was not so in the summer and Pixie never protested it. It cooled the ground, thickened the air, and darkened the sky. A car passed on the street, but it was mostly lorries or battery wagons. Personal vehicles were as rare as the rain and Pixie watched after the car; it was a short, rounded thing—its metal cosmetics were warped, and it couldn’t have carried more than two people within.

No vendors were there on the way, no men to call after her—no other people either. The sky grew darker yet and though it was still relatively early, it seemed to grow as black as nighttime without stars.

Pixie’s apartment was there, dark, solitary, same. She shut her door, locked it with her inside, undressed completely and dropped her clothes to the little floor there was and huffed as she planked across the mattress; the bedframe protested. “It smells bad in here,” she spoke into the pillow. The words were nothing. In the blackness of the room, she was nothing. It was a void, a capsule, a tomb. She was still wet and smelled like a dog.

The monitor in the corner came alive at her salutation and she snored sporadically in the electric glow of the screen.

Upon waking in the black hours of the morning, Pixie rubbed her eyes, cupped her forearms to her stomach; her midsection growled, and she tentatively reached to the bedside table and removed a bag of dried cactus pears. She nibbled at the end of one and in arching was cut blue and archaically shaped in the stilled light of the monitor’s idle screen. Pixie popped the entire rest of the cactus pear into her mouth, chewed noisily and vaguely stared into the empty corner of the room beneath the monitor.

After silent deliberation, Pixie crept through the night clothed in dark layers and went the back way through Odds N’ Ends. She absconded with the tachi, taking only a moment with the sword by the white windowlight where she carefully examined the thing again. The young woman was beguiled and went from the place the same way she came.

The brick streets resounded with her footfalls as her excited gait carried her home.

She packed light, slung the sword to her hip with a cloth braid—once it was there in its place, she used the thumb of her left hand to nudge the meager guard, so the blade came free from its sheath before she casually clicked it back to where it went. Pixie chuckled, shook with a frightening spasm dance then froze before patting the tachi lightly.

***

Two men stood along a shallow desert ridge; each of them was Apache descended.

Peridot Mesa was covered in poppies, curled horrendous things; once they’d been as precious as the peridot gems themselves, but as the two men stood there, overlooking the ridge, the poppies were browned, sickly, and as twisted as hog phalluses. Among the dying field were chicory and dead fallen-over cacti. The super blossoms were long over and had been for generations.

One man spat in the dirt, tilted his straw hat across his eyes to avert the heavy setting sun; he hoisted his jeans, asked, “You sure?”

The other man, older, lightly bearded, nodded and kept his own head covered with a yellow bucket hat and cradled his bolt-action rifle with the comfortability of an ex-soldier. “Yeah, c’mon Tweep.” He staggered over the edge of the ridge and slid across the dry earth while tilting backwards so his boots went like skis. With some assistance from his partner, he was able to reach flat ground without going over and the two men searched the ground while they continued walking. “Need to find her fast.”

Tweep, the younger man, spat again.

“Nasty habit.”

“Leave it, Taz.”

Taz shrugged and absently tugged on the string which looped the bucket hat loosely around his collar.

“How long?” asked Tweep.

“Serena said she blew through town only three days ago. Said she was coming this way.”

“She came looking for Chupacabra demons?”

“Huh?” asked Taz.

“That’s what that silly girl came out here for, yeah?”

“I guess. Let’s find her before dark, alright?”

“Sure,” said Tweep, “I just don’t know why she’d go looking for them.”

“Who knows? I don’t care enough to know. Not really.” The older man shook his head. “City people come out here, poke the wildlife—they make jokes about the mystics. I know you’ve seen it. Serena said the girl had the doe-eyed look of someone fresh out of Pheonix maybe. Who knows what she’s come here for?” There was a pause and only their footfalls sounded across the loose dry soil. “Dammit!” said the older man, “You’ve got me rambling. Let’s find the body already. Preferably before it gets much darker.”

“You think she’s dead then?”

Taz grimaced and then he spat. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know, sir, why don’t you tell me what to think? I’m starting to think you only dragged me out here to help you carry anything you find valuable.”

Taz shook his head, shrugged. “Smart mouth.” They continued across the mesa, kicking poppies, shifting earth that hadn’t been touched by humans since the first deluge; it wouldn’t be touched by humans for another thousand after the second deluge—that was some time away yet.

“I see her.” Tweep rushed ahead.

Among a rockier set of alcoves, a white, stained blouse hung on a tumbleweed caught among groupings of stones.

“It’s her shirt,” said Tweep, going swiftly ahead.

The younger man leapt atop the stones and looked down a circular nest where the dirt was dug craterlike; destroyed tumbleweeds and splintered bone-corpses littered the nest.

Taz caught his comrade, readied the rifle at the nest.

Strewn across the ground were no less than three full grown Chupacabras, slain; one lay unmoving and decapitated while another’s intestines steamed in the heat. The third clung to life and kicked its rear legs helplessly. Pixie stood among the gore, shirtless; the tachi gleamed in her glowing fists.

“Holy shit!” said Taz; he lowered the rifle and followed Tweep into the nest. The two men kicked the rubbish from their way and approached the young woman with timidness. “You alright?”

Pixie ran the flat of the blade across her pantleg to remove the sparkling blood, inspected the thing and wiped it again before returning the sword to where it went. Leaking bite wounds covered the length of her forearms, and her eyes went far and tired.

Tweep watched the woman, chewed his lip. “You’re possessed! You can’t just kill them like that! Nobody could kill Chupacabra so easily. With your hands?” He tipped his straw hat back, so it fell to his shoulders and hung by the string on his throat.

Pixie shook her head. “It wasn’t with my hands.”

The woman wavered past the men, climbed the short perch where her blouse had gone; she held the shirt to the sky—the material floated out from her fingers as torn rags. She let go of the blouse and it carried on the wind.

Taz approached the only Chupacabra of the nest that remained alive. The creature groaned; the wound which immobilized it had partially severed its spine and the creature’s movements may have been from expelled death energy rather than any conscious effort—the upturned eye of it while it lay on its side seemed to show fear. Its body was mangy, and just as well as naked dark skin shone, so too did fur grow long and sporadic across its torso; short whiskers jutted out from its snout. Chitin shining scales covered the creature’s rear haunches while its tail remained rat naked. Taz shot the thing in the head, and it stopped moving.

The woman fell onto the rocks where the men had come over the den. She sat and examined the wounds on her arms then she turned her attention to the men which had gathered by her. “Do either of you have a spare shirt?”

Archive

Clara’s aunt bequeathed her not merely a cabin, but a contractual obligation—Paragraph 7(b) of the will stipulated residency for “no fewer than fourteen nights to assume ownership,” a clause typed in smudged ink by a notary whose existence could not be verified. The cabin squatted in a pine forest that stretched in mathematically perfect rows, as if planted by a committee of mad clerks. Its walls leaned inward, breathing the stale air of administrative decay.

In the attic, beneath a quilt stitched with indecipherable runes (later identified by a philologist as “filing codes”), she discovered the music box. Its tarnished surface bore not vines, but interlocking gears and tiny, officious stamps: Approved by the Ministry of Harmonies, Dept. XII. A key protruded from its side, cold to the touch. When wound, it emitted a lullaby Clara recognized from a half-remembered dream involving queues, triplicate forms, and a windowless office where her name was misspelled in perpetuity.

The melody did not warp. It precisified. Each note became a minuscule edict, a regulation sung in F-sharp minor. Shadows congealed into figures in frock coats, their faces obscured by stacks of parchment. They shuffled toward her, murmuring verdicts in a language of hums and ledger entries. Clara snapped the lid shut. A paper cut bloomed on her thumb.

That night, the music resumed autonomously. Investigations revealed the box had reappeared on her desk, accompanied by a memo: Noncompliance noted. Penalty accrued. See Appendix Γ. She buried it in the forest, only to find it waiting at breakfast beside a poached egg, now stamped Rejected in crimson wax. Letters arrived from the “Bureau of Acoustic Compliance,” demanding she attend a hearing in a city her map denied.

Her appeals grew frantic. Lawyers hung up, mistaking her voice for static. The local postmaster shrugged. “You’ve always owned the box,” he said, adjusting a nametag that read Employee 913-C.

On the seventh night—or perhaps the seventh iteration of the same night—Clara wound the key with bureaucratic resignation. The figures emerged, bearing quills that scratched her skin into parchment. Signature required, they droned, as her blood pooled into inkwells. Her final breath notarized the transaction.

The cabin now stands vacant, save for the music box, which plays a lullaby for the next heir. Occasionally, a shadow pauses mid-shuffle, adjusts its spectacles, and files a report on Clara’s “satisfactory compliance.”

In the pines, the wind recites tribunal minutes. No one listens.

There were turns and curves, but always the road kept going. At first, I would look back, just to check if the darkness was following us. It was. It looked so empty back there. All the road we had driven, all the trees we had passed, everything, swallowed up by that blackness. Before long, the sun had set and the road in front of us didn’t look much different than the path behind us. It was dark, bleak, only illuminated by our headlights. I reached back and grabbed us two more beers. Any concern over a DUI disappeared just like the road behind us.

I had just about had my third beer, Johnny still lagging behind on his second, when I saw something that made my heart simultaneously skip a beat and drop. “Fucking pull over!” I shouted, my arm reaching out to hit Johnny on the shoulder. “Stop, right there. Here. Do you see that?” The trees to our right had cleared away and at the edge of the headlights I saw a house. “Is there a driveway? Can you get closer?” I checked my phone for a signal, hoping that we had somehow driven back into the real world. I had no bars, but my phone helpfully informed me that it was still 6:25.

“I see it, man. Just calm the fuck down,” Johnny said, almost swerving off the road. “No driveway. Not even a mailbox.

The house was nice. A modern rectangle with large windows. I could just imagine the pool that must be waiting in the back yard. It was the kind of house that actors pay millions of dollars to live in. The car came to a stop, and we sat in silence admiring this beauty of gluttonous extravagance. “We have to check it out,” my words came out almost feeling like an intrusion to the relief we were staring at. “Maybe they have a phone that works or something.”

Johnny didn’t need convincing. He shut off the engine and was halfway out of the car before I thought about unfastening my seatbelt. We stood there, staring at this oasis of a house, the all-consuming blackness not even fifty feet from us.

We made our way to the house, the anticipation filling my chest and threatening to burst out. As we approached the door, I looked through the large window to our right. I saw a dinner table, a nice one. Not some IKEA shit, with place settings waiting for a group of four. The décor was nice, chic and expensive. It was definitely more than either of us could ever afford. Insecurely, I pressed the button that I hoped was the doorbell.

We stood there, waiting while I wondered how I would explain our situation. “Sorry to bother you ma’am or sir, we seem to be lost on an endless road with an all-consuming darkness chasing us. Yes, we’ve had a few drinks, but your house is the first thing we’ve seen besides trees. If I may ask, what time is it? And may we use your phone?”

All my worries were assuaged by the lack of an answer. I looked through the large windows again. The table was still set, fancy art still hung on the walls, but it seemed nobody was home.

“Maybe they’re not home,” Johnny said, as if any of this was normal.

“Fuck this, I’m getting in there. Maybe there’s a phone, or, or maybe there’s something. I’m not getting back in that car without some Goddamn answers,” I said, posturing to kick in the door. My common sense got the better of me before I tried brute force. I reached out and turned the doorknob. I don’t remember if I felt surprised when the door opened. All I remember is Johnny.

“No fucking way,” he said looking past me into the house. I don’t think my mind had quite caught up with what I was seeing. Nothing made sense. The inside wasn’t what I had seen through the window. “This is where I grew up,” he said. I looked at him, his eyes full of nostalgia and childish glee at the sight of a mid-century split-level home. For a moment he was a child again, walking into his home after a long day at school. I think it was then that I knew we were completely, irrevocably fucked.

We entered the home, my eyes adjusting to the new scenery. “Yeah, man, this is it. This is my house,” he said. Johnny looked up, down, all around. The popcorn ceiling hung heavy over my head. Family pictures bordered us on both sides of the entryway landing. Johnny rushed up the stairs, hungrily taking in the sights of his old living room and kitchen. My feet remained frozen just past the doorway. I couldn’t quite process what was happening, but that didn’t stop Johnny. He prattled on about all of the old memories he had about the furniture.

He was halfway through a story about some lamp he broke when he was a kid when I finally found the nerve to voice my concern. Johnny had gone upstairs, but my eyes were fixed on what waited for us below. “You know this isn’t right, right?” I swallowed hard before continuing. “You didn’t even grow up in this state. This isn’t your house, man. And what about the outside? None of this shit makes sense.”

Johnny stood at the top of the stairs, looking down towards me. “Well, I don’t know. We’ve been driving for a while. And maybe they remodeled the outside. I’m not an architect, what the hell do I know?”

“Okay, sure,” I started slowly, unsure of how to break the news to him. “But what about this shit?” I said while pointing down the stairs, desperately needing somebody else to see what I was seeing.

Johnny walked down the stairs and stood next to me. He took a deep breath, buried his hands in his pockets, and let a moment pass before he answered me. “Well, you know, it was always pretty dark down there. This place never did have the best lighting,” he finally said, shuffling in place.

Dark wasn’t the way I would have described it.

Nothing.

It was just nothingness. Three or four steps and then just nothing. Complete darkness, just like the void that had been following us all night.

“The light switch is at the bottom. I used to always get scared going down there.” Johnny explained, as if that was any explanation for what was happening.

I took a breath, grabbed an empty vase from the console by the door, and threw the porcelain container into the darkness. It was enveloped by the void and that was it. No noise, no crash, no shattering. The vase just disappeared. I could see the gears in Johnny’s head turning, trying to come up with some sort of explanation. I gave him a minute, knowing he would never produce an answer.

“Okay, that doesn’t make sense,” he finally admitted.

“You got your phone on you?” I asked, having left mine in the car and not much wanting to go back and get it.

“It’s in the car,” he said still staring at the darkness.

I left him there, trying to solve this impossible puzzle. I went upstairs, searching the broom closet and then under the sink where I found a flashlight. Returning to the landing, I turned it on and pointed it downstairs. Confirming my bad feeling, the beam of light did nothing to penetrate the darkness. It just vanished like everything else. “We gotta get out of here. Help me grab some supplies.”

Johnny followed me upstairs as I headed back into the kitchen. “Just grab whatever food you can. Maybe find something for water,” I ordered and began opening cabinets. I quickly found a pitcher, probably once used for Kool-Aid. I grabbed it and turned towards the sink as Johnny opened the refrigerator.

Just before I turned the faucet, his exasperated cry of “Oh fuck.” Paused me and I looked at him, his mouth agape staring into the fridge. I didn’t want to, but I made my way over to see whatever insanity he was looking at. The bad news was that there was no food. The worse news was that the fridge was full of pictures, all in rows and positioned in frames. I pushed past him and looked through the pictures.

The top shelf was full of pictures of the young boy and his family that I recognized from the walls of the house. “This is you, right?” I asked, already sure of the answer.

“Yep,” Johnny said and took a deep breath. “And my mom and my dad.” The pictures showed his youth, at a lake, at the beach, him and his father setting up a tent somewhere, standing in front of The Grand Canyon, there was even one of them at Mount Rushmore.

The second shelf was full of more pictures of his family, these mostly taken at home. The three of them sat on the couch, his mom holding a young baby. Birthday parties and holidays. The baby grew into a little girl. Everybody got older. They looked happy, celebrating little moments together. I saw the two siblings standing by the door, tired and with backpacks on their shoulders. It must have been the first day of the school year. Towards the back was a teenage Johnny standing next to his first car. Next to that was Johnny in a cap and gown graduating high school.

“There’s a problem, though,” Johnny said as I looked at a picture of his sister walking across the stage at her high school graduation. “We never went to any of those places,” he gestured towards the top shelf. “And I don’t have a sister. These can’t be real."

At that point, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Everything had already been so fucking weird.

I took a deep breath, followed by a sigh that gave no relief. “Well, that is a fucking problem.” I motioned around the room senselessly. “But right now that doesn’t matter. Get some food. Get some water. We have to go.”

Johnny continued to stare at the pictures as I went through all of the cabinets. He seemed infatuated by the life he could have had in some sort of parallel universe. I gathered boxes of crackers, some off-brand cereal and some water from the faucet. “Just fucking forget about it,” I said as I laid a twelve-pack of soda on the counter. “We need to get the hell out of here.” I turned, intending to pull him away from fantasizing about some other life.

 But as soon as I moved my body, my sight went black.

We were driving fast, barreling down the dark road that never seemed to change. His foot slammed on the brakes as soon as I realized what was happening. “What the fuck, man?” I said as we skirted to a stop. I took a breath that I didn’t realize I was holding. “Weren’t we just in your house?”

“That wasn’t my house,” Johnny said, as if that was a reasonable answer to this unreasonable situation. “That was never my house,” he muttered, as if he was trying to convince himself.

I ignored him and shifted the car into park. In frustration, I pounded on the steering wheel before getting out of the car, not realizing that only seconds earlier he had been the one driving.

There were trees and darkness. Behind us was the void, pure blackness, waiting as it had been for this whole drive. There were no houses in sight. Just a whole lot of nothing. I heard the car door open and close before Johnny walked up beside me. I could hear his breathing, heavy and on the verge of panic. His presence felt heavy beside me.

“I don’t know what the hell that was,” my voice broke the silence. “Do you remember us leaving your house?”

“Wasn’t my house,” he managed, without sounding sure of himself.

I shook my head. “Doesn’t really matter. Do you remember leaving?” I stared at the void behind us.

“Sure don’t,” he managed.

We searched the car. We had none of the supplies I had gathered from his house. No food, no soda, nothing. It was like we had never stopped. We were down to a quarter tank of gas, six beers, a fifth of vodka, one Pepsi, and three packs of cigarettes. Considering everything that had happened, we were running pretty low. Standing beside the car, I checked my phone. There were no messages, but it told me the time was still 6:25 as I had feared. “Oh shit,” I exclaimed as I realized the presence of a singular bar. “I’ve got a fucking signal.”

“Oh shit,” Johnny exclaimed. “Do something.”

I didn’t really know what would be the right thing to do. Maybe I could call the cops. Maybe I could just tweet out a 911. I could check Tinder, but I doubted the girls out here would have been worth the time. I settled on calling Ben. Despite what our phones and the car’s clock said, we should have been at his house hours ago. He was a good guy, he must have been worried. I pulled up his contact information and tapped the phone icon. I waited with bated breath as I listened to the dial tone, hoping he would pick up.

“What happened?” Ben’s voice sounded like salvation in my ear. “Did you guys lock yourselves out?”

This new confusion just compounded with all of the weird shit that had already happened. “Look man, we’re in trouble okay. This road isn’t right, we found Johnny’s old place and-.”

“I’ll unlock the door,” Ben cut me off. “Be up soon.”

“No man,” I nearly shouted. “Everything is fucked. What the fuck are you talking about?”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “You guys went out for a smoke. You locked yourselves out, right?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I looked to Johnny, hopelessly hoping he could help me. He put his hands up, shaking his head. “We’re not there, dude.” I searched for the words to explain the situation. “We got lost on our way over. I don’t know where we are.”

“I didn’t think you had that much to drink. I’m on my way up now, you drunk bastard,” he said with a laugh. “Can’t believe you locked yourself out.”

I took a few deep breaths listening to the sound of Ben climbing the stairs. “We never made it there man,” I said pinching the bridge of my nose in frustration.

“I’m looking at you guys right-“ he began as the call cut out leaving his sentence incomplete.

“Ben, dude are you there?” I shouted, pausing to look at my phone. It was 6:25 and I had no signal.

“What happened?” Johnny asked from the other side of the car.

“Fuck this shit,” I muttered to myself. Without fearing the repercussions, I threw my phone into the void. I held my breath waiting, but I never heard it land. It just entered the darkness and disappeared. Johnny stared at me. “Ben said we were already there. I guess we just went out for a smoke.”

I locked eyes with Johnny as he processed this latest development. He slowly nodded his head. “Okay,” he muttered as he kept nodding. We stood there, in silence, in the middle of this road that shouldn’t exist. “Do you want to keep on driving?” He asked me, clearly out of options.

“Sure buddy,” I replied and grabbed the fifth of vodka out of the back seat before settling into the passenger seat. “Wanna play fifty states?” I opened the bottle.

“Why the fuck not?” Johnny shifted the car into drive.

We drove and drank. Our social studies teachers would be ashamed of the trouble we had naming all of the states. The Piano Man crooned through the radio about how he crashed some party. “East Virginia?” I guessed with the bottle in my hand.

“I don’t think that’s a state,” Johnny said with his eyes on the road.

“Are you sure? There’s like a bunch of Virginias.” I replied.

“Does it matter? Just drink.” I took a big drink from the bottle, still half-sure that East Virginia was a state. “Maybe it’s South Virginia,” I slurred, ready to take another drink.

“How long has this song been on?” Johnny asked, breaking me out of my fatalistic vodka haze.

“Since at least 6:25,” I laughed, in spite of the dire situation we were in.

“I think it’s been a while.” He was serious. “It’s not this long. And the words are all wrong. It’s not ‘I may be lazy,’ and I think it’s ‘a lunatic you’re looking for,’ not ‘a maniac.’”

“So what? Maybe you don’t know the words,” I offered trying to bring reason into what was happening.

“No man, and the music is all wrong. Everything is all wrong.”

“Oh, you think something might be wrong?” I started to laugh but was cut off by the sound of police sirens and the strobing red and blue lights illuminating the darkness around us. “Oh fuck,” I muttered as I took another sip of vodka.

Johnny pressed on the brakes and slowed the car to a stop on the side of the road. “Maybe they can help,” he said as he put the car into park.

We sat there, in the flashes of the red and blue lights, the sound of the sirens disrupting our thoughts. In the side view mirror, I could see the cop car pulled over a ways behind us. I took another sip of vodka. In light of everything, a ticket for an open container didn’t seem like such a big deal. “Just got to tell them what’s going on,” I said to myself while Billy Joel repeated the same wrong lyrics.

We sat in silence waiting for our potential savior to step out of their car to help us. In the side view, I could see the door open, and the vague figure of a police officer step out, but the exact details were lost to me. Maybe it was just the vodka. I was always really bad at geography, so the states game had earned me several drinks.

“What the fuck?” Johnny muttered, staring at his side mirror. He stiffened in his seat as the officer approached. Even though he must have seen it coming, the tapping on the window made Johnny jump. He rolled it down out of reflex.

I looked over and understood his fear.

The officer standing beside our car was barely a person. I shook my head and rubbed my eyes, but even after that they were still blurry. This person-shaped creature twitched and shook as they leaned down to look inside the car. The fleshy mass on top of their body was jagged, malformed. There was no hair and no features. Johnny sat, stiff as a board, as this monstrosity reached its arm, tipped with a singular long finger, inside the vehicle. Its finger rested on his leg as it leaned into the car. Its head, more like a tumor, slowly inched closer to Johnny’s face. It gyrated, swayed, almost like it was examining him. Neither of us could move as a long, bloody slit opened in its head. A low, guttural sound came out of this freshly torn mouth.

The creature moaned and swayed, thick blood dripping from its mouth-gash, landing on Johnny’s shirt. Inside were several rows of fleshy teeth. A long, forked tongue flopped out of its mouth, the tip landing on Johnny’s shoulder. The creature shifted, dragging the tongue up the side of Johnny’s face. I heard him whimper as it slid across his ear.

The creature recoiled, retreating from the car. It stepped back, spun around, and howled towards the sky. The noise it made sounded like a mixture of a garbage disposal and the laughter of a group of children. Then it twitched its way back to its car. I watched, silently, in the mirror. Just as it was reaching out for the door handle, the dark void that had been following us all night lurched forward, blanketing the creature and the car. The flashing lights disappeared, along with everything else behind us.

Johnny and I sat for a few minutes, Billy Joel still wrongly singing the same song on the radio. I took a long, long, drink of vodka as I heard Johnny stifle a sob.

“Well,” I broke the tension. “We’re going to die.”

I doubt anyone will read this but hey reader, I'm Alma!

My journey begins on the 2nd of June, three days ago in this year of 2024. I remember the day being quite cold, as it is autumn—almost winter at that time in Argentina. 

The sky was cloudy, with gentle thin tears falling from it. There was fog, a lot of fog, and the ambience was generally humid for the constant rains of the season. I remember waking up wishing I took my life a while back, because in case it wasn't bad enough having lost my mom months ago, another family member just went and died. Not on purpose or anything! No, it was just a car accident. Someone drunk driving. Anyway, now because of ol’ good cousin Lucas, we all had to go to the graveyard on a day like that, on top of the burial being early. 

Looking in the mirror and brushing my teeth, I tried to think about it as a change of routine, since my days were pretty dull. Just surviving, doing absolutely nothing and not looking hard enough or just not getting a job. The water went through the drain as my life escaped from in-between my fingers, unable to keep it together. Jesus, when was it decided that I was to turn 24 this year? 

As I drove out of the city and into the road listening to Será by Las Pelotas, I decided I wouldn't touch not a glass of alcohol. I knew there would probably be eyes around, and given the circumstances in which that idiot died, of course people would be focused primarily on me not doing “my thing”. Because of course, everyone in the family had labeled me as an alcoholic, even if that was a long time ago, it appears that two years of alcoholism are hard to erase from the record. 

I set foot outside of the car my mother had left me. I was so ready to hear something along the lines of “It is because of people like you that…”, “It is due to people like them that…” I opened the umbrella and braced myself, walking towards the entrance. The place was huge, it is the biggest cemetery of the province after all, and one of the prettiest too. I had been there before for different occasions each time, first was because of a childhood friend’s uncle, then my grandparents on specific dates. I found it funny how they asked to be buried there and my family just did that, despite how expensive it was. At least they had the extra money I guessed, good for them!

When I crossed the gate at first no one was around to receive me. I held my umbrella tight and tried to find the person in charge, because well, there normally was someone who had to let you in. And so for some minutes, all I could see was how the cemetery sprawled over the landscape, the different paths it had, without any guidance, seeming like a maze. The statues and monuments, granite and marble, apparently staring at me as if I was some sort of alien, ignoring their own cracks and flaws that time had given them as a warning, they had to retire. I wondered who was managing the place, letting it get so… worn out. 

A frown was visible on my reflection as I peeked through the third window of the building at the front, and saw the room was devoid of any human beings. Man! I was so angry, I had woken up, gotten out of bed and now everyone in the family would think I am an asshole for not showing up, but this wasn't my fault! I sighed and relaxed my shoulders, my left hand reaching for my phone when all of a sudden someone put a hand on my shoulder. 

“Alma” my auntie greeted, showing me a weak smile. 

Not much happened after that. I just remained there, silent, watching as my other family members talked with each other and shared memories of my cousin. I felt out of place. I never really connected with anyone in the family, they felt like some sort of strangers that I knew out of obligation, or formalities. It was such a big family, so many people and no one was even close to knowing not even what my favorite color was. Nevertheless, I knew that I had to be there. And as they were finally closing the hole in the ground, I felt a presence next to me.

“Enjoying yourself?” Asked my younger cousin, Matilda. 

“Aren't you supposed to be like, crying and shit?” I glanced at her askance, not really sure about what she meant with the question. 

“I'm surprised you decided to show up. You could perfectly be the one who killed him.” 

I didn't have a comeback. I wasn't even able to reply, my phone started ringing, and God it was loud. I cursed at myself and buried my hand in my pocket, going away to answer it. By the time I was far enough though, it ceased to ring, and a message that I hadn't seen before popped up. Both notifications were from my dad. 

My heart sank. Of all the bad news I could’ve gotten that day, these were by far the worst. And while he got to enjoy a life abroad, in a first world country, sending me a message from a Café with his younger daughter and perfect wife, I stared blankly at the screen, reading over and over the message. 

‘I have talked about this with Monica. I saw the balance in your bank account that I transfer money to. I'm so disappointed. One would think that you would've done something of use by now, you're old enough to live by yourself. I don't know what to do with you anymore, you're wasting your life. And if it's gonna be like that, this is the last month I'm giving you money. I mean it. I can't help you anymore.’ 

Another message. It was a contact he shared, my ex-psychiatrist. My hands went cold as the shock went away and reality settled in. What did he mean? I hadn't wasted that much money! I still could do something! Mom’s life insurance was bad, did he think it was gonna last forever?! I felt my heart race, my face get warm and saw the blurry vision of tears blocking the way. I put my phone away. I had it coming, he had been warning me. I lowered myself to the ground slowly, squatting down. I cleaned my tears with one hand and still held the umbrella with the other, and I observed the puddles being formed by the water that fell from the crying clouds with tiny waves. A chilling wind whispered to me through the rows of graves, carrying with it the scent of dampt earth and decaying leaves. I let it tickle my cheek and move my hair. I took a minute. 

By the time I started walking back I saw everyone was leaving, each jumping onto their cars or just saying their goodbyes. I waved to my aunt who was talking with the staff and decided it was enough. I turned around and headed to the exit. Approaching the window I first peeked at, however, I stopped. A poorly written poster that communicated they were understaffed and needed a night watchman caught my eye. I quickly took a picture of it while I thought no one was looking, saving the number attached for later. Every chance I got, I had to take. Not like I had any better alternatives. 

The very next day, with a sense of defeat and a clearer head to calm my mood, I made the call. An old man answered, the very owner of the cemetery. We agreed to have a job interview on the next day, “as soon as possible”. But I didn't think too much of it, after all, it was a night shift there, and who in the world would want a job like that? He surely didn't have many candidates, and that was an advantage to my favor. So considering how desperate we both surely were, this would go well. I would armor up and use every tactic and resource I had to get this job, so I dressed with a white shirt, serious pants, high heels and tied my hair up in a bun. A serious independent woman ready for the position!

Yeah that did not go as planned. I had to drive barefoot, when I arrived the high-heeled shoes kept making me struggle in the mud and I had to roll my pants up a little more so they didn't get too dirty. On top of that, it was so chilly that I felt my body shaking every few minutes. I was so tense, nervous and felt so not-ready. In a shocking turn of events, Mr. Pacífico, the owner, whose name is actually Carlos, was very understanding. He was like one of those warm and welcoming grandads that you can see watching the birds and feeding them at a park, with a soft, serene voice. 

“Very well Alma, enough with the background and standard questions” he smiled at me and intertwined his fingers on the table. “I wanna know, why do you want to work here?” 

I smiled and looked down before returning my gaze back to his eyes.

“I find the place to be very special. I think it would be a great experience and I just know that I can do the job well. I also really need the money sir.” 

He chuckled. “I love how honest you are, sweetheart! It is perfectly fine! I know you don't want to work here!, Who in their right mind would? Just tell me, do you fear death?” 

I giggled, thinking I had heard him wrong. However, with the silent revelation that it wasn’t a mistake, I answered. “No sir.”

I got the job a few minutes after that. Or well, at least a trial night. I would be there for one night and if everything went well, I would get the job. This trial was paid, so of course, I had nothing to lose.

It was supposed to be easy. There was no big storm, no client coming for the night, nothing to really worry about, or so I thought. Carlos explained it all to me, he would leave and I would be at the office, the building next to the gate, the only entrance and exit of the place surrounded by pointed fences. There, I had to regularly check the many cameras distributed along the whole graveyard and its various facilities. Landline was working in case of an emergency and there were a distinctive amount of locks I had to learn to use quickly on the door to shut it. I could communicate with him through the old phone or my mobile in case something was out of place, he just told me to have common sense and everything would be alright. I appreciated that he trusted me and all, yet I was still hesitant to stay all alone so when he told me that there was a security guard roaming around, I exhaled with relief. 

 “Oh and by the way, if you see any fog coming from the nearby forest, lock yourself in here and don’t open the door, no matter what happens.” he warned before leaving without further explanation, and the door finally closed.

 I glanced at the computer, unsure if I wanted to sit just yet. There was a coffee machine and a mini fridge next to a cupboard filled with supplies and snacks that he didn’t say anything about, and I would’ve asked about it if only I hadn’t heard the main gate close just when I was about to head out. I sighed and put all the locks on as he had instructed. Taking a better look at the room after, it was filled with stuff to be comfortable during the shift. To be honest, at that point I was just jumping on one leg, this would be the most comfortable, easiest job ever, and everyone else was dumb enough to judge it as scary and not take it. I smiled at the surveillance camera inside the room and surrendered to the chair, sitting comfortably in its embrace. I looked at the walkie-talkie that connected me with Zeiss, the security guard, it was strange not to know anything about the man, but I couldn’t be unprofessional and talk to him because of that, so I decided to instead familiarize with the list of cameras and their locations, which were written down on paper. I had to remember this, since it was my trial night, if anything out of the ordinary happened I had permission to tell the other guy to check it instead of going myself, although normally whoever was closest had to do it. 

After a few minutes of going back and forth between the list and the video on the screen, I leaned back on the chair and got my feet out of those god awful high heels to sit comfortably cross-legged, relaxing in what seemed to be my best job to date. The video of the office could barely capture the top of my head from that angle, so it would be perfectly fine. I was just about to close my eyes when I spotted something moving in one camera, which made me squint because it was a little dark and I could not distinguish it properly. Of course there were lamps and lighting but along with them came certain spots they didn’t quite reach, and this humanoid figure without any flashlight was in one of them. Unsure, I sat up straight and picked the walkie-talkie, pressed the button Carlos had taught me and spoke. 

 “Hello Zeiss, I’m Alma the new watchman, I think I’m seeing something weird in… err…” I failed to remember the name of the location and just repeated the number. “Camera number 11. Could you please go and check it?” I panicked for a short moment as I let go of the button, given that I had told him unclear indications, and saw how the figure began moving again, probably taking something out of a pocket or a belt. I heard static.

 “Good evening Alma, I believe you are referring to me. I am standing in front of the camera, over.” The figure waved. He sounded young, around my age or younger. Was I tripping or were they really this understaffed, hiring whoever came first? I sighed, embarrassed. 

 “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought…” I left the sentence unfinished. “It’s a little dark in those areas, don’t you need a flashlight?” 

 “I have one, don’t worry.” he began walking and left the frame, not saying anything beyond that. 

 I frowned with a subtle awkward smile looking at the device. Yeah I probably was working with someone as strange as the position he had. Who the fuck would be willing to lurk the cemetery at night like that? I mean, staying in a room and watching the whole place was one thing, but actually being out there at night on their own? Most likely someone really dumb, arrogant or a psycho. I put the thing down on the table and leaned back once more, taking my phone out of my pocket. I had some signal, but no WiFi. I forgot to ask for it. 

I rolled my eyes and let it rest on the table too. I watched the footage, still, it got boring after some time. Got over the fact that I didn’t ask and made some coffee anyway, got some pen and paper and started drawing, every few minutes checking if everything was alright and if I could see that Zeiss guy somewhere in the cameras, but there was nothing. I was letting out a big big yawn when I realized I had to hit the bathroom. It had been quite some time since the last visit and my body was letting me know. I got up and put on those diabolical high heels. I attached the walkie talkie to my blazer’s pocket and approached the door with all the locks on. Did I really need them? Everytime I had to head outside I would have to do everything over and over again, kind of annoying if you ask me. I stretched as I felt the breeze letting me know it was windy, which made the temperature more freezing. I turned the lights on when I reached them in the restroom, and did my business peacefully. The crickets sang, the trees’ leaves joined them and the bell rang… I shook my head softly. Bell? Were there bells here? 

 Standing outside, I could hear its faint ring in the distance. I pursed my lips and like a fucking stupid protagonist of a horror movie, went towards it. It didn’t sound like the chapel’s big bell, it was a small one, like that of a goat. I clenched my fists unknowingly as the chill seeped through my bones, my breath unfurling in pale clouds that vanished as I moved on. The lamp posts from the set path were sparse, their dim halos barely enough to push back the surrounding shadows. Each pool of light bringing ahead of it a void so complete it felt alive until the next bright zone. Walking through the cobblestone was hard with those awful shoes, and yet I didn’t stop, as if I was being called, and the minutes froze waiting for me. The bell rang intermittently, closer now, and with it came its faint vibration in the air, as though the sound itself carried weight. When I reached the end of the cobbled track I hesitated for a moment, right in front of me a sea of uncut grass. I wondered how much time it took me to get there, and yet as soon as I caught the repeating sound so near, I immediately got off those high heels. Barefoot now I made my own way through crooked headstones, their etched names half-erased by time. My eyes set on my newfound need. The next repetition echoed unnaturally as I finally reached the small origin of it; a small bell to the side of a grave, with a string attached to something underground. It wouldn’t cease this time, moving continuously as I fixed all my attention on it. I extended my hand and tried to touch the string, and suddenly it went silent. No more movement. The lamps that I left behind grew further apart, and the night deepened. I snapped out of it, scanned my surroundings only to barely see more gravestones with bells next to them. 

“What the fuck…” I stepped back, but as soon as I gave my back to my surroundings and faced the trail I had to return to, all the bells sang in chorus. My eyes opened wider than before, turned around, hand reaching for the walkie talkie at the sight of all those little shits dancing. A slow walk transformed quickly into a jog, and a jog in a run at full speed. They mocked me, they laughed non-stop at how I was a coward, how I left without even grabbing my shoes again, how my finger pressed the button but I was so frightened I couldn’t even spit out some words. My breath began to run out, tears covering my retina and making it hard to actually see what was in front of me, and so with only differentiating between vague shapes and tones light or dark I tripped, letting go of what I was holding. I realized they weren’t ringing anymore. Wiping my tears while still crying, I sat with the minor scratches I had received, trying to recover. But the crickets didn’t talk, the wind didn’t blow, and this wasn’t over. I reached for the only communication I had with someone, and now I talked quietly as I got on my feet again. 

“Hey dude, are the-” I wasn’t able to finish, all I let out was the loudest scream I could offer. I had the brilliant idea to look back once more, and there I saw a vague shadow figure of a man in a trenchcoat. No need to say or do anything else, it was a race to the safe spot. I have never ran so fast in my life, and it was more impressive considering I’m completely out of shape. As I finally approached the door, I could hear footsteps closing in on me which gave me the last shot of adrenaline I needed. I entered and slammed the door, to which loud bangings exploded on it, as if it was someone who came to collect owed money. 

“Please please just leave me alone, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” I shouted as I backed away. It stopped. I cried for a short second before the door opened by just using the handle, that was enough to make me shriek and throw the walkie talkie as hard as I could to whoever was there. 

“Bitch, what the hell!” It impacted on someone’s head, rather than the floor. The guy held his hand to the place it was hurt. 

I blinked twice, going dead silent. It was a twink. By his voice I could recognize him, it was Zeiss. I covered my mouth and analyzed him. Brown hair, dark eyes, a bit shorter than me and apparently younger too. I was fucked, if this was the security, the whole place and us were fucked.  

“Oh my god I am so sorry!” I went ahead and grabbed him by the arm to make him come inside and letting go to then close the door with all the locks. “This crazy shit happened to me back there and I, I think we are not alone, we must call the police, or Carlos or…” 

“Alma, I see you are scared, but for fucks sake calm down and tell me what happened!” 

“I was in the bathroom I heard a bell and then went to check and there were like a shit ton of bells and they rang on their own and then I ran and there was this man in a trenchcoat that looked at me and…” I explained frantically, no pauses, no breaths in-between. 

“Wait, so…” he crossed his arms. “You just got freaked out by the bells and called me?” 

“W-Well yes! You're supposed to handle these situations!” I gestured desperately- “But what the fuck are you supposed to do if you wouldn’t even be able to take me on a fight?!”

“Girl… are you trying to make me angry or something?” the way he raised his eyebrows told me that I sounded crazy, and he was over the situation. 

“What?, What am I supposed to do with those bells!?, Why did they even ring?, Are there people buried alive down there!?, And the man… neither of us can take him!”

“There’s no man, Alma. We’re alone here. You probably are delusional or just saw a family of goblins standing on top of each other to look human in a trenchcoat.” his calm demeanor combined with that unbelievable explanation left me staring at him blankly, to which he sighed and added. “Look, I get it, it’s your first night and you think this place is haunted, but believe me, it’s far worse than that. I mean, why else the paycheck would be so good?” 

“But the bells…” 

“That’s on you, just ignore them, they sometimes ring, and so what? They didn’t harm you did they? And you could’ve just told me to go check them if you wanted, you even had the two-way radio with you.” he brought up, as if it was the most casual and normal thing ever. 

“You’re nuts, for real.” I frowned with pain. 

“Uh-huh, that’s why I’m the one wearing shoes and you’re the one who’s barefoot in this temperature.” 

“I had to!” I tried to clarify, but he shook his head lightly. 

“Sure, just get your shoes back on and continue your job. We still have three more hours to go.” he reminded me as he unlocked the door. 

“Can you at least come with me to get my shoes?” I asked, taking the flashlight already accepting the situation. 

The man rolled his eyes but agreed, and after escorting me to the office again he left for, as he put it, “Goblin hunting”.

 The last three hours I spent treating all my scratches and getting myself clean again before sitting at the desk and writing the first part of all of this. I was very tired and almost fell asleep many times, but I managed to stay awake and get most of it done, of course while watching the cameras every few minutes. I sometimes saw Zeiss walking around, other times it was just plain nothing. But the night had definitely earned the title of crazy already. It was about to be sunrise when Carlos arrived and opened the gate. I was getting out of the first building, ready to leave, and Zeiss was leaning on a wall nearby, with his arms crossed, yawning. I was congratulated and told I got the job as I was handled the payment for the trial. I must’ve had a troubled expression, because the owner then asked.

“You still want the job right?” With a worried smile. 

“Oh, uh…” I mirrored the smile anxiously, discreetly looking at the money, and then at him again, not being able to even count how much it was total, as it was even more than I expected for this. “Yes of course sir, I just need some rest.” 

 He giggled and shook my hand happily, and we said goodbye. I waved to Zeiss on my way out and I left, having way too much to think about and many things to consider about this job. Getting home felt like a blessing. I collapsed on my bed, slept until the afternoon and woke up late, knowing that I would have to go to work if I wanted to keep this salary. I read the messages Carlos sent me, a contract, some other stuff. But I didn’t reply, I had no clue of what to do yet. 

I finished writing this just now and I’ve been thinking that if I hadn’t panicked, it wouldn’t have been so bad. Should I come back?

Johnny and I had a tradition. Well, as much as getting black-out drunk on a Saturday was a tradition. Most weekends we went over to Ben’s place. Ben was a good guy. He never asked too many serious questions. Never asked us why our lives weren’t going anywhere. Never asked me why college didn’t work out. Never got aggressive when a six pack got in him. Never minded if we crashed on his couch. A sectional. Not totally comfortable, but you shouldn’t be picky when you don’t expect much from life. He was a good guy. He rented half of a duplex from some old lady who never realized that rent had gone up since ’01. We used to joke that 9/11 had frozen her perception on the world.

Johnny wasn’t such a good guy. He lived in a shitty apartment with some roommates who weren’t so much fun to drink with. On the off chance that Ben was busy, I would end up at his place. Those were never good weekends. Johnny himself was a little shady. I met him in middle school when I was trying to buy weed for cheap. I’ve never asked, but I’ve always suspected that he got his supply from just going down by the creek and picking the ditch-weed that used to grow there. Maybe he ripped me off, doesn’t matter now. We had the same taste in comics. Hobbies are always cheaper when you can split the cost, and besides it’s always more fun when you have somebody to talk to. But that’s not the point. Johnny had an ’06 Taurus and he never minded driving, regardless of if he was sober or not. He would pick me up, we’d hit the liquor store, and we’d be on our way to Ben’s. Usually, we’d split a joint on the way there.

This weekend wasn’t any different. It’s funny how the moments that change your life start just the same as every moment that came before. When I was younger, I remember waking up, a little hungover, and making myself some breakfast. Jimmy Dean sausage and some Eggo waffles. Cheap, fake syrup, but it’s all the same. I sat in my little kitchen and ate that cheap, tasteless food. Once, after the last bite I got a phone call from my sister. Our mom had passed away. Heart attack. In the night. We were told it was probably painless. I like to think the doctor wasn’t lying when he told us that. But it was a simple morning and then, blam, suddenly life was different. And it would always be different.

But that’s not the point. That’s far beside the point, but I guess that’s where I am now. Far beside the point. An average weekend, turned into something life changing. Johnny picked me up, in that old, grey shitbox. We didn’t have anything meaningful to say to each other. We both knew that our weeks had been boring and filled with meaningless work. But I got in, and it was just a couple of stops and then we were headed to Ben’s. Then the night could begin. Then we could be distracted before another dull, monotonous week.

“What’s up, dude,” he chimed to me as I climbed into the passenger’s seat.

“Same old bullshit,” I said knowing he wouldn’t have anything else to say. Loverboy was blasting through the stereo. “Workin’ For the Weekend” hit my ears and I thought about how appropriate it was. I thought about making some sort of joke, but I don’t think either of us wanted to acknowledge how the work week meant nothing to us. Only Saturday mattered and we both knew that, no use in making jokes. We drove towards the gas station to buy smokes and some energy drinks, then it would be another silent drive towards the liquor store before the night really got going.

I’m skipping some details, but we left the liquor store with some paper bags filled with happiness and settled in for the drive to Ben’s. We’d take the highway for a little bit, but then it was all back-roads driving. “Let’s get to it” Johnny said as he put the car in drive and accelerated out of the parking lot, Bon Jovi singing some song to us through the speakers. I lit a cigarette, leaned back in my seat, and tried to zone out.

“And the crazy thing is, none of them even remember how they got there.” Johnny was talking about some movie he watched. I remember thinking that he must be getting at least half of the details wrong.

“Yeah, man. Maybe we can watch it tonight, after we’ve had a few drinks,” I offered back, only half interested. We probably wouldn’t watch it. I probably wouldn’t even watch it later. Johnny was a real bad salesman.

I just wanted to close my eyes and relax until we got to Ben’s. After a few drinks I’d be more sociable, but for now I didn’t really care what Johnny had to say about whatever it was he watched while he was high.

He talked on for a bit, I did the bare minimum for it to be considered a conversation. We drove like that for a while, for too long I thought. I looked around to see where we were, but all I could see were trees and the road. I couldn’t even see any houses. I didn’t say anything at first. I guess I didn’t want to say anything was wrong just in case my mind was playing tricks on me. Looking back, I must have been like the first guy on the Titanic who saw the iceberg but didn’t say anything because nobody else was freaking out.

But it wasn’t just a moment. The Wrong that I was seeing just kept going on and on. The road kept going and it was just trees and trees around us. I turned the knob on the stereo, reducing “Bette Davis Eyes” to a whisper, “hey Johnny, where the fuck are we?” I asked hoping I was just being paranoid.

“Man, you know I don’t know street names” he answered. “It’s that long-ass country road. We’re gonna make a right turn eventually and then we’ll be at Ben’s. He lives out in the sticks, but you know it’s worth the drive.”

“Okay man, but it’s never looked like this before.” His confidence hadn’t done much to ease my worry, but I didn’t want to let that show.

“All this bumfuck shit looks the same to me, man. I don’t know what you’re talking about” he continued.

“Okay but look around. I mean, how long have we been driving? We should have been there by now.” Everything around us looked almost right, but I just couldn't figure out where we actually were.

Johnny looked around, checked the time on the stereo. “Video Killed the Radio Star” started, “Oh shit, man, this one’s a classic. MTV-type shit.” He tapped the steering wheel along with the beat.

“No, dude, I’m being serious. We’ve been on this road for a while. Like way too long. Did you take a wrong turn? Are we fucking lost?”

“You are a radio star,” he sang along, not paying me any mind. “Nah man, Ben just lives way out there. That’s the price he pays for the deal he gets on the rent. I bet it takes him half an hour just to get to Walmart.”

There was a moment of silence, then Johnny hit the brakes hard. The road turned sharply to the right and I heard the tires screech as we curved around it. Then we kept turning and turning. It felt like we had gone in a complete circle before the road straightened out again. Johnny let off the gas and we came to a stop.

We sat in silence for a moment before Johnny spoke. “Hey man, pull up your GPS. We have to be in the wrong place.”

“No shit” I thought to myself as I pulled out my phone. “Bad news, man, I can’t get any signal.”

He dug around in his pocket for his phone. “Yeah, me neither. I just don’t know where we went wrong. Did I miss a turn?”

“I don’t know, man. Maybe you can just turn around and we can figure it out from there.”

Johnny looked in his rearview, then his side mirrors, then he rolled down his window and twisted around to look back through that. “Hey, um, does that look right to you?” He sounded rattled by whatever he saw.

And he should have been.

I turned around to look back and all I saw was darkness. Just darkness. Everything after about ten feet behind the car was just black. “Well, it’s pretty dark.” I said while I tried to make sense of what I was looking at. “You know these country roads don’t have the best lighting.”

“Yeah man, I know,” Johnny’s voice shook, “but, like, look ahead.”

I knew what I would see when I did. I turned and saw the setting sun. It was getting dark, sure. It was going to be dark soon. But I was looking right at the sun. I could see everything in front of us. It wasn’t night yet. There was no reason for it to be so dark behind us.

“Okay. Well. But maybe.” I couldn’t find a way to start the sentence. We both knew that this didn’t make sense. We both knew that something was wrong. It was just a matter of who was going to say it first. I turned around in my seat again and just stared out the back of the car.

“This is fucked,” Johnny, always the poet, said.

“Yep.” I said. You might as well call me Hemingway with the way I summed up our situation so eloquently.

“What the fuck do I do, man?” Johnny asked, voice quivering, on the verge of freaking out.

“Well,” I said while slumping down in my seat and lighting a fresh cigarette, “I guess we just have to keep driving.”

And that’s what we did. We drove; the silence only broken by The B-52’s crooning about their love shack. I smoked my cigarette to the filter and let it fall out of the window. I exhaled, imagining all of the toxins I had just inhaled leaving my body. “We’re fucked,” I rasped, almost a whisper.

“Maybe it’s like an eclipse,” Johnny said. I looked over and saw that his knuckles were tightened white around the steering wheel. “The moon or some shit coming between us and the sun.” He nodded his head to reassure himself.

“It doesn’t work like that, man,” I said.

“But, like, shit gets dark. The sun gets blocked out. I mean, it’s only 6:25, the sun isn’t gonna set for a while.”

“Yeah, dude, look right there,” I gestured, trying to fake some sort of enthusiasm. “The sun is right there.  Nothing between it and us. That shit behind us doesn’t make any sense” The silence between us felt as empty and as huge as the shadow looming heavy behind us. Johnny was silent. He reached down to grab his Brisk Tea and took a drink that was heavy with all of the weight of our situation. He put it back, nodded his head and let out a sigh.

“Okay, so it’s not an eclipse.”

We drove in silence for a few minutes, the road continuing ahead of us endlessly. Only slight curves here and there to break up the monotony. “Then what the fuck is it?” I shouted, aborting the pregnant pause that had gestated between us.

Uncharacteristically, Johnny softly pressed down on the brake and steered the car to the side of the road. “I don’t know, man. I’m trying not to lose my shit. We should have been at Ben’s –“Johnny chuckled, despite himself, at the accidental word play, “already, if this is the right road-”

“Stop talking,” I interrupted, my eyes fixed on the clock on the stereo. “When did you pick me up?”

“I don’t fucking know. Around six, like usual.” Johnny threw his hands up with frustration.

“Let’s say you picked me up at 6:00. After that we went to the gas station. Then we went to the liquor store. And then we started driving to Ben’s. How long did it take us to realize something was wrong?”

“It’s like twenty minutes from the booze store to Ben’s. Remember, we started going to that shitty place because they were on the way. A bad selection, but they’re closer than the place we used to go to.”

“Okay,” I cracked my knuckles, eyes not leaving the clock displayed on the stereo. "But here’s the fucking thing, man. I’ve been watching this clock for a while, and it hasn’t budged. This whole time, 6:25. I keep waiting for it to change, but it doesn’t budge. I know you drive a shitbox, but the last time I checked it kept good time. And my phone says the same damn thing.” I pointed the glowing screen of my phone towards his face. “It’s 6:25 man, and it’s been 6:25 for a while. Hell, we don’t know how long it’s been 6:25. I closed my fucking eyes for a second and we’re in the goddamn Twilight Zone.”

“Maybe it’s just a long minute,” Johnny said, just trying to fill the space while he thought of a real response. “Okay. This road is all fucked up. We should have already been at Ben’s. There shouldn’t have been a curve like that. Our phones should still get a signal. It shouldn’t be pitch-black behind us. And it shouldn’t still be 6:25” He beat his hands a couple of times against the steering wheel before taking a deep breath. “Fine, this isn’t normal. It’s not an eclipse. I don’t know what this is. I don’t know how we got here.” There was a long pause, “and I don’t know what to do.”

I put my head in my hands and took a few deep breaths. “Unless you want to turn around and drive into The Great Dark Unknown, I guess you just keep on driving.” Of course, I knew that whatever lay in front of us was just The Great Slightly-Less Dark Unknown, but I was hoping Johnny wouldn’t realize that. “Just drive, man. I think that’s all we can do.” I started taking a silent inventory of our supplies. A little less than four packs of cigarettes, twelve beers, a fifth of vodka, almost a couple of bottles of Pepsi, and a bottle and half of Brisk Tea.

Johnny shifted into drive and pulled back onto the road. He drove, the silence between us too thick to cut even with one of those knives you’d buy from those late-night infomercials.

The sun set in front of us to a soundtrack of the ‘80s best. Johnny tapped along to the beat of “Footloose,” too unnerved to say anything. It wasn’t until Toto was singing some bullshit about Africa that I interrupted the tense feeling in the car. “How much do you have in the tank?”

“Um,” Johnny’s answer weighed heavily on the both of us. “About half.” The rains in Africa may be blessed, but we were not.

“And how many miles is that?” In all the time between our brief stop and now nothing had changed. Behind us was the complete darkness. In front of us was a road that only veered slightly to the right or left. And to both sides of us were trees.

“One-fifty, or something like that. I don’t know,” Johnny replied, not taking his eyes off the road. My eyes shifted to the stereo. That lying bastard still told me it was 6:25. The sun was getting real low. The road ahead of us was almost as dark as the road behind us.

“Pull over,” I said while Bryan Adams sang about the best summer of his life. Silently, Johnny complied. As we came to a stop, I released my seat belt and Johnny turned on the car’s hazards. I didn’t have the energy to tell him how pointless that was. We stopped and I reached into the back seat to tear open the twelve-pack of Budweiser Johnny had purchased God knows how many hours ago. I grabbed two beers and stepped out of the car.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Johnny yelled at me.

“It doesn’t matter. Follow me,” I said as I closed the passenger door. I walked around to the back of the car and sat on the trunk. Johnny boosted himself up beside me as I cracked open the first of the beers. I tossed the other one into his lap.

“Take a look at that,” I said before taking a long chug of my beer. “It’s fucking pitch black back there.” We sat in silence for a moment, staring at the darkness, the faint sound of the ‘80s radiating from the car’s speakers. “Girls just want to have fun, right?” I said, nodding my head along to the beat I could barely hear. “But us, we got these endless trees all around us, a road that goes nowhere, and this fucking nothingness right here.”

“What are we doing, man?” Johnny asked, nursing his beer. I could tell he still cared about being sober enough to drive. For a second, just for a second, I let myself imagine a cop bursting from that darkness, lights on, coming to give us a ticket for swerving between the lanes.

“I just want to see if it moves” I said holding back laughter. I finished my beer. “I just can’t believe that….that this shit,” I gesticulated, thrusting my hand and my nearly empty beer towards the darkness, “has been moving along with us. I mean, what are the chances that whatever this is moves at the speed limit of some bumfuck backroad?"

“I don’t speed, man.” Johnny said. “Too many tickets in high school. I learned my lesson.”

“Oh did you? You don’t know fuck all about eclipses, but did you learn anything about this magical darkness coming to eat us? Or how sometimes roads just keep going forever?”

Johnny took a tentative sip of his beer. I knew I had been too harsh, too mean, but we were never the kind of friends who were comfortable with the intimacy of an apology. “I didn’t fail out of college like you,” he said with a knife for a tongue, “but I know this shit isn’t normal. Maybe you can write an essay about this. Maybe compare it to Moby Dick, or whatever the fuck you college boys jerk off about.” The venom in his words hit my ears and I realized I said something I shouldn’t have.

I took a breath and finished my beer. Johnny took a sip of his, and we stared out into the darkness in front of us, neither of us knowing what words would ease the tension. With the last gulp of my beer and the faint sounds of The King of Pop telling me to “just beat it” I found the words. “We’ve been sitting here for a minute, man. I’m sure it’s still 6:25 but look. That shit hasn’t moved.”

He nodded his head, knowing I was right. “Hasn’t moved an inch,” he said, taking a full swig of his beer. “So is it following us?”

“I guess it moves when we do. We drive a mile; it blacks out another mile. Honestly man, I don’t see why it matters, everything has looked the same. I can barely tell that we’re moving.” I threw my empty beer can and watched it disappear into the black cloud in front of us.”

“Bro, you shouldn’t litter,” Johnny protested.

“Oh yeah, you wanna go and pick it up? Find a recycling bin?”

Johnny sat in silence while he finished his beer. He crushed the can in his hand and threw it into the void. “Let’s get moving,” he said, hopping off the car. On the radio Bonnie Tyler was holding out for a hero, we were holding out for the chance that the road ahead of us was more hopeful than the road behind us. As I opened the passenger-side door, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. Something off to the side of the road, obscured by the trees. Two read dots, glowing in the distance. I thought they looked like eyes. I said nothing, sat down in my seat, and put on my seat belt.

We drove.

The Chrono Cast was all abuzz with exciting news about a new natural phenomenon which occurring tonight: the Sagittarius meteor shower. Kori Campbell a popular meteorologist began her research on the new phenomenon. As her co-worker John Fisher worked on the script for the broadcast that would be happening that evening. Kori looked over the pages with its many theories and observations the meteor shower would be a Lyrid type. She could not wait to see the one hundred per hour surges streak across the night sky. 

When the news began at six John and his co-anchor started their show. Kori nervously twirled her pen watching and listening for when it would turn over to her. She took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. Now over to her Kori began with the weather and what to expect that week but carefully added one more thing. “Tonight, will be a Lyrid meteor shower dubbed Sagittarius. Be sure to keep your eyes up to the sky for this beautiful phenomenon.” Kori added ending her weather segment. 

“You’re adamant about this whole meteor shower aren't you.” John commented nonchalantly as he and Kori gathered their things from the break room. She looked at him displeased and pulled on her jacket “I could the same about you since you, since you seem to be obsessed with your new little co-star.” John laughed at the jab and shook his head “Touché.” 

Kori walked past him glancing over her shoulder “Don’t forget to keep your eyes to the sky tonight.” with that she walked away heading home. On the drive to her apartment Kori made a mental note to set up the telescope on her balcony. To ensure she would have a perfect view of the clear night sky. That evening the air was crisp and a warm. Glowing stars scattered above her like a net. Kori fixed her eyes above in anticipation as the first meteor streaked across the sky. 

One by one, the meteors lit up the darkness, leaving bright trails in their wake. She could feel time stand still watching the Sagittarius meteor shower. Kori smiled at its beauty and mystery. Yet she couldn’t shake this feeling that something was off. The color of those streaking stars would turn crimson then violet and others blinked far brighter than the others as if it were about to flicker out. 

Kori felt lighted headed and stumbled inside her home making her way to the bathroom. 

Turning on the light she turned on the light and on wobbly legs made her way to the sink turning on the water and splashed her face with it. Blindly Kori reached grabbing the hand towel and dried her face looking up into the mirror. There looking back at her was a distorted figure standing upright and not mimicking her at all. She held back a scream backing into the wall behind her as her reflections eyeless face smiled and waved at her tilting its head ever so slightly to the side. What is going on?! Kori thought to herself keeping her eyes on what she was seeing in the mirror. 

In the background of flashes of crimson and violet pulsed. Her reflection slowly began to turn pitch black as if ink had been slowly dripped down upon its figure. Limbs jerked and their fingers stretched turning into claws. Kori’s heart pounded in her chest slowly moving away from the wall taking slow deliberate breaths as her reflection continued to morph and change. Licking her cracked lips “W-what do you want?” she asked. 

The inky reflection’s smile widened its eyeless sockets were pure ivory bore into her soul. 

Rasing a clawed hand it pointed towards the bathroom window where the meteor shower still streaked across the sky. A soft whisper as if next to her ear spoke “Join us.” it hissed causing Kori’s legs to buckle causing her to slide down the wall. The phone in her pocket buzzed not taking her eyes off the mirror she reached for her phone and glanced at the screen. A text message from John “Kori what is going on?! How long is this meteor shower supposed to last? There are inky figures in all the fucking mirrors!” looking back up the mirror she watched as it began pounding its fists onto the glass. 

The frame rattled and shook the corners of the glass starting to crack as the swirl of crimson and violet began to spill out of it causing the room to rumble as if racked by an earthquake. Crawling on all fours out of the bathroom she made her way to the front door swinging it open. A gust of wind almost knocked her down as Kori struggled to hold onto the doorframe. She squinted looking out at the parking lot which was illuminated by the colors that the meteors emitted causing each streetlight to grow bright before each bulb busted and sparked. Even the lights in her apartment went out cloaking her surroundings in a darkness with only the Sagittarius shower as a form of light. 

Moving forward Kori stumbles down the stairs peered over her shoulder with a quivering breath. The sound of something breaking from inside causes her eyes to widen. A faint echo of her reflections distorted laughter and calling of her name urged her towards her car which she quickly got inside of pressing the start button and backing out of the parking lot. Where could she go? Was any place safe? 

Adjusting the radio, Kori tried to tune into any station that would be covering the phenomenon but was only got static. Each house she passed had those things standing in the front yard watching her. Maybe if she made her way to the news station, she could find out what exactly was going on up there. This wasn’t even a meteor shower any more it was a storm, but it wasn’t anything compared to Leonid from 1833 which lasted several days. As soon as Kori arrived, her hands trembled as she fumbled with her keys desperate to unlock the news station door and step into the safety of the building. 

Or so she thought. 

Closing the door Kori walked further inside the automatic lights flickering to life. This place was always bustling with life and now it gave her a chilling emptiness. In the main studio room, a screen was on displaying a web page called Centaur's Arrow. Pulling up a chair she placed her hand on the mouse scrolling and reading what was on the screen. Swallowing thickly Kori let the realization of why this happening slowly sink in. 

Hello and welcome to the Centaur’s Arrow! A place where YOU can make a difference in the world and help summon a new era of life on earth. Here is a list of things you’ll need to join us in our quest. There is a link below for substitutions if you cannot find what we have listed. Remember you must be devoted to the cause, or the ritual won’t work. Good luck and may Crotus be with you. 

Kori leaned back in her chair the color draining from her face. Who would do such a thing like this? “Well, you are here quite early aren’t you” a voice from behind her spoke and she got to her feet. “Mr. Boyer” said Kori looking at her boss who had a few inky black shadows behind him. His eyes went to the screen, and he exhaled in disapproval “Why did you have to come here and stick your nose into things that aren’t any of your business.” 

Boyer stepped forward his arms outstretched to her “I really liked you Miss Campbell and was going to let you go but now you know too much. Just like John you’ll be replaced too.” he motioned over his shoulder for that horrible inky mass slither forward “No hard feelings it’s just better off this way.” As it advanced towards her, she dodged out of the way running past her boss and the other monster next to him “You can’t keep running forever!” Boyer called out. Kori’s figure disappeared and out the exit door and into the parking lot. 

Breathing heavily, she surveyed her surroundings and fell to her knees watching as countless of those things were steadily approaching the station and among them was her own reflection leading the way. Fragments of glass sticking out of its skin having broken free from the mirror it had been imprisoned in. When spotting Kori that white open wide smile spread across its face because it knew that now she had nowhere to run. 

What's in the cornfield? Something's hiding out there; I know it. I have a pretty good view of the field from up here in my room. The moon is big and bright, and I can see something moving out there. Well, I can see the stalks of corn moving at least. They're moving like ripples in a lake. What is it? It's big, I think. Whatever it is.

Whenever they plant corn in that field, it shows up. I always start to notice it around mid-July, once the corn is good and tall. I've never really seen it, but I know it's there. What is it?

Sometimes, this dammed farmhouse gives me the creeps. I don't like living here alone. I really miss having Old Blake around to keep me company. He was the best dog a guy could have. I wish he hadn't gotten out the other night. I'm still not sure how he managed it. I really wish he hadn't gone into the cornfield. What's out there?

Whatever it is, I think it only comes out at night. I think it sleeps under the ground during the day. It has to sleep under the ground while it's daylight. Otherwise, I would've seen it when I went in to find Old Blake the next day. Or worse, it would've seen me. If it had, I might not have fared any better than my poor dog. But what can do that to a German Shepherd so easily? What is it?

Nobody believes me, of course, whenever I tell them that there's something in the cornfield by my house. They try to humor me. Still, I can see the repudiation in their raised eyebrows and mockery in their patronizing smiles. But there's something out there. Something. What is it?

I should just pack my things and move. I'd like to be someplace far away from cornfields. But it's almost time to harvest. It must hibernate after the corn is harvested. I've never seen it in the open field. Next year, they'll plant beans there. I've never seen it in the beans either. I suppose I'll stay at least one year longer.

Whatever it is, I can hear it. That low wail and chittering click sound. It sounds downright hellish. I can't handle it. I've got to close the window and maybe drown out the sound. What could possibly make a sound like that? What's in the cornfield?

What's this? It's come out of the corn! I can see it! What is it? Can it see me? Please! Don't let it see me! No! It's coming this way! It's climbing the house! Oh, lord! Look at the eyes on it!

Gray. Everything’s gray again. Colorless, lifeless. Meaningless. I stare into my phone, and the small line of text: “Delivered, 3 hours ago”. I check her location, she’s at the mall. Probably with her friends, shopping for something. A voice nags inside me—what if she isn’t? I should go check up on her.

I pull off my tee, and throw on a Henley shirt—my favorite. Stylish, but not too proper. Discrete too. I hastily tuck my hair away in a black cap, and press my earbuds into my ears. Turn on Just Like Heaven, by The Cure. One of my favorite bands. Throw a quick glance in the mirror, before heading off.

It’s warm outside, and I regret not bringing my sunglasses. At least my hat helps, although I wish it was a different color. Black gets very warm, very fast, in the sun.

The mall is about a ten-minute walk away, but with the bus it only takes five—and luckily I just catch it. I pull out two creased dollar bills and hand them to the driver, before sitting down on one of the blue, patterned seats.

I nod my head back and forth and bask in the lyrics, “I’ll run away with you…” I want to be like them. The guys from the love songs I listen to. Courageous—heroic. I like to think I am like them.

A sharp, electronic voice brings me back to reality, announces that my stop is next. I get up from my seat, and shuffle through my playlist, until I land on Head Over Heels. Perfect.

My feet land on the pavement, and I check her location again. Still here—barely even moved at all. As I walk in through the revolving door a mix of scents hit my nose. Perfume, sweat, and food. Reminding me why I hate this place. I power through—like a knight battling to save his princess.

I check her location again—she’s leaving? A notification lights up my phone, “Sorry for taking so long to answer, was at the mall with my friends. On my way home now, facetime tonight?” the text reads, accompanied by a heart.

For a second I stand still, lost for words and for actions. I start typing, but hesitate. I decide to hold off for a minute or two—don’t wanna seem too desperate.

I pause the song, take a couple of deep breaths. The sounds of the mall bombard me—screaming children, laughing teenagers, and the shitty chorus of some mainstream pop. How can she stand this place? I shake it off, switching to something I can actually stomach—Synchronicity II by The Police. Somehow, Sting sings better than these modern day “artists”, even with their autotune. With something bearable in my ears, I head home.

Twenty minutes later and four dollars poorer, I’m finally home. I wrestle with my sneakers, cursing myself for not untying them, and hang my cap in its usual spot. I walk further into my apartment, and run my finger over my vinyl collection. Which one should I choose? I land on Songs In The Attic, by Billy Joel. A lot of his songs really do sound better live.

I lift the stylus out of the way, and slide the disc into place. For a second a warm hum fills the room, before being replaced by the beginning tones of Miami 2017.

I dance-walk into the kitchen and check her location again. Need to make sure she got home safe, and she has. I pull out a ribeye steak from the fridge, and turn on the oven. Gently, I pat it down. A sweet, salt, and savory scent fills the room—like the rare, summer nights when dad would throw a barbeque. I force the thought out of my head, and sing along to the lyrics, “I’ve seen the lights go out on Broadway…”

I lay out the already boiled, already cut potatoes on a tray, and generously cover them in herbs and spices. The counter vibrates and my phone lights up. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“Making dinner, what about you?” I text back, even though I already know. She always follows the same routine.

As expected, she texts back: “Just got out of the shower, gonna take Kubo for a walk in a bit.” Like usual. She always looks so serene on those walks. Her damp hair glistening in the evening sun. A white dress hugging her figure. That dog on her left, and me on her right, with my arm wrapped around her. It’s perfect. Almost. If only it wasn't there. Stealing her attention, and affection—keeping her from what truly matters.

I stare at her message for a bit, try to find the right words. “Hope you guys have fun, I’ll talk to you later!” A smiley face and a heart at the end.

For a second the room goes quiet, before Billy Joel’s voice returns. “This is called Summer Highland Falls,” he announces. That’s one of the things I like about live recordings. The small talk between tracks—makes it feel like I’m there. Like I’m with my father again, at a Billy Joel concert. Singing along to all the songs he showed me. The same songs I still listen to. I think back to my eighth birthday—when my dad gifted me the vinyl that’s now playing. Back when he was still there.

I shake it off, and turn on the stove. Sing along for a bit, but stop myself. The memories are too strong. A tear wells up in the corner of my eye, but I quickly wipe it off. Wash my hands again.

I sip on the coffee I bought on the way home, while waiting for the oven. Probably a bit late for coffee, but I’m not planning on sleeping tonight anyway.

By the time my cup is empty the oven is finally warm. I put the potatoes in, careful not to burn myself. Set a timer for twenty-five minutes. I grab a pan, and place it on the stove. The oil I pour into it screeches at me, like a stray cat hungry for food. It smells burned, I added it too late.

Suddenly the music stops. Has the first side already finished? I go to flip the disc, but hesitate. Decide to put it back in its cover.

I think for a second, before deciding to keep it quiet for now. My head needs a break. Behind me I hear the oil hiss. I turn around and throw the steak onto the pan.

The timer goes off, and I lift the potatoes out of the oven. The steak sits on a plate, waiting. Bathing in its juices. I toss the potatoes onto the plate, and sit down.

My fork sinks into the steak. Red juices seep out and spread across the plate. It’s good. Dryer than I’d like, but good. The potatoes are nice too—nothing special, though. I sit in the silence for a second. Feel my mind start to drift away—back to her, and him—before returning to the food.

Eventually, night falls. I call her, and she picks up. We talk for an hour or two. The best part of my day—at least when that damn dog isn’t barking. “Good night!” she exclaims, a big smile on her face, before hanging up.

I set my phone down, and glance at the clock on the wall—23:04. My heart pounds, and my mind races. A mix of excitement and caffeine. Just need to make one hour pass.

I try to read—Persuasion by Jane Austen—but after each page I forget the last one, and after every sentence the same occurs. Eventually, I give up, opting to pass the time by playing chess instead.

I set up the board, but realize it’s wrong. The king is on the queen’s square. Frustrated, I swap the pieces out, and wander over to my bookshelf. My eyes scan the spines, before landing on it. The Sicilian Defense, by Garry Kasparov. The greatest player of all time.

I read it for a minute, just to refresh my memory. Pawn out, knight out, I fly through the moves. Suddenly my mind goes blank. What’s the next move? I open the book, try to find the page, but a quiet rip interrupts me. On the page’s corner a small tear presents itself. At least I found the move—pawn to a6.

I glance at the clock again, desperate to get out of here. 23:26, it shows.

I sweep the pieces off the board, back into their pouches. Put them and the chessboard back where they belong. Just thirty minutes left.

I run my finger over my vinyl collection, like I’ve done so many times. Bask in the oh so familiar feeling. Eventually I land on Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me. Decide to start on side C—can’t seem to get enough of Just Like Heaven.

With happy steps, I return to the bookshelf and pull out a photo album. I sit down in my armchair, and open the album. Each page is filled to the brim with pictures of her, and occasionally me. One when we were at the beach, her smiling with my arm around her, one from when we went hiking in the mountains for a weekend, and so it goes on. A collection of our best moments—with her in the spotlight, of course.

It’s amazing. How someone can be that beautiful. And how someone that beautiful can settle for someone like me. Not that I’m bad looking by any means, but she’s... Magical. Her black hair, pale skin, and green eyes—sparkling like emeralds. Each part a musician, together creating the greatest band.

I glance over at the clock again, and realize the music’s stopped. 23:57—she’s bound to be asleep by now.

I get up from the chair, and put the disc away. Blow off some dust from the vinyl player. Time to go. I press the black cap onto my head, and put in my earbuds. A stinging pain spreads through the inside of my left ear, I pressed too hard. But I shake it off.

The Stranger by Billy Joel will be tonight’s soundtrack. Probably his best album. I can barely hear it though, over my throbbing heart. I force the sneakers onto my feet—tying and untying them would be a waste of time. I open the door and lock it behind me, and then I’m off.

The city feels different at night. No one’s watching—no one’s judging. Just me and the streetlights. Just the Way You Are presents itself in my ears. It’s pleasant. Not just the song, but the whole world, right now. She’s the only thing that’s missing, but soon we’ll be together again, my Love.

I dance-walk down the curb. Crossing my legs behind each other, and spinning around. On the other side of the road someone else is walking, stares at me for a second—judgingly. Probably a junkie. I nod my head at him, before continuing walking.

The song ends, and Vienna comes on. For a second I stand still, before I pull my phone out of my pocket and rewind. Don’t feel done with the previous song yet.

By the time the song ends again I’ve arrived. Outside her apartment. I want to shout, tell my Love that I’m here, but I refrain. This will have to be a silent meeting.

Vienna comes on again, but I skip it. Land on Scenes from an Italian Restaurant. Best song of the album, in my opinion. My heart is thudding in my chest, at a pace slightly off from the songs. I breathe faster for a couple of seconds—try to get them to match—and for a tenth of a second they do, before drifting apart again. But that millisecond of perfection is enough.

I open the door to the building, which conveniently had been left ajar. Fate must be in my corner. I quickly find her door, number twenty-nine. How could I forget? The green door, and the heart sticker she thoughtfully put on it, stare at me. I fiddle in my pocket for a second, before finding it. Careful to not make any sound, I slot the key into the keyhole.

Getting the key was easier than I had expected. Simply grabbed it from a cabinet while she was in another room. Thought it might be good to have—in case she needs help. After all, who knows what could happen.

I twist the lock, and it opens with a slight click. Inside it’s dark. I pass by the hallway and living room, unwilling to waste my attention on them. There’s nothing I haven’t seen before there, anyway. And there it is. The door to her bedroom. My heart is beating in my throat, as I shakingly reach for the handle. Gently, I press it down, slowly opening the door. I feel like a blind man, about to see for the first time. But even better.

There she is. Her light-green sheets surround her, revealing only small patches of skin. So gorgeous—so perfect—even while wide asleep, only illuminated by the moon.

I stay in the doorway, simply basking in her beauty. I wouldn’t dare touch her, do anything more than look. Never. Only a monster would do something like that.

A sharp sound interrupts our moment. That fucking dog. She flinches for a second, before slowly raising her arms towards the roof. She’s so cute when she’s sleepy.

Another bark brings me back to reality. Fuck. Without thinking I slide in under the bed. I tense every muscle in my body, doing everything I can to stay still. I take one last, deep breath. “One sound and it’s over,” my mind repeats. One sound and everything’s over.

Kubo, or whatever the fuck his name is, runs into the room. He barks twice at her, before looking down at me. For a second our eyes meet, my neck awkwardly bent forward to see. A cold pearl of sweat runs down my forehead, lands in my mouth. Tastes salty. If that damn dog wanted to it could end me right now. But then he jumps up in her bed—deciding to spare me. Is it showing me mercy, or just pity? The bed wiggles, lets out a faint creak. Then suddenly everything is silent. Except for two sets of breaths. And eventually a third.

Dogs never like me. And I never like them. Maybe they see something in me humans can’t.

For hours I stay beneath her bed. Being so close to my Love feels good—feels right. But eventually the first ray of sunlight pierces her window, and I’m forced to end our fateful meeting.

Silently, I tiptoe out of her apartment. Leaving everything as I found it, silently locking the door behind me. In my ears, I’ve Just Seen A Face by The Beatles plays—the first song I listened to after I first met her. After our moment tonight I know it for sure. We’re meant to be.

When I get home the clock shows 4:54. No caffeine is left in my system, but I still can’t sleep. It’s alright though. Tonight’s thrill is enough to keep me going for the day. Work won’t be an issue either, since it’s Saturday.

She probably won’t be up for a couple of hours, so I decide to try and read again. Same book, same chapter. This time the words fly by, and I’m fully immersed. No distractions.

By the time I put the book down the clock shows 5:58. I find a spot for it in the bookshelf, before looking for something new. Persuasion was great, and I loved its ending, but now I need something different. Preferably that I can finish before she wakes up.

I pull out a collection of H.P. Lovecraft short stories. Open it up, land on The Haunter of the Dark. The title makes me think of a spirit, roaming lonely streets during the darkest hours. Not known by anyone, but just as real. Almost like me.

The clock ticks and its hand shifts, now showing 7:23. I put the book down, pleasantly surprised by the story. Not at all what I was expecting—in a good way. I check my phone, two notifications. 7:10: “Good morning darling!” and 7:12: “Did you sleep well?”

Thirteen minutes. For thirteen minutes she had to sit alone, no answer from me. I hastily type out: “Good morning my Love! I slept alright, what about you?”

Four minutes roll by, and then, a response. “I couldn’t sleep so well. Kubo woke me up about 0:40, and I couldn’t fall asleep again until almost three.”

I start typing, but then it hits me. A fuzzy feeling grows in my head, like hundreds of needles being poked at my brain. For a second I can’t breathe.

She was awake, for two fucking hours, while I was under her bed—convinced she was asleep. And somehow she didn’t hear my breathing. Fate really must be on my side.

“I’m so sorry, is there any way I can help?” I text back. After all, it’s my fault she couldn’t sleep, so I should help any way I can.

“Well, you could take me to dinner tonight,” her text reads, followed by an emoji winking. Can this day get any better?

“Of course milady, my place at eight?” I send back, a big smirk unwillingly appearing on my face.

“Sounds like a plan!” she responds.

The day goes by fast. Backed by Steely Dan’s Can’t Buy A Thrill, I deep-clean the whole apartment. Take a shower while singing along to Rosanna, by TOTO. Finally find the time to read some more Lovecraft short stories. By the time the clock hits two I make myself lunch—a porkchop with a couple sweet potatoes. This time perfectly cooked.

With six hours left to burn I trot over to the vinyl store. Mick greets me like always, before asking what I’m looking for. “You got any Donald Fagen?” I ask, the chorus of New Frontier replaying in my head. He wanders over to one of the many crates, before pulling out an album and handing it to me. The Nightfly, Donald Fagen. Perfect.

“I’ll take it!” I gladly exclaim, before even looking at the price. Twenty dollars—what a deal! Vinyl in my hand, I happily walk home. Once home, I lay out three salmon fillets to thaw. I carefully unseal the disc, put it on my player, and watch it spin. Pristine condition. I let it play for a couple minutes, float away in the tones of I.G.Y., before putting it away. It’s good to treat yourself every once in a while.

By the time the salmon is in the pan the clock strikes eight, and three knocks cut through the chorus of Half a Mile Away. I walk to the vinyl player, twist the volume knob down, and continue toward the door.

When I open it, I’m met by those beautiful, green eyes—like the finest grass on a summer day. Her pale skin gleams, like the first snowflake of the winter, a stark contrast to her lipstick—red like blood. I lean in for a kiss, and the moment her warm lips meet mine everything is perfect. But just for a fleeting moment.

An excited bark interrupts us. Kubo. “Hope you don’t mind that I brought Kubo along, sorry for not asking,” she exclaims. Voice as sweet as an angel. What is that on your face—embarrassment, or guilt?

“No worries,” I respond, faking a smile. This was supposed to be our perfect evening, why did you have to bring it? Or him, I suppose. Kubo takes a seat in the sofa, and I make a mental note to wash it after. In the meanwhile, she follows me to the kitchen.

“What’s on the menu tonight?” she asks, a playful smile on her face. Oh, I could never be mad at you.

As she glances towards the stove, I answer: “Take a look for yourself.” Fuck—hope that didn’t come of as rude.

“Salmon, I see, but that can’t be all?” Her eyes sparkle as they stare into mine.

“Of course not, madame. The potato au gratin is in the oven,” I respond, my French pronunciation flawless.

“Tres delicieux!” she remarks, flirtatiously raising her eyebrows at me. My oh my—like so often, she leaves me lost for words.

Our playful charade continues until the dinner is ready. We sit down at the round table, face to face. For a moment we stare into each other’s eyes, before silently agreeing to start eating. Bon appetite!

The food really was “tres delicieux”, and her presence only makes it better. For once, Kubo is quiet—like even he respects our intimate moment.

After we finish eating she excuses herself, and goes to the bathroom. I stay in the kitchen and start doing the dishes. From the living room I hear Kubo bark—as if he waited until we were done to be a nuisance. A thought grows in my head, repeating time after time, forcing me to acknowledge it. “When will that damn dog shut up?”

Footsteps echo from the living room—small paws colliding with wood flooring—as suddenly Kubo stands at my feet. He barks at me once, like he’s expecting something. Suddenly his eyes grow bigger—is he trying to look cute? It won’t work on me.

“Sorry bud, got nothing for you,” I tell him, irritation seeping through my facade. Like a dog could even understand me.

I look away, back to the dishes, ignoring Kubo. I go through the motions, when suddenly I feel a sharp pain in my lower leg. I look down, only to be met by Kubo’s jaws locked on my ankle. What the fuck—did he just bite me? Enough is enough. Protecting your owner from some perceived “threat” is understandable, but biting me? Who the fuck does he think he is?

Suddenly, I realize a knife is my hands. Covered in soap, but still lethal. Lethal enough.

I lift it and plunge it into Kubo, our eyes locked. Adrenaline flows through my veins, the rush is exhilarating. Feels good—no, feels great.

There’s a wet, mushy sound, like a foot sinking into mud. His big eyes suddenly seem like those of a doll—lifeless.

Something warm lands on my face, runs down it. Drips onto the floor. Blood, mixed with soap. The mixture pools around his little, dead, body. From the vinyl player Billy Joel sings: “Now we are forced to recognize our inhumanity…” Summer Highland Falls. I chuckle—fitting.

I hear the bathroom door unlock, and my Love walks out, with a big smile on her face. Happy as always. She looks at me, then down on the floor, before her smile fades. I expect a scream, but silence meets me along with her eyes. Her lips move for a second, without any sound.

“What the fuck did you do?” she eventually asks, trembling. Her normal happiness replaced by what looks like terror, shock, and disgust. She takes two steps back, as I drop the knife on the floor.

“I, he bit me,” I say, stuttering on each word. I pull up my jeans to reveal the wound. A couple of small indents from his teeth reveal themself. Not even any blood.

“You killed him, over that?” she asks, a question with no worthy answer. Tears well up in her eyes, and her normally pale face goes red.

“I’m sorry, it just… happened. If he’s that important to you I’ll get you a new one,” I answer, trying to ease her pain. I hate to see my Love so sad.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Her hands shake as she frantically digs through her purse. She pulls out a can of pepper spray, points it at me, along with her phone. I hear three, foreboding beeps.

Is she calling the police? Doesn’t she know I would never hurt her? I take two steps forward, “No, you don’t have to-”

My Love mimics me, taking another two steps back, “Please stay away from me,” she mumbles between her gasps, tears running from her green eyes. She points the pepper spray at me.

I stumble backwards, shocked my Love would threaten me. I try to plea with her, desperately ask for her forgiveness, but the words just don’t come out.

She turns around, opens the door, and runs out. Her beautiful, flowing black hair flying behind her. The Love of my life, gone, like that. Slowly, I walk into the bathroom, look into the mirror.

Gray. Everything’s gray again. Except the red stains on my right cheek. All I wanted was to make her happy—make us happy—and this is what I get? For simply removing an obstacle.

“It’s either sadness or euphoria…” I hear Billy Joel sing. For once in my life I wish he would shut up. I walk to the vinyl player, lift the disc off of it, and break it in half. A sharp snap rings across the apartment. I wander back to the kitchen, look at Kubo’s body. Let out a scream. It feels good.

Outside I hear sirens wail. I think of her. The fact she’ll never love me again. The fact I’ll never feel her warm skin again—never lose myself in her green eyes again, like a kid in a forest.

A tear runs down my cheek, mixes with the blood. Eventually lands on Kubo’s corpse with a wet splat.

I lift up one of the shards from the disc. It sure flew far. I hold its sharp tip against my neck, let out a faint chuckle. Feels poetic.

The choice is obvious.

A pool in the back is a suburban home's most vestigial body part. If any sort of major stressor comes along, like the cancer double whammy that got Mom and Dad, one of the ways the house can fortify itself is by shutting down all resources going to the pool. Chlorine? Non-vital expense. Heating? Forget about it. Let the water pick its own temperature; it hardly needs a supervisor to follow the physics rulebook.

Lexi, the Ukrainian pool boy who stopped in once a month to scrub it and do the surrounding grass? Losing him hurt a little, he was hot, but it was just a sting, no actual damage to the property and thus the property owner, me, though I can't speak to the current status of the paperwork.

Mom and Dad left it to me, the house, the pool, their car, and they even tried to have the medical debt 'shove off' from the rest of the estate on a sort of rhetorical raft of scavenged legalese. Anyway, their lawyer told me it didn't work and they couldn't leave me any of those savings, just the house, the car, and the pool.

I know I should be grateful. A bequeathed house is a kingdom to people my age, but I don't really feel I'm of the 'royal blood', you know? The lands lost their unity and began their descent into ruin as soon as I took over, forcing me to stanch the bleeding by cutting off the pool and returning it to the wilderness.

Get a job? Got one. It pays for food, gas, car insurance, and little else. No medical. The debtors can have me, since there's nobody to pass it onto and they'll never catch my ghost, it's too slippery, and it learned from the best.

The best lived in the pool, right around the time it really sunk in that, between property taxes and the mortgage, I was going to have to sell the place eventually and find my forever landlord.

I kept the winter cover on, knowing all the while, as spring told me I missed it by getting hot, that the water was going green underneath without its medication. Things had to live in it. No green without the things. Morbid curiosity got the better of me in May, and I undid one of the buckle-things on the cover and threw back a corner, just one, to see what I'd doomed the legacy of my parents' careers to.

A stagnant green hell, pungent like a backed-up YMCA shower. It could've been gelatin if not for the myriad segmented twitchers' tiny slap ripples on the surface: mosquito larvae, water striders, those little backstroke rowing guys, and a few things you'd need a biology degree to avoid calling lesser demons.

No cover can be put on tightly enough to keep the bugs out. That should've been it though. Not that dark blob. Robbed of all detail by green upon larvae mambo upon green, A distinct swishing tail could still be seen when it peeked out from under the cover and turned to go hide in the deep end. It couldn't be a fish, so it had to be a tadpole. Once upon a time I wanted to keep fish, before I got my job that was supposed to scratch that itch. Technically I was poached, lured away from my corporate pet-mart peon position to a smaller locally-owned aquaculture shop. For one gasp before I dove in it actually felt like a dream come true.

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Nobody realizes how often a building full of short lifespans kept in glass boxes is just an unceremonious funeral. I love fish... when they swim. Not when me and my green plastic net are their chariot to the wastebasket underworld. A wet lidless eye can be empty of everything except sadness. You can try to say a few words for them, but there are so many, and you'll run out quickly, realizing why the grim reaper pulls his hoodie over his face all the time.

Kids walk in and you know they're just taking the fish to die somewhere else. And you have to let them. Anyway, I didn't ask that tadpole to be there, nor did I get any explanation how. Its parents must have really wanted the pool.

Big as it was, the size of my hand, I didn't tell anybody. I've heard people say they wouldn't care if UFOs descended tomorrow and probed them back to front in one motion, since that would still be preferable to the actions of the leaders we elected. It was like that. What did a giant tadpole matter when I was about to hand my house over to some bank or some guy who was effectively a bank from my perspective?

The oddity of it was a free belonging, something I just had in my proximity that others hadn't figured out how to charge for yet. So I fed it. Pizza scraps, ranch chicken bites, apple slices, popcorn. It wasn't picky.

As my deadlines drew closer, across a month, it kept getting bigger. The water only got cloudier, making it harder to tell if legs were sprouting or not. Didn't see any. In June I went out to give it some watermelon cubes only to find the half of yesterday's everything bagel still floating, bloated and dissolving like pus. Leftovers weren't a thing until then, so I figured the metamorphosis happened while I was rocking back and forth looking at bills and chewing off my nails. It got out of there as soon as it could.

The next night I closed a video, then the laptop, then my sore eyes. There was still sound. Something nearby was sliding. As soon as it was done something else was tinkling, clattering. A faucet started, got everywhere, then stopped. The kitchen.

Silent on sock feet, quaking in pajama shorts, I rolled off the couch and tiptoed to the kitchen door, one of the only ones in the house without glass panels, at the only time they ever seemed like a good idea. I had to crack it and peek as the noises continued. The lights were on in there, and I didn't remember leaving them that way.

Across the counter island, poking above it, facing away, was a wide green head with arcing eyelids. It could've been called small, but not unannounced in my kitchen at midnight. There it could only be gargantuan.

Not sitting. Standing. Four foot six at least. Two ridiculous words came to me, swallowed instead of said: adult frog. Even drowning in fear I knew how absurd their combination was. Of course it was an adult frog. Was there any other kind? If you saw a frog, you knew it was an adult.

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It looked like it knew that too, and a few other things I never tried to teach it. The frog was rifling through the utensil drawers, extracting them at random for a brief examination before it set them down anywhere where there was room, some then rolling to the floor. Was it looking for food? No. There was perfectly good fruit going bad on the counter, which it paid no mind.

When I managed to tear my eyes away I noticed one of the windows was open. That was its entry point. Was I lucky or unlucky that it wasn't a burglar who figured it out first? The frog wasn't holding onto anything, just exploring, or maybe searching. Its movements seemed so deliberate, as if its train of thought was nothing but a series of 'if, then' statements. There was an efficiency to its trashing of my kitchen.

Maybe I got the nerve to do something about the intruder once it started fiddling with the oven door and risking a fire, or maybe my body rocked a little too far forward. Either way the door squeaked.

Its head whipped around and gave me two alert amber eyes. Upright or not, I still figured it to be an animal, but right about then was when predictable animal behavior should have kicked in. It should have croaked to intimidate me, opened its mouth in a threat display, or immediately fled the way it came.

Instead it waddled at me. Eyes locked on, it circled around the island and came straight for my position, still quiet except for the comical slapping of its flipper-feet. I pulled the door shut and held the knob in both hands. It didn't have a lock. The frog flapped against the door. In a raw pushing contest I had it beat.

That would explain why it went for the knob, why it tried to jiggle in my hand. When you need to be furniture more than a person it's good to have somewhere else to go, you know, in your head. The only place I found was work, net in hand, dead fish in net. I lived in its wet black eye for a while.

When I stopped over an hour had passed. My clawed hands were full of cramps and my buttressing shoulder was flat and mad about it. Nothing from the kitchen though. Scared as I was, I still wasn't going to call the cops or animal control screaming 'adult frog! adult frog!', so I risked opening it. It had gone, foggy flipper prints on the window.

Rushing over, I pulled it shut and turned the little locking lever that didn't feel dramatic enough. What I wanted to turn was a giant rusty ornery valve. Later I would take stock of the utensils and see it hadn't absconded with anything; first I rushed some more, all over the house, turning every locking lever and everything chunkier and clunkier than that. Now it couldn't get in without breaking glass or finding a key. Took the key out from under the shiftiest-looking garden gnome just to be sure.

Somewhere between pondering and dreaming I kept thinking about places, and what makes you meant for one. If there's any incompatibility, can it be the place's fault, or does it have to be mine? My parents didn't think enough about that sort of thing. They both got the same cancer and were diagnosed at the same time. An environmental cause was most likely. The house? I tried to ask about it, but every test for contaminants costs what I don't have, doctors don't do that, the city and the real estate guys don't care, and it could always be shit luck.

When I take the fish out of the tank, on its way to the bin, it's gone from its world. All its neighbors forget it ever existed. Only I remember, standing over it, cradling it in plastic mesh that usually strangles things on beaches, with nothing else to say but 'damn fish, that sucks'.

The next night I woke up in my parents' bed, so wide that my stretched arms couldn't reach the side from the middle. It always made me feel isolated and safe, like a deserted island in a comic strip panel. Untouchable in a sense. Even if you could touch me I'd only smear.

One of the double doors was pulled open.

My breath caught and stung. It was standing there, in the crack, half-hidden by smoky glass. The frog was watching me as I paralyzed myself. I had opened my eyes, not bolted upright, so it didn't break any glass. It was just there, certainty in its tight lip, eyes cold and steadfast. Paralysis didn't seem like such a bad place to live, not in this economy, but the frog could never leave well enough alone. If it saw something going on it had to join in, had to master it and show me up.

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Matter-of-factly it entered the room and waddled to the bedside, stilling once more to get a closer look at me. I turned my head. A little breath shot out of its nostrils, frustrated, impatient. An inner shout demanded to know what it wanted. It already had snacks, I made sure of that: lasagna pockets, frozen hot honey wings, lo mein... What more could it want out of life?

The bed, at the very least. When I refused to move it lunged at me, mouth opening like the hood of a cobra. Before I could react my face was buried in its gullet, pressed against the membrane of its inflatable throat. If it did inflate it I might have been able to breathe. Tighter instead. In my mouth. I found the bar of its jawbone and tried to wrench loose. Both of us were lifted out of bed, my feet were under me, but I couldn't see anything.

Stumbling around with the frog inverted on my head, I started to get dizzy. Its throat pouch was vacuum-sealing me, suffocating me the way a mobster might with a plastic bag. We hit the wall and I slid along it, looking for its only relevant feature with my shoulder. There, the window. The second floor window.

Against every instinct my hands left its jaw and fumbled for the lock lever. Turn. Lift. Lean. A sickening rush. Together we rolled off the gutter and fell a distance that seemed like more than one floor, especially once I hit the wet grass. The frog could see it coming and separated halfway down, disappearing into the night.

The exterior lights were on; I was supposed to turn those off. Sorry Mom, sorry Dad. I attracted the frog. I kept letting it in. If this came down to arm wrestling I could've still gotten the best of it, but I felt helpless as I peeled my wet half off the grass and tried to find the wind that got knocked out of me.

The car. Leave and come back, this time with reinforcements, soon as I could figure out what those looked like. It was in the driveway. Keys were in the garage, and the door code wasn't my birthday, just the day I got my first and last goldfish. I swore at the door for grumbling so loud and opening so slow, until the gap was large enough to duck under.

I snatched the keys out of the miniature wicker basket hanging on the wall, which used to harbor my 'appetizer eggs' every Easter. A quick glance under the still-rising door was devoid of flipper feet. I went for it. Five seconds later I was in the seat, door shut, key in ignition. Now I just had to lean over and make sure the passenger side lock-

Clunkch. My finger hovered in the air. The frog found the passenger door first. It was in the seat, looking straight ahead, until it was looking at me.

"Get out," I uttered, pathetic. I couldn't even mean it. The frog just looked so ready, so expectant. For a split second I felt I was in its car and its sharpening amber eyes, almost making the sound of sanding, were scolding me for not securing my seat belt. It lunged at me again, slapping, hissing, trilling.

There was no window to throw myself out if I got the plastic bag treatment again, forcing me to bail back out onto the driveway. The door closed behind me. Safety echoed inside the garage, so I retreated there and found myself stunned once more when the headlights kicked up. The engine was on. Had I done that?

From over my raised hands and between my fingers practically being X-rayed by the high-beams I saw the frog in the driver's seat. Its bulbous fingertips rose over the dashboard, curled around the steering wheel. The car growled and rocked. If the frog could drive as well as it could take a cheese grater out of a drawer, it was over for me.

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Without hesitation the thing in the driver's seat gunned it, nearly ran me over. A roll to the side dropped me into some collapsing sporting equipment, softer than the back wall the frog struck. The car halted, and I thought maybe I had it, maybe the frog's confidence finally wasn't enough. The airbag wasn't working. I was supposed to get that fixed too.

Except there was an airbag, I saw as I stood and peered through the cracked window. The frog's throat had inflated at the last second and cushioned it on impact. No worse for wear once it swallowed it back down to size. It looked at me again, turned the wheel.

I ran for it, outside this time, but the frog had already figured out reverse. The engine roared and the brakes screeched as it backed out of the garage and blocked me. Off-road then. I turned and sprinted for the back yard, hearing the tires lap up mud behind me. The car went wide, overtook me on the side. If the frog veered I'd be dead underneath my own vehicle. If I veered I'd be safe.

The pool was there, on my right. If it drove it in there there'd be no backing it out. My feet sprang as I crossed the cover, soon-to-be precious air just beneath. There was the place we first met, the open corner where the larvae danced and the green lights never went down. I dove straight into murk, cut my forehead on one of the steps. Right. No diving in the shallow end. Kid mistake.

Bleeding, swimming, choking, I slipped along the slimy bottom until it disappeared deeper. Then I surfaced. The worst smell ever was actually a liquid on my tongue, scooped up from the water's surface. Spitting it out didn't help much. Bugs bounced and buzzed all along the mire's skin, like pebbles kicked up by an old truck down a dirt road. Through them I watched the corner to see if the frog was still after me.

The chill entered my mind a minute after it got to my body. No engine sounds. Why would it just leave me here? My hands sank. For a while I floated there, face barely above the water, toes aimed straight down. Take me, I told the pool. Do to me what you did to the tadpole. Turn me into an adult so I can do these things right. So everyone will stop looking at me like I'm the wrench in the works.

Make me understand an eye other than that dead one in the plastic net, sad and gone, life too short and boxed to even start properly.

The water didn't grant my wish, even after I let the mosquitoes go at my earlobes like woodpeckers and the striders play bumper cars against my cheek and the beetles stroll through the orchard of my eyelashes.I was still me, just damper and grosser. Sorry Mom, sorry Dad, something in this pool probably just gave me cancer. At least cancer is a sort of growth, right?

Eventually I pulled myself out and dripped my way to the patio. Now I looked through all those glass panels, like a wall of aquariums, at a world I didn't understand but still sympathized with. All the lights were on. Music was playing. Did the frog like big band swing, or had it not figured out the dial yet?

It crossed between rooms, shuffling, a big bowl of assorted snacks in hand, licorice ropes draped over the side. Good choices. The streaming would last seventeen more days, until the free trial ended. What would the frog do then?

The only way to find out was to stick around, but not get in the way, you know? An idea dripped into me from somewhere far above. The attic. As I climbed the gutter on the side of the house I groaned. The attic. It had a window. That was how the frog got in. I had forgotten about it because we only stored decorations up there and I hadn't celebrated anything since Mom and Dad.

It was still open. In the dust there was a box of blankets and all the spiders inside them were dead, so they were clean enough. There I slept.

Sometimes the frog goes out, to where I don't know, but I take the opportunity to sneak down and get any of my things I might need. The car's always there when I need to go to work, and now the money is enough to get by, because I'm not paying the mortgage or the taxes. People show up, irate because they're trapped in suits, and they bang on the door.

Then it opens. Looking out over the roof all I can see is them fleeing and driving away. Whatever money they want for whatever service or scam, they have to deal with the frog. Nobody gets through it. Nobody gets to me. God damn frog, get'em. Get those bastards.

Here I stay, untransformed. The other day the door in the floor opened, and I saw the frog stick its head in. It slid a plate of food closer to me, then went back downstairs. Bologna in a tortilla and peanuts mixed with crushed potato chips. Pretty good guesses. I made sure to eat the whole thing, so it would know I'm grateful. Grateful that an adult finally lives here.

The End

I'd never read the Dead By Moonrise pamphlet, but it would have helped a lot if I had.

I should’ve known it was time, the minute I saw the sun dip below the horizon.

The sheriff hadn’t said what time he’d come, just that he'd be by "soon enough," and that the first visit to town had to be on their terms. I remember watching the sun stretch thin, like melted wax, then the weird orange fog hanging heavy over everything—like the sky wasn’t quite ready to let go of the day. Maybe that’s when it started to hit me, that I was waiting for something… wrong.

The houses along the street were all quiet. The whole town felt still and everyone had their windows closed and their curtains drawn, and for some reason, I couldn’t help but feel like they were all watching me. Peeking out and watching. Watching him come for me.

He’d slowly come around, making his rounds—picking up the “usuals”—around that special time each month, with an interval of the synodic few weeks between. It was always the same group: the Ruster kids, a few strange adults (that priest, of all people), that old lady who’d always smile too much. And then there was the scientist—Dr. Chaste, I think his name was. Always had that wheelchair and that weird gleam in his eye. It was always the same ones. And, of course, I’d seen them go into that jail once, twice, but I didn’t know why. I didn’t really ask. It wasn’t until last night that I realized something about the whole situation felt... systematic.

I wasn’t like the others. I wasn’t here for a repeat. But, I was, wasn’t I?

The sheriff had told me he had no choice except to pick me up tonight, and when I asked why, he just smiled like I should’ve known better than to ask. Like I wasn’t supposed to acknowledge what was really happening here. And I didn’t. Not then, anyway.

But I do now.

The first confession was small. Nothing major. I’d broken into the old chapel down by the woods a few weeks ago, just out of curiosity, but that felt like a tiny crime compared to what came later. The thing is, the more I think back to it, the more I wonder if the sheriff picked me up because of that very first sin, or if it was because he was always going to find me anyway.

After that night in the chapel, things started happening. Small things, creeping up on me when I was alone. The strange feeling that I wasn’t alone in my own skin. The first shift, I thought I was just losing my mind—staring at myself in the mirror, watching my eyes change. My hands felt… wrong. I didn’t even understand what was happening, only that the changes were coming on faster and faster, like a clock ticking down to something I couldn't escape.

But I wasn’t like the others, right?

There’s a town secret I’m learning now—the sheriff’s office is more of a halfway house than a jail. The prisoners never stay in there for long. It’s a revolving door, and they always come back. Like the way you can’t outrun a nightmare no matter how fast you run. When I woke up in that cell the last time, something inside me clicked. I wasn’t just a stranger in a town full of strange people anymore. I was one of them.

My thoughts splintered more with each passing hour, each day. And with the nights—god, the nights were the worst. The hunger. It clawed its way into me, gnawing and scraping, an instinct I could no longer ignore. I started seeing things, hearing them. The sounds of footsteps echoing just outside my door when I was alone, but when I looked—nothing. There were whispers in the dark. I don’t think I ever felt safe again after that.

Then came the second confession.

I confessed to the usual small sins—the lying, the stealing of food when I was younger, when I was hungry. I could almost hear the sheriff’s low chuckle through the bars, knowing my fears were getting the best of me. But what else could I do? What other sins could I confess to while the beast inside was starting to… stir?

There's this kind of terror that wells up inside me, losing myself, losing the little things that make me - me. I'd rather tell all my secrets, and say this isn't one of them. It isn't my secret, it is my living nightmare.

I'm not even sure what it is that I am afraid of, it is so many things, all in one. I see it, when I look into my own eyes in the mirror. This sort of yellow, raving blur behind my gaze. The discoloration of my eyes and the way they look at me like I am prey, like those aren't my eyes anymore. I am terrified.

And then it all came flooding back. The howl that echoed through my veins. The ripping sensation as my bones split and reformed. The feeling of fur growing, claws extending from my fingers. The uncontrollable, horrifying need to hunt. To run.

It feels like a stretch that just forces itself out with a sigh, a sort of tearing sound, a feeling that things are popping and shifting inside, bones realigning themselves painfully. Each aspect of this horror is this pale, drooling madness to contemplate, yet I have nothing left to consider, except my sins.

To be unforgiven is to be remembered. I wish someone would remember me, as I was, and tell me I am still the same. I wish I could hear that and believe in it.

I tremble now, in fear, as the setting sun gives way to the treacherous moonlight.

As I sit, incarcerated, caged, I am somehow still wandering around outside. A wild animal, and incapable of recalling what I do or where I go. Unable to decide, my free will stolen by this disease of not the mind or the body, no, something deep within the well of the conscious mind, nothing but feral rage and the fear of what it would do, regardless of what I love.

I am left with a vision, imagining myself, somehow as myself, and in the visage of the terror from within. Would that confession sound like this:

"So now here I am, standing before the sheriff’s office. My reflection in the glass doesn’t look like me anymore. It looks like something else. The transformation is complete."

But I still don’t know what to do with it. I want to scream, but my voice is gone. The monster inside me is growing stronger by the minute, pushing me to say the last thing I never wanted to admit out loud.

I’m a werewolf. A goddamn monster.

And I can feel the sheriff waiting outside, patiently. I know he’s heard it all before. He’s probably heard the screams and the howls of the others—the ones who confessed long before me. They’re all behind bars, waiting for the night to come again, when their own transformations will set them free. There's no guilt in fear, just raw horror of what we become.

I was a fool, thinking I was safe. An infected bite when the enormous dog fell upon me, old and with twisted legs. Few escape such an encounter. I tripped over a tipped wheelchair as I scrambled for safety, screaming in terror and agony as I clutched the dripping wound.

I was a fool to think I would not be infected, no, cursed. I never believed in such things. The sheriff apologized to me, as he rarely misses a pick-up on time. I am sorry for what I did. I should not have trespassed into an abandoned place. Such a place belongs to the monsters.

I hear the pack calling in the night, their voice is silenced, behind the brick walls of the jail. I can still hear them. They are already changing. Who am I to deny their call.

That was last night. I went with the sheriff, and I was locked up again, but now I am back home. I shouldn't be here. Someone should remember me, tell me I don't believe in monsters.

Why am I so different now? I come back to this form, I am human again, but I am just a disguise for the cursed thing within me. If I am cut or hurt, it heals too quickly, and I barely feel it. I choke on my old vegetarian diet, and plow my face uncontrollably into the dogfood, eating like an animal. So hungry, and then I shiver, and ask myself how will I continue this way?

I am afraid of this, afraid of myself. I am afraid of the pack, afraid of what we become together, and the danger we represent. Not a physical danger, as we are collected and safely stored for the night. No, it is when we are free, the danger to who we are.

I see how they go about dealing with the isolation and the terror of knowing what dwells within each of us. I see how they shake it off and smile like devils, always getting their way with everyone. We are predators, elevated to stun others into submission.

Is that part of the beast, or something true about ourselves as people?

I fear the answer, either way. They are looking at me, I can feel it. All the skies swing round and round, the days flying past, not one of them good. At night I am awake and alert, and they are waiting patiently for me to stop being so scared.

A bad town to move to, but it's my town now.

And the worst part? I think I’m going to join them.

It had been raining all day, a day when the rain made everything feel weird. Each drop felt heavy. They hit your jacket and shoes like tiny pins. You could barely see in front of you. The city looked different too. The streets were familiar, but now they were covered in puddles. Those puddles reflected strange, wobbly images of everything around.

You didn’t really know why you were out. Maybe you were tired of being inside. Or maybe there was something else making you restless. Whatever it was, you were now soaked and lost. For over an hour, you wandered. You turned corners, but the streets felt empty. The buildings felt like strangers. Nothing around you seemed familiar anymore.

Then you spotted something.

A neon sign blinked through the rain: Bones Jazz Bar.

The sign lit up one letter at a time: Bones. Jazz. Bar. Then it went dark for a quick moment before lighting up again. You stopped and stared. It was odd and gave you the chills, like someone was watching you.

The bar was small and plain. It was squeezed between two tall buildings, almost like a kid hiding between adults. There was nothing scary about it, but there was something about it that made your heart race. It was just sitting there, like it was waiting for you. The sign flickered again, pulling your focus back.

You could feel the rain soaking your jacket, dripping down your neck. The chill made you shiver, but stepping inside that bar felt even worse. Still, your legs moved on their own, dragging you closer. It felt like the bar was pulling you in, like a fishing hook.

The door opened before you even touched it, swinging wide with a loud creak. Warm air rushed out, smelling like leather, whiskey, and something sweet that reminded you of rotting flowers.

You paused at the entrance, but the rain felt sharp against your skin, pushing you forward. So, you stepped inside.

The first thing that struck you was how dark it was. Not just dim, but truly dark. Shadows seemed to fill the room. The only lights came from little candles flickering on tables. Their flames danced like they were afraid to go out. The bar felt cramped, like the walls were closing in. But it also stretched back farther than it should.

In the distance, you heard a saxophone playing. It was soft but strange, a tune that crawled into your ears and wouldn’t leave. It didn’t sound wrong, but it felt off. Like someone was playing a lullaby in reverse.

“Welcome,” said a voice.

You turned toward the bar. There stood the bartender, tall and thin with sharp features. His face looked incomplete, like someone had started drawing him and gave up halfway. He had a big, wide grin that showed too-perfect teeth. His eyes shone brightly.

“Come in,” he said, his voice smooth. “The rain’s worse than it looks.”

Your mouth felt dry. “I’m not staying,” you whispered.

The bartender chuckled, his smile still wide. “Sure,” he replied. “Nobody does.”

You looked around. The tables were all different, covered in scars and odd carvings. At one table, a man with a funny face played solitaire. The cards changed each time he laid them down. At another table, a woman with three hands scribbled furiously in a notebook, her pen leaving a trail of smoke behind.

Then you heard whispers. At first, they were so quiet, you thought you imagined them. But as you stood there, they grew louder. Many voices murmured just out of reach. You couldn’t figure out where they came from. Nobody was talking.

“Find a seat,” the bartender said, waving his hand toward the room. “Or don’t. The music’s got time.”

You wanted to bolt. Every bone in your body told you to turn and run back into the rain. But your legs wouldn’t comply. You moved toward a small table in the back. The chair felt warm, as if someone had just been there.

And then you saw it.

Your name.

It was carved into the table, jagged and rough. It looked fresh, like someone had just scratched it in. Touching it made your heart race. The handwriting was unmistakably yours.

But that didn’t make sense. You’d never been here.

Had you?

The saxophone played a sad note, and the room shifted. The walls seemed to get closer, the shadows grew taller, and the air felt heavy on your chest.

“Bones remembers,” the bartender said, suddenly standing next to you. He held a glass of dark liquid. You didn’t even see him move.

“Even if you don’t,” he added with an even wider grin.

“What is this place?” you managed to ask.

“A bar,” he replied, as if it was obvious.

The whispers swelled louder, flooding your ears. You jumped up, the chair screeching against the floor. “I need to go,” you said, your voice shaky.

“Of course,” the bartender said, bowing with a flourish. “The door’s right there.”

You turned around, but the door had vanished. Instead, there was a tall, shiny mirror. Your reflection looked strange. The person in the mirror wore different clothes. Their smile wasn’t quite right.

“Go on,” the bartender urged from behind you. “Open it.”

You hesitated, hand outstretched toward the glass. The reflection leaned closer, mimicking your move. Its smile turned creepy, showing off sharp teeth.

You looked back, ready to speak to the bartender, but he had vanished. The whispers rose, merging into one voice:

This is where you belong.

You shut your eyes, pressed your hand against the glass, and stepped forward.

The world shifted. For a moment, all was silent. When you opened your eyes, you found yourself outside. The rain was back, harder than before, slamming against you like fists. The street was empty. The neon sign was gone. In its place was a blank wall.

You stood there, dripping and shivering, confused about what had just happened. For a second, you thought it must have been a dream. A trick of the rain and shadows.

But then you heard it.

Far away, almost lost in the rain, the saxophone played. Its sad tune twisted through your thoughts. As you stood there, stuck in the downpour, you realized it was playing your name.

Days went by. Maybe weeks. You tried to push away thoughts of the bar, to pretend it wasn’t real. But each night, the saxophone came back. Sometimes quiet, like a faraway whisper. Other times loud, sneaking into your dreams.

Every time, it played the same song. The one that was yours.

You started noticing other things, too. Your name began showing up in odd places. Sometimes on your desk at work. Other times on your bathroom mirror. Once, you found it scratched into your car’s hood.

You haven’t returned to the bar. Not yet. But deep down, you know it’s only a matter of time.

Because the whispers are still there.

And you know the truth: Bones Jazz Bar isn’t just a one-time thing.

It’s waiting for you.

And it always will.

It is 3 AM; I have turned on the dark mode and am staring into the blue light.

I scroll through my Home page, and there are a bunch of confessionary posts about sexual kinks in Thailand, art being shared of cute and edgy video game characters, and links to articles that say we are entering a dark age—likely to face human extinction. For real this time, of course, because every valid, truthful, factual article must insist upon itself with the most extremist claim that warrants its existence. And hold the ticking attention span of the brain-fried generations of people.

People.

There are so many fucking – shitting – eating – PLEASING – selfish – selfless – biased – dictated – dictating– directionless people.

I scroll through people. I scroll through people. I scroll through people.

Do you hear the sound of the time bomb? People...people...people—

Do you see the bits and pieces in front of you of what is going to blow up? The entanglements of which you exist within. All of the context in which you exist.

I love how last morning I woke up and chatted with my parents about the world news. I like how tonight, I am all alone. And I dislike it, too. Because sometimes I like something so much that it turns into love, and love into a compulsion, and then I disappear. I remain to exist like a moth to the blue light. The

people, people, people—

Interconnected. Interstellar.

What is it about that sex in Thailand? What is it about the humanly drawn animated figures? What is it about trying to predict our inevitable death? ... That makes me spend my life, MY life, my LIFE, on other

PEOPLE, PEOPLE, PEOPLE—

INSTEAD OF

LIVING RIGHT HERE

WITH WHOM ARE RIGHT HERE

IN THE MORNING

CHATTING

WITH ME...

OVER BREAKFAST

NOT THE BLUE LIGHT!

WITH THEM

PEOPLE, PEOPLE, PEOPLE!

THOSE IN FRONT OF ME

I AM SOMEONE

BUT IN THE BLUE LIGHT

I DISAPPEAR

WHY SHOULD I DISAPPEAR

WHEN ALL IS SAID AND DONE---

WE ARE ALL---

PEOPLEPEOPLE...

The sun slowly sank behind us, painting the sky with faded shades of gray and yellow, while the cold wind brushed against the back of our necks. Teresa walked with her head down, silent, just behind me. Mathias Santiago strode beside me, gripping his AK-47 as if it were an extension of his own body. The way he handled the weapon, with the confidence of a seasoned war veteran, spoke more about his past than any conversation ever could. I glanced at him for a moment and then shifted my gaze to Maria.

Maria was a brunette with deep brown eyes, tan skin, and straight hair that fell long over her shoulders. She was almost my age, perhaps around 20. Despite her youth, her eyes carried a burden that shouldn’t have been there. Nothing about any of us seemed young anymore.

We stopped at an old store in Mexico City. It was once one of the largest cities in the world, but now it was as empty as any other. The cold was biting—one of those days that should have been celebrated: January 1st, New Year's Day. But there was no celebration. No fireworks, no parties, no music. Just the silence of dead streets.

As we entered the store, I noticed there were still Christmas decorations scattered around: a dusty toy Santa Claus, a forgotten box of chocolates on a shelf. I carefully picked up the box and forced the lid open. Inside, I found a few chocolates and a chocolate Santa Claus.

“Want one, Teresa?” I asked, offering the chocolate.

“No, thanks, Ricardo.”

“Alright.”

I continued to explore the store. It was strange to see those Christmas promotions for a Christmas that never happened. On one of the old...

freezers, I found a beer. I picked it up, but it was warm. I hate warm beer. Maybe I could cool it down in the river—a trick my uncle taught me when I was 14. We were on a farm when the power went out for two straight days. He showed me how to place the bottles at the bottom of the river to chill them.

The smell inside the market was the same as in almost every city we’d passed through: the stench of death, of decomposition. That odor seemed embedded in the air, impossible to escape. The cold was intensifying, and I glanced out the window as the sun sank slowly on the horizon. It was twilight, the moment when light dies to make way for darkness.

“Teresa, want a beer?” I asked again.

“No.”

Teresa looked about 30 years old, but after all she had seen and endured, she might have aged 50. She had lost everything: her family, her children, her husband... even the dog. Before all of this, she was a teacher, a kind woman who would never hurt anyone. Now, her eyes carried the weight of profound depression, a trauma that could never be healed.

I had been a psychologist before the Red Flu. I recognized the signs—not just in Teresa, but in Mathias too.

Mathias, at 30 years old, had the face of a 60-year-old veteran. He had lost everything. A former soldier in the Mexican army, he had watched his friends die in combat, saw his two-year-old son suffocate to death, and then lost his wife. It had shattered him inside.

“Mathias, let’s go.”

“I’m done grabbing the supplies.”

We exited the store, and I glanced at the sun, now almost gone beneath the horizon. The sky was gray, tinged with a faint yellow hue. It was cloudy, heavy, as if mirroring the emptiness around us.

On the street ahead of us, bodies were still scattered. We walked past them, stepping over the shadows of people who were once like us. Mexico City, once a vibrant, pulsing heart of life, was now an open-air cemetery.

Corpses were everywhere: inside houses, stores, restaurants, police stations. It didn’t matter where we looked—there were signs of the death that had swept across the world. We didn’t know if we were the last people alive, but since December, we hadn’t seen planes in the sky. No sign of life, no news—nothing.

"Do you like beer, Maria?" I asked, trying to break the silence.
"I don't drink."
"More for me, then."

I shrugged and took a sip. I don’t like warm beer, but now it doesn’t matter. It’s what we have. Before the Red Flu, I would never have touched something like this. My habits were different. My life was different.

I was rich. Not just rich—filthy rich. My family owned several companies. Those glass towers in city centers? Some of them were ours. Our businesses employed thousands of people, and even at such a young age, I was already one of the wealthiest men in the country. We had mansions, luxury cars, private jets. My name was always in the society columns as the "promising young heir."

Money wasn’t an issue. If I wanted something, I got it. Expensive clothes? I bought them. Travel? I went wherever I wanted. I’d been to Tokyo, Paris, London. I’d been to places most people only dream of visiting. I’d had experiences that seemed straight out of a movie.

But now… now, money is absolutely worthless. It’s not even good for starting a fire or wiping your ass.

"Why do you carry that AK-47?" I asked Mathias, trying to push my thoughts away.

He didn’t have to think long to answer.
"In case we meet someone."

I chuckled softly. It was a bitter laugh.
"Someone? I find that hard to believe."

Mathias looked at me seriously.
"It’s not impossible. We found Teresa and Maria, didn’t we?"

I didn’t want to argue, but deep down, I didn’t believe anymore.
"It’s possible... but unlikely."

We kept walking. We left the empty streets behind and moved into the countryside, crossing forests and rivers. We decided to stop by a local river. The sound of the running water was almost comforting—something so simple, but now it felt precious.

As we set up the fishing rods, I sat by the riverbank. The smell of dampness was strong, mixed with the freshness of the trees. The air had never been so clean, so pure. It was ironic. Now that almost no one is left to breathe it, the air is perfect. I thought about this as I felt the fresh oxygen fill my lungs.

My mother used to say the world was a gift from God. A deeply religious woman, fanatical to the core. She believed everything had a... purpose, a divine order. And now? Now I wonder if she would still believe that. After all, it was on Christ’s birthday that the world ended. What an irony, isn’t it? Jesus was born to save the world, and on the day of His birth, He decided to destroy it.

I looked at the fishing rod, the line moving with the current. I felt mosquitoes biting my hands, arms, neck—one after another. It reminded me of vacations in Acapulco, back when everything was different. My mother used to take us to the most luxurious hotels. Suites with soft beds, hot water, cold drinks. I remember my father joining us, always paying for the best as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Now here I am, covered in bites, trying not to die of malaria while fishing for a measly fish. Maybe, with luck, one big enough to share.

My thoughts drifted back to that day in Acapulco. I remembered how that place felt. The warmth of the sun on my skin, the white sand, the salty smell of the sea. My mother loved that destination and made it a point to take us every summer. I was just a teenager the last time we were there.

We stayed in the best suite at the hotel. It had a view of the ocean, enormous beds, sheets so soft they felt like clouds.
I remember sitting on the balcony, looking out at the sea. The hotel pool was full of laughing children, families having fun, couples walking hand in hand. There was music in the background—a band playing something light and cheerful. We ordered non-alcoholic cocktails, and I was fascinated by the way the waiter decorated the glasses with fruit and tiny colorful umbrellas.

One evening, we went to a seaside restaurant for dinner. The smell of grilled seafood mingled with the sound of waves crashing on the sand. My father ordered expensive wine. My mother smiled at him in a way I’ll never forget—a smile full of love and complicity. I watched them and felt safe, invincible. My younger sister, still a child, laughed while eating an ice cream that dripped down her fingers.

It was one of the happiest days of my life.

Now, sitting here surrounded by mosquitoes, I looked at my hands. Once, they held decorated cocktails. Now, they hold an improvised fishing rod in a desperate attempt to find something to eat. Back then, my biggest worry was which car I’d drive when we returned to the city. The days were so bright and sunny. I remember the happy families on the beach, the couples walking hand in hand, the parents playing...

...with their children. And now, as I thought about it, a terrible thought crossed my mind: maybe all those people are dead. Maybe they’re just ghosts now, shadows that walked this world before the end.

Maria approached and sat down next to me.
“Maria, do you think the world will ever go back to the way it was?” I asked, breaking the silence.

She looked at the stars shining in the sky, more visible than ever—a spectacular, seemingly infinite display of white dots.
“No,” she replied simply.
“Why not?” I pressed.

She took a moment to answer, as if arranging the words in her mind.
“Because we won’t live long enough to see it happen.”

I fell silent. She rested her head on my shoulder, and I let her. There was nothing more to say.

I had everything once. Cars, private jets, trips to the other side of the world. My friends and I laughed, saying life was a party that would never end. My father, a cold and authoritarian man, used to tell me that money was everything. “The world revolves around money,” he’d say. Turns out, he was wrong.

He was one of the first to fall. Then my mother. Shortly after, my younger sister. Before I realized it, the entire city was dead. The plague spared no one: children, women, the elderly. It was relentless.

I looked at the river, watching the water carve winding lines into the earth. Everything felt so still. I touched Maria’s face and kissed her. It wasn’t passion, it wasn’t love. It was necessity—a lifeline to the humanity that still lingered within us.

As I kissed her, I remembered my parents. I remembered seeing them kiss in Europe, during family vacations. I remembered Tokyo, Rome, Venice. I remembered running to hug them, telling them I loved them. Now, all of that was gone.

The world will never be the same again.

I kept my eyes on the fishing rod, even with Maria leaning against me. The line started to pull. A jolt ran through my body, and I pulled hard. It was a big fish—big enough for all of us.
“Looks like we’ll have dinner tonight.”

Human teeth by the looks of it. 

Molars, incisors, and every tooth in between. It had to be about forty pounds of teeth tightly wrapped in potato sacks inside a blue duffel bag that looked identical to mine.

I wish I had double-checked the contents at the airport, but I was so exhausted by my flight that I just wanted to get home. 

And now all my clothes, toiletries and Hawaiian souvenirs are gone, replaced by a bag that belongs to either the tooth fairy or some psychopathic dentist.

Seriously, how the hell did this get through security?

I put on some kitchen gloves and dug around through the teeth, hoping to find some form of identification. There was nothing. Nothing but more teeth.

Then I received a text on my phone that stiffened my entire back.

 ‘Where are my fucking teeth?’

I was more confused than ever. Was the person who expected this bag seriously texting this phone right now? How did they get my number?

Instinctively, I looked around my empty apartment, threatened by the message. But of course, the only movement was my own reflection on the balcony glass.

Then my phone sent a picture of an open blue duffel bag. Inside was my red summer shorts, along with my surfboard keyring and tiki mask magnet. They have my stuff.

‘You have our teeth. And we know who you are.’

I received a picture of a crumpled form I filled out to go scuba diving. It was left in the outer pocket of my duffel bag. My name was listed. My address. Even my phone number.

Oh shit.

Then I received a call from an unknown caller. I put the phone on the ground and let it ring out. Each ring sent a buzz through my hardwood floor, and a shiver up my neck.

Another text: ‘We know where you live. Give us the teeth.’

Terrible scenarios flooded my mind. Men wearing balaclavas bursting through the door with army boots and pointing their gleaming knives at my face. Zap straps tightening around my feet and hands, cutting off all circulation. Days of being locked in a cargo container and having to suck the moisture from filthy puddles for sustenance…

Okay, relax, relax. Chill. I had a habit of watching too much true crime.

I ran through the options, they all seemed like imperfect solutions.

1.) I could call the police … but I didn’t know if they could help me. They would have no idea who this tooth person is either. I doubt they would put me in witness protection based on a few texts.

2.) I could go stay at a hotel in a different town… But how long would I have to wait? They know where I live. They could visit at any time. I’d be living in danger…

Before I could stop myself, I texted back.

'This was an accident. I’ll give you back the bag. I didn’t mean to take it’

I stayed there, kneeling by the tooth-bag, waiting for a reply. 

‘You will drop the bag at [redacted] park. There is a wooden bench on the south end dedicated to the firehall. You will place the bag beneath there at 10:00pm.’

I breathed a sigh of relief. Instructions. Clean and simple. That park was across from my apartment. I could do that no problem. 

Another text: 'And you must add one of your front teeth.’

My throat tightened. What?

I quickly texted back. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Because of your interference. A price must be paid. One of your front teeth’

They can’t be serious.

I stood up and closed the blinds on my balcony, paranoid that someone can see me. I had typed the single word ‘Why?’ but never hit send.

How could they even know if I added a tooth in or not? There were thousands of teeth in that bag.

I lightly touched my two front teeth, so firmly panted in the roof of my mouth. How would I even pull a tooth out?

***

Arriving around 9:30 pm, the park was pretty cold. Most nights it snowed this time of year, but luckily it had been pretty dry for a while, so I didn't need to wear too many layers.

The bench dedicated to the firehall was easy to find, and I shoved the tooth-bag directly beneath it with a paper note on top: ‘Sorry about the mix up.”

I sat on the bench for a little bit, pretending to look at my phone. There was an old man out for a walk through the park, and a young couple with their dog. I didn't want them to think I was dropping off a bomb or drugs or something, so I stuck around for a bit and smoked a single cigarette.

One cigarette turned to three. Then four. I couldn't help myself, I was nervous.

Would they know I didn't add my teeth?

After considering it back and forth in the apartment, I left my front teeth alone. If they really wanted some extra teeth, I figured I could stop by a dental office on a later date and get them all the teeth they wanted. I just couldn't bring myself to grab a wrench, and pry perfectly healthy teeth out of my own mouth.

At 9:53, the park emptied out and it started to get freezing. It was my cue to exit.

I took one last drag, exhaled a large plume of smoke and I saw it contour around the edges of a … strange, unseeable shape in front of me. 

It was really odd. 

It felt like there was something invisible standing only inches away.

As I tried to move forward, a bone-like hand found my throat. Two yellow eyes appeared, floating in the air.

“Filthy liar. You didn't add your pain.” 

“wha—?”

The powerful grip lifted me by the throat. I brought my hands down against a wiry, invisible arm.

“Each tooth remembers." The voice came as a seething whisper. "Every tooth retains the pain from when it was pulled.”

My assailant lifted me a whole foot above the ground. I couldn't breathe.

“Lord Foul needs his shipment of pain. You delayed it.”

“Please!” I tried to say, but could only make a choking sound. “GHhhk! Ack!”

The entity dropped me to the ground.

I inhaled and immediately tried to crawl away, but an invisible knee pinned me down.

“And now, you must top off the pain with a fresh garnish.”

 Two invisible hands forced their way into my mouth and pried open my jaw. I tried to fight back, to close my mouth, but it was no use. This entity, whatever it was, had incredible strength.

“A fresh dollop of pain will rejuvenate the supply.”

M two frontmost teeth (my ‘buck-teeth’), were effortlessly bent outward, and snapped off. I shrieked from the pain. Tears streamed instantly.

“That's for stealing our bag.”

As if my teeth were the tabs on a soda can, the entity began to bend each one outward. All my upper front teeth. Then my lower. One by one.

“That's for lying. 

“That's for screaming. 

“That's for being fucking irritating.”

My gums became a fountain of blood. The pain in my mouth was catastrophic—each nerve ending raw and on fire. I tried to scream for help, but the knee on my chest weighed down harder. Soon I could barely make a sound.

The hands plucked out all my bent, broken teeth like a series of pull tabs. Pwick! Pwick! Pwick!

“Lord Foul will be most pleased.”

The bony fingers travelled further into my mouth. Sharp nails dug beneath my molars, and pulled.

The last thing I remember was looking up and seeing the yellow eyes stare back at me. 

Two glowing moons from hell.

***

***

***

I almost bled to death that night.

Thankfully someone found me passed out in the park and called an ambulance, which took me into a hospital, where I recovered for six days straight.

My mouth was a wreck. Every single tooth ripped out. Every. Single. One. There were half-inch wounds all over the roof and floor of my mouth. No conventional dentures would even fit in my desiccated gums. 

It took 3 months of visiting the dentist to slowly reconstruct what was destroyed. And even now, I still have to wear two different sets of dentures. One for daytime (which allowed me to carefully chew food), and one for night time (which slowly bent my fucked gums back into place).

I have no idea what the hell attacked me that night. I don't really want to think about it.  Or about what happened to that duffel bag full of teeth. 

I’ve since moved cities, as you might expect. In fact, I no longer live in the US. I’ve moved far away.

Most importantly, I bought a custom built suitcase off the internet with zebra stripes. I’ve pinned bright yellow plastic stars all over, and many other identifiers too. it might look like a tacky eye sore, but I’ll never confuse it for someone else's bag.

If you're ever at the airport and you recognize my bag from this story, I give you permission to come up and say hi. I make it a point to try and meet friendly people, and move forward with my life.  Who knows, if you catch me in the right mood, I may even show you my removable teeth.

As far as I know, I’m the only 27 year old with grandma dentures.

The definition of fear is described as the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or is a threat. Every human on Earth has most likely experienced some degree of fear in their lives. It is a completely natural emotion. For one to experience true and complete fear however, well that’s much more rare and tends to change a person to their very core. This is my experience with the truest and deepest form of fear I have ever encountered and it has altered my existence forever.

My name is Cole Bowman, and I'm a 27 year old supernatural enthusiast. Well, at least I was until this mess happened. I’m a pretty big guy, roughly six foot one inch tall and I weigh in at around two hundred twenty pounds, and I'm well muscled from years of manual labor in the west Texas oil fields. I have light brown hair, am usually sporting a medium length beard, and I also have many tattoos covering my arms, neck, chest, and legs. For reference, my tattoos don’t really have any significance; they're mostly just chosen random designs that I have been attracted to over the last decade. Many of them are American traditional, and heavily saturated in color. Despite all of the darkness from my past I chose to decorate my existence with color and light. I believe it is therapeutic in a way.

I suppose I need to provide a little backstory so one can truly understand the depth of these harrowing events. I believe my past laid the foundation for my present fate.

I grew up in an extremely tumultuous household. My childhood home was a near dilapidated trailer in the middle of nowhere Arizona. The trailer was a small double wide from the early 80s, with shingles on the roof that were peeling up and crumbling to dust. The paint on the siding was cracked and flaking off leaving small piles of paint chips surrounding the entire home. Most of the windows were cracked in one way or another and all of the glass was yellowed with age and a lack of maintenance, and there was a very small wooden porch leading up to the front door. All of the wood was dried and split from the hot Arizona summers.

The interior of the home was no better. There was trash everywhere from years of general neglect, including empty liquor bottles, scattered all around by my alcoholic father. Even the furniture was stained from years of use and spilled booze from my father.

To make things worse, my father was highly abusive. A giant of a man, he easily stood at six foot five inches and weighed in at almost three hundred pounds. He was almost pure muscle not including his substantial beer gut. Despite his disheveled personality, he was always clean shaven and sported a well maintained high and tight haircut. But, the man lived to see the bottom of a bottle.

I don’t think I can recall a time in my childhood when he was completely sober for more than thirty minutes honestly. Morning, day, and night he was always sloppy drunk. That man beat on me from the day of my birth until I left on my seventeenth birthday. I never could tell if it was the drink that made him do it, or if he was truly as evil as I believed.

My mother on the other hand was killed in a freak factory accident when I was a very ripe five years old. From what I can still remember, though, she was a beautiful woman. She was roughly five foot four inches tall on a slender frame. She had incredible flowing, golden blonde hair with striking green eyes. I miss her more than I can put into words. She was the only thing positive in my childhood. I just wish she had noticed how bad my father was beating on me. I don’t think my father even noticed when the accident happened.

I can still hear my fathers voice berating me in the back of my head when things are quiet. He would always say things like “You lazy, worthless fuck. My life could have been so much easier without you,” or “You’re the reason why the drink owns me”. Hearing shit like that really helps a kid develop.

When I finally turned seventeen I just had enough and left without a word, and I ran east until I hit Texas. I hitchhiked and begged for change just to survive. I spent countless nights wandering alone and hungry from town to town. Most of the towns I ended up in were barely even a blip on a map. I survived off of the scraps of food I was sometimes lucky enough to find in the dumpsters of restaurants and corner stores.

Occasionally people would be kind enough to offer me home cooked meals or even give me a couch to sleep on but that was rare. Most of the time I found a nice spot under a tree or sometimes a park bench just to sleep. More often than not people would just chase me off to avoid having some homeless vagrant dirtying their perfect view of the world.

The hitchhiking was the worst part. I had a fair number of encounters with some nasty people in my homeless days. I was beat on a number of times just for looking like a bum. I learned a thing or two about fighting and what it takes to survive. I clawed and scraped my way through life for the better part of a year before I finally found some semblance of relief.

After some time in Texas I met a man who stopped to give me a ride and he offered me a job working the oil fields. His name was John Mechum and that man probably saved my life. When he picked me up I was essentially emaciated and scrawny as hell from my time on the streets. I looked up to John like he was a god. He was tall and lean and always carried himself high and proud. He was the exact definition of an old school cowboy.

I worked my ass off for him for almost nine years in the oil fields. It definitely wasn’t glamorous work but the pay was unbelievable to someone who grew up like myself. When I got my first check I about shit myself. I felt like someone handed me the keys to the golden city of El Dorado.

My first year working I managed to buy a half decent work truck that I still drive to this day. It's a 1984 Dodge Ram D series in a nice blue color. The previous owner had taken really great care of her and it is the perfect truck. Despite the ridiculous amount of money I was making, I never could bring myself to buy a real home though. I guess living the vagabond life got into my bones deep and fast.

Looking back on it I am realizing that portion of my life made me stronger and more resilient. I also believe that it left scars on me much deeper than the surface.

When I turned 26 I had a pretty substantial amount of money saved up so I decided to get back on the road and explore the country. For a while I was just stopping around various landmarks and historical sites in whatever state or city I happened to end up in.

At some point in my travels I became fascinated with the idea of the afterlife and spirits. I am honestly not sure what sparked the fascination, but it quickly crept its way into my mind. I began to seek out allegedly haunted locations in every state I went to.

Once I got the feel for paranormal investigation, I purchased a proper ghost hunting kit. The kit included four REM pods (electronic devices that detect electromagnetic frequency fields and sudden temperature changes), four full spectrum 4K cameras, a spirit box, a high sensitivity voice recorder, motion sensor lights, an Ovilus V (electronic device that spirits can manipulate to generate specific words), a Polaroid camera, and some other various small tools. I also purchased a laptop and a mobile hotspot to edit footage, voice recordings, and to research potential new locations to investigate.

Eventually my fascination with the paranormal led me to begin research into cryptids and other strange phenomena in the country. Despite all my time spent investigating over the last year, I never once found irrefutable proof that anything supernatural exists in the world.

Before my last investigation I was extremely skeptical and generally a non believer. I guess I was doing all this to just fill my time with something other than the painful memories of my past.

That is, until my last investigation. Now that I’ve provided some history into me I suppose it's time to get into the horrifying details of that chilly Autumn night. Mind you, I didn’t believe in the human soul until this. Now? I am positive that mine is permanently damaged by the things I went through.

The day was October 7th, 2024 and I was driving through central Wyoming just as the first tendrils of winter began digging into the countryside. I was searching for a random abandoned location to spend some time investigating. I was cruising along highway 20 somewhere west of Casper, Wyoming when I spotted a winding dirt road leading to what appeared to be a very old abandoned ranch in the far off distance.

I got off the highway and found my way to the almost invisible dirt road and followed it for what felt like hours. I was probably only on the road for 15 miles or so but eventually I came up to a large, splintered sign for a ranch that was severely damaged and dirtied from the violent Wyoming winters. I parked my truck and hopped out to get a closer look at the sign.

After cleaning off the dirt I took a moment to read the name that the dilapidated sign displayed. The lettering was clearly hand carved by skilled hands many years ago. Once upon a time the letters were probably painted black to help them stand out against the dark wood they were carved into. Sagebrush Ranch. At the time I thought the name was nice and almost comforting. That thought could not have been farther from the truth.

It was roughly three in the afternoon so it was a bit too early for my investigation to begin so I found my way to a nearby town and picked up some food and water for the long night ahead of me. I decided to ask around about Sagebrush reach and, to my surprise, no one in town seemed to have any knowledge on the place.

Eventually I found a little general store with an elderly man watching the counter. I struck up a conversation and brought up the ranch and he had actually heard the name before. He told me that the ranch was established in 1873 and it was primarily a cattle ranch. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact date but the people residing on the ranch suddenly vanished in the dead of night never to be seen again.

As soon as I got back to my truck I took a moment to fire up my laptop and hotspot to make a quick search for the ranch. Of course that also turned up nothing significant. The only real information I had was unsupported and word of mouth at best. I decided to just find a quiet spot to park and take a breath. I spent the next few hours relaxing and taking in the breathtaking view of the Wyoming landscape I had in front of me.

At around 7 PM I made my way back to Sagebrush ranch to kick the night off. I definitely did not have high expectations for the night given the lack of any conclusive history on the location. Part of me still hoped for the best though. Maybe this place would finally be the one to make me a believer.

I finally found my way back to the rundown gates of Sagebrush ranch at around 8 PM. When I arrived at the remnants of the old gate and the half destroyed sign I threw my truck in park and slid out of my seat onto the dusty earth. As my boots hit the dirt, I saw little clouds of dust shoot up around them.

I noted a considerable change in the feeling I had around me. The air felt heavy on my chest and there was an almost tangible pressure around me. I felt a sharp chill creep up my spine, like a warning for what was about to happen. I took a moment to look around my position in a full circle.

The air was cold and there was a faint wind creeping through the landscape around me. I could see beams of light from the full moon cutting gashes in the darkness like razor sharp blades. I could see various types of flora swaying gently to the tune of the wind in the cold night. In the distance I spotted a large wooden ranch home perched on a small hill overlooking the shallow rolling hills of the property.

I went back to my truck and pulled my backpack with all of my equipment out of the backseat and pulled my jacket a little tighter before embarking on the trek to the structure in the distance.

Each step I took closer to the structure I could feel the pressure on my body increasing. It was like a giant shadowed hand took hold of my entire body and was squeezing tighter and tighter as I moved through the open landscape. I shivered slightly at the thought. I kept snapping my head side to side thinking I was seeing things in my peripheral vision. It was the shadows of the small trees and brush around me. The shadows they were casting almost seemed like they were dancing around the dirt in anticipation of fresh meat on the long abandoned property. The feeling was incredibly unsettling to say the least.

It wasn’t until I was a couple hundred yards from the structure that I noticed the distinct lack of sound around me. I couldn't hear anything from the world around me. No insects, critters, birds, or other people. It was pure and overbearing silence. Once again that chill slid up my spine like a snake silently stalking its prey. I pressed on despite the primal warnings I was experiencing.

Eventually I found myself standing before the oddly intact structure. I decided to take a quick look around the perimeter of the building just to double check the integrity of the old wood. Everything seemed safe from the outside. I’m no builder though so I decided a closer look was in order.

The building was massive. It was a large three story ranch house with a beautiful wrap around porch consuming the perimeter. The wood was in strikingly good condition. I couldn’t identify any major cracks or rot from the exterior in the dark. The metal fittings and nails around the building showed no signs of rust or environmental damage either. It was strange to say the least. If the old man was right about the age of the ranch then I would have expected something in far worse condition.

I glanced up at the second and third floors noting the nearly perfectly squared framing work and the incredible condition of the hand made siding. The roofs were also in immaculate condition. There wasn’t a single nail, board, or shingle out of place. The building was still completely safe for habitation from the outside as far as I could tell.

Finally, I found my courage and stepped up onto the porch. Whatever wood they used had a beautiful grain structure and I was momentarily enamored with the craftsmanship. I couldn’t help but think about how they just don’t make them like this anymore. There’s a real sense of pride that goes into a build like this.

Once I broke my trance, I continued my walk around the porch noting the complexity of the house and admiring the lost art of old carpentry. The building had red painted shutters over each window that still properly latched into place. All of them were closed tight. I assumed the violent Wyoming winds would have completely shredded the shutters at the very least but that wasn’t the case. It almost seemed like the building was being protected somehow.

Eventually, I decided it was time to open the door and take my first look inside the structure. I reached out slowly and placed my hand on the handle of the storm door. I tugged gently and the door began to swing open smoothly and silently. I blocked the storm door with my foot and placed my hand on the door knob of the front door. I turned the handle gently and I could feel the latch begin to give before stopping abruptly. The damn door was locked still. I swung the storm door closed and went to the backside of the building to see if there was a back door. Fortunately, there was.

I opened the second storm door and slowly reached out to open the main door once again. This time when I turned the knob the latch gave with a loud click. My heart skipped a beat when that noise broke the deafening silence. Slowly and carefully I pushed the door open and clicked on my small flashlight. The building was still completely furnished from what I could see through the focused beam of my light.

After a moment of contemplation I stepped inside and gently closed the door behind me. The pressure I felt outside completely vanished when I latched the door closed once again.

I entered the building into a long hallway with a large opening into what I thought was a family room on my left and a smaller door on my right leading to an expansive kitchen space. The building had a musty smell to it that clung to my nostrils. The family room contained several different types of seating including two couches, six chairs, and a single large throne-like chair. Everything was only partially covered in hand made white sheets and absolutely caked in thick dust from years of neglect. I stepped into the room to get a better look.

The wall opposite of the way I came in contained a large stone fireplace with a wood mantle above it. The two couches sat under windows near the far left corner of the room. The chairs were scattered haphazardly around the large throne-like chair in the center of the room. I thought the locations of the chairs were a little odd but I figured it was just how the place ended up after over a century. After my quick once over I moved off to the kitchen area.

The kitchen was completely empty. The counters were all a butcher block style and there was a large island in the center of the room. Beautiful cabinetry lined the walls around most of the room. Like the family room everything was caked in a thick layer of dust. I made a mental note that the kitchen would be an ideal location for my base of operations. I returned to the hallway and proceeded further into the building.

On my left I came up to a large staircase leading to the other floors. On my right there was another smaller doorway that led to a smoking room. I swung my flashlight into the room and the beam fell upon a half covered desk. There were various shelves on the far wall from the doorway but they were completely empty and covered in dust.

I spun around to face the staircase and noticed another large opening that led to a massive library. There were tall bookcases lining the walls with a small table in the center of the room. Oddly the table was uncovered with a rectangular outline in the dust at the center of the table. I brushed off the unusual sight on the table and continued my exploration of the house. I decided to move up the stairs to take a quick look at the upper floors.

The second and third floors contained various bedrooms and closets. There were six bedrooms in total. Each room was completely empty and covered in dust. I thought it was unusual that only the bedrooms were void of any furniture but I told myself that it was nothing to be concerned with.

On the third floor one bedroom had a massive black stain in the center of the room on the floor. As I entered the room the air almost felt like it was pulsing. It felt similar to a heart beat if I didn’t know any better. I turned and left quickly. Part of me knew that something in that room did not want me there. I suppose it was my lizard brain warning me of danger.

As I was making my way back to the staircase I could have sworn I heard a steady thumping coming from the bottom floor of the building. Something about the rhythmic sound unsettled me deeply. I began to feel a sense of dread wash over my body in anticipation of the worst. I sped downstairs and scanned all the rooms as fast as I could. The building was completely empty. That assumption was my first mistake.

After I found my wits again I began setting up my base of operations in the kitchen on the large island. I pulled out my laptop and hotspot and turned them both on. I began working through my mental investigation checklist in the meantime. While those were booting up I set up my four cameras in various locations of the house.

The first camera went into the family room, the second was placed in the library, the third was placed at the top of the stairs facing down towards the bottom floor, and the final camera went into the empty bedroom with the ominous black stain. I figured these four locations would provide the highest chance of capturing something concrete.

I made my way slowly back to the kitchen carefully listening for any unusual sounds and looking for anything out of place. For a brief moment I thought I heard the sounds of faint scratching coming from behind the wall under the staircase. I thought I could see shadows sliding behind corners and door frames out of the corner of my eye but I concluded that I was just my anxiety turning nothing into something.

I quickly grabbed my REM pods and motion lights from the kitchen and set them up in various potentially high traffic areas for the best opportunity to get a legitimate response. I slid my spirit box into my left jacket pocket and my Ovilus V into my right pocket. I placed my voice recorder into my back jean pocket and separated my laptop screen from the keyboard and booted up my camera software. Finally I put my Polaroid camera around my neck and set off to investigate the building.

At around 11:00 PM I began my investigation in the smoking room thinking it would be a good spot to ease into the night. I started off by attempting to call out any potential spirits and I snapped a couple of pictures of the room. I left the photos on the desk and pulled out my voice recorder. I asked a couple of basic questions and after about twenty minutes I decided there was nothing in the room worth my time. I took a moment to glance at my laptop screen in my hand and realized the camera in the family room was just displaying a black image. I cursed under my breath and walked over to the room.

As I rounded the corner the image sprung back to life on my laptop screen and I saw the bright white of a night vision image once again. I thought it was unusual but brushed it off thinking it was a technical glitch. My second mistake of the night.

I made my way to the library and repeated the steps I took in the smoking room. I also concluded there was nothing of significance in the room. I did spend a fair amount of time examining the strange rectangular clear spot on the small table. Upon touching the spot I could feel an unnatural heat emanating from the table. I shivered once again and decided to head upstairs.

When I started my investigation of the second floor is really when everything started to sour. I could feel the atmosphere around me thinking. A cold sweat started to form on my forehead. I could feel unseen eyes watching my every move. There was something sinister waiting for me. I could feel it in my gut.

As soon as I entered the hallway of the second floor I began hearing incredibly faint whispers. They were completely unintelligible but they were definitely there. As I moved from room to room snapping photos and carefully investigating that familiar pressure from outside the ranch began to return. I looked at the time on my laptop and realized it was 12:06 AM. The witching hour. I knew it was time for the investigation to ramp up but I wasn’t expecting how truly wretched things would turn.

The whispering was slowly increasing in intensity and I began hearing loud and consistent thumping coming from down stairs. I glanced back at my laptop screen and briefly saw a black mass move across the screen in the room with the black stain. The mass moved at an inhuman speed across the display in front of me. My heart nearly stopped. In all of my time in allegedly haunted locations I had never seen a shadow that clearly on my cameras. I knew I had to go up there but an overwhelming sense of fear and dread locked my body in place. After a few moments I calmed myself down and made my way to the third floor of the home. My third mistake of the night.

As I cautiously approached the black stain room I found myself listening to the whispers. I could finally understand them. I heard things like “you shouldn't be here” and “it's coming for you” and “leave foolish boy”. I ignored the instinct to leave and pressed on into the room.

As soon as I crossed the threshold of the room I was assaulted with an overpowering sickly sweet smell. I quickly clapped my hand over my nose and mouth to help diminish the sudden shock of the scent. The pressure in that damned room was suffocating. The air was palpable and sinister. I knew I made a mistake entering but I came here for a reason. Something was drawing me in and I was determined to find out what it was.

I took several photos with my Polaroid and shoved them in the chest pocket of my jacket. My hands were shaking from fear as I fumbled with my tools. I decided it was time for my spirit box and Ovilus V. Almost as soon as I turned them on I had dozens of words coming through both devices. Evil, portal, death, vanish, it, leave, hate, meat, and blood were just some of the rapid fire responses.

I could feel something just beyond the physical space around me burrowing its way into my subconscious. At the time I didn’t understand the sensation but I felt like I was being tested. Not like a test you get in school but more of a test of my very being.

As I continued investigating I could feel practically ancient memories being pulled to the surface of my mind. I could feel the anger and resentment for my father boiling over. I could feel his fists crushing bones in my face and chest all over again. I felt the anguish of my mothers passing in full force like it was happening in that exact instant. I suppressed those feelings and brought my consciousness back to reality. When I drug my mind back to the present I felt a heavy fog in my head. I had stayed in that room far too long. When I looked at the time again it was almost 2:30 AM. I had no idea how that much time had passed but I knew it was time to go.

By this point my heart was racing and my anxiety was nearly full tilt. I could feel my body vibrating from a morbid sense of anticipation. Right before I could shut off the last of my devices I heard the sound of wood practically exploding downstairs. As the last echoes of the noise from downstairs faded all of my motion lights and REM pods roared to life. Each REM pod was screaming at maximum EMF and low temperature readings. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I fought my increasingly crippling sense of fear and began to move once again.

I slowly began to work my way back downstairs, the whispers deafening and the pressure nearly crushing my body. I could feel my heart trying to explode from my chest and my breathing was becoming labored. That nauseating sickly sweet smell followed me through the house now. I could feel bile begin to rise in my throat but I swallowed it back down quickly.

My laptop screen suddenly went black and when I looked I realized I lost all of my camera feed in the house. At first I thought that the battery had died on the laptop but when I looked closer I saw the screen was still powered on. I nearly broke into a sprint. I had to leave that fucking house.

As I stepped down the last step and rounded the corner I saw a gaping hole in the side of the stairwell. That’s what I heard upstairs. It was literally wood exploding from the staircase. Somehow in that moment my Ovilus V turned back on and kept repeatedly blasting the word ”leave” through its small speaker. It was impossibly loud for the size of the tool. I threw it at the nearest wall just to get the damn thing to stop. I was practically in tears as I approached the hole in the side of the staircase.

When I finally reached the opening I saw it led to another stone staircase deep into the earth. Despite my fight or flight instinct screaming at me to fuck off and never look back I entered the opening and proceeded down the stairs into the pitch black. It was as if an invisible person was behind me shoving me into the darkness. My final mistake.

I made my way slowly down into the inky and overbearing darkness. The whispers finally stopped but the pressure was beginning to restrict me from breathing properly. I felt hot tears stream down my cheeks as I tried hopelessly to fight the urge to continue to my impending doom.

It felt like an eternity before I saw the end of the stairs. The stairs terminated at a dirt floor and led to a gray stone wall. The walls were damp and slimy from the cold underground climate. The walls looked incredibly smooth and well shaped by human hands. That vile sickly sweet smell was overwhelming in the room.

The room broke off to the right to a large open chamber. As soon as I rounded the corner dozens of rusty iron sconces lining the stone wall of the room ignited violently in controlled explosions of red flames. I jumped and nearly let out a scream. I took one final look at my laptop screen before the battery died. 3:33 AM. The devil's hour. I knew this was the peak. Whatever I was about to witness would either destroy me or change me forever.

In the center of the room was a large black circle made with what looked like smeared charcoal. In the center of the circle was a large red leather bound book. The cover of the book was well worn from extensive use and age. The pages were a deep yellow color and I could see the edges of the paper beginning to split from years of being handled.

As I proceeded deeper into the room the book snapped open violently by itself to a gruesome depiction of a demon torturing souls in hell. The drawing appeared to have been done by hand directly on the pages. It displayed a four armed demon peeling the skin from multiple damned souls on the center of the page. The faces of the human figures were distorted in various levels of agony. Each of the figures on the page were surrounded by wild, untamed flames.

At that moment I felt every hair on my body come to attention. I began to retreat from the circle and the floor split open violently allowing red flames to spew from the crack. The flames danced around the circle and licked at the ceiling above. I’m ashamed to admit it but I pissed myself in fear on the spot.

As I stood anchored to my spot in that cold, damp cavernous room I saw movement from the crack. Long black talons reached up from the floor and began clawing deep into the stone for some kind of purchase to climb up. Shortly after the second taloned hand appeared. Then a third and a fourth hand. As the fourth and final hand breached the gaping maw in the earth, two large horns began to appear amongst the flames. The creature's skin was completely blackened and cracked as if it had been roasting in an oven for a millennia. There was a greasy black slime slowly dripping down the creature's now exposed appendages. I could hear deep rattling breaths creeping up from the edge of the pit. I recognized this creature as the demon that was drawn in the leather book.

As I made a short silent step back I heard a thunderous voice rattle my bones. The ethereal, raspy voice said “Finally, a vessel”. I was sprinting up the stairs before the damn thing even finished its final word.

I made the decision to completely abandon all of my equipment still inside in favor of survival. I smashed through the backdoor and attempted to leap onto the dusty Wyoming earth. Before I could get out of the door I felt a sharp pain right at the base of my skull. The pain was quick to come and quick to go but I felt the searing pain of a burn. It was like I was branded with a red hot cattle brand faster than I could blink.

The last thing I heard before finally locating freedom from that hell space was a deep echoing cackle slithering its way up from that deep cavern. I collapsed into the dirt and vomited a thick black bile. When I found my bearings again I quickly jumped to my feet. I sprinted to my truck so fast that I thought I would take flight. I jumped into the driver seat, started my truck and sped back to that small peaceful town from the previous day. I made it. I survived.

As I sit here in this shabby motel room documenting this event I can’t help but wonder how I managed to get out so easily. In hindsight I expected a more difficult experience given the other phenomena I encountered in that house.

I almost forgot about those Polaroids I shoved in my jacket pocket. The first few pictures show nothing of significance. The last two however told me everything I needed to know.

They both showed a taloned hand reaching up from the black stain on the floor of that damned bedroom. Each image showed the hand getting closer and closer to me. Maybe I didn’t escape. Just then I heard a voice in my head. That same chilling, raspy voice from that godforsaken ranch.

“Yes this vessel will serve me well”.

I put on my running shoes with springs, designed to cushion the impact on the ground. It was my nightly ritual, something I did every single day without fail: running to the neighboring town, keeping my body busy and my mind free of thoughts. It was almost five o’clock, and the sun still stubbornly lingered in the sky, painting everything with a pale golden light.

I opened the door and was greeted by a strange smell. A mix of dampness and decay floated in the air, coming from somewhere behind me. The rotting stench made me wrinkle my nose, but I ignored it. I needed to run. I started climbing the hill, the wind against my face. I passed the entrance to the interstate highway, maintaining a steady pace. I was running at about 4 km/h, a moderate speed to warm up. I crossed the rusty sign that read “No Passing” and smirked bitterly.“Who’s going to pass you now?” I murmured to myself, my voice lost in the emptiness of the road. I kept running along the highway, the sound of my shoes hitting the wet asphalt echoing in the silence. When I approached the old brothel, a shiver ran down my spine. The place had been creepy at its best, but now… The sign that once announced the brothel’s name—something vulgar and flashy—lay fallen beside the building, which now resembled a charred carcass. The letters were faded, the wood that had supported the structure blackened and twisted like burned bones, and the windows were nothing but dark, empty holes that seemed to watch me as I passed.

The brothel was near a lake that used to reflect the vibrant, colorful lights of the facade on festive nights. Now, the water was dark, with an oily sheen under the faint light remaining from the day. The shore was littered with debris—broken bottles, pieces of wood that seemed to be parts of the building, and something that looked like a piece of red fabric.

A horrible smell emanated from the area, thicker than the stench of death I had encountered earlier. It was like a mix of rot and burning, as if decay itself had permeated the air. I looked at the entrance and saw that the old double doors, which used to spin open to welcome customers, were fallen, lying wide open on the ground. Inside, everything was in ruins: overturned tables, broken chairs, and what appeared to be dark stains on the floor and walls. Climbing the next hill, I spotted the reservoir of an abandoned property. The silence there was oppressive, broken only by the distant sound of thunder. The old farmhouse loomed like a ghostly shadow in the landscape. The main house was partially collapsed, with loose planks creaking in the wind, and the windows, which had once reflected life within, were now empty, like soulless eye sockets.

As I got closer, the smell of death grew stronger. In the yard, a man lay near the porch, his face covered in dried blood, flies buzzing around him. His glazed-over eyes seemed fixed on a point in the horizon that no longer existed. The ground around him was marked by erratic footprints and dark stains, as if someone had fought to survive there. Some children’s toys were still scattered across the dead lawn, creating a disturbing contrast to the scene of destruction. The trees around swayed in the wind, their branches like thin arms pointing toward the now cloud-covered sky.

In the stable, a few dead animals lay sprawled. The cow, still with blood on its muzzle, seemed to have collapsed recently. The horses lay beside it, their swollen bodies exuding that now all-too-familiar stench of decay. However, amidst this scene of horror, one pig was still alive, wandering among the corpses with hesitant steps, as if searching for a reason to be there. A few chickens pecked at the ground indifferently, their feathers stained with mud and blood. I passed through the fallen fence. Over the next hill, I spotted the reservoir of a place that seemed to have been abandoned long ago. The farmhouse appeared in the distance, shrouded in an ominous gloom. The trees around it, twisted by the wind, cast unsettling shadows over the waterlogged ground. As I got closer, the smell of blood mixed with decay hit my nose like a punch, making the air almost unbreathable.

In the yard of the house, a man lay sprawled, his face marked with dark patches of dried blood. His lifeless eyes stared up at the sky, as if searching for an answer that never came. The wooden porch creaked in the wind, and the door hung from its last nails, swaying slowly like a clock marking the end of time.

I moved forward and passed a truck stuck in the mud. The engine was off, and the vehicle looked as though it had been swallowed by the earth. Inside the cab, a man was slumped over the steering wheel, motionless. The putrid stench emanating from it was suffocating, but I no longer afforded myself the luxury of being bothered. I ran further, my footsteps echoing on the straight road leading me to the next town.

As I passed by a motel, it stood empty. The neon sign, which had likely once flickered incessantly, was dark and covered in soot. On the ground, bodies were scattered: prostitutes lying awkwardly, as if felled by an invisible force. The abandoned cars around the area told another story—a desperate escape, cut short before reaching its destination. The vehicles now came from the opposite direction, as if everyone was fleeing the city I had just left behind. The stench of decay permeated the air, a smell I was beginning to accept as part of my new reality. The sky grew darker, illuminated only by distant lightning. The stars, now almost fully visible, shone over the dead city. There were no more electric lights, no signs of life. A flash of lightning revealed the body of a small child, no older than five, lying next to her mother. They were holding each other, as if trying to protect one another until the very last moment.

Just one month. A single month, and everything was gone. There weren’t many people left now—perhaps no one but me. I thought about it as memories flooded my mind. I remembered school, before everything shut down for good. I thought of my girlfriend, my friends. All dead. Their families, too. Why am I still alive? That question echoes in my head every day. Why me? Why didn’t I die along with them? Along with everyone else? The Red Plague took everything but left me here, alone, wandering through this open-air cemetery.

As I run down this deserted road, my mind keeps revisiting the past, as if to torture me. I remember what the world was like before it all collapsed. Streets full of people, smiles, laughter. I remember going to school, complaining about classes, but secretly enjoying the routine, my friends, the small things that made me feel alive. My girlfriend… I remember her. I remember what it felt like to hold her hand, hear her laugh, feel the warmth of her embrace. Now, all that’s left of her is a memory that cuts like a knife buried deep in my chest.

My friends… Matheus, the one I used to joke around with, watch people at the mall, crack dumb jokes. We laughed like the world could never end. My mother. She died in my arms on the 22nd. That day is etched into me like a scar that will never fade. I held her as she drowned in her own blood, swollen, her eyes red and blind, unable to see me one last time. She tried to say something, but the words got stuck. And then she was gone. I can’t shake the feeling of her body growing cold in my arms.

I remember how happy we were with so little. I remember afternoons at the mall, eating McDonald’s and people-watching, everyone busy with their normal lives. I remember the conversations, the jokes. The sound of children laughing, the music playing in the stores, the smell of coffee and burgers. Now, all of it feels like a distant dream, something that was never real.

I even miss the things I once found annoying. The lines, the traffic jams, the bills. I’d give anything to have a life where those were my biggest concerns again. Now, all I have is silence. A silence broken only by the sound of my own footsteps and the wind carrying the stench of death. It’s as if the whole world is frozen, stuck in a single moment. One month. Just one month, and it was all over. The world, which took centuries to build, collapsed in weeks. And I was left here, to watch it all end.

Heavy clouds rolled above me, dense and full of rain, occasionally lit by lightning streaking across the horizon. The smell of wet earth began to mix with the stench of decomposition, creating a suffocating sensation. The wind howled around me, cold and damp, as if trying to push me away from this place.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, drawing closer, like the footsteps of an invisible giant. When the first drop fell on my face, it was almost a relief, a reminder that the world still had something alive, something not consumed by the plague. The rain came suddenly, strong and relentless, drenching everything within seconds. The lightning illuminated the field around me, revealing a landscape that seemed ripped straight from a nightmare. Bodies were scattered everywhere, lying in random positions, as if the world had frozen at the moment of its greatest tragedy. Some were still in abandoned cars, others sprawled on the ground where death had caught up to them. Water ran over the corpses, washing away dust and blood, but it couldn’t erase the smell. That smell… No matter how much time passed, I knew I’d never forget it.

I kept running, feeling the heavy rain pounding against my clothes and skin, while my thoughts drifted back to things that now seemed impossible. I’d give anything to be home, on a normal day, eating a poorly made burger from some random diner, accompanied by greasy fries. Ice cream… How I miss ice cream. That feeling of cold sweetness melting on your tongue, dripping slowly as you try to savor every second. I’d give anything for ice cream right now. Or even something simpler: a glass of clean, drinkable water straight from the tap. Water that didn’t taste like rust or death.

I wondered what it would be like to sit in my room, playing video games, with the soft glow of the screen lighting up the space. And the internet… I remember how annoyed I used to get when it went out for a few seconds. Now, I’d trade my life to hear that annoying sound of a notification ping on my phone, any sign that the world still existed outside my head.

Electricity was another thing I’d taken for granted. Just turning on a light when entering a room, opening the fridge to find fresh food, or turning on the TV to watch something stupid. All of that had seemed so small before, but now it was an unattainable luxury.

The rain kept falling, heavier and heavier, as I looked up at the sky. Lightning flashed again, and more bodies appeared on the horizon. Children, mothers, men—people who once had dreams and worries just like me. Now they were there, motionless, as if they’d become part of the landscape. Why am I still here?” I asked myself as the water streamed down my face, mixing with the tears I no longer tried to hold back. They called it INF-1, the Beijing Flu, but I like to call it the end of the world. I don’t know exactly how it started. In Germany, it felt like we were safe at first. “The virus is far away,” the newspapers said. “We’re taking all the necessary measures.” Frankfurt Airport. A couple coming from Asia—nothing the government couldn’t control. That’s what they said.

Within days, hospitals began to overflow. It was like an invisible storm sweeping through entire cities. Berlin fell first, like a tree rotted from the roots. Suddenly, the streets were empty, except for ambulance sirens and muffled screams from behind windows. No one wanted to leave their homes, but it didn’t matter. INF-1 didn’t need you to be close to others. It found you anyway.

Bavaria, where I am now, was no different. The flu came like a shadow, silent at first, then brutal. Stores emptied. Schools closed. Train stations became packed with people trying to escape—to where, no one knew. I saw entire families crammed into train cars, coughing, unaware they were carrying death with them.

The virus was relentless. Symptoms started like an ordinary cold: a mild fever, a cough you’d ignore any other time. But within hours, people began drowning in their own blood. I saw my mother die like that. In my arms. Her face swollen, her eyes red, blind, as if her own body had turned against her.

Doctors disappeared first. Some died trying to save others, others simply vanished—maybe fleeing. I don’t blame them. Who could stand against this?

Germany had disaster plans, of course. We always did. Protocols for everything, from terrorist attacks to pandemics. But INF-1 laughed in the face of all of them. There was no way to track something spreading so quickly. No way to stop something that killed before you even knew you were infected. I remember the last time I watched the news. The anchor was a shadow of her former self, coughing between sentences as she read the numbers. “Seventeen million dead in Europe. The government has declared a national state of emergency.” Then the broadcast cut off. It never came back.

Now, Germany is nothing but a corpse. An entire country turned into an open-air graveyard. The cities that once pulsed with life are deserted, filled only with abandoned cars and bodies slumped in the back seats. Houses that once felt like fortresses are now empty, except for signs of struggle—overturned furniture, bloodstains on the walls, locked doors that no one will ever open again.

The smell… That’s the worst. You never get used to it. Decomposition has taken over everything. The air is heavy, as if the very environment is dying alongside the people. I wonder if it’ll ever go away. Maybe not. Maybe that’s INF-1’s final legacy.

I think about who we were before all this. Wealthy people driving luxury cars, living in expensive apartments, making plans for the future. Now, we’re all the same. It doesn’t matter if you were a banker, a teacher, or someone like me. INF-1 didn’t discriminate. It just took. Frankfurt, Munich, Hamburg, Berlin. All wiped out. Just the flu. It didn’t need a war. It didn’t need bombs or tanks. All it took was a virus.

I wonder if anyone else survived somewhere. If there are others like me, trying to make sense of why we’re still here. I used to ask myself every day: why didn’t I die with the others? Why didn’t I catch the Red Flu? Why was I the only one who made it through? But you know what? Screw it. The answer doesn’t change anything. I walked to a dusty shelf in a local market and found a forgotten chocolate bar. It was slightly squished, the wrapper worn, but it was still chocolate. I picked it up, unwrapped it slowly, and took a bite, tasting the sweetness, though strange, as if my sense of taste wasn’t the same anymore. While rummaging through the market, I saw a man lying next to the ATM. He had died there, his card still in hand. Dried blood pooled around him, and the air was thick with the stench of decaying flesh.

I continued along the straight road, the soles of my shoes echoing on the cracked asphalt. The city appeared on the horizon, like all the others. Dead. Silent. The same scene I had memorized by now. As I got closer, I saw the city sign at the entrance, charred, the remnants of the name burned and unrecognizable. The metal was twisted, as if it had passed through hell.

On the streets, thousands of abandoned cars clogged the roads, blocking any chance of passage. Many drivers were still inside, dead, their bodies strapped in by seatbelts. Some had their heads slumped against the steering wheels; others had their eyes open, frozen. I kept walking, the stench of death hanging in the air around me. I passed over a speed bump and saw an old woman lying next to it. Her white hair was tangled, and her skin, dry and pale, seemed almost fused with the concrete. Further ahead, a man lay on the sidewalk, his fingers still outstretched toward his house’s door. Maybe he had tried to go back for something. Maybe he thought he’d be safe inside. It didn’t matter.

The world didn’t end with explosions or anything grand. There wasn’t a meteor tearing across the sky or volcanoes spewing fire. It wasn’t a nuclear war reducing everything to ashes, or electromagnetic pulses wiping out technology. It was just a flu. A flu no one could stop. INF-1, the Red Flu, silent and deadly, erased centuries of civilization in mere weeks.

I looked at the city again—its empty streets, silent homes, stores left open with looted shelves. The world collapsed because of something so small we couldn’t even see it. Just the flu. That was enough to destroy everything we had built.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, announcing the approaching rain, and the wind turned colder. A flash of lightning illuminated the street ahead, revealing more bodies. I saw a small child lying next to a bicycle, a school backpack spilled open behind them. A few steps farther, there was another body—what looked like the child’s mother, arms outstretched, trying to shield her until the very last moment.

Has this happened before? Did another civilization, at some point, fall to something this simple? Thick raindrops began to fall hard, bursting against the asphalt, forming puddles that seemed like distorted mirrors of the sky. The wind howled, sharp and biting, and the thunder punched through the air, making the ground tremble beneath my feet. The city was dead, but it felt like nature itself wanted to remind me there was still power in the world, even if only to destroy what was left. I ran. My steps splashed water in every direction as I searched for any place to take shelter. The cold cut through my skin, and the heavy rain-soaked clothes clung to my body, making every movement harder. I looked around, but everything seemed empty, desolate. Silent buildings, broken windows, abandoned cars forming a useless labyrinth. With each flash of lightning, the scene lit up for a second, revealing details I wished I couldn’t see: corpses scattered in the streets, some half-submerged in puddles, others lying in impossible positions, like ragdolls.

Finally, I spotted a small house with open windows and a door slightly ajar. I ran toward it, ignoring the smell coming from inside. I already knew what I’d find, but I had no choice. I stepped in, pushing the creaking door open, and shut it behind me to block out the wind. Inside, the smell was almost suffocating: mold, decay, and something sickly sweet I couldn’t identify.

The living room was filled with dusty furniture, papers scattered on the floor, and dark stains on the walls. On the couch, a couple sat—or what was left of them. Both had swollen faces and dark patches around their mouths and noses, their hands still clasped together as if they had faced death united. The sight made my stomach twist, but I looked away. I didn’t have the energy to care anymore.

I kept exploring, moving down a narrow hallway. In one of the bedrooms, I found more bodies—children this time. A little girl held a bloodstained teddy bear, and a boy lay beside her, staring blankly at the ceiling. I left quickly. I couldn’t stay in that room another second.

But outside, the rain was an impenetrable wall. Lightning illuminated the broken windows, and the thunder was so loud it felt like it shook the house’s walls. I sat on the kitchen floor, leaning against an old refrigerator, trying to ignore the constant dripping sound from the countless leaks in the ceiling. My stomach growled, and hunger felt like a knife lodged in my body.

I looked around, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. Then, I saw it: the fridge. I crawled to it, my hands trembling from the cold and anxiety. I yanked the door open, and the smell that poured out was almost as bad as the one in the living room—rotten food, spoiled meat, and liquid remnants pooling at the bottom. Even so, I kept searching. Among the empty packages and moldy containers, I found something that felt like a miracle: a can of soup, still sealed.

My fingers gripped the can like it was gold. I checked the expiration date—it was good until next year. I laughed to myself, a dry, strange sound, because who cared about expiration dates now? I took the can and rummaged through the kitchen for something to open it. Finally, I found a rusty can opener.

When I managed to open the can, the smell of the soup wasn’t exactly appetizing, but it was still food. The rain kept pounding outside, but in that moment, with the can of soup in my hands, I felt more human than I had in weeks.

I ate the soup cold, straight from the can. The salty liquid and mushy bits of vegetables filled my empty stomach, and for a moment, the terrible taste didn’t matter. It was warmth in a cold world. It was life in a world of death.

I leaned against the wall, listening as the thunder slowly drifted farther away. Outside, the world was finished, but here, with that empty can by my side, I allowed myself a moment of peace.

I never thought I'd be the kind of person who'd share something like this online. But after what happened last week, I need someone—anyone—to hear me out. Maybe writing it down will help me make sense of it.

It started with the mailbox. Not anything dramatic, just... something slightly off. A letter addressed to me, but the handwriting wasn't familiar. Spindly, almost spider-like script that seemed to tremble on the envelope. No return address.

Inside was a single photograph. Me, standing in my bedroom, but not from any angle I recognized. Taken from somewhere high up, through the window. And I wasn't looking at the camera. I was staring at something just out of frame, my expression frozen in this weird mixture of confusion and terror.

The timestamp on the photo was from two nights ago. But I hadn't seen anyone. I'm always careful. Always.

At first, I tried to rationalize it. Maybe someone was playing a prank. Maybe it was a weird photography project. But then the small details started accumulating. The way my curtains would shift when no breeze was blowing. The faint scratching sounds from inside my walls—not mice, something more deliberate.

I started checking my locks obsessively. Double-checking windows. But something felt... watching. Not threatening, exactly. Just present. Like a cold breath against the back of my neck.

The next photograph arrived three days later. Same handwriting. This time, it showed my kitchen. A glass of water on the counter, slightly tilted. A shadow just at the edge of the frame that didn't look quite human.

I'm not crazy. I know how this sounds. But something is tracking me. Documenting me. And I can't shake the feeling that these photographs are just the beginning.

Last night, I woke up to find another envelope slipped under my bedroom door. No sound. No indication of how it got there.

I'm almost afraid to look inside.

My hands trembled opening the envelope. Not from fear—or maybe entirely from fear, I can't quite distinguish anymore. The photograph this time felt different. Heavier. The paper stock seemed unusual, almost textured like skin rather than standard photographic paper.

This image was closer. Intimate. A shot of my pillow, taken from inches away. A single dark hair—not mine—curled against the white pillowcase. And in the background, just barely visible, a reflection in the dresser mirror that didn't match my room's geometry. Something angular. Something watching.

I realized then that whoever—whatever—was documenting me wasn't just observing. They were establishing proximity. Testing boundaries. Each photograph felt like a calculated invasion, mapping the intimate topography of my personal space with surgical precision.

The psychological weight of being observed became a physical sensation. My skin started feeling like a membrane too thin, too permeable. Every shadow seemed potential, every peripheral movement a potential breach.

I knew I should call someone. Police? Friends? But how would I explain this without sounding completely unhinged? These photographs were too precise, too deliberate to be random harassment. This felt methodical. Ritualistic.

Something was collecting photos of me.

The final envelope arrived without sound, without warning. Its weight felt significant—substantial in a way that defied mere paper and photograph. When I opened it, the image inside made my breath crystallize in my throat.

It was a photograph of me. Right now. Sitting at this exact desk. Typing these words. But the perspective was impossible—taken from inside my closet, through a crack in the door I'd never noticed before. My fingers were mid-keystroke, frozen in digital amber.

And then I saw it. A pale hand. Just barely visible. Emerging from the darkness behind me. Fingers long and thin, with joints that bent at unnatural angles. Reaching. Always reaching.

I turned slowly. The closet door was open just a sliver.

Something inside was breathing.

Not in rhythm. Not human.

Just waiting.

And then—a soft click. Like a camera shutter.

The breath caught in my throat—a ragged, desperate thing that felt more like a sob than oxygen. Survival instinct kicked in, primal and sharp. I didn't think. I moved.

My hand swept across the desk, grabbing the nearest object—a heavy ceramic mug from last semester's writing workshop. One swift motion, and I hurled it toward the closet door. The crash was spectacular, splintering wood and shattering ceramic in a cacophony that shattered the unnatural silence.

In that moment of disruption, I ran. Not strategically. Not carefully. Just pure, animal desperation. My fingers fumbled with the apartment lock, muscles trembling so violently I could barely grip the mechanism. Behind me, something shifted in the darkness. Not a sound. Not a movement. Just a fundamental wrongness that pressed against my consciousness like a bruise.

The hallway felt like salvation. Fluorescent lights. Mundane carpet. Normal architectural angles that didn't bend or whisper or watch. I didn't stop moving until I reached the building's lobby, my laptop clutched against my chest like a shield.

I'm writing this from a 24-hour coffee shop. Public space. Witnessed space. Somewhere with witnesses. The photographs are in my laptop bag, sealed in a clear plastic evidence envelope. Proof. Documentation. Something tangible I can show someone—anyone—who might believe me.

But I know the truth. Whoever—whatever—was taking those photographs wasn't just watching. They were selecting. Choosing. Mapping something far more intricate than mere physical space.

And I can't shake the feeling that this isn't over. Not by a long shot.

Not even close.

A white 1981 Oldsmobile pulled into the front of Lone Oak Middle School. A disheveled man in his mid 30s looked over at his daughter who still sat in the passenger seat her arms crossed and a scowl plainly on her face. “Scarlett, I am sorry. I could have sworn that I set my alarm last night.” Leo Parker apologized as he watched his daughter unfasten her seatbelt. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and grabbed her backpack “I can definitely say goodbye to my perfect attendance record.” Scarlett mumbled under her breath.

He frowned and brushed a hand through his hair. Leo knew this was important to his daughter, but he did not know what more he could do to apologize “Why don't we get ice cream from The Cone Zone after school? Will that make up for it?”

“Dad, I haven't been there since I was like four.” she groaned in annoyance rolling her eyes and opened the car door stepping out.

“H-have a good day sweet pea.” Leo waved as the door was shut and muffled his words.

Watching her retreating figure walk down the cement path and into the building. He turned towards the steering wheel gripping it tightly. Leo had been raising Scarlett by himself ever since the woman he had relationship with dropped her off on his doorstep. Whether she was really his or not he raised her. Shifting the car into first gear he drove off following the curve of the road that looped around the hill leading to a stop sign.

Leo Parker worked from home as an editor and set his own schedule which was helpful while having a pre-teen to take care of. At times he felt like he was not in her life enough or maybe he tried to get too involved. Hoping that he was doing this whole thing correctly.

When Leo got home, he tossed his keys onto the counter and kicked off his shoes at the door walking into his office to power up his computer. He opened his email and noticed that a writer reached out to him about editing a short story of theirs to be sent to a magazine tilted Bones and Birch Trees. As he was reading over it the premise was about Baba Yaga from Slavic folklore.

He remembered the stories his grandmother had told him about her. Mostly to get him to behave and other times to warn him. Leo would always ask her “How will I know it is her?”

She would simply shake her head and say, “When the winds turn wild and there is whistling through the trees which will creek and moan and the air turns bitter cold.”

Those words always sent a shiver down his spine and still does to this day. Time went by as he made a few edit notes and sent it back to the writer. Leo looked at the wall clock of his office one of those antique cuckoo clocks let him know it was now time to go pick up Scarlett from school. Arriving at the school he noticed his daughter was standing off to the side by herself while a group of kids talked to each other while glancing her way.

Leo frowned. Was she being bullied? Once Scarlett spotted him, she rushed up to the door and got inside. “Hey sweet pea how was y-” he began but she cut him off by replying “Can we just go home? Please.” Scarlett fastened her seatbelt and looked down at the floorboard of the car.

He frowned and nodded figuring she needed some space before he could ask her what was going on. When they got home Scarlett went directly to her bedroom and shut the door behind her. With this time Leo decided to make them some dinner one of his daughter's comfort foods. Whenever he felt down it always helped put him into a better mood. Taking out the ingredients together he got to work.

Scarlett slinked out of her room to peer into the kitchen from the archway leading into the kitchen. “Is that French toast?” she asked causing her father to jump and acknowledge her burning his hand on the frying pan he let out a curse. Leo rushed to the sink turning on the cold water and holding his hand under it. “It seemed like you were having a bad day, so I thought you’d like one of your comfort foods.” Leo smiled cutting off the water and drying his hand off on a hand towel.

She smiled and scratched at her left arm “Thanks for doing this.”

He nodded “Of course sweet pea.”

While they ate Scarlett opened a bit about her day as she sketched in her drawing pad.

She recently had one of her drawings displayed for a contest and it was stirring up a fuss because of the subject itself. Scarlett had chosen folklore as her theme and drew Baba Yaga. Students were saying that it moved or sometimes the figure went missing. They began calling her a witch, a freak.

Scarlett frowned pressing down a bit too hard with her pencil causing the lead to snap.

“Everything okay?” Leo asked his daughter looking up from his plate. She nodded putting down her drawing pad and pencil “Yeah, j-just y’know school stuff.”

“School stuff huh...are your classmates giving you trouble?”

“Kind of.”

Scarlett sighed “I had one of my art pieces displayed recently and it well…” brows furrowed she rubbed her hands over her knees “I think it’s haunted.”

“So, what exactly did you draw?” Leo sat upright in his chair looking his daughter who met his gaze. “Baba Yaga. I remembered when you used to tell me stories about her like the ones you were told growing up. Since then, weird things have been happening with it. My classmates started calling me a witch.” She told him worried he would get upset but he kept his composure nodding and listening.

“Would you like me to go talk to your teachers or the principle about this?”

Scarlett shook her head “Nah it should pass. I’m sure they will get over it eventually.”

Leo hoped that it would too. Kids can be cruel to each other and even push those they bully to take their own lives and that was something he didn’t want to happen to her. “Thanks for dinner.” Scarlett smiled and stood with her empty plate placing it inside the sink.

She excused herself and went to her room leaving behind her drawing pad. As he cleaned up the kitchen, he noticed Scarlett’s drawing pad. Opened on a page that looked like a rough sketch of an old woman leaning on a cane her eyes focused on something off in the distance. He picked it up and flipped through it seeing not one but multiple rough drafts of the same woman and on the very last page was scribbled writing.

She’s watching me and everywhere I go I see her. What do I do? Who can I talk to?

Would anyone even believe me if I told them?

Leo’s heart thumped in his chest as he closed the drawing pad*. It’s just a drawing no need to jump to conclusions or worked up over nothing* he told himself. Making his way upstairs he knocked on Scarlett’s door “You left your drawing pad on the table.”

When he was met with silence Leo placed the drawing pad on a table outside the bedroom door.

Sometime during the night, a scream woke Leo up from his sleep. Parental instincts kicking in he leapt out of bed and ran to Scarlett’s room swinging the door open. Flipping the light switch on he looked around the room not seeing his daughter anywhere.

“Scarlett?!”

“Sweet pea where are you?”

His voice was panicked as he looked all around the room not finding her. She wasn’t the type to run away. So where could she have gone? As he was about to investigate the rest of the house his foot bumped against something on the floor. It was Scarlett’s iPad. The screen still turned on. He picked it up his eyes widening at what was there. A drawing of Baba Yaga and his daughter standing across from each other. The old woman handing Scarlett something that he couldn’t identify.

Why had his daughter been taken?

What would become of her?

After reporting Scarlett missing to the police, they did their investigation coming up with no evidence of her disappearance. Therefore, it was just written off as a runaway teen and missing posters were distributed in the area. Some time had passed, and Leo engrossed himself into his work to get his mind off things. Checking his emails for clients he came across an article that was sent to him.

Recently a string of missing teens from Lone Oak Middle school has gone viral. As parents have said when checking on their children at night, they walk into empty bedrooms with only a pool of blood left on their beds. Some believe this might be a suicide pack while others think that it’s a kidnapping by an unknown individual…

Leo leaned back in his chair staring at the article in disbelief. First it was Scarlett and now more kids from her school were disappearing. Could it be the ones who had bullied his daughter? Looking up at the drawing on his office wall the one his daughter had displayed for the drawing contest shifted and morphed taking the shape of Scarlett herself a content smile on her face.

Scarlett took one last look at her home from the tree line in the backyard. When Baba Yaga offered her a deal, she willingly accepted it knowing the consequences that would come with it. “Goodbye dad.” Scarlett whispered and turned walking deep into woods. She had to keep going because not only did she now have to feed herself but needed to find people who would need her. Unlike the old woman before her she would use this new gained power to use it for good. 

Well, if you would consider eating bad people a good thing. She paused in front of the cabin door, taking a deep breath before turning the handle and stepped inside. It was time to get moving because from here there would be no going back. The flickering hearth cast shadows on the walls, amplifying the loneliness that already gnawed at her heart. Scarlett gently patted her face holding her head up high “Let’s get going.” she spoke aloud talking to the house itself which began to shift and creak going towards the voices that plead for help. 

They call it a depression nest. What hatches in this nest? What is the egg in this image? Who is breeding?

She built her nest herself, of course. She was lying on her side in her bed, next to her laptop, running a YouTube video, a makeup tutorial. She was lying in a mound of her worn clothes, half-eaten food, books, magazines, and cables. Not only that, but she hadn’t showered in 3 days. In the air lay a chalky and foul stench. Why was she like this? The room was full of clothes, and plants that she bought, most of which were dying now. Between shirts and sweaters, there were magazines, some of which you can take for free, but a large number that she bought, some on psychology, some on philosophy. One within the periphery of her vision asked, “What makes us happy?”. The answer wasn’t in her half-eaten toast hanging over the edge of the plate sitting in her bed. It was from yesterday. In the depths of it, she couldn't eat properly. 

She didn't want to do anything, and she was desperately looking for something that would get her out of this. If only she could pull herself together the way others could. Why, why, why was she like this? Who does this to themselves?

She tried her best not to think about how old she was, that her life was just passing her by, while everyone else was making progress. What made her spiral down this time, was an invitation to a baby shower. For her friend S. They hadn’t seen each other in months. News of the pregnancy had reached her, but she didn't message her and didn’t answer any messages that she got from S. The invitation reminded her of the last birthday that S celebrated. Back then she had been unemployed for about one and a half years and people told her that surely she would soon find something. What had been eighteen months now were thirty. Time was fleeting, she herself would be turning thirty soon. Studies unfinished. Accomplished nothing. Thoughts hammered into her mind. The makeup video raged on in front of her, and she closed her eyes, trying to fall asleep. If it only wasn’t ten in the morning and she already slept 12 hours. 

Sleep was not an option. Her video droned on with the constant humming in the background. In a move that felt theatrical to herself, she stretched out her arm next to her laptop and took a breath. She hesitated, pulled it back briefly, only a few centimeters, and then stretched it out again to smash the machine off the little table by her bed. The video continued, and the laptop landed on the clothes-covered floor, precisely on a sweater that her mother knit for her. The scream that she let out was guttural, deep, primal. Standing up quickly, her head felt dizzy from how fast it was, she had to hold herself on the bookshelf that was next to her bed and screamed again. 

She couldn’t take it anymore, she had to change something about her life, or it would all go to shit. Alone this is impossible. Get therapy, clearly something was wrong with her. Tidy up. Do something about this horrible situation and finally get her life back on track. She put on jeans and pulled in her belly to close them, she would have to start exercising too. Looking around, she had this feeling, kind of the opposite of a déjà vu, where you see things from a new perspective, and it feels like you are in a very familiar place the first time. The walls seemed different, and the trash scattered on the floor felt unfamiliar. Disgusted, she felt her throat tighten, seeing how her room looked, how she had let herself become. 

After a deep breath, she took a step towards the door of her room to get out, get something to eat, and leave this shit behind, start repairing. Then she thought for a moment, that she would have to take her phone. What if there was an alert? This was her only possibility. She turned around, took another step towards her bed, and found her phone. Lying on the glossy baby shower invitation card. The motivational framed poster of an egg with some cracks on the side, that he had hung months ago caught her glance, as she tried to look away. Back at her stared her reflection in it, her eyes with deep black shadows underneath, her greasy hair framing her tired face, her white hoodie stained with whatever she had to eat in her bed two days ago. 

She could not take this, she could not do it, her knees gave in, and she broke down, attempting to cry, but couldn't. Lying on her side, she turned her head away from the dirty stinking clothes she was lying on—full view again of the make-up tutorial video that was still running. 

She closed her eyes for a moment and pulled herself together. The video was interrupted by a loud beeping noise from her phone. “Temperature out of range”. Again. Her mind was concentrated on the spot, even though she felt the pressure of her eyes and got a sense of the stale air in the room. She followed the cables that went into the bottom drawer of her nightstand with her hands, pulled the clothes in front of it away, and opened it. 

The glass apparatus that kept the egg at a constant temperature was humming more loudly and showed a temperature of 115°F on the simple LCD Display. Just above the allowed range- the pump was still running though. She checked the drawer above and realized that the temperature control liquid was running low. Opening the liquid compartment released an intense smell of foul eggs, she poured more liquid and pushed the button on her phone to make the noise stop. As if to feel some kind of connection, she put her hand on the glass, just above the egg, and closed her eyes. 

Crack.

She heard a crack and backed up. It felt like the earth was opening and hell’s darkness would spill out. She felt the sting in her heart. The hatching of her baby was not due for another 3 weeks. The temperature must have been running high too much. This was what she had been waiting for all this time, but she was not prepared, no one could help her. Another cracking sound, and she saw the shell coming apart in a black rip. Through the inner membrane, a tiny fist pushed out, opened its little fingers, and pierced the thin layer with its sharp claws. The black inner liquid gushed out. She reached out with her hand, to touch the glass again when she heard the terrifying shriek, followed by rapid scratching against the glass. 

Crack. Bump.

The nightstand was shaking as the creature freed itself from the egg and threw itself against the glass. It moved so fast, it looked like a wet ball was frantically bouncing around in the glass box. The scratching got more and more violent. Hungry. She knew what was coming now. What she had been hatching would consume her now. 

Bump. Bump. Crack.

A circular crack was visible on the glass now. She stood up and thought of how sweet it was to sacrifice yourself for your child. This is what it means to be a mother.

Bump. Crack. Scratching. Bump.

Crack.

"What's Bloody Mary?" I asked, and that was the exact moment when things started to go wrong in my life. I'd always lived a charmed life, but nothing on me could protect me from what is out there. It's in the darkness, in the glass, like looking out of a window into the night, and something is in the distance, in the sky, something is out there.

What happened to me, how I got this way, that's knowing what that something is. You don't want to know what it is. If you don't know, you can continue with life, and you'll be fine.

Someone told me this is called "information hazard"; I must warn you that you don't want to know what happened to me.

"It is a game. Just a game." Lisle laughed at me, seeing that I looked worried.

"A game involving mirrors?" I asked. Mirrors frighten me. I don't like how I look, my face is uneven, I'm not pretty. I've just always hated mirrors.

"That's right, Canda. If you win, you won't be afraid of anything anymore. Imagine that." Lisle said with a promise in her voice. I shuddered, realizing that fear had kept me from nearly everything I could accomplish. Nothing bad ever happens to me, I always have what I need, like having a best friend like Lisle. But I stay in place, and I never move forward, I am afraid of the mirror and I am afraid of change.

"This game, it is scary?" I asked.

Lisle nodded. "My brother taught it to me, but I never played."

I trembled in trepidation at the thought of Thomas. He was the State Hospital in the psychiatric ward. I worried the mirror game was the same thing that put him there.

"I don't know, Lisle, it sounds dangerous."

"All you do is go into the bathroom alone and turn off the lights and cup your hands around your eyes against the mirror: like this." Lisle made goggles around her eyes with her hands and pressed them against the mirror in her room. "And then you whisper her name while staring into the inky void within the mirror, you say it three times, or more."

"Her name is Bloody Mary?" I asked. I didn't want to do it. I got on my phone and checked to see if it was a real thing. "It says here you're supposed to use a candle and spin in circles and it says nothing about putting your hands between the mirror and your face."

"There's the real way to do it and then there's the fake ways to do it." Lisle shrugged. "Imagine having a slumber party and being the only girl who actually does it. The rest just pretend they did it."

"Nobody ever really does it?" I asked.

"Thomas did." Lisle said strangely.

"Then it's real. Let's not do it. I'm not doing it. Don't do it, Lisle." I said.

"So, you actually believe in - that ghosts and demons and stuff are real?" Lisle asked me incredulously.

"No." I said honestly. I didn't believe in any of that stuff.

"Then it just builds confidence, and girl, that's what you need!" Lisle assured me. "I'll go first, and I'm going to do it for reelzeez."

I sat there feeling weirdly calm, the same way I get when I am about to get a shot or take a test or see a large dog with no owner walking towards me on the street. Nothing bad ever happens to me, so I don't really get all that scared or freaked out, I just get this weird calm feeling. It's a kind of fear, a sort of creeping, unidentifiable fear with no basis on what I am facing, just the instinct of a threat.

Her bedroom was across the hall from the bathroom.

Lisle went into the bathroom and turned off the lights. I listened, but I couldn't hear her saying 'Bloody Mary' or whispering it. A few seconds after she went in she came out with a big grin on her face and told me it was fine. I didn't believe she had actually done it, but I didn't want to call her out.

"Your turn." She told me.

"I already said I wasn't going to do it. I told you not to." I crossed my arms, feeling nervous. I knew I had to go in there, to prove to myself I wasn't afraid. I wasn't sure why I was so hesitant to go in there. The fact is, I was terrified that it might be real.

"That's fine." Lisle shrugged and hopped onto her bed and put on her headphones making a point of ignoring me. I need her approval, it's part of having a best friend, so I give in to her demands. I gave up, got up and went in.

Alone in the bathroom I asked myself if I was going to do it. I don't think anyone ever really does it, I think they laugh at it and treat mirror game like a joke, but it proves to yourself who you really are. Do you believe in ghosts? I ask myself such a question, and I'd have said 'no'. Then I put myself in a test against an ancient demon, and learn that fear is our first defense against things we should not know about.

In the mirror, in the dark. Something isn't right. Something is in there, floating in a darkness - a distant something, coming closer. Will I wait for her? She approaches, from deep within the mirror. Locked into staring at her, I don't look away.

If I look away, I admit she is real, I admit I am afraid. Just a speck in the ink, the light of her image reflecting in my eyes, reflected in the mirror, and it is all darkness. Just this black void, consuming me, rooting me to the spot, gripping me in terror.

She is there, she is real. She is in front of me, she is behind me. She is behind you in the darkness, in the corner of the room. Not the floor, look up, she is there. When you look she is gone, but the darkness remains, the shadow looms.

She groans next to my ear as I lay on my side in bed, a kind of deep creaking noise, like she is a chorus of toads. She touches me in the darkness, her hand as cold as ice. I'd scream but I bite into my own tongue out of panic, tasting the blood.

Where am I? Still trapped in that darkness, that silhouette of a nightmare coming ever closer as I watch, hands cupped between my eyes and the mirror? Did I spit blood all over the mirror when I first bit my tongue?

The pain is sharp and jagged, and familiar. I did bite my tongue when she came. And I did it again when she touched me, in the darkness, alone in my bedroom.

I see her moving across the floor, silently approaching me, my nightlight shows me the horror of her ragged visage. She is not of this world, she never was. What we are, we are just creatures who are here right now. She is always, she was always here.

This I suddenly know, by instinct. What does Thomas know? I'd go ask him, but they wouldn't let me out of my room. It is dark in there, and she comes to me and sits with me and I slowly turn around and around in circles.

They let me back out. I am here, I am there. I go home, but that moment,

"What's Bloody Mary?" haunts me.

When I look at her face, I see nothing. She has no face, there is nothing there. She is looking at me, I can feel it. She is looking at you, too, but you cannot feel it.

Whatever you do, don't look back.

Don't play mirror game.

Two souls stood together on a hill, appearing from the distance to be a single whole. The two shadows overlooked a farmstead below them, hidden by the cover of darkness. Lurking like predators in complete silence, ready to pounce on their prey. With a single torch to illuminate their surrounding held by one of the two shadows, hardly noticeable from afar.

“I’m not sure we should do this, Syura.” One shadow spoke to the other.

The other sighed loudly, “We must, Barsaek, can't you remember what they’ve done to us? What they’ve done to you?” the shadow exclaimed.

“I know but… I don’t want to go back. I thought we were through with this…” Barsaek reasoned.

Syura smirked her grin smirk, “I might be, but you could never be through with this, with what you are. You are the one who told me that only the dead get to see the end of the war…”

“Syur…” he begged, but she cut him off.

“Listen, I hate to do this, but you’re making me, and I only do this because I love you – now let me remind you what they’ve done!” tearing open her shirt as she spoke.

He attempted to look away, but she shouted at him not to avert his gaze from her exposed form.

“Don’t you dare look away now! That is what they’ve done to me, that is what they took from you, Barsaek.” She cried out, pointing at his artificial arm while he stood there, staring at her, helpless against the oncoming onslaught of memories.

“You’re right…” he conceded, and turned his gaze to the farmstead below. Something in him was beginning to snap, a part he had tried to bury deep inside his mind. Someone terrible he was trying to forget came to the forefront of his thoughts.

“And besides, you promised me we’d do this and you can’t back out now,” Syura remarked while covering up again.

“You’re right again…” her friend lamented, “Why do you have to be right all the time, Syura…” his voice shaking as he uttered these words. “I hate just how right you are all the god damned time, Syura!” he screamed at her, flames dancing in his eyes. Unstoppable hateful flames danced in Barsaek’s eyes as his face contorted into an expression of a vampiric demon on the verge of starvation-induced insanity. Seeing the change in her friend’s demeanor, Syura couldn’t help but giggle like a little girl again.

“Because someone has to be, don’t you think?” she quipped, watching him race down the hill, the torch in his hand. From the distance, he seemed to take the shape of a falling star.

Before long, he vanished from sight altogether, disappearing into the dark some distance from the farmstead, but Syura knew where to find her friend. She always knew where to find him, especially in this state.

All she had to do was follow the screaming.

Slowly descending the hill, she listened for the screaming, getting excited imagining the inhuman punishment Barsaek was inflicting in her name upon those who had wronged her, those who had wronged them. In her mind, for as long as she could remember - they were always like this – one soul split between two bodies. For her, it was always like this,  ever since the day she met him when he was still a child soldier all those years ago. To her, they always were and forever will be a part of the same whole.

The screaming got almost unbearably loud by the time she reached the farmstead. Barsaek was taking his sweet time executing their revenge. He made sure to grievously injure them to prolong their suffering.

Syura took great care not to take any care of any of the dying men lying on the ground as she made it a mission to step on every one of those in her path.

Blood, guts, and severed limbs were cast about in an almost deliberate fashion. A bloody path paved with human waste by Barsaek for his only friend to follow. By the time she finally reached him, he was covered in blood and engaged in a sword fight with an old man who was barely able to maintain his posture faced with a much younger opponent. The incessant pleas of the man's wife suffocated the room. Syura crouched in front of the woman and blew Barsaek a kiss. For a split moment, he turned his attention from his opponent to her and the old man’s sword struck his face. It merely grazed the young warrior's face, almost more insulting than anything else.

“He shouldn’t have done that…” Syura quipped to the wailing woman who didn't even seem to notice her.

Barely registering the pain, Barsaek halted for a split second to take in a deep breath – pushing his blade straight through his opponent to a chorus of grieving garbled syllables.

“I guess he didn’t love you enough… Mother…” Syura scolded the weeping woman who in turn still seemed oblivious to her. “And now he dies.” With her words echoing across the room as if they were a signal or a command, Barsaek cut off the man’s head. Watching the decapitated skull of her husband crash onto the floor, the woman fell with it, letting out an inhuman shriek, much to Syura’s twisted delight.

“Would you look at that, like daughter, like mother!” she called out to her friend, who seemed equally amused with the mayhem he had caused.

Not satisfied with the carnage he had caused just yet, Barsaek turned his attention to the woman and stood over her with a ravenous gaze in his burning eyes. She begged for her life, but his heart remained stone cold.

Cruel as he might’ve been, this devil was merciful than her. With a swift swing of his blade - he cut off her head, bringing the massacre to an abrupt end.

Once the dust settled by sunrise, Barsaek and Syura were long gone, two shadows huddled as close as one. Almost like two souls in one body; they traveled unseen by foot to the one place where they both could find peace. The gateway between the world of the living and the land of the pure. Once there, the shadow slowly crawled toward a grave at the foot of a frangipani tree.

“I told you, Syura… I told you I’ll lay their skulls at your feet,” Barsaek lamented while carefully placing two skulls at the foot of the grave containing his only friend.

In prison, the last thing you want to do is ingest a bad batch of acid.

That said, you get what you get, and you don't get fucking upset, even if your entire existence is flipped upside down, turned inside out, and ripped to shreds right in front of your eyes... Right?

Maybe.

I'm no stranger to tripping. Acid, mushrooms, and DMT became my daily cocktail of choice during the pandemic, in various doses. Somehow, drugs hit a lot better when they were government funded.

I've done more psychedelics than man was ever meant to withstand. I have watched on as reality falls apart, crumbles, and redefines the shattered tapestry of our little slice of the galaxy, on more than one occasion.

The darkest corners of existence couldn't escape the burning light that brightens our universe, even if it threw it's body full force against the confines of our universe. The come down always happens. It is inevitable.

Yet sometimes, something slips through the cracks and enters our world through our minds and through realms and power we may never understand.

For me, that sometime came last Wednesday.

My guy on the outside sent me a care package. I remember feeling elated, on top of the fucking moon as I looked down upon a sheet of what was supposed to be some of the hardest hitting LSD to ever exist.

"It's pure, right from the source," he said. Whatever that meant, I didn't give a fuck. I wish I had pressed him for answers then and there.

That night at about 10 p.m., I dropped ten hits of that acid. Hardly my largest dose, but after being dry for awhile, I expected to be hit pretty hard. I waited five minutes. Then ten, and twenty.

Nothing. The ice cold air of the night propelled itself down the concrete halls and through the iron bars that keep me locked up like a dog, only to bring an indescribable shiver to my spine, dragging with it a dread I did not yet understand had nothing to do with my getting fucked over with some useless pieces of paper.

I cursed into the inky black shadows that conquered the corners of my cell, pissed at my dealer for bringing me some weak product. In an act of defiance and stupidity, I tore another bar of ten tabs from the sheet of paper and plopped them under my tongue.

One minute later, the voices started.

At first, I thought the guys in the cell next to me were whispering to each other. It was a gnawing sensation that slowly gripped the back of my mind. They weren't even saying words, just gibbering uncontrollably to each other.

I got off my bed and went to grip the bars of my cell. I was going to tell them to shut the fuck up, but as I approached, I realized the sound was actually echoing down the long concrete hallway.

The once familiar grey hall lined with barred cells looked... Off, to say the least. Far longer then I remembered them being. The acrid smell of iron penetrated my senses, making me gag for a moment.

Then it hit me. The visuals crept up on me without warning, no body high whatsoever beforehand.

They were the fractals I usually saw when I was tripping hard, but with this menacing jagged and imposing structure to it, as if something distant was using my memories to paint a kaleidoscopic interpretation of what tripping might look like to a human.

The longer I stared, the more details my mind picked up.

The fractals on the walls were oozing and shifting into elongated clumps of skin, with no rhyme or reason to their amorphous flesh except the vague resemblance of faces. Some were clearly humanlike, while others held qualities that could only be described as otherworldly.

Some had no eyes, but jagged and sharpened teeth that mashed viciously together with an insatiable hunger. The ones that did have eyes were all staring right at me.

An amalgamation of human, animal, and unrecognizably alien eyes that pierced my very soul and mind like I was nothing more than hastily drawn concept art on some cosmic entity's sheet of scribble paper.

I tried desperately to calm my nerves with some deep breathing exercises. They always used to bring my mind back down from the ledge of infinite insanity when the drugs were kicking me in the head too hard.

Now, it seemed to only escalate the situation as it dawned on me, to my grave dismay, the walls were breathing with me. Deep, purposeless breaths, like the very prison walls themselves were drawing in air for the express purpose of providing me with an uncontrollable mental break down.

It was working.

I began to pull at the bars, hoping the warped rules of reality would also apply to my own strength and actions. If I could only just peel them apart far enough for me to get a guard to send me to the psyche ward, then maybe they could help end this nightmarish hell that I found myself diving into head first, cascading deep into a nightmarish world of empty shadows and eyes and mouths.

I tried my best to push my face through the bars. If I could even just get a glimpse of another person, maybe it would all end up fine in the end.

Even then, I knew better.

Something was fundamentally wrong here. Whatever I took was now riding along in the darkest reaches of my soul. Memories of those I love began to fade and fall apart at the seams as I begged God to save me from myself.

As my face stretched back, my head pushing forward into the bars, I felt a slip and heard a sickening squelch, like flesh melting into metal. My head popped through the impossibly narrow gap between the now rust and blood covered iron that kept me locked in my cage of cold, uncaring stone.

In a frenzied panic, I tried to pull my head back through the bars. They squeezed tightly on either side of my neck, causing me to choke in their freezing cold grasp. The faces chittered and jeered louder as the concrete walls slowly transformed into pasty yellow flesh that writhed with every move I made.

The more I moved and struggled, the tighter the metal bars became. As I swung my head left and right, I could see the other cells were all empty. I was alone, save for the fleshy demonic faces that were now peeling themselves from the walls with agonizing expressions permeating their now impossibly structured faces.

The rotted fleshy substance that became the surface of the prison's inner chambers fought to keep the many shambling forms from escaping, as if it understood that the sights unfolding before me were entirely unnatural to this realm.

Frantically, uncontrollably, I shook my head from side to side, both searching for help and rejecting this new reality. If I could just get someone, anyone...

Then I saw it.

At the end of the now impossibly long hall of iron and flesh, a pure black form begins writhing and clawing it's way across the flesh and vein covered floor. The being was hard to decipher from a distance, and I had no interest in getting a good look at the thing that could create all of this chaos.

I pulled my body as hard as I could, the bars causing my neck to crackle with the pressure as my animalistic instincts screamed within, begging for some sort of solution to the madness I found myself being buried alive in. The fiery hot pain in my throat was becoming unbearable.

As I struggled for my life, the sluggish mass of blackened flesh and dried blood approached, finally revealing it's jet black form up close and under a light that flickered wildly as the impossible being inches it's way closer, and closer.

It's wriggling mass stopped just feet away down the hallway as the flesh faces tried to pull themselves away with their jaws and flailing movements and blood curdling screams of agony, whispers of deceit, their cries for mercy... The smell of rot and decay was so strong that I had to stifle the bile plunging up into my throat.

In the black form, a maw of impossible size opens up into three sections, splitting like some sort of horrible monstrous mandible. Rows and rows of arm-length teeth freely rotated around the mouth like a vortex of bloodied daggers, and a sickly sour smell erupts from the depths of its bowels, or innards, or whatever such a being would contain. It's form kept morphing from fractals to extremely intricate shapes, back to fractals.

Those damn fractals...

Blobs of flesh begin tearing in strips from both the walls and the faces that were trying to escape. Their eyes all stare me down, a pitiful and visceral fear scrawled across their features. The world around me began to melt as I realized my face had begun to slosh and slide off of my body.

I screamed for help at the top of my lungs until a searing hot pain began to fill them to the brim. It felt like magma was pouring onto my head and pulling the humanity out of my spirit and out of my every breath.

My sight breaks into fractals as I feel my essence being ripped from my very body. I splattered against the flesh covered ground, now just a piece of my former self. As if gravity itself shifted to pull me in, what's left of me was slowly dripping into the splintering maw's gaping jaws. As my consciousness faded into the black abyss, I got one last look at my body.

It hung lifelessly from between the bars by the throat, the head no longer waving side to side. The body slumps to the ground, hopeless and shivering, as the last teeth slide my formless flesh into it's vile gullet.

I slammed my eyes shut, and everything went completely black and still, save for the sounds of what I can only guess to be digestive fluids melting me alive, shooting an unshakable hot pain through my nerves and into my psyche and soul.

After centuries of imperceptible suffering and pressure, I finally heard a voice of what can only be described as the lingering lifeblood of every evil soul, every fallen angel to ever travel the universe. What it said to me will never leave my mind.

"You brought yourself here."

Then, in an instant, I was being shaken and slapped by one of the guards, his features petrified by the ramblings pouring forth from my mouth with the fluidity of melted wax. More guards entered briskly, flooding in with a stretcher to transport me to the infirmary.

It's been almost a week and a half. Every day, that thing comes back to me in a different form. The world around me shifts constantly. I no longer connect with humans, as if part of my soul was forever changed by what happened that day.

In my dreams, the splintering maw communes with me, tells me to expand others' realities so that I may not suffer alone when the end days of armageddon finally arrive. It will devour us all, one by one, and we will be wrenched violently from our fragile existence, kicking and screaming every inch of the eternal journey into the abyss itself.

The fragile psyche of human kind is only truly apparent once the veil has been lifted. For me, it has revealed humanity is hardly the darkest entity in all of creation, despite our best efforts to claw our way into evil's heart and wield it as our own.

I leave this message as a warning, and a bid for forgiveness. I just put the rest of those cursed tablets in the water pumps below the prison, in an attempt to appease the Splintering Maw.

I only wish for mercy as I wait for the poison to work it's magic within my veins, freeing me from this horrible plane of existence.

And the worst part? It was right. I brought myself here. We brought ourselves here.

May God save your souls.

Thump.

The air between its pages cushioned the closing of the tattered 70’s mechanical manual as Peter’s fingers gripped them together. Another book, another miss. The soft noise echoed ever so softly across the library, rippling between the cheap pressboard shelving clad with black powder coated steel.

From the entrance, a bespectacled lady with her frizzy, greying hair tied up into a lazy bob glared over at him. He was a regular here, though he’d never particularly cared to introduce himself. Besides, he wasn’t really there for the books.

With a sly grin he slid the book back onto the shelf. One more shelf checked, he’d come back for another one next time. She might’ve thought it suspicious that he’d never checked anything out or sat down to read, but her suspicions were none of his concern. He’d scoured just about every shelf in the place, spending just about every day there of late, to the point that it was beginning to grow tiresome. Perhaps it was time to move on to somewhere else after all.

Across polished concrete floors his sneakers squeaked as he turned on his heels to head towards the exit, walking into the earthy notes of espresso that seeped into the air from the little café by the entrance. As with any coffee shop, would-be authors toiled away on their sticker-laden laptops working on something likely few people would truly care about while others supped their lattes while reading a book they’d just pulled off the shelves. Outside the windows, people passed by busily, cars a mere blur while time slowed to a crawl in this warehouse for the mind. As he pushed open the doors back to the outside world, his senses swole to everything around him - the smell of car exhaust and the sewers below, the murmured chatter from the people in the streets, the warmth of the sun peeking between the highrises buffeting his exposed skin, the crunching of car tyres on the asphalt and their droning engines. This was his home, and he was just as small a part of it as anyone else here, but Peter saw the world a little differently than other people.

He enjoyed parkour, going around marinas and parks and treating the urban environment like his own personal playground. A parked car could be an invitation to verticality, or a shop’s protruding sign could work as a swing or help to pull him up. Vaulting over benches and walls with fluid precision, he revelled in the satisfying rhythm of movement. The sound of his weathered converse hitting the pavement was almost musical, as he transitioned seamlessly from a climb-up to a swift wall run, scaling the side of a brick fountain to perch momentarily on its edge. He also enjoyed urban exploring, seeking out forgotten rooftops and hidden alleyways where the city revealed its quieter, secretive side. Rooftops, however, were his favourite, granting him a bird's-eye view of the sprawling city below as people darted to and fro. The roads and streets were like the circulatory system to a living, thriving thing; a perspective entirely lost on those beneath him. There, surrounded by antennas and weathered chimneys, he would pause to breathe in the cool air and watch the skyline glow under the setting sun. Each new spot he uncovered felt like a secret gift, a blend of adventure and serenity that only he seemed to know existed.

Lately though, his obsession in libraries was due to an interest that had blossomed seemingly out of nowhere - he enjoyed collecting bugs that died between the pages of old books. There was something fascinating about them, something that he couldn’t help but think about late into the night. He had a whole process of preserving them, a meticulous routine honed through months of practice and patience. Each specimen was handled with the utmost care. He went to libraries and second hand bookshops, and could spend hours and hours flipping through the pages of old volumes, hoping to find them.

Back in his workspace—a tidy room filled with shelves of labelled jars and shadow boxes—he prepared them for preservation. He would delicately pose the insects on a foam board, holding them in place to be mounted in glass frames, securing them with tiny adhesive pads or pins so that they seemed to float in place. Each frame was a work of art, showcasing the insects' vibrant colours, intricate patterns, and minute details, from the iridescent sheen of a beetle's shell to the delicate veins of a moth's wings. He labelled every piece with its scientific name and location of discovery, his neatest handwriting a testament to his dedication. The finished frames lined the walls of his small apartment, though he’d never actually shown anyone all of his hard work. It wasn’t for anyone else though, this was his interest, his obsession, it was entirely for him.

He’d been doing it for long enough now that he’d started to run into the issue of sourcing his materials - his local library was beginning to run out of the types of books he’d expect to find something in. There wasn’t much point in going through newer tomes, though the odd insect might find its way through the manufacturing process, squeezed and desiccated between the pages of some self congratulatory autobiography or pseudoscientific self help book, no - he needed something older, something that had been read and put down with a small life snuffed out accidentally or otherwise. The vintage ones were especially outstanding, sending him on a contemplative journey into how the insect came to be there, the journey its life and its death had taken it on before he had the chance to catalogue and admire it.

He didn’t much like the idea of being the only person in a musty old vintage bookshop however, being scrutinised as he hurriedly flipped through every page and felt for the slightest bump between the sheets of paper to detect his quarry, staring at him as though he was about to commit a crime - no. They wouldn’t understand.

There was, however, a place on his way home he liked to frequent. The coffee there wasn’t as processed as the junk at the library, and they seemed to care about how they produced it. It wasn’t there for convenience, it was a place of its own among the artificial lights, advertisements, the concrete buildings, and the detached conduct of everyday life. Better yet, they had a collection of old books. More for decoration than anything, but Peter always scanned his way through them nonetheless.

Inside the dingey rectangular room filled with tattered leather-seated booths and scratched tables, their ebony lacquer cracking away, Peter took a lungful of the air in a whooshing nasal breath. It was earthy, peppery, with a faint musk - one of those places with its own signature smell he wouldn’t find anywhere else.

At the bar, a tattooed man in a shirt and vest gave him a nod with a half smile. His hair cascaded to one side, with the other shaved short. Orange spacers blew out the size of his ears, and he had a twisted leather bracelet on one wrist. Vance. While he hadn’t cared about the people at the library, he at least had to speak to Vance to order a coffee. They’d gotten to know each other over the past few months at a distance, merely in passing, but he’d been good enough to supply Peter a few new books in that time - one of them even had a small cricket inside.

“Usual?” Vance grunted.

“Usual.” Peter replied.

With a nod, he reached beneath the counter and pulled out a round ivory-coloured cup, spinning around and fiddling with the espresso machine in the back.

“There’s a few new books in the back booth, since that seems to be your sort of thing.” He tapped out the grounds from the previous coffee. “Go on, I’ll bring it over.”

Peter passed a few empty booths, and one with an elderly man sat inside who lazily turned and granted a half smile as he walked past. It wasn’t the busiest spot, but it was unusually quiet. He pulled the messy stack of books from the shelves above each seat and carefully placed them on the seat in front of him, stacking them in neat piles on the left of the table.

With a squeak and a creak of the leather beneath him, he set to work. He began by reading the names on the spines, discarding a few into a separate pile that he’d already been through. Vance was right though, most of these were new.

One by one he started opening them. He’d grown accustomed to the feeling of various grains of paper from different times in history, the musty scents kept between the pages telling him their own tale of the book’s past. To his surprise it didn’t take him long to actually find something - this time a cockroach. It was an adolescent, likely scooped between the pages in fear as somebody ushered it inside before closing the cover with haste. He stared at the faded spatter around it, the way it’s legs were snapped backwards, and carefully took out a small pouch from the inside of his jacket. With an empty plastic bag on the table and tweezers in his hand, he started about his business.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” came a voice from his right. It was rich and deep, reverberating around his throat before it emerged. There was a thick accent to it, but the sudden nature of his call caused Peter to drop his tweezers.

It was a black man with weathered skin, covered in deep wrinkles like canyons across his face. Thick lips wound into a smile - he wasn’t sure it if was friendly or predatory - and yellowed teeth peeked out from beneath. Across his face was a large set of sunglasses, completely opaque, and patches of grey beard hair that he’d missed when shaving. Atop his likely bald head sat a brown-grey pinstripe fedora that matched his suit, while wispy tufts of curly grey hair poked from beneath it. Clutched in one hand was a wooden stick, thin, lightweight, but gnarled and twisted. It looked like it had been carved from driftwood of some kind, but had been carved with unique designs that Peter didn’t recognise from anywhere.

He didn’t quite know how to answer the question. How did he know he was looking for something? How would it come across if what he was looking for was a squashed bug? Words simply sprung forth from him in his panic, as though pulled out from the man themselves.

“I ah - no? Not quite?” He looked down to the cockroach. “Maybe?”

Looking back up to the mystery man, collecting composure now laced with mild annoyance he continued.

“I don’t know…” He shook his head automatically. “Sorry, but who are you?”

The man laughed to himself with deep, rumbling sputters. “I am sorry - I do not mean to intrude.” He reached inside the suit. When his thick fingers retreated they held delicately a crisp white card that he handed over to Peter.

“My name is Mende.” He slid the card across the table with two fingers. “I like books. In fact, I have quite the collection.”

“But aren’t you… y’know, blind?” Peter gestured with his fingers up and down before realising the man couldn’t even see him motioning.

He laughed again. “I was not always. But you are familiar to me. Your voice, the way you walk.” He grinned deeper than before. “The library.”

Peter’s face furrowed. He leaned to one side to throw a questioning glance to Vance, hoping his coffee would be ready and he could get rid of this stranger, but Vance was nowhere to be found.

“I used to enjoy reading, I have quite the collection. Come and visit, you might find what you’re looking for there.”

“You think I’m just going to show up at some-” Peter began, but the man cut him off with a tap of his cane against the table.

“I mean you no harm.” he emphasised. “I am just a like-minded individual. One of a kind.” He grinned again and gripped his fingers into a claw against the top of his cane. “I hope I’ll see you soon.”

It took Peter a few days to work up the courage to actually show up, checking the card each night he’d stuffed underneath his laptop and wondering what could possibly go wrong. He’d even looked up the address online, checking pictures of the neighbourhood. It was a two story home from the late 1800s made of brick and wood, with a towered room and tall chimney. Given its age, it didn’t look too run down but could use a lick of paint and new curtains to replace the yellowed lace that hung behind the glass.

He stood at the iron gate looking down at the card and back up the gravel pavement to the house, finally slipping it back inside his pocket and gripping the cold metal. With a shriek the rusty entrance swung open and he made sure to close it back behind him.

Gravel crunched underfoot as he made his way towards the man’s home. For a moment he paused to reconsider, but nevertheless found himself knocking at the door. From within the sound of footsteps approached followed by a clicking and rattling as Mende unlocked the door.

“Welcome. Come in, and don’t worry about the shoes.” He smiled. With a click the door closed behind him.

The house was fairly clean. A rotary phone sat atop a small table in the hallway, and a small cabinet hugged the wall along to the kitchen. Peter could see in the living room a deep green sofa with lace covers thrown across the armrests, while an old radio chanted out in French. It wasn’t badly decorated, all things considered, but the walls seemed a little bereft of decoration. It wouldn’t benefit him anyway.

Mende carefully shuffled to a white door built into the panelling beneath the stairs, turning a brass key he’d left in there. It swung outwards, and he motioned towards it with a smile.

“It’s all down there. You’ll find a little something to tickle any fancy. I am just glad to find somebody who is able to enjoy it now that I cannot.”

Peter was still a little hesitant. Mende still hadn’t turned the light on, likely through habit, but the switch sat outside near the door’s frame.

“Go on ahead, I will be right with you. I find it rude to not offer refreshments to a guest in my home.”

“Ah, I’m alright?” Peter said; he didn’t entirely trust the man, but didn’t want to come off rude at the same time.

“I insist.” He smiled, walking back towards the kitchen.

With his host now gone, Peter flipped the lightswitch to reveal a dusty wooden staircase leading down into the brick cellar. Gripping the dusty wooden handrail, he finally made his slow descent, step by step.

Steadily, the basement came into view. A lone halogen bulb cast a hard light across pile after pile of books, shelves laden with tomes, and a single desk at the far end. All was coated with a sandy covering of dust and the carapaces of starved spiders clung to thick cobwebs that ran along the room like a fibrous tissue connecting everything together. Square shadows loomed against the brick like the city’s oppressive buildings in the evening’s sky, and Peter wondered just how long this place had gone untouched.

The basement was a large rectangle with the roof held up by metal poles - it was an austere place, unbefitting the aged manuscripts housed within. At first he wasn’t sure where to start, but made his way to the very back of the room to the mahogany desk. Of all the books there in the basement, there was one sitting atop it. It was unlike anything he’d seen. Unable to take his eyes off it, he wheeled back the chair and sat down before lifting it up carefully. It seemed to be intact, but the writing on the spine was weathered beyond recognition.

He flicked it open to the first page and instantly knew this wasn’t like anything else he’d seen. Against his fingertips the sensation was smooth, almost slippery, and the writing within wasn’t typed or printed, it was handwritten upon sheets of vellum. Through the inky yellowed light he squinted and peered to read it, but the script appeared to be somewhere between Sanskrit and Tagalog with swirling letters and double-crossed markings, angled dots and small markings above or below some letters. It was like nothing he’d ever seen before.

“So, do you like my collection?” came a voice from behind him. He knew immediately it wasn’t Mende. The voice had a croaking growl to it, almost a guttural clicking from within. It wasn’t discernibly male or female, but it was enough to make his heart jump out of his throat as he spun the chair around, holding onto the table with one hand.

Looking up he bore witness to a tall figure, but his eyes couldn’t adjust against the harsh light from above. All he saw was a hooded shape, lithe, gangly, their outline softened by the halogen’s glow. A cold hand reached out to his shoulder. Paralyzed by fear he sunk deeper into his seat, unable to look away and yet unable to focus through the darkness as the figure leaned in closer.

“I know what you’re looking for.” The hand clasped and squeezed against his shoulder, almost in urgency. “What I’m looking for” they hissed to themselves a breathy laugh “are eyes.”

Their other hand reached up. Peter saw long, menacing talons reach up to the figure’s hood. They removed it and took a step to the side. It was enough for the light to scoop around them slightly, illuminating part of their face. They didn’t have skin - rather, chitin. A solid plate of charcoal-black armour with thick hairs protruding from it. The sockets for its eyes, all five of them, were concave; pushed in or missing entirely, leaving a hollow hole. His mind scanned quickly for what kind of creature this… thing might be related to, but its layout was unfamiliar to him. How such a thing existed was secondary to his survival, in this moment escape was the only thing on his mind.

“I need eyes to read my books. You… you seek books without even reading them.” The hand reached up to his face, scooping their fingers around his cheek. They felt hard, but not as cold as he had assumed they might. His eyes widened and stared violently down at the wrist he could see, formulating a plan for his escape.

“I pity you.” They stood upright before he had a chance to try to grab them and toss them aside. “So much knowledge, and you ignore it. But don’t think me unfair, no.” They hissed. “I’ll give you a chance.” Reaching into their cloak they pulled out a brass hourglass, daintily clutching it from the top.

“If you manage to leave my library before I catch you, you’re free to go. If not, your eyes will be mine. And don’t even bother trying to hide - I can hear you, I can smell you…” They leaned in again, the mandibles that hung from their face quivering and clacking. “I can taste you in the air.”

Peter’s heart was already beating a mile a minute. The stairs were right there - he didn’t even need the advantage, but the fear alone already had him sweating.

The creature before him removed their cloak, draping him in darkness. For a moment there was nothing but the clacking and ticking of their sounds from the other side, but then they tossed it aside. The light was suddenly blinding but as he squinted through it he saw the far wall with the stairs receding away from him, the walls stretching, and the floor pulling back as the ceiling lifted higher and higher, the light drawing further away but still shining with a voraciousness like the summer’s sun.

“What the fuck?!” He exclaimed to himself. His attention returned to the creature before him in all his horrifying glory. They lowered themselves down onto three pairs of legs that ended in claws for gripping and climbing, shaking a fattened thorax behind them. Spiked hairs protruded from each leg and their head shook from side to side. He could tell from the way it was built that it would be fast. The legs were long, they could cover a lot of ground with each stride, and their slender nature belied the muscle that sat within.

“When I hear the last grain of sand fall, the hunt is on.” The creature’s claws gripped the timer from the bottom, ready to begin. With a dramatic raise and slam back down, it began.

Peter pushed himself off the table, using the wheels of the chair to get a rolling start as he started running. Quickly, his eyes darted across the scene in front of him. Towering bookshelves as far as he could see, huge dune-like piles of books littered the floor, and shelves still growing from seemingly nowhere before collapsing into a pile with the rest. The sound of fluttering pages and collapsing shelves surrounded him, drowning out his panicked breaths.

A more open path appeared to the left between a number of bookcases with leather-bound tomes, old, gnarled, rising out of the ground as he passed them. He’d have to stay as straight as possible to cut off as much distance as he could, but he already knew it wouldn’t be easy.

Already, a shelf stood in his way with a path to its right but it blocked his view of what lay ahead. Holding a hand out to swing around it, he sprinted past and hooked himself around before running forward, taking care not to slip on one of the many books already scattered about the floor.

He ran beyond shelf after shelf, the colours of the spines a mere blur, books clattering to the ground behind him. A slender, tall shelf was already toppling over before him, leaning over to the side as piles of paper cascaded through the air. Quickly, he calculated the time it would take to hit the wall and pushed himself faster, narrowly missing it as it smashed into other units, throwing more to the concrete floor. Before him now lay a small open area filled with a mountain of books beyond which he could see more shelving rising far up into the roof and bursting open, throwing down a waterfall of literature.

“Fuck!” He huffed, leaping and throwing himself at the mound. Scrambling, he pulled and kicked his way against shifting volumes, barely moving. His scrabbling and scrambling were getting him nowhere as the ground moved from beneath him with each action. Pulling himself closer, lowering his centre of gravity, he made himself more deliberate - smartly taking his time instead, pushing down against the mass of hardbacks as he made his ascent. Steadily, far too slowly given the creature’s imminent advance, he made his way to the apex. For just a moment he looked on for some semblance of a path but everything was twisting and changing too fast. By the time he made it anywhere, it would have already changed and warped into something entirely different. The best way, he reasoned, was up.

Below him, another shelf was rising up from beneath the mound of books. Quickly, he sprung forward and landed on his heels to ride down across the surface of the hill before leaning himself forward to make a calculated leap forward, grasping onto the top of the shelf and scrambling up.

His fears rose at the sound of creaking and felt the metal beneath him begin to buckle. It began to topple forwards and if he didn’t act fast he would crash down three stories onto the concrete below. He waited for a second, scanning his surroundings as quickly as he could and lept at the best moment to grab onto another tall shelf in front of him. That one too began to topple, but he was nowhere near the top. In his panic he froze up as the books slid from the wooden shelves, clinging as best he could to the metal.

Abruptly he was thrown against it, iron bashing against his cheek but he still held on. It was at an angle, propped up against another bracket. The angle was steep, but Peter still tried to climb it. Up he went, hopping with one foot against the side and the other jumping across the wooden slats. He hopped down to a rack lower down, then to another, darting along a wide shelf before reaching ground level again. Not where he wanted to be, but he’d have to work his way back up to a safe height.

A shelf fell directly in his path not so far away from him. Another came, and another, each one closer than the last. He looked up and saw one about to hit him - with the combined weight of the books and the shelving, he’d be done for in one strike. He didn’t have time to stop, but instead leapt forward, diving and rolling across a few scattered books. A few toppled down across his back but he pressed on, grasping the ledge of the unit before him and swinging through above the books it once held.

Suddenly there came a call, a bellowing, echoed screech across the hall. It was coming.

Panicking, panting, he looked again for the exit. All he had been focused on was forward - but how far? He wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it, but now that he had no sight of it in this labyrinth of paper he grew fearful.

He scrambled up a diagonally collapsed shelf, running up and leaping across the tops of others, jumping between them. He couldn’t look back, he wouldn’t, it was simply a distraction from his escape. Another shelf lay perched precariously between two others at an angle, its innards strewn across the floor save for a few tomes caught in its wiry limbs. With a heavy jump, he pushed against the top of the tall bookshelf he was on ready to swing from it onto the next step but it moved back from under his feet. Suddenly he found himself in freefall, collapsing forwards through the air. With a thump he landed on a pile of paperbacks, rolling out of it to dissipate the energy from the fall but it wasn’t enough. Winded, he scrambled to his feet and wheezed for a second to catch his breath. He was sore, his muscles burned, and even his lungs felt as though they were on fire. Battered and bruised, he knew he couldn’t stop. He had to press on.

Slowly at first his feet began to move again, then faster, faster. Tall bookcases still rose and collapsed before him and he took care to weave in and out of them, keeping one eye out above for dangers.

Another rack was falling in his path, but he found himself unable to outrun the long unit this time. It was as long as a warehouse shelving unit, packed with heavy hardbacks, tilting towards him.

“Oh, fuck!” He exclaimed, bracing himself as he screeched to a halt. Peering through his raised arms, he tucked himself into a squat and shuffled to the side to calculate what was coming. Buffeted by book after book, some hitting him square in the head, the racks came clattering down around him. He’d been lucky enough to be sitting right between its shelves and spared no time clambering his way out and running along the cleared path atop it.

At its terminus however was another long unit, almost perpendicular with the freshly fallen one that seemed like a wall before him. Behind it, between gaps in the novels he could see other ledges falling and collapsing beyond. Still running as fast as his weary body would allow he planned his route. He leapt from the long shelf atop one that was still rising to his left, hopping across platform to platform as he approached the wall of manuscripts, jumping headfirst through a gap, somersaulting into the unknown beyond. He landed on another hill of books, sliding down, this time with nowhere to jump to. Peter’s legs gave way, crumpling beneath him as he fell to his back and slid down. He moaned out in pain, agony, exhaustion, wanting this whole experience to be over, but was stirred into action by the sound of that shrieking approaching closer, shelving units being tossed aside and books being ploughed out the way. Gasping now he pushed on, hobbling and staggering forward as he tried to find that familiar rhythm, trying to match his feet to the rapid beating of his heart.

Making his way around another winding path, he found it was blocked and had to climb up shelf after shelf, all the while the creature gaining on him. He feared the worst, but finally reached the top and followed the path before him back down. Suddenly a heavy metal yawn called out as a colossal tidal wave of tomes collapsed to one side and a metal frame came tumbling down. This time, it crashed directly through the concrete revealing another level to this maze beneath it. It spanned on into an inky darkness below, the concrete clattering and echoing against the floor in that shadow amongst the flopping of books as they joined it.

A path remained to the side but he had no time, no choice but to hurdle forwards, jumping with all his might towards the hole, grasping onto the bent metal frame and cutting open one of his hands on the jagged metal.

Screams burst from between his breaths as he pulled himself upwards, forwards, climbing, crawling onwards bit by bit with agonising movements towards the end of the bent metal frame that spanned across to the other side with nothing but a horrible death below. A hissing scream bellowed across the cavern, echoing in the labyrinth below as the creature reached the wall but Peter refused to look back. It was a distraction, a second he didn’t have to spare. At last he could see the stairs, those dusty old steps that lead up against the brick. Hope had never looked so mundane.

Still, the brackets and mantels rose and fell around him, still came the deafening rustle and thud of falling books, and still he pressed on. Around, above, and finally approaching a path clear save for a spread of scattered books. From behind he could hear frantic, frenzied steps approaching with full haste, the clicking and clattering of the creature’s mandibles instilling him with fear. Kicking a few of the scattered books as he stumbled and staggered towards the stairs at full speed, unblinking, unflinching, his arms flailing wildly as his body began to give way, his foot finally made contact with the thin wooden step but a claw wildly grasped at his jacket - he pulled against it with everything he had left but it was too strong after his ordeal, instead moving his arms back to slip out of it. Still, the creature screeched and screamed and still he dared not look back, rushing his way to the top of the stairs and slamming the door behind him. Blood trickled down the white-painted panelling and he slumped to the ground, collapsing in sheer exhaustion.

Bvvvvvvvvvvzzzt.

The electronic buzzing of his apartment’s doorbell called out from the hallway. With a wheeze, Peter pushed himself out of bed, rubbing a bandaged hand against his throbbing head.

He tossed aside the sheets and leaned forward, using his body’s weight to rise to his feet, sliding on a pair of backless slippers. Groaning, he pulled on a blood-speckled grey tanktop and made his way past the kitchen to his door to peer through the murky peephole. There was nobody there, but at the bottom of the fisheye scene beyond was the top of a box. Curious, he slid open the chain and turned the lock, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his good hand.

Left, right, he peered into the liminal hallway to see who might’ve been there. He didn’t even know what time it was, but sure enough they’d delivered a small cardboard box without any kind of marking. Grabbing it with one hand, he brought it back over to the kitchen and lazily pulled open a drawer to grab a knife.

Carefully, he slit open the brown tape that sealed it. It had a musty kind of smell and was slightly gritty to the touch, but he was too curious to stop. It felt almost familiar.

In the dim coolness of his apartment he peered within to find bugs, exotic insects of all kinds. All flat, dry, preserved. On top was a note.

From a like minded individual.

You should go back through the veil Avery, I do not want you to get corrupted or hurt in this mission for we don't know how many generals there are searching for this reality artifact, Aster told her thankfully. Gladly, accepting the order she flew inside the pink and green rune covered box, as the entire object vanished with a bright pink flash, and was gone. Hopefully, they don't already have the stone and we're just walking into a trap they set for us, Zion whispered, Depending on which general is there we might have an advantage against them, Wesley told him. The thirteen continued forward towards the great tree only to stop when they saw more creatures up ahead this time they were ghosts with robes and masks, I've seen them before, Wesley whispered to the group. Wesley suddenly became fueled by anger as he remembered what the female general did to his friends that day, She nearly got a hold of a mini tree of line that my friends and I were guarding until Aria brought in backup that day, Wesley told them.

She is NOT to be taken lightly, he warned them, Are they even physical because it doesn't look like they are? Amarrick asked, They can choose to become physical that's what makes them so dangerous, and how they almost got one of the remaining trees of life on the light side, Wesley told them. Do you remember how they were defeated? asked Liam, If I remember correctly their strength is also their weakness for them to touch you they must become touchable themselves that's when to strike, he said. Alright, so if we can sneak up on them that should help correct? Oakley asked, Perhaps, he signaled two of his fellow friends to follow him so they may sneak up behind them, I pray that this works, he thought. As the three were about to attack one of the two creatures, one was PULLED by a third one they didn't see, Where did that one come from one of us should've seen it, Wesley thought to himself. Oakley, his friend, and the other two ghosts became aware of each other when the other friend hit the ground with a loud THUD, There goes our plan, said Oakley, What do we do now? The friend next to him asked We kill them, Oakley said seriously.

They rushed with their spears covered in runes, leaves and, two sided blades Oakley jumped up, and swung his weapon at the creature but the weapon went THROUGH it he believed Wesley but was still surprised. It tried to backhand him, but he swiftly dodged it, Remember what Wesley said their strength is also weakness I have to let them become physical, Oakley told himself, It struck again and he allowed it to touch him. However, When it did he didn't expect it to be Icy Cold, the cold was already starting to numb his arm even with it only being a few seconds but he knew this was his only chance, he brought his weapon forward and HIT the thing's mask, it stumbled back holding it to keep it from falling. So, those masks do hold some form of importance, Most likely hiding a more horrid face underneath, Wesley thought, when the head faced Oakley once more a huge crack appeared nearly going across the entire mask. The thing suddenly RUSHED forward, grabbing him before he even had a chance to blink, and lifted him up to choke him, The others were about to rush in and their comrade but they saw him looking over, and holding out his hand for them to stop, Wesley turned and said, We've got to trust him to do this.

Oakley felt the cold hand warp around his throat, cutting off his air, and robbing him of the chance to move his body because of the coldness at a vital body part. He still felt the spear so he gripped it and in one motion he PUSHED it through the mask, as well as it's face, and then the body turned to smoke before fading. Their masks is the weak point, Oakley told the others, One of the others brought their weapon up and attacked their mask, cracking it, but he didn't stop for he attacked again, and JAMMED it into the head, killing it, The last one did the same and cracked the mask. However, it vanished in front of their eyes, Where did she go, Wesley thought, Before Oakley's face turned pale, Behind You, he yelled, As everyone turned around and saw it staring at them the Lycans were quick into action, As Amarrick pulled out two large Chakrams from his back. They were yellow matching the color of his fur, with divine white runes on them, two black handles shaped like a cross in the middle, with silver spikes and circles around the edges, there were four spikes on each and big enough to help move without challenge. He jumped at it, STABBED through the head before it had the chance to do anything, and it became nothing but smoke like the others, the others rejoined and wondered how they had just survived that encounter, Thanks to your quick reflexes were still here, Liam said.

Amarrick looked down at him and said, Don't worry about it, as the rest walked through the trees they all STOPPED as they came upon a scene straight from a movie a huge tree lay in the center of a large clearing. That has to be the great tree it looks majestic, Wesley thought, before remembering what was hidden inside it but as his vision came down he saw at least thirty soldiers, ten ghosts, ten armored shadows, and ten red-eyed creatures. So there's thirty-three including the generals how do we beat them to get the stone, Zion thought, Do we wait for them to get the stone and attack or just hope they leave with it? Liam asked, coming closer to Wesley. If we let them collect the stone they may feel emboldened to go for the time pyramid, Aster whispered, Someone was about to respond before they heard some of the legion moving towards the tree but leaving room to see the generals standing directly in front. Look! Sage whispered, Wesley was shocked he even recalled one of their names after everything, as he pointed to a certain spot, they saw a young female that looked just like the other tree people, It's Rosie, Oakley said still whispering.

Liam's breath caught in his throat as he recognized the creature in the middle with it's hairless purple skin, cape, black mask, and vague dragon-like elongated face, It's him, everyone looked at him, That's General, Shadon. Wesley was taken aback as he thought about what one of his old mentors told him about that creature, " No one knows Shadon's true origin he just showed up out of nowhere that's what our allies who betrayed the dark say but he's noticeably different than other Voidspawn like he has a sense of honor as crazy as it sounds." No, that's not true but...what if? He had to test his theory at another time, they saw ALL the general's hands go up in the air as runes began to appear, a few seconds later the tree began to crack, their chanting got louder, and a powerful light came forward from it. After the light settled down a big Sapphire Stone with runes on each side, Wesley noticed the stares of his comrades, It may look like a sight to behold but don't be deceived for that's a unique artifact depending on it's holder it can be used for good or evil purposes, he told them. I've never heard of an artifact like that, Aster said stunned, I'll tell you where it came from later for now we have to stop it from being used, Wesley told them, he said to Aster, HAHAHA! A loud chuckle came from one of the generals, Now let's see the capabilities, Germalyn said excited.

Who should we test it on first? Inva asked, Shadon looked, pointed, and said, You three step forward, as one servant from each legion did as he obeyed he put his hand behind the floating stone as it grew brightly and a portal opened with blue energy, Go inside, he commanded. The group couldn't believe what they were seeing, as the three stepped in but Wesley saw though barely noticeable they were hesitant, NOW! Germalyn yelled. As they stepped through it the portal closed behind them and the runes began to light up as the three of them gathered around, So they'll be trapped for all eternity if no one releases them? Zion asked, Yes, but I'm wondering if they're going to free them or leave them trapped, Wesley wondered. So, what happens now are they caged within forever? Inva asked Shadon, he placed his hand at the back of the stone once more, and it began spinning fast before the portal opened again, and THREW all of them out. Everyone on both sides besides Wesley was a mixture of amazed and scared, Hmm, It appears that you can willingly release one who's been trapped as well as keep them locked away for eternity, Shadon said, I cannot wait to use this on our enemies they'll never see it coming, Germalyn said, filled with twisted joy.

Now, Do you want to return and let the Grand General see what we've recovered, or go and retrieve the second artifact and ensure our victory? The choice is up to you two, Shadon told his comrades, as they looked deep in thought. If we're going to do something it HAS to be soon, Aster said, Wesley looked up at two of Oakley's friends and knew what to do, Can you two go back and warn the town about the threat that may be approaching? The two looked to Oakley and he nodded. They nodded to Wesley before heading back silently so as not to give away their position they got further and faded from everyone's sight, I say we locate and capture the second artifact, Germalyn said, I say we go back and play it safe, Inva said. I never liked to leave ANYTHING unfinished so I agree with our hyper friend here, Shadon told her, HEHEHEE! You lose, he said while pointing at her now let's go get the second one, However, before that what should we do with her if she's no further use? Inva asked, We have a few options don't we, Germalyn told them. We could kill her, trap her in the stone, or force her to tell us where's her village or town, he added, I've heard enough I can't sit by and watch them play this twisted game with her, Oakley whispered, with anger slowly rising in his tone, I know you want to help her but be calm, Wesley said with comfort.

I'm curious how her powers work because she clearly is a supernatural being that could be connected with nature itself, Inva said, he listened to her and decided, the stone floated a few feet towards her and the runes began to glow once more, That courage impressed me so you'll be trapped for awhile. However, before he opened the portal for Rosie he sniffed the air because of the human flesh, dog fur, and something else he couldn't make out was in the air, Do you both smell that as well? They both sniffed and nodded. I think they caught on to us, what were you planning before, Oakley? he looked down and looked calm, as he climbed the closet tree quickly but quickly, We'll deal with that after this, as he resumed the process to trap her. The stone began to spin faster, BANG! The sound of metal hitting each other instead of going through the stone from where he stood in the tree his weapon just knocked it over, sending it crashing to the grass, I hoped it went through but that would've been too easy. He was able to stop the process? Wesley thought in surprise, Should we go out now? Sage asked, Yeah, the three humans, Lycans, and humanoid tree people came out of hiding and formed a row, We won't let you have the stone! Wesley shouted.

A low growl escaped Shadon but managed to control it and stop the increasing rage showing itself, Well now isn't this interesting nine of them and thirty-three of us, TEN, Oakley added jumping from the tree. Now, hand over Rosie she has nothing to do with this battle, Sage said seriously, Germalyn made fists while dark energy gathered around them and then got in a battle stance, I was hoping for a fight, to be honest, he said. While his legion got ready with their general, Are you volunteering to handle this problem alone? Inva asked, he looked, grinned, and nodded at her, a snap from Shadon's claws gathered his armored shadows near him but one grabbed the stone and the other got the sleeping body of Rosie. Where are they taking her, Wesley thought, Inva and her legion joined them, Make sure to come back to us when you defeat them, She told him, Shadon wiggled his claw fingers at his friend back before Sage acted. Rushing in, jumped over the legion, taking out his daggers with four-foot blades, and green runes when he landed four red eyed creatures started to surround him and he stabbed two in the leg simultaneously, and back flipped away staring down the two standing creatures with anger boiling up.

A cyclone of darkness formed around all twenty-two of them and was gone in a matter of seconds, It's just like what happened the first time my friends and I encountered him, Liam told the group. Impossible...No Voidspawn has the ability to travel between Reality and the Void without using one of the mini trees of life they gained or a tear in the veil maybe the Ancients but..even they would need significant power what IS that general? Wesley thought confused. Where did they go, Sage yelled, I wish I knew but as you can see I clearly don't, Germalyn said mockingly, Sage wanted to get his hands on that vile beast but knew he had to focus ahead of him, The teens pressed the chest adapters and grew to nine feet. The Lycans took out their weapons and roared at the battle they were getting ready to engage in, Oakley rushed in and grabbed his double-sided spear, The other two tree people took out swords as well, While Wesley took out a gun. Are you sure that'll be enough? FangShadow asked, Of course, without another word they charged at the eleven beasts that helped to destroy creation, Sage with a smile charged, jumped, and kicked the left standing one in the face making it crash into the left one on it's knee.

He sliced the right standing one's leg before it had a chance to react, jumped up and stabbed across its throat black blood began pooling out the wound, What power, Wesley thought. At this moment the remaining warriors rushed forward and reached the rest of them, charging into them two creatures went over and under Zion's leg, as one grabbed his leg and the other his arm, throwing him into Liam before he could attempt to catch or stop Zion. The attack sent them crashing into FangShadow, making him fall to the ground as a red eyed creature jumped and tried to pin him down hard on FangShadow, as the Lycan positioned himself the nunchucks to where he held the spike upwards and impaled the monster's throat, decapitating it. He stood swiftly and composed, rushed at two more, spinning the nunchucks, creating a fire wave that shot out at them, the two creatures jumped high to dodge it and come down on him with their claws. However, FangShadow must've been prepared for something like this, as he jumped back, started spinning his weapon before they could even switch their course. He began to smile like a child who just won a prize, he swung powerfully and true, cutting the closet one in half, and the second one was sliced open and brunt so badly, it died mere moments later.

Well, it's a good thing there's only eight of them now and they don't appear to have a healing factor, Wesley thought thankfully, As Zion and Liam stood, another two creatures went crashing into the teens before Zion stopped it by uppercutting the jaw, and Liam kicked it in the chest. Zion followed the other teen, as they lay on the ground hurt and stunned one punch from each to their head imploded it, Aster spun his spear, and a wave of electricity shot out at it from his weapon, the creature jumped over it, it came closer and he was ready impaling and shocking it before the head exploded. Sage looked over at the creatures starting to stand once more, he rushed in and dodged a swipe from the creature, and stabbed it in the knee before getting the neck with both daggers, because there was no healing factor it died quickly. With a roar from their general the remaining four creatures regrouped around him, Amarrick was saying a silent prayer towards the heavens, stepped forward a few feet ahead of the group, and his Chakrams began to glow with the energy of light itself around them looking like a white fire. He began twirling them in his hands a bit, before throwing them at their enemies, they spun with much force and power towards them, and before they had a chance to react one cut through the right creature's stomach, while the right one got its head destroyed, and the Chakrams came back to Amarrick.

You lost! It's over Germalyn, Wesley yelled, Plus, what are you going to do with those two injured minions that couldn't slay me, Sage added, however, the general remained silent this time with no retorts. Without warning, he TORE the head off the left one and cut the right one's neck with his claws, the group was in shock at what they had just seen, he noticed their shocked expressions and was amused. They were worthless not worth the extra effort, Is that what you do to all your servants who are injured? Aster asked bewildered, Correct, the general said coldly, Sage rushed towards him with the Lycans following close behind, Wesley readied his gun, Oakley and two friends followed. The teens looked down at Wesley and wondered if he needed help, You wanna come along on one of our shoulders or be the rearguard? That's always have been my role, as they nodded and charged behind their comrades, the general simile grew at the chance to fight. Aster jumped up while FangShadow went down concurrently, with Aster grabbing his arm and FangShadow grabbing his leg, However, he spun sideways and threw both of them away with ease, Sage jumped up coming down on him with daggers raised high, he put his palm forward on his body and sent him flying.

Germalyn saw The Chakrams headed straight for him and sidestepped both of them, Oakley ran at him spinning his spear with one head, he threw a punch at him filled with dark energy, Oakley blocked the move with the metal part of the spear, he glanced behind and saw the weapons coming back. He grinned getting an idea, grabbing the spear, tossing it over him with Oakley's body, and kicked him, his body collided with the weapons creating big wounds in his stomach, the yellow wolf recalled his weapons with a worried look, How young and utterly foolish to think you had a chance, he chuckled. This time, the general charged forward towards Amarrick jumping up and bringing down a punch, which he dodged using the huge black cross handles of the weapons together, a shockwave came from the force of that hit, but he used this momentum to push himself and knee the yellow wolf. That sent him back around ten feet but was still standing, a shot rang out and hit the monster in it's shoulder but didn't slow him down in the slightest, he rushed once more at the yellow wolf but was stopped from the side by a hit, The teens in the mech and the two tree people, Useless worms how dare you, he said. The general touched the side of his head a saw a drop of blood, he charged at the tree people punching one into the trees, while he hit the left one with his palm and sent him flying back into the trees, then turned to the teens as they ran into him at the same time pushing him back to his amusement.

Cute, he said, as he made a fist and released a small dark energy blast on the ground, which made them let go of him, he kicked Liam away turned to Zion, and grabbed the Mech's arm, Your nothing without these little toys aren't you? He asked mockingly, Zion didn't answer not wanting to give in to his game. Amarrick threw one of the chakrams glowing with that white fire again but as he thought it would hit, The general through Zion's armor, turned, and stopped it with his palm that was engulfed in dark energy, still spinning he sent the chakram back to it's owner and the yellow wolf caught it growling at him. Is the pup angry at me because he's not strong enough, The general mocked, Don't, Aster's voice came from the ground, Don't you dare make a mockery of your enemies or you may live to regret it, he told him getting back up, the creature looked around and saw everyone started to stand once more. Strange, many enemies I bested usually wouldn't be able to stand after what I did, he said confused, You're so used to crushing your opponents so you don't know how it feels like to lose, Amarrick told him, the creature scoffed at this, You are but a growling puppy nothing more so don't act like it, Germalyn answered. I was correct that was definitely a weakness I just brought out of him if I keep egging him on he'll lose focus and we can win, Amarrick thought hopefully, he nodded at Sage and the other two Lycans and they ran at him once more, when the general raised his arm he felt a sharp pain from within.

What, he glanced down, It can't be! he thought, looking over to the man who still had his gun pointed, let another shot ring out towards the creature, and hit his leg this time, Holy bullets, he said softly, a low growl fell from his mouth, the three closed in quickly to subdue the general before he did anything else. He used his good leg and jumped over the three beings coming at them, It's only pain nothing more I should take care of the human don't want another bullet in me, he thought annoyed, Sage planted his feet on the ground, and want back in for the monster that helped kidnap Rosie. He jumped high,and flipped into a kick, which was blocked by the general's good arm, However, they noticed he wasn't moving his other arm anymore and looked a bit weaker than before, he pushed Sage off him and the Chakram hit him causing him to nearly fall over but he caught his balance. As everyone started to gather together and slowly walked towards him he began to laugh, What's so funny? FangShadow asked, It's just that this entire time you didn't realize that one of you was down, What?! He gestured to the body of Oakley laying still on the ground, Oakley! Sage yelled as he rushed over to check on him. Is he alright? Aster yelled, Yeah, he's unconscious but breathing however, if we don't get him treated soon these wounds may not heal or worse, he said nervously, That's not even the best part of this yet, the town where you beings reside my friends will burn down to get the second artifact, Germalyn said chuckling.

In a blur, Sage was upon the creature, kicking his leg making him take a knee, and putting one of the two dagger blades to his neck, You don't deserve to live anymore all you bring is death, he said coldly. As much he must perish but it may be better to take him as a prisoner, Wesley said calmly, NO! Think of all the deaths he's caused with his fellow generals if we take him out now that's one less threat to deal with right? Yeah, He's made a good point, Wesley, Zion said agreeing. But, Aria and the Arch's will most likely want to question him and we've never captured a general before, Amarrick said, I see both sides but, indeed, we've never captured one of the thirteen generals before within the entire war it would be a big achievement, but finishing him off here so he can't cause any more harm is just as good, Wesley said. You love this don't you the war, death, chaos, and destruction, Sage yelled at him, HA! Can't say that I don't, he pushed the blade of the dagger against the skin of the monster he had in his grasp. Sage, I know you're angry and upset right now we must think clearly about this it's a big choice we have have, Aster said softly, Look! What he did to my friend and what he was going to do if he didn't volunteer to stay behind, Wesley couldn't deny he was making a lot of good points but it was no easy choice.

That's what I like about enemies of the side of light, you all are quite easy to pick apart that it's almost painful seeing you risking your lives away when the creators couldn't care less about any of the mortals, he said coldly. They only care about Heaven, The tree of life, and it's Fruit of Knowledge anything else - QUIET! How dare you lie on the creator's you rotten being, he began chuckling once more, someone doesn't know how to control their emotions and you're supposed to be a warrior. The more he talks the more I agree with Sage we should get rid of him, Liam said annoyed by the general's antics, Oakley's two friends rushed over to their his side, putting their hands over him most likely trying to heal him, You'd better pray to the deep where you come from that he makes it, Sage said enraged. You know among the thirteen i'm one of the more tamer ones as difficult as that may seem right now, he told him, You're telling us that there are worse generals than you? He nodded. Germalyn took a deep breath before he HIT three spots on Sage's body that formed a triangle, as green energy became visible, Sage! As everyone looked to see his energy getting absorbed into the general, YES! You all should have just destroyed me now look at your failure! He yelled.

Sage began screaming as his energy was being drained from his body right before everyone's eyes, Germalyn's skin was glowing green, HA! It worked I no longer feel the pain slowly limiting me, he said joyfully, I must thank you if it wasn't for you who knows where I would be right now, he laughed. Once he drained enough he through the body to the side like garbage, As the Lycans rushed in to get Sage and stop the general, he roared as dark energy gathered around him while sending a shockwave that blew everyone away from him, he slowly stood and everyone was in shock for what stood before them now. Was his entire body covered in a crystalized form of dark red, with shades of green, the mask was going forward, it was pointy, had no mouth, and had one eye hole, and he now had red crystal-like hair flowing, it looked solid enough to hit but liquid enough to partly dissolve, and he started floating upwards. With this new armored form, I'm on par with the Grand General for this power running through me I will test it upon you ten now! Or rather eight, he chucked, This time expect no mercy! FangShadow yelled at him, he crossed his arms, and looked down on them like rats in a cage, As everyone got ready for the second battle. Armored Germalyn snapped his finger and two giant crystals appeared on both sides of him and came down towards them quickly, I don't think we can dodge, Aster yelled, as they prepared for the hit it never happened, it was STOPPED by a green rune covered vines that came from the ground.

Everyone turned their head including the armored general to see who did that, ITS HIM, Zion exclaimed in shock, it's the moose I saw in the town square! Even though it was a statue the resemblance is uncanny, he observed. The moose was floating a few feet off the ground, with green eyes, huge antlers, two-legged, and surprisingly skinny. But, something is different about it now, before Amarrick spoke up in a crucial tone. That's no animal, he said in shocked wonder, THAT'S AN ASPECT! Don't they only show up when something serious happens? FangShadow asked, Yes, Amarrick answered unable to give any detail about it. I've heard of them but I wonder just how much do they actually appear in front of beings let alone be in the war itself based on the Lycan's reaction, Wesley thought.

My names Javier . I was born 1995 on the 4th of July in Austin where most of my family was born and raised for generations.

My Uncle Tony said I was a big surprise to the family since my mom was told it was very unlikely for her to have another child after my brother Pedro. She had a very hard time giving birth to Pedro. In fact I was told she was in labor for almost 5 days before they resorted to a C section.

I don’t remember much or anything at all about our home in Austin, Mom moved me and my brother to SoCal when I was 6. We moved close to that theme park with the mouse, I remember Pedro was really upset with the move but was really happy about being so close to the happiest place on earth.

The one thing I remember very vividly is the treehouse that was in the backyard. The treehouse was so old that it almost appeared to be rooted into the tree. Treehouse was painted pink but looked bleached from the California Sun.

She was a single mom, and she was the best mom you could ask for. She was always so happy, always making dumb jokes to make me and Pedro laugh.Our mom Nora was everything to me and Pedro, until the summer of 2004.

Everything changed after that damned day and that god damn Treehouse. That treehouse took everything from me, I never forgot that fucking treehouse no matter how much Don Julio I drank.

I’m 29 now, living back in Austin with my Uncle Tony. Writing true crime novels for a living while picking up shifts at the local bar when I can.

Which is where I would be right now if it wasn’t for the phone call I received this morning. Spam likely it read with a 714 area code I answered thinking it may be my publisher Mark with a new phone number, he gets a new one every few years it feels like. I answered.

“Mark this you?” …

“Hello?” …

I waited for a response for a couple more second, as I was going to hang up I heard rattling or plastic on plastic tapping. Idk but It kept me on the line. Than a faint whisper came through that made my body go ice cold like I was instantaneously dumped in a ice bath.

“Javi… come back to the Treehouse..sa-“

The line went dead before I could make out the last word. I was frozen in shock, disbelief and frankly nauseous. Had to be a sick joke but I don’t talk to anyone from my time in California, Hell I was 6 when I moved there and 9 when I left. Who would have my number and how?

But one thought kept coming to mind. Was it him? No way couldn’t be, it’s been 20 years. This is the reason I need to write down everything I remember about those 4 years I spent in that damned house before I go on any further.

End Prologue

Part 1

I chose the top bunk, Pedro didn’t protest even though he was older by three years. He was really nice like that, he was nine but he acted older in my eyes. Pedro’s dark brown hair always went over his eyes, he motioned his head to the left to get the hair out of his eyes and asked if I was done packing.

I was not even close but told him I can finish later. Pedro wanted to check out the backyard. The house was nice, not big but bigger enough for the family of ours.

Me and Pedro had to share a room but we didn’t mind at all. We really preferred it, we would stay up late playing pirates or whatever movie we just saw that week. Only thing I didn’t like was Pedro’s sleep walking, he slept walked at least once a week it felt like and it scared the shit out me at that age.

Me and Pedro walked out our new room and past mom’s room where she was unpacking and laying down shoes on the bed. Pedro tells her he’s taking me outside to show me the surprise. She agrees and makes sure that we’re back in soon because she ordered pizza that evening.

I’m remembering more now, like a fog dissipating over a lake. It’s all coming back to me in fragments like a movie you haven’t seen in two decades but the memories were there the whole time collecting dust in the darkness of my mind. God help me I have to keep going.

Pedro walks me outside and I see it.. a pink treehouse high in the air, has two windows like a real house. An old raggedy rope ladder that seemed strong enough. The yard was big enough to play flag football or basically any game me and brother could cook up.

Before I could even look over the whole place Pedro was already half way up the ladder telling me to hurry up. I raced after him but he was inside before I even got to the rope ladder.

When I arrived inside the treehouse I was let down. All that was inside was some old faded comic books, a tool box, matches, a poster of Rambo and a beat up cardboard box labeled “my things”.

“Eww, Smells like rotten eggs up here” I said

“That’s just your upper lip Javi”

Not funny I remarked but it did get a chuckle out of me, he always knew how to make me laugh. Pedro was looking outside the windows and saw someone next door, told me to take a look.

“Javi come look at our new neighbor. You think he has kids or grandkids?”

“I don’t think so, wouldn’t they be playing?”

“He’s staring at us… should we wave?” Asked Pedro.

Pedro waved at the man wearing a white plain t shirt and gym shorts. But he didn’t wave back. Honestly now remembering back on it, I’d say he had a shocked expression like we weren’t supposed to be in the treehouse.

“That guys not weird at all” Pedro said with his famous sarcastic tone. We left the window and our attention on the box labeled my things.

Pedro opened the box and emptied it on the blue and black rug that laid across the floor of the treehouse. The rug smelled of mildew and dirt, looked strangely clean I’m now remembering.

What lay on the rug now was toys. A green dinosaur (T-Rex) on wheels, a soldier action figure in green cameo, a blonde barbie doll in a pink dress, two witch like dolls with green skin and black hair wearing black robes, and a superhero action figure I didn’t recognize back than or tonight looking back on it.

Weird because I love super hero comics and movie to this day. Maybe just one of those rip off Superman figures you can find at the swap meet for a dollar. Pedro grabbed the dinosaur and tried to see if it’s wheels were functioning properly. They did, however we heard mom scream for us that the pizza was here so we grabbed the toys and bolted to the house.

A week later we were settled in, school started in the morning and mom got a job at the theme park down the street. Even said that she could get me and Pedro in for free soon. We were happy, our mom was happy.

Mom feed us dinner and got us washed and changed for bed by 8pm, Pedro and I had the toys ready to play with under the bed as soon as moms bed time story. She read us a bit from Peter Pan but before she could finished a few pages we acted tired so we can with the toys. We’ve been playing with the toys like they were wrestlers, we were big in wrestling I remember that now.

He used the commando guy most of the time, while I liked to switch it up but I did gravitate towards the red caped superhero with a White C over his chest, blonde fake hair which I find weird remembering now.

Now thinking about it all the figures has fake hair like you would see on a lady doll. Even the commando guy. The dinosaur also had real fine peach fuzz all over the body. Strange but we paid no mind they were cheap knock off figures after all.

Mom kissed us goodnight and close the door and we waited till he heard the tv go on in her room. We heard the news and we immediately hopped out of bed very quickly but as quiet as church mouse. We played for as long as we could before we felt our eyes getting heavy and moms tv go out.

We crawled into our bunk beds and said goodnight to each other. I looked up at the ceiling of the room thinking about school and if I’d make any friends the first day, before I knew it I woke up to voices in the middle of the night.

I don’t know how long I was out or even recall falling asleep, must of passed out. I still would have been if not for me being a light sleeper. It was Pedro talking very faintly facing the corner of the room opposite the door.

Must be sleep walking, but usually he walks to the kitchen or moms room. He’s never talked in his sleep, this was the first time I saw Pedro do this in the middle of the night.

I get up and walk close to Pedro while running my eyes trying to make out what he’s saying.

“I don’t know how… I don’t believe you…” Was the only words I understood, I talked to softly and with his hand close to his face while facing the corner of the room. I was scared a bit but knew I had to wake him up. I tap on his shoulder and he grabs my hand so fast I jump back.

“NOT OUR HOUSE! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!”

I fall on my back and Pedro is shouting at me saying the same words Get Out. I just noticed he’s holding Commando Steve and the Barbie doll in each hand.

“What’s wrong!? Boys you okay? What’s going on?” Mom said as she rushed in our room turning in the lights.

“Mom?”Pedro said coming out of his sleep episode.

“Pedro mijo are you sleeping walking again?”

“I…guess so” Pedro said exhausted like he finished running miles.

“You were talking too” I said still in the ground shaken up.

“Im sorry Javi, hope I didn’t scare you again.” Pedro said in a defeated tone.

I Got up and got into bed, mom tucked Pedro back to bed and took the toys from his hands and placed them on his night stand with his Jurassic park lamp.

This happened as long as I can remember living there. Two years go by and I became a heavy sleeper. I’d sometimes find Pedro on the floor with the toys or just sleep staring outside towards the treehouse.

I though he would have grown out of it but mom said it all depends. Pedro started to grow distant with me. He would only wanna play with the toys alone and would spend a lot of alone time in the treehouse during the day.

I also noticed the neighbor Mr Spitzer would be looking towards Pedro in the treehouse whenever he was out there, or maybe I’m just reading too much into Mr Spitzer. He was a nice man who actually worked at the school we attended.

He taught 6th grade and was known as a push over, at least that’s what friends from school said about him. That and his sister disappeared along with her family ages ago. Mr Spitzer looked old but now remembering back he must have been in his 40s or early 50s. Bald, Dad bod without the kids, and always wearing shorts with a t shirt.

Pedro would wave to him up there in the treehouse and Mr Spitzer would wave back and go about his business in his backyard. He spent a lot of time in his yard, don’t know what he was doing most of the time but he was a stickler for mowing his lawn and using his grill. Pedro started taking commando Steve to school with him even tho he seemed to old to take toys to school.

Sleep walking got worse, I woke up in the middle of the night to my mom. She was frantic and asking where Pedro is.

“I don’t know he was in bed when I fell asleep” I said looking around the room.

My mom looked scared, more scared than I ever saw her and it scared me to death. Thoughts raced in my 8 year old head. I got up and opening the closet and other spots he usually crashes at after his sleep walking or sleep conversations. No where, but than I see a light coming from the treehouse. It’s gotta be Pedro.

Me and mom went out there in jackets and slippers, called out to him and nothing but we saw the flashlight he brought up there shinning bright. My mom went up there cautiously, now knowing mom probably hasn’t climbed up a rope ladder in decades.

I followed suit and saw Pedro surrounded by the toys we found up there two years ago muttering words so softly it was hard to make sense of it. She tried waking up him and and he just screamed louder than I ever heard someone scream

“NOT YET! NOT YET! PLEASE! SAVE US!!” Pedro screamed that echoed in the house.

He keeps shouting it while looking past us almost. Meanwhile I catch a glimpse of another flashlight shining against the window. It was Mr Spitzer in his robe and slippers with a cigarette in his mouth and cans of beer on the ground next to his lawn chair. Was he out there the whole night?

When Mom finally got Pedro to come down from his episode we went back inside. Pedro wasn’t talking, seemed like he was still sleep walking. Just glazed look in his eyes while he was directed back to bed. I was done with this, Pedro was scaring me. He simply was becoming hard to play with and understand.

He just wanted to play with his toys half the time alone. We used to play all the time but I guess he was getting older and maybe didn’t find me fun anymore. I tried to act older around him but nothing.

He still hardly spoke to me, always told me to not worry about it that it’s not my problem. Sad to say and remember but that’s how drifted apart we became, I started to hang out with other kids in the neighborhood and slowly just stopped worrying about Pedro.

June 20th 2004

This is the date that changed everything. Day started out normal as another. Was summer break so I went over to Jake’s house 4 houses down, he had a PlayStation so I came over anytime my mom would let me. We played games for the whole morning up until 12pm, got hungry and went back home for some pizza rolls.

When I got home Pedro was writing in a journal or something, don’t know how long he’s been writing but it’s nice to know he was doing something without those toys or having rage fits and acting all glazed and zombie like.

Mom even hired a child therapist to help him with his night terrors the therapist called them. Got his brain checked out I remember my mom telling Uncle Tony on the phone.

When my pizza rolls were done I grabbed them and turned on Cartoon Network while I ate. Pedro walked pass me opening the slider to the backyard.

“Where you going bro? Wanna go to Jake’s and play smackdown? Jake has three controller now.” I said with a smile on my face anticipating beating Jake in a royal rumble match.

“No…I have to do something.” Pedro said not looking at me.

“What to you have to do? Homework?” I asked with an annoyed looking face.

“You won’t understand, I have to do this alone.” Pedro said with a serious face.

“Okay… well I’m going to Jake’s in 5 minutes. I’ll be home for mom gets home from work.” I said while I made my way towards the front door. Pedro than called out to me remember to clean up my plate before I leave. “Love you Javi..”

“Love you too… you okay?” I asked, he rarely said I love you.

“I will be soon” Pedro remarked after a long pause.

“You’re being so weird, stop trying to scare me” I scoffed at Pedro.

“sorry I scare you Javi”

“Just make sure mom knows I’m at Jake’s if she gets home early okay?” I say as I pick up my plate.

I didn’t wait for a response and threw my paper plate away and watched him walk out to the backyard with his backpack and go up into the treehouse. Mr Spitzer was outside drinking again. I waved from the kitchen window but I don’t think he saw me.

I went back to Jake’s house and whooped him in smackdown on PlayStation 2 three matches in a row before Jake throws his controller at his tv. I remember being scared shitless like he was going to rush me but we shared an awkward silence and I said “No way we’re playing at my house”

We laughed, got up and walked to the kitchen for some Mountain Dew. That was the last time I drank Mountain Dew.

We then went and sat on the Jake’s Moms ugly gray couch with turquoise, pink and green interwoven into it like a gross skin infection. Must of been cool in the early 90s, I don’t know why I still remember these details of this day but they’re all rushing back like water trucking thru a broken damn.

We watched a couple episodes of Billy and Mandy before I realized it was almost 5pm. I grabbed another Mountain Dew from his fridge and said “Laters loser, see you tomorrow ?”. Jake rolled his eyes and said “Yeah see you tomorrow turd licker”. I chuckle and refute “You licked a lot of turds in smackdown today loser, tell your mom thanks for the Mountain Dew.” I close the door and start going down the drive way drinking my Dew while I see one of the random neighbors calling out “Biscuit! Biscuit come here boy!”.

In the middle of the street practically, must of lost her dog. She was an elderly lady wearing her pajamas, grey hair out into a bun. As I got the the sidewalk we locked eyes for a couple seconds before I ask “Did you lose your dog?”

She turned to me and smiled “I’m afraid so, Biscuit was in my backyard the last time I saw him. I must of left the gate open by mistake, I can’t really remember these days.“ I ask “What does biscuit look like?”. She looked around the yard that we were standing by and answered “He’s a golden retriever have you seen him?”

I think for a second “Is that the type that has fluffy blonde fur?”

Her smile fades away and says “That’s the one, your smart young man. Have you seen biscuit around here the past hour or so I don’t really know when he ran off. Not like him to run off like this he’s old like me. Your name sweetheart?”

“Javier but my family calls me Javi”

“Well Javi my name is Natalie I live at that red bricked house right down there 3 houses down that way” she says as she pointed at her house.

“I live that way, I’m on my way home if I see him ill let my mom know to tell you”

“Thank you Javi, get home safe” I say goodbye and make my way home.

I loved dogs, but never got one for myself. Could never get myself to get one even when my ex wife practically begged me. I kept walking towards my house keeping in eye out for a cute dog but to no avail.

I reached my driveway when I noticed the white screen door was wide open and the red wooden door was open but only ajar. Moms blue car isn’t in the drive way, I look around for Pedro and call out for him

“Pedro? You there?”

10 or so seconds go by and no response. “Pedro dude, stop trying to scare me. I’m coming in.” I hear a scream somewhere close.

I was shitting my nine year old pants practically, but still holding on to my Mountain Dew. I walked in the house and nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary, living room is how I left it, kinda dirty.

Move to the kitchen and everything looked the same, called out for Pedro but nothing. I thought he probably just left in a hurry and left the doors open. Moms gonna yell at him good for this one. How wrong I was. I wish I can rewrite time and make that the truth.

I go to my room to grab a comic book, Batman of course. As I grab my book from drawer by the bunk beds I hear a yelp or something. I couldn’t tell where it came from though. Looked outside in the drive way but no car yet, should be home any minute now it’s 5:05pm.

Bark! … YELP!!!

I jumped out of my body practically, I knew exactly where that came from. The backyard, is Biscuit in my backyard trapped or something or injured? I slowly walked to the glass slider opened it and walked into the backyard. Didn’t see dog or anything. Than I heard the yelping noise louder and so much more clear, it’s a dog for-sure and it was coming from the treehouse.

How could Biscuit be in the treehouse? I still can’t explain it to this day. Only way to get in the treehouse is by rope ladder, last time I check dogs can’t fucking climb ladders. My 9 year old self didn’t even wonder that thought, I had one thought running through my 9 year old brain.. is Pedro up in the treehouse too? Has he even left the treehouse? It’s been 5 hours there’s no way.

Other animalistic sounds I couldn’t make out were coming from the that creepy looking treehouse with its roots caressing the house’s structure like a bleached pink baby.

I wanted to go back inside but what if Pedro was hurt or something. He would try to help me if I needed help. I stopped thinking put down my Mountain Dew in the ground by the glass door and just walked towards that hell house on a tree.

I reached my destination and climbed up the rope ladder as the sounds and yelps got louder and louder till my heart felt like it was gonna beat so fast my heart was gonna explode out of my chest. I close my eyes and get my footing before I open my eyes. What I saw was a nightmare, a nightmare that haunts me almost every night since.

I open my eyes with the horrible sounds almost echoing in the treehouse like a cave. I see Biscuit dissected with his insides on the outside, his eyes placed by his cut up body with bones bent in way that I can’t even describe.

Then there’s Pedro with a kitchen knife all covered in blood, he takes the knife to Biscuits neck and slices. I threw up my Mountain Dew and all 15 pizza rolls all over the bloodied rug.

Crying , and screaming came after, Pedro didn’t even look at me. Than I try to go for the exit but step on something that felt like stepping on a burrito with crunchy chips inside.

I look down and it’s a rat dissected as well, I was so focused on Biscuit’s body that I didn’t notice the other 4 animal bodies in a circle dissected and cut up to Hell.

In the middle were of this horror were the 5 toys we found in this treehouse 4 years prior. The soldier, the blonde barbie, two green skinned witches, and the dollar tree variant of Superman With the red cap blue suit with a C instead of an S on his chest.

Pedro starts to finally speak, but it’s just nonsense and made up words. Maybe even a different language my 9 year old self didn’t know yet existed. He started shake and he dropped his knife by Biscuit and shook even more violently almost screaming louder than I thought a human could scream.

Pedro’s feet lifted off the ground. He was in the fucking air before my eyes while he was screaming noises and words I’ve never heard before or since. Arms and legs spread out like a doll in the the air eyes rolled back while blood flowed from his nose and ears.

I can do nothing bad lay on my back by the exit screaming, crying and pissing myself for real. Before I think I’m about to pass out I’m suddenly dragged through exit by strong arms. I see grass and the rope and somebody carrying me. Everything gets foggy and I pass out.

I wake up in a panic on the living room couch, my mouth so dry I can’t even speak. I see water on the table across from the couch and start drinking. That’s when I see the 3 officers in our living room.

“Hello Javier, I’m Officer Gimbley, this is officers Brent and Kelly. Your mother found you unconscious on the grass in your backyard, you okay?” I noticed blood on his pant legs.

“Where’s Pedro?” I asked

He looked at me while getting down on one knee to meet me eye to eye. “We’re looking for him son, when did you see him last and was anyone her besides you and Pedro?”

“I don’t know I…Biscuit..” I say.

I threw up the water I just drank all over the carpet and table. The officers looks confused and concerned at the same time. Officer Brent handed a towel to my mom, she sat next to me rubbed my back and cleaned me up.

“Biscuit?” Gimbley looked puzzled.

“The neighbor Natalie’s Dog across the street, she’s in the treehouse… and other anam-“ pizza rolls coming up now.

I threw up a little more but then just dry heaved till I was done. Crying at the same time with snot practically pouring out my nose like a snot faucet. My mom wiped my face after I stop throwing up.

We looked inside the treehouse son, and nothing. Just a couple comic books, crayons, and a box. No dog, no other animals, and no Pedro.

End Part 1